by Rebecca Tope
‘It’s over a week since I got that call from Gillian,’ Simmy mused, after lunch. ‘Seems ages ago. Not much has happened, really.’
‘More than we think. Moxon’s not giving anything away with this one. We don’t know what he really thinks about the Olsen woman.’
‘Or the Kennedy one,’ Simmy flashed back. ‘It boils down to a really sordid vendetta between mother and daughter. I imagine he finds it all pretty unpleasant. Especially when the likelihood is that Declan was killed by a speeding tourist and it was nothing to do with Anita.’
Bonnie shook her head. ‘You know it wasn’t that, don’t you? Nobody thinks that any more. It was deliberate and cruel and clever. All planned in advance. In the olden days, the killer would definitely have been hanged.’
Simmy shuddered. ‘At least we don’t have to worry about that.’ An image of the tall dignified figure of Anita Olsen dangling from a rope made her feel sick.
‘It certainly made the stakes very high. So many innocent people wrongly convicted and executed. Ben says it might have been as many as ten per cent of all those who were hanged, over a period of a hundred years. Can you imagine it?’
‘I’m trying not to.’
Bonnie was showing signs of an unwholesome relish. ‘Knowing you hadn’t done anything, as they put that black bag over your head, thinking it couldn’t possibly be really happening. The state killing you for no reason, in cold blood, nobody taking any responsibility for it. It has to be the worst thing that can happen to a person.’
‘Weren’t most of them at least guilty of something, though? They would never have been arrested if they were totally innocent.’
‘Oh, Simmy,’ Bonnie reproached her. ‘That won’t do, and you know it. Thinking like that might make the authorities feel better, but it’s no excuse. The law has a penalty for a particular crime, and if you didn’t commit the crime, you shouldn’t suffer the penalty. Simple.’
Simmy could – as so often – hear the voice of Ben behind the girl’s words. Ben always managed to make complicated moral issues sound simple. ‘I suppose that’s right,’ she said doubtfully. ‘But you can understand the police and lawyers and people needing something to console them, if they discovered they’d hanged the wrong person.’
‘They don’t deserve to be consoled,’ said Bonnie fiercely.
‘I don’t expect they did it deliberately. It would have been a forgivable mistake.’
‘Not the way I see it.’
‘All of which brings us back to being thankful it’s not like that any more. And I really can’t see them convicting a retired professional woman with a spotless record, just because her daughter doesn’t like her.’
‘It wouldn’t be because of that, though, would it? It would be because she drove over a man on his bike – twice, and then told a whole lot of lies about it.’
Simmy felt herself go pale. ‘Is that really what happened? Somebody drove over him twice? Moxon said there was evidence that the whole thing was deliberate, but he didn’t give me any details. How do you know? Who else knows?’
‘I know because Debbie told me and Ben. Just about everybody knows – Matthew, and Debbie’s children, and the whole of Cumbria by now.’
‘How come?’ Simmy was bemused.
‘Because it’s on Facebook and all the rest of it,’ said Bonnie with a scornful sort of patience. ‘How do you think?’
It became clear that the main source of the Facebook disclosures was Matthew Olsen. Bonnie showed it to Simmy, who was shocked by the detail and the incontinent language. Stark accusations of murder were made against his mother. ‘I can’t believe it’s legal to do that,’ said Simmy faintly. ‘It’s got to be libel. Or slander. Whichever it is.’
‘Libel, because it’s in writing,’ said Bonnie. ‘And Ben thinks it might well be actionable. But Anita would have to take the action, and that doesn’t look very likely to happen.’
‘She’s waiting until they find who really killed Declan. Then Matthew’s going to be in serious trouble. Has Gillian seen this, I wonder?’
‘Somebody’s bound to have shown it to her.’
‘Then she ought to tell Matthew he’s in for a lot of legal stuff before very long. She’s sure to press charges sooner or later, on Anita’s behalf. Poor woman,’ she groaned. ‘I can just imagine her face.’
‘Which woman?’
‘Gillian. She’s such a softie, and she’s taking all this to heart. I think she must have lived quite a sheltered life, dealing with minor matters of law, and never quite letting herself see the worst in people.’
Bonnie blew out her cheeks. ‘Come off it. Neighbours’ disputes about leylandii. Making threats against other people’s kids and dogs. Petty theft. Acrimonious divorces. Fights over inheritance. I mean – those are the softer end of the job, and they’re all pretty horrible. She’s got to have realised how awful people can be, by this time.’
‘I don’t know.’ Simmy was wracking her brains for pleasant aspects of legal work. Conveyancing, perhaps? But no, people behaved abominably when selling and buying a house. She had to admit that there was nothing philanthropic or warm about the law and its implementation. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she conceded.
‘So she might be soft on Anita, upset on her behalf, like you said. But we shouldn’t assume she’s always like that.’
‘I like to think that knowing the law and making sure it’s properly applied can involve at least some decency,’ said Simmy, hearing herself sounding pompous. ‘Her clients probably trust her and like her, and make friends with her some of the time.’
‘Yeah. So what if they do? What does that have to do with anything?’
Simmy couldn’t explain, but she clung to the notion of Gillian’s essential integrity as central to the whole business. ‘Anyway, I’m seeing her again,’ she said. Then three things happened at once.
Chapter Eighteen
Simmy’s phone announced the arrival of a text message, at the same instant as DI Moxon came into the shop. Ten seconds later, a customer followed him. Simmy didn’t know which way to turn, flapping at Bonnie to deal with the customer, clutching the phone in her pocket and smiling vaguely at the detective.
‘Are you busy?’ he said.
‘Not really.’
‘I won’t take a moment. I just wanted to confirm that the Worcester people are quite happy with what we sent them, and they see no reason why you should be involved any further. They seem to think it might all be settled out of court, anyway.’
‘Really? How could that be?’
‘If the woman pleads guilty, and drops her counter-accusation against your … against Mr Brown, then it can be quickly dealt with. She’ll be sentenced at a hearing, and that’ll be the end of it.’
‘Poor woman,’ sighed Simmy, for the second time that morning. ‘I hope they’ll be lenient with her.’
‘I imagine they will, especially if she has a competent legal representative. It’s a sad story for all concerned.’
She was still fingering her phone, wondering about the unread text. It had to be from Gillian, and should therefore be concealed from Moxon. That made her feel ashamed of herself. But how could she tell him – what would she say? There was nothing concrete to disclose, and it seemed unfair to burden him with half-baked impressions. She forced herself to focus on the Worcester story instead. ‘It seems wrong, in a way, though. I mean – there really should be a proper trial, with everything aired openly. Don’t you think?’
He smiled. ‘Perhaps in an ideal world. But trials are expensive, and very time-consuming. I’m not sure it would be in anybody’s interest in the long run. Whatever lessons there are to be learnt have probably gone home by now. I seriously doubt whether he’ll do any more stalking, and she’s not going to stab anybody ever again. You have to weigh it all up in a balance, and look at the greatest good.’
Simmy looked at him, eye to eye. This was a good man, with a good brain and a good heart. Like Gillian Townsend, in fact.
They both saw dreadful things done by malicious and stupid people, and somehow remained decent in themselves. ‘That’s reassuring,’ she said with a smile.
Another customer added pressure, which Moxon was quick to understand. Bonnie was standing by the till with a worried frown. Her customer was tapping an impatient finger on the table.
‘I should go,’ said the detective. ‘Bad timing, I can see. But I need to have another word with you at some point. About the other thing.’
‘Oh dear. I was hoping you weren’t going to say that. Are you sure it’s necessary?’
‘Necessary, but not terribly urgent. A side issue. A loose end.’
To Simmy’s ears that sounded like an announcement to the effect that the case was just about resolved, the killer identified, justice achieved. ‘Loose end?’ she repeated.
‘Well, no, not quite. But there has been progress. By the end of today we’re hoping we might be able to go public.’
‘A bit late for that, when it’s already all over Facebook, and presumably other places like that.’
His eyes widened and his cheeks flushed. ‘You’ve seen that, have you?’
She nodded.
‘It’s outrageous.’ He came close to spluttering. ‘There’ll be severe repercussions, I can promise you that.’
‘Good,’ said Simmy. ‘I should hope so too.’
And then she had to rescue Bonnie, attend to the second customer, and generally get back to business. Moxon left without a farewell smile.
The text was from Gillian, but did not read as expected.
Thanks for message. Terribly busy. Will get back to you very soon.
Once again, Simmy felt that her efforts had been misplaced. Having swallowed her reservations, and gone out of her way to fulfil the woman’s wishes, she was being pushed aside before things became really interesting. She had allowed herself to take the part of Anita against her daughter and son, keeping things back from Bonnie and Ben – and all for what? All because she believed in Gillian and her passionate defence of her friend. And that, she admitted to herself, was not nothing. Nobody else appeared to be supporting the accused woman, so Simmy had stepped into the breach. She took a steadying breath, quelling her unworthy feelings. Gillian would almost certainly be busy with the case in hand, tracking down evidence that would exonerate Anita. That was good, and if there was no need for Simmy’s input then she ought to be glad.
A third customer put in an appearance, and Bonnie was wilting. ‘Is everything okay?’ Simmy asked her.
‘Not really. I can’t see a price for this.’ She brandished a tired-looking succulent that had been on display for weeks in a corner of the shop. The woman trying to buy it was clearly losing her last scrap of patience.
‘Oh dear. That’s all my fault,’ gushed Simmy. ‘You can have it for three pounds. Is that all right?’
‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’ the woman demanded suspiciously.
‘Nothing. But it’s going to need repotting, and it’s the last of the line. I’m sure it’ll serve you well for ages.’
The money was handed over, and Bonnie rolled her eyes.
The next in line wanted a spray of lilies, highly scented, still in bud, with three pink roses and plenty of foliage, to be constructed immediately. Simmy hurried into the back room to comply, hoping Bonnie could handle the latest arrival, who was elderly and shabby and sweet-faced.
When the bell above the shop door rang yet again, Simmy had just finished the spray and taken a generous payment for it. When she looked up, she met the gaze of a short woman she had not expected to see. ‘Oh!’ she yelped. ‘Hello. I thought you were too busy to talk to me.’
Bonnie was still debating with the nice old lady who was dithering between a geranium in a pot and a bunch of deep-red tulips. She looked up at Simmy’s tone of surprise, but obviously didn’t immediately recognise Gillian Townsend. It was turning into a very complicated morning, and Simmy was once again torn between conflicting demands. Gillian would probably want to go somewhere private, which was really not feasible without Bonnie’s agreement, and she would be feeling an intense curiosity guaranteed to keep her within earshot.
‘It’s happening just as I said it might yesterday. I need you to come with me,’ said Gillian urgently. ‘I’ve just this minute been told something that’s going to get this whole business settled once and for all. But I can’t do it by myself.’
‘But—’ Simmy stuttered. ‘You mean now? I can’t just drop everything in the middle of a busy Saturday.’
‘Yes you can,’ said Bonnie. ‘I can hold the fort for a bit. Hello, Mrs Townsend. It took me a minute to recognise you.’
Gillian smiled briefly, but kept her focus on Simmy. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I did warn you. I’m depending on you. I’ve got to have a neutral observer, if this is to stand any chance of working. And really you’re the ideal person for that. I promise we won’t be more than an hour. Probably quite a bit less than that. We won’t be going very far.’
‘Go on, Sim,’ said Bonnie, making shooing motions. ‘You can’t refuse. You know you can’t. Ben would never forgive you.’
She couldn’t pretend to be surprised after the conversation at The Elleray, and yet the reality of the request was a shock. Had she assumed everything would just settle down without any intervention from her? Even after her observations of the previous evening she still experienced the whole case as largely theoretical. But now her own moral character pushed her into agreeing to Gillian’s urging. At some point on the road through Crook she had become committed to the investigation into how Declan Kennedy had died. She did not understand her reasons, nor how she could possibly provide any constructive assistance – but she still accepted that she was involved. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Give me a minute to make sure Bonnie knows what she’s got to do.’
Gillian drove them down to Bowness, taking the left turn towards Crook, as Simmy had assumed they would. Her brain might be working a lot more slowly than Ben’s or Bonnie’s would have done, but she was getting there in her own time. ‘I came along here last night,’ she said. ‘Trying to remember exactly what I saw last week. It upsets me to think I might have driven right past Declan and his bike without seeing them. It doesn’t seem possible. I think it’s more likely it happened after I was here. That’s what the woman in the chip shop seemed to think.’
‘Who?’
‘She lives up there,’ Simmy pointed to the right. ‘She’s the one I delivered flowers to before meeting you and Anita.’
‘We still can’t be sure what time it happened. If not you, then other people must have driven blindly past him. He could have been there for as much as two hours before anybody noticed. Of course, it was getting dark and everybody’s always in a hurry.’
‘Are we going to see the Roger man? The one he was staying with?’
‘What? Oh – no. He lives a lot further on, where this road comes out onto the 591, shortly before Kendal. There’s no reason at all to talk to Roger.’
‘So where are we going?’
‘Not far now. There’s a track on the left, leading up to a farm. I know the people there. I helped them a while ago when their father died. Some family unpleasantness, which we soon sorted out.’
Simmy refrained from enquiring just how these people fitted into the picture, trusting that all would eventually become clear.
‘Listen,’ said Gillian, speaking rather more loudly than necessary. ‘What I want from you is to watch very closely everything that’s going to happen from here on. Don’t ask questions or make comments. You’re here purely as a confirmatory witness. I did wonder whether we should get it all on camera as well, but I don’t think that’s essential. And funnily enough, you tend to miss a lot if you’re concentrating on filming. I want you to be able to give a full and totally truthful account of what’s going to happen.’
‘Including what you’re saying to me now?’
‘If asked, yes.’
It felt alarmingly s
taged, as well as uncomfortably exploitative. People didn’t drag other people into their unilateral semi-legal investigations without raising anxiety. ‘What if it gets violent?’ she said.
‘It won’t. No chance whatsoever of that. We’re just going to look at something. Nothing more scary than that.’
The track to the farm was stony, rutted and steep. Gillian’s car was robust and sufficiently high off the ground to survive the protruding rocks that occurred at random. ‘My little car would hate this,’ Simmy said with a nervous laugh.
‘I imagine they get plenty of aggravation from the post man and other delivery people. Not that they’re likely to get a lot of post. I can’t see Jonah or Dorcas buying anything on Amazon.’
‘Jonah and Dorcas? Are they Methodists?’
‘They are, as it happens. Their other siblings are called Aaron, Martha and Luke.’
‘I like Dorcas,’ mused Simmy.
‘She’s like a person from another age,’ said Gillian, before realising her misunderstanding. ‘Oh – you mean the name, not the person. I don’t suppose you’ve ever met her. She doesn’t go out very much.’
The farmyard was dirty and very untidy. A ewe with two bedraggled lambs stood miserably against a barn wall. Two black and white dogs came hurtling towards them barking wildly. Even from a distance, Simmy could see their coats were matted and lumpy. Various farm implements had been left in the open on a scrubby patch of grass. Beyond them was a stone wall with a broken wooden gate leading into a scrubby field devoid of animals. There was a lot of mud.
‘Did we go through some sort of portal?’ she wondered aloud. ‘Have we gone back two hundred years in time?’
Gillian laughed. ‘Maybe we have, at that. Come on, then. There’s Jonah, look.’
Jonah fitted the picture only too well. Bearded, wearing a colourless coat tied around the middle with orange string, he could have been any age. Fascinated, Simmy watched his face as he approached the car. There was an almost glowing affability in it. His wide smile revealed a set of healthy teeth. His eyes were framed with crinkled skin; his hair was dark and wavy. ‘Mrs Townsend,’ he said, with a comical little salutation that involved bending his knees as if about to curtsey.
