“Just over this next hill,” Carter says as we approach a part of the path that looks so steep thishillought to be reclassified as a mountain. But the view when we reach the top is stunning. Forgotten memories of being here as a child ripple through my mind. A vastwhite sandy bay stretches in front of us, surrounded by a turquoise-colored sea. I pause for a moment, trying to get my breath back. I can see what looks like the wreck of a small wooden fishing boat, broken bits of wood scattered on the sand. Eventually nature always takes back what she loans us. And what we steal. It’s only ever a matter of time.
“Blackwater Bay, isn’t she stunning,” Carter says, waiting for me. “Do you need a minute to catch your breath?”
“Not at all. I’m fine,” I lie.
“Okay,” he says, but walks a little more slowly and stays by my side. “This concealed cove used to be used for smuggling. A hundred years ago, boats carrying stolen goods would sail to this spot, hidden out of sight from the village. Whatever they were carrying—gold, guns, alcohol, money—would be carried through the sand dunes under the cover of darkness to The Smuggler’s Inn. There are stories about secret tunnels in the cliffs that lead from the pub all the way up the hill to Spyglass.”
“Ever find any when you were a kid?”
“What?”
“Tunnels.”
“No, but not for lack of trying,” he says.
I’m not sure I believe him.
“They were just made-up stories that local people told for fun.”
Doesn’t sound like my kind of fun.
In fact, I’ve thought of a new slogan for the place:
Hope Falls—Where Fun Comes to Die.
We start heading downhill into the bay and as we turn a corner I spot a woman in the distance standing over what I’m guessing is the body. She’s on the other side of the beach. Carter runs ahead down the uneven coast path—which has crumbled away completely in places—and I can feel myself eroding too, getting closer to oblivion. I do my best to keep up with him, while also doing my best not to slip or trip or break my bloody neck. He reaches the woman longbefore I do, and they appear to be whispering when I finally catch up.
“This is Diana Harris. She found the body,” Carter says. The name immediately rings a bell. The art gallery owner who likes a spoonful of her dead husband’s ashes in her tea. Allegedly. And one of the last people to see Eden Fox before she disappeared.
My first impressions of Diana Harris having read the transcript of Carter’s interview don’t quite match the woman I am now meeting in real life. I imagined her to be middle-aged, tall, thin, heavily made-up, well-groomed, and well-dressed. In reality, she is shorter than me—which is saying something—looks like she has a healthy appetite, and is makeup free. She is still wearing a swimming cap on her head, Crocs on her feet, and what looks like a fancy dressing gown with the wordDRYROBEon the front.
“I was swimming, like I do every day after lunch. I didn’t see the body until I got out of the water. Must have washed up on the shore when I was in the sea. Strange though, because the tide is going out,” she says, her words rushing out of her like they couldn’t wait to escape. She glances at the body, which is lying face down a few meters away, and I follow her stare. It’s clearly a woman, but without getting closer and rolling her over it isn’t possible to identify her from here. “Sorry I moved her, I know I shouldn’t have.”
“Then why did you?”
“I was just trying to help—I have a certificate in first aid—but she’s a bit beyond that. Aren’t you going to ask me if it’s her? Eden Fox? Because I honestly can’t tell and I doubt you’ll be able to either.”
What an odd thing to say.
If it is Eden, she’s only been in the water for a few hours. Her body shouldn’t have decomposed so badly that nobody would recognize her. I ask Carter to take a witness statement, and to do it farther away from the body, while I take a closer look. I should really wait for the forensics team to arrive but my curiosity gets the better of me.I gently roll the body over and take a step back. Time stops, rewinds, and I am a little girl again, standing on the beach staring at the body of my dead mother. For a second it is her face that I see.
But it is not my mother.
The woman’s skin has a grayish tinge to it and her long blond hair is plastered to her head. Her feet are bare, but the rest of her is clothed, fairly nondescript blue jeans and a T-shirt. Her hair is the same color and length as the missing woman’s, and she looks roughly the same height, but her face is unrecognizable because she doesn’t have one. All that remains is a broken and bloody mess of skin and bone. I search for any ID or a phone inside her pockets but find nothing.
“I think her head must have hit the rocks when she jumped,” says Mrs. Harris from a few feet away, shouting to be heard over the roar of the ocean. “Smashed her skull to bits. I rolled her over to stop the seagulls eating what was left of her face. I doubt you’ll even be able to identify her with dental records, I can’t see any teeth left, can you?”
Carter comes to stand by my side and looks down at the body. Then he turns around, doubles over, and vomits on the sand. I leave him to pull himself together while I walk Mrs. Harris away from the scene and ask her a few more questions.
“You said you come to Blackwater Bay to swim at the same time every day. Do you normally see anyone else here?”
She shakes her head. “Not at this time of year, except for the Day of the Dead. There is a torchlit procession that starts in the village and ends here in Blackwater Bay on the first of November every year. Then we burn a boat on the beach, there’s a big bonfire, everyone throws their torches on top. It’s always a great night, so there are a lot of people on this beach then, but otherwise not a soul.”
I remember the annual celebration from when I was a child. The costumes, the torches, the boat on fire, the fireworks. Mum would let me stay up late and take me every year. The festival and the paradewere just a thing everyone in the village went to. I never gave much thought to why we did it. It was just something that I took for granted and thought was normal, until I moved away.
“Why burn a boat?” I ask, unable to remember the reason but soon regretting the question.
“Because in 1878 a ship calledSerendipityran aground in this bay. It was thought to be a smuggler’s ship,” she continues. “But the ship was found abandoned and nobody ever came to claim it. When the locals investigated the empty boat they found a table set for dinner. The candles were all lit, the food on the plates was still warm but untouched, and there was wine in the goblets. It was as though the whole crew were about to sit down for a meal but thenvanished,” she says, staring at me intensely. “Hope Falls is full of lost souls…”
