And so the congregation had followed the casket from the church into the churchyard. The gravel path that has led them to the prepared plot curves between waterlogged turf, and its narrowness has restricted the cortege to processing two-by-two. Jean Tyson together with Nick Wilson had been first in the line, Mary Wilson’s mother and son respectively. Then, a little to Skelgill’s surprise, Aidan Wilson with the Frankenstein creation that is Patrick Pearson. He is no relative as far as Skelgill is aware – but the others seem accepting of his presence; he is of course a near neighbour of lifelong tenure; moreover he owns some standing in the community in his capacity as senior judge at the annual meet. Perhaps he has been closer to the Tyson family than Skelgill has appreciated; after all, his hostility at being questioned, and his proclaimed self-exclusion from the folk of the dale was contrived for the benefit of the prying detectives; there is nothing to say such an extreme state of affairs pertains in reality.
Frankly, if Skelgill has formed an impression of the graveside gathering it is something of a paradox. At family funerals – especially those of his own maternal clan, the prolific and widespread Grahams – his experience has been of a palpable oneness, all present with arms linked or around shoulders, a collective expression of distress and support. Here today the watchword is not collective but collection – an assembly of individuals, each insulated from their peers, standing silently apart, isolated by their thoughts and memories – and maybe, he wonders, by their suspicions. Though there is little in the way of probing eye contact, of surreptitious glances to gauge the guilt of others; gazes are universally cast down to the ground, to the grave, to the casket as it descends and Mary Wilson is laid to rest. And now Skelgill senses at last some unanimity, relief that the mourners may retreat and traipse through the steadily falling rain the short distance to the Twa Tups, to shed their damp outerwear and partake of sandwiches and sherry.
While DS Leyton pays an overdue visit to the gents’, Skelgill stations himself beside a tea urn in the conservatory section of the lounge. Waiting here he experiences his own moment of remoteness, despite that he knows several of the folk – not least having interviewed them in the past days, and others by sight and even one or two better than that – the Hopes are here, for instance, his old schoolmate Jud with his parents Arthur and Gladis; and Debs from the farm shop and café, with her other half, Rebekah; the pastor, still gowned; and the local postie, Patricia Stampson. But as the alcohol begins to flow, and reticence melts, it is a phenomenon that takes place around him; he stands marooned on his own little islet. DS Jones has departed, with DI Smart – they left from directly outside the church to return to Manchester – the latter’s words ringing in his ears, a snide cackle and a disparaging “Good luck in your sleepy Borrowdale – we’ll bring home the bacon by the end of the week – don’t you worry, cock.” DS Jones had flashed him an apologetic glance, the best she could offer as DI Smart kept her under close surveillance. His cunning use of the umbrella had assisted in this regard – and Skelgill could hardly object, for her stylish outfit looked far too good to be allowed to become sodden; indeed he had noticed members of the congregation stealing glances at her and DI Smart – perhaps wondering that so trendily dressed and well groomed a pair could be from the police; perhaps they were at the wrong funeral, or were en route to some society event. Skelgill grinds his teeth – but now his uncomfortable thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of the somewhat less urbane DS Leyton.
‘Lor’ luv a duck, Guvnor – standing room only.’
‘There’s some of them won’t be standing for long, the way they’re sticking it away.’
DS Leyton nods sagely; sure enough trays of sherry borne by a couple of young village girls pressed into waitress service are being emptied as fast as they appear, and behind the bar the landlord and his wife are already working themselves up into a frenzy of flailing arms as pumps are pulled and optics pressed and swilling glasses distributed above shoulder height. Skelgill postulates that at this rate it won’t be long before Megan Nicolson will have to swap sides and put in a shift. He absently serves himself a top up of tea from the urn; then he seems to realise his colleague has none and moves aside for him. DS Leyton’s dark mane plastered down by rain makes his fleshy face appear unnaturally large, but then Skelgill runs the fingers of one hand through his own hair and realises he must look like a species of vagrant. He affects a shiver and resorts to a series of thirsty gulps from his piping hot beverage. DS Leyton can only inhale across the surface of his own drink; he casts about the crowded lounge; he seems to share something of Skelgill’s frustration.
‘I know there’s a saying about being a spare part at a wedding. What’s the equivalent for a funeral, Guv?’
Skelgill makes an ironic scoffing sound. He does not have a ready quip, other than ‘detective’ seems apposite. His sergeant is right in that no matter what the state of the case (even completely solved to the satisfaction of the bereaved) – to attend a funeral in an official capacity puts the policeman in an invidious position. He is either suspected of going through the motions, of paying lip service when he cannot be emotionally invested, or (as is likely to be the perception in this instance) is open to the accusation of spying. Such concerns have left Skelgill feeling in a state of limbo. But he notes the reporter, Kendall Minto, experiences no such weight of conscience; already assiduously circulating, dispensing commiserations, he is no doubt gleaning titbits of information. DS Leyton is alert to his superior’s scrutiny.
‘I’m surprised that cove’s not been bending your ear about the leak, Guv.’
Skelgill seems irked.
‘What are you talking about, my ear? What’s wrong with yours?’
DS Leyton back-pedals.
‘Well – what I mean is, Guv – you being the senior officer. He’s more likely to ask you for confirmation.’
‘He knows he’ll get short shrift from me, Leyton.’
DS Leyton looks doubtful. It strikes him that if Kendall Minto were ignorant of the leaked information then surely he would be crawling all over them, playing catch up? That he does not do this might suggest he is indeed already in the know.
But at this juncture Kendall Minto receives short shrift of another kind. Above the hubbub there is the sudden raising of a male voice, angry, threatening – and without further warning the distinctive thwack of a fist upon human flesh and bone; instantly the outraged cries of other men, the shrieking of several women, and the crash of furniture and glass. Automatically Skelgill and DS Leyton abandon their teas and begin to wade through the crowd. It is only a matter of yards but nonetheless not immediately apparent exactly what is afoot. As Skelgill squeezes past the portly form of postie Pat Stampson she enlightens him, evidently having had a better view.
‘Old Jake’s kaylied – he’s gone an’ twatted yon reporter.’
Breaking into the nucleus of the conflict Skelgill is confronted by a scene that neatly illustrates this succinct description. A dazed-looking Kendall Minto is sprawled back in a slipper chair, which appears to have cushioned his fall, blood streaming from his nose upon the front of his white shirt; Jake Dickson, nostrils flaring like a rearing stallion, is being held back at the shoulders by a tag team of Nick Wilson and Sean Nicolson; side by side, they are men of startling congruity; they grapple to get him into a more effective arm lock. Skelgill also takes in that the bowed giant Patrick Pearson seems to have assumed a protective stance in relation to Jean Tyson, their height disparity giving the impression of the manner in which a parent would begin to chaperone a child away from a threatening dog.
Skelgill can see that the danger has passed – Jake Dickson is firmly pinioned and Kendall Minto looks in no condition to retaliate. He steps between them and jerks his thumb at the prone journalist.
‘Leyton – take him to the washroom.’ Then he addresses a shocked-looking Megan Nicolson. ‘Have you got a first-aid kit behind the bar?’
The woman nods obediently and reaches to touch DS Leyto
n on the back, as he bends to take hold of Kendall Minto.
‘I’ll fetch it to the toilets.’
DS Leyton responds with a grunt as, employing a firefighter’s lift, he hauls the stupefied young man to his feet and steers him through a passage that opens up in the crowd. Skelgill turns to the remaining protagonist, who has been vainly struggling and loudly protesting, though not particularly coherently. Skelgill speaks quietly but with considerable authority in his voice.
‘Mr Dickson, I suggest you shut it – else I’ll have no alternative but to arrest you.’
There is plainly a rebellious streak in Jake Dickson – never mind whatever it is that has caused him to fly off the handle – and never mind that it would appear he was well tanked up before the church ceremony had even begun – and he makes a desperate if futile lurch in the direction of the departing Kendall Minto.
‘Keep thy bloody nose out of what’s none of thy business!’
That his oath is literally accurate takes only a slight edge off its offensiveness. Then, still struggling, he catches the eye of Aidan Wilson, watching on, a disparaging sneer fixed upon his pinched countenance – and Jake Dickson vents more fury upon him.
‘And thou can hop it, an’ all – if it weren’t for thee none of us would be here now – and Mary’d be behind t’ bar!’
Aidan Wilson glares with disdain, though he may well be relieved that Jake Dickson is restrained. Meanwhile, Skelgill is infuriated that the latter has failed to obey his order. He steps menacingly closer, and perhaps the man detects that he is a millisecond from receiving a sharp silencing jab to his solar plexus – it must be evident in Skelgill’s eyes (although there is an irony here, for in the back of his mind a little voice tells him to let Jake Dickson spout forth); but in any event it would not look good for a policeman to punch a defenceless prisoner, and he is uncertain of quite where the crowd’s loyalty lies. However, conveniently for all, the man falls grudgingly mute. Skelgill addresses Sean Nicolson.
‘Take him through to the bar will you? Get some black coffee down him.’
Sean Nicolson nods and glances at Nick Wilson, so that they may set off in tandem with their charge, overwhelming his inertia. But perhaps that Skelgill has not carried through his threat of incarceration has a palliative effect, and Jake Dickson visibly sags and seems ready to acquiesce. Accordingly, Sean Nicolson speaks in his gentle voice.
‘Come on, marra – let’s be garn.’
And they duly go. The crowd sways apart once more and then reconstitutes itself. It seems in only a few seconds that normal service is resumed, as if the incident were only to be expected. Skelgill casts a look at Jean Tyson; once more, unsuitably, she seems to be being comforted by Patrick Pearson – at least he reaches for a sherry and passes it down to her from his great height – she has occupied the seat vacated by Kendall Minto. She appears unperturbed by the fracas, though Skelgill is reminded of the natural severity of her demeanour; perhaps today her emotional defences have been doubly deployed. A succession of folk find their way across to her, and bend to express their sympathy – commiserations that she accepts with due dignity, her station almost regal, with the towering, glowering form of Patrick Pearson standing like an imperial sentry a pace behind and to one side. It seems he has stepped in where her grandson might be expected to oversee her welfare.
Above the crowd Skelgill notices DS Leyton appear in the doorway. He raises a palm, indicating his sergeant should wait, and he makes his way over to him, apologising as he pushes through the now more animated throng.
‘Where’s Minto?’
‘He’s scarpered, Guv.’ DS Leyton sees his superior’s look of alarm. ‘He’s fine – it were just a nose bleed – no permanent damage to his pretty-boy looks.’
Skelgill appears unimpressed; he is tempted to remark that more is the pity, but refrains.
‘What did he say?’
DS Leyton suppresses a chuckle.
‘Don’t bring any charges – it’ll damage his reputation – his ability to get information.’
Skelgill makes a scathing exclamation. But then he offers a more reasoned observation.
‘I’m surprised he didn’t want to stick around – tongues are loosening.’
DS Leyton nods.
‘I heard Jake Dickson start mouthing off. Who was that aimed at, Guv?’
‘Take your pick – I reckon it would have been anyone in his line of sight.’ Skelgill seems reluctant to name an individual, but then he yields. ‘Aidan Wilson – in the first instance.’
DS Leyton listens reflectively – then another thought comes to him.
‘Minto got some text message. He tried to make it seem like nothing – I reckon that’s what’s dragged him away. But I don’t reckon he’s abandoned his crusade just yet.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Just as he left, Guv. He said, “Good news about the Manchester suspect” – but then he winked like I was supposed to know something.’
Skelgill’s features become unyielding; it is a look that is intended to suggest indifference, but it tells those familiar with him exactly the opposite. After a moment he speaks.
‘Smart was bragging he’d have it all wrapped up by the end of the week.’
But DS Leyton seems unwilling to accept this proposition.
‘I don’t reckon he’s any closer, Guv – surely that’s one thing DS Jones would tip us off about, save our shoe leather?’
‘Happen she might.’
But Skelgill does not sound convinced. It falls to DS Leyton to make the running,
‘I’ve finished going through the files, Guv – if you want to hear that – when we get back?’
That DS Leyton has emailed a report the previous evening, and received no recognition from his boss has come as no surprise.
‘Have you got it on you?’
‘Er, yeah – I can get the file on my phone, Guv.’
Skelgill nods, more decisively now. He steps past his colleague and makes towards the exit door.
‘Let’s head over to the café – stick around in case we want to speak to someone later.’
DS Leyton shuffles hurriedly after his superior.
‘Reckon it’ll be open, Guv?’
‘Aye, I spoke to Debs. She’s got a couple of lasses up from Keswick. They’re still getting tourists this time of year.’
‘Right you are, Guv. The Bowder Scones are on me.’
15. CAFÉ CONVERSATION
Monday midday, Balderthwaite
‘I, er – I noticed Minto was trying to get a word with DS Jones as she was leaving, Guv.’ Skelgill glowers over his sausage sandwich but does not attempt to interrupt his sergeant. ‘I don’t think he’d expected her to shoot off directly from the church – he kind of shadowed them when he realised they were heading for the car – then DI Smart headed him off, sent him packing. I wonder what that was all about, Guv?’
‘Leyton, we’ve got enough mysteries without inventing new ones.’ But despite these words it is plain that Skelgill is discontented. ‘Like you said, if there’s something to know, Jones’ll tip us the wink soon enough.’
DS Leyton has little alternative but to accept this reminder of his own analysis.
‘I suppose so, Guv.’
Skelgill glances over his shoulder, as if to check their privacy. The garden, his preference for seclusion, was not an available option; the downpour shows no sign of relenting, and was beginning to slant in on a freshening breeze as they made a dash for the café. By comparison the interior is warm if fuggy. A boisterous gaggle of middle-aged ramblers have entered just behind them, well soaked and full of their morning’s achievements and calamities. It seems they belong to a club based in Lancaster, and are walking the Cumbria Way, a seventy-mile hike from Ulverston in the south to Carlisle in the north; tonight’s stopover is in Keswick, roughly seven miles hence by way of the western shore of Derwentwater. Skelgill, eavesdropping whilst waiting for DS Leyton to place and return with the
ir order, found himself tempted to butt in; they were arguing over whether their route would take them past the legendary Bowder Stone (which it does not, save for wading the River Derwent at its nearest point – foolhardy at the best of times, and suicidal in today’s spate conditions). Skelgill, of course, knows of a simple detour – but he found himself abruptly biting his tongue when there came the sudden mention of Mary Wilson.
“That’s where that Wilson woman was murdered – I heard it ont’ radio again this morning.”
“They never solved that, did they? The police were baffled.”
“And they DNA-tested all the men around.”
“They never tested me!”
(This quip raised a round of laughter.)
“But, Eric – you didn’t live up here.”
“Aye – but I’ve done walks in the area. Seathwaite’s only a couple of miles down t’ road – and that’s the most popular start point for Great Gable and Scafell Pike. There must be loads of folk like me – just come in for the day. Three Peakers and whatnot.”
This had prompted a round of pensive silence before there was another contribution.
“The police must have been sure it were a local man – else they wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble. It’s usually the husband or lover, so they say.”
“I must get one for my missus!”
After the mirth had died down the original speaker had chimed back in.
“They’ve got someone for it – that’s what the radio said. A prime suspect – believed to be a prisoner.”
“Aye?”
“Aye. I reckon it’s that nutter they called the ‘Solway Strangler’ – remember him – used to choke women with their own clothing?”
“Aye, that’s reet. So he did.”
This had shaken Skelgill – for it seemed more information has been released – there was no mention of the man’s status in last week’s leaked news. What had not unnerved him, however, was the wilder speculation, for the infamous ‘Solway Strangler’ had been eliminated on the grounds that he was incarcerated at the time of Mary Wilson’s disappearance. However, the ramblers’ pragmatic opinions had reminded Skelgill of the challenge he faced, his indistinct trajectory beneath the dark clouds and mist-shrouded fells of Borrowdale, versus the sunlit tree-lined avenue down which DI Smart appears to have enticed the Chief, with its promise of laurels for the taking. He was brooding over this dichotomy when DS Leyton’s words had pricked his reverie.
Murder at the Meet Page 19