Murder at the Meet

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Live music, Guv.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Skelgill says no more and DS Leyton swings into the car park at the rear of premises. It is empty but for a couple of vehicles that look like budget staff cars, and a tour coach with an Ayrshire address and telephone number.

  They enter to find a similar layout to the Twa Tups, in that there is a modern extension at the rear, and in here a mediocre lunch is being served to a subdued party of pensioners. Skelgill follows his nose to the bar, which – as Tom Roland described – has retained its traditional qualities, though is a much larger room than its equivalent at the Balderthwaite tavern. This being a weekday in late September, the bar is sparsely populated. A young man of about twenty puts down his mobile and slides off a stool at the end of the long polished oak counter. He greets them with a pleasant smile.

  ‘What can I get you, gents?’

  ‘I’d like to say two pints of Jennings bitter – but you don’t appear to have it.’

  The young man makes the beginnings of an apology, together with a gesture at the alternative range of hand pumps – but Skelgill pre-empts any further debate by displaying his warrant card.

  The young man grins.

  ‘You’re heavy grade mystery callers.’

  Skelgill frowns.

  ‘Come again, son?’

  For a second the lad looks slightly unnerved.

  ‘Oh – just a joke – I meant as if the brewery have sent you. We get mystery callers – to make sure we dispense according to recommendations, fill to the line, use the correct branded glasses – that sort of thing?’

  His manner is pleasant, and he sounds educated, and Skelgill refrains from being any more obstructive; after all, he started it.

  ‘It’s a man we’re looking for, not ale.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Now Skelgill cuts to the chase.

  ‘Musician. Guitarist. Jazz. Could be aged around seventy. Known to have played here about eleven years ago. Possibly thereafter.’

  ‘Ah.’ The bartender creases his brow. ‘I’ve just been here since January – and I’m afraid the present tenants only took over the summer before.’ But then he raises an index finger. ‘Have you talked to Mary?’

  It takes some effort for both Skelgill and DS Leyton to appear to respond blandly; they shake their heads in unison. The young man now indicates a signboard on the wall behind them; it is similar to those outside, although genuinely handwritten, and its chalk smudged. It reads: “Jazz with Mary – every Tuesday and Friday, eight ’til late.”

  Skelgill turns inquiringly to the bartender.

  ‘I believe she’s been singing here for donkey’s years – she would surely know, if anyone does. She lives in the village – she doesn’t drive – so I expect she’s around.’ The detectives must betray some urgency in their body language, for he continues swiftly. ‘It’s the cottage immediately on the left of the post office. Two minutes’ walk. You’ll see the cat ornaments.’

  *

  ‘Think it’s an omen, Guv – her being called Mary?’

  ‘How many Marys are there, Leyton?’

  ‘She’d be about the same age as our one, Guv.’

  Skelgill does not answer, for their quick strides – he setting the pace – have brought them to the post office and, just past it, the address they seek. It is a narrow dwelling, just a door-and-window’s width, its stonework lime-rendered and distempered in cream to achieve a uniformity of the terrace to which it belongs. There is a yard or so of herbaceous border protruding to the pavement either side of the front door; beds of pale blue hydrangeas are retained by perpendicular slates; among the plants lurk several stone cats, of a battle-scarred condition which is surely testament to regular walkabouts after pub closing time. Skelgill vaguely registers the presence of another such ornament on the broad slate windowsill – until it, the most realistic looking ginger, suddenly ducks beneath the partially open lower sash and disappears with serpentine elegance. From within there emanate the strains of a guitar, and a female vocalist. It is a curious rendition; his colleague could tell him it is scat singing. In the absence of a bell or a knocker he raps twice with the knuckles of his left hand. Immediately the singing ceases but the music continues.

  The woman – she answers to ‘Mary’ – rather in keeping with the cats has the appearance of the caricature Halloween witch. Her cheeks are hollow and her nose quite prominent and aquiline. Skelgill guesses her age to be around the fifty mark, which complies with Tom Roland’s description. She is tall and slim, and wears an ankle length dress in clingy black velveteen. Her long hair, raven and dip-dyed with tips of magenta, falls in unkempt tresses across her face, such that she regards them disconcertingly with one dark brown eye. A hand holds the door half open; the other nurses a tumbler of amber liquor.

  She seems unruffled by Skelgill’s introduction; they are invited inside. The front door gives on directly to a small cosy lounge; a slightly shabby suite draped in patterned throws surrounds a traditional stone hearth in which a log fire smoulders, producing a pleasant aroma of wood smoke. There are wall hangings, such as the Tree of Life, and a magnificent peacock, and half a dozen church candles flicker on a sideboard. The room, however, is dimly lit, the curtains partially drawn, and Skelgill senses that the ginger cat is lurking in some shadowy recess.

  On a low table before the hearth stands a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, its cap lying beside it. The woman moves ahead of them, turning down the music by means of a voice command directed at what Skelgill considers to be a sinister eavesdropping device; however she leaves it running quietly in the background. Her movements have a certain feline quality, and her voice is throaty and purring, unusually deep for so slender a person. She sinks into the armchair nearest to the bottle, and indicates loosely with her glass that they should join her. Rather listlessly she offers them a drink, but then seems disappointed when they decline. She seems amused when the cat – the ginger – materialises upon the arm beside Skelgill and steps purposefully down onto his lap. There was a time when he would have flinched – for no good reason – but, after many years of decrying cats as mercenary and unresponsive, he is a recent convert, and harbours a secret admiration for their ability consistently to outwit supposedly more intelligent dogs (and to take obvious pleasure in so doing). As the creature settles down, Skelgill indicates with a jerk of his head that his colleague – assigned to ask questions, as best qualified in the genre of jazz – ought to commence.

  DS Leyton clears his throat.

  ‘Madam, is Mary your real name? I mean – as opposed to a stage name.’

  She smiles dreamily.

  ‘Mary Elizabeth Jane de Boinville.’

  DS Leyton glances at his colleague; Skelgill, however, knows of de Boinvilles from Westmorland, and is unperturbed. The sergeant makes a stab at the spelling, and then rather self-consciously requests her date of birth. She is unfazed by the question; it confirms her age to be fifty-one.

  ‘Madam – we understand you’ve been singing at The Bell for some time. We’re trying to trace a man we believe you may have performed alongside. In particular on an occasion approximately eleven years ago. Jazz guitarist. His estimated age at the time was sixty.’ DS Leyton quickly flips back through his notes to their earlier conversation with Tom Roland. ‘He is described as having long, thinning hair in a ponytail and distinctive protruding teeth.’

  She has listened without revealing any trace of recognition, her breathing steady, blinking occasionally. But now she replies without equivocation.

  ‘That would be The Viscount – Harry Nelson.’

  DS Leyton senses a stiffening in the demeanour his superior, that they have so swiftly reached an identification. Before he can speak again, the woman continues.

  ‘I sang with him maybe a dozen times. He wasn’t especially pleasant. It was a purely commercial relationship.’

  DS Leyton is nodding.

  ‘And when did you last see him?’

  ‘It would be
five or six years ago – I think he began to travel about less.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  She raises her glass and sips slowly, regarding DS Leyton and then Skelgill contemplatively through her favoured eye. There seems to be a hint of amusement, as though she senses she is the cat and they are mice. Gently she flicks her glass to and fro.

  ‘He lived in Aspatria. That’s where he was from.’

  It must be her intonation – but Skelgill is suddenly possessed by that ‘fishing feeling’, of an unsatisfactory bite in progress, when eventually he is forced to strike against his better judgement. Thus his interjection carries a hint of desperation.

  ‘Do you know his address now?’

  ‘Try the churchyard.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was killed outside The Victory – in Aspatria. Late one night after he’d performed – they say he was blind drunk. It was a hit-and-run. They never caught the driver.’ Again she looks languorously from one detective to the other. ‘Roughly two years ago. You would know that?’

  Skelgill, though momentarily reeling, is wondering that he ought to. But Aspatria, outwith the National Park, is off his regular beat. Nonetheless, he feels disturbed by his lack of such basic knowledge.

  DS Leyton, too, has been knocked off his stride by Skelgill’s intervention and the disturbing twist in the tale. Meanwhile the woman reaches for the bottle, but finds it empty. She rises and passes behind them to the sideboard on which the smart speaker nestles innocuously amidst the candles. She opens a cupboard door and there is the clink of glassware. She returns with a fresh bottle of whiskey, and two clean tumblers, these items balanced on a wide book for a tray. She hands the bottle to Skelgill.

  ‘May I borrow your strength?’

  He senses his sergeant is watching his reaction, and is implacable as he cracks open the cap. He hands the bottle over – she pours a couple of fingers into a glass and offers it to him – but he leans back, his palms raised.

  ‘We’re both driving. It wouldn’t go down well. Sorry.’

  The woman gives a slight shrug, and instead simply sips from the new glass herself. She puts it down and removes the third glass from the book and lifts and opens it. They realise it is some kind of album.

  ‘I have a picture of him – not for sentimental reasons.’

  It takes her a few moments – but she finds what she is looking for and extracts a cutting from a local newspaper. It is a colour photograph. She stands in the foreground holding a microphone to her lips – the trademark tresses cover one eye. Behind her, seated, and in clear focus though not the intended subject of the shot, is a guitarist who brings to life Tom Roland’s verbal photo-fit.

  ‘What was with The Viscount?’

  She shrugs.

  ‘Oh – nicknames are a thing in jazz circles. And I suppose The Count was taken.’

  Skelgill sees that DS Leyton is nodding; he must know whom she means. Accordingly he indicates that his deputy should resume the questioning.

  ‘What was his connection to The Bell?’

  Now she shakes her head lightly, although not sufficiently to dislodge the tresses that stubbornly cling to one side of her face.

  ‘None, as such. He played the county circuit. There must have been a hundred or more venues back then. He was good, so he could pick and choose. And there’s more money to be made when you’re something of a locum – that’s when he came to Grasmere – when one of my regular musicians called off.’

  DS Leyton looks lost for what to say next. He reverts to the comfort blanket of his notebook and reads out the list of songs supplied by Tom Roland. The woman nods.

  ‘They are exactly the numbers we used to do. Ain’t Misbehavin’ was his signature tune – not many could play it so well. I have to give him that – he was good. Anything from the Great American Songbook. He fancied himself as a bit of a transatlantic dude.’

  DS Leyton regards her interrogatively.

  ‘These songs, the report that we’re following up – it was a specific night – the sixth of November, coming up for eleven years ago?’

  The woman lifts her glass and smiles sympathetically.

  ‘Sergeant, can you remember what you were doing?’

  DS Leyton grins phlegmatically. They have agreed en route how much they can safely reveal, and now he puts this plan into action.

  ‘Madam – the man we believe to be your associate – Harry Nelson – was overheard to tell another male – to boast to him – that he had impersonated a friend or acquaintance in order to get him off a road traffic offence. It was couched as a favour between mates.’

  The woman is listening implacably. That they have now shown their hand – and that she is clearly not regarded as some kind of co-conspirator – does not seem to affect her demeanour. Her response comes evenly.

  ‘It’s hard to imagine Harry impersonating somebody. He was quite distinctive.’ She casts a hand towards the photograph, which Skelgill has laid on top of the album on the table.

  DS Leyton glances at his superior – perhaps concerned that their story has herein a flaw that requires further explanation. But Skelgill is unconcerned, and now he takes over.

  ‘Can you think of anyone he would have shielded – presumably a person he knew well?’

  ‘No to the first. And no to the second – I wouldn’t have put it past him to act for a complete stranger if there were a few quid in it. Going dutch on the tips was not his forte.’

  Yet she seems not to resent this fact.

  ‘And he never mentioned this story to you?’

  ‘Why would he?’ Her words are somewhat abrupt, though her tone remains mild.

  Skelgill is forced to try another avenue of approach.

  ‘There may be a Borrowdale connection.’

  ‘Just remind me, Inspector.’

  Skelgill is always a little surprised when local folk do not know their topography. He is forever berating DS Leyton for learning next to nothing, in seven years or more. But now he responds patiently.

  ‘Roughly speaking, the vale south of Keswick – beyond Derwentwater and about as far as you can go up into the fells.’

  ‘That’s quite an expanse.’

  Skelgill is nodding.

  ‘But not a massive population.’

  But again she shakes her head – this time it is a clear indication of being unable to help.

  ‘I’m sorry – there’s nothing that comes to mind. Like I say – he played all over the county.’

  Skelgill is silent for a moment – he has reached the end of the road, for the time being. He watches as she pours more drink – he notices that she fills the remaining unused glass. And then she offers it to him.

  ‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’

  Skelgill jerks forward – he means to rise – but he realises he cannot move for the ginger cat is firmly secured upon his lap.

  ‘Thanks – but we need to go. You’ve been very helpful. Mind if we borrow your press cutting?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  He looks at her a little helplessly.

  ‘Happen I’ll leave the cat.’

  The woman reaches and slides her long hands with their delicate fingers beneath its form and prises it persuasively from his thighs. As she rises she cradles it in one arm against her shoulder. Skelgill rather staggers to his feet.

  ‘It’s a pity you’re not staying around – you could boost my audience tonight. I was rehearsing when you arrived.’

  Skelgill grins rather sheepishly.

  ‘It sounded impressive.’

  She looks at him like she knows she is being fobbed off – that it is even something she might be accustomed to. But with her free hand she reaches forward and, as if to steady him – though he is now stable – she places her palm against his side.

  ‘Friday, maybe?’

  ‘You never know.’

  *

  ‘Reckon he’s Tom Roland’s man, Guv?’

  Skelgill grunts as he s
huts the door of DS Leyton’s car. He glares at the clipping that rests on the console between them. DS Leyton has taken and transmitted a photograph.

  ‘It all fits. He matches the description. She seems straight enough. Attractive woman.’

  DS Leyton flashes a sideways glance at his superior – it is unusual for him to make such a remark. Skelgill must sense his sergeant’s attention and begins vigorously to beat raindrops from the shoulders of his jacket. While DS Leyton has radioed through a series of requests for information, Skelgill has insisted on prowling around the village of Grasmere. But DS Leyton puts aside his misgivings; Skelgill operates at depths that cannot often be fathomed by the application of regular logic. If the woman has charmed him, then so be it. He turns on the ignition, but makes no attempt to set off. Instead he cranks up to maximum the heater and the fan, and engages the wipers, for the car is misted inside and out.

  ‘I got an immediate answer on the hit-and-run, Guv.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Just like she said. Two years ago this month. Killed outright. Perpetrator never identified. The only witness was an old geezer walking his dog. Vehicle believed to be a battered black pick-up, make unknown.’

  Skelgill grinds his teeth.

  ‘There’s a lot of them about.’

  ‘May not even have been registered, Guv – apparently we inspected all the licensed vehicles in the district for accident damage, contacted repair shops, garages. Diddly-squat.’

  Skelgill is silent for a few moments. DS Leyton ventures an idea.

  ‘Reckon he was taken out, Guv?’

  Skelgill does not immediately answer. When he does, his question is profoundly intoned.

  ‘Why wait twenty years?’

  DS Leyton rocks his head from side to side.

  ‘Well – something could have prompted it, Guv.’

  ‘Aye – I could see that now – if Mary Wilson’s killer got wind that we’re poking about. Silence the one person who could put the finger on him.’