37

The call came through at 8am. A man walking his dog had seen something strange on the coastal path just outside Capel-le-Ferne and phoned it in. The duty sergeant seeing PC Bourke trying to avoid his eyes, barked, ‘Bourke!’ He waited until the man raised his head to look at him before saying in a more controlled voice, ‘Go and find out what this guy is talking about. He won’t say anything other than “It’s strange”. He’s waiting for you in the coastal path car park outside town.’

PC Miller hid a grin as Bourke scowled. They’d been sitting around since they came on shift an hour before, Bourke citing paperwork every time Miller said they should go and see what was happening in the world. It would be good to get out and find out what had concerned the man. Something strange could be anything. Recently, she’d been called out for a dead animal that was frightening children and for obscene and offensive graffiti scrawled across the noticeboards along the cliff path.

Bourke was probably the laziest officer she’d ever had the misfortune to work with in her short year as a police constable. She listened to him grumble all the way to the car where he insisted, as usual, on doing the driving. It didn’t bother her, she much preferred to sit looking out the window at the scenery, this part of the country still being new to her. Not that there was much to see that morning, the heavy cloud hiding the sun, slowing the daybreak. At least, she thought, the rain had stopped and the wind had died down to a gentle breeze.

Ten minutes later, they pulled into the car park, seeing the man waving frantically as if they, for some reason, were going to pass him by. Bourke pulled over and stopped beside him.

‘Mr Rumsey?’ Miller said, getting out. She knew Bourke would stay in his seat unless she needed him, which suited her just fine.

The man who stood waiting was trying to control a large dog straining at the leash, tongue lolling, breath coming in large odorous pants, slobber hanging from the corners of its wide mouth. ‘Yes, that’s me,’ Rumsey said and indicated the path just behind. ‘It’s not far, shall I show you?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind, sir,’ Miller said politely and fell into step beside him, steering clear of the dog. Not that she minded dogs, but she wasn’t keen on slobber. Rumsey, she was glad to see, was right about the distance. It was only a few hundred yards from the car park. She stopped him with a raised hand as he pointed towards something unidentifiable a few feet ahead. ‘Did you touch anything?’

‘No,’ he hurried to say. ‘I had Brandy on the leash, he was heading towards it but I pulled him away. I knew immediately there was something not right.’

Miller could see why as they moved a little closer. Just beside the path, in a small natural hollow, sat three piles of clothes. Each was tidily done, the garments folded and placed one on top of the other. Finishing off each, a pair of shoes sat neatly facing the same direction. They’d been there a while. The clothes were wet, the shoes holding a layer of rainwater. Debris had blown in to decorate the piles with dead leaves, twigs and even a crumpled crisp packet.

‘Is it okay if I go?’ Rumsey asked. ‘It’s exhausting holding Brandy like this.’

Miller saw the strain on his face that was due in some measure to the dog’s continuous attempt to get away and the knowledge that was clear in the sadness of his eyes. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said gently. ‘We will need to get a statement, if you leave my colleague your address we can come and take it later, if you’d prefer.’

With a final glance at the sad collection, Rumsey headed back to the car park, leaving her alone. Squatting down, she looked more closely at the clothes, drawing a quick breath when she noticed something odd. At first, she thought it was accidental that the piles of clothes seemed to be joined, something done perhaps by the wind. But, after examining them from each side and noting the unusual neatness, she realised a sleeve had been unfolded and extended to touch a sleeve from the next pile. Not just touching, they were knotted so that each was linked to the other. ‘Like holding hands,’ Miller muttered, standing up.

Looking down, she saw that the shoes had more than rainwater in them. Items of jewellery had been put inside, the early morning sun making what looked like a diamond ring in one shoe sparkle. Miller squatted down again. Three women. Friends.

Raising her eyes, Miller looked across to the sea where white-topped waves raced in the breeze. She’d been taught not to leap to conclusions but it seemed clear what this was. A suicide pact. Three friends had come here and had jumped. From their belongings, she could tell at least two of the women were well-to-do. Miller wondered if she’d ever discover why they did such a terrible thing.

Taking out her phone, she took a few photos. She’d send them to the detectives who would be investigating. They’d come out themselves, of course, but just in case, it was always good to have photos of what they found on arrival. Three women. Miller wondered again what their story was, what had driven them to such a sad end. There was only one car in the car park; she guessed that belonged to one of them. It would give the investigators a head start in identifying who they were. She was relieved it wasn’t her job to notify family and friends.

She stood, the wind picking up once more to toss her short hair and howl in her ears. Brushing the hair from her eyes, she took a last look at the clothes before walking away, turning back with wide eyes as she heard a sibilant whisper that seemed to drift on the wind. She wasn’t a woman given to flights of fancy but, later, she would tell her partner that she was sure the word she’d heard hissed was lies.