There’s a narrow path that leads from behind Seven Hills Lodges up a steep hill. From a distance it appears to end in brambles, a natural perimeter to the site, but if you look closely it continues on up to the brow of the hill, where the pine trees wither and fade to nothing under the corrosive sea air and where only gorse and heather are able to thrive. There it joins the coastal path.
To my right, the path goes down into Bidecombe, but the left turn takes me out along the cliff top towards Morte Sands.
Halfway along is Breakneck Point, a small rectangle of land that pushes out into the sea. It’s named after Mary Sewell, a young farm girl who, pregnant and jilted by her lover, leaped to her death. She was found at the bottom of the cliffs, her neck broken. Breakneck Point, Steep Hill: our ancestors cut to the chase when it came to place names.
The cliff path splits into two. The lower path is little more than a gap in the gorse, carved out by grazing sheep. Unless you’re a local, you would assume it’s a dead end, but it winds down towards the cliff edge before looping back up to join the main path.
Whatever time of the year, there’s a constant wind that blows up the Channel, flowing over me and around me, like a playful sprite. Its welcome currents ruffle my hair and rustle my clothes, cleansing me of the smell of the dead and the despairing. By the time I reach the bottom of the path, the debris of the day has all but gone and I am restored. That’s why I come here. This place always draws me in after a difficult shift. It removes me from humanity and the ugliness that can accompany it and subsumes me in all that is natural, reminding me there is still beauty in the world.
It’s quiet at this time of day. Well, as quiet as it ever can be. Most of the seagulls have taken to their nests, but I still have the crash of the waves against the rocks below for company. Megan used to be my regular companion until her hormones intervened. Apparently exhausted by our bodyboarding antics over the weekend, she’s spent the day playing games on her phone and sleeping. Her capacity to sleep never ceases to amaze me and yet she’s always tired.
At the lowest point on the path is the only sign that the place has been touched by humans – a bench. It’s dedicated to a Rex Gordon who enjoyed the wide expanse of the Bristol Channel enough to have a seat installed in his memory so others could appreciate it, too, but it’s been long since requisitioned by Megan and I and renamed ‘our bench’.
We’ve been coming here since she was tiny. Here, we would sit and make stories up about the people who lived on the other side of the sea. If we had the energy, we would take the path on to Morte Sands and reward ourselves with an ice cream.
But I haven’t come here in search of nostalgia. The more I think about the fire at Cheryl’s, the more I’m convinced there’s been foul play. Maybe it was one of her neighbours. I wouldn’t put it past them although pouring petrol through her letterbox is more their style. Besides, there was no evidence of a break-in. Jake and I both checked. Cheryl welcomed her killer into her home. Poor Cheryl. She didn’t have much of a life and what she did have has been cruelly taken from her by someone she trusted. The worst betrayal of all. But who was it? Cheryl always gave me the impression that she had no friends or family. Was that true or just self-pity? If it was true, who did she open the door to? Surely, that deserves investigating, at the very least.
I’m still angry Holt refused to come out. First Janie and now Cheryl. Two separate murders in four days. Is that possible? This is North Devon, for God’s sake. Murders in this part of the world are a once-a-decade event, if that. Maybe I’m reading too much into this, like Lowe said. And maybe I’m not.
I’m about to leave when I spot a figure heading down the path from the direction of Morte Sands. It’s Liam, the beachside barista from the Coffee Shack, lost in his own thoughts. My presence startles him before he realizes it’s me.
‘Sorry, Ally. I didn’t expect to find anyone here.’
It seems I’m not the only one who comes here seeking peace: what troubles bring Liam here?
‘Me neither,’ I smile.
He nods at the space next to me.
‘Can I?’
‘Of course.’
He sits next to me on the bench.
‘You and Megan looked like you were really enjoying the surf this weekend.’
‘Yeah, we had fun. Makes a nice change. Things haven’t been great between us.’
‘Is that why you’re here? You guys had a row?’
‘No, not this time. I had a tough job. There was a fire on the Tarka Estate. A woman died.’
‘That’s rough. Fires are the worst.’
Liam’s palm-tree shirts and shoulder-skimming blond hair mean I often forget he was once a police officer who’s seen his fair share of misery.
‘It wasn’t the fire so much. It was the DI in Major Investigations. I told him I didn’t think it was accidental, but he refused to come out.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Bob Holt.’
Liam nods.
‘I remember him, although he wasn’t a DI when I was in the job.’
I look at Liam. Was he a mate of his? Under my careful scrutiny, he gives nothing away, but I don’t care.
‘I know he’s busy and short-handed, and his desk is stacked with cases, but he cuts corners. God knows how he ever became a DI.’
‘Like a lot of cops, he’s got there because he’s never screwed up enough, but that doesn’t make him good at his job.’ Not mates, then.
‘That’s not good enough. Cheryl, the woman who died, was an alcoholic who could barely dress herself. No one will miss her, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try our best for her, you know? It shouldn’t mean she gets a second-rate service. If she’d been the Commissioner’s daughter, we’d be all over it.’
My words become a mutual thought that sits in silence between us until Liam turns to me with a seriousness I haven’t seen before.
‘Stick to your guns, Ally. Otherwise you become like them, not giving a shit about anything other than ticking boxes. You don’t want to become that person. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself.’
We’re not talking about Cheryl any more. This comes from a different place. I’ve never asked Liam about why he left the police service, sensing it wasn’t a time in his life he wanted to dwell on. Until now.
‘Is that what happened to you?’
Leaning forward, he clasps his hands in front of him, and stares out across the sea. How much shame has it witnessed because one person couldn’t look another in the eye?
‘Yeah. A stalking case. The DI thought she was being hysterical. The bloke was just a bit besotted. It did seem harmless stuff: flowers left by her front door, poems on her car windscreen, that kind of thing. The DI told her plenty of women would be flattered by the attention, but there was something about him I didn’t trust. I told the gaffer, but he told me to drop it so I did. We had too much on as it was, and we couldn’t arrest him for being in love. A few weeks later, she phoned me late one night because she thought she saw him in her garden. I told her it was probably her imagination and that she was overreacting.’ He closes his eyes at the memory. ‘Her mum found her the next day, strangled.’
‘Christ. What happened to the guy?’
‘Killed himself. I left the job shortly after that. I’d lost sight of why I’d joined and I couldn’t forgive myself for doing nothing. Still can’t.’ Finally, he looks at me. ‘So, do me a favour, don’t let cops like Holt off the hook.’
* * *
Peter Benson is thirty-six. He still lives at home with his mum, and he’s an idiot. He spends his days riding around the town and along the trails that loop around it on his yellow mountain bike staring at women long enough for them to complain to the police about harassment. You can’t be arrested for looking, but you can be arrested for murder and Peter Benson is perfect. Almost too perfect.
He’s known Peter for years and is a regular visitor to his home ever since his mum had a diabetic seizure.
Peter is at one of his usual haunts, sitting on a bench, midway up Steep Hill in Bidecombe which offers fine views of the Bristol Channel, but more importantly fine views of the female sunbathers below. He’s not called Pervy Pete for nothing. His bike is propped up against the bench next to him. His hair is clipped at the sides, exaggerating a nest of dark brown curls on top. It looks ridiculously childish for a man of his age.
‘Hello, Peter.’
More used to people avoiding him than talking to him, Peter looks instantly guilty. He doesn’t ask why, but there’s a woman in a low-cut top sitting on a bench directly below them.
He sits down next to him.
‘How’s your mum?’
The caution in his large brown eyes with their long, feminine lashes speaks of someone whose company is never sought.
‘OK.’
Small talk only confuses Peter so he gets straight to the point. ‘Peter, do you remember I told you a few weeks back about a very pretty lady that likes you a lot?’ Peter’s forehead moulds into several different positions like he’s trying to physically squeeze the answer from his brain. It’s quite funny, but he doesn’t laugh. Peter’s been teased all his life. ‘You remember? She saw you riding your bike on the trail and thought you looked very handsome.’
Whether he remembers or not is irrelevant – the idea that a woman might be attracted to him unleashes a broad grin across the man-child’s face.
‘Yes. Yes. I remember. I like her too.’
‘That’s good because I have some news for you. She wants to meet you. Tomorrow.’
A rat-brown curl falls over Peter’s left eye, irritating him more than it does Peter, who doesn’t seem to notice.
‘Me? Tomorrow?’
‘Yes. Would you like to meet her?’
‘Yes. Yes.’
‘Good, I’ll explain where in a moment, but first, there’s something you need to understand. It’s very, very important.’
‘Yes. Yes.’
Peter’s nods are vigorous enough to make him think he either really doesn’t care or doesn’t understand. Either way, it doesn’t matter, but he has to take it slowly.
‘You know I’m a paramedic. Well, the lady is a patient of mine. Like your mum.’
‘My mum?’
Peter thinks he’s comparing the woman to his mother.
‘She’s not like your mum. She’s much younger, but she’s a patient that I look after.’
‘You look after my mum,’ he replies.
‘Yes, that’s right. I’m not allowed to tell people who I visit about other people I visit because it’s private.’
‘Like a secret.’
He’s catching on.
‘Yes, like a secret.’
But the thought bothers him.
‘It’s bad to keep secrets. My mum says so.’
‘Some secrets, yes, but not all because it’s wrong to talk about people’s private business.’
He shakes his head.
‘Keeping secrets is wrong.’
This is all he needs right now, but he’s not giving up. Not on this one. When she messaged him, his heart almost exploded. He hadn’t heard from her in a long while and was sure she’d gone cold on him and then, bam, she contacts him out of the blue suggesting they meet tomorrow. He’d like more time, but he can’t risk it. She might disappear for good and he can’t allow that. He just needs to persuade this idiot to do as he’s told.
‘Listen to me, Peter. When this lady asked me to tell you that she wanted to be your girlfriend, I said no.’ This confuses him. It doesn’t take much. He’s meant to be his friend. Why would he say this? Friends don’t stand in the way of romance. ‘I told her, I could lose my job, but she insisted, and I just know that you two would be so good together so I agreed.’ Peter’s eager smile returns. Good old Simon made it right in the end. ‘But, Peter, you mustn’t tell anyone that I told you about this lady. I mean it. You have to pretend you met her all by yourself.’
‘Yes, yes, yes. I won’t say anything.’
He presses his thumb and forefinger together and runs them along his lips to show he’s zipped them up, but it’s not enough. He needs to be absolutely sure he won’t tell.
‘I’m serious, Peter. You can’t tell anyone. Ever. Because if you do, there will be no one to collect your mum’s medicine for her.’ He stops nodding. ‘And then what would happen to her?’
His eyes flash with panic.
‘She’ll die.’
‘Yes, Peter, she’ll die. And it will be your fault. None of us want that, do we?’
‘No, Simon.’
‘So, promise me you’ll never tell anyone. Not even your mum.’
There’s a silence. He’s very close to his mother. There’s nothing she doesn’t know about him or can’t wheedle out of him. He looks down at the young woman below us and licks his lips.
‘I promise.’
‘Excellent. If anyone ever asks, just say you met her online. Now, I’ve bought a family pack of Minstrels for you to give her as a present as I know they’re her favourites.’ Peter takes the packet and turns it in his hand, like a piece of high-end jewellery. ‘Remember, they’re for her, not you. Now, listen very carefully. I’ve arranged for you to meet her tomorrow at 3 p.m. at Three Brethren Woods.’