Murder by the Sea

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘No …’ Jane was hesitant.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Libby briskly, ‘I’ll pop a copy of the script over to you and you can have a read and see what we do. Mind you, panto reads very badly, so don’t give us up just on the strength of the script.’

  ‘OK. Would you like me to pick it up?’

  ‘No, I said, I’ll pop it over to you. Give me a chance to see your auntie’s house.’

  ‘Oh!’ Jane sounded surprised. ‘All right. I’m off this afternoon, actually, so would you like to come then?’

  ‘That fits in nicely,’ said Libby. ‘I have to see Fran – Mrs Castle – today –’ whether she likes it or not, she added silently ‘– so that’s perfect. See you about three? What’s the address?’

  Libby then rang Fran to tell her that she would be visited.

  ‘I’ll be in the shop until two,’ said Fran.

  ‘That’s OK,’ said Libby airily. ‘I shan’t be long.’

  Before she left for Nethergate, Libby booted up her computer and ran a search on illegal immigrants. The first few thousand entries appeared to be American, so she began to be more specific, until she finally came across some relevant news items from the Kent area.

  ‘Poor things,’ she murmured to herself, as she read. It seemed the immigrants themselves were the victims, yet were continually abused and reviled by the press and the public. Conversely, there were the stories of criminal activity by the immigrants themselves, but Libby wondered how much of that had been forced on them by circumstances. She shook her head. It was a nightmare.

  The biggest question, she thought, as she pushed Sidney into the conservatory to keep him away from the prepared vegetables in the kitchen, was why the body had been dumped on the island. Not killed there, presumably, as there wasn’t anywhere to land properly, and it was only the size of a supermarket. But why there? He must have been taken in a boat, and at night, or he would have been seen, he and his killer. And night trips round Dragon Island were a very dodgy business, as frequently reported in the local news. Many an unsuspecting tourist had come to grief on its hidden rocks and the inshore lifeboat had been called out many times to rescue indignant holidaymakers who were convinced that Someone Should Have Told Them.

  The only reason could be to delay discovery of the body and its identity. In which case, thought Libby, as she unlocked Romeo the Renault’s door, the killer, or whoever dumped the body, wasn’t local, or they would have known about George’s and Bert’s round-the-island trips. Nothing else ever came into the bay except the few yachts that tacked over from nearby marinas. A few privately owned small boats bobbed around in the tiny harbour, but Nethergate wasn’t known for its water sports or sailing. The beach was mainly sandy and curved prettily towards its twin headlands, one of which sported an old fashioned and unused red and white lighthouse on a rocky outcrop. The beach shelved slowly, so swimming was easy and safe, unless you were unwise enough to venture too far out.

  Perhaps that was it, Libby thought, perhaps he was a swimmer? But how would he have got so far above the waterline? And in a shirt and trousers? Perhaps someone was landing illegals under cover of darkness and he fell overboard? No, that wouldn’t wash – she made a face at herself – he couldn’t have got above the waterline. That was what made it so peculiar. If discovery were to be delayed, it would have been simpler to dump him in the water and wait for him to be washed up. She must find out where that would have been likely to be. Ask Jane to ask George and Bert.

  Libby parked opposite Coastguard Cottage on a yellow line, assuming she wouldn’t be very long. She knew she could watch for traffic wardens from her favourite window.

  Fran opened the door and Libby began to pour out her thoughts of the last hour.

  ‘So what do you think?’ she concluded, running out of breath and sitting down.

  ‘The same as you, basically,’ said Fran looking amused, ‘and the same as the police.’

  ‘Oh.’ Libby craned her neck to see out of the window. ‘They think the same. Have they got any answers?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How do they know he’s an illegal? And why do they think he was working here?’

  ‘There were various physical clues, as far as I know,’ said Fran, ‘like dental work. And his clothes were from one of the supermarkets.’

  ‘Hmm. So have you called Ian? And Campbell thing?’

  ‘I spoke to Ian this morning – he wasn’t on duty yesterday – and he’s going to call Campbell McLean. I think he thought the official approach would be best to save my embarrassment.’

  ‘So you don’t know what you’re going to have to do?’

  Fran shrugged. ‘No idea. But TV investigations over the years have been really useful, haven’t they? They’ve uncovered scandals and scams and all manner of things. Ian says it’s because even if the police are undercover, it’s often hard to get the money or the manpower to mount an operation, and sometimes it would amount to entrapment, which would then weaken the prosecution’s case, or not even get past the CPS.’

  ‘Golly!’ said Libby, round-eyed. ‘Don’t you know a lot?’

  Fran’s cheeks showed two spots of colour. ‘Only what Ian’s told me.’

  Libby’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not –’ she began.

  ‘No, I’m not.’ Fran shifted in her chair. ‘I’m cured of Ian.’

  ‘Does he know that?’

  ‘I think so. Guy does, anyway.’

  Libby laughed. ‘Cor! Fancy having two men fighting over you in your fifties.’

  ‘They weren’t fighting.’ Fran was on the defensive. ‘They just – well – fancied me. Never been known before.’

  ‘It must have been once, Fran. You’ve got three children.’

  ‘You know what I mean. Since I turned forty I don’t think a man’s as much as looked at me.’

  ‘And now look at you.’ Libby sat back and admired. ‘There’s a definite glow about you these days. And I’m sure you’ve lost weight.’

  ‘I haven’t, you know,’ Fran laughed. ‘Now I’ve got the roller-skate and I don’t have all those stairs to climb to the flat I’m not taking as much exercise, so I’ve actually put it on, if anything. I think it’s the clothes. You’ve taught me to be much more relaxed.’

  ‘Well,’ said Libby dubiously, ‘that’s as maybe, but you certainly don’t look like me. You still look tidy.’

  ‘That’s partly my hair,’ said Fran, running a hand through her thick, dark, straight bob. ‘It just naturally falls tidily. Yours doesn’t.’

  ‘No,’ said Libby, with a sigh. ‘Mine just looks like a rusty brillo pad. Ah well.’ She stood up. ‘I’d better go before Romeo gets a ticket. Did you want to come with me?’

  ‘To see Jane? I think it would be embarrassing under the circumstances, don’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps. Can I tell her you’re going to help with the investigation after all?’

  ‘No, you can’t! As far as I know, this is going to be completely undercover, and Kent and Coast have got to promise to keep me anonymous.’

  ‘Even when it’s all over?’

  ‘Not sure. I mean, I haven’t even heard from Ian as to whether he’s spoken to McLean yet.’

  ‘Will you let me know when you do? Or is this another one where you’re supposed to keep me out of the picture?’

  ‘I expect that’s what Ian will say,’ said Fran with a grin, ‘but I can see a case for having a bit of camouflage along if I have to go poking around.’

  ‘First time I’ve ever been called camouflage,’ said Libby, with an answering grin. ‘Right, I’m off. I’ll let you know what Jane and her house are like.’

  Jane’s house was at the other end of Nethergate bay, on the higher cliff, beyond The Alexandria, which stood at the cliff edge looking down at the town. A tall, thin, flint house in a terrace of four, it, like Coastguard Cottage, looked out over the bay, but, as Libby discovered, with a very much more eye-catching view.

  ‘Wow!’ she sai
d, as Jane led her into her living room at the top of the house. The window was long and low and had chairs set either side.

  ‘Do you ever do anything except look out of the window?’ she asked.

  Jane laughed. ‘I didn’t at first,’ she said, ‘but you do get used to it a bit. In summer the visitors provide most of the entertainment, and you’ve got the fairy lights all along the promenade, but in the winter it’s a bit bleak.’

  ‘Still you’ve got a nice fire,’ said Libby, turning into the room.

  ‘It’s a gas coal one,’ said Jane. ‘I couldn’t haul logs all the way up here, so I had the old gas fire taken out and this one put in.’

  ‘Did you have to do much to the house when you inherited?’

  ‘Quite a bit. It had been maintained to a basic level while Aunt was in the home, but when I took over I had to start doing all sorts of things before the authorities would let me carry on letting.’

  ‘But I thought you said the agency dealt with all that?’

  ‘They do, but ultimately it’s my responsibility. I’ve got two good tenants, though, and Terry does loads of little jobs around the place.’

  ‘Terry?’

  ‘My first floor tenant. He’s ex-Grenadier Guards, and so neat and tidy you wouldn’t believe. And conservative! Queen and Country before all things, and doesn’t swear in front of the ladies.’

  Libby laughed. ‘A lot of the older generation are like that, though, aren’t they? I suppose it’s being in the army makes him so self sufficient.’

  ‘Terry isn’t exactly older generation.’ Jane smiled as she looked out of the window. ‘There he is now.’

  Libby looked down and saw a tall, immaculately suited, dark haired young man climbing the steps to the front door.

  ‘Goodness,’ she said. ‘Why did he leave the army?’

  ‘No idea.’ Jane shrugged.

  ‘And why isn’t he with someone? Why is he single?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jane, beginning to show the same signs of impatience Libby had noticed in her conversations with Fran.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. I’m just incurably nosy,’ said Libby, turning away from the window. ‘Anyway,’ she fished in her basket, ‘here’s a copy of the panto script. Now you’re not to think of auditioning. I just want you to come over and see if there’s anything you feel like getting involved in, even if it’s only serving behind the bar on performance nights.’

  ‘It’s a proper theatre, then, with a bar and everything?’ Jane took the proffered script.

  ‘Oh, yes. I thought you knew? You mentioned The Oast House Theatre on Saturday.’

  ‘I’d heard of it, probably in connection with The Alexandria.’ Jane’s forehead wrinkled. ‘It was in our paper, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I expect so, it was in ours. I don’t see the Mercury. Anyway, we’re holding the audition on Thursday, so come over then.’

  Jane nodded. ‘Unless I get a shout,’ she said.

  ‘What’s a shout?’ asked Libby, interested. ‘A story?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jane put the script on a coffee table. ‘Can I get you some tea?’

  ‘That would be lovely,’ said Libby, and followed Jane out of the room.

  ‘Nice kitchen,’ she said, looking round the large, light space. ‘It must be lovely living here.’

  ‘It is,’ said Jane. ‘It would be perfect if it wasn’t so lonely.’

  ‘What about your tenants? Don’t you see them?’

  ‘Terry comes up sometimes if he’s found some job to do, and sometimes I ask him to do something. Mrs Finch has been here since my aunt converted the house into flats, in fact, I think she was a regular holiday maker when it was a boarding house. She looks on me as an upstart.’ Jane pulled a rueful face. ‘And then there’s the empty ground floor flat which was my aunt’s.’

  ‘Can’t you let it?’

  ‘Not many people want to live here in the winter, and I don’t want to do holiday lets, they’re too much trouble.’

  ‘Which agents are you with?

  Jane gave her the name of the same agents who had handled Coastguard Cottage before Fran bought it.

  ‘Well, they’re very competent. Have you advertised it in your paper?’

  ‘No, the agents put it in one of their ads regularly,’ said Jane, handing Libby a mug. ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ said Libby. ‘But surely you’d get a special rate on an ad? And you could put a picture in and really sell it. You’re a writer.’

  ‘I suppose I could.’ Jane looked thoughtful. ‘But I’d want anyone who answered it to go through the agents. You don’t know who might turn up.’

  ‘Perfect! You advertise it and put the agent’s number. Not the front, though.’

  ‘Not the front? What do you mean?’ Jane led the way back to the sitting room.

  ‘A picture of the front. Someone might recognise it.’

  ‘Someone might turn up on the doorstep, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, and that obviates the reason for putting the agents’ number on.’

  ‘Right.’ Jane looked down into her mug. ‘I suppose I could get one of the paper’s photographers to take some pictures for me.’

  ‘You don’t sound too sure,’ said Libby.

  ‘I’d rather it was somebody I knew.’

  ‘You know the photographers, surely?’

  ‘Not well. They’re mostly free-lancers.’

  ‘You could ask Terry.’

  Jane looked up, colouring faintly. ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘You said you asked him to do the odd job. That’s all this is.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Jane looked doubtful.

  Libby deemed it wise to change the subject and began to ask questions about Jane’s job, which led, inevitably, to the body on Dragon Island.

  ‘I’m still the reporter on the case,’ said Jane, ‘but I can’t get a handle on it. I get the police updates, but only the official take.’

  ‘They still think it’s an illegal immigrant, then?’ asked Libby, innocently.

  ‘I think so. But I can’t make out why he was so high above the waterline.’

  ‘I wondered that,’ said Libby, nodding approvingly. ‘But –’ suddenly, she got up out of her chair and went too the window.

  ‘What?’ said Jane.

  ‘Suppose,’ said Libby, turning round with an excited expression on her face, ‘just suppose – he was dropped!’

  ‘Dropped?’

  ‘By a helicopter! Like a rescue in reverse.’

  ‘Surely a helicopter would have been noticed much more than a boat?’

  ‘At night?’

  ‘Even more at night,’ said Jane firmly. ‘It’s much quieter, and a helicopter hovering over the bay would have everybody out of their houses immediately.’

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ said Libby. ‘I thought I’d cracked it.’

  Jane smiled. ‘Yes, I could see you did.’

  ‘Oh, well, I’ll keep working on it.’ Libby grinned. ‘I expect all the talk in the pubs is about the same thing.’

  ‘George and Bert talk about it, anyway,’ said Jane.

  ‘I must meet those two,’ said Libby.

  ‘Come and have a boat trip one day,’ offered Jane. ‘It’s a very relaxing way to spend a few hours. I’ll let you know when I’m going out with one of them.’

  ‘Great.’ Libby came back to her chair and picked up her basket. ‘And now I’d better get back. I’ve got a meal to cook.’

  Jane saw her to the front door of the flat. ‘Don’t come down,’ said Libby. ‘It’s far too far to climb back. See you on Thursday unless I hear from you before then.’

  Satisfied that Jane’s door was closed, Libby went down two flights of stairs until she stood in front of the front door to the first floor flat. She knocked.

  The young man she’d seen from Jane’s window opened the door, now clad in a pale blue T-shirt.

  ‘Are you Terry?’ asked Libby.

  ‘Er – yes,’ said Terry, looking startled.

&
nbsp; ‘I think Jane wants your help with something,’ said Libby. ‘Some photographs, I think.’

  ‘Photographs?’

  ‘Of the vacant flat.’ Libby smiled sweetly. ‘For the paper.’

  ‘Oh.’ Terry still looked bewildered.

  ‘She’ll explain,’ said Libby. ‘Thanks very much.’ And she set off down the last flight of stairs, beaming.

  But on her way home, her thoughts turned from matchmaking back to the body on Dragon Island. And, quite suddenly, she thought she knew. Someone had wanted it to be found.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘YES,’ SAID FRAN. ‘THE police think that, too.’

  ‘They do?’ Libby felt deflated. ‘I thought I’d made a breakthrough.’

  ‘I’ve said before, haven’t I, they always get there before we do.’

  ‘Then why are you going to do this undercover stuff for them? And why did Ian ask you in over the Alexandria business?’

  ‘Specialist consultant,’ grinned Fran. ‘That’s what he calls me.’

  ‘Well tell me, then. Has he been in touch again?’ Libby peered out of Fran’s window to check on Romeo, parked once more on the yellow line.

  ‘Yes. Campbell McLean will call me, apparently.’

  ‘And he told you they thought the body was meant to be found?’

  ‘I told him. And he agreed.’ Fran looked out of the window.

  Libby looked at her thoughtfully. ‘When did you decide that?’

  Fran shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It was just there. You know.’

  Libby nodded. ‘Oh, well,’ she said, standing up, ‘let me know what happens next.’

  ‘I will,’ said Fran. ‘And don’t go interfering in young Jane’s life any more.’

  Libby felt colour rising up her neck. ‘I won’t,’ she said.

  Later that evening, Ben said much the same thing over Libby’s painstakingly prepared stir-fry.

  ‘I’m not interfering. Just making suggestions,’ said Libby. ‘Anyway, Jane’s coming to our audition on Thursday, by which time the ad should be in the paper if young Terry comes up to scratch.’

  ‘Poor bloke,’ said Ben, forking up noodles. ‘He won’t know what’s hit him.’

  ‘I won’t have anything more to do with him, will I? He can’t take exception to one conversation with me.’