by Rebecca Tope
Ben tapped his teeth with the pencil. ‘I think not. The sister sent the flowers, did she?’
‘So it would seem. And there’s Mrs Aston’s remorseful friend and Selena Drury’s ex-boyfriend to explain the others. So the bottom line is that none of them’s got anything to do with violent deaths.’
‘Except Mr Hayter, who might have killed himself because of it.’
‘Please don’t say that,’ she begged. ‘Just when I was feeling better about it all.’
‘I’m still not convinced by these explanations, all turning up in a rush. Has anything like this happened here before?’
‘Anything like what, exactly?’
‘People getting flowers with messages that didn’t fit. That upset them.’
‘Well – there was Mrs Joseph in Ambleside. And see where that landed us.’ She shuddered and rubbed the freshly-healed injury that had kept her from driving for so long.
‘This is a bit like that, I suppose,’ he mused. ‘But only a bit. Nobody was trying to scare old Mrs J.’
‘Selena Drury wasn’t scared. In fact, none of them were. They were bewildered or cross, mainly.’
‘They might have got scared later, when they’d had time to think about it.’
‘Possibly. But none of them matters now. The really urgent thing is Kathy.’
Ben waved this aside, and tilted his head, thinking hard. ‘What if there’s a big group of people with some history between them, and there was an agreement that sending flowers with an inappropriate message was some sort of trigger to action? What if it signalled that the Braithwaite man should be killed for some reason? So one of them went and did it. It would be a brilliant way of communicating without leaving any trail. And what if the Hayter chap couldn’t stomach it, so he topped himself to get out of the whole business?’
‘Stop it, Ben. This is going too far.’
The boy ignored her. ‘Or could be they got the wrong chap. Which means they didn’t know each other personally. They’re a loose group, say. Or maybe the man who was killed wasn’t one of them, but presented some sort of threat. So they activated a prearranged plan, designed to eradicate anybody they didn’t like. Maybe Hayter was meant to do the dirty deed, and chickened out, so one of the others stepped in.’
As so often before, Simmy was drawn in, in spite of herself. ‘But I gave the flowers to the wrong man in the first place. Braithwaite instead of Hayter. Maybe by doing that I wrecked some delicate detail and caused the two deaths.’
‘Yes! Braithwaite should never have known anything about the flower messaging, so he had to die.’
‘Stop, stop!’ she begged him. ‘This is getting silly. I don’t like the implication that it might be all my fault, when it definitely isn’t. Everybody’s made it quite clear that the flowers were wrong in one way or another. They would never have done that if it had been some kind of signal. They’d just nod and thank me, and act according to whatever the message indicated.’
‘That’s probably true,’ he agreed, with a flicker of admiration at her clever thinking.
‘So, please stop all these flights of fancy. You were running away with yourself and I got caught up. I don’t like it.’
‘No, they’re not flights of fancy. We’re finding hypotheses that fit the facts. It’s what you have to do. Then you check to see if the hypothesis holds.’
‘And does my friend Kathy fit in here somewhere?’
‘That would constitute a big coincidence, which is never comfortable. We don’t like coincidences. The only link would be you.’ He chewed the pen. ‘And not in a good way. The only theory I can think of to fit that would be if Kathy was the killer, who already knew most of these people, without telling you about it, and chose you as her florist because she already knew you.’
Simmy’s heart thumped. ‘Watch it! That’s not funny.’
‘You have to consider every option,’ he defended. ‘It would make sense.’
‘Of course it wouldn’t. She wasn’t even here when that man was killed.’ She took a moment to order her thoughts. ‘I know Kathy might have been roaming around Bowness or Windermere or some other place during Thursday afternoon, but that was a long time after Mr Braithwaite must have been attacked.’
Ben nodded patiently. ‘Do we know exactly when he was killed, anyway? I don’t think Scott’s said anything helpful about that.’
Simmy tried to remember what Moxon had told her. ‘Wait a minute. All I can remember is that it was after Mr Hayter died. So I suppose that means between Tuesday and early Thursday.’
Ben frowned. ‘Why not Thursday afternoon?’
‘Well, he was …’ she swallowed and tried again. ‘He was very dead when I saw him. I just had the impression he’d been lying there for more than a few hours. Moxon was upset about it. He was a friend of his, you see He’s godfather to Mr Braithwaite’s son. He’s called Jasper. I must say I didn’t think he was being very professional about it, actually, although you can’t really blame him.’
‘I would think it might even endear him to you,’ teased the boy. ‘But you obviously picked up a whole load of information. ‘Do you know what killed him, as well?’
‘A knife. He was lying on his back, so I suppose it was done from in front – assuming they hadn’t moved him. They might well have done, of course. Moxon said he was stabbed between his ribs.’
‘Well, people have ribs back and front,’ Ben pointed out. ‘Was there a lot of blood?’
‘Hardly any, as far as I could see. Most of him was covered up. Can we stop the detailed questions now, please? It’s not helping.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Let’s just stick to the important part, which is that it can’t possibly have been Kathy. She only got here yesterday. And even if he’d only been dead a few hours, she didn’t have time to get to Coniston and back in the little time she was gone from here. It takes ages, whichever way you go. Besides, the idea is utterly ludicrous. She was with me when I got called to identify him. And why on earth would a housewife from Worcester murder anybody?’
‘Who can say? I told you, you have to explore every option.’
‘All you’re doing is distracting me from worrying about her, as I ought to. Look – it’s almost dark out there and there’s no sign of her. What if she’s fallen into a crevasse somewhere on the fells? She’ll die of cold before we find her.’ Suddenly, panic swelled in her chest, choking her. ‘Gosh, Ben, how can we just carry on as if everything was all right?’
‘Steady on! I only knew she was lost ten minutes ago. She’s your friend. And if you won’t tell the police, there’s not much we can do, is there? I for one refuse to go crawling about on the Old Man in the freezing dark. My mother would kill me.’
‘So would mine,’ she flashed. ‘Me, I mean, not you.’
He snorted, half laugh, half impatience. ‘So?’ he demanded.
‘I don’t know. Joanna’s so young, I can’t let her take it all on her shoulders. What if she takes it into her head to go and start searching for Kathy?’ She gave herself a shake. ‘Of course I have to tell the police. I’m going to shut the shop early and go there now.’
‘Wait a minute. Let me just finish this. Look.’ He drew four circles, radiating out from the centre of the page, which had a square containing the name ‘Braithwaite’. ‘Here’s Mr Hayter. And here’s the Hawkshead lady – what’s her name?’
‘Mrs Crabtree. She was in here today. I forgot to tell you.’
‘I need to put how all the different orders were delivered. Can you remember?’
‘Of course I can. Mr Hayter’s was a hand-delivered letter, which I found on Monday morning. Mrs Crabtree’s came in the post. Mrs Aston’s was chucked in by a person you and Melanie thought was female, but aren’t sure. That was on Wednesday. Miss Drury’s was another hand-delivered one, quite a while ago now – I can’t remember which day it was. A man dashed in and said he had to catch a train. Four different people, Ben. I’m certain about that.’
He wrote it all down, checking names and addresses with care.
‘You can cross Mrs Crabtree off,’ said Simmy.
‘Never mind her, then – at least for now. Here’s the farm woman. Aston, did you say? And lastly the people at Newby Bridge. All got unexpected flowers, with nasty messages.’
‘No – Mr Hayter didn’t. They were addressed to him, but his housemate took them, letting me think he was Mr Hayter. It just boils down to that one, Ben. The others don’t matter.’ Ben added notes to all the circles: wrong man, to the first; came into the shop to the second; sender confessed to the third, and smart black boyfriend to the last. ‘I don’t like to dismiss them all too lightly,’ he worried. ‘I can’t believe there’s no link between them somewhere.’
‘But they’re all so different. The stories are different. There are no proper connections between any of them.’
‘Coniston seems to be one,’ he argued, plainly unable to abandon the idea of a network between at least some of the people on his diagram. ‘Except the Crabtree lady’s in Hawkshead. Tell me what she said.’
‘She worked for the MoD, which I suppose is the Ministry of Defence, retired ages ago, is a good driver. And she said Hawkshead isn’t far from Coniston. She heard about the murder, because the police called on her this morning.’
‘Blimey, Sim! Ministry of Defence!’
‘She isn’t involved with them at all now. Sticks to local matters. Probably book groups and stuff like that.’
‘Probably anti-wind farm action groups,’ said Ben darkly. ‘Sounds the right sort of person for that.’
‘Very likely. So what? Do you think all this business is political?’
‘I think there’s some kind of group in the picture somewhere, yes I do.’
‘Why? Don’t you believe the explanations I’ve given you for Aston and Crabtree?’
‘I’m keeping an open mind,’ he said pompously. ‘It’s perfectly possible that they told you lies, precisely so you’ll stop thinking there’s any connection between them and the murder.’
Simmy moaned. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she complained. ‘You have to believe people.’
‘I don’t think so. It’s obvious there’s something going on, and we still have a massive list of unanswered questions. Why did they all choose you, for one?’
‘Coincidence.’
‘Possibly. But I still suspect there’s a link between all of them. It’s not family business, so what is it? These people aren’t all cousins to each other. They didn’t go to school together. They must be linked in some way, and that just leaves groups.’
Simmy forced herself to think. ‘Men and women, oldish and youngish, scattered around the area. One’s a farmer’s wife – except I still don’t think we should count her, because somebody already confessed very convincingly to sending those flowers. How can we ever hope to find a connection?’
‘That’s a job for the police. But, you know something? I think you must be right – I don’t think the same person sent the other flowers, anyway. But they might have known each other. It might all be part of a big picture.’
Simmy took her coat from the hook on the back of the door into the cool room. ‘I’m going, Ben. I need to talk to DI Moxon about Kathy as well as all this other stuff. I’ll tell him your ideas about a group of some sort.’
‘Can’t I come with you?’
‘Oh! Well, I don’t see why not, if you’re not supposed to be somewhere.’
‘The cop shop’s on my way home, anyhow.’
‘So it is.’ Ben lived in Bowness, a ten-minute walk from Simmy’s shop.
DI Moxon’s expression registered a complicated mixture of resignation and reproach with a dash of gratification, when he saw Ben. ‘I might have known,’ he said. ‘Have you brought me one of your famous dossiers again?’
‘Work in progress,’ said Ben, bringing his notepad out of the bag on his shoulder. ‘Mostly just names, ages and relevant observations.’
‘I ought to send you straight home, you know. However you look at it, you’re too young for this business. I’ll have your parents after me.’
‘Just pretend Simmy’s my mum,’ said Ben easily. ‘She can be in loco parentis then.’
‘I’m horribly afraid you’re going to find him rather useful – again,’ Simmy warned. ‘He’s full of theories.’
‘I don’t doubt it. I have no illusions about the effectiveness of a well-trained young mind. It’s just …’ he spread his hands to suggest defeat, ‘… he makes me feel sluggish and thick by comparison.’
Simmy avoided Ben’s eye, and merely smiled sympathetically. ‘Me too,’ she muttered.
‘Look on it as work experience,’ Ben advised. ‘If it makes you happier.’
Moxon arranged them all around a table holding a computer and a ring binder, and invited Simmy to describe in the fullest possible detail the events of the day. ‘First,’ she said, with a renewed rush of anxiety, ‘I have to tell you that my friend, Kathy Colhoun, has gone missing this afternoon. I should have told you sooner, but her daughter … well, her daughter wanted to have a proper look for her first.’ She winced inwardly at this untruth, annoyed at the need to maintain a sort of protective shield between the Colhouns and the police. ‘But now I haven’t heard anything for three hours, so I suppose she hasn’t found her and something more official ought to be done. It does all seem quite worrying,’ she finished, with true British understatement.
‘Missing?’ He repeated the operative word slowly, and eyed Simmy closely, trying to assess the seriousness of this new twist. ‘Where was she last seen?’
Simmy remembered that the dead Mr Hayter had also been reported missing by a worried daughter, and her own anxiety level rose considerably. ‘At my house, I suppose, at eight o’clock this morning. Then she phoned Joanna about half past nine, and Jo said she was too busy to meet her until lunchtime, or words to that effect. So Kathy went off on her own and then Jo got a text saying Kathy’s car was misbehaving and she’d called the RAC. Then the phone went dead, and there’s been no more news. We got through to the RAC but they wouldn’t tell us anything.’
Moxon made a noise, part groan, part sigh. ‘She’s a grown woman, right? In good health, mentally and physically?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘How old is she? And the daughter?’
‘She’s forty-five. Joanna’s twenty-two. She’s still at college. A group of them are up here doing scientific stuff on the slopes of the Old Man of Coniston. Kathy got a bit worried about them and came here to see what was happening. She’s an old friend of mine from Worcester. She’s staying with me.’ A fresh spasm of worry gripped her insides. ‘There must be something wrong, because she knows we’re meant to be spending this evening together.’
‘With you and not the daughter?’
Simmy paused, trying to remember what the plan had been. ‘I think so, yes.’
‘So you would definitely be told if and when she was found?’
Again, Simmy paused. ‘Yes. Kathy’s got my mobile number.’
‘But her phone has gone dead. Does she know your number by heart?’
‘Probably not.’
‘So she might not be able to contact you?’
‘She could find my landline numbers – at home or in the shop. She’s perfectly competent.’
Ben sat impatiently tapping his fingers on the table through all this. He was plainly unconcerned about a grown woman who had got herself lost, unless it could be demonstrated that she was involved in the murder of Mr Braithwaite. Moxon seemed to have a similar attitude. ‘Well, should we perhaps go through the other things first?’ he said. ‘A woman who approached you in Coniston, and another strange delivery of flowers in Newby Bridge?’
‘And a visit to the shop by Mrs Crabtree,’ Simmy added.
‘Right, right. One thing at a time. Start with the woman in Coniston. What exactly did she say?’
‘I can’t remember exactly. A lot’s happened since t
hen. She said she hadn’t meant to upset Mrs Aston with the flowers and she realised what a fool she’d been not to sign the card. She thought it would be obvious who they were from. It was a grovelling apology for something she did to Maggie.’
‘You don’t know what that was?’
Simmy shook her head. ‘Something awful, she said.’
Moxon and Ben looked at each other, in a very man-to-man sort of way. ‘How did she know Mrs Aston had rejected the flowers?’ asked the detective.
‘She’d spoken to her. Maggie told her she’d thrown the flowers across the yard. She said I must have felt bad about the waste. Which I did.’
‘It’s an odd story. What awful thing could one woman do to another, anyway? How old was this person?’
‘Fifty or so, I would guess. And Maggie Aston is mid thirties. I have no idea what the connection is between them, but there must be a logical explanation. Perhaps they’re both in the WI and the older one blocked Maggie’s bid for the Chair.’ Simmy felt rather pleased with herself at this inspired piece of invention. She was generally the one stuck for any creative thoughts.
‘We’ll have to find out who she is. Can you describe anything else about her?’
‘Hang on. Why do you need to see her? Don’t you think all these flowers are nothing but a red herring? Even Mrs Crabtree says now it’s completely innocent. Her sister sent them, apparently.’
‘Humour me,’ he insisted. ‘After all, we still have no idea who sent the flowers to Jack Hayter. This woman …’ he prompted.
‘Well, all right. She works as a cleaner – did I already say that? Not very tall, a bit plump, brown hair, dyed, I suppose. Local accent, but not very marked. Light-coloured eyes, rather deep-set. She had a blue coat on. She knew there’d been some sort of incident down at Mr Hayter’s house. Said she’d heard it on the news. Didn’t mention murder or even a death. Just “something nasty”.’
‘Should be easy enough to find her,’ said Ben. ‘Ask at the post office in Coniston and they’ll know right away. There can’t be many cleaners with blue coats.’
‘Even easier than that – ask Maggie Aston,’ said Simmy, with a touch of smugness.
