The Fethering Mysteries 12; Bones Under The Beach Hut

“…allowing you to stay here overnight when you want to.”

“Yes, well, I went on this course where one of the tutors told me two important things about being a writer. He said that you had to have a dedicated room of your own to work in – just like Virginia Woolf said. A space with the minimum of distractions in it.”

“Which you’ve got here.”

“Yes.”

“And he also said a writer never knows when inspiration is going to strike, and you must never ignore its summons. As soon as you have an idea you must leap to pen and paper, or the keyboard or whatever else you use.”

“I see. So sometimes you need to stay here overnight when inspiration strikes you?”

“Yes. Or when inspiration might strike me.”

“Ah.”

“Curt Holderness only charged me a hundred quid for the concession. It still makes this a jolly cheap office, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. Well, I hope inspiration didn’t strike much in the last few days.”

“What do you mean?”

“The most recent couple of times I’ve been here, this place was locked up.”

“Yes.” Katie Brunswick looked a little embarrassed. “The fact was, when the police started investigating here on the beach, well, I didn’t particularly want to be around.”

“Squeamishness?”

“No, I just didn’t want to be questioned…you know, in case the fact that I was sometimes staying here overnight came up.”

“Ah. I understand.” Carole looked beadily at her. “So when was the last time you spent the night here?”

Katie Brunswick screwed up her eyes as she tried to remember. “Last Monday. I mean, not the Monday just gone, the one before.”

A little charge of excitement ran through Carole. “And did you see anything that night?”

“What sort of thing?” came the cautious response.

“Any people on the beach?”

“I did see some actually.”

“Oh?”

“Normally if I stay overnight I close the doors, so that it’s not so obvious that I’m in here. But it had been a hot day and was still pretty warm in the small hours. It was very stuffy in here, so I reckoned I could risk leaving the doors open.”

“So who did you see?” asked Carole, her throat tense with excitement.

“I saw that painter guy who lives on the prom.”

“Gray Czesky?”

“Yes. He was very drunk. He wandered down on to the beach and staggered off behind the beach huts over there.”

“What? Near Quiet Harbour? Near the one the police are investigating?”

“Yes.”

“Was he carrying anything?”

“Perhaps. I can’t remember. I think perhaps he had a plastic carrier bag with him.”

“What time would this have been, Katie?”

“I don’t know. I was quite caught up with what I was writing. Early hours, I suppose. One or two in the morning.”

“Did you see him leave the beach?” A shake of the head. “Did you see anyone else?”

“Yes. A bit later…I don’t know how much later because I was caught up in the book, but I heard voices whispering. A man and a woman.”

“Could you hear what they were saying?”

“No. But I looked out and I saw them both going the same way Gray Czesky had gone.”

“Towards Quiet Harbour?”

“Yes.”

“Who were they, Katie?”

“One was the guy who used to be in Quiet Harbour with his girlfriend.”

“Mark Dennis?”

“I don’t know his name, but he’s got that small girlfriend with almost white-blond hair. Actually, come to think of it, I haven’t seen them down here on the beach much recently.”

“And did you see the woman he was with?” asked Carole.

“Yes. She doesn’t go out much, seems to spend most of her time in the house. But I have seen her a couple of times with Gray Czesky. It was his wife, Helga.”

Jude was back at Woodside Cottage when Carole returned to Fethering. They stood tensely together in Jude’s sitting room while Carole dialled the number Nuala Cullan had given them.

A machine answered. It requested anyone who wanted to leave a message for Gray or Helga Czesky to speak after the tone.

? Bones Under The Beach Hut ?

Twenty-Three

Carole switched off the phone, then consulted Jude who advised her to leave a message. “We need to see them, don’t we?”

“What should I say? Maintain the pretence that I want Gray to do me a watercolour of Fethering Beach?”

“No, I think we’ve gone beyond that. Take the direct approach. Say you want to talk about the fire that was started under Quiet Harbour.”

“Strange that they don’t answer. I got the impression that they were both in the house most of the time. Katie Brunswick said Helga don’t go out much.”

“Maybe they’re the sort who always leave the answering machine on. So that they can screen incoming calls.”

So it proved. Carole left a terse message ending with Jude’s number, and it was a matter of moments before the phone rang. Jude answered. It was Helga. She sounded cautious and a little distressed.

“Please, who am I talking to?” Over the phone her German accent was thicker.

“My name’s Jude.”

“It was not your voice which left the message.”

“No. That was my friend Carole. We did meet on Monday. We were the ones who came to your house to discuss a commission with your husband.”

“Ah.” Helga didn’t take issue with them about the subterfuge. She had more pressing priorities. “You said you knew something about the fire at Quiet Harbour…?”

“Yes. We know who lit it,” said Jude, making what was little more than a conjecture sound like a certainty.

“I see.” Helga was silent for a moment. “Yes, we must meet,” she said finally, in a voice of long suffering.

¦

They had agreed to come round to Woodside Cottage. Gray Czesky had been tidied up, presumably on his wife’s insistence. He was out of his paint-spattered work clothes, and in grey trousers and a blue blazer looked somehow like a large naughty schoolboy waiting for a dressing-down from the headmaster.

It was evident that in the current situation his wife represented that kind of authority figure at least as much as Carole and Jude did. Once the couple had sat down and refused offers of tea and coffee, Helga announced, “Gray has something he wishes to confess to you.”