LITMIR.BIZ

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I'm ringing to thank you for your help today.’ Joe Ramshore was the young detective from the beach. The one with blue eyes and a superior expression. ‘We wanted to let you know we've identified the lady you found.’

      ‘Susie Bennett?’

      ‘Oh. You've heard, then.’ He sounded put out. ‘We think we know what happened, Mrs Forest. I thought you'd like to know that the deceased—’ He coughed. ‘I mean, Susie Bennett, seems to have been alone when she died. I didn't want you to worry. It was all an unfortunate accident, or at the worse, intentional.’

      ‘Intentional?’ Samantha had said it was suicide. Libby shivered. Setting out to drown yourself in the autumn gales was a strange way to take your own life. Why not swallow a few pills, or jump off Clifton Suspension Bridge?

      The detective was still talking. ‘Well, I'm afraid she had an awful lot to drink. We think she-er-vomited and choked. The forensic examiner found traces. We couldn't see them on her clothes – the rain had washed them away. No one else involved. It must have happened the night before you found her, though it's hard to tell the time of death, what with the cold water, and so on.’

      ‘Oh.’ What an anti-climax: to die like that, so foolishly. ‘What about the ring?’

      ‘The ring?’ He sounded puzzled. ‘Oh, yes, that bit of plastic on the sand. It was just a toy ring, nothing valuable. I expect it was in one of her pockets.’

      ‘But—’ Libby broke off. No need to confess to moving the body. She compromised. ‘I just wondered why she'd have a plastic ring in her pocket.’

      ‘Oh, I see. Well, we don't know.’ The police officer's tone was measured, pedantic. ‘She wouldn't have been wearing it, would she? It's a child's ring.’

      Libby rolled her eyes. She could work that out without his help. ‘Yes, but—’

      ‘We had a look at it, but there wasn't anything we could use: no fingerprints or anything, I mean. The weather saw to that.’

      Libby insisted. ‘I meant, did Susie Bennett have a family?’

      ‘Ah, I see what you're thinking. You're wondering if she has young children.’

      Libby, exasperated, crossed her eyes and waggled her head. Good thing the police officer couldn't see her. ‘Yes.’

      ‘I can put your mind at rest on that, Mrs Forest. We don't know of any family. Of course, we're getting records over from the US, because her husband was American.’

      ‘Yes, yes I heard that. You know, from people in the town.’

      ‘Well, it's a small place. I'll let you know when the inquest comes up. The coroner will want to ask you some questions. Nothing you need worry about. It's not like going to a criminal court.’

      ‘No, well, thank you. Oh,’ Libby exclaimed.

      Yes?’

      ‘I wondered how she got there. Did you find a car, or anything?’

      The police officer sighed. ‘No, but there are buses, Mrs Forest. Exham's not that remote, you know. She was a local lady, probably came back to the place she grew up, if she wanted to end her life. That's not unusual, you know.’

      His voice was warmer now. ‘Try to put it out of your mind, Mrs Forest. I know it's upsetting, but these things do happen, I'm afraid.’

      Libby put the phone down. Too restless to go back to the spoiled meringue, she climbed the stairs to the bathroom. A hot bath might relax her.

      She tried to unwind by reading a magazine, but her mind drifted away to the image of Susie Bennett, drenched and cold, slipping sideways under the lighthouse, in dreadful slow motion. The scene played over and over in her head, like a YouTube video on a never ending loop.

      It didn't ring true. Surely, no one would choose such a place, on a stormy night, to drink alone.

      It was no good. She stepped out of the bath. How could she leave it at that? The police might be satisfied there was no foul play, but Libby wasn't. If they weren't going to try to discover the truth, she would find out for herself. Was Susie's death really an accident, a deliberate suicide, or something much worse?

      4

      Fuzzy’s Disgrace

      The early morning sun peeped, pink and coy, over the horizon, as though the past two days of storms and wind belonged to another era. Libby walked Shipley along the beach in the opposite direction from the lighthouse. She wasn't ready to repeat yesterday's disastrous trip.

      She'd tossed and turned all night, unable to forget Susie's face, the pink plastic ring, or the nagging suspicion that Susie might be a victim. She hoped the walk would clear her mind.

      A dozen fishermen, with all the time in the world, leaned against the sea wall, rods extended into an ebbing tide. They nodded, mumbling a greeting as Libby passed and George Edwards wrapped a fish in newspaper, holding it out to Libby. ‘For breakfast.’

      She took the package, stowing it safely in her backpack, hoping it wouldn't leave too pungent a smell.

      ‘How's your wife?’ She asked, wondering if she'd ever meet the woman.

      ‘On the mend. The voice is back, more's the pity. By the way,’ he called Libby back. ‘She loved the cake. Let me have a copy of your book, will you? Do for her Christmas present.’ Poor Mrs Edwards, was that going to be her only gift?

      When Libby arrived home, Fuzzy left the airing cupboard to follow her mistress into the kitchen, meowing pitifully.

      ‘Are you hungry, then?’ Libby picked her up, nuzzling the soft fur. Fuzzy allowed this display of affection for a count of three, then squirmed, squeaked and wriggled away. For some reason, she'd never taken to Libby, always preferring Trevor. Trying to please, Libby opened a can of salmon.

      Full, content and purring, Fuzzy left the house via the cat flap in the back door. She'd work off breakfast chasing the mice, frogs and birds that had made the neglected garden their home long before Libby moved in.

      ‘A wildlife garden,’ Libby explained, when Ali phoned. ‘No need to weed the borders.’ Her daughter, like Robert, had been nonplussed by Libby's crazy move from London to a quiet seaside town.

      Libby downed a second mug of tea, shrugged on a bright red trench coat guaranteed to brighten her mood, and climbed into her tiny, eleven year old Citroen, to drive to work at the bakery.

      Reversing out of the drive could be a challenge. The road she lived on wasn't exactly busy, for most traffic used the parallel main road, but it was ever-changing. Mums and Dads walked their children around the corner of the road each day, heading for the nearby primary school. Teenagers, ears plugged with headphones, materialised suddenly from behind parked vans, mouths open in amazement at finding cars on the road.

      It was too early for young people, today. They'd still be struggling awake. Libby switched on the ignition and reversed the car, hands light on the wheel, head turned to peer through the rear window.

      A flurry of barking exploded nearby, like breakfast time at the boarding kennels. Libby jumped, foot jerking on the accelerator. The vehicle lurched. She jammed on the brake, but it was too late. The rear of the car crumpled with a sickening crunch as it hit the lamp post opposite her house.

      Libby threw the door open, to find her exit blocked by a dog. It reached almost to her shoulder as it struggled on its lead, howling like a wolf. ‘Be quiet, Bear.’ The grey haired man on the other end of the lead yanked the dog back to let Libby out of the car. ‘Sit down.’

      The dog subsided, panting, saliva dribbling from its tongue. Libby slammed the door. ‘That animal should be locked up.’

      The man bent over the rear of the Citroen. ‘I'm afraid there's a dent.’

      ‘Of course there is. Your dog's a menace.’

      He

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