Fran and Libby watched as he went from room to room, not even needing to hold the end of a tape measure as he pointed his laser model at walls and ceilings. Eventually they came back to the bland sitting room.
‘Best to market it as a holiday let, don’t you think?’ asked Richard, sitting down on and dwarfing the equally bland sofa. ‘That’s what it has been, hasn’t it?’
‘I don’t know about a holiday let,’ said Libby, ‘but it was always let out. Although it’s been empty for a little while, I believe.’
‘Pretty enough village,’ said Richard. ‘But Fran tells me this is more of a fishing expedition?’
Libby looked at Fran. ‘In a way. But it just occurred to me, by advertising it for sale, won’t we be advertising the fact that it’s empty?’
‘Is there supposed to be something hidden here?’ Richard looked interested.
‘We think – or the police think – that someone might think so,’ said Fran. ‘We’ve searched and so have the police, so we’re pretty sure there’s nothing here, but the owner was murdered, so the killer might think … well, you know.’
‘And you haven’t felt anything here?’ Richard was looking at Fran shrewdly, and Libby remembered that here was a man who actually employed Fran for her psychic ‘moments’.
‘Nothing.’ Fran shook her head. ‘If Sally Weston had anything to hide, she either took it with her to Turkey or hid it somewhere else. Personally, I don’t think there is anything.’
Libby looked at Fran, then back to Richard. ‘So you see, this is a bit pointless.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Richard leant back in the sofa. ‘If your policeman thinks this is worth it, it must be. They don’t invest in this sort of operation unless they’ve got good reason.’
‘What do you mean, this sort of operation?’ said Libby.
Richard raised his eyebrows. ‘You don’t imagine Goodall and Smythe would do this without some kind of financial recompense? We’ll be advertising, using our resources and, of course, if any viewings are required, we’ll have to send someone down. There will be discreet police surveillance at those times.’
Libby’s mouth was open.
‘I don’t think we’d thought of that,’ said Fran. ‘Perhaps we should have used a local agency.’
‘It wouldn’t have made much difference, and we have a longer reach.’ Richard grinned across at the two women. ‘We have worked with the police before, you know.’
‘Have you?’ Libby leant forward. ‘When Fran found things?’
‘No, and she only once found something – ah – current, as it were. And then the police shut us down, apart from going through all our paperwork on the property.’
‘So what?’ Libby leant further forward, in danger of falling off the edge of the chair. Richard regarded her with amusement.
‘I see why you get involved, as Fran says.’
‘You mean I’m nosy.’ Libby grinned back. ‘Yep, that’s me. A nosy old bull in a china shop.’
Richard let out a guffaw of laughter.
‘Don’t encourage her,’ said Fran. ‘So what do you think?’
‘I’ll go back to the office and think up a nice tempting little ad, which I’ll run by your policemen.’
‘Plural?’ said Libby.
‘Apparently. Your DCI Connell, DI James from the Met, and a Commander Smith who I’m not sure about. He comes with his own shroud of mystique.’
‘Doesn’t he just,’ said Libby. ‘Although his ID said the Met, we think he must be MI5, or MI6 or something.’
‘Human trafficking.’ Richard nodded and looked solemn. ‘Can’t see this little house having been used for anything in that line though.’
‘Neither can we,’ said Fran, ‘but as you said, the police would hardly sanction this sort of operation if they didn’t think so.’
Richard stood up. ‘Now, much as I’d like to buy you a drink at that nice-looking pub over the way, I think I must get back to London.’
‘And I’ve got a car to pick up,’ said Libby. ‘Thank you so much for coming, Richard. Do you need to take my keys?’
‘No, apparently I’m being sent a set by your Mr Connell.’
‘He must have taken copies,’ said Libby. ‘Sneaky.’
‘I think he’s allowed to,’ said Fran. ‘Come on, then, Richard. I’ll take you to the station.’
Libby locked up, drove Ben’s car back to Steeple Martin, and picked him up from the Manor estate office.
‘Richard was telling us how much an operation like this costs the police,’ she told Ben, as she buckled herself into the passenger seat. ‘I didn’t realise.’ She reported everything that had happened that morning.
‘At least you won’t be going out there on your own, then,’ said Ben.
‘Like the heroine into the cellar,’ agreed Libby.
‘Eh?’
‘You know I’ve always said how stupid heroines – and heroes, come to that – are in films and books? When they hear a noise in the night in a spooky castle and go off bravely on their own with only a candle. Daft.’
‘I expect it makes for better tension and excitement,’ said Ben.
‘It just annoys me,’ said Libby.
‘Are we going to start looking at sofas today?’ asked Ben, as they drove along Broad Oak Road towards the car showroom.
Libby looked at him sideways. ‘Do we have to? I’ve just given in on the car. I need to think about it.’
‘Always resistant to change,’ sighed Ben.
Libby subsided guiltily. Over the past few years she had refused to move from 17 Allhallow’s Lane into the much larger and more comfortable Steeple Farm, vacillated about marriage, and hung on to an almost threadbare blue cape and an equally battered basket instead of the more suitable handbags foisted on her by her nearest and dearest at Christmas and birthdays. She was, as Ben said, highly resistant to change.
The new car duly collected, Ben opted to go and pay a visit to the architectural practise in which he was now a sleeping partner, while Libby decided to take a drive to get used to the new controls. The car was lighter than both Ben’s Range Rover and the old Renault, which indeed took some getting used to, and the range of computer-controlled devices rather took her breath away. Narrow lanes where she would have to go slowly seemed to be the best place to practice, so she turned the car towards Keeper’s Cob.
Eventually, she found herself in Dark Lane, where a few years ago she and Fran had been involved in yet another murder case. Gritting her teeth, she carried on until she came to Steeple Cross, which had also figured in an investigation. Shaking her head, she carried on and crossed the main Canterbury Road, arriving in Itching, at which point she stopped the car.
It seemed that everywhere she went in her corner of Kent she was reminded of a murder investigation in which she had been involved, either because she’d stumbled into them, been invited in, or been a suspect. She sighed, and got out of the car. Perhaps it was time she stopped. It was almost inevitably upsetting, sometimes dangerous and often caused annoyance to her friends and family. In this current investigation, for instance, why was she really involved? Yes, Ian had asked her – and Fran – to organise putting the Cherry Ashton house on the market, but apart from that, why was she involved? Simply because they had all been present when Alec Wilson’s body was found? And then they’d stated asking questions.
Although, Libby argued with herself, the Jandarma had asked them questions. But then they’d rather pushed themselves in by talking to Martha and finally by being co-opted by Johnny Smith. Which they could have refused. There was always a point in every case where there was the opportunity to back out, and perhaps this was where they’d got to now.
Libby took the keys to Sally Weston’s house out of her basket and looked at them. She would hand these back to Ian and tell him enough was enough. Getting back into the little silver bullet, she turned it round and headed back to Canterbury.
Chapter Thirty-four
‘I’m
giving the keys back to Ian.’ Libby called Fran from the police station car park.
‘You’re what?’
‘Giving the keys back. I don’t want to be involved any more. He doesn’t need us. Well, I suppose he might need you sometimes, but he doesn’t need me.’
‘What brought this on?’ asked Fran.
Libby sighed. ‘Oh, it was Ben saying how I’m resistant to change, and then driving through Kent and realising there’s nowhere I know that hasn’t been touched by murder. And how upsetting it all is.’
Fran was silent.
‘Fran? You still there?’
‘Yes. Look, I want to think about this.’
‘All right, but I’m going in now to give the keys back to Ian, or leave them here for him. I’ll see you tonight for rehearsal.’
‘It’s Wednesday, isn’t it? Ian might come to the pub afterwards.’
‘That’s all right, but not to talk about the case. If he isn’t in right now, I’ll leave him a message.’
Ian wasn’t in, so she left the keys with the desk sergeant and a message on Ian’s office phone.
With a slightly lighter heart, she drove back home, parked the silver bullet in Romeo’s old place opposite number 17, and set out for the eight-til-late for something for Ben’s dinner.
‘Oi!’
Libby turned round and saw Harry standing outside The Pink Geranium, arms akimbo.
‘What?’
‘Why were you walking straight past?’
‘I often do.’ Libby turned slowly and went back. ‘And it’s afternoon. You should be closed.’
Harry peered at her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
He peered even closer. ‘Have you had any lunch?’
‘Oh!’ said Libby, surprised. ‘No, I haven’t! I went to meet Fran this morning, then went to pick up the car in Canterbury – no. I haven’t.’
‘Come on, then. Low blood sugar, that’s what you’ve got.’
He ushered her inside the restaurant and sat her at the large pine table in the left-hand window.
‘Soup and a roll? A glass of something?’ he suggested.
‘Lovely.’ Libby sighed and leant back in the chair.
‘Coming up, then.’ Harry disappeared kitchenwards.
A very short time later, a bowl of steaming hot Sopa de Chicharo, Mexican green pea soup, was put before her, together with a chilli muffin and a glass of red wine. Harry sat down opposite her.
‘OK, old trout. What’s up?’
‘Nothing.’ Libby took a spoonful of soup. ‘Ow.’
‘It’s hot, dear heart. Take a sup of wine while you’re waiting.’
Libby obediently drank some wine and pulled the muffin apart.
‘Go on, then. Tell your old mate. What’s up?’
‘I said – nothing.’
‘Bollocks. You don’t even look like you.’
Libby looked up. ‘I’m backing out of the case.’
Harry raised perfectly shaped eyebrows. ‘You’ve said that before.’
Libby repeated what she’d said to Fran earlier.
‘Well, you’re right, of course. The cases are always upsetting, particularly if they come close to home. But what about the times you’ve helped people?’
‘I haven’t really. The police have always got to the bottom of these cases in spite of us.’
‘And sometimes because of you. Look at the times you’ve actually linked things together for the police. Ian’s always been grateful, hasn’t he?’
‘And irritated, mostly. I always said I didn’t want to become one of those storybook characters always falling over bodies. And that’s what I’ve become.’
‘You haven’t fallen over them,’ said Harry. ‘Well, not literally. Only once.’
‘And then it had been so long dead it didn’t really count,’ said Libby.
‘And usually people ask you to look into things because of the experiences you’ve had.’
‘I know, but I don’t want to do it any more,’ said Libby discovering with surprise that her soup bowl was empty. ‘It’s upsetting.’
Harry looked at her thoughtfully. ‘What’s got to you about this particular case? You aren’t even personally connected with it.’
‘I told you. I just realised that everywhere I go in Kent is tainted by murder. Even here, at home. And Nethergate, and Creekmarsh. And all the villages.’
‘I expect everywhere in the country is tainted by murder,’ said Harry. ‘That’s why there are policemen everywhere.’
‘But not murder you’ve been personally involved with,’ said Libby.
Harry sighed. ‘No, of course not. So you’re backing out of this one. Have you told Ian?’
‘Yes. I handed the keys to Sally’s cottage in at the police station – oh, did you know Fran and I went there this morning?’
She told Harry about Ian’s request and the visit from Richard Smart. ‘So now I’ve handed the keys back and left a message on his office phone. I don’t want anything to do with it any more.’
‘Just this?’ asked Harry shrewdly.
She smiled slightly. ‘No. I don’t want to get involved ever again.’
‘I wonder,’ said Harry.
‘Look, unless another murder turns up on my doorstep I don’t have to, do I? If anyone asks me to look into something, I don’t have to. Because even that can have disastrous results.’
‘Yes, it can. But I honestly don’t believe you’ll be able to back off. Especially if someone comes and asks you – or Fran – for help.’
‘Fran can do what she likes,’ said Libby.
‘That sounded pettish.’
‘Wasn’t meant to. Fran may well be asked because of her abilities, although she hasn’t really used them this time, has she?’
‘She saw someone drowning when we were on holiday, before we found the body.’
‘But nothing since. No, she can do it if she likes, but I shan’t.’
‘All right,’ said Harry. ‘Now, drink up your wine like a good girl and I might even get you another.’
Libby walked home half an hour later feeling rather strange. Not because of unaccustomed wine at two thirty in the afternoon, because to be fair it wasn’t all that unaccustomed, but because it felt as though part of her life had been amputated. Almost ever since she’d moved to Steeple Martin with the help of Peter and Harry, who had been the mainstay of the ‘Search for Bide-A-Wee’ as they’d called it, she had been involved with murder. Her relationship with Ben was rooted in their first mutual encounter with it, her friendship with Fran was a direct result of that first encounter, and many of the people in her life nowadays were there because of the adventures she and Fran had had together over the last few years. There had been marriages – Guy and Fran, of course, and Jane and Terry Baker. Shows – the End Of The Pier show at The Alexandria and Sir Andrew McColl’s concert at The Oast Theatre just two of them. No wonder the investigations had become such a big part of her life. Perhaps Harry was right. Perhaps she couldn’t back away.
To her own surprise, when she got home and unpacked her shopping, she didn’t even check the computer for emails or the landline answerphone for messages. She remembered switching off her mobile in the police station car park and decided to leave it off. Leaving chicken marinating in the fridge, she made tea and took it out into the garden.
‘Where have you been?’
Ben burst through the back gate from the Manor woods.
‘What?’
‘I said – where have you been? I’ve left messages on both the phones.’
Ben subsided on to the other unstable deckchair and pushed a hand through his short grey curls.
‘Oh, Ben, I’m sorry!’ Libby’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘I didn’t even think!’
Ben sighed. ‘I know you didn’t. But you’re in the middle of an investigation and I can’t get hold of you. What the hell was I supposed to think?’
‘That’s just it,’ said Libby. �
��I’m not.’
‘Not? Not what?’
‘In the middle of an investigation. I’ve backed out. Told Ian. And Fran.’
‘And Harry?’
‘Yes. Only because he found me in the middle of the high street and fed me.’
Ben grunted. He had always been slightly jealous of Libby’s close friendship with Harry, in spite of the fact that it was anything but sexual.
‘What has Ian said?’
‘I don’t know. The phone’s been off, as you discovered.’
‘Ah. Don’t want to be talked out of it?’
‘I doubt if Ian would do that. He’s always been all for me to back off, hasn’t he?’
‘Not always. He’s asked for help often enough.’
‘You’d rather I wasn’t involved any more, though, wouldn’t you?’
Ben looked up in surprise. ‘What? Not ever?’
Libby nodded.
Ben looked away. ‘This needs thinking about.’
‘That’s what Fran said.’ Libby stood up, looking mournful. ‘I’ll get you some tea.’
‘Why are you looking like that?’
‘Because it seems that everyone sees me as a little round bundle of nosiness and very little else. It’s very disillusioning.’
She went into the kitchen and peered into the teapot. Ben came up behind her.
‘We don’t see you like that.’ He put his arms round her waist from behind. ‘But your investigations are part of you. What would we all talk about?’
‘There are several months of each year when there isn’t anything going on,’ said Libby, switching on the electric kettle. The heavy iron one was retired for the summer while the Rayburn remained unlit.
‘That’s a nice contrast,’ said Ben. ‘Are you sure about this?’
Libby told him what she’d told Harry and Fran.
‘I see.’ Now Ben was looking thoughtful, as Harry had. ‘Do you remember how Peter felt about writing his plays?’
‘He was sure it was his fault there’d been murders surrounding them. In fact, it was nothing to do with him.’
‘So aren’t you doing the same sort of thing?’
‘No.’ Libby shook her head. ‘I didn’t start the murders, if you know what I mean. I’ve got involved and stayed involved long after I should have. And – well, it’s upsetting.’
Murder in the Blood Page 23
