The Windermere Witness (19 page)

‘That’s right,’ echoed Melanie, who had been silently attending to every word spoken since Simmy’s return. ‘She’s not your prisoner.’

‘Hush!’ Simmy turned on her quickly. ‘You fool.’

Peter’s fist came up again, of its own accord, and both women took steps back. ‘Go!’ Simmy ordered him. ‘Now!’

He slowly did as he was told, not pausing for any final words at the door, as Simmy had half expected.

‘Phew!’ Melanie blew out her cheeks with exaggerated relief. ‘You were fantastic with him. What a headcase!’

‘And you were an idiot,’ said Simmy without rancour.

‘Sorry.’

‘I wonder where Bridget’s gone, all the same.’

‘As far away from him as she can, I should think. It’s obvious now that he’s the killer. He’s liable to murder her as well. She’s probably realised that for herself and she’s hiding somewhere.’

‘No-o,’ said Simmy slowly. ‘No. That can’t be right. Why on earth would it be him?’

‘He’s crazy – simple as that. You saw him. I thought he was going to kill me. Honestly, I did. Just before you came in. I practically wet myself.’

‘He
was
scary. But that doesn’t make him a murderer.
Bridget loves him. She told me she did. She was so happy to be marrying him.’ She thought back to the morning of the wedding. ‘You should have seen her. She didn’t care about the rain, or anything. She won’t even have been bothered about Julie not doing her hair. She was
radiant
.’

Melanie held out a hand. ‘Look – I’m still shaking. I’ve never had anything like that happen before. We should tell the police.’

‘What?’ The idea had not crossed her mind. ‘Why?’

‘It was threatening behaviour. It’s against the law.’

‘But …’ It was new territory for her. ‘What would we say to them?’

‘Just tell them what he did. They should know what he’s like.’

‘He’s under a lot of stress. They all are.’

‘Pooh! That’s no excuse. And what was that about him and Glenn being best friends for ever? Didn’t you think there might be something a bit … you know … about that? Weird, I mean? More than just good friends?’

There had been times over the past months where Simmy had felt considerably less worldly-wise than her young assistant. Just how come Melanie had acquired so much insight into human behaviour remained obscure, unless it was avid attention to TV soap operas. ‘But …’ she began. ‘Why would he marry Bridget if that was the way of things? Wouldn’t she realise?’

Melanie shrugged. ‘She’d be a smokescreen for him. And maybe she’s not very into sex, so it would suit her as well. She gets a nice life in a big house. Makes a lot of sense, when you think about it.’

‘And Markie? George?’

‘They’d worked it out and were threatening to make it public. Or – more likely – they wanted to save Bridget from making an awful mistake and tackled Peter about it.’

‘Glenn’s not married, is he?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Sim – they’re all over the county magazines and the Internet, as well as the local papers. My mum talks about nothing else at the moment. “Bachelor friends close ranks in face of horrendous murders” or something like that. Haven’t you seen any of that?’

Simmy grimaced helplessly. ‘I never did get the habit of reading that sort of stuff.’

‘You should.’

‘Okay. I’ll think about it. So what about Glenn? He knew Bridget first – that’s what Peter just said.’

‘I never knew that. I can’t see that he has anything to lose, whatever happens. He’s got Peter where he wants him, and Bridget’s not going to start causing trouble now.’

‘Isn’t she? Looks as if she’s doing exactly that, running away. Don’t you think it means he loves her, the way he was just now? He’s scared she’ll be murdered as well.’

Melanie slapped a hand on the table holding the computer. ‘I don’t know,’ she exploded. ‘I just think we should report that man for the way he behaved. You’re being far too cool and reasonable about it. How do we know he won’t come back, angrier than ever? Never mind
him
being scared. It’s us you should be worrying about.’

The shop door opened. ‘Who’s worrying about what?’ asked Ben.

The two females fell over each other to relate the
episode to him. He listened politely, asking one or two questions. ‘Doesn’t make him a killer,’ he judged, when they’d finished.

‘It makes him a lot more likely than Pablo or the others,’ Melanie protested.

‘Do you know Pablo?’ Simmy asked her.

‘No, of course not. But you told me he was nice.’

‘She told me that as well,’ said Ben with a grin.

‘Do you want some tea?’ Simmy asked him. ‘It must be time.’

‘If you like,’ he shrugged. She told herself that politeness was bound to be sporadic in a boy his age. ‘So – are you going to tell the police about the Harrison-West bloke?’

‘I don’t know. What do you think?’

‘I think we need to sit down and make a proper list. I’ve started, actually. Look.’ He pulled a new-looking notebook from his bag. ‘All the things we know about the suspects and the victims. How they’re related, and all that.’

Simmy was impressed, but also unnerved, by his application. Ben, she reminded herself, had reason to take the murders seriously. He had been there for one of them. He had seen a man with a hole in his head. ‘Okay, then,’ she said. ‘Give me three minutes.’

She made the tea, and glanced at her computer to check for new orders. Melanie was going to have to stay late at this rate, to process the midday delivery. There were commissions due, and two big funerals looming, not counting those of Markie and George Baxter. Putting her mind to Ben’s list was going to take some effort.

But they quickly got into it. ‘Markie had a girlfriend who dumped him,’ she contributed. ‘He was upset.’

Ben and Melanie exchanged a look. ‘Who would that be, then?’ she asked.

He lifted his shoulders in plain bafflement. ‘No idea.’

‘Glenn knew Bridget before Peter did. He told us that just now. She was eight when he first met her. They spent the summers together, doing outdoorsy things.’

‘Glenn was abroad for a bit. He came back a year or two ago,’ offered Melanie. ‘I think it was Dubai or somewhere like that.’

‘George Baxter’s got some business thing out there,’ said Ben. ‘Wilf told me that. He owns some massive hotel, I think.’

‘Owned,’ Simmy corrected him. ‘Did Glenn work for Baxter, then?’

‘Might have done. That’d make sense.’

‘What about Felix and his accident?’ Simmy asked. ‘How exactly did that happen? And when?’

Melanie supplied the details proudly. ‘It was last winter, before Christmas. He was climbing, with Peter and Glenn, and fell off. That’s it, really. They took two days to rescue him, because it was foggy and freezing cold. He broke his back.’

‘Two days? He’d have frozen to death in that time.’

‘Glenn was a hero, apparently, and stayed with him, keeping him warm. Peter went for help, but then they couldn’t find them for ages, in the dark and fog. It was a real drama. They hadn’t taken mobiles with them.’

‘And Glenn was a better rescuer than Peter, by the sound of it.’ She could imagine Harrison-West blundering furiously around the fells, too unfocused to be effective in getting help. ‘Funny they were so cross with Bridget
yesterday for not having her phone. I guess it taught them a lesson.’

‘The rescuers were scathing about it. They said Felix might have walked again, if only they’d got to him right away.’

‘That’s awful! They must feel so guilty.’

‘For lack of a phone, walking was lost,’ declaimed Ben. ‘You know – that poem about a horseshoe nail.’

They ignored him. ‘Actually, I’ve heard a lot of people say it’s taken all the adventure out of fell climbing,’ said Melanie. ‘If you’ve got a phone all the time, you’re not really getting away from it all. My dad says he can see their point. Everything’s got so safe these days.’

‘Even so,’ Simmy demurred. ‘Felix paid a pretty high price for it, didn’t he?’

‘They think they might be able to do something eventually. An operation, I guess.’

‘What else do we know about Felix, then?’ Simmy returned to Ben and his notebook. ‘He seems to be the shadowy one.’

‘He’s younger than the others,’ supplied Melanie. ‘But I think he went to the same school. He’s getting married next summer, but she’s not local.’

‘Shadowy,’ affirmed Ben. ‘But at least they’re all still friends. That must mean he doesn’t blame anybody for the accident.’

The phone rang, and Simmy spent several minutes taking down a detailed order for a funeral wreath. ‘They want it to go to Coniston first thing tomorrow,’ she groaned. ‘It’s that woman who was so pleased with the flowers we did for her five months ago – the one who gives lavish dinner parties. Says nobody else could do it as well as us.’

‘Tomorrow!’ Melanie was outraged. ‘That’s impossible.’

‘No it isn’t. I can get it done now, and take it first thing. I’ve done it before.’ For the first time all day she remembered her sleepless night, and sagged at the sudden wave of weariness that came with the memory. The youngsters looked at her as if she’d let them down badly. ‘Come on!’ she shouted. ‘I’m trying to run a business here. That’s sixty pounds’ worth of flowers she’s just ordered. What do you want me to do?’

‘Okay,’ Melanie placated. ‘We’ll get on without you, then.’

‘No you won’t. I’m paying you to work, remember. Ben – this’ll have to wait. We weren’t really getting anywhere, were we? Real life is always going to get in the way. That’s why there’s a police force. We ought to leave it to them. You’ve probably got homework, anyway.’

‘Nothing important.’ He looked again to Melanie for support.

‘Won’t work, Sim,’ said the girl. ‘We’re even more involved now, after being yelled at by that Peter. There’s no escape.’

‘Don’t say that. It’s past four o’clock, and there’s work to be done. Forget the Baxters and their troubles. It’s not our problem.’

Melanie smirked mutinously. ‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ she said.

Not my problem, not my problem
, Simmy repeated to herself as she drove home at six-thirty. Any further suggestion of being minded by Melanie seemed to have died away over the past day, in spite of Peter Harrison
West’s aggression. The funeral tribute had taken her over an hour to construct, but it was now sitting proudly in the cool room behind the shop, ready for early delivery next day. She had an evening ahead in which she could eat a proper meal, read more of her novel and then have an early night. There would be no reason for anxiety. With every passing day the police must inevitably be closing in on the killer, without any need for assistance from a bunch of hopeless amateurs.

The house felt chilly when she went in, and unusually silent. A welcoming cat, or even pet bird, would have been nice. She put the lights on in the hallway and living room, and then went through to the kitchen. Something was different. The air was moving when it shouldn’t. Puzzlement swamped any fear that might have been expected, as she looked around. Nothing was broken or misplaced. The window was still closed. She went quickly back to the passageway and into the living room.

‘Hello,’ came a small voice from a shadowy corner. ‘I hope you won’t be cross with me.’

‘Good God – Bridget! How did you get in?’

‘I’ve got a key. It was lucky you told me Markie lived here when he was young. I never gave it back. It seemed sort of meant to be, when I wanted somewhere to hide. I knew you’d look after me. Good thing you didn’t change the locks.’

‘But I did. At least, there’s an extra one.’

‘Not at the back. It’s a key to the back. The door makes a nasty scraping noise when you move it, so I left it open. It’s got a bit cold now.’ The girl spoke in a dreamy, stunned voice, as if from a great distance. ‘Penny never shut the door, you know. I was pretending she and Markie were still here. I haven’t damaged anything.’

‘Peter’s looking for you.’ It was a rerun of the day before. ‘He’s really upset.’

‘Poor Peter. He’s very weak, you know. He depends on me for everything. Can you believe that?’

‘Not really. He’s got all those men friends.’

‘They’re no use. They just make him worse.’ She looked up at Simmy with tragic eyes. ‘What am I going to do? Markie and Daddy were going to make it all all right. I can’t manage him without them.’

‘Oh dear.’ Simmy sat down beside her on the sofa, and took a hand. It was cold. ‘I thought you might have gone to your mother.’

Bridget uttered a harsh laugh. ‘What could
she
do? She never had any time for me. She barely even knows who I am.’

Simmy thought about the wedding, and its less overt implications. An immature girl so willingly handed over to a man close to middle age; a mother who could scarcely be bothered with the fuss of it all; a father distracted by his business responsibilities and a life moved on. If Peter was not proving to be the stalwart partner she had presumably expected, then she was indeed bereft.

‘I’m scared,’ the girl confessed. ‘I don’t understand what’s going on.’

‘You can stay here,’ Simmy heard herself offering. ‘But we’ll have to tell somebody where you are. There’ll be a huge police hunt for you otherwise.’

‘Then he’ll come and fetch me again. Or send Pablo or Glenn, more likely. I’m
scared
to go back. Until I know who … which …’ she raised her stricken face again, ‘one of them killed Markie and Daddy. Do you see?’

Simmy was struck silent by this voicing of the obvious. She merely shook her head helplessly, while an even more awful idea formed itself.
What if it had been ALL of them, together?
Was that not a perfectly reasonable suspicion?
And if true, would it not make a police investigation impossibly complicated? Forensic evidence pointing to them all separately – footprints on the lake shore, flecks of skin on their clothes, the pressure of many hands on Markie’s drowning body – how could they ever unravel all that?

Bridget was weeping quietly, both hands across her face. Curled on the sofa like a ten-year-old, it was easy to imagine her a frequent visitor to her father’s other woman and her half-brother, attracted by the more normal environment and Markie’s fellowship. ‘Did your mother know you came here?’ she asked. ‘Surely she wouldn’t have liked it?’

‘She didn’t care. All she ever cared about was that house. I can’t bear to go there, you know? It freaks me out. And now it’s happening all over again with Lucy.’

Simmy had forgotten Lucy, the little half-sister. ‘She seems okay,’ she said. ‘Her father sounds … interesting.’

‘He’s a wimp.’

Like Peter?
Simmy wondered, bemusedly. Nobody, surely, could ever use such a word about that angry man. His weakness, if it was real, took a very unwimpy form.

‘Look, we really will have to do something. What if I call that detective man? Moxon. He can head off any search parties, at least. I don’t think he’ll tell Peter where you are, if we ask him not to.’

‘I don’t know. How can we know what he’d do? Men stick together. I’ve discovered that, lately.’

‘Peter can’t force you to go back. You’re an adult. Men don’t own their wives any more.’

‘Right,’ said Bridget, sounding very unconvinced. ‘Why has everything turned so horrible?’ she moaned, turning
her face into a cushion. From the heaving of her shoulders, it was clear that she was still crying.

Simmy gave her a minute, and then changed the subject. ‘Are you hungry? Because I am. Starving, actually. I’ll find something to eat, and then I’ll phone him. He gave me a card with his number on it. We don’t have to dial 999 or anything.’

‘Thirsty,’ said Bridget, in the exact same voice that her little sister had used, four days earlier. The echo brought a host of surging feelings to Simmy’s throat, disabling her for a moment. She, then, was the universal nanny, the caring grown-up who sheltered waifs and strays. Had she got all the way to thirty-seven without noticing that this was her rightful role in life? She had watched with a mixture of envy and alarm as her mother welcomed a motley assortment of guests into her home. She had marvelled at the efficient provision of necessities, often awakening people to needs they didn’t know they had. Books, games, jigsaws, as well as the soaring fells and sparkling lakes that would revive their spirits beyond all imagining. She restored a sense of proportion to jangled souls escaping from all manner of turbulence. If sometimes she failed, as with the people on Saturday, that was only to be expected. It did nothing to undermine the central message that Angie offered, simply by being who she was.

‘I’ll make some tea,’ she said, without consultation. The tears had not fully abated, and there were times when tea was the only thing.

It took ten minutes of concentrated thought before she felt able to call DI Moxon. She went back to her single fateful
encounter with Markie, and how he had already known she lived in his old house. That, she began to understand, was why he had flagged her down. He wanted to tell her of the link, because it was important to him. The house had been sold when he was fourteen or fifteen – probably giving rise to all sorts of trauma. Houses, it seemed, were seriously important to these people. Bridget regarded it as a refuge, thanks to past experience and habit. Simmy herself was of lesser significance. She was so insignificant that it was possible for the girl to simply let herself in as if nothing had changed in the past three years. The present owner of the house was a minor nuisance – nothing more.

It should have made her angry, but instead it came as something like reassurance. She had no wish to be centre stage. If her entire involvement had been because of the accident of home ownership, that absolved her from anything like responsibility.

Except that Bridget was hiding here, in the house that was definitely now hers. And if her husband found out, there would be noise and violence and an awful lot of trouble.

The card that Moxon had given her was inside her wallet, the wallet inside her shoulder bag. The bag lived permanently under the passenger seat of her car. That way, she never found herself without money when she went shopping. But it did mean she never had her mobile in the house, nor her credit card or chequebook. It meant she often had to go out to the area at the side of the house in all weather, to retrieve the bag.

She did it now, noticing that a drizzly rain had started, but that there was little or no wind. There was no sign of a waiting killer, patiently squatting behind the large escallonia
hedge in the hope that his victim would eventually come outside. Such figures were patently absurd, Simmy knew. But the knowledge did not prevent her from turning on the bright outside light, and moving as briskly as she could to the car and back.

Rather to her surprise, Moxon answered on the first ring. He sounded alert and approachable. He knew immediately who she was.

‘We’re not sure we can trust you,’ she began quickly, trying not to hear the impertinence in her own words. ‘But I suppose we’ll have to. Bridget Harrison-West is here. She’s run away from her husband and his friends, and is frightened. I’m telling you in case he calls for a police search. She’s quite safe.’

‘Wait, wait,’ he ordered. ‘Why is she frightened?’

‘Because—’ What could she say? ‘Well, obviously, because of the murders. She doesn’t know who to trust.’

‘She thinks her husband killed her brother and her father?’ There was no discernible scorn or scepticism in his tone. He sounded as if he really wanted to know.

‘No, no, I don’t think so. Not really. But she can’t be sure. Not until you’ve caught and charged somebody. Even then, it would have to be really convincing.’

‘She’s so unsure that she’s hiding from him – is that right?’

‘Him and the others. There are
four
of them.’

‘Indeed there are,’ he agreed heavily. ‘All for one and one for all sort of set-up.’

‘Right. But they can’t all have fired the gun that killed Mr Baxter, can they?’

‘Whoa!’ His voice rose. ‘That’s a bit of a leap, isn’t it?’

‘Sorry. I suppose it is. I was thinking it through just now, and it just seemed …’ she tailed off. ‘Bridget sees them as a unit,’ she added.

‘The Spanish bloke’s itching to get off to London tomorrow. Says he’s indispensable and we can’t stop him.’

‘And can you?’ She barely allowed herself the flash of hope that Pablo would be forced to stay close by.

‘Not easily. Sounds as if we’d best let him go, if he’s such a problem for the little bride.’

‘Um …’ She had no idea where this was going, but there was a hint that he was telling her more than he really should. ‘So you’re still investigating?’ she finished inanely.

‘Exactly so. Mainly gun stuff. Guns are supposed to be traceable, you see. You’d be amazed at the things we know about the gun in question.’

‘And?’

‘And it’s proving surprisingly elusive. They’re not so very difficult to hide, of course.’

‘And where Markie was killed – that’s all churned up by the people pulling him out of the lake,’ she suggested.

‘To an extraordinary degree. At the last count, I think eighteen separate people got their feet muddy that morning.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Now then.’ He was suddenly businesslike. ‘Have I got this right – you’ve called to tell me Mrs Harrison-West is with you, and doesn’t want her husband to know?’

‘That’s it. I thought he might set some sort of police search in motion, and that would be an awful waste of time.’

‘So if he does – what do we say to him?’

‘Ah.’ It was a good question. ‘What about saying you’re
aware that she’s safe, but that you’ve been asked to keep her whereabouts confidential?’

‘That’s a possibility,’ he said slowly.

‘So nobody’s reported her missing up to now?’ That seemed odd, on reflection. ‘I think she’s been gone quite a long time. She ran off yesterday, as well, and came to me in the shop.’

He was silent for several seconds. ‘Pardon?’

‘She—’

‘Yes, all right. So don’t you think it highly likely that they’ll come to you to find her today? Do they know where you live?’

‘I expect they do. Markie did, after all. I’m easy enough to find. It never even occurred to me …’ She saw herself barring the doors, back and front, with heavy furniture and huddling in a corner with Bridget. ‘They’d phone first, I expect,’ she went on hopefully.

She could hear his sigh, suggestive of repressed exasperation and things generally going rather badly. ‘Does she know you’re speaking to me now?’

‘I think not. She’s in another room, crying, last I looked. I’ve given her a mug of tea and some biscuits.’

‘And the doors are all locked?’

‘Actually, no. The back one’s open, I think. I’ll go and shut it in a minute.’

‘You don’t sound worried,’ he remarked. ‘Most women in your position would be terrified.’

‘Would they? Do many women find themselves in my position?’

He ducked that question. ‘Keep a phone close by. Lock yourselves in. We can get people with you in ten minutes
if we have to. Why don’t I get somebody to go and see Mr Harrison-West and let him know we’re aware that his wife is feeling nervous and that she prefers to be away from him for a little while?’

Simmy tried to think this through. ‘Then he’d know that
you
know where she is, so he wouldn’t dare come looking for her, to drag her home again. Yes – thank you very much. That should settle it. Then we’ll be fine, won’t we? Nothing to be scared about.’

He sighed again. ‘
If
he was the killer, and
if
he thinks you witnessed something, and
if
he doesn’t trust his wife – then possibly there is. But those are all unwarranted assumptions at this stage. I hate to risk worrying you, but there’s even a remote possibility that you have the killer right there in the house with you. Had you thought of that?’

‘Of course not!’ She almost laughed. ‘She’s the
victim
in all this. Nobody’s suffering more than her. She’s lost two crucial figures in her life, for heaven’s sake.’

‘I expect you’re right,’ he said, before repeating, ‘But you’d be well advised not to make assumptions at this stage.’

How pompous he sounds, she thought. Was it the job, forcing him to utter platitudes to cover himself, or was it his nature? Didn’t a person’s nature eventually conform to the demands of the job, anyway? He had to be more harassed and stressed than he sounded, surely? Part of a huge team of detectives unpicking the lives of countless local people, exposing their secrets and casting doubt on their deeply held beliefs about each other – what sort of a man could comfortably do all that?

‘All right, then. We’ll have an early night, and hope for the best.’ Again she remembered how tired she was, and how
appealing the prospect of her bed. ‘I’ve got to go to Coniston first thing tomorrow,’ she added, for good measure.

‘Any sign of trouble, call us,’ he repeated.

Afterwards, she reproached herself for all the things she hadn’t told him. Had he already mastered the network of friends and family and childhood romances that encircled everybody connected to the murder victims? Had it seemed clear to him from the outset that George Baxter had been killed because he knew who murdered Markie? Should this have been the central point that Simmy herself had focused on? She had spent time with him, on Saturday evening. Had he said anything to suggest an identity for the killer? As far as she could remember, he hadn’t got beyond Peter and his cronies as a collective. But perhaps Eleanor had been given a clue? Or – more worrying – perhaps Eleanor had told people that she, Simmy, had been to the house and might well know more than was comfortable.