Suzie

A beachcomber found her.
    The morning tide brought her in, depositing her on the pebbled shore, and then leaving her to lie in the pale light. From a distance it was hard to tell she was dead.        Her hair had become tangled and knotted with seaweed, invading her clothing, creeping in through the holes in the ragged, purple jacket that was secured tightly around her. Eyes closed, as if in sleep. A slight, pleasant smile on her lips. Skin, a ghostly, ebony white.
    Seagulls passed overhead, crying out to each other,
    In her left hand she clutched at a strip of red ribbon, the colour undimmed by the sea.
    Two police officers sealed the beach with yellow tape, making sure that no-one could get near to her. They waited on the hard pebbles, staring out at the rolling waves that continued to break against the shore.
    A short distance away, above the promenade running along the beach, small crowds of people had gathered. A group of foreign students stopped to take pictures.
A few more officers arrived to keep the curious at bay. A blanket had been placed over the body for a time, later removed for the police photographer. Largely hidden away by a bank of pebbles, the occasional flash of light marked his work. The grey sea behind them.
    Edward watched it all from his vantage point at the mobile café on the seafront. He didn't recognise the forensics officer that turned up. Accompanied by some regular police, the hawkish-looking man set off down the beach, negotiating the banks of shifting pebbles ungracefully.
    He decided it was time to get involved.
    ‘Morning.'
    Detective Danny Wallace looked up, retrieving his car-keys from under the front seat. ‘I was wondering if you'd be here.' He straightened up, an impressive figure.
    ‘Guess it's you're lucky day then.'
    They began to make their way down the steps to the beach.  Edward kept a discreet distance.
    ‘How's Lucy?'
    ‘Fine.'
     Wallace took in the sight-seers with disdain.
    ‘So what can you tell me?'
    ‘Nothing much. I'm afraid if you're looking for a story you'll have to wait.'
    ‘She's still unidentified then?'
    ‘Sadly.'
    The photographer had finished for the moment, the body re-covered. At the sight of Wallace approaching, the police began trying to shift the small crowd. Waving them back with the usual pleas for respect. Most decided to move on, already late for work or a meeting. Wallace made his way through them, past the flimsy police barrier.         Edward kept his distance, outside the yellow ribbon.
    The forensics officer was already hard at work. Edward knew the routine by now. The police artist made a sketch of the scene, followed by the photographer. Once everything had been recorded, the real work could begin. Checking the body and area for potential evidence.
    The blanket had been pulled back. Edward found himself struck by how peaceful she looked.
    Wallace talked a while with the officer in charge of the scene, before wandering back over the Edward. ‘Looks like we have a Jane Doe for the moment. So you might come in useful.'
    ‘You want us to run a story for you - "if anyone has any info, please come     forward."'
    ‘There's no ID on the body, and she doesn't match any of the recent missing persons. Though it'll take us a little while to be sure.'
    ‘Shouldn't be a problem.'
    He watched as the forensic officer went over the body in minute detail, searching for the slightest hint of what had happened. Edward found himself disturbed by how little damage the sea had caused her, leaving her almost untouched.
    The crowd of on-lookers gradually declined. The forensics officer finished his task and the body was sealed away in a body bag, carried to the waiting van.
    The beach seemed empty after that. Abandoned. Only the fluttering yellow ribbon remained to mark what had happened. Above the promenade, the full force of the morning traffic passed by, the town centre starting to come awake. Seagulls called out overhead.

Henry flicked at a spider that was threatening his Styrofoam cup of coffee. ‘Sounds like a story to me.' He sipped at the cold drink putting it back down perilously close to the computer keyboard. ‘You know the coroner don't you?'
    ‘Lewis. I've talked with him before.'
    ‘Keep in touch with him, see if anything develops. You can give Wallace a call as well - let him know we're running the story he wants.' He looked up, smiled, ‘Never hurts to keep the police on-side.'
    The window behind him looked out onto the busy car-park of the supermarket opposite. A botched paint-job had sealed it shut, leaving the office air stilted. Almost oppressive. A small office for a small paper.
    ‘We'll give it the front page,' continued Henry, typing absently at the computer,    ‘though you'll have to let Vaughn know that his piece about the dodgy statue is being bumped back. Do you reckon she was from around here?'
    ‘I don't know.'
    ‘If she is then we might be able to expand it to a local interest piece. Michael was supposed to be covering the police station today, but he's off sick, so it might be an idea for you to get down there yourself. Make sure you get any info straight away.'
    Edward watched as the spider stubbornly climbed it's way back onto the top of the desk, scrabbling over the side. The leaves of a large fern stood in the corner were laced with a tangled web.
    ‘I'll head down there now.' He rose from the creaking chair and made his way out into the main office. The windows here opened, letting in the cool air, and the noise of passing traffic, the low roar punctuated by the occasional car-horn of an impatient shopper. A few others were present, working at various desks, typing away.
    Aside from the framed front-pages around the walls it could be any other normal office.

Her body was laid out on the cold metal table. Skin exposed under harsh lighting. The forensic scientist went over her inch by inch, looking for any clues of who she was and what had happened. She was approximately twenty-two. Healthy. No obvious signs of trauma. The only hint of who she had been was the Russian word tattooed onto her left arm - "chaos".
    They marked it down as suicide.
    The Post-morten examination ultimately though, was ruled inconclusive. Inability to discern why the skin remained so resistant to deterioration, despite cessation of biological functions and exposure to seawater. As a result of this it was impossible to estimate how long she had been dead.
    One of the examiners remarked that it was one of the strangest things he'd seen in his career.

‘You forgot to clean the bath out this morning.'
    ‘You've already reminded me. Twice.'
    ‘I know. I'm hoping if I repeat it enough it'll become subconscious, then you'll actually clean it out for once.'
    ‘So you're going to keep reminding me all evening.'
    ‘Yes.'
    ‘You're crazy.'
    ‘It's why you love me.'
    ‘Maybe.' Edward swore quietly at the computer, trying to find room for the mouse on the cluttered desk. He moved a stack of disorganised print-outs and notes to the floor.
    ‘What are you looking for anyway?'
    ‘Reports of missing people.'
    Lucy watched the screen over his shoulder, resting on the back of the chair. ‘They have those on the Internet?' her hair had been tied loosely back, clothes dusty from going through the remaining packing boxes. They'd been shoved into one of the corners to stop them tripping over them.
    ‘You'd think.'
    Evening light came in through the slits in the blinds, giving the flat a shadowy look. The main room was obviously still in the early stages of being shorted out, even after months of living there. The incompleteness of the place gave it a feeling of spaciousness. On the wall by the desk they'd already put up the framed pictures of front-pages Edward had written, along with a number of articles written for the nationals.
    He logged off of the Internet, bringing back the article he was working on. ‘There should be something!'
    ‘You shouldn't get so worked up.' She put a hand on his shoulder, leaning in closer. The bump was clearly visible now. Four months into the pregnancy. ‘You should eat something as well.' She crossed over to the kitchen area, stopping off at the stereo.     Music began to fill the emptiness.
    Edward dumped the papers back on the desk. He felt tired after a day spent wandering back and forth.
    ‘So they still have no idea who she is?' asked Lucy.
    ‘The best the coroner gave me was that she could've been here on holiday. They think whatever happened happened locally, as the body had hardly decomposed at all.'
    ‘Lovely. She could've been an illegal immigrant. Fell off a boat or something?'
    ‘They reckon she's too healthy for that. The police are basically waiting to see if someone comes forward, or if Russia reports one of their citizens missing. The article should help. Hopefully.'
    ‘You spoke to Henry?'
     ‘Briefly.'
    ‘Did you talk to him about you leaving.'
    ‘No.'
    ‘You said-'
    ‘I know. It just wasn't the time.'
    Lucy began getting food from the fridge, arranging it on the counter ready for cooking. She didn't look at him. ‘You're better than that paper. If you got a job at one of the nationals-'
    ‘Which we don't know if I can.'
    She looked up, kitchen knife in hand, ‘They basically offered you a place after that last article. You could get a job easily if you wanted to.'
    ‘I want to.'
    ‘It doesn't feel like it.'
    He joined her in the kitchen, putting his arms around her as she started to chop up food. ‘I think there's something to this woman washed up on the beach. If it turns into something I can go to the nationals with, then it'll be a great way of getting my foot into the door.'
    Putting down the knife she turned to face him, ‘You're sure you want to?'
    ‘I'm sure.' He kissed her and she seemed to relax a little. ‘I want to do what's best, for the three of us.'
    She turned back to the food. ‘I hope you're in the mood for pasta.'
    ‘Sound's great.' It had been ages since he'd eaten. He crossed back over to the desk. No matter how hard he tried, it was impossible to get the face of the woman out of his head. The same question repeated to himself over and over: who had she been?
    On the desk, alongside a picture of Lucy, was a family photo. It was almost a decade old: himself as a teenager, his parents, and Suzie. Stood together in a forest clearing. Smiling happily for the photograph.
    After scanning through the article he e-mailed it off.

    ‘Well, of course it's frustrating, but you just have to accept these things sometimes.'
    It had been two weeks since she'd washed up on the beach. Two weeks and no explanation.
    ‘I can't believe that someone doesn't know something about her. She must have had family, or friends...there must be records somewhere!'
    ‘Probably. But unless someone makes the connection...' Wallace shrugged again. ‘Sadly it's all part of the job.'
    The inquiry had taken place, the judge eventually ruling that the verdict of suicide would be taken as correct. Nothing else had come to light, no real clues, no eye-witnesses, nothing. Edward had followed the whole thing. With mounting frustration.
    ‘So the police are giving up?'
    ‘Nothing else we can do.' Wallace managed to catch the eye of the women behind the bar. ‘We've got no leads from the body itself, we've put out a request for information but unless someone comes forward, which is looking increasingly unlikely - there's just nothing we can do.'
    ‘It just feels wrong.'
    ‘I know.'
    Drinks in hand they found an empty table in the corner of the pub, Edward's local. He'd asked to meet up, needing to know about any new developments.
    ‘Everyone complains that we live in a world that's drowning in bureaucracy, that you need fifteen different permits just to walk down the street. So how come someone can be washed ashore and there be nothing that tells us who she was.'
    ‘No ID. No name. Like I said the records are out there we just don't know what we're looking for. Listen Edward, friend to friend, you've been in your business for years now, you know not to get personally involved in these things. I know it sounds cruel, but you've got to think of it as just one more problem to deal with. Else you go crazy.'
    ‘I know, I just...I just can't get it out of my head. I know I should just treat it like another story, but it just feels wrong that we don't know anything about her. She was only about twenty years old and she's died, and we don't even know her name. I can't help think that somewhere she has family, she has friends, and they have no idea what's happened. They're probably still waiting for her to just walk in through the door at any moment.'
    ‘We've done all we can. There's nothing else.'

The woman was slumped up against the dustbins, sheltering from the increasing wind in the alley beside an electronics shop. A decaying blanket pulled tight around her.
    ‘I'm really soory to bother you. Are you Karen?'
    She glared at him with apprehension, and for one nausea-inducing moment he thought she was going try and run. Instead she just remained silent, sizing him up.
    ‘A man named Gary told me I could find you here,' he explained quickly, ‘My name's Edward Lloyd, I'm a journalist for one of the local papers. I'm trying to find information about the woman washed up on the beach a couple of weeks ago.' She was about his age, obviously lived on the streets for a while. She still said nothing.         ‘Here...use this to get yourself something to eat.' He handed her all the loose change he had on him. Suddenly wishing he'd brought more money.
    ‘What do you want?'
    ‘The woman, the one they found on the beach. Gary said I should ask you about her?'
    She shook her head, he felt his heart sink. ‘I don't know anything about it.'
    ‘There was a piece in the paper...'
    ‘I don't really get to read the papers.'
    He pulled out a picture of the woman from the paper, showing it to her. She shook her head again. ‘Can't help you I'm afraid.'
    ‘Are you sure?'
    ‘She looks...a little familiar, but... Maybe I bumped into her once. I can't say.'
    ‘If you could think about it - anything you can remember about her.'
    ‘I might have seen her. But I can't be certain. I see a lot of people, don't really get to know them well.'
    ‘She might have been Russian.'
    ‘There are a few foreigners around here. But they all sound alike to me. You'll have to ask them.'
    ‘Do you know where they are? Where they're likely to be?'
    ‘Sorry.'
    It had started to rain.

‘How was your day?'
    ‘Pointless.'
    From the armchair Lucy watched as he hung up his coat, made difficult by the unopened boxes stacked underneath the hooks.
    ‘I need something to drink. Did we find the whisky or not?'
    ‘Cupboard above the sink.'
    He went over. There were no signs of activity in the kitchen, maybe he'd suggest a takeaway. As he found himself a glass he realised that Lucy was still watching him from the armchair. ‘How was your day.'
    ‘I got a phone call from Henry.'
    ‘Really.'
    ‘You haven't talked to him about leaving, have you?'
    He poured himself a large glass, leaning on the kitchen counter for support. His body ached after walking for most of the day. ‘No.'
    There was a silence from the other side of the room. ‘Why not?'
    ‘It hasn't been the right time.'
    ‘Would you at least look at me.'
    ‘Sorry.' He turned to face her.
    ‘When is it going to be the right time? Everything is set - your parents have said that they'll put us up for a while. We have the money in the bank. The move will be good for you, it's not healthy to stay... The longer we rent out this place the less money we have. All we're waiting for is you.' He could see she was making an effort to keep her voice level, realising that he'd have to choose his words carefully.
    ‘I know what you're thinking - but this isn't me dragging my feet. It's just that...I'm following up on a story and if I tell Henry that I'm thinking of moving to new pastures he might not look so kindly on me using the paper's resources. That's all.'
    ‘What story?'
    ‘Hmm?'
    ‘What story.'
    ‘...The woman washed up on the beach.'
    Another silence. He sipped the whisky. With the lamps on and the persistent beat of the rain against the windows the flat had a soft, warm look. All he wanted was to curl up on the settee.
    ‘It's been two weeks-'
    ‘I know but-'
    ‘No! Edward - it's been two weeks! That was why Henry called me. He said that you've given him nothing for ages, that you've been caught up in a story that's going nowhere!'
    ‘It's not "going nowhere"!'
    ‘What have you found?'
    ‘It's not that simple...'
    ‘What have you found?'
    ‘It's not that simple! I've just spent the best part of the day going back and forth trying to track down people that might have known her - who might have seen her before it happened.'
    Lucy got up out of the armchair. Approaching the kitchen. ‘Did you find anyone?'
    ‘Some of them know something - I'm sure of it! If I could just get someone to think about, if  I could just get one of them to trust me! Someone has to know something...'
    He realised that he'd been shouting. Lucy took the glass away from him, putting it down on the counter.
    ‘Why does this matter to you so much? You didn't know her. I phoned Danny - it was after Henry called. He thought that you were getting too involved with this story. I think he's right.'
    ‘I'm a journalist, this is what I do. Something happens and I try and find out why.'
    ‘Not at the expense of everything else.'
    ‘She can't have just appeared out of thin air. There's an explanation to this somewhere - all I need is some more time!'
    ‘I want you to drop this story.'
    ‘What?'
    ‘I want you to drop this story. I want you to go into work tomorrow and tell Henry that you've decided it's time to move on. We're moving to London, Edward.'
    ‘Luce...'
    ‘I'm serious.' She backed away from him. ‘I have the baby to think about now. We can't afford to keep delaying because of a story that isn't going anywhere.'
    ‘She was a person.'
    ‘I know, and I'm sorry it happened to her. But we have our own lives to think about. I mean it Edward.' A pause for breath. ‘One week. One more week, and if you haven't found anything then you'll drop it.' She left him in the kitchen.
He picked up the glass.

‘Yeah, I think I met her. She came in here a few times.'
    ‘Can you tell me anything about her?'
    ‘Quiet girl. Definitely foreign.'
    ‘Did you get a name?'
    ‘Don't think so.'
    ‘Is there anything you can tell me about her?'
    ‘Like I said: quiet girl. Definitely foreign.'

He found himself back at the beach.
    There was no trace now of what had happened: the police tape long gone, the pebbles washed clean by the sea.
    It was starting to feel like she'd never really existed in the first place.
    There was an answer behind all of this, he was certain of that. All he needed to do was put it all together. But he had to find the pieces first.
    The beach was almost deserted. Only a few people were out braving the threatening rain and cold evening air.
    There had to be an answer.

He remembered an evening years ago, when he was still a teenager.
    They'd decided to take advantage of the warm weather, the four of them heading off to one of the nearby parks for a picnic. They'd parked in the shade of an oak tree and set up the blanket nearby. He could still remember it clearly, the multicoloured patchwork of the blanket, the way the sun had poked through the leaves of the surrounding trees, the couple playing Frisbee with their dog nearby. It had felt like the perfect evening.
    He could still remember Suzie with her shoulder-length blond hair, cut while she was at university.
    He'd wished they could've brought the TV along with them, but as he looked back on that evening he was struck by how idyllic it all seemed. How happy they'd been. At the time everything had seemed normal, nothing seemed to be wrong.
    It had been a month before Suzie had disappeared.

Out near the horizon the lights of a ship drifted by, blocked out by the rolling waves that crashed against the beach. Throwing up a fine spray against his face.

They buried her under an unnamed gravestone.
    Edward attended, as well as Wallace and a couple of other officers. Along with the man who had found her, they were the only ones there. With no evidence to the contrary, the inquest had ruled that it was suicide, and so they had given her a burial. Placed in the corner of a local graveyard, where she would lie forgotten. Just another body left unnamed.
    ‘It's always a shame when they're young,' the beachcomber commented, quietly.
    As the coffin was lowered into the ground and earth shovelled over it Edward knew that she remained unblemished. Her skin still, remarkably, untouched by death.
    The low intoning voice of the priest was interrupted briefly, as a flock of pigeons broke from a nearby tree, scattering up into the sky.
    ‘Do you need a lift home?' asked Wallace, as they began to disperse.
    ‘Thank you. I'll be fine.'
    ‘Edward...'
    ‘I'll be fine. You have to get back on duty.'
    ‘We did all we could.'
    Edward stopped. ‘Her family should've been here.'

After the funeral he returned to the flat. It was still early afternoon and he had a lot of work in front of him. He stopped only for a brief snack and to get the increasing pile of notes in order.
    Lucy's things had gone. The flat felt almost empty.
    He made himself a quick sandwich, swallowing it down despite a lack of appetite.
    With that out of the way he started going through his notebook, the pages full of smudged names, locations, and questions. Most of it was questions. There were answers, he just had to keep going until he found them.
    He headed out again.