Breakneck point, p.10
Breakneck Point, page 10
‘Plus, she was an alcoholic, not the most reliable of people. Maybe she lapsed. Went back to the fags. We’ve all done it,’ says Shirwell.
Jeff steps back in. It’s a double act.
‘And we’ve been through the house. You’re welcome to check again, but there’s no sign of any vapes.’
‘I think you’re overthinking this, Ally.’
I don’t.
‘She had a three-month supply. She told me. She bought it in bulk from a guy on the high street because he did her a special deal.’ Like I said, people tell you the strangest things while you’re crouched by their postbox, dusting it for prints. ‘So where is it? The fact you didn’t find anything, Jeff, makes this more suspicious not less.’ I turn to Shirwell. ‘I’m not happy with this scene. You need to get Major Investigations down here now. DI Holt needs to see this.’
Shirwell laughs. It’s a brave and potentially foolish detective that rings an SIO early in the morning.
‘No way. I’m not calling Holt. Not for this. There’s not enough evidence to say this is a suspicious death.’
‘And there’s not enough evidence to say that it isn’t. That’s why we need to do this properly. If you don’t call Holt, I will.’
* * *
Trisha is making a fool of herself with one of the firemen, fawning over him while he’s trying to clear the hoses away. He’s clearly not interested in a fat lump like her, but she’s too stupid to get the hint.
They’ve been here for hours. The police and fire investigator disappeared into the house ages ago and haven’t returned. Not that he’s concerned. They won’t find anything. He’s made sure of that.
Cheryl wasn’t his first choice, not by a long way. He hoped one of the others would come in first, but sometimes you just have to work with what you’ve got. He only gets a narrow window of opportunity to do what needs to be done and then be on shift so he’s the one that’s sent to attend when the call comes in. In a rural area like North Devon, where ambulance services are stretched, it’s not difficult, but it’s still a fine balancing act that takes some skill.
She opened the door to him in a swirling mist of sickly sweet vape smoke that mingled with the stale stench of booze. Leaning on the door to steady herself, she was already drunk, and still wearing that vile pink flannel dressing down.
‘I was just passing. Thought I’d check up on you.’
But it was 3 a.m. and she knew this wasn’t a normal call. She plumped her straggly purple hair and smiled at him. She was aiming for seductive, but her thin lips pulled back over her teeth, the colour of a rotting banana, made his stomach heave and he almost walked away, but how long would he have to wait for another opportunity? Cheryl was better than nothing.
Her living room reeked of cheap booze and rotting food. He wasn’t normally sensitive to smells, but this was almost overpowering. Empty litre bottles of vodka and mould-crusted takeaway trays littered the sofa and the coffee table. He worried the squalor would put him off. It didn’t.
She turned to him, letting her dressing gown fall from her shoulders, exposing her deflated breasts. That she thought this was sexy was pathetic and he wanted to laugh, but he didn’t. Instead, he suggested a drink. She was so out of it she didn’t see him spike hers with her sleeping tablets. He was relieved that they took effect quickly. Normally, he likes to take his time, but he didn’t want this to last any longer than it had to.
Afterwards, the urge to get away from her was overwhelming, but he had to do this properly. He positioned her in the armchair, lit a cigarette and dropped it into her lap, firing it up with a slosh of vodka. The flames took hold of her gown almost immediately – she was practically pickled in alcohol – and her hair recoiled from the heat into tiny ringlets before melting into nothing.
The armchair went up in seconds giving off a black toxic smoke that clung to his throat, making him hack, but he needed to make sure nothing was left so he slipped on the oxygen mask from his kit and stood watching from the doorway into the kitchen, making sure the fire destroyed any evidence he’d ever been there.
There’s a raised voice coming from the house. The CSI appears at the front door. She’s on the phone. He tries not to stare, but he can’t help it: that hair, those eyes, those lips. So like Danielle. She glances in his direction and he looks away, horrified she’s noticed him looking at her, but when he looks back, he can tell the person on the other end of the phone has her full attention.
‘I’m telling you, Bob, there’s something not right. You need to see this.’
There’s a short pause before she responds.
‘Alex says at the moment it looks like she died of either smoke inhalation or of her burns, but he won’t know for sure until he’s done the PM. Jeff is as certain as he can be it’s a cigarette, but she was a non-smoker. It wasn’t her cigarette.’
Another pause.
‘Yes, I know she was an alcoholic and, yes, I accept I may be wrong. All I’m saying is that you need to come down here and take a closer look – just to be sure.’
Her face hardens. The longer the other person speaks, the angrier she grows.
‘So, that’s a no then. Just to be clear. Your crime scene manager is telling you this is a suspicious death, maybe even murder, and you’re refusing to come out.’
Another brief pause.
‘I’m not overreacting. I’m doing my job and that sounds like a refusal to me and don’t give me that resources-are-stretched shit.’ She’s about to say more, but the other person has rung off. She glares at the phone. ‘For fuck’s sake.’
She paces the front garden for a few minutes, too angry to do anything. The female detective emerges from the house.
‘DI Holt has just told me this one stays at Barnston nick. I’m wrapping this up. It’s accidental.’
She doesn’t wait for an answer, but gets into her car and drives off, leaving the CSI furious. The boy CSI ambles over to her.
‘You all right?’
‘No.’
She’s really angry.
‘So, what now?’
But she’s still staring at the empty road.
‘We treat this for what it is – a suspicious death.’
‘But—’
‘Cordon off the house. I want every nook and cranny of the place videoed and then photographed. I want all doors and windows unaffected by smoke damage to be dusted for fingerprints and taped for fibres. And bring plenty of exhibit bags, we’re going to be bagging everything. It’s going to be a long day.’
He nods and goes back to the van. The CSI looks across at him. It’s the first time she’s noticed him.
‘Hello again. It’s not your lucky week, is it?’
He frowns. He doesn’t know what she’s talking about.
‘First Janie Warren and now this poor lady.’
‘Oh yes. You’re right. I’ve been very unlucky, haven’t I? Lots of people off sick at the moment. It’s pretty much Trisha and I covering the whole county.’
‘Hopefully, you’ll get some time off soon. I’m really sorry about this, but we won’t be moving the body for some time yet. It’ll be at least a couple of hours.’
‘The firefighters said it was accidental. Is there a problem?’
She checks back at the house.
‘Honestly, I’m not sure. There’s something not quite right.’
‘I’m guessing the fire has probably destroyed a lot of evidence.’
She smiles politely at him. ‘We’ll see. Anyway, I won’t keep you any longer.’
He goes to speak again, but she’s already walking over to the other CSI like he doesn’t matter. She was all over him when she was looking for her daughter the other day and now she doesn’t want to know. Just like the rest of them, they’re not interested unless there’s something in it for them. Just like Danielle.
He searches around for Trisha and finds her performing her giggly girl routine for another fireman. The idiot falls for it and takes a pen from his top pocket and hands it to Trisha who scribbles something – her number, he guesses – on the back of his hand.
Simon calls over to her and she rolls her eyes like a child called in early from play. He climbs back into the ambulance cab and a few seconds later Trisha joins him with a stupid grin on her face.
‘Oh my God, I think I’ve died and gone to heaven. That fireman just asked me for my number.’
‘He’s probably married.’
‘No, I checked. He’s definitely single. There’s something really sexy about firemen. He’s got big feet, too. And you know what they say: big feet, big dick.’ Her laugh is deep and throaty and filthy. ‘Right. I’m ready when you are.’
‘Hang on a minute, I think I left my phone in the house.’
He gets out of the ambulance and finds the object of Trisha’s lust around the back of the fire engine, out of her sight.
‘Look, don’t say I said anything, but the lady you were talking to, the paramedic, has herpes. It’s not the end of the world, of course. Don’t let it put you off. She’s a lovely girl and she always insists guys wear condoms and she uses a dental dam, but I thought you should know.’
‘Dental dam?’
‘Those plastic things dentists put over your mouth to protect themselves. Anyway, I just thought you ought to know.’
‘Er, right, thanks.’
He returns to the ambulance.
‘Got your phone?’ says Trisha, still smiling.
He taps his pocket and smiles.
‘Good.’ She glances across at the fire engine. ‘He said he’d phone me tonight.’
‘Then I’m sure he will.’
He’s about to switch the ignition on when his phone buzzes. It can’t be Jackie. He’s told her never to call or message him at work or she won’t be getting any more Gold Bears.
He takes his phone out and stares down at the screen. He really was not expecting this.
16
There’s a narrow path that leads from behind Seven Hills Lodges up a steep hill. From a distance it appears to end in brambles, a natural perimeter to the site, but if you look closely it continues on up to the brow of the hill, where the pine trees wither and fade to nothing under the corrosive sea air and where only gorse and heather are able to thrive. There it joins the coastal path.
To my right, the path goes down into Bidecombe, but the left turn takes me out along the cliff top towards Morte Sands.
Halfway along is Breakneck Point, a small rectangle of land that pushes out into the sea. It’s named after Mary Sewell, a young farm girl who, pregnant and jilted by her lover, leaped to her death. She was found at the bottom of the cliffs, her neck broken. Breakneck Point, Steep Hill: our ancestors cut to the chase when it came to place names.
The cliff path splits into two. The lower path is little more than a gap in the gorse, carved out by grazing sheep. Unless you’re a local, you would assume it’s a dead end, but it winds down towards the cliff edge before looping back up to join the main path.
Whatever time of the year, there’s a constant wind that blows up the Channel, flowing over me and around me, like a playful sprite. Its welcome currents ruffle my hair and rustle my clothes, cleansing me of the smell of the dead and the despairing. By the time I reach the bottom of the path, the debris of the day has all but gone and I am restored. That’s why I come here. This place always draws me in after a difficult shift. It removes me from humanity and the ugliness that can accompany it and subsumes me in all that is natural, reminding me there is still beauty in the world.
It’s quiet at this time of day. Well, as quiet as it ever can be. Most of the seagulls have taken to their nests, but I still have the crash of the waves against the rocks below for company. Megan used to be my regular companion until her hormones intervened. Apparently exhausted by our bodyboarding antics over the weekend, she’s spent the day playing games on her phone and sleeping. Her capacity to sleep never ceases to amaze me and yet she’s always tired.
At the lowest point on the path is the only sign that the place has been touched by humans – a bench. It’s dedicated to a Rex Gordon who enjoyed the wide expanse of the Bristol Channel enough to have a seat installed in his memory so others could appreciate it, too, but it’s been long since requisitioned by Megan and I and renamed ‘our bench’.
We’ve been coming here since she was tiny. Here, we would sit and make stories up about the people who lived on the other side of the sea. If we had the energy, we would take the path on to Morte Sands and reward ourselves with an ice cream.
But I haven’t come here in search of nostalgia. The more I think about the fire at Cheryl’s, the more I’m convinced there’s been foul play. Maybe it was one of her neighbours. I wouldn’t put it past them although pouring petrol through her letterbox is more their style. Besides, there was no evidence of a break-in. Jake and I both checked. Cheryl welcomed her killer into her home. Poor Cheryl. She didn’t have much of a life and what she did have has been cruelly taken from her by someone she trusted. The worst betrayal of all. But who was it? Cheryl always gave me the impression that she had no friends or family. Was that true or just self-pity? If it was true, who did she open the door to? Surely, that deserves investigating, at the very least.
I’m still angry Holt refused to come out. First Janie and now Cheryl. Two separate murders in four days. Is that possible? This is North Devon, for God’s sake. Murders in this part of the world are a once-a-decade event, if that. Maybe I’m reading too much into this, like Lowe said. And maybe I’m not.
I’m about to leave when I spot a figure heading down the path from the direction of Morte Sands. It’s Liam, the beachside barista from the Coffee Shack, lost in his own thoughts. My presence startles him before he realizes it’s me.
‘Sorry, Ally. I didn’t expect to find anyone here.’
It seems I’m not the only one who comes here seeking peace: what troubles bring Liam here?
‘Me neither,’ I smile.
He nods at the space next to me.
‘Can I?’
‘Of course.’
He sits next to me on the bench.
‘You and Megan looked like you were really enjoying the surf this weekend.’
‘Yeah, we had fun. Makes a nice change. Things haven’t been great between us.’
‘Is that why you’re here? You guys had a row?’
‘No, not this time. I had a tough job. There was a fire on the Tarka Estate. A woman died.’
‘That’s rough. Fires are the worst.’
Liam’s palm-tree shirts and shoulder-skimming blond hair mean I often forget he was once a police officer who’s seen his fair share of misery.
‘It wasn’t the fire so much. It was the DI in Major Investigations. I told him I didn’t think it was accidental, but he refused to come out.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Bob Holt.’
Liam nods.
‘I remember him, although he wasn’t a DI when I was in the job.’
I look at Liam. Was he a mate of his? Under my careful scrutiny, he gives nothing away, but I don’t care.
‘I know he’s busy and short-handed, and his desk is stacked with cases, but he cuts corners. God knows how he ever became a DI.’
‘Like a lot of cops, he’s got there because he’s never screwed up enough, but that doesn’t make him good at his job.’ Not mates, then.
‘That’s not good enough. Cheryl, the woman who died, was an alcoholic who could barely dress herself. No one will miss her, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try our best for her, you know? It shouldn’t mean she gets a second-rate service. If she’d been the Commissioner’s daughter, we’d be all over it.’
My words become a mutual thought that sits in silence between us until Liam turns to me with a seriousness I haven’t seen before.
‘Stick to your guns, Ally. Otherwise you become like them, not giving a shit about anything other than ticking boxes. You don’t want to become that person. You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself.’
We’re not talking about Cheryl any more. This comes from a different place. I’ve never asked Liam about why he left the police service, sensing it wasn’t a time in his life he wanted to dwell on. Until now.
‘Is that what happened to you?’
Leaning forward, he clasps his hands in front of him, and stares out across the sea. How much shame has it witnessed because one person couldn’t look another in the eye?
‘Yeah. A stalking case. The DI thought she was being hysterical. The bloke was just a bit besotted. It did seem harmless stuff: flowers left by her front door, poems on her car windscreen, that kind of thing. The DI told her plenty of women would be flattered by the attention, but there was something about him I didn’t trust. I told the gaffer, but he told me to drop it so I did. We had too much on as it was, and we couldn’t arrest him for being in love. A few weeks later, she phoned me late one night because she thought she saw him in her garden. I told her it was probably her imagination and that she was overreacting.’ He closes his eyes at the memory. ‘Her mum found her the next day, strangled.’
‘Christ. What happened to the guy?’
‘Killed himself. I left the job shortly after that. I’d lost sight of why I’d joined and I couldn’t forgive myself for doing nothing. Still can’t.’ Finally, he looks at me. ‘So, do me a favour, don’t let cops like Holt off the hook.’
* * *
Peter Benson is thirty-six. He still lives at home with his mum, and he’s an idiot. He spends his days riding around the town and along the trails that loop around it on his yellow mountain bike staring at women long enough for them to complain to the police about harassment. You can’t be arrested for looking, but you can be arrested for murder and Peter Benson is perfect. Almost too perfect.
