The Windermere Witness (26 page)

Simmy had to think. ‘Oh, that. It was such a stupid thing. But the people are idiots, unfortunately. I don’t expect it’ll come to anything.’

‘That isn’t what your mother said.’

‘Oh.’

‘Lucy isn’t an aggressive child. I can’t imagine what was going on.’

‘Mrs Baxter – I really think the important thing is Bridget, just at the moment, don’t you?’ She felt proud of her assertive tone, her refusal to be diverted. It made her feel pleasingly grown-up.

‘I really do
not
think it’s for you to tell me what’s important,’ came the crushing reply. Eleanor Baxter, it seemed, was even more grown-up and assertive, if it came to a contest.

‘All right. But that’s what I think, whether you agree or not. You might not realise that I’ve been quite closely involved over the past few days.’ She wanted to shout
Murder!
at the woman in an attempt to force her to admit the seriousness of what had happened, and was perhaps still happening. But she managed to maintain a reasonably calm tone, as she went on, ‘I’m not sure that Bridget is safe. Two people have been killed, after all.’

‘I don’t need you to remind me of that,’ was the frosty response, before the line was disconnected.

Simmy sorted the implications methodically. Peter knew that Bridget was in the vicinity, accompanied by a teenaged boy. Pablo and Glenn were probably still in the house with him. The gun was – she hoped – safely hidden in the attic of her house. Peter was at least rational enough to hold a coherent conversation with his mother-in-law, without raising any alarm in her. Mind you, Simmy thought to herself, it would probably take a large nuclear explosion to alarm Eleanor. The police were conspicuously absent. Wilf was still soft about Melanie … she gave herself a shake at this point. Those two could wait. The chief concern was for Bridget, and if Ben was with her, then that was a major new worry. A worry large enough to justify contacting DI Moxon, came the unavoidable conclusion.

Outside the sky was darkening under thick pewter-grey clouds, but the rain was as yet still quite tentative. Another wet weekend was in prospect, it seemed. It would mark the closing days of the tourist season, with only the real stalwarts still taking to the fells for their masochistic hikes. The rivers and becks would be running full and fast. The chunky slate houses would start sending woodsmoke up
their chimneys and evening lights would appear earlier and earlier with every passing day. Simmy tried to think of it as an adventure, getting through her first Lakeland winter without losing her nerve. All around her were people who knew what to do about snow and ice and rising river waters. All she had to do was slot into their routines and take it a day at a time.

Meanwhile, she had to decide on the next level of interference in the lives of the Harrison-Wests. Fear of making things worse had assailed her ever since the previous evening – a fear sown by Best-Man-Glenn. He had appeared to be so completely in charge, and so confident that he could put everything to rights that Simmy’s own assessment of right and wrong became unsteady. Viewed logically, this was entirely absurd. Logic, she felt, was gaining ground, here in her familiar shop where the conventions all held good.

She phoned Moxon. He answered promptly, which she took to be a good omen. She floundered initially, unsure where to start and what, if anything, to withhold. He gave her no assistance, but waited in silence for the story to emerge.

‘Bridget and I had visitors last night. They told us that the killer was Peter Harrison-West, and asked us not to call you. When your men came to the door I told them everything was all right. It was, in a way. We weren’t in danger. Glenn wouldn’t hurt Bridget. Now she’s with Ben and I think they might be going to Peter’s house. I think that might be dangerous, especially for Ben. He’s not answering his phone.’

Was that as garbled to him as it was to her, she wondered?

‘They said Harrison-West committed both murders?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you believed them?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did Bridget believe them?’

‘I think so. She was very upset at first, but she recovered quickly, and agreed that Peter shouldn’t be handed in to the police. Glenn said there was no evidence.’

‘Glenn Adams, that would be?’

‘Right Peter’s old friend. The best man at the wedding.’

‘Do you know where he is now?’

‘At Peter’s house, I think. With Pablo. I don’t know his surname. Plus Felix Mainwaring, who is Peter’s cousin. The one in the wheelchair. They said he didn’t know about Peter’s confession, but he might be there with them.’

‘At the Harrison-Wests’ house in Ambleside?’

‘Yes.’

‘My God,’ he muttered angrily. ‘I’ve never known anything like this.’

‘Neither have I,’ she agreed with feeling.

‘We’ll have to go and see. Is there any suggestion of a weapon?’

She grimaced to herself, having hoped to keep that detail back. ‘I think it’s at my house. But there could be others, I suppose. I don’t really know.’

‘It makes a very big difference.’

‘I expect it does. Are you going to arrest Peter?’

‘Take him in for further questioning, probably.’

‘Did you hear about him hitting Ben yesterday? He was wandering round Windermere in a very volatile state. We thought somebody might have reported him.’

His silence was plainly reproachful. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nobody thought to report him.’

‘I expect he calmed down and went home, then.’

‘Mrs Brown, there are fifty police officers working on this case. They are showing a strong presence in both Bowness and Windermere, in an attempt to reassure a frightened public. The chances of a man “wandering round” hitting people without being apprehended are really quite small.’

‘Well, it happened, all the same. Up by the station, Ben said. I suppose it didn’t cause much of a stir. Ben’s brother Wilf was with him, and brought him down here to my shop. He wasn’t badly hurt. I put witch hazel on it. And if anybody saw it happen, they wouldn’t worry that it had anything to do with the murders, would they?’

‘They might if they recognised Harrison-West. I gather he’s quite well known locally.’

‘By name, mostly, I think. And more in Ambleside than here.’

‘All right.’ He cut her off impatiently. ‘So the situation is this – tell me if I go wrong. Mrs Harrison-West is returning to her rightful home, having spent two nights with you. She believes that the husband to whom she is returning is the killer of her father and her brother, but she is not afraid of him. The bearer of this news, the best friend of her husband, is also likely to be there. She is accompanied by a seventeen-year-old boy who was an actual witness to the murder of her father. Right so far?’

‘Yes.’

‘You see – I have to make a report to my superior. I have to decide whether an armed response is appropriate. I have to devise a strategy – admittedly with substantial help from
colleagues – as to how to manage this new development.’

‘That sounds like quite a slow process.’

‘Not really. You think we should hurry, do you?’

‘I don’t know. I am worried about Ben, I must admit.’

‘Your worry is a significant factor. We have learnt, rather painfully, to take the worries of the public more seriously than we used to.’

‘Good. That’s good. Because there’s a chance that Peter has already shot Ben, if there’s another gun at the house. People like that tend to have guns, don’t they? They shoot pheasants and things with them.’

‘There are no firearms registered to Mr Harrison-West or his friends. Not a single one.’

‘Good,’ she said again.

‘You think so? I thought I heard you mention a weapon being at your house. Did I dream that?’

‘It’s an old rifle, from the Second World War.’

‘Oh, God,’ he groaned.

She pressed on, hoping to reassure him. ‘Bridget was going to hide it in my attic.’

‘You didn’t see her do it, I suppose?’

‘I’m afraid not. But she’d have no reason to take it back to the Ambleside house. She wouldn’t do that. She’s got more sense.’

Another weighty silence made Simmy wonder if he was in fact issuing inaudible instructions to his team, instead of wasting time asking irrelevant questions. Then he spoke again. ‘So we can at least go to Troutbeck, and instigate a search of your attic. If you give your permission, we can avoid applying for a warrant. You really need to be there, though.’

‘I need to be here, actually. I’ve got a business to run. I’ve done my bit by phoning you and telling you everything. It’s up to you now.’

‘Yes, and I’m asking you to assist us with the next step in our investigations by being present when we make a search for a firearm that you believe to be inside your house. It would save time and damage. I don’t think you have any real basis for objection, under the circumstances. We can come and collect you if that would help.’

‘No, I want to have my car where I can reach it. Can I have half an hour to get there? I’ll try to get hold of my assistant and see if she can cover for me.’

‘I expect to see you at twelve-thirty, then, and not a minute later.’

The shop door pinged as she put the phone down. For a moment she couldn’t think who the newcomer was. Then it clicked. ‘Julie! Gosh – how are you? I heard about your fingers.’

The hairdresser held up her right hand, where three fingers were taped together. ‘Immobile,’ she said. ‘But what about
you?
All this business about murders and runaway brides. She didn’t really run away, did she? Have you seen her?’

‘Yes, I’ve seen her,’ Simmy confirmed hollowly. ‘And now I’ve got to go and let the police into my house. It’s a really long story, Jules, and I can’t stop.’ She gave her friend a speculative look as a thought struck her. ‘Can you use that hand at all?’

‘The thumb’s all right, and the little finger. I’m learning a few tricks.’

‘Are you busy this afternoon?’

‘What? How could I be busy like this? I can’t even get it wet.’

‘Will you mind the shop for me? Just take orders – make people write it all down. I might be back again by two. I’ll try and get Melanie to skip a lecture and come in, if I can’t make it.’

‘Gosh! I have no idea how it all works, Sim. I’ll make a terrible mess of it.’

‘The flowers have all got prices on – that’s the most likely thing you’ll have to cope with. Just wrap paper round them and take the money. You might not get anybody, anyway.’

‘Well—’

‘Thanks a million. I wouldn’t ask, except it’s Friday, and you never know—’

‘This is about Bridget Harrison-West, I take it? That little baggage. I had such plans for her hair. I spent hours practising kiss-curls. And then it all fell apart.’ She sighed. ‘Just goes to show.’

‘At least they did get married.’ Simmy thought yet again of young Markie being held down in the cold lake until he drowned. ‘Although I’m not sure that’s anything to celebrate, the way it’s going.’

‘Why? What’s going on? You have to tell me, Sim. It’s only fair.’

‘Honestly, I can’t. But I think there might be an arrest before long. The police are closing in, as they say. Not very rapidly, admittedly, but I think it’s not far off now.’ An image of Peter replaced that of Markie, his face red with rage and his fist clenched in Melanie’s face. Whatever it might mean for Bridget, it would surely be a good thing if he could be caught and locked up.

Julie was a sensible person, in Simmy’s experience. They had first met at an earlier wedding – a much smaller affair than the one at Storrs. The bride had been a farmer’s daughter in her early thirties, accustomed to wearing wellingtons rather than heels, with hair that actually did contain hayseeds for much of the winter. Julie had patiently created a simple style that flattered the healthy outdoor face without a hint of the ridiculous. Simmy had met her at the house, when delivering buttonholes and bouquets, and they had admired each other’s handiwork with genuine approval. The sweetness of the whole event stayed with Simmy for some weeks.

‘Listen – if I’m not back by two, call me on my mobile. It’ll be good to know you’re here watching out for things. There’s a chance somebody might come in – somebody to do with the murders, I mean.’

Julie’s eyes widened. ‘Not the murderer himself, I hope!’

‘Unlikely. My mother’s also in a bit of a state about something else, so you might get her to cope with.’

‘Don’t tell me any more,’ Julie begged. ‘Just go and do whatever it is you have to do. And don’t get yourself shot, for God’s sake.’

‘Thanks. I’ll do my best.’

She took the van and headed for Ambleside, aware of having wasted more time than was comfortable. Eleanor had seen Ben and Bridget over an hour before – since then they might easily have got to Peter’s house and challenged him. But surely he wouldn’t hurt his beloved bride? Of course he wouldn’t. There was really nothing too much to worry about.

Except the major worry of not knowing the precise
location of the house. Nobody had told her the actual address, other than that it was on the northern edge of the town. Why she thought she could find it on such flimsy information now seemed unfathomable. She would have to go to the house she
did
know, instead. The big, beloved house belonging to Eleanor Baxter. That she could find, after being taken there on Saturday. And Eleanor would tell her how to reach the other one. She might even go with her. Two women on hand to offer consolation and shelter after whatever climactic events might be unfolding would be surely better than one – however deficient Eleanor Baxter might be in maternal instincts.

A police car overtook her on a bend, in heavy rain, its lights beaming aggressively at anybody in its way. No sirens or blue flashers, but it was obviously speeding urgently towards Ambleside. She was painfully reminded that she had agreed to supervise a search of her home for a gun, and that she might be in trouble for failing to do as promised. But that felt like a minor distraction compared to the need to find Ben and Bridget. She contemplated following the police car, assuming it was heading for the Harrison-West house. Before she could decide, it was out of sight. But it had very much changed her thinking, in those few seconds. Something bad was happening. Ben Harkness was going to find himself in the middle of violence and trauma. It was Ben, she realised, she had been most concerned about from the start.