Murder by the Sea (24 page)

‘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.