by Rebecca Tope
Melanie looked unconvinced. ‘Mr Hayter killed himself somewhere on the side of the Old Man, didn’t he? So maybe there is something going on out there that she wants to show you.’
‘And it’s where her daughter and that dozy Baz have been working.’
‘But it doesn’t connect to the Jury – Drury – person, or the farm woman or Mrs Crabtree, does it?’
‘How would we know? Maybe they all belong to a walking club and saw something suspicious going on. That’s what Ben would say, anyhow.’
‘And the flowers you delivered were a way of warning them to keep quiet?’
‘Something like that – although it doesn’t seem to have worked. None of them showed any sign of knowing what it meant.’
‘Can I come with you?’ Melanie burst out. ‘And can we tell Ben? We can all go.’
‘You’re joking. No way am I going out there at all, on the strength of some childish email message. If she wants to tell me something, she can come here and do it face to face.’
‘You said that already.’
‘Well, I mean it.’
Melanie pulled a face. ‘It’s not the same as the phone messages, though, is it? This says to ignore all previous messages. And from what Joanna said, she hasn’t actually spoken to her mother directly since yesterday. It sounded as if it had all come through her father via that Baz. A whole chain of Chinese whispers. What if somebody’s deliberately pretending to be Kathy, just to stop us all from searching for her. What is he like, anyway, the Baz chap? Seducing students is a complete no-no. He’s living dangerously, if you ask me.’
Simmy said nothing, feeling painfully torn and resentful. She frowned over Melanie’s words. ‘I probably should have said something about that.’
‘Not your problem, Sim. Let her parents sort it out.’
‘That would be the easy option,’ Simmy agreed.
‘Yeah. So first find her mother, right? And for that, you’ll have to go to the hotel in Coniston.’
‘I might have to, because I still can’t quite believe that Kathy’s okay. This email is so weird.’
‘You’ve got to go to the Yewdale. You know you have.’
Simmy felt deeply inadequate. ‘Let’s just see, shall we? We’ve got all morning to get through first.’ Then her main preoccupation reasserted herself. ‘What was she like? Selena Drury, I mean.’
‘What? Oh! Very classy. Expensive clothes, posh accent. Made poor old Ninian look quite scruffy, I must say. Why are you worrying about her?’ Then she realised. ‘Oh, my God – you’re jealous. Oh, Simmy, how sweet! Listen – you don’t have to worry. You can have Ninian any time you like. He’s just waiting for you to click your fingers and he’ll be right there. Honestly. He’s not interested in anybody else, believe me.’
‘Shut up.’ Simmy blushed infuriatingly. ‘It’s not that at all. I just—’
She was saved by the shop doorbell. A middle-aged woman came in hesitantly. ‘Are you open for sending flowers?’ she asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ said Simmy. ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘Something for a friend who’s just come out of hospital. Did you know you can’t send flowers to patients any more? Not while they’re in hospital. Isn’t that a scandal!’
‘It’s ridiculous,’ said Simmy with feeling.
‘And bad for business,’ muttered Melanie.
‘Anyway, she’s home now, so I can send what I like. Could you do something cheerful for her?’
Simmy immersed herself in the selection of colourful spring blooms for the next five minutes. When the woman proffered three ten-pound notes, having recited the recipient’s address, something rang an alarm in her head. ‘Can I take your name and address as well?’ she asked. ‘Just for our records?’
‘Oh – that seems a bit unnecessary. You’ll be sending me advertisements and badgering me on the phone, I shouldn’t wonder. I’d much rather not give them. I don’t think you can insist, you know.’
For a fleeting second, Simmy wished she had a CCTV camera in the shop, to capture the woman on film. Then she felt the force of her own misguided thinking, and smiled an apology. ‘You’re quite right – I shouldn’t have asked. Of course you don’t have to tell me anything.’
‘It’s a sign of the times,’ nodded the woman. ‘I used to just go along with it, but just lately I’ve got a bit more assertive. Now I don’t even give my phone number when I order things online.’ She leant forward to whisper, ‘I just make up a string of numbers. The computer doesn’t know any different, you see.’ She chuckled. ‘We really can’t let them rule our lives, now can we?’ She shook the cash in her hand. ‘And I’ve been paying for as much as I can with cash. It’s ever so much easier, when you think about it.’
Here was a woman after Simmy’s mother’s own heart, and she wished Angie could hear her. ‘And good luck to you,’ she said warmly. ‘I’ll take the flowers to your friend later this morning, if that’s all right?’
‘Thank you, dear. I would go myself, but it’s more of a surprise if you do it. And I have to be somewhere else today, anyway. Now you’ve got the card safe, haven’t you – with my message on it?’
She had written, ‘Get better quickly, Sal. See you soon. Lots of love, Lynn.’
‘Yes, it’s quite safe,’ Simmy assured her.
When she’d gone, Melanie grinned. ‘Nice try,’ she said. ‘At least we could both identify her again if we had to.’
‘She’s a perfectly ordinary innocent person. I feel awful for acting as if she was anything else.’
‘Sign of the times,’ remarked Melanie. ‘Just as she said.’
The doorbell rang again, and another middle-aged woman came in. This time, the face was unmistakably familiar to Simmy.
Chapter Fourteen
‘I know her,’ Simmy breathed to Melanie, before greeting the woman with a smile. ‘Hello again,’ she said.
‘You remember me? I wasn’t sure you would.’
‘It was only yesterday,’ said Simmy, thinking it felt much longer ago than that. ‘You stopped me in Coniston.’
‘That’s right.’ The woman gave her a penetrating stare. ‘And you never told me about poor Jack Hayter or dear Tim Braithwaite. I feel sure you knew what had happened to both of them, and you let me go on wondering without saying a word. Of course I realised there was something very nasty going on, but I never dreamt …’ She clutched her own throat dramatically. ‘That poor man!’
Melanie was making low questioning sounds behind her, so Simmy made an awkward introduction. ‘This is the lady who sent the flowers to Mrs Aston, on the farm,’ she explained. ‘She wanted to put me straight about it, so she stopped me when she saw my van yesterday.’
‘Right,’ said Melanie slowly. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Pamela. My name’s Pamela Johnson,’ said the woman with some impatience. ‘And I have to say I’m not very impressed at all. I’ve had the police chasing round trying to find me, which I might say is very embarrassing. Everybody in Coniston knows about it by now, and they’ll be wondering what I’ve got to hide.’
‘You knew them? Mr Hayter and Mr Braithwaite?’ Simmy cut through the whining complaints. ‘So the police would have wanted to speak to you in any event, surely? It’s nothing to do with me at all.’
‘That’s as maybe. But they would never have known about me and Maggie Aston if you hadn’t told them.’ Triumph flickered on her face, as if a significant point had been scored.
‘So what?’ said Melanie. ‘Does that have anything to do with the two men?’
‘How well did you know them?’ Simmy interrupted. ‘Did you do their cleaning, as well?’
‘As well as what?’ The three of them were firing questions at each other, giving little time for replies. The air was spiky with accusation and misunderstanding. Pamela Johnson seemed to resent everything that was said to her, shaking her head as if nothing of relevance had yet been dealt with. ‘You’re not listening to me.’
&nbs
p; ‘All right,’ said Simmy, taking a deep breath. ‘What are you trying to say?’
‘I came to complain about the way you reported me to the police, when I did nothing wrong.’ It came out loud and clear. ‘I think it’s a disgrace, I do really.’
‘I didn’t report you. I’m sorry if it’s made things difficult for you, but what I’m trying to say is that they would very likely have wanted to speak to you anyway, if you knew the two men who died. They’ll be asking everybody in Coniston for background information on them, I expect. It can’t only be you they’ve spoken to.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ said Pamela Johnson mulishly.
‘Did you do their cleaning?’ asked Melanie.
‘As it happens, I did. Not regular, mind you – just when they were having people round. They liked to have the stairs given a proper going-over, and the curtains washed and the rugs shaken, in the old-fashioned style. Very old-fashioned they were, in some ways.’
‘So it must have been an awful shock to hear they were both dead,’ Melanie persisted. Simmy had already observed that the woman showed little sign of grief or upset at the loss of her employers.
‘Oh, well – yes, of course. But they weren’t what you could call friendly. I’ll miss the work, and they were nice enough in their way.’ She wriggled her shoulders. ‘A shock, yes. But shock doesn’t last long, now does it? Funny, that – the way a person can so quickly get to grips with all kinds of surprises, in no time at all. Course, it’s different if it’s one of your own. That’s a very different matter.’
‘Yes,’ said Simmy, thinking there was some real truth in the woman’s words. ‘But when somebody’s murdered in your own little village – that must take some getting used to.’
Pamela Johnson gave this some thought. ‘They’ll not be greatly missed. Men like that – they attract the wrong sort of people, don’t they? They’re not like the rest of us, just getting on with our lives as best we can, never getting excited or fighting. It’s just one drama after another with that sort.’
Simmy recalled Ben’s googling results. ‘But Mr Hayter entered his vegetables in the show. He sounds thoroughly ordinary.’
The woman laughed scornfully. ‘A few runner beans don’t buy popularity, I can tell you.’
‘But you remember them, all these years later? That’s amazing.’
‘There was some trouble,’ said Pamela shortly. ‘Not so easily forgotten.’
‘So, what sort of men were they?’ Melanie demanded to know. ‘Are you saying they were gay?’
‘That’s what everybody said.’
‘Did they share a bedroom?’
‘Mind your mouth, miss! Just you watch what you’re asking.’
‘Did they?’
‘Seems not. But that could’ve just been for show. Keeping up appearances, sort of thing.’
‘Did you ever see them doing anything to suggest they were a couple?’
‘Like what? I never saw them kiss and cuddle, if that’s what you mean. But two men living together – what else are people to think?’
‘They had lady visitors, didn’t they?’ Simmy ignored a small inner voice that suggested she should not share facts disclosed to her by DI Moxon. The whole direction of the woman’s words were irritating her beyond endurance.
‘One lady visitor, every few months. Sixty, if she was a day. They told me she was Mr Braithwaite’s sister.’
‘When you first came in, you called him dear Tim Braithwaite. That sounded as if you liked him. So why are you trying to blacken his character now?’
Flustered and cross, Pamela Johnson snapped, ‘He was a dear, some of the time. All I’m saying is, that sort of a lifestyle can get a man into trouble. Maybe I went a bit too far just now, but you did push me, you know you did.’
‘Mr Hayter has a daughter and Mr Braithwaite has a son, called Jasper. Both the men have been married. I know that doesn’t prove anything, but I really think you ought to take care in what you say. The police see no reason to believe they were a couple. Even if they were, that’s no reason for the village to think the same way you seem to. Why would it be so shameful to admit you’re shocked and sad that they’re both dead?’
‘Because life has to go on,’ Pamela shot back. ‘And we need to find an explanation for what’s happened, before it can do that. Those men were incomers, with all sorts of London connections and business things we don’t understand. Jack Hayter killed himself, right? So he had worries of some sort. Money or a scandal. Then someone came to Coniston, bold as brass, and murdered Tim. Left him outside in the cold for anyone to find him. Might have been a kiddie, or someone with a weak heart. Did they think of that? I saw him myself on Monday evening, coming out of the pub. Looked perfectly all right, and then – bang! He’s dead. As you say, a real shock. Believe me, my dear – nobody’s being bigoted or doing a hate crime, or whatever they call it. We’re just getting by the best way we know how.’
‘You saw him on Monday? So you will have been a help to the police. That’s crucial information.’
‘Don’t see why. Everybody in the pub would have seen him as well.’
‘Was he drunk?’
‘Not a bit. Seemed just as normal to me.’
‘What did you do to Maggie Aston?’ Simmy changed the subject so suddenly that Melanie as well as Pamela looked stunned. Two mouths hung open in unison.
‘You said that’s what you came to talk about, so let’s talk about it.’
‘I-I told the police, so I don’t see why I have to tell you.’
‘You don’t, of course,’ said Simmy coolly.
‘Oh, I suppose I should. It was her little boy, Edward. I help out at his nursery a couple of days a week, and a little while ago I accidentally spilt some hot water on him. He was ever so upset and it left an awful blister on his arm. I was in real trouble, and they said I’d have to stop coming. It was always a bit iffy, you see, because I’m not qualified. I knew it couldn’t last. But in all the unpleasantness, little Edward got forgotten. So I decided to send the flowers. I told the police the whole story.’
‘But Maggie didn’t realise the flowers came from you. Wouldn’t it have been sensible to put your name on the message?’
‘I just assumed she’d know.’
‘Couldn’t it be possible that she did know, but still hasn’t forgiven you?’
‘Oh, no. I spoke to her and she said it was all right. She’d decided to stop work and stay at home with Edward, and thanked me for helping her come to that decision. She hadn’t been enjoying the job anyway, and her husband’s started a nice little sideline breeding Border terriers, so money’s not as tight as it was.’
As an answer, it was gratifyingly comprehensive. ‘Border terriers? Are they particularly pricy, then?’ asked Melanie. ‘My mum tried breeding dogs once, when I was five, but the pups all died. Mug’s game, if you ask me. You just get landed with a load of unwanted dogs because their tails curl in the wrong place.’
‘Not according to Maggie,’ said Pamela. ‘They had seven pups in the first litter and sold them all at seven-fifty each. That’s nearly six months’ earnings, if you take out the nursery fees and petrol and all that.’
‘Seven hundred and fifty quid for a dog?’ Melanie’s voice rose in disbelief. ‘You’re joking.’
‘What was Maggie’s job?’ Simmy asked. She was still hoping to find some link between all the people in the case. DI Moxon had once told her she was good at seeing the big picture, and ever since then she had tried to do just that.
‘Some sort of admin assistant for the National Trust. What we used to call a secretary, I suppose.’
It was evident that the conversation had dried up. After an awkward hiatus, Pamela turned to go. But first she fired one last shot. ‘Just be more careful who you betray to the police. Things aren’t always what they seem, remember.’
Wordlessly, Simmy watched her leave. Then she pulled a face at Melanie. ‘At least we’ve almost got the full set now. Apart
from the ones for Mr Hayter, somebody from all those strange flowers has been in.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ grumbled Melanie. ‘This Pamela person is the only one I’ve seen.’
‘You haven’t missed much – although I did quite like Mrs Crabtree.’
‘“Betray” is a bit strong,’ Melanie sympathised, accurately pinpointing the word that Simmy was still struggling with.
‘I thought so. It never even crossed my mind that she’d be annoyed about it. Same as Mrs Crabtree, actually. She came in to complain about the very same thing. Either everyone round here is involved in some huge criminal enterprise, or they distrust the police on an epic scale.’
‘The second one,’ nodded Melanie. ‘Nobody wants to get themselves on that database, do they? They’re convinced that every name that a cop writes down is kept for ever.’
‘They’re probably right. My mother would say so, at least. But you’d think when there’s a murder, they’d want to help.’
‘Not if they don’t see it as their problem. You heard her. They’ve convinced themselves that a pair of old queens got themselves bumped off for murky reasons that don’t concern the locals at all.’
‘Are we allowed to say “queens”?’
Melanie did her alarming eye roll. ‘There’s a lot worse I could say. Not that it worries me at all.’
‘Some of your best friends are gay,’ said Simmy with a laugh.
But Melanie merely frowned and said, ‘No, they’re not.’
‘It’s a thing … oh, never mind. What time is it?’ She answered her own question with a glance at her watch. ‘Ten to ten. Right. Must be time for a coffee.’
‘Yes, boss. Coming right up.’
Twenty minutes passed uneventfully, with Simmy alternately worrying about Kathy and pondering on small-town prejudices. Inevitably she thought of her mother as her chief source of information on the habits and opinions of Cumbrian people. Angie belonged to a few local organisations and engaged in regular discussions on a multitude of subjects. Her own opinions were defiantly individual and outspoken. Instinctively she avoided buzzwords such as homophobia or hate crime, rightly pointing out that neither of those particular examples made the slightest sense. ‘They’re deliberately selected to influence people’s thinking,’ she would explain. ‘If you sow the idea that dislike of gay people arises from a person’s own psychological problems, you make enormous progress in changing the cultural viewpoint,’ she said once. ‘I mean – that’s not necessarily a bad thing in the long run, but it’s sneaky, all the same. It’s playing dirty, because it’s based on a very uncertain premise. It closes off so many other perfectly valid attitudes. Essentially it works against free speech, not to mention free thought.’
