“Yep.”
Peering over the balustrade, Elin quickly draws back. However daunting it is looking up, looking down is worse—the sudden visual dive and plunge to the hooky spikes of rock below. The splayed, broken form of the woman’s body hits her anew from this angle.
“What do you think about the height of the balustrade?”
Leon continues dusting the glass. “Definitely low enough to go over accidentally. I’d have had something higher in place given the location of the pavilion.”
“Anything on it?”
“Yes. Unusual pattern of prints all over the other side—fingers and palm. I’m pretty sure from what the guy said that they’re hers. Apparently the glass is cleaned every night and he’ll mop up anything left in the morning. Everything points to her falling frontways, and then twisting—like she tried to hold on but lost her grip.”
Elin leans closer to the balustrade. Silvery fingerprint powder highlights the various marks covering the glass—a blotchy segment of a handprint, smeared fingerprints—but she knows it doesn’t prove anything. Those marks could result from an accidental fall as well as a push. “Did she drop anything here?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve done a quick search, but apart from the wrap”—a nod at a bagged-up piece of clothing on the floor—“nothing.”
“Where was it exactly?”
“On the grass on the outside of the balustrade, but I don’t think it necessarily lends weight to the falling idea. It might have dropped as she fell.”
Elin examines the wrap through the bag. It’s brightly patterned—a modern abstract print with bold splashes of pink and green. “You haven’t found anything else?”
“Only this . . .” He points through the balustrade. “There’s an indentation in the grass here, before the cliff drops away. Looks consistent with something fairly heavy being placed on it.”
“Heavier than the wrap?”
“Yes, and it’s in a different location anyway, a bit farther forward than where I found the wrap. Given the lack of wind or rain, it’s held. Can’t say for sure it’s from last night, but if it was over a few days ago, I think the grass would have recovered.”
“Any conclusions?”
“Not really. It’s small and square. Maybe something else she dropped on the way down. Could have got dislodged in the fall.”
“I’ll get Rachel to have a look down there.” She hesitates. “Right, I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to speak to the guy who found her.” Tugging off her suit and overshoes, Elin notices that the small crowd of guests has swollen, big enough to prompt a member of staff to shepherd them away toward the restaurant. She tags behind, then splinters off, walking toward Farrah, who is sitting beside an older man, talking quietly.
Farrah glances up. “Elin, this is Michael Zimmerman. I’ve told him you’d like to speak with him.”
Michael gives a tentative smile. Elin immediately notices his eyes. They’re striking—heavy-lidded, a pale blue that conjures images of a sky yet to deepen. She guesses he’s mid-or late sixties, and judging from the deep lines on his face and wild castaway beard, most definitely what Will would call a “sea dog”—the older soul surfers born and bred on the coast.
Taking a seat opposite, she pulls out her notebook. “Michael, I understand this isn’t easy, but I was hoping you could take us through what happened this morning. Starting with where you were before you saw her.”
He nods, picking up the cap laid beside him on the table as if to put it onto his head, then setting it back down. The peak is bleached by the sun, salt stained. “I was up around five, like I usually am, early shift. I do all the final checks, cleaningwise, of the public spaces. Can’t guarantee that the night crew hasn’t missed something, or the guests haven’t been out overnight, made a mess—” He looks up, tries to catch Farrah’s eye in shared solidarity about the unpredictable nature of guests, but she’s looking at her phone.
“What time was this?”
“Just after six. I’d finished up in the restaurant area and was walking over to the yoga pavilion. I was going up the steps when I saw a piece of clothing, the wrong side of the balustrade. Bright, you couldn’t miss it.” Michael picks up his cap again, turns it between his fingers. The gesture is oddly familiar, and Elin has a swooping sense of recognition, as if she’s seen him or perhaps someone else do it before.