The Fethering Mysteries 12; Bones Under The Beach Hut

anyone by the crimes perpetrated by paedophiles, but her healer’s instinct was always to look inside personalities, to try to understand what triggered their behaviour. But explaining what she meant to Carole would not have been an easy task, so she turned her attention back to the laptop. “Anyway, let’s just see how much basic information we can get about the case.”

“Very well,” said Carole, still looking at her neighbour in a rather old-fashioned way.

They returned to Wikipedia. “With that name I’m surprised they haven’t been attacked too,” Jude observed.

The basic information was quite simple, almost banal in its simplicity. Robin Cutter had been spending a day with his grandparents near Fedborough while his mother and father had gone to London to see a matinee of Les Miserables. In the morning his grandfather had driven the boy down to Smalting Beach. After they’d parked the car, Robin had asked for an ice cream. While his grandfather went into the shop, the boy had asked to stay outside and watch the windsurfers. When his grandfather came out of the shop, Robin Cutter had disappeared. And he had never been seen again.

But it was the name of the grandfather that made Carole and Jude gasp.

Lionel Oliver.

? Bones Under The Beach Hut ?

Twenty-Six

The identity of the victim whose bones had been discovered under Quiet Harbour led to a predictable media frenzy. The Robin Cutter story was again on the front pages of many of the Thursday morning’s national newspapers. The red tops didn’t need any encouragement to go into anti- paedophile overdrive, and even Carole’s more sedate Times gave wide coverage to the revelation. As ever in such instances, much was made of previous cases of similar atrocities, turning knives in the wounds of other families who had already suffered enough.

Carole and Jude watched the lunchtime television news in Woodside Cottage. There had been little development overnight, so they found out little more than they had been told in the Wednesday evening bulletin. The last part of the report, however, was an interview with the dead boy’s mother.

Miranda Cutter had changed considerably in the years since her son’s disappearance. The slender blond had morphed into a plump woman with dyed red curls. And her surname had changed to Browning.

In the interview she said what all bereaved parents say in such situations, that at least now she finally knew Robin was dead, that now he could have a proper funeral, and she could try to move forward with her life. Miranda Browning didn’t say anything about her son’s killer and the need for him to be brought to justice. She didn’t need to. Every newspaper in the country was doing the job for her.

As soon as the interview had finished Carole looked across at Jude and saw a strange expression on her neighbour’s face. “What is it?”

“I know her. Miranda Browning. She’s one of my clients.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Someone referred her to me last year because she’d been getting these terrible headaches. I managed to alleviate the symptoms, but I knew what was really causing them was some deep inner tension, some powerful emotion she was holding in. She wouldn’t tell me what it was. Now I know, though.”

“When you say she’s a client, Jude…”

“Hm?”

“…do you mean she’s a friend too?”

“I don’t know her that well.”

“Well enough to ring her with condolences, you know, about what’s happened?”

“I wouldn’t want to trouble her at a time like this.”

“A time when she probably needs your healing services more than ever,” Carole suggested. “If our investigation’s going to get any further…”

“What do you mean?”

“If we find out who killed her son, then we’ll help her get that psychological thing Americans go on about so much.”

“Closure?”

“Yes. Look, she probably knows more about the case than anyone else, and you’ve got a direct line to her.”

Jude felt uneasy. When it came to client confidentiality, she had strict boundaries. To contact Miranda Browning at a time like this simply to find out more about her son’s disappearance would definitely be a step too far. On the other hand, if her intervention as a healer could help ease the woman’s suffering…

“What do you say, Jude?”

“I say that at times you can be surprisingly unsentimental.”

Carole Seddon smiled. She took what her friend had just said as a compliment.

¦

On the following morning, the Friday, the phone rang in High Tor. It was a very flustered-sounding Reginald Flowers. “Carole, I’m ringing about the quiz night tonight.”

“Oh yes?” She had forgotten all about the event, but quickly prepared a battery of excuses as to why she couldn’t attend. Then she had a moment of uncertainty. The Smalting Beach Hut Association quiz night would quite possibly gather together many of the principals who might have information about the grisly discovery under Quiet Harbour. Maybe if she and Jude were to attend, they might advance the course of their investigation.

But this thought became immediately irrelevant, as Reginald Flowers went on, “Anyway, I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel it.”

“The quiz? Oh dear. Is that out of respect?”

“I’m sorry? What do you mean?”

“Out of respect for Robin Cutter, you know, now he’s been identified as –”

“For heaven’s sake, it’s nothing to do with Robin Cutter,” he responded testily. “I wouldn’t change my plans because of something like that. I thought all that was safely dead and buried – in every sense. If some silly child chooses to put himself in danger’s way…”

This was a novel reaction to the tragedy, one that Carole certainly hadn’t heard before. “No, the reason the quiz night is going to have to be cancelled is that I have once again been guilty of assuming that other people are as efficient in the basic, simple things of life as I am myself. The SBHA has a secretary – or at least someone who has the title of secretary –”

“Yes, I met her with you on Smalting Beach the other day. Dora Pinchbeck.”

“Dora Pinchbeck, exactly. Dora, who, as I say has the title of secretary of the Smalting Beach Hut Association, but who turns out to be totally incompetent. She undertook to make the booking for tonight’s quiz night at St Mary’s Church Hall, but when I rang the caretaker there this morning to check some details, it turns out she hadn’t done it. Not a difficult task to undertake, you might think, but clearly beyond the capacity of our secretary Dora. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot,’ she said when I rang her about it this morning. Forgot! And, needless to say, there’s now something else booked into St Mary’s Hall for tonight. A meeting of the Smalting Local History Society, would you believe? I am, needless to say, extremely angry. It’s the old thing, isn’t it – if you want a job done properly, do it yourself. Dora, my so-called secretary, offered to ring round all the members of the SBHA, but I said, ‘No, thank you, Dora. I want to ensure that everyone gets the message, so I’ll do it myself.’ Which is why I’m calling you, Carole,” he concluded, on a note of affronted martyrdom.

“So all we lack for this evening’s quiz night is a venue?”

“You say ‘all we lack’, Carole, but it is a rather major lack. There’s nowhere else suitable in Smalting, except for one of the rooms at The Crab Inn and, as I may have said, the prices there are now quite extortionate…” Belatedly he seemed to catch on to something in her intonation. “Why, you’re not suggesting that you might know of a suitable alternative venue?”

“There’s somewhere I could try. I’ll ring you back if I have any luck. Well, I’ll let you know either away.”