The Hawkshead Hostage (21 page)

Most of Simmy’s guesswork had been accurate, as far as it went. Bonnie had flown out of the shop at ten minutes to ten, with the intention of catching the Hawkshead bus. What it lacked in speed, it made up for in reliability and anonymity. That was, if it hadn’t been cancelled, as sometimes happened.

It was not cancelled, and the moment she was safely tucked down in a seat near the back, she made the phone call, hoping it had enough charge for what she needed.

‘I need your help. Can you meet me somewhere?’ she asked, after introducing herself. ‘How about outside the National Trust shop in forty-five minutes?’

‘My parents want us to walk up the Furness Fells,’ he objected. ‘I’ll never be able to get out of it.’

‘What time?’

‘About two minutes from now.’

‘Are you walking from the village or driving some of the way?’

‘Driving, they finally decided after about two hours’ discussion. They’re making a detour around Esthwaite, luckily, and then heading for some car park in a wood, halfway down the lake on the other side.’

‘Bugger it,’ said Bonnie. Fortunately there were no other passengers within earshot, who might remember a pretty young girl using unladylike language. She did not want to be remembered. She thought hard for a few seconds. ‘Listen. There’s a place called Colthouse, which would be on the way – I think. Can you somehow get them to stop there, for a look at the old Quaker Meeting House and its burial ground? Say it’s for a school project or something. You could even try looking for Priest Pot – though you won’t find it.’

‘What’s Priest Pot?’

‘A pond. Say you heard it’s got rare newts in it. Are you doing biology?’

‘Not really. It’s all part of science.’

‘Never mind. They won’t know, will they? You’ll think of something. There’s a house that Ann Tyson lived in – ask your B&B woman about it. It’ll be interesting.’

‘Yeah, I might manage that. Tomorrow’s the last day, so we’re trying to catch up with everything we’ve missed so far. My mum’s quite into the historical stuff.’

‘Good. Well, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Call me in half an hour and tell me where you are. Stall them, okay. Go for a long crap or something. Isn’t that what boys do?’

His response was a comical snort of embarrassed admiration. He was only fourteen, Bonnie reminded herself. You couldn’t say anything without causing embarrassment. But he’d be hooked by this time, intrigued and flattered at
being needed by a girl so much older than himself. She
had
to talk to him, preferably face to face. But if it came to it, she could get the essentials over the phone. The main thing was to be in Hawkshead and take it all from there.

The bus was prompt and she descended into a sunny spot between the two big car parks. The Old School where she had met Barnaby was close by. Across the road to the south were the campsites and water meadows that led to Esthwaite. The chances of actually catching up with the boy and his parents were obviously slender, but his phone call, made at the precise moment she had requested, had brought good news. ‘It worked like magic,’ he said. ‘Mum’s suddenly into Wordsworth big time, and the story about him staying in a house down here got her going. We’re there now, and she’s googling like crazy, trying to work it all out. Dad’s gone into a coma, he’s so bored.’

‘What about your sister?’

‘She’s looking for caterpillars. She’s always looking for caterpillars.’

‘Tell her there are rare ones by the pond. Have you found the pond yet?’

‘It’s the other side of the road somewhere, according to the map, but we can’t see it. Dad says it’s all an illusion.’

‘Where’s the car?’

‘Beside the Quaker place, top end of a farmyard. There’s nowhere else to park, but I’m not sure it’s allowed to leave it there.’

‘Okay. Give me ten minutes and I might catch you. I’ll phone when I’m close.’

‘Great.’

Now she almost ran along the road towards Colthouse,
holding the image of how it all fitted together in her head. All you had to do from Hawkshead was take the road to the Wrays, and then veer off to the minimal settlement of Colthouse. It was no distance at all.

There was a derelict Dutch barn that she hadn’t noticed the day before, but everything else was as she remembered. At the upper end of the farmyard, she saw a white car, parked all alone by a stone wall. She phoned the boy again and he answered instantly.

‘I’m here,’ she said. ‘I can see your car.’

‘We’re coming back to it now. Dad put his foot down and said we were wasting time. What do you want me to do?’ She heard an adult female voice speaking sharply, asking the boy who he was speaking to. ‘It’s the girl from yesterday, Mum. She wants to ask me something.’

‘No!’ Bonnie cried. ‘Don’t say it’s me.’

‘Too late.’

‘Well, don’t say I’m here, okay. Can you get away for a bit?’

‘How?’

She realised his parents were now listening to every word he said. ‘How’s your gut today? Not loose at all?’

The sound he gave was familiar. ‘You’re obsessed,’ he accused her.

‘No, I’m not. But say you’ve got to disappear behind a tree and you’ll catch them up. No need to worry, but it’s pretty desperate. That sort of thing.’

‘They won’t believe me. I never have any bother in that department.’

‘There’s always a first time. Look, there’s a gate right here and a field with some rocks and a lot of rushes in it.
I’m climbing over the gate, and waiting for you. Just do your best, okay?’

She waited barely five minutes, before sighting him vaulting the gate in a manner very far from that of a boy in the throes of gastroenteritis. His family were nowhere in sight. He cantered across the grass towards her, grinning broadly. ‘Tasha found a painted lady or something, and wants to take it home. She’s having one of her meltdowns.’

‘Did you put her up to it?’

‘Sort of. She got the idea I needed to get away. She can be quite good like that – sometimes.’ He shook his head in wonderment at the idea that a small sister might have her uses.

‘So, let’s make this quick. That boy in the shop yesterday. Describe him. Every detail. Clothes, hair, accent. Everything. Plus exactly what he said to you.’

‘Okay. Wait a minute.’ He closed his eyes unselfconsciously, and Bonnie had a fleeting thought that he and Ben would very likely get along famously together. ‘Light-brown hair, and bluey-coloured eyes. No glasses. Ordinary accent. Thin sort of lips. Must have been sixteen, maybe. Not very tall. Jeans, with mud on them. Don’t remember his shirt. Something with sleeves. He didn’t say much – just that he had a hunch his girlfriend might be in the town, in a blue Citroën, and if I could find it, would I put a note on it to say he’s okay.’

‘That’s great,’ she said, trying to force a smile. ‘It wasn’t Ben,’ she added. ‘No way is that Ben Harkness. Ben would have added something about Wordsworth or a certain date, to make sure I knew it was him. If there was nothing like that, then I know for sure it was somebody else. Sent by his kidnappers,’ she concluded with an expression of pain.

‘Wow! So where’s your Ben, then?’

‘That’s the big question. The boy you saw must have known where Ben is, and who’s got him. They must have extracted my name and car number from him. Unless they’re people who know us already.’ She frowned. ‘And that can’t be right.’

‘I don’t understand what’s going on,’ he complained. ‘Can’t you tell me?’

‘Have you got time?’

He shrugged. ‘They’ll have to wait for me, won’t they?’

‘It hit me this morning,’ she explained all over again, repeating it more for her own benefit than his. ‘That note you wrote. If it really had been Ben you saw, he would have found some way to give me a proper message. As it was, it didn’t say anything that meant anything. And then Simmy said he was wearing shorts, and Ninian said he saw him in a car – and I knew for sure it was some other person altogether. Someone
pretending
to be Ben, to stop the police searching for him. I mean – how clever was that! It almost worked.’ She gave him a look, partly apologetic. ‘At first, I thought you’d made it all up, because you were working with the kidnappers. But the people you were with were obviously your real family, and they’d never let themselves be seen if they were part of a gang. And then I called the number you gave me, and it was really you, so that clinched it. You were just an innocent pawn.’

‘Pawns can be useful,’ he said. ‘But I still don’t get what’s happening. Has he really been kidnapped? For absolute real?’

‘It’s the only explanation. If he was tracking the killers, or doing his own investigation, he’d have contacted me
by now. So he can’t. He’s a prisoner … Oh, damn it.’

She’d seen Simmy Brown standing at the gate, and Simmy Brown had obviously seen her. ‘I’ll make her go away,’ she muttered to Barnaby and proceeded to do exactly that. It gave her a pang to watch her friend and employer leave in confusion, but there was no time for conscience. ‘Now,’ she pressed on. ‘The woman. What did she look like? How do we know whether she really was connected to the boy, or just an innocent shopper?’

He closed his eyes again. ‘He seemed nervous of her. He kept looking at her to see if she was watching us. She was quite old, but not
ancient
. Bit older than my mum, maybe. Trousers and a sort of greeny-coloured top, I think. She had a shopping bag. Sorry – that’s all I can remember.’

‘That’s okay. You’ve been really great. I hope you won’t get into trouble. You’d better go now. Your car’s just over there.’

‘Yes, I know,’ he said with dignity.

‘Okay. So, I’ll call you later, let you know how it’s going. If you like,’ she added.

He got up from the uncomfortable stone perch. ‘Don’t forget that pawns can be useful,’ he said again.

‘You’ve been really useful already. Thanks, Barnaby.’

He beamed at her. ‘You’re great, you know. Clever. Brave. He’s a lucky bloke, your Ben.’

‘Thanks,’ she muttered through clenched teeth. It would be stupid to start crying now, she told herself fiercely.

She needed to
think
. Ben had done a lot to teach her how this could be most constructively accomplished. Go back to first principles. Start with known facts, putting them together to make a firm picture. Add some hypotheses
and test them. Do not make assumptions. Do not believe witnesses unless they have proof. Memory is faulty and people have their own motives for saying what they do.

This led her back to the hotel and the killing of Dan Yates. She sat on the cold granite and checked her thinking off on her fingers, step by step. Firstly, from Melanie’s description of the hotel, the staff were all decent people, working cheerfully as a team, sharing in the fruits of the place’s success. While this might not be entirely reliable, it produced a strong impression that the people to focus on were much more likely to be guests, rather than staff.

Next, there had to be at least two of them involved. It took two to lift Dan’s body over that fence. Anybody could see that. It would almost certainly take two to spirit Ben away without his being able to leave a clue or raise a rumpus. He wasn’t especially strong, but he was agile and resourceful and he knew some useful judo moves. He would have realised instantly that his attackers had already killed Dan, and be fully aware of the danger he was in. Here, she quailed. Ben had never before found himself in direct jeopardy, even though he had been face to face with people capable of murder in Coniston. Would he lose his nerve, collapsing into jelly and begging for mercy? Not impossible, she had to admit. If fear paralysed him, then she might not be able to rely on his brainpower. It might explain the total silence since Tuesday. It made it all the more desperately urgent to find and rescue him.

She had seen some of the hotel guests for herself, the previous day. The harassed mother of young Gentian, for a start. Did she perhaps have a husband and son as well? A husband to help her lift the dead Dan into the lake,
and a son to masquerade as Ben? It would be good cover, pretending to be a single mother of a demanding girl child, when really there was far more going on.

That led her to the question of motive. Why would any of the guests have any reason to kill Dan in the first place?
Impossible to know at this stage
, she heard Ben’s ghostly voice admonishing her. Motive was not a useful element, he had told her, until much later on.

So, what about the bizarre business with the note on the car? How had the three-link chain of Ben/boy in muddy jeans/Barnaby ever come to be? How had Barnaby been selected for the task of leaving the note? It seemed an incredibly long shot, even to guess that Bonnie and Corinne would be in Hawkshead just at the right time. There had to be inside knowledge, somebody spying on her and passing information to Ben’s captors. She thought again about the guests. That Mr Ferguson, for one. He had been taken to Windermere police station, which suggested he was of some significance. Could he have told the criminals that she was in Hawkshead? And what about the weird couple with the stupidly tidy room? And the two foreign-looking men who had shown up so suddenly? Could the whole lot of them be in it together? Did they want to take over the hotel, and decided a nasty murder in the grounds would be just the thing to reduce the value of the business?

Motive again, she chastised herself. Stick to observable facts. Like that big room with the balcony. She had seen someone there, hadn’t she? Someone who gave an impression of furtiveness. What was that room? Why wasn’t it used more regularly? What
was
in it? She should ask Melanie, check there was nothing important she ought
to know about it. She’d intended to do that already, but never got the chance.

She continued with her internal catechism. Where would Ben have been taken? If the kidnappers wanted to carry on as normal, in the eyes of the world, they’d have to tie him up and leave him alone for long periods of time, while they went about as usual. Especially if they were registered as guests in a hotel. That meant it would need to be somewhere close by. Somewhere they could come and go without being conspicuous.