The Patterdale Plot

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘No problem. Shall we walk up for a look, then? The people are expecting us. It’ll take us a bit less than ten minutes, if we’re brisk. There’s not really anywhere to leave a car up there now the weekend’s upon us.’

  As they walked on the narrow pavement, Simmy tried to engage the right frame of mind. This place could be her home within a few months. It was undeniably heavenly. To the left rose a series of bumpy fells with slopes in all directions. She could see a football pitch, and something that could be a farm further off. To the right was a neater landscape, with a uniform escarpment providing a long horizontal backdrop to the sweeping fall down to the little river that fed Ullswater. A white house drew the eye, giving a focal point and featuring on almost every postcard of Patterdale. Many of the most prominent buildings were painted white, including the White Lion pub and the big Patterdale Hotel. At the foot of that escarpment sat Crookabeck, and further south, little Hartsop. They nestled in age-old comfort, almost every usable patch of level ground already occupied by an old stone building. But in Patterdale there were still a few areas that might be available for development – a word that Russell would insist was a euphemism for desecration.

  ‘Hang on,’ she said suddenly. ‘Isn’t that where they want to put those tourist chalets?’ She pointed towards the football pitch. ‘Can we go for a quick look while we’re here? We ought to have some idea of what it could mean for anybody living here.’

  Robin glanced at his phone. ‘We’re already awfully late,’ he demurred.

  ‘Five minutes,’ she insisted. ‘It’s not going to matter, is it?’

  Taking the initiative, she crossed the road and followed a path that led westwards along a small valley that she thought had its far end at Grizedale. Crags towered above them to the south. The farm was nestled comfortably just ahead. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘It must be, don’t you think?’ She swept her arm in an arc to indicate the imagined site. The ground was only relatively level, with knobby rocks and a muddy patch that would call for some intensive landscaping to transform into a holiday park. ‘You could probably get a dozen or so of those lodges like they’ve got in Troutbeck on there, if you were clever.’

  ‘I really don’t think it’s anybody’s intention to build here,’ said Robin. ‘I’ve asked around, after Christopher mentioned it, and nobody’s heard a thing.’

  ‘There’s quite a lot of hoo-ha about it in Bowness,’ said Simmy. ‘Which I know sounds weird, but it’s true. It’s taking neighbourhood watch to a whole new level, objecting to a proposal that hasn’t even been formally made yet, in a place fifteen miles away.’

  ‘Thirteen,’ said Christopher. ‘You told me it was thirteen.’

  ‘Which takes half an hour or more to drive,’ she said with some bitterness.

  ‘They wouldn’t get permission,’ said Robin, with absolute confidence. ‘It would be much too intrusive. You’d be able to see it from too many points. Look at the one in Hartsop – it’s almost invisible. That’s how they’re meant to be. Even with the new Local Plan favouring economic development, this would be much too much to stomach. And I don’t think it’s the sort of thing they mean, anyway.’

  ‘You can see the Troutbeck one from the top of Wansfell and Applethwaite,’ Simmy said.

  ‘That’s an exception,’ said Robin. ‘Now, can we go back to the house?’

  The house, which was another quarter-mile or so past the school, was bigger than she had expected, with a front door opening directly onto the very narrow pavement. Instantly she saw her toddler escaping her grasp and diving under the wheels of a passing car. There was no garage. The windows were small. It faced a cluster of trees and a stone wall. ‘Lovely view from the back,’ said Robin. ‘But it’s a bit too dark to see it properly now.’

  The vendors showed them around, pointing out random features such as cupboards and curtain rails. The third bedroom was boxy, with a large tree keeping out much of the light. The owners of the house had clearly made enormous efforts to keep everything tidy, with the result that the rooms looked unnaturally bare. Upstairs they glimpsed a sullen teenaged boy in the third bedroom, and hastily maintained that they didn’t need to disturb him. ‘The baby can have the bigger one, next to ours,’ said Christopher heartily. ‘Visitors can go in here.’

  There was sure to be a lovely view at the back in good light, with glimpses of Ullswater, perhaps, and maybe some lopping of the domineering trees. But the house possessed no direct access onto open ground. The garden was neglected, with a wall to keep sheep from stealing the beans, or whatever else was growing there. Simmy made no attempt to conceal her lack of enthusiasm, despite the valiant efforts of both men to excite her.

  ‘I can’t see how this could work,’ she said at last, with an apologetic sigh. Her imagination had continued to accumulate reasons why she could not consider living there. The hall was narrow, the stairs steep. The area housing the washing machine and freezer was too small to accommodate baby equipment such as a buggy and car seat. There was a high step down into the kitchen. ‘There’s nowhere to put anything,’ she objected, without bothering to lower her voice. She could feel herself channelling her mother.

  Robin visibly flinched and Christopher groaned softly. ‘But you do still like Patterdale in general, don’t you?’ he pleaded.

  ‘I do. I think it’s lovely. But you have to think of the practicalities. We need to be further from the road. There has to be somewhere we can put both our cars – really it should have a garage. The rooms here are all wrong for us.’ She gave Christopher a pleading look. ‘And I don’t like the steep stairs. I’m really sorry, but that’s what I think.’

  ‘And you don’t like the Kirkstone Pass, either,’ her fiancé reminded her with an obvious struggle to be fair-minded. ‘You’d have to use it every day, once you went back to work.’

  ‘I expect I could get used to that, if everything else was right.’ She chewed her lip, already feeling the strain and sadness of having to go back to work at all, once she had a child in need of her. ‘If I had what I wanted up here, it would be worth it,’ she added. She visualised the calm of Crookabeck, where there would be no hassles about parking, no traffic noise, and probably little risk of flooding. The buildings all appeared to have been placed on rising ground.

  They were standing in the road a few yards away from the house, but marched quickly back to their cars when a sudden flurry of rain attacked them. Clouds covered the fells within moments and Simmy anticipated a murky drive home through the infamous pass. ‘Is it wetter up here, do you think?’ she muttered.

  ‘Than what?’

  ‘Windermere. Or Keswick. Or anywhere, really.’

  ‘Probably not noticeably.’

  ‘It floods, though, doesn’t it? There was a big one just before I moved up here.’

  ‘I missed it as well. But it was pretty dramatic, apparently, especially in Glenridding. They’ve improved the defences now, so we’ll have to hope it doesn’t happen again.’

  Robin stood by his car looking uncertain. ‘So … the house doesn’t grab you, then?’ he said.

  Simmy grimaced. ‘Oh dear, we must seem terribly ungrateful, when you’ve put yourself out for us. But—’

  ‘That’s okay. I’m used to it. It probably isn’t really right for a family, when you think about it.’

  ‘It’ll sell quickly, don’t worry,’ said Christopher.

  Robin sighed. ‘Everyone still remembers the flood, that’s the problem. There were pictures of the road all cracked and broken, and water rushing through half the houses. It’s had quite an effect, which still hasn’t gone away. Most of them are still online somewhere, and people always have to look before they commit to buying property.’

  ‘I remember something about a landslide as well,’ said Simmy.

  ‘More than one, in fact. There were diversions and disruption for months.’

  Christopher looked at his watch. ‘I’m hungry,’ he said. ‘Shall we have something here?’ He looked at the big
white hotel. ‘We’ll get the car park money back if we do that.’

  Simmy hesitated. ‘Do you mind if we just go back to Troutbeck? I haven’t been at home much this week, and there’s food that needs eating. I’m not really in the mood for eating out.’

  Her fiancé readily concurred. ‘Suits me,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m all set for a lovely relaxing weekend, starting now.’

  They drove back in separate cars, which gave Simmy more time for thinking than she really needed. Her thoughts were not the most optimistic or uplifting. Instead she flitted from near panic over where she and Christopher were going to live to what was going to happen to her parents, via DI Moxon’s frustration and Bonnie’s potential for disaster in the shop next morning. Nothing seemed smooth or encouraging. There were problems on all sides, some of them involving catching a poisoner before he or she could strike again. Because that, really, was the fear behind the failure to apprehend and convict a killer. If the original purpose behind killing Grant Childers had been something to do with the building of tourist lodges in Patterdale, and if it had not achieved its purpose, then there could be someone else in line for removal. Some other person obstructing the way of determined planners, perhaps.

  But would a development company stoop so low? Would they really construct an elaborate conspiracy involving feeding the victim with something containing enough poison to kill him, in case he made such a convincing speech that their entire proposal would be dismissed before it was properly made? It felt wholly incredible. Ludicrous, even. How much more likely that a spurned girlfriend or jealous workmate had packed him some lethal substance in a bottle of corrupted orange squash for him to consume once in Windermere?

  He could have carried his packed lunch outside with him, sitting on the lakeside in Bowness on Sunday morning and unwittingly killing himself. Why did the police not follow up that line of investigation? Childers could have neatly disposed of the packaging in a corporation litter bin, where it would never be found or analysed. The same went for the kitchens, gardens and dustbins of everyone who knew him back home in Halesowen. It was an impossible task – she had little hope that any real evidence was ever going to turn up against anybody who’d ever known poor Grant Childers.

  The pessimistic mood persisted as she crawled up and around the snaking road that was the Kirkstone Pass. Visibility was very poor in the misty rain, and traffic uncomfortably heavy. A car behind her evidently judged her to be needlessly slow, driving right up to her bumper with lights on, trying to bully her into speeding up. Just as she began to do so, a white truck approached through the gloom at some speed, and she veered to the left to avoid it. Over the years she had learnt not to do this too violently, having once smashed a wing mirror against a stone wall and been appalled at the cost of replacing it. She missed the wall, settling onto the bumpy verge instead. Her wheels grated unpleasantly over stones at the foot of the wall and the car behind, in an effort to avoid a similar fate, found itself in the path of the oncoming truck. Almost at a standstill, Simmy heard the traumatising sound of metal on metal and breaking glass.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Not my fault, she muttered. Definitely not my fault. Both the other drivers had been behaving badly, while she had been a paragon of caution and good sense. Already there were other cars approaching from both directions. One of them might be Christopher, she realised, having left Patterdale ahead of him, while he had a few final words with Robin. In any case he would be delayed by the blocked road. Perhaps she should phone him and warn him, saying she’d go ahead and put some food on to cook while she waited. But the signal up there was poor, and he ought not to answer the phone while driving. On the other hand, he might worry that she had been hurt in the accident.

  She opted to drive on while she still could, squeezing past two more stationary cars that had got caught up in the accident. She knew she ought to offer herself as a witness, but what would she say? That the tailgater deserved all he got for trying to bully her, and the truck likewise should have been going more slowly? The insurance people would make little of that, and the ‘knock for knock’ solution was the only fair one, in the circumstances. It was highly unlikely that anyone had been hurt, and her conscience was very nearly clear as she proceeded down into Troutbeck.

  Her route passed the church, and natural curiosity caused her to slow down and try to locate Miss Entwhistle’s grave, which ought to be piled high with flowers. There was space in the road outside and she stopped, thinking she could phone Christopher at the same time. She also realised that she was feeling shaky after the incident at Kirkstone Pass. The sound of the impact was still echoing in her ears, the violence of it reverberating. It would be good to hear her fiancé’s voice.

  He answered quickly, wanting to know where she was. ‘In Troutbeck. Where are you?’ was her reply.

  ‘Standing beside a buckled pick-up truck with about six other people, seeing if we can move it out of the way. One of the wheels won’t work, which is causing some problems.’

  ‘I saw it happen. I was right there.’

  ‘I hope it wasn’t your fault? Why didn’t you stay to help?’

  ‘No way was it my fault, and I didn’t think there was anything useful I could do. Somebody must have called out a tow truck by now, surely?’

  ‘Yes, but the traffic’s backed up about half a mile in each direction already. The trouble is, it’s so misty, someone’s going to rear-end something if we don’t do what we can to get it clear.’

  ‘It’s not anybody we know, is it?’ The thought had not occurred to her until that moment.

  ‘The car belongs to a man from Yorkshire who was coming here with his wife for a romantic weekend, using the scenic route, which added too much time to the journey. He knows he was driving badly. The truck’s from Kendal or somewhere. The driver’s Polish and scared stiff he’s going to lose his job.’

  ‘He was going much too fast.’

  ‘So I gather. He’s very remorseful about it as well as the Yorkshire chap.’

  ‘Maybe it’ll teach them a lesson.’ She could find no charitable words for the two men, who might easily have damaged her and her car in the process of hitting each other. In fact, with hindsight it looked quite miraculous that she had gone unscathed.

  ‘Huh,’ said Christopher.

  ‘Anyway, I’ll be home in a few minutes and get started on some supper. It sounds as if you might be some time.’

  ‘I thought you said you were at home already?’

  ‘I’m at the church. I’m going for a quick look at a grave. It’s flower business.’

  ‘But it’s dark. It’s been dark for hours.’

  ‘I can see enough. There’s a light on in the church and the door’s open. It’s a bit mad, I know, but I want to get out of the car for a minute.’ There was the sound of men’s raised voices coming through Christopher’s phone. ‘You’d better go,’ she said. ‘See you soon.’

  She found the new grave in the feeble evening light, helped by a beam from the church door, but was disappointed to see only three floral tributes adorning it. She could see that none of them had come from Persimmon Petals. There was a man pottering about close by, picking up stray scraps of litter. ‘Where did all the flowers go?’ she asked him.

  ‘Undertaker’s men took them away. Gave them to nursing homes, I dare say. Isn’t that the usual thing?’

  ‘After a cremation, maybe. It seems a shame not to leave them on the grave, even if just for a couple of days.’

  The man shrugged. He was probably a church warden or lay preacher, she supposed. The vicar was barely recognised by her, but she was pretty sure this was not him. She had not once been to a service in her local church. ‘They get messy,’ the man muttered. ‘Especially in weather like this.’

  There was still a mizzly rain, covering everything with a damp autumnal frosting that was a long way from the sparkle of winter ice. Her head was bare and she could feel her hair getting wet. A large mound of funeral flowers woul
d soon have gone sad and soggy, she conceded. She went back to her car with a sense of something unresolved. Only as she parked outside her cottage did it strike her that she had been unconsciously searching for a hand-made tribute containing white trumpet-shaped flowers.

  Christopher arrived twenty-five minutes later, which was quicker than she’d expected. It was nearly nine o’clock and they were both seriously hungry. She found peanuts to stave off the worst pangs while a large ready-made fish pie heated through in the oven, and peas were boiled on the hob. ‘I wish I could have some alcohol,’ she whined.

  ‘What’s stopping you? Mindless propaganda by a health and safety society gone mad.’ He looked at her with a smile. ‘I’m just channelling your mother, you realise. But I really don’t think a glass or two is going to do any damage. Probably the opposite. Moderation in all things – isn’t that what they say? It’s not moderation to give something up altogether.’

  ‘I might have a beer then,’ she said, with a pang of guilt. ‘I’m sure you’re right. When did I become such a conformist?’ How could these social taboos gain such a hold over everybody, she wondered. When her mother was pregnant, it was apparently quite normal for expectant mothers to knock back half a bottle of wine every day, at the very least. They smoked like chimneys too. And as far as Simmy could see, the resulting babies of her generation were more or less healthy. It was the current cohort of toddlers and infants that had rotten teeth and endless allergies, if reports could be believed.

  ‘It’s the times we live in. Go on – be a devil,’ said Christopher, going to the fridge. ‘My mum always said we thrived on the Guinness she drank all the time she was expecting.’

  ‘Just what I was thinking,’ said Simmy.

  They ate together in the kitchen, chatting amicably about work and families and changing seasons. The quest for a house had been shelved for the time being, as had the fact of a murder under Simmy’s very nose. She encouraged Chris to describe recent items sold in his auction house, never tiring of his tales of naughty postcards tucked in among views of Torquay, and a gold coin lodged in the middle drawer of a small cabinet. The best story was of a diamond necklace wrapped in tissue paper and taped to the back of a high shelf in a big mahogany wardrobe. ‘About ten people must have missed it,’ he said. ‘The buyer found it, and was entirely within her rights to keep it. She wore it a few times before selling it for three grand.’