Murder on the Run Read online

  Murder on the Run

  Lesley Cookman

  Acknowledgements

  Once again, I have to thank my son Miles for the idea of setting a story within the world of runners and running, but most thanks are due to my friend Rachel Priston, who patiently answered what must have seemed like many inane questions. And my usual apologies to the police forces of Great Britain, whom I misuse shamefully.

  Thanks to my editor Greg Rees and all at Accent Press for their unfailing enthusiasm as usual, and to my happy band of regular readers who make sure I keep to the straight and narrow.

  WHO’S WHO IN THE LIBBY SARJEANT SERIES

  Libby Sarjeant

  Former actor, sometime artist, resident of 17 Allhallow’s Lane, Steeple Martin. Owner of Sidney the Cat

  Fran Wolfe

  Also former actor, occasional psychic, resident of Coastguard Cottage, Nethergate. Owner of Balzac the cat.

  Ben Wilde

  Libby’s significant other. Owner of The Manor Farm and the Oast House Theatre.

  Guy Wolfe

  Fran’s husband. Artist and owner of a shop and gallery in Harbour Street, Nethergate.

  Peter Parker

  Ben’s cousin. Freelance journalist, part-owner of The Pink Geranium restaurant and life partner of Harry Price.

  Harry Price

  Chef and co-owner of The Pink Geranium and Peter Parker’s life partner.

  Hetty Wilde

  Ben’s mother. Lives at The Manor.

  DCI Ian Connell

  Local policeman and friend. Former suitor of Fran’s.

  Adam Sarjeant

  Libby’s son.

  Sophie Wilde

  Guy’s daughter.

  Flo Carpenter

  Hetty’s Oldest Friend

  Lenny Fisher

  Hetty’s brother. Lives with Flo Carpenter.

  Reverend Bethany Cole

  Vicar of Steeple Martin.

  Reverend Patti Pearson

  Vicar of St Aldeberge.

  Anne Douglas

  Librarian. Friend of Reverend Patti.

  Ali and Ahmed

  Owners of the eight-til-late in the village.

  Sir Andrew McColl

  Acclaimed theatre actor.

  Max Tobin

  Director and choreographer, Tobin Dance Theatre (TDT).

  Chapter One

  ‘And what exactly is the Nethergate Five K?’ Libby Sarjeant asked her friend, Fran Wolfe.

  ‘A five-kilometre run round Nethergate,’ said Fran, handing over a mug of tea.

  ‘Is Nethergate that big?’

  ‘Apparently.’ Fran sat in the big Windsor chair by the fireplace, opposite her friend. ‘Anyway, Sophie’s doing it. And she wants sponsors.’

  ‘Ah.’ Libby sipped her tea. ‘And that means me?’

  ‘If you would. I’ve got a form here, or you can go online. She’s got a Just Giving page.’

  ‘A …? Oh, I know. That site that makes it easy to give money to good causes. Or any causes, come to that.’

  ‘Don’t be such a cynic, Lib. Anyway, I think she may be going to persuade Adam to do it with her.’

  ‘Adam?’ said Libby. ‘My son hasn’t done any exercise since gym at school. He hates sport.’

  Fran quirked an eyebrow. ‘Really? How come he’s been going to Nethergate FC with Sophie for the whole of last season?’

  ‘Has he?’ Libby was thunderstruck.

  ‘Well, of course it may simply be that he wanted them to get back together and he’s been trying to impress her.’

  ‘I thought they were back together.’

  ‘It worked, then, didn’t it?’

  Libby laughed. ‘Do you really think he might do it?’

  ‘I suppose it depends on when it is, and what work he’s got on,’ said Fran.

  ‘It’ll be a weekend, surely?’ Libby frowned ‘And that’s when he works at the caff,Saturday and Sunday lunchtimes.’

  ‘Harry would let him off, surely?’

  ‘On the other hand it would be a great excuse not to do it.’ Libby grinned. ‘I can’t believe Ad would actually run a hundred yards, let alone 5K.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see. Do you want a sponsorship form?’

  ‘I’ll do it online,’ said Libby. ‘Now, are we going to see Jane before I go home?’

  They left Fran’s Coastguard Cottage in Harbour Street and walked up to Cliff Terrace, where their friend Jane Baker, editor of the Nethergate Mercury, lived with her daughter Imogen and husband Terry in Peel House.

  Seated in Jane’s sitting room overlooking Nethergate bay, Libby broached the subject of the 5K run.

  ‘The Nethergate run? Oh, yes, we’ve been doing it for years,’ said Jane.

  ‘You?’ said Libby and Fran together.

  ‘I meant the town,’ giggled Jane. ‘Can you see me running?’

  ‘Well, you’re younger than we are. And Sophie’s doing it,’ said Fran.

  ‘Is she? Of course, she’s a member of the Harriers, isn’t she?’

  ‘Harriers?’ repeated Libby.

  ‘The Nethergate running club,’ explained Jane.

  ‘I don’t know much about it,’ said Fran, ‘except that she occasionally pops in to Coastguard Cottage to have a bath because she’s only got a shower in the flat.’

  ‘I never knew any of this,’ said Libby. ‘It’s a different world.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ said Jane. ‘They’re always galloping past my windows and a more unattractive sport I’ve yet to see. The clothes are so unflattering.’

  ‘I don’t think any sports clothes are flattering,’ said Libby. ‘Except possibly tennis.’

  ‘They run down Harbour Street, too,’ said Fran. ‘In fact, I think we’re both on the route of the run, aren’t we, Jane?’

  ‘Where does it actually go?’ asked Libby. ‘Is it circular?’

  ‘Not quite.’ Jane stood up and went to the window. ‘Look.It starts at the car park.’ She pointed. ‘Then down Victoria Place, turn left up the High Street, right to the top, then turn right opposite Canongate Drive, onto the St Aldeberge road. Along there on the right there’s the entrance to a footpath down the cliffs which brings you out behind The Sloop and the Blue Anchor. And they finish on the jetty.’

  ‘So they’ve got to go up quite a steep hill on the High Street,’ said Libby.

  ‘Even worse going down the cliff path,’ said Jane. ‘We’ve walked that, and it’s really steep, not very well maintained and through loads of trees and bushes.’

  ‘They’ll have marshals all along there, though? In case anyone gets hurt or anything?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Jane. ‘And refreshment points where they give out water.’

  ‘Do lots of people come to watch?’ Libby was beginning to get interested.

  ‘Loads. Kent and Coast send Campbell along to cover it usually.’

  Campbell McLean was a reporter for the local Kent and Coasttelevision station and had met Libby and Fran at the same time that Jane had made their acquaintance.

  Fran was looking amused. ‘Why don’t you come and watch it with us? We can actually see the finish line from ours.’

  ‘When is it?’ Libby was cautious.

  ‘May bank holiday,’ said Jane.‘A lot of runs that day. Most of them longer than ours – usually ten K.’

  ‘Steeple Martin does have a fun run,’ said Fran.

  ‘It does?’ said Libby, surprised. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Sophie told me. She thought she might do that this year, too.’

  ‘When’s that?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Possibly the following weekend.’

  ‘They’ll all be online,’ said Jane. ‘Now, what did you want to see me about?’

  ‘Noth
ing! Just the pleasure of your company. We haven’t seen you for ages,’ said Libby.

  ‘No productions coming up? No publicity needed?’

  ‘Not at the moment. We’ve got a few one-nighters, but then nothing really until The End Of The Pier Show.’ This had become an annual event, which Steeple Martin’s Oast Theatre company put on at The Alexandria, the ornate Edwardianpavilion that stood just below Victoria Parade.

  ‘Will Susannah be doing the music again?’ asked Jane, Susannah being her sister-in-law.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Libby. ‘I wouldn’t trust anyone else now.’

  ‘Are you waiting to see Imogen when she comes home, then?’ asked Jane.

  ‘She comes home on her own now, does she?’ said Fran in surprise.

  ‘No, Mother goes to collect her. It’s become a bit of a ritual. It started because I was often working, and now she does it whether I’m working or not.’

  Jane’s mother, the redoubtable Mrs Maurice, lived in the self-contained semi-basement flat in Peel House.

  ‘She’s certainly mellowed,’ said Libby. ‘I was scared stiff of her when Fran and I went to see her in London.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know how I turned out so normal,’ said Jane with a grin.

  When Libby got home to number 17 Allhallow’s Lane, she called Adam’s mobile.

  ‘Are you working?’ she asked.

  Adam sighed. ‘Yes, Ma. What do you want?’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to ask about the Nethergate 5K.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Whether you were doing it.’

  ‘Yes, I expect so. Look can we talk about it someother time?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s OK – I’ll call you later.’

  ‘So,’ Libby said to Sidney, the silver tabby. ‘Adam’s turned to sport. What love will do, eh?’

  Libby had never enjoyed any sporting activity, either as a participant or a spectator, except horse riding. As a child she had had free access to the riding stables owned by two of her parents’ friends, and had ridden regularly until motherhood intervened. A recent meeting with another of her parents’ old friends had rekindled her interest in riding, and over the past few months she had tried out a few local stables. She’d managed to evade school sports in the main, particularly hockey. Running? Never.

  ‘Well,’ said her partner Ben, when she told him over dinner. ‘I suppose we all ought to get fit.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I don’t get anywhere near as much exercise as I used to.’

  Libby made a face. ‘I think it’s a fad. If you’re active in your job, your daily life, that’s one thing, but going out to deliberately make yourself out of breath with all your muscles hurting, that’s daft.’

  Adam, when he called later in the evening, disagreed.

  ‘Once you get used to it, it’s great,’ he said. ‘And you’ve no idea how addictive it is!’

  ‘Really?’ said Libby dubiously. ‘But I would have thought your day job made you as fit as a fiddle.’Adam worked with his friend Mog landscaping gardens.

  ‘I suppose so, but it doesn’t give you the high that running does.’

  ‘A high, eh?’ Libby was sounding more and more dubious.

  ‘Oh, Ma! It’s not drugs!’ Adam laughed. ‘Anyway, I shall be doing the Nethergate 5K on May Day with Sophie, and the following Saturday the Steeple Martin Fun Run.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Fran mentioned that.’

  ‘So you’ll be able to see us dashing up the high street.’

  ‘Oh, I’m coming to see you dashing down Harbour Street, too!’

  ‘You are? That’s very supportive of you.’

  ‘I know.’ Libby was smug. ‘And I hear you’ve been supporting Nethergate FC, too.’

  ‘Ah – yes.’ Adam sounded slightly ashamed.

  Libby laughed. ‘Just because we’ve never been a sporting family doesn’t mean to say you have to conform.’

  ‘No, well – Sophie supports them, you see.’

  ‘So I understand. You’re an item again, are you?’

  ‘Mum! Item, indeed. Hate that word. Sounds like something in a shop.’

  ‘All right, all right. You’re going out together again.’

  ‘Yes.’ Adam sighed. ‘Not sure where it’s going, but OK so far. No talking about it to Fran, though.’

  ‘All right,’ said Libby, crossing her fingers. ‘If I don’t see you before, I’ll see you on May Day.’

  ‘Unless I see you at the caff,’ said Adam, who also worked as a part-time waiter at The Pink Geranium, the vegetarian restaurant in Steeple Martin owned by their friend Harry Price.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Libby. ‘If I can persuade Ben.’

  May Day Bank Holiday dawned, thankfully, bright and rather breezy.

  ‘That’s good,’ Libby said to Ben as they drove to Nethergate in his Range Rover. ‘If it was really hot they’d be sweltering, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘You’re always hearing of people collapsing in marathons,’ said Ben. ‘They give out water on the way round, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes, but they have to be very careful about drinking it,’ said Libby, who had been looking it up online. ‘It can make you sick.’

  Ben pulled a face. ‘The more I hear about all this, the more I’m inclined to agree with you. It’s a mad way to spend a day.’

  ‘But Ad’s right, you know. It is addictive. I had a look at some running groups on social media, and there are scads of people posting every day about how far they’ve gone. There’s some app or something that they can use to plot their route, and up it comes “6K this morning. Must do better.” It’s quite ridiculous.’

  ‘Oh, so this 5K one isn’t particularly special?’

  ‘I think it’s more for beginners and charity fund-raisers,’ said Libby, ‘as far as I can gather. I’ve sponsored Sophie and Adam. They’re doing it for one of the homeless charities.’

  ‘I’d better do it, too, then,’ said Ben. ‘Here we are. Where are we going to park? The whole town seems to have been closed to traffic.’

  ‘Canongate Drive and walk down,’ said Libby, and Ben turned right at the top of the high street.

  It appeared that many other people had had the same idea, but luckily Ben knew the owner of a large bungalow right at the end, who allowed him to park on his drive.

  ‘We’ll have walked nearly 5K by the time we get to Fran’s,’ puffed Libby, as they walked back along Canongate Drive.

  Crowds were beginning to line the high street as they walked down, and there were already food stalls and balloon sellers in the square at the bottom. Bunting hung across the ancient front of The Swan Inn, and a couple of yellow-jacketed policemen chatted with members of the public.

  Ben and Libby turned left along Harbour street, cleared now of parked cars, past the shop and gallery owned by Guy Wolfe, Fran’s husband. He waved from behind the counter.

  ‘You made it!’ said Fran, opening the door of Coastguard cottage. ‘Where did you have to park?’

  She led them inside.

  ‘I’ve prepared a sort of buffet lunch that we can pick at,’ she said. ‘They start at midday at the other end of town, so we won’t see the first runners arrive until about twenty past, if that. Sophie tells me that on the flat people can do it in fifteen minutes, but we’ve got a steep hill to run up in the high street, and then that descent down the cliff path, which will hold them up.’

  ‘So it doesn’t take long, then?’ said Ben in surprise. ‘It would take me hours to walk that far.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said Fran. ‘How long did it take you to walk here from Canongate?’

  ‘Twenty minutes?’ Ben looked at Libby for confirmation. ‘Perhaps a bit longer. We weren’t hurrying, and the whole place was getting crowded.’

  ‘There, you see.’ Fran was setting out food on the coffee table. ‘Guy and I walked the route the other evening, and not hurrying, it took us about an hour and twenty minutes.’

  �
�Golly,’ said Libby admiringly. ‘Look, it’s almost midday. Shall we go and stand at the end and watch as they come through the square?’

  Chapter Two

  They stood and watched the stream of runners pass through the square, strolling back to Coastguard Cottage after they had seen Sophie and Adam, somewhere in the middle of the field.

  Sure enough, as Fran had said, it was barely twenty-five past twelve when the first runner appearedat the finishing line outside The Sloop Inn. This time, the three of them walked along Harbour Street to see if they could spot Adam and Sophie as they came through.

  Most people seemed to have accomplished it within three quarters of an hour.

  ‘The worst bit,’ said a perspiring Adam, as Ben handed him a beer bottle, ‘was that cliff path. It’s covered with vegetation and rocks. Several people fell, or twisted an ankle. And there weren’t always people nearby. Although we started in a pack, by that time we’d sort of strung out.’

  Sophie, looking remarkably fresh with her fair hair pulled back in a ponytail, came over to them. ‘Adam did really well,’ she said, ‘but we appear to have lost a couple of people on the way, so some of us are going back along the route to see where they’ve got to.’

  ‘Does that often happen?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Sometimes.’ Sophie frowned. ‘People who aren’t used to running give up and just drop out. It makes things very difficult because they don’t tell the organisers, who then have to go and look for them, just like we’re doing now. Although I didn’t think Lisa would do that.’

  ‘Who’s Lisa?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Lisa Harwood. She’s a member of the Harriers, and very dedicated. Runs every day, and has practised this route loads of times. She would have been one of the front runners, I’d have thought.

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ said Adam with only slight reluctance, handing his bottle back to Ben. ‘We’ll call in at Coastguard later to see if you’re still there.’

  ‘Oh, we will be,’ said Ben. ‘We’ve got a table booked at The Sloop and we’re staying the night.’