DS Leyton has evidently transferred his earlier notes from his pocket book to his handwritten summary. He refers to a paragraph at the end of the document.
‘Here we are, Guv. She said he moved to a B&B at Grange between six and nine months after Mary Wilson disappeared.’ He glances up briefly, and then continues. ‘She implied it became a relationship – but that he moved out to Keswick within the year.’
It is a week since the three detectives interviewed Jean Tyson at her Slatterthwaite cottage. Skelgill is wondering why this is something they have not yet followed up. Surely DS Jones will have put someone onto tracing the woman? She is not the type that has to be asked twice to do something – generally not even once – such that he is not in the habit of registering this kind of action point. If the woman is still alive – and, frankly, there is no reason to think she would not be – then she may indeed be able to enlighten them as regards Aidan Wilson.
‘Check with Jones – she must have one of her team onto it – and they’ve drawn a blank, is my guess.’
DS Leyton nods and makes a little mark with a biro in the margin of his page. Then he frowns; it is the precursor to a suggestion that he suspects will prove unpopular with his boss.
‘We could always go back over to the pub, Guv – once it’s quietened down a bit. If Aidan Wilson’s still there – we could ask him about this – and there’s the business of the DNA – hadn’t we better knock that one the head?’
That his sergeant has obviously been mulling over the same issue as he, comes as a small surprise to Skelgill – irrationally so, it being such a salient aspect of the investigation – but now he reiterates his own conclusion in this respect.
‘Leyton, when you want to knock a limpet off the rocks you need to hit it hard and fast. Give it a gentle prod and you can forget about it.’
There is a silence while DS Leyton gazes uncomprehendingly, until the significance of this metaphor sinks in. He makes a sucking noise, perhaps subconsciously induced, and nods resignedly.
‘And I don’t suppose we could really speak to Jean Tyson today, Guv.’
Skelgill nods grimly. While she may be able to shed further light on the Grange B&B episode, to interview her on the day she has buried her daughter feels, out of common decency, to be a matter for a rain check.
DS Leyton opts to move on. He reverts to his draught report.
‘Megan Nicolson, Guv.’
Skelgill is quick to pick up this new thread.
‘Why didn’t she notice Jake Dickson were in the lounge bar on the day Mary Wilson disappeared. Or if she did, why didn’t she say.’
He intones these words as statements of fact, as though they are long-recognised tenets of the investigation. Nonetheless, it is a response that engages his sergeant.
‘Exactly, Guv! Remember after we’d interviewed her – I said she’d changed her tune? In the first place she had Mary Wilson as a candidate for an affair – and then last Wednesday she was putting a dampener on it. Against that, in her original statement she made no mention of Aidan Wilson – yet the other day she had plenty to say about him, none of it flattering. And now it looks like she might have covered up for Jake Dickson having been in the pub.’
Skelgill scowls somewhat disapprovingly.
‘Happen she had a fancy for him, Leyton.’
DS Leyton looks a little alarmed.
‘What do you mean by that, Guv?’
‘I reckon he was a bit of a Jack the Lad – he thinks he still is.’
‘Are you suggesting she thought he had something to do with Mary Wilson, Guv?’
‘Whoa – hold your horses, Leyton.’ Skelgill raises a restraining palm. ‘All I’m saying is you can’t assume everything was simple. We’ve already found out that Mary Wilson had an affair with Sean Nicolson. It’s not hard to imagine other permutations – before, at the time, or since.’
DS Leyton absently pulls up a clump of still damp hair, in the fashion of Stan Laurel.
‘I suppose so, Guv.’
Skelgill regards his sergeant earnestly.
‘Megan Nicolson likes to come across as artless – but she’s wily, if you ask me. Don’t you reckon if her husband were carrying on with her workmate – her old schoolmate – she’d have got wind of it? There’s Sean Nicolson saying he and Mary were childhood sweethearts. Megan would have been right on her guard. On top of that, she’s not shy of a bit of attention herself. And there’s the local lover boy Jake Dickson playing up to them both at the bar of the Twa Tups.’
DS Leyton nods, but it is plain he appears somewhat nonplussed. Is his boss testing on him the hypothesis that Megan Nicolson has changed her tune to switch the spotlight to Aidan Wilson? That she is now downplaying the notion that Mary Wilson might have had an affair – to deflect attention from the man with whom she did? But surely that man was not Jake Dickson, but Megan’s own husband, Sean Nicolson?
He feels decidedly at a loss.
‘I suppose we can only ask them, Guv.’
Skelgill hoots – although it is a sound that is not so much disparaging as sympathetic.
‘And you reckon they’ll tell us?’
DS Leyton puffs out his cheeks.
‘It depends how we put the questions. Like you say, Guv, if people think they’ll incriminate themselves, they’ll go into their shell. But there might be a way. Let them think they’re helping us catch someone else.’
Skelgill has finished eating and now he leans back and stretches his arms behind his head. He intones musingly.
‘There’s folk I’d like to interview that are no longer with us, Leyton. Mary Wilson, obviously – the last landlord of the Twa Tups – Winston Skipton-James – and old Walter Dickson, to name a few.’
DS Leyton suddenly brightens.
‘We’ve got Walter Dickson’s statement, Guv.’ He leafs through his notes. ‘Come to think of it, I was going to mention that. Here we go. Now, his account corresponds with the other two – Megan Nicolson and Patrick Pearson, those that last saw Mary Wilson alive – but one thing that did strike me, you having told me about Jake Dickson not running – it was what he said about the race.’
For some reason DS Leyton’s inflection seems to request permission to continue. Skelgill obliges.
‘Aye?’
‘Yeah, Guv – he said they left the Twa Tups to see the finish, because his nephew was running, and was the record-holder.’
It is Skelgill’s turn to look perplexed – though there is a glint of interest in his eyes.
DS Leyton, thus encouraged, continues.
‘I mean, Guv – I might be splitting hairs – but he was interviewed the day after the race. If he’d watched the finish he’d have known Jake Dickson didn’t run – and that he wasn’t the record-holder any more.’
‘So, what are you saying, Leyton?’
DS Leyton shrugs somewhat fearfully.
‘Well, Guv – what if he never went straight back to the shepherds’ meet?’
There is a pause before Skelgill responds; he jumps ahead in the sequencing of the algorithm.
‘What age was Walter Dickson?’
‘Er – he was seventy-two, right enough.’
Skelgill makes a sound of exasperation – though it is not aimed at his colleague. It seems unlikely, in Walter Dickson’s case – but if there does eventually prove to be a local perpetrator, he really doesn’t want it to be a dead one. But now he states a point of fact, which unexpectedly offers support to his colleague’s logic.
‘The race went off at 12.30pm. The record was around the forty-two-minute mark. So if you wanted to see the finish you’d need to get across by ten-past-one sharp.’
DS Leyton holds out a petitioning palm.
‘So they must have left the pub not long after they saw Mary Wilson, Guv?’
But Skelgill produces something of a Machiavellian grin.
‘How exactly does this help your Aidan Wilson theory?’
DS Leyton huffs and puffs before produ
cing an answer.
‘I’m just taking a leaf out of your book, Guv. Keeping an open mind.’
When he might object, instead Skelgill asks a pertinent question.
‘Was there anything in either of Megan Nicolson’s or Patrick Pearson’s statements about the time they left?’
But DS Leyton is shaking his head.
‘Like I say – I reckon our only option is to interview them all again. See what they can remember about the detailed timings.’
Beneath the artificial lights of the barn café Skelgill’s features seem suddenly lined with fatigue. He gazes rather wanly into his empty mug and then cranes his neck to stare interrogatively at the counter, specifically the glass cabinet that displays the cakes and scones.
16. THE CUMBRIAN KITCHEN
Tuesday midday, Police HQ
Skelgill is alone in his office. He sips tea contemplatively. Before him on his desk are the two shepherds’ meet leaflets, over twenty years apart, but with little to separate them in looks. He has the back pages side by side, the lists of winners of mainly sheep classes. And how little the names have changed. Edmondsons, Fergusons, Harrisons, Hoseasons, Jacksons, Richardsons, Robinsons, Sibsons. The progeny of invaders who settled more than a millennium ago. Viking farmers that brought their Herdwick sheep. They named the fells. They cleared the oaks to make their ‘thwaites’. Balder- for Baldr. Slatter- for slaughter.
DS Leyton arrives at the open door to see his boss looking strained.
‘We need a break, Guv.’
Skelgill looks up rather vacantly.
‘You’ve got holidays left, Leyton – just put in the form and I’ll sign it.’ He lands a palm heavily on this year’s leaflet. ‘Take tomorrow off – go to the shepherds’ meet – I’ll probably see you there.’
DS Leyton laughs nervously. His boss’s reaction is a concoction of sarcasm and bloody-mindedness.
‘I meant the other kind of break, Guv – breakthrough.’
DS Leyton supports with one hand a small round tray with two mugs of tea upon it. He slides it onto the desk and then shifts the larger receptacle to within Skelgill’s reach. It is one custom never in danger of the risk of rejection.
‘Cheers.’
Skelgill drains his own mug and immediately reaches for the fresh brew. It is a wonder to DS Leyton that his superior is ever out of the gents’, but he rarely seems to go – other than as an excuse to poke around people’s homes.
‘No bother, Guv.’ Now he displays something of what he holds in his other hand. ‘Couple of bits of news – though not what I’d call a breakthrough.’
He passes over a clear plastic envelope – it contains what Skelgill recognises as the Ordnance Survey map he somewhat illicitly switched during their visit to Nick Wilson’s caravan.
‘Didn’t realise you’d put this into the lab, Guv. Gave me a bit of ribbing they did – saying you were up to your tricks again.’
Skelgill makes a face that reveals his indifference to any such criticism.
‘The boffins have drawn a blank on that fingerprint, Guv. Apparently it’s a clear impression but there’s no match on the system.’ Now DS Leyton produces a wry grin. ‘At least we know it’s not DI Smart’s serial killer. Although I suppose that were never likely. It could just be Nick Wilson’s, Guv. Easy enough to verify if he’s willing.’
Skelgill makes a scoffing sound that for once might contain a hint of remorse.
‘The poor donnat’ll be convinced we’re trying to pin it on him, Leyton. First we want his DNA, then his dabs. He already asked me if he were a suspect – despite how ridiculous that is. Shows what folk think the police might get up to.’
DS Leyton grins empathetically.
‘Still, Guv – if it ever turns out to be material, at least we know it’s a restricted circle of people who could have come into contact with it at the caravan.’
Skelgill looks irked by his colleague’s downgrading of the evidence – but rather than gainsay him he offers a constructive alternative.
‘The age of this map, Leyton – Nick Wilson would have been a kid when it was new. It’s more likely he got them second hand.’
DS Leyton looks a little bewildered.
‘Cor blimey, Guv – where will it end?’
‘Probably with Smart getting his man.’ Skelgill takes a gulp of tea and twists his lips as though there is a deficit of sugar. His tone is sour. ‘We’re running out of time, Leyton.’
DS Leyton also has with him a printout, two copies, in fact, but he does not bother passing the spare to his boss. Instead he indicates he has something to convey.
‘Aidan Wilson’s “fancy woman”, Guv.’ Skelgill raises an eyebrow over his mug. ‘We’ve got details of the B&B – and the proprietor at the time – although she’s not in the district any more. You were right that DS Jones was onto it.’
This seems to stir some emotion in Skelgill, though in the event his response is prosaic.
‘What’s the story?’
‘The woman’s name is Nancy Wheeler. Age sixty-nine. The reason we’ve had a job tracing her is that she’s in a retirement home over on the coast – Sunset Haven, at Maryport.’
‘Aye – it’s beside the marina.’
DS Leyton bows to superior local knowledge.
‘We found her through the tourist information office. They have a record of her as landlady of a B&B at Grange, called Derwent View. She was a widow; she ran it for about six years in all, roughly three either side of when Aidan Wilson would have been there.’
Skelgill is looking interrogatively at his sergeant. He seems to sense there is a shortcoming on the horizon, and he is proved correct.
‘Unfortunately she’s got some kind of dementia, Guv.’
Skelgill appears pained by this information – though his colleague cannot fathom his underlying motive, and continues with his narrative.
‘I mean – that don’t say she can’t help us – folk who are suffering often have decent long-term memory – it’s more what they did in the last ten minutes that they struggle with. The missus’s old man, he’s in a care facility down in Walthamstow – every time we phone to make sure he’s okay, he asks me what’s an app. Then he’ll ask me again a couple of minutes later. “What’s an app, squire?” Maybe four or five times during the course of a call. But try asking him which dog won the Grand Prix in 1966 – he’ll tell you in a flash. And what it cost him!’
Skelgill makes an effort to seem interested, but evidently it is not convincing. And now his colleague begins to sound less hopeful.
‘I realise it’s not someone you could stand as a witness – but she still might be able to help us with some information, Guv?’
‘Has she got relatives?’
DS Leyton nods.
‘We’ve got contact details – the team are getting onto that today.’
Skelgill rakes the fingers of one hand through his hair; he seems to realise it has not been properly attended to since its soaking yesterday.
‘Remind me – what age is Aidan Wilson?’
DS Leyton glances at his crib-sheet – there are handwritten notes to this effect – the same question and its concomitant calculation has occurred to him.
‘He’s fifty-eight. He was thirty-six at the time Mary Wilson disappeared. And this Nancy Wheeler would have been forty-seven or forty-eight. Bit of a big age gap, really.’
DS Leyton glances up to see Skelgill glaring at him; thankfully it is an empty stare that he recognises as not personal – just that he has raised a troubling notion for Skelgill.
‘I mean, Guv – obviously, it ain’t nothing as adults – look at half the presidents around the world with their dolly b– ’ He stops, realising he is digging a hole for himself. He hits the heel of one hand against his forehead and reverts to his original vein. ‘Anyway, Guv – I gave Sunset Haven a call – they said we can just drop by any time, no appointment needed.’
Skelgill nods grimly. But he does not answer. He stares at
his mobile phone – he had glanced at it involuntarily when DS Leyton mentioned the age discrepancy – and now he looks again, as though he is willing it to ring, or for a message to appear. After a period of silence, DS Leyton offers a prompt.
‘Want to give it a go, Guv?’
Skelgill makes resigned noise; indeterminate, it lacks enthusiasm.
‘It’s either that or Borrowdale.’
He gives no indication of which he considers to be the greater drudge. DS Leyton is about to make a suggestion when there comes a sharp rap and the simultaneous opening of the door. The distinctive glossy pate and grinning visage of George the desk sergeant insinuates itself into the crack. It is a moment that calls to mind a scene from The Shining.
But for George to have sought him out, Skelgill anticipates a fishing enquiry.
‘We have a specimen at reception insisting he must see Inspector Skelgill.’ George now smiles even more broadly, exhibiting a prominent gap between his front teeth. ‘One Kendall Minto.’
Skelgill makes an exclamation of disgust.
‘Ordinarily, Skelly lad, I would have put me boot where t’ sun don’t shine – but I reckon he might have just played his joker.’
George steps forward and hands over a printed calling card – it is a style familiar to Skelgill – indeed it bears the contact details of DS Jones.
Skelgill is momentarily nonplussed, which becomes consternation as he flips the card over to reveal his colleague’s familiar script, and her flowing monogram: “Guv, if you are reading this, it is a genuine lead! E.J.”
While Skelgill stares at the card, George begins to exhibit signs of impatience.
‘I’d better be gannin’ back to the shop front – what shall I tell him, lad?’
Skelgill’s expression is forbidding.
‘Stick him in an interview room. One without a view.’
George raises a finger to show his understanding. He steps away but hesitates at the door.
‘Skelly, lad – got any size twelve hooks-to-nylon in your motor?’
Secretly vindicated, Skelgill smirks. He grabs his car keys from the stack of documents in his creaking in-tray and tosses them across his desk. George makes a neat one-handed catch and departs with another broad gap-toothed smile.
Murder at the Meet Page 21