by Jennie Finch
‘Yeah. Across the waist and straight down both shoulders would be a lot more comfortable but I can’t see that ever happening.’
They drove in silence for a few minutes, but a more comfortable silence as the car sped through the little tree-lined lanes towards the coast. Sunlight flickered through the leaves, a continuous rippling pattern of green and gold. It was a very beautiful day, with Somerset looking its best and Alex smiled as she leaned back in her seat.
‘So, where we going?’ asked Margie.
Alex looked out at the scenery and said, ‘Just a few miles further along this road, then we turn left. Off the Levels and towards the coast. Have you ever been to Brean Sands before?’
Margie shook her head, eyes still fixed on the road.
‘Nope. Heard about it, mind. Big holiday camp there, and some of my old colleagues used to go there when they was kids. Didn’t fancy it myself – all that community spirit an’ joining in and stuff.’
Alex couldn’t agree more. Never one for ‘joining in’ herself, the idea of a week in a holiday camp filled her with horror.
‘It’s okay,’ she said hastily. ‘We’re not going to the camp. There’s an enormous beach – miles of sand dunes and so much space out there. You can see Wales across the estuary on a clear day and the sand is amazing. You wait ’til you see it – it’s covered in a layer of tiny shells and in the sun it looks like a rainbow.’
Margie risked a quick smile in Alex’s direction.
‘Sounds just what I need,’ she said. ‘That our turning?’
‘Down here,’ said Alex. ‘The road gets a bit rough a mile or so further on. We go down a bit of a track and then follow the dunes up to the beach.’
A bit rough was an understatement as far as Margie was concerned. After half a mile she found herself edging along a narrow strip of lumpy tarmac, driving in second gear and trying to avoid the worst of the potholes.
‘Well, I can see why we is using my car,’ she said.
‘I’ve already driven mine up here too many times,’ said Alex. ‘We’re using yours ’cos mine probably won’t make it.’
Margie laughed and added, ‘Mind you, I tend to make it a rule never to drive along no road as has grass growing down the middle. I reckon there’s probably good reason cars don’t use it and I don’t want to find out what it is.’
They turned right at the end of the track and bounced along, sand dunes rising to block any view on the left and flat, dry scrub land to their right.
‘I hope this beach is worth it,’ grumbled Margie as sand flew up around them, sticking to the windows. At that moment they reached the end of the road, the dunes fell away and the bay stretched out before them, gleaming in the sunlight.
‘I think it is,’ said Alex, enjoying her companion’s astonishment.
Margie turned off the engine and they sat for a moment, just enjoying the silence and the view. The car made soft ticking noises as it cooled and Alex wound down her window, letting the rich, salty air wash over them both. It was still early and they were the first car in the little car park at the end of the lane. Around them the birds resumed their calls and a soft breeze rustled the grass planted along the dunes to help them resist the pull of the winter tides.
Margie took a deep breath and smiled.
‘This looks right lovely,’ she said. ‘Fancy a walk?’
The sand, with its covering of tiny shell fragments, crunched beneath their feet as they made their way along the beach. Margie had been reluctant to walk on the wide ribbon of colour at first, looking down at the fragile beauty and not wanting to damage it. Alex remembered how she had felt the same on her first visit with Lauren and Jonny and how Lauren had teased her.
‘Is only shells,’ she had said. ‘They’s all getting broken up by the sea anyway. Where do you think sand comes from then?’
‘It’s just part of a natural cycle,’ she said to Margie. ‘Anyway, you can’t get far along the beach without walking on some of them.’
Together they strolled along, the soft crunching of their footsteps and calls of the gulls flying across the estuary almost drowning out the whisper of the waves, far out in the distance. Margie stopped and looked around at the magnificent solitude, taking a deep breath and letting it out with a great sigh.
‘You’m right,’ she said with a broad grin. ‘Is certainly worth the drive. Come on, I fancy a paddle!’ She set off towards the distant sea, running and skipping as she went.
‘No!’ Alex yelled. ‘Wait – don’t go any further!’
Margie stopped, swinging round to look in surprise. Then she glanced down at her feet and gave a lurch as the sand slipped away a little and her heels sank below the surface.
‘Lean forwards and walk slowly towards me,’ Alex called and, arms out for balance, Margie obeyed. Alex ran forwards and seized her hand as she reached a firmer stretch, the pair of them stumbling together up the beach.
‘What the bloody hell …?’ Margie looked down at her shoes, soaking wet and full of fine, gritty sand.
‘It’s like quicksand,’ Alex explained. ‘I thought you knew, you being local.’
Margie snorted in disgust. ‘From Bristol,’ she said. ‘Not from round here and we don’t have much of a beach down my way. Course, I heard about all them dumb tourists getting stuck at Weston but generally they was in cars. Serves anyone right, if they’s daft enough to drive a car out on the beach but walking? Didn’t know about that.’
Alex felt utterly wretched. The lovely day she had planned was ruined, the gently growing closeness she felt was gone. She wanted to cry and her feelings must have shown as Margie put out a hand and touched her lightly on the shoulder.
‘Is no matter,’ she said. ‘I got a towel and some spare shoes in the car so we can just go back and get ‘um. As my granddad always said, worse things happen at sea.’
Alex felt a surge of relief. ‘You know,’ she said as they set off back to the car park, ‘my granddad used to say that too.’
Miss Taylor had greeted them warmly when Sergeant Lynas and Dave knocked at her door later that morning. The officers sat in the conservatory and waited whilst she made tea before Dave helped her carry the tray through and they settled in the bright, warm sunlight.
‘It’s getting a bit hot during the day now,’ said their hostess when Sergeant Lynas ran a finger round his collar. ‘I keep going to open the back door but – well, you can imagine I’m a little reluctant.’
Dave nodded, thinking how sad it was someone as nice as her could be robbed of such a simple pleasure. More than ever, he was determined to find this ‘Moth Man’, so this brave woman could enjoy sitting in her own garden again.
‘We’ve got a few more questions, if you can spare the time,’ said Lynas reaching for a biscuit.
Miss Taylor sighed softly but nodded her head.
‘I don’t know what I can add,’ she said. ‘To be honest, I’m trying to put it all behind me, not dwell on details. Still, if you think it might help …?’
‘Thank you,’ said Dave. They had decided he would do most of the talking and Lynas would take notes, stepping in if he were needed. That way, Dave could maintain eye contact and keep the illusion this was more of a conversation than an interview. Time was passing, memory would begin to fade and there was a limit to how often they could make the victims re-live their experiences before they met resistance. Dave needed to get this right the first time.
‘I want to go over the description of this man,’ he said gently. ‘I know it is not pleasant but there are some details that might really help us.’
Miss Taylor gestured with her hand, the sort of ‘carry on then,’ gesture Dave remembered from his school days. He took a moment before beginning, trying to banish the idea he was questioning his form mistress from Year Five.
‘I need you to concentrate on his appearance,’ he said. Ignoring her raised eyebrows, he continued. ‘Was he fat or thin? Did he seem to have good muscles or was he flabby – or a bit weedy.�
� He stopped, realising that was not really precise enough. And he had to ask just one question, not a series, if he wanted to get useful answers.
‘So, fat or thin?’ he repeated.
There was a pause as Miss Taylor considered the question. ‘Thin, I suppose. Certainly not fat. And, yes, he was a bit weedy looking. Skinny legs – but his shoulders …’
Dave waited, resisting the impulse to jump in and perhaps break her chain of thought.
‘He had quite broad shoulders,’ she said after a moment. ‘And his upper arms seemed in proportion to them so they must have been quite muscular. Certainly not scrawny little chicken arms,’ she finished with a smile.
Dave smiled back at her. ‘That’s really good,’ he said. ‘Now, did you notice whether he was pale skinned or was he tanned?’
He knew it was early in the year for holidays. If their man had visible tan lines the chances were very good he worked outdoors.
Miss Taylor half-closed her eyes, tilting her head to one side as she strove to recall the events of that evening.
‘I’d forgotten,’ she said softly. ‘His body was very pale but his arms were quite brown. Another thing – when he ran away I think his shoulders looked a bit red. Almost as if he’d caught the sun. I had a silly thought, just before the shock of it all hit me. He reminded me of a Neapolitan ice cream. We used to get them when I was young,’ she continued seeing the look of puzzlement flicker over Dave’s face. ‘Three types of ice cream in one block – chocolate, vanilla and strawberry. The back of his neck was brown, then there was a mix of white and pink. Yes, I’m sure of it.’
Dave nodded and smiled encouragingly. ‘That’s really helpful,’ he said. ‘Just one more question, I think. Which parts of him touched the glass? Apart from …’ he tried, unsuccessfully, not to blush. ‘Apart from the obvious, of course.’
Miss Taylor sat very still for a few seconds, staring through glass of her conservatory. Dave could hear the bees buzzing outside in the garden and in the distance a dove cooed, its mellow call floating above the idyllic scene. It was difficult to imagine anything disturbing the peace of this little haven and he felt a pang of sadness, knowing that it would never feel entirely safe for Miss Taylor again.
‘Well,’ she said, breaking the stillness. ‘Apart from the obvious,’ here she grinned unexpectedly, causing Dave to flush slightly once more. ‘You know, I’m sure he put his hands on the window. About level with his shoulders but stretched out a bit.’ She stood and demonstrated, her arms slightly extended, palms facing the two officers.
‘You could see his hands?’ Dave asked excitedly. ‘Not just the shape but actually see the hands themselves?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, taking her seat once more. ‘They were the same colour as his arms, anyway. Oh,’ she looked at the two policemen sharply. ‘That might mean he left some fingerprints, doesn’t it?’
‘There weren’t any prints thought, were there,’ said Dave as they settled back in the car and headed back to Taunton.
‘Right,’ said Lynas, reading through his notes again. ‘They were very careful, the crime scene people. Would’ve spotted something like that right off. So, what’s that tell us then?’
Dave concentrated on the road for a few seconds, negotiating one of the many treacherous blind corners round which an army of tractors and dairy herds seemed to lurk whenever he ventured out of town.
‘Either he was wearing gloves – see-through ones that is – or he has no fingerprints.’
Sergeant Lynas grunted. ‘Seems the former’s a bit more likely, don’t you think? Everyone’s got fingerprints. Thank Christ. Be a right sorry show if we didn’t!’
‘There have been a few cases where people have sanded them off,’ said Dave. ‘And some types of workers lose the prints, at least for a while.’
‘What is you blathering on about?’ snapped Lynas. ‘What sort of workers?’
Dave realised he had started down a path fraught with danger but he couldn’t help himself.
‘I knew a lighting technician, from our local theatre, and she burned her fingers really badly on one of the new halogen bulbs,’ he said. ‘All the skin just peeled off and it never did grow back properly.’
‘Well, I think we can rule her out of our enquiries, for fairly obvious reasons,’ snapped the sergeant.
‘Well, yes – that’s just an example,’ said Dave. ‘I read that some people who work in canning factories lose their fingerprints too. If they work with pineapples a lot.’ In his head he was shouting, ‘Shut up, shut up!’ but he couldn’t seem to stop. ‘There’s something in the juice that eats the skin away and their fingerprints just disappear …’
Lynas turned his head slowly and blinked at him.
‘Pineapple?’ he said, disbelief dripping from that one word.
Dave kept his eyes fixed on the road.
‘Don’t work with chicken then, nor tomato?’
Dave swallowed and shook his head, staring firmly in front.
‘’Cos that’s what they do in the cannery down Wembden. Making baby food, that’s all. Wouldn’t like to think of that baby food being strong enough to take off fingerprints. Don’t sound healthy.’
They drove in silence for a few minutes before Dave ventured, ‘Maybe he’s not from round here.’
‘Go on,’ said Lynas.
Dave considered his words before continuing.
‘There has to be a reason he’s started this now,’ he said. ‘Something set him off – or he’s just arrived here from somewhere else. Maybe we should check, see if there’ve been any more like this in other areas.’
Sergeant Lynas nodded, making a note under his record of the interview. ‘Anything else?’
‘I think he might work outside,’ he said. ‘At least, he does now – he’s tanned but not very much. It sounds as if he’s sunburnt on his back so he’s new to whatever he’s doing, otherwise he’d probably have a bit of brown already. It’s been a reasonable spring and most builders and farm hands will have much more exposure to the sun by now.’
‘Good,’ said Lynas. ‘So, where do we start looking?’
Dave knew he was being tested but he was much surer of his idea now.
‘I think we should put out a shout around the regions for anything similar and while we’re waiting for any answers, look at new men taken on by builders, farmers – people like that.’
‘The theory’s good,’ said Lynas. ‘A terrible load of work though. Most builders is starting their busy time on the large sites round about now. Same with farmers. And there’s all types of others we might need to check on – scaffolders, for example, road men – council gardeners even. He might easily work on his own account. Lots of blokes do now, what with all the cut-backs and the state of most industry around here.’
Dave’s shoulders slumped. It had seemed so logical when he first proposed the theory but now Sergeant Lynas’s reasoning was punching holes in the whole idea.
‘Don’t look so glum,’ said Lynas. ‘You’ve got a place to start from, which is more’n we had this time yesterday. And that point about why he’s suddenly doing this now – that’s a good one. That could be what cracks it wide open. I’ll put the bulletin out when we get back and you get on with working out some sort of reason for all this. Like you said, why these women – and why now.’
Out at Kilve, Lauren wasn’t enjoying herself quite as much as she had expected. It was hot – unseasonably hot, according to Jonny who seemed to have run through the boost from his morning coffee and was nursing a rather unpleasant hangover. Lauren left him in the relative cool of the car, making her way over the rocks to the beach where she began to comb the edge of the sand, turning stones and occasionally banging a couple together to see if there was anything inside.
There was talk of restricting the public’s right to search for fossils on the beach following a recent raid by professional fossil collectors from out of the area. Arriving in the late evening, they had worked under cover of darkness, h
ammering at the rocks and low cliffs and stripping several sections of beach of anything of interest. Even worse was the damage caused by the almost industrial scale of their efforts. Broken rocks and the remains of numerous specimens littered the coast the next morning, many damaged or crushed and discarded as commercially worthless.
Lauren had some sympathy with the authorities’ plans but did not see why it should apply to her, or other local people who walked the beach, turning the rocks, admiring the many different specimens and only occasionally removing one for themselves. As she strolled her way along the shoreline, she spotted something interesting, half-covered by a fall of white scree. Scrambling across the litter of rocks, she hauled herself up onto a flat platform shaped by the waves, a reminder the sea reached the cliffs each high tide. Kneeling in front of the pile, she carefully picked her way through the lighter stones until a big, flat rock was exposed.
Her heart leaped with delight as she gazed at a large, perfectly preserved ammonite embedded on a rock of deep green. It was beautiful and she knew she had to have it, but it was huge – the largest specimen she had ever found. Sliding it clear of the remaining stones, Lauren stood and lifted the ammonite, puffing as she took its full weight. Holding it in front of her she began the precarious journey back down to the sands. Feet sliding and ankles rocking with the effort, her progress was measured in inches but finally she felt firm ground beneath her and she placed the fossil on the ground, thankful for a brief rest.
As she leaned against the rocks, now warm from the morning sun, she looked around her. Where was Jonny when she needed him? When sending out fierce mental instructions to her brother failed to bring him down to her aid, she heaved herself up again, lifted the ammonite and resumed her tortuous path across the shore and up towards the road where the car waited. Her shoulders felt as if they were coming loose from the sockets, her arms were shaking and she was covered in sweat by the time she made it to the top but Lauren was determined not to let her prize go, whatever it cost her.
As she emerged over the top of the cliffs, staggering and swaying with effort, Jonny leapt from the car and hurried towards her.
