The Troutbeck Testimony (8 page)

Simmy felt besieged. ‘I’m going to use Kirkstone Pass, to avoid Town End, until it’s all been sorted out. I’m hoping I can just stay right out of the whole business. Now, let me tell you about my new assistant. She’s a lot more interesting than men fighting in a farmyard.’

Two pairs of eyebrows rose encouragingly.

‘She’s called Bonnie and she’s seventeen. She’s leaving school any minute now, without doing A-levels. She’s catching up with GCSEs, having missed a lot because she had anorexia. She’s very small and thin and fair.’

‘Where does she live?’ asked Angie.

‘Heathwaite. I think she said it’s Oakthwaite Road. Not far from here. There’s some sort of family complication because she lives with her aunt. Melanie will tell me about
it when I see her, I expect. She’s sure to know the whole story.’

‘What’s the aunt called?’

‘Corinne something.’

‘Aha! I know who they are,’ said Angie in triumph. ‘I’ve seen that girl. She’s not her aunt, though. She does fostering. So she’s Bonnie’s foster mother. She keeps about fifty dogs in cages behind the house. Little fluffy white things. People complain.’

‘How do you know it’s the same people?’

‘I remember the woman saying she’d got a girl living with her, who helps with the work and has been in hospital with an eating disorder. She was obviously worried about it. I had the impression she thought the authorities might blame her for it.’

‘But how did you meet her?’

‘It’s a long story. I had a guest who was looking for a puppy, ideally a Lakeland terrier. We told her there was a shortage of them and she’d have to wait years, but I knew of a dog breeder who always had things to sell. You know what dog people are like – they can never resist going to see puppies, given half a chance. We walked round there, back in February or March, and we all got chatting.’

‘I’m not sure how you made the connection with Bonnie so quickly.’

‘The anorexia, of course. She was there, looking like a child of about seven. Corinne introduced her and let her show us the dogs. And I remember the name Bonnie Lawson. I’m very good with names,’ she reminded Simmy. ‘I have to be, in this job.’

‘Did the woman buy a puppy?’ asked Russell.

‘She did, actually. It was all a bit of a scandal, to my mind. No questions asked, just bundled the poor little scrap into a cardboard box and let it go without a second glance. I’m sure there must be laws against such irresponsible behaviour.’

‘Were they living in tiny squalid cages?’ Russell looked all set to march out and tackle the disgraceful situation. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this before?’

‘No, they weren’t. It was all quite clean and pleasant. At least as nice as that boarding kennel we used for Bertie. The animals get to run about in the garden, and some are allowed in the house.’

‘There can’t possibly have been fifty, either,’ Simmy said.

‘Maybe not quite. There were three litters of puppies, which came to twenty or so. And two or three pregnant bitches. It was really a farming operation. You wonder how they find buyers for so many.’

‘They probably don’t. I imagine a lot end up in rescues or drowned or abandoned on motorways,’ said Russell crossly.

Angie had been laying the table as they talked, and now brought out a generous cottage pie, along with a dish of carrots and peas. ‘This is why I didn’t tell you about it,’ she snapped. ‘I knew you’d overreact.’

‘Well, I’m fond of dogs,’ he protested mildly. ‘I don’t like to think of them suffering.’

‘Bonnie wants to move out, anyway,’ said Simmy, to divert the subject. ‘She’s talking about using the rooms above the shop. I’m not sure the council would stand for that, would they?’

Both parents fell silent as they absorbed this question.
‘She’d be a squatter,’ said Angie, after half a minute, with a nostalgic twinkle in her eye. ‘Remember them?’

‘They haven’t gone away. In London, people live in dog kennels and coal sheds and lean-tos under basement steps,’ her husband informed her. ‘I heard a programme about it.’

‘She wouldn’t be squatting if I gave her permission, surely?’

‘Technically, I think the term would still apply. Best to say nothing about it and tell her to be discreet,’ said Angie. ‘I promise not to tell anybody.’

Simmy was both amused and exasperated by her mother’s automatic assumption that she would permit Bonnie to use the rooms. The idea was still not at all appealing to her, and the more she returned to it, the more objections presented themselves.

The meal was interspersed with reminiscences from Angie about the years she’d spent in London after graduating, and how she’d become friendly with a large group of squatters in Chalk Farm and sometimes stayed overnight in their house. Simmy listened in fascination as the details returned in considerable vividness. It felt like total recall, with the atmosphere of the late 1960s as alien and incomprehensible as the 1860s would have been. ‘We were so
free
. Everything seemed possible. We had money, the pill, education. Even the weather seemed fabulous. I remember weekends on the Heath, wearing the tiniest imaginable bikini and having absolutely nothing to worry about. Except men, of course. There was always some trouble over a man. That’s one thing that doesn’t seem to have changed.’

‘But no unwanted pregnancies,’ put in Russell. ‘At least that was the theory. There were posters in the
Underground that said “Every baby a wanted baby” or words to that effect.’

‘Very idealistic,’ nodded Angie. ‘I had two friends who went for abortions, and two more who got some rather nasty sexually transmitted diseases. I count myself lucky I avoided those particular hazards.’

The telephone interrupted them. ‘Another couple eager to sample our services,’ sighed Russell as Angie went to answer it.

But he was wrong. His wife came back, unsmiling, addressing a space between him and their daughter. ‘It’s that Moxon man. He wants to come and talk to you both. Now.’

A more buoyant man might have manifested satisfaction at finding both his quarries in one room, saving himself a drive out to Troutbeck. But Moxon did not rub his hands together or bounce on his toes or show any signs of enjoying the time and trouble saved. Instead, he sighed and yawned and seemed to have trouble ordering his thoughts.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ he began. ‘I hoped this would wait until the morning, but we need to clear a few things up as quickly as we can.’

Russell was patently wary. He turned his head away and nibbled his lip. ‘I was hoping we wouldn’t have to involve my daughter,’ he mumbled. ‘I expected to see you tomorrow.’

‘I know. And if she hadn’t been here, I might have been persuaded that I only needed to speak to you. But I hadn’t much choice in the timing. For a start, we won’t need you to lead us up Wansfell Pike after all. Another walker reported
that dead dog this afternoon and we’ve been to remove it. So your theory that it was inside the man’s black sack was unfounded.’

‘Was it strangled?’

‘I’m afraid so. And that makes us think it very probably has something to do with what happened yesterday in Troutbeck.’

‘I see,’ said Russell with a frown. ‘You mean dognapping, I suppose. Do you think something went wrong, and the man got killed while he was trying to steal a dog?’

Simmy had pushed her chair back and was fighting with a succession of clashing emotions. Resistance, resignation, bewilderment and irritation swirled together. The deduction she was reaching was that the bearded man was not a dog kidnapper, or murderer, at least of animals. There was nothing to incriminate him at all, except the fact that he was acquainted with the murdered man, and had seen him the day before he died. And that hardly seemed suspicious.

All she could think was that every conversation seemed to circle around dogs, and however hard she tried, this element reduced the importance of the case for her. Dogs were of secondary significance. Stealing them and even killing them was not so terribly wicked, to her mind. But then, there was also a dead man to factor in. An annoying dead man who must have somehow got in the way of dog abductors and been savagely attacked as a result, or possibly he had been an abductor himself, as her father had said.

‘Who was he, then?’ she asked, slightly too loudly. ‘The man who was killed. I heard he was wounded in his throat.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘The man with the bag. He accosted me last night when I was in my garden.’

‘Accosted?’ All three people looked at her in alarm.

‘Not physically. But he knew who I was, and deliberately set out to scare me, or so it seemed. I assume he recognised me and Dad from Monday, when we saw him. And I thought perhaps he’d seen you leave my house. He turned up only a few minutes later. And he definitely knew the murdered man. He told me his name. I don’t think he lives in Troutbeck, though. I’ve never seen him around.’

‘Travis McNaughton,’ said Moxon with a frown. ‘What’s the bearded man’s name, then? We still haven’t identified him.’

‘Sorry.’ Simmy felt foolish and incompetent. ‘I didn’t ask.’

‘Well, he’s obviously relevant.’

‘Is it true?’ asked Angie. ‘About the man’s throat?’

‘His jugular was cut. He bled to death,’ said Moxon tightly. ‘A local woman found him, and regrettably made it considerably more public than we would have liked. Several local people saw her and the story had already spread before we arrived at the scene.’

‘Was he a dognapper?’ asked Simmy. ‘Is that what it’s all about?’

‘As far as we can tell, not at all. He came from Glasgow originally, but had lived in Carlisle for most of his life. He drove a red Renault Laguna, with a registration plate matching the one your father gave me yesterday.’

Very little in this résumé of the facts came as a surprise.

‘What about his little boy?’ asked Simmy. ‘Is he back with his mother now? Has she let you question him?’

‘He’s not so little,’ Moxon corrected her. ‘He’s thirteen.
But he’s not helping much with the most important questions. All I know is his dad left him on his own in the car while he went for a chat with someone in the pub, on Monday. Then on Tuesday, Travis went off on his own, late morning, leaving the boy in the house by himself.’

‘Did he go in the car?’ asked Russell.

‘Yes, but it’s not anywhere in Troutbeck. We still haven’t found it.’

‘The other man,’ said Simmy urgently. ‘He must have been meeting the other man. And the boy must know who he is.’

‘He says he’s got no idea. Never seen him before. He said they dropped him off in a pub car park miles up on the fells. Probably the one at Broad Stone. But nobody up there saw anything, as far as we can discover.’

‘You’ve been very diligent,’ said Russell approvingly.

‘It’s a murder enquiry, Mr Straw. We’re obliged to follow every lead, as quickly as we can. Now, I have to ask you, can we be absolutely sure the men you heard were the same men you saw driving away? I know it seems obvious, but as far as actual evidence is concerned, there does appear to be room for doubt.’

Simmy heard her friend Ben’s disembodied voice in her ear, stressing the importance of unambiguous evidence in police prosecutions. ‘That would mean there were
four
men,’ she said, as if making an immense discovery.

‘Was the pub busy? A Bank Holiday lunchtime, sunny and mild. I would imagine it might have been.’

‘It was, quite,’ she conceded.

‘So four men either together or in two distinct pairs wouldn’t be very surprising.’

Simmy turned to her father. ‘This is your testimony, not mine. Why am I answering for you?’

‘Why, indeed,’ Russell agreed. ‘Shall we let the inspector guide us as to just what he needs us to tell him?’

‘Thank you,’ said Moxon, looking as if he might well have abandoned all hope of retaining control of the conversation, without some help. ‘There is clearly some scope for confusion over what you saw and heard. But the fact that you supplied – yesterday morning – the registration number of a car belonging to a man who was killed yesterday
afternoon
makes you of considerable significance. Is there any more you can tell me about what you heard – or saw?’ The detective glanced at Simmy and she thought he might be wishing her elsewhere.

‘I heard two men, on the other side of a wall, when I came out of the Gents. I remember the exact words. I repeated them to Simmy minutes after hearing them, and they’ve stayed in my mind. “The old man’s always out on a Tuesday, so that’s our chance. Tim can be the lookout.” I’ve gone over it a thousand times, and can’t make any other conclusion than that it was a plan for a crime.’

‘And you’re sure they didn’t know you were listening?’

‘There was a wall between us,’ Russell repeated.

‘And you never saw them – while they were talking, I mean?’

‘I saw a shadow. I’ve just remembered that. You know how the garden’s on a different level – lower than the pub itself?’

Moxon shook his head. ‘Sorry – I haven’t been there for years. I’ll take your word for it, though.’

‘Yes. Well, it is. There’s a curved wall and some steps.
As I went down to find Simmy, I caught part of a shadow that must have been cast by one of the men. I did try to get sight of them, but there were bushes in the way. It’s difficult to describe,’ he finished regretfully. ‘I didn’t want
them
to see
me
, you see. They might have realised I’d heard them.’

Moxon nodded patiently. ‘Did the shadow show anything that might be useful?’

‘A hat, with a peak. At least, that’s what it looked like. I imagine a defence lawyer might cast doubt on that – saying it could have been his hair or an overhanging branch or something.’

‘But you think it was a peaked cap?’

‘I do, Inspector. Yes, I do.’

‘The dead man was wearing a peaked cap,’ said Moxon heavily.

Simmy’s mind performed a dramatic volte-face. From one second to the next, she began to care and to care seriously. Until then she had told herself it was all imagination and whispers, coincidence and distraction. Now it became real and sharply focused. She also drew instant deductions.

‘Only two men, then. The same two men each time. Except, the one I saw driving the car didn’t have a hat on.’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘I think so. His hair was colourless, light brown. I wouldn’t have seen that under a cap, would I?’

‘He could have taken it off. The car would have been very warm inside.’ Moxon was plainly sticking to the same track, dismissing awkward objections. ‘Maybe he was wearing it as a sort of disguise, which he didn’t need any more.’

‘And he put it on again to go dognapping next day,’ said
Russell. ‘Except you say he wasn’t a dognapper, after all,’ he remembered. ‘That’s a pity. How can you be sure?’

‘And you might never find the other man.’ asked Simmy. ‘Except … my friend with the beard probably knows him. He saw them both. I think he was actually waving to them, at the pub.’

Moxon had been quick to observe the change in her. ‘Excellent,’ he applauded, ignoring Russell’s query. ‘We need as detailed a description of him as you can manage.’ And this time, he very nearly did rub his hands together.

She managed rather poorly. Given that the man was quite possibly a murderer, her testimony was unnervingly important. ‘He’s about my age. Looks as if he works outdoors. Long, thin legs. The beard’s quite long and unkempt. And he said he worked with Travis’s brother!’ She recalled this detail triumphantly. ‘I think that might have been in Grasmere, but I’m not sure.’

‘Very good. What else did he say?’

‘That Travis was decent and harmless and nobody would ever have a reason to kill him.’ She shook her head. ‘He seemed really upset about it. I don’t think he did it.’

Moxon pursed his lips. ‘Maybe he knows who did, though.’

‘I doubt it, somehow. He seemed bewildered by it. But he wasn’t really a nice man,’ she finished.

‘Why? What do you mean?’

‘He didn’t like me and Dad having seen him, and then getting the police involved. I think there really might have been something sinister in that black bag. And I think he’s worried he’ll get caught, because of us.’

‘We really need to find him.’

‘Isn’t there anyone at the Mortal Man who can help? Don’t they all know each other?’

Moxon shook his head. ‘If they were farmers, all getting together on market day, that would be one thing. But we’re not aware of any sort of identifiable network that includes Mr McNaughton. Of course, it’s early days.’ He sighed wearily and Simmy was reminded that his health had not been especially good even before his troubles in Coniston. ‘He was thirty-three, often out of work, lived in a small rented cottage near Grasmere, by himself. Has an ex-partner and son still in Scotland, as well as his mother. Usual story. The boy sees his dad twice a year, if he’s lucky. Well, not so lucky for him that his dad’s getting murdered coincided with him being here on a visit.’

‘But he could afford to run a car,’ said Russell.

Moxon nodded. ‘And not the sort of car you’d expect, either. Blokes like him generally have a van, or a pickup.’

‘For stealing things, you mean?’ asked Simmy.

‘He hasn’t got a police record,’ Moxon told her, with mild severity. ‘The idea that he was a burglar doesn’t have much traction. It doesn’t have
any
, other than what you overheard,’ he said to Russell.

‘So what was he doing in that farmyard?’

‘We’re still trying to work that out. The forensic bods think he might have been having a pee. They found traces behind a wall.’

Russell grimaced. ‘Do you think his killer saw him and drove in behind him, then cornered him, before slashing his throat? Where would the car – cars, probably – have been? Wouldn’t somebody have noticed? And who drove the Renault away afterwards?’

‘Dad!’ protested Simmy faintly.

Moxon seemed to think he owed it to Russell to engage in the speculations, even if it went against his inclinations. ‘It needn’t have made too much of a commotion. There wouldn’t have been many people about, anyway. Only one couple visited Town End yesterday afternoon, at the time we think it happened. The killer could quietly have driven away – but what happened to the Renault remains the big mystery. Poor Mrs Herbert, who found the body, chanced to coincide with a group of walkers who were meeting outside the house. She practically collapsed in their arms, and they took her into Town End as the closest place. That was at two o’clock. It made it worse that she knew McNaughton. He’d built a wall for her, apparently, only a few weeks ago.’

‘What was
she
doing in the farmyard?’ asked Russell.

‘She was picking elderflowers for a cordial she makes every year. She likes to get it as soon as it appears, and this week’s sunshine has got it going nicely. You have to pick the blossom the moment the buds open, before they go bitter.’

‘She told you all that?’

‘Couldn’t stop her. Some people react like that – they obsess about something totally other than violent death, as a means of coping. She hadn’t found much, mind you. Her basket was near the body, with three flower heads in it.’

Simmy groaned, thinking that the woman might never face another elderflower, because of the associations. Moxon turned his attention back to her. ‘Would you recognise the other man in the car, if you saw him again?’

She tried to conjure the face in her mind’s eye. ‘I don’t know. I probably could pick him out in an identity parade,
but I don’t think I’d know him if I met him in the street. Not unless I was actually looking for him, if you see what I mean.’

‘Hmm,’ said Moxon. ‘That’s what people usually say.’

‘Perhaps I would know him in profile,’ she said. ‘He was rather pale and had a small chin.’

‘Clothes?’

‘No idea. I never notice people’s clothes.’

‘But tall, you think?’

‘How tall was the other one? Travis McSomething?’

Moxon frowned and tapped a front tooth. ‘I don’t know exactly. I’d guess something like five eight or nine.’

‘I thought he was the shorter one, at the time. But you can’t really tell when a person’s sitting down, can you?’