Murder Imperfect

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘We decided to move in here when the then tenant’s lease had expired,’ explained Colin, offering Libby another piece of sponge. ‘We’d let it ever since Josephine died. But we were both a bit fed up with London, and this is a bit nearer Gatwick for my job, and Cy could still commute to his job in London. Then we saw this job advertised as manager of the distribution centre.’

  ‘So you worked in Maidstone at first?’ said Libby.

  Cy nodded.

  ‘Then he got promotion. So it was back up to London.’ Colin smiled across at Cy. ‘All the perks made up for it, though.’

  ‘Perks?’ said Libby.

  ‘Car, fares paid, you know, all the usual.’

  Libby, who didn’t, nodded. ‘So could it be a jealousy motive, then?’ she asked.

  ‘Jealousy?’ Cy frowned, as far as he was able.

  ‘Somebody at the distribution depot who was passed over for promotion, maybe?’

  Cy and Colin looked at each other. ‘We never thought of that,’ said Colin slowly.

  ‘No, because you were only thinking of the gay aspect.’ Libby looked from one to the other. ‘Tell me, why did that worry you so much?’

  Colin looked taken aback, but Cy’s expression didn’t change as far as she could see.

  Harry sighed. ‘I did warn you she was a nosy old trout,’ he said. ‘But you thought she might help.’

  Cy tried to smile. ‘I don’t mind,’ he mumbled. ‘Perhaps I’d better talk when I’ve healed up a bit.’

  ‘I can tell her,’ said Colin, sounding wounded. Cy leant over and squeezed his hand.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Panto,’ said Harry. ‘What are you doing about that? Libby’s not only directing ours, she’s now in it as well, owing to an unfortunate incident with the cow and the fairy.’

  Colin gave a hoot of laughter and clapped his hand over his mouth. Even Cy looked as if he would laugh if it didn’t hurt.

  ‘I’ll talk to them tonight,’ said Colin. ‘I’m here for the next week, thank goodness, so I can help as much as possible. Cy can’t go to rehearsals, of course.’

  Cy looked irritated, and it occurred to Libby that, good though Colin was, Cy was too independent to relish being nannied.

  ‘Well, if there’s anything I can do,’ she said, crossing her fingers, ‘give me a ring. Cy, when you can talk better, perhaps we can have that chat. There’s a couple of things I’d like to ask.’

  ‘Nosy cow,’ said Harry affectionately, standing up. ‘We’ll go now, Col. Thanks for the lovely cake and the coffee.’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Libby. ‘I love the cake.’

  Colin saw them out to the car.

  ‘Now you see why he wouldn’t talk to the police,’ he said, holding the passenger door open for Libby.

  ‘I’m not sure I do,’ said Libby.

  ‘Well, for a start, would they have asked all those questions you did? No. They’d just treat it as a mugging and file it. And the letters. I don’t think they’d even bother with those. We aren’t living in an old Agatha Christie film.’

  ‘And she’s not Miss Marple,’ said Harry, ‘or so she keeps telling us, but at least she can see possible other reasons for all of this, and might even take the time to look into it.’

  Colin bent down and kissed Libby’s cheek. ‘Thanks, girl. It’s made him happier, I can tell.’

  ‘So what did you think of them?’ asked Harry, as he negotiated his way back towards Detling Hill.

  ‘I liked them,’ said Libby, ‘even if I couldn’t really tell with Cy the way he is. He’s getting a bit fed up with Col mothering him, isn’t he?’

  ‘You noticed!’ Harry slid his eyes sideways towards her. ‘Independent sod, is Cy.’

  ‘So he’s been in business for a long time, has he?’

  ‘Yes. Typical suit, shirt, tie, short back and sides type. Never let on that he was gay to anyone.’

  ‘Ah. That’s what I thought,’ said Libby. ‘That’s why I asked why it worried them.’

  ‘I don’t think it worried Col,’ said Harry. ‘He works in an industry where it’s been accepted.’

  Libby nodded. ‘Even before it was legal. There were always gay stewards. I remember a friend of mine who was cabin crew for British Airways saying a lot of them were, and there were a good few lesbians, too.’

  ‘Not a career I would have thought appealed to them,’ said Harry.

  ‘You can get very close in a galley,’ said Libby. ‘My friend had an uncomfortable moment with a chief stewardess somewhere over New York.’

  Harry snorted.

  ‘So was Cy worried when he worked in Maidstone that his fellow workers would find out about him? Living there and all?’

  Harry frowned. ‘I don’t know. The neighbours must know about them –’

  ‘They admitted that,’ interrupted Libby. ‘Sheila obviously knows.’

  ‘So it follows that it wasn’t impossible that someone at the distribution depot would find out. Perhaps that’s why he opted for promotion.’

  ‘Apart from the rather more obvious advantages of more money, a car and everything else?’

  ‘He’s never been that interested in money, as far as I know,’ said Harry. ‘The house is mortgage-free, after all.’

  ‘Anyway, I shall wait and see until after Cy can talk to me. You see, it could be –’

  ‘Anything,’ said Harry. ‘See? I knew you’d be hooked.’

  Back in Steeple Martin, Libby surveyed the ruins of her day. Learning the fairy’s lines seemed to be a priority, after stuffing Adam’s sheets into the tumble dryer. She found enough food in the fridge and freezer to concoct some kind of meal for herself and Ben, decided two large pieces of Colin’s cake had more than compensated for a missed lunch, and lit the fire. Sidney signalled his appreciation by coming to sit on her lap – with his back to her, of course – and she opened her copy of the script.

  But Hey, Diddle, Diddle didn’t hold her attention. For a start, her copy had been dismembered and put into a ring binder with lots of sheets of A4 for notes. Secondly, half the scribbled notes (her own) were on the actual script pages instead, and thirdly, her mind returned constantly to the attack on Cy and the anonymous letters. After a few minutes of trying desperately to concentrate on rhyming couplets, she gave up and let the ring binder slip to the floor. Sidney put his ears back.

  First – why had Cy been the only one of the partners targeted by the anonymous letters? She had explained to Cy and Colin why she found this interesting – although that was not perhaps the right word – but they had not seemed to find this as surprising as she did. Yet Colin would have been the more obvious target on the surface, as he was, or appeared to be, the most blatantly gay of the two, and, as Harry had said, the industry in which he worked was well known for its acceptance of homosexuality. So why Cy? Who, apparently, never flaunted his sexuality and appeared to the general public as a perfectly normal business man.

  When he and Colin had returned to Maidstone to live in his mother’s bungalow, he had taken a job locally. Why hadn’t the letters started then, if someone knew him or anything about him? And it would have been very easy to find out. The company would have had his details, although, of course, the Data Protection Act wouldn’t have allowed just anybody to have access to those, but if someone at the company had taken a dislike to Cy, or had any suspicions of him, it would have been simple to follow him home and discover his living arrangements. Libby didn’t think anyone would have been crass enough to question the neighbours, but it might be an idea to ask them as soon as Cy could tell her who knew them well enough.

  Presumably the panto society did, and from the way Harry and Colin had spoken, that was comprised of very local people. Stranger and stranger. She frowned. Why on earth did Cy and Colin think the letters were about homosexuality? As far as she could see they almost certainly weren’t.

  And if they weren’t, thought Libby, leaning her head back against the cushions, what was it about? That was the di
fficult part. Cy might be happy to have her poke about in the shallows of his homosexual life, but it was a different thing entirely to have her asking questions about the other areas. After all, there could be all sorts of secrets hidden, even criminal ones, given the nature of the letters.

  She sighed and pushed Sidney off her lap. Tea was now necessary, as would have been, in the past, a conversation with Fran. But this time, no. She’d been entrusted with information that was not to be given to anyone, even the police, so she wouldn’t tell Fran unless it became absolutely essential.

  That was a thought, though. She moved the big kettle on to the Rayburn. If there was something criminal, or at the very least reprehensible, in Cy’s past, it would explain his disinclination to go to the police, despite his protestations that the police were unsympathetic to homosexuals. And what about the attack? Why hadn’t he reported that to the police?

  She warmed the teapot and spooned in tea. Of course, there was a chance that his reasons were exactly what he said, the police were both dismissive and unhelpful towards crimes against homosexuals. Whether they truly were or not was another matter, but if Cy believed it that was all that mattered.

  She went to the new laptop which sat on the table in the window in the sitting room. The laptop had replaced the desktop computer Ben had helped her buy a few years ago, and she found it much more comfortable to be able to sit on the sofa and wander across the internet than having to sit at the table. She fetched her tea and sat down.

  A horrifying number of sites were thrown up when she entered “gay bashing” into the search engine, but after refining it by several terms she came up with some reports that actually seemed relevant. One, in particular, was a BBC news report which covered the whole problem, and which Libby found quite sickening.

  But it was the third item down which almost made her spill her tea.

  “Gay man dies in unprovoked attack in Maidstone,” it read. And it was dated today.

  Chapter Five

  LIBBY CLICKED ON THE link, her heart beating heavily. She knew logically, that this could not possibly be Cy, having left him alive less than two hours ago, but it was too uncomfortably close.

  Sure enough, the link, to a local radio report, was about a death which had occurred the previous night. Libby’s heart, which had began to slow to a normal rate, picked up again. When, the previous night? Where?

  She reached for her mobile and sent Harry a text. Then, she picked out specifics of the report and put them into the search engine. Up came the same link she’d just used and one other, to a news blog.

  ‘And how does he get his information?’ muttered Libby to herself, then answered her own question by discovering that he was no amateur but the chief reporter on a local paper. The phone rang.

  ‘Someone else was attacked in Maidstone last night,’ began Libby without preamble. ‘And he died.’

  ‘What?’ Harry sounded confused. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Libby explained.

  ‘Fuck. Where was the attack? And why do you think it’s linked?’

  ‘It was on the other side of that park,’ said Libby, ‘and the guy was gay. Could they have been interrupted with Cy and just run off to take it out on someone else?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Harry slowly, ‘but then it means it’s random attacks on gay men. And you didn’t think it was straightforward homophobia.’

  ‘I didn’t think the letters were,’ said Libby. ‘But there’s nothing to link them to the attack except the last one, is there?’

  ‘And that’s tenuous,’ said Harry. ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘Could you let Colin know about this other attack? It might prompt him to take it to the police. If it is the whole gay community which is being threatened, they need to know.’

  ‘OK. It’ll give me a chance to find out how they actually took our visit. You can never tell when people are just being polite, can you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought our visit had much to do with politeness on either side,’ said Libby dryly, ‘but I see what you mean. Let me know.’

  The tea was almost cold, so she pushed Sidney aside once more and went to pour some more. She was aware that underneath the distress and discomfort of finding out about the attacks on both the un-named victim and on Cy, she was feeling very much more alive and alert than she had for months.

  ‘You ghoul, you,’ she told herself as she sat down. ‘And you promised you wouldn’t get involved again.’ She sighed. ‘The same as you do every time,’ she added to Sidney.

  Libby sat in the auditorium of the Oast House theatre and surveyed the stage. Ensemble members – or chorus members, as she still called them – hovered around the edges giggling and whispering, two carpenters fiddled about with cut-out flats behind them, and Little Boy Blue scowled at the musical director.

  ‘Where’s Buttercup?’ said Libby suddenly. Everyone stopped and looked round, startled.

  ‘Freddy’s here but Dean isn’t,’ said a chorus member.

  Libby sighed. ‘Well, where’s Freddy, then?’

  There was a muttered explanation from the chorus, and one of them detached herself and ran off stage.

  ‘And where are the rest of them?’ Libby asked of no one in particular. ‘It’s bloody eight o’clock and we’re supposed to have started at quarter to.’

  ‘They’re amateurs, dear heart,’ said a voice behind her.

  She looked up into Peter’s amused face. ‘I know. And I have this conversation with you every time,’ she said. ‘I still can’t get used to it.’

  ‘Look, the standard’s going up every time,’ said Peter, climbing over the back of the seats and sitting down beside her. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Bob and Baz as the double act will do their own thing regardless and they’ve already got their own fan base, Tom is a great Dame and you’ll be a perfect fairy.’

  ‘A bit different from Fairy Sugar Plum,’ said Libby gloomily.

  ‘So make her funny. You know you like doing that sort of thing. Get someone to run you up a sort of sweetie-shop dame-like costume.’

  ‘Oh? Who, pray?’ asked Libby. ‘Costume designers don’t just turn up out of the blue, you know.’

  ‘Libby?’ A young man with floppy dark hair ambled on to the stage.

  ‘Oh, Freddy.’ Libby stood up. ‘Where’s your front half?’

  Freddy shrugged. ‘No idea, I’m afraid.’

  Libby ground her teeth silently. ‘Well you’ll have to stand in for both halves tonight, then,’ she said. ‘Is there any other member of the cast here? We were supposed to be doing scenes three and four tonight, in case everybody’s forgotten.’

  Peter patted her arm in sympathy as she sat down again. ‘Never mind, chuck,’ he whispered. ‘Be all right on the night.’

  Two hours later, Libby declaimed a speech from centre stage and then turned her back on the auditorium.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I shan’t ask you to stay, but please could you try and learn your words, people? The dance numbers are coming on terrifically well, we don’t want the dialogue sequences letting them down.’ She took a deep breath. ‘It’s not long, and with a break for Christmas. Remember that.’

  The cast drifted off and Ben came down to where she stood. Once again cast as the King, he was also helping with set construction, so tended to be around for rehearsals, whichever part of the script was being rehearsed.

  ‘Harry asked if we were going for a drink,’ he said.

  Libby raised her eyebrows. ‘We usually do,’ she said.

  ‘I think that was what he meant. He’s hoping we’ll go to the caff rather than the pub.’

  ‘Ah.’ Libby pulled a face. ‘His friend Cy, no doubt.’ She had told Ben about the visit to Maidstone that morning and about the news of the coincidental murder. He had not been overjoyed.

  ‘I think so,’ said Ben now. ‘And I suppose you’d better listen, hadn’t you?’

  Libby peered round the auditorium. ‘Where’s Pete?’
she asked.

  ‘He’s gone. Harry called him, too.’

  ‘Oh, lordy, lordy,’ said Libby. ‘This doesn’t bode well.’

  ‘No,’ said Ben, ‘it doesn’t. But this time, you can’t blame yourself. Whatever’s happened.’

  There was a rowdy, ten-strong party in The Pink Geranium, but Peter was sitting on the sofa in the window with a bottle and glasses. He made a face as Libby and Ben came to join him.

  ‘Bloody noisy lot,’ he said, pouring wine. ‘They were supposed to be gone by ten. Donna had to send the taxis away.’

  ‘Harry won’t want to talk to us here, then,’ said Libby, accepting a glass. ‘Can it wait?’

  ‘No idea. But you’re right. He didn’t want to talk in the pub, so it’s unlikely that he’ll be happy about this.’

  Adam appeared from the kitchen and nodded towards the yard. Ben got up and went to speak to him.

  ‘He says to go up to the flat,’ he said returning to the sofa. ‘Bring the bottle.’

  Under the interested eyes of the party of diners, Adam led them through the kitchen and out into the yard.

  ‘Door’s open,’ he said, so they filed up the outside staircase and into Adam’s tiny kitchen.

  ‘Well!’ said Libby, going through to the sitting room and pushing a bag off the sofa. ‘Very cloak and dagger.’

  ‘Hardly,’ said Peter, swinging a chair round to face her. ‘A lot of people saw us come up here.’

  ‘I know, I meant whatever he wants to say,’ said Libby.

  Ben prowled round the room picking things up and putting them down.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Libby asked him. ‘You don’t want to be here, do you?’

  ‘No.’ Ben picked moodily at the edge of a crumpled magazine. ‘Harry’s dragging you into something and it all sounds a bit – well – nasty.’

  ‘Gay bashing is nasty,’ said Libby.

  ‘And is that all it is?’ Ben came to sit beside her. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It certainly looks like it now, doesn’t it?’ said Libby. ‘With this second murder and all.’

  ‘Second murder?’ Peter said sharply.

  ‘No, sorry.’ Libby frowned. ‘I meant second attack. First murder.’