The Troutbeck Testimony (7 page)

Valerie was a large woman, her bones well covered. In her late forties, Simmy guessed, with a life ahead of her that currently felt like an empty abyss. Nothing she had heard suggested a demanding career or fulfilling social life. It seemed that Valerie had existed solely as sidekick or foil for the renowned Barbara Hodge.

‘Would you believe people are already asking me what I’m going to do?’ she burst out. ‘Before we’ve even had the funeral.’

Simmy pulled a sympathetic face, while thinking the question not so very outrageous. The death had been foreseen for months, and surely it was reasonable to assume that Valerie might have a few ideas about what came next. At the same time, she could imagine that any
sense of being hurried into a decision would be annoying.

‘I’ve got a brother in Lincoln and an old friend in Shrewsbury. They both say I can stay with them for a while. Isn’t it strange the way people assume you want to get away? All I really want is to sit in a darkened room and think about Barb. All the people I know best are here. Why would I want to go somewhere else?’

Simmy understood that she was not expected to reply. It was a familiar situation, in which her very anonymity and lack of emotional connection made her a useful confidante.

‘And you’ve got the dog,’ came a modest little voice from further down the shop.

Valerie whirled around, and replied in a flash. ‘Yes, I’ve got Barbara’s dog, who is pining for her at least as much as I am. He’s out in the car now, whimpering and whining I suppose. He’s just making everything worse, poor old boy.’ She paused, focusing on the girl. ‘I know you, don’t I? You weren’t here last week when I came in.’

‘I’m Bonnie Lawson. I live with Corinne. She knows you. She knew Miss Hodge. I’m very sorry she died.’

‘Oh,
Corinne
,’ said Valerie, her voice full of meaning. ‘Yes, I know Corinne. Who doesn’t?’

‘Plenty of people, actually,’ muttered Bonnie, turning away before Simmy could give her a warning look.

Having received assurances that the porcelain flower would be included in the intricate cushion that was Valerie’s tribute, the woman left without saying anything more. As she went, a phone warbled inside her bag, and she stood out on the pavement for a moment with it to her ear. Simmy saw her glance back into the shop, as if something in the conversation applied to her.

‘Poor woman,’ she sighed. ‘It must be awful.’

‘She’s a funny one. Came from nowhere ten years ago and moved in with Miss Hodge, just like that.’

‘Maybe they just kept the details private. Are you saying there was some sort of mystery about it?’

‘Sort of. Corinne thinks she’s foreign.’

‘Her English seemed pretty normal to me.’

‘It’s not, though. She’s always so careful to get it right. That’s what Corinne says, anyway. I’ve only seen her a couple of times. I’m surprised she recognised me.’

‘Oh, well. Back to work,’ said Simmy. ‘Have you got something to do?’

‘I’ll tidy up the window display, shall I? Put a few pots and dried flowers in it?’

‘Fine,’ Simmy agreed. ‘Good idea.’

Three o’clock came and went, bringing thoughts of a tea break. ‘Time for a drink,’ she announced. ‘And I’ve got some nice choccy biscuits that Melanie brought in. She always makes sure there’s a good supply.’

‘Will that be part of my job, then?’ Bonnie’s already pale skin seemed to grow even lighter at the prospect. ‘I don’t really eat biscuits.’

‘No, no. It won’t hurt me to do without. But you’ll have to explain to me where things stand with you and food. We can arrange a proper lunch routine if you like. My mother always insists that’s the right way to do it. We both need to keep our strength up.’

‘I’ve always got a muesli bar or something in my bag. I don’t really do regular meals. It’s been like that all my life, and I can’t imagine it changing now. You don’t have
to worry that talking about food might upset me, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m past all that now. I suppose you’re wondering what Ben meant about me being famous at school.’ She pressed on without waiting for a reply. ‘I collapsed in the playground, over a year ago, and they had to rush me to hospital. That was when people finally grasped what was happening. They made quite a fuss about it, and called in some anorexia awareness people to speak to the whole school. When I got out of hospital, it was still going on. It’s all rather stupid, really. I often wish I’d got hooked on heroin or something instead. That would have been more glamorous.’

Simmy forced a quick laugh. ‘Would it, though? I was under the impression that heroin’s a bit unfashionable these days.’

‘Cocaine, then. Or crystal meth. That always sounds quite tempting, don’t you think?’

‘It all scares me,’ Simmy admitted.

‘Right. But the point is, they amount to the same thing in the end. Losing control. Depending on some sort of high to get through the day. Starving yourself gives you a huge buzz, you know. People don’t seem to understand that. They were good at explaining it, when I was in the unit. It was a relief to feel there were others around who knew what was going on. It’s not easy, though,’ she sighed. ‘They tell me it’s never going to be easy.’

She was speaking in light, detached sentences, with pauses between them, her gaze fixed on a shelf of Ninian’s smaller pots to one side of the shop. Simmy’s instincts wavered between wanting to give the girl a long tight hug, and wishing she could dodge the likely pain and
complications that hung around Bonnie like a mist.

‘So go and fetch that museli bar,’ she said. ‘And then hold the fort while I make the drinks and then tackle another wreath. How do you like your tea?’

‘I
like
it black with no sugar, but I’ve persuaded myself I ought to have some of both. I mean, milk and sugar.’ She gave Simmy a forlorn little glance. ‘I don’t deliberately mean to damage myself, you know. I’m doing all I can to stay alive.’

Simmy’s heart thumped. Of course, self-starvation did suggest a tendency towards suicide. If you didn’t eat or drink, you died. Simple as that. But the spark of life was strong in this girl, and she resolved to contribute anything she could to maintain and strengthen it.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’ll be three minutes.’

Bonnie drank the tea obediently.

A late order for another lot of flowers for the same woman in Staveley interrupted Simmy’s handiwork at four o’clock. The prospect of repeating the exact same procedure the next morning as she had that day was irritating. Cynthia Mossop’s birthday was evidently an occasion of some significance, whether it fell on the Wednesday or Thursday. Simmy wondered why the woman’s friends couldn’t agree between themselves and make simultaneous orders, involving only one visit. Apart from anything else, fuel costs reduced her profits. A combined trip would have been a lot more satisfactory.

She voiced most of these thoughts aloud to Bonnie, who listened carefully, and then said, ‘Why not make up the bouquet now and deliver them on your way home?’

‘Because it expressly says they’re for tomorrow.’

‘Does it matter so much? Can’t you say you won’t have time tomorrow?’

Simmy paused. She had always been scrupulous about delivering as close as possible to the requested day and time. ‘It won’t really save me anything,’ she concluded. ‘Staveley isn’t exactly on the way home. It’s a detour whenever I do it.’ And yet the prospect of getting the order out of the way, leaving Thursday clear for constructing the final big funeral tributes, was enticing. She thought ahead to the rest of the week. ‘Plus there’s a wedding on Saturday,’ she added. ‘I’ll have to spend most of Friday afternoon seeing to that.’

‘Busy,’ said Bonnie, admiringly. ‘I don’t know how you get it all done, especially when things come in at short notice, like this Staveley order. Does Melanie do deliveries for you sometimes? I should have told you I can’t drive.’

‘She only does the local Windermere ones, and Bowness at a push. She has to walk or use her own car because I haven’t insured her for the van. It didn’t seem worth it, when she was never going to be staying long. And her car’s such an embarrassment she has to leave it somewhere out of sight. It’d be bad for business if anybody connected it with me.’

Bonnie grinned. ‘I doubt if that would matter,’ she said. ‘People wouldn’t remember what sort of car the flowers came in.’

‘They might. Anyway, it’s worked out all right, most of the time.’ The long weeks in January when Simmy was banned from driving while her injured bones mended had been difficult. Everybody had piled in with help and somehow they had muddled through. Simmy’s own car was sometimes used for deliveries, but officially she had a roomy van with her company name painted prominently on the sides.

‘I might start taking some lessons later this year,’ said Bonnie vaguely.

‘Don’t worry about it.’ The girl seemed far too delicate and small to sit behind the wheel of a car. ‘Lessons are awfully expensive, anyway.’

‘Yeah.’ The accompanying shrug hinted that money was not the issue. A closer inspection of her clothes revealed good shoes, and a well-made jersey top that cleverly concealed just how small and skeletal the body beneath it was. Her fair hair was well cut, too. It had a natural curl that framed her face perfectly. Little Bonnie Lawson was like a creature from a fairytale, Simmy decided whimsically.

‘Whose wedding is it?’

‘Um … the woman’s called Jennings. It’s the second time for both of them. It’s in the registry office in Kendal, then down to Ulverston. They both actually live in Windermere. It’s a fairly small event, luckily. I used to think I liked wedding flowers, but now I’m not so sure. Brides can be outrageously fussy. The whole business is a bit yukky, most of the time.’

‘Too right.’ Bonnie spoke with such heartfelt agreement that Simmy was alerted to a story as yet untold. Noticing the interest, she added, ‘My family goes in for big weddings. I was a bridesmaid five times before I was twelve. I loathed it every time.’

‘Lord! That sounds dreadful. A different dress each time, obviously.’

Bonnie nodded and rolled her eyes. ‘Each one more ghastly than the last.’

Simmy revised her initial impression of the girl, yet again. Large family, not short of money, something murky
implied but not stated. Why, she wondered, did girls become anorexic? Surely it must be more than just social pressure to be thin? There were endless theories about it, half grasped from magazines and items on the radio, none of which she could have attempted to expound. A logic to do with control, as Bonnie had already told her. Too much or too little control, in a topsy-turvy pattern where one could be mistaken for the other. A strong implication of poor parenting, which might sometimes, at least, be utterly mistaken. Bonnie’s apparent wish to live alone with few facilities was alarming, even possibly ominous and probably to be resisted.

‘I’m going to make more tea,’ she said. ‘I’ll need it if I’m going to Staveley before I get home. I’ll do some for you, to make it worth boiling the kettle.’

Simmy realised she hadn’t yet decided when to take the Mossop woman her second lot of flowers. It was close to five, and she began to tidy up the area around the till and check that everything was ready for the next day. She emailed an order for more flowers, explaining the system to Bonnie as she went. Then she remembered she’d told her mother she’d call in after work.

‘I’ll have to do Staveley tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I’m seeing my parents this evening, and it might be too late by the time I leave there. I want to talk to my father without feeling I need to rush off.’

‘I expect you do,’ said Bonnie, so knowingly that Simmy was disconcerted. ‘It sounds as if there’s a lot to sort out with him.’

‘What do you think of Ben?’ Simmy changed the subject.

Bonnie adopted a cautious expression. ‘Clever at some
things, not at others,’ she summarised. ‘Ask me again when I’ve seen more of him.’

They parted at five-fifteen, each occupied by events of the day. Simmy had made up the second tribute for Cynthia Mossop and took it with her for delivery next morning.

‘Be careful up there in Troutbeck,’ said Bonnie, finally. ‘Seeing that there’s a murderer about. It’s lucky you haven’t got a dog that might get stolen.’

Beck View was busy with B&B guests arriving, and Simmy lurked in the kitchen until it quietened down. Her father would normally hide with her, but his presence was required when two couples turned up simultaneously. The routine spiel about places to eat, preferences for breakfast, the management of keys and introduction to the upstairs arrangements all took time. Simmy heard snatches of it and marvelled at the patience shown by both her parents at the inexorable repetitions. Angie’s character had always betrayed a distinct lack of patience, and yet she was smilingly dealing with an endless procession of people, many with unreasonable expectations. She saved her wrath for those who posted adverse comments on TripAdvisor, having told her to her face they were perfectly satisfied.

‘It’s impossible to please them all,’ she would complain to Simmy. ‘Some want it all as it was in 1950, and others expect it to be like a four-star hotel with homely trimmings. Surely they can see I’m doing my best?’

‘You do a great job,’ Simmy reassured her. ‘And most people love the place. Why else would they keep coming back?’

The truth was, as Angie herself had come to recognise,
that the era of the cheap and cheerful home-from-home establishment was over. It cost as much to stay in a bed and breakfast as it did in a hotel, with far fewer facilities. There was often no lounge to sit in during the evenings, and a host of obstructive rules and practices. Many refused single guests, or insisted on a minimum of two nights’ stay. Parking could be impossible and children were expected to be quiet and self-amusing. On the other hand, hotels were extending their scope to make the experience both friendlier and more flexible. ‘There’s one in Evesham,’ Simmy observed, ‘which has everything a B&B always had, plus huge rooms, a gorgeous garden and real milk with the morning tea. I remember people raving about it when I was in Worcester.’

Angie’s ears had pricked up. ‘Really? I bet they’re expensive.’

‘I don’t know, but I got the feeling it really wasn’t that much. Don’t worry about it, Mum. You’ve resisted the worst of the changes. Anybody coming here can really make themselves at home. That’s your unique selling point, and you shouldn’t listen to people who thought they were coming to some kind of boutique hotel.’

‘Yeah, well – I could never manage to keep everything as immaculate as some of those places, even if I tried.’

Russell was the first to escape from the latest batch of guests, and came huffing into the kitchen where Simmy was talking to Bertie. The dog was in his usual basket, in defiance of health and safety regulations, cocking an encouraging ear at her muttered commentary on the running of a B&B. ‘Nice people,’ said Russell.

‘That’s good.’

‘Are you eating with us?’

‘If that’s all right.’

‘Cottage pie in the oven.’

‘Lovely.’ She took a breath. ‘Dad? I don’t really get why you went to the police about those men you heard on Monday. It’s so out of character. Moxon came to see me about it last night.’

Russell came as close to looking furtive as his open face could manage. ‘I thought that might happen. Sorry if it annoyed you. I lay awake for hours on Monday night debating with myself. In the end, I couldn’t
not
do it, if you see what I mean.’

‘Well now there’s been a murder, so I suppose that justifies you.’ Her words were only the faintest approximation to her own thoughts and feelings. Rather, they reflected what she assumed was Russell’s view. ‘You’ll be able to provide supporting testimony or whatever they call it.’

‘Yes,’ said her father thickly. ‘I was badly thrown when I heard about that. It never crossed my mind that somebody could be killed.’

‘I don’t suppose it did. What have they told you about it?’

‘Nothing. I’ve got to go and talk to your friend again tomorrow. Apparently he’s tied up all day today interviewing friends and relations of the dead man.’

‘I saw a poster on a tree just up the road here – asking for help to find a lost dog. Apparently they’re all over the place, and I never noticed. Moxon seemed to think there was a connection between the dead man and dognapping. What do you think?’

‘I don’t think anything. But Moxon might want us to
go and show him where we saw the dead dog on Monday. It probably won’t still be there, of course, if we’re right about it being in that man’s bag. Or if it
is
still there …’ He shuddered and left the thought unfinished.

‘It’ll be very nasty. Birds and so forth.’ Simmy mirrored his shiver at the image that came to mind. ‘Do you think we could find it again, anyway?’

‘Oh, yes. It was on that straight part, where we crossed a little beck and saw those tadpoles in a pool. Just a little way before that. Surely you remember?’

‘Not as well as you,’ she admitted. ‘I was too taken up with the view.’

‘Your mother thinks I’m losing my wits.’

‘She might have a point.’

‘Just because I check that we’re properly locked up at bedtime, she’s diagnosed some sort of syndrome. Pre-Alzheimer’s, I imagine. She doesn’t acknowledge that
she’s
the one out of step with the world. Everybody but her thinks it’s entirely reasonable to give some thought to security.’

‘I suppose it’s the sudden change of character that’s disturbed her. You didn’t used to worry about that sort of thing.’

‘A year ago, I had no
need
to worry. Then you turn up, and suddenly we’ve got dead bodies all over the place, and hospitals and policemen and I don’t know what.’

‘So it’s my fault.’ A low-level irritation was rapidly turning into full-scale anger.

‘In a way – yes it is.’ Simmy was reminded that none of the usual knee-jerk ploys ever worked when arguing with her father. He was too well focused and too honest. Self-pity,
avoidance, accusations all rolled off him as he stuck to his main point.

As usual, she was disarmed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said more quietly. ‘I know it’s been traumatic for you at times. But we’ve always recovered and carried on as before. It’s a shock to me to find how closely I’ve come to violence, simply by delivering flowers, but there it is. It’s all
about
the flowers, really. They’re an integral part of the big moments in people’s lives. Moments of change and crisis. I can’t do anything about that, apart from abandoning the whole business.’

‘I know,’ said Russell.

Angie joined them five minutes later, flopping down into a kitchen chair. ‘You got the easy end of that,’ she accused her husband. ‘Mine are absolute pigs. I’m going to put rat poison in their scrambled eggs tomorrow.’

It was not a new threat, and it appeared to serve its purpose of making Angie feel better. Politeness was one thing – which she managed quite well – but subservience to demanding and arrogant guests was quite another.

‘What did they do?’ asked Russell recklessly.

A torrent of grievances followed. The couple had wanted blankets rather than a duvet, Sky channels on the TV, skimmed milk in their tea, two chairs in the room and a whole lot more. ‘They don’t know they’re born,’ she raged. ‘Haven’t they seen the measly facilities most places up here provide? I know plenty who don’t give you even
one
chair in their tiny little rooms. Not to mention a whole room downstairs to do as they like, all day long.’

Simmy waited it out with dwindling patience. It was true that Beck View gave much better value than most local
establishments. Angie was flexible and accommodating to a fault. She permitted smoking in two of her rooms, and was happy for people to bring their dogs. On balance these concessions attracted more guests than they repelled, but those unwary enough to enter the premises expecting neither cigarette nor dog would sometimes raise loud complaints.

‘I gather I’m invited to supper,’ she interrupted. ‘That would be nice. I was talking to Dad about his report to the police, actually. I am getting it slightly more clear, but it still seems an odd thing to do.’

‘Well, it’s done now,’ said Angie briskly. ‘No sense in going on about it. I expect you’ll be careful up there until the person who killed that man’s caught. I for one am not going to worry about you. Your father doesn’t think you’re the next victim, or anything like that, but it’s not exactly a comfortable situation, is it?’