The Fethering Mysteries 12; Bones Under The Beach Hut

was as clearly obsessed as Reginald Flowers. So instead she commented on the splendour of his hoard. “Do you really leave it here all the time? Isn’t there a terrible risk of it all being stolen?”

“No, Mrs Seddon. Although I do take the collection home during the winter months, there is in fact no danger of any of it being stolen. That is what the Smalting Beach Hut Association is there for.”

“Oh?”

“During the summer months the SBHA – as we call it – appoints a security officer, whose job it is to patrol the beach huts and ensure that their security is maintained.”

“What a good idea. Isn’t that rather expensive, though?”

“The SBHA has funds to cover the costs.”

“And where do those funds come from?”

“Some from Fether District Council.” A shadow crossed his face, as though he regretted having to take help from that source. “One of the first actions of the SBHA when I formed it was to lobby the Council for a security officer. And I won that little battle, as I have won many other set-tos with Fether District Council.” His face darkened again. “Though sadly they would not let me sit on the selection board when the security officer was appointed.”

“So are you saying that the Council supports the SBHA financially?”

“Only a very little. They do no more than they absolutely have to, and even that is after a lot of lobbying from us…well, from me usually. No, the costs of running the SBHA are raised largely from subscriptions.”

“Oh.” Suddenly Carole realized how she should respond to this prompt. “Well, I should pay a subscription, shouldn’t I?”

“Yes, that would be a good thing. The SBHA exists to look after the concerns of all beach hut users. And your subscription also entitles you to receive our regular newsletter, The Hut Parade.”

“What an amusing title,” Carole lied.

“Well, we like it.” The smile that accompanied these words left no doubt that it was Reginald Flowers who had thought up the name for the newsletter. Carole reckoned he was probably its editor too. “Your subscription also secures for you a complimentary annual tide table. All new members get that.” There was disapproval in Reginald Flowers’s voice as he continued, “I gather you have taken over the rental of Quiet Harbour from Miss Rose.”

“Yes, but it’s all been cleared with Kelvin Southwest from the Fether District Council.”

A cynical light came into Reginald Flowers’s watery blue eyes. “Oh yes, well, it’s very easy to get things cleared with Mr Southwest, isn’t it? Particularly if you’re a woman.”

Now she had formed an estimation of Reginald Flowers’s character, Carole was unsurprised to find there was friction between him and Kelvin Southwest. Two control freaks for a single beach is probably one too many.

“He was very reasonable about it,” she said.

That prompted a sardonic chuckle. “Oh yes, I’m sure he was. Always ready to do little favours for people, our Kelvin, isn’t he? Provided of course that the people are prepared to do little favours for him.” Carole didn’t think any comment was appropriate; she mustn’t be seen to be taking sides in what was clearly an ongoing conflict. “One day,” Reginald Flowers continued ominously, “one day our Kelvin is going to take one favour too many…”

“Oh?”

“There’s a very fine line, Mrs Seddon, between co-operation and corruption, you know. Still, it wouldn’t be the first time a local government officer has taken a backhander, would it?”

Once again Carole decided not to comment. She moved the subject on. “If you let me know how much I owe you for the subscription, I’ll write you a cheque straight away.”

“The subscription is twenty pounds per annum.”

“Oh well, I think I’ve probably got that in cash. I’m just going for a little walk, but when I get back to my hut I’ll find my handbag and bring the money over to you.” Carole suddenly realized that, in spite of Reginald Flowers’s reassurances about the security of the Smalting Beach, she had been very foolish to leave her bag in the hut. She looked over to Fowey, but was relieved to see that Jude, still dressed only in her bikini, was sprawled in one of the director’s chairs.

“There is a form for you to fill in,” announced Reginald Flowers. Oh yes, of course there would be. Carole somehow got the feeling that becoming a member of any organization run by him would involve a lot of form-filling. He bustled about inside his naval museum and emerged holding a badly printed form covered with lots of boxes that Carole could see would be too small for the information they were meant to contain. And the form was three pages long.

But she took it with appropriate gratitude and said she’d bring it back with the money when she’d filled it in. “I’ll do it the moment I get back to the hut,” she said, gesturing in the direction of Fowey.

Reginald Flowers looked puzzled. “I understood that you were taking over Miss Rose’s hut. That’s over there.”

So he doesn’t know everything that goes on in the beach huts, does he? Carole guessed he didn’t know about the fire under Quiet Harbour, and for some reason she didn’t feel inclined to tell him about it. All she said was, “There was a bit of a problem with that one, so while it’s being sorted out, Kelvin Southwest’s let me use Fowey.”

“Has he?” said Reginald Flowers, as if hearing of another example in the long list of the Council official’s transgressions.

Carole continued her walk. The hut adjacent to Quiet Harbour was still being ruled by the poisonous matriarch whom Carole had seen on her previous visit. The downtrodden glumness on the faces of her son Gavin, his wife Nell, and their children Tristram and Hermione, showed that their stay with Granny was proving to be a very long week indeed. Carole once again made all kinds of vows to herself about the way she was going to behave to Lily.

And then she was once again outside Quiet Harbour. She didn’t want to make a show of inspecting it, so she walked on past. But there was still something intriguing about the place, oddities that needed explanation, a sense of unfinished business.

? Bones Under The Beach Hut ?

Nine

The picnic lunch that Jude had prepared was very good. A chicken salad with some nice crusty bread, suitably light for the hot weather. And, needless to say, being Jude, she’d brought a bottle of Chilean Chardonnay in a cool bag. Carole said she’d just have one glass, but somehow they managed to finish the bottle. And sitting outside Fowey in their director’s chairs in the sunlight, both women found themselves dozing off. To Carole it all felt titillatingly decadent.

She hadn’t slept for long when she woke with a start. There had been no sound, nothing to wake her but her Calvinist conscience. In the other chair Jude still slept, her large, sagging body as relaxed as a child’s. Carole looked across Smalting Beach with half-closed eyes, the sunlight glowing red through her lids. And noticed to her surprise that the doors to Quiet Harbour were open.

Wide awake now, she saw Kelvin Southwest emerge from the hut with another man dressed in jeans and a worn T-shirt, who was carrying a clipboard and a tape measure. They had a little discussion on the sand, then the other man moved purposefully up the beach to the promenade. Kelvin Southwest didn’t follow him. With trepidation Carole realized that he was coming straight towards Fowey. She straightened in her chair and picked up The Times crossword, unwilling to look as if she’d just woken up.

Reginald Flowers was still sitting on his wooden chair outside The Bridge and Kelvin Southwest had to walk directly in front of him, but neither man made any gesture of recognition or greeting.

The beach hut emperor of Fether District Council was dressed in the same uniform of polo shirt and shorts as he had been on Tuesday, but this afternoon he looked hot and bothered. He still greeted Carole with another of his roguish smiles, however, together with a hearty, “Good afternoon, good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, Mr Southwest.”