Episode 27 - Starting the week

Monday 

Cleo spent most of the night thinking about what they knew about the murder of Mrs Grant and was anxious to discuss with Gary what she thought could have happened except that he was fast asleep.

Episode 26 - Weekending

Sunday 

On Sunday morning Gary got up hungry. He had not done justice to the barbeque, he decided. He sat on Cleo’s side of the bed, held her hand  and whispered

“We need to react to Wetherby’s news.”

Episode 25 - The BBQ

Saturday cont.

“I hope we’re in time for the feast,” said Dorothy, as Cleo drove out of Frint-on-Sea.

“We should be,“ said Gary. “Robert and I need a heart to heart and where better than on neutral ground?”

Chapter 24 - The fat guys

Saturday

It took willpower for Cleo and Gary to call the night a day and exchange their warm duvet for a hot shower followed by a ‘Continental’ breakfast. Then they raced to collect Dorothy for the trip to HQ.

***

Episode 23 - The missed BBQ

Friday cont.

Grant had not been gone for more than a minute when Cleo and Dorothy came back into the office.

Episode 22 - Grant

Friday

At breakfast, eaten almost at the crack of dawn; Cleo told Gary quite out of the blue considering how they had spent night, that on reflection she would be glad to also have him as a friend.

Episoder 21 - Macpherson

Thursday cont.

Gary and Cleo arrived at Frint-on-Sea police station late on Thursday afternoon. Brass was about to leave. O’Reilly was going to be at the station for a couple more hours. He said it was so that Brass could stop working round the clock.

Episode 20 - Snow

Thursday cont.

While Cleo and Gary were driving to Frint-on-Sea, Dorothy was getting ready to sort out the case of Miss Snow’s dog. The email contained a phone number. She would call and make an appointment to see the anxious dog owner.

***

Episode 19 - Garnets

Thursday cont

Edith was overjoyed that she would have the two little girls to care for even if her husband Frederick, a vicar who disliked the human race unless he was called on to save their souls, wasn’t. As vicar he was sincere but incompetent; as a husband and father he was was a dead loss.

***

Episode 18 - Comings and Goings

Thursday

Gary had been reluctant to go to North Wales again so soon, but he had no choice despite various crises at Middlethumpton HQ. The matter of girls disappearing from the school in Huddlecourt Minor that had started off with Susie Sweet’s misadventure at the beachhut in Frint-on-Sea had been passed on to Colin Peck, who was now looking for references to other girls who had absconded from the school for wayward girls in Huddcourt Minor.

Chapter 17 - Jane

Tuesday September 16

Gary did not get back to Upper Grumpsfield until the early hours of Tuesday morning, so discussions about what he been able to achieve in North Wales were left till after breakfast.

Episode 16 - Hens

Tuesday cont.

Cleo realized that it was true that business had been slow all summer, but she had managed to cover her overheads. Now school had started again, people were taking time to decide if they wanted to change their lives and were eager to pay a fee for good advice they would never want from a psychiatrist, doctor or clergyman. They felt they could trust Cleo – and they could, of course. Her training as a social worker had helped her to help many,and word had got around.

***

Episode 15 - Happy family

Monday cont. then Tuesday

Being in love is like being drunk, Cleo decided, though she had never been drunk in her life; a social worker surrounded by alcoholics and drug addicts thinks twice about joining the fray.

Episode 14 - Decisions

Monday

Before they could drive back to Upper Grumpsfield,  Jake would have to be questioned again, even if he refused to cooperate. Despite Gary’s fear that Jake would be rude to Cleo, she insisted on being there. She would also talk to Pat O’Reilly and try to help him work through his grief and shock since no one else seemed to have taken much notice.

Episode 13 - Pat O'Reilly

Sunday then Monday September 14

The search for Llewellyn was left to providence.

Episode 12 - Ivy's joint

Saturday cont.

Gary parked his car round the corner from Ivy’s establishment and Cleo stepped out on her own to walk the to the house.

Episode 11 - The razzia

Saturday September 13

After a night most remarkable for lack of sleep, there was no doubt in Cleo's or Gary's minds that they were going to be together on a permanent level very soon.

Episode 10 - Business as usual?

Friday September 12

Charlie had spent the night at Cleo’s again because Gary had to work late and the girl was exhausted after an afternoon with her daddy followed by the chore of putting a school uniform together.

Episode 9 - The reunion

Thursday September 11

After bai g reakfast with Charlie helping PeggySue with her cereal and wishing she was her sister, Cleo drove the exited little girl to meet up with her father, who had no idea that she was on the way.

Episode 8 - Charlie

Wednesday September 10

Colin Peck, a trained lawyer and one-time lucky member of a scheme offering internships with the Metropolitan Police in London, was combing through the data bank, but so far without any tangible results. Anything unusual would be passed on to Gary.

Episode 7 - Confessional

Tuesday September 9

Cleo and Dorothy drove back to Upper Grumpsfield as planned. Cleo thought she should do something to change the frosty atmosphere between her and Dorothy, so she proposed making a morning of it, if not a whole day. 

Episode 6 - The Postmortem

Monday September 8

The night spent as a ‘grown-up’ twosome in a single bunk bed was declared to be marginally more comfortable than the hearth-rug from the previous night, but it had not been indusive to sleep, so Cleo and Gary were correspondingly rather tired as they walked briskly to the hospital, a red-brick Victorian building on the sea-front, where Susie Sweet’s earthly remains were to be examined.

***

Episode 5 - Love is in the air

Sunday cont.

Cleo and Gary walked briskly to the beach. The air was bracing and stimulated Gary into saying something he had promised himself not to say as long as Cleo was upholding her marriage. He stood facing her with his hands in hers.

Episode 4 - Ivy

Sunday September 7

At breakfast nexr morning, Lucy amused everyone with a riotous account of Daddy chasing the sheep on the bridge. Bill said the truck driver was not sure that they had rounded up all of them because they kept moving as he counted them.

Episode 3 - Susie Sweet

Saturday September 6

Although Dorothy thought it highly unlikely that Sergeant Loo would want to spend his Saturday afternoon trying to think of leading questions to ask her and Vera, she left Upper Grumpsfield early with Cleo, their main mission being to rescue Vera. They were relieved to find Vera unscathed and in control. She was anxious to get her second interview over as soon as possible.

Episode 2 - Facing the music

Friday September 5

Dorothy decided to return to Upper Grumpsfield the following day as planned, despite Sergeant Loo’s expectation. Leaving her walking shoes at Vera’s, she made sure she was at the station in good time for the early train to Crewe; she had things to do at home and was even less enamoured of the idea that she should flock to the police station.

Episode 1 - The rose tattoo

Thursday September 4

It was a blustery day. The rain had come down sideways for most of it and it was after six when Dorothy Price and her sister Vera went for their daily constitutional along the prom.

“We don’t have weather like this in Upper Grumpsfield,” Dorothy remarked.

”You don’t have the ocean on your doorstep, either,” said Vera.

“I’m glad I left my hats at home,” said Dorothy, who was a great fan and collector of hats. “I don’t possess a bonnet with ties.”

“Aren’t you warm enough, Dorothy?”

“Just about, thanks to your nice warm scarf. It was a good idea to wear gloves, too. My knuckles always get cold when it’s windy. “

“I’m quite cold, too,” said Vera.

“Let’s walk a bit faster then, said Dorothy.

“Against a gale? Impossible. We can walk faster on the way back. At least we’ll have the wind behind us then.”

“Unless it turns,” said Dorothy.

“Where are we going, anyway? You seem to be aiming for somewhere.”

“Are  you tired?”

”No, but hungry, Dorothy.”

“Have a cough-sweet,” said Dorothy, offering her sister one that happened to be in her coat pocket. “Do you remember those beachhuts near the skating rink?”

“The old chalets? How could I forget them, Dorothy? We used to laugh at all the people sitting outside fully dressed and in coats and scarves on days like this.”

“Those were great holidays though, weren’t they?”

“I remember it raining, but not windy like this,” said Vera. “We used to come the Frint-on-Sea for a week just after school broke up. That’s when Dad said it would be the sunniest time of the year. But it was always sunnier after we’d gone home.”

“Upper Grumpsfield was warm and dry. We even slept outside, didn’t we? We could not have done that in this kind of weather.”

“They called them chalets in in old days, Dorothy. It upmarketed them, but I remember them being terribly scruffy.”

While they were chatting, they had reached the row of beachhuts, now adorned with a sign ‘Beachhuts and Chalets to let’. Someone had been studying holiday brochures from faraway shores. The locals called them beachhuts now they had been smartened up, so the town authorities responsible for them gave the buildings both names so that everyone would get what they wanted. The upgrading that was supposed to have been applied to the Frint-on-Sea variety did little to improve their looks or comfort.

Dorothy thought they should be called shelters because that’s what people mainly used them as. The parts of the huts that were paintable had been painted inside and out in bright shades of latex for easy washing down, no two alike. In the old days they had been grey concrete slabs, but despite their imaginative coats of colour, the huts were still boring blocks looking like a row of overgrown garages, except that most of the wall facing the sea was a glass door you had to negotiate to get in and out. If you needed to use the loo, you had to walk to the end of the beachhuts and use one of the communal ones. Not every male respected this rule, so the prevailing odor was not oceanic.

The beachhuts had running water in a low sink, so you could get water to boil on a single electric ring for your tea. You could also wash the sand off your feet before you put your socks and shoes back on, but there were no beds in the huts since no one was allowed to sleep there. A sort of traffic warden came round to check that everyone had left before it got dark. She (it was usually a female) was to make sure that all curtains were drawn back so that she could see at a glance if there was still anyone inside. On bad-weather days like today no one had any desire to sit outside and inside was too cramped for comfort and far too chilly without any means of heating, so by early evening all the beachhuts had been shut up for the night by the people who had leased them and thus had keys to lock them and leave their beach equipment there overnight in safety.

The curtains had probably only been supplied so that people could get changed in private. Dorothy wondered if the warden checked inside the beachhuts left overnight with the curtains drawn. Today you could only see inside one or two of the shelters. Perhaps the others were not in use. The warden would have a list, no doubt.

The beachhuts could only be locked from the outside, presumably a further deterrent to sleeping in one, though some people sneaked back after dark, thus saving the price of a B and B. No one had thought of that ruse except those who slept there. One enterprising woman of advancing years had leased a couple of huts on a yearly basis to pursue a trade you could only describe as horizontal. Presumably someone in the town hall had blessed that occupancy.

***

“Of course, you don’t know the weather is going to be bad when you plan a holiday,” said Dorothy, wishing she had not waited until September for hers, though the idea had been to avoid the summer school holidays, when everyone with children and no money or desire for a continental beach made for the seaside in Britain.

Helping out in the Cleo Hartley’s Investigation Agency was another important reason to miss the summer stampede. Cleo was finding it quite stressful combining detecting with parenthood, so Dorothy’s support was most welcome.

Everything was quiet in Frint-on-Sea. Walking on the beach was not an option in a strong wind. Few holiday-makers could be seen anywhere. Most of them preferred their cramped  lodgings, often a room equipped with several two tier bunks, a mock fireplace and if you were lucky an aged TV, to a draughty beach, even if they had come for the sea air from industrial towns where there was not much air to speak of.

The weather was so bad today that even the donkeys had been rained off. Only one or two stoics walked barefoot with rolled up trouser legs over the wet sand and collected shells in buckets. And rumour had it that heir days as beach entertainment were numbered. Vera even speculated whether they would end up as salami. Maybe that’s partly why they looked so sad.

The tide was as far out as it could get, so one or two holiday-makers were hoping to dig up shells or even valuables. The wind was high because there was probably a huge storm going on in the Atlantic. The rain was coming down sideways. Dorothy and Vera were braving the elements, but not enjoying the experience and getter wetter by the minute.

“Let’s just walk along the beachhuts, Vera, then we’ll hurry home.”

“Reluctantly, Dorothy. I really don’t like being out in this weather.”

The beachhuts were numbered in bold lettering painted over the sliding glass doors. The numbering jumped from 11 to 12 and then to 12a before 14.

“Maybe they just wanted to avoid having a Number 13,” Dorothy speculated. “If you left 13 out, it would confuse visitors. If you left 13 in, they would say it brought bad luck. 12a is not 13 but it isn’t 12, either.”

“I never thought of it that way,” said Vera.

There were 20 beachhuts and the sisters had reached  number 16, so they only had a few more to go. Music was emanating from hut 17.

“Can you hear what I can hear?” Dorothy said. “Someone must be inside.”

“Let’s have a look,” suggested Vera. “There shouldn’t be anyone in there now. I believe all the visitors have to be out by six.”

“That’s early, isn’t it?” said Dorothy.

“Remember that lodgings do suppers around seven at the latest. The guests will have been out all day. At B & B places they are evicted from after breakfast until suppertime. It must be awful having to stay away all day, no matter what the weather’s like. No wonder they rent somewhere like this to go to. ”

“This weather is also good for the fruit machine halls, Vera. The holiday-makers eat what the landladies have on offer at breakfast. They ignore the sea and traipse instead to the slot machine heavens and imagine they are in Las Vegas. If they manage to get to the beach during the day, they go back for the landlady’s tea and then go out again to catch up on the entertainment on offer, be it armed bandits, the scating rink or the funfair. When they are almost skint they lash out on a second supper of hotdogs and fried onions or fish and chips. Then they flock into the bingo halls and slot machine heavens tospenf the next day’s spending money until it’s time for final supper of more of the same unhealthy food. I expect they all go to bed with indigestion.”

***

At Frint-on-Sea, which was basicly interchangeable with any other seadside resort, fruit machine emporiums line the coast road on the inland side. Many people leave most if not all  of their holiday money at the machines and bingo tables. Visitors are also keen bingo players at their local church hall or pub, so it is almost home from home except that you get the sea air thrown in. Sea air is not to be sneezed at when you have spent the other 51 weeks of the year inhaling industrial smog. And that has been a fact ever since the industrial revolution.

***

“Of course, there is no industrial smog anymore,” said Vera, “though a lot of council house dwellers have to heat with coal, so that makes bad air. I know they town councils want to stop that, but it all costs money.”

“And there’s tradition to consider, Vera. If your parents and grandparents spent their week’s holiday at the seaside, that’s a reason for doing the same. It’s a trip down memory lane.”

***

The sisters crossed the flagged patio to peer into the window of No.17. The curtains were only partly drawn. Dorothy pressed her nose against the glass of the sliding door.

“What’s that lying on the floor?” she said.

“It looks like one of those dolls you can blow up,” said Vera, nose now also pressed against the glass. “Somebody is playing a joke.”

“I’m sure it’s a corpse, Vera.”

“Don’t be silly, Dorothy. You’ve been watching too many movies. Don’t go looking for a crime! Remember that curiosity killed the cat!”

Dorothy was indignant. Vera was very critical of her love of action movies and recent involvement in crime detection.

“It isn’t my curiosity that drives me on, Vera. It’s my partiality to justice. Too many criminals get away with their nasty deeds.”

“So what are you going to do about this corpse, if it is one, Dorothy?” said Vera, pushing the glass door to no avail. “Anyway, we can’t get in.”

“We should call the police, Vera.”

“The papers have already reported several cases of inflated dolls left like corpses in a B & B or hotel and scaring the lives out of people. I doubt whether the police will take you seriously.”

“Then let’s get into this hut and check first,” said Dorothy.

Vera tried the handle of the door and had to give up.

Dorothy dragged half the window sideways, letting it slide to behind the second half while Vera looked on.

“Of course, the doors slide open here,” said Vera. “Silly me!”

 “Only if they aren’t locked, Vera. This one wasn’t. I wonder why?”

“Please don’t make a mystery just for the sake of it, Dorothy,” scolded Vera. “You’re on holiday, remember?”

***

Leaving Vera standing outside shaking her head in disapproval, Dorothy took her father’s old pistol out of her handbag and held it in front of her as she softshoed into the beachhut. The pistol was aimed at a prostrate figure covered carelessly with an old army blanket. There was no movement at all. A small radio was grinding out the pop music they had heard from outside. On the table were the remains of one portion and one unopened portion of fish and chips. Dorothy stretched out a foot tentatively and nudged it against the figure. When she took her foot away, the figure rolled back into its former position. Dorothy moved to the head of the figure, which was furthest from the window and therefore got the least light. She lifted the scarf covering the neck and head and saw to her horror that it was a young woman. The woman was dead and there was a nasty gash on her head.

“Come here, Vera,” Dorothy called, putting her pistol back into her bag so as not to alarm her sister even more. “It isn’t a doll, the young woman is dead and I’m glad we are wearing gloves. At least we haven’t left any prints on the door.”

“She might have just died a natural death,” said Vera.

“With that gash in her head?”

Vera looked at the corpse and tears welled up in her eyes. Dorothy was of sterner stuff. She pulled the blanket over the girl’s head. There were no tears in Dorothy’s eyes. Of course, she was sorry, but she’d seen this sort of thing before and was more used to it.

“The girl was probably also strangled with that scarf around her neck,” said Dorothy. “The ends are to the back. No one wears a scarf that way round.”

“That would mean she was killed twice,” said Vera. “Let’s get out of here. It’s a horrible scene. We need to call the police immediately.”

“That’s what I said a minute ago,” said Dorothy, lifting the army blanket that was covering the body end of the corpse. She needed to check the clothes. As she thought, they were cheap and provocative.

Vera was a year or so older than her, but Dorothy always felt she had to be in charge. She took her mobile phone out of her coat pocket and dialled 999.

“Police Station here. P’nawn da! Can I help you?” said a voice in the singsong tones of a Welshman.

“We’ve found a corpse,” said Dorothy.

“Tee hee hee,” said the voice.

“Who am I talking to?” said Dorothy.

“Llewellyn. Sergeant Dafydd Llewellyn. Taffy to my friends.”

“Well, Sergeant, stop laughing! I’m not joking.”

The sergeant laughed even more before assuming an even more officious voice.

“Listen Miss. I’ve had three inflatable dolls today and my round of duty ends in half an hour. I don’t need a fourth inflatable doll.”

“You sound as if you don’t need a corpse either, Sergeant,” said Dorothy, anxious to avoid a name she could not pronounce, let alone spell. “I assure you that this is a genuine dead body. I am a private detective. I know a deceased person when I see one.”

“You’re not in league with Frank Wetherby, are you?”

“Who is that?”

“A disreputable private eye, Miss….What was your name again?”

“I didn’t say. Never mind my name. Get here as fast as you can, Mr Loo. It’s Beachhut Number 17 – S E V E N T E E N. That’s quite near the skating rink.”

“It’s Llewellyn with double ELELs. EL EL is done with a curled tongue and ell like blancmange. You are serious, aren’t you, Miss?”

“Of course I’m serious. I’ll be waiting for you.”

“Not so fast! I’ll be along when I’ve closed up the office here. Me and my assistant are going off duty.”

Did that mean there was no one at the police station during the evening and at night? A pretty poor show, thought Dorothy.

***

It took quite a while for Sergeant Llewellyn to turn up. He was driven in a police patrol car by a thin, worn-out looking cop who rushed round the vehicle to open the door for the fat little Sergeant to alight. He sported a row of medals on his stately chest. Vera thought he  looked like something out of an operetta and could not be far off bursting out of his uniform. The driver of the car was subservient, as though he was in the police force solely to chauffeur the fat sergeant around.

„My goodness! Top brass!“ whispered Vera. “Or jumble sale,” she added, looking at the somewhat rusty medals before fading into the shadows, leaving Dorothy to deal with the situation.

“Where is it then, this corpse?” Sergeant Llewellyn shouted above the wind, which seemed to be howling louder than ever.

Vera decided that the patrol car must have crossed the bowling greens to get to the beachhuts. It would have left deep tyre treads in the beautifully shaved grass on such a wet day. Bowling amateurs would not have wanted to tramp to and fro across squelching wet grass so they would not have played. In all probability, the proprietors of the bowling greens would also be at home, so there was no one there to make a fuss. If any witnesses complained about the devastation, they would be dismissed summarily. Police business had priority, they would be told.

“Come and look, Sergeant,” invited Dorothy, amused at the sight of this pompous fairground figure.

“It’d better be a corpse, otherwise I’ll charge you with breaking and entering,” said Sergeant Llewellyn, puffing himself up. “That is Constable Bradley,” he said, tossing his head in the direction of the thin policeman who was currently running to the patrol car to fetch the digital camera that was stored in the glove compartment.

“I’ve told you a thousand times to stay with me in times of danger, Brass,” the sergeant shouted.

“There is no danger, Sergeant,” said Dorothy. “And anyway, I’m here and armed,” she added, drawing her pistol.

Sergeant Llewellyn’s reactions were in good shape. He backed away rapidly

“Have you got a licence for that?” he asked,  glad that he could show his authority to this busybody of a woman.

“Of course I have, Sergeant. I do shooting practice at least once a week with my friend, Detective Sergeant Greg Winter of Middlethumpton police.”

“Oh do you?” said the sergeant, and Brass, who had returned in time to hear that last piece of dialogue, winked at Dorothy and made a mental note of the scene so that he could describe it to his colleagues at headquarters.

Dorothy had had the foresight to photograph the corpse with her mobile camera after ringing the police, mainly so that she would be able to describe the scene accurately to Cleo later.

Bradley alias Brass was not Welsh. He had none of the dubious Celtic magnetism of the sergeant. Being deferent was his way of dealing with this comic figure. On stage, he would have made a fine butler. As it was, he seemed destined to play driver and odd-job man for his superior.

“Lead the way then,” Sergeant Llewellyn said to Dorothy. “Show us this corpse, tee hee hee!”

The dead girl had bare feet that were no longer covered by the blanket after Dorothy had pulled it up over the woman’s head. Now she went straight to the head end of the girl and got ready to expose the whole corpse.

“Don’t touch!” commanded the sergeant. “I must admit that inflated dolls don’t usually have feet like that,” he said, taking care to keep as much distance as possible between himself and the feet.

A masterpiece of detection, thought Dorothy wryly. She defied the sergeant’s command not to touch anything by dragging the blanket  off most of the body.

“You may have noticed that I am wearing gloves, Sergeant,” said Dorothy.

“Murderers often wear gloves,” the sergeant deduced.

“I know her,” said Brass, coming up behind them and taking a photo of the corpse.

“No, you don’t, Constable,” said Sergeant Llewellyn.

“Yes I do and so do you. She came into the station a few days ago and asked for you. She thought she was being followed. Don’t you remember?”

“Rubbish. It wasn’t her,” said the sergeant, who had pretended not to know her and sent her away saying that she must be imagining things.

“I remember that she had that little rose tattoo on the back of her right hand,” said Brass as he kneeled down to pick up the limp hand that was sprawled on the concrete floor. “Her middle name’s Rose, and judging from the feel of her hand, she’s been here all day,” said Brass. “Rigor mortis been and gone, Sir. She’s clammy cold and floppy.”

“How do you know her name is Rose?” the Sergeant asked.

“Because I make a note of all visitors to the station, Sir,” replied Brass.

“You do, do you?”

“She said her name was Rose Smith, Sir, but she might have given a false name, of course.”

“Didn’t you check?” Dorothy asked.

“I’ve been too busy,” retorted Brass stiffly.

***

Dorothy wasn’t really sure why, but she had a hunch that this sergeant was not necessarily an upholder of the law and yet he seemed shocked at the scene in the beachhut. If Dorothy had been asked to describe the look on Llewellyn’s face, she would have said it was revulsion with embarrassment not far behind and a touch of anxiety, or was it guilt?

“I know where she worked, too,” said Brass. Without waiting for Sergeant Llewellyn to say anything, he continued. “At that brothel in King’s street.”

Dorothy wondered if Sergeant Loo had been a client of the girl.

“Shut up and take some more photos,” he commanded.

“I am doing, aren’t I?” said Brass.

“Well, make it quick and call the services,” the sergeant shouted.

***

It looked very much as if Sergeant Loo only issued instructions. His relationship with the corpse was a matter for speculation. As if to prove that he was not afraid of death, he approached the body and doubled down from the waist to look at her head. Dorothy thought he might not be physically able to kneel with such a paunch in the way. He was breathing asthmatically.

“Knocked down by a blow,” he announced, straightening himself with difficulty, brushing his trousers, and re-aligning his row of medals. His face was flushed from the blood rushing to it as he lowered it. He looked even more like a clown.

“Sand,” said Dorothy.

“What sand?” Llewellyn asked.

“There’s bound to be sand,” said Dorothy. “It’s windy and the beach is three yards away. There could be footprints, Sergeant, if we haven’t trampled them all away.”

“Sand,” the sergeant repeated. “Here on the floor, Brass,” he gesticulated. “Take photos of it.”

The sand was not very conspicuous. It was likely that everyone who came anywhere near the beach would have sandy shoes, so sand would be of no use as evidence. Dorothy was about to say as much when Brass said  that he couldn’t see any sand.

“There might even be a footprint, Sergeant,” Dorothy suggested jokingly.

“Have a look, Brass!” snorted the sergeant.

“But we’ve all walked everywhere,” Brass protested. “If there were footprints, they’ll have gone by now.”

“You’ll have to get the women’s soles checked,” said Llewellyn. “Do it tomorrow!”

“Why?” said Brass. “There’s sand everywhere and nowhere.”

“Don’t ask questions, just do as I say.”

Dorothy decided that the sergeant was not only bumptious, but also clueless.

Turning to Vera and Dorothy, Brass said with a broad wink “Bring the shoes you are wearing now to the police station, Ladies!”

“When?” Dorothy asked.

“Tomorrow morning,” said the sergeant.

“We are not under suspicion, are we?” said Vera anxiously.

The sergeant’s belligerent shouting had brought her out of the shadows.

“Who says you’re not under suspicion, Ladies?” said Llewellyn. “I decide who’s under suspicion.”

Dorothy explained to Vera that they were not under suspicion, but that their shoeprints would have to be eliminated.

“Stop gabbling on, you two,” shouted the sergeant. “Comparing alibis is forbidden.”

The two sisters looked at one another in amazement.

Brass went up to the sergeant and whispered something, at which the sergeant shouted ‘stuff and rubbish’.

“Where were you 24 hours ago, Ladies?” the Sergeant asked, pursuing his line of investigation.

“Why?” asked Dorothy.

“Because the body has probably been here since yesterday evening,” he retorted. It was safe to assume the Brass had told him that.

“Are you accusing us after all, Sergeant?” said Vera.

“If you just say where you were, that will save a lot of bother” said Brass.

“At home with the family,” said Vera. “All of us! And if I remember rightly it was a sunny day, so the inspector of beachhuts will have been around here checking. Maybe he or she committed the murder.”

“Check that out, Brass!” said Llewellyn. “We don’t know if it was a murder, Ladies!” he added.

“I think you’ll find it is,” said Dorothy.

“Don’t think, woman,” retorted the sergeant.

I’ll check everything, Sir!” replied Brass, giving the two sisters another broad wink. “Do you want me to arrest the ladies, Sir?”

“Not for the moment, Brass.”

“Would you like to have our names and addresses in case you change your mind during the night, Sergeant Loo?” Dorothy asked.

 “Llewellyn,” the sergeant corrected, but Brass had noted with glee the abbreviated name. He would think of the fat sergeant as Loo in future.

“Take down their names and addresses, Brass,” commanded Loo. “Then you can drive me home.”

Shotly after, Sergeant Loo waved perfunctorily to Dorothy and Vera that they could go, so they left the scene as fast as they could, fighting the wind that had turned to oppose them, and the sideways falling, whipping rain.