The Fethering Mysteries 12; Bones Under The Beach Hut

Dora Pinchbeck, then Carole was in a situation of which she could take advantage.

She tested it out by saying, “I’m afraid I’m not allowed to give out any information about the case until there’s an official press conference.”

“No, no, of course I can see that.” Dora sounded disappointed but realistic. It had just been a punt. She hadn’t really been expecting to be given the inside track on the investigation.

“And in fact,” Carole went on, gaining confidence in her new spurious role, “I would rather you kept the information that Helga Czesky gave you under wraps. The work we do is kind of undercover, so we don’t want everyone in Smalting to know about it.”

“I understand completely.”

Carole fixed Dora Pinchbeck with a beady eye. “May I ask whether you have told anyone else what Jude and I really do.”

The embarrassed expression on the woman’s face told Carole that she had struck gold. “Well, I’m sorry,” Dora Pinchbeck floundered. “I shouldn’t have, I suppose, but, you know, if you’re in conversation with someone, well, it is quite easy to let things slip.”

“Who have you told?” came the implacable question.

There was a long silence, during which Carole suddenly became aware of a moral dilemma. Given her background in the Home Office, she knew full well how serious was the crime of impersonating a member of the police force. That was black and white. But considerably greyer was the ethical position of someone being assumed to be a policewoman and not putting right the person who had made the assumption. Jude, she knew, would have had no worries at all about the situation, regarding it as an instance of serendipity, of some cosmic force displaying generosity, a gift from the gods, which it would be bad manners to turn down, or some other New Age mumbo- jumbo. But Carole Seddon was wary of such casuistry.

Fortunately, her moral meanderings were cut short when Dora Pinchbeck gave her the name of the person she had told about her supposed status as a plain-clothes policewoman. And the minute she heard the name, all qualms vanished.

“Kelvin Southwest.”

“When did you tell him?”

“Thursday night. Just after he arrived at the Crown and Anchor. I was chatting to him and then when you and your friend came in, he said something about the two of you, and I told him what I’d heard from Helga. I’m terribly sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Carole with magisterial generosity.

She couldn’t believe her luck. Now she knew why Kelvin Southwest had avoided her at the beginning of the previous evening. And now she had a hold over him. If Kelvin Southwest thought she was a member of the police force, then he wasn’t going to refuse to answer her questions about what he got up to in an empty beach hut with binoculars, was he?

? Bones Under The Beach Hut ?

Thirty-Four

There was no ‘lovely lady’ flirtatiousness from the Fether District Council official when Carole rang his mobile number. The tension in his voice suggested that he had been expecting her call, and he proved to be very biddable. Yes, of course he would meet her whenever she liked. He’d rather not make it at his house, because he didn’t want his mother to get upset. On Smalting Beach would be fine. Yes, at Fowey. He’d be with her in as long as it took.

Carole Seddon felt a glow of satisfaction as she sat outside the beach hut waiting for him. The odds on her getting a solution to the case seemed suddenly to have shortened considerably. And she relished the prospect of telling her neighbour how she solved it single-handedly while Jude was in Brighton. Past Life Regression Workshop – huh.

She looked along the row of beach huts and felt as if she belonged there. She was almost a hutter, and would be more than competent to welcome Gaby and Lily to Fowey the next day. Or would she be able finally to return to her original beach hut?

Carole had noticed earlier that all traces of the police presence around Quiet Harbour had now been removed. Maybe she could reclaim it? Architecturally the two beach huts were absolutely identical, but, in spite of everything that had happened there, Carole did have a sneaking preference for Quiet Harbour over Fowey. It felt more hers.

Smalting Beach was getting back to normal, though. The doors to Shrimphaven were open. Inside no doubt Katie Brunswick was continuing the Sisyphean task of rewriting her novel.

And further along the Olivers had taken up their customary positions: Joyce on her lounger with another wordsearch book, Lionel, as ever dressed for work with his suit jacket over the back of his chair, looking out to sea. Carole could only conjecture what thoughts might be going through their heads, and the extent to which memories of their lost grandson filled them. She felt something approaching a crusading zeal at the prospect of her interview with Kelvin Southwest. At last she might be able to unearth some information that might help the Olivers and Miranda Browning come to terms with their family tragedy.

“Good morning.”

Carole looked up to see that her quarry had arrived. As a concession to the weekend, he was not in his Fether District Council livery, but still dressed in virtually identical style. A green polo shirt and much-pocketed khaki shorts strained over his chubby body. His footwear remained leather sandals over short white socks.

He looked ill at ease, his right hand tugging nervously at his silky goatee.

“Good morning. Do sit down.” Carole gestured to the other director’s chair she’d set out for him. Shiftily he did as she suggested, looking anxiously to the beach huts on either side. Both were closed up.

“Nobody will hear what we’re saying,” continued Carole, “but of course if you’d rather go inside the hut or move somewhere more private…”

“No, this’ll be fine.” Kelvin Southwest perched uncomfortably on the edge of his seat, as though suffering from a bad case of piles. “Incidentally,” he said, “we’ve had the all-clear from the police. They’ve finished their investigations in Quiet Harbour, so you can go back there if you want to.”

“Oh, thank you. I might go back there tomorrow. That’s when my daughter-in-law and granddaughter are arriving. Do you have the key?”

He had come prepared and passed it across.

There was a rather awkward silence. Having actually got the man there, Carole was beginning to wish she’d given a bit more thought to how she intended to conduct their interview. But fortunately Kelvin Southwest made it easy for her by saying, “Look, I haven’t done anything that’s harmed anyone.”

“No?”

Happily this was sufficient prompt for him to continue, “Who told you about me using the binoculars? Who shopped me?”

“I don’t think it’s relevant for me to disclose that information at this point,” said Carole, amazed at how instinctively she had once again dropped into police-speak.

“Look, all right, I’m attracted to kids, but I’d never do anything that’d harm them,” he reiterated.

“I’m not sure that you’re necessarily the best judge of that, Mr Southwest.” She was damned if she was going to go back to calling him ‘Kel’.

“I can’t help the feelings I have,” he said, hoping – unsuccessfully – to engage her sympathy. “And I have now got much better control over them.”

“Could you explain to me what you mean by that?”

“Listen, all right, a few years ago, yes, I did sometimes take my binoculars into one of the empty beach huts. I actually made spy holes in it, so’s I could…Look, I’m not proud of what I’ve done, but back then I couldn’t control my urges.” He reverted to another thought that still nagged at him. “I bet I know who it was who shopped me to you. It’d be that Dora Pinchbeck. I’d put money on it. She’s always been a nosy cow.”

“I will neither confirm nor deny your conjectures, Mr Southwest,” Carole pronounced in magnificent police- speak. “The identity of the person who, as you put it, ‘shopped’ you is not important, and will only become