by Rebecca Tope
‘So do I,’ added Bonnie, with a look of surprise. ‘I thought everybody did.’
‘Not me,’ grated Simmy. ‘I’ve got better things to worry about.’
‘You know his name,’ Ben reminded her. ‘And the car he drove. Moxo will have told you at least that much.’
‘And his throat was slashed, yes,’ sighed Simmy. ‘Such a horrible thing to do to a person. The wretched woman who found him was completely traumatised, apparently.’
Ben’s eyes widened. ‘I didn’t hear that bit. Doesn’t that mean somebody out there was covered in blood?’
Simmy winced. ‘Probably. I don’t know.’
‘Go on. What else?’
‘The man lived in a small cottage somewhere near Grasmere. He has a son who’s mostly with his mum in Scotland, who was staying with him when all this happened.’
‘How old is he?’
She tried to remember. ‘Thirteen, I think. He’s called Tim.’
‘Why wasn’t he at school?’
‘I have no idea. Maybe they added an extra day or two onto the Bank Holiday.’
‘Maybe he’s training up to be a dognapper as well,’ said Bonnie with a sneer that startled Simmy.
‘I thought we’d established that he definitely wasn’t into stealing dogs,’ said Ben. ‘Has that changed now?’
‘Bonnie couldn’t find him in the police picture gallery, and people insist he was perfectly law-abiding.’ Simmy felt tired of it all, and the repetitive explanations. ‘But we wondered why they wanted her to go and do it now, when it was ages ago her dogs were almost abducted. We presumed it meant the police think there could be a connection, even if they can’t prove it.’
‘That’s exactly right,’ put in Bonnie. ‘That’s my impression, anyway.’
‘Police picture gallery?’ Ben’s interest became intense.
Bonnie took over from Simmy. ‘I had to go and look at mugshots of dognappers this morning. It was all pretty silly, actually, because even if I’d recognised somebody, that wouldn’t prove anything about the murder, would it? I thought at first they were just following up these thefts of dogs, and trying to pin down the movements of a suspect, or something. Then I realised they wouldn’t have Moxon on that, when there was a murder investigation going on. So I guessed they thought if I could identify their dead man as the same one who tried to nick our best bitch, they’d have something to go on. But I couldn’t.’ She shrugged regretfully. ‘I told them I didn’t recognise anybody.’
Ben screwed up his face in deep concentration. ‘Aren’t you jumping to too many conclusions? Did Moxon actually talk to you?’
Bonnie shook her head. ‘No, I just sort of thought it through. I might have got the whole thing completely wrong. I expect I have. I’m no good at this sort of thing. It upsets me a bit, actually.’
‘And me,’ said Simmy. ‘It’s all so horrible. That poor boy, without his father …’
‘Yeah, but we owe it to him and the chap’s friends to see if we can help catch his killer, right?’ Ben objected. ‘Bonnie, you’re wrong, you know.’
‘I thought I was,’ she said humbly.
‘No, no. I mean – you’re wrong to think you’re no good at it. You’re brilliant.’ He spoke as if Bonnie had successfully completed an assignment set by him personally. ‘Welcome to the gang!’
‘Gang?’
‘He’s joking,’ said Simmy firmly.
‘Me, Melanie and Simmy have solved a few murders since the end of last year, as it happens. You’ll have heard a bit about it, I expect. In the news. The wedding at Storrs, for a start – and the man shot in Bowness? Simmy and I were right there when it happened.’
‘We didn’t solve anything,’ said Simmy crossly. ‘We mostly just got in the way.’
‘And I’m going to be a forensic archaeologist,’ Ben went on, undaunted.
‘I know,’ said Bonnie. ‘Everybody knows.’
‘Well, I’ve got work to do,’ said Simmy, feeling as if she’d said the same thing a hundred times that day. ‘Four more funeral tributes to make, before I can go home.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Which won’t be until six at the earliest, thanks to you two.’ The way Bonnie reacted to this suggested that she regarded it as unfair. Simmy, however, remembered the disrupted morning all too clearly. Then she looked again at the transformed shop and reproached herself. ‘But you’ve more than made up for it,’ she said warmly. ‘You’ve performed miracles in here.’
‘It’s a bit short of space, though,’ said Ben with true tactlessness. ‘And people will be scared to buy anything, for fear of spoiling the effect.’
‘No they won’t,’ flashed Simmy. ‘Wait until the next customer comes along and see what they say.’
Bonnie showed no sign of taking the criticism to heart and merely smiled indiscriminately. ‘I never thought it would be so quiet in a shop,’ she said. ‘Hardly anybody comes in, do they?’
Quiet! thought Simmy desperately. ‘Most of the work comes through email or phone orders,’ she said tightly. ‘Windermere’s not exactly heaving with passing trade, even in high season. Everyone’s keen to get out onto the fells and lakes. The business relies a lot more on weddings and funerals than actual flesh-and-blood customers,’ she concluded, with the aim of dropping a heavy hint.
‘Which leaves me and Mel – me and you now,’ Ben told Bonnie, ‘to disentangle the latest crime.’ He turned his back on Simmy and she took herself off to the back room with a bagful of mixed feelings.
It was good to have so much to do, she reminded herself. It was normal and straightforward, and would bring comfort to people. As the available space reduced to almost nothing, she delicately piled one sheaf of flowers on top of another, moving the wreaths to a more vertical position. Every item was the product of her own skilful fingers, not a petal out of place, and the scent of lilies and freesias filled the air. The very transience of flowers made them all the more precious. The symbolism associated with a funeral was said to focus on this brief existence, a human life no more permanent than a bloom. This idea had been new to Simmy when she heard it the previous year; she had always thought it was more that the scent of flowers masked that of decaying flesh. And it didn’t work for weddings. They were meant to be anything but transient. She smiled to herself at the contradiction. It reflected the multitude of interpretations she had come across for the language of flowers. She had briefly considered making this a central element to the business, with labels and leaflets and posters on the subject, until she bought two books, which gave alarmingly different meanings to most of the flowers she intended to stock.
These drifting thoughts saw her through two more tributes, and took the time to just before five. Feeling tired and extremely hungry, she opened the door and called, ‘Go home!’ to Bonnie. There was no sign of Ben.
‘Okay,’ said the girl. ‘Same time tomorrow?’
‘Thanks. I’ll be delivering all this to the undertaker until about half past nine, so don’t get here before then. You won’t be able to get in. And if it’s raining, wear a mac, with a hood. And find an umbrella.’
‘You must be hungry,’ said the girl, ignoring these instructions. ‘You never had lunch.’
‘Nor did you.’
‘Yeah, I did. I had two muesli bars. You didn’t see.’
‘Well, I am, actually. But I can wait another hour. I’ll be home by then. It’s been a good day, hasn’t it? You’ve done all this wonderful work. I’ll be sure to pay you a bit extra on Saturday. You’ve earned it.’
Bonnie shrugged, as if money mattered nothing to her. The initial questions concerning her background had only partially been answered by Melanie’s account, Simmy realised. There were contradictions to be reconciled, in the personalities of both Corinne and Bonnie. The careless confidence shown by both women sat oddly with the stories of neglect, abuse and general dysfunction.
She supposed, in the end, she would have to ask Ben Harkness to help with it all.
Chapter Thirte
en
Thursday finished with a hot bath and a lavish application of hand cream. Her fingers were tired and sore after so much tweaking and tying, weaving and wrapping. Her thoughts remained obsessively on the following day’s funeral and the importance of getting everything right.
The phone rang just as she was drying herself. It was downstairs, so she bundled herself into the towel and went to answer it, completely at a loss as to who the caller might be. It was ten o’clock – at least it wasn’t going to be someone selling double glazing.
‘P’simmon!’ Her mother’s voice was oddly strangled. ‘You’ve got to come. It’s your father.’
Ice swept through her entire system. Fear such as she had never known gripped her and rendered her beyond speech or movement.
‘Are you there? Say something.’ Angie paused. ‘He’s not dead or anything.’
Simmy took a delayed breath. ‘What, then?’ she managed.
‘He’s had a terrible threatening letter. About that business on Monday when he was with you. Telling him they’ll burn the house down if he gives evidence. He’s gone into some sort of trance. I can’t deal with him on my own. You’ve got to come.’
‘Trance?’ She chose this strange word to query, when actually it was the thought of the house being set alight that filled her mind. How could anybody defend against such an act? It would be so easy for a determined arsonist to carry out the threat. No wonder her father was so appalled. ‘Can’t he speak?’
‘Apparently not. He just sits in the kitchen staring at the Rayburn. Even the dog’s worried about him.’
‘How long? I mean – when did he first read the letter?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. After supper. He went a ghastly pale-green colour, first. I thought he was going to be sick. Then he just slumped in the chair and pushed the letter at me. It is awful. But it’s so unlike him to go to pieces like this. I really don’t know what to do.’
‘It’s not a stroke is it? Does his face look lopsided?’
‘No, no. At least, I don’t think so. Should I call a doctor, then? They’ll cart him off to hospital, and stick needles into him. He’d never get back to normal after that. Oh, God.’ The helpless panic was so out of character for her mother that Simmy actually felt the earth wobble under her feet. The whole world had become unstable, all due to a malicious letter.
‘I’ll come. Fifteen minutes. Don’t do anything until I get there.’
She threw on random clothes, and was in the car and flying down to Windermere in less than five minutes. She pulled up outside Beck View in another five. Then her mother took an impossibly long time to open the door when she rang the bell. Dimly, Simmy noted that an additional bolt had to be released, with Angie fumbling clumsily at it. The door had tinted glass panels, through which her mother’s figure could be seen. Which a criminal could smash and pour petrol through, just as he could through any of the ground floor windows, if sufficiently determined.
Her father did not look up when she went into the kitchen. Instead, Bertie yapped, in a clear display of distress. An open letter lay on the table near Russell’s clasped hands. Simmy patted the dog distractedly, associating him with the ill-omened experiences on the Bank Holiday, and wishing none of it had happened. She picked up the sheet of paper and read:
We know you told the cops about what you saw in Troutbeck and you’re in big trouble, mate. You and that daughter of yours in the pretty cottage. If you let them use you in a legal case, we’ll come and burn your house down, with your wife and your dog in it.
‘That is quite nasty, Dad,’ she said, and laid a gentle hand on her father’s shoulder. ‘I can see why you’d be upset. How was it delivered? When?’
‘Must have been by hand,’ supplied Angie. ‘It was just sort of there, on the doormat, at about seven o’clock.’
Simmy addressed her father, leaning over him. ‘Dad? Come on. What’s got into you? It isn’t as bad as all that. It’s only a letter.’
‘That’s what I said,’ muttered Angie behind her.
Simmy squeezed the bony joint under her hand, thinking how terribly old her father looked. New lines had appeared around his mouth and his hair looked whiter than it had a few days before. ‘Come on,’ she repeated. ‘Say something.’
‘How …?’ he mumbled, and then made a huge visible effort. ‘How can people be so evil?’
‘Oh, Dad.’ She had no idea what to say. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. The tears running down her face were mostly from a release of tension, as she understood that he was not in a coma or close to death.
‘It’s only a letter,’ repeated Angie loudly, embarrassed by the crying, as always. ‘Just words on paper. It’s ridiculous to behave as if you’ve been shot or bashed with a crowbar. It’s bravado, that’s all. And extremely stupid, because it makes it much more likely they’ll be caught.’ She took two or three strides across the room, firing angry words as she went.
Simmy mopped her face on a handy tea towel and tried to think. Only then did the police come to mind. ‘Mum’s right,’ she said. ‘Don’t touch the letter again. There might be fingerprints on it. Call Moxon and tell him about it.’
‘Now?’ Angie said. ‘Surely not? It’ll wait until morning. They won’t start checking for fingerprints at eleven o’clock at night.’
‘I could deny I heard anything,’ said Russell in a small breathy voice. ‘Like they want.’
Simmy and her mother simultaneously protested. ‘No, you can’t let them intimidate you like that,’ said Angie. ‘You know you can’t.’
‘It’s too late, anyway,’ said Simmy.
‘These people are idiots. Complete fools.’ Angie was letting panic mutate into outrage, which Simmy found reassuring.
‘Hang on – how do they know about you overhearing them on Monday, anyway?’ Simmy said. ‘That’s very peculiar, when you think about it.’
‘A spy in the police ranks,’ said Angie melodramatically. ‘Which gives them – the police – yet another way to catch the killers. They’ll be able to check who knew about it, and who they might have told.’
Simmy gave her a confused look. ‘I’m not sure I follow that. Most likely, it’s just that some careless detective constable made it obvious when asking routine questions. Although …’ She tried hard to think clearly. ‘That really only works if it was the beardy man being questioned. He knows we both saw him. He knows I live in a cottage in Troutbeck, and I suppose it wouldn’t be difficult to find out who my father is. Anybody else would need more to go on.’
‘What exactly did you see, anyway?’ demanded Angie. ‘It didn’t sound like much to me.’
‘It wasn’t much. Nothing that could lead to anyone being charged with murder, that’s for sure. This is just blind panic, which is going to make the police’s job a lot easier.’
‘I want protection,’ said Russell. ‘It must be a whole gang of them. They won’t rest till they get me.’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ snapped Angie. ‘This isn’t The Sopranos, you idiot. What’s the matter with you?’
‘Easy, Mum,’ said Simmy. ‘It’s just the shock of it, that’s all.’ Even as she spoke, she knew it was more than that. Her father had changed, overnight, into a frightened, intimidated citizen. And she was far from sure that her own explanation for who had sent the letter and why was the truth of it. There was the unidentified car passenger to be reckoned with. The letter referred to what you saw, and his face could well be the crucial detail meant by this.
And who might have read Russell’s witness statement since he made it on Tuesday? Or simply heard the salient points of it? That was what Angie had been trying to say, she realised. How many people knew enough to realise that Russell could be a threat? Taken to the extreme, it would include Ben and Melanie, and probably their families. Ben’s brother had a friend – Scott – who worked in the mortuary. He picked up a lot of stuff that was supposed to be confidential. But, she argued with herself, not details of witness statements, surely? Only
the actual police would know about that.
But Simmy herself knew the whole story, and she had talked freely in front of not just Ben and Melanie, but little Bonnie Lawson too.
Her blood turned cold again. Had she somehow caused this drastic trauma to her father? ‘I hope it isn’t my fault,’ she said faintly. ‘I have been a bit of a blabbermouth.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Russell, equally faintly. ‘Stop talking. Please. Go home, Sim, so I can lock the doors properly.’
He had been nervous already, she remembered. He had taken to checking locks and bolts before any of this had happened. Presumably by accident, the writer of the letter had tapped into a pre-existing fear and made it unbearably much worse. It was cruelty, nothing less. In a stupid effort to arrest a process that was beyond that possibility, they had brought real suffering to a decent and innocent man. Old man, whispered a voice. Never before had she thought of him in such a way. It was enraging that some strange criminal should have forced her to think it now.
She looked at her mother, and saw a mirroring wrath in her eyes. ‘We have to do whatever we can to catch these people,’ she said. ‘They’re foul monsters, hurting ordinary people.’
‘Scum,’ nodded Angie.
‘No,’ muttered Russell. ‘They’re just rats in a corner.’
‘You said they were evil just now,’ Angie reminded him.
‘And it might just be one person,’ Simmy realised. ‘I’ll get Ben to work on it tomorrow. Once I’ve delivered the funeral flowers,’ she added, with a sense of obligations multiplying.
‘Oh, God – the funeral!’ said Angie. ‘I don’t suppose I can go now. What with all this.’
‘You must,’ urged Simmy. ‘Dad can go with you.’
Russell shook his head. ‘I don’t want to. She meant very little to me.’
Simmy sensed an ongoing disagreement on this subject, and speculated briefly that this might be a relatively safe, even therapeutic, topic to switch to. ‘Everyone seems to have liked her,’ she offered.
‘It’s a community thing,’ said Angie. ‘That’s why I’m going. One of the most energetic, right-minded, hands-on people the town has seen for ages has died. The least we can all do is give her a good send-off.’