She gives the papers to a nearby constable. ‘Hand these around would you, Rhys?’ The young policeman hastily takes the posters and does as he is bid.
‘There have been no other missing persons reported in the past three months so we will assume for now that our woman is not from these parts. Therefore, to start with we will look for missing occupants of hotels, B&Bs and rented places as well as women fitting the description who have recently checked out.’
A united breath is discharged by the gathered men and women.
The vast board is now covered in photographs of the cadaver, the cave and the clothing. Jane points to a photograph of the bruise on the back and then to another of the puffer jacket removed from the corpse. There is a close-up photo of a definite mark on the back of the khaki cloth where something sharp has prodded it hard.
‘Forensics have explained that this bruise was caused by a pointed implement. On a hunch, they tested it against the end of a walking pole which fits exactly. That would be the end of a pole with a trekking tip for mountain use rather than a rubber ferrule. If we can trace the actual pole, it should bear some fibres of the victim’s khaki puffer jacket. We just need to find it.’
The officers wriggle in their seats. She points to the photo of the remains of the face. ‘I know it’s a tall order but it is essential we find out who this is.’
She points to a picture of the necklace. ‘This badly-corroded item is actually a silver chain necklace with a cross on it. So, at the moment, we are working on the person’s identity and looking for the walking pole that we suspect was used as the murder weapon. I want a team up at the Cauldron searching the ground all the way round for anything they can find. Leave that to you to organise, Detective Warren. Okay?’
She delegates tasks to each officer and the station becomes a busier hive of activity than it has been for some time.
The staff and officers file out to get on with their work. She thinks they should move the vital members of the team up to Fishguard Police Station. They’ll need to be nearer to the murder scene than they are now.
She tells Evans to call Fishguard to see what facilities they can offer.
Jane is back in her office but has left the door open around which Evans pops his head. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but Fishguard town hall has an unused room waiting for us to use. There’s not enough space at the station. Hope that’s okay?’
‘Well done, Evans. Get the team together and we’ll leave soon as.’
With a stab of panic, she remembers Meg. For as long as it took, Carys was going to have to step into Jane’s shoes. In a case as important as this, the job simply has to come first.
Jane has planned an evening of carnal lust with Gareth but that will have to be put on the back-burner for now. A nice man with a good physique and a strong sexual drive, Gareth suits her just fine. He too is in the force, has been married and divorced and understands the demands of the job.
Wrongly perhaps, Jane realised a time ago that there is no way she will ever have a proper boyfriend again, let alone a live-in partner. For now, she wants nothing more than occasional sex with no involvement deeper than a physical relationship and Gareth is happy to go along with that. They’re not even what is known as friends with benefits – they are simply casual sexual partners who enjoy one another’s bodies. When together they make sure to avoid anything but small talk. So neither knows much about the other, although this does cause a hidden strain on both of them as it is an unnatural situation.
The temptation is in both of them to get to know one another better, but they struck an agreement the first time they slept together that they wouldn’t. Instinctively, they are both attracted to one another. This is not just physical: they can feel the soul of the other shine through their sexual liaisons. They tell themselves that what they have is better than nothing, so they carry on as they are, looking forward to each time they meet.
It does not cross Jane’s mind that she is a woman many men would treasure, and she cannot imagine that they would accept her lot as Meg’s carer. She is convinced that no man could love her enough to accept that Meg’s needs come first in her life. Since she parted company with her much-loved boyfriend after the accident, her thinking has been coloured. She hasn’t allowed herself ever to imagine that things may change.
But Meg is now in her twenties, coming to terms with her disability well and already thinking about building a life for herself. Grateful though she is, her spirit still resists relying so much on others, in particular her sister. Just as she has had to work to recover from the accident, she has worked hard at and become highly accomplished at pushing away the demons that nag her to feel sorry for herself and to be angry at life for what it has done to her.
6
April 2015. Pembrokeshire, Wales
Mike had suggested they went abroad for Easter but after attempting to obfuscate the issue and giving various reasons why not, Bette had finally had to come clean that she had never had a passport. She said she had never tried to get one for fear her parents would have to be contacted or would find out in some way where she was. Mike had assured her he would help her with an application but she had become defensive and gone quiet and had said she had never wanted to go abroad anyway. Disappointed, as he had hoped to take her to meet his mother in Oz, he had let the subject go for now and decided to tackle it at some point in the future when she felt more secure as he was sure she would in time. Bette wanted to avoid the southern part of the county but was pining for some time in her old country so she had suggested an Easter walking holiday in north Pembrokeshire.
Pleased with the idea, Mike booked a hotel in the countryside between Fishguard and Newport.
On a sunny, challenging afternoon walk along the coastal path, they were entranced as they passed dramatic clifftops and zigzagged eastward, catching sight of occasional grey seals and a glimpse of a bottlenose dolphin. When they came to the rugged, convoluted rock strata around Ceibwr Bay, their path became trickier as it approached the remarkable place they had planned to visit. They stopped on the almost sheer sides of the Witches’ Cauldron and gazed in wonder at such a natural curiosity.
Seeing a sign to somewhere called Moylegrove, their eyes followed the pointer and directly inland, perhaps 200 metres away, an old house stood alone on a level grass field. Drawn to take a look, they walked across the field, wary sheep stopping grazing to watch them. The big derelict house was built of solid stone. Ivy clambered over the crumbling roof. Battered and dirty, blown by the fierce sea-winds, an estate agent’s ‘For Sale’ sign leant at such an angle that it was perilously close to toppling over. It had clearly been there a long time.
The size and state of the building would put many people off, but not Mike who knew what builders charge and how much a place can improve in worth once renovated. He was aware that a place like that with its astounding, remote, wild aloneness and amazing sea-views when well-renovated and nicely furnished would command premium holiday rental prices. But that aside, he was in love with the place and the idea of doing it up. He had the funds to buy the place four times over so there was nothing to stop him and it was a project he would enjoy getting his teeth into.
They tried the faded oak door but it was locked and they could see little through the dirty, cracked windows. The views were to die for and Bette knew then and there that they must have it. What she particularly liked was its isolation. There was not another building in sight.
They walked beyond it, following a lane a mile inland and came to a small unspoilt village where close-packed, colour-painted and stone cottages huddled along the sides of a hill. This was Moylegrove. It looked as though it had remained unchanged for many years and could not have had a population of more than a few hundred. They soon discovered that it was predominantly Welsh-speaking, which Bette was just about able to understand. They walked around and could find no pub and no shop. There was nothing to draw a tourist, apart, that is, from the coastal path and the Witches’ Cauldron.
They approved of the place and set their hearts on their new venture. The ruin was such an enticing building that Bette and Mike took little time to persuade themselves into buying it. At that point, they realised the sun was sinking, painting the cliffs pink and yellow and they had to walk quickly westward to reach their hotel before darkness.
The following morning, after a hearty hotel breakfast, the two drove back to the ruin to meet a sleepy estate agent from Cardigan. With difficulty, the rusty old key sticking, he finally managed to open the creaky old oak door and showed them inside. The house was named Cliff Edge and they saw no reason to alter it.
The old flagstone floor thrilled them but the best thing of all was that the house had planning permission with stipulations attached. Mike knew his way around planners and that didn’t worry him at all. They put in an offer that morning that was snapped up by lunchtime and returned to Cambridge the proud new owners of a house in Wales. Once back in Cambridge, Mike started on plans for the place that he knew would be acceptable.
Between April and September, the pair visited Cliff Edge almost every weekend. Bette, being her own boss, sometimes took days off from her interior design company to stay at the hotel they had stayed in when they had first found Cliff Edge and she’d be around during the week while a team of best Welsh builders cracked on.
By the end of September, the building work was completed. Mike had been careful to use local stone to fit with the planner’s demands. At the end facing the sea he put in a floor-to-ceiling picture window to frame the spectacular view of grass fields dotted with cream sheep that stretched down to a ribbon of dark cliffs beyond which the vast blanket of sea took the eye to the horizon. He had added two more windows that were in keeping with the original ones and removed the old staircase and most of the ceiling. Now the open-plan kitchen incorporated the living room and an eating area and the old upstairs corridor became a wooden balcony with an attractive iron railing from which a winding iron staircase descended.
Above one end of the high space, he had designed a second floor with three double bedrooms. Downstairs, a wood-burning stove stood against one wall, its long, black flue pipe reaching for the heavens as it climbed up to the roof. It was much needed in the blistering winters.
For the summer there were the sliding doors on the end of the building, through which the patio was reached. This was where people would gather to eat food cooked on the brick barbecue and to take in the remarkable views across the sea and the Welsh countryside.
They kept the old, silvered-oak front door with its heavy iron handle, and the old porch became a place to hang coats. Although Bette had had a say in the design, Mike’s attention to detail that could so irritate her at times was now put to the best use and she saw it as a big positive in this case. No wonder architecture had been his chosen profession. He excelled at it.
Bette decorated the place using soft colours and limed beams. She sought out solid, old, oak furniture, leather sofas, and old chapel pews became window seats with buff seat cushions. Two more pews were ranged either side of the old dining table. Everything had been carefully considered. She had learnt well from watching what others did and studying design and interiors magazines.
She painted the master bedroom in the shell pink she had longed to paint her childhood bedroom in. The second double room was pale blue and the third the palest yellow. They were simply furnished with old wardrobes and modern beds with soft-coloured covers and throws. Each bedroom had an en-suite bath, shower and toilet.
Both Bette and Mike enjoyed the work involved in getting the house renovated. They loved the area and relished the long walks along the coast.
Bette dealt with the bookings and a local woman, a Mrs Edwards, earned her share of the rent by changing sheets, cleaning, and making ready Cliff Edge for holiday lets when they weren’t using it for breaks for themselves.
The first year they had rented it out, they put Mrs Edwards to the test by letting it to friends without telling her. The friends had reported the house as ‘immaculate’ when they’d arrived, with things exactly as they had asked. As instructed by Bette, Mrs Edwards always made sure to leave her contact details and offer any help she could give, including cleaning, cooking, ironing and babysitting. Bette had tried out some of the competition and made sure that new guests received a welcome basket on the kitchen table containing a small jar of coffee, some teabags, tiny pots of honey and marmalade, sachets of sugar, four small packets of breakfast cereal and some milk left in the fridge. People felt happy to be there.
According to the seasons, a local man took care of the grass around ‘The Edge’ as it was known and looked after the tall bank of evergreens which included a holly bush and various other large shrubs beside the patio, planted to lessen the impact of the wind that could blow hard off the Irish Sea.
For that time in Bette’s life, she felt appreciated by someone for who she really was. Mike had many annoying habits, it was true. His fastidiousness extended to the way he was always smartly dressed: he was unable to flop in joggers. When wearing a jacket, he constantly buttoned and unbuttoned it. When he wore a tie, he frequently straightened it, and he was always touching his hair and checking his teeth. These were things that would normally have driven Bette mad and sent her running, but she ignored them in favour of his many merits.
Equally, Mike was as much in love as ever with this captivating woman. A keen shopper – not from eBay these days – she spent a lot of time in Cambridge’s most expensive hairdresser, clothes-shopping in fashionable London boutiques and top department stores, taking taxis everywhere and spending far too much of his money, about which he always tried to be so careful. But he indulged her. She was young and at last had some security. She deserved his indulgence.
Yes, she could be a bit of a diva at times. Yes, she was unable to apologise and continually forgot what would wind him up (such as an unmade bed). Yes, she was tactless; she quite often put herself first and she was unpredictable and she refused to apply for a passport when they could have had so much fun abroad. But for him, these faults were completely outweighed by her beauty, charm, spontaneous laughter and by the way she made him feel he was the only person in her world.
Strangely, however outgoing and charismatic she was, Bette had few friends. In fact, when Mike thought about it, she had almost no female friends. But then, she hadn’t been in Cambridge long and, after all, he had very few pals himself.
They were worlds apart and quite similar. Perhaps because they had moved in together so soon, the most basic thing their relationship lacked was trust. While neither gave the other any cause to think this, neither was certain the other was entirely trustworthy. They did both spend quite a lot of time working and both had jobs where they were liable to meet members of the opposite sex. They were both attractive people aware of their ability to attract others and this resulted in an underlying but well-hidden concern.
Tuesday 7th April 2015. Bette Davies’ Five-Year Diary
Mike and I have found our Heaven. It is called Cliff Edge and we are over the moon about it. On the wonderful, wild, north Pembrokeshire coastline and we can see the sea from the windows. What could be better. We are as in love as ever and now I have somewhere to shout it from – the clifftops!
7
May 2016. Kingswell Road, Cambridge
One Saturday morning, Bette woke feeling nauseous and rushed to the bathroom to throw up. She went back to bed and lay there a little longer waiting for the feeling to pass. Mike had brought her a cup of tea and once her stomach had settled, she got up. Putting on her knickers before dressing, she had been surprised when the already-dressed Mike had shouted from the top of the stairs, ‘Back in a brace!’
She heard him tearing down the stairs, almost tripping as he went, opening the front door and closing it with a bang. She went to the bedroom window where she watched him leg it up the street to Chesterton Road. Had he gone mad? Whatever was the man doing?
When he returned,
Bette looked astounded. He was brandishing a pregnancy test kit.
‘Don’t worry, sweetheart. If it’s negative, we’ll be fine. Just one of those things. We’ve a long time to try again.’
‘Why would you think I’m pregnant?’ She was bemused.
‘Because that may have been morning sickness you had earlier and that lovely little tummy of yours has grown as well as your breasts, which are definitely larger. I’ve noticed your appetite has increased, too.’
‘Never!’ was all she could say. ‘That’s just ridiculous.’
He gently handed her the kit. ‘For me, my darling?’
She hesitated.
He dropped to his knees in front of her. ‘Please? If you’re not, it won’t matter.’
She walked slowly to the bathroom, went in and closed the lock on the door. Privacy was vital at this moment. She sat on the lavatory seat for a time before she came out. Hovering by the door, Mike couldn’t hide his impatience. When she finally emerged, she looked shocked.
‘Well?’ he said. He gently took the test from her trembling hand. He looked at the blue line. ‘Oh my God! Oh God! My darling girl, this is fantastic!’ He started dancing round the room. At that moment Bette felt as though Mike now had what he wanted and that she was simply a vessel to carry his baby. She sat down quietly on the bed watching him while she tried to get her head round what was happening.
Cliff Edge: a gripping psychological mystery Page 6