‘Aye – happen that’s what Jud probably thinks half the time.’
It is possible that the man forces an ironic grin. Skelgill senses a small breakthrough.
‘The Tysons – you’d know the family well.’
‘Like I say – I keep to mesen.’
To Skelgill’s mind this is not a practicable standpoint. The man might live a mile up a dead-end track – but every time he needs to visit the local shop or post office in Balderthwaite he must pass through the tiny hamlet of Slatterthwaite. Never mind that in these isolated upland communities there can be no such thing as anonymity – how many times would he have directly passed Jean Tyson’s cottage? Thousands? Hadn’t he run over one of her dogs, for Pete’s sake!
But Patrick Pearson has folded his arms and his gaze has reverted firmly to the television. The bogus shepherd is now kissing an improbably beautified milkmaid in a romantically darkened barn. Skelgill feels their welcome (if that could ever be the word for it) has expired – and, besides, there is an accumulating sense of going through the motions in these visits to the historical eyewitnesses. But the legwork has to be done, and at least he can console himself with the phenomenon that, even if little is gleaned – in a way, a lot is absorbed. He long ago realised that he does not have to catch a fish to learn most of what there is to know about an unfamiliar water; the actual experience of having been there frames future speculation in a real context. He catches DS Leyton’s eye and signals with a short jerk of his head that they should retreat. DS Leyton does not look disappointed, much as though he has a list of prepared questions in his notebook. They can always come back. For his part, Skelgill feels no need to beat about the bush. Fell folk appreciate straight talking. He gestures casually towards the television.
‘We’ll leave you to it, sir. Thanks for your time.’
A grunt is all they receive in return. Skelgill glances at the shotgun and inhales and then sighs as if he were about to comment but has thought the better of it. As they depart they hear the volume return to its former level. Outside, they duck into the rain – but instead of diving for his car Skelgill leads his colleague a short distance past the farmhouse where a long, low windowless stone barn stands as the last edifice before the bare fells extend into the cloud. It seems more ancient than the other buildings, roofed with massive roughly trimmed slates. Its muddy yard is heavily rutted; there are no cattle prints; just rain falling in puddles and running in channels. The heavy planked doors are padlocked with a rusty chain. Skelgill begins to approach, but the dogs start up and he turns away.
‘Come on Leyton.’
‘What were we looking for, Guv?’
‘If I knew, Leyton, I wouldn’t be getting soaked.’
Back at the wheel, Skelgill executes a three-point turn. His expression is surly as he bends to snatch a parting glance at the farmhouse. Above the undergrowth he sees a curtain of an upper window twitch back into position. He does not mention this to his colleague, but DS Leyton has his own reflections at the ready.
‘Crikey, Guv – that was like meeting Frankenstein’s monster – I shouldn’t like to run into him on a dark night.’
Skelgill nods grimly. Similar thoughts have visited him over the years that he has caught glimpses of the man out on the fells.
They pass the car graveyard again.
‘I didn’t see a motor, Guv.’
Skelgill understands he means a functioning model.
‘There were quad tracks outside that barn. Plus I reckon he’s got an old tractor – the sort with no cab. Massey Ferguson 35. Nowt else would fit.’
DS Leyton seems unconvinced.
‘He weren’t exactly dishing out the hospitality, Guv. And I got the feeling he’d burnt all the furniture. I reckon the floorboards are next.’
‘You probably think folk are tight in Yorkshire, Leyton.’ Skelgill’s tone is scornful. ‘You’ve not seen owt. He’s probably got thousands stashed under those boards. Besides – what about that TV? It must have cost a pretty penny.’
DS Leyton shakes his jowls phlegmatically.
‘Right enough, Guv – and his satellite subscription. That don’t come cheap, neither.’
Skelgill nods, but the demands of the track, increasingly treacherous as the ruts fill with run-off from the fellside, begin to occupy his attention. And he is content to be distracted, to defer the post mortem of their encounter. No fish were caught; in time he might understand what exactly he has absorbed of the ostensibly unproductive water.
11. SEAN NICOLSON
Wednesday 3pm, Jopplety How Farm
‘It’s chalk and cheese, Guv. It makes that geezer Pearson’s place look like nuclear winter.’
‘The sunshine helps, Leyton.’
While Skelgill is correct to point out that the weather front has hustled through to put a bright face on affairs, his sergeant is equally perspicacious in seeing that Jopplety How Farm is an altogether different prospect from the primordial squalor of Slatterdale Rigg, despite the challenging second-gear climb up the flank of Grange Fell. Having taken a signposted right turn barely a minute out of Balderthwaite, they have found themselves navigating a metalled lane that is both pothole free and bordered by immaculately maintained walls. It is a standard of husbandry contiguous as they reach the farmstead, a square cluster of clean-washed grey stone buildings set around a freshly hosed working yard. Spick and span is the cliché that comes to Skelgill’s mind; this is the workplace of a conscientious artisan.
Their welcome is of another order, too. Sean Nicolson, a tallish slightly bowed man in his early fifties, stands hospitably on the threshold of the main house. He wears a smart blue boiler suit, that would suggest to Skelgill he has changed for their visit – for not even the most fastidious sheep farmer can still be clean by mid afternoon. And instead of manic barking, a slick young Border Collie slips past the shepherd’s legs and, ignoring her master’s call of “Lady”, prostrates herself at Skelgill’s feet; imploring that he should stoop and tickle. It is an irresistible entreaty.
The man wryly laments his misfortune.
‘She’s daft as a brush. Happen she’s going to take a bit of work.’
His voice is gentle, his local accent distinctive (he says “tek” for “take”) without being coarse. He turns, leaving the door wide open for the detectives to follow into what is a spacious kitchen, its walls of natural stone and its ceiling beams exposed.
‘Make yourselves comfortable, lads.’ While he says “mek” for “make” his brogue does not descend to “theesens”.
The centrepiece of the kitchen is a broad oak table – they ensconce themselves while he pours tea into patterned mugs from a matching pot that has been readied and left upon a coal-fired Aga. On the table itself are milk and sugar and side plates, the latter with reference to a pyramid of familiar bakery produce. While the man’s back is still turned, an animated DS Leyton points and mouths “Bowder Scones”.
He seems to sense their interest (or perhaps his hearing is especially sharp), for as he approaches with two mugs in one fist and a third in the other he speaks.
‘Meg brings them up from the village. Young lass that’s got the farm café does the baking. Tuck in if you fancy one.’
Given that the detectives have stopped off at the said establishment, for once Skelgill looks like he is not hungry, and he preoccupies himself with shovelling sugar into his tea. In fact his concentration is engineered, for in Sean Nicolson’s manner he finds some recognition – it is hard to place – but he determines not to stare and draw attention to his disquiet. Somewhat ostentatiously he casts about the kitchen as though admiring its features. But in this deliberate act there is a second realisation that perplexes him. While the exterior of the farm is immaculate in its orderly asceticism, the kitchen – though clean and tidy – is extraordinarily fussy. The table sports a colourful embroidered cloth and a bristling centrepiece of dried flowers, and all around are superfluous ornamental items (such as pincushion hearts, corn d
ollies, and candles) hanging from cupboards and set in niches in the walls; there are wafts of bergamot, cloves and sandalwood, such that the impression is of a rustic gift shop. This stark exterior-versus-interior disparity throws into sharp focus the concomitant contrast between the farmer and his wife.
They say opposites attract – but in Skelgill’s personal experience the maxim does not adequately deal with its corollary: for opposing poles that converge impetuously, a cataclysmic collision is inevitable. Indeed, in most long-standing marriages that he can call to mind, surely compatibility is the watchword? Yet never, in some game of ‘match the couples’ would Skelgill have successfully paired the coquettish barmaid they met at midday with this softly spoken, unassuming shepherd.
He brings his gaze back around to the man. He must have seen him about the dale over the years, which would account for the sense of déjà vu that now visits him. Sean Nicolson is of an age – as Mary Wilson would be – that puts him between generations for Skelgill; he does not fit into the pattern of people with whom he might have mingled. Unlike Patrick Pearson his appearance is not especially distinctive – short-cropped greying hair that might once have been fair, a broad head with regular features. Only in his pale eyes is there a doggedness, an inner determination to fulfil his calling to a small patch in the great rural tapestry. Skelgill becomes conscious of his thoughts beginning to meander, and he makes an effort to tune in to DS Leyton. He is expounding upon their meeting with Mrs Nicolson, and of their understanding that she will be occupied until the evening in her role behind the bar.
‘And is that you done for the day, sir?’
It seems his sergeant has dispensed with their standard introduction. Perhaps he assumes the man’s wife will have relayed such information. Sean Nicolson’s reaction is to avert his eyes – but it might just be a kind of modesty, a self-effacing nature common to many of his ilk. And this is an unaccustomed situation – not least being interviewed by a detective with an accent straight from The Sweeney, which has Skelgill wondering if he should have done the talking. However, Sean Nicolson answers evenly.
‘There’s a couple of other flocks that I mind. I need to go over by Watendlath. But it’ll be light while six.’
DS Leyton tilts his head in a birdlike fashion.
‘Do they need a lot of looking after, sir? I thought the whole idea with sheep was they took care of themselves.’
Sean Nicolson glances at Skelgill – but he is no wiser than the shepherd as to why his colleague might have chosen this line of questioning. He raises an eyebrow in a way that suggests they are in no hurry and that the man should answer.
‘The Herdwicks – they’re more self-sufficient. They’re what we call heafed. It means they roam free – they learn to hold to their own patch – that’s the heaf. But you still need to make sure they’re healthy, or they’ve not got themselves tangled in twine or wire or sommat like that. The other breeds – there’s yowes and their lambs still in-bye – again you need to watch them – and there’s always fences and walls to fix, maybe extra feed to put down, and the drinking troughs to be flushed out.’
It is a patient explanation, and DS Leyton seems genuinely interested, and compliments the man on his expertise. Skelgill is beginning to wonder if there is any merit in this soft-soaping, indeed any need for it. He exhibits none of the contempt they have encountered in their interrogation of either Aidan Wilson or Patrick Pearson, nor the outright shell shock of young Nick Wilson. Sean Nicolson’s demeanour is more akin to that of a captured airman who, shot down over enemy territory, suspects that despite their pleasantries a worse fate awaits him, but accepts it stoically.
‘It’s what I’ve done all my life.’
Now DS Leyton glances at Skelgill, an expression of satisfaction about his features.
‘Mr Nicolson, we noticed that you perform a shearing demonstration at the shepherds’ meet. Is that what you were doing – going back to the time when Mary Wilson disappeared?’
The man shows no outward sign of diminished composure.
‘Aye – I’ve exhibited since I were a teenager. I were taught by my granddad.’
DS Leyton nods in a businesslike manner.
‘And you knew Mrs Wilson well?’
If anything there is perhaps just a hint of surprise in the man’s eyes that the detective need ask him this question. DS Leyton qualifies his enquiry.
‘What I mean, sir – there’s no doubt it was her that you saw leave – at lunchtime, from the shepherds’ meet?’
‘I were at school with her. We’d known each other since we were bairns.’
DS Leyton inhales between gritted teeth, as though it is the precursor to a more difficult question.
‘I appreciate it’s going back a long time, sir – and that you probably weren’t thinking about it – but was there anything out of the ordinary, like Mrs Wilson leaving when she did? Would that have been a regular thing to do?’
While these queries were raised – probably ad nauseam – at the time of the original investigation, and have been met with impatience, obstruction and obfuscation in the last few days, there is no such reaction from Sean Nicolson. His pale blue eyes watch DS Leyton carefully. He bides his time – he does not rush to jump in, nor shake his head nor nod prematurely. Skelgill observes him with interest, wondering what memories, in his case, have percolated through the rocks of ages.
‘I were shearing. I looked up. She were just passing. She had the dog on a lead. She were wearing jeans and a white top and a pink headscarf.’
It is a precise answer, delivered in the economical way of fell folk; when there is nothing to say, they will say nothing; when there is something, they will use just the requisite words. But Skelgill detects a misting of the pale eyes. It is fleeting, superficial, but it reveals an undercurrent of what must surely be regret. It is understandable; a girl with whom he grew up; and now the definitive news that she was struck down in her prime. And in that very moment he has just described, the realisation that she was heading to her death. Skelgill thinks he perceives more care, more concern, and more quiet vengeance in this man, than he did in the woman’s husband. And yet this too makes sense to him; here is a shepherd, a fellow outdoorsman – after all, he was present, too – and some marauding wolf took one of their flock. Does the man carry a burden of responsibility? Is he thinking, what if he had called out – inquired about her sales success – detained her in some way? Who knows what small intervention might have precipitated a different outcome. But, then again, she may have been determined in her mission. It is along such lines that DS Leyton picks up.
‘Mr Nicolson – how would you describe her behaviour?’
‘In what way?’
DS Leyton rephrases his question.
‘What we’re getting at – in light of what we now know – could she have been trying to avoid being noticed?’
‘I don’t see how you’d do that – in public view. Besides, she looked in at the Twa Tups, didn’t she?’
It seems the point he makes is that, if anything, Mary Wilson advertised her departure.
‘That’s correct, sir – her leaving was confirmed by other witnesses – including your wife.’
‘Aye.’
DS Leyton screws up his features, as though he is trying to decipher something from his notebook.
‘And what did you do, sir – I mean just after that?’
Again there is perhaps the hint of curiosity in the man’s eyes, that the detective would be asking him about something he would surely know – yet at the same time he is unperturbed that he does so. And once more his reply comes in measured tones.
‘I were called to an emergency. A prize tup had bloated.’ Now he glances at Skelgill, who nods to demonstrate his understanding. ‘You see, the grass in the holding pen, it’s often lush and thick with clover. One of the other shepherds had noticed the tup had cowped, but the owner weren’t there. Because I stay for the full day I always keep some Bloat Guard. I managed to g
et the tup to take some – I put a tube down its throat – but it were a bad case. I stayed with it until the vet came – he had to perform a rumenotomy. It weren’t a pretty sight.’
DS Leyton is now the one that is looking alarmed. While he does not understand the precise details, there being a mixture of dialect and veterinary science terms, he gets the gist, stomach contents, and all that. He moves quickly on.
‘What about afterwards, sir?’
‘There weren’t a lot of time. I start the demonstrations again at two o’clock. There were bait laid on at the Tups. I managed to grab a quick bite.’
‘And you didn’t notice Mary Wilson? Either there at the pub – or in the vicinity?’
Sean Nicolson is shaking his head pensively. But he has no answer.
‘Sir, I realise you would have been asked this – but what do you think now, of the suggestion that she was meeting somebody – a person she didn’t want others to know about?’
There is a pause before the man replies.
‘It’s possible, int’ it?’
‘Was it likely?’
Now he looks intensely at DS Leyton.
‘Why would I know Mary’s mind?’
His intonation is rather strangely profound, and causes Skelgill to look up (he has been stroking the dog at his feet, which settled upon him as the softest touch immediately they sat down). DS Leyton expounds upon his logic.
‘I suppose if she’d said something to you – or someone – that you overheard.’
‘Like I’ve said, I were busy shearing. I happened to glance up – caught a glimpse of her. She didn’t look like she were doing owt unusual. It were common knowledge that she took walks with her dog.’
‘And the woods were her favourite place?’
Sean Nicolson does not appear convinced by this suggestion.
‘I reckon she mainly walked it between her Ma’s and the village.’
‘Between Slatterthwaite and Balderthwaite?’
‘Aye – along the beck. It’s a good place to take a dog – the footpath’s walled off from the in-bye land.’
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