The Body on the Beach by Simon Brett Page B

therapist. ‘We’re just letting our ideas flow. Hold back on the logic for a little bit
longer.’
    ‘All right.’
    Jude’s brows wrinkled as her mind focused. ‘Anyway, the knife couldn’t have belonged to anyone else in the world. There are geographical limitations, logistical limitations
. . . No, when you come right down to it, there are very few people to whom that Stanley knife could have belonged. Hm . . .’ She twirled a tendril of blonde hair
thoughtfully between finger and thumb. ‘I suppose in fact the most likely person to have dropped the knife – is the boat’s owner . . .’
    ‘Who might be Rory Turnbull . . . assuming we go along with the theory that he would give the same name to his boat as his house.’
    ‘Let’s go along with that for a moment.’ As she concentrated, Jude seemed to go in an almost trancelike state.
    ‘Well,’ said Carole with no-nonsense practicality, ‘easy enough to find out who owns the boat. We simply ask our friend the Vice-Commodore.’
    Jude dragged herself back to reality. ‘Alternatively, I haven’t registered with a dentist down here yet. Now I’ve met Barbara Turnbull and her mother, I’d like to know
more about Rory.’
    ‘All right. He’s a bit of a sad case, as you saw in the pub. Anyway, you pursue that line of inquiry.’ Carole moved into the delegating mode which had served her so well during
her Home Office career. ‘Meanwhile, I’ll find out about J. T. Carpets. Start with Yellow Pages , then see where I go from there.’
    ‘Good,’ said Jude. ‘That sounds very good.’ Then, with another look at the moon-face of her watch, she stood up. ‘I must be off.’
    And within a minute she was out of the house, leaving Carole to wonder why she had to be off so suddenly. And to realize that, after all her worries about Jude staying too long, she
wouldn’t have minded her staying a little longer.
    The red light on the answering machine was flashing when Jude got back to Woodside Cottage. Just one message. From Brad, saying he hoped she’d settled in all right to her
new home and lots of luck for the next stage of her life. And it’d be good to see her.
    Yes, she thought, it’d be good to see Brad too. Been a while. She’d call him later. First, though, she dialled a local number.
    ‘Hello?’ The voice was politely deterrent.
    ‘Barbara, it’s Jude.’
    ‘Oh?’
    ‘Jude from the coffee morning. New resident of Woodside Cottage.’
    ‘Of course. How nice to hear from you.’ The words were entirely automatic, invested with no element of sincerity.
    ‘It was such a pleasure to meet you and your mother.’ Jude’s words, though completely untrue, sounded sincere. ‘Thank you so much for inviting me.’
    ‘We always like to make newcomers welcome here in Fethering . . . in the hope we’re going to swell the All Saints’ congregation.’ The reproof in the voice, at
Jude’s failure to espouse the Church of England, was hardly disguised.
    ‘Well, I just wanted to say that I appreciated it, and thank you for going to all that trouble.’ Jude knew she was being over the top. Providing coffee and biscuits for a dozen
people was hardly the most onerous assignment since records began.
    But apparently it had seemed so to Barbara Turnbull. ‘Yes, well, one likes to make an effort. And I’ve just about finished clearing it up now. I told you I’m completely without
help, didn’t I?’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘Maggie, my –’ Barbara had the usual middle-class difficulty with how one referred to staff – ‘my “lady who does”, didn’t come in
today.’
    ‘Oh yes, you did say.’
    ‘And what’s more, I’ve just heard from her to say she won’t be in tomorrow either. Still some problem with her son. I don’t know, it’s so thoughtless. I told
her, in no uncertain terms, that she couldn’t assume that the job at Brigadoon would stay open for ever. Have you found someone?’
    The abrupt change of direction threw