The Clifftop Murders (Dorset Crime Book 2) Read online

  The Clifftop Murders

  Dorset Crime Book 2

  Rachel McLean

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Read a free novella, Deadly Origins

  Read the Dorset Crime Series

  Also by Rachel McLean: The DI Zoe Finch Series

  Chapter One

  Ameena Khan parked on a narrow lane in the quiet village of Studland and stared out into the darkness.

  It wasn’t quite dawn, the last of the streetlights not yet extinguished. She yawned and heaved herself out of the car, then went to the boot and took out her camera bag and a thick, waterproof jacket. She raised her fingers to feel the damp air. Last night’s forecast had said it would be sunny later, perfect conditions for what she was planning. She slammed the boot shut, shrugged on her coat and pulled the camera bag over her shoulder.

  Following the signs, she strode along the cliff edge towards Old Harry Rocks. Ameena stopped when she reached the headland, gazing out to sea.

  The waves were loud, crashing against the rocks below, but invisible in the dark. Out to sea, she caught the occasional glimpse of white. There was a haze in the air, the damp permeating her bones, a hint of the dawn peeking over the Isle of Wight in the east. Just enough light to keep her away from the cliff edge, to show her where it was safe to tread.

  She continued along the coastal path, knowing exactly where she would set up camp. She’d been here dozens of times before: it was her favourite photography spot. There was a patch of ground where the grass wasn’t too long, and the views were to die for.

  She reached it, stretched and yawned, and laid her jacket on the ground. The grass would be damp with dew, even without the fog in the air.

  Over to the east, the cliffs of The Needles were coming into view, sunrise approaching. It was brighter over there, not blurred by fog. With luck, there would be a perfect backdrop to her photo of Old Harry Rocks. Ameena wasn’t a professional photographer, but it had been a hobby for fifteen years.

  She’d moved to Dorset five years earlier, and discovered she could feed her passion almost everywhere she looked. Her husband Tom was only too happy to stay in bed on Sunday mornings and keep an eye on their daughters, while she dragged herself up before dawn and trudged out into the darkness. By the time she got home, he would only just be stirring, little Brandon and Daisy still snuggled up beside him in bed. They would hardly notice she’d been gone.

  But Ameena was in her happy place. Out here in the dark and the wet, staring across the sea towards a dawn that was racing her way. She took her camera out of the bag and placed it on the jacket, then folded the jacket sleeves over it. The camera was precious, she had to keep it dry. She’d screwed on the lens the night before, knowing how damaging it could be to do so in the morning mist. She hoped she’d chosen wisely.

  She peered over towards Bournemouth. The sky was reddening behind the coastline, forming a thin, bright line. She felt her heart pick up pace. Time to start firing off some test shots. She removed the lens cap and brought the camera up to her eye. With the light changing so quickly, she’d have to adjust the settings every few minutes, but that was part of the fun.

  Ameena had never been a point-and-click photographer; she liked fiddling too much for that. She enjoyed adjusting the settings, checking the light, consulting meters. Without that, what was the point?

  She took a few shots and lowered the camera to check what she’d caught. It was OK, a bit dim. Conditions would be better in about fifteen minutes, she reckoned.

  She lifted the camera to her eye again, and checked the light levels. There was a display in the viewfinder. She was using a digital camera with an inbuilt screen, so she didn’t really need the viewfinder. But putting the camera to her face brought her closer to the photo. It made her feel like she was part of the landscape. It also steadied the camera and gave her a crisper shot.

  She sensed movement behind her and hoped the wind wasn’t picking up. It had been still when she’d left the house, driving along the country lanes in silence and darkness. It spooked her sometimes, but it also made her feel alive.

  There it was again, that movement behind her. A bird, perhaps, or a small animal. Something come to watch the strange woman sitting on the cliff at dawn.

  Then she felt it. A hand on her shoulder.

  She tensed. Her camera was still up at her eye.

  “Don’t move,” said a voice.

  She relaxed; she recognised it.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  She smiled, still peering through the viewfinder. The light was changing, the dawn approaching. She needed to be left alone so she could get this shot.

  “Give me ten minutes,” she said.

  A grunt came from behind her. The hand left her shoulder and she lowered her camera to check the display.

  She needed to make more adjustments. She did what she had to, her mind focused on the task at hand. She would deal with her visitor after she’d got the perfect shot. With a little luck, she might get it printed in the local paper. No money, just the satisfaction. She didn’t need the money.

  She raised the camera, pushing it against her face to steady the shot. The hand clamped her shoulder again. She felt weight pushing onto her.

  “Please.” She frowned. “Just give me ten minutes.”

  “No,” came the reply. The grip tightened on her shoulder.

  She loosened her grip on the camera, desperate not to lose the moment. She’d been waiting for a day like this for weeks.

  “This
is important,” she said, trying to hide the exasperation in her voice. She dropped the camera as the hands moved from her shoulders to her arms, pulling them into her sides. The strap tugged at her neck.

  She turned, grunting. “Not now. Please.”

  A hand came out and slapped her across the face. She screamed and raised her fingers to her lips. Blood?

  Another slap. “Don’t ignore me.”

  “What?” she breathed. What was this about?

  Stay calm. “We can talk about this on Monday. Please, not here.” She cast around. The clifftop was deserted.

  “No,” came the reply.

  She stared back into her assailant’s eyes. How on earth had she been found up here? It was five in the morning, for God’s sake. Who else knew that she did this? The only person she talked to about it was her husband.

  Her assailant lifted her off the ground, making the camera swing out on its neck strap. She threw her hand out, trying to grab it. “Put me down!”

  But her attacker wasn’t listening. She kicked out with her legs as she felt herself being shifted towards the cliff edge. Her heart thumped in her ears. Her chest hollowed out and her stomach felt like butter.

  She could feel the chill behind her. The emptiness, the air, the waves below crashing on the rocks. It was all there beyond the void.

  “Put me down!” she cried.

  A grunt. Another slap. She screamed and managed to free one arm. She flailed out, catching skin, clammy under her fingernails. She screamed again as she felt herself tipping to one side. She threw her arms out in the other direction, trying to catch her balance, aware of how little there was behind her. Just air and space and gravity and suction.

  Her eyes widened as she stared back into her attacker’s face.

  “Wait!” she cried, the wind pulling the words out of her mouth.

  “You talked,” came the response, shouted into the wind. “You should have kept quiet.”

  A final shove, and she felt herself being hurled backwards. Gravity sucked at her as she tumbled through space.

  Finally, she screamed. Loudly, properly. A full-throated scream coming right up from her lungs, but it was too late.

  Ameena fell through the air beyond the clifftop. Seconds later, she thudded to the rocks below and the waves crashed over her. She stared lifelessly up at the sky, unaware of the birds that were already approaching.

  Chapter Two

  Lesley was woken by a quiet knock on her door. Light seeped around the edges of the curtains.

  What time is it? She lifted her head from the pillow, her brain muddy.

  The door opened and Sharon poked her head round.

  Lesley smiled. “Morning, love. You sleep OK?”

  Sharon had slept on the sofa bed downstairs. This cottage had only one usable bedroom, or at least only one room with a bed in it. The other upstairs room seemed to be used as a storeroom by the landlord. It was full of junk. Old furniture, electrical items that Lesley imagined would explode as soon as they so much as sniffed a current. Blankets and pillowcases she preferred not to touch.

  Sharon closed the door behind her and sat on the end of Lesley’s bed. “Yeah, Mum,” she said. “It was fine”.

  Lesley tried to remember what it had been like to be sixteen, and capable of sleeping anywhere. She could probably tell Sharon to sleep on the front path, and the girl would still get a good night’s kip. She, on the other hand, at the age of forty-six, needed a comfortable bed. Preferably one with a thick duvet and a supportive pillow.

  Unfortunately, this bed in her rented cottage in Wareham didn’t fit that description. The mattress was lumpy, and the bed squeaked every time she moved. She dreaded to think what it would be like if she ever brought someone home. She sat up and plumped the pillows behind her.

  “What d’you want to do today?” she asked Sharon.

  She’d been showing her daughter the sights of Dorset, anxious to be a good mum. Since she’d caught her husband Terry with his fancywoman on a trip back to Birmingham, she’d worried about being the best mum she could. Especially with her being stuck down here in Dorset for the next five months.

  “I don’t fancy doing much today, Mum,” Sharon said. “You’ve been dragging me around the county like we’re on some sort of organised tour. Can’t we just chill in the back garden?”

  Lesley looked towards the window. “Have you seen the state of my back garden?”

  The garden was tiny, about the size of a chihuahua’s nose and overgrown with weeds. The landlord had made it clear that if Lesley wanted the garden improved, it was her responsibility to do it. But today, a muggy Sunday in July, she had no inclination to do anything of the sort.

  “Why don’t I take you down to the pub in Kingston?” she asked. “We can have lunch in their garden and look at the views.”

  Sharon rolled her eyes. “More views?”

  Lesley laughed. “Well, they’re good at that down here. Not much else to make up for it.”

  “It’s OK, Mum. We can just stay here. Watch TV, read, stuff like that. You don’t have to make such an effort.”

  Lesley looked into her daughter’s eyes. Since when had she been so grown-up?

  She stroked stray hair away from Sharon’s face. “Thanks, love. But I don’t really want to stay around here all day. Do you?”

  Sharon nodded. “I just want to chill, Mum.”

  Lesley knew Sharon needed the rest. Her life was stressful right now, she’d just finished her GCSEs and her parents were splitting up. And she had the new woman at home to contend with. Julieta Villada, a visiting lecturer at Terry’s university who he’d invited to move into his home – to his and Lesley’s home – the moment he realised he no longer had to pretend to be happily married.

  She yawned. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll go out to the bakery on North Street. Get us some croissants and stuff, and then we can just sit around all morning. Chat, watch some telly, read the papers.”

  Sharon grimaced. “Papers? Who reads papers these days?”

  Lesley gave her a mock punch. “I do. So shut up.”

  “OK.” Sharon shrugged herself off the bed and headed out of the room.

  Lesley swung her feet onto the thin carpet and pulled on her dressing gown. A lazy morning would be nice. She couldn’t be bothered taking a shower. She’d just throw some clothes on, go to the shop, and then come back again.

  Her phone was ringing in the back pocket of her jeans. She pulled it out. Not work, please. Last time she’d had a weekend with Sharon, they’d been interrupted by a murder right outside Corfe Castle.

  But no, it was Elsa.

  Lesley put the phone to her ear, her body filling with warmth. “Hey.”

  “Hello, you,” Elsa replied.

  Lesley smiled. “What’re you doing?”

  “I’ve just woken up,” Elsa replied. “Missing you.”

  “Sorry.” Lesley pulled the bedroom door closed. “It’s just with Sharon…”

  “It’s OK. We’ve only been together a month and you’ve got Terry to think of.”

  “Yeah.” There was no way Lesley wanted Terry to know about her and Elsa. Their divorce was complicated enough, without bringing yet another woman into the picture.

  “So are we going to see each other today?” Elsa asked. “When does Sharon go home?”

  “She’s on the three forty train out of Bournemouth,” Lesley replied. “I can come to you after?”

  “Perfect. I’ll cook.”

  Lesley bit her bottom lip, feeling like a teenager again. “I look forward to it.”

  There was a knock on the door. “Mum?”

  Lesley muttered into the phone. “Sixteen years old, and still asking me to go and get her food.”

  Elsa laughed. “You know you love it, really.”

  “I do,” Lesley replied. There’d been a time when she’d worried that Sharon would take Terry’s side, would decide she didn’t want anything to do with her mum. That time had passed.

&nb
sp; “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

  “You will.” Elsa hung up.

  Lesley plunged the phone into the back pocket of her jeans and headed downstairs.

  Right, she thought to herself. Bread, newspapers, lazy day.

  Her phone rang again. She sighed as she lifted it to her ear.

  “You forgot something?”

  “Err… sorry?”

  “Dennis.” The anticipation Lesley had been feeling left her. DS Frampton would only be phoning for one reason, on a Sunday. “What’s happened?”

  Chapter Three

  It felt like the walk to the crime scene would never end. It was late morning, the sun was high overhead, and the sky was so blue it was almost white. At least Lesley had taken the precaution of wearing sensible boots this time, not her court shoes. She’d gone into Dorchester after wrapping up the Archie Weatherton case and bought some low-heeled leather boots and was now wearing them under her jeans. No suit today: even Lesley didn’t wear a suit on a Sunday.