Murder In School (8 page)

‘Hardly grounds for suspected murder.’ 
Skelgill’s tone is scornful.

DS Leyton shrugs resignedly.  ‘Thing
is, Guv, if you ask me all three of them were acting a bit queer – cagey,
like.’

‘I wouldn’t have called Jacobson cagey.’

‘Well, no, Guv – but... he was like
an old mother hen, clucking about in one corner of the yard so we didn’t notice
the nest over in the other.’

A semblance of a grin creases the corners
of Skelgill’s severely set mouth.  ‘Thing is, Leyton – who doesn’t
have a guilty secret?  Coppers come poking around – you know how
folks are?  Think we’ve got x-ray specs and can read their mind. 
Might be nothing to do with why we’re there, but they behave suspiciously when
they hear the skeleton start rattling in the closet.’

DS Leyton is beginning to look
exasperated.  He throws his hands up in frustration.  ‘Well, I wish
the Chief had given us more of a steer, Guv.  How are we supposed to know
why she’s got her knickers in such a bleedin’ twist over this one?’

Skelgill’s phone rings – it’s an
unusual tone.  As he reaches inside his jacket he smiles inanely at DS
Leyton and says, ‘Shall I ask her now?’

DS Leyton feigns injury as Skelgill
answers the call.

‘Yes, Ma’am?’

He casts an optimistic glance at DS
Leyton.

‘Yes, Ma’am – we’re there now.’

There’s a long silence as he
listens.  The subtle change in his features suggests the tenor of his
superior’s monologue is unfavourable.

‘Well, Ma’am – we... er...’

Evidently he is interrupted.

‘No, Ma’am it was...’

And again.

‘I, er... think we got the names mixed
up.’

Now follows a further soliloquy.  DS
Leyton shrinks supportively in his seat, pulling down an invisible tin hat over
his ears.

‘No, Ma’am – I mean yes, Ma’am
– we’ll do our best.’

This remark brings a stinging rebuke, if Skelgill’s
involuntary wince is anything to go by.

‘Yes Ma’am, I...’

But the Chief has rung off.

DS Leyton slowly turns his head, his
expression one of a person anticipating a cuff across the scalp.  He knows
better than to ask a dumb question at this particular juncture.  Instead
he just says, sympathetically, ‘Ouch, Guv.’

Skelgill slides the handset inside his
jacket and leans back in the passenger seat, folding his arms.  After a
moment he says, ‘Goodman’s phoned and given her a flea in her ear.  “Why
are coppers talking to my staff without permission?”  He knows about
Jacobson – obviously Snyder will have told him – and about Hodgson. 
Probably knows how many sandwiches we ate as well.’

‘Does he know
she
put us up to
it?’

Skelgill shakes his head slowly. 
‘That’s the one small bit of credit we come out with, apparently.’

‘So, what else could we have done, Guv?’

‘Well, Leyton, we’re supposed miraculously
to discover something as yet unknown to man, in the dark, with both hands tied
behind our backs.’

DS Leyton nods understandingly.

‘Oh – and we’ve got until close of
play tomorrow to do it, or else.’

DS Leyton’s demeanour takes on a hint of
the hunted animal.  ‘Or else what, Guv?’

‘An
everlasting
, Leyton.’

‘Jones.’

‘Yes, Guv.’

‘Are you still on duty?’

‘Till late, Guv.’

‘Not the same stakeout, surely?’

‘Well, we’ve moved to another bar –
then it’s a club tonight – we’re not past the reconnaissance stage.’

Skelgill audibly grinds his teeth, though
the sound probably doesn’t transmit over the airwaves.  But he evidently
decides to concentrate upon police matters.  ‘I need your help, Jones.’

‘Sure, Guv – whatever I can do.’

‘Firstly, see if your aunt can find out
where the Head and his Deputy came from.  Mr Goodman and Dr Snyder.’

‘Sounds like Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde, Guv.’

‘In this case I’m pretty certain there’s
two of them.  Snyder mentioned he’d been at a school in Singapore.  I
didn’t dare ask the Head, he was bristling as it was.’

‘I’ll pass on the request, Guv. 
It’s going to be tomorrow, though, before we get an answer – she’ll have
finished at five today.’

‘Just as early as possible – the
Chief’s on the warpath.’

‘That didn’t take long.’

‘You know me, Jones.’

DS Jones inhales to reply, but then
checks herself.  After a second’s pause she says, ‘What else, Guv?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You said
firstly
– I assume
there’s a secondly?’

‘Ah – Miss Marple.  What time
do you knock off?’

‘I think the club shuts at midnight
weekdays.’

‘Fine – then pick me up at one a.m.
on the dot.  I’ll text you the directions.  I may not be able to
communicate with you until I see you, so keep your eyes peeled.’

‘But... Guv, what exactly...?’

‘Thanks, Jones.  You know how the
signal can be...’

Skelgill takes the handset down from his
ear and ends the call.

*

Breathing heavily and dripping water from
his hair, Skelgill gingerly wades barefoot through the rocky shallows on the osier-lined
eastern shore of Bassenthwaite Lake.  It’s a clear night and behind him a
waxing gibbous moon sails high over Thornthwaite Forest, illuminating his
approach to Oakthwaite’s landing stage and throwing inky shadows beneath its
spindly form.  He hauls himself with some care onto the splintering
timbers and turns to sit in childlike fashion, legs dangling, the water
droplets on his naked body glistening like beads of mercury.  It might be
a scene from a werewolf movie.  He turns his head this way and that, and
after a minute has satisfied himself that nobody is afoot.  The distant
engine-rumble of a late-night truck on the A66 reaches across the calm surface,
easing up a gear as it leaves the s-bends after Peel Wyke, and fading
Cockermouth way.  He affects a shudder, perhaps as a reaction to the cold
he must be feeling – even in late summer the water temperature rarely
exceeds twenty degrees Celsius.  He unclips what, apart from his
wristwatch, is his only other item of apparel – a bloated waist pack
– unzips it with trembling fingers and begins to extract the contents.

Now he curses under his breath –
the rudimentary waterproofing system comprising three layers of dog-eared supermarket
carrier bags has failed badly.  A lightweight mountaineering vest and
trousers emerge sodden, and a pair of well-worn slipper-like fell-running shoes
are waterlogged to twice their normal density.  Rain-soaked gear is an
occupational hazard for a hardened amateur fellsman like Skelgill, though such
discomfort when on duty (albeit unofficially) must be less familiar.  So
it’s not without several additional hissed expletives that he contrives to
struggle his way into the uncooperative outfit.

The final object in the waist pack is at
least impermeable – a small black tubular torch.  He presses the
lens against his right palm and briefly depresses the on-off switch: a glowing blood-red
ring confirms it has survived as advertised.  Keeping the torch to hand he
sets off, turning almost immediately southwards to follow the running track
– little more than a narrow unmade footpath – which passes close by
the boathouse as it traces the perimeter of the extensive school grounds. 
Initially it winds amongst willows and scattered alders – species that
can tolerate the vagaries of fluctuating water levels – but as the
boundary veers and rises eastwards from the lakeside, the woodland belt
thickens with oak and beech and sycamore, robbing Skelgill of most of what
little light there is by which to navigate.

Still he walks at a brisk pace, trusting
to practised intuition the course of the path, silent upon the damp earth,
compressed over decades by the thousands of
pad-pad-pad
footsteps of
reluctant schoolboys, their ghosts perhaps still running.  But, while the
current crop of would-be harriers are safely tucked up in their dorms, more
ancient forest inhabitants are abroad.  In a glade, Skelgill pauses to
watch a pair of
Natterer’s
bats hawking acrobatically for moths, while
the insistent
wick-wick-wick
of a tawny owl ahead tells him all is clear. 
He moves on, re-entering the musty, velvety void beneath the trees, for a
moment more vivid until his senses readjust and he detects a low shape moving
his way.  A warning flash of his torch reveals two-tone headgear, and
simultaneously sends its wearer scuttling noisily into the undergrowth.

Skelgill covers the mile and a half to
the gatehouse inside fifteen minutes, though in the darkness time and direction
can lose their linear quality.  When it appears on his right, the shadow
of the high wall that marks Oakthwaite’s boundary with the winding lane he
drove with DS Leyton must be a reassuring sight.  He halts some twenty
yards short of the unlit property and waits, breathing through his nose,
listening intently.  But the only sound is the lightest patter of leaves
in the canopy, as irregular air currents disturb its minutely tiled
surface.  He checks his watch – it’s already after twelve-thirty
– perhaps he misjudged the swim; his rendezvous with DS Jones is impending.

The footpath passes the rear of the
cottage and invisibly crosses the main driveway, reappearing as a vague smudge
that divides the undergrowth beyond.  Skelgill stalks towards the back
door, but makes a right turn and skirts the building, taking care to tread on
the soakaway gravel that expediently accepts no tracks.  Rounding the
corner that incorporates the jutting toilet extension, he stops and, facing the
wall, pulls his sleeves over his hands as makeshift mittens, then reaches up
and opens the small window he had unlatched on his unscheduled visit earlier. 
A hop-cum-heave sees him sliding snakelike over the sill and into the bijou
cubicle.

Once within he pulls back his cuffs
– his fingerprints are already in all the expected places, his presence
thoroughly witnessed only hours earlier.  Cautiously entering the main
living space, he makes for the stair-ladder – it creaks alarmingly as he
ascends – and raises his head into the attic space.  A quick sweep
of his torch confirms he’s alone.  A forsaken sleeping bag is cast roughly
upon a single mattress that rests in turn on the bare boards and, beyond, cramped
beneath the low eaves, a chest of drawers and wardrobe, of knotted wood, stand
slightly askew on the uneven surface.  Skelgill kills the torch beam; the
aspect of the room changing as filtered moonlight diffuses in from the rear-facing
of the two dormer windows that nestle within opposite sides of the roof.

He descends, bending at the knee with
each step to cushion his weight.  Regaining the unyielding stone floor he
makes a beeline for the old typewriter.  It sits in the gloom, a
Dickensian presence; what forlorn beats have its keys tapped out, what expectations
of hope and despair?  Now Skelgill turns on the torch again and grips it
between his teeth.  He reaches out with both hands and experimentally
fiddles with the knobs and levers on either side of the antique machine until
he finds the combination to release the sprocket that restrains the
ribbon.  Carefully he winds it back a few inches, then takes the torch in
hand and stoops to examine the exposed strip.  For a moment he stiffens,
as if disbelieving of what he sees: the tape is blank.  Now he repeats the
process, grimacing as he bites on the torch.  He unwinds a few more inches
– and again checks it minutely.  He shakes his head, and then rewinds
the ribbon in the forward direction.  After a final inspection he switches
off the torch and stands upright, staring out into the darkness of the school
driveway.

After a minute he exhales a long breath and,
as if rallying himself, turns briskly and strides across to the chimney
breast.  He stoops at the hearth and directs the torch upon the ashes in
the grate.  Taking a small iron poker from a stand he prods tentatively at
what is an amorphous grey mass.  It gives little clue to its original
form, though it’s certainly not coal.  However, there is no fuel stacked
nearby to help in its identification: perhaps not surprising at this time of
year.  He seems to pause for thought, then rises and, with an unexpected movement,
hefts the armchair from its place before the fire.  He lifts the mat: his
torch reveals only undisturbed flagstones.  Carefully, he replaces the
chair.  Next he performs a quick sweep of the remainder of the room, apparently
testing that the rows of books are really what they seem; he inspects the
cupboards in the kitchenette area; lastly he returns to the hearth and, on one
knee, shines the torch up into the chimney.

He consults his wristwatch – it’s
now twelve forty-five.  He returns to the stair and climbs, more swiftly
than before.  Gaining the bedroom he hauls up the mattress and shines the
torch on the bare boards.  He replaces the sleeping bag then repeats the search
with the chest of drawers and wardrobe, heaving them aside and checking
beneath, before returning them to their original positions.  He takes a cursory
look inside – together they hold a sparse ensemble that evokes stale
sweat mingled with mothballs.

Again he checks the time.  Now he
prowls about the room, covering the remaining floor area with deliberate small
steps, pressing down as if to detect a loose board.  His methodical
choreography brings him to the rear-facing dormer window, one side now brightly
lit by moonlight that has found a clear channel between trunk and bough.

It must be a view taken in by Querrell on
countless nights, peering perhaps short-sightedly, night-gowned, leaning out to
sniff the cooling air and listen to the sounds of the woods.  However,
Skelgill cannot dwell.  He turns to go.  But he takes one step and is
stopped dead in his tracks by a clank from below: like the crack of a pistol, a
key is inserted into the mortise lock on the front door.  In two seconds it
opens, then closes, and heavy footsteps clump into the room.  The person
evidently checks the back door, for there’s the rattle of a handle, then the light
is switched on, sending a bright shaft of illumination up through the hatch
into the attic.

At this, Skelgill makes an instinctive
movement – but unavailingly it’s for his inside pocket and his warrant
card; neither of which are there.  Swivelling slowly on the balls of his
feet he faces the window.  He reaches out and gently slips the
catch.  Perhaps unexpectedly it’s well oiled – maybe Querrell did regularly
avail himself of the view – and the sliding casement feels loose in the
frame.  From downstairs there comes the scrape of a chair, as if the
person has seated themself either at the typewriter or the computer. 
Holding his breath, Skelgill takes a firm grip of the window-handles and begins
to raise the casement – but, though it moves freely, it emits a tell-tale
squeal to equal the warning cry of the Giant’s golden harp in the arms of a
fleeing Jack.  Skelgill recoils.  Immediately there’s another scrape
of the chair from below, and the sound of feet approaching, then stepping upon,
the foot of the ladder.

Skelgill slides the torch from his
pocket.  Masking the beam against one palm, as before, he engages
self-defence mode, a fearsomely dazzling flashing function guaranteed to repel even
the most determined of assailants.  Thus armed, he slips back into the
alcove of the window.

A growing shadow begins to darken the
bright rectangle of the attic hatch.  Skelgill raises the shrouded torch,
his body visibly coiling like a cat making ready to pounce.  His best bet
must be to temporarily blind his opponent, push him over if necessary, and make
good his getaway.

  Then comes heavenly intervention
– or so it seems.  A much greater light intercedes upon the scene. 
From somewhere a vehicle rapidly approaches and slews to a halt, its bright
headlamps flooding the cottage with a powerful swinging beam.

Almost immediately the person on the
staircase begins steadily to retreat.  The creak of the ladder becomes
footsteps upon the flagstones.  The front door is opened, and then there’s
a crunch of pebbles on the path.  Listening intently, Skelgill springs
into action.  In one smooth movement he pockets his torch, leaps to the
hatch and launches himself into the void, breaking his fall by grabbing the
cross-member in front of him, but he misjudges his forward motion and strikes
his head as he descends through the small frame.  He loses his grip and
drops awkwardly to the ground, landing heavily upon one knee instead of the
intended two feet.  But without hesitation he lurches across the room and gains
the relative sanctuary of the toilet.  He makes to slide the bolt, but declines
– perhaps he decides it would leave confirmation of his presence. 
In two or three more seconds his feet are disappearing through the small window
and he tumbles onto the mixture of earth and gravel beneath.