‘Guv – the team are still trying to make contact with Aidan Wilson – but they’ve arranged for us to see Nick Wilson today in his lunch break – at one o’clock.’
Skelgill checks his watch and scowls, as if he might have other plans. It is now approaching noon, and to get back up into Borrowdale is a good forty minutes. DS Jones takes advantage of his hesitation.
‘I was wondering, Guv – if what Jean Tyson said about him is correct – that he is a bit awkward. What if initially I saw him on my own – maybe that would be less intimidating?’
But Skelgill harbours misgivings.
‘Aye – but what if he’s awkward with lasses? That’s most likely. Look – I’m on a level with these country folk. Leyton can take notes.’
‘But, Guv –’
Skelgill cuts her off.
‘Jones – the serial killer – this DNA business – we need it knocked on the head one way or another. You stay on top of that – get it sorted – today if possible. Then we can focus on Borrowdale.’
DS Jones fleetingly bites at her lower lip – perhaps in annoyance that her superior seems to be applying a double standard to his ranking of these respective lines of inquiry. But she swallows her disappointment.
‘Sure – leave it with me.’ She looks downcast as Skelgill rises and pulls his jacket from its fish-hook peg. Via a jerk of the head he gestures to DS Leyton, who gets up with a groan and flashes a clandestine face of apology at his counterpart. DS Jones endeavours to sound agreeable. ‘When will you be back?’
‘Maybe three – depends if Debs’ place is open.’
They turn in opposite directions from Skelgill’s door, he and DS Leyton heading for the rear exit and the car park, DS Jones towards the open plan. As she reaches her desk the screen on her mobile lights up with a text. She bends over to see an abbreviated location and an imminent time – and emojis of an Americano and a cupcake. She glances up at the clock on the wall – and then at the stack of files in her tray marked ‘action’. Like Skelgill a moment earlier, she reaches for her jacket.
7. NICK WILSON
Tuesday 1pm
‘What’s lonnin, then, Guv? I get the beck part.’
DS Leyton refers to the council-issue street sign, behind which is fixed a more rudimentary notice on plywood, hand-lettered and merely stating, ‘Garage – Repair’s – MOT’s’.
‘Lane.’
Skelgill’s reply is terse – but when he offers nothing further his colleague persists.
‘Well – there you go. One of my old aunts used to live down a street called Water Lane – Canning Town, near the River Lea, she was.’
Skelgill seems unimpressed – but in fact he is thinking he read only recently in Angling Times of some monster chub fished out of the lesser-known London flower. Equally, it might appear to his colleague that he is simply concentrating upon navigating the narrow passage that is Beck Lonnin, barely a car’s width between high stone walls. Indeed DS Leyton comments accordingly.
‘You need the old cat’s whiskers for this one, Guv.’
Skelgill makes a grunt of acknowledgement – and then a more encouraging growl of triumph, for as they swing around a sharp bend they see their destination ahead, the gable end of an elongated stone barn, its entrance doors and lintel high enough to admit carriages of yore. It is effectively the end of the lane, and to continue would see them driving directly into the garage, were it not for a line of vehicles that disappear into the gloom. There is a peeling fascia that announces, ‘Walter Dickson & Co, Motor Mechanics’ and a dated MOT sign, three fused white triangles reversed out of royal blue, that Skelgill sees as the face of a wolf, and which looks like it once took a peppering from a shotgun.
Skelgill parks a couple of yards short of the entrance, and he and DS Leyton squeeze down the side of the first car, a pre-1963 Morris Minor that has its bonnet raised to reveal an engine the size of a peanut. To their right they pass a poky office with no door and standing room only, its walls plastered with grubby certificates, invoices, raunchy calendars and miscellaneous hand-scrawled notes stained by greasy fingers. The main body of the long byre is dimly lit by a couple of inadequate strip lights; there is the impression of a hunter-gatherer’s cave, with tools on wall hooks and engine parts and wheels in stacks, and everything coated in a primordial patina of axle grease and iron filings. There is no sign, however, of an incumbent troglodyte until a sudden metallic clunk and a violent curse (as if someone forcing a wrench has shot the thread and skinned a knuckle) can be traced to a pit beneath the third vehicle, an original Land Rover that Skelgill thinks he recognises – though of the same colour and model he knows it cannot belong to Arthur Hope, for he does all his own repairs.
‘Mr Wilson?’
What has evolved into a rendition of oaths is curtailed. There comes a man’s voice, a strong local accent.
‘Who wants him?’
Skelgill edges forward – now he can see the whites of eyes from a blackened face like a coal miner’s – there is lank black hair – and scowling up at them a man perhaps in his early fifties.
‘DI Skelgill, DS Leyton – Cumbria CID.’
Suspicion fades slightly.
‘About his Ma, aye?’
‘We’ve made an appointment.’
‘He’s in his van – having his bait. Thoo’ll need to gan around t’ side – out t’ front, to your right – where it says ‘Caravan Park’. Number three.’
Skelgill hesitates. He stares at the man, wondering what each of them must be thinking – or feeling, more like. But the man’s face is hidden behind its oily mask – and Skelgill must only be a dark silhouette against the fluorescent lamp above his head.
‘Cheers.’
Skelgill follows DS Leyton back the way they entered. As they disappear around the corner the man hauls himself out of the inspection pit and pads noiselessly after them on rubber soles. Blinking in the daylight he spends a few moments staring at Skelgill’s car – then he retreats into the semi-darkness and picks his way to the far end of the building where a crate is placed beneath an arrow-slit window. He steps up on the crate, stretching on tiptoes with his palms spread against the stones of the wall, and peers through the gap.
But an onlooker will see only innocuous behaviour from the two detectives. As they pass the end of the barn and through an open gate they must experience the anti-climax of many an expectant visitor. The less-than-salubrious ‘Caravan Park’ can only be a disappointment, set in such an idyllic village and spectacular dale. The environs might be an overgrown orchard, although none of the gnarled and tangled trees long past recovery-pruning bear any late fruit. Underfoot the grass is uncut and damp, while irregular stepping-stones run past three static caravans of increasing age, like sarcophagi of successive generations. There are no immediate signs of occupation – Skelgill finds it hard to believe these vans are ever let, despite the popularity of the Lakes; it is easy to envisage trippers turning up in hope and turning around in dismay, and making an angry beeline for the tourist office at Keswick. He feels a nudge from his sergeant, who indicates a dilapidated shed between vans 1 and 2 with the letters ‘W.C.’ painted on the planked door. A standpipe has its tap dripping into a drain concreted at its base.
‘Outside karsey, Guv – that takes me back – me old nan’s place had one of them – you could see a person’s feet dangling under the door – torn-up squares of News of the World hanging on a nail.’
‘Leyton, you were lucky to have News of the World.’
The third caravan is a model that could date from the 1960s, puce in colour and shorter than its neighbours, and rounded, as though streamlining were significant in those days. Despite its vintage it is in smart condition and looks to be the recipient of diligent husbandry. The windows are polished and the exterior is free of the prolific algae that streak the first two mobile homes. The door is at the far end and there is a black japanned step and integral handrail on which respectively are arranged steel-toe-capped work boot
s and a navy blue boiler suit. As the detectives approach they must be spotted for there is the hollow resonance of footfall keeping pace and the door opens as they reach it.
It is not Skelgill’s habit to envisage what someone he has not met might look like, but had he done so Nick Wilson would have matched closely his expectation. And thus he feels a curious sense of acquaintance as he sets eyes upon the tall, well-built young man who appears in the doorway in stockinged feet and wearing blue jeans and a black t-shirt with some kind of musical motif; though it is not the outfit that rings true – more so the broad, honest face, rather nondescript in its features – a smallish nose and mouth and pale brows to go with a blond crewcut – and most distinctly pale blue eyes that are totally and entirely ingenuous. Such is the impression of instinctive familiarity that Skelgill is left wondering if he might be related to this lad – and the sentiment perhaps informs his salutation.
‘Nick – we’re from the police – it’s about your Ma – one of my colleagues has been in touch, aye?’
‘I was expecting you.’
The young man is quietly spoken, in the local brogue though with the absence of dialect. There is no surprise in his cool gaze; nor hostility, probably the most common reaction encountered by a policeman. Shy, he certainly appears, and he seems uncertain of how to deal with the protocol of their entrance. He glances fleetingly at their wet footwear but then pulls his eyes away and retires to the far end of the caravan where there is an orange cushioned bench seat either side of a prop-up table raised before the bay window. He attends to a Tupperware box, pressing back on the lid with dexterity for such large and unexpectedly clean hands, and screws the top on a flask, although he leaves the cup because it still holds some tea or coffee. Unsure of himself, he slips back into the seated position from where he must have been able to observe their approach. It seems he expects his visitors to settle opposite, and they duly oblige.
‘We saw Mrs Tyson – your grandmother – she’s talked to you about what we told her?’
His gaze is now lowered meekly – an unknowing observer might suspect he is the accused in this situation. He nods, but does not tender a response.
‘Nick – how are you feeling – now you’ve had chance to sleep on it?’
He looks up sharply, as if these were not the words he expected Skelgill to use (and DS Leyton might indeed be thinking along similar lines: that it is an un-Skelgill-like question).
But now the young man answers.
‘If the police couldn’t find him then – why is it any different now? They say there’s no chance of catching him.’
Skelgill regards him quizzically. It is too soon for the story to have broken – they listened to the local radio station on their journey up into Borrowdale, and there was no mention in the news bulletin.
‘Who’s they, Nick?’
The young man looks anxiously from one policeman to the other – as though he were about to be required to betray some confidence.
‘I were talking to the Gaffer about it.’
‘The Gaffer?’
Nick Wilson glances in what is the approximate direction of the workshop.
‘Me boss – Mr Dickson.’
His rising inflection suggests some concern, perhaps that they have not consulted his employer en route; Skelgill puts two and two together.
‘He were under a Land Rover – in the inspection pit.’
A light seems to come on in the pale eyes.
‘We’ve had to drop the gearbox. The clutch is slipping when it’s on a steep incline.’
‘Not so handy, hereabouts.’
‘Thing is, the clutch disc doesn’t look worn. And the diaphragm spring’s working.’
‘One of those mysteries, eh?’
‘Happen when we put it back together it might be alright.’
‘That’s my number one method – failing that, a good clout.’
Nick Wilson looks at Skelgill with a flicker of interest. He seems a little less restrained now, but is clearly not comfortable initiating a conversation himself. He waits for Skelgill to speak.
‘How long have you worked here, Nick?’
‘Full time, since I left school. Before that I had a Saturday job. It started out just cleaning up – but the Gaffer saw I were interested in being a mechanic and when I were sixteen he set me on as an apprentice.’
‘You did well to get a decent job. If you’re not in agriculture or hospitality, there’s not a lot round here.’ Skelgill turns somewhat disparagingly to DS Leyton. ‘Unless you want to end up as a copper.’
DS Leyton accommodates his superior with a self-conscious chuckle. In turn the young man reveals the hint of a smile.
‘Growing up, what did you know about your Ma – what you thought had happened to her?’
Nick Wilson regards Skelgill with candid sincerity.
‘Gran told me from the start – there were no point not knowing – someone in the village would have said something soon enough.’
‘Were there theories – rumours?’
The young man shakes his head.
‘Gran said that she’d been taken. She knew in her bones – that Ma weren’t alive. That she wouldn’t have left me.’
Skelgill respects this reply with a suitably reverential pause.
‘What about your pals? What did they think? Kids can be cruel to one another.’
Perhaps Skelgill asks the question because adults gossip and children eavesdrop, and it is a shortcut to knowing what opinions are being voiced, rather like the picnic litter strewn at beauty spots that tells which youth alcohol brand is currently in vogue.
The young man’s tone is flat, his demeanour somewhat reflective.
‘They never really spoke about Ma. I suppose there were a time they used to rib us about living with Gran. At school they’d joke more about me being thick. I weren’t ever much good at writing and that.’
He looks at Skelgill apologetically – his response recalls the remark made by Jean Tyson that the boy has a “learning difficulty” – and the discussion with DS Jones about who should see him. Skelgill realises he had fallen into thinking that he probably suffered from some personality disorder – when in fact all he sees before him is an obviously intelligent lad who is merely shy, and untutored in social situations. As for struggling with “writing and that” – tell him about it!
Apparently unconcernedly, Skelgill casts about the interior of the caravan, which is clean, tidy and austere. He notices there are certainly no books or writing paraphernalia, and on a shelf just a small collection of Ordnance Survey maps neatly stacked spine-outward and in numerical order. Rather curiously there is no television – unless it is in the bedroom at the far end –– and then it strikes Skelgill that there is probably no mains electricity, for the lights are the old-fashioned type, gas taps with fragile incandescent mantles. The cooker is also gas, just a couple of rings and a grill beneath. Next to that is a stainless steel drainer and sink with a single pump-action tap that he can see is connected via a jubilee clip to a length of clear hose that dips into a free-standing aluminium churn. There is no refrigerator – the sole electrical item that is visible is a battery radio on a small built-in sideboard, against which is propped an acoustic guitar – a possession with which Skelgill long ago had a love-hate relationship, terminated by mutual agreement – although he remembers sufficient to note it is strung left-handed.
‘You play guitar, Nick?’
The young man looks surprised that Skelgill might be interested.
‘Aye – I’ve played since I were a bairn.’ But now a remembrance clouds his eyes. ‘That were me dad’s. He gave it me – one Christmas.’
There is something poignant about his qualification, the pathos of orphanhood.
‘You’re a cuddy wifter.’
Skelgill grins at his own quip, and Nick Wilson appears to understand that he is taking the mickey.
‘I had to re-string it. I were much better after that.’
Skelgill seems to suppress the beginnings of a hysterical laugh.
‘Do you sing?’
‘I just do instrumental.’
He lowers his eyes, perhaps concerned that he might be asked to perform. Skelgill, however, seems momentarily distracted; DS Leyton may suspect that his superior does not think they are getting a great deal out of their visit. Indeed Skelgill indicates the food container and shifts in his seat as though he might be about to rise.
‘We’re interrupting your dinner.’
The young man looks up, suddenly alarmed. Skelgill, poker faced, is in fact thinking his little ploy might have worked.
‘Was there something you wanted to ask?’
Nick Wilson begins to shake his head; it seems to be a default reaction.
‘I were – I were thinking I’d like to go up – to where they found Ma.’ He hesitates, but then hurriedly qualifies his statement. ‘Just to be at the place – not inside the cave or owt.’
Skelgill is nodding amenably.
‘Aye – I’ll take you.’
A frown creases the young man’s broad brow.
‘I thought I might just like to do it – on my own, like.’
Skelgill appears unruffled. He dips into a side pocket of his jacket and produces a rather dog-eared calling card – and then gestures to DS Leyton, demanding a pen. His sergeant produces a biro. Skelgill scrawls on the back of the card and signs it. He passes it over.
‘There’ll be a police guard on the site for the next couple of days. Most likely PC Dodd – you’ll have seen him about. Show him that.’
His expression still apprehensive, Nick Wilson is staring rather helplessly at the card, tiny in his expansive palm.
‘You know the best way, aye?’
‘I think so.’
Nick Wilson glances at the maps on the shelf – and Skelgill needs no further encouragement to demonstrate his prowess. There is nothing like giving directions to boost the male ego; it panders to some primeval tribal inheritance. He slides from the seat and deftly selects a map from the collection. He raps the cover with his knuckles.
Murder at the Meet Page 8