I'm Virtually Yours

Polly laughed. “It’s quite simple really. People just employ me whenever they need a secretary, book-keeper, P.A., or whatever. They pay me for my expertise and my time. No office overheads for them as I normally work from my own place. Everything is done over the internet. This job is an exception.”

“God, wish I could do a virtual B&B,” Angie said ruefully.

“How long have you been running this place?” Polly asked. She guessed Angie was about her own age — on the young side to be a landlady. And to be honest, with her pink and blue streaked hair and hippy-type clothes she was far removed from Polly’s experience of seaside landladies.

“I took over from my parents when they decided to run away to Spain. They didn’t run away really,” she added, seeing the look of surprise on Polly’s face. “Just decided to retire. I was unemployed at the time so…” She shrugged. “Think they thought it was an opportunity for all of us. Give me a proper grown-up job and them the chance of some sun. It’s worked out well all round but the overheads are increasing all the time and quite frankly becoming astronomical. I need to average at least three guests every week to break even.”

Angie picked up the teapot and offered Polly another cup. When Polly shook her head, she topped up her own. “Still, at least I don’t have the money worries my aunt and uncle do down at the boatyard.”

Polly stiffened at the mention of a boatyard and looked at Angie questioningly. But Angie shrugged.

“Sorry. Mustn’t bore you with my family problems.”

“Are there many boatyards in town?” Polly asked, hoping to keep Angie talking.

“Not now. Used to be half a dozen, all specialising in different crafts. Pettyjohns would deal with the small day boats, Phillips built some large ocean-going yachts and during the war Leadbetters even landed contracts from the government.” Angie shook her head. “But now there’s just Lillian and Ben’s yard struggling to survive. Jack Pettyjohn’s got a puny effort up at Woodside Creek but that doesn’t count as a proper yard in anybody’s book these days. It’s got such a reputation for shoddy workmanship. Much like the man himself.”

Polly began to get a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach about DF and the boatyard he wanted her to investigate.

“It just makes me so mad,” Angie continued. “To think that the Robertsons’ family business could go to the wall after all these years because of the credit crunch, despite Ben and Lillian’s efforts to keep everything afloat.”

Polly’s heart sank at the name Robertson. Now she was sure this was the company she was investigating for Daniel Franklyn.

“Angie, do you know much about your aunt and uncle’s financial problems?” Polly asked carefully, not wanting to appear nosey.

“Not really,” Angie said. “They’re pretty private about things like that but they did say recently somebody had approached them with a view to investing in the business. They’re hoping it will be the answer to their prayers. But Will, their son, isn’t keen. And to be fair, he does have lots of ideas for modernising the business.”

Polly sighed. “Angie, I can’t give you any details, but that’s the ‘somebody’ I’m working for. I have to check out everything at the boatyard and see if it’s a viable proposition. In other words I have to see whether Robertsons Boatyard is worth investing in — or not.”

She paused. “If my staying here is going to make things difficult for you with your family, I’ll look for somewhere else for Rosie and me.”

“Oh no. Don’t do that,” Angie said quickly. “I’m sure Aunty Lillian will understand. Besides, like I said, I need the money too.”

The sun was breaking through the clouds the next morning when Polly let herself and Rosie out for a pre-breakfast walk.

Few people were out and about: a road sweeper busily cleaning up last night’s debris from a takeaway; a postman beginning his round among the shops and cottages that started on the level near the harbour before rising and clinging limpet-like to the narrow streets that were cut into the surrounding cliffs. Down on the quay fishermen were preparing their nets for a day out at sea.

It really was a beautiful old town Polly thought as she wandered along. Full of atmosphere. Hopefully she’d have time to explore a bit while she was down here. She’d never been to Devon before; family holidays had always been to the Welsh coast, Tenby usually. Dad being a farmer found it hard to get away for long — both because it was expensive to employ somebody to milk the cows and also he didn’t really want to be anywhere else other than his beloved Pembrokeshire farm.

Not that there had been any family holidays for a few years now. The recession had hit dairy farmers badly and then Dad became ill. “Summer flu,” the doctor had said originally, but Dad was dead within three months. The farm was sold and she and Mum moved into a cottage on the outskirts of Carmarthen to get on with their lives as best they could. Holidays had been an expensive luxury they couldn’t afford.

Polly sighed. That was one of the things she was determined to change when ‘Virtually Yours’ finally took off. She was going to treat her mum to a proper holiday. In a posh hotel. Like The Royal she was just walking past, all thick carpets and marble staircase. She could see why they’d turned their noses up at the thought of her and Rosie staying there.

Maybe she’d be able to save some money from this job at Robertsons Boatyard when Daniel Franklyn paid her and bring Mum down here for a weekend at least. Thinking about the boatyard Polly wondered where exactly it was located. It had to be near the water, didn’t it?

Robertsons Riverside Services, when Polly found it two minutes later, was situated in what had originally been a huge bonded warehouse The last building on the harbour wall, its slipway formed part of the embankment.

The huge wooden doors were being pushed open by a fair-haired man who smiled at Polly. “Morning.”

Polly returned the smile and the greeting, trying not to stare. Was that the son, Will, Angie had mentioned? Two-day stubble, torn jeans, yellow yachtie waterproof coat and wellies. Good-looking bloke.

Polly turned left and made her way along the quayside towards the ancient fish market. The town’s regular fish auction had long disappeared in the interests of economy to a large town further along the coast, but the old quayside market with its decorative wall tiles still stood as a reminder of those times.

A ships chandlery with the name ‘Robertson’ above the doorway was the largest of the shops that clustered together around the old market. Clearly the Robertsons tried to cater for all sections of the market. Not being a boaty person Polly recognised nothing in the window display other than some coiled ropes and a display pile of striped Breton jumpers.

A motorbike sped past as Polly turned to make her way back for breakfast, its rider wrapped in the obligatory black leather clothing and face-hiding helmet. Someone late for work, Polly thought sympathetically, remembering the days when she’d had to do an early shift at the office.

The sound of breaking glass and the motorbike roaring away stopped her in her tracks. Seconds later a shrill alarm pierced through the air. Turing she saw that one of the large windows of Robertsons chandlery had been smashed.

Shocked, Polly hesitated, unsure as to what she should do. As she stood there the fair-haired man she’d seen earlier rushed past her, mobile phone to his ear.

“Yes, Dad. They’re at it again. This time they’ve gone for the chandlery. Don’t worry. I’m on the case. The police should be here any moment.”

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