Murder in Bloom - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  Lewis was frowning. ‘You said daughter-in-law. So what about the son? There must have been one.’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby stared at him. ‘Of course. I don’t remember anything about the son. I don’t remember anything about the daughter-in-law, come to that, just that it was she he ran off with. I’ll find out tomorrow.’

  Lewis looked uncertainly towards the kitchen door. ‘Won’t Adam be cross?’

  Libby laughed. ‘He’s my youngest son, Lewis, not my keeper.’

  ‘No, course.’ He shrugged. ‘He seems very grown up to me.’

  ‘Not to me, he doesn’t,’ muttered Libby.

  Just then the wonder boy strolled in carrying a bottle of beer. ‘Have you been talking about me?’ he asked with a grin.

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, ‘but don’t get bigheaded about it.’

  ‘I think I’d better get back,’ said Lewis standing up. ‘Katie’s out there all on her own, and it can be a bit – well –’

  ‘Creepy,’ supplied Adam.

  ‘Only because of what’s been happening.’ Lewis was defensive. ‘Thanks for a great meal, Libby. If you pick a date I’ll treat you both at your mate Harry’s next.’

  ‘You’re on,’ said Adam, shaking his hand. ‘And we’ll be back at work soon, will we?’

  ‘Yeah. Mog said he’d pick you up on the way tomorrow. Didn’t he ring you?’

  ‘No. I’ll give him a ring in a minute.’ Adam opened the front door and Sidney shot out.

  ‘Is he all right in the street?’ said Lewis anxiously, looking back at Libby.

  ‘Not much of a street, really, is it?’ she said. ‘He’s fine. He’ll be over the back and across to the wood in no time.’

  When Lewis had gone, Libby went through to clear up in the kitchen while Adam called Mog. She thought she heard raised voices, but when Adam joined her he had a smile on his face.

  ‘Now I know why Mog didn’t ring,’ he said. ‘Fiona’s had the baby.’

  ‘No!’ Libby sat down on the edge of the table. ‘I didn’t think she was due yet. What was it?’

  ‘A boy, and no, it wasn’t due for a couple of weeks, but it’s all great. Started while we were loading up the car, actually, but she didn’t want to say.’

  ‘Aah!’ Libby gave her son a hug. ‘So now what will you do?’

  ‘Can I get a bus to Creekmarsh from here? Mog said I could make a start on the parterre.’

  ‘Do you know how? And it’s Saturday tomorrow. Are you supposed to be going in to work?’

  ‘Ma! ’Course I know what to do. We’re preparing the ground first, anyway. And I want to go in. So how do I get there?’

  ‘You could borrow Romeo. I expect I could ask Ben for a lift if I was stuck,’ said Libby doubtfully.

  ‘Thanks, Ma,’ said Adam, giving her a hug. ‘You’re a gem.’

  ‘I know,’ sighed Libby. ‘A positive jewel.’

  The following morning, after Adam had left in high spirits, Libby tidied up the cottage and booted up the computer. Within minutes she was reading the reports of Gerald Shepherd’s disappearance.

  After the heyday of the seventies and eighties, it seemed, Shepherd had almost fallen into obscurity. A handsome man with distinguished grey hair, he had suddenly reappeared in a political thriller, Collateral Damage, in the mid-nineties. His subsequent celebrity had affected his family adversely, however, his wife leaving with a younger actor to go to America, and his son turning to drugs. The son had, however, made an effort to turn his life around and became something of a celebrity himself, attracting a very attractive young model turned singer, whom he married after a whirlwind romance played out very much in the public eye. All three Shepherds remained popular, although less noticeable, until the son, Kenneth, was recruited for a reality show called Dungeon Trial. Libby’s mental ears pricked up.

  It was while he was incarcerated in the fastness of the show’s castle that it became apparent that Gerald and Cynthia, known as Cindy, were closer than they should have been. When Kenneth was released from his dungeon, they had vanished. It was a nine-days’ wonder in the media, then the next scandal hit the red tops and the next outrage hit the broadsheets and the whole debacle disappeared from view.

  Libby sat back and frowned. So where was Kenneth now? And why on earth hadn’t he had the power of attorney?

  She typed Kenneth Shepherd into the search engine, but the only results were those which she had already seen. She tried Cindy Shepherd, but only came up with the girl’s maiden name, which she had kept for career purposes after her marriage. Trying Cindy Dale didn’t come up with much either, just lists of her appearances as first a glamour model, then a rather unsuccessful singer with an equally unsuccessful girl band.

  Libby typed Dungeon Trial into the search engine. The reality show had started at around the same time as most of the others of the same type, but had foundered earlier. And to her disappointment, the production company behind it wasn’t even the same one that produced Housey Housey, so the hope of a possible link to Tony West was demolished. She sighed and sat back in her chair. What she needed was a good long chat with a friendly policeman.

  Her eye fell on a packet on the arm of the sofa. She let out an exasperated sigh. After all the trouble she’d gone to making him sandwiches, Adam had left them behind. Hoping, no doubt, to cadge some more of Katie’s cooking. Ah well, she thought, switching off the computer and standing up, it wouldn’t hurt to pop them over to Creekmarsh, would it?

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ she said out loud. Adam had gone off with the car. She tried to convince herself it was emergency enough to call Ben and ask for a lift, and although a week ago she would have done so, now she thought better of it.

  However, she could call Lewis and tell him. Why wasn’t she calling Adam, she wondered, as she keyed in Lewis’s number? They were his sandwiches.

  ‘Do you want me to call him?’ Lewis asked when she’d told him.

  ‘No, it’s OK, I can’t get out there because he’s got the car. I just wondered if there was any chance Katie could give him a spot of lunch. Sorry to be a nuisance.’

  ‘You’re not, don’t be daft. Problem is, Katie’s not here today, so I’m fending for myself as well. Tell you what, how about I come and pick you up and bring you over here? You can make me some sandwiches, too!’

  ‘Cheek!’ Libby laughed. ‘It seems a convoluted way round the problem, but OK. I’ll bring a picnic.’

  ‘Great, I’ll be there about half eleven.’ Lewis hesitated. ‘D’you look up that stuff?’

  ‘About Shepherd? Yes. I’ll tell you when I see you. Or you could Google him yourself.’

  ‘Dunno what I’d be looking for.’ Lewis sounded uncomfortable. ‘Look, I’ll see you later.’

  Libby smiled at the receiver and went back into the kitchen to make more sandwiches. If anyone had asked her, she couldn’t have said why she wanted to go back to Creekmarsh; all she knew was something was drawing her there. She paused, loaf in one hand, knife in the other. She wasn’t getting like Fran, was she? A shiver went through her and she shook herself.

  But when she’d packed up her picnic and put on some make-up, she called Fran while she waited for Lewis and told her everything that had been happening.

  ‘Thoughts?’ she said when she finished and Fran had been silent for a long time.

  ‘It’s all a bit odd.’ Libby heard her take a breath. ‘I know I said I didn’t want to get involved, but I suppose I couldn’t come out and have a look, could I?’

  ‘Why not?’ Libby was conscious of relief. ‘Come out today. I’m going for lunch.’ She explained about the sandwiches.

  ‘I’ll come over about one, then, shall I? Then I can drive you home.’

  ‘Brilliant. See you later.’

  Lewis was delighted to hear of Fran’s visit and promised a guided tour of the house and grounds.

  ‘I haven’t had that,’ said Libby indignantly.

  ‘For both of you, of course,’ said Lewis in surprise. ‘I was goin
g to take you round today, anyway. The police seem to have gone now.’

  Libby nodded absently and stared out of the windscreen. They were just passing the turning for Steeple Mount, and Libby could see the woods on the hill that masked Tyne Hall and its chapel. She shivered slightly.

  ‘What’s up?’ Lewis shot her a quick look. ‘You’re not cold?’

  ‘No.’ Libby pointed. ‘That’s where they used to hold Black Masses and where someone we knew was murdered. There’s a chapel behind those woods.’

  ‘Wow. You do see life round here, don’t you? What happened?’

  ‘Fran knows more about it than I do,’ said Libby. ‘Her aunt was murdered.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Lewis, looking at her again and swerving.

  ‘Eyes on the road, Mr Osbourne-Walker,’ said Libby, who returned her attention to the scenery while she told him of her findings on the Internet.

  Adam met them as they turned into the drive. Lewis opened the window.

  ‘Sorry, mate, nothing I could do about it,’ said Adam.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That bloody Big Bertha. She’s in there now. With a search warrant.’

  Chapter Eleven

  WITHOUT ANOTHER WORD, LEWIS accelerated up the drive and came to a gravel-spraying halt. He disappeared inside leaving the car door open and Libby to her own devices. She climbed out slowly, clutching her basket as Adam caught up.

  ‘What’s going on, Ad?’

  ‘I don’t know, Ma. They turned up about twenty minutes ago. I tried Lewis’s mobile, but it was switched off.’

  ‘He was driving, that’s why,’ said Libby, remembering seeing the phone on the dashboard.

  ‘Yeah, I know. Anyway, I tried to stop them, but they had a warrant. That woman is a nightmare.’

  ‘But why? They don’t think Lewis has any connection to the skeleton or Tony West’s death.’

  ‘No, but Tony West sold this place to Lewis. They must think there are traces of him or what’s-his-name –’

  ‘Gerald Shepherd,’ put in Libby.

  ‘Yeah, him.’

  ‘But they must have already searched the house,’ said Libby, frowning. ‘When the skeleton was found.’

  ‘I don’t think they did,’ said Adam, shaking his head. ‘Remember, at first they didn’t think it was a recent body.’

  ‘Oh, yes, that reminds me, how old do they think it is?’

  ‘I don’t know. When did Shepherd and the girl go missing?’

  ‘About three years ago, I think,’ said Libby. ‘You still think it’s him?’

  ‘It would make sense, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘But they haven’t released anything about it?’ said Libby.

  ‘Don’t think so,’ said Adam.

  ‘What shall we do with this?’ asked Libby, waving her basket at him. ‘I suppose we can’t take it into the kitchen?’

  ‘Don’t see why not,’ said Adam, grinning. ‘Give us a chance to see what’s going on.’

  Libby eyed him warily. ‘All right. Come on, then,’ she said, indicating that he should take the lead.

  There appeared to be no one anywhere downstairs. Murmured voices could be heard from the solar, where Libby guessed Lewis was having to answer more of Superintendent Bertram’s questions. She unloaded sandwiches, cheese and fruit onto the kitchen table, and sat down.

  ‘I suppose now we wait,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah.’ Adam looked up at the ceiling. ‘Can’t really go poking upstairs, can we? And I ought to get back to the parterre. D’you want to come and see it?’

  ‘Not right now,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll wait for Lewis.’

  And Big Bertha, she added mentally. Why she wanted to see her she couldn’t have said, but then again, she had curiosity programmed into her character, so thought her nearest and dearest, those very same nearest and dearest who fondly referred to her as ‘the bull in the china shop’.

  She looked towards the kitchen door and felt her heart jump in shock. There was someone standing there.

  The woman surveyed Libby as dispassionately as she might a cabbage on a vegetable stall. ‘And you are?’ she said in a voice like a cheese grater.

  ‘Libby Sarjeant,’ Libby said, and cleared her throat. ‘With a J. Who are you?’

  The woman looked startled, as if she wasn’t used to being questioned. Or going unrecognised. Libby took in the slender, petite stature, the bright blonde hair, over made-up face and the too-short skirt of the black suit.

  ‘Superintendent Bertram, CID.’ The woman snapped it out and Libby’s mouth dropped open. This was Big Bertha? ‘What are you doing here?’ Bertram walked to the table and looked down at Libby from eyes heavy with eyeliner.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Libby pushed back her chair and stood up, all of five feet three inches, but able now to tower over Superintendent Bertram, who scowled up at her.

  ‘This is a crime scene.’

  ‘I thought the gardens were a crime scene, not the house.’ Libby wasn’t going to back down.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Bertram didn’t comment on Libby’s assumption, which made her quite sure she was right.

  ‘I’m a friend of Lewis Osbourne-Walker’s. He brought me here ten minutes ago when we learnt from my son that you had broken into his home while he was absent.’

  Bertram looked furious. ‘We did not “break in”. We had a search warrant.’

  ‘Why?’

  This time Bertram looked simply astonished. Before she could recover, Libby sat down again, happy to have had the upper hand, if only for a few minutes.

  ‘Ms Sarjeant,’ began Bertram.

  ‘Mrs,’ Libby corrected, and smiled. Bertram heaved a sigh.

  ‘Very well, Mrs,’ she said. ‘A search has to be carried out thoroughly on these premises and no unauthorised persons are allowed here.’

  ‘Authorised by whom?’ asked Libby pleasantly. ‘After all, it still belongs to Mr Osbourne-Walker. I know you’ve checked the legality of that, and as far as I can ascertain he isn’t a suspect. I have his authority to be here, and I don’t believe I need yours.’

  Bertram’s eyes narrowed. ‘I know who you are,’ she said slowly.

  ‘Oh?’ said Libby, still smiling, but with a sinking feeling.

  ‘I believe you know DCI Murray?’ Bertram smiled; at least Libby thought it was a smile. ‘And DI Connell.’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby nodded, still pleasantly.

  Bertram placed her hands on the table and leant forward. ‘Let me warn you, Mrs Sarjeant. You will not be allowed to get in my way or hamper this investigation, with or without psychic intervention.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve got that quite wrong,’ said Libby, keeping the smile fixed with difficulty. ‘I don’t do psychic intervention.’

  Bertram straightened up, obviously puzzled.

  ‘No,’ said a voice behind her, ‘that’s me.’

  Bertram whirled and Libby stood up again.

  ‘Fran!’ she said.

  Fran came into the room and allowed herself to be hugged by Libby, while a scowling Bertram looked on.

  ‘This is Mrs Castle,’ said Libby. ‘She knows DCI Murray and DI Connell, too.’

  Bertram bit her lip, still scowling. She looked from Libby to Fran and back again.

  ‘Just keep out of my way,’ she said, and stalked to the door brushing rudely against Fran as she went.

  ‘Wow,’ said Fran. ‘Who’s she?’

  Libby explained, leading the way back to the table. ‘Would you like tea?’ she asked. ‘I think I know where everything is.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Fran looking round the huge kitchen. ‘So this is Creekmarsh.’

  Libby switched on the kettle and went to find milk in the stylish silver refrigerator.

  ‘This is Creekmarsh,’ she confirmed. ‘What do you think?’

  Fran was silent for a moment. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said finally. ‘There’s a good deal of unhappiness here, isn’t there?’

  ‘Do you mean current un
happiness? Or sort of still-in-the-walls unhappiness?’

  ‘Both.’ Fran was looking at the ceiling. ‘How old was Tony West?’

  ‘Eh?’ Now it was Libby’s turn to look startled. ‘No idea. Why?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ Fran shook her head. ‘Has that woman finished with your friend Lewis?’

  ‘I don’t know. She must have if she came down here. I suppose he’s upstairs overseeing the search.’

  ‘They do miss things, you know,’ said Fran, remembering her own visit to a murder scene eighteen months ago where she had uncovered evidence which at the time seemed irrelevant, but had eventually led to the solution of that and a previous murder.

  ‘You won’t be able to go over this place,’ warned Libby. ‘You saw what she was like.’

  ‘I know,’ said Fran serenely, ‘but it’s not being protected as a crime scene, is it? So Lewis will let me have a look.’

  ‘When they’ve gone, yes,’ said Libby. ‘I do hope they clean up after themselves.’

  ‘Oh, I expect they will. It isn’t as if they can just walk away with crime scene tape across the door, is it? Lewis is still living here.’

  ‘Will he much longer, do you think?’ mused Libby, as they heard hurrying steps on the stairs.

  ‘Lewis.’ Libby went to him and put a hand on his arm. ‘Come and meet Fran Castle.’

  Fran stood up and shook hands. Lewis looked grey and dishevelled.

  ‘What have they been doing to you?’ asked Libby, handing a mug to Fran, then pouring one, unasked, for Lewis.

  ‘Oh, nothing. They’re just turning over everything.’ Lewis pushed his hands through his spiky hair, which accounted for the dishevelment, thought Libby. ‘And that fucking woman –’ he stopped and looked guiltily at Fran. Not at her, Libby noticed. ‘Sorry,’ he went on. ‘But she’s turning me into a wreck.’

  ‘Not a pleasant lady,’ agreed Libby. ‘We’ve just met her.’

  ‘You have? Both of you?’

  ‘I only saw her briefly.’ Fran gave Libby an amused look. ‘I think she was getting the worst of an encounter with Mrs Sarjeant here.’

  ‘Ri-ight.’ Lewis nodded. ‘That’s why she was in an even fouler temper when she came back into the room.’