Murder Most Fowl

by Lesley Cookman

  Fran gave her a look. ‘Ri-ight.’

  ‘No, listen. Bob takes orders for turkeys for Christmas, right? Then he orders from his supplier, who, apparently, “Brings Them On” to the exact weight. Treats them like babies, it seems. So they’re all earmarked, and were almost ready to be sent out to Bob when they were stolen. And they’re really, really expensive. And it’s too late to order another one, so we’re going to have to rely on an ordinary turkey, if they don’t run out.’

  ‘Libby, surely you’re not planning on investigating a turkey theft?’

  ‘I thought it couldn’t hurt just to have a bit of an ask around. Talk to the farmer, perhaps? I feel bad for Bob.’

  ‘And who, exactly, would you ask? I’m sure the farmer has already asked everyone he knows, and he’ll have reported it to the Rural Crimes people. What on earth do you think you could do?’

  Libby was downcast. ‘I just thought we could help. You know, maybe we would be offered a dodgy turkey, and -’

  ‘Libby!’ Fran exploded. ‘You’re getting worse. Leave it alone.’

  Ben and Guy, walking ahead, stopped and turned round.

  ‘What’s she saying now?’ asked Ben.

  ‘I was just thinking -’ began Libby.

  ‘That she could go investigating this turkey theft by posing as a buyer,’ said Fran.

  ‘What turkey theft?’ asked Guy, looking bewildered, and had to have it all explained to him. At the end, he looked thoughtful. ‘You know, that’s not as silly as it sounds.’

  ‘What?’ gasped Fran.

  ‘No, listen. Only the other day a customer came into the shop and asked if I wanted one. A turkey, I mean.’

  ‘A customer?’ said Fran, Ben and Libby together.

  ‘He was in buying last-minute Christmas cards, and mentioned he’d been offered one in his local. One you know, actually – The Red Lion in Heronsbourne.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ Libby was astonished. ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘No, of course,’ said Guy, sounding amused. ‘I said I wouldn’t be sure of the welfare of the animal, and anyway, we were going away for Christmas.’

  ‘You’re only coming here,’ said Libby. ‘That’s not away.’

  ‘We won’t be at home for Christmas dinner,’ said Fran, patiently.

  ‘Well, you might not get any turkey unless we can get a replacement,’ said Libby. ‘Pity you didn’t get the name, Guy.’

  ‘You wouldn’t!’ said Fran.

  ‘She would,’ said Ben. ‘Her little nose is twitching madly.’

  ‘Look I know it’s disappointing that Bob’s lost his turkeys, but the supermarkets will have them, even if the small butchers don’t,’ said Guy. ‘And I agree with the others, Lib. It’s no place for you. I remember when you investigated those illegal farm workers a few years ago…’

  ‘Nothing happened!’ said Libby indignantly.

  ‘Not until the end,’ said Ben.

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Libby sighed. ‘I’ll start looking tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow’s Sunday,’ said Guy as they started walking again.

  ‘Supermarkets are open,’ said Fran. ‘Although the butchers won’t be. I can try the Nethergate butchers on Monday.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find,’ said Libby. ‘Don’t worry – I won’t get myself into trouble.’

  Sunday passed as normal. Fran and Guy went home in the morning and Libby started doing some research into butcher’s shops in the area. She found a few farms with their own shops which looked promising, so planned a route round them for Monday morning, before she and Ben set off for the traditional Sunday lunch with Hetty at the Manor.

  Hetty had taken the loss of her turkey philosophically and said she’d be quite happy to leave the search for a replacement to Libby. Later in the afternoon, she and Ben went to Peter and Harry’s cottage on the high street as usual, then home to dress the tree.

  Monday dawned wet and miserable. Libby checked her route to the farms she was investigating and did a last quick internet search, leaving her mobile number with a couple of the most promising sites, then went to dig out her faithful wellingtons, mindful of the usual state of farmyards. She was halfway out of the door when the mobile rang.

  ‘Mrs Sarjeant?’ enquired a hesitant voice.

  ‘Speaking. Who’s this?’

  ‘Cheevles Farm. You left a message asking about turkeys.’

  ‘I did. The one we’d ordered got – er – lost. Can you help?’

  ‘I’ve got a couple left.’

  ‘What weight are they?’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘Not that big – six or seven kilos,’ said the voice, even more hesitantly.

  ‘Can I come and see?’ asked Libby. ‘You’re out near Creekmarsh, aren’t you?’

  ‘Er – nearer Cherry Ashton.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I know the area. I’ll be with you in – ooh, about half an hour?’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ The call was ended.

  Libby re-dialled Ben’s number at the Manor.

  ‘I’m going out to a farm called Cheevles,’ she said. ‘On the road between Cherry Ashton and the Creekmarsh road. Near White Lodge somewhere, I think.’

  ‘Oh – why?’

  ‘Someone from there called me to say they’d got a couple of turkeys. Didn’t really know what weights they were, though, so I suspect he isn’t the boss.’

  ‘Be careful, then,’ said Ben. ‘I’d really rather you didn’t go on your own.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! It’s a perfectly legit farm – got its own Facebook page and everything. Nothing’s going to happen to me.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Ben didn’t sound convinced. ‘Keep me in the loop.’

  ‘All right. I’ll call Fran, too, although she won’t be able to come with me – she’ll be busy in the shop.’

  Libby put her wellingtons in the boot, and having consulted her trusty OS map, set off towards Cherry Ashton. The country opened out the nearer she got, and by the time she turned left at the Cherry Ashton crossroads by the Ashton Arms and went down the half-hidden lane that led eventually to White Lodge, she was driving past winter-bare fields, where not so much as a tractor could be seen or heard. A few gulls swooped hopefully across the dark furrows, and eventually Libby saw a cluster of isolated buildings away to her left. A few hundred yards on, a turning was marked with a hand-painted wooden sign telling her that this was Cheevles Farm. She turned in and drove down a rutted lane, which eventually opened out into a yard in front of an open, empty barn and a low building with a corrugated iron roof.

  She opened the door and peered at the muddy ground, regretting that the wellingtons were in the boot. In the sudden silence when she turned off the engine the gulls could be heard, their lonely cries emphasising the isolation of the farm. Libby climbed out and moved carefully round to the boot, where she managed, precariously, to change into her wellingtons, then approached the low building. It said nothing about shop. She looked around to see if there was a farmhouse, but could see nothing, and finally admitted to herself that she was nervous.

  As she got nearer she could see that in fact, the door to the building was ajar. Libby pushed it open a little further and called.

  ‘Hello?’

  Silence.

  ‘Hello? I’ve come about the turkeys.’

  She felt in her pocket and brought out her mobile, then cleared her throat and called again. If nothing happened this time, she was going.

  ‘Hello?’ she called again, and this time was rewarded with a faint whine. Her heart lurched, and suddenly out of the gloom she saw a movement. She pushed the door a little further open and saw, to her surprise, a black and white collie creeping towards her, almost on its stomach.

  She bent and held out her hand, but it flinched and lay down, its ears flat against its head. As she straightened up, she saw it.

  Sprawled almost starfish-like on the concrete floor, the body lay at the back of the building, an ominous stain spread out beneat
h the head.

  ‘Not again,’ was her first thought, before she stepped backwards through the door and discovered she was shaking from head to feet and was still clutching her mobile. She managed to stagger back to the car and collapse into the driver’s seat before calling 999, at which point she saw that the dog had slunk out behind her and was slowly approaching. By the time she’d finished talking to the dispatcher, who, on learning she was alone, told her to stay on the line, it had sidled up to her and flopped at her feet. She laid a hand on its head, and waited for the police.

  The two officers who attended in the first car were, she thought, unnecessarily suspicious.

  ‘Buying a turkey, madam?’ Officer One said, frowning at her.

  ‘Yes, because ours had been stolen.’ Libby tried and probably failed to stop her voice cracking.

  ‘You had a turkey stolen?’ Even more suspicion.

  ‘Well, no, our butcher did -’

  ‘Then you could buy another one from the butcher, madam, surely.’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Libby, taking a deep breath. ‘You see we’d ordered a Norfolk Bronze -’

  ‘Bronze what?’

  ‘Turkey. But the farmer who breeds them had them stolen.’

  Officer Two came out of the building. ‘I’ve called it in,’ he said.

  ‘We need Rural Crimes on it, as well,’ said Officer One. ‘Case of stolen turkeys.’

  ‘Case?’

  ‘A matter of stolen turkeys,’ corrected Officer One, tight-lipped.

  ‘Can I go now?’ Libby asked tentatively, knowing the answer was no.

  ‘I’m afraid not, madam. We have to wait for our colleagues.’

  ‘The SIO,’ said Libby. Officers One and Two raised their eyebrows.

  ‘Television,’ said Officer Two.

  ‘Experience,’ said Libby, and leant back in her seat and closed her eyes. The dog thrust a warm dry nose under her hand.

  ‘The dog yours, madam?’ asked Officer One.

  ‘No, it was here. I don’t think it’s well.’

  Officer Two was talking into his radio very quietly. He glanced up at this. ‘And better get the Animal Welfare Officer,’ he added.

  Libby opened her eyes. ‘Could I call my partner?’ she asked. ‘He’ll be expecting me home.’ This wasn’t quite true, but she decided she needed rescuing.

  Officer One resumed his suspicious expression. ‘Perhaps I could call him for you.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ burst out Libby, exasperated. ‘In that case, you can call either DCI Connell or Inspector Maiden at Canterbury.’ Neither of them would be pleased, she thought, but this was self-preservation.

  After a moment’s shocked silence, Officer One cleared his throat. ‘Which one’s your partner, madam?’

  Libby actually laughed. ‘Can you see me with Inspector Maiden, officer? I could be his mother! DCI Connell is a very close friend. Tell him it’s Libby. Which reminds me, for some reason, you haven’t yet asked for my details. How remiss.’ She hunched a shoulder and turned away.

  There was another loaded silence, then Officer Two asked: ‘Could I have your name, madam?’

  ‘Mrs Libby Sarjeant, of the Manor, Steeple Martin.’ Bending the truth a little, she thought, but there -

  ‘The theatre!’ Officer Two said with an air of enlightenment, just as a siren was heard approaching.

  ‘What?’ Officer One looked puzzled, but had to turn to greet the ARV officers who were arriving. Libby watched as the two officers, in caps and flak jackets and looking formidably unlike British police officers, were brought up to speed by Officer One, after which Officer Two took one of them into the building while the other came over to talk to her.

  ‘Now, madam,’ he said, giving her a friendly smile. ‘Must have been a shock for you.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Libby. ‘It was.’

  ‘The officer says you were here as a result of a theft of turkeys?’

  ‘Indirectly,’ said Libby, with a nod.

  ‘He said something about a bronze?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think he understood.’ Libby explained again, realising how bizarre the whole situation sounded. This officer, however, nodded understandingly.

  ‘I see, madam. And could you give me the name of the farmer who had the birds stolen?’

  ‘Oh, gosh, no! I’ve never asked. I can give you the name of the butcher, though, and the phone number.’

  This Officer Three noted it down. ‘And the dog, madam?’

  ‘I think he belongs here. But I don’t think he’s well. I heard the other officer ask for the Animal Welfare Officer.’

  Officer Three nodded and reached across to the dog, who growled and shrank away. ‘Taken to you,’ he said, sounding amused.

  ‘Poor thing,’ said Libby. ‘Do you think he belongs to the – er, the – um – person in there? This place looks deserted. And do you think he really had any turkeys here?’

  ‘We’ll find out when we search the place, madam, don’t worry.’

  Officer One strode over. ‘I think you can go, now, madam,’ he said, looking resigned. ‘DCI Connell has your details. He said to ask you if you’re all right to drive.’

  ‘I think so.’ Libby was doubtful. ‘Can I phone my partner now?’

  ‘I believe DCI Connell was doing that.’

  ‘Oh. That won’t go well.’

  Sure enough, Libby’s mobile rang. ‘Hello, Ben?’

  ‘Libby! What the hell’s happened now?’

  Libby did her best to explain. ‘Not my fault, though, honestly. I did tell you where I was going.’

  ‘I’ll come and get you. You can’t drive home.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No. You stay there. Just don’t get in the way.’

  Libby sighed. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘If you could just move your car out of the way, madam. As you can see, we have other professionals arriving.’

  Libby nodded and started the car. The dog immediately climbed on to her lap, and Officer Three tried to drag him off, setting off more growling.

  ‘Leave him,’ said Libby, and pushed the dog onto the passenger seat. She managed to reverse to the side of the yard and switched off the engine, realising that she did, indeed, feel a bit too shaky to drive home.

  She watched as a grumpy-looking individual who was obviously the MO arrived and climbed into one of the familiar blue zip-up suits, followed by more officers in an unmarked car and a van containing more forensic officers. Crime scene tape was strung across the entrance to the yard and the activity moved inside the building. Nobody took any notice of Libby.

  It was about fifteen minutes before she saw Ben’s Range Rover pull up outside the crime scene tape. One of the plain clothes officers went over to speak to him, then accompanied him towards Libby.

  ‘This is Sergeant Maddox, Lib,’ said Ben. ‘Libby Sarjeant, Sergeant.’ Ben pulled a face.

  ‘Mrs Sarjeant.’ Maddox nodded at her. ‘Constable James has given me your details, and Mr Wilde is going to drive you home.’

  ‘What about the dog?’ asked Libby.

  ‘The dog?’ said Ben and Maddox together.

  ‘He won’t leave me.’

  Ben, looking exasperated, let out a sigh. ‘We can’t take him home.’

  ‘Is the Animal Welfare Officer here?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Maddox, looking round.

  ‘What are you going to do with him, then?’ asked Libby. ‘He hasn’t got a collar, by the way.’

  Now it was Maddox’s turn to sigh. ‘Are you sure you can’t take him, Mr Wilde?’

  ‘The cat wouldn’t like it,’ said Ben, avoiding Libby’s eyes.

  ‘What about Hetty?’ she said. ‘The Manor would be perfect for him.’

  ‘As a temporary measure,’ said Ben with a scowl. ‘Until the police decide what to do with him.’

  ‘Of course,’ beamed Libby. She turned to the dog, told him he was coming with her, then climbed out of the car. The dog follow
ed.

  ‘And what,’ asked Ben, when they had installed him into the back of the Range Rover, ‘do we do when he won’t stay with Hetty? Or if she doesn’t want him?’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ said Libby, climbing into the passenger seat. ‘But we couldn’t leave him there. He was distressed enough as it is.’

  ‘Where was he when you found him?’ Ben began to reverse to turn back down the track.

  ‘In that building with the – body.’ Libby shuddered. ‘It was him who made me see it. He appeared out of the dark at the back, and when I bent down to call him, I saw it.’ She closed her eyes.

  Ben gave her a swift look. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Not really,’ Libby was honest enough to say. ‘I’m very grateful to you and Ian for getting me out of there. That first officer was really suspicious. He just didn’t seem to understand about the stolen turkeys.’

  Ben gave an explosive laugh. ‘Well, you must agree it sounds a very convoluted story. It was lucky you mentioned Ian and he could explain it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have done, but they wouldn’t let me phone you. I mentioned Inspector Maiden, too.’ She turned round to look at the dog, who lay quietly with his head on his paws. ‘I wonder whose he is? The dead person’s?’

  ‘And did the dead person belong to that farm? It looked deserted.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. And yet it has a website and everything.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure they’ll look into it. Although I’m also sure someone will be along to take statements and ask you more about it. Did you keep the number?’

  ‘What, the one he made to me?’ Libby fished out her phone. ‘Yes – it’s here. It’s a mobile number, though.’ She frowned. ‘I’m sure it was a landline on the website.’

  ‘Don’t ring it,’ warned Ben, as her fingers hovered over the screen. ‘Let the police do it.’

  ‘All right.’ Libby sighed. ‘Hadn’t I better warn Hetty, though? To tell her we’re bringing her a dog? Does she like dogs?’

  Ben gave her an amused glance. ‘She’s lived on a farm nearly all her adult life! Of course she loves dogs. We always had one when I was growing up, and it was only when old Jenny died – just before we got together, it was – that we decided not to get another one because Dad was getting so frail.’