Murder In School (26 page)

Multifarious influences such as these,
perhaps twenty or fifty or even a hundred at any one time, cannot logically be
computed.  That is simply not an option for the rational part of
Skelgill’s fishing brain – no matter how much he might later pontificate over
a pint, celebrating his acumen or bemoaning his bad luck.  Yet Skelgill
consistently does succeed in tracking down big fish.  If he were asked to
explain this feat he might put it down to experience – although, a ‘sixth
sense’ would be a more apt description.  This is not some supernatural
phenomenon, however, but simply the process of absorbing, consciously or
otherwise, the many clues that pertain to that particular day’s conditions, and
then allowing his subconscious to combine these with stored memories and, in due
course, to make the necessary connections between those factors which are
relevant: factors that will deliver his boat to that precise mark below which
lies his quarry.  Thus Skelgill will ‘find’ himself fishing in a certain
manner, at a certain specific point on the great bayou, bolstered by a strong
sense that he is in the right place.

Understanding this of Skelgill –
the method that in equal measure baffles and infuriates his workmates –
means it can be viewed as something more than random fortune when he produces a
positive outcome.  And being drawn as he is to the vicinity of Oakthwaite
should tell his colleagues that he at least ‘feels’ something.  It is just
that the ‘feeling’ has yet to become a ‘knowing’.  In the watery depths of
his subconscious, a formidable hypothesis is still to coalesce as a
red-herring-free shoal that can break the surface of conscious awareness.  But
it is hoped for the boy’s sake that this leaping revelation will come soon.

And perhaps herein lies the explanation
for Skelgill’s curious wandering behaviour this morning.  Could it be that
he drifts, guided by intuition, anticipating such inspiration?  As he saunters
now around the building, he meets a high perpendicular wall of locally hewn
stone.  There is a low archway, of the kind that might once have been a
cloistered window.  Perhaps it is a relic of the more ancient edifice
– the castle, even – that once existed upon the site.  He
ducks through, and finds himself in an extensive walled garden.  It is
well tended, although it seems for ornamental rather than culinary
purposes.  There are magnificent herbaceous borders on all sides, a
kaleidoscopic delight of red crimson rose peonies, great armies of blue spiked
delphiniums, and the waving heads of giant yellow scabious.  He pauses to
admire a collection of butterflies that feed upon an adjacent
Buddleia
, its
white cascading racemes crowded with red admirals, peacocks and small
tortoiseshells in roughly similar numbers.  He is able to approach them literally
within inches.  Indeed, so determined are they to gorge upon the perfumed
nectar drawn by the morning’s damp heat, that the papery rustle of their wings
is audible in the windless oasis.

Except suddenly there is a voice, and the
answering murmur of another.  Glancing across the garden, Skelgill sees
immediately that he is not alone.  Upon a stone bench beneath an arbour of
climbing roses, and partially concealed by box topiary set in unglazed
planters, sit the figures of Mr Goodman and Dr Snyder.  Seen together they
make a somewhat incongruous pairing: the former short, stiff and tense, the
latter decidedly lanky and languid – in fact they could almost be
mistaken for pupil and master.  Their eyes are cast down, as if they are
scrutinising a pattern in the slabs at their feet, though it is likely to be
something of a more abstract nature with which they wrestle.

They have evidently not noticed Skelgill’s
sure-footed entry into the horticultural quadrangle and, as per his recent encounter
with Greig, he is faced with a binary choice of actions.  He could slip
away, and perhaps even creep around to the far side and attempt to eavesdrop from
behind the wall, or he could saunter in, and pretend that his exploration in
some way pertains to the investigation.  But at this juncture Mr Goodman
lifts his head and his beady eyes uncannily fasten upon Skelgill, catching him
in the act of observation.  Now the detective has little option but to cross
the manicured greensward that separates them.  He must feel self-conscious
as he approaches the silent and staring couple.

‘Can I help you, Inspector?’  Mr
Goodman’s hostile facial expression contrasts with the literal content of his
question.

‘Quite the secret garden you have here,
sir.’

The innuendo in Skelgill’s casually
spoken statement suggests he is not about to be intimidated.  He closes to
within a yard, obliging his antagonists to squint upwards into the sun that
beams over his shoulder.

Mr Goodman scowls.  ‘We use it for
private garden parties – after speech days, and to welcome dignitaries.’

There is a clear implication in his
choice of words that Skelgill is neither invited nor welcome, and is trespassing
well above his station.

After a lengthy pause, Skelgill says, ‘It
was Dr Snyder I wanted to speak with, sir.’

Dr Snyder, who has been leaning forwards in
an uneasy pose, resting his elbows on his thighs, with his large hands flapping
loosely over his knees, now sits upright and straightens his jacket –
although he does not speak.  Of the two, it is he that exudes an
impression of being concerned – perhaps that they were overheard.

‘I’d just like to confirm, sir, who else had
keys for Mr Querrell’s property?’

Dr Snyder coughs, and then spreads his
palms in a gesture of explanation.  ‘As I believe I mentioned previously,
Inspector, Mr Querrell was the sole key-holder.’

Skelgill considers the reply for a
moment.  ‘Isn’t that a little odd, sir?’

‘Inspector, when it comes to Querrell, nothing
can be considered odd.’

This terse interjection emanates from Mr
Goodman.  Skelgill ignores him, and continues to stare at Dr Snyder. 
After a few moments Dr Snyder relents under this scrutiny, to the evident annoyance
of his boss.

‘Inspector, during my first term, when I
was assessing the overall security of the school premises, I did ask Mr Querrell
if he would like me to keep a spare key in case his ever became misplaced. 
He informed me that there was no such requirement, since he very rarely secured
the property.’

Skelgill nods as though he accepts this
statement, but then he says, ‘Yet it was locked after his death and Mr Hodgson subsequently
managed to gain access.’

Again the Head interjects, his tone becoming
increasingly impatient.  ‘Perhaps he climbed through a window,
Inspector.  Given what we have learned about him since, I don’t imagine a
spot of housebreaking was beyond his scruples.’

It ought to be apparent to the two
schoolmasters that it is only by happenstance that Skelgill has stumbled upon their
tête-à-tête, and that he is thus operating on the hoof.  Indeed, Mr
Goodman seems to detect this probability, and moves to press home his
advantage.

‘Shouldn’t you be deploying your
resources elsewhere, Inspector?  The school has the air of a prison camp,
with a sentry on the gate and guards patrolling around the building.  My
information is that the boy has been sighted in Cheshire.  Just what is
the problem?’

Skelgill, quite possibly wishing for an
exit strategy, stares blankly at the Headmaster.  ‘The problem, sir? 
My information is that
the problem
is much closer to home.’

If this were a playground spat of old,
Skelgill might have appended his retort with ‘So put that in your pipe and
smoke it.’  Instead he allows the gravity of his assertion to sink in, before
turning and stalking back whence he came.  There is no utterance from
behind him, as if the putative conspirators await his complete disappearance
before resuming their conversation.  As he clambers through the aperture
in the wall, his mobile ringtone tells him DS Jones is calling.

‘Guv – I might have something.’

‘Morning, Jones.’

‘Er, yeah – sorry, Guv –
morning... afternoon, even.  I’ve only got a minute – DI Smart’s
just about to pick me up – I’ve been with my uncle – my
great
uncle.’

‘Come again?’

‘My aunt who works at the school –
it’s her old dad – he used to be a gardener there – in the sixties
and seventies.’

‘That’s going back some.’

‘I know, Guv – and it’s just a
tenuous connection – he remembers there was an incident on the lake in
the early seventies.’

‘Bass Lake?’

‘Aha.  There was a drowning, and it
involved a boy being expelled.’

‘That’s probably why they don’t do
swimming or boating activities.’

‘The thing is, Guv – he couldn’t
remember any of the names.  So I’ve crosschecked the list you gave me. 
And I got the current roll of students and staff, from my aunt.’

‘And?’

‘Well – there are some names that
appear back then
and
now.  That’s maybe no surprise, given the generations
thing, but you never know.  And there are oddities – like three or
four names from the early seventies that are in brackets – I’m not sure what
that means.’

Skelgill scratches his head. 
‘Search me.’

‘Guv – that’s DI Smart approaching
– I’m waiting on the pavement.  I’d better go.  I’ll email you
the names I’ve pulled out – just in case there’s something.  He
won’t know what I’m doing while he’s driving.’

‘Okay – send me a text later if you
get a chance to speak.’

‘I’ll do my best, Guv.  But DI Smart
thinks it could be tonight that we bust the cartel.’

‘Wish him good luck from me.’

Skelgill hangs up, but then immediately
redials a number.

‘Guv?’

‘Leyton – I need the keys to
Hodgson’s flat.’

‘Right, Guv – they’re in my glove
box.  It’s all locked up.  Shall I come over to the car park?’

‘Don’t worry, Leyton – I’ll soon
sort that.’

Twelve and a half miles after exiting
Bassenthwaite Lake, the River Derwent,
‘river of oaks’
, is joined by its
most important tributary, the River Cocker.  At this confluence nestles
the eponymous market town of Cockermouth.  In common with the Derwent, the
Cocker gets its name from a Celtic expression,
kukrā
, meaning
‘the
crooked one’
.  This is perhaps apposite in the context of Skelgill’s mission,
since its rushing waters are overlooked by the property rented until recently
by the disreputable Mr Hodgson.  Indeed, as he casts an expert eye over the
rippling surface, Skelgill might be assessing whether the crooked fellow ever dangled
a poacher’s line from the window of his flat.

After a minute or two Skelgill turns his
attention to the interior of the first-floor apartment.  Reached from the
main street by a door at the side of a newsagent’s, a narrow uncarpeted
staircase leads to a surprisingly spacious suite of rooms.  This, however,
is where the estate agent’s spiel would break down.  The place, with its
shabby décor and soiled furniture is reminiscent of a large live-in caravan
abused by itinerant building workers.  There are half-empty mugs and milk
bottles gone rancid, crumpled newspapers and takeaway wrappers dropped and
abandoned where they fell, and, adorning surfaces from window sills down to the
floor, unwashed plates, overflowing ash-trays and unfinished cans of
lager.  It is less of a home and more of a squat.

There are no ornaments or photographs, no
curtains, and no obvious repository for admin.  DS Leyton had reported a
lack of electrical equipment, and other more direct indications that debts had
been run up, and indeed generally scattered around are screwed-up betting slips
and unopened bills.  After a cursory sweep of the premises, Skelgill
conducts a more methodical search.  He checks drawers and a wardrobe
– these house a limited assortment of worn apparel of the hunting-shooting-fishing
variety.  He finds a broad-brimmed
Tilley
hat – a piece of
kit of high repute – which he is unable to resist trying on in front of a
cracked mirror, though he is probably forced to concede it is not his style. 
He looks behind the wardrobe, under the bed, and shifts all the mats to check
for loose floorboards.  Then he investigates the places where something
might typically be hidden – beneath the kitchen sink, up the chimney in
the living room, and in the toilet cistern (where he does discover a small
packet of what looks like marijuana that has fallen into the water).  There’s
an airing cupboard that is entirely empty except for a copper immersion heater,
and a fuse box on the landing, in which the electricity supply has clearly had
its meter bypassed.

If Skelgill is hoping for something
specific, it does not appear to have materialised.  His trip has merely
replicated the findings provided by DS Leyton’s earlier visit – unless,
by dint of experiencing the special ambiance of Hodgson’s flat, he has subliminally
inched towards his uncertain goal.

He leaves the property and enters the
newsagent’s.  He doesn’t announce himself, and instead buys an
Angling
Times
and two
Mars Bars
and a caffè latte from a new-fangled
machine.  He departs without further ado and, munching upon the first item
of confectionery, saunters along a route he obviously knows well, that takes
him down to the two rivers’ meeting point.  The pungent ozone-scented air is
filled with the insistent buzz of sand martins as they skim for mayflies. 
There is an open grassy bank with bench seats, and he takes one with a view
across the shimmering waters to the picturesque
Jennings
brewery. 
An outside observer would comment that there is a peculiar element of the hair
shirt about this little pilgrimage.  For Skelgill to put himself within spitting
distance of rising grayling and brown trout, within sniffing distance of the
home of his favourite ale, without leave to take advantage of either, is an act
of the highest order of asceticism.

Nonetheless, he exhibits no sign of
succumbing to temptation on either count (though he has a fly rod in his car,
and money in his wallet).  Ignoring the sibilant cries of a small boy, loosely
in the charge of a young woman who additionally pushes a large pram, Skelgill
settles down with his coffee and surviving chocolate bar to peruse the news of
the waterworld.  Meanwhile the woman takes a seat on the next bench to
his.  He doesn’t pay her much attention, other than a smile and a nod of
acknowledgement.  The toddler seems preoccupied with skimming stones,
while the infant inside the pram is evidently asleep.

After a few minutes’ comparative silence
the woman receives a message of some kind.  Her loud alert is set to the identical
tone as Skelgill’s, and automatically he reaches for his phone.  He must
now be reminded that DS Jones was to send him an email, for he opens the notification
and scrolls through its details.  Then he leans back against the wooden
spars of the bench and gazes out across the eddying confluence.

He is clearly deep in thought, for he
watches without reaction as the toddler, in taking on a rock that is too big
for his boots, lifts the stone above his head and forgets to let go, with the
result that he falls face first into the water.  The woman is still busy with
her social network.  Meanwhile, little limbs flail in the shallows.

Thankfully, for the child’s sake, it is
only a matter of perhaps ten seconds before Skelgill does respond, and then in
a few great strides he splashes into the water to pluck the boy to safety. 
Only now, attracted by the greater hullabaloo, does the mother – or nanny
– seem to notice.

‘Oh my God – oh my God!  What
happened?’

Skelgill marches back up the bank,
holding out the dripping and kicking and spluttering creature, which he plonks
into her outstretched arms.

‘He fell in, love.’

‘Oh my God – thank you.  Thank
you.’

Skelgill probably would like to give her
a lecture about the perils of small children, fast-flowing rivers and
Facebook
– but now he seems gripped by the urge to leave the scene.

‘All in a day’s work, love.’

As the woman mildly rebukes the sodden boy,
albeit it with a large lump in her throat, Skelgill returns to his bench to
collect his belongings.  He drops the newspaper and empty coffee cup into
a litter bin, and then strides doggedly away.

Retracing his steps to the location of
Hodgson’s flat, instead of immediately entering, he backs out into the road
until his angle of sight gives him a clear view of the sloping slate-tiled roof. 
Like most properties in the street, the building has shallow gables and what
looks like minimal clearance in the loft – indeed it is not unknown for
this type of construction to have no usable loft space at all, and therefore no
built-in access.  However, if this is what Skelgill is checking for
– and his deliberate nod suggests it is – then the small rooflight
that he has observed provides the information he requires.

Back inside, however, a survey of the
ceilings leaves Skelgill scratching his head.  There is no obvious
trapdoor in any of the rooms, nor even an indication that one has been
plastered or boarded over.  He loiters on the landing – the most
common location for this sort of thing.  He is clearly reluctant to depart
and, perhaps as a last resort, he opens the airing cupboard.  And there it
is – a small square hatch just visible up in the shadows.

On one side of the cupboard are three
shelves constructed from timber slats, with gaps between them designed to
maximise airflow.  Skelgill braces his weight against the doorjamb and
uses the first shelf as a foothold.  He levers himself up and is
immediately able to reach the lid.  He pushes against it and it lifts
easily – in fact it is of the unhinged variety, cut slightly larger than
the frame upon which it rests.  He straightens his leg and raises the
hatch with the flat of his palm, perhaps intending to flip it over into the
loft space.  But this action transfers most of his weight to his standing
leg, and with a sharp crack the shelf gives way beneath him.

He falls awkwardly, tumbling backwards
out of the confined space onto the landing.  His rear hits the floorboards
with a painful-sounding clump, and he just manages to prevent the back of his
head following suit.  His position might be undignified, but in fact it
now saves him from further injury.  Almost by reflex he rolls to one side
as the hatch – dislodged by his actions and thus enabled to slip into
free fall – bounces down off the copper and strikes him a glancing blow
across the temple.

Swearing profusely he scrambles to his
feet.  He swings an angry boot at the hot-water cylinder, and is about to
follow it up with a karate-style kick at the sagging timbers of the broken
shelf when he notices that the supporting cross-member has been partially
sawn-through from below: a booby trap.

He checks the other two shelves, and sees
they have been subjected to the same treatment.  And now he looks he finds
sawdust on the floor beneath.  Somebody – presumably Hodgson –
didn’t want anybody using this route.  To climb safely into the loft will now
require a ladder – or a stool, at least – and Skelgill is about to
go in search of a suitable item when the trapdoor catches his eye.  It is
lying on the bare floorboards with its inside facing upwards.  Held fast
upon the square of plywood by a strip of torn masking tape is a folded
Racing
Post
.

He kneels, and unpicks the tape and carefully
detaches the newspaper – just a single sheet that comprises the front and
back covers, with their corresponding inside pages.  As he opens it a
charred strip of white paper flutters out and settles beside him.  It is a
fragment of an A4 page – itself a photocopy of an old press
clipping.  Most of the content has been destroyed, but the header is
legible: a date from the nineteen seventies, and the title
The Westmorland Gazette
. 
There’s the beginning of a headline – the words ‘Twin Tragedy’ –
but other than that nothing of the article has survived combustion.

Skelgill checks the front of the
Racing
Post
.  It was printed just twelve days ago – on the day that
Querrell’s body was discovered floating in Bassenthwaite Lake.

He rolls from his knees onto his
backside, and rests against the distempered wall of the landing.  He tilts
back his head, with more of a bump than he probably intends, and then absently
feels the point on his forehead where the hatch has left its mark.  He
folds his arms and stares for a minute or two into the void of the opposite
wall.  Then he locates his mobile and types out a text to DS Jones:

‘Need you tonight.  Serious.  Screw
Smart.  Bring Leyton.  Await further instructions.’

He transmits the message and watches the
handset until the display tells him it has been delivered, and then read. 
Then he scrolls through his contacts until he locates Oakthwaite School. 
He taps on the telephone icon and raises the handset to his ear.  Quite
promptly, his call is answered.  He speaks with careful enunciation.

‘Good afternoon.  This is Detective
Inspector Skelgill of Cumbria Police.  Could you put me through to the
Headmaster, please.’

After about a minute – a delay that
may be accounted for by pride and insouciance – the Head comes on the
line with a perfunctory, ‘Yes, Inspector?’

‘Mr Goodman.  Regarding our
conversation earlier.  Just to confirm that we are withdrawing the
patrolling officers and the constable from the gate.  You can inform your
staff and pupils that we’re satisfied there is no threat to their safety in the
school and its grounds.  Thank you.  Goodbye, sir.’

Skelgill ends the call without waiting
for what he might reasonably have anticipated to be a gloating response.