Murder by Mistake

Book 23: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Thrillers

Synopsis

LIBBY SARJEANT IS BACK

Libby Sarjeant returns to take on her latest case in the twenty-third gripping and twisting whodunit from Lesley Cookman. Perfect for fans of Faith Martin, J. R. Ellis and LJ Ross.

'With fascinating characters and an intriguing plot, this is a real page turner' KATIE FFORDE
'Lesley Cookman is the Queen of Cosy Crime' PAUL MAGRS

(P) 2023 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: December 8, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 304

Sample

‘I must go – I’m going to see Michelle today,’ said Libby to her friend Fran Wolfe.

‘Michelle who?’ asked Fran.

‘Michelle Wells – you remember. Used to be a singer and dancer. I tried to persuade her to audition for panto ages ago, but she said she’d given up theatre, professional and amateur.’

‘Oh – the hairdresser! Don’t tell me you’re having your hair done?’

‘Why not? It could do with a bit of tidying up.’

As Libby’s hair had been frequently described as a Brillo pad, or, more charitably, a small briar bush, this was undoubtedly true.

‘Good for you! What brought this on?’

‘Oh, you know. I felt a bit – well, frumpy.’

Fran laughed. ‘You are not frumpy! Have you got a special occasion coming up?’

‘We both have – Gerry and Colin’s housewarming party.’

Gerry and Colin had recently moved from temporary accommodation in Libby’s home village of Steeple Martin to a new house overlooking the golf course and sea in the nearby village of Heronsbourne.

‘So we have. But that’s weeks away. They never managed to have one in the flat, did they?’

‘Not a proper one, no.’

‘So you’re having your hair done in honour of the occasion?’

‘Not just that.’ Libby sighed. ‘I felt my whole look needed a boost.’

Fran put her head on one side. ‘Give up the whole charity-shop-couture look?’

‘Don’t be rude. Just because I’m not tall and elegant like you.’ Libby sniffed. ‘Anyway, I’d better get going.’ She stood up and looked around the gallery-cum-shop belonging to Fran’s husband, Guy, an artist, and spotted one of her own efforts, painted from the front window of Fran’s cottage. ‘Not sold yet?’

‘Season hasn’t started.’ Fran sounded amused. ‘Guy’ll be after you for more then.’

Libby’s paintings were just what tourists wanted, Guy insisted. A genuine memento of the old-fashioned seaside resort of Nethergate.

‘Hmm.’ Libby made a face. ‘Well, I’m off. Love to Guy. Are you coming over to Steeple Martin on Wednesday?’

Wednesdays were the nights of regular gatherings at Steeple Martin’s pub for an exchange of news.

‘Maybe,’ said Fran. ‘Not much has been happening, though, has it?’

‘Suppose not. We’ll be there, though.’ Libby collected her basket and pulled her coat up round her neck. ‘See you.’

Libby drove back up the road from Nethergate, past Steeple Martin and on towards Canterbury, where Michelle’s Beauty Salon stood in isolation on the outskirts.

The usual cheerful buzz of conversation and hairdryers greeted her as she walked in. Michelle, wielding a dangerous pair of scissors, waved them over her head and pointed to a chair. A smiling apprentice came up, relieved her of her coat and swathed her in a black cape. Five minutes later, she was seated before a mirror and Michelle was pulling at strands of her wet hair and scowling.

‘You ought to look after your hair, you know,’ she said.

‘I wash it and brush it,’ said Libby. ‘I can’t keep coming to you to have it ponced up every five minutes.’

Michelle laughed. ‘Same old Libby. What do we want – just a chop and dry?’

Libby sighed. ‘Do what you like. It’ll look better than it does now, whatever you do.’

‘So.’ Michelle tugged a comb through the rusty locks. ‘What’s been happening?’

The next ten minutes progressed as all hair appointments do, with an exchange of news and gossip, until Libby became aware of a change in the atmosphere. Sliding her eyes sideways in the mirror, she saw a tall, pale man standing behind Michelle.

‘I want to talk to you,’ he said.

All the other stylists and apprentices were fluttering behind him.

‘I’m busy.’ Michelle’s voice was hard. She was still concentrating on Libby’s hair, although the scissors had stopped.

‘I said, I want to talk to you.’ The man’s voice was as hard as Michelle’s. ‘Now.’

‘I’m busy. Go away.’ Michelle turned to face him. ‘Go away.’ She looked round. ‘Girls? With me.’

Libby watched, fascinated, as the girls and Michelle formed a wall behind the man, who found himself being ushered firmly through the reception area and out of the door, which was then locked behind him.

Looking harried, Michelle rushed back to Libby. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘I’ll explain in a minute. I’m just going to phone the police.’

Libby watched her go through to the staffroom. Chloe, Michelle’s sister, came and perched on the shelf in front of Libby.

‘Her stalker,’ she said. ‘Third time she’s phoned the police.’

‘Really?’ Libby’s eyes were horrified. ‘And he’s coming in here?’

Chloe grinned. ‘Long story. She’ll explain.’

Eventually, Michelle came back, armed with a large mug of black coffee.

‘Sorry, Lib.’ She sat down in the empty chair next to Libby’s. ‘That was Neil.’

‘Chloe said it’s a long story. If you don’t want to—’

‘No, I’ll tell you. Give me a chance to calm down. Unless you’re in a hurry?’

‘Not at all,’ said Libby.

‘Couple of years ago,’ began Michelle, settling herself more comfortably, ‘an old client of mine, Joan, went downhill and couldn’t get out and about as much as she used to. So I started going to give her a wash and blow-dry every week at home. And Neil turned up.’ She made a face. ‘Her son. And insisted on taking me out to lunch to say thank you.’ She shrugged. ‘That was all right, I suppose. After all, I was putting myself out a bit. Anyway, he seemed to think there was more to it than a thank-you lunch.’

‘Oh, Lord,’ said Libby.

Michelle nodded. ‘So it started. Phone calls. Waiting outside for me. And outside my house. Then things through the letter box.’

‘What sort of thing?’ Libby asked.

‘Porn.’ Michelle’s mouth went tight. ‘And the phone calls got worse. So I reported him to the police. They helped me put a block on my phone, but he carried on with everything else. So I reported him again. They cautioned him and told him he’d have a court order if he carried on. That’s why he came here today.’ She leant back and sighed. ‘And I hope that’s the end of it.’

‘What did Phil say?’ asked Libby. ‘Silly question, I suppose.’

Phil had been Michelle’s partner for only a few months.

‘I didn’t tell him most of it.’ Michelle shrugged. ‘I didn’t want even more trouble.’ She sounded tired.

Libby regarded her thoughtfully. ‘No. I can see that.’ The little she knew of Phil didn’t convince her that he would take such information quietly. ‘You aren’t actually living together, then?’

‘Good job, too, under the circumstances.’ Michelle gave another tired smile and stood up. ‘Now let’s get on with your hair.’

Both of them ignored the subject with determination for the remainder of Libby’s time in the chair, only returning to it when Libby paid her bill.

‘Let me know if there’s anything you think I can do,’ she said. ‘About – you know.’

‘With your connections to the police, you mean?’ Michelle shook her head. ‘No, I’ll just let it lie now. Unless he starts again, I suppose.’

Unconvinced, Libby left and climbed into her car. As she drove away, she was almost sure she saw the tall figure of Neil lurking in a small group of trees at the end of a driveway. She won a short battle with herself and didn’t immediately turn round and hare back to the salon to report, but decided to ring Michelle and tell her as soon as she reached home.

On Wednesday, Libby made one of her regular sorties to a big supermarket in Canterbury. On the way home, her mobile burbled at least three times, which meant there would be three messages to check, and as she walked into her cottage the little red light on her landline’s answerphone was also trying to attract her attention. She sighed, tripped over Sidney the silver tabby and went straight into the kitchen to put her shopping away and make tea. While she waited for the kettle to boil, she checked the mobile and found that all three calls had been from Fran, and she discovered that, when she checked the landline, that had been, too. She sat down on the sofa in front of the empty fireplace and called Fran back.

‘What’s so urgent?’ she asked.

‘I didn’t know where you were, and you weren’t answering for such a long time,’ said Fran, sounding uncharacteristically flustered.

‘Supermarket shop,’ said Libby. ‘Drive to Canterbury, do the shopping, drive home again. At least an hour and a half, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Oh, all right, I’m sorry.’ Fran took a deep breath. ‘But you’ll want to hear this.’

‘I’m sure I will. What?’

‘Ian just rang me.’

‘Oh? Nice but not startling. What did he want?’

Detective Chief Inspector Ian Connell had been a friend of both women for some years.

‘It’s really odd.’ Fran paused. ‘It’s a woman.’

Libby frowned at the phone. ‘What’s a woman?’

‘A former girlfriend.’

‘Of Ian’s?’ Libby’s voice went up a notch. This was a surprise.

‘It’s all a bit complicated.’ Fran heaved a sigh. ‘This woman got in touch with Ian, apparently. He hadn’t heard from her for years – he didn’t actually say how long – and she wanted him to look into something.’

‘Bit of a cheek, surely?’

‘Well, yes. But although he didn’t want anything to do with her, he thought it sounded as though there was something to look into. So he’s asked us.’

‘He’s asked us? To look into it?’ Now Libby was staggered.

‘Yes. And if we think there is something . . . well, then he’ll do something official about it.’

‘So he’s using us again?’ said Libby after a moment’s thought. ‘But isn’t he still in trouble over using us in the last investigation?’

‘I think that’s exactly why he didn’t want to go diving in straight away.’ Fran made a derisory noise. ‘Coward. Look, we’ll come up to the pub tonight and I can tell you all about it properly.’

‘Supposing Ian comes in? He usually does.’

‘Not until later. I’ll try and get there for eightish. Are you eating with Patti and Anne?’

Their friends Patti and Anne usually had a meal in the Pink Geranium before joining the others in the pub.

‘Not tonight,’ said Libby. ‘We’ll try and be there about eight, too.’

She rang off, feeling both puzzled and intrigued. ‘To be fair,’ she told Sidney, who was sitting hopefully by her feet with that ‘Are you ever going to feed me?’ look, ‘he’s actually been asking us in almost from when we first knew him. There was the business of the body in the Alexandria, and then the body on the island.’ Although, she reflected, it’s mainly to see if Fran can pick anything up from her ‘moments’.

Fran’s ‘moments’ were her occasional flashes of psychic intuition. She had actually once been employed by a large London firm of estate agents to check out expensive properties for equally expensive clients, but since moving to Kent, they had been useful in penetrating the depths of murder investigations. However, as time had gone on and Fran became more and more settled in her life in Nethergate, these flashes had more or less disappeared, although DCI Connell lived in hope.

This sounded different, though. It almost, Libby thought, as she made her way into the kitchen to make tea, seemed as though he was trying to palm off his old flame to avoid dealing with her.

‘Hmm,’ she said, and switched on the kettle.

Ben Wilde, Libby’s significant other, was not averse to arriving early at the pub. This despite the fact that he had been working all day on his own newly restored hostelry, the Hop Pocket.

‘I’ve been sifting through applications for the manager’s job all day,’ he told her. ‘Can’t seem to find one that’s right.’

‘Have you met any of them yet?’ asked Libby.

‘No.’ Ben sounded gloomy. ‘None of them appeal. I keep wondering why they want a live-in job at their age.’

‘Whatever age they are?’ Libby was amused.

‘Well, yes. If they’re young – have they had the experience and how long will they stay, and if they’re older, why haven’t they got a nice home of their own.’

‘You won’t ever know unless you talk to them,’ said Libby.

‘I know.’ Ben sighed. ‘Come on. Let’s go and find out what Fran has to say. Take my mind off it.’

Fran was already in the pub, along with her husband Guy, to Libby’s surprise. He joined Ben at the bar to buy drinks, while Libby went to the big round table they always used and sat next to Fran.

‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘Tell me all.’

Fran grinned. ‘I’ve calmed down a bit now,’ she said. ‘It just seems so odd.’

‘It does indeed.’ Libby pursed her lips. ‘Fancy Ian having an ex.’

Fran laughed. ‘Oh, Libby! He’s a good-looking single man with a good job. He’s bound to have had relationships. Just that we haven’t known about them.’

‘Not since he’s moved here he hasn’t,’ said Libby reasonably. ‘We’d know then. And Edward lives underneath him, so he’d know.’

Ian lived in the first-floor apartment of a beautifully converted small Georgian manor house not far from Steeple Martin, while their mutual friend, Edward Hall lived in the ground-floor flat.

‘Anyway,’ continued Fran as Ben and Guy returned to the table, ‘apparently this woman—’

‘Does she have a name?’ asked Libby.

‘Sylvia. Don’t know her other name.’

‘Right, Sylvia. Go on.’

‘She rang Ian on his personal number to report someone missing. Wait for it!’ Fran warned as Libby opened her mouth. ‘This was a homeless person she’d befriended.’

‘Homeless?’ repeated Ben and Libby.

‘Yes. Sylvia belongs to a wild-swimming group in Nethergate, and used to chat to this man when she went for her swims.’

‘I didn’t know there was a wild-swimming group in Nethergate,’ said Libby.

‘Neither did I,’ said Fran. ‘We’ve got two premises on Harbour Street overlooking the beach and neither Guy nor I have ever seen them.’

‘Nethergate Swans, they’re called,’ said Guy. ‘I looked them up online and they exist. They must use the beach beyond the Alexandria. Quieter there.’

‘Sylvia said she hasn’t seen him for a week or so and she was worried about him.’

‘It seems reasonable that she’d be worried,’ said Libby, ‘but not to report it to a DCI.’

‘That’s why she was doing it privately,’ said Fran, ‘and there isn’t a permanent police presence in the town since they closed the police station, so she couldn’t talk to the friendly beat bobby, could she?’

‘So that’s what we are now, is it?’ Libby frowned.

‘I can understand it,’ said Ben. ‘You both like investigating things – he hasn’t got the time to waste, so why not?’

‘I can see that,’ said Fran, ‘but it sounded as though he really didn’t want to have anything to do with her.’

‘If she’s an ex, perhaps she was a nuisance when they split up?’ suggested Guy.

‘That makes sense,’ said Libby. ‘But I still feel we’re being used.’

All three of her companions laughed at this.

‘Come on!’ said Ben. ‘He’s been using you ever since you met!’

‘I know,’ Libby confessed. ‘I was only saying that to Sidney this afternoon.’

This produced more amusement just as the door opened and revealed the Reverend Patti Pearson manoeuvring her friend Anne Douglas’s wheelchair through the gap. Both Guy and Ben leapt up to help, while Anne whooped with laughter. Once they were all settled round the table and Patti and Anne had been supplied with drinks, Anne demanded to know what they had been laughing about. This, naturally, involved repeating Fran’s story about Ian, Sylvia and the disappearing homeless man.

Anne looked serious. ‘We’ve got a huge problem with homeless people in Canterbury,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise it was the same in Nethergate.’

‘Nowhere near as bad,’ said Patti, ‘but it’s a problem in most towns now.’

‘We’ve not seen any on Harbour Street,’ said Fran.

‘Or anywhere else near the front,’ added Guy.

‘I wonder where exactly his pitch was?’ said Libby.

‘Well, wherever it was, he’s not there now,’ said Ben, ‘so you’d better talk to this Sylvia, hadn’t you?’

‘Did Ian give you her number?’ asked Patti.

‘Oh, yes.’ Fran made a face. ‘I’ll ring her in the morning.’

‘If I can do anything to help,’ offered Patti. ‘I do have some experience . . .’

‘Of course,’ said Fran, smiling at her. ‘So what’s been happening with you since we saw you last?’

Recognising a determined effort to change the subject, they all began recounting recent experiences, including Ben’s fruitless search for a manager for the Hop Pocket.

‘I might know someone.’ Tim, pub-owner extraordinaire, who had helped and advised Ben in his restoration, leant on the bar counter, looking interested. Everyone turned to look at him.

‘Don’t know why you didn’t ask me,’ he said. ‘I know a couple of ex-managers who’ve lost their jobs.’

‘Due to the breweries selling off the pubs!’ said Libby with an air of enlightenment.

‘Exactly.’ Tim grinned, lifted the hatch and came to join them.

Immediately, he and Ben went into a huddle.

‘Well, that’s cheered him up, anyway,’ said Libby. ‘Now, what were we saying?’

She was halfway through giving them an expurgated version of Michelle’s stalker problems when a blast of cold air heralded the arrival of Edward and Ian.

‘Don’t get up,’ said Ian. ‘Anyone want another drink?’

‘Don’t say anything,’ said Fran to the other women as Ian and Edward made for the bar.

But they didn’t need to.

‘So, have you recruited the others to help you with the problem of Sylvia?’ Ian sat down, carefully adjusting his immaculately pressed trousers. He smiled round at the group. ‘See Edward? Complete innocence.’

Libby laughed. ‘Did you expect her not to share it?’

‘Of course not.’ He looked at Patti. ‘What did you think?’

‘I said to the others,’ she said, looking uncomfortable, ‘if there’s anything I can do – I’ve had some experience with homeless people.’

‘I thought you might. What we don’t know, though, is if this actually was a homeless person.’

They all looked surprised. Ben rejoined the group as Tim went back to the bar to serve Edward.

‘You mean,’ said Libby slowly, ‘you think Sylvia was lying?’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Ian.

‘The homeless man could be lying!’ Anne crowed triumphantly. ‘He isn’t what he says he is?’

Ian laughed. ‘Could be! Think you can find out?’ He looked round at them all. ‘I’m relying on the combined talents of – what do you call yourselves? Libby’s – what?’

‘Loonies,’ they chorused.

‘And it wasn’t our idea,’ said Libby. ‘It was Harry’s.’

Edward arrived with more drinks. ‘And I’m a member,’ he said. ‘What are we supposed to be doing?’

‘Chasing up Ian’s ex,’ said Ben with a grin.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Edward.

‘And I don’t want to get involved,’ said Ian, ‘so our friends here are going to form a wall between me and the lady in question.’

‘What do you know about this swimming club?’ asked Fran. ‘Guy and I had never heard of it.’

‘And I would have thought I’d have noticed wild women swimming,’ said Guy.

‘The Nethergate Swans, apparently,’ said Ian. ‘And, from what Sylvia said, I think they swim from somewhere below the car park.’

‘Car park?’ Anne frowned.

‘At the end of Cliff Terrace,’ said Patti. ‘We’ve parked there.’

‘It’s on what used to be called The Tops, the cliffs above the town. The rest of it’s a new estate now,’ said Guy.

‘I wonder if that’s where they come from? These Swans?’ said Libby.

‘And where Sylvia saw the homeless man,’ said Ian. ‘That’s what I want to know.’

‘Yes, yes, all right,’ said Libby. ‘But we do have our methods, Watson.’

‘Can you come down to me tomorrow?’ asked Fran. ‘I think we’d better sort out a strategy.’

‘We’ll let you know,’ Libby said to the others.

‘What do you think about this Sylvia business?’ Ben asked Libby on the way home.

‘I don’t know.’ Libby stared vacantly ahead. ‘Ian doesn’t seem to be unduly worried, does he? Do you think he’s just giving us something to keep us out of mischief?’

‘Seems a bit excessive, if that’s all it is,’ said Ben, guiding her round the corner into Allhallow’s Lane.

‘You don’t think he’s laughing at us, do you?’ Libby turned a worried face towards her best beloved.

‘Laughing at you?’ repeated Ben, looking astonished.

‘You know – making fun of our – “investigations”.’ Libby’s tone put the word in italics.

‘Of course not. He’s simply making use of your undoubted talents.’ But Ben looked doubtful, nevertheless. He stopped at the door of Number 17. ‘Come on. Nightcap and bed. And stop worrying about it.’

On Thursday morning, Libby presented herself at Coastguard Cottage on Harbour Street in Nethergate, and told Fran of her doubts about Ian’s motives.

‘I don’t think he’d be that devious,’ said Fran. ‘Not after last time.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Libby, ‘but I’ve come to the conclusion that we don’t know Ian half as well as we thought we did.’

‘Because he’s been careful to keep his private life to himself,’ said Fran. ‘We still don’t know where he lived before he moved to Grove House, or whether he had girlfriends or partners.’

‘Well, he didn’t when he was making a play for you,’ Libby stated firmly. ‘He’s not that sort of bloke.’

‘It was hardly a “play” for me,’ protested Fran, going faintly pink.

‘So perhaps it’s simply that he doesn’t want to get entangled with her again?’ suggested Libby.

‘Which is more or less what he said in the first place,’ said Fran, ‘so we need to talk to her and find out if that’s what she wanted.’

‘OK. Which one of us is going to phone?’ asked Libby, settling back into the window seat.

The two friends stared at each other, then said together: ‘I’ll do it.’

‘I’ll do it,’ said Fran, ‘and put it on speaker phone so you can join in.’ She picked up her phone from the hearth beside her armchair. ‘You’d better come over here, or you won’t be able to hear each other.’

Libby moved to the footstool beside Fran, while she found the number Ian had given her and pressed the link.

‘Sylvia Cranthorne,’ an uncertain-sounding voice announced.

‘Sylvia, hello. My name’s Fran Wolfe. Ian Connell asked me to call you about the man you reported missing.’

Silence.

‘Hello? Sylvia?’

Fran raised her eyebrows at Libby.

‘Er – yes. Hello.’ They heard a nervous cough. ‘Can I ask why he asked you?’

‘We’re what Ian calls his special investigators. Me and my partner, Libby Sarjeant.’

‘Hello!’ said Libby loudly. ‘I’m Libby.’

Fran made shushing gestures.

‘Oh.’ There was another pause. ‘I thought he was going to look into it himself.’

Libby and Fran nodded wisely at each other.

‘I’m afraid he’s a bit too busy at the moment,’ said Fran, ‘and until he and the police know a bit more of the circumstances, he can’t afford to release anyone.’

‘And that’s where we come in,’ said Libby cheerfully.

‘I see.’ More silence. ‘Oh, well, I suppose it won’t do any harm.’

Odd phrase, mouthed Libby. Fran nodded.

‘What can you tell us about him and how you came to know him?’ asked Libby.

‘Ian?’ came the startled reply.

‘No, the homeless man,’ said Fran, while Libby stifl. . .