by Rebecca Tope
Moxon sighed in unison. ‘The whole business has been frustrating,’ he confessed. ‘We might have come up with a whole lot of useful information, if we’d been cleared to do a deeper forensic exploration. But that’s expensive, and the powers that be wanted it done in the old-fashioned way, if possible. Asking questions and watching certain individuals can very often work better than sifting through a hundred evidence bags – which can have a very annoying habit of losing their labels.’
‘That must be expensive as well – in manpower?’
‘Less so. They’d mostly be working anyway. We’ve just diverted people from other jobs for a few days.’
‘It’s crazy, though, isn’t it, to think Candida killed the old lady? What about the timing? How come you were so sure about that, when you wanted me to give Mr Kitchener the alibi?’
‘Miss Clark’s neighbour spoke to her at ten-thirty that morning. A man delivering a parcel found her body at eleven-thirty, still warm. Very warm. And there were clear signs that her death was not natural.’
Simmy wished she hadn’t asked. But there was no retreating now. ‘How did the parcel man find her?’
‘He said he knew her slightly – well enough to try her door and open it when he found it wasn’t locked. She was lying in the hallway. But there is that hour, you see, when it was done. With some very clever footwork, it could just possibly still be either of the people you saw in the café.’
‘And you’ve opted for the girl, because she can move faster and there’s a mystery around her? Seems to me you’re clutching at straws.’
‘When there’s only one or two straws available to clutch at, it might turn out to be a lot better than nothing.’
‘I don’t see how. You’ll drown in any case.’ Her mind filled with pictures of cold swirling water and a flimsy stalk offering no prospect whatever of rescue.
‘You’re forgetting Ben Harkness’s spreadsheets. He makes a credible case for there being a connection between the Josephs and the Clarks, even if it goes back to before this granddaughter was even born.’
‘And her being born seems to be a key factor,’ Simmy offered, feeling rather clever.
‘If she is what she says – which some people seem to doubt. We’ve gone into it thoroughly, and there’s no indication at all that either of the Joseph daughters ever gave birth to a child that could be her. Davida gave her child up for adoption, decades ago – I’ve lost track of how long it must be – something over forty years, I think – and then had a son who lives with her and her husband. The other one’s gay, and never had a child. In fact – and this is very weird – she produced an affidavit she signed when she and her partner first set up home together. It’s a sworn statement to the effect that she has never slept with a man. They produced it as final proof that the granddaughter couldn’t possibly be hers.’
‘That is weird. Who would ever go to so much trouble? I mean – whatever for?’
‘Something between the two of them, obviously. I didn’t think we needed to go any more deeply into it.’
‘Wait a minute. When did this happen – the police questioning, I mean? Why would you do that? What did you say to them?’ The realisation that the Joseph family now had plain proof that she, Simmy Brown, had disclosed their personal business to the police was disturbing. ‘I never imagined you’d do that,’ she complained.
‘Calm down. We had no choice when we knew what took you up Peggy Hill on Sunday. Somebody tried to kill you. We take that sort of thing extremely seriously. So we located Mrs Joseph and her daughters.’
‘I see that, I suppose. But Mrs Joseph is staying with Davy. And why would you need to speak to Nicola anyway?’ She looked at him. ‘Were you there personally?’
‘No I wasn’t, as it happens. The three women were all there together at the older daughter’s house. They seemed quite eager to tell the story. They expressed great concern for your welfare, and worried that they were somehow responsible. They volunteered the information about the granddaughter. At least, the old lady did.’
‘And Nicola had that affidavit about her person?’
‘In her bag.’
‘That’s bizarre.’
‘Maybe not, given that the whole question of the granddaughter was so central for them. I think she’d been showing it to her mother, to convince her there was no way it was her child.’
‘That makes sense,’ Simmy agreed. ‘So you didn’t tell them Candida’s name?’
‘No, we didn’t. But I don’t see why it would matter if we did.’
She frowned thoughtfully. ‘I suppose it wouldn’t. I just feel it would be a bad idea, somehow. I’m not sure why.’
‘Because you know there’s a chance this girl is a killer,’ he suggested.
‘With no reason whatever to murder Miss Clark – or me. I’m sorry, but without some sort of motive, you’re never going to persuade me.’
‘I don’t really want to,’ he said, with a smile. ‘It’s not really about persuasion.’
But she was still immersed in the morass of questions that remained to be answered. ‘That brings us back to Mr Kitchener, doesn’t it? We know his mother and Nancy Clark were very far from being friends, for reasons even Mrs Ellis didn’t seem to know. Maybe it’s something really awful, and old Mrs K extracted a deathbed promise from her son to do the deed.’
‘And that raises the exact same question again. What might he have against you, to tip you into the ghyll? Unless he was scared the alibi would fall apart once other facts emerged, and needed you to be unavailable for further questioning. I don’t think that’s much of a theory.’
‘So you think it’s someone else entirely? Ninian Tripp? Miss Clark’s nephews? Who else?’
‘Someone we haven’t even thought of, probably. That would be unusual – but this whole case has been unusual from the very start.’
They were back on the main road, barely a mile away from the pub. She had run out of intelligent questions to ask. Her anxiety had abated somewhat, the reason for it still obscure to her. She was far from enjoying herself, even so. Some people – specifically Ben and Melanie – would have loved to be in her situation. She could see no possible good outcome from the next development, and she was worried about her cracked bones. ‘I should never have come with you,’ she complained.
‘I didn’t give you much option,’ he reminded her. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll make sure you’re safe.’
‘I didn’t think I’d be in any actual danger. It’s more …’
‘I know,’ he said, surprising her. ‘It’s the unpredictability, the strangeness. It’s not your world, I understand that. It does seem like a perverse fate that brings you face to face with violence a second time in a few months.’
‘Thank you. It’s nice that you can see that. Reassuring.’
‘Don’t be too reassured. Somebody wanted you dead. Presumably that hasn’t changed.’
He parked in a narrow street adjacent to the pub, on double yellow lines. ‘Sorry – but I’m going to ask you to come with me,’ he said. ‘We need to do it quickly, without warning. Just walk in and see if she’s still there.’
It had been fifteen or twenty minutes since he got the phone call. ‘Okay,’ she agreed.
‘And if she’s not there, I’ll buy you a drink,’ he said lightly.
‘Where are your people?’ She looked round at the quiet streets. Traffic was passing thinly, and a man walked past carrying a Christmas tree over his shoulder.
‘Dotted about. They know we’re here.’
‘I thought you said undercover didn’t work round here.’
‘They’re not pretending to be anyone else. They’re just quietly minding their own business. Not asking any questions, not bothering anybody. They won’t have been noticed.’
She scanned the area. A couple were chatting quietly on the next corner; a young man sat in a car in a legal parking spot fifty yards away; a middle-aged woman was cleaning the window of a house further down the stree
t. Ben would instantly spot the cops, she thought. She resolved to develop the habit of watching Spooks, CSI and Silent Witness as a matter of urgency.
She struggled out of the car, feeling a flash of pain as part of the dressing on her pelvis pulled loose. The delicate skin protested grievously. ‘Ow!’ she yelped.
He was at her elbow, frowning worriedly. ‘I’m all right. Sorry,’ she panted.
He ushered her into the pub, and through to the single big bar, which took her back to the oddly intimate lunch they’d had there a week earlier. The same cheerful man was there, washing glasses and whistling. There was no sign of Candida Hawkins. Two women were at a far table, side by side. ‘It’s Gwen and Nicola!’ said Simmy, loud enough to attract attention to herself. Except that their attention had already been engaged, and they were staring hard at her, eyes wide.
Chapter Twenty-One
Nicola was the first to speak. ‘You’re out of hospital already! That’s amazing. What a wonderful surprise!’
‘Hello,’ Simmy called, across the uncomfortably long intervening gap. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ She considered introducing Moxon to them, but some telepathic warning told her not to. They might just think he was a boyfriend, or brother, or volunteer carer, she supposed.
Gwen laughed. ‘Drinking before lunch – disgraceful, I know. But Nicola had some urgent reason to get to the shops, and I decided to lend a hand, since I’m on vacation and have remarkably little to do. We’ve only been here five minutes.’ She gave her partner a sharp look.
Moxon seemed at a loss, having immediately established that Candida Hawkins was not in the pub. After dithering for a few seconds, he left Simmy to her own devices and went to speak to the publican. He cocked his head to indicate a desire for a private word, and the two men moved to the opposite end of the long bar from where the two women sat. Simmy swung herself towards Nicola and Gwen and addressed them in a voice that was just slightly too loud.
‘Everyone’s been admiring the bedsocks,’ she said. ‘I was sent home yesterday because of the snow. But it never really came to much, did it? Even up at Troutbeck, it’s not really bad. We thought we’d stop in here for a coffee, actually. My … friend knows the staff here, and wanted a chat as well. He’s been escorting me in his car, because I can’t drive – obviously.’ She forced a laugh. The prattle was exhausting, and she began to worry that she sounded insane. The women probably knew exactly who Moxon was, anyway.
‘Coffee,’ Nicola repeated. ‘We should have asked for coffee,’ she said to Gwen. There were two half pints of beer in front of them, barely touched. Simmy began to detect something of an atmosphere between them, as she closed the gap even further. Without conscious intention, she leant across the table towards them. ‘Oof!’ she gasped. ‘I’m still not really up to this. Sorry. I’ll go and sit somewhere else.’ With an effort she got herself upright again and hopped down the big room to a table not far from the door.
It was increasingly evident to Simmy that the presence of Nicola Joseph in the very pub where a claimant to be either her niece or her daughter had been sighted was no coincidence. There was no way it could be. She wondered whether Moxon had worked out who they were, and if so, what he made of it. So why were they here? Had Candida made some sort of assignation with one of them, to be thwarted by the presence of the other? Or had she spotted the lurking detectives and made her escape? Was there some conspiracy going on, as Simmy had at one point suspected? She tried to recall what Ben had said about such a theory, in his dossier. But she wasn’t able to summon up anything. It was difficult enough trying to remember all the complex relationships they’d heard about from Mrs Ellis – none of which made reference to Candida.
Moxon was suddenly at her side, smiling apologetically. ‘Sorry, love. I’ve got to go, asap. Change of plan. You know how it is.’ He was apparently adopting the persona of a sort of spiv, patronising his burdensome girlfriend, hoping Nicola and Gwen wouldn’t realise who he was. ‘I’ll get our Mel to come and take you home. Just wait here ten minutes. Bye!’ And he was gone. Simmy could not believe it. She met Gwen’s interested gaze, and smiled helplessly. Somewhere, she knew there was a message, a meaning, in what had just happened. Our Mel repeated in her head. Somehow Moxon was going to arrange for Melanie to take her home – a distance that would normally be a ten-minute stroll at most.
He left and she waited, sitting awkwardly, not sure whether she should order a drink. She was aware of a reprieve. The detective would probably have harangued her about her stubborn wish to avoid further involvement. Don’t you care about justice and the rule of law? he might have demanded. Can’t you provide a bit more help here?
Or was she simply projecting her own uneasy sense of guilt at her selfishness? She had yet to shake off the idea of herself as a victim, essentially passive and traumatised. In some ways it suited her, providing an excuse for not becoming some sort of honorary policewoman. She imagined Moxon signing her up as an informer, passing on titbits of gossip heard in the shop, and what her mother would say if that happened.
Gwen and Nicola were leaving. Nicola had a thwarted expression, as if she’d hoped for a longer sit-down with her beer. Gwen looked stern, a schoolteacher marching a delinquent pupil to the head. But beneath these expressions there was a closeness, a basic solidity to them that marked them as a settled couple, readily cresting the occasional waves of disharmony.
Melanie must have seen them leave, because she arrived half a minute later. She walked in looking tall and young and reliable. There was a lot about Melanie that was dependable, Simmy had discovered. Physically solid and emotionally robust, she stood out from her family like a cuckoo chick. Even her grandmother with her total recall and plain speaking was a faded shadow compared to Mel. Simmy had only met the girl’s parents and siblings once, as they all milled about on the lake shore in Bowness one Sunday afternoon, but they had been forgettably colourless beside Melanie. Even her clothes had more character than her spotty sisters and round-shouldered father.
‘Your taxi awaits,’ she said, with a little bow, echoing Russell the day before. ‘What on earth are you wearing?’
‘My mother found it. All my clothes are still in my cottage. It feels really nice, actually.’
‘Cool,’ said Melanie dubiously.
Simmy looked around and noticed that Moxon had left the canvas bag containing spare clothes on the floor by her chair. Melanie followed her gaze and picked it up for her.
‘Gosh, Mel, this is embarrassing. How did they get hold of you? Were you busy?’
‘They’ve got my phone number – duh!’ laughed the girl. ‘I was at my gran’s, anyway. It’s about a minute’s drive from here.’
‘Did you park on double yellows?’
‘Certainly not. There’s a space just round the corner. How far can you walk?’
‘Far enough, on the level. What time is it?’ She wasn’t wearing a watch, and couldn’t see a clock in the bar. It felt as if half the day at least was behind her.
‘Ten to eleven. Why?’
‘No reason. I just wanted to keep track. It’s been a very funny day so far. Every time I think I know what’s going to happen, it all changes. It’s like being in a dodgem car.’
‘It’s a bit like that for me as well,’ Melanie nodded. ‘Do I need to hold on to you?’
‘No. I’m better without that. Look.’ She swung herself out onto the pavement, while Melanie held the door open for her. ‘But I keep thinking I’m going to fall over. It makes me giddy after a bit.’
‘Weird. You look okay. Much better than yesterday.’
‘My head hurts,’ Simmy noticed. ‘Throbbing.’
Melanie made a sympathetic face, saying nothing. She led the way to the elderly car that she shared with an older brother, and Simmy lowered herself into it with a sense of having had rather too much practice at this manoeuvre in the past hour or so.
‘Oh!’
‘What? Did you hurt something?’
‘No – s
ee who’s over there.’ Simmy tipped her chin at a man on the pavement, who had plainly recognised them. ‘Mr Kitchener, of all people.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Melanie with no sign of surprise. ‘He was at my gran’s this morning, as well. He might want to talk to you, actually.’
Simmy felt tired. ‘Do I have to?’
‘He’s in quite a state. The police have been at him again, thanks to Ben.’ She tutted crossly. ‘He doesn’t consider anybody’s feelings, you know. It’s all just a puzzle to him.’
Simmy had a sense of numerous conversations and developments that had been going on without her, while she languished in hospital. ‘I’ve missed such a lot,’ she complained. ‘I’m never going to catch up.’
‘Do you want to?’
Good question, she thought. Ten minutes ago, she’d been glad to escape any further time in Moxon’s company. ‘I want it all over and done with.’
‘I think people have been pretty good at keeping you in the loop, actually. Just about everybody’s been to see you since your … injury.’
She was going to say ‘accident’, Simmy realised. Even Melanie shied away from the idea that somebody really seriously tried to kill the most innocent and undeserving person in Windermere.
‘Just give him a minute. He might have something important to tell us. My phone went before he could get to the point, just now.’
The man came to Simmy’s window, and she tried to open it. ‘Sorry,’ said Melanie. ‘It doesn’t work. You’ll have to open the door.’