Murder In School (21 page)

‘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.

‘I’ll see what’s available, Guv.’

‘We’ve got a PC on the gate, right?’

‘It’s young Dodd, Guv.  He’s based
in the cottage.  We’re keeping the gates closed and he’s checking everyone
in and out.  More for reassurance than anything.’

Skelgill nods.  ‘See if we can
organise a plain-clothes tail to wait out of sight.  If Goodman or Snyder or
Grieg leave I want to know where they go.’

DS Leyton bites one cheek, as if he
suspects this might be a tall order – then again, he will realise they do
have their commanding officer onside in this matter.  ‘I’ll ask the
question, Guv.’

‘And I’d like another uniform, visibly
patrolling the perimeter of the school buildings.  Twenty-four seven. 
Using a flashlight in the dark.  Team of two or three on shifts, whatever
it takes – remind her Smart’s got plenty of resources we can commandeer.’

DS Leyton raises his eyebrows, but
doesn’t ask for further explanation.  He’s accustomed to his senior
officer keeping his cards close to his chest, even if sometimes they prove to
be a busted flush.

‘And get the underwater unit moving,
too.’

DS Leyton inhales like a rehabilitated
smoker.  ‘That would be a shocker, Guv.’

‘We have to do it – even if it’s
only going through the motions.’

‘How do you mean, Guv – going
through the motions?’

‘Remember the lady of the lake?’

‘Come again, Guv?’

Skelgill snorts.  ‘You’ve obviously
never been trapped next to George at a police dinner.  It’s his specialist
subject in case he ever gets invited onto
Mastermind
.’

DS Leyton shrugs, as if he still has no
idea to what Skelgill refers.

‘Murdered woman’s body dumped in
Wastwater lay undiscovered for eight years.  Another one in Coniston Water
took over twenty years to find.’

DS Leyton affects a shudder.  ‘I
never knew that, Guv.’

‘Mind you, Leyton – Wastwater’s the
deepest lake in England.  And Coniston’s not far behind.’  Skelgill
casts a hand in the direction of Bassenthwaite Lake; they can’t see it, but the
wide valley marks its presence.  ‘Bass Lake’s a mere puddle in that
respect – twice the area of Wastwater but average depth only five metres.’ 
He scratches his head Stan Laurel fashion.  ‘Which is probably why it’s excellent
for fishing, now I think about it.  All the shallows – good light
for plant growth.’

‘So a body would be easy to find, Guv?’

Skelgill folds his arms, as if he’s now
backtracking.  ‘Not necessarily.  See, Leyton – you have to
think of Bass Lake as just a widening of the Derwent – and it’s one of
the fastest rivers in Europe.  Rises just below Scafell Pike and drops
two-and-a-half thousand feet in twenty-five miles.  There’s a heck of a
flow when it’s in spate.  Hidden currents.  I’ve had whole trees overtake
my boat like they’ve got outboards attached.  Unbelievable.’

‘And the rain, Guv.’

Skelgill seems lost in reverie for a
moment.  ‘What?’

‘The rain, Guv – with all this rain
– the river will have been in flood?’

Skelgill nods ruefully.  ‘Yeah,
you’re right.  Bass Lake is on the move.’

DS Leyton sinks into silence.

After a minute, Skelgill says, ‘You know
it’s the only lake in the Lake District?’

‘You did mention that once before, I
think, Guv.’

‘Daniel?’

Skelgill hurriedly swallows the mouthful
on which he has been contentedly chewing and, after an uncomfortable-sounding
moment, manages to reply, ‘Jim?’

‘It is, Daniel.  Where are you just
now?’

Skelgill stares at the line of truckers
and tourists waiting in orderly file for their burgers, their implacable
queuing faces no doubt belying the hunger pangs that are inevitably triggered
by the mouth-watering aroma of frying fat.  He presses the button to raise
his electric window: though the weather has cleared a straggling shower has
left the road surface slick, and the metronomic swish of passing traffic
interferes with his hearing.

‘I’m, er... just below Skiddaw – on
the A66.’

‘Are you by any chance free to meet for a
few moments?’

Skelgill checks his watch; it’s after six
and he has been summoned by the Chief for a briefing at seven.  ‘I’ve got
to do a media conference – I’m just on my way to prepare.’

‘Ah, I see.’  There’s a note of
disappointment in Professor Hartley’s voice.

‘Was there something...?’  Skelgill
seems unsure as to how he should phrase the question.

‘I’d rather not elaborate over the
telephone, Daniel.  It concerns the matter you were asking me about last
week.’

‘Right.’

‘I extended a few feelers – but by what
seems a remarkable coincidence someone else has got in touch – literally minutes
ago.  But they are somewhat reticent about anything being spoken over...
how could one put it – the police airwaves?  It does, however,
appear to be a matter of urgency.’

Skelgill jams the remains of his roll into
a space designed as a cup-holder, and reaches for the ignition.  ‘Jim, I
don’t think they’re bugging me – but I hear what you’re saying.  Where
are you?’

The professor gives a little cough. 
‘Ah – this is mildly embarrassing, Daniel.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well – you know the magnificent
spot you mentioned on the Derwent – where you bagged all those brownies?’

‘Aha?’

‘I thought I’d give it a try –
water’s a bit high today, of course – but here I am.  I didn’t think
you’d mind.’

Skelgill chuckles.  ‘Ever a
fisherman, eh Jim?  I don’t blame you – if I had your free time I’d
have a rod permanently strapped to my left hand.’

Now the professor has a smile in his
voice.  ‘Right hand in my case – you always were a devil to teach.’

‘Ah, you did a good job, Jim.  Look
– I can be there in ten minutes, tops – I’ll just have to risk the
wrath of my boss.’

‘Perchance she will appreciate your
efforts in due course, Daniel.’

‘That’ll be the day, Jim.  Look
– I’m on my way.  I’d better ring off in case some keen young
patrolman spots me on the phone.’

‘I quite understand, Daniel.  But
– before I forget – I was doing a little research of my own. 
Would you believe that the name River Derwent translates as River of the Oaks? 
It has its origin in Celtic – they would say
derwen
for
oaks.  To this day the word in Welsh for oak is
derw
.’

Skelgill shows limited interest in this
linguistic gem, though perhaps it is the process of performing a U-turn into a
gap in the speeding traffic that restricts his attention.  All he manages
by way of response is, ‘Great, Jim – I’ll be with you shortly.’

*

‘Jones, can you talk?’

‘Sure, Guv – I’m just getting ready
to go out.’

‘To work?’

‘The usual, Guv.’

‘I need some back up – tonight.’

‘What time?’

‘Pick me up outside the Moot Hall in
Keswick at eleven-thirty.’

DS Jones pauses for a moment.  ‘Guv
– I’m supposed to be on with Al – DI Smart – until one.’

‘Make an excuse, get sick – it’s
essential.’

‘Guv – how about DS Leyton?’

‘Have you seen him run?’

‘Run?  What’s it about, Guv?’

‘Jones – I’m joking.  But he’s
a family man – I can’t drag him out at midnight.’

‘Whereas...’

‘We work well as a team after dark.’

DS Jones is silent, although she is
moving about, presumably in her bedroom, and there’s the rumble of what might
be a drawer being opened in the background.

‘Jones?’

‘Guv – I’ll think of
something.  But please don’t send me any texts, okay?’

‘Sure.’

‘The Moot Hall, Guv?’

‘Correct.  I’ll park in the public
car park and walk through one of the ginnels.’

‘Isn’t Market Square pedestrianised now?’

‘Don’t worry – the bollards will be
unlocked when you arrive.’

‘Right, Guv.  And what should I
wear?’

‘What you had on the same time last week
was pretty impressive.’

‘Guv – I meant like trainers.’

‘They always come in handy.’

*

‘Inspector Skelgill, why can’t you give
us the boy’s name?’

‘Or tell us who the family are?’

‘Is he a local, Inspector – or a
tourist?’

‘What was he last seen wearing?’

‘How about lines of inquiry – you
must have a theory?’

‘Are you going to be charging the parents
with neglect?’

‘Inspector – why won’t you tell us
more?’

Skelgill, though not quite at the
rabbit-in-the-headlights stage, certainly might be compared to a stag at
bay.  Rendered virtually dumbstruck by the concerted baying of the media
pack, there’s a hunted look about his taut demeanour.  In contrast to his
glib colleague DI Alec Smart, for whom weasel words and the slick put-down of
the heckler come easily in these situations, Skelgill is cornered outwith his
natural habitat.  Frustrated too, since no doubt he wishes to lay flesh
upon the bones of the sparse skeletal statement his commanding officer has
forced upon him (backed, he surely suspects, by additional pressure from
Oakthwaite’s Headmaster).  While he would feed the press hounds, it is not
within his power so to do.

 He might be alone on stage in the
small purpose-built auditorium, but he knows the Chief is listening-in over the
conference call unit on the desk before him.  There is an ‘agreed’ party
line, from which he may deviate at his peril.  And yet, while the Chief is
probably right in fearing that the media would sensationalise the potentially
lurid aspects of the story – the commitment of public resources in search
of the son of a senior police officer who attends one of England’s most
prestigious private schools – Skelgill must rue the handicap this places
upon their ability to be of greatest assistance.  Hyperbole usually
translates into greater publicity and attention.  Thus Skelgill appears a
weary figure, perhaps half-willing the Chief to carry out her symbolic threat
to revert the case to DI Smart.

‘Gentlemen... and ladies – lady...’

Skelgill glances apologetically towards
the sole female member of the media corps.  A striking dark-skinned
brunette, she reclines nonchalantly at one end of the curving front row of
seats.  She wears a black silk jacket and a short matching black dress
decorated with cerise half-moons and festooned with an elaborate toothed
necklace.  From Skelgill’s panoramic perspective he can see that her sculpted
lower limbs draw the surreptitious glances of the pack-dogs among her male
colleagues.  A locally based freelance reporter, she shows no sign of
being intimidated by the unruly masculine mob.  Such self-confidence, in
fact, is in keeping with her reputation for ruthless global syndication, and
the rumours that she is a regular ghost contributor to the likes of
Private
Eye
and
The
Huffington Post
.  Instead, she inclines her
head gracefully towards Skelgill in acknowledgement.

Now he squints into the arc-lights erected
for the benefit of the regional television unit that is covering the media
conference.  Addressing no single face in the crowd of twenty or so
journalists, he clears his throat and then declares, ‘All I can ask is that you
assist us in communicating the boy’s photograph to the public, and to request
information from anyone who may have seen him after midday on Saturday, either
in the vicinity of Keswick north of the A66, or alternatively at a railway
station on the West Coast Line, or motorway services, most likely on the M6 in
England and the M74 in Scotland.’

Perhaps out of growing desperation,
driven by the need to provide their voracious editors with a high-value kill,
the hacks now begin to speculate by revealing some of their own embryonic and
ill-informed theories.

‘Does he have Scottish connections, Inspector?’

‘Is this a runaway or an abduction?’

‘Has he been kidnapped, Inspector?’

‘What about a ransom – have you
received a ransom demand?’

‘Inspector Skelgill, is he the relative
of a celebrity?’

‘Felicity Kendal?’

This quip causes a small splutter of
amusement.

‘How about a rock star?’

‘Joe Cocker.’

A collective titter ripples back and
forth as these local puns are understood.

‘Nah – Greg Lake, more like.’

Now the titter becomes a guffaw.

‘The Home Secretary’s got a holiday cottage
in Ambleside –
she’s
a redhead.’

‘No chance, mate – that’s dyed.’ 
This retort is yelled from one pressman to another.

‘How come you’re so well informed?’

‘I read it in
Hello
.’

There’s another approving peal of
laughter, and it seems that the journalists have invented their own version of
a Mexican wave: a response to the poor fare on offer centre stage.  This
sideshow provides Skelgill with a moment’s respite in which to gather his wits. 
As the hubbub dies down he says loudly, in a firm tone of voice, ‘Colleagues of
the media – Cumbria Constabulary believes it is in the best interests of
the missing boy that his identity is not disclosed at this time.’

There’s a further growl of discontent,
albeit accompanied by a murmured acceptance that this is all they are going to
get for the moment.  There’s the slap of notepads being shut and the snap
of briefcases.  One disillusioned-sounding voice pipes up, ‘How do you
expect us to run a story when we don’t know what it is?’

There is a renewed chorus of agreement
with this sentiment, and Skelgill is beginning to look as if his will to withstand
the onslaught is waning.  He leans forward onto the desk over folded arms,
and must be wondering why he had planned no means of retreat.  As he
affects a cough and takes a drink from the glass of water beside him, a text
evidently comes though on his mobile, which lies on top of his case file. 
As he glances at the phone a perplexed frown creases his brow, and then –
as it suddenly rings – he picks it up, answers the call and holds it to
his ear, apparently listening intently.  He says something in the
affirmative into the microphone, ends the call and stands, hurriedly gathering
his papers.

‘Gentlemen,’ (this time he appears to
circumvent decorum and omit mention of both sexes) ‘there’s something urgent
– I must leave you.  Thank you in advance for your co-operation.’

Purposefully he sweeps towards the side
exit of the auditorium, en route passing close above the still-seated female
reporter.  She seems preoccupied with her own mobile, and is in the
process of completing an operation.  She bends over to drop the handset
into the designer handbag at her heels, momentarily revealing a glimpse of
cleavage.  As she sits upright she catches his eye; Skelgill averts his
gaze and departs the room.

There are one or two hopeful shouted
exhortations, last-gasp attempts to get Skelgill to reveal an off-guard or off-the-record
detail, but he manages to make his getaway without falling victim to one of his
own devices.

*

‘Dutch courage, Danny?’

‘Isn’t that supposed to come beforehand?’

‘That depends what’s going to happen
next.’

Skelgill inhales and quickly takes a gulp
of his pint, before standing to admit the woman into the space beside him on
the upholstered bench seat.  She’s both slender and shapely, and her lithe
movements attract his scrutiny.  He slides across in front of her a
Collins glass; it contains a clear iced drink garnished with a slice of lime.

‘How sweet, you remembered my favourite.’

Skelgill allows himself a wry grin. 
‘I seem to remember it was in your text about twenty minutes ago.’  He
takes another pull at his beer.  ‘Thanks for the rescue.’

‘You’re welcome – as an old friend I
couldn’t bear to see you limping about hamstrung in front of that pack of sour
old hyenas.’