Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 27
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
DS Leyton straightens his tie – an act perhaps borne out of habitually being hauled before the Head in his own schooldays – while a twitch from Skelgill reveals he almost succumbs to the same reflex. However, Skelgill – as predicted by DS Jones – sports no tie. Earlier he had searched about, and located two – but they were already pressed into use in suspending a clutch of fishing rods from a beam in his garage, and he was not about to disturb the equilibrium of this important practical arrangement.
‘How may I help you, gentlemen?’
In phonological terms, the Head’s accent falls somewhere between BBC Bush House and Buckingham Palace.
As Skelgill might have anticipated, he’s calling their bluff. It’s a natural question, but surely disingenuous? And unfortunate for Skelgill, since the Chief’s instructions state that he is on no account to mention that this appointment came about at her behest – indeed her name is entirely off limits. That the Head and she are likely to be on hobnobbing terms would be a handy calling card. Instead, Skelgill is left to come up with something of his own invention. He gives a little cough.
‘DI Skelgill, sir. And this is DS Leyton. Naturally, sir, it’s in connection with the death of your schoolmaster.’
Barely perceptibly Mr Goodman cocks his head, as if he’s expecting Skelgill to elaborate. There’s a small battle of wills, during which the perspiring DS Leyton squirms uncomfortably in his leather seat, making a sound close to that of breaking wind. After what seems like an age, the Head ‘blinks’ first.
‘Officer, I understood your investigation is complete. I trust there’s not some frivolous reason for extending matters beyond their natural conclusion?’
While the Head’s tone is not offensive, his choice of words could be interpreted as somewhat patronising. In which case Skelgill exhibits considerable self-restraint in replying, ‘Certainly not, sir – we entirely understand the sensitivity of this issue.’
‘Do you, Inspector? What did you have in mind?’ Behind the spectacles, the pale blue eyes seem to narrow.
‘Your school’s reputation, sir – as a beacon of excellence and an important contributor to the local economy – we don’t want an unfortunate event like this to get blown out of proportion.’
The tension evident in the Head’s angular shoulders might now fractionally diminish. Perhaps Skelgill is talking his language. However, there’s scant indication in his inscrutable features to indicate any corresponding softening of his attitude towards the detectives.
‘You’re quite right, Inspector. But why should that be?’ We might be a ‘live-in’ institution, so to speak, but we can’t be held responsible for the private act of an individual. Therefore I don’t see any reason for this matter to become ‘blown out of proportion’, as you put it.’
Skelgill nods sympathetically. Then he turns to stare encouragingly at Leyton, who starts in surprise and then begins to look panicky, eyes widening. Is Skelgill expecting him to come up with the ‘bogus’ reason for their visit? He shuffles again in his seat, with accompanying sound effects.
‘Well, Inspector... is there something I ought to know?’ It’s the Head that speaks. His tone is one of impatience.
To Leyton’s evident relief, Skelgill turns back to face Mr Goodman.
‘Sir – you’ll appreciate I’m not at liberty to divulge precise details, but I realise we can fully rely upon your confidence.’
His inflexion suggests a question, to which Mr Goodman responds with the merest inclination of his head.
‘If I were to put it hypothetically, sir – let’s say somebody dies – and then a second person comes forward claiming to be an heir...’
‘Querrell has no heir. He lived here as a bachelor throughout his entire adulthood. The school was his life.’
‘So we understand, sir. In which case the scenario I’m describing would be a criminal offence and we would be obliged to investigate the imposter.’
Slowly, and with evident reluctance, the Head nods his affirmation.
‘On the other hand, sir, if by some small quirk of fate they turned out to be genuine, and we were – how can I put it? – heavy handed – they could kick up quite a stink – at the inquest, for example. The school might come in for some collateral damage. You know what the press can be like, these days, sir.’
The Head twists his lips like someone who has bitten into a lime. After a moment’s silence he intones, ‘So, Inspector – I return to my original question: how may I help you?’
‘Well, sir – you said it yourself. The school was Mr Querrell’s life. If we’re to nip this in the bud as quickly and quietly as possible, we have to start here. Of course we have your own statement. Perhaps if we could speak with those other members of your staff that were closest to him?’
‘And no requirement to interrogate any of the boys? You appreciate we’re right in the midst of exams?’
‘We’d be discretion personified, Mr Goodman.’
The Head rises and steps out from behind his desk. He crosses to the large sash window that gives on to the front of the school and looks out, rocking from his heels to the balls of his feet. Then he turns, revealing the remnants of a disapproving scowl. He says, ‘You could begin, Inspector, by parking less conspicuously. There’s a tradesman’s area at the rear.’
Skelgill bows in a deferential manner, then points a reprimanding finger at Leyton, as if passing the blame in clumsy schoolboy fashion. The Head returns to his desk and leans over an intercom. His call is immediately answered by a well-spoken female voice.
‘Yes, Headmaster?’
‘Miss Brown, please spend a few moments assisting these officers with the arrangement of some interview times. I would suggest it might be most tactful to begin at first sports period this afternoon, when certain masters are free.’
‘Of course, Headmaster.’
6. THE BURGER VAN
‘He bought it, Guv. Nice one. I’d never have thought of that. For a moment there you had me filling my pants.’
‘It sounded like you were, Leyton.’
‘It was the chair, Guv. I was boiling in that office. Brushes with authority always bring me out in a sweat.’
Skelgill munches into his third bacon roll of the morning and shakes his head. ‘Leyton, you crack me up. And of course he didn’t buy it.’
‘What do you mean, Guv?’ DS Leyton sounds nonplussed.
‘What he bought was that if we need to invent a reason to poke about, we would – I just gave him one that saved him losing face.’
DS Leyton looks bewildered, and consoles himself by tucking into his overdue breakfast. They both chew in thoughtful silence for a few moments, until DS Leyton remarks, ‘Decent rolls these, Guv.’
Skelgill nods. ‘We’d better not make a habit of parking here – the Chief comes this way to work. We’d be sitting ducks.’
‘She can’t get too shirty yet, Guv – we’ve only just started on this one.’
‘Maybe – but there’s not much window of opportunity – unless we can quickly find some grounds for suspicion Goodman will turf us out on our ear.’
‘It’d be nice to know what the Chief’s got up her sleeve, Guv. It’s not right sending us out in the dark like this.’
Skelgill nods resignedly. ‘She can’t chance it going public.’
‘If it were a murder, Guv, I don’t see how she could have any inkling.’
‘If it were a murder, it was a bloody clever one.’
‘What else then, Guv?’
‘Search me. Some bigger picture that the school doesn’t want us to see?’
DS Leyton nods reflectively, but doesn’t offer any suggestion.
Skelgill continues, ‘At first I wondered if it were the school calling us in on the QT – via the Chief. She must be acquainted with this Goodman character – you know how all the local bigwigs and the county set knock about together. But Goodman’s reaction seems to dispel that theory. We’re definitely undesirables in his book.’
‘What about her son, Guv – she might have heard something from him? It would explain why she can’t risk getting involved.’
‘I expect the social networks have been buzzing – did you notice that honours board in the entrance hall? It lists the families and the number of generations they’ve sent to Oakthwaite. It included the name Querrell. That’s why I figured I was on safe ground hinting an heir had come forward.’
Leyton crams the remainder of his bacon roll into his mouth and gives a wide-eyed nod of affirmation. It doesn’t look very convincing. He washes down his food with the remnants of his beaker of tea. ‘So, Guv – what have we got? The perfect murder? Or Querrell driven to suicide by forces unknown? Or nothing sinister whatsoever?’
‘Or something else.’
DS Leyton sighs quietly. This is a familiar situation: if DI Skelgill gets the merest hint of some irregularity, an errant piece of the jigsaw that doesn’t fit – that might have found its way in by accident from another puzzle altogether – he’ll refuse to be drawn towards what might seem the obvious, convenient and perfectly adequate conclusion. Instead he’ll pursue any number of unpromising leads, explore blind avenues, and concoct improbable theories, giving the impression that the investigation is going nowhere fast, and everywhere else slowly. Then, suddenly, early one morning, he’ll come back from a fishing trip on Bassenthwaite Lake and move in for the kill with all the devastating speed and single-minded ruthlessness of the pike.
Another of Skelgill’s traits – techniques, even – is one for which DS Leyton plays a natural if sometimes unwitting foil. As in the case of their interview with Mr Goodman, the Head of Oakthwaite, as Skelgill will happily admit after a few pints of local ale, he likes his opponent to think he’s stupider than he really is.
Now Skelgill uncharacteristically collects together the debris of their second breakfast, and to DS Leyton’s obvious surprise climbs out of the car and heads for the litter bin at the far end of the layby. En route, it appears that his mobile phone rings, for Skelgill extracts it from his pocket, peers at the screen for a moment, and then puts it to his ear, lingering beside the waste depository. Leyton can see what’s going on, but can’t hear the conversation.
‘Jones.’
‘Guv?’
‘Why are you whispering?’
‘Hold on a sec.’ There’s a pause and, after a couple of moments, Skelgill hears the sound of a door closing. ‘Guv – it’s a kind of stakeout.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In a bar in Carlisle. In the Ladies’ – now.’
‘A drug deal about to go down?’
‘Supposedly, according to...’
‘Smart? You’re not with DI Smart?’
‘Fraid so, Guv.’ Jones must sense Skelgill’s irritation. ‘Look, Guv – he’s okay – I can handle him.’
‘So what are you two – playing the courting couple, smooching in the corner?’
‘Look, Guv – you know how these things work. Don’t let Alec get under your skin.’
‘Alec?’
‘Give us a break, Guv – it’s just another job.’
‘Aye, but...’
Skelgill’s voice tails off. Perhaps the significance of her words sinks in.
‘Guv – I’d better get back. Can I call you later?’
‘I need your help – PDQ.’
‘The school?’
‘Aye. I’ve got a list of masters and staff as long as my arm. The Head’s put up a few for interviews, but they’ll be his stooges. I want someone who’s been there a long time and might know something about the guy, Querrell. If your family mole could suggest a name?’
‘Sure, Guv – I’ll text her right now. I called her this morning to say we may need a favour.’
Skelgill allows himself a small grin. She’s ahead of the game as ever. ‘Great – just drop me the details as soon as you get them. I’ll be at Oakthwaite from about one.’
‘Will do.’
‘Send my regards to Smart.’
‘Naturally, Guv.’
Skelgill walks back to the car, shaking his head. As he does so, a shapely blonde woman in a close-fitting miniskirt alights revealingly from a small scarlet convertible that has pulled up between the burger van and the unmarked police car. Evidently consumed in thought, Skelgill doesn’t seem to notice her passing. He clambers back in beside Leyton, who quips, ‘Guv – get an eyeful of that.’
‘What?’
‘The skirt – she slipped right under your nose. Not like you to be so unobservant, Guv.’
‘Behave, Leyton.’
‘Behave?’
‘For a change, eh?’
‘Blimey, Guv – a fortnight with Fast-track and you’ve come over all PC.’
‘That’s what you’ll be Sergeant, if you don’t watch your lip. Leave DS Jones out of it.’
DS Leyton shrugs resignedly. There’s no accounting for DS Skelgill’s capricious mores. And he knows better than to ask about the telephone call his superior has just taken. Instead he grins good naturedly, and says, ‘DC, Guv.’
‘What?’
‘DC – not PC. If I were demoted, they wouldn’t want me as an advert for uniform, would they?’
Skelgill is forced to chuckle. There is something Chaplinesque about the clumsy, self-deprecating but stoic DS Leyton. It’s an endearing combination.
‘Well, pull out the stops and see if you can find the way to Oakthwaite without getting lost. But, first, drop me off at my car in Keswick.’
‘Hold your horses, Guv. Why am I going back to the school?’
‘To interview the groundsman who found the boat.’
‘Is he on our list?’ DS Leyton sounds surprised. ‘I thought it was just teachers.’
‘Have you got the list?’
‘But you’ve got it, Guv.’
Skelgill nods. ‘So it would be easy for you to make a mistake?’
‘But, Guv...’ Then Skelgill’s intention dawns on DS Leyton and a philosophical expression washes across his features. ‘Ah... a mistake.’
‘Just get the exact detail of what happened, and anything he noticed out of the ordinary. I’ll catch up with you in time for the one o’clock appointment.’
‘Right, Guv.’
‘And remember to park less conspicuously.’
DS Leyton grimaces. ‘I bet Mr Goodman wouldn’t tell the Chief where to stick her Seven Series Beamer.’
‘Not many would, Leyton.’
7. THE PROFESSOR
Skelgill noses his car into a tight space in the busy supermarket parking lot. He squeezes out sideways and heads for the store, sniffing the air and casting about for views of his beloved fells. But, while the rain has abated – temporarily, at least – the cloud base clings stubbornly to its early morning level, thwarting his ambitions. A couple of minutes later he strides from the automatic doors clutching a carrier bag, gripping its evidently weighty contents through the flimsy plastic material.
Instead of returning to his car he makes a left and walks briskly in the direction of Keswick’s unimaginatively named Main Street. Despite the gloomy weather the grey stone nineteenth century thoroughfare is thronged with a colourful cagoule-clad procession of trippers and walkers – the former distinguished from the latter by their ill-fitting waterproofs and inappropriate footwear. Still, they mingle amicably, bearing the phlegmatic demeanour of English holidaymakers who today can neither see nor explore the hills they have come to admire.
Skelgill prefers the less-touristy Penrith for shopping: his staples being fishing tackle and outdoor equipment. But Keswick, though its main drag is ornamented with a rather disappointing necklace of retail fare, nonetheless hosts the odd specialist gem that might ordinarily challenge his bank balance. Today, however, he merely pauses for thought at the occasional intriguingly stocked window, before finally succumbing to a different impulse: the enticing aroma of hot sausage rolls that emanates from a bustling baker’s.
Munching on the move, he ducks into a narrow paved ginnel and follows its course with the gentle trickle of rainwater it carries in the direction of Derwentwater. In just a short distance he draws to a halt beside a rather Heath Robinson assemblage of angular modern buildings, and turns into a doorway beneath large white lettering that proclaims this is Keswick Library.
The female receptionist stares at him quizzically. Skelgill raises a Bond-like eyebrow, perhaps mistaking her interest – for there is a prominent flake of pastry attached to the tip of his nose.
He leans forward and in hushed tones asks, ‘Is Professor Hartley in today?’
The woman can’t help brushing her own nose, as if it will cause Skelgill to mirror her and remove the offending morsel. But he stands unmoving and holds her gaze. After a moment she nods and mouths, ‘History section.’ She points to an archway that leads into another room.
Skelgill affects a suave bow and sets off gingerly in the direction indicated, though his wet soles squeak a protest with each step across the parquet surface, raising disapproving glances from several elderly readers.
As he enters he spies his quarry, the sole occupant of the area, a bespectacled man in his mid-sixties, notable for his shock of white hair, poring over a yellowing tome that looks to have been retrieved from some dusty archive.
‘Jim.’
The man glances up, surprised for a moment, seeming severe as he squints over the half-moon reading glasses. Then his expression softens into a smile as he recognises Skelgill.
‘Ah, Daniel.’ He lowers his voice, ‘Let me guess – you’ve been eating pastries.’
‘What?’ Skelgill whispers. He looks down at his jacket for the evidence.
‘Told you I’d have made a good detective.’ Professor Hartley taps his nose.
‘Oh.’ Skelgill gets it and wipes away the crumb, and with it the fleeting realisation that it was present during his interaction a few moments earlier. He reaches out and offers the supermarket bag to the older man. ‘Lagavulin – for that case of flies you tied for me.’
‘Daniel, they were a gift. I enjoy doing them.’
‘Jim, they’re worth five times what this Scotch cost – and they’ve already paid for it in trout alone. A dozen two-pound Brownies.’
