Libby called softly. ‘Bear?’ No answer. She called again and whistled. What was that? She strained her ears. The sound had come from her right, where a sturdy shed nestled against a ragged yew hedge. Libby tugged at the door until it creaked open. Bear sprawled in the corner. He raised his massive head, staggered to his feet, whined, wobbled and lay down again.
Libby's stomach heaved as she caught the acrid scent of sick. A pool of vomit stank nearby. Fresh scratches covered the shed door, where the dog had tried to get out. Bear whined again, and lay, head on paws, exhausted.
‘What happened to you, Bear?’
The shed was clean and warm, and a selection of doggy toys suggested Bear sometimes slept there. His basket was lined with old sweaters, positioned close to an empty bowl. Judging by the nearby splashes, it had recently held water. Another bowl held a lump of meat, half eaten. Bear had only taken a bite or two.
Libby rubbed her knuckles against the top of his bony head and the dog nuzzled her hand. ‘What did they give you? You seem to be on the mend, old thing. I'll take you home with me and look after you today.’ She straightened up. ‘But first, I need to get into the house.’ There was a toolbox in the shed. This was going to be easier than she'd thought.
The lock on the back door was still broken. The police had nailed hardboard roughly across the opening, half to the door, the rest attached to the frame. She'd better be quick. A locksmith would probably arrive this morning, to secure the house properly.
She opened the toolbox, glanced round to check she was alone, grasped the biggest hammer firmly, hooked the claw behind the first nail and twisted. The nail popped out. So did the second. The third was awkward, bending and sticking, and Libby's hair was stuck to her head with sweat by the time she wrenched it out.
As she levered out the fourth and final nail, the door swung open and she stepped inside. The broken glass had been swept away. She tiptoed into the front room, stopped and straightened. No need to tread with such care; there was no one in the house to hear her. She let her gaze rove across the crowded tables and shelves. Nothing had changed since she'd been here with Mrs Thomson.
The old lady's presence seemed to fill the air. Libby shivered and whispered, ‘I hope they didn't scare you, before they shoved you down the stairs.’ How exactly had she died? Libby's head spun with different scenarios. Maybe they took Mrs Thomson by surprise, and she died, mercifully, hardly knowing what happened. Or perhaps the killer was someone Mrs Thomson knew and trusted. Lonely, she might have let them in, just as she'd welcomed Libby.
Libby doubted that. Mrs Thomson had said she never answered the door after six.
‘I won't mess up your house, I promise. I just need those photographs.’ Libby spoke out loud, as though the old lady could hear her.
The album lay where she'd last seen it, among a pile of notebooks and scraps of paper.
‘I'll find out who killed Suzanne,’ Libby added.
She started to flick through the stack of papers, fingers fumbling. Her head flew up. What was that noise? Someone was outside.
She grabbed the pile of papers and books, along with the album, and thrust them all into her shoulder bag. Just in time. The door flew open.
‘What the—’ Detective Sergeant Ramshore slid to a halt, halfway between Libby and the door, arms folded. ‘Mrs Forest. I might have known. This is breaking and entering, you know.’
Libby thought fast. ‘I'm worried about the dog. I came back to find him.’
Joe hooked his thumbs into his belt. ‘Well, one of my men found him in the shed. Looks like he slept there last night, so you can go home again, Mrs Forest, and please, please, just stay away.’
‘I was going to take him home with me, if he's well enough.’
Joe's face cleared. ‘Good idea. Make yourself useful. And don't come back.’ He stood aside and Libby slipped past, making light of the heavy shoulder bag, hoping he wouldn't ask to see inside it. Sometimes, age and gender had its uses. He'd have spent longer talking to a pretty young girl, and he'd have been suspicious of a man, but a woman of a certain age, old enough to be his mother…
Maybe he'd decided Libby was just a foolish, interfering older woman. She bit her lip to keep a tell-tale smile from her face.
‘Wait.’ Joe held up a hand. Libby stopped, heart racing. She'd celebrated too soon. Was he about to search the bag? She'd have a job explaining the stack of stolen papers. ‘I've got some news. I suppose you're entitled to hear it first, as you found her.’
‘About Mrs Thomson?’ Libby stood sideways, her bag clasped under the arm furthest away from the officer, her body shielding it from view.
‘No, about Susie Bennett. The complete postmortem shows more bruising than we thought: more than the pathologist thinks would result from being thrown about in a storm.’
‘Bruising? What does that mean?’ No harm in continuing to play the innocent woman.
‘It means you may be right, crazy as it sounds. Susie Bennett might, just possibly, have been murdered.’
‘Do you – do you know who did it?’
He leaned back against the wall, legs set apart, every inch the bold investigator. ‘Not yet. I'll be surprised if we ever find out. A body on the beach, in a storm. No evidence, you see. Still, don't leave town, Mrs Forest.’
Libby slipped out of the room, clutching the bag tight to her body.
Joe had already lost interest in her. ‘Better get the door fixed right now, Evans, before the rest of the town comes to visit.’
By the time she arrived home, Bear trooping, listless, beside her, Libby's shoulder ached from the weight of books. Her mind raced. As she'd turned to leave Mrs Thomson's sitting room, she'd glanced out of the window. From there, the widow could see right along the beach, to the pier on the left and the lighthouse to the right.
What if Mrs Thomson had stood, looking out into the storm, on Monday night? She might have seen something unusual. More than the storm and high tide. Something that had got her killed.
17
Guy
The faithful old Citroen was due for collection today. Libby checked the time. Yes, if she hurried, she could pick up the car and visit both of Susie's band members today.
Bear recovered fast, growing perkier every moment until he bounded up and down the hall with his usual vigour. How long could Libby keep a dog his size in this tiny cottage?
Oh, well, she'd worry about that later. Meanwhile, she dug out an ancient apple crate from the cupboard under the stairs, dragged it into a warm spot in the hall and lined it with old blankets. ‘There you are, my lad.’ She took a step into the sitting room and held her breath. Fuzzy lay curled by the door, in one of her favourite spots where hot water pipes lay under the floor.
Bear heaved himself to his feet, looming over the cat, panting.
Was Libby about to witness an epic fight? She grabbed Bear's collar. Fuzzy stood, yawned and stretched her back legs.
Then, to Libby's amazement, the cat began to purr. Libby dropped her hold on Bear. ‘When did you two make friends?’
The dog leaned over, touched his nose to Fuzzy, and settled down next to his new buddy.
Libby stashed Mrs Thomson's photo album in a drawer and walked to the garage. She'd spend the evening poring through the book for clues.
Alan Jenkins wiped oily hands on a blue overall. ‘Ah. Mrs Forest, there you are. She's just about