Murder by the Sea (14 page)

‘Mrs Finch was here when your aunt was here, too, was she?’

‘Yes. She used to come here when Aunt Jess ran it as a B&B. I told Libby, I think she looks on me as an upstart.’

‘Your aunt must have inspired loyalty,’ said Fran.

‘I think her guests liked it because it was informal and Nethergate is such a lovely, traditional seaside place.’

Fran’s gaze turned back to the window. ‘It certainly is. I’ve loved it since I used to come on holiday as a child.’

‘Libby said something about that,’ said Jane. ‘Where did you stay?’

‘In the cottage I live in now,’ smiled Fran. ‘My uncle owned it.’

‘Oh, I see. Like me, then.’ Jane grinned happily.

‘More or less,’ agreed Fran. ‘Did you stay with your aunt when you were a child?’

‘Yes, often. I didn’t see her so much after I grew up, and now of course, I feel guilty.’

‘Did she have no children of her own?’ Fran tutted. ‘Sorry, that was insensitive. She can’t have done if she left the house to you, can she?’

‘No, she never married,’ said Jane. ‘There was some talk in the family about a man during the war, but I was too young to know anything about it.’

‘Was she a career woman?’ asked Fran. ‘After all, this house must have cost quite a lot, whenever she bought it.’

‘I’ve never thought about that,’ said Jane. ‘I suppose she must have bought it, because otherwise it would have been left to her
and
my grandfather.’

‘He was her brother?’

‘Yes. My father was her nephew and she treated him like a son.’ Jane gazed at the window.

‘Sorry, I’ve been being awfully nosy,’ said Fran.

‘No, you haven’t. It’s fascinating.’ Jane turned bright eyes on Fran. ‘I shall have to do some digging.’ She looked across at Terry who was trying to look as though he wasn’t there. ‘Will you help me?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Of course. Whatever.’

Fran finished her tea. ‘I must be going. I didn’t intend to stay out this long. Will you let me know if you find anything out? Not if it’s personal of course. It’s just as you say, it’s fascinating.’

‘It is, isn’t it?’ Jane got up to see her out. ‘I’ve just never thought about it before. It was always Aunt Jess’s house – it never occurred to me to wonder how she came by it.’

‘And it shouldn’t have occurred to you, either,’ said Libby later, answering her mobile. ‘You’re seeing mysteries where there aren’t any.’

‘Jane thought it was interesting, too,’ protested Fran.

‘Jane was probably in a state of high excitement because Terry was there.’

‘Oh.’ Fran looked out of her window at her own view of the bay. ‘Oh, and I saw the new tenant too.’

‘Really? He’s all above board, then?’

Fran sighed. ‘Yes. Very English and normal-looking.’

‘So nothing to investigate there?’

‘No,’ said Fran, sitting down suddenly. ‘Nothing at all.’

Libby sighed gustily. ‘So, what are you going to do? Speak to Ian about your sea moment and the Polish builders?’

‘If there are any Polish builders. They might all be bona fide British builders.’

‘Or bona fide Polish builders.’

‘You know what I mean.’ It was Fran’s turn to sigh. ‘But yes, I’ll call him on Monday.’

‘And Kent and Coast?’

‘I’m going to try and get out of it.’

‘No, don’t do that,’ said Libby slowly. ‘I’ve got an idea.’

Behind her, Ben groaned.

‘What?’ said Fran.

Libby turned and scowled at Ben. ‘I’ll tell you tomorrow,’ she said. ‘When I’m alone.’

‘So did you call Ian?’ Libby, on Monday morning, floundered through a muddy farm track in her borrowed wellington boots, while a fine rain created a mini-stream down the back of her neck.

Fran, a few paces ahead following the disapproving back of Campbell McLean, nodded.

‘What did he say?’ Libby gasped, sliding dangerously close to the splits.

‘Not a lot.’ Fran’s voice wafted back covered in icicles. That makes me today’s most unpopular person, thought Libby, wondering why, if they all felt this way, they’d actually agreed to make this investigative trip. Campbell McLean wasn’t even filming.

‘Bet his editor’s not too keen,’ muttered Libby to herself, as the recalcitrant boots took her face to face with an enquiring cow over a wire-link fence. ‘All this time wasted on nothing, when he could be doing lovely little fillers all over the region.’

‘What did you say?’ Fran stopped and looked back.

‘Nothing.’ Libby concentrated on getting the boots back on track.

‘If you’re complaining, you’ve only got yourself to blame.’ Fran turned and began to pick her way along the track. ‘This was your idea.’

‘I’m perfectly well aware of that,’ said Libby, drawing herself up to her full height and looking haughtily up at Fran. ‘And if it was such a mad one, why have both you and McLean over there gone along with it?’

Fran was silent.

‘There see, you’ve got nothing to say, have you?’ Libby looked smug.

Arriving in a somewhat dilapidated and run down looking farm yard, Fran stopped and watched as Campbell McLean, braving the unfriendly overtures of a sheepdog, disappeared round the side of a barn.

‘After our conversation yesterday, I called Ian, told him about the sea moment and the Polish builders,’ she shot Libby a further frosty look, ‘and then mentioned your idea. He said as there’d been nothing from the television end so far, we might as well follow it up. So he set it up with McLean. And you saw how pleased
he
was about it when we got here.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘When? I didn’t have it confirmed until this morning, and I didn’t think I had to report to you after every telephone conversation.’

Libby looked up from under her brows. ‘Hmm,’ she said.

‘And what does that mean?’ Fran let out her breath in an angry gust.

‘Nothing,’ said Libby again. Fran stared at her for a long moment.

‘Almost monochromatic in the rain, isn’t it?’ said Libby after a few minutes silence. ‘I wonder where that man’s got to?’

She was answered shortly by the man’s reappearance, trailing a stocky individual wearing a body warmer and a cap.

‘Farmer,’ muttered Libby. ‘Central casting.’

Fran compressed her lips.

‘Fran, Libby, this is Mr Budgen,’ said Campbell McLean, as he came level with them.

Fran smiled and held out her hand. Mr Budgen, with a surly nod, shook it. Libby kept her hands in her pockets. The sheepdog was circling them making unpleasant noises and Campbell McLean watched it nervously.

‘So what was it you wanted, then?’ Budgen looked from one to the other of the women.

‘Just a short piece on the overseas farm workers for the evening news,’ said Fran, and hesitated.

‘Because of the new legislation,’ put in Libby, earning herself surprised looks from all her listeners. ‘There are fewer workers, aren’t there? This year? And if you can’t get your crop picked in time, you’ll lose money?’

Budgen’s sandy brows drew down until they formed a straight line above his eyes.

‘So?’

‘Strawberry crop was affected, wasn’t it?’ Libby noticed with satisfaction that her words were striking a chord. ‘Because only Romanians and Bulgarians can come over now, and the other EU workers don’t want to do fruit picking any more.’

‘How do you know this?’ Fran asked in astonishment.

Libby smiled in triumph. ‘Ben. He knows all about it. Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Now he’s in charge of the Manor Estate.’

Campbell McLean screwed up his eyes and glared at Libby. ‘And he is?’

Libby glared back. ‘My partner. None of your business.’

McLean looked taken aback.

‘So,’ she continued, returning to Budgen, ‘you’ve still got workers, but not through SAWS?’

‘Eh? Saws?’ said Fran in a faint voice.

‘Seasonal Agricultural Workers Scheme,’ said Libby offhandedly. ‘Open to abuse of course.’

Fran shook her head. ‘I’m lost,’ she said.

‘No, I remember,’ said McLean. ‘We’ve done pieces on it before, several times, and there was that big case a couple of years ago, wasn’t there?’

Libby nodded, a teacher bestowing approval on a bright pupil.

‘So, Mr Budgen, is that what’s happening?’ Libby turned back to the farmer, who was looking distinctly uncomfortable.

‘I’ve got workers,’ he muttered.

‘Bulgarians and Romanians?’ asked Libby.

Budgen nodded. ‘Far as I know.’

‘Could we talk to some of them?’ said McLean.

‘Don’t know much English, most of ‘em,’ said Budgen.

‘Well, can we bring the cameras back and interview you and film some of them working?’

‘Behind enough as it is,’ said Budgen. ‘Don’t want no more interruptions.’

‘Are there any other farms who might be willing to talk to us?’ asked Fran.

Budgen shrugged. ‘’Ave to ask ’em, won’t you? Who gave you my name, anyways?’

‘Picked you out with a pin,’ said McLean with what he obviously hoped was a winning smile. It didn’t win Mr Budgen.

‘Got to get on,’ he said. ‘See yourselves off the land.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Gal,’ he said, and the sheepdog followed him reluctantly from the yard.

The three of them watched him go, then Libby turned round with a sigh.

‘Anything?’ Campbell asked Fran.

Fran shook her head.

‘Do you think he’s really only got Bulgarians and Romanians?’ asked Libby. ‘Because I don’t.’

‘Undercover operation, do you think?’ McLean stepped up to walk alongside her down the muddy track. The rain had stopped.

‘Yours, you mean?’ Libby turned to look at him.

‘How would you do that? And I thought Inspector Connell only wanted you to provide a cover for Fran?’

‘He did, but the understanding was we could do our own investigation. That was the whole idea in the first place.’

‘But not an investigation into Fran,’ said Libby.

‘No.’ McLean sounded regretful.

‘I don’t see how you could go back there now. He’d be on the lookout for everything.’

‘We could find someone else to go in.’

‘And say what? No, if you want to do secret filming you’ve got to have someone who isn’t suspicious of you to start with. A different farmer.’ She looked up at him. ‘How
did
you find him, by the way?’

‘I was obfuscating a bit back there,’ Campbell grinned. ‘I knew perfectly well about SAWS and the court case in 2003. He was one of the farms that came under scrutiny. He wasn’t charged with anything, but I took a punt on him anyway.’

‘Any other farms on that list?’ asked Libby.

‘I’ll see what I can come up with.’ He looked at her with renewed interest. ‘You’re the detective minded one here, aren’t you? Not Fran.’

Libby laughed. ‘So I’m always told. My nearest and dearest get very exasperated with me.’

‘How did it start?’

Libby looked up, frowning. ‘You’re not going to do a number on me, now, are you?’

‘Not unless you’re psychic as well,’ he said.

Libby told him about the murder in Steeple Martin that had introduced her to Fran, and the subsequent cases in which they had been involved.

‘But you must know that,’ she concluded, ‘or you wouldn’t have come after her in the first place.’

‘I do now, but only because Jane – Maurice, was it? – on the
Mercury
told me.’ He looked back at Fran, who was trailing some paces behind them. ‘I don’t think her heart’s in this.’

‘No.’ Libby looked back, too. ‘She would far rather forget all about it and live a normal life.’

‘That’s what she said to me when we first met,’ said Campbell. ‘I was gobsmacked when that Inspector called and said she’d agreed to do the investigation.’

Libby sighed. ‘Yes. And I haven’t helped, really. Still, at least you’ve got a vague lead for a story, haven’t you, even if it isn’t anything to do with the body on the island.’

‘The illegal workers, you mean? Yes, if I can work out how to get into it. I’ll talk to my editor.’

‘Who won’t be pleased that you’ve wasted this morning?’ grinned Libby.

‘Ah, but I can justify it, now, can’t I?’ He grinned back. ‘Reconnaissance.’

Chapter Fourteen

‘COME ON, THEN,’ SAID Fran, when she and Libby were seated in the pub in Steeple Martin. ‘What’s all this SAWS stuff? I felt such an idiot back there.’

Libby looked a little shamefaced. ‘I only found out about most of it yesterday,’ she said. ‘You know I said I’d looked it all up on the internet last week? Well, I wasn’t really looking in the right places, and Ben knows all about the current legislation from farmers, so we went through it yesterday afternoon. It’s what we thought was going on, about the illegal workers, but the gangmasters have moved on to other countries, now, which is why we had the Transnistrian connection.’