Bones Under The Beach Hut

by Simon Brett

  As she returned from the bar, Carole saw that Philly and Jude were deep in conversation. She felt a familiar pang that was almost too resigned to be jealousy, just a wish that she had her neighbour's ability to put people at their ease. For Carole dialogue rarely flowed, it was something that had to be carefully constructed and worked at.

  But whatever intimacies the two women may have been sharing up until that point, Jude immediately moved on to the subject of Quiet Harbour. Carole began by saying how grateful she was for the opportunity to use the beach hut.

  'No problem,' said Philly wryly. 'I'm afraid I'm not going to need it now. And I need the money.' So she wasn't attempting to hide her financial problems.

  'But Carole did find something odd in the beach hut when she got there,' prompted Jude, and Carole repeated exactly what she had seen in the place.

  'A fire?' asked Philly in puzzlement.

  'Yes. A fire which had been lit underneath the floor. And which could have caused a lot of damage if someone hadn't put it out. You didn't notice that when you were last there, did you, Philly?'

  'No, certainly not. Mind you, it is a month or so since I was at Quiet Harbour. We only went a few times after our rental had been confirmed. We went to kit it out with everything, but then ... I mean, I've walked past it often enough since then with the dogs, but I haven't gone inside. Not since . . .' Her silence was eloquent of the pain she still felt about her boyfriend's departure.

  Jude broke in gently, asking, 'Have you heard much talk in Smalting about vandalism to the beach huts?'

  Philly shook her head. 'Nothing specific I can think of. I mean, there are always plenty of old farts sounding off in The Crab Inn about the disgraceful, loutish behaviour of the young, but it all seems to be pretty generalized, you know, how the country's gone to pot since the war and how they should bring back national service. Anyway, that lot of old fogies would regard dropping a lolly stick on the prom as vandalism.'

  'How many keys are there to Quiet Harbour?' asked Carole suddenly.

  'We were given two when we signed for it. I presume the Council keep duplicates in case they need access.'

  'Jude only passed one on to me.'

  'Yes, well . . .' The blush on the girl's cheeks stood out against the whiteness of her hair. 'I had one and, er, Mark had the other.'

  'So you reckon he went off with his when he left?'

  'I don't know. I expect he did.'

  'Haven't you looked through his things?'

  'He didn't leave that much and ..." Emotion threatened. 'No, I haven't looked through his things.'

  'So he probably still has got his key?'

  Jude, whose brown eyes had been flashing messages to Carole to soften up her interrogation, interceded. 'I don't see that who had keys matters much, because the fire was clearly started from outside the hut.'

  'Yes, I'm sorry. I was just asking for information.' Carole had got the bit between her teeth and was not about to back off from what she was beginning to think of as her investigation. 'So, if you haven't been in Quiet Harbour recently, Philly, presumably it wasn't you who put down the carpet'

  'Carpet?' the young woman repeated wretchedly.

  'Yes, the green carpet that was laid over the floorboards.'

  'Oh, that carpet,' said Philly, although Carole felt sure she was hearing of it for the first time. 'Yes, we had it ready to put down there.'

  'But you didn't put it down?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'It had been put down after the fire, because the carpet was unmarked. So, if you haven't been to the beach hut since the fire, it means you can't have put it down.'

  'Oh, I'm sorry, you had me confused,' said Philly, apparently relieved that she now understood the line of questioning. 'Yes, I did put the carpet down. I'd forgotten. I just dropped in one morning last week when I was walking the dogs, and the carpet was rolled up in there, so I unrolled it and laid it down.'

  'And you didn't notice that the floorboards had been burnt through?'

  'No, I didn't,' replied Philly, having regained her self-possession.

  Carole opened her mouth for another question, but caught the deterrent look in Jude's eye and restrained herself. At that moment the direction of the conversation was diverted by the arrival of their Dover soles, served by a grinning and pigtailed Zosia who greeted Carole and Jude warmly.

  When talk resumed, it was about the differences between Smalting and Fethering, a subject on which Philly Rose had some amusing insights. Though even humour could not disguise her underlying melancholy. She was in a state of shock, nearly two months on and still unable to come to terms with no longer having Mark in her life.

  'Sometimes,' she admitted, 'I do find the gentility of Smalting almost suffocating. It's like being permanently at a posh dinner party. I'm constantly afraid of saying the wrong thing. And as a result there's a strong temptation to say or do something totally outrageous.'

  Tethering can be a bit like that too,' said Jude.

  'Can it?' asked Carole, genuinely surprised.

  'Oh, come on, some of the types round the Yacht Club are pretty stuffy, not to mention all the old biddies who play bridge every afternoon.'

  'Yes, I suppose so.'

  'Anyway, Carole and I aren't like that,' said Jude with a grin. 'We are representatives of the Bohemian sector of Fethering.'

  Her neighbour didn't think that was probably true, not of herself anyway. It was certainly the first time in her life that anyone had ever described Carole Seddon as 'Bohemian' and though she suspected that Jude was teasing, she found she was rather attracted to the idea.

  'Do you find that the locals in Smalting have accepted you, Philly?' asked Jude.

  'Oh, I don't think "accepted" quite. That takes a good few years.'

  'And they'd feel happier if your family had been there for three generations,' suggested Carole.

  'Well, no, not really, because none of the people in Smalting have actually been there that long. House prices are far too high for the locals. The place has been bought up mostly by retired couples with whacking great pensions. Mind you, even if they've only been there a couple of years, they still make you feel your lowly status as an "incomer".'

  'Does it get you down?' asked Jude gently.

  That prompted a rueful grin from Philly. 'It used not too. We used to find it quite funny, giggle about it. But that was . . . well... It does get me down a bit. Doesn't take much, I'm afraid, to get me down these days.' Again Carole and Jude could sense the depth of her pain.

  Conversation flowed easily enough for the rest of the meal, but they kept to uncontroversial subjects of local interest. When Jude raised the question of dessert or coffee, Philly Rose looked at her watch and said, 'Sorry, I must dash. I have actually - thank God - had a commission designing a brochure and I'm up against a deadline.'

  'Good you've got some work,' said Jude.

  'Yes. Anyway, must be off.' She reached for a wallet in the back pocket of her white jeans. 'Now how much will my share be?'

  'No, my idea, my treat,' said Jude.

  'Well, if you're sure . . But Philly didn't take much convincing. 'I'm very grateful, because things—'

  'It's fine,' Jude interrupted sensitively. 'By the way, when we last spoke you said you were thinking of selling the house. Is that still your plan?'

  'I think it must be. I can't really see much alternative.' And a new level of bleakness came into her brown eyes.

  'Things'll sort themselves out,' said Jude.

  'Yeah.' Philly's response was almost brusque, as if she was embarrassed by having shown how much she was hurting. 'Well, I can't thank you enough, Jude. And lovely to meet you, Carole. I must be off.'

  'Oh, one thing,' Carole interposed. About the fire at Quiet Harbour - will you report that?'

  'Report it?'

  'To whoever it should be reported to. Someone at the Fether District Council, presumably.'

  'Oh.' Philly seemed nonplussed. Clearly the idea didn't
appeal to her. 'Would you mind doing that, Carole? I mean, you're the one who's renting the beach hut now.'

  'Yes, but am I renting it officially? I mean, as far as the Fether District Council is concerned?'

  'They are aware that I've made an agreement with you.'

  Are they? thought Carole. I wish I'd known that earlier. It would have saved me a good deal of anxiety. 'So it's all official, is it?'

  'Well . . . sort of.'

  'What does that mean?'

  'The guy who looks after the beach huts for the Council - his name's Kelvin Southwest - said he shouldn't really allow it, but he'd stretch a point.'

  'Why?'

  Philly Rose blushed. 'Well, I'm almost embarrassed to say this, but I think it was because he took a shine to me.'

  'Oh?'

  'Yes, I'm rather afraid our Kelvin sees himself as something of a "ladies' man".'

  'Oh?'

  'Anyway, Carole, would you mind contacting him about the fire? His number's on the Fether District Council website. Go into "Leisure" and he's under "Outdoor Recreation Office".'

  After Philly had left the Crown and Anchor, Carole looked beadily at Jude. 'She's hiding something.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'That business about the carpet in Quiet Harbour.. . She had no idea that it was there.'

  'So?'

  'Well, that means, as I say, that she's hiding something.'

  'Look, Carole, the poor thing's in a bad state. She's been recently dumped by the man she thought she was going to spend the rest of her life with. The last thing she needs at the moment is you badgering her.'

  'I didn't badger her.'

  'I don't know what else you'd call it - asking her how many keys there were to the beach hut. It was like an interrogation.'

  'Hm,' said Carole rather grumpily. 'Usually you're supportive when we're involved in one of our investigations.'

  'Yes, I usually am. And I would be in this case too but for the fact that at the moment we don't have an investigation.'

  'I wouldn't be so sure about that,' said Carole darkly.

  * * *

  Chapter Six

  Carole could see what Philly Rose had meant when she described Kelvin Southwest as 'something of a ladies' man'. It was definitely how he appeared to view himself, though the jury was out on how most other people might see him.

  He was tubby, probably early fifties, and had taken the ill-advised course adopted by so many men going thin on top. He had grown a goatee. His remaining hair was fair and fluffy and so was the beard. It weakened rather than strengthened the line of his jaw.

  He wore a light blue polo shirt with the Fether District Council logo embroidered on to it, and tightly cut navy shorts, which somehow seemed wrong to Carole. All right, he was part of the Council's Leisure Department, but she still had difficulty in taking seriously an official in shorts. Kelvin Southwest's chubby legs were hairless and pale and ended in leather sandals worn over short white socks. The combination made it even more difficult to take him seriously.

  On the phone they'd arranged to meet at Quiet Harbour at eleven o'clock on the following day, the Wednesday. The idea of Jude joining Carole had not even been mooted. For one thing, she had a client booked in that morning for treatment to painful knee joints. And for another, Jude didn't share her neighbour's conviction that they were at the commencement of another investigation.

  Pathologically punctual as ever, Carole had the Renault parked by the promenade and was standing outside the beach hut at ten to eleven. Gulliver wandered down by the shoreline, intrigued by a whole new palette of smells.

  Of course Carole could have unlocked the hut, but something told her she should wait until Kelvin Southwest's arrival. She felt rather foolish, just standing there, particularly as she knew that anyone less uptight than Carole Seddon would have kicked their shoes off and sat down on the sand to wait. She wished she'd brought The Times crossword with her.

  Kelvin Southwest arrived about ten minutes past eleven, carrying a plastic-covered clipboard. He made no apologies for his lateness, but stretched out a hand, saying, 'Carole, how nice to see you. Now I didn't get it on the phone. Am I talking to Mrs or Miss Seddon?'

  'Mrs,' replied Carole, a trifle frostily.

  'Lucky Mr Seddon,' said Kelvin Southwest with what he must for some reason have thought was a seductive smile.

  'I'm divorced.' That was even frostier.

  'Ah-hah, on the market again. That's going to be good news for someone.' If there was one masculine quality Carole Seddon disliked it was roguishness. And she would have thought her expression made that clear. But evidently it didn't, as Kelvin Southwest continued, 'So you're the lovely lady who is now the tenant of Quiet Harbour.'

  'Yes. Miss Rose assured me that you knew all about the handover and were quite happy about it.' He looked at her with an enigmatic grin. 'I mean that you said it was quite legal.'

  'Ooh, I wouldn't go so far as to say "legal", Mrs Seddon.' He then compounded his roguishness by winking. 'Let's say I was happy to sanction the arrangement. I won't tell on you.' He punctuated this piece of schoolboy slang with a chuckle. 'I can never say no to a pretty woman, you know.'

  'Ah.'

  'Still, unfortunately I can't spend my morning gazing into your blue eyes - much as I would like to.'

  Carole very nearly made a sharp rejoinder to that and might well have done so, had not Gulliver, curious about who his mistress was talking to, at that moment bounded up to her.

  'Is this your dog?'

  'Yes.'

  'Ah.' He raised a plump finger and shook it in mock reproof. 'Naughty, naughty.'

  'What?'

  'During the summer months dogs should be kept on a lead on Smalting Beach. Fether District Council regulations.'

  'There's no sign up to say that.'

  'No, I agree there isn't. It's just one of those things that everyone who uses the beach knows.'

  'Well, I don't.'

  'Clearly, Mrs Seddon. And I'd love to make an exception to the rule - especially when it concerns such a lovely lady as yourself - but I'm afraid in this instance my hands are tied. It's not like you taking over the rental. With dogs it'd be the other beach users who'd object, you see. They'd accuse me of favouritism, and I can't have that, can I?'

  'I'll put his lead on,' said Carole shortly. 'Come on, Gulliver, come here, boy.' Once a rather miffed dog was secured, she turned back to the Fether District Council official. 'I believe we were discussing the legality of my having taken over the rental of this beach hut from Philly Rose, Mr Southwest.'

  'Yes, of course we were. And I have already told you I have no problems with that. Waiting lists can always be circumvented, you know, for the right person.' He leered at her. 'But I am here this morning as a result of your phone call yesterday. I am employed by the Fether District Council to do a job, and that is what I must do.' He somehow managed to make it sound as though Carole was preventing him from discharging his duty. 'Now, Mrs Seddon, you spoke of a fire having been lit under this beach hut. . .'

  'Yes. Do you want to see inside?' She reached into her trouser pocket for the key.

  'Don't worry, I have a set of my own. If you don't mind, I'd rather examine the damage from the outside first.'

  'Fine.' Carole led the way to the back of the hut. 'As you see, it's here, under this corner.'

  Kelvin Southwest sank into a crouch, a movement which threatened to split his tight blue shorts. He inspected the burn marks and poked a stick at the scorched rags beneath.

  'Vandals, do you reckon?' asked Carole.

  He stood up self-importantly to his full height, about level with her shoulder. 'Possibly,' he replied. 'I will complete my examination of the damage before committing myself to a theory as to what actually happened.'

  He moved back to the front of Quiet Harbour, took a bunch of keys out of his pocket and selected one. 'This was meant to be the master key for all of the Smalting beach huts. Originally all of the padlocks were fr
om the same manufacturer, so although they all had individually different locks, this little baby opened all of them. Still, after a time the salt gets into some of the mechanisms and they sieze up. People who replace the padlocks on their huts - and I can understand why they sometimes have to do that - are meant to lodge a spare key with me at the Council offices. But do they? Do they hell!

  'Fortunately, Quiet Harbour still has its original padlocks.' Sure enough, they gave easily to his master key. 'Now I will examine the interior.'

  In his official, professional mode Kelvin Southwest clearly imagined himself to be the archetype of reliability and efficiency. That wasn't how he came across to Carole, though. To her he was just a pompous little jobsworth.

  She stayed outside watching as he entered the hut and, following her movements of the previous day, moved across to the corner and flipped back a triangle of carpet. He again crouched, giving her a further unwanted view of straining shorts and builder's crack. On rising, he was smugly silent as he made notes on his clipboard.

  'Someone put the fire out,' reiterated Carole. 'Someone must've—'

  Kelvin Southwest raised a hand to silence her and she was duly - though somewhat irritatedly - silent while he completed his notes. Then he looked down at the floorboards and squatted, offering yet more builder's crack.

  He rose to his feet and looked at Carole sternly. 'You haven't been fooling with these floorboards, have you?'

  'No, of course I haven't.'

  'Because someone has hammered some new nails into them.'

  'Yes, I noticed that. I was going to—'

  He raised his hand again and, to Carole's annoyance, she was again silent.

  'I think I know what we should do next,' he announced.

  'What?'

  His chubby face crinkled again into the expression that he believed to be charming as he said, 'I think we should go and have a cup of tea and talk about things, Mrs Seddon. Or may I call you Carole?'

  She wanted to say, 'Mrs Seddon to you,' but hadn't quite got the nerve. Instead, she heard herself saying, 'Yes, of course, Mr Southwest.'