Murder In School (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 2), page 7
Now he curses under his breath – the rudimentary waterproofing system comprising three layers of dog-eared supermarket carrier bags has failed badly. A lightweight mountaineering vest and trousers emerge sodden, and a pair of well-worn slipper-like fell-running shoes are waterlogged to twice their normal density. Rain-soaked gear is an occupational hazard for a hardened amateur fellsman like Skelgill, though such discomfort when on duty (albeit unofficially) must be less familiar. So it’s not without several additional hissed expletives that he contrives to struggle his way into the uncooperative outfit.
The final object in the waist pack is at least impermeable – a small black tubular torch. He presses the lens against his right palm and briefly depresses the on-off switch: a glowing blood-red ring confirms it has survived as advertised. Keeping the torch to hand he sets off, turning almost immediately southwards to follow the running track – little more than a narrow unmade footpath – which passes close by the boathouse as it traces the perimeter of the extensive school grounds. Initially it winds amongst willows and scattered alders – species that can tolerate the vagaries of fluctuating water levels – but as the boundary veers and rises eastwards from the lakeside, the woodland belt thickens with oak and beech and sycamore, robbing Skelgill of most of what little light there is by which to navigate.
Still he walks at a brisk pace, trusting to practised intuition the course of the path, silent upon the damp earth, compressed over decades by the thousands of pad-pad-pad footsteps of reluctant schoolboys, their ghosts perhaps still running. But, while the current crop of would-be harriers are safely tucked up in their dorms, more ancient forest inhabitants are abroad. In a glade, Skelgill pauses to watch a pair of Natterer’s bats hawking acrobatically for moths, while the insistent wick-wick-wick of a tawny owl ahead tells him all is clear. He moves on, re-entering the musty, velvety void beneath the trees, for a moment more vivid until his senses readjust and he detects a low shape moving his way. A warning flash of his torch reveals two-tone headgear, and simultaneously sends its wearer scuttling noisily into the undergrowth.
Skelgill covers the mile and a half to the gatehouse inside fifteen minutes, though in the darkness time and direction can lose their linear quality. When it appears on his right, the shadow of the high wall that marks Oakthwaite’s boundary with the winding lane he drove with DS Leyton must be a reassuring sight. He halts some twenty yards short of the unlit property and waits, breathing through his nose, listening intently. But the only sound is the lightest patter of leaves in the canopy, as irregular air currents disturb its minutely tiled surface. He checks his watch – it’s already after twelve-thirty – perhaps he misjudged the swim; his rendezvous with DS Jones is impending.
The footpath passes the rear of the cottage and invisibly crosses the main driveway, reappearing as a vague smudge that divides the undergrowth beyond. Skelgill stalks towards the back door, but makes a right turn and skirts the building, taking care to tread on the soakaway gravel that expediently accepts no tracks. Rounding the corner that incorporates the jutting toilet extension, he stops and, facing the wall, pulls his sleeves over his hands as makeshift mittens, then reaches up and opens the small window he had unlatched on his unscheduled visit earlier. A hop-cum-heave sees him sliding snakelike over the sill and into the bijou cubicle.
Once within he pulls back his cuffs – his fingerprints are already in all the expected places, his presence thoroughly witnessed only hours earlier. Cautiously entering the main living space, he makes for the stair-ladder – it creaks alarmingly as he ascends – and raises his head into the attic space. A quick sweep of his torch confirms he’s alone. A forsaken sleeping bag is cast roughly upon a single mattress that rests in turn on the bare boards and, beyond, cramped beneath the low eaves, a chest of drawers and wardrobe, of knotted wood, stand slightly askew on the uneven surface. Skelgill kills the torch beam; the aspect of the room changing as filtered moonlight diffuses in from the rear-facing of the two dormer windows that nestle within opposite sides of the roof.
He descends, bending at the knee with each step to cushion his weight. Regaining the unyielding stone floor he makes a beeline for the old typewriter. It sits in the gloom, a Dickensian presence; what forlorn beats have its keys tapped out, what expectations of hope and despair? Now Skelgill turns on the torch again and grips it between his teeth. He reaches out with both hands and experimentally fiddles with the knobs and levers on either side of the antique machine until he finds the combination to release the sprocket that restrains the ribbon. Carefully he winds it back a few inches, then takes the torch in hand and stoops to examine the exposed strip. For a moment he stiffens, as if disbelieving of what he sees: the tape is blank. Now he repeats the process, grimacing as he bites on the torch. He unwinds a few more inches – and again checks it minutely. He shakes his head, and then rewinds the ribbon in the forward direction. After a final inspection he switches off the torch and stands upright, staring out into the darkness of the school driveway.
After a minute he exhales a long breath and, as if rallying himself, turns briskly and strides across to the chimney breast. He stoops at the hearth and directs the torch upon the ashes in the grate. Taking a small iron poker from a stand he prods tentatively at what is an amorphous grey mass. It gives little clue to its original form, though it’s certainly not coal. However, there is no fuel stacked nearby to help in its identification: perhaps not surprising at this time of year. He seems to pause for thought, then rises and, with an unexpected movement, hefts the armchair from its place before the fire. He lifts the mat: his torch reveals only undisturbed flagstones. Carefully, he replaces the chair. Next he performs a quick sweep of the remainder of the room, apparently testing that the rows of books are really what they seem; he inspects the cupboards in the kitchenette area; lastly he returns to the hearth and, on one knee, shines the torch up into the chimney.
He consults his wristwatch – it’s now twelve forty-five. He returns to the stair and climbs, more swiftly than before. Gaining the bedroom he hauls up the mattress and shines the torch on the bare boards. He replaces the sleeping bag then repeats the search with the chest of drawers and wardrobe, heaving them aside and checking beneath, before returning them to their original positions. He takes a cursory look inside – together they hold a sparse ensemble that evokes stale sweat mingled with mothballs.
Again he checks the time. Now he prowls about the room, covering the remaining floor area with deliberate small steps, pressing down as if to detect a loose board. His methodical choreography brings him to the rear-facing dormer window, one side now brightly lit by moonlight that has found a clear channel between trunk and bough.
It must be a view taken in by Querrell on countless nights, peering perhaps short-sightedly, night-gowned, leaning out to sniff the cooling air and listen to the sounds of the woods. However, Skelgill cannot dwell. He turns to go. But he takes one step and is stopped dead in his tracks by a clank from below: like the crack of a pistol, a key is inserted into the mortise lock on the front door. In two seconds it opens, then closes, and heavy footsteps clump into the room. The person evidently checks the back door, for there’s the rattle of a handle, then the light is switched on, sending a bright shaft of illumination up through the hatch into the attic.
At this, Skelgill makes an instinctive movement – but unavailingly it’s for his inside pocket and his warrant card; neither of which are there. Swivelling slowly on the balls of his feet he faces the window. He reaches out and gently slips the catch. Perhaps unexpectedly it’s well oiled – maybe Querrell did regularly avail himself of the view – and the sliding casement feels loose in the frame. From downstairs there comes the scrape of a chair, as if the person has seated themself either at the typewriter or the computer. Holding his breath, Skelgill takes a firm grip of the window-handles and begins to raise the casement – but, though it moves freely, it emits a tell-tale squeal to equal the warning cry of the Giant’s golden harp in the arms of a fleeing Jack. Skelgill recoils. Immediately there’s another scrape of the chair from below, and the sound of feet approaching, then stepping upon, the foot of the ladder.
Skelgill slides the torch from his pocket. Masking the beam against one palm, as before, he engages self-defence mode, a fearsomely dazzling flashing function guaranteed to repel even the most determined of assailants. Thus armed, he slips back into the alcove of the window.
A growing shadow begins to darken the bright rectangle of the attic hatch. Skelgill raises the shrouded torch, his body visibly coiling like a cat making ready to pounce. His best bet must be to temporarily blind his opponent, push him over if necessary, and make good his getaway.
Then comes heavenly intervention – or so it seems. A much greater light intercedes upon the scene. From somewhere a vehicle rapidly approaches and slews to a halt, its bright headlamps flooding the cottage with a powerful swinging beam.
Almost immediately the person on the staircase begins steadily to retreat. The creak of the ladder becomes footsteps upon the flagstones. The front door is opened, and then there’s a crunch of pebbles on the path. Listening intently, Skelgill springs into action. In one smooth movement he pockets his torch, leaps to the hatch and launches himself into the void, breaking his fall by grabbing the cross-member in front of him, but he misjudges his forward motion and strikes his head as he descends through the small frame. He loses his grip and drops awkwardly to the ground, landing heavily upon one knee instead of the intended two feet. But without hesitation he lurches across the room and gains the relative sanctuary of the toilet. He makes to slide the bolt, but declines – perhaps he decides it would leave confirmation of his presence. In two or three more seconds his feet are disappearing through the small window and he tumbles onto the mixture of earth and gravel beneath.
He rolls onto his stomach, close against the wall, and raises himself like a sprinter poised in his blocks. He must be disoriented from the blow to the head, as he casts about for the best line of escape between the bright lights of the car beyond one corner of the cottage, and the indistinct sound of male voices around the other. For the present he is sheltered between the jutting extension of the toilet cubicle and the ramshackle lean-to that covers the late Querrell’s motorbike. For a few seconds he stares at the old machine, its gleaming chrome exhausts and gloss black paintwork reflecting tiny twinkling moonbeams. As an occasional biker himself, a Steve McQueen moment could be on the cards, but instead he exits in less elegant fashion, staggering to his feet, almost toppling over, but just contriving to employ his momentum as a means of propulsion that sees him crash into the shadows of the undergrowth, unruly uninvited rhododendrons that patrol the perimeter and hug the boundary wall. He presses himself into their welcome cover, and clambers through to the brickwork. It rises to some eight feet, but poses no obstacle to his practised scrambling technique, and he’s atop in a trice, tumbling over into the lesser undergrowth of springy bramble and brittle stinging nettle that inhabits the no-man’s land lining the lane.
Recovering his breath he lies hidden from sight, gazing up at the glittering Great Bear. Then suddenly he freezes and listens again. There’s the sound of an automobile, slowly approaching. He turns onto all fours, attracting the painful attention of the hostile herbage that seems designed both to repel and entrap. Squinting through the low foliage he sees the headlights only twenty feet away; then the hazard lights begin to flash. He leaps up and limps out into the road, flagging down the car with his torch.
The vehicle draws to a halt and he yanks open the passenger door and swings inside. ‘Go! Go! Get us out of here! And switch off all your lights, for God’s sake.’
‘Yes Guv.’ DS Jones gives Skelgill an old-fashioned look, but efficiently does as he requests.
After half a minute he glances anxiously behind them, but the road is dark and he says, ‘That’ll do – stick the lights on before we end up in a ditch.’
‘Like you’ve not been in a ditch already, Guv?’
‘Ha-ha, Jones.’
She stares across at him, too long for the good of safe driving, but the dishevelled state of his hair, features and attire demand such attention.
‘My God, Guv – you look like Wurzel Gummidge. What’s happened? Are you okay?’
‘You’re not old enough to have heard of Wurzel Gummidge.’
‘I’m old enough to have heard of YouTube, Guv. You’d be surprised what I know.’
‘Maybe I would.’
DS Jones grins. ‘Anyway, thanks for being on time.’
‘That’s no prob...’ Skelgill stops himself and falls back into the seat. He allows himself a kind of laugh. ‘Sorry – yeah – thanks. You saved my bacon, there.’
‘All part of the service. Though Alec... I mean, DI Smart... was none-too-chuffed when I told him I wouldn’t be reviewing the day’s findings over a nightcap.’
Skelgill stares straight ahead. He leans forward to massage his bruised knee. After a moment he turns to appraise his companion: she’s still dressed for the nightclub in Carlisle she left an hour earlier – a short black skirt revealing most of her sheer silvery tights (or are they stockings?), matched by a tight-fitting sparkly bodice, and striking eye make-up that belies any possibility that she might work for the CID.
‘You don’t look like a copper.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’ She glances at Skelgill. ‘Guv – it’s a deadly boring gig.’
‘Aha.’ Skelgill’s tone is flat.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ She turns again to inspect his condition. ‘You’ve got a hell of an egg on your forehead.’
‘Which came first?’
‘The chicken?’
‘That was me – I had to do a runner.’
‘What on earth were you up to, Guv?’
‘Same as you, really – doing at bit of a recce.’
‘Without permission?’
‘Right to roam, and all that.’
‘I though that was Scotland, Guv.’
‘It’s near enough.’
‘Did you get spotted?’
‘You know,’ Skelgill rubs his scalp with both hands, dislodging small items of vegetation, ‘I actually think I got away with it – by the skin of my teeth.’
‘Find anything?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘How can you be not sure, Guv?’
‘Well – sometimes, nothing can be something.’
DS Jones gives him a cross-eyed look that says she’s heard his double-speak before.
‘Where are we going, by the way?’
‘Peel Wyke. My car’s down by the boat.’
‘Oh. How did you get to the school?’
‘I swam.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘Why would I joke?’
‘Well – you are wet through, I can see that.’ She sniffs. ‘Smell, actually.’
‘Cheers, Jones.’
‘Sorry, Guv.’
‘No offence taken.’
‘What would you have done if I’d not managed to pick you up?’
‘A triathlon?’
She chuckles.
Skelgill adds, ‘And then throttled Smart.’
DS Jones raises her eyebrows, but does not respond. Perhaps she takes the opportunity to change the subject, for she says, ‘Guv – about Singapore.’
‘Yeah.’ Skelgill sounds as if he is not listening.
‘You wanted to know about the Head and his Deputy?’
‘Oh... yeah. But you can’t have heard already?’
‘No, it’s not that.’ She brushes a couple of strands of hair from her eyes. ‘While I was in the club... there was a wifi signal, so I was looking online. Google Oakthwaite plus Singapore and guess what?’
‘Snyder?’
‘Actually, Guv – no. The Head.’
‘How come?’
‘There’s an educational convention in Singapore this week. He’s the keynote speaker and Oakthwaite’s got one of the main exhibition stands – you know, to recruit overseas pupils.’
Skelgill is silent, but evidently digesting this news. After a few moments he says, ‘He was catching the London train this afternoon. That must be where he was heading. He never mentioned it to us.’
‘Maybe nothing in that, though, Guv? You said he was pretty circumspect.’
Skelgill nods ruefully. ‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘You can see why they don’t want adverse publicity, Guv. When there are all the schools in the world to choose from. Bad news costs money.’
Again Skelgill has to concur. He says, ‘Do you reckon they charge more to foreigners?’
She shrugs. ‘I’m sure I can find out – but it can’t be a huge difference... must be quite a competitive market.’
‘Whatever it is, it’s enough to merit a beano in Singapore. Alright for some, eh? When do we get a junket like that, Jones?’
14. SALE FELL
‘Morning, Guv – where are you, squire?’
‘Leyton...?’
‘Guv – you alright?’
‘Yeah... I... er... something came up.’
Skelgill’s thick voice and sluggish wits tell the listening DS Leyton all he needs to know: his superior has overslept. This is most unlike the DI Skelgill who, among his various nicknames of ‘Mallory’, ‘Dan Dare’ and ‘Dirty Harry’, is also referred to among his colleagues by the less flattering epithet ‘Badger’, for his general disregard of the protocols of the eight-hour sleep and the concept of retiring and rising at civilised hours.
