Bones Under The Beach Hut Read Free

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undoing the padlocks of Quiet Harbour.
        The
blue double doors at the front went virtually the entire width of the hut.
Across them a stainless- steel bar was fitted into slots and padlocked at
either end. There was also a padlock on the staple and hasp where the two doors
met, so there were three keys on the yellow plastic-tagged ring that Jude had
got from Philly Rose. In spite of the protective rubber covers that fitted over
the slots, the salt air had got in and the keys were hard to turn. When she had
finally - and with difficulty - opened the doors, she fixed the hooks that hung
from them into the rings at the sides of the hut.
        Carole
dared to let Gulliver off the lead while she examined her property. Though he
was unfamiliar with Smalting Beach, she knew he wouldn't stray too far away
from her.
        The
interior of Quiet Harbour was very neat and not a little poignant.
Everything in it seemed to be designed for two: a pair of folded director's
chairs, a small camping table. From pegs on the wall hung two snorkels,
flippers, large for him, small for her, and a set of two plastic rackets with a
foam ball. On a shelf at the back stood a Camping Gaz double burner and a row
of sealed plastic containers, which turned out to contain cutlery and basics
such as tea bags and sachets of instant coffee. There were two large and two
small bright red plastic plates and a pair of mugs with humorous inscriptions:
'MR STUD' and 'SEXY LADY'. Everything in the hut was a celebration of the
relationship between Philly Rose and Mark Dennis; the relationship he had
walked out of.
        The
floor was covered by an offcut of newish- looking, clean green carpet, on which
Carole's flip-flops left sandy marks when she entered the hut. She opened up
one of the chairs and set it just inside the doorway. In time she would venture
out on to the beach, but she wanted to make an unobtrusive start. And the
position where she'd put her chair would get plenty of sun. It was a beautiful
June day, one of those which should have presaged a perfect summer. But Carole
Seddon had lived in England too long to be over-optimistic about that hope
being realized.
        Not
knowing that the burner would be there, she had brought a thermos of hot black
coffee with her and she poured herself a cup. Out of her tote bag she drew her
copy of The Times and turned to the back of the main section for the
crossword. She felt the familiar tug of annoyance at the positioning of the
puzzle. In the old days, before The Times went tabloid, the crossword
was always on the back page with the clues beside it, so that the paper could
be folded to reveal both elements at the same time. Whereas now, it was on the
penultimate page with the grid and the clues on separate halves so that, unless
you had the paper flat on a table you had to keep turning the folded sheets.
Why was it, wondered Carole in exasperation, that people keep wanting to change
things that were already working perfectly well?
        Even
as she had the thought, she realized how crusty she would have sounded if she'd
said the words out loud. But it didn't worry her too much. Carole Seddon was
getting to the stage in life when she reckoned a little crustiness was entirely
justified. And of all the things in the world to which a crusty response was
justified, meddling with The Times crossword stood head and shoulders
above the rest.
        'Tristram,
do stand up straight. Just because you're in your bathers, there's no need to
be slovenly.'
        From
her perch inside Quiet Harbour, Carole could not see the owner of the
over-elocuted female voice that issued this command from the adjacent beach hut
- called Seagull's Nest - but its addressee was in clear vision. A boy
of about five, wearing bright red shorts and a martyred expression,
straightened his shoulders. 'Yes, Granny,' he said balefully.
        'And
Hermione's right down by the sea! You really should keep an eye on her,