Murder by the Sea (2 page)

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

‘Perhaps.’ Guy frowned. ‘I hope not.’

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

‘What’s she doing?’ she said.

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

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

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

‘Can I write it up for my paper?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘If you can think of an angle, yes.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Hmph,’ said George again.

‘I wish I could find out.’

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

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

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

‘Inspector Connell? He’s scary.’

‘Nah. That woman was scary.’

‘What woman?’

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

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

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

‘Lives along ’ere, she does.’

Jane looked surprised. ‘Does she?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

family, in their home village of Steeple Martin.

‘For what?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Shame,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll miss you.’

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

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

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

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

‘Ah,’ said Libby and Fran together.

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Really? I wonder why?’

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

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

‘I thought you were giving up?’

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

Jane sighed.

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

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

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

‘Ah,’ said George.

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

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

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

Jane was silent for a moment.

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

‘I wondered about that lady.’

‘What lady?’ Bert raised his eyebrows.

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

‘’Er in Coastguard Cottage,’ rumbled George.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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