Murder In School (13 page)

The public address system at their gate
suddenly crackles into life.  Families travelling with small children and
important executives may come forward for boarding.  There’s a rise in the
level of the general hubbub, as passengers adopt the customary panic mode that
will get them to London no faster.

‘Oh, Guv – London.’

‘Aha?’

‘Goodman says he’s got a flat in Covent
Garden.  He’s kept it on from when he worked down there.  I didn’t
manage to ask him directly – but he told me he uses it when he’s at conferences
or in transit.’

‘So that would be his answer to where he
stayed Monday night?’

‘I think so, Guv – and no easy way
of corroborating it.’

‘Pity we can’t check the place out while
we’re passing.’

‘We almost could have, Guv – he
offered me the spare key – said I could stay there for my trip and give
it him when he arrives back in London on Friday night.’

The time gain on the homeward leg means
that Skelgill and DS Jones, having originally left London on Tuesday afternoon,
arrive at a ghost-town-like Heathrow in the very early morning of Thursday and,
avoiding the commuting hordes that will shortly stream onto the M25, are back
in the Lakes well before noon.  It’s an absence barely noted among the
great mass of their colleagues, who would no doubt be flabbergasted to learn
they had just ‘popped’ over to Singapore.  DS Jones, driving, drops
Skelgill at Penrith Police HQ.  For the time being, at least, they must go
their separate ways.  Skelgill collects his car and heads home to shower
and change, and file a report to the Chief.  However, fewer than twenty
minutes after his return, his garage swings open and he roars out aboard a
large blue-and-chrome Triumph motorcycle, riding one-handed as he raises the
remote over his shoulder to lower the door behind him.

Scotch mist has descended to resume its
occupancy of Cumbria, and Skelgill has dressed accordingly, clad as he is in a threadbare
Belstaff
jacket, what look suspiciously like cut-off fishing waders to shield
his legs, and biker’s boots that have long since seen better days.  His
fisherman’s hands need no such protection from the elements, but a distinctive
orange full-face helmet completes the somewhat original ensemble.

Turning off the A66 at Keswick, he weaves
his way through the bustling market town and joins the B-road that skirts the
wooded west bank of Derwentwater and winds past the Bowder Stone due south into
the depths of Borrowdale.  The weather has driven the majority of tourists
to their cars, and his progress is slow.  His powerful machine at 900cc
affords ample opportunities to overtake, but for whatever reason he eschews
these; he seems content to go with the flow – perhaps in the knowledge he
can take control whenever he so desires.

Neither is his journey a long one. 
Leaving Derwentwater behind he passes the turn for Grange, his eyes flicking
right to survey the water conditions of the River Derwent.  He continues
for a couple more miles until, approaching Seatoller, he makes a sharp left
into the track that leads up to Seathwaite.  Within a minute he draws to a
halt and dismounts and, helmet tucked beneath his arm, strides on towards a
cluster of low-built grey slate and stone farm buildings.

A rudely lettered sign on splintering plywood
sits askew in the verge,
TEK CARE, SHEEP ONT ROAD
, and second one
–
CAFE
– is affixed to a canted post, with an arrow
indicating across a liberally manured yard towards the farmhouse.

He’s not alone here: there must be a
dozen cars lining the lane, abandoned by hardy explorers who use this popular
access route to Great Gable and Scafell Pike; and several motorcycles like his
own, the café itself being a favoured haunt of the local bikers’ chapter. 
It is in the latter capacity that Skelgill arrives this afternoon, and perhaps fortunately
so, since the fells might as well not be there, for all there is to see of
them.  Only an intangible looming presence infuses the impenetrable mist
with an air of foreboding, a sense of encirclement, of steeply banked terraces,
a great cauldron of wild country that presses in upon the diminutive
farmstead.  Black water drips from the eaves and gutters.  Sheep
stand still, shivering and sodden in their walled pastures.  All is silent
but for the plaintive mew of a buzzard from some gnarled perch – perhaps
a protest at its inability to fly today.

‘Hareet, marra?’

Skelgill has entered not the door marked
OPEN
,
but has ducked instead into the low back entrance of an adjoining stable-like
structure that might once have been a smithy.  Now it is put to use as a
workshop, and the colloquial greeting comes from a grizzled, heavy-featured man
in his sixties, clad in a boiler suit and smeared with grease, who kneels,
wrench poised, beside a semi-dismembered vintage AJS motorcycle.

‘Nice one you’ve got there, Art.’

‘Should be – when she’s wukn. 
Thew up fer a fry, Skel?’

‘You know me.  Never say never.’

‘Our Jud’s ovver ont’ fell – else
he’d join yer fer a chinwag.’

‘I’ll see him again.  It’s
your
brains I wouldn’t mind picking, Art.’

‘Shunt tek yer long, then.’  The
older man grins, revealing a crooked row of yellowed teeth.

Skelgill returns the smile.  ‘Old
boy from over Bassenthwaite way – rode a black BSA Gold Star, pre-63
plate – I’m trying to find where he went on it.’

‘
Went
, lad?’

‘Suspicious death.’

The farmer nods.  ‘I’ll put out a
tweet t’lads.  Black beezer, eh?’  He reaches into the breast pocket
of his overalls and extracts a state-of-the-art smartphone.

Now Skelgill shakes his head.  ‘Struth,
Art – who said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.’

‘Thu’s life int this dog yet.  Got
ter move wi’t times.  How’s t’ol lass?’

‘Still peddling.’

‘Aye – I’ve sin her.  T’other
day it were hossing it doon an’ she wo’ garn like t’clappers.’

‘I’ll tell her you were asking.’

‘Get yer scran, lad – Gladis’ll be
pleased yer up.’

‘Not as pleased as I’ll be.’ 
Skelgill raises a hand of thanks and begins to back out of the smithy.

‘Skel – ‘ey up, lad.’

‘Aha?’

‘That beezer – is it ont’ market?’

*

Skelgill stares disconsolately in the
direction of the footpath that meanders from the far gate of the enclosed
farmyard and swiftly disappears into the mist that still crowds the dale. 
Replete with Gladis’s legendary ‘Cumbrian Fry’ – in his estimation the
first proper meal he has consumed in the past three days – he exhibits an
uncharacteristic sense of indecision, a degree of inertia perhaps ostensibly brought
on by the skyscraping saturated fat levels contained in the infamous all-day
breakfast.

The snug café, which he has just left, is
really nothing more than a parlour of the farmhouse, with its perennially steamed-up
windows and strident nineteen seventies wallpaper.  A group of
damp-looking hikers and half a dozen sedentary bikers, none of whom exude any
impression that they are in a hurry to take on the elements, presently inhabit
it.  Skelgill hadn’t recognised anybody, but his own biker-gear,
idiosyncratic as it might be, had nevertheless earned him immediate access to
their little clique, motorcycling being a universal fraternity to which all participants
automatically belong and, by virtue of this involuntary membership, are bound
to help a fellow biker in any way that circumstances may require.  Thus
they made both space for, and conversation with Skelgill, and any doubts about
his apparel were soon dispelled as they discovered first that he rides a decent
‘hog’ and second that he is clearly a favourite of the café’s owner, Gladis
Hope.

These days, while Gladis is still content
to run the café, her husband Arthur Hope has the luxury of dabbling with his
lifelong passion of old motorcycles, whilst coordinating the activities of the
local bikers’ club.  This is thanks to their son, Jud – with whom
Skelgill was at school – assuming responsibility for the running of farm
and flock.  Indeed, it was around this very farmstead that a young Daniel
Skelgill had cut his teeth in the hills, helping out in the holidays and during
lambing, impressing the incumbents with his natural stamina and alacrity about
the fells.  As an adult, Skelgill had further endeared himself to the
family in a semi-professional capacity, intercepting in no uncertain terms an
attempt at sheep rustling, and to Arthur especially when he took possession of
a Triumph motorcycle, albeit the ‘new-fangled’ Hinckley variety.  Thus
always welcome, and sure of double helpings, Skelgill’s only awkward moments
come over the battle to pay for his food.

On this occasion, just as he was pressing
his money upon Gladis, and insisting the change went into the collection tin
for the mountain rescue (a somewhat curious donation, in that he is a member of
the local team of volunteers), Arthur had limped through and confided that his
tweet had generated several positive sightings.  It seems that Querrell
was most often to be observed tootling along the leafy lanes of the extreme
western fells (perhaps where Skelgill had subconsciously noted his passing
– certainly he had recognised the classic motorbike when he found himself
face-to-face with it on Monday night), and that the distinctive
black-and-chrome ‘beezer’ was occasionally seen parked outside a small climbing
hut or bothy at the far reaches of Wasdale Head, the most isolated driveable outpost
of the entire Lake District.

And therein lies Skelgill’s present
dilemma.  Wasdale Head, from the spot on which he now stands, is a little
over three miles as the crow flies: about twenty-five minutes were Skelgill
kitted out in his fell-running gear.  He knows the route well, and has covered
it in darkness often enough: from here south to cross Stockley Bridge, a sharp westerly
ascent to pick up Styhead Gill, topping out at Styhead Tarn, and finally a sweeping
westerly traverse across the great gable end of the eponymous mountain. 
He stamps his feet and looks down in frustration at his attire, holding out his
arms as if in mimed protest to his incompetent valet who so ignorantly equipped
him for the task in hand. 

But it’s no good.  To attempt the
run (or even walk) wearing ill-fitting biker’s boots and heavyweight clothing
would be futile, unthinkably uncomfortable, and Skelgill plainly knows
this.  He must go by road.  But, by one of those quirks of Lakeland
topography, while Wasdale Head might be three miles as the crow flies, it is
forty miles by road, in a great north-westerly anticlockwise loop; perhaps an
hour and a half’s driving at typical Lakeland speeds.  With obvious reluctance,
he dons his helmet and turns to remount his Triumph.

*

The spectacular view along Wastwater has
been voted the best in Britain, and Skelgill as always is forced to slide to a
halt and cut his engine as the breathtaking vista opens out before him.  Though
today is not one for picture postcards; only a seasoned purist feels a thrill
at such desolation.  While the drizzle has lifted with the mist, far ahead
the immense angular slab that gives Great Gable its name spears into the
lowering cloud base, flanked by the titanic curving ‘hull’ of Yewbarrow and the
sharply ridged Lingmell.  Closer, to his right, the precipitous Wastwater
Screes tower like some advancing tsunami of bare rock, their shadow blackening
the still waters, the deepest in England, watery grave of who knows how many missing
persons.

Indeed, as Skelgill surveys the silent
scene, it would not seem incongruous were a sword-bearing arm to burst forth
from the mirrored surface, pointing him in the direction of his quest.  But
he needs no
Lady of the Lake
to show him the way.  He starts the
bike and moves circumspectly onwards, as if in an act of reverence towards his preternatural
surroundings (although perhaps it is simply in recognition of the abundant
sheep ‘ont road’).  The narrow lane, now unwalled, clings to the
north-west bank of the lake, cutting through the open fell that pours down to
the water’s edge.  He crosses Overbeck Bridge and, leaving Wastwater
behind, passes through Down in the Dale and continues, finally to park at the
inn at Wasdale Head.

He locates the hut without difficulty
– in fact he has noticed it in passing on occasions down the years, without
particularly evaluating its likely function or ownership – set a short
distance beyond the inn on a patch of common ground.  Perhaps once a
winter fodder store for sheep, it is little more than a rectangular stone
construction, windowless apart from a narrow slit above head height at each
gable end.  The olive green door is heavily planked, and secured by what
appears to be a well-oiled padlock; indeed all aspects of the building give the
impression of it being well maintained.

Skelgill, after satisfying himself there
is no possible means by which to engineer a glimpse inside, steps away to
survey the property: a small chimney stack protruding through its low black
slate roof is one certain sign that this is potentially more than just a conveniently
sited repository for outdoor equipment.  A ruddy male stonechat
momentarily alights upon the little ochre pot, catching Skelgill’s attention with
its onomatopoeic
tack-tack
before it flits away.  Perhaps its fleeting
appearance sharpens his perceptions, because now he notices something that draws
him back to the building.  Upon the rough lintel above the door is a distinctive
mark.  Closer inspection confirms this to be the work of human hands: a
whorl that could be the number six, although laterally inverted – the
ascender curves off to the left.  Skelgill reaches up to touch the
motif.  It has actually been carved into the stone, and lichen has settled
in its recessed lines, highlighting its aged presence.  Most curious of
all, though, is that Skelgill has seen this symbol elsewhere.

‘Thew’d best keep away – crabbit
ol’ gadgey as looks after tha’ place.’

At this unexpected warning Skelgill spins
around.  Propped on a chin-high crook is a small wizened old man dressed
rather like a Victorian farm worker.  Behind him slinks an opaque-eyed
border collie, its matted fur hanging in damp wads.  Belying his decrepit
appearance – the farmer, or shepherd, or whatever he is – has managed
to approach to within a few yards without attracting Skelgill’s notice.