Murder In School (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 2), page 18
On the opposite side of the lane a new-looking gate with a galvanised hunting latch marks the entrance into what must be the grounds of Oakthwaite. A discreet private property sign with the school’s acorn logo confirms this supposition. Skelgill wanders across and gives the gate a shove: it is well balanced and recently oiled, and swings back easily into the closed position. Now he stares again down the lane, as if trying to decide which route he should take – or, perhaps, which option Cholmondeley would have chosen: the easy short cut to a warm shower and hot chocolate, or the looping jogging track that is twice the distance? He has not spoken to the boy himself, and has only DS Leyton’s account to go on – though he knows the Chief’s nature well enough. If the boy has inherited any of her grit (a quality Skelgill grudgingly admires), then – combined with the ethos no doubt drummed into him by the likes of Mr Querrell – he will surely have taken the ‘honourable’ route, despite his low ranking in the field. He will have completed the challenge in full.
After a few moments it seems Skelgill may have come to this conclusion. He takes a last look at the lane and then vaults the gate into the grounds of Oakthwaite.
27. OAKTHWAITE SCHOOL
‘Ah – there you are, Guv. I thought I might find you coming back about now.’
Skelgill, standing one-legged and leaning on his car for support, momentarily glances up from inspecting the boot that he appears to be sniffing, an expression of distaste creasing his windswept features.
‘Everything alright, Guv?’
Skelgill makes a scoffing sound and flings the heavy item of footwear onto the gravel of the school car park. ‘Careless dog owners, Leyton. Got a carrier bag on you?’
DS Leyton digs into his pocket for his keys, and pops open the trunk of his own vehicle. From a bulging plastic bag he extracts one of many others screwed up inside it. He pulls it into shape and expertly gloves the offending boot, inverting the bag and handing it to Skelgill.
‘I’m doing this all the time with the kids’ shoes, Guv – used to be nappies, now it’s shoes.’
‘Where are the dog wardens when you need them.’ Skelgill says this as a statement rather than a question, and his tone sounds flat and despondent.
DS Leyton inhales rather apprehensively, before saying, ‘Nothing on the kid, Guv – not beyond Greig seeing him during the race.’
Skelgill hops around to the back of his car and fishes out his shoes from beneath the opened tailgate, then lowers himself onto the protruding flatbed to complete the change of footwear.
‘He’s not on the hill, Leyton.’
DS Leyton frowns. ‘But, Guv – surely you can’t know that? I’ve got a search team lined up to start – once you give them the nod.’
Skelgill remains seated. He licks his lips and casts about over his shoulder as though he is looking for something to drink. ‘So tell me about nothing.’
DS Leyton looks a little crestfallen. ‘In a way, Guv – it’s as good as a positive sighting. I reckon there’s only a slim chance that he came back to the school buildings.’
‘Nobody saw him arrive, change, leave?’
DS Leyton shakes his head, but now he becomes more animated. He paces to and fro before his superior. ‘It would have meant the boy completing the last stretch with a gap of at least three or four minutes between him and the runners either side of him.’ He chops out the time intervals in mid-air with his chunky hands. ‘Otherwise someone would have seen him get changed. It’s not impossible, but seems unlikely. They also think if he were planning to leave, he’d have gone through the internal changing room door and along to his dorm to collect some gear – even just a jacket or his wallet or watch. He’d have to pass the housemother’s day-room, and she says she was sitting there with the door open while the boys were coming back.’
‘What about the teacher who was marshalling the lane?’
‘As we thought, Guv. He walked back down to the school and drove straight home in his car. Lives over at Pooley Bridge. Reckons he was there before twelve. Then he went up to Carlisle for the rest of the weekend to stay with the in-laws, with the missus in tow.’
Skelgill nods. ‘Make a note to cross-check those timings with his wife.’
DS Leyton pulls his notebook from his jacket. As he begins to write, he says, ‘We’ve already spoken to several of the boys who were towards the back of the race, Guv – they confirm there was no marshal in the lane when they came through.’
Skelgill inclines his head in acknowledgement that his Sergeant has appreciated the potential significance of this point. ‘And none of the other boys who were picked up by their relatives saw anything of him?’
DS Leyton shakes his head. ‘We’re contacting all the parents. But I reckon we’d have heard about that straight away, Guv.’
‘I know, Leyton.’
‘It’s got to be somewhere round the course, Guv. Either he’s become lost or got injured along the way.’
‘Did you speak to Greig again?’
‘I asked if he could be mistaken, but he said definitely not – Cholmondeley being the only ginger-nut in first form. Swears blind he turned him round at the summit.’
‘He would say that, though, wouldn’t he?’
DS Leyton looks startled. ‘What do you mean, Guv?’
‘Wouldn’t look too clever for him if sixty-two boys set out and only sixty-one made it through his checkpoint – then he goes home as though nothing’s amiss. That would be a bit of a blot on his copybook.’
DS Leyton puffs out his cheeks. ‘Blimey – I hadn’t considered that, Guv. Now you mention it, I had a quiet word with Jacobson – I reckoned with him being Cholmondeley’s housemaster he might have known something about the boy’s state of mind – but he was all for having a dig at Greig.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, you know, Guv – I thought he was just being an old gossip, stirring it – but he did say something about watching your back where Greig’s concerned. Apparently there was friction between him and Querrell.’
Skelgill shrugs. ‘Greig more or less admitted that to me.’
‘Jacobson reckons they weren’t on speaking terms. Evidently when Greig reported for duty at the school he kicked up a fuss about the office they’d given him – being Director of Sport and all that – and so they had to boot Querrell out of the room he’d been using in the new pavilion.’
Skelgill raises his eyebrows. ‘That probably explains the maps. I didn’t get the impression that a love of the fells was Greig’s bag.’
‘Jacobson says the Skiddaw Challenge was a shambles, Guv – badly organised, like. He reckons Greig just wants two years at Oakthwaite on his CV and doesn’t give a toss about the school. I think he’s hoping we’ll give Greig a hard time if he turns out to be the last person who saw Cholmondeley. He says no way would anyone have been allowed to go missing if Querrell had still been around. Claims Querrell never lost a boy in the hills in over forty years – overnight camping, trekking and whatnot. He blames Greig for a failure of supervision.’
Skelgill sighs. ‘At the end of the day, Greig got himself to the top of Skiddaw and stood there for an hour or more in foul weather. I should remind Jacobson he’d declined to be a marshal.’
DS Leyton screws up his face to indicate he is accustomed to operating on only partial information as far as working with Skelgill is concerned. ‘That might have shut him up, Guv.’
Skelgill does not react. He says, ‘And does he have any theory about Cholmondeley?’
DS Leyton shakes his head. ‘Nothing we haven’t considered, Guv. He said the usual procedure if you wanted to find out who’d been picked up from school was to ring Querrell, because he watched all the parents’ cars from his window at the gatehouse.’
‘We shan’t be doing that.’
‘No, Guv. Be handy to know who came in and out on Saturday, though. I was thinking it’s a pity they’ve not got CCTV.’
‘Evidently the Singapore dollars haven't stretched that far yet. On which note, when did Goodman get back from his junket?’
‘He says just after three p.m. on Saturday afternoon, Guv. Apparently he’s got a flat in London – from when he used to work down there. Says he came up on an open return and got a taxi from the railway station.’
Skelgill chews his lower lip for a moment. ‘See if you can get confirmation of that.’
‘Should be easy enough to check out, Guv.’
‘If he paid cash it’s a fair bet the taxi ride wasn’t metered. You know what goes on, Leyton.’
DS Leyton shrugs. ‘Put it like that, Guv – if he wanted to fake a journey he could nip down to Kendal and catch the train there.’
‘True enough. What else did he have to say?’
‘He just kept banging on about bad publicity – threatening to call the Chief. He’s like a record that’s stuck. He insists the boy’s done a bunk and it’s not the school’s responsibility.’
‘And Snyder?’
‘He’s well narked, Guv. Looked like thunder when I told him we’d be combing the place. He said the Head would explode if he heard his house was going to be searched.’
Skelgill pulls a face to show he’s not bothered.
‘Snyder seems to think the police ought to take his word for it – that the boy isn’t somewhere in the school. Says it’s not any old state comprehensive that we can come swanning into.’
Now Skelgill scowls to signal his disapproval. ‘What did you say?’
‘I asked him to account for his movements over the weekend. I think he got the message, Guv.’
‘And what were they?
‘He reckons he never left the building. Spent the time between his office and his quarters. Had a meeting with the Head on Saturday evening. There was a chapel service on Sunday morning. Says he did his usual inspection rounds on both nights at nine-thirty. But they leave it up to the housemasters and prefects to make sure everyone’s accounted for and that they get to bed on time.’
‘What about the other staff – anything there?’
‘Not really, Guv. The masters in charge of cricket teams left early on Saturday morning. Those off duty who don’t live in went home on Friday evening. A couple of the resident teachers drove into Keswick on Saturday morning – before Cholmondeley was last seen. It seems like pretty much everyone at the school stayed indoors because of the rain. Jacobson was complaining that even the naughty lads took detentions instead of walking his dog.’
Skelgill grimaces. He stands up and strides a few yards from his car. Hands in pockets, he gazes out across the gently falling school grounds, a manicured parkland of cricket pitches and spreading sweet chestnuts. Flashing black and white, a magpie drops down from the boughs of one such Castanea, to relieve a foraging blackbird of its hard-won worm. The index and middle fingers on Skelgill’s left hand momentarily twitch as the mugging takes place and the masked robber returns to a cackling accomplice hidden amongst the foliage.
DS Leyton looks on anxiously. Perhaps trying to guess Skelgill’s thoughts, he asks, ‘What about the search team, Guv? They need your guidance for where to start. We hadn’t better leave it too long. The Chief’s been onto me three times since lunchtime – she said your mobile was off.’
Skelgill shakes his head a little forlornly. ‘I didn’t need the distraction, Leyton. I know what we’re looking for.’
‘She’s arranged a media conference for eight p.m. – she wants you to front it, Guv.’
Skelgill spins around, grinding gravel beneath his feet. ‘Well that’s a great use of my time.’
DS Leyton winces, as though this is his fault. ‘She doesn’t want it coming out that it’s her son, Guv. Think of the press – they’ll have a field day – misuse of limited resources and all that. It could distract from saving the kid.’
Skelgill walks across to DS Leyton and pats him on the shoulder. He perhaps appreciates that his Sergeant, as the father of a boy of similar age to Cholmondeley, is likely to experience an occasional unprovoked assault from his sensibilities. ‘Let’s think about this, Leyton. Statistically, you’re right, he’s most likely to have got lost or had an accident. I doubt it – but if he has, we’ll find him – it’s safe up there. If he’s done a bunk – he’ll turn up – but he was probably wearing wet sports kit. I don’t think he’s done a bunk.’
DS Leyton is listening carefully. ‘But that only leaves abduction, Guv. Or worse.’
Skelgill shrugs, resignedly. He turns away, perhaps to conceal his grim expression from his colleague.
‘Thing is, Guv... it would take a vehicle. And it’s not like he’s a nipper – a twelve-year-old takes some shifting.’ DS Leyton seems to be striving to strike an optimistic note.
Skelgill remains phlegmatic. ‘Leyton, there’s nowhere to park where the route crosses the road. If you waited there you’d block the traffic. And, as you’ve confirmed from the boys that were interviewed, there was nobody about.’
‘What if Cholmondeley were walking back down the lane and accepted a lift from someone he knew, Guv?’
‘It’s possible. Obviously that could explain a lot.’
But now the sombre note returns to DS Leyton’s voice. ‘Guv, there must be locals that use the lane – and plenty of tourists out in their cars, given the rain. He might have just been picked off by a random nutcase.’
‘The odds of that are so low, Leyton. Think of the location. Predators hunt where they know they’ll find prey. The only living thing you’re likely to meet on one of these lanes has four legs and goes baa.’
DS Leyton ponders for a moment, then says, ‘Guv – what if it were a hit and run? Shouldn’t we be checking the undergrowth, and the road surface for signs of an accident?’
Skelgill doesn’t appear convinced. ‘It’s too narrow and winding to drive fast. And if you’d knocked someone down you’d have to heave them over a six-foot wall.’
‘We’d better look, though, Guv?’
Skelgill doesn’t answer. Instead he returns to his vehicle, and begins to scrabble about in one of several plastic storage crates that hold an unruly jumble of fishing tackle and camping equipment. He lifts out his soot-encrusted Kelly Kettle and shakes it to check how much water it contains. ‘I’m parched, Leyton – I need to make a brew. Got a newspaper in your car?’
DS Leyton looks a little dismayed, though whether this is because his unread daily is about to go up in flames, or the impression his superior gives of not having his heart in the investigation, it is impossible to discern. Perhaps Skelgill’s mind is on the media conference, something he is well known to detest.
Within two minutes, and using only the outside half of DS Leyton’s red top, Skelgill has boiling water spitting from the spout of his cherished contraption. Lifting it by its bucket-strap handle, and tipping it by means of a chain attached near its base (the other end of which is fixed to the large cork that seals in the water when the kettle is not in use), he expertly fills the pair of tin mugs he has already loaded with tea bags and dried milk.
‘Blimey, Guv – that’s impressive.’
‘These newspapers have their uses, Leyton – and not just in the toilet department.’
DS Leyton grins sheepishly, but none the less retrieves the crumpled remnants of the said journal and stuffs it inside his jacket. Meanwhile Skelgill is stirring the tea. He hands a mug, still containing its tea bag, to DS Leyton and takes the other for himself, slurping thirstily over the hot liquid.
DS Leyton follows suit, but is immediately forced to spit out his mouthful. ‘Crikey – it’s boiling, Guv! I just about took the roof of my mouth off.’
Skelgill grins. ‘You get used to it, Leyton. When you’re out fishing it’s better too hot than too cold. Take a seat.’
He settles back down on the sill of the estate car, and indicates for DS Leyton to join him. The latter obliges, the leaf springs creaking alarmingly as they take his weight. They sit and sip in silence for thirty seconds or so.
‘It’s a strange one, this, Leyton.’
‘Guv?’
Perhaps the calming tea-ritual and the salving of his dehydration has relaxed Skelgill. He picks up a steel rod-rest that lies at his side and scrapes an unrecognisable pattern into the gravel between his feet. ‘I feel like I know what’s going on. It’s like there’s a mountain in the clouds, right in front of us – we can’t see it, but we know it’s there.’ He reaches out to grasp a clutch of thin air. ‘If only the mist would clear.’
DS Leyton nods, frowning philosophically.
‘But the Chief wants answers – and we need to find the boy, no matter that he’s her son.’
‘Yes, Guv.’
‘Look, Leyton – they can search the hill – a downhill sweep below the path from Skiddaw High Man – concentrate on the upper section. There’s plenty of daylight – it won’t be dark until ten tonight. And – yes - while you’re at it, find out which local farmers use the lane.’
‘Should we put in a checkpoint, Guv – same time of day?’
‘Probably wise, Leyton.’
‘Then what about the railway station – and the services on the motorway, Guv?’
‘Do the usual – get photographs round to the staff, shop assistants, toilet cleaners – you know the routine.’
‘The press conference will help, Guv – it could jog the memories of people who were travelling on Saturday afternoon. The Chief wants to get coverage on the late news.’
Without overtly admitting it to his partner, Skelgill appears to have capitulated in the face of DS Leyton’s persistence. However, now he falls silent for a few moments, as though he is drawing upon his own intuitions.
‘We could really use a detection dog, Leyton. Not just for the grounds, and the school – but all these staff cars.’ Skelgill waves loosely at the vehicles parked in their vicinity.
