Murder in the Blood

by Lesley Cookman

  They were all silent, looking at him.

  ‘Are you thinking spies?’ said Ben eventually. ‘Or whatever that would be called today?’

  ‘It occurred to me that maybe the British authorities knew he was here. That’s why there’s suddenly a senior Met policeman on the scene only a couple of days after he died.’

  There was a further silence.

  ‘It fits,’ said Fran at last. ‘But why would he involve us?’

  ‘Partly to see what you knew,’ said Harry. ‘After all, he went straight to Martha, didn’t he? She told him about you two – and us – and then he went hotfoot after you. And he’s spoken to Ian. He’s got lines of communication we could only dream of.’

  ‘Why did he ask us to go with him this afternoon, then?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Camouflage,’ said Fran.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Two English tourists he could ask about the deaths,’ said Ben.

  ‘Except we didn’t know them,’ said Libby.

  ‘He probably thought it would look better than just one strange bloke going into other people’s houses,’ said Harry.

  ‘How do you know so much about it, anyway?’ asked Guy.

  ‘I lived in London, didn’t I? On the streets, some of the time.’ Harry picked up his towel. ‘Right, I’m off to the shower. Coming, Pete?’

  ‘He could be right,’ said Libby, watching Peter and Harry stroll off down the path to their room.

  ‘If he is, I doubt if we’ll find out anything more about it,’ said Fran. ‘He’s used us for whatever reason, and that will be it.’

  ‘How infuriating.’ Libby shouldered her basket. ‘Do you think he’ll talk to Justin and Neal?’

  ‘If he’s really investigating, yes, I would think so.’ Fran began to walk down the path after Peter and Harry. ‘He’ll have got a list of people from the Jandarma, won’t he?’

  ‘If Neal comes into the bar tonight you can ask him,’ said Ben. ‘Now, come along woman and make me a cup of tea!’

  But there was no sign of Neal Parnham when they assembled in the bar that evening. Betty and Walter were sitting with Greta and Tom, although Walter didn’t look as if he was enjoying himself very much.

  ‘Have you heard any more?’ Greta called over to them.

  ‘No,’ said Libby and Fran together, having decided there was no point in relating their adventures of today.

  ‘We were wondering if you felt strong enough to go out on a boat trip again?’ said Betty. ‘I’m dying to go, but Walter isn’t keen.’

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ muttered Ben.

  ‘I don’t like the fish,’ said Walter.

  Everyone stared at him. ‘It’s the bones,’ he said and shifted awkwardly in his seat.

  ‘You don’t have to have fish,’ said Fran. ‘You can always ask for something else. Were you thinking of going with Captain Joe?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘He’s said he’s free.’

  ‘All right,’ said Libby, looking round at her friends. ‘I think it’s about time we got back on the horse, don’t you?’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Do you suppose we’re waiting for more passengers?’ asked Fran the following morning, as the Paradise bobbed gently at its moorings. ‘It’s nearly half past ten.’

  ‘I hope we aren’t waiting for that one,’ said Libby, squinting along the beach.

  Fran turned to look. ‘Oh, no.’

  But Johnny Smith had raised a hand to them and beaming, approached the gangplank.

  ‘Just wanted to have a look at where you found the body,’ he said. ‘No need to explain that to the other passengers, though, eh?’ he winked and moved along to the fo’c’sle.

  ‘Is he going to leave us alone?’ asked Libby, watching as he nodded a greeting to those already established on mattresses. ‘I’m going to stay here out of his way.’

  ‘Wouldn’t we be better with the others? Then he couldn’t talk to us,’ said Fran. ‘They’re up on top.’

  ‘As long as Joe puts the shade up,’ said Libby, getting to her feet and making for the ladder to the top deck.

  But Johnny Smith didn’t come near them. They heard him talking to Captain Joe, but the Paradise chugged on past the little island and the cave where Alec Wilson’s body had been found. Nobody dared to discuss recent events in case he could overhear them, so they spent a relaxed day sunbathing and reading. At lunchtime Joe served up the customary grilled fish, rice-stuffed peppers, and onions, salad, and the inevitable chips, and Johnny sat with a couple whom the hotel contingent didn’t know. Walter had been left behind, and Betty was thoroughly enjoying herself. She was even persuaded into the water when they reached Turkuvaz, one of the more sheltered bays where the water was shallow enough to wade ashore, and as turquoise as its name.

  Libby was pottering along the shoreline looking for shells when a voice spoke behind her.

  ‘Had any more thoughts, then, Libby?’

  She turned and looked at Johnny Smith. ‘About Alec Wilson? No. I didn’t know him.’

  ‘Or Sally Weston?’

  ‘I didn’t know her either. We never met either of them, I told you. Have you had her computer analysed?’

  ‘It’s gone to the lab. And we have no mobile for her or for Wilson, so we’re up a gum tree.’

  Libby frowned at him. ‘I bet you’re not. And Fran and I don’t want to get any more involved, either.’

  ‘Fine.’ He shrugged. ‘Now, tell me, the bloke who recognised Wilson’s picture. He’s at your hotel isn’t he? But not on the boat?’

  ‘No. He’s friends with people in the village. He doesn’t do tourist things.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Why do you want it?’ asked Libby, feeling uncomfortable.

  ‘He might have known Wilson. He might have confided in him.’

  ‘He only met him in the last couple of weeks,’ said Libby.

  ‘So?’ Johnny shrugged again. ‘Who are his friends?’

  ‘Look, I’ve said – we don’t want to get involved. All we wanted to do was find his poor mother.’ Libby was getting annoyed now.

  ‘OK.’ He smiled and stuck his hands in his pockets. ‘Somebody’ll tell me.’

  Libby looked up and waved as Ben started down the gangplank into the water. ‘I’m sure someone will,’ she said to Johnny and went to meet Ben.

  ‘He’s still poking around,’ she told the others, when Joe had started the boat’s engine for the homeward journey. ‘I wouldn’t give him Neal’s or Justin’s names.’

  ‘Surely he’d have been able to get them from the Jandarma,’ said Guy. ‘He’s just testing.’

  ‘Well, it’s making me cross,’ said Libby.

  When they arrived back at the bay in the late afternoon, Johnny Smith was the first off the boat, striding away in the direction of the village.

  ‘Good riddance,’ said Libby. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t come back.’

  That evening they were surprised to be joined by Neal Parnham and Justin.

  ‘Thought it was about time I treated Justin to dinner here,’ said Neal, with a pale smile. ‘He’s been feeding me for the last few days.’

  Libby opened her mouth to ask him if he’d seen Johnny Smith. Ben dug her in the ribs and Fran trod on her foot under the table. She glared indignantly at them.

  ‘We went to The Red Bar the other night and met Mahmud,’ said Peter. ‘He said you often went there.’

  Libby couldn’t remember if Mahmud had said that or not, but she accepted the gambit as a possible way into the conversation she really wanted.

  ‘You took me there, didn’t you?’ Neal asked Justin.

  ‘Yes, last week. Nice little place and not touristy.’ Justin carried two beers to the table. ‘May we join you?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Ben, shifting his chair.

  ‘But nowhere here is really touristy, is it?’ said Harry. ‘Not like Bodrum or Dalaman.’

  ‘Nowhere catering solely for English or German tour
ists,’ put in Libby hopefully.

  ‘I thought you’d been to the Istanbul Palace?’ said Justin.

  ‘Er – yes.’ Libby’s eyes slid sideways to meet Fran’s. ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Martha, of course.’ Justin sounded surprised. ‘She said that Johnny Smith went to find you there.’

  ‘He did.’ Libby sighed.

  ‘He’s spoken to you then?’ said Fran. ‘What did you make of him?’

  ‘I was puzzled,’ said Neal. ‘He’s supposed to come from the Met, but how did he get here so quickly simply for a couple of unknown British nationals?’

  ‘He told us he was on holiday with a friend who is some high-up in the Jandarma,’ said Libby. ‘What did he tell you?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Justin.

  ‘Wait a sec,’ said Libby. ‘When did you see him?’

  ‘Yesterday evening,’ said Justin. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he asked me for your names today. I didn’t give them to him.’

  ‘And he already knew,’ said Neal, frowning. ‘What’s he playing at?’

  ‘Trying to find out if anyone knew anything more than appears on the surface, I should think,’ said Ben.

  ‘Is he more interested in Alec Wilson than Sally whats ’er name?’ asked Harry. ‘If so, that’s significant, isn’t it?’

  ‘How?’ asked Justin.

  ‘Something must be – as they say – known about him.’

  ‘You mean known to the police?’ Neal’s eyes were wide. ‘Do you mean he was a criminal?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Guy.

  ‘But that would explain his murder, surely?’ said Neal.

  ‘But if he was a criminal who had fled here from Britain, it would mean someone had come over here to find him.’ Harry looked round the group with a gleeful grin. ‘So it could be any one of us!’

  There was a chorus of amused approval for this statement.

  Jimmy helpfully directed a couple of his ‘boys’ to put several tables together, so all the guests could dine together. Betty forced the recalcitrant Walter to sit at the end of the table, where he faced away from everyone and pretended not to hear if anyone spoke to him, and she was able to join in the general conversation. Which, of course, revolved around the murders. Fran and Libby said nothing about helping to search the victims’ properties, but joined in the speculation about the involvement of Commander Johnny Smith.

  ‘You actually saw his ID?’ said Greta, awestruck. ‘A real commander?’

  ‘That’s what it said,’ agreed Fran.

  ‘Don’t you believe him?’ said Betty from the end of the table.

  ‘He’s definitely got connections,’ said Libby. ‘He was on to the UK about us as soon as he met us.’

  ‘So was this man a criminal?’ asked Tom.

  ‘That’s what I said.’ Neal nodded.

  ‘What did he do for a living?’ asked Libby suddenly. Everyone turned to Justin.

  ‘I don’t think he did anything,’ said Justin, looking bewildered. ‘I just assumed he had some kind of private income – or he’d retired early.’

  ‘How old was he, then?’ asked Harry.

  ‘I don’t know exactly.’ Justin was frowning. ‘In his fifties, I suppose.’

  ‘I thought he was younger,’ said Neal. ‘Late forties?’

  ‘And he’s been here ten years?’ said Libby.

  ‘Oh, more than that,’ said Justin. ‘He was here before me and Sally.’

  ‘Then he was probably in his thirties when he arrived. A bit early for retirement,’ said Ben.

  ‘Did he never mention a job? Anything?’ said Fran.

  ‘No, none of us did,’ said Justin.

  ‘What do you do?’ Peter fixed him with a gimlet eye.

  Libby was interested to see the sudden colour rush in to Justin’s face. ‘I – er – well, nothing much. I do odd jobs for people.’

  The image of Justin with a hammer and nails didn’t fit with Libby. ‘What sort of odd jobs?’

  ‘Accountancy,’ said Neal. ‘That’s what you said, didn’t you?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Libby. ‘But you didn’t do anything for Alec?’

  ‘No.’ Justin’s colour was receding. ‘And what does that have to do with anything?’

  ‘Trying to work out how he made his living. He must have had private money, as you said.’ Libby turned her attention to her plate.

  Conversation became more general, and eventually even Neal began to open up and smile. At last only the six friends were left in the bar.

  ‘That was illuminating,’ said Libby, watching Justin’s back disappearing along the beach road.

  ‘What was?’ asked Harry.

  ‘The fact that no one here has a job.’

  ‘No one?’ repeated Guy.

  ‘The ex-pats, I mean. Justin, Alec, and Sally.’

  ‘Sally gave cookery lessons, didn’t someone say?’ said Peter.

  ‘Well, Alec and Justin, then.’

  ‘And Justin does “odd jobs” for people,’ said Fran.

  ‘Fiddling their books for them, I would think, wouldn’t you?’ said Libby. ‘I suppose he has private money, too.’

  ‘Does he fiddle the books for that crowd up at the Istanbul Palace?’ said Harry. ‘You reckon they’re all criminals.’

  ‘I think they’ve all run away from something. It needn’t be criminal. Johnny Smith thought so, too.’

  ‘He probably knows,’ said Ben.

  ‘Well,’ said Harry, ‘I think Alec Wilson was a spy.’

  ‘Here?’ Libby was incredulous. ‘What on earth would he be spying on here?’

  ‘He was just waiting to be activated,’ said Harry. ‘Betcha.’

  ‘I don’t suppose we’ll ever know,’ said Ben. ‘I can’t see your friend the commander telling you any more about the case, unless he thinks he has a use for you.’

  ‘He won’t now,’ said Libby. ‘I refused to give him Neal’s name and it turned out he already knew. He must realise by now that we don’t know anything.’

  And so it appeared. Neither Commander Smith nor the Jandarma were seen on or near the beach or the hotel. Neal reported that Justin had seen the Commander briefly in the village, but days went by and the whole subject of the murders was, if not forgotten, no longer discussed.

  On Neal Parnham’s last night, he bought his fellow guests a drink at the bar.

  ‘Quite an eventful holiday,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘And we still haven’t got any answers,’ said Libby.

  ‘Justin’s promised to email me and let me know if anything happens.’

  ‘Martha’s said the same to us,’ said Libby, ‘although it looks as though there won’t be anything.’

  ‘And we don’t even know if they found his mother,’ said Neal. ‘That’s sad.’

  ‘We did our best,’ said Fran. And they all agreed.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kent was enjoying a perfect late June. Libby was glad to be back home, reunited with Sidney the silver tabby, who had been on holiday at the Manor with Ben’s mother Hetty, and Fran was back in Coastguard Cottage in Nethergate with its view of the sea, Balzac the cat in his usual place on the window seat. Things were back to normal.

  But Libby was troubled. None of the investigations in which she and Fran had been involved had ever fizzled out into nothing as this one had, and with no prospect of them ever finding anything further. All she had to look forward to was organising the summer show for The Alexandria, Nethergate’s restored Victorian theatre. Since The Oast’s company had been invited to fill a gap in the summer season a few years ago, it had become a regular feature, visitors to the little town flocking to see the old fashioned end-of-the-pier style entertainment.

  The Oast Theatre, owned by Ben and his mother and converted by Ben in his former life as an architect, was run by Ben, Libby, and Peter, Ben’s cousin. They had a fluid company of players, some amateur, some professional, the theatre played host to one-nighters, b
oth comedy and musical, small visiting theatrical productions, and their own hugely popular pantomime each year. Pantomime and music hall being closely allied in their Victorian and Edwardian traditions, the regular pantomime performers were only too happy to turn themselves into seaside entertainers for a few weeks in the summer. All Libby had to do was find the material. To take her mind off the unfinished business in Turkey, she called Susannah, her musical director.

  ‘Come over,’ said Susannah, ‘and we’ll go through some music.’

  ‘Can I ask Fran to come, too?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Of course. I have cake.’

  Susannah lived not far from her brother and sister-in-law, Terry and Jane Baker, in a lovely Art Deco house on top of the cliffs in Nethergate, with a view across the little town to the island and the lighthouse on the headland. It was Terry who had introduced Susannah to the Oast theatre, when Libby and Ben held a birthday party in the theatre for Hetty’s birthday, and she had come to play for them.

  Libby and Fran spent a happy hour in the lovely sitting room, where Susannah’s grand piano stood in front of double doors that led out to the shallow steps leading to the terrace. Susannah had spread out a small forest of sheet music, and even found some online clips of the items in performance, so they quickly had almost too much material.

  ‘Right, tea outside now,’ said Susannah, ‘then I’ll chuck you out. I’ve got to pick up The Kid from school.’

  ‘This is a beautiful house,’ said Libby, when they were settled on the terrace.

  ‘I know.’ Susannah smiled smugly. ‘It was so lucky that Emlyn and I got back together after The Kid was born. Neither of us could have afforded anything like this on our own. So tell me all about this thing that happened on holiday.’

  Libby sighed. ‘It was a bit of a disaster, really. Oh, not the holiday, that was lovely, but we didn’t find anything out about the victims or anything.’

  ‘What we really got annoyed about was that there was no attempt to trace the victim’s mother,’ said Fran.

  ‘His mother? How do you mean?’

  Fran explained the circumstances of the murders.

  ‘Couldn’t you look up his birth certificate?’ asked Susannah, when she’d finished.

  ‘We don’t know how old he was or his birthday,’ said Libby, ‘and Alec Wilson’s quite a common name. I bet there are thousands.’