by Rebecca Tope
‘I don’t know how worried I should be,’ the woman said. ‘As a rule I’d trust him to know what he was doing. But I’ve never had the police come to the door before. He’s never gone missing before.’
Helen Harkness was in her early fifties, mother of five children and a very successful architect. Ben was the second child, his great intelligence something the family had long ago accepted as a mixed blessing. Impatient with his siblings, awkward in social situations, he had gone his own way almost from the start. Both his parents erred on the side of neglect, by modern standards. But thus far, they had never found reason to regret their parenting style.
‘He’s a resourceful lad,’ said Moxon clumsily. ‘But given that he’s still under age, we’re very much taking this seriously. Nobody will be more relieved than me when he’s found,’ he concluded, perhaps rashly. Surely, thought Simmy, his mother and father would be more relieved than even the most dedicated police officer.
‘So where are you looking?’ demanded Mrs Harkness.
Moxon grimaced, showing his teeth and sucking in a long breath. Simmy glanced around at the other people still gathered in the reception area, noting as she did so that her floral display was still quietly trying to enhance the general atmosphere, and failing quite badly. There was no sign of Melanie or Mrs Boddington-Webster. Penny had evidently abandoned her post on the reception desk and was nowhere to be seen, either. The two chambermaids were sitting together on a small, padded bench, looking even more bewildered than before. A woman in a suit and high heels stood beside the reception desk, clicking fingernails on its surface in a parody of typing or piano playing. Simmy had not seen her before. Nobody was giving her any attention. A uniformed policeman guarded the door into the corridor that Simmy had used on her first visit.
‘Can I go?’ Simmy asked Moxon. ‘You know where to find me.’
‘Er … not just yet. No. Hang on, if you don’t mind.’ He spoke without looking at her, still apparently groping for a response to Ben’s mother’s question.
‘Well, I’ll be in the garden,’ she said. ‘It’s too crowded in here.’
He let her go without protest. She walked across the gravel to the lawn at the side of the main building, where there were seats scattered about. It had a view over Esthwaite.
Frustration over Ben was making her jittery, so that sitting still was almost impossible. She understood for the first time the full meaning of the word ‘wired’. It was as if electrical filaments were firing in all her limbs, as well as inside her head. There had to be a solution to the crisis, an explanation for what had happened. The abductors must have left clues – they must want something. Either they would kill their captive or make some sort of demand using him as leverage. Except that none of this fitted the scanty facts. Much more likely that they had panicked when they realised he had seen Dan’s body, and his killers, and been bundled into some sort of vehicle simply to prevent him from calling for help. Which he had been doing, Simmy remembered miserably, and she had stupidly failed to heed his call. So then, they would drive him away to a remote spot – in which the whole region abounded, after all – and then what? Leave him tied and bound, to starve to death? Arrange for him to escape after a period of time in which they could get far away? Drug him with some mind-altering substance that would dislocate his memory and perhaps leave him permanently damaged? Her imaginings grew darker and more terrifying, her anguished concern for her young friend less and less bearable.
She paced around, sometimes managing to sit down for a few minutes before jumping up again. The afternoon was sunny and much warmer than in recent days. She once again lost track of time, but became increasingly aware of thirst and hunger. She had consumed nothing since breakfast, and it now must be over halfway through the afternoon. Where could she get a drink? she wondered. When would Moxon finally get around to properly interviewing her?
There was no very obvious police activity, except for the usual tape marking off the area where Dan’s body had been found, but the doctor, photographer, and the body itself had all gone, blessedly quickly. Simmy had learnt for herself that sometimes a murder victim could lie where it fell for the best part of a day while authorities circled around it. Moxon and a few others were conducting interviews somewhere inside the hotel. Down on the little lake there were people in rowing boats, just enjoying the water, not even pretending to be catching fish. The mismatch between her thoughts and the world before her eyes made everything worse. And then, as if to reinforce the same feeling, a child’s cheerful chirruping broke into the gloom.
‘Race you, Mummy!’ it yodelled. ‘Right round the hotel and in through the back.’
‘Oh, no, Genny. I’m exhausted already.’
Genny – short for Gentian, of course. Why not have opted for Jennifer in the first place and have done with it, Simmy wondered sourly. The child itself now came hurtling around the corner, elbows pumping with the effort, despite her mother’s refusal to participate. ‘Oh! Hello,’ she said, spotting Simmy. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing much.’ She had been unconsciously pacing up and down the grass, sometimes watching the boats on the lake and then turning away to gaze up at the road into Hawkshead. ‘Have you had a good day?’
‘It was okay. We went to Bowness and had ice cream.’
‘Gentian, you ungrateful child. We did far more interesting things than that.’ Her mother had come within earshot, evidently relieved that the race had been aborted. She gave Simmy a look of appeal. ‘She’s never satisfied,’ she complained.
Simmy just smiled wanly. It wouldn’t be long before the woman realised that things were not as they ought to be at the hotel, but Simmy was not going to be the one to explain. There were sure to be details the police wouldn’t want spread around. And Gentian showed ominous signs of being unhealthily thrilled by any hint of murder and mystery. Another little Ben Harkness in the making, in all probability.
The front entrance to the hotel was not visible from where they were standing, so they were not prepared for the sudden appearance of the woman in the smart clothes and unsuitable shoes. She was scowling down at a mobile phone, barely looking where she was going.
‘She looks cross,’ said Gentian cheerfully and loudly.
The woman inevitably heard her and redirected her gaze accordingly. ‘I bloody well am,’ she said. ‘What sort of a hotel is this, where they can’t even handle a simple enquiry? And why are there police all over the place?’
Simmy gave her a cool appraisal. To anybody with half a brain, it must be obvious that something bad had happened. ‘Do you work here?’ the woman asked her.
‘No, I don’t. I think the hotel staff are in the middle of a crisis, don’t you? They might be a bit too busy to deal with casual questions. Why don’t you just phone them tomorrow?’
‘Highly unprofessional,’ the woman sneered. ‘They’ll never prosper if that’s their attitude.’
‘What crisis?’ demanded Gentian’s mother. Simmy had quite forgotten her name, if indeed she had ever heard it. It struck her that these two women had much in common. Both expected instant attention and servility. Something had given them each a powerful sense of entitlement. Neither could permit a little matter like a murder or abduction, divert them from their own wishes – unless the victim happened to be connected to them, of course. Then all hell would break loose.
‘I’m sorry. It’s not up to me to explain it. I’m sure neither of you is the least bit involved. I suggest you just get on with … whatever, and wait for things to get back to normal.’ Which they never would, of course, she realised. Not with Dan Yates dead and gone for ever. Not with the taint of murder hanging over the place for years to come.
‘You were here before,’ Gentian’s mother accused. ‘Who are you?’
‘Nobody important.’ She found she was rather enjoying the withholding of information. It went against so many social expectations, where gossip ruled supreme and nobody could let a question go unanswered. It ma
de her feel special and rather powerful. She resolved to do it more often in the future.
The effect was also gratifying. The woman’s mouth fell open and her cheeks darkened. ‘Sorry,’ Simmy added, ‘but that’s all there is to it.’
‘Well, I just hope we can get tea in the lounge, as usual,’ the woman huffed. ‘That’s all I can say.’
The one in the suit had clearly had enough. ‘I’m leaving,’ she said, as if this would cause acute consternation in her listeners. Simmy wondered why she’d walked around the side of the hotel in the first place, instead of going directly to her car. Then she reproached herself for her own paranoid suspicion. Anybody might feel drawn to give the place a good look, besides wanting to catch a view of the lake.
Gentian did a little skip, merely to remind everybody that she existed. ‘I want lemonade,’ she said. ‘They do amazing lemonade.’
This reference only served to make Simmy feel more desperately thirsty than before. Perhaps she could join the guests in their quest for tea. It sounded as if it must already be that sort of time. As if in confirmation, two more cars came along the drive, crunching over the gravel. In a collective move, the three women and small girl all shifted position so as to see who emerged from the vehicles. They drifted across the lawn in a smooth arc until they were level with the corner of the hotel. The first car to arrive disgorged two people. Simmy recognised the middle-aged couple she had seen on Monday. The woman, who Simmy remembered was called Rosemary, was carrying a bulky carrier bag, while the man remained fussily locking and then checking the car doors. They looked as if they’d spent a strenuous morning shopping – which seemed unlikely, given the location, despite the galleries and china shops in Hawkshead. The smart woman, to Simmy’s surprise, went over and spoke to the Lillywhites. Spreading the poison about the hotel, Simmy supposed, or trying to elicit another lot of complaints to use as ammunition. She couldn’t hear what was said, but it looked amicable enough. To judge from the body language, the couple were not displeased by the approach, showing no hint of indignation or concern.
The second car contained two men in their twenties. Only when they had climbed out and were standing shoulder to shoulder staring at the hotel did Simmy guess they might be police detectives. How many more people would be shipped in before the day was done, she wondered. Then one of them turned and bent over the back seat of the car. When he straightened again, he was holding a large camera with a long lens.
‘Surely they can’t be reporters,’ she muttered.
But it would seem that they were just that. They observed the various cars scattered around and apparently recognised one or two of them. The one without the camera spotted Simmy and headed for her. ‘Sounds as if there’s been some trouble up here,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ Again she enjoyed the sensation of deliberately withholding information.
‘Do you work here?’
‘No.’
‘Who are you, then?’
‘I might ask you the same question.’
‘We can see DI Moxon’s car, as well as another police vehicle. We’ve heard the call for a body to be taken to the mortuary. And there’s also something about a missing person. A boy, by the sound of it. So stop messing about and tell us what’s going on.’
‘Why on earth should I? You still haven’t introduced yourself.’
‘We’re from the Gazette. We thought there might be a statement by now. The police actually find us pretty useful, you know,’ he finished defensively.
‘Surely the statement would be made to all the media people together? Surely it’s very intrusive of you to come here hoping for special treatment? If somebody has died, then don’t you risk upsetting the friends and relatives?’
‘Oh, you’re no use at all,’ he snapped and turned away from her. His eye fell on the Lillywhites, who had still not made it into the hotel, and he headed for them. Simmy relaxed, knowing the couple could have nothing interesting to impart. Her main feeling was concern that careless words spread by the media would jeopardise the search for Ben. At the very least, it would make his captors more careful. As she watched the frustrated journalist ask his probing questions, she was rescued by the detective inspector hurrying out from the main entrance.
‘Jamie Murray – get away from these people,’ he said, sounding more irritated than angry. ‘You should know better.’
‘Mr Moxon, sir. Can you give us at least the basics?’
‘Not until we make our official statement. 6 p.m., in Hawkshead. The main car park, most likely. Until then, you are officially requested to say nothing. This is all extremely sensitive. Your editor will already have been contacted, most likely. Now go away and leave these good people in peace.’ He addressed the Lillywhites. ‘I’m afraid there’s been some trouble here today. Could you come with me, please, and I’ll go over it with you. I’m Detective Inspector Moxon,’ he added. Then he noticed Simmy. ‘Mrs Brown. Oh lord, I’m sorry.’
‘You forgot about me,’ she said.
‘I did. Listen – I don’t think we’ll need you for now. Thanks for waiting. You must have things to do.’
‘When do I get my phone back?’
‘Oh – that’s a good question.’ He tapped a front tooth for a moment, and then said, ‘I can’t see that we need it now. Go and ask for it. Say I told them to give it to you. Once it’s gone back to the station, there’s a stack of paperwork to fill in before it’s returned.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, aware that he was making a special exception for her. Then she waited until the reporter and his friend had driven away before speaking again. ‘The only thing I want to do is find Ben. And I imagine you know better than I do how best that should be done.’ She could have added that she urgently needed a drink, but that would have felt unworthy and selfish. She had no wish to go back into the hotel, a prey to staff and guests and all the things they might want to ask her.
‘Who’s Ben?’ asked Mr Lillywhite. ‘I must say, this is all very disconcerting. Police everywhere and somebody lost. It’s not another disobedient child, is it?’
His wife gave a little chuckle at this, which made Simmy look at her. She had not seemed to be the chuckling sort, the last time they’d met. Perhaps her submissive demeanour was no more than ingrained habit, concealing a more robust personality. Or perhaps the laughter was merely a nervous tic. There wasn’t anything funny, after all, in people going missing.
‘It will all become clear to you after we’ve had a little talk,’ said Moxon ponderously. ‘The guests will all be returning soon, I imagine, and we’ll be speaking to you all over the coming hour or two.’
‘But why?’ asked Mrs Lillywhite. ‘Can’t you tell us what this is all about?’
Simmy left Moxon to it, found the man with her phone, and finally escaped to her van. Only as she started the engine did she wonder where she ought to go. Ben’s rucksack was still on the floor where he’d dumped it, looking forlorn and abandoned. It made her think of Dan Yates’s possessions in his room, never to be handled again by their owner. Fear for Ben gripped her, along with a terrible sadness. Her place was rightfully beside poor, shocked Melanie and the bewildered Helen Harkness. They and Bonnie all loved Ben in their various ways. They would all have theories and suggestions about what must have befallen him.
On the driveway she had to squeeze past a silver-coloured Audi driven by the tall man who was the other person she had met on Monday. And then, turning in from the road as she was turning out, a big four-wheel drive thing containing several people promised to add to the throng. It had darkened glass in the rear windows, so she couldn’t see everyone, but the driver was a man with sharp features and curly hair. Beside him sat another man, almost bald except for two white strips running above his ears. Two more men were in the back, but she barely registered their appearance. Only then did Simmy recall what Dan had said about expecting some important American guests in the near future. Could these be them, she wondered. And if so, what would they make of the chao
s they were about to walk into?
Chapter Nine
A minute’s drive took her to the turn into Hawkshead village with its numerous souvenir shops, tea rooms and pubs. Her throat felt terrible – she was in desperate need of a cup of tea. It was approaching five o’clock, though, and that was closing time by the ancient schedules that operated up here. In many ways Hawkshead was fixed around the 1950s – a fact much relished by Simmy’s father. ‘Even in the height of summer, they close by five,’ he said. ‘Although you can generally find a pub open, I suppose.’
She did not want a pub. She wanted a little table on the pavement and a pot of well-brewed tea all to herself. Hurriedly parking and pouring money into the machine, she then headed towards the village centre. Almost instantly she set eyes on a café that matched her requirements. The door stood open and she trotted in, holding her purse in readiness.
No problem, according to the woman at the counter. She could have all the tea she liked for two pounds. The first swallow was ambrosial. The world settled down again, for the few minutes it took to drain three teacups. She ignored the insistent pangs of hunger that now materialised once her need for fluid had been satisfied. But she could not ignore the temptation to justify the parking fee by making a little circuit of Hawkshead while she was there. It would be the first time she’d had a chance for a proper look, apart from a few flower deliveries made to properties close by. There were people in quantity, sitting at outdoor tables, strolling down the streets, walking their dogs. Very few vehicles impeded them, so they filled the middle of the road as well as the pavements, such as they were. The late afternoon light had a clarity that drew her attention to the stonework of the church, set on a hillock above the little streets, with a graveyard on yet higher ground behind it. Its clock told her the time was ten minutes to five. Ben had been gone for several hours – more than long enough for truly dreadful things to have happened to him.
