The Fethering Mysteries 12; Bones Under The Beach Hut

she found she was rather attracted to the idea.

“Do you find that the locals in Smalting have accepted you, Philly?” asked Jude.

“Oh, I don’t think ‘accepted’ quite. That takes a good few years.”

“And they’d feel happier if your family had been there for three generations,” suggested Carole.

“Well, no, not really, because none of the people in Smalting have actually been there that long. House prices are far too high for the locals. The place has been bought up mostly by retired couples with whacking great pensions. Mind you, even if they’ve only been there a couple of years, they still make you feel your lowly status as an ‘incomer’.”

“Does it get you down?” asked Jude gently.

That prompted a rueful grin from Philly. “It used not too. We used to find it quite funny, giggle about it. But that was…well…It does get me down a bit. Doesn’t take much, I’m afraid, to get me down these days.” Again Carole and Jude could sense the depth of her pain.

Conversation flowed easily enough for the rest of the meal, but they kept to uncontroversial subjects of local interest. When Jude raised the question of dessert or coffee, Philly Rose looked at her watch and said, “Sorry, I must dash. I have actually – thank God – had a commission designing a brochure and I’m up against a deadline.”

“Good you’ve got some work,” said Jude.

“Yes. Anyway, must be off.” She reached for a wallet in the back pocket of her white jeans. “Now how much will my share be?”

“No, my idea, my treat,” said Jude.

“Well, if you’re sure…” But Philly didn’t take much convincing. “I’m very grateful, because things –”

“It’s fine,” Jude interrupted sensitively. “By the way, when we last spoke you said you were thinking of selling the house. Is that still your plan?”

“I think it must be. I can’t really see much alternative.” And a new level of bleakness came into her brown eyes.

“Things’ll sort themselves out,” said Jude.

“Yeah.” Philly’s response was almost brusque, as if she was embarrassed by having shown how much she was hurting. “Well, I can’t thank you enough, Jude. And lovely to meet you, Carole. I must be off.”

“Oh, one thing,” Carole interposed. “About the fire at Quiet Harbour – will you report that?”

“Report it?”

“To whoever it should be reported to. Someone at the Fether District Council, presumably.”

“Oh.” Philly seemed nonplussed. Clearly the idea didn’t appeal to her. “Would you mind doing that, Carole? I mean, you’re the one who’s renting the beach hut now.”

“Yes, but am I renting it officially? I mean, as far as the Fether District Council is concerned?”

“They are aware that I’ve made an agreement with you.”

Are they? thought Carole. I wish I’d known that earlier. It would have saved me a good deal of anxiety. “So it’s all official, is it?”

“Well…sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“The guy who looks after the beach huts for the Council – his name’s Kelvin Southwest – said he shouldn’t really allow it, but he’d stretch a point.”

“Why?”

Philly Rose blushed. “Well, I’m almost embarrassed to say this, but I think it was because he took a shine to me.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I’m rather afraid our Kelvin sees himself as something of a ‘ladies’ man’.”

“Oh?”

“Anyway, Carole, would you mind contacting him about the fire? His number’s on the Fether District Council website. Go into ‘Leisure’ and he’s under ‘Outdoor Recreation Office’.”

After Philly had left the Crown and Anchor, Carole looked beadily at Jude. “She’s hiding something.”

“What do you mean?”

“That business about the carpet in Quiet Harbour… She had no idea that it was there.”

“So?”

“Well, that means, as I say, that she’s hiding something.”

“Look, Carole, the poor thing’s in a bad state. She’s been recently dumped by the man she thought she was going to spend the rest of her life with. The last thing she needs at the moment is you badgering her.”

“I didn’t badger her.”

“I don’t know what else you’d call it – asking her how many keys there were to the beach hut. It was like an interrogation.”

“Hm,” said Carole rather grumpily. “Usually you’re supportive when we’re involved in one of our investigations.”

“Yes, I usually am. And I would be in this case too but for the fact that at the moment we don’t have an investigation.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Carole darkly.

? Bones Under The Beach Hut ?

Six

Carole could see what Philly Rose had meant when she described Kelvin Southwest as ‘something of a ladies’ man’. It was definitely how he appeared to view himself, though the jury was out on how most other people might see him.

He was tubby, probably early fifties, and had taken the ill-advised course adopted by so many men going thin on top. He had grown a goatee. His remaining hair was fair and fluffy and so was the beard. It weakened rather than strengthened the line of his jaw.

He wore a light blue polo shirt with the Fether District Council logo embroidered on to it, and tightly cut navy shorts, which somehow seemed wrong to Carole. All right, he was part of the Council’s Leisure Department, but she still had difficulty in taking seriously an official in shorts. Kelvin Southwest’s chubby legs were hairless and pale and ended in leather sandals worn over short white socks. The combination made it even more difficult to take him seriously.

On the phone they’d arranged to meet at Quiet Harbour at eleven o’clock on the following day, the Wednesday. The idea of Jude joining Carole had not even been mooted. For one thing, she had a client booked in that morning for treatment to painful knee joints. And for another, Jude didn’t share her neighbour’s conviction that they were at the commencement of another investigation.

Pathologically punctual as ever, Carole had the Renault parked by the promenade and was standing outside the beach hut at ten to eleven. Gulliver wandered down by the shoreline, intrigued by a whole new palette of smells.

Of course Carole could have unlocked the hut, but something told her she should wait until Kelvin Southwest’s arrival. She felt rather foolish, just standing there, particularly as she knew that anyone less uptight than Carole Seddon would have kicked their shoes off and sat down on the sand to wait. She wished she’d brought The Times crossword with her.

Kelvin Southwest arrived about ten minutes past eleven, carrying a plastic-covered clipboard. He made no apologies for his lateness, but stretched out a hand, saying, “Carole, how nice to see you. Now I didn’t get it on the phone. Am I talking to Mrs or Miss Seddon?”

“Mrs,” replied Carole, a trifle frostily.

“Lucky Mr Seddon,” said Kelvin Southwest with what he must for some reason have thought was a seductive smile.