Murder Imperfect

Book 7: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: Mystery; Female Sleuths; Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Pantomime director Libby Sarjeant has her hands full combining direction and detection when she's asked to look into threatening letters sent to Harry's gay friend Cy. At first she believes it to be a simple case of prejudice, but soon Libby uncovers links to particularly nasty crimes in the past, revelations that have catastrophic effects.

Release date: May 1, 2012

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 283

Sample

THE PANTOMIME COW COLLAPSED on top of the fairy at the very time Adam stepped off the ha-ha.

‘He’s moved back in again,’ Libby told her friend Fran on the phone. ‘I can’t keep trailing backwards and forwards to the flat to look after him, and Harry certainly can’t keep running up and down stairs.’

‘What did he do?’ asked Fran.

‘He wasn’t looking where he was going and walked straight off the edge.’

‘Isn’t it fenced?’

‘Ha-has aren’t fenced,’ scoffed Libby. ‘Don’t you know that?’

‘All right, all right. I’m not up on gardening terms. What does Ben say?’

‘He’s being very long-suffering about it,’ said Libby. ‘Lots of sighs.’

‘Oh dear. Still, it won’t be for long, will it?’

‘No, thank goodness. Meanwhile, Ben keeps taking himself off to Steeple Farm to do strange things with beams and floorboards, and I’ve got to take over the fairy as well as directing, which means we can both keep out of Ad’s way in the evenings.’

‘Poor Adam!’ laughed Fran.

‘He is a bit grumpy,’ conceded Libby, ‘but with a bit of luck he’ll get fed up and go back to his own flat.’

‘I thought you said he needed looking after?’

‘He did, for the first couple of days, but he could move around the flat now, especially as it’s all on one level. Here he has to come downstairs to the sitting room and kitchen. He demanded a television in his room the first few days. Cheek.’

‘So he’s putting it on a bit?’

‘Of course. Just like a man.’ Libby sighed. ‘Not like our poor fairy.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘I told you, the cow fell on her. Broke her leg. She’s furious.’

‘Won’t she better in time for the run?’

Libby sighed again. ‘Plaster for at least six weeks, the hospital said. And as we open on the first Monday in January she’ll have missed all the rehearsals.’

‘You’ve played the fairy before,’ consoled Fran. ‘You’ll be fine.’

‘I’m too old,’ said Libby gloomily. ‘I’d rather be the witch.’

She put the phone down and stared out of the window. December had started dripping wet. The tiny green opposite the house was almost a lake, and Romeo the Renault looked in imminent danger of sinking.

‘Mu-um!’

Closing her eyes and breathing out heavily, Libby turned towards the stairs.

‘What?’

‘Any chance of some tea?’

‘If you came down here you could get it yourself.’

‘Mum! I can’t keep going up and down on my leg.’ Adam sounded indignant.

‘You can get about on the level, though,’ said Libby. ‘All right. In a moment.’

Muttering to herself, she went into the kitchen. Sidney, on the cane sofa in front of the unlit fire, put his ears back as she passed. The heavy kettle was already on the edge of the Rayburn waiting to be brought to a full boil, so she moved it and fetched the old brown teapot. Might as well make a proper pot and have one herself, she thought. It was mid-afternoon.

The tea made, she carried a mug up to Adam, who was lying on the bed in the spare room playing games on his laptop.

‘Thanks, Mum.’ He grinned disarmingly. ‘You know you love me really.’

‘Don’t bet on it.’ Libby sat on the side of the bed. ‘Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in Harry’s flat now? You’d be all on one level there.’

Adam’s face took on a pained expression. ‘I can’t stand for long, Mum. What about meals?’

Libby sighed. ‘OK, OK, I know. But I can’t keep running up and down like this, you know.’

‘Ben will be here, though, won’t he?’ said Adam hopefully.

‘Not much,’ said Libby. ‘He’s going to Steeple Farm to get it all finished off. They want to let it after Christmas.’

‘Good Christmas house, that,’ commented Adam. ‘You could have all of us there with no problem.’

Libby looked at him with dislike. ‘I’m going downstairs,’ she said.

Of course, Adam was right. Steeple Farm was a large thatched farmhouse belonging to a member of Ben’s family. Ben, her mostly significant other, was restoring it and had hoped to persuade Libby to move into it from her small cottage in the village, but Libby loved her cottage, she loved Allhallow’s Lane and she loved being in the centre of Steeple Martin. So, for the moment, they were both squashed into Number 17, with the addition, currently, of Adam. Libby peered once more out of the window at the darkening sky and turned to the fireplace.

‘A fire, Sidney,’ she said. ‘That’s what we want. We need cheering up.’ Sidney’s ears twitched again and his nose got pushed even more firmly under his tail. Libby creaked down on to her knees and began riddling the grate. She had just got her fingers suitably covered in coal dust and firelighter when her phone rang. Libby swore.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked the voice on the other end.

‘I’m lighting a fire.’

‘And it’s annoying you?’

‘No, you are, Harry. I’m covered in coal dust, and so is the phone now.’

‘Ring me back when you’re clean, then,’ said Harry. ‘I want to have a chat.’

Libby returned to the fire. Harry co-owned The Pink Geranium vegetarian restaurant in the village with his life partner Peter, who also happened to be Ben’s cousin. Libby had known Harry and Peter for several years; in fact it had been they who helped her find number 17 Allhallow’s Lane in what they called “The search for Bide-a-Wee”. Now Adam, Libby’s youngest child, lived in the flat above The Pink Geranium, where he helped out in the evenings to augment his earnings as an assistant to a garden designer and landscaper.

Libby had listened to Harry’s concerns over several matters in the last few years, from his last foray into heterosexuality to the arrangements for his civil partnership ceremony. He, in turn, had listened to more than his fair share of Libby’s troubles and anxieties, most frequently her ambivalence in her relationship with Ben and her rather unwholesome interest in local murders. It occurred to her, rather shamefacedly, that Harry had been more of a support to her than she had to him, so she must make the time to listen properly and help in any way she could.

‘But I can’t do that!’ she exclaimed down the phone ten minutes later, sitting on the cane sofa in front of a now nicely blazing fire.

‘Why not?’ said Harry. ‘You’ve peered into other people’s private lives in the past – and without their permission, too. At least this time someone’s asking you to do it.’

‘No, they aren’t,’ said Libby, feeling hot and uncomfortable. ‘You’re the one asking me to do it. This poor man wanted your help. You suggested me.’

‘I don’t understand why you’re so upset about it,’ said Harry. ‘All I’m asking you to do is look into some rather nasty letters Cy’s had. And his panto gives you the perfect opportunity.’

‘Harry, I’m taking over the fairy here as well as directing,’ said Libby. ‘I can’t possibly get involved with another panto.’

There was a short silence. ‘Ah,’ said Harry.

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ said Libby. ‘If you can tell me a bit more about it, I could p’raps ask Fran what she thinks?’

‘I don’t think he wants anyone else knowing,’ said Harry slowly, ‘but I suppose I could take you to meet him. How would that be?’

‘Embarrassing,’ said Libby. ‘Couldn’t you just tell me and see if I come up with anything?’

‘I don’t know all the background,’ said Harry, ‘but I suppose I could tell you what he told me.’

‘Go ahead, then.’ Libby settled back into the sofa.

‘Face to face, Lib.’

Libby sighed. ‘Come and have a cup of tea, then,’ she said, ‘or are you busy prepping up for this evening?’

‘No, most of it’s done. I’ll pop round and then I can have a word with the invalid at the same time, can’t I?’

‘You can try and talk him into going back to the flat, too,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll go and put the kettle back on.’

‘And I’ll bring some of that carrot cake you like,’ said Harry. ‘See you in a minute.’

Ten minutes later, Harry breezed into the sitting room shaking water from his navy pea coat and handing over a large greaseproof paper parcel.

‘I’ll dash up and say hello to old peg-leg first,’ he said, hanging his coat on the hook in the tiny vestibule. ‘Or he’ll hear me and start shouting.’

Libby put mugs, teapot, milk, and sugar and cake on a tray and carried them into the sitting room, where she switched on the two lamps either side of the fire and sat down, shifting Sidney out of the way. Harry appeared in the doorway and she waved him to the armchair.

‘Now,’ she said, pouring tea into mugs. ‘Who is this Cy, and what is this all about? I’m warning you, I’m not ever getting involved in any more murders, so it had better not be that.’

Harry raised his eyebrows.

‘Not ever?’ he said.

‘CY IS AN OLD mate of mine from London days. He moved down to one of the Maidstone suburbs with his partner a few years ago, as he’d lived there when he was growing up.’ Harry sipped his tea and gazed into the fire.

‘Yes?’ said Libby after a moment. ‘And?’

Harry sighed. ‘Well, a few months ago he started getting anonymous letters.’

‘You said started. Has it gone on? How many?’

‘I’m not sure but it must be about six, now.’

‘That’s a lot.’ Libby frowned. ‘I assume he’s been to the police?’

Harry shook his head. ‘He’s aware of the attitude of most cops to this sort of thing.’

‘What sort of thing?’

‘Us, stupid.’ Harry scowled at her. ‘Right bunch of homophobes, they are.’

‘Ian isn’t,’ said Libby, taken aback and referring to Inspector Ian Connell, a mutual friend.

‘He’s different. And he wasn’t sure at first, either.’ Harry shifted in his chair. ‘Anyway, it’s what Cy thinks, so he hasn’t told them.’

‘Is that what the letters are about, then?’

‘Course it is.’

‘What do they say?’ asked Libby. ‘And how are they written? Computer? Handwritten? The old cut and paste jobs?’

‘Computer. I suppose the police could trace which printer was used, and probably what software from which PC, but that would hardly help, would it?’ He sighed again. ‘Much easier when they cut words out of a newspaper and you just went round looking for papers with holes in.’

‘And what do they say?’ prompted Libby.

‘I’ve only seen the first one, but he says they’re more or less the same. “We don’t want your sort round here, you filthy...” well, you know the sort of thing.’

Libby nodded. ‘Nasty. But I don’t know what you want me to do.’

‘I’m not sure either,’ said Harry. ‘I had thought if you could go over and give him a hand with his panto you could get talking to the friends and neighbours and see if you could spot any undercurrents. But if you’ve got to do ours …’

‘’Fraid so,’ said Libby. ‘And I can’t get out of it. We’ve only got three weeks left of rehearsal time, effectively, if you take out Christmas, and we’re sold out for the entire run.’

‘Bloody silly, if you ask me,’ said Harry, ‘having a cow in another pantomime.’

‘We had to use the one we had made for Jack and the Beanstalk again, didn’t we? What a waste if we hadn’t.’

‘And I haven’t even heard of the panto, either.’

‘Well, of course you haven’t,’ said Libby reasonably. ‘It’s a new one.’

‘Why did you choose one no one had heard of then?’ asked Harry grumpily.

‘I wanted to find one with a cow in it.’

‘And Hey, Diddle, Diddle has a cow, does it?’

Libby sighed. ‘Yes, Harry. The cow jumped over the moon, didn’t she?’

‘And how did she fall on the fairy? Don’t tell me – she was jumping over the moon.’

‘Well, trying to, yes. The fairy puts a spell on her, you see.’

‘Bit dangerous, I’d have thought. Don’t you go breaking any legs.’

‘Thank you for your concern,’ grinned Libby, ‘but I’ve changed that bit now.’ She put down her mug and cut herself a generous slice of cake. ‘So what do you want me to do now? Suggest something?’

‘Have you got any suggestions?’ Harry looked gloomy. ‘I promised I’d help, and that I knew someone else who could. I’m going to look a right arse if I don’t.’

‘No, you won’t. Why don’t you just tell him I can’t actually get involved, but I’d suggest he tells the police. If he really wants me to, I’ll meet him, with you, perhaps, and he can show me the letters. They might give me some ideas.’

Harry brightened. ‘Would you?’

‘Of course I would. I still don’t see what I can actually do, but it might help him a bit.’

Harry leant over and kissed her cheek. ‘You’re a champ, champ,’ he said. ‘I knew I could rely on you.’

Libby laughed. ‘You knew you could persuade me, you mean.’

‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist a mystery,’ Harry grinned back and stood up. ‘Right. I’m going to go and try my powers of persuasion on your offspring.’

‘To do what?’

‘To come back to the flat and get out of your hair.’

Adam appeared sheepishly in the kitchen some time later as Libby was about to dish up supper.

‘I’ll go back to the flat after supper, Mum.’

Libby turned in surprise. ‘You don’t have to, darling.’

‘Yes, I do. Harry put me right on a few things.’ Adam gave his mother a hug. ‘I take you a bit for granted, don’t I?’

‘Kids do that.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘Sit down and I’ll dish up.’

‘Do you want a hand with your stuff?’ Ben appeared in the kitchen doorway.

‘Here’s your hat, where’s your hurry?’ said Libby, raising her eyebrows at him.

‘Not at all. He just won’t be able to carry much.’ Ben avoided her eyes and sat opposite Adam.

‘I’ll drive you round in the car,’ said Libby, placing plates in front of them. ‘Much easier.’

‘And stop and have a drink with Harry, I suppose?’ said Ben after Adam had left the table.

Libby stopped clearing plates. ‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘But if I did, would it matter?’

Ben shrugged. ‘You seem to talk to him more than you do to me.’

‘Ben, you’re not jealous, are you?’

Ben looked down at the table. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

Libby snorted. ‘But Harry’s gay and twenty years younger than I am!’

‘I’m not jealous in that way, idiot,’ said Ben, and the mood lightened. ‘It’s just – as I said – you seem to talk more to him than me.’

‘Harry’s like a best girl friend,’ said Libby. ‘He gets jealous of Fran.’

‘Does he?’ Ben looked interested. ‘I don’t.’

‘Anyway,’ Libby picked up the plates again, ‘I won’t have a drink because I’ll have the car, so you can stop worrying.’

‘Why don’t we both walk round with him and share the burden. Then we can both have a drink with Harry.’ Ben wrapped his arms round her waist.

‘Good idea,’ said Libby. ‘And now let me go, or we’ll never get there.’

Adam seemed to have accumulated an awful lot of stuff in the few days he’d been staying at number 17, and Ben, Libby and Adam himself were quite heavily laden when they staggered up to the door of the flat over The Pink Geranium. Donna waved at them through the window of the restaurant.

‘You go in and find Harry,’ said Libby. ‘We’ll take your stuff upstairs. Then you won’t have to keep going up and down.’

Adam didn’t argue, and, after another few minutes, Ben and Libby, having dumped the various bags on to the sagging couch in the front room of the flat, joined him on the sofa in the window of The Pink Geranium. On the table in front of him was a bottle of red wine and three glasses.

‘Did Harry send this?’ asked Libby, accepting a glass.

‘No!’ Adam was indignant. ‘I did. To say thank you for having me.’

Ben patted him on the shoulder. ‘No worries. Any time.’

Adam looked embarrassed. ‘Thanks, Ben.’

They’d finished the bottle of wine by the time Harry appeared from the kitchen carrying another.

‘That’s me done,’ he said, pulling up a chair and pouring out more wine. ‘I take it you did want another one?’

‘Er – thank you,’ said Libby.

‘Well, now you’re going to help me with my little problem, you deserve it.’ Harry lifted his glass to her.

‘What problem?’ Ben looked from one to the other. Adam groaned. Libby closed her eyes.

‘Sorry, Lib.’ Harry pulled a face. ‘You haven’t told them.’

‘Told us what?’ said Ben and Adam together.

‘Well, you see –’ began Harry.

‘Harry’s asked me to see if I can help a friend of his who’s been receiving anonymous letters,’ interrupted Libby. ‘There’s not much I can do, but there’s no way of me getting in to any trouble. Besides, Harry will be with me.’

‘Right.’ Ben looked doubtful.

‘You say that every time, Ma,’ said Adam.

‘Well, I don’t get into trouble, do I?’ said Libby.

‘No, because there’s usually somebody out there second guessing you and on hand to leap to the rescue,’ said Ben.

‘Look,’ said Harry hastily, ‘if you don’t want her to –’

‘What?’ snapped Libby.

‘If I don’t want her to she’ll be all the more determined,’ said Ben with a rueful smile. Libby relaxed, but glared at Harry.

‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ she said pointedly.

‘Bloody hell, Lib,’ said Harry sleepily the next morning. ‘It’s not nine o’clock yet!’

‘I wanted to catch you before you went to work,’ said Libby. ‘Did I wake you?’

‘Not exactly. Pete’s just gone down to make coffee. What do you want?’

‘I want to know when we’re going to see this Cy person. I need to get my life in order.’

There was the sound of Harry struggling to sit up. ‘Never. Your life’s never in order.’

Libby sighed. ‘Look, I’ve got Christmas to organise, a panto to direct and now the bloody fairy’s lines to learn. If we’re going to try and put your chum’s mind at rest I need to do it soon.’

‘All right, all right. Ooh, ta, Pete.’ Libby heard a satisfied slurping sound. ‘Great coffee, Lib. Straight from Ethiopian Farmers.’

‘Good. Glad to hear you’re supporting good causes. But what about Cy?’

‘I’ll ring him when I get up. He’ll be at work, but I expect I can get him. And surely you know all the lines already? You’ve been rehearsing for weeks.’

‘I only know them vaguely,’ said Libby. ‘Will you ring me when you’ve spoken to him?’

‘Yes, yes, yes. Now leave me alone. I need to commune with my inner soul.’

‘The coffee and Peter, you mean,’ said Libby. ‘OK, I’ll go.’

Libby went into the kitchen and put plates and mugs in the sink. Ben had gone off to the Manor to see if anything needed to be done on the estate, then he was going to Steeple Farm to carry on with the renovations, so she had the day to herself. After a bit of necessary housework, such as stripping Adam’s bed, washing up and wiping Sidney’s paw marks off every windowsill in the house, she planned to get on with her current painting, to be sold in Fran’s husband’s gallery in Nethergate. Her “pretty peeps”, as she called them in recognition of Ngaio Marsh’s Troy, sold well to tourists during the summer season, being mainly of the bay and the town, several painted from Fran’s front room window in Coastguard Cottage and others from a higher viewpoint, the top floor window in Peel House, where their mutual friends Jane and Terry lived.

After an hour or so painting, or staring, she thought she might have a cup of tea and a biscuit and start learning the fairy’s lines. Wearing her director’s hat, all she had to do today was take a rehearsal this evening, so the afternoon was free. With a bit of luck, if she didn’t have to trek off to see Cy (and if he worked, how could she?) she could then light the fire and have a little doze on the sofa before cooking the evening meal.

She had just stuffed Adam’s sheets into the washing machine when the phone rang and all the day’s plans came crashing down.

‘He’s had another one, and something else has happened,’ said Harry. ‘He didn’t go to work. He’d like to see us today.’

‘Something else?’

‘He was beaten up.’

‘WHERE WAS HE BEATEN up?’ Libby asked. They were in Harry’s car on the M2 on the way to Maidstone, he having asked Donna, his efficient waitress, assistant chef and all round helpmate, to open up and do any prepping for lunch that was needed. Midweek there was little lunchtime trade, and Adam would help as far as his leg would allow him.

‘He didn’t say.’ Harry was uncharacteristically tight-lipped, and Libby thought she knew why. Over the past year, and particularly the last few months, more so-called “gay-bashing” incidents had been reported in the media, including several resulting deaths. He and Peter had been lucky, but, since Libby had known them, Harry had toned down his very obviously camp manner and speech, which she had found endearing. Peter had always looked like an aloof aesthete and, as far as she knew, had never had any problems at work in London, but Harry had confided that with mainstream acceptance of homosexuality, and particularly since civil partnerships had become legal, gay people had become more visible in the community and easier to target.

‘Also,’ he had continued, ‘a lot of wankers who used to be able to say what they like can’t any more, so they’re attacking us under cover. And people like Cy still don’t like going to the police, so the rise in attacks is being under-reported.’

Remembering this conversation now, Libby realised how close to Harry’s heart this incident was. She felt a little upsurge of something like stage fright. What on earth could she do? Harry somehow thought she could help, but she knew she was a fraud. Someone who had got involved by accident in a few murder investigations in a sort of snowball effect, but who had no real expertise, or even deductive power. She wanted to stop the car, get out and run home. But Harry, and possibly Cy, were relying on her. She sighed.

They were driving down the hill towards the big M20 roundabout, now. Harry took the left-hand lane and plunged into suburban Maidstone. Eventually, they came to a an area Libby had never seen before; neat roads with grass verges, semi-detached mock Tudor houses, a few bungalows and neighbourhood watch posters in every window. Cul-de-sacs, crescents and closes abounded, and at the centre, a park. Only a small park, but there was a little pond, benches and a fenced play area. It was empty.

‘This is it.’ Harry drew to a stop outside a bungalow at the crest of a slight hill. As Libby got out, she could look down over the rest of Maidstone and right across to the Weald. She walked round the car to join Harry.

‘Very quiet,’ she commented. ‘Don’t see it as a violent area.’

‘Hmm.’ Harry pushed open the little wrought-iron gate and led the way up the short path between laburnum bushes to the front door, hidden behind a glass porch. It opened before Harry had a chance to knock or ring the bell. He ushered her in in front of him.

‘This is Libby, Cy. Lib, Cy.’

In the darkness of the narrow hall, Libby looked up at the man before her. His face should have been handsome, under straight brown hair that flopped over his brow. But underneath that was a mass of blue, purple and yellow bruising. One eye was almost closed, and his lip swollen and crusted with blood. A long tramline of butterfly strips down one cheek led almost up to his eye, and Libby tried to control a shudder at what could have happened.

‘Bloody hell, mate.’ Harry stepped up and enfolded the other man in a gentle hug. ‘What else did they do to you?’

‘Ribs,’ said Cy in a muffled voice. ‘Come and see Col.’

He led the way through to a large dining kitchen, which had obviously been knocked through. One end was pale wood and stainless steel, with more gadgets than Libby had ever seen, the other was solid, dark 1930s dining furniture, which looked as if it had come with the house. By the cooker, doing something elaborate with a huge coffee machine, stood a slight young man with wispy fair hair and an even wispier beard.

‘Harry,’ he said, in a surprisingly deep voice. ‘And this must be Libby.’ He held out a hand.

‘Hello,’ said Libby.

‘Let’s go into the front room, dears,’ he said. ‘Much more comfortable.’ He took Libby by the elbow and laid the other hand on Cy’s arm, giving it a reassuring squeeze. ‘Come on, love.’

The front room was a mixture of furniture of the same vintage as the dining suite and more modern pieces. A huge television dominated one corner. Colin deposited Libby and Harry on a sofa and gently settled Cy in one of the large armchairs.

‘I’ll get the coffee,’ he said, and bustled out.

Cy smiled – at least, Libby thought he did.

‘Col’s been wonderful,’ he said. ‘You’d think I’d just had major surgery, not just a kicking.’

‘Is that what it was?’ Harry leant forward, elbows on knees.

Cy nodded and winced. ‘Down the road, near the park. Kids, I think. Someone came along and they made off.’

‘How did you get home? Who was the person who came along?’

‘A friend. She lives over the road. She told me to sit still and ran up here to fetch Colin. Lucky he was here.’

Harry turned to Libby. ‘Colin’s cabin crew on long-haul flights, so he’s often away for a week or more.’

‘Nice of her,’ said Libby.

‘Yes.’ Cy tried another smile. ‘Her name’s Sheila. She’s in the panto society.’

Colin entered with a tray on whic. . .