Chapter 1.4

Ronny stood in the kitchen with the silent phone in his trembling hand.  

‘Any luck with the hospitals?’ asked George as he walked in from the garden

‘Luck?’ asked Ronny staring at his son as if he were a stranger ‘Just how fucking lucky do you think it’d be to find out that my wife was lying in a hospital bed? Jesus Christ you don’t have a fucking clue?’ he screamed.

‘No you’re right Dad, I don’t.  Why is it you’re so convinced that something bad has happened to her?’ shouted George

‘Statistics son, do you know how many people go missing every year? No? Well it’s over 200,000 and that’s just the ones that are reported.  I can’t begin to tell you how many people go missing and are never found.  Sure some don’t want to be found, some are running away from violent partners or abusive relationships.  Some run away because they can’t cope any more, they are up to their eyes in debt and it seems easier to run away from the problem and start again somewhere where nobody knows them.  Some people run away to be with a new lover, they leave their old lives behind and set up again with no baggage.  Do you want me to carry on?’ he yelled at his silent son.  ‘Shall I tell you about the misery that some of them leave behind?  Husband, wives, kids, who cry themselves to sleep night after night, month after month, year after fucking year. And that’s just the runways; there are others who don’t have any say in the matter.  They’re the ones who have been in an accident or worse. They’re the one’s who will never come home.’

Ronny threw the phone and poured himself a Scotch from the open bottle on the kitchen table.  Swallowing an inch of the amber liquor he looked at his son standing there with his head bowed.

‘I was a copper for too long son, I know too bloody much, that’s my trouble.  I know what can happen to people who go missing, and I’m frightened.’

Standing in the kitchen that had always been the hub of their family home, George felt like a stranger in a foreign land. Without his mother there the house seemed incomplete. She filled the house with love.  This was her domain, her place and there was no way she would leave it willingly.  The kitchen was full of memories, running in from school throwing his bag behind the door and diving into the fridge that was always kept stocked with freshly cooked ham and strong local cheese sweating gently in it’s paper wrapper.  

‘She wouldn’t leave all of this Dad.  This is her home. This is where she belongs.’ 

There was a silence between the two men that threatened to engulf them. George knew that there was only one thing left that they could do. ‘Do you think we should call the police?’

There it was, he’d said it.  The one thing that neither of them had wanted to voice.  The final admission between them, this was one problem that his Dad couldn’t solve.

Putting down his glass and picking the phone up from the table, Ronny looked at his son with a sadness that went deep into his eyes and dialled the number of his old squad in Ashford.  ‘Geoff, its Ronny Cousins, I think I need your help.’

                                                                                  ******

It was nearly midnight when Ronny closed the door behind George and suddenly the house felt cold. With only Buster for company, he walked into the lounge and switched on the electric fire. The artificial glow from the fire gave the dark room a ghostly feel, Ronny walked over to the window.  The bare branches of the old tree in the front garden swayed madly in the wind.  How many coppers, he wondered, would be out on a night like this looking for his wife?  DI Geoff Lintott had done his best to reassure his old boss that everything possible would be done to find Sandra.  They would check the hospitals again tonight and alert the patrol cars to look out for her car.  Most of the leg work would have to wait for the morning when they would check out her friends and colleagues and scan the local CCTV for any sightings of her. 

All very routine, he thought, everything by the book, but this wasn’t a routine case, this was different, this was his wife who was missing.  Grabbing his car keys Ronny ran out to his car.  Turning the heating and windscreen wipers on full, he pulled right out of his drive and retraced Sandra’s route this morning.  If she was planning to go to work she would need to have driven down Coast Drive to Dungeness and until he knew for certain otherwise, he had to presume that she’d intended to go there.

Ronny’d seen her leave for work at eight thirty as usual and Mo had told him that she had spoken to Sandra at about ten to nine, so what had happened in that 20 minutes gap.  If she had really been ill then surely she would have turned around and gone home. Nothing added up, years of experience told Ronny that something was very wrong.  He couldn’t explain it to the boys and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to.  He knew that in cases like this families wanted to cling onto any ray of hope they could, no matter how tenuous. They had to believe that their case would be the one with the happy ending.  But Ronny knew that life wasn’t like that. No matter how hard you pray, shit happens.

Peering through the rain spattered windscreen Ronny scoured the road ahead in vain for any sign of Sandra’s Ka.  The only driver mad enough to be out so late on such a foul night was the landlord from The Seahorse Inn making his way home.  Ronny knew that his sons would think that he was a fool to be prowling the streets like this but with a long night of sleeplessness ahead he knew that even this wild goose chase was better than sitting in staring at the four walls.  He wasn’t prepared to just sit and wait for something to happen, he had to be out looking himself.  

Pulling onto The Parade at Greatstone, Ronny looked over into the car park opposite the Jolly Fisherman pub and suddenly braked.  There tucked into a bay up in the corner was a dark blue Ka.  Ronny held his breath as he threw his gears into reverse and screeched into the dark car park.   He didn’t need to look at the number plate to know that this was Sandra’s car.  The RNLI sticker in the back window together with the slight crease in the offside wheel arch screamed at him as he parked up beside the empty Ka.

With the torrential rain battering his face Ronny ran around to the driver’s door and tried the handle.  As the unlocked door opened, his heart sank as he spotted Sandra’s key ring hanging from the ignition and her black leather handbag lying open on the front seat.

‘Sandra’ he screamed into the black night. ‘Sandra my love, where are you?’ 

Chapter 1.3

Shaking himself from his stupor, Ronny knew that the only way he was going to find his wife was to start at the beginning and even the most junior rookie knew that the first thing was to talk to the family and friends. Had any of them known what she’d been planning for today, had she confided with anyone, had they seen her today or even heard from her.  The longer he sat doing nothing the colder the trail would get.  But he also knew that how he asked the questions would be as important as the questions themselves.  He had to appear calm and unconcerned, the last thing he wanted to do was start some kind of panic when Sandra could walk back through the door at any time.   

‘Hi Wendy, sorry to bother you but is Sandra there?’

‘No’ his daughter in law answered hesitantly ‘I thought that she was meeting you for lunch today’

‘Yes so did I but she didn’t turn up, in fact she didn’t go to work either, apparently she phoned in sick.’

‘Sick?’ asked Wendy ‘she didn’t say anything about feeling ill when I spoke to her last night.’

‘No, she didn’t say anything to me either when she was leaving for work this morning’ said Ronny trying hard not to sound as exasperated with the situation as he felt.

‘What, she left for work and then phoned in sick?  What’s going on Ronny, where is she?’

‘If I knew that I wouldn’t be looking for her would I.’ he snapped

‘Sorry Ronny, I didn’t mean to upset you, it’s just not like Sandra to go off and not tell anyone.  Do you want me to phone George to see if he has heard from her?’

‘Yes please love, if you do that I’ll ring Kate to see if her or Martin has heard anything.’

‘What about Sandra’s friends, do you have any of their numbers.’

‘Only those she‘s written in the book and I can’t be sure how many are in there, Sandra usually phones her friends from her mobile and she took that with her.’

‘Don’t worry Ronny, I’m sure that there’s rational explanation for all this.’

Ending the call Ronny wondered how many times he was going to have to repeat the same thing over and over again.  How many different ways were there to say that his fifty three year old wife had kissed him goodbye and left for work as usual that morning.  How could he explain to people that his dependable, quiet, loyal wife had left him sitting waiting and worrying all afternoon without a word.  

Hearing the muffled whimpering of his dog long abandoned in the kitchen, Ronny reluctantly stood up and made his way down the stairs.  It was only when he switched the lights on in the gloomy hall that he realised how late it was getting.  Poor Buster must be starving he thought to himself and busying himself in the kitchen he set about filling the dog’s water and food bowls.  As Ronny bent to put the bowls on the floor Buster fell on them as if he hadn’t seen food for as week and had polished off the food before Ronny had walked across the kitchen to open the back door.

With the evening sun slowly fading behind the trees, Ronny walked out into the darkening garden. Sandra loved to be out in the garden at this time of day.  The fruit trees, she had so carefully planted when the boys were little, were catching the last of the sunlight and transforming it into spidery shadows across the well tended lawn. 

 

Ronny had never had much time for gardening, it had been his wife’s domain, her passion and even in the winter months the borders that in the summer were full of bedding plants were still full of colour from the evergreen shrubs.

Walking down the path to the small pond at the end of the garden, Ronny, hunching his shoulders against the cold, remembered back to when the boys were young and Sandra had despaired of ever having a beautiful lawn. They loved nothing more than kicking a football about and in the end she had given in and resigned herself to the fact that she would have to wait until they had left home before she have a lawn instead of the scrub grass that was more child resistant.  Sitting down on the wooden bench beside the pond Ronny wondered when all this work on the garden had happened.  How many hours had she spent tending the flower beds and sculpting out the lawn?  How had she managed to lay a path and build the greenhouse without his help? 

Not for the first time that day, Ronny wondered how much he really knew about his wife. It seemed that for so long their lives had run along parallel lines, each had their own friends, their own hobbies and their own responsibilities.  His had been work, golf with colleagues and drinks with the few close friends that had been around since his rookie days at the police college in Maidstone.  The force had been his life for as long as he could remember and even now since his retirement, he could count on the fingers of one hand the number of friends he had who weren’t associated in some way with the job.  

But what of Sandra, where all her friends the same women she had met at the boys’ school gates or had she made new ones over the years?  Apart from her part time job did she have another life that he didn’t know about, did she have any hobbies or interests that didn’t involve the family home. It frightened him to realise that he really didn’t know his wife very well at all.  Frightened and embarrassed him.

That’s the truth of it, he thought, this whole situation is just one huge embarrassment.  He was an ex-Detective Inspector for god’s sake and he couldn’t even list all his wife’s friends. 

‘What are you doing sitting out here in the dark?’

Ronny looked up with a start to see his youngest son walking down the garden.

‘I tried ringing the front door bell but there wasn’t any answer and I was getting worried that something had happened to you as well.’

‘What do you mean me as well, what’s happened, have you heard something?’

‘No Dad’ answered George as he sat down on the bench ‘I haven’t heard anything and I’m guessing that you haven’t either.’

Ronny sat with his head bent staring at his hands as he slowly rubbed them together.  How many times had he seen other people do this sitting staring without seeing, unable to focus on even the most mundane of actions?

‘Dad what’s going on, where’s Mum?’ 

’I don’t know son, I really don’t know.  I’ve phoned everybody I can think of and nobody’s seen or heard from her today, well not since she phoned in sick this morning. I’ve tried phoning her mobile but it kicks straight to answer phone so she must have switched it off.  I’m getting worried George’ he said looking at his son. ‘It’s getting late and you know how your Mum hates driving in the dark. What if she’s had an accident or something, I can’t think of any other reason for her to be out so late.’ Hesitantly rising from the bench, Ronny turned to his son; ‘I’d better start phoning the hospitals.’ 

George was shocked as watched as his dad got up and make his way back to the house, it was as if he had aged ten years in the past two days.  George couldn’t understand why his Dad was making such a drama out of his Mum being a few hours late, and yet he was behaving as if she had been missing for days.

When he’d been growing up, George had always thought of his Dad as a man who could solve any problem. His Dad was strong, tough, a man’s man, a man other men respected.  But there had been times when George had wished that he had a Dad like his friends had.  One that worked regular hours, played football in the garden with them, turned up at parent’s evening in a car that didn’t have a blue light on the top.

He had often wondered if his Dad would have been so much different if he hadn’t been a copper. Would he have spent more time with his family?  Or was the job an excuse to use when they were young.  All George could ever remember was his Mum being there for them.  She was the one who stood on the touchline cheering him on when he scored the winning goal of the Under 15’s cup final.  It was his Mum he phoned when he skidded on the mud and crashed his first car through the hedge into the farmer’s field.

It was always his Mum because his Dad was busy chasing the bad guys.  His Dad’s job was so very important, but more important than his family?

Chapter 1.2

The narrow road out to the lighthouse was as deserted as the landscape that marooned it, with only Bill’s once white van breaking the monotony of the grey tarmac.

Scanning the horizon for Sandra’s dark blue Ka, Ronny wondered yet again what had been so important that she should have missed their date, without even letting him know that she wouldn’t be meeting him as arranged.

As they pulled into the car park for the lighthouse even old Bill was looking puzzled when he realised that her Ka was not there. ‘It looks like the Visitor’s Centre is open’ said Bill peering through the rain soaked windscreen ‘Do you want to pop in and see if your missus is inside? Go on mate, I’ll wait here and look after Buster’

Thanking Bill, Ronny pulled the hood up on his jacket and ran towards the open door.

‘Hi Ron’ called the harassed looking middle-aged woman from behind the reception desk.

‘I thought you didn’t work on a Tuesday Mo?’

‘Don’t usually, but when Sally phoned in sick this morning I offered to cover her shift. Is everything OK love, how’s Sandra?’ asked the woman finally looking up from the paper work she had been busy filing away.

Ronny tried to explain his unexpected appearance at the Lighthouse to his wife’s friend as best he could, without sounding a complete fool, but even to his own ears, it sounded ridiculous.  Sandra had left for work this morning, she’d eaten her breakfast, picked up her bag and coat, kissed him on the cheek, reminded him about their lunch date and had driven off in the direction of the Lighthouse.  Never once had she complained about feeling ill and she certainly hadn’t phoned anyone.

‘What time did she ring you Mo?’ asked Ronny

‘Not sure, probably about ten to nine. Yeah, that’s about right, it couldn’t have been before that because I remember saying to my Clive that I would have to get a shake on if I wanted to be in work by half past nine. You don’t think that anything has happened to her do you?’  

‘No, I’m sure she’s fine’ reassuring her when he felt the beginnings of a fear that he wouldn’t allow himself to acknowledge. ‘Maybe she’s gone to our daughter-in-law, probably didn’t want to worry me if she wasn’t feeling too good.’

‘Yeah, that’ll be it.’ Said Mo looking over Ronny’s shoulder seeing a coach party of schoolchildren racing across the rain soaked car park. ‘Sorry Ron but I’ll have to keep me eyes on this lot, the last school party we had in robbed us of all our novelty pencils while my back was turned, little buggers.’ She muttered in that way, that only middle aged woman who has brought up two perfect children can.

Leaving Mo to keep guard over thirty potential kleptomaniacs, Ron ran back to the waiting van.

As they drove back alone the coast road to Littlestone, Ron tried yet again to phone his wife only to be greeted by the same voicemail service as before.  Resisting the urge to shout down the phone demanding an explanation, Ron meekly asked that Sandra should phone him back as soon as she picked up this message. Keep calm, he kept reminding himself, there must be an explanation.  Maybe she left he phone at home, it wouldn’t be the first time, or maybe she had forgotten to charge it up and it was sitting, blank faced, in the bottom of her handbag.  Yes, he thought, that must be it. She must have used it to phone work this morning, there were precious few phone boxes around these days for her to have used one of them.

‘It doesn’t look like your missus is here either.’ Said Bill, pulling-up outside the house on Marine Drive that had been in Ron’s family for two generations.

‘Thanks for the lift Bill, I owe you’ said Ronny pulling a sleepy Buster out of his warm hiding place.

‘No problem mate, you can buy me a pint next time you’re in The Pilot.’

Walking around to the back of the house, leading the still damp dog into the conservatory, Ronny cautiously let himself into the house.

Methodically checking all the rooms downstairs, Ronny could see that everything was as he had left it earlier that morning.  The washed dishes were still on the draining board waiting to be put away, the cushions on the sofa were still plumped up from his early morning housework routine, and Sandra’s heavy coat was still hanging in the cloakroom next to the empty peg where she had taken her raincoat from before leaving for work.  This is madness thought Ronny as he climbed the stairs up to the bedrooms, there must be a rational explanation.  She might just have gone through to see their grandchildren but why didn’t she tell him that what she was planning to do, why had she told him that she was going to work.  This didn’t make sense, after all wives don’t just disappear, other men’s wives’ maybe, but not his Sandra.

Forcing himself to check her wardrobe, afraid that all he might find would be a row of empty coat hangers, Ronny didn’t know whether he was relieved or more anxious to discover that her clothes were still there as usual, nothing was out of place, nothing seemed missing.

Many years ago, as a lowly DC, Ronny had been involved with a number of ‘mispers’ Missing Person cases.  They had for the most part been just like this, no reason why the wife, or husband, shouldn’t be exactly where they always where, no reason anyone could think of for them to go missing. There hadn’t been a row, they didn’t seem unhappy, just one day, out of the blue, they had gone.  Sometimes, for the lucky ones, there was a rational explanation, a missed phone call or a confused message but, sometimes, it was the worst thing that anyone could imagine, the stuff of nightmares.  

No matter how long Ronny sat there on the end of the double bed staring at the phone in his hand, he dreaded making the first call.  He didn’t want to know that his situation was the one that was the unimaginable.  Is this what everybody feels like, he wondered, is this why so many people delay reporting a misper for hours, even days. Were they hoping against hope that their case will be one of the lucky ones’? He new that any minute, Sandra could walk through the door with her hands full of orange Sainsbury’s carrier bags, moaning about how she couldn’t be bothered going to work this morning and how she had spent the morning having coffee with her girlfriends and shopping. So why hadn’t she?  Why was he sitting there alone, hoping for the best but secretly fearing the worst.

Chapter 1.1

Ronny Cousins picked up the empty tea cup from his wife’s bedside table and balancing it carefully on top of the full laundry basket carried it all down to the kitchen.  As usual by this time in the morning, Ronny had finished his breakfast and after washing up the dishes and loading the washing machine he was ready to take Buster for his early morning run along the beach.

For ex- Detective Inspector Cousins life had become very predictable since his retirement for the Kent Police, housework, cooking, walking the dog, weekly visits to the library and 18 holes of golf three times a week with some of his old pals from the force.  So far he had resisted the temptation to find himself a nice little job in one of the many security firms that some of his old colleagues have been busy setting up.  He had even managed to convince Sandra that he was happy to take over the lion’s share of running the house while she carried on with her part time job as a receptionist at the lighthouse in Dungeness.

The only person left to convince was himself.   It was easier during the summer months. Then it felt like he was on extended leave with picnics at High Weald and day trips across to France with Sandra.  Ronny was content to let the strain of 35 years of policing seep out of his body as his pale skin had tanned to a gentle honey brown.  Looking in the mirror each morning was enough to reassure himself that he had made the right decision in taking early retirement, his shoulders that were once hunched through tension and tiredness were now thrown back and muscular with days spent playing golf and his eyes once hooded and shadowed now were bright as if they had seen for the first time the beauty that had been hidden to him for so long.  But now, in the depths of the coldest winter in living memory, Ronny was beginning to wonder if he self imposed exile from the world of work was such a good idea.

Buster’s nose was twitching as he scoured the beach at Littlestone for what ever it is old Labradors are looking for beneath the cobblestones.  Ronny pulled his scarf higher around his mouth as the biting wind blew in from the channel and he set off a pace along the shore line forcing Buster to leave his trail and run after his master.  It was foolish to linger too long on such a cold day and Ronny was looking forward to a pint at the Pilot Inn before his lunch date with Sandra.

Ronny was surprised when Sandra had suggested this lunch together, after all these years together he couldn’t remember the last time they had had lunch together  He still wondered whether Sandra had resented the hours he had spent at work when the boys were little, bringing up a family when you’re married to a copper can’t have been easy, he thought, but Sandra had never complained and the boys didn’t seem to resent the fact that the job had to come first, although neither of them had followed him into the Police. Martin had a good job up in London with a foreign bank while George was happy teaching in a private school just outside Hythe.  Ronny was proud of his boys and doted on his three little grandchildren, Sandra would have liked to see more of them but as he was always telling her, you have to let them live their own lives.  

Sandra had been a good Mum, always there when the boys came home from school, always ready to drive them to their football practice or sit in the sailing club with a flask of hot chocolate and dry clothes for them to change into when they came back from sailing the small two man rigger that Ronny had managed to get them from an old pal of his.  He supposed that it wasn’t surprising that when they had gone off to University that Sandra had felt so bereft.  The boys had been her life’s work and now they didn’t need her any more, well not until they came home with rucksacks groaning with dirty washing begging for her home cooking. It was after the boys had left home that Sandra had started looking for a job. 

Ronny wondered if it was selfish of him to think that after the boys had gone that Sandra would have been happy just to have more time for him.  He had hoped that she would have planned her shopping trips to Ashford to coincide with his meal breaks so that they could have spent time together in one of the few pubs not frequented by the Kent constabulary but Sandra had worried that any plans they made would be ruined if he was called back to the station.  She hadn’t been married to a DI in the Murder Squad for so many years to think that he would be able to take an extended lunch break whenever it suited him.  

Walking around the bay towards Dungeness the wind seemed to be getting colder and even Buster was being buffeted along the beach. As the sand whipped up into his face, Ronny could feel his eyes stinging with the sea spray and not for the first time this week, secretly longed to be back in his warm office surrounded by his old team, busy working away in front of their computer screens.  That’s the trouble with bloody television, he mumbled to Buster through his scarf, everyone thinks that a Bobby is only busy when he is chasing after the bad guys in a high speed car chase or standing in a muddy field shouting to a pathologist for a precise time of death, blood fools, he shouted to the wind, all the pathologists he’d ever worked with would have been more likely to say ‘how the fuck do I know’.  What the general public didn’t realise was that most of police work is dull.  It’s time spent sitting in front of a computer screen, accessing databases, looking for patterns, reading reports and compiling lists.  The days of a DI standing in front of his team screaming for results was, if they ever existed at all,  long gone.  Twenty first century policing is methodical, planned and costed down to the last penny and god forbid if a case should ever go over budget, Sherlock Holmes would be spinning in his grave, he laughed to himself.

With the welcome sight of the pub coming into view Ronny checked his watch, he had made good time and with any luck would arrive at The Pilot just as Michelle was opening up the bar.  The thought of that first pint of Theakstones Old Peculiar drove Ronny along across the beach onto the scrub land boarding the pub with Buster racing along after him, he knew that he had about 10 minutes to down his pint and get the food ordered before Sandra arrived.  As he walked into the bar Ronny saw that only one other windswept bugger had beaten him  to the first pint of the day, Bill Drapper, still dressed in his yellow waterproof fishing trousers, was perched on the bar stool next to the door with a freshly pulled pint of special  grasped in his gnarled hands.

The Pilot was still a favourite haunt of the local fishermen as it had been since 1633 when the first bar on the site was built from the wreck of the Spanish vessel Alfresia which had been lured aground and looted of it’s cargo of spirits by local smugglers.  Most of the new incomers to Dungeness thought that the days of smugglers were long gone, but Ronny’s time on the force had shown him that smuggling was still alive and flourishing despite the endeavours of the Kent police and the ever vigilant coast guards.  With the coast of France only 30 miles away the smuggling these days tended to be of the human rather than spirit variety.  It seems that England is still a country where the poor of Eastern Europe think that they can start a better life.

With the skate and chips on order and Buster fast asleep at his feet, Ronny settled down to wait for Sandra to arrive.  Even on a bitterly cold Monday in January The Pilot could expect a decent smattering of lunch time clientele attracted by the promise of well kept real ale and lovingly prepared freshly cooked fish.   As the door opened the icy blast from the channel raced into the bar and Ronny recognised the men as workers from the now decommissioned Nuclear Power Station at Dungeness.  Glancing again at his watch Ronny was surprised to see that at nearly 12.30 Sandra was running late, at this rate she would barely have time to finish her lunch before she had to rush off back to work. 

Pulling his mobile phone from the pocket of the new walking jacket that had been a Christmas present from Sandra he checked to see if he had missed a call from her.  

‘What do you want to do about your fish Ron?’ asked young Hannah who had arrived at the table struggling to carry the massive portions of freshly friend skate wings ‘do you want me to pop them in the oven until Sandra get here?’

‘Thanks Love, that’ll be great.  I don’t know what’s keeping her.’

‘Probably stuck with some daft tourists who don’t want to go back outside in this bloody weather.  My Mum recons it’s cold enough for snow.’

‘You’re probably right.  I’ll give her ring though, just to see if she’s OK’

As the young waitress carried the steaming plates back into the kitchen, Ron pressed the speed dial for Sandra’s mobile.  After only five rings the irritatingly cheerful voice of the voicemail service instructed him to leave a message after the beep. 

‘Where the bloody hell are you? Your dinner’s getting cold here. I hope you didn’t forget that we had a lunch date for twelve o’clock today?’ snapped Ronny, despite his intention of leaving a more loving message.   He didn’t mean to be short with his wife but lately he had found himself getting more and more irritated by her vagueness, it was as if she wasn’t all together with it sometimes. 

He had caught her last night staring out of the window at the coal black sky, and when after at least five minutes he had asked her what she was looking at she had turned to him as if she didn’t recognise him and shaking her head had answered ‘nothing’. No explanation, no conversation even, just the one word ‘nothing’ before she shrugged off her dressing gown and climbed into bed.

Ronny had moved across the bed to cuddle into her curled body, but her cold arms had pulled away from him and turning her back to him she switched off her bedside lamp and fell silent.  In the morning Ronny had slipped out of bed to go downstairs to make the tea. 

As he carried the steaming cups back into the bedroom Sandra had been sitting up propped against the snowy white pillowcase smiling as if the night before had never happened.  Ronny wondered, not for the first time, if it was him that was going mad or was it just a bad dream that his wife could turn from him as if he meant no more to her than an irritating smell?

With no sign of Sandra’s car pulling into the large car park and her lunch hour ticking away, Ronny pulled on his coat and fastened Buster’s lead back onto his collar.

‘Sorry about this Michelle’ he said to the bar maid as he made his way through the bar ‘I don’t know what’s happened to Sandra. I’m going to try and make my way out to the lighthouse and see if I can catch her.’

‘Do you want a lift Ronny? I’ve got the motor outside’ asked Bill struggling down from the high bar stool with his van keys jangling from his finger

Deciding that even a lift in Bill’s old van was preferable to braving the icy winds, Ronny thanked him as he bundled Buster into the well under the front passenger seat and settled himself the best he could onto the old potato sack that served as a seat cover in Bill’s smelly van.

‘Sorry about the pong’ said Bill as he fired the engine and pulled left out of the pub car park ‘didn’t get a chance to scrub it out after I delivered this morning’s catch to the fish market’

Even on a day as cold and windy as this, the enormous sky over Britain’s only dessert at Dungeness was as ethereal as if it had been painted by Monet himself.