Bones Under The Beach Hut (10 page)

    'Look,
this is very hush-hush,' said the voice at the other end of the phone. It took
Carole a moment to recognize that the speaker was Kelvin Southwest.

    'Oh,
really?' she responded without much intonation.

    'Yes.
The fact is, Carole, that. . . well, I'm sure you will be aware from the news
bulletins about the unfortunate discovery under
Quiet Harbour.'

    'I
think I'd have had to be bricked into a cell like some unlucky medieval saint
not to have heard about it.'

    'True.'
His tone suggested he wasn't used to people using that kind of analogy. 'Well,
look, Carole, the fact is . . . the police are investigating the circumstances
which may have led to . . . the discovery.'

    'I
would be very surprised if they weren't. When human remains are found it is
quite common for the police to take an interest. They would be failing to do
their duties if they didn't.'

    'Yes.
Yes.' The little man at the other end of the phone sounded awkward and rather
wretched. 'Now, Carole, it's entirely possible that the police will want to
talk to you about the discovery, since you were the one who . . .'

    'I
would expect that, yes.' Some instinct stopped her from revealing to Kelvin
Southwest that she had already been questioned by the police. Wait and see what
he had to say first.

    'Well,
look, Carole, there are certain things that in certain circumstances appear in
one way, but in other circumstances appear in another light altogether, if you
know what I mean.'

    'What
on earth are you talking about?' Carole didn't feel inclined to make the
conversation any easier for him. She didn't mind hearing the little worm
squirming for a minute or two.

    'Well,
erm, the fact is that while doing people favours is an admirable expression of
all that's best in human nature, one doesn't necessarily want everyone to know
when such favours are done.'

    'Are
you saying that you don't want the police to know about you arranging for me to
take over Philly Rose's rental of
Quiet Harbour?'

    'Well,
I, er . . . Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying.'

    'I
don't see why the police should be interested. What you have done isn't
criminal.'

    'No,
I agree. It's not criminal per se, but if the information of what had happened
were to get back, via the police, to my paymasters at Fether District Council.
. .'

    'I
think I get your drift, Mr Southwest.' It was a measure of his agitation that
he made no attempt to get her to call him Kel. 'Hm, well, I suppose I could
keep it quiet. . .'

    'I'd
be very grateful if you could, Carole.'

    '. .
. but then again I'm not sure why I should.'

    'Do
you want to get me into trouble?'

    The
answer to that was probably yes. The more she had to do with Kelvin Southwest,
the less Carole liked him. But rather than replying to his question, she saw a
way of using the situation to get more information. 'I would be prepared to
keep quiet about what happened . . .'

    'Oh,
thank you so much.'

    '. .
. but I would want something in return.'

    'I
beg your pardon?'

    'Oh,
come on, Mr Southwest. I'm sure you of all people know what I mean. A favour in
return for a favour? You scratch my back and . . . ?'

    'What
do you want me to do?' he asked ungraciously.

    'I
just want you to tell me how to contact the Smalting Beach Hut Association
security officer.'

    'And
if I do that you won't mention to the police about the arrangement I made over
transferring Philly Rose's rental to you?'

    'You
have my word on it. You tell me and I will not in the future mention anything about
that arrangement to the police,' said Carole, choosing her words with
scrupulous care.

    The
security officer's name was Curt Holderness. Kelvin Southwest gave her a mobile
number for him.

    He
also gave her his own mobile number, 'Just so's you can warn me if the police
start getting nosey about the change of rental agreement . . .'

    Arriving
as a stranger to Smalting Beach on the Sunday morning you would not have known about
the grisly discovery made there only a few days before. True,
Quiet Harbour
was shrouded in a sort of white tent and the rest of the row of beach huts was
still cordoned off by police tape, but that didn't stop holidaymakers from
continuing to enjoy themselves. A lot of the other huts were in use, extended
families had set up little colonies surrounded by stripy windbreaks, and the
air was full of the delighted screams of small children.

    
Shrimphaven,
the hut immediately adjacent to
Fowey,
was closed and locked up. Maybe
the mysterious girl with the laptop took Sundays off.

    Carole
had feared that appearing back on Smalting Beach with Jude so soon would make
them look like crime-scene ghouls, but that worry was soon dissipated. Though a
few people walking along the beach might linger in front of the site of the
macabre discovery, there was no crowd or unseemly rush. Smalting was far too
genteel for that kind of thing.

    The
previous evening, when they had decided to return to
Fowey,
Carole had suggested
that it was her turn to provide them with a picnic, but Jude had demurred,
suggesting that they should try the Sunday roast in The Crab Inn the following
day.

    'It's
supposed to be very expensive,' Carole had said.

    'Well,
I'm sure we can afford it.'

    'But
it's supposed to be very popular too. I'm not sure we'd get in on a Sunday.'

    'We'll
find out when we get there, won't we? And if they don't have a table for lunch,
well, we can just have a drink.'

    'You
seem very keen to get into The Crab Inn, Jude.'

    'It's
the only pub in Smalting. Could be a useful source of information. We might get
into conversation with some locals. See what the gossips of Smalting are making
of the crime.'

    'Ah,
so you admit there is a crime now, do you?'

    'With
human remains having been found it'd be hard for me not to, wouldn't it?'

    Carole
had grinned with quiet satisfaction. 'So, Jude, if you admit there's a crime,
you must also admit that we're engaged in another investigation.'

    The
Sunday dawned another glowing June morning, prompting more mutterings about
global warming from the doom-mongers of Fethering. When they arrived at
Fowey
Carole was surprised to find a brown A4 envelope tucked into the
stainless-steel bar across the front of the hut's doors.

    'Getting
love letters already?' suggested Jude.

    'Don't
be ridiculous.' Carole slid her finger along inside the top of the envelope and
produced a membership card and a newsletter. 'Ah, now I am a fully fledged
member of the Smalting Beach Hut Association.

    And
aren't I lucky? I've got my very own copy of
The Hut Parade.'

    She
held up for Jude's inspection the two rather smudgily printed sheets stapled
together. It came as no surprise that the newsletter demonstrated the fatal
giveaway of the amateur in artwork: a tendency to use too many fonts and
colours in any document. She now felt pretty certain that Reginald Flowers did
his own editing - and probably wrote the bulk of the newsletter's content too.

    Carole
looked across to
The Bridge
to see if he was there to be thanked, but of
course that block of huts was still shut off by police scene-of-crime tape.

    There
was something else in the brown envelope. She shook it out. Of course - her
promised complimentary tide table for new members.

    Once
they'd opened up
Fowey,
Jude took the bright sunlight as an invitation
to strip off again. The bikini was vibrant yellow this time, and once again she
had run off across the sand to the sea. Carole took Gulliver - on his lead of
course - for a walk along the shoreline.

    When
she drew level with the tented
Quiet Harbour
she looked surreptitiously
towards it, checking for police activity. There didn't seem to be anyone on the
site, though a couple of patrol cars were still parked up on the promenade,
their occupants presumably keeping the crime scene under surveillance.

    It
was just after twelve when Carole and Gulliver got back to
Fowey.
They
found Jude dried off and once again dressed in what looked like a white Victorian
nightdress, set off by a pink chiffon scarf. 'I was thinking we might as well
go to The Crab Inn straight away.'

    'Isn't
it a bit early?'

    'You
were worried about it being too full. Sooner we're in there, the better the
chance we have of getting a table for lunch.'

    'But
what about Gulliver?'

    'I'm
sure The Crab Inn will have somewhere you can tie him up in front of a nice big
water bowl.'

    And
so it proved. Gulliver was so busy lapping up water, he was hardly aware of his
mistress going into the pub.

    The
Crab Inn was so up itself it almost came out through the top. It was a pub only
in name; the interior seemed to breathe the words 'expensive restaurant'.
Though there was a bar, it was not large, and the idea of someone coming in
just to down a few pints seemed incongruous. The walls were painted in subtle
shades of cream. The pictures hung on them mostly looked like - though probably
weren't - original nineteenth-century maritime scenes. There were also some
very chocolate-boxy watercolours of local views - the gentle undulations of the
South Downs, Cissbury Ring, a distant prospect of Chichester Cathedral,
Smalting Beach at low tide. In the bottom corners of the frames of these were
cards with prices and a contact number. Clearly the work of a local artist.

    The
Crab Inn staff, male and female, were dressed in black trousers and black
shirts with nothing so vulgar as a logo on them. A man in black behind the bar
looked up at Carole and Jude's entrance. 'Good afternoon. May I help you?' His
accent was French and he spoke with that kind of obsequiousness that borders on
disapproval.

    'Good
afternoon. Do you have a table for two for lunch?' asked Jude. It wasn't how
Carole would have phrased the question. She tried to avoid saying things that
could be slapped down with a firm 'No'. She would have favoured some
circumlocution beginning, 'I wondered if by any chance it was possible that you
might. . . ?'

    'I'll
check the book,' replied the young man, with a scepticism that suggested they'd
be lucky to find a vacant lunch table for two in this millennium. He looked
almost disappointed as he was forced to admit that there was a table free. Nor
was the table he pointed out to them tucked away in some unfavoured corner next
to the door to the kitchen. It was actually set in one of the bay windows at the
front, commanding a splendid sea view.

    'If
you'd like to order drinks, I will have them taken over to your table.'

    'No,
thank you,' said Jude to Carole's considerable surprise. 'We'll have our drinks
at the bar and then go over to the table.'

    'Very
good, Madame.' The young man looked slightly put out as he asked what they
would like to drink. Checking The Crab Inn's extensive wine menu, Carole and
Jude were pleased to see that they had the same Chilean Chardonnay that Ted
Crisp served in the Crown and Anchor, though The Crab charged nearly 50 per
cent more for it.

    While
their drinks were being poured, Carole raised an interrogative eyebrow. Jude
understood that an explanation was required for her insisting they should have
their drinks at the bar, and nodded her head towards one of the other tables.
There, sitting with a (no doubt overpriced) pint of bitter in front of him, sat
Reginald Flowers.

    He
had yet to see them and both women were struck by the expression of desolation
on his face. He looked terribly lonely. Maybe everything he cared about was in
The Bridge
and the police cordon that prevented him from getting there was
the cause of his misery.