Murder in the Blood (25 page)

‘Oh, all right.' Libby sat back and sighed happily. ‘That was gorgeous. I wish we had a curry shop in Steeple Martin.'

‘We can always order a takeaway from here,' said Ben.

‘But it would be cold by the time it arrived.'

‘They have insulated boxes,' said Ben. ‘Do you want anything else, or shall we get the bill?'

It was only just getting dark when they drove back to Steeple Martin. The lights were on in Peter and Harry's cottage, but Ben said ‘No' just as Libby opened her mouth. She grinned.

‘It was a lovely day, wasn't it?' she said when they were seated on the creaky cane sofa with a nightcap. ‘Even Walter didn't really spoil it.'

‘It was. It's not often we get a whole day to ourselves,' said Ben, stretching his legs out and dislodging Sidney from his lap. ‘And just think – you've now got something to look forward to tomorrow.'

‘Have I?'

Ben grinned. ‘Walter. You can spend all day trying to find out about him, can't you?'

Ben set off for the timber yard on the estate early in the morning and Libby called Fran.

‘Morning. I expected to hear from you yesterday.'

‘Ben wouldn't let me,' said Libby.

Fran laughed. ‘I'm not surprised. So tell me all about your day.'

Libby extolled the virtues of the gallery and the exhibition, The Golden Spice, and finally the surprise of seeing Walter Roberts.

‘Ben wouldn't let me speak to him, as I told you. But what's he doing down here?'

‘He's probably gone back, now,' said Fran. ‘Where was it they lived? Leicester?'

‘No, that was Greta and Tom. The Roberts are somewhere near Manchester. Should I email Betty?'

‘And say what?'

‘That we saw Walter at Victoria.'

‘And what do you expect her to say to that?'

‘Oh, you know. “Oh, yes, he was down seeing Great-Aunt Maud in Faversham” or something.'

‘And if she does, you'll leave it alone, will you?'

Libby was silent.

‘Come on, Libby. Tell me why it matters.'

‘I've thought about it,' said Libby. ‘Betty told us they'd been going for several years, didn't she? And Walter tended to stay back at the hotel on his own. She went out with other people – the woman she mentioned who she's still in touch with and us – so she couldn't know exactly what he got up to when she wasn't there.'

‘What about Jimmy? He'd have seen him going out.'

‘Not necessarily. He could have gone out the back way.'

‘OK – to do what?'

‘Meet Geoff Croker. Or one of his mates. To check on the operation.'

‘So you've cast him as the Mr Big in the British end of the trafficking operation?'

Libby chewed her lip.

Fran sighed. ‘Do you want to tell Ian about it?'

‘Oh, hell,' said Libby, ‘when you put it like that it does seem a bit pathetic. No, I won't. I won't even email Betty.'

‘Oh, I don't know,' said Fran slowly, ‘I think that could be a good idea.'

‘You do?'

‘Just to say what you said before. Bright and chatty.'

‘All right,' said Libby. ‘And if I get the Great-Aunt Maud answer I promise I'll give up.'

After some thought, Libby decided to send a group email to the hotel guests, to tell them that all investigations seemed to have ground to a halt, and add a ‘by the way – saw Walter at Victoria on Sunday' almost as an afterthought. Satisfied with this, and inspired by the Ravilious paintings from the day before, she went into the conservatory and started stretching paper for more paintings. Leaving three boards aside with drying paper, she went to the easel and set up the picture of The Pink Geranium.

So absorbed was she, that Ben was actually standing beside her before she realised he'd come in.

‘What's the time?' she asked, rubbing a painty finger over her nose.

‘Half past one. How long have you been at it?'

‘All morning, really, apart from stretching the paper.' She nodded at the three boards lying on a bench.

‘You didn't do that for the little pictures,' said Ben.

‘No, I didn't use much water in those, so it didn't matter. You stretch the paper if you know you're going to be using masses of water, so it doesn't split and tear.' Libby rubbed her nose again. ‘Did you want lunch or something?'

Ben laughed. ‘Not if you don't want to stop. Is there any soup?'

‘Yes, there's that leek and potato I made on Saturday in the fridge. I'll have some, too.'

Ben heated up the soup and brought bowls out to the conservatory, where they perched on stools at the bench.

‘What did Fran have to say?' he asked.

‘Not a lot. She said to email Betty, though.'

Libby explained her Great-Aunt Maud theory.

‘And have you had a reply?'

Libby looked surprised. ‘I haven't checked. I haven't even thought about it.'

‘Do it after lunch,' said Ben. ‘I'll fetch some bread.'

After finishing the soup, Libby went into the sitting room and opened the laptop.

‘Only one from Greta,' she called through to Ben.

‘What does she say?'

‘Just thanks for letting them know, and what a coincidence to see Walter. Did he look as grumpy as he always did on holiday.' Libby looked up. ‘Did he?'

‘He didn't look grumpy. Expressionless, really. And he was wearing a hat.'

‘So he was. A little pork pie one, wasn't it? I wonder why?'

‘Fashion statement? He was certainly looking very English country gentleman.'

‘Oh, well, no use speculating. It's probably got nothing to do with the murders or Erzugan anyway.'

‘You've changed your tune,' said Ben, surprised.

‘None of the rest of you want to find out, so I might just as well give up. I said that last week.'

‘You did. But then you talked to Jane, and after that you saw Walter. I don't want you to get bored and grumpy again.'

‘I didn't!' said Libby. ‘I started painting again.'

‘You did. But I'm sure you'll be worrying away at our mystery underneath, whatever you say or do on the surface.'

Libby stared gloomily at the computer screen. ‘I suppose I will. I just don't seem to be able to help myself. And it's so frustrating …'

‘I know. Look, I'll wash these bowls up and leave you to get on with The Pink Geranium. We've got a rehearsal tonight, so that will take your mind off everything else. We've only got another two weeks before we open.'

Two weeks sounded a long time in the professional theatre, but in the Oast Company, where rehearsals only took place three times a week and there was a five-week run to contemplate, it was a bit nail-biting. Libby went back to her painting with something else to worry about.

In fact, the rehearsal went very well, all the soloists knew their songs, the set pieces worked and the chorus numbers were duly rousing. After a quick drink at the pub, Libby and Ben went home happily.

The light was flashing on the answerphone.

‘Libby, it's Greta here. I've just had Betty on the phone. Walter's disappeared.'

Chapter Twenty-nine

‘What time did she call?' said Ben.

Libby listened again to the message. ‘Twenty past nine.' She looked at her watch. ‘An hour ago. Should I ring?'

‘She could well be expecting you to,' said Ben. ‘I'd give it a go.'

Greta answered on the second ring.

‘Oh, Libby, I'm so glad you've called. Betty's in a terrible state.'

‘Why did she ring you, though?' asked Libby.

‘She said she's been worried about Walter since they came back from Erzugan. She knew you'd been keeping us up to date with the investigation but she didn't have your number, so she called me.'

‘Why has she been worried about Walter? What's he been doing?'

‘I don't really know. But apparently he left the house yesterday morning and hasn't been seen since.'

‘Has she reported it to the police?'

‘I didn't ask her. Oh, I should have, shouldn't I?'

Libby looked at Ben, who was frowning.

‘She must, if she hasn't already. Do you think I should call her?'

Greta sighed. ‘I don't know. It's a bit late for an old lady, isn't it?'

‘She's not that old, Greta, and she won't be sleeping if she's that worried. Give me her number.'

‘Oh, wait a minute …' Libby heard scrabbling, then a thump. ‘Oh, sorry, dropped the phone. Here you are.' Greta read out the number. ‘Will you let me know what happens?'

‘Tomorrow,' said Libby. ‘Thank you for telling me, Greta.' She ended the call and turned to Ben. ‘So, do we tell Betty we've seen Walter?'

‘I wouldn't. If I were you, I'd tell Ian we've seen Walter and tell him about Betty's phone call. Let him take it from there.'

‘I will, but I've got to call Betty. What shall I say?'

‘Just tell her to report it to her local police. then Ian will have a point of contact.'

‘Do you think it's anything to do with the murders?'

‘Betty obviously thinks it is, or she wouldn't have been trying to get in touch with you.'

Libby sighed. ‘OK, Ian or Betty first?'

‘You'll have to leave a message on Ian's work number at this time of night,' said Ben, ‘so you might as well call Betty first. Then you might have more to tell Ian.'

‘I need a drink first,' said Libby, carrying the phone into the sitting room and perching on the edge of the cane sofa.

‘Scotch?' asked Ben, heading kitchenwards.

Libby nodded and punched in Betty's number. Like Greta, she answered on the second ring.

‘Betty, it's Libby Sarjeant.'

‘Oh, Libby!' Betty sounded as though she might burst into tears. ‘He's gone!'

‘Yes, Greta told me. Have you reported it to the police?'

‘No.' Betty hesitated. ‘I – he – I don't think he'd like that.'

‘I don't think it really matters what he thinks right now, does it? You need to report it, Betty. You want him found, don't you?'

‘Ye-es.'

‘You don't sound sure.'

‘Of course I do, but –' she stopped.

‘Go on, “but” what?'

‘He's been so peculiar since we came back from holiday,' Betty said in a rush. ‘And when I told him what you were saying about the investigations, he was – well, he was most – um –'

‘Derogatory?' suggested Libby. ‘I can imagine. Has he ever behaved like this before? When you've come back from Erzugan before, for instance.'

‘No, never. The funny thing is,' Betty was speaking more slowly now, ‘I always wondered why he wanted to keep going back. You saw what he was like when we were out there. Every year I suggested we tried somewhere else where he might like the food better and enjoy it more, but he always said he didn't want to have to get used to a new place. And he never came out with me. You saw.'

‘We did,' said Libby. ‘And he's been what, since you came back? Erratic?'

‘A bit. Crankier than usual. And one day he just upped and went off for the day without a word, but he came back the same evening. I thought that was what he would do this time.'

‘Did he say where he'd been?' Libby took her whisky glass from Ben and sipped.

‘No. I asked him of course, and he bit my head off.'

Libby took a deep breath. ‘Look Betty, you obviously weren't happy with him and he treated you badly –'

‘No, no! He never hit me!'

‘But he treated you badly,' insisted Libby. ‘Just report him missing to the police and then enjoy the peace and quiet for a bit.'

‘Oh.' Betty sounded doubtful, but less like bursting into tears. ‘All right. Now?'

‘If you can find the number of your local police station, yes now. I wouldn't call 999 just yet.'

Assured that Betty would indeed call the police, Libby ended the call, took a healthy swallow of scotch and pressed the speed dial button for Ian's work number. As expected, it went straight to voicemail. She told him as succinctly as she could the story of Walter, ended the call and switched off the phone.

‘Well, what about that?' she said.

‘Tell me what Betty said again?' Ben settled opposite her on the armchair.

‘Didn't you hear what I told Ian?'

‘Yes, but I wanted to ask some questions.'

‘What, then?'

‘Which day did he disappear before?'

Libby stared. ‘Oh, bloody hell! Could it have been that Sunday?'

‘Sounds like a possibility, doesn't it?' Ben gave her a crooked smile. ‘Sounds as though you weren't fantasising as much as Fran thought earlier.'

‘About Walter being involved with the trafficking? Well, I don't know. And I've just realised – I already
did
tell Betty about seeing Walter. I added it to the group email I sent. Why didn't she say?'

‘Perhaps that was why she was trying to call you in the first place?'

‘Surely she'd have mentioned it?'

‘Then perhaps she hasn't seen the email? She might not check the computer as often as you do.'

‘I suppose so.' Libby sighed. ‘Nothing more we can do, anyway.'

But the following morning it appeared that Ben was right. Betty called at five past seven.

‘Why didn't you tell me last night you'd seen Walter?' Her voice was shrill.

Libby, struggling to unglue her eyelids, tried to answer.

‘You knew he was alive!'

‘Betty, calm down.' Libby cleared her throat and mimed ‘tea' at Ben. ‘It's only just gone seven, you know.'

‘Well, at least I gave you time to get up,' said Betty, with the unconscious superiority of the habitual early riser. ‘But why didn't you tell me?'