Murder to Music - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  Sophie’s forehead wrinkled in a frown. ‘But I wouldn’t have said she was like that. She was so focussed on her work. She wants to be a scientist – or a biologist.’

  ‘And she’s a seventeen-year-old girl,’ said Fran. ‘All hormones and emotion. And if she sees her family as a barrier to going to university, she’s bound to see them as a barrier to everything else, too, especially love. Doesn’t that make sense?’

  ‘Except that she would want to go back to school, as I said earlier, to get her A levels. And knowing the family, if she goes back to school, they can get her back home.’ Sophie laid her head on her father’s arm. ‘Thank goodness for enlightened parents.’

  ‘What will Ian do now?’ asked Ben, as he helped Libby and Fran to clear the table.

  ‘What he said, I suppose,’ said Libby. ‘Wait for dating evidence from the experts. And follow up any missing person reports that might be relevant. I don’t envy whoever has to do that.’

  ‘And meanwhile, he still has the other enquiry.’ Guy came into the kitchen.

  ‘Well, at least that’s not murder,’ said Ben. ‘And he knows who the victims are.’

  ‘Not exactly who they were,’ said Libby, ‘just what they were.’

  ‘But there’s murder there, too,’ said Fran from the sink.

  ‘Well, mistaken murder,’ said Libby. ‘More manslaughter, I would have thought.’

  ‘Not them,’ said Fran without turning round. ‘Paul Findon.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  ‘I’M SURE OF IT.’ Fran turned round, wiping her hands. ‘I don’t know why, but it’s just one of those inescapable facts.’

  ‘Is this why the cellar’s important?’ asked Ben.

  ‘I think we’d established that,’ said Libby, still looking at Fran. ‘You’ve been telling Ian to look into Findon and the cellar from the minute we found out about him.’

  ‘And the estate agent,’ said Fran, ‘but from what we saw this afternoon, it looks as though he’s already doing that.’

  ‘Except that whoever was involved in letting White Lodge after Findon died won’t still be around.’

  ‘But they’re still involved in selling the property, so they must know something,’ said Ben. ‘We should have asked him.’

  Libby grinned at him. ‘You’re getting as interested as we are.’

  ‘It has a certain appeal as a puzzle.’ He grinned back.

  ‘But it’s the human cost,’ said Fran, turning back to the sink.

  ‘I know.’ Libby went across and gave her a hug. ‘Sophie’s right. We mustn’t forget the real people.’

  Soon after this conversation, Ben and Libby left.

  ‘When do you think we’ll hear anything more about it all?’ asked Libby, as they drove through the quiet night.

  ‘I don’t know. Ian might let me know of the results of my report and Sophie will hear about Rachita.’

  ‘But how? If Rachanda can’t speak to anyone and is confined to the house …’

  ‘Ian’s quite kind-hearted. He’d tell her, I’m sure. Or at least tell Guy to tell her.’ Ben reached across and patted her knee. ‘Don’t worry about it. Get back to painting and working out what we’re going to do at the theatre this Christmas.’

  ‘Hoy! We know what we’re going to do,’ said Libby. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t mean the panto, idiot! I mean the party. We said we would have a Christmas party.’

  ‘Oh, yes, so we did.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘Are we going to do it for the whole village, or just for our members?’

  ‘We haven’t got members as such,’ said Ben. ‘But we should send an invitation to all the people who’ve worked with us. We’ve got most people’s email addresses, haven’t we?’

  ‘I suppose we can’t really have any more people than that, we haven’t got room. Pity we can’t take the auditorium seats out.’

  ‘I would definitely put my foot down at that,’ said Ben.

  Tuesday morning was still pleasant and summery, and after gloomily pottering around the cottage after Ben had gone to the Manor, Libby took his advice and went into the conservatory to continue with the painting that sat waiting on her easel. She’d got no further than sorting out the paints and brushes when the landline rang.

  ‘Hello, Libby,’ said Campbell McLean.

  ‘Campbell,’ said Libby, furiously trying to remember how much information had leaked out about the White Lodge case.

  ‘I wondered if you had anything for me yet.’

  ‘For you?’

  ‘Come on, Libby. I told you I knew what was going on at White Lodge over a week ago. And now they’ve started work at the other end of the estate. I must say, I never knew that barn was there.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it, Campbell. If you want to know any more you’ll have to ask the police.’

  ‘Libby.’ Campbell made an exasperated sound. ‘You, Fran and Ben were seen yesterday being let into White Lodge by DI Connell. So you must know something.’

  Oh, bum, thought Libby. ‘Obviously I can’t tell you anything about that,’ she said. ‘And it’s really nothing to do with you.’

  He roared with laughter. ‘That’s the most naive and ridiculous statement I’ve ever heard you make. I’m a journalist!’

  ‘Well, I’m still not telling you anything,’ said Libby, ruffled. ‘Ian would know immediately where a leak came from, and if you print anything about the case he’ll still think it came from me, even if it didn’t.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m going now. If I am allowed to talk to you, I will. All right?’

  She switched off the phone and immediately re-dialled Ian’s private mobile number.

  ‘Campbell McLean just phoned me. He knows about us going to White Lodge yesterday,’ she said when he answered, sounding exasperated.

  ‘Shit. Oh, well, to be expected. They’ve been very good about keeping quiet so far. I suppose it’s press conference time.’

  ‘About both sets of bodies?’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Ian paused. ‘Perhaps not.’

  ‘It might smoke Rachita’s family out,’ said Libby.

  ‘Libby, I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a sensible suggestion from you. Well done. I’ll try and let you know if there’s any progress.’ He switched off his phone.

  ‘Oh.’ Libby sat down on the third step, disturbing Sidney. ‘Good lord above.’

  She sat thinking for a moment, then picked up the phone again and called Fran.

  ‘Will he let you know if it’ll be on the news?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Bound to be, by tonight at least,’ said Libby. ‘He said he’d try to let me know if there was any progress.’

  ‘I’ll tell Sophie,’ said Fran.

  Next, Libby rang Ben. By the sound of it, he was out and about on the estate somewhere.

  ‘I’ll come home in time for the lunchtime news,’ he said. ‘I’ll just let Mum know.’

  ‘Shouldn’t have thought he’d have time for a press conference before the lunchtime news. This evening, I expect.’

  ‘Just in case,’ said Ben.

  Ben arrived just before the Kent and Coast bulletin was about to start. Libby put a plate of sandwiches between them and settled down on the sofa. Twenty minutes later, she sighed and stood up.

  ‘Obviously not, as I said. I expect it will be on later.’

  ‘No, hang on,’ said Ben, ‘look.’

  The female presenter was looking seriously into the camera. ‘… report that several bodies have been found at a site in Kent. An update on this story in our later news bulletin.’

  ‘It’ll be on the national news, too,’ said Libby. ‘It’s too big a story to keep local.’

  Ben went back to the Manor and Libby loaded the dishwasher and went back into the conservatory. She kept the radio on, and towards the end of the afternoon there was a short reference to the story. At this point she gave up pretending to paint, cleaned her brushes and went to make tea.

  By the time Ben came
home she’d put a chilli in the oven and was sitting in front of the television.

  ‘I don’t want to miss anything,’ she said.

  Sure enough, the third item in the national news was the White Lodge story. Ian obviously hadn’t been deemed important enough to speak to the massed cameras, and Libby was appalled to see her bête noire from a couple of years ago, Superintendent “Big Bertha” Bertram, shaking her bright blonde hair back from heavily made-up sharp features, standing on the steps of the police station.

  She read out a prepared statement and invited questions.

  ‘Have you any idea how old the bodies are?’ shouted one reporter over the rest.

  ‘Some are probably more than fifty years old,’ Bertram replied, ‘others as little as a few weeks.’

  There was a sudden shocked silence, then the noise level rose to an almost unbearable level, and there was a cut to the studio. ‘Our reporter joins us live from Nethergate outside the police station …’

  ‘So they haven’t confirmed anything,’ said Ben, as the item ended. ‘Not that the first bodies were TB victims or the second were suspected honour killings.’

  ‘They realised pretty quickly it wasn’t a serial killer, didn’t they?’ Libby stood up and went to fetch a bottle of wine.

  ‘Well, it couldn’t possibly be, could it? He’d have to be about a hundred!’

  Within ten minutes of the news bulletin the phone started ringing. Fran called first, then Adam, then Harry and finally Rosie.

  ‘I want to go back and see if that man will let us have a look from his upstairs room,’ she said.

  ‘Colonel Weston?’ said Libby doubtfully.

  ‘Yes. He was rather dishy, wasn’t he? And he did offer.’

  ‘He might not be so keen now,’ said Libby. ‘The news has broken, and he will have been interviewed again by the police. And he’s quite likely,’ she added as a thought struck her, ‘to connect us with the breaking story.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Rosie! He already thought we were journalists or something last time.’

  ‘All right, I’ll go back on my own,’ said Rosie. ‘I can go for lunch in the pub.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Libby with a sigh, ‘I’ll come. I really don’t want you walking into the lion’s den on your own.’

  ‘Shall I meet you there? Or I could pick you up, if you like.’

  ‘That’s out of your way. Are you going to call Fran?’

  ‘Should I? Or will you?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Libby with another sigh. ‘See you there at about mid-day.’

  Ben, predictably wasn’t entirely happy about the proposed visit.’

  ‘Neither am I, but I couldn’t let her go on her own, could I? And she would have done. She’s gone from a sensible, if manipulative, mature woman to a complete wreck and back to a regained youth in a matter of a couple of weeks. It’s like holding on to lightning.’

  Fran agreed to meet them there. ‘I don’t know how to reign her in,’ she said.

  ‘I know. If we had no conscience we’d just let her carry on on her own, but I feel sort of responsible, now.’

  Fran sighed. ‘I wish we’d never gone to see her in the first place.’

  ‘But look what Ian’s discovered because we did. No, we’ve got to stick with it now.’

  The sun continued to shine on the Wednesday morning, and although a little trepidatious, Libby enjoyed the drive to Cherry Ashton. Once again, she was the last to arrive, and found Fran and Rosie already ensconced at a table with Colonel Weston.

  ‘Ah! The trio is complete.’ He stood up and indicated a chair. ‘What can I get you to drink – er – Libby, isn’t it?’

  Libby asked for a half of lager shandy and raised her eyebrows at the other two when he went to fetch it.

  ‘So what have you said?’

  ‘Nothing. He was already here when we arrived and immediately offered to buy us drinks. He’d only just sat down when you came,’ said Fran.

  ‘Thank you, Colonel,’ said Libby when the big man placed her drink in front of her.

  ‘Oh, Hugh, please.’ He smiled round at them all. ‘Now, what can have brought you back here so soon?’

  Seeing Rosie open her mouth, Fran and Libby both rushed into speech.

  ‘The report on the –’

  ‘The discovery of the –’

  ‘I thought so.’ The smile disappeared. ‘I wasn’t so very wrong last time, was I?’

  ‘Wrong?’

  ‘Immediately after your visit we were all re-interviewed by the police, and not a couple of uniforms, either, a Detective Inspector and a Sergeant.’

  ‘Ian and Sergeant Maiden,’ said Fran. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what are you?’ Hugh looked slightly annoyed. ‘Undercover cops? Very good cover, if so.’

  ‘Three nosy old biddies? Yes, that’s what I thought,’ said Libby.

  He looked blank, then astonished. ‘You’re not?’

  Libby chuckled and the other two smiled. ‘No, of course we’re not.’

  ‘Then what?’ He looked at Fran. ‘You knew the two detectives who came to see us all.’

  ‘Yes. We’ve known them for some time.’ Fran sipped her drink and looked out of the window.

  Hugh frowned. ‘Now I’m even more confused. You work with them, do you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, ‘but we’re really not allowed to say any more. Although,’ she added, looking at Rosie, ‘we would quite like to take you up on your offer.’

  ‘What offer?’

  ‘To see what we can see from your upstairs window,’ said Libby.

  Chapter Thirty

  DECIDING TO HAVE LUNCH when they returned to the Ashton Arms, they finished their drinks and set off after their involuntary host.

  ‘Do you know all your neighbours in this terrace?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Yes. We have a little neighbourhood watch scheme – we’re so out of the way we need to keep an eye out for each other.’

  ‘We noticed that,’ said Libby.

  ‘Me being nosy? Sorry about that, but so were you, as far as I was concerned.’

  Libby decided not to mention Mr Vindari, and hoped the others wouldn’t either. She couldn’t quite say why she didn’t want to mention him, just that it didn’t feel right.

  The walked up the little drive to the carriage arch and underneath to face a long two-storey building of mellow red brick.

  ‘Welcome to Ashton Court.’ Hugh waved an ironic hand. ‘Not my choice, my father converted a barn after the original house was demolished.’

  ‘It’s lovely.’ Rosie beamed at him. ‘You’re so lucky.’

  Fran and Libby exchanged looks. Hugh preened slightly.

  ‘Come on in, then,’ he said.

  He led them up a wide stairway to the upper floor and along a corridor to what appeared to have been an oast roundel at the end.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘Panoramic views.’

  They went over to the windows which looked out over a hundred and eighty degree prospect. Below them were obviously the gardens of the Court, to their right the back gardens of Ashton Terrace, and further over were the trees which formed the boundary to the White Lodge estate. Libby was surprised to see a much larger open area behind the barn than there had been previously. A white van, stakes and blue-and-white tape marked the fact that it was still a scene of crime and under the aegis of the police. The huge barn doors were now open, and inside she could see white-boiler-suited figures moving about.

  ‘You can see inside, can’t you,’ she said.

  ‘But not quite what they’re doing,’ said Hugh, behind her. ‘Until yesterday I didn’t know they were digging up bodies. Although when your friend the Inspector arrived it was fairly obviously something important. I thought it must be drugs.’

  ‘That’s what we thought,’ said Fran.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘What I meant was – that’s why they went in to search,’ said Fran, turning back to the win
dow.

  ‘I don’t get it.’ Hugh perched on a windowsill and surveyed them all. ‘You say you’re not police, but you’re obviously working with them, you’ve admitted that. But what on? As what?’

  ‘They’re helping me,’ Rosie said suddenly. ‘I own the barn. And the White Lodge estate.’

  ‘Ah.’ Hugh nodded. ‘I see. So my friend Mr Vindari was right.’

  ‘He told you?’ asked Libby.

  ‘After your last visit. He also said you’d told him the police were digging up bodies. I’m afraid I told him he was too gullible.’ He shrugged. ‘And then when the police came and didn’t say anything we decided it couldn’t be murder or we’d know about it. But it was.’

  Libby turned back to the window. It was interesting to note, she thought, that the two gardens belonging to Ashton Terrace between the Court and the barn both led on to a field behind, which in turn bordered the estate trees. It would be easy to gain access from there, even if overlooked from here. Although there was little sign of any disturbance to the line of trees.

  ‘Who owns that field?’ she asked.

  ‘I do. I own all the land beyond the terrace and the church as far as the next farm on the Heronsbourne Road.’

  ‘Is that as big as mine?’ Rosie asked ingenuously. Libby narrowed her eyes at her. Surely Hugh wasn’t naive enough to fall for that. He smiled, rather suavely, Libby thought.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. The White Lodge estate, we now know, although we didn’t before, runs all the way between this road and the coast road.’

  ‘Is that the road White Lodge is actually on?’

  ‘Yes. We call it the coast road, but it really only runs parallel with the coast.’

  Rosie nodded and turned back to the windows.

  Libby felt Fran nudge her shoulder slightly. About to ask, she saw Fran nod at the window. Below them, Aakarsh Vindari stood in one of the gardens looking up at them.

  ‘Do we wave?’ muttered Libby.

  ‘Well, it was really good of you to show us, Hugh,’ said Fran, moving away from the windows, ‘but Brenda will have our meals ready by now.’