Cliff Edge: a gripping psychological mystery

by Florrie Palmer

  He had done well at university where he had read architecture and shown a flair for it. Cambridge had become his new home and the only place he felt centred and so he had applied for jobs there. He could perhaps have chosen to go to London where there would have been greater opportunities for a young architect of his calibre but he had grown to love the city he was in. Where else would you be surrounded by such awe-inspiring buildings as the old colleges? So when he had been offered a job with the foremost firm of architects, he had snapped it up.

  Mike’s keen eye for beauty influenced to whom he was sexually attracted. Unconsciously, he modelled women on his mother, a tall, attractive, long-haired woman who had given him strong guidance through his childhood. In every sense she had shown strength except when it had come to her deeply unfaithful and unkind husband, to whom she had never stood up. Perhaps also Mike’s boyhood crush on Madonna had forever influenced the appeal certain types of females had for him. Although the singer had quite often changed the colour of her hair, his abiding image of her was a gorgeous blonde seductress wearing highly revealing clothes. The dominatrix thing had had him writhing in his teenage wet dreams and he still quietly fantasised about women in stilettos cracking whips over him. But he kept those fantasies well-hidden as he was a shy man who would never allow them to surface. When he had been in his first year at university and had visited Paris with a couple of male undergraduate friends, he had never quite recovered from his first visit to the Quartier Pigalle, the infamous red-light district where a beautiful, long-haired blonde had given him the happy ending massage to end all happy endings.

  Apart from Bette’s gorgeous, wavy, long blonde hair which he loved, as well as what he considered to be a perfect figure, he could not stop looking at her pretty, pixie-like face with its wide blue eyes, pert nose and firm chin. But perhaps the most attractive thing about her was the strength of purpose she so clearly tried to hide. She also had a big sense of humour and could make him laugh – most women didn’t – and that he much appreciated.

  Her strong artistic streak and love of walking in remote areas fitted in so well with his pastimes which veered between visiting art galleries and hiking long distances. Her enjoyment of books, her high intelligence and, apart from what must have been a Welsh need for rice and chips together, she ticked all the boxes.

  He might have expected her to be needy because of her bad childhood – but she was not. She was a straight-talker and a down-to-earth sort of girl. All in all, as far as he was concerned, she was as near perfect as it was possible to be.

  When it came to questions about her parents, Bette refused to talk about them as people. Believing she had good reasons – because she was a person who did nothing without them – Mike left the subject alone. Being something of a closed shop himself, he understood completely and knew too well that there are certain things you never wish to discuss with anyone. It seemed that when she had left home, she had become remarkably self-sufficient. He accepted her eagerness to hide her roots as a simple desire to better herself but he did enjoy her occasional slip back into Welsh expressions that she couldn’t quite get rid of like ‘there’s lovely’ and ‘I’m only saying’.

  Although not in detail, she had told him about her bad experience with what she called a ‘total washout’ marriage and this evening she expected him to tell her about his past. He tipped his chair back and fiddled with the piece of bread on his plate before saying, ‘Much as I’d rather not discuss it, it has to be done. It needs exorcising.’

  He took a large glug of wine. Finding this far from easy, he told her about his parents. How his British father had made millions in property and bonked almost as many women. How his poor, long-suffering mother, Australian by birth and whom he took after, had forgiven her husband time and time again. His father had died of a heart attack in 2007 and Mike had inherited what he described cautiously as ‘a decent sum’, though it hadn’t made up for his lack of fathering and his appalling behaviour toward Mike’s beloved mother.

  What had really hurt was when his mother had decided to return to her homeland while he was still at university.

  ‘Oh yes, I was self-sufficient.’ He steepled his fingers before clasping his hands together and frowning, staring at the tablecloth. ‘I mean, I had money that bought me a house and car etc, but I still needed support and love, didn’t I? I was only nineteen years old. I try to get over there once a year, usually for Christmas and she comes over every three years or so, but I cannot ever quite forgive her for betraying me by going back to Australia. I mean, it’s just so far. Besides, since she remarried, it’s not the same…’ His voice trailed off but the bitterness was in his tone and Bette saw how hurt he had been by his beloved mother’s leaving. To call it a betrayal was pretty strong, but it was indicative of how alone he had felt when she had gone.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mike. You have clearly been very hurt. And what about your love life?’

  He hesitated. ‘My last year at uni, I fell for a woman. She went out with me, slept with me, seemed to make me happy and after a year, just as I was preparing to ask her to marry me, she suddenly, with no apparent reason, ditched me. She simply disappeared from my life. She blocked my calls, refused to respond to messages, wouldn’t answer her doorbell when I rang it.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Whatever I tried I could not get her to speak to me again. I have to admit I even stalked her for a short time. I know that’s terrible, but I was so confused by her behaviour that I just wanted to catch up with her and speak to her. Surely, I thought, there must have been a reason she had so rapidly gone off me. I went from hero to zero overnight with no explanation. She had given me every reason to be sure she loved me. That was what was so very strange.’ He looked uncomfortable talking about it but Bette wanted to know and encouraged him to finish his tale.

  ‘Well, it took me ages to recover from this. I suppose I was what they call broken-hearted. Afterwards, I suffered from grave self-doubt and found it so difficult to get my life back on track. I developed big issues with trusting women and in the end simply stayed away from them and instead buried myself in my career.

  ‘Then, I decided enough was enough and that I needed to get a grip. I longed to meet someone to fall in love with but doubted it would ever happen. Until recently. This autumn my life changed when I met someone. A woman I fancied to bits, adored her mind, in fact, as far as I was concerned, she was almost perfect…’ He paused and grinned. ‘But thank God not altogether or she would have been boring. Something that, I hasten to add, is the last thing she could ever be.’

  He raised his glass to her and said, ‘Might there be a chance that feeling could be reciprocated?’

  ‘There might be,’ she said but avoided looking at him.

  He wondered if he’d said too much too soon. After all, she’d had a bad experience with a man before.

  They drank champagne, had smoked salmon starters, then he had a fillet steak and French chips while she had duck with cherry sauce and gratin potatoes. They had an especially good French wine. Offered the dessert menu, he said, ‘I’m not a lover of sweet things so I’ll have the cheeseboard, please.’

  Bette raised the natural arch of her eyebrows. ‘Maybe I could change your mind, Mike Hanson?’

  ‘Coquettish, aren’t you? As to your question, you are, of course, the exception that proves the rule.’ They finished eating and he ordered Irish coffees, since she said she had never experienced them before.

  Around them, irritated wives and girlfriends thought, What more stereotypical look-at-me kind of girl could there possibly be? The men eating with them were unable to stop themselves ogling the blonde in the long-sleeved, tight-fitting, low-cut red dress that showed off her intensely alluring figure. Mike too, could not take his eyes from her and aware of the attention she was getting, felt a mix of intense jealousy and immense pride that she was with him.

  They were on the way to being drunk by the time the waiter brought the trolley on which was a flambé burner. With a camp flou
rish and practised finesse, he heated the whisky, coffee, sugar and other ingredients on the burner before pouring the thick, dark liquid into the glasses where it gleamed as he slowly poured snowy white cream over the back of a teaspoon to float on top.

  Halfway through drinking them, Mike stood up and leant forward, looked her in the eyes and taking his napkin to her lips, shouted with laughter. The rest of the diners stopped what they were doing to watch. Another side of Mike revealed itself.

  ‘Bette Davies,’ he said so they all could hear, ‘you’ve got cream all round your mouth.’ With a flamboyant gesture he wiped it away. ‘This is so that I can kiss you without getting covered in the stuff.’ Placing his arms on either side of the table as he almost knocked everything over, he leant across. ‘Come here,’ he said. She stood to his command. He kissed her hard on the lips and in between kisses, said, ‘I want you’ kiss ‘to come and’ kiss ‘move in with me’ kiss ‘as soon as’ kiss ‘possible.’ Then he sat down and leant back in his chair.

  ‘Well?’ he said

  She also sat down and tossed her blonde mane back from her face. In proper broad Welsh, with that brilliant smile on her face, she said, ‘But we only met three months ago.’ The diners watched with bated breath. Then, slipping back into something close to received pronunciation, she said, ‘So you may be surprised to learn, Mr Michael Hanson, that the answer is “I’m going to think about it tonight and let you know in the morning.”’ She gave a dramatic pause. ‘But just so’s you knows, I’m woman overboard, me, and one thing’s for sure and that is that I loves you loads and loads.’

  And everybody clapped including the waiters and the manager. And they stood up and the two of them took a bow.

  Mike paid the bill and she went to the ladies’. He laughed when she had reappeared wearing a pair of fur-lined ankle boots and carrying her red stilettos in a string bag. But he liked and approved of her forethought and when he had helped her on with her long red scarf and warm, caramel-coloured, cashmere coat with the fur collar, she looked as elegant as she had in the red dress.

  They walked through the cold streets to Midsummer Common which was packed with people revelling. Turned up to full volume through the large speakers that had been set up for the occasion, Big Ben striking midnight sounded out across Cambridge. Before they kissed again, Bette and Mike leant into one another, looked at one another and said simultaneously, ‘Happy New Year.’

  Mike lived in a beautiful four-bedroom Victorian house in a quiet, traffic-free street just north of the Cam and Midsummer Common. It appealed to Bette in every way. Mike was gratified when she said, ‘It’s such a surprise inside. You’ve done a great job on it. I completely love it.’ It was indeed very much to her taste.

  The long living room had originally been two small rooms. Mike had painted the walls dark blue and hung up a few modern paintings and complemented them with white doors, floors, skirtings and fireplace. He had a few bits of Danish modern furniture and white rugs on a pale, painted wooden floor. White pendant lights in unusual shapes finished the room with what Bette decided was inspired flair and so different from most middle-class interiors. The kitchen was modern but done in soft Mediterranean colours and exposed old brickwork. It had large French doors that looked onto a lovely garden. She supposed the place was in keeping with a modern architect’s mind.

  Once before, they had attempted to grab some hurried sex at the flat Bette shared with two girls who had both been out that evening, but just as they were ready to bare all to one another, a flatmate had unexpectedly returned in floods of tears following a row with her boyfriend.

  Mike had delayed suggesting she spent the night with him for fear of frightening her off. But that evening had changed everything. They were in love and wanted to be together. Just to be sure, Mike wanted to know that Bette felt the same way the following morning. He knew he would, of that he was certain. They were both full enough of alcohol to lower any inhibitions and didn’t waste any time, literally running up the stairs to Mike’s bedroom where he hurriedly stripped her before lifting her up and laying her on the bed. A passionate night of sexual exploration and mutual gratification followed. In the morning, they made love for the fourth time before collapsing in exhaustion where they lay in one another’s arms until 11.30am when Mike brought a tray of hot coffee, warm croissants and marmalade. They ate and drank sitting up in bed, flakes of pastry falling from their lips and fingers. Bette, who missed little, had already learnt he was a fastidious man and noticed him carefully picking up each fallen flake and dropping them on the plate.

  The following weeks before she moved in, they made love as often as possible. She moved some of her stuff to his house while holding onto her room in Gwydir Street that, without the landlord’s knowledge, she sublet for three months for a little bit more than she had been paying. So she was, as they say, quids in.

  Mike had happily encouraged her not to burn any bridges back to where she had been before meeting him. While he would describe himself as careful (he always looked neat and clean with manicured fingernails) ‘impulsive’ was the word he’d have chosen for Bette.

  Had he known what lay ahead, he might have picked another word.

  5

  6 January 2018, 06.02am. Llangunnor, Wales

  Jane wakes early after a nightmare in which her sister’s screaming face featured. She rubs her eyes and peers at her bedside clock. It is only just after six o’clock. The dream had been close to what had actually happened except that for some reason their grandmother’s face suddenly appeared in the train, asking Meg for a slice of cake. Jane’s anger with such an absurd request when the woman could surely see she needed help to get Meg out of the carriage was intense and she started yelling at her long dead mamgu. That is when she has woken and she finds it hard to rid her head of the image of her screaming sister lying in agony, trapped. She rolls over and tries to put it from her mind.

  She doesn’t need to leave for the station until 7am. Carys is coming over to help Meg get dressed later and get her breakfast ready at nine. Nice for Meg to have a lie-in, which she loves. Jane drags herself up at 6.20, has a hurried wash, dresses, grabs a bowl of cereal and a coffee, calls the cat in, feeds him and tiptoes out. The cold hurts her face in the tiny distance between the front door and her car and she is so glad the car decides to start.

  She has to drive slowly in the dreadful conditions but she is at her desk early today. There’s much to be done.

  Almost as soon as she gets to the station, Jane receives a call from Max.

  ‘I may be onto something. Regarding the contusion on the victim’s back, it is clear that something hard and sharp prodded it. A hunch led me to bring one of my own trekking poles into the exam room. I compared the tip with the mark on the body and the back of the puffer jacket. It’s an exact fit. I have a feeling one of these was used to nudge the poor woman forward over the cliff edge. I’m sending some photos now. Bad news is, no DNA match to be found. No dental records either. Unusual, but the woman had damn near perfect teeth – not a filling to be seen – and had no evident dental work done that I could see, which may explain the lack of luck there.’

  ‘Oh no. That’s not exactly helpful at all.’

  ‘It is not. By the way, our boys have taken soil samples of the land around the top of the hole. They are being analysed now. I’m looking at stomach contents this morning.’

  Jane’s own heaves at the thought. ‘Right.’

  ‘Let you know later if there’s anything suspicious to add.’

  ‘Thank you, Max. Look forward to hearing from you later and to seeing the photos.’

  Intently, Jane watches her computer’s mailbox and within a minute, the photos arrive as an attachment to a short note from Max. She prints them out, collects them from the printer drawer and takes them with her to the incident room where she winds her way through the desks. At the end of the room, she secures the photos to the whiteboard. Then she faces the room and clears her throat. They all stop what
they’re doing and look up at her. There are some cynical older faces out there, which might daunt her if she allowed it to, but she doesn’t.

  ‘Right. I want everyone’s full attention, please.’

  They’re on their mettle and bristling with interest. Jane moves to the blown-up map of Pembrokeshire that she earlier readied on the board. She stands next it, pointer in hand.

  ‘Right.’ She points first to the site on the map, then to a photo of the Cauldron which is now surrounded by incident tape. ‘Most of you will have been up to the Witches’ Cauldron at some time, but for those who haven’t, I suggest you get yourselves up there for a gander soon as you can. It’s important to get a feel for the place.’ She pauses. They are rapt. ‘So far, we have female victim unknown, age around mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Hair blonde. Cause of death drowning, motive unknown but we will definitely be treating this as murder. The DNA had no match. Dental records are still being traced, but no luck so far.’

  The police officers shuffle in their seats. She points to a photograph of the bruise on the back of the body and then to an image of the puffer coat removed from the corpse. ‘We’re still looking for the trekking pole that caused this bruise. And still no reports of a missing woman fitting the description, local or otherwise.’

  The officers take surreptitious glances at one another. Jane points at the photo of the ravaged face. ‘I know it’s a tall order but it is essential that we find out who this is.’ They follow her lead. She may be young but she runs a tighter ship than her predecessor and they know it. Standing by the board, pointer in hand, she indicates a photo of the repulsive blown-up body.

  ‘All right. So, so far, we have victim unknown, motive unknown but it is definitely looking like murder. There was a local missing Moylegrove woman reported two days ago, so far untraced, but she is in her late fifties and does not correspond to the description of our Jane Doe. It’s still a hell of a coincidence, though, and must be borne in mind. You probably know about it but I want you all to study these posters of her as a missing person.’ Jane holds a bunch of papers up. ‘Keep the details in your heads. It could be these two cases are linked.’