Murder In School (9 page)

He rolls onto his stomach, close against the
wall, and raises himself like a sprinter poised in his blocks.  He must be
disoriented from the blow to the head, as he casts about for the best line of
escape between the bright lights of the car beyond one corner of the cottage,
and the indistinct sound of male voices around the other.  For the present
he is sheltered between the jutting extension of the toilet cubicle and the
ramshackle lean-to that covers the late Querrell’s motorbike.  For a few
seconds he stares at the old machine, its gleaming chrome exhausts and gloss
black paintwork reflecting tiny twinkling moonbeams.  As an occasional
biker himself, a Steve McQueen moment could be on the cards, but instead he exits
in less elegant fashion, staggering to his feet, almost toppling over, but just
contriving to employ his momentum as a means of propulsion that sees him crash
into the shadows of the undergrowth, unruly uninvited rhododendrons that patrol
the perimeter and hug the boundary wall.  He presses himself into their
welcome cover, and clambers through to the brickwork.  It rises to some eight
feet, but poses no obstacle to his practised scrambling technique, and he’s
atop in a trice, tumbling over into the lesser undergrowth of springy bramble
and brittle stinging nettle that inhabits the no-man’s land lining the lane.

Recovering his breath he lies hidden from
sight, gazing up at the glittering Great Bear.  Then suddenly he freezes
and listens again.  There’s the sound of an automobile, slowly approaching. 
He turns onto all fours, attracting the painful attention of the hostile herbage
that seems designed both to repel and entrap.  Squinting through the low foliage
he sees the headlights only twenty feet away; then the hazard lights begin to flash. 
He leaps up and limps out into the road, flagging down the car with his torch.

The vehicle draws to a halt and he yanks
open the passenger door and swings inside.  ‘Go! Go!  Get us out of
here!  And switch off all your lights, for God’s sake.’

‘Yes Guv.’  DS Jones gives Skelgill
an old-fashioned look, but efficiently does as he requests.

After half a minute he glances anxiously
behind them, but the road is dark and he says, ‘That’ll do – stick the
lights on before we end up in a ditch.’

‘Like you’ve not been in a ditch already,
Guv?’

‘Ha-ha, Jones.’

She stares across at him, too long for
the good of safe driving, but the dishevelled state of his hair, features and
attire demand such attention.

‘My God, Guv – you look like
Wurzel
Gummidge
.  What’s happened?  Are you okay?’

‘You’re not old enough to have heard of
Wurzel
Gummidge
.’

‘I’m old enough to have heard of
YouTube
,
Guv.  You’d be surprised what I know.’

‘Maybe I would.’

DS Jones grins.  ‘Anyway, thanks for
being on time.’

‘That’s no prob...’  Skelgill stops
himself and falls back into the seat.  He allows himself a kind of
laugh.  ‘Sorry – yeah – thanks.  You saved my bacon,
there.’

‘All part of the service.  Though
Alec... I mean,
DI Smart
... was none-too-chuffed when I told him I wouldn’t
be reviewing the day’s findings over a nightcap.’

Skelgill stares straight ahead.  He
leans forward to massage his bruised knee.  After a moment he turns to appraise
his companion: she’s still dressed for the nightclub in Carlisle she left an
hour earlier – a short black skirt revealing most of her sheer silvery
tights (or are they stockings?), matched by a tight-fitting sparkly bodice, and
striking eye make-up that belies any possibility that she might work for the
CID.

‘You don’t look like a copper.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ 
She glances at Skelgill.  ‘Guv – it’s a deadly boring gig.’

‘Aha.’  Skelgill’s tone is flat.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’  She
turns again to inspect his condition.  ‘You’ve got a hell of an egg on
your forehead.’

‘Which came first?’

‘The chicken?’

‘That was me – I had to do a
runner.’

‘What on earth were you up to, Guv?’

‘Same as you, really – doing at bit
of a recce.’

‘Without permission?’

‘Right to roam, and all that.’

‘I though that was Scotland, Guv.’

‘It’s near enough.’

‘Did you get spotted?’

‘You know,’ Skelgill rubs his scalp with
both hands, dislodging small items of vegetation, ‘I actually think I got away
with it – by the skin of my teeth.’

‘Find anything?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘How can you be
not sure
, Guv?’

‘Well – sometimes, nothing can be
something.’

DS Jones gives him a cross-eyed look that
says she’s heard his double-speak before.

‘Where are we going, by the way?’

‘Peel Wyke.  My car’s down by the
boat.’

‘Oh.  How did you get to the school?’

‘I swam.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Why would I joke?’

‘Well – you
are
wet through,
I can see that.’  She sniffs.  ‘
Smell
, actually.’

‘Cheers, Jones.’

‘Sorry, Guv.’

‘No offence taken.’

‘What would you have done if I’d not
managed to pick you up?’

‘A triathlon?’

She chuckles.

Skelgill adds, ‘And then throttled Smart.’

DS Jones raises her eyebrows, but does
not respond.  Perhaps she takes the opportunity to change the subject, for
she says, ‘Guv – about Singapore.’

‘Yeah.’  Skelgill sounds as if he is
not listening.

‘You wanted to know about the Head and his
Deputy?’

‘Oh... yeah.  But you can’t have
heard already?’

‘No, it’s not that.’  She brushes a
couple of strands of hair from her eyes.  ‘While I was in the club...
there was a wifi signal, so I was looking online.  Google Oakthwaite plus Singapore
and guess what?’

‘Snyder?’

‘Actually, Guv – no.  The Head.’

‘How come?’

‘There’s an educational convention in
Singapore this week.  He’s the keynote speaker and Oakthwaite’s got one of
the main exhibition stands – you know, to recruit overseas pupils.’

Skelgill is silent, but evidently
digesting this news.  After a few moments he says, ‘He was catching the
London train this afternoon.  That must be where he was heading.  He
never mentioned it to us.’

‘Maybe nothing in that, though,
Guv?  You said he was pretty circumspect.’

Skelgill nods ruefully.  ‘Yeah,
maybe.’

‘You can see why they don’t want adverse
publicity, Guv.  When there are all the schools in the world to choose
from.  Bad news costs money.’

Again Skelgill has to concur.  He
says, ‘Do you reckon they charge more to foreigners?’

She shrugs.  ‘I’m sure I can find
out – but it can’t be a huge difference... must be quite a competitive
market.’

‘Whatever it is, it’s enough to merit a
beano in Singapore.  Alright for some, eh?  When do we get a junket
like that, Jones?’

‘Morning, Guv – where are you,
squire?’

‘Leyton...?’

‘Guv – you alright?’

‘Yeah... I... er... something came up.’

Skelgill’s thick voice and sluggish wits
tell the listening DS Leyton all he needs to know: his superior has
overslept.  This is most unlike the DI Skelgill who, among his various
nicknames of ‘Mallory’, ‘Dan Dare’ and ‘Dirty Harry’, is also referred to among
his colleagues by the less flattering epithet ‘Badger’, for his general
disregard of the protocols of the eight-hour sleep and the concept of retiring
and rising at civilised hours.

‘Guv – you should get down here.’

‘Steady on, Leyton.’

‘But, Guv – I’m at the
school.  It’s urg...’

Skelgill interrupts.  ‘Start without
me Leyton.  Do the next interview.’

‘But, Guv...’

Skelgill is becoming irate. 
‘Leyton,’ (he coughs heavily) ‘What’s your problem?’

‘Guv – it’s Hodgson – you
know, the groundsman?’

‘What about him?’

‘He’s dead.’

‘What?’

‘Looks like
he’s
topped himself,
too.’

Skelgill breathes heavily, but does not
respond.

‘Guv –
sure
you’re okay?’

‘Leyton, I’m fine.  Shut it.’

‘Sorry, Guv.’

‘Why didn’t you call me earlier?’

‘I’ve been ringing for the last
forty-five minutes, Guv.’

Skelgill clears his throat again.

‘How did he do it?’

‘Shotgun, Guv – one of those little
four-tens.’

‘Where?’

‘In the gatehouse – Querrell’s
cottage.’

Again there’s silence.

‘Who found him?’

‘Local jobbing chippy, Guv.  He
comes in once a fortnight to do all the handyman stuff.  Snyder had asked
him to sort those shelves you pulled down.’

‘What time?’

‘About an hour ago.  Eight-thirtyish.’

‘Is Herdwick there?’

‘On his way, Guv – he had to finish
an autopsy first thing.’

‘So we don’t know when he died.’

‘That’s right, Guv – not yet. 
The light was on, though – suggests it was during the night.’

‘Was it locked?’

‘Apparently so.  Snyder loaned the
chippy the key.’

‘Is the place sealed off?’

‘Yes, Guv – I’ve got PC Dodd
guarding it – keeping a low profile, like.’

‘No signs of foul play?’

‘Not at first sight, Guv.  He sat in
the armchair.  Shot through the mouth.  Looks like he might have used
the poker from the hearth to press the trigger.’

After a few moments Skelgill says, ‘Get a
photo of the gun on your phone – find out if it’s from the school.’

‘I’ve done that, Guv – the picture,
anyway.  I’ve arranged for us to see Snyder at ten.’

‘You might have to do that on your own.’

‘But, Guv – ain’t this the
connection we’ve been looking for?’

‘Maybe.’

‘So, Guv...’

‘And call SOCO in.’

‘What are you going to do, Guv?’

‘Me, Leyton?  I’m going for a walk.’

*

Skelgill parks at his regular spot at
Peel Wyke, tucking his car away from prying eyes among the trees that surround
the hidden and largely unknown slipway.  The day has dawned calm and
clear, and his attention is easily won by the gentle rises that puncture
Bassenthwaite Lake’s taut margins.  The air still holds its night-time
chill, and a residue of foxy mustiness.  Through this resonant ether a great
tit and a chiffchaff – approximately homophonic – mark their
respective territories.  Skelgill is drawn to the water’s edge, and now
lingers beside the boat: there’s always tackle in the back of his car.

Suddenly, from above his line of sight,
hidden by the canopy, an osprey crashes into the glassy surface about fifty
yards from the shore.  There’s a moment of life-or-death tumult, a frenzy
of white water, whence the raptor emerges, its great dark wings bowed by the
effort, a twenty-inch jack pike rigid and staring in the iron grip of its
talons.  The strike seems to dislodge Skelgill from his reverie; he nods
admiringly at the uncompromising angler and turns on his heel, eschewing his
car and heading back along the lane.

A minute later he’s striding past the
frontage of the old coaching inn, a long, crouching relic, its low undulating roof
an irregular warp of mottled tiles seemingly woven into the fabric of the
landscape.  Some of its ancient mullioned windows are already flung open
as the chambermaids set about banishing stale night fugs from the snug bedrooms. 
The clink of empty bottles being dropped one by one into a recycling bin rises
from the back of the building, returning as an echo from the steeply banked
ground beyond.

Skelgill skirts the old barn connected to
the distempered hostelry and vaults over a protesting wire fence, panicking a
cock pheasant into an explosive getaway.  He picks a path into the dense hazel
thicket immediately behind the inn.  The north-facing ground here is damp,
and his boots sink into black peaty bog until he gains the rockier upslope,
hauling himself vigorously by means of whatever saplings come to hand.  Gradually,
the underfoot conditions ease and the shrub layer thins, though the gradient
remains punishing.  In places there is a thick carpet of slippery bluebell
leaves, and mosquitoes and midges rise from the bracken as he brazens his way
through, climbing, climbing.  High overhead, a pair of circling buzzards
catcall to one another, their extended feathered fingers feeling for the first thermal
of the day.

While Skelgill’s unmarked route
intersects with several easier tracks, he is unwavering in his unorthodox trajectory,
his stride a steady rhythmical pull, his wiry frame springing off his toes at
each upward step, his breathing surprisingly light.  After ten minutes or
so he reaches a dry-stone wall, and with swift agility swarms over it, taking
care not to dislodge loose rocks.  He has reached the edge of the wood; before
him the open ground rises to its peak at just under twelve hundred feet, a little-visited
hill known locally as Sale Fell.

He sets a course for its modest summit,
crossing the reedy turf at a punishing pace.  Beneath his downturned gaze tormentil,
bedstraw and harebell must be a floral blur.  Only when he attains the
little cairn does he afford himself a glance around, as if he’s been saving the
surprise of the view.  He unhooks his small weathered knapsack and lowers
himself down against the irregular stone backrest, looking out over the woods
that descend to Bassenthwaite Lake beyond.  He produces a dented flask and
pours himself a cup of piping hot tea.  Sipping pensively, he stares eastwards.

Even from this altitude, Oakthwaite
School is still only partially visible, guarded by great oaks and Spanish
chestnuts that patrol its green parkland.  Its wooded perimeter is more
distinct, and Skelgill can just make out the boathouse.  There is the
route he took last night, along the bank of the lake, then inland towards the lodge,
hidden somewhere within the dense belt of trees.  He turns his attention
back to the jetty; there’s something he hasn’t spotted before.  A curious
landform that might escape notice at ground level, it appears as if the site of
the landing stage was once connected to the school – some half-mile
distant – by a broad dyke, or perhaps a raised bank or thoroughfare. 
All that remains now is a low ridge of ground.  This would be imperceptible
if it were not for the slanting rays of the morning sun that reveal its
presence as a line of shadow.  In sections it is planted with trees, and it
fades away altogether as it nears the school building.  At its western
end, closest to the lake, it disappears into a thicket not far from the
boathouse and does not emerge.

Skelgill, as if coming to some decision,
suddenly casts away the last dregs of his tea.  He jams the mug and flask
into the knapsack and slings it onto one shoulder as he swings to his
feet.  He sets off, retracing his steps down the hillside, but now with a
more languid gait.  Casually, he reaches into his back pocket for his
mobile phone.