Murder In School (16 page)

‘Indeed, Inspector.  As he was shown
around the school he was so impressed with the conduct of our boys that it made
up his mind.’

‘Really?’

‘I don’t doubt your other suggestions
formed part of the edifice – but comportment was the keystone.

Skelgill looks a little relieved that his
answers have received some recognition.  ‘And that’s the USP?’

Dr Jacobson holds up a finger, rather
like an umpire giving the batsman out – in Skelgill’s case as a bowler an
act liable to prompt a Pavlovian celebration.  ‘And
that
is what is
at stake, Inspector.’

‘In what way, sir?’

‘Breeding, Inspector.  One can’t
teach it.  Our indigenous boys are born with it.  The little brats arrive
here as if miraculously fully formed in this regard.  The finished article
requiring only the odd rough edge filed here and splintered bottom sanded
there.’

Dr Jacobson makes a caressing motion with
both hands, and Skelgill looks a little embarrassed by this simile.  ‘And
the Chinese don’t?’

‘Nor the Russians nor the Mexicans nor
the Germans nor the rest.’

Skelgill’s expression is perhaps unintentionally
disapproving, for now Dr Jacobson seems to backtrack a little.  ‘Don’t get
me wrong, Inspector – I harbour no xenophobic grudge – and most of
these non-nationals hail from authoritarian backgrounds – all I’m saying
is that the more we dilute our native population with little Johnny foreigner,
the more we diminish the very reason that persuaded his parents to send him here.’

Skelgill nods.  ‘So you might say
it’s good business in the short term, but not necessarily the best thing in the
long run.’

‘Quite, Inspector.’

‘And is this a policy that Mr Querrell
particularly objected to?’

Dr Jacobson makes a so-so hand signal,
his cup rattling in its saucer as the movement is transmitted through his
sparse frame.  ‘We’ve always had a small overseas contingent –
typically from the traditional colonies.  But there is so much new money
in the world.  Are you au fait with Dickens’
Great Expectations
,
Inspector?’

Skelgill looks like he’s thinking about
it, which is evidently sufficient for Dr Jacobson to assume the answer is
no.  He says, ‘Inspector, down through the centuries successful merchants
have yearned most for one thing: that their sons may be Gentlemen.’

Skelgill seems relieved that he is not
about to be quizzed further upon a subject that was never one of his
strengths.  ‘I certainly can’t argue with your assessment, sir –
based on what I’ve seen of the school myself.  Though that little
ginger-haired lad seems to be full of beans.’

Dr Jacobson’s pale eyes narrow, as though
he feels in singling out a specific pupil Skelgill has breached a convention. 
‘Ah yes, Inspector – Cholmondeley.  A Blencathra boy.  He can
be a bit lively at times – but these first-formers settle down once
they’ve had a couple of good thrashings.’

Skelgill, who is replacing his empty
side-plate upon the coffee table, shoots a surprised glance at Dr Jacobson,
only to find him grinning widely.  ‘Just joking, of course,
Inspector.’  He leans forwards and gives Skelgill’s knee a vigorous
squeeze, in confirmation of the jest.

Skelgill’s unblinking expression belies the
discomfort apparent in the stiffening of his posture.  Only when the housemaster
retracts his hand does he reply.  ‘Naturally, sir – though I
couldn’t help noticing that your Dr Snyder had a cane hanging in his office
– it did make me think twice about what the position is in private
schools.’

‘If I recall correctly, it has been
outlawed since nineteen ninety-nine – thankfully.’

Dr Jacobson says this in a rather wistful
tone that might make Skelgill think he believes otherwise.

The contact upon his knee seems to have
disconcerted Skelgill, for now he sits up in his seat and straightens his
jacket.  ‘Well, sir – I’d better be getting along – my
Sergeant will be waiting for me.  Thanks once again for the tea and scones
– much appreciated – you can’t always rely on a regular meal in my
line of work.’

‘Glad to help keep the thin blue line
intact, Inspector.’

They rise and Dr Jacobson precedes Skelgill
into the corridor.  As they pass the open door to his study Skelgill
glances in, and a collection of trophies upon a bookcase catches his eye
– there are one or two silver cups, and several pedestals adorned with
appear to be figurines of swimmers or divers.

‘Ah, Inspector – you have spotted the
Querrell Quaich
.’

‘Sir?’

Dr Jacobson steps into the small room and
selects what is probably the least striking of the items – a small shallow
silver bowl with a protrusion at either side.  He turns and holds it out
for Skelgill to see.  ‘Blencathra House currently holds the honour of
getting a team back first from Skiddaw.  Alas, I doubt we shall triumph
tomorrow – I understand this year’s crop is not for running.’

‘You never know, Sir.’

Skelgill says this rather
distractedly.  He is looking beyond Dr Jacobson at what seem to be the
obligatory academic certificates adorning the wall.  They somehow lack the
symmetry and precision of Dr Snyder’s comparable qualifications.

Dr Jacobson now replaces the quaich, and
shepherds Skelgill towards the exit, closing the study door behind him.

‘Well, I mustn’t keep you from your
rendezvous, Inspector.  Good luck with your investigation – and drop
in any time you are in need of succour.’

*

‘Christ, Jones – wait ‘til I see
him.  I’ll swing for the Mancunian dork.’

‘But, Guv – I thought he wasn’t
supposed to know I’m still working with you?’  There’s a mixture of guilt
and panic in DS Jones’s tone.  ‘It’ll give the game away.  I think he
suspects, as it is.’

Skelgill seems to relent in the face of this
logic.  ‘What the hell’s Smart doing messing with your phone, anyway?’

‘I didn’t notice I’d left it on the table
when I went to the ladies’ – I was keeping it where I could see it in
case Goodman called.’

‘I thought you had a PIN code?’

‘I do, Guv – he must have watched
me.  I’ve changed it now.’

‘Sly bastard – he should keep his
nose out of your business.’

‘Sorry, Guv.’

Skelgill, who is making rapid strides
along the slick tarmacadam that winds through the woods towards the gatehouse,
stoops to pick up an itinerant pebble.  Irritably he flings it left-handed
at one of the round ‘10 mph’ signs that line the driveway.  His aim is
unerring and there’s a resounding clang.  A little flock of chaffinches scatters
from the verge beyond, flashing white in their wings and tails.  As he nears
the point of impact he pulls an apologetic face – the paint has chipped
off and there’s a distinct dent in the centre of the figure zero.

After a moment’s reflection he speaks,
saying, ‘But he didn’t listen to the message?’

‘I think he just looked to see who’d
called.  Or he saw me coming back.  But that meant the reminder was
cleared from the screen – so I didn’t realise until I checked my voicemails
that there was one waiting from Goodman.’

‘Do you have his name in your phone memory?’

‘No, Guv – so DI Smart wouldn’t recognise
the number – he was probably checking it wasn’t you.’

‘Pillock.  Just how long are you
going to be stuck with him?’

‘I don’t know, Guv – he’s saying
this drugs case could take days or months.’

Skelgill tuts.  ‘I’d have a word
with the Chief – if there were ever such a thing as a good moment.’

‘More hassle, Guv?’

‘Only the standard Friday email. 
Pull your socks up else you’re demoted.  The usual motivational stuff.’

‘She’s obviously been on a carrot and
stick course, Guv.’

‘I could live with that if there were
some carrot.’

Skelgill remonstrates with nobody in
particular, waving his arms about and casting his eyes up to the clearing
skies.  It would be questionable whether either carrot or stick have much
impact upon his behaviour, but neither does he demonstrate that it’s for love
of the job that he works; it seems only a strong sense of justice drives him
day and night.

He returns his attention to the call and
says, ‘Just run past me again what Goodman said.’

‘Only that he got my message – and
he was on a tight connection and that he’d be on the train from Euston in an
hour unless he heard from me.  Obviously I missed that opportunity.’

‘Sounds like he might have stayed down
south if you’d got hold of him.’

DS Jones hesitates before replying. 
‘He could have tried harder, Guv – maybe he’s come home from Singapore
with everything he wants?’

‘I doubt it, Jones.’

There’s a hint of innuendo in Skelgill’s
tone, but DS Jones does not react.  ‘I could still call him, Guv?’

Skelgill cuts down his pace.  He is
approaching the lodge and DS Leyton has spotted him.  The Sergeant hauls
himself backwards out of his car, blinking in the dappled sunlight like a bleary-eyed
bear that has emerged from a spot of hibernation.  Skelgill holds up a
hand in acknowledgement.

‘Jones – I’ve reached Leyton
– I’d better find out how he’s got on.  Sit on the call for the time
being.  But let me know if Goodman decides to ring again.’

‘Sure, Guv...’

 ‘Aha?’

‘I was just wondering...’

‘Yeah?’

The line suddenly goes dead.  Ten
seconds later a text appears on Skelgill’s screen: ‘Smart back – will
call later.’

When he glances up from his handset a
shirt-sleeved DS Leyton is recumbent on a bench just a couple of yards to one
side of the front door of the building.   The mid-June sun hangs directly
overhead, and the sheltered glade in which the cottage stands is a little bowl
of humidity.  A blackbird takes advantage of the resonant air to proclaim
its territory with a rich stream of liquid warbling notes.  Above a
hawthorn a shimmering column of St Mark’s flies attracts Skelgill’s eye: a sure
sign that rapacious brown trout will be eminently foolable by means of a
shrewdly cast
Bibio
.  He saunters across and apes his Sergeant,
slipping out of his jacket and swinging it onto his shoulder.

‘You look pleased with yourself,
Leyton.’  He settles down gingerly upon the weathered seat; it appears fragile,
and while it has borne the greater weight of his colleague, he doesn’t want to
be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

DS Leyton, an affable sort, evidently bears
no grudge against his superior for berating him an hour before.  ‘How’d it
go, Guv – any joy with Jacobson?’

Skelgill shrugs.  ‘He was good for
tea and scones, but I couldn’t draw him on whether the Head or Snyder or both
are up to something – assuming he would know about it, that is.’

DS Leyton nods, but holds back, as if
he’s waiting for an invitation to speak.

After a moment Skelgill obliges, saying,
‘What about you?

DS Leyton’s tone is self-effacing,
perhaps so as not to sound competitive.  ‘I got free beans on toast, Guv.’

‘What, in there?’  Skelgill tilts
his head back to indicate the gatehouse.

‘No, Guv – with the kid,
Chumley
– it’s spelt Chol-mon-del-ey, by the way.’

DS Leyton flips open his notebook at the
page held fast by an elastic band – he holds it out so Skelgill can see
the heading with the boy’s name.

‘What is it, Guv?’

Skelgill is frowning and staring intently
at DS Leyton’s notes.  He looks away and gazes up into the trees.  A
family of newly fledged blue tits is feeding upon the abundant aphids in a
mature sycamore.  ‘It strikes a chord.  I can’t think why, though.’

‘Bit of a posh name, eh, Guv?  Can’t
say we had a Cholmondeley in our school – I doubt even the borough.’

Skelgill shakes his head like a dog
pestered by a bluebottle, as if he recognises the futility of racking his
brains.  ‘It’ll come to me when I’m not trying.  Don’t reckon it’s
one of our local villains though, you’re right on that score.’

‘He’s okay, the kid – smart little
nipper.  Suggested we went into the communal kitchen to avoid eavesdroppers. 
They’ve got their own separate boarding block, the first formers.  There’s
a woman – a Housemother – looks after them.  They call her Mrs
Tickle.  Well sorted, they are.’

Skelgill nods and asks, still a little
absently, ‘How did you get on?’

DS Leyton leans over his notebook.  ‘I
told him like you suggested – you were an inspector and I’m your
assistant – he didn’t seem too fazed about that.  So I just said we
were interested in how things are going at the school right now.’

‘What did he say?’

‘They know about the suicides, obviously,
Guv – but I reckon it’s all a bit of an adventure – for these young
‘uns, anyway.  Apparently legend has it that the school chapel is haunted
by Mary Queen of Scots, and her ghost returns every so often to wreak vengeance
on the Church of England.’