Murder In School (24 page)

Skelgill makes a scoffing noise.  ‘Watch
what you say at the station about badgers and pillows.’

The interior of the car is warm, and
perhaps the heat combined with the late hour lulls them into a relaxed
silence.  Only when they pass the Grasmere sign does Skelgill jerk into
life.

‘There – take the right turn
– carry on over the river and past the Co-op.’

DS Jones obliges, and soon they are
cruising slowly along the narrow and winding village street.

‘Get a shift on – this is like the
opposite of driving with Leyton.’

‘Guv – it’s a twenty limit.’

‘If we get stopped I’ll deal with it.’

No sooner has DS Jones begun to speed up,
than Skelgill suddenly announces, ‘There – turn left.’

‘Guv – it’s a no entry.’

Despite her protest, with a squeal of
tyres, she does his bidding.

‘Now – into the car park and drive
round the back of the building.’

They have arrived at one of Grasmere’s
larger though still relatively modest hotels.  Skelgill’s directions bring
them to the service entrance, where a white emergency exit hangs partially
ajar, and a sliver of yellow light stripes the gravel.

‘Back in three minutes.  In the
meantime, read this.’  He slaps the envelope into her hands and hops out
of the car.  Then, without formalities, he disappears into the building.

Almost as good as his word, he reappears shortly
bearing a tray of provisions and steaming drinks, while a young woman, her
blonde hair piled beneath a chef’s toque, peers smiling around the door. 
She waves him farewell, making – gauging by Skelgill’s reaction –
some saucy remark that is inaudible to DS Jones.  Her eyes linger upon his
driver, although it’s doubtful her vision can penetrate the darkened interior.

‘You’re obviously well connected, Guv.’ 
DS Jones sounds perhaps a little piqued as Skelgill backs carefully into the
passenger side of the vehicle.

‘Jones, didn’t I ever tell you – on
my patch you’re never more than ten minutes from the nearest bacon roll.’ 
He turns and grins contentedly.  ‘Didn’t you notice the resemblance? 
That was my cousin.  Big noses run in our family?’

‘I wasn’t really looking, Guv.’  She
holds up the thick sheaf of papers.  ‘I’ve read this stuff – it’s a
list of names and dates going back exactly a hundred years – I’d say Oakthwaite
old boys, and the year in which they left the school.  Three Cholmondeleys
in this period.’

‘Miss Marple strikes again.’  Holding
the tray aloft, Skelgill gingerly swings his legs into the footwell.  ‘For
that, you deserve your cocoa.’

‘And the rest, Guv.’

Her tone is ambiguous, and Skelgill
throws her a quizzical glance.

She places the sheaf of papers on the
dashboard and presses the spread fingers of both hands to her breastbone. 
‘Taxi service.  Lookout.  Getaway driver.’  She turns her palms towards
him entreatingly.  ‘Pleasant company?’

Skelgill grins again.  ‘Well –
I can’t argue with that.’  Still balancing the tray, he innocently appraises
her figure.  ‘Leyton has his strengths – but mainly in the squashing
of uncooperative villains department.  Can I set you some homework?’

‘I could be persuaded.’

‘Leyton would also be first to admit he’s
not the sharpest knife in the drawer when it comes to analysis – and you
know what I’m like with admin.  Take the list – there must be a clue
in there – interrogate your aunt.  Call me as soon as you’ve got
anything.’

‘Guv – there must be five thousand
names.’  She shakes her head wearily.  ‘I’m just a soft touch.’

‘No comment.’

‘You look cream-crackered, Guv.’

‘Didn’t sleep well, Leyton – I
think I was having nightmares about your cavemen and their stone axes.’

Indeed, Skelgill, whose day yesterday
began in the small hours with a pike fishing expedition, was awake almost
around the clock before finally snatching a few hours’ uneasy sleep post
Grasmere.  Now he has rendezvoused with DS Leyton for a ten a.m. breakfast
at the convenient point of intersection provided by the A66 burger van.

The detective Sergeant studies the last
dregs of his tea like a fortune teller.  ‘Maybe that’s a premonition Guv
– perhaps Cholmondeley’s holed up somewhere in the hills.’  He says
it with an engineered optimism that lacks much conviction.

Skelgill shakes his head, at the same
time worrying a leathery roll with his teeth.  ‘There’s no mines on
Skiddaw, Leyton.’

 ‘Don’t mention it to the Chief, Guv
– I told her that’s where you were this morning.’

Skelgill has missed an operational review
meeting at headquarters, much to the apparent chagrin of their commanding
officer.  Fortunately, DS Leyton was able to step into the breach and chair
the session, and to suggest a sufficiently convincing alibi – suspecting,
or at least hoping, that Skelgill’s absence was due in some obscure way to the
case, and that he wasn’t actually telling lies on behalf of his immediate boss. 
The main gist of the news he has borne is that, despite a voluble response to
the media coverage, there have emerged no substantive clues to the lost boy’s
whereabouts, and that the search continues.

Skelgill gives Leyton a cursory thumbs-up
sign, but otherwise masticates in brooding silence.  He may be pondering
the likelihood of the Chief knowing what he was up to last night, and hence the
probable cause of his tardiness this morning.  Such information, of
course, is presumably in the gift of the stranger he met at Castlerigg.  Meanwhile,
as is Skelgill’s wont, it appears that he will not be troubling DS Leyton with details
of his late-night assignation.  Instead he chooses to continue to hear the
debrief.

‘We’ve extended the search area this
morning, Guv – and we’re inspecting all farm buildings and vacant holiday
properties within five miles of the school.  There’s a checkpoint on the
lane, like we discussed – nothing much yet, though, Guv.’

‘Either side of twelve’s the key time.’

‘That’s what I said at the meeting, Guv
– we’re looking for someone who regularly uses the route around midday.’ 
DS Leyton watches a brown-and-gold-liveried package van sweep past them at well
over the speed limit.  He points a finger at its diminishing form. 
‘That reminds me, Guv – we’re checking with all the delivery and
supermarket firms – in case one of their couriers was out Oakthwaite
way.  Taxi companies, too.  They should all have records.’

‘Sensible.’  Skelgill sucks his
teeth.  ‘What about the tail?’

DS Leyton shakes his head and sighs. 
‘Not good news, Guv.’  He pauses, as if expecting Skelgill to berate him,
but no such complaint is forthcoming.  ‘DI Smart’s got all the available
teams tied up.  They’ve been staking out some big drugs deal for a week
and he reckons they’re about to make the drop.  Seems he kicked up a big
fuss.’

Skelgill scowls.  ‘Generous of him.’

‘Thing is, Guv – for a tail to
avoid being spotted we’d need at least two cars – and then what if
another of the staff left a few minutes later?  We’d be really snookered.’

‘What did the Chief say?’

‘She wasn’t too sold on the idea of chasing
schoolmasters, Guv.  She’s putting what resources we’ve got into the
public appeal.  There’s a mountain of desk work piling up.’

DS Leyton wipes his brow with the sheet
of kitchen towel that accompanied his burger.  ‘She’s looking pretty rough,
beneath the brave face.’

‘She’s a tough cookie, Leyton. 
Let’s just hope young Chum is, too.’

DS Leyton nods, and is silent for a
moment.  Then he ventures, ‘I did have an idea, though, Guv – with
regards to the tail.’

‘Aha?’

‘PC Dodd – on the gate – I’ve
told him to ask everyone he lets through where they’ve been or where they’re
going.’

Skelgill inhales suddenly, as though he
is about to reprimand his Sergeant for his stupidity, but he holds back while
DS Leyton quickly elaborates.

‘I figured, Guv – if anyone was up
to no good – just say they knew where the boy was – they’d be
thinking we’re on their tracks – it might stop them doing anything...
well, anything bad, Guv.’

‘What, like feeding him?’

DS Leyton stares ahead and turns out his
bottom lip, in the manner of a schoolboy in line to receive the cane.  It
is actually just a habit of his, but perhaps it engenders some reflex of
sympathy in Skelgill – rather as a dog rolling over disarms its canine
adversary – and it seems to make him reconsider his harsh retort.

‘Look – Leyton – on balance
– probably not a bad plan.  I know you’re not as stupid as you’re
cabbage-looking.’

‘Right, Guv.’

‘Just make sure Dodd calls you the minute
anyone important leaves.’

DS Leyton perks up.  ‘Wilco, Guv.’

Now Skelgill frowns.  ‘So, what
about these possible sightings?’

‘Bit of a can of worms, if you ask me, Guv. 
Turns out it was a Scottish Bank Holiday.  Seems like half the population
of Glasgow went to Blackpool – or failing that, Alton Towers – for the
long weekend.  There were ginger-haired kids running amok at every motorway
service station north of Stoke.  It’s a needle in a haystack job, Guv.’

‘Without the needle.’

DS Leyton can usually detect when his
boss teeters on the edge of one of his blacker moods.  He averts his eyes
and wipes his hands vigorously on the kitchen paper.  ‘Shall I drive, Guv
– to the school?’

Skelgill nods.  ‘What about the
press?  Have they found out who he is, yet?’

DS Leyton’s eyes widen and he shakes his
head.  He concentrates for a moment as he uses his mirrors to exit the
layby and join the main carriageway.  ‘Seem to be toeing the line, Guv
– you must have put the fear of God into them at the media conference.’

‘Miracles never cease.’

‘There was one internet piece the Chief
was complaining about, Guv – trying to suggest that the police must have
something to hide.’

‘Such as?’

‘It’s just speculation, Guv – that
we’ve let some local nutter go free who we should have locked up – and now
we suspect him of being responsible.’

Skelgill raises an eyebrow but does not
respond.  While the entire school population has been briefed that there
should be no conversations on the subject via social media, and the main
channels of external communication have been temporarily jammed on Dr Snyder’s
orders, it has to be considered just a matter of time before the anonymous
missing boy is identified and connected with Oakthwaite, and in turn with
Cumbria Constabulary.  This outcome should not unduly concern Skelgill as
regards compromising the investigation, but it will land him in hot water when
the blame unfairly but inexorably attaches itself to him.  Meanwhile, the
Chief’s continued fortitude in resisting the urge to ‘go public’, though
puzzling, has at least been placed into some understandable context by such
edification as enjoyed by Skelgill at the standing stones.

Perhaps DS Leyton finds the silence a
little uncomfortable, for he breaks it by recourse to the good old British
fall-back of the weather.

‘It’s a nice day, Guv – I might
even get my grass done tonight.’

Skelgill yawns and stretches, and seems
to regain a modicum of enthusiasm.  As a seasoned outdoorsman he is always
ready to pontificate on the subject of the climate.

‘Pressure’s been building since that cold
front came through yesterday.  Might get a few days’ sunshine.  He
cranes his neck and stares for ten seconds or so at the skyline above the
fells, watching the slow drift of the scattered white cumulus.  ‘Wind’s
gone round to the south-east.  It’s going to be spot on for pike once the
levels drop.’

But with this remark must come the
realisation that he has little prospect of a proper fishing trip while the
boy’s disappearance remains unresolved, and he sags down into the passenger
seat and leans against the headrest.  He closes his eyes.

DS Leyton, driving more judiciously than
usual, conducts them deeper into the leafy lanes that lead to Oakthwaite School. 
Skelgill to all intents and purposes might be asleep, but his Sergeant seems to
know different, and as they near the gates of the institution he says, ‘Penny
for ‘em, Guv?’

Skelgill opens one eye.  ‘You what,
Leyton?’

‘Penny for your thoughts, Guv.’

Skelgill makes a scoffing sound. 
‘Leyton, I’d willingly tell you – if only I could read my own mind.’

DS Leyton nods dutifully.  ‘Right,
Guv.’

As they reach the gates and DS Leyton
decelerates, Skelgill begins to unfasten the passenger door.  ‘Drop me
here, Leyton.’

‘Really, Guv?’  DS Leyton sounds disappointed.

‘Yeah – I need to have a mooch
around.  Think a bit.’

DS Leyton complies.  ‘Sure,
Guv.  Only thing is – I was going to take you through the plans for
the day.  I’ve requested the use of Greig’s office – as a base to
coordinate the various search teams.  I figured with it being away from
the main school it would keep us clear of little noses poking in at the window. 
There’s plenty of room and good views – plus all those maps of the Lakes.’

Skelgill purses his lips and nods
approvingly.  ‘Fair enough – I’ll catch up with you there.  Good
luck with Greig – I can’t imagine he’ll be a happy bunny.’

*

Skelgill acknowledges PC Dodd and has a
brief chat with him before heading across to the gatehouse.  The weather
is indeed shaping up to deliver a magnificent day and the clearing resonates
with birdsong as woodpigeons, wrens and willow warblers combine with others in a
lively avian jazz ensemble.  In the wings of this natural auditorium the
morning air is still cool in thrilling contrast to the bruising heat of the sun
at its centre.  Swathed all around, lush vegetation shocks the eye, a
luminescent lemony late-spring-green blur of chlorophyll.

He stands for a few moments facing the
cottage.  The runic symbol – what he now knows to be the sign of the
Derwen
– must seem to shine out from above the front door like a beacon,
though it is but an innocuous lichen-encrusted smudge upon the lintel.  He
steps over to the garden seat; on such a day, and sleep-deprived, it could be
tempting to recline like
Flaming June
.  He slips from his jacket, but
then only drapes it over the back of the bench before turning to approach the
property.

The downstairs living area is largely
unchanged from his first visit – the antique typewriter in the window,
the outmoded desktop pc in the corner, the threadbare chair before the
fireplace – only some unwashed mugs and a half-eaten packet of digestives
testify to PC Dodd’s occupation.  The hearthrug is gone, but that must be
connected with the unfortunate incident concerning Hodgson.

Briefly, Skelgill visits the upstairs
room, though he does not linger – indeed it is the antiquarian
Wainwright
that most attracts his attention when he returns to the ground floor.  He quickly
locates the precious book, homing in directly upon the point in the shelves where
he had previously returned it.  Number five in the seven-volume series, it
features the Northern Fells, a quarter of its pages given over to Skiddaw and
Blencathra.  He thumbs through until he locates the section on the former,
introduced in the author’s inimitably abrupt style with the defiant and perplexing
sentence,
‘Make no mistake about Skiddaw.’

Skelgill begins to read, and after a
minute shuffles across to Querrell’s old armchair and lowers himself down, his
eyes still fixed upon the extraordinarily legible script.  Methodically,
he works his way through the dense handwritten copy, chuckling here and there as
the author’s recalcitrant humour bites, dealing short shrift to Skiddaw’s
critics.

After a while it appears he has ceased to
read and has drifted into reverie, for he dwells over-long on a particular
spread.  Whether it is something in the text that has distracted him, or
the act of concentration that has allowed his subconscious to assume control,
it is impossible to tell.  While the mountain no doubt looms large in his
thoughts, his present location must equally call to mind the unexplained facts
of his nocturnal escapade: when two anonymous males were present, one of whom
had a key, one of whom might not have left alive.

The clang of the heavy metal gates jolts
him from his musings.  PC Dodd must have admitted a vehicle, for now it
slides past in a glimpse of blue metal and black diesel fumes – some kind
of delivery van, whose driver disdains the speed limit.  Reluctantly, it
seems, Skelgill replaces the
Wainwright
in the shelf.  Then he
casually helps himself to a handful of biscuits, which he pockets upon retrieving
his jacket.  With a wave to PC Dodd, he rounds the cottage and picks up
the running track as it passes the rear of the property.  At a leisurely
pace, he ambles into the woods.