Rachita wrinkled her brow. ‘When they talked about it together and they thought I wasn’t listening – this is Kiran and his friend, you know? – they said it could be either of them.’
‘Either Kiran and his friend?’
‘No, no, either of two people who were after them. I don’t think they knew which it was.’
‘And you have no idea who either of those people were?’
‘No, I told you.’ Rachita looked annoyed. ‘One was the boss they worked for, I think.’
‘And you don’t know who the boss is?’
‘No!’ Libby got the feeling that Rachita was just stopping herself from stamping her foot.
‘Did you ever see the boss at Uncle Jaiman’s shop?’ asked Rachanda.
Rachita shrugged. ‘No. The only person I saw there was Uncle Aakarsh. He organised for Kiran and his friend to do the work.’
The silence that fell in the small room was almost tangible. Ian kept his eyes steadily on Rachita, who began to fidget.
‘Miss – Rachanda,’ he said. ‘Is your sister referring to Aakarsh Vindari?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We call him Uncle, although I think he is only a distant cousin of my father’s. He owns two restaurants.’
‘Yes, we know him,’ said Ian. ‘So do Mrs Sarjeant and Mrs Wolfe.’
‘You do?’ Rachanda looked at them in surprise. ‘How do you know him?’
‘We met him in the village where he lives,’ said Fran.
‘So, Rachita – Miss Sharma – do you think it was Mr Vindari who they were afraid of?’ Ian leant forward, elbows on knees.
‘Uncle Aakarsh?’ She stared back, wide-eyed. ‘Of course not.’
‘Do you know if he organised any other work for them?’
‘I think he had recommended them in the past, but I don’t know who to.’ She looked round at the four other women. ‘What is this all about? I am over sixteen. My parents have no legal control over me in this country. I can’t be prosecuted for running away. And now,’ she let her voice wobble tragically, ‘my Kiran is dead and I am being persecuted.’
Ian sighed deeply. ‘Miss Sharma, you are not being persecuted, but someone murdered your Kiran and we have to find out who. You are the best chance we have of finding his murderer, who is still at large, and –’ Ian paused dramatically ‘– knows that you are still alive.’
Rachita’s expression changed from tragic heroine to frightened child in an instant.
‘You think she’s in danger?’ asked Rachanda, putting her arm round her sister’s shoulders.
‘I think she could be, yes,’ said Ian. ‘So, for the time being, I want you both to stay in accommodation that we will find for you. The first place whoever it is will look for you is at your parents’ home.’
There was a knock on the outer door of the flat and a young woman police officer put her head round the door.
‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but we’ve found a small hotel with a nice en-suite double for the young ladies, and Sergeant Maiden says Mr Sharma and a friend of his are playing merry hell at the station.’
‘Thank you, Donnington,’ said Ian with a grin. ‘Perhaps you can organise an unmarked to take the ladies to their hotel?’ He turned to Libby, Fran and Sophie. ‘I don’t want to send any of you with them, or you could well start getting unwanted attention, but you could perhaps buy them any essentials they need and we’ll see they get them.’ He turned back to Rachanda and Rachita. ‘Will you give your friends a list of things you might need?’
In under ten minutes the sisters had gone.
‘I don’t think we’ve got time to visit the cellar today,’ said Ian, ‘but I’ll give you a ring tomorrow. I’m going to tackle Mr Sharma and his friend, now. Thanks for all your help.’
‘What about Rosie?’ said Libby. ‘She’s still missing.’
‘I know.’ Ian’s face held a strange expression. ‘I don’t think you need worry, though.’
Fran and Libby exchanged puzzled frowns as he left the flat. Sophie sighed and stretched.
‘Well, if this is the way things go when you’re on one of your cases I wonder why you carry on with them,’ she said. ‘What a performance.’
Chapter Thirty-four
‘WHY IS IAN NOT worried about Rosie?’ asked Libby, as she and Fran walked back down Harbour Street.
‘He must think she’s gone off for some reason of her own.’
‘But she left the cat.’
‘There was a cat flap. Presumably she thought he could fend for himself for a bit.’
‘So it must have been something she found out while she was at Hugh Weston’s. Something that suddenly hit her?’ said Libby.
‘Unless she found out something and he had to silence her,’ said Fran.
‘But you said –’
‘Ian thinks she’s gone off on her own. I know. But has she?’
‘Where would she go?’ They stopped in front of Coastguard Cottage.
‘White Lodge,’ said Fran, opening her front door.
‘Really?’ Libby grabbed her arm and Fran turned in surprise.
‘Yes.’ She frowned. ‘At least, I think so. I was sure when I said it.’
‘Hurrah! A moment!’ crowed Libby.
‘I suppose so.’ Fran shook her head with a small laugh. ‘Don’t get so many these days. Should I tell Ian?’
‘If you can get through to him. I wonder how he’s getting on with Mr Sharma?’
‘Badly, I should think. That was a real facer when Rachita told him about Uncle Aakarsh, wasn’t it?’
‘I know! Couldn’t believe it. Do you think he’s the actual boss?’
‘I don’t know. I think Ian thinks he could be. And fancy him being related to the Sharmas. Are you coming in?’
‘I’d better get back. Will you let me know if you hear anything?’
‘What do you think?’ Fran grinned, and, to Libby’s surprise, leant forward and kissed her cheek. ‘Go on. I’ll talk to you later.’
Libby drove home puzzling over the various revelations of the day and the strange disappearance of Rosie. Ian hadn’t taken it seriously from the start, simply been annoyed that she wasn’t available to answer questions. So there must be some reason for that. She heaved a sigh of frustration and parked outside number seventeen.
The rain began again before it got completely dark. Libby was standing at the sitting room window looking out at the sodden landscape when her phone rang. Ben handed it to her.
‘Libby, can you get away?’
‘Fran? Why? What’s going on?’
‘I can’t get through to Ian, and I’m sure Rosie’s at White Lodge. There’s something wrong, Lib. I want to go over there.’
‘Have you tried her mobile?’
Fran made an impatient sound. ‘Of course I have. Will you come?’
Libby looked over her shoulder at Ben, who was sitting watching her, an amused expression on his face.
‘Yes, I’ll come straight away. See you in about twenty minutes.’ She switched off the phone.
‘Another council of war?’ said Ben.
Libby decided not to tell him the exact truth.
‘Yes. Fran’s thought of something else. Perhaps Sophie’s heard from Rachanda.’
‘Go on, then.’ Ben stood up. ‘I’m going to have a production meeting with Peter about the pantomime, anyway. Try not to be late.’
Libby put on her new hooded jacket, hardly the most inconspicuous garment, being bright turquoise, but better than her very old blue cape or Ben’s old anorak. Also, aware of the almost-pond now forming in front of the Renault, she put on her pink flowery wellingtons.
‘I look like a bloody clown,’ she muttered to herself as she splashed across the road in the twilight.
The night got darker, the wind stronger and the rain heavier as Libby drove through the lanes.
There appeared to be no other cars near White Lodge other than Fran’s little Smart car tucked into the hedge. Libby pulled in behind her, havin
g switched off the headlights a hundred yards back. She climbed out and went towards Fran, who was standing just outside the gate. She pointed up.
Above the wind, Libby could hear the piano. The wind blew grey clouds rimmed with silver across a dark sky and the house was revealed in a flash of lightning. A light shone briefly from a window on the left, turned into a flickering strobe by a whippy birch. The music came to a sudden stop and the light went out.
‘What’s going on?’ she whispered to Fran.
‘I don’t know, but I was right. Someone’s here.’
‘It might not be Rosie.’ Libby pulled her hood firmly over her head, aware of rainwater trickling down her neck. ‘Is that the actual piano or the recording? I can’t tell in this wind.’
‘I don’t know.’ Fran began moving slowly towards the gate.
‘Fran, you’re not going to go in?’ Libby shivered. ‘It might not be safe.’
Fran turned back to her. ‘Look, I’m scared, too, but if Rosie’s in trouble and we can’t get hold of Ian, what choice do we have?’
‘She might not be in trouble. Ian wasn’t worried, was he?’
‘I’m not so sure.’ Fran turned away and sidled along the hedge. ‘I’m going in, anyway. If I can get in.’
Swallowing hard, Libby followed. Inside the gate, blue-and-white police tape fluttered, still attached to the front door on one side, but not the other. Fran paused, flat against the wall at the side, and listened. Libby scuttled up behind her, legs shaking.
Gently, Fran pushed the door. It swung creakily open on to darkness. Libby caught Fran’s arm.
‘You can’t go in there!’
Fran ignored her and crept round the door. With a groan, Libby followed once more.
Inside, they could hear nothing. After a moment, Fran moved forward down the passage which led to the cellar, hugging the wall. As they passed the door to the piano room, Libby peered inside and gasped. Fran stopped.
The piano lid was up. On top lay sheets of music, lit by an old-fashioned candelabra.
‘We couldn’t see this window from the front,’ hissed Libby. Fran put her finger to her lips and began to slide cautiously along the wall again. At the corner of the passage she made for the cellar door, now unblocked and surrounded by a certain amount of rubble.
‘There’s obviously somebody here,’ she whispered.
‘Well, dur,’ said Libby.
‘Yes, yes, but I think Rosie’s here and someone else.’
‘That’s what I’ve been worrying about,’ whispered back Libby.
‘Shall we try down here?’ Fran began to ease the cellar door open.
‘No!’ Libby tried to stop her, but Fran continued to pull, and the door came back suddenly, nearly knocking them both flying. They both froze.
No sound was heard, so Fran, producing a pencil torch from a pocket, shone it on the stairs. She beckoned and pointed.
At the bottom of the steep stairs, another door. Closed, and blocked by what was obviously wood and brick from the now unblocked door at the top.
‘Deliberate, do you think?’ said Fran, close to Libby’s ear. Libby nodded and hit Fran’s nose with her forehead.
Fran followed the thin beam of light down the stairs, Libby clinging like a toddler to the back of her coat. Then they heard the footsteps.
Libby thought she was going to faint, but Fran pulled her the rest of the way down the steps and pushed her into the recess behind them. The footsteps came to the head of the stairs and stopped.
‘Shit,’ said a voice.
Fran and Libby clutched each other as Hugh Weston began to descend the stairs. He was so close when he reached the bottom, Libby could have touched his waxed coat sleeve almost without raising her hand. She didn’t.
He began to move the bricks and wood away from the closed door, then dragged it open.
‘Who’s here with you?’ he said into the darkness.
‘No one,’ came Rosie’s voice, cold as the stone around them.
‘The door at the top of the steps was open.’
‘I can’t help that.’ Rosie cleared her throat. I’ve been shut in down here for the last twenty-four hours, just the same as I was all those years ago. As you know.’
‘It was nothing to do with me.’
‘It was your father. Your father killed my uncle.’
‘He pushed him down the steps. It was an accident.’
‘In that case,’ said Rosie, and now Libby could hear a tremble in her voice, ‘just let me out. Nothing more need be said.’
‘I told you it’s not as simple as that.’
‘So what do you intend to do with me? Wait until you’re told what to do by that Vindari man?’
Fran nudged Libby violently.
‘I don’t have a choice.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t have to understand. Just keep quiet.’ Hugh Weston came out of the room, shut the door and began piling the rubble in front of it. Finished, he stood up straight, brushed his hands together and climbed the stairs. Libby waited in agony to hear if he would shut and lock the door at the top, but apparently he was no longer worried and left it wide open. They heard his footsteps retreating.
‘Quick!’ whispered Fran, and began pulling at the rubble. It took them much longer than it had taken Weston but at last they had the door open.
‘Sssh!’ were Fran’s and Libby’s first words, as Rosie came to her feet. Fran flashed her torch quickly to see where they were. Rosie was still in the clothes she had been wearing when they left her at Weston’s house.
‘Come on,’ whispered Fran, ‘we’re getting out.’
‘He’s still in the house,’ said Rosie. ‘How will we get past him? And that bloody Vindari man – she took a deep breath ‘– Weston must have called him. He followed me here and shut me in, and then –’ another shuddering breath ‘– he said Vindari would decide what to with me. And now he’s here too –’ she began to sob.
Fran looked helplessly at Libby.
‘Come on,’ said Libby. ‘He’ll find it much harder with three of us, and we got here without him seeing us, didn’t we? We’ll make it.’
They supported Rosie up the stairs and up to the corner of the passage, where they waited and listened, Rosie sagging between them.
Then – more footsteps. Slower, this time, and softer. Coming down the stairs. Libby looked round wildly for cover and saw another door. She pointed, and they all but dragged Rosie into the room, where she sank to the floor and Libby and Fran stood listening by the door.
‘We should have piled the rubble back,’ breathed Libby.
‘No time.’ Fran looked over her shoulder. ‘There’s a long window over there. I’m going to see if it will open. You stay here and listen.’
Libby glued her ear to the crack. Now she could hear two male voices. Luckily, they didn’t appear to be coming any closer, but they were getting louder.
Fran came back, nodding. ‘It’s moved a bit. We might be able to shove it a bit further together.’
‘OK,’ whispered Libby, ‘but just listen.’
‘It isn’t,’ Aakarsh Vindari was saying, ‘as if you haven’t done it before.’
‘It was fucking different and you know it.’ Weston’s voice was harsh.
‘How? Just because she’s not black?’ Libby could almost hear Vindari shrugging. ‘So, she’s a white woman.’
‘There’ll be a hell of a police investigation about her. She hasn’t got a family who’ll cover things up.’
‘So what do you propose to do? And no one’s come here looking for her so far, have they?’
‘Oh, yes they have. Yesterday. There were two police cars.’ They heard Weston move. ‘They didn’t go down to the cellar.’
‘And yet you risked playing the piano?’
Weston mumbled something the listeners couldn’t hear.
‘If the police are interested you don’t start drawing attention to the house.’
‘We�
�ve been playing the recordings for over a year. What difference would it make?’ shouted Weston, and Libby clutched Fran’s arm. ‘He taught me to play.’
‘The pianist? Sentimentality. He’s dead. Your father killed him.’
‘Shut the fuck up.’
There was a short silence, then Vindari began again.
‘So. You have to get rid of her. Take her away from here. And kill her.’
Fran glanced down at Rosie, but she didn’t appear to have heard.
‘Those women will be looking for her,’ said Weston.
‘Tell me, my dear Weston,’ Vindari’s voice was like treacle, ‘how many women have you killed so far?’
‘You know how many. I don’t,’ said Weston gruffly. Libby felt sick.
‘And it’s worked well. I kept quiet about your father’s silly little mistakes, and yours, we protect the barn between us and we get paid by the families. Don’t tell me you’re going to let three more women get in our way now?’
Libby and Fran looked at each other in horror.
‘The window!’ mouthed Fran.
Trying to push the casement window out while listening for the terrible voices coming nearer and nearer was one of the most terrifying things Libby had ever experienced, but at last it gave under their combined weight. Libby went back and dragged Rosie to her feet, and together they got her over the sill.
In the fresh rain-washed air outside they stood listening for signs that their escape had been noticed, while Fran keyed in a 999 call and then called Guy. Libby was unable to press the buttons on her own phone until her fingers had stopped resembling sausages.
They dragged Rosie round the side of the house, keeping low, out of the gate and down the hedge until they came to the cars.
‘Into mine,’ said Libby. ‘We won’t all get into yours.’
They all bundled into Romeo and sat breathing heavily.
‘And now, Rosie,’ said Libby, ‘I think it’s time you told us what’s been going on.’
Chapter Thirty-five
BUT ROSIE WAS IN no state to tell them anything. They bundled her in their own coats and sat shivering until out of the darkness a large dark car slid noiselessly alongside the Renault.
‘I’m not going to ask what you thought you were doing,’ said Ian, as a policeman and DC Donnington half-carried Rosie into the back of the car and two marked police cars stationed themselves silently in front of the house.
Murder to Music - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series Page 25