One Dead Wife

By Belinda Bennett

While investigating the disappearance of a holidaymaker, DI Brock Clarke makes a startling discovery. Tara Swift had been missing for almost twenty-four hours before anyone thought to raise the alarm. Even more disturbing is the fact that a stalker has made her life a misery for two decades.

Ever since she was wrongly accused of abducting a three-year-old girl, Tara has led a tormented life. Now she has vanished without a trace.

As police comb the cliffs and countryside around a holiday park in Dorset, they are convinced they will find a body. DI Clarke has told everyone to keep an open mind, but his is made up. She is dead.

With two ‘husbands’ and a lifetime of pain, poor, poor Tara is the centre of everyone’s attention.

Just how she likes it.

Buy this book if you enjoy crime fiction with plenty of twists and a hint of wit. It is perfect for anyone who likes detective stories, as well as those who own a motorhome, like camping or is a fan of park homes. Static caravans and lodges are a feature of the plot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belinda Bennett
• Release date: Jan 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463349717

Belinda Bennett

Belinda Bennett started writing fiction at primary school. Always passionate about creative writing, her talents were diverted to journalism in her late teens after both her parents died.She was diagnosed with HER2+ inflammatory breast cancer on January 23, 2020. Currently undergoing chemotherapy and targeted therapies, she is hoping to undergo surgery later this year.A fierce supporter of the underdog, Belinda supports causes that help the homeless and those whose lives have been blighted by addiction.Belinda is a former journalist, newspaper editor and freelance copywriter. She lives by the sea on the Jurassic Coast in Dorset, England.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

‘Not long now.’

Tara Swift eases a stiff neck away from the sticky black leather her head has been resting against.

‘Where are we?’ she yawns, trying to work out how long she has been asleep.

The slightly-built man sitting in the driver’s seat beside her gently eases a foot off the accelerator, allowing her to answer her own question.

‘Dorset.’

Rolling green pastures she can spy through threadbare hedgerows are a dead giveaway. Hills are so high they rise up to meet a brooding skyline with a shocking clash of hues. She instinctively knows off-white dots on emerald slopes are grazing sheep. Every now and then, her eyes fall on an isolated cottage. Tucked neatly back from the road but purposefully still in view, they wouldn’t look at all out of place on the cover of a glossy magazine, or a chocolate box. They remind her of where she is headed - to Adam’s ‘place in the country’.

She imagines it will be just as pretty. And she doesn’t have to close her eyes again to picture it. She can see a tiny wooden gate, a path serenaded by neatly-planted borders and a brightly painted door set into a backdrop of creeping ivy and pale English roses.

‘Cheer up, this will be fun,’ he assures her with a wink. ‘We’re almost at the coast.’

Tara doesn’t doubt him. Still, she is apprehensive. After all, she shouldn’t really be here. Not in this car. Not so far away from home. Not with Adam.

The lies she has told in order to steal herself away will catch up with her, she is sure - one day. And then she will pay.

‘Give me a smile,’ he pleads.

And she feels compelled to oblige, albeit reluctantly. The shrug that accompanies a flash of her pearly white teeth betrays the excitement she is careful to conceal.

For now, the anticipation of what she is going to do in the two days that lie ahead blank out what could happen after. But, deep inside, Tara knows, she just knows, she needn’t worry.

Call it a gut feeling, instinct. Whatever. She is certain.

I am never going home.

CHAPTER ONE

10 October 2017, 10.30am

Sea View Park, Whitestone

A middle-aged man with an unsightly chapped lip and sweaty palms swivels ninety degrees on a patch of wet grass as I approach. The waders loosely clinging to his skinny legs are caked in a stubby layer of viscous brownness and he looks apprehensive. Shifty.

‘He’s in there,’ he nods, a thick West Country accent accompanied by a pointer to a closed door. The rushed words tumble out of his mouth in unison with a flash of my warrant card.

‘Detective Inspector Brock Clarke’ seems to get lost in the haste. I stuff a wedge of nicotine replacement gum in my mouth and chew. Hard. It hits the spot but churns my innards at the same time.

They say this secluded part of the coast is a magnet for walkers and, even on a dark, dank day like today, I can see why. Below the curved mist that clings to the top of Mumford Mount, the valley is a rain-soaked patchwork of the rural idyll. From the rustic village inn on my left to the quaint spire of the parish church in the distance to my right, this is the English countryside in its full, unbridled glory. Lush, scenic and very twee.

It is not the first time I have answered the call when a walker has been reported missing. But it is the only time I have responded to an emergency at a holiday park in such an isolated spot. The twisty, narrow lane that forks off from the tiny village of Whitestone and meanders down to this obscure cove was a bloody nightmare to negotiate. I spent more time wedged in hedges worrying about losing a wing mirror than I did keeping a foot on the pedal. After the third motorhome scraped past, I made it down to the tiny car park, at the water’s edge, in one stint. I don’t regret exceeding the thirty miles-per-hour speed limit to make it before another aluminium monstrosity on wheels could hold me up.

With so many walkers buoying the staycation boom, most holiday parks like this have safety procedures in place. More times than not, they are so well implemented a stray guest is located before there is a need for people like me to get involved. The fact that everything has so far failed to locate this missing person indicates she is more than just lost. While tripping and falling into thick undergrowth, or down a cliff, is still a possibility, simply wandering off the beaten track is not.

Even before I turn the rusted handle in my grip, I know this missing person report is different. I’ve got a gut feeling. And it’s not good. I chew some more.

***

‘Detective Inspector Clarke.’

A face that is vaguely familiar greets me the other side of a mock stable door. He is waiting to pounce like my ex-wife’s Maine Coon. ‘Tread carefully, Sir. He’s in a state.’

Which is straight talk for ‘he’s likely to bite your head off’.

I catch him eyeing up the back of my head. Darned cowlick. It never fails to give me the ‘just got out of bed’ look. I feel compelled to give it a quick pat.

The uniformed officer, whose name temporarily escapes me, gestures to a small kitchen the other side of a jumbled stockroom. I don’t like the way his feet jostle for space in an area clearly designed for midgets. He is unusually tall and skinny I note, with pointed features and piercing blue eyes. I am cursing myself for not remembering him. I know we have met before. The familiarity of his lankiness guarantees it.

‘It’s the back of the camp site’s shop,’ he tells me.

No kidding.

I make a conscious decision to walk around a stack of damp newspapers that scream Trip Hazard. Why do people always plonk things like that on the floor? A row of red and white striped candy sticks and two plastic baskets brimming with fridge magnets hug a shelf to the right of an archway. In what must be a nanosecond, I sense seething anger.

Beyond the hump and dump chaos of novelties and sweets, I encounter engineered order. A young woman wearing a navy blue skirt that skims her knees, a crisp white blouse and a branded neck tie is fussing over a suited man sitting in a plastic chair.

‘Get this inside you. It’s…’ she is telling him before we interrupt. She doesn’t feel the need to look at us before she hastily withdraws a hand gripping a steaming paper cup.

‘This is Adam Swift, Sir. It’s his wife who has gone missing.’

I don’t have time to acknowledge the introduction.

The woman, who I instinctively know works for the holiday park, retreats to prop herself up against a metal sink dulled by layers of limescale.

I am not normally quick to pass judgement. I made too many mistakes at the start of my career to let first impressions lead me down a blind alley. But…

His pale green eyes, so narrow and close together, instantly unsettle me. He’s skinnier than I imagined. And much better dressed than your average salesman, which I am reliably informed is his occupation. The cut of the cloth screams money. He’s certainly not the sort you would expect to find staying in a bucket and spade holiday resort.

‘Thank God,’ he gasps. ‘The cavalry has arrived.’

‘Pardon?’ I have to ask as I pull up a chair that must have been here longer than the sink.

‘It’s been hopeless,’ he rants. ‘This lot - they are hopeless. Surely, it’s not that difficult to find a woman? I mean, it’s not as if she is a small child. She must have slipped or something.’

‘Slipped?’

‘Yes, what else could have happened to her? I'd go out there and find her myself if I was more familiar with the terrain. She must be beside herself with fear.'

‘And who’s she?’ I ask, making sure I stuff my warrant card right under his dripping nose. I don’t like him. Already.

‘Tara. My wife.’

The uniformed officer, who I am now certain is called Richard but don't ask me why, points out, ‘Her mobile is switched off. The park staff, approximately twenty of them, have combed the immediate surroundings. The coastguard has also conducted a preliminary search of the shoreline. They've had to ground the helicopter because of the mist. Sergeant Jones is coordinating a party of volunteers from the village. They are out searching Mumford Mount.'

The control room has already informed me that an initial look at the park’s CCTV has proved fruitless. With just two cameras, one inside the holiday park’s reception, which doubles up as a shop, and the other covering the entrance to a laundry, it was always going to be a long shot. I have asked for someone with more experience to go through it again.

It occurs to me that Adam shouldn’t be here. He needs to be at ‘home’ - in case his wife finds her way back.

‘Mr. Swift, why don't we start by you showing me where you have been staying?'

‘What’s that got to do with it? I just want you to find Tara. Is that too much to ask?’

‘And we will find her,’ I assure him. ‘However, there are some questions I am duty bound to ask you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because not