Murder In School (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 2), page 11
‘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.
‘The old fellow who comes on the motorbike?’
‘Thou one of his cronies?’
‘Nah – just passing.’ Skelgill raises his crash helmet and gives it a little shake.
‘Not many as pass this way.’
‘Good reason to come, in my book.’
The old man makes a small upward jerk of his head, as if accepting of Skelgill’s remark. ‘Thou frae Wukiton?’
‘Pereth.’ Skelgill uses the colloquial name for Penrith in response to his questioner’s Workington diminutive.
His efforts to endear himself appear to be bearing fruit, since the old man says, as if by way of apology, ‘Thought thew be an offcomer.’
Skelgill shakes his head. ‘You said cronies?’
‘Bunch a’ rich folks.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Deeked their cars. Range Rovers and that.’
‘Hillwalkers?’
The old man frowns. ‘Ont bevvy more like.’
Skelgill inclines his head towards the bothy. ‘In there?’
‘Aye. After t’inn’s called last orders. I’ve heard ‘em.’
‘Do they board at the inn?’
‘Reckon.’
Skelgill hitches up his overtrousers. ‘I was just going in for a pint.’
‘Ars gan yam.’ The old man says this as if to decline an offer unmade by Skelgill. He points with his crook at a cluster of small cottages a quarter of a mile distant, and without further formalities begins slowly to hobble away, the skulking collie in tow. After a few seconds, and without looking back, he calls out, ‘You wunt get nowt out‘t landlord – he’s an offcomer.’
*
As Skelgill clumps through into the reception area, a tall pale man of around his own age suddenly rises to attention from behind the counter. He wears a tattersall shirt beneath a quilted gilet. He’s holding a newly opened ream of copy paper, and is perhaps in the process of reloading a printer.
‘Sorry, chum – no boots or biker gear in the residents’ areas.’ The accent is refined; as the shepherd intimated, the hotelier is not a local.
‘How about this kind of boots?’
No doubt resisting the temptation to include the patronising epithet ‘chum’ in his reply, Skelgill, without breaking stride, reaches into an inside pocket and produces his warrant card. Holding it at eye level he forces his protagonist to take a step backwards in order to read the details.
‘Oh – of course – I had no idea you were – police.’
‘We don’t usually walk about with a sign saying CID, sir. Tends to reduce our effectiveness in protecting the public.’
‘Naturally, officer.’ There’s a distinct flushing of the skin around his neck.
Skelgill drops his crash helmet on the counter top and rubs his hands together. He scrutinises the landlord, then casts about beyond him, as though he’s expecting to see an item of lost property that has been handed in. His silence forces the other to speak.
‘So... er... how may I be of assistance to you?’
‘You are the proprietor, I take it, sir?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘There’s a little stone climbing barn about a hundred-and-fifty yards along the lane. Does that come under your ownership?’
‘No – that’s nothing to do with us.’ This response comes quickly, as though the man is keen to distance himself from the subject matter.
Skelgill nods slowly. ‘We’re trying to trace the connections of the key-holder.’
‘I can’t help you there, I’m afraid, officer.’ Again, the answer is rushed, when a qualifying enquiry such as ‘Why?’ or ‘Who?’ might have been expected.
‘According to our information the people who use it lodge here.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so, officer. Our hotel prices are designed to deter the climbing types – they tend to go for the budget places, the B&Bs.’
‘Who said they were climbing types?’ Skelgill sounds a little irked by the implied class distinction in landlord’s explanation.
‘Well... er... since it’s a climbing hut...’
Skelgill doesn’t reply, and instead takes a leaflet advertising the inn’s services from a dispenser close at hand. He raises an eyebrow at the slogan ‘For the discerning foodie’, and scans through the price list.
‘May I?’ He inserts the brochure into his jacket without waiting for a reply, and then picks up his helmet. Taking a step back he says, ‘Is that your blue Defender parked down the side?’
The hotelier, sensing that Skelgill has finished with him, and for a moment beginning to relax, stiffens once more. ‘Yes, it is, officer.’
Skelgill turns and begins to head for the exit. As he reaches and opens the door he looks back and says, ‘I should keep an eye on your road tax – you can renew online these days, you know, chum.’
And with that he strides out, leaving the landlord staring disconcertedly at the spot where he had stood.
Skelgill heads directly for his motorcycle, hauling on his helmet and fastening his jacket as he goes. But when he reaches the machine, rather than climbing aboard, he goes down on one bended knee to examine the little disc-holder attached to the front-left fork. Tipping his head to one side as if in a gesture of confirmation he stands upright and pulls out his mobile phone. Quickly he taps out a text to himself, ‘Bike tax expired.’
20. THE BURGER VAN
Throwing caution to the wind of his own warning that the Chief passes this way, Friday morning finds Skelgill parked in the layby that is home to the recently discovered burger van. Working through a bacon roll whilst waiting for DS Leyton to join him for breakfast, he is conducting a consequently disjointed telephone conversation with DS Jones.
‘So what are you doing now?’
‘I’m on my way to meet DI Smart, Guv.’
Skelgill tuts. ‘Where?’
‘Southwaite services – he wants to give me a de-brief.’
‘I bet he does.’ Skelgill mutters under his breath.
‘Sorry, Guv?’
‘I said keep mum – about Goodman.’
‘Of course, Guv.’
Skelgill now has to finish a mouthful of food before he can speak again.
‘You still there, Guv?’
‘Yup. Look – I want you to contact him.’
‘Goodman?’
‘Correct.’
‘Won’t he be flying right now?’
‘Just leave him a message. And if he rings when he lands, don’t answer – see if he records a voicemail before you call back.’
‘Can we use that, Guv?’
‘I’m sure we’d find a way.’
‘What should I say?’
‘Sorry you had to rush off. Make it sound like you’re in London. Tell him your boss is still keen on getting his son into the school, but wants something a bit more concrete on what the deal is. Cut to the chase, Headmaster.’
‘Shall I use that expression?’
‘Words to that effect – we need to hear it from him if he’s bending the rules.’
‘What if he wants to meet up?’
‘Get the train?’
‘But... Guv.’
‘Jones – wait and see – play it by ear. At least make it seem like you could meet him for a drink later.’
Now it’s DS Jones turn to remain silent.
‘Tell him if he can give you a steer, you should be able to get a proposal back from your employer by tonight.’
‘Okay.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
‘Guv, Smart will go crackers if I go gallivanting off again on your case.’
‘Look – I don’t want you gallivanting, but...’
‘It might get the Chief off your back?’
‘Something like that.’
Skelgill holds up two fingers through the windscreen to the arriving DS Leyton who, rather than take offence, nods and walks away to place their order.
‘What did she say about our trip, Guv?’
‘Qualified success. Reading between the lines of her email.’
‘Just between the lines?’
‘You know the Chief. The only time she says ‘Well done’ is when she orders a steak.’
