But he is thinking of making a glorious return, just not of the manner about which DS Jones teases him. They join him in the car; he reverses and they pull away in silence, each to their own thoughts. With a practised knack Skelgill jack-knifes the vehicle around a tight angle between jutting barns built from tightly stacked slate. As the long brown shooting brake disappears from sight of the cottage, Jean Tyson emerges from the back door. She has exchanged her blue overall for a tan raincoat, and she is fastening a multi-coloured knitted headscarf beneath her chin, the determined squareness of her jaw exaggerated by the action. She calls the terrier, Archie, and threads a length of twine through his collar, and together they set off walking; almost immediately they turn off the narrow lane onto a track that leads to the old stone footbridge over Slatterdale Beck, and beyond the footpath that faithfully follows its course.
5. SCORDY AN’ SCRAN
Monday afternoon
‘What?’
Skelgill is responding to the looks of his subordinates as he approaches them. Under protest they have yielded to his impulsive demand to stop – having driven hardly three minutes – at a signposted farm shop and café; it has a secluded outdoor area, a handful of rustic benches and tables surrounded by lush ornamental foliage and a view over a pasture grazed by good-sized black Herdwick lambs and scruffy shorn ewes. Now he is met with faces that speak of his incorrigibility, since he has procured unasked not just teas but also three mountainous fruit scones made up with dollops of homemade jam and cream. Scordy an’ scran, as the whimsical author of the poster phrased it.
‘Look – it’s on me – what’s the problem?’ In rather rebellious fashion he drops the tray on the warped oak-planked picnic table and takes a seat between his colleagues. ‘If you can’t finish yours, I will. You have to support local businesses. I know Debs in there – it’s bad enough she’s given us a discount.’
It seems DS Leyton has quickly resigned himself to the situation.
‘What are they, Guv – Bowder Scones? They ought to be, the size of ’em.’
Skelgill is obviously ravenous, for he is already tucking in, spilling crumbs onto his lap and beyond, and a raiding party of waiting house sparrows moves in. He shows his approval of DS Leyton’s quip with a raising of his eyebrows.
‘You’re on fire today, Leyton – you should be in advertising. I’ll tell her that.’
DS Leyton seems pleased by the unaccustomed praise. He gazes rather wistfully at their surroundings.
‘I suppose it’s inspiring being out here, Guv.’
‘Leyton – that’s exactly why I want a chat now. Before we get swamped by what everyone else thought. While all this is fresh in our minds.’
Skelgill waves his part-consumed scone, making a circle in the air, sending an arc of crumbs across the lawn and precipitating a splinter movement from the main flock of passerines. His colleagues follow his indication to the horizon. Directly before them are the hills that all but close off Borrowdale; Grange Fell, wooded with oaks and birches, and the imposing ridge of High Spy, Scawdale Fell as Skelgill was taught to call it and as it appears on his precious antiquarian map of Cumberland. But this lofty raised skyline sweeps around to encircle them. The impression is less of a dale and more of a great wild amphitheatre with no easy way out; and it was thus a century ago, before the motor car and tarmacadam, when a visit to market in Keswick was a day’s expedition; for the superstitious or faint of heart there were the dark woods, the supernatural – and wild animals and human vagrants and vagabonds; this mountain enclave a stage where modest rural lives were lived out largely in isolation, and it is a phenomenon that has not entirely changed.
DS Jones has brought her notebook that contains the questions she had prepared for earlier. She does not open it, but she lays a palm on the cover as a precursor to her contribution.
‘Are you thinking it was a local man, Guv?’
Skelgill could toss in a handful of caveats – woman, accomplices, conspirators – but it would be pedantic, for they all know this; the operative word is local.
‘That’s what she reckons – Mary’s Ma, aye?’
There is no obvious reason that Skelgill should believe this – there was no clinching fact – he gave Jean Tyson ample opportunity to point the finger; yet even the widower Aidan Wilson whom she had some cause to resent largely escaped her disapprobation. So he seems to be going by gut feel – the principle that what has been absorbed by the senses is translated by the mind but not always fed back to the conscious brain. Skelgill knows this – his subordinates know it of him – until some unexpected catalyst sparks a revelation it is a case of the proverbial ‘unknown unknowns’. And it is not a process that can be artificially hastened. Besides, there is the small matter that they cannot properly pursue the ‘crime’ until they know what it is. Mary Wilson may have died from natural causes and the only offence the concealment of her body. But while Skelgill is evidently content with the spontaneous nature of the interview, and now his eyes track a couple of feisty lambs that suddenly decide to go head to head, DS Jones indicates that she is more comfortable dealing in tangibles.
‘Guv – among other things, I’ve set the team onto reviewing all similar ‘lone female’ cases in the north of England in the past twenty-five years. First to see if there’s any pattern that has emerged since, and then to identify whether known perpetrators could have been contenders in Mary Wilson’s death – specifically their whereabouts at the time. I’ve requested that the original DNA sample be re-tested.’
Though he is still watching the jousting lambs, Skelgill nods bleakly. However, DS Jones is ready to voice what may be his unspoken objection.
‘Guv – I realise no match has ever come to light – but I don’t think we should risk being accused of leaving such an obvious stone unturned.’
Her metaphor is perhaps a little unfortunate – but that she would go to such lengths of diligence is commendable – despite that she has already picked a hole in the process that she proposes. DNA analysis was in its infancy at the time of Mary Wilson’s disappearance; the criminal database expanded rapidly thereafter, effectively turning the future process on its head. Where the Cumbrian police were obliged to build their own database, wastefully trawling through hundreds of entirely innocent civilians in the surrounding area, today there are six million records on file of people who have actually been cautioned; many continue to reoffend. That a match from the unknown DNA found at the ‘crime scene’ at Cummacatta has never been thrown up is potentially significant. It allows the tentative hypothesis that the perpetrator was probably neither a serial killer nor even a career criminal; sooner or later such fugitives make a mistake. It is another leap altogether, however, to conclude that Mary Wilson’s murderer came from the local community.
DS Leyton shifts uncomfortably on the bench and rubs a hand through his tousle of dark hair. Then he makes a sudden lunge for his scone and takes a greedy bite.
‘Flippin’ heck – I’m comfort eating!’ He emits an exasperated splutter before composing himself. ‘Reckon it’s a red herring, Guv – this DNA malarkey?’
Skelgill’s response is characteristically cryptic.
‘Happen it made them take their eye off the ball. Thinking that would sort it. Then a month’s gone by and they were back to square one.’
‘We could be at blinkin’ ground zero, Guv.’
Skelgill demurs.
‘We’ve got a lot more evidence than they had, Leyton.’
He means there is a body – and rather like the Three Wise Monkeys the detectives ranged along the bench nod in unison. Skelgill despatches the last of his snack and sucks a thumb and a forefinger and rubs his hand on his thigh. He glances speculatively at DS Jones’s as yet untouched scone. But the sugar boost seems to have kicked in and he pronounces with more gusto.
‘What do you reckon about what old Ma Tyson had to say?’
DS Jones leans forward to glance around Skelgill at DS Leyton – but he is contented
ly chewing and inclines his head to suggest she should answer.
‘Being brutal about it, Guv – if you take the relationship between Mary and Aidan Wilson, there wasn’t much to give cause for alarm. I guess most mothers-in-law would have a few complaints about their daughter’s husband.’
Skelgill turns sharply to DS Leyton, who plainly feels suddenly conspicuous. He makes a ‘guilty as charged’ face. However, Skelgill seeks an opinion of a different nature from his male colleague.
‘Slinging his hook – I get that. But what about leaving the bairn?’
DS Leyton’s thick-necked head seems to sink deeper into his broad shoulders. He nods pensively.
‘Can’t imagine it myself, Guv – but it ain’t unheard of – how many thousands of deadbeat dads are there? And maybe the geezer thought, I’m only down the road.’ He cocks a thumb to indicate the short distance they have travelled. ‘If the old girl weren’t too keen on him, maybe she was quite happy. Having the kid must have been a big comfort for her – gave her something to do, a purpose. Maybe she didn’t go out of her way to keep Aidan Wilson involved. I suppose we’ll find out his side of the story.’
Skelgill is nodding reflectively as his sergeant continues.
‘But I reckon it’s right what she said about Mary Wilson and her dog. Having traipsed up there, I can’t see she would have climbed to that cave. And, like Emma says, she had her stall to get back to.’
Skelgill looks less convinced by this argument. He turns to DS Jones.
‘But you also pointed out the easiest way to get her body there was to let her walk. It’s not called the Kissing Cave without reason.’
DS Jones regards Skelgill rather guilelessly; perhaps now her cheeks begin to colour a little – she makes a dart for her notebook and quickly opens it to one of a series of pages marked with indexed yellow stickers.
‘That she had a rendezvous – naturally it was one of the theories they investigated. Several of the interviewees – those with closer connections to her – were probed about this. In one of the decision reports the officer wrote that it could have been a possibility, but nobody was prepared to go out on a limb and state that they knew she was having an affair.’
Skelgill is frowning.
‘Little community like this – everyone knows everyone else’s business. It’s not something folk are usually slow in coming forward about.’
‘Unless they’ve got something to hide, Guv.’ It is DS Leyton who chips in.
There is a short pause before DS Jones speaks again.
‘What you asked Jean Tyson about Mary meeting another dog walker or a friend, Guv? If you did want to meet a person that you weren’t supposed to – then by doing something that’s part of your regular routine – it wouldn’t arouse suspicion. And if you were seen it could appear like a coincidence.’
Skelgill rather suspects he sometimes witnesses such a scenario – when one dog walker arrives at a parking spot, and another jumps out of a waiting car. There might as well be a winged cupid hovering above them as they head into the woods, so obvious is the affected ‘normal’ body language. DS Leyton puts it another way.
‘Like they say – in plain sight?’
DS Jones nods.
‘Well – kind of. I mean – it would be out of sight in those secluded woods and easy to avoid what few people were about. But no one would be suspicious of Mary Wilson setting out with the dog – like her husband, or mother, or other people in the village who might disapprove, or who might gossip if they found out.’
DS Leyton grins.
‘So we need a list of former dog owners!’
DS Jones frowns, although her suntanned forehead is smooth and just a crinkle forms between her eyebrows.
‘I suppose it would depend on whether the other person needed an excuse or not.’
She glances at Skelgill and sees that he is scowling, staring fiercely into the middle distance across the pasture, his eyes unblinking, and his gaze fixed and unseeing. She recognises there comes a point when too much speculation discomfits him; and, frankly, at this juncture they could weave a web of possibilities that could render them tangled and immobile. She makes an effort to draw back the wayward threads.
‘Nowadays – with all these dating apps – a woman like her could hook up with anyone from miles around. But you’d think, back then – a little place like this – if there were a person, they would have been swept into the inquiry.’
Skelgill snaps out of his trance. For a moment he appears disconcerted by some aspect of her suggestion – but then he speaks evenly.
‘Remind me of the folk that saw her leaving.’
DS Jones locates the corresponding page in her notebook.
‘There were eleven formal statements – and notes of approximately a hundred short interviews. That covers everyone who lived in the immediate vicinity, and visitors who got in touch when they heard the appeal for information. Obviously there are detailed statements from Jean Tyson and Aidan Wilson. There were four positive eyewitnesses to her leaving the shepherds’ meet. First, Sean Nicolson, then aged thirty, a local shepherd. He’d been at school with Mary Wilson, and he also supplied her with wool – so he must have known her quite well. He was considered to be the main reliable witness to her leaving the actual event – he saw her walk out with her dog on its lead at shortly before one o’clock. Then she went across to the pub where her car was parked – and that was where the other three saw her through the window. There was Megan Nicolson, also thirty, wife of Sean, and also a former schoolmate; she worked with her as a barmaid. Then there were the two competition judges who had retired to the bar to make their decisions. That was Walter Dickson, described as a mechanic, aged seventy-two, and Patrick Pearson, fifty, a tenant farmer from up beyond Slatterthwaite – I wonder if he’s the same person that Jean Tyson referred to when she spoke of her dog being run over – she called him ‘Pick’?’
Skelgill is nodding.
‘Aye, I’ve heard of him. I’m sure he still judges now. I reckon the other feller might be dead. It was the Dicksons that had the garage – it must be one of the sons now. I might ask me Ma.’
DS Leyton, however, appears perplexed.
‘If they all knew one another you’d think more people would have noticed.’
But Skelgill has his doubts.
‘It’s not like the Cumberland Show, Leyton. There’s half a dozen tents and stalls, and most folk are crowding around getting a look at the sheep. Or they might be watching the runners going along the ridge. Folk that had stalls were probably busy selling to tourists. Those showing sheep would’ve had their hands full with them and their dogs. Meantime all she needed were thirty seconds to walk from her stall across to the pub and round the back.’
DS Leyton remains discontented on this point.
‘What about beyond the shepherds’ meet – were there no other sightings of her? At the Bowder Stone, or whatever.’
Perhaps to his and Skelgill’s surprise DS Jones nods in the affirmative. She picks out an indexed section in her notebook.
‘Yes, there was one probable sighting. A touring cyclist who was heading down Borrowdale came forward to say he had been, in his words,’ (she refers directly to the page) ‘“dangerously overtaken by a small red car that was travelling too fast”. He pinpointed the spot to a sharp bend about a quarter of a mile from where Mary Wilson would have turned off to park for the Bowder Stone. He didn’t know the exact time, but based on his overall day’s journey it was estimated at around 1pm.’
DS Leyton is listening attentively.
‘Did he get a look at the driver? Any passengers?’
DS Jones shakes her head.
‘I think he nearly came off the bike – and the car was around the bend before he knew it.’
‘So, she was in a hurry.’
DS Jones nods at her colleague.
‘She was known to be a cautious driver – never had any points on her licence. Apparently she would often walk to t
he woods from the village. The suggestion was that she took the car so she wouldn’t be away for long.’
Skelgill is brooding, thinking about why he often drives too fast.
‘Or she was late for an appointment.’
It is a reminder that there will always be an alternative explanation, and for the time being a silence descends upon the trio. DS Jones puts down her notebook and tests her tea from the artisan mug that bears the name of the village and indeed has its provenance in the local pottery. With dexterity she slices her scone into six segments and watched by an increasingly anxious Skelgill proceeds to eat them one at a time, displaying an unsuspected turn of speed, belied by impeccable manners. But when there are two pieces left she suddenly hands him her plate.
‘I’m full, Guv. These are Bowder Scones!’
Skelgill looks relieved. He makes an unconvincing attempt to offer a portion to his other sergeant.
‘Leyton?’
‘Nah, you’re alright, Guv – I’m stuffed an’ all.’ He leans to glance around at his fellow sergeant. ‘Surprised you managed so much, Emma – slip of a thing like you. Didn’t realise you liked cakes. Always assumed – you know – you’re watching your figure – how you go to the gym, an’ all that.’
DS Jones looks amused.
‘My mum bakes almost every day – I have to save myself for teatime to keep her happy. I could eat cakes for England!’
There ensues more pensive silence – DS Jones’s revelation has set her colleagues thinking. In time it is DS Leyton who ends the little hiatus – and certainly it appears that his thoughts have drifted from the case. He indicates their ‘Balderthwaite’ mugs ranged on the table before them.
‘Everywhere you go round here, Guv, these villages are called this thwaite or that thwaite. What’s all that about?’
Skelgill starts as though his mind is still occupied elsewhere.
‘What?’ Then he casts a hand somewhat absently at the sheep-flecked pasture beyond the café garden. ‘Field – near as dammit.’
Murder at the Meet Page 6