Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 47
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
‘What, like feeding him?’
DS Leyton stares ahead and turns out his bottom lip, in the manner of a schoolboy in line to receive the cane. It is actually just a habit of his, but perhaps it engenders some reflex of sympathy in Skelgill – rather as a dog rolling over disarms its canine adversary – and it seems to make him reconsider his harsh retort.
‘Look – Leyton – on balance – probably not a bad plan. I know you’re not as stupid as you’re cabbage-looking.’
‘Right, Guv.’
‘Just make sure Dodd calls you the minute anyone important leaves.’
DS Leyton perks up. ‘Wilco, Guv.’
Now Skelgill frowns. ‘So, what about these possible sightings?’
‘Bit of a can of worms, if you ask me, Guv. Turns out it was a Scottish Bank Holiday. Seems like half the population of Glasgow went to Blackpool – or failing that, Alton Towers – for the long weekend. There were ginger-haired kids running amok at every motorway service station north of Stoke. It’s a needle in a haystack job, Guv.’
‘Without the needle.’
DS Leyton can usually detect when his boss teeters on the edge of one of his blacker moods. He averts his eyes and wipes his hands vigorously on the kitchen paper. ‘Shall I drive, Guv – to the school?’
Skelgill nods. ‘What about the press? Have they found out who he is, yet?’
DS Leyton’s eyes widen and he shakes his head. He concentrates for a moment as he uses his mirrors to exit the layby and join the main carriageway. ‘Seem to be toeing the line, Guv – you must have put the fear of God into them at the media conference.’
‘Miracles never cease.’
‘There was one internet piece the Chief was complaining about, Guv – trying to suggest that the police must have something to hide.’
‘Such as?’
‘It’s just speculation, Guv – that we’ve let some local nutter go free who we should have locked up – and now we suspect him of being responsible.’
Skelgill raises an eyebrow but does not respond. While the entire school population has been briefed that there should be no conversations on the subject via social media, and the main channels of external communication have been temporarily jammed on Dr Snyder’s orders, it has to be considered just a matter of time before the anonymous missing boy is identified and connected with Oakthwaite, and in turn with Cumbria Constabulary. This outcome should not unduly concern Skelgill as regards compromising the investigation, but it will land him in hot water when the blame unfairly but inexorably attaches itself to him. Meanwhile, the Chief’s continued fortitude in resisting the urge to ‘go public’, though puzzling, has at least been placed into some understandable context by such edification as enjoyed by Skelgill at the standing stones.
Perhaps DS Leyton finds the silence a little uncomfortable, for he breaks it by recourse to the good old British fall-back of the weather.
‘It’s a nice day, Guv – I might even get my grass done tonight.’
Skelgill yawns and stretches, and seems to regain a modicum of enthusiasm. As a seasoned outdoorsman he is always ready to pontificate on the subject of the climate.
‘Pressure’s been building since that cold front came through yesterday. Might get a few days’ sunshine. He cranes his neck and stares for ten seconds or so at the skyline above the fells, watching the slow drift of the scattered white cumulus. ‘Wind’s gone round to the south-east. It’s going to be spot on for pike once the levels drop.’
But with this remark must come the realisation that he has little prospect of a proper fishing trip while the boy’s disappearance remains unresolved, and he sags down into the passenger seat and leans against the headrest. He closes his eyes.
DS Leyton, driving more judiciously than usual, conducts them deeper into the leafy lanes that lead to Oakthwaite School. Skelgill to all intents and purposes might be asleep, but his Sergeant seems to know different, and as they near the gates of the institution he says, ‘Penny for ‘em, Guv?’
Skelgill opens one eye. ‘You what, Leyton?’
‘Penny for your thoughts, Guv.’
Skelgill makes a scoffing sound. ‘Leyton, I’d willingly tell you – if only I could read my own mind.’
DS Leyton nods dutifully. ‘Right, Guv.’
As they reach the gates and DS Leyton decelerates, Skelgill begins to unfasten the passenger door. ‘Drop me here, Leyton.’
‘Really, Guv?’ DS Leyton sounds disappointed.
‘Aye – I need to have a mooch around. Think a bit.’
DS Leyton complies. ‘Sure, Guv. Only thing is – I was going to take you through the plans for the day. I’ve requested the use of Greig’s office – as a base to coordinate the various search teams. I figured with it being away from the main school it would keep us clear of little noses poking in at the window. There’s plenty of room and good views – plus all those maps of the Lakes.’
Skelgill purses his lips and nods approvingly. ‘Fair enough – I’ll catch up with you there. Good luck with Greig – I can’t imagine he’ll be a happy bunny.’
*
Skelgill acknowledges PC Dodd and has a brief chat with him before heading across to the gatehouse. The weather is indeed shaping up to deliver a magnificent day and the clearing resonates with birdsong as woodpigeons, wrens and willow warblers combine with others in a lively avian jazz ensemble. In the wings of this natural auditorium the morning air is still cool in thrilling contrast to the bruising heat of the sun at its centre. Swathed all around, lush vegetation shocks the eye, a luminescent lemony late-spring-green blur of chlorophyll.
He stands for a few moments facing the cottage. The runic symbol – what he now knows to be the sign of the Derwen – must seem to shine out from above the front door like a beacon, though it is but an innocuous lichen-encrusted smudge upon the lintel. He steps over to the garden seat; on such a day, and sleep-deprived, it could be tempting to recline like Flaming June. He slips from his jacket, but then only drapes it over the back of the bench before turning to approach the property.
The downstairs living area is largely unchanged from his first visit – the antique typewriter in the window, the outmoded desktop pc in the corner, the threadbare chair before the fireplace – only some unwashed mugs and a half-eaten packet of digestives testify to PC Dodd’s occupation. The hearthrug is gone, but that must be connected with the unfortunate incident concerning Hodgson.
Briefly, Skelgill visits the upstairs room, though he does not linger – indeed it is the antiquarian Wainwright that most attracts his attention when he returns to the ground floor. He quickly locates the precious book, homing in directly upon the point in the shelves where he had previously returned it. Number five in the seven-volume series, it features the Northern Fells, a quarter of its pages given over to Skiddaw and Blencathra. He thumbs through until he locates the section on the former, introduced in the author’s inimitably abrupt style with the defiant and perplexing sentence, ‘Make no mistake about Skiddaw.’
Skelgill begins to read, and after a minute shuffles across to Querrell’s old armchair and lowers himself down, his eyes still fixed upon the extraordinarily legible script. Methodically, he works his way through the dense handwritten copy, chuckling here and there as the author’s recalcitrant humour bites, dealing short shrift to Skiddaw’s critics.
After a while it appears he has ceased to read and has drifted into reverie, for he dwells over-long on a particular spread. Whether it is something in the text that has distracted him, or the act of concentration that has allowed his subconscious to assume control, it is impossible to tell. While the mountain no doubt looms large in his thoughts, his present location must equally call to mind the unexplained facts of his nocturnal escapade: when two anonymous males were present, one of whom had a key, one of whom might not have left alive.
The clang of the heavy metal gates jolts him from his musings. PC Dodd must have admitted a vehicle, for now it slides past in a glimpse of blue metal and black diesel fumes – some kind of delivery van, whose driver disdains the speed limit. Reluctantly, it seems, Skelgill replaces the Wainwright in the shelf. Then he casually helps himself to a handful of biscuits, which he pockets upon retrieving his jacket. With a wave to PC Dodd, he rounds the cottage and picks up the running track as it passes the rear of the property. At a leisurely pace, he ambles into the woods.
While the songbirds aloft press on allegretto, beneath the canopy the still ether is striped with dank woodland smells. Skelgill has not gone far before he baulks at the sudden hot stink of fox, a musky marijuana blast that marks reynard’s recent passage. Next his progress is ambushed by honeysuckle draped above the path, which leaks invisible molecules of sweet sickly scent upon him. And shortly he stoops, arrested by another unmistakable aroma, the cloying reek of carrion, to admire an immodest stinkhorn thrusting from the leaf litter, its glistening cap a sticky-bun breakfast bar for bluebottles.
As he is about to stand there’s an onrushing patter of feet, and almost before he can react their owner is upon him, licking lavishly at his ear: Cleopatra.
‘Down girl, down! My apologies, Inspector.’
Skelgill rises and the muscular piebald dog turns its attention to snuffling for the digestives concealed in his jacket. Meanwhile its master, Dr Jacobson, who has followed his canine charge around a twist in the path, makes uncertain progress with a walking stick at his side. The pyjama-like trousers are back on display, with open-toed sandals; his upper half is clad in an oversized white collarless shirt and an unbuttoned floral waistcoat, of the sort that was in fashion during their nineties’ heyday.
‘Good morning to you, Inspector – you appear to have developed an affinity with Cleopatra – she is rarely so affable.’
‘Perhaps it’s just folk with biscuits, sir.’ Skelgill draws out one such sweetmeat from his pocket. ‘May I?’
‘Oh, she will be forever in your debt, Inspector.’
The dog wastes no time in despatching the treat, but then her ears prick up and she trots determinedly into the undergrowth.
Dr Jacobson makes an affected cough. ‘Inspector, I owe you an apology.’
‘Sir?’
‘On Friday – when I made that flippant remark about London buses – I rather feel I tempted fate, what with the unfortunate disappearance of young Cholmondeley.’
Skelgill shrugs. ‘In my job, sir, these coincidences happen all the time.’
‘Well, nevertheless, it was a little gauche of me. And just now I thought Cleopatra must have interrupted you looking for clues – rather like Sherlock Holmes, with his nose to the ground.’
Skelgill grins self-consciously. ‘No, sir – I was distracted, by an unusual toadstool – I’m on my way to the cricket pavilion – our temporary HQ.’
‘Of course, Inspector. You have chosen the scenic route.’
At this moment Cleopatra bursts from the bushes, her legs and lower abdomen now wet and mud-encrusted.
‘Oh dear, Cleopatra – you found a pond.’
Skelgill takes a step backwards as she shakes her coat. ‘Give her a wash off in the lake, sir.’
‘I am sure she would love that, Inspector, but I keep her well away – she is so headstrong, heaven knows what could happen. And isn’t it always the owners that drown trying to rescue their dogs?’
Skelgill nods ruefully. ‘I’ve certainly had cases where a dog walker falls through ice – and the pet eventually gets itself out. Animal survival instinct kicks in.’
Dr Jacobson affects a shudder. ‘It doesn’t bear thinking about, Inspector. In my condition I could not even risk a paddle.’ He shakes the stick at his side. ‘And how is your burden, Inspector?’
‘I’m sorry, sir?’
‘The investigation – any news of the boy?’
‘Ah, well, sir...’ Skelgill gives the impression that he is about to trot out the standard platitude about lines of enquiry, but then he relents and says, ‘We’ve had a good number of reported sightings – we’re just in the process of following them up – I’m hoping my Sergeant will have some news for me shortly. We’re optimistic, sir.’
‘Excellent, Inspector.’ Dr Jacobson grins in his forced clownish manner. ‘I had better not detain you from your business any longer. And please do let me know if I can be of any assistance. Even if it is only to offer you a decent cup of tea.’
‘Thank you, sir. Good luck with the dog’s bath.’
Dr Jacobson makes a gurning face and hobbles away, calling reprimandingly after Cleopatra, who seems to have disappeared again.
Skelgill watches him for a few moments, before turning and striding out at a much brisker pace than before.
It takes him about ten minutes to reach the boathouse, and upon arrival he makes immediately for the landing stage. Ever the alert angler, he treads cautiously upon the weathered planks. However, if there are any fish stirring, their presence is concealed by a light but persistent ripple.
There is a small raft of duck out on the silvery water, but their colourless silhouettes at such a distance make them unidentifiable without binoculars. Then a large dark species he does know beats purposefully past, and he raises an angry fist like an irate farmer plagued by crows – it is a cormorant, pelagic scourge of inland fisheries.
Still watching the lake, he munches his way reflectively through a couple of biscuits, before he turns and retraces his steps to the boathouse, where Querrell’s tired craft lies chained. Then he makes what appears to be a cursory inspection of the shoreline and the short grass close to the dilapidated building.
Perhaps satisfied that the water level is indeed falling, he consults his wristwatch. Then he surveys the rising ground ahead of him: the pavilion and the school sit upon the same azimuth, though neither edifice is visible owing to successive barriers of shrub and tree. He selects an apparently random route into a patch of willows, but emerges in due course from the thicket correctly moving in parallel to the low ridge of ground that he had noted from Sale Fell. Passing through another brake of springy ash saplings he reaches the perimeter of the first eleven cricket oval, with the pavilion not far ahead.
As he pauses to take stock, he espies a short tracksuited figure push what looks like a large hosepipe-reel out from behind the building. It is Mike Greig, and the mechanical device is a boundary-rope wheel. Skelgill stares intently, although on this occasion it is probably not the luxury item of cricket equipment that makes his eyes widen, but the rifle that is slung over Greig’s shoulder.
Oakthwaite’s Director of Sport has his head down as he gets to grips with the contraption – two hundred and forty yards of one-inch diameter rope weighs in at about the same as a typical fourth-former – but at any moment he will look up and find Skelgill standing in his direct line of sight. Skelgill has just a second or two to make up his mind what to do – retreat, to hide and observe, or step out and reveal himself as a casual passer-by. In the event he chooses the latter course, and hops quickly onto the short-cropped outfield to assume a casual gait towards the approaching sports master. In due course Greig glances ahead and, while he seems surprised to see the oncoming detective, he betrays no sign of concern as regards being caught in possession of a firearm.
‘Howzit, Inspector?
‘Expecting trouble, Mike?’
Greig grins in his laid-back way. ‘Nah, Inspector, vermin – another one of my new duties – we’ve had jack rabbits sabotaging the square – their urine kills the grass – I’m on the warpath, ja?’
Skelgill tilts his head briefly to one side and puckers his lips, acknowledging the validity of this explanation. ‘What is it, a point-two-two?’
Greig lets go of the rope wheel and slings the gun around, keeping the barrel pointed at the ground. He hands it stock first to Skelgill. It is an ominous-looking weapon, with a telescopic sight and a long matt-black silencer. Skelgill gives it a once-over – he checks that the safety catch is engaged, and breaks the barrel to satisfy himself that it is indeed an airgun. Then he holds it up and weighs it, before sighting on a rook that rests in a treetop in the direction of the lake.
‘I could have done with this a few minutes ago.’
‘Inspector?’
‘A cormorant – one of my main competitors.’
Greig nods. ‘Let me tell you this, Inspector, these things are just pea-shooters compared to what I grew up with. I take it I’m legal, ja?’
Skelgill hands back the air rifle. ‘As long as you’re over eighteen you can walk into a gun shop and buy one. To use it, you need to be on private land, at least fifty feet from the centre of the public highway.’
‘Sounds like I’m fine, then?’
Skelgill nods. ‘It is yours, Mike?’
Greig shakes his head. ‘I found it in Hodgson’s equipment store – tucked away behind a stack of marker poles. I’ve seen him creeping about with it in the past, so I had an idea it would still be there.’
Skelgill gestures towards the boundary-rope winder. ‘You’ve got a match today?’
‘Nah – all the external fixtures have been put on hold. I’m just running an inter-house twenty-twenty tournament this week to keep the boys occupied, ja?’
Skelgill glances across at the pavilion. ‘It appears we’ve commandeered your office.’
Greig shrugs. ‘You’re welcome, Inspector – anything I can do to help. Anyway – I wouldn’t like to get into an argument with your Sergeant.’
Skelgill grimaces apologetically. ‘I believe the office was originally Mr Querrell’s – before you came?’
Greig’s expression is blank. He rubs a palm absently over his short ginger hair. ‘Not that I know of, Inspector. He occasionally borrowed it after school hours – for his outward-bound briefings, ja?’
Skelgill seems satisfied with this reply, and in fact relatively disinterested. He casts about the cricket oval, as though he’s trying to spot the telltale signs of rabbit damage. His eyes settle instead upon a couple of fresh peaty molehills that might be at deep square leg. He shrugs, then he begins to move away.
