The Clifftop Murders (Dorset Crime Book 2)

by Rachel McLean

She rounded a bend and took a shortcut through a field of long dry grass. In the distance was the Isle of Wight and The Needles. Hidden beyond the cliff edge, Old Harry Rocks. She could hear birds singing and the faint sound of cows behind her.

  A cordon had already been erected, and a team of people waited for her.

  Dennis turned to her. “Afternoon, boss.”

  She swallowed, expecting the worst. “Dennis. What have you got for me?”

  “We can’t see much up here,” he replied. “She was found down there.” He pointed towards the cliff edge, a wary look in his eyes. Sensible man, didn’t want to get too close.

  “So she went over from up here?” Lesley asked.

  Gail Hansford, the crime scene manager, stepped forward. “Good to see you, Lesley.”

  “Likewise,” Lesley replied. “Tell me what you’ve found.”

  Gail raised a hand to shield her eyes. “There’s not much up here. A jacket, a couple of camera lenses in a bag, some snacks. No obvious sign of a struggle. I don’t think she was brought up here against her will.”

  “What time was she found?” asked Lesley.

  “About three hours ago,” replied Gail.

  Lesley checked her watch: it was coming up to 11am.

  “Some holidaymakers out at sea spotted something on the rocks,” Gail said.

  Lesley grimaced. “Is she still down there?”

  Gail nodded. “We’ve sent the Coast Guard out to pick up the body. One of my guys is going with them to preserve the evidence as best he can.”

  Lesley nodded. “What about the pathologist?”

  Gail gave her an exasperated look. “It’s Sunday, isn’t it? Middle of the summer. He won’t be here today.”

  Lesley sighed. “At some kiddies’ party again?”

  Last time they’d found a body, near Corfe Castle, it had been Sunday afternoon and Dr Whittaker had been at his granddaughter’s birthday party. The man was reluctant to attend crime scenes, doubly so at the weekend.

  “It’s short notice,” Dennis said. “We couldn’t track him down.”

  “Hasn’t he got a team?” Lesley asked. “Somebody who can come out in his place?”

  Gail shrugged. “Not at the weekend.”

  “We’re not leaving her to the waves while we wait for him,” Lesley said.

  Gail looked relieved. “We’ll take her to the morgue. Brett will just have to do what he can and preserve the body as best as possible.”

  “You do what you need to,” said Lesley. “We can’t all pussyfoot around a pathologist who refuses to do his job.”

  Dennis frowned. Lesley ignored it.

  “So.” Lesley took a step towards the edge, but only one. “Has anybody had a look over?”

  Gail shook her head. “I put two cordons up. One here, stopping people from going near the scene, and the other one between the jacket and the edge. I don’t want anybody going over while they’re trying to investigate.”

  Lesley peered across. The cliff edge sloped downwards, making it difficult to see where the land ended and the sky began.

  “I’m not letting any of my team near that edge,” said Gail. “No chance.”

  “Worried about rockslides?” Lesley asked.

  “Not here,” Gail replied. “This stretch of cliff is Triassic. Made of chalk, not the clay past Swanage.”

  Dennis gestured behind him. “The rockslides they get towards Lyme Regis can be dangerous. Crumbly material, volatile.”

  Lesley looked towards the edge where their victim had gone over. “It looks dangerous enough here to me. Do we have a hypothesis? Suicide, accidental death, worse?”

  Gail’s eyes were fixed on the jacket, spread out on the ground. “A woman who planned on throwing herself off the cliff would be unlikely to leave a jacket laid out neatly like that with her bag and the camera gear, but not leave the camera itself.”

  Lesley raised an eyebrow. “She took the camera with her?”

  “It’s not up here. There has to be a camera to go with all that gear. I’m assuming it’s still around her neck.”

  Lesley shuddered. She resisted the temptation to approach the edge and peer over. If she got close enough to see the body, she would be joining it.

  “OK.” She pulled in a breath. “Let’s have a look at this bag, then.”

  Gail raised the cordon and led her to a camera bag, which sat in the centre of an outstretched waterproof jacket. Lesley pulled on protective gloves and eased open the zip.

  “Two lenses, a bag of crisps, a bottle of water and an apple,” Gail said. “And a few bits and bobs to do with cameras. Brett would know more about it than me, but he’s down in the boat with the coastguards.”

  “You’re looking for signs someone pushed her?” Lesley asked.

  “I don’t think we can jump to conclusions right now. Not until the post-mortem.”

  “But what does it look like from what forensics we have?”

  “There’s a single path through the grass here, see.” She pointed Lesley back in the direction from which she’d arrived. There was a line carved through the grass, where they’d walked, and possibly others before them.

  “So either she was alone, or someone followed her tracks,” Lesley said. “What about the outdoorsy types walking past all day?”

  “Most people don’t come this close to the edge,” Gail replied. “But if somebody was after her, maybe they followed her path. Maybe they knew how to creep up on her.”

  “That’s pretty precise.” Lesley stood up, feeling the sun on her face. “Where will they be taking her?”

  “Poole Hospital,” Dennis said.

  Lesley turned to him. He was peering past her, out to sea. The water was calm, The Needles clear in the distance.

  “So we’ll follow,” Lesley said. “See what we can find out.”

  “No point,” said Gail. “If Whittaker is doing the post-mortem, he won’t let anybody near that body until afterwards.”

  Lesley gritted her teeth. “And just when is he likely to do the post-mortem?”

  “Don’t ask me. Hopefully sometime tomorrow.”

  “Sometime tomorrow,” Lesley repeated. “So we’ve got a dead body, we don’t know if it’s suicide, murder, accidental death or what, and he’s not prepared to get a shift on.”

  “Accidental death most likely, don’t you think boss?” said Dennis. “I mean, she had her camera around her neck, she could have been walking towards the edge trying to get the perfect shot, or maybe even going backwards getting a shot back inland.”

  Lesley turned to look behind them. All she could see was a broad hill, peppered with daisies. “Nothing here you’d want to get a photograph of.”

  “If she was on the edge here,” said Gail, “she was trying to get Old Harry.”

  “Maybe she went too close,” Dennis said. “Tumbled over the edge.” He was looking away from them, towards Swanage. His left eye twitched.

  Lesley turned back towards the sea. Once again she felt herself drawn to the edge.

  “We won’t know until we’ve seen the results of the post-mortem.” She looked at Gail. “Can you ask your colleague to take a look at her while en route to the hospital? Check for defensive wounds. Anything obvious.”

  “Righto,” said Gail.

  Lesley looked at Dennis.

  “There’s not much more we can do now,” he said.

  Lesley considered. “We can follow the body to the hospital.” She checked her watch. “If we leave now, we’ll get there first.”

  “But the pathologist—”

  “The pathologist can whistle. Come on, Dennis. Let’s get moving.” She gave Gail a nod and the CSM went back to her work.

  The two detectives hurried along the path back to Studland, Lesley grateful to be away from that cliff edge.

  Just for once, could she find a body in a goddamn industrial estate or around the back of a pub? Somewhere accessible, somewhere that didn’t require heavy boots? Or maybe on a weekday, so she cou
ld finish her peaceful Sunday with Sharon?

  Dennis gave her something between a wave and a salute as he opened his car door. He didn’t look happy not to have been sent home. Lesley nodded in return. They were both going to have to get used to some changes.

  Chapter Four

  Lesley watched Dennis drive away slowly. He was the kind of man who ambled through life, strolling along in his tweed jackets and his comfortable shoes, trousers cut in a way that reminded her of 1950s movies. When he was out of sight, she got into her car.

  She checked Google Maps, and then headed towards the Sandbanks Ferry. Regardless of what Gail had said, she wanted to be at the hospital when the body arrived.

  As she reached the back of the queue, she passed a sign warning of a forty-minute wait.

  She turned off her engine and thumped the steering wheel. Her phone rang: Dennis. “Bad news, boss.”

  “Are you already there?” she asked.

  “You’ve got to be joking. I’m at the front of the queue for the ferry.”

  “How did you get to the front?”

  “We get priority. Don’t tell me you’re sitting at the back?”

  She looked in her rear-view mirror. Already half a dozen cars had lined up behind her. “Just tell me the bad news,” she told him.

  “I’ve spoken to the morgue. They’re accepting the body, but they’re not doing anything more today. And they won’t let us in there. There’s no point going over there. We need to wait for the PM.”

  Wait. People were fond of waiting in Dorset.

  She looked in her rear-view mirror again: over a dozen cars behind her now. At least she wouldn’t have to jump the queue. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said. “Bright and early.”

  She turned her car in the road and drove through Studland. For a moment she considered returning to the crime scene. She itched to be busy, to make progress. But with the post-mortem not happening and no identity for the body, there was nothing more she could do. And besides, her daughter was waiting for her at home.

  Sharon had been sunning herself in Lesley’s minuscule back garden when she’d left. Lesley had worried about leaving Sharon alone in an unfamiliar house, but Sharon had waved her away.

  “I’m sixteen Mum. For God’s sake, just go.” Sharon wasn’t about to come to another crime scene, not like last time.

  Lesley pointed the car towards Wareham, taking the B3351 via Corfe Castle. It took her forty-five minutes to do a twenty-minute drive. Traffic was heavy, holidaymakers attempting to get to their caravans and rented houses via the mainland instead of the ferry. She cursed them. Only a few weeks ago, she’d been surprised by how easy it was to get around this county. Far more straightforward than the clogged-up streets of Birmingham. But she was realising that at certain times of year, Dorset traffic could be heavier than Spaghetti Junction at five o’clock on a Friday afternoon.

  She opened the door to her cottage and called out to Sharon. “I’m home, love. Sorry!”

  “That’s OK,” came Sharon’s voice from the garden. “What time is it?”

  Lesley checked her watch and thought about the traffic she’d sat in on the way back from Studland. “Shit. Time we left for your train.”

  Sharon appeared at the back door, yawning. One side of her face was sunburnt. Lesley pointed at it. “Did you fall asleep in the garden?”

  Sharon shrugged. “I guess so. Why?”

  “You’ve caught the sun, love.”

  Sharon put her fingers up to her face and winced. “Oh, hell. I’m going to look like flipping Two Face.”

  “Who’s Two Face?”

  “Batman, Mum. You know.”

  Lesley looked at her. Of course she didn’t know, but she’d humour her daughter.

  “Have you packed your case?”

  Sharon gave her a look of panic.

  “Go,” Lesley said. “Get a move on.”

  Sharon ran past her, thundering into the living room where she’d been sleeping. She threw clothes and toiletries into her rucksack. She hauled the rucksack over her shoulders, her breathing heavy.

  “Sorted. Let’s go.”

  “Good girl,” Lesley said, hoping she hadn’t left anything. “You got your phone? Your purse.”

  “Nobody carries a purse anymore, Mum. I’ve got my phone, that’s the important thing.”

  “Is your ticket on your phone?”

  “Yes.” Sharon was doing that voice, the one that made Lesley feel eighty years old.

  “Good. Let’s get that train.”

  Lesley ran out of the house and jumped into her car. Sharon followed, slamming the front door behind her.

  Forty minutes later, Lesley was back in the car, catching her breath. Sharon had just made her train, screaming at the guard to let her on as the whistle was blown. Sometimes there was an advantage to being sixteen years old.

  Lesley pulled away from Bournemouth station. She had no plans to return to Wareham. She flicked down the sun visor and checked her face in the mirror as she waited to turn out of the station car park. She rubbed under her eyes where her mascara was blurring. Forty-six years old, and not bad for it. But Elsa was ten years younger, and Lesley could feel every day of those ten years.

  She drove to Elsa’s flat, which was three streets back from Boscombe seafront. It was an airy top floor flat, huge windows on both sides and modern furniture. It couldn’t be any further from Lesley’s pokey little house in Wareham with its heavy cupboards and narrow hallways. Elsa was cooking when Lesley arrived.

  “Duck a l’Orange,” Elsa announced, giving Lesley a welcome kiss.

  Lesley sniffed. “Have the 1970s asked for their food back?”

  Elsa gave her a light punch on the arm. “You don’t have to eat any.”

  Lesley grinned. “Smells lovely,” she said.

  “Good.” Elsa returned to preparing a salad. It did smell good, Lesley thought. What was wrong with retro? Dorset had plenty of it.

  She sat at the kitchen table and poured a glass of white wine, relaxing into the chair.

  “How was your day?” Elsa asked. “Good time with Sharon?”

  “I hardly got to see her. I was called out to a crime scene.”

  Elsa placed the knife on the counter and turned to face Lesley. “A crime scene on a Sunday afternoon? That’s not very Dorset.”

  “It’s becoming that way,” Lesley replied. “It seems people down here like to be inconvenient when they get themselves killed.”

  “A murder?” Elsa asked.

  Lesley shrugged. “It could have been a suicide, or an accident. But something in my bones tells me it’s suspicious.”

  Elsa took the seat opposite her and grabbed a wine glass. She filled it and took a sip. “How so?”

  Lesley looked back at her. Elsa had dark hair and blue eyes, an unusual combination but a striking one. Her eyes sparkled when she looked at Lesley, something that made Lesley’s skin flush.

  “She was a photographer,” Lesley said. “She left her gear at the top of the cliff. All neatly arranged on a jacket that she’d put on the ground, presumably to protect herself from the dirt.”

  “Or the wet,” Elsa suggested.

  Lesley shook her head. “Have you seen the weather out there today?”

  Elsa laughed. “I live in a top floor flat. Haven’t you noticed this place is a sauna?”

  Lesley nodded. Sauna or not, it was better than her house.

  “But who leaves their gear like that, then throws themself off the edge of a cliff with their camera still round their neck?”

  “She took her camera with her?”

  Lesley nodded. “Apparently. The coastguard and CSIs have taken the body to Poole Hospital. I haven’t seen her yet.”

  Elsa’s eyes crinkled. “Poor woman.”

  Lesley sipped at her wine. “Yeah.”

  Her phone rang: Gail. “News from the crime scene?”

  “I’ve got an ID,” Gail said.

  Lesley whistled. “That was quick
.”

  “Brett found it on her after they pulled her out of the water. She had her driving licence in her pocket.”

  Lesley frowned. Who carried their driving licence in their pocket?

  “Go on then,” she said.

  “Her name was Ameena Khan,” Gail replied. “Thirty-four years old, an address in Christchurch.”

  “Read it out it to me.” Lesley gestured to Elsa, who passed her an envelope and a pen. Lesley turned the envelope over and scribbled the address on its back.

  “Thanks,” she said to Gail, surveying the address. It meant nothing to her. “Anything else?”

  “Sorry,” said Gail. “But at least now you know who she is.”

  Lesley swallowed. Somebody would need to go and tell Ameena’s next of kin. She hung up and looked at Elsa. “I’m sorry, Els.”

  “You have to go?”

  “We’ve got an ID and address, somebody has to tell the next of kin. It might as well be me.” She pushed the envelope across the table for Elsa to see. “Do you know where that is?”

  Elsa nodded. “It’s about three miles from here. I’ll drive you if you want.”

  “Best not.”

  Elsa was a criminal lawyer. She hadn’t faced Lesley across an interview room table yet, but the time would come.

  “I’ll put it into Google Maps,” Lesley said. “I’ll ring Dennis first, get an FLO assigned.”

  Elsa nodded. “Good luck. Will you come back afterwards?”

  Lesley shrugged. “Depends how long it takes.” She leaned over and took Elsa’s hand. “I don’t want to keep you from your dinner.”

  Elsa twisted her hand in Lesley’s so their fingers entwined. “Don’t worry about that. Whatever time it is, just come back. You won’t want to be on your own after this.”

  Lesley nodded. She wrote the name above the address on the back of the envelope.

  Elsa put a finger on it. “That’s the victim?”

  Lesley looked up. “Ameena Khan.”

  Elsa looked into Lesley’s eyes, her face pale. “How old was she?”

  “Thirty-four,” Lesley said. “We have her driving licence.”

  Elsa pulled her hand away. “Oh my God.”

  “What?” asked Lesley. “D’you know her?”

  “I do.” Elsa’s voice was thin. “She’s a colleague. She works at my law firm.”