by Simon Brett
'You did, however, come down to Smalting last week, didn't you?' continued Carole in the same tone. 'Why didn't you see her then?'
'Ah.' His naughty schoolboy expression was just the same as Gray Czesky's in similar circumstances. 'I didn't know anyone had seen me down here.'
'You must've lived in a country village long enough to know that nothing - absolutely nothing - you do in a place like that is unseen.'
'Yes, I suppose you're right.'
Jude's approach was, as ever, less confrontational than her neighbour's. 'So why didn't you contact Philly?' she asked gently.
'That was what I meant to do. I'd been out of the Lewes hospital for over a week, I'd sorted out the rather dingy room I've got here in Littlehampton, and I felt ready to at least try and see Philly. So I took a cab to Smalting that Monday evening.'
'Without ringing Philly to tell her you were coming?'
'Yes, without doing that. And I think I know why. If I'm brutally honest with myself, I didn't ring her because that meant I could still duck out of the meeting if I wanted to. You know, if when I got to Smalting I lost my nerve.'
'And I assume you did lose your nerve. That was why you didn't go to see her.'
'Well, it wasn't exactly losing my nerve, though I suppose it was in a way. I got to Smalting and rather than going straight to Seashell Cottage, I . . . well, I thought I might drop in on Gray Czesky, just to see if he'd heard anything about Philly, to see if he knew whether she was actually still in Smalting and . . . Yes, I suppose I did lose my nerve.'
'And you also, I assume, knew,' said Carole, 'that going to see Gray Czesky would inevitably lead to another drinking session with him.'
Jude continued the chain of thought. 'And you wouldn't want Philly to see you in a drunken state, because that is one of the few things you argued about. So the moment you decided to go and see Gray was the moment you decided you weren't going to see Philly that evening.'
Mark Dennis's nod confirmed that she'd got it right. 'And I did get very drunk, I'm afraid. I'd been off the booze since I'd had the breakdown. No bars in psychiatric hospitals - at least not that kind of bar. So the stuff I drank at Gray's went straight to my head. And I don't think it mixed very well with the medication I was on. Am still on, actually.' He gestured to his mineral water. 'That's why I'm drinking this. Anyway, that night I was certainly in no condition for a heart-warming, violins-in-the-background reunion with Philly.'
'And then, of course,' Carole observed acidly, 'Gray Czesky chose that evening for another of his anti-bourgeois exploits, didn't he?'
'Setting fire to the beach hut,' Mark agreed glumly. 'Yes, he's a madman when he gets a few drinks inside him.'
'What exactly happened?'
'Oh, he got into one of his tirades about how no one understands artists, and the rest of the world has a down on them and only cares about middle-class consumerism.'
'Great from someone whose lifestyle is funded by a rich wife.'
'I know, I know. Anyway, Gray suddenly gets into this great rant about beach huts symbolizing everything that's wrong with the bourgeoisie, and then he disappears. Helga and I thought he'd just gone for a pee, but ten minutes later he's back proclaiming that he's set fire to one of the beach huts.'
'Do you think he deliberately chose Quiet Harbour?' asked Carole. 'Did he know that you and Philly had rented it?'
'Who knows? Perhaps he did. Quite possibly he was getting at me because he reckoned I was too bourgeois to be what he defined as a proper artist.'
'So you and Helga,' suggested Jude, 'immediately rushed down to the beach to put the fire out?'
'Yes.' The two women exchanged looks. Curt Holderness's sighting had been confirmed. 'Fortunately the fire hadn't taken much hold. We were able to extinguish it quite easily.'
'So what did you do then? Go back to Sanditon?'
'No, I was feeling so shitty with the booze, all I wanted to do was get to bed. I called a cab, just managed to avoid throwing up over its upholstery, and went to bed the minute I got back to my room here in Littlehampton. The next morning I woke up with the worst hangover of my life.'
'So that again wasn't the perfect day for your reconciliation with Philly?'
'Too right, Jude.'
'But that was over a week ago,' said Carole. 'Why didn't you get in touch with her once you'd recovered from the hangover?'
'I kept putting off calling her. I was worried about how she'd react to me, whether she'd be furious, whether I'd ruined everything. But finally by the Friday I'd convinced myself I had to take the risk.
Call Philly, accept whatever consequences that action might trigger.'
'I don't think they'd be bad consequences,' said Jude gently.
Mark Dennis appeared not to hear her, as he went on, 'Then of course on the Thursday morning I hear on the news that human remains have been found under a beach hut at Smalting. Well, I knew that meant the place was going to be swarming with police and, though my recollections of what had happened to me after I was found on Dover Beach were vague, there was no way I was ever voluntarily going to put myself in touch with the police again, so . . .' His words trickled away to silence.
'Have you heard about the identification of the remains that were found?' asked Carole.
'Yes. It keeps being on the news. You can't escape it.'
'And do you know anything about Robin Cutter?'
'Only what I've heard in the last few days.' From the way he spoke there was no doubt that Mark Dennis was telling the truth.
He shook his head in puzzlement. 'So that's where I am. Still totally confused.' He looked earnestly at Jude and asked, 'What do you think I should do?'
She held out her mobile phone towards him. 'Ring Philly.'
* * *
Chapter Thirty-One
Mark Dennis was afraid - tremblingly, shudderingly afraid. They had driven straight from the pub to Sea- shell Cottage. When the Renault drew up outside, he asked the two women to come to the front door with him. Then he changed his mind and asked Jude to go on her own and check whether Philly Rose really wanted to see him.
As they waited in the car, Carole was aware of his body convulsing with bone-deep sobs. She was embarrassed and couldn't think of anything to say.
Their wait felt long, but it was only a couple of minutes. Then Jude came out on to the street and said through the Renault's open window, 'She wants to see you, Mark.'
Reassured but still scared, he again asked them to come into the cottage with him. The two women felt a little strange as they escorted Mark through the front door, which Philly held open, but such was the emotional tension between the two young people, they could recognize the need for some kind of catalyst for this first explosive contact.
Awkwardness filled the tiny hall while Philly closed the door. Wordlessly, she ushered her three guests into the kitchen/dining area. The uneasy silence continued until their hostess offered tea.
'Yes,' said Mark very formally. 'Yes, thank you, Philly. I'd like a cup of tea.'
Carole and Jude refused the offer. 'We should really be on our way,' said Jude.
'No, don't go!' The plea from Mark Dennis was instinctive, and still frightened.
'I think we should.' Jude looked at the two of them, facing each other, frozen, their eyes avoiding engagement. 'Come on, Carole. We'll see ourselves out.'
In the Renault on the way back to Fethering, Carole asked, 'What do you reckon? The minute we left, they fell into each other's arms and love's young dream was re-established?'
'I hope so,' said Jude. But she didn't sound sure.
'Well, at least that's one mystery solved,' Carole observed, 'but I can't believe Mark had anything to do with Robin Cutter.'
'No.' Jude was thoughtful, abstracted.
'So I suppose it's another visit tomorrow morning to Smalting Beach. Hope that Reginald Flowers's bronchitis has cleared up, assuming that that's why he wasn't there today.'
'Hm.'
'Are you up for a
return visit?'
Shaking herself out of her reverie, Jude said, 'What? Tomorrow? Saturday? No, sorry, I'm committed to a Past Life Regression Workshop in Brighton.'
A lot of knee-jerk responses sprang to Carole's lips, but she restricted herself to a rather acid, 'Are you? Well,' she continued, 'I'll see if I can get a chance to talk to Reginald Flowers.'
* * *
Chapter Thirty-Two
The bronchitis must have cleared up. Carole exactly repeated her timescale of the previous morning: a seven-thirty walk with Gulliver on Smalting Beach. Sure enough, even at that hour, as she and the dog passed, Reginald Flowers was sitting in his bolt-upright chair at the doors of his museum of naval memorabilia.
There was no problem about selecting her opening conversational gambit. 'Very good do the other night. Jude and I really enjoyed the quiz.'
'I'm glad to hear it.'
'Thank you very much. It must have taken a lot of organization.'
'Oh, I'm used to it,' he said in heroic self- deprecation. 'Anyway, I must thank you too. Without your prompt action, Carole, we wouldn't have had a venue, would we?'
'I can always get round Ted Crisp,' she said with uncharacteristic winsomeness.
'He was the one with the beard behind the bar?'
'Yes.'
An expression of irritation crossed Reginald
Flowers's face. 'I always think if a man is going to have a beard, he should keep it in good order. At least he had a full beard, rather than one of those goatees or other forms of contemporary topiary.' Instinctively his hand stroked his George V number. 'But I can't imagine why anyone would want to go around looking like a cross between a Viking and a hippy. It certainly made that landlord look very surly. Positively forbidding. And he wasn't particularly forthcoming when he opened his mouth either. Downright rude, if you ask me.'
'That's just his manner. Ted Crisp really does have a heart of gold.'
'Well, I'll have to take your word for that. Anyway, many thanks for making the arrangement, Carole.'
'No problem at all.'
Reginald Flowers was silent for a moment, looking back inside The Bridge. Then he said, 'Look, I've got the kettle on. Was about to make a cup of tea. Would you care to join me?'
Carole was struck by the nervousness with which he made this offer, almost as though it were something much more momentous, like asking her out on a date. She was also aware again of his deep loneliness. The Thursday night in the Crown and Anchor she'd recognized it too. Reginald Flowers had been at the centre of everything, he'd known everyone there, but he still seemed separate, outside any community spirit there had been in the function room. The only person he'd connected with - and that had been at a level of guilt and reproach - had been Dora Pinchbeck.
'Yes, I'd love a cup of tea,' Carole replied. 'Do you mind if I tie the dog up to that hook?'
'Be my guest.' Reginald Flowers went into his shrine to fetch another chair for her, and then to busy himself with the tea making.
The early morning sun was pleasantly warm and had already burned off any residual mist from the night before. Carole looked out over the sea and found herself recalling the image that Lionel Oliver had told her about - of a young man disappointed in love walking straight out to his death. The scene before her suddenly seemed less idyllic.
She looked across to Gulliver, now amiably reconciled to having his walk truncated and being tied up. He snuffled at the shingle in the shadow of the beach hut, searching out delicious-smelling morsels of seaweed.
'Do you take milk and sugar?' came the call from inside the hut.
'Just milk, thank you.'
Before Reginald Flowers emerged with the cups, Carole forced herself into a moment of intense concentration. Amidst all the pleasantry with the President of the Smalting Beach Hut Association, she mustn't forget her purpose in being in front of The Bridge that morning. She had an investigation to pursue.
When they were both seated with their cups of tea, she reverted to the quiz night. 'I was wondering about the range of questions you managed to come up with, Reginald.'
'Please call me "Reg".'
'Very well, Reg. But, as I say, I was impressed by the variety. Did you research all the questions yourself?'
'Some I did. Some I got from other reference sources.'
'I was totally stumped by a lot of them - certainly the sport and pop music ones. I mean, I've just about heard of Beyonce, but I certainly couldn't name a song by her.'
'Oh, nor me. But I thought, to be fair, I should have questions for a broad age range, for the younger people like . . .'He was hard put to it to come up with any names of younger members of the Smalting Beach Hut Association. 'Anyway, those kind of subjects I got off the internet. There are whole websites devoted to pub quizzes, you know.'
'Really?' Carole was surprised to hear that Reginald Flowers was an internet user. His age, his manner, his old-fashioned way of dictating letters to Dora - and indeed the amateur printing of The Hut Parade - had marked him down in her book as someone whose acquaintance with computers was minimal.
What she was thinking must have coloured her response, because Reginald said, 'I use the internet quite a lot, you know.' He gestured back into The Bridge. 'For my collection. You'd be surprised how much naval stuff - some of it very good naval stuff - comes up on eBay. Particularly badges, buckles, that kind of thing.'
Looking at the display behind her, Carole observed that he didn't have much room for new additions.
'Oh, this isn't all I have. Only a selection. I change around what I put on show here. I've got about ten times this amount at home.'
This was the first time he'd mentioned a home, so Carole asked him where it was.
'Littlehampton. Rented flat in Littlehampton,' he grunted. It was clearly not something that he wanted to discuss further. 'And to save you asking, I live on my own.'
There was a waspishness in his reply, so Carole moved on to less controversial ground. 'How long ago did you start the collection?'
'Really started when I was a boy. As I may have mentioned, a good number of my family were in the navy.'
'Yes. Given your interest, it's surprising that you didn't follow in their footsteps.'
'Perhaps.' He looked uncomfortable at the direction the conversation was taking. 'The fact is, I did try to join up. My parents wanted me to train at Dartmouth, but I ... I didn't get in.'
Alert to the awkwardness in his hesitation, Carole prompted him with an, 'Oh?'
'I was rejected on medical grounds.'
'Ah.' Carole tried to work out the timescale. If, as she assumed, Reginald Flowers was now in his seventies, then it would have been over fifty years ago when he'd applied for Dartmouth. And back then it was quite possible that rejection 'on medical grounds' might well have covered sexual deviancy.
But she was getting ahead of herself. She needed more information before she could form any conclusions about Reginald Flowers's guilt or innocence. 'So you went into teaching, I gather?'
'Yes. It was always second best for me, but I derived some satisfaction from the profession. I was teaching English History, which of course, because we are an island nation, involved a lot of research about the navy. Yes . . .' He smiled without much humour, '. . . the only thing wrong with teaching I found was the wretched pupils.'
'Did you not get on with them?'
'Some I got on with. The ones who had some sense of motivation, the ones who actually saw the point of learning. They were few and far between, though. I'm afraid to say they were not encouraged by the ethos of the place. The school I taught at put much higher value on prowess in the sports field than it did on academic achievement.'
'Ah. And you didn't teach sport as well?'
'Good heavens, no,' he replied peevishly. 'There were plenty of bone-headed former Blues on the staff to do that.'
Carole took a deep breath. She'd been given the cue, and now she had to pick it up, whatever the consequences. 'The place you taught was
called Edgington Manor School, wasn't it?'
'Yes.' He looked at her sharply. 'Did you know that before Thursday night?'
'No.'
'I rather hoped no one had noticed the mention of the school in all the shouting and excitement of the quiz.'
'Well, I heard what Curt Holderness said. I also saw the way you reacted to it.'
'Yes. It was a shock. I thought I'd got away from all that. I didn't realize that anyone down here knew of my connection with . . . that place.'
'The school?' He nodded. 'Edgington Manor School. I gather you had to leave there before you'd got to retirement age.'
'I did.' The expression he turned on her was one of disappointed fury. 'So are you one of them too, Carole?'
'One of what?'
'One of the people who's out to blackmail me?'
'No, I'm certainly not!' There was a silence before she continued, 'You asked whether I was one of them too. Does that suggest that Curt Holderness and Kelvin Southwest have already been in touch with you?'
'Curt Holderness has been. I haven't heard anything from that little pervert Southwest.'
'And Curt's trying to blackmail you?' She asked only for confirmation of what she had heard the other night.
'Yes. He was first in touch about a month ago. He said he'd found out something about the circumstances under which I had left Edgington Manor School and would I mind if he made it public? Well, of course I minded, so I agreed to pay him some money. I thought he was talking about just a one-off payment, but then a couple of weeks later he asked for more.'
The classic experience of the blackmail victim, thought Carole.
'I said I couldn't afford it - well, I can't, I'm only on a pension. But he said I could afford it if I sold some of my collection.' The horror of the idea spread across his face. 'Well, of course I couldn't do that, could I? So I still haven't paid him. But Thursday night was like a warning to me. Curt Holderness knew nobody at the quiz night would pick up the reference in what he shouted out - nobody except me, of course. He was saying: look, I'm quite capable of talking about this business in public and, if you don't pay up, I'll do it more vocally. Well, I can't risk that, can I? I'll have to somehow find the money and pay him. This time. But I'm afraid this won't be the last time. There's no reason why his demands should ever stop, is there?' he concluded miserably.