Dean liked what he did, and he knew he was good at it. Night-time was his favourite time. Where he earned a living. He took (and sold) photos of accidents, crimes, celebrities leaving clubs smashed off their tits.
But tonight he had a real scoop for the local rag - discarded clothes on the beach, and a suicide note.
This one could fetch a real juicy payload.
He was about to phone it in, when he noticed another pile of clothes - a woman's. Next to it, more clothes. Kiddies' shorts. Jeans. More suicide notes. Dozens. Hundreds.
Then more, and more.