The Troutbeck Testimony (20 page)

She followed him into the house in a daze. How had she failed to be aware that he lived so close to her parents? Hadn’t he told her, months ago, that he lived in Bowness? Perhaps, at a stretch, this could just qualify as being on the boundary between the two towns, but she suspected that he had at the time simply wanted to deflect any personal questions. How had she persuaded herself that he was single, probably divorced, and quietly but desperately in love with her? Embarrassment began to flood through her. The house was handsome but an ordinary semi-detached. The front garden was a plain display of pruned rose bushes, tulips and a healthy looking clematis twining between the struts of a trellis. Built of stone, most likely in the nineteenth century, it was well maintained. Simmy supposed a detective inspector’s income was reasonably good. If Moxon was too busy to paint his own woodwork, he could pay someone else to do it.

‘Sue?’ he called gently. ‘We’ve got a visitor.’

The woman who appeared from a back room was in her mid forties, with faded fair hair and a modest amount of spare flesh around her middle. ‘Hello,’ she said easily.

‘This is Mrs Persimmon Brown. She runs the florist shop in town. We’ve had a few encounters over the past months.’

‘Of course.’ She chuckled, as if he’d made a particularly good joke. ‘I’ve been hoping to meet you. I suppose I could simply have come in to buy some flowers, but somehow I didn’t think of it.’

‘Oh?’ said Simmy faintly.

‘Of course,’ said the woman again. ‘You saved my husband’s life. I should have made a proper effort to thank you.’

‘I didn’t,’ said Simmy forcefully. ‘Is that what he told you?’

‘You certainly helped,’ said Moxon. ‘You can’t deny it.’

‘Never mind. We’re embarrassing her,’ said Mrs Moxon. ‘Would you like a drink? I was going to have a gin any minute now.’

‘Oh! Well … no thanks. I’m driving.’

‘Now you’ve found your car,’ said a weirdly jocular policeman. ‘She was outside our house searching for it,’ he explained to his wife.

‘I lose mine all the time,’ smiled the woman. ‘I’m always thinking about something else by the time I’ve parked it. Sit down, do. Should I call you Persimmon?’

‘Simmy.’ She sat on a squashy sofa, and was instantly joined by a tabby cat.

‘Push him off if he’s a bother,’ said Sue. ‘Tea, then? Or coffee?’

Simmy accepted coffee and stayed for twenty minutes
enjoying the relaxed normal banter of a comfortably married couple. It transpired that the Moxons had two sons, both away at college. They had lived in the same house for twelve years and Sue worked as a credit controller for an insurance company. Simmy was convinced that nobody in a million years would guess what DI Nolan Moxon did for a living, if they were observing the scene.

When his phone rang, he left the room with it, and Sue leant towards Simmy confidentially, mere seconds later. ‘That business in Coniston saved our marriage, you know,’ she whispered.

‘Oh?’

‘We’d been drifting apart, usual story, not paying attention. Then he nearly died and I remembered why I loved him.’ She smiled sentimentally. ‘He has so many virtues in a quiet way. Don’t you think he’s changed dramatically?’

Simmy reproached herself fiercely for taking so little notice. But she could hardly say –
yes, he’s cleaner, and shaves more often.
The impression of a shabby, neglected man had taken root many months ago, and remained well rooted. But on reflection, she realised that he was no longer like that. The greasiness of his hair had gone, and his head was not so sunk between his shoulders.

Although he still gave her the same soulful looks, with the same mixture of puzzlement and concern, it still felt as if he had feelings for her beyond those of a normal police officer for a member of the public. And she could hardly give voice to
that
, either.

‘I haven’t really seen much of him,’ she prevaricated. ‘It’s been a very busy week.’

Then the man himself came back into the room and the women had to pretend to be talking about the weather.

‘How’s your father now?’ asked Moxon.

‘I’m not sure. I was there just now, but my mother wouldn’t let me in. Said he needed peace and quiet. It’s not at all settled yet, is it? I mean – we don’t know who the men were that he heard, or what they were planning. He’s not going to feel safe again until you catch the person who killed Mr McNaughton.’ She gave herself a small mental congratulation for finally getting the name right.

Moxon sighed. ‘I’ve heard of red herrings, but never come across one as big and bright as this. It’s like being in the middle of a very elaborate conjuring trick.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘The thing with Vic Corless and the snares. All along he’s been obscuring the more important matter, getting in the way with his threatening letter. He’s got nothing to do with McNaughton’s death. The trouble is, you see, you and your father gave
two
testimonies. One about the conversation and the car, and one about a dead dog and a man with a bag. We all jumped to the conclusion that they were connected, and we were wrong.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Reasonably, yes. There’s nothing concrete to link them. We’ve been chasing shadows all week. And yet …’ he tailed off with a frown.

‘What?’

‘I still can’t shake off a feeling that there is something big that we’re missing. Something that might connect to Corless after all.’

‘Melanie would say it was dognappers. So would Bonnie, probably.’

‘And Ben?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Corless isn’t a dognapper. They’re a gang working mostly out of Carlisle, although they’ve got a couple of local blokes helping them. We’re close to getting them. It’s been a good piece of police work, if I say so myself.’

‘But everyone says the police have been dismissing it as trivial, and not doing anything to catch them.’

He tapped the side of his nose in a jokey gesture that made her smile. ‘That’s what we
wanted
them to think,’ he said.

‘So they come down to Windermere and steal dogs, and then take them back to Carlisle?’

‘I can’t say. It’s all on hold for the time being, anyway, until we sort this murder investigation. That’s why we all hoped there was a connection – would have been very convenient. Too convenient,’ he admitted glumly.

‘But they’re going to think they’ve got away with it, and keep on doing it?’ She thought of Spike and Roddy and all the other beloved dogs which might be vulnerable. ‘It is an awful thing to do, isn’t it? I’ve been thinking it’s all a bit of a joke. But people are so fantastically attached to their dogs. Even my father’s much fonder of Bertie than he admits.’

‘It’s a very serious crime,’ he said solemnly. ‘The problem is, there’s a lot of money to be made by it. Certain kinds of dogs sell at a very high price. And if that isn’t the plan, then they ransom them. Those are less often reported to us, because the owners are so scared the dog’ll be killed. Just as if a child had been kidnapped.’

‘Beastly,’ said Simmy. She thought of her father’s outrage at the threat to burn his house down, and his assessment of some people as totally evil. ‘Don’t they have
any
feelings? No conscience? What’s
wrong
with them, that they can cause such suffering?’

Moxon made an open-handed gesture as if waiting to intercept a football. ‘That’s the question we ask every day, in my line of work. And we never come close to an answer. Are they mentally challenged, or taking revenge on the world, or just so limited they can’t see the consequences of their actions? Generally we conclude it’s all of the above, plus a lot more. It’s not useful to speculate, in the end. All we can do is try to stop them.’

‘Depressing,’ she said. Then she stood up. ‘I should go. Thank you for the tea. It was really nice to meet you.’ She smiled at Sue, still experiencing vestiges of surprise at the woman’s very existence. ‘We’ll probably bump into each other a lot now.’

‘I might call in on you for a chat one day. After all, I know where you are.’

‘Yes,’ said Simmy, aware of the slight lowering these words caused. Too many people knew how to find her, and took full advantage of their knowledge.

Moxon saw her to the door, and watched her unlock the car and drive away. Glancing at his face again, she was sure she could identify the same yearning look there had always been. Something a long way from lust or even love, but definitely a bond of some kind. He liked her, and worried about her, and enjoyed being with her.

All of which inevitably made her think of Ninian Tripp, who was available and accommodating, at least some of
the time. Perhaps he would be in now, preparing some sort of amorphous stew for his evening meal. Ninian cooked on a ramshackle old stove fuelled by bottled gas. He bought meat from a local farm, just as Angie Straw did, but on a much smaller scale. Friends gave him surplus vegetables. He always had a few bottles of wine stashed away, much of it home-made. Simmy imagined a hunk of slow-cooked lamb with carrots and parsnips and a drink made from fermented berries. All sheer fantasy, she reproached herself. Much more likely, he would be opening a tin of soup, or baked beans, and barely bothering to heat it up.

But she hadn’t seen him for a few days, and the week was almost over. There was still no reason to hurry home, even if it was well past seven now – and every motivation to seek out a warm body and an unenquiring mind. Ninian wouldn’t be interested in murder or stolen dogs or strange girls who were hard to trust.

There was no point in phoning him, so she had little option but to simply show up. The very worst-case scenario would be that she found him in bed with another woman, and while that would be hurtful and annoying, it certainly wouldn’t break her heart. It was absolutely worth the risk. Besides, she was almost facing Brant Fell already. A simple right turn would take her through Lickbarrow and within half a mile she’d be there. It was a clear mild evening, the gardens blooming luminously in the slowly fading light. Despite being only yards away from Bowness and the shores of the lake, there were fields and trees, and the sudden rise of the funny little fell, all there to enjoy.

Ninian opened the door cautiously, peering around it like a man with something to hide.

‘Got another woman in there?’ asked Simmy gaily. ‘Let me in, so I can see.’

‘Actually …’ he began, and the gaiety evaporated.

‘Come on, Ninian. This is looking bad. What’s the big secret?’

‘Oh, nothing, really. It’s not you. I just learnt a long time ago that two women together with a man is generally a recipe for discomfort. I had no idea you were going to show up,’ he concluded feebly.

Simmy pushed the door open and went in, saying, ‘I promise not to cause you any discomfort.’ Her own insides were sufficiently turbulent for them both. It wasn’t jealousy, she insisted. More a sour disappointment, and the helpless sense of being betrayed. At the very least, she felt she was due the bleak satisfaction of discovering who her rival was.

The woman sitting on Ninian’s battered leather couch was less of a surprise than she should have been.
Perhaps I’m beyond surprise today,
Simmy thought. ‘Hi, Corinne,’ she said.

‘It’s not what you think,’ said the purple-haired woman, with a grin. ‘I’ve got enough men in my life as it is. I’ve just come here to escape for a bit.’

‘Escape from what?’ Simmy asked coolly.

‘People,’ shrugged Corinne. ‘That’s what I need to get away from, And all this crap that’s going on.’

‘Right,’ said Simmy vaguely.

‘I’ve done a stew,’ said Ninian proudly. ‘Isn’t that lucky? I meant it to last all weekend, but I’m happy to share.’

It appeared that he was addressing Corinne as well as her, which Simmy found irksome. As an only child, she was familiar with threesomes, in which one person was always out on a limb and struggling to be included. Her parents had made it easy, but in other situations she found it unpleasant. Even with Melanie and Ben, she understood that her assistant often felt pushed out by the other two. Now there would be a tedious situation in which she and
Corinne fell into inevitable female behaviour, competing for the attention of the one man in the room. Ninian himself had referred to it, almost the moment she had arrived.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to intrude.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Corinne. ‘We weren’t doing anything. I’m just hiding away here for a bit. I won’t talk, if that helps. I can read a book.’ She delved into a large cotton bag and produced an electronic tablet in a red case. ‘I’ve got about a hundred on here,’ she added.

‘You can understand it,’ said Ninian apologetically. ‘Poor old Corry’s got dragged into something nasty, when she never deserved to.’

Simmy closed her eyes for a moment, trying to square these words with her own experience. ‘She abducted my father,’ she said flatly. ‘Isn’t that enough?’

‘Pardon?’ His lanky body went stiff with surprise. ‘That can’t be right.’ He looked to Corinne for an explanation. ‘Can it?’

‘We didn’t
abduct
him,’ she said scornfully. ‘He was happy to come with us. And it all got sorted, didn’t it? That was down to me and Bonnie. He’d still be scared his house would be burnt down if it wasn’t for us.’

The casual lack of concern enraged Simmy. ‘You and that man Vic, more like. Bonnie can’t have known what she was doing. You’re an awful influence on her, it seems to me.’

‘Hey!’ Ninian protested. ‘That’s a bit rich. Corry’s given that girl a home when nobody else would. She was just telling me about it when you got here.’

‘How long have you two known each other?’ Suspicion swirled darkly through her mind, with anybody capable of
anything – even the ineffably benign Ninian.

‘Couple of years,’ shrugged Corinne. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘She’s been a foster mother for years,’ he said. ‘I expect you knew that. She was listing some of the kids she’s helped. Tell her about that boy,’ he urged Corinne. ‘The one you looked out for when his dad was in prison.’

‘Raymond,’ she nodded. ‘I’ve been a bit worried about him, to be honest. His dad’s had him back for nearly a year now, and I’m hearing some dodgy stuff about them.’

Simmy wasn’t at all sure she was interested. It felt like a diversion away from more sensitive topics. She contemplated Ninian speculatively. ‘You weren’t at the funeral, were you?’ she said. ‘Did you hear what happened to Valerie?’

He flushed. ‘As it happens, I did go along, after all. So obviously I did see the whole awful thing. It was impossible to miss. Poor woman. She got so choked up, talking about Barbara and how she loved dogs, and the good she did, and then she just turned to stone. It was terrifying.’

‘Wish I’d been there,’ said Corinne. ‘Sounds awesome.’

‘It was pretty bad,’ Ninian agreed. ‘They couldn’t just go on with the service, with the chief mourner laid out on the front pew, could they? It all went on hold, and then the vicar told the organist to play the last hymn, and we struggled through it, and then they carried the coffin out to the grave.’ He sighed. ‘After all that planning, as well. There was a good twenty minutes yet to go, according to the service sheet.’

Simmy’s mental picture of what had happened was only minimally enhanced by Ninian’s account. From what she had seen of Valerie, before and since, her breakdown,
or whatever it was, sounded highly uncharacteristic. She recalled Ben’s intemperate remarks about guilt and Macbeth. ‘Ben thought she looked guilty,’ she said. ‘As if an avenging angel or ghost had appeared before her.’

Ninian laughed. ‘That sounds like the Ben Harkness we know and love,’ he said.

‘I saw her at the church, just now,’ Simmy said, feeling an odd sense of betrayal. ‘That makes four times that I’ve actually spoken to her – and I think she’s going to have a hard time over the coming months. I really rather like her. She’s terribly lonely, poor thing. Did you know she was Polish originally?’

The others looked blank. ‘I don’t really know her at all,’ said Ninian.

Corinne scratched her neck and said nothing. Simmy faced her. ‘You did, didn’t you? Bonnie said you did. And yet you never went to the funeral. All that stuff about going to Lincoln wasn’t even true. Did something happen between you and Valerie?’

‘Of course not. I
meant
to go to Lincoln, but then Vic called me and I got diverted. You don’t have to worry about me,’ she said emphatically. ‘Nor Valerie, come to that. She’s a good woman. She was happy with Barbara and the dog. She didn’t deserve all the aggravation she’s had this year.’

‘With Barbara dying, you mean?’

‘And before that, when Roddy was stolen. That was a dreadful thing. It got Barb so upset that her cancer flared up again and she died a lot sooner than she might have done. Those bastards who did it should be flayed alive.’ She clamped her lips together as if she’d said too much.

‘But they got him back – Roddy, that is.’

‘After they paid five hundred quid in ransom.’ She looked at Simmy. ‘And don’t you go shouting your mouth off about that to the police. You and your little amateur detective friend would only have made it all worse, if they’d gone public about it.’

‘What? Why would
I
have had anything to do with it? I never knew Barbara Hodge or her dog.’

‘Yeah – but you’ve got a habit of getting involved. You should watch that – it’s not a reputation everyone would want.’

Simmy was speechless. She stared at Corinne, aghast at the implications of what she had said.

Ninian tried his clumsy best to help. ‘She never gets involved deliberately. You’re not being fair.’

Corinne shrugged. ‘Just saying how it looks. It’s not meant nastily. You’re being great with Bonnie,’ she offered.

Simmy felt soiled and upset. Somehow she had taken a wrong turn, letting herself be drawn into an underworld populated by people who could not be trusted. People who would steal and snare and even kill. Corinne, sitting there so confident and brazen, was closely acquainted with such people – and yet it didn’t seem to bother her. Simmy had never knowingly met a criminal until coming to Cumbria and setting up her floristry business. Since then, her horizons had expanded all too painfully.

‘I won’t get any more involved,’ she said. ‘Not with Vic or Murray … any of them. One of those friends of yours could have killed that poor innocent man in that yard, for all I know. I really don’t know how you can live with yourself, if that’s the case,’ she finished. The rage was leaking out of her, leaving only a residue of bitterness. ‘And
there’s my perfectly harmless father, knocked sideways by the whole business.’

‘Oh, come on,’ said Corinne. ‘That’s got nothing to do with the killing. We explained all that to you before. You’re muddling everything up again. Do yourself a favour and just stick to your flowers. You’re good for Bonnie. She says so herself. She likes you and your shop. And she likes Ben Harkness,’ she added, with a mischievous smile at Ninian. ‘Quite a little romance brewing there, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘How sweet! They should be good for each other,’ said Ninian blithely. At the same moment, Simmy felt a flash of concern for the boy – so clever and so vulnerable. If Bonnie broke his heart, the consequences could be shattering.

‘I hope so,’ she said tightly.

‘Come and have some stew,’ said Ninian. ‘And we can talk of other things. I make pots, you know. I can tell you all about them, if you like.’

‘I did know that, actually,’ she said sarcastically. ‘And you know I did.’

‘Joking,’ he sighed. ‘I thought I’d remind you of the time you said you’d buy a couple. That was years ago now. Let me show you the latest ones.’

‘You do that,’ said Corinne, getting out of the couch. ‘Come on, Simmy Brown. Enjoy yourself, for a change.’

It was nine o’clock when Simmy got back to Troutbeck, and twilight had turned the world to muted greys. Despite Ninian’s efforts to keep it cheerful, Corinne’s words had rankled at all levels. There was no escape from them, whichever way she turned. She was a killjoy, a sneak, an ignorant incomer. She looked for complexity when actually
all was plain and simple. She was probably regarded as a snob, as well. Not one of these epithets was true, she insisted to herself, and yet they had hurt. Surely that meant there was at least a dash of accuracy in them?

Introspection did not come to her very often. Simmy Brown habitually looked outwards, watching others and doing her best for them. Melanie, Ben and now Bonnie looked to her for good sense and predictability – and got it, she believed. DI Moxon acted as if he credited her with a good heart, too. They were all, in their different ways, concerned for her welfare. Even Ninian was solicitous of her, his lovemaking aimed at pleasing her at least as much as himself. Nobody ever hinted that they found her disagreeable or selfish or spiteful.

But she was far too serious, she knew. She didn’t often laugh or let herself go. She was careful and wary, and she was implacably on the side of truth. A killjoy and a sneak, for sure. Damn it.

The evening was almost over. Tomorrow there was a nice little wedding for which she was doing the flowers. Her father was at least not in hospital, not dying, and very probably on the way to complete restoration of his usual self. There was much to be thankful for. Compared to those who knew and loved Travis McNaughton, she had absolutely nothing to complain about. He was permanently violently dead and it was a desperate and dreadful thing. The way his demise kept fading out of focus, obscured by other events, disconnected and distracting, was shameful. If Vic Corless, and his illegal snares, was not responsible, then somebody else was.

And the only person Simmy could depend upon to agree
that this was the highest priority; who would cut through the smokescreens and diversions to concentrate on what really mattered, was young Ben Harkness. If she knew Ben, he’d be back in the shop the next morning, hovering around until she closed up at lunchtime, and then bombarding her with his latest theories.

Then she remembered his new infatuation with Bonnie. Would that mean he forgot all about the police investigation into the murder? Would he arrive early next day and devote all his attention to the girl, ignoring Simmy in the process? It seemed all too likely, she decided gloomily.

Well, then, she would just let it all go as well. She’d take the flowers to the hall where the wedding reception was to be, and then deliver the bouquets and buttonholes to the house, and after that there were orders and stock, displays and future plans to think about. Summer was coming, which ironically could sometimes spell slow business for a florist. With gardens and hedges so awash with blooms, people felt less inclined to buy their own from a shop. If they wanted a table centrepiece or a colourful vase of flowers in their hall, they could go out and gather it for themselves, for free. Simmy and Melanie had discussed this at length, and concluded there was a need for lateral thinking. Hanging baskets, window boxes – the more flamboyant the better – could be part of the stock in the shop. Restaurants could be approached with ideas for summer displays, indoors and out. ‘They’ll pay you to do their thinking for them,’ said Melanie. ‘Especially if you offer to hang the baskets and position the boxes as well.’ It would all involve more work and, she hoped, a steady income.

Such forward-looking thoughts served to cheer her
considerably. Life would go on; she would avoid self-pity as she would a virulent virus – and she would use that phrase to tease Ben, if she remembered. Or perhaps her father, who enjoyed wordplay. Even if he never fully regained his old ways, he was always going to have fun with puns and the more arcane aspects of grammar.

She went to bed early, and dreamt confusedly about dogs at a funeral, chasing a boy with large ears and entangling their leads round Simmy’s legs. One of them was Bertie, who hugged himself tightly against Russell Straw’s legs and flinched at every approach. There was no barking or whimpering, just exuberant behaviour. The boy climbed into the church pulpit and threw hymn books down at the dogs. When she woke, she remembered the slapstick scene with amusement. Where had all that come from, she wondered?