Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 35
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
She sits back, clearly the happier for making herself comfortable. ‘Top line, Guv – I think the school is looking for funding, over and above the regular fees – and they’re eye-watering enough, as it is.’
Now she has Skelgill’s full attention. He says, ‘You mean illicit funding?’
She puffs out her cheeks. ‘I don’t know – but I think it could be a kind of inside track, as you put it.’
‘How did you reach that conclusion?’
DS Jones pulls her feet up beneath her, so she’s curled kitten-like, half facing him. ‘It all happened after the event, really, Guv. When I got there, they were in a big hall, with tables round the outside, and you could go up and speak to representatives of each school – they had their own roller-banners and display boards and brochures. Thing is, there was a queue at most of them, so you were only allowed a couple of minutes, and there was no way I could ask any tricky questions with people breathing down my neck. But, in the end, that worked in my favour – I introduced myself to Goodman and asked a couple of obvious questions.’
‘Such as?’
‘What makes Oakthwaite so special.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Oh, just the pat answers, really – they’re always high up in the exam league tables... the emphasis on sport and outdoor experiences... that it's all boys so there’s no distractions...’
‘Ha! That’s an advantage?’
‘Maybe, Guv.’
‘Can’t see it myself.’
‘No, Guv.’ She knows Skelgill can fall a tad to the right of political correctness on issues concerning masculinity, and her reply is one of accord. She continues, ‘Anyway – it meant I was able to introduce myself without being grilled about who I was.’
‘I told you that.’
DS Jones gives him a patient grin. ‘Yes, Guv. After that we all went into an auditorium for about an hour and a half of presentations. Goodman’s not on stage until tomorrow – and it was starting to look like a waste of time. I thought the event was closing at five, but they announced a private cocktail hour through in the lobby of the hotel – you ought to see it, Guv – it’s got this space age feel.’
Skelgill nods. Now he’s looking at her a little warily.
‘As soon as I walked in to the roped-off section Goodman came up to me with two drinks. He was acting kind of suave, and said something about us fellow Brits needing to look after one another. Then I had this brainwave.’
‘Oh.’
‘Well you know your back-up idea that I was sent by the owner, not the editor?’
‘Aha.’
‘I told him that was why I was really there, except I embellished a bit – that the owner was thinking about sending his son to study in England, and had heard good reports of three schools, one of which being Oakthwaite.’
‘So what?’
‘He suggested we went up to the bar – you know, right up on the roof, the Sky Park – they’ve got this infinity pool looking down from over six hundred feet – it’s like you’re flying.’
‘You weren’t in it?’ Skelgill sounds irate.
‘No, Guv – don’t be daft – but I had to pretend I knew all about it – I’m a reporter that works here, remember?’
‘So how did you manage that?’
‘Fortunately I’d Googled the place while the speeches were going on – that’s probably why my battery gave up.’
‘What then?’
‘We went to the Sky Bar – with Goodman being a resident at the hotel it was no problem to get in. I guess we had a couple of cocktails...’
‘You guess?’
‘I thought it best to act interested, Guv – I wouldn’t normally drink on duty, or during daytime.’
‘I should think not.’
‘So he was asking me about the guy I represented – nothing really difficult – I think he was getting a bit tipsy. I basically made out my employer was a media mogul – billionaire type – and that seemed to satisfy him. Then he was quick to explain how there was a lot of demand to join the school, and there’s only so many places each year and a tough entrance exam. He said his job was to select the boys that would most benefit from the school, and vice versa.’
‘Vice versa – that’s what he said?’
‘Verbatim, Guv. Of course, he could have meant what personal qualities and varied backgrounds they’d bring to the community – he’d touched on that earlier – but I don’t think it’s what he was getting at.’
‘Was he explicit?’
At this question DS Jones momentarily flinches, but she quickly regains her composure and says, ‘He said they had such a thing as a ‘VIP Application’ – for parents whose sons were considered more likely to qualify for one of their places at Oxbridge.’
‘Their places?’
‘Yeah, Guv – like it’s a done deal – like travel agents have so many seats on a flight, so many rooms at a hotel. That's how he made it sound.’
‘That can’t be right, surely?’
‘I don’t know, Guv – who really knows about this kind of thing?’
Skelgill is thoughtful for a moment. He shakes his head ruefully. ‘Well no one from my comp got in, that’s for sure. I reckon the best we did was a couple into St Andrews, and I thought that was a football ground until recently.’
DS Jones grins and, as if taking the opportunity of this moment of brevity, she draws a breath and says, ‘So he suggested we went to his room and he could help me fill out a preliminary application. He said it ought to get me a promotion, at least.’
Thus Skelgill’s recovering ambivalence is short-lived. He frowns and stares at the carpeted floor of the departure lounge. Earlier, when his taxi had passed beneath the twinkling towers of the two-and-a-half-thousand room behemoth, he’d gazed upwards at the Sky Park, seemingly suspended like an illuminated version of the Starship Enterprise, wondering if she were somewhere inside the great edifice and – if so – what she was doing.
‘I didn’t go, Guv.’ Her tone is one of stating the obvious.
‘What? Why not?’
‘Well... I thought there might not be an application form.’
‘Oh.’ Skelgill seems to be grinding his teeth.
‘So I said I was going to powder my nose and never went back to the bar. I’d already mentioned I was flying to London tonight for an assignment, so I just told the girl on the reception to pass on a message that I’d been called away and would be back later if I could make it. I don’t think he would have been short for company, anyway, Guv.’
Skelgill now appears like he’s trying to look unconcerned. He says, ‘Maybe you should have given it a try – you might have got something concrete that could be useful as evidence.’
DS Jones shrugs as though she thinks probably not. But she humours him with, ‘I was thinking about you, Guv – I’d been looking forward to us having a Chinese or something – it would have been good to see a bit of the city. How did you get on?’
Now it’s Skelgill’s turn to lift his shoulders. He says, ‘I went to the school your aunt put us onto. As I half expected, they’d never heard of him – didn’t recognise the mugshot.’
‘So he’s a fraud? What does that mean, Guv?’
‘Dunno. Not yet – no idea. Maybe he just thought it was a crafty little white lie to put on his CV. They’re obviously keen on recruitment out here. Would have made him sound more valuable to the school if they thought he had the right contacts.’
‘But, Guv – why wouldn’t they send him instead of the Head?’
‘Maybe the Head pulled rank on this occasion – wanted the trip and the trimmings for himself.’
DS Jones raises her eyebrows. Her recent experience might seem to corroborate this hypothesis. ‘What did you do then, Guv?’
Skelgill makes an effort to sound casual. ‘Just had a bit of a wander, really. Nothing much. Came back here and got a burger.’
‘When in Rome, Guv!’
‘You know me, Jones – catholic when it comes to my tastes.’
The public address system at their gate suddenly crackles into life. Families travelling with small children and important executives may come forward for boarding. There’s a rise in the level of the general hubbub, as passengers adopt the customary panic mode that will get them to London no faster.
‘Oh, Guv – London.’
‘Aha?’
‘Goodman says he’s got a flat in Covent Garden. He’s kept it on from when he worked down there. I didn’t manage to ask him directly – but he told me he uses it when he’s at conferences or in transit.’
‘So that would be his answer to where he stayed Monday night?’
‘I think so, Guv – and no easy way of corroborating it.’
‘Pity we can’t check the place out while we’re passing.’
‘We almost could have, Guv – he offered me the spare key – said I could stay there for my trip and give it him when he arrives back in London on Friday night.’
19. THE BOTHY
The time gain on the homeward leg means that Skelgill and DS Jones, having originally left London on Tuesday afternoon, arrive at a ghost-town-like Heathrow in the very early morning of Thursday and, avoiding the commuting hordes that will shortly stream onto the M25, are back in the Lakes well before noon. It’s an absence barely noted among the great mass of their colleagues, who would no doubt be flabbergasted to learn they had just ‘popped’ over to Singapore. DS Jones, driving, drops Skelgill at Penrith Police HQ. For the time being, at least, they must go their separate ways. Skelgill collects his car and heads home to shower and change, and file a report to the Chief. However, fewer than twenty minutes after his return, his garage swings open and he roars out aboard a large blue-and-chrome Triumph motorcycle, riding one-handed as he raises the remote over his shoulder to lower the door behind him.
Scotch mist has descended to resume its occupancy of Cumbria, and Skelgill has dressed accordingly, clad as he is in a threadbare Belstaff jacket, what look suspiciously like cut-off fishing waders to shield his legs, and biker’s boots that have long since seen better days. His fisherman’s hands need no such protection from the elements, but a distinctive orange full-face helmet completes the somewhat original ensemble.
Turning off the A66 at Keswick, he weaves his way through the bustling market town and joins the B-road that skirts the wooded west bank of Derwentwater and winds past the Bowder Stone due south into the depths of Borrowdale. The weather has driven the majority of tourists to their cars, and his progress is slow. His powerful machine at 900cc affords ample opportunities to overtake, but for whatever reason he eschews these; he seems content to go with the flow – perhaps in the knowledge he can take control whenever he so desires.
Neither is his journey a long one. Leaving Derwentwater behind he passes the turn for Grange, his eyes flicking right to survey the water conditions of the River Derwent. He continues for a couple more miles until, approaching Seatoller, he makes a sharp left into the track that leads up to Seathwaite. Within a minute he draws to a halt and dismounts and, helmet tucked beneath his arm, strides on towards a cluster of low-built grey slate and stone farm buildings.
A rudely lettered sign on splintering plywood sits askew in the verge, TEK CARE, SHEEP ONT ROAD, and second one – CAFE – is affixed to a canted post, with an arrow indicating across a liberally manured yard towards the farmhouse.
He’s not alone here: there must be a dozen cars lining the lane, abandoned by hardy explorers who use this popular access route to Great Gable and Scafell Pike; and several motorcycles like his own, the café itself being a favoured haunt of the local bikers’ chapter. It is in the latter capacity that Skelgill arrives this afternoon, and perhaps fortunately so, since the fells might as well not be there, for all there is to see of them. Only an intangible looming presence infuses the impenetrable mist with an air of foreboding, a sense of encirclement, of steeply banked terraces, a great cauldron of wild country that presses in upon the diminutive farmstead. Black water drips from the eaves and gutters. Sheep stand still, shivering and sodden in their walled pastures. All is silent but for the plaintive mew of a buzzard from some gnarled perch – perhaps a protest at its inability to fly today.
‘Hareet, marra?’
Skelgill has entered not the door marked OPEN, but has ducked instead into the low back entrance of an adjoining stable-like structure that might once have been a smithy. Now it is put to use as a workshop, and the colloquial greeting comes from a grizzled, heavy-featured man in his sixties, clad in a boiler suit and smeared with grease, who kneels, wrench poised, beside a semi-dismembered vintage AJS motorcycle.
‘Nice one you’ve got there, Art.’
‘Should be – when she’s wukn. Thew up fer a fry, Skel?’
‘You know me. Never say never.’
‘Our Jud’s ovver ont’ fell – else he’d join yer fer a chinwag.’
‘I’ll see him again. It’s your brains I wouldn’t mind picking, Art.’
‘Shunt tek yer long, then.’ The older man grins, revealing a crooked row of yellowed teeth.
Skelgill returns the smile. ‘Old boy from over Bassenthwaite way – rode a black BSA Gold Star, pre-63 plate – I’m trying to find where he went on it.’
‘Went, lad?’
‘Suspicious death.’
The farmer nods. ‘I’ll put out a tweet t’lads. Black beezer, eh?’ He reaches into the breast pocket of his overalls and extracts a state-of-the-art smartphone.
Now Skelgill shakes his head. ‘Struth, Art – who said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.’
‘Thu’s life int this dog yet. Got ter move wi’t times. How’s t’ol lass?’
‘Still peddling.’
‘Aye – I’ve sin her. T’other day it were hossing it doon an’ she wo’ garn like t’clappers.’
‘I’ll tell her you were asking.’
‘Get yer scran, lad – Gladis’ll be pleased yer up.’
‘Not as pleased as I’ll be.’ Skelgill raises a hand of thanks and begins to back out of the smithy.
‘Skel – ‘ey up, lad.’
‘Aha?’
‘That beezer – is it ont’ market?’
*
Skelgill stares disconsolately in the direction of the footpath that meanders from the far gate of the enclosed farmyard and swiftly disappears into the mist that still crowds the dale. Replete with Gladis’s legendary ‘Cumbrian Fry’ – in his estimation the first proper meal he has consumed in the past three days – he exhibits an uncharacteristic sense of indecision, a degree of inertia perhaps ostensibly brought on by the skyscraping saturated fat levels contained in the infamous all-day breakfast.
The snug café, which he has just left, is really nothing more than a parlour of the farmhouse, with its perennially steamed-up windows and strident nineteen seventies wallpaper. A group of damp-looking hikers and half a dozen sedentary bikers, none of whom exude any impression that they are in a hurry to take on the elements, presently inhabit it. Skelgill hadn’t recognised anybody, but his own biker-gear, idiosyncratic as it might be, had nevertheless earned him immediate access to their little clique, motorcycling being a universal fraternity to which all participants automatically belong and, by virtue of this involuntary membership, are bound to help a fellow biker in any way that circumstances may require. Thus they made both space for, and conversation with Skelgill, and any doubts about his apparel were soon dispelled as they discovered first that he rides a decent ‘hog’ and second that he is clearly a favourite of the café’s owner, Gladis Hope.
These days, while Gladis is still content to run the café, her husband Arthur Hope has the luxury of dabbling with his lifelong passion of old motorcycles, whilst coordinating the activities of the local bikers’ club. This is thanks to their son, Jud – with whom Skelgill was at school – assuming responsibility for the running of farm and flock. Indeed, it was around this very farmstead that a young Daniel Skelgill had cut his teeth in the hills, helping out in the holidays and during lambing, impressing the incumbents with his natural stamina and alacrity about the fells. As an adult, Skelgill had further endeared himself to the family in a semi-professional capacity, intercepting in no uncertain terms an attempt at sheep rustling, and to Arthur especially when he took possession of a Triumph motorcycle, albeit the ‘new-fangled’ Hinckley variety. Thus always welcome, and sure of double helpings, Skelgill’s only awkward moments come over the battle to pay for his food.
On this occasion, just as he was pressing his money upon Gladis, and insisting the change went into the collection tin for the mountain rescue (a somewhat curious donation, in that he is a member of the local team of volunteers), Arthur had limped through and confided that his tweet had generated several positive sightings. It seems that Querrell was most often to be observed tootling along the leafy lanes of the extreme western fells (perhaps where Skelgill had subconsciously noted his passing – certainly he had recognised the classic motorbike when he found himself face-to-face with it on Monday night), and that the distinctive black-and-chrome ‘beezer’ was occasionally seen parked outside a small climbing hut or bothy at the far reaches of Wasdale Head, the most isolated driveable outpost of the entire Lake District.
And therein lies Skelgill’s present dilemma. Wasdale Head, from the spot on which he now stands, is a little over three miles as the crow flies: about twenty-five minutes were Skelgill kitted out in his fell-running gear. He knows the route well, and has covered it in darkness often enough: from here south to cross Stockley Bridge, a sharp westerly ascent to pick up Styhead Gill, topping out at Styhead Tarn, and finally a sweeping westerly traverse across Great Gable. He stamps his feet and looks down in frustration at his attire, holding out his arms as if in mimed protest to his incompetent valet who so ignorantly equipped him for the task in hand.
