by Rebecca Tope
‘There,’ she said, at seven fifteen. ‘It’s all ready for the next lot now. Is it all right if I go home?’
‘Whatever you want,’ said Angie, looking as tired as Simmy felt. ‘Thanks, love. But have some tea first. Are you rushing back for anything?’
‘Not really. Some washing and clearing up. I’m tired, that’s all.’
‘It’s all go, isn’t it?’ said Angie vaguely, as she made tea. Russell was dozing by the Rayburn with his feet on a stool and the dog on his outstretched legs. His wife and daughter exchanged looks of impatience, which Simmy realised was unusual. Ordinarily, she’d take her father’s part if there was criticism coming his way. ‘All right for some,’ said Angie.
‘He can’t help it,’ Simmy ventured half-heartedly. ‘But you won’t be able to carry on like this indefinitely, will you?’
‘What do you suggest?’ Angie’s voice was suddenly shrill. ‘Are you another one who thinks we should sell up and move to a bungalow on some ghastly estate somewhere? Or you think we’re in need of a warden and panic buttons, do you?’
‘I’m not discussing it now. Don’t shout at me. I’m doing my best.’
‘Yes … Well …’
‘We’ll have a proper sit-down and talk it all through,’ Simmy promised. ‘But not until after Mother’s Day, okay? I can’t cope with anything else until then.’
‘I’ll look forward to that, then,’ said Angie bitterly.
She was back at home, drinking a warming mug of tea when somebody knocked on the door. It was dark outside, and the familiar feeling of apprehension gripped her as she went to answer it. How many ancient tales of trouble and horror began with a night-time knock?
A man stood there, his face only faintly familiar. ‘Hello? So sorry to startle you. I did try you a bit earlier, but you were out. I’m Matthew Olsen.’
Matthew Olsen was the owner of the van that had killed Declan Kennedy. That meant he was very likely to be a murderer. She closed the door to within a few inches, but couldn’t bring herself to slam it in his face. ‘I can’t let you in,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you understand why.’
‘I won’t hurt you, I promise. I’m a very soft chap. Ask anybody.’
‘I’ve seen you in the shop. You live near here, don’t you?’
‘Just down the hill. I wondered if you’d remember me. We had a little chat about scampi-flavoured crisps not long ago, if you recall.’
‘So we did. But I still can’t let you in.’
‘Yes you can. Leave the door open. Keep your phone in your hand. Or call someone now and tell them I’m here. What do you think I’m going to do?’
‘I know. But …’ She remembered at least two previous occasions where she had stupidly walked into obviously dangerous situations, without a thought for her own welfare. Too dumb to live echoed in her head. ‘But they say you killed Declan,’ she blurted.
‘They don’t, actually. The only person saying that is your friend Gillian Townsend. I don’t blame you, but I think you owe it to me to listen to the truth.’
The door seemed to open wider of its own accord. This man was nice, she realised sadly. Every bit as nice as Debbie, or Gillian or Anita or old Mrs Percival. The only person who hadn’t sounded nice in the whole case was Declan’s politician dad.
Matthew took a cautious step. ‘It’s cold out here,’ he said. Then, ‘Oh, look! There’s Pat from Nuthatch Spinney.’ He waved exaggeratedly at a small silver-coloured car driving past. ‘She’s seen me here. She’d be a great witness if anything happened.’
‘I’d still be just as dead,’ said Simmy incautiously.
‘I absolutely swear that I’m not going to kill you.’
‘Yes, but you would say that, wouldn’t you?’
‘This is very silly, you know. Even if I had killed Declan – which I definitely did not – that doesn’t mean I’m here to kill you. What’s the logic in that?’
‘I know. But …’ Two conflicting value systems were clashing inside her head. Her innate wish to trust everyone, to take them at face value and believe the best of them was warring with all the po-faced warnings and security alerts and sensible edicts that came from almost everybody in authority, from schoolteachers to police officers, via media presenters and ordinary housewives. Everybody told you to trust no one. Everybody thought she was a fool to get herself into vulnerable situations so willingly and so repeatedly. Everybody, that is, except her mother, and Bonnie, and Ben, and Corinne. All those she most loved, in fact. ‘You’re right. This is silly. Come on in, then.’
‘I should also mention that I do a bit of work for your … friend, Christopher Henderson,’ he said as he followed her into the living room. ‘Although I only made the connection yesterday. I’d seen him up here once or twice, but didn’t know he was visiting you.’
Simmy waved at him to sit on the sofa, and took a chair for herself. She was trying to organise her thoughts, and making a poor job of it. ‘Have the police questioned you?’ she asked, cutting through any tendency to chit-chat.
‘They have. They made no secret of the fact that I am top of the list of potential killers of my sister’s husband. A man I liked very much, I might add, and who died horribly while I was in Keswick.’
‘I’ve been helping – if that’s the right word – Gillian and your mother, as you probably know.’ Who knew what continued to present an impenetrable tangle, largely thanks to Ben and Bonnie. Despite their claim to be sharing everything, Simmy knew there were details on both sides that remained undisclosed. ‘And my friends have been meeting you and Debbie. It’s been a bit like a pretend trial, with us on opposing sides.’
‘You make it sound like a game.’
‘I do, don’t I? But we know it’s not. The detective inspector has a good idea what’s going on, and he’d put a stop to anything that caused actual harm. He values Ben’s input, usually. He is very clever, you know. Ben, I mean. I suppose Moxon’s no fool, either.’
‘And who does your friendly DI think killed Dec, then?’
She shook her head. ‘Good question. But I really couldn’t answer it. Can you prove you were in Keswick?’
‘More or less, although it all depends on what time the whole thing happened.’
‘I saw your van. It’s got quite a lot of damage.’
‘So I see. I hadn’t been near it until last night, when I heard it was under the spotlight.’
‘You haven’t used it for over a week?’
He shook his head. ‘There’s been no need. I’ve been doing a big clearance job for an old chap at the top end of the village, and used his truck – as well as trying to keep my sister afloat. She’s been almost a full-time occupation this past week, as you might imagine.’
‘And you really think your own mother killed Declan, do you?’
He met her eyes and took a long breath. ‘I really do,’ he said solemnly. ‘And I’m very sorry to say that I think you’ve impeded the course of justice by taking her side. I don’t mean that aggressively’ – he put out a hand towards her, making stroking motions – ‘I just have to make it clear to you that she is more than capable of such a thing, despite how she might seem.’
‘But why? Why would she?’
‘Vengeance. Declan’s caused her a lot of annoyance over the years, estranged her from Debbie and me, and turned his very influential father against her and Gillian. And probably more that I don’t know about.’
Simmy drew back into her chair. ‘Those aren’t good enough reasons to commit such a cruel and careful murder. If it was her, she’d have had to plan it down to the finest detail. The van, the timing, the convincing everybody she was somewhere else. I can’t actually see how it could even be feasible.’
‘That’s where your young friends come in. Debbie and I have a good idea, but we don’t know the whole thing. And now they’ve got me in their sights as the likely killer, they’re not going to tell us anything more. Even if Debbie’s the next of kin to the victim, they can see how close
she and I are, so they’ve clammed up.’
‘So why have you come to see me?’ She smiled tightly. ‘I should have asked you that at the start, shouldn’t I?’
‘I wanted to persuade you to stop taking my mother’s side. I know you mean well, and Gillian’s incredibly effective at making people like her, and all that. I understand how they got to you. But I have to tell you that you’ve been used.’
She closed her eyes for a few seconds, trying to recapture that first meeting, over a week ago. ‘I don’t see how,’ she said eventually. ‘And how do you know what happened?’
‘I don’t suppose I should tell you, but it wouldn’t take long for you to guess. Who else was there? Who knows Gillian and my mother better than anybody? And who do you think has the most terrible divided loyalties?’
‘Mrs Percival,’ Simmy realised. ‘Gillian’s mother. Although I don’t see why her loyalties should be divided.’
‘Ah – so nobody’s told you, then? She’s godmother to Debbie’s older girl. Not just a token role, either. She’s made it a major commitment, ever since Lorraine was born.’
‘But – does that mean she managed to remain on good terms with Declan? Debbie did say she’d visited last weekend, now I think about it. Now, of course, I can see it couldn’t really have been anybody else.’
‘Right.’
‘So what about Gillian?’ She floundered, trying to articulate her revulsion at the many implications of the charge against Anita, particularly where her friend and partner was concerned.
‘Gillian’s a tragic figure,’ he said. ‘She’s an only child, with no kids of her own. She’s been in poor health much of her life, with various peculiar immunity issues. The Crohn’s disease is just the last in a long list. She’s a martyr, I suppose. Except that people always seem to like her more than they usually like a martyr. Maybe I should call her a stoic.’
‘Do you like her?’
His face hardened ‘Not if she’s been involved in killing my brother-in-law.’
‘But she hasn’t. It just isn’t possible.’
‘I don’t think it would have been feasible without her.’
Simmy lifted her chin in triumph. ‘Then you’ve got it all completely wrong. If it wasn’t you and it wasn’t Anita, then it was somebody else. What about Declan’s father?’
‘What about him? You think he killed his own son? His only son, come to that.’ He made a scoffing sound. ‘He’s at least as devastated as Debbie and the girls.’
‘Well, we don’t seem to be getting anywhere, do we?’
‘We might yet. At least I haven’t taken a knife to you, have I? You might have a few second thoughts about me, now you’ve got to know me a bit.’
‘My head’s full of questions. Why did Declan go off as he did, not telling his wife where he was going? Who knew where he was? Who knew about your van? Who had a key for it? What was Declan really like?’
‘We told your friends most of that stuff.’
‘Well, they didn’t tell me. All I know is how Declan kept nagging and nagging for a job with Anita and Gillian, after they’d told him loud and clear there wasn’t a chance. He sounds a bit of a fool, actually.’
‘That wasn’t him. It was the old man, who never could take no for an answer. He’s like an old-fashioned Mafia boss. Pretty much of a dinosaur, you’d think. But plenty of small towns still have a character like him, usually head of the council.’
But Simmy could no longer duck the burning, dragging, horrifying fact of a man and woman accusing their own mother of murder. ‘But she’s your mother,’ she wailed, almost choking with the force of that single fact. ‘How can you say and think such things about her?’
He went pale and clasped his hands between his knees. ‘I know. I understand how it must look. We tried to explain to the boy and his girlfriend. She was never a real mother to us. We missed out on the bonding, or whatever it is. But somehow we seem to have missed all that family duty stuff as well. You probably know people, the same as I do, who were parked with minders or nannies or whatever, and scarcely knew their parents, but still behave quite normally as adults. I mean, they still speak to the old folk and celebrate Mother’s Day and get together at Christmas. The social expectations are strong enough to make them go through the motions. But that didn’t happen with me and Deb. I can’t really say why. Possibly because our mother never seemed to want or need us to be like that. It all comes from her, you see. That’s the whole point. All we ever do is react to her.’
‘But Gillian loves her, doesn’t she? She’s not evil or wicked and you and Debbie haven’t turned out so badly.’
He lifted an eyebrow, suggesting something close to offence. ‘How can you possibly say that? You have no idea what we’re like.’
She quailed. ‘Sorry. But you did say you were a softie and not tempted to murder me.’ She had hoped to make him smile at that, but in vain.
His head dropped forward and he mumbled, ‘It’s worse than that. I’m completely pathetic.’
Simmy recalled Christopher’s comment about Matthew being good with old ladies. The psychology was not hard to comprehend. ‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ she said.
It was approaching half past eight, and she wondered what happened next. Should she offer him a drink? Did she want to give him any hint of encouragement to build a friendship? He was, after all, a neighbour. His house was probably only three hundred yards from hers. Something threatening stirred when she realised that.
He said nothing, as she got up from her chair. ‘I don’t think there’s any more to be said, is there?’ She tried to sound brisk. A new thought occurred. ‘Have you been helping in Keswick today? Getting things ready for next week’s sale?’
‘I did go, yeah, but I wasn’t much use. They wanted some stuff fetched from Carlisle, but I couldn’t go because the cops have got my van. For all I know, I’ll never get it back.’
‘Oh. Of course. Do they compensate you for loss of work?’
He looked up, and this time there was a faint smile. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it’s rather unlikely.’
‘Right. So do I. But you want me to go. Okay.’ He got out of the sofa with an effort. ‘Another five minutes and I’d probably have gone to sleep here. It’s been a very tiring week.’
‘I can imagine. Thanks for coming,’ she added, feeling foolish. ‘I mean – it was good to meet you properly. You’ve given me a lot to think about.’ Not that that’s a good thing, she thought crossly.
‘Just – stop sticking up for my mother, okay? It’s not helping.’
So that was what he had come to say. In a nutshell. In a repeat of the scene on the doorstep, she experienced a violent inner conflict. Resistance to being told what to do fought with a dawning suspicion that she might have been wrong all along. ‘I didn’t do anything, really,’ she said. ‘Nothing that made any difference, anyway. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m just a florist.’
Finally, he laughed. ‘Yes, Simmy Brown, that’s right. You’re just a quiet ordinary little florist. God help us.’
She saw him out with the inner conflict still raging.
She was left with her attention focused on events in Staveley. Sticking up for Anita and Gillian had seemed entirely natural at the time. She had met them, listened to their party plans, admired Mrs Percival’s lovely house, and worried with them about the missing Declan. After that, what choice did she have? Despite efforts to remain neutral and uninvolved, they had drawn her in with the sticky tentacles of normal human sympathy, until she was placed in painful opposition to Ben and Bonnie, and in the process made the object of DI Moxon’s pity – again.
And now she still had a while to kill before she could decently go to bed. She wanted to phone Ben, Gillian, Debbie, and even Moxon – more or less in that order, although Moxon could quickly be deleted from the list. He had nothing to offer her, the way she was feeling. She wanted everyone to be happy, she realised. Sentimental, unrealistic idi
ot that she was – none of the people she’d met deserved the pain and misery that had overwhelmed them. And the face that came most vividly into focus for her was that of poor Gillian Townsend, working so hard on behalf of her friend.
But Gillian had a perfectly good husband to watch out for her. She and Anita had a strong and healthy friendship based on decades of daily contact at work. Gillian even had an impressively capable mother, whose house was kept beautifully and who clearly had a kind heart. None of them really needed Simmy Brown any more, not even Gillian. She had probably never really needed her very much – it was just an additional string to her bow to have the support of someone so transparently innocent and reasonably objective about the whole business. The same feeling that had assailed her over recent days came again – a contradictory set of emotions that said thank goodness I’m not fully involved as well as how dare they all think I’m too insignificant to worry about? Her place was so often on the sidelines that she had to acknowledge that she deliberately put herself there. And yet, she wanted it all to come right, and yes, for everybody to be happy.
But they had not been happy before, had they? Debbie and Matthew had hated their mother for years. Debbie had sought solace, apparently, in family life with husband and daughters, but Matthew struck her as rather lost. No proper job, no discernible partner. Chances were he rented the Troutbeck house from some long-time acquaintance who owed him a favour. Matthew Olsen was a clear candidate for police interest – anyone could see that.
And Anita? No hint of a reciprocal loathing towards her children had been evident, despite what Debbie and Matthew both insisted was the case. As Simmy saw it, her children’s hostility made Anita sad and possibly guilty, but she didn’t hate them back. It remained inconceivable that she would wilfully cause her daughter such utter heartbreak that would arise from the death of Declan. Simmy’s mind stubbornly baulked at the notion, as it had been doing all week.
