The Windermere Witness (14 page)

The truth was that something somewhere had stalled. Melanie had been the one to point it out in undiplomatic terms, with her nagging about getting out there and making more of a life for herself. ‘At least get yourself a dog, so you can go for long walks with it. Dogs are brilliant for meeting people.’

The thought of a dog was disconcerting. ‘I can’t leave it shut in all day, and I don’t think it would be a good idea to have it in the shop.’

‘A little one would be all right,’ said Melanie blithely.

‘I quite like the idea of a horse,’ Simmy had conceded. ‘But I couldn’t possibly afford it.’

This was dismissed without a second thought. ‘That’s
just silly,’ said Melanie. ‘You’d have to rent a field to keep it in, and they’re ridiculously time-consuming.’

‘I don’t need an animal,’ she said.
What I need is a baby
, she acknowledged silently. The need for a baby was like a lump of lead in her middle. Every passing month made it more likely that she would never achieve one. She told herself it was mere biology, irrational and misguided. A baby would be even more disconcerting than a dog, a nuisance, a complication, an unimaginable responsibility. Her body ignored such transparent rationalisations and continued to harass her.

The costume drama finished and was followed by the news. Shockingly, the day’s events were the first headline, with lingering shots of the Old England Hotel, Lake Windermere, Storrs Hall and a lot of police tape. ‘Thirty-five police officers from across the region are working on this tragic case of a double murder,’ intoned the presenter. ‘Although not officially confirmed, it seems that the victims were father and son.’ A bluff police spokesman came on, asking for information, and stressing how rare and unusual such violence was in the serenity of the Lake District. ‘We will not rest until the person or people involved have been apprehended,’ he promised.

Thankfully, there were no references to witnesses, although names were given for the victims. No precious respite for the family, then.

She turned off the TV and forced her thoughts onto the next day’s business. Halloween was coming, with the escalating nonsense that went with it. The opportunities for floristry were expanding as a result, with two people already asking if she could fashion decorations for their
front gates. Apparently this was the norm in America, and it had begun to catch on here as well. Hurriedly consulting a few websites, she had wondered at the variety – cobwebs, skeletons, ghosts, witches and goblins all featured prominently, and had little connection with flowers, as far as she could see. The whole thing was a messy amalgam of the Day of the Dead, All Souls and even Guy Fawkes. In the southern states of America, she read, people decorated graves with autumnal seed pods and flowers, ribbons and bells. Any attempt to extract significant meaning from it was doomed to fail. Nobody cared about that. They just wanted to dress up and frighten themselves. Harmlessly silly, she concluded, feeling a trifle curmudgeonly, and making some sketches for suitable decorations.

The materials she planned to use were similar to those she had employed for the wedding on Saturday, the colours inevitably in the same range of oranges and browns, with splashes of red. She could weave sparkly silver thread to represent spider webs, and create sinister faces out of berries and nuts, peering through the lacquered leaves like a Jack in the Green.

The evening was concluded with several ideas captured on paper, the accompanying satisfaction a reassuring end to a gruelling day. Putting the ideas into practice would occupy a substantial part of the coming week, with a display in the shop window likely to attract further orders. Nobody could say she was slow to respond to a new retail opportunity, she congratulated herself. She could forget all about the weekend murders and return to being a simple florist.

But she had reckoned without Melanie. Monday morning had barely got started before Simmy’s assistant turned up bursting with excitement at the events of the past two days. ‘
Two
murders!’ she breathed. ‘It was all on telly again last night – did you see? They gave their names and everything.’

Simmy shook her head, repressively. It had no effect. Melanie went on, ‘I mean, the names of the victims. They don’t normally do that, do they? Not so quickly?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ Simmy sighed. ‘I suppose they thought it was so obvious there wasn’t any point in keeping them secret. It makes it sadder, though, somehow.’

‘What does?’

‘Telling the whole world that they’re dead. I don’t like it.’

Melanie managed a whole minute of sympathetic silence before bursting out again. ‘George Baxter dead, though! It’s incredible. Right here, in broad daylight. I tried to phone
you to ask if you were there – was it before or after you had lunch with him? I mean …’ she laughed ‘… obviously it wasn’t before, because if he was dead, he wouldn’t have had the lunch. You know what I mean,’ she finished with a flick of her hand. ‘Tell me the whole thing.’

‘Yes, I was there. But I didn’t see anything,’ she lied. The mood was all wrong for describing the sight of a man as he died. Melanie was too voracious, the chance of an interrupting customer too great. ‘Sorry, Mel. That isn’t entirely true, but I can’t talk about it now, okay?’

‘Not really,’ the girl complained.

‘Well, it’ll have to be for now. Now, listen, I want to try something new for Halloween. I’ve made some sketches. We’ll have to order a whole lot of stuff for them. It’ll keep us busy.’

Melanie forced herself to pay attention. ‘Flowers for Halloween? Are you sure?’

‘Why not?’

Melanie simply raised her eyebrows and said nothing. As time went on, she and Simmy were equally persuaded that floristry was never going to be her thing. They both knew she would move on at the first opportunity.

‘I googled him last night,’ Melanie reverted to the more important issue.

‘What? Who?’

‘George Baxter, obviously. He was worth a hundred million pounds, at least. Gave money to the Tories, at the last election, and is patron of a charity that runs schools in Africa. There wasn’t anything we didn’t already know about his personal life.’

Simmy shivered at the idea of a dead man’s life being
exposed to the public gaze, with him helpless to prevent it. ‘Poor man,’ she sighed.

‘Rich man, actually. And now Bridget is sure to benefit. She’ll inherit something – bound to. Nice for her new husband, don’t you think?’

In spite of herself, Simmy was drawn in. ‘That’s a horrible thought,’ she protested. ‘And I think it’s the wife who gets it, not the daughter. And what about Markie?’ She wasn’t even sure what she meant by the last question, except that the boy’s life had been insured, and there was a great deal of money sloshing about, with nobody left to inherit it but two women – and one of them a mere half-sister, with very little legal claim.

Melanie gave her a bemused stare. ‘Markie’s dead,’ she said. ‘What’s he got to do with it?’

Simmy squared her shoulders. ‘I think this is the sort of speculation that we should try to avoid.’

‘Ooh, Miss Pompous!’ Melanie mocked. ‘Nobody else is going to avoid it, believe me.’

‘But it’s like accusing Bridget and Peter of deliberately killing her brother and father. That’s dreadful. You should have seen her yesterday. She was destroyed. And she’s only eighteen.’

‘You saw her yesterday?’

Too late, Simmy realised. Her intention to remain silent about her second Sunday visit to Storrs had evaporated at the first provocation. ‘Yes,’ she admitted.

‘Just her? On her own?’

‘No, the whole family, pretty much. I was there, you see. When Mr Baxter was sh—killed. So Eleanor took me back to the hotel so they could talk to me.’

‘You’re joking! My God!’

Melanie ignored the presence of a customer at the front of the shop, and put a hand on Simmy’s upper arm. ‘You’ve got to tell me the whole thing, from Saturday to last night. You haven’t told me anything properly. I knew you’d been interviewed by Moxo, but that’s as far as I got.’

‘Moxo?’

‘That’s what they call him. Was he all right with you? They say he’s pretty savage.’

‘He was all right. I looked for you when he’d finished with me, but you’d gone. That all seems ages ago now. Look – see to the customer, and I’ll tell you about it later.’

The elderly woman was dithering between three different bouquets that Simmy had made up that morning, with selections from the day’s delivery. These speculative creations, positioned prominently on the threshold of the shop, would catch the eye of passing shoppers and almost always sell by lunchtime. They were never the same two days running, and several people made a point of inspecting them every morning.

She watched as Melanie stood impatiently waiting for the decision. The girl made no attempt to help, despite the customer’s obvious desire for some conversation. ‘I forget what these mauve ones are called,’ she said.

‘Alliums,’ replied Melanie shortly.

‘And will they last? I’d like them to stay nice all week.’

Simmy could endure it no longer. She marched forward, edging Melanie aside none too gently. ‘They’ll be fine for a week if you refresh the water every day. The alliums are nice, aren’t they? I use them a lot. They go well with a lot of things.’

‘Those leaves are eucalyptus,’ said the old woman, with a triumphant smile. ‘I recognise them.’

‘That’s right,’ said Simmy like a primary school teacher.

‘I never buy flowers just for myself. But … well, it is my birthday tomorrow. So I thought …’

Simmy’s heart thumped in painful pity. ‘Oh, gosh, of course you must, then. Look, I’ll make a special price, as a birthday present. I really do want you to have them. Put them in a light place, where you’ll see them first thing tomorrow. They’ll brighten the day for you.’

The saggy chin lifted proudly. ‘Of course, my son might send me some, as well. He does that sometimes.’

‘You can never have too many flowers,’ smiled Simmy.

‘That’s true. Well, thank you, dear. You’ve been ever so kind.’

When the woman had gone, Simmy gave Melanie a reproachful little pep talk. ‘People often want to chat while they’re buying. Especially old people. They remember a time when shopkeepers knew everybody and there was time for a bit of gossip. It’s part of the service we’re trying to offer them, don’t you see? A personal touch. We should see it as an opportunity – they’ll keep coming back if we treat them nicely.’

‘I
was
nice,’ protested Melanie.

‘No, you weren’t. You were impatient and dismissive. Close to intimidating, quite frankly.’

‘Sorry,’ mumbled the girl. ‘I didn’t know I was allowed to cut fifty per cent off the price.’

‘You’re not. That’s strictly down to me. Forget I did that. I felt sorry for her. She’s obviously going to be all on her own for her birthday, poor old thing.’

‘Okay, okay. Now, what about the Baxters? Exactly how involved are you, would you say?’

Simmy began a brief summary of events from twelve-thirty onwards: witnessing the moment of George Baxter’s death, being questioned, and then the return trip to Storrs.

‘Blimey!’ breathed Melanie. ‘All because you did the flowers for the wedding. How crazy is that?’

‘As I keep trying to tell you, a florist has a special place in the big events of people’s lives. They’re very likely to talk to us about a whole lot of personal stuff.’

‘Right – but not murder. Why should a florist be a witness to a
murder
? That’s not in any job description I’ve seen.’

Simmy laughed. ‘I admit the murder – murders – were a long way beyond anything I expected.’

‘You’ve probably spoken to the person who did it, without realising.’ Melanie’s eyes were bulging with the drama of it. ‘It’s
sure
to be one of the family.’

‘Don’t say that,’ Simmy pleaded. ‘I spent the whole of yesterday evening telling myself that couldn’t possibly be true.’

The shop door opened again, and a familiar youngster came in. ‘Ben!’ Simmy greeted him. ‘Why aren’t you at school?’

‘Free period. I needed to talk to you.’ He eyed Melanie doubtfully. ‘If that’s okay.’

‘Of course. Things are quiet this morning.’ She made a shooing gesture at her assistant, who mulishly obeyed by disappearing into the cool room at the back where flowers were stored.

‘Thanks.’ He made a forlorn attempt at a smile.

‘You look as if you haven’t slept very well.’

‘Right. I keep seeing that hole in his head. My dad says it must have been a rifle, like snipers use. I was scared to walk along the street just now, in case there was someone on a roof pointing a gun at me.’

‘My dad says it might have been a pistol.’

‘That would have been louder, wouldn’t it?’

‘I have no idea, Ben. I suppose a rifle would be easier to get hold of. But more difficult to keep hidden. I don’t think you should worry about it. Nobody’s going to know who you are or where you live, anyway.’

‘They do, though. It’s all round the school already. Everybody’s whispering and pointing. One boy called “Hello, Ben Witness” at me, in the corridor. It sounds a bit like my real name, Harkness, see.’

‘It was the first item on the news last night. I imagine Bowness is more or less paralysed today. I hadn’t really thought about it until now. Not from that angle, I mean.’

He gave an impatient little shake. ‘I can’t face going back to school, with everybody looking at me. Can I stay here?’

‘What – all day? No, of course you can’t. If it’s as bad as that, you should go home. Isn’t your brother there, with his glandular fever?’

‘I can be useful. I like flowers and gardening and all that. I grew some amazing dahlias this year, all my own work. They came second in the Show.’

She looked at him closely. He was hunched and pale, his hair untidy and the school uniform crumpled. ‘I don’t know,’ she hesitated. ‘We’ll have to tell people where you are.’

‘I was there for registration. Nobody’s going to miss me. I’ll just go home at the usual time.’

He
was
seventeen, Simmy reminded herself. Old enough to join the army and drive a car. He was unlikely to be posted up as a missing child. The dahlias had made an impression on her, too.

‘You’ll have to stay in the back. If we get any customers, they might wonder what you’re doing here.’

His shoulders straightened and a half smile brightened his face. ‘Okay,’ he agreed eagerly. ‘You won’t be sorry. I’m a good worker. What do you want me to do?’

‘You’d better ask Melanie. It’s her department, out there. She’s probably sorting out this morning’s delivery, and throwing out the ones from last week that are past it. I’ve got to get onto the computer and see if there are any new orders.’

‘Your window’s looking a bit messy,’ he said boldly. ‘And that stuff out on the pavement. Do you want me to sort it?’

‘Messy? What do you mean?’

‘Sorry. Just – it could be better. There’s no proper focal point, and the colours aren’t right. Too much blue. It’s depressing.’

‘So what do you suggest?’

‘Have you got something that’s a really rich purple? Or deep red? That would give it depth, see.’

‘Yes, Ben, I do know these things. I’ve just sold a bunch out of the display, which is why it looks unbalanced now. I can’t let you do it – you’ll be far too visible. But thanks for the comments. I admit I’m impressed.’

‘Can I come out now?’ Melanie sounded distinctly tetchy. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Sorry, Mel. This is Ben. He was there yesterday, in
Bowness, when Mr Baxter was killed. It was his birthday, as well. It’s all been getting to him, so I said he could hang out here for a bit.’

Melanie gave the boy a long scrutiny. ‘You’re not Ben Harkness, are you? Brother of Wilf?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I know Wilf. He was in my drama group, with Mr Herbert. He was the year below me.’

‘Yeah,’ sighed Ben. ‘You’re Melanie Todd. He had a thing for you. I didn’t know you worked here.’

Simmy knew she should be used to the close connections linking all the people in Windermere and its surroundings. They inevitably all went to the same school, bought their groceries in the same supermarket, ran into each other in the Chamber of Commerce meetings. The presence of thousands of visitors in the summer, and scores in the winter, sometimes obliterated the core community of permanent residents. ‘Well, that’s nice,’ she said fatuously.

‘I still don’t get it,’ persisted Melanie. ‘Why do we have to look after him?’

‘I told you. Be nice, will you? It’s past coffee time. Let’s get the kettle on and maybe there’ll even be a few customers, if we’re lucky.’

But the next person through the door was not seeking to buy flowers. Melanie saw him first. ‘Don’t look now, but I think it’s the CID,’ she hissed in a loud whisper.

Simmy looked, and met the eyes of DI Moxon. He nodded, unsmiling, and shifted his gaze to Ben, who had failed to remain out of sight in the back room. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.

Ben’s mouth opened and closed, once or twice, but no
words emerged. ‘He came here for sanctuary,’ said Simmy. ‘Word got round that he was … you know. On the spot, yesterday.’

‘So? There’s no shame in helping with police enquiries, is there?’

All three regarded him without speaking. The question contained too much angry frustration for any safe response.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s start again. It’s lucky, actually, that you’re both here.’ He gave Melanie a speculative look. ‘And you are …?’ he prompted.

‘Melanie Todd. I was at Storrs on Saturday as well, for a bit. It was me who told Simmy you wanted to question her. My boyfriend is Constable Wheeler,’ she added proudly.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Moxon politely. Melanie preened, and Simmy had a glimpse of how important a detective inspector might seem to a new police constable. She suspected that Moxon had no idea who PC Wheeler actually was.

He addressed Simmy with some severity. ‘I understand you met with members of the family again yesterday afternoon?’