Murder in the Blood

by Lesley Cookman

‘So then he rang, just before I called you.’ Harry frowned at his coffee mug. ‘He sounded quite upset. Apparently, these British cops have been quite polite, but have been concentrating on Wilson’s and Sally Thing’s houses, when suddenly this plain clothes bloke from Antalya turns up. And he’s been going round asking all the same questions and more. And the British cops don’t like him, but they can’t stop him.’

  ‘Goodness!’ said Libby. ‘So why is Justin upset?’

  ‘He seems to be certain the murderer is in the village. And he’s been asking about all the boats, and who is good enough to take a boat out at night. The crowd at that hotel you went to –’

  ‘The Istanbul Palace,’ supplied Libby.

  ‘Yeah, that one, well they’re getting very twitchy, Justin said. Martha’s the only one who seems calm about it all.’

  ‘She was only worried about the mother aspect,’ said Peter. ‘And what do we think about that now?’

  ‘If he’s in the witness protection scheme or a sleeper it can’t be true,’ said Ben. ‘No one could have found him.’

  ‘So it was a ploy,’ said Libby. ‘Do you suppose he wasn’t allowed to come back to the UK, and he snuck in secretly?’

  ‘He’d have had to have a passport – which we know he had,’ said Ben, ‘so I don’t suppose his travel was restricted.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Harry, ‘he’s passed on Neal Parnham’s email. He’s been asking Justin questions, too.’

  ‘I’ll do a group email to him, Greta and Tom, and Betty,’ said Libby. ‘They’ll want to know.’

  ‘Do we tell them about Ian questioning you?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Perhaps not, but I’ll tell them Smith came sniffing round.’

  ‘He wants to cover up the truth, the Turkish policeman wants to uncover it,’ said Ben. ‘It could turn into an international incident.’

  ‘Smith took Sally Weston’s computer, and he said he was going to get Wilson’s from the Jandarma,’ said Libby. ‘Will the Turkish policeman make him give them back?’

  ‘No idea.’ Ben shook his head. ‘I wonder if there will have to be diplomatic intervention?’

  ‘It can’t be that important,’ said Peter. ‘Wouldn’t there have been something in the press?’

  ‘Smith won’t want his cover blown,’ said Harry. ‘Right old mess, isn’t it?’

  Ben persuaded Libby not to call Fran then and there, but to wait to do that and send the email in the morning.

  ‘It’s Saturday, and I’m going to take Mum into Canterbury,’ he said as they walked home. ‘Do you want to come?’

  ‘No, I’ll ring Fran and send the email. Will you have lunch in Canterbury?’

  ‘I expect so. Are you trying to keep me out of the way?’

  ‘No! I just want to know if I ought to prepare something. Tell you what, I’ll cook for you both tomorrow night. Hetty will be expecting us to lunch on Sunday, won’t she?’

  Sunday lunch at the Manor was an unvarying tradition, attended by as many people as Hetty could round up.

  ‘I’ll ask her,’ said Ben. ‘Now, do you want a nightcap?’

  After Libby had seen Ben and Hetty off in the morning, she called Fran to read her the text of the email before she sent it, and to tell her Harry’s news.

  ‘I expect the Turkish people are cross that the British have taken over,’ said Fran. ‘We wouldn’t like it if one of theirs came over to investigate here, would we?’

  ‘I suppose not. I don’t see how they’re going to ever solve it now. They’ll be working against one another.’

  ‘It’s not solving it Smith’s trying to do,’ said Fran.

  ‘That’s what Ben said. He’s trying to cover it up, the Turks want to uncover it.’

  ‘Well, no doubt we’ll find out. Ian might even tell us,’ said Fran. ‘Now, I’m supposed to be helping in the shop, so I’d better get on with it.’

  Libby sent the email to all her former fellow guests at Jimmy’s, then went and peered once more at the painting in the conservatory. All she had to do now was wait.

  It wasn’t until Sunday morning that a reply was received from any of the residents of Erzugan or its visitors. Ben had made tea and brought it up to bed and gave Libby his smartphone to check her emails.

  ‘Greta says she hasn’t heard from anybody, and so does Betty,’ Libby said, scrolling through messages. ‘Nothing on Jimmy’s page, but Martha’s replied. She says this Turkish policeman has been prowling around, and is upsetting the people at the Istanbul Palace. Geoff Croker even went over to see her the other day.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Getting all the ex-pats on side, I suppose. Martha doesn’t like the Crokers, though, so it’s a bit odd.’

  ‘Nothing from Neal or his pal Justin?’

  ‘No, but I haven’t got Justin’s address – it was Harry who emailed him. Neal hasn’t replied.’

  ‘Where do they all live?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Greta and Tom live Leicester way, I think, and Betty near Manchester. I’m not sure Neal ever said where he lives. Why?’

  ‘I just hoped we weren’t going to be surprised by visits from them.’ Ben slid back down under the duvet.

  ‘Oi! Don’t go back to sleep,’ said Libby.

  He grinned up at her. ‘I wasn’t intending to.’

  Libby phoned Fran to pass on the information she’d received before walking up to the Manor for lunch. On the way, she and Ben met Flo Carpenter and Lenny, Hetty’s brother, also bidden for lunch.

  ‘Tell us all about yer ’olidays, then,’ said Flo, as they all settled at the huge kitchen table. ‘Even managed a murder out there, then?’

  ‘Hardly our fault, Flo,’ said Ben, wrestling with the cork of a venerable bottle of claret from Flo’s excellent cellar. She had inherited it from her late husband, a considerable wine buff, and had added to it wisely over the years. Hetty’s own cellar was good, but nowhere near as good as Flo’s. Libby knew nothing about wine, other than preferring red to white and that some she liked and some she didn’t.

  ‘Attracts trouble, that gal.’ Flo indicated Libby with a jerk of her thumb.

  Libby made a face at her.

  ‘There was a bit in the paper about somebody who’d been murdered in Turkey,’ said Lenny suddenly.

  ‘Which paper?’ asked Libby.

  ‘The local. The one your friend Jane works on.’

  ‘She technically works for the Nethergate Mercury,’ said Ben, ‘but I think she’s syndicated through the whole group. Did she write it, Lenny?’

  Lenny looked surprised. ‘I dunno, boy. Just about some woman whose daughter was killed out there.’

  Ben and Libby looked at each other.

  ‘It couldn’t be,’ said Libby.

  ‘’Ere. Just about to wrap the peelings in it.’ Hetty handed over the paper and returned to her vegetables.

  ‘Give it ’ere,’ said Lenny, and began flipping through the pages. ‘There.’ He handed the paper to Libby and Ben.

  ‘Cherry Ashton!’ they both said.

  ‘What?’ Flo scowled at them. ‘Go on then – what d’yer mean?’

  ‘The mother of the woman who was murdered in Turkey lives in Cherry Ashton!’ said Libby.

  ‘Where’s that when it’s at ’ome?’ asked Flo.

  ‘I thought it was a man who was murdered,’ said Hetty.

  ‘There were two,’ said Ben, ‘a man called Alec Wilson, and a woman, Sally Weston.’

  ‘Not married?’ said Hetty.

  ‘No, but they were friends.’

  Flo snorted. ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘Nothing like that, Flo. Alec was gay.’

  Flo looked deflated.

  ‘I don’t see why it matters where she lives,’ said Hetty. ‘Ain’t nothing to do with you, is it?’

  Ben and Libby exchanged another look. Libby shrugged and Ben grinned.

  The conversation turned to Steeple Martin and its inhabitants, and what had been happening while Libby and Ben h
ad been in Erzugan, and eventually after Flo, Hetty, and Lenny had retired to Hetty’s sitting room for a nap and Ben and Libby had done what clearing up Hetty would allow, they escaped down the drive and by common consent turned right to Peter and Harry’s cottage.

  ‘Sorry to disturb your afternoon off,’ said Ben, ‘but we just found out something interesting.’

  ‘From Hetty?’ said Peter peering out from the kitchen and waving an interrogative kettle.

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Libby, ‘and no, from Lenny, of all people.’

  While they waited for the kettle to boil, Libby explained. ‘It’s really strange, because Ben was only asking this morning where everybody lived because he didn’t want to be descended upon.’

  ‘Well, Sally Weston’s mother is hardly likely to descend,’ said Peter.

  ‘Unless she finds out you went through her daughter’s knicker drawer,’ said Harry.

  ‘Oh, don’t.’ Libby made a face.

  Peter poured boiling water into a large teapot. ‘Have to do it properly for the old trout,’ he said. ‘No tea bags in mugs for her.’

  ‘Special treatment wherever she goes,’ said Harry, sprawling on the sofa, still in his chef’s whites.

  Libby sank into her favourite sagging chintz-covered chair. ‘I don’t ask for special treatment,’ she said.

  ‘No, petal, of course you don’t.’ Peter brought a tray in and put it on the coffee table, before sitting beside Harry on the sofa. ‘So tell us what ploy you’re going to use to go and question this poor woman.’

  ‘I won’t! Of course I won’t,’ said Libby. ‘And we never even met Sally.’

  ‘As you said – collateral damage, poor woman,’ said Ben, sitting on the arm of her chair and accepting a cup of tea.’

  ‘I wonder if Sally knew Alec before they both went to Turkey,’ said Harry, lifting his legs on to Peter’s lap. ‘If so, perhaps her mother knew him, too.’

  ‘Nobody suggested that,’ said Libby, ‘and the police will have asked her that already.’

  ‘Funny that Ian didn’t mention her the other day,’ said Ben.

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t know.’

  ‘But it would have been someone from Canterbury who went out to break the news, and you know how they all pick up on things,’ said Ben.

  ‘I suppose it is odd, but he wasn’t that concerned with Sally Weston, more with Alec Wilson.’

  ‘Your Commander Johnny may have had one of his own blokes go and tell her,’ said Harry, ‘and just not bothered to tell Ian.’

  ‘If that’s the case,’ said Libby, ‘why? Ian could be useful. He’s on the ground.’

  ‘But the case has nothing to do with her.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with any of us,’ said Peter. ‘Now, drink up your tea, children, and tell me what gossip was exchanged over lunch.’

  But the day’s gossip faded into obscurity at the news they received the next day.

  Libby’s phone rang as she was preparing Ben’s breakfast.

  ‘Libby,’ Peter’s voice sounded ragged. ‘Harry’s being questioned by the police. Justin Newcombe was found dead in a London hotel bedroom yesterday.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘We’re coming round.’

  ‘No, Lib, not yet. They’re still here. I’ll send you a text when they’ve gone.’

  Libby ended the call and turned to Ben.

  ‘Why would they question Harry, for God’s sake?’ he said, when Libby had told him. ‘Harry hardly knew him.’

  ‘But Harry was the one he called.’ Libby frowned. ‘After all, we assumed that Justin was still in Erzugan when he phoned, but he could have been in London, couldn’t he?’

  ‘He must have called other people,’ said Ben. ‘If he was in London he must have been going to meet someone.’

  ‘Yes – his killer. Which means the killer is in England, not Turkey.’

  Libby’s phone beeped. The police have gone. Come on.

  Peter opened the door and gestured them inside. Harry was slumped on the sofa looking worse than he had for at least a year.

  ‘What happened?’ Libby sat beside him and took his hand.

  ‘It was that phone call,’ said Harry.

  ‘We thought so,’ said Libby. ‘Did he call from London?’

  ‘No he was still in Turkey.’

  ‘But he must have called other people.’

  ‘Yes.’ Harry seem to rouse himself and sat up straight. ‘Yes. They told me that. But they seem to be assuming that because of the murders over there …’

  ‘They’ve jumped to the conclusion that it must be one of the people who were in the village at the time.’ Libby shook her head. ‘What about Neal? He would have called him – they knew each other much better than we did.’

  ‘I don’t know. I expect they’re talking to him, too.’

  ‘Who were they?’ asked Ben. ‘I mean, were they from Smith’s outfit, or were they local?’

  ‘They were plain clothes and they both showed their badges, but I didn’t see where they were from.’ Harry glanced up at his partner. ‘They talked to Pete, too.’

  ‘Well, at least you’ve got a rock solid alibi,’ said Libby. ‘He was found yesterday, right? And you were in the caff all day. Then we can vouch for you being at home after that.’

  ‘Oh, yes. They had to accept that, but they didn’t act as though it let me off the hook.’

  ‘They said they would need to talk to both of us again,’ said Peter, looking more angry than scared. ‘Honestly! I’m beginning to wish we’d never been on that bloody holiday.’

  ‘Holidays don’t seem to be that relaxing for us, do they?’ said Libby. ‘Perhaps we should just stay at home.’

  ‘Anyone want coffee?’ said Harry, suddenly standing up. ‘We haven’t had any breakfast.’

  ‘Neither have we,’ said Libby. ‘I abandoned it when we got Pete’s call. Could I have tea?’

  ‘Yes, petal. I’ll dig out the bloody teapot again.’

  ‘I wonder if he was coming over to visit Sally Weston’s mother?’ said Peter. ‘That would make sense, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes!’ Libby clapped her hands. ‘Of course. I bet that’s what it was. I wish we could talk to her.’

  ‘If he was going to see her the police will already be on to it,’ said Ben. ‘You’d better ring Fran or she’ll complain she’s not been kept up to speed.

  ‘Only not now,’ said Harry emerging from the kitchen with the teapot and a cafetière. ‘I’m making bacon sandwiches for everyone.’

  ‘I’m going down to Nethergate,’ said Libby, as she and Ben walked home. ‘I’ll send Fran a text to say I’m coming. But there’s so much to tell her …’

  But Libby’s text was answered by a phone call.

  ‘I won’t be here.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby felt ridiculously affronted.

  Fran laughed. ‘It’s all right – I’m only going to the hairdresser’s. I’ll be back later, by lunchtime, at least.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ said Libby, relieved. ‘Only I’ve got so much to tell you.’

  Next she sent a text to Jane Baker of the Nethergate Mercury, Susannah’s sister-in-law. Jane replied that she was in her office and Libby was welcome to pop in. Satisfied, Libby waved Ben off to the Manor and his estate office, tidied herself and the kitchen, and set off for Nethergate.

  The Mercury’s offices were at the top of the town in a converted mansion which had once belonged to a nouveau riche Victorian grocer. Jane came out to reception to meet Libby and led her into the board room.

  ‘Quieter in here,’ she said. ‘Now, what did you want to know?’

  ‘Do I only come and see when I want to know something?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Mostly,’ said Jane, with a grin. ‘But at work – definitely. Is this about the woman whose daughter died in Turkey?’

  Libby’s eyes widened. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought so. The same village you were in, wasn’t it? Erzu-something?’

  ‘Ho
w do you know that?’

  ‘We saw Susannah over the weekend. She said you were telling her about it and I put two and two together and made five, like any good journalist.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Libby stared at the polished board table for a moment. ‘Well, you see, there’s been a bit of a development. This is definitely not for publication, but someone else from that village has died.’

  ‘Bit of an epidemic, then?’

  ‘No. He died in London.’

  ‘Wow!’ Jane was now impressed and alert. ‘Was he one of your fellow holidaymakers?’

  ‘No, that’s the point. He was a resident. We were wondering if he came over to see Sally Weston’s mother.’

  ‘That’s the woman in Cherry Ashton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I suppose you want to see her?’

  ‘Actually,’ Libby looked up at Jane at last, ‘no, I don’t. I didn’t ever meet Sally, and Fran and I were persuaded by a British policeman to help with a search of her villa. Very unorthodox, and I bet he never told his boss. So I don’t want to meet her. As Harry said, I’ve been through Sally’s knicker drawer.’

  ‘So what do you want from me?’

  ‘I just wanted to know what she was like. Did you interview her?’

  ‘No. She didn’t want to talk to us, and someone who was with her at the time gave us the normal very distressed angle. We accepted it. I know your friend Campbell McLean went out there on spec, but he got the door slammed in his face.’

  Campbell McLean worked for the local independent television station, and had been both a help and a hindrance to Libby in the past.

  ‘Serves him right,’ said Libby. ‘I bet he would have asked her “And how does that make you feel?” I always want the other person to say “Well, how do you think it makes me feel, you idiot?”. They never do.’

  Jane laughed. ‘Perhaps they edit it out.’

  Libby sighed. ‘Or cut the whole interview. It’s so insensitive.’

  Jane looked uncomfortable. ‘That’s what we’re paid to do.’

  ‘I know.’ Libby patted Jane’s arm. ‘And you’re not too insensitive.’

  ‘Fran thought I was when I first met her.’

  ‘Well, we know better now.’ Libby stood up. ‘There’s nothing you can tell me about – what’s the woman’s name, by the way?’