Murder in the Blood

  Murder in the Blood

  Lesley Cookman

  Libby Sarjeant and friends are taking a well-earned holiday at a village on the Turkish coast – but despite their best intentions it seems that murder has even followed them there.

  When out on a boat trip they discover a body, but at first it has nothing to do with them, for once … until they find out that the deceased was English – and so are the suspects.

  Acknowledgements

  It will be obvious to everyone who knows my regular holiday destination that part of this story is set in a very similar place. Here and there I have ‘borrowed’ the odd name, but have attached it to something else; for instance, the Paradise is not a boat in real life. I may have used the names of people I know – but I do that with English names, too. I have not based anyone or anything in my fictional village on anyone or anything in the real one – honest! Nor is my depiction of any of the criminal activities here based on anything but my imagination.

  Special thanks go to Ella Preece, who patiently answered all my questions, and whose photographs inspire me all year round. Also to Lev Parikian for the name of my fictional village, and to my dear friend Alison Cottier, who named a bay for me.

  A note for regular readers – and new ones. In the course of writing this book, I found that it linked up with several previous ones in the series, Murder in Bloom, Murder by Magic, and Murder by the Sea. To avoid spoilers, perhaps you should read those first!

  WHO’S WHO IN THE LIBBY SARJEANT SERIES

  From Steeple Martin

  Libby Sarjeant

  Former professional actor, artist and director of The Oast Theatre, resident of 17 Allhallow’s Lane, Steeple Martin; owner of Sidney the cat

  Ben Wilde

  Libby’s partner, son of Hetty Wilde, former architect, manager of The Manor Estate and architect of The Oast Theatre

  Hetty Wilde

  Widow, owner of The Manor

  Peter Parker

  Freelance journalist, co-owner of The Pink Geranium restaurant and life partner of Harry Price

  Harry Price

  Peter’s life partner and co-owner and chef-patron of The Pink Geranium

  Flo Carpenter

  Best friend of Hetty Wilde

  Lenny Fisher

  Flo’s partner and Hetty’s brother

  Adam Sarjeant

  Libby’s son

  Ali and Ahmed

  Owners of the eight-til-late in the village

  Reverend Bethany Cole

  Vicar of Steeple Martin

  Joe, Nella, and Owen

  of Cattlegreen Nurseries

  Anne Douglas

  Librarian; close friend of Reverend Patti Pearson, vicar of St Aldeberge’s Church

  From Nethergate

  Fran Wolfe

  Former actor, occasional psychic, Libby’s best friend, and owner of Balzac the cat

  Guy Wolfe

  Fran’s husband, artist and owner of the Wolfe gallery and shop; father of Sophie

  Jane Baker

  Assistant editor for the Nethergate Mercury; mother to Imogen

  Terry Baker

  Jane’s husband and father to Imogen

  Susannah Baker

  Pianist and mother to Robbie the Kid

  Emlyn

  Susannah’s partner and father to Robbie

  Lizzie

  Owner of the ice cream stall

  George

  Owner of the pleasure boat Dolphin

  Bert

  Owner of the pleasure boat Sparkler

  Mavis

  Owner of The Blue Anchor café

  British Police Force

  DCI Ian Connell

  Kent Force

  DS Bob Maiden

  Kent Force

  DI Michael James

  Metropolitan Police

  Commander Johnny Smith

  Metropolitan Police

  From Erzugan

  Geoff and Christine Croker

  Owners of The Istanbul Palace

  Alec Wilson

  British ex-pat

  Sally Weston

  British ex-pat

  Justin Newcombe

  British ex-pat

  Martha and Ismet

  Owner of restaurant, Martha’s

  Mahmud

  Owner of The Red Room

  ‘Jimmy’

  Owner of hotel, Jimmy’s

  Captain Joe

  Owner of the Paradise pleasure boat

  Visitors to Erzugan

  Neal Parnham

  Betty and Walter Roberts

  Greta and Tom Willingham

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  The Libby Sarjeant Series

  Chapter One

  The sea lapped gently into the granite cave, dark as ink. The moon, orange as a dying sun, touched wavelets and turned them into dull fire. Caught on an unseen finger of rock, the body bobbed gently to the surface.

  There are secret places in the Mediterranean. Along the coast of Turkey, in the foothills of the Taurus Mountains, lie villages the tourists do not see. Ramshackle hovels of brick, breezeblock, and corrugated iron line the unmade roads, the odd discouraged goat tethered in a patch of dirt droops its head. Everywhere, acres of white-roofed glasshouses. Further inland, the pine-covered slopes rear up above the rusted metal hoops of abandoned polytunnels and half-built concrete houses left to the elements. Along the better surfaced roads, small groves of pomegranate and olive trees proclaim the more affluent villages, with their newly built villas announcing themselves to be ‘Satilik’ – For Sale, and a sudden clutch of billboards advertising hotels. There are still hovels, but the goats look more cheerful, and chickens cluck drowsily in the sun.

  Women in headscarves and baggy trousers carry baskets and bundles through the tiny centre with its statue, pharmacy, and market, the road leads winding to the beach. And here are the small family-run bars and hotels, a few sunbeds on the beach, a few boats tied up to a leaning wooden jetty. It was to one of these villages that Guy Wolfe had brought his wife and friends.

  Libby Sarjeant stretched her arms above her head and sighed. ‘This beats the Isle of Wight.’

  Ben Wilde, her significant other, smiled. ‘At least we’re not investigating murders and family feuds.’

  From another sunbed, Fran Wolfe sat up suddenly and stared at the sea.

  Peter Parker lifted his sunhat from his face and gave his partner Harry Price a dig in the ribs. Five people watched Fran apprehensively.

  Eventually, Libby could bear it no
longer. ‘What is it, Fran?’

  Fran gave the appearance of someone jolted to reality. ‘Eh?’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Guy.

  Fran looked confused and shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’

  Libby sighed. ‘It was a moment, wasn’t it?’

  Fran’s unwanted psychic gift often resulted in what her family and friends called her ‘moments’. These ranged from seeing a picture of a plant to a vision of murder, sometimes with attendant feelings of suffocation.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fran slowly. ‘Someone was drowning.’

  The other five groaned.

  ‘No, my lovely, please,’ said Harry, sitting up and glaring at her. ‘We’re on bloody holiday.’

  ‘I can’t help it.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Libby, crossing her fingers. ‘There must have been lots of drownings round here in the past. I expect that’s what you saw.’

  Fran smiled at her gratefully. ‘That’ll be it. Thanks, Libby.’

  Guy stood up. ‘I think we now deserve a drink. It must be nearly lunchtime.’

  The little party stood up and gathered various belongings.

  ‘Are we coming back to the beach after lunch?’ asked Harry. ‘Do we leave the towels here?’

  ‘I thought Captain Joe said he’d take us out on the boat this afternoon?’ said Peter, perching his hat on the back of his head.

  ‘So he did.’ Harry slung his towel over his shoulder. ‘Come on, then, last one to the bar’s a sissy.’

  The tiny hotel sat right on the beach, its bar at the front. The six friends perched on bar stools and ordered the local beer. The owner, known to all British guests as Jimmy due to his unpronounceable Turkish name, handed them glasses frosted from the fridge.

  ‘You enjoying your holiday?’ he asked them, as he had asked every day since their arrival. ‘You glad Guy bring you?’

  ‘Yes,’ they all assured him. ‘Very glad.’

  Guy had mentioned the previous summer, when they were visiting the Isle of Wight, that he knew of a small bay in Turkey little-known by the general run of tourists. After the events of the past year, they had decided to award themselves a holiday, and even Harry had closed his beloved restaurant, The Pink Geranium. And Guy had been right.

  The sweep of the bay, backed by the foothills of the Taurus Mountains, was dotted with twenty or so ‘paynsions’, hotels, and bars, and one supermarket. At least, that’s what it called itself. Guy had seemed to know at least half the proprietors, and they had all greeted him with fond cries of recognition, even though his last trip there had been years ago, before he had met Fran. The other guests were mostly regulars, who guarded their little treasure jealously and were quite happy with the two-hour journey through the mountains from the airport, which put off the tour operators and all but the most intrepid holidaymakers.

  Now they ordered soup and borek, the Turkish version of cheese straws – only more substantial – and salad, to see them through the afternoon boat trip. A couple of the other British guests joined them, and one, a solitary Englishman wearing a panama hat who rarely spoke, sat at the farthest table from the bar.

  ‘Who is he, Jimmy?’ asked Libby. ‘Has he been coming here for years like the others?’

  Jimmy shrugged. ‘No. I do not know how he came here. He book over the phone. He know people in the village, I think.’ He shrugged. ‘Very quiet.’

  One of the other guests leant forward. ‘We gave him a lift into the village the other evening when we went to The Roma.’ The Roma was a Turkish-Italian restaurant that provided a change from those in the bay. ‘He barely said a word, but he seemed to know where he was going.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Harry, ‘nothing to do with us.’

  ‘No …’ said Libby thoughtfully, and was drowned out by protests from her friends. Libby’s nosiness was legendary.

  An hour later, and they were gathered on the wooden jetty while Captain Joe, bearer of another unpronounceable name, let down his little gangplank for them to board his boat, the Paradise. There were several small boats competing for trade from the tourists, all taking trips round the coast to visit bays only accessible from the sea, where one could swim, eat freshly caught fish, and drink beer or raki, according to taste. This afternoon Joe was taking them to a small bay, rarely visited, where there had been recent sightings of turtles.

  The boat chugged off towards the headland, where a rocky island guarded the entrance to the bay.

  ‘Reminds me of our Dragon Island in Nethergate,’ said Libby to Fran, as they approached it.

  ‘Same sort of shape,’ agreed Fran. ‘I love that someone’s planted a Turkish flag on top.’

  ‘They do that everywhere, don’t they?’ said Libby. ‘I must say, I’m glad Guy brought us here. I want to come back, don’t you?’

  But Fran wasn’t listening. Her back was rigid and she was staring at the sheer rock face rising from the sea. Turning her back on the island, Libby tried to see what she was looking at. And realised that Captain Joe was turning the boat slowly inshore.

  The six friends stood together peering into the darkness of the cleft in the rock and saw what Fran had seen. Bobbing face down on the surface of the water – a body.

  Chapter Two

  ‘I am sorry, my friends,’ said Captain Joe. ‘The coastguard say I must stay until they arrive.’ He shrugged and spread his hands wide. ‘What can I do?’

  Everyone assured him they understood and sat down with their backs towards the cliff.

  ‘At least we weren’t expected to haul it out of the sea,’ said Libby.

  Five voices protested.

  Captain Joe appeared from the tiny galley. ‘Tea?’ he asked.

  Everyone nodded, and Libby pulled out a packet of biscuits from her bag.

  ‘What do you suppose they do now?’ said Fran.

  ‘With the –’ Guy jerked his head backwards.

  ‘The body. Yes.’

  ‘I can’t imagine they’ve got a morgue here,’ said Ben.

  ‘And don’t they like to bury bodies really quickly?’ said Harry.

  ‘Nothing to do with us,’ said Peter. ‘The coastguard will pick it up and take it away to wherever it needs to go. We needn’t hear anything more about it.’

  ‘Tea.’ Captain Joe appeared with a tray of tea glasses. ‘Coastguard on the way.’

  Libby opened her mouth and Fran and Ben both kicked her. She closed it again.

  They sat in silence until the sound of a boat travelling at high speed reached them.

  ‘Coastguard,’ said Captain Joe.

  The boat slowed and came alongside. Captain Joe proceeded to demonstrate, with many arm gestures, how they had come upon the body. From the looks directed towards them by the uniformed officer, the six friends got the impression that their presence was being questioned and possibly thought suspicious. Eventually, a notebook and pencil was produced and handed to Joe.

  ‘He wants you to write down your names and the address of the hotel,’ he said with a shrug.

  ‘Why?’ asked Libby. ‘We’re just tourists.’

  ‘Witnesses,’ said Guy, taking the pad.

  They all wrote down their names, while activity on the other side of the coastguard boat suggested that the body was being retrieved. Sure enough, as Joe handed the notebook back across the gap between the boats, something was hauled aboard. Libby turned her back and Joe started the engine of the Paradise. The officer on the coastguard boat shouted and gestured again towards the friends.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Joe helplessly. ‘He wants you to look at it to see if you know the person.’

  ‘Why on earth would we? We aren’t local,’ said Ben.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Peter, standing up suddenly and crossing to the rail. ‘We’re English,’ he announced in stentorian tones. The officer simply looked at him with his eyebrows raised.

  Joe broke into a torrent of Turkish and the officer slowly nodded.

  ‘He says please
the men look, but not the ladies,’ said Joe, looking miserable.

  The other three men joined Peter, and Libby and Fran looked at each other.

  ‘This is extremely unpleasant,’ said Libby.

  ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, yes,’ said Fran.

  There was further conversation in Turkish and Peter, Harry, Ben, and Guy rejoined them.

  ‘Nasty,’ said Harry, and the others nodded.

  ‘But we don’t know him,’ said Ben.

  ‘I don’t feel like a boat trip now,’ said Libby.

  There was murmured agreement, and Guy turned to Joe, who unhappily agreed to take them back to the village.

  ‘Not good,’ he kept saying, shaking his head.

  The little boat chugged slowly back into the bay and the wooden jetty. Under the tree where the boatmen sat, several heads turned in surprise. Joe and his passengers trudged up the sandy slope to tell them what had happened. There was much shaking of heads and pursing of lips.

  ‘They say unlucky,’ Joe told the friends. ‘Very unlucky.’

  ‘Especially for the victim,’ muttered Guy.

  ‘Do you want to come back to the hotel for a beer, Joe?’ asked Peter.

  Joe shook his head. ‘No. I stay here. Coastguard say Jandarma will come.’

  ‘Where will they land the body?’ asked Fran.

  Joe shrugged and shook his head.

  ‘Come and have a drink later, then,’ said Ben. ‘Thanks for the trip anyway, Joe.’

  As they walked the short distance to the hotel, Libby pointed out to sea.

  ‘The coastguard boat’s coming in to the other end of the bay.’

  ‘So they’ll take it off there,’ said Harry. ‘But where will they put it?’

  ‘Perhaps they’ll send a hearse or an ambulance to take it to a morgue,’ said Fran. ‘No idea how the system works in this country.’

  When they got back to the hotel, the couple who had joined them for lunch were on sunbeds by the pool. The woman sat up.