The Fethering Mysteries 12; Bones Under The Beach Hut

“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 longer. 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.

“His wife Helga.” Philly sighed with exasperation. “What she puts up with from Gray you wouldn’t believe. Helga Czesky is the kind of woman who sets back the cause of feminism by about a century. Seems actually to get a charge from spending her life as a doormat.”

Carole looked at the watercolour more closely. “He’s not a bad painter, is he, if you like that sort of thing.”

“Yes, maybe. I myself don’t particularly like that sort of thing. Too bland for my taste. Mark ended up buying that one at the end of a long drinking session with Gray.” A new thought struck her. “I wonder if I could sell it?”

“Worth trying,” said Jude. “Are Gray Czesky water-colours popular?”

“He seems to sell quite a few. Mostly through that place on the prom, the Zentner Gallery.”

Carole salted away the information. It might be useful at some point.

“If they were friends,” said Jude, “have you asked whether Gray’s had any contact from Mark since you last heard from him?”

“No,” came the terse reply. “It wasn’t a friendship I encouraged.”

“Oh?”

“Mark used to have a drink problem. A lot of City high-flyers do – their way of coping with the stress. And he could turn quite nasty when he’d had a few. But since we moved to Smalting and out of that City environment, Mark’d really got back in control of the drinking. Except when he met up with Gray Czesky. One evening with Gray could undo all the good of the previous month. It was one of the few things Mark and I used to argue about.”

“Did you have a row about his drinking just before he left?” asked Carole. “I mean, was that perhaps the reason why – ?”