by Vera Morris
Laurel put her hand over her mouth to deaden the snort.
Nellie passed round the coffee and milk. ‘I thought everyone could do with something in their stomachs as it’ll be ages before we get our proper breakfasts.’ It was true, she wouldn’t get anything to eat until the campers had finished their breakfasts, but she wasn’t tempted: the coffee smelt like Camp and milk was in short supply. The toast was also unappetising: white, sliced bread with a thin coat of margarine.
She thought of Frank grinding coffee beans, the plop, plop of his percolator, and the taste of his coffee: rich and smooth. The coffee’s smell wasn’t even strong enough to mask the lingering greasy odour of last night’s food. ‘Not hungry?’ Charlie Frost asked as he clamped his dazzling teeth round a piece of toast.
She shook her head and smiled, not replying; she didn’t want to get into a conversation with him. She wasn’t in a detecting mood. She should be chatting to both Nellie and Charlie; that was what she was paid for. Frank was in conversation with Jim Lovell, extolling the quality of the beer at the Jolly Sailor.
‘You can rely on the beer there, I’ve never had a bad pint,’ Jim boomed.
God, he’d double as a ship’s fog horn!
Dorothy was trying to get a conversation going with Hinney. ‘Mr Hinney, I believe. I’m Dorothy Piff, I work in the office.’
He turned to face her. She held out her hand, then winced as he shook it. ‘Goodness, you’ve a grip like a vice, Mr Hinney. I don’t think I’ll be able to type for the rest of the day,’ she simpered.
Laurel caught the look on Frank’s face and quickly looked away.
Belinda nudged Dorothy. ‘You’ve forgotten the blotters. You’d better get them, be as quick as you can, it’s nearly half-past.’
Dorothy’s face flushed and her mouth tightened as she got up.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, sit down,’ Belinda countermanded, ‘there isn’t time. Try to be more careful next time.’ She looked round shaking her head and rolling her eyes.
If Belinda Tweedie was found murdered tomorrow Laurel thought she’d know who the murderer would be.
Frank said something to Jim Lovell, but she couldn’t hear what.
Then Jim turned to the rest of the staff. ‘Frank, here, was asking me about Bert Wiles. He met him at the Jolly Sailor last night. Old Bert was in a right funny mood, but I don’t know what’s the matter with him, he buggered off before he told me,’ Jim said.
Belinda glared at him.
‘Sorry, Miss Tweedie, beg your pardon, ladies. Anyone know what’s the matter with him? Something’s bothering him. You know Bert, don’t you, Miss Tweedie? Has he said anything to you?’
Belinda sniffed. ‘I know of him, I do not know him.’
‘What about you, Tommy? He lives near you. Do you ever see him when you’re out at night?’
So that was Thomas Coltman, the poor man who’d lost his wife and son. He’d slipped into the room and taken a seat at the far end of the table.
Coltman looked embarrassed; it was unnecessary for Lovell to mention his nocturnal walks, though that was interesting. ‘I see him, but we don’t speak,’ he muttered.
Lovell shrugged. ‘I’ll have to see if I can talk to him soon. It wasn’t like him, he seemed worried about something, said something bad’s happened and it’s his fault. Not his usual line, I can tell you—’
Miss Tweedie rapped on the table and pointed. Sam and Stephen Salter were standing in the doorway; Laurel wasn’t sure how long they’d been there, she’d been so interested in what Lovell was saying and also noting the faces of the rest of the staff as he spoke. Some looked vaguely interested, some bored, but Belinda Tweedie’s lips trembled: in anger? fear? disgust? Frank and Dorothy were also clocking the expressions of the people round the table.
Sam and Stephen Salter took up their positions; Sam pulled a face and waved away the jug of coffee, but Stephen smiled at Nellie and politely refused.
‘Right, I’ll keep this short and sweet today,’ Sam said as he glanced at Belinda whose pencil was poised over her notebook; Dorothy was in the same position.
‘No need for you to take notes, Miss Piff,’ Belinda hissed.
Dorothy looked at her over her glasses. ‘I need to keep up my shorthand speed, and you might miss something. Belts and braces, you know.’
Belinda’s pencil squiggled over the page. She tore it off and smoothed a fresh sheet.
Dorothy wasn’t being diplomatic; she wouldn’t get much information from Belinda Tweedie at this rate. It was difficult when you instinctively took a dislike to a person to pretend all was well, but it did pay off. She’d learnt more about Charlie Frost once she’d got him to talk about himself. However, she wasn’t doing too well today and as soon as Salter finished the meeting she must try and be more sociable.
‘First, bookings for the end of July and August have gone up in the past week, so that’s good news.’ He turned towards Stephen. ‘Mr Salter Junior must take credit for that: the television adverts, although expensive, have paid off and it looks as though we’ll be at full capacity for August.’
There were murmurs of congratulations, but a few groans as well. Salter glowered at them.
‘I thought the advertisements were very clever, Mr Salter,’ Belinda said. ‘It’s such an innovative idea, a holiday camp for the over eighteens, and the one about the honeymoon couple was so romantic.’ She fluttered her eyelashes at Sam.
‘Thank you, Miss Tweedie,’ Stephen responded.
‘That’s the good news,’ Sam said, ‘but you can’t rest on your laurels, especially not hers.’ He pointed to Laurel, laughing so much at his own joke, his face reddened. Most of the staff joined in.
She bit back what she wanted to say.
‘Now for the bad news. We’ve had some complaints and Stephen will see those members of staff concerned when the meeting is over. I don’t like complaints, I like happy, satisfied campers. Campers who’ll come back next year and hopefully bring some friends with them. Now the floor’s open to you. Any questions?’
There were a few tentative raised hands.
‘Yes, Miss Minnikin?’
‘Mr Salter, I’d like to draw your attention to the state of the chairs in this dining room. I had to get Miss Bowman a towel to sit on, the surface was taking the skin off her legs.’
Why did she have to bring that up? Everyone was looking at her and one of Frank’s eyebrows was raised, as though saying: ‘Poor lamb!’
Salter stared at her. ‘We can’t have our lovely swimming coach appearing with rough skin, can we? The campers might think she’s got a disease.’ Everyone laughed. Laurel could feel her face heating up.
Charlie dug an elbow into her ribs. ‘I’ll volunteer to rub some cream in.’ He leered.
She took a deep breath and tried to smile.
‘Contact our suppliers, Miss Minnikin and give me some costings. We’ll see what we can do.’
Nellie smiled broadly. ‘Thank you, Mr Salter.’ She turned to Laurel. ‘You’d better watch it, Belinda’s glaring at you,’ she whispered.
She looked up and indeed Belinda’s nostrils were stretched wide and her lips puckering into a sphincter. She’d enjoy telling Frank which sphincter it reminded her of. God, the woman looked as though she’d be happy to see her dead. Ridiculous. What was that saying? ‘Envy feeds on the living; it ceases when they are dead.’ She glanced again at Belinda. She was looking down at her writing pad, stabbing at the paper with her pencil. She looked up, her blue eyes cold and calculating. Ice slid down Laurel’s bones, slowing her heart, knotting her guts. Had Belinda been jealous of the two missing girls? Jealous enough to kill them? But if so, she hadn’t achieved her goal: she didn’t have Sam Salter’s heart. Belinda Tweedie had ceased to be a fat, silly woman with a crush on her boss.
There were a few more questions and then Salter called the meeting to a close, reminding everyone to be here next Monday morning at the same time. He marched out followed closely by Stephen,
then Belinda with Dorothy bringing up the rear.
Frank was talking to Hinney. ‘What do you want to me to do this morning, Mr Hinney?’
‘Before breakfast you can weed the top right-hand bed in the centre of the camp. You know which one I mean?’
Frank nodded.
‘There’s some couch grass between the standard roses; get out as much as you can. I’m going to mow the bowling green before the campers get to it. After breakfast you can concentrate on watering the flowering baskets near the office and tidying up the flower beds near there. Any questions? You know where the tools are.’
‘Where are the compost heaps, and what do I do with the couch grass? You won’t want that to get put in with the rest of the compost.’
Well done, Frank. He sounded as though he’d been gardening all his life.
‘I’ll show you. It’s an area tucked away so the campers can’t see it.’ He turned, expecting Frank to follow him, but before he left Frank looked at Laurel and pulled his right ear lobe. It was a sign they’d worked out when they needed to talk to each other. She resisted winking at him. How would they manage to meet without arousing suspicion? And why did Frank need to see her? What had he discovered? Was it about Belinda Tweedie? Would her gut feelings about the woman be justified? Bubbles of excitement fizzed round her brain. Was this a breakthrough?
Frank pulled the black polo-necked jumper over his head and pulled it down over dark jeans. Should he black his face as well? After all he was going past three chalets to get to Laurel’s. He was sure she’d seen the sign, and hopefully would be expecting a visit. He glanced at his watch; the luminous figures showed ten minutes past midnight. He grasped his torch and carefully opened the door, pausing on the threshold, listening, watching. The night breeze sighed over the chalet roofs and moved a discarded cigarette packet a few inches over the tarmac path in front of the chalets. He stepped out slowly, closing the door behind him. There were no lights in any of the staff chalets, including Laurel’s. He leant back against the door, waiting. In the distance voices, laughter: probably campers on the way back from the disco or the pub. They faded away to nothing. He moved his head from side to side, letting his eyes become accustomed to the darkness: the sky was cloudy, the moon and stars hidden. He flinched as the cigarette packet galloped a few more feet, scraping the ground as it was pushed by a gust of wind. The difference between solid objects and the night sky increased and moving over the grass verge he crept towards Laurel’s chalet.
He leant on the door, listening. Each door had a quartered square of glass in the top half, giving the impression of a window. He scraped against it with a fingernail, and pressed his ear against the door. Nothing. He’d presumed she’d be in, but perhaps she was out sleuthing, or possibly carousing with Charlie Frost, perhaps his legs were irresistible. He tried again. The sound of a key turning and the door opened a few inches.
‘It’s me.’
She opened the door wider and he slid into the chalet. The air was fragrant with a familiar scent of lemon soap; he breathed deeply. She silently closed the door behind him.
‘What would you have done if it was someone else?’
There was a giggle. ‘Depends on who it was,’ she whispered.
‘Tart!’
‘Yes, please, but I’d prefer crisps.’
There was a tang of whisky on her breath. ‘You’ve started without me. How cut are you? Half-cut, quartercut?’
Another giggle. ‘Only one shot. I got bored waiting for you.’
‘Have you got something to cover up the door? I’ve brought a torch.’
She placed something over the square of glass and the blackness of the room increased. He switched on the torch, focussing the beam at the floor. There was the scrape of amatch and a sulphurous flame revealed Laurel, in blue pyjamas, lighting a night-light in a saucer on a bedside table.
‘More romantic, don’t you think?’ She grinned at him.
He’d missed her. Although he’d seen her around the camp, his inability to talk to her had been frustrating; they worked so much better when they were sparking off each other, bickering and joshing. His shoulders relaxed. ‘May I?’ He pointed to the bed.
Her eyes widened and the corners of her mouth turned up. She nodded and sat down in the only chair in the room. ‘Would you like a tot?’
‘Several, please.’
She went into the bathroom and came back with another glass, a third full. He stared at her and then the glass.
‘You did say several.’ She picked up her glass next to the night-light and they carefully chinked glasses. She looked him up and down. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’
What was she on about? He didn’t remember her ever being in a mood like this, slightly fey, devil-may-care, almost flirty. Was this the whisky speaking? He didn’t think so. ‘What do you mean?’
She gesticulated with her hand, sweeping it from his head to his feet. ‘The chocolates, where are the chocolates?’
Light dawned, the man in black in the TV advert. ‘I didn’t know you liked Cadbury’s chocolates and I certainly can’t see any ladies in this room.’
The giggle again, then her expression changed, and in the flickering light her face became serious. ‘Why the meeting, Frank? Have you found out something?’
He leant towards her. ‘I think somehow we need to contact Bert Wiles.’
‘The poacher? You think whatever he was worried about might have something to do with the missing girls?’ ‘I’m not sure, but it’s the only unusual happening we’ve come across. I met Bert, very briefly, at the Jolly Sailor. He seems a tough little man; if he’s worried about something and he needs to tell someone about it, I think it’s worth looking into. He may have seen something, although it’s nearly a year since the last girl went missing. I can’t see why he’d begin to worry now, if that was the case. It must be something that’s happened recently, unless his conscience has a slow fuse.’
‘How do we find him?’
‘I went back to the Jolly Sailor this evening; Jim Lovell and his missus were there, but no sight of Bert. I remarked on this, but Jim said he sometimes doesn’t come in for a few nights, has other fish to fry, or poached game to sell. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?’
Laurel frowned. ‘I think I’ve a swimming lesson booked for two, but after that I’m free. What do you want me to do?’
Frank took a deep swallow, letting the scotch trickle down his throat. ‘Could you give his house a look over? See if you think he’s there.’
‘Do you want me to talk to him?’
Frank grimaced. ‘Not sure. I don’t think he’s dangerous, although I suppose he might be a possible suspect, but I doubt it.’
‘How could he be? He’s no connections with the camp, apart from knowing Jim Lovell.’
‘And Belinda Tweedie,’ Frank said.
Yes, Belinda Tweedie. I want to talk about her, but first let’s finish off Bert.’
Frank described him and his dog. ‘Bert’s small, but wiry and he’s probably strong for his size, but you shouldn’t have any problem with him if he turns nasty. I’ll leave it to you as to whether or not you decide to talk to him.’ He passed her a piece of paper with Bert’s address on it.
‘I’ll take the car and park nearby. I could knock and ask for directions, pretend I’m looking for Belinda.’
‘How would you explain that to her?’
Laurel shrugged. ‘It doesn’t sound as though they’re buddies, so she might never hear about it.’
‘Excellent. Let me know if you’ve made contact.’
‘How will I do that?’
‘When you come back, leave your car windscreen wipers to the right if you’ve seen him, to the left if not.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Not only the man in black, now it’s Mr James Bond.’
He grinned at her. ‘Fun though. If you haven’t got anything I’ll go back to the Jolly Sailor tomorrow night.’ She sniffed. ‘That will be a sacrifice, having
to down pints of beer.’
‘You wanted to talk about Belinda Tweedie.’
Laurel reached for the bottle of scotch. Frank held out his glass and she poured in a good measure. ‘I think we ought to take Tweedie more seriously. Dorothy said she’s squeamish, but the way she glared at me when Salter made that comment, made my flesh creep. It wasn’t even as if it was a flirty remark, but she can’t stand any other female coming between her and her boss. She’s extremely jealous.’ She gave herself another top up.
Frank sipped his drink. Women. Dangerous women. Women in love. After his brief and disastrous infatuation with Carol Pemberton earlier in the year, an infatuation which could have resulted in them being removed from the case, he’d resisted any entanglements and concentrated on work. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again: involvement with a client. He glanced up; Laurel was studying him quizzically. Shadows moved over her face from the flickering flame of the night-light; one second her mouth hidden in shadow, then revealed, her lips curved in a smile; her loose hair dark, then golden.
‘How’s Oliver?’ He wasn’t sure why he’d asked that question. He didn’t really want to know the answer.
Laurel leant back, the smile fading. ‘Fine, as far as I know. I rang him a few days ago, we’re meeting next Saturday, after our business meeting, time permitting.’
‘And Billy?’
The smile reappeared. ‘On top form. Chased a few cats and nearly caught a rabbit.’
Frank shook his head. ‘You love that dog, don’t you?’ Laurel sighed. ‘I adore him, he’s so much fun.’
‘Feel the same way about the owner?’
Laurel looked at him and took a long swallow.
‘Sorry, none of my business.’
‘Correct. Let’s get back to the case. How are you getting on with Hinney? He looks a cold fish to me. I should think he’s boring you to death.’
‘I can’t get a handle on him, he’s so uncommunicative. He believes no sentence should stretch beyond five words and as for body language, he hasn’t got any.’ He paused. ‘There’s no doubt he’s a good gardener. He’s got an area under cultivation where he raises ornamental plants for the camp’s flower beds, it’s where the compost heaps are.’ ‘Where’s that?’
