Fethering 01 (2000) - The Body on the Beach

by Simon Brett; Prefers to remain anonymous

  “But who wanted to hide a body?”

  “We don’t know that yet, do we?”

  It was nearly dark when they got back to the side gate to the Yacht Club. Jude looked around but could see no one in the enveloping gloom. “OK, give me a leg-up.”

  “But we can’t break in. I mean, particularly after what Denis Woodville was saying.”

  “Nobody’s going to see us, Carole. And if he does find any evidence of our intrusion, he’s going to put it down to the local youngsters. ‘Kids these days just have no respect for property,”” she announced in an uncannily close echo of the Vice-Commodore’s tones. “Come on, give me a leg-up.”

  With Carole’s help, Jude negotiated her long skirt over the gate and then helped her neighbour to join her inside the compound. “Now, let’s have a look at all of these hoats.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “A loose cover. A sign that one of them’s been broken into.”

  “You think the body might have been hidden in one of the boats?”

  Jude looked around. “See anywhere else suitable?”

  In the last threads of daylight, they felt their way along the rows of dinghies, Carole starting from one end, Jude from the other. On most, the blue covers were firmly battened down, either fixed with cleats or pulled tight by threaded cords. Above the two women, the wind sang in rigging and steel halyards clattered endlessly against metal masts.

  “Could be something here!” Carole called out.

  Jude was quickly by her side.

  “Look!” Carole pointed to the rim of a boat cover, where a piece of rope dangled loose.

  “Pity we haven’t got a torch. It’s really hard to see.”

  “I have got a torch,” said Carole, trying to keep the smugness out of her voice. “I always carry one in my raincoat pocket. There’s no streetlighting on the High Street.”

  “Isn’t there? I hadn’t noticed.”

  Carole reached into her Burberry pocket and the beam of light was quickly focused on the trailing rope. It ended in a sharp right angle.

  “Been cut through,” said Jude.

  The severed cord had been rethreaded through the eyelets of the cover in an attempt to hide the break-in. Jude started quickly to unpick it.

  “Should we be doing this?” asked Carole plaintively.

  “Course we should. We are doing it anyway. And nobody can see us.”

  It was true. The wet darkness around them suddenly seemed total. The floodlights focused on the sea-wall repairs were only fifty yards away but looked pale, distant and insubstantial. Someone would have to be very close to detect their tiny torch-beam.

  Freeing a corner of the cover, Jude flipped it back like a bedspread from the stern of the boat. “Shine the torch here,” she said. “No, here!”

  The thin stream of light picked out a name in gold lettering: Brigadoon II.

  “I wonder,” said Jude. “Do you think there’s a kind of person who would give their boat the same name as their house?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Come on, let’s get the rest of this cover off and have a look inside.”

  “What are you expecting to find in there? The body?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  Carole shivered. The possibility was macabre. But she couldn’t deny that it was also exciting.

  When they had peeled the cover right back, however, they found no body. Just the moulded fibre-glass interior of a dinghy’s hull. In the central channel a rectangle of trapped water gleamed against the torchlight. Its surface was frozen hard.

  But the ice didn’t stop an acrid smell from rising to their nostrils. “Standing water,” Carole observed. “It’s been leaking in for some time.”

  She ran the beam of the torch carefully over the inside of the boat. It revealed nothing they wouldn’t have expected to find there.

  “Just check if there’s anything under the water.”

  Putting a foot on one of the trailer wheels, Jude hoisted herself with surprising ease over the side and into the dinghy. With a gloved fist, she hammered through the sheet of ice. Then, removing her right-hand glove and supporting herself on the other arm, she felt down into the bottom of the boat. She winced at the cold of the water.

  “Something here.” She produced a nut and bolt, rusted immovably together, and handed them to Carole. “Don’t think that helps us much.”

  She reached down again through the cracked ice into the fetid water and felt her way systematically along the trough. “I think that’s probably it. Be too easy if we—Just a minute…”

  Carole craned over the side of the boat, trying desperately to see what her neighbour had uncovered. Jude’s dripping hand raised her trophy into the torch-beam. “Look at that,” she said with triumph.

  It was a large, robust Stanley knife, clicked in the open position. The light gleamed on the shiny triangle of its blade.

  “Wonder how long that’s been there…?”

  “Not very long,” said Carole. “Blade like that would rust very quickly. And…”

  “What?”

  “The woman who drew a gun on me wanted to know if I’d found a knife.”

  “Yes. So she did.”

  Jude slowly turned the knife over in her hand. On the other side of the handle words had been printed in uneven white paint-strokes. They read: J. T. CARPETS.

  THIRTEEN

  “So what have we got?” asked Jude.

  They were back in Carole’s house, sitting in front of her log-effect gas fire. She had chosen the system because she knew it would be a lot more sensible than an open fire. None of that endless business of filling coal scuttles, loading log baskets and sweeping out grates. But for the first time, with her new neighbour installed in a sofa in front of her virtual fire, Carole felt a little wistful for a grate glowing with real flames.

  She had felt uncertain about inviting Jude in for a cup of tea, but the unalterable rules of reciprocal hospitality dictated that she should. The trouble was, when you invited someone in, you never knew how long they were going to stay. A drink with Jude in the Crown and Anchor had escalated, without apparent effort, into supper and a lot more drinks in the Crown and Anchor. With someone like Jude, who could say what ‘a cup of tea’ might escalate into?

  And once inside the house, with Gulliver greeted and fed, the unalterable rules of reciprocal hospitality dictated that Carole should at least suggest the option of something other than ‘a cup of tea’. In Jude’s house she’d been offered wine, so when she returned from the kitchen to the sitting room, she said, “I’ve put the kettle on, but if you’d rather have a glass of wine…”

  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 trance-like 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 lurribull 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 Turribull, meaning the exact opposite.

  FOURTEEN

  It was still office hours, so Jude rang through to the surgery number Barbara Turribull 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 Tumbull I’ll be seeing, will it?”

  “Sorry?” For the first time the voice sounded a little fazed.

  “Mr Turribull. 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 oth
er?”

  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!”