Murder In School (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 2), page 10
Skelgill begins to scrutinise the fare on offer. He recognises snake-like duck heads, lolling in drunken heaps, skinned and stained a shiny orange – but that’s where familiarity begins and ends. Many of the counters seem to be advertising dishes of unappetising limp vegetables and displaying large unrecognisable fruits. As he weaves among slurping patrons, the glossy, soupy contents of their dishes are as much a mystery to him as he must be to their momentarily upturned gaze. Heads down, they’re packing the stuff in, a pair of chopsticks in one hand and a spoon in the other.
Incapable of ordering, he reaches the exit. Here there’s a separate stall, a mobile one on wheels. A friendly elderly Chinese woman squatting on a low plastic footstool engages him. His natural reaction is to reject her exhortations, but in the nick of time her wares catch his eye and on this impulse he buys a tube of Pringles and a bottle of Coke.
Thus provisioned, he regains the sidewalk and hails a taxi.
18. CHANGI
‘Sounds like you’re in an airport, Guv.’
‘Nah – Euston.’
‘Funny that – I could have sworn that announcer just said Kuala Lumpur.’
‘Clapham Junction, I think it was.’
A hint of suspicion lingers in DS Leyton’s voice. ‘Must be going deaf in my old age, Guv.’
Skelgill would ordinarily have a somewhat vulgar retort for this suggestion, but now he quickly moves the conversation on. ‘So what’s the story on Hodgson?’
‘Guv – the final lab report’s not ready yet. I called Herdwick about an hour ago. He says cause of death was definitely the shotgun wound – instantaneous – and as predicted a shedload of alcohol in the bloodstream – about four times the legal driving limit. The only prints on the gun were his – but it was his job to clean and oil them after use, so no surprise there, really.’
Now Skelgill hurriedly tries to muffle the microphone with his jacket as a flight to Hanoi is called.
‘Sorry, Guv – didn’t quite catch that. Your voice is a bit distant.’
‘I was saying what else?’
‘Well – I went round to his gaff, yesterday afternoon – right state it was. A crate of empties – mainly vodka. No sign of her indoors – word on the street is she slung her hook years back on account of his drinking.’
‘Seems like there’s a theme developing there.’
‘Too right, Guv. He was banned from the local about six weeks ago for threatening the staff – girl refused him a drink when he’d had a few too many. Bit of a Billy no-mates by all accounts. Then the newsagent told me he’d run up a fat tab for the Racing Post – so I asked at the bookies and the old dear there said he was a chronic loser, but couldn’t keep away.’
‘Chasing his losses?’
‘That’s it, Guv. And I reckon it goes further – there was a stack of final demands in the flat – couple of CCJs, by the look of the envelopes – and hardly any electricals – no telly or fridge even.’
‘Could the place have been turned over?’
‘No signs of a forced entry. More likely he pawned the gear.’
‘Anything connected to the school? Letters or documents?’
‘Not as I could see, Guv. But it was hard to tell with all the mess and bottles and old newspapers.’
‘So we’ve got an antisocial alcoholic with gambling debts.’
‘On the face of it, Guv, no real surprise he’s gone and topped himself.’
Skelgill is silent.
‘Guv – you still there?’
Skelgill rises to his feet, staring into the distance, his mobile held by his side. Then he seems to remember the conversation. ‘Leyton, I’ve got to go – I’ll see you tomorrow – keep up the good work. Follow your nose.’
He ends the call before DS Leyton can reply or protest, or even make the Londoner’s observation that surely a train departing for Clapham Junction would mean Skelgill was at Victoria? Skelgill then leaves his bag and jacket on his seat, and strides towards the control point of the departure gate within which he has been ensconced for some thirty minutes or so. Beyond the security belts and x-ray machines, about a hundred and fifty yards into the seething mall, the high-heeled DS Jones is making uncertain progress through the milling crowds, glancing anxiously at overhead departure screens as she comes.
*
‘Have you been drinking, Miss Jones?’
‘Just a couple, Guv – I had to go with the flow.’
Skelgill lifts his head in seemingly reluctant assent. Certainly she appears a little inebriated, her hair and clothing dishevelled by the impeccable standards of earlier in the day.
‘I was beginning to think I’d be flying alone. I reckon they’ll board us any minute.’
‘Sorry, Guv – my phone ran out of charge not long after I sent you that text.’ She drops her shoulder bag onto the seat beside his.
‘So, what kept you?’
Skelgill’s tone is probably more severe than he intends, and for a moment DS Jones looks a little crestfallen.
He corrects himself, saying, ‘I mean – how did you get on? You said there were developments.’
DS Jones slips off her jacket. Underneath she wears a close-fitting white blouse, with perhaps one button too many undone. Then she removes her strappy shoes and swaps them for a pair of sleek ballet pumps from inside her shoulder bag, her tanned and sculpted calves exhibited by her lithe movements. Skelgill becomes conscious that she’s attracting surreptitious glances from two male passengers sitting opposite them. He coughs rather ostentatiously, perhaps in an attempt to create a proprietorial bubble around himself and his more photogenic female colleague.
She sits back, clearly the happier for making herself comfortable. ‘Top line, Guv – I think the school is looking for funding, over and above the regular fees – and they’re eye-watering enough, as it is.’
Now she has Skelgill’s full attention. He says, ‘You mean illicit funding?’
She puffs out her cheeks. ‘I don’t know – but I think it could be a kind of inside track, as you put it.’
‘How did you reach that conclusion?’
DS Jones pulls her feet up beneath her, so she’s curled kitten-like, half facing him. ‘It all happened after the event, really, Guv. When I got there, they were in a big hall, with tables round the outside, and you could go up and speak to representatives of each school – they had their own roller-banners and display boards and brochures. Thing is, there was a queue at most of them, so you were only allowed a couple of minutes, and there was no way I could ask any tricky questions with people breathing down my neck. But, in the end, that worked in my favour – I introduced myself to Goodman and asked a couple of obvious questions.’
‘Such as?’
‘What makes Oakthwaite so special.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Oh, just the pat answers, really – they’re always high up in the exam league tables... the emphasis on sport and outdoor experiences... that it's all boys so there’s no distractions...’
‘Ha! That’s an advantage?’
‘Maybe, Guv.’
‘Can’t see it myself.’
‘No, Guv.’ She knows Skelgill can fall a tad to the right of political correctness on issues concerning masculinity, and her reply is one of accord. She continues, ‘Anyway – it meant I was able to introduce myself without being grilled about who I was.’
‘I told you that.’
DS Jones gives him a patient grin. ‘Yes, Guv. After that we all went into an auditorium for about an hour and a half of presentations. Goodman’s not on stage until tomorrow – and it was starting to look like a waste of time. I thought the event was closing at five, but they announced a private cocktail hour through in the lobby of the hotel – you ought to see it, Guv – it’s got this space age feel.’
Skelgill nods. Now he’s looking at her a little warily.
‘As soon as I walked in to the roped-off section Goodman came up to me with two drinks. He was acting kind of suave, and said something about us fellow Brits needing to look after one another. Then I had this brainwave.’
‘Oh.’
‘Well you know your back-up idea that I was sent by the owner, not the editor?’
‘Aha.’
‘I told him that was why I was really there, except I embellished a bit – that the owner was thinking about sending his son to study in England, and had heard good reports of three schools, one of which being Oakthwaite.’
‘So what?’
‘He suggested we went up to the bar – you know, right up on the roof, the Sky Park – they’ve got this infinity pool looking down from over six hundred feet – it’s like you’re flying.’
‘You weren’t in it?’ Skelgill sounds irate.
‘No, Guv – don’t be daft – but I had to pretend I knew all about it – I’m a reporter that works here, remember?’
‘So how did you manage that?’
‘Fortunately I’d Googled the place while the speeches were going on – that’s probably why my battery gave up.’
‘What then?’
‘We went to the Sky Bar – with Goodman being a resident at the hotel it was no problem to get in. I guess we had a couple of cocktails...’
‘You guess?’
‘I thought it best to act interested, Guv – I wouldn’t normally drink on duty, or during daytime.’
‘I should think not.’
‘So he was asking me about the guy I represented – nothing really difficult – I think he was getting a bit tipsy. I basically made out my employer was a media mogul – billionaire type – and that seemed to satisfy him. Then he was quick to explain how there was a lot of demand to join the school, and there’s only so many places each year and a tough entrance exam. He said his job was to select the boys that would most benefit from the school, and vice versa.’
‘Vice versa – that’s what he said?’
‘Verbatim, Guv. Of course, he could have meant what personal qualities and varied backgrounds they’d bring to the community – he’d touched on that earlier – but I don’t think it’s what he was getting at.’
‘Was he explicit?’
At this question DS Jones momentarily flinches, but she quickly regains her composure and says, ‘He said they had such a thing as a ‘VIP Application’ – for parents whose sons were considered more likely to qualify for one of their places at Oxbridge.’
‘Their places?’
‘Yeah, Guv – like it’s a done deal – like travel agents have so many seats on a flight, so many rooms at a hotel. That's how he made it sound.’
‘That can’t be right, surely?’
‘I don’t know, Guv – who really knows about this kind of thing?’
Skelgill is thoughtful for a moment. He shakes his head ruefully. ‘Well no one from my comp got in, that’s for sure. I reckon the best we did was a couple into St Andrews, and I thought that was a football ground until recently.’
DS Jones grins and, as if taking the opportunity of this moment of brevity, she draws a breath and says, ‘So he suggested we went to his room and he could help me fill out a preliminary application. He said it ought to get me a promotion, at least.’
Thus Skelgill’s recovering ambivalence is short-lived. He frowns and stares at the carpeted floor of the departure lounge. Earlier, when his taxi had passed beneath the twinkling towers of the two-and-a-half-thousand room behemoth, he’d gazed upwards at the Sky Park, seemingly suspended like an illuminated version of the Starship Enterprise, wondering if she were somewhere inside the great edifice and – if so – what she was doing.
‘I didn’t go, Guv.’ Her tone is one of stating the obvious.
‘What? Why not?’
‘Well... I thought there might not be an application form.’
‘Oh.’ Skelgill seems to be grinding his teeth.
‘So I said I was going to powder my nose and never went back to the bar. I’d already mentioned I was flying to London tonight for an assignment, so I just told the girl on the reception to pass on a message that I’d been called away and would be back later if I could make it. I don’t think he would have been short for company, anyway, Guv.’
Skelgill now appears like he’s trying to look unconcerned. He says, ‘Maybe you should have given it a try – you might have got something concrete that could be useful as evidence.’
DS Jones shrugs as though she thinks probably not. But she humours him with, ‘I was thinking about you, Guv – I’d been looking forward to us having a Chinese or something – it would have been good to see a bit of the city. How did you get on?’
Now it’s Skelgill’s turn to lift his shoulders. He says, ‘I went to the school your aunt put us onto. As I half expected, they’d never heard of him – didn’t recognise the mugshot.’
‘So he’s a fraud? What does that mean, Guv?’
‘Dunno. Not yet – no idea. Maybe he just thought it was a crafty little white lie to put on his CV. They’re obviously keen on recruitment out here. Would have made him sound more valuable to the school if they thought he had the right contacts.’
‘But, Guv – why wouldn’t they send him instead of the Head?’
‘Maybe the Head pulled rank on this occasion – wanted the trip and the trimmings for himself.’
DS Jones raises her eyebrows. Her recent experience might seem to corroborate this hypothesis. ‘What did you do then, Guv?’
Skelgill makes an effort to sound casual. ‘Just had a bit of a wander, really. Nothing much. Came back here and got a burger.’
‘When in Rome, Guv!’
‘You know me, Jones – catholic when it comes to my tastes.’
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.’
19. THE BOTHY
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.
