The Marsh by Rachel McLean and Joel Hames, book 8 in the Cumbria Crime series - Chapter 1

The tides were perfect this time.

Simon Miller smiled as he parked his car by the final gate before Grune Point. He’d driven through three of them already, carefully unlocking each padlock and securing them after passing through. The track ahead was too rocky for his Honda Jazz, and it was only a ten-minute walk along Skinburness Creek to reach the Point.

At half past five in the morning, the tide was out, exposing plenty of sand and marsh for the birds. Dawn was still an hour away. In February, with the bitter wind and threatening rain, he knew he’d have the place to himself for hours.

Just Simon and the birds.

He couldn’t see them yet, but if he set up quietly, he could listen for their calls cutting through the wind and water. The barnacle geese would be here in their thousands for winter, along with bar-tailed godwits. If he was lucky, he might hear the honk of a whooper swan. No clumsy humans to frighten them away.

Except for himself, of course.

He walked in silence, embracing the cold, until he reached his chosen spot by Grune Point. When the sun rose, he’d have views across the Solway to the west, Scotland ahead, and the creeks to the east. He had everything he needed – his book, binoculars, coffee and a cheese sandwich.

For now, he closed his eyes and listened.

Light crept in earlier than he’d expected. He trained his binoculars to the left before sunrise, his face tightening with concentration.

Nothing clear yet. He realised that scanning westward into the darkness wasn’t the best strategy, so he turned north, towards the shadowy hills of the Scottish lowlands: Dumfries, Annan, Caerlaverock, Sweetheart Abbey. The names alone stirred something inside him. But darkness still cloaked the landscape there.

It wasn’t until he looked east, towards the creeks beside him, that he spotted it.

A movement above the sluggish water caught his eye – a flock of pink-footed geese heading north. As they passed over the marsh, he noticed something below them – a white flash against the brown and grey.

He blinked. Whatever it was, it was too large for a bird. And it wasn’t moving.

Probably rubbish washed up from the Irish Sea onto the Solway Coast.

Simon took a few steps closer, moving from the stone and shingle onto the soft creek mud.

It wasn’t rubbish.

It was a person.

“What’s someone doing here at this hour?” he muttered. “Some drunk sleeping it off?”

He inched forward through the mud, testing each step with his stick.

“Bloody idiots coming out here, disturbing the wildlife.” He shook his head. “They ruin everything.”

The person lay face down in a creek tributary that would have been underwater a few hours ago. Simon’s heart rate quickened as he realised what that might mean.

He hesitated, tempted to walk away and pretend he hadn’t seen anything, but his feet carried him forward.

The ground was firmer here. He crouched down and rolled the body over. It moved easily. What he saw confirmed his fears.

When he released it, the body rolled back onto its front.

He’d seen enough.

He considered his options.

The body might wash down to Skinburness, or east into Moricambe Bay and the Firth. It could be in Scotland by nightfall. No one would know he’d found it first. No police interviews, no explaining how he’d got through the gates.

But it might stay put. Some tourist or jogger would spot it soon – it was almost fully light now. They might remember seeing his car on the track, a detail that would become significant once they found a body.

That would make any police conversations far more complicated.

He pulled out his phone with a frustrated sigh, taking one last look at the horizon, hoping to spot a scaup or goldeneye. Then he hunched over his phone, jabbing at the screen before raising it to his ear.

“Hello,” he said. “My name’s Simon Miller. I’m up at Grune Point, on the Solway Coast, and I’ve just found a dead body.”