Free Bones Under The Beach Hut by Simon Brett Page B

to
take over Philly Rose's rental of Quiet Harbour?'
        'Well,
I, er . . . Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying.'
        'I
don't see why the police should be interested. What you have done isn't
criminal.'
        'No,
I agree. It's not criminal per se, but if the information of what had happened
were to get back, via the police, to my paymasters at Fether District Council.
. .'
        'I
think I get your drift, Mr Southwest.' It was a measure of his agitation that
he made no attempt to get her to call him Kel. 'Hm, well, I suppose I could
keep it quiet. . .'
        'I'd
be very grateful if you could, Carole.'
        '. .
. but then again I'm not sure why I should.'
        'Do
you want to get me into trouble?'
        The
answer to that was probably yes. The more she had to do with Kelvin Southwest,
the less Carole liked him. But rather than replying to his question, she saw a
way of using the situation to get more information. 'I would be prepared to
keep quiet about what happened . . .'
        'Oh,
thank you so much.'
        '. .
. but I would want something in return.'
        'I
beg your pardon?'
        'Oh,
come on, Mr Southwest. I'm sure you of all people know what I mean. A favour in
return for a favour? You scratch my back and . . . ?'
        'What
do you want me to do?' he asked ungraciously.
        'I
just want you to tell me how to contact the Smalting Beach Hut Association
security officer.'
        'And
if I do that you won't mention to the police about the arrangement I made over
transferring Philly Rose's rental to you?'
        'You
have my word on it. You tell me and I will not in the future mention anything about
that arrangement to the police,' said Carole, choosing her words with
scrupulous care.
        The
security officer's name was Curt Holderness. Kelvin Southwest gave her a mobile
number for him.
        He
also gave her his own mobile number, 'Just so's you can warn me if the police
start getting nosey about the change of rental agreement . . .'
      
            
        Arriving
as a stranger to Smalting Beach on the Sunday morning you would not have known about
the grisly discovery made there only a few days before. True, Quiet Harbour was shrouded in a sort of white tent and the rest of the row of beach huts was
still cordoned off by police tape, but that didn't stop holidaymakers from
continuing to enjoy themselves. A lot of the other huts were in use, extended
families had set up little colonies surrounded by stripy windbreaks, and the
air was full of the delighted screams of small children.
         Shrimphaven, the hut immediately adjacent to Fowey, was closed and locked up. Maybe
the mysterious girl with the laptop took Sundays off.
        Carole
had feared that appearing back on Smalting Beach with Jude so soon would make
them look like crime-scene ghouls, but that worry was soon dissipated. Though a
few people walking along the beach might linger in front of the site of the
macabre discovery, there was no crowd or unseemly rush. Smalting was far too
genteel for that kind of thing.
        The
previous evening, when they had decided to return to Fowey, Carole had suggested
that it was her turn to provide them with a picnic, but Jude had demurred,
suggesting that they should try the Sunday roast in The Crab Inn the following
day.
        'It's
supposed to be very expensive,' Carole had said.
        'Well,
I'm sure we can afford it.'
        'But
it's supposed to be very popular too. I'm not sure we'd get in on a Sunday.'
        'We'll
find out when we get there, won't we? And if they don't have a table for lunch,
well, we can just have a drink.'
        'You
seem very keen to get into The Crab Inn, Jude.'
        'It's
the only pub in Smalting. Could be a useful source of information. We might get
into conversation with some locals. See what the gossips of Smalting are making
of the crime.'
        'Ah,
so you admit there is a crime now, do