Bones Under The Beach Hut

And further along the Olivers had taken up their customary positions: Joyce on her lounger with another wordsearch book, Lionel, as ever dressed for work with his suit jacket over the back of his chair, looking out to sea. Carole could only conjecture what thoughts might be going through their heads, and the extent to which memories of their lost grandson filled them. She felt something approaching a crusading zeal at the prospect of her interview with Kelvin Southwest. At last she might be able to unearth some information that might help the Olivers and Miranda Browning come to terms with their family tragedy.

'Good morning.'

Carole looked up to see that her quarry had arrived. As a concession to the weekend, he was not in his Fether District Council livery, but still dressed in virtually identical style. A green polo shirt and much-pocketed khaki shorts strained over his chubby body. His footwear remained leather sandals over short white socks.

He looked ill at ease, his right hand tugging nervously at his silky goatee.

'Good morning. Do sit down.' Carole gestured to the other director's chair she'd set out for him. Shiftily he did as she suggested, looking anxiously to the beach huts on either side. Both were closed up.

'Nobody will hear what we're saying,' continued Carole, 'but of course if you'd rather go inside the hut or move somewhere more private . . .'

'No, this'll be fine.' Kelvin Southwest perched uncomfortably on the edge of his seat, as though suffering from a bad case of piles. 'Incidentally,' he said, 'we've had the all-clear from the police. They've finished their investigations in Quiet Harbour, so you can go back there if you want to.'

'Oh, thank you. I might go back there tomorrow. That's when my daughter-in-law and granddaughter are arriving. Do you have the key?'

He had come prepared and passed it across.

There was a rather awkward silence. Having actually got the man there, Carole was beginning to wish she'd given a bit more thought to how she intended to conduct their interview. But fortunately Kelvin Southwest made it easy for her by saying, 'Look, I haven't done anything that's harmed anyone.'

'No?'

Happily this was sufficient prompt for him to continue, 'Who told you about me using the binoculars? Who shopped me?'

'I don't think it's relevant for me to disclose that information at this point,' said Carole, amazed at how instinctively she had once again dropped into police-speak.

'Look, all right, I'm attracted to kids, but I'd never do anything that'd harm them,' he reiterated.

'I'm not sure that you're necessarily the best judge of that, Mr Southwest.' She was damned if she was going to go back to calling him 'Kel'.

'I can't help the feelings I have,' he said, hoping — unsuccessfully — to engage her sympathy. 'And I have now got much better control over them.'

'Could you explain to me what you mean by that?'

'Listen, all right, a few years ago, yes, I did sometimes take my binoculars into one of the empty beach huts. I actually made spy holes in it, so's I could . . . Look, I'm not proud of what I've done, but back then I couldn't control my urges.' He reverted to another thought that still nagged at him. 'I bet I know who it was who shopped me to you. It'd be that Dora Pinchbeck. I'd put money on it. She's always been a nosy cow.'

'I will neither confirm nor deny your conjectures, Mr Southwest,' Carole pronounced in magnificent police-speak. 'The identity of the person who, as you put it, "shopped" you is not important, and will only become important if that person needs to be called as a witness in court.'

In a less excited mood Carole wouldn't have gone so far. Threatening someone with legal action was taking the crime of impersonating a member of the police force to another level. But she was in no mood for caution. She was determined to get some kind of confession out of Kelvin Southwest.

And the approach did pay off, because he responded, 'Yes, all right, I used to look at kids undressing through binoculars, but that's not a police matter.'

And I'm not a policewoman, thought Carole, but what she actually said was, 'If you seriously believe that, Mr Southwest, then you haven't read a newspaper or watched the television news for the past twenty years.'

All right,' he whined. 'But you don't know what it's like, having these urges that can't find satisfaction in a way that's publicly acceptable.'

Thank goodness Jude isn't here, thought Carole. His words echoed what her neighbour had said on the subject of paedophilia. Jude was quite capable of ending up feeling sorry for the little worm.

'I'd like,' Carole proceeded magisterially, 'to talk to you about Robin Cutter.'

'What? Look, for God's sake, you're not going to try and pin that on me, are you?'

'Were you questioned by the police at the time of his disappearance?'

'No, of course I wasn't! Why should I have been?'

'Mr Southwest, you have just admitted that you have paedophiliac tendencies.'

'Yes, but I'd never give them expression in that way. And, besides, I'm not on any register or anything. Nobody else knows that I have . . . you know, what you said.'

'If that were true, Mr Southwest, we wouldn't be having this conversation now. The person who "shopped" you knows. Why shouldn't a lot of other people?'

'But nobody knew back then, you know, when Robin Cutter disappeared.'

'And that was why the police didn't question you at the time?'

'Yes.'

'Something which the police might now regard as something of an oversight.'

It took a moment for the implication of her words to sink in. 'Are you saying that I'm likely to be questioned about that?'

'I would think it's a very strong possibility.'

He looked appalled at the idea. Sweat was now prickling on his pale brow as he repeated, 'But I'm not on any Sex Offenders Register or anything. I've never touched a child in that way.'

'We have only your word for that,' said Carole, rather enjoying the police 'we'.

'But if I'm questioned there'll be lots of publicity. I might lose my job at Fether District Council.'

'Mr Southwest, eight years ago a very serious crime was committed. By pure chance you weren't questioned about it at the time. But given the facts: A) that you have admitted to me that you have paedophile tendencies, and B) that the remains of Robin Cutter were found under a beach hut for which you have responsibility, I think the very least that will happen is that you'll be asked to prove that you had nothing to do with the boy's abduction.'

'I didn't. You have to take my word for it.'

'You'd say that whether you were innocent or guilty, wouldn't you?' Shiftily he avoided her gaze. 'Were you doing your current job eight years ago?'

'Yes.'

'So you could easily have been here at Smalting the day Robin Cutter disappeared?'

'I could have been, but I wasn't.'

'Could you prove that?'

'I don't know. We're talking about eight years ago, for God's sake. I could have been here. All right, maybe I was, but if I was I didn't see any small boy here and I certainly didn't abduct one. I'd already found a way of controlling my urges.'

'You've mentioned that more than once, Mr Southwest. Would you explain to me what you mean by "controlling your urges"?'

'Yes, all right.' He was reluctant and the words came out slowly. 'The fact is, Carole, that I've always felt like I do and there was a time when perhaps I did represent a danger to children, when perhaps my urges would have got the better of me. It was something I was always afraid of. I tried to avoid being in situations where I might be left alone with children, and yet at the same time I wanted to be in situations where I was left alone with children. I was afraid that I might touch one of them, and then I might not be able to stop myself and . . .' The sweat was by now pouring profusely down his brow and temples. 'Then I found that I could stop myself from thinking about actually doing things to children, actually touching them, by seeing images of other people . . .' His words petered out.