by Simon Brett
Rather ashamed of the muzziness she had felt after lunch, she was determined not to have any more alcohol, but somehow that resolve vanished when she was faced by the lugubrious face of Ted Crisp behind the bar. She succumbed to a Chilean Chardonnay, though she did ask him to make it a small one.
“I’m meeting someone called Curt Holderness. Do you know him?”
“Goodness, yes. He’s been a regular for quite a while. Sometimes used to drink in here back when he was a copper.”
“Oh well, if you can point him out to me when he comes in –”
“He’s come in.” Ted nodded his shaggy head towards one of the alcoves. “Over there. And he’s drinking a pint of Stella.”
Carole looked across. There was no drink on the table in front of the man Ted had pointed out. “No, he isn’t.”
“What I meant was that you are buying him a pint of Stella.”
“Oh, right, I see. A pint of Stella too then, Ted.”
As he pulled the pint, the landlord observed, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Curt buy a drink. There’s always someone there to buy it for him.”
“Like who?”
“Someone who perhaps wants a favour from him.” Yes, and I know how he likes to be repaid – with a favour of the folding variety, thought Carole as Ted went on, “Can’t imagine what favour you might be wanting from Curt – and I’m not going to ask.” Then, to Carole’s annoyance, he winked at her.
The afternoon’s rain had cleansed the air and Fethering was enjoying a beautiful summer evening. As a result, most of the pub’s customers were once again at the tables outside, which pleased Carole. She didn’t want people eavesdropping on her conversation with Curt Holderness.
He was a thickset man with thinning hair cut very short, and he still looked like the policeman he had once been. In spite of the warmth he wore black leather trousers and there was a matching blouson lying on the seat beside him. Presumably outside in the Crown and Anchor car park was a motorbike.
He half-rose in his seat when Carole introduced herself. His handshake was almost aggressively strong. But despite his macho manner, there was a wariness about him, almost an anxiety.
“Ted said a pint of Stella would be appropriate, Mr Holderness?”
“How right Ted was. Thanks.” He took a long draught of the lager. “And please call me Curt.”
“Thank you. Please call me Carole.” She sat down and took a sip of wine. Now she was actually at a table opposite him, the burst of self-assertiveness with which she had set up the meeting had dissipated. She couldn’t think where to start.
He seemed to sense her discomfiture and smiled a teasing smile. “I know Miss Marple was famous for just sitting on the sidelines and observing everything, but I think you’re going to have to be a little more proactive than that, Carole.”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Curt. Well, first, thank you very much for agreeing to meet me.” He inclined his head graciously. “And yes, as you implied, I’m probably just another nosey middle-aged woman, but because it was my discovering evidence of the fire in Quiet Harbour that led to…well, you know…” His steady gaze unsettled her, and he seemed to know it. Carole got the feeling that he was playing with her, but also assessing the situation, trying to work out what she really wanted from him. “I mentioned on the phone,” she floundered on, “that you might have some new information from the police that –”
“And what made you think that might be the case?”
“Well, I gather you used to be in the force yourself.”
“Yes, and so you think I might ring one of my old muckers who would give me the up-to-date SP on the exact stage their investigations have reached?”
His response was deliberately couched in a kind of all-purpose police argot, still sending her up.
He shook his head. “Sorry, Carole, that kind of thing doesn’t happen outside of telly cop shows. Once you’re out of the force, you’re out of the force. They don’t want ex-coppers hanging around – particularly ex-coppers who’ve gone into the private security business.”
“So you retired early, did you?”
She seemed to have touched a nerve there. “What do you mean?” he almost snapped.
“Well, I mean you don’t look of an age to have gone the full distance.”
That mollified him. “Yes, I did retire early.”
“Me too.” Carole didn’t often volunteer details of her departure from the Home Office. Its earliness still rankled. But she thought identifying her experience with his might relax him.
“A lot of cops get out early,” he said. “It’s stressful work and when I was coming up for fifty I asked myself: do I want to go on doing this or do I want to develop some other career while there’s still time?”
“So did you get the SBHA job immediately?”
“No. I lounged around for a few years, enjoyed the freedom. My pension wasn’t that bad, I wasn’t responsible for anyone else, so I didn’t really need to work. Then I was offered the SBHA job –”
“By Kelvin Southwest?”
He gave her a curious look. “Yes, as it happens, it was. Of course, you know the fragrant Kelvin.”
“When I discovered the evidence of the fire, it was him I got in touch with.”
Curt Holderness nodded his head, as if to acknowledge that her answer made sense. Carole thought it slightly odd that he didn’t know before her phone call that she had been in touch with Kelvin Southwest. Surely such information would be passed on to someone whose job was security officer? But she let it pass, and asked, “Do you make regular inspections of the beach huts?”
“Yes, of course. Every morning and evening, just to check there hasn’t been any vandalism or breach of regulations.”
“What sort of breach of regulations?”
“Could be lots of things. Because the beach huts come under the control of Fether District Council there’s pages of them.”
“But what are you mostly looking out for?”
“People staying in them overnight, I suppose. That’s the big no-no. Fether District Council gets very aerated about that. Insufficient sanitation and what have you. They’re worried about Smalting degenerating into ‘a shanty town’.” Carole had heard the same fear mentioned in connection with the few beach huts in Fethering.
“Do you do night patrols too, Curt?” she asked.
For some reason he looked at her rather slyly before replying, “Sometimes, yes.”
“Because I was thinking that nobody would have lit the fire under Quiet Harbour in the daylight, would they?”
“Probably not.” He anticipated her next question. “And no, I didn’t see anyone trying to torch the place. If I had, I would have stopped them. Or if I’d seen the fire burning, I would have put it out. And then I would have told the police about what had happened.” There was a sharpness in his tone.
“There was one thing that struck me as odd about what I discovered in Quiet Harbour – well, two things, actually.”
“Oh?” There was residual hostility in the monosyllable.
“The fire that had been lit under it was deliberately put out.”
“So? One drunken vandal thinks burning a beach hut is the perfect end to an evening’s drinking. His slightly less drunk mucker thinks it’s not such a great idea. Or perhaps the original pyromaniac vandal had a sudden moment of conscience and doused it himself.”
“Hm.” What the security officer was saying made sense, but Carole still thought he seemed on the defensive. “The other thing that struck me as odd was that the bit of carpet in Quiet Harbour had been laid down after the fire had been lit and put out.”
“And what’s so significant about that?”
“Well, it might suggest that the fire and the laying of the carpet happened the same night, which was also the night that the human remains were buried under the beach hut.”
“Sorry, I’m not with you.”
Carole took in a deep breath before she embarked on her explanation. “The carpet must hav
e been laid after the fire had been put out, because there was no mark of singeing or anything on it. And it’s reasonable to assume that the carpet was put down to cover up the fact that the floorboards had been lifted up so that the human remains could be buried under them. Then the boards had been replaced, some nailed back with new nails.”
“I still don’t see why this all has to have happened on the same night, Carole.”
“It must have done. And I reckon it was probably the night before I first went to Quiet Harbour. Last Monday night.”
“Why?”
“Because otherwise you would have noticed the evidence of the fire when you did your inspection on the Tuesday morning.” As soon as she said the words, Carole saw a new shiftiness come into the man’s eyes. She pounced immediately. “You said you inspected the beach huts every morning and evening.”
“Most mornings and evenings. I mean, sometimes I have other demands on my time.”
“So how long could the evidence of the fire at the corner of Quiet Harbour have been there before you noticed it?” Curt Holderness looked even shiftier. “Go on, how long?”
“Well, I suppose…” he shrugged “…up to a week.”
Their eyes met and immediately Carole understood exactly what the situation was in regard to Curt Holderness’s job. He regarded it as a sinecure. Reginald Flowers had demanded a security officer for the Smalting Beach Hut Association and, using his usual old pals’ act system, Kelvin Southwest had appointed Curt, probably in exchange for some reciprocal favour. Thereafter Curt had just taken the money, lined his pockets with a few favours of the folding variety, and done the minimum he could get away with.
Carole was angry. She’d been getting a timetable of events at Quiet Harbour sorted out in her head, and Curt Holderness’s revealed slackness in the discharge of his duties had made nonsense of it. With some venom she asked, “And do you ever actually do night patrols? Or do you regard them too as more trouble than they’re worth?”
“I do them,” he replied, stung by her accusation. “Can’t do them every bloody night, but I do them from time to time. I tell you, since I’ve been operating as security officer, there have been a lot less thefts from the beach huts. I just work my own way, try to avoid getting into a routine. Villains soon catch on if you stick to a routine.”
“So have you seen anything unusual during your recent night patrols?”
“Yes, I may have done.”
“And have you told the police about anything you’ve seen?”
The question amused him. His teasing manner returned as he replied, “Ooh no, I wouldn’t do that. I was a copper for so long that I know how their minds work, and the kind of questions they ask. And the golden rule if you’re on the other end of their interrogation is: ‘If they don’t ask, don’t tell’.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“Meaning never volunteer any information. If they ask a specific question to which you can supply an answer, then probably best to tell them. Otherwise keep schtum. What they don’t ask about, they don’t deserve to know.”
“You don’t seem to have a very high opinion of your former employers.”
Curt Holderness shrugged. “I don’t exactly have a great nostalgia for the time I spent with them, no.”
“Is that something to do with the reason why you left early?”
That caught him on the raw. “No, it bloody isn’t!” he snapped. But he still managed to look guilty.
“Didn’t the police find it odd that you hadn’t reported the fire at Quiet Harbour?”
He looked away and took a swig from his nearly empty pint glass. Then he mumbled, “No. Kelvin told them I had reported it.”
“Ah. Old pals’ act working out again.” He shrugged. Carole continued, “The police might be interested to know the truth about that…”
“Are you threatening me?”
“No, just thinking out loud.”
He looked even shiftier and not a little guilty. Though Carole had denied threatening him, that was the effect her words had had. She had him on the back foot, so she pressed home her advantage. “You said you might have seen something unusual during your recent night patrols…”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
She waited. Curt Holderness seemed to be going through some decision-making process. “Look, if I tell you this, will you leave me alone?”
“Depends what it is.”
“And will you also keep quiet to the police about when I noticed the evidence of the fire?”
“Again depends on what you tell me.” Carole knew she was very much in control of the situation, and the feeling gave her a warm glow.
“Well, look, you know the couple who had Quiet Harbour before you did?”
“Yes. Philly Rose and Mark Dennis. Philly passed the rental over to me because Mark had walked out on her.”
“Mm, I heard some rumour about that.”
“And he’s not been seen since the beginning of May.”
“Oh yeah? Well, one night when I was driving along doing my patrol – just after one a.m. I’d say it was – I saw him.”
“Mark Dennis?”
“Yes.”
“When was this?”
“Monday last week. Well, the small hours of the Tuesday, I suppose.”
The night before Carole had made her first visit to Quiet Harbour. The night when, quite possibly, the human remains had been buried there. “What was Mark doing?”
“When I first saw him he was on the prom, then he walked down to the beach.”
“You didn’t say anything to him?”
“Why should I have done?”
“As I said, he’s been missing for a long time, since the beginning of May.”
The security officer shrugged. “Not my problem. So far as I know, he hasn’t even been reported missing. If a couple split up, that’s their business. One thing you learn pretty quickly in the force is: never get involved in a domestic. So if this guy Mark wants to walk on Smalting Beach in the middle of the night, well, that’s up to him, isn’t it?”
“Was he doing anything strange? Did you see what he did once he got on the beach?”
He shook his head. “I was just driving past, I saw him, that’s all. But the thing is…”
“What?”
“He wasn’t alone.”
“Oh?”
“He had a woman with him.”
“Philly Rose?”
“No, it wasn’t Philly Rose. It wasn’t anyone I’d ever seen before.”
∨ Bones Under The Beach Hut ∧
Fifteen
“We’ve got to talk to her,” said Jude.
“I suppose so.” Carole was strangely reluctant. Maybe it was because she thought of Philly Rose as Jude’s friend rather than hers and feared that Jude might be happier conducting the conversation on her own.
“Look, poor kid. She hasn’t seen hide nor hair of the man she was hoping to spend the rest of her life with since the beginning of May. Now we know he was seen in Smalting within the last couple of weeks. Of course we’ve got to tell her.”
“Mm. I was just thinking it might be better – since you’re the one who knows her – if you were to –”
“No. You’re the one who’s got the information. We go and see her together.”
Not for the first time in their relationship, Carole felt a bit sheepish. She built up such mountains of obstacles for herself. Why couldn’t she be direct like Jude? But she knew that her own leopard spots were so deeply ingrained that they couldn’t be removed even by sandblasting.
♦
Seashell Cottage, Philly Rose’s home in Smalting, was beautifully appointed, but just as she had done when she first entered Quiet Harbour, Carole couldn’t help being struck by how everything in the place had been designed for two. The home’s very cosiness seemed to accentuate the absence of Mark Dennis.
But it didn’t look as though Philly would be able to afford to live there much longe
r. That Monday morning the open property section of the West Sussex Gazette on her kitchen table told its own story.
The room where they sat had probably once been two, which at some point had been knocked through to make a comfortable kitchen/dining area. Philly offered them coffee and while she was operating the gleaming Italian machine that made it, Jude asked casually, “How’s the work?”
The young woman’s small face screwed up in disappointment. “Very little around. Maybe I’ll do better if I move back to London.”
“Is that what you’re planning?”
“I don’t think I’m capable of planning anything at the moment. My life seems to be completely random. Nasty things keep happening to me and I’m just reacting to events. Trying to ride the punches. I can’t remember when I last felt in control of my life.”
Probably the day before Mark Dennis left, thought Jude. The poor girl did look very stressed; there were dark half-moons under her brown eyes. She appeared to have just thrown on yesterday’s clothes and her ash-blond hair needed brushing.
Carole noticed a couple of watercolours on the wall whose style looked familiar. Both were of Smalting Beach and she realized they were very similar to the ones she had seen in The Crab Inn. “Are those by someone local?” she asked.
Philly Rose grimaced. “Yes. Smalting’s very own artist and enfant terrible, Gray Czesky.”
“Ah. We saw him in The Crab Inn when we were having lunch there yesterday.”
“I’m surprised he was allowed in. I thought he’d been barred.”
“Yes, that was pointed out to him. He made a bit of a scene.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened.”
“He’s one of Smalting’s ‘characters’, is he?”
“Self-appointed ‘characters’, yes. We saw quite a lot of him when we first moved down here.”
“But not now, you imply?”
“Right. Well, Gray’s an artist and, you know, Mark had come down here to paint, so naturally they got together. The theory was they were talking about art. In fact, they were just drinking. Gray is something of a professional in that area.”
“I got that impression in The Crab,” said Carole.
“There was a woman who came in and sort of rescued him,” Jude remembered.
