“He’s all right, Mum,” the man shouted as we approached. He turned to me. “My missus thought you looked like you were going to do yourself in,” he said. “You know, wade out to sea and never come back.”
“Nothing like that,” I said, giving him a smile. “I assure you.”
He handed me a large white cup of milky tea and took another for himself from the cheerful-looking little lady behind the counter.
“Sugar?” he asked.
“No thanks,” I said, taking a welcome sip of the steaming brown liquid. “It’s a beautiful day.”
“We need it to last, though,” he said. “July and August are our really busy times. That’s when the families come. Mostly just a bunch of old-age pensioners, OAPs, in June. Lots of pots of tea and the occasional ice cream, but very few burgers. We need the sun to shine all summer if we’re going to survive.”
“Are you open all year round?” I asked.
“No chance,” he said. “May to September, if we’re lucky. I’m usually a builder’s laborer in the winter. If there’s any work, that is. Not looking good this year with the economy going down the bloody tubes. At least most folk aren’t going abroad for their holidays, eh? Not with the pound so low. Too expensive.”
We stood together for a moment silently drinking our tea.
“I must get on,” said the man. “Can’t stand here all day. I also run the pedalos and the windsurfers, and they won’t get themselves out, now will they?”
“Can I give you a hand?” I asked.
He looked at my dark trousers and my white shirt.
“They’ll clean,” I said to him.
He looked up at my face and smiled. “Let’s get on, then.”
“Ned Talbot,” I said, holding out my hand.
“Hugh Hanson,” he said, shaking it.
“Right, then, Hugh,” I said. “Where are these pedalos?”
I spent most of the next hour helping to pull pedal boats and windsurfers out of two great big steel ship’s containers, lining them up on the beach ready for rent.
My trousers had a few oily marks on them from the pedal mechanisms and my white shirt had long ago lost its sharp creases by the time Hugh and I went back to the cream-painted hut for another cup of tea.
“Proper job,” he said, grinning broadly. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I replied, grinning back. “Best bereavement therapy I’ve ever known.”
“Bereavement?” he asked, suddenly serious.
“Yes,” I said. “My mother.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “When did she die?”
“Thirty-six years ago,” I said.
He was slightly taken aback, which I suppose was fair enough.
“Long time to grieve.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “But I only found out where she died yesterday.”
“Where?” He seemed surprised. “Why does it matter where she died?”
“Because she died here,” I said. “Just over there.” I pointed. “Where I was standing on the beach.”
He looked over to where I had been under the pier, then he turned back to me.
“Wasn’t murdered, was she?” he asked me.
I stood there looking at him in stunned silence.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said.“I didn’t think she’d been old enough to be anyone’s mother.”
“She was eighteen,” I said. “She would have been nineteen in the September.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“How did you know?” I asked him.
“I didn’t,” he said. “But the murder of that girl was such big news round these parts. My father owned the business then, of course, but I was working for him. We were bigger then, with masses of boats for hire. Little motorboats with engines, you know, and those catamaran-float things with paddles. That murder shut us down completely for a week, and the summer seasons took years to recover.”
I stood on the concrete walkway and looked again at the space beneath the pier.
“They never caught the man who done it, did they?” he said. “That’s what really did for us all. No one felt safe with a killer on the loose. People stopped coming to Paignton for years. Stupid. The killer was probably a visitor from up-country anyway. After all, your mum wasn’t local, was she?”
I shook my head. “Were you here the day they found her?” I asked him.
“Certainly was,” he said. “It was Father who saw her lying under the pier and went over to wake her up. Helluva mad, he was. Sleeping on the beach isn’t allowed. We’re always having things damaged by people who use our stuff for shelters. Anyway, he couldn’t wake her up because she was dead. Bloody white, he went. I thought he was going to be sick. It was me as called the police. From a pay phone that used to stand on that corner.” He pointed.
“Did she really look like she was asleep?” I asked.
“I presume so,” he said. “I didn’t see her close up.” He sounded frustrated. “By the time I’d made the call, some bloody do-gooder security man had set up a load of rope to keep people away.”
“Was she naked?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “I don’t think so.” He thought. “It’s a long time ago, but I think she had all her clothes on. Otherwise, Father wouldn’t have thought she was asleep, would he?”
“Is your dad still alive?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “The old boy died about ten years ago.”
Pity, I thought.
“Did anyone else see her before the rope went up?” I asked.
“A few other people did,” he said. “But I don’t know who they were.”
I must have looked disappointed.
“There was masses about it in the local paper for days and days,” he said. “They’ll surely have copies of them in the local library. Those reporters would have found out if she wasn’t properly dressed. They were here for ages. Television too.”
I looked at my watch. It was already almost ten o’clock. The library must be open by now. “Where is the library?” I asked
“In Courtland Road,” he said. “Not far. That direction,” he pointed.
“I might just go there later,” I said.
“Do you fancy a bacon-and-egg sandwich?” Hugh asked, changing the subject. “I’m having one.”
“I’d love one,” I said.
We sat on chairs put out for the customers of the refreshment hut, and his wife brought each of us a fresh mug of tea and a huge sandwich with so much bacon-and-egg filling that it was falling out the sides. I ate mine with eager relish. I hadn’t realized I was so hungry.
“How much do I owe you for that?” I asked, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand and drinking down the last of my tea.
“Don’t be silly,” he said. “You earned it.”
“Thanks, Hugh,” I said, and stood up. “I hope the sun shines for you all summer.”
“Thanks,” he said. He too stood up, and we shook hands. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“What?” I said.
“Find out more about your mother’s death.”
“What do you mean?” I asked him.
“Sometimes it’s better to leave sleeping dogs lie,” he said. “You might find out something you don’t like.”
How could anything be worse than finding out your own mother was murdered by your father, I thought.
“Thanks for the concern,” I said. “I was only one when she died, and I don’t remember her at all. But I have a need in me to find out more. She made me who I am, and I desperately want to learn more about her. At present, I know almost nothing. This is the only place to start.”
He nodded. “Let me know if you need any help. You know where to find me.”
