Murder by the Sea

MURDER BY THE SEA

LESLEY COOKMAN

Publisher Information

Published by Accent Press Ltd

Digital Edition converted and published by Andrews UK Ltd 2010

ISBN 9781906373306

Copyright © Lesley Cookman 2008

The right of Lesley Cookman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid Glamorgan, CF46 6RY.

Cover Design by Nathan Mackintosh, Zipline Creative

Dedication

For Louise, Miles, Phillipa and Leo

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to Terry Miller, the people of Cavus, Turkey, and all my Friends and Writers, who Understand!

Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘George, what’s that?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Abruptly the window went dark.

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

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

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

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

‘The Sloop will be cordoned off.’

‘The Blue Anchor?’

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

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

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

‘OK, I think.’

‘You think? Don’t you know?’

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

‘Tea, please. But why?’

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

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

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

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

‘Well, so have Guy and I.’

‘But you never see him.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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