The Body on the Beach (11 page)

This had prompted a quick glance at her large watch-face from Jude and a, ‘No thanks, I don’t want anything. Bit early for me to start on the wine, anyway. But don’t let me
stop you.’

The response had caught Carole on the back foot, seeming to imply that if anyone had an over-enthusiasm for alcohol it was her. But Jude’s brown eyes contained no censure or patronage.
Carole was coming to the conclusion that her new neighbour was a very unusual person. Certainly in Fethering.

‘We’ve got the knife,’ said Carole, picking up from Jude’s question. ‘But whether that has any relevance to the body on the beach, we just don’t know, do
we?’

‘Let’s start from the other point of view,’ said Jude. ‘If we assumed that the knife
did
have something to do with the body . . . would that
help?’

‘It depends
what
it had to do with the body.’

‘All right. Well, your woman with the gun mentioned a knife, so that’s a start. But suppose it actually belonged to the dead man . . . that it dropped out of his pocket
while he was hidden away in the boat?’

‘We don’t know he
was
hidden away in the boat,’ Carole objected.

‘No, but let’s assume that too. Think about it. Where else could the body have been hidden where the police wouldn’t see it?’

‘The boats are the obvious place, I agree. Or I suppose there are those chest things on the sea wall, where the fishermen keep their stuff. They’re kept padlocked, but if someone was
prepared to break into a boat, they’d be equally ready to cut through a padlock.’

‘Yes.’

‘Surely, though, if the police were looking properly for the body I told them about, then they’d have gone up to the Yacht Club, wouldn’t they?’

‘Ah, but were they looking properly? Or had they already marked you down as a hysterical fantasist before they got to the scene?’

Carole was affronted. ‘I don’t see how they could possibly have done that. When I rang them, I was extremely unemotional and controlled.’

‘But you did say that you’d bathed Gulliver before calling them.’

‘Yes. Yes, I think I did.’

Jude shrugged. ‘That was probably what did it.’

‘How? But . . .’ Carole didn’t pursue the objection. ‘All right,
assuming
the body was hidden in the boat after I found it, that does raise a few other
questions, doesn’t it?’

‘Like who hid it there?’

‘Certainly.’

‘And, more to the point, Carole, who removed it from the boat before we looked under the cover this afternoon?’

‘Yes. And, still maintaining all the assumptions about there being a connection, the only clue we have to help us answer those questions is the Stanley knife . . .’

‘Which might have belonged to the dead man . . . or might have belonged to the person who left the body there . . .’

‘Or might have belonged to anyone else in the world,’ Carole couldn’t help saying.

‘Ssh. Ssh.’ Jude spoke very soothingly, as if she were some kind of therapist. ‘We’re just letting our ideas flow. Hold back on the logic for a little bit
longer.’

‘All right.’

Jude’s brows wrinkled as her mind focused. ‘Anyway, the knife couldn’t have belonged to anyone else in the world. There are geographical limitations, logistical limitations
. . . No, when you come right down to it, there are very few people to whom that Stanley knife could have belonged. Hm . . .’ She twirled a tendril of blonde hair
thoughtfully between finger and thumb. ‘I suppose in fact the most likely person to have dropped the knife – is the boat’s owner . . .’

‘Who
might
be Rory Turnbull . . . assuming we go along with the theory that he would give the same name to his boat as his house.’

‘Let’s go along with that for a moment.’ As she concentrated, Jude seemed to go in an almost trancelike state.

‘Well,’ said Carole with no-nonsense practicality, ‘easy enough to find out who owns the boat. We simply ask our friend the Vice-Commodore.’

Jude dragged herself back to reality. ‘Alternatively, I haven’t registered with a dentist down here yet. Now I’ve met Barbara Turnbull and her mother, I’d like to know
more about Rory.’

‘All right. He’s a bit of a sad case, as you saw in the pub. Anyway, you pursue that line of inquiry.’ Carole moved into the delegating mode which had served her so well during
her Home Office career. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll find out about J. T. Carpets. Start with
Yellow Pages
, then see where I go from there.’

‘Good,’ said Jude. ‘That sounds very good.’ Then, with another look at the moon-face of her watch, she stood up. ‘I must be off.’

And within a minute she was out of the house, leaving Carole to wonder why she had to be off so suddenly. And to realize that, after all her worries about Jude staying too long, she
wouldn’t have minded her staying a little longer.

The red light on the answering machine was flashing when Jude got back to Woodside Cottage. Just one message. From Brad, saying he hoped she’d settled in all right to her
new home and lots of luck for the next stage of her life. And it’d be good to see her.

Yes, she thought, it’d be good to see Brad too. Been a while. She’d call him later. First, though, she dialled a local number.

‘Hello?’ The voice was politely deterrent.

‘Barbara, it’s Jude.’

‘Oh?’

‘Jude from the coffee morning. New resident of Woodside Cottage.’

‘Of course. How nice to hear from you.’ The words were entirely automatic, invested with no element of sincerity.

‘It was such a pleasure to meet you and your mother.’ Jude’s words, though completely untrue, sounded sincere. ‘Thank you so much for inviting me.’

‘We always like to make newcomers welcome here in Fethering . . . in the hope we’re going to swell the All Saints’ congregation.’ The reproof in the voice, at
Jude’s failure to espouse the Church of England, was hardly disguised.

‘Well, I just wanted to say that I appreciated it, and thank you for going to all that trouble.’ Jude knew she was being over the top. Providing coffee and biscuits for a dozen
people was hardly the most onerous assignment since records began.

But apparently it had seemed so to Barbara Turnbull. ‘Yes, well, one likes to make an effort. And I’ve just about finished clearing it up now. I told you I’m completely without
help, didn’t I?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Maggie, my –’ Barbara had the usual middle-class difficulty with how one referred to staff – ‘my “lady who does”, didn’t come in
today.’

‘Oh yes, you did say.’

‘And what’s more, I’ve just heard from her to say she won’t be in tomorrow either. Still some problem with her son. I don’t know, it’s so thoughtless. I told
her, in no uncertain terms, that she couldn’t assume that the job at Brigadoon would stay open for ever. Have you found someone?’

The abrupt change of direction threw Jude. ‘Sorry? Found someone?’

‘To do your cleaning.’

This prompted a peal of laughter. ‘Oh, really, Barbara! I’m not going to have a cleaner. Can’t afford to, apart from anything else. And I think I can probably manage myself.
Woodside Cottage is absolutely tiny.’

‘Yes.’ There was a wealth of nuance in the monosyllable, as Barbara Turnbull moved her new acquaintance a few more notches down her social ranking system. ‘Well, it was a
pleasure to meet you and I do appreciate your ringing.’

But Jude wasn’t yet ready to have the conversation terminated. ‘One thing I wanted to ask . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m not registered with a dentist down here and I wondered whether your husband—’

‘Rory isn’t taking on any new National Health patients,’ his wife asserted quickly.

‘No, I wasn’t imagining I could get a National Health dentist down here. I just wondered if you could give me the number of his practice.’

Unable to find any fault with the concept of getting her husband more work, Barbara Turnbull gave the number. Jude, in a spirit of devilment, then brought her own end to the conversation.
‘And I hope that you’ll let me repay your hospitality and that you’ll come and have coffee here with me at Woodside Cottage one morning.’

‘Yes. That’d be delightful. I’ll look forward to it,’ said Barbara Turnbull, meaning the exact opposite.

It was still office hours, so Jude rang through to the surgery number Barbara Turnbull had given her. She explained that she had just moved to the area and was looking for a
dentist with whom to register. Once it had been established that she was prepared to pay for her treatment, the woman at the surgery became much more accommodating and asked when Jude would like to
make an appointment. As soon as possible. Well, they had actually had a cancellation for the following morning.

Jude said that would be absolutely fine, couldn’t be better. ‘And that will be Mr Turnbull I’ll be seeing, will it?’

‘Sorry?’ For the first time the voice sounded a little fazed.

‘Mr Turnbull. He was the dentist that was recommended to me. My appointment is with him, is it?’

‘Possibly.’ But the voice was cagey. ‘It may be one of his partners. We tend to allocate new patients according to who’s free.’

‘Surely the appointment is with one dentist or the other?’

But the voice did not wish to pursue this.

‘See you in the morning. Thursday the 8th, ten-twenty. Goodbye.’

Bit odd. Still, at least she wasn’t going to have to wait long for her appointment. Jude smiled softly to herself and then keyed in Brad’s familiar number.

The first bit of Carole’s research also went smoothly. J. T. Carpets were listed in the
Yellow Pages
, with an address not far away in East Preston. When she rang,
the phone was answered by a voice which implied that it was very near the end of the working day and she had been about to get off home.

‘My name’s Mrs Seddon and I’m ringing because I found something which I believe is your property.’

‘What’s that then?’

‘It’s a knife . . . a Stanley knife . . . and it says “
J. T. CARPETS
” on it.’

‘If it says “
J. T. CARPETS
” on it, then there’s a strong chance that it does belong to J. T. Carpets, I’d have said.’ The girl’s
voice was poised just the right side of insolence. But only just. ‘Did one of our fitters leave it in your house?’

‘No. I found it . . . on the beach.’ No need to be too specific.

‘Oh, all right. So why’re you telling me?’

‘I just thought you might want it back.’

‘Not that bothered,’ said the girl. ‘I mean, it’s only a Stanley knife. Not like it’s the only one in the building.’

‘Oh.’

Some residual compassion in the girl responded to the disappointment in Carole’s tone. ‘I mean, if you’re passing the office, drop it in by all means,’ she conceded
magnanimously.

‘But none of your staff has reported the knife missing?’

‘Oh, come on, if they’ve lost company property, they’re hardly going to go shouting to the boss about it, are they?’

‘No, I suppose not. So you have no idea which member of your staff might’ve mislaid the—’

‘Listen, lady. You drop it into the office, that’d be very public-spirited of you. If you don’t, the company’s not going to go to the wall – right? And, since it is
now after half-past five, I’ll say thank you very much for calling and
goodbye
!’

The phone was put down with some vigour. Carole felt uncomfortable. The patronizing tone been all too reminiscent of Detective Inspector Brayfield’s. And Carole was also left with the
feeling that she had a lot to learn about being a detective.

Jude’s appointment turned out not to be with Rory Turnbull. She was told when she arrived at the smart reception area that she’d be seen by a Mr Frobisher. While
she waited, Jude was aware of much toing and froing among the receptionists and dental nurses, as though the impact of some offstage crisis was being minimized for the watching patients.

The man who greeted her when she was ushered into his surgery was about forty and fit-looking, with an unreconstructed Australian accent. He was immaculately clean in white coat and rubber
gloves, and his surroundings matched him. All the equipment was shiny and new. Even his dental nurse looked as though she’d been recently delivered and only just removed from her
wrappings.

‘I was put on to this practice by Barbara Turnbull,’ said Jude, as she was settled into the chair and floated into a prone position.

‘Oh yes?’ said Mr Frobisher, without much interest.

‘So I thought I might be seen by Mr Turnbull.’

‘There are three of us in the practice. We tend to share out the new patients. I hope that’s all right with you . . .’

‘Yes, yes. Absolutely fine. So is Mr Turnbull in today?’

‘No, he isn’t, as it happens.’ Was Jude being hypersensitive in detecting a slight resentment in Mr Frobisher’s reaction to his colleague’s absence? He sat astride
his mobile stool and focused the overhead light on her face. ‘So, Mrs—’

‘Please call me “Jude”. Everyone does.’

‘Very well then, Jude . . . any problems with your teeth?’

‘No, I just wanted to get registered.’

‘Fine. Well, I’ll have a quick look and confirm everything’s OK.’

For the next few minutes, Mr Frobisher’s probing around her mouth made further conversation impossible. He called out a few notes to the dental nurse, who clicked them in on a
keyboard.

There was an interruption when one of the receptionists entered with a sheaf of printed papers. Some silent semaphore with Mr Frobisher caused him to break away from his examination of
Jude’s teeth. With an ‘Excuse me a moment’, he crossed to look at what the receptionist had brought in.

‘No, that has to be wrong.’

‘It’s in black and white, Frobie.’

‘Must be a misprint. Tell them I’ll come and have a word in a couple of minutes, OK?’

He crossed back to his patient as the receptionist left the surgery. ‘Sorry about that. We’re having an inspection by the RDO – that’s the Regional Dental Officer.
Routine stuff, but they always manage to disrupt the whole place.’

‘What is it that they—’