The Body on the Beach

Twenty-Eight

That afternoon, over a cup of tea at Carole’s, the two women pooled the information they had gleaned. Both had a lot to tell. They had unearthed pretty convincing evidence that Rory Turnbull had been a heroin user. That expensive habit might well have led to his embezzling the funds of the Fethering Yacht Club.

And yet, when they had told each other all their findings, both Carole and Jude were left feeling flat. They had found reasons why Rory Turnbull might have wanted to take his own life, but they’d found nothing that linked him with the body Carole had found on Fethering beach. True, the dentist had had contact with Dylan the drug dealer, and Dylan had been the initiator of the black magic mutilation of the corpse in Brigadoon II, but that still did not provide a direct connection. They had no proof that Rory Turnbull knew the body was in his boat, and there seemed no obvious way of getting any.

As they shuffled through the possibilities, even Jude’s customary good-natured calm gave way to despondency. All they were left with was that it had been a bad week for the Fethering body-count. Three deaths, and though Aaron Spalding’s might well have been prompted by guilt for what he’d done to the unnamed corpse, Rory lurnbull’s seemed to stand on its own.

“Of course, we don’t actually know it’s a death yet, do we?” reasoned Carole.

“No, not till they’ve found his body.”

“Yes, and who knows how long that’ll take? He might have driven out to some disused barn, or into the woods, or driven the car into a pond or into the sea…” Carole sighed hopelessly.

“Right.” Jude screwed up her eyes and tapped with irritation at her furrowed brow. “Is there something obvious we’re missing? Some information we have that we haven’t followed through?”

They both concentrated. There was a long silence, then Carole said, “Theresa Spalding!”

“What about her?”

“I’ve suddenly realized there’s something I should have asked her and didn’t.”

“Hm?”

“I was concentrating too much on Aaron, and I forgot to ask her why she came here in the first place. How did she know I’d found the body? She said I ‘matched the description’. She must’ve talked to someone who saw me. Who though?”

“Hey!” A smile slowly irradiated Jude’s features. It was a great improvement. Gloom didn’t suit her. “Of course! Why on earth didn’t we think of that at the time? Come on, let’s go and ask her now!”

They went straight up to Downside in the Renault. The estate didn’t look any more welcoming in the dark than it had in daylight and Carole was glad there were two of them in the car. In spite of the cold, a bunch of early teens loitered in Drake Crescent, sorting out plans for where they’d go for their Saturday night – or where they could go for their Saturday night without any money.

A car stopping in the road seemed to qualify as an excitement. The kids moved closer, watching the women get out and approach Theresa Spalding’s front door. Two of them leaned against the Renault’s doors, their exaggerated outlines menacing in puffa jackets. They watched in silence as Carole repeatedly pressed the bell. Only when she banged on the door did one of the kids shout out, “She’s not there. They’ve taken her away.”

“Who’s taken her away? Where to?”

They all seemed keen to pitch in with information.

“An ambulance come.”

“They took her to where the crazy people go.”

“She’d totally lost it.”

“She’s in the nuthouse.”

“In the looney bin.”

Carole and Jude exchanged rueful looks. They’d got the impression that Theresa Spalding’s level of neurosis was pretty high at the best of times. She’d spoken of always being ‘on some medication’. It was no surprise that her son’s death should have destabilized the woman’s precarious sanity.

They went back to the car. The two kids in puffa jackets stayed, insolently leaning against the doors till the last possible moment, then eased themselves upright and slouched away. As she started the engine, Carole heard some raucous remark at their expense, followed by a burst of derisive laughter. She shivered.

The Saturday evening and the Sunday compounded their frustration. Both of them kept contemplating calling round next door to discuss their investigation further. But both of them knew there was nothing else to say.

So Carole watched Saturday evening television, which only went to confirm her opinion that there never was anything on the television on Saturday evening. On the Sunday she took Gulliver out for longer walks than usual and virtuously tidied the cupboard under the stairs, packing into bin liners a lot of what she now designated rubbish. These activities, preparing a couple of plain meals and reading the Sunday papers served to fill the void of the day.

It was like any other Sunday. As if none of the excitements of the previous week had happened.

Next door, Jude unpacked a couple of boxes of books and stacked them upright in old wine-crates in her bedroom. She did her yoga. She cooked a rather adventurous prawn curry for her one meal of the day, taken round four o’clock. With it she drank half a bottle- of wine. She drank the other half during the evening, much of which she spent reading in an aromatic bath, her toe reaching out every now and again to top up the hot water.

Though it was not in her nature to be as uptight as Carole, Jude too felt the tension of unfulfilment.

Nothing could happen until Rory Turribull’s suicide was confirmed to have taken place.