Murder by the Sea (25 page)

‘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.’