CHAPTER 4 #2
Speed was of the essence. She was not a sprint/dive person but more hop-hop-in-you-pop, but today she couldn’t face rushing in.
Today was cold. It was still April. Her ankles were freezing as she stepped into the water.
Within seconds she lost all feeling in her toes.
And then the icy waves rose over her knees, her thighs, and punched her hard in the stomach.
‘Jesus!’ She inhaled, before launching herself into the water, still wearing her black bobble hat. That was always the worst bit, stomach followed by chest …
It only took three strokes before it became bearable and she stopped hyperventilating, and then, after eight or nine, the water was pleasant enough.
It was all right once you were in, as the saying went.
She launched off and swam out a little further, kicking her legs, working her arms, and then looked back towards the beach.
High on the cliff, she could see Prichard, with his distinctive ear flaps, bent forward apparently scouring the ground for clues.
She continued to tread water, bobbing up and down in the waves.
There were a few other souls on the beach now, much further up, towards Beachy Head, walking along the shoreline, arms linked, braced against the wind.
She could see the old lighthouse, Fin du Monde.
It had long since been decommissioned and was now converted into an Airbnb, popular with lovers and honeymooners alike.
The views were said to be grand, although Pat had never been inside.
The chalk cliffs were beautiful from the water; they shone a luminous bright white when hit by a shaft of sunlight.
All along the beach, jagged piles of chalk lay where chunks had sheared off from the cliff’s edge and crashed onto the pebbles below, white and fractured like broken slabs of marble or crumbled bones in the sun.
Was Henry dead before he hit the water? Or had he survived the fall only to drown or die of hypothermia?
Pat’s stomach dropped. No one could last long out here, especially at this time of year.
She started to swim along the shoreline.
She preferred breaststroke to front crawl, although it did nothing for the pain in her hip.
Fortunately the water was so cold, and her body so numb, she couldn’t really feel a thing.
It had to be Derek, she thought as she swam.
Henry was going to remove him from his life; he might have made the mistake of telling him.
He’d been due to sign the cease and desist order only a couple of days before.
Surely that would be motive enough. Had the police even spoken to Derek? Done any sort of investigation at all?
She staggered out of the sea, buffeted by a wave.
Her legs felt like jelly and her thighs and arms were scarlet with cold.
Clutching her upper arms to keep warm, she stumbled over the stones towards her dryrobe and her socks and boots.
The thick coat lined with moisture-wicking fleece was immediately warm as she wrapped it tightly around herself.
She swapped the neoprene socks for her boots, then stared out to sea and smiled.
Her body was awash with endorphins. That was why she did this nearly every morning. There was nothing quite like it.
‘Did you find anything?’ she asked Prichard when she finally reached the top of the cliff, panting slightly. ‘Anything out of the ordinary?’
‘Not that I can see, to be honest.’ He sniffed. ‘But then I’m not really sure what I’m looking for.’
‘Well, I’m not really sure either,’ agreed Pat. ‘But maybe if we spread out and have a look in the long grass?’
‘To see if the police missed something?’
‘I’m not sure that the police looked at all.’ Pat picked up her litter picker, which she’d left at the top of the steps. ‘At least I can do some picking. It’s always a mess around here.’
She spotted a lollipop stick immediately, tucked into a tussock of grass, and an empty crisp packet that had probably blown off one of the wooden picnic tables on the edge of the car park.
She knew these clifftops well; there was not a dip or a curve or a brave bent shrub or hardy perennial that she wasn’t familiar with.
She could see the smallest changes, the shift in seasons, the tiniest soft green shoots.
For when most people were standing on the edge, looking out to sea, taking photographs of either themselves or each other, Pat was scouring the ground, picker poised, looking for litter.
One spot. Two entirely different perspectives.
‘Do you think there might be a serial killer on the loose?’ asked Prichard.
‘I doubt it,’ said Pat. ‘This feels more personal than compulsive somehow. And we’ve only got one murder.’
‘But serial killers have to start somewhere. Why couldn’t this be the first?’
‘From what I gather from all the true crime I’ve watched, even first kills usually show planning, fantasy, staging or some ritual or signature. This struck me as more messy and emotional. More rage than rehearsal.’
‘Still,’ Prichard frowned, ‘if you were a serial killer in Westlinke, who’d you go after first?’
Pat raised an eyebrow. ‘Tempting question. I’ve got a shortlist!’
They kept walking towards Birling Gap. Fortunately, Pat had her black bin bag in which she could deposit her collection.
Prichard trotted along at her side, reading out Korean words and phrases from his book.
As they approached one of the many memorial benches along the path, engraved with names of the much-loved departed, Pat, picking up yet another crisp packet with her picker, saw something that had been hidden behind it.
A flash of light in the grass, near the black metal foot of the bench.
‘What’s that?’ asked Prichard. He’d seen it too. ‘Another can, do you suppose?’
Pat bent down to investigate.
‘It’s a telephone,’ she said, picking it up out of the long grass. ‘Someone’s mobile.’
‘Whose do you think it is?’ Prichard whispered, hunching over and inspecting the iPhone more carefully.
‘Why are you whispering?’ Pat asked.
‘I just am,’ he whispered again. ‘How do we find out who it belongs to?’
‘Well,’ Pat said, ‘if there’s any battery left, like this.
’ She tapped the screen hard, prodding it in the middle with a rigid finger.
The phone sprang into life and a photograph appeared.
They both recoiled with surprise. ‘That’s Henry,’ declared Pat, squinting a little. ‘That’s Henry, and someone else.’
It was a grinning, happy photograph of two young, good-looking men with shiny smiles, gleaming skin and well-cut hair.
Henry was dark, with regular features, a straight nose, a healthy set of eyebrows, and immaculate teeth he probably paid a fortune for.
The other man was fairer, with thick blonde hair and pale blue eyes that stared straight out at the viewer.
He was posing, his lips pouted a little, and his look to the camera was knowing.
Henry was caught in the moment. The other man was very aware of the lens.
‘Stone the starlings,’ declared Prichard. ‘They look like they’ve stepped out of a magazine. I’d never kill myself if I was that good-looking!’
‘We both know it doesn’t work that way,’ replied Pat, ‘but yes, Henry was a handsome young man.’
‘Do you think the other one is Derek?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Do you think we should take it to the police?’
‘Why?’ Pat frowned in irritation. ‘What are they going to do?’
‘It’s evidence in the case.’
‘But there is no case.’
‘It might be illegal.’
‘What might be?’
‘Us keeping the phone, withholding evidence.’
Pat stared at Prichard, trying to look incredulous. ‘I had no idea you were such a conformist, Prich.’
But of course, she did. His picture-postcard-perfect cottage on the green was half home, half filing cabinet.
He had a whole room dedicated to die-cast models of lorries, buses, tractors and cars, dating from the late nineteenth century to the present day, posing on their original boxes in glass-fronted mahogany cabinets.
In the next room was his collection of twentieth-century studio ceramics, including a Bernard Leach and a Lucie Rie, neatly arranged on shelves in height order.
And his brewery and distillery took over the pantry, utility room and half his kitchen.
There was a place for everything and everything was in its place.
And the place for that phone in Prichard’s mind was the police station and nowhere else.
‘I don’t think anyone would mind if we took a look at it.’ Pat shrugged.
‘I don’t want to go to prison.’ Prichard threw one end of his scarf over his shoulder.
‘Prison? You won’t.’ She tapped the screen. It went to face ID. She flashed the screen at Prichard.
‘What are you doing? My face is never going to open that! Those two are young and handsome and half my age!’
‘Password?’ Pat looked up from the phone. ‘What are the most common passwords, do you think?’
Prichard puffed out his cheeks. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘I can tell you the most obvious three, off the top of my head,’ said Pat. ‘123456,’ she tapped. ‘Nope. The next one is 111111. No, that’s not it. 000000. Damn, we’re locked out for five minutes. What’s yours?’
‘Mine’s quite hard, actually …’ Prichard paused. ‘121212.’
‘That’s about the fourth most popular password.’
‘Is it?’ He sounded disappointed. ‘I thought it had whimsy. I also thought people preferred dates like 1966. You know, when we last won the World Cup, that sort of thing.’
‘Or their date of birth,’ said Pat slowly. ‘Let’s go! Back to the house.’
‘Can’t we take it straight to the police?’
‘What? Now?’
He nodded.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Prichard,’ snapped Pat, whipping out her damp swimming costume from her pocket and waving it at him. ‘I’m not wearing any pants, and I refuse to go to the police station stark bollock naked.’