There were also some black-and-white photographs – “family snaps at a fairground from the 50s and 60s, which would have probably been their parents,” Ward says. There was an old chequebook with the coverslip from a previous address in Connah’s Quay, north Wales, still attached. Photograph: Julian Anderson/The Guardianīernard had his driving licence in his wallet, and was carrying bank documents that gave his address as a caravan park 300 miles away in Elton, Cheshire. The walking trail along Dover’s white cliffs. First, they found the two plastic carrier bags of ashes: one was quickly established as containing the remains of Muriel Sr, because the cremation slip was with it the other was unmarked, unknown. The Burgesses were taken to a customs shed, where police went through their rucksacks and pockets to try to identify them. They appeared to have been there for about 48 hours. They were entwined – I think they may even have been holding hands at the time of the fall.” The Burgesses were wearing waterproof outdoor gear and good walking boots. “But when they looked more closely and removed Bernard’s rucksack, they found Muriel underneath.
“They went up there and found a body, which was later identified as Bernard,” Ward tells me. Port of Dover police officers noticed a foot hanging over the top of a pile of concrete. The twins were discovered near an engineering yard on the harbour arm that is kept locked because of the danger of rocks falling from the cliffs. “If it hadn’t been for those people seeing Scott Enion jump, I don’t think we would have found the Burgesses’ bodies even now.” It’s very unusual.” Unlike Beachy Head, the white cliffs are not a known danger spot. “Those three deaths on New Year’s Day – I think I’ve got the record for the greatest number in a single day. “There were a few expletives at that point,” he tells me over coffee at his base in Canterbury. They were entwined – they may even have been holding hands when they fell He arrived for the late shift to be told a body had been found at the foot of the cliffs. A solid man with broad shoulders and salt‑and-pepper hair, Ward was expecting a quiet afternoon when he left his family after lunch on New Year’s Day. Why did they have their parents’ ashes with them? Were their deaths a terrible accident – or did they jump?ĭ etective Superintendent Stuart Ward from Kent police was tasked with working out what had happened to the twins. How had the twins got there? It was quickly established that there was no connection between the Burgesses and Enion, but their deaths were a mystery. Each had a rucksack, and inside each bag were the cremated remains of two more people: their parents, Bernard and Muriel Burgess Sr. Witness reports and CCTV footage seemed to point to a clear-cut case of suicide.īut the search party were stunned to find the remains of four other people nearby: inside the harbour wall, not far from where Enion fell, lay the bodies of 59-year-old twins Bernard and Muriel Burgess. Responding to a 999 call, police and coastguard officers searched the foot of the cliffs and soon found the body of Scott Enion, a 45-year-old former soldier who had been diagnosed with PTSD. Then, in front of families walking their dogs, he stood up and jumped. On 1 January this year, a man was seen acting strangely here: lying on his belly on the cliff edge, peering over. The grass is worn away where people have crept as close to the edge as they dare but the verge itself is still green, before dropping off into a jagged white nothingness below.
There are no barriers, no signs bearing the Samaritans’ helpline number (as there are 80 miles down the coast at Beachy Head), no warnings about the sudden gusts of wind that come out of nowhere and leave you unsteady on your feet. The path leads past a National Trust visitor centre selling gardening gloves and ornaments, and alongside more National Trust signs that ask, “What brings you here today?” and, “Why are the white cliffs so special?” Eventually, it reaches a group of benches a few metres from the cliff edge. It is not a peaceful spot.Ī walking trail on the clifftop takes you to a viewpoint looking out over the yellow-green sea. Even 100m up, you can’t escape the noise of the engines and drills, the broken metallic twang of public address announcements. T he white cliffs of Dover jut majestically towards the sky like bitten meringue, but the port beneath them is a busy, grimy place, buzzing with the hum of industrial machinery, crammed with lorries queueing to board huge ferries that chug black smoke.
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