‘No! I was thinking more of a – oh, I don’t know – a cultural centre.’
‘A what?’ Now he was laughing.
‘No – listen. One of those places where they have creative holidays, you know, painting courses and creative writing courses. And provide accommodation.’ Libby turned back, a look of excitement on her face.
‘Are there such places?’
‘Oh, yes. When we get home I’ll show you. It’s a brilliant idea.’
‘But, Libby, they’re not dead yet,’ he said gently.
‘Oh, bother.’ Her face fell. ‘How bloody insensitive.’
‘No, it’s a great idea, and if you’re still painting and your Rosie’s still teaching creative writing when the time comes we’ll have the creative core, won’t we?’ He pulled her to him. ‘And I tell you what, I bet neither Mum nor Dad will want to stay here on their own anyway. I bet they’ll want to go into one of those units with Flo and Lenny.’
‘Het might, but Greg wouldn’t.’
‘He wouldn’t have much choice,’ said Ben, ‘if we aren’t going to move in to look after him.’
‘Oh, that makes us sound mean,’ said Libby, pulling away.
‘No it doesn’t. He wouldn’t want that, anyway.’
Libby sighed. ‘It’s all very difficult. You’ll have to talk to them about it. Het’s obviously thinking about it or she wouldn’t have mentioned it to me.’
Ben nodded. ‘I’ll do it this afternoon. You go home and prepare a light but sustaining snack for supper.’
Libby groaned. ‘Don’t talk about food.’
‘That’s why I said light.’ Ben dropped a kiss on her cheek. ‘Go and say your goodbyes and I’ll see you later.’
Libby walked slowly down the Manor drive wondering what it would be like when Ben’s parents were no longer there. They had been a part of her life as long as Ben had and the thought was incredibly depressing.
By the time she turned into Allhallow’s Lane her mobile was ringing.
‘Where are you?’ said Fran.
‘Walking home from the Manor. Why? What’s so urgent?’
‘Ian called. He wants to see us.’
‘Wants to -? Why?’
‘About the barn. He wouldn’t talk over the phone.’
Libby’s stomach took a dive. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘That’s what I thought. But at least he said he’ll come to us, we don’t have to go to the station.’
‘Where? Are we to be interrogated separately on our own turf?’
‘No,’ said Fran, and Libby looked up.
Detective Inspector Connell was leaning on the bonnet of his car with a thoughtful look on his face.
Chapter Twenty-one
‘HE’S HERE,’ LIBBY SAID into the phone.
‘I’m on my way,’ said Fran. ‘I’m on hands-free.’
‘Hands -? Oh, the mobile. In the car. OK, see you in a bit.’ Libby put the phone in her pocket and stopped in front of Ian. ‘Hello.’
‘Libby.’ Ian stood up and looked down his nose at her.
‘OK.’ She sighed and fished for her key. ‘What have we done now?’
‘I’ll tell you when Fran arrives,’ said Ian, following her into the house and tripping over Sidney. ‘Blasted cat.’
‘Well, she won’t be long.’ Libby went through to the kitchen to put on the kettle.
‘Was that her on the phone? From her car?’ Ian followed her.
‘Yes, but on the hands-free.’ Libby turned to face him. ‘You know how law-abiding Fran is.’
Ian made no comment, merely folded his arms and leant against the door jamb. Libby sighed and took the teapot down from above the Rayburn.
‘Hello?’ Fran called from the front door. ‘You left it open.’
‘That was Ian.’ Libby looked at him accusingly. ‘Hardly security-conscious was it?’ She pushed past him into the sitting room. ‘Sit down, Fran. I’m making tea.’
Ian came in and took a chair by the table in the window. ‘Do I get a cup, Libby?’
Libby sniffed and returned to the kitchen, where she loaded a tray with mugs, milk in a jug and a sugar bowl. She poured the boiling water into the teapot and carried the tray into the sitting room.
‘Right,’ she said, depositing it on the table. ‘While we wait for it to draw, you can tell us what we’ve done.’ She sat down on the sofa.
Ian looked amused. ‘I love the way you assume I only want to talk to you because you’ve done something wrong.’
‘Well, it’s usually that or you’re warning us off,’ said Libby.
‘What about when I invited you over to the White Lodge with Professor Wylie?’
‘You wanted information,’ said Fran. ‘Is that what you want now?’
‘In a way.’ Ian gestured to the teapot. ‘Is that ready yet?’
Libby grudgingly got up and poured three mugs of tea.
‘Thank you.’ Ian sipped gratefully. ‘Haven’t had a chance to catch my breath today.’
Fran and Libby exchanged surprised glances. This wasn’t like Ian.
‘Nice to know you come here to relax,’ said Libby. She turned to Fran confidentially. ‘He fell asleep in that chair once last winter, Fran. Poor old soul.’
Ian put down his mug. ‘It’s not actually funny, Libby.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Which of you is going to tell me what happened when you went back to the barn?’
‘You know what happened.’ Fran frowned at him. ‘I told you.’
‘That you thought it might be a cannabis factory, yes. What made you think that?’
‘You don’t mean to say it
Ian looked at her. ‘I said, what made you think it was?’
‘It wasn’t me, it was Fran. She remembered a report on the local news.’
‘All right, Fran, what made you think it was?’
‘I thought the windows might have been blacked out. We couldn’t actually get close enough to see, and there aren’t many windows anyway. And it looked as though someone had hacked through the undergrowth but tried to cover it up.’ Fran looked nervous. ‘I’m sorry, have I wasted your time?’
Ian sighed. ‘Not exactly. Was that all you noticed?’ He turned to Libby. ‘And you saw nothing else when you went on Saturday?’
Libby shook her head.
‘I suppose,’ Ian went on, ‘I should have had you both down to the station for questioning, and I have no doubt whatsoever that I shall get hauled over the coals for not doing so, but I know you both so -’ he paused. ‘We did go in. At least myself and DS Maiden did.’
He was quiet for so long, staring into his mug, that Libby began to get worried.
‘Ian,’ she said, ‘please. You’ve got something to tell us. Put us out of our misery.’
He looked up. ‘You were right.’
‘Cannabis?’ they said together.
‘No. Murder.’
Libby drew in a sharp breath but Fran just stared. ‘Not TB victims?’ she said in a shaky voice.
‘No, Fran, I’m afraid not. But victims plural, I’m afraid, yes.’
‘In the barn?’ whispered Libby through a throat that felt as if it had closed right up.
‘Yes. It looks as if it’s quite organised. Almost a little cemetery.’
‘But how?’ said Fran, who was looking anguished. ‘Why didn’t I know?’
