Murder at the Laurels (17 page)

Chapter Twenty-two

‘
T
HIS IS NO USE
.' Disgusted, Libby pushed the mouse away from her.

‘It's a very nice computer, thank you,' said Peter, looking up from his book.

‘I didn't mean that.' Libby reached across and filched a cigarette out of the packet on the desk.

‘She means all we can find is nice white witch, pagan and wiccan links. No nasty satanic ones.' Fran leaned over Libby's shoulder.

‘Well, I don't suppose they want to advertise themselves, do you?' Peter closed his book. ‘If it's one of those dancing naked around the fire jobs.'

Libby looked doubtful. ‘Maybe. I'm still not sure why Harry latched on to it. We could be barking up the wrong forest, let alone tree.'

‘And I don't know that it's got anything to do with Eleanor's death, anyway,' said Fran, collapsing into the sofa.

‘It was your idea to look it up,' said Libby.

‘I know,' Fran sighed, ‘it was her saying something about those delivery drivers and the wages of sin. I thought she might know something.'

‘Well, yes, she might,' said Libby, ‘but what it's got to do with witchcraft, I don't know.'

‘What I think is that you ought to buy your own computer,' said Peter, returning to his book. Fran and Libby stared at him, affronted.

‘Well, we know where we're not wanted, don't we, Fran?' Libby stood up.

‘Don't be stupid, you old trout,' said Peter, without looking up. ‘Sit down and look up that delivery driver's name. I meant that you probably need a computer if you're going to carry on investigating things.'

‘Of course I'm not! This is only because it Fran's auntie,' Libby said indignantly.

Peter looked up under his brows. ‘Oh, yeah?' he said.

‘Why look up the delivery driver?' asked Fran.

‘Type his name into the search engine and see if anything comes up. Then, if you've got it, do the same for the other one.'

Libby and Fran looked at each other, then Fran took Libby's seat at the computer. Libby dug out the scrap of paper with the names, and Fran typed the first one in.

‘Gosh! Look at that!' gasped Libby, as the search engine provided thousands of results.

Peter got up to look. ‘Most of those won't be relevant,' he said, ‘but these first few are, look.' He pointed. ‘See? They're news reports. That means he probably didn't die in bed.'

Fran and Libby looked at him. ‘How do you know?' asked Libby.

Peter shook his head at her and patted her shoulder. ‘How long have you known me, Lib? What is it I do for a living, exactly?'

‘Ah.' Libby felt herself turning pink. ‘He's a journalist,' she said to Fran. ‘I forgot.'

‘I know,' said Fran, and clicked on the first result.

After trawling through the first five entries, they knew what they were looking at. Len Edwards had been had been knocked down by a hit and run driver when he was inexplicably out of his car on a lonely road some miles from his home. No further information was available. The police were keeping the case open and still asking for witnesses.

‘Now put in the other one,' said Peter, by now perching on the side of the desk.

Little to their collective surprise, Kyle Watson turned out to have been found dead in his car which appeared to have been involved in a crash on a remote road not far from his home. “This incident is consistent with a vehicle being run off the road” a police spokesman was quoted as saying.

They looked at each other. Peter gave a small smile and returned to his seat and his book.

‘That does it.' Libby lit another cigarette. ‘They were murdered.'

‘But who by?' said Fran.

‘I think you ought to put your talents to work on this,' said Peter. ‘Classic case for remote viewing, if you ask me.'

‘Look,' said Fran, a little desperately, ‘I've told you all before, I can't do it to order.'

‘You used to for Ben,' said Libby, in a faintly accusing manner.

‘I walked round buildings and sites. I was in places where, if something had happened, it was going to pop up at me. Like the cottage in Nethergate.'

‘Cottage in Nethergate?' asked Peter.

Libby explained.

‘You do see life, you two,' said Peter admiringly, and returned once more to his book.

‘In that case,' said Libby, ‘we'll have to go and find these places, won't we? And let you walk round them.'

Fran looked troubled. ‘Is it going to help? Shouldn't we just tell the police?'

‘Tell them what? They should have found this out for themselves, shouldn't they? Donnie Murray was looking into the will, wasn't he? He pulled Charles in for questioning, so he must have been.'

Fran sighed. ‘I suppose so. When do you want to go?'

‘Tomorrow? How far is it?'

‘They're both in Sussex,' said Peter, looking up. ‘What puzzles me slightly is that the police looking into their two cases haven't twigged.'

‘Perhaps they have,' said Libby. ‘We haven't got the full case history here, have we? There might have been further reports later on that we just haven't got to yet.'

‘Well, I don't want to take up any more of Peter's time trawling through the internet,' said Fran. ‘I'm going home.'

‘OK.' Libby stood up and, slinging her basket over her shoulder, bent to kiss Peter's cheek. ‘Thanks, Pete. We'll let you know what happens.'

‘Ring me when you get back,' he said, ‘and mind you don't get my Hal involved in anything else.'

‘Where have we got to, then?' asked Libby, as she and Fran strolled down the high street towards The Pink Geranium.

‘There's something wrong with the codicil, we can't find it anyway, we think the deaths of the drivers might have something to do with it, and we think Nurse Redding knows something.'

‘Fair enough.' Libby hoisted her basket more firmly on to her shoulder. ‘What abut your cousins?'

‘They aren't my cousins. But I really don't think they've got anything to do with it all, do you? Any of them. Paul and Barbara are far too anxious to find that will.' Fran stopped by her front door. ‘And it still hasn't got anything to do with me, either.'

‘I thought we'd dealt with that?'

‘Curiosity killed the cat,' sighed Fran. ‘Do you want a coffee or anything?'

‘No, I'll get back if we're going out in the morning,' said Libby.

‘And Ben might call, mightn't he?' grinned Fran. ‘OK. I'll see you in the morning. What time?'

Ben did call. In fact, he called in person, and Libby forgot all about being too old, used or even investigating a murder. Until the morning.

Chapter Twenty-three

‘
I
DON'T KNOW ABOUT
a computer, I think I should have a satnav,' said Libby, pulling in yet again to the side of a high banked lane. ‘Let's have another look at that map.'

Fran sighed. ‘I told you, it just doesn't show the road number on this map. It's not detailed enough.'

‘What did that report say? Near Applestone? Was that on the last signpost?'

Fran gave her the print out of one of the reports from Peter's computer. ‘This is the one from the BBC website. I think it came from the local news service.'

Libby peered at it and shrugged. ‘Oh, well, I suppose I just go on until I hit another main road and start again,' she said, and let off the handbrake.

‘Look!' Fran yelped after they'd gone another ten yards.

‘What?' Libby stood on the brakes.

‘I can see some police tape over there.' Fran pointed to her left. ‘There must be a turning. Do you suppose that's it?'

Libby inched the car forward. ‘Could be. Bit unlikely, though. It looks as if it's in the middle of a field.'

But a turning there was, and it led to a slightly wider lane, at the side of which blue and white police tape fluttered, tied to two trees. Libby pulled up opposite, and Fran got out.

‘Shall I come too?' Libby wound down her window.

‘No, I'll poke around on my own, thanks.' Fran crossed the road and stood with her hands in her pockets. Libby lit a cigarette and waited. Finally, Fran turned and came back across the road.

‘Well?' said Libby, as she got into the car.

Fran shook her head. ‘I don't know. I did see someone's face, I think, but it looked dead.'

Libby grimaced. ‘Len Edwards, then.'

‘I suppose so.' Fran looked out of the window. ‘There's something, though …'

Libby waited.

‘Red. A red car?'

‘A bus?'

Fran looked doubtful. ‘Could be, but I don't think so. I couldn't see it properly. And I didn't get the automatic knowledge thing like I used to sometimes. Or at Nethergate.'

Libby sighed. ‘Oh, well. Let's see if we can find the other one.'

‘We'd better work out where we are first. But it's not far,' said Fran, ‘only a few miles down this road.'

Libby looked at her. ‘How do you know?'

Fran looked surprised. ‘Because …' She stopped. ‘I just know. There, see. I really knew that. Perhaps that means something.'

‘Like it was murder, and the same murderer?' Libby was getting excited.

‘Maybe, but I thought we'd already assumed it was.'

‘Yes, but we came out here to find proof, didn't we? This could be it.' Libby let out the clutch and swerved sharply into the middle of the road. ‘On this road?'

‘I think so,' said Fran.

Ten minutes later, they had all the proof they needed. Standing by the side of the road in front of more blue and white tape, and surrounded by white-overalled scenes of crime officers, stood Detective Chief Inspector Murray.

‘Shit,' said Libby, and tried to drive past, but a uniformed sergeant flagged her down, as DCI Murray approached.

Libby sighed and wound down her window.

‘Mrs Sarjeant and Mrs Castle. Well, well, well,' he said.

‘Hello,' said Libby and Fran together.

‘Would you like to pull over there so we can have a little chat?' he said. Libby steered the car to the edge of the road and got out.

‘Would I be right in thinking your appearance here is something to do with Mrs Bridges' death?' DCI Murray leaned against the bonnet and folded his arms.

Libby and Fran looked at one another.

‘Yes,' said Fran.

‘And can you tell me why?'

‘You've obviously worked it out yourself,' said Libby.

‘We're not as dumb as we look, you know,' said Murray, with the suggestion of a smile.

‘We found out from Mrs Headlam at the home that two delivery drivers witnessed the codicil to the will,' said Fran. ‘We thought we'd try and see if they knew what was in it, and then discovered they were both dead.'

‘And it didn't occur to you that you might be interfering in an investigation?'

‘Well, no,' said Libby, trying to look ingenuous. ‘We just thought Fran might –' She came to a stop.

‘And have you, Mrs Castle? I did ask you to let me know, didn't I?'

‘Yes.' Fran looked uncomfortable. ‘But I don't really know anything.'

‘You must have spoken to someone to find all this out,' said Murray, his pale eyes darting from one to another. ‘That could have been dangerous.'

‘Only Mrs Headlam,' said Fran, ‘and
she
got in touch with
us
, because she was anxious about the legacy she's expecting.'

‘And she gave you the names of the delivery drivers? Why?'

‘She did that before, because she wanted to give us proof that there really was a legacy for The Laurels.'

DCI Murray looked sceptical.

‘She must have told you, too,' said Libby, a little desperately, ‘or you wouldn't be here.'

‘Quite right, Mrs Sarjeant,' said Murray, running a hand over the remaining bristly red hair. ‘With our colleagues from the Sussex force, we're looking at both accident sites. No reason to make a link before.'

‘And it's murder, is it?' Libby persisted.

‘We're investigating, Mrs Sarjeant. I'm sure Mrs Castle will be informed if there are any developments which concern her.'

‘Which means we won't,' muttered Libby.

‘And now, ladies, if you'd kindly move on. It's a longish drive back to Kent, and you don't want to hit the rush-hour traffic.' Murray straightened up, nodded, and went back to his SOCOs.

‘What rush-hour traffic? A couple of tractors and a herd of cows?' Libby trod on the accelerator viciously.

‘We'll be going round Tunbridge Wells,' said Fran, ‘and it gets really jammed up round there.'

Libby drove in silence for the next fifteen minutes.

‘Well, at least we were on the right track,' said Fran eventually. ‘What do we do now?'

‘Have another go at Redding?' suggested Libby.

‘You'd better do that,' said Fran. ‘I think I'd like to carry on with finding out about the cottage.'

‘Do you think it has anything do with all this?'

‘I told you, I'm not sure. But Aunt Eleanor's in there somewhere. It might be relevant.'

‘I tell you what,' said Libby after a moment, ‘this isn't half so straightforward as our other murder.'

Fran laughed. ‘I thought you didn't want to be a Miss Marple?'

‘I don't. Trouble is, this murder doesn't seem to be so close.' Libby looked sideways. ‘Sorry, I know she was your auntie.'

‘I know what you mean. You were a bit ambivalent about the
Hop Pickers
murder because it involved you and your friends, I'm ambivalent about this one because it does actually involve my family.' Fran sighed again. ‘Even if I don't like them much.'

‘You liked your Uncle Frank.'

‘Yes, I loved him. Up until I was twelve my childhood had been happy, even though my dad died. Uncle Frank did his best to take Dad's place, even took us on holiday –' she stopped suddenly.

‘To Nethergate,' Libby finished for her.

‘Yes.' Fran turned an astonished face to her friend. ‘Good lord, how could I have forgotten?'

‘I don't know,' said Libby. ‘You remember things you've never even known. Must have been a trauma, or something.'

‘Well, there was that picture of my mother screaming,' said Fran, ‘perhaps that was something to do with it. But I really don't remember anything about those holidays, except that we went.'

‘More than one?'

‘Eh?'

‘You said – holidays, plural.'

‘Oh!' Fran looked startled. ‘Yes. I shall have to think about it.'

‘Haven't you got any photographs from when you were a kid?'

‘I haven't, but my mother had.' Fran was silent for a moment. ‘I'll see if I've got any next time I go up to London. I've got some boxes stashed away somewhere.'

‘Well, that's no good, is it? You need them now.'

‘I can't keep dashing backwards and forwards from London, Libby.'

‘Why not? You dashed up and down several times last week.'

‘But the whole point of living in the flat was to stop that,' argued Fran.

‘Oh, all right. But if it has something to do with Aunt Eleanor, don't you think you really ought to look in to it?'

‘What I think is that we need to ask Charles if he or the police have heard from that solicitor yet,' said Fran firmly. ‘That's what I think.'

‘OK,' said Libby, with a grin. ‘We could have asked our Mr Murray back there, couldn't we?'

‘I think he'd have arrested us,' laughed Fran.

‘Well, go on then, phone Charles. See if he's heard.'

Fran paused. ‘I haven't got my mobile with me,' she said.

‘Oh, you're as bad as I am,' said Libby. ‘Never mind, you can navigate us back to the M25 instead. I can't work out where we are, now.'

By the time Romeo the Renault breathed a sigh of relief outside The Pink Geranium, Harry was already open for the evening. He came to the door and surveyed them critically.

‘Drinkipoos, girls?' he asked. ‘You look as though you could do with it.'

‘You're a bad influence, young Hal,' said Libby, climbing stiffly from the driver's seat. ‘But yes, please. Love one.'

‘I'll nip up and get my phone first,' said Fran.

‘So, what did you get up to?' asked Harry, settling Libby on the sofa in the window.

Libby told him, while he opened a bottle of his best Sancerre and poured three glasses. Fran reappeared and collapsed beside Libby.

‘So, what next?' Harry got up to get Libby an ashtray. ‘Got to stop this, you know, you old trout. I'm not allowed to have smokers in here when the punters are in any more.'

‘No, I know, Harry,' sighed Libby. ‘I'm feeling more and more persecuted by the day. And you haven't given up.'

‘No, and I don't intend to,' said Harry, taking one of Libby's cigarettes. ‘I get bolshie when the government start telling me what I can and can't do with my own life.'

‘Even when it's for your own good?' said Fran.

‘The worst of the nanny state,' said Harry, swinging a leather clad leg over the back of his chair. ‘Now, come on. What are you two sleuths going to do next?'

‘Fran's going to find a builder and I'm going to resume my interesting relationship with Nurse Redding,' said Libby.

‘A builder?' Harry's eyebrows rose. ‘What are you planning on having done?'

‘It's all right, Harry, I'm not going to knock your flat about. I want to find out who owned the cottage in Nethergate.'

‘Hang on, I'm not sure I know about the cottage in Nethergate,' said Harry, looking confused.

Fran and Libby filled him in, leaving him only slightly better informed. He emptied the bottle into their glasses and stood up.

‘Well, I'll leave you to sort it out, then,' he said. ‘I've got me first bookings in about ten minutes. There's a table free later on, if you want it.'

‘No thanks, Harry,' said Libby, ‘Ben's coming over.'

‘Oooh.' Harry struck a pose. ‘Another night of passion?'

‘I will, though, Harry,' said Fran deflecting Libby's obvious chagrin and embarrassment.

‘What happened to not wanting to rely on me?' said Harry. ‘Come down when ever you're ready after about 8.30.'

‘Go on, then, ring him,' said Libby, when Harry had returned to Donna in the kitchen.

‘Oh, yes.' Fran took out her mobile and stared at it.

‘It won't bite you, Fran.'

‘No. Oh, well, here goes, then.' Fran picked it up and pressed a few buttons.

‘Voice mail,' she mouthed at Libby. ‘Yes, hello, Charles, it's Fran. Could you ring me when you get this? Just wanted to know whether you'd heard from the solicitor. OK, bye.'

‘Was that his mobile or his landline?'

‘Er –' Fran held the phone away and peered. ‘Oh, mobile.'

‘Try the land line, then.'

‘OK,' said Fran and repeated the procedure.

Well, I hope that doesn't mean he's back in the arms of the law,' said Libby, draining her glass. ‘I'm off. Phone me when you hear from him.'

By the time Fran went down to the restaurant she still hadn't heard anything from Charles and was beginning to get worried. Harry put her in the corner by the counter and kept up an intermittent conversation with her in between customers.

‘I think Libby's right, you know,' he said, after serving the last diners their stultifyingly sweet dessert. ‘Much as I hate to admit it, the old trout can be right sometimes. You ought to look for those pictures of Mummy's. Might bring it all back.'

‘I can't bear the thought of going all the way back up to London, though,' said Fran, sipping coffee.

‘Oh, come on. Pete does it almost every day.'

‘That's different, somehow,' said Fran, feeling wimpish.

‘Oh? What about all the other people in this village who commute? Not to mention all the DFLs?'

‘DFls?'

‘Down from Londons. All the weekenders who pushed the prices up so the kids can't afford anywhere to live.' Harry's pleasant face looked vicious for a moment. ‘Worse in Nethergate.'

Fran looked at him for a moment. ‘But you're a DFL yourself,' she said.

Harry looked startled. ‘No, I'm not! I live with a Steeple Martonian born and bred. That doesn't count.'

‘OK, OK. So what about me? That's what I'll be, won't I?'

‘Yes, but you're different, too. Anyway, you probably won't be able to afford anywhere, either.'