Murder on the Levels: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 2) (7 page)

“Well, we need to get some sense out of Steve.” The boy returned, balancing mugs, and handed them round with all the exaggerated care of a Victorian footman. Maybe he hadn’t been as high as he’d pretended. Libby said, “Where did you go to school?”

The boy hesitated. “Wells.”

“Wells? You mean, Wells Cathedral School? Do they let Goths study there?”

Steve blushed. “I had a scholarship. Music.”

“He plays the saxophone,” Mandy chimed in. “He’s in a band.”

Libby ignored her. “Do you have a job?”

“I’m on a gap year before Uni.”

“Oh? Where are you going?”

“Royal College of Music,” he muttered.

A few pieces of information clicked into place in Libby’s brain. Angela’s husband was a musician. Exham was a close-knit community. “Steve, are you by any chance related to Angela Miles?”

“She’s my aunt. She was married to Uncle Geoff.”

“That’s Geoff Miles, the composer?” Steve nodded, suddenly enthusiastic. “I’m playing in her gig in a week or two. You can come, if you like.”

“It’s a deal. Now, I want you to tell me what you know about this company that’s trying to muscle in on the bakery.”

The atmosphere froze. Steve fixed his gaze on the floor and mumbled. “What did you say?”

He heaved a heavy sigh and plucked at the frayed hole in the knee of his black jeans. “They’re called Pritchards. My mate says the top man lives in some manor house in the Cotswolds and gets around in a helicopter, but he started out as a barrow boy in the East End of London.”

“He’s done well for himself, then?”

“My mate says he’s crooked.”

“Does he? Any evidence?”

Steve licked his lips. “He uses loopholes in the law to get businesses shut down, and then he moves on to their patch. Like when that tea shop in Riversmead had to close because it couldn’t get a health and safety certificate. Pritchards bought up the premises and they’re making a fortune. My mate says they paid off the inspector.”

Libby murmured, thinking aloud. “Bribery’s a long way from murder, though?”

Mandy joined in. “What if they didn’t mean to actually kill anyone, just make everyone in the cycle club sick. Then, the bakery would be shut down and Pritchards could move in.”

“It’s a bit extreme, don’t you think? Exham’s just a small place, not big enough for a huge concern like Pritchards to care about.” Libby drained her mug. “How could they have poisoned the food?” She shook her head, dismissing the idea. “No, I can’t believe Pritchards would risk killing people, just to get a foot in the door in Exham.”

Mandy looked disappointed. “But you never know.”

Libby smiled. “No, you never do.”

***

Libby left Mandy and Steve behind, to tidy up before his mother returned. She took Bear for a final walk rounds the roads, promised him a trip out into the fields tomorrow, and returned home. She clattered ice into a glass, poured a hefty slug of gin and waved a few drops of tonic water over the surface, finished with a slice of lime and curled up on the sofa to think about Vince Lane.

He was almost as new to the area as Libby, and no one had much to say about him. Mandy said he’d sometimes worked at Alan Jenkin’s garage. With the Citroen, suitably serviced, waiting for collection from the same garage, Libby had the perfect excuse to snoop around and ask questions.

Meanwhile, the thought of that house in Leeds nagged, like an itch Libby couldn’t reach. Max had mentioned it, in the email. Maybe he could help. She reached for her phone, and dialled. Bear heaved himself up from the rug and rested his head on her lap. Libby scratched his ears.

“Are you busy?”

“No, actually I’m about to head back home. Business transacted, job done. What about you?” Bear’s tail waved. He could hear his master’s voice.

Libby swished gin round her glass. What exactly was Max doing at the moment? Had he just come from a shower, a towel round his waist, hair wet? Libby blinked to erase the thought and made herself listen. Max said, “I found out a bit about Kevin and his family firm. Seems he might have upset a few people over the land deal, but it was years ago.”

“I remember something about it. Wait a moment.” Max’s phone clunked as he set it down. “Yes.” He was back. “I’m looking at some of the paperwork.”

Libby’s mouthful of gin found its way to her wind-pipe. It was almost as though Max had known what she was about to ask. “Already? You’ve got it there?”

“On my laptop. Are you OK?”

“Gin went down the wrong way.” She finished coughing. Now, he’d think she sat around drinking on her own, every evening. She put the glass down. “Go on.”

“The company he dealt with is called AJP Associates. They’re still around.”

That was a blow. “I was hoping it would be Pritchards.”

“What do you think the P. stands for?”

“No. Seriously?”

“Seriously. Pritchards, known to be moving in on properties in the West Country, is part of the group that tried to buy Kevin Batty’s land. I’ll see what else I can find out about them. I should be back tomorrow.”

Libby tried to ignore her stomach’s tiny flip, not wanting to analyse her feelings about Max’s imminent return. Would they quarrel again, or would their truce hold? “Listen, about that house in Leeds. Have you heard any more?”

“No, sorry, but I’ll see what I can do. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.” Max’s voice sounded odd, as if there was something he wasn’t telling. He changed the subject. “How’s Bear?”

“Listening to your every word.” It was true. The dog’s mouth gaped. Libby could swear he was smiling.

“Give him a treat from me.” Max’s voice took her by surprise. He sounded homesick, which was ridiculous, as he was about to come back anyway.

Libby found she was smiling, as broadly as Bear. “I will. Come on over when you get here.”

“Will you feed me?”

“Beans on toast?”

“Perfect.” He was still laughing as the call ended.

Scrambled eggs

As Libby yawned her way downstairs next morning, keen to retrieve her beloved Citroen from the garage and at the same time, winkle tit-bits of information about Kevin and Vince out of Alan Jenkins’ brain, she caught the whiff of fish. Mandy, in the tiny back room beyond the kitchen, emptied a tin of dog food into Bear’s bowl. “And you’ve already fed Fuzzy,” Libby approved. “I can smell it. You’re trying to steal their affections.” She’d let yesterday’s pot-smoking go. Mandy was obviously on her best behaviour.

Bear finished his breakfast in three gulps and turned his attention to Fuzzy’s. In the kitchen, toast popped up from the toaster. A pan on the cooker held scrambled eggs. “You’ve made breakfast for me, too?”

“I found a recipe on line.”

Libby sniffed the air, catching an enticing whiff of herbs. “Oregano?” Mandy nodded. “Smells good.”

Mandy pushed across a piled plate, face pink. She watched, face screwed up, as Libby took a mouthful, chewed and pronounced her verdict. “Perfect. Did you have a nice evening with Steve?”

Mandy’s cheeks glowed. “I’ve said I’ll go with him to his Aunt Angela’s place today. The quintet are meeting to practice, though Steve says I have to call it a rehearsal.”

“Geoff Miles’s long-lost work. So, you’re getting a taste for classical music. Is Steve playing the saxophone?”

“Clarinet. He plays that too.”

“Talented young man. I’m going over to the garage to see if the Citroen’s fixed.”

Mandy spent an hour in the bathroom, finally leaving the house wearing a faux leather jacket. It was a size or two on the big side. Libby was sure she’d seen it on the back of a chair in Steve’s house.

***

Alan Jenkin’s garage appeared quite empty, except for a single old vehicle whose pointed wings were an especially glaring shade of pink. Seeing no sign of Alan, Libby was about to leave, when a spanner clattered on the floor, accompanied by loud and heartfelt curses. A long, grimy arm reached out from under the Cadillac, groped for and failed to find the offending tool. Alan Jenkins slid out, blowing on his left hand and muttering under his breath. He caught sight of Libby. “Sorry about the language, Mrs F. Scraped my hand.”

“Do you want me to clean it up?”

He grinned. “Nah. Happens all the time, when you’re around cars. Reckon the grease stops any infections.” His hand, filthy with oil, was a mess of old scabs. A new cut slowly oozed blood.

“Shouldn’t you have one of those pits so you can get underneath the cars?” Libby asked.

Alan grinned. “Where’s the fun in that? There’s one in the workshop, of course.” He jerked his head towards an adjoining building. “That’s where I work on your car. When I’m tending to this old lady, I like to do it here. You know, a bit hands on, you might say.”

Libby struggled to find something complimentary to say about the car. “It’s very―um―American.” What did people see in these old wrecks?

Alan patted the wing of the Cadillac. ”1969. She’ll be at the Show next week, if I can get her on the road by then.”

“Is it―er―she your only old car?”

He wiped a greasy hand over his face, leaving a trail of oil, his face screwed up as though in pain. “She’s not an ‘old car’, Mrs Forest, she’s a classic.”

“Sorry. She’s lovely, of course. I just wondered if you’d had time to look at my Citroen?”

The frown deepened. “Course I did. First thing after I brought it in, I gave it the once over.” Libby enjoyed special treatment at the garage. Alan owed Max a debt; something to do with legal advice when the garage owner stepped too close to the line. His gratitude extended to Libby. “What’s Max up to at the moment, then?” Alan rubbed his hands with an old rag and stuffed it back in the pocket of his overalls.

“He’s away. He’ll be back tonight.”

“Planning something special, are we? Going out for a meal?” Libby knew Alan’s idea of a night out was a few jars in the pub and a kebab, from the Greek take-away on the High Street.

Over in the workshop, the Citroen was buffed to a shine. “I can see my face in the bonnet.” Libby sniffed, detecting the smell of polish. “But is the engine OK?”

“She’ll stagger on for a bit, yet. A good goer, that’s what she is.”

“And this time, I want a proper bill. No discounts. OK?”

He shrugged. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.” She held out her credit card. “First, though, I want to ask you a few questions about the cycle club picnic.”

Alan gazed at his feet, arms folded. “Yeah. Thought you might start on that. Bit of a private eye, aren’t you?”

She let the silence grow. Alan weakened. “Well, I was there when it happened.”

“Were you? I didn’t see you. Were you ill, too?”

“Nah, not me. Took my own grub, didn’t I? The wife made up some cheese and pickle sarnis and a piece of pork pie.”

“I never thought of pork pie as healthy eating, before.”

Alan’s brow furrowed. “Healthy eating?”

“Never mind. It was a joke. I’m glad you were OK, but I was really wondering about Vince. He’s not been around Exham long, has he?”

“That’s right. He’s new. Arrived about ten years ago, when they opened that new business park affair.”

“You mean the place by the M5 with the hideous green warehouses?”

He grinned. “That’s right. Vince drove a fork-lift truck.” Libby bit her lip. This was no time for jokes about lifting forks. “He used to come down here of a weekend, and work on the old girl with me.” Libby deduced he meant the Cadillac. “Kevin came over, too.”

“So the three of you were friends?”

The mechanic frowned, looking perplexed at the thought. “Suppose so. Used to do a day on the car, clean up and have a few drinks in the Lighthouse Inn of a Saturday. Vince used to keep on at us to go out to the clubs, but my wife wouldn’t have that. Kevin went, once or twice, I think.”

“Kevin and Vince were both single, then?”

“Kevin used to be married, until Sheila ran off with the window-cleaner. Good riddance, he reckoned. Don’t know about Vince. He might have had a wife once, but not living with him any more, if you know what I mean.” He was frowning.

“You’ll miss the two of them, won’t you?”

“Ah. Reckon I will, at that. We had some good times.”

Libby handed over her credit card. Alan grunted. “Yep, gonna miss old Vince and Kevin around here.” As an epitaph, it didn’t seem too bad.

***

Libby left the Land Rover outside the garage, to be picked up when Max got back from his mysterious, government affairs, and drove home to a quiet house.

She’d hardly hung her coat in the hall cupboard, when a white van drew up. She answered the door to a smiling Eastern European, who heaved a weighty cardboard box into her hall. “For Mrs Foster.”

“Foster? That’s not... Oh, Forest, you mean.” Was it what she thought? Heart thumping, Libby grabbed a knife and ripped open the box. Yes. Her brand new cookery books.

She lifted out the top copy and laid it on the kitchen table, with as much care as if it were a diamond necklace. A real book, with her name on it. She stroked the raised title on the front cover, ran her finger over her own name and opened it to the dedication. “To Robert and Alison.”

She replaced the book in the box, sudden tears pricking the back of her eyes. If the bakery had been open, she’d have taken a pile of them in. With Mandy out, Ali off on her own adventure in South America, and Fuzzy in the airing cupboard, there was only Bear to share Libby’s achievement. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s have that walk.”

Poisoned chocolates

Cheered by a long run with Bear in the fields, Libby put that moment of sudden loneliness behind her, humming as she lined her beautiful new books neatly along a shelf in the study. The doorbell rang again, but this time, Libby’s visitors were solemn-faced police officers. Her mood plummeted. “Mrs Forest?”

“You’d better come in.” She offered tea. “Milk, two sugars?” The older of the pair was Police Constable Ian Smith.

Arms folded across a round paunch, he eased himself on to a stool. “We’ve met before.”