Murder by the Sea (26 page)

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.