The Fethering Mysteries 12; Bones Under The Beach Hut

“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