Murder In School (18 page)

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.

Rather hopefully, he says, ‘Surely it’s
right, though, Guv – about him being somewhere around?  Easy enough
to hide, size of the place.’

‘For the best part of forty-eight hours?’

‘But, Guv – he might only have vanished
this morning.  Maybe he’s bunked off because he doesn’t fancy the exams?’

Skelgill shrugs.  His immediate suggestion
to this effect had been informed by the prospect of his fishing trip being
wrecked.  ‘Let’s hope so, Leyton.  On which note, speak to the Housemother
– see what she knows, and if it’s possible to tell from his belongings
what he’s wearing, what he’s taken with him.’

‘Sure, Guv.’

‘And put in a call to HQ – get one
of your DCs to check out family and friends – anywhere he might have
gone.’

Skelgill studies his wristwatch. 
‘Failing other developments I’ll meet you at the burger van at one.’

*

Mike Greig’s office sits at the rear of
the upper deck of the cricket pavilion.  It boasts an impressive outlook directly
onto the rain-soaked lower slopes of Skiddaw.  Though Skelgill has
telegraphed word and purpose of his impending arrival via the school reception
desk, the diminutive Director of Sport is nonetheless momentarily startled as the
detective enters his airy modern quarters.  Standing behind his desk, and engaged
in listening on the telephone, a flicker of recognition disturbs his relaxed
features.  Still clasping the handset to his ear, he leans forward as far
as the tangled cable allows, and reaches out to shake Skelgill’s hand, and then
gestures for him to take a chair.  He holds up an index finger, as if to
indicate only one minute, and picks up a pen to jot down a series of brief notes
upon the desk pad before him.  He ends the call with a ‘Thanks, Jim,’
replaces the handset and resumes his seat opposite Skelgill.

‘Inspector, welcome – again. 
When reception phoned through, I didn’t realise we’d already met.’

‘As your Headmaster put it, sir –
if it's Monday it must be the CID.’  There’s the hint of a twinkle in
Skelgill’s eye.

Greig grins knowingly, as though he’s
amused by the fact that last week Skelgill had gone along with his erroneous conclusion
that the detectives were parents supporting the opposing school.  ‘Please,
Inspector – call me Mike.’

‘Sure.’  Skelgill nods, but doesn’t remind
the South African that he’d previously introduced himself by his own Christian
name.

Greig seems keen and able to get to the
point.  He gestures to his telephone.  ‘The missing boy – that
was one of my colleagues.  I was just trying to find out what we know
about Saturday.’

‘He made it back?’

‘We’re not certain.’  Greig punches
a fist into the opposing palm in a gesture of frustration.  ‘The official
finishing line was just in front of the main school – but the conditions
were so bad, as soon as the trophy was won they packed up and went inside. 
There were
Mars Bars
and hot chocolate laid out in the junior common
room.’

‘When you say the trophy was won, Mike,
how does that work?’

Greig drums the desk with his pen.  ‘The
winning house is the first to get four boys back, ja?  Helvellyn are
really strong this year – they had four finishers in the first ten.’

‘So the rest of them weren’t recorded?’

‘Let me tell you this, Inspector.’ 
Greig employs the ostensibly aggressive form of delivery characteristic of his
countrymen.  ‘In the circumstances – understandable.  In light
of the outcome – an oversight.’

Skelgill sits impassively, and the short
silence succeeds in drawing an explanation from Greig.