She led them into the house, down a passage and into a large, warm kitchen, littered with un-kitchen-like equipment, including what looked like an incubator.
‘Sit down,’ said Jenny, waving a hand at the kitchen table. She clicked her fingers at Jeff-dog, who came at once, and picked up what Libby recognised as a scanner. She then checked on a computer screen and started typing. Ben, Libby and Hetty looked at each other.
‘Yes. There we are!’ Jenny turned back to them triumphantly. ‘Born to a mum we’ve still got, Madge, as one of a litter of five in June three years ago.’
‘And was he sold?’ asked Libby.
‘Yes, he was. I’ll look up the details in a minute. Cup of tea? Or coffee?’
They all opted for tea, and while the kettle boiled, Jenny went back to the computer.
‘Well, that’s odd,’ she said, frowning. ‘All I’ve got here is the name of a company.’
‘Is that unusual?’ asked Ben.
‘It wouldn’t be if it was a farm, but this isn’t.’ Jenny poured water onto teabags in mugs and put a carton of milk on the table. ‘All this says is Carlton Holdings Ltd.’
‘Perhaps they own a farm?’ said Libby. ‘You must have known something about them, or you wouldn’t have let one of your puppies go to them.’
‘True.’ Jenny looked down at Jeff-dog. ‘And he’s been well-trained and cared for, apparently. There are no signs of ill-treatment or neglect.’
Hetty nodded. ‘Good dog.’
‘Look up Carlton Holdings,’ said Ben. ‘Or I can do it.’ He took out his phone and began tapping and swiping. ‘Well – I’ve got one LTD and one PLC. Websites for both.’
‘Look them up, then,’ said Libby impatiently.
‘All right, all right.’ Ben concentrated on his phone. ‘OK – Carlton Holdings Ltd. There you are – they own farms.’ He looked up triumphantly.
‘Well – where?’ Libby scowled at him.
‘Oh – yes. Here we are. One on the Isle of Thanet and one here on the Marsh, near St Mary in the Marsh.’
Jenny’s face cleared. ‘Not Castle Farm?’
‘That’s it.’ Ben looked up. ‘You know it?’
‘Course I do! Geoff Whitfield’s place. He’s had several pups from me over the years, like you did, Ben.’ She looked down at Jeff-dog again. ‘Reckon he was stolen?’
‘Beginning to look like it,’ said Libby. ‘We’d better go and see him.’ She caught sight of Hetty’s expression. ‘Perhaps not yet.’
‘I’ll give him a ring,’ said Jenny. ‘I had a feeling he was retiring. But I never knew he was a tenant farmer. I can’t think how I registered Carlton Holdings instead of Castle Farm.’
‘Are you sure you did it yourself?’ asked Ben.
‘Ah!’ Jenny looked relieved. ‘It might have been Keith. He still looks after Madge. I’ll ask him. He’ll be out with the sheep just now, but I’ll see him later.’
‘Oh, was that the man I saw when we came in?’ asked Libby. ‘In the yard?’
Jenny looked surprised. ‘Could have been,’ she said sounding doubtful.
‘Well, thank you, Jenny,’ said Libby, standing up. ‘Will you tell the police, or shall we?’
‘We will,’ said Ben firmly. ‘We’re used to handling them.’
‘Makes them sound like dogs themselves,’ said Jenny. ‘But I’d be pleased to leave it to you, to be honest.’
Once they were back in the car, Hetty spoke. ‘I know Geoff Whitfield. So did your father.’
Ben and Libby turned sharply to look at her. ‘Really?’
‘Close, farming community. Met him at the markets.’
‘Oh, yes, I suppose you would,’ said Ben. He looked across at Libby speculatively. ‘Could Mum ring him, do you think?’
‘Only got the Castle Farm number. That Jenny thinks he’s gone.’
‘Well, we could try,’ said Libby. ‘If it’s his dog…’
‘He’ll want it back.’ said Hetty, and turned her face to the window.
Libby pulled a face at Ben, who sighed and started the car. Libby noticed that the man-who-might-be-Keith had gone.
Back at the Manor, Jeff-dog went with Hetty into the kitchen and Ben and Libby made for his office.
‘I’ll try Geoff Whitfield,’ said Ben. ‘No reason why I shouldn’t.’
‘All right. Where do you find his number?’
‘Dad’s old Rolodex.’ Ben fished it out of the bottom drawer of the desk. ‘Here we are – Geoff W, Castle Farm.’
‘I don’t want to listen,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll go and make tea with Hetty.’
Hetty was standing at the Aga, back to the door and Jeff-dog at her feet.
‘He’s phoning Geoff, isn’t he?’ she said.
Libby sighed. ‘Yes. It would either be him or the police.’
Hetty give a single nod. ‘Get the mugs out, gal.’
After a few minutes’ silence, Ben came in.
‘Well, piece of luck. Geoff’s still at Castle Farm, but he’s retiring, as Jenny thought. He’s bought a little bungalow, he said, in Rye, and yes, the dog was his, but it turns out he’d let what he called “a young friend” have him as he wasn’t going to be able to take him to the bungalow.’
‘Young friend? The body?’ said Libby.
‘I didn’t say anything about that, just that he’d been found and the police had checked the chip. He did ask where the dog had been found, but I said the police would probably be in touch and tell him.’
Hetty poured tea into mugs. ‘I can keep him, then.’ She eyed them both warily.
‘Don’t know, but I really don’t see why not,’ said Libby. ‘What I’m worried about is landing Geoff Whitfield in the dirt when we tell the police. They’re bound to start in on him, and just before Christmas, too.’
‘Ask Ian,’ said Hetty.
‘We can’t go running to Ian every time,’ said Ben. ‘It isn’t his case.’
‘He’ll be here later.’ Hetty kept her eyes on her mug.
‘He what?’ said Ben and Libby together.
‘Coming for Christmas, isn’t he. Not going to Scotland to the family.’
‘For Christmas?’ echoed Libby.
‘Hasn’t he got any other friends?’ said Ben.
Hetty shrugged. ‘I asked him to come, he said yes. Coming tonight.’
‘Why didn’t he tell us?’ said Libby indignantly. ‘He could have told us on Wednesday.’
‘Surprise.’ Hetty allowed herself a small smile. ‘And he said he might get called out, then he couldn’t come.’
‘All right,’ said Ben. ‘You ask him about it when he arrives. And remember to tell him it isn’t Libby and me asking!’
Hetty nodded and placidly continued to sip tea.
By nine o’clock that evening, Libby was in housecoat and slippers, curled up on the sofa, and Ben had gone to the pub. The sudden ringing of her mobile made her jump.
‘It’s me, Lib,’ said Ben. ‘Ian’s just turned up here. Thought you might want to hear what he’s got to say.’
‘But I’d have to get dressed again,’ said Libby. ‘Tell me when you get in.’
‘What?’ Ben sounded surprised. ‘That’s not like you! And I won’t ask the right questions.’
‘Yes, you will. You’re as much involved as I am. We want to know if we can wait to tell the police about Geoff Whitfield, and can we ask him who the “young friend” was.’
‘And do we tell him said “young friend” is dead.’
‘If it’s the same person.’
Ben sighed. ‘All right, but don’t blame me if it goes wrong.’
Libby smiled as she switched off the phone and got up to put another log on the fire. But she wasn’t altogether surprised when, an hour or so later, she heard voices outside before Ben’s key turned in the lock.
‘I brought Ian back for a nightcap,’ he said sheepishly. Ian came up behind him and peered over his shoulder.
‘I said you wouldn’t be pleased,’ he said. �
�You’re ready for bed.’
‘I’ve been like this all evening,’ said Libby. ‘Come in – don’t stand around making the place look untidy.’
Ben was pouring whisky. ‘Want one, Lib?’
‘Might as well,’ she said ungraciously.
‘So what did you learn?’ she asked after everyone was seated and served.
‘To be honest,’ said Ian, ‘it’s up to the police to find Mr Whitfield and ask him for information. They have Mrs Bright’s details, they can get in touch and ask her the same questions as you have.’
‘Yes, but she’s seen the dog, now.’
‘That makes no difference,’ said Ian. ‘They can send her the information the vet found with her scanner, and she can look it up as she did when you were there. I’m not saying withhold the evidence for ever, but if they haven’t thought to talk to Mrs Bright already… well. I shouldn’t be saying this, I know, but they don’t seem to be running the enquiry very successfully.’
‘You’d be furious if someone withheld evidence if it was your case,’ said Libby.
Ian grinned. ‘But I wouldn’t have overlooked it in the first place.’
‘So we don’t do anything?’ said Ben. ‘Libby’s worried about dropping Geoff Whitfield in it just before Christmas.’
‘Let me talk to them again tomorrow. I’m going in to the office in the morning. They may well be quite happy for Hetty to hang on to the dog. The kennels will all be at their busiest at this time of the year, especially with all the illegally imported puppies.’
But tomorrow was too late. Libby was just putting a last tray of mince pies in the oven when the phone rang.
‘Libby, it’s Ian. I’m afraid we were too late. The police were on to Geoff Whitfield yesterday evening. And he’s just been found dead.’
Libby sat down with a bump on the stairs.
‘What happened?’
‘Obviously, I don’t know much, but it appears they called him yesterday after talking to your friend Jenny Bright and told him they’d see him today. But when they arrived, he was dead.’
‘Suicide?’
‘PM report obviously won’t come in now until after Christmas, but it doesn’t look like it.’
‘Do you think he tried to get hold of his “young friend” after the police called? And couldn’t?’
‘If the “young friend” was the body at Cheevles Farm it wouldn’t make any difference. Did the Rural Crimes team find a mobile there?’
‘No idea. But I’ve still got the number on my phone.’
There was a short silence. Then Ian said, ‘Can you read it out to me?’
She recited it. ‘Is it important?’
‘If the mobile disappeared, then the killer’s got it. Did Rural Crimes not ask you?’
‘Er – no.’
Ian’s sigh floated down the line. ‘I’ll get on to it. Thanks, Libby.’
Libby called Ben, who had just carried a boot-full of presents up to the Manor, and told him the news.
‘Oh, how awful, on Christmas Eve. I hope he hadn’t got a wife.’
‘Or children.’
‘Will Ian take over, do you think?’
‘It’s not his area, is it? And it’s still connected to Rural Crimes. Perhaps they aren’t used to dealing with murder?’
‘No idea. But they’re obviously more efficient than we thought if they’d got on to Whitfield without reference to us.’
‘Well, so they should, really, shouldn’t they? Anyway, what do we do now?’
‘Us? What should we do? There’s nothing for us to do.’
‘Will you tell Hetty?’
Ben sighed. ‘I suppose so. And what about Jenny Bright?’
‘The police may well have told her. They’d want to ask her if she’d been in touch with him. Do you think they’ll ask us?’
‘I expect Ian will have told them,’ said Ben. ‘Anyway, if they want to speak to us, there’s nothing we can do about it.’
Next, Libby called Fran. She, Guy and Sophie were driving up on Christmas morning and staying in the Manor and at Adam’s flat.
‘That’s dreadful,’ said Fran. ‘Now don’t start feeling responsible.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Libby, who did.
‘Hmm,’ said Fran, sounding sceptical. ‘Just try and forget it and relax.’
‘The poor man’s dead on Christmas Eve.’
‘I know, I know. But it’s not your fault, and it’s nothing to do with you. Now, calm down and make a cup of tea.’
The mobile rang again. Sighing, Libby pressed answer.
‘Who is this?’ asked a male voice she didn’t recognise.
Swallowing a sudden lump in her throat, Libby took a deep breath. ‘Who is this?’
‘Sergeant Maddox, madam. Would that be Mrs Sarjeant?’
Libby felt the surge of adrenalin fuelled relief surge up from somewhere near her solar plexus.
‘Yes, Sergeant. Have you spoken to DCI Connell.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Just checking a few loose ends. You didn’t find a mobile at Cheevles Farm?’
‘No. Have you rung the number I gave DCI Connell?’
‘We have, ma’am. Needed to check this was yours.’
‘Did you get a reply?’
‘It was switched off,’ said the sergeant irritably. ‘Just be careful if you get any strange calls from that number and report it to us immediately.’
‘Of course,’ murmured Libby, who had only become aware of this possibility when answering the phone just now. When the call finished, she sat for a moment staring into space, then laboriously began to write a text message: “turning phone off until safe to turn on again on advice from police.” This wasn’t exactly true, but near enough, she thought. She then sent it to everyone on her contacts list and switched off the phone. The landline rang a moment later.
‘What prompted that?’ asked an amused voice.
‘Sergeant Maddox rang me and warned me. I gathered you’d spoken to him.’
‘I did,’ Ian said. ‘They didn’t find a phone. But it might give us a lead if the murderer does try and call you.’
‘Oh, thanks! I don’t fancy being the tethered goat.’
‘You could always give it to me,’ said Ian. ‘I could hang on to it – at least over Christmas.’
‘They’re hardly likely to call on Christmas Day, are they?’ said Libby.
‘Who knows? We don’t know who “they” are. The original turkey thieves, perhaps.’
‘I’d almost forgotten about that,’ said Libby. ‘All right. When you come back tonight you can have it for the weekend. No prying.’
Ian laughed. ‘See you later.’
‘The funny thing is,’ she said to Ben later, ‘we haven’t got a single suspect.’
‘Eh?’ Ben turned from making up the fire, looking startled.
‘Well, we haven’t come across anyone connected with the theft of the turkeys or the murders,’ she said reasonably. ‘Their lives are a closed book to us. We haven’t got a clue. We don’t even know who the first body is, for heaven’s sake.’
‘It’s not our problem, Lib.’ Ben got stiffly to his feet. ‘The only connection we have with it is that you found the first body.’
‘And our turkey was stolen. If I hadn’t gone looking, he probably wouldn’t have been found.’
‘And what about Jeff-dog? What would he have done?’
‘Oh, don’t!’ moaned Libby. ‘Now that’ll be in my head.’
‘Look – if the body was the person who spoke to you on the phone, he hadn’t been dead long when you found him. Jeff-dog would probably have wandered off after a bit. He didn’t strike me as one of those one-man-dogs who stay by their owner’s body through thick and thin.’
‘That’s true,’ Libby sat up straight. ‘Let’s go through it. The body must have known all about the website and have been in a position to pick up the landline messages. And he couldn’t have been far from Cheevles, because he got there before me, and had time to b
e killed. How, by the way?’
‘No idea,’ said Ben. ‘Hit on the head?’
‘Perhaps by accident?’ suggested Libby. ‘Suppose the boss of the racket arrives and finds him planning to sell the turkeys on his own behalf – I suggested that before, didn’t I? – loses his temper and – wham!’
‘It sounds to me as if he was actually at Cheevles when he called you. Must have done that from his phone, which was why it was stolen.’
‘And got the info from the website on his phone, too?’
‘Well, yes. Can you listen to answerphone messages that way?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘You see, if we’d been in on the investigation we’d know what had been found at the farm – apart from the turkeys, that is – they might have found a computer, for all we know.’
‘Suppose,’ said Ben, entering into the spirit of the thing, ‘that Cheevles was actually set up as a laundering centre for stolen and rustled produce, which is why the haunting rumours were started.’
‘And when they got enquiries, they would remove just that item, or those animals, somewhere else. And there was I, going direct to Cheevles!’ Libby stared at Ben wide-eyed.
‘So the boss lost his temper and – as you said – wham! It must have only just happened when you arrived.’
They were both silent, contemplating this frightening scenario. ‘So the question is – who was the boss?’ said Ben.
‘Or his minion,’ said Libby. ‘If it’s as complicated as we’ve just worked out, there must be quite an organisation behind it. The police must have found some sort of trace of it by now.’
‘I suppose the thing to do now would be to find out who knew about the police going to see Geoff this morning – if that was the reason he was killed,’ said Ben. ‘Although Ian’s not likely to tell us, is he?’
‘Not unless they’ve let him in on the investigation – although I can’t see it. First of all it belonged to Rural Crimes, then it moved to – where? Not Ian’s patch. Ashford?’
‘Well, we can tell him our thoughts, and see if he comes back with anything apart from telling us to keep out of it,’ said Ben. ‘Is he meeting us at the pub tonight?’
Christmas Eve in the pub meant a sing-song – mostly carols and Christmas songs, and the occasional party piece. Libby sometimes told short ghost stories. At eleven thirty, half the company trooped over the road to midnight service, while the remainder finished off the night with a final glass of Tim’s hot punch. The event, which had been a much more ad hoc affair before Tim took over, had now become a village staple.
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