Cliff Edge: a gripping psychological mystery

by Florrie Palmer

  Mike turned to face her. She felt his intensity as he grasped her shoulders, pulled her to him and kissed her. He pushed his body against hers and carnal tension hung in the chilly air around them. Then he let go of her. ‘You are a beautiful and fascinating woman and I long to know more about you. You’ve told me nothing about your childhood. Not even where you were brought up and I would love to hear all about your life up to now.’

  They walked back toward the visitor centre.

  ‘That’s because I seldom talk about it. But I like you too.’ Bette glanced at him to see his reaction. ‘I’m sure you have already spotted traces of an accent?’

  ‘Traces,’ he said. ‘There’s a hint of Welsh, I’d say.’

  ‘You’re right, it’s Welsh. So…’ She took a large breath. ‘I dislike talking about my past. But anyway, here goes. Me: well, me was an only kid brought up in a rural village in Pembrokeshire with an overly strict upbringing by old-fashioned, dyed-in-the-wool folk. That was me. We lived in a large house on a smallholding my father had inherited and where he continued to keep sheep as his pa had done before him. Disappointed I wasn’t born a boy, he had little time for the female sex – which included Mother who worked all the hours, helping with the sheep as well as running the local village store. When I was very small, I recall being happier with her but as I grew this became lost along with her capacity for pleasure and her interest in me other than as someone to help with the chores.’

  He interrupted. ‘Whereabouts was this?’

  ‘South Pembroke. Not far from Haverfordwest. Near a village called Hook where I was schooled.’

  ‘I bet you got top marks in all your lessons.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t do badly but from the moment I learned to hold a pencil, I drew and painted patterns and designs and grew up absorbed by art and design. My parents never showed the slightest interest in my drawings nor encouraged me to do anything other than to help a great deal in the home and on the land. I was brought up hard and expected to work in the house and with the sheep from an early age. Truth is, my parents weren’t that hard up at all. My dad had inherited quite a sum from his father. Anyway, when I wasn’t cleaning floors or washing clothes, I was drawing, painting or burying my head in books. Whenever I could, I would take the bus to Haverfordwest where I would head for the library and order books on design and art. I also read novels, biographies, histories, travel books. Oh, I read and read. My parents scoffed at me for it but my English teacher used to bring books into school for me. She was really encouraging. Mr Jones, who taught art was too.’ She stopped and walked on in silence.

  ‘Hey, you can’t stop there. It’s an interesting story.’

  ‘What else do you want to know?’

  ‘More. Please expand.’

  ‘Okay, so what can I tell you?’ She stared at the ground. ‘While they were watching TV in the evenings, about the only thing I can now bless them for is the learning I gained from reading so many books that I would never have done otherwise. I suppose I was self-educated to a degree. In the case of the interest in design and décor, inside the house was painted strictly magnolia throughout and my mother and father were set in their ways. My suggestions for new colour schemes for the rooms had been firmly resisted, but I had begged and begged my mother to let me paint my bedroom. When I was sixteen, she at last allowed it on the understanding that I must pay for the paint and the brush, and leave no mess.

  ‘By that time I had left school and was working spare hours for my father helping with lambing, shearing in May or June and feeding forage to the sheep in winter. I also worked some hours in the bakery in Llangwm. When I had saved enough money, I caught a bus to Haverfordwest to buy the paint and brushes. I took them home and painted my room without Mother or Father knowing. I wanted it to be a surprise. When I showed them the pale-pink bedroom I had always wanted, my mother said I’d put the mockers on the room and Father muttered, ‘Ych-a-fi,’ and called me a dimp.

  ‘A what and what?’

  ‘Ooh, the first is a Welsh expression of disgust and a dimp’s a simpleton.’

  ‘Harsh.’

  ‘Then they insisted I repainted it. You can guess what colour. I have never quite forgiven them for that. Anyway, still determined to do that course in interior design in Cardiff, I became desperate to leave, I didn’t tell my parents, who made it clear that they wouldn’t consider funding such a ridiculous idea and wanted me to stay at home and continue working in the jobs I had… for the rest of my life. No thank you. I was so miserable and decided that if they wouldn’t back me, I’d back myself. I worked really hard for a couple of years to save enough to pay for the course myself, in spite of having been expected to pay my rent from the day I left school.’

  She stopped. But he persisted. ‘And?’ he said, ‘And?’

  ‘Oh all right then, but this is the bit that hurts. When I’d saved enough to cover my start-up expenses and the course, I left as soon as I could. I’d had enough of their controlling, over-strict, unkind parenting. I packed all I would need and took the coward’s way, sneaking out one day while they were shopping in Haverfordwest. I wanted to take my beloved collie Brynn with me but knew I couldn’t. Father was never kind to his dogs who worked so hard and gave him such devoted service. I used to sneak them treats behind his back and pet them when he wasn’t looking. I remember the sun beating down that day – it was late August – but for me it felt like I was running through rain, I was so soaked in tears for leaving my dog. As for my parents, I haven’t been in touch since and I doubt they’ve missed me for a second. I never felt loved by either of them.’

  He draped an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘One day I hope to get another–’ Bette stopped herself. Whenever she thought about that dog it choked her and she was aware she had said enough. Besides, they had reached the car park and the blackened, weather-boarded café with its orange, pan-tiled roof. They went in and sat down at one of the small, round tables with two chairs.

  ‘You’re clearly a very brave person, Bette. You can’t stop there. Please carry on.’

  ‘I’ve really told you everything now.’

  But he begged her to continue. Not wanting to come across as too secretive or reluctant to share her story with him, she steeled herself for the latter part.

  ‘Well, I bussed it to Swansea where I caught a train to Cardiff. I’d already booked myself into a B&B and once there I soon managed to find a cheap bedsit to rent. Drab and small, it was nothing much to get excited about but a total joy to me. I could call it my own. I could breathe without criticism, drape scarves bought from charity shops over the ugly table and buy some bright cushions to cheer up the small sofa. At last I could eat, drink and do what I wanted. I was surprised by how bold I felt. The sense of freedom was incredible. I had already enrolled with the art and design college and started my course that September. At last I could express myself artistically and it seemed like the world had suddenly become my oyster.’

  ‘It must have been fantastic for you.’

  He gestured her to follow him up to the counter where an elderly woman asked what they would like. There was a big blackboard on the wall behind her and they chose sandwiches and a pot of tea for two. Told their order would be brought to them, they sat down at a small table. Mike leant forward. ‘For such an incredibly attractive, sexy girl, there has to have been lots of men in your life. Tell me?’

  She sighed and bowed her head. When she looked up, she flicked a long blonde lock out of her vivid blue eyes and observed him keenly.

  ‘Okay. Last time I discuss it ever.’ She paused and sighed. ‘So, in Cardiff when I was twenty, I met a man, an art teacher, you know, who just took over my life. He was very attractive in a wild kind of way and lived on the edge. He would whisk me onto the back of his motorbike and drive dangerously fast while I clung on, wind stinging my eyes and the adrenaline of fear thrilling me. I admit he opened my eyes to just about everything from sex to surrealism. I fell madly in love, but
what did I know?’ She lowered her gaze to study the table. ‘I moved in with him all too soon in what turned out to be a rubbish choice. David was a nasty man with a carefully masked sadistic bent who revelled in twisting my words and making me feel inferior. And to add some icing to that cake, within six months he was unfaithful as well, with one of my fellow students. I’ll never forgive him for that.’

  She didn’t raise her head but lifted her eyes to fix a blue gaze on him. She watched his reaction. ‘He was a total shit.’ She looked quite miserable.

  Unsure what to say, Mike mumbled, ‘Oh no...’

  ‘Please understand, Mike, that once I have told you this, I don’t want to talk about it again. It upsets me to remember.’

  ‘Give you my word.’

  ‘About a year after we lived together, he was out on his Harley-Davidson one day when he was killed in a hit-and-run. In fact, if truth be told, once I got over the shock, it was actually a relief and I have to admit that I didn’t really mourn for him. For a short while I continued to go it alone in Cardiff. I needed to be more self-sufficient so I learned to drive. Then, in pursuit of a complete change and to get away from such depressing memories, I drove south in an old banger I’d bought. I had read up about Cambridge and how it is one of the most desirable places to live in the UK, so I thought I’d try here. Once I made the move, I soon found a job assisting in an interior design shop while I lived in the grotty shared flat you’ve seen in the south of the city. As you know, I haven’t made real friends with my three student flatmates, who are intent on partying and getting as drunk and high as often as possible. Not my sort of thing, besides I’m a bit older than them,’ she murmured.

  ‘You know what I’d really like now, Mr Hanson is as handsome does…’ She stopped as though she’d forgotten what she was saying, ‘is a great big cwtch.’

  ‘So what’s that, Ms Davies?’

  ‘A Welsh hug. That’s what I’d like.’

  Mike stood up and walked round the table. ‘Well, come on then, girl, stand up.’

  And he gave her a big, long, warm cwtch. They stood like that for a while then their tea and sandwiches appeared on a tray in the hands of the amused older woman. ‘How nice to see people so happy,’ she said, beaming.

  They sat down, smiled broad grins across the table and gazed at one another. She searched for her future in his eyes as he tried to see his in hers.

  November 16th, 2014. Bette Davies’ Five-Year Diary

  Such a great day today. Best for ages. It might be that I’m falling. Mike is all right, that’s for sure. Just about everything I could ever want. So handsome – can hardly tear my eyes away from his face. Lovely tall figure. Good hair. But clever too. Can be funny. V artistic and knows a lot. Could teach me so much. Best man I’ve ever found. Hope it works out. Really, really hope so. Fingers crossed. He seems v keen so it’s looking good so far. Shall I sleep tonight? Doubt it.

  3

  5 January 2018. Llangunnor, Wales

  It is 10.08am when Sergeant Tom Griffith takes the 999 call. ‘Dyfed-Powys Police headquarters, Carmarthen. May I help you?’

  ‘I want to report a body,’ says a voice.

  ‘Right. Could I first ask you some details, please? Can we start with your name?’

  ‘I am not prepared to reveal my name. I am just calling to inform you that there is a body in the sea in the Witches’ Cauldron.’

  ‘Okay, right.’ The sergeant plays for time. ‘Er, are you sure it’s a body? Not a dolphin? Bottlenoses sometimes enter the cave, you know. Or, perhaps a dead seal?’

  ‘It is a human body.’

  ‘Right, okay, so can you tell me how and when you found the body then?’

  ‘It is a human body.’

  With no sense of urgency, Tom walks through the building to the DI’s office and tells her what has just happened.

  ‘So what did they say exactly?’

  ‘That there’s a body floating in the Witches’ Cauldron. Up by Moylegrove,’ he added.

  ‘Caller’s name?’

  ‘They wouldn’t give their name, ma’am.’

  ‘Man or woman.’

  ‘Woman, I think.’

  ‘Trace the call, Griffith, and let us know, soon as.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Jane calls the station at Fishguard, which is the nearest to the Cauldron. Fishguard has a skeleton coverage of two police community support officers. She speaks to the man on duty and asks if he can either get up there himself or get someone up to the place soon as to check the information given in the phone call is correct.

  About fifty-five minutes later, she receives a mobile call from the shaken man confirming that it is indeed a body and that at this stage, he cannot be sure of the gender. Jane buzzes Evans.

  ‘We have a body to recover, Evans. Possible homicide. Come in soon as, thank you.’

  When he is sitting once again on the tired chair opposite her desk, Evans says, ‘A body? Sounds interesting. Whereabouts?’

  ‘Ceibwr Bay, the Witches’ Cauldron of all places.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, but I don’t know it.’

  ‘I went there years ago with my sister. It’s on the Pembrokeshire north coast. Up where we were only last week. Near Moylegrove. Wild country up there as you’ll recall. It’s a massive, booming blowhole separated from the sea by this narrow bridge of rock. If you hit it at high tide the whole place is one great explosion of oceanic fury. It honestly has to be seen to be believed. Well-named actually. You literally have to climb over it to pass across it and if it’s windy – which, my word, it can be up there – you’re a brave or foolish person to go near it.’

  Despite his scruffy appearance, Evans listens with great attention. ‘So expect access problems, ma’am?’

  Jane continues. ‘It’ll be choppy, so holding a boat still for a diver and photographer may not be so easy. If they go for overhead recovery, it’ll need to be low tide to winch the body up. Have to send an abseiler down. It’ll be treacherous enough whichever way it’s done. Shame it’s not summer time: the job would be a lot easier.’

  ‘Put in a call to the coastguard then?’ Evans suggests.

  ‘We’ll need to involve Fishguard coastguard to organise it. The police up there have only got one man on duty, and he’s a support officer. Not much help, is it?’ One hand holds the phone to her ear while the other cups the side of her brown-haired head. For some unconscious reason, it helps her concentrate.

  ‘It’s a technical job, retrieving a body full of gas and water from the sea,’ says Evans. ‘Best left to the experts. I’ll put in a call to the underwater search team.’

  Jane nods. ‘Can you check the tides today, Evans. We’d better get a move on: it gets dark so early that there isn’t much of a window for the rescue today. We might have to push a bit to get what we want.’ She glances at her watch which reads just after 11am.

  The DS scribbles on his notepad.

  She tilts her head at him. ‘Can you let me know what time it’s happening, please? I’ll want to be at the scene during the recovery. Thanks, sergeant. Catch you later.’

  She checks the map on the wall behind her desk. She remembers the fantastic deep Cauldron from years ago when as a teenager she used to bring little Meg along to walk the coastal path on summer weekends. She remembers Meg picking wild flowers to take home to Mam and how they had heard about the hidden cave accessible only by sea tunnels – apparently a sea-witch’s lair – that once you entered you never left.

  She remembers them finding it and the overwhelming, unique and beautiful scenery. Lost for words, they had walked over the narrow rock arch and looked down at the brilliant green water below. But that had been summer time and the sea had been calm with kayakers paddling around the cavernous waters. For a moment she feels intensely sad. But there is no time for that.

  They’ll need a police Land Rover as the narrow roads are treacherous at the best of times.

  She decides they should drive as near as they c
an but that they mustn’t take risks. She plots a place to stop the police cars, from which they can walk to the cave. They’ll need walking boots, trekking poles and ropes to secure themselves against falling but they have that gear at the station. The police in West Wales quite often have need of them.

  She calls Evans in and tells him to tell the officers to have the cars, boots, poles et cetera at the ready. He nods and leaves the office, closing the door behind him. A few seconds later, he knocks, opens it again and pops his ginger head around it. ‘Sorry, Inspector, but what size feet do you have?’

  She is standing studying the map. She turns. ‘Bit personal, Evans.’ She cocks an eyebrow, tips her head to one side and gives him a wry smile. ‘But if you insist, I’m a four, as it happens.’

  He grins and nods a thank you. As he leaves, he thinks what fun the inspector can be at times while at others she can be really tetchy. But then her plate is overflowing, the poor love. Inwardly, Evans feels protective towards his gritty little boss and always tries his best for her.

  Itching to get there, Jane decides that if they cannot arrange a coastguard today, she’ll drive up there anyway. When a body is found floating in water, it doesn’t immediately mean an accidental drowning. She thinks about movies where bodies are dumped into rivers and shipping lanes. If a person drowns, it could mean suicide, it could mean accident or, God forbid, it could mean murder.

  It will usually take quite a few days for the body to return to the surface of the water. Gut bacteria stay alive after the body has died. They continue to make carbon dioxide that eventually fills the body with gas, causing it to float. She supposes the body must have been there for some time.

  The pathologist will give them a clearer idea once they’ve retrieved the body. The news comes in that the tide is at its lowest at 1746 today. Once that happens a small pebbly beach will appear in the cave for the abseiler to stand on. Jane takes the decision to go before darkness but as late as possible. The abseiler will be able to stand in shallow water. She checks to find that sunset is at 1623. She asks if the coastguard can help at 1545 and is assured that they are on standby with a rope access specialist at the ready. A lifeboatman has been commandeered to take a small motorboat with a police photographer into the cave at the same time. It’s a rough sea so it won’t be easy for the men in the boat. They have been told to help the coastguard get the body onto a stretcher that will be lowered from above. They are experienced chaps in the coastguard and they will know to choose the safest possible place to descend from.