by Rebecca Tope
‘No reason, really,’ she shrugged. ‘You’d think it would still be with the flowers, that’s all. Probably he liked the thought after all and kept it for sentimental reasons. It might be under his pillow.’
‘I doubt that,’ frowned Moxon. Simmy became aware that the detective inspector was watching her closely, waiting for a more relevant reaction. ‘It looks a bit worrying,’ he prompted.
She put up her hands defensively and took a step back. ‘Oh no,’ she said loudly. ‘No, no, no. Don’t you go involving me in another of your beastly murders. Don’t even think about it. I’m exempt. Immune. I’ve done more than my bit for society in the past few months.’
Movement on the pavement outside the shop drew the attention of all three. They watched as Ben Harkness tried to push the shop door open, finding DI Moxon to be an obstruction.
Moxon himself sighed, shook his head and muttered an apology, before getting out of Ben’s way.
Chapter Two
‘Nobody said anything about murder,’ Moxon objected. ‘There’s no sign of violence in his house.’
‘Murder?’ echoed Ben, with seventeen-year-old enthusiasm. ‘Where? When? Who?’
‘Aye-aye,’ said Melanie with a grin.
‘Go away, all of you,’ ordered Simmy. ‘I’ve got work to do. If the Hayter man isn’t dead, then why are we wasting time like this?’
Moxon summoned every scrap of available dignity. ‘He has been reported missing,’ he emphasised. ‘And after a brief search of his home, we found recently delivered flowers from this establishment, and as part of normal investigations, I came to ask if you knew anything that might help us.’
‘Establishment,’ muttered Ben, with a quick roll of his eyes. ‘Is that what this is? I thought it was just a shop.’
Melanie poked him and hissed, ‘Shut up, you fool.’ She looked at Moxon. ‘So who’s his daughter? When did she last see him?’
‘She’s a Miss Daisy Hayter. She’s getting married next week and arranged a dinner party last night for her parents and her prospective in-laws to have a pre-wedding get-together. Her dad never showed up, which she finds extremely worrying. Apparently it’s totally out of character.’
‘So much so that a detective inspector gets put on the case?’ Ben queried.
Before Moxon could reply, Simmy said loudly, ‘Well, I don’t know anything. I hardly saw him. He hardly even looked at me.’
‘This is a grown man we’re talking about,’ Ben persisted. ‘I didn’t think the cops were interested in people like that going missing. If he’s not suspected of a crime, then he’s free to go where he likes, surely?’
Moxon did not reply, which gave Ben all the information he needed. ‘He is a suspect!’ he crowed. ‘You’ve lost someone who’s on bail or tagged or something. Wow! Whoever said life in Cumbria was dull? It’s a thrill a moment aboot these here fells.’ His accent was recognisably local, albeit exaggerated for effect. In general he used standard English as insisted upon by his mother. Simmy, as an incomer, spoke with none of the Lake District tones, while Moxon and Melanie were detectable as Cumbrians as soon as they opened their mouths.
‘No, he is not a suspect,’ said Moxon firmly.
‘What then?’
‘If you must know, he’s a friend of a friend of mine. I believe his family when they say this is a real cause for concern.’ He turned to Simmy. ‘You definitely can’t say who ordered the flowers?’
‘No. Sorry. I really have no idea, and we’ve thrown the letter away. Melanie makes me log everything on the computer and not keep any paper.’
Moxon rubbed his face and made a resigned grimace. ‘I’d better let you get back to work, then. Although it would appear that I’m not the only interruption.’ He gave Ben a severe look.
Simmy waited for him to go, but he made no move. She felt an odd mixture of resignation and apprehension. ‘I do hope he’s all right,’ she offered.
‘So do I. Does this happen often – orders with no indication of who they’re from?’
‘Hardly ever, usually, but we’re getting a few this week, which Melanie thinks is probably quite normal for Valentine’s. Anyway, it was fully paid up, so I wasn’t worried. Lots of people don’t use banks. I thought maybe it was a child, actually – although the message didn’t sound like that, I suppose.’ She spoke jerkily, trying to justify herself at the same time as seeing the whole business through Moxon’s eyes.
‘Whoever it was got the wrong florist,’ said Melanie.
Everyone looked at her. ‘Pardon?’ said Moxon.
‘There’s a florist in Coniston. People sending flowers to someone living there should use the nearest shop. It stands to reason.’
‘Establishment,’ said Ben softly.
‘It doesn’t, though,’ Simmy realised. ‘The letter was delivered by hand. I found it on the floor when I opened up on Monday. It’s a bit like booking a taxi, isn’t it? I mean – you’re never sure whether to call one from near where you live, or near where you’re going. Either way, they have to do the trip twice. It’s the same when you choose a florist, unless you do it online or by phone.’
‘Which almost everyone does,’ Melanie pointed out with dwindling patience.
‘All of which demonstrates that there was something very unusual about that order,’ said Ben.
Simmy sighed. ‘I just thought it came from someone who isn’t in the system. Someone old-fashioned but quite ordinary. And because it’s Valentine’s, everybody wants to keep their identity a secret. The usual rules don’t entirely apply.’
‘Dream on, Sim,’ scorned Ben. ‘This wasn’t a Valentine, was it? It’s obviously someone who didn’t want to be identified for totally unromantic reasons. And you can’t pretend it’s ordinary at all. Ordinary things are not investigated by detective inspectors, for one thing. And even if he is a friend of a friend, grown men going missing don’t warrant any police involvement at all without something really suspicious to attract their interest.’
Simmy saw Moxon’s hands twitch, as if he would very much like to put them around the boy’s neck and squeeze.
‘Hush, Ben,’ Simmy warned him. ‘You don’t know anything about it. And why are you here, anyway?’ she asked him. ‘It’s Wednesday.’
He gave her a withering look. ‘Free period, then some bod giving us more climate propaganda. I should stay and ask awkward questions by rights, but I didn’t fancy it.’
‘Propaganda?’ Simmy blinked.
‘Oh, he doesn’t believe in man-made climate change. Surely you knew that,’ Melanie explained. ‘Haven’t you heard the story about his mum and the solar panels?’
Simmy shook her head, thinking a theme was developing that was at least a distraction from Valentine’s Day. ‘What happened?’
Ben took over. ‘She was on the verge of being persuaded by some salesman bloke to spend ten thousand on sticking panels all over the roof, until I showed her some of the facts and figures. This far north, she’d have been mad to do it, even if the basis for them made any sense – which it doesn’t.’ He leant forward, his voice rising. ‘They still haven’t managed to produce batteries that store the energy properly. So you have to go back to the old system once the sun goes down. All this guff about the national grid buying back your unused reserves is just a cynical bit of market manipulation. There is no way in the world it can ever make economic sense. But much worse than that, there was never any need to reduce carbon emissions anyhow. They’re not doing a scrap of harm.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ said Simmy.
‘Suit yourself. Not believing is good. I woke up one day and thought – can all this man-made global warming stuff really be true?’ He grinned. ‘So I read all the counter science, mostly just to be perverse at the start. And now I’m absolutely certain the whole idea is rubbish. Mind you, some of those sceptic people are pretty bonkers as well. You’ve got to be selective. But it looks as if the computer models the scientists used in the 1990s are hopelessly wrong. It w
ould be funny if it hadn’t caused such economic havoc.’
Moxon was listening impatiently. ‘You’re wrong, boy. By the time you’re thirty, you’ll realise just how wrong you are. I just hope you change your mind before then.’
Ben scowled at him. ‘I’m not wrong,’ he insisted.
‘But …’ Simmy felt as if she’d just been solemnly assured that two and two made five. ‘Surely the counter science, as you call it, is wacky off-the-wall stuff? The real scientists all agree – don’t they?’
‘Stop,’ Melanie begged, before Ben could draw breath. ‘I’ve heard him on all this, and believe me, it’s not fun. And we haven’t got time.’ She gave Ben one of her unique glares, which carried added force thanks to an artificial eye. ‘I suppose you thought we’d give you some lunch.’
‘Brought my own,’ he corrected, digging in his school bag for a plastic box containing sandwiches. ‘And I guarantee you that I’ll be proved right any day now.’
‘You’ve got incredible timing,’ Simmy said, anxious to follow Melanie’s advice and dodge the climate lecture. ‘Just as the inspector’s here.’
‘Yeah.’ He smiled smugly and Simmy guessed the boy had witnessed the arrival of the detective and decided to investigate. He was quite likely to have been heading somewhere else and been diverted.
She had been watching all three faces, which were turned towards her in a pattern she was beginning to find familiar; as if everyone looked to her for a lead. DI Moxon himself was holding her in a steady gaze, with something of an appeal in his eyes. Ben was right, she concluded. There was some additional reason for his visit, which he was struggling to reveal.
‘Tell us more about Mr Hayter,’ she invited. ‘If his daughter’s so worried about him, there might have been an accident or something.’
The detective smiled unhappily. ‘Well, for one thing, she didn’t believe he had ever been sent flowers before, not for any reason at all. For another thing, he has no plans to start another job, as far as anyone is aware. That implies at the very least that someone has been playing a rather nasty joke on him. Daisy suspects it was a coded message implying he was unlikely to remain long in the job he already has, and that would be very upsetting for him.’
Simmy cast her mind back, and volunteered as complete an account as she could of the events of the previous Monday. ‘It was sunny, and I parked in the town car park without paying, because I was only going to be a few minutes. You know how expensive all the car parks are around here. It would wipe out practically all my profit if I’d paid, and you’re not allowed to leave the car in the street. I walked up to his house, which is on the road that goes to the edge of Lake Coniston. It’s pretty along there, with those big houses. Anyway, he answered the door quite quickly and then just stared blankly at me for about a minute—’
‘Not possible,’ Ben interrupted. ‘A minute is ages. More like fifteen seconds.’
‘Okay. It was much longer than normal, anyway. I said “Mr Hayter?” and he nodded, so I tried to give him the flowers. At first he didn’t take them, but then he reached out and grabbed them and gave them a little sniff. Then he smiled a bit, thanked me and shut the door.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not absolutely sure of every detail, or the sequence they came in. Do you think it matters?’
‘Did he look at the card?’ Moxon asked.
‘Um – I’m not sure. He said, “Thank you, dear,” and closed the door.’
‘You said before that he seemed preoccupied.’
‘Yes, that’s right. He never seemed to pay full attention – as if he was listening out for the phone maybe, or in the middle of writing an important letter and wanted to keep the words in his head. I felt as if I’d distracted him from important business and he thought flowers were just frivolous and irrelevant.’
‘And yet he opened the door quickly. If he’d been in the middle of something, wouldn’t he have taken a long time to get up and go to the door?’ It was Melanie, thinking aloud.
Nobody answered her. Simmy scanned her memory for any more details. ‘I hope he’s all right,’ she said. ‘He seemed quite a nice man, even if he didn’t want me bothering him.’
‘He called you “dear”,’ said Melanie. ‘Is that why you liked him? Was he good-looking?’
‘Fairly,’ said Simmy with a repressive look.
Moxon closed his notebook, having written down the meagre facts so far elicited. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I think that’s all.’
Simmy heard the silent for now, and sighed. Unlike her two young friends she had no curiosity as to what might have happened to Mr Hayter from Coniston. It was blatantly obvious that it had nothing whatever to do with her, and she had eight more Valentine bouquets to construct, with more orders very likely to come through before she was done.
‘I’m sure you’ll find him,’ she said.
‘I’m sure we will. Enjoy your lunch.’ He nodded at Ben, his expression part reproach and part admiration. The boy was, after all, highly intelligent and basically on the side of the angels when it came to matters of law enforcement. ‘And don’t you get above yourself, my lad,’ he said.
Before Ben could speak, the detective had gone, leaving the youngster red-faced and wide-eyed. Simmy could see he was upset and thought he probably deserved it.
‘Silly old bugger,’ said Melanie, patting Ben lightly on the shoulder.
‘Yeah,’ said the boy thickly.
Seventeen, Simmy dimly remembered, was an awkward age. Emotions ran wild and careless words cut deep. Ben might be genius-level intellectually, but he could still be brought down and humiliated all too easily. Even so, it was time he learnt to respect authority and not flaunt his brains. ‘I’ve got work to do,’ she said, with little hope of being allowed to get on with it.
‘I’m going to google him,’ said Ben. ‘That Mr Hayter.’
‘You can’t. I need to keep the computer free for any new orders. Melanie – tell him he can’t. He might listen to you.’
They both looked at her pityingly, and Ben proffered a gadget she realised was the latest in communications technology and was sure to be able to manage some googling. Somewhere in her conscience was a sense that it was intrusive to search for people’s backgrounds without their permission. Rationally, she knew they willingly displayed all sorts of personal information for the world to see, but that didn’t help. Everybody could be an investigative journalist now, which meant everyone was also vulnerable and exposed.
‘Look,’ said Ben, ‘you go and smell your roses, and I’ll just keep out of your way.’
‘They don’t smell,’ said Melanie. ‘It’s a bit of a swindle, really.’
Simmy gave her a dirty look and marched off into the back room. She switched on the radio she kept in there, but only used when Melanie was in the shop. Radio Two played undemanding tunes while her nimble fingers assembled yet another bouquet of red roses. Within five minutes she had banished all thoughts of Ben and the missing man and DI Moxon.
Instead she found herself thinking of Ninian Tripp and hoping she wouldn’t forget to contact him about the vase. Or preferably, go to see him, if she could find his cottage. Melanie would know exactly where it was, being in possession of encyclopaedic local knowledge. Somewhere to the east, she thought, in the unexplored uplands of Brant Fell. It was within walking distance, but after nearly a year, she still hadn’t once gone that way. No chance of doing so before the weekend, she concluded. The evenings were still very dark and uninviting and walking still led to aching bones where she’d been hurt before Christmas. Once back in her Troutbeck home, there was very little incentive to go out again.
Ben put his head round the door, ten minutes later. ‘Didn’t find much,’ he said. ‘Incredible the way some people have no Internet presence worth mentioning. What are they thinking?’
‘That they like their privacy, I expect. Didn’t you find anything?’
‘Oh, yes. Mr Jack Hayter won first prize for his runner beans at the Coniston Summer Sho
w in 2011. Looks as if it was his only moment of glory. Somebody else won every year since.’
Simmy laughed. ‘Nothing sinister, then?’
‘It was sinister that Moxo has an interest in him. Of course, there wasn’t time to check everything. We’d need to sign up for ancestry.co.uk to get the real stuff, as well as the newspaper archive. They both cost megabucks.’
Simmy waved a hand. ‘Not interested,’ she said firmly. ‘I still think it’s rude to go googling people.’
But the damage was done. She could not rid herself of the brief picture of Mr J. Hayter that remained in her memory. He had been thin, pale, middle-aged – the last person you’d expect to have flowers sent to him. He had not visibly reacted either positively or negatively to them – an impression confirmed by DI Moxon’s information that they had never even been put in water. She was slowly discovering, to her astonishment, that flowers could be sent aggressively as well as lovingly. There could be any of a thousand messages contained in an innocent bouquet. Reminders, reproaches, accusations and warnings might all work their way into the blooms and the message card attached. This darker side of her business had tainted it for her once or twice already, and now she feared it might do so again.
So who had sent the unwanted tribute? A message that had seemed benign, sent by a person going to considerable trouble to ensure the flowers arrived despite not being competent to manage electronic communications, had now mutated into something ominous. Was it even possible that the receipt of the bouquet had driven the man to disappear, rushing out of the house that very day, leaving a bewildered daughter to raise the alarm? She was forced to concede, as Ben had said, that it all implied that something more serious was going on.
Ben had withdrawn his head and she could hear him and Melanie chatting together in the shop. She left it another fifteen minutes before going out to join them. She was just in time to see Mel picking up an envelope from the floor inside the door. As Simmy watched, the girl opened it.