The Coniston Case (14 page)

But that sort of thing didn’t happen to ordinary innocent women in the small towns of southern Cumbria in broad daylight.

Did it?

Reluctantly, Simmy acknowledged that now and then
it did. Something even worse had already happened in Coniston, with the killing of Mr Braithwaite. And she came to the conclusion that she could not afford to obey Kathy’s ban on calling the police – especially as she had already told them her friend was missing. Yet again, she was going to have to phone DI Moxon and try to explain a further worrying twist to the already tangled case.

But first – of course – she could try the number herself. Somebody might hear it and answer, which might at least tell her where it was. She keyed it in and heard the ringing tone. It rang for ten or twelve unanswered peals, with no answer service cutting in. Eventually she put it down and phoned the detective inspector.

He answered more slowly than usual, just as she was trying to compose a message to leave as a recording. ‘Simmy Brown,’ he said, the use of her first name a surprising deviation from the norm. ‘Again.’

He was annoyed with her, she realised. Perhaps he had held the ringing phone in his hand for three or four long peals before sighing and then responding. He had had enough of her, with her endless string of encounters with individuals associated with the Coniston case.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘Don’t be. Has something happened?’

‘Actually, yes. There’s a message on my home phone from Kathy. She says she’s in a pickle, and I’m not to call the police, whatever I do.’

‘I see,’ he said, plainly untruthfully. ‘And you ignored her instruction.’

‘Because it doesn’t make sense. I’ve got the number she called from. I tried ringing it and there was no reply. She
said it was a payphone. I mean – there
aren’t
any payphones these days, are there? You can find out where it is, can’t you? It’s not a Windermere code.’

‘Let me have it then.’ When she’d done so, he immediately said, ‘Looks like Cockermouth to me. That’s a fair way from here. Can you think of a reason why she might be there?’

‘Absolutely not. So can you trace the number to the actual phone?’

‘Of course.’ She could hear a keyboard tapping. ‘It’s a pub in the main street. The Cock and Bull. And it’s not a payphone.’

‘Pardon?’

‘It’s an ordinary phone.’

‘Oh.’ She tried to think logically. ‘So she lied to me. Why would she do that? Somebody must be forcing her. She must have been
kidnapped
. And why didn’t anybody answer it just now?’

She heard his deep sigh. ‘I doubt she’s been kidnapped. Perhaps she just wanted to keep you from worrying, while she does something of her own that she’d rather you didn’t know about. Did she sound frightened or hurt in any way?’

‘No. Not really.’

‘Well, I suggest we just hang on for a while longer. You know where she is now. In the morning you can go up there and see for yourself.’

‘What about her car and the RAC?’

‘It can all wait until the morning,’ he insisted. ‘I’m at home now, hoping for a few hours’ sleep. This isn’t a serious enough matter for a police hunt tonight. We’re investigating a homicide, you see.’ He did sound tired, she
realised. Tired, cross and just a bit patronising. ‘I can tell you’re worried and I’m sorry. But I don’t believe there are grounds for concern. All right?’

‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘I suppose so. But she
did
tell me not to call the police,’ she blurted. ‘That’s what worried me.’

‘Maybe she meant it at face value. A way of assuring you she’s all right.’

‘No. That wasn’t it at all. But thanks. I’ll try to get through the night without troubling you again.’

‘Good girl,’ he said. And that really
was
patronising.

Melanie Todd often found Fridays frustrating because she had a full timetable at college, and that meant she couldn’t work in Simmy’s shop. Unfortunately Fridays were often quite eventful at Persimmon Petals. Twice before she had found herself sidelined during the climax of a murder investigation, and she was very much afraid it was happening again.

At five o’clock, she was on her way home in the temperamental car she shared with her brother, convinced that Simmy had been having all sorts of excitement in Hawkshead or Coniston or Newby Bridge. During Simmy’s recovery from her injury at Christmas Melanie had shouldered more of the responsibility of the shop, and had found herself increasingly engaged, both emotionally and professionally. Six months earlier, she had scorned the frippery of flowers, only taking the job because the hours suited her. Since then she had discovered that there was
a great deal more to floristry than she would ever have guessed. For a start, there had been all that
feeling
. People often cried as they composed messages of sympathy for a funeral wreath. Or they blushed and giggled over words of love that obviously reflected deep commitment. They told stories of long-awaited babies and unwise marriages. It was one long revelation to Melanie, who had until then focused exclusively on making an escape from her turbulent family by forging a career for herself in hotel management.

Hotels were exciting, too, of course. Her long-term ambition had not changed. But the prospect of leaving Simmy’s employ in another three or four months’ time was more and more unpleasant. She liked to think she had brought a degree of order and discipline to the business, insisting on proper spreadsheets for the finances and using the flowers strictly in rotation. She hated the thought of a new young assistant taking her place and messing everything up.

Valentine’s Day had proved, on the whole, rather a washout. Joe had sent a boring card, which the idiot had actually
signed
. Wilf Harkness had sent nothing, much to her disappointment. Wilf was an ongoing problem, for which she could blame nobody but herself. They had briefly gone out together, over a year ago now, and somehow she had managed to give him the idea that she wanted nothing more to do with him. When Joe Wheeler had made his move, she had hoped it would galvanise Wilf into renewed efforts to get back to her. Instead he had receded out of sight, leaving a clear field to Joe. Not until Ben had hinted at his brother’s continuing interest had she come to see herself as in a dilemma. At Ben’s school play, a few days
before Christmas, Wilf had made eyes at her and chatted briefly, but nothing more than that. So she stayed with Joe, fully conscious that he was second best. If it hadn’t been for his useful police connections and his reliable car, she’d have packed him in months ago.

They always went out on a Friday evening, and this one ought to be at least a bit special, given the date. The fact of a murder investigation underway was sure to add some spice to the occasion. If Wilf couldn’t get his act together to send her a card or even a text or something, then sod him. She’d stick with Joe for a while longer and make the best of it.

She was ready by six, and was in the noisy family sitting room, two younger sisters fighting over the TV remote, and her brother loudly on his phone to some girl or other. Their father – or stepfather in Melanie and Gary’s case – was singing tunelessly in the kitchen. The dog was whining to go out, ignored by everyone. Melanie knew the wretched animal was doomed to be returned to the rescue place the first time it peed on the floor or chewed something precious. Her mum was always getting a new pet and then sending it back within weeks. She ought to be blacklisted, by rights, but she always managed to convince the people she’d give the creature a good home.

Then little Maxie wandered in, holding a Nintendo DS and wailing. ‘It’s brogen,’ he wept. ‘The DS is
brogen
.’

‘Come here,’ said Melanie with a sigh. ‘Let’s see.’

Maxie was five, the tail-ender that had been the final straw for their mum. The other kids had effectively reared him, changing nappies, feeding him and mopping up his many tantrums and troubles. Their mother had sunk hopelessly
into an uncoping lethargy that wasn’t quite depression or bipolar or OCD, but a weird combination all of her own. She could be bright and funny on occasion, but her default condition was a vague smile as she flipped through a magazine or simply stared out of the window. The family conspired to pretend that all was well – and this extended to the regular acquisition of abandoned dogs, which Mum genuinely loved, at least to start with. Their stepfather was a soft, selfish man who sat about waiting to be fed, often with Maxie on his lap or one of the girls leaning against him, telling him a long story about school. He earned reasonable money as a plumber and was good with his hands. Melanie did not dislike him, since he was harmless, but she had never managed to feel any affection for him. Her own father was a different matter – resentful at his many failures and pathologically obstructive of anything his children wanted to do. Gary and Melanie had long ago lost hope that he would ever be of use to either of them.

‘It just needs charging, I think,’ Melanie told her little brother. ‘Let’s see if we can find the lead for it, shall we?’

But then the doorbell made its usual discordant jangle and Melanie went to answer it. Joe stood there, as he always did, half afraid to venture into the midst of the swirling family. ‘Clo – find Maxie’s charger thing, will you?’ Melanie ordered one of the sisters, before pushing Joe ahead of her out into the street.

She pulled the door shut behind her and closed her eyes. ‘God, it never gets any better in there. I’m twenty, for God’s sake – time I had a place of my own.’

Joe eyed her worriedly. ‘Um …I’m not sure …’ he stammered.

‘Don’t be stupid – I’m not asking
you
to do anything. I can sort myself out, thanks very much. You know that.’

He changed the subject. ‘Did you get the valentine?’

‘Oh – was that from you? I never would have guessed.’

‘But I put my name on it.’ He paused, catching her eye. ‘Ah! I get it. Very funny.’

‘They’re meant to be anonymous, you idiot. That’s what’s romantic about them. The thought of a secret admirer and all that stuff.’

‘Well, then,’ shrugged Joe vaguely. ‘What’s your problem? Why would you want a secret admirer when you’ve got me?’

There was at least a hint of self-mockery in his words, she told herself. Nobody could be such a plonker as to mean it literally. ‘Where are we going, then?’ she asked.

‘How about hopping down to Kendal? There’s that Balti place in Wildman Street. My mate Kev says it’s great.’

Melanie weighed it up. ‘Okay,’ she said. The drive would make a change, and an Indian place probably wouldn’t be fully booked with Valentine couples. ‘On condition you don’t order the hottest thing on the menu and then barf on the way home. Like last time.’

‘There was something bad in it,’ he defended.

‘Just the same …’

‘Okay. I’ll have something milder, if it matters to you.’

They chatted idly for the first few miles, and then Joe said, ‘Your boss lady’s been in again – did she tell you?’

‘What? Today? I haven’t seen her. Did something else happen?’

‘Just a bit. Seems she’s got a friend from the south staying, and she’s gone missing. Moxo logged the report, but said no action needed till tomorrow soonest. Thing is, everyone’s doing the headless-chicken thing about this Coniston business, and there’s nobody free to go searching for a grown woman. Different if it was a kiddie, obviously.’

‘You’re telling me that Kathy thingummy has got herself lost? When? How?’

‘Search me. I just saw it on the computer, with Ms P. Brown the one reporting it in. Thought it must be your lady – with the Troutbeck address, an’ all.’

‘Simmy had wall-to-wall deliveries for most of today. All morning, anyhow. She wasn’t meant to go gallivanting with her friend.’ Melanie frowned in puzzlement. Yet again something big had happened on a Friday, just when she wasn’t there.

‘You can ask her all about it in the morning,’ he said curtly, apparently regretting ever mentioning the matter. As a humble uniformed constable, his access to the inner workings of murder investigations was severely limited – a fact he tried to conceal from Melanie. Any small nugget of information was treated like gold dust and conveyed to his girlfriend as if central to the whole process.

There were still a couple of tables free in the Balti and they settled down to study the menu. ‘You paying?’ she checked before ordering.

‘I surely am. How can you even ask?’

Her natural caution where money was concerned prevented her from choosing anything too costly, but she didn’t stint herself. Pappadoms
and
nan bread, she insisted, to go with the rogan josh.

As they waited for the meal to arrive Melanie looked around her. Kendal was far enough from Windermere for there to be little chance of seeing anybody she knew, but it was a habit with her to examine all the other diners and try to see what they were eating. A man sitting two tables away with his back to her seemed familiar, hair tied back in a ponytail and wearing a red quilted jacket that looked handmade. Opposite him was a very attractive woman whose hair was dyed a dramatic coppery shade. Melanie had never seen her before.

Ninian! It was Ninian Tripp the potter, who was meant to be soft on Simmy. What was he doing with this classy-looking creature? Her clothes were obviously expensive, her make-up immaculate. To Joe’s detriment, Melanie spent the next ten minutes trying to hear what the couple were saying, and to figure out the precise nature of their relationship. By the time the first course was finished, she could bear it no longer. ‘Just popping to the loo,’ she told Joe, and then wove her way between tables in entirely the wrong direction, so as to bring herself face to face with Ninian.

‘Hey! Is that you?’ she cried, in a piece of appalling acting. ‘Fancy that.’

He frowned up at her, clearly unable to place her. ‘Melanie,’ she prompted him. ‘From the flower shop.’

‘Oh, yes. Of course. Sorry.’ He seemed distracted, his eyes returning constantly to the face of his companion. ‘Melanie. Hello.’

‘I’m with my boyfriend, Joe. Valentine’s meal, see.’ She waited expectantly, glancing at the pretty woman.

‘Nice,’ said Ninian.

‘I’m Selena Drury,’ said the woman, with a little laugh. ‘No point expecting him to introduce me. He’s hopeless at all that sort of stuff.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Melanie, with raised eyebrows. ‘From Kendal, are you?’

‘Sort of,’ she agreed. ‘You could say I’m between houses at the moment. I’m in Coniston most of the time.’

‘You weren’t in the shop today,’ Ninian observed. ‘So you won’t know who Selena is. This isn’t how it looks. She’s my sister’s oldest friend, as it happens. But she’s had some dealings with your employer today, and needed someone to talk it over with. So she’s taken me out for a slap-up meal.’ He beamed gratefully at the woman across the table.

Melanie could think of nothing to say, other than ‘Dealings? What dealings?’

‘It’s a long story, and I’m sure your boyfriend wouldn’t want to sit there by himself while I told it. Besides, Selena and I were in the middle of something. You can ask Simmy to explain it all tomorrow. It’s been a very busy day for her. You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’

She had no choice but to return to her table and try to focus on Joe. He hadn’t even noticed what she’d been
doing, being occupied by selecting a dessert. ‘There isn’t much of a choice,’ he grumbled.

‘It’s not about the puddings in a place like this,’ she snapped. ‘Haven’t you had enough already?’

He looked up in surprise. ‘What’s up with you?’

‘Fine cop you are. I’ve just been talking to two people from Windermere – well, he lives near Bowness, actually and she says she’s between houses, whatever that means – who’ve been involved in this murder of yours, and you never even noticed.’

‘I thought you were in the loo.’

Only then did she realise she’d never got that far, and that she really ought to have done. She sighed. ‘Ninian Tripp and a woman called Selena something. They’re talking about stuff that happened today, to do with Simmy and the shop. I missed the whole thing, damn it. Again. Everything happens on a Friday.’

Joe ordered mango sorbet and Irish coffee. Melanie got up again and went off to the Ladies, in a very un-Valentine mood.