‘Folk’d probably say I’ve done plenty of things that don’t make me look too clever, Leyton – but that doesn’t mean I’ve murdered someone.’
For a second DS Leyton appears inclined to ask Skelgill what he has in mind – but he thinks the better of it. While he is pondering his response, Skelgill raises a question.
‘What did he say about his movements?’
DS Leyton flicks to and fro through several pages.
‘That he left Slatterthwaite at his usual time of 8am – drove over to the coast – followed his journey plan as I’ve mentioned – arrived back home just after five. That was confirmed by his mother-in-law. The first thing they knew was the local farmer Pearson called in shortly afterwards to say Mary Wilson hadn’t reappeared to close up her stall at the shepherds’ meet. They didn’t have a phone at the house, so Aidan Wilson drove over to the pub at Balderthwaite – of course she wasn’t there. That was when he rang the police at Keswick.’
‘Who gave our lot the idea to look at the Bowder Stone?’
DS Leyton’s dark brows contract.
‘I don’t reckon that’s documented. I suppose between them and the locals they’d have put two and two together. She’d been seen leaving with the dog at lunchtime. The dog had come home alone. Her car wasn’t back at the pub. They’d have discussed the likely places she might have gone.’
‘It was our patrol that found the car, aye?’
‘Yeah – it was, Guv.’
‘And there was nowt queer about it?’
DS Leyton shakes his head.
‘Don’t reckon so, Guv. Apart from it was locked and the keys were never recovered.’ He stares pensively at his notes. ‘That was about it – plus now we reckon the pink headscarf she was wearing is unaccounted for. Strange that they found the little key fob but not something that was much bigger and brightly coloured. Maybe someone came across it and took a liking to it – then they were too frightened to come forward.’
There is a silence. Skelgill is contemplating that, the keys aside, the two items that have become salient were both knitted by Mary Wilson, personal to her. He pulls out his mobile phone and types an abrupt five-word message and sends it to DS Jones. Then he glances up at his colleague.
‘Next?’
‘Interview, Guv?’ He correctly divines his superior’s meaning, for Skelgill nods. ‘It’s the woman, Megan Nicolson – formerly Atkinson. She was at school with Mary Wilson and worked with her as a barmaid. She’s one of the four that witnessed her leaving. She still works in that same pub.’ He consults his wristwatch. ‘We ain’t due with her for three-quarters of an hour.’
Skelgill shrugs and rises as if this is unimportant. He strides away but checks himself to glance at the display boards, as if seeing the menu in a new light. DS Leyton catches up and now grins.
‘That trumps my Bowder Scone – Chicken Leg End. Hah! Nice one, Guv.’
Skelgill is about to reply when his phone rings – it is a familiar jingle: DS Jones. They scuttle through the sliding doors of the store and Skelgill answers as they reach the car and begin to clamber inside.
‘Hold fire, Jones – we’re just about to head up into Borrowdale.’
Skelgill manoeuvres in suitably cavalier fashion to exit the supermarket lot and then turns more sedately onto the road towards the lake. Grey bellied, straggling herds of stratocumulus radiate from the Scafell pikes, shepherded by a brisk southerly, skimming the high tops and streaking the fellsides with creeping shadows. Squinting, Skelgill squirts his washers, but the reservoir is dry and insect debris becomes smeared across the screen. Meanwhile he engages the speaker setting on his handset and places it on the console.
‘Leyton can hear you now.’
‘Hi – how’s it going?’
‘Alright, girl. You sound like you’re in the ladies’ room.’
‘I am.’ She chuckles. It seems she means it. ‘It’s the best signal I can find. Apparently this place was built in 1868 – they say the walls are so thick that they don’t need jammers to stop the inmates using smuggled mobiles.’
DS Leyton turns inquiringly to his superior, who responds with a rather pained look. This is not about her anecdote – but that they both realise she must be calling them without the knowledge of DI Smart, who no doubt would not approve of such contact. DS Leyton leans towards the handset.
‘Well – we’re sitting comfortably, if you are.’
‘Ha-hah! I’d better be quick. The cleaners are working their way along the corridor.’
Accordingly, Skelgill interjects.
‘What’s the verdict?’
‘I don’t think it’s him, Guv.’
Again Skelgill and DS Leyton exchange glances. DS Jones has placed the stress on the first personal pronoun.
‘What does Smart reckon?’
DS Jones takes a moment to settle upon a suitable form of words.
‘I’d say he’s a little intoxicated by the prospect of success.’
Skelgill nods grimly. He knows she understands that DI Smart will be desperate to trump him, to steal in like a goal poacher when Skelgill’s shot was about to cross the line.
‘Are we talking gut feel – or actual facts?’
There is the impression that DS Jones is nodding as she replies.
‘Actually both, Guv, now that you mention it. But the facts raise question marks. I spent last night going through his records. The pattern of his M.O. doesn’t fit certain aspects of our case. There was a string of attacks – initially five sexual assaults – culminating in two murders. They were always in an urban environment, never beyond Greater Manchester. In each case he’d stalked the victim beforehand. It’s true he picked on women that worked in pubs – he’d drink in the bar and follow them as they walked home after their shift – always at night and knowing at which point there was a suitable alley or patch of darkened waste ground where he could pounce and drag them away. And it’s true he choked his victims. His crimes were committed over a nine-month period; the first one was more than a year after Mary Wilson went missing.’
‘What’s his story about being in the Lakes?’
‘Unconvincing, Guv. He claims he visited alone for a few days – stayed in Keswick at a B&B that he can’t remember. He demonstrates no real knowledge of the geography. He says he was walking in woodland – came across a woman – she began behaving provocatively towards him – but somehow it ended up in a tussle and he accidentally strangled her – he panicked and concealed the body beneath stones in a cave.’ DS Jones hesitates, as though she thinks she may about to be disturbed. But she continues without recourse to such an explanation. ‘This level of detail has just been broadcast – never mind that he would have had access to contemporary news reports. I questioned him about the cave and he wasn’t able to describe the fact that the rocks came from several distinct sources on the scree slope. He was slippery, but I’m pretty sure I caught him out on that one. Besides, compare that to his other assaults – he left his victims for dead on the spot and made no attempt to conceal them.’
‘What did Smart reckon – about the rocks?’
‘Er – I didn’t discuss it with him, Guv. I don’t think he realised what I was getting at. I thought I’d bounce it off you.’ DS Jones sounds sheepish, though Skelgill makes a growl of satisfaction – but before he can respond she has more to say. She speaks with added urgency. ‘You texted me about trophies, Guv? There’s absolutely nothing in the records – no items belonging to his victims were found in his possession or at his lodgings. He didn’t even rob them of their purses or jewellery.’
Skelgill stares pensively at the road ahead. DS Leyton takes the opportunity to pose a question.
‘Emma – did he admit to the other crimes?’
‘No. He declined to give evidence.’
‘So why now for this one?’
She inhales with a deliberate hiss, as if to warn that she is about to be indiscreet.
‘I don’t know what his mental stat
e was twenty-odd years ago – but I’d say he’s unbalanced. I think it’s opportunistic attention seeking. Possibly for notoriety – possibly for variety.’
Now Skelgill comes back in.
‘Have you discussed that with Smart?’
‘No, Guv. Like I say – you know when someone’s on a mission. It’s easy only to see the similarities. That she worked in a bar. That he could have been watching her. That he may have followed her unseen. The same cause of death. I’ve just tried to ask the right questions and keep my head down.’
Skelgill is scowling.
‘Don’t be too cooperative, lass.’
DS Jones chuckles apprehensively.
‘He’s planning to conduct a further interview this afternoon. Is there anything you want me to cover?’
Skelgill does not answer, and there is such a long pause that DS Jones must wonder if the signal has been lost, for she says “Guv?” with sudden vigour. Skelgill starts, and then replies somewhat absently.
‘See if there’s anything that connects him to anyone in the Borrowdale area.’
‘Sure, Guv.’
Again there is a silence before Skelgill speaks.
‘When are you coming back?’
DS Jones is hesitant.
‘I’m not certain – what DI Smart’s plan is, Guv.’ She pauses, and then her voice drops to a whisper. ‘Oh-oh – that’s someone come in. Can I call you later?’
Skelgill has little option but to agree.
‘Aye.’
‘Nice job, Emma!’ DS Leyton cries out – but she has ended the call.
9. MEGAN NICOLSON
Wednesday 11.30am, Balderthwaite
Megan Nicolson, fifty-two, conjures for Skelgill the image of the saucy seaside postcard stereotype; though it is not so much the full figure in a barmaid’s outfit a size too small, or the manufactured blonde shock that is a little larger than life, but the cherubic countenance with its rosy cheeks, button nose, bright blue eyes and preposterously ingenuous smile. Once more he finds himself reflecting upon the number of people on his local patch whom he has never really come across.
The Twa Tups is not due to open for another half an hour – although in asking them if they wanted a drink she seemed to suggest that alcohol were an option, and Skelgill had admired the cask ales on offer as she leant invitingly between the handpumps. They have settled on coffees with cream, to his immediate regret (tepid and cloying; tea is just so reliable). They have a table in the empty snug bar at the front of the establishment. The floor is of hefty slate slabs, the distempered ceiling low and black-beamed, the walls crowded with local scenes corrupted by age and nicotine. The interior is gloomy; Skelgill, seated upon a settle that was once a church pew, has his back to a small sash window; accordingly he can only be a silhouette to the woman who faces him. DS Leyton has taken up a more neutral position; at the end of the table his sturdy form is accommodated by a solid sack-back Windsor chair.
While Megan Nicolson has been identified from the historical files as a person of interest to the police, and has been contacted by a junior officer in their team, she acts rather as if she does not quite know what is going on, and gives a coo of astonishment when Skelgill introduces the subject.
‘I never thought it would come to this – Mary Tyson found murdered after all these years.’
Skelgill notes that she uses Mary Wilson’s maiden name. He glances at DS Leyton, who has en route assured his superior that he is well prepared to conduct the interview (as he was for Aidan Wilson, until Skelgill’s intervention brought matters to an abrupt conclusion). Skelgill sees his sergeant open his notebook, preparatory to speaking. However, despite their official line – that they seek from the public fresh insights in the context of the discovery of Mary Wilson’s remains – Skelgill privately has a tactic that is diametrically opposed. He is more interested in enduring memories, those that have percolated like the rain that began as a veil of fog upon the high fells, filtered by the rocks and time, to emerge clear and sharp, a zesty spring down in the dale; impressions that are untainted by the desperate promptings of a detective. He speaks before his colleague can catch his breath.
‘Tell us something about Mary.’
‘As a bairn, like?’
‘You were at school together, aye?’ He waves a casual hand and sinks back against his seat; he seems in no rush.
‘She used to play alone in the woods – believed in fairies and whatnot. She’d go off into her own little world. When we were in primary, I mean. But she still went for walks when she was older. And later she had the dog.’
She seems to think that Skelgill is asking about Mary being in Cummacatta and is answering this point directly. But he wants to know what Mary was like – and she inadvertently tells him something of that. To spend time in one’s own little world does not feel so alien.
‘Was she popular?’
‘So-so.’
It takes Megan Nicolson a moment to conjure such an economical reply, and Skelgill is drawn to read more into her ambivalence – that Mary was a little smug, that she thought she was special; but there was no cause to dislike her.
‘You know her remains were found in the Kissing Cave?’
When sinister would be justifiable, Skelgill’s tone is conversational. It is of the order of one local to another, with no special emphasis upon the location and its possible connotations.
Nevertheless, she seems to bite fleetingly at her cheek.
‘Aye – I heard that. But they called it something else on the radio – the archaeologists’ name.’
Skelgill continues offhandedly.
‘Mary would have known it well enough?’
Her mascaraed lashes flutter with a hint of diffidence – or it might be coyness.
‘Most of our generation would know it. You went up there as teenagers.’
Skelgill grins amiably.
‘Like they say – a rite of passage, aye?’
The woman simpers.
‘But it weren’t a grown-up thing.’
‘She never mentioned it?’
She shakes her head, the semblance of a puzzled frown creasing her brow, that he might be suggesting an adult tryst in such an unfavourable location.
‘Did Mary have many boyfriends?’
He asks in a way that allows for promiscuity to be the answer, or more a bland interpretation, but Megan Nicolson is clear in her response.
‘Aidan were her only proper boyfriend that I knew of. They were going together from when she were still at school.’
‘She didn’t go out with any of the other village lads?’
‘Nothing serious – like I say, she weren’t old enough.’
Skelgill makes a gesture of instability, moving his hands simultaneously from side to side.
‘Her and Aidan Wilson – they never broke up for a period – nothing like that?’
‘Aidan never gave her chance. He were all over her like a rash.’
Skelgill does not immediately react to this rather more prickly statement, despite that it contradicts the impressions he has formed of the Wilsons’ relationship.
‘I got the feeling they were independent of one another.’
She offers a clarification.
‘You’re asking me about when they first started.’ (Skelgill may not be, but he does not interrupt.) ‘Aidan was a good bit older – he’d got a car. He’d take her out of the village a lot of the time. So they didn’t knock about with the rest of us so much. They used to drive back for last orders – maybe a lock-in. But he were always glued to her side.’
‘I thought he was the one considered to be a bit of a catch.’
Megan Nicolson begins to scoff at this suggestion, but then qualifies her response.
‘Some might say that. Happen it was more him that’d got his claws into her. But she didn’t seem to mind.’
Skelgill nods phlegmatically; it is an action barely affected, for he absorbs the information with no attempt to be analytical.
‘What about around the time Mary disappeared?’
It is something of an open question – he could mean had it been a good summer, or who was Prime Minister. He waits to see what she will say. Her reply suggests she has remained on message.
‘They’d been a couple for a long time by then – maybe fifteen years.’
She seems to feel it unnecessary to expound upon her rationale.
‘You worked here together – on the same shifts sometimes?’
‘Aye – Friday and Saturday nights – and Bank Holidays.’
Skelgill looks at her appraisingly.
‘I’ve seen the pictures in the files of Mary. The pair of you behind the bar must have turned a few heads.’
Though her crossing of her legs might imply a certain guardedness, a slow alternate movement of her shoulders suggests she is not immune to the compliment.
‘That’s just par for the course. It doesn’t mean anything. Well –’
But Skelgill knows she doesn’t want it to mean nothing – that men still find her attractive. And why wouldn’t that be okay for her ego. But she adds a rider.
‘It’s part of your job to flirt a bit.’
Skelgill combs the fingers of one hand through his hair in a seemingly hopeless gesture.
‘I can tell you – it would be easy enough for some dimwit like me to get the wrong idea.’
She grins sympathetically.
‘You get to know how to handle it.’
Skelgill scowls, an attempt at self-reproach.
‘Could she have got herself into a situation where she felt obliged in some way?’
Megan Nicolson’s smile turns down disapprovingly.
‘They’d not long had their bairn. He weren’t above a year.’
She says no more. Skelgill allows a respectable pause before he continues.
‘Besides – you would have noticed if there were something more to it.’
His intonation is definitive rather than questioning. But in response she shifts forward, placing her plump barmaid’s hands on the table, with their tight rings and prominent veins and recently lacquered nails.
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