. . .’ It was a mystery why Bill
Chilcott always made this proviso; he was going to give his opinion anyway. ‘I should think it’s one of those weekend sailors .’
He loaded the words with contempt. Though the precise details of Bill Chilcott’s naval background were ill-defined, he never missed an opportunity of saying that seafaring should be left
to the professionals. ‘Some idiot who took out a pleasure boat without sufficient knowledge of local conditions and got what was coming to him . If you want my opinion, they should
impose some kind of regulations on the kind of people who’re allowed to take boats . . .’
But as Bill Chilcott’s hobbyhorse gathered momentum, Carole stopped listening. In spite of her headache, she felt a glow of vindication. She looked forward to grovelling apologies from
Detective Inspector Brayfield and WPC Juster. There had been a body on the beach.
Chapter Nine
Jude found the Shorelands Estate rather spooky as she walked through on the way to Barbara Turnbull’s coffee morning. It took a lot to cast down her spirits. The frosty
greyness of the morning hadn’t done it. Nor had she had any adverse reaction to the wine of the night before. She’d drunk no more than a usual evening’s intake. But Jude had a
feeling that spending any length of time in Shorelands could bring her spirits down very quickly indeed.
Though laid out on lavishly spacious lines, the predominant feeling the estate gave her was one of claustrophobia. The main entrance gates looked as if they were never closed, but they were
nonetheless gates. The ‘20 mph’ speed signs and the ‘ CRIME ALERT IN OPERATION ’ notices on lampposts gave Jude the feeling of being under
surveillance.
This was reinforced by the contents of a display board which she stopped to read. Behind glass, under a neatly painted wooden sign reading ‘Shorelands Estate’, was a list of
regulations for residents. Since these included orders as to how visibly washing could be hung out to dry and times at which lawn-mowing was permitted, Jude felt relieved that Shorelands was a part
of Fethering way out of her price range.
Though of massive proportions and, in most cases, with much-sought-after sea-backing locations, none of the houses appealed to her either. The estate was far too upmarket to go for uniformity.
Each house was very positively different from all the others, and each failed to appeal to Jude in a different way. Every conceivable architectural style was represented, but in a manner that
seemed more parody than homage. Whether with Tudor beams, tall Elizabethan clusters of chimneys, geometric Georgian windows, Alpine chalet gables, thatched roofs or the turrets of French
châteaux, all the houses seemed firmly rooted in the time of their construction, the unglamorous 1950s.
The architectural style echoed in the Turnbulls’ home was Spanish. The wrought-iron gates in the high white-painted walls might have led into the vineyards of some well-heeled Andalusian
grandee, were it not for the coy metal name-plate with a squirrel motif which revealed that the house was called Brigadoon. And the authentic Spanishness of the frontage, with its heavily embossed
door, terracotta pots in niches and gratuitous curlicues of wrought iron, was also let down by two quaint Victorian lampposts and by the metal expanse of the double garage’s up-and-over
door.
The house into which Jude was admitted had been recently ‘improved’ by an expensive interior designer. No attempt had been made to continue the Spanish theme inside. The carpets
toned with the walls; the walls were suitably complemented by the discreet pastel patterns of the curtains. Each item of furniture knew its place. The strain of all this tastefulness was almost
tangible. To Jude the interior of Brigadoon had the homely charm of an intensive care unit.
But her impression of the decor was only fleeting. As ever, she was much more interested in
Chilcott always made this proviso; he was going to give his opinion anyway. ‘I should think it’s one of those weekend sailors .’
He loaded the words with contempt. Though the precise details of Bill Chilcott’s naval background were ill-defined, he never missed an opportunity of saying that seafaring should be left
to the professionals. ‘Some idiot who took out a pleasure boat without sufficient knowledge of local conditions and got what was coming to him . If you want my opinion, they should
impose some kind of regulations on the kind of people who’re allowed to take boats . . .’
But as Bill Chilcott’s hobbyhorse gathered momentum, Carole stopped listening. In spite of her headache, she felt a glow of vindication. She looked forward to grovelling apologies from
Detective Inspector Brayfield and WPC Juster. There had been a body on the beach.
Chapter Nine
Jude found the Shorelands Estate rather spooky as she walked through on the way to Barbara Turnbull’s coffee morning. It took a lot to cast down her spirits. The frosty
greyness of the morning hadn’t done it. Nor had she had any adverse reaction to the wine of the night before. She’d drunk no more than a usual evening’s intake. But Jude had a
feeling that spending any length of time in Shorelands could bring her spirits down very quickly indeed.
Though laid out on lavishly spacious lines, the predominant feeling the estate gave her was one of claustrophobia. The main entrance gates looked as if they were never closed, but they were
nonetheless gates. The ‘20 mph’ speed signs and the ‘ CRIME ALERT IN OPERATION ’ notices on lampposts gave Jude the feeling of being under
surveillance.
This was reinforced by the contents of a display board which she stopped to read. Behind glass, under a neatly painted wooden sign reading ‘Shorelands Estate’, was a list of
regulations for residents. Since these included orders as to how visibly washing could be hung out to dry and times at which lawn-mowing was permitted, Jude felt relieved that Shorelands was a part
of Fethering way out of her price range.
Though of massive proportions and, in most cases, with much-sought-after sea-backing locations, none of the houses appealed to her either. The estate was far too upmarket to go for uniformity.
Each house was very positively different from all the others, and each failed to appeal to Jude in a different way. Every conceivable architectural style was represented, but in a manner that
seemed more parody than homage. Whether with Tudor beams, tall Elizabethan clusters of chimneys, geometric Georgian windows, Alpine chalet gables, thatched roofs or the turrets of French
châteaux, all the houses seemed firmly rooted in the time of their construction, the unglamorous 1950s.
The architectural style echoed in the Turnbulls’ home was Spanish. The wrought-iron gates in the high white-painted walls might have led into the vineyards of some well-heeled Andalusian
grandee, were it not for the coy metal name-plate with a squirrel motif which revealed that the house was called Brigadoon. And the authentic Spanishness of the frontage, with its heavily embossed
door, terracotta pots in niches and gratuitous curlicues of wrought iron, was also let down by two quaint Victorian lampposts and by the metal expanse of the double garage’s up-and-over
door.
The house into which Jude was admitted had been recently ‘improved’ by an expensive interior designer. No attempt had been made to continue the Spanish theme inside. The carpets
toned with the walls; the walls were suitably complemented by the discreet pastel patterns of the curtains. Each item of furniture knew its place. The strain of all this tastefulness was almost
tangible. To Jude the interior of Brigadoon had the homely charm of an intensive care unit.
But her impression of the decor was only fleeting. As ever, she was much more interested in
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