They both contemplated the dining table seriously.
‘And actually, what difference does it make?’ said Libby eventually.
‘None, I suppose. I think Ian’s being over-cautious about us. I expect he’ll have told Smith about Walter, won’t he?’
‘Bound to have,’ said Libby. ‘It would have helped if he’d been a bit more up front at the beginning, wouldn’t it?’
‘Only if he knew about the whole operation,’ said Fran. ‘I can’t see how it would have saved Justin Newcombe.’
‘But if they’d found the murderer quicker, he wouldn’t have killed Justin.’
‘The murderer was in Turkey –’ began Libby.
‘And came back to England. That’s what the thinking is now, isn’t it?’
‘If it turns out to be Walter, yes.’
‘It has to be, surely? If he was over there checking up on the operation and wasn’t happy?’
‘Maybe, but a, we haven’t got confirmation that it’s a trafficking operation and b, why was Sally killed? She’s not involved.’
‘Aha!’ said Libby. ‘How do we know that? You just said we don’t know why she really went to Turkey. I said she wasn’t involved and you queried it.’
‘Yes,’ said Fran with a sigh. ‘Round and round in circles as usual.’
Although neither of them would admit it, Libby and Fran got very bored that day. Fran pottered around doing household chores for the rest of the morning while Libby prowled the bookshelves, then they both went to relieve Guy in the gallery/shop at lunchtime. Business wasn’t as brisk as it would be in a couple of weeks’ time when the schools broke up, so there was very little to occupy them. After lunch, they went to The Alexandria to see how bookings were going for the summer show, then climbed up to Cliff Terrace to see if Jane was in. She wasn’t.
They wandered along to The Tops, which had once been open fields on the cliff tops, but was now a car park with a view. They sat on a bench and looked out at the bay, Dragon Island in the middle and the lighthouse on the point.
‘What would you normally be doing on an ordinary day?’ asked Libby. ‘When we’re not investigating.’
‘Housework, reading, helping Guy.’ Fran squinted at the sequins sparkling on the sea. ‘I don’t know, really. What about you?’
‘Not much housework, painting, fiddling about on the computer. How do we fill our days, for goodness’ sake? I think I ought to go back to work.’
‘Your painting’s your work. And you do a lot for the theatre.’
‘S’pose so. But aren’t you bored?’
‘Sometimes, a bit. You remember just after I got married? When we came back from honeymoon? I was bored then.’
‘That was a culture shock, though. You’d spent years scraping a living in a horrible flat in London, and all of a sudden you had a lovely cottage, a lovely husband and no money worries.’
Fran nodded. ‘It always feels disloyal to Guy to say I’m bored.’ She turned to look at Libby. ‘I think that’s why we get involved in these things. We haven’t got enough to keep us occupied. I think you’re right. We ought to go back to work.’
‘We can’t go back to the pro theatre though. Nobody would have us,’ said Libby.
They looked at each other for a long moment.
‘Do you remember …’ said Fran.
‘What Harry said …’ began Libby.
‘We couldn’t,’ said Fran.
‘We could,’ said Libby.
‘There’s legislation,’ said Fran. ‘You have to be licenced now.’
‘Not for informal investigations.’
‘I don’t know why we’re even thinking about it,’ said Fran with a deep sigh. ‘We already investigate things. People have asked us in the past.’
Libby nodded. ‘Gemma and the Green Man murder.’
‘Alice and the murder in the church.’
‘And even Patti with the reliquary in the monastery,’ concluded Libby. ‘We just don’t get paid for it.’
‘We don’t need to be paid,’ said Fran.
‘I might,’ said Libby.
‘Let’s just accept that people might want us to look into things informally, especially if the police aren’t interested,’ said Fran. ‘Carry on as usual, in fact.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Libby with a shrug. ‘But no one asked us to look into this one, did they?’
‘Carol Oxford did,’ said Fran.
‘So she did.’ Libby looked thoughtfully out to sea. ‘Do you think we ought to speak to her again?’
‘I don’t see why.’
‘We could ask her if she or Sally knew Betty and Walter Roberts.’
‘Why on earth should they have done? The Roberts come from Manchester.’
‘But Walter might have been down here on – um – on – well, on trafficking operations.’
‘He’d keep out of sight, then, wouldn’t he? Anyway, ten years ago he might not have been involved. If he is now, of course.’
‘Oh, all right.’ Libby stood up. ‘Want an ice cream?’
Fran looked surprised. ‘Yes, that would be nice.’
‘Only in that lovely ice cream parlour, not Lizzie’s. So we can have a proper knickerbocker glory or something.’
The ice cream parlour had been kept completely and authentically retro and served ice cream sundaes in traditional dishes, and coffee and hot chocolate in glass mugs complete with chrome holders. Libby had something called ‘Nethergate Sunrise’ and a hot chocolate, and felt quite sick.
‘I shouldn’t have had that,’ said Libby, eyeing the empty dish. ‘I’m never going to get thin.’
Fran laughed. ‘Ben wouldn’t like you if you were thin.’
‘Wouldn’t he?’ asked Libby wistfully. ‘I’ve always wanted to be thin.’
‘It wouldn’t suit you,’ said Fran. ‘Come on, what are we going to do next?’
‘Oh, Lord,’ groaned Libby. ‘I don’t know. What’s the time?’
‘Half past three. Too early to cook dinner.’
‘And I don’t want afternoon tea after this. Shall we just go back to yours and read or something?’
‘We could do some research on the laptop.’
‘On what, though?’ Libby pushed her chair back and stood up.
‘Trafficking operations?’ suggested Fran. ‘How long they’ve been going on?’
‘We’ve done all that before,’ said Libby. ‘I can’t think of anything we haven’t done.’
They walked slowly back towards Harbour Street. Where the square joined it in front of The Swan Inn, Libby suddenly stopped.
‘Now, I’m not being paranoid, but look.’
A hundred yards away, leaning on the sea wall almost in front of Guy’s shop, was Walter Roberts.
Chapter Thirty-one
‘He’s found us,’ whispered Fran, digging out her phone.
‘Who are you calling?’ Libby whispered back, digging out her own phone.
‘Guy, to tell him not to come out of the shop.’
‘I’ll call Ian.’
Ian’s instructions were succinct. ‘Stay where you are, but out of sight if you can, and take note if he moves off. Do not follow him. Someone will be with you in about five minutes.’
Guy’s were more querulous, intimating that no one was going to frighten him into hiding in his own home.
‘Be sensible, darling,’ said Fran. Libby raised her eyebrows. She’d never heard Fran call anyone darling before. ‘Ian wants us to stay put and not be seen. That includes you.’
‘Oh, so you called him first, did you?’
Fran sighed. ‘No. Libby called Ian. I called you.’
‘All right.’ Guy was mollified. ‘I can see him. I might go upstairs and watch from there.’
‘You know,’ said Fran, as she put away her phone. ‘I think this is actually a coincidence.’
‘What? Walter Roberts appearing right in front of your home?’ said Libby. ‘Don’t be daft.’
‘No, really. He must know he wil
l have been reported missing to the police now, and why risk being out in the open anywhere near where either of us live? If he really did know where we were and wanted to harm us, he would have come at night and not wanted to be seen.’
Libby grudgingly acknowledged this might be the truth, and perched on the edge of one of the benches The Swan provided for its customers. Walter Roberts was still leaning on the sea wall.
Suddenly he stood up straight and turned towards the other end of Harbour Street.
‘He’s seen someone,’ said Libby.
A figure had emerged from behind The Blue Anchor and The Sloop. Libby squinted to see.
‘Mrs Sarjeant?’ A voice behind her made her jump and stifle a squeal.
‘Mr Maiden! What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in Canterbury.’
DS Maiden grinned. ‘Today I’m in Nethergate, and a good job, too. I’m just going to stroll up and have a word with our gentleman there. Constable Drew will wait until I call him.’
Libby belatedly noticed a large uniformed constable trying to make himself inconspicuous against the wall of The Swan.
‘What do we do?’ asked Fran.
‘Go inside the pub,’ said Maiden. ‘Don’t come out until I give you the word. We don’t want him to see you.’
Fran gave Libby an I-told-you-so look, and they went inside the pub. The customers had already noticed the police presence and were eager to know what was going on, but Libby and Fran politely declined to explain.
‘That’s them women who do the murders,’ said somebody at the bar. Libby and Fran exchanged scowls.
‘You investigatin’ then?’ called someone else.
Libby turned a furious face on him. ‘Do you want to mess up a police operation?’ she hissed. ‘No? Then keep quiet.’
‘Sorry, I’m sure,’ said the drinker, shrugging and turning back to his pint.
Fran was peering out of the window. ‘The other person’s vanished. Maiden’s talking to Walter, who looks as though he’s going to do a runner.’
But before Walter could do more than take a hesitant step away from DS Maiden, Constable Drew had materialised by his side, laying a gentle hand on his arm, and the trio began a slow stately progress down Harbour Street. As he passed The Swan, Maiden turned his head slightly and gave the ghost of a wink through the window. Libby and Fran watched as the three men got into an unremarkable black car parked, illegally, on the other side of the square. When it had gone, Libby’s phone beeped with an incoming text.
‘You can come out now.’
‘From Ian,’ said Libby. ‘Maiden must have told him.’
‘Well of course he did. Shall we go back to mine, now? We’ll have to wait for him to call, I suppose.’
The two women emerged cautiously.
‘Whoever that other person is, they’ll still be around,’ said Libby nervously.
‘And Walter won’t have told anyone about him.’
‘Or her,’ said Libby. ‘I couldn’t see. It had trousers on, I’m sure.’
Guy was waiting for them at the door of the gallery.
‘What happened?’
The followed him inside and told him.
‘I think Fran’s right,’ he said when they’d finished. ‘I don’t think he’d have risked being right outside our house if he knew where we were. Not in daylight.’
‘No, that makes sense I suppose,’ said Libby. ‘So who could he have come to meet? Here, of all places?’
‘Well,’ said Fran slowly, ‘I was thinking about that. He’s obviously using public transport, so it makes sense to go to populated places where he won’t stand out and which are easy to get to. So, say he was going to meet someone from somewhere else along this coast, it would be practically impossible to get there without a car. And we know he was travelling on this line from Victoria on Sunday.’
‘We think he was,’ said Guy.
‘Making an educated guess,’ said Libby. ‘Do you think this proves he’s got something to do with the trafficking?’
‘If it is trafficking,’ said Fran. ‘It’ll be fascinating to hear what he says, won’t it?’
‘If Ian will tell us,’ agreed Libby. ‘Do you think I could go home now? Has the threat been removed?’
As if in answer her phone rang.
‘All right, Libby, you can stand down now,’ said Ian. ‘And thanks for doing what you were asked to do for once.’
Libby spluttered. Ian laughed. ‘I’ll call you both later.’
Libby drove home feeling safer. The threat from Walter Roberts – if there had been a threat – had been removed, although if there was a threat from anyone else it remained. However, it seemed likely that now Walter had been asked to help with enquiries (into what, Libby wondered) nobody would risk coming anywhere near her or Fran.
‘I really must replace Romeo,’ Libby said later to Ben.
Romeo the Renault had finally failed his MOT and would have cost far more than he was worth to put right, so Libby had regretfully sent him off to the automobile graveyard and relied on sharing Ben’s Range Rover.
‘What brought this on?’ Ben handed her a glass of wine.
‘Whenever I go anywhere these days it means you haven’t got a car. And it’s very inconvenient.’
‘Well, yes.’ Ben looked amused. ‘But you haven’t heard me complain, have you?’
‘No, of course not. But I’d like one of my own again.’ Libby looked up at him. ‘Will you come with me to buy one?’
‘Don’t you trust yourself?’
‘I’m very good with most things, but I think you probably know more about cars than I do.’
‘Thanks.’ Ben came to sit beside her on the creaky sofa. ‘And while we’re about it, why don’t we buy a new sofa?’
‘We?’
‘Don’t I live here now?’
Libby looked away, remembering her ambivalence about moving into Steeple Farm, technically owned by Peter’s mother Millie, but restored by Ben. Ben had been the one to compromise, moving into number 17 Allhallow’s Lane and acceding to Libby’s desire not to get married.
‘Yes, of course,’ she muttered.
‘Then why don’t we consign this one to the conservatory and buy a new one? We could even get a sofa-bed for when your hordes descend.’
Libby looked up at him and smiled. ‘You do have good ideas,’ she said. ‘And you’re very tolerant of my horde.’
Ben’s own children lived at the other end of the country and relations with them were rather strained, although Libby had never understood why. Ben was one of the nicest and kindest men she’d ever met. Far kinder and nicer than she was herself, she reflected.
‘So, when shall we go?’ the nice kind man was asking now. ‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes, please. Can you just buy one on the spot? And drive it away?’
‘Unless you want to order it, I suppose so,’ said Ben. ‘Provided you can get the insurance cover and all that sort of thing. Take your old cover note with you and we can probably do it all online. Providing we can find one you like.’
‘Oh, I will,’ said Libby confidently. ‘And it’s about time. Romeo was getting too well-known round here.’
Ben frowned at her. ‘Does this mean you’ll be back on the investigation trail?’
Libby tried to look innocent. ‘Not now. Ian’s got hold of Walter, so we’ll know the whole story any minute now, won’t we?’
‘But in the future, you will.’
‘Not if I can help it.’ Libby looked away.
‘Unless someone asks you.’
‘Well …’
Ben laughed. ‘And then you won’t be able to resist it. And someone will, I guarantee it.’
Libby turned back and smiled with relief. ‘Maybe. But I will try not to get into trouble.’
The next morning, Libby and Ben set off for Canterbury. Libby had all her important documents in her latest basket.
‘Ian didn’t phone last night,’ said Libby.
‘Di
d you expect him to?’
‘He said he would.’ Libby sighed. ‘I don’t suppose we come into the picture at all now, though.’
However, Libby’s mobile rang halfway through a salesman’s encomium on one of the cars that Libby had taken a fancy to. Seeing that it was Ian, she excused herself and took the call.
‘I’m in the middle of buying a car!” she hissed.
‘You’re what?’ Ian sounded startled.
‘Buying a car. I’m in the showroom with a salesman in mid-flow.’
‘All right. Call me when you’ve finished. Where are you?’
‘In Canterbury.’
‘Do you want to come to the station?’
‘Not particularly. Ben and I are visiting all the showrooms this morning. Can’t it wait?’
Ian sighed. ‘Just give me a call between visits, all right?’
Libby ended the call and went sheepishly back to the men.
‘Ian,’ she said to Ben. ‘Do go on,’ to the salesman with a bright smile.
Two showrooms later she was the proud possessor of a small silver car which she couldn’t pick up until the following day. Giving it a final pat, she followed Ben out to this car and called Ian.
‘Well? Did you buy one?’
‘Yes. Now, what did you want me for?’
‘I wanted to tell you what Walter Roberts has told us. It’s interesting.’
‘Oh.’ Libby climbed in beside Ben. ‘He wants to tell us what Walter Roberts has said.’
‘Shall we go to the station?’ asked Ben.
‘I heard that,’ said Ian. ‘Yes please. I’ll see you then.’
Ten minutes later, with the luxury of parking in the police station car park, they were ushered into Ian’s office, where Libby had only been once or twice before.
‘Coffee?’ offered their host.
‘Yes, please,’ said Ben.
‘No, thanks,’ said Libby.
‘Now,’ said Ian when Ben had been served. ‘Walter Roberts.’
‘Did he know where we were?’ asked Libby.
‘No, he had no idea.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Ben.
‘And Fran,’ said Libby. ‘And I suppose it made sense.’
‘Well, he didn’t. Not that he was very pleased with you, of course. He was quite rude about you, in fact.’
‘I bet,’ said Libby with a grin. ‘If he was involved in – oh, hang on, we don’t know, do we?’
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