Murder in the Blood

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘We do now.’ Ian sighed. ‘And yes, it was trafficking. Of the most unpleasant kind.’

  ‘Girls?’ said Ben.

  Ian nodded. ‘All of whom had paid to get to England for a better life and were then forced into prostitution.’

  ‘From Erzugan?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Not only there, but certainly a lot of it was controlled from there.’

  ‘By?’

  ‘Geoff Croker, of course.’

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Libby let out a deep breath. ‘We were right.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ian smiled. ‘A lot of leaps of faith as usual, but yes, you were right, although you certainly didn’t suspect Walter Roberts, did you?’

  ‘Not until he disappeared, no. Or until we saw him at Victoria, actually. So what did he tell you?’

  ‘Not an awful lot until your Commander Smith arrived – in full battledress, I might add.’

  ‘He came here? Why?’

  ‘He wasn’t terribly pleased with us.’ Ian smiled reminiscently. ‘By the time he arrived, Walter had already admitted some of it, and unfortunately, Smith could no longer pull rank and shut him up. Then, Roberts turned on him. He’s a very spiteful old man. I feel sorry for his wife.’

  ‘Poor Betty, yes.’ Libby looked up warily. ‘She didn’t have anything to do with it, did she?’

  ‘I think she almost certainly knew there was something going on,’ said Ian, ‘but was probably too scared to do anything about it.’

  ‘She was scared when I spoke to her,’ said Libby. ‘So was it Walter who killed Justin? And was he mixed up in it, too?’

  ‘He says not, and there’s certainly no evidence that he was there. As for Newcombe’s involvement, we think so far it was peripheral at best.’

  ‘So where did he go?’

  ‘That’s what he won’t say. Nor where he was between Sunday and yesterday.’

  ‘And what does our Commander Smith have to say about it all?’

  ‘He wasn’t too pleased, as I’ve said. Especially as Walter Roberts said quite definitely that he and the Crokers knew perfectly well who Alec Wilson was and took pains to avoid him.’

  ‘So who was he?’ asked Ben.

  ‘He was there to monitor the trafficking that had started going through Erzugan about ten years ago. Apparently, it happens all along the Turkish Mediterranean coast from small bays. Normally they’re taken across to Italy and landed somewhere on the heel near Brindisi.’

  ‘Poor Italy,’ said Libby. ‘And I still don’t understand why these people want to come here.’

  ‘That’s not a question for us, but for the politicians,’ said Ian. ‘Anyway, the Erzugan traffic was to try and evade the notice of the authorities who were monitoring the other routes.’

  ‘So they weren’t coming direct to England?’ said Ben.

  ‘Yes, some of them were.’ Ian looked at Libby. ‘Like the ones that George and Bert found at the Creekmarsh inlet. That was an early trial, Smith thinks. He had to open up a bit about it after Roberts had let all the cats come tumbling out of the bag.’

  ‘And it carried on?’

  ‘Intermittently. There was a contact in Nethergate apparently, but that was stopped.’

  ‘Rachinda’s father!’ said Ben and Libby together.

  ‘What about Colonel Weston? Sally’s father?’ asked Libby.

  ‘No knowledge of that, yet, but I daresay Smith will be looking into that.’

  ‘So does Sally come into any of this?’ asked Ben. ‘Or was she, as I think someone said before, simply collateral damage?’

  Ian frowned. ‘I don’t know. She wasn’t mentioned by either Roberts or Smith, even as a victim.’

  ‘So collateral damage, then,’ said Libby. ‘Poor Sally.’

  ‘And you still don’t know who killed Newcombe?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Undoubtedly the person whom he came to meet. Roberts was uncomfortable about it, so he knows something, but his DNA wasn’t found at the scene.’

  ‘Heavens!’ said Libby. ‘So nothing’s that much clearer now, is it?’

  ‘There are still a lot of things we need to know. Roberts’ contact down here, who he was meeting yesterday and if it was the same person. Smith’s team can round up Croker and his chums in Turkey, but they’re unlikely to give us any names. We’ve got people beavering about all over the south-east chasing up other members of the organisation, and identifying places the girls were taken.’

  ‘Aren’t our policemen wonderful!’ said Libby admiringly.

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic, young Lib,’ said Ian.

  ‘I wasn’t! I genuinely mean it. We don’t know the half of what you do.’

  ‘And that’s the way it has to stay. Although I must say, you having found Wilson’s body in Turkey does look as though it’s put us on to the whole trafficking organisation.’ Ian sighed. ‘But I doubt if we’ll ever catch everyone involved. We didn’t in the Berini case.’

  ‘But that was more than illegal immigrants,’ said Libby. ‘And as far as I remember, it wasn’t prostitution either.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t, but don’t forget you nearly ended up in a rather nasty position on that case.’

  ‘It was a very uncomfortable position we did end up in,’ said Libby, remembering being thrown onto a boat in the dark.

  ‘So don’t get involved again,’ said Ben.

  ‘Unless she’s asked,’ said Ian.

  Ben sighed.

  ‘There’s one thing I would like you and Fran to do.’ Ian opened a drawer in his desk. ‘I gather from Mrs Oxford’s local force that she’s been agitating to be allowed to put the house on the market. She says she wants to cut all ties to the area, and I can’t say I blame her.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘Here are the keys. Apparently, she’s asked if you would sort out the details for her. She doesn’t want to come down.’

  ‘Ri-ight,’ said Libby. ‘And?’

  ‘I want you to do just that and see what happens.’

  ‘You think something will?’ gasped Libby.

  ‘That’s making them sitting ducks!’ protested Ben.

  ‘If there is a link to Sally Weston, it’s the only way we might ferret it out. There might be nothing.’

  ‘What about her computer?’

  ‘Nothing. And as you know, her mobile was missing. There was nothing personal in her house in Turkey, only ordinary bills and those photographs you told me about. No letters.’

  ‘People don’t write letters any more,’ said Libby. ‘They text, phone, and email. That’s why I’m surprised there was nothing on her computer.’

  ‘I would think her phone and computer weren’t synced and all her contacts were on her phone,’ said Ian. ‘That’s why it’s gone.’

  ‘And Wilson’s computer was gone, too.’

  ‘Smith hasn’t even traced her mobile phone records. Although it appears that Turkish phone records aren’t that easy to get hold of.’

  ‘It all makes my brain hurt,’ said Libby. ‘I’m glad I don’t have to do any of that.’

  ‘All you have to do is put Sally Weston’s house on the market. We’ll give you authorisation. We don’t want to do it, for obvious reasons.’

  ‘OK.’ Libby took the keys he held out. ‘What did Fran say?’

  ‘She was non-committal,’ said Ian with a grin. ‘I think she was waiting to see what you would say.’

  ‘She knew I’d say yes.’ Libby tucked the keys into her basket. ‘Any particular estate agents? Both the ones we’ve come up against in the past have been closed down.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, but tell us, obviously. And I’d ring Mrs Oxford, if I were you, just to make things quite clear.’

  Five minutes later, with one of Ian’s cards signifying authority to sell the house in Cherry Ashton tucked alongside the keys, Libby and Ben were back in his car.

  ‘Now you can’t moan about this,’ said Libby, belting herself in. ‘We’ve been asked to help the police. And it isn�
��t dangerous.’

  ‘You’re talking about an international trafficking organisation, for God’s sake!’ Ben swung the car out of the car park. ‘Of course it’s bloody dangerous.’

  ‘They’ll keep a low profile, though, won’t they?’ said Libby, a shade doubtfully. ‘And will they really want to buy a house just to search it? Because that’s all they could do, surely?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Ben. ‘But don’t you ever offer to accompany prospective buyers. Either of you. Even with the agent.’

  ‘As if we would,’ scoffed Libby, going slightly pink.

  ‘So which agents do we go to?’ Libby asked Fran later when she called.

  ‘Any of the local ones,’ said Fran, ‘but I thought we could pull strings a bit.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Well, I did work –’

  ‘Goodall and Smythe!’ Libby shouted down the receiver.

  ‘All right, all right! You practically deafened me. Yes, Goodall and Smythe.’

  ‘But surely this house is far too small for them to bother with? And if anyone’s looking, they’ll look in the local papers, won’t they?’

  ‘Keep up, Lib! You don’t look in papers any more, you go online. You put in the location you’re searching and up comes every property within your budget, whatever the agent.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Libby. ‘So all we do is ask them to handle it?’

  ‘I’ll ask them and let you know. My contact there is very discreet. I think you met him – he came to our wedding. Richard Smart.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Libby. ‘There were a lot of people I’d never met before at your wedding.’

  ‘Well, I’ll talk to him and let you know what he says.’

  ‘OK. I’ll call Carol to let her know what’s happening.’

  Libby made tea and took the phone out into the garden.

  ‘Carol? It’s Libby Sarjeant.’

  ‘Oh, Libby! Is there any news?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Libby, gazing thoughtfully up into the branches of the cherry tree, ‘but our local policeman says you want to sell the house in Cherry Ashton.’

  ‘I do. Did he ask you to handle it for me?’

  ‘He did. I just wanted to check that it was all right with you. And how much of the history you wanted made public.’

  ‘None of it,’ said Carol promptly. ‘It would certainly put people off, even though nothing actually happened there.’

  ‘Right. We’re thinking maybe we should say “probate sale”, what do you think? Although probate hasn’t been granted yet, has it?’

  ‘Oh, Lord – I didn’t think!’ Carol’s voice went up a notch. ‘Why didn’t the police tell me that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Libby, who thought she did. ‘We can test the water, though, can’t we? Did she actually leave a will?’

  ‘Thankfully, yes, she did. She made it when she went to Turkey. She said if she died abroad it would make life very difficult unless everything was tied up neatly over here.’

  ‘Did she now?’ said Libby thoughtfully. ‘And have you read it?’

  ‘No, it’s with the solicitors. I had to tell him when she – she –’

  ‘Yes, of course. So didn’t he tell you what was in it?’

  ‘He just said it was very straightforward and I was the only beneficiary. She hadn’t got very much to leave except the house.’

  ‘What about the house in Turkey?’

  ‘Oh, that was rented. I suppose they’ll send her belongings home, won’t they?’

  ‘I expect so, but we didn’t see much when we were there. Only some old photographs.’

  ‘No letters?’ Libby could almost hear the frown.

  ‘Not that we could see. Mind you,’ she added hastily, ‘we weren’t actually searching. We were merely there because we could speak and read English.’ No need to mention that Johnny Smith was also there.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ There was a short silence. ‘Only I would have thought she’d have kept my letters …’ Carol’s voice wobbled.

  ‘Had you written to her recently?’ Libby asked after a decent interval. ‘You said you hadn’t heard from her.’

  ‘I wrote a couple of months ago – well, March, I think it was. I’d heard from an old friend I hadn’t seen for years and I wrote to let her know.’

  ‘That wasn’t Jean, was it?’

  ‘Jean?’ Carol sounded surprised. ‘Who Jean Burton? Good Lord, no! She died ages ago, poor thing. How did you know about her?’

  ‘Both you and Agnes told me about your lunch friends,’ said Libby, keeping her fingers crossed that Carol actually had mentioned Jean.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Carol uttered a half-hearted laugh. ‘Fancy you remembering. In fact, it was our other friend who used to come to those lunches, Valerie. She was trying to get in touch with someone else.’

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Libby’s mind leapt ahead making fantastical connections.

  ‘Libby? Are you still there?’ Carol was now sounding querulous.

  ‘Yes, I’m still here,’ said Libby, wondering how she could ask the questions she wanted to and deciding she couldn’t. ‘Well, I expect when they pack up Sally’s belongings they’ll find the letter, and you’ve kept all those she sent you, haven’t you?’

  ‘Not all of them,’ said Carol. ‘I never thought I’d have to.’

  Libby resolved in future to keep everything her offspring sent her. She cleared her throat. ‘Well, keep me posted about the probate. Meanwhile, we’ll sound out an estate agent.’

  As soon as she ended the call with Carol, she called Fran, whose phone was engaged. She tried the mobile, but it went straight to voicemail, so she tried Ian’s office number.

  ‘Connell.’

  ‘Ian, what about probate?’

  Sort silence. ‘What?’

  ‘Sally Weston’s house. It can’t be sold until probate has been granted. I just remembered. And Carol Weston – I mean, Oxford – said the solicitor didn’t remind her, either.’

  There was a longer silence. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Well, we needn’t actually sell it,’ said Libby. ‘Not if you’re using it as bait.’

  ‘No. Thank you for telling me, Libby.’

  Libby realised her tea was cold and went inside to make some more. Just as she was pouring boiling water into the teapot, her phone rang.

  ‘Fran.’

  ‘You called when I was speaking to Richard.’

  ‘Yes, because while I was talking to Carol I remembered that she couldn’t sell the house until probate had been granted. I’ve told Ian.’

  ‘Yes, Richard reminded me of that.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby deflated. ‘So no go, then?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He said lots of houses are put on the market as “probate sales” with the understanding that prospective purchasers are getting in before the general public. Remember the old house at Mountville Road?’

  Fran’s family had once owned a large Victorian house in London that had been sold in the same way. Libby wondered whether it was this that had triggered her own memory of probate sales.

  ‘Oh. So is Robert going to help?’

  ‘Richard. Yes. He’s coming down tomorrow to measure up and so on. You’ve got the keys, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Shall I meet him there?’

  ‘You’ll meet us there. I’m picking him up at the station at half past eleven, so we’ll be there by about a quarter to twelve.’

  ‘Right. So we can have a really good look round.’

  ‘There won’t be much left, will there? Ian will have taken everything of note away when you handed over the keys.’

  ‘Oh, yes. That’s a pity. Because …’

  ‘Because what?’

  ‘Well, when I was talking to Carol just now she said she’d written to Sally in March because she’d heard from an old friend she hadn’t seen for years.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘She wondered why that letter hadn’t been found. And appar
ently the old friend was the other one who used to go to lunch – you know – the ones Agnes told us about.’

  ‘I don’t see …’

  ‘Well, this friend, Valerie, her name was, was looking for someone. And it wasn’t Jean – you know, the other friend – because she died ages ago.’

  ‘Libby, slow down. I think I followed all of that, but I don’t see what relevance it has. It isn’t anything to do with the trafficking operation, is it?’

  ‘No, I suppose not, but –’

  ‘What you were thinking is that Valerie is Alec Wilson’s long-lost mum.’

  ‘Er – yes.’

  ‘That really is far-fetched, Lib.’

  ‘Why is the letter not there, then?’

  ‘How do we know it isn’t? And why would Sally have kept it? It was just a chatty letter from her mum.’

  ‘Which she didn’t answer.’

  ‘I expect she would have done in time. Look, Sally’s got nothing to do with all this.’

  ‘Then why is Ian using her house as bait?’

  ‘Because there’s a link to her father?’

  ‘Ian said if there is a link to Sally this will show it up.’

  ‘And he didn’t mean finding Alec Wilson’s mother.’

  ‘No.’ Libby sighed. ‘Oh, well. I’ll meet you at the house tomorrow morning then. Text me if the train’s late or anything.’

  But the train wasn’t late. Libby was leaning on a low fence staring across at the Ashton Arms when Fran’s car drew up beside her and a tall, well-built man with greying fair hair climbed out.

  ‘Oof!’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘Bit of a squash that. You must be Libby.’

  Libby took the hand, beaming at him. ‘That’s me, and you’re Richard. Fran says we met at her wedding.’

  ‘I don’t think we were actually introduced, but I remember you, of course.’

  ‘Come on then, Lib,’ said Fran, coming round the back end of the car. ‘Let us in.’

  ‘Wait a moment, Fran. Let me have a proper look.’ Richard stepped back into the road and studied the terrace of houses. The he wandered off to the back of the properties and finally, to the end of the lane, where he peered over the hedge.

  ‘That’s it, got the bearings now,’ he said. ‘In we go.’