Fethering 01 (2000) - The Body on the Beach

by Simon Brett; Prefers to remain anonymous

  She couldn’t blame the dog. He’d been very good, exercising all the control of which he was capable, while his mistress overslept. She couldn’t blame anyone but herself.

  Except of course for her new next-door neighbour. It was Jude who’d led her into self-indulgence at the Crown and Anchor. Maybe Jude wasn’t such a suitable companion after all. Carole decided that any future communication between them should be strictly rationed.

  She felt a little tremor of embarrassment. She had talked far too much the previous evening, confiding things that she had never confided to anyone else.

  No, Jude was definitely a bad influence. Carole couldn’t remember when she’d last had a hangover.

  At first she’d decided she wouldn’t take anything for the pain, just brazen it out. But after an hour or so, ready to succumb, she had gone to the bathroom cabinet, only to find it empty of aspirin. Oh well, that was meant. Serve her right. She couldn’t take anything.

  Half an hour after reaching that conclusion, though, she had decided she’d have to go to the shop to get some aspirin.

  As she set out, neatly belted up in her Burberry, Carole heard a heavy regular thudding which she knew didn’t come from inside her own head. There must be some construction work happening somewhere in the Fethering area. Whatever it was, the noise didn’t make her headache feel any better.

  §

  The shop was not a village shop in the old sense of the expression, though it occupied the site where a proper village shop had once stood. That old shop, incorporating a post office, had been run by an elderly couple and very rarely had in stock anything anyone might need. But that didn’t matter. The people of Fethering drove in their large cars to do their major shopping at the nearby out-of-town Sainsbury’s or Tesco’s. They used the village shop only when they’d run out of life’s little essentials—milk, bread, cheese, ketchup, cigarettes or gin—and to collect their pensions. Many of them went in to buy things they didn’t need, just so they’d have the opportunity for a good gossip.

  But that was no way to run a business and in the late 1980s, when the elderly couple retired, the old shop was demolished, replaced by a rectangular glass-fronted structure and called a supermarket. It was one of a local chain called Allinstore—a compression that someone in a meeting must once have thought was a good idea of ‘All-in-store’. This verbal infelicity was untrue under the Trades Description Act (in fact, the store’s local nickname was ‘Nowtinstore’), but it was also symptomatic of the lacklustre style which epitomized Allinstore management. The only detail the new shop had in common with the old one was that it very rarely had in stock anything anyone might need, but people still went in to buy things they didn’t need, just so’s they’d have the opportunity for a good gossip.

  In the transformation of Fethering’s shopping facilities the village had also lost its post office, which led to a lot of complicated travel arrangements on pension days. And Allinstore had become an outlet for the National Lottery, thus enabling the residents of Fethering to shatter their hopes and dreams on a weekly basis.

  The architect who’d designed the new supermarket (assuming such a person existed and the plans hadn’t been scribbled on the back of an envelope by a builder who’d once seen a shoebox) had placed two wide roof-supporting pillars just in front of the main tills. Whether he’d done this out of vindictiveness or had simply been infected by the endemic Allinstore incompetence was unknowable, but the result was that many shopping hours were wasted and much frustration caused by customers negotiating their way around these obstructions. Mercifully Allinstore did not supply its shoppers with trolleys, only wire baskets, but many of its elderly clientele brought in their own wheeled shopping containers and these added to the traffic mayhem around the pillars.

  Carole, aspirin packet in hand, was stuck behind one of them, out of sight of the tills, when she heard a familiar male voice say, “Apparently they found a dead body on the beach this morning.”

  She craned forward, encroaching on the elderly lady with a wheeled basket in front of her, and saw Bill Chilcott.

  “Really?” said the girl behind the till, with the same level of interest she would have accorded to the news that there were no more toilet rolls on the shelf.

  “Oh yes,” he asserted. “Heard it on the BBC local news this morning.”

  Carole leaned over the elderly lady in front of her. “Morning, Bill.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, unnecessarily loudly and with what he imagined to be a lecherous grin. “Crown and Anchor last night, Allinstore this morning. We can’t go on meeting like this. People will start to talk.”

  “Yes.” Carole dismissed the pleasantry with a curt smile. “What’s this about dead bodies?”

  “I heard it on the radio when Sandra and I came back from our swim at the Leisure Centre. A dead body found washed up on Fethering beach.”

  “Did they say who it was? Or what had happened to him?”

  “They didn’t even say whether it was a ‘him’. Probably be more on the lunchtime news. Mind you, if you want my opinion…” It was a mystery why Bill Chilcott always made this proviso; he was going to give his opinion anyway. “I should think it’s one of those weekend sailors.”

  He loaded the words with contempt. Though the precise details of Bill Chilcott’s naval background were ill-defined, he never missed an opportunity of saying that seafaring should be left to the professionals. “Some idiot who took out a pleasure boat without sufficient knowledge of local conditions and got what was coming to him. If you want my opinion, they should impose some kind of regulations on the kind of people who’re allowed to take boats…”

  But as Bill Chilcott’s hobbyhorse gathered momentum, Carole stopped listening. In spite of her headache, she felt a glow of vindication. She looked forward to grovelling apologies from Detective Inspector Brayfleld and WPG Juster. There had been a body on the beach.

  NINE

  Jude found the Shorelands Estate rather spooky as she walked through on the way to Barbara Turnbull’s coffee morning. It took a lot to cast down her spirits. The frosty greyness of the morning hadn’t done it. Nor had she had any adverse reaction to the wine of the night before. She’d drunk no more than a usual evening’s intake. But Jude had a feeling that spending any length of time in Shorelands could bring her spirits down very quickly indeed.

  Though laid out on lavishly spacious lines, the predominant feeling the estate gave her was one of claustrophobia. The main entrance gates looked as if they were never closed, but they were nonetheless gates. The ‘20 mph’ speed signs and the ‘CRIMEALERT INOPERATION’ notices on lampposts gave Jude the feeling of being under surveillance.

  This was reinforced by the contents of a display board which she stopped to read. Behind glass, under a neatly painted wooden sign reading ‘Shorelands Estate’, was a list of regulations for residents. Since these included orders as to how visibly washing could be hung out to dry and times at which lawn-mowing was permitted, Jude felt relieved that Shorelands was a part of Fathering way out of her price range.

  Though of massive proportions and, in most cases, with much-sought-after sea-backing locations, none of the houses appealed to her either. The estate was far too upmarket to go for uniformity. Each house was very positively different from all the others, and each failed to appeal to Jude in a different way. Every conceivable architectural style was represented, but in a manner that seemed more parody than homage. Whether with Tudor beams, tall Elizabethan clusters of chimneys, geometric Georgian windows, Alpine chalet gables, thatched roofs or the turrets of French chateaux, all the houses seemed firmly rooted in the time of their construction, the unglamorous 1950s.

  The architectural style echoed in the Turnbulls’ home was Spanish. The wrought-iron gates in the high white-painted walls might have led into the vineyards of some well-heeled Andalusian grandee, were it not for the coy metal name-plate with a squirrel motif which revealed that the house was called Brigadoon. And the authent
ic Spanishness of the frontage, with its heavily embossed door, terracotta pots in niches and gratuitous curlicues of wrought iron, was also let down by two quaint Victorian lampposts and by the metal expanse of the double garage’s up-and-over door.

  The house into which Jude was admitted had been recently ‘improved’ by an expensive interior designer. No attempt had been made to continue the Spanish theme inside. The carpets toned with the walls; the walls were suitably complemented by the discreet pastel patterns of the curtains. Each item of furniture knew its place. The strain of all this tastefulness was almost tangible. lb Jude the interior of Brigadoon had the homely charm of an intensive care unit.

  But her impression of the decor was only fleeting. As ever, she was much more interested in people than in things, and immediately focused on the woman who had opened the door to her with a brisk, “Ah, hello, you must be the new owner of Woodside Cottage. I’m Barbara Turnbull. I’m sorry, I didn’t know your name, so I hope you didn’t mind my just addressing the card to ‘The New Resident’. But you said on the phone you’re called ‘Jude’.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Jude…er…?” the hostess fished.

  “Just Jude’s fine.”

  Barbara Turnbull was in her fifties and was one of those women who’d spread sideways. She walked with a slight swaying motion, but carefully, as if afraid her bulk might knock things over. Her hair, dyed a copper-beech colour, had been recently cut short. She wore a broad green skirt and little matching waistcoat over a blouse with an ivy design. Her stout legs ended in improbably small, flat blue shoes with decorative buckles. There were a lot of rings on her hands. Uniform beige make-up covered her face, and her lips were highlighted by lipstick of an only slightly darker beige.

  “I’m afraid the house is a complete tip,” she said, as she hung up Jude’s coat and led her through the hall. Barbara Turribull’s remark was completely at odds with the evidence. The house looked as if individual motes of dust were removed with tweezers every hour on the hour. “My cleaning lady, Maggie, couldn’t come in this morning. Just called five minutes before she was due to arrive to say she’d got some problem with her son. Honestly, people are so inconsiderate.”

  “Her son couldn’t help being ill, could he?” Jude suggested.

  “That’s not the point. Maggie should have had some contingency plan ready for that eventuality. Anyway, I’m not sure he was ill. Some other problem, I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s very neurotic, from all accounts. Maggie seems to have no control over that boy of hers. Psychological problems…But then…single parent.” Barbara spoke the words as though no further explanation were needed. Jude might have taken issue with her, but they had reached the door of the large front sitting room and she was ushered inside.

  “Now, hello, everyone,” said Barbara loudly. “This is ‘Jude’, who’s recently moved in to Woodside Cottage in the High Street. I’ll just tell you who everyone is.”

  “Don’t bother.” Jude knew she’d never remember a whole catalogue of anonymous names. She’d do much better talking to the other guests individually, matching names with personalities. “I’ll work it out as we—”

  Too late. Barbara Tumbull was determined to go through the full list. There were about a dozen, all women, with an average age of well over sixty. Jude got the impression that few of them had ever had jobs beyond looking after husbands and children. They were dressed as though their lives had become one long stationary cruise. Most of the faces looked deterrent, one or two more approachable. All of them wore too much make-up.

  “…and this is my mother, Winnie.” Barbara Turnbull’s guided tour finished on the smallest and oldest person present. “Winnie Norton. Now, ‘Jude’, why don’t you sit and have a chat to Mummy while I get you some coffee. How do you like it?”

  “Just black, please.”

  “Any sweetener?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Right you are, ‘Jude’. Just black it is.”

  “So how do you like Fethering?” asked Winnie Norton. Her hair, a blue that was picked up by the veins on the back of her hands, had been engineered into a rigid structure like spun sugar. The eyes were black and unashamedly curious. From the Yorkshire terrier on her lap peered another pair of black and unashamedly curious eyes. They took in Jude, not liking what they saw, and a low growl rumbled from the tiny silken body.

  Winnie Norton wore a tweed suit whose dominant colour was turquoise. There were even more rings on her hands than on her daughter’s, but they hung loosely on the thin talons.

  “Seems fine from what I’ve seen of it so far,” Jude replied.

  “Did you know the area before you moved here?”

  “Not well.”

  “Well, you’ll find Fethering’s very welcoming,” said Winnie Norton. The dog, unwilling to endorse this view, yapped petulantly. “Quiet, Churchill.” She tapped his nose gently before going on, “Yes, very welcoming…to the right sort of person.”

  “Ah.”

  “Of course, in the old days, before the war, only the right sort of person moved here, but since they developed that Downside Estate…well, something of an element’s crept in.” The little black eyes scrutinized Jude, trying to gauge the risk of her being an ‘element’.

  The smaller set of black eyes on her lap had already made up their mind. Jude was definitely an ‘element’. He yapped ferociously, baring his vicious little teeth.

  “Now do be quiet, Churchill,” said his mistress mildly. “We have to be on our best behaviour for a coffee morning, don’t we?”

  The yapping subsided into a malignant rumbling.

  “Have you lived here long, Mrs Norton?” asked Jude.

  “All my life in the area, yes.”

  “But not all that time here at Shorelands?”

  “Oh, I don’t live on the estate. No, when I sold the big house after my husband died, I bought one of those new flats near the Yacht Club. Spray Lodge—do you know where I mean?”

  “Sorry. Still getting my bearings.”

  “It’s a very nice block. The residents do have a degree of control over who moves in.”

  “Ah.”

  “Well, you have to these days, don’t you?” Winnie Norton chuckled. “All kinds of people have got the money to move into somewhere like Fethering now.”

  “Yes.” Jude realized that, if she didn’t quickly move the subject in another direction, she’d come to blows with the old lady. “Do you have any grandchildren, Mrs Norton?”

  “No. Barbara and Rory didn’t want children.”

  “Ah.” Churchill barked approval of this situation, while Jude looked around the vast sitting room. “So it’s just the two of them living in this house, is it?”

  “Rory does very well,” said his mother-in-law, as if that answered the question. And perhaps, Jude reflected, by Winnie Norton’s standards, it did. Rory Turribull was making a lot of money as a dentist; therefore it behoved him to buy a large house on the Shorelands Estate. That was a fact of life, nothing to do with how much space he and Barbara actually needed. “Of course,” the old lady went on, “he never really was our sort, but Barbara’s done wonders with him.”

  Jude began to understand why Rory Turribull needed his intravenous drip of whisky down at the Crown and Anchor. But Winnie Norton was prevented from casting down more of her poisoned pearls of wisdom by the arrival of her daughter with Jude’s coffee.

  “Now you mustn’t monopolize our guest, Mummy. Incidentally, ‘Jude’”—like Carole, Barbara Tarribull still couldn’t quite say the name without a penumbra of quotation marks (a fact which amused its owner hugely)—“we are hoping that Roddy himself will drop in later.”

  “Roddy?”

  “Canon Roderick Granger, to give him his full title. He’s the vicar of All Saints’. A tower of strength locally.” Barbara lowered her voice and gave the newcomer a look whose beadiness matched her mother’s and Churchill’s. “You are a believer, aren’t you, Jude?”


  “Oh yes.”

  The easiness of the reply brought visible relief to Barbara lurnbull’s face. “Thank goodness for that. In these benighted times there are lots of people who don’t even put ‘C of E’ on forms.”

  “I didn’t say I was a believer in the Church of England,” Jude pointed out.

  Her hostess looked horror-struck. “You’re not Catholic, are you?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Another sigh of relief. “There are a lot of them down here, you know. Arundel’s quite a centre for the Rock Cakes.”

  “Is it?”

  “Mm. It’s a Catholic cathedral there, you know.” Barbara moved on. “You’ll find All Saints’ is a friendly church, with quite a lot of social activities. Roddy’s very keen on that side of things. He always says it’s too easy for church-goers to get po-faced about religion.” A little chuckle. “He’s such an amusing man.”

  If what she’d just heard was an example of the vicar’s wit, Jude wasn’t convinced. What was clear, though, was that, in her hostess’s eyes, Canon Roderick Granger could do no wrong. She was almost coquettish when she talked about him. It was quite possible that the Canon was held up to her husband as an exemplar of all the things that Rory Turnbull wasn’t.

  “Anyway,” Barbara went on, “if you don’t see him this morning, you’ll catch him at the morning service on Sunday. Roddy’s sermons are quite something. Lots of jolly good laughs on the way, but a real core of serious truth.”

  “I’m not a church-goer,” said Jude.

  “Oh.”

  “I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. I accepted your invitation because I wanted to meet some local people, not because I’m ever likely to step into All Saints’.”

  Barbara Turnbull gaped like a beached fish.

  “But I’ve nothing against the Church of England,” Jude reassured her with a huge smile. “Everyone should be allowed to believe in what they want to believe in—don’t you agree?”

  Barbara’s expression showed that she certainly didn’t agree. Allow everyone to believe in what they want to believe in? That, her look seemed to say, is a short cut to anarchy.