The Coniston Case Read Online Free Page A

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 runnerbeans 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