The Body on the Beach (20 page)

‘But
why
would he have done it?’ demanded Carole. ‘Put his hand in the Yacht Club till? For a thousand pounds? I mean, a thousand pounds would be very nice – none
of us would say no to it . . .’

‘Certainly not.’ Denis Woodville’s agreement was heartfelt.

‘. . . but for someone in Rory Turnbull’s position – dentist’s salary, big house on the Shorelands Estate – a thousand pounds isn’t much. Certainly
not enough for him to risk public humiliation and possible criminal proceedings.
Why
would he have done it?’

‘You’d be amazed.’ Ted Crisp shook his shaggy head at the recurrent follies of humankind. ‘Happens all the time – particularly in a place like Fethering. Somebody
gets a position of power locally – only in the Cricket Club or the Yacht Club or something tinpot like that –’ he went on, apparently unaware of the Vice-Commodore’s
bristling – ‘and they have access to another chequebook, and they suddenly think, “Ooh, I can get something out of this.” And they milk the funds. Just for the odd hundred
they’ll do it. I don’t know why, but it certainly keeps happening.’

‘I suppose everyone needs money,’ Carole concluded. ‘People may look like they’ve got plenty, but we can’t see inside their bank accounts, can we? We can’t
know what demands there are on their resources, what foolish investments they may have made, what reckless loans they’ve taken on. It’s one of the last taboos in this country, people
actually talking about their financial affairs.’

‘You’re right.’ Ted Crisp looked at their glasses. ‘Come on, let’s have another drink. This round’s on me.’

‘That’s no way to make a profit,’ Carole observed.

The landlord turned on her in mock anger. ‘Are you saying no? Are you saying you don’t want to take a drink from me?’

She smiled graciously. ‘No, I’m not. Thank you very much indeed, Ted.’

As she pushed her wine glass forward, she felt another little frisson from the knowledge that she, Carole Seddon, was in the Crown and Anchor, exchanging banter with the landlord and calling him
by his first name. She’d come a long way in a week.

‘Of course, people develop expensive habits too,’ Ted ruminated, as he poured the drinks. ‘Rory Turn-bull was getting through the Scotch in here like there was no
tomorrow.’

‘But on his income presumably he could afford an alcohol habit.’

‘He could afford an
alcohol
habit, yes, Carole.’

She was quickly on to the slight pressure he’d put on the word. ‘What do you mean? Are you saying he had another expensive habit? Are you saying Rory Turnbull was into
drugs?’

But either Carole had mistaken his intonation or the landlord had decided he didn’t wish to amplify the hint. He just said, ‘Hardly. Don’t somehow see him in the role of crazed
junkie, do you?’ He punctuated the end of such speculation by plonking the two replenished wine glasses on the counter. ‘There you are – compliments of the management. Treasure
this moment. Record it on the mental video cameras of your minds. Because I can assure you, it doesn’t happen very often!’

When the round of thank-yous had subsided, Jude looked thoughtful. ‘It’s odd, though, isn’t it? Two suicides in a week . . .’

‘Two?’ asked the Vice-Commodore.

‘That boy Aaron Spalding.’

‘Was that suicide?’

Jude caught Carole’s eye and read caution in it. What they had been investigating was private, between the two of them, at least for the time being.

‘Well, that’s certainly been suggested,’ said Jude, making her tone more generalized. ‘I don’t know whether there’s been an inquest yet. OK, not two suicides
– two unnatural deaths. All I’m saying is that for someone like me, who’s lived here less than a week, that seems rather a high number. Or is it the usual pattern in
Fethering?’

‘By no means,’ Denis Woodville replied. ‘There’s probably a higher death rate here than in most other parts of the country, but that’s simply because of the average
age of the residents. Two unnatural deaths like this is most unusual.’

Jude’s brown eyes signalled to Carole not to worry, she was only floating an idea to see if it got any response, before she asked ingenuously, ‘Makes one wonder whether there could
be any connection between the two.’

The suggestion produced a snort of laughter from the Vice-Commodore. ‘A connection between a highly respected middle-aged man living on the Shorelands Estate and some teenager from
Downside? I would think not.’

‘No,’ said Jude.

‘Hardly,’ said Carole.

But they were both increasingly convinced that there was a connection.

There was the clatter of the bar door opening and a voice said, ‘Evening, mine host.’

Bill Chilcott had arrived for his nightly half.

Denis Woodville stiffened and downed the remainder of the brandy Ted Crisp had bought him. ‘Sorry, I must be off,’ he said. ‘Suddenly a rather nasty smell around this
place.’

And, as if his next-door neighbour didn’t exist, the Vice-Commodore stalked out of the Crown and Anchor.

‘It was in Rory Turnbull’s boat,’ said Carole, as they reached the gate of Woodside Cottage. The evening was mild. The frost would probably hold off that
night. ‘The body was put in
Brigadoon II
. That’s the only thing we’ve got linking Aaron Spalding’s death and Rory Turnbull’s suicide.’

‘It’s not much,’ said Jude.

Carole sighed despondently. ‘Maybe there is no connection. Maybe it’s just an unfortunate coincidence.’

Jude shook her head. ‘No, there’s a link between them. They are connected.’

So strong was the conviction in her voice that Carole didn’t argue. Instead, characteristically, she moved on to practicalities. ‘Well, I think we need to know more about Rory
Turnbull. What he was like, what was happening in his life, what pushed him over the edge.’

‘And whether he did have anything to do with drugs.’

‘You noticed that too? When Ted hinted at something and then clammed up?’

‘Oh yes. I’ll follow up on the drugs thing tomorrow.’

‘How?’

‘Let’s say I have an idea of where to start.’

‘And I,’ Carole announced confidently, ‘will make it my business tomorrow to find out more about Rory Turnbull.’

‘How’ll you do that?’

‘Let’s say I have an idea of where to start,’ came the lofty reply.

Carole Seddon could also play mysterious when she needed to.

Carole wasn’t a dog person. When she left the Home Office, she’d taken on Gulliver for purely practical reasons. He would give a purpose to the many walks with
which she had planned to fill the longeurs of her retirement. Being accompanied by a dog, she would avoid unwelcome questions and speculation. And anyway, people with dogs never look lonely.

It was the same kind of sensible thinking that had made her join the Canine Trust. She didn’t feel particularly strongly about the civil liberties of dogs, but she recognized that
volunteering for the charity might provide occasional useful work to fill a little more of her time.

The demands were not onerous. She helped out with the Canine Trust local branch’s summer fête; twice a year she contributed to their bring-and-buy coffee mornings and she distributed
raffle tickets.

Carole discharged these duties punctiliously, as she did everything, but she found her involvement in the charity increasingly dull. In fact, when the latest batch of raffle tickets arrived in
the post a few weeks before, she had contemplated ceasing to be a volunteer.

But on the Saturday morning, clutching them in her hand as she walked down the High Street towards the Fethering Yacht Club, Carole positively blessed the raffle tickets. Nothing could have
given her a better excuse to call on Winnie Norton.

And the reason why in the past she had tried to avoid calling on Winnie Norton with raffle tickets – because the old lady insisted on inviting her in and subjecting her to a minimum
half-hour dose of the Winnie Norton view of the world – was on this occasion a positive advantage.

Spray Lodge was the nearest residential building to the river. Some eight storeys high, its most valued flats looked out, over the Yacht Club and the sea wall which separated the Fether from the
beach, all the way to the distant horizon where the water melted into the sky. Normally, Spray Lodge was one of the most desirable of Fethering locations. But when the sea wall was being repaired,
the block was uncomfortably close to the monotonous thud of the pile driver. Carole heard the noise increasing as she neared her destination.

Carole no longer took Gulliver on her raffle-ticket-selling excursions. The first time she’d thought he might be useful to establish her credentials as an authentic dog lover, but she had
not repeated the experiment. The Fethering residents whom Canine Trust directives instructed her to target were, by definition, other dog owners, and Gulliver’s noisy enthusiasm – not
to mention combativeness – on greeting their pets had made for slow and uncomfortable progress. Since the first time, therefore, he had remained at home when his mistress went out with her
raffle tickets.

Winnie Norton was a dog owner, and presumably therefore a dog lover – assuming she was capable of loving anything other than her daughter. She was the owner of Churchill, whom Jude had
encountered at Brigadoon. Carole didn’t really count Yorkshire terriers as dogs. They were too small, too silky, too yappy, a kind of bonsai mutant of what, to her mind, a dog should be.

When she buzzed through on the entryphone, she heard Churchill before she heard his owner. He was yapping, as ever. Then Winnie Norton’s carefully enunciated tones inquired, ‘Yes,
who is it?’

‘It’s Carole Seddon. I’ve got the Canine Trust raffle tickets.’

‘Oh, splendid. Do come up.’ And the entryphone box buzzed admission.

Winnie Norton’s second-floor flat was relatively small, but every item in it was exquisite. Carole knew that if she referred to any piece of furniture or ornament, her hostess would say,
‘Oh yes, well, when I sold the big house after my husband died, I had to get rid of a lot of beautiful stuff. Phillips auctioned it, and I’ve kept only the best, the very best.’
Then she would chuckle and continue, ‘There are museums all over the world who’d give their eyeteeth for what’s in this room.’

And Carole knew if she referred to the sea view, Winnie Norton would say, ‘Oh yes, well, you see it best from here on the second floor. The people in the flats below just look out over the
Yacht Club, and those above get a much less good angle on the horizon. When I sold the big house after my husband died, I insisted that I had to have the best flat in the block with the best
view.’ And then she’d chuckle and continue, ‘I may be slumming, but at least I’ll slum in style.’

That Saturday morning Carole was determined to avoid commenting on either the furniture or the sea view.

When she opened the front door of the flat to let Carole in, Winnie Norton was revealed in a cherry-coloured woollen suit with gold braiding and buttons. Her hair, still bearing a bluish tinge,
was fixed like stiff meringue on top of her head. With her spare hand, she held Churchill up to her chest. He was once again yapping furiously.

‘There, you lovely boy,’ Winnie cooed. ‘Look who’s come to see you – it’s Carole. Look how pleased to see you he is, Carole.’

The dog’s little eyes glinted a look of pure malevolence at the visitor. Don’t worry, you revolting little mutt, thought Carole, it’s mutual.

‘Now, you do have time to stop for a coffee, don’t you, dear?’

It was said defensively, almost challengingly. The last few times Carole had called, she’d managed to wriggle out of staying. This time, however, she gave the right answer.

‘Oh, excellent. Now do sit down on the sofa, dear. The kettle’s just boiled. Barbara’s bought me one of those new-fangled cafetières, so I’m getting quite
“with it”. But I must confess, it does make delicious coffee. Oh, and I’ll just say the one apology now for that dreadful thumping from the sea wall.’

‘Don’t apologize. You can hear it all over Fethering.’

‘Yes, but it’s much worse from here. I tell you, I’ve had a splitting headache for days. It keeps going through the night, you know.’

‘That’s because of the tides.’

‘Huh. I suppose it has to be done. And, in theory, it’s all going to be finished by Monday. Mind you,’ said Winnie Norton darkly, ‘I’ll believe that when it
happens. Now, I won’t be a moment getting the coffee. You stay and talk to Carole, there’s a good boy.’

Winnie Norton poured Churchill down on to the carpet and went through to the kitchen. The dog leapt forward towards Carole, then stopped about a yard away from the sofa, his body tensed
backwards. He growled.

‘Get lost, you little rat!’ Carole hissed.

The dog understood the sentiment, if not the words. He started up his high-pitched yapping again.

‘Oh, shut up!’

Again she kept her voice down, but this time the injunction had an effect. With a final look of undiluted hatred, Churchill slunk off behind the sofa.

Carole looked out at the sea. Even though she was determined not to say so in Winnie’s presence, the view was undeniably magnificent. She rose and went closer to the picture window. No,
from here Winnie couldn’t see the end of the breakwater where the dead man had lain. Because of the Yacht Club building, her view of the low-tide beach started further down.

‘Wonderful view, isn’t it?’ Carole heard from behind her.

‘Mm,’ she agreed, as she turned to help Winnie with the coffee tray.

‘Oh yes, well, you see it best from here on the second floor. The people in the flats below just look out over the Yacht Club, and those above . . .’

Damn, out came the whole routine. Winnie Norton didn’t need prompting from anyone else. She was self-priming.

While the familiar words were rehearsed yet again, Carole reflected that her hostess wasn’t acting like someone whose son-in-law had just committed suicide. Maybe she didn’t yet know
the news. Maybe Barbara Turnbull had kept it from her mother out of kindness until the facts had been confirmed.