by Simon Brett
She told Lionel her name and he gave her his. Though they had been aware of each other on the beach, this was the first time they had actually spoken. Then Carole moved into investigative mode.
“Terrible business, wasn’t it?” She nodded over towards Quiet Harbour.
“What’s that?”
She spelled it out. “What was found under the beach hut there.”
“Oh yes,” he said. “Most beaches have had their tragedies. Funny how everyone thinks of a beach as a friendly place and you look out from somewhere like here and the tide goes out so far and you think of the sea as a warm, friendly thing. But it has great power. Even here it has power to wash people away, power to drown them.”
Carole wasn’t quite sure what kind of conversation she’d been expecting from Lionel Oliver, but it hadn’t been a disquisition on the qualities of the sea. She didn’t make any comment, though. He hadn’t finished yet.
“I worked as an undertaker,” he went on. “And I suppose in that line of business we do get closer to human tragedy than people in other walks of life. We see people at their most disturbed, and we see the consequences of carelessness and folly…and misery.”
“Well, most people are bound to be miserable when they lose someone,” suggested Carole.
But that wasn’t what he’d meant. “I mean sometimes it’s misery that makes someone do something that requires an undertaker’s services. It’s very sad, that. I mean, if you’re dealing with bodies every day, you get a kind of immunity to the sort of shock most people’d feel. Because most people, what, they see a dead body once, twice in their lives perhaps? But we…we never get to the point of forgetting that the bodies we deal with are human beings – at least I hope we don’t. I hope I never did. But we get so’s we can deal with bodies without emotions getting in the way.
“And most of the bodies we dealt with…well, it’s clearly a blessing that they come to the end. Bodies that have been worn away by disease and decay and pain…that cliché ‘a merciful release’…it’s true for many of them. But when there’s a body there’s nothing wrong with, that’s when it gets to you.”
“‘Nothing wrong with’? But they’re dead, aren’t they?”
“I’m talking about the ones who needn’t be dead, who’ve made the decision to die.”
“Suicides?”
The old man nodded. He looked out over the placid grey-green sea as he continued, “There was one did it here, you know.”
“Oh?”
“Ten years back, maybe not that long. I didn’t see it, not when it happened. But obviously I saw the body. They’d got him out of the water quite quickly, so there wasn’t a mark on him. Wearing a suit he was, he’d come straight down to the beach from his office. He worked in one of the Smalting estate agents. And the reason he’d done it, well, it wasn’t a good enough reason. I’m not sure that anything’s ever a good enough reason, not for that. Some girl he was in love with had dumped him, that was all. I mean, all right, I can see you might get upset over something like that, it might take you a few months, even a few years to get over it, but’s not a reason to top yourself, is it? Not enough reason.”
He was silent for a moment, but Carole was confident he’d continue.
“What he’d done, how he did it…he’d just filled his pockets with stones, hardly stones, really. There are not many big stones on the beach here, mostly just shingle. And he’d put the shingle in the pockets of his jacket and his trousers, and he’d just walked straight out into the sea.
“It was low tide, I heard, so it took him a long time before the water got up to his knees, a long time till it got up to his waist, a long time till it got up to his neck. So he had plenty of time to think about what he was doing, plenty of time to change his mind. But he didn’t.
“There were quite a lot of people on the beach, apparently, but no one did anything. I don’t think any of them realized what he was doing. Yes, perhaps they thought it odd, a man dressed in a suit walking straight into the sea, but maybe they thought it was some stunt, that he’d done it for a bet or something. And by the time they’d realized that he’d disappeared under the sea and someone had phoned the coastguard…well, it was too late.
“And when they brought the body to my parlour, there was, like I say, not a mark on him. He must have worked out in a gym, he was well toned. Could have lasted another fifty years. It was when I had to bury ones like that that it upset me. That and the children too. You never quite get used to burying the children.”
The old man shrugged, shook his head and relapsed into silence.
After a few moments, Carole said softly, “And now there’s another dead body on Smalting Beach.”
“Mm?” He came out of his reverie and looked puzzled.
“I was meaning the body under Quiet Harbour.”
“Oh yes.” He spoke without much interest in the subject.
“You haven’t heard any thoughts from anyone as to who it might have been…?”
“No,” he said, almost sharply. “Well, that is to say I’ve heard lots of thoughts from lots of people – all rubbish. I’m sure when the police have identified the remains, they will make an announcement as to who it is.” Again he spoke as if the subject was rather tiresome, not something that impinged on his own life.
Carole didn’t think she would have found out much more from Lionel Oliver, but was in fact prevented from asking further questions by the return of his wife from her paddle. “Lionel been keeping you amused, has he?”
“He’s been very interesting.”
“Oh yes? That probably means he’s been talking to you about undertaking. It’s a subject that was never very interesting while he was doing the job, and hasn’t got any more interesting since he’s retired.” But Joyce Oliver spoke with affection and no rancour.
After his surprisingly personal monologue, her husband seemed to have dropped back into a kind of torpor. Maybe he was only talkative when his wife was absent.
Joyce got back into her chair and picked up one of her wordsearch books.
“I must be on my way. Nice to see you,” said Carole. “Come on, Gulliver.”
∨ Bones Under The Beach Hut ∧
Nineteen
Carole moved on to Seagull’s Nest, the hut directly next to the still-cocooned Quiet Harbour. Outside it sat the matriarch who, thanks to Reginald Flowers, she now knew to be called Deborah Wrigley. Dressed in a designer towelling beach-robe, the widow had on her head another wide straw hat tied with a scarf and on her feet golden rubber sandals. She wore sunglasses with elaborate gold rims and an accumulation of rings sparkled on her bony brown fingers.
There was no sign of her son or daughter-in-law, but nearby her grandchildren Tristram and Hermione were deeply involved in patting crumbling sandcastles out of plastic buckets.
Carole did the Smalting equivalent of the ‘Fethering nod’, a slight inclination of the head to acknowledge someone one knew by sight but did not necessarily want to engage in conversation with.
Deborah Wrigley smiled graciously back. “We’ve had the best of the day, I fear,” she observed.
“Yes, be rain before the evening’s out,” said Carole, wondering what kind of Pavlovian reaction it was that prompted her at such moments into talking like a Central Casting Sussex fisherman. She nodded towards Quiet Harbour. “Nasty business, what they found there, wasn’t it?”
“Oh yes. I have to be very careful with the grandchildren, making sure they don’t overhear people on the beach talking about it.”
“Mm. Are their parents not around? Last time I saw you here they were with them.”
“No, my son and daughter-in-law have gone back to London. I always insist on having a couple of days’ quality time with the grandchildren when they come down here. I think it’s good for them. Their parents indulge the little ones so much, you know, and so they get tantrums and what have you. But Tristram and Hermione behave very well when they’re with me. They don’t play up at all.”
They wouldn’t dare, thought Carole. Recognizing the opportunity for a little investigation, she gestured again towards Quiet Harbour and said, “I don’t suppose you’ve heard any more than the rest of us about what was actually found in there?”
“‘Human remains’, that’s all I’ve heard.” But Deborah Wrigley was the kind of woman who always liked to have some exclusive information, so she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Of course I knew the young couple who rented it before you.”
“What, you mean you met them down here on the beach?”
“I met the girl down here for the first time. But I did actually know the young man from some time back.”
Carole was instantly alert. “Oh?”
“He used to work with my husband at NMB.”
“NMB? I’m sorry, the initials sound familiar, but I’m not sure I…”
“Neuchatel Mutual Bank. My husband Ronald ran the London end of that.”
“Oh, did he?”
“And Mark Dennis – that’s the name of the young man who had the beach hut when –”
“Yes, I’d heard it.”
“Well, he joined NMB straight out of university. Very bright boy. Ronald had a lot of time for him. And I used to meet Mark from time to time at business functions.”
“Ah.”
A sly look came into Deborah Wrigley’s face. “They’re not married, you know.”
“Mark and Philly? No, I know that.”
The older woman looked a little peeved at Carole having information about the couple for which she had not been the source. “He used to be married, you know. Tall, beautiful girl, worked in another bank. Goodness knows why Mark let that go wrong.”
“Did you meet her?”
“Yes, some odd Irish name.”
“Nuala.”
“That’s right.” Again Deborah Wrigley seemed peeved that Carole knew more than she did. “Yes, I met her a few times. At functions, you know. Very attractive couple. Very successful couple. They had a bit of motivation. So few young people seem to these days. Like my son. He was a severe disappointment to Ronald.” Even in absentia Gavin Wrigley was not protected from his mother’s sideswipes.
“Have you seen Nuala Dennis recently?”
“No, no reason why I should. I no longer moved in City circles after Ronald died. Anyway, their marriage broke up. Then I heard through mutual friends that Mark had given up his extremely promising career to become a painter or something equally fatuous. Next thing I know he appears down here with this new girl in tow.”
“Did you see him here at the beach hut?”
“Yes. The keen hutters tend to start using them at Easter. I always invite Gavin and the children down for a week at Easter.”
Invite? I bet it’s a three-line whip, thought Carole. And she noticed that Deborah Wrigley’s daughter-in-law Nell didn’t even merit a mention.
“Anyway, I think Mark must’ve had some kind of breakdown – or mid-life crisis do they call it these days? The generation who lived through the war didn’t have time for mid-life crises. He must have been potty, though, because he chucks a perfectly good job, leaves a delightful and beautiful wife and sets up with some young floozy. I’ve met her. Called Gillie or something.”
“Philly.”
“Whatever. Insipid little thing, I thought. Not like Nuala. At least Nuala had something about her.”
Deborah Wrigley’s words made Carole think. First, the idea that Mark Dennis might have had some kind of breakdown. It hadn’t occurred to her before, but maybe it wasn’t such a silly idea. He’d certainly been under a lot of pressure at the time of his disappearance. Maybe he had cracked up and been hospitalized. That would explain the lack of contact Philly had had from him.
The other realization that Deborah Wrigley had prompted was that the only version of Nuala Dennis that Carole and Jude had heard about had been Mark’s views passed on by Philly. And people from broken relationships don’t always provide the most balanced assessments of their ex-partners’ characters. Maybe Nuala wasn’t the complete villainess that she had been painted.
All this went through Carole’s mind in a flash before she asked, “Do you know if Nuala still works in the City?”
“I assume so. She and Mark didn’t have children, I know that. Whether there was some problem, or whether she just put her career first I’ve no idea. When I last had contact with her she was working for PWC.” In response to Carole’s interrogative eyebrow, she spelled out, “PricewaterhouseCoopers. But we’re talking some years ago. Goodness knows if she’s still there. These City high-flyers tend to move around a lot these days. Different in Ronald’s time. He was at NMB most of his career. Climbed his way up the management ladder. But then that’s how things worked in those days. People had a sense of loyalty to their employers. Whereas today’s young people don’t even seem to understand what the word ‘loyalty’ means.”
“So you don’t have any other means of contacting Nuala Dennis?”
The expression on Deborah Wrigley’s face told Carole how odd her question must have sounded. “No,” came the reply. “We are talking about someone I only met a few times through my husband’s work. And I can’t imagine any reason why you might want to contact her.”
“No, I’m sorry. I just…well, I’ve met Philly Rose…”
“Have you?” The words were not enthusiastic.
“Yes. And I know how cut up she is about Mark’s leaving, and I thought if he had gone back to his wife, then contacting her might be a way of –”
“I’m sure if Mark Dennis has gone back to his wife – which I very much hope he has – the last thing the two of them would wish for would be a call from his former floozy.”
“You’re probably right. Well, Gulliver and I had better be on our way.”
“Yes, perhaps you had.” Deborah Wrigley’s smile of dismissal had all the warmth of a low-energy light bulb.
♦
When Carole got back to High Tor she rang Curt Holderness’s mobile. Prompted to leave a message, she asked if he could phone her back, though without great confidence that he would. When they had parted on the Sunday in the Crown and Anchor, the security officer hadn’t shown much enthusiasm for the idea of their ever speaking again.
Since it was not yet five o’clock, Carole – again without much optimism – thought she might try PricewaterhouseCoopers to get a contact number for Nuala. Using her laptop to check the number on their website, she rang through to the main London office near Charing Cross. No, they did not have a Nuala Dennis working for them. And no, they couldn’t divulge details of former employees.
As she put the phone down, it struck Carole that a City go-getter like the Nuala Deborah Wrigley had described would quite probably have worked under her maiden rather than her married name. And trying to guess that would be a hopeless task. She wondered whether Philly Rose might know. It didn’t seem very likely. Few women are interested in their lovers’ wives’ maiden names.
Later that evening, as they shared a bottle of Chilean Chardonnay in her cluttered sitting room, Jude agreed that it was worth trying to get a bit more information from Philly and rang through to Seashell Cottage. But no, the girl had no idea what Nuala had been called before she married Mark.
“So you don’t have any means of contacting her?”
“Why should I have?”
“That wasn’t really the question I was asking, Philly.”
“No.” There was a silence from the Smalting end. Then, “I do actually have a mobile number for her.”
“Oh?”
“I copied it from Mark’s phone once when he was out. I don’t know why. I think perhaps I’d always been aware of the risk Nuala represented. But then when he left, I didn’t dare ring the number. I kept wanting to, but something stopped me.”
“The thought that Mark might actually be with her?” Jude suggested intuitively.
“Yes, just that. It was what I was afraid might have happened, and I supp
ose I was equally afraid of having my fears confirmed.”
“I could ring her,” Jude proposed gently.
“But why should you?”
“For the same reason you would – to find out if Mark’s with her.”
“Yes, but how would you explain why you were doing it?”
“I’d be trying to contact Mark and say I’d been given that number.”
“And who would you claim to be – someone trying to sell him double glazing?”
“If I can’t think of anything better, yes.”
“Okay, you try. And make sure you let me know if you find out anything about where he is.”
“Of course I will. Could you give me the number?”
After Philly had done so, she said, “And of course if you call you might also find out whether anything’s happened to Nuala.”
Clearly Philly’s anxiety of that morning had not gone away. She was still worried that Mark Dennis might have done away with his inconvenient ex-wife.
∨ Bones Under The Beach Hut ∧
Twenty
“No time like the present,” said Jude, and instantly she was keying in the number that Philly Rose had given her.
It was answered almost immediately, but the voice was male. “Hello?”
“Good evening. I was trying to contact Nuala Dennis.”
“Oh, were you?” The name didn’t seem to prompt happy memories.
“I’m sorry. I was given this number as Nuala Dennis’s mobile phone.”
“Well, it used to be hers. Now I reckon it’s mine.”
“Oh. Erm, who am I speaking to?”
“My name’s Cyrus Maxton. Who are you?”
“Jude.”
“A friend of Nuala’s?”
“More an acquaintance, really.”
“And what do you want with her?”
It was one of those moments when the truth might be as effective as any falsehood. “I’m trying to track down her husband Mark.”
“They’ve separated.”
“Yes, I know that, but –”
“Listen, I know nothing about Nuala’s bloody husband! All I know is that Nuala and I were in a relationship for about three months and then the cow walked out on me, having managed to take quite a lot of my money with her. So you might understand that I don’t welcome calls from her friends or acquaintances and I’m damned if I’m going to –”
