THE HOUSE AT SEA’S END

world out.’
    ‘Your uncle sounds an interesting man,’ says Nelson, accepting a second biscuit. Joyce Reynolds had not wanted the police to visit but, now they’re here, she’s determined to put on a good show. She is a stout woman in her late fifties, wearing a ruffled blouse over black velvet trousers. She has obviously dressed up for them, thinks Judy, thoughshe’s sure it’s lost on Nelson. Joyce Reynolds is the daughter of Stephen Anselm, Hugh’s elder brother, who died in 1984. Joyce herself has three children and two grandchildren. She shows them the photos.
    Judy looks at the pictures with interest. All those brides with frothing dresses and trailing veils. All those hats, all those smiles. She tries, and fails, to imagine her own wedding photos. The dress, tried on last week, is undeniably lovely, the problem is the person inside the dress. Judy doesn’t suffer from unduly low self esteem; she’s certain that, with the help of hairdressers and a vat of make-up, she’ll look pretty enough, it’s just … the
expression
. How on earth is she going to manage that dewy smile, that look of mingled sentiment and rapture, when all the time she’s just counting the minutes until it’s all over and she can put on her old jeans and watch
Top Gear
? Still, she mustn’t think about that now. She’s a police officer, conducting an investigation. Clough would love to be here, putting his oar in, being all boys together with the boss, but it’s her call because she’s good at interviews. She’d better get on with it.
    ‘Sergeant Johnson’s getting married soon,’ says Nelson suddenly.
    Judy glares at him. She knows what he’s doing, of course. Softening a potentially hostile witness with some personal details, the human touch, trying to
empathise
(a word Nelson usually hates). It’s probably a good move but it doesn’t stop Judy wishing Nelson would fall into a fiery hell-hole and be tortured by sadistic demons.
    The witness, though, is definitely softened. ‘Are you?’ Joyceturns to Judy with what appears to be genuine interest. ‘When?’
    ‘In May. At St Joseph’s.’
    ‘The Catholic church?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I was brought up a Catholic,’ says Joyce, ‘but my husband didn’t hold with it so I became a Unitarian.’
    ‘Was Hugh a Catholic?’ asks Nelson.
    ‘Yes,’ says Joyce. ‘Dad used to say he was quite religious as a boy but I never remember him going to church.’
    ‘Have you got any pictures of your dad and Hugh?’ asks Nelson cosily. He tries to smile apologetically at Judy. She ignores him.
    In a drawer, far below the fat satin wedding books, Joyce has a brown envelope containing some sepia photographs. Two boys, both wearing glasses, gaze up at them. The elder is in school uniform, the younger in a white suit with sash.
    ‘First Communion?’ asks Judy.
    Joyce shrugs. ‘I suppose so. Here’s Hugh in RAF uniform. He couldn’t fly planes because of his eyes but he did navigation, I think.’
    The same intense, short-sighted stare. The same slightly stiff pose. Hugh Anselm was one of those men who don’t look quite right in uniform. He seems nervous, unsmiling, hands clenched at his sides. He must have joined the RAF after the Home Guard, thinks Judy.
    ‘What did your uncle do after the war?’ asks Nelson.
    ‘Went to university. The only person in the family to go. Dad always said that Hugh was the clever one.’
    ‘And after university?’
    ‘I’m not sure. He did lots of jobs. He was a teacher, worked in a bank, even ran his own restaurant for a while. As I say, we weren’t exactly close.’
    ‘What’s this picture?’ asks Judy, pulling out a photo of a group of men standing proudly beside a boat. Hugh is older here but the glasses and the anxious expression are the same.
    ‘Oh that must be the lifeboat. He was a keen lifeboatman.’
    ‘At Broughton Sea’s End?’ asks Nelson.
    ‘I suppose so.’
    ‘There isn’t a lifeboat any more, is there? I think someone told me that they can’t use the ramp these days.’
    Joyce Reynolds shrugs. ‘I don’t know. It’s a weird out-ofthe-way place, Broughton. When they were little we used to take the children on the beach there sometimes but I haven’t been for years. Uncle Hugh didn’t like the beach at Broughton. He said it had an unwholesome atmosphere. That was the way he used to talk.’
    Nelson examines the photograph. ‘Did your uncle ever talk about Jack Hastings?’ he asks. ‘Or his father,