Murder by the Sea

by Lesley Cookman

  ‘And this bloke must be one of them.’ Libby gazed down at the soup she was stirring. ‘I wonder why the police haven’t traced him yet?’

  ‘He probably hasn’t been reported missing if he’s not supposed to be here.’

  ‘But they must have some idea of which farms are using these people?’ Libby looked up. ‘They’re being exploited, aren’t they?’

  ‘I’m sure the police are onto them, but it’s probably quite a big operation. Connell will have already done something about that.’

  Libby ladled soup into two bowls. ‘I hope so,’ she said, ‘but I still don’t really see what the Transnistrian woman and the Italian girl have to do with anything, do you?’

  ‘No. I think it’s Fran making assumptions.’

  ‘Exactly. She’s under too much pressure.’ Libby put a bowl down in front of Ben and sat down herself. ‘And yet she did have this very convincing “moment” on the boat.’

  ‘That’s what’s so interesting,’ said Ben. ‘She’s had those before, hasn’t she? When she went to The Laurels after her aunt had died? But this was even more dramatic, you said?’

  ‘She all but passed out.’ Libby sighed. ‘The other times are when she sort of knows things without being told. And that’s what she’s trying to find now, I’m sure. Ian’s investing in her to the extent of pushing her into the arms of Kent and Coast Television and she feels she’s got to justify his faith, yet the only things that have really come out of it have been her sea moment and her feeling about Jane’s house, which has nothing to do with anything at all.’

  Ben paused with his soup spoon half way to his mouth. ‘Are you sure Jane’s got nothing to do with all this?’

  ‘Not you, too.’ Libby frowned at him. ‘That’s what Harry said. How can she have anything to do with it? She’s only been here a year, and she just happened to be on the boat when the body was spotted.’

  Ben sipped his soup. ‘But that’s the point,’ he said. ‘She was on that boat.’

  Libby put her spoon down and stared at him in horror. ‘You’re not suggesting she was actually supposed to be on that boat? To spot the body?’

  Ben shrugged. ‘Well, it makes a sort of sense, doesn’t it? No one else had spotted it.’

  Libby stared at him for a moment longer. ‘I just don’t believe it,’ she said finally. ‘And why, for goodness’ sake?’

  Ben sighed. ‘I don’t know, do I? You’re the detective. I was just saying what seemed obvious.’

  Libby thought. ‘It doesn’t seem obvious to me,’ she said eventually. ‘And it’s no good asking Fran at the moment, is it? She’ll go off on a wild goose chase.’

  ‘And that’s usually you, isn’t it?’ Ben grinned slyly.

  ‘They haven’t turned out to be wild goose chases, have they?’ said Libby. ‘I admit I’m not very scientific, but I’ve got there in the end.’

  ‘Well, let’s forget about it, now,’ said Ben. ‘We’ve got the whole weekend to look forward to without thinking about bodies and Italians, so finish your soup and let’s get on with it.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  FRAN WAS SOMEWHAT PUZZLED to find herself outside Jane Maurice’s house later that afternoon. Feeling confused and unsettled, she’d decided to go for a walk without thinking about where she was going. And now, here she was.

  She gazed up at the house wondering why it seemed important. Turning to sit on a bench overlooking the sea, she tried to analyse the feeling. As usual, she was unable to do so. There was none of the suffocating blackness that she now associated with death, simply a feeling that the house was important. Not Jane herself, Fran acknowledged, just the house. But important to what? Surely not the body on the island? She searched her mind trying to find connections, aware as she was doing so that this was just what Libby said she’d been doing – trying too hard – when the front door opened and a man came down the whitewashed steps. Terry? she wondered. But this man looked older than Terry, whom Libby had described as around thirty.

  Good-looking, she thought, very dark and going grey. This must be Jane’s new tenant. Her eyes followed him down the hill and past The Alexandria.

  ‘Fran?’

  Fran jumped and turned round. ‘Oh, Jane! You startled me.’

  ‘I just wondered what you were doing sitting here outside my house.’ Jane stood with her arms folded, frowning suspiciously.

  ‘Nothing.’ Fran laughed a little guiltily. ‘I just found myself here. I expect it was a result of our conversation on the boat.’ She nodded down the hill. ‘Is that your new tenant?’

  Jane’s expression cleared. ‘Mike, yes. He seems very pleasant.’

  ‘I thought he wasn’t moving in until Monday?’

  ‘Oh, the agents cleared his money and his references, so there didn’t seem any point in waiting,’ said Jane. ‘Besides, the quicker he’s in, the quicker I start getting rent.’

  ‘Is he English?’

  ‘English? With a name like Mike Charteris? I should say so. Why do you ask?’

  ‘He looks so dark.’ Fran smiled brightly. ‘Don’t take any notice of me, I’ve got foreigners on the brain.’

  ‘Understandable, I suppose,’ said Jane. ‘Look, would you like to come up and have a cup of tea? Terry might come up as well in a minute. He’s been doing something to the locks on the downstairs flat, so I owe him a cup.’

  ‘Love to.’ Fran stood up and smoothed down her skirt. ‘Won’t Terry mind?’

  ‘No, of course not. Why should he?’ Jane led the way up the steps to the front door. Fran admired its stained glass panels and then, as she stepped inside, felt a shiver of recognition. She stopped.

  ‘Anything the matter?’ Jane turned back.

  ‘No.’ Fran shook her head. ‘Just struck cool coming in from that sun.’

  ‘I know. Quite cold, these old Victorian houses, aren’t they? Come on up.’

  So she’d been right, thought Fran. There was something about this house. But it was nothing to do with the body on the island.

  While Fran was admiring the view over the bay, she heard the door open behind her.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  Fran turned round to find herself face to face with a tall, good-looking young man in a T-shirt and jeans.

  ‘You must be Terry?’ she said. ‘I’m Fran.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ He wiped his hand on his jeans and held it out. ‘The lady who lives on Harbour Street?’

  ‘That’s right. Jane told you, did she?’

  Faint spots of colour appeared on Terry’s cheeks. ‘Yeah, well. We had a drink the other night.’

  ‘Right.’ Fran nodded. Libby was right, then. Romance was in the air.

  Jane came in carrying two mugs, and went a similar shade of pink. ‘Oh, Terry,’ she said. ‘I’ll get another mug.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Terry, backing towards the door. ‘You’ve got a guest.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Jane hastily, ‘I was telling Fran about you.’

  This time they both went even pinker, to Fran’s amusement.

  ‘I believe you met my friend Libby, too,’ she said, to diffuse the situation.

  ‘Yes.’ Terry nodded and looked towards the kitchen. ‘Shall I get myself a mug, Jane?’

  Gosh, they’ve progressed quickly, thought Fran, remembering what Libby had told her about their relationship.

  ‘No, I’ll get it.’ Jane hurried back towards the kitchen and Fran sat down.

  ‘Lovely view this flat’s got,’ said Fran. ‘I suppose yours is similar?’

  ‘Not as good, because it’s lower down, but yeah. Good.’ Terry offered a small smile.

  ‘And you were here when Jane’s aunt still lived in the ground floor flat?’

  ‘Only just. Before she went into a home.’ Terry shifted in his chair and looked towards the kitchen. His expression changed to one of relief as Jane came through the door.

  ‘Aunt Jessica?’ She put Terry’s mug on a side table by his chair. ‘She went into a home a
year before she died, didn’t she Terry?’

  ‘Yes.’ Terry took an unwise sip of his hot tea and winced. ‘I wasn’t here all the time, and Mrs Finch couldn’t get up and down from the basement, so no one could look after her.’

  ‘Basement?’

  ‘What they call a garden flat. The ground floor is actually above ground level.’

  ‘Of course, the steps up to the front door. So Mrs Finch has her own entrance?’

  ‘Yes, which is at the back with no steps to go down. Ideal for her. She’s quite old.’ Jane sipped her own tea and flashed a glance towards Terry. ‘You help her, though, don’t you, Terry?’

  Terry shrugged. ‘Now and then. Little jobs, you know. Like I do for you.’

  Fran looked from one to the other and hid a smile. It was rare in her experience, to see a young couple in the throes of this sort of old fashioned courtship. She hoped it would last.

  ‘Mrs Finch was here when your aunt was here, too, was she?’

  ‘Yes. She used to come here when Aunt Jess ran it as a B&B. I told Libby, I think she looks on me as an upstart.’

  ‘Your aunt must have inspired loyalty,’ said Fran.

  ‘I think her guests liked it because it was informal and Nethergate is such a lovely, traditional seaside place.’

  Fran’s gaze turned back to the window. ‘It certainly is. I’ve loved it since I used to come on holiday as a child.’

  ‘Libby said something about that,’ said Jane. ‘Where did you stay?’

  ‘In the cottage I live in now,’ smiled Fran. ‘My uncle owned it.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Like me, then.’ Jane grinned happily.

  ‘More or less,’ agreed Fran. ‘Did you stay with your aunt when you were a child?’

  ‘Yes, often. I didn’t see her so much after I grew up, and now of course, I feel guilty.’

  ‘Did she have no children of her own?’ Fran tutted. ‘Sorry, that was insensitive. She can’t have done if she left the house to you, can she?’

  ‘No, she never married,’ said Jane. ‘There was some talk in the family about a man during the war, but I was too young to know anything about it.’

  ‘Was she a career woman?’ asked Fran. ‘After all, this house must have cost quite a lot, whenever she bought it.’

  ‘I’ve never thought about that,’ said Jane. ‘I suppose she must have bought it, because otherwise it would have been left to her and my grandfather.’

  ‘He was her brother?’

  ‘Yes. My father was her nephew and she treated him like a son.’ Jane gazed at the window.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve been being awfully nosy,’ said Fran.

  ‘No, you haven’t. It’s fascinating.’ Jane turned bright eyes on Fran. ‘I shall have to do some digging.’ She looked across at Terry who was trying to look as though he wasn’t there. ‘Will you help me?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Of course. Whatever.’

  Fran finished her tea. ‘I must be going. I didn’t intend to stay out this long. Will you let me know if you find anything out? Not if it’s personal of course. It’s just as you say, it’s fascinating.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ Jane got up to see her out. ‘I’ve just never thought about it before. It was always Aunt Jess’s house – it never occurred to me to wonder how she came by it.’

  ‘And it shouldn’t have occurred to you, either,’ said Libby later, answering her mobile. ‘You’re seeing mysteries where there aren’t any.’

  ‘Jane thought it was interesting, too,’ protested Fran.

  ‘Jane was probably in a state of high excitement because Terry was there.’

  ‘Oh.’ Fran looked out of her window at her own view of the bay. ‘Oh, and I saw the new tenant too.’

  ‘Really? He’s all above board, then?’

  Fran sighed. ‘Yes. Very English and normal-looking.’

  ‘So nothing to investigate there?’

  ‘No,’ said Fran, sitting down suddenly. ‘Nothing at all.’

  Libby sighed gustily. ‘So, what are you going to do? Speak to Ian about your sea moment and the Polish builders?’

  ‘If there are any Polish builders. They might all be bona fide British builders.’

  ‘Or bona fide Polish builders.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ It was Fran’s turn to sigh. ‘But yes, I’ll call him on Monday.’

  ‘And Kent and Coast?’

  ‘I’m going to try and get out of it.’

  ‘No, don’t do that,’ said Libby slowly. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

  Behind her, Ben groaned.

  ‘What?’ said Fran.

  Libby turned and scowled at Ben. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow,’ she said. ‘When I’m alone.’

  ‘So did you call Ian?’ Libby, on Monday morning, floundered through a muddy farm track in her borrowed wellington boots, while a fine rain created a mini-stream down the back of her neck.

  Fran, a few paces ahead following the disapproving back of Campbell McLean, nodded.

  ‘What did he say?’ Libby gasped, sliding dangerously close to the splits.

  ‘Not a lot.’ Fran’s voice wafted back covered in icicles. That makes me today’s most unpopular person, thought Libby, wondering why, if they all felt this way, they’d actually agreed to make this investigative trip. Campbell McLean wasn’t even filming.

  ‘Bet his editor’s not too keen,’ muttered Libby to herself, as the recalcitrant boots took her face to face with an enquiring cow over a wire-link fence. ‘All this time wasted on nothing, when he could be doing lovely little fillers all over the region.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Fran stopped and looked back.

  ‘Nothing.’ Libby concentrated on getting the boots back on track.

  ‘If you’re complaining, you’ve only got yourself to blame.’ Fran turned and began to pick her way along the track. ‘This was your idea.’

  ‘I’m perfectly well aware of that,’ said Libby, drawing herself up to her full height and looking haughtily up at Fran. ‘And if it was such a mad one, why have both you and McLean over there gone along with it?’

  Fran was silent.

  ‘There see, you’ve got nothing to say, have you?’ Libby looked smug.

  Arriving in a somewhat dilapidated and run down looking farm yard, Fran stopped and watched as Campbell McLean, braving the unfriendly overtures of a sheepdog, disappeared round the side of a barn.

  ‘After our conversation yesterday, I called Ian, told him about the sea moment and the Polish builders,’ she shot Libby a further frosty look, ‘and then mentioned your idea. He said as there’d been nothing from the television end so far, we might as well follow it up. So he set it up with McLean. And you saw how pleased he was about it when we got here.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

  ‘When? I didn’t have it confirmed until this morning, and I didn’t think I had to report to you after every telephone conversation.’

  Libby looked up from under her brows. ‘Hmm,’ she said.

  ‘And what does that mean?’ Fran let out her breath in an angry gust.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Libby again. Fran stared at her for a long moment.

  ‘Almost monochromatic in the rain, isn’t it?’ said Libby after a few minutes silence. ‘I wonder where that man’s got to?’

  She was answered shortly by the man’s reappearance, trailing a stocky individual wearing a body warmer and a cap.

  ‘Farmer,’ muttered Libby. ‘Central casting.’

  Fran compressed her lips.

  ‘Fran, Libby, this is Mr Budgen,’ said Campbell McLean, as he came level with them.

  Fran smiled and held out her hand. Mr Budgen, with a surly nod, shook it. Libby kept her hands in her pockets. The sheepdog was circling them making unpleasant noises and Campbell McLean watched it nervously.

  ‘So what was it you wanted, then?’ Budgen looked from one to the other of the women.

  ‘Just a short piece on the overseas farm workers for the e
vening news,’ said Fran, and hesitated.

  ‘Because of the new legislation,’ put in Libby, earning herself surprised looks from all her listeners. ‘There are fewer workers, aren’t there? This year? And if you can’t get your crop picked in time, you’ll lose money?’

  Budgen’s sandy brows drew down until they formed a straight line above his eyes.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Strawberry crop was affected, wasn’t it?’ Libby noticed with satisfaction that her words were striking a chord. ‘Because only Romanians and Bulgarians can come over now, and the other EU workers don’t want to do fruit picking any more.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ Fran asked in astonishment.

  Libby smiled in triumph. ‘Ben. He knows all about it. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Now he’s in charge of the Manor Estate.’

  Campbell McLean screwed up his eyes and glared at Libby. ‘And he is?’

  Libby glared back. ‘My partner. None of your business.’

  McLean looked taken aback.

  ‘So,’ she continued, returning to Budgen, ‘you’ve still got workers, but not through SAWS?’

  ‘Eh? Saws?’ said Fran in a faint voice.

  ‘Seasonal Agricultural Workers Scheme,’ said Libby offhandedly. ‘Open to abuse of course.’

  Fran shook her head. ‘I’m lost,’ she said.

  ‘No, I remember,’ said McLean. ‘We’ve done pieces on it before, several times, and there was that big case a couple of years ago, wasn’t there?’

  Libby nodded, a teacher bestowing approval on a bright pupil.

  ‘So, Mr Budgen, is that what’s happening?’ Libby turned back to the farmer, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

  ‘I’ve got workers,’ he muttered.

  ‘Bulgarians and Romanians?’ asked Libby.

  Budgen nodded. ‘Far as I know.’

  ‘Could we talk to some of them?’ said McLean.

  ‘Don’t know much English, most of ‘em,’ said Budgen.

  ‘Well, can we bring the cameras back and interview you and film some of them working?’

  ‘Behind enough as it is,’ said Budgen. ‘Don’t want no more interruptions.’

  ‘Are there any other farms who might be willing to talk to us?’ asked Fran.