Murder on the Levels: An Exham on Sea Cosy Mystery (Exham on Sea Cosy Crime Mysteries Book 2) (11 page)

“Wasn’t that what Alan Jenkins got involved in?” Max had helped his old school friend, Alan, out of that mess.

“That’s right. Through a series of intermediaries, the gang paid your husband, Trevor, an innocent-seeming insurance salesman, to buy houses. He’d rent them out for a while, then sell them on and buy some more. The money, almost untraceable, eventually found its way to drug cartels in South America. Pritchards, or AJP Associates, the parent company, seem to be buying up business premises as well as rentals, but we don’t have nearly enough evidence to convict them of fraud, yet. We’ll be working on it for a while longer before we move in.”

Libby’s mouth hung open. “The money ends up paying for drugs?” Exotic drug barons seemed a million miles away from Trevor, her self-righteous husband.

“Drugs which are then imported to the UK, among other places. It’s the biggest business on the planet.”

Libby thought it all over as she drove. She could understand Max’s refusal to tell her what was going on. He was worried she wouldn’t keep it to herself. But they were partners. He should at least have told her everything he knew about her husband.

She glanced sideways. Max’s face was blank, attention fixed on the road ahead. She was glad they were nearly home. His voice was polite and formal as he unfolded his body from the car. “I’ll need to keep the files, but I’ll get back to you if I find anything legitimate you can access. Maybe there’ll be a little to fund your new business, but most of it is laundered money.”

Safely home, Libby poured a large glass of red wine and drank it down in one draught. The truth was, she could trust nobody. Trevor and Max had each taken her for a fool, in their different ways. She’d thought she was the one doing the detecting, but all the time she was missing clues about her own husband. A dark pall of failure seemed to have settled over her, and the ground she walked on seemed suddenly to have shifted, like the sand on the beach. Nothing was as it seemed.

At least the kitchen was her own. She ran her hand over the small pile of cook books on the counter top. She’d been so proud of them, but the excitement of becoming a real, published author had long drained away. She clutched the wine glass until the stem was in danger of snapping. Men always spoiled things. She picked up the bottle, about to refill her glass.

She stopped, the bottle held aloft. How was Steve? She’d hardly spared a thought for the boy all day, and her phone had been turned off. She dragged it from her bag and pushed the switch. There was a message waiting from Mandy. “Steve still in coma but no worse. Frank in jail.”

Tomato soup and Dundee cake

Sleep was impossible that night. Alone in the house, tossing and turning in bed, Libby listened to the first drops of rain that tapped on the roof and clinked on the windows. At last, she gave up the unequal struggle with sleep and wandered downstairs, made a cup of hot chocolate and, wrapped in a duvet, watched old films until daylight.

At last, the clock hands scrolled around to a sensible time for visiting the police station. Libby fed Fuzzy, showered in the ugly green and orange bathroom, dabbed mascara on her eyelashes, swiped lipstick across her mouth and shrugged on her old parka. She wished she had Bear with her. Her eyes filled. She’d made up her mind to have nothing further to do with Max Ramshore, and that meant no more contact with the dog.

The police station was unwelcoming, the seats in the entrance covered in cold terracotta tiles. Libby finally diverted the civilian receptionist’s attention from sorting piles of paper, asked to see Constable Smith, and settled down for a long wait.

“Mrs Forest.”

She jumped. She’d been there less than five minutes. “Joe? You’re back at work already?”

“As you see. Have you come to confess?” Joe’s pallor and the dark rings under his eyes gave him the look of a tired child. Libby was on the verge of offering to take him home and make him tomato soup. “Or maybe you’ve seen the wrong side of my father.” Joe offered a tight smile.

Pulling herself together, Libby followed him meekly through doors that clanged, down an open-plan office. Rows of police officers glanced up from computers, registering little interest as the pair passed through. At last, they entered a tiny room at the back of the building. “Your office?”

Joe blew air through his lips. “Not important enough for my own office. This is an interview room.”

Libby examined the room. “No microphones or cameras?”

“Not here. Informal discussions only. You’re not really under suspicion, Mrs Forest. No motive. Although,” he went on, “plenty of means and opportunity. Working in the bread shop, you could poison the whole town if you wanted.”

She ignored that. “Then, if you don’t suspect me, maybe you could call me Libby?”

He let the ghost of a smile pass over his face. It was gone in a fraction of a second. “Well, then, Libby, how can I help you?”

“I hear you’ve arrested Frank for murder, but I can’t believe anyone would think he’s a killer. He’s such a lovely man.”

Joe leaned back, gazing at the ceiling. It was a dirty yellow, undecorated since the days when smoking was allowed. His gaze moved to Libby’s face. “I can’t tell you much, Mrs―er―Libby, but since you helped us out over that last business, I’ll give you what I can.”

A tiny grin tugged at Libby’s mouth. This was the first time anyone from the police had admitted she’d helped solve last year’s murder at the lighthouse. She bit her lip. She didn’t want to annoy Joe. He was explaining. “The thing is, unlike you, Frank does have that all important motive, which means he has the full set; means, opportunity and motive. Easy enough to put digitalis or digitoxin, or whatever the men in white coats call it, in the sandwiches, or the cakes. Or even the chocolates.” Libby beat down a familiar twinge of guilt.
It wasn’t the chocolates. He’s just tormenting me.

Joe’s barely-there, enigmatic smile made Libby think of his father. “Anyone can get hold of the stuff, on the internet or from prescription medicines for heart problems. Frank’s old mother’s taken one called Digoxin for years.”

He tipped his chair forward, leaning both elbows on the table so he could look straight into Libby’s face. “Frank has a ready-made source of the poison, and every chance of tossing it in the bread or cake mix.” He was enjoying this a little too much. He went on, “Kevin Batty did the dirty on Frank.”

“I know. They had a quarrel over the price of flour, but that was years ago.”

Joe’s face fell. She’d managed to steal his thunder. “As it happens, you’re right, but so far, it’s the only motive we’ve got.”

Libby wouldn’t leave it there. “It’s a pathetic motive. Why leave it so long to get revenge? You’ve decided Frank’s guilty, and you’re not even looking at other people. What about big business, for one thing? Pritchards are trying to take over premises in the West Country.”

Joe snorted. “Seriously, do you think a multi-million company like Pritchards would kill two people, just to get their hands on Frank’s bakery? I mean, it’s a nice shop, I grant you that, but I bet they could buy Frank out with their small change.”

He was right. A bakery in Exham on Sea would be almost beneath Pritchards’ notice. Libby kept a rein on her tongue. She couldn’t share the information on the money laundering operation in Leeds. Max had probably told her more than he should, yesterday. She could see, now, how difficult it was to keep government secrets. Had she possibly been just the tiniest bit unreasonable towards Max?

Joe seemed to have lost interest. “Chief Inspector Arnold’s satisfied we’ve got our man, so we’ll be bringing charges.”

The legs of Libby’s chair scraped the floor, as she jumped to her feet. “Well, I never heard such nonsense in my life. Honestly, Joe, Frank’s motive is no stronger than Pritchards’. What about Vince? Why would Frank want to kill him?”

Joe flapped a hand in the air. “Maybe Vince and Frank had some sort of quarrel, as well. We don’t know, yet, but we’ll find out soon enough, don’t you worry.”

“Besides, why did only two of the cyclists die, while everyone else survived?”

“Maybe they both had a sweet tooth, so they ate more of the Eccles cakes. Frank would know that sort of thing. He’s been feeding cake to Exham for years.”

Libby raised her voice. “That’s absolute rubbish, Joe. Are you going to let a man like Frank rot in jail, without even bothering to look for the real culprit?”

Joe fixed his gaze on the ceiling once more. “If you think you know better, Mrs Forest, by all means go ahead and prove us wrong.”

“That’s exactly what I shall do.”
Arrogant man.
Libby marched across the floor, ready to sweep out. One hand on the door, she turned. “And another thing...” Joe still sat at the desk, rocking back, watching, both eyebrows raised. The angry words died on Libby’s lips. She suddenly understood what Joe was signalling.
He knows Frank isn’t guilty, but his boss has tied his hands.
Without another word, she slammed the door and left.

***

She revved the Citroen’s engine hard, and drove home in record time, to find Angela on the doorstep with Mandy in tow. A glance told Libby matters at the hospital were still bad. “Mandy needs to sleep,” Angela said. Without a word, the teenager trailed upstairs.

Libby shrugged out of her coat and heaped coffee into cups. “You don’t look much better, yourself.”

Angela cradled her cup. “Steve’s still in a coma. They’re keeping him like that, to let his brain recover.” The words,
if it can
, hung unspoken in the air. “Steve’s mother’s at the hospital now.”

“Then, maybe you should go home, too, and get some rest.”

Angela grunted. “I wanted to talk to you, first. I wondered if you and Max had got anywhere. You know, investigating?”

Libby finished her coffee, thinking hard. She couldn’t ignore Angela’s appeal for help, or Mandy’s distress. If working with Max could help her find the murderer, Libby mustn’t let pride get in the way, just because he’d kept things from her. The truth was, the two of them made a decent team. He’d once said, “People tell you things, Libby. You sit down with a slice of cake and chat, and before they know it, they’ve poured out all their secrets.”

She made a pact with herself. From now on, she’d try not to fly off the handle every time Max annoyed her, but she’d keep the relationship purely business. Nothing personal. No more cosy evenings drinking wine and flirting, and no more stupid arguments.

Mind made up, Libby brewed more coffee and produced a well-matured Dundee cake. “Some of the things Steve told me might be important.”

Angela let her breath out in a loud sigh. “I knew you were the right person to help, Libby.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Libby couldn’t share the information about Pritchards, or money laundering gangs, but she needed to know why they might be interested in Angela’s nephew. “Maybe you can tell me more about Steve. What’s he really like?”

Angela, Steve and Geoff

Angela put on her reading glasses, then took them off again. “Steve was musical from the day he was born. Geoff and I weren’t able to have children, so Geoff was thrilled when his nephew started playing the recorder.”

Libby screwed up her nose. She’d been forced to play the instrument at school. She’s produced a regular series of high-pitched squeals, like a dawn chorus of cats, before her parents let her off the hook.

Angela went on, “Steve was only four. His mother, Geoff’s sister Grace, and Thomas, his dad, were musical as well. That’s how we all met, taking music degrees at University. Geoff would have been pleased as Punch to know Steve was going off to the Royal College, and making a career in the business.”

“Steve’s quite a star, then.”

She nodded, seeming close to tears. “We’re going to postpone the concert, of course. It can wait a few months, until he’s better. But, what if he dies?” Her hand covered her mouth, as if she wanted to take back the words. “You see, he’s like his Uncle Geoff in so many ways. They both loved music more than anything, but they shared more than that. It’s a touch of the devil, that’s what my mother said when I married Geoff. Geoff could be wild.”

“Like Steve.” Libby thought of the drugs paraphernalia in Steve’s house, the ripped t-shirts and the tattoos.

Angela frowned, making a strangled sound. She burst out, as if she couldn’t hold the thought back any longer. “It would be too cruel if they died in the same way as each other, on the road.”

Libby waited, as her friend gained control. Finally, Angela swallowed. “To be honest, Geoff’s accident was his own fault.”

“Go on.” This didn’t seem to be leading anywhere. Geoff died ten years ago, and Libby already knew about the accident. She wanted to hear more about Steve. Still, she’d hold her tongue, and let Angela get things off her chest.

“He loved music and fast cars, did Geoff. And, to be honest, sometimes he drank too much.” Angela was twisting a ring on her wedding finger. It flashed, mesmerising, as she turned it round and round. “We were rehearsing for the concert. It was the same music we were playing the other day.”

Angela gave a sad little laugh, more like a hiccup. “Geoff was angry with me, that day, because there was a mistake in the printing of the posters. I hadn’t proof read them properly and his name was spelled wrong. We only noticed during that last rehearsal. Geoff was furious. He called me all sort of names. Still, I was used to that. It was just his way.”

A rueful smile crossed Libby’s face. She knew about ranting husbands. Angela went on talking. “He said I was to get it fixed, and he’d go to the hotel for lunch on his own. He set off, in the Porsche, as fast as usual. The road was steep and twisty, and he was so mad, he must have been careless. Everyone else followed him, while I stayed behind, on the phone to the printers.” She had to stop a moment, to gain control of her voice. “The others saw his car, upside down in the valley.”