‘Oh.’
DS Leyton sounds disappointed. But before he can respond Skelgill continues.
‘Cumbria were just one great forest once, Leyton. What you see now – the bare fells, the walled enclosures – everything up to seventeen, eighteen hundred foot, that were solid trees. Obviously – not during the Ice Age. I’m talking after that. Then along came farming tribes that hacked out clearings – starting in the valley bottoms where the land was most fertile. Called their settlements after one thing or another.’
DS Leyton purses his lips.
‘So, what’s Balderthwaite, then – boulder field?’
Skelgill guesses DS Jones probably knows this – but he was once taught it, too. It just takes a greater effort to prise the fact from his memory.
‘Something to do with a god.’
He detects that DS Jones is nodding – and he turns to her with a raised eyebrow that invites her input.
‘We did a project on it when I was at primary school. The Vicious Vikings. Although most of their settlements’ names are quite innocuous. Applethwaite, Brackenthwaite, Crosthwaite – quite often you can work it out.’
DS Leyton looks rather bemused.
‘So, what – did they speak English?’
DS Jones giggles as though she thinks he must be joking. But then she responds. ‘No – we speak Old Norse!’
Skelgill is nodding contemplatively.
‘Here’s one for the pair of you – Slatterthwaite.’
Each of his subordinates make as if to speak – and each realises they cannot conjure an educated guess. Skelgill provides a hint.
‘I’ll give you a clue – happen it was where they had the local abattoir.’
6. PRESS CONFERENCE
Tuesday 11 am
‘Just a few days short of twenty-two years ago Mary Wilson left her woollens stall at Balderthwaite shepherds’ meet in order to walk her Lakeland Terrier. When she did not reappear at the close of the event informal inquiries began to be made concerning her whereabouts. It was established that she had neither returned to her mother’s cottage at the nearby hamlet of Slatterthwaite where she lived with her husband and their baby son, nor had she gone directly to her part-time job at the Twa Tups public house in Balderthwaite. The police were notified and her car was located at approximately 7pm near the tourist attraction known as the Bowder Stone, a place she regularly exercised the dog. It emerged that the animal had returned home of its own accord during the middle of the afternoon, although this was a common occurrence, and had not alarmed Mary’s mother, Mrs Jean Tyson.
‘Mary did not come home. In the ensuing days a major search took place of the surrounding countryside, but only one small possible trace of her was found – a woollen key fob of the type she knitted, which was identified by her husband to have the same pattern as that she used on her own bunch of keys. This was discovered in the woods a short distance from the car. The item was sent for forensic testing and a male DNA profile was recovered from traces of saliva. At that time DNA profiling was in its infancy.’
‘Haha – like you, eh, darling?’
Skelgill, by the wonders of modern technology, is silently watching the media briefing on the screen in his office, in company with DS Leyton; now the latter detects telltale signs of his superior inwardly bristling. DS Jones, however, ignores the intervention.
‘There was no national DNA database against which to compare the sample. Cumbria police took the unprecedented step of testing all males aged over seventeen who lived or worked in the district of Borrowdale. This was a voluntary programme, to which most consented. A handful that did not were eliminated by other means. The scheme did not produce a match. This line of investigation was based on the theory that Mary Wilson had tried to fend off an assailant, perhaps using her keys as a weapon, and the fob became detached in the struggle. However, not only was there no local match, in the intervening years there has been no profile added to the national database that has corresponded to the sample. Mary Wilson’s disappearance has remained a mystery.
‘A mystery that is until Sunday, two days ago. A research group from Durham University working in a wooded ravine known as Odinsgill discovered human remains beneath rocks in a narrow fissure. The archaeologists refer to the cave by its Viking name, Friggeshol.’
In avoiding the colloquial epithet it is DS Jones’s intention to diminish the potential for sensationalism. But the graphic Old Norse alternative triggers a ripple of sniggers; these journalists, in the main older males, are long in the tooth and set like concrete in their undesirable ways. But she continues unperturbed; she knows she is in possession of facts they covet.
‘The remains were identified by means of dental records as those of Mary Wilson. A preliminary autopsy has concluded that the cause of death was by strangulation. Further, a forensic geologist has determined that the nature of the concealment of the body was not by a natural rockfall. We have therefore formally opened a murder investigation.’
DS Jones pauses, and takes a sip from her bottle of mineral water – but, apart perhaps from one pair of keen eyes that are upon her, these hoary hacks are reluctant to concede much in the way of enthusiasm to the fresh-faced female detective. She glances tentatively at her notes.
‘Further detailed forensic tests are underway to recover any available evidence from the site. We would request that members of the public please keep away from the area.’
Now she puts her papers aside and casts about in a manner that invites questions.
‘Surely we are talking local knowledge?’
It is the bright-eyed young man who wastes no time, Kendall Minto of the Westmorland Gazette. His question is incisive, and he knows it. He is none other than the author of the controversial article to which DS Jones has drawn her colleagues’ attention. She finds herself backpedalling.
‘It is correct to say it is not a publicised landmark. But there are many quarries and caves and even small crevices throughout the area – literally hundreds across Borrowdale. If you were searching for somewhere to conceal a body, you would sooner or later come across such a place.’
‘It’s a long way up the hillside to lug a corpse.’ Kendall Minto’s tone is guileless, but his argument is persuasive.
‘Mary Wilson’s dog was a breed that would readily follow the scent of a fox. It is quite possible that it strayed to the vicinity of the cave. If it had a fox at bay she would have needed to go and pull it away.’
‘And there just happened to be a madman hanging about?’
This is the cynical drawl of one of the other journalists.
‘More likely she was followed from her car.’
The audience might appear indifferent but they have a nose for obfuscation. If they sense there is something the police do not want to admit, they will home in on it. Another now pipes up.
‘How did they miss the body?’
Evidently he refers to the original unproductive search.
‘They had to cover almost twenty thousand acres. Much of the terrain could be described as hostile. The area of Odinsgill comprises steep-sided moss-encrusted scree, cliffs and gullies swathed in dense woodland and tangled undergrowth. With limited resources it would be physically impossible to explore every square inch.’
DS Jones’s response brings some disgruntled murmurs. But there is at least a tacit understanding that she is obliged to make unsatisfactory excuses for the failings of her predecessors.
‘Was it a sexual assault?’
DS Jones fixes her steady gaze on the questioner.
‘There are no such indications. The forensic examination has identified remnants of material that match the outfit she wore on the day she disappeared. Therefore the initial opinion is that she was buried fully clothed. It is considered unlikely that any DNA of the nature of which you speak will have survived.’
‘Why do you think she was strangled?’
‘There is a fracture of the hyoid bone – it is consistent with fatal st
rangulation – found in a third of adult cases.’
The questioner tries again; he seeks a motive rather than a diagnosis.
‘Why would anyone do that?’
‘There was nothing that came to light in the original inquiry that suggested Mary Wilson was the subject of some grudge or dispute. She was thirty, and had been married since the age of eighteen, and a year earlier the couple had had their first child. Their financial situation was stable, if somewhat restricted.’
That she parries the second thrust seems to prompt a sudden flurry of questions.
‘Who’s the prime suspect – they must have had someone in the frame?’
‘Do you still think it was a serial killer?’
‘How about the husband – are you going to be arresting him, now?’
‘Was she having an affair?’
At this DS Jones holds up her palms to quell the disorder. That there are four questions rather than one in fact enables her to answer none.
‘I have told you as much as we know – and we will keep you abreast of developments. I would ask you not to speculate. The obvious lines of inquiry were thoroughly investigated – an accident, for instance that she had drowned in the River Derwent; that she had been abducted from the district; that she had eloped. Please remember that Mary Wilson’s mother is still alive, and so of course is her son – who was only a year old at the time – and consider their feelings at this moment.’
There crystallises a just-tangible aura, a collective sense of sheepishness, at being ticked off by the young detective sergeant. Having gained sway, DS Jones presses home her advantage.
‘You could help them – and us – by emphasising the crux of this case. After almost twenty-two years we know of Mary Wilson’s fate. Perhaps that knowledge will now make sense to someone who did not previously realise it. Indeed, her killer may no longer be alive – which might make it possible for someone to come forward who formerly felt constrained.’
This profound appeal maintains the silence – and DS Jones senses it is the note on which she ought to conclude. She closes the file on her tablet, screws the top on her water bottle and gathers up her notes and rises, thanking the journalists for their attendance. The main group seem to have had their fill – besides, opening hour beckons – but Kendall Minto hangs back. As a high school contemporary DS Jones finds tiresome his brazen self-confidence. But he is sharp witted, and she rates his commitment to his job, and in the past he has proved himself to be insightful; and so she gives him the time of day.
‘Detective Sergeant Jones.’
That he uses her title – half fawning, half mocking in his insouciant, chatting-up manner – warns her of what might be coming. He gives a flick of his swept-back hair; with his boyish good looks and his leather jacket there is something of a latter-day Billy Fury in his demeanour; and he is evidently undeterred by previous rejections.
‘Wait.’
DS Jones switches off the lights and ushers him out of the interview room, out of earshot of the microphone. He contrives casually to occupy the centre ground of the corridor.
‘I’m pretty certain I still owe you a drink.’
‘Then you would know I’m not able to drink on duty.’
She raises her water bottle.
‘It doesn’t have to be alcoholic. Albeit that’s half the fun.’
DS Jones squeezes past him.
‘And I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how busy we are with this case.’
He regards her quizzically, as though he thinks she is simply stalling. But then he makes a sudden pronouncement.
‘There must be a flaw in the DNA process. You realise that?’
DS Jones stops and turns – she holds his gaze, her hazel eyes unblinking and clear.
‘Naturally, we’re getting that aspect reviewed.’
‘That cave – Friggeshol – it’s known to locals as the Kissing Cave. Am I right?’
It is not like Kendall Minto to eschew the opportunity for innuendo – but no trace of it has entered his voice. DS Jones gives a shake of her naturally streaked blonde hair; but she does not gainsay his suggestion. Instead she begins to move away. Kendall Minto persists.
‘Listen, I can be an extra pair of eyes and ears. People tell reporters things they won’t say to the police.’
‘Do they?’
But this might almost be a little trap. He produces a smug grin.
‘I thought you would know that.’
DS Jones looks like she might be about to object. But again it is the young journalist that speaks first.
‘Look – my final offer – coffee and cake. Who could possibly resist?’
They have reached a security door marked ‘exit’. DS Jones presses the release button and holds it open for him to go out.
‘We’ll see.’
Through the glass she watches his jaunty departure; there is a decided spring of conquest in his step.
That Skelgill and DS Leyton have observed the media briefing by CCTV reflects the former’s thinking to present their message as a low-key affair. However, there is a certain Catch 22 at play here, for he desires to achieve maximum reach for their appeal. But he does not want the area flooded with reporters, getting under their feet and interviewing local people before they do. By delegating the task to a lower rank, and indeed excluding the Chief when she might legitimately have been present, he has run the risk of throwing DS Jones to the wolves of the press pack. And he has bridled at times at the chauvinistic undercurrent of disrespect. Though he has to admit that his female deputy handled the press conference with greater aplomb than he would have. That said, when DS Jones returns it is her fellow sergeant that congratulates her.
‘Nice one, Emma.’
She shrugs modestly, and glances apprehensively at Skelgill – but he has his nose in a mug and the look he flashes her is hard to read. She takes her seat by the window and composes herself. It is DS Leyton that comments again, his tone buoyant.
‘Who knows, girl – like you just said – maybe some geezer’s been stewing all these years with the key to the mystery. When they read it in their paper it’ll prick their conscience. This time tomorrow we could be sitting pretty.’
But Skelgill seems set on a more fatalistic note. He addresses the room but his remark must surely be directed at DS Jones.
‘Just watch what you say to that Minto character. We know the tricks he can get up to. I don’t want him putting ideas into folk’s heads.’
If the remark were intended as bait, then DS Jones rises to it.
‘But, Guv – he did write that article – and he may be proved correct. I think he’ll want the right outcome. I do believe he is committed to the local community. He’s an intelligent guy and he could have left for a bigger job in London long ago.’
Skelgill is glowering, perhaps unreasonably now.
‘Name me a journalist that’s not out for themselves. Besides, he’s nailed his colours to the mast. You say he wants the right outcome – but what is that?’
It is unclear whether Skelgill expects a response or if his demand is rhetorical. But his assertion of neutrality is a stance that does not entirely hold firm. And he knows this, too – for the interim forensic report that has reached them this morning – an abridged version of which DS Jones has relayed at the press conference – supports the theory that Mary Wilson was murdered and her body meticulously concealed. It is the conclusion of the forensic geologist that the stones used to create the impression of a rockfall inside the Kissing Cave were gathered from perhaps ten distinct sources, not just from the fractured mouth of the cave itself. This shows an appreciation that such a visible disturbance would draw attention. In all, an estimated seven hundredweights of rubble had been ferried to conceal the body – an act that likely took several hours, and quite possibly required more than one visit to the cave. This is further suggestive of a person that lived or at least was staying locally – certainly it is not the typical behaviour of a transient ser
ial killer who would strike and promptly leave both the scene and the district. Moreover, that significant remnants of clothing have been recovered lessen the likelihood of a sexual motive – again the most statistically probable cause of an impulsive, opportunistic attack. Expert opinion is that Mary Wilson was interred fully clothed in the outfit for which there is a reliable description of what she wore on the day of the shepherds’ meet. Only a magenta headscarf has not been identified – but wool is most prone to rapid biological decay, and a scarf the one item likely to have become separated in a scuffle.
Like it or not, these straws in the wind are indicative of the putative verdict that the precocious local reporter has championed. Accordingly, for Skelgill, the sense of spinning out of control has him instinctively applying the brakes. At such times his colleagues must endure the frustration of his apparent death wish to thwart their progress. Of the pair, DS Leyton is the more likely to acquiesce to his superior’s foibles. Having worked with Skelgill the longer, he has honed non-confrontational tactics for seeding ideas that he knows will otherwise rub against the grain. Typically he will enter throwaway remarks that can surely only be meant in jest – as indeed he has already voiced more than once in this embryonic investigation. For he has learnt that, though Skelgill might be a recalcitrant git, he is capricious, too – and this latter quality is a redeeming feature. He absorbs what might seem to pass him by, and has the ability to perform an audacious volte-face on the strength of information that he has previously denied.
DS Jones, on the other hand, is more straightforward. A quick and rational thinker, she is prone to counter Skelgill’s arguments with her own, and confront head on his unmindful riding roughshod over their points of view. It is in her nature to pursue a hot trail, and to follow it at a canter. In the case of Mary Wilson, she has initiated activity to re-examine the outsider-cum-serial-killer theory, and has balanced this with the opinion that the local community should have been treated with greater significance in the initial investigation. This latter point is reflected now in her response.
Murder at the Meet Page 7