Lesley Cookman - Murder to Music

‘What he said, I suppose,’ said Libby. ‘Wait for dating evidence from the experts. And follow up any missing person reports that might be relevant. I don’t envy whoever has to do that.’

‘And meanwhile, he still has the other enquiry.’ Guy came into the kitchen.

‘Well, at least that’s not murder,’ said Ben. ‘And he knows who the victims are.’

‘Not exactly who they were,’ said Libby, ‘just what they were.’

‘But there’s murder there, too,’ said Fran from the sink.

‘Well, mistaken murder,’ said Libby. ‘More manslaughter, I would have thought.’

‘Not them,’ said Fran without turning round. ‘Paul Findon.’

‘I’M SURE OF IT.’ Fran turned round, wiping her hands. ‘I don’t know why, but it’s just one of those inescapable facts.’

‘Is this why the cellar’s important?’ asked Ben.

‘I think we’d established that,’ said Libby, still looking at Fran. ‘You’ve been telling Ian to look into Findon and the cellar from the minute we found out about him.’

‘And the estate agent,’ said Fran, ‘but from what we saw this afternoon, it looks as though he’s already doing that.’

‘Except that whoever was involved in letting White Lodge after Findon died won’t still be around.’

‘But they’re still involved in selling the property, so they must know something,’ said Ben. ‘We should have asked him.’

Libby grinned at him. ‘You’re getting as interested as we are.’

‘It has a certain appeal as a puzzle.’ He grinned back.

‘But it’s the human cost,’ said Fran, turning back to the sink.

‘I know.’ Libby went across and gave her a hug. ‘Sophie’s right. We mustn’t forget the real people.’

Soon after this conversation, Ben and Libby left.

‘When do you think we’ll hear anything more about it all?’ asked Libby, as they drove through the quiet night.

‘I don’t know. Ian might let me know of the results of my report and Sophie will hear about Rachita.’

‘But how? If Rachanda can’t speak to anyone and is confined to the house…’

‘Ian’s quite kind-hearted. He’d tell her, I’m sure. Or at least tell Guy to tell her.’ Ben reached across and patted her knee. ‘Don’t worry about it. Get back to painting and working out what we’re going to do at the theatre this Christmas.’

‘Hoy! We know what we’re going to do,’ said Libby. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t mean the panto, idiot! I mean the party. We said we would have a Christmas party.’

‘Oh, yes, so we did.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘Are we going to do it for the whole village, or just for our members?’

‘We haven’t got members as such,’ said Ben. ‘But we should send an invitation to all the people who’ve worked with us. We’ve got most people’s email addresses, haven’t we?’

‘I suppose we can’t really have any more people than that, we haven’t got room. Pity we can’t take the auditorium seats out.’

‘I would definitely put my foot down at that,’ said Ben.

Tuesday morning was still pleasant and summery, and after gloomily pottering around the cottage after Ben had gone to the Manor, Libby took his advice and went into the conservatory to continue with the painting that sat waiting on her easel. She’d got no further than sorting out the paints and brushes when the landline rang.

‘Hello, Libby,’ said Campbell McLean.

‘Campbell,’ said Libby, furiously trying to remember how much information had leaked out about the White Lodge case.

‘I wondered if you had anything for me yet.’

‘For you?’

‘Come on, Libby. I told you I knew what was going on at White Lodge over a week ago. And now they’ve started work at the other end of the estate. I must say, I never knew that barn was there.’

‘I don’t know anything about it, Campbell. If you want to know any more you’ll have to ask the police.’

‘Libby.’ Campbell made an exasperated sound. ‘You, Fran and Ben were seen yesterday being let into White Lodge by DI Connell. So you must know something.’

Oh, bum, thought Libby. ‘Obviously I can’t tell you anything about that,’ she said. ‘And it’s really nothing to do with you.’

He roared with laughter. ‘That’s the most naive and ridiculous statement I’ve ever heard you make. I’m a journalist!’

‘Well, I’m still not telling you anything,’ said Libby, ruffled. ‘Ian would know immediately where a leak came from, and if you print anything about the case he’ll still think it came from me, even if it didn’t.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m going now. If I am allowed to talk to you, I will. All right?’

She switched off the phone and immediately re-dialled Ian’s private mobile number.

‘Campbell McLean just phoned me. He knows about us going to White Lodge yesterday,’ she said when he answered, sounding exasperated.

‘Shit. Oh, well, to be expected. They’ve been very good about keeping quiet so far. I suppose it’s press conference time.’

‘About both sets of bodies?’

‘Hmmm.’ Ian paused. ‘Perhaps not.’

‘It might smoke Rachita’s family out,’ said Libby.

‘Libby, I don’t think I’ve ever heard such a sensible suggestion from you. Well done. I’ll try and let you know if there’s any progress.’ He switched off his phone.

‘Oh.’ Libby sat down on the third step, disturbing Sidney. ‘Good lord above.’

She sat thinking for a moment, then picked up the phone again and called Fran.

‘Will he let you know if it’ll be on the news?’ asked Fran.

‘Bound to be, by tonight at least,’ said Libby. ‘He said he’d try to let me know if there was any progress.’

‘I’ll tell Sophie,’ said Fran.

Next, Libby rang Ben. By the sound of it, he was out and about on the estate somewhere.

‘I’ll come home in time for the lunchtime news,’ he said. ‘I’ll just let Mum know.’

‘Shouldn’t have thought he’d have time for a press conference before the lunchtime news. This evening, I expect.’

‘Just in case,’ said Ben.

Ben arrived just before the Kent and Coast bulletin was about to start. Libby put a plate of sandwiches between them and settled down on the sofa. Twenty minutes later, she sighed and stood up.

‘Obviously not, as I said. I expect it will be on later.’

‘No, hang on,’ said Ben, ‘look.’

The female presenter was looking seriously into the camera. ‘… report that several bodies have been found at a site in Kent. An update on this story in our later news bulletin.’

‘It’ll be on the national news, too,’ said Libby. ‘It’s too big a story to keep local.’

Ben went back to the Manor and Libby loaded the dishwasher and went back into the conservatory. She kept the radio on, and towards the end of the afternoon there was a short reference to the story. At this point she gave up pretending to paint, cleaned her brushes and went to make tea.

By the time Ben came home she’d put a chilli in the oven and was sitting in front of the television.

‘I don’t want to miss anything,’ she said.

Sure enough, the third item in the national news was the White Lodge story. Ian obviously hadn’t been deemed important enough to speak to the massed cameras, and Libby was appalled to see her bête noire from a couple of years ago, Superintendent “Big Bertha” Bertram, shaking her bright blonde hair back from heavily made-up sharp features, standing on the steps of the police station.

She read out a prepared statement and invited questions.

‘Have you any idea how old the bodies are?’ shouted one reporter over the rest.