Chapter Twenty-two

‘SO WHERE DOES THAT leave us?’ asked Jane after Libby had related the story of the visit to Mrs Finch.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Fran. ‘They could have been friends from the war, couldn’t they?’

‘There were lots of Italian prisoners of war,’ said Libby. ‘And Italians who were already over here were interned. Some of them were deported.’

‘Why do you need to know?’ asked Terry, who had now moved upstairs to Jane’s flat and lay in state on the sofa.

‘It was unexpected,’ said Libby with one eye on Fran, who was looking distracted.

‘So did you get anything about the house?’ asked Jane.

‘Only really in Mike’s sitting room,’ said Fran slowly.

‘You thought that had been the bedroom, yes,’ said Jane eagerly. ‘Then what?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Fran, and looked up, meeting Jane’s eyes. ‘You’re going to have to let me think about it. Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s anything to do with Terry.’

‘Or his attacker?’ asked Libby.

‘Yes,’ said Fran. ‘Or rather, no. It isn’t.’

‘Oh.’ Jane looked disappointed. Terry, unconcerned, reached out and patted her hand. ‘Don’t worry, doll,’ he said.

‘Doll?’ muttered Libby. ‘What decade does he think this is?’

‘We’re back to the fifties,’ grinned Fran in response. ‘Come on.’

‘Jane, we’ve got to go now. We’re meeting Ben and Guy in The Swan for a meal,’ said Libby.

‘I promise I’ll think about the impressions I got from this evening,’ said Fran, ‘and I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.’

‘I’ll be here all day if you want to come back,’ said Terry, fixing his eyes on Fran.

‘Right, thank you,’ said Fran. ‘Come on Lib, we’ll be late.’

‘So what was that all about?’ asked Libby, as they got into Romeo.

‘What was what?’

‘That look Terry gave you.’

‘He was trying to tell me something,’ said Fran, ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘About the house?’

‘I don’t know. Possibly. Or perhaps he was trying to warn me off.’

‘Why would he want to do that?’

‘Because he doesn’t want Jane involved? Maybe he knows who it was after all?’

‘Hmmm.’ Libby turned the car round in The Tops car park and started back towards The Swan. ‘So what about Aunt Jessica’s bedroom?’

‘Yes.’ Fran stared out of the windscreen. ‘I’m going to have to think about that, too.’

Libby parked in The Swan’s car park and turned to face her friend. ‘Look, this isn’t important, you know. This was just to oblige Jane and because you had a feeling about the house. You don’t have to get worked up about it.’

‘I know, I know. But now I’m hooked.’ Fran gave Libby a small smile. ‘I know I’m inconsistent and a damned nuisance, but there it is.’

Guy and Ben were waiting for them in the bar.

‘How did it go?’ Guy pulled out a chair for Fran.

‘So-so,’ said Fran.

‘I still don’t know why you’re bothering,’ said Ben. ‘This isn’t a murder investigation, is it? Are you just keeping your hand in?’

‘Fran says she’s hooked,’ said Libby. ‘I think she’s peeved because the body on the island turned out to be a dud.’

‘Libby!’ Fran frowned.

‘Anyone know how that investigation’s going?’ asked Guy. ‘There hasn’t been anything in the paper.’

‘Don’t know. When you phoned Ian did he say anything, Fran?’ Libby said.

‘Phoned Ian? What about?’ Guy looked sharply at Fran.

‘I didn’t phone him.’ Fran looked away. ‘He isn’t in charge of Terry’s case, so it was pointless.’

‘And you don’t think your feeling about the house is relevant anyway?’ Libby leant forward to try and catch Fran’s eye.

‘No.’ Fran looked back at them all. ‘Have you asked for the menu?’

The other three looked at one another and Libby sighed. ‘That’s that, then,’ she said.

‘So, come on then,’ said Libby the following morning. ‘What’s going on?’ She perched on the edge of the garden chair clutching her phone. ‘God, I wish you still lived round the corner. I’d much rather talk to you face to face.’

‘Then it’s a good job for me I don’t,’ said Fran, sounding amused. ‘And nice though living in Steeple Martin above The Pink Geranium was, Coastguard Cottage is a darn site better.’

‘I know, I know,’ sighed Libby. ‘Go on then, tell me all.’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Because I’m nosy,’ said Libby. ‘And we’ve always done these things together.’

‘Always? For the last eighteen months, maybe.’

‘You know what I mean. Come on, there was something there, wasn’t there?’

‘Honestly, Libby, I’m not sure.’ Fran was silent for a moment. ‘Something happened in what was Aunt Jessica’s bedroom. I saw a bed, and a woman, and then it all went black.’

‘You didn’t show it,’ said Libby.

‘No. I wasn’t facing any of you just then, and because I recognised the feeling, I just closed my eyes and waited until it had passed. She was probably Aunt Jessica.’

‘So not Simon Whatsit?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. And I have no idea when it was. It wasn’t during the war, because she wouldn’t have been using that room as a bedroom, would she? Not when she lived in the whole house. So it must have been after she turned the house into flats. Unless she used that room as a bedroom when the house was a B&B, too. Anyway, that’s all I got. Nothing from anywhere else in the house, not even Mrs Finch’s. So there’s nothing to tell Ian. He’s not a cold case unit, after all.’

‘No, I suppose not. What will you tell Jane?’

‘The truth, I suppose. There’s nothing to connect Terry’s attack to Peel House, and no more to be found out about Aunt Jane.’

‘Shame,’ said Libby. ‘What about the Italian connection?’

‘Again, no idea. You were right, they were probably friends she made during the war. Perhaps internees who were let out to work on the farms, or something. Lots of them did that, didn’t they?’

‘Some of them stayed here, after the war, too,’ said Libby. ‘I hope they were happy. They had a terrible time at first. People who’d lived here for years with their families and had businesses, ice cream shops, barbers and restaurants, had their businesses smashed up by ordinary people, and then they were just rounded up and interned. Dreadful.’

‘Terrible,’ echoed Fran at the other end of the phone.

‘Well, we don’t know who Aunt Jessica’s friends were, so it’s no use speculating,’ said Libby.

‘No.’ Libby heard uncertainty in Fran’s voice.

‘What?’ she said. ‘Come on, out with it. There’s something else, isn’t there?’

‘No, not really, just a feeling.’

‘About the Italians?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you said you had no idea about them?’

‘I know, and I don’t. There’s just a sort of muzzy aura around them.’

‘Well, don’t force it. Perhaps it’ll come to you,’ said Libby.

In Coastguard Cottage, Fran clicked off her phone and went to stand at the window. The view across the bay to the lighthouse always soothed her, and today, with the sun shining and seagulls swooping in the sky, it was as idyllic as a postcard. In fact, Libby’s paintings of this view sold well as postcards.

Her phone rang again.

‘Mrs Castle? Fran?’

‘Yes? Who is this?’

‘Campbell McLean. How are you?’

‘I’m fine, how are you?’ said Fran, frowning at the handset.

‘I had to tell you, your instinct about Budgen was right.’

‘Illegal pickers?’

‘Exactly. A triumph! And all thanks to you and Mrs Sarjeant.’

‘Well, not quite,’ said Fran. ‘You picked the farm.’

‘Yes, but Mrs Sarjeant was the one who made the connection.’

‘Not that it turned out to be the right connection,’ said Fran.

‘I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘Look, I’d like to tell you about it. Could I buy you both lunch?’

‘Certainly,’ said Fran. ‘Where and when?’

‘Shall I come to Nethergate? There’s that nice little Italian restaurant in the High Street, isn’t there?’

‘Luigi’s, yes,’ said Fran. ‘I’ll call Libby – Mrs Sarjeant – and ask her to meet us there, shall I?’

‘I’ll book a table for one o’clock,’ said Campbell McLean, and rang off.

Libby was as excited as Fran expected her to be.

‘Do you think it’s something to do with the body?’

Fran groaned. ‘Please, God, no,’ she said.

‘Why not? That’s what you were supposed to investigate in the first place. And now Jane’s aunt’s gone out the window you haven’t got anything else to do.’

‘I was supposed to be taking up a hobby, remember?’ said Fran.

‘Oh, the writing. Well, think about how much more you’ll have to write about,’ said Libby gleefully. ‘I might go into Canterbury and get the train down to Nethergate. Then I can swell Campbell McLean’s expense budget on red wine.’

The journey involved a long and tortuous bus-ride through the villages on the way to Canterbury, but it was a beautiful day and Libby sat on the top deck enjoying the view. Then there was short walk from the bus station to the railway station (Libby still hated the way the younger generation said “train station”) and a slow rattle through more villages to Nethergate.

The walk down the hill in Nethergate to Luigi’s was probably the most difficult part of the journey, dodging holiday makers who seemed unable to grasp the concept of forward movement, or even staying on the pavements.

‘Tourists,’ she gasped, subsiding into a chair between Fran and McLean. ‘How annoying are they?’

‘Libby, you were a tourist here once. Don’t be horrible.’

‘I bet I wasn’t as bad as they are,’ grumbled Libby, pushing her basket under her chair. ‘Think they own the place.’

Campbell McLean chuckled. ‘There probably wouldn’t be a Nethergate without tourists,’ he said.

‘True,’ Libby sighed. ‘Oh, well, I shall have to be more tolerant. Now tell us what’s been going on.’

But McLean insisted on providing them with a drink first, and then ordering lunch. After which, he sat back and surveyed the two women.

‘Well, you know I wasn’t too pleased about our investigation into the body on the island being scuppered, nor was I too pleased about the farm investigation, but we were co-operating with the police, so I went along with it.’

‘And?’ prompted Libby.

‘As we talked about last Monday, we arranged for another reporter – no one who normally appears on screen – to apply for work at the farm with a hidden camera and microphone. To cut a long story short, it turns out Budgen is part of a scam still working to bring in illegal workers. Who was it mentioned all those strawberries left to rot?’

‘Me,’ said Libby.

‘Farmers are really worried about it, apparently. So those that were in on a scam stayed on it. But among the people they’re bringing in now are Moldovans and Transnistrians. Remember Transnistria?’

Fran and Libby both gasped.

‘Mind you, there are still people from Eastern Europe who can come in legally, but can’t work. So there are some of those, too.’

‘So have the police arrested anyone?’ asked Libby.

‘Budgen and two of the people running the so-called “agency”. They’re chasing up other leads to the suppliers of the false documents, and many of the workers have been taken to a holding centre.’

‘Oh, poor things,’ said Libby.

‘I know,’ said McLean. ‘And when you look round Nethergate and see how many foreign workers are here doing all the jobs the British don’t want to do, you’d think these people would be welcome, wouldn’t you?’

‘The same as the Italians,’ murmured Fran.

‘Italians?’ McLean looked puzzled.

‘The war-time interned Italians,’ said Libby. ‘We’ve been talking about them recently.’

‘Oh.’ McLean looked up as a waiter arrived bearing plates. ‘Thank you.’

‘Do you think he’s one?’ asked Libby in a stage whisper.

‘Ssh!’ said Fran. ‘One what?’

‘A migrant worker. He’s a very dark-looking Italian.’

‘A lot of them are,’ said McLean, amused.

‘I only ask, because –’ began Libby, until Fran trod on her foot. ‘The Italians look a lot like the Eastern Europeans, don’t they?’ she finished lamely.

‘The Romanian language is a lot like Italian,’ said McLean, ‘and apparently Moldovan and Transnistrian are very like it, too.’

‘Anyway,’ said Libby, ‘what happened next? Has Budgen been talking? How long had he been involved?’

‘Oh, some years,’ said McLean. ‘In fact, it turns out that he has a connection to another case, very loosely.’ He suddenly sat up straight in his chair. ‘Which, of course, is the one I told you about before.’ He beamed triumphantly.

‘What?’ Libby and Fran looked at one another.

‘Lena Gruzevich. Who borrowed a false Italian passport to get her a job and is now in an Immigration Centre awaiting deportation. Remember?’

Chapter Twenty-three

TAKING LIBBY’S AND FRAN’S open-mouthed astonishment as agreement, McLean went on.

‘It turns out that it was Budgen’s farm Lena was sent to. The conditions were appalling, but she saw enough of life outside to want to stay here, but couldn’t work out how. They were kept almost as prisoners, of course. But when that case came up – you know, the one we talked about before – and Budgen’s farm was investigated, he got rid of the workers as quickly as he could, which meant they were packed into lorries and transported like sheep.’

‘How ghastly,’ said Libby, her eyes wide.

‘Lena, apparently, managed to escape and went in search of her brother, whom she knew was in the country having come over with a previous wave of smuggled migrants. She says he had got work in a bar in London, and when she found him, he introduced her to this Italian woman, who Lena says he was having an affair with. Anyway, Lena stayed in the flat the woman was renting and eventually got the job using her passport.’

‘But the reports say the Italian girl was never found?’ said Fran.

‘No, and neither was the brother, Andrei, apparently. Lena gave the police all the details, but although they found the bar and people remembered Andrei and the girl, no one had seen either of them for a couple of years.’

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Libby. ‘We couldn’t find it out, even when Fran asked Inspector Connell.’

‘Friend of mine on the network I used to work for covered it,’ said McLean, looking smug. ‘That’s how I found out about it in the first place and told Fran.’

‘So Andrei and the Italian girl did a bunk. Back to Italy, do you think?’ said Libby.

‘The police tracked the false passport back to Rome, so yes, that’s what it looks like. After that, nothing.’

‘Hang on,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve just realised you said false passport. You didn’t say that in the first place. You just said the police had tried to trace her family and had no success.’

‘The Italian authorities eventually came up with the fact that it was false. I told you, it takes months sometimes.’

‘So a complete dead end?’ said Libby.

‘That part of it, yes.’

‘Nothing to do with your body on the island anyway,’ said Fran. ‘Sorry you got talked into this one instead.’

‘I’m not. The police are very grateful, we get an exclusive, and if I’m allowed to,’ he inclined his head towards Fran, ‘we shall perhaps do a mini-feature on the help psychics can give the police.’

‘I didn’t give you much help, Libby did,’ said Fran.

‘Doesn’t make such a good story, though, does it?’ said Libby. ‘Glad you got that awful Budgen though. What about his animals? I know that dog wasn’t very friendly, but they can’t leave it on its own.’

‘He might have a wife,’ said Fran.

‘I hope not!’ said Libby.

‘Divorced years ago, apparently,’ said McLean. ‘And the police always bring in appropriate services to deal with anybody or anything left behind in these cases.’

‘What about the workers he was using now?’ asked Fran.

‘Immigration Centre, I told you.’

‘So there was a new operation going on after the collapse of that one four years ago?’ asked Libby.

‘There are always operations going on. This particular one is based in Moldova, but I should imagine it’s closed off lines of communication for the time being now Budgen’s been arrested.’

‘How would the people in Moldova know?’ asked Fran.

‘There are people watching all the time. Usually the most innocent-looking people, too.’

They all turned their attention to the food, until Libby looked up and said, ‘Isn’t it possible that the body on the island was one of Budgen’s workers?’

‘It is, of course, but Budgen wouldn’t identify him even if it was,’ said McLean.

‘And it doesn’t answer the question of why he was on the island, does it?’ said Fran.

‘Hmmm.’ Libby pushed her remaining pasta around her plate. ‘That does seem to be the main problem. Why and how.’

‘Do you think,’ said Fran after Campbell McLean had left them and they were walking down to the sea front, ‘that there’s a connection between Lena and the body on the island?’

‘Do you?’ Libby narrowed her eyes at her friend.

‘I feel as though there is,’ said Fran.

‘You thought that before and you admitted you were wrong.’

‘But suppose I wasn’t?’ Fran stopped at Lizzie’s ice cream shop. ‘Want one?’

‘Strawberry, please,’ said Libby. ‘And why do you suddenly think you might have been right?’

‘It’s all these coincidences,’ said Fran, handing Lizzie some coins. ‘They’re piling up. I don’t believe in coincidences.’

‘What coincidences?’ asked Libby dubiously, taking her strawberry cornet from Lizzie.

‘The Transnistrian one, for a start. Lena turns out to be one of the workers from Budgen’s farm.’

‘That’s McLean’s coincidence, not yours. He brought up Lena Gruesome’s case in the first place as a hook to hang something on. It just turns out that his own investigation has turned up trumps. After all, you didn’t even pick Budgen’s farm.’

‘I didn’t even suggest going to see a farm,’ said Fran gloomily, taking a cautious lick at her chocolate cornet. ‘That was you.’

‘Well, there you are then. It’s McLean’s triumph, nothing to do with you, and even if the body on the island turns out to be Transnistrian, it will still be nothing to do with you.’ Libby perched on the sea wall and squinted up at the sky. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’

But Fran wasn’t satisfied. Later that afternoon, she took a deckchair over on to the beach, followed by Balzac, and sat down in the lee of the wall to watch the holiday makers and the sea. Hovering on the horizon, shimmering in the heat haze, sat Dragon Island, and as she watched it, she felt a cold sensation in her veins, almost, as she described it later, like an anaesthetic injection.

There was something, she was sure. Even though Libby, and she herself, had pooh-poohed the idea, there was a feeling lurking in her mind that all the images that had been floating there since Ian’s request were somehow connected. Except possibly, she acknowledged, the rather muddled affair of Peel House. That was a diversion her strange brain had created for her and had served only as a red herring. How, she wondered, watching Balzac picking his way fastidiously across the pebbles, could she marry them up and see if there really was a connection? She had asked Ian about the Transnistrian girl, whose name they now knew was Lena Gruzevich, but that had turned into a dead end, as Libby had said at lunch time.

Perhaps, she thought, sitting upright in the deckchair as an idea struck her, even though Ian was not particularly pleased with her, he might just do her a favour if he thought it might serve him a good turn. And he surely couldn’t be too cross with her after McLean’s successful uncovering of Budgen’s illegal farm workers, even if, in the end, it had been nothing to do with her. She leant back in the deckchair once again, sighed, and closed her eyes.

Later, when the sun had deserted the beach and remained shining only on Cliff Terrace and The Tops car park, Fran went back inside Coastguard Cottage and made herself a cup of tea, which she took out into the back yard. Balzac, ever companionable, came too. After a couple of false starts, she finally pressed Call to Ian Connell’s mobile number and waited.

Half to her annoyance and half to her relief, it went straight to voicemail.

‘Right,’ she said clearing her throat. ‘Ian. It’s Fran. I know I said I was bowing out of your investigation, but there is something that keeps niggling away at me. You remember I asked you about that Transnistrian woman? Could you somehow arrange for her to see a photograph of the body on the island? Don’t know whether it’s possible for you to do that, but I think it might be worth it.’ She cleared her throat again. ‘That’s all. Bye.’

She looked down at Balzac. ‘Well, that’s it,’ she said. ‘I’ve done it. It’s up to him now.’

Meanwhile, in Steeple Martin, a panic meeting was being held in The Pink Geranium about the entertainment for Hetty’s birthday party. No pianist had been found, despite the best efforts of everyone involved, and the best alternative had been a couple of old vinyl long playing records called “Honky-Tonk Party” and “War-Time Favourites” produced by Lenny and Flo.

‘I’ll have a look online for some CDs,’ said Libby. ‘I’m sure I bought my mother a boxed set of 40s and 50s hits a couple of Christmases ago.’

‘Well, if that’s all we can get, that’ll have to do,’ said Ben.

‘What about bands that play that sort of stuff?’

asked Harry.

‘They’d cost a lot of money,’ said Libby. ‘I know. I went to a wedding once where they had a 40s dance band in white DJs with a girl singer and I know just how much it cost the groom.’

‘There must be local bands that do it, though? Flo, what about those tea dances they have in the village hall?’ said Peter.

‘Records, love,’ said Flo. ‘No real people now.’

‘Libby?’ Ben reached across the table to tap Libby’s arm. ‘Have you gone into a trance?’

‘Nooo,’ said Libby slowly, ‘but I just had an idea.’

To their collective credit, no one round the table groaned.

‘You know little Jane Maurice who came along to the audition?’

They all nodded, except Flo and Lenny.

‘Well, she works for the Nethergate Mercury. She probably knows all the local bands and things, doesn’t she? She might even know a pianist. One that plays in a hotel bar, or something.’

‘Do they do that any more?’ asked Peter.

‘Ring her,’ said Ben. ‘What have we got to lose?’

Libby fished her mobile out of her basket and found Jane’s number.

‘Oh, hi, Jane,’ she said when Jane answered. ‘I’ve got a question for you. Not disturbing you, am I?’

Grinning at the rather breathless reply to this innocent question, Libby went on to describe the problem.

‘She’ll get back to me,’ she told the waiting group, who let out their collective breath and picked up their wine glasses.

The other arrangements for the party were going well it seemed. The local brewery were providing barrels and some memorabilia, the wardrobe at the theatre had been raided of all the costumes that had been assembled for the production of The Hop Pickers, and the set builders had done wonders. Everyone was congratulating themselves and casting darkling looks at Libby, the only failure among them, when her mobile rang.

‘Libby,’ said an unfamiliar voice, ‘it’s Terry here.’

‘Terry? Good heavens! How are you?’

‘I’m fine. Look, Jane’s just told me about you wanting a pianist.’

‘Has she?’ Libby frowned.

‘1940s stuff? Singalong?’

‘Yes,’ said Libby cautiously.

‘Well, if I offer to babysit, I might be able to help,’ said Terry.

‘Eh?’

‘Oh, sorry. What I meant was, my sister might do it if I babysat her little girl. With Jane.’

‘Your sister? Does she do that sort of stuff?’

‘Oh, yeah. She’s a professional, but she’s not working much since she had the baby. Been on the radio and everything.’

‘Really?’ Libby’s face broke into a huge smile. ‘But how much would it cost?’

‘Oh, just her petrol money. She’ll be glad to get out. What d’you reckon?’

‘It sounds fantastic,’ said Libby. ‘When can you ask her?’

‘I’ll do it now,’ said Terry. ‘Ring you back in five.’

In fact, it was ten minutes before Libby’s phone rang again.

‘Yeah, love to, she said. Just tell me where it is. And she said have you got a piano, or should she bring hers?’

‘Hers?’

‘Electronic.’

‘Oh, no we’ve got a proper old upright.’

‘And she says she’ll come in her stage gear. She sings as well. Do a good job for you, she will.’

‘Oh, Terry!’ said Libby, feeling almost tearful. ‘I don’t know what to say. I can’t thank you enough.’

‘S’nothing,’ said Terry. ‘Glad to help.’ He paused. ‘And would you get Fran to ring me? I thought she might want to come back and – er – carry on looking.’

‘Yes, she thought you wanted to see her again,’ said Libby. ‘Want to give me a clue?’

‘Um – no. She’ll tell you. Got to go. Bye.’

Ringing off, Libby turned to the expectant faces round the table. ‘Sorted!’ she said.

Chapter Twenty-four

WEDNESDAY MORNING FOUND LIBBY at the theatre in order to let in a hastily summoned piano tuner. The upright piano given to the theatre a year ago had been lifted and dragged onto the stage, and Libby knew enough about pianos to realise that this wouldn’t have done the tuning much good at all. Resigning herself to a long wait, she wandered round checking bar stocks, clean tea towels, spare lamps for the lighting rig and various other essentials of theatre life.

She had finally gone outside to the little garden for a cigarette when her phone rang.

‘I’ve got some news,’ said Fran.

‘Good news?’

‘Gratifying for me, anyway.’

‘What is it?’

‘What are you doing? Shall I come over? I haven’t seen Sidney for a week or so.’ ‘I’m at the theatre at the moment while the piano tuner’s doing his stuff.’

‘How long will he be?’

‘Come here anyway and I’ll wait for you,’ said Libby. ‘Aren’t you going to give me a hint?’

‘No,’ said Fran, and Libby could hear the mischief in her voice. ‘I’m going to keep you in suspense.’

Half an hour later, the piano tuner’s car passed Fran’s roller-skate on the Manor drive. ‘Where are we going?’ asked Fran.

‘Don’t mind. Do you want to go to Harry’s?’

‘I think I’d rather go to yours.’

‘OK,’ said Libby, and climbed into the passenger seat after checking the lock on the theatre door.

Sidney greeted Fran like a long lost friend and led her out into the garden while Libby put the kettle on.

‘Come on, now,’ she said, following them outside. ‘What’s the news?’

‘Yesterday evening I left a message for Ian,’ said Fran, lifting an unprotesting Sidney onto her lap.

‘Yes?’

‘And asked him if it would be possible to show the Transnistrian girl a photo of our body.’

‘And?’

‘He called this morning – very early – to ask why. So I told him I thought there was a connection. As I’d mentioned the case to him before, he accepted that and said he’d find out.’

‘Hang on, kettle’s boiling,’ said Libby and dashed back into the kitchen. A few minutes later she came out with a teapot, mugs, milk and sugar on a tray.

‘There’s posh,’ said Fran, raising her eyebrows.

‘Saves me going back in when it’s brewed,’ said Libby. ‘Go on. What happens next?’

‘It’s happened,’ said Fran with a smile. ‘He already did it.’

‘Golly,’ said Libby. ‘How quick is that? How did he manage it?’

‘He said he took an executive decision.’ Fran laughed. ‘Not like Ian, really, is it? He’s not usually impetuous. But apparently the Transnistrian girl –’

‘Lena,’ put in Libby.

‘Lena,’ nodded Fran, ‘is in a centre near Dover, so he just took the file over and asked to see her.’

‘And?’

‘It’s her brother.’

No!’ squeaked Libby. ‘Blimey! So he didn’t do a bunk with the Italian?’

‘He might have done. It’s a couple of years since Lena saw him, she says, after she gave back the passport to the other girl. They didn’t keep in touch deliberately.’

‘Wow.’ Libby poured tea. ‘So where does that get us?’

‘It gets Ian an identification, so he’s over the moon.’

‘But no nearer finding out who dunnit?’

‘I suppose an identity must make it a bit easier.’

‘But they’ll have to find out where he’s been for the last two years.’

‘They’ve got the address of the flat the Italian was living in, and which Lena stayed in, and the address of the club.’

‘They had that before, though, didn’t they?’

‘Yes, but that was another investigation, wasn’t it? Ian’s team will go in, now. Thanks.’ Fran picked up her mug carefully, without disturbing Sidney.

‘Is she upset?’

‘I don’t know. Ian didn’t give me that sort of detail. Just phoned me from the car to give me the outline and say thanks. I asked him to let me know what happens, but when and whether he’ll do that, I’ve no idea.’

‘So Lena and – what was his name?’

‘Andrei?’

‘That’s it, Andrei. They both came out from Transnistria; at the same time do you think?’

‘It doesn’t sound like it.’

‘Well, anyway, out they come, and then he gets murdered.’

‘Not quite right away,’ said Fran, in an amused voice.

‘No, I know, but doesn’t it seem like there was a connection? With the Italian girl, probably. They’d found out that passport was false, supposing she wasn’t Italian after all?’ Libby sat back in her chair looking triumphant.

Fran stared in astonishment. ‘Goodness!’ she said. ‘Of course! She could have been Transnistrian, too. Or any nationality, come to that.’

‘I expect,’ sighed Libby, picking up her mug, ‘the police have figured that one out anyway.’

‘I expect you’re right.’ Fran frowned. ‘But will it do them any good? She’s disappeared off the face of the earth.’

‘She went back to Italy,’ mused Libby, ‘so she vanished from there. Or – she took up her normal nationality.’

‘In that case, why did she need a false passport over here?’

‘Because she didn’t want anyone to know who she was, durr!’ said Libby. ‘Either that or she needed an identity the same as the other girl.’

‘Well, I’m just pleased to be vindicated.’ Fran stroked Sidney’s head. He flattened his ears.

‘Yes. It proves that you weren’t trying too hard after all, doesn’t it? And you still get things right.’

‘It’s just a question of interpretation, really,’ said Fran. ‘I knew there was a farm involved somewhere, but it was pure luck when McLean turned up the information on Lena.’

‘But even then it didn’t connect openly with Andrei,’ said Libby.

‘No, but the connection must have been there in whatever bit of my mind I use for this. Or whatever power uses it,’ Fran made a face.

‘Don’t scoff,’ said Libby. ‘It works. And I reckon he was killed on a boat taking him to the island.’

‘Because of what happened on our boat trip?’

‘Yes. And just suppose,’ said Libby, warming to her theory, ‘that he was actually being transported out of the country and something went wrong?’

‘Why not, in that case, just dump him overboard, as we’ve said before?’

‘Ah.’ Libby nodded. ‘That is the sticking point, isn’t it? There has to be a reason.’

‘Someone knew who he was,’ said Fran.

‘The killers?’

‘Of course, the killers, although even that isn’t certain. Suppose he’d got involved in something – drugs, say – under his false name. This could be a drug-related killing.’

‘What was his false name, did Ian say?’

Fran shook her head. ‘Lena identified him with his real name. Poor girl. What a life.’ ‘Will they make her go back, do you think?’ ‘She’d been living quietly in a rented room and

was good at her job, Ian said, but that’s no guarantee. They split up husbands and wives without compunction, even children, and Lena has none of those.’

Libby sighed. ‘We don’t realise how lucky we are, do we? Did you read all that stuff on the internet about Transnistria? It’s becoming a centre for every sort of criminal activity.’

‘I know. Perhaps the authorities will realise that and let her stay.’

‘But she’s already got two strikes against her,’ said Libby. ‘She came into the country on a false passport, then obtained a job with another one. Why did she borrow the other one, by the way? The first one must have got her into the country.’

‘No, it didn’t,’ said Fran. ‘She was smuggled in.’

‘Oh, God, even worse.’ Libby shook her head. ‘She hasn’t much hope has she?’

‘And think what will happen to her if she goes back.’

‘I doubt if she’d get that far,’ said Fran.

They sat in silence for a few moments, until Sidney, impervious to atmosphere, sat up suddenly and began to wash.

‘Well, it isn’t our – I mean, your – problem any more. You got Ian his identification, so you can relax.’

Fran was staring up into the cherry tree.

‘Fran? Hoy, anyone home?’ Libby clicked her fingers in front of her friend’s face.

Fran blinked. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said. ‘I was just thinking.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Libby sighed again. ‘What is it this time?’

‘I don’t know why you say that,’ said Fran.

‘You’re the one who always wants to go haring off detecting as soon as I think of anything.’

‘I know,’ said Libby, ‘but this last couple of weeks has been so muddled, and you haven’t been happy.’

‘I am now,’ said Fran. ‘Things linked up. But something else …’

‘Something else?’ asked Libby after a moment.

‘Not sure. Italians. They’ve come up in both Ian’s body and Jane’s house.’

Libby giggled. ‘That’s a funny way of putting it.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Surely you don’t still think they’re connected?’

Fran looked at Libby intently. ‘And what about that Italian who went to Bruce’s firm?’

‘He’s just a random bloke. Nothing to do with this at all.’

‘How do we know?’ said Fran. ‘We still don’t know how Andrei was killed. That Italian could have been looking for him.’

Libby puffed out her breath. ‘Cor,’ she said. ‘Talk about building castles out of sand.’

‘I know, I know. But there’s something else here, I’m sure of it.’ Fran stood up. ‘I’d better go home and think about it.’

‘Don’t get too wrapped up in it, Fran.’ Libby stood and picked up the tray. ‘You’re usually the one who doesn’t want to get involved. Don’t go against type.’

Fran smiled. ‘I don’t think I can help it, Lib. These pictures keep coming into my brain, and until I find out what they mean, they won’t leave me alone.’

‘What are they now?’ Libby followed Fran into the house.

‘Mainly, I keep seeing a figure in Jane’s house, looking for something.’

Libby looked dubious. ‘That’s simply because Italians have been popping up all over the cases. Auto-suggestion.’

‘No. I must find out about Simon Madderling. He’s the key to all this.’

‘To Peel House?’

‘And Andrei’s murder,’ said Fran.

‘Oh, don’t be daft,’ laughed Libby. ‘Simon’s been dead since 1943.’

‘I know. It’s what happened then, I’m sure.’

‘Oh, dear, not another Buried In The Past murder,’ said Libby.

‘Why are you being so negative all of a sudden?’ Fran rounded on her. ‘If you don’t want to know any more about it, you can opt out. I won’t bother you any more.’ She turned towards the front door and picked up her bag.

Libby shut her mouth, which had fallen open in amazement, and hurried after her.

‘No, Fran, don’t! I’m not being negative, I promise. I just don’t want you to get all tied up in this and feel pressured, like you did a couple of weeks ago. I’m sorry, I’ll shut up.’

Fran turned back and sighed. ‘All right, I’m sorry, too, but Lib, you must let me do what I think is right. It isn’t your investigation. It isn’t even mine, but I need to find out what it is I’m being told without interference.’

Libby looked down at her feet. ‘Was I doing it again, then?’ she said. ‘Trying to take over?’

‘A bit,’ said Fran, smiling. ‘Just telling me what I ought to do, that’s all. Come on, friends again. I’ll go home and have a think, and perhaps do a bit more research. Then I’ll tell you what I’ve found out.’

‘OK.’ Libby nodded. ‘Could I help a bit with the research?’

‘If you want to. This is only for my own satisfaction, nothing to do with the police case.’

I believe you, thought Libby, as she waved her friend off. But thousands wouldn’t.

Chapter Twenty-five

LIBBY REALISED SHE HADN’T told Fran about Terry’s phone call ten minutes after she’d left. Knowing Fran wouldn’t answer her mobile while driving, she had to wait.

‘I can’t think why I didn’t remember while we were having our row,’ said Libby.

‘We weren’t having a row,’ said Fran, ‘it all comes down to me being ambivalent about these bloody visions, or what ever they are. I thought about it on the way home, and how anyone puts up with my shilly-shallying I don’t know.’

‘You’re doing it now,’ said Libby with a laugh. ‘You were so certain half an hour ago.’

‘I know, I know.’ Fran sighed. ‘So what did he want me to do? Did he tell you?’

‘No, he said you would. He was so helpful about his sister; that’s really all I was concentrating on.’ Libby paused. ‘Do you think I should ask him and Jane to the party? Would he be well enough, do you think?’

‘I thought he had to babysit for his sister?’

‘Oh, bugger. Well, perhaps he won’t have to, or his sister might think he wouldn’t be capable with all his injuries. Anyway, I’ll ring him later, or perhaps I’ll ring Jane. Anyway, you call him now. And I’ll start digging into Simon Madderling on the computer.’

The problem with research, Libby found, was the interesting byways that beckoned. She had been the proud owner of a computer for less than a year and it was still fairly new and exciting. Obviously she’d used them before, but since her marriage broke down, she hadn’t had access to any other than Peter’s. Now she could email her children and old friends and feel that she was in touch with the real world.

But research – that was something else. Every time she clicked on a vaguely relevant site another link would show up, and off she would go after it like a rabbit down a hole. However, it did come up with some interesting facts, and on this occasion was actually leading her to more information on the elusive Simon Madderling.

The phone rang.

‘Terry wants to see me,’ said Fran. ‘While Jane’s at work.’

‘Coo!’ said Libby. ‘Does he fancy you?’

‘Don’t be sillier than you can help,’ said Fran. ‘He’s got something to tell me. And show me.’

‘Right. When are you going?’

‘Now,’ said Fran. ‘I’ll ring you later.’

‘Shall I come over later?’

‘No, Bruce is in the area and announced he would take me out to tea this afternoon. There must be a hidden motive, but for Chrissie’s sake, I suppose I’d better go.’

‘Rather you than me,’ said Libby, who had met Bruce once. ‘I’ll look forward to hearing from you, then.’

After ten more minutes clicking her way through a trail of links, she came across an official-looking site with many blue underlined sections, indicating further links, which appeared to make particular reference to Simon Madderling. After a few minutes, she realised that it was, in fact, a link she had ignored from another site, but that didn’t matter, she told Sidney, who had come in to help, she was there now.

Simon had been born to an English mother and a Belgian father as Simon Maeterlinck, which he had anglicised, the article postulated, in order to quell any rumours of sympathising with the Allies, or later, the Resistance movement. He spoke fluent German and French, and perhaps surprisingly, Italian. Libby raised her eyebrows at this.

The family lived in England and Simon had attended a famous public school and gone on to Oxford, where, it appeared, he had been recruited into MI5. So far, so normal, thought Libby. Then, it appeared, he’d become part of a sub-division of the organisation that monitored all kinds of underground activities. He surfaced now and again as a member of the infamous Right Club, but faded away, only to re-appear later when suspicious deaths occurred. How, wondered Libby, did you know which were suspicious deaths in wartime? There was an obvious connection to someone in the Italian embassy who was able to pass messages to the Abwehr (Libby had to look that up: it had been the German intelligence-gathering agency) and to Lord Haw-Haw. During the war, Simon’s name had leaked out to the British public and he was branded by them a traitor. In fact, he was a loyal British subject and had been infiltrating subversive organisations and passing on, with great skill, false information.

In 1943 he had disappeared and was never heard of again. His name had been cleared in time, and all his wartime connections investigated. Some had subsequently been tried for war crimes. Another link took the trail to Jessica Maurice, also an employee of MI5 (Yes! thought Libby), with whom Madderling lived in Peel House, which he had bought in 1942. Jessica had continued to work for MI5 until after the end of the war, when she eventually opened Peel House as a guest house. There had been speculation that this had been to provide cover for ongoing operations, but, try as she might, Libby could find no more information about this theory.

Eventually, she sat back and stretched. It didn’t seem as though there was any more to find out about Jessica or Simon, or at least, nothing that was in the public domain. She wondered how Fran was getting on with Terry.

Terry was in his own flat when Fran arrived, and made it slowly to the front door and back up again.

‘It’s the ribs,’ he confessed. ‘You wouldn’t believe how much they hurt when I move about.’

‘What about the head?’ asked Fran, following him up the stairs.

‘Not too bad,’ he said. ‘Lucky I’ve got a thick skull.’

‘Now,’ said Fran, when they’d seated themselves in Terry’s rather spartan sitting room. ‘What did you want to tell me?’

He looked away. ‘It’s a bit difficult,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t think it’s me they’re after.’

Fran stared at him. ‘OK,’ she said finally. ‘You must have a reason for that.’

Terry fished awkwardly in the pocket of his jeans.

‘I found that,’ he said, handing over a crumpled piece of paper.

‘It’s Jane’s name and address,’ said Fran. ‘What about it?’

‘I found it in here when I got back from hospital. Monday. The day you came round.’

‘Well, Jane could have given it to anyone, couldn’t she? Is it her writing?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Terry. ‘But, look here, this was on the floor in the bathroom, and I swear it wasn’t there before.’

‘Did the police look round when they came to take their tape off the door?’

‘Yes, that’s how we knew someone had been in during the week.’

‘But they didn’t find this?’

‘No.’ Terry looked at her with spaniel eyes. ‘I don’t want to scare her, but I’m worried.’

‘Could she have dropped it?’ asked Fran. ‘While she was looking after you?’

‘She could have done, but it was stuck, almost hidden by the bath panel.’

‘What do you mean?’

Terry took a deep breath. ‘As though someone had taken the bath panel off and dropped the paper before they put it back.’

‘Looking for something?’

‘Yeah.’ Terry looked down. ‘I don’t know

whether I’m making sense.’

‘You think this is something to do with what I’ve been looking into?’ He shrugged. ‘Could be.’ ‘Why didn’t you show her?’ ‘I didn’t want to worry her.’ ‘I think you ought to, then if it was hers, she can

put your mind at rest. It is only her name and address, after all.’ ‘Yeah, but it could mean someone was looking for her.’

‘Well, they know where she is now, don’t they?’

‘What shall I do?’ Terry looked at her pleadingly. ‘Tell her.’ Fran stood up. ‘Show her this and see what she says.’ Terry stood up slowly. ‘Sorry I dragged you over here. I thought perhaps – if I showed you –’

‘I might suddenly come up with a reason?’ Fran smiled. ‘I wish I could. I got nothing at all from that piece of paper. Ask Jane when she comes in, and ring and tell me what she says.’

Fran was thoughtful as she walked back along Victoria Terrace towards Harbour Street. Terry obviously thought his find was significant, yet to Fran it seemed such a normal thing to find. The name and address of the owner of the house, actually inside the house. Why did it worry Terry so much? Fran stopped dead opposite The Alexandria. Was there another reason? What did Terry know that he wasn’t telling anybody? And if he did know something, why had he confided in Fran?

She walked slowly to the railing and looked

down on the beach. The obvious reason was that he expected her to be able to tell from just looking at the paper where it came from. Did he suspect he knew where it came from? And if so – how? This led to another question. If he thought he knew where the paper came from, that argued that he might know who had attacked him – and why.

Suddenly, Fran remembered that her son-in-law was taking her to tea. Looking at her watch, she realised that he’d probably been waiting for her for the last ten minutes, and began to run the rest of the way down Victoria Terrace towards The Swan, the only hostelry in the town that Bruce would deign to patronise.

‘Thought you’d got lost,’ he said pushing back his chair and standing up to kiss the air somewhere near her left cheek.

‘Sorry,’ said Fran. ‘I had an appointment which took longer than I’d anticipated.’

‘An appointment?’ Bruce looked at her in surprise.

‘Yes,’ said Fran, failing to gratify his curiosity. ‘How’s the new house?’

‘Oh, fine. Loads to do, of course.’

‘But I thought it was brand new?’ said Fran, smiling up at the waitress who was proffering a teapot.

‘It is, but you have to put your mark on it. The kitchen needs a complete redesign.’ Bruce nodded grumpily as the waitress offered the teapot to him.

‘I thought it was a marvellous kitchen,’ said Fran. ‘And how’s Cassandra?’

‘Three kittens,’ said Bruce proudly. ‘Little beauties. Over a thousand pounds’ worth there.’

‘Oh, poor Cassandra,’ said Fran. ‘Are you going to take all her babies away?’

Bruce looked surprised. ‘We didn’t have them to keep,’ he said. ‘She’s a breeder. Got a great bloodline.’

‘Oh,’ said Fran, wondering how Cassandra felt about that.

The waitress arrived with a selection of cakes on a tiered stand. Bruce looked them over and took three. Fran sighed and took one.

‘Doing any more – er – business?’ asked Bruce, with a faint sneer.

‘Business?’ Fran raised an eyebrow.

‘Seeing into people’s minds, or whatever it is you do.’

‘Psychic research,’ said Fran placidly. ‘No, not at the moment.’

‘Not helping the police with their enquiries?’ Bruce sniggered quietly.

‘Just finished.’ Fran popped the last piece of cake into her mouth.

‘Oh?’

‘Rounded up a farmer using illegal migrant workers.’ Fran wiped her fingers on a napkin and sat back, watching Bruce’s face.

‘Oh.’ Bruce looked confused. ‘Oh, good.’ He sat forward and clicked his fingers. ‘Just remembered. Meant to tell you. You know I told you about that Italian you were so interested in?’

‘Yes?’ Fran felt adrenalin kick through her body.

‘Saw him again. Never guess where!’

‘No, I’m sure I couldn’t,’ said Fran.

‘In the car park at Nethergate Station. This afternoon.’

Chapter Twenty-six

FRAN COULDN’T WAIT TO tell Libby.

‘I still don’t see what possible connection it could have to the body – to Andrei, I mean.’

‘I don’t either at the moment,’ said Fran, ‘but I connected it when I first heard about it, didn’t I? There must be something in it.’

Libby jammed her phone between her ear and her shoulder as she poured tea into a mug.

‘Did Bruce speak to this person?’

‘No, he was just driving out of the car park on his way to his appointment.’

‘What was he doing in the station car park in the first place?’ asked Libby.

‘I didn’t ask,’ said Fran.

‘All it proves is that a fly-by-night Italian businessman is in the area,’ said Libby. ‘It’s got absolutely nothing to do with anything. Only Bruce.’

‘I suppose so.’ Fran sat down on her sofa and idly scratched Balzac’s head.

‘What about Terry? What was his startling piece of information?’

Fran repeated her conversation with Terry, concluding with her own thoughts after she’d left him.

‘It does seem a bit odd,’ said Libby. ‘Almost as if he was trying to make something out of nothing.’

‘Or point attention somewhere else,’ said Fran.

‘Omigod, yes!’ said Libby. ‘Exactly! What did you say to him?’

‘That he was to show it to Jane and see what she had to say.’

‘And do you think he will?’

‘He’ll know I’ll ask her, so I expect he will.’

‘Well, I’m going to ring her in a minute to ask them about the party, so shall I ask her then?’ asked Libby.

‘Better not. I’ll do it. In fact, I might even go round there,’ said Fran.

‘Is that safe, do you think?’

‘Of course it’s safe. Terry’s hardly going to bash me up, is he?’

‘Is Jane safe?’

‘I’m sure she is. He really does seem to be fond of her.’

‘That could all be an act,’ said Libby darkly.

‘Well, let’s wait and see what she says before we go jumping to conclusions,’ said Fran, ‘like I did with the Italian businessman.’

‘Red herrings all over the place,’ laughed Libby. ‘When can I call Jane?’

‘Whenever you like, but don’t mention the piece of paper.’

Libby rang off and went back to her computer, where she had printed off all the relevant information about Simon Madderling and Jessica Maurice. Then she punched in Jane’s number and waited for the connection.

‘Oh, Libby,’ said Jane excitedly. ‘You’ll never guess what!’

‘No,’ said Libby, ‘I won’t.’

‘Terry found this piece of paper here in his flat.’

Libby stiffened, gripping the handset. Fran hadn’t bargained for this.

‘And do you know what it was?’

Your name and address, Libby wanted to say. ‘No,’ she said aloud.

‘It was my name and address written in my friend Rosa’s handwriting.’

Libby frowned. What could be more normal than that?

‘I haven’t seen Rosa since just before I moved down her,’ Jane went on. ‘She was going to come down for a long visit, and perhaps move down here, too, but she just vanished.’

‘Vanished?’ Libby was having a hard time staying calm.

‘Yes. The owner of the café where she worked said she just didn’t turn up one morning, and when I tried to call her the phone was out of service.’

‘And you never heard from her again?’

‘No. To tell you the truth, I thought perhaps she was an illegal migrant worker, and perhaps she’d been found out. But don’t you see? This looks like a letter from her.’

‘A piece of paper, you said? Did it look like an envelope?’

‘Well, no, but it could have been, couldn’t it?

‘I don’t know, I haven’t seen it,’ said Libby. ‘Where did Terry find it, and when?’

Jane repeated all the information Fran had given Libby only moments ago. So he’d told Jane the truth.

‘But why should this appear now? It means someone’s been in the house. Again,’ said Libby.

‘Jane, you should tell the police.’

‘Should I?’

‘Yes.’ It put a whole new complexion on the normal incident as reported by Fran, thought Libby.

‘This Rosa, how long ago did she disappear?’ asked Libby.

‘Just before I moved down. Over a year ago.’

‘And what nationality did she say she was?’

‘Italian,’ said Jane.

Half an hour later, Jane having accepted the invitation to Hetty’s party on behalf of herself and Terry, Fran and Libby were once more on the phone to each other.

‘It does change things, doesn’t it?’ said Libby.

‘It does, but I want to know why Terry thought it was important when on the surface it didn’t look like much at all,’ said Fran.

‘Simply because it hadn’t been there before,’ said Libby. ‘That makes sense.’

‘It could have worked its way out from behind the bath panel,’ said Fran, ‘you know, like pins you stand on work their way up and come out at your knee.’

‘Do they? Ugh,’ said Libby. ‘Yes, I do sort of see what you mean, but it would be unlikely, wouldn’t it. I just think Terry’s become a bit paranoid after his attack and what with you thinking there’s something in the house, and the fact that someone has broken in twice, he jumped to conclusions. Which are probably right.’

‘How would they have got in again?’ asked Fran.

‘Terry was sleeping a lot the first couple of days, also he was in Jane’s flat much of the time.

Whoever it is has a key – probably the one that was stolen.’

‘So whoever attacked Terry is trying to get at Jane.’

‘Not necessarily at Jane, just where she lives,’ said Libby, ‘which is what you thought in the first place.’

‘And you think it’s this Rosa.’

‘Yet another disappearing Italian.’

‘Or possibly Transnistrian.’

‘We need to talk to Jane,’ they said together.

If Jane was surprised to find a deputation on her doorstep later that evening, she hid it admirably. Ben had decided to stay in Steeple Martin rather than accompany Libby on yet another foraging trip, as he put it.

‘What did you want to talk to me about?’ Jane asked when they were settled in her sitting room with the lights of Nethergate twinkling below them.

Libby cast a swift look at Terry, who was trying to look inconspicuous in an armchair.

‘Your friend Rosa,’ said Fran.

‘It’s definitely her writing on the piece of paper, envelope, or whatever it is?’ said Libby.

‘Oh, yes. It’s quite distinctive. You saw it, didn’t you, Fran?’

Fran nodded.

‘Can you tell us how you met her? And when?’ said Libby.

‘But why? She hasn’t got anything to do with what’s been happening here.’

‘Then why did Terry find that piece of paper?’

Jane frowned.

‘Look, Jane,’ said Fran, leaning forward. ‘I know I told Terry there was nothing suspicious about it, but I really think there is, now. I think the police might pooh-pooh the idea, but unless you yourself put that piece of paper in Terry’s bathroom, someone else must have done. And broken in to do it.’

Jane looked at Terry, who looked down at his lap. ‘Have you looked behind the bath panel?’ she asked him. He looked up and shook his head. ‘Should we?’ she turned to Fran and Libby.

‘I doubt it. If there was something there, it’ll be gone anyway, and think about it – when was that bathroom put in?’

‘Just before I moved in. I had to update all the flats, or I wouldn’t have been able to let them. I think I told you.’

‘Well, that’s all right then,’ said Libby. ‘Anything hidden would have been found by now. When Aunt Jessica converted the building into flats, she might have taken care to hide anything previously hidden in a new place, but you wouldn’t have done, and your builders, or contractors, or whoever they were, would have told you if they’d found anything, wouldn’t they?’

‘So who could be looking for something now? And why are you interested in Rosa?’

‘Because,’ said Fran patiently, ‘whoever it was got this address from her.’

Jane thought about this. ‘I think I see,’ she said.

‘So, where did you meet her, and when?’ repeated Libby.

‘She worked in a café just round the corner from the office where I worked.’

‘Newspaper office?’ asked Fran.

‘Yes. It was a London suburban weekly, part of the same group I work for now. The café was the nearest place to get food, either to eat there or take away. We all used it.’

‘So you just met her there, as a casual acquaintance?’ said Libby.

‘Yes, about six months before I came down here. She’d been taken on by the owner as a waitress, but she actually did some of the cooking, too. The owner, Pietro, was an Italian who’d been over here since he was a child, and served a lot of pasta and pizza dishes, so Rosa was ideal to help.’

‘She was a genuine Italian, then?’ said Fran. ‘You said to Libby you wondered if she was an illegal migrant.’

‘Only after she disappeared. Because she disappeared.’

‘So you met her eighteen months ago or thereabouts,’ said Libby. ‘And then you became friends?’

‘Yes.’ Jane looked down at her hands. ‘You know me, I don’t make friends that easily, but she seemed so nice and very quiet, and she didn’t have any friends, either. So she used to come home with me and watch television sometimes, or we might go for a meal – somewhere other than Pietro’s – or to a film.’

‘Were you living at home with your mother?’ asked Fran.

‘Oh, good lord, no!’ Jane laughed. ‘Can you imagine me taking an Italian girl home to meet my mother? No, I had a little studio flat, rented, of course, not far from the office.’

‘Where was Rosa living?’

‘She had a room in a shared house. She’d never let me visit her there, because she said there was no communal living space except the kitchen, which was always untidy, and her room was too small to get anyone in there except her.’

‘Did she tell you how she came to be in England?’ asked Libby.

‘I think she came over with a friend to work for the summer to improve her English. She liked it, so she stayed behind when the friend went home.’

‘She had no relatives over here?’

Jane shook her head. ‘No. She never spoke of any relatives except her brother, and I think part of the reason she came over here was to get away from him. He sounded the most interfering and overbearing person. Full of family ideals.’

‘Sounds like the Mafiosi,’ said Libby.

Jane looked worried. ‘Oh, I hope not,’ she said. ‘You don’t think that’s why she disappeared so suddenly, do you?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Fran.

‘Because she’d been so excited about coming here to stay with me. We thought she might find a job down here, in one of the restaurants or hotels. Then, suddenly, she’d gone.’ Jane frowned. ‘I couldn’t understand it.’

Fran looked at Libby, a look which said, you know what I’m thinking, don’t you? Libby gave a slight nod.

‘What did Pietro know about her?’ asked Libby.

‘Nothing much. I asked him, of course.’

‘He must have had to see her work permit,’ said Fran.

‘I don’t think he bothered with any of the legal paperwork,’ said Jane. ‘He paid her in cash by the day, and didn’t even have an address for her, just her mobile number. That was another reason I thought she might be an illegal worker.’

‘But not if she was Italian,’ said Libby, ‘they’ve been in the EU longer than we have.’

‘Really?’ said Terry. The other three almost jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Didn’t mean to interrupt.’

Jane, Fran and Libby laughed, breaking the tension.

‘Shall I make some coffee?’ asked Jane. ‘Or would you like a glass of wine?’

‘Coffee for me, please,’ said Libby. ‘I’ve got to drive. Oh, and by the way, I never got round to asking you, Terry, did your sister get her babysitter if you’re not doing it?’

Terry grinned. ‘She didn’t trust me,’ he said, ‘so a friend’s doing it for her. So Jane and I can come to the party. It’s great of you to ask us.’

‘Least we could do as you’ve provided the entertainment,’ Libby smiled back.

Conversation became general until Jane reappeared with mugs of coffee. ‘Only instant, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I’m not very into coffee.’ She sat down. ‘Funny, that. Rosa was. Pietro had an Espresso machine, and she made all sorts of concoctions on it. People used to say she should work for Starbucks.’

‘Jane,’ said Fran, putting her mug back on the tray. ‘What was Rosa’s surname?’

‘I never knew,’ said Jane. ‘I know that sounds silly, but I never needed to know.’

‘You never even heard it?’

‘No. I suppose Pietro would have known.’

‘Do you think he’d remember?’ asked Libby.

‘He might have done, but he’s not there any more,’ said Jane. ‘The café’s closed down.’

‘Oh.’ Libby and Fran looked at one another. ‘And do you know where he went?’

‘Back to Italy, someone at the office said.’ Jane shrugged. ‘Pity. It was a good café.’

‘Did you ever get the idea that Pietro might have known Rosa before? Or that they were close in any way?’ asked Fran.

‘Oh, no. She always called him “signore”, and anyway, Pietro’s wife was always there. Big woman with a headscarf.’ Jane smiled reminiscently. ‘I think she was of the “good riddance to bad rubbish” opinion when Rosa went.’

‘So the Pietros went back to Italy. And they’d been here for years?’ said Libby.

‘His father was an Italian prisoner of war,’ said Jane, ‘and married an English girl. A lot of them did.’

‘Yes,’ said Libby. ‘I was talking about that the other evening.’

‘What about Mrs Pietro?’ asked Fran.

‘They met when Pietro went back to Italy to see his family. There were lots of them, I believe.’

‘Back to Mafiosi again,’ said Libby, and Jane looked worried.

‘So we can’t find out anything about this Rosa, where she came from or who she really was,’ said Fran.

‘No,’ said Jane, ‘and I did try at the time.’

‘What did Pietro look like?’ asked Libby suddenly. Jane looked startled.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘he was very dark – hair and skin – about, oh, I don’t know, fifty? Very smart when he wasn’t in his chef’s apron. Well-built, but not fat.’

‘Good-looking?’ asked Fran.

‘I don’t know.’ Jane wrinkled her face. ‘He was a bit old for me, so I never noticed.’

Libby and Fran exchanged amused glances.

‘Well, that’s all for now, Jane. Sorry to have taken so much of your time,’ said Fran, ‘but although the police might not take it seriously, we do.’

‘The break-in?’ said Terry.

‘Oh, I think they take that seriously, no I meant our famous piece of paper,’ said Fran. ‘The police would think what I did at first, but I’m pretty sure now it’s the clue to the whole thing.’

‘Really?’ Jane frowned. ‘I can’t see how.’

‘I can’t tell you quite yet,’ said Fran, ‘but as soon as I’ve worked on the details, I’ll let you have the story as far as I can see it.’

‘And what’s that?’ asked Libby as they went down the steps of Peel House.

‘The story? Well, you made the connections the same as I did, didn’t you?’

‘That Rosa could be the mysterious vanishing Italian of the false passport? Yes.’

‘And that Pietro could be the mysterious vanishing Italian businessman?’

‘Couldn’t quite see that,’ admitted Libby.

‘They both worked near Jane’s office and had opportunity to get to know her.’

‘But Pietro had been there for years before Jane got the job.’

‘Whoever’s behind this might have made use of him and sent Rosa there. I bet she disappeared when Lena was arrested, sent back home probably.’

‘That makes sense,’ said Libby, opening Romeo’s passenger door for Fran. ‘But why did Pietro sell up and go back home?’

‘If he’d stayed there, I’d not have thought of him in connection with this business at all,’ said Fran, ‘but the fact that he disappeared not long afterwards suggests that he’s involved somehow. But you had seen it, because you were the one who asked what he looked like.’

‘Well, yes,’ said Libby, ‘because of Bruce seeing this bloke again today. But I didn’t seriously believe it.’

‘Tell you what,’ said Fran, ‘I think we ought to ask Ian to show a copy of Lena’s borrowed passport to Jane.’

‘Could he get hold of that?’

‘Now that she’s involved with his investigation, I should think he’d have access to all her papers, which would include the photocopy taken by the council.’

‘Would he do that? He’s not involved with this case.’

‘No, but Rosa – or whoever she is – is involved with Lena’s.’

Libby thought about this while turning Romeo round at the entrance of The Tops car park.

‘Are you going to tell McLean any of this?’ she asked.

‘No. If anything comes of it, Ian can tell him in the ordinary way.’

‘No psychic investigation, then?’

‘It’s been guesswork so far, hasn’t it?’

‘There’s a few rather tenuous links that only you could have forged,’ said Libby, crossing the square to go down Harbour Street.

‘You didn’t have to drop me at the door,’ said Fran. ‘You’ll have to turn round again now.’

‘Doesn’t matter, and you shouldn’t have to walk home in the dark,’ said Libby. ‘Look what happened to Terry.’

‘I am looking at what happened to Terry,’ said Fran, as she opened her door. ‘And the more I look at it, the more it seems to me that the body on the island and the mystery of Peel House are linked.’

Chapter Twenty-seven

INSPECTOR CONNELL, WHEN APPEALED to, asked if he might come and see Fran later on Thursday morning to discuss her “theories” on his case. Fran agreed and called Libby.

‘Shall I come over?’ asked Libby.

‘No, I’ll manage on my own, thanks,’ said Fran. ‘Romeo will know his way over here on his own, soon.’

‘Oh, I don’t mind driving,’ said Libby. ‘Before you see Ian, though, I’ll email you all that stuff I found about Simon Madderling. Might help.’

‘Help with what?’

‘Convincing him to look into Terry’s case as well as his own.’

‘He’ll only tell me he’s not a cold case unit,’ said Fran.

‘But it has a bearing on his own,’ said Libby.

‘Yes, I know, and I shall try and convince him of that.’

‘Why,’ said Ian later, when he was settled with a cup of coffee in Fran’s kitchen, ‘did you suddenly take everything up again?’

‘Because I kept seeing things,’ said Fran. ‘I thought whatever it was – is – had gone, and I wouldn’t ever see anything again, but all these pictures were wafting about in my brain, so I thought I ought to look into them. Libby thought I was trying too hard and none of them would mean anything, but the most surprising things have turned out to be linked.’

‘And you’re going to tell me about them,’ said Ian, his lean dark face at its most severe.

‘I’ll try,’ said Fran. ‘I just hope it all makes sense.’

She began with her feelings about Peel House, then went on to the farm pictures.

‘You know about Lena and her brother,’ she said, ‘but not about who we think the Italian woman is.’

‘Italian woman?’ Ian frowned.

‘The one who lent Lena her passport. We think she’s someone called Rosa who made friends with Jane Maurice in London.’

‘And why would she want to make friends with Jane Maurice?’

Fran explained about Jessica and Simon Madderling and gave Ian the documents Libby had sent over. He glanced through them and frowned again.

‘We haven’t got a cold case unit here,’ he said, as Fran had predicted.

‘No, I know, but I’m sure there’s something hidden in that house that someone else wants,’ said Fran.

‘After all this time?’ Ian raised his eyebrows. ‘Unless it’s a priceless jewel, of course.’

‘Don’t be sarcastic,’ said Fran. ‘You’ve trusted my judgement before. You’ll see from that information that Madderling had connections with someone in the Italian embassy during the war, and spoke fluent Italian. If he had something that belonged to this person, or that incriminated him, he may have asked Jessica Maurice to keep it for him until he returned from wherever he was going. Only he never came back.’

‘And the descendants of this mythical Italian are trying to retrieve whatever-it-is by tracking down Jane Maurice and hitting her boyfriend over the head?’ Ian shook his head. ‘Honestly, Fran. If it was an incriminating document it would hardly have any relevance now, would it? Over sixty years after the end of the war?’

Fran sighed. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘do you agree that it’s odd that Jane’s house should have been broken into and searched more than once recently? Since that body was found?’

‘Andrei Gruzevich,’ put in Ian.

‘Him, yes. Well?’

‘Not really. It’s been broken into because Terry Baker’s keys were stolen.’

‘Why was the body left on Dragon Island? Why wasn’t it dumped in the water?’

‘Because whoever dumped it wanted it found.’

‘Why would they do that when they’d removed all identifying marks?’

Ian scowled. ‘Don’t think we haven’t been working on this, Fran.’

‘I’m sure you have, and with the best technology and expertise at your disposal, but just think. Without my suggestion about showing him to Lena you still wouldn’t know who he was.’

‘True,’ conceded Ian. ‘We also think we know now where the flat was that Rosa Francini rented.’

Fran gasped. ‘Rosa Francini? That’s the Italian woman’s name?’

‘Yes.’

‘You see! That proves it. It’s Rosa who befriended Jane and then disappeared. And I bet her disappearance coincides with Lena’s arrest.’

‘I’ll look into it,’ said Ian uncomfortably.

‘So, did Lena show you the flat?’

‘At first she couldn’t remember anything about it except that it was obviously expensive and somewhere near Victoria. However, when it was pointed out to her that she must have known the address in order to go out and get back again, she said it was in Lansdowne Square, and she knew how to get there without taking any notice of the number of the building.’

‘Did she have a key?’

‘While she was living there, yes. Not for long, because she got her council job and went off to live in a bedsit.’

‘And she didn’t know what Rosa did for a living?’

‘Nothing, she thought. Her brother and Rosa were having an affair, which was why Rosa lent the passport.’

‘Yes, McLean told us that,’ said Fran. ‘And that he – or the television company – had tracked down the bar where Andrei worked. But not the flat.’

‘Well, we have now. It turns out that it’s owned by an Italian company and managed by agents over here.’

‘So who paid the rent on it?’

‘Rosa Francini.’

‘Who wasn’t working, so she must have had plenty of money.’

Ian shrugged. ‘She had a false passport, so whatever she was doing here, there was a criminal element to it, which means there was money involved somewhere.’

‘Well, will you let Jane see the photocopy of the passport?’ Fran leant her elbows on the table and looked earnestly at Ian. ‘It’s important, Ian, it really is.’

‘All right. Tell her to come to the station and ask for me. If I’m not there, ask for Maiden.’

‘Oh, I remember him,’ said Fran. ‘He’s the redhead, isn’t he? But I thought he was in uniform, not CID.’

‘He’s recently been transferred.’ Ian smiled briefly. ‘Keen as mustard. So ask for DC Maiden.’

‘I’ll tell her. And if it is the same woman, will you look into it?’

‘Into what?’

‘The break-in at Peel House.’

Ian gave an exasperated sigh. ‘It’s not my case.’

‘But if this is the same woman, it could be connected.’

Ian stood up. ‘I’ll see,’ he said. ‘But only because it’s you.’

Fran smiled up at him and saw a flicker of awareness in his eyes. Hastily, she too stood up, and went swiftly past him towards the front door.

‘Thanks, Ian,’ she said as he stepped out into Harbour Street. ‘I’m sure you won’t regret it.’

He pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘I damn well hope I won’t,’ he said.

As soon as she’d closed the door behind him, she picked up her phone and called Jane.

‘There’s something I want you to see at the police station,’ she said without preamble. ‘I’ll come with you, if you like. When could you go?’

‘The police station?’ said Jane, sounding thoroughly bewildered. ‘Why? What for?’

‘You’ll see when we get there. It’s a long shot, but it might explain things.’

Jane was all for leaving straight away, but Fran knew that Connell wouldn’t have had time to set things up at the station, so persuaded her to leave it until after lunch. Luckily, Jane’s job as a reporter meant she was free to leave the office at any time.

The police station was at the top of the town beyond the railway station. Jane and Fran met there at two o’clock.

‘Is Inspector Connell in?’ Fran asked the desk sergeant.

‘No, madam, afraid not.’ He beamed, as though this was the very news she wished to hear.

‘DC Maiden, then? Inspector Connell will have informed him.’

‘Oh?’ The sergeant lost his smile. ‘Who shall I say?’

‘Miss Maurice and Mrs Castle.’

Fran saw her name make an impression, as he turned away to pick up the phone and mutter into it. They barely had time to sit on the bench seat opposite the desk when DC Maiden, red hair on end and blue eyes bright with enthusiasm, appeared through swing doors.

‘Mrs Castle,’ he said holding out a hand. ‘Nice to see you again.’

‘And you,’ said Fran politely. ‘And this is Jane Maurice.’

Maiden’s eyes flitted quickly over Jane and Fran saw the ready colour start to creep up her neck.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Maiden. ‘You wanted to see this photocopy?’ He held the swing doors open for them and Jane frowned up at Fran.

‘Please. Inspector Connell told you about it?’

‘Some of it.’ He glanced quickly at Fran, and she remembered his open-mouthed astonishment last year when she’d surprised everybody by visualising a scene that proved in the end to have taken place.

Jane was still looking puzzled as Maiden collected a file from an office and showed them into an interview room. Now she looked simply scared. Fran patted her hand.

‘It’s all right, Jane,’ she said. ‘Just a little mystery to clear up.’

Maiden turned his bright blue eyes on Jane’s pale, scared face. ‘Have a look at this, Miss Maurice,’ he said, and pushed a piece of paper towards her.

Jane looked and her eyes widened. She gasped and looked at Fran.

‘But that’s Rosa!’ she said. ‘What’s happened to her? Is she all right?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Fran and turned back to DC Maiden. ‘Thank you, Mr Maiden. Would you inform Inspector Connell about this? He knows what it’s about.’

Maiden retrieved the paper and put it back in the file. ‘Certainly. As I said, he’s explained some of it. I believe he said he would be in touch with Miss Maurice later today if she identified the subject.’

Jane nodded and allowed herself to be led out of the interview room. Fran said goodbye to DC Maiden and almost pushed Jane out onto the pavement.

‘Would you like me to be there when Inspector Connell talks to you?’ she said.

‘Yes, please. You haven’t even told me what this is about. Where did they get her passport?’

‘It’s a long story,’ said Fran. ‘Have you got to get straight back to work?’

‘No,’ said Jane. ‘It’s Thursday, so the paper’s gone to bed. I’ll have to work on a couple of things over the weekend, so I’m free now. Let’s go into Giglio’s. I need a hot chocolate.’

Giglio’s was a nineteen-fifties style ice-cream parlour, which Fran knew from personal experience hadn’t changed since her childhood. Hot chocolate was served in glass mugs with chrome holders and pictures of the island of Giglio, after which the café was named, decorated the walls.

‘Now,’ said Jane, when they were seated at one of the little round, glass-topped tables, ‘tell me what this is about.’

Fran told her the whole story. Apart from slight pique because she hadn’t been allowed to interview Fran in the first place, Jane listened intently, asking only one or two questions when the narrative became over-complicated.

‘So,’ she said, leaning back in her chair when Fran had finished. ‘Rosa wasn’t really Rosa any more than this Lena person was?’

‘No.’

‘And you think she made friends with me deliberately?’

‘It looks possible,’ said Fran carefully.

Jane shook her head. ‘I don’t see why you think that. She was on a false passport. When the other girl was arrested it made sense for her to disappear.’

‘She was living in a luxury flat in Belgravia,’ said Fran, ‘not a bedsit in Battersea.’

‘I still think you’re on the wrong track,’ said Jane. ‘There’s absolutely no evidence to say she was trying to make friends with me in particular, or for any particular reason.’

‘What about the piece of paper Terry found?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Jane testily. ‘All this passport proves is that she had a kind heart, lending it to her lover’s homeless, displaced sister just to help her.’

Fran looked at her consideringly. ‘What about Aunt Jessica and Simon Madderling?’

‘What about them?’ Jane lifted her chin. ‘Aunt Jess was obviously a bit of a heroine in the war, and Simon was a hero – even if that wasn’t discovered until too late. There isn’t anything else.’

‘OK.’ Fran sighed. ‘We’ll leave it at that. At least you’ve confirmed for the police who Rosa was – or wasn’t. That’s all you need to say to Inspector Connell when he calls you.’

Jane wilted a little. ‘You said you’d be with me.’

‘He’ll call first, and if that’s all you’ve got to tell him he won’t need to see you, will he?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Jane.

‘Tell me, Jane,’ said Fran, stirring what remained of her hot chocolate. ‘Why have you changed your mind? Yesterday you were all for finding out all about the piece of paper. And keen to know about your aunt and Peel House.’

Jane sat looking at the table top for a long time. ‘I suppose,’ she said eventually, ‘it’s because it’s suddenly become real and personal.’

‘It couldn’t have got more real than poor old Terry being knocked over the head,’ said Fran, amused.

‘But it wasn’t me,’ said Jane. ‘I was just worried because Terry had been hurt. And even though I knew his flat had been searched, it didn’t really feel like anything to do with me. And it brought us together,’ she added, the familiar colour rising up her neck again.

‘But you were quite excited when you thought I might find out something last Monday night.’

‘I told you, it didn’t seem real. It was like a story.’ She hunched her shoulders. ‘But now – with the police –’

‘I know.’ Fran picked up her bag. ‘Come on. You don’t still want to be here when the Inspector calls.’

‘What about Pietro?’ Jane asked suddenly as they reached the square. ‘You didn’t mention him to the Inspector.’

‘There’s even less to connect him to anything that’s been happening at your house than Rosa. Or whatever her name was.’

Jane nodded. ‘Well, I’ll go home and tell Terry all about it. And we’ll see you on Saturday at Libby’s party?’

‘Of course you will,’ said Fran. Give my regards to Terry.’

And that was that, she told herself, as she walked back along Harbour Street to Coastguard Cottage. If Jane had been frightened off there was nothing more she could do, even for her own sake. Ian had his identification, Jane knew the history of her house as it related to her aunt, the only outstanding mystery was who hit Terry, and why. And unless she had a sudden inspiration about that, it looked likely to remain a mystery for some time to come.

Chapter Twenty-eight

ON SATURDAY EVENING AT seven o’clock, Ben opened the front door of The Manor and led his parents outside.

‘We’re picking Libby up at the theatre,’ he said, ‘she had to pop in for something.’

‘Shall we wait here?’ asked Hetty.

‘No, love, I’d like to see what they’ve been doing in the theatre,’ said Greg, who was in on the secret. ‘Let’s go in.’

The foyer was quiet. Ben went up to the double doors into the auditorium and gave them a little push as a signal, then stepped back. Suddenly, both doors were swept open, a great cheer went up and the piano struck up “Down at the Old Bull and Bush”. Hetty stood, struck dumb, flanked by her husband and son.

When the song finished, everyone in the auditorium cheered and applauded, and Hetty was led down to the stage, where Libby and Peter helped her up on to the stage and presented her with a huge bouquet. By this time, she was looking suspiciously bright eyed, and Ben, after a few words of greeting and explanation, led her and Greg to a table on the opposite side of the stage to the piano, where Peter, James and their mother, Millie, and Susan, Ben’s sister, already sat. Harry presided over a huge industrial barbeque in the tiny garden, and came in to join them as they took their seats.

Members of The Oast House Theatre company manned the bar, and after several more rousing choruses of well known, if ancient, songs, Libby sipped a glass of red wine and confided to Ben that it seemed to be going well and Hetty was enjoying it.

‘Told you she would.’ Ben cast a critical eye over the recreated pub on the stage. ‘Dad said it took him back.’

‘I can’t quite see him in a public bar during the war,’ said Libby, laughing.

‘Not here, no,’ said Ben. ‘I told you, didn’t I, there was always trouble between the pickers and the home dwellers, and the Squire’s son, as he was known then, wouldn’t have got involved. But when he was in the army he could do what he liked.’

‘Not quite,’ said Libby, amused.

‘You know what I mean.’ Ben gave her a friendly thump on the arm. ‘Is that young Jane’s Terry over there? I’d like to meet him.’

‘Come on then, I’ll introduce you,’ said Libby and led him down into the auditorium, where Terry’s eyes were fixed on his beautiful sister, who was playing and singing like a demon.

‘Good, isn’t she?’ said Jane proudly.

‘Wonderful,’ said Libby. ‘We just couldn’t have found anyone so perfect. Thank you, Terry.’

He dipped his head modestly. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

Libby introduced Ben, then went off to find Fran. She and Guy were discovered in the queue for sausages and mash in the garden.

‘Fantastic, isn’t it?’ said Guy. ‘Well done you.’

‘Oh, I only organised Terry’s sister, and that was by accident,’ said Libby.

‘You helped with the set and the wardrobe, though, didn’t you?’ asked Fran.

‘A bit,’ said Libby honestly, ‘but most of it was the others. Peter and Ben, mainly.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘So, have you heard anything from Jane since Thursday?’

Fran shook her head. ‘Ian phoned and said he’d talked to her and got the same result as I did, but he’d decided anyway to have a look a bit deeper. He said a grudging thank you.’ She grinned. ‘I do annoy him!’

‘So he’s going to look into Terry’s attack, is he?’

‘I’m not sure, but he intends to follow up on Rosa.’ Fran sighed. ‘Nothing more for us to do, though, Lib.’

‘No.’ Libby chewed her lip. ‘Do you think we ought to have asked Mike a bit more about that evening?’

‘When he found Terry? He was questioned by the police, wasn’t he? I don’t think he’d have responded very well to us poking about. Look at how he was when we went in last Monday.’

‘I just can’t help feeling …’ Libby tailed off. ‘Especially after Bruce said he saw that Italian again …’

Fran’s eyes widened. ‘You think Mike Charteris is the disappearing Italian?’

‘He could be, couldn’t he?’

‘What on earth does a business contact of Bruce’s have to with Terry?’ asked Guy.

‘Oh, that was me in the first place,’ said Fran uncomfortably. ‘I was busy making connections all over the place, most of which had no relevance to each other at all.’

‘I said you were under too much pressure,’ said Guy, giving her a squeeze. ‘Oh, thanks, Harry.’ He handed one laden plate to Fran.

‘What about the old trout?’ asked Harry.

‘I’ll have mine later,’ said Libby, ‘on the FKO principal.’

‘FKO?’ asked Guy.

‘Family Keep Off,’ said Libby. ‘If you had guests that’s what you said to the children, to allow the guests to have what they wanted before the family got their mitts on it.’

‘I thought everyone knew that,’ said Fran, pouring brown sauce on top of her mashed potatoes, while Libby looked on with disfavour.

‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I’m still suspicious of Mike. I was from the start. Especially when he kept trying to get into Jane’s apartment.’

‘Well, don’t say anything to Jane,’ said Fran. ‘She’s busy blanking it out at the moment. She’ll go to pieces if she starts worrying about Mike as well.’

‘Ah, but Terry’s there to look after her,’ said Libby. ‘I bet they move into the one flat, soon.’

‘When he’s strong enough,’ said Guy, with a wink.

‘Cheeky,’ said Libby and left them to their sausages.

A little while later, the family tucked into their own meals, while Terry’s sister took a break.

‘Good stuff, gal,’ said Hetty. ‘Your idea, the music, was it?’

Libby nodded modestly.

‘Lenny’s idea to have the party,’ said Flo, who’d joined them. Hetty raised her glass to him.

‘That gal’s good, too. Knows all the songs better’n I do.’

‘She sent us her set list and I downloaded all the words,’ said Peter.

‘That’s these, is it?’ asked Greg, lifting his song sheets. ‘Very clever. Not sure I’d know how, but Ben is teaching me his computer slowly, aren’t you boy?’

Libby hid a grin at Ben being called “boy”.

‘It’s helping find some of the old army buddies, isn’t it, Dad?’ He smiled over at his father.

‘Fascinating,’ said Greg, pushing his plate aside. ‘Do you know, there are more of them still alive than I would have believed.’

‘There’s even talk of a reunion next year,’ said Ben.

‘Later this year,’ corrected Greg. ‘More chance of getting there.’ He twinkled across at Hetty who patted his arm.

When Terry’s sister returned to the piano, the lights in the auditorium were lowered and a spotlight picked up Harry, who carried an enormous birthday cake down the central aisle to a deafening chorus of “Happy Birthday To You”. Hetty was persuaded to say a few gruff words of thanks, and the party resumed.

By eleven o’clock people were beginning to leave and Terry’s sister, with the effusive thanks of most of Steeple Martin, drove back to her babysitter. Terry and Jane came up to thank Libby and Ben for the party.

‘It was so good to get out,’ said Jane, ‘and do something completely different.’

‘Yeah, really took our minds off things,’ added Terry.

Fran and Guy were soon after them, as Guy had been chauffeur for all four of them, and as Libby and Ben waved them off, Libby yawned widely.

‘Have we got to do all the clearing up tonight?’ she asked.

‘No, tomorrow will do. Harry, bless him, is paying Donna and the current boy-in-the-kitchen to collect all the glasses and empties, so all we’ve got to do is strike the set, so to speak, and clean up.’

‘Good,’ said Libby. ‘Then if you don’t mind, I shall say goodbye to your mum and dad and go home.’

‘I’ll have to wait until everyone’s gone,’ said Ben. Libby sighed.

‘OK, I’ll wait too,’ she said, ‘but I’m still going to say goodnight to your parents. They must be whacked.’

Hetty pronounced herself delighted with the whole affair and shepherded a quite perky Greg off to The Manor. ‘Done ’im good, too,’ she told Libby, as they trundled off.

‘All those people who it done good to,’ Libby said to Ben, as they finally walked down the Manor drive a little later. ‘Hetty, Greg, Jane, Terry – did it do you good, too?’

‘It made me very proud of my family and friends,’ said Ben, squeezing her arm, ‘and very pleased that, for a few days at least, we haven’t got anything to do at all.’

* * *

Guy drew up in front of Peel House and switched off the engine.

‘Would you like a nightcap?’ offered Jane shyly. ‘It’s only half past eleven.’

‘That’s very kind,’ said Fran, ‘if you don’t mind, Guy?’

‘No, that’s fine,’ he said, and stretched. ‘I can leave the car here and collect it in the morning.’

‘Thanks for taking us,’ said Terry, as he clambered awkwardly out of the back seat. ‘Great party.’

‘Terry!’ Jane’s voice was suddenly sharp.

‘What?’ They all swung round.

‘Did you leave my lights on?’

‘No.’ Terry looked up. ‘It was daylight when we left.’

‘They’re on now.’

Fran felt her heart thump hard in her chest, and reached out for Guy’s hand.

‘Don’t go in,’ she whispered.

Terry looked back at her. ‘Got to,’ he said, and took the key from Jane.

The four of them crowded silently into the hall, and Terry began slowly to climb the stairs, the other three following reluctantly. He paused outside his own front door and carefully unlocked it, peering inside. Shaking his head, he waved a hand at the others, indicating they shouldn’t follow, but Guy pushed past Jane and began to climb the final flight behind him.

The light went out. Blackness descended on them all, and Fran felt herself suffocating. The silence was absolute. She wanted to call out, but couldn’t.

Instead, she found Jane’s hand and hung on tight. For a long moment nothing happened. Then came a crash from somewhere above them and a deep groan.

Something brushed past Fran and she screamed. ‘Stay there.’ Guy’s voice was muffled. Fran found the light switch and they stood looking down at the unconscious form of Mike Charteris on the lower landing.

‘Christ,’ said Guy.

‘Where did he come from? Why didn’t we see him on the way up?’ said Jane. ‘And where’s Terry?’

‘He went on up,’ said Guy.

‘So who did we hear?’ said Fran, the icy cold invading her again.

‘Terry!’ screamed Jane and leapt up the stairs with Fran after her. They rounded the last bend and something loomed over them. A black shape that slowly moved to block their way, then, almost in slow motion, toppled towards them.

Fran pulled Jane back against the wall as Terry slid gracefully down the stairs on his front.

Chapter Twenty-nine

‘BLOODY HELL,’ SAID GUY as he knelt to look at the back of Terry’s head. Fran squeezed past and pulling her mobile out of her bag went down to check on Mike, who still lay on the landing. She punched in 999 and called for police and an ambulance, by which time Guy had joined her.

‘Mike must have been here when we came up in the dark,’ said Fran, switching off the phone. ‘I felt something go past me.’ She frowned. ‘But I didn’t hear anything after that. I don’t get it. Oh, God.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘That means they’re still there.’

‘Jane!’ Guy ran quickly to pull the weeping girl down on to the landing. ‘There might still be someone here.’

Fran crept past Mike, who, she noticed, seemed to be breathing quite normally, and down the stairs. The front door was open. She caught her breath again, then with relief saw the blue light of a police car coming along Cliff Terrace.

The next half an hour was pandemonium. The police herded them all into Terry’s flat, and while the paramedics attended to and subsequently removed Mike and Terry, searched Jane’s flat. Then they began to take brief statements.

‘Are you in trouble again?’

Fran looked up with relief. ‘Ian!’ she said.

‘Sir,’ said both the policemen.

Constable Maiden bounded into the room and beamed at Fran and Jane.

‘I suppose we couldn’t go up to Jane’s flat now they’ve searched it, could we?’ asked Fran. ‘They’ll want to search in here and Mike’s flat, too, won’t they?’

‘Crime scene, sir,’ said one of the uniforms.

‘Well, where can we go?’ said Fran.

‘It’s all right, Constable,’ said Connell. ‘I’ll take the responsibility.’ He shepherded them all out.

In the top flat, Fran went into Jane’s kitchen and put the kettle on, more because she needed something to do than any real desire for tea or coffee.

‘I need to see Terry,’ Jane was sobbing into Guy’s shoulder. Connell was looking exasperated.

‘We’ll run you to the hospital as soon as we can,’ he said. ‘We’ve just got to establish whether anything’s missing or there’s any damage.’

Reluctantly, Jane got to her feet and allowed Fran to lead her round the flat.

‘Nothing,’ she said, when they came back to the living room.

‘Nothing missing?’ Connell frowned. ‘You didn’t look very hard.’

‘I haven’t got very much,’ said Jane.

‘Were they disturbed, do you think?’ asked Guy.

‘They?’

‘We think there were two of them,’ said Fran, and explained.

‘So, you think Mr Charteris heard them and came to investigate? Then when you came in they knocked Mr Baker on the head and escaped?’

‘Seems like it,’ said Guy.

‘So – what happened?’ asked Jane, who had (temporarily, Fran was sure) stopped crying.

‘We haven’t had much time to work it out, but you said the lights came on again, which was when you saw Mr Charteris?’

‘Yes,’ said Jane.

‘I switched them on,’ said Fran.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it would appear that Mr Baker came up the stairs, whoever was here switched off the lights and hit him from behind, then ran down the stairs. You felt him go past, Mrs Castle. He must have put Mr Charteris out of action earlier.’ Connell frowned. ‘Very quick thinking.’

‘Will this be your case now?’ asked Fran after a moment while they all took this in.

‘I’ll liaise with the team who investigated the first attack,’ said Connell, standing up. ‘Now, we’ll get Miss Maurice to hospital and you and Mr Wolfe can go home, Mrs Castle. And please don’t even think of poking your nose into this investigation.’

Fran bit her lip, and nodded. ‘Will you be all right, Jane?’ she asked. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘Miss Maurice will be fine,’ said Connell. ‘Thank you, Mrs Castle. I shall want to talk to you again tomorrow, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Guy and Fran together.

Outside, they had to convince the officers on guard duty that they had permission to drive Guy’s car away, then run the gauntlet of interested bystanders and one persistent young man with a camera and a tape recorder.

‘I wonder if that was Jane’s boss?’ said Fran as they finally made it into Victoria Terrace and down to the square.

Guy grunted.

Once inside Coastguard Cottage, he found Fran’s bottle of gin and poured them both large measures topped up with tonic.

‘So will you?’ he said, leaning back in his armchair and watching her quizzically.

‘Will I what?’ Fran leant her head against the cushion and closed her eyes.

‘Poke your nose into this investigation?’

Fran opened her eyes again. ‘Not if I can help it,’ she said.

‘Libby will.’

‘Not without me, she can’t,’ said Fran. ‘And I bet you anything you like Ian will be asking me for “any thoughts” within a day or so, whatever he says now.’

‘Why?’

‘He asked me about Andrei’s body – the body on the island – in the first place. He allowed the Kent and Coast investigation with me along. And he got his identification of Andrei’s body through me. He’ll ask.’ She closed her eyes again.

‘But this time you’re too closely involved,’ said Guy, leaning forward and grasping her hand. ‘We all could have been hurt tonight. You’re actually a witness.’

‘I don’t think that will make any difference,’ said Fran tiredly. ‘Rather the reverse.’ Guy sighed. * * *

Libby and Ben, bidden to Sunday lunch at Flo’s little house, along with Hetty and Greg, wandered in a desultory fashion round The Oast House Theatre on the following morning. Harry’s minions had already done most of the clearing up, and Ben said he refused to dismantle “Hetty’s Bar” without the help of his cousins.

At twelve thirty, Flo being insistent that lunch was not lunch unless served at one o’clock, they collected Hetty and Greg from the Manor and strolled down to Maltby Close.

‘Hear the news this mornin’?’ asked Flo, having provided them all with drinks, and an ashtray for Libby.

‘Local, she means,’ said Lenny. ‘Radio Kent.’

‘Don’t listen to it,’ said Ben.

‘Some bloke got ’is ’ead bashed in for a second time down in Nethergate,’ said Flo. ‘That’s where your Fran lives, ain’t it?’

‘What?’ said Ben and Libby together. Libby dabbed at the red wine she’d splashed onto her jeans. ‘Did it say who? Where?’

‘’Is own ’ome,’ said Lenny. ‘Wasn’t takin’ that much notice till they said Nethergate.’

‘Terry,’ said Ben and Libby, looking at each other.

‘Not that young feller whose sister played last night?’ said Hetty.

‘Oh, my gawd,’ said Flo.

‘I’d better ring Fran,’ said Libby. ‘She might not know.’

Outside in Flo’s tiny garden, Libby punched in Fran’s number.

Five minutes later she was back inside.

‘She was there,’ she announced dramatically. ‘They all were. Inside Jane’s house.’

Everyone started speaking at once, but eventually Hetty called order and told Libby to tell her story.

‘Are you going down there?’ asked Greg.

‘No.’ Libby shook her head. ‘She and Guy are spending the day quietly. Connell had them into the station this morning to sign statements, and Jane is still at the hospital, apparently.’

‘How are Terry and Mike now, does she know?’ asked Ben.

‘Only what Ian told them this morning. Mike was going to be allowed home, he wasn’t badly hurt, apparently, but Terry was being kept in. I don’t know what state he’s in, poor bloke.’

‘It could be serious, couldn’t it?’ asked Greg. ‘If he’s only just come out of hospital after a bad bang on the head?’

‘And he fell on his front.’ Libby winced. ‘That won’t have done his ribs any good.’

‘Nothing we can do at the moment, then?’ said Ben.

‘No.’ Libby sighed. ‘Nothing.’

Flo provided, as usual, a splendid traditional roast and wouldn’t let anyone help her clear up, especially Hetty. Ben and Libby left the four older people dozing in armchairs and decided to pop in to the pub on the way home.

The afternoon was mild, if cloudy, and they took their drinks into the garden, where children and smokers made an unlikely amalgamation.

‘Fran says Mike was already unconscious when Terry was hit, so it couldn’t have been him,’ said Libby.

‘Mike? Did you think it could have been him?’

‘I told you I was suspicious of him, didn’t? Turning up all pat as soon as Jane advertised the flat. And then being the one to find Terry, when nobody else saw him.’

‘But I thought he’d been ruled out anyway?’

‘Oh, yes,’ sighed Libby. ‘He’s just an ordinary bloke down here on a contract. His references all checked out. He just seemed very keen on getting into Jane’s flat.’

‘Single bloke – attractive girl – can’t see anything suspicious in that,’ laughed Ben.

‘No, I know. Pity, though. At least we would have known who the attacker was then. Now it’s just some complete stranger.’

‘What about this connection with the Italian girl?’ asked Ben. ‘Is it anything to do with her?’

‘I can’t see how,’ said Libby. ‘Although there was the piece of paper. I’m sure Fran will have given Ian all the information by now, so he’ll be looking into it thoroughly. Bet he asks for Fran’s help.’

‘Hasn’t he already?’

‘No.’ Libby giggled. ‘Apparently he told her not to poke her nose in!’

Ben laughed. ‘Doesn’t sound like Ian.’

‘No, but I reckon he’s a bit confused at the moment, like the rest of us. Fran’s been blowing hot and cold for weeks, and he doesn’t know where he is.’

‘Not blowing hot and cold about him?’ Ben’s eyes narrowed.

‘No, no. She assured me she’s over that particular aberration.’ Libby gazed into the distance. ‘He is attractive, though.’

‘Hmm,’ said Ben. ‘By the way. Do you remember our conversation about old boyfriends and girlfriends?’

Libby brought her gaze back. ‘About tastes changing and all that?’

‘Yes. Mind you, I’m not sure what this proves, if anything.’ He reached round into the pocket of his jeans and brought out an envelope. ‘Have a look at this.’

Libby opened the envelope and drew out an obviously old black and white photograph.

‘That’s me!’ she gasped. ‘I’ve never seen this before. Where was it taken? Where did you get it?’

‘I took it,’ said Ben.

Libby stared at him with her mouth open. ‘You what?’ she managed eventually.

He laughed. ‘I knew you hadn’t recognised me when we met a few years ago, but when we began to get – well, better acquainted, let’s say – I thought it might click. Never has, though, has it?’

‘But Ben, I’d swear I’d never met you before.’ Libby’s eyes were wide with worry. ‘How could I have forgotten you?’

‘Do you remember Tony Bush and Colin Rabson?’

‘Yes. From the boys’ grammar school.’

‘I was one of their crowd. I fancied you rotten.’

Libby felt herself turning pink. ‘Oh, God, Ben, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you remind me when we first met?’ She looked down at the photograph. ‘I don’t remember anything about this. Where were we?’

‘Colin had borrowed his dad’s car and six of us went to Box Hill for the day.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I guess I made no impression at all.’

‘Neither did the day,’ said Libby. ‘I remember going to Box Hill several times – my father’s boss had a caravan there, of all things, and he used to lend it to us for weekends. And my first proper boyfriend and I used to go there for the day.’ She looked at the picture again. ‘So this proves that tastes change. I didn’t even notice you then, and now I fancy you rotten, too.’

He smiled and took her outstretched hand. ‘Snap.’

‘But what were you doing in London at school? You were born and brought up here.’

‘When do you think this was taken?’

‘I haven’t got a clue.’ Libby looked back at the photograph. ‘I must have been about nineteen, I suppose.’

‘That’s about it. And Tony, Colin and I were students together. Remember I told you I did backstage work in theatres when I was a student?’

‘And this was then?’

‘Tony and Colin said they had a friend who was a drama student and we’d have something in common.’ He laughed. ‘Can’t say we did, though. I don’t think you noticed me.’

‘Perhaps you weren’t as charismatic as you are now?’

‘Charismatic? Moi?’ Ben clasped his hand theatrically to his chest.

Libby looked fondly across the table at the closely cropped grey hair and brilliant blue eyes, all wrapped up in a blue shirt and worn jeans. She experienced the same swooping feeling in her stomach that had characterised her first meetings with Ben, a “teenagerish” reaction, as she put it herself.

‘You know you are,’ she said. ‘And I haven’t got a clue what you see in me.’

‘Stop fishing,’ he said, leaning across the table and recapturing her hand. ‘And don’t look at me like that, or I shall rush you straight back to your bedroom.’

‘Wow,’ said Libby softly.

Chapter Thirty

SITTING IN JANE’S FLAT, Fran heard the slam of a car door through the open window. Looking out, she saw Mike Charteris paying off a taxi before climbing the steps to the front door.

‘Who is it?’ Jane asked in a shaky voice. Fran pushed down a spurt of irritation. ‘Mike. Do you want to talk to him?’ ‘No.’ Jane clutched her hands together until the knuckles grew white.

‘Don’t you want to know what happened last night?’ Fran said gently, going over and laying a hand on Jane’s arm.

‘I know what happened,’ said Jane. ‘We don’t, you know,’ said Fran. ‘All we’ve got is speculation on the part of the police.’ ‘Oh, so you’re saying Terry hit himself?’ Jane’s voice rose sharply.

‘No, of course not,’ said Fran, although privately she’d wondered whether that had, in fact, been the case. Mind you, she didn’t know how he would have done it.

‘I want to go back to the hospital,’ said Jane, standing up.

‘I’ve only just brought you home,’ said Fran, barely hiding her exasperation. ‘And I’ve got to get back home.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Jane was immediately contrite. ‘I’m being irrational, aren’t I? I’m just so worried about Terry.’

‘His parents are there now, we saw them,’ said Fran. ‘They’ll let you know as soon as there is anything to know.’ She paused and frowned. ‘But aren’t you worried about the burglar – intruder – or whatever he was? It’s obvious he’s targeting this house. Wouldn’t you be safer moving out for a while?’

‘What about Mrs Finch?’ said Jane. ‘I can’t leave her here alone.’

‘You’re not exactly much good to her up here,’ said Fran. ‘You’d never hear if anyone broke into her flat. And by the way, is there access from her flat to the rest of the house?’

Jane shook her head. ‘No. It’s completely self-contained. The staircase from what’s now Mike’s kitchen was blocked off when Aunt Jess had the house converted.’

Fran was interested. ‘Is it still there?’

Jane shrugged. ‘I suppose so, behind the bricked-up doorways.’

‘Where did it come out in Mrs Finch’s flat?’

Jane frowned. ‘I don’t know. Why are you asking?’

‘Just curious,’ said Fran. ‘Well, if you don’t want to see Mike, do you mind if I pop in and see him?’

‘Why?’ Jane looked frightened.

‘To see if he’s all right, of course.’ Fran now couldn’t hide her vexation. What the hell was wrong with this stupid girl?

‘Oh – oh, of course.’ Jane relaxed. ‘Yes, that’s a good idea.’

‘And shall I ask him about last night?’

‘Yes. Yes.’ Jane nodded furiously.

‘But you don’t want to do it?’ said Fran.

‘No.’

‘Right.’ Fran sighed and stood up again. ‘I’ll get going then, and call in on Mike on the way.’

‘Thank you, Fran.’ Jane stood up and unexpectedly threw her arms round Fran. ‘Thank you so much for everything. I’ve completely wrecked your Sunday.’

‘It wasn’t your fault Guy and I had to spend the morning at the police station,’ said Fran, amused.

‘In a way it was.’ Jane stepped back and looked down at her feet. ‘If I hadn’t come looking for you in the first place –’

‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Fran. ‘Come on, buck up. You can drive yourself to the hospital later on, can’t you? And let us know how he is.’

Five minutes later she was knocking on Mike’s door. He answered promptly, but looking drawn and weary.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Just wanted to know how you were,’ said Fran. ‘We – er – we found you last night.’

He nodded, and stopped abruptly, putting a hand to his head. ‘That was silly,’ he said with a humourless laugh. ‘Yes, thanks, I know. They told me at the hospital.’

‘Have you only just got back? I thought they were letting you out earlier today?’

‘Yeah, well, I had to hang around until I was signed off.’ He grimaced. ‘Then I had to get a taxi.’

‘Yes, we saw you arrive,’ said Fran. ‘That must have cost a fortune all the way from Canterbury.’

He grunted. ‘Well, thanks for asking, anyway,’ he said. ‘Bit sore, but Terry’s in a bad way.’

‘Not that bad,’ said Fran. ‘I’ve just brought Jane home. Pity we didn’t know you were still there, we could have given you a lift.’

‘Would have been good.’ He gave her a small smile. ‘So he’s not too bad, then?’

‘He’s not too good, either,’ said Fran, ‘but he’s obviously got a very hard head. His ribs took a bit of a battering, too, but I don’t think there are any further breaks.’

‘His ribs?’ Mike frowned. ‘What happened to his ribs?’

‘He slid down the stairs on his front,’ said Fran. ‘Right after we found you.’

‘Ah.’ Mike stared up at the staircase. ‘Hope the police take it all a bit more seriously now.’

‘I think they are,’ said Fran. ‘My friend and I spent the morning at the police station.’

‘Oh? Why?’

‘Giving statements,’ said Fran patiently. Obviously the bang on the head was having an effect. ‘Can you remember what happened last night?’

‘Not much.’ Mike frowned. ‘I’d been to the Swan for dinner as usual, then I went to see a band playing at the Carlton. I came home and the house was in darkness. Then I thought I heard something upstairs. I started going up the stairs – and that’s all I remember.’

‘We found you on the lower landing,’ said Fran. ‘We must have walked right past you on the way up.’ She reached out and patted his arm. ‘I’ll let you rest. Just wanted to make sure you were all right.

Anything you need?’

‘No, thanks. Really kind of you.’ Mike’s voice was gruff, and Fran was surprised to see a tinge of pink in his otherwise unnaturally pale face.

‘No problem. I’ll be off then.’ Fran smiled and turned to go.

‘Hang on.’ The gruff voice stopped her. ‘How’s young Jane?’

‘Very shaken,’ said Fran. ‘She’s going back to the hospital later.’

‘Is she all right? What happened to her?’ He looked startled.

‘She’s fine.’ Fran was surprised. ‘She’s just worried about Terry – and the house of course. She thinks she’s a target.’ Jane didn’t seem to think anything of the sort, Fran thought, but best not to say that.

‘Oh.’ Mike relaxed. ‘That’s OK, then. Thanks.’

‘Bye then,’ said Fran, and this time he let her go.

As she drove back to Harbour Street where Guy was cooking a meal for them both, she pondered the odd behaviour of Jane and Mike. Neither had reacted quite the way she had expected, especially Jane. Was she still scared of Mike? It looked like it, yet last week she had reacted perfectly normally in his presence when Fran had been conducting her psychic survey. Perhaps it was simply the fact of being alone in the house with him again. You couldn’t count Mrs Finch, as Fran had pointed out herself.

‘Do you want to ask her to stay with you?’ asked Guy, after he’d provided her with a drink.

‘No,’ said Fran firmly. ‘I don’t want anyone sharing my house.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ said Guy with an amused snort.

Fran blushed. ‘You know what I mean. Besides, she irritates me. Talk about blowing hot and cold.’

‘You’ve been doing a bit of that yourself recently,’ said Guy, returning to the cooker, where he began stirring a large pot.

‘Don’t remind me,’ sighed Fran.

‘So aren’t you feeling anything about this latest attack? Or about Jane? I thought the psychic antennae were twitching again.’

‘They have been, but all I’m getting now is a replay of what happened last night.’

‘And Connell hasn’t asked you to get involved after all.’ Guy turned a smug grin on her. So there, he seemed to be saying. Fran scowled.

‘He will,’ she said.

Ben spent the evening stopping Libby from phoning Fran.

‘Not a good idea,’ he said again. ‘She’ll call if there’s anything to tell.’

‘I don’t even know if Jane’s home,’ fretted Libby.

‘Well, call her, then. Just don’t bother Fran.’ Ben adjusted his towelling robe as he stood up and made for the whisky bottle. ‘Want one?’

Libby picked up the phone and punched in Jane’s number. ‘Straight to voice mail,’ she said after a moment. ‘She’s switched off.’

‘Which means she’s either still at the hospital or she’s sleeping at home and doesn’t want to be disturbed,’ said Ben, handing her a glass. ‘Leave it till tomorrow. Then I’ll be out of your hair and you can do as you like.’

Libby smiled up at him. ‘Don’t I do as I like anyway?’ she said.

‘Most of the time,’ he said, sitting down on the creaky sofa next to her. ‘And sometimes you do what I like, too.’

‘Do I?’

‘I’ll show you,’ said Ben, putting down his glass.

The following morning, as the click of the cat-flap signalled Sidney’s departure after breakfast, Libby called Fran.

‘Sorry, I know it’s early,’ she said, ‘but Ben wouldn’t let me call you last night, and I couldn’t wait to hear what the news is.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Fran. ‘I was awake. But I don’t know what the situation is this morning.’

‘Well, what was it last night?’ persisted Libby.

Fran told her how things had been left the previous evening.

‘It’s odd, though, Lib,’ she finished, ‘but Jane seems to have changed. She seemed really frightened when I brought her home.’

‘I’m not surprised. I’d be frightened if my home was under attack.’

‘Yes, but she was fine last week wasn’t she? And only too keen for us to find out anything we could about her aunt and Simon Madderling. I mean, letting me go all round the house. And now – she’s changed.’

‘I think this second attack would be enough to unnerve anybody,’ said Libby. ‘Weren’t you scared?’

‘Of course,’ said Fran.

‘By the way,’ said Libby, ‘when you told her all about Lena and Rosa’s passport, did you mention the fact that the body on the island was Andrei?’

There was a pause. ‘No,’ said Fran. ‘I didn’t. I just connected up Lena and Rosa for her.’

‘And was she surprised?’

‘Not surprised, exactly. She was when she first saw the passport. But by the time I told her the story she’d had time to put it all together herself. Why?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I just wondered if perhaps Rosa had told her more than she’s letting on.’

‘More about what?’ asked Fran.

‘I don’t know that, either, but Rosa’s disappeared, hasn’t she? Perhaps Jane actually knows who she is and where she went.’

‘Now, why on earth would you think that?’

‘I just think she’s been too innocent about the whole thing,’ said Libby. ‘Everything. She hasn’t really been bothered by any of it, except Terry’s attack.’

‘Attacks plural.’

‘Yes, but you said now she seems really scared. Something’s registered with her.’

‘You were the one saying it would be enough to scare anybody, just now,’ said Fran.

‘I know. But it only just struck me. I think we ought to tell her about Andrei and see what the reaction is.’

‘Who’s we, Tonto?’

‘Oh, all right, me, then.’

‘And what are we expecting?’ said Fran. ‘That she’s going to own up to his murder?’

‘No, of course not. Do you know whether Ian’s got any further on that?’

‘No, but he wouldn’t keep me up to date. And unless he wants to see me again, I can hardly ask him.’

‘Well, I’m going to call Jane and find out how Terry is and see if I can’t slip in a mention of Andrei Gruesome.’

‘Gruzevich,’ said Fran.

‘And him. And I’ll let you know what happens.’

‘Libby, please don’t start poking around too deeply,’ said Fran.

‘I’m only going to talk to Jane,’ said Libby. ‘What on earth could happen to me?’

Chapter Thirty-one

LIBBY POTTERED AROUND MAKING more tea and some toast, while thinking about her approach to Jane. She wasn’t sure what had made her suspicious, even less what she was suspicious of, she was just certain that Jane was keeping something from them. And that could mean she was keeping something from the police which would help them find out who was behind Terry’s attacks. And maybe even Andrei’s killer.

That brought her up short. Rosa had told Jane a farrago of lies, which didn’t include her Transnistrian lover, so Jane wouldn’t react to his identity after all. Although Fran had told her about the real Rosa and the connection to Lena, so perhaps …

‘You silly bugger,’ she said out loud. ‘Carried away, that’s what you are.’ Regretfully, she abandoned all reflections on Jane’s possible ulterior motives and went upstairs to shower.

Later, she decided it was still a good idea to ask how Jane, and more importantly, Terry, were. There was no reply from her mobile, and the Mercury hadn’t heard from her. Bob, the news editor, expressed horror at this further attack.

‘She hasn’t rung in, no, but then she’s probably got more than enough on her plate,’ he said. ‘Give her our best when you see her, won’t you? And tell her she’s not even to think of coming back until she’s better.’

Deciding that Jane was almost certainly at the hospital, Libby thought it would not come amiss if she were to visit the injured party herself. No flowers this time, she thought, but a card, perhaps. She drove round to the eight-til-late and picked the most appropriate of Ali’s selection, then set course for the Kent and Canterbury hospital.

She managed to find a parking space outside the gates, thus saving several pounds in charges, and set off for the main block.

She was directed to the right ward, where she discovered, to her relief, that Terry was once again not in intensive care, but in a general ward. She was, however, told that he wasn’t allowed any visitors but his parents and his “fiancée”.

‘Is his fiancée in there now?’ asked Libby.

‘She’s been there all the time,’ said the staff nurse pulling a face. ‘Can’t get her to go home. His parents tried to persuade her, but she wouldn’t go.’

‘Do you think she would come out and see me?’ asked Libby. ‘Tell her it’s Libby.’

A few minutes later Jane emerged from a room further down the corridor. Libby was shocked at her appearance.

‘My God, Jane. When did you last sleep?’ asked Libby, taking her hands and sitting her down on the bench.

‘I dozed by the bed last night,’ said Jane in an exhausted voice. ‘And the night before. I have to be here when he wakes up.’

Hasn’t he woken up yet?’ Libby felt her heart sink.

‘Oh, yes, but only for a little while at a time.’

She brightened. ‘The doctors are very impressed with him.’

‘I’m sure,’ said Libby, thinking that Terry must be almost superhuman to have survived both attacks so well. ‘Has he damaged his ribs any further?’

‘I don’t know. Apparently they don’t X-ray ribs these days, but they have to be careful of fluid collecting in the lungs because people don’t cough with broken ribs.’

Libby correctly interpreted this to mean it hurt too much to cough.

‘Does he remember what happened this time?’ she said. ‘Although the rest of you know, so I suppose it doesn’t matter that much.’

‘I haven’t asked him,’ said Jane. ‘I just can’t believe that all this has happened just after we got together.’

‘It was the body, really, wasn’t it?’ said Libby cheerfully. ‘If it wasn’t for that, you wouldn’t have met Fran and me.’

‘I suppose it was.’ Jane nodded. ‘Have the police made any more progress on that? I’d forgotten all about it.’

‘They know who it is,’ said Libby. She watched Jane’s tired face carefully. ‘Your Rosa lent her passport to Lena, his sister. Fran told you about that when you saw Rosa’s passport.’

‘It’s him?’ If possible, Jane’s face lost even more colour. ‘It’s Lena’s brother?’

‘You didn’t realise when Fran told you the story?’

‘No.’

‘His name was Andrei,’ said Libby gently, ‘but they still don’t know who killed him, or why.’

‘No.’ Jane’s voice was hardly above a whisper. Libby watched her for a moment.

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to take you home for a bit of rest?’ she asked. ‘You’re absolutely wrecked aren’t you?’

‘I’ve got my car,’ said Jane, rousing herself slightly, ‘but, no, I don’t want to go home.’

‘Well, how about coming back with me for an hour or so? The spare bed’s still made up.’

Jane seemed to focus on her properly for the first time. ‘Yes … perhaps that would be better.’

‘Better?’ Libby frowned.

Jane shook her head. ‘Closer. Sorry. Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?’

‘Of course not,’ said Libby. ‘Go on, get your coat, or your bag, or whatever and let the staff know where you’ll be.’

‘No need to do that,’ said Jane quickly. ‘They’ve got my mobile number. I’ll get my bag.’

Still frowning, Libby watched her go back down the corridor and wondered if she was doing the right thing.

By the time Libby had navigated out of Canterbury, Jane was asleep and Libby was left with her thoughts. She’d been right, Jane hadn’t known who the body on Dragon Island was, and now she did, it was obvious that she knew more than anyone had suspected about Rosa. Certainly more than she and Fran had suspected. She couldn’t wait to speak to Fran.

As soon as they arrived at Allhallow’s Lane, Libby hustled Jane upstairs into the spare room and went back to put the kettle on. While she waited for it to boil, she called Fran.

‘I’ll be right over,’ said Fran. ‘Don’t let her get away.’

‘Get away? She’s not a criminal, you know!’ Libby poured water into a mug.

‘No,’ said Fran. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

When Libby took up the tea she’d made, Jane was already out for the count in the spare bed. Libby smiled and pulled the curtains across the window. With a bit of luck she would sleep for at least a couple of hours.

Fran arrived half an hour later, and Libby made more tea.

‘She knows,’ said Fran, accepting a mug.

‘Knows about Lena and Andrei, you mean?’ said Libby.

Fran nodded. ‘When I told her about Rosa and Lena and the passport, I realised afterwards she said “lending it to her lover’s homeless, displaced sister just to help her”. I’d said nothing about a “lover”. She already knew.’

‘She’s a bloody good actress, then,’ said Libby. ‘She’s pulled the wool over all our eyes.’

‘But what does she know exactly?’ said Fran. ‘She appeared to be completely up front when she told us about the Rosa who worked in Pietro’s café and lived in a bedsit.’

‘But then when you told her about Rosa and Lena, it was obvious she knew about Andrei.’ Libby pursed her lips in thought. ‘And when I told her the body was Andrei, it shook her rigid.’

‘It was also after I’d shown her the passport and told her the story that she began to back off. Before then she’d been happy for us to investigate her aunt and Simon Madderling –’

‘And Peel House,’ cut in Libby. ‘Exactly. Why?’

‘You know what I think,’ said Fran after a moment. ‘I think she probably knew most of it. I think her aunt told her about whatever it was that had happened in the past and about Madderling, and I think she was hoping I could find where whatever it was was hidden.’

‘You mean she didn’t know that?’

‘It’s the only reason she would be happy for me to trail round looking for something, isn’t it?’

‘Or she knew nothing was there, so had nothing to fear.’

Fran looked startled. ‘But if that was the case, why did I feel there was something there?’

‘Perhaps she didn’t know it was,’ suggested Libby. ‘Perhaps she didn’t really believe you could see things.’

‘I picked up enough to convince her, then, didn’t I? And do we really believe that a modern young woman, and a reporter at that, wouldn’t have done her own internet research on her aunt and the house to have found out about Madderling? That just didn’t ring true.’

‘I wondered about that at the time,’ said Libby. ‘Two old birds like us found it within hours. She owns the house. She must have seen the deeds.’

‘Of course!’ Fran slapped her forehead. ‘God, I’m dim. Of course she would have, and Simon’s name would have been there. So she knew all along about the Right Club and the fascist connection.’

‘And Aunt Jessica working for MI5.’

‘And we thought we were being so clever,’ said Fran. ‘So we come back to the question, why did she encourage us to go ferreting about?’

‘Not only that,’ said Libby, aggrieved, ‘all that guff about being lonely, and getting us on her side and Terry –’

‘Oh, I think that part of it’s true,’ said Fran. ‘I think she was genuinely lonely and shy. I also think that she met Rosa exactly as she told us, but Rosa probably told her the truth.’

‘Why?’ Libby wrinkled her brow. ‘Are we saying Rosa was sent to look for Jane? And then told her why?’

‘Perhaps Rosa didn’t realise how serious it all was. But she did make friends with Jane, and she did lie about where she lived – her whole lifestyle, in fact – so it looks as though she was looking for Jane. And she was going to come down here and stay, wasn’t she?’

‘And Jane seemed pleased about that,’ said Libby, ‘yet if Rosa had told her the truth about her lifestyle, say, before she had to leave the country …’ she trailed off. ‘I don’t understand any of this.’

‘And why is she suddenly scared to go back to Peel House?’ said Fran. ‘Yesterday, she wouldn’t come and stay with me, said she couldn’t leave Mrs Finch, which is a bit mad.’

‘But she did go straight back to the hospital,’ said Libby, ‘and she stayed there all night.’

‘But she still would have gone back home at some point,’ said Fran. ‘It was only after you told her about Andrei that she didn’t want to go home.’

‘Do you know,’ said Libby, after a pause while they both thought about the situation, ‘right at the beginning, people were asking if Jane had something to do with it all. The body on the island, I mean. Harry did, didn’t he?’

‘And now it looks as though she did. But I think it must have gone wrong. Because Jane didn’t know who the body was.’

‘You mean it was deliberately left there so she would see it – or get to know about it, anyway?’

‘I think that’s what I mean.’

‘Why?’

‘As a warning?’

Libby frowned. ‘A warning about what?’

‘Well, what’s happened since, I suppose.’

‘Look out, we’re out to get you?’ Libby snorted.

Fran cocked an eyebrow at her friend. ‘I did try and say that Peel House and the body were connected didn’t I? Perhaps my inner workings weren’t quite so off-beam as we thought.’

Libby looked shame-faced. ‘As I thought, you mean.’

‘No, I thought the same. So did Guy. I just haven’t learnt how to manage it yet.’

‘What about your sea moment?’ said Libby suddenly. ‘What was that about?’

‘As I said before, I think that was where he was killed. On the boat. Then he was dumped.’

‘They must have been good sailors,’ mused Libby, ‘with all those rocks. And it was at night.’

‘But who were they?’ said Fran. ‘And where are they now? They’re obviously the ones who attacked Terry the first time and who broke in on Saturday.’

‘How about,’ said Libby, ‘and this is only a guess, mind, that Pietro? He went back to Italy, Jane said. Well, perhaps he didn’t.’

‘We’ve already considered him,’ said Fran.

‘Before we knew the full story,’ said Libby.

‘We don’t know the full story yet, Libby,’ said Fran. ‘All we’ve got is speculation, as usual. I have a feeling the worst is yet to come.’

‘And I have a feeling you’re right,’ said Jane.

Chapter Thirty-two

FRAN AND LIBBY GASPED simultaneously and turned to the door.

Jane came into the room looking only slightly less rumpled and weary than she had an hour ago.

‘You should still be asleep,’ said Libby, when she’d found her voice. ‘What are you doing up?’

‘I woke up when I heard Fran arrive,’ said Jane, sitting on the chair by the table. ‘I decided I ought to listen to what you were saying.’

Libby risked a glance at Fran, who was sitting staring rigidly ahead. She cleared her throat. ‘Er – would you like a fresh cup of tea?’ she asked. ‘You were asleep when I brought the first one up.’

Jane nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

Well, she didn’t look capable of attacking anyone, thought Libby, whatever she’d been concealing. She went into the kitchen, where the kettle was still simmering on the Rayburn and put a teabag into a mug. Her brain was almost in suspended animation, not knowing quite what to think or what to feel. Fran, it appeared, was in the same position.

‘So you heard what we were saying,’ Libby said, taking the bull by the horns. ‘And were we right?’

Jane took a sip of her tea and nodded. ‘I didn’t think for a moment anyone would know what was going on,’ she said wearily, ‘and I didn’t really believe in Fran’s psychic ability at first.’

‘But she convinced you?’

Jane nodded again. ‘And once you’d got on to Aunt Jess and Simon Madderling I got worried.’

Fran seemed to come awake. ‘So you knew all about it?’

‘Aunt Jess told me years ago. Since I was a child she’d shown me pictures of Simon and told me about what they did in the war. She always said someone would come looking one day.’

‘Looking? For what?’ said Libby.

‘For some documents Simon had left with her. Only he hadn’t.’

‘He hadn’t?’ said Fran.

‘So she said. But then I met Rosa.’

‘Ah, yes. Rosa,’ said Fran.

‘What I told you was true,’ said Jane with a sigh. ‘Everything. But then she heard from Andrei that Lena had been arrested. And her family wanted her out of the way quickly. Apparently they were very angry at what she’d done. So she told me all about it.’

‘Go on,’ said Libby, when it appeared that Jane had fallen into a trance.

‘Her family had kept track of Aunt Jess ever since the war.’

‘The Italian visitors,’ said Fran, ‘that Mrs Finch told us about.’

‘Yes, them. They were supposed to be friends of Aunt Jess’s. And others, from a distance. She said they thought she would never do anything with these documents because they would ruin her reputation, let alone Simon’s.’

‘They didn’t know she and Simon were working for MI5?’ said Libby.

‘No, they thought Simon was a traitor.’ Jane made an attempt at a smile. ‘Funny, really, wasn’t it?’

‘Then what happened? The fifty year rule?’ asked Fran.

‘And they discovered what the real state of affairs was,’ said Libby.

‘So what did they do?’ asked Fran.

‘It wasn’t until about three years ago that they discovered all this,’ said Jane. ‘Then Aunt Jess went into a home and then she died. They found out that the house had been left to me. They tried to break into the house, but didn’t manage it, perhaps they didn’t realise there were tenants there. So Rosa was sent over to make friends with me.’

Libby and Fran watched as Jane’s face crumpled. Fran got up and went over to her, putting an arm round her and leading her from the upright chair to the creaky sofa. Libby got up to make room for them and sat down in Fran’s abandoned armchair.

‘What happened next?’ asked Fran after a decent interval.

‘What I told you. She worked for Pietro and we became friends. Now I know why she didn’t ever invite me home, of course.’ Jane sniffed and sat upright. ‘Anyway, you know the rest. She told me everything and disappeared.’

‘Did you meet Andrei?’ asked Libby.

‘Once. Rosa gave him my mobile number and he rang me to tell me she’d gone back to Italy. I went to meet him in a bar in London. He said it was safer not to be near either of our places of work.’

‘Did he say why?’ asked Fran.

‘Her family were dangerous, he said.’ Jane sniffed again. ‘He was nice.’

‘Who were they? The family. We know Francini wasn’t her real name.’ said Libby.

Jane shook her head. ‘I don’t know. And I don’t know why these documents are so important to them, either.’

‘Inspector Connell said he couldn’t see why anything would be so important after all this time,’ said Fran. ‘It’s over sixty years since the war ended. Anyone exposed now would either be dead or very old. Would it matter?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Libby. ‘There’ve been at least two fairly high profile cases with very old people being put on trial for war crimes. There was a woman in London and a bloke in Kent, I’m sure.’

‘So would Italy put someone on trial if they were exposed now? That’s presumably what they’re worried about,’ said Fran.

‘No idea,’ said Libby. ‘What do you think, Jane?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Jane with a sigh. ‘And why would they murder poor Andrei? And was it a warning for me?’

‘Very clumsy if it was,’ said Fran. ‘You didn’t see it properly and were never told who it was. It took long enough for the police to find out.’

‘And that was only because of your suggestion,’ said Libby.

‘As for murdering Andrei, I suspect they thought he knew too much as he’d been Rosa’s lover,’ said Fran.

‘Don’t you think you ought to tell Inspector Connell everything you’ve told us?’ asked Libby.

Jane looked frightened. ‘They’d find out,’ she said.

‘How?’ asked Fran.

‘I don’t know. But if I go home they’ll know where I am. If I talk to the police they’ll find out.’

Libby and Fran looked at one another.

‘How about if I ask Ian – Inspector Connell – to come here to Libby’s house? You wouldn’t mind, would you, Lib?’

‘Of course not. That’s a really good idea,’ said Libby. ‘Don’t you think, Jane?’

‘He’ll be cross with me,’ said Jane, hanging her head. Fran let out a tut of exasperation.

‘Yes, I expect he will,’ she said, ‘but what choice do you have? Two of your tenants have already been attacked, your house has been broken into several times – what about old Mrs Finch if you won’t think of yourself?’

‘I was,’ she said. ‘That’s what I said yesterday, but when Libby told me about Andrei this morning –’ she let the sentence hang.

‘The police are the best people to deal with this sort of situation,’ said Fran decisively. ‘I’m going to phone Connell now.’ She got up and went to her bag. Jane just sat on the sofa looking scared.

‘Cheer up, Jane,’ said Libby. ‘Terry’s going to get better, the police can find out who’s been doing this and maybe,’ she paused as a thought struck her, ‘just maybe, they can find some other top secret information about Simon Madderling. Somewhere there must be a record of what he was doing and who his contacts were. Bingo!’

She looked proudly at Fran and Jane. Fran shook her head before speaking into the phone. Jane looked puzzled. ‘But if there were records,’ she said, ‘why did Simon hide those documents in the first place. Or say he had.’

‘Because – oh, I don’t know.’ Libby frowned. ‘MI5 would have known about his contacts, though. He wouldn’t have wanted the Italians, or whoever they were, to know he was MI5.’

‘But why,’ said Fran, clicking off her phone, ‘did he say he’d hidden documents when he hadn’t?’

‘That’s what Aunt Jess said. She was never given anything to hide, or told where anything was. She thought it was all a bluff on Simon’s part to keep him alive.’

‘Well, he got that wrong, didn’t he?’ said Libby. ‘Did you get through, Fran?’

‘I spoke to Constable Maiden. He’ll get through to Ian and presumably he’ll phone here.’

‘I ought to get back to the hospital,’ said Jane.

‘You haven’t had enough sleep yet,’ said Libby, ‘and I refuse to drive you until you have. We’ll wake you when we hear from Inspector Connell.’

‘Well,’ said Fran, when Jane had been persuaded back up the stairs. ‘What about that.’

‘You got nearly all of it right,’ said Libby.

‘Except the killer. We still don’t know who that is,’ Fran sighed.

‘It’s got to be one of the Italian family,’ said Libby.

‘Or someone they’ve hired.’

‘To get close to Jane again?’

They looked at each other in horror.

‘It can’t be Terry,’ said Libby in a small voice. ‘He’s been attacked twice.’

‘And survived twice,’ said Fran grimly.

‘But what about the first time? They said he’d been attacked in the hall first. They found blood.’

‘Easy enough to shed a bit of your own blood,’ said Fran. ‘And they never found the weapon, did they?’

‘Well, how on earth could he have concealed the weapon if he’d knocked himself out?’ said Libby.

‘How about a deliberate fall? That would have broken his ribs as well.’

‘He was in the army, wasn’t he?’ said Libby. ‘Grenadier Guards, Jane said.’

‘Suppose it was something else? Like the SAS?’ Fran looked out of the window and sighed again. ‘I think we’re out of our depth, Lib.’

‘Well, he’s safe enough in hospital at the moment,’ said Libby, ‘and Ian can take over now.’

‘Thank goodness.’ Fran leant back in the armchair and stretched. ‘This is all a bit draining, isn’t it?’

‘By the way,’ said Libby, ‘why did you shake your head at me when I said Ian could get into the MI5 records?’

‘Because I doubt if he could. Anything that’s going to be released already has been. They wouldn’t let anything else out unless it was of national importance. And I doubt if the murder of an illegal migrant worker is that.’

‘What do we do about Jane?’ said Libby, standing up and going on a cigarette hunt. ‘We can’t tell her what we think about Terry.’

‘No.’ Fran rubbed her temples. ‘I suppose we tell Ian and leave him to sort it out. God, I don’t want to think about what will happen when she finds out.’

‘You don’t suppose we’re wrong, do you?’ asked Libby, sitting back down with her cigarette. ‘It isn’t Terry?’

‘Who else?’ asked Fran. ‘He’s the only one who’s got close to Jane except you and me and the two old boat boys.’

‘And he would have known about Jane’s trips out with them,’ said Libby. ‘He’s the only one who would. Oh, dear.’

‘I wonder if he’s got an alibi for the night before the body was found,’ said Fran.

‘Whether he has or hasn’t,’ said Libby, ‘how would he have got a boat out from Nethergate with a body on it?’

‘It didn’t come from Nethergate,’ said Fran. ‘It came down the river to the estuary and round the coast.’

She sat up and looked as surprised as Libby did.

‘Well!’ said Libby. ‘And where did that come from?’

‘Where do you think?’ said Fran. ‘It’s nice to know it’s still working. Although whether Ian will give it any credence I don’t know.’

‘Even if he does, he can hardly order forensic examination on every boat within here and Tilbury,’ said Libby.

‘Docklands,’ said Fran.

‘Oh, right,’ said Libby. ‘Any more?’

‘St Katherine’s, I think,’ said Fran.

‘Good heavens, that’s a bit specific,’ said Libby.

‘It just looks like it,’ said Fran. ‘I’ll tell Ian.’

‘Well, it’ll narrow down the search,’ said Libby, ‘if that’s where it is now.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Fran. ‘I should think it’s been shipped off – oh, dear, didn’t mean that – somewhere else by now.’

Libby’s landline phone rang and made them both jump.

‘Mrs Sarjeant,’ said Ian Connell. ‘Is Mrs Castle there?’

‘Yes,’ said Libby, pulling a face at Fran. ‘I’ll hand you over.’

‘Why didn’t he ring your mobile?’ she whispered.

‘Because Constable Maiden said you were there,’ Ian, who had obviously heard, told Fran. ‘And I just thought before you tell me all the information you’ve wheedled out of Jane Maurice, you ought to know that we’ve got Terry Baker under guard at the hospital.’

Chapter Thirty-three

‘UNDER GUARD?’ GASPED FRAN.

Libby’s eyebrows shot up. As she watched, Fran’s expression changed from astonishment to puzzlement and finally, she looked up at Libby and just shook her head. Eventually, she spoke, telling Ian what Jane had told them and then ringing off.

‘Who’s under guard?’ said Libby immediately.

Fran laughed, a little hollowly. ‘Terry, would you believe.’

‘We were right!’ said Libby.

‘No, we weren’t. Apparently, from their own investigations, they decided Terry was in danger, so they’ve put a policeman on duty by his bed.’

Libby frowned. ‘You didn’t tell him what we thought about Terry.’

‘Well, no. If there’s policeman by his bed he’s hardly going to get away, is he?’

‘So what did Ian say about our news?’

‘He wants to see Jane as soon as possible. I said she was asleep – which I hope she is – so I’m afraid I volunteered us to take her into the police station.’

‘Why not here?’ asked Libby.

‘I didn’t ask him. He just said would I phone when we’re on the way.’

‘At some point she’s got to collect her car from the hospital,’ said Libby. ‘I just hope she didn’t park it in the car park. It’ll be clamped.’

‘Should we let her go back to see Terry?’ said Fran.

‘As you said, there is a policeman there.’

It was mid afternoon when Jane came downstairs, looking slightly better than she had earlier. Fran told her about Ian’s call.

‘But I wanted to get back to Terry,’ she said plaintively. Libby and Fran exchanged looks.

‘I think we ought to take you to the police station first,’ said Libby. ‘Then I’ll drive you back to Canterbury. Where did you park?’

Looking rather taken aback, Jane revealed that she had, indeed left her car in the car park.

‘I’m sure Ian will be able to do something about that,’ said Fran. We can ask him when we see him.’

After Libby had persuaded Jane to eat half a sandwich and drink half a cup of tea, Fran opted to take her back to Nethergate and then deliver her to the hospital. ‘You’ve done enough running around today,’ she said to Libby. ‘I’ll come back here after I’ve dropped Jane.’

Frustrated, Libby waved them off, but respected the fact that neither Jane nor Ian would want them both cluttering up the police station, and he would certainly not let them both into the interview room, even if he could be persuaded to let Fran in.

By the time Ben arrived at a quarter to six, as he usually did after going back to The Manor to change if he’d been out on the estate, Libby had still heard nothing.

‘I can’t go out, Ben,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to wait for Fran.’

Ben frowned. ‘She could be ages.’

‘That’s all right. I’ll cook us something, and we can have a drink here. Then when she arrives you can go off to the pub if you want to.’

‘Trying to get rid of me, are you?’ he said, sliding his arms around her waist.

Libby was just reassuring him that this was far from the case when her phone rang.

‘Fran,’ she told him, switching off. ‘She’s on her way.’

‘We’ve got twenty minutes, then’ said Ben, a wicked look in his eye.

‘Yes,’ said Libby, giving him a push. ‘Twenty minutes for me to cook something quick.’

In fact, it only took ten minutes for Libby to serve up a stir-fry with noodles, of which she had made enough for Fran should she want it. She did.

‘I’m starving,’ she said, sliding in to a chair at the kitchen table. ‘Hello, Ben.’

‘Hi.’ He stood up and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Look, I’ve finished, so I’ll nip down and see if I can get Pete to come for a drink. Join us later if you want to.’

‘Right,’ said Libby, pouring two glasses of wine. ‘Tell all.’

‘I shouldn’t really drink if I’ve got to drive,’ said Fran, eyeing the glass warily.

‘You’re eating with it, and you won’t be going yet,’ said Libby.

‘You’re right,’ said Fran, and took a healthy swallow. ‘That’s better.’

‘So what happened?’ said Libby, placing a laden plate on the table and sitting down again.

Between mouthfuls, Fran explained.

‘Ian wouldn’t let me into the interview room –’

‘I thought he wouldn’t,’ said Libby.

‘So I waited outside. They weren’t as long as I’d expected, and when they came out he asked if he could have a word with me, and asked me what I had thought of her story. I told him we’d sort of worked it out – well, some of it – and he grumbled a bit, then I told him what we’d thought about Terry. He didn’t like that at all. I asked if he could look into the Simon Madderling business, and he said that was very doubtful, so I asked him about the boat. As you can imagine, he was very dismissive of that, but once I’d reminded him of a few things, he said he would look into it. I don’t know how well he’ll look into it, but it’s a start.’

‘So then you took Jane back to the hospital?’

‘No, she wanted to have a shower and change, which was fair enough, so I took her back to Peel House. She was scared, though. She insisted I stayed with her. I was going to pop down and tell Guy what was going on, but in the end I just phoned him.’

‘What exactly is she scared of?’

‘Someone attacking her in the house. I went down to see Mike while she was in the shower and put him in the picture –’

‘What? You told him everything?’

‘No, silly. Just that she was going back to the hospital and she and the police were worried about another attack. He said he’d go down and check on Mrs Finch and keep an eye on things.’

‘Nice of him,’ said Libby, ‘especially as he’s been a victim as well. How is he?’

‘Oh, back to normal, he said. Just a bit sore.’

‘So then you went back to the hospital?’

‘Yes. And I told Ian about the car, and bless him, he’d sorted it all out, and when we got to the car park it had a big “Police Aware” notice on it.’

‘Did you go up to the ward with her?’

‘Yes. I said I’d like to say hello if he was awake.

‘And was he?’ asked Libby.

‘Yes, he was. Delighted, as far as you could tell, to see Jane, and quite pleased to see me. Not saying much.’ Fran sighed. ‘I must say, I don’t like to think of him being a villain.’

‘Neither do I.’ They sat in silence for a while and Fran finished her meal.

‘What do we do now?’ said Libby, as she cleared plates into the sink.

‘Wash up?’ suggested Fran.

Libby poked her tongue out. ‘No, what do we do about Jane. And everything else.’

Fran shrugged and led the way into the sitting room. ‘Nothing. We’ve told Ian everything we know, or rather, Jane has, so it’s up to him. I suppose we provide support for her, which she’s going to need.’

Libby sighed. ‘Oh, God, I suppose so. Nasty.’ She looked at the clock. ‘Are you going to come for a drink? Or would you like a cup of coffee here?’

‘Cup of coffee, then I’ll go home. I’ve been out since lunchtime, after all.’

Libby had just provided her with a mug of coffee when Fran’s phone rang.

‘Oh, Bruce. Hello,’ she said and made a face at Libby. ‘No, I’m not at home, I’m sorry. Pity.’

Libby giggled.

‘Sorry – what was that?’ said Fran, frowning.

‘You did – what? Where?’ She looked at Libby and mouthed something. Libby shrugged and shook her head.

‘OK, Bruce,’ Fran went on. ‘Well, good luck with it. Yes. Love to Cass – I mean Chrissie.’ She rang off. ‘You’ll never guess what,’ she said to Libby.

‘No,’ said Libby. ‘I’m not a lip-reader.’

‘Bruce has seen his Italian businessman again – in Nethergate.’

Chapter Thirty-four

‘PIETRO?’ SAID LIBBY. ‘IN Nethergate?’

‘We don’t know it’s Pietro. We’re still jumping to conclusions.’ Fran stood up and began pacing, as far as Libby’s cluttered sitting room would allow.

‘Why did Bruce tell you?’

‘He’s in Nethergate and decided it would be handy if he could pop in and see me. I expect he hoped I’d feed him.’

‘He’s been in Nethergate a lot, hasn’t he?’ said Libby.

‘His firm have got a contract with someone there,’ said Fran, ‘I don’t think it’s another woman, Lib.’

‘Sorry,’ said Libby. ‘So where did he see Pietro this time?’

‘I wish you’d stop calling him that,’ said Fran. ‘It probably isn’t him.’

‘Well, where was he, anyway?’

‘In The Swan.’

‘The Swan? That’s a bit close to home,’ said Libby, looking worried.

‘Exactly. Do you think I should phone Mike?’

‘And tell him what?’ said Libby. ‘There’s a strange Italian businessman in The Swan who just might come up and try to break into Peel House? You were the one saying don’t jump to conclusions.’

‘I wish I could get a look at him,’ said Fran. ‘Then I’d know.’

‘If it was Pietro?’

‘No, if it was the killer.’

‘Well, why don’t we go down now?’ said Libby. ‘He might still be in The Swan. Did Bruce say he was still there?’

‘Yes. He said he was going over to speak to him. I wished him luck.’

‘Quick, ring him back!’ said Libby. ‘Find out what’s happening.’

But Bruce wasn’t answering his phone.

‘I hope he hasn’t been bashed over the head,’ said Fran gloomily.

‘Come on, let’s go,’ said Libby, grabbing her basket and stuffing her arms into a long cardigan.

‘How are you going to get back?’ said Fran.

‘I’m driving. I’ve only had a glass and a half of wine. I’m safe.’

Within minutes, after Libby had called Ben and told him where she was going, the little convoy was out on the road to Nethergate. As they drove past the turning to Steeple Mount, Libby couldn’t resist a swift glance into the darkness on her right, where she knew, beyond the trees, stood Tyne Hall, now closed and boarded up, but once the scene of some very unpleasant, not to say murderous, deeds. She shivered and hoped she and Fran weren’t driving headlong into more of the same.

The wound down the hill into Nethergate, through the square and into Harbour Street, where they both parked.

‘The Swan?’ said Libby.

‘I’ll just go in and tell Guy where we’re going,’ said Fran. ‘I promised I’d call him.’

Guy offered to come with them, but Fran thought a third party in their rather haphazard exploration would increase the embarrassment factor.

‘I’ll feel enough of a fool if we’re making a mull of this without Guy looking on,’ she confided to Libby as they walked along Harbour Street towards The Swan.

The Swan was busy, but neither Bruce nor an unknown Italian could be seen, either in the bar or the restaurant.

‘Mike’s just come in, though,’ said Libby, pointing to the door. ‘He might have seen Bruce.’

‘Not if he’s only just come in,’ said Fran. ‘Worth a try, though.’

‘No, I’ve been here a while,’ he said, when they joined him at the bar. ‘I eat here most evenings. Can I get you a drink?’

‘No thanks. I thought I saw you coming in, that’s why we asked,’ explained Libby.

‘I went outside to take a call,’ said Mike, raising his eyebrows. ‘Is it important?’

‘It’s like this,’ said Fran hastily. ‘You remember what I said when I saw you earlier? Well, we thought someone might be lurking around here.’

‘Lurking? In The Swan?’ He laughed. ‘How would I know if anyone was lurking? I only know the regulars who come in. Anybody could be a criminal as far as I know. What does this person look like?’

‘My son-in-law was in here,’ said Fran. ‘Tallish, brown hair, a little thinning on top.’

‘Take a look.’ Mike waved his hand. ‘Half the customers answer that description.’

‘But my son-in-law knew this person. He was an Italian businessman.’

‘And what did he look like?’ Mike’s eyes narrowed. Fran and Libby looked at each other.

‘Italian?’ said Libby helplessly.

Mike threw his head back and laughed. Fran went crimson, and even Libby felt a little hot under the collar. ‘I must say,’ he said, ‘you ladies have enlivened my stay in Nethergate.’

‘Glad to have been of service,’ said Libby and turned on her heel. ‘Come on, Fran.’

‘Hey, wait,’ said Mike, stopping her with a hand on her arm. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I checked on old Mrs Finch before I came out, just as I said I would, but young Jane isn’t home yet. I’ll check her out as soon as she gets there.’

‘She’s still at the hospital,’ said Fran. ‘Thanks, anyway.’

‘Berk,’ said Libby as soon as they got outside.

‘You must admit we appear a bit odd,’ said Fran with a sigh. ‘He must have been laughing up his sleeve every time we turned up.’

‘Except when he got bashed over the head,’ said Libby.

‘He probably blames us for that, too,’ said Fran. ‘Ah well.’ She set off back down Harbour Street, punching a number into her phone.

‘Bruce still has his phone off,’ she said, switching off. ‘Wonder where he’s got to?’

‘Gone off with the Italian businessman?’ said Fran. ‘I do hope not, if it’s who we think it is.’

‘It could be perfectly innocent, you know, Fran,’ said Libby. ‘Maybe it is just a businessman who reneged on a deal. And Bruce finally managed to buttonhole him.’

Fran sighed. ‘And we’ve built it up into something it isn’t – again. I’d still like to know where he is, though.’

When she passed Coastguard Cottage and carried on walking, Libby turned and looked at her. ‘Where are we going?’ she said.

‘There’s a new boat,’ said Fran. ‘The other side of the hard.’ She led the way across the hard in front of The Sloop, past the Dolphin and the Sparkler rocking gently at their moorings, and sure enough, tied up on the other side, a sleek dark launch skulked in the shadows.

‘How did you know?’ whispered Libby.

Fran gave her a look, even as she was dialling Ian’s number. For once she got straight through.

‘It’s called the Ladana,’ said Fran. ‘Is that enough to check on?’

Ian obviously asked a few more questions and Fran switched off.

‘Is this it, then?’ asked Libby, as they began to walk slowly back to the cars.

‘I’m sure that’s the boat Andrei was killed on,’ said Fran. ‘As we left The Swan it just came into my head. If we can check who it belongs to – well, we’ll be a step nearer.’

Fran’s phone rang.

‘Yes, Ian?’ she said. A minute later she switched off and relayed the information to Libby.

‘He’d actually checked up on the marina or whatever it is at St Katherine’s Dock and got a list of boats moored there around about the time when Andrei died. When I gave him the name of the Ladana, he looked, and there it was. And –’ she paused for effect ‘– owned by Massimo Berini.’

‘Who?’ Libby wrinkled her brow. ‘Do we know him?’

‘No, idiot! Berini! Get it?’

Libby shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Berini is one of the so-called great reformers of Italian politics,’ said Fran.

‘Is he? How do you know about him, then?’ asked Libby innocently.

‘Oh, come on, Lib. Don’t you ever follow the news?’

‘Not often,’ said Libby. ‘Except the local stuff.’

‘Berini’s famous, take my word for it. I can’t remember if his name is Massimo, but I bet it’s the same family.’

‘It sounds as though it’s quite a common name, though,’ said Libby dubiously. ‘Are we doing another of our well-known leaps of faith – otherwise known as jumping to conclusions?’

‘I’m sure not,’ said Fran, sounding quite excited. Libby was surprised.

‘So where does old Pietro come into this?’

‘Where does Terry come into this?’ countered Fran. ‘If Massimo has brought the boat down here it must be for a reason.’

‘Terry’s in hospital,’ reasoned Libby. ‘It can’t be for him.’

‘Why not? They could get him out.’

‘He’s got a police guard.’

‘Come to think of it,’ said Fran, ignoring Libby and retracing her steps towards the hard, ‘it was very risky to bring a boat registered in the family’s name down here, wasn’t it?’

‘But they don’t know about all the connections that have been made. They don’t know Andrei has been identified, or that Rosa had told Jane the whole story. Why should they worry?’

‘I want to know why it’s here now,’ said Fran, coming to a halt above the Ladana. ‘There’s been someone around apart from Terry for weeks, now, but they haven’t needed the boat.’

‘Do you really think it’s Terry?’ said Libby. ‘I don’t want to believe it.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Fran with a sigh. ‘But there’s still someone else around.’

‘Yes, signora,’ said a voice behind them, ‘and he’s right here.’

Before either of them could scream or turn round a hand clamped over both of their mouths. Libby felt her hands being roughly pulled behind her and tied. Through a haze of fear she realised there must be two people, men, because the hand was still over her mouth. Then, to her horror, she was blindfolded.

‘Now down the ladder, ladies,’ said a different, more heavily accented voice. ‘We will guide you.’

She was unceremoniously turned round and felt a hand grab her ankle. Instinctively, she kicked out and was brought to her knees as she was dealt a ringing blow to the head. She heard scuffling, and then realised she was being dragged over the side of hard, lifted and then almost flung into what she hoped was the Ladana. She heard a heavy thud and a yelp and realised Fran had joined her. For a while she lay there, listening to almost perfect silence. Her brain, for the last ten minutes a confused jumble of sensations rather than coherent thought, began to settle down.

Who knew where they were, first. Well, Ben knew she was in Nethergate. Guy knew they were going to The Swan. Mike knew they’d been in The Swan. But nobody knew about the Ladana. Her heart lurched. Except Ian.

She tried to move and finally succeeded in locating what she hoped was a part of Fran. A muffled squeak assured her it was.

‘Fran!’ she whispered.

‘Yes?’

‘Is anyone else on here with us?’

‘I don’t know – I can’t see.’

‘Ian knows about the boat – do you think he’ll investigate –’

‘Ladies, ladies!’ The heavily accented voice called down. ‘No conversation, or we might have to gag you, too.’

‘Bugger,’ whispered Libby. ‘But hey, Fran. It can’t be Terry.’

‘No.’ Fran’s answer was a mere breath.

The unmistakeable sound of boots on metal rungs indicated the arrival of one of their captors.

‘Now,’ said the more English of the two voices, ‘we’re going to have to take you for a little ride. You need to be out of the way for a while, and we have no wish to kill two such nice ladies, so just keep quiet and you’ll come to no harm.’

Libby was so full of fear she couldn’t speak. She heard, and felt, the engine starting and bit down hard on her lip.

Suddenly light flared across her blindfolded eyes and someone shouted. The boat lurched and crashed against the hard. Libby was flung sideways and ended up almost on top of Fran.

More shouting. Someone landed heavily on the deck and then a voice, a voice Libby recognised.

‘They’re here!’ called Constable Maiden. And then, blessed relief, the blindfold was ripped off and through blurred eyes Libby saw him doing the same to Fran. She wriggled upright as he started on her hands and looked up.

And there, held firmly by two policemen, stood Mike Charteris.

Chapter Thirty-five

‘WHAT I WANT TO know,’ said Harry, pouring champagne into flutes, in what had become a traditional post-case celebration, although Ben preferred to call it post-chaos, ‘what I want to know is, was her name really Rosa?’

Jane, tucked into a corner of The Pink Geranium’s big sofa with her Terry, nodded.

‘Oh, yes. Rosa Berini. And Mike is her brother.’

‘And what exactly did he plan to do with you two?’ asked Guy, who was holding on to Fran’s arm as though he was afraid if he let go she would float up to the ceiling.

‘As far as Ian can make out,’ said Libby, holding on to Ben in much the same manner, ‘they were going to take us somewhere and dump us while they ransacked Peel House. We were blindfolded so we couldn’t see it was Mike. And he’d disguised his voice.’

‘Who was the other guy – I mean, bloke?’ asked Terry, with an apologetic nod to Guy.

‘Not Pietro,’ laughed Fran. ‘We really did run ahead of ourselves there. It was the chap who owned the flat in Lansdowne Square. He’s a Berini cousin.’

‘Hang on,’ said Harry, ‘who’s Pietro?’

Libby and Fran explained.

‘And he was being paid by Mike – or Massimo, as I suppose we should call him,’ said Jane. ‘But only to employ Rosa to get close to me.’

‘And the reason behind this miscellany of misunderstandings?’ asked Peter.

‘Get him,’ said Libby, reaching across to poke his arm.

‘The reason,’ said Fran, ‘was some documents allegedly concealed somewhere in Peel House by Jane’s Aunt Jessica’s lover, Simon Madderling. They revealed, as we have now found out, from the Italian communists after the story was covered in Italy, that Giacomo Berini was a supporter of Mussolini and subsequently Hitler throughout the war and responsible for some of the nastier war crimes. All the time being seen to be holier-thanthou.’

‘Which his family have continued to be.’ Jane took up the story. ‘Any revelations would mean the Berinis would lose all power, and great grandfather Giacomo, now 92, would go on trial. They also have a healthy underground organisation aiding illegal immigrants from the non-European states.’

‘Lena and Andrei?’ said Libby.

‘Yes.’

‘So was Mike the vanishing Italian businessman?’ asked Ben.

‘Yes. He was investigating where Lena had worked, which was near Bruce’s firm, so came up with a cover story which was easy with all his family’s connections.’ Fran sighed. ‘And poor old Bruce was found unconscious in the car park by the police. He’d approached Mike – Massimo – and accused him of reneging on the deal with his company, and Mike realised his persona was at risk of being exposed. It’s a wonder he didn’t kill Bruce.’

‘That would have been another reason to get us out of the way,’ said Libby. ‘Once he’d been into Peel House and got away, it wouldn’t have mattered if Bruce had reported to us. We still wouldn’t have connected his Italian to Mike.’

‘But if he’d come round and reported to the police –’ interrupted Ben.

‘He was hit at least as hard as Terry was,’ said Fran, ‘and didn’t come round in hospital for ages. Chrissie was there by then. Blaming me, of course.’

‘So Mike would have been long gone by that time,’ said Guy. ‘He was a real chancer, wasn’t he?’

Fran nodded. ‘He had luck on his side a lot of the way.’

‘And he saw the ad I persuaded Jane to put in the paper,’ groaned Libby.

‘And met Terry, who he realised was a real threat,’ said Fran. Terry tried to look modest.

‘So was it Mike who attacked Terry?’ asked Guy. ‘I don’t see how.’

‘The first time, he hit Terry as he was coming in, took his keys to search his flat, then heard Mrs Finch taking her bin out. So he waited until she’d gone back in, dragged Terry on to the step, and pretended to discover him there,’ explained Libby. ‘Apparently.’

‘And the second time?’ asked Harry.

‘He had been to The Swan and the Carlton, as he said, but then left and realising we were both out, took the opportunity to search my flat. He turned out the lights and hit Terry when he went up the stairs, then rushed down past me,’ said Fran with a shudder, ‘then arranged himself neatly on the lower landing as though he’d been there a long time.’

‘But how did he fool the ambulance people if he hadn’t really been knocked out?’ asked Peter.

‘He deliberately banged his head on the bannisters,’ said Fran. ‘It didn’t knock him out, but gave him a convincing bump.’

‘Blimey,’ said Harry. ‘There’s dedication to the cause.’

‘He’d already killed, remember, or the family had at least,’ said Libby. ‘The body on the island which started it all.’

‘Hang on again,’ said Harry, topping up with champagne. ‘You’ve lost me re the body.’

‘Andrei,’ said Jane, Libby and Fran together.

‘I know who he was, but why did they kill him and why did they put him on the island?’

‘They killed him because he knew too much,’ said Fran.

‘And they put him on the island as a warning to anyone in their organisation who didn’t toe the line,’ said Jane. ‘Not to warn me.’

‘How would people from their organisation know what it meant?’ asked Guy.

‘Most of the migrant workers would recognise one of their own, even if they didn’t know him personally,’ said Libby. ‘It was a general warning. And of course, none of the migrant workers would have volunteered any information, so they were safe.’

‘It was even their organisation that supplied the evil Budgen farmer,’ said Fran, ‘so all my strange floating visions linked up in the end.’

‘Except Terry,’ said Jane with a grin.

‘He wasn’t a vision,’ said Libby. ‘He was just bad adding up.’

The others looked at her in perplexity. She sighed. ‘Putting two and two together?’ she said.

‘And making five. I see,’ said Harry. ‘More bubbles anyone?’

‘And what about Rosa?’ asked Libby later, when the last refried beans had been scraped off a plate.

‘I don’t know,’ said Jane. ‘I hope she’s all right. She was a good person at heart.’

‘Not like the rest of her family,’ said Terry.

‘And is there a document?’ asked Peter. ‘Or was it all for nothing?’

‘Aunt Jess said there wasn’t. If there is, I doubt if we’ll ever find it,’ said Jane.

‘And I would far rather Libby and Fran didn’t go looking for it,’ said Ben amid laughter.

‘I’ve still got the bruises,’ said Libby, ‘so I won’t be doing anything for a long, long time.’

‘We were lucky Ian turned up when he did,’ said Guy. ‘I hate to think what would have happened if he hadn’t.’

‘Once I’d told him about the Ladana and he realised where it had come from and who it belonged to he thought he’d better take a look,’ said Fran. ‘It was lucky he didn’t go on his own, though.’

‘So what are you going to be doing to keep out of mischief?’ Harry asked her.

‘I’m going to a creative writing class,’ said Fran. ‘I thought I might try to write a novel. Nothing much can happen to me there, can it?’