‘Anyway, it would have been replaced by an adoption certificate,’ said Fran. ‘And nobody but the adoptee themselves can apply for the details.’
‘Than how did the mother find him?’ asked Susannah.
‘I expect she went to one of those specialist services,’ said Libby. ‘Or a television programme.’
‘Not a TV programme,’ said Fran. ‘That would have been too public. And I’m sure they would have filmed him in Turkey, so everyone would have found out about it.’
‘That’s true. It’s still odd that he didn’t tell anyone about it.’
‘He did, though. Justin knew about it, just not who she was. And we’re pretty sure Sally Weston knew, aren’t we?’
‘If you’re that concerned, have you tried googling him? Putting it out on social media?’ suggested Susannah.
‘“Do you know this man’s mother?” sort of thing?’ said Libby. ‘I suppose we could.’
‘And what about this man Smith. Was he genuine?’
Fran and Libby looked at each other. ‘We think so. He actually got in touch with Ian to verify our credentials, if you can believe it,’ said Fran.
‘You mean your nice Inspector Connell?’
‘Chief Detective Inspector, please!’ said Libby with a grin. ‘Yes, him. Actually, Fran, perhaps we ought to ask him what he knows about Smith.’
‘I suppose we could,’ said Fran slowly. ‘In fact I’m surprised he hasn’t been on to us already asking us what the hell we were doing.’
‘Good idea!’ Libby brightened. ‘Let’s do it now.’
‘We’ll go to my house,’ said Fran. ‘Susannah’s got to do the school run.’
Libby gave Susannah a lift to the school gates on her way to Coastguard Cottage, and waved to Guy in his gallery/shop as she drove past. Fran had left the front door open, and Balzac drifted forward to meet her with a soundless miaow.
‘Who’s going to ring?’ asked Libby, sitting down on the window seat with Balzac.
‘Doing it.’ Fran held out her phone. ‘Personal first.’ She returned the phone to her ear. ‘Voicemail.’
She left her message and joined Libby on the window seat.
‘I wonder when he’ll pick it up?’ said Libby. ‘Should we call the work number?’
‘No,’ said Fran. ‘This is personal, not work. And we don’t know what he’s involved with at the moment.’
‘Hmm.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘Sally Weston. I wish we knew more about her.’
‘Maybe we could.’ Fran stared at a corner of the ceiling. ‘If Martha knows her birthday.’
‘Yes!’ Libby clapped her hands and frightened Balzac.
‘I’m not calling her, though.’ Fran stood up. ‘Have you got her email address?’
‘Yes.’ Libby reached down for the basket. ‘It’s in my book. I got everyone’s email addresses, even Betty’s.’
Libby’s book had once been rather a glamorous affair with a linen cover. It was now somewhat battered, having been carried round in various bags and baskets for several years, and had become a social documentary of the early twenty-first century.
Fran collected her laptop from the kitchen and Libby read out Martha’s email address.
‘Now we just have to wait. I don’t suppose Martha checks her email very often.’ Fran closed the laptop just as her phone began to ring.
‘Ian,’ she mouthed to Libby.
‘Hello, Ian,’ she said out loud. ‘No, we just wanted to ask –’
After a moment of listening, she raised her eyebrows at Libby. ‘Told off,’ she mimed.
‘All right – yes, she is. I’ll ask.’ She put her hand over the phone. ‘Ian wants to know if you’re going to the pub this evening.’
‘Is it Wednesday?’ said Libby in surprise. ‘Oh, no it isn’t. Still, I suppose we can.’
‘Yes,’ said Fran into the phone. ‘Yes, all right, I’ll come up as well, yes, and Guy. See you later.’
She ended the call and made a face. ‘He didn’t sound pleased.’
‘But wants to talk to us. That’s encouraging,’ said Libby.
‘Well, yes.’ Fran frowned. ‘And now I’ve committed Guy and me to driving up to Steeple Martin tonight.’
‘I expect Guy’s been having withdrawal symptoms not having his mate to chat to,’ said Libby with a grin.
‘We’ve only been home a few days,’ said Fran. ‘I think he could survive a bit longer.’
‘Why don’t we see if Harry can fit us in at the caff?’ suggested Libby. ‘Then it’ll make it worthwhile.’
Harry could indeed fit them in, and they met in The Pink Geranium a few hours later. Ben and Libby arrived to find Fran and Guy ensconced on the sofa in the left-hand window of the restaurant while they waited for their table.
‘I had a reply from Martha,’ said Fran, as Guy poured wine for the newcomers.
‘You did? Why didn’t you ring me?’
‘Because I got it just before we left and I was going to see you in about twenty minutes,’ said Fran. ‘Honestly, Lib.’
‘Oh, all right.’ Libby settled back in her chair. ‘What did it say?’
‘Sally’s birthday was the twenty-eighth of December and Martha thinks she was forty-three or four. She remembered her fortieth birthday party a few years ago, but wasn’t sure.’
‘And did we know if she’d been married? Was that her maiden name?’
‘Libby!’ came the chorus of three voices.
‘Well, all right, I only wondered. We can try with what we have, I suppose. Or do you think we could ask Ian …?’
‘No!’ said the three voices.
Harry had introduced some new Turkish recipes to his menu, kindly donated by Jimmy’s chef at the hotel, and the obliging Mahmud at The Red Bar, and he insisted that his guests try them.
‘Lovely,’ said Libby, finishing her shakshuka and mucvar, the courgette fritters so popular as mezze, ‘but it doesn’t taste the same, somehow.’
‘That’s because you’re not eating outside in a temperature of thirty degrees,’ said Harry, coming to see how they were enjoying his efforts. ‘Acceptable, though?’
‘Gorgeous, Hal,’ said Fran. ‘You haven’t got baklava for dessert, have you?’
Harry looked smug. ‘Oh yes I have.’
They were all suitably grateful.
‘So Ian’s coming to put you through the wringer?’ Harry absently poured himself a glass of red wine from the bottle on the table. ‘Do Pete and I get to come?’
‘I don’t see why not. We don’t even know what time he’s coming, but we assumed it would be after ten, as it usually is on Wednesdays,’ said Ben.
Wednesday night was a regular meeting night in the Steeple Martin pub. The Oast theatre company often rehearsed on Wednesdays and would repair to the pub afterwards; their friend the Reverend Patti Pearson came over to see her friend Anne Douglas, have dinner with Harry, and then go to the pub, and Ian would drop in on his way home from the police station or whatever case he was working on. They’d never worked out exactly where he lived, and even after several years of friendship, he’d never told them.
‘OK,’ said Harry. ‘Baklava all round?’
But to their surprise, when they arrived in the pub at nine thirty, Ian was already there talking to Peter, who hadn’t joined them in the restaurant.
‘Are we in for a telling off?’ asked Libby, as they settled at the corner table by the fireplace. ‘Because we didn’t do anything, I promise.’
Ian smiled. ‘Apart from getting mixed up in murder in a foreign country, you mean? Oh, no, nothing at all.’
‘We couldn’t help it, Ian,’ said Ben gently. ‘We all saw the body. We could hardly avoid it.’
‘No I appreciate that,’ said Ian. ‘I was more concerned about what you did next.’
‘We were told the victim had been traced by his birth mother and one of his friends called the consulate.’ Libby eyed him warily. ‘We met the friend.’
‘And then sur
prise, surprise, up pops a commander of the Metropolitan Police all ready to coerce you into helping him. And who actually managed to get in touch with me to make sure you were who you said you were. All of you, in fact.’
‘All of us?’ said Guy.
‘Oh, yes. Alec Wilson was a false identity.’
Chapter Twelve
After a shocked silence Libby said, ‘Do you mean he was in the witness protection scheme? Or he was a spy or something?’
‘As far as I’m aware it was the witness protection scheme, but I’m not privy to all the information.’ Ian sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee.
‘Why?’
‘What for?’
‘What had he done?’ The questions all came out at once.
‘I can’t tell you. Commander Smith didn’t confide in me, but I had to provide as much information as I could about you all in case you knew Wilson’s real identity.’
‘Golly,’ said Libby. ‘So we really were suspects?’
‘I doubt if you’re off his radar even now,’ said Ian, with a grin. ‘He’s actually got a team out there now investigating.’
Libby hit the table. ‘And we missed it!’
‘It wouldn’t have been pleasant,’ said Ian. ‘I should imagine all the ex-pats out there are having their lives pulled apart.’
‘We were under the impression that some of them were there to escape from something,’ said Fran. ‘We were right.’
‘We don’t know that,’ said Guy. ‘Only about Alec Wilson – and we never actually met him.’
‘That lot at the Istanbul Palace were definitely escapees,’ said Libby. ‘Johnny thought so, too.’
‘Johnny?’ Ian looked amused. ‘Commander Smith?
‘He introduced himself as Johnny,’ said Fran. She looked round the circle uncomfortably. ‘And I don’t know whether you know, Ian, but he asked Libby and me to help search both victims’ homes.’
Ian’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Did he, now. Why?’
‘He had no other help at the time, and the Jandarma weren’t really interested.’
‘Nothing’s appeared in the media about this,’ said Guy. ‘Usually if the British police go to assist in the overseas murder of a British national it’s all over the place.’
‘Not when the victim is virtually under police protection.’ Ian looked round at them all. ‘And the story of a mother finding him is extremely suspicious. How would a birth mother find him if he’d been provided with a completely new identity? His old one would simply vanish when the new one appeared.’
‘With nothing to link the two?’ said Ben.
‘No. So you see why it raised suspicions.’
‘Why would he have said anything about the birth mother, then?’ asked Libby. ‘That seems rather odd. After all, she didn’t go out to Turkey to see him, he came to England to see her, so nobody in the village would have met her.’
‘And he seemed to have told no one who she was or anything about her,’ said Fran, ‘so why did he mention her at all?’
‘As a cover of some sort?’ suggested Peter, joining in for the first time.
‘But he was only going back to England. Everyone knew that’s where he came from,’ said Ben.
‘Did he go back frequently?’ asked Ian.
‘We don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘The people we spoke to didn’t seem to know an awful lot about him even though they’d known him for at least ten years. It was the other victim they said knew him best.’
‘So was she killed because she knew something about his real identity?’ asked Peter.
‘If,’ said Fran slowly and thoughtfully, ‘he’d told people he had no family or friends left in England he would need an excuse to go back. So inventing an unknown birth mother would do very well.’
‘I still don’t see why he needed an excuse to go back,’ said Libby. ‘He could have just wanted to see the old place again. Making up what is quite an elaborate story seems a bit excessive.’
‘It could, of course,’ said Ian, ‘be true.’
Everybody spoke at once.
‘But you just said –’
‘How?’
‘It could?’
‘Suppose somehow his real mother had found him. Perhaps when he was given his new identity he managed to tell her and she suddenly needed to see him.’
They all looked at each other.
‘It’s possible,’ said Ben. ‘But pure speculation.’
‘That’s what you’re all so good at,’ said Ian. ‘Anyway, be warned that you’re likely to be visited by either your Johnny or his minions. He isn’t happy about this.’
‘Was Wilson a criminal?’ asked Libby. ‘Can you tell us that at least?’
Ian shook his head. ‘Not even that.’
‘I’ve just thought,’ said Fran. ‘You know his passport was tied round his waist? Suppose it was there so that he would be identified if found?’
‘Do you think he was meant to be found?’ said Ian.
Fran looked at her friends. ‘How likely would it be that the body caught on that piece of rock? If he’d been pushed off a boat, say?’
‘He might have drifted into that little cave,’ said Guy.
‘And hooked himself up onto the rock?’ said Fran. ‘There are no tides in the Mediterranean.’
‘A warning?’ said Ian. ‘Someone who wanted him investigated?’
‘If that was the case, they didn’t have to kill him,’ said Libby. ‘They could have sent an anonymous letter or something.’
‘To whom, though?’ asked Ian. ‘No, killing him would make sure there was an investigation.’
‘Which nearly didn’t happen,’ said Libby. ‘The Jandarma weren’t doing much good.’
‘So it’s thanks to you there is one,’ said Ian.
‘Not really. It’s thanks to his friend Martha, who was worried about his newly found mother not knowing,’ said Fran.
‘Except that you two went and pushed her,’ said Ben.
‘Suppose you tell me everything that happened,’ said Ian, sitting forward. ‘As if you were giving me a witness statement.’
‘Why?’ Libby was wary.
‘I told you. I think you’ll be questioned again, and if I can give your commander statements while his investigation is still centred in Turkey, at least he’ll have something to go on.’
‘But he knows everything already,’ said Libby.
‘Did he take notes?’
‘Well, no …’
‘And you are no longer there for him to ask.’
‘All right,’ said Libby, ‘but not now, surely?
The door swung open.
‘Hello! What have I missed?’ asked Harry.
The following morning, Ian and Fran arrived on Libby’s doorstep at the same time.
‘I thought we’d sit in the kitchen,’ said Libby, leading the way. ‘It seems less cosy than the front room.’
‘And better for me to take notes,’ said Ian.
‘Yes,’ said Libby with a sigh.
After they had settled at the kitchen table and Libby had provided coffee, tea, and biscuits, Ian took out his notebook.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘From the beginning.’
Between them, Fran and Libby related the events that followed the discovery of Alec Wilson’s body.
‘It feels as though we’ve been through this a million times,’ said Libby. ‘And it doesn’t get any easier.’
‘I looked up the witness protection scheme online,’ said Fran. ‘It’s part of the National Crime Agency.’
‘Yes.’ Ian sounded wary.
‘Usually people are part of an investigation of serious crime, or possibly honour killings. I wouldn’t have thought Alec Wilson was involved with honour killings.’
‘So, serious crime?’ said Libby. ‘Organised crime?’
Both women looked at Ian.
‘It’s possible. I told you, I don’t know the details. The Service works independently of local forces, although there a
re regional Protected Persons Units. But the whole idea of the service is that nobody knows where the person is.’
‘But if there’s a threat to the person in their new identity someone must get to know about it,’ said Fran.
‘There’s a flagging system, of course,’ said Ian, ‘but you don’t need to know about that.’
‘And Wilson was flagged?’ said Libby.
‘When the restaurant owner called the consulate, yes. All the flag meant was that they had to inform the Met, which they did. As it happens, Commander Smith really was staying with one of the Jandarma chiefs at the time, so he was able to take over immediately.’
‘But that would mean whoever killed him wasn’t a local. We said that, didn’t we?’ Libby turned to Fran. ‘It must have been someone who went out specially.’
‘Not necessarily. After all, the other victim was a local. It could just as easily be someone he’d annoyed out there – nothing to do with any previous connection to crime.’
‘I wonder if they found the computer and mobile phones,’ said Fran. ‘And if so, what was on them.’
‘You’ll never know, sadly,’ said Ian with a grin. ‘I’ll get this typed up and send it across to Smith. Do you think there’s anything in there you wouldn’t have told him?’
‘I wouldn’t give him the names he asked for, but apparently he already knew them anyway. But we’ve all come home now – the holidaymakers, that is. Neal Parnham, Greta, and Tom, and Betty and Walter Roberts – they all left before we did, and we didn’t see anything more of either Smith or the Jandarma after that.’
‘Well, be prepared for him to descend like a ton of bricks. I hope this might keep him off, but I have my doubts.’ Ian stood up. ‘If anything else happens, let me know.’
Fran and Libby took fresh cups of tea and coffee into the garden after he’d gone.
‘I wonder what sort of crime it was,’ said Libby. ‘Remember how worried Neal was when he thought Wilson was a criminal?’
‘If he’d had a holiday fling with him, I’m not surprised,’ said Fran. ‘And we don’t know that he was a criminal, remember. Far more likely he was a witness.’
‘Or a gang member who turned on the gang and gave evidence. Much more likely.’ Libby looked up through the leaves of the cherry tree. ‘Do you think we’ll ever go back there?’
Murder in the Blood Page 8