Murder In School (7 page)

‘Leyton – I think I’ve just spotted
our next pit stop.’

‘What do you mean, Guv?’

‘Look – a cricket match –
there’s always a tea – there might be some left over.’

‘Blimey, Guv – my missus reckons
I’m the only person who goes on holiday and actually loses weight.’

‘Leyton, don’t be a killjoy.  Anyway
– you’ve just walked half a mile, surely that deserves a cucumber
sandwich.’

‘What about the final interview, Guv?’

‘We’ll come back tomorrow – it’s
only going to be one of Goodman’s cronies.  Follow me, Sergeant.  Remember,
we’re spectators.  Walk this way.’

Intent on returning to the reception of
the school via a circuitous route, Skelgill has led them seemingly randomly off
the main driveway along a narrow woodland path, to emerge in their present
location on the edge of the superbly manicured oval.  In fact, his ears
had twitched on detecting the distant thwack of leather on willow.  Now he
slips the
Wainwright
guide inside his jacket, slides his hands into his
trouser pockets and begins casually to saunter towards the perimeter of the
cricket field, where a white rope marks the boundary. 

‘I never got into cricket, Guv –
too dangerous where I grew up.’

‘What – the big West Indian kids
bowling bumpers?’

‘Nah, Guv – dogs.  Feral
dogs.  If they didn’t get you, their business would. It was like a
minefield round our estate.’

Skelgill grimaces at the thought. 
It is one of the hazards of cricket played out on public open-spaces.  You
never quite know what kind of soft landing the ball is going to make.  Now
he inclines his head in the direction of the clubhouse, around which a small
gathering of parents who have travelled with the visiting team recline in
striped deck chairs swathed by matching tartan rugs in Oakthwaite colours provided
by the home side.

‘Look at that pavilion, Leyton.  It
must be brand new.  And they’ve got a proper scoreboard and sightscreens
– better than most clubs I’ve played at.’

‘No expense spared, eh, Guv?’

‘Shot!’  Skelgill adds a few
handclaps to the ripple of applause that greets the batsman’s latest effort.

‘Look out, Guv – duck!’

The ball has been hoisted high above
square leg, and its trajectory, even to DS Leyton’s untrained eye is
unequivocally bringing it over the rope for six and down upon their
heads.  DS Leyton starts shifting from one foot to the other, as if he’s
uncertain about in which direction to take evasive action.  Skelgill, in
contrast, stands stock still and faces the oncoming missile.  Then at the
last split second he makes a small adjustment of his feet and neatly catches
the ball baseball style over his left shoulder and, left handed, sends it
zipping back without a bounce to smack firmly into the waiting wicketkeeper’s
red gloves.  This exploit brings a small gasp of admiration and further
applause from the crowd.

‘Nice one, Guv – I heard you were a
bit of an Ian Botham on the quiet.’

For a moment Skelgill looks like he’s
pleased with himself, but the impression quickly passes and he scowls in self-reprimand.

‘How not to draw attention to yourself,
Leyton.’

‘I shouldn’t worry, Guv – they’ll
have to give us a cuppa now.’

Skelgill nods.  He says, ‘If asked,
let them think we’re friends of the family of a pupil – it’s more or less
accurate.’

‘Apart from the word
friends
,
Guv.’

Skelgill laughs.  ‘It sounds better
than servants, Leyton.’

‘True, Guv – although I get the
feeling if you said we were servants they wouldn’t bat an eyelid round here.’

‘You’re probably right, Leyton – I
think our accents are going to be a bit of a giveaway.  I’d tell them we
were farmers, but I’ve never heard of a Cockney shepherd.’

‘Farmer Giles, Guv?’

‘What?’

‘Rhyming slang – piles.’

‘I think you’d better let me do the
talking, Leyton.’

‘Quite right, Guv.’

By now they are approaching the pavilion. 
Skelgill attracts one or two approving glances and a quip of, ‘Well held, that
man,’ that he affects modesty in order to shrug off.  The building itself
is indeed spanking brand new, and includes such professional facilities as a
viewing balcony on its upper floor, and a well-stocked mini-cafeteria on the
lower.  As Skelgill predicted, there has been a cricket tea, the generous
though slightly curling remnants of which are laid out upon a long trestle
table manned by a young black-haired woman in a close-fitting catering outfit.

‘Tea or coffee, sir?’  Her proud pale
blue eyes seem to defy her deferential manner.  But her accent reveals
she’s a local – as much as Polish is local these days.

‘Two teas please, love.’  Skelgill leans
in a little closer.  ‘It’s okay – we’re with the workers.  Can we
sample the buffet?’

‘You are welcome – it is for guests.’ 
The hard glaze over the eyes softens and she affords a little smile.

Skelgill looks like he’s tempted to blow
their cover, but a timely elbow from DS Leyton alerts him to the approach of
someone from behind.

‘You guys with the opposition?’  Now
the accent is decidedly South African.

The detectives turn to face a short fresh-faced
man of about thirty, an athletic figure clad in cricket whites and boots. 
His close-cropped ginger hair and freckles speak of Celtic origins that belie
the voice.

‘You might say that.’  Skelgill
evidently decides to opt for the route of least resistance.

‘Howzit?  Mike Greig, Director of
Sport – welcome to Oakthwaite.’  He extends a small hand that delivers
a surprisingly firm grip.  Both detectives manage to return his greeting without
revealing their names.

Greig gestures with a sharp gun-fingered
jerk towards the buffet table.  ‘Don’t let me keep you from filling your
plates, gentlemen.  You need to keep your strength up in this weather.’

‘A bit different to where you hail from?’
ventures Skelgill.

‘Ja – you’re not joking.  They
warned me it was changeable in Britain – what I didn’t expect was that
you have all four seasons every day.’

Skelgill nods.  ‘The Lakes gets the
highest rainfall in England.’

‘I suppose that’s why there are lakes,
nee?’  Greig beams endearingly.

Skelgill grins in solidarity.  ‘So
what brings you to the North?’

‘Ja – I’m on a two-year exchange. 
Got a year to go.  I coach cricket and rugby in a school in Joberg. 
On the Highveld.  We’re connected to The Wanderers.’

‘The infamous
Bullring
.’

‘You know your game.’

Skelgill shrugs.  ‘That sounds like
a high standard you bring with you.’

‘Well, your English boys are not so far
behind – just lack a bit of the killer instinct that we tend to breed back
home.’

‘Is that why you’re here – to
toughen them up?’

Greig smiles apologetically.  ‘Don’t
get me wrong – we play fair.  We don’t generally walk, though.’

‘Nothing wrong with that, eh
Leyton?’  Skelgill pops a whole quarter-sandwich into his mouth.

DS Leyton stutters, and then says,
seemingly out of the blue, ‘What does
Loong
mean?’

Skelgill does a kind of double-take, and
for a moment must be wondering if DS Leyton has lapsed into Afrikaans. 
But Greig is unfazed by the Sergeant’s seemingly peculiar question.

‘I get asked that a lot.’  Greig
glances across a to point above the servery.  There’s a large brass
nameplate bearing the words
The Loong Pavilion
, and this year’s date. 
‘One of the boys who went up to university last year, Singaporean – nice
little leg-spinner – his father, Mr Loong, evidently paid for this place
to be built.’

‘So you might call this the Loong
Room?’  DS Leyton grins.

Skelgill rounds on him.  ‘Very
funny, Leyton – I thought you were a cricket ignoramus?’

DS Leyton shrugs, ‘I’ve been known to
stand in front of the Lord’s Tavern with the lads of a Saturday afternoon.’

‘I’ve heard not a lot of cricket gets
watched from there.’  Greig, too, knows his subject.  ‘Are you in the
Barmy Army?’

Skelgill laughs out loud.  ‘He’s
barmy alright, but that’s where it ends.’

Greig grins amicably.  ‘Well, gentlemen,
it’s been good speaking with you – but if you don’t mind I promised I’d
relieve the scorer so he can get some chow.  He missed the tea interval.’

Skelgill puts up a palm to indicate they
shouldn’t detain him any longer.

‘Nice speaking with you, er...’  Greig
realises he doesn’t know Skelgill’s name, but extends his hand all the same.

‘Dan.’

‘Yeah – nice speaking with you,
Dan.’  He turns to DS Leyton.  ‘And you too, Leighton – perhaps
catch up after your boys have had a bat.’

DS Leyton, a little lost for words, shakes
the offered hand and mumbles, ‘Yeah – cheers, mate.’

Greig strides purposefully out of the
cafeteria and skips lightly down the pavilion steps.  Skelgill, still
grinning, carefully reaches out and with a crablike pincer movement extracts a strip
of sandwiches.  ‘Don’t want to waste these on the scorer.  Come on,
Leyton – fill your boots and we’ll head for your car.’

*

‘Not bad sarnies, these, Guv.’

Skelgill, chewing, nods in
agreement.  He swallows and holds up the last of his supply for
inspection.  ‘Takes a few to fill you up, though.’

‘Wonder what they do with all the
crusts?’

‘They’d make decent ground-bait.’

‘Perhaps they feed ‘em to the ducks,
Guv?’

‘Leyton, this isn’t Derwentwater –
there’s no ducks on Bass Lake.’

‘Really?  I thought all lakes had
ducks.’

‘There’s
wild
ducks – but
not the greedy fat tame lumps the tourists stuff with French fries.’

‘Oh.’  DS Leyton looks bewildered,
as if these were the only kind of ducks.  ‘Mind you, Guv – it’s good
fun for the kids.  Our little ’un still likes chasing ‘em.’

‘A bit like us, eh, Leyton?’

‘How do you mean, Guv?’

‘This.’  Skelgill gestures with both
hands in the direction of the rear of Oakthwaite School.  ‘The Chief’s
wild goose chase.’

DS Leyton, about to take a bite of his
last remaining sandwich, looks rather forlornly at Skelgill.  ‘Do you still
not reckon we’ve got anything, Guv?’

‘Do you?’  Skelgill sounds scathing. 
He brushes crumbs peremptorily from his lap.

‘What about the computer, Guv? 
That’s definitely odd.’

Skelgill purses his lips and shakes his
head.  ‘Yeah... but, we’re looking for what?  Signs of a possible
murder?  At the very least, malicious persecution that drove Querrell to
drown himself.  So, his computer may have been wiped – he could have
done it himself – maybe that was his routine after each time he used
it.  On its own it doesn’t mean a thing, Leyton.’

‘Well, that Snyder gives me the
creeps.  Imagine being a little nipper and having to go to him for the
cane.  Strike the fear of God into you.’

‘They don’t cane, Leyton – corporal
punishment was outlawed years ago.’

‘Oh – I thought maybe the private
schools still have it – Jacobson mentioned it, remember, Guv?’

‘I assumed he was harking back to the
good old days.’

‘Not so old, Guv – I recall it well
enough.’  DS Leyton affects a pained shudder.

Skelgill stares through the windscreen as
if mesmerized by a memory.  A regular array of black-tarred toilet
outflows emerge from the roughly harled wall of the building at second-floor
level.  Diagonally, they join a horizontal that feeds into a downpipe. 
The corresponding washroom windows are frosted, while the smaller clear glass
ones on the floor above look like they might be dormitories, sporting stickers,
and the odd pile of books capped by a chewed soft toy.  It’s a contrasting
image of the school to that portrayed by the immaculate neoclassical
frontage.  After a moment he says, ‘You’re right about one thing, Leyton
– Jacobson was off message, as the spin doctors put it.’

‘How do you mean, Guv?’

‘Since he wasn’t on our official list he
hadn’t been briefed on the party line.  Snyder looked none too pleased
when he discovered we’d been in there.  I doubt he or Goodman would want
us hearing gossip about them putting the squeeze on old Querrell.’

‘I suppose Snyder being Querrell’s direct
boss – must be a pain if you’ve got an uncooperative subordinate you
can’t get of shot of.’

‘Tell me about it, Leyton.’

‘Ha-ha, Guv.’  DS Leyton grins
obediently.  ‘But, apart from the missing computer data, it’s just about
the only line we’ve got.’