Murder by the Sea - Libby Sarjeant Murder Mystery Series Page 8

  ‘I don’t think she wants rescuing,’ said Ben with a grin. ‘But as you know, I always do as I’m told.’

  Libby quelled him with a look.

  Chapter Ten

  THE KING’S ARMS WAS near the market cross in the very middle of town. A black and white building notable for its carved wooden beams, much like The Swan in Nethergate, it was a favourite venue for Bruce and his ilk. Fran peered in to the restaurant bar as she passed, in case Chrissie and Bruce had stolen a march on her and were enjoying pre-prandial cocktails, but they were nowhere to be seen, so she struggled up the wide, shallow staircase with her case, looking forward to a refreshing shower and change of clothes before she presented herself for inspection.

  As it happened, Chrissie pre-empted her by knocking on her door at five to eight, while she was peering short-sightedly into the mirror to re-apply her lipstick.

  ‘Hallo, darling.’ Fran leaned forward to kiss her daughter’s round face. ‘How’s everything going?’

  ‘All right.’ A discontented frown settled on Chrissie’s unlined brow. ‘It’s hard work. I don’t know why Bruce wouldn’t pay for the removal men to do the packing as well.’

  ‘It costs quite a lot.’ Fran gave up waiting for an enquiry as to how she was, or how the journey had gone and went back to the dressing table. ‘I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  Chrissie sat on the bed and picked at the knife crease in her tailored navy trousers. ‘If I had any money of my own –’ she began.

  Fran closed her eyes and counted to ten.

  ‘If you’d only kept in touch with Dad,’ went on Chrissie.

  ‘Your father had no more money than I had, and well you know it.’ Fran put her lipstick and hair brush into her handbag and turned to face the bed.

  ‘Well, what about the house, then? Mountwhatsit Road? How much did you sell that for?’ Chrissie’s petulant face glared up at her mother.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Chrissie,’ snapped Fran. ‘However did you become so mercenary?’

  Chrissie stood up. ‘That’s not fair.’ she said. ‘I just need a bit of money of my own, that’s all.’

  ‘Then go out and earn it,’ growled Fran, pushing her out of the door and slamming it shut behind them.

  ‘Lucy doesn’t.’ Chrissie whined her way down the stairs.

  ‘Lucy has two small children to look after. Anyway, she’s looking for something to do now. Felix will forget to pay her maintenance if I know anything about him. So shut up and think yourself lucky.’ Fran opened the door to the restaurant and shoved Chrissie in ahead of her to where Bruce stood waiting for them, a fixed, welcoming smile on his bland features. ‘Or perhaps not,’ she mentally amended her last statement.

  ‘Fran.’ He leaned forward and pursed his lips in the general direction of her left cheek. ‘Lovely to see you. Pleasant journey?’

  ‘Very, Bruce. Thank you for asking.’ Fran shot an equivocal look at her daughter.

  ‘Well, come and sit down. I decided not to bother with a drink before the meal, but I’ve ordered a nice bottle of the house white to go with it.’

  Fran hoped Bruce hadn’t gone the whole hog and ordered the meal for her as well.

  ‘And how’s Cassandra?’ Fran asked brightly, as they took their seats at a small round table overlooking the flower filled courtyard. Ten minutes later, she was sorry she had asked. Her smoked salmon – not pre-ordered by Bruce – had arrived, along with Chrissie’s predictable prawn cocktail and Bruce’s pate, and she had almost finished her first prettily chilled glass of very drinkable white wine.

  ‘And, of course, when the kittens are born,’ Chrissie was saying, ‘they’ll be worth a fortune.’

  ‘Lucy’s got a new flat, by the way.’ Fran decided she’d heard enough about Cassandra.

  ‘What new flat?’ Chrissie sounded indignant.

  ‘If you thought about anyone other than yourself you could have asked how your sister was when you mentioned her before, and then you would have known.’ Fran sipped her wine, which Bruce, unusually for him, had thoughtfully topped up. He fidgeted and looked away.

  ‘I bet she didn’t ask about me.’ Chrissie was sulky.

  ‘Actually, she did,’ said Fran, keeping her fingers crossed and ignoring the fact that she had prompted Lucy’s enquiry, ‘and Bruce.’

  ‘Nice of her.’ Bruce cleared his throat. ‘Moving, is she?’

  ‘Well, she could hardly stay in that great big house on her own, could she? And Felix won’t pay the rent on it. So she has to move somewhere smaller.’

  ‘So where’s she going?’ Chrissie demanded.

  ‘Oh, a rented flat in the suburbs.’ Fran said vaguely.

  ‘Why does she want to stay in London?’ asked Bruce. ‘It’d be cheaper out here, for instance.’

  Fran forbore to tell him that Lucy wouldn’t live within a twenty-mile radius of Chrissie and Bruce if she could help it and gave what she hoped was a tolerant, motherly smile.

  ‘She’d have no friends, would she?’

  ‘She’d have us.’ Bruce ignored his wife’s sharp protest, which sounded, to her mother’s fond ears, like a cat with its tail trodden on.

  ‘Well, it doesn’t arise, so let’s forget it. It’s your move we should be talking about.’ Fran smiled brightly. ‘Everything’s organised, is it?’

  The rest of the meal, which was delicious, Fran was relieved to observe, was accompanied by an exposition of Bruce’s superior organisation. Everything, it appeared, had been taken care of, down to the last detail, which, Fran realised, was herself. When Bruce and Chrissie took themselves off to get an early night on the floor of their empty house, Fran heaved a sigh of relief and treated herself to a large gin and tonic in the bar before going back to her room to ring Guy and relieve her feelings.

  Friar’s Ashworth, the “new village” where Chrissie and Bruce were setting up home, wasn’t quite as bad as Fran had feared. Most of the executive estates had been designed tastefully, with venerable trees allowed to live and green spaces preserved between the clusters of houses. Children could play safely, and there were walkways to the small parade of shops in the centre, but there was a curious sense of impermanence, as if the whole thing was a stage set that was due to come down at the end of the run.

  Fran sat in the little room designated ‘the study’ by the developers and tried to console Cassandra, who made her displeasure at her confinement known in no uncertain terms. Siamese were the most unprepossessing of cats, Fran thought, gazing into Cassandra’s slightly crossed blue eyes, and they had the most cacophonous voices. But there, thought Fran, with a sigh, she was an expectant mother and as such must be pandered to.

  By the evening, both Cassandra and Fran were suffering from almost terminal boredom and claustrophobia, and it was a relief when the door was finally closed behind the removal men and Chrissie gave orders for their release.

  ‘Thank God for that.’ Fran stretched and yawned. ‘Can I go home now?’

  ‘Home?’ Chrissie looked bewildered. ‘I thought you were staying to help?’

  Fran lowered her arms and looked at her daughter suspiciously. ‘And who told you that?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘I don’t think so. As I remember, you asked me to come down and look after a pregnant cat during the move. I agreed, because you promised you wouldn’t ask me to do anything else. I was surprised, because Bruce has never embraced me with all the pent-up love in a son-in-law’s soul, but anybody can be of use, I suppose.’

  Chrissie picked a piece of fluff from her sleeve. ‘I don’t think that’s fair,’ she muttered.

  ‘On whom?’ asked Fran. ‘Me, you or Bruce?’

  ‘Oh, Mum.’ Chrissie turned away and aimed for the kitchen. Fran followed, peering around interestedly.

  ‘Wow, Chris. This is some kitchen.’

  ‘If it looked out at the front it would be better.’ Chrissie made her way between packing cases and picked up the kettle.

  ‘Not if you’ve
got children.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t,’ snapped Chrissie.

  ‘No, but these houses are designed for families, aren’t they? You need the kitchen looking out on the garden so that you can keep an eye on the kids.’ Fran idly unwrapped a plate and looked round for somewhere to put it.

  ‘Oh, put that down, Mum. If you’re going, you’d better go, so that we can get on with the unpacking.’

  ‘I thought you were making me a cup of tea? And anyway, how am I supposed to get back to pick up my car from here? Is there a station?’

  Chrissie looked at her mother with her mouth open.

  ‘Station,’ repeated Fran. ‘Railway station. With trains. Where is it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Chrissie looked worried. ‘I hadn’t thought –’

  ‘Has Bruce? Where is he, by the way?’

  ‘Putting the beds up. Hang on, I’ll call him.’

  It transpired, as Fran had guessed, that neither Bruce nor Chrissie had given a thought to how she was to get back to their old house and pick up her car. Bruce was obviously torn between getting rid of her as soon as possible – before the new neighbours saw her – and keeping her on to help until it was convenient for him to drive her back. Fran herself solved the problem by suggesting that she called a taxi.

  ‘But it’s miles.’ Bruce was horrified.

  ‘Well, how else am I to get there?’ asked Fran, reasonably. ‘Unless you drive me.’

  ‘I know,’ said Chrissie, with an air of enlightenment. ‘You drive Mum back and pick up a take-away on your way, then we won’t have to worry about food.’

  Fran suppressed her indignation at being left out of the catering arrangements in the interests of getting back to Nethergate and bade a fairly fond farewell to Chrissie and Cassandra, who by now was expressing her opinion of her new home in very unflattering terms.

  ‘So, you’re enjoying your new cottage?’ Bruce asked after a fairly long silence while he reversed his car out of the new drive and made his way cautiously out on to the main road.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Fran. ‘I hope you enjoy yours.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Bruce smiled, a trifle smugly. ‘Chrissie’s looking forward to putting it all to rights. Then she’ll get herself a little job.’

  ‘Oh?’ Fran raised her eyebrows. Did Chrissie know this, she wondered, so set was she in her anachronistic ways.

  ‘And what was it you were doing with the police last weekend?’ Bruce’s tone had altered.

  ‘Helping them with their enquiries,’ said Fran.

  ‘What?’ Bruce allowed his eyes to leave the road and gaze with horror on his mother-in-law.

  ‘I occasionally assist the police,’ said Fran calmly.

  ‘Assist them? How?’ Bruce returned grimly to the road ahead.

  ‘With aspects of their investigations. I give specialised advice.’ Fran looked at him sideways.

  ‘Not –’ he swallowed ‘– psychic advice?’

  ‘Of course.’ Now Fran was openly smiling. ‘I’m sure you heard about it when I inherited Mountville Road. Chrissie was most interested in that.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ Bruce cleared his throat. ‘So what is it this time?’

  ‘Murder.’

  ‘Murder?’ If Bruce wasn’t quite such a deliberately manly man, Fran would have said he squeaked.

  ‘It usually is,’ said Fran. ‘It was when Aunt Eleanor died.’

  ‘Er, yes.’ Bruce obviously didn’t want to think about murder in connection with his family-by-marriage. ‘Who is it this time?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Bruce. It’s no one any of us know.’ Fran patted his arm.

  ‘Why are you helping, then?’

  ‘I don’t only help when it’s something to do with me.’ Fran couldn’t help laughing at his astounded expression.

  ‘You mean – you’re called in?’

  ‘I’ve told you. That’s what happens.’ Fran looked round. ‘Look, we’re here. And the new people are already in your house.’

  Bruce pulled up and glowered at the front garden, now strewn with toys.

  ‘They’ll ruin my lawn,’ he muttered.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s not yours any more,’ said Fran opening the door.

  ‘But I planted it,’ said Bruce. ‘Oh, sorry.’ He clambered out of the car and belatedly shut the passenger door after Fran. ‘Well, thanks for your help.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Fran.

  ‘And I’ll have to call you in if ever I want someone found, won’t I?’

  Fran, assuming this was an attempt at humour, nodded smilingly.

  ‘We had this bloke at work, you see. Damn nuisance.’ Bruce leant back against the car and folded his arms. Fran frowned.

  ‘Really? Disappeared, you mean?’

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ said Bruce. ‘This bloke coming in from Italy …’

  ‘Italy?’ Fran’s voice sharpened.

  Bruce looked surprised. ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘I’ll come with you while you get your take away and you can tell me all about it,’ said Fran, pushing him back towards the car. ‘I knew today wouldn’t be a waste of time.’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘AND SO,’ CONCLUDED FRAN, ‘this chap from Italy promised them this huge order, apparently, and then simply disappeared.’

  Libby shifted the receiver to her other ear and fumbled for a cigarette. ‘And this is something to do with our body?’

  ‘He’s Italian, Libby. There’s a connection with the Italian girl.’

  ‘Oh, Fran, that really is stretching coincidence a bit far.’

  ‘I’m positive.’

  Libby could almost see Fran’s lips closing in a familiar stubborn line.

  ‘If you say so. What was his name?’

  ‘Roberto something. Bruce couldn’t remember. In fact, he got progressively more annoyed at my questions, so I didn’t dare push any harder. Still,’ she said with satisfaction, ‘I did get a take-away out of it.’

  ‘And why is there a connection with the disappearing Italian girl?’

  ‘It was in the same area that she lived in in London. That’s where Bruce’s firm is.’

  ‘That’s simply coincidence,’ reiterated Libby.

  ‘And he placed a huge order and disappeared himself. Cover, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Do you think he’s our body?’

  ‘No. Not sure what connection there is, but it’s six degrees of separation, isn’t it?’

  ‘Eh?’ Libby choked on a mouthful of smoke.

  ‘The body on the island is the same nationality as the Transnistrian girl –’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ interrupted Libby.

  ‘I do,’ said Fran. ‘Anyway, the Transnistrian girl borrowed the Italian girl’s passport, the Italian girl disappears, an Italian man appears and subsequently disappears. Link it all back.’

  ‘Yes, I can see there’s a nice neat chain, but absolutely no evidence that they’re connected. And how do you know about the body’s Transnistrian connection? Who told you?’

  ‘No one told me,’ said Fran.

  ‘Are you saying this is a psychic sureness? It doesn’t sound like it to me.’ Libby threw her cigarette into the fireplace. ‘I think you’re forcing yourself to interpret things the way you think they should be.’

  Fran was silent for so long Libby thought she’d cut the line.

  ‘Fran?’ she said eventually. ‘Are you there? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘I’m here.’ Fran sounded weary. ‘And it’s all right, Lib. To tell you the truth, I’ve been thinking the same thing myself. I was only saying so to Guy the other day.’

  ‘Too much pressure.’ Libby, relieved, sat back on to the sofa and drew her feet up. ‘Ian’s put you under pressure.’

  ‘Yes, that’s exactly what Guy said, and I agreed. But now and then I get a genuine flash.’

  ‘And have you had any about this whole case?’

  ‘Jane’s house and something to do with f
arms. That’s about it.’ Fran laughed. ‘Pathetic, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, forget it for a moment,’ said Libby. ‘Are you seeing Guy tonight?’

  ‘It’s a bit late, now, isn’t it? I even wondered if it was too late to phone you.’

  ‘It’s only just after ten, don’t be daft. Give him a ring and suggest a drink or something. Take your mind off things.’

  ‘All right, I will. But before I go, what happened last night?’

  Libby gave her a run down on the audition and finished up by telling her about Jane’s flat.

  ‘So now she’s got a new tenant, a tentative relationship with her Terry and a new hobby with us. Not bad, eh?’

  ‘And all thanks to you,’ said Fran. ‘You and your interfering.’

  ‘Well, you see how good interfering can be if done with the best of intentions,’ said Libby. ‘Now I’m going back to Ben in the garden. You go and ring Guy.’

  Ben handed her a topped-up glass of chilled Cava as she came back into the garden.

  ‘What was that all about?’

  Libby told him.

  ‘She wants to be careful,’ said Ben. ‘These TV people will be on her like a ton of bricks if she cocks up, and Ian won’t be too pleased, either.’

  ‘She’s not beholden to any of them,’ said Libby. ‘She’s not getting paid for any of this, and she’s only got to tell Ian it’s no good and she’ll be off the hook.’

  ‘With Ian, maybe, but can you imagine what capital Kent and Coast would make out of it? Fake Psychic Ruins Murder Investigation would be the least of it. And Fran could hardly muzzle them.’

  ‘But Ian could, if he thought it would harm the investigation.’

  ‘They’d only use it later, even if it was years later, as soon as the trial was over,’ said Ben.

  ‘Always assuming there was a trial,’ said Libby. ‘I can’t see them getting any further at the moment, can you?’

  On Saturday morning, another bright beautiful summer day, Jane knocked on the door of Coastguard Cottage and invited Fran out on the Dolphin.

  ‘Would Libby like to come, do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘It depends when you’re going out,’ said Fran. ‘She’d have to get over here from Steeple Martin.’