The Windermere Witness (27 page)

When another fast-moving car came up behind her, waiting impatiently for a gap in the oncoming traffic, she resolved to chase after it. If she lost it, that would be too bad – at least she’d have done her best. It never occurred to
her that DI Moxon might disapprove of her interference. She had not asked to be embroiled in the great family confusion that circled around Bridget and her husband, but it was by this time far too late to retreat.

The police car dodged past her, and she accelerated after it. There was only a mile to go before they reached the tangled streets that formed the centre of Ambleside. She easily kept pace for that distance, with no further overtakings, which would have proved difficult. In the rain, which had intensified in the past few minutes, the pavements were almost empty. A lorry was obstructing their progress and the police car hooted at it. It moved reluctantly out of the way, and Simmy followed the officious vehicle through the resulting space.

The town was more compact than Windermere, tucked into a tight valley between Loughrigg and Wansfell, with little scope for expansion. The Kirkstone Road kinked away to the east before shooting northwards to the famous pass. Residential streets lay straight ahead, only to peter out into footpaths and tracks unfit for motor vehicles, following the course of the Scandale Beck. Peter Harrison-West’s house had to lie on one of those roads, none of which Simmy knew at all. But she continued her pursuit, barely noticing that there were signs of affluence on both sides – detached houses with stone gateposts and large trees shielding them from public view; open areas behind stone walls where town met country in a dramatic alteration of terrain. They were on a straight road with houses on the left-hand side. She had no idea of its name, no time for any real observations other than the car ahead.

Suddenly there was a very obvious centre of activity
and Simmy found herself in the heart of it with scarcely any warning. Cars had overflowed into the road from the driveway of a big house. The vehicle she had been following pulled up in the road and two men got out. Without a glance at her – for which she was both sorry and glad – they trotted into the approach to the house. Simmy drove past carefully, craning round to see what might be going on. Apart from a lot of cars, it was impossible to draw any conclusions. She crawled onwards, to a point only fifty yards further on where the road simply finished. There she sat, arguing with herself, for two minutes. She could not just turn round and go back to the shop. Nor could she casually walk up to the house where she was a stranger and see for herself what was going on. She could not make any useful or relevant phone calls. She had got herself into a pickle, she admitted ruefully. The pickle had been ripening and proliferating like a rising lump of bread dough ever since last Saturday. It had overspilt its bowl and was engulfing everything. There was no escape.

But what was there, really, to worry about? In the core of herself, she was not afraid. There might be shouting and punching, tears and broken hearts. But nobody else would die. DI Moxon wouldn’t let them. Nobody would die. But if they did, please God don’t let it be Ben Harkness.

Ben could think of no sensible questions to ask, as Bridget negotiated the one-way system through the town centre, heading for the higher ground towards Scandale. He knew roughly where they were, and what lay ahead. The lane she turned into had stone walls on either side, which he knew closed in further up until the track became almost too narrow for motor vehicles. He remembered a ruined tower up here somewhere that his mother was especially fond of. The houses were handsome and discreetly tucked away, so that all you saw was walls and trees if you climbed only a quarter of a mile up the lane and looked back.

But they did not go as far as that. Instead, Bridget took them into a driveway that already contained three cars, and pulled up under a large cedar, from which rain dripped down aggressively. Over the past ten minutes it had gained considerably in force. Ben tried to imagine the scene in bright June sunshine, how infinitely less sinister it
would seem under such conditions. He began to think of questions.

‘Why are we here? You said you wanted to get away and think about whatever it is you’ve got in your bag. I thought you could just take me home and—’

‘That was before my mother saw me.’ Her voice was firm, decisive. ‘I can’t risk her interfering. She’s liable to call Peter and say she’s seen me. It might set him off again.’

‘Set him off?’ echoed Ben, fingering his bruise. ‘What makes you think he’s not set off already? He might be ballistic by now.’

‘We’ll have to risk it.’

‘
We?
’ he muttered.

‘Serves you right for following me. That was a daft thing to do.’

‘I agree.’

‘How old are you, exactly?’

‘Seventeen and five days. Why?’

‘No reason.’

He heard a wobble in the voice that had been so firm half a minute earlier. ‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘Now or never.’

He wanted to ask if he could stay in the car, and just wait for her to sort things out. She surely didn’t need his protection?

‘Come on,’ she said again and he saw that he had no choice.

Then a man appeared in front of the car, stooping to peer through the rain-streaked windscreen at them. ‘Bridget!’ he shouted, somewhat too loudly.

‘Uh-oh,’ said Ben. It was the man who had hit him.
Bridget’s husband. Who still had all the signs of being a murderer. He still looked like Raskolnikov.

Bridget opened her door and threw herself at the man. They embraced in a damp hug. The man was by far the wetter of the two, as if he’d been standing outside since the rain started. His hair was plastered over his skull. Ben felt fully justified in remaining where he was, but he compromised by lowering the window, so as to hear what was said.

‘Bridget, how could you?’ demanded the man, when they pulled apart. ‘You don’t know … you had no reason …’ He choked on the words, his mouth shapeless with emotion.

‘What?’ She looked hard into his face.

‘You think
I
killed Markie and George. That’s why you ran away.’

‘Sort of. But Glenn says we can save you. There’s no evidence.’

‘Because I didn’t do it, Brid. How could you think I did? If you think that, how can we live together as a married couple? That would be … grotesque. Your own father and brother, murdered by your husband. You couldn’t live with that. Can’t you see how obvious that is?’

She held his arm, putting one hand flat on his chest. ‘Don’t say that. If you tell me you didn’t do it, I’ll believe you.’

‘Will you? Really? Then who will we decide
did
do it? How can we relax, knowing there’s a killer with an eye on us, all the time? We’d need to know why, and whether we were safe.’ He seemed hysterical, the words tumbling out at almost incoherent speed.

Ben heard every word, but the couple appeared to
have forgotten he was there. He was concentrating hard, assessing implications. If Bridget said the wrong thing, the man might throttle her, right there, before his very eyes.

‘Glenn said it was because you wanted me all to yourself. Markie must have said something stupid and you just lost it. And Daddy – I guess he worked it out, maybe? I’ve got the gun safe, Peter. Nobody’s going to find it. And …’ She looked back at the car, seeming to focus on the back seat, where she’d thrown her shoulder bag. ‘I found something,’ she finished.

Peter barely heard the last words. His face had collapsed even further at the earlier attempt to explain his motives. ‘You really do think I did it,’ he groaned. ‘You’ve got it all worked out.’

‘So convince me otherwise,’ she challenged, putting both hands on his shoulders and shaking him. ‘Pull yourself together and tell me the whole thing.’

‘There’s nothing to tell. You know everything that I know. More, if you’ve seen a gun. I never saw a gun. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘It was your grandfather’s, from the war.’

‘The Lee-Enfield? But that’s locked away in the pantry. I saw it when we moved, and made sure it was safely out of anybody’s reach.’ He shook his head. ‘Who told you … why have you got it?’ He frowned down at her, his face shiny with rain, his eyes red-rimmed.

‘Are Glenn and Pablo here?’ she changed the subject. ‘And Felix?’ She looked along the line of cars in the drive. ‘Seems as if they are.’

‘Not Felix. The others are leaving this afternoon, I think. They haven’t really spoken to me for a day or two.’

‘Why on earth not?’

‘I’ve been in my room, trying to understand why you ran off. Trying to get hold of you. I went out searching yesterday, in a total panic. And the day before … was it? I went to that florist shop. You’ve got pally with her, haven’t you? Pablo said something. He likes her. And a boy. There’s a boy, who saw George being shot. I hit him.’ He smacked the side of his own head, as if to order his thoughts.

‘That boy’s here. In the car, look.’

Peter looked. ‘Yes, that’s him,’ he agreed dully. ‘Is he setting the cops on me?’

‘Of course not. Peter, let’s go into the house. Let’s see if we can put it all right, somehow. I’m completely soaked. I want to wash and change.’

‘Do what you like. It’s finished, Brid. I can’t fight it any more. I expect I’ve been a fool about you, all along. Markie was right. I’m too old for you. It’s not wholesome.’

‘Is that what he said?’

‘According to Glenn, it is.’

‘But he didn’t say it to you?’

Peter shook his head. ‘Markie and I were mates, you know that. I never had any idea he was thinking that sort of stuff.’

‘Nor me,’ said Bridget slowly.

Two more men came walking from the house. Ben saw them first. ‘Um …’ he called out of the window. ‘Company.’

‘What?’ Bridget whirled round, looking in the wrong direction.

‘Hey, Briddy!’ called one of them. ‘Good to see you.’ He trotted up to her and flung an arm around her shoulders. ‘You’re terribly wet. What’s going on? Come indoors, for
God’s sake. And who’s that?’ He eyed Ben with exaggerated interest, a half smile on his face.

‘Glenn,’ said Bridget, pushing his arm away. ‘That’s Ben.’

‘Ben Harkness?’ Glenn’s eyebrows rose. ‘We meet at last.’

The sodden group stood in an accidental line, from tallest to shortest, each step an inch or two. Glenn was easily six feet, Pablo next, then Peter, barely five feet eight. Bridget herself was far from short. Ben scrutinised them carefully, wondering whether there was a suppressed violence just below the surface. There should be signs, if so, but detecting subtle signals was not his strong point. It was a family joke the way he never knew when to keep quiet, or respect someone’s damaged feelings.

Peter was the most obviously disturbed. He had stepped away from Bridget as soon as Glenn and Pablo appeared, as if to leave them access to her. He seemed to dwindle in status and confidence. His gaze remained fixed on the ground. He looked, thought Ben, like a man waiting for his fate to strike, hopeless and defeated. He looked like a man who had done something dreadful and now hung his head ready for his punishment.

‘Hey, Pete,’ Glenn chided him boisterously. ‘Chin up. Let’s get inside. This is stupid, standing out in the rain.’

‘You’ve done it before, haven’t you?’ said Bridget, sounding angry. ‘At the wedding, you all stood outside the hotel in the rain, waiting for my father.
All
of you. Markie and Felix as well. And
then
what happened? What bloody happened? You all went in different directions, and one of you pushed Markie into the lake – right? You all know
who it was, don’t you? Or maybe it was a joint effort? You did it together, maybe?’

‘Shut up, Brid. Don’t be ridiculous.’ Glenn spoke lightly, but his face was flushed.

‘I
won’t
. The really ridiculous thing is that you think you can get away with it. That’s just boys’ stuff. Even Ben’s got more sense than that. Where are the wet clothes? The muddy patches? Didn’t Markie fight back? You’d have scratches or bruises. You’ve all been telling stories, like you always have. You’re just like silly children.’

‘More company,’ Ben warned, feeling he’d been given the role of a sort of guard dog. He’d have got the same reaction if he’d barked. He hadn’t liked the
even Ben
remark much.

Two cars were coming down the drive, one behind the other. ‘Police,’ added Ben, superfluously.

Things became complicated after that. DI Moxon focused first on Ben, pulling him out of the car and demanding to know whether he was all right. He then asked the same of Bridget, before marching everyone down to the house for what he promised would be a seriously intensive set of interviews. ‘New information has come to light,’ he said severely.

Glenn and Pablo led the way, heads up, shoulders relaxed. Peter shambled after them, his face grey and crumpled. Moxon and a policewoman followed behind, leaving two further officers sitting in the second car. Ben was impressed at this foresight.
Backup
, he thought to himself.
Must be serious, then
.

He found himself walking with Bridget, surrounded on all sides by people a lot older and bigger than him. Moxon himself was plainly well muscled and light on his feet. The
policewoman was in uniform, and had long hair tied back, sticking out from under her cap. She looked to be well over thirty. He felt lonely and scared, completely out of his depth. How had he got himself into this, anyway? He hadn’t done a single thing to deserve it.

Except follow Bridget, of course. That was his really big mistake.

He thought about the muddled accusations she had just been making to Glenn, implying that all the men in the wedding party had conspired to murder Markie. That was obviously stupid. It ignored the shooting of Mr Baxter, apart from anything else. He had been about to say something to this effect when the police arrived. He looked at the backs of Peter, Pablo and Glenn as they stamped their way into the house, shaking off their wet coats and brushing dripping hair out of their eyes. Except Glenn, whose hair was so minimal that it would dry instantly, like a dog. Ben wanted to go home, but he wanted even more to observe what would happen next. If he could just hide away quietly in a corner, and make everybody forget he was there, then he thought he might cope.

There was a muddled milling about in a big square room boasting a glorious view of Lake Windermere, with nobody too sure of what they were supposed to do. Bridget became shrill with impatience. ‘What is this all about? What new information are you talking about? There’s no reason for you to come here ordering us about. This is my house, mine and Peter’s. These are all my friends.’

Moxon gave a small smile. ‘It’s my understanding that you have not spent much time here since your wedding,’ he said. ‘That alone makes me think there could be a lot more you can tell me.’

‘Calm down, Brid,’ said Glenn, interrupting her before she could make another outburst. ‘Let’s get it over with, and not spin it out by making a fuss. Okay?’ His voice was calm, affectionate, patient. It occurred to Ben that this man sounded more like her husband than Peter did. Peter, who had stuffed himself into a narrow wing chair near the empty fireplace, was taking little apparent notice of anything.

‘We’d like, for the moment, to concentrate on the shooting of Mr Baxter on Sunday,’ said Moxon, looking round at each face in turn, including Ben’s. ‘Since we have young Mr Harkness here.’

Everyone looked at him then, including Peter. ‘But I didn’t see anything,’ he stammered.

‘We can’t be too sure about that,’ said the detective. ‘Let me run a few of our latest findings past you.’

‘What – in front of everybody?’ It seemed an alarming breach of protocol. Wasn’t the normal routine to interview everybody individually?

‘Why not? Now sit down, please. We’ll just go through it all, and check we’ve got it right.’

They all found somewhere to sit – Pablo and Glenn on a sofa, Bridget on a large pouffe and the police officers on upright chairs that had been standing against the wall. Ben took a broad armchair that made him feel small and childlike.

‘All right,’ Moxon began, tugging a thick notebook out of his pocket. ‘We’ve spent all week refining the examination of the scene of the shooting. Without going into every detail, we feel confident we’ve narrowed down the point from which the shot was fired. There’s a stone wall to the south of the Old England Hotel, which would
be good cover. There are certain marks on it which suggest it was the point we were looking for. Do you know the one I mean?’

Ben tried to visualise Fallbarrow Road and its neighbours. ‘Not really,’ he admitted. ‘I was north of the hotel, wasn’t I?’

‘You were crossing the road. If you’d looked to your right, down towards the centre of the town for any reason, you’d have seen the wall. I know it’s a lot to expect, but if there was just some small detail lodged in your memory, that might make a big difference.’

Ben felt hot under the collective stares from around the room. ‘Well …’ he began. ‘I suppose I would have looked both ways before crossing. Even though it was obviously very quiet, with no traffic.’ He closed his eyes, trying to recapture the whole scene. He had done the same thing a hundred times since Sunday. There
was
some detail peeping from the edge of his memory. He had known from the first that some silly little thing had fleetingly snagged his attention, and then hidden itself away again.