The Troutbeck Testimony

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘No problem.’ Simmy waved the subject away. Monday felt too far off to worry about. Anything might happen by then.

  Chapter Five

  The day ended with Bonnie promising to return next morning for further instruction.

  ‘I should pay you,’ Simmy realised. ‘We haven’t discussed that side of things at all. How very unbusinesslike of me.’

  ‘Oh, just some pocket money will do for now. You don’t have to get into all the paperwork and tax and stuff, as far as I’m concerned.’

  A girl after Russell Straw’s heart, Simmy thought, with a smile. ‘Well, I suppose we’ll have to eventually, but for a week or two I’m happy to keep it informal, if you like.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bonnie, as if relieved.

  ‘How will you get home?’

  ‘Walk. It’s not far. I’m staying at a place in Heathwaite at the moment.’

  This sounded odd to Simmy, and she tried to link it with the few facts that Melanie had conveyed that morning. ‘With your family, you mean?’

  ‘Sort of. I’m living with my aunt. It suits us both. Don’t worry about me,’ she added urgently. ‘I hate that.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ Simmy defended. ‘You must be fairly near my parents, I presume. They’re in Lake Road.’

  Bonnie nodded carelessly. ‘I’m in Oakthwaite.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ said Simmy. ‘There are all those tree-thwaite names. I think they’re wonderful. Limethwaite. Thornthwaite. Like tongue-twisters. I even know what “thwaite” means,’ she added proudly. ‘And I’ve only been here a year.’

  The girl looked at her warily. ‘Oh?’ she murmured.

  ‘Yes. And I’ve been dreadfully slow in getting to know my way around. I’m determined to make up for it this summer.’

  ‘Right. Well …’

  ‘Sorry. You want to go. See you tomorrow, then.’

  She drove back to Troutbeck wondering at her own sudden exuberance. It had begun the previous day, with the blue sky and the humming bees. There was so much to look forward to, with the lengthening days and the general lifting of pressure. Only with hindsight did she grasp how difficult the winter had been. Without Melanie and Ben, she couldn’t see how she’d have got through it. But Melanie and Ben were temporary presences in her life. They were young and would move on. She had relied on them more than was wise.

  So who could she rely on? Her parents inevitably came to mind, in spite of Russell’s words on the subject. And Ninian Tripp, who was at least her own age and unlikely to move away. But Ninian was not a man to lean on. He was far too limp and fey for that.

  The only person – and the realisation made her shiver – who was fully and persistently reliable was DI Nolan Moxon.

  But there would be no necessity to make any further use of his trustworthiness, she assured herself. He had only crossed her path because horrible crimes had been committed. That wasn’t going to happen any more. Even Ben Harkness would have to concede that.

  She drove up the winding road from the lakeside into the village of Troutbeck, thinking of the weeks when an inconvenient rota had been established to drive her up and down to work, when she was still too convalescent to do it herself. Her father and Melanie had been the primary chauffeurs, but once or twice her friend Julie had been summoned into service, and there had even been mornings when the only choice was to call a taxi. As soon as she had been allowed to get behind the wheel again, Valentine’s Day had demanded a dramatic return to driving, not least several challenging journeys to Coniston and back.

  Her route took her through a tiny settlement named Thickholme, with a famous bridge over the Trout Beck. Woods and farms and unpredictable levels gave the little journey an ever-changing fascination, which Simmy fully acknowledged. The new sheen of green over the hedges proclaimed another miracle of revitalisation after the greys and browns of winter. Fields fell away to her right, edged by sturdy stone walls, and empty of animals. There was moss and dead wood and rutted tracks all adding to a sense of timelessness, where technology had made almost no impact. The imposing old farmhouse at Town End, with its mad collection of hand-carved furniture and weird cylindrical chimneys, reinforced the feeling that not much changed on these hillsides over a century or two.

  But then she became aware that something was happening, in a farmyard close by. Two police cars were parked in such a way as to make it almost impossible to get past. A uniformed officer was talking into a phone. The sight brought memories and associations that thoroughly spoilt Simmy’s mood. Hunching her shoulders and averting her gaze, she crawled past, with the side of her car almost scraping the wall bordering the little road. Nobody stopped her. Nobody took any notice of her.

  With a sense of a lucky escape, she sped home to her cottage and thought no more about it.

  Her garden was full of the westering sun and she sat outside on her tiny patio with a glass of juice and thought about Bonnie and Melanie and the necessity of change. In the past month or two she had acknowledged to herself that she was very nearly in a new relationship, with all the complex decisions and compromises that would be likely to accrue as it progressed. Melanie approved and Ben did not. The fact of a man in her life would force her to divide her attention; worse than that, it would invite the biggest decision of all – whether to risk another pregnancy. She had always been of the opinion that forty was the absolute upper limit for such a venture, which gave her alarmingly little time. It was also preferable to choose a father for the baby who would provide at least a degree of support and involvement. The way things stood with Ninian, it made her head hurt simply to try to imagine how he might fit himself into such a role.

  The big funeral on Friday should by rights be filling her mind. The van could not contain all the tributes at once, which meant a very early start that morning and at least two journeys to deliver them all. There was the challenging central tribute from Valerie Rossiter, which would have to be constructed later the next day, then kept moist and fresh throughout Thursday. Other orders had come from an array of friends, colleagues and relatives spanning the globe. The dead woman had enjoyed a variety of roles locally, and had apparently been popular with everyone she encountered. The big church in Windermere was the venue both for the service and the subsequent interment. Traffic might find itself held up and media reporters were likely to put in an appearance. Florists from Ambleside, Bowness and beyond were sure to find themselves almost as overwhelmed as Simmy was. There would be friendly competition and a determination to avoid the slightest mistake.

  But everything was under control, and further thinking about it threatened to prove both tedious and unproductive.

  It dawned on her that there were rather too many subjects that she preferred not to think about. Her mind had grown accustomed to an automatic shying away from a long list of painful topics. Babies, boyfriends, any suggestion of crime, how she would manage without Melanie, what had happened to poor little Bonnie, and how her business and finances might work out in the coming years – not one of them brought anything but negative thoughts.

  Crime was the worst. Since the autumn, she had ended up in the middle of some serious violence and personal damage. The sight of two police cars in a gateway half a mile from her home had sent shivers of dread through her. That specific glimpse was yet another avenue her thoughts struggled to avoid.

  So she concentrated on Bonnie, as something new and intriguing. Then Ben, who despite his deplorable enthusiasm for the minutiae of murder, was endearing and amazing and highly entertaining. And finally, the sweeter points of Ninian, who, she supposed, was officially entitled to call himself her boyfriend after what had happened between them in February and a few times since then.

  The landline phone was ringing, she noticed lazily. Probably one of her parents, since hardly anyone else ever used it these days. Tempted to leave them to the message-taking facility, she suddenly changed her mind and caught it on the last warble before it cut off.

  ‘Mrs Brown?’ came an unfam
iliar male voice. ‘It’s the Windermere police here. We had a call from a Mr Russell Straw early today, about something he overheard yesterday. He said you could corroborate it if necessary.’

  Her head swam in disbelief. Surely her father hadn’t really reported a half-heard conversation that could be interpreted in a hundred different ways? Why hadn’t her mother stopped him? ‘I didn’t hear anything,’ she said.

  ‘But you saw two men and a boy in a car.’

  ‘Briefly. So what?’

  ‘We’ve been working on a series of crimes in the area for the past several weeks, and there’s a chance that you and your father stumbled on something relevant to our enquiries.’

  ‘Series of crimes?’ she repeated. ‘What sort of crimes?’

  ‘We call it dognapping. Stealing valuable animals for resale down south. Sometimes overseas as well.’

  She almost laughed. ‘And that’s serious, is it?’ she demanded. ‘Something the police feel worth attending to?’

  The man gave a very audible sniff. ‘We do indeed,’ he said. ‘And I’ve been asked to inform you that a detective will be wishing to speak to you about it this evening.’

  ‘Which detective?’ she asked, with a sinking feeling.

  ‘DI Moxon. I understand that you and he know each other.’

  ‘I suppose we do,’ she agreed.

  ‘Then, if it’s all right with you, he’ll be over to see you in about half an hour’s time.’

  She could hardly demur, even though it was transparently obvious that Moxon simply wanted to see her again and was using the trivial little crime as a pretext. Since when did detective inspectors involve themselves in missing pets? And if they did, how normal was it to visit the vaguest of witnesses in her own home after working hours? She was definitely not deceived. But Moxon had won a reluctant little corner of her heart a few months earlier, and she found herself surprisingly willing to meet with him again.

  Chapter Six

  The fine evening persisted, and she left her front door slightly open, mainly to admit the scent of the lilac, which grew a few feet away. She made herself a hurried meal of scrambled eggs and bacon, having noticed that she was rumbling with hunger. If Moxon stayed for long, she’d end up pigging on biscuits, which was all she intended to offer him.

  She heard his car coming up the road from the shop, and parking in the only available space for some distance. The village street was narrow for most of its length, in no way designed for cars. Small patches had been carved out here and there for residents’ vehicles, while visitors had to take their chances.

  The sight of him came as a small shock. He was thinner and looked much older than he had three months earlier. ‘How long have you been back at work?’ she asked him, almost before he was inside the house.

  ‘Just over a week. I recovered pretty quickly, and it was no fun just kicking my heels at home. How’ve you been?’

  ‘Me? I’m perfectly all right. I walked up to the top of Wansfell with my dad yesterday. We were both very pleased with ourselves.’

  He glanced towards the back of the house, where the designated fell stood, even though it was invisible through the walls. ‘I’m impressed,’ he said.

  ‘I dare say Dad’s knees will punish him for it, the rest of this week, but he’d insist it was worth it.’

  ‘He tells us you and he saw some suspicious characters at the pub.’

  ‘Two men and a boy in a car.’ It was becoming a kind of mantra already, and she had a sneaking fear that she was going to have to say it quite a few more times yet. And she was still completely disoriented by the fact of her father having approached the police. It felt insanely out of character. ‘And we found a dead dog,’ she abruptly remembered. ‘That might be more relevant. It looked as if somebody had strangled it.’

  ‘Yes. He mentioned that. In fact, I had the impression he’d been thinking about that more than the conversation he overheard and decided that something ought to be done.’

  Simmy frowned helplessly. ‘You’re saying he thinks those men at the pub killed the dog? And what about the man with the black bag? Did he tell you about him as well?’

  ‘I’m not sure what he thinks, to be frank. And neither of you actually saw the contents of the bag, as I understand it. I don’t think it counts as helpful. And no, we don’t have any views as to how or why the dog died. Nothing as direct as that. Your father just passed over what he’d seen, thinking it might have some relevance. He said he kept on turning it over in his mind, and couldn’t see any innocent explanation for what he’d overheard.’

  Still none of this sounded convincing to Simmy. Hadn’t she herself come up with a list of possible interpretations for the words Russell had heard – all of them harmless? Then dawn began to break over the obscurity. ‘Did he phone you directly, or was it just a coincidence that he spoke to you?’

  ‘He asked for me.’ Moxon was shuffling on his kitchen chair. He rubbed his nose and avoided her gaze, confirming her suspicions.

  ‘He wanted to talk about me, didn’t he? All that stuff about the pub and the dog was just a pretext to get to speak to you.’ She was still far from enlightened, but glimmers were detectable. ‘Although I don’t really see …’

  ‘You’ve got it wrong.’ He made a visible effort to relax. ‘It’s less about you than him, I think. And your mother. Although …’ He rubbed his nose again and Simmy wondered whether he was suffering from the same spring allergy that seemed to be afflicting so many people. ‘I oughtn’t to speculate. I’ll probably get into very deep water if I start trying to understand complicated family dynamics. The fact is, that whatever his motives, he did supply some rather useful information. The dead dog suggests a connection to the ongoing case we’re investigating. And then there are the events of this afternoon,’ he finished, with a look of real regret. ‘Which we have an unhappy feeling is directly connected to everything we’ve just been saying.’

  Simmy groaned. ‘I saw the cars down near Town End. Don’t tell me there’s been some sort of break-in and those men are the ones who did it. I’m sorry, but I really wish my dad had kept quiet, in that case. Why the silly man should ever think it sensible to voluntarily get involved with the police defeats me. I mean’ – she burst out with reckless anger – ‘it’s all so trivial. And you can’t really think he’s given you anything useful.’

  Moxon adopted an expression she had seen before, in which he struggled not to display the hurt feelings she had caused. Throughout all her dealings with him, she had maintained an attitude that he found deplorable. Whilst acknowledging that murderers should be caught and wrongdoing punished, Simmy Brown remained her mother’s daughter to the extent of wishing someone else would do the dirty work of apprehending and punishing. For her, the police carried an inexorable miasma of sleaze, combined with a jargon-ridden mindset that took little cognisance of the realities of human behaviour. She did not like them, and she was sure she never would.

  ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘But there it is.’

  He sighed. ‘There’s more,’ he said, almost reluctantly. ‘I’ve been trying to lead up to it gently.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘It wasn’t just a break-in at Town End. A man has been killed. In a farmyard. It looks like foul play. And it turns out that the car you saw is registered to a man we believe to be the victim.’

  Her hands curled into instinctive fists, while her stomach churned in terrified apprehension. ‘Then why aren’t you out there chasing the person who did it?’ she blustered. ‘Why are you here, for heaven’s sake? Am I under suspicion? Are you hoping I’ll magically name the culprit for you? What on earth are you doing here?’ Her voice had become shrill and her heart was thumping.

  He held her gaze. ‘Your father heard two men talking as if they might be preparing to commit a crime. A crime has been committed. His testimony – and yours – are now possibly quite central to the investigation. Could you please try to describe those men you saw?’<
br />
  She ground her teeth in futile fury, even as she wondered why she was so angry. He had wasted several minutes in convoluted preliminaries, when all the time he wanted something specific from her. She stared at his eyes, behind old-fashioned thick spectacles that implied poor sight. His dark lashes lowered, curtaining his thoughts. Her own thoughts were clashing painfully. She should do all she could to help, if something really serious had happened. But all she wanted was to go and watch the setting sun on her patio and remember the good feelings that had come from a strenuous walk with her father. ‘It was only an hour or so ago,’ she realised. ‘I saw the police cars in that yard by Town End.’ The speed with which Moxon had caught up with her seemed almost supernatural. ‘What time did you find this dead man, then?’

  ‘Middle of the afternoon,’ he said briskly. ‘About two hours after I spoke to your father.’

  ‘And you’ve already checked out the red car, and got a name for the victim? That was quick!’

  ‘We checked the car as soon as your father gave us the number, as a matter of routine. And the person who found the body knew who he was. The names matched.’ He shook his head in wonderment. ‘It doesn’t often happen like that.’

  ‘And now you’ve got the car?’

  ‘Actually, no. There’s no sign of it.’

  Simmy sat back, reminding herself that she had no obligation to immerse herself in the details of a police investigation. But still her attention was irresistibly hooked. ‘Dognapping,’ she remembered, as she wrestled with the burgeoning strands of the story. ‘Is it an old man who died?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Isn’t that what the men at the pub said? Something about an old man?’

  ‘Actually, he’s in his thirties.’

  ‘Oh.’