Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 43
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
‘Such as?’
‘Well, you know, Guv – I thought he was just being an old gossip, stirring it – but he did say something about watching your back where Greig’s concerned. Apparently there was friction between him and Querrell.’
Skelgill shrugs. ‘Greig more or less admitted that to me.’
‘Jacobson reckons they weren’t on speaking terms. Evidently when Greig reported for duty at the school he kicked up a fuss about the office they’d given him – being Director of Sport and all that – and so they had to boot Querrell out of the room he’d been using in the new pavilion.’
Skelgill raises his eyebrows. ‘That probably explains the maps. I didn’t get the impression that a love of the fells was Greig’s bag.’
‘Jacobson says the Skiddaw Challenge was a shambles, Guv – badly organised, like. He reckons Greig just wants two years at Oakthwaite on his CV and doesn’t give a toss about the school. I think he’s hoping we’ll give Greig a hard time if he turns out to be the last person who saw Cholmondeley. He says no way would anyone have been allowed to go missing if Querrell had still been around. Claims Querrell never lost a boy in the hills in over forty years – overnight camping, trekking and whatnot. He blames Greig for a failure of supervision.’
Skelgill sighs. ‘At the end of the day, Greig got himself to the top of Skiddaw and stood there for an hour or more in foul weather. I should remind Jacobson he’d declined to be a marshal.’
DS Leyton screws up his face to indicate he is accustomed to operating on only partial information as far as working with Skelgill is concerned. ‘That might have shut him up, Guv.’
Skelgill does not react. He says, ‘And does he have any theory about Cholmondeley?’
DS Leyton shakes his head. ‘Nothing we haven’t considered, Guv. He said the usual procedure if you wanted to find out who’d been picked up from school was to ring Querrell, because he watched all the parents’ cars from his window at the gatehouse.’
‘We shan’t be doing that.’
‘No, Guv. Be handy to know who came in and out on Saturday, though. I was thinking it’s a pity they’ve not got CCTV.’
‘Evidently the Singapore dollars haven't stretched that far yet. On which note, when did Goodman get back from his junket?’
‘He says just after three p.m. on Saturday afternoon, Guv. Apparently he’s got a flat in London – from when he used to work down there. Says he came up on an open return and got a taxi from the railway station.’
Skelgill chews his lower lip for a moment. ‘See if you can get confirmation of that.’
‘Should be easy enough to check out, Guv.’
‘If he paid cash it’s a fair bet the taxi ride wasn’t metered. You know what goes on, Leyton.’
DS Leyton shrugs. ‘Put it like that, Guv – if he wanted to fake a journey he could nip down to Kendal and catch the train there.’
‘True enough. What else did he have to say?’
‘He just kept banging on about bad publicity – threatening to call the Chief. He’s like a record that’s stuck. He insists the boy’s done a bunk and it’s not the school’s responsibility.’
‘And Snyder?’
‘He’s well narked, Guv. Looked like thunder when I told him we’d be combing the place. He said the Head would explode if he heard his house was going to be searched.’
Skelgill pulls a face to show he’s not bothered.
‘Snyder seems to think the police ought to take his word for it – that the boy isn’t somewhere in the school. Says it’s not any old state comprehensive that we can come swanning into.’
Now Skelgill scowls to signal his disapproval. ‘What did you say?’
‘I asked him to account for his movements over the weekend. I think he got the message, Guv.’
‘And what were they?
‘He reckons he never left the building. Spent the time between his office and his quarters. Had a meeting with the Head on Saturday evening. There was a chapel service on Sunday morning. Says he did his usual inspection rounds on both nights at nine-thirty. But they leave it up to the housemasters and prefects to make sure everyone’s accounted for and that they get to bed on time.’
‘What about the other staff – anything there?’
‘Not really, Guv. The masters in charge of cricket teams left early on Saturday morning. Those off duty who don’t live in went home on Friday evening. A couple of the resident teachers drove into Keswick on Saturday morning – before Cholmondeley was last seen. It seems like pretty much everyone at the school stayed indoors because of the rain. Jacobson was complaining that even the naughty lads took detentions instead of walking his dog.’
Skelgill grimaces. He stands up and strides a few yards from his car. Hands in pockets, he gazes out across the gently falling school grounds, a manicured parkland of cricket pitches and spreading sweet chestnuts. Flashing black and white, a magpie drops down from the boughs of one such Castanea, to relieve a foraging blackbird of its hard-won worm. The index and middle fingers on Skelgill’s left hand momentarily twitch as the mugging takes place and the masked robber returns to a cackling accomplice hidden amongst the foliage.
DS Leyton looks on anxiously. Perhaps trying to guess Skelgill’s thoughts, he asks, ‘What about the search team, Guv? They need your guidance for where to start. We hadn’t better leave it too long. The Chief’s been onto me three times since lunchtime – she said your mobile was off.’
Skelgill shakes his head a little forlornly. ‘I didn’t need the distraction, Leyton. I know what we’re looking for.’
‘She’s arranged a media conference for eight p.m. – she wants you to front it, Guv.’
Skelgill spins around, grinding gravel beneath his feet. ‘Well that’s a great use of my time.’
DS Leyton winces, as though this is his fault. ‘She doesn’t want it coming out that it’s her son, Guv. Think of the press – they’ll have a field day – misuse of limited resources and all that. It could distract from saving the kid.’
Skelgill walks across to DS Leyton and pats him on the shoulder. He perhaps appreciates that his Sergeant, as the father of a boy of similar age to Cholmondeley, is likely to experience an occasional unprovoked assault from his sensibilities. ‘Let’s think about this, Leyton. Statistically, you’re right, he’s most likely to have got lost or had an accident. I doubt it – but if he has, we’ll find him – it’s safe up there. If he’s done a bunk – he’ll turn up – but he was probably wearing wet sports kit. I don’t think he’s done a bunk.’
DS Leyton is listening carefully. ‘But that only leaves abduction, Guv. Or worse.’
Skelgill shrugs, resignedly. He turns away, perhaps to conceal his grim expression from his colleague.
‘Thing is, Guv... it would take a vehicle. And it’s not like he’s a nipper – a twelve-year-old takes some shifting.’ DS Leyton seems to be striving to strike an optimistic note.
Skelgill remains phlegmatic. ‘Leyton, there’s nowhere to park where the route crosses the road. If you waited there you’d block the traffic. And, as you’ve confirmed from the boys that were interviewed, there was nobody about.’
‘What if Cholmondeley were walking back down the lane and accepted a lift from someone he knew, Guv?’
‘It’s possible. Obviously that could explain a lot.’
But now the sombre note returns to DS Leyton’s voice. ‘Guv, there must be locals that use the lane – and plenty of tourists out in their cars, given the rain. He might have just been picked off by a random nutcase.’
‘The odds of that are so low, Leyton. Think of the location. Predators hunt where they know they’ll find prey. The only living thing you’re likely to meet on one of these lanes has four legs and goes baa.’
DS Leyton ponders for a moment, then says, ‘Guv – what if it were a hit and run? Shouldn’t we be checking the undergrowth, and the road surface for signs of an accident?’
Skelgill doesn’t appear convinced. ‘It’s too narrow and winding to drive fast. And if you’d knocked someone down you’d have to heave them over a six-foot wall.’
‘We’d better look, though, Guv?’
Skelgill doesn’t answer. Instead he returns to his vehicle, and begins to scrabble about in one of several plastic storage crates that hold an unruly jumble of fishing tackle and camping equipment. He lifts out his soot-encrusted Kelly Kettle and shakes it to check how much water it contains. ‘I’m parched, Leyton – I need to make a brew. Got a newspaper in your car?’
DS Leyton looks a little dismayed, though whether this is because his unread daily is about to go up in flames, or the impression his superior gives of not having his heart in the investigation, it is impossible to discern. Perhaps Skelgill’s mind is on the media conference, something he is well known to detest.
Within two minutes, and using only the outside half of DS Leyton’s red top, Skelgill has boiling water spitting from the spout of his cherished contraption. Lifting it by its bucket-strap handle, and tipping it by means of a chain attached near its base (the other end of which is fixed to the large cork that seals in the water when the kettle is not in use), he expertly fills the pair of tin mugs he has already loaded with tea bags and dried milk.
‘Blimey, Guv – that’s impressive.’
‘These newspapers have their uses, Leyton – and not just in the toilet department.’
DS Leyton grins sheepishly, but none the less retrieves the crumpled remnants of the said journal and stuffs it inside his jacket. Meanwhile Skelgill is stirring the tea. He hands a mug, still containing its tea bag, to DS Leyton and takes the other for himself, slurping thirstily over the hot liquid.
DS Leyton follows suit, but is immediately forced to spit out his mouthful. ‘Crikey – it’s boiling, Guv! I just about took the roof of my mouth off.’
Skelgill grins. ‘You get used to it, Leyton. When you’re out fishing it’s better too hot than too cold. Take a seat.’
He settles back down on the sill of the estate car, and indicates for DS Leyton to join him. The latter obliges, the leaf springs creaking alarmingly as they take his weight. They sit and sip in silence for thirty seconds or so.
‘It’s a strange one, this, Leyton.’
‘Guv?’
Perhaps the calming tea-ritual and the salving of his dehydration has relaxed Skelgill. He picks up a steel rod-rest that lies at his side and scrapes an unrecognisable pattern into the gravel between his feet. ‘I feel like I know what’s going on. It’s like there’s a mountain in the clouds, right in front of us – we can’t see it, but we know it’s there.’ He reaches out to grasp a clutch of thin air. ‘If only the mist would clear.’
DS Leyton nods, frowning philosophically.
‘But the Chief wants answers – and we need to find the boy, no matter that he’s her son.’
‘Yes, Guv.’
‘Look, Leyton – they can search the hill – a downhill sweep below the path from Skiddaw High Man – concentrate on the upper section. There’s plenty of daylight – it won’t be dark until ten tonight. And – yes - while you’re at it, find out which local farmers use the lane.’
‘Should we put in a checkpoint, Guv – same time of day?’
‘Probably wise, Leyton.’
‘Then what about the railway station – and the services on the motorway, Guv?’
‘Do the usual – get photographs round to the staff, shop assistants, toilet cleaners – you know the routine.’
‘The press conference will help, Guv – it could jog the memories of people who were travelling on Saturday afternoon. The Chief wants to get coverage on the late news.’
Without overtly admitting it to his partner, Skelgill appears to have capitulated in the face of DS Leyton’s persistence. However, now he falls silent for a few moments, as though he is drawing upon his own intuitions.
‘We could really use a detection dog, Leyton. Not just for the grounds, and the school – but all these staff cars.’ Skelgill waves loosely at the vehicles parked in their vicinity.
‘I’ll see what’s available, Guv.’
‘We’ve got a PC on the gate, right?’
‘It’s young Dodd, Guv. He’s based in the cottage. We’re keeping the gates closed and he’s checking everyone in and out. More for reassurance than anything.’
Skelgill nods. ‘See if we can organise a plain-clothes tail to wait out of sight. If Goodman or Snyder or Grieg leave I want to know where they go.’
DS Leyton bites one cheek, as if he suspects this might be a tall order – then again, he will realise they do have their commanding officer onside in this matter. ‘I’ll ask the question, Guv.’
‘And I’d like another uniform, visibly patrolling the perimeter of the school buildings. Twenty-four seven. Using a flashlight in the dark. Team of two or three on shifts, whatever it takes – remind her Smart’s got plenty of resources we can commandeer.’
DS Leyton raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t ask for further explanation. He’s accustomed to his senior officer keeping his cards close to his chest, even if sometimes they prove to be a busted flush.
‘And get the underwater unit moving, too.’
DS Leyton inhales like a rehabilitated smoker. ‘That would be a shocker, Guv.’
‘We have to do it – even if it’s only going through the motions.’
‘How do you mean, Guv – going through the motions?’
‘Remember the lady of the lake?’
‘Come again, Guv?’
Skelgill snorts. ‘You’ve obviously never been trapped next to George at a police dinner. It’s his specialist subject in case he ever gets invited onto Mastermind.’
DS Leyton shrugs, as if he still has no idea to what Skelgill refers.
‘Murdered woman’s body dumped in Wastwater lay undiscovered for eight years. Another one in Coniston Water took over twenty years to find.’
DS Leyton affects a shudder. ‘I never knew that, Guv.’
‘Mind you, Leyton – Wastwater’s the deepest lake in England. And Coniston’s not far behind.’ Skelgill casts a hand in the direction of Bassenthwaite Lake; they can’t see it, but the wide valley marks its presence. ‘Bass Lake’s a mere puddle in that respect – twice the area of Wastwater but average depth only five metres.’ He scratches his head Stan Laurel fashion. ‘Which is probably why it’s excellent for fishing, now I think about it. All the shallows – good light for plant growth.’
‘So a body would be easy to find, Guv?’
Skelgill folds his arms, as if he’s now backtracking. ‘Not necessarily. See, Leyton – you have to think of Bass Lake as just a widening of the Derwent – and it’s one of the fastest rivers in Europe. Rises just below Scafell Pike and drops two-and-a-half thousand feet in twenty-five miles. There’s a heck of a flow when it’s in spate. Hidden currents. I’ve had whole trees overtake my boat like they’ve got outboards attached. Unbelievable.’
‘And the rain, Guv.’
Skelgill seems lost in reverie for a moment. ‘What?’
‘The rain, Guv – with all this rain – the river will have been in flood?’
Skelgill nods ruefully. ‘Aye, you’re right. Bass Lake is on the move.’
DS Leyton sinks into silence.
After a minute, Skelgill says, ‘You know it’s the only lake in the Lake District?’
‘You did mention that once before, I think, Guv.’
28. THE PRESS GANG
‘Daniel?’
Skelgill hurriedly swallows the mouthful on which he has been contentedly chewing and, after an uncomfortable-sounding moment, manages to reply, ‘Jim?’
‘It is, Daniel. Where are you just now?’
Skelgill stares at the line of truckers and tourists waiting in orderly file for their burgers, their implacable queuing faces no doubt belying the hunger pangs that are inevitably triggered by the mouth-watering aroma of frying fat. He presses the button to raise his electric window: though the weather has cleared a straggling shower has left the road surface slick, and the metronomic swish of passing traffic interferes with his hearing.
‘I’m, er... just below Skiddaw – on the A66.’
‘Are you by any chance free to meet for a few moments?’
Skelgill checks his watch; it’s after six and he has been summoned by the Chief for a briefing at seven. ‘I’ve got to do a media conference – I’m just on my way to prepare.’
‘Ah, I see.’ There’s a note of disappointment in Professor Hartley’s voice.
‘Was there something...?’ Skelgill seems unsure as to how he should phrase the question.
‘I’d rather not elaborate over the telephone, Daniel. It concerns the matter you were asking me about last week.’
‘Right.’
‘I extended a few feelers – but by what seems a remarkable coincidence someone else has got in touch – literally minutes ago. But they are somewhat reticent about anything being spoken over... how could one put it – the police airwaves? It does, however, appear to be a matter of urgency.’
Skelgill jams the remains of his roll into a space designed as a cup-holder, and reaches for the ignition. ‘Jim, I don’t think they’re bugging me – but I hear what you’re saying. Where are you?’
The professor gives a little cough. ‘Ah – this is mildly embarrassing, Daniel.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well – you know the magnificent spot you mentioned on the Derwent – where you bagged all those brownies?’
‘Aha?’
‘I thought I’d give it a try – water’s a bit high today, of course – but here I am. I didn’t think you’d mind.’
Skelgill chuckles. ‘Ever a fisherman, eh Jim? I don’t blame you – if I had your free time I’d have a rod permanently strapped to my left hand.’
Now the professor has a smile in his voice. ‘Right hand in my case – you always were a devil to teach.’
‘Ah, you did a good job, Jim. Look – I can be there in ten minutes, tops – I’ll just have to risk the wrath of my boss.’
