Bones Under The Beach Hut

They wouldn't dare, thought Carole. Recognizing the opportunity for a little investigation, she gestured again towards Quiet Harbour and said, 'I don't suppose you've heard any more than the rest of us about what was actually found in there?'

'"Human remains", that's all I've heard.' But Deborah Wrigley was the kind of woman who always liked to have some exclusive information, so she couldn't stop herself from saying, 'Of course I knew the young couple who rented it before you.'

'What, you mean you met them down here on the beach?'

'I met the girl down here for the first time. But I did actually know the young man from some time back.'

Carole was instantly alert. 'Oh?'

'He used to work with my husband at NMB.'

'NMB? I'm sorry, the initials sound familiar, but I'm not sure I . . .'

'Neuchatel Mutual Bank. My husband Ronald ran the London end of that.'

'Oh, did he?'

'And Mark Dennis — that's the name of the young man who had the beach hut when—'

'Yes, I'd heard it.'

'Well, he joined NMB straight out of university. Very bright boy. Ronald had a lot of time for him. And I used to meet Mark from time to time at business functions.'

'Ah.'

A sly look came into Deborah Wrigley's face. 'They're not married, you know.'

'Mark and Philly? No, I know that.'

The older woman looked a little peeved at Carole having information about the couple for which she had not been the source. 'He used to be married, you know. Tall, beautiful girl, worked in another bank. Goodness knows why Mark let that go wrong.'

'Did you meet her?'

'Yes, some odd Irish name.'

'Nuala.'

'That's right.' Again Deborah Wrigley seemed peeved that Carole knew more than she did. 'Yes, I met her a few times. At functions, you know. Very attractive couple. Very successful couple. They had a bit of motivation. So few young people seem to these days. Like my son. He was a severe disappointment to Ronald.' Even in absentia Gavin Wrigley was not protected from his mother's sideswipes.

'Have you seen Nuala Dennis recently?'

'No, no reason why I should. I no longer moved in City circles after Ronald died. Anyway, their marriage broke up. Then I heard through mutual friends that Mark had given up his extremely promising career to become a painter or something equally fatuous. Next thing I know he appears down here with this new girl in tow.'

'Did you see him here at the beach hut?'

'Yes. The keen hutters tend to start using them at Easter. I always invite Gavin and the children down for a week at Easter.'

Invite? I bet it's a three-line whip, thought Carole. And she noticed that Deborah Wrigley's daughter-in-law Nell didn't even merit a mention.

'Anyway, I think Mark must've had some kind of breakdown — or mid-life crisis do they call it these days? The generation who lived through the war didn't have time for mid-life crises. He must have been potty, though, because he chucks a perfectly good job, leaves a delightful and beautiful wife and sets up with some young floozy. I've met her. Called Gillie or something.'

'Philly.'

'Whatever. Insipid little thing, I thought. Not like Nuala. At least Nuala had something about her.'

Deborah Wrigley's words made Carole think. First, the idea that Mark Dennis might have had some kind of breakdown. It hadn't occurred to her before, but maybe it wasn't such a silly idea. He'd certainly been under a lot of pressure at the time of his disappearance. Maybe he had cracked up and been hospitalized. That would explain the lack of contact Philly had had from him.

The other realization that Deborah Wrigley had prompted was that the only version of Nuala Dennis that Carole and Jude had heard about had been Mark's views passed on by Philly. And people from broken relationships don't always provide the most balanced assessments of their ex-partners' characters. Maybe Nuala wasn't the complete villainess that she had been painted.

All this went through Carole's mind in a flash before she asked, 'Do you know if Nuala still works in the City?'

'I assume so. She and Mark didn't have children, I know that. Whether there was some problem, or whether she just put her career first I've no idea. When I last had contact with her she was working for PWC.' In response to Carole's interrogative eyebrow, she spelled out, 'PricewaterhouseCoopers. But we're talking some years ago. Goodness knows if she's still there. These City high-flyers tend to move around a lot these days. Different in Ronald's time. He was at NMB most of his career. Climbed his way up the management ladder. But then that's how things worked in those days. People had a sense of loyalty to their employers. Whereas today's young people don't even seem to understand what the word "loyalty" means.'

'So you don't have any other means of contacting Nuala Dennis?'

The expression on Deborah Wrigley's face told Carole how odd her question must have sounded. 'No,' came the reply. 'We are talking about someone I only met a few times through my husband's work. And I can't imagine any reason why you might want to contact her.'

'No, I'm sorry. I just... well, I've met Philly Rose ...'

'Have you?' The words were not enthusiastic.

'Yes. And I know how cut up she is about Mark's leaving, and I thought if he had gone back to his wife, then contacting her might be a way of—'

'I'm sure if Mark Dennis has gone back to his wife — which I very much hope he has — the last thing the two of them would wish for would be a call from his former floozy.'

'You're probably right. Well, Gulliver and I had better be on our way.'

'Yes, perhaps you had.' Deborah Wrigley's smile of dismissal had all the warmth of a low-energy light bulb.

When Carole got back to High Tor she rang Curt Holderness's mobile. Prompted to leave a message, she asked if he could phone her back, though without great confidence that he would. When they had parted on the Sunday in the Crown and Anchor, the security officer hadn't shown much enthusiasm for the idea of their ever speaking again.

Since it was not yet five o'clock, Carole — again without much optimism — thought she might try PricewaterhouseCoopers to get a contact number for Nuala. Using her laptop to check the number on their website, she rang through to the main London office near Charing Cross. No, they did not have a Nuala Dennis working for them. And no, they couldn't divulge details of former employees.

As she put the phone down, it struck Carole that a City go-getter like the Nuala Deborah Wrigley had described would quite probably have worked under her maiden rather than her married name. And trying to guess that would be a hopeless task. She wondered whether Philly Rose might know. It didn't seem very likely. Few women are interested in their lovers' wives' maiden names.

Later that evening, as they shared a bottle of Chilean Chardonnay in her cluttered sitting room, Jude agreed that it was worth trying to get a bit more information from Philly and rang through to Seashell Cottage. But no, the girl had no idea what Nuala had been called before she married Mark.

'So you don't have any means of contacting her?'

'Why should I have?'

'That wasn't really the question I was asking, Philly.'

'No.' There was a silence from the Smalting end. Then, 'I do actually have a mobile number for her.'

'Oh?'

'I copied it from Mark's phone once when he was out. I don't know why. I think perhaps I'd always been aware of the risk Nuala represented. But then when he left, I didn't dare ring the number. I kept wanting to, but something stopped me.'

'The thought that Mark might actually be with her?' Jude suggested intuitively.

'Yes, just that. It was what I was afraid might have happened, and I suppose I was equally afraid of having my fears confirmed.'

'I could ring her,' Jude proposed gently.