Cliff Edge: a gripping psychological mystery

by Florrie Palmer

  Mike made a decision then and there that he couldn’t tell this sad, lonely man the truth. ‘I believe you’re right, sir. I think I must be mistaken. I am so sorry to have disturbed and upset you. Please forgive me.’

  ‘Well, well, I was truly shaken then, when you said what you did.’

  ‘I can believe it. As I’m here, tell me about your daughter, anyway. I’m so sorry to hear she had such an unhappy end. Did you have other children?’

  Mike prayed the man would forget to wonder how he had known about the life savings being missing. And he did. He was a simple-living man whose life had been devastated. All he was now thinking about were his late wife and daughter.

  ‘No, never did. Mother kept miscarrying see and Bethan was the only one to stay put. A lovely little girl she was.’ He got up and crossed the room to bring a gold plastic frame enclosing a photograph over to show Mike. ‘Pretty as a picture, wasn’t she?’

  A ten-year-old Bette smiled a toothier smile than she had grown into – but she and the smile were as dazzling then as now.

  ‘She was indeed.’ Not wishing to seem too eager to find out more, Mike paused. ‘And she obviously had a loving home so I can’t help wondering why she left and what happened.’

  ‘Clever child. Very artistic, you know. We couldn’t buy enough paper, paints and crayons for her. She just loved drawing and painting and we encouraged her all we could. Even scraped together to pay the local artist to give her lessons. And then…’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Local lad to blame. Got her pregnant then ran out on her. She was only fifteen, poor kid. Well, she had the babe at home and we cared for them both. But poor young Bethan, she found it very hard to cope, see? That’s what drove her away. The babi was barely three months at the time. The doctor told us childbirth can affect the mind, you see.’

  ‘So when she disappeared, how old was she?’

  ‘Only just had her sixteenth birthday.’ He was sniffing back tears again. ‘My poor lamb.’

  Some quick mental arithmetic told Mike that the paper had been correct and that Bette was now only twenty-three years old. She’d said she was twenty-five when they had met in 2014. He couldn’t believe it. She had actually been twenty. She’d looked young but always seemed so grown up. From spending years fending for herself, he presumed. Such a convincing liar. She’d never had a passport and had refused to apply for one as she would have had to produce documents to prove her birth. She claimed this was because she did not want her parents to find out where she was.

  ‘It must have been terrible for you and your wife.’

  ‘It was. But Mother and I kept Beth’s little Rhiannon and we loved her like our own. Course, once Mother got so ill, we had to put the baby up for adoption. But we keep in touch and she knows her true story, so that’s something, and she sometimes comes visiting. She’s all I have left of the family now, so I treasure the time I spend with her.’

  ‘What can I say, sir? I am so sorry about everything you’ve had to bear.’ Mike stood up.

  ‘Sorry you’ve had a wasted journey, young man. Good luck with your search.’

  Pausing on the doorstep, Mike wanted to hug the man and tell him his darling daughter was fine. But he mustn’t. Why overturn what the man believed for the truth? It would only make him unhappy. It was surely better for him to believe his daughter had died in tragic circumstances and that none of it had been her fault.

  ‘Thank you very much, Mr Davis. Good luck to you too and goodnight.’

  When Mike went out into the darkness, it was full-on snowing and this time it was settling. This was snow in earnest. He glanced at his watch. Would the women be wondering what had happened to him? He thought he should call but couldn’t face speaking to that lying bitch. To think he had once loved her. But not anymore, not anymore. Local lad got her into trouble? Local lad she had seduced, more like. He knew just how flirtatious and now just how deceitful she could be. He sent her the shortest text he could. Just four brief words, no kisses.

  On my way back.

  By the time he was back on the larger road, the snow was coming fast and thick. Grateful for the four-wheel drive in his car, he wondered whether he’d ever make it back to Cliff Edge as other traffic was likely to get into trouble en route.

  He thought about how sometimes it was definitely preferable for people to believe what they wanted, but at other times vital that they learnt the truth. He suddenly realised that he was no different from poor Mr Davis. He had believed what he wanted to.

  As he drove, his windscreen wipers at full speed, he began to think about Lucy’s death. Who had been the last to check on her that night? The whole thing had been such a shock that self-protection had leapt to his aid and blocked such details from his memory. He just had to get back.

  Bette had left one baby and the second had died at about the same age.

  The fury in him boiled. He wanted to hit out and his fists clenched the steering wheel so hard it might almost have snapped. Finally, with a scream of his brakes, he jerked the wheel over, pulling the car to the side of the road, stopped, got out and slammed the door. Slanting snowfall covered every bit of him as he stood in darkness and let out an animal roar. Cold flakes entered his mouth and melted on contact.

  Gradually, he talked himself down. He must hold this raging stress inside until it could be allowed full vent. That time was coming soon. Mike Hanson had had just about all he could take.

  Disorientated though she was, she was aware of the car stopping. Where were they? It was hard to see and she was so, so cold. For what purpose had they stopped? Instinct, still working at some level, knew the purpose was bad. Fear flooded through her veins and froze her blood. Her heart and breathing had already slowed and her mouth felt as though it was filled with sand. Desperately thirsty, she craved water.

  When the boot opened, the bitter cold bit her face and hands and her sluggish mind and body were unable to resist the hands that pulled her out and the voice that ordered her to stand. More tape was stuck around her face and over her nose. Now she couldn’t breathe at all. Panic overwhelmed her.

  She tried to struggle but staggered and stumbled as she was pulled along into deep snow where her knees buckled and she fell into a deep white drift. There she lay, as consciousness slipped away.

  Snow and darkness covered her. She did not feel the tape ripped away from her face for Death was already on her.

  20

  7 January 2018, 2.55pm. Cliff Edge

  The three police officers leave Fishguard with Evans at the wheel in his car, Jane beside him and PC Rhys Roberts in the rear.

  They take the road to the right towards Dinas Cross. It is a remote lane, narrow and twisted with tall hedgerows either side. Evans spends a lot of time on the horn until Jane shushes him. ‘You can’t keep doing that, Evans, people will notice us. We’re not in Carmarthen now. This is the countryside. We need to catch the woman by surprise.’

  Evans is clearly worried about the possibility of another car coming toward them and slows to a crawl. Another of his failings: he can be a real wuss. They zigzag along the rutted lane as it follows the coastline. Before long, Jane reminds Evans, ‘It’s just here, see. On the left, remember? That’s the track that leads to the place.’

  They drive up the bumpy track towards Cliff Edge. There are no cars outside. They try the door but no one’s home.

  ‘We’ll wait somewhere out of sight and keep watch on the place. Turn us around please, Evans. We need to catch Ms de Vries by surprise.’

  He does as bid, driving back up the track onto the lane where they go down a quarter mile until Jane points out a well-hidden gap into which Evans reverses the car. They get out and stroll back along the lane.

  ‘Suppose to all intents and purposes we look like people on a country walk,’ says Evans.

  ‘Except for the uniformed officer with us.’ Sometimes Jane wonders how Evans got into the police let alone gained the position he is now in. But she knows he’s actually got a good brain when he
remembers to engage it.

  They climb over a stone wall and head for a small group of trees, a little way from the house. They hide in the cover of the trees, binoculars trained on the place. It’s perishing cold but they don’t have too long to wait. At 15:49 a silver Ford Fiesta that has seen better days rattles down the track. It stops at Cliff Edge and a blonde woman gets out.

  ‘That’s who I spoke to,’ says Roberts, his teeth chattering.

  ‘Yes, that’s her, isn’t it, Evans?’

  ‘It is, ma’am.’

  They watch the woman open the boot and take out some carrier bags with what looks like groceries. She goes to the front door and lets herself in. The police wait until after a couple of minutes, they walk to their car and drive back up the track again to park next to the house.

  Jane and Evans get out of the car and go to the door. Jane checks her watch as she knocks. They’ll be driving back in the dark, not much fun on the icy roads, especially with Evans, jumpy as a cat, at the wheel. The door opens. As it does, Jane gets a call from PC Thomas in Fishguard but she clicks her phone off. Not a good moment to talk.

  She holds up her badge. ‘Ms de Vries? You will remember us from when we met just three days ago. I was asking about Gwyneth Edwards who has, unfortunately, not yet been found. But we are here on a different matter this time. I am Detective Inspector Jane Owen. This is Detective Sergeant Ross Evans’ – she gestures at Evans who nods his head – ‘and you will remember Constable Roberts who visited you earlier today.’

  ‘Yes,’ replies the woman.

  ‘Good afternoon. May we come in, please? We just want to talk to you and ask you some questions, if that’s all right?’

  Reserved, polite but clearly nervous, she says, ‘Yes, of course. Come in.’

  Two dogs run to the door as Jane, Evans and Roberts step through the porch and then through another door into the expansive, open-plan, kitchen-living room. Jane glances about for photographs of the couple who own the house but there are none visible. Sara motions the dogs to their beds and they comply at once.

  ‘Shall we sit at the table?’ She motions Sara to take the seat next to her, while the two men sit across from the woman. ‘Sara.’ Jane smiles warmly at her. ‘This property, known as Cliff Edge, is listed as owned by…’ – she consults her notes – ‘a Mr Michael Hanson. I understand from what you told us before that you are friends of his and his partner, a Ms Bette Davies. Is that correct?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. I’m a friend of Bette’s, not so much Mike’s.’

  ‘But you are currently staying with them here. Are the owners back now?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Having checked my notes from when I saw you regarding the disappearance of Gwyneth Edwards, you told me they were hiking in Snowdonia for two nights. So where are they now?’

  ‘They never came back. Just disappeared.’

  Jane raises her eyebrows. ‘Disappeared?’ She has warned the others that she will make no mention of the drowned body at this stage. ‘Both of them?’

  ‘I told your officer earlier. I’m very afraid so. I can explain what little I know.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that and, that being the case, I must ask you to accompany us to our temporary police headquarters in Fishguard for the purposes of an interview. Would you be agreeable to that?’

  The surprised woman asks, ‘But am I in trouble for some reason? I had nothing to do with anything, I can assure you.’

  ‘You’re in no trouble at all, Sara. None at all. It is just that in the case that we are investigating, the possible disappearance of two people, we would need to do a formal interview. You can always refuse if you so wish, but you would need to be aware that that could affect our perception of you as a witness.’

  ‘Of course. I understand completely. I’m happy to come to the station. When were you thinking?’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid it has to be now, Sara. I’m sorry, but in the case of a disappearance, or in this case two disappearances, time is of the essence. You are, of course, at liberty to refuse but it might look as though you were trying to hide something if you did.’

  ‘Right, of course, I understand.’

  ‘We can drive you there right away and run you back here later, if you are agreeable.’

  A flicker of something crosses Sara’s face. Irritation or something else? Jane is unsure. Irritation would be unsurprising, if that was what it was.

  Jane insists on travelling in the back next to Sara. They chat on the way to Fishguard. Evans’ nervousness at the wheel is worse than ever in the dark, but Jane firmly disregards it. She senses a relatively relaxed aura about her witness. Not the behaviour of a guilty person.

  They reach the town hall by 5.30pm and guide Sara into the ‘interview room’, an area cordoned off with screens. It has a trestle table set up with six chairs around it.

  Jane sits down, nods at Roberts to sit Sara opposite her. He then leaves while Evans is fiddling about with an extension lead, plugging in the portable interview recorder. It has a battery but Evans, so lacking in care with his appearance but so careful in his job, prefers to plug in his equipment in case of battery failure. Jane smiles. ‘May we offer you a cup of tea or coffee? We have some biscuits too, if you are hungry?’

  Jane nods at Evans who crosses to the kitchen area and switches on the electric kettle. She needs to put Sara at ease. The more relaxed she is, the more she is likely to slip up if she is not telling the truth. She always makes sure to show her interviewees respect and talk to them as a friend: that way they are more likely to be forthcoming.

  ‘I just hope this won’t take too long as I worry about my dog. She’s a rescue and very nervous if she’s not with me.’

  ‘We shouldn’t be too long. Don’t worry, Sara. I’m sure the dog will be okay. She’s with the other one, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  Evans has finally sorted the machine to his satisfaction. He shuffles round to take the chair on Jane’s left and places the recorder in front of him. He is fidgety. Jane taps his knee under the table. He glances at her and she says with a hint in her tone, ‘All settled now, Detective Evans?’

  Over time, he has learnt to absorb his boss’s innuendos. He stills himself.

  Jane says, ‘This recording, Sara, is just for our records. As you can imagine, we have to be so careful to recall witness statements, and this is the only accurate way of doing it.’

  She continues. ‘Ms de Vries. First of all, before we get to the matter in hand, we need to know a little more about you. Do you understand? Would you mind telling us where you live and what you do for a living?’

  ‘I live in Cambridge, which is where I got to know Bette, and I am a massage therapist.’

  ‘How interesting,’ says Jane. ‘So what do you do exactly?’

  ‘I offer deep tissue massage, Indian head massage, pregnancy massage, sports massage, holistic massage, hot stone massage and acupressure massage. I tailor each treatment session to each client and can combine techniques from different aspects of these therapies to create a bespoke treatment.’

  ‘Impressive. And can you give us your national insurance number if you know it, your date of birth, address and telephone number.’

  ‘You can write them down here.’ Evans passes Sara a witness statement form. She fills in the details.

  ‘And how did you meet Bette Davies?’

  ‘Dog walking. We just hit it off at once and became very good friends.’

  ‘Right. So, I understand that you stayed at Cliff Edge over Christmas and have been there since then.’

  Evans pipes up. ‘The witness is nodding her head.’

  ‘So where do you believe Mr Hanson and Ms Davies to be currently?’

  ‘I have no idea where either of them are.’

  ‘Why do you say that, Sara?’

  ‘Because they both went off and never returned. I have tried calling and calling their mobiles with no luck. I’m frightened that one or both of t
hem are dead.’

  Sara wells up with tears that start slowly then run down her cheeks.

  There would normally be a cube of tissues at the ready in the police station but no such luxuries in the town hall. ‘Evans, could you find some tissues for Ms de Vries, please.’

  He walks over to the kitchen area and returns with a roll of paper towels. ‘Sorry, love.’ He shrugs but looks sympathetic. ‘Best I can do.’

  Sara takes the roll, tears off a sheet and wipes her eyes. ‘I think something awful happened. I think he may have hurt her, even have done away with her.’

  Jane’s mind fills with the smell of burning and she sees her father’s blackened body in the hospital mortuary. She blinks hard and her head feels swimmy. She puts her head in her hands. The vision clears and she is back in the room. She looks up and realises they are waiting for her to speak.

  ‘So what makes you say that?’

  Sara gives her a strange look before continuing. ‘Well, there was a very bad atmosphere between the couple throughout the Christmas period and then late in the evening of December 27th, they had a really bad row.’

  ‘Can you tell me what the argument was about?’

  ‘Well, I can’t say exactly as I was in my room but I heard the word, ‘money’ and stuff about their child. They thought I was asleep at the time. They had been devastated by the loss of their baby in the spring of last year and both had been deeply unhappy ever since. It was a cot death. A terrible thing. I would say it took very little to set them off. They were definitely having relationship problems. Bette confided in me. She told me Mike had a hell of a temper and he made it fairly obvious he wanted to spend as little time as possible with her or me. I know poor Bette tried hard to get their relationship back on track but he didn’t seem to want to cooperate.’

  Jane feels a sharp pang of sympathy for anyone losing their baby in such a ghastly way. She pushes away the emotion. Detecting a faint trace of foreign accent, she guesses this woman may be Scandinavian. She jots away on a notepad while Evans keeps his eyes on Sara’s face as she sobs. Now she has started on her account, she doesn’t seem to be able to stop.