Murder on the Run

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Thanks, Roly,’ said Fran, smiling kindly. He nodded and wandered away, looking miserable.

  ‘At least somebody’s upset,’ said Libby, looking after him.

  ‘He’s a bit weird,’ whispered Sophie.

  ‘Weird?’

  ‘Well, a bit of a loner.’

  ‘Just like Lisa, then,’ said Libby.

  ‘Suppose so.’ Sophie drained her glass. ‘Ready for another?’

  They sat through a long and rather boring discussion on race times before turning to security measures.

  ‘I suggest,’ said Steve, calling for silence with a raised hand, ‘that we all start to post our routes to a central hub. Then we can track where everybody should be. It’s no use if no one can see them except ourselves.’

  ‘I always post to Facebook,’ said someone.

  ‘Yes, but only your friends can see that,’ said Davy.

  ‘I post to the Harriers’ page,’ said someone else.

  ‘That’s helpful,’ said Libby, ‘but only members can see that. What you need is an access point that other people can see – like the police, in this case.’

  They all turned to her in surprise, but Sophie nodded.

  ‘Dropbox,’ she said. ‘That’s the answer.’

  ‘Is it?’ muttered Libby, but the other Harriers were all agreeing enthusiastically.

  ‘You know what,’ said Fran quietly, ‘although this is helpful, it’s a little worrying.’

  ‘Why? Because it’s too late for Lisa?’ said Libby.

  ‘No, because of the Big Brother aspect.’ Fran shook her head. ‘Just think, we could all be tracked everywhere we went. Everything we do. Nowhere to hide.’

  Libby turned to look properly at her friend. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘Two sides to every story,’ said Fran wryly. ‘And yes, it’s too late for Lisa.’

  ‘I think the meeting’s breaking up,’ said Sophie. ‘Do you want to stay for another drink, or go home?’

  ‘Go home,’ said Libby. ‘I don’t think we’ve learnt much except where she lives.’

  ‘They have said they’d be pleased if we looked into it,’ said Fran.

  ‘Well, Steve did. But I don’t see how we can. We have no access to her life. And no reason for Ian to tell us anything.’

  ‘No.’ Fran sighed and stood up. ‘Home then.’

  Libby retrieved her car from Harbour Street and drove slowly home. For once, she was glad to be out of an investigation, despite wanting to know why Lisa had disappeared. Life had a habit of getting complicated when she and Fran started investigating, and neither Ben nor Guy were entirely happy when their best beloveds got themselves into potentially dangerous situations. No chance of that this time, though.

  ‘Somebody rang for you,’ said Ben as she walked through the door. ‘A man.’

  ‘Who was it?’ Libby dumped her bag onto the table.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Ben narrowed his eyes at her. ‘When I asked who was calling, he said it didn’t matter and he’d try again.’

  Libby frowned. ‘How odd. What did he sound like?’

  ‘Ordinary. No special accent or anything.’

  ‘Do you think it could be one of the people at the Harriers’ meeting? With something they didn’t want to share in public?’

  ‘How do I know? You were there, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Libby went through to the kitchen to pour herself a whisky. ‘Did he ask for me by name?’

  ‘Yes. Well, actually, he said Mrs Sarjeant.’

  ‘Cold caller?’ suggested Libby, coming back into the room.

  ‘Didn’t sound like it.’ Ben shifted along the sofa to allow her to sit beside him. ‘Haven’t got a secret admirer, have you?’

  ‘I don’t think so!’ Libby tucked her feet underneath her. ‘I’m not that sort, am I?’

  Ben twirled an imaginary moustache. ‘Oh, I don’t know!’

  The following morning Libby realised she hadn’t anything to do. There were no shows on at the theatre until two comedy one-nighters at the end of the week, she had delivered three paintings to Guy last week for sale in his gallery and she hadn’t even any washing to do. She was quite relieved when the phone rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Sarjeant?’

  Libby’s mind sprang to full alert. Was this the mystery caller?

  ‘Yes,’ she said cautiously. ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘Never mind who’s calling,’ said the voice. ‘Just stop looking for Lisa Harwood. And tell your friend to stop looking too.’

  Chapter Seven

  Libby stared blankly at the phone in her hand for a moment,then punched in 1471 and got the expected message that the number was withheld.

  ‘Ian,’ she said out loud, and, with fingers that weren’t quite steady, found his number in her mobile.

  ‘Libby.’ Ian sounded irritated.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I’ve just had a funny phone call.’

  ‘Funny? What do you mean?’

  Libby took a deep breath and repeated the caller’s words.

  Ian sighed. ‘What have you been doing?’

  ‘Nothing, I promise you. Well, except that Sophie took Fran and I to meet the Harriers last night –’

  ‘Can’t you keep your nose out for once?’ Now Ian sounded more than irritated.

  ‘We are!’ Libby wailed. ‘We walked away from it. Nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Well, somebody thinks it is.’ Ian sighed. ‘Did you check the number?’

  ‘Withheld.’

  ‘Of course it was.’ There was a short silence. ‘Look. Think back over the last couple of days and work out if there’s anything that struck you as odd. I’ll call you back in a little while. In the meantime, you’d better call Fran.’

  ‘I will.’ Libby switched off the phone and sat down on the bottom stair. It was a good few minutes before she felt strong enough to call her friend.

  ‘That’s worrying,’ said Fran.

  ‘Worrying?’ screeched Libby. ‘It’s bloody scary!’

  ‘Have you told Ben?’

  ‘No, and I’m dreading telling him.’

  ‘Well, this time, it really isn’t our fault,’ said Fran. ‘We went with Ian at his request yesterday morning, remember.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Libby. ‘I butted in.’

  ‘Oh, look, Lib, we come as a pair, don’t we? And who was it this joker rang? You, not me.’

  ‘What I’d like to know,’ said Libby, indignation overcoming fear, ‘is how the hell he got my landline number.’

  ‘You’re in the book, stupid.’

  ‘Oh. How did he know who I was then? And you?’

  ‘Come on, Libby! We’ve been in the local papers several times, and even on Kent and Coast. And if someone saw us with Ian yesterday it would be easy to put two and two together.’

  ‘You say someone who saw us with Ian. What about someone who saw us at The Sergeant At Arms last night?’

  ‘It could be,’ said Fran, sounding doubtful, ‘but we could have been there for perfectly rational reasons. Parents of runners, say.’

  ‘Actually one of the Harriers, then?’ suggested Libby.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so. How old did the voice sound?’

  ‘No idea. Not a young voice and certainly not an old one.’

  ‘So we’ve got no clues to give Ian, then,’ said Fran. ‘We didn’t see or hear anything odd.’

  ‘No, we didn’t.’ Libby shivered. ‘That means we were being watched.’

  They both fell silent.

  ‘Do you think it was accidental?’ said Fran at last.

  ‘What, Lisa’s disappearance?’

  ‘No – us being watched. Do you think someone was watching the place Ian took us to yesterday, and that’s how they saw us?’

  ‘But they wouldn’t know who we were, despite you saying people know who we are.’

  ‘DCI Connell appears with two middle-aged women, poking around a crime sce
ne. If it’s someone local, as I said, they could put two and two together.’

  Libby’s eyebrows drew together. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Look,’ Fran sounded exasperated, ‘someone called you and warned us off. So they must know. Unless it was someone at the pub last night, as you suggested.’

  ‘But you think that’s unlikely.’

  ‘Nobody looked suspicious.’

  ‘Fran! We both know that isn’t any sort of guide.’

  ‘I know.’ Fran sighed. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘I wait for Ian to phone, I suppose,’ said Libby. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll work out the best and most sensitive way to break it to Ben.’

  After ten minutes of dithering, she finally called Ben. There was no reply from the estate office, so she tried his mobile.

  ‘Hello, Lib? Anything wrong?’ He sounded breathless.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m in the timber yard. Why?’

  Libby told him. Sound exploded in her ear.

  ‘Call Ian.’

  ‘I have. I’m waiting for him to ring back.’

  ‘Then get off this phone. I’m coming back now.’

  In fact, Ian and Ben arrived on the doorstep together, both looking as though they’d like to beat her to a pulp. She swallowed.

  ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’ she asked weakly.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Ben.

  ‘Now, Libby. You’ve had time to think about this, so tell me what you know.’ Ian sat on one of the upright chairs at the table in the window.

  ‘Nothing.’ She shook her head. ‘I called Fran and we talked about it. She said if someone saw you taking us to the cliff path yesterday they might have put two and two together, as local people know who we are.’

  Ian scowled. ‘So now it’s my fault?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ said Libby hastily, ‘but it’s the only thing we could think of.’

  ‘Except your visit to the Harriers last night.’

  ‘Fran doesn’t think it’s very likely that it’s one of them.’

  ‘How unlikely? Does she know that?’

  ‘Not like that, no. She just didn’t think …’

  ‘Actually, Ian,’ said Ben, from the kitchen doorway, ‘I don’t think it is their fault this time.’

  ‘So you think it’s my fault, too?’

  ‘No,’ said Ben, ‘but it’s the only thing that would link Libby and Fran to the disappearance, isn’t it? After all, they’re parents – or step-parents – of two of the Harriers.That isn’t enough to link them to an investigation, is it?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Ian frowned at the carpet. Ben went back into the kitchen to pour the tea.

  ‘So what does that mean?’ asked Libby. ‘Somebody was watching us? And why did they phone me and not Fran?’

  ‘They don’t know her married name?’ suggested Ian.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ said Ben, bringing in three mugs.

  ‘The landline number,’ said Ian. ‘Were they looking for Fran Castle or Fran Wolfe?’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, I think Coastguard Cottage’s landline is still registered under Castle, so perhaps they didn’t know Fran’s former name. If they bothered at all.’

  ‘It would have seemed more likely, as the disappearance happened in Nethergate, than to call you,’ said Ian.

  ‘Aren’t we overthinking this?’ asked Ben, sitting down beside Libby. ‘The caller knew them both, from what he said, and warned them off. That should be enough.’

  ‘It should.’ Ian nodded. ‘What I’m wondering is, though, what we do next. I can hardly move Fran out of Nethergate, even if she agreed to it, and I can’t really stop you going there, either.’

  ‘If we go nowhere near the – er – crime scene, we should be all right, though?’ said Libby.

  Ian shook his head, but didn’t answer. Ben and Libby exchanged worried looks. Eventually Ian lifted his head.

  ‘I think I’m going to have to take advice on this.’ He stood up. ‘You might get a call from the Superintendent.’

  ‘Really?’ Libby looked worried. ‘Why?’

  ‘I think I’ll probably get a rocket for taking you out there yesterday morning, and I have no idea how to protect you.’

  ‘Oh, hell. Don’t tell me we’ve got you into trouble.’

  ‘I got myself into trouble.’ Ian’s mouth twitched into a familiar wry smile. ‘I’ll be in touch when I can.’

  ‘Heavens,’ said Libby, as the door closed behind him. ‘Now what?’

  ‘We stay well clear of Nethergate,’ said Ben. ‘That’s all we can do.’

  ‘What about Fran? What about Ad come to that? He spends half his life with Sophie.’

  ‘Tell him and warn him to be on his guard. And I expect Ian will tell Fran.’

  ‘I’ll call her now.’

  But Libby couldn’t get through. Instead, she rang Adam, who was working with his friend Mog out at Creekmarsh, the renovated mansion whose garden featured regularly on television. Mog had landscaped the gardens and restored many of the original features, and was now charged with maintenance and experiments when the owner, Lewis Osbourne-Walker, wanted to showcase something on his television programme.

  ‘I knew you’d get into trouble one of these days,’ was her son’s comforting reaction to the news.

  ‘I like that!’ Libby was indignant. ‘It’s not me, this time – even Ben agrees. You could even say it’s your fault for getting me to come and see you run.’

  Silence greeted this, as Adam obviously thought this over.

  ‘Can I still go and see Soph?’ he asked eventually.

  Surprised, Libby laughed. ‘Of course. I don’t mind what you do, but just be aware of what’s happened. Don’t talk about me and Fran to anyone whatsoever.’

  ‘OK. Sorry, Ma. I wasn’t thinking.’

  ‘That’s OK. It’s a bit disconcerting, that’s what it is.’

  ‘Like that fire someone started in the back garden,’ Adam reminded her.

  ‘Gosh, yes, I’d forgotten that. I wonder how many people hate me?’

  ‘Loads!’ said Adam cheerfully.‘I’ll pop in before I go down to Sophie’s tonight – see if you’re still standing.’

  As Libby switched off her mobile, the landline began ringing. Ben cautiously picked it up, then smiled.

  ‘It’s Fran,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Lib,’ said Fran. ‘You’ve been trying to ring me.’

  ‘Yes, to tell you what Ian said.’

  ‘It’s all right, it was him I was on the phone to. A very subdued Ian.’

  ‘Isn’t he? What shall we do?’

  ‘About Ian? Nothing we can do.’

  ‘No,’ said Libby, ‘I meant us. What do we do.’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. Go about our normal daily business. Don’t talk to strangers.’

  ‘That’s what I just said to Adam. I said he mustn’t talk about you and me to anyone.’

  ‘That’s sensible,’ said Fran. ‘We just stay away from Nethergate, runners – anything connected.’

  ‘You can hardly stay away from Nethergate – you live there.’

  ‘Well, yes, but I needn’t go out much. Or if I do, I’ll go somewhere else to shop.’

  ‘Will you come up for the Steeple Martin run next weekend?’ Libby asked. ‘Or do you think that might be cancelled?’

  ‘I don’t see why it should be,’ said Fran, surprised. ‘Lisa wasn’t one of the organisers, was she? And she isn’t dead – she’s only disappeared.’

  ‘We hope,’ said Libby.

  Libby had just finished loading the dishwasher after supper when there was a knock on the door.

  Ben put his head round the kitchen doorway. ‘It’s Amy from Maltby Close.’

  Libby raised her eyebrows and he shook his head.

  ‘Hello, Amy.’ Libby came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a tea towel. Amy, old fashioned crossover apron under her raincoat, stood awkwardly in the sitting room.


  ‘Miss Libby.’ She ducked her head, and Libby marvelled at how this anachronism of a woman had managed to survive into the twenty-first century.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘It’s the Steeple Martin Fun Run, see.’ Amy thrust out a hand holding printed tickets. ‘We’re doing a raffle, see? Mrs C said we can serve teas an’ that in Carpenter’s Hall.’

  ‘During the run? That’s a good idea,’ said Libby, taking the tickets. ‘How much are they?’

  ‘Well, see, m’duck, it do start and end at the church, so we thought – good idea to serve teas.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Libby. ‘And the tickets?’

  ‘Mrs C said as how you’d sell some for us?’ Amy ended on an upward, hopeful note. ‘There’s some good prizes.’

  ‘Ah.’ Libby looked down at the tickets and handed one to Ben. There certainly were some good prizes. A large television, a meal for four at The Pink Geranium, a Sunday lunch at the pub, a huge box of mixed fruit and vegetables from Cattlegreen Nurseries and a fifty-pound voucher from Farthing’s Plants.

  ‘OK,’ said Libby. ‘How much are they?’

  ‘A pound.’ Amy beamed. ‘Will you sell some, then?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure we can.’ Libby looked at Ben. ‘Can’t we?’

  ‘We can try,’ said Ben, looking puzzled, ‘but I can’t see how we can find anyone who hasn’t already got one.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we will.’ Libby looked confident. ‘We’ll take them, Amy. Not much time, though.’

  ‘What did you do that for?’ asked Ben, when the door closed behind their visitor. ‘Who will we sell them to?’

  ‘Fran and Guy for a start,’ said Libby with a grin, ‘and the Nethergate Harriers, of course.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘So will the Harriers be meeting before next Sunday?’ asked Libby.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Sophie. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve got raffle tickets to sell before the Fun Run.’

  ‘Oh?’ A suspicious note crept into Sophie’s voice.

  Libby explained about the Carpenter’s Hall teas and raffle.

  ‘Oh. Well, that sounds all right. What’s the money going to?’

  Libby looked quickly at the raffle ticket she held. ‘Help the Aged and a local hospice. I thought I might sell them to your members.’

  ‘I don’t know that they’ll be very receptive on Sunday morning.’