Bones Under The Beach Hut

'The mother looks vaguely familiar,' said Jude.

'Who is she?'

'I don't know. It'll come to me.'

They switched off the television. At the time Robin Cutter disappeared, Jude had not yet moved to Fethering and had only been aware of the national reaction to the case. That had been strong, but as nothing compared to the frenzy in West Sussex. Carole could vividly recall the local furore and hysteria about what was assumed to be another paedophile atrocity. 'We must find out more about it,' she announced.

'What, now?'

'Yes, Jude. I'm sure there'll be lots more on the internet.'

'You're right. Will you bring your laptop down?'

Carole was given a moment's pause by this novel idea. Though, after a slow and sceptical start, she had now embraced computer technology with considerable enthusiasm, she still somehow had not accepted the concept of her laptop's portability. It never moved from the spare bedroom, which she used as a kind of study. 'No, I think we'd better go upstairs,' she said.

Jude converted an incipient giggle into a sigh and followed her neighbour.

Carole's view that there would be 'lots more on the internet' proved to be an understatement. There were literally hundreds of thousands of references to Robin Cutter, ranging from the straight facts of his disappearance on Wikipedia, newspaper and BBC websites, to the homicidal ravings of anti-paedophile fanatics. Though at the time of his supposed abduction bloggers had hardly existed, the contemporary ones still included his names in their lists of victims. As ever, the internet offered opportunities to the kind of people who used to write letters in block capitals with lots of underlining. It had become the soapbox of the unhinged bigot.

'God, it's nasty,' said Jude, as they both looked at one of the wilder polemics. 'I suppose paedophiles are about the only minority left that everyone feels justified in denouncing.'

'I'm sorry? I don't know what you mean.'

'Well, it's no longer politically acceptable to discriminate against women or foreigners or lesbians or gays. About the only targets left to criticize are paedophiles.'

Carole was appalled. 'Jude, are you saying you support what they do?'

'Of course I'm not. I'm just saying it must be terrible to grow up with those kind of impulses.'

'What, you think they can't help themselves?'

'Possibly not.'

Carole Seddon was so shocked to the core of her being that she could hardly get her words out. 'But the things they do! You're not going to try to defend those on the grounds that the poor paedophiles can't help themselves?'

'No, no. I'm just saying that it must be very difficult to grow up discovering that the only way you can get sexual satisfaction is by committing an act that society reckons to be the ultimate taboo.'

Carole shuddered. 'I am sorry. There are times when I just don't understand you, Jude.' Which was true. There were many subjects on which the two of them were never going to think alike. Which perhaps made their friendship all the more remarkable. And strong.

'What I'm saying is that people lose all sense of proportion when paedophilia is mentioned. And there's a lot of ignorance about the subject. I mean, do you remember that case of the paediatrician who had graffiti scrawled over her house?'

'Jude, paedophilia remains a horrible and unforgivable crime.'

'Yes, Carole, but . . .' Jude decided it wasn't the moment to pursue her argument. She was as appalled as anyone by the crimes perpetrated by paedophiles, but her healer's instinct was always to look inside personalities, to try to understand what triggered their behaviour. But explaining what she meant to Carole would not have been an easy task, so she turned her attention back to the laptop. 'Anyway, let's just see how much basic information we can get about the case.'

'Very well,' said Carole, still looking at her neighbour in a rather old-fashioned way.

They returned to Wikipedia. 'With that name I'm surprised they haven't been attacked too,' Jude observed.

The basic information was quite simple, almost banal in its simplicity. Robin Cutter had been spending a day with his grandparents near Fedborough while his mother and father had gone to London to see a matinee of Les Miserables. In the morning his grandfather had driven the boy down to Smalting Beach. After they'd parked the car, Robin had asked for an ice cream. While his grandfather went into the shop, the boy had asked to stay outside and watch the windsurfers. When his grandfather came out of the shop, Robin Cutter had disappeared. And he had never been seen again.

But it was the name of the grandfather that made Carole and Jude gasp.

Lionel Oliver.

Chapter Twenty-Six

The identity of the victim whose bones had been discovered under Quiet Harbour led to a predictable media frenzy. The Robin Cutter story was again on the front pages of many of the Thursday morning's national newspapers. The red tops didn't need any encouragement to go into anti-paedophile overdrive, and even Carole's more sedate Times gave wide coverage to the revelation. As ever in such instances, much was made of previous cases of similar atrocities, turning knives in the wounds of other families who had already suffered enough.

Carole and Jude watched the lunchtime television news in Woodside Cottage. There had been little development overnight, so they found out little more than they had been told in the Wednesday evening bulletin. The last part of the report, however, was an interview with the dead boy's mother.

Miranda Cutter had changed considerably in the years since her son's disappearance. The slender blond had morphed into a plump woman with dyed red curls. And her surname had changed to Browning.

In the interview she said what all bereaved parents say in such situations, that at least now she finally knew Robin was dead, that now he could have a proper funeral, and she could try to move forward with her life. Miranda Browning didn't say anything about her son's killer and the need for him to be brought to justice. She didn't need to. Every newspaper in the country was doing the job for her.

As soon as the interview had finished Carole looked across at Jude and saw a strange expression on her neighbour's face. 'What is it?'

'I know her. Miranda Browning. She's one of my clients.'

'Oh?'

'Yes. Someone referred her to me last year because she'd been getting these terrible headaches. I managed to alleviate the symptoms, but I knew what was really causing them was some deep inner tension, some powerful emotion she was holding in. She wouldn't tell me what it was. Now I know, though.'

'When you say she's a client, Jude . . .'

'Hm?'

'. . .do you mean she's a friend too?'

'I don't know her that well.'

'Well enough to ring her with condolences, you know, about what's happened?'

'I wouldn't want to trouble her at a time like this.'

'A time when she probably needs your healing services more than ever,' Carole suggested. 'If our investigation's going to get any further . . .'

'What do you mean?'

'If we find out who killed her son, then we'll help her get that psychological thing Americans go on about so much.'

'Closure?'

'Yes. Look, she probably knows more about the case than anyone else, and you've got a direct line to her.'

Jude felt uneasy. When it came to client confidentiality, she had strict boundaries. To contact Miranda Browning at a time like this simply to find out more about her son's disappearance would definitely be a step too far. On the other hand, if her intervention as a healer could help ease the woman's suffering . . .

'What do you say, Jude?'

'I say that at times you can be surprisingly unsentimental.'