Murder In School (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 2), page 25
At fifteen feet he gives up his oars and clambers to the front of his own craft. He perches on the forward thwart and gunwale and makes ready to board the other boat.
Six feet before they collide the masked rower jettisons his oars – and then, incredibly it seems, follows them overboard. He disappears beneath the black inky waters with a well-executed swallow-dive.
Skelgill’s boat crashes into its target with an almighty clunk and he is catapulted into its stern section.
He struggles unsteadily to his feet. Ahead there is a swirl of phosphorescence as the departing swimmer surfaces and begins with quick clean strokes to make good his escape.
But Skelgill – competent swimmer that he is – does not follow suit. Lying angled across the centre of the hull is a dark form – a long black bundle wrapped in what appear to be dustbin liners. It wriggles. And it whines.
Skelgill cautiously but urgently pats at the shape in the darkness, then he tears open a slit in the thick plastic.
Glinting in the moonlight, two frightened blue eyes stare up at him.
Skelgill inhales involuntarily, choking back a sob.
He sets his jaw. ‘It’s okay, son – you’re safe now. The cops are here.’
Carefully he checks the tape that covers the boy’s mouth – it is wound several times around the back of his head and will not be easy to remove in the darkness.
‘Can you breathe okay?’
The tousled ginger mop nods.
‘We’ll get you to the shore – take it off there, alright?’
The bright eyes signal in the affirmative.
Skelgill swiftly takes stock of his situation. The boat has no oars. Already it has drifted away from his own, invisible somewhere in the darkness. He scans the faint horizon: with his knowledge of the fells he can calculate the lie of the land, and the location of the landing stage. In any event, he can hear the swimmer, each stroke becoming fainter, who seems to be taking the same bearing.
Furiously, Skelgill hauls in the anchor and dumps it carefully in the stern, clear of the boy. Then he reaches over the bow and feels for the painter. He gives it a sharp tug to check it is secure, and feeds it through his belt at the small of his back and ties it off in a double half-hitch.
Then, like the fugitive a minute before him, he kicks off his shoes and dives from the bow into his beloved Bassenthwaite Lake.
Strong swimmer or not, it takes him a good three minutes to tow the craft to the landing stage, and he is nearing exhaustion, treading water and gasping for air, when he feels the rocky bottom with his flailing toes. He takes a few more strokes, until the level is about chest deep, and then plants his feet and begins to haul the boat, lurching backwards, the last few yards.
Suddenly he must become aware of a presence, for he half-turns and glances up. Towering over him in the darkness, silhouetted against the turquoise star-studded sky, is the unmistakable tall, gaunt figure of Dr Snyder. Above his head he wields a boat hook. As Skelgill instinctively dives to one side, Snyder brings it crashing down. It misses Skelgill, but he has nowhere to go. The water is now only waist deep and he is forced, spluttering and choking to come back to the surface. And he is tied to the boat.
Dr Snyder raises the boat hook a second time.
In a harsh voice, he calls, ‘Grab it – you fool!’
Skelgill hesitates for a second – but this time the long stick comes towards him in a more controlled fashion – and he takes hold with both hands.
Now Skelgill braces his feet against one of the uprights, and Dr Snyder levers him with deceptive strength onto the rickety boardwalk. Pinned beneath the burden of a weighty oxygen debt, he is unable to rise, or even to speak. Then he glances past Dr Snyder into the blackness beyond the boathouse – for there are troubled shouts from not far away. From within the building the higher pitched whining starts up again – it can only be a dog.
But before Skelgill can react there is a clatter of feet, and onto the pontoon skids DS Jones. She points a flashlight, and stops just short of the pair. Seeing Skelgill on his knees, and the unfamiliar Dr Snyder grasping a boat hook, her posture tells she is ready to spring into the fight on the side of her colleague.
‘It’s okay, Jones,’ Skelgill gasps, ‘He’s with us.’
DS Jones seems momentarily unconvinced, and keeps her torch beam full in the recoiling Dr Snyder’s face. Skelgill, meanwhile, rises awkwardly and unties the painter from his belt. Then he pulls in the boat and adeptly moors it to a supporting beam through a gap in the boardwalk.
Now DS Jones’s torch alights on the precious cargo. ‘Wow, Guv.’
‘Untie him – check he’s okay.’
‘Sure.’ DS Jones knows this is not a moment to ask questions. She steps to the edge and with a hand down from Skelgill drops lightly into the small craft.
‘Jones.’
‘Guv?’
‘Phone his mum.’
DS Jones nods and turns her attention to the captive.
And now there’s a scream from the darkness inland, and a male voice shrieks, ‘Unhand me, you oaf!’
Immediately there is an exclamation of ‘Aargh!’ followed in quick succession by a popular cockney expletive, a dull thud, and a long groan.
‘Come on.’ Skelgill beckons to Dr Snyder.
They jog in the direction of the ruckus, and after about seventy-five yards reach an illuminated torch discarded upon the grass. Skelgill directs it to reveal the substantial form of DS Leyton, pinning down his masked captive, a knee in the small of his back, and one arm twisted unnaturally around from the shoulder.
‘Nice one, Leyton.’
‘Bastard just bit me, Guv.’
‘I heard.’
As DS Leyton is fastening handcuffs, Skelgill stoops and pulls off the balaclava.
‘I am arresting you in connection with the abduction of Michael Cholmondeley, and on suspicion of the murders of Edmund Querrell and Royston Hodgson. The game is up, Dr Jacobson – or perhaps I should say Jacobs?’
*
‘It was Snyder! – it was Snyder! – I rescued Cholmondeley! – you’ve got it all wrong!’
These cries fade, as Dr Jacobson is loaded into the police Land Rover that has bumped its way down across the school playing fields. DS Leyton accompanies the detainee, and the vehicle departs, its headlamp beams swinging erratically like wartime searchlights, picking out pink-eyed rabbits as they sabotage the cricket square. Almost simultaneously, the ambulance containing Cholmondeley – still clad in his running kit and apparently little the worse for his ordeal – falls into line with the police vehicle.
Dr Snyder, DS Jones and Skelgill – the latter holding the lead attached to Cleopatra, whom he released from her tether inside the boathouse – spectate as the convoy disappears. It is Dr Snyder who speaks first.
‘What is this about Jacobs, Inspector?’
Skelgill does not respond immediately, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere. ‘This will all become clear in due course, sir.’ He is still panting, slowly recovering from his exertions. ‘Funnily enough it was your certificates that tipped me off.’
‘I can assure you mine are all genuine, Inspector – certificates and name.’
‘I don’t doubt it, sir.’
The quartet stands in silence for a moment. Even the dog seems a little subdued, shell-shocked by the events of a few explosive minutes. Then Skelgill says, in a neutral tone of voice, ‘What were you doing down here, sir?’
Dr Snyder rubs his large hands together. ‘I’m rather a night owl, Inspector. I needed to go out to my car – I had left a box of ring binders in the boot. It was the sound of the dog that attracted me. I imagined it had somehow escaped from Dr Jacobson’s quarters.’
‘So you came to investigate.’
‘It all happened very quickly. I found the dog and realised the boat was gone. As I came out to look a figure burst from the water’s edge and sprinted past me into the darkness. I could hear splashing sounds out on the lake, coming closer, so I waited on the landing stage. Then just before you reached the shore a commotion started up beyond the bushes as your colleagues apprehended Dr Jacobson.’
‘Luckily they didn’t pounce on you by mistake, sir.’
‘That would have been unfortunate. Your Sergeant doesn’t look like a chap to be trifled with.’
‘I guess we would have sorted things out.’
‘But you got your man, Inspector.’
In the gloom, Skelgill seems to shrug. He sighs with obvious relief. ‘We got the boy.’
‘Quite, Inspector – upon which note, if you have no objection, I shall go and report the good news to the Headmaster.’
‘Sure.’ Skelgill watches as he takes his leave, then calls after him, ‘Dr Snyder?’
The tall figure halts in the gloom; with his long dangling arms and cadaverous head it could be a scene from a Mary Shelley adaptation.
‘Do you by any chance know of the whereabouts of the ribbon from Mr Querrell’s typewriter?’
Dr Snyder coughs. He clasps his hands and his gaunt silhouette takes on an air of discomfiture. ‘Er, actually – yes, Inspector. I thought it might be prudent to place it in safe keeping.’
‘Excellent, sir – we’ll know where to find it. And please tell Mr Goodman the police will catch up with him in due course.’
‘I shall convey that verbatim, Inspector.’
Dr Snyder bows deferentially and with great strides lopes away into the darkness.
As soon as he is out of earshot, DS Jones whispers in a low voice, ‘What’s the score with him, Guv?’
Skelgill begins to lead the dog towards the landing stage. Without turning his head, he says, ‘He’ll make a good witness. I think he’s an insider.’
‘How do you mean, Guv?’
‘I reckon he’s a plant – one of the Derwen – or at least connected. I think his CV was concocted and they managed to get him to the front of the queue for the Deputy Head’s job.’
DS Jones now follows Skelgill, who continues right to the end of the creaky pontoon and lowers himself down, dangling his legs over the end. DS Jones takes a seat beside him, and then the dog casually inveigles itself between the pair of them.
‘What was that about the certificates, Guv?’
Skelgill rubs his hands together as if to warm them – indeed he must be getting cold as the adrenalin in his bloodstream ebbs and the chill of the night air begins to penetrate his soaking clothes.
‘I’d been looking at Snyder’s qualifications, displayed on his wall – a little later I noticed Jacobson had the same kind of thing – but there was something not right about them. Then when your list came through – with the name Jacobs on it – alarm bells started to ring. I can’t be certain, but I reckon he’s added the extra letters – simple bit of forgery – Jacobs becomes Jacobson. Very clever – except it makes the name look off-centre.’
‘But two Jacobs, Guv – what about that?’
‘I’m not sure, Jones.’
‘They were in brackets, Guv.’
Skelgill is silent. He shakes his head.
‘How about the boy, then, Guv – where do you think he hid him?’
‘Can’t be far from here. A professor pal of mine told me about a tunnel that led from the old castle down to the lake. I’ve searched – there are signs in the landform. I’m sure we’ll find the exit now we know what to look for. And I’ll bet there’s a hidden entrance in the school cellars. I reckon Querrell knew about it as well.’
‘So how do you think he abducted him, Guv?’
‘What’s the best cover in the world if you want to hang around somewhere and not attract attention to yourself?’
‘Er, dunno, Guv. Invisibility cloak?’
Skelgill ostentatiously pats the dog, which has obediently flattened itself, to lie with its snout between its extended front paws.
‘Hint.’
‘Oh – a dog.’
‘Correct. On Saturday it was pouring with rain. None of the boys wanted to take this little lady for a walk. That suited him. The Skiddaw Challenge course runs right past this spot. Jacobson was Cholmondeley’s housemaster. He probably ordered the kid over – maybe dragged him into the tunnel. I noticed traces of the dog down here – the obvious signs in the grass, you know? Then this morning he made a point of telling me the opposite. Plus he was acting like he was disabled – hobbling with a stick. He looked perfectly fit when I interviewed him in his rooms.’
‘But why abduct the Chief’s boy in the first place, Guv? Surely it was asking for trouble – he must have expected that all hell would break loose.’
‘The boy must know something – presumably connected with Querrell. He’d overheard an argument while he was waiting outside Jacobson’s quarters. Or maybe Jacobson just thought he knew something. It probably didn’t help that we interviewed him. I imagine Jacobson found out and assumed we were onto him.’
‘Thank God he didn’t drown him straightaway, Guv.’
Skelgill remains quiet for a few moments, perhaps counting his blessings. Several times in the past ten days he has sailed perilously close to the wind. ‘I know, Jones. I’ve been asking myself why he didn’t try at the weekend. Maybe, as you say, he was expecting a big hue and cry – intended to wait until it died down. He didn’t bargain for Cholmondeley not being missed until Monday. Then of course we had officers on site. Until I stood them down this afternoon.’
‘Was that deliberate, Guv?’
‘Once I started to put two and two together, I figured maybe the fox would venture out if we called the hunt away.’
‘You did well to suspect Jacobson, Guv.’
Skelgill rubs his fingers through his damp hair. ‘All through this business he’s given me the feeling of something not being quite right. A bit too accommodating. Quick to cast aspersions. Keen to hear how we were getting on. Trouble is, we’ve had this red herring of Goodman and the billionaires – despite there being something in that – which Jacobson took pains to point out.’
‘I did wonder how come you were so confident about this stakeout, Guv.’ Perhaps Skelgill’s success frees her to admit to her erstwhile trepidation.
‘To be honest Jones, your list of names was probably the trigger – even if I didn’t know it at the time. There I was, staring at the word ‘Jacobs’, and right in front of my eyes this little kid fell into the Cocker.’
‘Really, Guv?’
Skelgill nods ruefully. ‘Yeah – it was just by the bank – but he still could have drowned. Even then I can’t say the penny dropped. I was acting on autopilot when I went back to Hodgson’s flat. But the hidden press cutting – suddenly there was a connection. Once I felt sure Hodgson was part of the bigger picture, I got some sense of what it actually might be. That was probably the key piece of the jigsaw. Then lots of others started to fall into place.’
‘And the Derwen, Guv – where exactly do they fit into all this?’
‘Pass.’
They sit in silence for a while; perhaps contemplating that there is yet much to be understood about this case. DS Jones absently plays her torch beam over the calm surface of the lake.
‘What about your boat, Guv? I don’t see it.’
Skelgill laughs ironically. ‘Trying calling my mobile – and listen carefully.’
‘It might drift down the Derwent, Guv.’
Skelgill shakes his head. ‘Don’t worry, I thought of that. I dropped the anchor when I jumped out. She’ll come to rest soon enough. The underwater search crew can bring her back for me in the morning. I reckon we’ve saved them a job.’
Without warning he reaches across and closes his fingers around DS Jones’s wrist.
‘What’s that?’
‘What, Guv?’
‘Out there – move the beam back to the left. About there.’
DS Jones, guided by Skelgill, does as requested. After a few trial attempts, Skelgill holds her arm still. The spotlight hovers on a point about thirty feet from the shoreline.
‘There, look.’
‘It’s just a bubble, Guv.’
‘It’s a bubble float.’
‘A what...?’
‘I noticed the rig was gone from Querrell’s rod – and who else would fish here?’
Skelgill slides off the landing stage into the water. The dog leaps to attention and DS Jones has to scrabble for the leash to prevent the canine from following her new best friend. Meanwhile Skelgill has struck out for the almost-invisible item of tackle.
‘Keep the beam on it!’ He yells this as he lifts his head to breathe.
DS Jones complies as best she can – Skelgill’s waves are already reaching the point where the transparent plastic float bobbles. But he seems to know where he is going. As he reaches the pool of torchlight he stretches out and grabs something. Then, treading water, he appears to tug at what must be a line. After a few moments of spluttering and splashing, he suddenly flips over and dives from sight. Twenty seconds later he surfaces like a seal, taking a great gasp of air and holding what looks like a black cylinder in one hand. Then, hampered by his prize, he rather awkwardly paddles back to the pontoon. Here he passes up a small metal flask to DS Jones. The dog bounces around, grateful for Skelgill’s return, and now licks him prodigiously as he hauls himself onto the landing stage.
‘Feels warm in there now. You should try it.’
‘You’re crazy, Guv.’ DS Jones shakes the flask – it rattles. ‘What is this?’
‘Let’s see.’
Skelgill twists off the cup and then unscrews the sealing cap. Out from the flask he tips into his palm a small shiny padlock key.
He nods several times. ‘I reckon I’ve just worked out how Querrell met his fate.’
‘Guv?’
‘He was hiding this key. Maybe he was worried about it being stolen from his cottage – or even from his person. The float would act like an invisible marker buoy. He couldn’t swim. So he used his boat. Crept out at night. Perhaps he’d even been lying awake thinking about it – he had no socks on. Except he was followed. All you’d have to do was tip him out. Then dress it up to look like suicide.’
