Mary-Jane Riley - After She Fell - A haunting psychological thriller with a shocking twist

Kylie blew air through her pursed lips. ‘Not in here.’

Alex nodded, not quite sure what she was hoping for.

‘I did see her around the village sometimes. They’re allowed out on Friday evenings and at weekends. She ran with a crowd; you know, the sort of girls that all look the same? Well-groomed, designer clothes, long, straight blonde hair.’ Kylie poured them both another glass of wine, pushed the glass towards Alex. ‘I say she ran with them, but it was odd. She never really seemed a part of them.’

‘Was she ever with a boy. On her own?’

Kylie thought for a minute. ‘Maybe. I dunno.’ She shrugged. ‘To be honest, as I say, I can’t tell one from another. Anyway,’ she drank some of her wine, ‘you sure you aren’t some sort of private detective?’

Alex shook her head. ‘No. I really am a friend of the family. And a journalist.’ She saw Kylie’s eyebrows rise to her hairline. ‘Like I said, I just want to get to the truth,’ she said hurriedly, before Kylie thought to throw her out. ‘If there is another truth. Maybe she did throw herself off the cliff, but her mum wants to be sure, you know?’

Kylie nodded. ‘Yeah. I guess.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Anyway, my break’s done. Nice to meet you, Alex.’

‘If you hear anything or can help in any way—’ Alex took a card out of her bag. ‘My mobile number’s on here.’

‘Cheers. Best get on.’ Kylie turned to serve some more customers, and Alex wondered whether her quick dismissal was to do with the fact she was a hack and thus intrinsically untrustworthy. Still, she wanted to make a few waves, see if anyone came out of the woodwork, and a barmaid as voluble as Kylie was bound to spread the word that there was someone asking questions about Elena Devonshire’s death.

She went out into the still warm summer evening where the light was only just beginning to fail. She was restless, slightly on edge, and didn’t want to go back to the cottage straightaway. Now, she judged, would be as good a time as any to see where Elena had fallen to her death. The walk from the pub to the headland shouldn’t take her long – blimey, by the time she went back to London she would be as fit as a butcher’s dog with all this exercise.

There it was – the road that ended in a sheer drop down to the beach. A huge slab of concrete partially blocked her way but it was easily skirted around. Had that been there when Elena had come along the road? And why would she even have been on this bit of tarmac if she hated heights so much? She must have known where it led.

She walked along it. There was no barrier. Nothing to tell her of the danger at the end of the road. Only police tape that must have been put up after Elena had died. That’s what she had seen from down below. Not that a piece of flimsy tape would stop anybody from falling over the edge. She went closer to the edge and peered over. ‘Bloody hell,’ she said to herself, ‘that is one steep drop.’ Below were the large black rocks, some naturally there, others looked as though they had been brought in as sea defences. As she inched further forward, she sent small pieces of stone and tarmac skittering down to the beach below. She steadied herself. There was nothing between her and that drop. She stepped back from the edge feeling a little dizzy. How easy would it have been to take that final step? Would anything be going through your mind, or would it be a spur of the moment decision?

She looked around and there was the chalet bungalow and, further along the path, the caravan that she’d seen earlier from below, also teetering on the edge of the cliff, both looking like they had been abandoned by their owners years ago. Although, as she got closer, she could see there were signs of life in the caravan, even though two of the windows were boarded up. There was an electricity cable of sorts running from goodness knows where and into the caravan. Old and holey socks were pegged to a makeshift washing line at the side. There had even been an attempt to cultivate the patch of earth by the caravan steps. Must be Reg Gardiner’s place, she thought. Perhaps he had seen more than he had let on. If he had a criminal record he wouldn’t have been willing to talk to the coppers. She filed the thought away.

Walking past the caravan, she came to the chalet. Unloved. Uncared for, definitely empty. She hopped over a small wall, ignoring a scrawled notice that said ‘Keep Out’. On the tufty grass lay Coke and beer cans, cider bottles, empty crisp packets; the wrapping from a couple of sandwiches, broken glass. A leggy yellow rose together with a rosemary bush tried to survive in the dry earth. She went over to the chalet and pushed the door. It lurched open. Without stopping to think, Alex went inside.

It was the acrid smell that got to her first: fetid, feral, unwashed bodies. The light coming through the windows was dim, so she turned on the torch on her phone and shone it around. In the corner of the room was a frayed and crumpled sleeping bag. Several cigarette packets lay discarded on the floor together with more empty Coke cans, crisp packets, glass from the broken windows. In a small mound of blackened wood and paper there was evidence a fire had been set. A pile of newspapers teetered on the floor, which was covered with cracked and rotting lino. There was an old stool with three legs, a couple of tatty chairs, and a small table that had seen better days. A mound of plaster and rotten wood was scattered on the floor. She looked up and saw broken struts from the bedroom floor above. On the table were what looked like a couple of atrophied bread rolls and an empty can of baked beans, mould growing in the leftover tomato sauce at the bottom. Had someone actually sat at this table and eaten something? Threadbare curtains fluttered at the windows.

She tried to breathe through her mouth so the sharp, sour smell didn’t catch at the back of her throat. Somehow she didn’t think this was a meeting place for lovers. Surely even hormonal kids wanting a fumble or more would be more discerning? Especially if they came from The Drift. Ha. If they came from The Drift they would have the run of Mummy and Daddy’s second home somewhere along this coast. Not for nothing was it nicknamed Chelsea-on-Sea. Local kids, would they come to a dive like this? Unlikely. There must be better spots. What about junkies? Alex looked. Sure enough, a couple of syringes lay discarded on the floor. Being careful where she stepped, she went over to the sleeping bag, picked it up by one corner. A couple of discarded syringes rolled out and clattered onto the lino. Then a belt and a bent, discoloured teaspoon. Sadness washed over her. Drugs were everywhere. It was a popular misconception that those in the country or in nice seaside villages didn’t have a problem with drugs, that it was confined to urban jungles. So wrong. It was everywhere; many driven to it by the boredom, loneliness, and the isolation brought about by living in a place where there was nothing to do and no public transport.

The atmosphere was oppressive, bearing down on her shoulders. It was time to get out; there was nothing else for her here.

She took a last look round, shining the phone torch into dark corners, and saw something dully reflecting the light. She went over and picked it up. It was dusty and grimy so she wiped it on her jeans. An oddly shaped ring, silver probably. An eternity ring perhaps? Alex’s heart beat faster. Could this be Elena’s ring? The one Cat had said was missing? And if it was, what was it doing in a dump like this?

And who had the other one of the pair?

End of May: twenty-eight weeks before she dies

Is this how it begins? A few snatches of conversation here and a few there: conversation that feels all secret and special. It is intoxicating. Liberating.