The Troutbeck Testimony (5 page)

‘I think you mean ADD. Attention deficit disorder. And that doesn’t really cover what you’re describing.’ Simmy had a nasty suspicion that her father’s new persona was a direct result of the traumatic series of events over the winter. ‘I’ll try and come over after work tomorrow and see for myself. At least it explains why he spoke to the police, I suppose. And he’s going to feel completely vindicated when he finds out there’s been a horrible crime up here, isn’t he.’

‘So who died?’ Simmy could hear how reluctant her mother was to ask this central question.

‘A man. That’s all I know. Moxon didn’t tell me his name, or what was done to him. It was in a farmyard, which isn’t really a farmyard at all any more. I suppose it might have a barn or two for storing hay. I pass it nearly every day, but haven’t ever properly looked. I’ve never seen sheep or anything in the fields. Moxon didn’t tell me very much, but there’s something about dognapping that they’ve been investigating. Don’t tell Dad. He’ll start trying to stop Bertie from ever going outside.’

Angie snorted. ‘Nobody’s going to steal that old mutt.’

‘Lucky for him he’s neutered, or they might. Lakeland terriers are pretty rare these days.’

‘Not only neutered, but far from pure-blooded. I sometimes think there’s a dash of beagle in his ancestry. Something about the head.’

Simmy declined to discuss dog heredity, and found herself yawning. ‘I’ve got to go, Mum. I haven’t eaten yet, and then I’ll need to get an early night. I’ve got to go to Staveley before I open up tomorrow, then it’s a full day making wreaths for the funeral on Friday. I shouldn’t be thinking about anything other than that.’

‘Off you go then, love. Call in tomorrow if you get a chance.’

‘Bye, Mum.’

For supper, she opened a tin of soup, and drank it from a large mug. Followed by a carton of yoghurt, it hardly comprised a wholesome meal. Her weight was gently dropping, month by month, as she grew decreasingly interested in food.
I’ll be as bad as Bonnie, if I don’t watch out
, she thought, with no sense of alarm. People who manifested too serious a commitment to eating were obviously living idle and unfulfilled lives. Or so Angie would say. Simmy did not doubt that it was more complicated than that.

But she was aware of a certain emptiness in these routine evenings spent alone. There was the pub only five minutes’ walk away, where people would be chatting and laughing and generally being sociable. In the summer the garden would be full of tired and happy walkers with stories to tell. Simmy could go along and join in, making herself a part of the community, a familiar face which would be welcomed and included. Once in a while, the temptation was almost enough to persuade her to do just that. Melanie
would approve, and Ninian might be nudged into a better level of involvement.

It was only half past seven. She had two hours with nothing to do. It was mild outside, with birds singing and blossom blooming. The phone had dragged her indoors when there was still every reason to be in the open air. And perhaps instead of sitting quietly on her patio at the back, she could do a bit of weeding at the front, in the little patch of garden that she tried to keep presentable. Grass was growing rapidly amongst the shrubs and perennials, with buttercups and dandelions rudely intruding where they weren’t wanted.

The other reason, of course, was to put herself in the way of anyone passing on foot. They would glance over the low wall and see her at work. Then they would pause and say, ‘Lovely evening,’ and she would agree with them. There were perhaps three local residents who knew her well enough to stop for a longer chat. And then, maybe, they’d casually invite her along for a drink at the Mortal Man, and all her dreams would come true.

She smiled at her own imaginings, but was not deterred. She collected a trowel and positioned herself on the edge of the weediest area of the little garden. For ten minutes, she dug out the interlopers while nobody at all walked past.

She had become so intent on her work, with its rewarding results, that she jumped when a male voice spoke a few feet away. ‘So this is where you live, then. I reckoned it was hereabouts.’

She looked up, and met the gaze of the man whose features had returned to her several times over the past twenty-four hours. ‘Hello,’ she said, warily.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me whether I got all that mud off?’ he teased, making it plain that he understood her nervousness of him.

‘I assume you did.’ She wanted to ask –
What did you have in that bag? Are you in a gang of dognappers?

And more alarmingly, the question formed itself –
And did you kill a man today in a yard near Town End?

Of course, the idea was ridiculous. If this bearded and unsettling individual had in fact just committed murder, he would scarcely be hanging around half a mile from the scene of the crime. There was no reason whatever to think he had any connection with burglary or stealing dogs or whatever else had been going on. But associations were inescapably forming in her mind, enough to render her speechless. She got to her feet, weighing the little trowel in her hand as if wondering if it could possibly defend her.

The man seemed unsurprised by her silence. ‘Nice evening,’ he went on, in a parody of the fantasy she had just been entertaining. ‘Pity there’s been trouble down the way.’

‘Oh?’ she managed. Her thoughts were slowly unscrambling, enough for the idea to occur that her father might well have informed the police of this man’s presence
in Troutbeck the day before, along with a description of him. Hadn’t Moxon said something about it not being helpful? That there might have been anything at all – and all of the possibilities innocent – inside the black bag.

‘Don’t tell me you haven’t heard. It’s all round the place by now. Poor ol’ Travis McNaughton’s bought it, apparently. Terrible thing.’ He looked genuinely distressed, his eyes shrinking into his head, and his lips tight against the emotion. ‘And the woman who found ’im – she knew him, as well. She’s never going to be the same, after what she saw.’

‘So you knew him, did you?’

‘Sort of. Lived up Grasmere way until a little while ago. Did some work with his brother a few years back. Harmless as they come. No reason in the world for anyone to kill ’im.’

Why was he telling her this? Was he simply splurging his feelings to anyone who would listen? Was the shock of sudden violence so great that he couldn’t keep it back? Or had he a cooler more malicious motive, specifically directed at her? She and her father had witnessed his presence in Troutbeck the day before, carrying a mysterious object having earlier been loitering outside the pub. All decidedly suspicious.

But why would he
continue
to behave suspiciously now? She met his eyes directly, searching for an explanation, striving to appear fearless and even sympathetic. It was possible, she realised, that he had seen and recognised DI Moxon, leaving her house. It was all too horribly possible that this was why he was now talking to her, in an attempt to discover what she knew and what she had told the police.

‘Well, I …’ She was going to say
can’t stop,
but it sounded fatuous as well as blatantly untrue. ‘I’m sorry about your friend. I expect it was an accident – they happen a lot on farms, don’t they? I mean, I have no idea what happened, but I’m sure it’ll all be sorted out.’ She sighed. That really
had
sounded fatuous.

‘No accident,’ he glowered. ‘How does a chap get his throat torn out by accident?’

‘What?’ Her head spun and she felt sick. ‘How do you know that?’

‘The woman who found him told about a dozen people at Town End. Blood everywhere, she said. She’d got it on her hands. They’re all talking about it.’ He waved a vague hand towards the upper end of the village. ‘Especially at the pub.’

‘I’d much rather not know,’ she said. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me.’

‘Nor me.’ The words were uttered forcefully. ‘Do you hear? It’s nothing to do with me, either. So don’t you go thinking it has.’

She nodded timidly. It sounded like a threat. She took it as a threat. And yet there was an appeal in his eyes that softened his expression and made her less afraid of him. She glimpsed a life spent under suspicion simply because of the way he looked. Scruffy, thin, sly – he was nobody’s idea of trustworthy. Impatiently she thought: surely he could clean himself up without any great effort, if it mattered to him how people judged him. He didn’t really strike her as a murderer. But then, she had actually met three murderers since coming to Cumbria, and not one of them had shown any outward sign of their capabilities.

The man walked away, uphill towards the Mortal Man. Simmy went into her house and tried not to think any more about him.

Wednesday was a lot cooler than previous days had been, with grey skies over the lakes and fells. Determined to avoid any risk of getting embroiled in police activity at Town End, she took the alternative road out of Troutbeck down towards the church, turning left at the chestnut tree, which had the first hints of pink flowers that would cover it in another week or two. Making deliveries before opening the shop was efficient, but it meant an uncomfortably early start at times.

She drove first to Staveley with the delivery of flowers, where Cynthia Mossop was in her dressing gown, bemused at the doorbell going before she was properly awake. The flowers were well received, and Simmy duly gratified. She sped back down to Windermere and her shop, catching glimpses of the lake where an early mist drifted above the water.

She found her thoughts full of her mother’s account of her father’s startling change of character. Had it been coming on gradually, or was it as sudden as it seemed to Simmy? Was it all because of her experiences over recent months, into which he had also been drawn? Did he understand what was happening to him, or was it all unconscious? Would it help if she deliberately avoided all mention of the events of the Bank Holiday Monday, or make him even more paranoid? Perhaps it wasn’t paranoia anyway, but a purely rational response to situations that really were dangerous? People had died, after all, including a man in Troutbeck
less than a day ago. DI Moxon had taken Russell’s report seriously, and had manifested concern for Simmy’s safety.

It was all happening again – she had to face it. There had been another murder, close to where she lived. Ben Harkness would be avidly excited about it, and Melanie would probably admit to an intimate knowledge of the dead man’s family and all their doings. And it was not going to do Simmy or her father any good at all.

The shop had a handy paved area in front, where plants could be positioned in a display that mostly had to be taken in at closing time every day. ‘Persimmon Petals’ was painted in fancy lettering above the window. When the handmade model of the well-known Baddeley clock tower had finally been removed after five months
in situ,
Ninian had promised to construct a more permanent attraction to include his trademark ceramic tiles, but nothing had yet materialised. Simmy and Melanie had both been remiss in failing to create a proper display in the meantime.

Still thinking about her father, and wondering how worried or annoyed she should be, it took her a moment to register that another man was standing outside the shop, clearly waiting for her.

‘You’re early,’ she said, feeling moithered, or mithered, according to which north country dialect one adopted. In either case, it was a word Simmy found herself using a lot, when people approached her at an unsuitable hour.

‘I got up at sunrise, which was nearly three hours ago,’ said Ninian Tripp. ‘The best of the day is almost over.’

‘That might be true on a sunny day. As it is, it hardly feels as if the sun’s risen at all. What do you want?’

‘You,’ he said disarmingly.

‘Nin – I’ve got a mass of work to do. If you really wanted me, you’d have shown up over the weekend. Two and a half days were completely free, and you didn’t appear for any of it.’

‘You were busy with your dad, or so you told me.’

‘There was still Sunday, and quite a lot of Saturday. Where were you? I tried phoning. I nearly came to see you.’

‘Why didn’t you? It’s easier for you. I have to wait for a bus, or walk, if I’m to get all the way up to Troutbeck.’

She had unlocked the door, turning her back on him and trying to identify her emotions. Impatience, confusion, a niggle of apprehension were all on the list. ‘I didn’t know whether you’d be there. Whether you’d want me. I
never
know.’

‘I’m here now,’ he said, as if that solved everything.

She sighed. Somehow it was her failing, not his, that made things so difficult. If she had driven up to his tiny cottage on the edge of Brant Fell, he’d have welcomed her and probably even taken her to bed. She knew that. She knew he assumed an easy bohemian relationship that saw no need for plans or telephones or irritating reproaches. The problem was that she still needed a clear invitation before risking it. She needed to know he wasn’t constructing a delicate piece of pottery, or sleeping off a heavy bout of drinking or smoking pot. Or even entertaining another woman. She had no real evidence that he was loyal to her alone. He made no promises. Against her will, she found herself comparing him with the ultra-responsible and painfully devoted DI Moxon. A devotion that made very few demands, and which endured rejection and indifference with a terrible stoicism.

‘I’m busy,’ she repeated. ‘Sorry, but there’s that enormous
funeral on Friday, which is taking up all my time.’

‘Ah yes. The sainted Barbara Hodge. Choirs of angels must be singing her to rest, at this very moment.’

‘Did you ever meet her?’

‘Once by accident. I had a stall at a craft fair and she came by, doing her grand lady act. Bought one of my pieces, as it happens. I was gobsmacked. I think it was the only thing I sold all day. Kept me in bread and milk for a fortnight.’

‘So you’ll go to the funeral, then?’ she teased.

‘In your dreams. A better idea would be to break into the house while everybody’s at the church and take the pot back. It’ll go to some undeserving nephew otherwise.’

‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Simmy. ‘Now, get out of my way. It’s nearly nine already. I suppose Bonnie’ll be here soon.’

‘Who?’ He frowned worriedly, as if the name should be familiar.

‘The new girl. Melanie found her. She’s here all week, learning the ropes.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Small. Fragile. Pale. But she seems bright enough and fairly interested in the business.’

‘Can’t wait to meet her,’ he grinned. ‘How old is she?’

‘Young enough to be your daughter.’

‘Come on!’ he remonstrated. ‘Don’t give me that look. I might be feckless, but nobody’s ever accused me of lusting after young girls. To be honest, I find them boring. Except your Melanie, of course.’

‘Right. Now go.’

He went, humming a tune Simmy didn’t recognise. She watched him cross the little street and disappear
towards the northern end of town. If he had suddenly dematerialised in a puff of white mist, she would hardly have been surprised. Ninian was elusive, almost slippery in his unreliable availability. His body was narrow and pale and bony, although his potter’s hands were strong. He was easy to love, but impossible to depend on. She sighed and went out to the back room where stacks of funeral flowers awaited her nimble fingers.

Bonnie arrived at precisely nine o’clock, standing hesitantly just inside the shop. Simmy peered around the door of the cool room and called a welcome.

‘Should I turn the sign to “Open”?’ asked the girl. ‘You do open at nine, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Thanks. You’re very punctual.’

‘I wasn’t sure what time you wanted me, actually. And I didn’t know whether Melanie was coming in today, either. She didn’t sound very sure, did she? You might not want both of us together.’

‘She said she wouldn’t be in until this afternoon, if at all. She’s sent you instead. She’s not going to be here much at all from now on, as far as I know.’ The pang at the loss of her assistant was sharper than anticipated. ‘I’m really going to miss her.’

‘She is amazing,’ Bonnie agreed. ‘I wish I could be more like her.’

Simmy cocked her head and smiled. ‘I think you
are
quite like her, actually. In some ways, at least.’

Bonnie flushed and turned away. ‘Where should I put my coat?’ she asked.

Simmy showed her, as well as pointing out the toilet and
emergency fire exit at the back. ‘That’s the basics done,’ she concluded.

‘What about upstairs?’

‘Pardon?’

‘There’s another floor.’ The girl pointed a vertical finger as if thinking Simmy might never have noticed. ‘Does somebody live there?’

‘Oh! No. It’s just storage space. The previous people kept loads of stock up there. Technically I can use it how I like, according to the lease. But I’ve not needed it so far. I don’t have a lot of reserve stock. It sounds funny, but I’d almost forgotten about it. There’s no direct access from inside the shop. You have to go out the back and up some metal stairs. Like a fire escape.’

‘Hmm,’ said Bonnie thoughtfully. ‘Would a person be allowed to
live
there?’

‘Um … I doubt it. There’s no loo or kitchen, for a start.’

‘But there’s electric? And water?’

‘I think so. It’s in two rooms, back and front. Why? You don’t want it, do you?’

Bonnie made a grimace, part embarrassment, part rueful amusement. ‘I might,’ she admitted. ‘I could work in exchange for rent. I could just get a little gas ring and kettle, and maybe some sort of chemical toilet?’

‘But
why
? What’s wrong with where you are?’

Bonnie wriggled her shoulders. ‘Nothing really. I just prefer being on my own.’

‘I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it – and go up there for a proper look. That’s not going to happen before next week, with things so busy. And quite honestly, I can’t imagine my landlord would be very happy. Or the council.
They’d want it all made official. In their eyes, you’d be a squatter.’

‘Right,’ said the girl, as if none of these arguments counted for much. ‘Okay. It was just an idea.’

A customer interrupted them, and Bonnie watched closely as Simmy dealt with a request for a mixed bouquet. Afterwards, she asked questions that reassured Simmy that her new helper was going to prove rather an asset. The morning drifted along with no mishaps or irritations other than the gloomy weather outside.

Shortly after midday, a familiar figure appeared. Ben Harkness hefted a heavy schoolbag onto Simmy’s little table and extracted a lunch box. He looked at the girl standing beside Simmy and nodded. ‘Bonnie Lawson,’ he said carelessly. ‘Fancy meeting you here. Started your exams yet?’