The Fethering Mysteries 12; Bones Under The Beach Hut

“I’m divorced.” That was even frostier.

“Ah-hah, on the market again. That’s going to be good news for someone.” If there was one masculine quality Carole Seddon disliked it was roguishness. And she would have thought her expression made that clear. But evidently it didn’t, as Kelvin Southwest continued, “So you’re the lovely lady who is now the tenant of Quiet Harbour.”

“Yes. Miss Rose assured me that you knew all about the handover and were quite happy about it.” He looked at her with an enigmatic grin. “I mean that you said it was quite legal.”

“Ooh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say ‘legal’, Mrs Seddon.” He then compounded his roguishness by winking. “Let’s say I was happy to sanction the arrangement. I won’t tell on you.” He punctuated this piece of schoolboy slang with a chuckle. “I can never say no to a pretty woman, you know.”

“Ah.”

“Still, unfortunately I can’t spend my morning gazing into your blue eyes – much as I would like to.”

Carole very nearly made a sharp rejoinder to that and might well have done so, had not Gulliver, curious about who his mistress was talking to, at that moment bounded up to her.

“Is this your dog?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.” He raised a plump finger and shook it in mock reproof. “Naughty, naughty.”

“What?”

“During the summer months dogs should be kept on a lead on Smalting Beach. Fether District Council regulations.”

“There’s no sign up to say that.”

“No, I agree there isn’t. It’s just one of those things that everyone who uses the beach knows.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Clearly, Mrs Seddon. And I’d love to make an exception to the rule – especially when it concerns such a lovely lady as yourself – but I’m afraid in this instance my hands are tied. It’s not like you taking over the rental. With dogs it’d be the other beach users who’d object, you see. They’d accuse me of favouritism, and I can’t have that, can I?”

“I’ll put his lead on,” said Carole shortly. “Come on, Gulliver, come here, boy.” Once a rather miffed dog was secured, she turned back to the Fether District Council official. “I believe we were discussing the legality of my having taken over the rental of this beach hut from Philly Rose, Mr Southwest.”

“Yes, of course we were. And I have already told you I have no problems with that. Waiting lists can always be circumvented, you know, for the right person.” He leered at her. “But I am here this morning as a result of your phone call yesterday. I am employed by the Fether District Council to do a job, and that is what I must do.” He somehow managed to make it sound as though Carole was preventing him from discharging his duty. “Now, Mrs Seddon, you spoke of a fire having been lit under this beach hut…”

“Yes. Do you want to see inside?” She reached into her trouser pocket for the key.

“Don’t worry, I have a set of my own. If you don’t mind, I’d rather examine the damage from the outside first.”

“Fine.” Carole led the way to the back of the hut. “As you see, it’s here, under this corner.”

Kelvin Southwest sank into a crouch, a movement which threatened to split his tight blue shorts. He inspected the burn marks and poked a stick at the scorched rags beneath.

“Vandals, do you reckon?” asked Carole.

He stood up self-importantly to his full height, about level with her shoulder. “Possibly,” he replied. “I will complete my examination of the damage before committing myself to a theory as to what actually happened.”

He moved back to the front of Quiet Harbour, took a bunch of keys out of his pocket and selected one. “This was meant to be the master key for all of the Smalting beach huts. Originally all of the padlocks were from the same manufacturer, so although they all had individually different locks, this little baby opened all of them. Still, after a time the salt gets into some of the mechanisms and they sieze up. People who replace the padlocks on their huts – and I can understand why they sometimes have to do that – are meant to lodge a spare key with me at the Council offices. But do they? Do they hell!

“Fortunately, Quiet Harbour still has its original padlocks.” Sure enough, they gave easily to his master key. “Now I will examine the interior.”

In his official, professional mode Kelvin Southwest clearly imagined himself to be the archetype of reliability and efficiency. That wasn’t how he came across to Carole, though. To her he was just a pompous little jobsworth.

She stayed outside watching as he entered the hut and, following her movements of the previous day, moved across to the corner and flipped back a triangle of carpet. He again crouched, giving her a further unwanted view of straining shorts and builder’s crack. On rising, he was smugly silent as he made notes on his clipboard.

“Someone put the fire out,” reiterated Carole. “Someone must’ve –”

Kelvin Southwest raised a hand to silence her and she was duly – though somewhat irritatedly – silent while he completed his notes. Then he looked down at the floorboards and squatted, offering yet more builder’s crack.

He rose to his feet and looked at Carole sternly. “You haven’t been fooling with these floorboards, have you?”

“No, of course I haven’t.”

“Because someone has hammered some new nails into them.”

“Yes, I noticed that. I was going to –”

He raised his hand again and, to Carole’s annoyance, she was again silent.

“I think I know what we should do next,” he announced.

“What?”

His chubby face crinkled again into the expression that he believed to be charming as he said, “I think we should go and have a cup of tea and talk about things, Mrs Seddon. Or may I call you Carole?”

She wanted to say, “Mrs Seddon to you,” but hadn’t quite got the nerve. Instead, she heard herself saying, “Yes, of course, Mr Southwest.”

“My friends call me Kel.”

Well, if you think I’m going to call you Kel you’ve got another think coming, was the thought in Carole’s mind as, to her fury, she said, “Oh, right you are, Kel.”

Kelvin Southwest clearly prided himself on his local knowledge. Assuring Carole that he knew the best tea shop in Smalting, he led her straight to The Copper Kettle on the promenade. She did not think that the guiding hand he occasionally put on her hips was strictly necessary, but he did it in such a way that it could have been accidental. In each instance the contact was so brief that it would have looked excessive for her to have made a fuss.

The flirtatious way with which he greeted the owner and staff of The Copper Kettle showed him to be a regular, and he made such a big deal of the treat he was offering Carole that he could have been taking her to the Savoy Grill.

“Best cup of tea in Smalting,” he assured her. “And the prettiest waitresses,” he added with a wink to one particularly drab specimen. “So, a pot of tea for two then.”

“I’d rather have coffee,” said Carole.

“Oh, very well. How would you like it?” he asked. “A tall skinny latte?”

“Just ordinary coffee, thank you. Black.”

“Right you are.” He favoured the waitress with one of his roguish smiles. “So, beautiful, that’s a pot of tea for one and a black coffee. And would you like something to eat, Carole? Best cakes and pastries in Smalting here, you know.”

“Just the coffee, thank you.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll have one of your Swiss buns, angel cake. Because I’m not sweet enough already,” he simpered to the waitress.

This tiresome little ritual concluded and when the girl went off to get their order, Carole became brisk and businesslike. “Was there some reason why you wanted to talk to me further?”

Kelvin’s face took on an expression of mock hurt. “Does there have to be a reason? Isn’t it enough that I