The Clifftop Murders by Rachel McLean, book 2 in the Dorset Crime series - Chapter 1

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.