Into the Water(11)

‘Her name is Danielle Abbott,’ Townsend said, his voice slightly raised. ‘She lives locally. She’s a writer and photographer, quite successful. She has a daughter, fifteen years old. So no, in answer to your question, I don’t think it’s likely that she jumped.’

We went up to the cliff together. You follow the path from the little beach along the side of the pool until it veers right, through a clump of trees, then it’s a steep climb up the hill to the top of the ridge. The path was muddy in places – I could see where boots had slipped and skidded, erasing the traces of footprints laid before. At the top, the path turns sharply left and, emerging from the trees, leads right to the edge of a cliff. My stomach lurched.

‘Jesus.’

Townsend glanced back over his shoulder. He looked almost amused. ‘Scared of heights?’

‘Perfectly reasonable fear of putting a foot wrong and falling to my death,’ I said. ‘You’d think they’d put a barrier up or something, wouldn’t you? Not exactly safe, is it?’

The DI didn’t answer, just continued on, walking purposefully towards the cliff edge. I followed, pressing myself against the gorse bushes to avoid looking over the sheer face to the water below.

The science officer – pale-faced and hairy, as they always seem to be – had little in the way of good news.

‘No blood, no weapon, no obvious sign of a struggle,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Not even much in the way of fresh litter. Her camera’s damaged though. And there’s no SD card.’

‘Her camera?’

Hairy turned to me. ‘Would you believe it? She set up a motion-activated camera as part of this project she was working on.’

‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘To film people up here … to see what they get up to? You get some weirdos hanging around sometimes, you know, because of the whole history of the place. Or maybe she wanted to catch a jumper in the act …’ He grimaced.

‘Christ. And someone’s damaged her camera? Well, that’s … inconvenient.’

He nodded.

Townsend sighed, folding his arms across his chest. ‘Indeed. Although it doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Her equipment’s been vandalized before. Her project had its detractors locally. In fact,’ he took a couple of steps closer to the edge of the cliff and I felt my head swim, ‘I’m not even sure she replaced the camera after the last time.’ He peered over the edge. ‘There is another one, isn’t there? Fixed somewhere below. Anything on that?’

‘Yeah, it looks intact. We’re going to bring it in, but …’

‘It won’t show anything.’

Hairy shrugged again. ‘Might show her going in, but it won’t tell us what happened up here.’

More than twenty-four hours had passed since then, and we seemed no closer to finding out what really had happened up there. Nel Abbott’s phone hadn’t shown up, which was odd, although perhaps not quite odd enough. If she’d jumped, there was a chance she might have disposed of it first. If she’d fallen, it might still be in the water somewhere, it might have sunk down into the mud or been washed away. If she was pushed, of course, whoever pushed her might have taken it off her first, but given the lack of any sign of a struggle up on the cliff, it didn’t seem likely that someone had wrested it away from her.

I got lost on the way back from taking Jules (NOT Julia, apparently) to do the ID at the hospital. I dropped her back at the Mill House and I thought I was heading back towards the station when I found that I wasn’t: after I crossed the bridge I’d somehow swung round and found myself back at the river again. Like I said, whichever way you turn. In any case, I had my phone out, trying to figure out where I was supposed to be going, when I spotted a group of girls walking over the bridge. Lena, a head taller than the others, broke away from them.

I abandoned the car and went after her. There was something I wanted to ask her, something her aunt had mentioned, but before I could reach her she’d started arguing with someone – a woman, perhaps in her forties. I saw Lena grab her arm, the woman pulling away and raising her hands to her face, as though afraid of being struck. Then they separated abruptly, Lena going left and the woman straight on up the hill. I followed Lena. She refused to tell me what it was all about. She insisted there was nothing wrong, that it hadn’t been an argument at all, that it was none of my business anyway. A bravado performance, but her face was streaked with tears. I offered to see her home, but she told me to fuck off.

So I did. I drove back to the station and gave Townsend the low-down on Jules Abbott’s formal identification of the body.

In keeping with the general theme, the ID was weird. ‘She didn’t cry,’ I told the boss, and he made a kind of dipping motion with his head as though to say, Well, that’s normal. ‘It wasn’t normal,’ I insisted. ‘This wasn’t normal shock. It was really odd.’

He shifted in his seat. He was sitting behind a desk in a tiny office at the back of the station, and he seemed altogether too big for the room, as though if he stood up he might hit his head on the ceiling. ‘Odd how?’

‘It’s hard to explain, but she seemed to be talking without making any sound. And I don’t mean that kind of noiseless sobbing either. It was strange. Her lips were moving as though she was saying something … and not just saying something, but talking to someone. Having a conversation.’