The Windermere Witness (25 page)

‘Oh.’ He followed automatically, the conversation unfinished.

‘So what are you going to do?’ she demanded, unfeelingly.

‘Go home, I s’pose.’

She frowned at him impatiently. ‘What did you think you were doing, following me like that? Where did you think we were going?’

He tried to straighten his shoulders, to stand tall and confident. ‘I thought you were going to your husband’s place, to confront him about what he did. I thought that might be dangerous, and it would make sense to stick around in case it turned nasty.’

‘“What he did”,’ she repeated. ‘You think you know what he did, do you?’

‘Simmy told me,’ he nodded, hoping she wouldn’t react badly.

‘How dare she? That’s a total betrayal.’ She seemed young to him at that moment, and helpless in the face of the things people did. ‘Why would she do that?’

‘We were both there when your father was killed. We want to catch the man who did it. That’s all.’

‘She hasn’t told the police, has she?’

He bit down on his natural inclination to give an honest answer.
Careful
, an inner voice cautioned him. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She might have done by now. She can’t just do nothing, can she?’

Then a car drew up beside them. ‘Briddy! It’s Briddy!’ squealed a child’s voice.

‘Bugger and shit,’ muttered Bridget. Then she hissed at Ben, ‘This is all
your
fault.’

‘Sorry,’ he muttered back.

A woman was peering across the child at them. ‘Bridget? What the hell are you doing here? Who’s this? It’s starting to rain – you’ll both get soaked.’

‘He’s called Ben. What do you want?’

‘I don’t want anything. I’m taking Lucy to a party in Grasmere. She said it was you, so I stopped.’

‘You mean you didn’t recognise me?’

‘I was driving. And we’re late. We were meant to be there for eleven.’

‘Well, go on then. Everything’s all right. Have a great time, Luce.’ Bridget bent down and kissed the little face through the car window. ‘See you sometime.’ Her voice was sufficiently forced for the child to give her a worried look. ‘I’m all right, honestly. I’ve got a cagoule in the bag, and we won’t be out long anyway.’

Her mother sighed loudly and put the car into gear. ‘Phone me,’ she ordered. ‘Later today. I need to talk to you.’

Bridget nodded and the car moved away.

‘Shouldn’t that child be at school? Not to mention the
others who’ll be at this party,’ asked Ben, very aware of his own truancy. ‘How old is she?’

‘She’s six. They all go to a weird little school that doesn’t have normal hours. And actually I think it’s half term this week.’

‘Funny time for a party.’

‘It’ll be something to do with mushrooms or berries. Woodcraft Folk, probably.’

Ben struggled with this drastic mismatch between the woman in the car and this rustic image. ‘Your mother didn’t look to be dressed for anything like that. And it’s raining.’

‘What do you mean? What should she be wearing?’

‘Never mind.’ He thought wistfully of the missed chance of a lift back to Windermere. Even the chastening reproaches from Mr Piper, the maths teacher whose lesson he was missing, might be preferable to this confusing girl and her even more extraordinary mother. ‘You don’t get on too well, then? You and your mum?’

‘I’m a married woman,’ said Bridget, lifting her chin haughtily. ‘And she’s never been very maternal. She doesn’t want to get involved.’

Involved in the murder of her one-time husband and his only son, he supposed Bridget meant. ‘She’s trying to keep things normal for your sister, I guess,’ he ventured. ‘That’s what mothers do.’

They were walking again, Rydal Bridge, spanning the Rothay, visible ahead. Sharp spots of rain were making themselves felt on his face. He had been here with his family innumerable times, but only in the last year or so had he come to appreciate the drama of the uncompromising landscape; the enriching effect it had on the human spirit. It
had been near this spot that he first understood something of the complex interactions between humanity and nature. The fells existed regardless of people and their sheep, and yet they were imbued with an abundant layer of meaning, accorded to it by human observation. The symmetry, the symbolism, the challenges and ultimate indifference all burst upon him on one April afternoon, earlier that year. Privately, he called it his epiphany, and wrote no fewer than eighteen poems on the subject, embarrassing himself in the process.

Like every local, he had heard tourists complain at the narrow twisting roads that gave no sign of having improved for a century or more. He had listened to their fearful shudderings about the absence of signs and steps and shelters up on the tops of the fells. Like most locals he knew his way up Loughrigg and Great Rigg and Scandale. He could predict the weather and identify which stone wall led back down to the shelter of the valleys.

‘There it is,’ said Bridget, pointing down to her left. ‘We’ll just make it before we get really wet.’ The big car park contained a scattering of vehicles. They had to cross Pelter Bridge and take a footpath to the edge of the steep scarp that was Brant Brows. Rydal Hall was visible on the other side of the road, and people milled about in groups, many of them carrying rucksacks. ‘I hope it’ll start.’

‘How long has it been here?’

‘Since Wednesday. I decided the best place to hide it was in full view, so I left it in the middle. There are always some other cars here at this time of year. People take a tent and go off for the night.’

‘Yes, I know.’ He gazed wonderingly at the vehicle, as they drew closer. It was a brand-new BMW. ‘This is yours?’

She giggled. ‘It was a wedding present from Peter. I didn’t give him anything. I didn’t know you were meant to. I think his feelings were a bit hurt.’ She bit her lower lip in sudden pain. ‘Oh God. I forgot for a minute. I’ve got to go and see him. Now. Come on. I can’t leave it another minute.’ She met his eyes, her own swimming with tears. ‘Poor Peter,’ she moaned. ‘Poor, dear Peter.’

Simmy’s day continued to be taken up with customers. All the flowers from that morning’s consignment would disappear by teatime at this rate, she realised. And that would leave Saturday understocked. Quickly, she sent a new order to the wholesalers, mindful of the possibilities for Halloween and the nagging feeling that the window display required some urgent attention.

It would have been helpful to have Melanie’s assistance, she thought. The girl never came in on a Friday, however. In the strange world of her college, the whole day was consumed with tutorials and lectures. She would show up next day, leaving Simmy free to have the christening flowers prepared as promised, and to make any trips that might arise. Interflora orders very often came through in the middle of a Friday, for a Saturday delivery.

But by far the larger part of her thoughts concerned Bridget Harrison-West and her husband. The more she mused on them, the more unlikely it seemed that the girl would remain passively in Troutbeck for another whole day. She would be impelled to act in some way, and that made Simmy nervous. Shortly after eleven, she decided to check, and phoned her house.

No reply. Where had she gone? Why had Simmy not had the sense to ask for Bridget’s mobile number? Or Ben’s, come to that? She had been hopelessly dim not to think of it sooner. The fact of Bridget’s disappearance brought Ben to mind, illogically but insistently. They were both out there somewhere, two youngsters with the same urge to resolve the mystery of who killed the Baxter men. Simmy felt alarmed and responsible. She had let foolish sentiment distract her from the obvious and sensible course of action. There was danger out there, and she had to make up for her inaction somehow.

Melanie would be having her mid-morning break, in all probability. It might be safe to phone her and see if she could help.

Her assistant answered promptly. ‘Mel? Are you in a lecture?’

‘What? No, of course not. You can’t use your phone in a lecture. Duh!’

‘Listen. Have you got Ben Harkness’s mobile number, by any chance?’

‘What? No, of course I haven’t. Why would I?’

‘Have you got his brother’s, then? Wilf’s.’

‘I doubt it. Hang on. Give me a second.’ Silence ensued, and then Melanie came back. ‘How about that? It’s still here.’ There was wonderment in her voice. ‘It’s more than a year ago. Must be time I got a new phone.’ She recited the number and Simmy wrote it down.

‘So what’s going on?’ Melanie demanded. ‘What’s the big panic?’

‘No panic,’ she fibbed, thinking that was exactly the word for it. ‘I just thought it would be useful to have it.
It’s been busy here this morning,’ she added, as a diversion.

‘And here. I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow.’

‘Thanks, Mel.’

She phoned the number for Wilf, wondering whether he might have got a new phone and a new number during the past year. Was it possible that he would answer? Wasn’t he back at work at Storrs by this time?

‘Hello?’ came a wary voice. Evidently a strange number had popped up on his screen. Equally evidently, he and his contemporaries all answered their phones wherever they were and whatever they might be doing. Unless they were in a lecture, of course.

‘Wilf? Hello. You don’t know me, but I know your brother. I was with him on Sunday when George Baxter was shot.’

‘The cool florist lady,’ he supplied.

‘Right. Simmy Brown. Listen – do you have his mobile number?’

‘Yeah, course I do. Why d’you want it?’

‘No specific reason. I just thought it might be useful to have it over the weekend. I feel sort of responsible for him. Daft, I know.’

‘How did you get
my
number?’

‘Melanie,’ she said without thinking. ‘She’s still got it in her phone.’

‘Has she?’ he said softly. ‘I’m amazed.’

‘So …’ she prompted.

‘I’m not sure,’ he prevaricated. ‘Wouldn’t he have given it you if he’d wanted you to have it?’

‘We just forgot,’ she said, trying in vain to be patient. ‘Come on, Wilf. What harm can it do?’

‘None, I guess. All right, then.’ He gave her the number, after an even longer hiatus than Melanie had subjected her to. A man had come into the shop and was staring at some lilies near the door.

‘Thanks,’ she said quickly. ‘Thanks a lot.’ She turned to the customer, for a moment thinking it might be Peter Harrison-West, returning for another bout of aggression. Something about the hairline and the set of the ear seemed familiar. But when he faced her, he was a complete stranger, and she sighed her relief. He took five long minutes to choose a bunch of flowers for his wife and departed unhurriedly.

Then a new order pinged up on her computer. A
big
new order, comparable to the funeral tribute she had taken to Coniston the previous day. When all outlays and expenses had been deducted, she would still make a handsome profit. But it was required by five that afternoon, and would take well over an hour to create. In normal circumstances it would be readily achievable. As it was, she felt little but annoyance at the distraction.

Then she gave herself a shake. If Ben needed her, he could easily find the shop phone number and call it. He was old enough to be out on his own, as she had already told herself, earlier in the week. Without a car, he could not go far or get into much trouble. Her concern for him was irrational. It stemmed, she finally realised, from her reckless revelation of Peter Harrison-West’s guilt. The knowledge made Ben vulnerable. Why had she not seen that sooner?

The respite from worry had lasted all of thirty seconds. She needed to know the boy was safe, because if he wasn’t, it would be largely her fault.

She phoned the number, but got a message saying he was
unavailable and to leave a message. ‘Hi, Ben,’ she chirped, trying to sound casual. ‘Just wanted to say I’ve got your number now. I should have asked for it before. Here’s mine, in case you need it.’ She recited her own mobile number, and finished the call with a sense of having accomplished some small achievement.

When the shop phone rang ten minutes later, she was in the cool room selecting blooms for the new order. ‘Simmy? It’s Eleanor Baxter. Do you know a boy called Ben?’

‘Yes I do,’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve just seen him up at Rydal with Bridget. They were walking along the main road. I’ve no idea what was going on, but I thought you might.’

‘Me? Why?’

‘Just a hunch. I know Bridget likes you, and I know she hasn’t been where she ought to be for the past two days. I just phoned Peter, and he said she’s run off somewhere. What’s going on?’ She didn’t sound especially concerned. Idle curiosity was closer to describing the languid tone.

‘Why didn’t you ask her?’

‘I was in a rush. And she wouldn’t have told me.’

How did he sound?
She burned to ask, but didn’t dare risk raising further suspicions. ‘Did you tell Peter you’d seen her?’ she asked instead.

‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I?’

Simmy bit back the snappy response that could force Eleanor to manifest some genuine alarm. If Peter was able to conduct a civilised conversation with his mother-in-law without raising anxieties, nothing too dreadful could be happening. ‘I suppose because she isn’t likely to want him to know,’ she said. ‘If she’s run off, that’s probably a fair assumption, don’t you think?’

‘Except she hasn’t gone far, has she? I saw her on the road to Rydal, about two miles from where she and Peter now live. He might easily have stumbled on her himself.’

Rydal. Suddenly, Simmy knew what Bridget was doing. The question was – where would she go once she had retrieved her car? ‘Did Peter say if he’s there on his own?’

‘He didn’t exactly, but I could hear voices in the background. Glenn and Pablo, I assumed. And Felix, probably.’

‘No, he’s gone home – wherever it is he lives.’ She caught herself up, wondering if she’d got that right. Glenn had only said that Felix didn’t know about Peter’s guilt. ‘At least – that’s what I thought they said.’

‘It doesn’t matter, does it? I also rang you to say your mother contacted me last night. I understand that Lucy’s liable to be charged with grievous bodily harm. Why didn’t you say anything on Saturday?’