Bones Under The Beach Hut (30 page)

    'And
then, of course,' Carole observed acidly, 'Gray Czesky chose that evening for
another of his anti-bourgeois exploits, didn't he?'

    'Setting
fire to the beach hut,' Mark agreed glumly. 'Yes, he's a madman when he gets a
few drinks inside him.'

    'What
exactly happened?'

    'Oh,
he got into one of his tirades about how no one understands artists, and the
rest of the world has a down on them and only cares about middle-class
consumerism.'

    'Great
from someone whose lifestyle is funded by a rich wife.'

    'I
know, I know. Anyway, Gray suddenly gets into this great rant about beach huts
symbolizing everything that's wrong with the bourgeoisie, and then he
disappears. Helga and I thought he'd just gone for a pee, but ten minutes later
he's back proclaiming that he's set fire to one of the beach huts.'

    'Do
you think he deliberately chose
Quiet Harbour?'
asked Carole. 'Did he
know that you and Philly had rented it?'

    'Who
knows? Perhaps he did. Quite possibly he was getting at me because he reckoned
I was too bourgeois to be what he defined as a proper artist.'

    'So
you and Helga,' suggested Jude, 'immediately rushed down to the beach to put
the fire out?'

    'Yes.'
The two women exchanged looks. Curt Holderness's sighting had been confirmed.
'Fortunately the fire hadn't taken much hold. We were able to extinguish it
quite easily.'

    'So
what did you do then? Go back to Sanditon?'

    'No,
I was feeling so shitty with the booze, all I wanted to do was get to bed. I
called a cab, just managed to avoid throwing up over its upholstery, and went
to bed the minute I got back to my room here in Littlehampton. The next morning
I woke up with the worst hangover of my life.'

    'So
that again wasn't the perfect day for your reconciliation with Philly?'

    'Too
right, Jude.'

    'But
that was over a week ago,' said Carole. 'Why didn't you get in touch with her
once you'd recovered from the hangover?'

    'I kept
putting off calling her. I was worried about how she'd react to me, whether
she'd be furious, whether I'd ruined everything. But finally by the Friday I'd
convinced myself I had to take the risk.

    Call
Philly, accept whatever consequences that action might trigger.'

    'I
don't think they'd be bad consequences,' said Jude gently.

    Mark
Dennis appeared not to hear her, as he went on, 'Then of course on the Thursday
morning I hear on the news that human remains have been found under a beach hut
at Smalting. Well, I knew that meant the place was going to be swarming with
police and, though my recollections of what had happened to me after I was
found on Dover Beach were vague, there was no way I was ever voluntarily going
to put myself in touch with the police again, so . . .' His words trickled away
to silence.

    'Have
you heard about the identification of the remains that were found?' asked
Carole.

    'Yes.
It keeps being on the news. You can't escape it.'

    'And
do you know anything about Robin Cutter?'

    'Only
what I've heard in the last few days.' From the way he spoke there was no doubt
that Mark Dennis was telling the truth.

    He
shook his head in puzzlement. 'So that's where I am. Still totally confused.'
He looked earnestly at Jude and asked, 'What do you think I should do?'

    She
held out her mobile phone towards him. 'Ring Philly.'

    Mark
Dennis was afraid - tremblingly, shudderingly afraid. They had driven straight
from the pub to Sea- shell Cottage. When the Renault drew up outside, he asked
the two women to come to the front door with him. Then he changed his mind and
asked Jude to go on her own and check whether Philly Rose really wanted to see
him.

    As
they waited in the car, Carole was aware of his body convulsing with bone-deep
sobs. She was embarrassed and couldn't think of anything to say.

    Their
wait felt long, but it was only a couple of minutes. Then Jude came out on to
the street and said through the Renault's open window, 'She wants to see you,
Mark.'

    Reassured
but still scared, he again asked them to come into the cottage with him. The
two women felt a little strange as they escorted Mark through the front door,
which Philly held open, but such was the emotional tension between the two
young people, they could recognize the need for some kind of catalyst for this
first explosive contact.

    Awkwardness
filled the tiny hall while Philly closed the door. Wordlessly, she ushered her
three guests into the kitchen/dining area. The uneasy silence continued until
their hostess offered tea.

    'Yes,'
said Mark very formally. 'Yes, thank you, Philly. I'd like a cup of tea.'

    Carole
and Jude refused the offer. 'We should really be on our way,' said Jude.

    'No,
don't go!' The plea from Mark Dennis was instinctive, and still frightened.

    'I
think we should.' Jude looked at the two of them, facing each other, frozen,
their eyes avoiding engagement. 'Come on, Carole. We'll see ourselves out.'

    In
the Renault on the way back to Fethering, Carole asked, 'What do you reckon?
The minute we left, they fell into each other's arms and love's young dream was
re-established?'

    'I
hope so,' said Jude. But she didn't sound sure.

    'Well,
at least that's one mystery solved,' Carole observed, 'but I can't believe Mark
had anything to do with Robin Cutter.'

    'No.'
Jude was thoughtful, abstracted.

    'So I
suppose it's another visit tomorrow morning to Smalting Beach. Hope that
Reginald Flowers's bronchitis has cleared up, assuming that that's why he
wasn't there today.'

    'Hm.'

    'Are
you up for a return visit?'

    Shaking
herself out of her reverie, Jude said, 'What? Tomorrow? Saturday? No, sorry, I'm
committed to a Past Life Regression Workshop in Brighton.'

    A lot
of knee-jerk responses sprang to Carole's lips, but she restricted herself to a
rather acid, 'Are you? Well,' she continued, 'I'll see if I can get a chance to
talk to Reginald Flowers.'

    The
bronchitis must have cleared up. Carole exactly repeated her timescale of the
previous morning: a seven-thirty walk with Gulliver on Smalting Beach. Sure
enough, even at that hour, as she and the dog passed, Reginald Flowers was
sitting in his bolt-upright chair at the doors of his museum of naval
memorabilia.

    There
was no problem about selecting her opening conversational gambit. 'Very good do
the other night. Jude and I really enjoyed the quiz.'

    'I'm
glad to hear it.'

    'Thank
you very much. It must have taken a lot of organization.'

    'Oh,
I'm used to it,' he said in heroic self- deprecation. 'Anyway, I must thank you
too. Without your prompt action, Carole, we wouldn't have had a venue, would
we?'

    'I
can always get round Ted Crisp,' she said with uncharacteristic winsomeness.

    'He
was the one with the beard behind the bar?'

    'Yes.'

    An
expression of irritation crossed Reginald

    Flowers's
face. 'I always think if a man is going to have a beard, he should keep it in
good order. At least he had a full beard, rather than one of those goatees or
other forms of contemporary topiary.' Instinctively his hand stroked his George
V number. 'But I can't imagine why anyone would want to go around looking like
a cross between a Viking and a hippy. It certainly made that landlord look very
surly. Positively forbidding. And he wasn't particularly forthcoming when he
opened his mouth either. Downright rude, if you ask me.'

    'That's
just his manner. Ted Crisp really does have a heart of gold.'

    'Well,
I'll have to take your word for that. Anyway, many thanks for making the
arrangement, Carole.'

    'No
problem at all.'

    Reginald
Flowers was silent for a moment, looking back inside
The Bridge.
Then he
said, 'Look, I've got the kettle on. Was about to make a cup of tea. Would you
care to join me?'

    Carole
was struck by the nervousness with which he made this offer, almost as though it
were something much more momentous, like asking her out on a date. She was also
aware again of his deep loneliness. The Thursday night in the Crown and Anchor
she'd recognized it too. Reginald Flowers had been at the centre of everything,
he'd known everyone there, but he still seemed separate, outside any community
spirit there had been in the function room. The only person he'd connected with
- and that had been at a level of guilt and reproach - had been Dora Pinchbeck.

    'Yes,
I'd love a cup of tea,' Carole replied. 'Do you mind if I tie the dog up to
that hook?'

    'Be
my guest.' Reginald Flowers went into his shrine to fetch another chair for
her, and then to busy himself with the tea making.

    The
early morning sun was pleasantly warm and had already burned off any residual
mist from the night before. Carole looked out over the sea and found herself
recalling the image that Lionel Oliver had told her about - of a young man
disappointed in love walking straight out to his death. The scene before her
suddenly seemed less idyllic.

    She
looked across to Gulliver, now amiably reconciled to having his walk truncated
and being tied up. He snuffled at the shingle in the shadow of the beach hut,
searching out delicious-smelling morsels of seaweed.

    'Do
you take milk and sugar?' came the call from inside the hut.

    'Just
milk, thank you.'

    Before
Reginald Flowers emerged with the cups, Carole forced herself into a moment of intense
concentration. Amidst all the pleasantry with the President of the Smalting
Beach Hut Association, she mustn't forget her purpose in being in front of
The
Bridge
that morning. She had an investigation to pursue.

    When
they were both seated with their cups of tea, she reverted to the quiz night.
'I was wondering about the range of questions you managed to come up with,
Reginald.'

    'Please
call me "Reg".'

    'Very
well, Reg. But, as I say, I was impressed by the variety. Did you research all
the questions yourself?'

    'Some
I did. Some I got from other reference sources.'

    'I
was totally stumped by a lot of them - certainly the sport and pop music ones.
I mean, I've just about heard of Beyonce, but I certainly couldn't name a song
by her.'

    'Oh,
nor me. But I thought, to be fair, I should have questions for a broad age
range, for the younger people like . . .'He was hard put to it to come up with
any names of younger members of the Smalting Beach Hut Association. 'Anyway,
those kind of subjects I got off the internet. There are whole websites devoted
to pub quizzes, you know.'

    'Really?'
Carole was surprised to hear that Reginald Flowers was an internet user. His
age, his manner, his old-fashioned way of dictating letters to Dora - and indeed
the amateur printing of
The Hut Parade
- had marked him down in her book
as someone whose acquaintance with computers was minimal.

    What
she was thinking must have coloured her response, because Reginald said, 'I use
the internet quite a lot, you know.' He gestured back into
The Bridge.
'For
my collection. You'd be surprised how much naval stuff - some of it very good
naval stuff - comes up on eBay. Particularly badges, buckles, that kind of
thing.'

    Looking
at the display behind her, Carole observed that he didn't have much room for
new additions.

    'Oh,
this isn't all I have. Only a selection. I change around what I put on show
here. I've got about ten times this amount at home.'