Murder in the Blood Page 2

  ‘That was quick! Did Joe’s boat break down?’

  Fran and Libby went over to explain, while Harry began to commandeer other sunbeds.

  ‘How horrible.’ The woman had turned quite pale. ‘I’m so glad we didn’t come.’

  Her husband sat up beside her. ‘I wonder if we’ll ever know who he was? Or what happened?’

  Libby shuddered. ‘I’d rather not think about it at all.’

  Jimmy strolled over.

  ‘The Jandarma will want to talk to you,’ he said.

  ‘But why? How could we have known anything about it?’ asked Libby.

  ‘In England the police talk to everybody, no?’

  ‘Yes, they do,’ said Ben. ‘And we were on the boat, Lib. In their eyes, it was Captain Joe and us who discovered it.’

  Libby sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose it was.’

  ‘I’m going to have a swim,’ announced Fran. ‘Take my mind off it.’

  ‘Beatcha,’ said Harry, and disappeared into the water with a splash.

  ‘Too energetic,’ said Peter, appropriating one of the sunbeds Harry had pulled into the shade of a large umbrella. ‘I shall sleep.’

  ‘I think I want tea,’ said Libby.

  ‘I bring you chai?’ said Jimmy.

  Ben smiled. ‘I think she wants good old builders’ tea, Jimmy.’

  ‘Builders?’ Jimmy looked bewildered. Guy tried to explain.

  ‘Never mind.’ Libby patted his hand. ‘I shall go and make some in our room.’

  By the time the friends met at the bar in the evening, the events of the afternoon had been discussed and dissected over and over. Several of the other guests of the hotel had also gathered for pre-prandial drinks and had to hear the story all over again, so when the bright blue van drew up and discharged three uniformed Jandarma officers it came as a an unpleasant descent into reality.

  Jimmy’s office was not large enough to accommodate nine adults, so the senior officer unwillingly took over a corner of the bar building and glared at anyone who dared come anywhere near it. As it happened, neither he nor his two underlings spoke English, so Jimmy had to leave his position at the bar to stand in as interpreter. Luckily, some of the other guests were long-term visitors and took over as temporary barmen.

  After some obviously dissatisfactory verbal skirmishing, Jimmy turned to his guests.

  ‘The man was English,’ he said. ‘This officer thinks you know him.’

  ‘Why?’ asked six voices.

  ‘Because you are English.’

  General laughter. The officer looked thunderous.

  ‘We don’t know every English tourist here,’ said Ben.

  ‘He was not tourist. He lives in the village,’ said Jimmy, darting an uncomfortable look at the three Jandarma.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Libby. ‘Well we don’t know anyone who lives here, I’m afraid. Only the people we’ve met since we arrived.’

  Jimmy repeated this to the Jandarma.

  ‘Has he got a photograph?’ asked Fran suddenly.

  Jimmy repeated the request. Grudgingly, the senior officer brought out a blurred photograph.

  ‘Where did they get that?’ asked Harry.

  ‘His passport,’ said Jimmy. ‘In a bag tied to his …’ He indicated his waist.

  Fran picked up the photograph, raising her eyebrows at the officer, who nodded. She pushed back her chair and went over to the bar. It drew the other guests in the bar like iron filings to a magnet. After a moment, Fran returned to the others with the lone Englishman, panama in hand, in tow.

  ‘This gentleman says he recognises the picture,’ she said, and sat down.

  The officer waved a hand and spoke rapidly to Jimmy.

  ‘He says you can go, but he will speak with this gentleman. Mr Parnham.’ Jimmy sat down beside the newcomer, looking even more miserable.

  ‘Well!’ said Libby, as they retrieved their drinks from the bar. The rest of the guests milled round wanting to know what happened.

  ‘I wonder,’ said the woman they’d been talking to earlier, ‘if that bloke knew the dead man? I said he looked as though he knew where he was going when we took him into the village, didn’t I?’

  ‘Perhaps he did,’ said Ben.

  ‘We’ll ask him when he comes back,’ said Libby. ‘I’m Libby, by the way.’ She held out a hand.

  ‘I’m Greta Willingham. This is my husband, Tom.’ Greta took the proffered hand and introductions were made all round.

  ‘You said he was English?’ asked someone else, as chairs were pulled up into a rough circle.

  ‘So the officer said.’ Guy sat down next to his wife.

  ‘I bet Sally would know him,’ said Greta.

  ‘Sally?’ queried Fran.

  ‘Sally Weston. She’s lived here for years,’ explained Tom. ‘She started by coming out on holiday and stayed.’ Tom turned to Guy. ‘You must have met her when you were coming here before.’

  Guy looked worried. ‘Don’t tell me I met you and I’ve forgotten?’

  ‘Only in passing,’ said Greta. ‘You were always with your little girl. How is she?’

  ‘Sophie? All grown up now. Did an art degree at university.’

  ‘Oh, you were an artist, weren’t you?’ said Tom.

  ‘Yes, and I do apologise for not remembering you,’ said Guy. ‘So, no, I don’t remember a Sally. Sorry.’

  ‘Things have changed a lot in the past few years,’ said a comfortably built elderly woman with pink hair. ‘We’ve been coming for over ten years and things are very different.’

  ‘So,’ said Libby, determined to bring the conversation back to the dead Englishman, ‘no one except Mr Parnham there recognised him?’

  There was a mass shaking of heads.

  ‘We don’t know anyone except a few bar and hotel owners,’ said the pink-haired lady. ‘And we don’t go far.’

  ‘We go in to the market,’ said Greta, ‘and we have a drink in the village, sometimes with Sally.’

  ‘Do you hire a car?’ asked Ben.

  ‘Oh, no, dear. We have a taxi,’ said Greta. ‘We use them to go to the river restaurants, too.’

  ‘River restaurants? Libby turned to Guy. ‘You haven’t told us about them?’

  ‘I don’t think I ever went there,’ said Guy.

  ‘Oh, there was only the one when you came here,’ said Tom. ‘There are three now. Lovely places.’

  ‘We’ll go tomorrow,’ said Peter. ‘Harry’s very keen on trying as many different restaurants as he can.’

  ‘Really?’ Greta looked interested. ‘You like food, then?’

  ‘I’m a chef,’ said Harry, with a grin. Several of the other people leant forward. ‘I have a Mexican vegetarian restaurant called The Pink Geranium.’

  ‘Nearly vegetarian,’ said Libby.

  ‘Yes, petal, nearly.’

  ‘How, nearly?’ asked the pink lady’s husband, a short, bushy-moustached individual.

  ‘I branched out,’ said Harry. ‘I now do a selection of non-vegetarian dishes in a separate kitchen.’

  ‘Why separate?’ asked Bushy Moustache.

  ‘You can’t cook meat – or even prepare it – in a veggie kitchen, dear,’ explained his wife.

  ‘Bloody nonsense,’ said Bushy Moustache, and buried his face in his beer glass.

  Mr Parnham left the table with the Jandarma officers and approached the group by the bar.

  ‘Everything all right?’ asked Guy.

  Parnham frowned.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘You see, I’d met him.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  The questions seemed to distress Mr Parnham.

  ‘I – I don’t know. Do excuse me.’ He gave an odd little bow and walked swiftly away from the bar towards the beach.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ said Libby. ‘We upset him.’

  ‘Let’s go and find dinner,’ said Harry. ‘It’
s really nothing to do with us, is it?’

  The group stood up and said goodbye to their fellow guests, but as they stepped out on to the beach road, the senior Jandarma officer came up behind them with Jimmy trailing in his wake.

  ‘He says he will want to talk to you again,’ said Jimmy. ‘Something Mr Parnham said.’

  The officer gave a curt nod and strode past them to his blue van. His two cohorts scampered after him.

  ‘What’s Mr Parnham’s other name?’ asked Fran.

  ‘Neal, I think. This is the first time he’s been here.’ Jimmy turned back to the bar. ‘I shall see you later.’

  ‘And what could Neal Parnham have said about us that would make the Jandarma want to speak to us again?’ said Libby, watching the blue van turn round at the end of the bay to make its way back along the road and out of the village.

  ‘Next time we see him we’ll ask him,’ said Ben. ‘Come on woman. I’m starving.’

  Fifty yards from the hotel, Abdi’s tiny courtyard restaurant just about had room to fit them in.

  ‘You eat outside everywhere here, don’t you?’ said Libby, sniffing appetising smells wafting from the kitchen at the back.

  ‘Except when it rains,’ said Guy. ‘I remember getting drenched here once.’

  Abdi was another local who remembered Guy from years before. He handed round menus.

  ‘He did. We took him into the kitchen.’ He beamed round the table. ‘Now, what would you like to drink?’

  It was just as they were paying their bill that Libby spotted Neal Parnham on his way back to the hotel.

  ‘I’m going after him,’ she said, grabbing her bag and colliding with chairs.

  She caught up with him just before he reached the hotel.

  ‘Mr Parnham!’ she panted. ‘Neal. Can I have a word?’

  He turned. ‘What about?’

  Libby frowned. ‘Well, what do you think?’ she said, breathing a little easier. ‘You told us you’d met the – er – body, and now the Jandarma want to talk to us again. Because of something you said. What did you say?’

  Neal Parnham’s face lengthened even more.

  ‘I – oh. It’s so difficult when he doesn’t speak English.’

  ‘Or you don’t speak Turkish. It’s their country,’ said Libby.

  Parnham looked at his feet. ‘Yes, of course. But he misunderstood – or Jimmy did. I said this man knew other English tourists in the village. The dead man, I mean.’

  ‘And he thought you meant us? But you would have pointed us out, surely?’

  ‘But I said I didn’t know who they were.’ Neal Parnham looked up. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve put you in a difficult position.’

  Libby sighed. ‘Oh, that’s all right. I see now how it happened. But how exactly did you come to meet him? Greta and Tom said they thought you knew someone in the village. It wasn’t him, was it?’

  ‘Not – well, not exactly.’

  Libby noticed the others coming up behind. She took Neal’s arm. ‘Come on. Come in and have a drink with us. You look as though you could do with some company.’

  He looked round at the six smiling faces and seemed to relax. ‘That would be good, thank you.’

  Greta and Tom were sitting at a table with Lady Pink Hair and her bushy-moustached husband, who appeared to be taking no part in the conversation, merely looking as if he had a bad smell under his nose. Probably rising from his moustache, thought Libby.

  Greta raised a hand and smiled, but Libby was already shepherding her party to a table near the pool.

  ‘Tell us where you met the dead man,’ said Fran, when they were settled in their seats and Peter and Harry had gone for drinks. ‘You have a friend in the village?’

  ‘Yes. Well, someone I met here, actually.’ Neal sat back in his chair and took off his straw trilby. ‘Before you came.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Three weeks. I’m on a sort of extended break.’ Neal looked up and smiled as Harry put a beer glass before him. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘When are you going home?’ asked Libby. ‘Sorry if I’m being nosy …’

  ‘She’s always nosy,’ said Ben. ‘Sorry.’

  Neal, now looking much more relaxed, smiled again. ‘Oh, I don’t mind. It was just so horrible being questioned and … well, when they showed me that photograph …’

  ‘A shock,’ said Fran. ‘Of course it was. So you met him –?’

  ‘Chap I met on the beach, Justin, has a house in the village. He invited me for lunch and dinner a couple of times, and introduced us.’

  ‘And he’s an English resident?’

  ‘Yes, there’s quite a little group of ex-pats here.’

  ‘And he knows other visitors?’ said Guy.

  ‘Oh, yes. They were talking about the regulars – the people who come back every year. I gather that those people do.’ Neal indicated Greta and Tom.

  ‘And did they know the same people?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Oh, there seem to be some who everyone knows. And they all have their particular hotels.’

  ‘I always stayed here,’ said Guy. ‘Well, I only came twice, but it was always to this hotel.’

  ‘This is your first time here, is it?’ Fran asked Neal.

  ‘Yes. I came across it on the internet and thought it looked – well, quiet. Not touristy.’

  ‘That’s why people come back year after year,’ said Guy. ‘It costs more than a package holiday, but the fact that it’s such a long way from the airport keeps most of the tour operators away.’

  ‘The average punter doesn’t like much more than a half-hour journey from airport to hotel,’ said Harry. ‘Must say, I’d come back if I could get the time off.’

  ‘What do you do?’ asked Neal.

  ‘He’s a chef,’ said Libby. ‘With his own restaurant. So he can’t afford to close it often.’

  ‘Did you tell the Jandarma about your friend Justin?’ asked Peter.

  ‘I had to, didn’t I? I felt very guilty. That was why – well, I was a bit rude earlier.’

  ‘You know,’ said Libby, ‘if this is a British-based crime, then I don’t think the Jandarma are going to solve it.’

  Neal looked startled, but everyone else groaned.

  ‘Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it?’ said Libby. ‘They didn’t know how to question us, and there’s the language barrier …’

  ‘So you think you ought to investigate,’ said Ben. ‘How did I guess?’

  ‘I think Libby could be right,’ said Fran. ‘After all –’

  ‘Wait a bit!’ interrupted Neal. ‘Investigate? What do you mean?’

  Libby looked embarrassed.

  ‘At home, I’m afraid Libby and Fran have rather a reputation,’ Peter started to explain.

  ‘For looking into murders,’ continued Harry.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Neal Parnham’s eyes were wide. ‘That sort of thing only happens in books.’

  ‘Well – yes,’ agreed Libby. ‘But we still do it.’

  ‘Mainly Libby,’ said Fran. ‘I’m merely the back stop.’

  ‘No you’re not …’ Libby broke off at Fran’s warning look.

  ‘Anyway, the police usually get the answer before we do,’ Fran continued smoothly. ‘But that’s the British police. If this is a murder within the ex-pat community, the local forces are going to be at a loss, surely?’

  Neal Parnham’s lean face expressed wariness and doubt. ‘I’ve no idea. I don’t know anything about life out here.’

  ‘It wouldn’t hurt to talk to the people he knew, would it?’ said Guy.

  ‘But on what pretext?’ asked Ben sensibly. ‘Introduce Libby and Fran as private investigators? Hardly.’

  ‘No – as the people who found the body!’ said Libby triumphantly. ‘Nobody would question that!’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Neal looked down at the table. ‘Seems a bit –’

  ‘Intrusive,’ suggested Ben. ‘I know.’

 
A silence fell.

  ‘Neal!’ A new voice called from outside the bar. Neal looked up and smiled.

  ‘Well, that solves that problem,’ he said, standing up. ‘Justin, come in. Have a drink.’

  Everyone turned round. A tall, dark-haired man in a checked shirt and light trousers, a sweater thrown over his shoulders, hesitated outside.

  ‘Please,’ said Harry, also standing. ‘Come in and have a drink.’

  Neal Parnham moved round the table to take the newcomer’s elbow and guide him to a chair.

  ‘Justin, these are my fellow guests here at Jimmy’s. They found the body this afternoon.’

  ‘Libby Sarjeant.’ Libby held out her hand. ‘And we can’t keep saying “the body”. Who was the poor man?’

  ‘Alec Wilson.’ Justin shook her hand looking bewildered. ‘Um …’

  ‘Beer?’ asked Neal. ‘Anyone else?’

  Ben and Guy went with him to the bar.

  ‘I’m sorry if we’ve come as a bit of a shock. I’m Fran Wolfe. That’s my husband Guy, the one with the beard.’ Fran smiled her gentle smile.

  ‘Harry Price.’ Harry stuck out a hand. ‘And this is Peter Parker.’

  The three men looked at one another and Libby realised that they’d recognised something in each other. Which, in turn made her look across at Neal Parnham at the bar. Harry followed her gaze.

  ‘Didn’t you realise?’ Harry said with a grin. ‘Getting slow on the uptake, petal.’

  ‘I don’t see why it should matter,’ said Libby, somewhat huffily.

  ‘I do,’ said Peter. ‘There could be another community under investigation here, as well as the ex-pats. And that might be even worse.’

  Neal, Ben, and Guy arrived back at the table with drinks.

  ‘Pete thinks there might be more at stake here than just the ex-pats,’ said Harry bluntly. ‘I agree with him.’

  Neal and Justin exchanged worried looks, then Justin looked round at the company.

  ‘I’m not sure I know who you are, or why you’re interested. Neal says you found Alec’s body – ’

  ‘Believe it or not, these two …’ Neal paused, then indicated Libby and Fran, ‘ladies are real life Miss Marples.’

  ‘Oh, please,’ said Libby, disgusted.

  Fran looked amused, shrugged and picked up her glass.