CHAPTER 1
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Amanda Stevens, and this is my colleague Police Constable Barry Footer,’ said the woman, lightly patting the neat brown bun at the back of her head. ‘We don’t want to take up too much of your time.’
The officers followed Pat as she strode through the wooden gate and down the garden path. They watched as she bent down, picked up the flowerpot to the right of her bright yellow front door and took out the cunningly hidden key to unlock it. She led the way into the kitchen.
The sun was pouring through the window, the radio was on, the remains of breakfast were still in the sink and the small, round pine dining table in the centre of the room was covered in files and papers.
There was a half-completed Times crossword lying next to a cup of cold coffee, an open Financial Times with some of the stocks and share prices underlined and a well-thumbed Sudoku booklet on top of it.
A black and white cat raised its head from the dining chair cushion and took in the new arrivals.
It yawned, stretched and settled down again, clearly unimpressed.
‘Tea? Coffee?’ Pat asked, switching off the radio. ‘Biscuits?’
‘Biscuits would be good,’ replied PC Footer, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
DS Stevens shot him a look, raising her heavily pencilled eyebrows. ‘I wonder if we might ask you a few questions, Doctor,’ she began, pulling out the cat’s chair. The cat stayed put and emitted a warning hiss. ‘It is a matter of sensitivity. So maybe a cup of tea might be helpful?’
What could possibly be helped by tea? Pat turned around to flick on the kettle. She looked back to find DS Stevens trying to edge the cat off its chair, but it stood its ground firmly.
‘I wouldn’t try to move him,’ she warned. ‘His bite is worse than his bark.’
‘So, you’re a psychotherapist,’ DS Stevens said, pretending not to hear Pat’s advice. She dragged a stool from under the table, sat down and nodded at PC Footer, who immediately took a seat next to her.
‘I am,’ replied Pat.
‘Good,’ said DS Stevens, looking around the kitchen.
Her eyes darted from the row of mismatched chipped mugs that hung on hooks under the white wooden units to the collection of prehistoric orange Le Creuset pots on top of the fridge, the dying African violet on the windowsill behind the sink and the cork noticeboard overloaded with curled photographs, bent postcards, fliers, tickets and wristbands from numerous plays and concerts. ‘Have you been here long?’
She was overdoing it with the small talk. Pat followed her gaze around the room. What was the woman looking for? What did she want from her? Was she about to be arrested?
‘Eight, ten years, something like that.’
‘And you moved from London to the South Downs, to Westlinke?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘You live on your own?’
‘I live with Dave.’
‘Your husband? Son?’
‘Cat.’
DS Stevens nodded curtly at PC Footer. Was he jotting all this down?
‘Dave,’ he repeated. ‘The cat. So is that eight years or ten years, would you say, living here?’ His round cheeks flushed as he looked up at Pat, his stubby pencil poised over his black notebook.
‘Nine years and two months,’ said Pat, watching him scribble away. ‘And three days,’ she added just for good measure.
‘Three?’ He looked up.
‘Three,’ she confirmed.
‘And this is where you practise?’ asked DS Stevens, gesturing to the papers on the kitchen table.
‘Oh no,’ said Pat. ‘My office is a shepherd’s hut in the garden.’ She nodded towards the window. ‘That’s where I see clients. You wouldn’t want to have them in here.’
‘No.’ DS Stevens laughed sharply. ‘I can see that!’
‘But it’s mostly on Zoom these days.’ Pat tried her best to be amiable and poised, the opposite of Stevens’ brusque, uninterested delivery. ‘People often prefer it. Zoom, that is. They don’t have to leave home.’
‘Yes, yes. Of course.’ DS Stevens offered a dry smile.
‘And I can see more people this way,’ Pat added.
‘Which brings me to this question.’ DS Stevens paused, her face suddenly very sombre indeed. ‘Do you know a Mr Henry Clayton?’
Silence hung in the air for a moment. The kettle came to a rumbling boil and clicked.
Pat poured hot water onto the tea bags, eyes fixed on the liquid as it turned dark.
‘Henry Clayton? I’m afraid I’m bound by my code of ethics. I’m not really able to tell you.’ She looked across at the round brass clock on the wall. He was due at three o’clock.
‘Ah, well. Of course we know that you know him, at least in a professional capacity.’ DS Stevens sighed before clearing her throat, her gaze now fixed on Pat. ‘I have some bad news. You might want to take a seat.’
‘I’m fine,’ replied Pat.
‘Well … I’m sorry to tell you that Mr Clayton’s body was discovered washed up on the beach this morning. On the pebbles just below Birling Gap, to be precise. It’s suspected that he died by suicide.’
‘No!’ Pat raised her voice. She pushed a mug of tea towards each of them. ‘Milk? Sugar?’
‘Yes, please,’ nodded PC Footer. ‘Both.’
‘No, that can’t be.’ Her code of ethics was very much forgotten now. ‘I’ve got a sense for this sort of thing. I did not see Henry as a danger to himself or others.’
‘And why do you say that?’ asked DS Stevens, her tone verging on the patronising. ‘Is he not the type?’
‘Type is not the right word,’ replied Pat, grabbing a tin of biscuits that sat next to the Le Creuset collection on top of the fridge.
The lid was sticky, clad with grease and dust, and the sell-by date was from the last decade, but she opened it anyway.
‘We all have the potential to commit suicide.’
‘Die by suicide,’ corrected DS Stevens.
‘Take our own lives, yes, but it is dependent on our state of mind. There is no type per se. Just as we are all capable of immense acts of bravery, love and self-sacrifice. But Henry – Mr Clayton – was not suicidal. He had expressed no suicidal thoughts whatsoever.’
‘But he was in therapy, wasn’t he?’ DS Stevens tilted her head to express sympathy. ‘So he did have some mental health issues?’ Pat watched as the detective put little quotation marks around the words ‘mental health’ with her long, ballet-slipper-pink nails.
‘That doesn’t mean he wanted to commit suicide.’
‘Die by suicide,’ DS Stevens corrected again.
Pat bit her tongue and stared at PC Footer’s dimpled hand as it dipped in and out of the sticky-lidded tin, clearly not noticing, or caring, that the biscuits he was polishing off were soft and damp and smelt very obviously stale.
In the background, DS Stevens’ voice was explaining that they’d found Henry at the bottom of the cliff, lying on his back, feet in the water, waves lapping over him.
He’d been discovered at around eight o’clock that morning by some joggers from Westlinke Running Club, who passed by that stretch of shore every day at around that time.
There was little suspicion of foul play, it being Birling Gap and all that, so close to the popular suicide spot that was Beachy Head.
Henry Clayton was not from round here, so he had obviously made the journey to the Seven Sisters area to die by suicide somewhere between low and high tide on the night of Sunday 19 April.
Pat listened with increasing annoyance and frustration.
Not that Henry was a friend, of course not.
He was a client, whom she hadn’t been working with for very long.
Six, seven weeks, maybe; she’d have to look that up in her appointment diary.
But he was a young man in his early thirties who’d had his whole life ahead of him.
He was charming, good-looking, a nice boy.
She began to feel irritated by the presence of DS Stevens in her kitchen.
She took a deep breath and tried hard to remain impassive.
Stevens was likely in her mid-thirties, bustling with efficiency and freshly washed hair.
She smelt of a cloying, heavy floral teenage perfume.
She was made up, curled eyelashes, a bit of Kardashian contouring down the nose and across the cheeks, the sort of woman who always wanted to look her best. A small solitaire diamond glimmered on her engagement finger as she picked up her mug of tea.
It was looking a little sad on its own without a wedding band.
It’d been there a while, Pat was sure of it.
‘How did you know he was a client of mine?’ She interrupted the detective mid-flow.
‘We found your business card in his wallet, with today’s date and three p.m. written on the back,’ said PC Footer.
His tongue peeked out of his soft mouth as he leafed hastily through his pad.
‘There were some other numbers jotted down there too, but we tried them and they all turned out to be taxi drivers.’
‘What I don’t understand,’ Pat said, ‘is why he was already here. He was supposed to be travelling down from London around lunchtime today and then taking a taxi directly here. He’s always been a Zoom client, but this time he wanted to meet in person.’
‘Did he now?’ DS Stevens nodded meaningfully at PC Footer. ‘Interesting. Why do you think that might be?’
‘Well, without going into too much detail, he was struggling in his relationship. And he was worried about his privacy. He thought a face-to-face session would be more secure.’
‘So he was paranoid?’ suggested Stevens, a hint of triumph in her voice.
‘No,’ Pat replied sharply. ‘He just wanted to come in person. It’s not that unusual; in fact it was common practice to see people in the flesh before the pandemic.’
‘Maybe he changed his mind; maybe he decided to just go straight to the cliffs instead. Maybe he was overwhelmed, don’t you think? Overcome?’
‘No, I don’t think. As I said, he was not in that frame of mind.’
‘Well.’ DS Stevens shrugged, patting the back of her bun again. ‘Perhaps he hadn’t told you what his true intentions were. Maybe you just hadn’t picked up on it. Maybe, professionally …’ Her voice trailed off.