Eyes watering from the cold, he dug his hands deep into his pockets, turning away from the bridge to make his way along the promenade to the beach. The wind was less violent in the shadow of the sea wall, and Derek could now hear the crunch of his shoes on the shingle. In the distance Toby started barking.
Sheltered beneath the wall, Derek took out a cigarette. It took him a moment to light it, but he relished the first drag of smoke, his small compensation for these early walks.
Toby was still barking.
Frowning, Derek started to pick his way carefully down the beach, skirting the dark patches of mud and debris as he followed the sound towards a broad bank of reeds.
‘Toby?’ he called out, irritated. ‘Toby!’ But a sudden gust stole his voice away from him.
What had got the stupid dog in such a state this morning?
He paused for a moment, reluctant to get his shoes too muddy.
‘Toby! Come here!’
But it was no good. Bracing himself against the relentless wind, he moved closer. The wet stones became more treacherous as he approached the water’s edge and he had to watch where he was putting his feet.
Only when he was a few yards away did he look up to see what Toby had found.
She was dead – had to be, lying face down in the mud. The white T-shirt was soaked through, and water glistened on the back of her legs below her blue shorts. He hesitated, uncertain whether to run for help or to check her pulse and make sure. Taking a step forward, he wavered for a moment, then gingerly reached down, nervous fingers hovering over her pale wrist. A flutter of panic rose in him as he touched her cold, stiff flesh, and he jerked his hand back violently, almost losing his footing as he retreated from the body. She was definitely dead.
He stood for a moment, trying to gather himself, trying to tear his eyes away from the sprawling limbs, the bedraggled ponytail, the sodden running shoes . . .
Why the hell had he touched her? He cursed his stupidity. Mustn’t touch anything – everybody knew that! And he’d been walking all around, leaving footprints in the mud!
Breathing fast, he turned and stumbled back up the beach. He was halfway to the sea wall before he remembered the mobile phone in his pocket and, hands shaking, dialled 999.
He didn’t know how long he’d been waiting there before the first police car appeared, a sleek BMW that raced down Station Road. It pulled over beside him at the approach to the beach, the flashing lights throwing shivers of blue across the walls of the nearby houses. Two officers – a serious-looking woman and a tall man – got out.
‘Mr Wells?’ the female officer asked him.
‘Yes.’ Derek went over to them. ‘It was me who called you . . .’
‘I’m PC Firth and this is PC Gregg. Could you show us what you found, please?’
They made their way up over the promenade. Derek tied Toby’s lead to the railings at the base of the slope, then led the others down to the beach. The wind was dropping now but Firth still had to raise her voice to be heard as they neared the water.
‘I need you to stay here with my colleague,’ she explained, then picked her way carefully over towards the bedraggled figure in the mud.
‘My dog found her,’ Derek said, half to himself. He found it difficult, but managed to pull his eyes away from what the female officer was doing. ‘I didn’t touch anything, except to check if she was . . .’
He paused, remembering how wrong her skin had felt. That horrible lifeless cold that he could still sense in his fingertips. He shuddered.
‘It’s okay, sir.’ PC Gregg looked past him towards the water where his colleague was coming back over to them. She shook her head grimly as she approached, then turned to Derek.
‘Mr Wells, I’m going to ask you to go back to the car with PC Gregg . . .’ She caught his expression of panic and quickly added, ‘It’s very cold out here and we don’t want you freezing. I think it’s best that we get you off this beach, then once the other officers arrive we can see about getting you a cup of tea and having a chat. All right?’
Derek nodded numbly, and took one last look in the direction of the body before allowing himself to be led back up the beach. As he trudged over the shingle slope he wondered who she was.
‘Okay.’ Firth pressed the phone to her ear, turning to shield it from the wind. ‘How long do we have?’
She beckoned to the other figures making their way down the beach.
‘Okay, thanks for that.’ She finished her call and walked over to meet the three approaching officers.
‘What’s it look like, Sue?’ one of the younger constables asked.
‘Like a dead woman, Josh.’ She sighed, then addressed them all. ‘Body seems to have been here for a while – maybe a day – but I’ve just spoken to Control and they reckon the tide is on its way out. That probably gives us six hours so we’ll need to get a move on.’
She gestured towards the body behind her. ‘Let’s get the immediate area taped off for starters. There’s been enough people through the scene already – we don’t need any more.’
She turned and indicated the sea wall, and the line of houses beyond.
‘And we’ll want someone up there to keep people off the beach.’
Her phone started ringing and she turned away to answer it.
‘PC Firth?’ She listened for a moment and nodded. ‘Okay, sir . . . yes. See you when you get here.’
She stared at the handset, her expression softening for a moment, then turned back to the others.
‘One of you tell Gregg to keep the dog walker here. The DI’s on his way.’
Plumes of steam billowed up from the steel chimneys, pale against the dark sky, to drift out across the Severn. Detective Inspector Graham Harland scowled at the blighted landscape as he drove; the towering chemical works, the wretched structures choked with pollution and rust. Everything along this road was as bleak and joyless as he was.
He indicated left at the sign for Severn Beach and threaded his way through the village, past the miserable caravan park and on to the end of Station Road, where the other cars were waiting. There was a space beside the wire-mesh fence of a small utility building and he nosed into it, parking in front of the padlocked gates.
Serious eyes stared back at him as he caught an unwelcome sight of his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Physically it was the same, good-looking face – high cheekbones, angular jaw – but overshadowed by experience. Lines around the straight mouth that had once been laughter lines, dark hair with a chipped-in fringe, cropped short at the sides to hide the first traces of grey. The same face, just a different person staring out from behind it.
He switched off the engine and leaned slowly back in his seat, listening to the bluster of the wind outside. His thumb gently turned the plain gold wedding ring that he still wore – that he would always wear – as he sat gazing out at the road.
Such a godforsaken place. The only silver lining was that Sergeant Pope wouldn’t be here. Taking comfort in that thought, he got out, grabbed a heavy overcoat from the back seat and made his way towards the promenade, a tall, gaunt figure, shoulders hunched against the cold.
The wind hit him as he reached the top of the slope. He gazed out at the broad, flat expanse of the beach, the yellow jackets of the officers working further down where an area had been cordoned off, and the restless grey water beyond. How he hated this place.
Turning left along the sea wall, he approached the young PC who stood shivering at the end of the path.
‘Morning, Josh.’
‘Morning, sir.’
‘Is Firth still down there?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And the witness?’
‘PC Gregg has him in the area car.’
‘Okay.’ Harland yawned. ‘Thanks.’
He trudged down onto the beach and walked slowly across the rough grass, his eyes routinely scanning the ground for anything significant, but there were only bleached crisp packets and old plastic bo
ttles. What a dismal place for anyone to finish up. A ragged line of seaweed and other debris marked the upper reach of recent tides and he stepped over it carefully, leaving the grass behind as his shoes crunched across the shingle. The breeze was getting stronger again as he approached the fluttering tape line and he waved to PC Firth as she hurried over to meet him. Her round face was tense, and the wind had teased strands of her dark hair out from under her hat.
‘Morning, sir.’
‘Morning,’ he nodded. ‘Been here long, have you?’
‘Not long, no, sir,’ she replied. ‘You were quick.’
‘Got the call on my way in.’ He shrugged. ‘Anything interesting?’
‘We haven’t touched the body yet.’ Firth indicated the area behind her. ‘Control says the tide’ll be in again by midday so we’ve just tried to contain things until the SOCOs get here.’
‘But it looks like a strangulation?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Firth agreed. ‘Can’t see much more without moving her, but there’s definitely some nasty-looking bruising around the neck.’
‘No sign of a rope or anything?’ Harland asked.
‘Not yet,’ Firth frowned, ‘but I actually thought it looked more like—’
She raised her hands to her own throat in a choking motion.
‘Okay,’ Harland nodded thoughtfully. ‘Any idea how long the body’s been on the beach?’
‘Hard to say, but she seems to be totally stiff. That makes it twelve to eighteen hours or more?’
‘Something like that.’
Harland turned and studied the high-water line behind him, then gestured to the taped-off area.
‘If it’s eighteen hours that means we’ve had two full tides – more if she’s been dead longer . . .’
He looked out at the distant waves that swept along the side of the estuary, waves that could easily move a body or wash a crime scene clean.
‘So, did you want to come and have a look?’ Firth asked.
She lifted the tape and Harland stooped under it, treading carefully as the ground became more slippery. They made their way down towards the water until they could see the body, lying between several large clumps of reeds.
Harland stepped slowly, studying the ground, then paused.
‘These are your footprints?’ he asked, indicating the tracks that led over to the dead woman.
‘Yes, just mine and the dog walker’s as far as I could see.’ PC Firth indicated the prints in the mud. ‘I tried to follow alongside his tracks when I went to check the body – did my best not to disturb the ground.’
Harland nodded thoughtfully, then picked his way over to the corpse, carefully stepping in Firth’s footprints. He quickly noted the runner’s clothing and the ugly marks on the side of the neck, but his eye was drawn to the smooth pattern of the mud that had swirled around the head and feet, partly submerging them. The pose of the limbs looked odd too – not quite the same as other bodies he remembered seeing washed up on beaches.
‘Firth?’ he called.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Look at the way the mud’s banked up smoothly against the side of her head, and here around her shoes.’ He crouched down and studied the undisturbed silt. ‘There’s a chance this is where it happened.’
‘What about the tides?’ Firth asked. ‘Wouldn’t they have moved the body?’
Harland got to his feet and pointed at the reeds.
‘These clumps may have done enough to keep her in one place,’ he mused, ‘and we’re far enough up the beach to avoid the worst of the waves.’
‘But not far enough to have preserved much evidence.’
‘True,’ Harland admitted. He took one last look, then turned to find Firth watching him, her expression unreadable before she quickly looked away. He stared at her for a moment, then dismissed the thought and began stepping awkwardly across the mud. ‘Let’s see what the SOCOs find when they lift her.’
He walked back onto the shingle and tried to scuff his shoes clean.
‘Now, tell me about this dog walker . . .’
7
Monday, 28 May
There was an air of hushed expectancy in the station briefing room at Portishead, and everyone looked up as Harland walked in, his phone ringing as he tried to fish it out of his pocket. PC Firth warmed her hands on a large mug of tea and smiled to herself, her eyes following Harland as he studied the name on the screen then turned away from them slightly, speaking quietly into his phone.
‘Can I call you back?’ he frowned. ‘Great, thanks.’
Ending the call, he turned back towards them, careful fingers pushing the hair from his forehead as his eyes flickered up to sweep the room.
‘Phones on silent everyone,’ he sighed, sinking into his chair.
DS Mendel was sitting across from him, studying a report. His broad frame loomed over the pages spread before him, the fingers of his free hand drumming softly on the table. He’d been busy this week, with DS Pope away on holiday, and things looked like they were about to get busier still.
‘Right then.’ Harland muted his phone and slipped it back into his pocket before addressing the room. ‘James, perhaps you can get us started.’
Mendel looked up from his papers and cleared his throat.
‘Thanks, sir. The body was discovered by a Derek Wells – local dog walker – who found her sometime after six. He phoned it in at six twenty-seven a.m. and the area car was on the scene about twenty minutes later, right Sue?’
‘Yes,’ Firth confirmed. ‘We were there about quarter to seven.’
‘PC Gregg took an initial statement from Mr Wells, and I’ve since interviewed him. He’s a bit spooked but everything he says seems to stack up . . .’ Mendel glanced across at Harland, who nodded in silent agreement. Derek Wells had been on the verge of going into shock when they’d spoken to him, but there was nothing in his demeanour to suggest he was involved.
‘So, we’ll want to take a look at him, but I really wouldn’t peg him as a likely candidate,’ Mendel concluded. He rubbed his square jaw with a large hand. ‘Moving on to the victim, we still need to arrange a formal ID but we’ve unofficially identified her as Vicky Sutherland. Single, twenty-eight years old, office administrator for some interior design firm in Bristol. She lived in one of those cul-de-sacs just back from the beach . . .’ He consulted his notes for the street name. ‘Riverside Park, isn’t it?’
He glanced at Gregg, who nodded.
‘We’re pretty sure she lived alone,’ Mendel continued. ‘Certainly nobody’s reported her missing and she’s been dead for a couple of days.’
PC Gregg stood up and carefully refilled his glass from a large bottle of water on a side table.
‘How did we identify her in the end?’ he asked.
‘Supermarket loyalty card on her key chain,’ Harland explained. ‘One of those little key-fob ones. She didn’t have any other ID on her – that’s to be expected if she was out for a run when it happened – but she would have needed door keys, particularly if there was nobody at home to let her in.’
‘Her going for a run certainly fits with what she was wearing: white T-shirt, blue shorts, decent trainers . . .’ Mendel turned a page and read on. ‘Preliminary medical report shows no water in her lungs, so she didn’t drown. Cause of death looks like strangulation and the marks on her throat are consistent with it. No evidence of a rope or anything else being used, so chances are our killer did it with his hands. Some other bruising to her abdomen and arms – no evidence of sexual assault.’
‘Any hope of getting prints?’ Gregg asked.
‘Maybe, but I doubt we’ll be that lucky.’ Mendel sighed. ‘And the tide partially submerged the body at least twice, which won’t have helped. No footprints, either.’
There was a pause as the room took this in. Harland leaned back against his chair, a distant expression on his face.
‘Sir?’ Firth asked. ‘Any signs of a boyfriend at her house? Strangulation often has a pers
onal or sexual connection.’
‘Good point,’ Harland agreed. ‘We’ve got people going over the place now, but I’ve not heard anything yet. I’ll chase them.’
Firth smiled. Mendel turned another page and looked up.
‘Very little in the way of personal effects,’ he noted. ‘She had her keys, as we’ve mentioned, but nothing else on her person. The SOCOs found bits of broken watch when they lifted her. It’s a sports one – assuming it’s hers, she may have been using it to time herself running.’
‘One more thing on that.’ Harland looked up at them. ‘When they lifted the body, they found fragments underneath her. There were other bits in the mud around the scene – all unweathered – so it’s possible they were left there at the same time as she was.’
He rubbed his eyes, suddenly weary, before continuing.
‘The pieces that we’ve recovered so far have all been very small, and there’s been a few of them. If this was her watch, then it didn’t just fall and get broken – it appears to have been deliberately smashed.’
‘That’s all I’ve got here.’ Mendel shrugged. He stacked his papers together and reached for his coffee, scowling when he found it had gone cold.
‘What about CCTV?’ Harland asked Firth.
‘We’ve retrieved everything we can for now,’ she explained. ‘Coverage round there is far from comprehensive but we’ll work through it and see if anything jumps out.’
‘All right.’ Harland got to his feet again and walked slowly over to the window. ‘Let’s start pulling together a picture of who our victim was. Friends, family, co-workers. We particularly want to know about any relationships she might have been having, or anything else of a personal nature that could fit with strangulation as a cause of death.’
He turned to face them and offered a thin smile. ‘That’s all for now. Thanks.’
There was a general scraping of chairs as everyone stood up and made their way out of the room. Harland remained, staring out into the street with unseeing eyes.
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