Lesley Cookman - Murder to Music

There appeared to be no other cars near White Lodge other than Fran’s little Smart car tucked into the hedge. Libby pulled in behind her, having switched off the headlights a hundred yards back. She climbed out and went towards Fran, who was standing just outside the gate. She pointed up.

Above the wind, Libby could hear the piano. The wind blew grey clouds rimmed with silver across a dark sky and the house was revealed in a flash of lightning. A light shone briefly from a window on the left, turned into a flickering strobe by a whippy birch. The music came to a sudden stop and the light went out.

‘What’s going on?’ she whispered to Fran.

‘I don’t know, but I was right. Someone’s here.’

‘It might not be Rosie.’ Libby pulled her hood firmly over her head, aware of rainwater trickling down her neck. ‘Is that the actual piano or the recording? I can’t tell in this wind.’

‘I don’t know.’ Fran began moving slowly towards the gate.

‘Fran, you’re not going to go in?’ Libby shivered. ‘It might not be safe.’

Fran turned back to her. ‘Look, I’m scared, too, but if Rosie’s in trouble and we can’t get hold of Ian, what choice do we have?’

‘She might not be in trouble. Ian wasn’t worried, was he?’

‘I’m not so sure.’ Fran turned away and sidled along the hedge. ‘I’m going in, anyway. If I can get in.’

Swallowing hard, Libby followed. Inside the gate, blue-and-white police tape fluttered, still attached to the front door on one side, but not the other. Fran paused, flat against the wall at the side, and listened. Libby scuttled up behind her, legs shaking.

Gently, Fran pushed the door. It swung creakily open on to darkness. Libby caught Fran’s arm.

‘You can’t go in there!’

Fran ignored her and crept round the door. With a groan, Libby followed once more.

Inside, they could hear nothing. After a moment, Fran moved forward down the passage which led to the cellar, hugging the wall. As they passed the door to the piano room, Libby peered inside and gasped. Fran stopped.

The piano lid was up. On top lay sheets of music, lit by an old-fashioned candelabra.

‘We couldn’t see this window from the front,’ hissed Libby. Fran put her finger to her lips and began to slide cautiously along the wall again. At the corner of the passage she made for the cellar door, now unblocked and surrounded by a certain amount of rubble.

‘There’s obviously somebody here,’ she whispered.

‘Well, dur,’ said Libby.

‘Yes, yes, but I think Rosie’s here and someone else.’

‘That’s what I’ve been worrying about,’ whispered back Libby.

‘Shall we try down here?’ Fran began to ease the cellar door open.

‘No!’ Libby tried to stop her, but Fran continued to pull, and the door came back suddenly, nearly knocking them both flying. They both froze.

No sound was heard, so Fran, producing a pencil torch from a pocket, shone it on the stairs. She beckoned and pointed.

At the bottom of the steep stairs, another door. Closed, and blocked by what was obviously wood and brick from the now unblocked door at the top.

‘Deliberate, do you think?’ said Fran, close to Libby’s ear. Libby nodded and hit Fran’s nose with her forehead.

Fran followed the thin beam of light down the stairs, Libby clinging like a toddler to the back of her coat. Then they heard the footsteps.

Libby thought she was going to faint, but Fran pulled her the rest of the way down the steps and pushed her into the recess behind them. The footsteps came to the head of the stairs and stopped.

‘Shit,’ said a voice.

Fran and Libby clutched each other as Hugh Weston began to descend the stairs. He was so close when he reached the bottom, Libby could have touched his waxed coat sleeve almost without raising her hand. She didn’t.

He began to move the bricks and wood away from the closed door, then dragged it open.

‘Who’s here with you?’ he said into the darkness.

‘No one,’ came Rosie’s voice, cold as the stone around them.

‘The door at the top of the steps was open.’

‘I can’t help that.’ Rosie cleared her throat. I’ve been shut in down here for the last twenty-four hours, just the same as I was all those years ago. As you know.’

‘It was nothing to do with me.’

‘It was your father. Your father killed my uncle.’

‘He pushed him down the steps. It was an accident.’

‘In that case,’ said Rosie, and now Libby could hear a tremble in her voice, ‘just let me out. Nothing more need be said.’

‘I told you it’s not as simple as that.’

‘So what do you intend to do with me? Wait until you’re told what to do by that Vindari man?’

Fran nudged Libby violently.

‘I don’t have a choice.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You don’t have to understand. Just keep quiet.’ Hugh Weston came out of the room, shut the door and began piling the rubble in front of it. Finished, he stood up straight, brushed his hands together and climbed the stairs. Libby waited in agony to hear if he would shut and lock the door at the top, but apparently he was no longer worried and left it wide open. They heard his footsteps retreating.

‘Quick!’ whispered Fran, and began pulling at the rubble. It took them much longer than it had taken Weston but at last they had the door open.

‘Sssh!’ were Fran’s and Libby’s first words, as Rosie came to her feet. Fran flashed her torch quickly to see where they were. Rosie was still in the clothes she had been wearing when they left her at Weston’s house.

‘Come on,’ whispered Fran, ‘we’re getting out.’

‘He’s still in the house,’ said Rosie. ‘How will we get past him? And that bloody Vindari man – she took a deep breath ‘- Weston must have called him. He followed me here and shut me in, and then -’ another shuddering breath ‘- he said Vindari would decide what to with me. And now he’s here too -’ she began to sob.

Fran looked helplessly at Libby.

‘Come on,’ said Libby. ‘He’ll find it much harder with three of us, and we got here without him seeing us, didn’t we? We’ll make it.’

They supported Rosie up the stairs and up to the corner of the passage, where they waited and listened, Rosie sagging between them.

Then – more footsteps. Slower, this time, and softer. Coming down the stairs. Libby looked round wildly for cover and saw another door. She pointed, and they all but dragged Rosie into the room, where she sank to the floor and Libby and Fran stood listening by the door.

‘We should have piled the rubble back,’ breathed Libby.

‘No time.’ Fran looked over her shoulder. ‘There’s a long window over there. I’m going to see if it will open. You stay here and listen.’

Libby glued her ear to the crack. Now she could hear two male voices. Luckily, they didn’t appear to be coming any closer, but they were getting louder.

Fran came back, nodding. ‘It’s moved a bit. We might be able to shove it a bit further together.’

‘OK,’ whispered Libby, ‘but just listen.’

‘It isn’t,’ Aakarsh Vindari was saying, ‘as if you haven’t done it before.’

‘It was fucking different and you know it.’ Weston’s voice was harsh.

‘How? Just because she’s not black?’ Libby could almost hear Vindari shrugging. ‘So, she’s a white woman.’

‘There’ll be a hell of a police investigation about her. She hasn’t got a family who’ll cover things up.’

‘So what do you propose to do? And no one’s come here looking for her so far, have they?’

‘Oh, yes they have. Yesterday. There were two police cars.’ They heard Weston move. ‘They didn’t go down to the cellar.’