The Coniston Case (3 page)

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 Show 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Ben had withdrawn his head and she could hear him and Melanie chatting together in the shop.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.

‘Who was that?’ Simmy asked.

‘Someone in a rush, with a new order,’ Melanie told her. ‘Never gave us a chance to say whether we could do it or not. You probably won’t like it,’ she warned.

‘Why not?’

Melanie cocked her head teasingly, saying nothing. She simply passed the sheet of paper to her boss.

‘Good grief!’ Simmy exclaimed, when she read it. ‘Yet another trip to Coniston, or very nearly. What’s going on?’

‘What?’ Ben charged forward, almost elbowing her aside. ‘Let me see.’

Simmy stood her ground and pushed him back. ‘Get away,’ she ordered. She peered again at the paper. ‘It’s supposed to go tomorrow. Don’t they know how busy I’m going to be?’

‘Are you saying you’d have refused the job if you’d had a chance to speak to the person who brought this?’

‘Of course not. At least, not in normal times. This isn’t a normal week, though, is it.’ She read further down the page. ‘Irises and anything in light colours. Hmm. Addressee – Mrs Maggie Aston, Goodacre Farm near Coniston. “With my deepest apologies.” Something to the value of thirty
pounds. Paid in cash.’ She looked at Ben, who had made a small sound. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Looks a bit like the one to the Hayter man,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘You both saw this person. Was it a man or a woman?’

‘Didn’t see, sorry. I wasn’t taking much notice,’ Ben admitted. ‘I was trying to fix the bits that have fallen off the tower.’ Two or three months earlier, Ben and Simmy had designed and constructed a model of a local landmark, which had formed a permanent centrepiece in the shop window display ever since. It was made from natural materials, such as dried seedpods and sticks, which were turning brittle and dusty with the passage of time.

‘Mel?’

‘A woman, I think. It was all so quick. Whoever it was just pushed the door open and chucked the letter in. They were gone again in about four seconds.’

‘I must admit I’m starting to think this is all a bit funny – don’t you? Another cash order for someone out towards Coniston way?’

‘You know what I think. I bet it’s always like this at Valentine’s. Neither of us really knew what to expect, did we? We’ve never done it before.’

‘That’s true. I’ll have to do it, I suppose, even if it feels rather weird. I can combine it with the Hawkshead one. Should I go round the lake to the north or the south?’

‘North,’ Melanie told her. ‘The road from here to Ambleside is quicker, then you just pop down through Barngates. It’s only three or four miles.’

‘It’s going to be about twenty miles altogether, then.’ Simmy sighed. ‘More, probably.’

‘Do it after we’ve closed. Then you can go straight home, and it won’t be so much driving.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Simmy gratefully. Melanie really did have a talent for logistics. Then she had another thought. ‘No, I can’t do that. It’ll be dark. I’m not hunting for a strange farm in the middle of nowhere at night. I’ll go at lunchtime.’

‘Hey, hey!’ Ben protested. ‘First things first. We’ve got to tell old Moxo about this before anything else. Never mind how or when you get there – this is obviously the next victim of a serial killer. If I rush, I might even catch him out in the street. We need to act fast.’

Simmy’s jaw clenched. ‘You’re much too late for that. And don’t say such stupid things. It’s not funny.’

For the second time in half an hour, Ben flushed red. ‘Don’t call me stupid,’ he said. ‘Whatever I am, it isn’t that.’

‘Sorry. But you are being silly, all the same.’

‘I am not. Think about it for a minute. Okay – the serial killer part was over the top, but you do have to report this. The person sending these flowers can’t know there’s been police interest in the Hayter man, can he? Or she. It could just as easily be a woman.’

‘It’s not all the same person, Ben. That’s really ridiculous. They came in different ways. Posted and hand delivered. There’s nothing going on. Just a massive amount of work that I need to crack on with.’

‘Well … um … that’s okay, except for the Hayter man. Let’s just unpick everything we know about him. First – there’s no proven connection between him going missing and you taking him the flowers, but it’s obviously possible that there is one. He wasn’t expecting to get flowers and he
didn’t treat them nicely. And then he disappeared, probably right after getting them. His daughter missed him, and told the police something important enough to arouse Moxo’s interest. You took the flowers on Monday, and the dinner party was last night – Tuesday. So he vanished either Monday or Tuesday.’ His voice was rising. ‘Come on, Simmy – something’s happening here. You must see that.’

Simmy experienced a familiar floundering in the face of Ben’s youthful logic and energy. His assumptions could equally well be right or utterly wrong. But there was some sort of coincidence at work, involving anonymous orders for flowers, and that meant she had no alternative but to give the matter some attention. ‘I can’t
bear
another murder investigation,’ she burst out. ‘I
so
wish these damned orders had gone to a different florist.’

‘Well, they didn’t. And you needn’t worry. Moxon knows how you feel about it. He’ll probably get some female detective to deliver this order for Maggie Aston, so they can see for themselves what’s going on.’

Melanie whistled. ‘That’d be clever. Go on, Simmy, call him and say you’ve had another cash order with no name. You’ve got his number, haven’t you? Didn’t he give you a card just now?’

‘No, but I’ve got the one he left here months ago.’ A small wooden box with a fancy inlaid lid, occupying a corner of the table that served as the shop counter, was used for business cards. Simmy turned it upside down onto her palm and inspected the dozen or so cards. ‘Yes, here it is.’

‘Efficient,’ Ben approved.

Using the shop telephone, Simmy called the mobile
number that Moxon had told her to use. ‘He’ll be in the car,’ she said to her listening friends. ‘It’s not long since he left here.’

‘It’s forty minutes,’ Ben corrected. ‘He could have walked to the cop shop and back four times by now. He walks as much as he drives.’

‘How on earth do you know that?’ Melanie demanded. Simmy flapped at them, as the call was finally answered.

‘I probably ought to tell you there’s been another order that might be connected to the flowers for Mr Hayter. Somebody just dropped in a letter and scooted off before we could even see if it was a man or a woman. Melanie thinks probably a woman. Oh, and I forgot to tell you there was an order in today’s post, for a woman in Hawkshead and that’s anonymous as well.’ She blurted it all out quickly, hoping to dump the whole matter into his lap.

‘Oh?’ Moxon sounded cautiously excited. ‘Who’s the new one for?’

‘A Mrs Aston on a farm near Coniston.’

‘Address?’

Simmy read it from the note. ‘A mixed bouquet of spring flowers. Same as the one for Mr Hayter.’

‘What message?’

‘“With my deepest apologies.” Not the same as before. That was “Wishing you well in your new job.” And the Hawkshead one is about a new home.’

Moxon made a wordless sniff.

‘Should I just carry on as normal, then? They’re both meant to be delivered sometime tomorrow. I thought I’d go about midday.’

‘Why wouldn’t you?’

‘Well – Ben thought …’ It sounded ridiculous now, as she began to say it. Nobody but Ben had read anything particularly sinister into the fact of a new anonymous order.

‘Miss Brown – I’m grateful to you for this information. But there’s no need at all for you to alter your usual practices.’

‘Yes, but …’ She realised she was actually nervous about delivering the order as requested, even if she did it in daylight. She had brushed too close to premeditated violence already – with the physical injuries to show for it – to blithely put herself in harm’s way again. ‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ she finished in a rush.

The faint clicking sound he made was impossible to interpret. Did he think her a fool, or was he reproaching himself for his own lack of understanding? ‘I’ll have a word with young Ben Harkness next time I see him,’ he said. ‘Let me assure you, there’s no need whatsoever for you to worry. I have no doubt this is all perfectly innocent – and perfectly irrelevant to the case.’

‘Yes, but …’ Simmy repeated. ‘You don’t actually
know
that, do you?’

‘When are you meant to take the flowers?’

‘Any time tomorrow. I told you.’

‘Okay. That gives us plenty of time to be sure, then, doesn’t it? If there is the slightest reason for you to be worried, I’ll let you know by first thing in the morning. Is that okay?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re scared,’ Ben accused her, when she’d finished. ‘And Moxo told you there was no need to be. Right?’

‘Exactly. And he blames you. He says it’s all perfectly innocent.’

‘But something is going on,’ the boy insisted. ‘That’s obvious.’

‘It is, you know, Simmy,’ said Melanie, marginally more gently. ‘And how does he know it’s innocent?’

Simmy felt weak. ‘Well, just leave it for now. We ought to be working, not gossiping like this. Ben, you’ll have to go. You’re too distracting.’

‘Unless you want to order Valentine flowers for someone,’ said Melanie mischievously.

‘Huh!’ snorted the boy. ‘No girl of mine would want anything so obvious.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Simmy. ‘That’s my livelihood you’re belittling.’

‘Luckily for you, most people are obvious, then.’ As was generally the case, Ben Harkness got the last word.

Russell Straw was cleaning shoes; his own, those of his wife and a pair belonging to a B&B guest who had stepped into a mud puddle the day before and soiled his brogues. Simmy found him in the kitchen, with a sheet of newspaper spread over the central table. ‘You’ll catch it,’ she said. ‘That has to be against any number of regulations. What if somebody trod in dog poo with those shoes?’

‘It’ll stay on the paper, which I’ll screw up and throw away.’

‘That’s all right, then.’

Her father waved a round tin in her face. ‘Have you seen what’s happened to shoe polish?’ he demanded. ‘I bought this last week, without looking at it closely. They’re not giving you that little catch to get the lid off, as they used to. Remember those catches? Brilliant idea. Why in the world would they scrap them?’

Simmy looked at him with utter blankness. ‘I’ve never
bought shoe polish,’ she confessed. ‘I mostly just wear trainers.’

‘Scandalous,’ said Russell. She wasn’t sure whether he meant her sloppy lifestyle or the defective tin.

‘Do you offer shoe cleaning as part of the service, then? That seems rather beyond the usual call of duty.’

‘Not as a rule, no. This is a special favour, because he’s a nice old buffer.’

‘Sshh. He’ll hear you. Wasn’t that him in the family room just now?’

‘Doubtful. That’ll be the Spencers. They’ve embarked on a full-scale game of Monopoly that’s sure to last till bedtime. And nobody can hear us in here anyway. I’ve told you that before.’

‘And I don’t believe you. You don’t realise how much your voice carries when you’re excited. You should have been in the theatre.’

‘To what do we owe this pleasure, may I ask? You’re not normally here on a Wednesday.’

‘Exhaustion. I need tea and cake before I can face the final mile. And to tell you I don’t think I’ll be seeing you at the weekend. I’m going to sleep late on Sunday, and then just slob about. I might not even get dressed.’

‘Scandalous,’ he said again with a tolerant smile.

‘What is?’ asked Angie, in the doorway. ‘What’s so resoundingly scandalous that I can hear you all along the corridor?’

Simmy caught his eye and mimed
Told you so
. Russell made a rueful face. ‘Our daughter is deliberately planning the most outrageously idle day on Sunday, to the extent of not paying us her usual visit.’

‘Valentine’s,’ said Angie knowingly. ‘I bet it’s a dreadful rush.’

‘You could say that. I never want to see another red rose.’

‘It’s a nice problem to have,’ shrugged her mother. ‘We’re the same – fully booked all over the Easter holidays. If the weather’s bad, we might easily go insane. At least we’re only half full this weekend.’

‘Ben Harkness doesn’t believe in man-made climate change,’ Simmy said to her father, only then realising she had carried this niggling discovery with her all day.

‘And I don’t believe in the Easter bunny,’ he flashed back. ‘Is it a matter of faith, then? Is global warming some kind of religion?’

Simmy paused. ‘Sort of, yes,’ she concluded.

‘It has always been a grave mistake to put too much trust in science. I think I might have mentioned that to you once or twice, in the past?’

‘You have. But isn’t this one of those times when they’re obviously right?’

‘Quite probably, and yet I find the rage engendered by simplistic reporting and illogical conclusions can be harmful to one’s health, and thus best avoided. I feel intensely concerned for the hearts of those anti-wind farm people.’

‘Not to mention their sanity, poor things,’ said Angie. ‘Living near a turbine drives you mad, apparently. But most people I know still say they like the elegance and majesty of them. I think they look like invaders from outer space. But I decided to devote my energies to more immediate matters, some time ago. If your Ben’s right, all the turbines will be
taken down again in a few years’ time anyway. I can’t get myself too aerated about it.’

Russell tutted softly at her use of a word he had proved to her beyond dispute did not exist. ‘You know what I mean,’ she insisted. ‘And nothing else quite says it.’

Simmy sighed, aware of a slight sense of shame at failing even to consider the matter of climate change up to then. ‘DI Moxon came in today,’ she told them. ‘One of my customers has gone missing.’ And she gave them the bones of the story in a couple of sentences.

Angie groaned. ‘He ought to know better than to bother you again, so soon after the last time. Couldn’t he have followed some other clue than a bunch of flowers?’

‘That boy Ben was there, you say?’ Russell had met Ben a few times, and had yet to pronounce judgement on him. Simmy had the impression that her father wanted to disapprove of the youngster but could find no real grounds for doing so.

‘He was, as it happens. He got very excited.’

‘It’s not natural. Boys his age don’t do excitement.’

Simmy laughed. ‘He’s not like other boys.’

‘I had a call from a man today, wanting to know whether we did special Valentine weekends,’ said Angie.

‘What did you tell him?’

‘I told him we were a B&B, not some pretentious boutique hotel. I wasn’t very polite.’

‘I don’t expect you were. At least I signed up for romance when I went into floristry. I keep telling myself it’s a lot better than Mother’s Day is going to be.’

‘It’s a job, pet,’ said Russell gently. Since Simmy had failed so disastrously at motherhood, the subject of Mother’s Day
was a sensitive one. The cards and flowers her stillborn daughter might one day have sent her were impossible to ignore, as were all the other might-have-beens that still crept up on them every little while.

‘I know. It’s all right, Dad. I just wish …’

‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘But Valentine’s is upon us and you’ll be too busy to brood over the business in Coniston, rushing round delivering all the red roses. Lucky it’s not set to freeze tonight. The roads should be easy enough.’

Weather (as opposed to climate) was an abiding obsession with Russell. He collected old country maxims with which to predict what would come next, and would often read out historical accounts of what the weather had done in the past, especially in the Lake District. One of his favourite stories came from Dorothy Wordsworth’s account of two farmers perishing in a snowdrift and remaining undiscovered for weeks. Apart from the briefly sunny interlude two days earlier, it had been a wintry week, with a northerly wind blowing, bringing frequent vicious showers for good measure. Not a hint of a daffodil could yet be seen and the crocuses looked battered and pinched. Drifts of snowdrops had begun to appear here and there, but even they were hesitant in the teeth of such a bitter wind. The wooded slopes running alongside the lake were uniformly grey and lifeless, except for the odd clump of dark-green conifers on the lower levels.

‘Tomorrow’s going to be a nightmare,’ Simmy said, feeling melodramatic. ‘If I didn’t have Melanie, I’d be desperate. It’s a disaster that she’s leaving in another three months or so. I’ll never find anyone half as good.’

‘It took you a while to appreciate her,’ observed Russell.

‘To my shame.’

She ate a modest evening meal with her parents and left for Troutbeck and home soon after eight. The night was deeply dark, traffic very sparse. The road up to her village was steep and winding, as were nearly all the roads in the area. But her white-painted cottage welcomed her, the heating already on and the scent from two large bowls of hyacinths wafting generously throughout the ground floor.

Automatically she picked up the phone to check for the broken signal that indicated a message. Messages from real people were rare, but not unknown. She kept her mobile off much of the time, disliking the distraction it created. The house phone was for friends and family and carried a benign aura accordingly.

There was a message, which when accessed turned out to be a very pleasant surprise. ‘Simmy? It’s Kathy – you know, from Worcester. Listen – I’m coming up to the Lakes this weekend – well, tomorrow, actually, and I wondered whether we could meet up. I’d love to see your shop and everything. I really don’t want to lose touch, and it’s already a year since I saw you. Thanks for the Christmas card, by the way. So call me back, okay. Any time up to midnight is fine.’ And she recited her number.

Simmy remembered the number. Kathy had been her friend for years. The fact that she’d added ‘from Worcester’ was strangely sad, as if she feared Simmy might have made new friends with the same name and forgotten her. Over the past ten years they had been constant companions, with or without their menfolk. Leaving Kathy to move to Cumbria had been a wrench. Neglecting to invite Kathy to come and stay had been an omission she could hardly
explain to herself, other than a need to sever all links with the painful events leading up to her separation from Tony.

She phoned back quickly, the sound of Kathy’s voice proving to be a treat out of all proportion. ‘I have missed you,’ she realised. ‘It’ll be marvellous to see you again.’ Then it hit her. ‘But I am insanely busy this week. We’re overflowing with orders.’

‘Not in the evening, surely? I thought we could go somewhere for a meal tomorrow night.’

‘Yes, we could,’ Simmy decided. ‘Of course.’

‘I could even come and help you in the afternoon,’ her friend offered. ‘I don’t have to be anywhere.’

‘So why are you coming? Will you be on your own? What about Simon?’

‘All will be explained. I need to do something on Friday and Saturday, so I thought I’d add an extra day at the beginning, to spend with you. Sorry it’s such idiotically short notice. I only decided today.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘That’s another thing. Do you think your parents might have a room for me? Are they still running the B&B?’

‘They are, but why stay with them when I’ve got a perfectly good spare room? You’re welcome to it for the whole weekend, if you like.’

‘Oh – thanks. I wasn’t sure you’d have the space. And I didn’t know … well, whether I’d be in the way.’

‘Don’t worry, there’s no new man in the picture, if that’s what you mean. Are you completely occupied for all of Saturday, or can we snatch some time together?’

‘I’m not sure at the moment. It’s a family thing. All a bit delicate. I promise I will explain when I see you.’

‘What time will you arrive?’

‘I’m leaving at first light, so should be there by lunchtime. I’ll come to the shop first, shall I? Are you easy to find?’

Simmy gave brief directions, and tried not to think about the interruption her friend’s arrival would create on the busiest day for many months. ‘You might not get much sense out of me until the end of the day,’ she warned. ‘I’ll be knee-deep in red roses.’

Only after the conversation ended did she remember she was supposed to go to Hawkshead and Coniston at lunchtime next day. Better, then, to do those deliveries earlier. Get into the shop by eight, make up the bouquets and take them to Mrs Crabtree and Maggie Aston right away. Melanie was primed to arrive promptly at nine. Everything would work out fine, she assured herself.

The day was grey and drizzly, and nobody was about when she set out at half past eight, taking a route that Melanie had
suggested months ago. It avoided the centre of Windermere and Simmy liked to think she would have eventually worked it out for herself. It was, she realised, a sort of rehearsal for the much more demanding set of deliveries the following day, winding her way through the small lanes and finding obscure addresses. Except that Melanie had ordained that she go southwards for the Valentine flowers, and here she was today heading north.

Passing Rayrigg Woods, which rose steeply on her right, she was quickly on the road to Ambleside. The lake to her left was calm and very low cloud banded the fells beyond. A monochrome world, with the bare trees and shrouded hills, as if all thought of blue or yellow or red had been firmly forbidden for at least another month.

Out past Ambleside, and through Rydal, she turned left for Hawkshead. Here it was impossible to hurry. The road was wet, with persistent lumps of dirty snow in places, heaped up on narrow verges. It curved and dived, forcing her to concentrate on every yard. Great trees, with their heads in the mist, watched her from behind stone walls. Sheep flickered like ghosts and she knew there was every chance of one appearing in the road, inviting her to run into it. A white-faced Herdwick stood like a sentry on top of a wall, staring up at the fells, ignoring Simmy as if she were the ghost. Herdwicks had caught her imagination over the winter, with their coloured fleece worn like a coat, the pale head creating the illusion that under the grey or brown body wool was a normal white sheep.

She was in Hawkshead at five to nine, the house she sought easily located on the right, before the town itself.
A newish array of white-painted houses with grey stone porches, all alike, was scattered on a gentle slope. Still no colour, and still no people.

Holding the bouquet against her left shoulder, as she always did, she rang the doorbell. How many times had she done this in the past ten months? It was almost always a happy moment, but there had been exceptions. Mr Hayter in Coniston had been one of them. He had not expected or wanted flowers. He had almost shut the door in her face, before snatching the bouquet and bidding her goodbye. Charitably she had assumed he was busy, or embarrassed or overcome with emotion. Now that someone had reported him missing the whole episode gained an aura of darkness and mystery which coloured her expectations of this new delivery, four days later.