The Ambleside Alibi: 2 (22 page)

‘And that raises the exact same question again. What might he have against you, to tip you into the ghyll? Unless he was scared the alibi would fall apart once other facts emerged, and needed you to be unavailable for further questioning. I don’t think that’s much of a theory.’

‘So you think it’s someone else entirely? Ninian Tripp? Miss Clark’s nephews? Who else?’

‘Someone we haven’t even thought of, probably. That would be unusual – but this whole case has been unusual from the very start.’

They were back on the main road, barely a mile away from the pub. She had run out of intelligent questions to ask. Her anxiety had abated somewhat, the reason for it still obscure to her. She was far from enjoying herself, even so. Some people – specifically Ben and Melanie – would have loved to be in her situation. She could see no possible
good outcome from the next development, and she was worried about her cracked bones. ‘I should never have come with you,’ she complained.

‘I didn’t give you much option,’ he reminded her. ‘Don’t worry – I’ll make sure you’re safe.’

‘I didn’t think I’d be in any actual danger. It’s more …’

‘I know,’ he said, surprising her. ‘It’s the unpredictability, the strangeness. It’s not your world, I understand that. It does seem like a perverse fate that brings you face to face with violence a second time in a few months.’

‘Thank you. It’s nice that you can see that. Reassuring.’

‘Don’t be too reassured. Somebody wanted you dead. Presumably that hasn’t changed.’

He parked in a narrow street adjacent to the pub, on double yellow lines. ‘Sorry – but I’m going to ask you to come with me,’ he said. ‘We need to do it quickly, without warning. Just walk in and see if she’s still there.’

It had been fifteen or twenty minutes since he got the phone call. ‘Okay,’ she agreed.

‘And if she’s not there, I’ll buy you a drink,’ he said lightly.

‘Where are your people?’ She looked round at the quiet streets. Traffic was passing thinly, and a man walked past carrying a Christmas tree over his shoulder.

‘Dotted about. They know we’re here.’

‘I thought you said undercover didn’t work round here.’

‘They’re not pretending to be anyone else. They’re just quietly minding their own business. Not asking any questions, not bothering anybody. They won’t have been noticed.’

She scanned the area. A couple were chatting quietly on
the next corner; a young man sat in a car in a legal parking spot fifty yards away; a middle-aged woman was cleaning the window of a house further down the street. Ben would instantly spot the cops, she thought. She resolved to develop the habit of watching
Spooks, CSI
and
Silent Witness
as a matter of urgency.

She struggled out of the car, feeling a flash of pain as part of the dressing on her pelvis pulled loose. The delicate skin protested grievously. ‘Ow!’ she yelped.

He was at her elbow, frowning worriedly. ‘I’m all right. Sorry,’ she panted.

He ushered her into the pub, and through to the single big bar, which took her back to the oddly intimate lunch they’d had there a week earlier. The same cheerful man was there, washing glasses and whistling. There was no sign of Candida Hawkins. Two women were at a far table, side by side. ‘It’s Gwen and Nicola!’ said Simmy, loud enough to attract attention to herself. Except that their attention had already been engaged, and they were staring hard at her, eyes wide.

Nicola was the first to speak. ‘You’re out of hospital already! That’s amazing. What a wonderful surprise!’

‘Hello,’ Simmy called, across the uncomfortably long intervening gap. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’ She considered introducing Moxon to them, but some telepathic warning told her not to. They might just think he was a boyfriend, or brother, or volunteer carer, she supposed.

Gwen laughed. ‘Drinking before lunch – disgraceful, I know. But Nicola had some urgent reason to get to the shops, and I decided to lend a hand, since I’m on vacation and have remarkably little to do. We’ve only been here five minutes.’ She gave her partner a sharp look.

Moxon seemed at a loss, having immediately established that Candida Hawkins was not in the pub. After dithering for a few seconds, he left Simmy to her own devices and went to speak to the publican. He cocked his head to indicate a desire for a private word, and the two men
moved to the opposite end of the long bar from where the two women sat. Simmy swung herself towards Nicola and Gwen and addressed them in a voice that was just slightly too loud.

‘Everyone’s been admiring the bedsocks,’ she said. ‘I was sent home yesterday because of the snow. But it never really came to much, did it? Even up at Troutbeck, it’s not really bad. We thought we’d stop in here for a coffee, actually. My … friend knows the staff here, and wanted a chat as well. He’s been escorting me in his car, because I can’t drive – obviously.’ She forced a laugh. The prattle was exhausting, and she began to worry that she sounded insane. The women probably knew exactly who Moxon was, anyway.

‘Coffee,’ Nicola repeated. ‘We should have asked for coffee,’ she said to Gwen. There were two half pints of beer in front of them, barely touched. Simmy began to detect something of an atmosphere between them, as she closed the gap even further. Without conscious intention, she leant across the table towards them. ‘Oof!’ she gasped. ‘I’m still not really up to this. Sorry. I’ll go and sit somewhere else.’ With an effort she got herself upright again and hopped down the big room to a table not far from the door.

It was increasingly evident to Simmy that the presence of Nicola Joseph in the very pub where a claimant to be either her niece or her daughter had been sighted was no coincidence. There was no way it could be. She wondered whether Moxon had worked out who they were, and if so, what he made of it. So why
were
they here? Had Candida made some sort of assignation with one of them, to be thwarted by the presence of the other? Or had she spotted
the lurking detectives and made her escape? Was there some conspiracy going on, as Simmy had at one point suspected? She tried to recall what Ben had said about such a theory, in his dossier. But she wasn’t able to summon up anything. It was difficult enough trying to remember all the complex relationships they’d heard about from Mrs Ellis – none of which made reference to Candida.

Moxon was suddenly at her side, smiling apologetically. ‘Sorry, love. I’ve got to go, asap. Change of plan. You know how it is.’ He was apparently adopting the persona of a sort of spiv, patronising his burdensome girlfriend, hoping Nicola and Gwen wouldn’t realise who he was. ‘I’ll get our Mel to come and take you home. Just wait here ten minutes. Bye!’ And he was gone. Simmy could not believe it. She met Gwen’s interested gaze, and smiled helplessly. Somewhere, she knew there was a message, a meaning, in what had just happened.
Our Mel
repeated in her head. Somehow Moxon was going to arrange for Melanie to take her home – a distance that would normally be a ten-minute stroll at most.

He left and she waited, sitting awkwardly, not sure whether she should order a drink. She was aware of a reprieve. The detective would probably have harangued her about her stubborn wish to avoid further involvement.
Don’t you care about justice and the rule of law?
he might have demanded.
Can’t you provide a bit more help here?

Or was she simply projecting her own uneasy sense of guilt at her selfishness? She had yet to shake off the idea of herself as a victim, essentially passive and traumatised. In some ways it suited her, providing an excuse for not becoming some sort of honorary policewoman. She imagined Moxon signing her up as an informer, passing
on titbits of gossip heard in the shop, and what her mother would say if that happened.

Gwen and Nicola were leaving. Nicola had a thwarted expression, as if she’d hoped for a longer sit-down with her beer. Gwen looked stern, a schoolteacher marching a delinquent pupil to the head. But beneath these expressions there was a closeness, a basic solidity to them that marked them as a settled couple, readily cresting the occasional waves of disharmony.

Melanie must have seen them leave, because she arrived half a minute later. She walked in looking tall and young and reliable. There was a lot about Melanie that was dependable, Simmy had discovered. Physically solid and emotionally robust, she stood out from her family like a cuckoo chick. Even her grandmother with her total recall and plain speaking was a faded shadow compared to Mel. Simmy had only met the girl’s parents and siblings once, as they all milled about on the lake shore in Bowness one Sunday afternoon, but they had been forgettably colourless beside Melanie. Even her clothes had more character than her spotty sisters and round-shouldered father.

‘Your taxi awaits,’ she said, with a little bow, echoing Russell the day before. ‘What on earth are you wearing?’

‘My mother found it. All my clothes are still in my cottage. It feels really nice, actually.’

‘Cool,’ said Melanie dubiously.

Simmy looked around and noticed that Moxon had left the canvas bag containing spare clothes on the floor by her chair. Melanie followed her gaze and picked it up for her.

‘Gosh, Mel, this is embarrassing. How did they get hold of you? Were you busy?’

‘They’ve got my phone number – duh!’ laughed the girl. ‘I was at my gran’s, anyway. It’s about a minute’s drive from here.’

‘Did you park on double yellows?’

‘Certainly not. There’s a space just round the corner. How far can you walk?’

‘Far enough, on the level. What time is it?’ She wasn’t wearing a watch, and couldn’t see a clock in the bar. It felt as if half the day at least was behind her.

‘Ten to eleven. Why?’

‘No reason. I just wanted to keep track. It’s been a very funny day so far. Every time I think I know what’s going to happen, it all changes. It’s like being in a dodgem car.’

‘It’s a bit like that for me as well,’ Melanie nodded. ‘Do I need to hold on to you?’

‘No. I’m better without that. Look.’ She swung herself out onto the pavement, while Melanie held the door open for her. ‘But I keep thinking I’m going to fall over. It makes me giddy after a bit.’

‘Weird. You look okay. Much better than yesterday.’

‘My head hurts,’ Simmy noticed. ‘Throbbing.’

Melanie made a sympathetic face, saying nothing. She led the way to the elderly car that she shared with an older brother, and Simmy lowered herself into it with a sense of having had rather too much practice at this manoeuvre in the past hour or so.

‘Oh!’

‘What? Did you hurt something?’

‘No – see who’s over there.’ Simmy tipped her chin at a man on the pavement, who had plainly recognised them. ‘Mr Kitchener, of all people.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Melanie with no sign of surprise. ‘He was at my gran’s this morning, as well. He might want to talk to you, actually.’

Simmy felt tired. ‘Do I have to?’

‘He’s in quite a state. The police have been at him again, thanks to Ben.’ She tutted crossly. ‘He doesn’t consider anybody’s feelings, you know. It’s all just a puzzle to him.’

Simmy had a sense of numerous conversations and developments that had been going on without her, while she languished in hospital. ‘I’ve missed such a lot,’ she complained. ‘I’m never going to catch up.’

‘Do you
want
to?’

Good question, she thought. Ten minutes ago, she’d been glad to escape any further time in Moxon’s company. ‘I want it all over and done with.’

‘I think people have been pretty good at keeping you in the loop, actually. Just about everybody’s been to see you since your … injury.’

She was going to say ‘accident’
, Simmy realised. Even Melanie shied away from the idea that somebody really seriously tried to kill the most innocent and undeserving person in Windermere.

‘Just give him a minute. He might have something important to tell us. My phone went before he could get to the point, just now.’

The man came to Simmy’s window, and she tried to open it. ‘Sorry,’ said Melanie. ‘It doesn’t work. You’ll have to open the door.’

It was no way to discuss delicate issues around murder and suspicion and the apprehensions that came with them.
‘He’ll have to get in the car,’ said Simmy. ‘And you can drive us down to Lake Road, where it’s quieter.’

‘It’s quiet enough here,’ argued Melanie, only to be contradicted by two large delivery vans trying to pass in the small street, with a smart red BMW almost sandwiched between them. Horns began to sound, and a man shouted.

Melanie’s car only had two doors. With poor grace she stepped aside and waved Mr Kitchener onto the back seat. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ she muttered. ‘It’s my brother’s stuff mostly.’

‘It’s good to see you up and about,’ he told Simmy, his eyes moist. ‘I was distraught when I heard what’d happened. Where’s all this madness going to end?’

‘You may well ask,’ said Melanie.

‘Nancy Clark,’ he said, having taken a deep breath. ‘It’s all because of that woman. My mother could tell you some stories about her. I know we ought not to speak ill of the dead, but in her case … well, she probably had it coming.’

‘Careful!’ Melanie warned him. ‘For God’s sake don’t make a confession to us. We won’t know what to do if that happens.’

‘I didn’t kill her. I have no idea who did. I’m just saying there’s a long list of candidates. People she worked with, mostly, seeing as how she never had any friends.’

‘But that was
years
ago. Why bump her off now?’ Melanie was still doing all the talking. Simmy found it impossible to twist round to address him, or meet his eye, until she found he was staring at her in the car’s rear-view mirror.

‘My mother always said she was a blackmailer. Sometimes that sort of thing takes a long time to catch up with a
person. People just reach the end of their tether and decide it has to stop.’

‘Blimey!’ said Melanie. ‘Blackmail!’

‘She worked in a clinic,’ said Simmy slowly. ‘And was having an affair with a consultant for a long time. When did she retire? And what sort of clinic was it?’

‘She retired at sixty-five, twelve years ago. There was a big party – they must have been delighted to see the back of her. It was in the local paper. It’s a private clinic, quite exclusive. I always imagined it did abortions mainly, for rich women.’

‘Great scope for blackmail,’ whooped Melanie. ‘But surely the police will have checked into all that by now?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Simmy. ‘All they have to do is go through the records and see if anybody has been near Nancy Clark recently.’ Already she could hear the naivety in her own words. ‘Although … I suppose that might not be very easy.’

‘They could start with people who’ve come to their notice lately,’ insisted Melanie.

‘I’m not sure—’ Simmy began.

‘You’re talking rubbish,’ Mr Kitchener told them both. ‘That’s not the way it’ll work. The records won’t be given up without a fight, for one thing. Probably they destroy them after seven years or thereabouts. Or use false names. People
pay
to go there, not like the NHS. They’re paying for discretion and anonymity.’

Simmy thought back to the few times she had met this man. They had been overlaid with other people’s comments on him and his continuing role as possible murderer, when all along she had liked him and felt sorry for him. ‘Do you
remember that girl in the café?’ she asked, before she’d known she was going to speak. ‘You accidentally kicked her chair, and she looked at you.’

He and Melanie both went silent with surprise. ‘Girl?’ he said, eventually. Something in his voice told Simmy that he did remember at least a shred or two.

‘She was at a table by herself, looking thoughtful. You kicked her chair,’ she repeated.

‘Ah. She reminded me of somebody. Her eyes. Gave me a bit of a shock. Who was she, then?’

‘You honestly don’t know?’

He gave a kind of growl. ‘Is nobody ever going to believe a word I say, ever again? Why the hell should I lie about it?’

‘You might have been in cahoots with her,’ said Melanie, catching on. ‘The kick might have been a signal.’

‘Cahoots,’ he echoed scornfully. ‘Just you be thankful my mother can’t hear you. What sort of a word is that?’

Or my father,
thought Simmy, with a faint smile. ‘You know what it means,’ snapped Melanie. ‘Who did the girl remind you of?’

‘It took me a minute to work that out. Then it came to me – Matt Joseph. I worked for him at one time, thanks to my mother. At the printworks. It was the best job I ever had,’ he said wistfully. ‘They all knew each other, back in those days.’

Melanie smacked a hand lightly on the dashboard. ‘You don’t need to tell
us
about it,’ she said. ‘We had all that from my gran, last weekend.’

Simmy’s insides were surging with excitement. The puzzle was coming together like magic, pieces simply slotting into place by themselves. ‘Matt Joseph’s eyes? Matt
Joseph who was married to Mrs Mary Joseph, with the two daughters? What about his eyes?’

‘They were unusual. Dark grey, close together, full of character. Mesmeric, some people said.’

Matt Joseph had been every girl’s heart-throb, according to Mrs Ellis. ‘Charismatic,’ Simmy added. She visualised Candida Hawkins, with her smooth young skin and energetic hair. Her eyes were much as Mr Kitchener had just described.

‘That too,’ sighed the man. ‘Matt was lovely, right up to the day he died.’ The emotion was undisguised.
Every boy’s
heart-throb, too,
thought Simmy.