‘Don’t tell me she’s pulled the inquiry, Guv?’
‘It’s worse than that, Leyton – there’s been a confession. To the murder of Mary Wilson.’
DS Leyton is momentarily dumbstruck.
‘What! Who, Guv?’
Skelgill’s skin seems unnaturally white, his features strained. When he answers, his voice is distant.
‘Some no-mark lifer in Strangeways.’
‘The old nick – HMP Manchester?’
Skelgill nods grimly.
‘Jones has been sent to take a statement. She drove to Penrith station about half an hour ago.’
DS Leyton looks perplexed.
‘Why only DS Jones, Guv? Why not wait for you to get back?’
‘Because DI Smart just happens to be working down there.’
8. AIDAN WILSON
Wednesday morning, Keswick
Whereas his estranged twenty-two-year-old son seemed intensely conscious of his awkwardness in company, fifty-eight-year-old Aidan Wilson exhibits no such self-awareness. This is manifest not just in his manner, but also in his appearance. While it is hard to appraise his clothing (he wears the staff overalls and protective footwear of the supermarket in whose fast-food franchise they now interview him), his looks invite speculation. He is a substantially smaller man than Nick Wilson, around average height – an inch or two taller than DS Leyton, Skelgill had noted when they rose to greet him – there is a gaunt frame and a physiognomy of weak chin, a pointed nose, small dark eyes with pared eyebrows, a mole on each cheek (rather disturbingly almost but not quite symmetrically placed) and a schoolboy helmet of mousy hair; collar length at the back it covers his ears and there is a long uneven fringe. Thus while his outfit is tidy and in keeping with the bright polished environs, the head that tops it is a misfit – to Skelgill’s eye it could be the head of a man he might see smoking outside a betting shop or a public bar during the daytime, the head of a man who has not changed with the times, but is unaware that in these subtleties he does not look like anyone else around him.
They are seated at a table, the detectives with their backs to floor-to-ceiling windows that give on to the sparsely populated car park; more immediately there is a jam of shopping trolleys awaiting use. They have no food or drinks, which is a challenge for Skelgill as a trickle of customers leaves the counter with laden trays that pique his curiosity. A survey of potential eavesdroppers gives him no cause for concern. Nearby a well-groomed elderly man toys with the Telegraph crossword; he seems out of place. A young peroxide blonde inaccurately spoon-feeds chocolate yoghurt from a six-pack onto the face of an infant while engrossed in her social media. Across the floor a trendily dressed couple of about his own age who look like they are not married to one another each pay detailed attention to what their companion has to say; it seems early in the day for a clandestine meeting. Now DS Leyton clears his throat purposefully. In the absence of the prodigiously literate DS Jones, he has spent the preceding evening swotting up on the statements and reports in the files that concern Aidan Wilson.
‘Mr Wilson, you’ve heard from one of our colleagues about the discovery and identification of your wife Mary’s remains.’ He pauses to allow for the man’s reaction, but little is forthcoming beyond a slight swaying of his torso. ‘Inspector Skelgill and I wanted to see you in person. Just to make sure –’
The man interjects.
‘What are you hoping to achieve?’
His accent is local but not thick. He has the throaty voice of an asthmatic deprived of the full power of his lungs. His tone is cynical, his question curt.
DS Leyton gives him the benefit of the doubt, and replies amenably.
‘We have good reason to believe your wife was murdered. That was never previously established. We have a duty now to investigate the possible crime. I expect you’re glad to hear that.’
Aidan Wilson shows no emotion.
‘You know it weren’t a local man.’
DS Leyton glances at Skelgill. Quite likely at this very moment DS Jones is taking a statement inside the Victorian walls of HMP Manchester. Their agreed strategy in this regard is that, until there is proof positive, the ‘confession’ should be disregarded. Not only is it rare for a convicted killer to own up to additional murders, but also false admissions of guilt (perhaps from the criminally insane) are not unusual. Moreover, there is the absence of the vital fact that would have emerged long ago – that there is no DNA match between the ‘Cummacatta sample’ and the prisoner that has laid claim to the slaying of Mary Wilson.
But there is a further paradox in this regard, and it is raised by Aidan Wilson’s assertion. And DS Leyton hesitates; perhaps he is minded to spell out the flaw in the logic. The alien DNA found on Mary Wilson’s woollen key fob apparently did not belong to a local man. But that is all. It is not as though the key fob were the murder weapon. Therefore the facts do not preclude the possibility that a local man killed her.
Skelgill and DS Leyton have speculated en route about the concealment of guilt. How would a man behave, after many years of thinking he has evaded justice, when confronted by the prospect of being found out? It is something of which they have experience, in crimes ranging from petty to heinous – although they have concluded there is a spectrum that extends from the dour and downright uncooperative to the gushingly compliant. But, meeting a person for the first time, it is never easy to judge how out-of-character is such behaviour, which might be tainted by genuine shock or subverted by duress. Or it might be distorted because a person has something else to hide – an unrelated skeleton rattling in their closet. Such reasons and more can insert an extra variable that confounds what ought to be a linear equation.
There is also the issue that a good detective will approach a situation with an open mind, not seeking culpability – but simply truth and facts. On this basis, there is an argument that an investigator should discount a suspect’s conduct entirely. It is not the form of the exchange that matters, but the content. Skelgill may have his failings, but he is quite competent in this regard. Perhaps it is something he takes from the hard-learned lessons of fishing, when to strike too early is usually counterproductive.
But it is to be human to be influenced by another, if only subliminally. And there is an accumulating pattern of first impressions that are contrary to the expected optimism. Not even Mary Wilson’s mother’s response could be described in such terms. True, Skelgill detected a controlled reserve – the will not to build up hope, despite that it was surely bursting inside her. In Nick Wilson it was a case of bewilderment – as if he had suddenly awakened on stage in the midst of a production he knew nothing about. And now Aidan Wilson – the overarching sentiment is of bitter detachment. Skelgill is questioning whether that can just be his nature. For a man to have his wife snatched away would surely leave at very least a burning sense of injustice, if not inerasable vengeance. Yet he does not even express his wish that they will now catch the culprit, never mind couch it in the unprintable terms that Skelgill would wholeheartedly endorse. He wonders if Aidan Wilson is ashamed – that his experience at the time was of emasculation – or perhaps guilt, that he was not there to protect his family. The latter, at least, he could understand. Does he therefore hide his shame beneath feigned indifference? But, Skelgill is fighting a losing battle in trying to convince himself of these worthy excuses. Truth be told he wants to grab Aidan Wilson by the collar and give him a good shake. Perhaps the man gets a whiff of something, for he looks suddenly fearful. Skelgill turns to DS Leyton and gives a jerk of his head, indicating he should continue.
‘Mr Wilson, we would have met you sooner – but we had a little difficulty tracing you.’ Aidan Wilson is watchful now, his dark eyes narrowed beneath the fringe. ‘We’ve spoken to both Mrs Tyson and your son, Nick. It’s our role to inform close family in such circumstances. As I said, after that, we have to consider if this new intelligence casts previous knowledge in a different light. Someone who knew Mary may be in possession
of facts that now make sense.’
DS Leyton’s wording is not the most succinct. It seems that he is treading on eggshells in order not to antagonise his subject – but the man exhibits a casual wiliness that this does not get past.
‘Has the old crone been giving us the evil eye? I shouldn’t be surprised if she still blames me.’
His lips curl to reveal irregular yellowed teeth in the silent snarl of a cornered dog that is beaten but still has some vain fight.
DS Leyton looks a little disconcerted – perhaps that Aidan Wilson has leapt to this conclusion. The man seems to read his reaction, for he offers a qualification.
‘I don’t mean for killing her.’ He grins humourlessly.
DS Leyton takes a moment to gather his thoughts.
‘In what respect would Mrs Tyson blame you, sir?’
Aidan Wilson shrugs as if the reasons the woman would propose are manifold.
‘That woollens business, for a start. I tried to get it into Mary’s head – she’d have needed to charge ten times the price for the labour that went into those scarves and shawls. And who would pay that around here? Even the tourists are not so tapped. If she’d got them listed in Harrods, maybe.’
DS Leyton is looking perplexed.
‘Sir – I still don’t quite see the connection – to what you say about your wife’s mother?’
Aidan Wilson looks like he regrets mentioning the idea.
‘She should have stuck to her job in the pub – put in more hours. She were paid a pittance, but at least it were guaranteed.’
There seem to DS Leyton to be contradictions in what the man says – as if money were somehow at the root of the problem and yet he is disparaging towards his wife’s enterprise. There is an iota of practical logic in that had she not been running her stall she may not have gone to Cummacatta Wood – but even that is not necessarily the case. He discerns no urge from Skelgill to untangle this particular issue, and it strikes him that the antagonistic relationship between son-in-law and mother-in-law feels like a sideshow to the main event, by which they could unnecessarily become distracted. Accordingly, he shifts the emphasis of his questioning.
‘What do you recall of your wife’s state of mind around that time, sir? Had there been anything in her behaviour that was unusual?’
‘Why would it make any difference?’
DS Leyton is still a good way from end of his tether; but he senses it is probably just as well that Skelgill is not doing the questioning; he accurately suspects his boss would have Aidan Wilson pinned up against the windows by now. Looking down at his notes, he continues patiently.
‘Given what we now know, sir. She left her stall unattended. She drove to the nearby woods. Almost certainly she was murdered there. We have to look more closely at the idea that she went to meet someone.’
The sergeant glances inquiringly upon the interviewee; but the man merely sneers.
‘You mean what if she were having an affair, more like.’ He does not pose these words as a question.
Still DS Leyton takes the rejoinder in his stride.
‘Could she have been, sir?’
The man seems to be leering.
‘Your lot went all through this at the time. You must know that. Nowt came of it.’
Though technically accurate, in some respects this can be judged an evasive retort. DS Leyton wonders whether Skelgill is thinking along the same lines and, if so, what he would say next. But before he can even guess, the answer is forthcoming, from Skelgill’s very lips. His superior’s tone is uncompromising.
‘Mr Wilson – on the day your wife disappeared – did you meet her at Cummacatta Wood?’
To a fly on the wall Skelgill’s intervention might seem to be a classic case of ‘good cop, bad cop’ – except there is nothing premeditated about it. While it is in DS Leyton’s temperament to be amenable, Skelgill, having exceeded his threshold of forbearance, has simply fired from the hip.
The man’s reaction – as they may reflect upon in due course – is thought provoking. He cackles, tossing back his head contemptuously.
‘You’ve got no more idea than the last lot! You’re wasting your time. Come and speak to me when you’ve got something sensible to ask!’
And at this he rises from his seat and walks away without another word, limping slightly, but otherwise continuing purposefully between two checkouts and out of sight along an aisle marked ‘Foreign Food’. The detectives watch him in silence. With good reason DS Leyton appears exasperated that his boss’s ham-fisted question has just kyboshed his interview – but in formulating a complaint he notices Skelgill’s expression of satisfaction, and adjusts his words to be more charitable.
‘That was interesting, Guv.’
Skelgill is nodding. But now his gaze switches from the disappeared man to the display boards up behind the fast food service counter, advertising the fare that is the source of the fried aroma that ebbs and flows like a perpetual tide.
‘I was out of milk this morning. You can only swallow so much sawdust.’
DS Leyton sees where this new conversation is headed. ‘We’ve got plenty of time, Guv.’ There is perhaps a slightly sarcastic note in his voice – that their interview has ended prematurely.
‘I never come to these places, Leyton. What’s the score?’
DS Leyton inhales resignedly.
‘Our nippers always have the nuggets. The missus likes the grilled chicken wrap. I usually plump for whatever special burger they’ve got on.’ He indicates with an outstretched arm. ‘See – Montana Bison Double Cheeseburger with Hungry Horse Relish – just the ticket.’
Skelgill is squinting – he looks frustrated. He is trying to conflate the Photoshopped images with what he might feel like eating at ten in the morning.
‘What’s that – chicken leg end – I’ll try that.’
DS Leyton splutters and cannot wholly suppress a spontaneous laugh, and he hauls himself to his feet and lumbers away towards the counter to conceal his mirth.
‘It’s legend, Guv. Hah! It comes in a bun. Large fries and tea, yeah?’
When his sergeant returns after what seems like an inordinate wait (so much for ‘fast food’) Skelgill eyes suspiciously what appears to be a plain-looking chicken burger bulked out by lettuce and mayonnaise. But upon tucking in he falls silent, and DS Leyton watches him with amusement as he alternately eats and gulps down the prohibitively scalding tea; it might almost have been prepared to order. While his superior is thus engaged, he reprises his prepared notes pertaining to Aidan Wilson. After a minute he picks up on Skelgill’s conversation stopper.
‘The geezer had a fairly sound alibi, Guv.’ He glances inquiringly at Skelgill who signals with his eyebrows for him to continue. ‘He was a sales rep for a food wholesaler in Carlisle. His patch was more or less the whole of the county. He used to call on the independent grocery stores. His journey plan that day had him starting over in Whitehaven in the morning, then he worked his way back across country via Mockerin, Lower Lorton and the Honister Pass, arriving home at about 5pm.’
Skelgill interrupts his eating to speak.
‘One of the lads in the rescue, he used to be a rep – retired now – he was a law unto himself. When you’re out on the road there’s no one looking over your shoulder. How did they know Wilson was telling the truth?’
DS Leyton refers again to his notes.
‘It seems to me, Guv, at one stage they had Aidan Wilson under the microscope. I mean – they had no suspects, so they probably thought he was the most likely bet. But it wasn’t until a couple of weeks later that they checked his movements in detail. The decision report states that if he’d wanted to cover up a gap in his timetable, he probably could have done it. He collated all his orders for the week and took them into the wholesaler’s on a Friday. There was nothing to prove he completed his journey plan in the order he was supposed to. Officers questioned all the shopkeepers – but there was no way they could remember whether he’d
called exactly when he said he did. They got a dozen or more reps some days.’
Skelgill is frowning.
‘He’d have been taking the risk of his car being recognised. There’s only one road through Borrowdale proper.’
‘Then again, at the time it might not have stood out, Guv. A familiar car doesn’t attract attention. And most of the locals would have been occupied at the shepherds’ meet.’
Skelgill nods, but continues to play devil’s advocate.
‘Strikes me that the last thing Aidan Wilson would have done is arranged to meet his wife for a cosy dog walk in the middle of the day. But if he did it on spec, how would he have known where and when she’d go? Like you say, folk were busy – if you’d been running a stall and wanted a break you’d likely have played it by ear.’
DS Leyton’s eyes widen a little.
‘But maybe that’s it, Guv? The fact that she went at one o’clock – the sort of time you’d arrange to meet with someone. What if she had a date and Aidan Wilson had got wind of it? He could have seen them together – and then confronted her afterwards.’
Skelgill does not reply. He has finished his burger and is preoccupied with prising the last of his fries from their unsuitably narrow packet. With a groan of frustration he tilts his head and knocks back the remnants like the dregs of a drink.
‘Was there one scrap of actual evidence that pointed to Aidan Wilson?’
DS Leyton stares rather forlornly at his notebook – but he seems already to know the answer.
‘Unless DS Jones has found something that she didn’t highlight – not really, Guv.’ But then he perks up. ‘What about like we discussed – him leaving the kid and moving out – possibly for a woman? None of that makes him look too clever.’
Skelgill’s countenance is clouded by pessimism.
Murder at the Meet Page 10