by Rebecca Tope
‘Aw, shucks,’ he said in a silly voice. Simmy laughed, suddenly cheerful.
They confirmed a plan in which he would spend the following night in Troutbeck, then they would go together to Barrow, where they had reluctantly agreed to use the maternity services, rather than Whitehaven or Carlisle. Not one of the three was quick or easy to reach, either from Troutbeck or Patterdale, and the uncertainty of where they would be living made the decision almost impossible. Barrow had a very unfortunate history when it came to new babies, which made it hard to trust them. But as Angie said, this would have concentrated their minds considerably, making them sure to be the safest option. ‘Like after a bomb,’ she said. ‘That spot becomes the safest place to be.’ It might be rational, but Simmy had privately felt it left out a major aspect of human nature.
But she knew the way there and had no personal complaints against them. She and her father had both been patients in Barrow General, with no unfortunate outcomes. ‘If necessary, we can stay at Beck View for the last few days, which is only half an hour away,’ she said.
The consultant she had seen six weeks earlier had urged her to agree to an elective Caesarean section at thirty-eight weeks, to ensure the best possible outcome for the baby. But Simmy had resisted, hearing her mother’s howls of outrage at the very idea. ‘That would be fine if there was any cause for concern,’ said Angie afterwards. ‘But if everything’s going normally, it would be a terrible idea.’ Ever since she had heard a man refer to his child’s birth as ‘coming out through the sunroof’ Angie had been loud in her condemnation of this mechanical approach. Simmy mildly agreed with her, on the grounds that on the whole nature knew best. The prospect of coping with a large fresh scar at the same time as a startled new baby did not appeal.
‘See you on tomorrow, then,’ she told Christopher.
‘It’s going to be great,’ he said. ‘I can hardly wait.’
She knew he was being deliberately upbeat, and was grateful for it, even if he was missing the point that it was not this scan that she was anxious about. All the hazards would come later, when the terror of history repeating itself would come flooding in.
Chapter Six
‘Oh Lord, that must be them,’ sighed Angie, as the doorbell rang. ‘Now, mind what you say, all right? Don’t start one of your rambling stories, and don’t go making any wild guesses about poison.’
‘I’ll stay quietly out of the way, then,’ said Russell mildly. ‘I don’t want to upset any apple carts.’
‘You’ll probably have to talk to the guests, anyway. Once that kid’s asleep, they’ll want to be downstairs for a bit.’ It had long ago struck her that families and B&Bs did not go well together. Often, there was no downstairs space available at all, except for the dining room, which was generally closed during the day and evening. The choice was to stay out until the children were asleep on their feet, or huddle together in the bedroom, reading or watching television, until everybody crashed out together. Beck View had an all-purpose downstairs room with games and books, but no TV, which was at least some improvement on the usual pattern.
‘I still can’t remember their name,’ said Russell tetchily. ‘Simmy and I met them yesterday and I couldn’t address him properly. The other lot are Tomkins. I do remember that.’
‘So your job is to keep them away from the Childers people.’
‘Thank you,’ said her husband meekly. ‘I’ll do that.’
Angie was already halfway along the corridor, talking over her shoulder. The imposition of having to speak to the grieving relatives of a man she had hardly exchanged fifty words with – and all those the usual spiel about keys and breakfast times – was making her cross. Nobody seemed to consider how it had been for her, having the wretched guest expire on her landing. And Persimmon, in her condition, should never have been witness to such a thing. She pulled the door open with the faintest of smiles. Two men and two women confronted her, one of the women in uniform.
The only place she could take them was the private sitting room used by her and Russell. That in itself felt like an unfair intrusion. When they got there, the police liaison officer made introductions, beginning with a man about Russell’s age. ‘This is Mr Childers, father of the deceased,’ she said awkwardly. ‘And Mr and Mrs Gorringe, one of his sisters and her husband.’
Angie shook hands, wanting to say Yes, I know. It’s obvious from what you already told me. Instead, she maintained the stiff smile and said, ‘It’s an awful thing to happen. You must be terribly shocked.’ Angie Straw would rather die than say ‘I’m sorry for your loss’ or anything from a pre-existing script.
‘Yes,’ said the son-in-law. ‘We really can’t believe it.’
He was short and wide, with pale-coloured hair and bulging blue eyes. His wife was an inch or two taller, in her late forties and an unsettling replica of her father, who stood with his hand on her arm. Both had long beaky noses, narrow dark eyes and lank brown hair. As far as Angie could recall, Grant had not looked like them at all.
‘He was three years younger than me. We never really did much together, even when we were children. We saw very little of each other in recent years. I’ve got the business, and he never seemed to have much to say for himself. But it’s dreadful to think he’s dead.’ The bereaved sister wiped away a small tear. ‘Can we see his room?’ asked the sister. ‘I know it seems a bit silly, but we’d like to be able to visualise it. We didn’t know he was coming here, you see. We had no idea where he was.’
‘Come on, Suze. You make it sound like some sort of mystery,’ chastised her husband. ‘When did he ever tell us where he was going, anyway?’ He cast a nervous glance at the police officer. ‘We’ve already explained that, haven’t we?’
Nobody spoke, and Angie led the way up the stairs. The police had taken Grant’s laptop and all his luggage, leaving nothing that his family would find meaningful. Even the sheets from the bed had gone off in evidence bags in case forensics could find anything interesting on them. Another guest had been booked in from the end of the week, but was eager to cancel when Angie contacted her with the story. ‘No, no – I don’t think so,’ had been the response.
‘Where exactly did he … I mean, what happened in those last moments?’ It was the sister who asked, while managing to imply that all three of them wanted to know. ‘They’ve told us very little, you know.’
‘It’s still under an initial investigation,’ defended the policewoman. ‘We have to be absolutely sure of the facts before we can issue any information.’
‘Yes, dear, that’s all right,’ said Childers Senior, with a strong Birmingham accent. ‘I’m sure it will all be made clear eventually.’ As he turned back to Angie, she caught a whiff of whisky on his breath, which went some way towards explaining his lack of tension or emotion. ‘The thing is, we simply can’t understand why the police are so interested. It seems to us absolutely obvious that poor Grant ate something by mistake. He always did have a delicate stomach, and perhaps he was silly enough to buy some dodgy mushrooms out there in one of these funny little villages. Or even picked something out of a hedge that looked tasty. He was quite keen on natural history, you know. Berries and nuts and that sort of thing. His mother thinks that was why he came up here on his own again. He wanted to have a few days in the wilderness, by himself. He’s been a bit low, I think. All this politics, and the doomy talk about climate change. He worries about animals, as well. Pollution – all that plastic. Poor chap, it’s just one thing after another.’
‘He wasn’t that bad, Dad,’ his daughter corrected. ‘You’ll have them thinking he did this to himself on purpose, if you’re not careful. All that misery stuff was years ago now. He’s been loads better lately.’
‘Maybe so,’ nodded the elderly man dubiously. ‘So you’re saying the police have it right, and some swine did this to him deliberately?’
‘I’m not saying anything, Dad.’ The tone was weary. ‘Just let’s leave it to the experts, shall we? We can take a
few pictures of this room for Mum, and let this lady get on in peace.’
‘Your poor mother,’ moaned Mr Childers. ‘This is going to be the death of her, you know. However she’s going to face the funeral, God alone knows.’
‘People are tougher than you think,’ said Angie, unwarily. ‘I expect she’ll surprise you.’
All three family members gave her the same long, unfriendly stare. ‘You don’t know her,’ said the son-in-law. ‘You don’t know anything about her.’
‘That’s true, of course. I was speaking generally.’
Suzy Gorringe took several pictures with her phone, while the men hovered in the doorway. ‘Nice room,’ she said finally, as if offering an olive branch. ‘How did he come to find you, I wonder? Did he say?’
Angie tried to think, but could not differentiate Grant Childers from a host of other people who had booked rooms with her over the past months. ‘It must have been online,’ she said vaguely.
‘We knew that he came up here quite a few times, but we’d never asked for details. We rather assumed he always stayed here with you.’
‘No. This was his first time,’ said Angie.
‘Oh. Well, perhaps he fancied a change. That would be a bit surprising, given what a creature of habit he was, but as I say, we never really asked him about it.’ The sister had the grace to look sheepish at her lack of interest in Grant’s movements.
‘Just getting away from the rat race,’ said her father. ‘Recharging his batteries. Nothing sinister about it.’
Angie privately thought the whole thing sounded decidedly sinister. Suzy Gorringe read her expression and said, ‘We still think it’s ludicrous to suggest that someone murdered him. I mean, if you’d known him, you’d think the same. He never did anyone any harm. To be honest, we all thought he was pretty much of a wimp.’
‘Suze!’ her silent husband protested. ‘The poor chap’s dead. You can’t talk about him like that.’
‘It’s true enough, all the same,’ said Childers Senior. ‘Everybody thought so.’
They trooped untidily back to the downstairs hallway, and stood in an uncertain cluster like sheep, with the police officer a somewhat hesitant collie dog. No way was Angie tempted to offer them tea, or even take them into her sitting room, unless forced to. There were voices coming from the guests’ room, including that of a young child. The Watsons and Tomkins, by coincidence, had both brought a small son with them, but the Watson one was only three. Long past his bedtime, thought Angie, with a sigh. The kid would get overtired and probably make another fuss about the strange bed, as he had since the family had arrived.
‘Well …’ she said. ‘If that’s everything?’
The Gorringes exchanged a look. ‘I suppose it is,’ said Suzy. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs …’
‘Straw,’ said Angie. ‘I hope it’s helped, somehow.’ They could surely hear the implication that it really couldn’t have been the least bit helpful.
‘It’s always good to get a complete picture,’ said Mr Gorringe. ‘As complete as you can, anyway. There’s nothing worse than not knowing how a person died. It’s like never hearing the end of the story. You don’t know what to tell people.’
Angie gave him a surprised look. He was both more sensible and less upset than she’d first thought. His brother-in-law had clearly not been one of his best-beloved relatives. ‘Yes, that’s true,’ she agreed. ‘You need to be able to tell the whole story, even if only to yourself.’
‘The police understand that, too,’ said the liaison officer, still on the defensive. Angie supposed it went with the role – foisted onto bewildered grieving families whether they wanted it or not, in a clumsy attempt at making them feel valued and cared for.
‘Good,’ she said.
Then they somehow got out of the house, and Angie closed the door firmly behind them. Squaring her shoulders, she went to find husband, dog and guests.
Not until they were in bed did Russell and Angie manage a coherent conversation. The Watson child had refused to let his parents out of his sight, so the whole family had decamped to their room. The Tomkins had embarked on a somewhat uneasy game of Monopoly, which had to be aborted long before its rightful conclusion, the seven-year-old nodding sleepily over his properties. The Straws, in the kitchen, watched their small television with sporadic attention, and hardly spoke. ‘Catching up with us,’ said Russell at one point. ‘Delayed reaction.’
Angie wanted to argue, but hadn’t the heart for it. He was, after all, probably right. Though there had been some small consolation in the discovery that Grant Childers had not been the great love of anybody’s life, or the sole provider for a vulnerable family. His mother was apparently the only person who would be severely affected by his death. It seemed he had occupied a very small place in the world, leaving a negligible hole in the fabric of which he had been part. Nobody had mentioned his line of work, she noted. Most likely a minor civil servant was her best guess.
‘So why in the world would anybody want to murder him?’ she said aloud to her husband, as she got into bed beside him.
The question haunted her dreams and was still at the front of her mind next morning. Up before seven, the whirlwind demands of the second B in B&B occupied at least two hours. Whatever diets or fads were favoured by the guests in their home lives, the majority of them succumbed to the Full English when it was offered as a non-negotiable part of the holiday package. Coffee had to be made and kept fresh, toast had to be warm, juice cold, milk untainted. Every egg had to be cooked to precise specifications and sausages must not be burnt. The necessary juggling act was second nature after almost twenty years, but nothing could be left to chance. Russell’s role had always been as waiter, convivial host and source of local information. He would loiter beside one table after another, issuing facts about weather, history, traffic conditions and topography. In his glory days he had relished this part of the business, sending people in all directions on his latest whim. Brantwood and Brant Fell, Kendal and Keswick, Grasmere and Grizedale – he would rattle off the names with a mischievous intention of causing confusion. There would be an anecdote to go with every hamlet, and most large houses. Wordsworth and Beatrix Potter seldom got a mention. Russell very much favoured John Ruskin and Fletcher Christian when it came to local heroes.
But over the past year, Russell’s abilities had diminished, his memory less reliable and his sense of mischief sadly absent. Anxiety had him in its grip, resulting in a complete change of personality. Doors had to be locked, news headlines scanned, guests repeatedly warned of dangers lurking on the fells. When a mini-stroke assailed him, his wife and daughter had feared it would only exacerbate his distress. Instead, it seemed to shift something, and since then he had been more relaxed, but nowhere near his previous levels of competence.
Now he pottered in and out of the dining room with cafetières and racks of toast, on Angie’s instruction. None of the guests looked happy, and it came as no surprise when the Watsons announced that they would, after all, be cutting their holiday short by two days. Only mildly apologetic, they explained that there was too much disruption for comfort. And surely the Straws would be glad to be rid of them, under the circumstances. It was nobody’s fault, of course, but really, they couldn’t face another evening like Sunday.
The Tomkins heard this with evident indecision. Should they do the same, or stick it out as planned? They were due to stay until Friday, and Jason had set his heart on taking the ferry across Windermere. They wanted to go to Coniston and Ullswater. There was just so much to see!
These musings were overheard, in part, by Russell, who hovered close by, ready to advise. ‘We’d really like you to stay,’ he urged. ‘And what will the school think if you take this young man back two days before they expect him? They’ll mark it down as a moral victory.’ Mr and Mrs Tomkin had already regaled Russell with the story of their royal battle to obtain permission to remove Jason from school in term time. ‘We’ll have to pay a fine,’ sighed the f
ather. ‘Sixty quid. The lad’s only seven – what do they think he’s going to miss?’
The mother looked less than convinced by the wisdom of this. Clearly she had been overruled in the original decision. ‘We could keep him at home,’ she said. ‘That might be quite nice – just doing nothing for a day or two.’
‘You’ll have this place to yourselves if you stay,’ Russell encouraged. ‘And I think we can safely say there won’t be any more interruptions from anyone connected to poor Mr Childers.’
Both parents glanced at the boy, who remained oblivious to the fact of a sudden unexplained death a few feet from the room he shared with his parents. A year or two older, and he might well have shown a ghoulish interest. ‘We’ll stay one more night, and go back tomorrow,’ said Mr Tomkin decisively. ‘Coniston today, and then cut and run. Sorry if that’s a blow to you, Mr Straw, but it doesn’t look as if things are going to get any better here, are they? Police and so forth, I mean.’
As he loaded the dishwasher, Russell reported this exchange to his wife. ‘I told them there probably wouldn’t be any more visits from the police,’ he admitted. ‘But it didn’t make any difference – they’ve lost their nerve. Do you think we should worry about our reputation yet?’
‘I do a bit,’ she admitted. ‘The Friday people have cancelled. At this rate, we’ll be all by ourselves over the weekend.’
‘It’s your own fault. You shouldn’t have said anything.’ Angie had phoned everyone booked into the B&B over the coming days, offering them the option of changing their plans. ‘They probably think you want them to cancel.’
‘I do, mostly. It feels almost disrespectful to carry on as usual. And I don’t actually feel altogether well.’
This was tantamount to an admission that she was severely ill, and Russell looked at her in alarm. ‘You don’t look poorly,’ he observed. ‘What’s the matter with you?’