Death under the Dryer

One

If her hairdresser had not been killed, Carole Seddon would never have become involved in the murder at Connie’s Clip Joint. Though she knew the salon well – and indeed had to walk past it every time she went along the High Street to the inadequate local supermarket Allinstore – Carole had never before crossed its threshold. There was something too public about actually having her hair done in Fethering. Since she had moved permanently to West Sussex some ten years previously, her reclusive instincts had favoured an anonymous salon in Worthing, where every six weeks her straight grey hair would be trimmed to helmet-like neatness by a taciturn man called Graham. The arrangement had suited her. She and Graham were polite, but showed no curiosity about each other, and their haircuts were blissfully silent.

The first time Carole knew anything about his life outside the salon was when she heard that Graham had been killed in a motorcycle accident. This had happened when she rang to make her latest regular appointment. The emotion in the voice of the girl who relayed the sad news decided Carole that she needed to find another salon. She didn’t want the perfect detachment of her relationship with Graham to be spoiled by the maudlin reminiscences of other hairdressers after his death.

So the question then was where should she go. She checked the Yellow Pages, but was paralysed into indecision by the sheer number of options available. Carole hated the hidebound nature that made her react like that. About everything. Why did she have to make an issue of things? She ought to have grown out of that kind of introspection by now. She was well into her fifties – about to become a grandmother, for God’s sake – and yet, contrary to the appearance she gave the outside world, still vacillated about decisions like a young teenager.

Eventually, as part of her knew she would end up doing, she consulted Jude. Her next-door neighbour’s bird’s-nest style was probably not the best of advertisements for the art of hairdressing, but she must get it cut somewhere.

Predictably, Jude turned out to be not that bothered where she went. Her haircuts weren’t conducted according to a rigid timetable. She would just wake up one morning feeling that her blonde locks were getting a bit shaggy, or be passing a salon and go in on a whim. She did, however, say that Connie, of Connie’s Clip Joint on the High Street, was ‘absolutely fine’. Also, Fethering rumour had it, the salon wasn’t doing that well, and so booking in there would be supporting local industry.

These arguments – together with the unruly state of her hair – were enough to sway Carole. She seized the phone that very day, a Wednesday, and had a telling lack of difficulty in booking the first, nine o’clock, appointment at Connie’s Clip Joint for the following morning.

As she stood waiting outside on the pavement at ten past nine, she regretted her decision. Local people, lightly dressed for the soft September day, were walking past. She knew who they were; they knew who she was; some of them were even people she spoke to. And now they all knew that she was waiting to get her hair cut at Connie’s Clip Joint. From when she was a child, Carole Seddon had always wanted to keep an air of secrecy about what she did; she hated having her intentions known.

She tried to look nonchalant, as if she had just stopped outside the salon to check its window display. But the beautifully coiffed women and men whose photographs gazed artfully from behind rubber plants were not objects to retain the interest for long. In spite of her pretences, Carole Seddon looked exactly what she was: a middle-aged woman locked out of the hairdresser’s.

Discreetly she drew up the sleeve of her Burberry and looked down at her wristwatch. Although the only other person in sight along Fethering High Street at that moment was a pensioner deep in his own thoughts and a duffel coat, Carole moved as if she was under the scrutiny of a prison camp watchtower.

Twelve minutes past nine. Surely she hadn’t got the time wrong…? Surely the girl who answered the phone hadn’t said the first appointment was nine-thirty…? Such doubts were quickly banished. No, she had definitely said ‘nine o’clock’, and Carole had planned her whole morning around that time. She had taken her Labrador Gulliver out for his walk along Fethering Beach, and after she’d had her hair cut, she was going to do her weekly food shop at Sainsbury’s.

Oh, this was stupid, just standing about. Trying to give the oblivious pensioner the impression that moving away from Connie’s Clip Joint after precisely seventeen minutes (being Carole, she had of course arrived early) was a long-planned intention, she set off firmly back towards her house, High Tor.

As she took the first step, a silver hatchback screeched to a halt outside the salon, and a small, harassed-looking woman in her forties jumped out. She looked as if she had dressed in a hurry and clutched to her bosom an overflowing leather bag. Her brown eyes were tight with anxiety. No make-up…and her red-streaked hair, untidily swept back into a scrunchy, was not a good advertisement for the business she ran.

Because of course Carole recognized her instantly. Connie Rutherford, after whom Connie’s Clip Joint was named. Fethering gossip ensured that almost everyone in the village knew who everyone else was, but village protocol demanded that you still didn’t speak to them until you had been introduced. So Carole continued her stately progress towards High Tor.

The hairdresser, however, showed no such inhibitions. “Mrs Seddon!” she called out.

Which, Carole supposed, was better than using her first name. She turned graciously. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry, you’re the nine o’clock, aren’t you?”

“Well, I thought I was,” came the frosty response.

“Look, I’m so sorry. That idiot girl was meant to be here to open up at quarter to nine.” The woman fumbled in her bag for keys. “I wonder what on earth’s happened to her.” Still getting no reaction from her client, she said, “I’m Connie. Connie Rutherford. I run the place.”

“Oh.” Carole received the information as though surprised by the identification. “I’m Carole Seddon.”

“Yes, I know. You live next door to Jude.”

Carole was slightly miffed to think that this was her claim to fame in Fethering. No one knew about her past, her career in the Home Office. Here she was just Jude’s neighbour. And Jude hadn’t lived in Woodside Cottage nearly as long as Carole had been in High Tor. She shouldn’t have been surprised, though. Jude was outgoing. Jude was easy with people. Everyone knew Jude.

Having opened the salon door, Connie Rutherford ushered her client in and went across to switch on the lights, chattering the while. “This is really bad. Kids these days, they have no sense of time-keeping. You give them a job – and are they grateful? They don’t even understand the basics of turning up when they say they will. God, if I ever have any children, I won’t let them behave the way most of the youngsters do these days.”

Judging from Connie’s age, Carole decided that, if she was going to have any children, she’d better be quick about it.

But the hairdresser was off into another apology. “I’m so sorry, Kyra should have opened up and been ready to greet you at nine. I gave her the spare set of keys – I’ve only got the one – I thought I could trust her. Then she was meant to wash your hair, so that it’d be ready for me to cut when I came in. Oh well, don’t worry, I’ll wash it. May I take your coat, Mrs Seddon? Now, I can call you ‘Carole’, can’t I?”

“Yes,” her client conceded.

“Well, you just take a seat here, and I’ll put on some music. You’d like some music, wouldn’t you?”

“No, I’m quite happy not to – ”

But Connie was already away, fiddling with a CD player. “I think Abba, don’t you?”

“Erm, no, I – ”

“Nothing like Abba for clearing away the cobwebs in the morning, is there?” As she spoke, the sounds of ‘Dancing Queen’ filled the room. “Now would you like…?” Connie stopped, apparently thinking better of the suggestion.

“Would I like what?”

“Nothing.”

“What I would like, if you don’t mind, is for you to do my hair…since I already am a bit behind schedule.” Carole hoped that made it sound as if she had a more impressive destination later in the morning than the pasta aisle in Sainsbury’s.

“Very well.” Connie turned on a tap above the sink.

“Just give the water a moment to heat up. It’s cold first thing in the morning. And let’s get this robe on.”

While the water warmed, Carole took a look around the salon. The pine boarding on the walls and the large cheese plants in the windows gave it a slightly dated feel, which was not dispelled by the Greek holiday posters and photos of models with exotic hairstyles. The basic decor probably hadn’t changed for a good ten years, and endorsed Jude’s suggestion that Connie’s Clip Joint was not doing great business.

The stylist flicked her hand under the pouring water. “Nearly warm enough.” Then she caught an unwelcome glimpse of herself in the mirror. “Haven’t had time to put a face on yet. Oh dear, if Kyra had been here when she was supposed to…”

But she decided that going on about the shortcomings of her staff was probably not the best way of recommending her salon to a new client. Instead, she stood behind the chair, rather closer than Carole might have wished, so that their two faces stood one on top of the other in the mirror. Connie ran her hands gently over her client’s hair.

“So…how would you like it, Carole?”

She got the same reply all hairdressers had got for the past fifteen years – a gruff ‘Same shape, but shorter’.

“You haven’t thought of giving it a bit of colour?” suggested Connie.

“I have thought of it, but decided against the idea.”

“Not even highlights?”

“No, thank you.”

Connie Rutherford was far too practised in her profession to argue with a new client. “I think you’re right, Carole. This style really suits a strong face like yours.” Another test of the water, and a towel was fixed neatly in place around the neck. “Now may I take your glasses off?”

“I’ll do it,” replied Carole, aware of how graceless she sounded. She removed the rectangular rimless spectacles and placed them next to the sink. Her pale blue eyes looked naked, even threatened.

Expertly Connie swivelled the chair round and lowered the back, so that her client’s neck slotted neatly into the groove at the front of the basin. Every time she underwent this manoeuvre, Carole could not quite erase the mental image of a guillotine. Even through the protective towel, she could feel the coldness of her ceramic yoke.

By now the temperature of the water was just right and Connie, though long since graduated beyond such menial tasks, had not forgotten the skills of hair-washing. Her strong fingers probed down into the scalp, working in a way that was both sensual and invigorating. Carole began to relax.

And the flow of Connie’s talk matched the flow of the water, soothing, rippling away the tensions of her client. She had quickly caught on to Carole’s private nature and knew better than to ask for personal information. Instead she kept up a light prattle about the concerns of Fethering: the fact that there had been more visitors than expected that summer; the possibility that English seaside holidays were coming back into fashion; the difficulty of parking in the High Street.

Only at one point was a detail of Carole’s personal history mentioned. Connie, who wore no ring on her wedding finger, mentioned in passing that she was divorced, and added, “Just like you.”

Immediately realizing that she had to cover this lapse, she explained, “Jude mentioned that when she was in here once.”

Oh yes? And how much else, Carole wondered, has my neighbour been telling all and sundry about me? But she couldn’t really make herself cross about it. Jude was by nature discreet, and in a hotbed of gossip like Fethering everyone’s marital status was fair game.

“So is Seddon your married name?”

“Yes.” Though Carole wasn’t sure what business of the hairdresser that was.

“Yes, I got stuck with mine too. By the time I thought about reverting to my maiden name, the other one was on so many legal documents and what-have-you…Of course, the divorce was particularly difficult for me, because Martin was involved in the business too. Yes, we started Connie’s Clip Joint together. We’d met when we were both working in a salon in Worthing and…” she shrugged ruefully as she looked around, “I suppose this was our dream. Like most dreams, it fell apart when it came up against reality.”

Recognizing that this was too downbeat a note for her performance as your friendly local hairdresser, she picked herself out of the potential trough. “Anyway, let me tell you, any divorce is a nightmare, but one where you’re also trying to divide up business assets…well, I hope yours didn’t involve that…”

The cue was there to volunteer information about the end of her marriage, had Carole wished to pick it up. Unsurprisingly, she didn’t. Connie moved quickly on. “Still, mustn’t grumble. Got a very nice little business here. Having a High Street position…well, of course that helps. As they always say, ‘Location, location, location’. All going very well.”

Remembering Jude’s words about the precarious state of Connie’s Clip Joint, Carole took this assertion with a pinch of salt, and ventured a question of her own. “And your ex-husband…is he still involved in the hairdressing business?”

Connie Rutherford’s lips tightened. “You could say that. Yes, he runs one of the biggest chains of salons along the South Coast.”

There was clearly a lot more information available and Carole felt she had only to issue the smallest prompt to release an avalanche of resentment. She refrained from doing so and fortunately, before Connie could self-start into her diatribe, the salon door opened to admit a slender man in black leather jacket and trousers. A gold chain showed against tanned flesh in the open neck of his shirt. His neat tobacco-coloured hair was highlighted in blonde and his teeth were veneered to a perfect smile. Over brown eyes as dark as coffee beans, he wore tinted glasses with small gold stars at the corners. From a distance he might have passed for twenty-five; close to, he was well into his forties.

“Morning, Theo.”

“Morning, Connie love.” His voice was light, selfconsciously camp.

“This is my nine o’clock. Carole Seddon. First time she’s been here.”

“Really? I’m Theo.” He gave a little wave; she couldn’t have shaken his hand from under the robe, anyway. “But you do look awfully familiar, Carole.”

“I live right here in Fethering. Just along the High Street.”

“Oh, then I must have seen you around.” A hand flew up to his mouth in mock-amazement. “With a dog! Yes, I’ve seen you with a dog. Lovely big Labby.”

“He’s called Gulliver.”

“Ooh, I’m such a dog person. I’ve got a little Westie called Priscilla.”

“Ah.”

“Connie’s into cats, aren’t you, love. I can never see the point of cats. Nasty, self-obsessed, spiteful little beasts.”

“Takes one to know one,” riposted Connie.

“Ooh, you bitch!”

Their badinage was a well-practised routine, insults batted back and forth without a vestige of malice. Carole Seddon got the feeling that for regulars it was as much a part of the Connie’s Clip Joint ambience as the Abba soundtrack.

Theo looked around the salon. “Where’s the human pincushion?”

“Late. She’d got the spare set of keys and was meant to open up at eight forty-five. No sign of her.”

“Probably stayed in bed for naughties with that young boyfriend of hers. And actually…” he raised an eyebrow towards his boss’s mirror image “…you look as if you might have been doing something similar.”

His insinuation prompted a rather sharper response. “Don’t be ridiculous!” Embarrassed by her own outburst, Connie looked at her watch. “I don’t know what she’s doing, but when she does finally deign to arrive, I may have a thing or two to say to Miss Kyra Bartos.”

Theo slapped his hands to his face in a parody of Munch’s Scream. “Oh no! I’ll have to wash my nine-thirty’s hair myself!”

“Just as I’ve had to do with my nine o’clock.”

“Yes.” Theo grinned in the mirror at Carole. “I hope you’re appreciative of the quality of service you’re getting.” And he flounced off to hang up his leather jacket.

Carole caught Connie’s eye and mouthed, “What did he mean about ‘the human pincushion’?”

“Ah. Young Kyra’s taste for body piercing. It seems to be her ambition to get more perforations than a tea bag.” Another peeved look at her watch. “Where is the bloody girl? I’ll ring her when I’ve finished with you. Now do you want the cut slightly layered?”

“No,” Carole countered doggedly. “I want it the same shape, but shorter.”

“Right.” Whatever reservations Connie might have had to this conservative approach, she kept them to herself, and started cutting.

At that moment Theo’s nine-thirty skulked into the salon. In spite of the mild September day, she wore a raincoat with the collar turned up, a headscarf and dark glasses.

“Sheeeeeena!” Theo emoted. “Sheena, my love, how gorgeous to see you.”

“Not gorgeous at all, Theo darling,” his client drawled. “That’s why I’m here. Morning, Connie,” she said as Theo removed her coat.

“Morning, Sheena. This is Carole.”

“Hi. I tell you, Theo, I just need the most total makeover since records began. When I looked at myself in the mirror this morning…well, it took great strength of will not to top myself on the spot.”

“Oh, come on,” Theo wheedled, “we’ll soon have you looking your beautiful self again. Now let’s take off that scarf and those glasses.”

“No, no. I’m just not fit to be seen!”

“You’re amongst friends here, Sheena darling. Nobody’ll breathe a word about what you looked like before…Will you, Carole?”

Though rather unwilling to pander to the woman’s vanity, Carole agreed that she wouldn’t.

“And when we get to after, Sheena…after I’ve worked my magic…you’ll look so gorgeous, men in the street will be falling over each other to get at you.”

“Oh, Theo, you’re so full of nonsense.” But it was clearly nonsense his client liked.

After further dramatic delays, Sheena was finally settled into the chair, and there followed the great ceremony of removing her scarf and glasses. Carole, squinting at an angle into the adjacent mirror, wondered what horrors were about to be unveiled. What optical disfigurement lay behind the glasses? What trichological disaster beneath the scarf?

After the build-up, the revelation was a bit of a disappointment. Sheena was a perfectly attractive woman in her late forties – and, what’s more, one whose blonded hair appeared to have been cut quite recently.

But she had set up her scenario, and was not going to be deterred from playing it out. “There, Theo. Now that’s going to be a challenge, even for you, isn’t it?”

Her stylist, who must have been through the same scene many times before, knew his lines. “Don’t worry, darling. Remember, Theo is a miracle worker. So what are we going to do?”

“We are going to make me so attractive, Theo, that I become a positive man-magnet.”

“Too easy. You’re a man-magnet already.”

“I wish, I don’t understand.” Sheena let out a long sigh. “There just don’t seem to be any men in Fethering.”

“Ooh, I wouldn’t say that,” he said coyly.

“Are you saying you’ve taken them all, Theo? I bet you never have any problem finding men.”

The stylist let out an enigmatic, silvery laugh.

Throughout Carole’s haircut, this archness continued. Connie, who had tried commendably hard to keep conversation going with her client, eventually gave up and joined in the false brightness of Sheena and Theo. Carole found it quite wearing. A little too lively for her taste. She wasn’t sure whether Connie’s Clip Joint was going to be a long-term replacement for Graham and the anonymous salon in Worthing.

On the other hand, Connie did cut hair very well. Though keeping within Carole’s minimal guidelines, she had somehow managed to give a freshness to her client’s traditional style. With glasses restored, Carole couldn’t help admiring the result she saw in the mirror.

“Excuse me for a moment,” said Connie, “I must just ring Kyra and find out what on earth’s happened to her. Now, I’ve got her mobile number somewhere.” She crossed to the cash register table and started shuffling through papers.

Carole felt awkward about the business of paying. When booking the appointment, she hadn’t asked how much it would cost and now she was worried it might have been very expensive. Prices varied so much. And then there was the big challenge of tipping. Should she tip and, if so, how much? She’d never tipped Graham – that had been an accepted feature of their austere relationship – but she was in a new salon now and she wasn’t sure of the protocol.

Connie listened impatiently to the phone. “Well, she’s not answering.”

She was poised to end the call, when suddenly they were all aware of a new noise, cutting through the harmonies of Abba. The insistent jangle of a phone ringing.

Carole and Connie exchanged looks. The hairdresser huffed in exasperation, “Oh, don’t say the bloody girl’s left her mobile here.”

As Connie moved towards the source of the sound, Carole, curiosity overcoming her natural reticence, found herself following.

A door led through to the back area, storeroom, kitchenette and lavatory. As Connie opened it, there was a smell of stale alcohol and cigarette smoke. Beer cans and a vodka bottle on its side lay on a low table. On the work surface beside the sink stood a vase containing twelve red roses.

But it wasn’t those that prompted the involuntary scream from Connie’s lips. It was what she could see – and Carole could see over her shoulder – slumped in a chair over which loomed the dome of a spare dryer.

The girl’s clothes were torn. There were scratches on her metal-studded face.

And, tight as a garrotte, around the neck of her slumped body was the lead from the unplugged dryer.