The Staveley Suspect

by Rebecca Tope

  But his words made her giggle, despite all that. ‘Lucky you didn’t say “shoulder to shoulder”,’ she said. ‘Have either of you actually seen Anita and Gillian together?’

  ‘We haven’t seen Anita at all,’ said Ben.

  ‘Well, she’s tall. About three inches taller than me, in fact. And Gillian must be at least ten inches shorter. They look like a comedy act.’

  ‘Wasn’t there a famous pair of comedians, about a hundred years ago? My gran had them on a video that she used to play when I was about four. Hilda something, and a very tall woman called Cynthia.’ Ben shook his head. ‘Not important.’

  ‘We could find them on YouTube or somewhere,’ Bonnie suggested.

  ‘Not important,’ Ben repeated. ‘Although …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something about appearances being deceiving. People assuming the tall one’s in charge, when it’s completely the other way around. Like that Hitchcock story, The Glass Eye.’

  ‘Is that important?’ Bonnie asked. ‘Because it’s time to open the shop.’

  ‘Who would you say is in charge between Anita and Gillian?’ Ben asked Simmy.

  ‘Probably Anita, but they seem fairly equal. Anita’s older; she took Gillian on as her partner, so she was senior in the business. They’re both quite clever, I suppose, but Gillian’s so animated and talkative, she might seem a bit of a fool at times. She’s low on energy because of her illness, but it’d take an awful lot to stop her.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Ben. ‘So, are we done for now?’

  ‘You tell me,’ said Simmy, who was feeling as if she’d done a hard day’s work already. ‘I can’t imagine where you think we should go from here. If anywhere,’ she added.

  ‘We wait, for now. Something’s going to happen, police-wise. That’ll dictate our next move.’

  Now he sounded like someone playing a computer game, and Simmy’s patience grew thin. ‘Oh, Ben,’ she sighed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why don’t we just leave the whole thing to the police and get on with our normal lives?’

  His look of forbearance was insulting. Here was another example of deceptive appearances. Simmy, old enough to be his mother, was firmly in the role of sidekick to Ben Harkness. ‘What happens in The Glass Eye?’ she couldn’t resist asking.

  ‘It’s classic,’ he enthused, suddenly boyish again. ‘There’s a ventriloquist who a woman falls in love with. Big and handsome, with a dummy on his knee. And then, in the final scene, it turns out that the big man’s the dummy and the little one’s the real person. It’s fantastically frightening. The dummy’s glass eye falls out and rolls across the room.’

  ‘Yuk!’ said Simmy, and Bonnie giggled again. ‘Did your gran show you that as well?’ Ben’s gran had died when he was fourteen, and only got mentioned infrequently. From what Simmy could glean, she had been quite a character.

  ‘No, actually. That was my Uncle Robert. The one married to Mum’s sister. He collects old horror movies. He’s got some amazing stuff, but I haven’t been allowed to see much of it until now. He says I can go and stay there after the exams, if I want.’

  ‘First I’ve heard of it,’ said Bonnie, all giggles forgotten. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘You can come as well,’ said Ben easily. ‘He lives on the coast of Northumberland, near Lindisfarne. I’m sure I’ve told you about him.’

  ‘So when did he show you this glass eye thing?’

  Ben sighed, and cocked his head at her. Such unworthy emotions as jealousy were strictly beyond his scope, and Bonnie knew it. She forced a grin. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Too many questions.’

  ‘Right. And it sounds as if you’ve got a customer,’ he said to Simmy, as they all heard a knock on the locked street door. ‘It’s ten past nine already.’

  ‘I’d better let him in,’ said Simmy. ‘Stay there a minute.’

  She recognised the man right away. ‘Hello, Mr Daniels,’ she said. ‘How are you now?’ The man’s wife had been in hospital for a month and he had made a point of taking frequent bunches of flowers for her, despite the virtual ban on taking them into the ward. ‘They will let me put them on the window sill,’ he’d said. ‘Which is a lot better than nothing.’

  ‘We’re doing well,’ he replied to her question. ‘Thank you for asking. But now my sister’s broken her leg, so these are going to be for her.’

  It was undeniably a rich tapestry of critical human moments that passed through the doors of a florist shop. Simmy had at first been slow to grasp just how rich it could be, with a broad spectrum from a new baby, through broken legs and surprise parties to funerals. Not to mention retirement celebrations and dinner parties. Just when she thought she had experienced the entire range of flower-related events, another one popped up to add to the list.

  Mr Daniels went away with a smile and a return wave to Bonnie’s overdone farewell. ‘There you are – a happy customer,’ said the girl.

  ‘Are we finished?’ Simmy asked them. ‘Can I get on with my work now?’

  ‘Knock yourself out,’ said Ben, hitching up his schoolbag. ‘See you, Bon.’

  And he was gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The start of a normal working day came as a relief to Simmy. The demands of the business kept her contentedly occupied all morning, with a last-minute order for birthday flowers scheduled for the afternoon, and another batch of early requests for a Mother’s Day tribute. The necessity of keeping meticulous records of all these orders forced her to concentrate. Bonnie attempted, once or twice, to open a conversation about Staveley and the dead Declan, but was swiftly silenced. ‘Not now,’ said Simmy. ‘I’ve got to think about getting all these flowers organised. You don’t seem to be coughing much now. Does that mean I can rely on you to be fit when the work gets heavy?’

  ‘Definitely. But I still don’t know how you’ll manage. There’ll be dozens of deliveries that weekend, at this rate.’

  ‘I know. Although we can encourage people to come and collect them, like we did last year. At least half of them will be happy with that, I think. Even so, the orders are up on last year by about forty per cent, so far. I can’t ask Melanie to come back and help – her hotel’s going to be just as busy as we are.’

  ‘Corinne might lend a hand,’ Bonnie suggested. ‘I could ask her if she could do a few deliveries for you.’

  Corinne’s car was notoriously battered and unreliable, and Simmy hesitated before agreeing. The only acceptable way for flowers to be delivered was in the van. There had been times when she had insisted that Melanie should walk some distance through Windermere and parts of Bowness, rather than let her own shameful vehicle be identified as the delivery transport for Persimmon Petals. It might not be so easy to make Corinne do likewise. But someone in the shop wrapping and organising the bouquets and sprays would be useful. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘She might be able to help you here, while I drive round all day.’

  In fact, the more she thought about it, the more appealing the prospect became. Corinne knew short cuts and side streets better than either Simmy or Bonnie did. She could make an itinerary for deliveries, area by area, saving Simmy precious time. The prospect of a relentlessly hectic day began to mutate into a much less challenging exercise. ‘Yes, ask her,’ she decided. ‘That’s a great idea. I’ll pay her the proper wages.’

  After their meagre lunch, Bonnie suddenly asked, ‘Have you heard any more about your ex? A date for the trial or something?’

  ‘Not a word. I’d forgotten about it.’

  ‘Did you tell Christopher? Was it awkward?’

  ‘I did, yes. He didn’t say much, really. Moxon hadn’t heard anything, either. When he came in on Monday, that’s what I thought it was about.’

  ‘It’s hard to feel sorry for him,’ said Bonnie. ‘Stalking’s such a horrible thing. And he can’t be a complete mental case, if he was married to you, can he?’

  ‘You think I wouldn’t have married him if he’d bee
n deranged?’

  ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t. I can imagine you going with somebody boring, or incompetent, or unambitious, but not a nutter. Your mother would never have allowed it, for one thing.’

  ‘Are we allowed to say “nutter”?’

  Bonnie shrugged. ‘Don’t see why not.’

  ‘My mother did think he was a bit boring, but she made no objections. She’s not like that, actually. She would never directly have tried to stop me marrying him. And I have to tell you that I wouldn’t have listened to her. She’s so critical of practically everybody that it would have been futile to try and find somebody she approved of. Luckily, my dad thought he was quite a good son-in-law, on the whole.’

  ‘Really? What did they talk about?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Tony’s quite outdoorsy, so there were trees and country sayings, weather and bits of history. He wasn’t that different from us, you know. He fitted into the family quite nicely. And his mother really liked me. Still does, apparently.’

  ‘Mm,’ said Bonnie, appearing to be somewhat out of her depth. Relationships between adults could still leave her confused and nervous. Ben had wisely opted to postpone that whole area of experience for a future time, concentrating on training his little protégée in more cerebral matters. In a rare moment of disclosure, he had told Simmy how much he loved and valued Bonnie. ‘But she’s delicate,’ he’d worried. ‘Fragile, in a lot of ways. I’m scared of hurting her, emotionally. It has to go slowly, if we’re to survive long-term.’

  Simmy had drawn unsettling comparisons between the young couple and herself and Christopher at the same age. Ben was so much more intent on his life plan, so clear-sighted and confident. He knew where and how Bonnie fitted into this plan, and what measures had to be taken to ensure a successful outcome.

  She shook herself out of disagreeable reminiscences and dragged her thoughts back to the present. ‘How did you get to Staveley last night?’ she asked Bonnie.

  ‘Oh – on the bikes. It was scary on the big road, especially coming back in the dark, but good fun. My legs are so strong now, it’s amazing.’

  The bikes had been bought shortly after Christmas, Ben subsidising his girlfriend’s purchase with money received from various relatives. ‘My mum used to give me money, but that’s stopped now,’ said Bonnie. ‘The rich boyfriend’s gone, I suppose.’

  When Simmy first met the girl, she’d noticed the good clothes that sat rather oddly on the small shoulders. It had taken her some months to conclude that they were paid for with money from an ashamed parent. Bonnie’s mother was a mysterious, even sinister, background figure; feckless, incompetent, gullible. Her enchanting little daughter had been treated more as a rival than a responsibility, left to her own devices and seldom protected from the untrustworthy whims of a succession of boyfriends.

  ‘I’m quite glad I didn’t know that,’ Simmy confessed. ‘I’d have worried about you.’

  ‘How did you think we were getting there?’

  ‘I didn’t think about it at all. It’s only just occurred to me to wonder.’

  Bonnie’s expression betrayed exasperation. If Simmy couldn’t think things through better than that, she wasn’t going to be much use as part of their team of amateur detectives, was the implication. It highlighted the unavoidable differences between adulthood and adolescence. ‘I had other things to think about,’ she defended. ‘Like my father, and Tony and Christopher and the shop, and money, and the crack in the wall of my sitting room.’ The last was very much scraping the barrel, she knew. The crack wasn’t serious; the house wasn’t falling down. But every time she saw it, she worried.

  ‘Okay,’ muttered Bonnie. ‘I get it. And I’m glad, sort of, that you’re not trying to make me tell you everything the Staveley people said.’

  Simmy heaved a sigh. ‘I really hate this secrecy, as much as you must do. I don’t understand how we’ve got ourselves into it. All the people seem so nice. Anita and Debbie are both quite normal pleasant people, after all. There’s no sense in all this animosity, as far as I can see.’

  ‘It’s unreal,’ Bonnie agreed. ‘But then, as Philip Marlowe says, all murderers are unreal, once you know they’re murderers.’

  ‘You’ll have to tell me who Philip Marlowe is. I’m sure I should know, but I really don’t.’

  ‘Raymond Chandler. The Long Goodbye, and quite a few others. He’s a private eye.’

  ‘Oh. Right. You’ve read those books, have you?’

  ‘I’ve read everything,’ the girl boasted. ‘It takes me three days to finish a book. Ben says you really get to know the world through detective fiction.’

  ‘And Ben would know,’ said Simmy, with an uncharacteristic flash of sarcasm. Then, in swift atonement, she went on. ‘I had a text from Tanya Harkness just now. She’s offered to come and help when the Mother’s Day stuff needs doing. I suppose that’s thanks to you? I told her to come in and see me on Monday after school.’

  ‘She won’t be as good as Corinne, but she knows her way around. She can get things organised for delivery, and take any telephone orders. She’s definitely the best of the three sisters.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting her.’

  ‘She looks just like her mother. The twins aren’t identical at all. Ben’s quite sorry about that. He keeps imagining the tricks they could play on people, if they were.’

  ‘Sounds like a narrow escape for Helen, then.’

  ‘Helen’s embarrassed to have such a lot of kids, according to Ben. He thinks the twins were an accident, and should never have existed.’

  Simmy winced. ‘He should know better,’ she said.

  Moxon materialised five minutes after Bonnie had gone home, ten minutes before Simmy intended to close up for the day. She was much more pleased to see him than might have been expected, since he couldn’t possibly be bringing good news. Her pleasure arose from a handful of negatives. He wasn’t young enough to be her child; he wasn’t ordering flowers; he wasn’t going to get complicated about emotions; he wasn’t either of her parents. Compared to those, his probable reason for being there was almost a relief.

  She had forgotten about Tony yet again. Since Moxon had expressed complete ignorance of the events in Worcestershire or Gloucestershire or wherever it was, she had dropped the connection in her mind between the two men. The detective represented Staveley and the death of a man on the road. He might have come to say the case was resolved, nothing more to be done. Good news was, after all, conceivable.

  ‘We heard from the people in Worcester,’ he said. ‘About your ex-husband.’

  ‘Oh drat.’

  ‘It’s nothing too troublesome, actually. They want to confirm your contact details, that you are who his team say you are, and the basic facts of the matter at the time when he first met the woman. They could have done it all online, through normal databases, but they went the extra mile for some reason.’

  ‘So now what?’

  ‘From what you told me, I really can’t see any benefit to their case in summoning you in person. You can’t add any material testimony, can you? What do they think you’ll say? That the midwife clearly fell instantly in love with your husband and gave him every encouragement, so that his subsequent behaviour was entirely rational? That’s the only defence I can think of. Unless they want you to say he’d had mental health issues for years, which you and he covered up, which would explain the total absence of any medical notes to that effect.’

  ‘Stalking is quite mad, though, isn’t it? By definition.’

  ‘The jury’s out on that, as they say.’ He smiled. ‘I imagine your friend Mr Harkness is enjoying the legal complexities of the matter quite a lot.’

  ‘He would be, if he wasn’t so busy. His exams start just after Easter, and he’s drowning in revision. I don’t know how he does it.’

  His direct look suggested that he did not quite believe her. ‘You’re telling me he’s taking no interest in this Staveley business?’

  ‘Ah.
No, not quite. He seems to be able to snatch an hour or two of free time for that.’

  ‘So I gather.’

  Her thoughts whirled to hidden cameras, surveillance of the Kennedys’ house, spies in the quiet streets of Staveley. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘It’s a small world,’ he said. ‘Word gets around.’

  ‘Maybe so, but how exactly?’

  ‘You must surely be aware that most people record every detail of their lives on Facebook and all those other platforms that live inside mobile telephones. It often feels as if there are no secrets left in the world. Debbie Kennedy is no exception. Her grief is loudly proclaimed, along with her anger at her mother, the police, and the world in general. She has embraced your young friends as her best chance of achieving justice, extraordinary as that might seem. She believes the police to be corrupt and incompetent, wary of prosecuting a well-known local solicitor because of the professional networks they share. Quite hurtful stuff, I have to say.’

  ‘Gosh!’ said Simmy. ‘Am I the only person missing out on all this?’

  ‘Assuredly not – although most of those still avoiding it are somewhat older than you. Demographically speaking, you should be right in the midst of it. But it’s dangerous to generalise. We see people in their nineties merrily tweeting, and sixteen-year-olds who’ve abandoned the whole thing. One of our PCs said the other day she thinks there might be a backlash under way. That it’s all unravelling and in a few more years it’ll be back to privacy and real live personal relationships. Won’t that be nice.’ He sighed.