‘Not coming himself, then?’ said Libby.
‘I don’t think he’d trust himself not to have a shouting match,’ said Fran with a grin. ‘He only just stopped himself from calling us interfering females. I could hear it shivering on the tip of his tongue.’
‘Do you think,’ said Libby, after a few mouthfuls of soup, ‘that this was for the same reason?’
‘What, to get the police to take it seriously?’ said Fran. ‘But why? They are taking it seriously. Lisa’s dead – they have to.’
‘Yes, but they aren’t looking – or weren’t – seriously at the cottage.’
‘But they are after we told Ian about the tubs.’
‘But my caller didn’t know that, did he? By the way, did you think it was a he?’
‘It was disguised, but yes, I think so. And no, you’re right. He wouldn’t know we’d told Ian about the tubs.’ Fran looked thoughtful.‘And does he know about the tubs himself?’
‘When you told Ian about Mike and the tubs, didn’t you mention that we’d been over there?’ said Libby, putting down her spoon. ‘It sounded to me as if Ian didn’t know.’
Fran looked guilty. ‘No I didn’t tell him. I just said you’d heard about it. I sort of let him think it was via Cass. I thought he’d be annoyed if we were poking about a potential crime scene.’
‘And he was annoyed, but it isn’t a crime scene, is it? She didn’t die there.’
‘No, but something tells me it has great significance.’
‘Well, they’ll go back and search it more thoroughly now, won’t they? Although I would have thought they’d’ve already done that.’ Libby stood up and picked up the bowls. ‘There’s more in the pot. Want some?’
‘No, I’m fine.’ Fran stretched. ‘Do you want me to hang around and wait for whoever comes to pick up the phone?’
‘Pick it up?’ Libby was shocked.
‘Whatever they’re going to do. They might have to take it away, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t know.’ Libby frowned. ‘Anyway, you don’t need to stay unless you want to. I’d better sit down and work out some kind of rehearsal schedule.’
‘I could help you with that.’
‘You could.’ Libby smiled gratefully. ‘I sent out a group email and a Facebook post last week asking for availability, so I’ll have to check through all the replies.’
Lunch cleared away, Libby opened her laptop and Fran her tablet.
‘You check the Facebook posts and I’ll check the emails,’ said Libby. ‘And I suppose I ought to do a chart thing.’
Fran looked amused. ‘Do you know how?’
‘No.’ Libby shook her head. ‘I’m hopeless.’
‘Just open a second document and put names and dates in there. Then we’ll sort out a proper schedule afterwards.’
They’d barely started when there was a tentative knock at the door.
‘Detective Constable Turner,’ announced the twelve-year-old standing outside the door. He held up his ID insultingly close to Libby’s face.
‘Yes?’ she said, backing up a little.
DC Turner looked confused for a moment. ‘I – er – DCI Connell said you’d be expecting me …’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Libby. ‘The phone message. Come in.’ She pointed to the phone on the third stair. ‘There it is.’
‘Ah.’ DC Turner squatted on his heels in a way that made Libby’s knees ache in sympathy. ‘Have you tried 1471?’
‘We didn’t think it was worth it,’ said Libby. ‘It was number withheld the last time.’
DC Turner tried, but got the expected reply. ‘This is the charger unit isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Do you need to take it away? There’s a second charger upstairs I can use for this one.’
‘I’m afraid I will.’ Turner stood up. ‘We’ll return it as soon as possible. I’ll give you a receipt.’
He wrote out an official receipt and handed it over while Libby disconnected the charger unit.
‘Thank you,’ said Libby.
‘Can I point out that the charger unit is not only connected to the mains but to the incoming telephone point?’ said Fran appearing fromthe kitchen.
‘Does that make a difference?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ said Turner apologetically. ‘As I said, we’ll get it back as soon as we can. Haven’t you got a phone – I mean a mobile?’
‘Yes, but not everyone has the number.’ Now it was Libby sounding apologetic. ‘Don’t worry. I shall badger DCI Connell until I get this back.’
DCI Turner’s expression changed from apologetic to horrified. ‘Er – right.’
‘Nice to meet you, DC Turner.’ Libby held the door open and the young officer scuttled through. Libby and Fran returned to the kitchen.
‘The landline isn’t working,’ said Ben as he came in through the back door later in the afternoon. ‘Hello, Fran.’
‘No, I know.’ Libby stood up to put the kettle on. ‘The police took it away.’ She explained about the second threatening phone call.
‘When do we get it back?’ asked Ben. ‘I know everyone’s got mobiles these days, but that number is the one used for everything from the default number for the Manor to the theatre. I’m going to ring Ian. Even if I have to go to Canterbury to pick the bloody thing up.’
‘I didn’t think of that,’ said Libby, ‘although I doubt if I could have stopped them from taking it.’
‘I suppose not.’ Ben was finding Ian’s numbers on his phone. ‘I’ll try his office phone first.’
Much to everyone’s surprise, Ian answered straight away.
Libby made tea in the big brown teapot, listening to Ben’s half of the conversation.
‘He says yes, if we want it before tomorrow we can go and pick it up.’ Ben put his phone back in his pocket.
Fran stood up. ‘I ought to go.’
‘I’ve just made tea!’ said Libby, and Fran sat down again.
‘We’ve been doing a preliminary rehearsal schedule for the show,’ Fran told Ben. ‘Libby’s going to email me what she’s worked out and I’ll do a spreadsheet.’
‘That’s for accounts.’ Libby frowned.
Ben and Fran laughed.
‘Drink your tea,’ said Ben, ‘then I’m going to cart Mrs Sarjeant off to Canterbury to pick up a phone and treat her to dinner somewhere other than The Pink Geranium.’
Fran grinned. ‘I won’t tell Harry.’
When Ben and Libby arrived at Canterbury Police Station they were told DCI Connell would like to see them.
‘Oh, I hate seeing him in his office,’ muttered Libby, as they were ushered along a corridor.‘I wonder what he wants?’
Ian rose to his feet when they came in.
‘Sorry to drag you up here,’ he said, ‘but it spares an officer the job of bringing it back to you tomorrow.’
‘Thank you,’ said Libby. ‘What did you want to see us for?’
Ian smiled. ‘The pleasure of your company?’
‘Come off it,’ snorted Libby.
‘Sit down, for goodness sake,’ said Ian. ‘Ben, drag that chair over to the desk. Can I offer you anything? Tea, coffee?’
‘No, we’re going out to dinner,’ said Ben. ‘So what is it?’
‘I wanted to tell you we’d found the owner of Chestnut Cottage.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘Really?’
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s actually the owners of the Notbourne Estate, which, of course, you were warned off.’ Ian smirked. ‘And it’s a trust.’
Libby blinked. ‘A trust?’
‘Administered by a London law practice.’
‘Have you asked them about why there was no documentation?’ said Libby.
‘Of course they have, Lib,’ said Ben.
‘They were completely unaware that anyone was staying in the cottage apparently. They see their job as purely management. They employ a company to keep the grounds tidy and place discreet advertisements in what t
hey called the “quality magazines”. They have two properties on the estate, and haven’t had enquiries for either of them in a long time. They are only rented out as holiday lets.’
‘If they have a company doing outside maintenance for them, why haven’t they got someone looking after the two properties?’ asked Ben.
‘No idea. I asked them that, and they said if they rented them out they asked a local cleaning firm to go in.’
‘So they’ve got keys?’ said Libby. ‘Is that how Lisa got in, do you think?’
‘We have no idea about that either. By the time I got this information late this afternoon, both the outside maintenance firm and the cleaning company were closed. I’ve left messages on their phones, emails and social media pages, but tomorrow’s Saturday, so whether they’ll be picked up is another matter.’
‘How frustrating.’ Libby bit her lip. ‘And no joy with my message, either?’
‘Not yet. You can have your unit back, but the message has got to be taken apart by our backroom boys. I doubt if we’ll pick anything up.’
‘You said a trust,’ said Ben. ‘Administered on behalf of who?’
‘They were very cagey about that. I expect we could lean on them, but I can’t see that it’s relevant.’
‘I found out that what was left of the estate was left to a Christobel Harris in 1985, but I couldn’t find anything after that,’ said Libby. ‘Do you think she formed the trust? For her children, perhaps?’
‘It’s possible,’ said Ian. ‘If we come across evidence that it could be relevant, we’ll dig into it, don’t worry.’
‘And what about my phone calls?’
‘Apart from endorsing what they said,’ said Ian with a grin, ‘I’m of the opinion that it’s the same person as before, for the same reason.’
‘Wanting you to take it seriously?’ said Ben. ‘But whoever is making the calls knows exactly what Libby and Fran have been doing. They’re being stalked.’
‘If they don’t do anything else that could be con-nected to the Lisa Harwood case they won’t be stalked,’ said Ian. ‘There’s no danger to either of them in my opinion.’
‘The first time it was your fault,’ said Libby. ‘You took us up to the cliff path.’
‘I took Fran up to the cliff path,’ said Ian pointedly.
Libby, feeling heat creep up her neck, merely grunted.
‘Well, thanks for filling us in, Ian,’ said Ben, standing up.
‘Yes, thanks,’ muttered Libby.
Ian came round the desk to shake hands with Ben.
‘Look, Libby, I know how difficult this is for you, but it really has nothing to do with you personally. If it’ll keep you happy we’ve certainly no objection to you researching the Cheveley family, or even the Harrises, as long as you don’t go poking around on the ground.’
Ian patted her shoulder and held the door open for them.
Libby managed to keep her temper under control until they got outside.
‘Patronising idiot!’ she thundered.
‘Calm down, Lib,’ Ben soothed. ‘I don’t think he meant to be patronising.’
‘Well, he was.’ Libby climbed into the passenger seat of the Range Rover. ‘I’ve a good mind to …’
‘To what?’ said Ben. ‘Please tell me you won’t do anything stupid.’ He turned round to leave the car park.
‘He can’t tell me –’ she began.
‘Tell you what to do? Yes, he can,’ said Ben. ‘He’s a policeman, and a very forbearing policeman. If it was anyone else, any other force, do you think you’d be treated this way?’
Libby was silent for a moment. ‘No, I suppose not,’ she muttered eventually.
Ben drove to another of the city centre car parks nearer to the restaurant they’d chosen.
‘He didn’t even tell us the name of the law firm,’ said Libby as they got out of the car.
‘You could try looking in the – what was it? – quality magazines,’ suggested Ben. ‘For the small ads. That might tell you.’
‘It might, but how would I know it was the right cottage? There must be hundreds of holiday rental cottages advertised in those sort of magazines. The “Country” ones.’
‘What about an internet search? Surely nobody advertises only in magazines? You could be very specific with your search terms.’
‘Worth a try, I suppose,’ said Libby after a moment, then tucked her hand through Ben’s arm. ‘You know I’m awfully glad you helped me buy that first computer. I can’t believe what a dinosaur I was before I met you and Fran.’
‘You still haven’t got a smartphone, though,’ said Ben. ‘I’ll grant you entry to the twenty-first century when that happens.’
When they arrived home and plugged the charger/answerphone back in, the phone began to ring immediately.
‘Go away,’ said Ben. ‘I’ll listen, just in case.’
Libby went into the kitchen half listening, half trying not to.
Ben followed her, smiling.
‘No worries. That was the treasurer of the Harriers asking for an invoice for the car park.’
‘Really?’ Libby let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.
‘Chap called Nick Heap. Have you met him?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Libby with a frown. ‘There were a couple of people at that meeting in The Sergeant At Arms who weren’t introduced. The only people I know by name are young Roly, Steve the chairman, Davy Long and Kirsty Trent. Hang on – I know the name.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Sophie told us. But he isn’t the treasurer. It was a woman’s name who was the treasurer. Now what did he do?’
‘I don’t know, and does it matter? He’s presumably doing an errand for the treasurer. And we get paid. Not a lot, but we get paid.’
‘That’s something, I suppose.’
‘I’ll email him an invoice tomorrow. What should we charge, do you think?’
‘I don’t know! What does one usually charge for a field? And I don’t suppose they’ve got much money.’
‘No you’re right.’ Ben fetched the whisky bottle. ‘Time I’m allowed a drink now.’
The following morning, after a discussion with Hetty, Ben decided to let the Harriers off payment as a gesture of goodwill.
‘After all, I didn’t expect to be paid in the first place,’ he told Libby. ‘I’ll send him an email from here if I can borrow your laptop. Saves me from going up to the office.’
‘Lazy,’ said Libby, flicking him with a tea towel. ‘And what are we doing after that?’
‘I don’t know. Do we have to do anything?’
‘It’s Saturday. People do things at weekends. Hobbies and stuff.’
Ben groaned. ‘We’re working tonight, remember? Do we have to do something today?’
‘Oh, so we are.’ Libby sighed. ‘You know, these one-nighters are a pain. They make so much work.’
‘They make money. And it’s only you and me and Pete who have to work.’
When the theatre was hired out for a “one-nighter”, usually either a singer or a comedian, Ben helped them sort out their staging, Peter worked lights and sound and Libby staffed the bar. If they could persuade anybody else to come in, they would, but most people who worked for the Oast Theatre were only really happy to work on their own shows. Tonight was a popular comedian, whose entourage had taken rooms at the pub. He apparently had a local lady friend who was being, as his manager said, “accommodating”.
‘Might as well go shopping, then,’ said Libby. ‘I can have a mooch round Canterbury.’
Ben eyed her warily. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’
Libby grinned. ‘No, of course not. I’ll have lunch out, and try and think of something quick for tonight.’
‘I’ll do that,’ said Ben. ‘Seeing as how I’ve been let off the hook for the day.’
‘Good lad,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll go and get myself organised then.’
Canterbury was crowded. Never the emptiest of cities, weekend
s increased the amount of tourists to an uncomfortable degree. Having bumped and cursed her way through hordes of people, Libby gave up and made for the little pub she and Ben used whenever they came to Canterbury. Her friend the barman wasn’t on duty, but a whey-faced girl with lank fair hair served her with aperfectly acceptable sandwich and glass of iced tonic water.
‘Libby – Mrs Sarjeant!’ said a voice behind her.
‘Roly!’
He was standing by a corner table, a half finished plate of shepherd’s pie in front of him.
‘Won’t you join me? If you’re on your own, that is …’ He went a familiar pink.
‘Thank you,’ said Libby, taking a seat. ‘I escaped the crowds out there. I forgot what a spring Saturday could be like in town.’
‘I don’t really know why I came in, either,’ said Roly, resuming his seat. ‘I get enough of Canterbury during the week.’
‘You work here?’ said Libby.
‘Yes, in financial services.’ He pulled the corners of his mouth down. ‘Not exactly glamorous and not what I really wanted to do.’
‘What was that?’ asked Libby.
The pink deepened. ‘I wanted to be an athlete. A runner.’
‘But you are a runner,’ said Libby, surprised.
‘No, a professional runner. I wanted it to be a career. I was lined up to study Sports Science at uni.’
‘And you didn’t?’ said Libby, after a pause.
‘I had a medical. You have to.’
There was another pause, while Roly poked moodily at his shepherd’s pie.
‘And did they find something?’ asked Libby gently. He nodded.
‘I have a slight heart defect.’
Libby frowned. ‘But you’re still running.’
‘Not competitively. I don’t have to push myself. Believe me there’s a difference.’
Libby took a chance.
‘Was it the same heart problem that Lisa had?’
Roly looked up quickly and dropped his forkful of food.
‘How – how did you –’
‘Her husband told the police about it. That was why they were analysing the cup they found by the track.’
‘They were?’ Roly’s eyes were wide with surprise. ‘I didn’t know about that.’
Murder on the Run Page 13
