Murder in the Blood (7 page)

‘Oh, really? I thought you would have done. Mahmud said all the ex-pats come here.' Fran sipped her beer and stared at him over the rim of her glass.

‘Er – no. Well, not all of them. All know each other of course,' he added hastily. ‘Sally had her own crowd.'

‘Who don't come here? Oh, that's sad,' said Libby.

‘Yes, well, each to their own.' Geoff's smile tried to come back but didn't quite make it.

A door opened at the far end of the room and a tall, blonde woman walked in. Libby instinctively took a dislike to her. Geoff greeted her with relief.

‘My wife, Christine,' he said proudly. ‘These ladies dropped in for a drink, Chris.'

As the woman approached, Libby was irresistibly reminded of a young woman she'd encountered in a supermarket car park back home. The woman had parked her huge American-style cruiser in a disabled parking bay. Her make-up and over-the-top clothes had been more suitable for nightclubbing than a trip to the supermarket, and her spoiled little girl had danced around irritating the other shoppers.

Christine Croker could have been her older sister.

She slid onto a bar stool next to Libby, crossing her legs and showing off her bejewelled high-heeled sandals, which revealed her toenails, each one a triumph of the pedicurist's art. She nodded at the women.

‘Where are you staying?' Geoff held a lighter out to his wife as she put a cigarette to her glossy lips. Libby tore her fascinated gaze away.

‘Where? Oh – Jimmy's,' she said.

Christine lifted her eyes to meet her husband's.

‘Nice little place,' said Geoff.

Libby and Fran picked up their glasses and retreated to a table on the terrace.

‘They knew who we were,' whispered Libby, once they were seated as far away from the bar as possible.

‘He was just too quick off the mark, wasn't he?' Fran let her eyes drift across the terrace to where Geoff and his wife now stood with a group of people, all of them looking serious.

‘So what's the problem?' Libby leant back in her chair. ‘Have they got something to do with the murders? And if so – why? Even if this is a little outpost of homophobia, they surely wouldn't kill someone because of that.'

‘I think they're just worried. If they didn't get on with either of the victims, it could bring the police knocking at their doors.'

‘Well, it would in England, but it doesn't look as though the Jandarma would bother,' said Libby.

‘I wonder if the consulate has had any joy in prodding them into action? I had a look on the tablet this morning and consulates and embassies don't actually have the power to intervene in local court cases or investigations.'

‘But if the government – our government – decides it should help, they can send people over, can't they?' said Libby. ‘They've done that before.'

‘I suppose they might. Now it's two deaths.'

A head popped up over the balustrade and smiled at them.

‘Quite right. And that's just what they've done. Johnny Smith, at your service.'

Chapter Eight

Libby and Fran just gaped.

‘Sorry if I startled you.' The man followed his head up the steps and came round to their table. ‘You are Libby and Fran, aren't you?'

The both nodded, still staring.

‘May I sit down?'

Libby nodded again.

‘I'd better explain, hadn't I?'

‘Yes, please. How did you know who we were or that we'd be here? And why?' Libby had found her voice.

‘Your friend Martha –' he jerked a thumb over his shoulder ‘– got in touch with the consulate in Antalya, didn't she? And it just so happens I'm spending a few weeks in Antalya and I have a friend on the staff. I come every year, so everyone knows me and they've asked me to have a quick look into things – not officially, you understand, but with the co-operation of the local Jandarma – as the two victims were both British nationals. I went to see Martha, and she told me something about you two and your friends and told me you were coming here. And as I came up the steps I heard you talking. So, no great detective work there.'

‘Oh, I see.' Libby smiled at Fran. ‘And there we were, thinking we could sort it all out. I'm Libby Sarjeant, by the way, and this is my friend, Fran Wolfe.'

‘Pleased to meet you,' said Johnny Smith, extending a hand to each of them.

‘How did the consulate persuade the Jandarma to give you their co-operation?' asked Fran.

Johnny's wide smile almost split his face in half. ‘Because I was part of a team that came out here to train them years ago. I've kept my links. I'm actually staying with a rather senior member of the force in Antalya. Lucky, huh?'

‘What a coincidence,' said Libby.

‘Don't knock it. Coincidences happen far more in real life than they ever do in films or books.' He stood up. ‘I'm going to get a beer. Would either of you like anything?'

They both refused, and watched as he made his way to the bar. Medium height, rather shabby shorts and shirt, with grizzled grey hair and a bit of a paunch, he looked like any other middle-aged man on holiday.

‘I wonder what he trained them in?' murmured Libby.

‘Let's hope it was detection,' whispered Fran.

‘Right.' He returned to the table with a bottle and glass. ‘Now, Martha tells me you have a bit of a reputation. Care to tell me?'

Libby cast an anguished glance at her friend.

‘I don't know that you'll approve,' said Fran calmly, ‘but we've been involved in a few cases in England. Strictly unofficially, of course.'

Shrewd grey eyes surveyed her. ‘I expect I could find out if you don't want to tell me.'

‘You're actually still in the police force?' asked Libby.

‘Oh, yes.'

‘Not the Met, though?'

‘I didn't say that, did I?' He laughed and carefully poured his beer into the glass. ‘Yes, still with the Met. So, as I said, I expect I could find out …'

‘Oh, we'll tell you,' said Libby. ‘You see it all began …'

Over the next twenty minutes they related the bare bones of some of their adventures.

‘You've been lucky,' said Johnny Smith when they'd finished. ‘I know forces who would have kicked your butts long before now.'

‘Which is why we haven't said much about our wonderful local police.' Fran took a sip from her glass and looked away.

‘Tell me,' said Johnny, after a moment. ‘Is there a reason you get involved? Are you used as specialists in some area?'

Libby looked quickly at Fran, opened her mouth, and closed it again.

‘No,' said Fran coolly.

Johnny grunted and finished his beer. ‘Right. Tell me what you've found out about these murders.'

‘We haven't found anything out,' said Libby. ‘But we were there when the first body was discovered.'

‘By the way,' said Fran, still cool, ‘we only have your word for it that you're who you say you are.'

The wide smile broke out again. ‘I wondered how long it would take you.' He pulled a wallet out of his shorts pocket. ‘Here. And I've got a letter from the consulate, but it's in Turkish.'

Fran picked up the wallet and held it open for Libby to see. They both gasped. Commander J D Smith was shown in uniform, looking a good deal smarter than he did slouching in the chair opposite.

‘Sorry.' Libby felt herself flushing.

‘What for? Not asking?' He laughed. ‘Well, now we're straight. What can you tell me?'

They told him everything, from finding Alec Wilson's body and Neal Parnham's recognition of him, to their suspicion that Geoff and Christine Croker knew who they were.

‘Hmm. Homophobia rife, then, is it?' Johnny leant back in his chair and scratched his chin. ‘Lot of it at home, still, but mostly undercover.'

‘Yes, we've come across it,' said Libby. ‘Two of the friends we're on holiday with have had to deal with it personally and professionally.'

‘They part of the community here?'

‘Oh, no, but they recognised immediately that this Neal was gay, and that was how – we think – he got to know the victim.'

‘And the other man who came to see him, Justin,' said Fran. ‘And the second victim was close to the first victim. We don't think she was gay, though. And by all accounts the regulars here don't – or didn't – like any of them.'

‘Not a reason for murder though.'

‘No,' said Libby. ‘But the main thing we were concerned with was finding this mother he'd only just found out about. Except no one seems to know.'

‘And of course, the idiots haven't searched her place or his.' Johnny frowned. ‘So we'll have to do it.'

‘
Us
?' Two shocked voices rose as one.

‘Oh, I expect we'll have to have a frowning bobby looking on, but they don't know how to search properly. I was hoping they'd let us have one of their Crime Scene Investigation teams – they've got 'em, you know – but we're not important enough, it seems. So it'll be us.'

‘But we don't know how to search, either,' protested Libby.

‘Now, don't tell me you wouldn't welcome the chance to get on the inside of the investigation?' He grinned at them both and stood up. ‘Now I've got to go and present my credentials at the local cop shop. I'll ring your hotel to tell you what I've set up, shall I? Got the number?'

‘No, but there aren't many here,' said Libby. ‘It's Jimmy's. The Jandarma will know.'

‘Right, ladies. I'll see you later.' He waved over his shoulder and set off down the steps.

‘Well, he's not my idea of a commander of the Metropolitan Police,' said Libby.

‘But he is one,' said Fran, ‘and we're very privileged. Came up through the ranks, do you suppose?'

‘Do they still do that? Don't they all have to have degrees and things these days?'

‘Not when he joined the force, I should think. He must be sixty.'

‘Then he'd have retired, surely.'

Fran frowned. ‘I'm not sure. Ian could tell us.'

‘But Ian's not here, and I'm certainly not going to phone him.'

DCI Ian Connell was the police officer in England who had facilitated the friends' involvement in various murder cases, sometimes for the reason Fran had chosen not to reveal to Commander Smith – that she was a reluctant psychic.

‘We can go now, can't we?' Fran stood up. ‘Sitting here knowing those people are talking about us isn't pleasant.'

‘Are they, though?' said Libby.

‘Of course they are. We said we thought they knew who we were, and now we've had a strange man come and join us, we're the subject of all sorts of speculation. Lucky we can get down the steps here instead of having to go through them all.'

Libby followed her down the stairs, resisting the urge to look back at the group at the other end of the terrace.

‘Odd, though,' she panted as she tried to catch up. ‘This isn't a tourist hotspot by any means, but they do have summer visitors. Why did they assume we were who we are? If you know what I mean.'

Fran looked back at her and grinned. ‘Well, once we'd mentioned “the locals” and Sally, it was a pretty foregone conclusion, wasn't it?'

Libby pulled a face. ‘You mean once
I'd
mentioned it.'

‘He was suspicious as soon as we appeared. He said himself they don't get many casual visitors, and if they all knew about Alec's and Sally's deaths and the British tourists who found Alec it would be a good guess. And we – or you, all right – confirmed it for him. There's something they know that we don't, but I don't think Geoff or his constructed Christine are murderers.'

Libby giggled. ‘Constructed Christine! I like that. She was, wasn't she? I wonder what attracted her to bumptious Geoff?'

‘Money,' said Fran.

‘But out here? She's more Marbella than remote Turkish village.'

‘Escaping something?' suggested Fran. ‘In which case that could be the reason they're a closed community.'

Libby gasped. ‘You mean like the Costa del Crime?'

‘Don't they say ex-pats are often trying to escape something?'

‘Yes – the weather, usually,' said Libby.

‘Alec Wilson himself might have been trying to escape something.' Fran stopped and looked at Libby.

‘And whatever it was caught up with him?' Libby stopped too. ‘Actually, that makes more sense than anything else.'

‘I expect Commander Smith will look into his background,' said Fran, resuming her now slower pace down the drive, ‘which the local force would never have done.'

‘Do you think it's more likely to be someone or something from his past than something or someone from here?'

‘It's as likely, anyway,' said Fran. ‘I expect our Johnny will look into it.'

Back at Jimmy's they joined the others for lunch and brought them up to date on the morning's happenings.

‘So now we've got a high-ranking British police officer involved,' said Ben. ‘I don't know how you do it.'

‘It wasn't us!' said Libby indignantly. ‘It was the consulate.'

‘And they felt it was necessary because?' asked Peter.

‘The local force wouldn't have looked into his background, and we knew he's been in touch with his long lost mum, so we need to find her,' said Libby.

‘Nothing to do with nosing out a murderer?' said Harry.

‘The consulate want him to do that, of course,' said Fran, refusing to be roused.

‘And he's actually asked you to help search the victims' houses?' Peter sounded incredulous.

‘He says the Jandarma wouldn't do it properly.' Libby was defensive. ‘And they wouldn't know if they found anything because they can't read English.'