Breakneck point, p.28
Breakneck Point, page 28
‘Because I wanted to persuade her to leave Pascoe before he hurt her. I also wanted to find out if she knew her husband had attacked Megan and killed Janie Warren and Cheryl Black.’
Holt ignores my references to Janie and Cheryl.
‘We have the person who attacked Megan. You know that.’
‘You’ve got the wrong man.’
He turns to Shirwell and rolls his eyes.
‘We’re getting nowhere here. Let’s move on.’
But I’m not ready to move on.
‘Bob, listen to me, Pascoe knew Megan. He met her months ago when she hit her head in a PE class. Somehow, he got her username.’
Holt interrupts.
‘We already checked her social media.’
‘Then she must have another Instagram account and she gave that username to Pascoe who began grooming her online and then lured her to Three Brethren Woods, but not before he’d set Peter Benson up to take the rap.’
Shirwell rolls her eyes.
‘You do know that Mr Pascoe is a hero. He not only saved your daughter’s life, but he was in the papers just last week for rescuing a girl from the cliffs at Morte Sands.’
Holt is irritated at Shirwell’s interruption.
‘I’m not listening to this. Simon Pascoe has been ruled out of our inquiries.’
Holt opens the beige file in front of him and spreads out a series of photos on the table which make me gasp. Assault is such an emotionless word which, in law, can cover anything from a scratch to a beating. I don’t know what I expected, but it isn’t this.
Jackie Pascoe’s lower lip is purple and swollen and cartoonish against her pale hollowed-out cheeks. Down the centre of her scalp is a long dark track of stitches: Jackie Pascoe is lucky to be alive.
‘Jesus Christ. That’s horrific. You don’t seriously think I did this, do you? This is Pascoe’s doing.’
‘Are you saying Simon Pascoe beat his own wife?’ asks Holt.
‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first time a man has taken his fists to his wife so yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. I told you he’s a killer. There’s nothing he isn’t capable of.’
Holt lets out a heavy sigh.
‘Cut the bullshit, Ally. You were warned to stay away from the house. So what happened? You just snapped?’
I stare at Holt and, for the first time, I think he actually believes I did this. Panic surges through me at the thought that I could go down for something I didn’t do. Worse, Pascoe would still be free to strike again.
‘It would be totally understandable, Ally.’ Shirwell is speaking. I deeply resent her using my first name like we’re friends, but this isn’t the time for a discussion about boundaries. ‘Your daughter has been brutally attacked. You’ve been through hell. We understand that. You’re angry and that can make you irrational, even dangerous.’
Patronizing cow.
‘I’m angry because no one will listen to me and there’s every chance Pascoe will attack some other innocent woman. Bob, you don’t honestly believe I could do something like this.’ He doesn’t respond, of course. This isn’t about what he thinks, this is about the evidence so I take a look at it again, lining the photos up in front of me allowing me to switch from one to another. Something’s wrong. ‘Are these all the photos of her injuries?’
Holt nods. Shirwell frowns again, even harder this time. She’s unhappy with the way this is going. Suspects don’t ask questions in her world. They say nothing or spill everything.
‘Look here,’ I tap the photo. ‘There’s one hard blow to the top of her head, but the rest are superficial, like the attacker pulled back. This isn’t a frenzied attack. If it were, the blows would become more forceful. And if these are the only photos then that means there are no defence wounds. Jackie didn’t attempt to stop the person doing this to her.’ It’s a shock to realize that Jackie may have allowed Pascoe to beat her up. The things we do for love. I tap the photo again. ‘That’s a controlled assault. Your theory that I snapped and lost it doesn’t hold up.’
Holt sits back, arms folded.
‘That doesn’t mean anything. You could have crept up behind her. The first blow almost certainly knocked her out. Maybe you panicked. You just wanted to hurt her rather than kill her.’
I shake my head.
‘Why would I do that? It’s Pascoe I’m after, not his wife.’
‘You went looking for Pascoe and when you couldn’t find him, you got angry with Jackie because she wouldn’t believe your nonsense either.’
‘What? No. That’s not true. She’s as much a victim as the others. She just doesn’t know it. Jackie told him I had been there, trying to persuade her to leave him. She knows what he is. He realized I was never going to give up and this was a surefire way of getting rid of me.’
Holt leans forward again.
‘So, you’re denying you attacked Jackie Pascoe?’
‘Of course, I’m denying it because I didn’t do it. Simon Pascoe did this to his wife and then framed me.’
‘We’ve already spoken to him. He says he came home and found his wife like this.’
Holt nods down at the photos.
‘Well, he’s lying.’
‘The man’s completely distraught.’
‘He’s faking it.’
God, I sound ridiculous and we all know it. Shirwell doesn’t even bother to hide her contempt, rolling her eyes at me. Holt just lets out another long sigh.
‘OK. I’ve given you every opportunity to come clean. Let’s get on with it. If you didn’t attack Jackie Pascoe, as you say, can you tell us how your fingerprints came to be on the weapon which was found at the scene?’
‘What?’
He takes another photo from the file and slides it towards me. It’s a spanner, one end of which is smeared in blood.
‘You don’t deny this is your spanner?’
I shrug.
‘It could be. I have one like it. It’s under the kitchen sink.’ Or was. ‘Oh shit. Pascoe must have broken into my house and stolen it.’
The thought of him in the cabin sends shudders through me.
Acting DS Shirwell laughs.
‘Oh, so now Mr Pascoe is a burglar as well as a killer.’
I want to tell this Shirwell that sneering at your suspect is not the way to get them to talk, but Holt steps in.
‘What proof have you that Simon Pascoe broke into your house?’
‘None, but it’s the only explanation for why the spanner ended up in his house. He took it from me.’
There’s a long pause until Holt speaks again.
‘It’s not the only explanation, though, is it?’
‘No.’
Bob tidies the photos away.
‘You do realize you’re likely to go to jail for this, don’t you?’
‘How many times do I have to tell you, I didn’t do it?’
But it’s like he hasn’t heard me.
‘Ally, you know how this goes. Tell us what happened and things will be easier for you. It might, at least, keep you out of jail.’ He pauses to let me speak, but I decline the opportunity. ‘You know what happens to people like us inside.’ Another pause. He tries again. ‘And what about Megan? What good are you to her if you’re banged up?’
He doesn’t get it. I’m doing this for Megan.
‘I’ve told you what happened. I’m not confessing to something I didn’t do.’
Bob exchanges looks with Shirwell who returns a smug smile.
‘Then you leave me no choice.’ I know what’s coming next and there’s nothing I can do about it, but I have to try.
‘Please, Bob, don’t do this. You’re making a huge mistake. Simon Pascoe killed Janie Warren, Cheryl Black and he almost killed my Meg.’ But justice – fickle at the best of times – is slipping away from me, I can see it in their eyes. They don’t believe me. Their minds are made up. It doesn’t matter what I do or say, it won’t make any difference. Is this how Maureen Jones felt in court that day? Justice for the murder of her daughter, Sian, was within her grasp only to be snatched away by me, by my actions. I remember the pain in her voice as she cried out in court. Now it is me that is being denied justice and now I know what that pain feels like. It is deep and intense and primeval, and I want it to kill me because I have failed in the most basic of maternal duties – to keep my daughter safe. I keep going, but it’s all for show. I’ve already lost. ‘He’ll kill again. I’m sure of it. Do whatever you have to do with me but bring him in before it’s too late.’ Impassive, Holt at least waits for me to finish.
‘The interview has now concluded. Ally Dymond, I have to tell you that I now intend to make an application to the CPS to formally charge you.’
51
Up ahead, a tractor trundles along the road oblivious to the queue of traffic forming behind it. If he was in the ambulance, he’d just put the lights on and speed past him, but he’s not and, with no passing places along the route, he’s forced to crawl back to Bidecombe with everyone else.
He could have killed Jackie. Maybe he should have. He never expected to be married to her this long – the hairball in her stomach should have killed her by now – but he had held back. Her death would only invite the cops to go snooping through his life and then they’d eventually find out that he hadn’t always been Simon Pascoe. He used to be Michael Flowers and that would lead them to Danielle.
They met in college. What with her dark sultry looks and his razor-sharp cheekbones, they were the best-looking kids in the year; it was inevitable they would get together. People said they’d have beautiful babies.
Looking back, he’d never given sex much thought, not like other boys his age who were obsessed with ‘how far they’d got’ with a girl – not as far as they bragged, he suspected. He assumed his Christian upbringing had taught him to value sex as something sacred and not to be contemplated until the wedding night, so he didn’t.
Danielle found his request that they wait cute, even sexy; other guys had only ever wanted one thing from her, he was different, she liked that. By the time their wedding night arrived, Danielle had giggled, they’d be desperate for each other’s bodies, but, he discovered, he wasn’t desperate for hers at all and the whole thing was a disaster. Danielle said not to worry, the pressure of the day had got to him and, anyway, everyone’s first time was always horrible. But what about the second or third or fourth time? Because it didn’t get any better. He kept trying, what else could he do? But then the sharp tuts and bored sighs began to replace the fake gasps and encouraging whispers killing off any hope of arousal.
Oh, Danielle was sympathetic, at first. Given her desirability, the problem would only be temporary, and she liked a challenge. He’d come in from work to find her in black lacy underwear. She’d massage him with lavender oil and book weekends away at ‘couples retreat’ hotels, but nothing worked, and her frustration turned to scorn. When he told her he’d made an appointment to see the doctor, she laughed and said doctors were there to heal people, ‘not raise the dead’ so he cancelled it. She found his stash of Viagra ordered off the internet and wafted the all-but-empty packet in front of his face: ‘You need reinforced scaffolding to hold it up, not pills.’ Then one day she told him she’d met a real man called Johnny, like some kind of country and western singer, who had a ‘cock you could hang a coat on’ and she was leaving him.
Not long after, he bumped into her on the high street. She was wearing a long lemon-yellow summer dress, her dark hair loose and flowing, and she didn’t so much as walk but bounce along the pavement. She was holding hands with a man in washed denim and dark stubble. This was the famous Johnny and, by the look on Danielle’s face, he had no trouble getting it up. They exchanged brief nods, but, as they walked away, they started laughing and he knew she was telling Johnny all about his lifeless dick. So, he watched and waited and one night he followed her home, intercepting her as she took a shortcut through the park. She wasn’t laughing then.
He had planned it, of course, but he hadn’t planned what happened next. He knew the longer he stayed, the greater the risk of getting caught, but he was transfixed by the sight of her lying on the ground. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. It was as if she had gone for a walk, grown tired and fallen asleep under a tree. He was so lost in her that he barely noticed himself stirring and, when he did, the shock knocked him for six. After all this time, it was happening. He had tried everything: girls, boys, both, porn, creams, pills, whores: it didn’t matter, nothing aroused him. The answer had been right in front of him all the time. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, like it was meant to be.
He wondered if it was a one-off, but discovered it wasn’t when he rode in the back of an ambulance with a young woman killed in a car accident. But he couldn’t hang around waiting for a body to turn up when he happened to be on shift, so he started identifying and grooming his own victims. It was perfect. No one ever suspects a paramedic, but he couldn’t push his luck. Sooner or later, the police would start to join the dots so he told his colleagues he’d tired of the hurly-burly of the inner city and was transferring to a rural ambulance service on the other side of the country. Eventually a paramedic’s job came up and he applied. That’s when he moved to North Devon. He’d changed his name by then. He told his old boss, who was writing his reference, that he changed it because he needed a fresh start after what had happened to Danielle. He didn’t question it. He’d had a good run here, too, but he was beginning to think it was time to leave Bidecombe. He had dealt with the CSI, but there would be others. Yes, he should move on. After this one.
He pulls up at the end of the deserted estate behind the Strudwicks’ house, TruffleDelite has just ten minutes left until the afternoon lessons begin. Not ideal. Something like this takes time. He fumbles for his special phone and it clatters into the footwell.
‘Damn it.’
He retrieves it from underneath his seat and punches in his passcode. Messages pop up on the screen, one after the other.
TruffleDelite: WHERE ARE YOU??????
No fun, is it? Being kept waiting. Now, you know what it feels like to have someone stringing you along, not returning your messages.
TruffleDelite: I’m serious!!! ANSWER ME!! Or I’ll go MAD!!!
He’d love to sit there and watch her messages get more and more desperate, but time is short and he needs to think very carefully about how he is going to do this.
Ruggerboy666: Lol! I’m here.
TruffleDelite: Thank God. I thought you’d let me down.
Ruggerboy666: Nah. Would never do that. Just took a bit of organizing, that’s all.
TruffleDelite: Soz. Just wanna see my Luke, that’s all.
Ruggerboy666: And you shall! Spoke to him just now. He wants to meet.
TruffleDelite: Great, where?
Ruggerboy666: At Breakneck Point. Do you know it?
TruffleDelite: Yeah, it’s a bit out of Bidecombe, but I can walk it.
That was easier than he thought. She must be desperate to see this boy. Goodness knows why.
Ruggerboy666: You need to take the lower path down the cliff side. Do you know it?
TruffleDelite: Think so.
Ruggerboy666: There’s a bench. Luke’ll meet you there.
TruffleDelite: What time?
Ruggerboy666: You need to be there for 1 p.m. Tomorrow.
TruffleDelite: Am at school.
This is the difficult bit. He wants to leap in and persuade her to bunk off school, but if he does that she might panic and change her mind at the last minute. No, this has to come from her. Just how much does she want to see this guy?
The cursor on the screen blinks for an age. Suddenly, it switches to TruffleDelite is typing…
TruffleDelite: OK. I’ll just tell school I’ve got a hospital appointment. I can forge Dad’s signature, easy.
Ruggerboy666: You sure?
TruffleDelite: Yeah. School’s shit, anyway.
He raises her three sad face emojis with four laughing emojis of his own.
Ruggerboy666: I’ll tell Luke yes, then?
TruffleDelite: Defo. Did he say anything else about me?
Ruggerboy666: Like what?
TruffleDelite: You know?
Ruggerboy666: He might have said he’s crazy about you. Lolz.
TruffleDelite: Really? Anything else?
Ruggerboy666: Just that you’re a great girl. He can’t wait to see you. He said something about wanting to save you from your ’rents.
TruffleDelite: Yeah, they’re a nightmare. Did he say he loved me?
Ruggerboy666: ’Course.
He switches the phone off and sits back in his seat. It’s on.
52
After the windowless interior of the police custody suite, the early morning light stings my eyes. My shoulders are stiff, and my back is so sore they may as well not have bothered with the wafer-thin plastic mattress they gave me to put on the concrete block they called a bed in my cell.
I’ve been charged with GBH and bailed to appear in front of the magistrates in three weeks’ time. One of the conditions of bail is that I’m not allowed within a mile of Pascoe’s home and I’m not to approach him or Jackie. It’s hardly my finest hour. As I leave the station, a dozen eyes drill into the back of my head. Turns out that CSI Ally Dymond is no better than the murder detective she called out for corruption in an open court.
I get clear of the building and rummage around in my bag for my phone. A needle of pain threads my temples together, blurring my vision, but there’s only one thing on my mind: Megan. I haven’t seen her in nearly twenty-four hours. Holt promised me I’d be the first to know if anything happened to her while I was in custody. I believe him. For all his incompetency, he’s human like the rest of us.
When I switch my phone on, I am bombarded with messages: a text from Liam, several from Bernadette and a dozen missed calls and voicemail messages from Penny. I ignore them all. All I want to do is see how my girl is. Please, God, let nothing have happened to her while I’ve been holed up in the police station.
