by Rebecca Tope
Simmy was gripped by a crazy notion that here was God trying to tell her to abandon all thought of producing her own baby. The message was all too dreadfully clear: it would lead to disappointment, resentment and a grudge against the man who was failing to provide adequate support.
‘At least Great-Granny Sarah is thinking of you,’ she said foolishly, indicating the flowers lying forgotten on the table.
Tears filled the woman’s eyes. ‘She’s ninety-two and lives in Bristol. If I had any sense I’d get in the car right now and drive us down there. She’d know what to do. Fancy her sending flowers! Did she phone you? Did you speak to her?’
‘No. The order came through on the computer. I don’t know how she found me. I’m really not the obvious florist to use. I’m all the way down in Windermere.’
‘I’m glad she did. My name’s Flo, by the way. Short for Florence. Usual story – they say that’s where I was conceived, heaven help me.’
‘And I’m Simmy, short for Persimmon. You think you’ve got problems.’ They both laughed.
It was nearly seven o’clock when she left, the sun still high in the sky. Lucy May had fallen asleep on her lap, and neither Simmy nor Flo had dared to move her. Flo made coffee and found some bread and cheese for a meagre snack. She also put the flowers in a vase she’d grabbed from a shelf at random, arranging them in an instinctive harmony that Simmy found entirely satisfactory. Sometimes people treated her blooms with a terrible philistinism. Conversation had lapsed, with the new mother more than half-asleep. The wrench when Simmy finally handed the baby back had been every bit as awful as feared.
She sat in the car for two minutes, wrestling with the acute sensations of emptiness and bereavement. Would it never go away, she wondered. Would she find herself avoiding all contact with babies as a result? Restlessly, she got out of the car again, and walked down a path and across the road to the brink of the lake. Flo wouldn’t mind or even notice that Simmy left her vehicle outside her house. And the husband wasn’t due home for a while yet.
The absent Scott gave Simmy a degree of concern, on top of everything else. On the face of it, he was a typical selfish male, probably at least ten years older than his second wife and already somewhat bored with her. In Simmy’s limited experience, such men went on to a third wife in late middle-age and didn’t always improve their behaviour even then. So, what did that say about Christopher? She spent a full minute thinking of reasons why nothing in poor Flo’s story had any echoes whatsoever for her and Chris. Everything was completely different.
She used the pavement that ran alongside the main road, with the lake immediately to her right. The traffic was moderately busy, but not enough to intrude on her thoughts. The wall that bordered the lake came to an end, opening a way down to the water’s edge and a well-made path that encircled the lake. Banerigg was on the eastern edge of Grasmere, comprising woodland and very little else. The evening sun was throwing long shadows onto the water, creating picture-postcard reflections of the trees. Everything was still and sharply-focused, quite unlike the blurred edges of the previous morning. On the other side of the water, in shadow with the setting sun behind them, were crags and fells whose names she didn’t know. They seemed impossibly close in the clear light, the line where their tops met the blue sky a vividly defined edge. The entire scene was timelessly beautiful, despite the traffic ceaselessly passing. It made her think of Ben and Bonnie, and their researches into William Wordsworth, who had lived right here at a time when there would not have been all these roads and houses and cars. She thought of her father and his acute grasp of the ironies associated with Wordsworth and the Lakes. The excessively famous poet had been posthumously responsible for much of the increased traffic that threatened to spoil the peace of the region. Not entirely posthumously, either, according to Ben. In his later years, the old man had attracted legions of admirers to Grasmere and Rydal, all wanting accommodation and food.
And yet, it still wasn’t really spoilt, if a person could stand here in complete isolation on a long summer’s day and see almost nothing but natural beauty. It made it all the more dispiriting that Flo and her new daughter were having such a horrible time, when there was all this on the doorstep. It made Simmy think about something Ben had once said – that human beings were cursed by their intelligence. They had removed themselves from the rest of earthly life, by thinking too much. Technology, psychology – even literature – had all formed impassable barriers between the human species and the immense network of flora and fauna living so brainlessly around them.
She turned to go back to her car, still letting her thoughts drift from one topic to another. Ideas connected without any conscious effort, until landing on the greatest curse of them all, in some people’s opinion: the mobile phone. Hadn’t hers chirped at her about two hours ago and gone ignored? What message was sitting there, waiting for her attention? Some unwanted junk, or a call to action? An intrusion or a cry for help?
When she finally summoned the text to the screen, it read
Jonathan has been killed in Grasmere today. I need you!
Chapter Five
So why hadn’t he phoned her, instead of just sending a text? Was he too distraught to speak? And in what way, exactly, did he need her? Surely not for an alibi? She shook that idea away as being far too melodramatic. He needed her because he wanted reassurance and consolation. His friend was dead – killed somehow – and he was upset.
She was practically in Grasmere, she realised. The little town was barely half a mile away, situated on the northern side of the lake. She definitely couldn’t drive home to Troutbeck without checking to see whether Chris was anywhere near. Impatient with texts, she called him for a proper conversation.
It was a long time before he answered, and she was preparing a voicemail message when he was finally in her ear. ‘Simmy? Where’ve you been?’
‘Never mind that. What’s happening? Where are you? Do you want me to meet you somewhere? I’m right outside Grasmere at the moment.’
‘Oh, Lord. I’ve just got back from there. I’m in Keswick again now, after being questioned for hours by the police. Why are you in Grasmere, anyway?’
‘I delivered some flowers. I stopped to admire the view. What happened, Chris? With Jonathan?’
‘He was throttled. With a leather belt. His own belt. For a bit, they thought it might be suicide, but any fool could see that was impossible.’
‘You’ve seen him?’
He did not answer this directly. ‘I told you he wanted to talk to me. He phoned this morning and asked if I’d meet him at the Grasmere house. He’d found a key to it that Philip told him about last year. He said he just wanted a quick look round and I should be with him as a witness that he wasn’t nicking anything, and to fend off any suspicious neighbours. I left my car in the first car park you come to – there’s never anywhere to park in Grasmere – and walked up to the house. The front door was open, so I went in. He was in the main room on the ground floor. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I can’t even remember what I did, but in the end a chap out in the road called the police.’
Simmy didn’t even try to follow this garbled account. She understood that he was reciting a summary of everything he’d told the police as they interviewed him. Her slender grasp of the sequence of events meant she would have to ask several annoying questions before she could get the full picture. ‘So – then what?’ she prompted.
‘All hell broke loose. They kept me for ages while all sorts of bods came and went. Then I had to give a statement in Penrith, formally identify him, try to make them understand what he did for a living. When I texted you, we were still at it. I thought you could drive me back to collect my car, but in the end, I got hold of Hannah and she did it for me.’
Hannah was his sister, who lived not far outside Keswick. ‘Penrith! Why not Windermere? Surely that’s much nearer?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said tiredly. ‘I didn’t like to argue. They probably would have tak
en me back for the car, but I was sick of the sight of them by then. And I wanted a familiar face.’
‘So,’ she said slowly. ‘You and Hannah were here in Grasmere while I was half a mile down the road, and you’ve only just got home again. How absolutely maddening.’
‘So, where were you?’ he asked again.
‘At a house down by the lake, delivering flowers. I stayed for a chat.’ There was a baby, she wanted to add, but resisted. Another element in the conversation now would do no good at all. ‘I can come now, if you like. I’m only half an hour away. Is Hannah still there?’
‘No, she dropped me and left. Are you sure? I’m in rather a mess, I warn you. His face, Simmy. It was all black. One of the police people told me it was the same as hanging – has the same effect. The belt did the same as a noose – the person often dies of heart failure before they asphyxiate. Very quick, apparently. Poor old Jon!’
‘You said he was worried, yesterday. He thought this might happen, do you think? He was not so much worried as scared, right?’
‘I didn’t listen properly,’ said Chris wretchedly. ‘I just fobbed him off. If I’d done what he wanted, he’d probably still be alive.’
‘So … was it Nick, then? The one with a grudge against him?’
‘Must have been.’ The wretchedness level increased. ‘I didn’t know what to tell the cops. I mean – I haven’t got any evidence, have I? It didn’t feel right to give them his name without knowing a bit more.’
‘How could you not, if you think it must have been him? What stopped you?’
‘Nick’s not such a bad chap. I can’t really believe he’d do something like that. What good would it do him? But I did tell them about him, in the end.’
‘Why? Did they torture it out of you?’
‘Pretty much. Just kept on at me until I cracked. Made a few veiled threats. It could have been Mexico.’
‘I don’t believe you. But, as Ben would point out, if it was Nick that did it, he’ll have left fingerprints and hairs and so forth all over the house – and on the body.’
‘Yeah – but I don’t see Nick doing it. He wasn’t involved in the Grasmere business. I don’t understand how he’d have found Jon there.’
‘But it’s quite possible that he did, surely? Just let me get something clear – we are talking about the same house you told me about yesterday, aren’t we? The one where the old lady died?’
‘Right.’
‘So, Jonathan was within his rights to just walk straight in, was he?’
‘Not exactly, no. I admit I was surprised. Last I heard, the Leeson lady had told him to sling his hook and never darken her doorstep again, because her dog didn’t like him.’
‘What?’
‘That’s where it gets a bit murky, you see.’ He stopped, and then said, ‘You don’t need to know all that. It’s not important. Some burglar must have spotted the open door and got into a fight with poor old Jon. Or maybe a Grasmere resident recognised him and saw his chance to get even over some ancient grievance. He left his van right outside the house, with “Woolley’s House Clearance” on the side. Anyone would have known he was there.’
‘So not a burglar, then,’ said Simmy, remembering how Ben Harkness automatically dismissed conveniently homicidal burglars.
‘I don’t see why not. Everyone would know there was good stuff in there.’
‘And everyone would know the neighbours would be keeping a close eye on the place, as well.’
‘Maybe.’ He groaned softly. ‘I’ve had enough for one day. I can’t talk about it any more.’
‘Okay, then.’ But she found herself unable to let him go for a little while longer. ‘I’m so sorry, Chris, that this has happened. And sorry I wasn’t there for you. Do you want me to come up to Keswick now? I could, if it would help.’
‘I’m not sure, Sim. I don’t want to drag you into this − I don’t want me to be dragged into it, come to that. It’ll be eight before you can get here, and you’d be wanting to leave again before long. Have you been home this evening? Have you seen Angie and Russell today? Things must be busy at the shop.’
‘You’re my top priority,’ she said softly. ‘All those other things can wait, if you need me. That’s what the text said, remember. “I need you”, you said.’
‘Did I? That seems ages ago now. Must have been five o’clock. I needed you to drive me.’
‘I was in the car and didn’t look at the message. It’s nice you tried me first.’ Again, she felt Ben Harkness at her shoulder. ‘What time did you find Jonathan?’ Confusedly, she recalled the lengthy police procedures that followed the discovery of a violent death. The body wasn’t removed for many hours. Various sorts of officers came and went. If Chris had needed her for a lift at five, didn’t that mean the main action had been early in the afternoon? ‘Why didn’t you call me then? It must have been halfway through the afternoon.’
‘Why would I? I told you – I couldn’t bear to drag you into another murder. It’s only a few months since that business in Staveley. Before that, there was my dad. You’ve had much more than your share, sweetheart. I think it’s best if you keep your distance this time.’
‘And it won’t be Moxon,’ she realised. DI Nolan Moxon was the Windermere detective she had encountered repeatedly, when drawn into a criminal investigation by the simple error of delivering flowers. They had slowly developed a friendship that they both valued highly. She trusted him, and he understood her. ‘Who’s the SIO this time?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘Senior investigating officer. Didn’t they tell you? Who interviewed you?’
‘I don’t remember the name. Some bloke my age, Detective Superintendent something-or-other. Seemed a bit of a robot, just going through the standard routine.’
‘Mm.’ She managed a minimal laugh. ‘Well, Ben’s exams are over and he’s got nothing to do for a while. I very much doubt we’ll be able to keep him away from this. And the whole thing sounds so complicated, we could probably do with him, anyway.’
Chris said nothing to that for a moment. Then, ‘Did he pass his driving test?’
‘Sadly, no.’
‘Told you,’ said Christopher, with a not entirely pleasant laugh.
Simmy drove back to Troutbeck, bursting with conflicting thoughts and emotions. Whatever ghastly fate had befallen the unfortunate Jonathan, it had done nothing to strengthen the bond between her and Christopher. He had ‘needed’ her only for the purpose of driving him from one place to another. And place A had apparently been Penrith, which was considerably beyond her comfort zone. She would – she supposed – have flown to his rescue, if she’d seen his message in time. And then there would have been an opportunity for them to talk more intimately about fear and shock and bewilderment. She would have consoled him and offered help and improved his frame of mind. As it was, the phone call had been awkward. He had been traumatised and she was simply confused. The garbled details about the Grasmere house, and the angry Nick and the brutal killing were a long way from forming a coherent picture.
For a few minutes she was tempted to shake it all out of her head and choose not to care about shady antique traders and their problems with the Inland Revenue. It felt like the sort of crime that featured in the tabloids, men killing other men for reasons of money and reputation and ungovernable rage. Nothing subtle or susceptible to sympathy. But her acquaintance with Ben had taught her a lot. There was no way of preventing her efforts to understand what had happened. The timings were odd, even at a casual glance. Christopher should have phoned her several hours earlier than he did. And if he was found at the scene by the police, driven to Penrith in a police car and questioned there, then left to make his own way home – didn’t that suggest a central role in the crime, in the minds of the investigators? After all, Jonathan had apparently directly asked him for help.
There were others who needed her, perhaps even more than Chris did. Her parents would be trying to deal with a remorseless
stream of B&B guests, with no outside assistance other than Simmy’s. She anticipated a mountain of ironing, for one thing, when she finally presented herself. Her father had lost much of his earlier competence, forcing his wife and daughter to watch and worry over him more than was comfortable. But recently it had appeared that he was actually less disordered than before. Much of his old humour had returned. He gave his little dog a better level of attention and was marginally more relaxed about dangerous intruders. When Simmy had been dragged into the murder of a man from Staveley, she had successfully kept her father in ignorance. It had been her fault that he became so frightened in the first place, after a succession of violent episodes in Ambleside, Bowness and other places.
But Russell and Angie would have to wait another day or so before they saw their daughter. She was tired and not very happy. Something had gone awry with Christopher and her, causing internal churnings that could only be labelled as anxiety.
In her Troutbeck house, she made coffee and ate an unwholesome mixture of biscuits and chocolate. It was still light outside but wouldn’t be for much longer. Traces of Christopher lingered in every room – the mug he’d used was still unwashed; a paperback he’d been reading on the flight home from Lanzarote had been left on her sofa; the bedding smelt of him. He had proposed to her, and she had accepted. He should be at her side at every available moment. Instead, he was miles away in Keswick, grieving for his dead friend, unable to give a lucid account of the events of the day.