Lesley Cookman - Murder to Music

‘Yes, but I do not know what.’

‘Or why?’

Rachita wrinkled her brow. ‘When they talked about it together and they thought I wasn’t listening – this is Kiran and his friend, you know? – they said it could be either of them.’

‘Either Kiran and his friend?’

‘No, no, either of two people who were after them. I don’t think they knew which it was.’

‘And you have no idea who either of those people were?’

‘No, I told you.’ Rachita looked annoyed. ‘One was the boss they worked for, I think.’

‘And you don’t know who the boss is?’

‘No!’ Libby got the feeling that Rachita was just stopping herself from stamping her foot.

‘Did you ever see the boss at Uncle Jaiman’s shop?’ asked Rachanda.

Rachita shrugged. ‘No. The only person I saw there was Uncle Aakarsh. He organised for Kiran and his friend to do the work.’

The silence that fell in the small room was almost tangible. Ian kept his eyes steadily on Rachita, who began to fidget.

‘Miss – Rachanda,’ he said. ‘Is your sister referring to Aakarsh Vindari?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We call him Uncle, although I think he is only a distant cousin of my father’s. He owns two restaurants.’

‘Yes, we know him,’ said Ian. ‘So do Mrs Sarjeant and Mrs Wolfe.’

‘You do?’ Rachanda looked at them in surprise. ‘How do you know him?’

‘We met him in the village where he lives,’ said Fran.

‘So, Rachita – Miss Sharma – do you think it was Mr Vindari who they were afraid of?’ Ian leant forward, elbows on knees.

‘Uncle Aakarsh?’ She stared back, wide-eyed. ‘Of course not.’

‘Do you know if he organised any other work for them?’

‘I think he had recommended them in the past, but I don’t know who to.’ She looked round at the four other women. ‘What is this all about? I am over sixteen. My parents have no legal control over me in this country. I can’t be prosecuted for running away. And now,’ she let her voice wobble tragically, ‘my Kiran is dead and I am being persecuted.’

Ian sighed deeply. ‘Miss Sharma, you are not being persecuted, but someone murdered your Kiran and we have to find out who. You are the best chance we have of finding his murderer, who is still at large, and -’ Ian paused dramatically ‘- knows that you are still alive.’

Rachita’s expression changed from tragic heroine to frightened child in an instant.

‘You think she’s in danger?’ asked Rachanda, putting her arm round her sister’s shoulders.

‘I think she could be, yes,’ said Ian. ‘So, for the time being, I want you both to stay in accommodation that we will find for you. The first place whoever it is will look for you is at your parents’ home.’

There was a knock on the outer door of the flat and a young woman police officer put her head round the door.

‘Sorry to interrupt, sir, but we’ve found a small hotel with a nice en-suite double for the young ladies, and Sergeant Maiden says Mr Sharma and a friend of his are playing merry hell at the station.’

‘Thank you, Donnington,’ said Ian with a grin. ‘Perhaps you can organise an unmarked to take the ladies to their hotel?’ He turned to Libby, Fran and Sophie. ‘I don’t want to send any of you with them, or you could well start getting unwanted attention, but you could perhaps buy them any essentials they need and we’ll see they get them.’ He turned back to Rachanda and Rachita. ‘Will you give your friends a list of things you might need?’

In under ten minutes the sisters had gone.

‘I don’t think we’ve got time to visit the cellar today,’ said Ian, ‘but I’ll give you a ring tomorrow. I’m going to tackle Mr Sharma and his friend, now. Thanks for all your help.’

‘What about Rosie?’ said Libby. ‘She’s still missing.’

‘I know.’ Ian’s face held a strange expression. ‘I don’t think you need worry, though.’

Fran and Libby exchanged puzzled frowns as he left the flat. Sophie sighed and stretched.

‘Well, if this is the way things go when you’re on one of your cases I wonder why you carry on with them,’ she said. ‘What a performance.’

‘WHY IS IAN NOT worried about Rosie?’ asked Libby, as she and Fran walked back down Harbour Street.

‘He must think she’s gone off for some reason of her own.’

‘But she left the cat.’

‘There was a cat flap. Presumably she thought he could fend for himself for a bit.’

‘So it must have been something she found out while she was at Hugh Weston’s. Something that suddenly hit her?’ said Libby.

‘Unless she found out something and he had to silence her,’ said Fran.

‘But you said -’

‘Ian thinks she’s gone off on her own. I know. But has she?’

‘Where would she go?’ They stopped in front of Coastguard Cottage.

‘White Lodge,’ said Fran, opening her front door.

‘Really?’ Libby grabbed her arm and Fran turned in surprise.

‘Yes.’ She frowned. ‘At least, I think so. I was sure when I said it.’

‘Hurrah! A moment!’ crowed Libby.

‘I suppose so.’ Fran shook her head with a small laugh. ‘Don’t get so many these days. Should I tell Ian?’

‘If you can get through to him. I wonder how he’s getting on with Mr Sharma?’

‘Badly, I should think. That was a real facer when Rachita told him about Uncle Aakarsh, wasn’t it?’

‘I know! Couldn’t believe it. Do you think he’s the actual boss?’

‘I don’t know. I think Ian thinks he could be. And fancy him being related to the Sharmas. Are you coming in?’

‘I’d better get back. Will you let me know if you hear anything?’

‘What do you think?’ Fran grinned, and, to Libby’s surprise, leant forward and kissed her cheek. ‘Go on. I’ll talk to you later.’

Libby drove home puzzling over the various revelations of the day and the strange disappearance of Rosie. Ian hadn’t taken it seriously from the start, simply been annoyed that she wasn’t available to answer questions. So there must be some reason for that. She heaved a sigh of frustration and parked outside number seventeen.

The rain began again before it got completely dark. Libby was standing at the sitting room window looking out at the sodden landscape when her phone rang. Ben handed it to her.

‘Libby, can you get away?’

‘Fran? Why? What’s going on?’

‘I can’t get through to Ian, and I’m sure Rosie’s at White Lodge. There’s something wrong, Lib. I want to go over there.’

‘Have you tried her mobile?’

Fran made an impatient sound. ‘Of course I have. Will you come?’

Libby looked over her shoulder at Ben, who was sitting watching her, an amused expression on his face.

‘Yes, I’ll come straight away. See you in about twenty minutes.’ She switched off the phone.

‘Another council of war?’ said Ben.

Libby decided not to tell him the exact truth.

‘Yes. Fran’s thought of something else. Perhaps Sophie’s heard from Rachanda.’

‘Go on, then.’ Ben stood up. ‘I’m going to have a production meeting with Peter about the pantomime, anyway. Try not to be late.’

Libby put on her new hooded jacket, hardly the most inconspicuous garment, being bright turquoise, but better than her very old blue cape or Ben’s old anorak. Also, aware of the almost-pond now forming in front of the Renault, she put on her pink flowery wellingtons.

‘I look like a bloody clown,’ she muttered to herself as she splashed across the road in the twilight.

The night got darker, the wind stronger and the rain heavier as Libby drove through the lanes.