Murder Imperfect

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘I’m not jealous in that way, idiot,’ said Ben, and the mood lightened. ‘It’s just – as I said – you seem to talk more to him than me.’

  ‘Harry’s like a best girl friend,’ said Libby. ‘He gets jealous of Fran.’

  ‘Does he?’ Ben looked interested. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Libby picked up the plates again, ‘I won’t have a drink because I’ll have the car, so you can stop worrying.’

  ‘Why don’t we both walk round with him and share the burden. Then we can both have a drink with Harry.’ Ben wrapped his arms round her waist.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Libby. ‘And now let me go, or we’ll never get there.’

  Adam seemed to have accumulated an awful lot of stuff in the few days he’d been staying at number 17, and Ben, Libby and Adam himself were quite heavily laden when they staggered up to the door of the flat over The Pink Geranium. Donna waved at them through the window of the restaurant.

  ‘You go in and find Harry,’ said Libby. ‘We’ll take your stuff upstairs. Then you won’t have to keep going up and down.’

  Adam didn’t argue, and, after another few minutes, Ben and Libby, having dumped the various bags on to the sagging couch in the front room of the flat, joined him on the sofa in the window of The Pink Geranium. On the table in front of him was a bottle of red wine and three glasses.

  ‘Did Harry send this?’ asked Libby, accepting a glass.

  ‘No!’ Adam was indignant. ‘I did. To say thank you for having me.’

  Ben patted him on the shoulder. ‘No worries. Any time.’

  Adam looked embarrassed. ‘Thanks, Ben.’

  They’d finished the bottle of wine by the time Harry appeared from the kitchen carrying another.

  ‘That’s me done,’ he said, pulling up a chair and pouring out more wine. ‘I take it you did want another one?’

  ‘Er – thank you,’ said Libby.

  ‘Well, now you’re going to help me with my little problem, you deserve it.’ Harry lifted his glass to her.

  ‘What problem?’ Ben looked from one to the other. Adam groaned. Libby closed her eyes.

  ‘Sorry, Lib.’ Harry pulled a face. ‘You haven’t told them.’

  ‘Told us what?’ said Ben and Adam together.

  ‘Well, you see –’ began Harry.

  ‘Harry’s asked me to see if I can help a friend of his who’s been receiving anonymous letters,’ interrupted Libby. ‘There’s not much I can do, but there’s no way of me getting in to any trouble. Besides, Harry will be with me.’

  ‘Right.’ Ben looked doubtful.

  ‘You say that every time, Ma,’ said Adam.

  ‘Well, I don’t get into trouble, do I?’ said Libby.

  ‘No, because there’s usually somebody out there second guessing you and on hand to leap to the rescue,’ said Ben.

  ‘Look,’ said Harry hastily, ‘if you don’t want her to –’

  ‘What?’ snapped Libby.

  ‘If I don’t want her to she’ll be all the more determined,’ said Ben with a rueful smile. Libby relaxed, but glared at Harry.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ she said pointedly.

  ‘Bloody hell, Lib,’ said Harry sleepily the next morning. ‘It’s not nine o’clock yet!’

  ‘I wanted to catch you before you went to work,’ said Libby. ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘Not exactly. Pete’s just gone down to make coffee. What do you want?’

  ‘I want to know when we’re going to see this Cy person. I need to get my life in order.’

  There was the sound of Harry struggling to sit up. ‘Never. Your life’s never in order.’

  Libby sighed. ‘Look, I’ve got Christmas to organise, a panto to direct and now the bloody fairy’s lines to learn. If we’re going to try and put your chum’s mind at rest I need to do it soon.’

  ‘All right, all right. Ooh, ta, Pete.’ Libby heard a satisfied slurping sound. ‘Great coffee, Lib. Straight from Ethiopian Farmers.’

  ‘Good. Glad to hear you’re supporting good causes. But what about Cy?’

  ‘I’ll ring him when I get up. He’ll be at work, but I expect I can get him. And surely you know all the lines already? You’ve been rehearsing for weeks.’

  ‘I only know them vaguely,’ said Libby. ‘Will you ring me when you’ve spoken to him?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes. Now leave me alone. I need to commune with my inner soul.’

  ‘The coffee and Peter, you mean,’ said Libby. ‘OK, I’ll go.’

  Libby went into the kitchen and put plates and mugs in the sink. Ben had gone off to the Manor to see if anything needed to be done on the estate, then he was going to Steeple Farm to carry on with the renovations, so she had the day to herself. After a bit of necessary housework, such as stripping Adam’s bed, washing up and wiping Sidney’s paw marks off every windowsill in the house, she planned to get on with her current painting, to be sold in Fran’s husband’s gallery in Nethergate. Her “pretty peeps”, as she called them in recognition of Ngaio Marsh’s Troy, sold well to tourists during the summer season, being mainly of the bay and the town, several painted from Fran’s front room window in Coastguard Cottage and others from a higher viewpoint, the top floor window in Peel House, where their mutual friends Jane and Terry lived.

  After an hour or so painting, or staring, she thought she might have a cup of tea and a biscuit and start learning the fairy’s lines. Wearing her director’s hat, all she had to do today was take a rehearsal this evening, so the afternoon was free. With a bit of luck, if she didn’t have to trek off to see Cy (and if he worked, how could she?) she could then light the fire and have a little doze on the sofa before cooking the evening meal.

  She had just stuffed Adam’s sheets into the washing machine when the phone rang and all the day’s plans came crashing down.

  ‘He’s had another one, and something else has happened,’ said Harry. ‘He didn’t go to work. He’d like to see us today.’

  ‘Something else?’

  ‘He was beaten up.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘WHERE WAS HE BEATEN up?’ Libby asked. They were in Harry’s car on the M2 on the way to Maidstone, he having asked Donna, his efficient waitress, assistant chef and all round helpmate, to open up and do any prepping for lunch that was needed. Midweek there was little lunchtime trade, and Adam would help as far as his leg would allow him.

  ‘He didn’t say.’ Harry was uncharacteristically tight-lipped, and Libby thought she knew why. Over the past year, and particularly the last few months, more so-called “gay-bashing” incidents had been reported in the media, including several resulting deaths. He and Peter had been lucky, but, since Libby had known them, Harry had toned down his very obviously camp manner and speech, which she had found endearing. Peter had always looked like an aloof aesthete and, as far as she knew, had never had any problems at work in London, but Harry had confided that with mainstream acceptance of homosexuality, and particularly since civil partnerships had become legal, gay people had become more visible in the community and easier to target.

  ‘Also,’ he had continued, ‘a lot of wankers who used to be able to say what they like can’t any more, so they’re attacking us under cover. And people like Cy still don’t like going to the police, so the rise in attacks is being under-reported.’

  Remembering this conversation now, Libby realised how close to Harry’s heart this incident was. She felt a little upsurge of something like stage fright. What on earth could she do? Harry somehow thought she could help, but she knew she was a fraud. Someone who had got involved by accident in a few murder investigations in a sort of snowball effect, but who had no real expertise, or even deductive power. She wanted to stop the car, get out and run home. But Harry, and possibly Cy, were relying on her. She sighed.

  They were driving down the hill towards the big M20 roundabout, now. Harry took the left-hand lane and plunged into suburban Maidstone. Eventually, they came to a an area Libby had nev
er seen before; neat roads with grass verges, semi-detached mock Tudor houses, a few bungalows and neighbourhood watch posters in every window. Cul-de-sacs, crescents and closes abounded, and at the centre, a park. Only a small park, but there was a little pond, benches and a fenced play area. It was empty.

  ‘This is it.’ Harry drew to a stop outside a bungalow at the crest of a slight hill. As Libby got out, she could look down over the rest of Maidstone and right across to the Weald. She walked round the car to join Harry.

  ‘Very quiet,’ she commented. ‘Don’t see it as a violent area.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Harry pushed open the little wrought-iron gate and led the way up the short path between laburnum bushes to the front door, hidden behind a glass porch. It opened before Harry had a chance to knock or ring the bell. He ushered her in in front of him.

  ‘This is Libby, Cy. Lib, Cy.’

  In the darkness of the narrow hall, Libby looked up at the man before her. His face should have been handsome, under straight brown hair that flopped over his brow. But underneath that was a mass of blue, purple and yellow bruising. One eye was almost closed, and his lip swollen and crusted with blood. A long tramline of butterfly strips down one cheek led almost up to his eye, and Libby tried to control a shudder at what could have happened.

  ‘Bloody hell, mate.’ Harry stepped up and enfolded the other man in a gentle hug. ‘What else did they do to you?’

  ‘Ribs,’ said Cy in a muffled voice. ‘Come and see Col.’

  He led the way through to a large dining kitchen, which had obviously been knocked through. One end was pale wood and stainless steel, with more gadgets than Libby had ever seen, the other was solid, dark 1930s dining furniture, which looked as if it had come with the house. By the cooker, doing something elaborate with a huge coffee machine, stood a slight young man with wispy fair hair and an even wispier beard.

  ‘Harry,’ he said, in a surprisingly deep voice. ‘And this must be Libby.’ He held out a hand.

  ‘Hello,’ said Libby.

  ‘Let’s go into the front room, dears,’ he said. ‘Much more comfortable.’ He took Libby by the elbow and laid the other hand on Cy’s arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Come on, love.’

  The front room was a mixture of furniture of the same vintage as the dining suite and more modern pieces. A huge television dominated one corner. Colin deposited Libby and Harry on a sofa and gently settled Cy in one of the large armchairs.

  ‘I’ll get the coffee,’ he said, and bustled out.

  Cy smiled – at least, Libby thought he did.

  ‘Col’s been wonderful,’ he said. ‘You’d think I’d just had major surgery, not just a kicking.’

  ‘Is that what it was?’ Harry leant forward, elbows on knees.

  Cy nodded and winced. ‘Down the road, near the park. Kids, I think. Someone came along and they made off.’

  ‘How did you get home? Who was the person who came along?’

  ‘A friend. She lives over the road. She told me to sit still and ran up here to fetch Colin. Lucky he was here.’

  Harry turned to Libby. ‘Colin’s cabin crew on long-haul flights, so he’s often away for a week or more.’

  ‘Nice of her,’ said Libby.

  ‘Yes.’ Cy tried another smile. ‘Her name’s Sheila. She’s in the panto society.’

  Colin entered with a tray on which were a large coffee pot, mugs in silver holders and a huge Victoria sandwich. He beamed at them and poured coffee.

  ‘Cake, Libby?’ he held out a plate enticingly. ‘Comfort food at a time like this, I always say.’

  ‘It looks gorgeous,’ said Libby. ‘Mine never turn out like that. I have to have Harry’s.’

  ‘Oh, he’s not bad.’ Colin winked at Harry. ‘Does a very nice carrot cake.’

  Harry snorted. ‘Colin grew up in his parents’ bakery. Thinks he knows it all.’

  ‘Well,’ said Libby, through a mouthful of cake, ‘he does say you make a good carrot cake.’

  ‘Come on then,’ said Harry, when they’d all been served, Cy having been supplied with a straw for his coffee. ‘What happened last night and what’s been happening recently?’

  Cy had, apparently, been walking home from the station, from where he commuted to London almost every day. He had just rounded the corner of the park at the bottom of the road when he heard running footsteps and was grabbed from behind. He tried to call out, but his assailant or assailants started kicking him in the ribs and head. The attack didn’t last long, as Sheila had turned up and frightened him, or them, away.

  ‘And you can’t imagine anything sillier than that,’ said Colin. ‘Sheila’s about as frightening as an old cardi.’

  ‘Did she see them?’ asked Libby.

  ‘No, she says not,’ said Colin. ‘She had heels on and they must have heard her and scarpered. That end of the park is on a bend, so they’d only have to run round a bit further to be out of sight.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Harry. ‘So what did you do next?’

  ‘Sheila came and got me, I jumped in the car and she insisted on coming with me, we drove down to where she’d left Cy propped up against the park railings and we got him into the back of the car. She’s a good sort.’

  ‘Did you go to hospital?’ asked Libby.

  ‘He wouldn’t have it.’ Colin frowned at Cy. ‘He said they’d have to report it to the police, and he didn’t want that.’

  ‘You stupid old bastard,’ said Harry. ‘This is serious. You have to tell the police.’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ said Colin, nodding furiously, ‘but then Sheila steps in and says it’s all right, she knows how he feels, and she’s a retired nurse, she’ll see to him.’

  Libby raised her eyebrows. ‘A veritable angel, in fact.’

  ‘She’s great, is Sheila,’ said Colin, and Cy nodded agreement, gingerly. ‘She popped in home, then came over here with her box of tricks and patched him up. She reckons he’s got broken ribs, but they won’t even x-ray those in hospital anymore, let alone strap them up, so all he’s got to do is go careful. Not laugh too much.’ He reached over and patted Cy’s arm. ‘Not that there’s much chance of that these days, eh, lover?’

  ‘So tell me about the letters,’ said Libby. ‘You think this is all connected?’

  ‘Must be,’ said Cy, and nodded at Colin to carry on.

  ‘Hurts him to talk you see,’ said Colin, offering the coffee pot again. ‘Well he started getting these letters some time ago. How long was it?’ He looked at Cy. ‘Six months? I don’t know if Harry’s told you, but they were the “we don’t want your sort here” type of thing.’ Libby nodded. ‘Well, they got a bit worse, a bit more threatening with each one. Then we got another one yesterday morning before Cy went off to work. And this time it was different.’

  ‘How?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Hand delivered. The post doesn’t get here till at least nine thirty. And then there was what it said.’ He looked across at Cy again. ‘Get out now, or we’ll make you, more or less, only with very bad language.’

  ‘So it was actually threatening you with action?’ said Libby.

  ‘Not me, dear. Cy. None of them were addressed to me, only to him.’

  Startled, Libby looked at Harry. ‘I didn’t realise,’ she said. ‘I assumed you were both being targeted.’

  Colin shook his head. ‘No. I don’t know why. Both our names are on the deeds, we moved in at the same time, we both belong to the panto society, everyone who knows us, knows both of us, if you see what I mean. The only difference is that I’m away some of the time.’

  ‘Not the only difference,’ said Cy. ‘I come from here.’

  ‘You lived here when you were a child. It was back in the eighties.’

  ‘Were you born here?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Not in the house.’ Cy passed a hand over his face. ‘Sorry, difficult.’

  ‘But in Maidstone?’ said Libby. Cy nodded.

  ‘Josephine bought this house, well, her husband did,
and left it to Cy.’

  ‘Josephine? That was your mum?’ Harry asked Cy. Cy nodded again.

  ‘So are there any people living here who lived here then?’ asked Libby.

  ‘A few. Lots dead.’ Cy took a sip of coffee through his straw. ‘Sheila wasn’t here until a bit later.’

  Libby frowned. ‘Are you absolutely sure that these letters are threatening you because you’re gay?’

  Both Colin and Cy looked at her in amazement. ‘Well, of course! What else would it be?’ said Colin.

  ‘But you’re both gay. You’ve just said yourself, both your names are on the deeds, everyone knows you both. So why only target one of you?’

  Chapter Four

  COLIN LOOKED AT CY. ‘I did say, didn’t I? Why just you?’

  ‘Wondered.’ Cy nodded.

  ‘So couldn’t it be something else?’ said Libby.

  ‘There isn’t anything else,’ said Colin sharply. ‘What would there be?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Libby shrugged. ‘It just seems odd.’

  ‘Cy’s in a more – well – straight profession than Colin,’ said Harry. ‘That could be it.’

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘Sales,’ mumbled Cy.

  ‘You’re a salesman?’ Libby’s eyebrows disappeared into her hairline.

  ‘He’s a sales director,’ said Colin impatiently.

  ‘Sales manager,’ corrected Cy.

  ‘For a water cooler company,’ added Harry. ‘Quite small but they supply all the big city companies.’

  ‘Right.’ Libby looked pensive. ‘So is it a homophobic sort of business?’

  Cy looked startled. ‘No idea.’

  ‘No jolly japing about gay people in the office banter?’

  ‘Not heard any.’

  ‘Not many people in the office,’ put in Colin. ‘Lots in the distribution centre.’

  ‘Which is where? Not in the city, I assume.’

  ‘The other side of Maidstone, actually,’ said Colin.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘That’s why Cy got the job. When we moved here. Seemed perfect.’

  ‘Did you move here first, or because of the job?’ Libby was feeling confused.