by Rebecca Tope
She had to take a deep breath, quelling indignation and apprehension. ‘There were two other people with her. How can I tell you any more than they can?’
‘Let me explain, then.’ He looked round for somewhere to sit, as he very often did, leaving Simmy to reproach herself for the hundredth time for not adding a chair at the back of the shop. As it was, only one person could seat themselves at a time, on a wobbly stool in front of the computer.
She waved at the stool. ‘Go on, then. Sit here, while I get on with tomorrow’s orders. I can do some of it in here, just about.’ There really wasn’t any space for creative expression in the main shop, but she could assemble a decent bouquet of flowers, tied, wrapped and labelled, with her eyes shut. This she did, except for keeping her eyes open, as the detective gave an account of events in Staveley.
‘For a start, Mrs Olsen’s son-in-law, Declan Kennedy, was found dead on Friday evening, at about half past eight.’
She wished she’d kept the stool for herself. Implications were making her feel weak. ‘Oh, no. They were worrying about him when I was there. They weren’t sure whether they could go ahead with the party they were planning. You can’t have found him on Friday, right after I’d been talking to them.’
‘I promise you we did. The incident you’re thinking about was nothing to do with these people.’
‘So there were two dead people in Staveley on the same day? Surely not.’
‘The first one was a confused elderly man, who probably died of exposure because he was out all night in a cold shed. It looks as if he collapsed out there several days ago and nobody found him until Friday.’
‘So why did Anita and the others think it might be their Declan?’
Moxon sighed. ‘Because nobody told them otherwise until late on Friday. There was a degree of confusion, actually. They’d reported Declan missing on Thursday, then when the news mentioned the discovery of a body, they rightly feared it might be him, but we weren’t in a position to reassure them until after we’d found Declan. And then we took a while to identify him. It all takes time,’ he concluded with a sigh.
‘So—’
He interrupted her. ‘Just listen for a minute. Declan Kennedy was killed on the road not far from Staveley. A car must have hit him and knocked him into a ditch. We think it happened sometime during the late afternoon or early evening on Friday.’
‘Poor man.’
‘Yes. But it’s not that simple. He had words with his wife, about a personal issue, and then stormed off. Apparently that was something he did rather a lot. But he’s always come back next morning, with everything forgiven. This is different. Nobody in the family had seen him since Wednesday afternoon – or so they say.’
She kept her lips together, suppressing the many questions she was bursting to ask him. He would know what they were, anyway.
‘All right, I’m getting to the point. The main thing is that more than one person has told us that Mrs Olsen had a particular animosity towards him. She regarded him as a very undesirable husband for her daughter. She’s retiring from her job this month – or rather, selling her share in a successful business to her partner, and there are disagreements about the money. And a few other things.’
‘They’re solicitors,’ said Simmy.
‘That’s right. And now they need somebody new to replace Mrs Olsen, and Declan has – had – his own ideas about that. You don’t want to hear the whole story. We got most of it from Mr Kennedy senior. Declan’s father. He’s incandescent – convinced that the Olsen woman killed his son.’
‘But why does anyone have to have killed him? I mean deliberately. Why can’t it just be an accident?’
‘There are indications that support the hypothesis that it was deliberate,’ he said stiffly.
She made a face that she hoped conveyed her need for him to explain why she, Simmy Brown, should have anything to contribute to his investigations.
Moxon continued, ‘So Mrs Olsen is a person of interest, and we’re hoping to get a full picture of her movements for the whole of Friday. That’s all. We interviewed her, and her business partner, Mrs Townsend, and they both told us of the visit to the home of Mrs Townsend’s mother. When they said you were there as well, that added weight, you see.’
‘Not really. Surely two witnesses are enough? I think you’ve been very mean to drag me into it. You know how I hate all this sort of thing.’
He gave her an injured look. ‘You’re a useful outsider. Your verification will – as I say – add weight. And you could tell me something about how they all seemed.’
‘I can’t. I never met them before. I have no idea how they usually seem.’
‘Stop it,’ he said, more shortly than she could remember him ever having been with her. ‘I’ve got good reason to come here and ask for your help. An objective eye, at a time like this, can give extremely useful pointers. A man’s dead, and at the very least it’s a hit-and-run, which is a serious crime. Given the circumstances, and the way Mrs Kennedy and her father-in-law are talking, we have perfectly good reasons for thinking it was a deliberate act. When she reported her husband’s absence on Thursday, Debbie Kennedy clearly believed him to be in danger. We owe it to her to establish the facts as quickly and completely as we can.’
‘All right,’ she capitulated. ‘I’ll try.’
‘Thank you. So, can you tell me everything you can remember, from the first contact? Was that a phone call?’
‘Yes, Gillian Townsend called, and explained about the party. I met her and Anita at the bus stop and they took me to Mrs Percival’s house. And then they said there was some doubt as to whether the party would actually take place, because of Declan being missing, and possibly dead. They obviously did think the body you found first was probably him. Anita was very quiet the whole time. She seemed worried.’
‘They wanted you to provide flowers for the party that was in celebration of Mrs Olsen’s retirement – is that right?’
‘Yes. They’d been stuck for a venue, until someone suggested that house. It is gorgeous,’ she added wistfully. ‘I’d have loved to decorate it.’
He was making notes on a pad. ‘Mrs Olsen seemed worried?’
‘I think so. It felt as if she was resisting her colleague’s headlong party plans, as if she knew they were premature. The old lady didn’t seem to know what to think.’
‘But they all looked as if they knew each other well, and were easy together?’
‘Gillian’s the sort of person who’s easy with everybody. Very cheerful and enthusiastic. Not at all a typical solicitor, actually. But I don’t think she’s very well. She looked as if she might be in pain.’
‘I gather she’s got Crohn’s disease, which is fairly serious. But she’s very popular, by all accounts. And a lot more clever than first appears.’
‘Poor thing. But doesn’t that make you terribly thin? She’s quite … well-covered. And she’s short of breath. Does it do that?’
‘It causes a lot of pain, and that catches at your breath. And she’s not really fat, you know. I think most of it is abdominal swelling, from the condition. I had an uncle with it. It’s a ghastly business, with no proper cure.’
Simmy had no reply to that. She was thinking about Anita Olsen. ‘Well, I can confirm that they were all in Staveley from six o’clock to just past seven, if that’s any help. I can’t say much more than that, except they looked as if they were all going to stay there after I left. They were very nice to me. Although they promised to let me know about the party, one way or the other, and they never did. I thought they’d forgotten about me.’
‘They haven’t. They were impressed by you, actually. But we asked them not to contact you until we’d had a chance to ask you some questions.’
‘Really? Why?’ She tried to think. ‘In case they told me what I should say? Gosh! Well, they didn’t.’ She put down the flowers she’d been fiddling with. ‘You really think Anita might have killed her daughter’s husband, do you? That
would be an awful thing, if so.’
‘She’s a person of interest,’ he said again. ‘And I think you know exactly what that means.’
‘If I don’t I can ask Ben,’ she smiled. Then, ‘Oh Lord – he’s going to love this, isn’t he! Except he hasn’t got time for anything else on top of his A-levels. His workload is terrifying.’
Moxon’s expression was a complicated mix of admiration and ruefulness. Ben Harkness had made the detective look foolish more than once, despite a mutual liking. ‘I wish I knew where he’ll be in ten years’ time,’ he said. ‘People as clever as he is often burn themselves out by the time they’re thirty.’
‘I know. I worry about him as well. He’s so bright-eyed and confident at the moment. Some of that’s sure to be knocked out of him when he gets out there in the big bad world.’
‘It’s a lot badder than any of us really knows.’
Simmy was moved to contradict herself. ‘I hope you’re wrong about that, even if we’ve seen some horrible things right here. They’re a tiny part of the whole picture. Most people are perfectly decent. I can’t help feeling the whole world is more or less the same, at least in the basics. Don’t you think?’
‘I doubt whether the people of Mexico would agree with you, for a start. Or Pakistan, the Philippines, Venezuela … it’s a long list. We’re very sheltered and spoilt here, by comparison.’
‘Anyway … is that all you wanted? It’s time to close up and go home.’ Then she remembered her original assumption as to the reason for his visit. ‘No – wait. Haven’t you got something else to talk to me about?’
He frowned. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘No word from the police or courts or whatever they are, in Worcestershire?’
He had gone completely blank. She pressed on. ‘My ex-husband was attacked by a woman he was stalking. That’s the story, anyway. There’s a trial coming up, and my mother-in-law thinks I might make a useful witness.’
‘This is totally new to me. Can you explain where I might come in?’
‘I just thought – hoped – that I could send some sort of written statement, which maybe you could take charge of, with confirmation of who I am. Isn’t there a procedure like that?’ She was floundering, aware of her own abiding ignorance of how the police operated. She knew even less about courts and trials.
‘Well … possibly. You know this woman who attacked him, do you? They want you as a character witness, is that right?’
‘I’m not sure. Pamela – that’s Tony’s mother – suggested that I could give some background as to why Tony went off the rails. The shock of our baby dying was what did it. But I barely remember the midwife they’re talking about. There were quite a few of them, and I wasn’t in any state to notice which was which. They were nice enough, but nothing special.’
‘I’m not sure I’m getting this. Your husband developed feelings for one of the midwives? Is that right?’
‘Apparently, yes. I didn’t have any idea until last week. It does explain a few things, I suppose. It never crossed my mind that he might be talking to another woman about what happened. From what Pamela said, it could have been going on for ages without me realising. I don’t know for sure what he did. The woman might have refused to have anything to do with him – but I suppose he must have had some sort of encouragement. Stalkers think the other person feels the same as they do – don’t they?’
Moxon pursed his lips. ‘It varies,’ he said. ‘But it sounds very messy. She turned the tables on him, did she?’
‘Stabbed him. He was in hospital. Nobody told me anything about it. No reason why they should, of course.’
‘So whose character do they want you to defend?’
‘Tony’s. The loss of the baby is the mitigating factor. But I feel sorry for the woman. I don’t want to make it harder for her.’
‘Did she report the harassment to the police, do you know?’
‘I’ve got no idea. But I would guess she must have done. She sounds fairly tough.’
‘Don’t you remember her at all?’
‘Vaguely. She was big, if it’s the one I think it must be. She took Tony off for some tea and sympathy when he fell apart and wouldn’t look at Edith.’ Already she was feeling she’d been required to tell the story too many times. It was getting easier to talk about it without the acute pain there’d been at the start, but it still wasn’t pleasant. Edith and Tony had both been packed away several months ago, and it was time to start a new phase. The timing was worse than frustrating. ‘I really don’t want to have to dredge it all up again now,’ she finished.
‘I can imagine,’ he said.
‘So do you think I’ll have to show up in person? I don’t even know for sure where I’d have to go.’
‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ he promised, with a reassuring smile.
‘Thank you,’ she said. There was gratitude in her heart, and a sense of good fortune that this man was such a decent person. Moxon’s decency never failed to make itself apparent, and she only now realised how much she had come to depend on it.
She went home to the rumpled bed that she and Christopher had rolled out of in such a hurry that morning. The day had been unsatisfactory, over all. The Staveley party wasn’t going to happen. The death of a close relative of the retiring Anita, possibly deliberately inflicted, was an uncomfortable reality that Simmy feared would involve her more directly than she would like. There was no resolution of the business of Tony, and Bonnie’s streaming nose might be a warning that she could no longer work with flowers. There were threats on all sides, compounded by her father’s declining mental state adding a claim on her attention that might conflict with her plans concerning Christopher. Nothing was straightforward. The coming months of spring and summer looked like a tangled maze of frustrations and complexities.
And she had to make three deliveries of flowers the next day, only one of which was complete and ready to go. She would have to go in early and construct the others before nine o’clock. If Bonnie didn’t appear, the shop would have to stay closed until Simmy got back from Brant Fell. The logistics occupied most of her thoughts, as she made another unappetising little meal for herself.
Chapter Eight
When the alarm went off at seven, it woke her from a very enjoyable dream. All her worries had been smoothed away, and she was gliding along a country lane, with wild flowers burgeoning on either side. Christopher had his arm around her, keeping pace with her smooth progress, and they were laughing at patterns made by the clouds above their heads.
Despite the long list of worries from the previous evening, the happiness in the dream sustained her for the next half-hour or so. She opted to see it as an omen, predicting all kinds of positive outcomes over the next few weeks. She did at least have a clear conscience, after all. Unlike Tony, and perhaps Anita Olsen, who were under suspicion of behaving very badly.
But the mood was short-lived. There was Bonnie to worry about first. And the orders to be filled. She had to scramble to get everything done, leaving the house just after seven-thirty. At least the sun had started to rise at a more congenial hour, so she wasn’t driving in the dark. It was already hard to recall the horrible dark mornings of early January, where icy patches on the road could be treacherously invisible until too late. And in another month, with the clocks put onto Summer Time, it would be light by six, and the evenings would be blessedly lengthening. Simmy’s natural inclination was to look to the future with optimism, anticipating the next season of flowers and making plans. But this habit of anticipation had been tainted by the knowledge that she was getting older, her reproductive organs drying up, her chances of motherhood receding with every passing day.
Many of her years with Tony had been spent in a cycle of hope and disappointment as they tried for a baby. It had become almost routine, never exactly painful, because they were happy enough as they were, most of the time. But then, when conception finally did occur, when Simmy was in her mid-thirties, excite
ment had overwhelmed them. They both finally acknowledged how desperately they had wanted this to happen. They felt renewed as a couple, and almost sanctified by the miracle of pregnancy. The extreme high had made the crashing horror of the stillbirth worse than anything either of them could ever have imagined. Simmy still sometimes found herself shaking with the traumatic memory of it.
And now they wanted her to relive it all, because Tony’s insane and unacceptable reaction had brought him to a trial in which he was both victim and perpetrator. Poor pathetic, exasperating Tony, she thought, with a great sigh.
The shop was chilly when she went in through the back, but she did nothing to warm it. If Bonnie arrived at nine, she knew how to work the heating. Otherwise, Simmy would be back from her deliveries soon after, and could get everything more welcoming. Until then, she preferred to be frugal, the bills always just too high for comfort, leaving only a narrow margin for her own living costs.
Given that Bonnie had sent no message about absence it seemed probable that she would report for work as usual. It was like a game, guessing what symptoms she might be manifesting on this new day of her everlasting cold. Initially, the girl’s health had caused Simmy quite some concern, but over the months she had realised there was a toughness beneath the fragile surface. Bonnie had come through a short life of trouble and misery, still smiling. Her elfin looks made people think she’d emerged from another realm altogether, where bad things routinely happened, but nonetheless life was good. A confusing mixture of wisdom and ignorance, guile and trustfulness, she was loved by everyone. Except for a succession of semi-human men brought into the house by her impossible mother, who had seen her as a plaything to abuse as they liked.
The bouquets all constructed, Simmy left the shop at eight-thirty, crawled through traffic down to Bowness, then back via Brant Fell to an address just north of Windermere. It was all familiar territory, and with her gain in confidence, she blithely parked on pavements or double lines while making the deliveries. In her first months of business, she had timidly stuck to the rules, using official car parks with their inflated prices, despite being told repeatedly by other business people that the regulations did not apply to her, and besides, the chances of being apprehended were minimal. In the end, the impossibility of even finding an authorised spot during the summer forced her to have more courage. Now she just drew up outside people’s doors with the hazard lights flashing, and performed most deliveries in a fraction of the time they had once taken.
