Bones Under The Beach Hut (5 page)

    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.

    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.

    '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 should want to spend time with a beautiful woman?'

    Her
first instinct was to say that she wasn't a beautiful woman, but Carole curbed
it. She couldn't face the inevitable blandishments and reassurances that such
an assertion would provoke. 'So what is it you want to talk to me about?'

    He
again looked offended by her directness. 'Well, of course, about the beach hut.
About
Quiet Harbour.'