CHAPTER 14 #2
Despite the stiff breeze and the gunmetal sky, the platform at Birling Gap was, as usual, teeming with tourists lining up for their close-ups.
Pat stood in the car park, hands on her hips, bracing herself for the litany of ‘sorry’ and ‘excuse me’ she was about to come out with on her way down the steps to the beach.
But she suddenly found her attention drawn to the tall white column of Fin du Monde.
Henry had checked in expecting a romantic make-up night with Derek.
Perhaps he’d left something behind other than his supposed suicide note.
Perhaps there was something the police had missed.
If they’d even bothered to look around his room in the first place.
Maybe it was worth having a conversation with the owner.
As she turned to walk up the coastal path towards the lighthouse, she spotted someone familiar sitting alone at one of the wooden municipal picnic tables, tucking into what appeared to be a cream tea.
Scone. Jam. Cream. And a small stainless-steel teapot sitting next to a thick white cup and saucer.
‘PC Footer?’ she said, approaching the table. ‘How unexpected to see you out here.’
‘I’m on a break,’ he replied defensively, dabbing the corners of his moist mouth with his paper serviette.
‘It’s one of those things, isn’t it?’ declared Pat with a jovial laugh. ‘You live in an area for years never seeing someone, and after you’re introduced, you bump into them all the time! Mind if I sit down?’ She straddled the wooden bench that was joined to the table. ‘How are you? How are things?’
‘Good,’ he nodded, taking a sip of his pale, milky tea. ‘No more news of your client’s suicide, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘I was just on my way to Fin du Monde, to ask the owners if they can remember anything.’
‘Right.’ He nodded before sinking his teeth into his jammy, creamy scone. A small blob of jam gleamed on the tip of his nose. He paused and munched and ruminated. ‘I could come with you if you like?’
‘Really? Are you sure? I don’t want to put you out. But that would be very kind,’ replied Pat.
‘Not in an official capacity, mind,’ he added quickly. ‘But, you know, if they see the uniform, they’re more likely to answer questions.’ He took another bite of his scone and made as if to stand up.
‘Take your time,’ said Pat, her hand reaching across the table and touching his. ‘You should enjoy your tea. It looks delicious.’
She watched as Barry finished off his scone and ran his soft finger around the edge of the white plate to clear it of the last vestiges of cream and jam.
Then they set off together along the coast towards the old lighthouse.
While Pat picked litter off the path, she threw out a few general questions about how Barry was feeling, how DS Stevens had reacted to Pat being in the police station and how she hoped he hadn’t got into any trouble.
Apparently not. He had told DS Stevens he was just trying to prove it was suicide, and she had bought that.
She was keen to keep the matter quiet. ‘Don’t rock the boat,’ she’d told him.
The case was closed. No one wanted any feathers ruffled.
‘I mean, he fits the profile,’ Barry went on, huffing and puffing along the path.
‘Thirty-three years old. Single. A bloke. She seems happy with all of that.’ He bent forward, his hands on his thighs, to catch his breath.
For a man in his twenties, he was not nimble on his feet.
Pat didn’t fancy his chances in pursuing any fleeing criminals, even arthritic ones with Zimmer frames.
A sheen of sweat shone on his smooth top lip.
‘Shall we?’ He nodded towards the lighthouse.
Arriving at the door to the Airbnb, it suddenly occurred to Pat that there might not be anyone there.
Drilled into the side of the building was a row of miniature metal key safes, the bane of all historical sites everywhere, from Barcelona to Budapest. Every doorway was now peppered with these little metal boxes, accessible night and day by the traipsing tourist trundling a wheelie suitcase through cobbled streets, their nose in their mobile, trying to find the correct code.
She rang the main bell. It took seemingly an age for someone to answer. There was a shuffling and a clicking of locks, and the door opened.
‘Hello? Can I help you?’
A smiling woman with neat blonde swingy hair stood in the doorway. She glanced from Pat to Barry and Barry to Pat. A flicker of confusion briefly bothered her face, but she managed to cover it quickly with a nice, bland, inclusive service-industry smile. ‘Have you booked? A double with a sea view?’
PC Footer convulsed with embarrassment. His ears turned puce as he choked, coughed, guffawed. ‘No. No. No!’ he blurted, waving both hands in front of him in abject terror, like he was about have all his teeth extracted at once. ‘It’s nothing like that!’
Definitely a virgin, thought Pat.
‘Thank you,’ she smiled. ‘Not today. We’re actually here to ask a few questions about a friend.’
‘Oh, what sort of questions?’ asked the landlady. ‘This is a discreet place.’
‘Of course,’ nodded Pat. ‘I understand. A friend of mine, Henry Clayton, booked in here ten days ago.’
‘The young lad who committed suicide?’
‘Died by suicide, yes, that’s the one,’ replied PC Footer, his cheeks still scarlet with embarrassment. ‘This was the last place he was seen alive.’
‘But you’ve been here already, asking questions.’ The landlady looked at Footer. ‘You came with Amanda. DS Stevens, your boss.’
‘I did,’ agreed Barry.
‘But I was just wondering if I could have a look around and see where my friend stayed.’ Pat pushed forward. ‘I’m Pat.’ She put her hand out.
‘Grace,’ replied the landlady.
‘Do you mind, Grace, only it would make the world of difference to me.’
‘Of course, of course. I’m sorry for your loss,’ Grace added quickly. ‘His suite is empty today anyway. It’s been cleaned since he left with his friend, but you’re welcome to take a look.’
‘His friend?’ Pat paused on the threshold. ‘The handsome Derek, with blonde hair and bright blue eyes?’
‘Oh? I didn’t catch his name, and I’m not sure about the blue eyes or the blonde hair, to be honest.’
‘The chap who made the booking?’
‘Mr Clayton made the booking,’ corrected Grace. ‘His credit card paid for it all. I’ve told the police all this already.’
‘But his friend, the chap he was staying here with, was blonde with blue eyes?’
‘As I said, I’m not too sure about that.
But then I can’t really remember, I was in a hurry to get home.
Once you’ve got your key, I don’t really see you again, you see.
Sometimes if you arrive late, I don’t see you at all.
That’s the point with the key safes. I do try mostly to meet the guests, give them a feel for the area, some tips.
But it was about five p.m., and that’s normally when I go home.
’ She shrugged. ‘The room is on the second floor, if you want to take a look. It’s open. ’
‘Do you have any CCTV?’ asked Pat, as she walked towards the spiral staircase.
‘Amanda asked the same question.’ Grace smiled.
‘Do you know DS Stevens?’ asked Pat.
‘Not really.’ Grace shook her head. ‘We’ve met a few times.
I told her that unfortunately the Ring camera’s not working.
I keep asking my husband to fix it and he keeps saying he will, and he keeps not doing it.
But that’s husbands for you, isn’t it?’ She gave a nervous laugh. ‘Full of promises they can’t keep.’
‘Yes. Indeed.’ Pat nodded. ‘Husbands!’ she said, echoing Grace’s laugh. Easier always to agree when someone was doing you a favour. She smiled. ‘PC Footer?’ He looked at her. ‘Are you coming?’
Pat and Barry wandered around the neat bedroom on the second floor, with its double bed with a leather padded headboard, two leather chairs and a bricked-up fireplace.
There was an ensuite galley shower and bathroom, decorated along nautical lines, and views out onto the new lighthouse, lower down the cliff at Beachy Head.
‘I thought the room would be round,’ said PC Footer. ‘Like a lighthouse.’
‘Did you not come in here before?’ asked Pat.
‘No, the boss did the search. I waited outside.’
‘And she was the one who found the suicide note?’
‘On the desk over there.’ He pointed.
‘You can see where the paper came from.’ Pat looked down at a white pad pushed up against the wall. ‘But not the pen.’ She picked up a blue and white plastic biro with a jaunty yellow flag on the side and clicked the end. ‘This one has black ink.’
‘Well, she found it here.’ Barry nodded.
Back downstairs, Pat and Barry found Grace waiting for them in the corridor, sitting in a small bucket seat next to a slim occasional table.
‘Everything OK?’ she asked. ‘Did you find anything useful?’
‘Not really,’ replied PC Footer.
‘I didn’t think so. Sorry,’ shrugged Grace. ‘He didn’t bring any luggage or anything, but that’s quite usual here.’
‘Do you rent by the hour?’ asked Pat.
‘We’re not that sort of place, Pat.’ Grace smiled tightly. ‘Our minimum stay is one night.’
‘And what’s that?’ Pat glanced at the table, on which was a leather-bound book with gilt edges, and next to it what appeared to be a marker pen.
‘It’s our visitors’ book, which we encourage our guests to sign,’ replied Grace.
‘With this?’ Pat picked up the pen and took the lid off.
‘Oh, I know.’ Grace rolled her eyes. ‘That’s another thing my husband is supposed to fix! Who wants to sign a book with a big fat red marker pen! Look.’ She opened the book. ‘No one has signed it for months. The pen is putting them off.’
‘That’s the same pen as the one used in the suicide note!’ declared PC Footer.
‘Is it?’ exclaimed Grace.
‘It is,’ confirmed Pat. ‘Except if you were going to kill yourself, I’m pretty sure that you’d use the pen that’s already in your bedroom, rather than coming downstairs to pick up a red pen, writing the note and then going back upstairs to leave it there.’
PC Footer stared at Pat as she talked, his moist lips gently ajar.
‘However, if you were running back into the lighthouse after having pushed someone off the cliff and wanted to cover your tracks, you’d grab the first thing that comes to hand, this pen.
Then you’d hurry up the stairs, tear a piece of paper off the pad on the desk and scribble the most cursory of suicide notes as quickly as you could, being careful not to leave fingerprints on the note.
Then apparently you’d return the red pen on your way out. ’
She paused for a brief moment to catch her breath.
‘Henry would never have used the red marker pen. He would have used the biro in the bedroom if he’d written a note.
He would have written in cursive, something profound, erudite, something for his mother, some sort of comfort.
The person who used the marker pen didn’t care; they were in a hurry, they weren’t sitting at a desk in an unfamiliar room while their tortured soul was being torn in two.
They were covering up a murder using the tools they had to hand.
Which were a thick red pen, a weak intellect and a poor imagination.
’ She sighed and put down the pen, replacing the lid.
‘I suppose it’s impossible to get this fingerprinted. Especially now I’ve been holding it.’
‘I would say so,’ agreed PC Footer.
‘And I suppose they let themselves into the building using the key from the key safe?’ asked Pat.
‘Well, yes,’ nodded Grace, a shocked expression on her face. ‘It’s orange, with the words “Cabin Room” written on it,’ she added.
‘And do you have the key now?’
‘It was lost the night of the suicide.’ She paused. ‘I presumed it was in Mr Clayton’s pocket when he jumped.’
‘No keys were found in his pockets,’ said PC Footer.
‘Well then,’ said Pat. ‘It’s still with the murderer. Or disposed of after they wrote the note.’