Chapter One

THEY DID BOAT TRIPS around the bay. George took the Dolphin chugging round the uninhabited island in the centre every other day and Bert took the Sparkler to the little cove round the point. The next day they changed over. Tourists asked them if they didn’t get bored doing the same thing all summer from Easter to September, but they just shrugged and smiled. The sea was always different, they said, the people were always different and the weather – well, the weather could be even more different. Sometimes they couldn’t go out for a week; one year they hadn’t gone out for the whole of August. Then they would sit in the Blue Anchor by the jetty, drinking tea and smoking, until the government forced them outside, where Mavis supplied them with a cheap canvas gazebo and an environmentally unfriendly heater.

But this year the weather was good. This year the regulars came back with smiles on their faces and the odd present of a bottle of whisky, which George and Bert would share on board the Dolphin or the Sparkler when the tourists went back to their hotels and apartments.

This year, too, there were the other visitors. Dark, olive-skinned, wary-looking, who worked in the hotel kitchens, cleaned the lavatories and worked on the farms outside the town. The tourists, for the most part, ignored them; the hoteliers and café owners despised them and paid them as little as they could get away with. The rest of the town’s residents were divided in opinion. Those, like Mrs Battersby and Miss Davis, who complained bitterly to anyone who would listen and to a lot more who would not, that these people should not be allowed and should be sent back to their own countries, and those whose determinedly liberal attitude drove them to be fiercely defensive on the immigrants’ behalf.

There were those, of course, who viewed both sides with amusement and detachment. George and Bert, and their friend Jane Maurice, who worked for the local paper, were among them. Jane would go down to the Blue Anchor and chat to George and Bert, and occasionally go out on the Dolphin or the Sparkler and help them entertain their passengers.

Which was what she was doing one day in July at the beginning of the school holidays. It was George’s turn to go round the island, and, due to the unusually calm sea, the Dolphin was packed with families, nice middle-class families who preferred a traditional British seaside holiday to the dubious delights of sun, sea and Malibu, with unbearable temperatures and incomprehensible currency. Those families who, had they chosen to fly to the sun, would not have dreamt of looking for English bars, breakfasts and nice cups of tea, but who were secretly pleased that these essential delights did not have to be foregone.

It was Jane who spotted it. Something had been washed up, or dumped, on the far side of the island, but what made her look harder was its position, well above even the waterline from the high equinoctial tides.

‘George, what’s that?’

George squinted through his cigarette smoke, keeping one hand on the wheel while pushing Jane out of the way with the other. Then he reached for the radio.

‘What’s going on down there?’ Libby Sarjeant peered round her easel in the window of her friend Fran’s cottage.

‘Hmm?’ Fran wandered in from the kitchen with an enamel jug full of flowers.

‘Down at the end by The Sloop.’ Libby stood up and leaned out of the open window. ‘There’s a police car and – what’s a blue and yellow car?’

‘Eh?’ Fran came forward and leaned over Libby’s shoulder. ‘Oh – Coastguard, I think.’

‘I didn’t hear the lifeboat, did you?’

‘No, but they don’t always send up a flare, you know. Anyway, perhaps the lifeboat hasn’t gone out.’ Fran turned away from the window and looked round for somewhere to put the jug. ‘Much as I love my fireplace,’ she said, ‘I wish it had a mantelpiece.’

Libby turned round. ‘Instead of a bloody great wooden lintel? I know which I’d prefer.’

‘I just need somewhere to put my flowers.’ Fran sighed and put the jug on the hearth. ‘I also need some more furniture.’

‘Ooh, look!’ said Libby suddenly. ‘The lifeboat had gone out. It’s on its way back.’

Abruptly the window went dark.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Libby and Fran together as the ambulance passed the cottage.

‘Shall we go and have a look?’ said Libby, wiping a brush on a piece of rag.

‘Libby!’ Fran looked shocked. ‘Don’t be such a ghoul. Anyway, we wouldn’t be allowed to get near the place.’

‘We could go to The Sloop for lunch?’ suggested Libby hopefully.

‘The Sloop will be cordoned off.’

‘The Blue Anchor?’

‘No, Libby! Really, you’re incorrigible.’ Fran went back towards the kitchen. ‘If you’re going to behave like this, I shan’t let you paint from my window any more.’

Libby grinned and turned back to the easel, knowing this was an empty threat. She’d been painting pictures of this view for years without having been inside. Both she and Fran had owned pictures of this view as children, and now Fran actually lived here.

‘How’s Guy?’ she asked now, considering where to position the next blob of white cloud.

‘OK, I think.’

‘You think? Don’t you know?’

‘I’m still trying to keep him at arm’s length,’ said Fran, and held up the kettle. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

‘Tea, please. But why?’

‘Why am I keeping Guy at arm’s length? I told you before I moved here. If I wasn’t careful he’d have moved in within a week, and I want time on my own.’

‘You can’t really feel much for him, then.’ Libby stabbed at her painting.

‘Hello, pot? Who are you calling black?’

‘Ben and I are – what’s it called – Living Together Apart. Or something. We’ve got our own spaces’

‘Well, so have Guy and I.’

‘But you never see him.’

‘I do, so.’ Fran put a pretty bone china mug on the windowsill in front of Libby. ‘Almost every day. And he’s been very helpful with things like tap washers and radiators.’

‘Taking advantage,’ said Libby, with a sniff.

‘Not at all. He notices things when he’s round here and offers to put them right.’

Libby swung round to face her friend. ‘And are you still keeping him at arm’s length in the bedroom?’

‘Libby!’ Fran’s colour rose and she turned away.

‘Look, we’ve had conversations like this in the past, and I know how difficult it all is, but for goodness sake! You’ve known him for a year, now, and I can’t believe he’s still hanging on in there. He’s still an attractive man, and you’re no spring chicken, pardon the cliché.’

‘Well, thanks.’ Fran sat down in the armchair beside the inglenook fireplace.

‘Oh, you know me,’ shrugged Libby, with a sigh. ‘Speaks me mind.’

‘I had noticed.’ Fran stared down into her coffee mug. ‘As it happens, he has got past the bedroom door. No –’ she held up a hand to stop Libby, ‘I’m not saying anything else. We respect each other’s space. He’d still like to be round here every night, but I really do want to savour this experience on my own for a bit.’ She looked round the room with a smile. ‘It’s just like a fairy tale. I still can’t quite believe it.’

Libby regarded her with an indulgent expression. ‘Well, I’m glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘You deserve your cottage, and you deserve Guy. Mind you, I don’t know how you kept it from me.’

‘We don’t live round the corner from each other any more, that’s why, and Guy lives almost next door.’

Guy Wolfe lived above his small art gallery and shop a few yards along Harbour Street from Fran’s Coastguard Cottage.

‘He might know what’s going on by The Sloop,’ said Libby, turning to peer out of the window again. ‘The ambulance is still there.’

Fran sighed. ‘Drink your tea, and we’ll go and see if Guy knows anything,’ she said. ‘You’ll never settle otherwise.’

Libby smiled broadly. ‘How well you know me,’ she said.

In the event, it was Guy who came to them.

‘I was going to take you both to The Sloop for lunch,’ he said, after kissing Fran lightly on the cheek, ‘but it looks as though it’ll have to be The Swan.’

‘That’ll be lovely, thank you,’ said Fran.

‘Do you know what’s happening?’ asked Libby.

‘Not sure, but an ambulance arrived as I was walking here, so whatever it is, it’s serious.’

‘We saw it,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll go and wash my hands.’

‘Look, the Dolphin’s come in,’ said Guy as they left the cottage. They walked over to the sea wall and leaned over. Sure enough, the Dolphin was gently rocking at its mooring outside The Sloop while the passengers trooped off, watched over by a couple of yellow jacketed policemen.

‘Perhaps that was it,’ said Libby, ‘an over-boarder.’

‘Perhaps.’ Guy frowned. ‘I hope not.’

A passenger from the Dolphin broke away from the others and spoke to one of the policemen. Libby peered round Fran and tried to see what was happening.

‘What’s she doing?’ she said.

‘How do we know?’ said Fran, exasperated. ‘Come on Lib. We’re going to The Swan.’

‘I’m with the Nethergate Mercury,’ said Jane. ‘Can you tell me anything?’

The policeman looked her up and down. ‘If you’ve just got off the boat, miss, you know more about it than I do.’

‘Can I write it up for my paper?’

The policeman frowned. ‘Don’t know about that,’ he said.

‘Do you need me any more, then?’ Jane had visions of bylines in the nationals and wanted to get to her phone.

‘All passengers over there, miss. Names and addresses.’

Jane sighed and went over to the group of passengers huddled round George, who was holding forth in aggrieved tones to another, harassed-looking policeman. Under cover of the argument, which seemed to centre on George’s rights as a citizen being undermined, she dragged her daily paper out of her shoulder bag, looked up the number of the news desk and punched it in to her mobile phone. Several other people were on their phones, so her quiet conversation didn’t appear out of the ordinary, neither did her second one to her own paper, which had been put to bed earlier in the day. Her excited news editor promised to try and halt production until they could get in a stop press report and Jane, satisfied, put her phone away and moved up to hear what was being said by George and his policeman.

Fifteen minutes later, she and George were sitting outside The Blue Anchor with large mugs of coffee, supplemented, in George’s case, with a generous tot of Mavis’s whiskey.

‘Treatin’ me like a suspect,’ huffed George, lighting a cigarette with his ancient Zippo.

‘No, they weren’t, George,’ said Jane. ‘They had to get down exactly what happened, didn’t they? And they talked to me as well.’

‘Hmph,’ said George as Jane’s phone rang.

Her news editor said that he had wangled half an hour for her put in a full report, so could she do so now? Jane filled in what she could, and being an honest girl, told him which national newspaper she had rung.

‘No bloody scoop, then, is it?’ grumbled the news editor.

‘More local people will see the Mercury tomorrow, though,’ comforted Jane, ‘and I can also do an in-depth follow up, can’t I? I know the area.’

‘If you can think of an angle, yes.’

‘Anyway, it’ll have been on the local news before then, won’t it? Radio Kent will have got it, and so will Kent and Coast.’

‘I know, I know,’ sighed the news editor. ‘Gets harder and harder for the poor newspaperman.’

‘Who do you think it was, George?’ said Jane, returning to the table.

‘How do I bloody know? Couldn’t see its face, could I? Wouldn’t be a local. More sense ’n to go gallivantin’ on Dragon Island.’

‘Looked as though it’d been dumped, though.’

‘Hmph,’ said George again.

‘I wish I could find out.’

‘Course you do, you’re a bloody reporter ain’t you? Police’ll give a statement, won’t they?’

‘I suppose so.’ Jane sighed. ‘They won’t give much away. I wonder who’ll be in charge of the investigation.’

‘That there Connell, it’ll be. If ’tis murder, anyhow.’

‘Inspector Connell? He’s scary.’

‘Nah. That woman was scary.’

‘What woman?’

‘The one what ’e got involved in that murder last winter. The body in the ole Alexandria.’

Jane looked along the bay to where The Alexandria Theatre stood on the promenade, now surrounded by scaffolding.

‘Weren’t there two women? Oh –’ Jane pointed a finger. ‘You mean that psychic, don’t you?’

‘Lives along ’ere, she does.’

Jane looked surprised. ‘Does she?’

‘Didn’t you find that out when you was coverin’ the story?’ George looked sly.

‘I didn’t cover it,’ said Jane. ‘Bob did.’

‘Ah, the boss. Stands to reason. Anyway, she moved in round about that time, far as I remember. Coastguard Cottage, ’er lives.’

‘Does, she now,’ said Jane, looking thoughtful.

‘Look, now.’ George pointed. ‘Ain’t got it all to yerself, now, ’ave you?’

A TV van was moving slowly along Harbour Street. Jane sighed.

‘It must be serious,’ said Fran, as they watched the Kent and Coast Television van stop by The Blue Anchor.

‘Not necessarily,’ said Libby, evincing a cynical view of local reportage.

‘They were quick, weren’t they,’ said Guy, wiping his soup plate with the last of his bread.

‘Media wire,’ said Libby knowledgably. ‘A reporter must have got onto it straight away.’

‘It’ll be on the local news tonight, then,’ said Fran.

‘Probably on the local radio news now,’ said Guy. ‘Shall we go back to mine and see if we can find out?’

‘No, thanks,’ said Fran quickly, as Libby opened her mouth eagerly. ‘Libby will have to finish her painting, or clear things away, anyway.’

‘OK.’ Guy shrugged. ‘Will you be around this evening, Libby?’

‘No.’ Libby sighed. ‘Peter wants a production meeting.’ Libby and her friend Peter Parker helped run The Oast House Theatre, owned by Peter’s

family, in their home village of Steeple Martin.

‘For what?’

‘The next panto, would you believe?’ Libby sighed again. ‘I’ve written it this year, but I want to be in it, not direct.’

‘Is it mutually exclusive?’ Guy regarded her with bright brown eyes full of amusement. ‘Would you be struck off if you did both?’

‘It’s too difficult to do both, to be honest. Anyway, I don’t want to strain my poor brain any more than I have to, and directing’s such a responsibility.’

‘Are you going to do it again, Fran?’ Guy looked over at Fran, whose serene gaze was fixed on the horizon, her dark hair framing her face like a latter day – and slightly mature – Madonna.

‘No.’ Fran looked back at him. ‘I don’t learn lines as well as I used to, and it’s one thing turning out every night if you live round the corner, and quite another with a twenty minute drive each way.’

‘Shame,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll miss you.’

‘I said I’d help, Lib. Props, or something. As long as I don’t have to be there all the time.’

Guy was looking pleased. ‘So you’ll be here more often,’ he said.

‘More often than what?” asked Fran, looking surprised. ‘I’m here all the time at the moment.’

‘I meant more often than if you had been doing the panto,’ said Guy, with a cornered expression.

‘Ah,’ said Libby and Fran together.

‘Come on, then,’ said Fran. ‘Let’s go back and see how that picture’s coming along.’

Chapter Two

LIBBY WATCHED THE KENT and Coast local news programme with her cat on her lap. Sidney the silver tabby rarely condescended to quite this much intimacy, and Libby concluded that he was intent on obliterating all scent of Fran’s cat Balzac, an altogether more accommodating animal.

According to the reporter, standing on the hard outside The Sloop, where The Blue Anchor could just be seen on the left and the mast of the Dolphin bobbing in and out of the picture on the right, an unidentified body had been spotted by holidaymakers on the far side of what was known locally as Dragon Island. The body had been brought in by the lifeboat, summoned by boat owner George Isles. The reporter turned to George.

‘’Tweren’t me, son, it were Jane over there. She spotted it.’ The camera swung quickly away from the reporter’s discomfited expression to where a young woman sat at a table outside The Blue Anchor.

‘That’s the person we saw speak to the policeman this morning,’ Libby told Sidney. ‘A holiday maker on your boat?’ asked the reporter.

‘No, she’m a local. Works for the newspaper,’ said George, obviously pleased with the effect he was having. ‘Helps me on the boat sometimes.’

‘Thank you, Mr Isles,’ said the reporter, ‘and now back to the studio.’

‘I wonder why they didn’t edit that bit,’ said Libby, realising that the interview had been recorded not long after they had seen the television van that afternoon. ‘Made the reporter look very silly.’

‘Who are you talking to?’ Ben Wilde appeared from the kitchen.

‘Oh! You made me jump.’ Libby put Sidney on the floor and stood up. ‘I wish you’d call out when you come in the back way. I was talking to Sidney.’

Ben came over and gave her a kiss. ‘I did.’

‘Not until you got in here,’ said Libby.

‘What were you talking to Sidney about?’ asked Ben, going to a tray of drinks on the table in the window and pouring himself a scotch. ‘Want one?’

Libby shook her head. ‘A bit early.’ She turned off the television. ‘We saw a television van in Nethergate this afternoon, so I was watching to see what had happened.’

‘Oh, that body,’ said Ben. ‘It was on the national news this afternoon.’

‘Really? I wonder why?’

‘It’s summer – the silly season. And it sounds as though this is a holiday-maker tragedy. That always goes down well with the public.’

‘Ben! That’s awful.’ Libby sat down again and lit a cigarette.

‘I thought you were giving up?’

Libby scowled. ‘I object to being forced into it by the government,’ she said.

Ben raised an eyebrow. ‘I would never have known,’ he murmured. ‘What time is this production meeting?’

* * *

‘Never mind,’ said Bert, as he, Jane and George sat over a drink outside The Sloop. ‘At least yours will be an authentic eye witness report. Bet you your boss will put it on the front page.’

‘Ha! One in the eye for that bloody telly reporter,’ said George, stubbing out his cigarette.

‘Can we go inside now?’ asked Jane, shivering slightly.

‘You can,’ said George. ‘I’m having another fag.’

Jane sighed.

‘So how did they get on to it so quick?’ asked Bert, taking a blackened pipe out of his pocket. Jane sighed again.

‘Media wire,’ she said. ‘I got on to one of the nationals.’

Bert and George looked at her as though she was speaking a foreign language.

‘Ah,’ said George.

‘Well, you want to get an angle,’ said Bert sucking noisily on the pipe stem while applying George’s Zippo to the bowl.

‘That’s what I told my boss,’ said Jane. ‘An in-depth follow up.’

‘’Ow can you do that without knowin’ ’oo the stiff is?’ George was an avid viewer of the older-style American cop movies.

Jane was silent for a moment.

‘Come on, ducks,’ said Bert. ‘Whatcher got in mind?’

‘I wondered about that lady.’

‘What lady?’ Bert raised his eyebrows.

‘The one George was talking about,’ said Jane.

‘’Er in Coastguard Cottage,’ rumbled George.

‘Mrs Castle.’ Bert sucked on his pipe. ‘What about her?’

‘She was involved with that murder last Christmas, wasn’t she?’

‘Oh, ah.’ Bert nodded. ‘That Ian Connell got her involved. I reckon he fancied her.’

‘Oh.’ Jane looked disappointed. ‘Do you mean she couldn’t really help?’

‘Don’t know as I know,’ said Bert. ‘Some talk of her being psychic, wasn’t there, George?’

‘’Elped ’im afore. Some other murder.’

‘So she’s official, then?’ said Jane, leaning forward.

‘Wouldn’t say official, like,’ said Bert, ‘but done it before, yes.’

‘That’s all right then,’ said Jane and stood up. ‘Anyone for another pint?’

The production meeting was taking place in The Pink Geranium. Harry, Peter Parker’s civil partner, was chef and co-owner with Peter, and occasional helper at The Oast House Theatre. Tonight, there were only a few diners, and Peter, Libby, Ben and stage manager Tom had their favourite table in the window.

‘So that’s it, then.’ Peter leant back in his chair and picked up his glass of red wine. Libby topped hers up.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s the script. And I want to be in it.’

‘So do I,’ said Tom, ‘and I don’t see how I can and stage manage.’

‘He ought to be Dame again, Pete,’ said Libby. ‘He was fantastic last year.’

‘And Bob and Baz as the double act again,’ said Ben.

‘So who’ll be stage manager?’ asked Peter, looking harassed.

‘Trouble is,’ said Ben, ‘the only people who want to do it aren’t experienced enough, and we who are all want to be in it.’

‘I suppose you want to be in it too,’ Peter said gloomily.

‘If there’s a part for me,’ said Ben cheerfully. ‘Is there, Lib?’

‘There’s a couple you could go for,’ said Libby, ‘depending on the ages of the others in the cast.’

‘How about Tom and I overseeing design and build, then we’ll train one of the others up to SM for the run.’ Ben beamed round the table. ‘That would work, wouldn’t it?’

There was a murmur of agreement, and Peter sighed. ‘OK. But what about director?’

‘You,’ said Libby.

Peter groaned. ‘I thought you might say that.’

‘Oh, come on Pete,’ said Ben, ‘You’ve thrown your weight about during the other productions. You could do it legitimately this time.’

Peter scowled. ‘You can push family feeling just so far, you know,’ he said to his cousin. Ben grinned.

‘OK. What do we do about casting?’

Further discussion about auditions and pre-casting took them to the end of the bottle and Harry’s assistant Donna was summoned with another. Harry appeared out of the kitchen and removed his apron.

‘Have I been co-opted for anything?’ he asked, pulling another chair up to the table.

‘You’re too busy every night, love,’ said Peter.

‘I can do the bar a couple of times, can’t I?’ said Harry. ‘I did it for The Hop Pickers and Jack and the Beanstalk.’

‘If you’re free,’ said Peter. ‘Thanks.’

‘How’s Fran?’ asked Harry. ‘I thought of her today when I saw that item about the body at Nethergate.’

‘We were there,’ said Libby proudly. The other faces round the table looked at her in horror and spoke with one voice.

‘Oh, no!’

‘For goodness’ sake,’ said Libby crossly. ‘Not involved. We couldn’t help it. Fran lives on Harbour Street and all the police and everything were down by The Sloop only fifteen yards away. Guy was there, too.’

‘So what was it all about, then?’ asked Tom. ‘I haven’t listened to the radio and I didn’t have time to watch the news before I came out.’

‘A body was found on that island in the middle of the bay,’ said Harry. ‘The police think it was dumped, apparently, and that it could be an illegal.’

‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Libby. ‘Illegal immigrant, you mean?’

‘It was on the news this evening. I have the radio on in the kitchen.’

‘One of those poor buggers that try to get in through the tunnel, I suppose,’ said Ben.

‘A bit far round for him, then, isn’t it?’ said Tom. ‘The tide might carry him if he’d fallen off a boat, but how did he get all the way across Kent from Folkestone if he came by tunnel?’

‘All I know is they think it was dumped,’ said Harry. ‘Don’t blame me.’

‘And don’t worry about me,’ said Libby, looking virtuous. ‘Fran and I won’t be involved this time.’

Fran was watering the pots in her tiny yard outside the back door the following morning when she heard a knock at the front. Leaving Balzac, her beautiful black and white long haired cat, to investigate the watering can, she went inside, wiping her hands on a tea towel.

‘Mrs Castle?’ The young woman on the doorstep was small, slight and brown haired. Little brown mouse, thought Fran.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m Jane Maurice from the Nethergate Mercury.’ ‘Oh?’ ‘Yes. I wondered if you’d been invited by the

local police to investigate the – um – murder that

was discovered yesterday?’

‘Murder? Yesterday?’

‘You’ll have heard it or seen it on the news? And it was in the Mercury this morning.’

‘I don’t take the Mercury,’ said Fran, ‘and if you mean the body discovered on the island yesterday, I didn’t know it was murdered.’

‘The police think it might be,’ said Jane Maurice.

‘That’s why I thought they might have consulted you.’ She was fidgeting now, obviously having expected to be invited inside. But Fran was having none of it.

‘I can’t think why anyone should have consulted me, especially about a body.’ She made as if to close the door. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me –’

‘But Mrs Castle –’ began Jane, trying to step forward.

‘Thank you, Miss – er. Goodbye.’ Fran closed the door and leaned back on it, her heart thumping. How had that happened?

She went slowly back to the yard, where Balzac greeted her with a chirrup. It was that last case, she thought, bending to stroke his head. Her part in it had been discovered by the local paper and her name had appeared more than once as “Inspector Connell’s special investigator”. Neither of them had confirmed it, and eventually, the paper had stopped including her. But they remembered, obviously.

As a reluctant psychic, Fran had been useful to the local police force once or twice, with a certain amount of help from an over-excitable Libby, but she wasn’t comfortable with any of it. Libby would have had them setting up a psychic detective agency if she’d had her way, but Fran just wanted to be an ordinary person in an ordinary house now that she had Coastguard Cottage. Besides, one of her children was due to visit this weekend, complete with censorious husband, and she didn’t think they would approve of anything even slightly out of the ordinary.

‘Did you see that item on the news last night?’

said Libby later, on the phone. ‘Harry said that on the radio they said it was an illegal immigrant.’

‘Yes, and I had a reporter round here this morning.’

‘You what?’

‘Some girl from the local paper came round to ask me if I’d been consulted by the police.’

‘Oooh!’ said Libby. ‘You’re famous!’

‘Oh, stop it, Libby. You know I’ve never wanted any of this. You’re the one who always wants to go charging in to investigate things.’

‘If I didn’t, you wouldn’t be living here, would you?’

‘I’d still have Coastguard Cottage.’

‘But you wouldn’t know the rest of us. Or Guy.’

‘Once I was living six doors down from him, I expect I might have met him,’ said Fran. ‘He said he’d have wangled an introduction somehow.’

‘Oh, so you’ve talked about it?’

‘Of course. I admit that my – er – involvement with you and Ben has somewhat changed my life, but I think Guy and I would have met anyway.’

‘Oh, OK.’ Libby thought for a moment. ‘So what did you say to this reporter? Did you tell her we’d actually been on the spot?’

‘No, of course not. And don’t you go getting in touch with her, either.’

‘No, I won’t. Anyway, what I really rang up about was the panto. Did you mean it when you said you’d do props?’

When Fran rang off, she went to the window to look down Harbour Street towards The Sloop. The sky was greyer today, and both the Dolphin and the Sparkler were still moored up. She could see the two old boat owners, George and Bert, sitting outside The Blue Anchor, but no one else was around, which was odd for high summer. She wondered vaguely if perhaps Harbour Street had been blue-taped by the police, and was just going to open her door to look and see when there was a knock.

A tall young man dressed rather like a central casting geography teacher stood outside holding a briefcase.

‘Mrs Castle?’ he said, stepping forward before she could block the way. ‘Good afternoon. I’m from Kent and Coast Television, and I wondered if you would consider undertaking a psychic investigation into the body on Dragon Island on our behalf?’

Fran felt sweat break out along her hairline.

‘I don’t do that sort of thing,’ she said.

The reporter looked down his nose at her. ‘According to the reports, you do.’

‘What reports?’ Fran pulled herself together.

He smiled. ‘From the Nethergate Mercury, for one. It’s quite well documented that you’ve helped the police on at least one occasion.’

‘And I don’t intend to do it again.’ Fran closed her lips tightly together.

The reporter leaned nearer with a smile. ‘Come on, Mrs Castle. This would be great publicity for you. And of course, we wouldn’t expect you to do it for nothing.’

‘Publicity?’ Fran recoiled in horror. ‘What on earth would I want publicity for?’

The reporter frowned. ‘Your job?’ he said.

‘My job? I don’t have a job.’

He looked confused for a moment, but rallied. That was his job, of course.

‘I was told that you did this for a living.’

‘I what? Where on earth did you get that from?’

‘Like the police, I have to protect my sources.’ He smiled again, but less convincingly.

‘Well, whoever they were,’ Fran paused, tellingly, ‘Jane Maurice was wrong. I live here, on my own –’ damn, she shouldn’t have said that ‘– and I don’t have a job, unless you count helping in the art gallery along the road. I’ve given my opinion to the local police on occasion, but that’s it. And now I’d like you to leave.’

The reporter looked stunned. Fran stood up. ‘Please?’ she said.

Slowly, he stood up.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘We really seem to have messed up this time.’ He held out his hand. ‘No hard feelings? I assure you, we were acting from the best of intentions.’

Feeling guilty, Fran took his hand briefly. He wasn’t so unpleasant really.

‘Which were?’ she asked.

‘The intentions? Well, we thought maybe you could identify the victim –’

‘He’s an illegal immigrant.’

‘Sorry, yes, but they don’t know where he came from. Just that he appears to be.’

‘That police investigation is ongoing, I believe.’

‘Yes, of course, but –’

‘You thought I might help you steal a march on them?’

‘And prove that people like you are genuine.’

Fran sniffed. ‘There are television programmes that try and do that,’ she said.

‘And no one believes them,’ said the reporter, triumphantly. ‘This would have been a genuine, news programme investigation.’ His eyes registered shock as he uttered the final damning words.

Fran was amused. ‘Into me.’

He lifted his shoulders in resignation and bent to pick up his briefcase. ‘You’ve got me there,’ he said, and shook her hand again. ‘You wouldn’t like to come and work for us, would you? You’d make a great investigative reporter.’

Fran laughed, relaxing at last. ‘Maybe that would be interesting,’ she said, ‘but, to be honest, I’m a bit shy. I don’t really like meeting new people.’

‘Well, thank you, Mrs Castle, and I’m really sorry to have bothered you.’ He went past her towards the door.

‘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 business, 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-onfloors 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. Lizzie’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.’

‘What did you want to know about The Alexandria?’ asked Libby.

‘Whether it really is being restored,’ said Jane, ‘and whether it will be a performance space, and if so what kind. I know you had something to do with The Oast House Theatre in Steeple Martin. Will it be like that?’

‘It is being restored, but I’m afraid it’s nothing to do with me,’ said Libby. ‘I don’t know what use it will be put to. Could be a restaurant, or something.’

This wasn’t true, but Libby’s knowledge of The Alexandria was highly confidential.

‘Oh.’ Jane searched Libby’s face for a moment, then sighed again and slid off the wall. ‘Thanks, anyway.’

‘Are you new down here?’ asked Libby, picking up her brushes again.

‘Not that new,’ said Jane, squinting out to sea. ‘I’ve been here about a year.’

‘What brought you here? The job?’

‘No.’ Jane perched on the sea wall again. ‘I inherited a house.’

‘Goodness! That was a bit of luck,’ said Libby, ‘although not if you were very fond of the person who died, of course.’

‘Well, I was, but I didn’t know her very well. She ran a boarding house here until the 1970s, then it became too much for her, so she turned it into little flats. She’d been in a care home for some time before she died, but the house was still there.’

‘And you inherited it? Tenants and all?’

‘Two tenants,’ said Jane, ‘yes. They aren’t any trouble, and an agent looks after that side of it. I just live in the top flat. I like it better than Auntie’s ground floor one.’

‘So you moved down and got the job when you got here?’ Libby had given up all pretence of painting now.

‘No, I applied before I moved down. I was lucky. I was already working on another paper in the group and a vacancy became available.’

‘And how do you find it?’

‘All right.’

‘Not so good?’

‘I’m an outsider.’ Jane smiled a little crookedly. ‘Last year I went out on George’s boat because he’d had an operation and needed help, and this year they’ve both let me go out with them whenever I wanted. Apart from them and a couple of people in the office, that’s it.’

‘And now you can’t get a story.’ Libby shook her head. ‘That’s a shame.’

‘Thank you. But you can’t get blood out of a stone –’ here, Jane paused looking horrified. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean that.’

‘Yes, you did,’ said Libby, cheerfully, ‘and quite right too. But really, I’ve nothing to tell you, and neither has Mrs Castle. Even when she did help the police, it was all very hush-hush and no one believed it anyway.’

‘It seems to be quite well known, though. I knew about it because I worked on the paper, but I didn’t cover the story. Was it true?’

Libby looked at her consideringly. ‘If I tell you anything, it’s likely to end up in print, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, God.’ Jane shook her head. ‘You see? People don’t trust me. Even though I’m only a reporter on a tiny provincial weekly.’

‘Who managed to get a front page story this week and something in one of the nationals.’

‘Just because I was on the spot and had my wits about me. It wouldn’t have taken them long to find out, anyway.’

Libby nodded. ‘So you’re feeling a bit hard done by this morning.’

‘I suppose so.’ Jane slid back off the wall and stood up. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you, Mrs Sarjeant. I’ll let you get on.’

Libby looked ruefully at the picture. ‘I don’t think I’m going to get on at all,’ she said. ‘How about we go and have a coffee in The Blue Anchor?’

‘Really?’ Jane looked stunned. ‘Why?’

‘Because I’m not going to paint this morning after all and I’ve got to wait for Mrs Castle to come home, so I might as well wait in The Blue Anchor. It would be nice to have company and I’ll buy you a coffee.’

‘Oh.’ Jane looked down at Libby’s paraphernalia. ‘Can I help you carry, then?’

‘That would be kind.’ Libby put away the brushes and covered the painting. ‘I’m parked behind The Sloop.’

Ten minutes later, when they were seated outside The Blue Anchor, Mavis delivered a large mug of coffee for Jane and one of tea for Libby, who lit a cigarette and leaned back comfortably.

‘I always sit out here with George and Bert because they smoke,’ said Jane, pushing the foil ashtray across the table.

‘That’s good of you,’ said Libby. ‘Most of us feel like pariahs.’

‘It’s not good of me.’ Jane shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t have anyone to talk to otherwise.’

Libby squinted through smoke. ‘You’re painting a very sad picture of yourself, you know.’

Jane shrugged. ‘Maybe, but I think people in your age group think anyone under thirty-five is having a whale of a time with loads of friends and places to go. It isn’t true.’

‘No?’

‘Well, look at me. In a town I don’t know, with no friends or family, working in a very small office with no one of my own age. What do I do? Go clubbing on my own? Go to a pub on my own? The most I do is come down here for a drink or a coffee with George and Bert or take myself to The Raj for a treat, to make a change from a take-away.’

‘Golly,’ said Libby. ‘You’re right. I hadn’t thought about it. What about college friends? Old school friends?’

‘Oh, I’ve kept up with some, but they’re scattered all over the country. And my school friends are mostly married with young children now, so we’ve nothing in common.’

Libby stared out to sea for a moment. ‘What about interests? Hobbies?’ she asked finally.

Jane laughed. ‘That’s always the advice on the problem pages, isn’t it? My only hobby is reading – not exactly sociable.’

‘Didn’t you belong to any societies at college?’

Jane shook her head. ‘I told you, there’s nothing I’m really interested in. At uni we worked or went drinking, the same as everybody else.’

Libby looked at her meditatively. ‘Amateur dramatics?’ she said.

‘I know you’re involved with The Oast House Theatre,’ said Jane, ‘but I’m really not that sort.’

‘You mean you’re snobbish about amateur theatre?’

Jane flushed. ‘That wasn’t what I meant.’

‘Oh, yes it was. I’ve seen it too often not to recognise it,’ said Libby, stubbing out her cigarette. ‘But there are amateur companies and amateur companies, you know. You might get a shock. After all, you did come asking me about The Alexandria.’

‘Well … yes. I wondered if it was going to put on amateur performances for the town. We haven’t got a theatre here.’

‘You’ve got the Carlton Pavilion.’

‘It’s not a proper theatre, though, is it?’ said Jane.

‘True, but it does put on live events.’

‘Music, mainly,’ said Jane, her eyes going towards where the Carlton Pavilion sat almost on the sand just below The Swan.

Libby sat up straight and stretched. ‘Well, I was going to invite you over to have a look at us, but I can see you wouldn’t be interested.’

‘Look at you?’

‘Our little theatre,’ said Libby, deliberately injecting a disparaging note into her voice.

Jane looked sheepish. ‘Actually, I’d love to,’ she said.

Libby beamed. ‘I thought you might,’ she said.

Chapter Five

‘SO WHAT HAPPENED?’ LIBBY had left Jane at The Blue Anchor when she saw Fran arrive at Coastguard Cottage.

Fran shrugged. ‘Nothing. Ian showed me some clothes and that was it. No stunning revelations. Just clothes.’ She poured boiling water into a mug. ‘Sure you don’t want one?’

‘No, I’m awash.’ Fran looked up. ‘Yes. So tell me, what were you doing having tea with Jane Maurice?’

Libby told her. ‘She’s OK, really, Fran,’ she concluded, ‘just lonely. So I thought if she came over to the theatre she might meet people of her own age.’

‘We haven’t got any young people,’ said Fran.

‘There’s Harry – he’s young.’

‘Not available, though.’

‘And James.’ Libby’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah! Now, James will be just about ready –’

‘Libby, stop it! Don’t start matchmaking. Invite the poor girl by all means, but don’t try and interfere with her life, or James’s, come to that.’

‘OK.’ Libby went into Fran’s sitting room and to the window.

Fran frowned, suspicious of the ready acquiescence. ‘Come on, Lib. What are you planning?’

‘Nothing.’ Libby turned and beamed. ‘Honestly, nothing.’ She came towards Fran and sat down in one of the armchairs. ‘So tell me what Ian said. Has he asked you to investigate anything?’

‘No, of course not.’ Fran was looking uncomfortable, Libby noticed.

‘What did he say, Fran? There’s something isn’t there?’

‘If you must know, he said it was a pity I hadn’t taken up Kent and Coast’s invitation.’

‘Wha-a-a?’ Libby’s eyes widened in astonishment.

‘I know.’ Fran shook her head. ‘He seemed to think they could investigate undercover much better than the police could, and if I was on the spot I could – er – report to him.’

‘Spy, you mean? Gosh, what a cheek!’

‘Well, yes. But he also thought I might pick up something, you know, hidden, if I was on the spot rather than remotely.’ Fran sighed. ‘I suppose he’s right in a way.’

‘Are you going to do it?’

‘What, after I sent that poor young man packing?’

‘I’m sure you could get round that. Didn’t you say he told you to get in touch?’

‘I’ll think about it.’ Fran stood up and took her mug back into the kitchen. ‘Did you want some lunch, by the way?’

‘No, thanks, I said I’d meet Ben at the pub.’ Libby stood up and stretched. ‘We’re going to the caff tonight. Would you and Guy like to come too?’

‘I’ll ask him,’ said Fran, blushing faintly. ‘Funny, isn’t it? I still don’t like instigating anything in the relationship.’

‘This isn’t you, it’s me,’ said Libby bluntly. ‘I’ll go and ask him, if you like.’

‘No, don’t be daft. I’ll do it. I’m relieving him in the shop later, anyway.’ Fran went to open the front door. ‘I expect we’ll see you tonight.’

Libby relayed her morning’s doings to Ben back at the pub in Steeple Martin.

‘Are you,’ said Ben, nonchalantly lifting his pint, ‘starting to interfere a bit?’

‘Interfere? Me?’ Libby was outraged.

‘Yes. Interfere you. Ever since I’ve known you–’

‘No I am not,’ Libby cut in. ‘And you didn’t know me well before – before – well, before.’

‘OK, OK, since I’ve known you – intimately–’ Ben leered over the table, ‘you’ve interfered in everything.’

‘I’m surprised you’re still involved, then,’ said Libby huffily.

‘Ah, but it’s interesting,’ he said, reaching over the table for her hand. ‘And think of the opportunities for gossip.’

‘You’re not supposed to gossip about police matters,’ said Libby.

‘And you never do?’

‘Well, only within the intimate circle.’ Libby picked up her glass. ‘You and Pete and Harry.’

‘Oh, that’s all right, then.’ Ben chuckled.

‘Fran and Guy might join us at the caff tonight,’ said Libby.

‘They haven’t been over for some time, have they? I thought maybe we’d upset them.’

‘I think it’s just that Fran wanted to settle into Nethergate and not keep running back to us. She’s got her own life to lead.’

‘You were worried about her moving down there, I seem to remember.’

‘Yes, but I needn’t have. I still see her.’

‘Because you force yourself on her,’ grinned Ben.

‘No, I don’t.’ Libby was indignant. ‘I like painting down there, that’s all. I always have, haven’t I? I’ve been doing pretty peeps for Guy’s shop for years.’

‘Guy’s gallery, you mean,’ said Ben. ‘When it’s paintings, it’s a gallery, when it’s cards it’s a shop.’

‘Whatever.’ Libby shrugged. ‘Anyway, it’s really good that they’re together, even if Fran won’t let him get too close.’

‘Oh?’ Ben raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t they..?’

‘Ben! None of our business.’ Libby smothered a smile. ‘Actually, yes, they do, but only when Fran allows it, I gather.’

‘Well, that’s the same as most couples, isn’t it? I mean, we only –’

‘Ben!’ said Libby again, looking round the bar.

‘I just meant,’ whispered Ben, leaning forward, ‘I can only make love to you if you want it, too.’

‘That makes me sound mean.’

‘Well, not exactly. You always do want it too.’

Libby swallowed. ‘This is not an appropriate conversation for a pub,’ she said in a strangled voice.

‘Then how about carrying it on back at your place?’ Ben stroked his thumb across her wrist and she shivered. ‘Purely in the interests of research, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Libby, and finished her drink.

Later, when Ben sat on the cane sofa wrapped in the towelling dressing gown he kept in Libby’s bathroom, she poured boiling water into her teapot.

‘What do you know about illegal immigrants?’ she asked, putting out two mugs.

Ben groaned. ‘I knew you were interfering.’

‘I’m not.’ Libby fetched milk from the fridge. ‘I just wondered. Seems there are all sorts of scams for getting them into the country. Like those Chinese at Dover, and the winkle pickers in Morecambe.’

‘Of course there are. It’s always in the news.’

‘But there are whole organisations getting them false papers –’

‘And jobs. I know, Libby. It’s a scandal, but it’s been going on for years. The worst of them are the prostitution gangs.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Libby, coming in with two mugs of tea, made a face. ‘I’ve seen a couple of TV programmes about that.’

‘Well, don’t worry about it. I know the police are trying to get on top of it. The trouble is, we’re in the front line being near the Channel ports.’

‘And being a fruit and veg growing area so we need lots of casual pickers.’ Libby curled up in the armchair with a sigh. ‘I think that’s what our body was.’

‘Our body?’ asked Ben suspiciously.

‘Well, it’s in our area, isn’t it?’

‘But nothing to do with you,’ said Ben, frowning.

‘No, I know, but Fran might have to work on it.’

Libby turned to look out of the window, avoiding

Ben’s eyes.

‘Oh, I see. For Fran, read Libby.’

‘No, I wouldn’t be in on it,’ said Libby, looking back at him with suspiciously wide eyes. ‘I think Ian wants Fran to investigate with the television people.’

‘But I thought she’d already said no.’

‘She had. But Ian can be persuasive. And Fran’s got a conscience.’

Ben sighed. ‘And you haven’t.’

‘I just like helping people,’ said Libby, ‘and by the way, I’ve invited that reporter to come over and see what she thinks of the theatre.’

‘Which reporter?’

‘The one who tried to interview me this morning. She’s lonely.’

‘Does she act?’

‘She doesn’t seem to do anything,’ said Libby, and told him Jane’s story. ‘So I thought it might be a kindness to see if she’d like to get involved.’

‘We haven’t got many youngsters here, either,’ said Ben.

‘But there are always more around for panto. She might want to do chorus, or something.’

Ben looked doubtful. ‘We’ll see. When’s she coming over?’

‘I don’t know. When we have the audition, I suppose. I thought I might pop in and see her house some time in the next couple of weeks, just to keep in touch.’

‘You’re sure you haven’t got an ulterior motive?’

‘No, of course not. Why would I have?’ Libby was looking indignant again. ‘She’s just a nice kid, and rather lonely.’

Libby repeated this to Fran and Guy over quesadillas de hongos in The Pink Geranium later that evening.

‘That’s kind of you,’ said Guy. Fran turned down the corners of her mouth. Like Ben, she was suspicious.

‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ said Libby. ‘Can’t I do anything from a purely normal standpoint? Does everyone always think I’m up to no good?’

‘A newspaper reporter does have access to a lot of things you might find useful,’ said Ben.

‘If you were investigating something you weren’t supposed to,’ added Fran.

Libby made a sound suspiciously like a snort. ‘Honestly,’ she said.

‘Speaking of which, Fran,’ said Ben, ‘have you decided to do what Ian asked?’

‘Eh?’ Guy looked startled. ‘Ian? Connell? What’s he been asking?’

‘Don’t worry, Guy, it’s nothing carnal,’ grinned Libby.

‘Libby!’ Fran frowned at her. ‘It’s complicated,’ she said to Guy, and explained.

‘Why don’t you do it?’ he asked. ‘You could ask the Kent and Coast people not to actually put you on the box, but just to use your information.’

‘Would you have to say it was the police’s idea?’ asked Ben.

‘Oh, I don’t think so, or they might get the idea they had a privileged position.’ Fran poked meditatively at a piece of mushroom. ‘I’ll phone that Campbell McLean person and sound him out, then I’ll talk to Ian about how he wants me to play it.’

‘So you’re going to do it, then?’ Libby looked excited.

Fran sighed.

‘Told you she had a conscience,’ Libby said Ben, triumphantly.

Chapter Six

LIBBY HAD TO WAIT until Monday to find out where Jane lived. She called her at the Mercury offices, ostensibly to invite her to the audition for the pantomime. Predictably, Jane protested.

‘You don’t have to audition, Jane,’ said Libby. ‘I just thought you could come along and meet people. If you’re with me you won’t be on your own.’

‘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 watersports 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 said, 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.

‘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.’

Ben raised an eyebrow. ‘You probably scared him to death,’ he said.

Campbell McLean called Fran the next morning.

‘I expect you know why I’m calling,’ he began.

‘Yes,’ said Fran.

‘I had a rather peculiar request from Inspector Connell.’

‘Yes,’ said Fran again.

There was a pause. ‘I’m not quite sure how to proceed.’

Fran sighed. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘What did you want to do before?’

‘I wanted to have you doing some sort of remote viewing on camera and then follow it up to see if it was right.’

‘As I said, investigating me rather than the murder.’

‘Yes, I admitted that. But now I don’t know quite what to do. The Inspector seems to think we could do an undercover operation better than he could.’

‘You’ve done them before, haven’t you? Into horse trading, and health issues?’

‘Yes, but that was when we’d had tip offs from the public.’

‘Well, this time you’ll have to take a tip off from the police.’

‘But what? They haven’t got anything.’

Fran thought for a moment. ‘I suggest you look at everything you’ve ever done on illegal immigrants. Somewhere there’ll be a starting point. Then you get me in to have a look at what you’ve got and we’ll go from there. Think what a scoop you’ll get out of it.’

Campbell McLean sighed. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ll get someone to start going through the archives. We did something last year on workers on farms with false passports.’

‘That’s exactly it,’ said Fran, certain that it was.

‘Really?’ The voice on the phone sounded more cheerful. ‘Do you – er, well, – did you –’

‘I think I’m sure,’ said Fran with a laugh. ‘Don’t ask me how I know, because I don’t.’

‘OK. I’ll get started in the morning. Speak to you then.’

Ten minutes later, as Fran was getting ready to go to Guy’s flat for a meal, Ian Connell called. Fran told him what she’d suggested.

‘We’ve been questioning as many field and farm workers as we can, particularly after that big case last year,’ he said.

‘What about the kitchen workers and cleaners?’ asked Fran. ‘There’s just as much of a problem there, isn’t there?’

‘Is that where you think the problem lies?’

‘Not necessarily, in fact I felt it was farm workers, but I could be wrong.’

‘You’re not often wrong.’

‘I still don’t know how you expect McLean to go about this, though. I can hardly go traipsing through fields of potato pickers, or whatever they are, asking questions, can I? And it isn’t like some of their previous investigations, where I could pose as a patient, or a prospective purchaser.’

Connell sighed. ‘Look, just do your best,’ he said. ‘I’m sure McLean will come up with something.’

The following morning McLean did, indeed, come up with something.

‘Did you read about the cleaner at the council offices who was arrested?’ he asked without preamble.

‘I think I saw something about it on the news.’

‘She was an illegal immigrant, smuggled in four years ago, and she borrowed someone else’s passport to apply for the job. After she was arrested she applied for asylum.’

‘Good lord! Did she get it?’

‘Not yet,’ said McLean. ‘She’s serving six months at the moment, and the judge said the application would have to wait until she was discharged.’

‘Is she serving six months, or only half of it?’ asked Fran.

‘Probably half, I expect, or even less if she was in custody before the trial.’

‘So she could be out already?’

‘She could, but I don’t know how we could find her.’

‘Was this a British passport? No, it couldn’t have been, could it?’

‘No. She’s from Transnistria, I think, and borrowed an Italian passport.’

‘Transnistria? Where’s that? I’ve never heard of it.’

‘I haven’t had time to look it up,’ said McLean, ‘but it’s there in the report.’

‘Could it be in Romania? It sounds like Transylvania.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Did she give the passport back to the Italian woman?’ asked Fran.

‘I suppose so.’

‘So what happened to her, the Italian?’

She heard a sigh. ‘I’ll look it up. Do you think this is relevant?’

‘Not sure,’ said Fran, ‘but it feels right.’

‘This actual case?’

‘Not necessarily. Find out a bit more, and we’ll see what happens.’

After McLean had rung off, Fran went up to her spare room where she had installed her new computer. Balzac followed hopefully, sniffing the keyboard and trying desperately to climb on Fran’s lap under the desk.

The search engine provided her with the details of the case of the Transnistrian woman, but no mention of the Italian from whom she’d borrowed the passport. She also searched for Transnistria and discovered it to be a breakaway independent state between Moldova and the Ukraine, unrecognised by any other country. There was a lot of information which indicated that Transnistria was a hotbed of crime and a centre for people trafficking for both sex and labour, but right now, Fran didn’t feel up to investigating. Libby, she was sure, would.

She had told McLean the case felt right, but so did the farm workers. This, she felt, was the problem with believing in her own “moments”. Nobody had ever told her how to deal with them, and although she was more adept at using what Libby called her “powers” after the last three murders in which she had been involved, she was privately convinced that her brain manufactured incidents to trap her. She’d have to wait until she was given more evidence, and if nothing startling happened admit defeat and quietly withdraw.

Libby, however, was having none of it.

‘Listen,’ she said, when she called Fran that afternoon after waiting for news all day, ‘it needs proper detective work. We can do that.’

‘No, we can’t, Libby, we’ve nothing to go on this time. We’ve always had an “in”, if you like. This time we haven’t.’

Libby was quiet for a minute. Then, ‘Do we know how long the body had been there?’

‘Not long, I wouldn’t have thought. Either Bert or George go round that island every day, more or less. It must have been the night before it was found.’

‘Bearing out the theory that it was meant to be found.’

‘Yes, we’ve established that.’

‘Well, couldn’t we find out who took a boat out the night before?’

Fran laughed. ‘It could have come from anywhere, Lib! France even.’

‘No, because of the clothes. They were from here, weren’t they?’

‘Yes, and I suppose the police have already ruled out a boat from France.’

‘Perhaps they haven’t,’ said Libby, ‘and we don’t know.’

‘Then why would Ian have asked me to help? I can’t help in France.’

Libby thought again. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we go and pay a visit to one of those farms where they employ foreign pickers?’

‘On what excuse?’ asked Fran. ‘I’ve already said that to Ian.’

‘What we need is a connection.’

‘That’s what I’ve been saying,’ said Fran with a sigh.

‘Not a psychic connection, a physical one. Someone we can connect with.’

‘Short of pretending to be a foreign cleaner without a passport I can’t see how we do that.’

‘I’ll think of something,’ said Libby. ‘Just see if I don’t.’

‘But,’ she said to Sidney after ringing off, ‘I actually can’t see how. We had somewhere to start with each of the other cases. But how do you find out about this?’

Sidney wove ingratiatingly around her legs until she moved away into the garden. With a look of resignation, he followed her and jumped on her chair before she could.

‘The boat,’ she mused, turfing Sidney out. ‘I suppose the police have been on to the Coastguard or whoever it is looks after the sea. Would they know about boats appearing in the dead of night? It’s not like aeroplanes, is it? Or the Channel. Or the Solent.’

‘You’re talking to yourself again.’ Ben appeared from his private entrance to the garden, where it backed onto his parents’ land.

‘No, I wasn’t, I was talking to Sidney.’ Libby stood up. ‘Tea?’

‘Yes, please.’ Ben followed as Libby went back into the house.

‘So what was this conversation with Sidney about, as if I couldn’t guess?’

‘Finding a connection.’ Libby moved the kettle on to the Rayburn. ‘Fran’s taking on the investigation and we haven’t got anything to go on.’

‘What’s with the “we” business? I thought it was Fran’s investigation.’

‘Oh, I’m helping. You know that,’ said Libby airily, getting mugs out of a cupboard.

Ben sighed. ‘Even after last time?’

‘Even after all three times,’ said Libby firmly. ‘It’s always about helping people, really, isn’t it?’

‘And ‘satiable curiosity, like the Elephant’s Child,’ said Ben.

‘Good job somebody has it or nothing would ever get solved, would it?’ Libby poured water into a teapot. Ben sniffed appreciatively.

‘Nothing like real tea made in a pot,’ he said.

‘That’s the only reason you come here, isn’t it,’ said Libby, grinning at him over her shoulder.

‘Not quite the only reason,’ said Ben, sliding his arms round her waist from behind.

Libby giggled. ‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘you still make me feel like a sixteen year old?’

‘And me a randy eighteen year old,’ he replied, nuzzling her neck.

‘We probably wouldn’t have liked each other at all,’ said Libby. ‘You know what it’s like when you meet someone after twenty-odd years – you just want to see what they look like, what they’ve been up to, and that’s that. If you’d really been friends you wouldn’t have lost touch. Let me get the milk.’

Ben let her go, regarding her thoughtfully. ‘So, the reverse is true? Don’t like someone at eighteen and you’ll probably like them at fifty?’

‘No.’ Libby wrinkled her forehead. ‘I don’t think I’ve thought this through properly. But when you think of the number of young marriages that fail because people change so much in their teens and early twenties. If you marry an eighteen-year-old boy, you might not like the twenty-five-year-old man.’

‘But there are some people,’ said Ben, accepting his mug, ‘who come together years later and love blossoms afresh. It happened on that old friends website, didn’t it?’

‘Yes, and look at the trouble it caused!’ Libby led the way back into the garden. ‘Marriages were broken up because people got seduced into thinking their old love was their only love. Just novelty, that’s all it was.’

‘Hmm.’ Ben pulled over a deckchair and collapsed into it. ‘I’m not sure it’s always like that.’

‘Prove it, then,’ said Libby, removing Sidney from her chair. ‘Go on, find me a case study and prove it.’

Ben raised his eyebrows. ‘Pleasure,’ he said.

‘Too much introspection,’ said Guy, ‘that’s what it is.’

He and Fran were sitting outside The Sloop looking out at a particularly pretty sunset. Fran twisted her tall glass between her fingers.

‘I can’t help being introspective, can I?’ she said. ‘I’m expected to be able to look inside my mind and come up with something startling. Trouble is I’m imagining things now.’

‘Because you’re trying too hard, I expect,’ said Guy. ‘I don’t think you should have taken this on. It’s all so muddled, and I think Connell’s got a cheek, involving you.’

Fran sighed. ‘You’re right, he has. Especially as I’d already said no to Kent and Coast. They must think I’m a nut.’

‘And Libby’s keen, of course.’ Guy shook his head. ‘If it wasn’t for her –’

‘We’d never have met,’ Fran finished for him, despite what she’d said to Libby.

Guy looked up, brown eyes twinkling above his goatee. ‘So of course, I’ll love her for ever,’ he said.

‘You need her pictures, anyway,’ said Fran, ‘so don’t try and kid me.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ he said, reaching across to take her hand. ‘Now – your place or mine?’

Chapter Eight

‘THE ITALIAN WOMAN’S DISAPPEARED,’ Fran told Libby in the morning on the telephone. ‘McLean just called. So we’re no further forward.’

‘Rubbish,’ said Libby. ‘What have the police found out about her? There must be something. They wouldn’t just leave it there.’

‘Who did McLean ask about it?’ ‘Don’t know. It wasn’t this division as far as I know.’ ‘Phone Connell. Tell him it’s a line on the Dragon Island body.’

‘He’ll want to investigate himself, then.’

‘Well? So what? If he’s telling the truth about having you do an undercover job, he can’t refuse to let you have the details to see what you come up with.’

Fran frowned out of the window. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Say you had a “moment” about her,’ said Libby, sounding more excited by the minute. ‘The Transnistrian or the Italian?’ ‘Oh, I don’t care, either.’ ‘I’ll have to say how I heard about her. I

wouldn’t have had a flash about something I’d never heard of.’

‘I bet you do, but you don’t connect them up. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, you can say McLean told you about illegal immigrant cases and this one caught your attention. That’s true, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. You’re right, I’ll call him.’

‘Do it now,’ said Libby, and put down the phone.

It was Wednesday, and Steeple Martin’s shops still adhered to the age old tradition of early closing day, so collecting her basket from the kitchen and shutting Sidney out, Libby left the house.

Allhallow’s Lane was in full sunshine at this time of day, the ruts in the grass verge left by parked cars turned to hard baked clay. The lilac tree which hung over the wall at the end now brushed Libby’s head with dark green leaves. The high street was quiet, and after a visit to Ahmed in the eight-til-late, she went into The Pink Geranium and surprised Harry laying up tables for lunch.

‘On your own?’ she said.

‘Donna’ll be in soon.’ Harry waved her to the ancient sofa in the window. ‘Did you want something? Or is this just social?’

‘I thought I might tell you all about Fran’s new investigation.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Harry looked interested. ‘Drop of wine, then, to help it along?’

Once he was settled at the other end of the sofa and a bottle of wine had been provided, Libby told him everything that had happened since the discovery of the body, including the pending introduction of Jane Maurice to The Oast House Theatre.

‘Has she got anything to do with all this?’ asked Harry. ‘The body and everything?’

‘Only that she was the first one to spot it, and she was, I suppose, instrumental in getting Fran on the case. She also ran a front page article last week, and I expect she’ll have quite a large feature this week.

Why?’

Harry shrugged. ‘I don’t know. There’s no reason why she should be involved, I just wondered.’

‘How could she be?’ said Libby. ‘She didn’t know anything about the body!’

‘No, I know.’ Harry frowned. ‘I dunno. Having one of Fran’s moments, I expect.’

‘Oh, I do hope not!’ said Libby. ‘One’s enough.’

Harry laughed and stood up. ‘Come and sit in the yard and have a fag and I’ll make you some lunch,’ he said.

Libby sat in the cool, shady yard at the back of the restaurant and looked up to the flat above, where Fran had, for a brief time, lived.

‘She’s happy, you know,’ she called to Harry in the kitchen.

‘Who?’ Harry came to the doorway with his hands full of onions.

‘Fran. I miss her being here, though.’

‘Oh, come on, Lib, she was only here for a few months.’

‘I know, but it was so great having someone round the corner.’

‘Hey! I’m round the corner.’ Harry was indignant. ‘And what about your cher ami? So’s he.’

‘I know, I meant a woman friend. I haven’t had one since I moved here.’

Harry looked mystified. ‘But you’ve got us,’ he said.

‘You’re not women,’ said Libby, and giggled.

‘Good job too,’ said Harry, and returned to the kitchen.

When Libby returned to number 17 Allhallow’s Lane after lunch with Harry, she found a message waiting on her answerphone, and one on her mobile, which she had left, not unusually, on the kitchen table. Both were from Fran, informing her that she would be arriving in Steeple Martin in half an hour.

‘From when?’ muttered Libby, and found out almost immediately when she heard Fran’s roller-skate outside.

‘Ian found out about the Italian,’ she said.

‘Great. Shall we go into the garden? Tea?’

‘Tea would be lovely,’ said Fran, pausing to say hello to Sidney.

‘So what’s happened?’ Libby came into the garden while she waited for the kettle to boil.

‘Apparently, the investigation turned up the original owner of the passport, because details were taken, photocopied, I think, by the council. So, obviously, the police went looking for her at her registered address and found that she was missing. There was no record of her returning to Italy, so they tried to trace her family, but not very hard, I gather. I mean, they obviously had to get onto the Italian authorities, but these things take an awful long time, apparently. You have to put in requests and it can take months.’

‘And does it relate in any way to our body?’

‘No, not as far as I can see,’ said Fran.

‘I’ll go and make the tea,’ said Libby, and went back into the kitchen.

Fran sat in the garden and absent-mindedly stroked Sidney’s head while staring up into the cherry tree. Why did she still get the image of a farm? Somehow illegal immigrants working on farms didn’t seem to be the answer, yet farms were still in her head. She shook it.

‘Here.’ Libby sat a tray on her rickety table. ‘Biscuits as well. Bel showed me how to make these. They’re ginger.’

Fran peered at the plate. ‘Are you sure? They look like real ones.’

‘I know! Great, aren’t they? Fancy my daughter showing me how to make something as good as this. Mind you, I’m getting through loads of Golden Syrup.’

‘Mmm.’ Fran bit into a biscuit. ‘They are good. Not for the figure, though.’

‘Oh, I’ve given up on the figure,’ said Libby, sitting down and kicking off her sandals. ‘Now, what about the Transnistrian? Where did she live?’

‘I don’t know.’ Fran looked bewildered. ‘I didn’t ask.’

‘And have you found out any more about the country?’

‘I haven’t gone into it. It just seems a really odd place. Someone calls it the Black Hole of Europe.’

‘Sounds like somebody made it up,’ said Libby.

‘That’s what I thought at first, but it’s a real place.’

‘Right.’ Libby picked up her mug and sat up straight. ‘Ask Mr Mclean. Then we’ll go investigating.’

‘I don’t honestly see what this has to do with the body on the island,’ said Fran. ‘I think you’re grasping at straws.’

‘Maybe, but at least it gets us working. We’ve done nothing but potter about over the last week, and tomorrow you’re off to Chrissie’s, aren’t you? So Saturday we really ought to be doing something.’

‘Look, Lib, we’re not real detectives. And you’re not even supposed to be part of the investigation.’ Fran eyed her friend warily, waiting for the outburst. Surprisingly, it didn’t come.

‘I know that, but you’ve been invited into it legitimately, and you said yourself I’d be useful. And you know you want to find out really. So we act like real detectives and start with whatever we’ve got.’ Libby sat back in her chair and closed her eyes.

‘Right.’ Fran thought for a moment. ‘I suppose it makes sense. I’ll phone McLean tomorrow and ask about the Transnistrian before I go to Chrissie’s.’

‘OK.’ Libby opened her eyes. ‘And it’s the audition tomorrow night. You won’t be there for it, but can I say you’re doing Props?’

‘You can, but you can also ask for a volunteer to do it with me. I’m not doing it all on my own.’

‘Right,’ said Libby thoughtfully. ‘That’s given me an idea.’

‘Oh, no,’ said Fran with a familiar groan. ‘Don’t tell me. Jane Maurice.’

‘Well, of course,’ said Libby. ‘It makes perfect sense. She lives in Nethergate and so do you, so you could share the driving, and she wouldn’t be doing something on her own.’

‘Always supposing the poor girl actually wants to do something.’

‘Look, you’re just prejudiced because she tried to turn you into a media star,’ said Libby. ‘She’s only trying to do her job, and as I keep saying to everybody, she’s lonely.’

‘OK,’ said Fran with a sigh, ‘you ask her. And I’ll find out anything else I can about our Transnistrian.’

‘That’s the spirit.’ Libby beamed at her friend. ‘I’ve missed having something to do. And now, why did you feel it was so urgent you had to come over rather than ringing me?’

Fran looked sheepish. ‘I feel a bit silly, really.’

‘Not like you.’

‘No, I know. But I had this sudden desire to see where Jane lived, so I drove past thinking I’d go on to the supermarket afterwards.’

‘And?’

‘Well, it was really odd. You told me Jane’s Aunt had left her the house, didn’t you? And I suppose that made me think about the similarity of our circumstances, especially as Jane’s house is also converted into flats like Mountville Road was.’

‘Go on,’ said Libby, as Fran paused.

‘I said it was silly,’ said Fran, peering down into her mug. ‘I suddenly thought, as I drove past, I knew which one it was and something nasty had happened there.’

Libby stared. ‘You think it was just because of your own experience of Mountville Road?’

‘I don’t know what to think.’

‘Funny.’ Libby frowned. ‘When I had lunch with Harry he asked if Jane was anything to do with the body. I said only because she saw it first. But I wonder.’

Fran looked startled. ‘Oh, come on,’ she said, ‘that’s quite ridiculous. We’re talking real life here, not coincidental detective stories. Besides, since when did Harry become psychic?’

‘That’s what I said to him, but I think he was just putting two and two together like we have in the past.’

‘And made five, also as we have,’ said Fran.

‘Yeah, yeah, I know. But look, she spotted the body, didn’t she? Suppose she was a plant?’

‘You’ve met her. I don’t think she’d be capable. And you’re not suggesting she murdered someone and planted the body all by herself just to get a story, are you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Anyway,’ said Fran, ‘I didn’t get a bad feeling about Jane but about the house.’

‘Oh, well, it was a thought,’ said Libby.

‘You’re the one who wants to befriend her. You can’t have her as a suspect as well.’

Libby grinned. ‘I know. Mass of contradictions, me.’

‘Well,’ said Fran, ‘I suppose I’d better go and do that shopping.’

‘And make that phone call.’ Libby stood up. ‘I shall phone young Jane and tell her what we’ve got in mind.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ said Fran, following her out of the garden. ‘She might not come!’

‘I shall merely invite her here first, then,’ said Libby loftily. ‘I know how to be tactful.’

Fran raised her eyebrows and shook her head at Sidney.

‘The trouble is, she believes it,’ she told him.

Chapter Nine

‘THE TRANSNISTRIAN GIRL IS now in a detention centre waiting to be sent home,’ Fran reported the following morning. ‘Poor thing, straight from prison to a detention centre and now she’s got to go back. Still McLean’s going to see if the police will either let me talk to her or talk to her themselves. He seems to think it’s a long shot and is fairly dubious.’

‘But he’s got to give you the benefit of the doubt, hasn’t he? Now the police have asked for the investigation,’ said Libby.

‘Yes, but he’s not nearly as keen, now. When it was all his idea it was a real project, but now he’s got to play it by the police rules and not even feature me, he doesn’t like it.’

‘Will he feature you at the end, do you think?’ ‘I hope not,’ said Fran with fervour. ‘He’s supposed to keep me out of it.’ ‘But that’s cheating. How could Ian have harnessed his co-operation without you as a carrot?’

‘I don’t know. I have the feeling I might have to appear at the end, not necessarily in person, but as a hook to hang the story on.’ Fran sighed. ‘I hate this.’

‘Well, you go off to Chrissie’s and have a lovely time babysitting Cassandra, and call me when you get back,’ said Libby. ‘Meanwhile, I shall take Jane to the audition and pump her for information about her house.’

‘Oh, Libby, don’t do that,’ said Fran. ‘I’m not sure at all about what I felt yesterday. Just leave it.’

But when Libby phoned Jane at her office to invite her to come to Allhallow’s Lane before the audition, her house was obviously the first thing on her mind.

‘I’ve had three answers to the ad,’ she told Libby gleefully. ‘That was so clever of you to suggest it. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.’

‘Oh, excellent,’ said Libby. ‘When are you seeing them?’

‘Actually, Terry’s going to show them round this afternoon,’ said Jane. ‘It was his idea. He said women on their own shouldn’t do it, and it was as well to show them there was a man around.’

‘Well!’ said Libby, grinning into the phone. Her instincts had been correct, then. ‘That’s good. So are you still going to come to the audition tonight? I thought you might want to come to my house first, then we can go together. I’ve got a proposition for you.’

‘Oh?’ Jane sounded wary.

‘If you still want to come, of course.’

‘Oh, yes. I think you must be bringing me luck.’ Jane gave a little laugh. ‘Or just given me a boot up the backside.’

Libby privately agreed. ‘You were trying to be pro-active with the job,’ she said, ‘it just wasn’t extending to your private life.’

‘No,’ said Jane. ‘Anyway, I’ll come to your house this evening, if I may. What time and where?’

After Libby had given directions to Allhallow’s Lane and arranged for Jane to arrive at a quarter past seven, she called Peter to discuss the audition.

‘Is it going to be a problem if I go for the Fairy?’

she asked. ‘Will people be annoyed and mutter about pre-casting?’

‘Probably,’ said Peter, ‘but I couldn’t care less. I’m going to announce Bob and Baz and Tom as pre-cast anyway, so I might as well add you. This lot aren’t all as experienced as we are, so they should be pleased we’ve got good people in the lead parts.’

‘If you say so,’ said Libby. ‘Did Harry tell you I’m bringing along a new member?’

‘Yes. He seemed a bit worried about her, though.’

‘Why? He’s never met her.’

‘It seems you met her through this new murder,’ said Peter, and Libby could imagine the expression on his patrician features.

‘I wouldn’t put it quite like that,’ said Libby, bridling, ‘but yes, she was the first one to spot the body, which is hardly an involvement, is it?’

‘If you say so. Anyway, if you think she’s OK, that’s fine by me.’

‘I thought she could assist Fran with props. Fran’s happy with that, and as they both live in Nethergate they can share lifts and so on.’

‘Sounds all right to me,’ said Peter. ‘See you there then. Oh – and don’t interfere.’

‘As if I would,’ said Libby to Sidney as she put down the phone.

Jane arrived at twenty past seven that evening full of apologies for being late.

‘I completely missed the turning,’ she said. ‘I went sailing on towards Canterbury and realised I’d run out of village.’

‘Never mind,’ said Libby. ‘You’re here now. Drink before we go?’

‘I’d better not,’ said Jane, ‘I’ve got to drive home.’

‘Tea, then? Coffee?’

‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’ Jane looked round the sitting room. ‘Oh, what a gorgeous cat.’

‘That’s Sidney. My friends call him my familiar, but I think that’s a bit mean. He’s not the friendliest cat in the world, but quite a good guard cat.’

Jane squatted down and held her hand out to be sniffed. Sidney obliged, then tucked his head back under his paw and pretended to go back to sleep. His ears gave him away.

‘So tell me,’ said Libby, waving a hand at the armchair while she sat on the creaky sofa. ‘What happened with the prospective tenants?’

‘There was quite a fight, apparently,’ said Jane, her little face lighting up. ‘The first person really wanted it, then the second offered to pay more, which is unheard of, according to the agents. The third liked it but said it was a bit too expensive, so the agents have said whichever of the first two supplies references which can be checked immediately, gets it. Oh, and if their cheque clears, of course.’

‘Won’t they use a credit card? That clears straight away,’ said Libby.

‘Oh, I don’t know, but anyway, it looks as though I shall have a tenant at last.’ Jane smiled and sat back in the chair. ‘And all thanks to you.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Libby. ‘The agents hadn’t marketed it properly or it would have gone long before this. Did Terry take the photos for you?’

‘Yes, I meant to thank you for that, too,’ said Jane innocently. ‘He came up after you’d gone and said he’d seen you and you said I’d got a favour to ask. I never would have managed that on my own, you know.’

‘I know,’ said Libby, ‘that’s why I asked him. Would have been a bit of a setback if he’d said no, but thankfully he didn’t. So what happened?’

‘He came up with his digital camera and took some shots of the rooms, then downloaded them onto my laptop, and after we’d chosen the best, I composed an ad and sent the whole package to the advertising department. It was a bit late, but they put me in on a news page, which probably made all the difference.’

‘I’m sure it did,’ said Libby. ‘What happened then?’

‘Then?’ Jane shook her head. ‘Nothing, why?’

‘Didn’t you even give the poor lad a cup of tea?’

‘Oh.’ Jane blushed. ‘Yes, of course. Actually, we had a glass of wine.’

Good start, thought Libby.

‘And I’m taking him out for a curry tomorrow to say thank you.’ Jane’s colour was by now so high she matched Libby’s rug.

‘Excellent,’ said Libby, beaming. ‘See? That wasn’t so hard, was it? A friend. And now lets go and make some more.’

On the way to the theatre, in between Jane’s exclamations of pleasure at the quaintness of the village, Libby explained about her plan to give the props job to Fran and for Jane to assist.

‘There won’t be that much to do,’ she said, ‘especially not at first.’

‘It’s very early, isn’t it?’ said Jane, as they turned into the Manor Drive, which also led to The Oast House Theatre. ‘I thought panto was at Christmas.’

Libby looked at her. ‘Of course it is.’

‘Then why are you having auditions at the beginning of August?’

‘Because we have to start rehearsing in October and people need to know what they’re doing. If they don’t get a part in this they might want to go for something else with another company. We’ve got several people who belong to more than one group.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Jane nodded. ‘But you have one of the best reputations, don’t you? I looked you up on the group files.’

‘The group files?’

‘Yes, the group which owns the Mercury. I looked you up.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ said Libby, preening nevertheless. ‘My old group had one of the best reputations, and we had several pros and ex pros on both the technical and acting sides. I borrowed quite a lot of them when we did our first production here.’

‘Oh, that was the play when the murder happened, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Libby pushed open the glass doors of The Oast House Theatre. ‘Here we are.’

Impressed, Jane looked around. ‘I didn’t expect anything like this,’ she said.

‘It helps when the son of the family who own the building is an architect,’ said Libby proudly, looking round with satisfaction.

‘And who is also the best beloved of the company’s best director,’ said Ben, coming up behind them and putting an arm round Libby’s shoulders. ‘You must be Jane.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Ben.’

‘It also helps, of course, when the nephew of the family happens to be the best playwright and second best director,’ said Peter, descending the spiral staircase from his favourite place, the lighting and sound box.

‘Oh.’ Jane looked slightly overwhelmed as she shook hands with them both.

‘And you’re going to be our new props assistant,’ said Peter.

‘Well, I –’ began Jane, but Peter clapped her on the back.

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Ben, can I have a word?’

Later, when the auditions were well under way and Libby could slip away, she took Jane on a tour of the theatre.

‘This is the play that will be on stage next,’ she said, waving a hand at the jigsaw of pieces which would eventually make up the set. ‘Wycherly’s Country Wife.’

‘Oh?’ Jane looked blank.

‘Restoration piece,’ said Libby. ‘Some of the group members wanted to try something serious, although The Country Wife is hardly serious. Very bawdy, in fact. But classic English drama.’

‘Ah,’ said Jane. ‘Anyway, look, here’s what I wanted to show you. Their props table.’

Set in the wings, but well back from the stage was a long trestle table, laden with odd items, tankards, handkerchiefs and parchment letters.

‘There’s another the other side of the stage,’ said Libby, ‘and a props cupboard in the corridor by the dressing room.’

‘It’s all a bit complicated,’ said Jane, looking scared.

‘Nothing to it,’ said Libby. ‘We have two tables, and it’s the responsibility of each actor to pick up his or her personal props before going on stage. Large props are sorted out by the props team, and in the panto, that’ll be you and Fran.’

‘Right,’ said Jane looking round at the stage and up into the flies. ‘Will they have finished the audition yet?’

Peter had the harassed look of someone who had heard the same thing too many times over. Libby waggled her fingers at him and he sat up straight.

‘Right, thank you,’ he said to the actors before him, who stopped mid-sentence. ‘Now we’ll try something with our pre-cast members and see how you all get on with them.’

This part of the audition turned into an entertainment in itself, and Libby was gratified to see Jane laughing heartily. When invited for the customary drink afterwards, in the theatre bar rather than the pub, she accepted happily and was made a fuss of by several of the middle aged men, who should, she said to Ben, have known better.

‘But at least she’ll feel accepted,’ said Ben, ‘and that’s what you wanted.’

‘Yes, but I don’t want her to lose out on Terry,’ grumbled Libby, seeing her matchmaking plans

melt away.

‘Who’s Terry?’ Ben looked bewildered.

‘Oh, never mind,’ said Libby. ‘Come on, let’s rescue her.’

‘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 preprandial 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-bymarriage. ‘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 farms.

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.’

‘Oh, not until eleven thirty,’ said Jane. ‘Just once round the island. People want to see it, so both boats are doing trips round it, one after the other. Ridiculous, really.’

‘Well, I’ll come, thank you,’ said Fran. ‘I’ll ring Libby and ask. What’s happened about your tenant?’

‘Oh, she told you, did she?’ Jane looked excited. ‘Well one chap produced references immediately, apparently, and paid by credit card, so that’s it, he’s coming on Monday.’

‘References can be forged, you know,’ said Fran.

‘Oh, no, I asked about that, as it seemed suspicious if he had them with him. Apparently he told them to look up some firm or other and ask for someone. Wouldn’t even give them the number in case it was a false one with someone primed at the other end. And they did, and that was that. I call that honest.’

And I call that over-prepared, thought Fran.

‘Well,’ she said out loud, ‘I’m very glad for you. What did your friend Terry think of him?’

‘I don’t really know,’ said Jane; her colour was beginning to rise, Fran noted interestedly.

‘How did you like the audition the other evening?’ she asked, deeming it wise to change the subject.

‘Oh, it was great! Libby showed me round the theatre and everyone was so nice to me. Some of them are really good, aren’t they?’

‘Certainly are,’ said Fran with a grin, wondering who the “some” were, and whether the rest would agree.

‘Well, I must get off,’ said Jane. ‘I promised I’d get some stuff for George. Bert’s already gone out on the first trip round the island, so I haven’t got to get anything for him.’

‘I hope you’re not letting them take advantage of you?’ said Fran as she held the door open for the girl.

‘Oh, no. They were both so kind to me when I was first here, I couldn’t do enough for them.’ Jane smiled and almost skipped off towards the town. What a transformation, thought Fran. And all because Libby interfered. But, nevertheless, a girl who was far too trusting to be a reporter.

Libby was delighted to be asked to go on the Dolphin and promised to be with Fran by eleven fifteen at the latest. In fact she arrived at five past, so they strolled down to have a coffee at The Blue Anchor.

Mavis came out to present Libby with one of her battered tin ashtrays. Libby beamed at her.

‘So,’ she said, when they’d given their order. ‘Are we looking for anything special?’

‘What?’ Fran looked startled. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, clues.’ Libby lit a cigarette. ‘On the island.’

‘Of course not,’ said Fran. ‘This is just a pleasure trip.’ She looked out to sea. ‘I decided to give it all a rest. I’m not even going to think about it this weekend. And if nothing comes up then I shall tell Ian on Monday and he can call Kent and Coast off.’

‘Won’t you tell McLean yourself?’

Fran shook her head. ‘He’d only badger me into it. I want it official, from the police. Even if it isn’t strictly official, if you know what I mean.’

Libby nodded. ‘Thanks,’ she said, as Mavis set down two large steaming mugs. ‘That’s lovely.’ She turned back to Fran. ‘Well, I can’t say I’m sorry.’

Fran laughed. ‘That’s not like you! You’re the one raring to get your nose stuck into someone else’s business usually.’

‘I know, but this one’s nothing to do with us, we’ve got no personal interest and it looks pretty unsavoury. Murder of an illegal immigrant.’ She shuddered. ‘Sounds so serious.’

‘Murder’s always serious,’ said Fran, amused. ‘It’s also always unsavoury.’

Libby sighed. ‘I know. But somehow this one’s different. Right outside the comfort zone.’

‘Which one of the others has been inside, then?’ said Fran.

Libby pulled a face. ‘Oh, you know what I mean. Anyway, there doesn’t seem to be any way of identifying our body, unless the police have had a bit of luck, and until that’s done there’s nothing anyone can do, so we might as well give it up and enjoy the weather.’

Fran smiled and raised her mug in a toast. ‘Cheers,’ she said. ‘And speaking of enjoying the weather, here comes young Jane with a basket of goodies.’

‘Just like Red Riding Hood,’ said Libby, watching the small, brown haired figure coming towards them at a trot.

‘Hi,’ said Jane, slightly out of breath. ‘Glad you could come, Libby.’

‘Do you want a hand onto the boat with that?’ asked Libby, surveying with interest the basket full of fresh French sticks and greaseproof wrapping which betokened an exciting selection of items from the local deli.

‘No, it’s fine,’ said Jane, shaking back her brown bob. ‘I’ll take it over to George. We always give passengers a little something to eat.’

‘That’s more than a little something,’ said Fran. ‘I hope he’s not running at a loss.’ ‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so,’ said Jane. ‘He’s quite a canny old bird.’ ‘What a quaint expression for a modern young woman,’ said Libby, watching Jane climb down the

steps on to the Dolphin.

‘She’s a very quaint modern young woman,’ said Fran. ‘I thought that when she turned up on my doorstep that day. And you can’t tell me it’s normal that she hasn’t made any friends except those two old men since she’s been here.’

‘I can understand it,’ said Libby. ‘It made perfect sense when she explained it to me.’

Fran sighed. ‘I still think she’s a bit of an oddity.’

Libby laughed. ‘And you’re not, I suppose?’

Fran looked affronted. ‘Only in one respect,’ she said. ‘Otherwise I’m quite normal.’

‘OK.’ Libby stood up. ‘Come on. It looks as though we ought to be getting on.’

‘Embarking,’ said Fran, standing up. ‘I’ll go and pay Mavis.’

George welcomed them aboard with an indifferent nod, and Jane smiled nervously.

‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘He’s not usually grumpy.’

‘You haven’t made him take us for nothing, have you?’ said Libby.

Jane’s variable colour went up a notch. ‘Um,’ she said.

‘Either that or you’re paying for the trip.’ Libby frowned at her.

‘Stop it, Lib.’ Fran tapped Libby on the arm. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Why didn’t it matter?’ Libby asked when they were settled on bench seats on the starboard side.

‘You were embarrassing her. I think she arranged for us to come to say a sort of combined thank you and apology. And you were practically throwing it back in her face. Tact isn’t always your strong point.’

Libby was horrified. ‘Oh, bugger,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean it.’

‘I know you didn’t, but she might not.’

Libby looked down at her lap. ‘Should I apologise?’

‘No, leave it. Just be nice to her.’

Libby looked up again. ‘I have been! That’s why she’s making a thank you gesture.’

Fran sighed. ‘Oh, Lib,’ she said.

The Dolphin swung out into the bay and began a wide sweep towards the island. Libby leaned over the side to catch the spray on her face. Fran sat and stared across the water towards the island, and Jane came towards them with a tray loaded with food.

‘Wow!’ Libby took a chunk of bread and some olives. ‘This is great.’

Fran was still looking at the island. Her heart thumped inside her and she felt a familiar wave of blackness descend. From a distance she heard Libby asking if she was all right and then, nothing.