‘What’s that?’ she asked no one in particular. ‘Can I borrow your binoculars, Jim?’
She focussed on the floating object.
‘My God. I think it’s a body.’
The chattering suddenly stopped and everyone craned forward to get a better look. Flick was right — the bobbing blue shape, half submerged in the grey water, was undoubtedly a body. The wind had changed direction during the previous hour and the shape was slowly moving eastwards towards the far end of the rocky shelf. Flick took her phone out and dialled 999.
* * *
A uniformed police unit from Swanage was first on the scene, closely followed by a coastguard team and the local police doctor, Mark Benson. But the body was continuing its drift further east, pushed by the wind and tidal currents, and was in danger of being carried beyond the eastern edge of the rocky shelf. Recovery from Dancing Ledge itself would be relatively straightforward but if the body drifted too far away the task would be much harder. The ramblers watched the coastguard volunteers hurry to the far end of the ledge. Two of the team donned wetsuits, attached themselves to ropes and slid into the choppy water. The bobbing blue-clad object was now beyond the end of the ledge and heading for the dangerous-looking rocks under the cliff. The onlookers watched, mesmerised by the drama of the scene.
It took only a couple of minutes for the two swimmers to reach the body and affix a sling. The tragic shape was pulled in. The body, that of a man apparently in his late twenties, was lifted onto a lightweight stretcher so that Mark Benson and the police officers could carry out a cursory examination.
‘He hasn’t been in the water long,’ said Benson. ‘At least I don’t think so. What’s your opinion?’ The coastguard officers agreed. ‘You can usually tell by the condition of the skin and the stiffness of the body. Maybe a couple of hours at most?’
Benson turned the body over and continued his swift examination, ensuring the watching ramblers had their view obstructed. ‘Pretty well confirmed by the rectal temperature. That’s all I can do at the moment.’
One of the police officers said, ‘Any signs of suspicious injuries, Doctor? Or are they all consistent with hitting the rocks?’
‘Nothing unexpected as far as I can see,’ Mark replied. ‘But I can’t predict what may show up at the post-mortem. I suggest we get him out of sight as quickly as possible. There are too many onlookers. The place will be heaving with walkers by mid-afternoon, especially if we see a bit of sunshine.’
The police had already taken details from the rambling group members, but, of course, none of them had seen how the man had ended up in the water.
‘He’s wearing walking boots,’ observed one officer. ‘And a windproof jacket. Looks like a walker to me. Could he have gone too close to the edge?’
‘Don’t let’s speculate, laddie,’ answered the sergeant. ‘Let’s wait for any forensic clues. And let’s get these ramblers on their way. They’re clogging up the area. The forensic team should be here soon and we need to make sure they can use the path without a problem. I want everyone cleared back behind the fence, out of harm’s way.’
* * *
The Chatty Ramblers began the final leg of their walk, heading back to Swanage via the Priest’s Way footpath. They now had the wind at their backs and the going was much easier than the westward walk of mid-morning. Even so, they didn’t talk much. Flick was relieved when they reached the car park at Durlston Castle. With much shaking of heads, they all headed home.
As she drove northwards, Flick cast her mind back to a question one of the police officers had asked her. Had the group passed anyone on their way to the ledge? She’d replied in the negative, but now she remembered that at one point there might have been a figure hurrying east on the upper coast path. Her group had used the lower path, closer to the cliff edge and a little more sheltered from the wind. Had she imagined it? She couldn’t be sure. That was one of the problems of reaching your mid-sixties. Flick was beginning to realise that her memory was less reliable than a decade earlier. Maybe she’d phone the other walkers later in the afternoon. One of them may have spotted that lone figure.
* * *
Pauline Stopley was worried. She too had spotted the person on the upper path. Pauline was sure it had been a young woman, striding out eastwards, wisps of long hair peeping out from under a woolly hat. Could there have been a dog? Pauline hadn’t noticed one, but why else would a woman be out alone in such forbidding weather? It had only been a brief glimpse anyway. But the real reason she hadn’t spoken up to the police was the thought of another set of interviews, statements and meetings. Would they believe her anyway, with her history? And the possibility of coming up against that blonde detective again, that Sophie Allen woman, filled her with a mixture of fear and anxiety. And what other feelings? Pauline shivered. She was with Tony now, and planning a future as a vicar’s wife. Those tempting thoughts had to stop.
By the time she arrived home, Pauline was beginning to feel ashamed of these thoughts. She made herself a cup of tea, phoned Flick and asked her about the woman she’d so briefly seen that morning. To Pauline’s relief, they decided that as the group’s leader, Flick should be the one to phone the police with the information. Pauline finished her tea, and then poured herself a gin and tonic to help settle her troubled thoughts. Maybe she wouldn’t have to meet that blonde detective, not if Flick dealt with it all. Maybe.
Chapter 5: Investigations
‘Hello, Benny. I don’t know why I keep coming back. Most other DCIs send a junior along for something like this. Must be your natural magnetism.’
Sophie Allen smiled sweetly at Dorset’s senior pathologist and took the proffered cup of coffee.
‘What a relief. I was beginning to think I’d lost my touch. I poured that coffee with my own fair hand, O Golden Haired One. Everyone else gets one from the machine. You get the Goodall personal treatment. I hope you appreciate it. It’s all in gratitude for those meals you cooked when we were students. You kept me alive, you know. Spaghetti Bolognese has never tasted the same since.’
‘Probably a good thing. I dread to think what I used to put in it. Anyway, down to business. It’s about that body that was found in the sea at the weekend. Find anything unusual?’ Sophie sipped at her coffee. Not bad, she thought. But then anything was better than the machine-generated sludge that was usually on offer here.
‘No, not really. No marks or injuries that aren’t consistent with being flung hard against the rocks by the surf. No traces of drugs. A small amount of residual alcohol, consistent with a couple of glasses of wine the night before. He was a fit and healthy man. For his age, anyway. What was he? Early thirties?’
‘Twenty-eight. Nothing else of note?’
‘Not a thing. Every sign points to the fact that he died from drowning, and only an hour or so before he was pulled out of the water. So does that make it a puzzle?’
‘Not really. It was very windy, and it swirls around a bit down on that ledge. He could have gone too close to the edge, and then lost his balance in a particularly strong gust. The ledge would still have been wet from the waves breaking over it earlier, at high tide. Easy mistake to make.’
‘Or he could have deliberately jumped,’ Benny added.
‘Of course. But so far there’s no evidence for thinking that.’
‘What have you found out about him? Am I allowed to know?’
‘I put Rae onto it, so you can imagine how quickly the picture built up. His name’s Mark Paterson. He was single as far as we know and he was a researcher at Bournemouth University, looking into computer animation techniques.’
Benny snorted. ‘Not another one! Computer people seem to be two a penny at the moment.’
‘Don’t snarl at me like that, Benny, please. Bournemouth’s one of the top universities in the field, so what do you expect? He was midway through a two-year contract.’
‘Do you think there might be some kind of conspiracy behind his death? Was he secretly hacking i
nto government databases?’
This time it was Sophie’s turn to snort. ‘No, I am most certainly not saying that. His work was in animation, not security. Good job you became a doctor, Benny, and it was me that took up police work. You’re as bad as Jade. At one time her head was full of conspiracy theories. She’s better now, thank goodness. When she was young she was always telling me to arrest someone because they looked a bit shifty or their hair was greasy.’
‘I can understand her point of view. Who wants our streets clogged up with shifty-looking, greasy-haired people? Put them behind bars where they belong. I’m with your daughter on that.’
‘I’ll ignore that. Anyway, while I’m here I need to ask if you and Roger want to come to a BSO concert next month. It’s Beethoven’s triple concerto. Martin wants to get tickets in the next couple of days and he knows you’re a fan. We can have a meal beforehand, maybe?’
‘Yes, please, but I’ll have to check the date with Roger first. Maybe we can shock a few more of Dorset’s concert-going public by holding hands.’
‘Anything short of a full-blown snog is fine by me. I do draw the line at that, though. Maybe I should get Jade to extend her suggested list of arrestable offences to include middle-aged people snogging at public events. It lacks dignity, don’t you think?’
‘Who am I to disagree? You’re the one who can lock people in the clink and drop the key down the drain.’
* * *
While Sophie was visiting the hospital, Barry Marsh drove to Basingstoke to visit the dead man’s family. Mark Paterson’s parents still lived in the house where Mark had grown up, and a local Hampshire officer who was also a family friend had brought the news of their son’s death. The elderly couple were devastated. The dead man’s older sister, Elaine Jenkins, admitted Barry to the house. She had driven down overnight from Stoke-on-Trent. Barry could see her resemblance to the dead man, though Mark had been darker. When Barry asked how her parents were, Elaine shook her head.
‘They’re taking it hard,’ she replied. ‘We all are. We still can’t believe it. Why would he do this? Mark was such a positive person. It just doesn’t make sense. If he was depressed, he kept it very well hidden. No one had a clue. What does his doctor say?’
‘As far as we can tell, he had no record of depression or extreme anxiety, Mrs Jenkins,’ Barry replied. ‘Nothing in his medical history suggests the possibility of suicide. But we’re always aware that medical records may not give the whole picture. There are plenty of cases every year, people who slip through the net and don’t raise any alarms. So far we’ve only spoken to his GP by phone, but one of my colleagues will be visiting her this morning.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘We take all suspicious deaths seriously. We don’t jump to quick conclusions, not unless the evidence is absolutely clear. So I’m here to meet you and your parents, to reassure you all that we are investigating his death, and to have a quick look in his old room, if I may.’
Elaine led the way into a lounge where Mark’s parents were sitting in silence. He repeated what he’d told their daughter, but they seemed not to take it in. Totally shocked, thought Barry. He asked if he might see their son’s room and Elaine took him upstairs.
‘He hasn’t lived here for many years, so you probably won’t find much of use. His more personal stuff will be in his flat in Bournemouth.’
Elaine waited outside as Barry carried out his search. He guessed that the room reflected the personality of the mother rather than the son. She’d want to keep it as a room to put guests in when required. Barry found nothing of interest.
‘Was he in a relationship?’ Barry asked.
‘Not that we were aware of,’ said Elaine. ‘He’s had a few girlfriends, one that was very serious. But since that failed a couple of years ago, he’s not said much about any others. There must have been some though. He was a really nice bloke, and I’m not just saying that because he was my brother. Good-looking too, in his way. Women liked him.’
Barry spoke to the parents again before he left. He wished his boss were here. She always knew exactly the right things to say in situations like this.
* * *
Detective Constable Rae Gregson was in Bournemouth, searching through the dead man’s flat. It was a small apartment in a large Edwardian house that had been converted to flats, a ten-minute walk away from the university. The place was quite untidy, and Rae wrinkled her nose in distaste as she sorted through the unwashed socks. Men, she thought. How could anyone live like this?
The flat was not much larger than a bedsit. The front door opened into a general purpose room furnished with a couch, an armchair, and a small dining table. A waist-high counter separated the kitchen area from the rest of the room. A second doorway led to a tiny lobby, with entrances to a bathroom and a bedroom. The latter was just large enough for the double bed that took up most of the floor space, along with a narrow wardrobe that occupied the far corner. Rae had to squeeze herself around the furnishings.
It didn’t take her long to search the bedroom. Most of Mark Paterson’s clothes were informal. Loose T-shirts, jumpers, chino trousers. He seemed to own only a single suit and Rae only found two ties, both rather dull. Shame. She liked men who wore colourful ties. In her earlier life as a man, Rae had prided herself on her tie collection. It had been one of the few ways she could reveal her hidden femininity and, boy, had she made the most of it. Standing in front of this open wardrobe, secure in her current life, she could look back on those times with equanimity. She smiled at herself, shook her head, and walked through to the main room to continue her search.
A bookshelf unit stood in the corner, filled with texts on computer animation, programming, graphics and other tech-related topics. Rae scanned the contents of the bottom shelf — ring-binders and folders containing notes on similar topics. A powerful laptop lay on a small desk, another sat propped sideways against the wall. Rae bagged them for further examination. She opened the desk drawers and went through the contents, but nothing untoward caught her eye. Everything in the flat was pretty well what she’d expect from a computer person. Except? She walked back to the bedroom and picked up a paperback book from the bedside shelf, a slim volume on ancient history, with two similar volumes beneath it. Why was this here? She glanced at the handwritten message on the inside cover: ‘To Mark from H.’ Rae took the books to the lounge and added them to the two laptops. She took a last look round, picked up the small pile and left.
* * *
Sophie listened to the accounts of her two juniors over coffee.
‘How did he get to Dancing Ledge?’ she asked. ‘That’s the obvious puzzle. There aren’t any cars left abandoned in the local car parks, nor in any of the lanes close to Dancing Ledge. We’ve had people out checking them all, from Swanage and Durlston across to Worth Matravers, and all spots in between. There’s an activity centre at Spyway and they’ve been out doing some of the searching. They’ve drawn a blank everywhere. So what does that leave?’
‘Could he have come by bus?’ Rae asked.
Barry shook his head. ‘Apparently not. The local bobbies have spoken to most of the drivers who were on both routes to Swanage yesterday and no one remembers him. There’s still a couple to see, but they’re the ones who were on duty later in the day. The only other option is that he came in on the steam railway, but the times don’t fit.’
‘Could he have biked it?’ Rae asked. ‘Don’t loads of cyclists come across from Poole on the ferry, then spend the day cycling around Purbeck on the trails?’
‘But why haven’t we found a bike?’ Barry responded. ‘We’ve had teams out on that bit of the coast path, and there’s no abandoned bike there.’
Sophie shrugged. ‘Well, we can’t consider the case closed until we’ve covered all the angles, and there are still a few grey areas. Anything else of interest? Rae?’
‘I’ve sent his two laptops for forensic analysis. I didn’t want to look myself in case I put stuff at r
isk. I wanted to speak to his colleagues this morning but there was some kind of faculty meeting going on, so I’m visiting this afternoon. There was one other thing. I found these books beside his bed.’ She handed the volumes to Sophie.
‘Do we know who this H is?’ Sophie asked.
Rae shook her head.
Barry blinked. ‘What was that?’
‘It’s the inscription. It says, “To Mark from H.”’
Why did that seem familiar? Barry shook his head slightly, as if to clear it, but the memory didn’t surface. Sophie flicked through the book, and a slip of paper fell out. She held it up to the light. It was a till receipt from a bookshop in Exeter. She slid it back into the book.
‘Barry, can you go with Rae this afternoon? There could be a lot of people to talk to and there’s not much else on at the moment. I’ll talk to the walking group leader who spotted the body.’
* * *
Bournemouth is one of the newer universities, and boasts a world renowned department of computer graphics and visual design. Rae, with her engineering background, was fascinated by the whole thing. Barry, a career cop from a farming background, was less enthused. The two detectives interviewed the dead man’s closest colleagues, who gave a picture of a rather private and introspective person. Mark appeared to have got on with his work without seeking much contact with the others there. He was well liked, but his colleagues weren’t overenthusiastic. One fellow researcher, a woman of about the same age as Mark, was able to provide a bit more insight.
‘I dated him a few times,’ Leigh Giminez told them. ‘I was newly across from the States and felt a bit lonely so I kept pestering him until he relented and came out with me. He was kinda hard to get to know, but then so many British men are, aren’t they? Doesn’t it go with the territory?’
EVIL CRIMES a gripping crime thriller full of twists Page 3