Murder Imperfect

  MURDER

  IMPERFECT

  LESLEY COOKMAN

  First published by Accent Press Ltd – 2010

  This edition printed 2012

  ISBN 9781908917003

  Copyright © Lesley Cookman 2010

  The right of Lesley Cookman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid Glamorgan, CF46 6SA.

  Cover design by Sarah Ann Davies

  More titles in the Libby Sarjeant Series

  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

  Formerly Fran Castle. 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. Free-lance 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.

  Greg Wilde

  Hetty’s husband and Ben’s father.

  DCI Ian Connell

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

  Adam Sarjeant

  Libby’s youngest son. Lives above The Pink Geranium, works with garden designer Mog, mainly at Creekmarsh.

  Lewis Osbourne-Walker

  TV gardener and handy-man who owns Creekmarsh.

  Sophie Wolfe

  Guy’s daughter. Lives above the gallery.

  Flo Carpenter

  Hetty’s oldest friend.

  Lenny Fisher

  Hetty’s brother. Lives with Flo Carpenter.

  Ali and Ahmed

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

  Jane Baker

  Chief Reporter for the Nethergate Mercury. Mother to Imogen.

  Terry Baker

  Jane’s husband and father of Imogen.

  Joe, Nella and Owen

  Of Cattlegreen Nurseries.

  DCI Don Murray

  Of Canterbury Police.

  Amanda George

  Novelist, known as Rosie

  Chapter One

  THE PANTOMIME COW COLLAPSED on top of the fairy at the very time Adam stepped off the ha-ha.

  ‘He’s moved back in again,’ Libby told her friend Fran on the phone. ‘I can’t keep trailing backwards and forwards to the flat to look after him, and Harry certainly can’t keep running up and down stairs.’

  ‘What did he do?’ asked Fran.

  ‘He wasn’t looking where he was going and walked straight off the edge.’

  ‘Isn’t it fenced?’

  ‘Ha-has aren’t fenced,’ scoffed Libby. ‘Don’t you know that?’

  ‘All right, all right. I’m not up on gardening terms. What does Ben say?’

  ‘He’s being very long-suffering about it,’ said Libby. ‘Lots of sighs.’

  ‘Oh dear. Still, it won’t be for long, will it?’

  ‘No, thank goodness. Meanwhile, Ben keeps taking himself off to Steeple Farm to do strange things with beams and floorboards, and I’ve got to take over the fairy as well as directing, which means we can both keep out of Ad’s way in the evenings.’

  ‘Poor Adam!’ laughed Fran.

  ‘He is a bit grumpy,’ conceded Libby, ‘but with a bit of luck he’ll get fed up and go back to his own flat.’

  ‘I thought you said he needed looking after?’

  ‘He did, for the first couple of days, but he could move around the flat now, especially as it’s all on one level. Here he has to come downstairs to the sitting room and kitchen. He demanded a television in his room the first few days. Cheek.’

  ‘So he’s putting it on a bit?’

  ‘Of course. Just like a man.’ Libby sighed. ‘Not like our poor fairy.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘I told you, the cow fell on her. Broke her leg. She’s furious.’

  ‘Won’t she better in time for the run?’

  Libby sighed again. ‘Plaster for at least six weeks, the hospital said. And as we open on the first Monday in January she’ll have missed all the rehearsals.’

  ‘You’ve played the fairy before,’ consoled Fran. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’m too old,’ said Libby gloomily. ‘I’d rather be the witch.’

  She put the phone down and stared out of the window. December had started dripping wet. The tiny green opposite the house was almost a lake, and Romeo the Renault looked in imminent danger of sinking.

  ‘Mu-um!’

  Closing her eyes and breathing out heavily, Libby turned towards the stairs.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Any chance of some tea?’

  ‘If you came down here you could get it yourself.’

  ‘Mum! I can’t keep going up and down on my leg.’ Adam sounded indignant.

  ‘You can get about on the level, though,’ said Libby. ‘All right. In a moment.’

  Muttering to herself, she went into the kitchen. Sidney, on the cane sofa in front of the unlit fire, put his ears back as she passed. The heavy kettle was already on the edge of the Rayburn waiting to be brought to a full boil, so she moved it and fetched the old brown teapot. Might as well make a proper pot and have one herself, she thought. It was mid-afternoon.

  The tea made, she carried a mug up to Adam, who was lying on the bed in the spare room playing games on his laptop.

  ‘Thanks, Mum.’ He grinned disarmingly. ‘You know you love me really.’

  ‘Don’t bet on it.’ Libby sat on the side of the bed. ‘Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in Harry’s flat now? You’d be all on one level there.’

  Adam’s face took on a pained expression. ‘I can’t stand for long, Mum. What about meals?’

  Libby sighed. ‘OK, OK, I know. But I can’t keep running up and down like this, you know.’

  ‘Ben will be here, though, won’t he?’ said Adam hopefully.

  ‘Not much,’ said Libby. ‘He’s going to Steeple Farm to get it all finished off. They want to let it after Christmas.’

  ‘Good Christmas house, that,’ commented Adam. ‘You could have all of us there with no problem.’

  Libby looked at him with dislike. ‘I’m going downstairs,’ she said.

  Of course, Adam was right. Steeple Farm was a large thatched farmhouse belonging to a member of Ben’s family. Ben, her mostly significant other, was restoring it and had hoped to persuade Libby to move into it from her small cottage in the village, but Libby loved her cottage, she loved Allhallow’s Lane and she loved being in the centre of Steeple Martin. So, for the moment, they were both squashed into Number 17, with the addition, currently, of Adam. Libby peered once more out of the window at the darkening sky and turned to the fireplace.


  ‘A fire, Sidney,’ she said. ‘That’s what we want. We need cheering up.’ Sidney’s ears twitched again and his nose got pushed even more firmly under his tail. Libby creaked down on to her knees and began riddling the grate. She had just got her fingers suitably covered in coal dust and firelighter when her phone rang. Libby swore.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked the voice on the other end.

  ‘I’m lighting a fire.’

  ‘And it’s annoying you?’

  ‘No, you are, Harry. I’m covered in coal dust, and so is the phone now.’

  ‘Ring me back when you’re clean, then,’ said Harry. ‘I want to have a chat.’

  Libby returned to the fire. Harry co-owned The Pink Geranium vegetarian restaurant in the village with his life partner Peter, who also happened to be Ben’s cousin. Libby had known Harry and Peter for several years; in fact it had been they who helped her find number 17 Allhallow’s Lane in what they called “The search for Bide-a-Wee”. Now Adam, Libby’s youngest child, lived in the flat above The Pink Geranium, where he helped out in the evenings to augment his earnings as an assistant to a garden designer and landscaper.

  Libby had listened to Harry’s concerns over several matters in the last few years, from his last foray into heterosexuality to the arrangements for his civil partnership ceremony. He, in turn, had listened to more than his fair share of Libby’s troubles and anxieties, most frequently her ambivalence in her relationship with Ben and her rather unwholesome interest in local murders. It occurred to her, rather shamefacedly, that Harry had been more of a support to her than she had to him, so she must make the time to listen properly and help in any way she could.

  ‘But I can’t do that!’ she exclaimed down the phone ten minutes later, sitting on the cane sofa in front of a now nicely blazing fire.

  ‘Why not?’ said Harry. ‘You’ve peered into other people’s private lives in the past – and without their permission, too. At least this time someone’s asking you to do it.’

  ‘No, they aren’t,’ said Libby, feeling hot and uncomfortable. ‘You’re the one asking me to do it. This poor man wanted your help. You suggested me.’

  ‘I don’t understand why you’re so upset about it,’ said Harry. ‘All I’m asking you to do is look into some rather nasty letters Cy’s had. And his panto gives you the perfect opportunity.’

  ‘Harry, I’m taking over the fairy here as well as directing,’ said Libby. ‘I can’t possibly get involved with another panto.’

  There was a short silence. ‘Ah,’ said Harry.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ said Libby. ‘If you can tell me a bit more about it, I could p’raps ask Fran what she thinks?’

  ‘I don’t think he wants anyone else knowing,’ said Harry slowly, ‘but I suppose I could take you to meet him. How would that be?’

  ‘Embarrassing,’ said Libby. ‘Couldn’t you just tell me and see if I come up with anything?’

  ‘I don’t know all the background,’ said Harry, ‘but I suppose I could tell you what he told me.’

  ‘Go ahead, then.’ Libby settled back into the sofa.

  ‘Face to face, Lib.’

  Libby sighed. ‘Come and have a cup of tea, then,’ she said, ‘or are you busy prepping up for this evening?’

  ‘No, most of it’s done. I’ll pop round and then I can have a word with the invalid at the same time, can’t I?’

  ‘You can try and talk him into going back to the flat, too,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll go and put the kettle back on.’

  ‘And I’ll bring some of that carrot cake you like,’ said Harry. ‘See you in a minute.’

  Ten minutes later, Harry breezed into the sitting room shaking water from his navy pea coat and handing over a large greaseproof paper parcel.

  ‘I’ll dash up and say hello to old peg-leg first,’ he said, hanging his coat on the hook in the tiny vestibule. ‘Or he’ll hear me and start shouting.’

  Libby put mugs, teapot, milk, and sugar and cake on a tray and carried them into the sitting room, where she switched on the two lamps either side of the fire and sat down, shifting Sidney out of the way. Harry appeared in the doorway and she waved him to the armchair.

  ‘Now,’ she said, pouring tea into mugs. ‘Who is this Cy, and what is this all about? I’m warning you, I’m not ever getting involved in any more murders, so it had better not be that.’

  Harry raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Not ever?’ he said.

  Chapter Two

  ‘CY IS AN OLD mate of mine from London days. He moved down to one of the Maidstone suburbs with his partner a few years ago, as he’d lived there when he was growing up.’ Harry sipped his tea and gazed into the fire.

  ‘Yes?’ said Libby after a moment. ‘And?’

  Harry sighed. ‘Well, a few months ago he started getting anonymous letters.’

  ‘You said started. Has it gone on? How many?’

  ‘I’m not sure but it must be about six, now.’

  ‘That’s a lot.’ Libby frowned. ‘I assume he’s been to the police?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘He’s aware of the attitude of most cops to this sort of thing.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’

  ‘Us, stupid.’ Harry scowled at her. ‘Right bunch of homophobes, they are.’

  ‘Ian isn’t,’ said Libby, taken aback and referring to Inspector Ian Connell, a mutual friend.

  ‘He’s different. And he wasn’t sure at first, either.’ Harry shifted in his chair. ‘Anyway, it’s what Cy thinks, so he hasn’t told them.’

  ‘Is that what the letters are about, then?’

  ‘Course it is.’

  ‘What do they say?’ asked Libby. ‘And how are they written? Computer? Handwritten? The old cut and paste jobs?’

  ‘Computer. I suppose the police could trace which printer was used, and probably what software from which PC, but that would hardly help, would it?’ He sighed again. ‘Much easier when they cut words out of a newspaper and you just went round looking for papers with holes in.’

  ‘And what do they say?’ prompted Libby.

  ‘I’ve only seen the first one, but he says they’re more or less the same. “We don’t want your sort round here, you filthy ...” well, you know the sort of thing.’

  Libby nodded. ‘Nasty. But I don’t know what you want me to do.’

  ‘I’m not sure either,’ said Harry. ‘I had thought if you could go over and give him a hand with his panto you could get talking to the friends and neighbours and see if you could spot any undercurrents. But if you’ve got to do ours …’

  ‘’Fraid so,’ said Libby. ‘And I can’t get out of it. We’ve only got three weeks left of rehearsal time, effectively, if you take out Christmas, and we’re sold out for the entire run.’

  ‘Bloody silly, if you ask me,’ said Harry, ‘having a cow in another pantomime.’

  ‘We had to use the one we had made for Jack and the Beanstalk again, didn’t we? What a waste if we hadn’t.’

  ‘And I haven’t even heard of the panto, either.’

  ‘Well, of course you haven’t,’ said Libby reasonably. ‘It’s a new one.’

  ‘Why did you choose one no one had heard of then?’ asked Harry grumpily.

  ‘I wanted to find one with a cow in it.’

  ‘And Hey, Diddle, Diddle has a cow, does it?’

  Libby sighed. ‘Yes, Harry. The cow jumped over the moon, didn’t she?’

  ‘And how did she fall on the fairy? Don’t tell me – she was jumping over the moon.’

  ‘Well, trying to, yes. The fairy puts a spell on her, you see.’

  ‘Bit dangerous, I’d have thought. Don’t you go breaking any legs.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern,’ grinned Libby, ‘but I’ve changed that bit now.’ She put down her mug and cut herself a generous slice of cake. ‘So what do you want me to do now? Suggest something?’

  ‘Have you got any suggestions?’ Harry looked gloomy. ‘I promised I’d help,
and that I knew someone else who could. I’m going to look a right arse if I don’t.’

  ‘No, you won’t. Why don’t you just tell him I can’t actually get involved, but I’d suggest he tells the police. If he really wants me to, I’ll meet him, with you, perhaps, and he can show me the letters. They might give me some ideas.’

  Harry brightened. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Of course I would. I still don’t see what I can actually do, but it might help him a bit.’

  Harry leant over and kissed her cheek. ‘You’re a champ, champ,’ he said. ‘I knew I could rely on you.’

  Libby laughed. ‘You knew you could persuade me, you mean.’

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist a mystery,’ Harry grinned back and stood up. ‘Right. I’m going to go and try my powers of persuasion on your offspring.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘To come back to the flat and get out of your hair.’

  Adam appeared sheepishly in the kitchen some time later as Libby was about to dish up supper.

  ‘I’ll go back to the flat after supper, Mum.’

  Libby turned in surprise. ‘You don’t have to, darling.’

  ‘Yes, I do. Harry put me right on a few things.’ Adam gave his mother a hug. ‘I take you a bit for granted, don’t I?’

  ‘Kids do that.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘Sit down and I’ll dish up.’

  ‘Do you want a hand with your stuff?’ Ben appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Here’s your hat, where’s your hurry?’ said Libby, raising her eyebrows at him.

  ‘Not at all. He just won’t be able to carry much.’ Ben avoided her eyes and sat opposite Adam.

  ‘I’ll drive you round in the car,’ said Libby, placing plates in front of them. ‘Much easier.’

  ‘And stop and have a drink with Harry, I suppose?’ said Ben after Adam had left the table.

  Libby stopped clearing plates. ‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘But if I did, would it matter?’

  Ben shrugged. ‘You seem to talk to him more than you do to me.’

  ‘Ben, you’re not jealous, are you?’

  Ben looked down at the table. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

  Libby snorted. ‘But Harry’s gay and twenty years younger than I am!’