Max Sheehan had lived in Bridgelands Cross all his life and served in the police force for the best part of thirty years. He’d been a Sergeant for the last twenty, the highest rank possible for the area. He’d seen a lot during that time, more than anyone would want to see.
That might not be much compared to his colleagues in the towns and cities but, even in a place this small, there was crime. Sometimes it was committed by locals, but mostly it came from outsiders, the transient population attracted to the area by its remoteness.
Sheehan knew most people who lived here, and the woman who’d fallen from the cliff-tops during the storm was not someone he knew. An outsider. What brought her to Bridgelands Cross, and whether she was involved in anything she shouldn’t have been, was another matter. His first priority was to find out who she was. Or rather, who she’d been.
Ray Connors had come from out of town to conduct the post-mortem. Sheehan was pleased to see him. Always did a good job, did Connors, and thought nothing of working through the night to cut down on departmental expenses. There weren’t many who would do that. That was the kind of employee anyone would be happy to have.
Connors had done a good job preparing the corpse for identification. Though there was no mistaking the greying pallor of the lifeless body on the slab, now that Connors had finished his work, it was conceivable the girl had simply passed away in her sleep.
She hadn’t looked so pretty when she first washed up. The drowned never did. People threw themselves off the cliffs. It didn’t happen every day, but it happened. And when it did, it could take weeks, or sometimes months, for the bloated body to wash ashore.
Given the ferocity of the recent storm, it wouldn’t have required any suicidal urge to take someone over those cliffs. Any unfortunate on the coastal path when the storm broke could easily have been swept to their death. That just might be what happened here.
The body had washed up the morning after the storm, the grim discovery made by one of the local forestry workers while walking his dog. Jack Lacey claimed he’d followed the dog onto the shoreline while the tide was out.
Sheehan treated his story with some suspicion. Knowing Jack Lacey, he thought it more likely he’d discovered the body while scavenging for any saleable items the high winds might have liberated from their owners.
Lacey’s find had sent widespread whispers through the village. News of this scale inevitably did, especially as the dead woman’s identity remained a mystery. Sheehan could live without the tittle-tattle. He’d even fielded enquiries from out-of-town journalists, each one keen to get an exclusive on the tragedy.
Nosy parkering Sheehan called it, although this outside interest at least helped the news reach people further afield who might recognise the woman. There was no shortage of relatives fearing for the mental health of their loved ones. Sheehan couldn’t be expected to reach out to all of them on his own.
The first viewings had already taken place. This morning, a heavy-set man called Alan Neville had come to Bridgelands Cross to see the body. Mid-thirties and poker-faced, Sheehan thought he could pass as a new recruit on Eddie Hudson’s forestry crew. While the untrained observer mightn’t expect Alan Neville to display any reaction beyond a stoic yes or no on seeing the body, Sheehan’s experience led him to expect otherwise.
Standing at the head of the gurney, he’d kept his eyes on his visitor as Dr Connors pulled back the sheet covering the corpse. Alan Neville remained expressionless as he stared silently at the lifeless face before him. It was exactly the response anyone but Sheehan would have expected.
‘It’s not Sally,’ he said, his voice level. ‘It’s not Sally.’
Exhaling ecstatically, he’d looked away from the body and burst out laughing.
‘It’s not Sally,’ he repeated, his ridiculous laughter bordering on hysteria. ‘Does kinda look like her though.’
It had only taken a few seconds for his joyous relief to subside into a confused state of shock.
‘I’ve never seen a dead body before,’ Alan Neville announced to no-one in particular.
As the colour drained from his cheeks, he’d buried his face into Sheehan’s chest. The policeman wrapped an awkward arm around his shoulder as Alan Neville looked up at him with watering eyes.
‘I’ve never seen a dead body before.’
Sheehan had had his second-in-command escort him from the building.
‘Funny the things you learn,’ he said to Connors once the two were alone. ‘There was a time I’d never have thought a reserved fella like him would show any emotion at all. But soon as I saw him today, I knew there’d be tears whether he knew that girl on the table or not. I was right as well.’
Running his fingers along either side of his moustache, Sheehan shook his head.
‘It just goes to show.’
The drama with the second viewing didn’t start until their guest left the building. Sheehan hadn’t liked this upstart from the outset. A city kid with a smart mouth and a bad attitude who’d wasted no time letting Sheehan know what he thought of his patch. It was an attitude city folk often brought with them. As far as Sheehan was concerned, if city kids didn’t like Bridgelands Cross, they were welcome to get out and stay out.
Checking his watch, he saw it was nearly time for the third appointment. There had already been tears and temper tantrums. This time Sheehan wanted an identification. Then the whole sorry business could be put to bed.