Murder In School (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 2), page 15
It’s ten a.m. as, nursing the surely scalding mug, he contemplates the scene before him. A gentle ripple laps lightly against the hull of his boat, grounded in the shallows. From its stern a single coarse rod with a DayGlo reed-tipped waggler float bobbing gently offshore pays lip service to his continued angling. But it has been a successful morning. Out on the lake since five-thirty, Skelgill has landed four pike for almost a hundred pounds, including one venerable specimen that eventually came aboard with two silver treble-hooks and a multi-coloured plug (not one of his) and their corresponding wire traces hanging like gipsy jewellery from its jaws. He cleaned it up and proprietorially set it back in the water, to fight another day bigger. The brace of brown trout he caught out of necessity when he realised he had left his much-loved Cumberland sausages in the fridge.
Chewing, he stares thoughtfully at the tiny orange blur of the float, although whether he sees it or looks right through it is hard to discern. Perhaps a bite will tell. There’s a distant swishing rumble of wet tyres as the Monday morning delivery traffic gets going on the A66 beyond the tree-lined far bank. The small songbirds that might ordinarily be expected to bear territorial ambitions seem subdued by the dank conditions. Such avian silence is punctuated only by the occasional plunk of a trout sinking an ovipositioning daddy longlegs, and the hysterical cackle of a Mallard that finally gets last night’s joke.
Also unclear is whether Skelgill’s angling success has been matched by the inspiration he desired would come to him, as outlined to DS Leyton on Friday. Certainly his taciturn features provide little indication of such. Yet his thoughts must be drifting to the intractable Oakthwaite case. As Dr Jacobson rather cruelly remarked by allusion to London transport, for suicides to be coming along in plural, and for the Chief to have some unspoken reason for him to investigate... there is surely something afoot? What would be her motivation, however, is difficult to divine – other than logic suggests the link is either through her son, a pupil, or Mr Goodman, with whom she is evidently acquainted at the level of local dignitary. Each of these connections could explain her reluctance to state some overt rationale.
Skelgill, with his superior’s patronage, has determined that the Head may be lining his own pockets, and that Dr Snyder is not all that he seems. Other masters have their idiosyncrasies – the effusive Dr Jacobson, and the tough little South African Mike Greig – although such singularity seems to be par for the course for Oakthwaite. Edmund Querrell’s suicide lacks an explanation and circumstantially is suspicious, while Royston Hodgson’s death is curious for its locus and Skelgill’s illicitly acquired inside knowledge. Information may have been deleted from Querrell’s computer (yet it is perhaps as likely that this was Querrell’s own habit). And at various twists and turns Skelgill’s antennae have been set twitching by subtle clues and red herrings – with seemingly no way of knowing one from the other.
Rather as in the travel of the waggler float out in the surface film, perhaps a hidden hand is at play. Wherever Skelgill might carefully cast, believing there to be a sunken shelf or submerged patch of weed that might harbour his prey, factors unseen determine that it shall drift and bobble its way back always to the same undesired point. Whether driven by some undertow or unfelt breeze, some tension in the line or vibration conducted through the rod, the pattern defies perception. And what seem to be tentative bites – even to his highly trained eye – may only be the bump of the slowly shifting bait against innocuous subaquatic obstructions, or invisible zephyrs that tease at the surface tension.
If indeed his ruminations mirror the same inexorable yet unfathomable path, then his dissatisfaction can be no surprise: nothing tangible is forthcoming, and he must leave his colleagues disappointed and himself frustrated. It is one thing to sail to a tempting conclusion, but without a clearly charted course it is a port with no name.
And now Skelgill is shaken from his reverie by the shrill ringtone of his mobile.
The phone is inside a polythene bag in a buckled side-pocket of his rucksack, and he knows he can’t get to it before the call diverts. Unhurriedly he places his plate on top of the Trangia, and drills the half-full enamel mug of tea down into the shingle at his feet. Then he extracts the now-silent handset and sets it upon a stone, as if to wait for the voicemail notification – but when the screen springs once more into life it’s the same caller trying again: DS Leyton.
‘Yep.’ Skelgill does not sound best pleased.
‘Guv, Guv...’ His Sergeant’s voice has a breathless wheeze. ‘You’re needed.’
‘What?’
‘Bit of an emergency, Guv – it’s the Chief’s boy – the one at Oakthwaite.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s gone missing, Guv.’
Skelgill rises abruptly, catching his head on the apex of the bivvy and almost toppling onto his cooking paraphernalia. He manages to leap over the still-hot items and regain his balance with a controlled stumble and little trot into the water’s edge, accompanied by a selection of expletives mainly of the A to C variety.
‘Guv? You okay, Guv?’
‘Leyton, I’m fine – just a bit pissed off, as you can imagine – what do you mean he’s gone missing?’
‘Sorry, Guv. What it is, in a nutshell – the school thought he’d gone home for the weekend – after that fell-running jaunt – and at home they thought he’d stayed at school.’
Skelgill stamps about in the shallows.
‘Has he got a mobile?’
‘They’re not allowed ‘em, Guv.’
‘When was he last seen, then?’
‘I don’t know, Guv – I’m on my way now. The Chief’s going apoplectic. We’re just to get there and find him fast. Sounds like she’s ready to call in the army.’
‘When did they notice he’d gone AWOL?’
‘In the past half-hour, Guv. He didn’t turn up for registration, so they phoned home to see if he was sick or whatever. The housekeeper said he’d never been back.’
‘He’s probably skiving off around the school somewhere.’
Skelgill’s tone is a blend of the sceptical and the unsympathetic. DS Leyton, conversely, can’t conceal a growing note of desperation in his voice.
‘Guv – I know – I’m sure it’s a false alarm. But what with these suicides... it’s a three-line whip. I’m to phone her back to confirm you’re on your way.’
Skelgill takes a kick at a rock, but his contact is rather better than he perhaps intends and it flies across and knocks over his Kelly Kettle, spilling some of its contents hissing into the embers in its fire base. He surveys his equipment and shelter and the boat. It will take him a good hour to decamp, row back to Peel Wyke, chain up the boat, drive home, shower and change and make it over to the school. But his temporary camp is pitched on an isolated and overgrown promontory of the lake’s largely untrodden east bank: inaccessible from all directions but the water, inconspicuous and probably safe from looters. There’s little to prevent him from heading directly to the landing stage at Oakthwaite. He holds out his arms and inspects his attire.
‘Leyton – tell her I’ll be there in fifteen minutes – but I shan’t be looking like I’ve arrived via Savile Row.’
DS Leyton lets out an audible sigh of relief. ‘Thanks, Guv – I don’t think she’ll be too bothered if you turn up in your boxers.’
‘Leyton – it might come to that.’
‘Actually, Guv – now you mention it, I’ve got me other whistle hanging in the back – the missus’s been nagging me to put it into the cleaners in Penrith.’
There’s a pause while Skelgill contemplates this offer.
‘Wait for me in the school car park.’
24. OAKTHWAITE SCHOOL
The intensifying howl of the approaching two-stroke engine must reach some critical threshold, for it diverts a frowning DS Leyton from his private misgivings as he examines the grey pinstripe suit hanging in the opened rear doorway of his car. He cranes around to be greeted by the oncoming sight of Skelgill, standing Steve McQueen-like in the saddle, riding a quad bike at full throttle across the manicured lawn that forms an apron around much of the main school building. Without decelerating Skelgill swerves onto the ornamental gravel border, the machine’s back end snaking alarmingly, jinks between neat box hedges that mark the entrance to the parking area, and slides to a grinding halt beside DS Leyton.
‘Blimey, Guv – where’d you learn to do that?’ DS Leyton has to shout to be heard above the popping of the twin exhausts.
Skelgill dismounts and kills the ignition. He shrugs and wipes damp grass-cuttings from his forehead. His reply is a touch oblique. ‘Most of the shepherds round here have them.’
‘Who does it belong to, Guv?’
‘Dunno, Leyton. Formerly Hodgson’s maybe. It was at the back of an equipment shed on the far side of the cricket pitch, just up from the boathouse.’
DS Leyton shakes his head, his expression one of wonderment. ‘I’ve only just got here myself, Guv – I thought you were stringing me along, saying fifteen minutes.’
Skelgill manages a wry grin. ‘Leyton, I thought pretty much the same about you and your Cockney gobbledygook.’
‘Whistle and flute, Guv.’ DS Leyton gestures towards the said item. ‘Suits you, sir.’
*
Whether it’s the spectacle of Skelgill attired in an outfit substantially too wide and yet equally too short, or the latter’s mud-encrusted boots off which drying flakes now cast, or the glint of fish scales that spangle the Inspector’s unkempt hair – or none of the above – Mr Goodman is either unable or unwilling to disguise the expression of distaste that creases his prim features as he silently watches the two detectives cross the expensive-looking carpet that floors his capacious study.
It is probably Mr Goodman’s practise to leave the majority of visitors to his room standing. In the absence of an invitation to make themselves comfortable, Skelgill leads the way in taking one of the seats on their side of the Head’s ample desk. For a second or two he wrestles with the folds of DS Leyton’s jacket; it clearly does not want to settle around his unfamiliar frame. Beneath it he wears a short-sleeved shirt and his bare suntanned forearms protrude well beyond the cuffs, giving him the look of a schoolboy whose wardrobe has not yet caught up with his latest growth spurt. But if he is embarrassed he doesn’t let it distract from his purposeful demeanour. Mr Goodman, however, is first to speak.
‘This is becoming an unfortunate Monday morning habit, Inspector.’
Skelgill appears momentarily taken aback, as though the last thing he should expect is an implied complaint of inconvenience from the person he is ostensibly assisting, especially when delivered in a tone redolent of the berating of an errant pupil reoffending.
‘Though rather a more urgent issue this time, wouldn’t you say, sir?’
‘I am sure we shall resolve this between ourselves and the family, Inspector. I have just concluded a telephone conversation with the boy’s father. Mobilising the CID seems a little heavy handed, don’t you think?’
Now Skelgill shoots an accusing glance at DS Leyton, as if he is wondering whether his colleague has summoned him under somewhat false pretences. But DS Leyton appears not to notice, and doodles in his pocket book.
Skelgill turns back to the Head. ‘It’s not for me to question the powers that be, sir. Given the circumstances of the past week or so it seems reasonable that we should be called in.’
The Head is impassive. ‘Inspector, I don’t see what bearing an incident of truant has upon the now-closed matters to which you refer.’
Skelgill’s features take on a look of puzzlement. He places his elbows on the surface of the desk and leans his chin upon his interlocked fingers. ‘Are you not concerned about the missing boy, sir?’
The tendons in Mr Goodman’s neck become more defined. Perhaps it is Skelgill’s brazen intrusion onto his territory that vexes him. His eyes narrow as he shakes his head. ‘Inspector, what I’m concerned about is the reputation of this great institution. I have no doubt the unauthorised absentee will surface. Meanwhile the last thing I need is some great hullaballoo with policemen combing the school when we have exams in progress. Imagine the reaction of parents if they discover their sons’ futures have been jeopardised by the foolish antics of one boy.’
Skelgill is silent for a moment. Then he nods and sits back, and shakes a finger to himself, as though the penny has dropped. ‘Yes, you wouldn’t want the media getting hold of this, sir. You know how they seize upon the slightest morsel of news where a fee-paying school is concerned. Next thing they’ve syndicated the story and it’s halfway round the world before you can say Jack Robinson.’ He pauses, perhaps for effect. ‘We’ve had the local press sniffing about only this morning.’
As he hears out this short monologue, Mr Goodman’s stern visage seems to whiten. Whether the cause is annoyance or discomfort it is impossible to judge, but though he seems about to speak, he only succeeds in grinding his teeth.
After twenty seconds or so DS Leyton breaks the silence. He asks, ‘Are you certain that he’s not still somewhere in the school, sir?
The Head looks as if he is affronted that someone of a lowly rank should question him. Perhaps in confirmation of this impression, he directs his reply at Skelgill. ‘As I just informed his father, Inspector – it is perfectly possible. We have labyrinthine accommodation – and extensive grounds, of course.’
Skelgill doesn’t respond, but instead turns to DS Leyton, who obliges with a follow-up question.
‘And has anyone looked for him, sir?’
‘If you must persist, gentlemen, I suggest you speak with Dr Snyder. He deals with all these matters and no doubt has been in touch with the various housemasters and staff who would know.’
DS Leyton carefully writes this down in his notebook. The Head glances impatiently at his wristwatch. Then he drops his hand out of sight when he notices Skelgill is staring at it.
‘I am expecting an important international call any at moment, Inspector.’
Skelgill, seemingly heedful of the hint, rises to his feet. ‘We shan’t detain you any longer, sir. We should be out and about detecting.’
The Head takes this cue to employ what is no doubt an effective method of dismissing visitors. With a swift movement he reaches for the intercom on his desk and in response to the female voice that inquires how she may help he replies, ‘Please see the officers out.’
Then with a forced smile that barely troubles the corners of his mouth he says, ‘Good morning gentlemen.’
As the door opens Skelgill pauses midway across the room and turns back to look at the Head.
‘We understand, sir, that the boy went missing after the Skiddaw Challenge?’
Mr Goodman shrugs indifferently. ‘I believe Mr Greig coordinated the event. I wasn’t here on Saturday morning.’
‘Ah – Mr Goodman. I meant to inquire how you got on at Marina Bay. But that will keep. Goodbye for now, sir.’
*
‘The guy barely gives a monkey’s, Guv. The Chief’d go crackers if she knew.’
Skelgill, leaning against the polished wall of the corridor that leads from the Head’s study, puffs out his cheeks in affirmation. ‘Look, Leyton – you take Snyder. I’ll go and have a chat with Greig – I think the fell race is more up my street.’
‘Righto, Guv.’
‘Make sure they’ve checked all the obvious places. See what they know about his movements. Ask if there’s a best pal he might have confided in.’
‘Think we should call in help, Guv?’
Skelgill purses his lips, then shakes his head slowly. ‘Assuming he’s not suddenly going to pop up out of a desk like a jack-in-the-box, we need to establish where and when he was last seen. That shouldn’t take long. Until then we can’t just randomly commit resources. The Chief would know that.’
‘The Chief’s on tenterhooks, Guv.’
Skelgill inhales through gritted teeth and seems to steel himself. ‘See if you can get a photo of the boy from Snyder – or the school office. They must have something on their system. Probably better coming from here than the family.’
DS Leyton nods willingly, understanding the subtext that underlies a request for a picture of a missing person.
Skelgill stares, almost vacantly. ‘And find out if he can swim.’
‘Blimey, Guv – you don’t think...?’
‘Worst case scenario, Leyton.’
DS Leyton blows out his cheeks and drops his hands by his sides, as though the potential ramifications are just sinking in: the extra weight of a case in which their commanding officer has the strongest imaginable vested interest, and the unthinkable repercussions if the outcome is negative.
