The Fethering Mysteries 11; The Shooting in the Shop tfm-11

by Simon Brett

  It was a cold day, the weather seeming to reflect the general feeling that everyone had had enough of Christmas jollity, and couldn’t wait to get back to the normality of the forthcoming year.

  Seven-thirty came and went, and there was no sign of Anna or her dog. Carole recognized that not everyone was such a fetishist about punctuality as she was and gave the woman the benefit of the doubt. She sat waiting in the shelter, willing herself not to look lonely and decrepit, wishing she had brought the Times crossword with her, both to while away the time and also to give the illusion of purpose.

  She let eight o’clock pass, but by a quarter past reconciled herself to the fact that she wasn’t going to see Anna that morning. Her first thought was that maybe the woman realized she and Jude were on to her and had taken evasive action, but she soon realized what a ridiculous idea that was. Anna was probably unaware of any interest they might have in her and had changed her morning routine for reasons that they could not begin to guess at.

  Carole stood up and stretched her frozen limbs, about to go straight back to High Tor. It would soon be time to get in the Renault and drive to Fedborough. The thought of having Gulliver back brought her a disproportionally warm glow which she tried unsuccessfully to suppress.

  But as she started back along the Promenade, she saw coming towards her a woman with a dog. Not Anna, the dog-walker she had been hoping to meet, but a dog-walker nonetheless. The words of Saira Sherjan came back to her. “I know for a fact that dog-walkers constitute one of the most efficient gossip grapevines in the world. Members of the Fethering Beach Dog-walking Mafia exchange all kinds of secrets on their early morning walks.” Carole changed direction and advanced towards the woman.

  Her luck was in. The dog the woman was walking – and had just let off the lead – was a Labrador. Younger than Gulliver, but definitely a Labrador. Conversational opening gambits did not come better gift-wrapped than this.

  “Good morning. She’s a lovely girl, isn’t she?”

  Nothing could go wrong that morning – Carole had got the gender right. “Yes, she’s adorable,” said the woman. “But where’s yours?”

  So much for Carole’s image of herself surrounded in a carapace of anonymity. Someone had noticed that she was in the habit of taking Gulliver on to Fethering Beach for a walk every day for the last God-knew-how-many years. Now she looked at the woman, Carole realized that they had passed most mornings with no more than a ‘Fethering nod’.

  “Oh, I’m afraid he’s had an accident.” And with no difficulty at all, Carole found herself relating Gulliver’s encounter with the rusty staple, and his hasty removal to the vet’s in Fedborough.

  “Saira looked after him, did she? Well, he’s in good hands there. She’s easily the most sympathetic in that surgery. She sorted out Kerry when she had a growth on her leg.”

  “My name’s Carole Seddon, by the way.”

  “Oh, yes, I know.” Another proof that it was impossible to be anonymous in a village the size of Fethering.

  “But I’m afraid I don’t know yours.”

  “Ruby. Ruby Tallis. Me and my husband Derek live up on Sea Road.”

  “Oh, I’m in the High Street.”

  “Yes. High Tor, isn’t it?”

  To Carole’s surprise, the fact that everything about her seemed to be public property did not feel like an invasion of privacy. On the contrary, it felt rather comforting, almost as though she were something she never thought she would be – ‘part of the community’. In no time at all, she and Ruby were having quite a voluble conversation about canine ailments and the vagaries of vets. Neither woman suggested sitting down. While Kerry the Labrador snuffled amongst the smells of the shoreline, they just stood and chatted. Yes, chatted. Carole Seddon was actually chatting.

  Moving the subject on from vets to recent events at Gallimaufry required no effort at all. Like everyone else in Fethering, Ruby Tallis had plenty of views and opinions about the death of Polly Le Bonnier. Or it might be more accurate to say that her husband Derek had plenty of views and opinions about the death of Polly Le Bonnier, and Ruby just parroted them.

  “Derek reckons it was a burglary gone wrong.”

  “Oh, does he?”

  “Yes, he reckons it was probably a drug addict, keen to get some money for his next fix, and the girl surprised him in the shop and he shot her and then set the place on fire to cover his tracks.”

  “But why would Polly have gone there?”

  Clearly this was not a subject on which Derek had an opinion. His wife reasserted that he thought the killing had been done by a drug addict, ‘keen to get some money for his next fix’. She seemed to relish saying the phrase.

  “Do you know the Le Bonniers?” asked Carole.

  No, neither Ruby nor Derek actually knew the family, but that didn’t stop her husband from having opinions about them. “Derek wouldn’t be surprised if that Ricky didn’t have something to do with it too.”

  “To do with the murder?”

  “Probably not that. But something to do with the burglary.”

  “What sort of something?”

  Ruby Tallis looked around slyly, as if afraid of being overheard in the empty expanses of Fethering Beach. Then, touching a gloved finger to her nose, she whispered, “Drugs.”

  “Oh?”

  “That Ricky Le Bonnier works in pop music,” she confided, “and Derek says that everyone who works in pop music has a connection to drugs. Hard drugs.” She nodded sagely to emphasize the point.

  “So, even if he had taken drugs, what would Ricky Le Bonnier’s connection be to the burglary at his shop?”

  “Ah well, you see, Derek has this theory…he thinks the drug addict who broke into the shop was someone Ricky Le Bonnier knew…someone he used to work with in a pop group, and they used to take drugs together. Derek thinks the man was probably a groupie.” Seeing Carole’s curious expression, Ruby corrected herself. “A roadie. That’s what Derek thinks. And he thinks that Ricky Le Bonnier may have set up this roadie to rob the shop and set fire to it, because it was doing bad business and he wanted to claim on the insurance.”

  At last, a part of the Tallis theory which Carole and Jude had also considered.

  “Anyway, that’s what Derek thinks, and he thinks it was just bad luck that Ricky Le Bonnier’s daughter was in the shop when the roadie broke in – otherwise she’d still be alive. And Derek reckons Ricky Le Bonnier must be feeling absolutely terrible, because, in a way, it was his fault that his daughter got killed.”

  Well…Carole couldn’t have asked for a better demonstration of Saira Sherjan’s concept of the gossip grapevine amongst dog-walkers. She wondered whether everything that happened in Fethering was subjected to the same conjectural analysis – and she rather feared that it might be. What theories had been propounded on Fethering Beach about herself and Jude she didn’t dare to contemplate. No doubt her Home Office background had been transmogrified into working as a spy in the Eastern Bloc, Jude’s theatrical past had converted her into a Playboy centrefold, and the two of them were universally recognized as Fethering’s premier lesbian couple. Carole would have found the idea funny if she hadn’t suspected that comparable fanciful elaborations were actually current in the village.

  She felt a bit ungenerous when she asked, “And does Derek have any proof to back up his theories?”

  “Not proof as such,” Ruby confided knowingly, “but Derek does have a very profound understanding of human nature.”

  Yes, I bet he does, thought Carole. “And you yourself didn’t see anything odd, did you?”

  “Odd? When?”

  “Well, I was just thinking that you walk Kerry every morning along the beach, don’t you?” Ruby admitted that she did. “So you would have walked along here the morning after the fire at Gallimaufry…?”

  “Certainly. There were still flames at the back of the building when I walked Kerry that morning.”

  “But you didn’t see anything or anyone doing any
thing odd?”

  “What, like a drug addict running from the building with a gun and throwing it into the sea – something like that?”

  “Yes,” said Carole eagerly.

  “No,” Ruby replied. “I didn’t see anything like that.”

  “And have you asked other people in – ” Carole just stopped herself from saying ‘the dog-walking Mafia’ – “any other dog-walkers…you know, if they saw anything unusual?”

  “Oh yes. I’ve talked about it with lots of people, and they’ve all put in their two penn’orth.” The woman raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Mind you, some of the theories they put forward were pretty farfetched.”

  And your Derek’s isn’t? thought Carole. “But none of them,” she asked, “had any proof either…you know, something they might have seen to back up their far-fetched theories?”

  “No. Well, except for Old Garge. And it’s never wise to believe anything Old Garge tells you.”

  “Old Garge? I’m not sure that I know who you mean.”

  “Of course you do. Old Garge with the Jack Russell. The original Fethering beachcomber.”

  These details were enough for Carole to know whom Ruby meant. She had frequently seen an old boy who seemed to live on Fethering Beach and was unfailingly accompanied by a Jack Russell. He had grubby white whiskers and hair, on top of which he always wore a faded peaked cap which must once have been blue. Habitually dressed in a canvas coat and torn jeans, his feet were encased in dilapidated trainers which, even at the distance Carole normally kept from him, she felt sure smelt disgusting.

  Gulliver and the Jack Russell had had a few barking matches, but Carole’s instinct was always to divert her route away from the man. She found something about him unsettling, and reacted as she might to a person talking to themselves in the street. Still, she now had a name for him: Old Garge.

  Ruby observed her looking around the expanse of beach and said, “I haven’t seen him the last couple of days. Maybe there’s somewhere he goes at Christmas. Be pretty miserable if he just stayed here in his hut.”

  “Are you saying that Old Garge actually lives here on the beach?”

  “Oh, yes. Most of the time. He watches everything. Old Garge is the eyes and ears of Fethering Beach.”

  Carole felt a little surge of excitement. “And where does he actually live?”

  Ruby Tallis gestured across to the mouth of the Fether, where there were a few fishermen’s sheds and tumbledown beach huts. “Over there. Old Garge’s is the one called ‘Pequod’, though goodness knows what that means.” Clearly she had never read Moby Dick.

  Carole looked at her watch and announced, “I must be getting back. Got to pick poor old Gulliver up.”

  “Of course. Hope he’s all right.”

  “I’m sure he will be. As you say, he couldn’t be in better hands than Saira’s.”

  “Well, nice to talk to you, Carole. See you again, no doubt.”

  In some moods Carole would have been deterred by this suggestion. Could she no longer restrict her morning meetings with Ruby Tallis to a ‘Fethering nod’? Was she bound to engage in daily conversation and listen to Derek’s opinions for the rest of her life?

  But on this occasion she was too excited by having become a fully signed-up member of the ‘dog-walking Mafia’ to indulge such anxieties. After a brief moment of confusion when she looked around for Gulliver, Carole walked back along the Promenade towards Fethering. But she went the long way round, the way that took her past the huts at the mouth of the Fether.

  Pequod was the most dilapidated of all of them. It smelt of brine and tar, and its paint had long been stripped away by salty winds.

  On a rusty ring fixed to the door hung a large rusty padlock. The door was closed but not locked. Strains of classical music could be heard from inside. Plucking up the new courage given her by being a member of the ‘dog-walking Mafia’, Carole knocked on the door. She felt more than ready to meet ‘the eyes and ears of Fethering Beach’.

  ∨ The Shooting in the Shop ∧

  Twenty-Four

  “Come in,” said a voice, old but remarkably resonant.

  Mentally holding her nose in anticipation of squalor, Carole stepped into Pequod. The first surprise was the cosy warmth that hit her. The second was the lack of unpleasant smells; only a slight resinous aroma from logs on a wood-burning stove and the smoky tang from oil lamps. Their friendly light flickered on the spines of the books with which the whole space seemed to be walled.

  In the centre of it Old Garge, dressed in usual down-at-heel style, sat in a subsiding leather armchair. On a small table beside him stood a mug of coffee and, face down, a paperback book of John Clare’s poetry. The piece of classical music ended and was followed by speech, suggesting that his portable was tuned to Radio 3. Curled up on a rug at the man’s feet sat his Jack Russell, ears pricked at the arrival of a newcomer, but otherwise welcoming.

  “So…” said Old Garge. “Carole Seddon. And what brings you here?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Most people in Fethering know most people’s names, even if they never speak to each other. I’m afraid the cloak of invisibility in which you imagine you walk around just isn’t very efficient. Where’s Gulliver? You’ve usually got Gulliver with you.”

  “He’s at the vet’s.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Just a couple of stitches in his gums. I’m picking him up later.”

  Remembering his manners, Old Garge gestured to an elderly campaign chair. “Please. Would you like some coffee?”

  Carole was suddenly struck by the thought that there was nothing she would like more. Standing on the beach and talking to Ruby Tallis had chilled her to the marrow. She accepted the offer and Old Garge moved across to the stove on which an enamel coffee pot stood. He poured a cup of black for her, as requested, and replenished his own. Then, when they were both sitting with drinks in hand, he smiled at her and said, “No doubt it was Ruby Tallis who sent you across here?”

  “Yes, it was. How do you know all this?”

  “That bit I knew just by using my eyes.” He gestured to a small window which Carole had not noticed before, but which she could see offered a perfect view of the Promenade and most of the beach.

  She took a sip of her drink. Contrary to expectations, it was excellent coffee. In fact, everything about Old Garge seemed contrary to her expectations. Because of his appearance, Carole had written him off as some kind of tramp, unwholesome and probably not right in the head. As they talked, she discovered he was intelligent, even cultured.

  She couldn’t curb her curiosity about him, and asked whether the hut was his permanent home.

  “I have a room rented up in Downside for post and official stuff, but mostly I’m here.”

  Carole looked around the space. “I didn’t think the authorities allowed anyone to live permanently in a beach hut.”

  “You’re absolutely right, they don’t. Any number of Health and Safety reasons why nobody’s allowed to live in one.”

  “But – ”

  “But I’m good at finding out things. I’ve got a friend who works for the Fether District Council. He tips me off when there an inspection due, with the result that when the inspectors arrive, I’m in my rented room. I just pop in here for the odd hour, that’s all, so far as the authorities are concerned.”

  Carole was surprised how snug and relaxed she felt in Old Garge’s company. He seemed to have his life sorted. Covertly, as she took a sip of coffee, she scrutinized him. In spite of its whiskery roughness, his face was rather distinguished and must once have been handsome. And though his clothes were torn and discoloured, they seemed perfectly clean. He looked not so much like a tramp as like someone playing the part of a tramp. He also seemed to be aware of – and rather amused by – her scrutiny.

  “Seen everything you want to see?” he asked, and she blushed furiously. “Oh, don’t worry. I don’t mind people looking at me. It’s qui
te rare these days. Most of them avert their eyes when they walk past me, or change direction to avoid walking past me. Best I usually get is a Fethering nod.”

  Carole knew he was teasing her, by giving such an exact description of her own behaviour.

  “Doesn’t worry me,” said Old Garge. “There’re plenty of people who do talk to me, so I keep my gossip reserves well stocked up. So what was Ruby Tallis telling you about this morning? Or rather, which of her husband Derek’s opinions was she telling you about this morning?”

  “We talked a bit about dogs.”

  “And…?”

  “And…local events.”

  “Local events, right.” He nodded, still just slightly making fun of her. “And which local events were you talking about?”

  “Oh, you know, Christmas and – ”

  “I wouldn’t have described Christmas as a local event. I would have said it was very much an international event.”

  “Yes, well, but how people spend their individual Christmases, that’s of local interest.”

  “And how did you spend yours, Carole?”

  She was glad to be able to have a normal-sounding answer to give him. “My son and daughter-in-law and granddaughter came down for lunch on Christmas Day.”

  “Very nice too.” He paused for a ruminative sip of coffee. “So you didn’t spend Christmas Day on your own, like you have the last few?”

  Carole turned her face away, unwilling to meet his gaze. The ‘eyes and ears of Fethering Beach’ were proving far too well attuned for her taste. Without looking at Old Garge, she asked, “And how did you spend yours?”

  “None of my days are very different from each other. Christmas Day I spent here, just like usual. Walked on the beach with Petrarch – that’s the dog – doing my usual ‘Care in the Community’ impression, listened to Radio 3, read some poetry. Do you know, quite often I read poetry out loud in here. No problem this time of year. This time of year I can read away all through the night, if I want to – sleep not being something I’m very good at these days. In the summer, though, when I’ve got the doors open and I’m reading poetry, I do get some funny looks. Parents putting protective arms round children, hurrying them away.” He seemed embarrassed for a moment, as though an unwanted memory had invaded his mind, before hurrying on, “They seem to feel that there’s something unnatural about poetry being read aloud. Makes them think I’m some kind of weirdo.”