It was Libby’s turn to sigh. ‘I know. I think the problem for both of us is that we’re incurably inquisitive –’
‘Nosy,’ corrected Fran.
‘And now we’ve got a taste for it. And life feels boring if there’s nothing to get our teeth into.’
‘You’ve got the theatre,’ said Fran. ‘I haven’t.’
‘You could have. You’re an actress.’
‘It’s hardly round the corner from me, is it?’ Fran stopped and looked round as the door was pushed open. ‘Is this him, do you think?’
A tall, well-dressed man had come in toting a large brief case.
‘Tony,’ said the landlord, putting down his newspaper.
‘Morning, Gary,’ said Tony. ‘Brought the new range in to show you.’
‘Rep,’ muttered Libby, turning back to her coffee.
A few other people drifted in over the next fifteen minutes, but none of them were Larry Barkiss.
‘He’s not coming,’ said Fran. ‘We might as well go.’
‘No, hang on,’ said Libby. ‘Look, the landlord’s signalling to us.’ She rose and went to the bar.
‘Larry’s in the back,’ he said.
Libby was surprised. ‘How did he manage that?’ she said. ‘We’ve been keeping an eye on the door.’
‘He often comes round to the back door,’ said the landlord with a resigned sigh. ‘Particular if he’s a bit – well – under the weather.’
‘Drunk? At this time in the morning?’
‘Hungover. If he comes round the back I give him a big black coffee.’
‘Can’t he get that at home?’
The landlord looked at her pityingly. ‘You nip round the back and see him,’ he said. ‘But don’t blame me.’
Libby collected Fran and they went round the side of the pub to where the back door, set into a built-out porch, stood open. The porch contained the various detritus of a rural pub and the door to the kitchen.
Which was a dream of stainless steel. Although the saloon bar had given no sign of it, the pub obviously produced good food. Harry would have given a month’s takings for a kitchen like this, Libby thought, gazing round until her eyes lit on the figure in the corner.
At first it was hard to tell it was a figure, rather than a collection of old clothes. But there was movement as a hand reached out to pick up the thick white china mug in the counter, and a pair of eyes met Libby’s. At least, she thought they did, but the brows were so heavy it was difficult to tell.
‘Are you Larry Barkiss?’ Fran spoke gently as she moved towards him.
Libby expected the standard “Who wants to know?” answer, but the figure nodded what appeared to be its head.
‘We’re sorry to disturb you, but we wanted to know if you knew, or remembered, someone called Cy Strange?’
The figure didn’t move for so long Libby began to get worried. Then it shifted position and turned its head to look at both of them.
‘Used to.’ The voice was harsh and sounded unused. ‘Knew that little bugger Paddy Stephens, too.’
Libby wanted to protest at this, but Fran shook her head slightly and Larry Barkiss straightened up on his stool. His head emerged from the thick scarf wound round his neck like a tortoise and he coughed explosively. Libby and Fran drew back.
‘Not my fault what happened, you know,’ he said.
‘What happened when?’ asked Libby. ‘When you were at school?’
‘Don’t be daft. What happened before Christmas. Paddy murdered.’
‘Oh, you know about that?’ said Libby.
Barkiss’s eyes moved slightly to the right. ‘Course,’ he said. Then peered at them both again. ‘How’d you find me?’
Libby opened her mouth, but Fran said quickly, ‘Following enquiries from the police.’ Which was true in a way.
‘Police?’ He frowned. ‘Ain’t got nothing to do with me. Should have asked John.’
‘John?’ said Libby and Fran together.
‘John Feltham.’
‘Perhaps they have?’ suggested Fran.
Barkiss shook his head. ‘Have a job. He’s dead.’
‘You knew him? He was a friend of yours?’
Barkiss shrugged. ‘Met him in the hostel.’
‘What hostel?’ asked Libby.
‘In Canterbury.’
Fran looked at Libby and gave a quick nod. ‘For the homeless?’ she said.
Barkiss shrugged again. ‘Want to find that grandson of his.’
‘Grandson?’ echoed Fran and Libby.
Barkiss nodded. ‘From Australia,’ he said.
Chapter Thirty-seven
‘ARE YOU THINKING WHAT I’m thinking?’ murmured Libby.
Fran nodded and turned back to Barkiss, who was noisily slurping his coffee.
‘Did you know John for long?’
Another shrug. ‘Years back.’
‘Do you know his grandson?’ asked Libby.
‘No.’ Larry Barkiss returned to noisily slurping his coffee.
After a couple more attempts to get him to talk, Fran and Libby gave up and returned to the bar.
‘I see what you mean,’ Libby said to the landlord as she hoisted herself onto a bar stool. ‘In a state, isn’t he? How did he get like that?’
‘And what’s he doing here?’ asked Fran.
‘He lives here,’ said the landlord.
‘Here?’ said Libby in surprise.
‘Up the road. Croft House. The Barkisses done well for themselves.’
‘So what happened to get Larry like this?’
‘Well,’ said the landlord, leaning folded arms on the bar, ‘I don’t know the ins and outs of it, but his dad had come into money and bought this place in the sixties. Larry wasn’t born until ten years later.’
‘But he went to school in Maidstone,’ said Libby.
‘Oh,’ said the landlord, frowning at her. ‘So you do know him.’
‘Of him,’ said Libby. ‘We know someone he was at school with.’
The landlord’s brow cleared. ‘Right. He got into trouble at school in Canterbury and they sent him to live with an aunt or something in Maidstone. I don’t know much, as I said, but I managed to pick that much up. He got in trouble there, too, and I reckon he did a spell inside.’
‘In jail? What for?’ said Libby.
‘I told you, I don’t know. Then he turns up back here. Ooh, this would have been a few years ago, now. Old man’s dead. And he brought this bloke with him. Much older than him. Never came in here. Then he was carted off to hospital and I never saw him again.’
‘John?’ said Libby to Fran.
‘I don’t remember his name, but Larry went to see him in Canterbury now and then. There was something a bit odd about him, if you know what I mean.’
‘And where did he live in Canterbury?’ said Libby. ‘I think we need to know that, too.’
The landlord’s eyes narrowed. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘what’s all this about? I’ve told you what I know about Larry, but I’m not giving out any more information. Not unless you’re police, and I’m bloody sure you’re not.’
Fran gave him a calm, sweet smile. ‘No, but we are, in fact, working with them,’ she said. Libby marvelled at the composed way she spoke.
‘Yeah?’ said the landlord, still not believing.
‘You’ve read about the murder of Patrick Stephens?’ said Fran. ‘Seen it on the TV?’
‘Yes.’ The landlord frowned. ‘You’re not saying Larry had something to do with that? Gawd in heaven, look at him! He couldn’t bash the skin off a rice pudden.’
‘No, we can see that,’ said Libby. ‘But he was a lead which needed to be followed up.’ And what Ian will say when he hears what we’ve been doing, gawd in heaven knows.
‘Right,’ said the landlord. ‘And did it help?’
‘Yes,’ said Fran, ‘it did.’
The landlord shrugged and turned away to serve a customer. ‘Not sure exactly where the old boy lived,’ he sai
d over his shoulder, ‘but I always dropped Larry near St Augustine’s, if that’s any help.’
‘You used to give him a lift?’ said Libby.
‘If I was going in to the cash’n’carry. Saved him the bus.’
‘Well,’ said Fran, ‘thank you so much for your help. It’s been invaluable, it really has.’
The landlord brightened up. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘Well, fancy that. I’ll go and tell old Larry.’
‘I doubt if he’ll be pleased,’ said Libby, ‘but thank him anyway.’
‘So what do we think?’ she said as they climbed into Fran’s car. ‘John was Sheila’s brother, and the grandson is from Australia, so presumably, John didn’t come back until after he’d got married and had a son?’
‘Or a daughter. The grandson could be son of a daughter,’ said Fran, reversing into the village street.
‘So where is he?’
‘Don’t know. We don’t even know if he’s in the country. Just because Larry Barkiss said we ought to speak to his grandson doesn’t mean to say he’s here. He could be still in Australia.’
‘But you don’t really think that.’
‘No,’ said Fran. ‘I think he’s here.’
‘Sheila will know, surely,’ said Libby. ‘And you’d better tell Ian.’
‘Is that necessary?’ asked Fran.
‘Oh no, of course,’ said Libby, her eyes wide. ‘Ian will probably find out all this information when he goes to see Larry later, won’t he?’
‘What I’m wondering,’ said Libby a little later, as Fran negotiated the lanes back to Steeple Martin, ‘is what Larry meant when he said he’d known him years ago.’
‘Also,’ said Fran, ‘it seems rather a coincidence – again, this case is so full of coincidences you wouldn’t believe it in a book – that Larry Barkiss should be friendly with John Feltham.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ said Libby. ‘So Feltham was the farmer’s name and Sheila’s maiden name. I suppose Ian’s found that now. And there’s another thing.’
‘What?’ said Fran.
‘The landlord said he thought Larry had done a spell inside. Yet Ian had looked him up and said he hadn’t got a criminal record.’
‘The landlord could be wrong.’
‘Or he changed his name,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, I suppose Ian will find out.’
When they got back to Libby’s cottage, she invited Fran in for a scratch lunch, which she went to prepare while Fran called Ian.
‘I left a message,’ she said, as Libby brought in a plate of bread, cheese and ham.
‘Will he get it before he goes to see Larry?’ asked Libby.
‘I’ve said it’s urgent. Left a message with the desk sergeant and on his mobile, so we’ll have to wait and see.’
In fact, they didn’t have to wait long. Ian called back just as they were finishing the last of the bread.
‘Libby?’
‘Yes, hello, Ian.’
‘It was Fran who left the message, but from your phone. She’s still there, is she?’
‘Yes, did you want to talk to her?’
‘No, you’ll do.’
Libby rolled her eyes. ‘Gee, thanks.’
‘You both paid Larry Barkiss a visit this morning. Is that right?’
‘Well, yes, but we didn’t do it on purpose.’
There was an explosive sound at the other end of the line.
‘No, what I mean is, we went to Steeple Cross just to see – well – where he lived. And we stopped for a coffee at the pub.’
‘On the off-chance?’ said Ian. ‘Of course?’
‘Yes. And he came in.’
‘And you spoke to him.’
‘Yes. The landlord sent us round the back –’
‘The landlord? So you told him all about it, too, did you?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Libby, looking across at Fran and making a face. ‘I just asked if he ever went into the pub.’
‘And he does, and you saw him.’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did he tell you?’
Libby told him.
‘So what’s your explanation?’ asked Ian. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t got one.’
‘We don’t have an explanation exactly,’ said Libby, ‘but we assume this John Feltham was Sheila’s brother John who went to Australia.’
‘Yes. Feltham was the family name.’
‘So how did he and Larry hook up? And what about this grandson? Where does he come in?’
‘I shall no doubt find out this afternoon,’ said Ian.
‘Is there anything we can do?’ said Libby.
‘Apart from conducting the rest of the investigation?’
Libby sighed.
‘Yes, there is, if you feel able,’ said Ian. ‘You could talk to Sheila Blake. Ask her what she knows about his grandson – her great nephew?’
‘Shouldn’t you do that?’ asked Libby nervously.
She heard Ian sigh. ‘I thought you wanted to be involved?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘There you are, then. A chance.’
‘Right,’ said Libby, ‘I’ll talk to Fran about it.’
‘You’re supposed to talk to Sheila Blake about it.’
‘All right, all right. Oh, and Ian. What about that book of Maud Burton’s? The initials of people in Curtishill. Could we see them?’
Ian laughed. ‘I wondered when you’d ask. We’ve managed – we think – to track those down.’
‘Really? Who were they?’
‘Sheila Blake and Ada Weston.’
‘Ada? You mean young Patrick’s grandmother?’
‘I do.’
Libby gaped at Fran, who was looking increasingly impatient.
‘But that’s the link!’ Libby found her voice. ‘The letters!’
‘The link? Not between Cy Strange and Patrick Stephens.’
‘Oh, no.’ Deflated, Libby shook her head. ‘But it does confirm the link between the two cases.’
‘It does. I don’t know how you came up with it, but it’s been very helpful to the Cold Case Unit.’
‘Glad to have been of help.’
‘Go on, then,’ said Ian. ‘Go and talk to Sheila.’
‘So what was all that about?’ asked Fran. Libby told her.
‘So Maud was blackmailing Sheila and Ada. Why Ada? And why Sheila, come to that. We still don’t know.’ Fran stared at her lap. ‘I wish I could get some kind of guidance on this.’
‘Guidance?’ Libby wrinkled her brow. ‘Like spirit guidance, you mean?’
‘No – just some kind of feeling.’ Fran shook her head. ‘Doesn’t seem to be working, though.’
‘You haven’t been close enough. You said that yourself.’
‘Perhaps if I went and talked to Sheila as Ian suggested?’
‘On your own?’
‘Well, you said you didn’t want to do anything this afternoon because of the pantomime. You can’t have it both ways.’
‘All right.’ Libby moved the lunch plates out of the way and sat down. ‘Let’s work out what we want to know.’
‘When John came back to this country. What does she know about the grandson.’
‘Is the grandson important?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Fran looked at her in surprise.
‘Why?’
Fran looked confused. ‘I’m not completely sure, but he is.’
Libby looked at her steadily for a long moment. ‘You’re not speculating, are you?’
‘What?’
‘Well, I can see exactly why John’s grandson is important. Or could be.’
They stared at each other. ‘You mean …’ said Fran.
‘That he killed Patrick, yes.’
Fran nodded. ‘Maybe it was speculation, but that must be why he’s important.’
‘But why would he? Or attack Cy? I assume he did that too?’
‘I’d better try and find out if he’s actually in the country first,’ said Fran, with a short laug
h. She stood up. ‘Shall I just turn up on her doorstep? Rather than warn her first?’
‘She might not be in,’ said Libby. ‘Then you’ll have a wasted journey.’
‘Better than her putting the phone down on me and refusing to see me.’
‘Be careful. Keep your mobile switched on. Supposing the grandson’s there, too?’
Fran looked uncertain. ‘Ring my mobile in about an hour. Just to check.’
When she’d gone, Libby called Ian again and told him that Fran had gone to see Sheila, and their worries about the grandson.
‘Thanks, Libby,’ he said, for once sounding neither ironic nor irritated. ‘I’m just off to see Barkiss now. Let me know if you’ve heard from her in a couple of hours will you?’
Libby prowled round the sitting room. Sidney watched disapprovingly.
‘What,’ she asked him, ‘can I do now? I can’t go anywhere or I might not be back to be a fairy later. And I can’t think what other questions there are to answer.’ She stopped and stared at the computer. ‘Oh, yes I can!’ she said suddenly.
Ada. Why had Maud Burton been sending poison pen or blackmailing letters to Ada Weston? Libby sat down with the laptop and went to the online telephone book. Now – what had Margaret’s late husband been called? Pity she didn’t know the address. Stephens was rather a common name, and there were a lot of them in Maidstone.
Eventually, her memory threw up the name – Roy. There were still quite a number of R Stephenses, so, trying another tack, Libby went back to the news reports of Patrick’s death. Sure enough, after trawling through various different sites, she found one reporting “Patrick Stephens, of Belleview Terrace …” and within seconds had found the telephone number.
‘Is that Lisa?’ she asked when a female voice answered.
‘No, this is Margaret. Who’s calling, please?’
‘I’m really sorry to bother you,’ said Libby, her stomach sinking as she realised just what she was doing. ‘But I met your daughter just before Christmas at a pantomime rehearsal. My name’s Libby Sarjeant. With a J,’ she added unnecessarily.
‘Oh, yes, she mentioned you.’ Margaret’s voice sounded tired. ‘Weren’t you trying to help Cy?’
Not sure what Margaret thought she was supposed to be helping Cy with, Libby returned a non-committal answer.
Murder Imperfect Page 27
