Bones Under The Beach Hut (13 page)

    She
tried to concentrate on the paper, but couldn't. Her headache was worse and she
went upstairs to take a couple of paracetamol. While up there she switched on
her laptop and checked the BBC website in the forlorn hope that there might be
some more news about the discovery on Smalting Beach. Needless to say, there
wasn't.

    She
felt restless, slightly anxious about the following Sunday. The frustration she
and Jude had come up against in the car was still with her. Despite the poverty
of their information on the subject, her mind kept circling round what had been
found under
Quiet Harbour.
She felt she needed to do something to move
their investigation forward, but she couldn't think what.

    Then
she remembered the mobile phone number that she had squeezed out of Kelvin
Southwest. A contact for Curt Holderness. She didn't know what hours security
officers worked, but she could at least leave a message asking him to call her.
She rang the number.

    To
her surprise, it was answered instantly. 'Curt Holderness,' he said in a voice
of lazy confidence.

    'Good
afternoon. You don't know me. My name's Carole Seddon.'

    'Oh,
I think I've heard the name. Wasn't it you who discovered the charring at the
bottom of the beach hut at Smalting, you know, the one where a rather nasty
discovery was made?'

    'Yes,
that was me.'

    'Well,
what can I do for you?'

    'It
was actually in connection with the beach huts that I was calling you.'

    'Did
Kelvin Southwest put you on to me?' The way he said it, the question was
clearly an important one.

    'Yes.'

    Curt
Holderness's voice seemed to relax. 'Good old Kel. We work very well together,
you know, Kel and me.'

    'Oh?'

    'Anyone's
got a problem with the beach huts, we can usually sort it out between us.'

    'Good.'

    'Rules
are there to be bent, after all, aren't they?' Carole wasn't quite sure what he
was talking about, so she waited while he elucidated. 'Someone needs something
done - or something not done. A blind eye turned perhaps . . . ? Kel and I can
usually sort something out. Someone wants to stay overnight in one of the huts,
maybe use it as an office . . . well, it's not doing anyone any harm, is it?
Kel and I can usually see our way to being accommodating about things.'

    'So
you bend the rules in exchange for favours from people?' asked Carole,
remembering Kelvin Southwest's favoured method of doing business.

    'Yes,
favours.' He relished the word, then chuckled. 'Sometimes favours of the
folding variety. So, what is it you would like me to fix for you, Carole? Want
to install a little generator, do you, so's you can run a little fridge off it?
That's what a lot of people ask for this time of year. Strictly against the
Fether

    District
Council rules, but when you come down to it, what harm's it going to do anyone?
Why shouldn't people be comfortable in their beach huts?'

    Illuminating
though this diversion had been, Carole thought she should perhaps get back to
the real purpose of her phone call. 'I don't actually want you to bend any
rules for me, Mr Holderness.'

    He
looked puzzled. 'Oh? But I thought you said Kel put you on to me.'

    'I
did.'

    'But
usually when Kel puts people on to me . . .' Embarrassed about how much of
himself he had given away, the security officer changed tack. 'What is it you
want from me then, Carole?'

    Carole
thought of various subterfuges, but rejected them. Try the direct approach
first. 'I just wondered if you had any more information about what happened?

    'How
do you mean?'

    'Well,
whether you had been told anything by the police, you know, anything that isn't
public knowledge.'

    The
man at the other end of the phone laughed. 'You don't ask a lot, do you? You
are aware that I have a part-time job as security officer for the Smalting
Beach Hut Association?'

    'Yes,
of course.'

    'Well,
some people might reckon the word "Security" covers keeping schtum
about anything the police might have told me that isn't public knowledge.'

    'So
are you one of those people, Mr Holderness?'

    'Sometimes
I am, yes. Depends on the circumstances.' There was a teasing quality in his
voice. 'What are you really asking me to do, Mrs Seddon?'

    She
took her courage in both hands. 'I'm asking whether you'd agree to meet up for
a drink and talk to me about what happened.'

    He
laughed again. 'I see. It's the Miss Marple Mafia of Fethering, is it?'

    'Well,
it's-'

    'All
right, I'll meet up with you.'

    It
turned out that Curt Holderness also lived in Fethering and was happy to meet
in the Crown and Anchor. He said he quite often dropped in there on a Sunday
evening for a pint, so if Carole cared to join him . . .

    Rather
ashamed of the muzziness she had felt after lunch, she was determined not to
have any more alcohol, but somehow that resolve vanished when she was faced by
the lugubrious face of Ted Crisp behind the bar. She succumbed to a Chilean
Chardonnay, though she did ask him to make it a small one.

    'I'm
meeting someone called Curt Holderness. Do you know him?'

    'Goodness,
yes. He's been a regular for quite a while. Sometimes used to drink in here
back when he was a copper.'

    'Oh
well, if you can point him out to me when he comes in—'

    'He's
come in.' Ted nodded his shaggy head towards one of the alcoves. 'Over there.
And he's drinking a pint of Stella.'

    Carole
looked across. There was no drink on the table in front of the man Ted had
pointed out. 'No, he isn't.'

    'What
I meant was that you are buying him a pint of Stella.'

    'Oh,
right, I see. A pint of Stella too then, Ted.'

    As he
pulled the pint, the landlord observed, 'I don't think I've ever seen Curt buy
a drink. There's always someone there to buy it for him.'

    'Like
who?'

    'Someone
who perhaps wants a favour from him.' Yes, and I know how he likes to be repaid
- with a favour of the folding variety, thought Carole as Ted went on, 'Can't
imagine what favour you might be wanting from Curt - and I'm not going to ask.'
Then, to Carole's annoyance, he winked at her.

    The
afternoon's rain had cleansed the air and Fethering was enjoying a beautiful
summer evening. As a result, most of the pub's customers were once again at the
tables outside, which pleased Carole. She didn't want people eavesdropping on
her conversation with Curt Holderness.

    He
was a thickset man with thinning hair cut very short, and he still looked like
the policeman he had once been. In spite of the warmth he wore black leather
trousers and there was a matching blouson lying on the seat beside him.
Presumably outside in the Crown and Anchor car park was a motorbike.

    He
half-rose in his seat when Carole introduced herself. His handshake was almost
aggressively strong. But despite his macho manner, there was a wariness about
him, almost an anxiety.

    'Ted
said a pint of Stella would be appropriate, Mr Holderness?'

    'How
right Ted was. Thanks.' He took a long draught of the lager. 'And please call
me Curt.'

    'Thank
you. Please call me Carole.' She sat down and took a sip of wine. Now she was
actually at a table opposite him, the burst of self-assertiveness with which
she had set up the meeting had dissipated. She couldn't think where to start.

    He seemed
to sense her discomfiture and smiled a teasing smile. 'I know Miss Marple was
famous for just sitting on the sidelines and observing everything, but I think
you're going to have to be a little more proactive than that, Carole.'

    'Yes.
I'm sorry, Curt. Well, first, thank you very much for agreeing to meet me.' He
inclined his head graciously. 'And yes, as you implied, I'm probably just
another nosey middle-aged woman, but because it was my discovering evidence of
the fire in
Quiet Harbour
that led to . . . well, you know . . .' His
steady gaze unsettled her, and he seemed to know it. Carole got the feeling
that he was playing with her, but also assessing the situation, trying to work
out what she really wanted from him. 'I mentioned on the phone,' she floundered
on, 'that you might have some new information from the police that—'

    'And
what made you think that might be the case?'

    'Well,
I gather you used to be in the force yourself.'

    'Yes,
and so you think I might ring one of my old muckers who would give me the
up-to-date SP on the exact stage their investigations have reached?'

    His
response was deliberately couched in a kind of all-purpose police argot, still
sending her up.

    He
shook his head. 'Sorry, Carole, that kind of thing doesn't happen outside of
telly cop shows. Once you're out of the force, you're out of the force. They
don't want ex-coppers hanging around - particularly ex-coppers who've gone into
the private security business.'

    'So
you retired early, did you?'

    She
seemed to have touched a nerve there. 'What do you mean?' he almost snapped.

    'Well,
I mean you don't look of an age to have gone the full distance.'

    That
mollified him. 'Yes, I did retire early.'

    'Me
too.' Carole didn't often volunteer details of her departure from the Home
Office. Its earliness still rankled. But she thought identifying her experience
with his might relax him.

    'A
lot of cops get out early,' he said. 'It's stressful work and when I was coming
up for fifty I asked myself: do I want to go on doing this or do I want to
develop some other career while there's still time?'

    'So
did you get the SBHA job immediately?'

    'No.
I lounged around for a few years, enjoyed the freedom. My pension wasn't that
bad, I wasn't responsible for anyone else, so I didn't really need to work.
Then I was offered the SBHA job-'

    'By
Kelvin Southwest?'

    He
gave her a curious look. 'Yes, as it happens, it was. Of course, you know the
fragrant Kelvin.'

    'When
I discovered the evidence of the fire, it was him I got in touch with.'

    Curt
Holderness nodded his head, as if to acknowledge that her answer made sense.
Carole thought it slightly odd that he didn't know before her phone call that she
had been in touch with Kelvin Southwest. Surely such information would be
passed on to someone whose job was security officer? But she let it pass, and
asked, 'Do you make regular inspections of the beach huts?'

    'Yes,
of course. Every morning and evening, just to check there hasn't been any
vandalism or breach of regulations.'

    'What
sort of breach of regulations?'

    'Could
be lots of things. Because the beach huts come under the control of Fether
District Council there's pages of them.'

    'But
what are you mostly looking out for?'

    'People
staying in them overnight, I suppose. That's the big no-no. Fether District
Council gets very aerated about that. Insufficient sanitation and what have
you. They're worried about Smalting degenerating into "a shanty
town".' Carole had heard the same fear mentioned in connection with the
few beach huts in Fethering.

    'Do
you do night patrols too, Curt?' she asked.

    For
some reason he looked at her rather slyly before replying, 'Sometimes, yes.'

    'Because
I was thinking that nobody would have lit the fire under
Quiet Harbour
in the daylight, would they?'

    'Probably
not.' He anticipated her next question. 'And no, I didn't see anyone trying to
torch the place.