LITMIR.BIZ

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Couldn't be easier.’

      Libby told Mandy the story. ‘So, we're looking at months, if not years, before I'll be in business for myself.’

      ‘Well, when you do, I wondered—’

      The phone rang. Libby, wishing she'd taken it off the hook, made a 'sorry' face at Mandy and answered. ‘It's me. In Los Angeles.’

      ‘Max. You're kidding. Really?’

      ‘Really. I thought you'd want a progress report.’

      ‘Report away.’ She had things to say to Max when he got back, but they could wait.

      He talked fast. ‘I saw Susie's husband, Mickey. He's a jerk.’

      ‘As we thought.’

      ‘Quite. Well, he said, and I quote, he was sorry Susie was dead, but he hadn't seen her for years and he's far too busy with a new family to come to the funeral. He doesn't know what Susie was doing in Exham, and by the way, he wants to know if the will's been read yet. I suppose he's hoping to be in it.’

      ‘Is there a will?’

      ‘Your guess is as good as mine. Susie never mentioned it, but if she signed one, she might have left it with a solicitor.’

      ‘What about the rest of her band? Did you track them down?’

      ‘Mickey's assistant gave me addresses.’ Libby heard a smile in his voice. ‘Nice girl.’ He'd have taken her out to dinner and pumped her for information. ‘Guy the violinist and James the keyboard player left years ago and went back to England. The addresses may be out of date, but it's a start. I asked her if she knew about Susie's solicitor, but she didn't. Said Susie left all the business to Mickey. I'm heading back.’

      ‘Back to Somerset? Not going to enjoy Los Angeles a while longer?’

      He snorted. ‘Alone in a hotel? Not my idea of fun. How are things?’

      She paused. She wouldn't tell him about Joe. She didn't want to get involved in family jealousies. ‘Fine.’

      ‘Good. What about Mrs Thomson?’

      ‘She showed me photos.’

      The silence dragged on. ‘Photos?’

      ‘Of Annie Rose. Didn't Mickey mention her?’

      ‘Who's Annie Rose?’

      He didn't know? ‘Mickey and Susie had a little girl who died when she was seven.’

      The sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone told Libby it was news to Max. ‘Susie sent cards, and photos of her daughter to Mrs Thomson. Mickey didn't think to mention her?’

      ‘I'm speechless. Look, I'll be home late on Saturday. Let's meet on Sunday: lunch at the Lighthouse Inn.’

      ‘You'll be jet-lagged.’

      ‘I've got through it before. A glass of pinot noir does the trick.’

      Used to jet-setting around the world, then. Libby felt suddenly small and naïve. An afternoon in the local National Trust House, playing at dressing up, while Max flew halfway around the world, probably club class. Bet he'd been everywhere. ‘Libby?’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Thought we'd been cut off.’

      ‘I was thinking. Can't you get back to Mickey and ask him about the little girl?’

      ‘Tell you what. Email a copy of the little girl's photo for me to show him I mean business, and I'll try.’

      Libby bit the inside of her cheek. She hadn't thought to ask for the photo, but she wasn't about to admit it. She'd have to nip back to Mrs Thomson's bungalow. She sighed. The car was in Jenkins' garage. ‘I'm in the middle of something, I'll send it this evening.’

      ‘OK. No hurry. Mickey won't go to bed at 9 o'clock, I bet. He'll be out on the town with his trophy wife. The secretary will tell me where he goes: I'm meeting her again at one of the bars here later today.’

       Of course, you are. She couldn't resist you, could she?

      ‘By the way. None of my business, but what exactly are you in the middle of?’

      The cheek of the man. ‘Mandy's here. You know, from the bakery? She's lodging with me. She came to-to…’

      ‘To get away from her Dad?’

      ‘Something like that.’

      ‘OK. Good idea. He's a menace. Send the photo as soon as you can, Libby. See you on Sunday.’

      Mandy appeared in the hall. Libby grabbed her keys. ‘I'm popping out for a minute.’

      ‘Can I come?’

      Libby couldn't think of a reason to refuse. ‘We'll have to walk.’

      15

      Breaking and Entering

      ‘Mrs Thomson?’ Libby rapped on the door. The light was on in the house and she could hear the TV. Mrs Thomson must have turned the sound up. Libby banged again, harder, and pressed the bell, keeping her thumb on the buzzer, but no one came.

      Mandy spoke from behind Libby's shoulder. ‘I'll go around the back.’ She disappeared. Libby kept up the banging and ringing, but no one came. Where was Bear? He should be barking his head off by now.

      Maybe Mrs Thomson had gone away. She might be visiting a friend, or a sister.

      ‘Libby. Get help.’ Mandy was back, panting. ‘I looked through the window. I think she's had a fall.’

      Libby dialled 999, hand shaking, remembering the last time she'd had to ring the police, on Tuesday. ‘Fire, police or ambulance?’

      ‘Ambulance. Police. Both.’ Heart pounding, Libby ran with Mandy to the back of the house and peered through the kitchen window. The room gave nothing away: clean, neat and as tidy as before; plates stacked on the draining board; tea towels folded over the sink to dry. Mandy grabbed Libby's arm and pointed. The door to the hall stood ajar, and through the gap, Libby caught a flash of green. She groaned. Mrs Thomson's slippers. She'd been wearing them when Libby visited.

      The door was locked. Libby shook it, but it held fast. She stood back, struggling to stay calm and sum up the problem. A pane of glass ran down the middle of the door. Libby gripped her phone in both hands and smashed it hard, into the panel. Broken shards clattered to the kitchen floor. She elbowed jagged fragments inwards, pulled the sleeve of her jacket down round her wrist, and slipped her arm through the door. The tips of her fingers touched the key. Grunting, she forced her shoulder further in, more splinters tinkling to the ground, until she could grasp the key between thumb and finger and turn it in the lock.

      Praying Mrs Thomson hadn't shot the bolt across from the inside, Libby leaned on the handle. To her relief, the door swung open. She crunched across glass and pushed open the inner door. The old lady lay at the foot of the stairs, the back of her head angled against the wall. Mandy whispered. ‘It looks as though her neck's broken.’

      Another body. A wave of nausea struck Libby. She swallowed it down. No time for that, now. She felt Mrs Thomson's neck for a pulse, and fingered her wrist, horribly aware she'd done exactly the same for Susie.

      ‘I think she's dead.’

      Mandy's hand clamped to her mouth, muffling her voice. ‘She must have fallen down the stairs.’ She tugged Libby's elbow. ‘Can't we do anything? Shouldn't we put a blanket over her, or something?’

      ‘It's too late for that.’ A news programme still blared from the television, echoing through the house. Libby's head pounded. She strode to the sitting room, found the remote control and switched off the set. Silence fell. A cup of tea, half finished, sat in its saucer on the table, next to one of Libby's walnut brownies. No steam rose from the cup. The tea must be cold.

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