Murder In School (10 page)

‘Not still on your walk, Guv?’

Skelgill pauses to peer through the
windscreen of DS Jones’s car.  ‘Just approaching Keele Services.’

‘Come again, Guv?’

‘You heard, Leyton.’

‘On the M6?’

‘Last time I looked they were.’

‘Heading south?’

‘Leyton, what is this, Twenty Questions?’

‘Flamin’ Nora, Guv – I’m blowing out
of me jacksie.  It’s bedlam here.’

‘Leyton, you’re on loudspeaker. 
There’s a lady present.’

‘It’s only me,’ pipes up DS Jones.

‘Oops.’  DS Leyton coughs
apologetically.  ‘So, er... Guv – since you’re in Staffordshire I
take it you won’t be coming to the school?’

‘No need, Leyton – you can handle
it.’

DS Leyton supresses a sigh of resignation.

‘What’s Herdwick had to say?’

‘Time of death somewhere between two and
three a.m.’

Skelgill glances at DS Jones, conscious
she’s watching him.  ‘Eyes on the road.’

‘Sorry, Guv?’

‘Not you, Leyton.’

‘Right, Guv.’

‘What about cause of death?’

‘He’s pretty certain it was the four-ten. 
There was a three-quarters-finished bottle of whisky beside the chair.’

‘How many glasses?’

‘No glasses, Guv.  But Herdwick
reckons he’ll have some blood test results later.  I suppose it was Dutch
courage.’

‘When was he last seen alive?’

‘Greig left him to tidy up after the
cricket match around seven – said he was staying to roll the wicket.’

‘Did he go home?’

‘No one seems to know, Guv.’

‘What about the shotgun?’

‘Belongs to the school, Guv.  Snyder
recognised it straight away.  I got him to take me to the gun room –
it’s like a horror movie, down there in the cellars – he showed me the
empty space in the rack.  Right old arsenal, they’ve got.’

‘What’s his explanation?’

‘He says he’s certain it was there last
time he checked.’

‘When was that?’

‘A couple of weeks back.  He says
they don’t shoot in summer term.’

‘And he’s sticking to his story about
being the only key-holder?’

‘Yup.’

‘What about Hodgson, did he have keys on
him?’

‘That’s the strange thing, Guv –
car keys and what looks like a house key, but nothing else.’

‘Yet he was locked inside the gatehouse.’

‘Well – kind of, Guv.  I spoke
again to the old boy who found him.  He now says he couldn’t swear on the
Bible that the door was actually locked.  It’s got one of those clunky
mortises and he reckons it’s possible it was already open.  He had to
fiddle with the key to get in, and thinks he could have locked it and then
unlocked it again.’

‘Brilliant.’

‘Sorry, Guv.’

Skelgill doesn’t trouble to absolve DS
Leyton of any misplaced blame.  ‘And how was Snyder?’

‘Laying it on a bit thick, if you ask me,
Guv.  Slagging off Hodgson for sneaking his key away.  Claims he must
have nicked it from his desk while he was in assembly one morning.  I suggested
he could have left the gun room unlocked, but he was having none of it.’

‘What about any connection between
Hodgson and Querrell?’

‘He pooh-poohed it, Guv.  Except to
say they didn’t get on.  I don’t think it’s a lover’s pact if that’s what
you’re driving at.’  A note of hilarity creeps into DS Leyton’s voice.

‘Leyton, behave.’

‘Sorry, Guv – but you never know
these days.’

‘I think it’s a theory we can rule out.’

‘Suits me, Guv.’

‘So why did he go to Querrell’s cottage to
do it, Leyton?’

‘Suppose he knew it’d be empty. 
Maybe he got some bad news?’

‘Did he have a mobile?’

‘Not that’s been found, Guv.’

‘No other clues at the property?’

‘Oh – there was one thing.’

‘Yeah?’

‘The toilet window was unfastened. 
Somebody could have locked the place on the inside then climbed out.’

‘Bit obvious, though, Leyton.  Stage
a suicide then leave your signature?’

‘Perhaps if they were in a hurry, Guv?’

‘Or stupid.’

Skelgill realises DS Jones is again
looking at him quizzically.  He indicates with an impatient nod that she
should watch the road ahead.

A moment of silence passes, then DS
Leyton asks, ‘What next, Guv?’

‘You’d better get over to Hodgson’s
place.  Is he married?’

‘Snyder doesn’t think so.  Then
again, he says he knows next to nothing about him.’

‘What’s the address?’

‘Cockermouth, in the main street.  I
looked it up and it seems it’s a flat above the newsagent’s.’

‘Ask in there first.’

‘Will do, Guv.’

‘Better mind how you go, Leyton – in
case he’s dismembered his missus and left her in the freezer.’

‘Cheers, Guv – one corpse is quite
enough for a day.  I don’t have your cast-iron stomach.’

Skelgill indicates with his left hand to
DS Jones that she should take the approaching service station slip road. 
‘On that note, Leyton, I feel a burger coming on.  We’ll love you and
leave you.  I’ll call you later.’

‘Think England will ever win the World
Cup again, Guv?’

Skelgill shakes his head ruefully. 
They have the pair of seats on the starboard side of the aircraft.  Skelgill’s
is adjacent to the window, while Jones’s beside it is separated by one of two
aisles from the central bank of four.  They’re watching the great arch of
Wembley Stadium, highlighted in the afternoon sunshine, gradually disappearing
as the jumbo banks away to find its easterly course.

‘Don't depress me, Jones.  It’s bad
enough to think I’ve got twelve hours inside this aluminium tube breathing
recycled microbes.’  He sits back in the chair and gazes at a
cheongsam-clad stewardess who totters past with a tray of small white
face-towels.  ‘Though it has its compensations.’

DS Jones gives him a playful nudge of her
elbow.  ‘So that’s why you booked
Singapore
, Guv.’

‘Don’t blame me – the Chief’s
office made all the arrangements.  I just worked out we could get there
and back without needing a hotel.’

‘Talk about a flying visit.’

Skelgill shrugs.  ‘We can use the
Police Club as a base – you’ll be able to change there.  They’ll
have showers and wifi and whatever we need.’

DS Jones shakes her head.  ‘I still
don’t know how you pulled it off, Guv.’

‘Natural charm.’

‘Guv – no one charms the Chief.’

‘Well, I guess I’m on a roll.’

‘There has to be something, surely
– for her to approve the budget for flights?  And to get DI Smart to
spare me.’

‘She must think so.’  Skelgill,
impassive, nods slowly.  ‘Which is more than I do.’

DS Jones looks at him questioningly. 
‘Come on, Guv – you must at least have a hunch?’

‘Jones, you know me – I have more hunches
than Nostradamus – but that doesn’t mean a thing.’

‘Guv – do you mean Quasimodo?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Surely he only had one?’

‘You’re getting picky now.’

‘But we’re tailing Goodman –
meanwhile there’s been another death at the school.’

Skelgill shrugs.  ‘The suicides
could be incidental.  What if the second is a total coincidence, and the
Chief used the first purely as an excuse for us to poke our noses in?’

DS Jones puts her hands together
prayer-fashion and brings her index fingers up to her lips.  She frowns
and after a moment’s contemplation says, ‘So there’s some bigger picture in
which Goodman could figure?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Only
maybe
, Guv?’

‘Yeah – whatever.  Look
– this is a chance to strike while the iron’s hot – at least as far
as Goodman’s concerned.  If we’re wrong, nothing’s lost.  Except a
few quid on flights.’

‘I’m worried we won’t see anything
incriminating, Guv – it seems a bit of a long-shot just to try to observe
him.’

‘Don’t worry, Jones, I’ve got a plan for
that.’

DS Jones shakes her head.  While he
has told her she has been conscripted because – unlike DS Leyton, or
Skelgill himself – she won’t be recognised by Mr Goodman, she knows sufficient
of Skelgill to suspect strongly that something unorthodox is afoot.

‘Does the Chief know about this plan,
Guv?’

‘She knows enough.’

‘Guv...’  DS Jones sounds insistent.

‘Listen – she forked out for the
trip, didn’t she?  She has faith in me.  Don’t worry about it. 
I’ll tell you more when we arrive.  Once we get the lie of the land.’

DS Jones stoically shakes her head. 
‘And DI Smart’s going to be livid.’

Skelgill glowers.  ‘The Chief said
she’d deal with Smart.  She wants the details of this trip kept under
wraps.  Even Leyton’s supposed to think we’re in London.’

DS Jones nods pensively.

Skelgill reaches forward and lifts a menu
card from a flap in the seat pocket.  ‘When do the drinks come?’

‘Dunno, Guv – I’ve never been on a
long-haul flight before.’

‘Me neither – but, look at this
–
Singapore Sling
– when in Rome, eh?  Better give that
a go.’

DS Jones grins.  ‘Okay – so I
know what to order with my sparkling water.’

‘Alcohol ‘till touchdown, black coffee
thereafter.’

‘I only hope we can sleep, Guv – I’m
playing catch-up as it is.’

Skelgill shrugs, as if it were no concern
of his.

‘That was a bit of a late night,
Guv.’  DS Jones’s tone is somewhat tentative.

Skelgill is staring at the menu card. 
‘What did you tell Smart?’

Now her voice is rather flat.  ‘I
said my Dad’s on medication – which is true – and he can’t be
relied upon to take it.’

‘Right.’

Skelgill pushes his recline button. 
‘If asked, forget you saw me.’  He slips on his headset and begins to jab
distractedly at his remote control.

DS Jones sinks back into her own seat. 
‘You got it.’

*

Seasoned travellers have their well-tried
strategies for surviving night flights, and immediately some passengers bed
down, blindfolded and ear-plugged, recognising that it’s already midnight in
Singapore, and six hours sleep in the back pocket is the best insurance against
jet lag tomorrow.  For Skelgill and DS Jones, however, the little
novelties of cold towels, warm towels, drinks and dinner, added to the
in-flight entertainment system, keep them going well into the Orient’s early
hours.  And, of course, it’s still evening in the UK.

Eventually Jones, perhaps lulled into
slumber by the dimmed lights and progressive settling down going on around her,
drops off during the extended opening credits of her second rom-com. 
Skelgill, however, shows no signs of succumbing to fatigue, and periodically clambers
over her unconscious form to wander to one or other of the washrooms, soon
learning that he is
persona non grata
among the otherwise charming crew when
it comes to infiltrating the business class section.  Moving through the
darkened cabin is rather like tiptoeing through some great celestial dormitory,
a fantastic Land of Nod where individual sleepers have been gathered together, unknowingly
to act out their private dreamtime routines, their bodies curled foetus-like, their
faces sagging masks.

For a light sleeper such as Skelgill,
there are also the various unsynchronised challenges of crying babies, heavy
snorers, those with chronic coughs, and the occasional crash of luggage in the
overhead lockers as the aircraft slices into a pocket of clear-air turbulence.

Whenever DS Jones tosses and turns in
search of comfort, tugging her blanket close around her shoulders, she opens
half an eye to see Skelgill, upright and staring, seemingly watching their
progress across Eurasia on the map on his screen.  And he is awake, too,
when the lights come up and the cabin fills with the thick aroma of cooked
breakfast – though as yet there is no sign of it – and the aisles
become clogged with bleary eyed folk in crumpled clothes, stretching and
yawning as they queue silently for the toilets.

The sun, too, has reappeared.  One
after another, window blinds are raised, and the great orange orb they waved
away over the Atlantic now greets them above the South China Sea, a little
miracle of circumnavigation.  As they make a rapid diving descent Skelgill,
holding his nose and swallowing hard, squints into the brightness, but there is
ocean below and little to see.  Only when the pilot lines up over the Straits
to take them into Changi, does Skelgill make an exclamation, wowed by the mind-boggling
flotilla of cargo ships assembled like a great Elizabethan armada.

Thus, as is the way with all long
journeys, they suddenly arrive.  The jumbo slams onto the runway without
apology or explanation, passengers strain forwards against their belts, and lost
mobiles shoot from beneath seats.  Then, as the engines are cut, before
even the fasten-seatbelt signs are switched off, all hell breaks loose.  Collective
lethargy and indifference suddenly transforms into every-man-for-himself argy-bargy,
and a competition develops to drag bags from overhead lockers, and push and
shove for pole position in the aisles.

Skelgill and DS Jones look on
phlegmatically.  They can afford to be a little complacent at this
juncture; journeying on minimal hand luggage, they sense they have an easy
passage compared to some overburdened travellers.  In due course they
filter into the line of departing passengers, and fall in with the general flow
of the crowd as it snakes along pontoons, corridors and airborne glass-sided
walkways, affording views of what looks less like an airport and more of a
theme park blended into a shopping mall.

Perhaps one of the reasons for their
fellow passengers’ urgency to exit the aircraft becomes clear when they eventually
draw to a halt in the substantial queue for passport control: had they got off
quickly they certainly would have saved themselves some time here.  Now they
stand awed in the cathedral-like atrium, forced to admire its free-standing
palm trees and towering walls clad with lianas and running water.  If
visitors harbour any doubts that they’ve arrived in the tropics, this is all
the confirmation they need.

In the process of gradually shuffling
forwards, Skelgill suddenly drops to his knees as if he’s ducking a flying
missile.

‘Guv – what is it?’  DS Jones
is taken aback.

‘Shush.’  Skelgill shakes his
head.  He digs frantically in his bag, and after a brief search retrieves his
limp-brimmed bush hat and a pair of outmoded sunglasses, donning both before
rather circumspectly rising to his full height.

DS Jones gapes in amazement – it’s
as if he’s going to pull some gauche disguise stunt with the immigration
officials.

Cautiously he turns so that he is alongside
her.  Out of the corner of his mouth he hisses, ‘Over there, in the VIP
queue.’

‘What, Guv – I don’t get it?’

‘In the grey suit, with the black
briefcase.  Third from the front.  Don’t stare – it’s Goodman.’

DS Jones steps round to face Skelgill,
‘You mean the Head?’

‘It’s him.  Definitely.’

‘I’ll keep my back to him.’

‘Yeah, best do.  He’ll be gone in a
minute.’

‘So he was on our flight, Guv?’

‘Looks that way.’

‘But, Guv – that means he could
have been at the school on Monday night.’

Skelgill nods.  ‘Something else for
you to find out, Jones – did he really go to London?’