Murder on the Run

Book 17: A Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series

by Lesley Cookman

Genres: Female Sleuths

Synopsis

The world of running is completely alien to Libby Sarjeant and her friend Fran Wolfe, but when Libby's son Adam and Fran's stepdaughter Sophie join the Nethergate Harriers, they have to take an interest. And when one of the runners goes missing in the middle of the Nethergate 5K, they take more than an interest! It's not long before a body is found – and Libby and Fran are caught up in another investigation…

Release date: December 1, 2016

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 272

Sample

Chapter One

‘And what exactly is the Nethergate Five K?’ Libby Sarjeant asked her friend, Fran Wolfe.

‘A five-kilometre run round Nethergate,’ said Fran, handing over a mug of tea.

‘Is Nethergate that big?’

‘Apparently.’ Fran sat in the big Windsor chair by the fireplace, opposite her friend. ‘Anyway, Sophie’s doing it. And she wants sponsors.’

‘Ah.’ Libby sipped her tea. ‘And that means me?’

‘If you would. I’ve got a form here, or you can go online. She’s got a Just Giving page.’

‘A …? Oh, I know. That site that makes it easy to give money to good causes. Or any causes, come to that.’

‘Don’t be such a cynic, Lib. Anyway, I think she may be going to persuade Adam to do it with her.’

‘Adam?’ said Libby. ‘My son hasn’t done any exercise since gym at school. He hates sport.’

Fran quirked an eyebrow. ‘Really? How come he’s been going to Nethergate FC with Sophie for the whole of last season?’

‘Has he?’ Libby was thunderstruck.

‘Well, of course it may simply be that he wanted them to get back together and he’s been trying to impress her.’

‘I thought they were back together.’

‘It worked, then, didn’t it?’

Libby laughed. ‘Do you really think he might do it?’

‘I suppose it depends on when it is, and what work he’s got on,’ said Fran.

‘It’ll be a weekend, surely?’ Libby frowned ‘And that’s when he works at the caff,Saturday and Sunday lunchtimes.’

‘Harry would let him off, surely?’

‘On the other hand it would be a great excuse not to do it.’ Libby grinned. ‘I can’t believe Ad would actually run a hundred yards, let alone 5K.’

‘Well, we’ll see. Do you want a sponsorship form?’

‘I’ll do it online,’ said Libby. ‘Now, are we going to see Jane before I go home?’

They left Fran’s Coastguard Cottage in Harbour Street and walked up to Cliff Terrace, where their friend Jane Baker, editor of the Nethergate Mercury, lived with her daughter Imogen and husband Terry in Peel House.

Seated in Jane’s sitting room overlooking Nethergate bay, Libby broached the subject of the 5K run.

‘The Nethergate run? Oh, yes, we’ve been doing it for years,’ said Jane.

‘You?’ said Libby and Fran together.

‘I meant the town,’ giggled Jane. ‘Can you see me running?’

‘Well, you’re younger than we are. And Sophie’s doing it,’ said Fran.

‘Is she? Of course, she’s a member of the Harriers, isn’t she?’

‘Harriers?’ repeated Libby.

‘The Nethergate running club,’ explained Jane.

‘I don’t know much about it,’ said Fran, ‘except that she occasionally pops in to Coastguard Cottage to have a bath because she’s only got a shower in the flat.’

‘I never knew any of this,’ said Libby. ‘It’s a different world.’

‘It certainly is,’ said Jane. ‘They’re always galloping past my windows and a more unattractive sport I’ve yet to see. The clothes are so unflattering.’

‘I don’t think any sports clothes are flattering,’ said Libby. ‘Except possibly tennis.’

‘They run down Harbour Street, too,’ said Fran. ‘In fact, I think we’re both on the route of the run, aren’t we, Jane?’

‘Where does it actually go?’ asked Libby. ‘Is it circular?’

‘Not quite.’ Jane stood up and went to the window. ‘Look.It starts at the car park.’ She pointed. ‘Then down Victoria Place, turn left up the High Street, right to the top, then turn right opposite Canongate Drive, onto the St Aldeberge road. Along there on the right there’s the entrance to a footpath down the cliffs which brings you out behind The Sloop and the Blue Anchor. And they finish on the jetty.’

‘So they’ve got to go up quite a steep hill on the High Street,’ said Libby.

‘Even worse going down the cliff path,’ said Jane. ‘We’ve walked that, and it’s really steep, not very well maintained and through loads of trees and bushes.’

‘They’ll have marshals all along there, though? In case anyone gets hurt or anything?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Jane. ‘And refreshment points where they give out water.’

‘Do lots of people come to watch?’ Libby was beginning to get interested.

‘Loads. Kent and Coast send Campbell along to cover it usually.’

Campbell McLean was a reporter for the local Kent and Coasttelevision station and had met Libby and Fran at the same time that Jane had made their acquaintance.

Fran was looking amused. ‘Why don’t you come and watch it with us? We can actually see the finish line from ours.’

‘When is it?’ Libby was cautious.

‘May bank holiday,’ said Jane.‘A lot of runs that day. Most of them longer than ours – usually ten K.’

‘Steeple Martin does have a fun run,’ said Fran.

‘It does?’ said Libby, surprised. ‘How do you know?’

‘Sophie told me. She thought she might do that this year, too.’

‘When’s that?’

‘I’m not sure. Possibly the following weekend.’

‘They’ll all be online,’ said Jane. ‘Now, what did you want to see me about?’

‘Nothing! Just the pleasure of your company. We haven’t seen you for ages,’ said Libby.

‘No productions coming up? No publicity needed?’

‘Not at the moment. We’ve got a few one-nighters, but then nothing really until The End Of The Pier Show.’ This had become an annual event, which Steeple Martin’s Oast Theatre company put on at The Alexandria, the ornate Edwardianpavilion that stood just below Victoria Parade.

‘Will Susannah be doing the music again?’ asked Jane, Susannah being her sister-in-law.

‘I hope so,’ said Libby. ‘I wouldn’t trust anyone else now.’

‘Are you waiting to see Imogen when she comes home, then?’ asked Jane.

‘She comes home on her own now, does she?’ said Fran in surprise.

‘No, Mother goes to collect her. It’s become a bit of a ritual. It started because I was often working, and now she does it whether I’m working or not.’

Jane’s mother, the redoubtable Mrs Maurice, lived in the self-contained semi-basement flat in Peel House.

‘She’s certainly mellowed,’ said Libby. ‘I was scared stiff of her when Fran and I went to see her in London.’

‘Yes. I don’t know how I turned out so normal,’ said Jane with a grin.

When Libby got home to number 17 Allhallow’s Lane, she called Adam’s mobile.

‘Are you working?’ she asked.

Adam sighed. ‘Yes, Ma. What do you want?’

‘Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to ask about the Nethergate 5K.’

‘What about it?’

‘Whether you were doing it.’

‘Yes, I expect so. Look can we talk about it someother time?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Sorry.’

‘It’s OK – I’ll call you later.’

‘So,’ Libby said to Sidney, the silver tabby. ‘Adam’s turned to sport. What love will do, eh?’

Libby had never enjoyed any sporting activity, either as a participant or a spectator, except horse riding. As a child she had had free access to the riding stables owned by two of her parents’ friends, and had ridden regularly until motherhood intervened. A recent meeting with another of her parents’ old friends had rekindled her interest in riding, and over the past few months she had tried out a few local stables. She’d managed to evade school sports in the main, particularly hockey. Running? Never.

‘Well,’ said her partner Ben, when she told him over dinner. ‘I suppose we all ought to get fit.’ He patted his stomach. ‘I don’t get anywhere near as much exercise as I used to.’

Libby made a face. ‘I think it’s a fad. If you’re active in your job, your daily life, that’s one thing, but going out to deliberately make yourself out of breath with all your muscles hurting, that’s daft.’

Adam, when he called later in the evening, disagreed.

‘Once you get used to it, it’s great,’ he said. ‘And you’ve no idea how addictive it is!’

‘Really?’ said Libby dubiously. ‘But I would have thought your day job made you as fit as a fiddle.’Adam worked with his friend Mog landscaping gardens.

‘I suppose so, but it doesn’t give you the high that running does.’

‘A high, eh?’ Libby was sounding more and more dubious.

‘Oh, Ma! It’s not drugs!’ Adam laughed. ‘Anyway, I shall be doing the Nethergate 5K on May Day with Sophie, and the following Saturday the Steeple Martin Fun Run.’

‘Oh, yes, Fran mentioned that.’

‘So you’ll be able to see us dashing up the high street.’

‘Oh, I’m coming to see you dashing down Harbour Street, too!’

‘You are? That’s very supportive of you.’

‘I know.’ Libby was smug. ‘And I hear you’ve been supporting Nethergate FC, too.’

‘Ah – yes.’ Adam sounded slightly ashamed.

Libby laughed. ‘Just because we’ve never been a sporting family doesn’t mean to say you have to conform.’

‘No, well – Sophie supports them, you see.’

‘So I understand. You’re an item again, are you?’

‘Mum! Item, indeed. Hate that word. Sounds like something in a shop.’

‘All right, all right. You’re going out together again.’

‘Yes.’ Adam sighed. ‘Not sure where it’s going, but OK so far. No talking about it to Fran, though.’

‘All right,’ said Libby, crossing her fingers. ‘If I don’t see you before, I’ll see you on May Day.’

‘Unless I see you at the caff,’ said Adam, who also worked as a part-time waiter at The Pink Geranium, the vegetarian restaurant in Steeple Martin owned by their friend Harry Price.

‘Maybe,’ said Libby. ‘If I can persuade Ben.’

May Day Bank Holiday dawned, thankfully, bright and rather breezy.

‘That’s good,’ Libby said to Ben as they drove to Nethergate in his Range Rover. ‘If it was really hot they’d be sweltering, wouldn’t they?’

‘You’re always hearing of people collapsing in marathons,’ said Ben. ‘They give out water on the way round, don’t they?’

‘Yes, but they have to be very careful about drinking it,’ said Libby, who had been looking it up online. ‘It can make you sick.’

Ben pulled a face. ‘The more I hear about all this, the more I’m inclined to agree with you. It’s a mad way to spend a day.’

‘But Ad’s right, you know. It is addictive. I had a look at some running groups on social media, and there are scads of people posting every day about how far they’ve gone. There’s some app or something that they can use to plot their route, and up it comes “6K this morning. Must do better.” It’s quite ridiculous.’

‘Oh, so this 5K one isn’t particularly special?’

‘I think it’s more for beginners and charity fund-raisers,’ said Libby, ‘as far as I can gather. I’ve sponsored Sophie and Adam. They’re doing it for one of the homeless charities.’

‘I’d better do it, too, then,’ said Ben. ‘Here we are. Where are we going to park? The whole town seems to have been closed to traffic.’

‘Canongate Drive and walk down,’ said Libby, and Ben turned right at the top of the high street.

It appeared that many other people had had the same idea, but luckily Ben knew the owner of a large bungalow right at the end, who allowed him to park on his drive.

‘We’ll have walked nearly 5K by the time we get to Fran’s,’ puffed Libby, as they walked back along Canongate Drive.

Crowds were beginning to line the high street as they walked down, and there were already food stalls and balloon sellers in the square at the bottom. Bunting hung across the ancient front of The Swan Inn, and a couple of yellow-jacketed policemen chatted with members of the public.

Ben and Libby turned left along Harbour street, cleared now of parked cars, past the shop and gallery owned by Guy Wolfe, Fran’s husband. He waved from behind the counter.

‘You made it!’ said Fran, opening the door of Coastguard cottage. ‘Where did you have to park?’

She led them inside.

‘I’ve prepared a sort of buffet lunch that we can pick at,’ she said. ‘They start at midday at the other end of town, so we won’t see the first runners arrive until about twenty past, if that. Sophie tells me that on the flat people can do it in fifteen minutes, but we’ve got a steep hill to run up in the high street, and then that descent down the cliff path, which will hold them up.’

‘So it doesn’t take long, then?’ said Ben in surprise. ‘It would take me hours to walk that far.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ said Fran. ‘How long did it take you to walk here from Canongate?’

‘Twenty minutes?’ Ben looked at Libby for confirmation. ‘Perhaps a bit longer. We weren’t hurrying, and the whole place was getting crowded.’

‘There, you see.’ Fran was setting out food on the coffee table. ‘Guy and I walked the route the other evening, and not hurrying, it took us about an hour and twenty minutes.’

‘Golly,’ said Libby admiringly. ‘Look, it’s almost midday. Shall we go and stand at the end and watch as they come through the square?’

Chapter Two

They stood and watched the stream of runners pass through the square, strolling back to Coastguard Cottage after they had seen Sophie and Adam, somewhere in the middle of the field.

Sure enough, as Fran had said, it was barely twenty-five past twelve when the first runner appearedat the finishing line outside The Sloop Inn. This time, the three of them walked along Harbour Street to see if they could spot Adam and Sophie as they came through.

Most people seemed to have accomplished it within three quarters of an hour.

‘The worst bit,’ said a perspiring Adam, as Ben handed him a beer bottle, ‘was that cliff path. It’s covered with vegetation and rocks. Several people fell, or twisted an ankle. And there weren’t always people nearby. Although we started in a pack, by that time we’d sort of strung out.’

Sophie, looking remarkably fresh with her fair hair pulled back in a ponytail, came over to them. ‘Adam did really well,’ she said, ‘but we appear to have lost a couple of people on the way, so some of us are going back along the route to see where they’ve got to.’

‘Does that often happen?’ asked Libby.

‘Sometimes.’ Sophie frowned. ‘People who aren’t used to running give up and just drop out. It makes things very difficult because they don’t tell the organisers, who then have to go and look for them, just like we’re doing now. Although I didn’t think Lisa would do that.’

‘Who’s Lisa?’ asked Libby.

‘Lisa Harwood. She’s a member of the Harriers, and very dedicated. Runs every day, and has practised this route loads of times. She would have been one of the front runners, I’d have thought.

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Adam with only slight reluctance, handing his bottle back to Ben. ‘We’ll call in at Coastguard later to see if you’re still there.’

‘Oh, we will be,’ said Ben. ‘We’ve got a table booked at The Sloop and we’re staying the night.’

‘Oh, well, definitely see you, then.’ With a farewell wave, Adam set off behind Sophie and a few others wearing the purple sash of the Nethergate Harriers.

After most of the onlookers had gone, Guy closed the shop and came back to the cottage to hoover up what was left from lunch.

‘Did Sophie say what time she made?’ he asked, through a mouthful of sausage roll.

‘No, we hardly saw her,’ said Fran. ‘She and Adam and some of the others went off to look for some of the runners who had fallen by the wayside.’

‘I didn’t think they did that,’ said Guy. ‘I’m sure they don’t in the big marathons.’

‘I suppose it’s because it’s a relatively small field and they check everyone off,’ said Libby. ‘And Ad was saying how bad the cliff path was. Someof them fell and twisted ankles.’

‘It’s not that easy to walk down, let alone run,’ said Fran. ‘I think they should have chosen a different route.’

Somewhere, a mobile phone began to ring.

‘Mine,’ said Fran, and went to find it. ‘Sophie?’

She listened for a moment, frowning, then looked over at the others. ‘Hold on, I’ll ask Libby and Dad.’

She cradled the phone in her hand. ‘They can’t find any trace of that Lisa they mentioned. She was seen at the water stop at the top of the cliff path and nothing since. None of the other runners passed her and she never emerged at the bottom. They want to know if they should call the police.’

‘Heavens, I don’t know!’ said Libby. ‘Why ask us?’

‘She said because we’ve got experience with dealing with the police.’ Fran gave a rueful grin. ‘I suppose we have.’

‘But not this sort of experience,’ said Libby. ‘What do you think?’ She turned to Ben.

‘I think they should probably wait to see if she turns up at home. And surely it’s the organisers’ problem, not Sophie’s.’

‘Sophie’s on the Harriers’committee,’ said Guy, ‘so it probably is her problem.’ He turned to Fran. ‘Tell her what Ben just said.’

Fran repeated the advice and ended the call. ‘I think she was rather hoping we’d say we would get in touch with Ian,’ she said, as she returned to her chair.

Detective Chief Inspector Ian Connell was, by now, an old friend who had figured largely in some of the adventures Libby and Fran had stumbled into over the years.

‘I thought that,’ said Libby with a grin.

‘I’m sure he’d be delighted with a missing persons enquiry,’ said Ben.

‘All the same, I wonder what’s happened to her,’ said Guy. ‘You said there were a couple of people who’d failed to turn up. What about the others?’

‘She didn’t mention anyone else, so I suppose she’s the only one they can’t find.’

Later that evening, Sophie and Adam joined them at The Sloop.

‘Any news?’ asked Libby as they sat down.

‘No.’ Sophie frowned down at the table.

‘What about her husband? Hasn’t she come home?’

‘She lives on her own. Bishop’s Bottom I think. Or possibly Shott. Anyway, no landline, as far as we know, and her mobile’s switched off.’

‘Has someone been to check at her address?’ said Ben. ‘How do you know she hasn’t come home?’

‘Another member went to check when they got home,’ said Adam. ‘Not there.’

‘What about her car?’ asked Guy. ‘Did she drive over this morning?’

‘Still in the car park at the top of Victoria Place,’ said Sophie.

Libby and Fran exchanged glances.

‘In that case, Sophie,’ said Fran, ‘yes. I really think you should inform the police.’

Sophie turned an imploring faceto her father. ‘Couldn’t you do it, Dad?’

‘Not a chance, sweetheart.’ Guy patted her hand. ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’ He looked round the table. ‘Or with any of us. You need to tell your chair, or race director or whoever, and they should report it.’

‘I thought –’ began Sophie.

‘No!’ said four voices together, and Sophie grinned, rather unwillingly.

‘Oh, well, it was worth a try.’ She stood up. ‘Come on, Ad. Let’s beard the ogre in his den.’

‘Can’t you ring the ogre?’ asked Libby.

‘He and some of the committee are eating up the road at the Indian,’ said Adam. ‘We’re supposed to be joining them.’

‘Off you go, then,’ said Guy. ‘Good luck.’

‘Poor kids,’ said Fran as they left. ‘They do look worried.’

‘Hardly kids,’ said Ben, ‘although I do find myself wanting to ask Adam why he isn’t wearing a coat sometimes.’

Libby laughed. ‘I thought that was my job?’

The following morning Fran served breakfast in her tiny backyard, where Balzac the cat kept a benevolenteye on the kippers, bought as a treat for Ben and Guy.

‘Police up at the quay,’ said Guy emerging from the house. ‘Think it’s about that Lisa?’

‘Oh dear,’ said Fran. ‘I do hope not.’

‘So do I, in a way, but if she really is missing, then it’s a good job they’re looking into it.’ Libby picked up her mug of tea. ‘And we’re not.’

Ben, Guy and Fran looked at her sharply.

‘What do you mean?’ said Fran.

Libby shrugged. ‘It’s a good job we aren’t looking into it. That’s all.’

Ben frowned uneasily. ‘Nothing to look into, surely.’

‘Of course there is,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, I’m sure the kids will tell us when we see them.’

It was just as Libby and Ben were preparing to leave Coastguard Cottage that Adam and Sophie arrived.

‘She’s disappeared,’ said Adam flatly. ‘The police are all over the place.’

‘They sent someone over to ask questions last night,’ said Sophie. ‘And they’re coming back this morning.’

‘Are they sure she’s properly disappeared?’ said Fran.

‘Her car’s still in the car park – or it was. I think they’re taking it away. And she didn’t go home.’ Adam shook his head. ‘I would have thought she might have gone off with someone, but Sophie says not.’

‘And the police have given you no idea why they’re convinced she’s missing?’ said Libby.

‘No.’ Sophie sank down on the arm of an armchair. ‘I’d forgotten what it was like to be tangledup with something like this.’

Sophie had been helpful in one of the previous cases in which Libby and Fran had been involved.

‘You’re hardly involved with this one, darling.’ Guy patted his daughter on her shoulder.

‘Stay out of it as much as possible,’ said Ben. ‘Leave the police to get on with it.’

‘Oh, we are,’ said Adam. ‘I’d like to forget all about it.’

‘Aren’t you just a bit worried?’ asked Sophie.

‘I didn’t know her, did I?’ said Adam reasonably. ‘I’m not sure I even know what shelooks like.’

‘I didn’t know her, either, really,’ said Sophie. ‘I don’t think anyone did. She just turned up and ran.’

‘Well, it’s nothing to do with you, so I really would try and forget about it,’ said Libby. ‘We all know what police investigations are like and they aren’t pleasant for anybody.’

‘I can hardly believe I’m hearing that,’ said Ben. ‘From you of all people.’

‘Well, they’re not,’ said Libby, ignoring the laughter. ‘Don’t forget there’s usually tragedy of one sort or another involved.’

The laughter stopped.

‘Absolutely,’ said Guy. ‘Let’s remember that and hope the police find Li. . .