Murder in the Blood (29 page)

‘Not all of them,' said Carol. ‘I never thought I'd have to.'

Libby resolved in future to keep everything her offspring sent her. She cleared her throat. ‘Well, keep me posted about the probate. Meanwhile, we'll sound out an estate agent.'

As soon as she ended the call with Carol, she called Fran, whose phone was engaged. She tried the mobile, but it went straight to voicemail, so she tried Ian's office number.

‘Connell.'

‘Ian, what about probate?'

Sort silence. ‘What?'

‘Sally Weston's house. It can't be sold until probate has been granted. I just remembered. And Carol Weston – I mean, Oxford – said the solicitor didn't remind her, either.'

There was a longer silence. ‘I'll see what I can do.'

‘Well, we needn't actually sell it,' said Libby. ‘Not if you're using it as bait.'

‘No. Thank you for telling me, Libby.'

Libby realised her tea was cold and went inside to make some more. Just as she was pouring boiling water into the teapot, her phone rang.

‘Fran.'

‘You called when I was speaking to Richard.'

‘Yes, because while I was talking to Carol I remembered that she couldn't sell the house until probate had been granted. I've told Ian.'

‘Yes, Richard reminded me of that.'

‘Oh.' Libby deflated. ‘So no go, then?'

‘Oh, yes. He said lots of houses are put on the market as “probate sales” with the understanding that prospective purchasers are getting in before the general public. Remember the old house at Mountville Road?'

Fran's family had once owned a large Victorian house in London that had been sold in the same way. Libby wondered whether it was this that had triggered her own memory of probate sales.

‘Oh. So is Robert going to help?'

‘Richard. Yes. He's coming down tomorrow to measure up and so on. You've got the keys, haven't you?'

‘Yes. Shall I meet him there?'

‘You'll meet
us
there. I'm picking him up at the station at half past eleven, so we'll be there by about a quarter to twelve.'

‘Right. So we can have a really good look round.'

‘There won't be much left, will there? Ian will have taken everything of note away when you handed over the keys.'

‘Oh, yes. That's a pity. Because …'

‘Because what?'

‘Well, when I was talking to Carol just now she said she'd written to Sally in March because she'd heard from an old friend she hadn't seen for years.'

‘So?'

‘She wondered why that letter hadn't been found. And apparently the old friend was the other one who used to go to lunch – you know – the ones Agnes told us about.'

‘I don't see …'

‘Well, this friend, Valerie, her name was, was looking for someone. And it wasn't Jean – you know, the other friend – because she died ages ago.'

‘Libby, slow down. I think I followed all of that, but I don't see what relevance it has. It isn't anything to do with the trafficking operation, is it?'

‘No, I suppose not, but –'

‘What you were thinking is that Valerie is Alec Wilson's long-lost mum.'

‘Er – yes.'

‘That really is far-fetched, Lib.'

‘Why is the letter not there, then?'

‘How do we know it isn't? And why would Sally have kept it? It was just a chatty letter from her mum.'

‘Which she didn't answer.'

‘I expect she would have done in time. Look, Sally's got nothing to do with all this.'

‘Then why is Ian using her house as bait?'

‘Because there's a link to her father?'

‘Ian said if there is a link to Sally this will show it up.'

‘And he didn't mean finding Alec Wilson's mother.'

‘No.' Libby sighed. ‘Oh, well. I'll meet you at the house tomorrow morning then. Text me if the train's late or anything.'

But the train wasn't late. Libby was leaning on a low fence staring across at the Ashton Arms when Fran's car drew up beside her and a tall, well-built man with greying fair hair climbed out.

‘Oof!' he said, holding out a hand. ‘Bit of a squash that. You must be Libby.'

Libby took the hand, beaming at him. ‘That's me, and you're Richard. Fran says we met at her wedding.'

‘I don't think we were actually introduced, but I remember you, of course.'

‘Come on then, Lib,' said Fran, coming round the back end of the car. ‘Let us in.'

‘Wait a moment, Fran. Let me have a proper look.' Richard stepped back into the road and studied the terrace of houses. The he wandered off to the back of the properties and finally, to the end of the lane, where he peered over the hedge.

‘That's it, got the bearings now,' he said. ‘In we go.'

Fran and Libby watched as he went from room to room, not even needing to hold the end of a tape measure as he pointed his laser model at walls and ceilings. Eventually they came back to the bland sitting room.

‘Best to market it as a holiday let, don't you think?' asked Richard, sitting down on and dwarfing the equally bland sofa. ‘That's what it has been, hasn't it?'

‘I don't know about a holiday let,' said Libby, ‘but it was always let out. Although it's been empty for a little while, I believe.'

‘Pretty enough village,' said Richard. ‘But Fran tells me this is more of a fishing expedition?'

Libby looked at Fran. ‘In a way. But it just occurred to me, by advertising it for sale, won't we be advertising the fact that it's empty?'

‘Is there supposed to be something hidden here?' Richard looked interested.

‘We think – or the police think – that someone might think so,' said Fran. ‘We've searched and so have the police, so we're pretty sure there's nothing here, but the owner
was
murdered, so the killer might think … well, you know.'

‘And you haven't felt anything here?' Richard was looking at Fran shrewdly, and Libby remembered that here was a man who actually employed Fran for her psychic ‘moments'.

‘Nothing.' Fran shook her head. ‘If Sally Weston had anything to hide, she either took it with her to Turkey or hid it somewhere else. Personally, I don't think there is anything.'

Libby looked at Fran, then back to Richard. ‘So you see, this is a bit pointless.'

‘I don't think so.' Richard leant back in the sofa. ‘If your policeman thinks this is worth it, it must be. They don't invest in this sort of operation unless they've got good reason.'

‘What do you mean, this sort of operation?' said Libby.

Richard raised his eyebrows. ‘You don't imagine Goodall and Smythe would do this without some kind of financial recompense? We'll be advertising, using our resources and, of course, if any viewings are required, we'll have to send someone down. There will be discreet police surveillance at those times.'

Libby's mouth was open.

‘I don't think we'd thought of that,' said Fran. ‘Perhaps we should have used a local agency.'

‘It wouldn't have made much difference, and we have a longer reach.' Richard grinned across at the two women. ‘We have worked with the police before, you know.'

‘Have you?' Libby leant forward. ‘When Fran found things?'

‘No, and she only once found something – ah – current, as it were. And then the police shut us down, apart from going through all our paperwork on the property.'

‘So what?' Libby leant further forward, in danger of falling off the edge of the chair. Richard regarded her with amusement.

‘I see why you get involved, as Fran says.'

‘You mean I'm nosy.' Libby grinned back. ‘Yep, that's me. A nosy old bull in a china shop.'

Richard let out a guffaw of laughter.

‘Don't encourage her,' said Fran. ‘So what do you think?'

‘I'll go back to the office and think up a nice tempting little ad, which I'll run by your policemen.'

‘Plural?' said Libby.

‘Apparently. Your DCI Connell, DI James from the Met, and a Commander Smith who I'm not sure about. He comes with his own shroud of mystique.'

‘Doesn't he just,' said Libby. ‘Although his ID said the Met, we think he must be MI5, or MI6 or something.'

‘Human trafficking.' Richard nodded and looked solemn. ‘Can't see this little house having been used for anything in that line though.'

‘Neither can we,' said Fran, ‘but as you said, the police would hardly sanction this sort of operation if they didn't think so.'

Richard stood up. ‘Now, much as I'd like to buy you a drink at that nice-looking pub over the way, I think I must get back to London.'

‘And I've got a car to pick up,' said Libby. ‘Thank you so much for coming, Richard. Do you need to take my keys?'

‘No, apparently I'm being sent a set by your Mr Connell.'

‘He must have taken copies,' said Libby. ‘Sneaky.'

‘I think he's allowed to,' said Fran. ‘Come on, then, Richard. I'll take you to the station.'

Libby locked up, drove Ben's car back to Steeple Martin, and picked him up from the Manor estate office.

‘Richard was telling us how much an operation like this costs the police,' she told Ben, as she buckled herself into the passenger seat. ‘I didn't realise.' She reported everything that had happened that morning.

‘At least you won't be going out there on your own, then,' said Ben.

‘Like the heroine into the cellar,' agreed Libby.

‘Eh?'

‘You know I've always said how stupid heroines – and heroes, come to that – are in films and books? When they hear a noise in the night in a spooky castle and go off bravely on their own with only a candle. Daft.'

‘I expect it makes for better tension and excitement,' said Ben.

‘It just annoys me,' said Libby.

‘Are we going to start looking at sofas today?' asked Ben, as they drove along Broad Oak Road towards the car showroom.

Libby looked at him sideways. ‘Do we have to? I've just given in on the car. I need to think about it.'

‘Always resistant to change,' sighed Ben.

Libby subsided guiltily. Over the past few years she had refused to move from 17 Allhallow's Lane into the much larger and more comfortable Steeple Farm, vacillated about marriage, and hung on to an almost threadbare blue cape and an equally battered basket instead of the more suitable handbags foisted on her by her nearest and dearest at Christmas and birthdays. She was, as Ben said, highly resistant to change.

The new car duly collected, Ben opted to go and pay a visit to the architectural practise in which he was now a sleeping partner, while Libby decided to take a drive to get used to the new controls. The car was lighter than both Ben's Range Rover and the old Renault, which indeed took some getting used to, and the range of computer-controlled devices rather took her breath away. Narrow lanes where she would have to go slowly seemed to be the best place to practice, so she turned the car towards Keeper's Cob.

Eventually, she found herself in Dark Lane, where a few years ago she and Fran had been involved in yet another murder case. Gritting her teeth, she carried on until she came to Steeple Cross, which had also figured in an investigation. Shaking her head, she carried on and crossed the main Canterbury Road, arriving in Itching, at which point she stopped the car.

It seemed that everywhere she went in her corner of Kent she was reminded of a murder investigation in which she had been involved, either because she'd stumbled into them, been invited in, or been a suspect. She sighed, and got out of the car. Perhaps it was time she stopped. It was almost inevitably upsetting, sometimes dangerous and often caused annoyance to her friends and family. In this current investigation, for instance, why was she really involved? Yes, Ian had asked her – and Fran – to organise putting the Cherry Ashton house on the market, but apart from that, why was she involved? Simply because they had all been present when Alec Wilson's body was found? And then they'd stated asking questions.

Although, Libby argued with herself, the Jandarma had asked them questions. But then they'd rather pushed themselves in by talking to Martha and finally by being co-opted by Johnny Smith. Which they could have refused. There was always a point in every case where there was the opportunity to back out, and perhaps this was where they'd got to now.

Libby took the keys to Sally Weston's house out of her basket and looked at them. She would hand these back to Ian and tell him enough was enough. Getting back into the little silver bullet, she turned it round and headed back to Canterbury.

Chapter Thirty-four

‘I'm giving the keys back to Ian.' Libby called Fran from the police station car park.

‘You're what?'

‘Giving the keys back. I don't want to be involved any more. He doesn't need us. Well, I suppose he might need you sometimes, but he doesn't need me.'

‘What brought this on?' asked Fran.

Libby sighed. ‘Oh, it was Ben saying how I'm resistant to change, and then driving through Kent and realising there's nowhere I know that hasn't been touched by murder. And how upsetting it all is.'

Fran was silent.

‘Fran? You still there?'

‘Yes. Look, I want to think about this.'

‘All right, but I'm going in now to give the keys back to Ian, or leave them here for him. I'll see you tonight for rehearsal.'

‘It's Wednesday, isn't it? Ian might come to the pub afterwards.'

‘That's all right, but not to talk about the case. If he isn't in right now, I'll leave him a message.'

Ian wasn't in, so she left the keys with the desk sergeant and a message on Ian's office phone.

With a slightly lighter heart, she drove back home, parked the silver bullet in Romeo's old place opposite number 17, and set out for the eight-til-late for something for Ben's dinner.