The Fethering Mysteries 12; Bones Under The Beach Hut tfm-12

by Simon Brett

  “Why have you got her mobile phone?”

  “She left it here when she stormed out. I was about to upgrade mine, so I thought I’d use hers. Get something out of three wasted months! And so far she still seems to be paying the bill – which suits me fine!”

  “Have you had any contact with Nuala since?”

  “Texts. I’ve tried ringing her, but she won’t talk.”

  “So you do have a current mobile number for her?”

  “What if I do?”

  “If you could give me that number, I –”

  “Why should I? After the way the bitch treated me, I don’t feel particularly inclined to help her maintain her social life with her girlfriends.”

  “I’m not one of her girlfriends.” That was true, though what Jude said next wasn’t. “She stung me for a lot of money too. That’s why I’m trying to contact her.”

  Cyrus Maxton’s manner changed immediately. Now that he appeared to be talking to someone keen to make Nuala Dennis’s life difficult, he was all cooperation. He gave Jude the new mobile number. “But I should warn you, you may not get through.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve been texting her regularly trying to get back some of the stuff she nicked from my flat and I haven’t been getting any replies.”

  “Well, presumably when she recognizes your number she just doesn’t text back.”

  “Sure. But recently when I’ve tried I get a different response. Like the phone’s switched off. Or run out of juice.”

  “You mean she hasn’t been recharging it?”

  “That’s what I’ve been beginning to think. Okay, not taking my calls, not responding to my texts, I can understand that. But switching the thing off? Nuala’s mobile is like an extra appendage of her body. She never switched it off – or at least not for as long as this.”

  “You said ‘recently’. When was the last time you texted her phone when it was switched on?”

  “Weekend before last. I tried again…when? Let’s think…Today’s Monday…it would have been last Tuesday. Didn’t get any response then and the phone’s been switched off since.”

  Last Tuesday. The day in whose small hours Mark Dennis and a mystery woman were seen by Curt Holderness walking down on to Smalting Beach. The day since Nuala Dennis had perhaps not been able to recharge her mobile phone.

  After she’d finished her call to Cyrus Maxton, Jude tried the new number he had given her for Nuala. She was sent straight to voicemail. The phone was switched off…or out of charge.

  ∨ Bones Under The Beach Hut ∧

  Twenty-One

  Carole Seddon woke the next morning feeling pressured by time. It was Tuesday and in five days Gaby and Lily would be coming to stay in High Tor. Was it possible that she and Jude could have found a solution to the mystery of the human remains under Quiet Harbour by then? At their current rate of progress the prospects were not promising.

  But when she joined Jude later for coffee at Woodside Cottage, they did have a small breakthrough on the case. Without much optimism, Jude once again tried the number Cyrus Maxton had given her. And this time it was answered.

  “Hello?” The voice was hard, businesslike and unwelcoming, but there was a little trace of Irish in it.

  “Good morning. Is that Nuala Dennis?”

  “My name’s Nuala Cullan.”

  “But is your married name Nuala Dennis?”

  “I never use my married name.”

  “But your married name is Nuala Dennis?”

  “It was once.” Jude felt a little flutter of relief. At least she’d be able to reassure Philly that Mark’s wife was still alive, that he hadn’t done away with her.

  “Who is this calling?” asked Nuala, even less welcoming.

  “My name’s Jude.”

  “Jude who?”

  The question was ignored. “I’m calling about your husband, Mark Dennis.”

  “Look, if it’s some financial trouble Mark’s got himself into, you’re calling the wrong person. I have no responsibility for what he’s done. We’re separated. And you are calling me at work and I do have a very busy day ahead of me, so –”

  “I’m interested in Mark’s whereabouts.”

  “So am I.”

  “You mean you don’t know where he is?”

  “No. Why, do you?” For the first time there was a flicker of interest in the Irishwoman’s voice.

  “I might do,” Jude lied.

  “Tell me what you know.”

  “I’d rather we met up and talked about it.”

  “Look, who are you? Are you Mark’s latest woman? I heard he’d left his little girl at the seaside. Is he shacked up with you now?”

  “No. I can assure you he isn’t.”

  “Then what’s your interest in this?”

  “I’ll tell you when we meet.”

  “If we meet.”

  “You want to find out where Mark is, don’t you?”

  There was a silence from the other end. Then a reluctant, “Yes. The bastard owes me money, apart from anything else.”

  “Well, when could we meet?”

  “I’ve got a hell of a schedule today, but I could probably finish early and meet you round seven.”

  Seven? Finishing early? Jude realized she was definitely dealing with someone from the City.

  “That’d be fine. Where do you work?”

  “NMB.”

  “Neuchatel Mutual Bank. Where Mark used to work?”

  “Yes. Not many people have heard of it.” There was a hint of grudging respect in Nuala’s voice.

  “Okay. Seven o’clock. At NMB?”

  “No, better somewhere else.” Whether this was because Nuala feared eavesdroppers at work, Jude could only guess. “There’s a wine bar called Sec. Just off Milk Street.”

  “We’ll find it.”

  “‘We’?”

  “Yes, I’ll have a friend with me.”

  “Look, I’m not sure that I –”

  “You do want to find out where Mark is, don’t you?” Jude interrupted forcibly.

  Nuala conceded that she did.

  “Right, we’ll be at Sec at seven o’clock this evening.”

  “How will I recognize you?”

  “I’m blond and plump, my friend Carole is thin and grey-haired with glasses. You’ll recognize us. We’ll rather stand out in a City wine bar. We’re in our fifties.”

  ♦

  To their surprise, Carole and Jude did not stand out in Sec as much as they had expected to. The time of year and its relative proximity to St Paul’s, the Bank of England and other London sights, meant that the wine bar had more than its fair share of tourists that June evening. And though there were a few young, lean besuited slickers quaffing champagne, there were at least as many men and women of ample American proportions. And in fact Carole and Jude identified Nuala Cullan, rather than the other way round.

  It wasn’t difficult. They remembered Philly Rose’s description and when, shortly after seven, a tall slender woman in a pinstriped trouser suit and pointy black shoes entered, they knew it had to be her. She was beautifully groomed, and the long black hair contrasted with the piercing blue of her eyes. But for the sharpness of her features and a slight discontent in her expression, Nuala Cullan would have been beautiful.

  Jude crossed the bar and introduced herself, asking what Nuala would like to drink. She and Carole, straying from their usual Chilean Chardonnay, were on the Sauvignon Blanc.

  “I’ll just have a mineral water, thank you.” So much for the hard-drinking image that Philly had put across. “I’m on antibiotics,” continued Nuala, explaining her abstinence.

  “This is my friend Carole.”

  “Oh?” Nuala Cullan stretched out a long cool hand and shook Carole’s.

  “Grab a seat and I’ll get your drink.”

  Nuala subsided elegantly into a chair and gave the woman opposite her a hard, appraising look. “So you know Mark too, do you?”

 
Carole was flustered. She wished she and Jude had discussed a cover story to answer such a question, but her neighbour was never very keen on preparation for this kind of encounter. She always felt confident the right words would come when required. Well, they might, to Jude. Carole couldn’t think of anything very convincing to say.

  “I haven’t actually met him, but I’ve heard a lot about him from Philly.”

  “Ah, so you’ve only had her version. In which he no doubt appears like a cross between Mother Theresa and the Angel Gabriel.”

  “Well –”

  “Do you know where he is at this minute? Do you have an address for him?”

  “Well…”

  Carole’s discomfiture was fortunately then reprieved by a bleep from Nuala Cullan’s handbag. She pulled out an iPhone and deftly answered a text message. By the time she had finished Jude was back from the bar with Nuala’s mineral water.

  “Right, what is all this?” Nuala asked peremptorily.

  “Have the police been in touch with you?” asked Jude.

  “What the hell should the police be in touch with me about?”

  “You heard about the discovery of human remains on Smalting Beach?”

  “There was something in the news, yes, and I remember thinking, ‘Well, there you go – Mark’s moved out of the wicked City and into his seaside love nest and suddenly it’s down there that all the crimes are happening’.”

  “But the police haven’t been in touch with you about it?”

  “No.” She looked faintly nauseated by the idea. “Why on earth should they be?”

  “The beach hut under which the remains were found was rented by Mark and Philly.”

  “Was it?” This seemed to amuse her. “Sounds like their life was even further away from the perfect country idyll.”

  “And,” Jude went on, “we were wondering whether the police might have been in touch with you as they tried to track down Mark.”

  “Well, I suppose they might have been.” She shrugged. “But they haven’t. So it seems like everyone’s looking for Mark, doesn’t it?” A sudden thought shocked her. “You’re not suggesting the remains are of Mark, are you?”

  “No, no, there’s no suggestion of that,” replied Carole. “When did you last see him, Nuala?”

  “I don’t know. Some time in May, I suppose.”

  “After he’d walked out on Philly?”

  “What?” Nuala’s fine brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “He’s walked out on her?”

  “Didn’t you know?”

  “Of course I didn’t.” But as she took in the idea she started to chuckle. “So domestic bliss in Smalting didn’t work out, did it?”

  Jude looked at the cool, self-possessed executive in front of her and wondered for a moment whether this could also be the vengeful hysteric, the emotional blackmailer whom Philly had described. And her knowledge of human nature told her that it all too easily could.

  “Mark walked out on Philly at the beginning of May,” said Carole, “and she hasn’t seen him since.”

  “Oh, well, I have the advantage of Little Miss Perfect then, don’t I?”

  “Philly thought he might have moved back in with you.”

  “Did she?” This seemed to Nuala another funny idea. She laughed openly as she said, “I’m not sure that I could cope with that.”

  “I believe,” Carole went on, “that Mark had made some kind of financial arrangement with you…that he paid you a monthly amount to let him get on with his life?”

  “Well, don’t make it sound so shabby. I am his wife, you know, still his wife. And that does give me some rights. Bloody Mark can’t just abandon me and start spending all his money on some other woman.”

  “I understand he hasn’t got much money now.”

  “That’s not my problem, is it? Look, if my husband wants to act like he’s divorced, then I ought to get something from him, something like I would get if we were actually divorced.”

  “Do you want a divorce?”

  Nuala Cullan smiled slyly. “I might think about it. But I am a Catholic, you know, and however lax I have been in observing Catholic rules of behaviour, my Church still does not approve of divorce. So I’m in no hurry to make Mark’s life any easier for him.”

  Carole and Jude both now realized exactly how manipulative the woman in front of them could be. She would never let Mark Dennis go, never let him find real freedom. Nuala Cullan was trouble. They could understand how readily Philly Rose had entertained the idea that Mark might have murdered her. And from the way he spoke on the phone, Cyrus Maxton sounded as if he wouldn’t have minded topping her as well.

  “Have you had any money from Mark recently?”

  “No.” She pouted with annoyance. “That’s why I want to find out where the bastard is. Last payment I had from him was in May. When I do track him down, he’s going to be paying interest on those arrears.”

  “So when exactly did you last see him?” asked Carole.

  “May. I said.”

  “When in May?”

  Her forehead wrinkled as she tried to remember. The tracery of lines on her face showed through the expert make-up. She wasn’t as young as she had first appeared. Well over forty. Getting to an age when she might not be able to rely on her looks quite as much as she used to, to get what she wanted. Getting to an age when she might well be wanting to safeguard her future.

  “I think it was the eighth,” Nuala replied eventually. “Mark said he wanted to meet up and talk. He took me to the Oxo Tower, one of our regular haunts…in happier times.”

  “And he didn’t mention that he’d left Philly?”

  “I’ve told you, this evening is the first I’ve heard of it. He just told me that he couldn’t afford to continue paying anything to me.”

  “He told you this at the Oxo Tower?”

  “I’d booked the venue.” She smiled at the memory of another small triumph over her husband. “And I told him, no way, Jose. I told him he could take the idea of stopping payments to me and put it where the sun don’t shine.”

  “But surely,” said Carole, “if he chose to stop paying you, there was nothing you could have done about it.”

  “I could have sued him.”

  “You mean it was more than a verbal agreement?”

  “You bet it was. I’m not stupid. I got a schedule of payments drawn up by my lawyer.”

  “And Mark signed it?”

  “Of course he did. All neatly tied up with pink ribbon it was. So when I said he owed me arrears, I meant just that. He is legally in default of those payments.”

  “But why did he sign it?” asked Jude.

  “I don’t know.” Nuala smiled a smile of mock innocence. “Maybe he thought I was capable of causing a lot of trouble in his relationship with Little Miss Perfect. Though why he should think that,” she continued, maintaining the wide-eyed pose, “I cannot imagine.”

  Jude exchanged a momentary look with Carole. They were beginning to realize just how destructive Nuala could be if she set her mind to it.

  “How did he seem that evening at the Oxo Tower?” asked Jude. “Just like you remember him?”

  Nuala Cullan shook her head. “No, there was something strange about him. Mark seemed distracted…almost as if he was frightened of something.”

  “Had you seen him in that state before? During your marriage?”

  Another shake of the head. “Mark was always very confident, even brash at times. But that night at the Oxo Tower he was very jumpy. Nervous. Stressed.”

  “He didn’t say why?”

  “Didn’t need to. The details he told me about his financial situation were enough to make anyone stressed.” Suddenly Nuala Cullan seemed to lose patience. “Look, what is this all about? You got in touch with me because you said you knew something about Mark’s whereabouts. I don’t have the whole evening to waste. Tell me where he is.”

  It was Carole who answered. “He was seen down in Smalting in the small hours of las
t Tuesday morning.”

  “Oh? So he’s back with Little Miss Perfect, is he?”

  “Philly Rose said she hadn’t seen him since May.”

  “Has it occurred to you she might be lying?”

  “I don’t think she would,” said Jude.

  “Oh, I see. So you’ve been fooled by her wide-eyed innocent look, have you?”

  More than I have by yours, thought Jude. But all she said was, “I thought you hadn’t met her.”

  “I don’t need to meet her. I know the kind of woman Mark would be a sucker for.”

  “But he was a sucker for you at one point. I wouldn’t have thought ‘wide-eyed innocent’ was a very accurate description of you,” said Carole with some asperity.

  “No, you’re right. It isn’t.” Nuala Cullan smiled a feline, controlling smile. “Our relationship was very powerful, passionate, but also potentially toxic. Mark couldn’t always keep up with me. I am strong liquor, the hard stuff, you see. And Mark’s basically a coward. Which is why he opted instead for milky afternoon tea in Smalting.”

  “Anyway,” said Carole, who had had quite enough of this preening, “when Mark was seen down there last Tuesday morning, there was a woman with him.”

  “So?”

  “Philly’s first thought when she heard was that the woman must be you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she thought you and Mark were back together.”

  “Well, I’ve told you, we’re not.” Nuala Cullan looked at the small Rolex on her slender wrist. “And is that all you’ve come to tell me? That he’s been seen? Or can you actually tell me where I can contact the bastard?”

  “No,” said Carole rather feebly. “We just wanted to tell you he’s been seen down in Smalting.”

  “Well, thank you very much,” came the sarcastic reply.

  “We thought you’d want to know.”

  “Why?”

  “At least it proves he’s still alive,” said Jude.

  “And why shouldn’t he be alive?” Nuala looked sardonically thoughtful. “Though if he were dead, it would in a way solve all my problems, wouldn’t it?”