Murder In School (27 page)

As the midsummer sun dips behind Sale
Fell Skelgill’s boat slips from its mooring at Peel Wyke and slides out into
the calm reaches of Bassenthwaite Lake.  As far as the eye can see the
surface is pooled with rises as fish of all kinds cash in on the abundant spinners
returning to deposit their eggs in the surface film.  For the second time
today, Skelgill’s passion beckons enticingly.

He rows at a steady four knots, making a
beeline from west to east, covering the seven hundred or so yards in about five
minutes.  He is an accomplished sculler, and down the years has surprised
many a fellow boatman by leaving their more streamlined craft trailing in his
wake.  Right now his aim seems to be the speediest crossing, as he takes the
shortest route across the open water.  Once within reach of the eastern
shoreline he feathers his oars and allows the boat to drift some twenty feet
from the wooded bank.

From here he gradually paddles southwards
towards Oakthwaite.  In due course he rounds a promontory from which
– if he were to push out into the lake – he would be able to see
the small pier and boathouse, tucked away some two hundred yards further into
the bay.  Instead, however, he prefers the cover of the overhanging
alders, and indeed he winds his painter into a clove hitch around a sturdy branch
above his head.  Soon his boat finds a stationary berth, and the ripples
that radiate from his leafy retreat gradually subside.

Skelgill’s rowing seat is fashioned from
a plastic chair ‘borrowed’ from the police canteen, its metal legs removed and
the remaining shell bolted to the thwart.  While this peculiar arrangement
is a classic example of a Skelgill ‘mackle’, it does at least afford a
comfortable sitting position for long periods, when a backrest is most
appreciated.  Thus Skelgill pulls on a midge-hat, fastens his cuffs, smears
Citronella
oil on the back of his hands, and settles down as if he is
anticipating a prolonged vigil.  After a couple of minutes, however, he
reaches into the knapsack at his side, and pulls out his flask and one of
several hurriedly assembled packs of jam butties.

Gradually, darkness begins to creep
across the lake.  Initially, however, there is a kind of false dawning
– as the sun sinks lower beyond the north-west horizon its refracted
orange rays strike a scaled underbelly of scattered stratus and these reflect
upon the scene, sky and matching mirrored lake aflame with the day’s rekindled
embers.  And then, as these fires subside, there is a quickening in the
dusk, and pink fades to turquoise and blues blacken to showcase the stars and
the rising moon.  Soon it is only possible to see vague shapes and
indistinct silhouettes, as the short but velvety night settles upon the Lakeland
dale.

Time passes and Skelgill eats three portions
of sandwiches.  He is very diligent, silently unwrapping the cling-film,
and placing his tin mug with great care.  Sounds carry unimpeded and
indeed amplified over still water, and even distant rises and plops seem just
yards away.  Beyond the far bank there is the occasional rumble of a truck
on the A66, or the monotonous vrooming of a car, but as midnight comes and goes
the traffic dwindles virtually to nothing.  All else that reaches Skelgill’s
ears is of natural origin: the protracted hoot of a tawny owl, the strained cry
of a dog fox, and the regular splishing and chirping of
Daubenton’s
bats
as they hawk for caddis flies.

Dunk
.  Unmistakably, through the resonant air, from the vicinity
of the landing stage, emanates the distinctive hollow thud of an object
striking the hull of a boat.

Skelgill is frozen, barely breathing, as
he listens.  Now there are more sounds of the same nature, lasting for
perhaps half a minute.  Then a moment or two of silence is followed by the
clink and rattle of a chain.  Next there is the clash of wood on wood, and
the dipping of oars.  Someone is propelling Querrell’s boat from the
boathouse.

As the splash of the oars becomes more intense,
a sporadic doglike whining comes and goes, in two different tones, one high-pitched,
one less so.

Gingerly, Skelgill rises to his feet and
unties the painter.  The oarsman is making heavy weather of his task, but Skelgill
still takes great pains not to betray his presence.  Carefully he
retrieves a long black flashlight from his rucksack.  He rummages for his
mobile phone and, holding it inside the bag to mask its glow, he sends a
two-word text message.  Then he closes the drawstring and places the
rucksack in the bow.  Finally, he takes up the oars, and slowly but firmly
begins to pull towards the sounds from across the water.

He endeavours to time his strokes to
match the other rower, although this is not easy for the latter behaves like a
novice; his strokes are irregular and lopsided, with frequent clunks and great splatters.

Then the commotion ceases.

Skelgill immediately rests his
oars.  Under cover of darkness he has closed to within about two hundred
feet, and his boat glides nearer still under its own momentum.

From the direction of Querrell’s dinghy comes
the grating of metal followed by a
kerplunk
.  It is an anchor being
lowered.

Now the animal whimpering starts up again
– and Skelgill realises it too has its origin in the boat ahead of
him.  It is the slightly lower tone, urgent and pleading, and curiously it
is answered by the higher pitched whine from the bank.

There is something in this plaintive
hooning that makes up Skelgill’s mind.  Perhaps at this moment he finally
understands what is about to happen. Without further ado he flicks on his torch
and directs it at the boat.

‘Police!  Stay where you are! 
Do not move!’

The shadowy figure in Querrell’s old
craft has his face obscured by a balaclava or some such garment.  Notwithstanding,
he ducks his head from the bright beam, and immediately sets about rowing
away.  The dinghy has swung around one hundred and eighty degrees, and
initially he begins to make frenzied progress whence he came.  The whining
becomes ever more insistent.

Skelgill is forced to relinquish his
torch.  But without trace of panic he takes up his oars and sets an
interception course.  Not only must he know that he has the better of his
opponent in this race – his opponent has forgotten about the anchor.

Within thirty seconds Skelgill has closed
in sufficiently for him to see the dinghy in the gloom, and now he increases
his stroke rate to ramming speed.

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.