“Mandy doesn’t take drugs. Well, not in my house, anyway.”
Marina sighed, theatrically, took a pair of silver earrings from her bag and slipped them with ease into pierced ears. “You’ll be getting a reputation as a collector of lame dogs, if you’re not careful. Like Bear, and Max Ramshore.”
“Max is no lame dog.”
“Well, not exactly I suppose. Still, he’ll let you down, believe me. Don’t trust him, or Joe.”
If Libby wasn’t careful, Marina would be spreading gossip about her. “Max is hardly more than an acquaintance of mine, I promise you.”
“Exactly.” Marina beamed, triumphant. “Just like Chester and me.”
Libby gave up. The food arrived and she took a deep breath of garlic and parmesan cheese. “Mmm. This pasta smells good. Do you often come here?”
“Sometimes.” Libby would be willing to bet Chesterton Wendlebury had intended to join Marina for lunch today. What was really going on between them? Not that it was any of Libby’s business.
She swallowed a delicious mouthful. “You told me something about Kevin Batty.”
Marina tucked in to ham, egg and chips with enthusiasm. So much for trying to get fit. “He was a frightful man.”
“You said he was a client of Henry’s.”
“Did I? Oops.” Marina touched a finger to her lips. “Silly me. I’m not supposed to talk about Henry’s work, but it’s so difficult to remember what I’m not supposed to know.”
“Tell me about Kevin, anyway. It could be important. The poor man’s dead, so I don’t think client privilege counts any more.”
Was that true? Libby had no idea, but Marina was satisfied. “Henry deals with corporate law, mostly. Firms who want to merge or take each other over. Utterly boring.” She waved a fork in the air.
“He was writing contracts for a London company planning to buy land in Bridgwater. The land they wanted belonged to Kevin’s father. He used it for plant nurseries, but they were hopelessly full of weeds.” Marina’s eyes glinted. “Kevin’s father used to drink.” She drained her own glass, not seeing the irony. “Six large bottles of cider a day, that’s what I heard. No wonder he let the land go to ruin.”
“Kevin didn’t run the business?”
“Not then. He was just his dad’s messenger boy, lounging around, drinking, and spending all night in the clubs in Bristol. Until he found the company was offering mega cash for the land. Kevin jumped at it and tried to persuade his dad to sell. They had a flaming argument and Kevin’s father had a stroke.”
Marina lined up her knife and fork on the empty plate and looked round. “Where’s the waitress? I think I deserve pudding, don’t you?” A harassed girl with a pony tail scurried across the room, eager to please. Marina scanned the laminated list, ordered spotted dick, and turned back to Libby. “Now, where was I?”
“Mr Batty’s stroke.”
“Oh, yes. It wasn’t Kevin’s fault, but it gave him a shock. He inherited the business, cleaned up his act, refused to sell any of the Batty land and started making money, subletting to local farmers. He was worth a fortune, in the end.”
“What happened to the London company? Did they buy land somewhere else?”
“Disappeared back to London, I believe. Henry said they’d expected the yokels down in Somerset to be a pushover, and to get the land for half what it was worth.”
Libby kept her voice casual. “Do you remember the name of the company?”
Marina tapped manicured nails on the table. “Let me see. It was a string of letters. “ACT Ltd., or PMQ, or something.”
The initials meant nothing to Libby. “So, Kevin turned out to be something of an entrepreneur.”
Marina chased the last spoonful of custard round her plate. “Can’t see that it has anything to do with poison in the sandwiches.”
“No, me neither. Anything else you know about Kevin?”
“Nothing interesting. He was a bit of an old car fanatic, but so are half the men round here. He’s a regular at the American classic car convention. It’s part of the country fair. Full of Chevrolets and Pontiacs.” Marina emptied her glass. “The fair’s only a couple of weeks away. You should get your friend Max to take you.”
“Maybe we could meet you there―with your friend Chesterton.”
Before Marina could answer, the door of the pub crashed open. “You!” In the sudden silence, a tiny, red-haired woman, wearing anorak and wellingtons, wove through the tables towards Libby. Every head in the room followed her progress. Libby froze.
The woman pointed a bony finger at Marina. “I saw your car parked down the road, Mrs Busybody. What have you been saying?”
Marina raised a dignified eyebrow. “I have absolutely no idea what you mean, Mrs Wellow, and I’ll thank you to stop shouting.”
The newcomer jabbed a scarlet-painted fingernail in Marina’s face, leaned closer and hissed. “You told the vicar’s wife my Theodore is no pure breed. It’s a filthy lie, and he’ll beat your Shipley into a cocked hat, come the show.”
Marina, purple in the face, looked ready to explode. She rose to her feet, towering inches above her opponent. “Mrs Wellow, I’ll have you know Shipley, whose Kennel name is Wellington Shipshape, by the way, is a pure bred, registered springer spaniel.” She gathered up her bag, lifted the orange jacket from its nearby hook, and tossed her head. “I will see you and your unfortunate mutt at the show.” She swept regally out of the pub.
Libby resisted the temptation to applaud. Nothing would make her miss the county show, now. She paid the bill and drove home.
Truffles
Libby returned home, to discover a neat list on the kitchen table, with the heading, “Cycling club weirdos.” Mandy had been busy.
She’d scribbled a note at the bottom of the page. “Round at Steve’s. See you there, later.” She’d even remembered to leave the address.
Fuzzy sat on the windowsill, two white front paws together. His gaze was unwavering, fixed on the garden, where Bear was digging up any plant that had survived his last visit.
The dog looked up, noticed the cat, and burst through the back door. Fuzzy stepped elegantly from her perch and drifted past, as though by mistake, heading for her bowl. You’re a tease, Fuzz. Bear followed, to gulp down a pound of beef while the cat nibbled gracefully on a few morsels of fish.
Libby snapped the door shut, restricting the animals to the garden and utility room. They weren’t getting anywhere near the kitchen. She’d applied for a hygiene certificate, and the inspector would arrive in a day or two. Animal hairs were not welcome on premises where food was prepared for sale.
Libby found it easiest to think in her beloved kitchen, surrounded by grinders, mixers and racks of saucepans, the tools of her trade. As she weighed and measured, chopped and tasted, her brain busied itself with the poisoning of Kevin Batty and Vince Lane.
She knew a little about Kevin, thanks to Marina, but nothing about Vince. She’d no idea what linked him with Kevin. In any case, how could the killer be sure he’d targeted the right people? So many had been poisoned, but only two had died. Not everyone in the cycling club would have eaten the same things. There were plenty of different sandwiches. There was chicken, tuna, and egg salad, as well as Libby’s cakes.
She poured chocolate into moulds, moving mechanically. If everything was equally infected, why had only Kevin and Vince died? How was it managed?
Libby pulled containers from the new, dedicated fridge, that had taken the last of her savings. She tore down the ‘Poison’ sign on the door. She’d laughed when Mandy stuck it on, last week. It wasn’t funny any more.
Squirting coconut cream, lemon mousse, and champagne truffle fillings into chocolate cases took all Libby’s concentration. With a defiant swirl, she finished the final confection, loaded up the dishwasher, and checked on Bear and Fuzzy. They were snoring, limbs tangled, in their favourite apple crate.
Libby took Mandy’s list up to her study. Most of the names were familia
r. She found an Eddie Batty. Was he some cousin or uncle of Kevin’s? Marina had said the area teemed with Battys.
There was Henry, Marina’s husband. Libby paused. How much did he know about Marina and Chesterton Wendlebury? Don’t be nosy. It was none of her business, really. Further down the list she found Vince Lane, Joe Ramshore, Simon Logan, and Alan Jenkins, the garage owner who nurtured Libby’s treasured Citroen.
Mandy had scribbled notes in the margins. Apparently, Eddie Batty was divorced from someone called Sarah, who’d remarried and was now Sarah Smith. Eddie’s new wife was Christine, previously married to Vince Lane. That was the first link Libby had found between the two men, but it was pretty remote. She dropped the paper on her desk. Almost everyone in Exham seemed to be related to everyone else, by birth, marriage or divorce.
A list of new emails popped up on the computer. Max’s name stood out and Libby clicked. Just to let you know I might be off the grid for a few days. She snorted. It sounded like an episode of Spooks.
Her eyes slid down the email. Hope you’re being careful. I’ve been in touch with Joe and he tells me the bakery’s closed. Let me know if you need anything.
I met someone today who used to know your husband. He asked if you were living in Trevor’s house in Leeds. You didn’t mention you had a house up there.
Libby bit her thumb nail. Ali’s house, left by Trevor, was in Leeds. A familiar, Trevor-related ache pounded the side of Libby’s head. She closed the laptop, fished aspirins from a desk drawer and washed them down with a handful of lukewarm tap water. She was looking forward to her trip to Leeds, but first, it was time to visit Mandy’s friend, Steve.
***
Loud music told Libby she was at the right house. It drowned out the bell, so she banged the door with her fist. The next door in the terrace opened and an elderly woman peered out, spectacles on the end of her nose. “They’ll never hear you with that racket going on.” She stumbled down the path, through Steve’s gate and up to the door, hammered on it like thunder, leaned down and bellowed through the letter box. “Oi. Mason. You’ve got a visitor.” Without another word, she shuffled back the way she’d come.
Mandy, cheeks flushed, hair in spikes and mascara smudged, opened the door. Libby stepped inside, straight into a small living room. She recognised a sweetish smell that hung in the air, and sniffed, ostentatiously. “Are you high, Mandy?” The girl just giggled. If Steve was in the same state, Libby wasn’t going to get much sense out of him.
A tall, thin teenager leaned, swaying slightly, against the door. Black hair, back-combed into stiff points, topped a face even paler than Mandy’s. He must be Steve. A dragon tattoo climbed from the neck of a sleeveless black t-shirt. The boy’s exposed arms were scrawny, his eyes half-closed, pupils dilated.
Libby took her time, letting her gaze roam round the room. The boy shifted from one foot to the other. When she thought he was uncomfortable enough, Libby said, “I suppose your mother’s out. I can’t imagine she lets you smoke pot at home.”
The boy stared at the ground as he muttered, ”She’s at the Bingo.”
“Then, I suggest you get rid of the evidence.” Libby pointed at a jumble of cigarette papers, matches, and tins that she guessed contained something more exotic than tobacco. “You’d better make yourself a cup of strong coffee.”
Mandy giggled. Libby would have something to say to the girl when they got home. For the moment, she kept her attention on Steve. “I thought Goths were supposed to be depressed.” The boy mumbled something she couldn’t catch. “I beg your pardon?”
He sighed. “I said, not real ones. Just the posers and losers who do Goth ‘cos they don’t have any friends. They’re the ones all over the internet.”
“So, where do real Goths hang out?” Interested, despite herself.
“Clubs, mostly. And record shops.” Steve pushed himself away from the wall. “I’ll get the coffee, I s’pose.”
Libby glared at her lodger and Mandy stopped giggling. “You won’t tell Mum, will you?”
“Not if you calm down and stop being so stupid. What were you thinking?”
Mandy tossed her head. “It doesn’t do any harm.”
“Well, we need to get some sense out of Steve.” The boy returned, balancing mugs, and handed them round with all the exaggerated care of a Victorian footman. Maybe he hadn’t been as high as he’d pretended. Libby said, “Where did you go to school?”
The boy hesitated. “Wells.”
“Wells? You mean, Wells Cathedral School? Do they let Goths study there?”
Steve blushed. “I had a scholarship. Music.”
“He plays the saxophone,” Mandy chimed in. “He’s in a band.”
Libby ignored her. “Do you have a job?”
“I’m on a gap year before Uni.”
“Oh? Where are you going?”
“Royal College of Music,” he muttered.
A few pieces of information clicked into place in Libby’s brain. Angela’s husband was a musician. Exham was a close-knit community. “Steve, are you by any chance related to Angela Miles?”
“She’s my aunt. She was married to Uncle Geoff.”
“That’s Geoff Miles, the composer?” Steve nodded, suddenly enthusiastic. “I’m playing in her gig in a week or two. You can come, if you like.”
“It’s a deal. Now, I want you to tell me what you know about this company that’s trying to muscle in on the bakery.”
The atmosphere froze. Steve fixed his gaze on the floor and mumbled. “What did you say?”
He heaved a heavy sigh and plucked at the frayed hole in the knee of his black jeans. “They’re called Pritchards. My mate says the top man lives in some manor house in the Cotswolds and gets around in a helicopter, but he started out as a barrow boy in the East End of London.”
“He’s done well for himself, then?”
“My mate says he’s crooked.”
“Does he? Any evidence?”
Steve licked his lips. “He uses loopholes in the law to get businesses shut down, and then he moves on to their patch. Like when that tea shop in Riversmead had to close because it couldn’t get a health and safety certificate. Pritchards bought up the premises and they’re making a fortune. My mate says they paid off the inspector.”
Libby murmured, thinking aloud. “Bribery’s a long way from murder, though?”
Mandy joined in. “What if they didn’t mean to actually kill anyone, just make everyone in the cycle club sick. Then, the bakery would be shut down and Pritchards could move in.”
“It’s a bit extreme, don’t you think? Exham’s just a small place, not big enough for a huge concern like Pritchards to care about.” Libby drained her mug. “How could they have poisoned the food?” She shook her head, dismissing the idea. “No, I can’t believe Pritchards would risk killing people, just to get a foot in the door in Exham.”
Mandy looked disappointed. “But you never know.”
Libby smiled. “No, you never do.”
***
Libby left Mandy and Steve behind, to tidy up before his mother returned. She took Bear for a final walk rounds the roads, promised him a trip out into the fields tomorrow, and returned home. She clattered ice into a glass, poured a hefty slug of gin and waved a few drops of tonic water over the surface, finished with a slice of lime and curled up on the sofa to think about Vince Lane.
He was almost as new to the area as Libby, and no one had much to say about him. Mandy said he’d sometimes worked at Alan Jenkin’s garage. With the Citroen, suitably serviced, waiting for collection from the same garage, Libby had the perfect excuse to snoop around and ask questions.
Meanwhile, the thought of that house in Leeds nagged, like an itch Libby couldn’t reach. Max had mentioned it, in the email. Maybe he could help. She reached for her phone, and dialled. Bear heaved himself up from the rug and rested his head on her lap. Libby scratched his ears.
“Are you busy?”
“No, actually I’m a
bout to head back home. Business transacted, job done. What about you?” Bear’s tail waved. He could hear his master’s voice.
Libby swished gin round her glass. What exactly was Max doing at the moment? Had he just come from a shower, a towel round his waist, hair wet? Libby blinked to erase the thought and made herself listen. Max said, “I found out a bit about Kevin and his family firm. Seems he might have upset a few people over the land deal, but it was years ago.”
“I remember something about it. Wait a moment.” Max’s phone clunked as he set it down. “Yes.” He was back. “I’m looking at some of the paperwork.”
Libby’s mouthful of gin found its way to her wind-pipe. It was almost as though Max had known what she was about to ask. “Already? You’ve got it there?”
“On my laptop. Are you OK?”
“Gin went down the wrong way.” She finished coughing. Now, he’d think she sat around drinking on her own, every evening. She put the glass down. “Go on.”
“The company he dealt with is called AJP Associates. They’re still around.”
That was a blow. “I was hoping it would be Pritchards.”
“What do you think the P. stands for?”
“No. Seriously?”
“Seriously. Pritchards, known to be moving in on properties in the West Country, is part of the group that tried to buy Kevin Batty’s land. I’ll see what else I can find out about them. I should be back tomorrow.”
Libby tried to ignore her stomach’s tiny flip, not wanting to analyse her feelings about Max’s imminent return. Would they quarrel again, or would their truce hold? “Listen, about that house in Leeds. Have you heard any more?”
Murder on the Levels: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 2) Page 5