She stopped, the bottle held aloft. How was Steve? She’d hardly spared a thought for the boy all day, and her phone had been turned off. She dragged it from her bag and pushed the switch. There was a message waiting from Mandy. “Steve still in coma but no worse. Frank in jail.”
Tomato soup and Dundee cake
Sleep was impossible that night. Alone in the house, tossing and turning in bed, Libby listened to the first drops of rain that tapped on the roof and clinked on the windows. At last, she gave up the unequal struggle with sleep and wandered downstairs, made a cup of hot chocolate and, wrapped in a duvet, watched old films until daylight.
At last, the clock hands scrolled around to a sensible time for visiting the police station. Libby fed Fuzzy, showered in the ugly green and orange bathroom, dabbed mascara on her eyelashes, swiped lipstick across her mouth and shrugged on her old parka. She wished she had Bear with her. Her eyes filled. She’d made up her mind to have nothing further to do with Max Ramshore, and that meant no more contact with the dog.
The police station was unwelcoming, the seats in the entrance covered in cold terracotta tiles. Libby finally diverted the civilian receptionist’s attention from sorting piles of paper, asked to see Constable Smith, and settled down for a long wait.
“Mrs Forest.”
She jumped. She’d been there less than five minutes. “Joe? You’re back at work already?”
“As you see. Have you come to confess?” Joe’s pallor and the dark rings under his eyes gave him the look of a tired child. Libby was on the verge of offering to take him home and make him tomato soup. “Or maybe you’ve seen the wrong side of my father.” Joe offered a tight smile.
Pulling herself together, Libby followed him meekly through doors that clanged, down an open-plan office. Rows of police officers glanced up from computers, registering little interest as the pair passed through. At last, they entered a tiny room at the back of the building. “Your office?”
Joe blew air through his lips. “Not important enough for my own office. This is an interview room.”
Libby examined the room. “No microphones or cameras?”
“Not here. Informal discussions only. You’re not really under suspicion, Mrs Forest. No motive. Although,” he went on, “plenty of means and opportunity. Working in the bread shop, you could poison the whole town if you wanted.”
She ignored that. “Then, if you don’t suspect me, maybe you could call me Libby?”
He let the ghost of a smile pass over his face. It was gone in a fraction of a second. “Well, then, Libby, how can I help you?”
“I hear you’ve arrested Frank for murder, but I can’t believe anyone would think he’s a killer. He’s such a lovely man.”
Joe leaned back, gazing at the ceiling. It was a dirty yellow, undecorated since the days when smoking was allowed. His gaze moved to Libby’s face. “I can’t tell you much, Mrs―er―Libby, but since you helped us out over that last business, I’ll give you what I can.”
A tiny grin tugged at Libby’s mouth. This was the first time anyone from the police had admitted she’d helped solve last year’s murder at the lighthouse. She bit her lip. She didn’t want to annoy Joe. He was explaining. “The thing is, unlike you, Frank does have that all important motive, which means he has the full set; means, opportunity and motive. Easy enough to put digitalis or digitoxin, or whatever the men in white coats call it, in the sandwiches, or the cakes. Or even the chocolates.” Libby beat down a familiar twinge of guilt. It wasn’t the chocolates. He’s just tormenting me.
Joe’s barely-there, enigmatic smile made Libby think of his father. “Anyone can get hold of the stuff, on the internet or from prescription medicines for heart problems. Frank’s old mother’s taken one called Digoxin for years.”
He tipped his chair forward, leaning both elbows on the table so he could look straight into Libby’s face. “Frank has a ready-made source of the poison, and every chance of tossing it in the bread or cake mix.” He was enjoying this a little too much. He went on, “Kevin Batty did the dirty on Frank.”
“I know. They had a quarrel over the price of flour, but that was years ago.”
Joe’s face fell. She’d managed to steal his thunder. “As it happens, you’re right, but so far, it’s the only motive we’ve got.”
Libby wouldn’t leave it there. “It’s a pathetic motive. Why leave it so long to get revenge? You’ve decided Frank’s guilty, and you’re not even looking at other people. What about big business, for one thing? Pritchards are trying to take over premises in the West Country.”
Joe snorted. “Seriously, do you think a multi-million company like Pritchards would kill two people, just to get their hands on Frank’s bakery? I mean, it’s a nice shop, I grant you that, but I bet they could buy Frank out with their small change.”
He was right. A bakery in Exham on Sea would be almost beneath Pritchards’ notice. Libby kept a rein on her tongue. She couldn’t share the information on the money laundering operation in Leeds. Max had probably told her more than he should, yesterday. She could see, now, how difficult it was to keep government secrets. Had she possibly been just the tiniest bit unreasonable towards Max?
Joe seemed to have lost interest. “Chief Inspector Arnold’s satisfied we’ve got our man, so we’ll be bringing charges.”
The legs of Libby’s chair scraped the floor, as she jumped to her feet. “Well, I never heard such nonsense in my life. Honestly, Joe, Frank’s motive is no stronger than Pritchards’. What about Vince? Why would Frank want to kill him?”
Joe flapped a hand in the air. “Maybe Vince and Frank had some sort of quarrel, as well. We don’t know, yet, but we’ll find out soon enough, don’t you worry.”
“Besides, why did only two of the cyclists die, while everyone else survived?”
“Maybe they both had a sweet tooth, so they ate more of the Eccles cakes. Frank would know that sort of thing. He’s been feeding cake to Exham for years.”
Libby raised her voice. “That’s absolute rubbish, Joe. Are you going to let a man like Frank rot in jail, without even bothering to look for the real culprit?”
Joe fixed his gaze on the ceiling once more. “If you think you know better, Mrs Forest, by all means go ahead and prove us wrong.”
“That’s exactly what I shall do.” Arrogant man. Libby marched across the floor, ready to sweep out. One hand on the door, she turned. “And another thing...” Joe still sat at the desk, rocking back, watching, both eyebrows raised. The angry words died on Libby’s lips. She suddenly understood what Joe was signalling. He knows Frank isn’t guilty, but his boss has tied his hands. Without another word, she slammed the door and left.
***
She revved the Citroen’s engine hard, and drove home in record time, to find Angela on the doorstep with Mandy in tow. A glance told Libby matters at the hospital were still bad. “Mandy needs to sleep,” Angela said. Without a word, the teenager trailed upstairs.
Libby shrugged out of her coat and heaped coffee into cups. “You don’t look much better, yourself.”
Angela cradled her cup. “Steve’s still in a coma. They’re keeping him like that, to let his brain recover.” The words, if it can, hung unspoken in the air. “Steve’s mother’s at the hospital now.”
“Then, maybe you should go home, too, and get some rest.”
Angela grunted. “I wanted to talk to you, first. I wondered if you and Max had got anywhere. You know, investigating?”
Libby finished her coffee, thinking hard. She couldn’t ignore Angela’s appeal for help, or Mandy’s distress. If working with Max could help her find the murderer, Libby mustn’t let pride get in the way, just because he’d kept things from her. The truth was, the two of them made a decent team. He’d once said, “People tell you things, Libby. You sit down with a slice of cake and chat, and before they know it, they’ve poured out all their secrets.”
She made a pact with herself. From now on, she’d try not to fly off t
he handle every time Max annoyed her, but she’d keep the relationship purely business. Nothing personal. No more cosy evenings drinking wine and flirting, and no more stupid arguments.
Mind made up, Libby brewed more coffee and produced a well-matured Dundee cake. “Some of the things Steve told me might be important.”
Angela let her breath out in a loud sigh. “I knew you were the right person to help, Libby.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Libby couldn’t share the information about Pritchards, or money laundering gangs, but she needed to know why they might be interested in Angela’s nephew. “Maybe you can tell me more about Steve. What’s he really like?”
Angela, Steve and Geoff
Angela put on her reading glasses, then took them off again. “Steve was musical from the day he was born. Geoff and I weren’t able to have children, so Geoff was thrilled when his nephew started playing the recorder.”
Libby screwed up her nose. She’d been forced to play the instrument at school. She’s produced a regular series of high-pitched squeals, like a dawn chorus of cats, before her parents let her off the hook.
Angela went on, “Steve was only four. His mother, Geoff’s sister Grace, and Thomas, his dad, were musical as well. That’s how we all met, taking music degrees at University. Geoff would have been pleased as Punch to know Steve was going off to the Royal College, and making a career in the business.”
“Steve’s quite a star, then.”
She nodded, seeming close to tears. “We’re going to postpone the concert, of course. It can wait a few months, until he’s better. But, what if he dies?” Her hand covered her mouth, as if she wanted to take back the words. “You see, he’s like his Uncle Geoff in so many ways. They both loved music more than anything, but they shared more than that. It’s a touch of the devil, that’s what my mother said when I married Geoff. Geoff could be wild.”
“Like Steve.” Libby thought of the drugs paraphernalia in Steve’s house, the ripped t-shirts and the tattoos.
Angela frowned, making a strangled sound. She burst out, as if she couldn’t hold the thought back any longer. “It would be too cruel if they died in the same way as each other, on the road.”
Libby waited, as her friend gained control. Finally, Angela swallowed. “To be honest, Geoff’s accident was his own fault.”
“Go on.” This didn’t seem to be leading anywhere. Geoff died ten years ago, and Libby already knew about the accident. She wanted to hear more about Steve. Still, she’d hold her tongue, and let Angela get things off her chest.
“He loved music and fast cars, did Geoff. And, to be honest, sometimes he drank too much.” Angela was twisting a ring on her wedding finger. It flashed, mesmerising, as she turned it round and round. “We were rehearsing for the concert. It was the same music we were playing the other day.”
Angela gave a sad little laugh, more like a hiccup. “Geoff was angry with me, that day, because there was a mistake in the printing of the posters. I hadn’t proof read them properly and his name was spelled wrong. We only noticed during that last rehearsal. Geoff was furious. He called me all sort of names. Still, I was used to that. It was just his way.”
A rueful smile crossed Libby’s face. She knew about ranting husbands. Angela went on talking. “He said I was to get it fixed, and he’d go to the hotel for lunch on his own. He set off, in the Porsche, as fast as usual. The road was steep and twisty, and he was so mad, he must have been careless. Everyone else followed him, while I stayed behind, on the phone to the printers.” She had to stop a moment, to gain control of her voice. “The others saw his car, upside down in the valley.”
She paused to blow her nose. Libby asked, “Who found him?”
“Oh, didn’t I say?” Angela counted them off on her fingers. “Apart from Geoff and myself, there was Steve’s father, Thomas, his mother, Grace, and Simon. We called ourselves the Circle of Fifths. They were all very kind to me. I don’t know how I’d have survived without them. That’s one of the things about music. It brings people together. The members of the quintet were my closest friends.” Her eyes filled. “Not many of us left, now. Steve’s father died last year, from cancer. Grace and I both gave up performing regularly, after Geoff died.”
“So, Steve and Alice were the newest members of the quintet.”
“That’s right. Two very talented young people.”
Libby murmured, “Have you known Alice long?”
“Steve met her at Wells. They’re very competitive. Alice is really rather brilliant, at her other studies as well as music. She’s off to Cambridge, this year.” Libby breathed a small sigh of relief on Mandy’s behalf. Her rival would soon be leaving the scene.
Angela rose and stretched. “Look at the time. I must have been here ages. And I hardly talked about Steve at all.” She looked around for her scarf. “There is something I wanted to mention, though. When we talked about the manuscript, before, I said Geoff sprained his wrist while he was writing it. Do you remember?”
Libby thought back. “The scruffy writing?”
“That’s right. Then later, I thought about it, and realised it was the wrong year.”
“The wrong year? How do you mean?”
“He’d sprained his wrist the year before.”
“And it had healed by then?”
“It must have, if he was playing the clarinet again, mustn’t it? He was playing in the concert. I suppose he was just tired, and that’s why his writing was so careless. He often took on too much. Didn’t know how to refuse work.”
Angela tied the silk scarf round her neck. “Anyway, I won’t grumble, because he left me very well off.”
Half way down the path, she turned back. “By the way, Marina rang me to remind me it’s the spring show tomorrow. Are you going?”
Libby had completely forgotten. “Good job you reminded me. Marina told me about it, and I’ve taken on a stall.”
Biscuits
A flicker of mixed excitement and terror woke Libby. Today was the spring show. It was a grand affair, apparently, the first she’d ever attended, with a wealth of competitions and exhibitions in the programme. The ploughing competition would take up three nearby fields, the year’s best lambs would be on show in one ring, and the American classic car rally would cover half the rest of the show ground.
It was also Shipley’s big day. The dog show was planned for the afternoon. No doubt Marina had risen early to shampoo the springer spaniel. Libby wasn’t going to miss Marina’s show-down with Mrs Wellow.
She’d spent almost the whole night preparing for her stall. The health and safety inspector had visited late yesterday, peered through wire-rimmed glasses into every inch of the kitchen, pursed his lips at the array of separate sinks and fridges, and, reluctant, as though it pained him, let Libby have the prized certificate. She could offer her wares for sale. Today she’d be letting children ice biscuits, hoping their parents would buy a copy of Baking at the Beach and maybe a bag of hand-crafted chocolates.
She drew back the curtains to find rain blowing horizontally from a uniform grey sky. Not a single inch of blue sky broke the monotony. Crazy, holding an outdoor show so early in the year. Still, her granny had always said, “Rain before seven, fine before eleven.” Libby dug out her warmest waterproof jacket and a new pair of well-lined wellies. At least her stall was in a tent.
She loaded the car with tins full of product, boxes so weighed down with books she could hardly lift them, and piles of giveaway bookmarks. The Citroen coughed its way to the show site.
After three trips back and forth to the car, Libby spread clean white sheeting over her allotted table and unpacked her wares. “Morning, Mrs F.” Alan Jenkins appeared at the door of the tent, almost unrecognisable in a clean waxed jacket and some kind of wide-brimmed hat. “How’s the car?”
“Overworked, I’m afraid.”
“You been driving her hard, then?”
“Just up the motorway to Leeds, but I don’t like the
noise in the engine.”
He sucked his teeth. “What did I tell you? She needs gentle treatment. She’s a lady, that one.”
Bear appeared from nowhere, reared up, planted his paws on Libby’s shoulders, and licked her face. She scratched the rough fur on top of the animal’s head. Max, close behind, hauled the animal down, clipping on a lead. Libby glared. “Keep Bear away from the food on the stall, won’t you?” She winced. She’d meant to build bridges with Max and be businesslike, but she sounded plain bad-tempered.
“I heard you’d be here.” He smiled, but the glint in his eye told Libby he was annoyed.
She flashed a synthetic smile. “Sorry, I’ve got to set up.” She bent down behind the table, unloading books. Alan, with surprising tact, had melted away.
Max joined her. “I’m sorry I took you by surprise over Leeds. Won’t you forgive me? Look, the sun’s coming out.”
Reluctant, she straightened up to look through the entrance to the tent. A tiny patch of sky had turned a slightly paler shade of grey. “Call that sun?”
“You wait. It’s already drying up. Look, I’ll even buy one of your books.”
That was too much. Imagining Max, who ate takeaways or visited restaurants for his meals, attempting to bake a cake, Libby felt the corners of her mouth twitch. She offered an olive branch. “Do you think I dare sell chocolates, after what happened? I’ve got a hygiene certificate.”
“Of course. If you don’t, people will think there’s something wrong with them. You know you didn’t poison anyone. It’s the bakery that’s in trouble, not you.” Libby straightened up. Her trestle table, neatly covered in white sheeting, decorated with red-ribboned, cellophane bags of chocolates in wicker baskets, was inviting.
The day wore on into an afternoon of watery sun. Mandy arrived, almost back to her old self after nearly twelve hours of sleep, and took over the stall for the afternoon. She settled down in a huddle of children and biscuits, and stuck her tongue out. “Like my new stud?”
Murder on the Levels: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 2) Page 9
