Late morning of 3 January the son files a missing person report with the Swansea police. But since the woman comes from the Dyfed-Powys Police area, it falls to that force to conduct the search. This is put into operation at once and it is all systems go.
Jane jumps into action and arranges for a forensic team to search the woman’s empty home and a photographer to take photos. She has asked the woman’s son from Swansea to meet her there where she and Detective Sergeant Ross Evans will interview him first and then the neighbour. Even though it is only about thirty-six miles it will take a good hour to drive there which means they won’t reach Moylegrove till after 3.30. The time needed to do the interviews and see the lay of the land means Jane will be late back this evening. She calls Carys and Meg to let them know. Carys promises to stay late with Meg, who says there’s some good telly on that evening so she’ll be quite happy, and not to worry.
Jane organises some police officers to do house-to-house enquiries while others check hospital admissions and review CCTV footage in possible locations.
She buzzes Evans to her office to explain what they are about to do. A minute later, a thickset young man of distinctly rumpled appearance wearing a creased, mid-grey, ill-fitting suit, shoes that have seen better days and with slightly dishevelled spikey red hair knocks on her door. Answering her invitation to enter, he shuffles into her office in his characteristic way and stands awkwardly in front of her desk. This doesn’t mean anything. Ross Evans may be an ungainly person but he’s a good detective.
Jane gestures at the seat the other side of her desk. ‘Afternoon, Evans.’
‘Ma’am.’ He sits on the tired wooden chair with the worn, red plastic seat.
‘I’ll explain in the car. We’re off to Moylegrove, north Pem. A woman’s gone missing. We have to leave now.’
‘Missing? Sounds interesting. I’ll just grab my recorder.’
In minutes with Evans at her side clutching his trusted recording equipment, they are on the road for the north where they will interview the woman’s son and her neighbour. While they are up in Moylegrove, the Swansea police are conducting a covert search of the son’s flat in case they find anything suspicious there.
It’s annoying when there are two police forces involved on the same job but it can’t be helped in this case. They just have to co-ordinate their efforts to find the poor woman.
By 4.10pm, Jane and Evans have led cars with the rest of the people assigned to the job into the tiny, ancient village of Moylegrove. With a mix of traditional colour-washed and stone cottages and houses and a couple of stone chapels as well as a church and a quiet little river running through it, it is surprisingly unspoilt and turns out to be mostly Welsh-speaking. They find Gwyneth’s house easily and meet the son there. A big, burly, overweight chap who looks as though he eats nothing but burgers shows them into his mother’s immaculate small stone cottage with a garden at the back. Forensics go over it and Jane and Evans interview the son, Aled, and the neighbour and learn as much as they can discover about the missing woman.
Jane wants to see what the owner of the house where Gwyneth was supposed to have cleaned yesterday has to say. She gets directions from the helpful neighbour and with Evans at the wheel, driving – overcautiously as usual – they head up a bumpy grass track across farmland where sheep graze to a remote house a couple of hundred metres from the Pembrokeshire coastal path. Beyond this, steep cliffs drop down to what is at this time of year a fierce, dark sea.
They discover a fine renovation of an old, long stone house. The stone used is partly some of the original and partly a close match salvaged from derelict structures in the area. It even has its old oak door, darkened and weathered. The place is very beautiful. At least, Jane thinks so. Outsiders – mainly English people with money – are buying up old places like this one and saving them from collapse. She supposes this is the better way, but like most Welsh she holds a quiet grudge against those who buy and rent out property that might be used for the less well-off local people, instead of pushing up the cost of homes for holidaymakers who are only there part of the year.
‘You do the honours, Ross Evans.’
When there is no one else around, she sometimes addresses him like this. Irritating though he can be, she’s fonder of him than she will admit to herself. He lifts the heavy, old iron knocker and the door is soon opened by a tall, blonde woman who seems to be alone in the house.
Jane holds up her badge. ‘I am Detective Chief Inspector Jane Owen and this is Detective Sergeant Ross Evans.’ She gestures at Evans who nods his head.
‘Hello,’ replies the woman who is rather beautiful but white-faced with half-dead eyes.
‘Good afternoon. May we come in, please? We just want to talk to you and ask you some questions with regard to a missing person, if that’s all right?’
Reserved and polite she says, ‘Yes, of course. Come in. But I am merely a guest here.’
‘Oh, I see. And where is or are the owners?’
‘I’m afraid the owner is out with his partner. They’re hiking in Snowdonia at the moment. Maybe I can help?’
‘Well, perhaps you can and since we’re here now, if you don’t mind, we’ll come in.’
Jane steps through the porch and then another door into the expansive open-plan kitchen-living room. Her eyes scan the expensive interior. She and Evans are awed by the place. It must have cost a lot to convert. Jane puts out her hand to put the woman at her ease early on. A good technique that can be very useful with interviewees.
The woman is not antagonistic. She doesn’t appear to be trying to hide anything. Although she comes across as surprised to see them she appears very willing to invite them in and tell them whatever they want to know. Jane says, ‘Shall we sit at the table?’ as she takes a seat on one side of the big oak dining table and removes a notepad and biro from her inside pocket. She motions to the woman to take the seat next to her, while Evans sits across from them.
‘Right then. The purpose, aim and objective of our visit is to establish the whereabouts of a missing person and I should advise you that you can terminate this interview at any time.’
Jane takes the woman’s details and fills her in about Gwyneth.
Evans helpfully summarises. ‘So she was due to clean here yesterday afternoon on the 2nd January. But you say she never appeared? Can you tell us at what approximate time you called her landline?’
‘Apparently, she was always punctual and very reliable, you know. Mike had left me her number so I called her… oh… at about 3.30, I’d say. It might have been a bit earlier. I was concerned as she was supposed to be here by 2.30. I tried again twice later with no luck. And this morning as well. I was very worried about her. Apparently, she’s the salt of the earth, a lovely lady. I hope to goodness she’s okay. Do you have any idea what may have happened to her?’
‘Not at the moment.’ Jane stood up. ‘Well, that’s all for now. Thank you for your help. If you hear anything, please let us know. And when the owners return, please ask them to get in touch. Here is my card. Thank you for your time.’
The woman ushers them politely to the door and later they check her phone records. The number she gave them had called Gwyneth’s phone three times the previous afternoon and evening and twice early this morning.
They return to Llangunnor no nearer knowing what has happened to Gwyneth.
Land and air searches start early the following morning. Policemen along with search-and-rescue dogs and volunteers from the village, numbering about 200, all set out at 6.30am in the freezing conditions to search everywhere from wooded locations to open spaces. The air support unit hovers along the cliffs looking for any signs of a body over the side. They cover a large area but no luck comes of it.
The press and social media are alerted and there is an all-out hunt for Gwyneth from Moylegrove. A few reports of sighting come in but none lead to any result. The son was apparently the last person to see his mother. Having met the man, Jane harbours
suspicions about him.
2
2014. Cambridge
In the spring of 2014, a dynamic, charming young woman called Bette Davies became bored of being alone. Named after the film star but pronounced Bet, she was looking for someone who was going places, with whom she could enjoy life, someone to benefit from knowing, someone from whom she could gain in knowledge and status. She scoured dating websites for men who lived in or near Cambridge. For some months she went on a large number of dates with men, all of whom had wanted to see her again, but none was up to the mark. Ambitious to find the right man, she was ready to look elsewhere.
Eventually in the autumn, she spotted a neat, stylish man who seemed in his photo to be good-looking with an air of being intelligent. She messaged him straight away and that evening received a reply that held much more interest than the usual uninspiring drivel men came out with, such as, ‘I like nothing so much as cuddling up in front of a cosy fire with a lovely woman and a glass of red’ or stuff about how they had a sense of humour – which generally meant they didn’t.
But this Mike Hanson worked at a top firm of architects in Cambridge and said he loved creativity in others, blues and jazz and long country walks in solitary places. He said he cherished all forms of beauty from wonderful art and architecture to beautiful places and beautiful women.
He was, in other words an aesthetic man. If he liked beauty then he would like her. While not exactly vain, Bette was a realist who had every idea of her own good looks. So far, this Mike shaped up well.
They agreed on a time and a date, for which Bette wore her classiest knee-length blue dress and black stiletto shoes that set off her amazing long, shapely legs and slender figure.
Mike was instantly smitten but had done his best to disguise it as he didn’t want to seem too keen too soon.
They had discovered they had much in common including a strong mutual attraction and a string of dates followed where Mike dined her at Cambridge’s best restaurants, money appearing to be no object. One of these evenings, she mentioned she longed to get out of Cambridge and craved a walk in the countryside. He had been only too delighted to accommodate. He would collect her in his car the upcoming Sunday morning and whisk her out of the city to a remote rural spot.
Like all the men who had seen it, Mike had been struck by Bette’s photograph online and she had more than lived up to the promise in the flesh. He had fast become fascinated by her and already felt he was falling in love. There was definitely something magnetic about her. Coupled with her high intelligence and great charm, she was a tall, sensual, sexy blonde with an erotic manner of moving. She dressed elegantly, which he liked in a woman; and when she had first bestowed her wide, delightful smile on him, he had been a goner. To him, everything about her – from her twenty-five years and her gorgeous looks to the way she spoke; from her likes and dislikes to the way she dressed; from her outgoing character to the fact that she liked doing the same things as he did – was just about perfect.
On an unusually cold November Sunday morning, Mike, a punctual person, drove his large, racy, blue BMW across Cambridge from where he lived just north of the river Cam to a side street of small Victorian terraced houses on the south side of the city centre.
He had been to Bette’s flat in number 16 once before for a pre-dinner drink when he had tried planting the idea of buying a takeaway and spending the evening in since her flatmates were both out. But she had smelt his eagerness, spotted his hopeful strategy and rejected the idea on the grounds that one of the flatmates might return and spoil their evening.
In other words, Bette was proving no easy nut to crack. She had been giving him mixed messages, flirting one minute, pulling back the next. This had challenged and stimulated Mike. In his opinion, too many girls were casually willing when it came to sex.
They had agreed 10am and, since he was not only a man of his word but a thoroughly careful one, he was precisely on time. It was impossible to find a parking space so he double-parked, rang Bette’s mobile number, explained the difficulty and suggested she came out to the car.
An eager grin on her face, Bette came running out of her front door and jumped straight into the car. She was wearing an appropriate khaki-green puffer jacket and black leggings that showed off her legs that were tucked into stylish (and expensive) green wellington boots. He kissed her on the cheek and was rewarded with a wide flash of perfect teeth and a beautiful smile. She settled back in her seat.
He gazed at her, admiration in his eyes. ‘You look gorgeous. But then you always do.’
‘Hardly.’ She laughed. ‘I’m in my walking gear.’
‘But still chic.’
Little did he realise she dressed almost exclusively in clothes bought on eBay or in second-hand shops.
‘Glad you think so.’ He really was a bit cheesy, she thought, but forgave him for his eagerness which was making him clumsy.
Having not seen his car before, Bette complimented him back, flattering his choice of colour which was, she said, as far as she was concerned, the best colour of that range of BMWs. He was glad she noticed.
‘It has four-wheel drive.’
‘Must be very handy in Cambridge.’
He made a face at her. ‘I take it long distances and sometimes use it on dirt tracks or grass fields when I’m hiking. I’ve been far and wide in it.’
‘Such as?’
‘Oh – Cornwall – love the coastal path there; the Peak District, the Dales, the Lakes – anywhere with walking country where I get away from it all. It’s my way of unwinding.’
‘So where are we going today? Any of those places?’
‘Not quite as far. But where is for me to know and you to wonder. Safety belt on?’
‘What’s with the mystery? Planning to lure me to some dark wood to have your wicked way with me?’
‘Well, since you mention it…’
She wriggled in feigned excitement and he laughed. Things were hotting up in this relationship, sexual banter starting to replace their previously more formal exchanges.
They headed out of the city where they drove across flat, dull countryside towards Ely. Mike politely asked whether she minded if he played some music.
‘Oh, please yes, most certainly, do.’ For his sake, she pretended. He pushed a button on the swish dashboard and Billie Holiday filled the car accompanying them as they drove through villages called Swaffham Bulbeck and Swaffham Prior where they turned left and drove into what appeared to Bette to be nowhere.
‘My favourite singer of all time. I can never get enough Billie.’
For a moment Bette, who had never heard of her, was briefly perplexed by the name but soon worked it out. American. That’s where women had men’s names and she supposed men had women’s though she couldn’t think of an immediate example until she remembered Gene Kelly. But she nodded knowingly and said, ‘Can’t say I blame you.’
If he pursued the subject, she knew she was more than capable of bullshitting her way through questions about it. But for the moment he didn’t, seeming satisfied that this beautiful young woman liked Billie too.
The horizon, distant and grey above perfectly straight lines of black land, was intercepted only by the occasional row of trees. Holiday’s mournful lilt fitted with the desolate landscape that constantly repeated itself, canals and dykes taking the place of hedges separating vast, flat, gloomy areas that seemed too big to be called fields. Bette had never seen such a place in her life. Driving alongside them, they could never catch up with that horizon.
They finally arrived at a place called Wicken Fen. It was, he said, a good place to escape to. There were few other cars in the car park. It was cold and she was glad she had wrapped up well. He led the way to the start of their walk and her eyes followed the slightly lanky figure as he crossed the car park to a damp boardwalk that ran alongside a canal. She followed him and heeded his warning about the boards being slippery. When she got level with him, he placed a hand on her back and guided h
er in front of him onto the boardwalk. Once they were on it, he took the lead again. As they walked, Mike, who did seem to know a lot of things, explained that in the seventeenth century the fens that had stretched north of Cambridge into Lincolnshire had had channels and man-made canals dug across them to syphon the marsh waters off the boggy land.
‘This is the only remaining original fenland that has been left undrained. A wondrous place.’
That he liked to demonstrate his knowledge from time to time had become apparent to Bette previously. Far from putting her off, she was a sponge who soaked everything in and enjoyed learning. He wasn’t a show-off, though, and only mentioned little-known facts when he felt they were apposite or would interest her. Then he fell quiet and they picked their way along, happy to absorb the pleasure of silence, except once when he nudged her, put a finger to his lips and pointed to a heron fishing nearby. But the bird heard them and lifting its snake-like neck, pointed its head forward, slowly beat its wide wings and rose awkwardly from the murky wetland to flap low then slowly up towards a faraway tree branch.
They watched the bird life and the occasional ripple and splash where otters hunted, their breath converging with the nebulous mist floating over the water.
She liked being with this man who didn’t feel the need to speak. She was making him happy by being there. Now certain this relationship was going the way she had hoped it would, she felt unusually peaceful. In no hurry, they wandered through the reedy, solitary landscape, embracing the calm environment. They reached an area of natural wetland where low grey water traced and fingered its way through wild grasses and a herd of stocky, dun-coloured ponies that grazed alongside russet Highland cattle. Standing quietly, they watched the animals in the ancient scene.
Cliff Edge: a gripping psychological mystery Page 2
