The Staveley Suspect

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Didn’t you go with him?’

  ‘I couldn’t. There are guests. I can’t leave them here on their own.’

  ‘Yes, you can, Mum. You can’t just abandon him.’

  ‘That’s why I’m ringing you,’ said Angie Straw, with exaggerated calm. ‘You get a choice. Either go and sit by his bedside, or come here and supervise a family of four and two dogs.’

  Simmy didn’t hesitate to take the less attractive of two very disagreeable options. ‘I’ll do the guests,’ she said. ‘Your place is at his side.’

  Angie groaned. ‘He’d far rather have you with him than me,’ she said.

  ‘Even if that’s true, I have the shop to think about.’

  ‘I’m not staying there all night. I’ll come back and do the breakfasts tomorrow.’

  ‘Is he conscious? What happened exactly?’ Simmy was trying to accommodate the new crisis, concern for her father slowly overwhelming all other thoughts. ‘How bad is it? They can do amazing things with strokes now, can’t they?’

  ‘He was dozing by the Rayburn, with the dog on his lap, and when he woke up he said his head hurt, and one of his eyes had gone funny. I knew what it was, right away.’ Angie sounded inordinately proud of herself. ‘I dialled 999 and they whisked him off in no time.’

  ‘Poor Dad.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll live to tell the tale.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t see why anybody has to be there this evening. The B&B people can manage, surely? If you’re going to be back for the breakfasts, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’

  There was silence at Angie’s end. ‘Well …’ she began, ‘we never do leave them. They always want to ask something. They come down and sit in the games room, and we chat to them.’

  ‘I know. But there’s no rule that says you’ve got to be there.’

  ‘I think there might be, actually. Why won’t you come?’

  ‘I will if you insist, but I can’t see what use I’ll be. You might be gone for half the night. Where would I sleep?’

  ‘The back room’s empty. Or you could use our bed, if we’re not there.’

  The conversation was imbued with a sense of urgency that did nothing to resolve the practical questions. Angie was famously calm in a crisis, to the point where it was hard to be sure that she was in fact feeling any of the usual emotions. Simmy was not deceived. ‘Go, Mum,’ she urged. ‘I’ll come down and check that everything’s as it should be. Phone me on my mobile if there’s any news. Give him my love. I’ll go and see him tomorrow.’

  ‘All right.’

  The next ten minutes were spent in dealing with her own reaction. Some people, she reminded herself, lived in a perpetual state of drama and disaster. Their relatives were constantly in and out of hospital, or prison. They never had any money, their children went off the rails, their cars broke down, the rain came in through leaky roofs and their dogs attacked small children. And still they survived. Some even seemed to thrive on chaos. Simmy needed to man up and confront the immediate demands being made on her, without falling apart. The shop could be neglected for a few hours, for a start. Nothing else mattered at all. Poor old Dad, she kept repeating to herself. Such a patient, amusing, harmless man. Whatever could be done to soothe him must take priority over everything else. Firm resolution took hold of her, although only for a few minutes. Driving down to Windermere, she discovered tears running down her cheeks for the second time that day.

  Chapter Ten

  Wednesday started slowly, after the late night. Following a string of phone calls from her mother, Simmy ascertained that Russell probably had not suffered a full-blown stroke after all. ‘They call it a TIA,’ said Angie. ‘He can come home sometime tomorrow.’

  Which was now today. The release of tension was draining. She could feel the energy flowing out of her. ‘So what happens next?’ she asked her mother. ‘Is it likely to happen again? What does TIA stand for?’

  ‘Transient something episode. A mini-stroke in other words, I suppose. They want to put him on those pills – whatever they’re called. He won’t like that.’

  ‘Neither will you,’ said Simmy. She knew only too well that Angie deplored medication with a far greater passion than did her husband.

  ‘There’s sure to be side effects,’ said Angie gloomily.

  ‘I expect they know what they’re doing,’ said Simmy, too weary to be diplomatic. Sometimes Angie was too much, never missing a chance to make her views clear. ‘I’ll come over after work and see how he’s doing.’ She ended the call before her mother could say anything else.

  Bonnie was in the shop before her, looking flustered. ‘It’s all kicking off,’ she said. ‘Three orders for Mother’s Day on the computer, and there’s been a phone call already. And it’s still ages away yet.’ She coughed, and then frowned. ‘My cold’s turning into a cough,’ she complained. ‘Just when I thought it had gone.’

  ‘They do that,’ said Simmy. ‘Will you be okay?’

  ‘Probably. I’ll have to be with all this work, won’t I? Anyway, I don’t feel poorly.’

  ‘That’s good. At least we can get all these orders done in good time, with them coming in nice and early. The next two weeks are going to have to be extremely well organised. We mustn’t forget anybody.’

  ‘But how does it work? I mean, how many can you actually deliver in one day? And do you do them on the day before, or the actual day? It’s a Sunday.’

  ‘Last year most people came and collected them on the Saturday. Melanie was amazing. She had everything lined up and ready to go. We did deliver about five on the actual day, at an extra cost.’

  ‘Sounds fun,’ said Bonnie, without a trace of irony.

  As Simmy told her assistant what had been happening overnight, she felt a sudden compulsion to learn more about the Staveley business. Whether from superstition or a surge of fellow feeling, she knew she had to do whatever she could to help. There were people suffering – not least the likeable Debbie and her daughters. However misguided her suspicion of her mother might be, Debbie should not be ignored. And if Simmy could somehow prove useful in convincing the daughter of her parent’s innocence, that would surely be the best possible outcome. Simmy’s own parents were becoming vulnerable and dependent, and through a somewhat odd association, she found herself wanting to do what she could for other people’s as well.

  ‘But Dad’s going to be okay,’ she ended up saying to Bonnie. ‘So, what about you and Ben? Did he spare some time to go over the killing of Declan Kennedy with you?’

  ‘Better than that,’ smiled the girl. ‘He’s found answers to at least half those questions we came up with yesterday. It’s all over Facebook if you know where to look. And he thinks we have an obligation to try and see that justice is done.’ The words emerged as an obvious quote from Ben. ‘For a start, we’re going to see Debbie Kennedy this afternoon. He spoke to her last night.’

  Simmy was speechless. What about me? she wanted to whine.

  Bonnie was ahead of her. ‘And he thinks you should go and talk to the Townsend woman again. Did she leave you an address? Did she say where she lives?’

  ‘I told you. Anita’s got a house in Staveley, and Gillian lives in Kendal somewhere. I don’t know the address of her office or her house.’

  ‘We can find out easily enough.’

  Simmy looked helplessly at her calm little friend. Quite at what point she had capitulated so completely was unclear. The whole previous day had been one of changed minds and irrational emotions. ‘But I have no idea what I’m supposed to say, or why I even think any of this is sensible.’

  ‘Ben wants us to find out about evidence.’ Bonnie’s face was full of importance. ‘The serious stuff. He says he can’t give it any more time before Friday, but then he’s factored in a whole evening clear of revision. We’ve got until then to come up with something.’

  It was so patently a game that Simmy lost patience. ‘How does he think we can do that? Just barge in on people and int
errogate them? Even the police don’t do that – at least not without really good reason.’

  The girl sighed. ‘We’re not barging anywhere. We’ve been asked to help. They want to talk to us. Both sides, in fact, which is amazing when you think about it. Between us we can get the whole picture. Look – today’s Wednesday. When can you go to Kendal, do you think?’

  ‘Oh, Bonnie! My father’s been rushed to hospital. They’re going to need me at Beck View this evening, and probably tomorrow. We’ve got a flood of orders to deal with here. I’m every bit as busy as Ben is, in my own way. And you can’t go off to some unknown house by yourself. You’ll get yourself murdered as well.’

  ‘I can. Of course I can. That Debbie person isn’t going to kill me, is she? Even if she wanted to, she wouldn’t do it with two little girls in the house.’

  ‘What about her brother? Matthew Olsen, he must be. Maybe he killed Declan, and is throwing the blame on his mother as a smokescreen.’ Hearing her own words, Simmy paused. She sounded just like a character from a nineteen-thirties detective novel, or worse, someone out of the Famous Five. Even Ben and Bonnie were more mature and rational than that. ‘Listen to me,’ she moaned. ‘I’m turning into a Keystone Kop or something. It’s all your fault.’

  ‘I know,’ smiled Bonnie. ‘But you know you like it, really. I can tell you’re hooked. I even spotted the moment it happened, about twenty minutes ago. When you were telling me about your dad, which is funny.’ She turned her head aside for another cough.

  ‘You couldn’t have spotted anything. I didn’t say a word.’

  ‘I’m right, though. So, what you do is close up a bit early at the end of today, go round to your mum’s and check on everything there. Maybe peel a few potatoes or something. Then down to Staveley – no, Kendal. No, hang on. You’ll have to get the Townsend woman’s home address, because she won’t be in her office then, will she? You can phone her and tell her you’re coming. After all, she wants you to go and see her. She’ll be thrilled. And maybe you can see Anita Olsen as well if she’s there. The cherry on the cake, she is. Ben’s going to be jealous. Remember to ask open questions, let them talk about anything they like, and try to get some proper evidence.’

  The conflicting emotions were ripping at each other inside her head – or wherever else emotions might dwell. Somewhere near the ascendant was gratitude for being included. The old childhood fear of being in permanent isolation due to the lack of siblings never quite went away. Then came panic at the prospect of a whole new slew of unpleasantness. People behaving badly, telling lies, hating each other – and telling her all about it. Persimmon Brown did not relish that sort of thing in the least. Why else had she chosen flowers as the core of her working life? Another strand of panic arose from the crowding demands being made on her. Where would Christopher fit in? How long was all this going to take? Would she be despatched by Ben and Bonnie on a long succession of quests, once she agreed to the first one? And Moxon? Wouldn’t he be furious to have her and the others trampling all over his investigation yet again? Well, no, probably not. Hadn’t he come along in person to talk to her about it? Hadn’t he known then that he was starting something, despite his apologies and assurances?

  Bonnie was manipulating her phone, tapping and swiping, until within about forty seconds she had the address of the solicitors’ office in Kendal. And its phone number. ‘Call her now on this number,’ she instructed Simmy, who meekly obliged. ‘Better than using her mobile, if she’s at work. You might interrupt something important.’

  ‘I’m afraid she’s with a client. Can I take a message?’ said the young man who answered the phone.

  ‘Yes, please. Say Simmy Brown called. The florist in Windermere. She can phone me back when she’s free, can she?’ Bonnie rolled her eyes at the wimpish tone. Simmy gave the shop’s number and finished the call. ‘There. Satisfied?’ she snapped at Bonnie. What was she doing, she asked herself. She could still tell Gillian Townsend she’d only called out of politeness and didn’t really want anything. She’d been given a second chance to bow out, but she knew she was already in too deep. If nothing else, she had to ensure that Ben and Bonnie didn’t do anything too reckless.

  ‘For now,’ said Bonnie, with a knowing look. ‘Why’s everything so quiet today? We haven’t had a single customer, and it’s nearly ten o’clock.’

  ‘It’s cold out there. And dark. Hardly anybody’s out yet, look.’ She waved at the empty pavements, and the heavy grey sky. ‘I think they said it would brighten up a bit later on.’

  Weather predictions inevitably brought her father to mind again. Like virtually every other Englishman of his generation, he could not begin a day without knowing the forecast, whether it was pertinent to his plans or not. In Russell’s case, he could always claim relevance for his B&B guests, if not for himself. ‘You’ll need to take waterproofs,’ he would tell them. ‘It might look nice now, but there’ll be rain by midday.’ Or the converse. ‘You’ll be fine. It’ll all have cleared up by eleven, and you’ll be much too warm if you wear those jumpers.’

  It did brighten up, imperceptibly, so that by three o’clock the sun was forcing its way through the thinning cloud. It was an abiding regret to Simmy that the lake wasn’t visible from anywhere in central Windermere. It seemed an ironic quirk of geography that the town named for the mere should be so detached from it, while Bowness and Ambleside got the full impact. They had the swans and the sailing boats, the ice cream and the vivid colours. Windermere sometimes seemed drab by comparison, and very much too quiet.

  Angie had phoned at eleven to say her husband had been restored to her, rather diminished and traumatised. ‘He hasn’t said more than three words to me,’ she complained. ‘I’m not sure he realises what’s been going on.’

  ‘I’ll be there soon after five,’ Simmy promised. ‘But I won’t be able to stay all evening. I’ve got to go and see somebody in Kendal.’ She was relying on her mother being too distracted to take any interest in her daughter’s doings. As far as she was aware, there had still been no proper news reports of the dead Declan from Staveley, and even if there had, nothing would link him to Simmy. She was determined to keep the whole thing well beyond her parents’ ken, having seen how distressing previous episodes had been for her father.

  ‘Kendal? About flowers?’

  ‘Sort of. If you work out which jobs I can do, I’ll knuckle down to them as soon as I arrive, and be off again about seven. I can come again tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, all right, then. Thanks. See you later.’ Angie sounded tired and beyond caring whether her guests got their full English breakfasts, or even clean duvet covers.

  Then Gillian Townsend returned her call, giving her home address, and effusively grateful for being so co-operative. ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she gushed. ‘You’re being wonderfully kind.’ It was almost enough to make Simmy change her mind yet again. It didn’t strike her that she was being in the least bit kind. Just too spinelessly compliant for her own good, as usual.

  ‘Looks as if your plan’s going to work,’ Simmy told Bonnie, bringing the girl up to date. ‘My dad’s home again and not causing too much trouble, from the sound of it. They’ll both just want to go to bed by about eight, I expect. I can get things straight for them, and then I can scoot down to Kendal, heaven help me.’

  It worked out even better than expected. At seven o’clock, she was driving down the A591, passing the cluster of houses that was Staveley, just off the main road, and heading down to Kendal, the nearest town of any size. In another ten minutes, she was encouraging her satnav to find the small street on the eastern side of town which Gillian had given as her home address.

  At precisely the same moment, Ben and Bonnie were cycling along the same road, enough heavy traffic thundering past to terrify a parent or friend who might have seen them. But they survived unscathed, turning left into the quiet oasis that was Staveley. ‘We turn right over the little bridge by the bus stop,’ said Ben, ‘and then I thin
k it gets a bit complicated.’

  In fact, they found their destination largely by accident, wheeling the bikes down an odd little alleyway strewn with grey slate chippings that emerged into a road full of older houses, most of them painted white. ‘Unpretentious,’ remarked Ben approvingly. ‘This is the one, I believe.’

  The door was answered by a man with dark-brown hair left quite long on his neck, in a denim jacket. ‘Hi, I’m Matthew,’ he said. ‘I’m here helping Deb and the girls.’

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ said Bonnie. ‘It must be so awful for her.’ She was then seized by fifteen seconds of racking cough, exacerbated by the effort of cycling.

  The man waited, saying nothing until she’d stopped. ‘Tell me about it,’ he nodded, then, ‘Say what you like about Declan, he was always good to his family. Best dad I know, bar none.’

  Matthew seemed to be about thirty, with a slight local accent. ‘Are you married?’ Bonnie asked, with an air of childlike innocence.

  ‘Oh, no. Not even close.’ He laughed. ‘Too fond of my own company – and spending my own money as I like. No danger of me getting tied down any time soon.’

  Despite his efforts at bonhomie, the two youngsters were wary. ‘Debbie wanted to talk to us,’ said Ben. ‘Is this a good time?’

  ‘It’s the time you said you’d be here, isn’t it? She’s all ready and waiting for you, anyway.’ He took them into the front room, which was much the same as thousands of other front rooms across the land. A three-seater sofa, with a small tear on one of the arms; a Chinese carpet with attractive sculpted shapes depicting flowers; large television and associated technology; a shelved alcove containing ornaments, clock, candlesticks and two books. On the wall above the fireplace was a picture of a clown done in bright primary colours.