Libby swallowed. "I suppose you know about yesterday's fight?"
Morrison's faint smile showed he already had that piece of information. Less than two hours since they'd found the body and Morrison was already well on top of things. "Why don't you fill me in?" he invited.
He was testing Libby's reliability. Joe must have told Morrison about the fight at the wedding. She'd better make sure she remembered accurately, or she'd find herself under suspicion. "It was a family thing," she began. "The bride's brother had an argument with Liam Weston about…" She hesitated, then ploughed on. "About a missing ring. It looks as though Liam had taken it from a rich aunt."
DCI Morrison nodded. "It could be nothing. Fights happen all the time at weddings. Young people pour beer into their stomachs and find any excuse to pick a quarrel. Too much testosterone, some of these lads."
There was a knock at the door. "Come in."
Joe appeared. "You sent for me, sir?"
Morrison unfolded his body from the chair. "I'll leave you to talk. Today's other priority, I'm afraid, is my input to the report on traffic violations. More than my job's worth to be late submitting that piece of vital information to my colleagues. Detective Inspector, you're in charge of managing this part of the investigation." He looked at Max and Libby through sad brown eyes. "Remember what I said. If family business gets in the way it will be the end of our alliance."
Dinner
"Supper tonight at my place." Max dropped Libby at her cottage. "We invited people round, remember? I'll pick you up about six?"
Libby groaned. "I'd forgotten. What was I thinking, planning a supper a couple of days after the wedding? I haven't cooked and there's nothing in the freezer…" Her memory kicked in. "Oh no. We've invited everyone; my friend Angela, Mandy and Reginald. And Claire's coming with Joe. I mean…"
Max laughed. "Don't look so guilty. I know what you mean. You're a little scared of Joe's wife, aren't you?" Claire was a psychiatric social worker; the kind of organised, professional woman that remembered appointments and made Libby nervous.
"I like Claire. She's very kind and terribly clever, but every time I meet her, I do something embarrassing, like throw up. And you can stop laughing, Max Ramshore."
"That wasn't your fault. You'd been poisoned, that day on the Levels. I'm sure Claire thinks you're wonderful."
She doubted that. "I'd like to show her I can do something properly, but it looks as though we'll be serving beans on toast tonight."
"Relax," Max advised. "We don't meet up to test your cooking. I'll order a take-away: onion dopiaza all round."
***
The friends had meant to spend the evening comparing photos of the wedding, but Liam Weston's death drove those plans out of everyone's heads and they talked of little else. Claire, tucking a strand of shiny hair behind an ear, held up a warning hand. "Don't forget, I'm no super sleuth, like the rest of you."
Mandy swallowed a mouthful of rice. "Not me. I mean to keep well away from the Ramshore and Forest private investigations."
Max scoffed, "You're Libby's right-hand man, young lady, and don't forget it." He paused. "Maybe I should say right-hand woman. Sounds odd, though."
Libby hardly registered the words. She'd stopped eating, a heaped fork waving, ignored, halfway to her mouth. Was it her imagination, or did Mandy seem unusually subdued? She stole a glance at Reginald, Max's American colleague. He'd appeared on the scene a few months ago, investigating thefts of ancient books, and Mandy had fallen for his southern charm. Libby wasn't surprised. The man was well over six feet tall, with a shaven head, enormous, sensitive hands and a dark brown voice to die for. She was almost sure his work in England, investigating the theft of valuable books on behalf of the International League of Antiquarian Booksellers, was coming to an end. Perhaps Mandy was already pining.
Max whisked away used plates and topped up the wine glasses. "What do people think? Are we looking at a murder?"
Libby said, "I know jumping to conclusions is one of my faults, but this time, I'm not so sure. Liam's death could easily be an accident. Tractors turn over far too often on farms."
Joe agreed. "All the signs are that Liam was careless. The ground slopes sharply by the river. If he was driving too fast, or misjudged just a little, the tractor wheels could have hit the edge of the bridge hard enough to topple it over."
"On the other hand," Max put in, "Liam was an experienced driver. He's worked on the farm for years. Why would he suddenly make a rookie mistake?"
Libby ran a finger round the top of her wine glass. "It was the day after that fight at the wedding. No one likes being accused of theft, and it would surely have preyed on Liam's mind. He'd probably had too much to drink at the reception, so he'd be suffering from a hangover as well as a few bruises from the fight, and he'd be worried Lady Antonia, or Tim, might go to the police about the ring."
Max turned to Joe. "Does he have a record of any sort?"
"A caution once, for being drunk and disorderly in Taunton after a night out. Apart from that, he's clean as a whistle."
"What about forensics?"
"Nothing yet. Without signs of foul play, the post-mortem isn't high priority, so we'll have to wait a day or two for results. I've asked for an analysis of the stomach contents and blood samples to see if he'd taken anything."
Libby asked, "What sort of thing?"
"A few of the young farmers around here take drugs," Joe pointed out. "There's a lot of depression in the industry. It's not just low milk prices, though that hasn't helped, but some of the farmers never got back on their feet after foot and mouth wiped out their herds."
Angela joined the discussion. She'd sat quietly until now, but she'd been born in Somerset and had an encyclopaedic knowledge of everyone in the county. "Liam didn't have business worries. He'd been working at Handiwater Farm while he saved up enough to start his own herd. Any worries about making a living would sit with Belinda and Mike."
Max smiled. "I think that gives us a clue where we need to start looking."
Libby was keen to visit Belinda after the woman's odd behaviour at the wedding. "I'll take a trip out to the farm and see how things are." She said nothing about Belinda's money worries. She'd told Max in confidence, as her business partner, but had no right to spread the information further. Belinda's talk of financial pressures had roused her curiosity and she'd like to know more about the farm. If it was in serious trouble, the farm workers would be worried about their jobs. Perhaps Liam, nervous about the future, had seen the ring in the grass and seized an opportunity to make some easy cash.
Joe sounded enthusiastic. "Maybe Max could do a little digging into the farm's financial affairs. I can't get a warrant for surrendering them to the police, but there'll be records available. After all, they're a limited company. They have to post accounts at Somerset House every year."
Claire, his wife, sat quietly as the others talked. She looked from one face to another, alert, following the conversation, but her eyes kept returning to Mandy. Libby hid a smile. Mandy wore two eyebrow rings, a stud in the middle of her lower lip, a cross attached to the side of her nose, and earrings that jangled loudly with every movement of the head. No wonder Claire found it hard to tear her eyes away.
The small frown creasing Claire's forehead deepened. Her gaze tracked to Mandy and back to Libby. Was she sending a message? Libby took a closer look at Mandy's face. A light film of sweat showed through the white powder on her nose and forehead. Libby spoke quietly. "Are you feeling unwell?"
Mandy stared at the table. "I'm fine." Her voice shook, and Claire raised an eyebrow. Libby gave a tiny nod, and as the others tucked into ice cream, they both watched Mandy. The young woman played with her food in silence, mixing sauce into rice and pushing it around the plate. Hardly a single spoonful reached her mouth.
Finally, even Reginald noticed her behaviour. "Mandy, I'm starting to worry whether it's safe to eat the food. You haven't swallowed anything. I guess you didn't doctor it i
n some way, when you were out in the kitchen?"
Mandy dropped her fork, shoved her chair back and staggered to her feet, rocking the table. Cutlery rattled and a drop of wine slopped over the rim of Libby's glass. Mandy's cheeks flamed as she gasped, "I didn't—I can't—" With a sob, she dashed the back of one hand across her eyes and ran from the room.
In the moment of shocked silence, Libby rose to follow, but Claire touched her arm. "Probably best to let her have a moment alone."
Concern was written all over Reginald's big, kind face. "I didn't mean to upset her."
"Have you told her you're going back to the States soon?" Libby asked. "You know she has a crush on you."
"Sure, she knows. We had a little thing going for a while, but it kind of fizzled. Mandy's spent the past few weeks telling me about that ex-boyfriend of hers. What's his name? Steve? I guess I've been something of a father figure. Just as well. I can't stand that music she listens to."
A knot of worry in Libby's stomach tightened as she remembered a conversation with Mandy, about a quarrel with Steve. "I was on the train to London," Mandy said. "Everything was fine. We were planning to eat at Steve's flat before going to a gig. I'd only got to Bristol, when a bunch of kids came on board the train. They were a bit noisy, like all kids, but they didn't even notice me." She'd made a strangled noise, like a failed laugh. "Suddenly, I couldn't breathe. Honest, Mrs F. I thought I was going to suffocate. We were just arriving in Bath and I was scared I'd faint in front of all those kids, so I kind of stumbled off the train and got a taxi home. Cost a fortune."
"Did you explain to Steve?"
Mandy had sniffed and shook her head. "I sent him a text, saying I couldn't make it. He was mad with me and we broke up." She never told Steve she'd been diagnosed with claustrophobia, and despite Libby's pleading, she'd refused to get help, and forbade any further discussion of the matter.
Judging by this evening's scene, it seemed Mandy's problems had not, as Libby had hoped, disappeared. Libby whispered, "Claire, could I have a word?"
She led the way into Max's study. Once there, second thoughts struck her dumb. Claire prompted, "You know something about Mandy, don't you? Can you give me a hint?"
Libby bit her lip. "I don't want to break a confidence."
"It's OK, Mrs F." Mandy had followed them into the room. "You're a psychiatric nurse, Claire, aren't you?"
Claire nodded. "Kind of. Do you want to talk?"
Mandy blew her nose.
Claire beckoned Mandy to an armchair. "Maybe, you'd better start at the beginning. The others can manage without us for a while."
Libby left them alone. Curiosity ate into her, but she had no business interfering. Neither spoke of their private conversation when they returned to the table. The other guests, with admirable discretion, managed to avoid any reference to Mandy's odd behaviour, instead making a great show of wondering about the tiny key found near Liam's body. Reginald spoke for them all when he said, "What in the world would a big guy like Liam Weston want with a tiny key like that?"
Farm visit
Libby rose early next morning, planning to visit the farm. At least the trip would take Libby's mind off Mandy's woes, and maybe answer a few questions about Liam. She planned to take Bear and Shipley for the ride, hoping to borrow Max's Land Rover, for the dogs really wouldn't fit comfortably into her purple Citroen. Bear had often ridden in the back, overflowing the seat and drooling over Libby's headrest, but the notion of shoe-horning Shipley into the little car seemed a step too far.
Max, already seated at his computer, huge coffee cup alongside a substantial slice of Libby's ginger cake, glanced up through steel-rimmed glasses. "I'm checking the farm's public accounts." He took a giant bite of cake, gave a vague nod in answer to Libby's suggestion she take the car, waved an arm in her direction, and returned to his screen.
The road to the farm trailed for more than half a mile through a patch of woodland, winding round fields of sheep, finally ending in a pristine farmyard. Libby wore wellies, expecting to wade through mud, but the stones of the yard were swept clean as a suburban patio. To one side a row of three quad bikes gleamed, chrome polished to a sparkle, paint spotless.
The farmhouse, long and low, was built of local Ham stone. The woodwork sparkled with fresh paint and crystal-clear windows reflected the bright summer sun. There was no sign the place suffered from lack of funds, as Belinda had suggested.
The dogs firmly secured on their leads, Libby rapped on the farmhouse door. No reply. She knocked once more, stepped back and gazed around for inspiration. The house was fronted by a small area devoted to vegetables and flowers and a tiny patch of lawn, but beyond, a metal gate led to a set of outbuildings. Libby tied the dogs to the gate and approached the nearest outbuilding.
She slipped through the door, hearing the gentle hum and rhythmic pumping of a milking parlour, smelling the warm scent of cattle. The black and white cattle took no notice of her arrival. They munched hay, apparently untroubled by the pumps attached to their udders. As the milking machinery purred to a halt, the gate at one end of the building clanged open to release the cows, lowing quietly, into a field. The gate closed behind the last animal and its partner at the other end opened to let more enter. Mike appeared at Libby's side. "Impressive, isn't it? It's our new robotic system. Hardly any need for me to be here. Not like the old days when we milked by hand."
Libby shook her head. "It's all so efficient."
The man grunted. "You thought I'd be sitting on a three-legged stool, my head against the cow's stomach, pulling on the teats by hand?"
Libby laughed. "I'm ashamed to say you're right. I'm a townie, at heart."
"Well, I don't suppose you came to watch our latest technology, did you?" Mike narrowed his eyes and wiped his hands on a hank of cloth.
"Take over, Jake, will you?"
An older man in brown overalls grunted as he passed from one cow to another, washing the udders. Mike leaned on the gate, gazing across his fields. "You found young Liam's body, I hear." He pulled off his cap, twisting it between calloused fingers. "A bad business, that. He'd been down that field many a time, and there are plenty of steeper slopes. Can't imagine what the lad was thinking, letting the tractor tip over. Must have been going too fast, I suppose, the young fool."
"I came to see Belinda, really. You know, see if she's OK, what with that fight at the wedding, and then Liam's death. I thought she might be upset."
Mike Carmichael led Libby into the house, scratching the back of his head. "Ah, well now, you've missed Belinda. Gone to town, she has. Shopping therapy, she calls it. Can't think of anything worse, myself, but she reckons it's relaxing. Buying shoes, I reckon. Got a cupboard full, upstairs."
Mike gestured towards the kettle. "Tea?" Libby smiled, hiding a sense of unease. It seemed an odd time to go shopping, so soon after Liam Weston's accident. Belinda must be worried sick. Apart from distress at the sudden death of a young man she knew well, there were implications for the farm. The tractor might turn out to be faulty, or badly maintained. Health and safety inspectors would be involved, and the farm could end up in court.
Libby tried to be charitable. Perhaps Belinda needed to get away from her worries for a few hours. One thing was clear―she wouldn't be talking to Libby this morning.
"Bring the dogs in," Mike said. "We're used to muddy paws here."
Bear sprawled in front of the door while Shipley sniffed round every corner of the kitchen, hoping for titbits. He was out of luck. The floor was immaculate and the room smelled of lemon-scented polish.
A square scrubbed table dominated the kitchen, an Aga and a deep Belfast sink were ranged along one wall, and an enormous, heavy-duty washing machine vibrated quietly nearby. Mike brewed tea, offering a mug of dark liquid and pushing a bowl of sugar across the table. Libby softened the tea with milk from a tall, white jug. "From your cows?"
Mike winked. "Raw milk, that is, straight from the cow. The best sort, but we're not allowed to se
ll it. No, every drop has to be pasteurised and sent off to the supermarkets, to sell for less than it costs to produce."
He peered at Libby under bushy eyebrows. Two vertical lines appeared on his forehead. "Now, maybe you've not come to see Belinda after all, Mrs Forest." His voice hardened. "Let's get down to brass tacks. You're here to find out about Liam, aren't you?"
Libby didn't bother to deny it. "I expect the police have visited?"
"Of course. They say there's no reason to suppose Liam's death is anything but an accident. Clumsiness, and too much to drink the day before, poor fellow. Ah. We'll miss the lad. He was a good worker." Mike's weather-beaten face, wrinkled and leathery from days in the sun, wind, and rain gave no clue to his real feelings.
Libby asked, "How long did Liam work here?"
"First came on the farm when he was a toddler. His ma used to bring him over to see Belinda. One of the Skinners, she was. Died a few years ago. Cancer or something. It was a bad time for young Liam. His dad went during the foot and mouth."
"Went? Left home, you mean?"
Mike's voice sounded bitter. "Not he. Did away with himself. Lost the farm, you see. The whole herd had to be slaughtered. Dumped in one great pit, set on fire, and buried over yonder." Mike waved an arm towards the window, where the rolling landscape stretched to the horizon. Libby shivered. One of those tranquil green pastures hid a grave full of the ashes of a man's livelihood and dreams.
"Liam, though, he still wanted to work on the land. He's been saving up, putting money aside, just about ready to start his own dairy herd, he told me. Not that there's profit to be had in milkers, not these days."
"I expect you have to diversify." Was that the right terminology?
Mike heaved a long sigh. "That's right. Can't make a living from cattle, not these days. We rent out a couple of cottages down in the valley."
"It's a great place for tourists."
"That it is. Walking, that's the favourite. Too hilly in this part of Somerset for the cyclists, but camping and riding keep them coming. Then, there's Wimbleball Lake for water sports." For the first time, Mike grinned. "We make a good profit off the grockles, that's for sure. Come every year, some of them."
Murder at the Bridge: An Exham on Sea Cosy Murder Mystery (Exham on Sea Mysteries Book 5) Page 3
