Here is my story that has been published in the June 2021 Dark and Stormy Book Club Newsletter: (Check out DarkandStormybc).
Here's the link to the newsletter: DarkandStormyNewsletter
THE
MAN IN THE SUIT
By
Vicky
Earle
Waves unfurled their fury and crashed down onto the sand and pebbles, moving the body a little further
out of the angry sea and onto the beach. Rain and salty spray stung my face and strands of wet hair
caught in my mouth. I stooped over the man whose blue-tinged skin and distorted suit were decorated
with pieces of seaweed and grains of sand. He’d been dead for some time. The sea was cold and he
wouldn’t have floated for a couple of weeks.
While I waited for the
sirens to reach the pier, I checked things out. It didn’t need an expert to see
that his head had been bludgeoned. I took some quick photos and entered a few
hasty notes. The suit would suggest he’d either been on business or at a
function – perhaps held in the facilities on the pier. It’d be less likely that
he’d been on a ship or pushed off the sea wall, but I didn’t rule anything out
at this point.
But the police were quick
to draw conclusions. I’ll get to that later.
Meanwhile, I had to return
to my mother’s cottage. It had been out of a sense of duty that I’d made the
trip from my home in Canada to Devon, England. The way I felt then was that I
should’ve had my head tested and stayed where I was.
“What took you so long? I
thought you were just going to have a peek at the sea,” she asked as I unpeeled
my soaking-wet, un-waterproof jacket, and grabbed the nearest towel to rub my
dripping hair. Shivers set in, reminding me of how cold I’d often felt in this
damp county.
“I found a body on the
beach.”
“A dead fish. They often
get washed up these days.”
“No, a person.”
“Well, none of our
business. It wouldn’t be anyone from around here.”
“I’d like to know what
happened to him.”
“What on earth for?”
“Because.”
“Instead of wasting time
on that, you could make us a cup of coffee.”
“I thought that man from
the hearing aid place was coming this morning and you’d have coffee later.”
“He was supposed to come
at nine, but I thought he might not make it. Take your boots into the
conservatory. I don’t want those wet, sandy things in here.”
“I don’t think there’s
much wrong with your hearing.”
“How would you know?”
“I don’t have to shout.”
“But you’ve always had a
voice that carries.”
And so it went on until I
made lunch. My mother always had a nap after the meal, and I would go for a
walk or read. I went back to the beach. The rain had stopped, but the wind blew
on-shore, bringing debris with it, mostly plastic bottles. The police had left.
I’d expected to see yellow tape, or someone standing guard, or both. You
wouldn’t have guessed that a body had been found just a few hours earlier.
The thunderous waves reached
further up the beach, and any evidence of tracks or footprints had been
obliterated by churning, frothy seawater.
I don’t know what I’d
hoped to find, but pessimism soon set in.
“Have you lost your dog?”
An older, thick-set woman, perhaps about sixty, shouted at me as the wind made
her black plastic rainhat crackle and shudder.
“No, but thanks for
asking.”
“Are you one of the
detectives? I heard there was a body washed up this morning. This sort of thing
never happens here.”
“No, but I found the
body.”
“Ah, you want to do some
sleuthing.” A huge black lab, on a thick leather leash, sat at her side.
“It might be suspicious.”
“The police believe it
was an accident.”
“How do you know that?”
“I have connections. Long
story. Let’s walk along the beach. My name’s Kit, by the way, and this is Sergeant.”
She patted the large, square head of her wet dog.
She said we should be a
team, but I was reluctant. I wasn’t sure how much effort I wanted to put into
an amateur investigation in a place that had grown unfamiliar to me, and where
I was constrained by my mother’s demands.
“Do you think it
was an accident?” she asked, as we struggled over a particularly pebbly spot.
“It looked like he’d been
bludgeoned. The injury on the side of his head was severe.”
“The police said he fell off
the pier into the sea, and hit his head on a rock.”
“Are there many rocks
around the pier?”
“It’s built on rocks, and
there are plenty that could cause serious injury.”
“He died at least two
weeks ago.”
“Not according to the
police. They contend he was at the wedding on Saturday and climbed the rail at
the edge of the pier, and fell off, which is certainly possible, especially if
drunk.” She snorted, as if she’d told a joke.
“I’m not sure.” The more
I thought about what I’d seen, the less I believed it could have been an
accident. I hoped that they’d do a thorough post mortem exam.
My mother was furious by the time I returned.
“I made tea and it’s
cold,” she said. “I’m going to watch the local news. You can make a fresh pot.”
The noise of the kettle
almost drowned out my mother’s gasp. I trotted into the living room.
“That picture.” She held
her lacy handkerchief to her mouth, muffling her voice. “It’s him.”
“What picture?”
“Of the man found on the
beach. He came here three weeks ago and was to deliver my hearing aids this
morning. I told you about him.”
“What’s his name?”
“I wrote his information
down in my notebook. We had a long chat. I liked him, even though he was a
salesman.”
“And obviously a good
one, because there’s nothing wrong with your hearing.”
“That’s your opinion.”
She handed me her notebook. “Take the book. The name of the company’s there
too.”
“I met someone called Kit
on the beach this morning and she seems to think it was an accident.”
“That’s what they said on
the news, but I don’t believe it was.”
“I don’t think it was,
either.”
“Well then, you’d better
find out who killed him. And I’m going to help.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am. And that’s that. I
want to go to the beach where you found him.”
“Today?”
“Right now. We’ve at
least an hour before it gets dark.”
My mother was not an
active person and somewhat overweight, being inclined to stay in her house. But
I was in for a surprise. We walked up and down the beach, out on the pier, and
along the path by the thick stone seawall, and she showed no signs of tiring.
She was the one who found the small piece of fabric snagged by a rusty iron
ring at the top of the seawall. We both thought it looked like suit material. I
took several photographs and phoned Kit, as we’d agreed.
Kit showed up about five
minutes later. She yanked the material out of my hand and said she would take
it to the police immediately. She strode off with Sergeant in tow - it was as if
she was dragging him. He was probably disappointed: no run on the beach.
“You shouldn’t have let
her take it,” my mother said. She stopped and faced me with penetrating brown
eyes. “You took photos?”
“Yes, you saw me.”
“We need to go to the
police. She doesn’t intend to hand that material in.”
“What makes you say that?
And what about something to eat?”
“Never mind about food.
We have a murderer to catch.”
My mother was right. Kit
had not entered the police station.
We failed to garner much
interest in the photos. They provided insufficient evidence of foul play, and
it was obvious the police firmly believed it had been an accident.
We were both exhausted by
the time we got back to the cold, damp cottage. I put the electric fire on and
got no complaints. And, for once, I didn’t have to cook. We ate fish and chips
and resolved to check out the beach below the seawall the next day.
Nothing showed up as I searched for information on Kit
after a quick breakfast.
The hearing aid company’s
website was basic. It showed four staff, all males in suits, but Dan wasn’t there.
I suppose they’d deleted any reference to him as soon as they’d heard of his
fate. I told my mother I was going to the hearing aid place, but she insisted
that she should be the one to go. She had a reason. No hearing aids were delivered
as promised. She’d paid a pretty sum for them. She told me I should dig deeper
to find out something about Kit. All I could think of doing was to go back to
the beach where we’d met. Maybe she took Sergeant there for a walk every
morning.
The dog was there, but
Kit was nowhere to be seen. I spent nearly an hour walking up and down the
beach past the pier, and along the path by the seawall. Sergeant followed me
everywhere.
I gave up.
Finally, we negotiated
the steep stone steps down to the beach below the spot where my mother had
found the scrap of fabric. Despite the low tide, we were greeted by two feet of
water, albeit calm for once. There were no rocks, just coarse sand and a
scattering of pebbles. I took off my shoes and socks and rolled up my stretchy
jeans. I waded in the frigid water, trying not to stir up the sand and stones.
Sergeant swam circles around me, puffing and spluttering. He wouldn’t go back
to the steps. I was just about to admit defeat when I saw it: a piece of
fabric, larger than the first, partly buried, but moving a little with the
motion of the sea. After taking several photos, I stuffed the soggy piece of
evidence into my pocket as if it might disappear of its own accord - given half
a chance.
“Okay, Sergeant, we have
to go to the police station, give them this, and then find out where you live.”
He wagged his tail, but he had sad eyes.
As we left the police
station, having stirred them into action, Sergeant and I walked towards the
cottage. My brain conjured up pictures of the staff at the hearing aid place
that I’d scrolled through on my laptop. The President and CEO’s face jumped
into my mind’s eye and stuck there, glued to me just like Sergeant was. I
nearly missed the gate to the cottage because I was so obsessed with the images
in my head.
My mother had beaten me
back.
“What’s that dog doing
here?” Her tone of voice was not as cutting as I’d expected. I explained that
I’d found him on the beach and that Kit was nowhere to be seen.
“I have to check
something,” I said. “Could you give Sergeant some water and maybe a biscuit of
some kind?”
“I’ll give him a
sausage.” Sergeant must have known what that meant, because he followed her
into the kitchen.
Checking the hearing aid
company’s website again, I knew I was right.
“They wouldn’t talk to
me,” my mother shouted from the kitchen. “The door was open, but when I
mentioned Dan’s name they said they were closed. I thought the receptionist
looked flustered. Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Sergeant makes a mess
when he drinks. Don’t slip on the wet floor when you come in.”
“Okay”.
“There’s something else I
should tell you.”
I stood in the doorway to
the kitchen, and Sergeant flopped down onto the mat by the back door.
She told me that she’d
had a chat with Dan when he visited. She could tell he was stressed. He was
jittery and dropped his mobile. She gave him a cup of tea and he spilled the
beans about the scam that his boss ran - he preyed on older women who had some
level of dementia and lived alone and didn’t have someone looking after their
financial affairs. It’s not that hard to find these things out. He had his
representatives convince the women that they needed hearing aids and must pay
up front. It worked in more cases than you would imagine, Dan told her. But
there were no hearing aids delivered and the elderly, confused women were none
the wiser. His boss moved around a lot to avoid being caught.
My mother told Dan he
should resign and find something better to do with his life before it was too
late. She gave him a couple of names of people who might be able to help him
out. She paid for the hearing aids because she liked Dan and he told her he got
commission. (So, I was right, there was nothing wrong with her hearing).
“And then he washed up
dead,” my mother said. “Dan must have resigned and had been about to talk to
the police”. She blows her nose.
And she’d known there was
something odd about Kit when she met her, but couldn’t quite put her finger on
it. It had been a quick meeting since Kit grabbed the fabric and left, dragging
Sergeant behind her.
When I showed her the
photos on the website, she agreed with me that Kit was the male President and
CEO of the hearing aid place (in disguise) and he was the most likely suspect
in the murder of Dan.
She doesn’t feel responsible.
And I don’t think she should. At least we found Dan’s murderer, who’ll be put
away for a long time, or so we’re led to believe.
And my mother has a dog
as a companion, who loves to run on the beach. She’s lost weight, and is a ton
happier.
And I don’t mind
travelling across the Atlantic to see her and Sergeant: I’m going again next
week.
Vicky Earle Copyright 2021
