‘I thought you wanted to know about the murder?’ said Ian slyly, and laughed when she looked indignant. ‘All right, all right, although it isn’t remotely connected to the murder or the attack on you. As you all know by now,’ he looked round the group, ‘Bowling wasn’t only growing cannabis. He apparently got into drugs in a big way while he was at Dellington, and as a scientist he was very good at the manufacture of various illegal substances. He also had contacts in the wider drugs market. Denise, we discovered, had been a cocaine user for a long time, and the telephone call she heard, as far as we can make out, was from someone threatening exposure or demanding payment.’
‘Why did she think whoever it was would come after her?’ asked Harry.
‘For the money, and possibly revenge.’ Ian shook his head. ‘She’s a little more lucid, now, and she seems genuinely frightened. And then of course, there’s the blackmail.’
‘Blackmail?’ came the chorus.
Ian smiled. ‘Yes. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you before, but we can’t tell you everything.’
‘We know,’ said Ben. ‘Carry on.’
‘He’d kept several of the demands – goodness only knows why – in his factory. We’ve traced them to Chandler.’
‘Chandler?’ said the Greek chorus.
‘We began to look more carefully into the accusations made against him by you, Flo. There was a very sophisticated, almost untraceable paper trail to the account attributed to the mysterious swindler, who in the end turned out to be Chandler after all. The mistake he made was to use his own name and company as a sort of double bluff. He knew this sort of scam well, and thought it would remain hidden.’
‘So why was he blackmailing Bowling? Wouldn’t it be the other way round?’ asked Peter.
‘He lost money and his habit was costing more and more. He isn’t saying much, but we gather it was counter-accusation. Bowling threatened to blow the scam apart, Chandler threatened Bowling with revealing the truth about the drugs manufacture and supply.’
‘So I suppose Bowling continued to supply Chandler in return for his silence?’ said Ben.
‘Is that why Denise went to Chandler when she left us?’ asked Libby.
‘She was scared he would keep asking for money and she hadn’t got any. And she needed a new supplier. She thought Chandler would be able to help. And all he wanted to do was keep out of it.’
‘There’s still one thing we don’t know. Who tipped off the police about Mike Farthing?’ said Libby.
‘We still don’t know,’ said Ian. ‘It was an anonymous phone call. At a guess, Ron Stewart. Or his wife.’
‘But Ron said he didn’t think Mike had anything to do with it.’
‘His wife?’ said Ian. ‘As I said, we can’t know. I doubt if it was the two boys who worked for him, they’d know it could be traced to them.’
‘No, they might have been covering their tracks,’ said Peter. ‘A double bluff.’
‘Could be,’ said Ian. ‘Whoever it was, it was a malicious thing to do.’
‘What about that Turner cow, then?’ asked Flo. ‘Libby said she thought she got the wrong bloke?’
‘She did. Chandler had visited one of the residents of Maltby Close on a legitimate matter some time ago, so she’d seen him. That, incidentally, was what gave Chandler the idea of milking the elderly residents. Monica Turner was, in fact, one of the first to fall for it, then Vi Little and some of the others. Flo didn’t.’ He grinned at her. ‘So when it all came out, Monica was furious. Especially when she saw him, as she thought going into the church hall for rehearsals. She did, of course, but her eyesight’s bad and she confused him and Bowling.’
‘We all knew her eyesight was bad,’ said Libby. ‘So what finally made her confront him?’
‘When she saw him go into the churchyard that night. She didn’t know why, of course, but in her confused mind, he was – what was it, Harry? – an abomination. He was desecrating the place.’
‘That’s what she said to me,’ said Libby.
‘She demanded her money back, Bowling said he didn’t know what she was talking about it – and that was that. We found the weapon quite openly sitting in her fireplace. She was still talking about you being –’
‘Another abomination?’ suggested Libby, and everyone laughed.
‘I still don’t know why I thought about Flo and Lenny yesterday morning,’ said Fran later.
‘Perhaps it was a warning? That they were going to be mown down? You’ve had those before,’ said Libby.
‘Perhaps,’ said Fran with a sigh. ‘Would have helped if I’d been able to interpret it, though, wouldn’t it?’
‘Never mind,’ said Libby, ‘Lenny’s enjoying the attention.’ She looked round the little party in Hetty’s drawing room. ‘Do you think we’ll ever get through a year without a murder?’
‘Now that’s tempting fate,’ said Fran.
The Christmas concert went very well, the high spot, despite appearances by some prestigious theatrical names, being Ron “Screwball” Stewart’s spot with his fellow Jonah Fludde band member.
Theatrical and political luminaries floated round the bar afterwards drinking Sir Andrew’s excellent champagne and complimenting Libby, Ben and Peter on their theatre. ‘A little gem’ was frequently repeated.
Harry arrived in time for Sir Andrew’s speech and was rewarded by a warm smile. Fran and Guy, over for the evening and staying with Hetty (her spare rooms were bigger than Libby’s) people watched with amusement, and Lenny sat in state with his leg on a footstool, while Flo fended off solicitous strangers.
Libby looked round with satisfaction at the tastefully decorated foyer and smiled. And nobody mentioned murder.
END
Chapter One of
Murder in the Blood
Lesley Cookman
The sea lapped gently into the granite cave, dark as ink. The moon, orange as a dying sun, touched wavelets and turned them into dull fire. Caught on an unseen finger of rock, the body bobbed gently to the surface.
There are secret places in the Mediterranean. Along the coast of Turkey, in the foothills of the Taurus mountains, lie villages the tourists do not see. Ramshackle hovels of brick, breezeblock, and corrugated iron line the unmade roads, the odd discouraged goat tethered in a patch of dirt droops its head. Everywhere, acres of white-roofed glass houses. Further inland, the pine-covered slopes rear up above the rusted metal hoops of abandoned polytunnels and half-built concrete houses left to the elements. Along the better-surfaced roads, small groves of pomegranate and olive trees proclaim the more affluent villages, with their newly built villas proclaiming themselves to be ‘Satilik’ – For Sale, and a sudden clutch of billboards advertising hotels. There are still hovels, but the goats look more cheerful, and chickens cluck drowsily in the sun.
It was to one of these villages that Guy Wolfe had brought his wife and friends. Women in headscarves and baggy trousers carried baskets and bundles through the tiny centre with its statue, pharmacy, and market; a road led winding to the beach. There were small family-run bars and hotels, a few sunbeds on the beach, and a few boats tied up to a leaning wooden jetty.
Libby Sarjeant stretched her arms above her head and sighed. ‘This beats the Isle of Wight.’
Ben Wilde, her significant other, smiled. ‘At least we’re not investigating murders and family feuds.’
From another sunbed, Fran Wolfe sat up suddenly and stared at the sea.
Peter Parker lifted his sunhat from his face and gave his partner Harry Price a dig in the ribs. Five people watched Fran apprehensively.
Eventually, Libby could bear it no longer. ‘What is it, Fran?’
Fran gave the appearance of someone jolted to reality. ‘Eh?’
‘What happened?’ asked Guy.
Fran looked confused and shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
Libby sighed. ‘It was a moment, wasn’t it?’
Fran’s unwanted psychic gift often resulted in what her fa
mily and friends called her ‘moments’. These ranged from seeing a picture of a plant to a vision of murder, sometimes with attendant feelings of suffocation.
‘Yes,’ said Fran slowly. ‘Someone was drowning.’
The other five groaned.
‘No, my lovely, please,’ said Harry, sitting up and glaring at her. ‘We’re on bloody holiday.’
‘I can’t help it.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Libby crossing her fingers. ‘There must have been lots of drownings around here in the past. I expect that’s what you saw.’
Fran smiled at her gratefully. ‘That’ll be it. Thanks, Libby.’
Guy stood up. ‘I think we now deserve a drink. It must be nearly lunchtime.’
The little party stood up and gathered various belongings.
‘Are we coming back to the beach after lunch?’ asked Harry. ‘Do we leave the towels here?’
‘I thought Captain Joe said he’d take us out on the boat this afternoon?’ said Peter, perching his hat on the back of his head.
‘So he did.’ Harry slung his towel over his shoulder. ‘Come on, then, last one to the bar’s a sissy.’
The tiny hotel sat right on the beach, its bar at the front. The six friends perched on bar stools and ordered the local beer. The owner, known to all British guests as Jimmy, due to his unpronounceable Turkish name, handed them glasses frosted from the fridge.
‘You enjoying your holiday?’ he asked them, as he had asked every day since their arrival. ‘You glad Guy bring you?’
‘Yes,’ they all assured him. ‘Very glad.’ Guy had mentioned the previous summer, when they were visiting the Isle of Wight, that he knew of a small bay in Turkey little known by the general run of tourists. After the events of the past year, they had decided to award themselves a holiday, and even Harry had closed his beloved restaurant, The Pink Geranium. And Guy had been right.
The sweep of the bay, backed by the foothills of the Taurus mountains, was dotted with twenty or so ‘paynsions’, hotels, and bars, and one supermarket. At least, that’s what it called itself. Guy had seemed to know at least half the proprietors, and they had all greeted him with fond cries of recognition, even though his last trip there had been years ago, before he had met Fran. The other guests were mostly regulars, who guarded their little treasure jealously and were quite happy with the two-hour journey through the mountains from the airport, which put off the tour operators and all but the most intrepid holidaymakers.
Now they ordered soup and borek, the Turkish version of cheese straws – only more substantial – and salad, to see them through the afternoon boat trip. A couple of the other British guests joined them, and one, a solitary Englishman wearing a panama hat who rarely spoke, sat at the farthest table from the bar.
‘Who is he, Jimmy?’ asked Libby. ‘Has he been coming here for years like the others?’
Jimmy shrugged. ‘No. I do not know how he came here. He book over the phone. He know people in the village, I think.’ He shrugged. ‘Very quiet.’
One of the other guests leant forward. ‘We gave him a lift into the village the other evening when we went to The Roma.’ The Roma was a Turkish/Italian restaurant that provided a change from those in the bay. ‘He barely said a word, but he seemed to know where he was going.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Harry, ‘nothing to do with us.’
‘No …’ said Libby thoughtfully, and was drowned out with protests from her friends. Libby’s nosiness was legendary.
An hour later, and they were gathered on the wooden jetty while Captain Joe, bearer of another unpronounceable name, let down his little gangplank for them to board his boat, the Paradise. There were several small boats competing for trade from the tourists, all taking trips round the coast to visit bays only accessible from the sea, where one could swim, eat freshly caught fish, and drink beer or raki, according to taste. This afternoon Joe was taking them to a small bay rarely visited, where there had been recent sightings of turtles.
The boat chugged off towards the headland, where a rocky island guarded the entrance to the bay.
‘Reminds me of our Dragon Island in Nethergate,’ said Libby to Fran, as they approached it.
‘Same sort of shape,’ agreed Fran. ‘I love that someone’s planted a Turkish flag on top.’
‘They do that everywhere, don’t they?’ said Libby. ‘I must say, I’m glad Guy brought us here. I want to come back, don’t you?’
But Fran wasn’t listening. Her back was rigid and she was staring at the sheer rock face rising from the sea. Turning her back on the island, Libby tried to see what she was looking at. And realised that Captain Joe was turning the boat slowly inshore.
The six friends stood together peering into the darkness of the cleft in the rock and saw what Fran had seen. Bobbing face down on the surface of the water – a body.
The Libby Sarjeant Series
For more information on Lesley Cookman
and other Accent Press titles,
please visit
www.accentpress.co.uk
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2014
ISBN 9781909624979
Copyright © Lesley Cookman 2014
The right of Lesley Cookman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, Ty Cynon House, Navigation Park, Abercynon, CF45 4SN
Murder Out of Tune - A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Page 26
