Cliff Edge: a gripping psychological mystery

by Florrie Palmer

  ‘Oh God, Bette,’ she said, staring up at the three great standing stones supporting a giant capstone, ‘this is just extraordinary. I feel so insignificant beside this place. When was it built?’

  ‘About four thousand years BC. Something, isn’t it?’ Both women gaped at the enormous stones.

  ‘But how did they get such vast boulders here? And more so, how did they lift the stone on top? It must weigh tonnes.’

  ‘I think it’s fifteen tonnes or more. To this day, there are many theories but none are certain. I always come here when I’m at Cliff Edge. Reminds me what mankind is capable of. If they could do this then, what can we do now? Also, it reminds you you’re mortal, doesn’t it? It’s a burial ground, supposedly.’

  ‘Yes, I thought it might be. A thought-provoking place.’

  ‘Contemplating your future again, Sara?’

  ‘Our future, I would say.’

  They walked around the perimeter of the stones in silence. The vast rocks seemed all the more beautiful for their icing of fine snow. They stood and gazed in awe for a time.

  ‘Right. Lunch now in Newport’s finest. Curry half-and-half for me. What about you?’

  ‘Baffling me with science again, Bette. What would that be?’

  ‘Curry, rice and chips.’

  Sara felt her stomach turn. ‘Okay, sounds fun.’

  They had lunch in Newport and as prophesised, Sara did feel faintly ill watching Bette devour a beef curry with fat, greasy chips and a mass of white rice while she had chosen an unappetising dry salad that did nothing to assuage her appetite after the bracing air from the morning outside. She followed that with a couple of large chunks of bread and cheese that helped fill her stomach.

  They arrived home mid-afternoon and battling against a strong wind, came in through the back door. Mike was in the downstairs lavatory and through the window saw them returning. He heard the door open as they entered. Carried by the wind behind her, he heard Bette say, ‘My God, darling, who’d have babies when you can have freedom like this?’

  He couldn’t believe his ears. It wasn’t only what she had said, but the way she had said it. She had delivered the line in such a disparaging tone and had laughed as she had said it. How could she profane Lucy’s memory like that? How could she so disrespect their child in such an obscene, offensive way? And to say it to Sara like that.

  In the evening they watched films on the television. Bette chose Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair. Sara watched some of it then said she had to do some reading up on her Reiki course so, in spite of Bette’s protests, managed to extricate herself from watching a film that was making her feel both sad and uncomfortable.

  Mike avoided the women almost entirely, to the point where he had made an excuse that he had to go to Newport to get something and that he would grab supper there. He would not look at Bette and seemed deeply angry. Sara decided keeping out of his way was the wisest course of action whilst Bette seemed her usual oblivious self. She had such bad radar when it came to other people’s feelings.

  She felt something tight close over her mouth and stick hard to the skin of her cheeks which were drawn back, forcing her lips into an uncomfortable grimace. Unable to breathe either through her nose or mouth, her panic turned to terror that ran through her veins and petrified her.

  Her thoughts grew muddled, her mind confused. What was happening? Where was she? She seemed to be moving. Someone seemed to be leading her somewhere. To a car? Yes, to a car. To a car boot that was open. She was being pushed into it. She couldn’t struggle because something was stopping her. She realised her hands were tied behind her back. She heard the boot door slam and felt the car move forward as her breathing and her heart slowed.

  18

  26 December 2017. Cliff Edge

  Incensed, that night Mike had no sleep. The remark of Bette’s assaulted his mind over and over.

  He began to wonder about a woman who speaks like that, especially when her baby had died. Suspicion stabbed his mind, filling it with poisonous thoughts. He tossed and turned, reliving that terrible time.

  His thoughts searching for an escape route, he recalled every detail of what happened before and after the birth. He recalled the doctor at the maternity hospital mentioning that Bette had had a baby before. Surely a doctor couldn’t make a mistake like that. Mike contemplated vile things.

  But this was the woman he loved. Then he thought about that too. Because he had loved Bette, he had been living with the assumption that he must still love her, but was that the truth? Since Lucy had died, a thorny hedge had grown up between them and hidden the Bette he knew. Its roots had grown in their baby’s dust. It was the line of defence they had both encouraged to shield themselves from the event and one another.

  Only a new birth could bring that barrier down, thought Mike. But Bette had refused to try. Why? Why did she say she never wanted another baby? He began to wonder if she had ever really wanted Lucy in the first place.

  He thought of her expression when she came out of the bathroom holding the pregnancy test. She hadn’t actually looked happy. But he had been in such a hurry to find out, and when he had seen it was positive had been so over the moon, he had hardly noticed her reaction. But now he thought of it, what at the time he had considered to be delighted shock, could in fact have been undelighted shock.

  As he lay in the dark, the wind hammering the house, he knew that when he really needed to, he could lie with the utmost sincerity. If he could, then why shouldn’t Bette be able to, too?

  His doubts about her grew larger and larger. Had anything she had told him about her past been true at all? He itched to know. A plan began to formulate.

  19

  27 December 2017. Pembrokeshire

  Mike had been longing to go on one of his ‘marathon’ all-day walks. Today, tired though he was, adrenaline spiked his system and he rose early. He had told the others he intended to take the car to Poppit Sands then walk the coastal path to Newport Town and back to the Sands. He was determined, he said, to do the long round trip all in one day and in cold conditions. A twenty-two-miler with some very steep hills, even if they had wanted to be in his company, Bette and Sara would never consider joining him. He could be sure of that.

  Relieved to get away from the women, after cooking himself a large breakfast, Mike took his knapsack with some food and maps and, reluctant even to speak to Bette, he muttered goodbye to her as she came downstairs in her dressing gown. The weather was still freezing but it was blue sky and yesterday’s wind had dropped.

  In his car by 8.28am, once Mike had reached the road, he turned right for St Dogmaels and drove slowly along, unconsciously whistling to himself. He always did this when he was tense and today, he was extremely apprehensive. But before he reached St Dogmaels, instead of heading left for Poppit Sands, he carried on until he came to Cardigan Bay. Circumnavigating the town, he looped back along the easternmost side of the bay where he finally reached a hotel high up on cliffs overlooking the sea.

  By the time he drove to the car park, the weather had changed again. He felt something wet on his face and looked up at the heavy, white sky. As though it was holding back something in store and was simply teasing, it allowed a few slushy specks of snow to fall, melting the second they landed. The lackadaisical attempt stopped as quickly as it had started. But the weather was the last thing on his mind. Mike grabbed his knapsack from the passenger seat and strode into the hotel.

  In the lounge that overlooked the bay, the lanky, methodical man removed his laptop from the knapsack, placed it carefully on the shiny, orange wooden table in front of him and opened it up. He straightened it in front of him. Organised as he loved to be, he had been sure to fully charge it before setting out and, in case the battery showed low, had brought the charger with him. Now he could peruse at his leisure. There was no one else in the place apart from an extremely gaunt, almost skeletal man who approached him and hovered nervously before taking courage and asking if he could
get him anything.

  ‘A double espresso, please,’ said Mike.

  The man looked aghast. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  Repeating the sentence would be a waste of time, so Mike substituted with, ‘Could I have a strong cup of black coffee, please.’

  Looking relieved, the man said, ‘Certainly sir.’ He ambled out the room. There was no hurry to do anything in this hotel, in particular not at this time of year.

  For a second, Mike wished Bette was with him to laugh at what would have been a quietly spoken, ‘that’s what you call a skeleton staff.’ But she wasn’t here, and he was here because of her. He felt hugely sad. The times when they had laughed so much together seemed so long ago.

  He had ordered digitised copies of the Western Telegraph, the main local newspaper for Pembrokeshire. They were for the period from June through to September for the year of 2010 and 2011. He downloaded them on his laptop and searched for the words Bette and Davies with no luck. Then he entered ‘couple’ ‘missing’ and ‘daughter.’ He pored through countless mentions until, in a 2010 paper, he finally found something that set the hairs on the back of his neck tingling.

  Beside a story in an issue from early September was a picture of Bette, younger but unmistakably her. Horrified by the headline, he slowly read the article.

  Couple’s Life Savings Stolen by daughter

  Mr and Mrs Dai Davis of Llanegelly Farm, Hook, near Haverfordwest returned from a shopping trip on Thursday 29th August, to discover their sixteen-year-old daughter Bethan had disappeared from the family home.

  When she made no appearance the following day, Mrs Davis had checked her daughter’s bedroom to find some of her clothes and shoes gone. When she later checked she discovered to her horror that the couple’s life savings of over £38,000 had disappeared.

  Distrusting banks, the couple had hidden their money in a place known only to them so it had to have been Bethan.

  Said Mrs Davis, ‘We couldn’t believe she’d just disappear like that. We don’t know what came over the girl. But we still love her and even if she’s spent the money, we’ll get over that. We just want to know she’s all right and get her home safe.’

  Local taxi companies have no record of the girl booking a cab and it is assumed she must have taken a bus from somewhere near her home. But none of the local bus drivers have recognised her picture nor have any recollection of a girl with a suitcase boarding their bus.

  The police search for Miss Davis continues. If anyone recognises this photograph and has seen Bethan in the last few days or has any information as to her whereabouts, please get in touch with the Police at Haverfordwest.

  Astounded, Mike sat motionless in his chair and stared through the window at the bleak sea beyond. He tried to absorb what he had just read. The sky looked ready to burst with snow. The forecast on the car radio had said it was expected that afternoon. He reread the piece and gradually took in the information. They must have got her age wrong. She was now twenty-seven.

  Anger surged through his body and he wanted to smash the computer that had relayed the knowledge. This had been much worse than he had been expecting. He felt duped, cheated, taken in. As he jotted down the name of the farm where the Davises lived, it crossed his mind that it might have been better if he hadn’t found this out at all. To steal from her parents like that… What sort of person would do that?

  He remembered what Bette had told him about how bad those parents were and he had tactfully avoided mentioning them ever since. Perhaps they had been worse than she had let on. Or perhaps it was the other way around. What was he to believe?

  He bent his body forward, crossed his arms in front of him and laid his head on them. He slowly processed what he had read and the temper that had engulfed him calmed down. He had come up with a plan.

  The skinny man came over to ask if he could get him anything else. Muttering that it had taken long enough to get one cup of coffee, and he didn’t fancy waiting for another hour to get a second, Mike stood up. He slotted his computer into its weatherproof case, picked it up, left the hotel and walked back to his car. The weather felt colder than earlier.

  Sitting in his car, he studied a map. He fed his next destination into his satnav which told him it would take about fifty-one minutes to drive there. Switching on his beloved Billie and now feeling more positive, he set off to follow the route back round Cardigan Bay, through the town and turned inland down a B road, along which he snatched longing glances at the tempting climbing country of the Preseli Hills off to his left.

  As he drove, he went over the past. He thought of as much as he could remember of what Bette had told him about her childhood. Although he was beginning to doubt a single word was true he reminded himself to hang back from leaping to conclusions.

  Descending as he drove across Pembrokeshire, Mike passed Haverfordwest where the fields had fewer sheep than in the north of the county: most land around that part was arable. He followed the banks of the river Cleddau on its way to Pembroke Dock as it widened and passed Hook. The satnav took him away from the village out into countryside along a narrow potholed lane that eventually led to the farm.

  It was about 4.40pm and dark when he reached the end of the lane. He’d been expecting the large house described by Bette. But instead he found a small stone cottage. These were poor people. The place had the air of being deserted, but a yellow glow of light showed through the edges of closed curtains. For a moment he was reminded of the traveller in the spooky poem, The Listeners. Barking from more than one dog came from the house.

  There was a long wait. He knocked again, louder and longer. More barking. Eventually, a short, grizzled, stocky man with a beer belly opened the door. Three collies stood close by, ready to spring.

  ‘And who may you be?’ This was said more warily than aggressively and he held a shotgun that, Mike was glad to note, was pointing to the ground. Above the grizzle, Bette’s round blue eyes studied Mike.

  Assuring the farmer that he meant no harm, Mike said politely, ‘Good evening. Would you be Mr Davis, sir?’

  The collies barked again. Mr Davis stroked their heads kindly and they quietened. ‘Hush now, beauties. I am Dai Davis, that is me. More to the point, who are you and what will you be wanting?’

  ‘My name is Michael Hanson and that’s a long story, sir. May I ask you, whether your daughter went missing in August 2010?’

  The man looked as though he’d seen a ghost. Lost for words, he tottered on his feet for a moment. Thinking he might fall, Mike caught hold of his arm. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve shocked you, sir.’

  ‘No one’s mentioned Bethan for years now. Why would you be asking?’

  His eyes were watering. Mike asked whether he might come in and have a talk. The shaken man leant his rabbit gun against the wall by the door and invited him in. He gestured Mike to sit in an ancient high-backed chair beside an old pot-bellied stove.

  Then Mr Davis pointed at the floor. ‘Down,’ he said and the dogs immediately dropped at his feet, not taking their eyes off their owner. He patted their heads and ruffled the hair on their chests. Not quite the cruel man Bette had described.

  Offered tea, Mike accepted with gratitude. While Mr Davis put an old-fashioned kettle on a ring of an electric cooker, Mike took in the room. Built of mostly old grey stones of various shapes and sizes, the fireplace had a thick, slightly misshapen old beam roughly hewn into an arch that stretched between two pillars. The thickness of the walls was visible in the window recess about twenty inches deep. Built to keep out the cold, this was a cosy room that might have been unchanged for a hundred years apart from the electric cooker.

  He could imagine a restless, creative child being bored in this out-of-the-way spot. He remembered Bette’s tale of painting her bedroom. Not in this house: she couldn’t have as it was all bare stone walls. Not a hint of magnolia anywhere. He wondered whether he was living with a fantasist.

  He thought to ask, ‘Er, excuse me, sir, but is there a Mrs Davi
s?’

  ‘Died these seven years since.’ As he brought a tray with two cups, a bowl of sugar and a teapot, Dai Davis looked beaten, like a man who has given up.

  ‘I am so very sorry to hear that, sir.’

  The man had more tears in his eyes. He fished a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and wiped them. Before he sat down, he poured them both a cup of tea. It crossed Mike’s mind that the man may have loved his wife but not his daughter.

  ‘All of them, see? All my girls gone. Now I’ve no one. Although they said it was the cancer, I’m sure as eggs is eggs, my poor wife died of a broken heart.’

  They sat in silence drinking tea while Mike wondered what he had meant by ‘all his girls’. He was trying to decide how to approach what was clearly going to be a much trickier subject than he had been expecting when Mr Davis paved the way for him. ‘So what do you know of our Bethan, then?’

  ‘Er, Mr Davis, I’m afraid you are going to need to be patient while I explain how I know her.’

  ‘You know her? You mean, she’s alive? Are you sure? There’ll be a many Bethan Davises in Wales, you know. I reckon you’ve made a mistake, young man.’ The poor man was aghast.

  ‘The Bethan Davis who took your life savings?’

  It seemed he couldn’t absorb what Mike was saying. ‘Well, she was only young, mind, and if she had lived, she’d have repaid us. She was a good girl our Bethan and I’ll never believe she ran off without good cause. Doctor said she may have been what they call depressed, you know. We’re certain she took her own life, you see. You’re barking up the wrong tree, son.’

  He called Mike ‘young man’ and ‘son’, but Mike decided that in spite of his weather-beaten, grizzled appearance, that he couldn’t be more than fifty.