The Windermere Witness (10 page)

It was a further twenty minutes before Moxon himself put in an appearance. Simmy and Ben had been taken into the hotel and asked to wait. Somebody brought them cups of coffee. Ben phoned his mother and tried to make light of the experience of seeing a man killed in a quiet Sunday street. Simmy refrained from calling her own mother, who would not be missing her. Plenty of time for that, she thought ruefully.

‘They’ll be taking him away, then,’ said Ben. ‘Can’t leave a body out there, can they?’

‘Bad for business,’ she smiled. ‘But I have a feeling there’s a whole lot of stuff to do before they can move him. Don’t you watch police dramas on telly?’

He shook his head and then shrugged. ‘I like
Bones
. But it’s not on any more. Never bothered with any of the other stuff. Don’t watch the box much, anyway.’

‘Nor me. Never heard of
Bones
, to be honest.’

‘American. Gory stuff. Maggots. The girl in it is a sort of geek, but pretty.’ He smiled absently. ‘They call her Bones.’

‘What sort of gun do you think it was?’

‘No idea. I’ve never even seen a gun.’

‘Nor me. They shoot animals around here, though, I imagine. Foxes and things. Pheasants.’

‘Squirrels. Rabbits.’

She winced. ‘Poor little things. But those are just shotguns, aren’t they? Would they kill a person?’

His shoulders lifted. ‘Dunno.’

‘Does this feel as unreal to you as it does to me?’ she burst out. ‘It’s like a dream. There’s no proper sense to it.’

The door opened as she uttered these words, and Moxon rushed in like a furious headmaster, followed by a younger man. Ben threw a panicked look at Simmy. She was focused entirely on the DI’s features, which were shockingly changed from the day before. There were grey shadows under his eyes and grooves around his mouth. His hair looked greasy. His emotions seemed to be barely under control. She wondered briefly why she had ever thought she liked him.

He looked from one to the other and back again. ‘You two know each other?’ he barked.

They both shook their heads. ‘But we both heard and saw what happened,’ Simmy said hesitantly. ‘This is Ben. He’s seventeen.’ She thought of adding that it was his birthday, but something about the maleness in the room restrained her. The boy wouldn’t thank her, and the detective wouldn’t be interested.

‘I need to talk to you separately. Ms Brown – you were meeting Mr Baxter here for lunch – is that right?’

She nodded. ‘And Peter Harrison-West. But he doesn’t seem to be here.’

The detective gave his own forehead a light tap with a forefinger, as if physically inserting an idea or mental note. ‘All right. I’ll talk to you first. Ben …’ Moxon consulted a piece of paper in his hand ‘… Harkness. Seventeen? Leave us your address and we’ll come and talk to you at home. Okay? It won’t be a big deal, don’t worry.’ The man’s voice was softening as he addressed the boy. ‘Unless you saw the person with the firearm, and I’m guessing you’d have told somebody already if that was the case?’

‘What? I can go, then?’

‘That’s right. After you’ve given the policeman outside your address. He’s the one with the computer thingy. You can’t miss him.’

Ben got up to leave. ‘I didn’t see anybody with a gun,’ he said, with a hint of reproach. ‘I saw a man with a hole in his head.’

‘Happy Birthday, Ben,’ Simmy threw after him, in a vague effort to restore normality.

He looked back at her, with a grim smile. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘It’s his birthday?’ Moxon asked, when Ben had gone.

‘His mum’s doing a special roast. He phoned her to explain where he was. He’s a nice decent boy.’

Moxon’s brows lifted. ‘I never said he wasn’t.’

‘I never said you did.’

His face relaxed somewhat, reminding her that they already had a connection, that she had disclosed her personal tragedy to him, and felt safe in doing so. What she had initially taken as anger against her and Ben was
redefined as acute pressure brought about by two murders in as many days.

‘So – you’ve progressed from wedding florist to lunch companion since I last saw you,’ he said. ‘How did that happen?’

‘I was dragooned into minding the bride’s little sister, yesterday afternoon, and it sort of developed from there,’ she summarised.

‘Developed how?’

‘Well, I was asked to Eleanor Baxter’s house, so they could talk to me about Markie, but that never really got going, so Mr Baxter invited me to try again today, over lunch.’

‘Did you talk to him at all?’

‘Oh yes. For quite a while, actually. He thought his son was murdered by one of the wedding party. One of Peter’s cronies, he said. Then he talked about insurance.’ She frowned. ‘I can’t remember it properly now. It sounded like a sort of scam – insuring Markie twice over. At least … sort of gambling on him dying, it sounded like.’ She heard her own garbled words and stopped.

‘You expected Mr Harrison-West to be here today? Is that right?’

‘Yes. I didn’t quite understand why, though. I imagine Mr Baxter needed moral support or something. And his wife – sorry,
ex
-wife – is busy with Lucy.’

‘So why exactly do you think he wanted to see you again today?’

She sighed. ‘I’ve been thinking about that all morning. I can only guess that he wanted me to describe how Markie was when I talked to him. I can understand that,
can’t you? A final picture to carry with him. It makes me think again about the whole business of witnessing something. It’s quite a complicated thing, isn’t it? Quite profound.’

‘The Quakers use it to describe what they do when someone stands up to speak in a Meeting,’ he said. ‘It means something rather different from the police definition, though.’

‘Police witnesses are always unreliable, I guess.’

‘Sadly so, I’m afraid. The human memory is a frustrating thing. But we’ve got to give it our best go. Let’s get down to it. Did you see a man with a gun anywhere?’

‘No. I
did
see a man, but there wasn’t a gun – unless he had it in his pocket. I don’t think it could have been him.’

‘Could you tell where the shot came from?’

‘No idea at all. I never dreamt it
was
a shot, until he collapsed. Even then, it took me a while. I’m not going to be of any use to you,’ she concluded, with a sigh. ‘I’m a hopeless witness by any standards.’

‘I’m not so sure about that. You’ll have picked up a whole lot of background, for a start. More than we can hope to glean from interviews. Without making hard and fast assumptions, we have to start with the theory that the two murders are connected.’

‘At the very least,’ she agreed.

‘But you didn’t see anybody this morning who was also at the wedding?’

She patted the arm of her chair with an open palm, in a gesture designed to slow him down. ‘I should tell you that I was at Storrs again this morning, taking down some of the wedding decorations.’

‘Oh? And did you see anyone you knew?’

‘No. It’s not important, really, but I wanted to make it clear.’

‘All right,’ he nodded, looking faintly frustrated. ‘So – no gunman visible. No passers-by?’

‘Not at that moment, no.’ She shivered at the thought of a gunman hiding somewhere close by while she sat in her van brushing her hair. ‘There’s a big hedge across the road,’ she remembered. ‘Could he have been behind it?’

He sighed. ‘It’s possible. He might even have been in the hotel, leaning out of a window. I don’t suppose you saw Mr Baxter bending down to tie a shoelace, or anything of that sort?’

‘Sorry. He was just standing there, looking round a bit. We hadn’t agreed a precise meeting place – inside or out, I mean. I got out of the van as soon as I saw him, and that’s when it happened. I thought the noise was something to do with my vehicle, to begin with.’

‘So it must have been very close?’

‘I don’t know. It was just one crack, not very loud. I don’t know what guns sound like normally. I always thought they were quite loud.’

‘You’ve never had anything to do with the police before – is that right?’

‘Yes, that’s right. I’m not sure I’ve ever even spoken to a policeman until now. Not since I took my cycling proficiency, anyway. That was when I was nine.’

‘No officers in the family?’

She laughed. His face tightened, and she wondered if he had taken offence. ‘No,’ she clarified. ‘We tend to avoid institutions as much as we can.’

‘I see. Well, the police force is certainly an institution. I can’t deny that.’

‘I’m not trying to be difficult. I’ll do whatever you need me to, to help. I still can’t believe this is happening. I feel as though I must be dreaming. People don’t kill each other in my world. I’m a
florist
, for God’s sake.’

‘Yes, I was thinking about that. Flowers are associated with the big moments, aren’t they? Weddings, funerals, anniversaries, birthdays, new babies. They represent love, recognition, goodwill – that sort of thing? You’re at the heart of all those rites of passage. People send flowers when they want to say sorry, as well. Sorry for a loss, as well as sorry for something they’ve done.’

She stared at him. ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘That’s more or less right.’

‘Good.’

She waited, thinking about his analysis of her work. It had dawned on her quite gradually that she was frequently involved in moments of high emotion. When she had originally had the idea, she had been thinking of flowers as decoration, as statements of a mood, as a means of conveying congratulation. The first time a customer had ordered funeral flowers, she had been alarmed at the tears that came with the choice of message. A young woman, unable to attend the burial of her great-aunt, had actually
cried
as she composed the words to accompany the wreath. Simmy had reacted badly, feeling embarrassed and awkward. It had been her mother who counselled her to be ready for further similar experiences. ‘What did you expect?’ she had demanded. ‘Obviously you’ll get cried on.’

Moxon was consulting the notes made by the first officer
on the scene. Simmy recognised them, and could even read a few words, despite their being upside down. ‘What would you say are your chief skills?’ he asked her, exactly as if he were conducting a job interview.

‘Pardon? What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Humour me, all right?’

‘Well … um … focus, I suppose. Reliability. Organisation. I’m good at design – shape and colour. I’m reasonably decisive, I think.’

‘You see the big picture?’ he prompted.

She nodded doubtfully.

‘Have you ever thought of joining the police?’

She huffed an astonished laugh. ‘God, no. My mother would kill me.’

‘She thinks we’re the bad guys?’

‘She was a hippy in the seventies. I grew up on lentils and there were no chairs in the house. She took me to Greenham Common six times.’

‘I see. At least, I’m not sure I believe you about the chairs.’

‘That was an exaggeration,’ she admitted.

He leant back in the ornate seat provided by the hotel, and stretched his arms over his head. He appeared to have become considerably more relaxed over the last five minutes. She watched his long head tilt back, thinking he might improve his appearance if he let his hair grow a bit. It was fine and black and slightly greasy. His eyebrows were shapely, over deep-set brown eyes. She could not begin to imagine his ordinary daily routines; the things he had to confront, the people he had to deal with. ‘I can hardly think of a more terrible job,’ she said.

‘It suits me,’ he returned equably. ‘So I take it you don’t think Ben Harkness killed the Baxter man?’

‘Of course he didn’t.’

‘No. He has nothing whatever to do with anything.’

‘I’m glad you agree.’

‘Now …’ he brought his hands forward, clasped in a double fist, ‘let’s get serious. Two men are dead. What’s going on? Who benefits? Why kill
both
of them? Any thoughts?’

‘I have no idea, other than it has something to do with insurance. If that makes any kind of sense. But I don’t know these people. They’re rich, well connected. I don’t move in the same circles as them – not by a million miles.’

‘But they took to you, didn’t they? Took you to their bosoms, in fact.’

‘Only two of them. I don’t know the two who got married – Bridget and Peter. I’ve never even
spoken
to Peter.’ She was reminded then of a persistent impression at the back of her mind, a shadowy space where a missing man should be. ‘And anyway – where
is
he? He was supposed to be here. That’s quite odd, isn’t it? You’ll need to ask him about it.’ Then she gave herself a small reproachful shake. ‘Not that it’s for me to tell you what to do. But it
must
have something to do with business deals, or legacies or something, if it isn’t the insurance. Money. It’s sure to be about money.’

She was speaking loudly, defiantly, trying to drown out the little voices inside her head that whispered about Markie and his nervous manner, the father in his grief, the little girl Lucy, and the chillingly confident Eleanor.

‘You think so, do you?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve wandered into a nightmare and all I want is to get back to work tomorrow and forget the whole thing.’

‘Really? Don’t you want to help?’

She paused. ‘I would if I could … I suppose. What did you have in mind?’

He puffed out his cheeks, and she wondered whether she was expected to show more deference towards him. The exact protocols involved had never formed part of her education, and the strange intimacy of the situation did nothing to make her feel subservient to him. ‘Seems as if this is a new experience for us both,’ he said.

‘Haven’t you investigated a murder before?’ She blinked incredulously.

‘Of course I have. But I haven’t had a witness like you before. Not that I can recall, in any event.’

‘Oh?’

‘You seem completely unemotional about it. You’re not scared or angry or upset or impatient.’

‘I am quite impatient, actually. And I’m hungry. And shocked. I’m
very
shocked.’

‘Are you? It doesn’t show.’

‘I’m numb. Paralysed. Why aren’t you asking me some proper questions? I can’t see where this is getting us. I really would like to leave, if that’s all right.’