Читать книгу Exham-on-Sea Murder Mysteries 1-3 - Frances Evesham - Страница 13

Max drew up behind the Citroen. ‘You'd better get that dent fixed. Try Jenkins' Garage, it's the best around this area.’

‘I suppose you were at school with Mr Jenkins.’

‘As it happens, I was.’

‘Another member of The Band of Brothers?’ Libby climbed out.

‘I suppose you could call it that. We look out for each other.’

‘Well. Thank you for dinner. And, good night.’

The house lay quiet, the kitchen clean and tidy. Mandy was on her best behaviour. How long would it last? Libby, unsettled, fell into bed, her stomach full of good food and wine, and slept heavily until morning.

The phone startled her awake. ‘I've been thinking about that money of Susie's.’ Max didn't bother to ask how she was. This relationship was strictly business. Libby swallowed a stab of disappointment, yawned and focused on his voice. ‘Anything she saved will be part of her estate and go to her heirs. I'm wondering who they might be.’

The smell of burnt toast and the sound of scraping rose from the kitchen, and Libby's mouth watered. She tried to concentrate as Max talked. ‘I'm going over to the States. I've got Susie's old address. I think we need to let people know what's happened.’

‘Isn't that a police job?’

‘No, not if there's no foul play in the case, apparently, and no grieving husband or children. Someone needs to find a solicitor, or attorney, or whatever they're called in the US, and sort out wills and so on.’

‘So, you're going to do it?’

‘Er – yes. Well, there's no one else, is there? It'll take ages if we wait until after the inquest and anyway…’

He let the words hang in the air but Libby knew what he was thinking. Justice for Susie. ‘I'm off to Heathrow now. There's a flight this afternoon.’

‘Already? What about Bear? Who's going to walk him?’ Shut up, Libby, what are you saying?

‘I've left him with Mrs Thomson. He'll have to wait for his exercise until I get back.’

Libby let the silence grow. It wasn't her job to look after that huge dog. She groaned. ‘I'll go and rescue him. I don't see why he has to suffer.’

‘Libby, you're a treasure.’

‘I know I am. You'd better let me know anything you find out. And Max, there's one question we have to answer.’

‘What's that?’

‘If she's been living in the US since the 1990s, with no contact with anyone in England, what the heck was she doing on Tuesday on the beach at Exham on Sea?’

She put the phone down. And why are you so keen to go to the States? What are you up to?

She rang Ned Watson, mentioned Max's name and asked him for a final quote for the bathroom. He was business-like. ‘I like a week to do a bathroom. You don't want to rush it.’ He'd come around tomorrow to get started. Libby, used to long waiting lists for any work in London, was impressed. She couldn't wait to see the back of the orange tiles and avocado green bath.

Mrs Thomson's old, tumbledown house lay just outside town, surrounded on three sides by green fields, cattle and a green knoll that rose in a rounded hump from the Somerset levels. A flock of sheep and three or four horses speckled the slopes.

Libby peered up the lane. A few stray leaves, hardy enough to withstand the recent gales, still clung to the branches of a row of trees – horse chestnuts, perhaps. The tracery of branches framed a neat, white-painted building. That must be Max's place. Libby whistled. Max Ramshore lived in style. Mr Lord of the Manor.

What was it he did, exactly, that he could leave at such short notice to go to the States? He'd left the bank, but he was way off retirement age. Or, was he going to America for some other reason, using Susie as an excuse?

Beyond Mrs Thomson’s' house, dunes led down towards the golf club and beach. The nine legged lighthouse must be nearby. Libby dragged on the brake, eased out of the car, tugged the battered boot until it opened with a screech, and rescued a box of walnut brownies. Tucking it under one arm, she scanned the net curtains for signs of occupancy.

She thumbed the doorbell and waited. No answer. She rapped on the wood of the door and leaned harder on the bell. No one in. Maybe she'd do some snooping round Max's house, as he was away.

As she stepped back, Bear bounded around the corner, greeting her with the enthusiasm of a long lost friend. With a super-human effort, she kept her feet, pushing the dog's wet nose away from her face. The door creaked open.

An aged head appeared in the gap between door and frame, hearing aid peeking from behind each ear. Libby recognised the old lady's Victory Roll hairstyle, popular at the end of the Second World War. Her great aunt used to wear one. ‘Mrs Thomson?’ Libby raised her voice. Deafness must be a blessing to anyone who lived with this sheepdog and his ear-splitting bark, but it was going to make conversation difficult.

The lady of the house screwed up her eyes. ‘Are you the dog walker for Bear?’

So far, so good. ‘Max Ramshore sent me. He said you'd like me to come and help with Bear while he's away. I've brought some brownies.’

The door closed. A chain rattled and Mrs Thomson pushed the door wide, beckoning with one hand as she untied her apron with the other. ‘Come in, come in. I'll make a cup of coffee and see if we've got any biscuits. You must be hungry, coming all this way.’ She led Libby through the house, talking all the time.

All this way? From Exham?

‘I've brought brownies,’ she repeated.

‘Yes, we get a lot of townies here. They like to walk on the Knoll.’