The Ambleside Alibi: 2 (6 page)

Friday morning was generally not one of Melanie’s days at the shop. Her college course in hotel management included a busy timetable of lectures and tutorials on that day. The end of term also fell on this particular Friday, with none of the whirl of excitement and relaxation of schedules that Simmy remembered. ‘There’s a lecture in the morning, and a meeting with one of the lecturers after lunch. He’s going to give us the project for next term,’ she told Simmy. ‘And talk over our progress so far.’

‘You’ve got good marks, haven’t you?’ Simmy had occasionally helped with a piece of coursework, noticing with some concern the girl’s shaky grasp of spelling and punctuation. At the same time, Melanie showed real determination to do well, regarding the eventual qualification as a reliable route out of the limited world inhabited by her family.

‘Pretty good,’ had been the modest response.

So Simmy juggled unaided with two new orders, five customers, decisions about the wholesale delivery and a fresh display in the window for the weekend. Every time the shop doorbell rang, she expected to see the detective inspector, or Mr Kitchener, or someone accusing her of getting something wrong. She felt jumpy and defensive, but unable at first to account for these feelings. She couldn’t readily identify any cause for guilt, other than the very vaguest sense that she had overstepped a mark with Mrs Joseph on Wednesday by asking too many questions. This led to a slow realisation that she had stepped across it even further by telling Melanie and Ben about the unknown granddaughter. She had betrayed a confidence, and at the time never even noticed. The fact that an old lady had been murdered in the same small town had somehow lifted the prohibition against talking about customers’ personal business – and that was senseless. No wonder she felt so uneasy, she told herself, having finally niggled out the reason for it. If Mrs Joseph had heard the three of them, the previous afternoon, she would inevitably have been upset. Simmy had carelessly broken her own moral code, and deserved to suffer for it.

She was still reproaching herself at half past ten, when the fifth customer came in. It was Wilf Harkness, brother to Ben and one-time boyfriend of Melanie. Simmy had barely met him, and had to think for a moment before she could remember who he was. ‘Hi,’ she said cautiously, thinking it might be better to pretend ignorance, at least to start with.

He looked past her to the back of the shop. ‘Is Melanie here?’ he asked.

‘Not on a Friday. She’s got lectures.’

‘Ah.’ His disappointment was palpable.

Simmy examined his face. Grey eyes, deeply set, and a beaky nose combined to make him look melancholy even when he smiled. Any resemblance to Ben lay only in the shape of the head and tone of the voice. Wilf was two years older and worked in the kitchens at a major local hotel. He had a towering ambition to be a chef, according to his brother.

‘Can I give her a message? She’ll be in tomorrow.’

‘No, not really. I’m Wilf, in case you didn’t know. I came here with Ben once.’

‘I remember,’ she nodded. ‘It’s nice to meet you again.’

‘Ben thinks a lot of you.’ He sounded almost wistful, and it occurred to her that he might be feeling somewhat left out, after the dramatic events in October. ‘He’s always talking about you.’

She laughed. ‘That sounds bad. I worked out that I’m easily old enough to be his mother.’

‘You don’t look it,’ he said gallantly. ‘Ben’s a geek, which means he’s old before his time. You’ve probably noticed.’

‘I don’t think I’d have put it quite like that, but I know what you mean. Can you come back tomorrow, if you want to catch Melanie? She usually gets here by nine-thirty.’

‘I’m not sure I’ll have the courage to try again,’ he said glumly. ‘She’s still with that Joe Wheeler, isn’t she?’

‘As far as I know, yes.’

‘You’d know if she wasn’t,’ he said sagaciously. ‘She’d tell you all about it, blow by blow.’

‘I imagine she would,’ Simmy agreed, lost for anything to offer him by way of consolation. Joe Wheeler was a ginger-haired police constable, with roughly half Melanie’s
IQ, as far as Simmy could tell. It seemed obvious to both her and Ben that Wilf would be a considerably better bet. In the long run, Simmy was hopeful that Melanie herself would come to realise this. Meanwhile, Wilf could very easily find somebody else – although that didn’t look likely just for the moment.

‘But she does love being involved with the police,’ he went on. ‘I can’t offer anything half as exciting.’

‘Exciting!’ she moaned. ‘That’s not the kind of excitement any right-thinking person could wish for. I don’t think Melanie wants anything of the sort. She might like to feel
involved
, I suppose, with a connection to what’s going on—’ She stopped herself, horrified at the direction her words were taking her. ‘Listen to me, talking as if it was a regular occurrence. I didn’t mean that at all. All that business is over with now.’

‘Is it?’ His grey eyes held hers. ‘Ben says there’s been a murder in Ambleside this week, and you three have been discussing it. If Mel can get some inside information from Joe, that’s going to … you know … strengthen the bond, sort of thing.’

‘It might,’ she admitted. ‘If Joe really did know anything, and if he was daft enough to pass it on. Sounds like cause for dismissal to me, actually. Besides,’ she added emphatically, ‘we none of us has any connection whatever with this new murder. We don’t have to give it any thought or worry about it, or talk about it.’

‘That’s not what Ben says,’ said Wilf.

There were two deliveries to be made that day, in diametrically opposite directions. Simmy had decided to leave them until
lunchtime, closing the shop for an hour or so. It was something she tried not to do, but there were days when it was inevitable. The first was a traditional but expensive sheaf of red roses from a man to his wife on their anniversary. They lived just north of Newby Bridge, which would take a minimum of ten minutes to reach, and much more likely to be over fifteen. But then she could zoom along the main roads to Staveley, where the second delivery was due. It would in theory be possible to perform both visits within an hour.

The second bouquet was composed of the more exotic and flamboyant end of the floral spectrum. Gerberas in red, pink and orange were teamed with clusters of red holly berries and two peach-coloured roses. Encircling the flowers were glossy evergreen leaves. It was unsubtle, but perfect for the season. The occasion was a sixtieth birthday, but the order had added a note: ‘Make it as Christmassy as you like.’ Simmy had taken this as permission to go overboard on the reds.

Simmy had a liking for Staveley, where she often found herself heading for flower deliveries. The encircling hills gave the village an atmosphere of settled security and permanence that she enjoyed, and once there, having made excellent time on the roads, she habitually lingered over the task as long as possible. Only when a car tooted its horn at her, did she realise she had been driving at twenty miles an hour, peering up at the fells and generally admiring the wintry scene in the continuing sunshine.

She accelerated moderately into the village centre and found the designated house after a brief search. Making the first deliveries since that to Mrs Joseph, she was inexorably reminded of that episode. The door of the Staveley house
opened inwards, she noted. The woman told her no personal details, but grasped the flowers with unambiguous delight. ‘They are good to me,’ she rejoiced, with no further elucidation. ‘Thank you very much. Did you make it up yourself? The bouquet, I mean?’

‘Yes I did.’

‘It’s gorgeous. You
are
clever. The roses are absolutely perfect. And the
colours
!’

‘I’m glad you like them.’

‘Thank you again,’ said the woman, and the door was gently closed.

And a happy birthday
, Simmy belatedly and silently mouthed. She still wasn’t getting this delivery thing right, she suspected. Probably she should remain faceless and anonymous, just two legs on which to convey the flowers and nothing more. People didn’t want anything beyond that. They wanted to revel in the scents and symbolism of the tribute, savouring the sentiment behind it, and closing out anything extraneous to that.

She drove back only slightly less slowly, convinced there was no real cause to rush. For some reason she thought of her father, nursing his injured cat. Russell Straw was a kind man, good with animals and children. She remembered that they’d been planning a walk to Garburn, which was near Kentmere, which was approached via Staveley. It all connected, both geographically and psychologically, and explained the sudden intrusion of her father into her thoughts. The area was crying out for exploration, and she had let far too many months pass without any serious efforts to gird up and get going. Now it would all have to wait, and she was annoyed with herself.

Perhaps there would be a crisp cold winter, in which walking would be perfectly feasible. And then she remembered Melanie’s unsettling prediction of snow, and she sighed. However much she tried to shrug it off, she could not deny that snow frightened her. It concealed landmarks and lured people into crevasses. It fell off hillsides and buried you. It smothered sheep and cattle, and caused barn roofs to collapse. Simmy somehow knew these things, without ever having come close to experiencing them. If it hadn’t been so ridiculous, she might have believed that in a previous life she had met her death in a snowdrift. As it was, she had no livestock to worry about, and even if the road from Troutbeck did become impassable by car, she could still walk down to Windermere in an hour or two. The fear was foolish, but nonetheless real for all that.

She was hungry, she noticed. Eating quite often got left out of her schedule during the week, with cooking for herself a depressing exercise best ignored. Shopping for food was a disorganised business, with no regular slot for a supermarket visit, much less ordering groceries online. She knew she was thinner than she ought to be, but saw no reason to worry about it. There was always an apple handy at this time of year, since her father passed on the surplus from his fruit trees, carefully wrapped to keep them edible through the winter. She often bought sandwiches in the high street, to have for her lunch, but had neglected to do so this morning. She could yet get something, she supposed – but found herself preferring the idea of something hot. Soup or fish pie – the sort of thing you’d get in a pub.

There wasn’t really time for anything like that, unless she put on some speed. She would pass the Elleray on the way
back to the shop, so that seemed the best option. With luck they’d manage to produce something quickly. Otherwise there was the Brookside, close to where her parents lived. That would take longer, as would using any of the local hotels which also offered bar and dining rooms. She was unaccustomed to dropping into pubs unaccompanied, but had no qualms about doing so. People knew her, and seemed to like her. She might find someone to talk to.

In the event, she met someone she knew even before she’d got inside the building. The stretch of street where parking was permitted offered a convenient space, and she quickly grabbed it. Then she became aware of a blue Volvo that parked behind her. A man got out and waited for her to do likewise. ‘Hello again,’ said DI Moxon.

‘Were you following me?’

‘Of course not. Or only for the last minute or two. I remembered something else I wanted to ask you.’

‘I’m in a rush. I’ve only got twenty minutes at most. The shop’s already been shut for over an hour.’

‘Come on, then. We’ll have lunch together. This a regular watering hole for you, then?’

‘Actually, no. I’ve only been a few times. I was hoping they might have some fish pie. I got a craving just now.’

He gave her a look that could only be described as quizzical. She could not imagine what had brought it about. ‘What?’ she said.

‘When a woman mentions a craving, I always imagine she must be pregnant.’

‘Huh!’ she snorted, trying to quell the flash of pain caused by the remark. Insensitive beast, she thought. He knew about her stillborn baby – she had told him about it
on their very first meeting. Obviously, he had forgotten all about it.

‘Time for my lunch, too,’ he went on obliviously. ‘Can I join you?’

‘I suppose so. But I really do have to be quick. I can’t close the shop for long without risking losing customers.’

The man behind the bar clearly knew exactly who the detective was, and became galvanised when he said they hoped they could provide a swift lunch. ‘Lucky there’s no Christmas party on today,’ Simmy remarked, looking round at the numerous empty tables. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘There’s one this evening,’ said the barman. ‘Local undertaker and all their staff.’

‘The undertaker’s ball,’ said Moxon with a laugh. ‘That should be a riot.’

‘They’re lovely people,’ said the man, with a slight sniff. Simmy was glad to see that Moxon was managing to annoy others as well as her.

They sat at a corner table, Simmy drinking beer and Moxon sticking conscientiously to fruit juice. She had been cheered to find they could supply a fish pie, and he ordered steak and chips. They carefully paid separately, in advance. He was already questioning her, long before the food arrived. ‘Has the Kitchener man approached you?’

‘Actually, yes. He came into the shop yesterday to thank me. He didn’t stay long.’

‘He owes you.’

‘Anybody would have done just as well as me. He was lucky I remembered him.’

‘He was, wasn’t he?’ He leant forward. ‘Is there any
chance at all that he could have known you’d be going to that café in advance, and positioned himself where you’d see him?’

‘None whatsoever. I didn’t know myself. Normally I’d just have driven straight back here after making a delivery. I just fancied a quick coffee, for once.’

‘Hmm.’

‘You really want to pin this on him, don’t you?’

He shook his head reproachfully. ‘It’s not like that. Not at all.’

‘So why this persistence? It obviously wasn’t him. Ben says—’ She stopped herself with a gulp. What was she thinking of? At best, Moxon would think her an idiot for discussing police procedure with a seventeen-year-old boy.