Murder in the Blood Read Free

room.’
    By the time the friends met at the bar in the evening, the events of the afternoon had been discussed and dissected over and over. Several of the other guests of the hotel had also gathered for pre-prandial drinks and had to hear the story all over again, so when the bright blue van drew up and discharged three uniformed Jandarma officers it came as a an unpleasant descent into reality.
    Jimmy’s office was not large enough to accommodate nine adults, so the senior officer unwillingly took over a corner of the bar building and glared at anyone who dared come anywhere near it. As it happened, neither he nor his two underlings spoke English, so Jimmy had to leave his position at the bar to stand in as interpreter. Luckily, some of the other guests were long-term visitors and took over as temporary barmen.
    After some obviously dissatisfactory verbal skirmishing, Jimmy turned to his guests.
    â€˜The man was English,’ he said. ‘This officer thinks you know him.’
    â€˜Why?’ asked six voices.
    â€˜Because you are English.’
    General laughter. The officer looked thunderous.
    â€˜We don’t know every English tourist here,’ said Ben.
    â€˜He was not tourist. He lives in the village,’ said Jimmy, darting an uncomfortable look at the three Jandarma.
    â€˜Oh, I see,’ said Libby. ‘Well we don’t know anyone who lives here, I’m afraid. Only the people we’ve met since we arrived.’
    Jimmy repeated this to the Jandarma.
    â€˜Has he got a photograph?’ asked Fran suddenly.
    Jimmy repeated the request. Grudgingly, the senior officer brought out a blurred photograph.
    â€˜Where did they get that?’ asked Harry.
    â€˜His passport,’ said Jimmy. ‘In a bag tied to his …’ He indicated his waist.
    Fran picked up the photograph, raising her eyebrows at the officer, who nodded. She pushed back her chair and went over to the bar. It drew the other guests in the bar like iron filings to a magnet. After a moment, Fran returned to the others with the lone Englishman, panama in hand, in tow.
    â€˜This gentleman says he recognises the picture,’ she said, and sat down.
    The officer waved a hand and spoke rapidly to Jimmy.
    â€˜He says you can go, but he will speak with this gentleman. Mr Parnham.’ Jimmy sat down beside the newcomer, looking even more miserable.
    â€˜Well!’ said Libby, as they retrieved their drinks from the bar. The rest of the guests milled round wanting to know what happened.
    â€˜I wonder,’ said the woman they’d been talking to earlier, ‘if that bloke knew the dead man? I said he looked as though he knew where he was going when we took him into the village, didn’t I?’
    â€˜Perhaps he did,’ said Ben.
    â€˜We’ll ask him when he comes back,’ said Libby. ‘I’m Libby, by the way.’ She held out a hand.
    â€˜I’m Greta Willingham. This is my husband, Tom.’ Greta took the proffered hand and introductions were made all round.
    â€˜You said he was English?’ asked someone else, as chairs were pulled up into a rough circle.
    â€˜So the officer said.’ Guy sat down next to his wife.
    â€˜I bet Sally would know him,’ said Greta.
    â€˜Sally?’ queried Fran.
    â€˜Sally Weston. She’s lived here for years,’ explained Tom. ‘She started by coming out on holiday and stayed.’ Tom turned to Guy. ‘You must have met her when you were coming here before.’
    Guy looked worried. ‘Don’t tell me I met you and I’ve forgotten?’
    â€˜Only in passing,’ said Greta. ‘You were always with your little girl. How is she?’
    â€˜Sophie? All grown up now. Did an art degree at university.’
    â€˜Oh, you were an artist, weren’t you?’ said Tom.
    â€˜Yes, and I do apologise for not remembering you,’ said Guy. ‘So, no, I don’t remember a Sally.