Murder at the Lighthouse: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 1) (13 page)

Libby, leaning over his shoulder, grabbed a sheet of copy paper and wrote:
4 J. boys castles. 5 rain. 5.15 T. walking L. 6 Windy, wet. B rubbish. 7 Tide.
“I think that’s right. I’ve had to guess at some of the words. It still doesn’t make much sense.”

Max grinned. “It’s Mrs Thomson’s own shorthand. All we have to do is crack the code. How are you with crosswords?” He reached over the table. “Maybe the diary will help.” He opened the blue notebook and, heads together, they pored over the pages. “Look. You see? In this entry, she’s made a note of the time of day. That’s what the numbers mean.”

Libby pointed to the entry she’d read earlier. “I bet the J is Judy Roach. She walks on the beach with her three boys and they build sandcastles.”

“There you are, then. Well done. Now, there are also notes on the weather: wet, windy and so on. We can use those to check which day Mrs Thomson’s talking about.” Max grinned. “I’ve got an app.” Libby hid a smile. Her son had a phone full of apps.

Max fiddled with his mobile. “There, you were right. Mrs Thomson made these notes on the day Susie died.”

His words bumped Libby back to earth. For a moment, she’d forgotten this was about murder.

Max scrolled down the page, comparing times. “We can read most of it. At 5 o’clock, it started to rain. A quarter of an hour later, T was walking L―a dog, I suppose. We should be able to find who that was easily enough.”

Libby remembered. “Thelma Hunt has a dog called Lily. I’ve seen them on the beach when I walk Shipley.”

Max frowned. “Shipley?”

“He’s the dog I walk for Marina. It’s not important.”

“Right. Ever thought of getting your own dog?” Max turned back to the code. “At 6 o’clock it was windy and wet. B must be another name, but what does
rubbish
mean?” Libby shook her head.

Max waved the problem away. “Never mind. We can come back to that. There’s just one entry left. At 7 o’clock, she wrote
tide
. I guess she means high tide. It came right in, that night.” He straightened up, rubbing his back. “So, just a couple of mysteries left. On the night of Susie’s death, Mrs Thomson saw B just as the tide was coming in. B must be a person. I wonder what B was doing. She just wrote
rubbish
.”

Libby looked through the notebook, but there was no other entry like that. B must be an initial, like J and T. But why
rubbish?
After an hour, they’d pored over every word in the blue book. There were lots of names beginning with B, but there was no way to know who’d been on the beach, in stormy conditions, on the day Susie died.

Max sucked a mint. “It could be someone who’s never appeared in the book before. That would mean they don’t often come to the beach. It rules out dog-walkers.”

“But Mrs Thomson knew the murderer. She let them into her house. That means it was someone from the town.”

Max sat on the edge of the table. “Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, but I’d be willing to bet Mrs Thomson’s
rubbish
meant something like a bag of trash.”

Libby shivered. “A black bag, you mean? Susie wasn’t in a bag when I found her.”

“No, the tide could have ripped the bag away, if it wasn’t securely tied. It’s fierce at this time of year.”

Libby remembered the missing boot. The storm tide had enough strength to wrench a leather boot from Susie’s foot. It could easily dispose of thin black plastic. She bit her lip. “So, B was the killer.”

“We’d better ring the police.”

Balancing the Books

Detective Sergeant Joe Ramshore scolded Libby for interfering with a police investigation, as if she were a naughty schoolgirl. Max’s involvement infuriated him even more. “You’re not above the law, either of you,” he snapped.

Eventually, he agreed not to charge her, going so far as to promise a check on every B on the electoral register for the town. “You see, it’s the day-to-day police work that will solve this, Mrs Forest, not amateur dabbling.” Libby kept her temper in check, fighting the urge to point out he’d wasted days refusing to believe Mrs Thomson’s death was suspicious.

She phoned Ned, the builder, to explain she couldn’t afford to go ahead with the alterations to the bathroom. “Don’t you worry about it, Mrs F. I’ll keep the plans we made, and you let me know as soon as you want to go ahead.” Libby felt dreadful. That was the trouble with a small town: you knew and liked the people who worked for you.

She wrote to the solicitor, suggesting ways of sorting out the mess of Trevor’s debts. Then, needing a break, she went to the local history group meeting. The group reviewed last week’s event at the Hall. “It was a huge success.” Angela was the treasurer. “We split the profits with the Hall, and we’ve made enough to pay for a year’s worth of speakers. Not that we don’t have some excellent ones of our own.” She smiled at Beryl, in the corner, fingering a stack of notes. “Everyone loved Marina’s talk.”

“I thought I’d die when Libby was down to her shift,” There was a ripple of laughter. Libby had almost forgotten those awful Victorian clothes. There were so many layers. She frowned. A thought tugged at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t get hold of it. It was about the costume. Or, was it? She concentrated, but she couldn’t recall. Oh well, maybe it would come back to her.

Susie’s funeral was set for Thursday afternoon and Mandy returned from Bristol, where she’d stayed with her mother and aunt, the evening before. She insisted on making dinner, using one of Libby’s recipes for a sausage casserole. “Oh, it’s so good to be back. They drive me mad, those two. Always on at me for my tats, and the piercings.”

Libby kept silent on the subject of the tattoos that climbed Mandy’s arms and encircled her neck. “Mandy, you’re old enough to look after yourself. Get a flat.”

Mandy blushed and cleared her throat. “I don’t suppose you’d like a permanent lodger, would you?”

“I’d love you to live with me, but that’s not exactly standing on your own two feet, is it?”
But I could use the cash.

“I can’t afford a proper flat of my own.”

“Well, in that case. Just for a while.”

With a spurt of hard work that lasted well into the small hours of every morning, Libby had written three quarters of the cookery book. Frank had taken her on full-time. He’d even given her a raise and a new job title: Development Consultant.

She still felt sick at the thought of the money Trevor owed. The bathroom made her want to cry, with its bright orange tiles; a shower that dripped slow, barely-warm water; and a cracked window. She’d have to live with it for at least another year. She could almost believe Trevor had planned it all out of spite: a final insult from beyond the grave. Libby would work her socks off to get free of him.

The evening was dark and still. She stood at the window of her study and stretched, muscles tense from an hour at the computer. There was so little light here. Stars filled the whole expanse of sky. Maybe she’d get a telescope, one day in the far future, when she’d cleared the debts, and learn more about them.

The street lay deserted. Only one car passed, turning into a nearby driveway, the engine dying. Libby heard the clunk of a garage door. She opened the window to smell the sea and took a deep breath. This beat London’s bright lights.

A movement on the left caught her attention. Instinctively, she drew back, inside the window as a figure crept, soundless, close to the wall of the house, around the corner and past the sycamore tree, finally disappearing into shadow. That was odd. Libby didn’t expect a visitor. Ears straining, she listened for a knock on the door, but all was quiet. She slipped downstairs and hovered, just inside the front door, watching through the tiny pane of glass, but there was no sign of a caller.

Uneasy, heart pounding, she crept past the sitting room, where Mandy was watching a game show, into the kitchen. The curtains and blinds were drawn tight against the autumn night. With a clatter, Bear brushed past, almost knocking Libby off her feet as he leaped at the back door, barking, the noise battering Libby’s ears. He’d heard a noise, too. Libby scrambled to the door, fumbling with the lock, and flung it open.

There was no one there. One hand on the dog, the other clenched tight, Libby stepped outside. The air was cool and still. She sniffed. Was that a whiff of beer? She hadn’t imagined it, then. Someone had been here.

She tiptoed round the side of the house and back again. The stalker was long gone. In the distance, a car engine revved and faded. Mandy was at the back door. “What was all that about? I heard Bear going crazy.”

Libby hesitated. Mandy needed to be on her guard. She shrugged. “I thought someone was outside.”

“Who’d be creeping about in the dark?”

“I don’t know.” She locked the door, shaking it to check it was secure, sat Mandy down and told her what they’d found in Mrs Thomson’s diary. “Maybe whoever was sneaking around knew I took it from her house.” Someone at the police station had blabbed.

“It’s a good thing Bear’s staying.” Mandy seemed unfazed. “He won’t let anyone near.”

Libby lay awake for a long time, that night, chills running up and down her spine. If the stalker was the same person who’d pushed Mrs Thomson down the stairs, both she and Mandy were in danger.

Her brain whirled, images chasing each other in a confused kaleidoscope of the past days. There was Susie, slumped under the lighthouse like a sack of rubbish; Mrs Thomson, gazing out of her window at a world that passed her by; the local history group, gossiping; the “Band of Brothers” of local men, looking to Max for guidance; James Sutcliffe and Guy each living a new life as though the wild days of the band never happened.

In her mind’s eye, Libby recalled the pictures of Susie, with Mickey on her wedding day, and of her daughter, Annie Rose. Sleep wouldn’t come, now. Libby pushed back the duvet, thrust cold feet into slippers and softly, so as not to wake Mandy, slipped along to the study. She grabbed a clean, fresh sheet of copy paper and began to write.

Funeral

The weather forecast for Susie’s funeral promised a day of cold, watery sunshine. Libby, torn between an old grey trench coat and the long, formal, black wool coat she’d bought for Trevor’s funeral, peered anxiously at the sky. “I’ll wear the wool coat, otherwise I might never use it again.” She winced as Mandy, appropriate for once in her customary head-to-toe black, fiddled with her latest piercing, at the top of one ear. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

At the church, Max squeezed Libby’s arm. “Every shop in town must be shut.” The town streamed in, past a phalanx of photographers. “Even the national newspapers are here. Pity Susie isn’t around to enjoy it.”

“There’s Guy.” Guy brushed past the photographers, eyes straight ahead. Alvin stopped to flick a speck of dust off his jacket. James Sutcliffe was there, too, his son steering him past the press who were, in any case, far too busy interviewing Samantha to notice the once famous members of Susie’s band. Tossing her fringe, one elegant foot in front of the other, Samantha nailed, with ease, the self-appointed role of Susie’s best friend.

As the service ended, Susie’s own voice swelled through speakers, echoing around the Church. James Sutcliffe blew his nose. A lump lodged in Libby’s throat.

The local hotel, run by Marina’s sister, put on a spread, the garden bathed in Indian summer sunshine. Libby, glass juggled in one hand, plate balanced on an old stone wall, reached into her shoulder bag for the paper she’d worked on all night. “Here, Max, I think you should read this.”

He took the document, narrowed eyes fierce on her face. “What’s this about, Libby?”

“Read it. Tell me if I’m wrong.”

Max ran his eyes down the page. Expression stony, he flicked a glance at Libby, folded the sheet of paper into a neat square, and tucked it into an inside jacket pocket. “Well done. Very clever, Mrs Forest.”

Before she could answer, a black, stretch limousine screeched to a halt outside the hotel. The uniformed chauffeur leaped out to fling open a rear door and a middle-aged man eased from the car, long grey hair caught in a ponytail. Gold earrings flashed and a medallion sparkled at the neck of his open-collar black silk shirt. Max murmured, “There he is: Mickey Garston himself.”

Two thick-set men, startling with shaved heads and earpieces, leaped from a second car and took up positions close behind Mickey, eyes hidden by reflective sunglasses. Mandy let out a low whistle. Mickey’s transatlantic accent, loud enough to rattle glasses on the wooden tables dotted around the hotel garden, boomed over the crowd. “Hey, I guess I missed the funeral. That’s too bad. Caught up in your English traffic.”

Max’s mouth was close to Libby’s ear. “What do you think he’s here for?”

The newcomer stretched out an arm. “Max, my old buddy, good to see you again.” He grabbed Max’s hand, the other arm snaking round his neck. “Won’t you introduce me to Susie’s friends?”

Max extricated himself, unsmiling. “I see you came after all.”

“Max, my friend, introduce me. Who’s this gorgeous creature?” Samantha, white teeth flashing, poised on four-inch stiletto heels. She extended one graceful arm, tinkling with bracelets, to take the flabby hand.

Lightbulbs popped. Bored journalists set down half-eaten sausage rolls, flipped their note pads to new pages and pulled out cheap biros. A hoarse bellow splintered the air. “What the hell are you doing here?” James Sutcliffe, fists raised, elbowed past Libby. “Get back to the pond you crawled out of.”