Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 36
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
But it’s no good. To attempt the run (or even walk) wearing ill-fitting biker’s boots and heavyweight clothing would be futile, unthinkably uncomfortable, and Skelgill plainly knows this. He must go by road. But, by one of those quirks of Lakeland topography, while Wasdale Head might be three miles as the crow flies, it is forty miles by road, in a great north-westerly anticlockwise loop; perhaps an hour and a half’s driving at typical Lakeland speeds. With obvious reluctance, he dons his helmet and turns to remount his Triumph.
*
The spectacular view along Wastwater has been voted the best in Britain, and Skelgill as always is forced to slide to a halt and cut his engine as the breathtaking vista opens out before him. Though today is not one for picture postcards; only a seasoned purist feels a thrill at such desolation. While the drizzle has lifted with the mist, far ahead the immense angular slab that gives Great Gable its name spears into the lowering cloud base, flanked by the titanic curving ‘hull’ of Yewbarrow and the sharply ridged Lingmell. Closer, to his right, the precipitous Wastwater Screes tower like some advancing tsunami of bare rock, their shadow blackening the still waters, the deepest in England, watery grave of who knows how many missing persons.
Indeed, as Skelgill surveys the silent scene, it would not seem incongruous were a sword-bearing arm to burst forth from the mirrored surface, pointing him in the direction of his quest. But he needs no Lady of the Lake to show him the way. He starts the bike and moves circumspectly onwards, as if in an act of reverence towards his preternatural surroundings (although perhaps it is simply in recognition of the abundant sheep ‘ont road’). The narrow lane, now unwalled, clings to the north-west bank of the lake, cutting through the open fell that pours down to the water’s edge. He crosses Overbeck Bridge and, leaving Wastwater behind, passes through Down in the Dale and continues, finally to park at the inn at Wasdale Head.
He locates the hut without difficulty – in fact he has noticed it in passing on occasions down the years, without particularly evaluating its likely function or ownership – set a short distance beyond the inn on a patch of common ground. Perhaps once a winter fodder store for sheep, it is little more than a rectangular stone construction, windowless apart from a narrow slit above head height at each gable end. The olive green door is heavily planked, and secured by what appears to be a well-oiled padlock; indeed all aspects of the building give the impression of it being well maintained.
Skelgill, after satisfying himself there is no possible means by which to engineer a glimpse inside, steps away to survey the property: a small chimney stack protruding through its low black slate roof is one certain sign that this is potentially more than just a conveniently sited repository for outdoor equipment. A ruddy male stonechat momentarily alights upon the little ochre pot, catching Skelgill’s attention with its onomatopoeic tack-tack before it flits away. Perhaps its fleeting appearance sharpens his perceptions, because now he notices something that draws him back to the building. Upon the rough lintel above the door is a distinctive mark. Closer inspection confirms this to be the work of human hands: a whorl that could be the number six, although laterally inverted – the ascender curves off to the left. Skelgill reaches up to touch the motif. It has actually been carved into the stone, and lichen has settled in its recessed lines, highlighting its aged presence. Most curious of all, though, is that Skelgill has seen this symbol elsewhere.
‘Thew’d best keep away – crabbit ol’ gadgey as looks after tha’ place.’
At this unexpected warning Skelgill spins around. Propped on a chin-high crook is a small wizened old man dressed rather like a Victorian farm worker. Behind him slinks an opaque-eyed border collie, its matted fur hanging in damp wads. Belying his decrepit appearance – the farmer, or shepherd, or whatever he is – has managed to approach to within a few yards without attracting Skelgill’s notice.
‘The old fellow who comes on the motorbike?’
‘Thou one of his cronies?’
‘Nah – just passing.’ Skelgill raises his crash helmet and gives it a little shake.
‘Not many as pass this way.’
‘Good reason to come, in my book.’
The old man makes a small upward jerk of his head, as if accepting of Skelgill’s remark. ‘Thou frae Wukiton?’
‘Pereth.’ Skelgill uses the colloquial name for Penrith in response to his questioner’s Workington diminutive.
His efforts to endear himself appear to be bearing fruit, since the old man says, as if by way of apology, ‘Thought thew be an offcomer.’
Skelgill shakes his head. ‘You said cronies?’
‘Bunch a’ rich folks.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Deeked their cars. Range Rovers and that.’
‘Hillwalkers?’
The old man frowns. ‘Ont bevvy more like.’
Skelgill inclines his head towards the bothy. ‘In there?’
‘Aye. After t’inn’s called last orders. I’ve heard ‘em.’
‘Do they board at the inn?’
‘Reckon.’
Skelgill hitches up his overtrousers. ‘I was just going in for a pint.’
‘Ars gan yam.’ The old man says this as if to decline an offer unmade by Skelgill. He points with his crook at a cluster of small cottages a quarter of a mile distant, and without further formalities begins slowly to hobble away, the skulking collie in tow. After a few seconds, and without looking back, he calls out, ‘You wunt get nowt out‘t landlord – he’s an offcomer.’
*
As Skelgill clumps through into the reception area, a tall pale man of around his own age suddenly rises to attention from behind the counter. He wears a tattersall shirt beneath a quilted gilet. He’s holding a newly opened ream of copy paper, and is perhaps in the process of reloading a printer.
‘Sorry, chum – no boots or biker gear in the residents’ areas.’ The accent is refined; as the shepherd intimated, the hotelier is not a local.
‘How about this kind of boots?’
No doubt resisting the temptation to include the patronising epithet ‘chum’ in his reply, Skelgill, without breaking stride, reaches into an inside pocket and produces his warrant card. Holding it at eye level he forces his protagonist to take a step backwards in order to read the details.
‘Oh – of course – I had no idea you were – police.’
‘We don’t usually walk about with a sign saying CID, sir. Tends to reduce our effectiveness in protecting the public.’
‘Naturally, officer.’ There’s a distinct flushing of the skin around his neck.
Skelgill drops his crash helmet on the counter top and rubs his hands together. He scrutinises the landlord, then casts about beyond him, as though he’s expecting to see an item of lost property that has been handed in. His silence forces the other to speak.
‘So... er... how may I be of assistance to you?’
‘You are the proprietor, I take it, sir?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘There’s a little stone climbing barn about a hundred-and-fifty yards along the lane. Does that come under your ownership?’
‘No – that’s nothing to do with us.’ This response comes quickly, as though the man is keen to distance himself from the subject matter.
Skelgill nods slowly. ‘We’re trying to trace the connections of the key-holder.’
‘I can’t help you there, I’m afraid, officer.’ Again, the answer is rushed, when a qualifying enquiry such as ‘Why?’ or ‘Who?’ might have been expected.
‘According to our information the people who use it lodge here.’
‘Oh, I don’t think so, officer. Our hotel prices are designed to deter the climbing types – they tend to go for the budget places, the B&Bs.’
‘Who said they were climbing types?’ Skelgill sounds a little irked by the implied class distinction in the landlord’s explanation.
‘Well... er... since it’s a climbing hut...’
Skelgill doesn’t reply, and instead takes a leaflet advertising the inn’s services from a dispenser close at hand. He raises an eyebrow at the slogan ‘For the discerning foodie’, and scans through the price list.
‘May I?’ He inserts the brochure into his jacket without waiting for a reply, and then picks up his helmet. Taking a step back he says, ‘Is that your blue Defender parked down the side?’
The hotelier, sensing that Skelgill has finished with him, and for a moment beginning to relax, stiffens once more. ‘Yes, it is, officer.’
Skelgill turns and begins to head for the exit. As he reaches and opens the door he looks back and says, ‘I should keep an eye on your road tax – you can renew online these days, you know, chum.’
And with that he strides out, leaving the landlord staring disconcertedly at the spot where he had stood.
Skelgill heads directly for his motorcycle, hauling on his helmet and fastening his jacket as he goes. But when he reaches the machine, rather than climbing aboard, he goes down on one bended knee to examine the little disc-holder attached to the front-left fork. Tipping his head to one side as if in a gesture of confirmation he stands upright and pulls out his mobile phone. Quickly he taps out a text to himself, ‘Bike tax expired.’
20. THE BURGER VAN
Throwing caution to the wind of his own warning that the Chief passes this way, Friday morning finds Skelgill parked in the layby that is home to the recently discovered burger van. Working through a bacon roll whilst waiting for DS Leyton to join him for breakfast, he is conducting a consequently disjointed telephone conversation with DS Jones.
‘So what are you doing now?’
‘I’m on my way to meet DI Smart, Guv.’
Skelgill tuts. ‘Where?’
‘Southwaite services – he wants to give me a de-brief.’
‘I bet he does.’ Skelgill mutters under his breath.
‘Sorry, Guv?’
‘I said keep mum – about Goodman.’
‘Of course, Guv.’
Skelgill now has to finish a mouthful of food before he can speak again.
‘You still there, Guv?’
‘Yup. Look – I want you to contact him.’
‘Goodman?’
‘Correct.’
‘Won’t he be flying right now?’
‘Just leave him a message. And if he rings when he lands, don’t answer – see if he records a voicemail before you call back.’
‘Can we use that, Guv?’
‘I’m sure we’d find a way.’
‘What should I say?’
‘Sorry you had to rush off. Make it sound like you’re in London. Tell him your boss is still keen on getting his son into the school, but wants something a bit more concrete on what the deal is. Cut to the chase, Headmaster.’
‘Shall I use that expression?’
‘Words to that effect – we need to hear it from him if he’s bending the rules.’
‘What if he wants to meet up?’
‘Get the train?’
‘But... Guv.’
‘Jones – wait and see – play it by ear. At least make it seem like you could meet him for a drink later.’
Now it’s DS Jones turn to remain silent.
‘Tell him if he can give you a steer, you should be able to get a proposal back from your employer by tonight.’
‘Okay.’
‘You don’t sound convinced.’
‘Guv, Smart will go crackers if I go gallivanting off again on your case.’
‘Look – I don’t want you gallivanting, but...’
‘It might get the Chief off your back?’
‘Something like that.’
Skelgill holds up two fingers through the windscreen to the arriving DS Leyton who, rather than take offence, nods and walks away to place their order.
‘What did she say about our trip, Guv?’
‘Qualified success. Reading between the lines of her email.’
‘Just between the lines?’
‘You know the Chief. The only time she says ‘Well done’ is when she orders a steak.’
‘I’d have thought she eats them rare, Guv.’
‘You’re thinking of her subordinates.’
‘Ha-ha, Guv.’
‘I’m not joking.’
‘So we’re to keep looking?’
‘Continue fishing in the dark.’
‘At least that’s your forte, Guv.’
This apparent compliment could be metaphorical, literal or indeed an attempt at wry humour, but before Skelgill can fashion a response DS Leyton pulls open the passenger door.
‘Look – here’s Leyton – I need to go – keep me posted.’
*
‘You already had one, Guv?’ Leyton indicates the brown paper bag screwed up on the dashboard of Skelgill’s car.
‘Just a provisional, Leyton – didn’t know how long you’d keep me waiting.’
DS Leyton protests. ‘Like clockwork, me, Guv – I’m as keen on a bacon roll as you are.’
Skelgill looks across with an ironic expression as DS Leyton pats his ample stomach.
‘I dunno where you put ‘em, Guv.’ DS Leyton sounds a little defensive. ‘My missus reckons you must have a tapeworm.’
‘It’s called an appetite, Leyton – comes from the uneven terrain by which we’re surrounded, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Skelgill gestures with his roll in a circular motion. ‘Not that there’s a lot to be seen right now.’
‘That suits me, Guv – stick to the level, that’s my motto.’
Skelgill nods pensively whilst chewing. After a moment he says, ‘Aye – I hadn’t realised how flat London is until just the other day.’
‘Home sweet home. The good old Smoke. How did you get on down there, anyway, Guv?’
Skelgill takes another bite of his roll, perhaps to buy a little time in composing his response. ‘Let’s just say it looks like Goodman might be up to something.’
‘In what way, Guv?’
‘Trading places at the school for more than the market rate.’
DS Leyton frowns in a perplexed manner. ‘Is that illegal?’
Skelgill shrugs. ‘Probably not. It’s a private school.’
‘Unless he’s taking backhanders, Guv?’
Skelgill taps the plastic lid of his disposable tea cup. ‘That could be tough to prove.’
DS Leyton nods, and for a while both detectives alternately munch and slurp their way through their takeaways.
After a while, DS Leyton pipes up, ‘That cricket pavilion, Guv – that was paid for by a parent.’
Skelgill nods. ‘Maybe he just liked cricket. Or was so impressed with the school.’
‘Be nice to have that kind of bangers and mash to spare, eh Guv?’
‘These people operate in a different world from us, Leyton. You should see the buildings in...’
Skelgill stops himself mid-sentence, presumably realising his next word would be Singapore.
DS Leyton looks a little bewildered, until he concludes his superior has finished speaking. Tentatively, he offers, ‘Still, Guv – it could be the connection we’re looking for – I mean, what if old Querrell was on to him? That Jacobson reckoned he was none-too-keen on Goodman’s policies.’
‘But Querrell committed suicide, Leyton.’
‘Maybe Goodman had something on him in return – threatened to expose him if he came clean about he was up to? Enough to push him over the edge.’
Skelgill flicks a sideways glance at DS Leyton. Then he shakes his head and says, ‘Where’s the crime in that?’
DS Leyton looks a little exasperated. ‘But, Guv – two suicides in a week – the second one in Querrell’s cottage. There’s something not right here – we both know that. It’s beyond the normal.’
‘The school isn’t a normal place, Leyton.’
‘I see that, Guv – but, look, take Hodgson. While you were down south I occupied myself with digging into his background – seeing as with Querrell we’ve hit a dead end. Turns out he was more than a nasty piece of work around the town.’
‘In what way?’
‘Remember I said he’d been sacked from his last job as a gamekeeper for intimidating some walkers with a loaded twelve-bore?’
‘Aha.’
‘Well, that wasn’t the full picture.’
‘So?’
‘It was just the excuse his employer needed to get shot of him – no pun intended, Guv.’
‘No, Leyton.’
‘So I called round at the estate office, across in the Eden valley – talked to the factor. There’d been a catalogue of problems.’
‘Such as?’
‘Nothing they could pin on him for certain, but for instance they were losing a lot of game. A flock of ornamental Canadian geese were shot. They discovered some illegal pole traps set in the woods. Then there was a roe deer found dead in a snare. They suspected it was Hodgson, on a killing spree – flogging the meat on the black market.’
‘Did they confront him with the evidence?’
‘Yeah, Guv – but he just insisted it was poachers and went on the warpath. Apparently he came across a van parked in a gateway on the estate and slashed its tyres. Turns out it just belonged to a land agent who was doing some surveying.’
‘You’d think they would have got rid of him at the time.’
‘He denied it – though it wasn’t all that long before the confrontation with the walkers, so by then the estate had had enough.’
‘The school evidently didn’t check his references too thoroughly, eh Leyton?’ Skelgill squints thoughtfully out through the windscreen. A small queue has formed at the burger van and Skelgill seems to be scrutinising it for suspects.
‘Maybe he spun ‘em a different yarn, Guv. Appears he wasn’t averse to the odd bit of fraud. The estate suspected him of embezzling from the petty cash – he had responsibility for buying the shooting supplies and the feedstuffs for rearing pheasants. And the factor said he’d heard talk that Hodgson short-changed the beaters – though with that being all cash-in-hand he came over a bit vague when I pushed him.’
