Lesley Cookman - Murder to Music

‘He’s our pet policeman,’ said Libby. ‘We can just ask him a question.’

‘He isn’t our pet policeman. He’s a friend.’

‘Poor bugger. But he was – and still is – a policeman first. He only became a friend because he fancied you.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so. But he wouldn’t be able to do anything. I would imagine White Lodge is out of his jurisdiction. He’s still working out of Nethergate.’

‘We could just ask him a question, as I said. Hypothetically.’

‘And he would immediately ask why we wanted to know.’

‘I don’t care. I’ll ask him if you won’t.’ They stopped outside Coastguard Cottage. ‘I’ll ring him tonight. Better if I do it, anyway. Then Guy won’t be jealous.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Fran. ‘Guy never gets jealous.’

‘Hmm.’ Libby unlocked the car. ‘Well, anyway. I’ll ring you later and tell you what he says.’

It occurred to Libby that she ought to ring Ben, having been far longer than she had expected that afternoon.

‘It’s all right,’ he sighed. ‘I guessed you were out on the trail with Fran. Find anything?’

‘Well, sort of,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll tell you when I get back. And,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘get your advice.’

She arrived back at Allhallow’s Lane to find Ben preparing his signature stir fry, a glass of red wine already poured for her.

‘Rice is on,’ he said, ‘so come and sit down and tell me all about it.’

So Libby told him. ‘And what I want to know,’ she finished, ‘is should I phone Ian to tell him?’

Ben frowned. ‘If you heard that music then it isn’t, as Fran said, anything paranormal. So someone’s there. And if that is a grave, then you must tell the police.’

‘Fran thought they wouldn’t listen to us.’

‘That’s why you wanted to tell Ian.’ Ben nodded. ‘I think you should.’

Libby sighed and drained her glass. ‘I’ll do it after dinner, then.’

An hour later, she rang Detective Inspector Connell’s mobile number.

‘Libby? Is this a nice surprise or a nasty one?’

‘I’m sorry, Ian. Am I disturbing you in the middle of something important?’ asked Libby as sweetly as she could.

‘Only the first night off I’ve had to myself.’

‘Oh.’ Libby was genuinely regretful. ‘In that case, I really am sorry.’

‘That means you weren’t before. Come on, what is it? You only call me when you want something.’

Guiltily, Libby acknowledged this. ‘But honestly, Ian, I really think I ought to tell you, and so does Ben.’

Ian’s voice sharpened. ‘Ben does? All right, what is it?’

Libby outlined the facts as succinctly as she was able. ‘And we don’t know that it was a grave, just that it had been cleared comparatively recently.’

‘And that was the only patch like that?’

‘I’m afraid we didn’t look any further. We were spooked by the piano music.’

Ian was silent for a moment. ‘And you’re sure it was real? And no one was playing the piano?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then it was probably one of the only sensible things you’ve done. Someone was trying to scare you off the place.’

‘So will you look into it?’

Ian sighed. ‘I suppose I’ll have to, although strictly speaking we haven’t much to go on. If I take it to the Chief he might not want to waste any time on it.’

‘Really? When it might be a murder?’

‘I might have to do a bit of snooping around on my own.’

‘Snooping? Oh, we’re good at that!’ said Libby.

‘I know you are, but you stay out of it until I say so. Why were you there in the first place, anyway?’

Libby told him about Rosie and the dreams.

‘Then she needs to be questioned. You said even Fran thought she must have been there in the fairly recent past.’

‘But why would she want Fran to investigate? Or me, for that matter?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps you should go back and ask her. Meanwhile, I’ll bring it up with the Chief and see what he says. I’ll get back to you.’

‘Well, that’s that,’ said Libby, switching off the phone. ‘I suppose Fran and I should go back to Rosie.’

‘Perhaps not until Monday?’ suggested Ben. ‘Then we could have a nice relaxing weekend.’

‘We always have nice relaxing weekends,’ said Libby. ‘Except that, if you remember, we invited your mum and dad to Sunday lunch here for a change.’

Libby and Ben usually went up to the Manor for one of Ben’s mother Hetty’s legendary Sunday lunches, sometimes with Peter, who was Ben’s cousin and Hetty’s and Greg’s nephew, Harry, of course, sometimes Peter’s younger brother James and very occasionally Adam. However, on summer Sundays Harry kept The Pink Geranium open, so neither he, Adam nor Peter would be there and James was somewhere in Europe with his latest girlfriend.

‘Why won’t that be relaxing?’ asked Ben.

‘Because I’ll have to cook and I shall be nervous in front of Hetty. She’s the gold medal winner of Sunday roasts and I’m certain I won’t do it properly.’

‘Then cook something else. It doesn’t have to be a roast.’

‘They’ll think it’s sacrilege,’ said Libby.

‘No, they won’t. Tell you what – compromise and do that lamb shanks thing you did for Fran and Guy. That’s a roast in a way.’

Libby brightened. ‘Oh, good idea. And I can do dauphinoise spuds and – what veg have you got in the Manor garden?’

‘I’ll have a look tomorrow,’ said Ben. ‘And now, phone Fran and tell her what Ian’s said and then come and watch television.’

Fran agreed they should go back and talk to Rosie and volunteered to ring her the following morning.

‘We’ll have to leave it to her to suggest the time. She’s very busy.’

‘I thought your creative writing classes had finished for the summer?’

‘She does write books, Lib, she doesn’t just teach.’

‘Oh, yes. OK, I’ll leave you to make the arrangements.’

‘Oh, and let me know if you hear from Ian.’

‘I have a feeling I will,’ said Libby. ‘I think he took it seriously, even if his Chief might not.’

Sure enough, while Libby was doing her Saturday morning blink-and-you’ll-miss-it dust and vacuum ritual, the phone rang.

‘I was right,’ said Ian. ‘I had to phone the Chief at home and he didn’t think we’d got enough to make an official enquiry. He did say, though, that if I can come up with anything more he’ll review it. Which means – do it on your own time, Inspector Connell.’

‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’ said Libby.

‘I’m glad you think so. I do have a private life, you know.’

Suppressing a desire to ask exactly what private life, Libby apologised. ‘But you know what I mean. Fran and I are going to see Rosie again, and we could always ask for a return viewing of White Lodge.’

‘That would be just plain daft. If someone was trying to scare you off yesterday they might get even heavier a second time.’

‘You know,’ said Libby thoughtfully, ‘that’s a puzzle. Because how did they know someone would be viewing the house?’

‘Two reasons come to mind,’ said Ian. ‘One, they’ve fitted up some kind of trip switch to start up a mechanism when it’s triggered, or two, and more worrying, is that someone in the estate agent’s office is passing information.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so. After all, they seem to be keen to allow people to view the property unaccompanied. To then scare them off is a bit of a contradiction in terms.’

‘Possibly.’ Ian didn’t sound convinced. ‘Anyway, no going back there unless I’m with you.’

Libby sighed. ‘You know best,’ she said, privately thinking that he didn’t. ‘But I’ve had an idea. I told you about Jane mentioning children, and Fran being sure they were buried in the garden? And that she didn’t think they were workhouse children?’