‘And don’t listen to Jane Maurice in future,’ said Fran as she held the door open. ‘She seemed a nice little thing, but I refused to talk to her, so why she thought I’d talk to you I can’t think.’
‘She probably thought you would be swayed by a vision of fame and riches,’ laughed the reporter.
‘So did you,’ Fran reminded him, ‘so you were both wrong.’
He handed her a card. ‘If there ever is anything you want to talk about, will you give me a ring?’
‘Do you mean about this investigation?’
‘Anything, Mrs Castle, anything at all. If you think the Isle of Wight has fallen into the sea, just call me. I’ll take you seriously.’
She watched him walk up Harbour Street towards The Swan, noting that the blue tape was in place, then closed the door and looked at the card.
‘Campbell McLean,’ she read out loud. She went to the window and looked out, but he’d disappeared. ‘Well, Campbell McLean, we’ll see about you. And now for young Maurice.’
She found her mobile and looked up the number of the Mercury.
‘News desk,’ said a tired voice.
‘Jane?’ Fran said gently.
‘Mrs Castle?’ Jane’s voice perked up immediately. ‘I’m so glad you called –’
‘You won’t be,’ interrupted Fran.
‘Oh?’
‘Who told Kent and Coast Television about me?’
There was silence.
‘Don’t worry, I know it was you.’ Fran sighed. ‘And don’t you ever do it again. For a start, you know nothing about me. I am most definitely not a psychic investigator, or whatever they’re called, I work occasionally in the art gallery in Harbour Street.’
‘But –’
‘No buts, Jane,’ said Fran. ‘That’s all I do and all I want to do.’
‘What about Goodall and Smythe?’
It was Fran’s turn to be silenced.
‘Goodall and Smythe?’ she repeated. ‘What about them?’
‘You did psychic research for them.’ Jane’s voice was accusing.
Fran sighed again. ‘Not really. I used to go into houses for them if there was a suggestion of any – um – unpleasantness. That’s all.’
‘That is psychic research.’
‘Not in my book, and I doubt it is in theirs,’ said Fran. ‘It was over a long time ago, anyway, and I haven’t lived in London for the last year.’
‘So you’re not helping the police?’
‘No, Jane. I’ve already told you. And why the bloody hell you sicked Kent and Coast on to me I don’t know. Now, leave me alone, please, and if you print anything about me, I’ll sue.’
‘All right, all right,’ said Jane, ‘I won’t. But you can’t blame me for trying.’
‘I suppose not. Thought you’d got an angle on the story, did you?’
‘Yes.’ There was a rueful note in Jane’s voice now.
‘Sorry to disappoint you. And now I must go, someone’s knocking on my door.’
And I hope it’s not Mr Campbell McLean back again, she thought as she switched off the phone.
But it wasn’t. On her doorstep stood Detective Inspector Ian Connell.
Chapter Three
FRAN JUST STOOD AND looked at him, knowing exactly why he was there.
‘Fran,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ she said taking his hand briefly.
‘May I come in?’
Fran sighed. ‘I suppose so,’ she said.
He came in to the sitting room and looked round. ‘Nice,’ he said.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘Tea would be lovely, if it’s no problem.’
Fran went in to the kitchen and filled the kettle. He was going to ask her about the body. So had those reporters known? Was it just a good guess? Had something been said at a press conference? Although she knew it wouldn’t. That wasn’t the way the police worked. In fact, she wasn’t the way the police worked normally, but since she and DCI Murray had come up against each other over a previous murder, Ian Connell had shamelessly picked her brains.
‘The body on the island,’ she said, bringing in two mugs of tea.
Ian Connell turned sharply from the window.
‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
He came forward to take the mug she held out, looking sheepish.
‘Yes. How did you know? Oh –’ he held up a hand ‘– silly question.’
‘No, nothing like that,’ said Fran, sitting down in one of the huge armchairs by the fireplace and indicating that Ian should take the other. ‘I had a local paper reporter and then Kent and Coast Television both on to me asking if I was helping the police with their investigations.’
‘What?’ Ian’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. ‘Why did they think that?’
‘The local reporter, Jane Maurice, had done her homework and knew I’d helped you in the past. She also knew I’d worked for Goodall and Smythe. When I wouldn’t talk to her, she told Kent and Coast.’
‘Enterprising, isn’t she?’ Ian Connell was obviously amused. ‘Have you seen the Mercury?’
‘No.’
‘She managed to get the front page.’
‘Not with me?’ Fran was horrified.
‘No. She was actually the one who spotted the body. She was out on George Isles’s boat. Gift for a young reporter. She also got it into one of the nationals who sent it out on a media wire, but of course the local radio and TV networks had already got it by then.’
‘How? Libby said something about a media wire,’ said Fran, ‘but how did they know before that?’
‘Oh, Fran.’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘They’re ambulance chasers.’
‘Oh, I see,’ said Fran, who didn’t.
‘Anyway, young Miss Maurice was responsible for getting it out on a media wire and did herself a bit of good. I expect she thought she was on to a winner with you.’
‘Unfortunately, it seems that she was right,’ said Fran shrewdly.
‘Ah.’ Ian looked down into his mug.
‘Are you going to ask me to help?’
‘That was the general idea, yes.’
‘But I’m nothing to do with this one at all.’
‘You were nothing to do with the last one, either, until you and Libby got personally involved. You could hardly do that with this one.’
‘You don’t know Libby,’ muttered Fran.
‘Oh, yes I do.’ Ian laughed. ‘And that reminds me, are you doing her panto again this year?’
* * *
‘So what do we have to do?’ asked an eager Libby sometime later when Fran rang to tell her about the visitors.
‘We don’t do anything,’ said Fran. ‘He wants to take me to see the body.’
‘Oh, yuck!’ said Libby. ‘You’re not going, surely?’
‘No, of course I’m not. I did say I’d look at any belongings that might have been found, but apparently there weren’t any.’
‘Oh, poor man,’ said Libby. ‘No clothes?’
‘Only a shirt and trousers, and they looked old.’
‘Second-hand?’
‘How do I know, Libby? Honestly.’ Fran shook her head at the telephone.
‘So when is he going to show you these things?’
‘I’ve got to go to the police station tomorrow morning. But they already think he’s an illegal immigrant.’
‘Yes, I told you, Harry said that last night.’
‘But they think he might have been working over here, not one of those poor people who smuggle themselves in lorries.’
‘Oh. Does that make a difference?’
‘Apparently. If he’s been working, he may have been brought over by an illegal scam. Remember the Chinese in the lorry at Dover?’
‘Oh, God, yes,’ said Libby. ‘And the Morecambe Bay winkle-pickers.’
‘Well, there are a lot more than that. It’s huge busine
ss, and these people organise false papers and passports and get them working for peanuts in all sorts of places. Restaurants –’
‘Chinese restaurants?’ Libby put in.
‘Possibly. I don’t know. Fruit farms –’
‘Oh, I know,’ said Libby. ‘The pickers round here are nearly all Eastern European, aren’t they? Do you mean to say they’re all illegal?’
‘I don’t know.’ Fran was beginning to sound exasperated, which, Libby reflected, was something that frequently happened during their conversations.
‘Oh, well. Perhaps you’ll know after you’ve been to the police station. When did you say you’re going?’
‘Tomorrow morning. I’ll let you know what happens. I’ve got Chrissie and Bruce coming tomorrow, too, which makes life a bit difficult. I think they want to ask me a favour.’
‘Money?’ asked Libby.
‘I shouldn’t think so … although Brucie Baby is quite likely to decide he can manage my investments or something. No, it’s more likely to be something I can do for them, usually with maximum inconvenience to me.’
‘Let me know if I can do anything,’ said Libby, reflecting on her own children, who never seemed to want anything from her other than the occasional bed. Fran had already had an extended visit from her daughter Lucy and grandchildren Rachel and Tom, which had kept Libby away from Nethergate until they reluctantly returned to London. Not that she had anything against children, after all, she’d had three of her own, but they exhausted her and she never quite knew what to say to them. And she’d found Lucy a needy sort of person who resented her mother’s independence and the removal of an on-tap babysitter.
‘I might try and wriggle out of it, actually,’ said Fran.
‘What, the police station?’
‘No, Chrissie and Bruce. I could phone up and say the police need me, couldn’t I? Bruce would hate that.’
‘Try it,’ said Libby, amused. ‘And let me know what happens.’
After ringing off from Libby, Fran returned to staring out of the window, something she found herself doing far too often. Then, taking a deep breath, she punched in her daughter’s number.
‘Mum?’
‘Chrissie. I’m awfully sorry, but we might have to put off your visit.’
‘What? Oh, Mum, you are the end. All our arrangements are made. What can be more important?’
‘I have to go to the police station –’
She was interrupted by a shriek. ‘The police station? What have you done?’
‘I’ve been asked to advise on a police matter,’ she began, but once more, Chrissie cut her off.
‘Advise? What for? What could you advise on?’
‘It doesn’t concern you – or it needn’t anyway. But I have got to be away for the whole morning and possibly the afternoon,’ said Fran stretching the truth somewhat.
‘Well, I suppose if you have to,’ said Chrissie grumpily, ‘but I must say it’s most inconvenient.’
‘Sorry, darling,’ said Fran, magnanimous in triumph. ‘Anyway, why don’t you tell me what it was you wanted to ask me?’ By the silence which greeted this question, she guessed she’d been right. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Well, yes and no.’ Her daughter’s breathless voice sounded faintly excited.
‘Oh?’ No point in saying anything else. All would be revealed.
‘You know we’re moving on Friday?’
Oh, god, she’d forgotten. ‘Yes?’
‘Well, it’s all got a bit much, and I wondered – if you weren’t doing anything –’ there was a pause while Fran racked her brains for what possible favour Chrissie wanted. ‘Well, could you come and mind Cass?’
‘Mind Cass?’ she repeated stupidly. Had she a grandchild she’d forgotten?
‘Cassandra. The cat.’
‘Oh. Mind her? Why? Where?’
‘Well, here. And there. She’s in kitten, you see.’
‘I’m sorry, Chrissie, I don’t quite follow. Why does she need minding?’
‘Because she might go into labour in transit – or while we’re unloading, or even before we’ve left. Supposing we lost her just as we were about to leave. You know what cats are like. They go off and find bolt holes.’
‘I thought that was when they died.’
‘Well, yes –’ Chrissie sounded vague. ‘But I’m worried. Could you come? We won’t ask you to do anything else, I promise.’
No, of course they wouldn’t. Chrissie’s formal and uptight husband viewed Fran with deep gloom every time she wandered across his path, which was not very often.
‘When do you want me?’ As if it mattered. She wasn’t exactly snowed under with social engagements.
‘Friday morning? We can’t put you up here because we’ll have taken down all the beds. Could you get here then?’
‘By what time?’
‘Well, the van’s arriving at eight –’
‘Eight?’ Fran yelped. ‘I’m not driving anywhere that early in the morning.’
‘Oh.’ Chrissie sounded deflated. ‘Well, I suppose you could sleep on the floor here – we’re going to.’
‘No, Chrissie,’ she said firmly. ‘My sleeping-on-floors days were over a long time ago. Either I sleep in a decent bed there or I don’t come. One or the other.’
There was a muffled colloquy at the other end of the line, then Chrissie came back with renewed vigour.
‘Bruce says we’ll book you into The King’s Arms for the night. Will that be all right?’
Fran smiled at the phone. ‘Fine.’
‘Er – we’re eating there, actually, Thursday night, so would you like to join us for dinner?’
Fran chose to ignore the lack of enthusiasm. ‘Lovely. What time?’
‘Eightish. Will you be all right getting here?’
‘Yes, thank you, dear.’ She wasn’t completely incapable.
‘I’ll give you the money for the petrol.’
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘All right, then, Mum. We’ll see you Thursday at The King’s Arms at eight. You’re sure it’s all right? You weren’t doing anything else?’
‘Nothing I can’t put off.’
‘OK then. See you Thursday. And thanks, Mum.’
Fran cut the call and redialled Libby’s number.
‘Done,’ she said. ‘They want me to babysit their precious pregnant Siamese cat while they move.’
‘You mean they aren’t coming tomorrow?’
‘No. I told you, all they wanted was a favour. This was it.’
‘What about Balzac?’
‘I’ll ask Guy,’ said Fran. ‘After all, poor old cat was left alone for long enough before he came to me, wasn’t he?’
‘Meanwhile,’ said Libby, ‘you’re now free to go investigating after all.’
‘No, Lib,’ said Fran, firmly. ‘Just free to go to the police station.’
‘And see Guy. I bet you weren’t going to introduce him to Chrissie and Bruce.’
‘No,’ said Fran, with a sigh. ‘They’d have frightened him off for good.’
‘Or he might have frightened them off. When do you have to go and look after the cat?’
‘Next Thursday. I’ll be back Friday evening, I expect. I’ve made them pay for a hotel overnight,’ Fran added gleefully. ‘They didn’t like that.’
‘So will you let me know what happens tomorrow?’
‘Yes, I’ll call you when I get home.’
Libby put the phone back on its rest and went out to the conservatory. The picture started on Thursday was on the easel looking flat and dull. Perhaps she ought to go over to Nethergate again and have another go at it? She smiled and gave it a pat. Of course she should.
Chapter Four
SATURDAY SAW THE SUN shining once more on Nethergate. The Swan sat at one end of Harbour Street in all its black and white glory and The Sloop sat at the other in its more modest flint. Between the two strolled holiday makers, passing and re-passing Fran’s Coastguard Cottage. Lizz
ie’s tiny ice cream shop was doing a brisk trade, as was the Blue Anchor, and the seagulls were having a field day with discarded chips. As Libby prepared to set up her easel opposite Coastguard Cottage, she noticed Mavis from the Blue Anchor scowling at a family whose children were distributing most of their lunch across the hard in front of them. Libby shook her head in sympathy. Visitors didn’t realise how much harm seagulls could do, and how dangerous they could become.
The Dolphin and the Sparkler were both out and all signs of a police presence had been removed. Nethergate was back to normal.
Or perhaps not, thought Libby, noticing the small brown haired person making her way purposefully along the sea wall towards her.
‘Mrs Sarjeant?’ said this person, slightly breathlessly.
‘Yes,’ said Libby, cautiously, her brush poised in mid air.
‘My name’s Jane Maurice.’
Of course. The person she and Fran had seen on Thursday morning, and who had accosted Fran in her home yesterday.
‘What do you want?’
Jane Maurice looked taken aback at Libby’s tone. ‘I – I just wanted –’
‘Mrs Castle has already told you she doesn’t want to be bothered by the press, hasn’t she?’ said Libby, trying to look fierce.
Jane nodded vigorously. ‘I know. It’s nothing to do with that. I wanted to talk to you.’
‘To me?’ Libby put the brushes down. ‘What on earth for? And how did you know who I was?’
‘Mavis told me.’ Jane looked sheepish. ‘I was down here to see George and Bert, only they’ve both gone out –’
‘The Dolphin and the Sparkler?’
‘Yes. I go out with them sometimes. And Mavis just pointed you out.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Well, she said: “There’s that Mrs Sarjeant who does them theatricals over to Steeple Martin” or something like that, and said you were somehow instrumental in the restoration of The Alexandria. So I thought I’d come and ask you about it.’
‘Did you?’ Libby looked sceptical. Coming hard on the heels of Jane’s attempt to get Fran to talk, this was hard to accept. The Alexandria itself had been mixed up in a murder, too, and this looked suspicious.
Jane noticed, and sank down on to the sea wall. ‘Oh, well, it was worth a try,’ she sighed. ‘I can’t seem to get anywhere in this town.’
Murder by the Sea - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series Page 3
