Murder in the Blood Page 4

‘I’m going to put it on the menu at home,’ said Harry. ‘They’ve said they’ll teach me back at the hotel.’

  Martha appeared beside the table with a tray. ‘All finished?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Libby. ‘Do you do shakshuka, too? Harry’s going to learn it from the hotel.’

  ‘Yes, we do it. You’ll find several different versions of it out here, and of course, in other Middle Eastern countries it’s served with poached eggs in the middle.’

  ‘Really?’ Harry looked interested. ‘I’ll have to look into that.’

  ‘That and Alec’s murder?’ Martha looked amused. ‘You will be busy!’

  After they’d declined any more to eat and drink, and Martha had refused to take any payment, she promised to let them know at the hotel if she heard back from Sally Weston.

  ‘I’m sure if Alec had told anyone about his long-lost family, he’d have told her,’ she told them. ‘They’d known each other ever since she first came out here, and were very close. Weren’t they?’ She turned to Justin, who’d been remarkably quiet during the meal.

  ‘Yes.’ He looked uncomfortable.

  ‘What?’ asked Libby. ‘Don’t you like her?’

  Colour crept into Justin’s cheeks. ‘Yes, of course. I just thought … well, I thought they were a little too close.’

  Martha’s eyes widened. ‘Don’t be stupid, Justin! Alec was gay!’

  Ben sensed Libby’s immediate interest and trod on her foot.

  Justin shrugged.

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened,’ commented Harry. Peter and Libby looked at him sharply, and Libby realised that Peter must know about Harry’s foray into heterosexual sex, as she did.

  ‘We must go,’ said Fran, forever the calming influence. ‘Thank you so much for lunch, Martha. And for the information. If we can find out about Alec’s mother in England, perhaps we could go and see her when we go home.’

  ‘I suppose it was England?’ said Libby suddenly. ‘She could have been from anywhere!’

  ‘No.’ Justin shook his head. ‘I told you, remember? He flew to England to meet her.’

  ‘But that could have been a sort of halfway house.’ Libby was just warming up.

  ‘Don’t theorise ahead of the facts,’ said Ben. ‘Goodbye, Martha.’ He held out his hand.

  They crossed the bridge, leaving Justin behind with Martha. Pink Hair and Bushy Moustache had long gone, and it was only when they reached the other side they realised they hadn’t ordered a taxi to take them back to the hotel.

  ‘We’ll just have to walk,’ said Peter. ‘Come on.’

  ‘And that little shop down there sells hats, I bet,’ said Guy. ‘We’ll all need one.’

  Libby groaned.

  The little shop did, indeed, sell a variety of hats, and supplied with mock panamas, baseball caps, and floppy straw numbers according to taste, they began the walk home.

  ‘What do we think, then?’ asked Harry as they turned on to the beach road. ‘Was Alec Wilson murdered? And if so, was it because he was gay?’

  ‘We don’t know enough about him,’ said Libby. ‘He’d obviously lived here a long time, because he was already here when this Sally Weston arrived, and that was – what did they say? –ten years ago? And although Justin knew him, he obviously wasn’t that close.’

  ‘We need to meet the rest of the ex-pat community,’ said Libby, taking off her new hat and fanning her face with it. ‘How do we do that?’

  ‘Libby!’ protested five voices in chorus.

  ‘Oh, come on, you’re all as interested as I am. Poor bugger’s dead, with only the local cops to investigate, who have no knowledge of British procedures –’

  ‘Or sensibilities,’ put in Fran.

  ‘And somewhere in England – or elsewhere – there’s some poor woman who’s lost a son she’s only just found. I think we owe it to her, if not to Alec.’

  ‘I think you’re over-justifying yourself, petal,’ said Harry.

  ‘I agree, though, Hal,’ said Fran. ‘And no one we’ve met here so far seems to have any knowledge of his English roots or family. We’re the only ones.’

  ‘And we didn’t even know him,’ said Peter.

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Libby, ‘but we can talk to people who did, like Martha and Justin.’

  ‘Who didn’t seem to know much about him,’ said Ben.

  ‘But this Sally did,’ said Libby excitedly. ‘I bet she knows all about him. And if he had any enemies out here. I do hope Martha gets in touch with her soon.’

  Twenty minutes later they arrived back at the hotel and Libby threw herself on to a sunbed. Jimmy waved from the back of the restaurant.

  ‘Message!’ he called.

  Libby sat up.

  Ben went over to Jimmy, then turned and gave Libby the thumbs up.

  ‘That looks as if Martha got hold of Sally.’ Fran perched next to her friend.

  Ben came back and sat on the end of another sunbed. ‘Sally called Martha. Apparently she was a bit surprised, but she’s happy to talk to you and she’s given us her number.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Libby beamed. ‘And now I’m going to have a swim.’

  It was later in the afternoon on her way back to her room that Libby asked Jimmy if she could borrow the phone to ring Sally Weston. There was no reply.

  ‘You should have done it when Jimmy gave us the message,’ said Fran. ‘She’s obviously gone out again.’

  ‘I’ll try again when we come down for dinner,’ said Libby. ‘She can’t always be out.’

  But there was still no reply when they gathered in the bar for a pre-prandial drink.

  ‘She’s probably gone out to dinner now,’ said Harry.

  ‘So frustrating not having a mobile number,’ said Libby.

  ‘We managed to live without them for years,’ Ben reminded her.

  ‘But we don’t now and we’ve got used to having them,’ said Libby. ‘We keep missing Sally because we can only use the phone when we come down here and ask Jimmy’s permission.’

  Just then Pink Hair and Bushy Moustache arrived in the bar.

  ‘Hello!’ Pink Hair gave them a little wave. ‘Did you enjoy your lunch?’

  ‘Very much,’ said Peter. ‘It’s a lovely place, isn’t it?’

  ‘Beautiful. It must be nice to sit down there almost in the water,’ said Pink Hair wistfully.

  Peter turned to Bushy Moustache. ‘I’m sorry you couldn’t manage it down to the pontoon.’

  Bushy Moustache grunted.

  ‘Did you enjoy the food, though?’ persisted Peter.

  ‘Wasn’t really anything there I liked.’ Bushy Moustache waved at Jimmy’s young assistant. ‘Beer.’

  Peter sighed and turned back to his friends. ‘I don’t know why she puts up with him.’

  Greta and Tom were next into the bar.

  ‘Any news?’ asked Tom as they waited to be served.

  ‘Not really,’ said Guy. ‘No one seems to know anything about the poor man. We’re waiting to hear from Sally Weston.’

  ‘I said she’d know,’ said Greta. ‘You haven’t spoken to her yet?’

  ‘No,’ said Libby. ‘We went to see Martha today and she’s spoken to Sally, but every time we ring she’s not there.’

  ‘Busy lady,’ said Tom with a grin. ‘Doesn’t she teach a class somewhere in the evenings?’

  ‘Oh, yes – jewellery or something?’

  ‘English cookery,’ called Pink Hair from across the room.

  ‘Oh, that’s right.’ Greta smiled at the elderly woman. ‘She teaches the hotel and restaurant chefs how to make roast beef and Yorkshire pud.’

  ‘But we don’t come out here to eat English food!’ said Harry. ‘We want proper Turkish stuff.’

  ‘You might,’ came the muttered grunt from the corner. They all turned to look at Bushy Moustache, but before anyone could reply, Jimmy hurried into the bar.

  ‘Libby, Martha is on the phone for you.’

  ‘Ma
rtha?’ Libby was surprised. ‘Oh, OK.’

  She followed Jimmy into his tiny office and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello? This is Libby.’

  ‘Oh, Libby!’ Martha sounded agitated. ‘You’ll never believe this. Sally’s been murdered.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘Apparently,’ Libby reported to the assembled guests in the bar, ‘the Jandarma went to question her about Alec Wilson and found her.’

  ‘When?’ asked Ben.

  ‘I don’t know – this evening, I suppose.’

  ‘She was still alive when she spoke to Martha – when?’ Fran looked round at her friends.

  ‘While we were on our way back here,’ said Guy.

  ‘It’s got to be connected,’ said Libby.

  Greta shook her head. ‘Poor Sally. I liked her.’

  ‘She could be a bit much,’ said Tom.

  ‘In what way?’ asked Fran.

  ‘She was what Tom would call a ball-breaker,’ said Greta, pulling a face. ‘That doesn’t go down too well in Turkey.’

  ‘I’ve seen some formidable women out here,’ said Peter. ‘I’d say they rule the roost.’

  ‘Within the family,’ said Tom.

  ‘Ah, family.’ Jimmy came up behind the bar, shaking his head. ‘Sally, she had no family.’

  ‘So she was a bit independent?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Did it all on her own,’ said Greta. ‘Didn’t need a man.’

  ‘Course she bloody did,’ came a growl from the corner. ‘Stupid woman.’

  Everyone in the bar turned to Bushy Moustache in surprise. Pink Hair sighed and rolled her eyes.

  ‘He calls it “old world gallantry”,’ she said. ‘I call it flirting.’

  Bushy Moustache’s face had turned almost purple. ‘I will not sit here …’ he began, pushing his chair back.

  ‘Fine,’ said Pink Hair. ‘I shall join –’ she looked across at Libby’s group, ‘my friends.’

  Bushy Moustache, stumbling a little, left the bar. Pink Hair stood up with a sigh and moved across to Libby’s table. ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘No, no, sit down,’ said Libby, accompanied by murmurs of agreement. ‘Libby Sarjeant.’ She held out her hand.

  ‘Betty Roberts. That’s my husband, Walter.’ Betty shook Libby’s hand and then everyone else’s, including Greta’s and Tom’s. ‘I’m sorry about him. He’s been getting worse and worse as he gets older. He still thinks a woman’s place is in the kitchen and that a woman on her own is only looking for a man. And it’s his place to help her along.’ She shook her head. ‘He tried it on with Sally and she put him in his place.’

  ‘You were there?’ asked Fran in astonishment.

  ‘Oh, yes. He never cares about me. He never gets anywhere anyway, so it doesn’t really matter.’

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ asked Harry, standing up abruptly. Libby realised that he was moved by this stoic woman.

  ‘I’d love a beer!’ said Betty. ‘He doesn’t approve of me drinking beer.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Peter, leaning forward, ‘but how do you put up with him?’

  Betty laughed. ‘Habit, I suppose. And where else would I go? I’m far too old to start again, and he’d never cope on his own.’

  ‘Have you got children?’

  ‘Yes.’ Betty’s face fell. ‘They don’t get on with him, so I hardly see them. My daughter always invites me for Christmas and birthdays, but she won’t have him, so I don’t go either.’

  Libby’s stomach clenched in sympathy. What an awful life this woman led.

  Harry came back and put the glass of beer down in front of Betty and laid a hand on her arm. ‘Enjoy.’

  She smiled up at him. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So you knew Sally, too?’ asked Libby, attempting to put the conversation into less emotional waters.

  ‘We met her a few years ago. One of the other restaurant owners invited all Jimmy’s guests to a party to meet some of the locals. I thought she was lovely.’

  ‘So did I,’ said Greta, ‘but she was obviously different with men.’

  ‘Except Alec,’ said Fran.

  ‘But he was gay,’ said Harry. ‘That makes a difference.’ He grinned at Libby and leant over to pat her arm. ‘Doesn’t it, my old trout?’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Libby, avoiding Betty’s wide-eyed astonishment. ‘Justin knew her, too.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ announced Harry suddenly. ‘Are we eating here?’

  ‘We didn’t tell Jimmy we were,’ said Guy, ‘so he won’t be prepared for us.’

  ‘Do you know The Red Bar?’ Betty asked diffidently.

  Everyone looked at each other.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve heard of it,’ said Tom, frowning.

  ‘It’s at the other end of the village. I went there last year with one of the other guests here. Walter wouldn’t go. It was lovely.’

  ‘If we go there, will you come with us?’ asked Fran.

  Betty looked as if she’d been given a present. ‘I’d love to.’

  In the end, they all went: Harry and Peter either side of Betty, who had an arm linked through each of theirs, Greta with Fran and Libby and Tom deep in conversation with Guy and Ben. The beach road petered out into a dirt track, the beach on their left and scrubby vegetation leading to the foothills of the mountains on their right. As the headland loomed towards them though the dark, a small, lighted building came into view, with red neon lighting announcing The Red Bar.

  They ate outside under a trellis of vines; simple grilled fish, caught that day, pide, the wonderful Turkish flatbread, and chopped mixed salad that only the Turkish seemed to be able to do. The family who owned the bar cooked, served, and ran around between the tables. The baby was brought out to meet them, and Betty remembered from last year.

  ‘And how is your friend? Joan, was it?’ asked the handsome young man who appeared to be head of the family.

  ‘How you can remember!’ marvelled Betty. ‘Yes, Joan. We only met out here. She was on her own so we palled up. We’ve kept in touch by email, but she couldn’t make it this year.’

  ‘A pity.’ The young man turned to the others. ‘And these are your new friends?’

  Betty introduced them and he shook hands formally with each of them. ‘And do you know anyone else here?’

  The friends looked at each other awkwardly.

  ‘Well, not as such,’ Libby said eventually. ‘We’ve met some people …’

  ‘They’re the people who found the body at sea,’ said Betty.

  ‘Oh?’ The young man suddenly sounded serious. ‘Alec.’

  ‘Yes.’ Libby cleared her throat. ‘And we – Martha and us, actually – were trying to find out about his British family. And then we were going to talk to Sally Weston.’

  ‘British family? I didn’t know he had one.’

  ‘He’d only just found them, apparently,’ said Fran. ‘You knew him and Sally, then?’

  The young man looked at her sharply. ‘I knew Alec, yes, and I know Sally. She is a favourite with the children.’

  The others exchanged glances. It was Betty who spoke in the end.

  ‘I’m afraid Sally’s dead, too.’

  The young man seemed unable to speak. At last, he turned and called over his shoulder to his wife, who hurried forward with a bottle of red wine. He gestured for her to take a seat and pulled up a chair himself.

  ‘You don’t mind?’ he said. Everyone shook their heads, and he offered wine all round.

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said, putting a hand on his wife’s arm. ‘Sally was a dear friend.’ he spoke briefly to his wife, who promptly burst into tears and ran back to the kitchen.

  ‘I’m sorry, too.’ Libby felt wretched. ‘I wish we hadn’t had to tell you.’

  He pulled himself up straight. ‘We would have heard. Can you tell me anything else?’

  Between them, they related the events of the last couple of days.

  ‘Betty didn’t tell u
s your name,’ Libby finished up.

  ‘I am Mahmud.’ The young man bowed his head. ‘And my wife – I must apologise for her – is Almas. Sally was very kind to her.’

  ‘She had no enemies here, then,’ said Guy.

  ‘None. We all liked her, although she could be – ’ he paused, frowning. ‘I do not know the word.’

  ‘Sharp?’ suggested Libby.

  ‘Prickly?’ from Harry.

  ‘Like a schoolmistress,’ Mahmud came up with eventually. ‘Alec was her special friend. I did not know him so well. But they came here a lot. We are one of the only restaurants open in the winter.’

  ‘You know Justin, too, then?’ said Ben.

  ‘Yes. He comes with them sometimes, or with another friend. They are quite – ’ he paused again, frowning. ‘Quite close, the English.’

  ‘The English who live here?’ suggested Peter.

  Mahmud nodded. ‘Do you know Geoff and Christine?’

  They all shook their heads except Betty.

  ‘They own the Istanbul Palace,’ she said.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Libby.

  ‘A hotel. It stands on its own on the way to the river,’ said Mahmud.

  ‘I remember seeing it,’ said Guy. ‘I didn’t realise it was a hotel. It doesn’t have any signs outside.’

  ‘No.’ Mahmud shook his head. ‘I don’t know why. But it also stays open all year, and the English go there a lot. They will all be very shocked. I must telephone.’ He stood and bowed to them all. ‘Please – this meal is – what do you say? You must not pay.’

  ‘On the house,’ said Libby, ‘but we must pay. We brought you bad news, not good. We shall pay.’

  With the dispute amicably settled, the group finished the last of Mahmud’s wine and left, with promises to come back.

  ‘So Geoff and Christine’s hotel is a sort of local for the ex-pats?’ said Libby, as they walked back to Jimmy’s.

  ‘Seems to be,’ said Greta, ‘but I don’t think everyone gets on with them. We’ve only been up there once because someone suggested the food was good, but we didn’t care for it, did we, Tom?’

  ‘There were quite a few Brits up there, and the food seemed to be mainly English. They seemed a bit cliquey.’

  ‘Hmm. Could be motives up there, then,’ said Libby.

  ‘We can ask Martha. We’re going to see her again in the morning, aren’t we?’ said Fran.