Breakneck point, p.22
Breakneck Point, page 22
‘What good is that now?’ Bernadette says and I throw Penny an accusing ‘what’s she doing here’ glare. She shrugs defensively.
‘I had to call her. I didn’t know where you were. And she is Megan’s gran.’
‘I told you I wouldn’t be long.’
‘Don’t blame Penny. You should have been here and you weren’t,’ Bernadette says, latching onto her favourite subject: Ally, the terrible mother. ‘So typical of you. When will you learn?’
I have no intention of answering this. It only encourages her and she’s consumed enough by her self-righteousness. I turn to Penny.
‘What happened exactly?’
‘I was reading to her and suddenly the machines went haywire and she started making these weird jerking movements so I called the nurses. They were here in seconds.’
‘Thank you, Penny.’
I move to hug her, but she steps away. Her face is hard, unyielding and judgemental.
‘Don’t thank me. Bernadette is right. You should have been here.’
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry.’
‘Where were you?’
I can’t lie to her.
‘I went to look at the crime scene.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘No.’
She shakes her head.
‘You’ve got to stop this, Ally. You’ve got to let the police get on with their jobs. For Megan’s sake.’
* * *
Billy Strudwick opens the door with more cheerfulness than is normal considering he’s spent the last four years caring for a cripple. His dad, Ken, was paralyzed from the waist down in an industrial accident. Just after it happened, Billy’s mum left them to it. He’d have done the same. Who wants to spend their life wiping a grown man’s backside twice a day?
‘Hi, Mr Pascoe. How’s it going?’
‘Hello, Billy. I was just passing and I thought I’d drop by. How’s your dad?’
‘He’s OK, thanks.’
He holds up a white plastic bag.
‘I bought him a DVD. I remember him saying how much he liked old war movies and this one’s a classic.’
‘Thanks. Do you want to come in and say hello? I know he’d like to see you.’
‘Sure.’
He follows Billy into the front room. Ken is in his wheelchair and he’s as cheerful as his son. He can’t for the life of him work out why. It isn’t natural. If he ended up in a wheelchair, he’d kill himself.
The living room is small and he struggles to manoeuvre his chair to face him, knocking into the coffee table so often it makes him want to laugh out loud, but Ken perseveres and shakes his hand like an old friend.
‘Simon, good to see you. Have a seat.’
‘I bought you this.’ He takes the DVD out of the plastic bag and passes it to Ken who studies the blurb on the back.
‘Where Eagles Dare. I don’t think I’ve seen this one.’
‘I think you’ll like it. It’s got Clint Eastwood in it.’
‘I’ll look forward to watching it.’ He smiles up at him. ‘I’m really touched that you should think of me. Thank you.’
It’s not that big a deal. It was £2.99 from the bargain bin, but he’s come to understand that people like Ken don’t get shown much attention so the smallest things overwhelm them. So much so, they’ll do anything for you – which brings him to the real reason he’s there.
‘How’s things generally, Ken?’
‘Great. Did Billy tell you he’s passed his driving test?’
That’s not what he meant.
‘No, that’s great news. Congratulations, Billy.’
Billy grins at him.
‘Yeah, I’ve already taken Dad out. We went down to the quay and had an ice cream, didn’t we, Dad?’
‘We did, son. I bought Billy a car with some of the money left over from my payout. Been saving it.’
He’s not interested, but he has to pretend he is. Sometimes, it feels like he spends his whole life pretending.
‘Great.’
‘It’s just a little runaround, but it’ll do for now.’
‘Absolutely. So, everything else OK with you? You look a bit pale.’
The news takes Ken by surprise.
‘Can’t complain, but the wheelchair’s a bit knackered. It’s getting harder to move around.’
Bingo.
‘Oh? Can I help? Who is it you’re dealing with at the hospital?’
‘The wheelchair service department.’
‘I know the chap who runs it. He never answers his phone, but I’ll drop him an email now for you, if you like.’
‘No, it’s OK. It just needs a service. There’s no rush.’
‘It’s no bother. It’ll take two minutes. He’s off on holiday in a few days’ time so if you don’t do something now, it’ll be weeks.’
‘Oh, OK, then.’
He gets out his special phone and holds it up in the air. ‘I’m not getting much signal here, though.’
‘That’s odd,’ says Billy. ‘We usually get 4G here.’
‘It’s my phone. It’s a bit dodgy. You don’t happen to know your Wi-Fi code, do you?’
‘Sure.’
Ken laughs.
‘Kids these days. They don’t know what day of the week it is, but they all know their Wi-Fi codes.’
He smiles and taps the code in. Then he writes an email and pretends to send it.
‘There, all done. Let me know if you don’t hear anything from him and I’ll get on to it for you.’
‘Thank you, Simon. I really appreciate it. I know you’re busy.’
‘Think nothing of it. And enjoy the film.’
They say their goodbyes and he strolls back to the paramedics’ car parked around the back of the Strudwicks’ house on a small industrial estate. He pulls his phone out and immediately he drops into the Strudwicks’ Wi-Fi. Perfect.
Now it begins.
40
Bernadette left hours ago, but Penny has stayed although her lingering anger stilted my attempts at conversation. I tried to explain where I’d been and why it was important, but she batted me away. She couldn’t have been less interested and now she’s now asleep in the armchair.
I’ve been awake most of the night, talking to Megan, trying to make up for not being here. Seems like I’ve been doing that her whole life.
‘I wasn’t that far away. The doctors say your seizure was just a minor setback. You’re still doing really well.’
But she’s as still as the night, a deserving punishment for my neglect. Eventually, as the dawn breaks and a new day establishes itself, my throat runs dry and there’s not enough water in the world that can coax any more words out of it, so I climb onto the bed and cuddle her like I did when she was a little girl and she couldn’t get to sleep. Only now I want her to wake up.
The silence feels like I’ve failed all over again. I begin to hum tunelessly so she knows I’m still here, but it requires so little thought that my mind drifts back to Three Brethren Woods and Simon Pascoe.
Does he have something to do with this? Or is it just a terrible coincidence that he happened to be parked nearby? CSIs don’t like coincidences. The ‘I just happened to be in the vicinity’ line doesn’t wear with us. Yes, it’s possible, just not probable. And there was evidence that someone had run from the crime scene back to the housing estate. It could be anybody; it’s public woods. It could also be somebody: Simon Pascoe. Are he and Peter Benson accomplices? It’s an unlikely pairing.
But I can’t get my head around the idea that Peter groomed Megan. Peter has learning needs. Firstly, how did he find Megan online? Did he just stumble across her account by accident? Even if he did, how was he then able to entice Megan to meet him when he is barely literate? Unless he had help. Did someone else tell Peter what to write? Was that someone else Simon Pascoe? A person he knows and trusts. Did Simon Pascoe set Peter up in some way? But that doesn’t explain how Pascoe knows Megan?
There is a way I can find out. It’s a long shot. She may not even speak to me, but I can get around that. What I can’t get round is that it means leaving Megan again. I shoot her the guiltiest of glances like she knows what I’m thinking. I can’t go. Not after what happened. What if she has another seizure?
But I have to know the truth. I have to know: did Peter Benson really attack her? Holt’s evidence says he did. And where does Simon Pascoe figure in all of this? Because he is involved, I’m certain of that.
Drawing Megan closer to me, I breathe in her soapy disinfected skin and almond-scented hair, and whisper in her ear.
‘I won’t be long. I promise. And Penny is here.’
I wait a beat as if giving her the option to protest and – taking her silence as tacit approval – I kiss her on her cheek and get off the bed. My trainers silent on the shiny tiled floor, I slip past Penny, but she’s fast asleep, her arms draped over the sides of the armchair, her head lolling to the side. Still I mouth a silent ‘sorry’.
Easing the door open, I pause once more to look at Megan. I don’t want to leave her, but I don’t have a choice. I have to do this. For her sake.
* * *
He’s parked as close to the back of Billy’s house as he dares in an industrial estate that’s little more than a small cluster of units. Apart from the odd lorry, there’s no one about, but even if there was, it doesn’t matter. A paramedic who’s found a quiet spot for a bite to eat mid-shift is unlikely to attract much attention.
It’s morning. TruffleDelite will be in school, but lessons won’t have started yet. His phone hooks up to Billy’s Wi-Fi in seconds and he searches for TruffleDelite on the social media channels. A distinctive username like that means it’s not long before he finds her.
There’s nothing on her profile to give away her identity, just a photo with ‘life’s a beach’ written in sand, but she isn’t as clever as she thinks she is. Her account isn’t private and there are plenty of photos of her and her friends, pouting at the camera.
His thumbs hesitate over the keypad. It’s crucial he gets it right. One wrong word and she’ll block him.
Ruggerboy666: You OK? Heard about your accident.
He stares at it for a while, changes the ‘your’ to a ‘ur’ and then presses send. He’s not expecting an immediate response and is about to put the phone away when a message flashes up on the screen.
TruffleDelite: Do I know you?
Satisfaction oozes through him. He’s in.
Ruggerboy666: Yes but can’t say here. Just wanted to make sure you’re OK. I heard you had a big fight with the ’rents.
TruffleDelite: Who told you about that?
Ruggerboy666: Word gets around.
TruffleDelite: It’s no one’s business but mine.
She’s feisty, but they all are to begin with. It doesn’t last. Who can resist a secret admirer? It’s what young girls dream about.
Ruggerboy666: Sure, but I want it to be my business too. Ur cool.
TruffleDelite: Who are you? U at my school?
Ruggerboy666: Wish I could say. It’s complicated.
TruffleDelite: Yeah, right.
Ruggerboy666: OK, I’ll tell you, but keep it to yourself. I’m seeing someone else. She’s in your class and I’m trying to finish it. Told you it was complicated.
TruffleDelite: Lol. Yeah, I see now. You at Riverside then?
Ruggerboy666: Yeah. Year above you. Thing is. I’ve always liked you and when I heard you’d gone over a cliff, I knew I had to say something. Hope you don’t mind.
TruffleDelite: I don’t mind. So, what else do you know about me?
Ruggerboy666: I know ur parents hate this guy you fancy and they’re right. I know him, he’s an idiot. You should watch him. He says stuff behind your back.
The cursor winks at him for a long while. He’s gone too far. Got carried away. It’s been a while and he couldn’t help himself. In his excitement, he rushed things and he’s blown it.
But wait. She’s typing.
TruffleDelite: He wouldn’t do that.
Darn it. Wrong move. He’s got to get off the subject.
Ruggerboy666: I also know you’ve got the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen.
A blushing emoji comes up on screen:
Ruggerboy666: Thanks for talking to me and not being freaked out.
TruffleDelite: Why would I be freaked out?
Ruggerboy666: Because I could be a paedo or a mad axeman.
TruffleDelite: That’s true.
Ruggerboy666: Can we talk again?
TruffleDelite: If you want.
Ruggerboy666: Probably better if you don’t tell anyone about this. If my girlfriend finds out, she’ll go mad.
TruffleDelite: I don’t know who you are – lol!
Ruggerboy666: Oh yeah. Let me sort stuff out and then I can tell you.
She’s his.
41
Mrs Benson’s son is on an attempted murder charge and someone has sprayed ‘Paedo’ across her front door. She’s a broken woman; her world has been shattered beyond repair, but I need to speak to her about her son.
I flash my CSI card at the wary eye that’s appeared in the narrowest of gaps between her front door and its frame.
‘Hello, Mrs Benson. My name is Ally Dymond. I’m a crime scene investigator.’
She relaxes, but only slightly.
‘You people have already been,’ she says in a broad Devonian accent.
‘I know, but I just need to do a follow-up search of Peter’s bedroom. It’s standard procedure.’
Standard procedure. Two words people never seem to question.
Defeated, she unhooks the chain and opens the door. Her first name is Lily. Wrapped in a threadbare green cardie, her unevenly cut hair with its blonde home-kit highlights can’t distract from the deep trenches running the length of her cheeks. She’s only fifty-five, but she looks seventy.
‘His room’s up the stairs, first on the left. He didn’t do it. He’d never harm anyone.’
Poor woman. Still fighting his corner. She’s been on her own with Peter for as long as I can remember, and I’ve known Peter since we were eleven. We were at the same school. He was in a different year, but I still knew of him. We all did.
His mum attended almost as often as he did, a constant presence at the front desk or on the red chair outside the head’s office, always there defending her son to the end.
Simple, guileless and desperate to belong, Peter would do the older boys’ bidding without question. No matter how often Lily Benson told him to stay away from them, the promise of attention lured him back in. Then he spied on the girls’ changing room and got expelled. Seems he’s been spying on girls ever since. But that doesn’t make him Megan’s attacker.
I open the door with a Harry Potter movie poster on it. Inside is a shrine to the boy wizard who stares sternly from a duvet, pillowcase, calendar and even the lampshade.
‘He loves Harry Potter. He’d really like Dumbledore’s wand.’
I slip on a pair of latex gloves and make a play of checking bedside drawers and flicking through the pages of the unread books on the shelves.
Lily hovers by my shoulder, close enough for me to catch a whiff of body odour. She can’t cope with herself, let alone her son. They needed help a long time ago.
‘I know he had a bit of trouble with girls saying he hassles them, but he just wants to make friends with them. He doesn’t mean any harm.’
Complaints to the police suggest he’s much more interested in making friends with a girl’s breasts, but I keep that to myself. Scanning the room, my eye falls on the empty rectangular space on a desk by the window where Peter’s computer stood before the police seized it. Lily follows my gaze.
‘They say he was speaking to this girl on ’is computer, but I don’t see how. He’s never been good at writing. He just plays games on it, but the police won’t listen.’ Her cold clammy hand closes over mine. ‘He didn’t hurt that maid. He didn’t even know her.’
Her final sentence catches my attention.
‘How do you know he never knew her?’
‘He told me. I read it about it in the papers and I know he likes to cycle the trail to Barnston so I asked him. He said to me, “Mum, I saw her, I thought she liked me, she didn’t. I didn’t touch her, I promise.”’
‘If Peter had never met her before, why did he think she liked him?’
Lily shrugs.
‘Dunno, but I believe him. The thing is, whenever he’s been in trouble before he’s always admitted it to me.’
There’s a pride in her voice and I believe her. Peter wasn’t talking to Megan online and he didn’t attack her, but he was there that day. My mind flashes back to our school days and the ‘naughty boys’ who led Peter on. Did someone persuade Peter to go to Three Brethren Woods and approach Megan, like some kind of decoy? Was that someone Simon Pascoe?
‘Did Peter ever let anyone else use his computer?’
‘No, no one else ever went into his room.’
‘What about Peter’s friends? Did they ever come round and visit? Were any of them ever here alone?’
Lily lets out a cackle.
‘Friends. Peter doesn’t have any friends. It’s just him and me. That’s the way we like it.’
‘What about your friends? Do they come and visit you?’
‘Like I said, it’s just me and Peter.’
This doesn’t make sense. No one has accessed Peter’s computer, other than Peter, but I know as well as Lily does that he wasn’t messaging Megan.
‘Are you sure no one comes to the house, Mrs Benson?’
But I’ve lost her.
‘And that’s the problem. I got diabetes, see, and my blood pressure is sky high, not that my GP cares. ’E won’t even return my calls. Peter normally gets my medication for me. Without it, I’m done.’
‘So who gets it for you now?’
She shrugs.
‘I go without.’
‘Isn’t there anyone who can help look after you?’
‘No. Mr Bates used to check on me, but he’s in hospital.’ She taps her temple. ‘Gone doolally.’
