Murder in Steeple Martin (12 page)

Chapter Fourteen

N
O PHONE CALL WAS
needed to wake Libby the following morning. She had drifted into sleep somewhere around four o’clock, but when she heard the milk float whining down Allhallow’s Lane just after six it became infuriatingly apparent that the ravell’d sleave of care was to remain unknitted.

After the last weeks of cold and indeterminate weather, spring seemed to have arrived. The sun shone from a clear blue sky and Libby could at last smell the lilac that tapped on the conservatory windows. In the house where she’d grown up there had been a lilac tree hanging over the fence from next door and the scent always evoked childhood and security. Now it seemed almost indecently inappropriate.

Sidney disappeared over the fence, whiskers alert for stirring wildlife, and Libby envied him his escape. At some point this morning Peter and Harry would pick her up to take her to Canterbury Police Station, and until then she had to fill her time, take her mind off things. Nothing appealed. Never at her best with housework, the thought of brushing down the stairs or mopping the kitchen floor made her even more depressed.

Eventually she settled for cutting the grass with the lightweight hover mower Harry had talked her into the last time she’d persuaded him to mow what passed for her lawn. The consequences of this decision were missing the telephone call asking her to be ready at ten-thirty and the sudden appearance of Peter in the garden, causing her to squeal loudly and drop the mower on her foot.

The inevitable delay caused by a search for something to alleviate the swelling and footwear large enough to accommodate it resulted in their late arrival at the police station, where they trooped in like a bunch of school-children hauled up in front of the headmaster. This particular headmaster turned out to be a harassed-looking, balding man with the vestiges of violently red hair lurking over his ears. He introduced himself as Detective Chief Inspector Murray, the Senior Investigating Officer, and explained that he and his colleagues would be conducting interviews with all of them separately.

Peter, Harry and Libby looked at one another in shock.

‘But Sergeant Cole said it was just to sign a statement.’ Libby hoped her voice had come out better than it sounded to her.

‘Well, yes, Mrs Sarjeant. But I’d like to make sure we’ve got everything we need, if that’s OK. Just a few more questions.’ Inspector Murray said. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

‘Too bad if we don’t,’ muttered Harry, who received a sharp look from Murray.

‘Mrs Sarjeant, perhaps you’d come with me?’ Murray stepped back and waited for Libby to join him. ‘I won’t keep you waiting long, gentlemen.’

Libby was taken into an interview room and offered a cup of tea. After refusing, she was left alone for five minutes before Sergeant Cole and a spiky-haired schoolboy came in.

‘Mrs Sarjeant,’ said Cole, sitting down and jerking his head towards his companion. ‘This is DC Bulstrode. The OIC’s told you what’s going to happen, hasn’t he?’

‘OIC?’

‘Officer in charge.’

‘Officer in the case.’ Cole and Bulstrode spoke together.

‘Inspector Murray?’ asked Libby.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Murray,’ corrected Cole solemnly.

‘Yes.’

‘So I’ll be conducting this interview. OK?’

‘I thought I was just to sign a statement,’ said Libby.

‘Nothing to worry about,’ said Cole, ‘we’ll just go over the same ground we did yesterday. Ready?’

Libby answered the same questions she had the night before. DC Bulstrode said nothing throughout, but lounged in his chair and picked his nails.

‘Thank you, Mrs Sarjeant,’ said Cole.

‘So now tell me why we had to do that instead of the statement I thought I was going to make?’ said Libby, gathering scarves and cape around her and standing up.

Cole looked confused. ‘Procedure,’ he said, looking at Bulstrode, presumably for confirmation. Bulstrode looked at the corner of the ceiling.

‘And are you going to tell me how she was killed?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t, madam,’ said Cole, also standing. ‘I’ll see you out.’

As she was ushered back into the waiting area, Libby turned and fixed Cole with a minatory glare. ‘Does this mean I’m a suspect?’ she asked.

‘We’re investigating the case, madam,’ said Cole, ‘we have to talk to everybody.’

‘Not two interviews,’ said Libby.

‘Quite normal, madam,’ said Cole. ‘Thank you for your time. If you’d care to wait here for your – er – friends.’

Libby waited for nearly forty minutes before Peter, looking frazzled, came out to join her.

‘Who grilled you?’ she asked.

‘That girl who came last night and another sergeant, then Murray came in and the sergeant went out.’ Peter shook his head. ‘Terrifying. I don’t think they believed a word I said.’

‘I know. But you were much longer than I was. Must have been worse.’

‘Well, I’m more of a suspect than you, aren’t I? And Harry’s more than either of us, obviously.’ Peter looked round the waiting area. ‘He’s still in there.’

Eventually, Harry appeared, accompanied by DCI Murray, who gave them all a curt nod and vanished back through the glass doors.

Harry swore fluently all the way out in to the street until Peter put an arm round his shoulder and shook him gently.

‘Come on, love. All over now. Let’s go and have a drink. I’ll drive back and you can get rat-arsed.’

Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Where did Ben say he’d meet us?’

‘That little pub we went to last time,’ said Peter. ‘They do decent sandwiches. All right with you, you old trout?’

Libby nodded, unable to say she would rather not meet Ben. Peter linked one arm through Harry’s and the other through hers and dragged them both towards the underpass.

After battling their way through swathes of the inevitable French students, they turned down a side street and found the pub. Off the tourist trail, it retained a certain British integrity, Libby thought, nicely balanced by a decorative gay barman who sparkled at Harry and caused Peter to snort with laughter.

Ben rose from a table in the window.

‘Hi, guys,’ he said. ‘This is Fran.’

Chapter Fifteen

L
IBBY
’
S SCALP PRICKLED AND
something happened to her solar plexus. The dark-haired woman sitting in the window nodded politely and smiled as Peter, after a brief but noticeable pause, leaned forward and held out a hand.

‘Hi. I’m Peter, Ben’s cousin.’ He straightened up and waved a hand. ‘This is Harry, and our friend Libby.’

Harry muttered something and looked sideways at Libby.

‘What can I get you?’ asked Ben, coming round the table and brushing Libby’s arm. She twitched away and he looked surprised.

‘Fizzy water, please,’ said Peter, ‘I’m driving. But I think Harry needs a treble scotch.’

Harry frowned at him and turned to Ben. ‘Just a half of whatever’s decent, thanks,’ he said.

‘Libby?’ Ben looked down at her as she perched uncomfortably on a stool.

‘Same as Harry, thanks,’ she said, without looking up.

As Ben went to the bar a silence fell. Libby was appalled to find herself feeling all the emotions of a jilted schoolgirl, all the more inappropriate as she had no right to do so. She looked across at Fran and took a deep breath.

‘Fran and I work together occasionally,’ said Ben, putting a glass in front of her before she could speak.

‘Occasionally?’ Peter raised his eyebrows.

Ben squeezed back into his seat next to Fran, who so far hadn’t said a word.

‘Fran does some research for us. And for other people, of course.’

‘Research? what on? building plots?’ Harry sounded derisive.

‘Yes, actually,’ said Ben.

‘Oh.’ Harry subsided and he, Peter and Libby looked at each other and quickly away again.

‘I think I’m in the way, here, Ben,’ Fran spoke for the first time, revealing a beautiful, deep voice. ‘I’ll push off. Give me a ring about that …’

‘No, don’t go.’ Ben put a hand out to stop her rising. ‘I think you might be able to help.’

‘Ben …’ began Peter, but Ben cut him off.

‘I know what you’re going to say, Pete, that this is family business and so on, but I really think Fran might be able to help.’

‘Why?’ said Harry.

‘How?’ said Libby.

‘Have you told her already?’ said Peter.

Ben frowned. ‘She is here, Pete. She can hear what you’re saying.’

A faint flush stained Peter’s cheekbones. He turned to Fran and smiled. ‘Sorry.’

‘I’ve told her about the incidents at the theatre and that one of the cast members has been found dead, that’s all.’ Ben looked at each of them. ‘Anyone got anything to add?’

Libby shook her head and looked at the others. So he hadn’t said anything about the intertwined relationships.

‘I really wanted to know if Fran could tell us anything about the accidents, but she’d have to come and have a look, wouldn’t you?’ He turned to Fran, who, to Libby’s surprise, was still looking uncomfortable.

‘Possibly,’ she said.

Eventually Harry voiced the question that Libby wanted to ask.

‘But how can she help? Is she a detective?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Ben, ‘but she does find things out for people. For my clients.’

‘Look, I may be being thick,’ said Libby, ‘but what exactly do you find out, how and why, and why does Ben think you can help us?’

Fran pushed a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Libby put her age at roughly the same as her own, although she looked younger. Her style was smarter than Libby’s own eclectic fashion statements, and altogether she looked a much better match for the urbane Ben.

‘I investigate sites,’ she said at last. ‘And for estate agents I investigate properties and areas.’

‘Oh.’ Peter looked relieved. ‘A sort of house detective.’

Ben grinned. ‘Except that Fran uses remote viewing.’

Libby felt her mouth drop open and was aware that Peter and Harry were equally stunned.

‘That’s like – telepathy?’ said Harry.

‘In a way. Fran, aren’t you going to explain?’ Ben patted her hand.

If anything, Fran looked even more uncomfortable.

‘I don’t call it remote viewing,’ she said, ‘it doesn’t really seem to be anything to do with me.’

Libby felt marginally warmer towards her. ‘So what do you do?’

‘I go and see sites where Ben’s clients want him to build and just wander around. If anything comes up I tell him – or them.’

‘If anything comes up?’ Peter looked affronted. ‘Is that all?’

‘Well, that’s all I can say, really.’ Fran had coloured, and once more pushed the lock of hair behind her ear. Libby thought she could see a faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead. She warmed to her further, even if she was Ben’s newest girlfriend, or maybe a long-standing one.

‘Fran comes up with all sorts of things – unstable footings, water courses –’

‘Dowsing!’ said Libby.

‘Absolutely.’ Ben smiled at her. ‘And she’ll investigate streets and neighbourhoods for estate agents or private clients.’

‘What? to see if murder’s been committed?’ Harry sounded scornful again.

‘Maybe,’ said Fran, looking at him curiously. ‘And that’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it?’

A charged silence fell. Harry looked at Peter, then down at his glass.

‘Apparently, yes, murder has been committed. But I don’t think it’s anything to do with you.’ Fran sat back in her chair and picked up her drink.

Peter cleared his throat. ‘Yes, well, I’m sure that’s very comforting, Mrs – er – Fran,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think the police agree with you.’

Fran looked even more embarrassed and turned to gaze out of the window.

‘Don’t be quite so dismissive, Pete,’ said Ben quietly. ‘If companies like mine and Goodall and Smythe trust Fran’s judgement, I don’t see that you have any right to criticise, do you?’

Now Peter and Harry looked embarrassed.

‘Goodall and Smythe? They’re big, aren’t they? Head office in London?’ Libby leaned her elbows on the table, interested.

‘And ads in all the glossy magazines. That’s right. And if one of their clients is worried about the neighbourhood, or if anything nasty has happened in the house, or on the estate, they recommend Fran to go and have a poke about.’ Ben smiled at Fran and patted her hand again. ‘It all happened by accident, didn’t it, Fran?’

Fran nodded, but said nothing.

‘So what are you suggesting, then?’ Peter looked from Fran to Ben. ‘Is Fran going to come and snoop round the theatre?’

‘Well … yes, I suppose so. Just to see if she can pick anything up.’

‘Does it matter any more?’ Libby sat back in her chair and sighed. ‘After all, you’ve all decided that we’re not going ahead with the play, so there won’t be any more accidents, will there?’

‘How do we know?’ said Ben. ‘We said it might be nothing to do with the theatre or the play.’

‘You don’t want it to go ahead, and neither does Peter, do you Pete?’

Peter looked at Harry, who nodded. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t like to think it was off for ever. We’ve all put in a lot of work on this project. But …’

‘Paula, exactly.’ Ben tapped his glass on the table. ‘I don’t think Paula’s death has anything to do with the theatre or the play, but we have to be certain. We talked about it last night after you left, and, having thought it over, I agree with Pete. We’ve all put in too much work to abandon it.’ He looked at Libby. ‘You’ll be pleased.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, but don’t hold me responsible for the whole thing. It has to be a majority decision, and it is your family who’re concerned, after all.’

‘Yesterday you were chasing round trying to find things out on your own. You’ve changed your tune,’ said Harry.

‘Whose side are you on?’ Libby raised an eyebrow at him.

‘Pete’s, of course,’ Harry snapped.

‘Stop bickering, children,’ Ben said. ‘Let’s just see if Fran can pick anything up, then we’ll decide what to do. One thing we don’t want is the police sniffing around, so quietly does it.’

‘When are you coming over, Fran?’ said Libby. ‘Can we give you a lift?’

‘I’ll drive over this evening, if that’s OK. I can’t guarantee anything, you know.’

‘Not to worry.’ Ben stood up. ‘I’m off to be grilled now. See you all later.’

‘I need to go, too,’ said Fran. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

Peter, Harry and Libby all watched in silence as Ben ushered Fran out of the pub, then took her arm as they started down the street.

‘That his latest squeeze, then?’ asked Harry.

‘I don’t think so.’ Peter was still looking after the retreating backs. ‘Just work colleagues, I’d guess. Not really his style, is she?’

‘Neither’s Li–’ began Harry.

‘Me.’ Libby scowled at him. ‘I know. We’ve already been there. But at least she’s tall and beautiful.’

‘And mystic.’ Peter grimaced.

‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,’ said Libby.

‘Oh, Lib, you don’t believe in all that rubbish, do you?’ Harry scoffed.

‘I dowse all the time,’ said Libby. ‘It helps me not to die from salmonella.’

‘Eh?’

‘The old pendulum trick. You know, like they used to do over the stomachs of pregnant women to see what sex the baby was.’

‘And now they’ve got amniocentesis,’ said Peter, ‘there’s progress.’

‘So how do you use it?’ asked Harry.

‘I ask it if the food’s safe for me to eat. I don’t keep my kitchen like you do, after all.’

‘You’re dead right there. In fact I’m surprised you haven’t killed that walking stomach yet.’

‘Sidney can manage the odd sparrow and field mouse, so whatever I give him can hardly hurt him, can it?’ Libby finished her drink and sighed. ‘And what the hell are we doing talking about cats and dowsing when Paula …’ she broke off and looked away.

‘I know.’ Peter leaned forward and put his hand over hers. ‘It’s a bastard, isn’t it?’

‘Shall we go back?’ asked Harry eventually. ‘I don’t feel like food, somehow. And I can always do us something back at the caff.’

‘Come on, then,’ Peter stood up and held out a hand to Libby. ‘Let’s try and get back to normal.’

‘Don’t forget Fran’s coming this evening,’ said Libby. ‘That’s hardly normal.’

‘Neither’s murder,’ said Harry gloomily.

‘Are we actually supposed to be there when she comes?’ asked Peter, ushering them out of the pub. ‘I assumed she was just going to meet Ben.’

‘I thought he told us because he wanted us to be there. We’ve all got vested interests in the theatre.’ Libby picked her way between tourists.

‘Well, I suppose we’ll find out if he rings us and tells us she’s there. There was no mention of time, was there?’

‘No, so let’s not bother,’ said Harry, ‘and I’ll do us a scrummy lunch and we can drink our way through the afternoon.’

Peter flung an arm round his shoulders. ‘Harry’s recipe for forgetfulness, eh?’

‘And a very good idea,’ said Libby firmly. ‘I think there’s quite a lot I need to forget.’