Murder Imperfect

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Cy?’ she said, when a voice answered. ‘It’s Libby’s friend Fran. How are you?’

  ‘Much better, thanks,’ said Cy cautiously. ‘How’s Libby?

  ‘Libby?’ said Fran in surprise. ‘She’s fine. Why?’

  ‘I’m afraid Colin rather upset her the other day.’ Fran heard a protest somewhere in the background. ‘He’s become very protective of me recently.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ said Fran. ‘Look, Cy, this is probably going to sound intrusive, but I wonder if I could ask you a couple of questions?’

  ‘Go ahead.’ Cy sounded as though he was settling himself into a chair. ‘I saw you at Sheila’s earlier. Was that a grandson she had with her? I didn’t think she’d had any children, let alone grandchildren.’

  Fran went cold. ‘Grandson? When? I mean, where?’

  ‘He came out just after you did,’ said Cy. ‘Young bloke in a baseball cap. Didn’t she introduce you?’

  ‘I didn’t see anybody but Sheila,’ said Fran. ‘Look, Cy, can I hand you over to Libby? She knows what we wanted to ask.’

  ‘Sure.’ Cy sounded perplexed, reflecting the look on Libby’s face as she took Fran’s phone.

  ‘The grandson’s just left Sheila’s,’ whispered Fran, picking up Libby’s landline phone and dialling Ian’s number.

  ‘Cy.’ Libby cleared her throat. ‘Sorry about that. How are you?’

  ‘I’m better, thanks, Libby, but what’s going on?’

  ‘Fran had to call – er – someone,’ said Libby, ‘but what we actually wanted to know was, have you found any letters of your mother’s? In your loft, or anywhere?’

  ‘There are some old boxes up there,’ said Cy, still sounding bewildered. ‘We found all the necessary stuff, like insurance documents and bills and things in the bureau down here. I’ve never gone through the old boxes. I didn’t like to. Besides, she always said she knew nothing about her background. There wouldn’t be any clues there.’

  ‘Well,’ said Libby, clearing her throat again, ‘you see, Cy, according to Margaret Stephens, she did know.’

  There was a short silence. ‘She what?’

  ‘Yes. I’m so sorry, but she obviously thought she was protecting you.’

  ‘And Patrick’s mother knew?’

  ‘Yes. They were both in the same boat, you see. They were both getting anonymous letters.’

  ‘They were?’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby sighed. ‘About their mothers. It’s a long story. Look, Cy, when you’re up to it, see if you can find anything that might relate to those letters. I don’t suppose she kept them, after all, you didn’t keep yours, did you?’

  ‘No.’ Cy sounded as though he was being strangled. ‘If I find anything, what shall I do with it?’

  ‘Let us know. And the police, I suppose.’ She looked across at Fran, who was waving violently at her. ‘I’ll ask our policeman when I speak to him. And now I’ll have to go. Tell Colin I forgive him.’

  She switched off the phone. ‘What?’

  ‘Ian’s on his way. He said he’s alerted Ben and Peter, too.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘Because –’ began Fran, but she was interrupted by her mobile ringing. She took it out of Libby’s hand. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Is that Libby?’

  ‘No, Cy, it’s Fran. What’s up?’

  His voice was shaking. ‘There are two police cars and an ambulance outside Sheila’s. What’s happening?’

  Fran closed her eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’d just stay put with the doors locked unless a policeman comes knocking. We’ll ring you later.’

  ‘It looks as though the grandson’s on the rampage,’ she said to Libby.

  ‘What’s going on, for goodness’ sake?’ said Libby. ‘Why did I have to take over the phone call. Why did you ring Ian? Why is he on his way?’

  ‘Cy saw a young man coming out of Sheila’s house just after I left. He thought I must have met him.’

  Libby’s mouth was open. ‘The grandson?’

  ‘Looks like it. So I called Ian. And now the police and an ambulance have turned up outside Sheila’s. That was Cy telling me. He’s very shaken.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ whispered Libby. ‘This is our fault. We shouldn’t have gone to see her.’

  ‘I went to see her, not you,’ said Fran.

  ‘But why is Ian coming? And Ben?’

  ‘Ian thinks the boy might have followed me.’

  Libby’s insides rolled. Then she shook her head. ‘No. He’d be here by now, if he had. And why would he, anyway?’ She cocked her head. ‘See? That’s a knock. That’ll be Ian.’ She went to the door.

  The next she knew was she was being pushed back inside the living room by a huge shape in black.

  ‘You bloody nosy cows,’ said the face behind the balaclava. ‘You upsetting everything.’

  Libby, heart pounding, took in the empty hands and prayed there was no weapon. She’d also noted the slight antipodean accent.

  ‘You’re John’s grandson,’ she said, although not sure how she could speak.

  He pushed her hard and she almost fell into the fire. Fran caught her and steadied her.

  ‘You’re gonna pay,’ he shouted, pushing them both indiscriminately. ‘What you made me do.’

  Fran was on her knees and Libby inelegantly on the sofa, shielding her head with her arms. The landline began to ring. The boy looked round and spotted it, yanked it away from the wall and threw it at the fire. Following it with her eyes, Libby noticed what she hadn’t before – on the small table by the fire, Fran’s mobile, still open from where she’d been calling Ian.

  Then the rest of the noise started. There were thumps on the wall. Libby’s neighbour obviously protesting. The cars arriving outside. The crash of the front door being shoved open. Then the shouting.

  Libby shuffled to the end of the sofa and Fran, ducking the flailing bodies, crawled up beside her. They could now see Ben and, of all people, Peter, desperately trying to subdue their attacker. And then the sirens. And all of a sudden, it was over.

  Uniformed police hustled the boy outside and paramedics came in and asked who was hurt.

  ‘All of them, I should think,’ said a calm voice, and Ian strolled in.

  ‘What – how?’ Libby was in Ben’s arms and Peter was sitting beside Fran, who, although milk-white, appeared calmer than anyone else.

  ‘Have you checked on Sheila Blake?’ she asked Ian.

  He looked down, then up again and nodded. ‘She’s still alive,’ he said, ‘but only just.’ Fran let out a breath.

  The paramedics insisted on checking everyone over, but amazingly, no one was hurt. Ian sat down at the table in the window and surveyed them all.

  ‘What I want to know,’ said Libby, ‘is how Pete came to be here?’

  ‘Ian called me,’ said Ben. ‘But I was already on my way. I called Pete.’

  ‘Why were you?’ said Libby

  ‘He –’ Ben jerked his head ‘– came to Steeple Farm asking for you. The guy who’s doing the loft was just leaving and told him where you were.’

  ‘And Maidstone?’ said Fran.

  ‘Sent a patrol there as soon as I heard from you. It looks as though he was there all the time you were, Fran.’

  Fran put her head in her hands.

  ‘Why didn’t he attack Fran while she was there?’ asked Libby.

  ‘I don’t suppose he could hear properly. I expect Sheila told him after she’d gone.’

  ‘But why?’ said Ben, who’d been following this with difficulty.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ian. ‘We might find out after we question him, but it doesn’t look as if it’ll be easy.’

  ‘What’s his name?’ asked Fran. ‘Did Larry tell you?’

  ‘No, so we don’t even know that yet.’

  ‘And now we might never know about Sheila,’ said Libby.

  ‘What about her?’ asked Ian.

  ‘If she wrote the letters to Margaret and J
osephine,’ said Fran. ‘That’s why we were ringing you.’

  ‘It all added up,’ said Libby.

  ‘And now we’ll never know,’ said Fran.

  ‘Oh,’ said Ian, ‘I think we will.’

  Chapter Forty

  SOMEHOW, LIBBY WENT ON as the fairy. Guy drove over to collect Fran and Harry provided everybody with supper on the house, Fran and Guy before they went home and Ben and Libby after the show.

  ‘So what do we still need to know?’ Harry asked, as he and Adam joined them at the table in the window.

  ‘The boy’s name, why he did it – presumably he was the one who killed Patrick and attacked Cy – and if he was behind the second attack. If Sheila wrote the letters.’

  ‘And why,’ said Ben. ‘I must say, this has been one of the most complicated of all your – I don’t know – cases, shall we call them? All those names! I got thoroughly confused at times.’

  Libby looked at him. ‘And you didn’t even tell me off after we were attacked.’

  ‘No.’ Ben squeezed her hand. ‘I really don’t think you put your head in a lion’s mouth this time. And, by the way, how did he know where to go after he left Sheila’s?’

  ‘That’s a point,’ said Libby. ‘How did he? He can’t have followed Fran or he’d have been here ages before.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Harry, standing up. ‘You’ll find out all about it tomorrow. And I’ve already spoken to Cy. He said the police came over to them almost as soon as he’d spoken to you, and that you were right.’

  ‘Right?’

  ‘That’s all he said. He couldn’t believe you’d gone on in the panto tonight, but said he’d speak to you in the morning.’

  ‘Josephine’s letters,’ said Libby to Ben, as they walked home. ‘He must have found them.’

  ‘Stop worrying about it,’ said Ben. ‘It’s over.’ He put an arm round her shoulders and hugged her. ‘Thank God.’

  But it was several days before Ian suggested they all might like to get together to hear the full story. A baby-faced detective had come to take statements from Ben and Libby, and someone had done the same for Fran, Cy and Colin. Cy had kept very quiet about what he’d found, as he’d passed whatever it was over to the Maidstone police. However, when Ian suggested that Sunday, being Libby and Ben’s day off from the pantomime, would be a good time to meet up, Cy had agreed. He and Colin came to see Hey, Diddle, Diddle on Saturday night and stayed at Steeple Farm, so Ian suggested they all meet there, if Ben didn’t mind. Ben didn’t.

  Libby, apart from once-a-day speculative phone calls with Fran, put the whole matter to one side and relaxed into performer mode. Freddy asked a few questions, and when Aunt Dolly, Una and Sandra came together to see the panto, they also were curious, but nodded sagely when Libby said she was unable to tell them anything and fell to criticising the front end of the cow.

  On Sunday morning, Libby was touched to see Cy and Colin had gone to a lot of trouble to prepare for their faux-guests. There was cake – two sorts, proper coffee and tea in a teapot. Ian’s face wore a typically sardonic expression, but Fran and Guy both looked delighted.

  ‘So,’ said Libby, when they’d all been served with their brew of choice, ‘first of all, how’s Sheila? And what actually happened that afternoon?’

  ‘Mr Strange –’

  ‘Call me Cy.’

  ‘Cy, then,’ said Ian, ‘told you about seeing a young man coming out of Mrs Blake’s house. You told me and I sent a patrol car round. They found her in the sitting room bleeding from a head wound. She briefly regained consciousness, but not enough to be questioned.’

  ‘And how is she now?’

  ‘Better, but the doctors don’t want us questioning her too much yet. She’s not going anywhere.’

  ‘So what about the boy?’ asked Fran.

  ‘His name is Kyle Holmes, and he’s the son of John Feltham’s daughter. We’ve been in touch with his mother, who has refused to come to the UK, but was able to provide us with some of the back story.’

  ‘Which is?’ prompted Libby.

  Ian sighed and took a sip of coffee. ‘Give me a break, Libby. I’ve been working on this all week.’

  ‘Sorry,’ muttered Libby.

  ‘So, Mrs Holmes tells us that her father wasn’t treated too badly, not like some in the Child Migration programme, he married her mother and produced her and another daughter. Her mother had died, and she and her father decided it would be a good idea to try and trace his English relatives, although he was deeply prejudiced against his father, whom he only dimly remembered.’

  ‘Did he remember his sister?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Yes, better than his father. He remembered a woman, too, but he didn’t see either her or his father very much, certainly in the last year of his life here.’

  ‘Norma. I bet he didn’t,’ said Libby.

  ‘Mrs Holmes says he used to tell stories about England to her children, Kyle, of course, and his sister. And eventually he left for England.’

  ‘When was this?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Some years ago. He went looking for his sister, but, of course, she’d left. Then he searched for Julian, Amy Taylor’s son, whom he remembered as a playmate. All the time he was writing to his daughter and she was feeding the information, naturally, to her children.’

  ‘So how old was Kyle by this time?’ asked Libby.

  ‘She thinks twelve or thirteen. Anyway, eventually it appeared that John had tracked down Larry Barkiss, who was living under an assumed name –’

  ‘That was why he didn’t have a record!’ said Libby triumphantly.

  ‘Yes, Libby.’ Ian gave her a hard stare.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘And finally, his sister Sheila. And discovered that his father’s other children, Josephine and Margaret, had stayed in the bosom of their families and lived a perfectly happy and contented life while he was shipped off to Australia.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Guy.

  ‘Yes. According to Mrs Holmes, he was philosophical about it, but she gathered that his sister wasn’t.’

  ‘Sheila, we’re talking about?’ said Colin. ‘But she was always so nice. Do you mean to say she resented Cy’s mum all that time?’

  ‘You’ve seen the letter,’ said Ian.

  ‘What letter?’ asked Fran. ‘This is what you found, Cy, is it?’

  Cy nodded. ‘I gave it to the Cold Case Unit. They said not to speak about it.’

  ‘But you can now?’ said Libby, looking at Ian.

  ‘Yes. It was the last letter, I think, that Josephine received. Margaret Stephens got one, too. Neither of them knew who’d written them.’

  ‘What did it say?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Cy?’ Ian nodded to him.

  ‘Right.’ Cy shifted in his chair. ‘Basically, it just said she – my mother – came from bad stock, and there was a lot of bad language, and that if my mother didn’t want it to come out then she should keep quiet. The writer had already killed once and would kill her if she said anything to anyone.’

  ‘And the writer?’ asked Guy.

  ‘Sheila,’ said Libby and Fran together.

  ‘And had she? Killed before?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Maud Burton?’ Libby asked Ian.

  He nodded. A collective sigh went round the room.

  ‘DNA was conclusive. As it was when we could match up what we found in your house, Cy. Sheila and Kyle together.’

  ‘It was Sheila and Kyle who knocked Cy over the head? And searched the house?’ said Colin.

  ‘Kyle hit him. Not hard, apparently. He didn’t want to kill again. Sheila wanted to search the house, so they wanted Cy out of the way.’

  ‘How did Sheila get back to her house so quickly, then?’ asked Libby.

  Ian sighed. ‘No, Libby, she wasn’t with Kyle when he hit Cy. She was clever enough to realise that someone might come looking for her, so she sent Kyle over on his own to make a noise in the garden and hit Cy when he came out.’

>   ‘But they didn’t find anyone in the garden,’ said Harry.

  ‘No, because he ran. Not back to Sheila’s though,’ said Ian. ‘He stayed out of the way in case the police came. Which they did. It was later, when Sheila came back from the hospital, that they went back. Sheila had a key, you see.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Libby, with an accusing look at Cy.

  ‘She’d always been a good neighbour,’ said Cy. ‘How was I to know?’

  ‘Neither of us knew, love,’ said Colin, patting his arm.

  ‘And what were they looking for? The letter you found?’ asked Harry.

  ‘It seems so,’ said Ian. ‘According to Kyle, she thought if Cy found it – and she was pretty sure he hadn’t already, knowing him for years – the whole story would come out. She was, incidentally, furious with Kyle for killing Patrick and attacking Cy. That was not, apparently, what she meant by making their lives a misery.’

  ‘No,’ Libby said. ‘She was upset about Patrick.’

  ‘And not about me,’ Cy said.

  ‘I expect she was,’ said Fran. ‘She was fond of you, in spite of herself.’

  ‘So how did Sheila kill Maud?’ Libby wanted to know. ‘And how did she know it was Maud?’

  ‘Maud made no secret of it. And she had a hold over Sheila.’

  ‘Well, yes, she must have done if she was writing nasty letters,’ said Libby, ‘but just because her dad had slept with a murderer?’

  ‘And because Sheila was the one who tipped off the police.’

  ‘No! But she was only about ten!’

  ‘And hated Norma with a passion. The Cold Case unit finally found the information, but Sheila never appeared in the case because she was so young.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Guy, ‘that these days the family of a convicted murderer could go into the witness protection programme. Even if we don’t think it’s so terrible, back then things were different.’

  ‘So I keep being told,’ said Libby. ‘Illegitimate children, living in sin, all practically hanging offences as far as I can see.’

  ‘Not to mention homosexuality,’ said Cy. ‘Poor old Sheila. To see my mother and Margaret grow up happy, and then see me and Col living openly together – it must have freaked her out.’