“There you go, Guv – sausage sarnie. Times two.”
Food had taken precedence over conversation for a few minutes, until DS Leyton’s opening gambit concerning Kendall Minto trying to speak to DS Jones. Now, having evidently given up on this theme, he delves into the inside pocket of his jacket, and produces a sheaf of lined A4 paper, folded into thirds. He flattens it out on the surface of the table. The page is covered by his scrupulous manuscript, which always strikes Skelgill as incompatible with a fellow he regards as not entirely meticulous in his habits.
‘Can’t get a flippin’ signal on the mobile in here, Guv. I’ve been trying while I was waiting at the counter. These are the crib sheets I made before I typed the report. They’re a bit out of order – if you see what I mean – but I’ll make do, shall I?’
‘Aye.’
DS Leyton raps with his knuckles upon the document. ‘Thing is – I started with Jake Dickson, being as he’d set the alarm bells ringing – though what with the developments we’ve had since it’s hard to know where the priority lies.’ He glances up at his superior for guidance.
But Skelgill shrugs somewhat laconically, and slumps back, lifting his tea plate against his breastbone.
‘Whatever, Leyton – we’ve got till Friday.’
It seems he refers to the timetable indicated by DI Smart – and for all DS Leyton knows the Chief has formally issued such a diktat. But they are sitting comfortably, have food and drinks, and shelter from the elements – and, he supposes, a few hours to kill. He traces a course with a stout index finger until he arrives at an underlined heading.
‘If you recall, there were eleven statements provided by the known eyewitnesses and family, and then about a hundred people who were identified as being in the vicinity before and roughly up to the time Mary Wilson disappeared. So Jake Dickson fell into that category. The investigating team divided them up into batches and did short interviews. There are notes against each person’s name, but no verbatim quotes or statements that could be brought in as evidence against someone. On top of that there’s the database of males who were DNA-tested over the next few weeks – that’s north of five hundred. But the testing centres were just that – show your ID, give a blood sample, have a cuppa; Bob’s your uncle. There was a duty PC, but no interviewing – the staff were nurses drafted in from Workington hospital. Oh – and there were thirty-seven fell runners – that was a separate list based on those who’d registered to compete.’
At this juncture DS Leyton stops; plainly Skelgill’s name was on that list. He resumes rather tentatively.
‘Did you know, Guv – you were the youngest by five years? You must have been a flippin’ child prodigy, racing against all those full-grown geezers.’
Skelgill affects a degree of nonchalance.
‘Leyton, when you’ve got big brothers like mine, you soon learn how to make yourself scarce. Out the back door and straight up the fell was the safest bet. Billy Whizz, me Ma used to call me.’
DS Leyton chuckles, amused at the image conjured by his superior’s anecdote: a scrawny kid hot-footing it with a swiped Cumberland sausage gripped in his fist. But he sticks to the business in hand.
‘Anyway, Guv – you were excluded because of your age. The rest, they were all spoken to. Of course – that includes Jake Dickson. Despite – as he now admits – that he never ran.’
Skelgill looks like he is impatient for a punch line, and DS Leyton gets to it.
‘He was interviewed the following day. All it says, Guv – I’ll tell you exactly: “Jake Dickson. Age thirty-two (as he was then). Runner. Had known Mary Wilson since primary school. Clearly recognised her photograph. Had noticed her presence in the morning at her stall. Had not spoken with her. Did not see her at the shepherds’ meet after the time of the race. Was aware of the publicised details of her disappearance – such as the location of her car – unable to shed any further light on these.” That’s the lot, Guv.’
It is almost exactly as Skelgill has anticipated. The investigating team had established that Mary Wilson had left at shortly before 1pm and had driven to park in the vicinity of the Bowder Stone. She had not returned either to the shepherds’ meet at Balderthwaite or her mother’s cottage at Slatterthwaite, and when her car was found it was logical, therefore, to assume that her disappearance (or ‘abduction’) had occurred in the woods soon after her arrival – given that she ought to have returned to her stall by around 2pm. Questions were couched to the many possible witnesses accordingly. Skelgill does not speak as he mulls over these details.
‘So, it’s just a matter of whether he’s telling the truth about going to the pub – and what he saw, or didn’t see.’ DS Leyton hesitates. Then he leans forward, his expression hopeful. ‘Your gut feel’s usually pretty reliable on these things, Guv.’
Skelgill remains pensive. His sergeant is putting the ball in his court. What does he really think about Jake Dickson? More to the point, what does he feel? The man was uneasy when confronted with the fact of his absence from the fell race – a partial guess on Skelgill’s behalf, for had he been placed fourth or below, he would not have figured in the published frame. But with little prevarication he had provided an explanation, ostensibly honest in its candid admission of cowardice. It also juxtaposed him to the known movements of Mary Wilson – surely if he had wanted to distance himself from her, he would have made up a story that placed him elsewhere? There again, that may not be wise if he knew there was a risk of his presence in the Twa Tups being independently confirmed. After all, Megan Nicolson was working on the other side of the serving hatch. Skelgill exhales heavily, as though releasing with the breath his building frustration; he responds grudgingly.
‘He was picking my brains about the Manchester suspect.’
‘Plus he lost the rag with Minto, Guv – made it quite clear he didn’t approve.’
Skelgill nods but follows up with a shrug as if to cancel out the positivity before they get carried away. If the ramblers know about the latest ‘news’ then no doubt so do the locals. And Jake Dickson’s tirade (well, a little more than that) probably reflected the communal sentiment – they didn’t appreciate Kendall Minto’s inquisition, it struck the wrong note for the occasion. He somehow doubts that Jake Dickson would comprehend the clandestine nature of Kendall Minto’s mission. Besides, perhaps he simply exhibited an understandable protective instinct – that Mary Wilson was at least a schoolmate, and for the thick end of a decade her son has worked under his wing. Skelgill bites irritably into his second sandwich, and makes a face that conveys to his sergeant he should move on.
DS Leyton turns over a page of his notes.
‘Well – obviously, Guv – the big bombshell is Nick Wilson – and Sean Nicolson being his old man, biologically speaking.’ He glances up to check that Skelgill concurs with his assessment, and seems to read agreement. ‘Just because that never came out at the time don’t mean there weren’t those who knew about it. Like I was saying in the churchyard – Aidan Wilson wouldn’t be the first geezer to do in his missus on account of her playing away.’
Skelgill swallows in order to respond.
‘Delicately put, Leyton.’
DS Leyton is unsure if Skelgill is humouring him – or whether indeed he should have employed a less coarse expression. But he can see that Skelgill does not dispute the putative motive.
‘On paper he’s got a strong alibi, Guv – all those repping calls – yeah. But like we discussed – no concrete proof of where he was just after 1pm on the actual day. It’s a perfect alibi in a way – sounds convincing but impossible to confirm – they couldn’t even pick holes in it back then. Most of those little shops have probably closed down. We’d have no chance now – and he must know it.’
DS Leyton’s inflection invites a response, but Skelgill is eating again. The sergeant seems to understand he should thus play his own devil’s advocate.
‘Sure – how would he know she was there in the woods? But he might have gues
sed she’d been planning to meet Sean Nicolson. Or she might have told him she was going to come clean about the baby – perhaps they’d had it out the night before. All he’d have to do was wait nearby in his car and follow her. He might not have intended to kill her – just to intercept her and stop her from letting the cat out of the bag.’
Now Skelgill is free to speak once more.
‘What was in it for him? Not long after, he left the family home – and the bairn. He could have done all that without putting a noose round his own neck. There was no joint inheritance and he obviously wasn’t interested in getting custody.’
DS Leyton frowns.
‘Well, there’s revenge, I suppose, Guv. Being cuckolded – that’s it, ain’t it?’
But Skelgill is glaring belligerently.
‘Why not kill Sean Nicolson instead?’
DS Leyton can see that this would have been a more pernicious form of retribution. But he has a counterpoint.
‘If Mary Wilson was going to blab, Guv – then she surely would have done if Sean Nicolson were murdered. And Aidan Wilson would have been the obvious suspect.’
Skelgill makes an indeterminate growl, another expulsion of air in frustration. They are beginning to drift into the realms of the red herring and the wild goose. He brings the debate abruptly back to basics.
‘Leyton, we’ve got nowt on him. No witnesses, no circumstantial evidence, no forensics.’
They fall silent, each half-heartedly racking their brains. Eating takes over to fill the hiatus. It strikes Skelgill that the only weapon they have in relation to Aidan Wilson is surprise. They know about Nick Wilson. The question is, when to deploy that weapon – there will be only one chance to register a reaction. And there is a potential fly in the ointment. That is their obligation to Nick Wilson – to tell him what they know, the unforeseen by-product of his voluntary DNA test. At this juncture Skelgill is not even sure of the protocol – indeed of the ranking of competing rights of those persons concerned. Does the human right to know trump the human right of confidentiality? Nick Wilson surely has a right to know. But does Aidan Wilson have a right to suppress such information? Does Jean Tyson? And what about Mary Wilson – does she have a right from beyond the grave to protect her son – or to protect her reputation? And then Sean Nicolson – what are his rights?
In raising the new lead with the Chief, she had treated it as an issue on which he ought to be informed, and for fear of showing his ignorance he had shied away from further discussion. He could buy time by ordering a back-up DNA test, on the grounds that the result was inconclusive, or of such potential significance that it required the validation of a second laboratory. But the clock is ticking – he has revealed the information: he used the ‘weapon’ on Sean Nicolson – and it flushed out the story of his affair with Mary Wilson. Okay, the man’s initial reaction was that he does not want the news to go any further. But that may change. As it sinks in, the truth he has long suspected may prove too great a burden to bear alone. And there is the small matter of a belated relationship with his estranged son.
Finally, DS Leyton speaks and hauls Skelgill’s thoughts back to their conversation.
‘Like I said, he got guilty written all over his boat if you ask me, Guv.’
‘Who? What?’ Skelgill’s tone is antagonistic – he automatically assumes that his sergeant refers to the man he is thinking about, Sean Nicolson. And perhaps he is momentarily blind-sided by his colleague’s Cockney slang.
‘Aidan Wilson, Guv. I mean – what about his behaviour when we interviewed him? And this morning, what Jake Dickson said – blaming him that Mary Wilson was gone? I still reckon it’s most likely that he knew, Guv – about her affair, and the baby – and he went and done her in and flew the coop soon enough.’
But Skelgill is reminding himself of the caveats he drew at the time to which DS Leyton refers. Of the ‘suspects’ they have encountered, there is nothing he would like more than to pin the guilt on the obnoxious specimen that is Aidan Wilson. But he knows that to tilt at such an apparently obvious windmill is exactly the way to disappear over the horizon and off an unseen precipice, a point of no return. Unhindered, DI Smart will be free to frame some halfwit of a convicted lifer who seeks bizarre notoriety. He regards his colleague censoriously.
‘What else have we got in the statements?’
DS Leyton appears to want to advance the subject of Aidan Wilson, but for the moment he retreats. He pores over his notes, and turns the pages back and forth a couple of times.
‘Naturally, Guv – I had another look at Sean Nicolson.’ He taps the sheet as though he is squashing a bug; it is a reminder of something of significance. He looks up with a searching expression. ‘In Sean Nicolson’s statement there’s no mention of what he told us – that malarkey with the champion sheep and its guts exploding. All it says is that Mary Wilson passed his stand with her dog as he was doing his shearing demonstration, and that was the last he saw of her.’
There is a silence as Skelgill digests this information. In time, DS Leyton adds a rider.
‘Course that don’t mean he didn’t do what he said. But if we’re treating it as an alibi to be confirmed, we’d need to find the other shepherd, and the vet – something like that.’
Skelgill’s features are creased with doubt.
‘I can tell you now, Leyton – the vet’s long dead. That was Winston Skipton-James. It’s his lass Harriet that’s taken over the practice – she does all the farm work in Borrowdale.’
‘Think they’d have records, Guv?’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘You’d be whistling in the wind, Leyton. Winston was old school. Cash on the nail.’
‘Maybe we can track down the other shepherd, Guv?’
But Skelgill looks like he thinks that is no more likely.
‘If you recall what Sean Nicolson said, Leyton – someone brought the sick tup to his attention – the owner was away.’
Skelgill’s contrariness is realistic. However, he is about to surprise his colleague.
‘Leyton, if you think Aidan Wilson had a strong motive – then why is it any different for Sean Nicolson?’ He pauses as if to invite a response, but DS Leyton just regards him in an open-mouthed fashion. ‘What if he did go to the woods with her, like he says she wanted? Say she told him about the bairn being his. He had plenty to lose – a wife and an eleven-year-old lass. Simple explanation.’
DS Leyton puffs out his cheeks.
‘When you put it like that, Guv.’
But as is Skelgill’s wont, his hypothesis has a sting in its tail.
‘You know what, Leyton – I don’t believe it was him.’
DS Leyton avoids eye contact. It is a rare event for Skelgill to declare anything of this nature; and perplexing given that he has just laid out the facts that would support the opposite view. After a moment’s hesitation, however, he turns his superior’s capriciousness to his advantage.
‘In that case, can I come back to Aidan Wilson?’ Now he looks up more purposefully. ‘He’s the one person that the others have consistently bad-mouthed. We’ve heard he was controlling, tight with cash, he didn’t pull his weight – and he was indifferent when Mary Wilson disappeared.’
Skelgill looks unmoved, and this seems to take some of the wind out of his subordinate’s sails. A prompt becomes necessary.
‘So what, Leyton?’
‘Well, Guv – I was working on this last night – I had the files spread out over the dinner table while the missus was fighting the Battle of Bedtime. Afterwards she came and asked me what it was all about. So I told her the story, top line. First thing she said – straight out – was, “Did Aidan Wilson have a fancy woman?” – and you know, there was that broad he supposedly shacked up with after he slung his hook from Jean Tyson’s place.’
Skelgill’s creased brow suggests his sergeant’s train of thought threatens to derail the established order of things in his mind. But he does not interrupt, and DS Le
yton continues.
‘That aspect was never investigated. Immediately after the disappearance, there was no indication that Aidan Wilson might have been having an affair. He continued to live at his mother-in-law’s with her and the baby. In due course Operation Double Helix gave the all-clear – and the investigation began to be wound down. Aidan Wilson left home well after the dust had settled. By that stage no one was keeping tabs on him – or anyone else, come to that. And there’s nothing in the files to indicate that someone came along and said this looks a bit fishy – Jean Tyson being the most likely to do so. Course – she mentioned it to us the other day – but that came across as resentment built up over the years, because he’s had sweet Fanny Adams to do with her grandson.’
Skelgill has temporarily abandoned the last of his sandwich; still he does not speak.
‘Anyway, what if we can find this woman, Guv?’
Skelgill breaks his silence.
‘More to the point, Leyton, what if we can’t?’
DS Leyton knows Skelgill well enough to understand his meaning. The remark is made in an offhand manner – but is nonetheless provocative; his boss has postulated that she, too, could be a missing person.
‘Hah – that’s just what the missus said, Guv. I mean – I told her she’s been watching too much of that Ennerdale – she’s a sucker for the soaps.’ He makes a dismissive gesture with one hand. ‘But I have to admit, she got me thinking.’
Skelgill’s demeanour remains sceptical, despite his controversial interjection.
‘As I recall, Jean Tyson said it didn’t last for long.’
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