Murder in the Blood

Murder in the Blood

Lesley Cookman

Libby Sarjeant and friends are taking a well-earned holiday at a village on the Turkish coast – but despite their best intentions it seems that murder has even followed them there.

When out on a boat trip they discover a body, but at first it has nothing to do with them, for once … until they find out that the deceased was English – and so are the suspects.

Acknowledgements

It will be obvious to everyone who knows my regular holiday destination that part of this story is set in a very similar place. Here and there I have ‘borrowed' the odd name, but have attached it to something else; for instance, the
Paradise
is not a boat in real life. I may have used the names of people I know – but I do that with English names, too. I have not based anyone or anything in my fictional village on anyone or anything in the real one – honest! Nor is my depiction of any of the criminal activities here based on anything but my imagination.

Special thanks go to Ella Preece, who patiently answered all my questions, and whose photographs inspire me all year round. Also to Lev Parikian for the name of my fictional village, and to my dear friend Alison Cottier, who named a bay for me.

A note for regular readers – and new ones. In the course of writing this book, I found that it linked up with several previous ones in the series,
Murder in Bloom
,
Murder by Magic
, and
Murder by the Sea
. To avoid spoilers, perhaps you should read those first!

WHO'S WHO IN THE LIBBY SARJEANT SERIES

From Steeple Martin

From Nethergate

British Police Force

From Erzugan

Visitors to Erzugan

Neal Parnham

Betty and Walter Roberts

Greta and Tom Willingham

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

The Libby Sarjeant Series

Chapter One

The sea lapped gently into the granite cave, dark as ink. The moon, orange as a dying sun, touched wavelets and turned them into dull fire. Caught on an unseen finger of rock, the body bobbed gently to the surface.

There are secret places in the Mediterranean. Along the coast of Turkey, in the foothills of the Taurus Mountains, lie villages the tourists do not see. Ramshackle hovels of brick, breezeblock, and corrugated iron line the unmade roads, the odd discouraged goat tethered in a patch of dirt droops its head. Everywhere, acres of white-roofed glasshouses. Further inland, the pine-covered slopes rear up above the rusted metal hoops of abandoned polytunnels and half-built concrete houses left to the elements. Along the better surfaced roads, small groves of pomegranate and olive trees proclaim the more affluent villages, with their newly built villas announcing themselves to be ‘Satilik' – For Sale, and a sudden clutch of billboards advertising hotels. There are still hovels, but the goats look more cheerful, and chickens cluck drowsily in the sun.

Women in headscarves and baggy trousers carry baskets and bundles through the tiny centre with its statue, pharmacy, and market, the road leads winding to the beach. And here are the small family-run bars and hotels, a few sunbeds on the beach, a few boats tied up to a leaning wooden jetty. It was to one of these villages that Guy Wolfe had brought his wife and friends.

Libby Sarjeant stretched her arms above her head and sighed. ‘This beats the Isle of Wight.'

Ben Wilde, her significant other, smiled. ‘At least we're not investigating murders and family feuds.'

From another sunbed, Fran Wolfe sat up suddenly and stared at the sea.

Peter Parker lifted his sunhat from his face and gave his partner Harry Price a dig in the ribs. Five people watched Fran apprehensively.

Eventually, Libby could bear it no longer. ‘What is it, Fran?'

Fran gave the appearance of someone jolted to reality. ‘Eh?'

‘What happened?' asked Guy.

Fran looked confused and shook her head. ‘I don't know.'

Libby sighed. ‘It was a moment, wasn't it?'

Fran's unwanted psychic gift often resulted in what her family and friends called her ‘moments'. These ranged from seeing a picture of a plant to a vision of murder, sometimes with attendant feelings of suffocation.

‘Yes,' said Fran slowly. ‘Someone was drowning.'

The other five groaned.

‘No, my lovely, please,' said Harry, sitting up and glaring at her. ‘We're on bloody holiday.'

‘I can't help it.'

‘Don't worry about it,' said Libby, crossing her fingers. ‘There must have been lots of drownings round here in the past. I expect that's what you saw.'

Fran smiled at her gratefully. ‘That'll be it. Thanks, Libby.'

Guy stood up. ‘I think we now deserve a drink. It must be nearly lunchtime.'

The little party stood up and gathered various belongings.

‘Are we coming back to the beach after lunch?' asked Harry. ‘Do we leave the towels here?'

‘I thought Captain Joe said he'd take us out on the boat this afternoon?' said Peter, perching his hat on the back of his head.

‘So he did.' Harry slung his towel over his shoulder. ‘Come on, then, last one to the bar's a sissy.'

The tiny hotel sat right on the beach, its bar at the front. The six friends perched on bar stools and ordered the local beer. The owner, known to all British guests as Jimmy due to his unpronounceable Turkish name, handed them glasses frosted from the fridge.

‘You enjoying your holiday?' he asked them, as he had asked every day since their arrival. ‘You glad Guy bring you?'

‘Yes,' they all assured him. ‘Very glad.'

Guy had mentioned the previous summer, when they were visiting the Isle of Wight, that he knew of a small bay in Turkey little-known by the general run of tourists. After the events of the past year, they had decided to award themselves a holiday, and even Harry had closed his beloved restaurant, The Pink Geranium. And Guy had been right.

The sweep of the bay, backed by the foothills of the Taurus Mountains, was dotted with twenty or so ‘paynsions', hotels, and bars, and one supermarket. At least, that's what it called itself. Guy had seemed to know at least half the proprietors, and they had all greeted him with fond cries of recognition, even though his last trip there had been years ago, before he had met Fran. The other guests were mostly regulars, who guarded their little treasure jealously and were quite happy with the two-hour journey through the mountains from the airport, which put off the tour operators and all but the most intrepid holidaymakers.

Now they ordered soup and borek, the Turkish version of cheese straws – only more substantial – and salad, to see them through the afternoon boat trip. A couple of the other British guests joined them, and one, a solitary Englishman wearing a panama hat who rarely spoke, sat at the farthest table from the bar.

‘Who is he, Jimmy?' asked Libby. ‘Has he been coming here for years like the others?'

Jimmy shrugged. ‘No. I do not know how he came here. He book over the phone. He know people in the village, I think.' He shrugged. ‘Very quiet.'

One of the other guests leant forward. ‘We gave him a lift into the village the other evening when we went to The Roma.' The Roma was a Turkish-Italian restaurant that provided a change from those in the bay. ‘He barely said a word, but he seemed to know where he was going.'