The Windermere Witness (28 page)

He opened his eyes again. ‘How far along was the wall? I mean, how far from Mr Baxter?’

Moxon consulted his pad. ‘Twenty-five metres, that’s all. Close range for a rifle. Rather a waste of such a fine weapon, some might say. They’re accurate for about twenty times that distance.’

Bridget made a wordless murmur and earned herself a sharp look from Glenn.

‘I didn’t see a gun, nor sunlight glinting on metal. Nothing like that. I can’t picture the wall you mean. How high is it?’

‘Three foot six or so. The gunman would have to crouch right down. There’s a very wide stretch of pavement between it and the road.’

‘A squirrel! I saw a squirrel,’ Ben crowed, disproportionately triumphant. ‘It got halfway across the road, and then stopped. Then a little stone or something appeared from nowhere and hit it, so it ran back again. I thought nothing of it, really.’

‘You must have wondered where the missile came from,’ Moxon said gently. ‘You didn’t see anyone who could have thrown it?’

‘No. I suppose I just assumed there was a boy in a garden somewhere. Then there was the shot, and I forgot the whole thing.’

Moxon was looking doubtful, working his shoulders as if rehearsing some complicated action. Ben was still glowing from the successful recovery of his memory. Another little squawk from Bridget made everyone turn towards her.

‘Glenn!’ she gasped. ‘My God, it was
you
! You’ve never been able to resist throwing stones at squirrels. I’ve seen you do it five hundred times. You were hiding behind that wall, and shot my father! But
why?
’

The smile on Glenn’s face was a clown’s unnatural grimace. ‘Of course I didn’t,’ he said, throatily. ‘How could you ever think such a thing? This is
me
, Briddy, remember. Have a bit of sense.’

‘Evidence,’ muttered Pablo, looking pale. ‘That’s not evidence, is it? Lots of people throw things at squirrels.’

Moxon met the eyes of his female colleague. ‘We could see if we could find the stone,’ he said with a sigh. She blinked disbelievingly at him.

‘There’s no need,’ shouted Bridget. ‘I
know
it was Glenn. He’s been trying to put it onto Peter, all along. Peter – say something! Pablo –
you
know, don’t you?’

Ben shrank into his chair, anticipating something unpleasant. Glenn was big and strong – and could hit a squirrel from halfway down a street. The incriminating compulsion to do so struck him as both comical and fatalistic. What self-respecting sniper would let a little rodent distract him at such a crucial moment? Where had he found the stone? Why hadn’t Ben seen the arcing arm that must have appeared over the wall for the throw? He mentally practised, and realised a strong wrist could probably fire it without much visible movement. Did Glenn have strong wrists, he wondered, trying to get a glimpse.

Bridget was on her feet, facing Glenn with ferocity. ‘It all makes sense now. You know us all so well, don’t you? You know Peter’s weak points and you jabbed away at them. You’ve probably got him thinking it really was him all along. But
why
, Glenn? What were you thinking?’

Ben watched in fascinated horror.
I did this
, he realised, with a feeling of power.

Moxon was also on his feet, but making no move to stop Bridget’s attack. Pablo, next to Glenn, was looking from face to face in bewilderment. Peter had done little more than raise his head.

Glenn said nothing. Bridget raised two clenched fists and waved them in his face. ‘
Glenn!
’ she yelled. ‘You shot my father. You owe me an explanation. You told me it was Peter. I would have gone through my whole life thinking it was him. Was that what you wanted?’

‘You’d have left him,’ he muttered, barely audible. ‘And come to me.’

Silence fell like a thick wool blanket. Then, ‘What?’ Bridget whispered. ‘What did you say?’

Glenn merely shook his head. Bridget backed away, then turned towards her husband. ‘Peter? Do you understand what’s happening? Do you see what he’s been doing?’

Harrison-West put out his hands, not to embrace her, but to fend her off. ‘Not Glenn,’ he choked. ‘Glenn loves me.’

With a warbling scream of appalled exasperation, Bridget smacked at one of his hands and left the room at a run.

Before the front door slammed shut, Pablo was on his feet, and bending over Glenn, delivered a crunching blow to the middle of his face. Blood spattered from his nose, and Moxon sprang into action.

Simmy peered through the rain at the house, past the long line of cars. There was nothing to hear or see. Was Moxon in there, sorting everything out – or was he still waiting in vain for her to show up in Troutbeck? Had there been a second gun after all, with Peter holding everybody at bay, including Ben and Bridget? Might she manage to look in through a window and discover for herself? Slowly she approached the front door, debating worriedly with herself.

The house was square and dark, with decorated windows and high-pitched roof. It looked proudly over Lake Windermere, perfectly situated for maximum sunlight and minimal gales. Even in her anxiety, she had time to think
Lucky Bridget, marrying into such a handsome property.

‘Madam?’ came a male voice behind her. ‘I’m sorry, but we’re not letting anybody in just now.’

It was a uniformed policeman, standing by one of the marked cars that she had passed without realising it was occupied.

‘Oh,’ she said, irritably. ‘I wasn’t going in, anyway. I was just—’

And then Bridget herself was there, running out of the house without a coat, heading for one of the cars that Simmy had already passed. ‘Hey!’ she shouted, and made a grab for the girl. ‘Where are you going? Where’s Ben?’

As if punctured, Bridget simply collapsed into her arms. ‘It was Glenn,’ she wept indistinctly. ‘Glenn killed them. And Peter won’t believe it.’

A second policeman materialised from the far side of the car and stood passively watching.

Simmy ignored both the men. ‘Come on,’ she said to the weeping girl. ‘Come and sit in my car and tell me about it.’ Rather to her surprise, Bridget willingly agreed, and they began to slosh their way back to the lane and Simmy’s waiting vehicle.

‘Er …’ started the first officer. ‘Nobody’s allowed to leave, either.’

‘What?’ Simmy glared at him. ‘Why?’

‘Orders,’ he mumbled.

Simmy held steady. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘Tell DI Moxon we’ve gone to my car, which is just over there.’ She pointed. ‘We want to talk.’

He hesitated, and Simmy lost patience. ‘For heaven’s sake. It’s raining. She’s upset. The police know where to find me. We can’t do any harm. Write a report saying I
refused to cooperate and you gave me a stern warning. What else can you do?’ Her mother would be proud of her, she thought fleetingly. All her life she had been reminded of the limits of police powers, despite their inexorable increase over the years. They relied on obedience, and when it was withheld, there were few options left to them. ‘Arrest me?’ she answered her own question. ‘For what?’

He hung on to his dignity, and waved her away without another word.

Once in Simmy’s car, Bridget sat sideways in the seat, holding Simmy’s eye as she brokenly told her story. ‘He wanted me to himself. He must have thought Markie and Daddy were in his way – and if he made me think Peter killed them, that would separate me from him as well. It’s all so simple, and so foul and horrible. He must have
planned
it.’

Simmy went blank with amazement. She could not even frame a question. ‘Glenn,’ she repeated stupidly. ‘He’s in love with you?’

Tears smudged the girl’s features, her lips swelled and her nose went red. ‘It’s so horrible. I’ve always been Peter’s girl, right from the start. Glenn never said a word. We were all friends together, with Pablo and Felix and Markie. It was like a story, you know? The Splendid Six we called ourselves sometimes, for a joke. They called me Timmy when I was little, like the dog in the Famous Five.’

‘Did Glenn ever have a girlfriend?’

‘Loads of them. But he kept them at a distance. Only one or two ever came walking or boating with us.’

‘How …? I mean, did he just confess, or what?’

‘It was Ben. He saw someone throw a stone at a squirrel,
just before Daddy was shot. I knew right away – that could only be Glenn. He always does that. He hates squirrels.’

Simmy forced her brain to function. ‘And
then
he confessed?’

‘Sort of. He didn’t have to, really, because I knew and he understood that it had all gone wrong.’

‘They still might need evidence, then?’

Bridget just blinked. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Listen. We’ll have to go and fetch that gun. I’m already supposed to be there while they search my house. They’ll be able to match it with the bullet, for a start.’

‘What good will that do?’

‘Well … they might find powder marks or something, on his clothes. Or flecks of his skin where he was when he fired.’

‘In this rain? Everything will be washed away.’

‘He was outside, then?’ Simmy’s need to know exactly where the gunman had been positioned was surprising, even to herself.

‘Yes. Behind a wall by the hotel.’

‘How near?’

‘Pretty near, apparently. What does it
matter?
’

‘No – you’re right. It doesn’t now. Except …’ Her skin was crawling with the knowledge that she had been almost face-to-face with a murderous gunman. ‘No, go on,’ she added.

‘I keep seeing that poor little squirrel …’ Bridget’s voice tailed away and she closed her eyes. ‘Stupid, I know, when there are much more important things to worry about.’

‘He said something about a squirrel,’ Simmy remembered. ‘Almost the first thing he said to me. Gosh. So what happens now?’

‘He’ll give himself up,’ said Bridget. ‘Pablo and Peter are going to force him.’ She heaved a long tragic sigh. ‘Poor Peter.’

‘Are they arresting Glenn, then? Is the Moxon man there?’

‘Who? Oh, yes. The inspector. Yes, he’s there. I think he had an idea all along that it must have been Glenn. He didn’t seem surprised.’

‘Didn’t he?’ Simmy tried to remember exactly what she had told him. Had he assumed all along that it wasn’t Peter? ‘He hasn’t been much in evidence all week, has he? Though I did see him yesterday.’

‘Doing background stuff,’ said Bridget vaguely. ‘I suppose.’

‘Is Glenn under arrest?’ Simmy asked again.

‘I don’t know. I left them before much could happen. I couldn’t face Peter. He didn’t really want me at all. He wants Glenn. Do you know what he said?’

‘What?’

‘That Glenn loves him. There was so much in those little words. The
betrayal
was what really hurt him. Not losing me. The real couple – that he really cares most about is him and Glenn, not him and me.’ Tears flowed again.

‘No. You’re wrong,’ Simmy tried to say, but Bridget drowned her out.

‘I want my mother,’ she wailed, like a small child. ‘Take me home. Please.’

Simmy started the car obediently, but made no attempt to turn it round. The word
betrayal
echoed in her mind, with all the sinking feelings that went with it. Like walking onto a surface you think is solid, and find yourself falling
into a quagmire. She had felt it herself when Tony had failed her. She thought about Peter Harrison-West and his inadequacies. ‘No,’ she said again, more loudly. ‘You’ve got it wrong. Peter loves you the most.’

‘How d’you work that out?’

She paused before trying to explain. ‘He was flattened when he thought you believed he was the killer. He lost all hope, went crazy with the injustice of it. He expected you’d stand by him, whatever happened. But he believed Glenn implicitly. Glenn told him that you’d lost faith in him. He was left all alone.’

‘He wasn’t. He had Glenn and Pablo.’

‘He didn’t want them. Glenn was acting all solicitous and brotherly, sympathising and promising to make it right – really acting the part, and Peter could only think of you.’

‘You make Glenn sound monstrous.’

Simmy waited for this thought to gain ground. She saw Glenn as an Iago figure, separating the lovers by finding their vulnerabilities. Having known them for most of their lives it was an easy task. But unlike Iago, Glenn’s motive seemed transparently clear – he wanted Bridget for himself.

‘He must be a psychopath,’ Bridget went on. ‘We always did wonder about him. He loves killing things – birds, especially.’

‘And squirrels.’

The girl heaved a tragic sigh. ‘Right. But he was never rough or violent with
people
. Markie idolised him. Poor Markie. What a ghastly waste. Simmy – let’s get the gun and take it to the police. We can’t let him get away with it.’

‘You said he’d confess. And I thought we were going to your mother’s.’

‘Later. Now I’m angry. I’d like to shoot Glenn myself for what he’s done.’

‘We’ll go back, then. But we’re not fetching the gun. It’s safe where it is.’

Bridget appeared to accept this, but Simmy saw a new thought fill her mind. ‘Oh – I forgot!’ she spluttered. ‘My bag. There’s something in my bag, in my car. We’ll have to get it.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Bridget said nothing, but shoved open her door and jumped out into the muddy puddle that had formed while they talked. Simmy was tempted to stay where she was, and perhaps make a few phone calls. She felt as if she were overflowing with new developments that should be conveyed to somebody. Precisely who, she wasn’t entirely sure. Instead, she switched off the engine and opened her own door.

They both peered down the drive as they reached it, expecting to see police escorting Glenn in handcuffs, or pushing Ben into a car. Instead there was nothing but the two police officers once more inside their steamed-up vehicle.

‘We came back,’ Simmy shouted to them as they drew level. ‘We need to go into the house.’

Both men responded eagerly. ‘We’ll have to escort you,’ said the officious one.

‘That’s fine. But first Bridget wants to get something from her car.’

Bridget had run ahead, and was already pulling the shoulder bag from the back seat. She opened it and peered in. ‘Do that indoors,’ said Simmy. ‘Whatever it is will get wet out here.’