‘What about Minto’s original article, Guv – the one that DS Jones started with? The twentieth anniversary of the disappearance. That came out a couple of years ago.’
Skelgill is nodding; he has had the same thought. Though in characteristic fashion he cautions against it.
‘Let’s not jump to too many conclusions, eh, Leyton?’
‘I suppose not, Guv.’
‘Think about it – what do we actually know for certain? One – that he’s called Harry Nelson.’ Skelgill begins throwing out fingers. ‘Two – he’s from Aspatria. Three – he lived there when he was killed.’
DS Leyton is nodding.
‘One way of looking at it, Guv – is that if he did a mate a favour, then there’s a fair chance the mate was from Aspatria, too. We’re cross-checking all the five-hundred-odd records for an address match. Maybe someone from Aspatria who was working down at Borrowdale at the time? And we’re trying to identify any local relatives and acquaintances – in case that cove in The Bell wasn’t the only person Harry Nelson spilled the beans to.’
But Skelgill is sceptical.
‘Happen it would have come out before now – if he were that glib. I reckon that were a drunken one-off. Do we know if he was married?’
DS Leyton shakes his head, and then clarifies the ambiguity.
‘A bachelor.’
Skelgill waits a moment, as if to signify the concluding of this particular query.
‘So what’s the other way?’
‘Come again, Guv?’
It is apparent to Skelgill that his sergeant is being a mite disingenuous in skirting around the intimation he made half a minute earlier. Nonetheless, he spells it out.
‘You just said “one way of looking at it” like you’ve got another up your sleeve.’
DS Leyton makes a face that admits to procrastination.
‘It’s more along the lines of what if it had been Harry Nelson that was working in Borrowdale?’
Skelgill scowls.
‘You need to make yourself clearer, Leyton.’
‘Well – I was thinking, while you were having a wander. About – well, cats.’
‘Cats.’
Skelgill’s tone conveys this is not a good time for a wind-up.
‘Not actual cats, Guv – I mean, the word cat.’
‘Leyton, which part of “make yourself clearer” don’t you understand?’
DS Leyton raises his hands appealingly.
‘Guv – going back to my uncle Kenny – the trumpeter, right?’ (Skelgill nods reluctantly.) ‘If he referred to some geezer he’d just performed with, he called him a cat. It’s jazz-speak. One jazz player talking about another.’
‘Aye, I’ve heard that.’
‘So – I was going over what Tom Roland told us. When we listened to him, I assumed he was dropping his own Americanisms into his story. But, cat – that’s not a regular thing. I reckon he quoted Harry Nelson verbatim. And I reckon Harry Nelson was talking about another musician.’
DS Leyton folds his hands together and waits for his superior’s response. Skelgill’s reply is forthcoming with surprising swiftness.
‘Fair enough.’
DS Leyton is unsure of how seriously Skelgill is taking his theory – whether he is humouring him – or whether the other extreme possibility holds, that he has had the same notion but is letting his subordinate take the impending fall. He folds his arms and shrugs obstinately.
‘Thing is, Guv – when we went to that caravan? That acoustic guitar of Nick Wilson’s – it’s a Maccaferri – well, a copy, anyway. That was Django Rheinhart’s favourite – remember I said the kid was playing one of his numbers? It’s got a strong sound – it suits jazz players.’
He turns his head to peer questioningly at Skelgill, as though he anticipates that his musical knowledge might prompt a degree of bloody-mindedness.
But Skelgill’s response is pleasingly neutral.
‘So, what are you saying, Leyton?’
DS Leyton swallows apprehensively. Then he blurts out the remainder of his conjecture.
‘It’s a jazz connection. It’s a Borrowdale connection. And it’s a connection with Mary Wilson. Guv, think about it – Nick Wilson got the guitar from Aidan Wilson.’
Skelgill begins to bite at the corner of a thumbnail. If ‘The Viscount’ Harry Nelson played gigs around the pubs of Lakeland, and Aidan Wilson shared an interest in jazz – it is likely they will have come into contact. For many years the Twa Tups in Balderthwaite hosted a thriving music scene. He stares unblinking through the rain-spattered screen at the distorted writing on the back of the bus parked opposite them; then there is the murmur of the wipers and the text clears. Then gradually it blurs again. Then it clears. Then it blurs. His sergeant’s logic is persuasive – so why is he suffering reservations?
He is about to speak when his mobile phone rings. It is DS Jones’s ringtone. He digs rather frantically into his jacket, as though he thinks she will hang up if he does not answer immediately. As he succeeds in connecting the call, DS Leyton’s mobile rings, and Skelgill spills out of the car and slams the door.
‘Jones.’
‘Hi, Guv – I just caught up on the latest case notes. That’s amazing – about Harry Nelson?’
She has obviously been monitoring their online reporting system that has logged DS Leyton’s request for details of the deceased musician.
Skelgill has many pressing questions – some he cannot bring himself to ask – but he settles for one concerning the Manchester investigation.
‘Does Smart know?’
‘No, Guv – I don’t think he’s interested in what you’re up to. He’s convinced we’ve got the answer. That’s the other reason I wanted to reach you – he’s scheduled a press conference for 5pm tomorrow – to announce the name of the suspect and the charges.’
Skelgill curses disparagingly and does not apologise for his language.
‘What about the Chief?’
DS Jones knows not to take personally his occasional indiscretions.
‘She’s going along with it, as far as I know, Guv. DI Smart’s been liaising with her.’
Now he grimaces, but holds his tongue. Just when the trail might be warming up. But he determines not to show he is deflated by the continuing prospect of DI Smart’s stitch-up succeeding; or of the associated risk that the Chief will close down the operation. Instead he resorts to one of his more controversial niggles.
‘That business with Minto. How did you pull that off?’
‘Oh, I er – I just suggested he should work with us – not to try for a private scoop and mess it up. He wants there to be a local solution as much as we do, Guv.’
Skelgill doubts that this explanation alone will have persuaded the pushy young journalist to turn his story over to them. But he finds himself unable to ask what other incentive he may have been offered. And now he suspects she is anticipating such an inquisition, for she suddenly makes her apologies.
‘Guv – I have to go. I just wanted to let you know – about the press conference. I’ll stay logged on to keep up with developments. I guess we’ll be back late on Wednesday night.’
‘Aye.’
They both seem to hang up without completing the expected formalities. But before he can analyse their exchange, the electric passenger window slides down.
‘Guv – a bit of news on that woman Nancy Wheeler – from the care home?’
Skelgill clambers inside and glares rather irascibly at his colleague.
‘We organised for a local WPC to go in and have a chat. Seems she remembers something of Aidan Wilson. And get this – she accused him of trying to strangle her.’
‘What?’
‘Yeah – but the thing is, Guv – the WPC had a word with a couple of the carers. Apparently she’s done it before – accused other patients, and some of the staff, the visiting hairdresser and chiropodist. Always the same story, crept up on her with a towel.’
‘A towel?�
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DS Leyton shrugs rather hopelessly. Skelgill slumps back into the seat. He lets loose a long sigh of frustration. After a while, however, he makes a more considered pronouncement.
‘Look, Leyton – before we were interrupted – I agree that whoever got Harry Nelson to take his test for him is the prime suspect. And I want to find him, fast. But, like I said, we need some kind of corroborating evidence – DNA on a key fob won’t convict the killer.’
There ensue a few moments’ silence before DS Leyton makes a suggestion.
‘Maybe if we released that information, it’ll flush him out, Guv – he’ll make a mistake.’
Skelgill is working on the thumbnail again. He turns away from his colleague and spits into the wind.
‘Aye – but if you’re right about what happened to Harry Nelson it could be the sort of mistake we’d regret.’
‘Suppose so, Guv.’
DS Leyton inhales heavily. Skelgill begins to punch his left fist into his right palm.
‘Leyton, I don’t reckon there’s anyone we’ve spoken to that’s given us the full story. Aye, I get it – when there’s stuff gone on that we don’t need to know about – why tell us? But the mainly innocent create a smokescreen for the entirely guilty to hide behind.’
After a while DS Leyton ventures a suggestion.
‘Think we should go along to the shepherds’ meet, tomorrow, Guv? The location and whatnot – it might jog a memory or two. Treat it like a reconstruction?’
Skelgill is nodding pensively.
‘Aye – there’s a couple of folk we could usefully speak to. Megan Nicolson. And I reckon we need to try something of your music theory on Jean Tyson, without letting on what we know.’
DS Leyton is pleased.
‘Seems like a plan, Guv. You ready to roll? There’s probably quite a bit of info stacking up for us back at base.’
Skelgill grunts and his colleague shifts the car into gear and performs a rather over-exuberant U-turn on the gravel of the car park. The passenger window is still down and they hear strains of big band music and exuberant cheers as they pass the steamed-up glass of the pub conservatory. The pensioners’ lunch seems to have become some kind of lock-in-cum-knees-up. The Scots know how to get their money’s worth.
Skelgill is evidently prompted by the acoustic stimulus.
‘How come you’re a jazz buff on the quiet, Leyton?’
DS Leyton shrugs self-effacingly.
‘Like I say, Guv – it kind of runs in the family – what with me old uncle Kenny being a bit of a player. Don’t get me wrong – I ain’t got a musical bone in me body – I wouldn’t know a middle C from a middle finger. There’s more chance I’d play centre forward for England than for an audience at Ronnie Scott’s – and that tells you something – hah!’
Skelgill grins rather more maliciously than is merited.
‘How come you don’t have it on in the car?’
Now DS Leyton snatches a glance at his superior.
‘I do, when I’m on me Tod – there’s a Stan Getz CD in there now.’ He indicates to the music console. ‘The Girl from Ipanema – you’ve heard that one, Guv?’
Skelgill continues to smile but more inanely.
‘Aye, maybe.’
‘I just know you prefer it quiet, Guv.’
‘Leyton, I’ve got enough voices going round in my head as it is. I’ll stick with the girl from Borrowdale.’
18. THE MEET
Wednesday 12.40pm
It is not a bad day for one with a mountain to climb.
Skelgill stands with his hands on his hips. Through a gap in the oaks he can see the line of runners making their way up Scawdale Fell. Tiny coloured figures in white and red and fluorescent yellow and green; they seem to make only the most painful progress. Was it so, back in the day? Back in his day – not easy to get his head round, twenty-two years that will not come again. Across the dale the sun is shining, but a shower over Grange Fell is clipping Cummacatta, and it seems to prompt Skelgill to resolve that about the woodlands he will go. He has been along to the Bowder Stone – he chatted with members of a local group that is putting on bouldering lessons for charity donations, and there is sponsored abseiling off Devil’s Lowp. He had joked that they had better not think of calling out the rescue.
They will be packing up for lunch shortly, and Skelgill is additionally pressed by the notion that the Twa Tups will be besieged once the free buffet is unfurled, and he wants to time it right to get a quiet word with Megan Nicolson.
Had he continued south past the Bowder Stone he would have been almost as quick to go on foot. But his reflective ramblings have brought him back close to his car at the Cummacatta end of the woods – and, besides, he has left his mobile tucked above the sun visor; striking a small blow for solitude. Now he sees he has three missed calls from DS Leyton. Rather than drive off, he raises the tailgate as a rain shield and settles on the end of the flatbed. His sergeant answers.
‘Guv – I got hold of Jean Tyson.’
Skelgill momentarily closes his eyes, as though he is striving to read any nuances in his colleague’s voice; does he detect a hint of excitement?
‘And?’
‘Well – I think there’s something, Guv – but I’m not sure what.’
Skelgill gives a small involuntary groan. It encourages his deputy to be more forthcoming.
‘Like we agreed, I began asking casually about the guitar – that her young Nick had mentioned to us that he’d been given it by his dad – by Aidan Wilson – as a Christmas present.’
‘Aye.’
‘Thing is, Guv – she’s a cagey old bird, ain’t she? There’s a dirty great copper in your kitchen asking you about family trivia. Either it’s to soften you up for some punch line, or the trivia ain’t actually so trivial. If you get my drift?’
‘That might have been the mention of Nick. She’d be like a tigress with a cub.’
‘Yeah – I get that, Guv – but I didn’t dwell on Nick. I moved straight on to Aidan Wilson – asked her if he played much – was he into his music – did he do any performing? That kind of thing.’
‘And?’
‘She mainly pleaded ignorance. She said, yeah, he played his music upstairs when he lived at hers – but it was twenty-odd years ago, and he wasn’t really at her place for all that long in the scale of things – she didn’t really know what his interests were – he always kept out of her way and barely did more than pass the time of day.’
‘We know that probably suited her.’
‘Then I asked did he ever stay away, on account of his repping job – I was thinking of him lodging at country inns where Harry Nelson might have been doing a gig. But she reckoned once in a blue moon – if they had a sales conference, that kind of thing.’
Skelgill is frowning, worrying with the toe of his left boot at a loose stone that protrudes from the ground like a carnivore’s premolar.
‘This all sounds pretty negative to me, Leyton. What’s the ‘something’ that you’re on to?’
A prolonged clearing of the throat proves to be a species of hemming and hawing.
‘Hard to put your finger on, Guv. But what you were saying about a limpet – touch it and it tightens up – and then you ain’t gonna get nowhere until you try again later. I reckon from the off – the second I mentioned the guitar – she was clinging onto the rocks for dear life – even if she didn’t want me to know it.’
Albeit this degree of abstraction is not his sergeant’s regular modus operandi, for once he is speaking a language that chimes with Skelgill’s own experience of the world, in which the sixth sense subconsciously synthesises the misguided efforts of the other five, and sometimes comes up with a result, Excalibur thrust glistening from beneath the placid surface of Bassenthwaite Lake. Naturally, he would have preferred it had his sergeant reported back that Aidan Wilson was a regular jazz buff and had hobnobbed with the musicians on the county circuit. But somehow he was not expecting anythin
g so definitive; perhaps in turn he has absorbed some of his colleague’s stoicism.
‘How did you leave it?’
‘I asked if she wanted a lift along to the shepherds’ meet – she had her coat and boots on when I pitched up. But she said she was taking the dog and she’d need to keep him in the car some of the time, in case of him spooking the sheep – if you remember he’s a bit of a live wire? Hah – tough little beggar, for the size of him.’ This latter observation is suggestive of some unfortunate aspect of the encounter that has gone unreported. ‘I got the impression she might be waiting for a lift – I didn’t realise she still drives. In fact I half-wondered if there was someone else at the house. I went in round the back, into the kitchen, like we did last time, and the connecting door through to the front room was closed. A couple of times the dog was scrabbling at it, and she was telling it off for being silly.’
Skelgill scowls. The rock at his foot is proving to have deeper roots than he expected.
‘Was there a car outside?’
‘Thing is, Guv – there must have been about a dozen roundabout, maybe more, maybe twenty. I reckon visitors are driving on to Slatterthwaite to park and then walking back to the shepherds’ meet.’
‘Aye, they do that.’ Skelgill gives up on the extraction and sits upright, raising his eyes to scan the skies. ‘There’s normally a field set aside in Balderthwaite, the paddock that runs down to Slatterdale Beck.’
‘That’s where I am, Guv. I thought I’d wait for you here, being as it’s raining on and off.’
Skelgill ponders for a moment. Then he offers a suggestion.
‘Maybe go and have a mooch around, Leyton – see who’s there that we know – what they’re up to. Keep an eye on Jean Tyson.’
He says no more about this last specific request – though there is the suggestion that he considers her a bellwether that will draw into the open something about the rest of the flock. DS Leyton seems content to follow his superior’s instructions, and reverts with a more pragmatic question.
‘What about you, Guv?’
Murder at the Meet Page 24