Murder In School (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 2), page 14
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.’
Skelgill takes DS Leyton’s notebook and looks hard at the open page, as if to check whether his Sergeant has actually got this written down. ‘So Mary Queen of Scots drove an atheist and an alcoholic to suicide?’
‘I think they’d happily believe it, Guv.’
‘I must put this in my email to the Chief this afternoon.’ He hands back the notebook.
DS Leyton chuckles. ‘Thing is, Guv – I don’t reckon at this age they grasp the finality of death. And it doesn’t sound like either Hodgson or Querrell will be missed.’
Skelgill purses his lips. ‘Hodgson I can understand – probably all they got from him was “Get off the effing square”, but I thought Querrell was supposed to be Akela?’
DS Leyton shrugs. ‘Not so sure about that, Guv. According to Cholmondeley he was a bit of a slave driver. Like when he refereed the rugby – if a kid got injured he’d just leave him lying there and play on.’
Skelgill lifts his head in acknowledgement. ‘What about the official line?’
‘They’ve been told they both had personal problems unconnected to the school.’
Skelgill puffs out his cheeks. ‘That’s stretching it a bit as far as Querrell was concerned.’
DS Leyton shrugs. ‘Like I say, Guv – I think they’re just taking it in their stride. BAU.’
‘What?’
‘Business as usual, Guv.’
‘Did the kid say that?’
‘Er... yeah, I reckon he did. Why, Guv?’
Skelgill shakes his head slowly. ‘You keep giving me a déjà vu, Leyton.’
DS Leyton beams. ‘I get that myself all the time with the missus, Guv.’
Skelgill reciprocates with a forced grin. ‘So no indication that anything was amiss with Querrell?’
DS Leyton looks hopefully at his notebook, as if willing something hitherto unwritten to materialise. Then he jolts and says, ‘Oh, Guv – Cholmondeley did say he’d heard raised voices while he was waiting to see Jacobson, and Querrell had come out with a face like thunder.’
‘When was this?’
‘He couldn’t remember exactly – last week. Seems he has to go to Jacobson every day to collect a diary sheet for the first-form noticeboard. He’s the house rep.’
‘I take it he doesn’t know what they were arguing about?’
DS Leyton shakes his head. ‘He just said it wasn’t unusual for Querrell to be bad tempered.’
Skelgill purses his lips. ‘Did he mention this hill-race they’ve got tomorrow?’
‘No, Guv – what’s that about?’
‘Something Querrell normally organised – Jacobson told me about it. That could be what the fuss was over. The first years have to run to the top of Skiddaw and back.’
DS Leyton shifts uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Blimey, Guv – the more I hear about this place the more I reckon I got off lightly in my day. No wonder he was unpopular if that was the sort of stunt he put them up to.’
Skelgill nods. ‘What did the boy say about Jacobson?’
DS Leyton shrugs. ‘Nothing we don’t know, Guv. Said he’s a queer old bird – but that he’s a soft touch for tuck and forgetful when it comes to punishment exercises.’
‘Think he was holding anything back?’
‘Nah, Guv – I don’t. He’s very open and quick to answer. A bit too talkative for his teachers’ liking, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Well he was right about the scones. Jacobson eats more than me. You’d think he’d carry a bit more padding.’
DS Leyton leans back and proudly pats his ample stomach. ‘We’re not all designed to survive a shipwreck, Guv.’
Skelgill glares disapprovingly at his Sergeant. ‘Except you’d still be stuck on the desert island long after I’d built a raft and sailed to safety.’
‘Then you’d come to rescue me, Guv – just as the coconuts run out!’
Skelgill chuckles and gets to his feet. ‘Come on – thank god it’s Friday.’
He strolls across to the doorway; while DS Leyton, following, pats his pockets for the key that Skelgill had given him earlier.
‘Here we are, Guv – I thought I may as well wait for you before going in.’
But Skelgill’s attention is fixed upon the stone lintel above the entrance. He reaches up and brushes his fingertips across the uneven surface.
‘What is it, Guv?’
Skelgill steps back and points with an index finger. ‘What do you reckon that is?’
DS Leyton squints hopefully at the chiselled marking that Skelgill indicates.
‘Dunno, Guv. A backwards number six?’
‘Wouldn’t make sense, though, would it – number six on a gatehouse in the middle of nowhere?’
‘Could just be a design, Guv – looks a bit like those prehistoric markings on the rocks at Copt Howe.’
Skelgill shoots a surprised glance at DS Leyton. ‘How do you know about them?’
‘Ah, you see, Guv – one of our kids is doing the Stone Age as a project at school. We drove down and had a look last weekend. They made axe heads there, too – traded them all over Europe.’
‘Well, you’re certainly turning into a fount of information, Leyton. You’ll be teaching me about fishing next.’
‘No fear, Guv – you know me and hydrophobia.’
‘You should give it a try sometime. I shall be on Bass Lake on Monday morning bright and early if you want to come.’
‘I’m all out of leave, Guv – ‘till my next holiday year starts.’
‘Pity we can’t trade – I’m going to forfeit two weeks at my present rate.’
‘You just off Monday, Guv?’
Skelgill nods. ‘I was going to cancel it, but we seem to be grinding to a halt on this case. Maybe I’ll have some inspiration while I’m fishing.’
‘Guv, I reckon I ought to follow up those livestock thefts over at Appleby – the file’s been burning a hole in my in-tray. Unless you want me to come and talk to someone else here?’
Skelgill’s shoulders have slumped and he has a defeated look about him. He shakes his head. ‘Nah – you’d better keep the landowners happy. I’ll try to do the same with her majesty.’
DS Leyton pulls in his head in tortoise fashion. ‘Rather you than me, Guv.’
Skelgill sighs. ‘Hopefully she’ll be in her Friday heads-of-departments meeting for the rest of the day. I’ll leave it as late as I can to send her a report.’
DS Leyton nods, and reaches with some difficulty over his shoulder to pull his shirt away from his skin. ‘I’m sweating like a pig, Guv. Think the heatwave’s coming back?’
Skelgill gazes up to the skies and watches the movement of the clouds. ‘Doubt it – not with these westerlies. The outlook for the weekend’s not too clever. I’ve got a run on Saturday and a mountain rescue exercise on Sunday.’
‘Maybe they’ll get it wrong, Guv. I’m supposed to be cutting our grass before the pigmies move in. Reckon I might already be too late.’
Skelgill forces a smile. ‘Come on, Leyton – let’s get this door open. I can’t see us finding anything here, but I’d better return this Wainwright.’
23. BASSENTHWAITE LAKE
Rather in the way of Manchester, whose reputation is such that the climate is sometimes styled as ‘raining, or about to rain’, the Lake District experiences precipitation approximately every other day, with little respite in summer. This phenomenon provides the forecaster with a fifty per cent chance of being correct, before any meteorological skill or local knowledge is applied. Not surprisingly, therefore, the forecast to which Skelgill had referred has been borne out as accurate. Friday’s mid-afternoon sunshine proved to be a false dawn, so to speak, and the weekend something of a washout for those who had outdoor activities in mind: a state of affairs that probably suited DS Leyton. Though the worst of the downpour restricted itself to Saturday and Sunday, a slow-moving occlusion has bequeathed a stubborn blanket of cloud and low-hanging mist that drapes the fells; complemented by a light but persistent drizzle, the conditions are such to merit the colloquial epithet mizzlin.
On the damp bankside shingle Skelgill, something of a doppelganger for Tove Jansson’s Snufkin, crouches beneath a makeshift shelter fashioned from a length of painter and a rather maggoty tarpaulin. The rope is strung between two springy alder saplings, and the gabled canopy held fast at its four corners by a quartet of heavy mudstone boulders – it is a far cry from the luxury bivouacs enjoyed by today’s cosseted carp anglers, but it does the job as far as Skelgill is concerned. Like a Neolithic hunter at the mouth of his cave, he sits contentedly amidst the grey smoke that billows from his soot-blackened Kelly Kettle, poking with a twig a pan of fresh brown trout fillets that spit and pop and threaten to leap from his battered Trangia stove. The still air is thick with the aroma of their burnt skins, mingled with wood smoke and methylated spirits. As the tall aluminium storm-kettle reaches its boil he expertly sweeps it off its flaming base and decants a stream of steaming lake-water into a tin mug charged with the requisite two tea bags and powdered milk. Then he takes up a chipped enamel plate and, using his fingers as tongs, seemingly unaffected by the heat, lifts the fillets into a pair of hand-torn white buttered rolls. The finishing touch is a squirt of HP sauce from a plastic bottle that he fishes from the forces surplus knapsack at his side. Preparations complete, he stretches out his legs, his boot-heels gouging furrows into the shingle, and readies himself for his fisherman’s breakfast.
