Eye Contact (6 page)

Perfect.

He drove cautiously under the railway bridge. Nobody saw him turn left and join the main road, keeping his speed just under the 50 mph limit. He came to the junction – a signpost pointed left to Severn Beach – but he went straight on, following the road inland, passing over the motorway and accelerating as he came to the dual carriageway. In minutes, he had reached the roundabout where he joined the M48, one anonymous car disappearing into the relentless flow of traffic from the Severn Bridge.

It was a little after ten when he arrived back at home. He’d changed the number plates as soon as he left the motorway – emerging from a quiet country lane with his own registration again – but he was tired and in no mood to rush the rest of the clean-up. He had the whole day to dispose of the clothes in one of the charity recycling bins outside the local supermarket, to drop the wristwatch into the river and to stuff the refuse sacks into a lay-by rubbish bin. Right now he wanted sleep.

His eyes had grown heavy, and the mood of elation that normally carried him for days and weeks was already starting to ebb away. He’d started to wonder about it as he’d driven back through Devizes and on along the winding road that led back to Salisbury. Somehow, everything had been just a little too straightforward, had happened just a little too quickly for him. So much of the reward came from the scale of the challenge, but this time? This had been one of the simplest yet. He felt a gnawing sense of dissatisfaction that began to trouble him, but he didn’t want to think about it now.

Get some sleep . . .

Perhaps it
was
just lack of sleep – he knew he could be irritable when he was tired. Better that than the alternative – that it
had
been too easy. Damn, what a waste that would have been . . .

Feeling unsettled, he went upstairs and checked his phone. Kim hadn’t called yet, which was good. He lay down on the bed, staring up with unseeing eyes before drifting into a troubled sleep.

Derek eased the front door shut behind him, not wanting to wake anyone. He felt the soft click of the lock and wearily turned to face the still-sleeping street. Toby was wagging his tail and pulling at the lead, eager as always. Derek yawned.

He felt the warmth evaporating from his anorak as he stepped out of the porch. Hunching his shoulders against the grey morning, he let the excited Labrador drag him down the path. They walked as they did most Sundays, down to the end of the street, bearing right onto Station Road. It was getting light when he climbed the steep tarmac slope to the footpath.

The wind battered him as soon as he reached the top, whipping his hood against the side of his face, finding a way up the back of his anorak while he stooped to let the dog off its lead, struggling with the catch.

He stood up stiffly and watched as Toby bounded away, down onto the beach, then turned his face into the wind to gaze out at the Second Severn Crossing, a snaking ribbon of lights cast across the cold grey water. Tiny vehicles crawled along it, high above the dark waves, their noise lost in the gale.

Eyes watering from the cold, he dug his hands deep into his pockets, turning away from the bridge to make his way along the promenade to the beach. The wind was less violent in the shadow of the sea wall, and Derek could now hear the crunch of his shoes on the shingle. In the distance Toby started barking.

Sheltered beneath the wall, Derek took out a cigarette. It took him a moment to light it, but he relished the first drag of smoke, his small compensation for these early walks.

Toby was still barking.

Frowning, Derek started to pick his way carefully down the beach, skirting the dark patches of mud and debris as he followed the sound towards a broad bank of reeds.

‘Toby?’ he called out, irritated. ‘Toby!’ But a sudden gust stole his voice away from him.

What had got the stupid dog in such a state this morning?

He paused for a moment, reluctant to get his shoes too muddy.

‘Toby! Come here!’

But it was no good. Bracing himself against the relentless wind, he moved closer. The wet stones became more treacherous as he approached the water’s edge and he had to watch where he was putting his feet.

Only when he was a few yards away did he look up to see what Toby had found.

She was dead – had to be, lying face down in the mud. The white T-shirt was soaked through, and water glistened on the back of her legs below her blue shorts. He hesitated, uncertain whether to run for help or to check her pulse and make sure. Taking a step forward, he wavered for a moment, then gingerly reached down, nervous fingers hovering over her pale wrist. A flutter of panic rose in him as he touched her cold, stiff flesh, and he jerked his hand back violently, almost losing his footing as he retreated from the body. She was definitely dead.

He stood for a moment, trying to gather himself, trying to tear his eyes away from the sprawling limbs, the bedraggled ponytail, the sodden running shoes . . .

Why the hell had he touched her? He cursed his stupidity. Mustn’t touch anything – everybody knew that! And he’d been walking all around, leaving footprints in the mud!

Breathing fast, he turned and stumbled back up the beach. He was halfway to the sea wall before he remembered the mobile phone in his pocket and, hands shaking, dialled 999.

He didn’t know how long he’d been waiting there before the first police car appeared, a sleek BMW that raced down Station Road. It pulled over beside him at the approach to the beach, the flashing lights throwing shivers of blue across the walls of the nearby houses. Two officers – a serious-looking woman and a tall man – got out.

‘Mr Wells?’ the female officer asked him.

‘Yes.’ Derek went over to them. ‘It was me who called you . . .’

‘I’m PC Firth and this is PC Gregg. Could you show us what you found, please?’

They made their way up over the promenade. Derek tied Toby’s lead to the railings at the base of the slope, then led the others down to the beach. The wind was dropping now but Firth still had to raise her voice to be heard as they neared the water.

‘I need you to stay here with my colleague,’ she explained, then picked her way carefully over towards the bedraggled figure in the mud.

‘My dog found her,’ Derek said, half to himself. He found it difficult, but managed to pull his eyes away from what the female officer was doing. ‘I didn’t touch anything, except to check if she was . . .’

He paused, remembering how wrong her skin had felt. That horrible lifeless cold that he could still sense in his fingertips. He shuddered.

‘It’s okay, sir.’ PC Gregg looked past him towards the water where his colleague was coming back over to them. She shook her head grimly as she approached, then turned to Derek.

‘Mr Wells, I’m going to ask you to go back to the car with PC Gregg . . .’ She caught his expression of panic and quickly added, ‘It’s very cold out here and we don’t want you freezing. I think it’s best that we get you off this beach, then once the other officers arrive we can see about getting you a cup of tea and having a chat. All right?’

Derek nodded numbly, and took one last look in the direction of the body before allowing himself to be led back up the beach. As he trudged over the shingle slope he wondered who she was.

‘Okay.’ Firth pressed the phone to her ear, turning to shield it from the wind. ‘How long do we have?’

She beckoned to the other figures making their way down the beach.

‘Okay, thanks for that.’ She finished her call and walked over to meet the three approaching officers.

‘What’s it look like, Sue?’ one of the younger constables asked.

‘Like a dead woman, Josh.’ She sighed, then addressed them all. ‘Body seems to have been here for a while – maybe a day – but I’ve just spoken to Control and they reckon the tide is on its way out. That probably gives us six hours so we’ll need to get a move on.’

She gestured towards the body behind her. ‘Let’s get the immediate area taped off for starters. There’s been enough people through the scene already – we don’t need any more.’

She turned and indicated the sea wall, and the line of houses beyond.

‘And we’ll want someone up there to keep people off the beach.’

Her phone started ringing and she turned away to answer it.

‘PC Firth?’ She listened for a moment and nodded. ‘Okay, sir . . . yes. See you when you get here.’

She stared at the handset, her expression softening for a moment, then turned back to the others.

‘One of you tell Gregg to keep the dog walker here. The DI’s on his way.’

Plumes of steam billowed up from the steel chimneys, pale against the dark sky, to drift out across the Severn. Detective Inspector Graham Harland scowled at the blighted landscape as he drove; the towering chemical works, the wretched structures choked with pollution and rust. Everything along this road was as bleak and joyless as he was.

He indicated left at the sign for Severn Beach and threaded his way through the village, past the miserable caravan park and on to the end of Station Road, where the other cars were waiting. There was a space beside the wire-mesh fence of a small utility building and he nosed into it, parking in front of the padlocked gates.

Serious eyes stared back at him as he caught an unwelcome sight of his reflection in the rear-view mirror. Physically it was the same, good-looking face – high cheekbones, angular jaw – but overshadowed by experience. Lines around the straight mouth that had once been laughter lines, dark hair with a chipped-in fringe, cropped short at the sides to hide the first traces of grey. The same face, just a different person staring out from behind it.

He switched off the engine and leaned slowly back in his seat, listening to the bluster of the wind outside. His thumb gently turned the plain gold wedding ring that he still wore – that he would always wear – as he sat gazing out at the road.

Such a godforsaken place. The only silver lining was that Sergeant Pope wouldn’t be here. Taking comfort in that thought, he got out, grabbed a heavy overcoat from the back seat and made his way towards the promenade, a tall, gaunt figure, shoulders hunched against the cold.

The wind hit him as he reached the top of the slope. He gazed out at the broad, flat expanse of the beach, the yellow jackets of the officers working further down where an area had been cordoned off, and the restless grey water beyond. How he hated this place.

Turning left along the sea wall, he approached the young PC who stood shivering at the end of the path.

‘Morning, Josh.’

‘Morning, sir.’

‘Is Firth still down there?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And the witness?’

‘PC Gregg has him in the area car.’

‘Okay.’ Harland yawned. ‘Thanks.’

He trudged down onto the beach and walked slowly across the rough grass, his eyes routinely scanning the ground for anything significant, but there were only bleached crisp packets and old plastic bottles. What a dismal place for anyone to finish up. A ragged line of seaweed and other debris marked the upper reach of recent tides and he stepped over it carefully, leaving the grass behind as his shoes crunched across the shingle. The breeze was getting stronger again as he approached the fluttering tape line and he waved to PC Firth as she hurried over to meet him. Her round face was tense, and the wind had teased strands of her dark hair out from under her hat.

‘Morning, sir.’

‘Morning,’ he nodded. ‘Been here long, have you?’

‘Not long, no, sir,’ she replied. ‘You were quick.’

‘Got the call on my way in.’ He shrugged. ‘Anything interesting?’

‘We haven’t touched the body yet.’ Firth indicated the area behind her. ‘Control says the tide’ll be in again by midday so we’ve just tried to contain things until the SOCOs get here.’

‘But it looks like a strangulation?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Firth agreed. ‘Can’t see much more without moving her, but there’s definitely some nasty-looking bruising around the neck.’

‘No sign of a rope or anything?’ Harland asked.

‘Not yet,’ Firth frowned, ‘but I actually thought it looked more like—’

She raised her hands to her own throat in a choking motion.

‘Okay,’ Harland nodded thoughtfully. ‘Any idea how long the body’s been on the beach?’

‘Hard to say, but she seems to be totally stiff. That makes it twelve to eighteen hours or more?’

‘Something like that.’

Harland turned and studied the high-water line behind him, then gestured to the taped-off area.

‘If it’s eighteen hours that means we’ve had two full tides – more if she’s been dead longer . . .’

He looked out at the distant waves that swept along the side of the estuary, waves that could easily move a body or wash a crime scene clean.

‘So, did you want to come and have a look?’ Firth asked.

She lifted the tape and Harland stooped under it, treading carefully as the ground became more slippery. They made their way down towards the water until they could see the body, lying between several large clumps of reeds.

Harland stepped slowly, studying the ground, then paused.

‘These are your footprints?’ he asked, indicating the tracks that led over to the dead woman.

‘Yes, just mine and the dog walker’s as far as I could see.’ PC Firth indicated the prints in the mud. ‘I tried to follow alongside his tracks when I went to check the body – did my best not to disturb the ground.’

Harland nodded thoughtfully, then picked his way over to the corpse, carefully stepping in Firth’s footprints. He quickly noted the runner’s clothing and the ugly marks on the side of the neck, but his eye was drawn to the smooth pattern of the mud that had swirled around the head and feet, partly submerging them. The pose of the limbs looked odd too – not quite the same as other bodies he remembered seeing washed up on beaches.

‘Firth?’ he called.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Look at the way the mud’s banked up smoothly against the side of her head, and here around her shoes.’ He crouched down and studied the undisturbed silt. ‘There’s a chance this is where it happened.’