Murder in the Blood

by Lesley Cookman

  At the corner, she met Bethany Cole, the vicar.

  ‘Shopping?’ said Bethany, eyeing the basket.

  ‘Sketching,’ said Libby, ‘but don’t spread it about. I’m going to take a photograph and do a lightning sketch before anyone notices.’

  ‘Why?’ Beth was obviously amused.

  ‘Everyone will want to come and look. And they think I’m mad enough already.’

  ‘Why do you need to do it, though? You know the village so well.’

  ‘I want to do The Pink Geranium and the pub, and I never really look at them from over the road.’

  ‘Is it for the pub, then? Or Harry?’

  ‘No, actually, it’s for Patti,’ said Libby. ‘She wanted a picture, and I thought as this was where she spent her days off …’

  ‘With Anne.’ Bethany nodded. ‘Good idea. This is where she’s happiest. If ever the dear bish decides to move me on, I should recommend Patti to take over here.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be difficult with Anne living here? They can spend their time together here because it’s away from Patti’s parish, but if she was here …’

  ‘Yes,’ Bethany mused. ‘You’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. God, I wish the bloody clergy would stop being so hypocritical.’

  ‘I think it’s the laity who are worse,’ said Libby. ‘After all, who was it who defeated the first synod vote for women bishops?’

  Bethany sighed. ‘I know. Well, I’ll let you get on with your sketch. Unless you’d like a bulldog to guard you?’

  ‘Really? Would you?’ Libby beamed. ‘No one would dare push past the vicar, would they?’

  She and Bethany took up positions on the corner of Maltby Close, where Flo lived with Lenny, and at the end of which stood Bethany’s church. Libby wrestled the sketchpad out of her basket and began – awkwardly – to sketch the view she wanted. Bethany stood just to her right said and tried to look as though she was deep in conversation without saying a word. After a moment, Libby gave up and took out the camera.

  ‘It’s no good,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I can’t do quick sketches any more.’

  Bethany laughed. ‘I can’t do sketches, quick or otherwise. Here, give me the basket.’

  Libby took a selection of pictures she thought might be good enough and put the camera away.

  ‘Thanks, Beth. At least I’ve got something to start on. Are you on your way to the church?’

  ‘I wasn’t, no. I was going to the farm shop, but as I’m here, I’ll pop down. I think I’ve got flower ladies or someone in there.’

  ‘Good luck, then, and thanks for being a bulldog.’

  Libby went slowly back to number 17, thinking as she went. Patti’s picture had temporarily driven the murders out of her mind, but now they surfaced again. Although there was nothing to be done, she still felt as if she needed to know what had been going on. She would send a little updating email to Jimmy’s former guests, and see what they had to say. Not that she could tell them much, but at least she was keeping in touch.

  By the time Ben came home, she’d made a start on Patti’s painting, sent emails, and started cooking. She brought him up to date with George’s and Bert’s surprising revelations and her own tenuously made connection with the events at the St Aldeberge inlet.

  ‘All very plausible,’ said Ben, ‘but I expect the police will be looking in to all of that. But I said talking to George and Bert was a good idea, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did. Do you think we ought to tell Ian about that?’

  ‘I’m sure he knows. If they are thinking trafficking, then any reports that have come in over the last few years will have surfaced already.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. I just want to know why Justin was coming here.’

  ‘We’ll probably never know, and it could be nothing to do with this case after all.’

  ‘I know, but even the police think it is.’ Libby went back into the kitchen. ‘Dinner’s nearly ready.’

  Greta, Betty, and Neal all emailed during the evening, but none of them had anything enlightening to say. Libby replied to them all, trying to remember just what she was allowed to say, and went to bed.

  Friday, Saturday, and Sunday passed uneventfully. Ben and Libby drove down to Nethergate for Ben, as stage manager, to have a conference with the team at The Alexandria, and on Sunday they went to lunch at The Manor with Hetty. Fran and Guy paid a duty visit to Fran’s daughter Chrissie, her husband Bruce, cat Cassandra, and daughter Montana, and after closing The Pink Geranium on Sunday afternoon, Peter and Harry went up to London to visit friends.

  And on Monday, the anonymous letters started.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  ‘Ian? What are you doing calling at this time in the morning?’ Libby clutched her dressing gown round her and cranked open her eyes. ‘Oh, God, what’s happened? Who is it?’

  ‘Relax, nobody’s hurt. At least I hope not. Have you had any post this morning?’

  ‘Post? No. It never comes this early.’ Libby tucked the phone into her neck and filled the kettle. ‘Why?’

  ‘We’ve had a rather interesting communication. I don’t want to talk about it on the phone, so Maiden and I will come over in an hour or so. And don’t open any envelopes if they arrive.’

  ‘But …’ began Libby, but Ian had gone. She made tea and was just about to carry a cup up to Ben when he appeared behind her.

  ‘Who was that?’

  Libby told him.

  ‘That sounds ominous,’ said Ben. ‘He’s not thinking about bombs, is he?’

  ‘I hope not. I think they’d stake out the postman if they thought that,’ said Libby, emptying cat food into Sidney’s bowl. ‘I rather thought fingerprints.’

  ‘Oh, yes, it could be.’ Ben sipped thoughtfully. ‘I wonder what this “communication” is.’

  ‘We’ll find out in an hour or so,’ said Libby. ‘Will you be here?’

  ‘Of course. I’m not really needed in the office, and Hetty can always call me if anything urgent crops up.’

  The postman hadn’t arrived by the time Ian and DS Maiden arrived on the doorstep, the sergeant as brightly blue-eyed and startlingly red-haired as ever.

  ‘This arrived through the post this morning addressed to the Canterbury Police Station.’ Ian drew a plastic envelope from his briefcase. ‘It found its way to me, unsurprisingly.’

  Printed on what appeared to be an ordinary sheet of copier paper was a message.

  Warn Libby Sarjeant to stop interfering in the Turkish murders or she will get hurt.

  Libby raised astonished eyes to Ben. ‘What …?’

  ‘There are no clues as to where it came from. It was postmarked Central London, there are no fingerprints on either the envelope or the paper, and as usual these days, both the envelope and the stamp are self-adhesive. However, it does show signs of panic.’

  ‘It does?’ Ben was frowning at the message.

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Libby. ‘This will have exactly the opposite effect – it will make not only the police look even harder into the murders, but me, too.’

  ‘No!’ said three voices at once.

  ‘Oh,’ said Libby.

  ‘And you think Libby might get one?’ asked Ben.

  ‘It’s possible, if whoever sent it could find her address,’ said Ian.

  ‘Is it that Geoff Croker? He found my phone number,’ said Libby.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Ian. ‘He wouldn’t make that sort of mistake. A bit of a career criminal, was Geoff Croker.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve looked, then?’

  ‘Smith’s team did. Most of the people living in your idyllic village had some sort of past. Croker was one of those with fingers in a lot of pies.’

  ‘So who is it? And why me?’

  ‘Because you’ve been asking questions, as usual,’ said Ben. ‘And now you’ll have to stop.’

  ‘To be fair, Ben,’ said Ian, ‘both Smith, James, and I have asked Libby and Fran for information and help, so it isn’t their
fault. Although they have gone beyond the call of duty.’

  ‘As usual,’ said Ben. ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Ian. ‘And I mean it, Libby. However vague this threat is, and I believe it is vague, and definitely not the work of a habitual criminal, it is a threat. Somewhere along the line we’ve uncovered a link, and this person, murderer or whoever it is, attributes it to you, so don’t do any more digging. Now,’ he leant back in his chair and nodded to Sergeant Maiden, who got out his notebook, ‘who knows you’ve been looking into this?’

  Libby looked at Ben. ‘Well, not exactly looking into it, but the people from Jimmy’s hotel know what’s been going on. Not all of it, obviously, just the fact that I’d been questioned, and about Justin, of course. I’ve heard from all of them by email.’

  Sergeant Maiden took their names.

  ‘Although,’ Libby continued, ‘I’m pretty sure you’ve got them, because they’ve been asked if they knew Justin was coming here. Carol Oxford knows a bit, but she didn’t know anybody out there except her daughter. You know Geoff Croker rang me, oh, and Martha from the restaurant –’

  ‘She isn’t relevant,’ said Ian. ‘I only want people who live here. In England.’

  ‘So that’s Greta and Tom Willingham, Betty and Walter Roberts, and Neal Parnham,’ said Maiden.

  ‘Yes, but honestly –’ began Libby.

  ‘It needn’t be one of them, but you’ve been in touch with them,’ said Ian. ‘One of them may think you’re too close.’

  ‘But Greta and Tom and Betty and Walter didn’t know Justin, or Alec Wilson, and Neal had only just met them. None of them have a reason –’

  Ian cut her off again. ‘The two couples were both regular visitors, weren’t they?’

  ‘Well, yes, but …’

  ‘So they could have known the residents.’

  ‘I think they knew Sally, didn’t they?’ Libby turned to Ben. ‘They were the first people to mention her. Then we heard more about her from Martha – before she was killed, of course.’

  ‘So they did know some of the locals?’

  ‘Yes, but honestly, Ian, if you met them …!’

  ‘They are very unlikely villains,’ said Ben, ‘and Walter Roberts barely stirred from the hotel. He certainly didn’t mix with anybody. We took his wife out a couple of times just to get her away from him.’

  Ian sighed. ‘You ought to know by now that villains of all types come in many guises.’

  ‘But you said this one – or the person who wrote that message – isn’t a professional,’ said Libby.

  ‘It doesn’t look like it, as I said, it looks more like someone in a panic, but even that could be a bluff.’

  ‘Oh, for f –’ began Ben.

  ‘I know,’ said Libby, ‘but the other way to look at it is, if it is a mistake, this person is getting careless. He – or she – might make more mistakes.’

  ‘One of the things we still haven’t got is a motive,’ said Ian. ‘Smith is pretty sure Wilson’s murder is something to do with what he was doing out there, which makes sense. Everything had been removed so there are no clues. The Weston woman’s computer was retrieved, but there’s nothing untoward on there.’

  ‘And he still thinks Sally Weston was murdered to shut her up about Wilson’s death?’ said Libby.

  ‘Yes.’ Ian frowned. ‘Although there’s something he isn’t telling us. I understand it’s sensitive, but it’s hampering us somewhat.’

  ‘Justin seemed as much in the dark as we were at the time,’ said Libby.

  ‘I’m sure he was. Whatever it was Wilson was up to, I don’t think Newcombe was involved.’

  ‘But if Wilson was on the side of the angels, was Justin on the other side?’ asked Libby.

  ‘To Wilson? I’ve no idea, but Newcombe does appear to be what you thought he was.’

  ‘So there could be all sorts of motives for his murder,’ said Libby. ‘A client he’d shafted –’

  ‘Where do you get these terms, Lib?’ asked Ben.

  ‘You know what I mean. It could be someone like that whom he’d arranged meet, couldn’t it?’

  ‘It could,’ said Ian, the corners of his mouth turning down. ‘In which case, we’ll be lucky to find them.’

  ‘His computer in Turkey?’ said Ben. ‘He must have had one.’

  ‘It’s been sent over here for forensic examination,’ said Maiden. ‘No results as yet.’

  ‘I bet Commander Smith didn’t like letting go of that,’ said Libby.

  ‘I don’t think he did,’ said Ian with a small smile, ‘but this is our investigation, even if it does link in with his.’

  ‘So is it trafficking?’ asked Libby. ‘We know George and Bert in Nethergate picked up a boatload of girls on an abandoned boat about ten years ago.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ asked Ian, looking startled.

  ‘Fran asked them if they knew where small boats might come in with smuggled goods. And then there were illegals being brought in over at St Aldeberge, weren’t there?’

  Ian’s brows drew together. ‘You’re not to go looking into this, Libby.’

  ‘No, but I knew about all of that already, didn’t I? And the workers that were trafficked to work on the farms? Fran and I have been involved in all of those cases.’

  Ian sighed. ‘Yes, all right. There appears to have been regular trafficking from Turkey, and as far as we can find out, Wilson was supposed to be keeping an eye on the trade. Fairly unsuccessfully, it seems.’

  ‘There, see!’ said Libby triumphantly. ‘We were right. So they were taking people out of the bay and bringing them all the way here by boat?’

  ‘That isn’t certain,’ said Ian cautiously. ‘It would be very unusual if that was the case. Normally they would be landed in Italy and brought overland.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. But they were being landed here?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Ian. ‘You were right, it has been done here in the past, but the Border Force cutters haven’t intercepted any recently, so it may well be that the trade has dried up. Or this area of it, anyway.’

  ‘Are there other illegal immigrants being brought in? Like those poor people in Calais?’ asked Libby.

  ‘I would think so. It avoids the major ports, but we don’t know where they embark.’

  ‘If it isn’t Turkey itself, you mean?’ said Ben.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Ian and stood up. ‘So don’t go poking around any more, Libby. And if you get anything that looks as if it might be one of these –’ he held up the message, ‘don’t open it, and call us.’

  ‘So will you take any notice?’ asked Ben, when Ian and DS Maiden had left.

  ‘Yes.’ Libby pulled a face. ‘I’ve got into trouble without having warnings in the past, haven’t I? So I think I ought to take notice. Fran and I can still speculate, though.’

  ‘So long as that’s all you do,’ said Ben. ‘Now I’d better go and see if there’s any work to do in the office.’

  The post arrived without any warning messages, so Libby called Fran and brought her up to date.

  ‘That’s worrying,’ said Fran.

  ‘Ian thinks it’s merely alerted the police and me and made them more determined to find the killer. It does sort of feel as if the killer is in this country, though, doesn’t it?’

  ‘And could be anybody … although I’m sure it’s to do with Erzugan.’

  ‘Really?’ Libby’s metaphorical ears pricked up. ‘Is this a moment?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just feel it is.’ Fran sounded doubtful. ‘And I’m still not sure about Commander Smith.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You remember when we went to Wilson’s house with him?’

  ‘And you thought there was something wrong with him.’

  ‘Yes. There was some connection there, I’m sure. I don’t know what it was, but there was just this feeling.’

  ‘In that case I’m surprised that he took us with him. If he wasn’t suppo
sed to be there.’

  ‘Camouflage, I said.’ Fran paused. ‘And theoretically, he wasn’t supposed to be in either of those houses, was he?’

  ‘The Jandarma had okayed it,’ said Libby.

  ‘But it wasn’t really an official investigation. That came a bit later.’

  ‘What are you thinking, then?’ asked Libby, after the silence had lasted a fraction too long.

  ‘I’m just wondering,’ said Fran. ‘It’s all these daft links to this area of Kent, whether it’s Sally coming from Cherry Ashton, Justin with a ticket to Canterbury, illegal immigrants and people trafficking along our coast…’

  ‘Yes, they are a bit daft,’ said Libby. ‘And we’ve spent a good deal of time looking into them and making bricks with straw, which we usually do. So?’

  ‘Suppose the beginning really is here? And Alec Wilson actually came from here in the first place?’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Libby was silent for a moment.

  ‘OK, suppose he was from here. What difference does that make?’

  ‘Commander Smith told us Alec Wilson was a false name. We subsequently found out that he wasn’t in the witness protection scheme, but was some kind of undercover person. However, he doesn’t seem to have done much, does he?’

  ‘I still don’t see where this is all leading,’ said Libby. ‘You’re making me more confused than ever.’

  ‘I just wondered,’ said Fran, ‘if Alec Wilson – or whoever he was – came from this area of Kent and had a link to, say, people trafficking here, he could have been sent over there to, I don’t know, track it from the other end.’

  Libby frowned out of the window. ‘So you’re saying he was a criminal after all?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just thought if he had lived or worked in the area, under a different name, of course, it would make sense of all these links back here.’

  ‘Even if it’s true, there’s no way we could find out,’ said Libby, ‘and I might remind you that, having received official threats, I am now forbidden to do any investigating at all.’