Murder in Bloom - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series Page 10

  ‘She told me you asked her because you and your mum got on with her,’ said Libby.

  ‘Well, yeah, but I’m pretty sure it was Tony’s idea.’

  ‘Right.’ Fran smiled brightly. ‘Well, thanks for showing me round, Lewis. If I think of anything that might be of use, I’ll let you know.’

  It wasn’t until they were on the main road back to Steeple Martin that Libby turned to her friend.

  ‘So what was that all about?’ she said. ‘You got something, didn’t you? Lewis was terribly confused.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Fran.

  ‘Oh, come on, Fran. You asked to go there. And what was it had you so convinced that the skeleton isn’t Gerald Shepherd?’

  ‘Because Gerald Shepherd is still alive,’ said Fran.

  Chapter Thirteen

  LIBBY GAPED.

  ‘Don’t ask me how I know,’ said Fran irritably.

  ‘I wasn’t going to. I was going to ask when you found out.’

  ‘I didn’t “find out”.’ Fran let out a gusty sigh. ‘It’s been hovering away at the corner of my consciousness all day.’ She hit the steering wheel with a frustrated hand. ‘I do wish I could do this properly.’

  ‘You mean – to order? Focusing on items?’

  Fran nodded.

  ‘But you can. You’ve done it before, haven’t you? With the Anderson Place business?’

  ‘It was almost by accident, though, wasn’t it?’ said Fran. ‘Anyway, I tried just now with the photographs and all that happened was it reinforced the feeling that Gerald is still alive.’

  ‘Nothing about the other people in them?’

  ‘I’ve told you.’ Fran sounded even more irritated. ‘Honestly, Lib, I don’t need this.’

  ‘You asked to come to Creekmarsh.’

  ‘Also,’ Fran went on, as though Libby hadn’t spoken, ‘did you notice what Lewis said when he was telling us how Tony West had offered him the house?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He said the owner wanted a quick sale.’

  Libby frowned. ‘So?’

  ‘Making it sound as though the owner was still alive.’

  ‘Oh! I see. Was he lying? Did he think the owner was dead, or did he actually know the owner was still alive?’

  ‘That’s what I think,’ said Fran. ‘Tony West knew the owner was still alive.’

  Libby thought for a moment. ‘What about the girl? Cindy Dale?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Fran. ‘I haven’t thought about her.’

  ‘And Kenneth? He would be the owner if Gerald Shepherd was dead, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Fran was triumphant. ‘So Shepherd must be alive.’

  ‘Do we tell anyone?’ asked Libby.

  ‘The police will find out themselves, they always do. And I can’t see that woman Bertram listening to us.’

  ‘I’ve just thought,’ said Libby a few moments later as they were driving down the hill into Steeple Martin. ‘Didn’t they say the body was of a man between thirty and fifty?’

  ‘Who’s they?’ asked Fran, slowing down past the pub and The Pink Geranium.

  ‘On the radio – or the television, can’t remember. But that’s what it said. So it couldn’t have been Gerald Shepherd anyway.’ Libby turned excitedly to Fran. ‘You’re right.’

  Fran looked sideways at her. ‘So I needn’t have bothered?’

  Libby subsided. ‘Well, you didn’t know what you were going to come up with, did you? You could have come up with something even more startling.’

  Fran made a sound that could have been agreement but sounded rather more disgruntled, and she turned into Allhallow’s Lane.

  ‘Do you want tea?’ asked Libby as they pulled up outside number 17.

  Fran sighed. ‘Yes, please, and a bit of normality.’

  ‘And no more grumps,’ added Libby to herself.

  The day having turned rather grey and chilly, they had tea in the front room. Sidney reluctantly moved up to allow Libby to sit beside him on the sofa, turning his back to her and flattening his ears.

  ‘What will you do if you can’t have that hotel?’ she asked Fran, deciding not to go any further down the murder route.

  Fran shrugged. ‘Find somewhere else, I suppose,’ she said. ‘We might have to wait longer, though. People book so far in advance.’

  ‘Or you could get married sooner. I bet there are places with vacancies in the next month.’

  Fran looked up, interested. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Once it gets to a couple of months before, no one’s going to book a wedding, are they?’

  ‘It might be difficult to get a registrar, though,’ warned Libby, ‘but you could always try. When had you intended to do the deed?’

  ‘October, we hoped, so it wouldn’t be bringing it forward too much.’ Fran fished in her bag. ‘Do you mind if I call Guy?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Libby, amused at the sight of her friend evincing such enthusiasm.

  While Fran was talking, she turned on the television with the sound down to see if she could locate a mid-afternoon news bulletin. When she did, almost immediately a picture of the outside of Creekmarsh flashed up on the screen. Fran had seen it and switched off her mobile. Libby turned up the sound.

  ‘… gave a statement at lunchtime today,’ the announcer was saying, ‘which indicated that the remains found in the grounds of a house in Kent match the DNA of vanished actor Gerald Shepherd.’

  Fran and Libby gasped together. A picture of Shepherd appeared on the screen.

  ‘Shepherd disappeared just over three years ago,’ continued the announcer, while a series of publicity stills of Shepherd were shown. ‘He was famous for his portrayal …’

  Libby turned the sound down. ‘We know all that,’ she said. ‘What’s going on?’

  Fran shook her head, frowning. ‘I don’t know. He’s alive, I’d swear it.’

  ‘Is it a bluff, do you think?’ asked Libby.

  ‘I don’t think the police are allowed to bluff,’ said Fran. ‘And why, anyway?’

  Libby’s phone rang. ‘Lewis, I bet,’ she said, going to answer it.

  ‘Did you hear that police statement?’ Lewis sounded agitated.

  ‘Yes,’ said Libby, ‘we just saw it on television.’

  ‘So it’s that Gerald Shepherd all along. Your mate got it wrong.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Libby cautiously. ‘There must be an explanation.’

  ‘Well, until old German Shepherd turns up alive and well we ain’t got one,’ said Lewis. ‘I’ll see you, Lib.’

  ‘He doesn’t sound too impressed,’ said Libby, going back to the sofa. ‘What do we do now?’

  Fran sighed. ‘Why do we have to do anything? The police think it’s Shepherd. They’ll presumably investigate further and get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘But they’ll be looking in the wrong direction,’ protested Libby. ‘If it isn’t Gerald, they need to find out who it really is. They’ll be looking into Gerald’s past instead.’

  Fran closed her eyes. ‘So what do you want to do?’ she asked in a resigned voice.

  ‘Find out who it is, of course,’ said Libby.

  ‘And how do you propose to do that? And what about Ben?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Libby, frowning.

  ‘The how? Or Ben?’

  ‘Both,’ admitted Libby. ‘I’ll just have to play it by ear.’

  Fran opened her eyes and leant forward. ‘There’s no way you can find out who those bones belonged to without a forensic anthropologist, Libby. And the police are stretched financially as it is. They probably won’t investigate any further, they’ll simply find some contributory evidence and thankfully close the file.’

  ‘Without finding out who did it?’ asked Libby, shocked.

  ‘If it isn’t Shepherd, they can’t, can they?’

  ‘Heavens, how complicated,’ said Libby, starting to search for a cigarette. ‘Sorry, Fran, but I really need one.’ She found a
packet in the log basket and lit up. ‘They’ll start a hunt for Kenneth and Cindy, won’t they? They’ll have to. Because Kenneth would be Gerald’s heir.’

  ‘Not to Creekmarsh any more,’ said Fran.

  ‘No, but if Tony West had the power of attorney legally, as it seems he had, the money must be somewhere.’

  ‘Unless he spent it.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t be able to do that,’ said Libby, ‘it would have to go into a client account, or something.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure we can leave the police to find out,’ said Fran. ‘We can’t.’

  For a moment Libby looked mutinous, but then she sighed and leant back. ‘You’re right, of course.’ She smiled. ‘What did Guy say?’

  ‘Oh –’ Fran coloured slightly, ‘he thought it was a great idea and said he’ll get on to it straight away.’

  ‘So we could have a July wedding? Or even a June one?’ Libby grinned. ‘Better get a move on with those outfits, then!’

  Later, after Fran had gone home and before Adam appeared, Libby rang Ben.

  ‘Would you like to come to supper this evening?’ she asked.

  ‘I’d love to. Just us, or will there be any waifs and strays?’

  Libby gritted her teeth. ‘Just us, unless Ad’s staying in,’ she said.

  ‘Sevenish, then?’ said Ben. ‘I’ll see you then.’

  Adam was quite happy to rustle himself up a snack when he came in, saying he was going to meet a couple of old school friends in Canterbury and would go in by bus. Libby had a long bath, tried to tame her rusty hair and put on her favourite velvet skirt and floaty blouse.

  ‘Wow!’ said Adam when she came downstairs. ‘I’m tempted to hang around and see Ben’s reaction.’

  ‘Oh, stop it, Ad.’ Libby tied an apron over her finery and fetched a basket of vegetables. ‘Do you want to help me do these?’

  ‘Ah. No, I’d better be off after all.’ Adam came to give her a kiss. ‘Be good, Ma.’

  ‘Always am,’ she said as he left the cottage. ‘Sadly.’

  When Ben arrived, chicken was simmering in a cream sauce and vegetables waited in a steamer.

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ he said, kissing her cheek and handing over a bottle of wine.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Libby, ‘so do you.’

  ‘So, how have you been getting on with the investigation?’ asked Ben, as Libby poured drinks. She winced.

  ‘We’re not,’ she said, handing him a glass. ‘The police think they know who the body is, so that’s that.’

  Ben raised his eyebrows. ‘But what about this other murder in London? I thought that was connected?’

  So he’d been following it, thought Libby.

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is, but it’s nothing to do with us,’ she said.

  ‘But it is to do with Adam’s employer.’

  ‘Well, yes.’ She wriggled in her chair. ‘Look, Ben, we don’t have to talk about murders. I just wanted to see you.’

  He stood up and came to sit beside her. ‘And I wanted to see you,’ he said. ‘I don’t like this situation.’

  Libby opened her mouth to tell him that he’d started it and thought better of it.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, reading her mind, ‘I know I started it, so can we just talk it through now and see where we go from here?’

  Libby stared at him, then stood up. ‘I’m just going to put the vegetables on,’ she said.

  When she came back, Ben had topped up their drinks and taken off his jacket.

  ‘What do you want to say?’ Libby sat down beside him again and picked up her glass.

  He looked amused. ‘What I’d like to say is “will you marry me?” but I won’t.’

  Libby choked on a mouthful of scotch. He patted her on the back. ‘Instead, I’ll say please will you continue to be my significant other because I love you and I miss you. And I would like to move in with you permanently, as you don’t want to move to The Manor – and I can quite see why – but if you’d rather I didn’t, then I suppose we’ll have to go back to the way we were.’ He shifted position in order to drape an arm round her shoulders and give her a squeeze. ‘I know I was sounding pushy and dictatorial, and I know it all sounded like blackmail, but I realised that we’re not kids with our whole lives ahead of us, who could say “there’s no future in this” and move on to someone else.’

  ‘So we’ll have to settle for us?’ Libby frowned at him.

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ Ben sighed. ‘I meant that I’ve found my future, there’s no point in looking for anything else.’

  ‘Me?’ asked Libby hesitantly.

  ‘Of course, you,’ said Ben. ‘Now shut up and let me kiss you.’

  It was much later when Libby suddenly sat up in bed and let out an exclamation.

  ‘What?’ Ben mumbled.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ said Libby, throwing the duvet back.

  ‘Got what?’ Ben sat up. ‘And where are you going?’

  ‘I’m going to phone Fran,’ she said.

  ‘It’s gone eleven, Libby, and I thought you weren’t involved in this investigation?’

  ‘I’m not,’ Libby said and grinned over her shoulder at him. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Fran sounded no more awake than Ben had and twice as exasperated, but Libby took no notice.

  ‘It’s obvious when you think about it,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why you didn’t.’

  ‘What’s obvious, and why should I think of it?’

  ‘The skeleton. The DNA. It’s Kenneth.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  THERE WAS A SILENCE while Fran tried to wake up. Libby sighed impatiently and began to tap her fingers on the receiver.

  ‘All right, all right, I’m awake now.’ Fran paused. ‘Of course, you could be right.’

  ‘Of course I’m right,’ crowed Libby. ‘It’s so bloody obvious I don’t know why the police didn’t think of it.’

  ‘They probably did,’ said Fran slowly, ‘when you realise they had given the age of the skeleton as a man between thirty and fifty. Gerald doesn’t fit into that age range.’

  Libby deflated. ‘Oh.’

  ‘So that means they must have ruled Kenneth out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s just as obvious, Libby. Creekmarsh belonged to Gerald Shepherd. He’s disappeared, and apparently now, so has his son. Nothing’s been heard of him for a couple of years, has it?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ said Libby. ‘He made enquiries when his father and Cindy went AWOL, but I don’t know what happened after that.’

  ‘Well, then, the police would know that, so they would look into the possibility that the body was his.’ Fran yawned. ‘Look, let’s talk about this in the morning.’

  ‘But you said I was probably right.’

  ‘I said you could be, Lib. It doesn’t feel right to me. Let me sleep on it. Go back to bed.’

  Libby crawled back under the duvet and tentatively reached for Ben.

  ‘That didn’t take long.’ His voice was blurred with sleep.

  ‘No,’ said Libby and, smiling, closed her eyes.

  Sunday dawned sunny and Libby was filled with optimism. Adam and Ben were both still asleep when she came downstairs to Sidney’s importunings, and after she’d fed him, she went into the garden to wait for the kettle to boil.

  A soft breeze drifted through the branches of the cherry tree, now alive with bright green leaves, the white blossom only a memory, and multi-coloured aquilegia waved along the bottom of the large choisya. Sidney had disappeared over the back fence into The Manor woods, and Libby could hear a distant lawn mower. Sniffing, she agreed with Chesterton’s dog Quoodle; there was a definite smell about Sunday morning.

  She made tea and took hers upstairs with Ben’s.

  ‘This is nice,’ he said, struggling to an upright position and leaning forward to kiss her.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ she said, her stomach melting with the pleasure of just seeing him there, propped up against the whit
e pillows.

  ‘Come back to bed, then.’ He turned back a corner of the duvet and waggled his eyebrows at her. She giggled.

  ‘Drink your tea first,’ she said. ‘Or it will go cold.’

  It did.

  ‘And now,’ said Libby, some time later, ‘I shall have to make more tea and go and see if Ali and Ahmed are open this morning.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Ben lazily. ‘It’s Sunday.’

  ‘And I promised Ad a proper Sunday lunch, which I completely forgot about. So I’ll have to go and see what Ahmed can rustle up.’

  ‘He might have a frozen chicken,’ said Ben doubtfully, ‘but what about vegetables?’

  ‘I might have to cadge off Pete and Harry or your mum,’ said Libby. ‘Do you think they’d mind?’

  ‘I’ll give Mum a ring,’ said Ben, swinging his legs out of bed. ‘Where are my trousers?’

  ‘Do you have to put your trousers on to phone your mum?’ Libby snickered. ‘Will she be shocked?’

  ‘Idiot. My phone’s in the pocket.’

  When Libby returned from the bathroom to get dressed, Ben was back in bed.

  ‘We’ve all been invited to lunch at The Manor,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘So you can come back to bed again. We’ve got some time to make up.’

  ‘Did you force your mum into it?’ asked Libby suspiciously.

  ‘No, she was delighted to ask us. It gives her a chance to cook properly, she said. You know how she loves entertaining.’

  ‘Cooking, yes. I wouldn’t say she liked entertaining as in dinner parties.’

  Ben grinned. ‘No. I can’t see my mum in a glam frock serving goat’s cheese on a raspberry coulis, can you?’

  Libby grinned back and let her dressing gown fall to the floor. ‘No, thank goodness,’ she said, and dived back under the duvet.

  By the time Adam appeared, Ben and Libby were in the garden, respectably dressed and in deep conversation about summer flowering perennials.

  ‘Morning, Ma,’ he said, pushing a hand through tangled hair. ‘’Lo, Ben. Is there any tea?’

  ‘You can make some,’ said Libby. ‘Hangover?’

  ‘No,’ said Adam with some surprise. ‘I got a lift home from someone and he didn’t want to be late, so I was in by about half twelve. You were already asleep.’