Murder in Midwinter - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘Larry,’ said George. ‘Used to come in now and then, sometimes with another chap, younger. Worked up at the Place. Why, what’s he done?’

  ‘Got himself murdered,’ said Connell and watched as George turned pale.

  ‘No.’ George swallowed. ‘Fuck. Sorry, missus.’

  ‘Wasn’t it in the papers?’ asked Fran.

  ‘No identity and we’ve only just got hold of this from the Place,’ said Connell. ‘So, can you tell us anything about him?’

  George subsided onto a stool. ‘Nothing to tell,’ he said. ‘Used to chat a bit. Always had a cab back home. Sensible drinker.’

  ‘What time did he come in usually?’ asked Fran. Connell frowned at her.

  ‘All different,’ said George. ‘Depended on his time off, he said. Sometimes earlyish. Round about seven thirty.’

  ‘So he would have known Aunt Maria?’

  George looked surprised. ‘Not to say known, no, but they was often here at the same time. He asked after her when she went to hospital.’

  Fran turned triumphantly to Connell. ‘There,’ she said.

  He looked bewildered, but game. ‘Right, Mr –?’

  ‘Felton. George Felton.’

  ‘We might need to talk to you again, Mr Felton. Thank you for your help.’

  George nodded and whispered to Fran as Connell went to the door, ‘What’s it all about?’

  ‘Tell you later,’ Fran whispered back, and followed Connell out of the pub.

  ‘So he knew Mrs Morleigh’s aunt,’ he said, as Maiden started the car. ‘Where does that get us?’

  ‘It’s a link,’ said Fran. ‘And it means he knew when she died.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He could have known Bella was to inherit everything. George said Maria used to say she was leaving everything to a niece she’d never met.’

  ‘I still don’t see what it had to do with him.’ Connell frowned down at his hands.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Fran. ‘Something will turn up.’

  ‘Thank you for that, Mrs Micawber,’ said Connell. Fran turned and smiled delightedly at him.

  ‘You’re human,’ she said.

  Another stifled snort emanated from Constable Maiden, and Connell scowled.

  ‘Only just,’ he said.

  Fran phoned Libby just as she was putting the dishes in the sink.

  ‘Glad I caught you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t phone earlier because I was thinking.’

  ‘Did it hurt?’ said Libby. ‘Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean that. How did it go?’

  Fran told her, gratified by Libby’s exclamations and gasps of astonishment.

  ‘I need to get all this straight in my head, but you’re going to rehearsal now, and I’m off to Richmond in the morning, so I don’t know when we’ll get the chance to talk about it.’

  ‘When you get back from Richmond?’ suggested Libby.

  ‘I don’t know what time I’ll get back,’ said Fran. ‘Our appointment with CID is at two, so we might not be finished until late afternoon.’

  ‘And then you might have to have a meal,’ said Libby.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Fran. ‘Not if we have a chaperone like we did today.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, yes. A nice boy called Maiden. Red hair and freckles. He was very amused by the whole proceedings.’

  ‘Do you remember that DC when Murray came here to question you? He was gobsmacked, especially when Murray seemed to believe you.’

  ‘Well, Maiden obviously thought Connell had lost his marbles,’ said Fran, laughing in spite of herself. ‘Especially when he ordered an examination of the hallway at the flats.’

  ‘That’s really interesting, actually,’ said Libby.

  ‘What is?’ said Ben, coming into the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, Fran, I’m sorry, I’m rambling on and I’m supposed to be at the theatre.’ Libby waved at Ben. ‘I shouldn’t be too late. Shall I ring you when I’ve finished?’

  ‘How late?’ asked Fran. ‘Any chance of popping in here on your way home – or to the pub?’

  ‘Yes, of course, good idea,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll get the rehearsal over as quickly as I can.’

  ‘You don’t mind if I go and see her, do you?’ Libby asked Ben as they walked to the theatre. ‘She obviously needs to talk.’

  ‘No, of course not. I’ll go and have a drink, and if you haven’t appeared by closing time I’ll come and get you.’ He smiled at her. ‘Independence, that’s what we’ve got.’

  Libby, with a rueful smile, nodded.

  The chorus and dancers pranced unenthusiastically through their routines, causing both musical director and choreographer to tear their hair out, quite literally in the case of the choreographer, who pulled at his curly locks in a distracted fashion throughout. Eventually Libby, who couldn’t see any improvement in the last hour and a half decided to call it a day.

  ‘When the principals are there, and it’s in front of an audience it’ll be fine, you’ll see,’ she said, crossing her fingers behind her back. The chorus looked a bit more cheerful, and the musical director and choreographer glared at one another and stalked off to their respective cars. Ben reappeared from backstage and grinned.

  ‘Tact personified,’ he said. ‘Want to have a look at the rejuvenated beanstalk?’

  After approving the beanstalk, and casting an apprehensive eye over the giant’s legs, Libby left Ben and his backstage cohorts to lock up, and hurried down the drive towards the High Street and The Pink Geranium.

  Fran let her in and produced a bottle of wine as she took off her cape.

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Libby, perching herself on the window sill and opening it a crack. ‘Tell all.’

  Fran went back over the events of the morning, including the surprising revelation that Laurence knew Aunt Maria.

  ‘And this worries you?’ asked Libby, blowing smoke through the window. ‘I must say, I agree with Connell. I can’t see the relevance.’

  ‘He was found in the Alexandria and he knew Maria. Isn’t that relevant?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby slowly. ‘I suppose it is.’

  ‘Why was he there? He knew she was dead, didn’t he?’

  ‘Did he arrange to meet someone there?’ said Libby. Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, God, not Bella?’

  ‘I’m afraid that makes sense, doesn’t it?’ said Fran, looking miserable, ‘but I just can’t believe in it. Bella didn’t kill him. She’d never even heard of him.’

  ‘And come to think of it,’ said Libby, sliding down from the window sill, ‘how would he know about Bella? No one but the solicitor knew about her, and even he had a struggle to find her. All Laurence could have known was that Maria had a niece.’

  ‘But why, anyway? You can’t exactly steal a derelict theatre,’ said Fran.

  ‘What about that hallway?’ asked Libby, taking a sip of wine.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Fran with a sigh. ‘It was Aunt Eleanor all over again. Something happened there, but I don’t know what. It was something to do with all this, I’m sure, although I suppose it could be an argument between the other tenants, but I don’t think so. The police are convinced that Laurence was killed where he was found, and they don’t make mistakes about that sort of thing, do they?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Libby. ‘It’s one of the first things they know these days, isn’t it? Not like the old days.’

  Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘What do you know about the old days?’

  ‘In detective stories, I mean,’ explained Libby. ‘Weren’t they always bundling bodies into boots and dumping them elsewhere?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Fran, amused. ‘I didn’t read many.’

  ‘Well, anyway,’ said Libby, ‘they wouldn’t have made a mistake this time.’

  ‘No, so it’s something else that happened on that landing,’ said Fran.

  ‘And won’t we look fools if it’s someone clobbering a door to door salesman,’ said Libby.


  ‘No, we won’t,’ said Fran. ‘I will. But it isn’t. I can’t explain it, but I’m sure it’s something to do with Laurence.’ She held out the bottle to top up Libby’s glass. ‘And tomorrow I’ve got to try and find out where he came from.’

  ‘Do you think Dorothy’s house will have some sort of clue?’

  ‘If whoever killed her hasn’t removed it,’ said Fran, ‘but then, whoever killed her might not have known what they were looking for.’

  ‘Do you?’ asked Libby.

  Fran sighed. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ she said.

  Chapter Seventeen

  INSPECTOR CONNELL ARRIVED IN an altogether sportier-looking car at seven o’clock the following morning, wearing altogether more casual clothes. Fran, wearing her navy coat over tailored trousers and a roll necked sweater, felt quite drab beside him.

  ‘No Constable Maiden this morning?’ she asked, as he held the passenger door open for her.

  ‘Can’t be spared for a whole day.’ He got in beside her and reached round for his seat belt.

  ‘And you can?’

  He turned to look at her. ‘It’s in my interest, but only semi-official,’ he said. ‘Like Murray did, I’m treating you more or less as an expert witness, but I don’t want anyone looking too closely.’

  ‘I thought you said other police forces had used psychics?’

  ‘They have, but in much the same way as I’m – er – as I’ve asked you to help.’

  ‘As you’re using me,’ said Fran with a smile. She noticed his neck go slightly pink.

  ‘Anyway, today, we’re on our own,’ he said, turning right on to the main road to Canterbury, ‘and it’s a hell of a long drive.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fran. ‘It must be all of six hours.’

  ‘That’s a conservative estimate,’ he said. ‘I’ve allowed seven hours, so hopefully we’ll arrive in time to grab a sandwich before our appointment.’

  ‘And if we need to stop on the way?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Just ask,’ he said shortly, and put his foot down.

  He had the radio on quietly, and every now and then a local traffic update would come through. Happily, they came up against no difficulties until they got to the Heathrow area of the M25, which, as Fran knew, was always a traffic black spot. However, the M1 was moving at a reasonable speed and they were soon past Luton.

  ‘How are you enjoying living in Steeple Martin?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘Very much,’ replied Fran, slightly startled. ‘How did you know I hadn’t been there long?’

  ‘DCI Murray. Said you’d only just moved down when I met you.’

  ‘That’s right. But it’s only temporary.’

  He turned his head briefly to look at her. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m hoping to move into my cottage in Nethergate after Christmas,’ she said. ‘I mentioned it yesterday, I’m sure.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He pulled out to overtake a lorry. ‘Where in Nethergate?’

  ‘Harbour Street,’ said Fran.

  He looked sideways at her, and surprised her with a grin that made her feel quite breathless. ‘I wasn’t really paying attention yesterday,’ he said.

  ‘Too intent on Laurence Cooper’s flat,’ she said.

  ‘Quite. So recap for me. What did you say about your cottage yesterday?’

  Fran explained about the builder Jim Butler having bought Coastguard Cottage from her family, and how he’d built the estate on which Laurence Cooper’s flat stood.

  ‘Did Laurence rent it, or had he bought it?’ she asked, finally.

  ‘Rented it. Some speculator owns the whole block. He says references were taken from Cooper and he’s never defaulted on the rent.’

  ‘Did he still have the references?’

  ‘No, which makes me suspicious,’ said Connell. ‘Not necessarily about Cooper, but about the landlord. I think we’re going to have to put someone in to have a look at his books.’

  ‘Could he have a motive?’

  ‘Who, the landlord? I can’t see why, can you? He never saw any of his tenants and had never met Cooper.’

  ‘So what do you think about it all?’ asked Fran. ‘Personally, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t know what to think. Forensics tell us he was killed where he was found, yet why on earth should he be there? There were no keys or documents on him, and it was only through sister Dorothy reporting him missing we found him. We were having no luck with dental records, but that doesn’t surprise me.’

  ‘Oh? Why? I thought that was a favourite method of identification,’ said Fran.

  ‘If everyone went regularly to their dentist, yes,’ said Connell, ‘but with so few National Health dentists now and the cost of dental treatment, people don’t go any more.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Fran. ‘I haven’t been for years, and I can’t even remember who my last dentist was. I suppose I ought to register down here, now.’

  ‘If you can afford it,’ said Connell grimly. ‘Dentistry’s an absolute scandal these days.’

  ‘And they lecture one so, don’t they?’ said Fran. ‘Shake their heads at you as though you’re a recalcitrant child.’

  He grinned. ‘Dead right,’ he said. ‘So there we are. No dental records. Oh, we might have found them in time, but he certainly hadn’t visited a dentist in the last six years.’

  ‘What else, then? Why did you tell Mrs Morleigh to speak to me?’

  ‘Because she had no idea about her family who left the theatre, and I wondered if Cooper had anything to do with them, as I couldn’t think of any other reason for him to have been there.’

  ‘Couldn’t he have been forced in there by someone trying to mug him? Who then went too far?’

  ‘Possible, but how would they have got in? The door hadn’t been forced.’

  ‘What?’ said Fran. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘I’m surprised Mrs Morleigh didn’t tell you.’

  ‘How could anyone have got hold of keys? She’d only just been given them by the solicitor.’

  ‘We don’t know. We’re tracing everyone who rented the place over the last twenty years or so, but as the last people to use it were holding illegal raves they’re staying well out of sight.’

  ‘They must have got the keys from somewhere,’ said Fran, turning to look at him.

  He shrugged. ‘Sure, but for all we know, each succeeding tenant changed the locks. There could have been any number of keys around.’

  ‘Was there no chain and padlock? Any other security measure?’

  ‘The main doors were boarded up and secured, but the side door, where you saw me the other day was a Yale and an old-fashioned sash lock.’

  ‘What’s a sash lock?’

  ‘One that has an old-fashioned key.’

  ‘Oh.’ Fran turned back to the windscreen which showed an uninspiring view of rain swept vehicles. ‘So, not a mugging because the murderer had keys.’

  ‘Or Cooper did.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. That’s why you hoped to find a link to Mrs Morleigh’s family.’

  ‘If there had been a link, it might have explained the keys, but as I’ve said, there could be dozens of sets of keys in circulation around Nethergate and the area.’ He sent her a brief smile. ‘No, what I want from you now is just who he was and why he was there.’

  ‘Oh, is that all,’ said Fran, smiling back. ‘And if I can’t find it?’

  ‘We’ll carry on with dull old police routine until something turns up.’

  Fran requested a comfort stop as they got near to Sheffield, and suggested buying sandwiches in case they didn’t have time when they arrived in Richmond. They ate them in the car park, unable to see out of the windows through the dirty curtain of rain.

  They just made it to Richmond in time to meet a disgruntled detective sergeant in a wet raincoat outside a small terraced cottage in a pleasant, cobbled lane. What Fran could see of Richmond, she liked.

  Connell introduced them both and once more Fran ducked un
der blue police tape.

  ‘SOCOs finished?’ asked Connell as they went into the tiny front room.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the DS, whose name was Fitch. ‘Bloody mess, it was, pardon the pun.’

  Fran stared at the chair by the fireplace. Her stomach swooped and she swallowed hard. DS Fitch nodded.

  ‘Yes, that’s where they found the old girl,’ he said. ‘Tied to the arms she was, then bashed over the head.’

  ‘I’ve read the report, thank you, Sergeant,’ said Connell.

  ‘I was telling the lady, sir,’ said Fitch defensively.

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ said Fran, and moved away to look at the shelves in the alcoves. Taking a deep breath, she moved her hands over the small ornaments that Dorothy had obviously liked to collect. Nothing was coming through.

  ‘Papers?’ asked Connell.

  ‘Bills and stuff in a cupboard in the kitchen, sir.’

  ‘Passport? Birth certificate?’

  ‘No passport, sir. Birth certificate with the parents’ death certificates in a dressing table drawer.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘At the station, sir. Well, over at HQ.’ Fitch looked over at Fran, who was now looking through a pile of magazines. Connell frowned and shook his head.

  ‘Was there anything else in the dressing table drawer?’ asked Fran suddenly.

  ‘Some old photos, I think. Nothing much.’

  ‘Are they still here? Or are they with the birth certificates?’

  Fitch looked nonplussed. ‘Here, I think,’ he said.

  Connell turned and went into the hall. ‘Come on, then,’ he said over his shoulder to Fran.

  The biggest of the two bedrooms held a large old-fashioned wooden bed, so high that a step had been provided to climb into it, a dressing table and a carved wardrobe. Fran went straight to the dressing table, where she found a very old box of loose powder, a venerable comb and a lot of dust. Opening the middle drawer, she found several faded black and white photographs and an envelope, inside which was a lock of brown hair. This brought tears to her eyes and a lump to her throat, although she had no idea whose it was, or what connection it had to sister Dorothy.