The Coniston Case

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Shut up. You don’t know anything about it. Jo and I … we …’

  ‘Oh, please. Don’t give me that. Valentine’s must have gone to your head. You must be seven or eight years older than her. It’s exploitation from a position of power. You’re her tutor, you bastard. What do you think the college is going to say when I tell them?’

  ‘Shut up,’ he repeated, turning pale. ‘You can’t tell them. I’ll lose my job.’

  ‘You should have thought of that sooner.’

  Again his eyes flickered towards the entrance to the tunnel or shaft or whatever it was, and an idea was visibly born. ‘I just need two more days, and then you can do what you like. Once we’ve got all the data properly recorded, it isn’t going to matter so much. Jo’s an adult. She can speak for herself. But if you rock the boat now … I can’t allow you to do it. I absolutely can’t. I’ve been five years setting all this up. I’m not throwing it away now.’

  Kathy felt no fear, but a niggling sense of sympathy for his distress was trying to push itself forward. She quelled it firmly. ‘If you’d only had the sense just to smile and say “Hello” when I first saw you, I’d have thought nothing of it. Probably forgotten the whole thing in five minutes. But now it’s all much too late. You can’t hope to stop me. And I’ve got no choice but to remove Jo from your clutches. She’s not safe out here.’

  Kathy had never feared men, since none of them was capable of the noisy tyranny she had known from her father. After him, all others were wimps. Just the same, there was an uncomfortable impasse going on with this one. If it came to a struggle, he might prove the stronger. His desperation made him unpredictable. And he was right – there really was nobody else out here on this chilly February day.

  ‘People are expecting me,’ she bluffed. ‘They know where I am, so if I don’t show up soon, they’ll come looking for me.’

  ‘What people?’

  It felt much too risky to admit to the arrangement to meet Joanna, so she invented a variation on the truth. ‘Friends. I’ve got a lunch date with three friends in Coniston. I should be there in about half an hour.’

  ‘You won’t make it. I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Yes I will. My car’s just down at that bridge – whatever it’s called. It’s less than a mile away. In fact I’m going back now. Don’t even think of stopping me.’

  It was worth a try, but it had the exact wrong effect. He was still holding her arm, and now his grip tightened. ‘I will stop you,’ he grated. ‘I don’t have any choice.’

  He looked once again at the hole he’d emerged from, clearly considering the possibility of pushing her down it. But the plan evidently had some defects and he shook his head.

  Then it came to him. ‘Phone them! Tell them you’ve had car trouble or something. You won’t make the lunch date. Then I’m going to lock you in the van while I get on with my work.’

  This struck Kathy as a very convenient suggestion. ‘All right,’ she said, bringing the phone out of her pocket.

  ‘No. Wait. They’ll ask a lot of questions, and you might say something before I can stop you. Send a text. Don’t say where you are. Show it to me first.’

  She thought quickly, trying to remember exactly how much information a phone showed on its screen when a text was being sent. Quite a lot, she feared. But if she thumbed it in quickly, he wouldn’t be able to stop her. So she composed a message that she hoped would arouse at least some concern in the recipient. ‘Car misbehaving. Am awaiting RAC.’

  ‘Will that do?’ she asked him, pushing it into his face. ‘That’ll stop them looking for me, won’t it?’

  He nodded. ‘Send it, then.’

  With rapid movements, she sent it to Joanna, hoping feverishly that he wouldn’t be able to read the tiny words and numbers.

  As it turned out, he didn’t bother to look, but instead simply snatched the expensive gadget and threw it on the ground. Then he stamped on it repeatedly. It was like watching someone savaging a puppy. Kathy whimpered. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

  ‘I did, actually. Never trust a woman with a mobile. Now you’ll have to come with me.’

  ‘Where to?’ She knew the question was fatuous, the answer unlikely to be helpful, and yet she asked it automatically. It was something to do with trying to maintain a degree of normality, hoping that this impossible situation would transform itself into an ordinary exchange between two civilised people.

  He gave no answer at all, but pulled her by the arm down the slope of the hillside. She tried to look at him, to assess his mental state. If she kicked him hard, or gave him a violent push, he might well let go. Then she could do her best to outrun him. It was certainly worth a try. But he seemed to read her mind, because that was when he drew the knife from a sheath on his belt.

  ‘What are you doing with that? Don’t you know it’s illegal to carry a lethal weapon like that?’ she demanded, still not quite afraid. This was another fatuous question, but she had locked onto a hope that he was sufficiently rational to realise that he had just overstepped a very significant line. It was a plain, pointed knife, seven or eight inches long, with a black handle. She had one very like it in her kitchen, which cut through raw meat like butter. Her hopes receded. No ordinary person would fashion a sheath for it and take it outside with them. Her daughter had obviously fallen in love with an unstable lunatic. ‘If anybody sees it, they’ll report you to the police,’ she added defiantly and uselessly.

  ‘What do you think I’m going to do with it?’ he said, and slashed the air.

  That was when she felt frightened.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was a very tall, slender, handsome black man. Simmy knew immediately who he must be, but not why he should appear so emotional. His eyes bulged, and he held one arm in front of him, the fist tightly curled.

  It was the boyfriend from Newby Bridge. Rapidly, Simmy reviewed the events of the morning. She had not delivered the flowers intended for his address. They were still in the back of her van. Miss Drury, his girlfriend, was working somewhere in Coniston, and believed herself to be the victim of a nasty prank designed to sour things between herself and this man. A fourth nasty prank that week, in fact.

  ‘Aye aye,’ muttered Ninian. ‘Looks like trouble.’

  ‘Sshh,’ said Ben, shrinking towards the back of the shop, eyes wide.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Simmy asked, trying not to sound nervous.

  ‘My name is Solomon Samalar. I saw your van,’ the man said, in an accent more suggestive of Eton than Mogadishu. ‘You came to my house with flowers this morning.’

  ‘I did. But there was no reply when I rang the bell.’

  He ignored this, and took a step forward. ‘They were for Selena, is that right?’

  ‘Miss Drury,’ she nodded, abandoning any attempt to protect the wretched girl. Looked at in a certain way, she had already been remiss in taking money for the order and then failing to deliver the flowers. Any further misbehaviour in the form of fibbing or concealing was definitely not a good idea.

  ‘So where are they now? The flowers?’

  ‘In my van. I spoke to Miss Drury and she said she didn’t want them. I was left in an awkward position,’ she added defensively. Only then did she remember that she had told the police about the order. This man might find that an even more infuriating act on her part.

  ‘I will take them,’ he said, lowering his fist, but standing very tall.

  ‘Not addressed to you, mate,’ said Ninian, who was successfully presenting a thoroughly unthreatening demeanour. Simmy almost allowed herself to describe him as cringing. But his words were brave, she supposed. Ben had practically disappeared from view behind some ornamental grasses.

  ‘Addressed to my house, sir. And not delivered as promised. Am I not right?’ he asked Simmy.

  ‘Technically, yes,’ she agreed. ‘But you see – it’s really not that simple. I’m very much afraid that there’s something rather unpleasant going on, with people sending
flowers in order to create trouble and upset. It looks as if yours are one of these malicious orders. The police—’

  ‘Police?’ He spoke in a whisper that carried disbelief and rage in equal measure. ‘The police?’

  ‘Well, yes. There was a murder, you see, in Coniston, which might somehow be connected to these flowers for people … I mean, it’s all a real muddle, but—’

  ‘Trouble and upset,’ he repeated, more calmly. ‘Is that what you said?’

  ‘Yes. It’s really quite horrible, using flowers in such a way, when they’re meant to bring happiness. I’m quite upset about it myself. I hate delivering worry and confusion to people. I never know when the next one will be, you see. They all appear so innocent – new job, new house, apology and so forth. But they all carry an underlying message that frightens people. And yours … Miss Drury’s, I mean … turned out to be another of them. They came from someone she doesn’t know, apparently. Designed to make you think she has another boyfriend, or something like that. You really need to understand that it’s all a way of getting at her for some reason.’

  His features relaxed somewhat as he tried to take it all in. ‘Another boyfriend? You’re telling me that some stranger is trying to make me jealous? To disrupt the relationship I have with Selena? Someone who knows her, evidently? And wishes her ill. Did you see this person?’

  ‘Yes,’ Simmy admitted. ‘But all I remember is a man in a long dark coat. My assistant dealt with him, but she’s not here just now.’

  ‘And did this mysterious man order flowers for the other people who have been troubled and upset?’

  ‘We’re not sure. It doesn’t seem very likely. Two more came in different ways – one was in the post and the other was sort of thrown in here. That was the one for Maggie Aston, I think.’

  ‘Did they give their details? Names? Addresses? How did they pay?’

  He was as importunate as DI Moxon, and Simmy was loath to cooperate any further. ‘It’s all under investigation,’ she said.

  ‘By the police?’ There was none of the alarm or annoyance that she was expecting. Instead, Mr Samalar smiled. ‘So others have been as enraged by this malice as I was myself.’

  ‘Not exactly.’ She bit her lip.

  ‘Don’t say any more, Sim,’ Ben advised. ‘The inspector wouldn’t want you to.’

  ‘And who might you be?’ the man asked the youngster. Then he looked at Ninian. ‘And you? I took you for a customer, but perhaps I have it wrong?’

  ‘They’re both friends of mine,’ Simmy explained.

  ‘And the boy is a detective? A police apprentice of some sort?’

  Simmy laughed. ‘That’s not too far from the truth of it. He does have plans for a career in crime detection, or whatever it’s called these days.’

  Her laughter, albeit slightly choked and brief, did a lot to relieve the strain. The tall man smiled faintly. ‘I’m grateful to you for the explanation,’ he said, bowing his head with an old-fashioned dignity. ‘You must forgive me for being angry.’

  Ben found courage to take two steps forward. ‘But why were you? What got you so worked up? You saw Simmy’s van at your place – so what? And why’d you take so long to get here? Her address and phone number are on the side of the van.’

  The man tilted his head and looked down at his questioner. ‘I only saw the name, Persimmon Petals, from the window of my upstairs study. I was on the telephone and did not hear the doorbell ring. I saw this lady carry flowers from my front gate to her vehicle and put them in the back. I could not understand it, so I telephoned Selena to ask whether she had made an order for some reason and whether I should try to recover the blooms. Her reaction was very out of character. She stammered and prevaricated, which I found confusing and a little suspicious. She told me to think no more about it, because it was obviously a mistake, and you had come to the wrong house. So I had some lunch and thought it over, and found myself unable to credit what Selena had told me. Hence my presence here now.’

  Nobody spoke after this speech, but all looked at each other with little nods and raised eyebrows. The pinging doorbell came as a relief, and the presence of a small elderly man with a hesitant manner sent Simmy into full professional mode.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she trilled.

  ‘Yes, I hope so. It has just come to my notice that today is St Valentine’s Day, and I was wondering whether you might have a bouquet of red roses that I could buy? I have a lady friend who would be delighted to receive something of that sort. I realise I’ve left it rather late.’ He smiled self-mockingly, his cheeks pink with embarrassment.

  ‘Of course,’ Simmy assured him. ‘How many would you like?’

  ‘How many would you recommend?’

  ‘Well, most people have ten, or sometimes a dozen.’

  ‘A dozen,’ he said decisively.

  With a light tread, Simmy went out to the back room and collected the blooms. There was something solid and sensible in amongst the romantic frivolity generally associated with red roses. It was business. Compared to a murky murder enquiry, where everything was half understood and constantly changing, this simple transaction was a gust of fresh air. She wrapped and presented the flowers with a smile. ‘I hope she likes them,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, she will. Thank you very much.’ And the satisfied customer took his leave.

  As did the Somali, apparently realising he had nothing left to say. Simmy watched him turn left along the street, walking with long strides, his head held high. He was about forty, she guessed, and expensively dressed. His house had been substantial. Was he in Britain legally? Was he conducting some shady international dealings involving refugees and human trafficking? Stop it, she told herself, aware that yet again she was taking on Ben’s sort of thinking.

  Ben himself was almost hopping with excitement. ‘Wow! Exotic or what!’ he crowed. ‘What a brilliant bloke! I thought he was going to hit you.’

  Ninian coughed. ‘He would never have dared,’ he protested.

  ‘Not you. Simmy.’

  ‘You can understand his suspicion,’ said Simmy. ‘The girlfriend was worried he’d react like that – and he did.’

  ‘You’ll need to tell me the whole story,’ said Ben. He settled onto the chair beside the till and extracted a large notepad and pen from his bag. ‘I’m going to make a diagram of everything that’s happened this week, and see if we can find a pattern to it.’

  Simmy and Ninian sighed in unison. The potter reached behind his head and tightened the band that held his hair in its ponytail. Then he squared his shoulders. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘I need to get home before dark, or I’ll get waylaid by highwaymen.’

  ‘Or stolen by goblins,’ said Simmy. The joke fell disappointingly flat. At some point the atmosphere had changed and the thread connecting them had lost its shine.

  ‘Bye, then,’ said Ben carelessly.

  ‘Melanie sold one of the vases,’ Simmy remembered.

  ‘Yes, she told me, and she gave me the cash out of a tin under your counter. Very efficient young lady, your Melanie.’

  ‘Indeed she is.’

  ‘I’ll try and get down again tomorrow with a replacement pot, shall I? I’ve got a rather handsome dark-blue thing you might like.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘The others have been admired. I expect we’ll sell them all, once the tourist season gets going.’

  His smile was uncertain, as if afraid she might say something else that he might not want to hear. And then he went, leaving Ben with pen poised, eyes eagerly expectant.

  ‘So?’ he prompted.

  ‘Oh, Ben. Are you sure we ought to be doing this? Can’t we just leave it all to the police? I’m going there after work, to explain what happened this morning. They’ll be able to connect it all up just as well as we can.’

  He shook his head. ‘What did happen this morning?’

  ‘The flowers for Miss Drury at Newby Bridge, for a start. You’ll have got the gist of that already. Then I went to Coni
ston and a woman flagged me down – I wish people would stop doing that – and told me she sent the flowers to Mrs Aston at the farm. It was like a dramatic confession to some awful crime. She really seemed quite upset. And she knows about the murder, which isn’t surprising. I gather it’s been on the news. Oh, and Kathy’s gone missing.’

  Ben looked up from his pad. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why the Coniston stuff all seems so long ago. A lot more’s happened since then. Kathy’s daughter, Joanna, came in at two o’clock and said her mum sent a text about her car breaking down, and she was waiting for the RAC man. Then her phone went dead and we don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Have you told Moxo?’

  ‘No. Joanna says she wants to keep the police out of it. She’s doing something dodgy up on the slopes of the Old Man, and her friend Baz would not take kindly to police attention. Something like that.’

  ‘Something dodgy? Like what?’

  ‘Measuring rainfall or temperature or something. Kathy gave me a garbled version of it yesterday. Something about going against mainstream thinking about the climate, because the statistics weren’t properly obtained. Sounds a bit heavy for a bunch of undergraduates.’

  He gave her a reproachful look, reminding her that he may be a mere sixth-former, but that nothing was too heavy for him. ‘Well, that connects to the Braithwaite man, doesn’t it? Like – obviously.’ His patronising tone was probably deserved, Simmy decided. ‘What if these students have got some data that supports – or contradicts …’ he frowned for a moment, ‘what he’s been saying? Either way there’s likely to be trouble. If they’re worried about the police, that suggests there might already be some trouble.’ He tapped his teeth with the pen. ‘The thing is – how, if at all, does this connect to these nasty flower messages?’

  ‘It doesn’t, Ben. They’ve already been explained. Mrs Crabtree’s got a daft sister – have I told you about that?’