by Rebecca Tope
Simmy and Ben both smiled at this final thrust, more fitting for an adult addressing a child than an angry young woman speaking to a man twenty years her senior. It was Simmy’s smile that must have been the final straw for Christopher.
‘Okay, that’s it. I’ve had enough. It’s like trying to make sense of a bunch of aliens. I can’t follow half of what you’re all obviously thinking. I’ll accept that you think you’re doing me some sort of favour – just. But it’s obvious that you’re all enjoying yourselves at the same time. And it feels as if it’s at my expense. The past week has been a total nightmare. And then this morning I had to listen to Jon’s wife weeping and wailing, and saying she told him years ago he’d come to a bad end if he mixed with all those shady characters in the antiques business. She blames me, as well.’ He directed his rage at his fiancée. ‘And you never asked me a single thing about how it went. All you could think about was this Schofield woman and bloody flowcharts.’
‘You’re right,’ said Simmy calmly. ‘It has been a horrible week for you. But Bonnie’s right as well. We are doing our best to get you through it, even if it seems like a game sometimes. You don’t have to be here, obviously. Nobody’s forcing you.’ She looked round at the almost empty pavements. ‘But I think we’ve all earned a drink first. And I’m hungry. And’ – she looked rather sheepish – ‘I might have another annoying surprise for you.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I texted Flo earlier on – the woman with the baby, and said if she’s up for it, we were going to be in Ambleside and she might like to join us for a bit.’
‘What? Now? Where’s her husband?’
‘That’s the thing. If he was going to be at home, then that’s fine. No problem. But he’s been working seven days a week, the pig, leaving her high and dry with a howling baby. She lives just outside Grasmere – she might have picked up some gossip. And I was worried about her,’ she finished weakly.
‘Good thinking,’ Ben approved loudly. ‘So, is she coming or not?’
Simmy produced her phone. ‘She says – “You saved my life. See you at the Royal Oak 4.30ish.” That’s just along here, isn’t it?’
They all stared at her. ‘I’m not happy about this,’ Christopher protested. ‘It’s insane.’
‘It’s not, though, is it,’ said Ben slowly. ‘You think she might have some ideas about Jonathan. Gossip, you said. I love gossip. Local knowledge. Clever Simmy, I say.’
Simmy grinned, choosing to ignore Christopher’s complaint. Yet again she felt the need to teach him that where Ben and Bonnie were concerned, he was going to have to adapt to a new normal. ‘It just felt like a loose end, that’s all. But it’s not the only one. There’s the Pruitt man, as well. He’s got to be worth a look, don’t you think?’
‘Get you!’ said Bonnie. ‘Move over, Ben Harkness. You’ve got competition.’
Christopher heaved a noisy sigh and they all laughed at him.
Chapter Twenty-One
Flo and her baby were not at the Royal Oak. The two couples sat outside, hoping the dark sky would not deposit any rain on them. Christopher was quiet and somewhat embarrassed by his outburst. Simmy was careful with him, doing her best to separate the shaken, suffering discoverer of a dead body from the loving man who wanted to marry her. She reminded herself that it was good to see him in all his aspects, to know the worst before she married him. This marriage, when it happened, would be as different as possible from her first one. She was older now, more experienced and more realistic. She watched him, tracing his features and trying to read his mind. His face was beloved to her. She loved his well-marked eyebrows, his soft-edged nose, the little cleft in his chin. She loved the very fact of his body and the unrestricted access she was permitted to it. However angry, self-pitying, unreasonable or uncomprehending he might be, she could forgive him. She was almost glad that he was revealing his flaws.
‘Scott must have come home, after all,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to meet Flo another time. Or maybe her ankle’s still sore. She twisted it on Friday evening.’
‘Are we getting the bus back to Bowness?’ Bonnie asked. ‘You two will be wanting to get to Troutbeck, won’t you?’
‘I’ll take you home,’ said Simmy. ‘Don’t I always? It’s not far, after all.’ The drive to Ben’s house would take barely ten minutes. The Troutbeck house was already feeling less like home, as the prospect of selling it became more solid every day. Christopher was right to press for decisions about where they should live, when they should move in together and how they should construct their married life. ‘You’re coming back to mine, aren’t you?’ she checked with him now.
‘Absolutely.’ He smiled at her. ‘Sorry I’m such a pain. I’ll be okay in a bit.’
‘I know you will.’
Then his phone summoned him, from the pocket of his jacket. ‘Hmm,’ he frowned. ‘Who’s this?’
They all watched and listened as the conversation took place. ‘That’s right … Oh, God, you mean now? I’m in Ambleside … Yes, that would be better … I expect you know the house in Troutbeck? I was planning to be there all evening … Six-thirty? … All right, then.’
None of his listeners could make sense of what they’d heard. Ben looked at Simmy, eyebrows raised. She shrugged. Bonnie mouthed Who is it? Christopher ended the call and put the phone back in its pocket. ‘Police,’ he said. ‘They want to ask me some more questions. The man from Windermere’s coming to interview me in Troutbeck.’
‘Moxon?’ said Ben and Simmy together.
‘That’s not very orthodox, is it?’ said Bonnie. ‘Although I suppose it won’t be the first time. Better than slogging all the way to Penrith.’
Ben threw her one of his looks of admiration. Her grasp of the background details never failed to impress him.
‘Was that him? Moxon?’ asked Simmy.
‘No. But they obviously already intended to send him. I gather he’s been quite closely involved in the last day or two.’ Christopher’s expression was serious, but not unduly alarmed.
‘Once he knew Simmy was part of the picture, nothing would have kept him away,’ joked Ben. ‘He’s her number-one fan.’
In spite of herself, Simmy was pleased to be supplying the venue for the interview. If it was Moxon, then she was confident that there was nothing to fear. He would never charge Christopher with murder, never do anything so distressing. ‘That’s all right, then,’ she said airily. ‘We’d better get a move on. Pity we never had a proper lunch – we won’t get any supper for hours yet.’
‘I’m starving now,’ sighed Christopher. ‘All I had was a packet of crisps.’ It was several seconds before Simmy realised he was joking. ‘No, I didn’t. I had a pork pie, as well. And a choc ice.’ Simmy gave him a playful slap.
‘Simmy …’ said Ben, ignoring the banter, ‘it’s not really all right, is it? What do you think they want to ask Christopher? You know how they operate – I wouldn’t be too relaxed about it, if I were you.’
‘You’re not saying you think he’s going to arrest me, are you?’ Christopher obviously didn’t know how seriously to take it. ‘It didn’t sound like that just now.’
‘My guess would be that they’ve come up with some evidence or testimony that pulls you into it. Something they want to check out with you and see how you react. We have no idea what it might be. Wish I could be there,’ he finished ruefully.
‘Well, you can’t. You’re going home to draw an algorithm or whatever it is, and make sure you find some cast-iron reason why Christopher can’t possibly be a suspect,’ said Simmy.
‘Right.’ Ben laughed uncertainly. ‘I’ll do my best.’
When Moxon arrived, the door of Simmy’s cottage was already standing open and she was waiting for him in the little hallway. ‘This has to be a first,’ she said brightly. ‘Coming to interview a person in his fiancée’s house.’
‘No, not really. We often see people in whatever place is convenient to them. It suits us pret
ty well, too, most of the time.’ He was wearing a short-sleeved flannel shirt and jeans, perfect for an on-off summer’s day in the north of England. She had no doubt there was a jumper of some sort in his car, ready for any further drop in temperature.
‘You’ve never really met Chris before, have you?’ she said. ‘He’s in the sitting room. Be gentle with him,’ she added lightly.
‘When am I ever anything else?’
‘Here you go, then.’ She brought the two men together; Christopher standing by the window and the detective hesitating in the doorway. ‘Am I allowed to stay?’
‘It’s your house,’ said Moxon. ‘I can’t insist on you leaving the room.’
‘Fine. Do you want a drink? Coffee or something?’
‘No, thanks. I don’t think I’ll be here very long.’ He made a sweeping gesture towards the sofa. ‘Shall we all sit down?’
Once they were settled, he went on to explain how he had become part of the investigating team, with responsibility for any investigations needed south of Grasmere. ‘It won’t be the first time,’ he said. Then he dived swiftly into the main business. ‘The Penrith people had a call this morning from a man called Malcolm Pruitt. I think you know who he is?’
They both nodded.
‘You probably won’t know that he’s a leading light in the Neighbourhood Watch. He likes to keep an eye on everything, and knowing Mrs Leeson’s house was empty, he’s been giving it his special attention. Okay so far?’
They nodded again.
‘So – on Monday last, at twelve noon, he says he observed a man who was very probably Mr Woolley, turning into the cul-de-sac in a blue van with the name of Woolley on the side. He didn’t see which house he went to, and it was another half-hour or so before he took it upon himself to walk down to the house for a check. But he was in his own garden for all that time and claims he would certainly have seen anyone else entering or leaving the cul-de-sac, either on foot or in a vehicle. He insists that nobody did so until you, Mr Henderson, came along. That was when he went there himself, five minutes after you, at most. You with me?’
‘The killer must have been there already, then. Before Jonathan showed up,’ said Simmy, as if that were an obvious point.
‘Possibly. But when did he leave, if so? It’s a very small quiet road, with only a handful of houses, and no way through at the further end.’
‘Of course there’s a way through,’ snapped Christopher. ‘Just because there’s a sign telling people not to go any further, isn’t going to stop someone who’s just committed murder, is it? They could jump over the fence and be off in any direction they liked.’
Moxon sighed. ‘That’s just about true – and we thought of it already. But there are no indications that any such thing took place. No footprints on either side of the fence, or other evidence. There’s an old lady in the end house who spends much of her time looking out of the window, and she’d have noticed someone vaulting the fence. It’s rather a flimsy hypothesis.’
‘Enough to drill holes through what the Pruitt man’s saying, all the same.’
‘Why does she look out of the window so much?’ asked Simmy. ‘What is there to see?’
‘Birds. She watches the birds at her bird table. What’s more, she says her dog would certainly have barked at anybody passing their gate. It was outside all day on Monday, she says.’
‘Oh.’ Simmy began to understand that things were not going well. Christopher’s ominous silence was as worrying as Moxon’s gentle explanations.
‘But Pruitt could be lying,’ Simmy realised. ‘He could be the killer, and everything he’s told you is entirely untrue. You can’t make a case just on verbal testimony, can you?’
‘We have to follow it up and try to find supporting evidence – as you must know.’
‘Have you come to arrest me, then?’ asked Christopher heavily. ‘Is there anything I can say to convince you I didn’t touch Jon? I’ve never done anything remotely violent. I’m a wimp, I promise you.’
Simmy looked at him with fond impatience. ‘You don’t have to be a wimp to be innocent of murder.’ She turned to Moxon. ‘Isn’t there a CCTV camera somewhere that would help? Hasn’t that school got one? What if the killer drove in and out again an hour or more before Chris got there? Pruitt probably wasn’t taking much notice of vehicles …’ She tailed off. ‘Oh, no – I see. He saw Jonathan arrive, and whoever killed him got away somehow, right under Mr Pruitt’s nose. Even so – if it’s been filmed, that would give you another lead.’
‘There aren’t any cameras directed at the cul-de-sac. One or two show traffic going up and down the main street, but that’s really not helpful.’
‘Did you ask all the residents if they saw vehicles?’
Moxon sighed. ‘Exhaustively. And you could be right about Mr Pruitt not bothering to register ordinary daytime traffic that comes and goes almost invisibly. It’s a short list, though. Two delivery vans. A charity collector gathering up stuff for a jumble sale. The postman. And a woman going from door to door asking if anyone had seen her lost budgie. I’m not joking. That was all anyone could remember, between eight in the morning and the time the 999 call was made.’
‘Okay. Do you mind if I jot that list down, to show to Ben? He’s been very diligent in gathering up every little detail, and this new stuff from Mr Pruitt is going to get him very excited.’
‘I can’t stop you. Just make sure he doesn’t get actively involved – no confronting potential suspects, or even stalking people – is that clear?’
‘Don’t worry. He’s strictly confined to paperwork.’
‘That’s not true is it,’ Christopher put in. ‘What about dragging the Schofield woman down to Waterhead this afternoon?’
Moxon sat up. ‘Schofield? Who’s she?’
‘I was going to tell you,’ Simmy defended. ‘She knew Mrs Leeson and filled in some of the background for us, that’s all.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘Rydal. She’d be happy to talk to you, if you’re interested. I think she feels a bit neglected because nobody’s been to question her.’
‘How would we even know she existed?’
Simmy stared at him, processing this remark. She realised she still harboured a sense of the police as all-knowing, following threads and connections all around a community, knocking on doors and repeating ad nauseam the same list of questions. ‘Well … didn’t anybody mention her? She sounds as if she’s quite high profile over there.’
‘What’s her first name?’
‘Daphne. She knows Philip as well.’
‘And what did she tell you in Waterhead?’
‘Nothing the slightest bit relevant,’ Christopher snapped. ‘It was a total waste of time.’
‘It’s a bit soon to say that,’ Simmy argued mildly. ‘Ben could well come up with some theories, thanks to what she told us. All that background about Kathleen Leeson was interesting, don’t you think?’ She had found a used envelope and was making notes on the back. ‘Vans … budgie … charity collector. Pruitt. I wonder why he’s only telling you now, after nearly a week?’
Moxon ignored her and spoke to Christopher. ‘You sound angry. Can I ask why?’
‘That boy. Ben. He gets on my nerves. Who does he think he is? What gives him the right to barge in asking all those questions? A grown woman, dragged to a ridiculous meeting, as if it was all just a game. It’s ridiculous,’ he repeated.
‘She went willingly, I presume?’
‘She knows Bonnie’s foster mother – probably didn’t want to upset her by refusing.’
‘She was tickled pink,’ said Simmy. ‘And I think there might well have been some clue in what she told us. It just needs sorting out. We all think that stumpwork’s the key to the whole thing.’
‘It’s tempting to think so, I agree. But there are no evidential reasons for doing so. Even if Mr Woolley stole it from Mrs Leeson’s house, who would be angry enough about it to kill him? We’ve talked it rou
nd and round, every which way, and nobody can see how it could possibly be a motive. And even if it was, we’re no closer to identifying the individual concerned.’
‘Hmm.’
Both the men smiled at her note-taking and evident determination to participate. She looked from one to the other. ‘What?’ she said.
‘You’re not normally this engaged,’ said Moxon.
‘She’s doing it for me,’ Christopher explained. ‘Because she wants to save me from the gallows. As Charles Dickens might have said,’ he added. ‘As it is, I guess it’s more like fifteen years, maximum.’
‘True love,’ Moxon ventured, with another smile.
‘Must be,’ said Simmy. ‘But you seem a bit more cheerful, all of a sudden. Did you think of something?’
‘I think we ought to go and speak to Mrs Daphne Schofield, for one thing. And probably put Mr Pruitt under a bit more pressure. There’s something not entirely consistent about him.’
‘We saw him yesterday, at the auction. He spoke to me and Ben. He knew exactly who we were, which felt a bit spooky. I think he’s a spy.’
Christopher gave a protesting yelp, but Moxon corrected him. ‘He practically admitted as much – following you down the cul-de-sac and waiting to nab you when you came out of the house.’
‘He thought I was stealing?’ Christopher was horrified.
‘Apparently so. He has rather a low opinion of people in your profession. Quite a few people do, in my experience.’
‘They’re wrong,’ said Simmy forcefully. ‘It’s all perfectly law-abiding, from what I can see. And it’s romantic. Glamorous. All those beautiful things.’ She sighed. ‘I think it’s wonderful.’