Murder In School (22 page)

‘Did it look that bad?’

‘Danny – I know a stitch-up when I
see one.’  She raises her glass.  ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

After another mouthful, Skelgill seems to
relax, and sinks back into his seat.  The woman apes his movement,
stretching out her legs so that her hemline slips another inch or so up her
suntanned (or fake-tanned) thighs.

‘When you say stitch-up?’

The woman twists to face him, perhaps so
she can see the reaction in his eyes.  ‘I’d venture that, to say you were
operating under a three-line whip, would be an understatement.’

Skelgill doesn’t look at her.  He
shrugs, and says, ‘You know the score – there are times when we all have
to be diplomatic.’

The woman laughs, a deep throaty chuckle
that belies the soft tones of her voice.  Two middle-aged men seated at
the bar turn inquisitive faces towards the couple.  Skelgill stares them
down and they return to their game of cribbage.

‘It’s bollocks, Danny, and you can’t deny
it.  When the boy’s identity gets out – which it surely shall
– I’ll be intrigued to discover which authority is going to be
embarrassed’

Skelgill’s eyebrows register an upward
shift, perhaps a clue that she is getting warm.  ‘What makes you say
that?’

‘Come off it, Danny – it’s plain as
day.  The police wouldn’t withhold an identity at the whim of parents, no
matter how high profile they are – certainly not when they’re
distributing a photograph.’  She takes a slow sip of her cocktail.  ‘Sure
– let’s have radio silence when a kidnap is in progress – but this
isn’t it.  It takes a greater power to do this – and what power might
that be, I wonder?’

Skelgill tilts his head momentarily
towards her, as if to acknowledge her deduction.  ‘You always were top of
the class.’

The woman’s reaction to this compliment
is a feline movement that seems to flow out from her core to her neatly painted
fingertips.  She leans forward to take another drink and then settles
closer to Skelgill, playfully resting her head against his shoulder.  ‘Is
it the police, Danny?’

Skelgill visibly stiffens, and the woman recoils
with a mock defensive gesture of her mauve talons.

‘Ouch.’  She smiles coyly over her
glass and says, ‘Come on, Inspector, I pulled you out of the fire.’

‘Yeah – but straight into the
frying pan wasn’t what I had in mind.’

‘What
did
you have in mind?’

Skelgill slumps back and once more
reaches for the cover of his drink.  After a moment’s reflection he says,
‘Oh, you know me – I’m not a great one for forward planning.’

The woman nods and smiles.  ‘See
where the path takes you.’

‘That’s about it.’

‘Surely there’s something you can tell
me?’  She presses a hand onto his thigh.  ‘It can’t all be top secret,
Mr Bond.’

Skelgill looks anxiously about the
pub.  It’s a little-known bolt-hole, thus a popular haunt of his, tucked
away down a narrow one-way street on the edge of Penrith’s old town
centre.  Frequented only by locals, now late on a Monday evening its
clientele comprises half-a-dozen patrons quietly going about their drinking,
soon to be turning in on this, a work-night.  The lights are low and the
atmosphere warm and humid.  A drink or two ought to lower the inhibitions
and loosen the tongue.  Perhaps Skelgill is feeling this sense of freedom,
in the little alcoholic haven.

Yet still he shakes his head.  ‘Look
– right now, it really could be dangerous for the boy if I were to tell
you any more.’

‘So you
do
know something?’

Skelgill pouts, ruefully.  ‘That’s
the trouble – I
feel
something, alright.  But I can’t risk
putting a foot wrong.’

‘Maybe another drink would help –
it’s my shout, Danny.’

The woman reaches for her handbag, but
she is at the mercy of Skelgill in order to extricate herself from her place at
the end of the bench.  With spread palms he repels her efforts to rise. 
‘I’ll get them.’

He returns within a couple of minutes and
carefully places the refills on the uneven pitted surface of the heavy
oak-and-cast-iron table.  In the meantime the woman has slipped out of her
jacket and augmented her make-up; her cheeks show a fresh blush, her lips glisten
like a sticky crimson flytrap.  Casually she shakes her glossy chestnut locks,
partially veiling her dark irises with their dilated pupils.

‘Thank you, Danny.’

‘I owe you – better to clear the
slate.  Before you try to suck me dry.’

For a second the woman looks
pretend-shocked at this remark.  Then she turns towards him over her bare shoulder. 
‘You could always owe me again, Danny.’

*

‘Guv – is that blood on your neck?’

Skelgill appears surprised by this
observation, though nonetheless he accurately locates and rubs vigorously at
the spot when DS Jones’s inquisitorial gaze rests.

‘Must have nicked myself, shaving.’

DS Jones turns to stare ahead through the
windscreen.  She sits in silence while Skelgill settles himself.  He
claps his hands together.

‘Okay, so drive east as if we’re going to
Penrith.  Do you know Chestnut Hill?’

DS Jones is slow to reply; the interior
light fades out and she squints into the streetlamp neon of the night.

‘The Windermere road?’

‘That’s the one.’

She slides the car into gear and they
move off.  Market Square is devoid of its daytime tourist throng; only a scattering
of late-night revellers totters towards curtained B&Bs.  DS Jones has
to brake while an elderly man in a greatcoat erratically crosses their path. 
He doffs his cap and then, when he gains the kerb, with surprising
sprightliness he shadow boxes his reflection in a gift shop widow.

‘Bollards.’

‘Guv?’

‘I need to lock the bollards.’

They stop for a moment for Skelgill to secure
the pedestrian zone posts with a key that he has somehow acquired.  When
he hops back into DS Jones’s car, his manner is as if she’s just picked him up
for the first time.

‘How did you escape from lover-boy
Smart?’

DS Jones scoffs at this question, as
though she detects his diversionary tactic but is just sufficiently amused by
its naivety.  ‘I told him you were taking me clubbing.’

Skelgill laughs nervously.  ‘You
know me, Jones – if at first you don’t succeed.’

Perhaps this hint of humility softens her
displeasure, and her mood seems to lighten.

‘So what are we doing, Guv?’

‘I’m meeting someone – in connection
with the Oakthwaite case.’

‘Who is it?’

‘That I don’t know.’

‘A man or a woman?’

‘No idea.  I’m assuming a man,
though.’

‘Well – where then, Guv?’

‘Castlerigg stone circle.’

DS Jones is silent for a moment. 
‘In the dark?’

Skelgill shrugs.  ‘Midnight.  Not
my choice of rendezvous.’

Again DS Jones ponders for a while. 
‘Isn’t the way to the stone circle along Eleventrees?  That’s the turn
after Chestnut Hill.’

Skelgill glances across the shadowy
interior at DS Jones.  As she concentrates upon the road, her prominent
cheekbones and smoothly curving brows catch the headlights of an oncoming
vehicle.  Her implacable features endow her profile with a classical
chiselled appearance.  He observes her for a moment before answering.

‘I have a cunning plan.’

A smile creases the corners of her
mouth.  ‘Not like you, Guv.’

Skelgill thumps his thighs three times in
rapid succession, as if he is readying his quads for action.  ‘Yeah, well
– just in case it’s a trap.  I don’t want to be another unexplained
statistic.’

‘So what do you need me to do, Guv?’

‘First and foremost, to know where I am.’

‘Do I come with you?’

Skelgill shakes his head.  ‘I want
you to wait in the car – getaway driver.  But I’ll show you when we’re
nearer.  Here's Chestnut Hill.’

They follow the road as it winds up out
of Keswick over Castlerigg Brow.  After half a mile he directs her to turn
off, a left-hand switchback so sharp that she has to shunt to enter.  The
lane is walled, and barely more than a car’s width across.

‘Wow, Guv – this takes some doing.’

‘The bad news is, now I need you to switch
off your headlamps.’

‘You’re joking?’

‘Just slow down – your eyes will
adjust.’

For a while they crawl at something less
than walking pace, until Skelgill’s prediction proves correct and DS Jones is
able to speed up a little.  It helps that the lane is straight and
bordered by treeless enclosures.

‘You wouldn’t want to meet anyone coming
the other way, Guv.’

‘That’s the idea, Jones.’

After a couple of minutes he tells her to
stop.  He hops out of the car and hauls open a five-barred gate. 
Then he directs her to perform a three-point turn using the field entrance,
before closing the gate again.  He returns to the passenger door but
remains standing.

‘What now, Guv?’

‘You wait here.  Cut the engine.’

‘But I’m blocking the road.’

‘Correct.’

‘What if someone comes along?’

‘Send them back – you’re a
policewoman, remember?’

‘They’d have to reverse, Guv.  It
must be a half a mile.’

‘It’s in the driving test, isn’t it?’

‘Right, Guv.’

‘Seriously, Jones – this route is
barely used by day, never mind this time of night. 

DS Jones nods reluctantly.  ‘Is this
part of the cunning plan?’

Skelgill looks like he’s eager to set
off, but he glances around and slides into the passenger seat, keeping the door
open.  ‘I had to agree to come alone, with no police stakeout.  This
is the back-way – the stone circle’s about a quarter of a mile further
on.  My guess is that whoever’s meeting me will park up at the normal
entrance.  If I need to do a runner, we control this road.’

‘What if you become trapped, Guv?’

Skelgill reaches inside his jacket and
pulls out a cylindrical object.  ‘Know what this is?’

‘A distress flare?’

‘Correct.  If you think you’ve seen
a comet, dial 999.’

‘Are you allowed to have one of those
– I mean, on duty?’

Skelgill purses his lips.  ‘Are we
on duty?’

‘I think you’re always on duty, Guv.’

With rather alarming force Skelgill raps
on the windscreen with the flare.  As DS Jones flinches, he says
resolutely, ‘We could be investigating a triple murder here.  I’ll take my
chance.’  He checks his watch.  ‘It’s a quarter to twelve – time
to creep along and see if anyone’s about.’

As Skelgill makes to heave himself out of
the passenger seat, DS Jones leans across and kisses him on the cheek.

‘Be careful, Guv.’

Skelgill spins out of the car and,
resting on his haunches, peers back inside.  He touches his face. 
‘First blood, now lipstick.’

‘Yes, Guv – you match DI Smart.’

‘Ha-ha, Jones.’

As Skelgill drops catlike into the sheepfold
that holds the Castlerigg megaliths, a screech owl floats noiselessly from an
adjacent slate upright – a single plough-scarred outlier reputedly
erected by a farmer in modern times.  The presence of the secretive nocturnal
raptor is perhaps an indication that the detective is first upon the scene.

He squats in the shadow of the dry-stone wall,
watching and listening.  There is just the barest hint of breeze and the
sky is cloudless and star-spangled.  The moon, though now a waning
gibbous, casts sufficient light to reveal the ring of stones: from his angle a line
of dark silhouettes and silvery highlights like the waiting ghosts of an ancient
tribe.  No vehicle is in evidence in the lane beyond; no soul stirs.

After a minute he rises and strides
swiftly across the close-cropped pasture.  A rabbit sentinel thumps the
earth as it detects his approaching tread, and with its family scampers to
safety.  Skelgill enters the circle; he walks more slowly, but does not
come to a halt until he reaches the worn patch of bare soil at its centre, as
if drawn there by some special localised gravity.

The monument is set upon a raised plateau
within a magnificent natural amphitheatre.  Even by day few traces of
civilisation are visible from its heart.  Under cloak of darkness it
provides a panoramic vista unchanged for five millennia – no sheep, no
walls, no farms – just the inner teeth of the grey stones, and the great gaping
jaws of the primeval fells ringing the skyline beneath a twinkling firmament. 
Skelgill slowly rotates on his heel, perhaps trying to pick out familiar peaks
on the faint line of demarcation where black rock becomes dark sky. 

In the south the moon sails high above
Helvellyn.  To the west is the distinctively pointed Grisedale Pike, Keswick’s
mini-Matterhorn.  Straddling the northern quarter, where the sky is at its
palest, is the great looming bulk of Skiddaw merging into Blencathra.  And
in the east, as Skelgill’s clockwise rotation is completed, stands not a
mountain – but a man.

Tall, cloaked and hooded, the wizard-like
figure seems magically to have materialised.  Indeed, all he lacks to
complete this fantastical impression is a long wooden staff.  Perhaps he
was pressed close to one of the loftier uprights, and has now detached himself
to announce his presence.  Stock still, he seems to be waiting for
Skelgill to make the next move.

Arms akimbo, Skelgill has the look of a
gunfighter poised to draw.  He must be disconcerted that he did not detect
his opponent.  Instinctively his hand reaches into his jacket.

‘Inspector.’

The accent is at once refined, and the
voice clear and confident.  Most striking of all, its tone is warm and
engaging.

‘Not many sightseers about, this time of
night.’

Skelgill’s answer, though a little
oblique, seems to satisfy his antagonist.  The latter bows once and walks
steadily into the little inner cove of stones that mark out a kind of chamber
within the main circle.  Belying his outward garb, which is suggestive of
an elderly monk, he moves robustly, with military bearing, and like a man of no
more than early middle age.

‘Perhaps we should be seated, Inspector.’

He indicates a suitable shin-high stone
to Skelgill, and then backs away a few paces to take one opposite. 
Skelgill approaches cautiously, glancing up at the moon, perhaps noting his adversary
has taken advantage of its capacity both to spotlight, and to enhance the
featureless shadow beneath the folds of the great hood.  All around them,
pale lichens adorn the surfaces, giving the impression that individual moonbeams
dapple the pitted rocks, while glistening dew like a silvery film coats the
grass and tells of a rapid fall in temperature.

‘I see you employed local knowledge in
your line of attack, Inspector.’

Skelgill lifts his palms in a gesture of
mild apology.  ‘I’ve never been one for the beaten track, sir.’

‘So I am led to understand.’

Skelgill raises an inquiring
eyebrow.  ‘Who are you, sir?’

The man shifts a little uncomfortably. 
‘I do not believe it will assist either of our causes for you to know my
identity, Inspector.  My apologies for this ceremonial costume – although
we are not acquainted you would recognise me and I should prefer that not to be
the case.’

Now Skelgill shrugs.  Ordinarily he
might be tempted to quip, ‘Don’t bank on it, buster,’ but diplomacy prevails
and he simply nods in acceptance.

‘And you have no recording device?’

Skelgill chuckles.  ‘This is Cumbria
Police, sir, not MI5.  But in any event you have my word.’

‘That, I also believe, stands for
something.’

‘You obviously haven’t met my boss.’

The man does not reply directly, and
instead, with a melodramatic sweep of the arm through the great hanging sleeve
of his robe, he indicates their surroundings.  ‘One wonders what Arthurian
parleys and tribal rites have taken place on this spot through the epochs,
Inspector.’

His voice has taken on a wistful note,
and for a moment or two it seems he is lost in the role of Neolithic chieftain
or soothsayer.

The prolonged silence causes Skelgill to
speak.  ‘You said
both
our causes, sir?’

This interjection brings the man’s
attention back to the moment.  Now there’s a hint of a regret in his
voice.  ‘Indeed, I represent those who need your assistance.’

‘And who are they?’

Again the man pauses, and for a second or
two his breathing is audible as he formulates his response.  ‘Are you
familiar with the ownership and control of Oakthwaite, Inspector?’

Skelgill shakes his head.  ‘Not
really, sir.  I’m guessing it’s not the local authority.’

The man leans forward and gathers in his
cloak.  ‘As is widely recorded, the school was established in the early
Victorian era by a sole benefactor.’  He breaks off and nods slowly
several times, as if convincing himself that he should tell Skelgill what comes
next.  ‘What is less well known – indeed undocumented – is
that the institution was saved from bankruptcy shortly after the first Boer
War, when its founder’s heir speculated and lost heavily.  At that time a
score of Oakthwaite’s supporting families came to its rescue.  To ensure
its survival, the ownership was transferred to a trust.  Thereafter,
control passed into the hands of a Board of Trustees.’

‘And you represent the Trustees?’

‘In part, Inspector.  One might say,
the hereditary faction.’

Skelgill nods obligingly.

‘These families – let us call them the
new founding families, for that is what they essentially were – deemed
that they had earned a right of advantage.  They determined they should
reap the lifetime benefits that may stem from their not-insubstantial
investments.’

‘The old school tie?’

The man must read some disapproval in the
tone of Skelgill’s response, for he harrumphs before formulating a
rejoinder.  ‘Inspector, where ancestral hegemonies are replaced by
so-called democracies they invariably descend into an even more abhorrent form
of corruption.  One only has to glance around the world today.’

Skelgill shifts uneasily upon his ancient
pew.  Though his features are set like stone in the moonlight, his body
language suggests he rocks on the horns of a dilemma.

‘You’ll understand sir, that my priority
right now is the missing child.’

‘Indeed, Inspector – and that is
where our paths may well intertwine.’  He points a long index finger to
the heavens.  ‘If you will humour me for a little longer, it may prove
helpful in your quest.’

Skelgill’s jaw is jutting well beyond its
normal resting position.  But he opens his palms in a gesture of
accord.  ‘Please – go ahead.’

‘In order for the school to continue to
serve our purpose it must thrive – and to thrive it must be a vibrant combatant
in the vanguard of modern education.  But the battle grows stiffer by the
day.  Survival is a function of funding – and therein lies the temptation. 
While some of the old families struggle to maintain their estates, and
charitable status comes under attack, new money threatens to invade from around
the globe.  And such affected generosity arrives with conditions
attached.  Investors expect a return – not financial, you
understand, but a share in the spoils – a share of what that control
delivers.’

‘Such as Oxbridge places?’

It is difficult to tell if the man is embarrassed
by this suggestion.  He raises both hands in what could be a gesture of
submission, but his tone is very much that of the king to a commoner.  ‘Inspector,
I do not expect you to condone the perpetuation of privilege, but it is the way
of the world.  Our intentions are lawful – if not always perceived
as fair.  Until the politicians deem otherwise the status quo is likely to
prevail.’

‘I believe they’re part of it, sir.’

‘You may be right, Inspector.  But there
are other forces that conspire against us.  The old families, you see
– not all have reproduced, or at least not always patrilineally. 
And there has been emigration, ruination... annihilation.’

‘Annihilation?’

‘We have lost one of our number in almost
every conflict since the Great War, Inspector.  There is a strong military
tradition at Oakthwaite.  Fallen oaks decay in many a foreign field. 
And so our influence has waned.  Twenty has become a dozen.  This has
not been a critical issue, however, while we have continued to hold sway among
the Trustees.’

‘A voting majority?’

‘In effect, yes, Inspector.’

‘Who appoints new Trustees when positions
become vacant?’

‘The Board itself, of course.’

Skelgill nods.

‘The Headmaster, naturally, has a seat on
the Board.  Our last Head – he was one of us, so to speak.  And
so was his Deputy, whom we anticipated would succeed him.’

‘But they left together.’

‘An unfortunate coincidence – their
respective infirmities were entirely unconnected.’

‘And Mr Goodman...?’

‘At the time it was a wholly necessary
practical expedient.  Given the benefit of hindsight, I confess it was a regrettable
decision.  But without its two most senior staff Oakthwaite could not have
functioned.  An appointment had to be made.  Perhaps the selection committee
could have been more rigorous.  Impeccable credentials on paper – including
an OBE, no less – do not always tell the full story.’

‘And Dr Snyder?’

‘Dr Snyder was Mr Goodman’s choice. 
He insisted he needed a strong lieutenant, a disciplinarian, an organiser, to allow
him to operate freely in his strategic role.’

‘And Mr Goodman is the problem?’

The man flaps his large pale hands as if
to suggest this is not entirely the position.  ‘It would be accurate to
say that Mr Goodman’s policies have not found universal favour.’

‘But he has some support?’

‘You see, Inspector, not all Trustees are
from the old families.  And even those that are – the younger
generation – they can on occasion fail to consider the traditional
perspective, or to appreciate the importance of the bloodline.  For some,
money is the new god.’

‘Also worshipped by Mr Goodman?’

The man coughs and takes a few seconds to
compose a reply.

‘Though a proportion of Mr Goodman’s
day-to-day initiatives have given cause for concern, strategically there was
not a problem – while Querrell was alive.’

‘Querrell?’

‘You sound surprised, Inspector.’

Skelgill does not answer immediately
– perhaps he senses the risk of closing off a vital line of detail. 
Cautiously, he says, ‘I had the impression Mr Querrell was in the process of
being pensioned off.’

The stranger seems reluctant to respond,
and wrings his hands as though he is wrestling with a difficult decision. 
Beneath the hood there’s a faceless void, and he could be uttering a silent
prayer, for all Skelgill can discern.  Then he sits to attention, and
pulls back his shoulders.

‘Querrell was Grand Master.’  The
phrase rings out into the night like an announcement at a formal dinner.

‘Grand Master?  Of what, sir?’

‘Of the
Derwen
, Inspector –
the Ancient Oaks.  The brotherhood of the founding families.  Each
has one hereditary position.’

‘So – this is a kind of... secret
society?’

‘It is certainly not advertised,
Inspector.’

‘Who would have known of Querrell’s role?’

‘Only the
Derwen
.’

‘Can you be certain of that?’

The man waves his hands dismissively. 
‘Naturally, Inspector, one cannot sustain a brotherhood such as this for more
than a century and a quarter without rumours and speculation.  But all
Derwen
are bound to silence.’

‘I take it the remaining Trustees are
unaware of the organisation?’