Murder In School (14 page)

‘The old fellow who comes on the
motorbike?’

‘Thou one of his cronies?’

‘Nah – just passing.’ 
Skelgill raises his crash helmet and gives it a little shake.

‘Not many as pass this way.’

‘Good reason to come, in my book.’

The old man makes a small upward jerk of
his head, as if accepting of Skelgill’s remark.  ‘Thou frae Wukiton?’

‘Pereth.’  Skelgill uses the
colloquial name for Penrith in response to his questioner’s Workington diminutive.

His efforts to endear himself appear to
be bearing fruit, since the old man says, as if by way of apology, ‘Thought thew
be an offcomer.’

Skelgill shakes his head.  ‘You said
cronies?
’

‘Bunch a’ rich folks.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Deeked their cars.  Range Rovers
and that.’

‘Hillwalkers?’

The old man frowns.  ‘Ont bevvy more
like.’

Skelgill inclines his head towards the
bothy.  ‘In there?’

‘Aye.  After t’inn’s called last
orders.  I’ve heard ‘em.’

‘Do they board at the inn?’

‘Reckon.’

Skelgill hitches up his overtrousers. 
‘I was just going in for a pint.’

‘Ars gan yam.’  The old man says
this as if to decline an offer unmade by Skelgill.  He points with his
crook at a cluster of small cottages a quarter of a mile distant, and without
further formalities begins slowly to hobble away, the skulking collie in tow. 
After a few seconds, and without looking back, he calls out, ‘You wunt get nowt
out‘t landlord –
he’s
an offcomer.’

*

As Skelgill clumps through into the reception
area, a tall pale man of around his own age suddenly rises to attention from
behind the counter.  He wears a tattersall shirt beneath a quilted
gilet.  He’s holding a newly opened ream of copy paper, and is perhaps in
the process of reloading a printer.

‘Sorry, chum – no boots or biker
gear in the residents’ areas.’  The accent is refined; as the shepherd
intimated, the hotelier is not a local.

‘How about this kind of boots?’

No doubt resisting the temptation to
include the patronising epithet ‘chum’ in his reply, Skelgill, without breaking
stride, reaches into an inside pocket and produces his warrant card. 
Holding it at eye level he forces his protagonist to take a step backwards in
order to read the details.

‘Oh – of course – I had no
idea you were – police.’

‘We don’t usually walk about with a sign
saying CID, sir.  Tends to reduce our effectiveness in protecting the
public.’

‘Naturally, officer.’  There’s a
distinct flushing of the skin around his neck.

Skelgill drops his crash helmet on the
counter top and rubs his hands together.  He scrutinises the landlord,
then casts about beyond him, as though he’s expecting to see an item of lost
property that has been handed in.  His silence forces the other to speak.

‘So... er... how may I be of assistance
to you?’

‘You are the proprietor, I take it, sir?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘There’s a little stone climbing barn
about a hundred-and-fifty yards along the lane.  Does that come under your
ownership?’

‘No – that’s nothing to do with
us.’  This response comes quickly, as though the man is keen to distance
himself from the subject matter.

Skelgill nods slowly.  ‘We’re trying
to trace the connections of the key-holder.’

‘I can’t help you there, I’m afraid,
officer.’  Again, the answer is rushed, when a qualifying enquiry such as
‘Why?’ or ‘Who?’ might have been expected.

 ‘According to our information the
people who use it lodge here.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so, officer.  Our
hotel prices are designed to deter the climbing types – they tend to go
for the budget places, the B&Bs.’

‘Who said they were climbing
types?’  Skelgill sounds a little irked by the implied class distinction
in landlord’s explanation.

‘Well... er... since it’s a climbing
hut...’

Skelgill doesn’t reply, and instead takes
a leaflet advertising the inn’s services from a dispenser close at hand. 
He raises an eyebrow at the slogan
‘For the discerning foodie’
, and
scans through the price list.

‘May I?’  He inserts the brochure
into his jacket without waiting for a reply, and then picks up his
helmet.  Taking a step back he says, ‘Is that your blue Defender parked
down the side?’

The hotelier, sensing that Skelgill has
finished with him, and for a moment beginning to relax, stiffens once
more.  ‘Yes, it is, officer.’

Skelgill turns and begins to head for the
exit.  As he reaches and opens the door he looks back and says, ‘I should
keep an eye on your road tax – you can renew online these days, you know,
chum.’

And with that he strides out, leaving the
landlord staring disconcertedly at the spot where he had stood.

Skelgill heads directly for his motorcycle,
hauling on his helmet and fastening his jacket as he goes.  But when he
reaches the machine, rather than climbing aboard, he goes down on one bended
knee to examine the little disc-holder attached to the front-left fork. 
Tipping his head to one side as if in a gesture of confirmation he stands
upright and pulls out his mobile phone.  Quickly he taps out a text to
himself, ‘Bike tax expired.’

Throwing caution to the wind of his own
warning that the Chief passes this way, Friday morning finds Skelgill parked in
the layby that is home to the recently discovered burger van.  Working
through a bacon roll whilst waiting for DS Leyton to join him for breakfast, he
is conducting a consequently disjointed telephone conversation with DS Jones.

‘So what are you doing now?’

‘I’m on my way to meet DI Smart, Guv.’

Skelgill tuts.  ‘Where?’

‘Southwaite services – he wants to
give me a de-brief.’

‘I bet he does.’  Skelgill mutters
under his breath.

‘Sorry, Guv?’

‘I said keep mum – about Goodman.’

‘Of course, Guv.’

Skelgill now has to finish a mouthful of
food before he can speak again.

‘You still there, Guv?’

‘Yup.  Look – I want you to contact
him.’

‘Goodman?’

‘Correct.’

‘Won’t he be flying right now?’

‘Just leave him a message.  And if
he rings when he lands, don’t answer – see if he records a voicemail
before you call back.’

‘Can we use that, Guv?’

‘I’m sure we’d find a way.’

‘What should I say?’

‘Sorry you had to rush off.  Make it
sound like you’re in London.  Tell him your boss is still keen on getting
his son into the school, but wants something a bit more concrete on what the
deal is.  Cut to the chase, Headmaster.’

‘Shall I use that expression?’

‘Words to that effect – we need to
hear it from him if he’s bending the rules.’

‘What if he wants to meet up?’

‘Get the train?’

‘But... Guv.’

‘Jones – wait and see – play
it by ear.  At least make it
seem
like you could meet him for a
drink later.’

Now it’s DS Jones turn to remain silent.

‘Tell him if he can give you a steer, you
should be able to get a proposal back from your employer by tonight.’

‘Okay.’

‘You don’t sound convinced.’

‘Guv, Smart will go crackers if I go gallivanting
off again on your case.’

‘Look –
I
don’t want you
gallivanting, but...’

‘It might get the Chief off your back?’

‘Something like that.’

Skelgill holds up two fingers through the
windscreen to the arriving DS Leyton who, rather than take offence, nods and
walks away to place their order.

‘What did she say about our trip, Guv?’

‘Qualified success.  Reading between
the lines of her email.’

‘Just between the lines?’

‘You know the Chief.  The only time
she says ‘Well done’ is when she orders a steak.’

‘I’d have thought she eats them rare,
Guv.’

‘You’re thinking of her subordinates.’

‘Ha-ha, Guv.’

‘I’m not joking.’

‘So we’re to keep looking?’

‘Continue fishing in the dark.’

‘At least that’s your forte, Guv.’

This apparent compliment could be
metaphorical, literal or indeed an attempt at wry humour, but before Skelgill
can fashion a response DS Leyton pulls open the passenger door.

‘Look – here’s Leyton – I
need to go – keep me posted.’

*

‘You already had one, Guv?’  Leyton
indicates the brown paper bag screwed up on the dashboard of Skelgill’s car.

‘Just a provisional, Leyton –
didn’t know how long you’d keep me waiting.’

DS Leyton protests.  ‘Like
clockwork, me, Guv – I’m as keen on a bacon roll as you are.’

Skelgill looks across with an ironic
expression as DS Leyton pats his ample stomach.

‘I dunno where you put ‘em, Guv.’ 
DS Leyton sounds a little defensive.  ‘My missus reckons you must have a
tapeworm.’

‘It’s called an appetite, Leyton –
comes from the uneven terrain by which we’re surrounded, in case you hadn’t
noticed.’  Skelgill gestures with his roll in a circular motion. 
‘Not that there’s a lot to be seen right now.’

‘That suits me, Guv – stick to the
level, that’s my motto.’

Skelgill nods pensively whilst
chewing.  After a moment he says, ‘Yeah – I hadn’t realised how flat
London is until just the other day.’

‘Home sweet home.  The good old
Smoke.  How did you get on down there, anyway, Guv?’

Skelgill takes another bite of his roll,
perhaps to buy a little time in composing his response.  ‘Let’s just say
it looks like Goodman might be up to something.’

‘In what way, Guv?’

‘Trading places at the school for more
than the market rate.’

DS Leyton frowns in a perplexed
manner.  ‘Is that illegal?’

Skelgill shrugs.  ‘Probably not. 
It’s a private school.’

‘Unless he’s taking backhanders, Guv?’

Skelgill taps the plastic lid of his
disposable tea cup.  ‘That could be tough to prove.’

DS Leyton nods, and for a while both
detectives alternately munch and slurp their way through their takeaways.

After a while, DS Leyton pipes up, ‘That
cricket pavilion, Guv – that was paid for by a parent.’

Skelgill nods.  ‘Maybe he just liked
cricket.  Or was so impressed with the school.’

‘Be nice to have that kind of bangers and
mash to spare, eh Guv?’

‘These people operate in a different
world from us, Leyton.  You should see the buildings in...’

Skelgill stops himself mid-sentence,
presumably realising his next word would be Singapore.

DS Leyton looks a little bewildered,
until he concludes his superior has finished speaking.  Tentatively, he
offers, ‘Still, Guv – it could be the connection we’re looking for
– I mean, what if old Querrell was on to him?  That Jacobson
reckoned he was none-too-keen on Goodman’s policies.’

‘But Querrell committed suicide, Leyton.’

‘Maybe Goodman had something on him in
return – threatened to expose him if he came clean about he was up
to?  Enough to push him over the edge.’

Skelgill flicks a sideways glance at DS
Leyton.  Then he shakes his head and says, ‘Where’s the crime in that?’

DS Leyton looks a little exasperated. 
‘But, Guv – two suicides in a week – the second one in Querrell’s
cottage.  There’s something not right here – we both know
that.  It’s beyond the normal.’

‘The school isn’t a normal place,
Leyton.’

‘I see that, Guv – but, look, take
Hodgson.  While you were down south I occupied myself with digging into
his background – seeing as with Querrell we’ve hit a dead end.  Turns
out he was more than a nasty piece of work around the town.’

‘In what way?’

‘Remember I said he’d been sacked from
his last job as a gamekeeper for intimidating some walkers with a loaded
twelve-bore?’

‘Aha.’

‘Well, that wasn’t the full picture.’

‘So?’

‘It was just the excuse his employer
needed to get shot of him – no pun intended, Guv.’

‘No, Leyton.’

‘So I called round at the estate office, across
in the Eden valley – talked to the factor.  There’d been a catalogue
of problems.’

‘Such as?’

‘Nothing they could pin on him for
certain, but for instance they were losing a lot of game.  A flock of ornamental
Canadian geese were shot.  They discovered some illegal pole traps set in
the woods.  Then there was a roe deer found dead in a snare.  They
suspected it was Hodgson, on a killing spree – flogging the meat on the
black market.’

‘Did they confront him with the
evidence?’

‘Yeah, Guv – but he just insisted
it was poachers and went on the warpath.  Apparently he came across a van
parked in a gateway on the estate and slashed its tyres.  Turns out it
just belonged to a land agent who was doing some surveying.’

‘You’d think they would have got rid of
him at the time.’

‘He denied it – though it wasn’t
all that long before the confrontation with the walkers, so by then the estate
had had enough.’

‘The school evidently didn’t check his
references too thoroughly, eh Leyton?’  Skelgill squints thoughtfully out
through the windscreen.  A small queue has formed at the burger van and
Skelgill seems to be scrutinising it for suspects.

‘Maybe he spun ‘em a different yarn, Guv. 
Appears he wasn’t averse to the odd bit of fraud.  The estate suspected
him of embezzling from the petty cash – he had responsibility for buying
the shooting supplies and the feedstuffs for rearing pheasants.  And the
factor said he’d heard talk that Hodgson short-changed the beaters –
though with that being all cash-in-hand he came over a bit vague when I pushed
him.’

Skelgill nods pensively.  ‘Sounds
like Hodgson’s financial crisis was nothing new.’

‘What if he’d gone to Querrell’s cottage
to see if there was a secret stash, Guv – like as a last resort?  I
mean – the old boy – what did he spend his money on?  Nothing
that I could see – not even a telly, Guv.’

‘His salary would have been paid into a
bank account – we can get that checked out.’

‘Maybe we should have looked under his
mattress while we were there, Guv.’

Skelgill raises an eyebrow.  ‘I
rather got the feeling we wouldn’t have been the first, Leyton.’

‘Snyder – you mean, Guv?’

Skelgill shrugs.  ‘Hodgson himself –
when he was sent to look for Querrell.  After that – who
knows?  It was the best part of a week between Querrell going missing and
us turning up.’

‘Still might be worth a proper search,
don’t you think, Guv?’

‘Too late.’  Skelgill’s tone is decidedly
fatalistic.

DS Leyton looks perplexed, as if how
could Skelgill be so certain.  But he shrugs resignedly and says, ‘Well, I
can’t help thinking there’s some connection, Guv.’

Skelgill cranes his neck and gazes
wistfully up in the direction of where Skiddaw’s summit ought to be.  ‘You
ever tried to do a cryptic crossword, Leyton?’

‘Blimey, Guv – I wouldn’t know one
if it came up and bit me.’

‘Thing is – try too hard to look
for a connection and you get stuck in a rut.  If you misinterpret the clue
in the first place, you can never reach the solution.  You know the old
Lakes joke where the shepherd tells the tourist you can’t get there from here.’

‘I had no idea you were a crossword guru,
Guv’

Skelgill frowns philosophically.  ‘I’m
not.  Jones can do them.  She was showing me, on the train coming up
from London last week.  She correctly came up with the name of a rare fish
she’d never heard of.’

‘You had me worried there for a minute,
Guv.  I thought crosswords were a bit anoraky for the likes of you.’

Skelgill’s body language hints that he
might disagree with this statement.   ‘There’s a lesson, though,
Leyton.  About letting the clue unwind before you start pressing too
hard.’

DS Leyton doesn’t appear convinced. 
He says, with a note of irony, ‘Have you tried this theory out on the Chief,
Guv?’

‘Ha-ha, Leyton.  But I’ll tell you
something that’ll make you smile.  When Jones had explained the method to
me – she had this
Daily Telegraph
or something – then she
fell asleep.  I noticed there was an old lady in our carriage doing the
same crossword.  When she got off at her stop she left the newspaper, so I
copied her answers and Jones thinks I finished the crossword.’