you may not get through.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve been texting her regularly trying to get back some of the stuff she nicked from my flat and I haven’t been getting any replies.”
“Well, presumably when she recognizes your number she just doesn’t text back.”
“Sure. But recently when I’ve tried I get a different response. Like the phone’s switched off. Or run out of juice.”
“You mean she hasn’t been recharging it?”
“That’s what I’ve been beginning to think. Okay, not taking my calls, not responding to my texts, I can understand that. But switching the thing off? Nuala’s mobile is like an extra appendage of her body. She never switched it off – or at least not for as long as this.”
“You said ‘recently’. When was the last time you texted her phone when it was switched on?”
“Weekend before last. I tried again…when? Let’s think…Today’s Monday…it would have been last Tuesday. Didn’t get any response then and the phone’s been switched off since.”
Last Tuesday. The day in whose small hours Mark Dennis and a mystery woman were seen by Curt Holderness walking down on to Smalting Beach. The day since Nuala Dennis had perhaps not been able to recharge her mobile phone.
After she’d finished her call to Cyrus Maxton, Jude tried the new number he had given her for Nuala. She was sent straight to voicemail. The phone was switched off…or out of charge.
? Bones Under The Beach Hut ?
Twenty-One
Carole Seddon woke the next morning feeling pressured by time. It was Tuesday and in five days Gaby and Lily would be coming to stay in High Tor. Was it possible that she and Jude could have found a solution to the mystery of the human remains under
But when she joined Jude later for coffee at Woodside Cottage, they did have a small breakthrough on the case. Without much optimism, Jude once again tried the number Cyrus Maxton had given her. And this time it was answered.
“Hello?” The voice was hard, businesslike and unwelcoming, but there was a little trace of Irish in it.
“Good morning. Is that Nuala Dennis?”
“My name’s Nuala Cullan.”
“But is your married name Nuala Dennis?”
“I never use my married name.”
“But your married name is Nuala Dennis?”
“It was once.” Jude felt a little flutter of relief. At least she’d be able to reassure Philly that Mark’s wife was still alive, that he hadn’t done away with her.
“Who is this calling?” asked Nuala, even less welcoming.
“My name’s Jude.”
“Jude who?”
The question was ignored. “I’m calling about your husband, Mark Dennis.”
“Look, if it’s some financial trouble Mark’s got himself into, you’re calling the wrong person. I have no responsibility for what he’s done. We’re separated. And you are calling me at work and I do have a very busy day ahead of me, so –”
“I’m interested in Mark’s whereabouts.”
“So am I.”
“You mean you don’t know where he is?”
“No. Why, do you?” For the first time there was a flicker of interest in the Irishwoman’s voice.
“I might do,” Jude lied.
“Tell me what you know.”
“I’d rather we met up and talked about it.”
“Look, who are you? Are you Mark’s latest woman? I heard he’d left his little girl at the seaside. Is he shacked up with you now?”
“No. I can assure you he isn’t.”
“Then what’s your interest in this?”
“I’ll tell you when we meet.”
“
“You want to find out where Mark is, don’t you?”
There was a silence from the other end. Then a reluctant, “Yes. The bastard owes me money, apart from anything else.”
“Well, when could we meet?”
“I’ve got a hell of a schedule today, but I could probably finish early and meet you round seven.”
Seven? Finishing early? Jude realized she was definitely dealing with someone from the City.
“That’d be fine. Where do you work?”
“NMB.”
“Neuchatel Mutual Bank. Where Mark used to work?”
“Yes. Not many people have heard of it.” There was a hint of grudging respect in Nuala’s voice.
“Okay. Seven o’clock. At NMB?”
“No, better somewhere else.” Whether this was because Nuala feared eavesdroppers at work, Jude could only guess. “There’s a wine bar called Sec. Just off Milk Street.”
“We’ll find it.”
“‘We’?”
“Yes, I’ll have a friend with me.”
“Look, I’m not sure that I –”
“You do want to find out where Mark is, don’t you?” Jude interrupted forcibly.
Nuala conceded that she did.
“Right, we’ll be at Sec at seven o’clock this evening.”
“How will I recognize you?”
“I’m blond and plump, my friend Carole is thin and grey-haired with glasses. You’ll recognize us. We’ll rather stand out in a City wine bar. We’re in our fifties.”
¦
To their surprise, Carole and Jude did not stand out in Sec as much as they had expected to. The time of year and its relative proximity to St Paul’s, the Bank of England and other London sights, meant that the wine bar had more than its fair share of tourists that June evening. And though there were a few young, lean besuited slickers quaffing champagne, there were at least as many men and women of ample American proportions. And in fact Carole and Jude identified Nuala Cullan, rather than the other way round.
It wasn’t difficult. They remembered Philly Rose’s description and when, shortly after seven, a tall slender woman in a pinstriped trouser suit and pointy black shoes entered, they knew it had to be her. She was beautifully groomed, and the long black hair contrasted with the piercing blue of her eyes. But for the sharpness of her features and a slight discontent in her expression, Nuala Cullan would have been beautiful.
Jude crossed the bar and introduced herself, asking what Nuala would like to drink. She and Carole, straying from their usual Chilean Chardonnay, were on the Sauvignon Blanc.
“I’ll just have a mineral water, thank you.” So much for the hard-drinking image that Philly had put across. “I’m on antibiotics,” continued Nuala, explaining her abstinence.
“This is my friend Carole.”
“Oh?” Nuala Cullan stretched out a long cool hand and shook Carole’s.
“Grab a seat and I’ll get your drink.”
