Well, that was a fairly unequivocal put-down. And Carole hadn't liked the reference to 'coffee mornings', which seemed to consign her to the category of 'gossipy old woman who has nothing better to do with her time'. What spoilsports the police could be.
Chapter Eleven
'Look, this is very hush-hush,' said the voice at the other end of the phone. It took Carole a moment to recognize that the speaker was Kelvin Southwest.
'Oh, really?' she responded without much intonation.
'Yes. The fact is, Carole, that. . . well, I'm sure you will be aware from the news bulletins about the unfortunate discovery under Quiet Harbour.'
'I think I'd have had to be bricked into a cell like some unlucky medieval saint not to have heard about it.'
'True.' His tone suggested he wasn't used to people using that kind of analogy. 'Well, look, Carole, the fact is . . . the police are investigating the circumstances which may have led to . . . the discovery.'
'I would be very surprised if they weren't. When human remains are found it is quite common for the police to take an interest. They would be failing to do their duties if they didn't.'
'Yes. Yes.' The little man at the other end of the phone sounded awkward and rather wretched. 'Now, Carole, it's entirely possible that the police will want to talk to you about the discovery, since you were the one who . . .'
'I would expect that, yes.' Some instinct stopped her from revealing to Kelvin Southwest that she had already been questioned by the police. Wait and see what he had to say first.
'Well, look, Carole, there are certain things that in certain circumstances appear in one way, but in other circumstances appear in another light altogether, if you know what I mean.'
'What on earth are you talking about?' Carole didn't feel inclined to make the conversation any easier for him. She didn't mind hearing the little worm squirming for a minute or two.
'Well, erm, the fact is that while doing people favours is an admirable expression of all that's best in human nature, one doesn't necessarily want everyone to know when such favours are done.'
'Are you saying that you don't want the police to know about you arranging for me 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 you?'
'With human remains having been found it'd be hard for me not to, wouldn't it?'
Carole had grinned with quiet satisfaction. 'So, Jude, if you admit there's a crime, you must also admit that we're engaged in another investigation.'
The Sunday dawned another glowing June morning, prompting more mutterings about global warming from the doom-mongers of Fethering. When they arrived at Fowey Carole was surprised to find a brown A4 envelope tucked into the stainless-steel bar across the front of the hut's doors.
'Getting love letters already?' suggested Jude.
'Don't be ridiculous.' Carole slid her finger along inside the top of the envelope and produced a membership card and a newsletter. 'Ah, now I am a fully fledged member of the Smalting Beach Hut Association.
And aren't I lucky? I've got my very own copy of The Hut Parade.'
She held up for Jude's inspection the two rather smudgily printed sheets stapled together. It came as no surprise that the newsletter demonstrated the fatal giveaway of the amateur in artwork: a tendency to use too many fonts and colours in any document. She now felt pretty certain that Reginald Flowers did his own editing — and probably wrote the bulk of the newsletter's content too.
Carole looked across to The Bridge to see if he was there to be thanked, but of course that block of huts was still shut off by police scene-of-crime tape.