Murder on the Run

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘I don’t suppose anyone will tell you, Lib,’ said Ben.

  ‘No, and I can’t ask,’ said Libby. ‘Never mind. I just hope they find the poor woman.’

  A murmur of agreement rustled round the table.

  ‘I’m going back to Nethergate, Mum,’ said Adam. ‘I think Sophie would like me to be there.’

  Forbearing to say that Sophie had her father and stepmother to support her if she needed it, Libby nodded and patted her son’s hand. ‘Of course she would.’

  When Adam had gone, a half-hearted offer was made to wash up.

  ‘You can load the dishwasher,’ said Hetty, ‘and I’ll do the pots after I’ve had me rest.’

  As this was what she always said, Peter, Ben and Libby grinned and got to their feet. Hetty gave them a half-salute and disappeared towards her own quarters.

  ‘We’d better go and put Hal out of his misery,’ said Peter, as they loaded the last cutlery into the dishwasher. ‘He’ll be dying to know what Ad told us.’

  ‘I expect he knows that,’ said Libby, ‘but he won’t know Ian’s on the case.’

  ‘Will he have finished in the caff?’ asked Ben, as they started down the drive.

  ‘Not sure – we’ll have a look,’ said Peter.

  In fact, they found Harry, still in his chef’s whites, sitting on the sofa in the left-hand window of The Pink Geranium, his feet on the coffee table and a glass of wine in hand.

  He cocked an eye at Libby. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re off on the trail of the missing runner?’

  Libby endeavoured to look shocked. ‘Of course not. But Ad obviously told you Sophie had called?’

  ‘Yes, saying they’d found an old tin can or something.’ Harry swung his feet off the table. ‘I suppose you want more alcohol unless you’re full of Hetty’s?’

  When they all had full glasses in front of them, Harry waved an imperious hand at Libby. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘There isn’t much really,’ said Libby, ‘just that Ian’s called on Fran.’

  Harry’s eyebrows shot up. ‘About the runner?’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby frowned. ‘And I can’t see how they think an energy drink bottle or tin can be relevant to a missing runner. Anyone of the field could have thrown it there.’

  ‘Didn’t Ad say it was a way off the cliff path?’ said Ben.

  ‘Those energy drinks can be dangerous,’ said Harry.

  ‘Why?’ asked Libby and Ben together.

  ‘They contain caffeine in much higher concentrations than you would normally have. Bad for the heart.’

  ‘Especially if you’re a runner, I’d have thought,’ said Peter.

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ said Libby, looking thoughtful. ‘That could be it, couldn’t it?’

  ‘Could be what?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Could be why the police thought it was a clue. High caffeine content drink found, runner not found, ergo, runner could be lying somewhere dying from a heart attack.’

  ‘They’d have found her by now if that was the case,’ said Ben.

  ‘So they would,’ said Libby, and sighed. ‘Good job this is nothing to do with me. I’d be very disappointed.’

  Chapter Four

  Fran rang later in the evening, sounding miserable.

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Ian’s asked me to help with this search.’

  ‘Has he? Why?’

  ‘They’re concerned about the girl.’

  Libby wrinkled her brow. ‘Yes – well, she’s disappeared.’

  Fran gave a gusty sigh. ‘They’re worried because she hasn’t turned up anywhere near the route – or anywhere else at the moment – and her husband apparently told the police she has a slight heart defect of some kind. And the energy drink could have triggered a heart attack. He said she never took them for that reason.’

  ‘Blimey! And what husband? I thought Sophie said she lived alone.’

  ‘They’re separated.’

  ‘Oh. And what does he want you to do? Ian, I mean.’

  ‘See if I can pick up any what he calls “traces” of her along the cliff path. To be honest, I think he’d be grateful for anything just now.’

  ‘What have you got to do?’

  ‘Walk along the path, I suppose. I wish he wouldn’t do this! He knows that part of my brain’s gone off the boil. I can’t force it.’

  Fran had been known to help the police in this somewhat unconventional way in the past, but was very uncomfortable with it. Even when she had been employed by a large London firm of estate agents to “psych out” properties, she’dremained doubtful about her “moments”, as her friends called them.

  ‘Humour him,’ said Libby. ‘Maybe you’ll pick up a physical clue instead.’

  ‘They’ve been over the ground with the veritable toothcomb already. I doubt if there’s anything left to find. Look, I was going to ask you, would you come with me?’

  ‘Would I?’ Libby was delighted. ‘When?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Could you get here by ten? Ian’s picking me up and driving me up there.’

  ‘I expect I could,’ said Libby, who was not known for early rising habits. ‘See you then.’

  The following morning, Libby had to park right at the end of Harbour Street by Mavis’s Blue Anchor cafe, and arrived on Fran’s doorstep at exactly the same time as Detective Chief Inspector Ian Connell. He looked down at Libby, one dark, winged eyebrow raised.

  ‘I might have known she’d ask you to come along.’ His voice still held the faintest trace of a Scottish burr, which Libby found tremendously appealing.

  ‘Do you mind?’ she asked, as Fran opened the door.

  ‘Would it make a difference? Good morning, Fran.’

  ‘Good morning,’ said Fran, looking from one to the other of her visitors with slight suspicion.

  ‘I was just asking Ian if he minded me coming along,’ said Libby brightly.

  ‘I asked her,’ said Fran. ‘Are we all ready?’

  Ian drove them back along Harbour Street, round the square and up the High Street, turning right on to the St Aldeburgh road. At the top of the cliff path, blue and white tape still fluttered, and a lonely police officer in his hi-vis jacket stood guard.

  ‘Do we need to put on those blue shoe protectors?’ asked Libby, eyeing the path dubiously.

  ‘No, we’ve been over the ground as thoroughly as we can,’ said Ian. ‘And after yesterday’s find it was practically stripped bare. Come this way.’

  He led them a little way off the path, where the undergrowth was considerably thicker. Libby grimaced as thin, whippy branches snatched at her top and bare arms, thankful, at least, that she was wearing jeans.

  Fran, ahead of her, stopped.

  ‘Is this where the drink was found?’

  ‘Near enough.’ Ian, at the head of the procession, turned round.

  ‘Was it in a can?’

  ‘No.’ Ian looked interested. ‘Why?’

  ‘I just wondered. I didn’t know if it was a can, or a bottle or what. I thought at first it would be one of those plastic cups.’

  ‘You were right,’ said Ian.

  Both women gasped.

  ‘Did Fran tell you what Campbell McLean said?’ asked Libby.

  ‘She did. I’ve got someone trying to find out what he had heard and from whom.’

  ‘It was too early, wasn’t it?’ said Libby. ‘Youwouldn’t have released anything about “a poisoned cup”. And how did you know?’

  ‘That it was poisoned?’ Ian shook his head. ‘We didn’t. Don’t either of you let any of this out, but what happened was the running club – The Harriers, isn’t it? – decided to do their own search outside the parameters we had drawn. Some of them were searching thecliff side here, although officers had already gone over it, and one of them spotted a plastic cup the same as those handed out at the refreshment stops. Why the officers hadn’t seen it, we don’t know. It had liquid in the bottom, and the runner and a couple of hi
s friends thought it smelt like a popular energy drink. So they brought it to us.’

  ‘And somehow, Campbell got wind of it and jumped to conclusions?’ said Fran.

  ‘It looks like it.’ Ian nodded. ‘So, any thoughts?’

  Fran paced the ground slowly, looking down.

  ‘Were there any tyre tracks?’ she asked, looking up.

  ‘Not here,’ said Ian, looking surprised.

  ‘But there were some?’

  ‘Yes, but further across.’ Ian was frowning. ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Fran shook her head. ‘I was expecting to see them, somehow.’

  Ian turned and led the way through more shrubbery to a clearing, and pointed. ‘There. We took casts. But it’s rather a long way from the path.’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be any nearer, would it?’ said Fran reasonably. ‘It would have been seen.’

  ‘There was no vehicle here on Monday afternoon,’ said Ian. ‘The runners have all been questioned about it.’

  ‘Where was she between the afternoon and when she was put in the car, then?’ Fran said, staring into the distance.

  ‘What?’ said Ian and Libby together.

  ‘Well, she was, wasn’t she? Or she would have been found. She might have been left somewhere by the side of the path at first, but …’ She stopped. ‘Again, she would have been seen when the runners went back to look for her.’

  ‘Unless one of the runners moved her,’ suggested Libby.

  Ian and Fran looked at her in surprise.

  ‘I don’t see how,’ said Ian. ‘They were all together.’

  ‘Yes, we saw them go,’ said Fran.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Libby, crestfallen. ‘Unless,’ she brightened, ‘one of them got to where she was first and covered her up, then said there was no sign of her.’

  ‘What would they cover her with?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Libby impatiently. ‘You work it out.’

  ‘We’re trying to,’ said Ian, his mouth twitching. ‘What could you see, Fran?’

  ‘I couldn’t see anything.’ It was Fran’s turn to be impatient. ‘You know, it’s as I’ve always said – as if I know something for a fact. Without any idea how I know it.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Ian soothed. ‘Just so that we’re clear, you think it’s possible that she was driven away in a car that night. But you don’t know where she was the rest of the time?’

  ‘No. She could have walked away herself, of course.’

  ‘I should have said, there are signs that she fell, not far from the path.’ Ian led them back to where they had originally stopped.

  ‘And she could have had a heart attack,’ said Fran.

  Ian narrowed his eyes. ‘Could have?’

  ‘You told me her husband said she had a heart defect.’

  ‘Caffeine,’ said Libby. ‘She didn’t drink energy drinks.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have drunk this one, then, would she?’ said Ian.

  ‘If she was handed a cup by someone she trusted, like a race official, she might start drinking it before she realised,’ said Fran. ‘Do you know who gave it to her?’

  ‘The team are asking now. There were so many people involved, stewards as well as runners and organisers, we’re having trouble tracking them all down.’

  ‘Social media?’ suggested Libby.

  Ian smiled, ‘Yes, Libby, that’s being done. In fact, we’ve posted on the Harriers’ group pages, and several people have got in touch.’

  ‘You haven’t denied the heart attack,’ said Fran.

  Ian sighed. ‘No. I really can’t tell you any more, though. And if McLean comes back to you again, tell him to call me.’

  He began to walk back to the cliff path.

  ‘Was I any help?’ asked Fran.

  ‘I think so.’ Ian held up the police tape for them to go under. ‘We must try harder to find the vehicle.’

  He drove them back in silence to Coastguard Cottage.

  ‘Have you time for coffee?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Sorry, no. Got to go and peer through my magnifying glass.’ Ian gave them each a brief smile and drove off.

  ‘He didn’t even say thank you!’ said Libby indignantly.

  ‘I think he was a bit preoccupied,’ said Fran. ‘Are you coming in for coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Libby followed her friend inside. ‘What did you really think out there?’

  ‘Exactly what I said.’ Fran filled her new cafetière. ‘Have you got one of these yet?’

  ‘No. I’m not that fond of coffee. Harry’s got a posh new machine in the caff, though.’

  Fran turned and looked at her. ‘You could have said you’d prefer tea.’

  Libby grinned. ‘Why? I’m giving you the chance to play with your new toy.’

  Fran scowled and turned back to her cupboards.

  ‘OK, you said exactly what you saw –’

  ‘I didn’t see anything,’ interrupted Fran. ‘I said I expected to see tyre tracks. That’s all.’

  ‘But you also thought she’d been hidden until she was driven away.’

  ‘That was pure speculation. She could have fallen, as Ian said – fainted even – then woken up and walked away before the other runners came looking for her.’

  ‘But why would she walk away?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ said Fran impatiently. ‘I’m guessing! Look, it’s nothing to do with us, so I don’t know why we’re discussing it.’

  ‘OK,’ said Libby meekly, and went to sit on the window seat. After a moment, Fran came in with the cafetière and mugs on a tray.

  ‘Sorry, Lib. It just made me feel – oh, I don’t know – uncomfortable.’

  ‘That’s all right. I do try to understand, you know.’

  Fran smiled. ‘I know you do. You all do. But Ian still seems to think I can turn it on like a tap.’

  ‘He was right, though, wasn’t he? You did feel something.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s unquantifiable. If that’s the right word in the circumstances.’

  ‘Or unexplainable. Yes. Never mind, as you say, it’s nothing to do with us.’

  Fran gave her friend a knowing look. ‘And when has that ever stopped you before?’

  They drank their coffee in companionable silence. Balzac came to join Libby in the window seat.

  ‘Nobody’s asked why she’s disappeared,’ said Fran, gazing past Libby to the sea beyond.

  ‘Lisa? No. I suppose because we don’t know what happened. Has she walked away, been kidnapped or murdered? Until we know …’

  ‘But you always look at the victim first,’ said Fran. ‘Whatever’s happened. The victim’s the key to it all. Was she depressed, for instance.’

  ‘Well, we can’t ask anyone,’ said Libby. ‘We’ve no reason to, and anyway, we’ve already agreed it’s none of our business.’

  ‘No.’ Fran shifted in her chair. ‘I think it’s got under my skin a bit.’

  ‘Up there, do you mean?’

  Fran nodded. ‘It made me so uncomfortable. And I just knew those tyre tracks would be there. They’ve got something to do with it, I know.’

  Libby watched her uneasily.

  ‘Let’s go and see if Sophie’s in the shop.’ Fran stood up suddenly. ‘I can’t just sit still.’

  ‘All right.’ Libby scrambled off the window seat, giving Balzac a final pat on the head. ‘Are we asking questions?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Fran opened the door. ‘I want to know.’

  Libby’s eyebrows rose. ‘It’s usually me.’

  Fran turned back to look at her friend.

  ‘Come on, admit it. You want to know, too. Let’s start with Sophie.’

  Chapter Five

  Sophie, it appeared, was upstairs in her flat, supposedly studying for her master’s degree in the History and Philosophy of Art. Unlike her first degree, she had been able to find a part-time course at Canterbury, which meant she could stay at home, thus saving money – causing Guy,
however, to spend it.

  She looked up from her laptop as Fran followed her knock into the sitting room.

  ‘Hello, Step-ma. And Libby. This is nice. I’m getting bored.’

  ‘We’re not interrupting, then?’ Libby grinned at her.

  ‘Not exactly. Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No, we’ve just had coffee, thanks,’ said Fran, sitting down. ‘We wanted to ask you about Lisa.’

  Sophie looked bewildered. ‘I told you, I didn’t really know her. Why?’

  ‘Ian asked me to go up and look at the supposed spot of her disappearance. We’ve just got back.’

  Sophie’s eyes widened. ‘Really? What happened?’

  ‘There are tyre tracks,’ said Fran.

  ‘And?’ prompted Sophie, after a pause.

  ‘Your step-ma expected to see them, and there they were. It made her uncomfortable.’ Libby sat beside Fran.

  ‘Was it a “moment”?’

  ‘Yes. Not much of one – I just knew the tyre tracks would be there. And Ian said there were signs that she had fallen. Not on the path though.’

  ‘We’re speculating that she had an underlying heart condition and that one of those energy drinks triggered a heart attack,’ said Libby, ‘but it doesn’t explain the tyre tracks.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ve got nothing to do with it?’ suggested Sophie.

  ‘In that case,’ said Fran, ‘where is she?’

  Sophie looked at Libby. ‘What do you think?’

  Libby shrugged. ‘I don’t really know. But I trust Fran’s moments. If her strange brain has connected the tyre tracks to Lisa’s disappearance, I’m inclined to believe her.’

  ‘Strange brain? Thanks!’ Fran made a face.

  ‘We-ell,’ said Sophie, looking from one to the other, ‘I don’t know who you would talk to, or even how you could get to meet them. You can’t go asking people questions like the police, can you?’

  ‘Always a problem,’ agreed Libby.

  ‘Did she run with anyone regularly?’ asked Fran. ‘You know – a pacer, or whatever they call it.’