‘So how did you know about it? Lisa’s heart condition? We were told it wasn’t common knowledge.’ Libby watched him carefully.
‘It wasn’t talked about, but I think most people knew. She never took energy drinks or anything like that. She was very careful. I don’t either.’
Libby ate some of her sandwich.
‘Are you – er – investigating it, then?’ said Roly carefully. ‘Like Steve said?’
‘No. We have no reason to, and the police are on the case.’
Roly frowned. ‘Are they?’
‘Of course they are. They must have questioned you? They’ve questioned everyone else, including my son Adam, who didn’t even know her.’
‘I still think if they’d looked a bit harder when she first went missing …’
‘No, Roly. She was dead soon after she went missing. It wouldn’t have helped.’
‘How do they know that?’ Roly’s face was a picture of misery. ‘They weren’t taking it seriously!’
‘They know it because of forensic tests,’ said Libby, crossing her fingers. It was probably true.
She looked at him consideringly.
‘Roly,’ she said, ‘have you been making threatening phone calls to me?’
Chapter Twenty
The pink in Roly’s cheeks turned practically magenta.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then, shall I?’ Libby swallowed some tonic. ‘A ploy to get the police to take the whole thing more seriously?’
Roly gave a jerky nod.
‘Why bother yesterday, though? Lisa’s been murdered. How much more seriously do you think the police could take it?’
‘Because they’re looking in the wrong direction!’ Roly burst out. ‘They don’t know anything about her!’
Libby’s eyebrows rose. ‘And you do?’
He subsided back onto his bench seat, pushing his plate away.
‘If you know anything about her that isn’t common knowledge, you should let the police know,’ said Libby virtuously. ‘It doesn’t do any good to try and hide things. Believe me, I know.’
Roly stayed silent. Libby sighed.
‘Look, if you want to get the police to look in what you think is the right direction, you’ve got to tell them what that is.’
‘I did,’ said Roly gruffly. ‘Yesterday.’
‘When you warned me about Chestnut Cottage and Notbourne Court?’
He nodded.
‘Were you following us?’
He shook his head. ‘I drove past The Poacher and I saw you and the other woman in the car park. I didn’t know if you would know anything about Lisa’s cottage or the Court.’
‘So you told us.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘Well, I think you’d better tell me what it is you think you know. Or tell the police.’
A crowd of people suddenly burst through the door. Libbytutted.
‘Come on, let’s go and sit in the gardens for a bit.’ she stood up. Roly stayed seated. Libby bent towards him. ‘Roly, if you want Lisa’s murderer found you’ve got to tell somebody what you know. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’
She stood back and Roly got slowly to his feet, as pale now as he’d been pink before. She let him precede her out of the pub, then walked him firmly to Dane John Gardens.
‘First of all,’ she said, when they’d found a seat, ‘why can’t you tell the police exactly what it is you know?’
‘Because I’m not supposed to know it.’
‘Who says you’re not?’
He looked surprised. ‘I – well, Lisa, I suppose.’
‘And she’s dead. So what difference is it going to make?’ Libby was getting exasperated. ‘Don’t make life more complicated than it already is, Roly. Just tell me what you know, or tell the police, I don’t mind. I shall tell them, anyway.’
‘Tell them that I told you?’
‘Yes! You wanted me to tell them to look into Chestnut Cottage, so I’ll tell them that.’
He didn’t answer, just sat looking confused.
‘Right. Let’s try it another way.’ Libby took a deep breath. ‘Was Lisa doing something illegal?’
Roly practically fell off the end of the bench.
‘She was. What was it? And what did it have to do with Chestnut Cottage and Notbourne Court?’
‘The owner,’ Roly whispered eventually.
‘Of the Court? And the cottage?’
Roly nodded.
‘What did he – they – do?’
‘She was working for him.’ Roly was now deep in the throes of embarrassment.
‘Working for him?’ Libby was beginning to see. ‘Was she – um – working in the sense of –’ she searched for the right way to put it, ‘of a “working girl”?’
‘Parties,’ he eventually managed. ‘She told me it was parties.’
So Owen and Max’s random theory had hit the nail on the head.
‘And who is the owner?’
‘I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me that. Said it was better that I didn’t know.’
‘Why do you think she told you all this?’ Libby stared at the boy curiously. ‘She didn’t tell anyone anything, according to the other members of the Harriers, and the police have found nothing at the cottage or on her computer.’
‘She was different with me.’ He sat up straighter, a small smile on his face. ‘When we started running together, and she told me about her heart problems, I told her about mine. And she knew I was lonely.’ The pink was returning. ‘She told me she was, too. Despite the – the parties.’
‘Were the parties at the cottage?’ asked Libby.
‘No. Although I never went there, but it isn’t big enough, is it. And these were special parties.’
I bet they were, thought Libby, thinking of the parties she and her friends had heard about in the past.
‘So where did you go?’ asked Libby.
The pink once more became magenta. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Libby, surprised. ‘I assumed …’
‘Look, I’ve told you all you need to know.’ Roly stood up. ‘You can do what you like about it. I’m not talking to you anymore.’
He turned and practically ran out of the gardens. Libby sat watching him for a minute before standing up and following more slowly. She was only just over the road from the police station, she reflected. Would it make sense to drop in there and leave a message for Ian?
Twice in twenty-four hours, she said to herself as she tentatively approached the desk.
‘I believe DCI Connell is in the building. Who shall I say is asking?’ The desk sergeant picked up the phone.
‘Libby Sarjeant,’ said Libby. ‘With a J.’
A look of recognition passed over the sergeant’s face, and he spoke into the phone. ‘Take a seat,miss,’ he said, ending the call.
Libby sat, feeling very uncomfortable. After a few minutes, DC Tomlinson appeared.
‘Would you come this way, Mrs Sarjeant?’ he said, indicating that she precede him. Libby led the way to Ian’s office, then stepped aside for Tomlinson to knock on the door and announce her.
‘Well, Lib, this is a surprise! Twice in two days. No, Tomlinson, stay. I may need you to take notes.’
Libby, surprised, sat down in the same chair she had used yesterday. ‘Why do you think you might need notes?’
‘I doubt you would come here if you hadn’t got something you wanted to tell me.’ Ian leant back in his chair and watched her face.
‘Well, I have, but it might not be important.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘I’ve just seen Roly from the Harriers.’
‘Roly …’ Ian reached for a file on his desk.
‘Johnson, sir,’ said Tomlinson.
‘Thank you,’ said Ian. ‘How did this come about, Libby? Taking matters into your own hands again?’
Libby’s stomach rolled and she lifted her chin defiantly.
‘I came into Canterbury to do some shopping –’
‘On
a Saturday?’ Ian’s tone was disbelieving.
‘Yes, on a Saturday. Ben stayed at home. I went into the little pub we use for lunch and this Roly was in there.’
‘And you didn’t know he would be, of course?’
‘Oh, Ian, give it up. I don’t know the boy. I don’t even know what he was doing in Canterbury.’
‘All right, all right, I believe you. And then what?’
‘He brought the subject round to Lisa. He was the only one who had seemed be really sorry when she went missing. Said she used to run with him. Well –’Libby went on to repeat the conversation she’d had with Roly, including her ill-advised question which had sent him running for cover.
‘And why didn’t he tell us all this?’ Ian’s face had darkened.
‘He seemed scared – I think because it was illegal. If it was – is. Oh, I don’t know. But I thought I ought to tell you, and as I was only over the road …’
‘Thank you.’ Ian stared at his desk for a moment. ‘Tomlinson, where does this Johnson live?’
‘I’ll look it up –’ began Tomlinson.
‘Itching,’ said Libby. ‘He told us when we met the Harriers. He and Lisa ran a route through their two villages together.’
Ian looked amused. ‘You have your uses.’
‘Thank you,’ said Libby, standing up. ‘I’ll get out of your way, now.’
‘I’m sending Tomlinson over to Itching to have a word with Roly Johnson – he could give you a lift.’
‘I’ve got the car, thanks,’ said Libby. ‘And it’s going to cost me a fortune. I’ve been a lot longer than I intended.’
‘Thanks again for the information, Libby.’ Ian shook her hand and Tomlinson held open the door. ‘You’d better get off and report to Fran, now.’
Libby grinned. ‘I had, hadn’t I?’
Libby rang Fran as soon as she got into the car, but neither Fran’s mobile or landline was answered. She left a message on both, realising that it was probably because her friend was helping Guy in his gallery/shop. The weather was warming up, it was mid-May, Nethergate would be busy.
Back in Steeple Martin, she found Ben in the back garden, dozing under the cherry tree with Sidney on his lap. She made tea and took his out to him, waking him up and startling Sidney into an aggrieved bolt.
‘I have news,’ she said, sitting down on the other seat. ‘Do you want to hear it?’
‘What sort of news?’ Ben’s tone was wary.
‘About Lisa Harwood.’
Ben groaned.
‘It wasn’t my fault and I’ve already told Ian all about it.’
‘Go on then.’ Ben struggled into a more upright position and took his mug.
Libby repeated her story and sat back looking triumphant.
‘What does it mean, then?’ Ben was looking faintly bewildered.
‘What do you mean, what does it mean? The police have got something to go on, now! And that silly theory of Max and Owen’s wasn’t silly at all.’
‘I still don’t know how they managed to connect a missing runner with two missing dancers,’ said Ben.
‘I think it was the lack of evidence left behind,’ said Libby.
‘You don’t think she would have been romancing to impress Roly?’
‘Goodness, Ben! Even Ian was less sceptical.’
‘Well, why did he tell you, of all people?’
‘I expect because he knew who Fran and I were – we’d been introduced to the Harriers, after all – and he knew about us going with Ian to the cliff path. He knew – or suspected – there was more to Lisa’s disappearance and death than was thought at first and he wanted to get it noticed. Just as we thought, if he made threats the police might take it more seriously. So when I tackled him with having made the phone calls, he moreorless crumpled. Well, not right away, but in the end …’
‘You badgered the poor bugger,’ said Ben, amused.
‘A bit. Anyway, Ian was actually pleased with me. So I’ve got some brownie points chalked up.’
‘Where did you say Roly lived?’
‘Itching, just before you go down the little hill into Shott. Where Sandra and Alan Farrow live. Remember? Perseverance Row?’
‘Vaguely. It’s only a tiny place, isn’t it?’
‘Very. All the villages round there are a bit like something out of Cold Comfort Farm, actually.’
‘Wicker men and rituals?’
‘Not exactly. And we’ve had quite enough of those sorts of things, thank you.’ Libby stood up. ‘I’m going to ferret about and find something for dinner.’
‘I told you I’d sort it out, remember?’ Ben got to his feet. ‘So we’re going to the caff.’ He beamed and Libby laughed.
Peter joined them for an early dinner in The Pink Geranium. Ben had been up to the theatre to let in the comedian and his entourage, and promised to be back as soon as possible.
‘He’ll want a soundcheck,’ said Peter. ‘I’d better come up with you.’
‘In that case, I might as well come too,’ said Libby, so at half past six, they all trooped up the drive to the theatre. The comedian was on stage giving orders while his entourage darted hither and yon trying – and obviously failing – to obey them. Ben calmed everybody down and Petercalled for the soundcheck to begin. Libby, always amused at the self-importance of some of the acts whom they entertained, departed to set up the bar.
Her phone rang.
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you,’ said Fran.
‘I tried to get hold of you, too, but I understood why I couldn’t.’
‘Sorry, did I sound peevish? What was your news?’
Libby once again repeated her story. Fran was silent for a long moment.
‘Fran? What’s up? Are you still there?’
‘It’s Saturday, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, all day.’
‘Then why wasn’t Roly here? They always run on Saturdays.’
‘I didn’t see him until lunchtime,’ said Libby. ‘He could have gone to Nethergate earlier.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Fran doubtfully. ‘I just think it’s odd.’
‘Well, don’t worry about it,’ said Libby. ‘Ian’s got all the facts now, so it’s in his hands. Look, I’ll have to go, I’m setting up the bar, and I’ll have to let the punters in soon – like in five minutes!’
‘Sorry, I forgot you were on duty,’ said Fran. ‘Can we talk about this tomorrow?’
‘Sure,’ said Libby. ‘Speak tomorrow.’
And why, she wondered, as she began pour ice into the ice bucket, did Fran want to talk about Roly’s story. As if, she said to herself, as she went to open the main doors, you don’t want to talk about it yourself.
Chapter Twenty-one
Fran called shortly after breakfast on Sunday morning. Ben, conforming to his role as English Country Gentleman, was sprawling on the sofa with the Sunday papers, so Libby sat at the kitchen table. The weather had turned grey and chilly, as is often its wont in May, so today was not a day for sitting under the cherry tree.
‘So what do we think about Roly’s story?’ Fran began. ‘It doesn’t feel right at all, does it?’
‘Doesn’t it?’
‘Well, the owner business. Ian already told you that the owner is a trust administered by a law firm –in the city, was it?’
‘There must be a beneficiary of the trust somewhere, though, mustn’t there?’
‘I suppose it could always be one of those tontine things. They’re administered by trusts, aren’t they?’
‘Tontine? Oh, I know, like the Alec Guinness film. He murders all the people who are in line for the succession.’
‘No,’ said Fran, ‘that wasn’t a tontine. A tontine is a sort of insurance policy. People hold equal shares in something – say the estate – and as each person dies, their share is divided among the remainder.’
‘Ah,’ said Libby. ‘Not very likely, though, is it? The estate only seems to be a couple of cottages and a broken-down bit of
wall.’
‘Exactly. And this business of the parties. It sounds more like something made up to impress Roly.’
‘That’s exactly what Ben said,’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps I was too gullible, although I think he really believed it.’
‘But why was he so scared of talking about it? Do you think she told him who the owner was, and that scared him?’
‘Yes, she might have done, so that he would keep quiet.’Libby sighed. ‘But that still leaves the question of why she was murdered and why there’s no online or paper trail.’
‘County archives,’ said Fran. ‘We could look there.’
‘We could?’ Libby’s heart sank. All those dusty files and documents.
‘We could ask Andrew Wylie.’
Andrew Wylie, Professor Emeritus of History, lived in Nethergate and had helped Libby and Fran with historical research on several occasions.
‘We haven’t spoken to him for ages,’ said Libby. ‘It would be a bit of a cheek.’
‘Not if we phoned him and asked if he knew anything about the Court. He might know something, and if not, he might volunteer to find out. He’s done that before.’
‘Hmm.’ Libby thought about it. ‘It might work. And we might have to go to tea at his flat.’
‘Is that so terrible?’ asked Fran. ‘I seem to remember he has a good line in cake.’
‘Are you going to do it, then? Tomorrow, perhaps?’
‘Who knew him better? You or me?’ asked Fran.
‘Equal,’ said Libby, ‘except that it was you who introduced me to Rosie. She introduced us to Andrew, really, didn’t she?’
Rosie was the real name of the novelist Amanda George. She’d had a brief relationship with the professor, who had subsequently adopted her cat Talbot.
‘All right,’ said Fran, ‘I’ll ring him. I don’t know what we’re going to find out, but it just seems a bit odd to me. Off-kilter. The whole thing has, right from the start.’
‘What, even when she’d just disappeared?’
‘Except that she hadn’t, had she? She was already dead. Oh – and that reminds me. The heart condition. You said Roly knew about it?’
‘Yes, and he has it, too. Or something similar.’
‘But no one else knew?’
Libby frowned. ‘I can’t remember now. It was her husband who told the police about it, wasn’t it?’
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