The Coniston Case E-Book

Rebecca Tope

• Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Lake District Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 411

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

Valentine's Day is approaching, a busy time for Lake District florist Simmy Brown, and she has a number of anonymous orders to deliver. But the orders and their apparently innocuous messages cause great distress. When one of the recipients goes missing, Simmy must face the possibility that evil intent is at play.

Leseprobe

The Coniston Case

REBECCA TOPE

For Leonie Annette Keogh

Contents

Title PageDedicationAuthor’s NoteChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoAbout the AuthorBy Rebecca TopeCopyright

Author’s Note

As with other titles in this series, the story here is set in real villages in Cumbria. But all the homes and businesses have been invented. The points of interest on the slopes of the Old Man of Coniston are also more imaginary than real.

Chapter One

‘I won’t care if I never see another red rose,’ Simmy muttered to herself, while carefully arranging a bouquet comprising ten of the things. It was her eleventh Valentine’s tribute of the day, and the sense of being swamped was becoming unbearable. ‘And still another day and a half to go,’ she sighed.

‘Talking to yourself?’ Melanie asked, coming through from the back room, holding another armful of blooms.

‘Why are people so unimaginative?’ Simmy wailed. ‘Why not send a bunch of freesias for a change?’

‘Symbolism,’ said Melanie briefly, making it plain she knew full well that her boss already understood the way her romantic customers were thinking. ‘At least they’ve placed their orders in good time. Imagine trying to do all this on the actual day!’

‘It would kill me. As it is, I’ll be out for hours delivering them all.’

‘I’ll do you a map,’ said Melanie helpfully. ‘You’ve got to go to Newby, Coniston, Troutbeck and Bowness. Coniston’s going to be the snag. You might think of getting the ferry. Otherwise I suggest starting at Troutbeck and working south.’

‘I don’t like the ferry. I can go down to Newby and then up to Coniston after that. I expect the road’ll be nice and icy. It’s a long way, Mel.’ She shivered exaggeratedly and looked out at the streets of Windermere where a scattering of shoppers were passing, bundled inside woolly scarves and hats. ‘At this time of year, it feels like going halfway to the North Pole.’

‘By rights you ought not to be doing Coniston deliveries, anyway, especially when you’ve only just started driving again.’

‘I was there on Monday, remember. But the weather was better then and I wasn’t in a hurry,’ she conceded.

‘Yes,’ said Melanie patiently. ‘But the fact remains that Coniston isn’t really on our patch. There’s a perfectly good florist there already. Watch out if she sees you!’

‘If she’s as busy as I am, she won’t mind at all. I’d have cheerfully passed the order on to her, but the customer never gave us their name so there wasn’t much choice.’ It had been a peculiar business transaction that might have led to more discussion if it hadn’t been for the hectic Valentine’s workload. ‘I expect there’s the same thing happening the other way around. I see her van hereabouts from time to time.’

‘It’s not the same,’ Melanie argued. ‘She can do some shopping when she comes here. Nobody wants to shop in Coniston, do they? Making a delivery over there really is a waste of time and petrol. And you’re not supposed to do too much driving, remember.’ Melanie’s protectiveness had become a habit since Simmy had suffered an injury, shortly before Christmas, and been forbidden to drive until early in February. She had used crutches throughout most of January. Damage to her head had necessitated a shaven area, which prompted her to have a very short all-over haircut that still felt strange.

‘Well it’s too late now. I just hope it doesn’t go mad tomorrow or I’ll be turning orders away. You know you’ll be doing all the local ones, don’t you?’

‘Yeah, yeah. My feet’ll be worn away to nothing by the time I’ve done them all.’ There had been a degree of discord about how Melanie might best make the deliveries of flowers in the streets of Windermere and Bowness. Her battered car was deemed by Simmy to be bad for the image of the business, but she had compromised slightly, and agreed that it could be left full of flowers in the Bowness car park, and again at the northern end of Windermere, for increased efficiency. She had also, as a major concession, permitted Melanie to use the van while she herself had been unable to drive. As a resident of an area renowned for walking, the girl was almost a freak in her reluctance to use her own legs as a means of transport.

‘If you work it out as cleverly as you’ve done my route, you should be fine,’ Simmy said, not for the first time.

‘It’s crazy, all the same. Everyone’s going to be out at work, for a start. At least with Mother’s Day, it’ll be at a weekend.’

‘Don’t!’ begged Simmy. Mother’s Day was only a month off and she was already worrying about the logistics. ‘Let me get on with these first.’ And she went to create more bouquets of red roses.

The middle of February in Cumbria was still a long way from springlike. There had been two nights of sub-zero temperatures and icy patches persisted all day where the ground was in shade. The roads were narrow and steep and Simmy had a morbid fear of skidding. She was secretly glad that driving had been impossible so far that winter, and had been in no hurry to get back behind the steering wheel.

February 14th was a Friday, which meant a relentless succession of orders had been flooding in all week. Wholesale delivery vans had arrived regularly with boxfuls of red roses. The back room of the shop contained almost nothing else. Brisk business, Simmy kept reminding herself, was a good thing – an essential thing. There had been entire weeks during January when barely one customer a day came in. There were hardly any passing shoppers and there had not been a wedding for a month. Funerals had been the mainstay, with a flurry of them at the end of January.

‘The post’s not been opened yet,’ Melanie observed, flicking through a handful of envelopes and sheets of paper. ‘Flyers, water bill, a couple of real things. D’you want me to open them?’ Without waiting for an answer, she did so. ‘Hey – this is an order, Sim,’ she called. ‘Come and look.’

Simmy came impatiently out of the back room. ‘What?’

‘See – they want a mixed bunch of spring flowers to go to a Mrs Crabtree in Hawkshead. Twenty-five pounds in cash, and no name or address. The message on the card is wishing her good luck in her new home. What’s going on? That’s the third one like this we’ve had in a week. Have we missed something about banks going bust, that nobody’s using cheques or cards any more?’

‘Third?’

‘Yeah. The one for the bloke in Coniston on Monday and there’s a Valentine one for Friday in Newby Bridge. That was hand delivered. Some man dashed in yesterday and just thrust the letter at me and rushed off again. I hardly even saw him. Said something about catching a train and hoping there was enough money to cover it.’

‘I saw him, I think. The one in the long brown coat? I just caught a glimpse of him, the same as you. So they’re not all from one person.’

‘Course they’re not. If they were, they’d all be in the same letter, wouldn’t they?’

‘But they’re all anonymous? That’s a bit odd, don’t you think?’

‘It’s Valentine’s, Sim. The whole point is to keep the person guessing. That part’s not odd at all. It’s the way they pay that I’m talking about. I wonder if Mrs Crabtree’s going to know who sent her flowers.’

‘Hmm,’ said Simmy, vaguely, not entirely following what Melanie was trying to say. ‘What’s that leaflet about?’

‘Solar panels. “Go green with Goff” it says. They’re going mad for them at the moment, for some reason. My dad says they’re just a flash in the pan and everybody with them’s going to feel a right fool in ten years’ time.’

‘I don’t know about that. My cottage might suit them rather well. It doesn’t have to be sunny all the time for them to work, apparently.’

‘Too many big boys getting in on the act, according to Dad. The whole thing’s got very messy, with all those government subsidies up for grabs. Never works, he says.’

‘He might be right,’ Simmy nodded, not really caring either way.

‘So I’ll chuck it away, then? With the one about the pizzas and the one about the sale at the garden centre?’

‘So much wasted paper,’ Simmy sighed, and went back to her work.

As she fashioned yet another bouquet, very nearly on autopilot, the bell above the door signalled a customer and she peered through the shop to see who it was. Melanie was carrying a large box of oasis, leaving Simmy to greet the newcomer. A woman in her forties stood looking around, as people routinely did. Not someone likely to be sending red roses, Simmy thought hopefully. Something different would be such a relief. She produced a beaming smile of welcome. ‘Morning,’ she said, cocking her head enquiringly.

‘Have you got any tulips?’ the woman asked. ‘Is it too early for them?’

Simmy pointed to a well-packed stoneware vase on the floor, boasting two dozen tulips of different colours.

‘Oh!’ The customer stared. ‘What a gorgeous vase!’

‘A local potter makes them. They are nice, aren’t they?’

‘Is it for sale?’

‘Well – yes, I suppose so. He takes orders usually, but I can let you have it if you really want it.’

‘How much?’

Simmy paused. Her agreement with Ninian had been vague from the start; little more than a system where she displayed his wares and told people where they could find him. Prices had not been established. ‘I really have no idea. We’ve never got around to discussing that – which sounds daft, I know.’ She had no intention of explaining how hesitant and complicated things had been between her and Ninian since Christmas. ‘I ought to call him and ask, I guess.’

‘It’s worth quite a lot,’ said the woman. ‘Hand thrown, probably a one-off. And it’s big.’

‘Everything he makes is lovely,’ said Simmy, absently fingering the tulips. ‘How many flowers did you want?’

‘A dozen, please. Assorted colours. If I leave my number, could you get back to me about the vase? I haven’t got much time just now.’

Nor me, thought Simmy, with a quick smile. ‘That’s fine,’ she said. She sold the tulips and went back to the roses. She would phone Ninian after the end of the working day, if she remembered. The woman’s number was on the back of a business card Simmy had found on her untidy little table next to the till. Persimmon Petals, it read on the front. Proprietor: Persimmon Brown. Flowers for all occasions. One of the few times she had been almost glad of her unusual first name was when it came to choosing a title for her new business.

The little room at the back was crammed with finished bouquets, as well as the wherewithal for additional ones. Melanie was trying to create order, laying out flowers, ribbons, cellophane and small cards in a sequence that would speed Simmy’s nimble fingers for the rest of that day and into the next.

‘Remind me to call Ninian and ask about prices for his pots,’ said Simmy. ‘I could have sold that big brown one just now if I’d known what to charge.’

Melanie blinked at her. ‘Why didn’t you make something up? He’d be happy just to sell it. You’ll never get the person back.’

‘Well – how much? Twenty-five? Fifty? He never gave me a clue.’

‘You’re both hopeless,’ said Melanie. ‘It should have been the first thing you agreed. Do you get a commission?’

‘Probably. We were about to get the whole thing settled when I ended up in hospital, remember? Then it was Christmas, and it all got forgotten.’

‘Six or seven weeks ago, Sim. You’ve been back at work for most of that time.’

‘At least I managed to get him to bring some to display. Even that was a hassle.’

‘Hopeless,’ said Melanie again.

Ninian was a self-employed potter with a poor head for business. He lived in a fellside cottage with no landline and a little-used mobile telephone, did not possess a car, and often went missing for days at a time. He and Simmy had established a fragile friendship, to the extent of her agreeing to do what she could to sell some of his vases. After a distressing series of events in late December, he had joined her and her parents for Christmas lunch – and then disappeared for two weeks, causing Simmy to worry that he was lost in a snowdrift.

‘I’ll try and phone him anyway,’ Simmy resolved. ‘Or maybe a text would work better. I think he quite likes texts.’

Melanie, at the ripe old age of twenty, was above responding to such a crass remark.

The morning flew by, immersed in the scentless foreign flowers ordered by self-satisfied swains for their expectant girlfriends. Husbands too were congratulating themselves for remembering the great day in good time to ensure a fitting tribute. Other customers had mutated from being welcome variations on the theme to irritating distractions at this point, wanting a pot plant for their new conservatory or something unusual as a birthday present for someone unwise enough to get born on or near February 14th. When the doorbell pinged at midday, Simmy heaved an impatient sigh and pulled off her rubber gloves. Modern roses might not have thorns any longer, but the stems were tough and bare fingers quickly became sore.

Standing in the shop, only a few inches inside the door, was a man she had first met five months before. Detective Inspector Moxon was dark-haired, broad-shouldered and rumpled. He knew more about Simmy than she found comfortable, especially as his knowledge apparently led to an affection and concern that made her feel young and vulnerable.

‘Busy?’ he asked.

‘That isn’t the word for it. Don’t tell me you’ve come for red roses, or I might have to hit you.’

His smile was just sad enough to make her feel remorseful. She had come to the conclusion that he lived on his own. Within minutes of meeting him she had disclosed her own history – the dead baby daughter and subsequent separation from its father – and got nothing from him in return. He had met her parents, too. Angie and Russell Straw ran a well-known B&B in Windermere, and did their very best to avoid any encounters with the police. Angie could rant for several minutes about the idiocy of people pretending to want bobbies on the beat. ‘The further away from us they are, the better,’ she maintained.

Simmy agreed with her, but for different reasons. Her dealings with DI Moxon had been connected with a number of highly disagreeable crimes which had been upsetting at best and personally dangerous at worst. Floristry, she had discovered, put a person in the way of seriously heightened emotions, including rage, revenge and hatred. Despite the general goodwill associated with the sending of flowers, the major life stages that were marked in that way could easily be connected to darker feelings.

‘I would have thought fresh business would be welcome,’ he said.

‘There’s such a thing as too much business. There are only two of us, after all. I had no idea the world could be so romantic.’

‘Just wait till Mother’s Day,’ he said. ‘As far as I can see, that now extends to grandmothers, great-grandmothers and almost any female relative.’

‘Not my mother,’ said Simmy. ‘She won’t have it so much as mentioned. Says it’s commercial claptrap.’

‘We all know about your mother,’ he said with a small shiver.

‘So what brings you here?’ she prompted, thinking it really wasn’t her job to get him back on track.

‘Ah. Yes. Coniston, Monday afternoon. Remember? You delivered flowers to a Mr Hayter, in a house called Rosebay Echoes.’

‘Ye-e-es,’ she agreed warily. She would have liked to explain that it had been her first week back driving and that the lengthy trip to Coniston had been a somewhat stressful experiment. Instead she confined herself to simply answering his question.

‘You saw him, I assume?’

‘Briefly. Why?’

He ignored her question and produced another of his own. ‘Can you remember the inscription on the card?’

‘Not exactly. Something about a new job.’

‘Was it signed?’

Simmy racked her memory. ‘I don’t think so.’ She went to her computer. ‘I might have logged it, even though it wasn’t an online order. Oh, yes – here it is. “Good luck in your new job.” No name or anything. The order came in the post, with cash. I assumed he would know who they were from without being told.’

Moxon waited a few seconds. ‘Did you gain any particular impressions of him? His frame of mind, for instance?’

‘Preoccupied. He hardly looked at me. But I thought he quite liked the flowers. He grabbed them off me and gave them a sniff before he shut the door in my face.’

‘He’s been reported missing, you see. And his landlord appears to be away, too. His daughter let us into the house earlier today and we had a quick look round. We found the flowers still in their wrapping and your tape round them, but no card.’ Simmy’s tape had been an inspired innovation a few weeks before. Persimmon Petals was endlessly repeated along its length.

‘What a waste.’ It pained her to think of the blooms left to die unloved after her careful work in assembling them, not to mention the time-consuming drive to deliver them. ‘They weren’t cheap.’

Melanie came out of the back room, clearly having heard the conversation, and interrupted. ‘Wonder what happened to the card.’ Simmy and the detective both looked at her blankly. ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Moxon.

‘No reason, really,’ she shrugged. ‘You’d think it would still be with the flowers, that’s all. Probably he liked the thought after all and kept it for sentimental reasons. It might be under his pillow.’

‘I doubt that,’ frowned Moxon. Simmy became aware that the detective inspector was watching her closely, waiting for a more relevant reaction. ‘It looks a bit worrying,’ he prompted.

She put up her hands defensively and took a step back. ‘Oh no,’ she said loudly. ‘No, no, no. Don’t you go involving me in another of your beastly murders. Don’t even think about it. I’m exempt. Immune. I’ve done more than my bit for society in the past few months.’

Movement on the pavement outside the shop drew the attention of all three. They watched as Ben Harkness tried to push the shop door open, finding DI Moxon to be an obstruction.

Moxon himself sighed, shook his head and muttered an apology, before getting out of Ben’s way.

Chapter Two

‘Nobody said anything about murder,’ Moxon objected. ‘There’s no sign of violence in his house.’

‘Murder?’ echoed Ben, with seventeen-year-old enthusiasm. ‘Where? When? Who?’

‘Aye-aye,’ said Melanie with a grin.

‘Go away, all of you,’ ordered Simmy. ‘I’ve got work to do. If the Hayter man isn’t dead, then why are we wasting time like this?’

Moxon summoned every scrap of available dignity. ‘He has been reported missing,’ he emphasised. ‘And after a brief search of his home, we found recently delivered flowers from this establishment, and as part of normal investigations, I came to ask if you knew anything that might help us.’

‘Establishment,’ muttered Ben, with a quick roll of his eyes. ‘Is that what this is? I thought it was just a shop.’

Melanie poked him and hissed, ‘Shut up, you fool.’ She looked at Moxon. ‘So who’s his daughter? When did she last see him?’

‘She’s a Miss Daisy Hayter. She’s getting married next week and arranged a dinner party last night for her parents and her prospective in-laws to have a pre-wedding get-together. Her dad never showed up, which she finds extremely worrying. Apparently it’s totally out of character.’

‘So much so that a detective inspector gets put on the case?’ Ben queried.

Before Moxon could reply, Simmy said loudly, ‘Well, I don’t know anything. I hardly saw him. He hardly even looked at me.’

‘This is a grown man we’re talking about,’ Ben persisted. ‘I didn’t think the cops were interested in people like that going missing. If he’s not suspected of a crime, then he’s free to go where he likes, surely?’

Moxon did not reply, which gave Ben all the information he needed. ‘He is a suspect!’ he crowed. ‘You’ve lost someone who’s on bail or tagged or something. Wow! Whoever said life in Cumbria was dull? It’s a thrill a moment aboot these here fells.’ His accent was recognisably local, albeit exaggerated for effect. In general he used standard English as insisted upon by his mother. Simmy, as an incomer, spoke with none of the Lake District tones, while Moxon and Melanie were detectable as Cumbrians as soon as they opened their mouths.

‘No, he is not a suspect,’ said Moxon firmly.

‘What then?’

‘If you must know, he’s a friend of a friend of mine. I believe his family when they say this is a real cause for concern.’ He turned to Simmy. ‘You definitely can’t say who ordered the flowers?’

‘No. Sorry. I really have no idea, and we’ve thrown the letter away. Melanie makes me log everything on the computer and not keep any paper.’

Moxon rubbed his face and made a resigned grimace. ‘I’d better let you get back to work, then. Although it would appear that I’m not the only interruption.’ He gave Ben a severe look.

Simmy waited for him to go, but he made no move. She felt an odd mixture of resignation and apprehension. ‘I do hope he’s all right,’ she offered.

‘So do I. Does this happen often – orders with no indication of who they’re from?’

‘Hardly ever, usually, but we’re getting a few this week, which Melanie thinks is probably quite normal for Valentine’s. Anyway, it was fully paid up, so I wasn’t worried. Lots of people don’t use banks. I thought maybe it was a child, actually – although the message didn’t sound like that, I suppose.’ She spoke jerkily, trying to justify herself at the same time as seeing the whole business through Moxon’s eyes.

‘Whoever it was got the wrong florist,’ said Melanie.

Everyone looked at her. ‘Pardon?’ said Moxon.

‘There’s a florist in Coniston. People sending flowers to someone living there should use the nearest shop. It stands to reason.’

‘Establishment,’ said Ben softly.

‘It doesn’t, though,’ Simmy realised. ‘The letter was delivered by hand. I found it on the floor when I opened up on Monday. It’s a bit like booking a taxi, isn’t it? I mean – you’re never sure whether to call one from near where you live, or near where you’re going. Either way, they have to do the trip twice. It’s the same when you choose a florist, unless you do it online or by phone.’

‘Which almost everyone does,’ Melanie pointed out with dwindling patience.

‘All of which demonstrates that there was something very unusual about that order,’ said Ben.

Simmy sighed. ‘I just thought it came from someone who isn’t in the system. Someone old-fashioned but quite ordinary. And because it’s Valentine’s, everybody wants to keep their identity a secret. The usual rules don’t entirely apply.’

‘Dream on, Sim,’ scorned Ben. ‘This wasn’t a Valentine, was it? It’s obviously someone who didn’t want to be identified for totally unromantic reasons. And you can’t pretend it’s ordinary at all. Ordinary things are not investigated by detective inspectors, for one thing. And even if he is a friend of a friend, grown men going missing don’t warrant any police involvement at all without something really suspicious to attract their interest.’

Simmy saw Moxon’s hands twitch, as if he would very much like to put them around the boy’s neck and squeeze.

‘Hush, Ben,’ Simmy warned him. ‘You don’t know anything about it. And why are you here, anyway?’ she asked him. ‘It’s Wednesday.’

He gave her a withering look. ‘Free period, then some bod giving us more climate propaganda. I should stay and ask awkward questions by rights, but I didn’t fancy it.’

‘Propaganda?’ Simmy blinked.

‘Oh, he doesn’t believe in man-made climate change. Surely you knew that,’ Melanie explained. ‘Haven’t you heard the story about his mum and the solar panels?’

Simmy shook her head, thinking a theme was developing that was at least a distraction from Valentine’s Day. ‘What happened?’

Ben took over. ‘She was on the verge of being persuaded by some salesman bloke to spend ten thousand on sticking panels all over the roof, until I showed her some of the facts and figures. This far north, she’d have been mad to do it, even if the basis for them made any sense – which it doesn’t.’ He leant forward, his voice rising. ‘They still haven’t managed to produce batteries that store the energy properly. So you have to go back to the old system once the sun goes down. All this guff about the national grid buying back your unused reserves is just a cynical bit of market manipulation. There is no way in the world it can ever make economic sense. But much worse than that, there was never any need to reduce carbon emissions anyhow. They’re not doing a scrap of harm.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Simmy.

‘Suit yourself. Not believing is good. I woke up one day and thought – can all this man-made global warming stuff really be true?’ He grinned. ‘So I read all the counter science, mostly just to be perverse at the start. And now I’m absolutely certain the whole idea is rubbish. Mind you, some of those sceptic people are pretty bonkers as well. You’ve got to be selective. But it looks as if the computer models the scientists used in the 1990s are hopelessly wrong. It would be funny if it hadn’t caused such economic havoc.’

Moxon was listening impatiently. ‘You’re wrong, boy. By the time you’re thirty, you’ll realise just how wrong you are. I just hope you change your mind before then.’

Ben scowled at him. ‘I’m not wrong,’ he insisted.

‘But …’ Simmy felt as if she’d just been solemnly assured that two and two made five. ‘Surely the counter science, as you call it, is wacky off-the-wall stuff? The real scientists all agree – don’t they?’

‘Stop,’ Melanie begged, before Ben could draw breath. ‘I’ve heard him on all this, and believe me, it’s not fun. And we haven’t got time.’ She gave Ben one of her unique glares, which carried added force thanks to an artificial eye. ‘I suppose you thought we’d give you some lunch.’

‘Brought my own,’ he corrected, digging in his school bag for a plastic box containing sandwiches. ‘And I guarantee you that I’ll be proved right any day now.’

‘You’ve got incredible timing,’ Simmy said, anxious to follow Melanie’s advice and dodge the climate lecture. ‘Just as the inspector’s here.’

‘Yeah.’ He smiled smugly and Simmy guessed the boy had witnessed the arrival of the detective and decided to investigate. He was quite likely to have been heading somewhere else and been diverted.

She had been watching all three faces, which were turned towards her in a pattern she was beginning to find familiar; as if everyone looked to her for a lead. DI Moxon himself was holding her in a steady gaze, with something of an appeal in his eyes. Ben was right, she concluded. There was some additional reason for his visit, which he was struggling to reveal.

‘Tell us more about Mr Hayter,’ she invited. ‘If his daughter’s so worried about him, there might have been an accident or something.’

The detective smiled unhappily. ‘Well, for one thing, she didn’t believe he had ever been sent flowers before, not for any reason at all. For another thing, he has no plans to start another job, as far as anyone is aware. That implies at the very least that someone has been playing a rather nasty joke on him. Daisy suspects it was a coded message implying he was unlikely to remain long in the job he already has, and that would be very upsetting for him.’

Simmy cast her mind back, and volunteered as complete an account as she could of the events of the previous Monday. ‘It was sunny, and I parked in the town car park without paying, because I was only going to be a few minutes. You know how expensive all the car parks are around here. It would wipe out practically all my profit if I’d paid, and you’re not allowed to leave the car in the street. I walked up to his house, which is on the road that goes to the edge of Lake Coniston. It’s pretty along there, with those big houses. Anyway, he answered the door quite quickly and then just stared blankly at me for about a minute—’

‘Not possible,’ Ben interrupted. ‘A minute is ages. More like fifteen seconds.’

‘Okay. It was much longer than normal, anyway. I said “Mr Hayter?” and he nodded, so I tried to give him the flowers. At first he didn’t take them, but then he reached out and grabbed them and gave them a little sniff. Then he smiled a bit, thanked me and shut the door.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m not absolutely sure of every detail, or the sequence they came in. Do you think it matters?’

‘Did he look at the card?’ Moxon asked.

‘Um – I’m not sure. He said, “Thank you, dear,” and closed the door.’

‘You said before that he seemed preoccupied.’

‘Yes, that’s right. He never seemed to pay full attention – as if he was listening out for the phone maybe, or in the middle of writing an important letter and wanted to keep the words in his head. I felt as if I’d distracted him from important business and he thought flowers were just frivolous and irrelevant.’

‘And yet he opened the door quickly. If he’d been in the middle of something, wouldn’t he have taken a long time to get up and go to the door?’ It was Melanie, thinking aloud.

Nobody answered her. Simmy scanned her memory for any more details. ‘I hope he’s all right,’ she said. ‘He seemed quite a nice man, even if he didn’t want me bothering him.’

‘He called you “dear”,’ said Melanie. ‘Is that why you liked him? Was he good-looking?’

‘Fairly,’ said Simmy with a repressive look.

Moxon closed his notebook, having written down the meagre facts so far elicited. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I think that’s all.’

Simmy heard the silent for now, and sighed. Unlike her two young friends she had no curiosity as to what might have happened to Mr Hayter from Coniston. It was blatantly obvious that it had nothing whatever to do with her, and she had eight more Valentine bouquets to construct, with more orders very likely to come through before she was done.

‘I’m sure you’ll find him,’ she said.

‘I’m sure we will. Enjoy your lunch.’ He nodded at Ben, his expression part reproach and part admiration. The boy was, after all, highly intelligent and basically on the side of the angels when it came to matters of law enforcement. ‘And don’t you get above yourself, my lad,’ he said.

Before Ben could speak, the detective had gone, leaving the youngster red-faced and wide-eyed. Simmy could see he was upset and thought he probably deserved it.

‘Silly old bugger,’ said Melanie, patting Ben lightly on the shoulder.

‘Yeah,’ said the boy thickly.

Seventeen, Simmy dimly remembered, was an awkward age. Emotions ran wild and careless words cut deep. Ben might be genius-level intellectually, but he could still be brought down and humiliated all too easily. Even so, it was time he learnt to respect authority and not flaunt his brains. ‘I’ve got work to do,’ she said, with little hope of being allowed to get on with it.

‘I’m going to google him,’ said Ben. ‘That Mr Hayter.’

‘You can’t. I need to keep the computer free for any new orders. Melanie – tell him he can’t. He might listen to you.’

They both looked at her pityingly, and Ben proffered a gadget she realised was the latest in communications technology and was sure to be able to manage some googling. Somewhere in her conscience was a sense that it was intrusive to search for people’s backgrounds without their permission. Rationally, she knew they willingly displayed all sorts of personal information for the world to see, but that didn’t help. Everybody could be an investigative journalist now, which meant everyone was also vulnerable and exposed.

‘Look,’ said Ben, ‘you go and smell your roses, and I’ll just keep out of your way.’

‘They don’t smell,’ said Melanie. ‘It’s a bit of a swindle, really.’

Simmy gave her a dirty look and marched off into the back room. She switched on the radio she kept in there, but only used when Melanie was in the shop. Radio Two played undemanding tunes while her nimble fingers assembled yet another bouquet of red roses. Within five minutes she had banished all thoughts of Ben and the missing man and DI Moxon.

Instead she found herself thinking of Ninian Tripp and hoping she wouldn’t forget to contact him about the vase. Or preferably, go to see him, if she could find his cottage. Melanie would know exactly where it was, being in possession of encyclopaedic local knowledge. Somewhere to the east, she thought, in the unexplored uplands of Brant Fell. It was within walking distance, but after nearly a year, she still hadn’t once gone that way. No chance of doing so before the weekend, she concluded. The evenings were still very dark and uninviting and walking still led to aching bones where she’d been hurt before Christmas. Once back in her Troutbeck home, there was very little incentive to go out again.

Ben put his head round the door, ten minutes later. ‘Didn’t find much,’ he said. ‘Incredible the way some people have no Internet presence worth mentioning. What are they thinking?’

‘That they like their privacy, I expect. Didn’t you find anything?’

‘Oh, yes. Mr Jack Hayter won first prize for his runner beans at the Coniston Summer Show in 2011. Looks as if it was his only moment of glory. Somebody else won every year since.’

Simmy laughed. ‘Nothing sinister, then?’

‘It was sinister that Moxo has an interest in him. Of course, there wasn’t time to check everything. We’d need to sign up for ancestry.co.uk to get the real stuff, as well as the newspaper archive. They both cost megabucks.’

Simmy waved a hand. ‘Not interested,’ she said firmly. ‘I still think it’s rude to go googling people.’

But the damage was done. She could not rid herself of the brief picture of Mr J. Hayter that remained in her memory. He had been thin, pale, middle-aged – the last person you’d expect to have flowers sent to him. He had not visibly reacted either positively or negatively to them – an impression confirmed by DI Moxon’s information that they had never even been put in water. She was slowly discovering, to her astonishment, that flowers could be sent aggressively as well as lovingly. There could be any of a thousand messages contained in an innocent bouquet. Reminders, reproaches, accusations and warnings might all work their way into the blooms and the message card attached. This darker side of her business had tainted it for her once or twice already, and now she feared it might do so again.

So who had sent the unwanted tribute? A message that had seemed benign, sent by a person going to considerable trouble to ensure the flowers arrived despite not being competent to manage electronic communications, had now mutated into something ominous. Was it even possible that the receipt of the bouquet had driven the man to disappear, rushing out of the house that very day, leaving a bewildered daughter to raise the alarm? She was forced to concede, as Ben had said, that it all implied that something more serious was going on.

Ben had withdrawn his head and she could hear him and Melanie chatting together in the shop. She left it another fifteen minutes before going out to join them. She was just in time to see Mel picking up an envelope from the floor inside the door. As Simmy watched, the girl opened it.

‘Who was that?’ Simmy asked.

‘Someone in a rush, with a new order,’ Melanie told her. ‘Never gave us a chance to say whether we could do it or not. You probably won’t like it,’ she warned.

‘Why not?’

Melanie cocked her head teasingly, saying nothing. She simply passed the sheet of paper to her boss.

‘Good grief!’ Simmy exclaimed, when she read it. ‘Yet another trip to Coniston, or very nearly. What’s going on?’

‘What?’ Ben charged forward, almost elbowing her aside. ‘Let me see.’

Simmy stood her ground and pushed him back. ‘Get away,’ she ordered. She peered again at the paper. ‘It’s supposed to go tomorrow. Don’t they know how busy I’m going to be?’

‘Are you saying you’d have refused the job if you’d had a chance to speak to the person who brought this?’

‘Of course not. At least, not in normal times. This isn’t a normal week, though, is it.’ She read further down the page. ‘Irises and anything in light colours. Hmm. Addressee – Mrs Maggie Aston, Goodacre Farm near Coniston. “With my deepest apologies.” Something to the value of thirty pounds. Paid in cash.’ She looked at Ben, who had made a small sound. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Looks a bit like the one to the Hayter man,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘You both saw this person. Was it a man or a woman?’

‘Didn’t see, sorry. I wasn’t taking much notice,’ Ben admitted. ‘I was trying to fix the bits that have fallen off the tower.’ Two or three months earlier, Ben and Simmy had designed and constructed a model of a local landmark, which had formed a permanent centrepiece in the shop window display ever since. It was made from natural materials, such as dried seedpods and sticks, which were turning brittle and dusty with the passage of time.

‘Mel?’

‘A woman, I think. It was all so quick. Whoever it was just pushed the door open and chucked the letter in. They were gone again in about four seconds.’

‘I must admit I’m starting to think this is all a bit funny – don’t you? Another cash order for someone out towards Coniston way?’

‘You know what I think. I bet it’s always like this at Valentine’s. Neither of us really knew what to expect, did we? We’ve never done it before.’

‘That’s true. I’ll have to do it, I suppose, even if it feels rather weird. I can combine it with the Hawkshead one. Should I go round the lake to the north or the south?’

‘North,’ Melanie told her. ‘The road from here to Ambleside is quicker, then you just pop down through Barngates. It’s only three or four miles.’

‘It’s going to be about twenty miles altogether, then.’ Simmy sighed. ‘More, probably.’

‘Do it after we’ve closed. Then you can go straight home, and it won’t be so much driving.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Simmy gratefully. Melanie really did have a talent for logistics. Then she had another thought. ‘No, I can’t do that. It’ll be dark. I’m not hunting for a strange farm in the middle of nowhere at night. I’ll go at lunchtime.’

‘Hey, hey!’ Ben protested. ‘First things first. We’ve got to tell old Moxo about this before anything else. Never mind how or when you get there – this is obviously the next victim of a serial killer. If I rush, I might even catch him out in the street. We need to act fast.’

Simmy’s jaw clenched. ‘You’re much too late for that. And don’t say such stupid things. It’s not funny.’

For the second time in half an hour, Ben flushed red. ‘Don’t call me stupid,’ he said. ‘Whatever I am, it isn’t that.’

‘Sorry. But you are being silly, all the same.’

‘I am not. Think about it for a minute. Okay – the serial killer part was over the top, but you do have to report this. The person sending these flowers can’t know there’s been police interest in the Hayter man, can he? Or she. It could just as easily be a woman.’

‘It’s not all the same person, Ben. That’s really ridiculous. They came in different ways. Posted and hand delivered. There’s nothing going on. Just a massive amount of work that I need to crack on with.’

‘Well … um … that’s okay, except for the Hayter man. Let’s just unpick everything we know about him. First – there’s no proven connection between him going missing and you taking him the flowers, but it’s obviously possible that there is one. He wasn’t expecting to get flowers and he didn’t treat them nicely. And then he disappeared, probably right after getting them. His daughter missed him, and told the police something important enough to arouse Moxo’s interest. You took the flowers on Monday, and the dinner party was last night – Tuesday. So he vanished either Monday or Tuesday.’ His voice was rising. ‘Come on, Simmy – something’s happening here. You must see that.’

Simmy experienced a familiar floundering in the face of Ben’s youthful logic and energy. His assumptions could equally well be right or utterly wrong. But there was some sort of coincidence at work, involving anonymous orders for flowers, and that meant she had no alternative but to give the matter some attention. ‘I can’t bear another murder investigation,’ she burst out. ‘I so wish these damned orders had gone to a different florist.’

‘Well, they didn’t. And you needn’t worry. Moxon knows how you feel about it. He’ll probably get some female detective to deliver this order for Maggie Aston, so they can see for themselves what’s going on.’

Melanie whistled. ‘That’d be clever. Go on, Simmy, call him and say you’ve had another cash order with no name. You’ve got his number, haven’t you? Didn’t he give you a card just now?’

‘No, but I’ve got the one he left here months ago.’ A small wooden box with a fancy inlaid lid, occupying a corner of the table that served as the shop counter, was used for business cards. Simmy turned it upside down onto her palm and inspected the dozen or so cards. ‘Yes, here it is.’

‘Efficient,’ Ben approved.

Using the shop telephone, Simmy called the mobile number that Moxon had told her to use. ‘He’ll be in the car,’ she said to her listening friends. ‘It’s not long since he left here.’

‘It’s forty minutes,’ Ben corrected. ‘He could have walked to the cop shop and back four times by now. He walks as much as he drives.’

‘How on earth do you know that?’ Melanie demanded. Simmy flapped at them, as the call was finally answered.

‘I probably ought to tell you there’s been another order that might be connected to the flowers for Mr Hayter. Somebody just dropped in a letter and scooted off before we could even see if it was a man or a woman. Melanie thinks probably a woman. Oh, and I forgot to tell you there was an order in today’s post, for a woman in Hawkshead and that’s anonymous as well.’ She blurted it all out quickly, hoping to dump the whole matter into his lap.

‘Oh?’ Moxon sounded cautiously excited. ‘Who’s the new one for?’

‘A Mrs Aston on a farm near Coniston.’

‘Address?’

Simmy read it from the note. ‘A mixed bouquet of spring flowers. Same as the one for Mr Hayter.’

‘What message?’

‘“With my deepest apologies.” Not the same as before. That was “Wishing you well in your new job.” And the Hawkshead one is about a new home.’

Moxon made a wordless sniff.

‘Should I just carry on as normal, then? They’re both meant to be delivered sometime tomorrow. I thought I’d go about midday.’

‘Why wouldn’t you?’

‘Well – Ben thought …’ It sounded ridiculous now, as she began to say it. Nobody but Ben had read anything particularly sinister into the fact of a new anonymous order.

‘Miss Brown – I’m grateful to you for this information. But there’s no need at all for you to alter your usual practices.’

‘Yes, but …’ She realised she was actually nervous about delivering the order as requested, even if she did it in daylight. She had brushed too close to premeditated violence already – with the physical injuries to show for it – to blithely put herself in harm’s way again. ‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ she finished in a rush.

The faint clicking sound he made was impossible to interpret. Did he think her a fool, or was he reproaching himself for his own lack of understanding? ‘I’ll have a word with young Ben Harkness next time I see him,’ he said. ‘Let me assure you, there’s no need whatsoever for you to worry. I have no doubt this is all perfectly innocent – and perfectly irrelevant to the case.’

‘Yes, but …’ Simmy repeated. ‘You don’t actually know that, do you?’

‘When are you meant to take the flowers?’

‘Any time tomorrow. I told you.’

‘Okay. That gives us plenty of time to be sure, then, doesn’t it? If there is the slightest reason for you to be worried, I’ll let you know by first thing in the morning. Is that okay?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

‘You’re scared,’ Ben accused her, when she’d finished. ‘And Moxo told you there was no need to be. Right?’

‘Exactly. And he blames you. He says it’s all perfectly innocent.’

‘But something is going on,’ the boy insisted. ‘That’s obvious.’

‘It is, you know, Simmy,’ said Melanie, marginally more gently. ‘And how does he know it’s innocent?’

Simmy felt weak. ‘Well, just leave it for now. We ought to be working, not gossiping like this. Ben, you’ll have to go. You’re too distracting.’

‘Unless you want to order Valentine flowers for someone,’ said Melanie mischievously.

‘Huh!’ snorted the boy. ‘No girl of mine would want anything so obvious.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Simmy. ‘That’s my livelihood you’re belittling.’

‘Luckily for you, most people are obvious, then.’ As was generally the case, Ben Harkness got the last word.

Chapter Three

Russell Straw was cleaning shoes; his own, those of his wife and a pair belonging to a B&B guest who had stepped into a mud puddle the day before and soiled his brogues. Simmy found him in the kitchen, with a sheet of newspaper spread over the central table. ‘You’ll catch it,’ she said. ‘That has to be against any number of regulations. What if somebody trod in dog poo with those shoes?’

‘It’ll stay on the paper, which I’ll screw up and throw away.’

‘That’s all right, then.’

Her father waved a round tin in her face. ‘Have you seen what’s happened to shoe polish?’ he demanded. ‘I bought this last week, without looking at it closely. They’re not giving you that little catch to get the lid off, as they used to. Remember those catches? Brilliant idea. Why in the world would they scrap them?’

Simmy looked at him with utter blankness. ‘I’ve never bought shoe polish,’ she confessed. ‘I mostly just wear trainers.’

‘Scandalous,’ said Russell. She wasn’t sure whether he meant her sloppy lifestyle or the defective tin.

‘Do you offer shoe cleaning as part of the service, then? That seems rather beyond the usual call of duty.’

‘Not as a rule, no. This is a special favour, because he’s a nice old buffer.’

‘Sshh. He’ll hear you. Wasn’t that him in the family room just now?’

‘Doubtful. That’ll be the Spencers. They’ve embarked on a full-scale game of Monopoly that’s sure to last till bedtime. And nobody can hear us in here anyway. I’ve told you that before.’