Bones Under The Beach Hut (21 page)

    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
last 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?'

    'How?'

    'I'm
still his wife. I would inherit everything.'

    'Though
it doesn't seem there'd be that much to inherit.'

    'Don't
you believe it. Someone as canny as Mark's always going to have something
stashed away.' There was a gleam of pure greed in her eyes as she spoke.

    Repelled
by this, Jude said, 'Well, he's not dead, so the issue doesn't really arise,
does it?'

    'No.'
Nuala Cullan took another look at her watch and picked up her handbag. 'I won't
say thank you, because so far as I'm concerned our meeting has been a total
waste of time. But if you do find out where Mark is, let me know. You have my
mobile number.' She stood up.

    'And
there wasn't any other contact Mark gave you?' asked Jude, desperate to
retrieve something from the situation.

    The
tall woman stood undecided for a moment. Her desire to be uncooperative
conflicted with her interest in tracking down her absent husband. She still
wanted to leech more money out of him.

    She
made up her mind. 'There was a number he gave me, some acquaintance down in
Smalting where he said I could leave a message. I tried it a few times, but my
messages never got a response from Mark, so I stopped bothering.'

    'Did
you speak to this acquaintance of his?'

    'No,
the phone was always on voicemail.'

    'Would
you mind giving us the number?' asked Jude.

    The
area code was 01903, which covered Worthing,

    Littlehampton,
Fethering and Smalting. Jude wrote it down, and Nuala Cullan walked out of Sec
without a word of farewell.

    The
two women decided to have another glass of Sauvignon Blanc to bolster them for
the slow train journey back to Fethering. And they both knew exactly why Mark
Dennis had wanted to get away from his wife.

    They
were back home too late to do anything else that evening. And on the Wednesday
morning Jude had to go and visit one of her Fethering clients who was immobilized
with what the patient thought to be a slipped disc, but the healer knew to be
anxiety about her daughter's forthcoming wedding.

    It
was after her neighbour had gone - and therefore too late - when Carole
realized that Jude had got the piece of paper with the phone number Nuala
Cullan had given them. That was annoying. She'd been hoping that contact might
offer some breakthrough on the intractable mystery that confronted them.

    But
even as she felt the frustration building within her, Carole received a phone
call that brought her new information. It was from Curt Holderness.

    She
was surprised that he had rung back. The message had been left on his mobile
without much optimism. But the fact that he had got back to her and his manner when
he spoke gave Carole a lift. He was clearly still worried that she might draw
the attention of the authorities to his lax approach to his job. Which gave her
a position of power over him.

    'You
rang me, Carole. What can I do for you?' Curt Holderness's opening words were
breezy enough, but there was an encouraging undercurrent of anxiety in his
voice.

    'Oh,
thank you so much for getting back to me. Yes, there was something I wanted to
follow up with you, further to our previous conversation . . .'

    She
let the silence dangle for a moment and was rewarded by a nervous 'What?' from
the other end of the line.

    'Oh,
it was about that night, you know, when you saw Mark Dennis going on to
Smalting Beach.'

    'Yes.'
He sounded relieved now he knew the subject of her enquiry. She wasn't raising
issues of low-grade local council corruption.

    'You
said that he was with a woman . . .'

    'Yes.'

    '. .
. but you didn't recognize her.'

    'Right.'

    'So
could you give me a description of her?'

    'Shortish.'
If Nuala Cullan hadn't already ruled herself out that would have done it. 'I
don't know, it was fairly dark that night. Shortish, as I say, and maybe on the
chubby side.'

    'What
age?'

    His
manner implied a shrug as he replied, 'I don't know. I mean, she wasn't the
kind of woman who made much impression, if you know what I mean. Just like
plenty of women you see in the street, nothing remarkable about them.'

    'Hair
colour?'

    'Blond,
possibly.' He didn't sound very sure.

    'And
how was Mark Dennis behaving with her?'

    'What
do you mean?'

    'Well,
were they holding hands, arm in arm?'

    'Oh
no, nothing like that.'

    'Were
they just ambling along or were they looking furtive? Were they hurrying?'

    'Yes,
I'd say they were hurrying. The man might even have been swaying about a bit.'

    'You
mean - as if he was drunk?'

    'Possibly.'

    'And
you couldn't tell exactly where they were going?'

    'I
was just driving past,' he protested. 'I only saw them for a couple of seconds.'

    'You're
absolutely certain the man was Mark Dennis?'

    'Absolutely
certain,' said Curt Holderness.

    A
silence stretched out between them. Then suddenly a new thought came into
Carole's head, a recollection of something the security officer had mentioned
when they'd first spoken. It was a long chance that the question would lead
anywhere, but anything was worth a try. 'There's another thing I want to ask
you,' said Carole.

    'Oh?'
He was once again wary.

    'When
we first spoke on the phone, Mr Holderness, you assumed - wrongly -that I'd
contacted you because there was some rule about use of the beach hut on
Smalting Beach that I wanted you to bend for me.'

    There
was an uncomfortable silence from the other end of the line, so Carole pressed
on. 'You also gave examples of rules that you had managed to bend, of people
having small generators in their huts, or staying overnight in them . . .'

    'So?
Are you planning to report me for it?' There was a new menace in his question.
Carole visualized the thickset security officer and was in no doubt that he
would be quite capable of physical violence.

    'I
don't think that'll be necessary, ' she said, more calmly than she felt, 'if
you were to tell me which of the current owners of Smalting Beach beach huts
you have allowed to stay there overnight.'

    'Well,
in the past there's been the odd adulterous couple who use the place for their
assignations . . .'

    'Any
of that going on at the moment?'

    'No.
Last one of those broke up just before Christmas. The woman's husband found out
and surprised them at it in the beach hut. Very messy and violent.'

    'How
violent?'

    'Nobody
was killed, if that's what you mean. But a heavy beating was administered to
the wife and her lover.'

    'Was
it reported to the police?'

    'Of
course not. Not in any of their interests to make the thing public, was it?
Mind you, we had to get professional cleaners in to get the blood off the
walls.'

    Carole
winced. 'And currently?'

    'How
do you mean?'

    'Is
there anyone staying overnight in any of the huts to whom you're currently
turning a blind eye?'

    'Look,
if I tell you this, will you get off my back?'

    'Oh
yes,' said Carole glibly. But she had no intention of doing so. She knew she
had a powerful hold over Curt Holderness, and if there was further information
she thought she could get from him, she wouldn't hesitate to put further
pressure on him.

    'All
right,' he said grudgingly. 'There's just the one. Girl in
Shrimphaven.'

    'The
one next to
Fowey,
which I'm using at the moment.'

    'That's
right. Kel Southwest put the girl on to me and we . . . sorted out an
arrangement.'

    'Of
the folding variety?'

    'Maybe.'

    'What's
her name?' asked Carole.

    'Katie
Brunswick.'

    Carole
smiled to herself. Her hunch had been right. Now she had a potential witness to
night-time goings-on on Smalting Beach. She decided another trip to
Fowey
might be in order.

    The day
was nondescript. Warm enough, but with no sun showing through the clogged
clouds. When - and if - they blew away, the afternoon might be quite pleasant.