Palmer-Jones 05 - Sea Fever by Ann Cleeves

was a great deal of confusion. Everyone was concentrating on the sea.”
    She stared sadly at her small polished fingernails, and he saw that he had let her down. She turned to Rob.
    “Who knew that Mr. Franks would be on the trip?” she asked. “Did anyone ask to see a passenger list before boarding?”
    “No,” Rob said. “Only George.” He grinned wickedly.
    “Is that relevant?” George asked. “ I don’t see, you know, how the murder can have been premeditated. None of us knew that Greg would feel seasick. In normal circumstances he would have been with us throughout the journey. It would have been impossible to kill him then.”
    “Not necessarily,” she said so sharply that contradiction was impossible. This was her case, and she was determined to control it in her own way. She turned again to Rob Earl.
    “Tell me about Louis Rosco,” she said. “How did you come to charter his boat? Did you go in recommendation or take up references?”
    “It was more informal than that,” Rob said. “He’s a friend of Rose’s. We met here. He gave me the names of some divers he’d taken out, and I checked with them. They said he was very good. He showed me round the boat. It seemed just what we wanted.”
    “Do you know anything more about him?”
    “No. He doesn’t talk about himself at all.”
    There was a silence. She suddenly wanted to be at home with Richard. Where there was no need to pretend to be hard and competent. She pushed away the moment of self-doubt.
    “You can go to bed now,” she said curtly. “I’ll talk to you again in the morning.”
    Rob Earl stood up slowly and left the room. George remained seated.
    “Inspector,” he said, “ there are some things you should know.”
    He explained about his agency and how he had been hired by the Franks to find their son. The information was almost more than she could take in.
    “What do you intend to do now?” she asked.
    He paused. “ My wife thinks it would be …” He hesitated again. “… courteous, professionally correct, to visit the Franks, to explain personally as much as we know. I don’t want to interfere in your investigation.”
    She looked at him with something approaching disappointment. He was grey, upright, old. She had told him that he had been a hero of hers, and that had been true. Now she only thought he was harmless. Well, she thought defensively, she was too grown up for heros now.
    “I’ve no objection to your visiting the Franks,” she said. “They’ve obviously been informed of their son’s death, but I can see it might be helpful to them to talk to someone who was on the boat. Would you be able to do it in a day?”
    “Yes,” he said. He thought he would not want to be away longer than that. It was the end of August, and a high-pressure system over Europe would mean migrant birds in the valleys. The intrusion of the thought shamed him, and he said nothing.
    She stood up and smoothed the seams of her skirt.
    “If you discover anything,” she said, “I’ll expect you to pass the information onto me.”
    But she smiled, and he thought the words were added out of kindness rather than any expectation that he would achieve anything. She was humouring him. He nodded sadly and thought that at least Molly would be pleased. Claire and Berry left the room before he did, and he stood there until he heard her car move up the valley to the main road.
    When Claire Bingham got home, there was still a light in the living room. Richard had not drawn the curtains, and through the big picture window, which gave such a wonderful view over the harbour, she saw her husband asleep on the settee. The television was flickering with the black-and-white images of an old movie. Claire left Richard sleeping and went upstairs to Tom’s room. She lifted him from his cot and cuddled him, smelling the baby powder, the clean soapy scent of him. He hardly stirred, and when she set him back under the cover, he was still asleep. When she