Murder in the Blood

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Yes …’ said Fran vaguely.

  ‘And so are you,’ warned Libby.

  ‘I know, I know. Oh, well, we’ll just have to go back to being ordinary people, won’t we?’

  ‘I’ve always been ordinary,’ said Libby. ‘And now, are you coming to rehearsal tonight? Only a couple of weeks to go now.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll come. Have you managed to sort out a rota for the five weeks?’

  The End Of The Pier Show had a revolving cast, to allow for holidays and other commitments during the summer. Some people, like Libby herself, were permanent, but others would appear as soloists or ensemble members for one week and be replaced the following week, possibly coming back in a week later. It gave the cast a break, and meant that if audience members went to the show two weeks running, which, amazingly, some of them did, they wouldn’t see exactly the same show.

  After her conversation with Fran, Libby felt unsettled. She wanted to do something, but didn’t know what she could do. She went into the conservatory and peered at Patti’s painting, went into the garden and stared up at the cherry tree, then went back into the house and picked up the keys to the theatre and her basket. A wardrobe review seemed the best thing to take her mind off other things.

  Ben found her two hours later surrounded by dress rails and piles of costumes.

  ‘That lot have all got to be cleaned,’ she told him. ‘I shall have to drive them over to Nethergate.’

  ‘You can leave them at The Alexandria when you pick them up that way,’ said Ben. ‘What brought this on?’

  ‘I need something to do, said Libby.

  Ben looked amused. ‘Because you can’t do any more investigating?’

  Libby looked up and grinned. ‘Yes. It’s so frustrating.’

  ‘I can see it would be.’

  ‘Besides, whoever it was writing that letter obviously doesn’t know where I live, or he would have sent me a message, not the police. That was a mad thing to do.’

  ‘You’ve still been threatened,’ said Ben. ‘Just stay out of trouble.’

  Libby loaded costumes into the estate Range Rover and set off for the dry cleaners in Nethergate. At least it was giving her something to do.

  When that task was accomplished, she wondered what she could do next. The day stretched before her with nothing to occupy her until dinner time and the rehearsal. She looked at her watch. It was lunchtime now, so perhaps Fran was free?

  Fran was making sandwiches in her kitchen to take to Guy in the shop.

  ‘You take these to Guy, then, and I’ll make some more for us,’ she said. ‘Go on. I’ll put the kettle on.’

  Guy, surprised to see her, asked after her painting.

  ‘Er – well, I’m doing a commission just now,’ she said, fidgeting a bit.

  Guy narrowed his eyes. ‘To avoid doing commissions for me? High season any minute now. There’ll be a demand.’

  Libby sighed. ‘I’ll get on with them, I promise.’

  ‘They don’t take you long, unless you’re doing a new view,’ said Guy. ‘You need something to take your mind off investigating.’

  ‘Did Fran tell you what happened this morning?’

  ‘Yes, and let’s face it, we’ve all been telling you not to go nosing around for years.’

  ‘Ian said that he and Commander Smith had actually asked us to help,’ said Libby indignantly.

  ‘He’s also telling you to back off,’ said Guy with a grin. ‘Off you go. Don’t eat all the ham.’

  Fran and Libby tried to keep off the subject of the murders over their sandwich lunch, but by the time they’d finished the sandwiches and Libby was picking at the lettuce garnish, it was inevitable that the subject should once more raise its head.

  ‘You know what nobody seems to be taking into account?’ said Libby. ‘Alec Wilson’s mother.’

  ‘I was thinking about that earlier,’ said Fran. ‘When I was wondering whether he came from round here.’

  ‘The only thing is, what would his long-lost mother have to do with the trafficking, or whatever it was?’

  ‘Nothing, maybe,’ said Fran. ‘Suppose that was the reason he was killed. His mother.’

  ‘It seems a long shot, but I suppose it’s possible. The trouble is, without his real name there’s no way of finding out who she is.’

  ‘Commander Smith would know. He’ll have found out about her by now.’

  ‘I suppose he will. And have questioned her,’ said Libby. ‘And it obviously doesn’t have anything to do with Justin Newcombe’s death, or he would have told Ian and Inspector James.’

  ‘Perhaps he has,’ said Fran, ‘and Ian hasn’t seen the need to tell us.’

  ‘So we’re stymied,’ said Libby.

  ‘No, we’re just not investigating,’ said Fran. ‘We’re going to be normal for a while. Until something else comes up.’

  The subject of Alex Wilson’s mother occupied Libby’s thoughts on the drive back to Steeple Martin. She remembered Justin’s and Martha’s conviction that he would have told Sally about her – was that what had got Sally killed? Was Alec’s real mother somehow the clue to the whole case and his false identity and role in possible trafficking operations a complete red herring?

  Try as she might, she couldn’t quite see how, and by the time she had delivered the Range Rover back to the Manor she had resolved to forget all about it and concentrate on her neglected painting and the summer show.

  Patti’s painting came together surprisingly quickly, if in a slightly more naïve style than Libby’s normal one, and it was with great satisfaction that she wrapped it up and took it to rehearsal on Wednesday to hand over later in the pub. Over the last couple of days she’d even completed a smaller painting for Guy and worked on some improvements for the summer show.

  Patti was delighted with her painting, as was Anne, and when Harry joined them in the pub, he complained.

  ‘I want one,’ he said. ‘You could do one of the caff and the cottage.’

  ‘They’re too far apart,’ said Libby, ‘and divided by the Manor gateposts. I’ll do you one of the caff, though. It was nice doing something different.’

  ‘And it’s kept her out of mischief for the last couple of days,’ said Ben. ‘I’ve never known her paint so quickly.’

  ‘I enjoyed it,’ said Libby with a shrug. ‘Do you think Ian will come in this evening?’

  Ben looked at his watch. ‘Not now, it’s too late. He can’t have anything to tell us.’

  ‘Or ask us,’ said Libby.

  ‘So no progress in the case,’ said Peter, standing up. ‘Who’s for a last pint?’

  On Thursday morning, Libby posted on Martha’s Facebook page that as far as she knew progress was being made on the case both in Turkey and in England. It wasn’t quite a lie, she told herself, because progress had been made, just not with any great conclusions.

  By the afternoon, she had received emails from Greta and Betty, both hoping for more information. She replied as vaguely as possible. It was after dinner that the landline began to ring.

  ‘Libby? It’s Carol Oxford.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Carol,’ said Libby in surprise. ‘How are you?’ She suddenly realised it was Thursday – the day of Sally’s funeral.

  ‘Not too good,’ said Carol in a wobbly voice. ‘You know.’

  ‘I know,’ said Libby. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Well, it’s over now,’ said Carol, ‘but what I wanted to ask you was would you let the police into Sally’s house?’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘I received a request today, of all days –’ Carol’s voice quivered with indignation ‘via our local police on behalf of – oh, I don’t know, the force who’s looking into the murders I suppose. I gave my permission. Could you ring them?’

  ‘Of course. Do you have a number?’

  Carol read out the number of the Canterbury police station.

  ‘Oh. Do you know who I’ve got to ask for?’

  ‘A DCI Connell or a DS M
aiden,’ said Carol. ‘Thank you, Libby. And you can let them keep the keys after that. I don’t know what they hope to find.’

  Neither do I, thought Libby. There’s nothing there. Aloud, she said ‘Yes, I’ll give them the keys. I’ll try and keep you informed – if there’s anything to tell.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Carol’s voice was going again. ‘I never want to see the place again.’

  ‘I bet she doesn’t,’ Libby said to Ben when she relayed the conversation. ‘Poor woman. First her horrible ex-husband and now her daughter. Don’t some people have dreadful luck.’

  ‘Makes you count your blessings, doesn’t it,’ said Ben, giving her a hug. ‘And now you’ve got a legitimate excuse to ring Ian for once.’

  ‘In the morning,’ said Libby. ‘Too late now.’

  Ben gave her an old fashioned look. ‘Punishing him?’

  ‘No!’ Libby was indignant. ‘Just being considerate.’

  But it wasn’t ten minutes later that her mobile rang. She and Ben exchanged glances. ‘Ian,’ they said together.

  ‘Libby. Have you heard from Mrs Oxford?’

  ‘Yes, Ian. I was going to call you in the morning.’

  ‘The morning?’

  ‘Yes. I thought it was too late to bother you this evening. And I must say, it was particularly insensitive to go bothering the poor woman on the day of her daughter’s funeral.’

  ‘Her daughter’s – oh, shit.’

  ‘That’s not like you,’ said Libby, grinning at Ben.

  ‘I never would have asked,’ said Ian. ‘The local force should have used a bit of intelligence.’

  ‘Well, I’m perfectly prepared to meet you at the house with the keys. After all, I was asked to look after it.’

  ‘Meet me?’

  ‘How else are you going to get the keys?’

  ‘I was going to send Maiden to fetch them.’

  ‘Oh, no you don’t,’ said Libby. ‘I’m legitimately allowed to be there, so I’m going to be. What time?’

  There was a short silence on the other end of the line.

  ‘Ten thirty?’ said Ian eventually in a resigned tone.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Libby triumphantly, and rang off.

  Ben roared with laughter. ‘Poor Ian.’

  ‘I don’t for a minute expect I’ll be allowed in, but I’m going to do my best,’ said Libby. ‘And now I’m going to ring Fran.’

  Fran, equally surprised, agreed that she probably shouldn’t try to accompany Libby, but would expect her to tell her everything as soon as she’d finished in Cherry Ashton.

  ‘I wonder what Ian’s looking for?’ Libby said, as she resumed her seat on the sofa beside Ben and accepted a whisky. ‘He’s only supposed to be helping Inspector James with the investigation into Justin Newcombe’s death.’

  ‘Perhaps Smith or James have discovered a link to all three murders at last,’ said Ben, ‘and as Ian’s on the spot he’s been asked to look into it.’

  ‘Suppose so,’ said Libby. ‘It’s all very odd though, isn’t it?’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Ian and DS Maiden were already waiting on the doorstep when Libby walked from the Ashton Arms car park at twenty-five past ten.

  ‘I’m not late,’ said Libby. ‘It’s not half past yet.’

  ‘All right, don’t get on the defensive,’ said Ian. ‘Just give us the keys.’

  ‘Very polite, I’m sure.’ Libby raised her eyebrows. ‘And no, I won’t. Mrs Oxford wants to know why you want to search the house. Sally didn’t live here, you know.’

  Ian made a sound of exasperation and DS Maiden grinned.

  ‘We know that. But we might find something …’

  ‘You won’t,’ said Libby, then caught herself up. ‘Mrs Oxford searched the place. Sally took all her belongings to Turkey and furnished this place to let.’

  ‘There’s nothing?’

  ‘What are you hoping to find?’ asked Libby. ‘Is there now a link between the three murders? Only as far as I knew, you were assisting Inspector James in Justin Newcombe’s murder.’

  Ian sighed. ‘If you must know, I’m now on the official investigation into all three, as it seems to be coming back to my patch. And yes, we’re looking for anything that links the three victims.’

  ‘Apart from them all living in Erzugan,’ said Libby, taking the keys out of her pocket and stepping forward to open the door. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t touch anything. But if you’re looking for fingerprints, I have been here before.’

  ‘I know.’ Ian glared at her. ‘And now, you can tell me what you found.’

  Libby stared, open-mouthed. ‘Nothing,’ she said at last.

  ‘Really nothing?’

  ‘Except for the boxes in the attic.’

  Ian jerked his head at Maiden who leapt up the stairs and could be heard pulling down the lift hatch.

  ‘One is full of old clothes and the other old papers, birthday cards – that sort of thing.’ Libby frowned.

  ‘All right, what is it?’ Ian leant back against the door jamb with his arms folded.

  ‘It’s a theory that Ben and Fran both told me was ridiculous.’ Libby hesitated. ‘When we were here last a neighbour called Agnes was telling us how she’d known the Westons for years and used to help out with Carol Oxford’s lunch parties and look after the children. Sally, that is, and another little boy called Gerald.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I just wondered if Gerald …?’

  ‘Could be Alec Wilson?’ Ian smiled. ‘An attractive theory, but a bit far-fetched.’

  Libby sighed. ‘Yes. There is a birthday card signed from Jean, Bob, and Gerald, so it looks as if that was his mother’s name – hardly long-lost.’

  Ian regarded her for a moment, then called up the stairs.

  ‘Can you bring the box of papers down, Dave?’ He turned back to Libby. ‘And now, Mrs Sarjeant, you’d better hand over the keys. I’m sure Mrs Oxford told you to do that. And if there’s anything I feel you should know, I’ll call you.’

  Libby sighed and handed over the keys. ‘OK, I’ll go quietly. I’ll see you before next Wednesday?’

  Ian smiled slightly. ‘Maybe.’

  Libby drove disconsolately back to Steeple Martin. That was it, then. The last legitimate link to the case had been closed off, and now she had nothing to do with it. All the theorising in the world was not going to help here, either, so she might just as well go home and resume work on the painting she’d abandoned to work on Patti’s picture. Or she could, of course, make a start on The Pink Geranium painting she’d more-or-less promised Harry.

  A sense of duty persuaded her to carry on with the painting for Guy, and she had a sudden inspiration to do two small rather impressionistic views of Nethergate to see if they would also sell. This took her up to Saturday, when she and Ben had been invited to dinner at Coastguard Cottage. Fran had also invited Susannah and Emlyn and Jane and Terry, leaving Jane’s mother in charge of Robbie and Imogen.

  ‘I’m glad the weather’s held,’ said Fran, opening the door.

  ‘Why?’ Libby went past her into the living room, where Guy was busy opening bottles. ‘I mean, apart from the obvious that’s it’s nicer to have good weather rather than bad.’

  ‘Come and see,’ said Fran, leading the way through the kitchen and out to her back yard, set against the cliffs.

  ‘Wow!’

  Under a stylish gazebo sat a brand new outdoor dining set. Eight places were set, and Balzac sat up from one of the chairs and silently meowed a welcome.

  ‘I got the idea from all our outdoor dining in Turkey,’ said Fran. ‘I know we don’t get that many opportunities to eat outside in this country, but we also bought this.’ She indicated a smart black firepit in the corner. ‘We’re so enclosed here I think that’ll keep us warm.’

  ‘It’s fantastic, Fran!’ Libby gave her friend a hug. ‘What a lovely idea.’

  Guy joined them, handing glasses to Ben and Libby. ‘Fizz to christen t
he new outdoor room.’

  When the other guests arrived, they were equally impressed. Fran produced her usual competent dinner, finishing with Libby’s favourite Eton Mess, and Guy offered coffee and brandy.

  ‘That was lovely,’ said Libby, leaning back in her chair and gazing into the glowing embers of the firepit. ‘I feel quite transported back to Turkey.’

  ‘Any more news on your murders?’ asked Jane.

  A small silence fell, then Libby pushed her chair back and stood up.

  ‘Oh, Guy – I forgot. I’ve got pictures. I’ll pop out and get them from the car.’

  Ben looked at her suspiciously and also stood up.

  ‘I’ll get them,’ he said. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘What did I say?’ asked Jane.

  ‘We aren’t talking about the murders, Jane,’ said Fran. ‘We really don’t want to think about them any more. We aren’t involved.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  In the darkness she couldn’t tell, but Libby was sure colour had crept into Jane’s cheeks. ‘You weren’t to know,’ she said. ‘I overreacted.

  Ben reappeared with Libby’s wrapped paintings. ‘I’ll leave them in the sitting room, shall I?’

  ‘No, let’s have a look now,’ said Fran, ‘I expect the others would like to see them.’

  The paintings were duly exclaimed over, and Guy approved the impressionistic experiments.

  ‘Libby, I’m truly sorry,’ said Jane, under cover of the general conversation. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just …’

  ‘I know, I’m usually off like a dog after a rabbit. But that’s why this is so frustrating. There’s absolutely nothing we can do and nothing we can find out, so I’ve been resolutely putting it out of my mind. Hence the paintings. Had to take my mind of it somehow.’

  ‘So I can’t ask you any questions?’

  ‘I haven’t got any answers,’ said Libby, with a grimace.

  ‘What about that woman’s mother? Didn’t you go and see her?’

  ‘Carol Oxford? Yes, but she didn’t know anything. Actually she gave me the keys to the house until I had to hand them over to the police.’