Libby fetched out the piece of paper on which she had scribbled the details. ‘Are you going to ring him?’
‘Unless you want to?’
Libby shook her head. Fran keyed in the number.
‘Hello, is that Mr Barrett? Yes, I’m sorry to bother you – no I’m not selling anything. No – listen – Jane, the editor of the Mercury – yes, I’m a friend of hers. She gave me your name. No, perhaps she shouldn’t have done, but – no, please listen. It’s about that girl Shareen – yes.’ Fran mimed relief. ‘Well, did you know her body had been found?’
There was a longer pause, while Fran listened and Libby seethed with impatience.
‘Could we come and talk to you about it? Yes, I’m sure the police will want to talk to you, too, but it concerns a friend of ours. Yes, I have another friend with me. Oh, of course. You can call Jane and ask her. I’m Fran Wolfe and my friend is Libby Sarjeant. So can we come? Yes, I have your address. Can you tell me how to get there.’
Fran finally ended the call.
‘I gather he was a bit – what? Annoyed?’
‘Obstreperous,’ said Fran. ‘Anyway, we can go. I’ve got directions.’
‘Whose car, then?’
‘Neither.’ Fran grinned. ‘It’s just round the corner.’
In fact, Fred Barrett’s house was in a short terrace of Victorian cottages leading to the river. There didn’t seem to be any access for cars, and Libby wondered what the residents did with theirs. The Barrett cottage was unadorned with hanging baskets or potted shrubs, unlike most of the rest.
‘Bachelor,’ whispered Libby, after Fran had knocked.
The door swung open almost immediately.
‘Wolfe and Sarjeant?’ barked the little old man standing before them, white hair standing up in a fringe round a shiny pate. A huge moustache concealed his mouth, and wire rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose.
‘Yes,’ said Fran. ‘I’m Fran Wolfe -’
‘And I’m Libby Sarjeant.’
‘Come in, then, come in. Haven’t got all day.’
Chapter Twenty Three
Fred Barrett led them into a crowded sitting room and gestured towards the small dining table. They sat on uncomfortable upright chairs squeezed in between the table and an ancient sofa.
‘Now,’ said Barrett. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘What do you know about Shareen Wallis?’ Libby plunged straight in.
Barrett narrowed his eyes at her. ‘What do you know?’
Libby recounted all the information they had so far accrued.
‘And now someone we know is under suspicion of her murder, we thought we’d try and find out a bit more. To help,’ she concluded.
‘And how do you know this person didn’t do it?’ asked Barrett.
‘We don’t, for sure,’ said Fran, ‘but we don’t see how he could have done it.’
‘Who is it?’
Fran and Libby looked at each other. ‘Come on,’ said Barrett.
‘I can’t work without all the information.’
‘Colin Hardcastle,’ said Libby reluctantly.
‘Hardcastle,’ mused Barrett. ‘Hardcastle... No, I don’t think I came across that name. Who is he?’
‘He was taken to the party by someone else, who was invited by a local.’
‘Names, woman! Names!’
Libby sighed. ‘Emma Something invited a John Newman - they’re now married - and he brought Colin with him. They both lived in Steeple Martin.’
‘Ah – that’s better.’ Barrett thought for a moment. ‘Now, when I looked into it, I did come across those two names.’ He settled back in his chair. ‘I’ll tell you what I know. And what I thought.’ He looked up at the ceiling and folded his hands across his stomach. ‘The police tried to find out when exactly the Wallis girl had left the party – you know where it was, do you?’
Libby and Fran shook their heads.
‘An old barn – outside the Sand Gate, it was. Think it’s been pulled down now. Used to use it for those raves, the kids did. Well, that was where it was. And the police tried to get hold of everybody who’d been there. But no one knew when she’d gone. They all thought she must have been picked up by someone in a car, until someone said she’d insisted on walking and was seen on the road to Bishop’s Bottom. You know where that is?’
‘That’s the way I came,’ said Libby.
Barrett nodded. ‘Well, the police got nowhere, as you obviously know.’ He brooded for a long moment. ‘And I thought they hadn’t done their job. So I began to track everyone down.’
‘And did you find all the guests?’ asked Fran.
‘Not all. But I found most of the people who had anything to do with the girl while she was there. Apparently, she was popular.’
‘Because she’d been on TV?’ asked Libby.
Barrett shrugged. ‘Seemed so. Anyway, she had people clustering around her all night – men, of course. And I followed ’em all up.’ He thought again. ‘And I used to put little pieces in the paper – oh, not naming names, of course – just to jog memories. But they came to nothing. In fact, nothing made any sense. The closest I got was talking to the couple who’d seen her walking down the road afterwards. They stopped and offered her a lift, but she refused, and they got the impression she was going to meet someone.’
‘It couldn’t have been a guest at the party, then,’ said Libby, ‘or she’d have left with them.’
‘Oh, no!’ said Fran and Barrett together.
‘Why?’
‘It could have been someone she shouldn’t have been with,’ said Fran. ‘Someone who was at the party with his wife or girlfriend.’
‘Exactly, girl!’ Barrett beamed at her approvingly. ‘So I tried to find out if there was someone in particular who had singled her out. Or that she had singled out. And there was only one.’
‘Who?’ said Fran and Libby together.
Barrett scowled. ‘I couldn’t find out. No one knew him, apparently. And the strange thing was, he didn’t seem happy about it. He tried to get away from her and she followed. They disappeared for a bit, as far as anyone could tell, and when she came back, he didn’t.’ He looked up at Libby. ‘That could be your friend.’
‘It could,’ said Fran. ‘He wouldn’t be happy about being targeted by a girl.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s gay,’ said Libby.
Barrett kept on staring at her, a look of surprise developing on his face. ‘Ah!’ he said at last. ‘Gay baiting.’
‘Could it be? Was there much of that round here?’ asked Fran.
‘Come on, Fran,’ said Libby. ‘Remember all that stuff with Harry’s friends? It was going on everywhere.’
‘Worse in little places like this,’ said Barrett. ‘And youngsters were the worst of the lot.’ He nodded wisely. ‘And that girl would have seen him as a challenge.’
‘Did any of the other guests disappear?’ asked Fran.
‘Any number of ’em. In and out all the time. Well, they would, wouldn’t they?’
‘So apart from that, did you find out anything else?’ asked Libby.
‘No. Oh, I followed up; if ever any of ’em made the paper I’d check ’em out, but there was nothing. I remember your John Newman and his Emma getting married. We still did weddings, then. You know, standard form sent out, colour of bridesmaids dresses, flowers in the bouquet, but that one we actually covered because Emma was a bit of a local celebrity.’
‘She was?’ Libby was surprised. ‘Nobody said!’
‘Met her?’ asked Barrett.
‘Yes, I have. What was she a celebrity for? I mean, had she done something special?’
‘She was a bit of a singer,’ said Barrett..
‘O-oh!’ said Libby.
‘ Was she now!’ said Fran.
Barrett smiled smugly.
‘Was there bad blood between her and Shareen?’ asked Libby, leaning forward over the table.
‘Don’t know personally
,’ Barrett looked disappointed, ‘but it was reckoned there must have been. They both sang in local pubs, and the Wallis girl got the break.’
‘We need to talk to John,’ said Libby. ‘Not Emma.’
‘Don’t reckon he’ll have much to say,’ said Barrett. ‘Married the girl, didn’t he.’
‘Right.’ Libby sat back. ‘Is there anyone else we out to speak to?’
‘Can’t think of anyone. Local yobs are all either inside or moved away. And to my mind it didn’t look like that sort of crime.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Fran.
‘Mugging or gang rape gone wrong,’ said Barrett. ‘More deliberate.’
‘Planned?’ said Libby. ‘Arranging to meet after the party?’
‘Yup.’ Barrett stood up. ‘I reckon that’s it. Let me know if you find anything out? Always bugged me, that case has.’
Libby and Fran stood up and squeezed out from behind the table.
‘Who actually held the party?’ asked Fran. ‘It wasn’t a – um – rave, was it?’
‘No. Some rich kid, it was. Trying to get in with the locals, I reckoned. Now, what was his name?’ He stared at his feet for a moment. ‘No, can’t get it. I’ll give you a call if I remember. Got a number?’
Fran handed over a card with the number of the Wolfe Gallery.
‘Nice little place,’ said Barrett. ‘Yours?’
‘My husband’s actually,’ said Fran. ‘He’s an artist. Guy Wolfe.’
‘Yes, I know, I covered the opening. Don’t remember you, though.’
‘We weren’t married then.’
‘Ah. Live there?’
‘Just along Harbour Street.’
Barrett raised his eyebrows. ‘Very nice. I liked living in Nethergate.’
‘Oh, you haven’t always lived here, then?’ said Libby.
‘No.’ Barrett avoided her eyes.
‘Came here to follow up his pet case,’ said Libby, as they walked away from Barrett’s house.
‘Sounds like it,’ said Fran. ‘So what do we think?’
‘Despite the fact that Emma was obviously jealous, she can’t have had anything to do with it,’ said Libby.
‘Unless she killed Shareen and got John to take the body back with him.’ Fran shook her head. ‘No, that won’t work. Shareen was seen well after John had left – on the Bishop’s Bottom road.’
‘But he had a car. He could have dropped Colin and gone back,’ said Libby.
‘And what? Killed her? Met Emma and they both killed her?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. And John certainly didn’t come across as guilty – or even knowing much about it.’
They were silent as they made their way back to the town square, where they wandered away to look out over the little river.
‘I could bear to find out about the rich kid,’ said Libby.
Fran nodded. ‘And why Shareen was so set on making a move on Colin, if it was Colin.’
‘Do we agree with Barrett that it was gay-baiting?’
‘Possible. Do you think you could ask him?’
‘I don’t know. It’s a bit delicate, isn’t it?’ said Libby. ‘Funny – that’s what Mrs Mardle called him. Delicate.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose I could get him in conversation and tell him what we know about the party.’
‘I wonder where this barn was,’ said Fran, turning round to stare back at the Sand Gate. ‘Must be somewhere near the Bishop’s Bottom road.’
‘Shall we go and have a look?’
‘Barrett said it was pulled down.’
‘Yes, but we might get an idea. Come on.’
They crossed the square and walked up to the Sand Gate, and through the little pedestrian tunnel.
‘This way,’ said Libby, leading the way to the access road across the ring road. ‘And here we are. That way to Nethergate -’
‘I know.’
‘And that way inland. And that’s the Bishop’s Bottom road. Let’s try there.’
They began to walk along the narrow road, little more than a lane.
‘What’s this?’ said Fran, as they came to a locked gate in a high wall.
‘Can’t see anything through it,’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps it’s the back gate of something.’
‘Something on the Nethergate Road?’ suggested Fran. ‘Although I’ve never noticed anything.’
‘Yes, but you’re always driving. You might not.’ Libby turned back.
They walked back down to the ring road and took the Nethergate road.
‘Don’t think there’s anything along here,’ said Fran.
‘Well, there’s a little lane,’ said Libby, pointing to her right. ‘Look.’
‘Do you think it’s private?’ said Fran.
‘It doesn’t say so. Let’s see.’ Libby turned right.
‘All this for a pulled-down barn,’ muttered Fran.
Libby grinned over her shoulder. ‘But we’re actually doing something!’
The lane was very overgrown.
‘You could only just get a car down here,’ said Fran.
‘And that’s probably the idea,’ said Libby. ‘Look.’
To their right the lane opened out to another gate, obviously well used, set between magnificent gateposts.
‘There,’ said Libby. ‘Local manor.’
The gates led to a broad drive, which in turn led up to a stately Victorian manor house, much turreted and towered.
‘Buildings behind,’ said Fran. ‘See?’
‘Coach house and stables?’ suggested Libby.
‘And what’s the betting there was a barn,’ said Fran.
‘Possibly with access from the Bishop’s Bottom entrance,’ agreed Libby. ‘Or are we making bricks without straw?’
‘It makes sense,’ said Fran. ‘Right location, and handy for Shareen’s walk home – or wherever she was going.’
‘What’s this place called?’ Libby stepped back and peered up at the gateposts. ‘Can’t see a name.’
‘I expect we could find out,’ said Fran. ‘And maybe who it used to belong to.’
‘This sort of place, it’s probably still in the same hands,’ said Libby. ‘And I bet I know whose.’
They looked at each other and spoke together.
‘The rich kid!’
Chapter Twenty Four
‘If this does belong to the rich kid and his family, I’m surprised Barrett doesn’t remember his name,’ said Fran. ‘This would be a local landmark.’
‘He did remember,’ said Libby. ‘Just didn’t want to tell us.’
‘And that makes you wonder what else he didn’t tell us,’ said Fran.
‘Exactly. After all, if he was researching it for that long, he told us surprisingly little, don’t you think?’
‘Except for the nugget about John and Emma. Perhaps that was simply because we’d already mentioned their names.’
‘Now why?’ Libby scowled up at the gateposts. ‘Does he not want us to find out any more?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Do you think he’s been got at?’
Fran looked amused. ‘By whom? The rich kid?’
‘Well, that’s the obvious answer,’ said Libby, ‘but if so, why did he mention him at all? He could have just said he didn’t remember who hosted the party.’
They turned away and began to walk back towards the Sand Gate.
‘I wish we could talk to John Newman,’ said Libby, when they got back to the car park. ‘Seems a waste of a journey as we’re already here.’
‘Two things,’ said Fran. ‘One, you don’t know his address and two, you don’t know where he works.’
‘Or where Emma works, come to that,’ said Libby.
‘What about Ted Sachs?’ said Fran. ‘Isn’t he based here? And he was at the party, wasn’t he?’
‘Oh, bother,’ said Libby. ‘We should have asked Barrett.’
‘Oh, well, might as well call it a day, then. Will you try and talk to Colin?’
‘I’ll try.’ L
ibby looked doubtful. ‘He might not want to talk to me. Or maybe the solicitor will have warned him not to talk about it.’
‘Let me know either way,’ said Fran.
‘I’ve just thought!’ said Libby, as Fran turned away to get into her car. ‘Patti! She’ll know who the house belongs to!’
Fran looked at her watch. ‘ Do you want to go over there now? She might not be home.’
‘Shall I phone?’
Fran sighed. ‘Go on, then.’
Patti answered her phone, sounding somewhat out of breath.
‘Did I interrupt something?’ asked Libby.
Patti laughed. ‘I’m up a ladder in the vestry.’
‘There’s a sentence you don’t hear every day,’ said Libby. ‘Look, if you’re not too busy, could Fran and I pop over to have a word?’
‘Of course,’ said Patti, sounding surprised. ‘Have you had lunch? We’ve got the Pensioners’ Lunch here and it’s very good.’
‘Gee, thanks,’ said Libby.
Patti laughed again. ‘No, it’s actually open to everyone, it just used to be called the Pensioners’ Lunch and the name stuck.’
‘OK. We’ll be over in about ten minutes.’
‘Why? Where are you?’
‘Felling!’ said Libby and ended the call.
The village of St Aldeberge was on the coast where the little creek that flowed out of Felling spilled out into a rocky cove. Patti’s church, of the same name, stood in the centre of the village, with the vicarage to one side. Libby parked on the vicarage drive and Fran pulled in behind her.
‘I wonder what Patti was doing up a ladder,’ said Libby, as they made their way into the church.
‘Hello!’ A woman Libby recognised from previous association with Patti’s congregation waved to them. ‘Patti’s in the vestry.’
Patti had obviously got down from her ladder and was brushing down her jeans, which sported a liberal coating of dust and cobwebs.
‘A leak,’ she explained. ‘Up there, see?’
Sure enough, an ominous crack showed just above the old wooden bookcase, with even more ominous evidence of damp around the edges.
‘What were you doing, trying to mend it yourself?’ asked Fran.
‘Just investigating.’ Patti quirked an eyebrow. ‘Which is what you two are doing, I take it?’
Libby moved a pile of sheet music off a chair and sat down.
Murder Repeated Page 16
