Breakneck point, p.31
Breakneck Point, page 31
He catches my sleeve, wrenching me towards him as he tips backwards over the cliff edge, but I’m not strong enough to anchor him. He’s taking me with him and there’s nothing I can do about it.
He topples into the void, dragging me with him, but a stone jutting up from the path catches my shoe and sends me crashing to the ground, winding me. When I open my eyes, I’m lying face down in the dirt. My chin stings where I smacked it against the ground and my arms are draped over the edge. There’s only me. Pascoe is nowhere to be seen.
But there’s a weight attached to me, something pulling me down. I peer over the edge. There’s a hand wrapped around my sleeve. It’s Pascoe, still clinging to me and to life. But there’s nothing securing me to the ground and my body begins to slide towards the abyss.
My shoulders clear the edge and I’m face to face with Pascoe. No smug smiles, no enjoyment at my expense. Just an entitlement to life at the expense of mine.
He uses my arm as a climbing rope, his feet searching for purchase on the cliff face, all the while his weight drags me closer over the edge, but I can’t die. Not like this. Not at the hands of Simon Pascoe.
My free hand scrabbles blindly for a rock, but there’s nothing but loose shingle. Pascoe’s hand grabs my shoulder. One more haul and he’s safe and I’m hurtling to the bottom of the cliff.
My fingers close around something. Hard, sharp-edged, perfect as if an invisible hand has selected this rock especially for me and placed it in my path.
I lift it and swing it hard against the side of Pascoe’s head. It makes contact with a sickening thud and his eyes spring wide with pain and shock. The sight of blood trickling down his cheek humanizes him. He’s killable. He knows it too.
He climbs faster, letting go of my sleeve, grabbing the rock face and trusting his abilities. I ram the rock once more into his temple. The resulting crunch deepens his wound. It’s too much. His hand instinctively flies up to protect his head from further blows. His eyes search out mine, pinpricks of terror, imploring me to stop. I hit him again. An unnecessary act. He can’t hold on with one hand and his grip loosens and his fingers slip from the rock. For a moment, he appears suspended in mid-air before he’s released and tumbles noiselessly onto the rocks below.
I wriggle back to safety before I lose my balance and lie there on my stomach, captivated by the sight of the body of the man who wanted to kill my daughter. I half expect him to get up and come at me again because I, too, have bought into the myth that Simon Pascoe must be invincible. He doesn’t move, but it’s not until the grey slab beneath his broken bones darkens with his blood that I accept it. Simon Pascoe is dead.
Finally, I drag myself to my feet, still unable to shift my gaze from Pascoe, but my window of escape is narrowing; it will be high tide soon.
Penny is moored in a cove a little way beyond Breakneck Point, waiting to sail me back to Brandy Cove. It was the attack on Jackie Pascoe that finally convinced her I was telling the truth because she knew I wasn’t capable of such a thing. The boat was her idea. Breakneck Point is eight miles by road, but less than two by sea. If suspicion were to fall on me, the CCTV would show me arriving at Brandy Cove for a walk before getting back into my car and driving away. Holt isn’t imaginative enough to think beyond the road network.
At some point, I will have to make it up to Bernadette for what I said at the hospital yesterday. I had to provoke an argument to attract enough attention so that people would remember me calling Sean to arrange a meeting – eight miles from where Pascoe went over the cliff. A very public telephone call plus CCTV at Brandy Cove: my alibi is watertight.
A swell dislodges Pascoe’s body, shifting it a short distance only to return it to its same position on the rock as if it’s not sure it wants this vile creature polluting its waters. The water laps at his feet until, finally, another wave, more daring than the rest, lifts and carries him out to sea. His body rises and falls carried by the surge until the blackest swell barges in and swallows him whole, dragging him down into the darkness where he belongs. He’s gone.
Drawing the juices into the centre of my mouth, I launch a glob of spit over the cliff edge.
‘Fuck you.’
And I know, in that moment, that this is what justice looks like. It’s obliterating someone’s life as they’ve obliterated yours. I’m not a vigilante. I would have accepted life imprisonment for Pascoe, no parole, but that wasn’t going to happen – giving me no choice. I have no regrets either. I have done this for Megan. I’m her mother and it is my job to keep her safe. My only job.
56
Suicide paramedic is suspected serial killer
A local paramedic who committed suicide by throwing himself off the cliff at Breakneck Point is now thought to have murdered at least two women and committed a frenzied attack on a third, police have revealed.
The body of thirty-eight-year-old paramedic Simon Pascoe washed ashore at Morte Sands a week ago. Mr Pascoe worked for Devon and Cornwall Ambulance Services and was based at Barnston District Hospital.
At the time, his death came as a complete shock to family and friends who say Mr Pascoe was in line for an award for his part in the recent rescue of a teenage girl who fell from the cliffs at Breakneck Point some weeks previously.
His wife – for whom he was the sole carer – was too distressed to comment. Mrs Pascoe is not believed to be complicit in her husband’s crimes and is even thought to be a material witness in the murder of Janie Warren. She is fully cooperating with the police and is being cared for by social services.
Today in a specially convened press conference, police say they now believe Simon Pascoe murdered two local women, nineteen-year-old Janie Warren and forty-five-year-old Cheryl Black. He also tried to kill fifteen-year-old schoolgirl Megan Dymond in a violent attack in Three Brethren Woods, which left her in a coma. Police believe there could be other victims including his first wife, Danielle Flowers.
DCI Steven Lowe said: We are now certain that Simon Pascoe killed both Janie and Cheryl and attacked Megan. We also have reason to believe that Simon Pascoe’s real name is Michael J. Flowers and that he may have been responsible for the murder of Danielle Flowers, his ex-wife, and others. The investigation is ongoing.’
Christopher Banstead, the partner of Janie Warren, was charged and awaiting trial for her murder on Bidecombe Quay in July. Peter Benson was charged with assaulting Megan Dymond. Both men have been released. Mr Banstead’s family are calling for a public inquiry.
DCI Steven Lowe added: ‘We deeply regret the hurt and distress that have been caused to Christopher and Peter and their families. The matter has now been referred to the Independent Office for Police Complaints.’
Police turned their attentions to Pascoe after they received an apparent suicide note that was posted close to Breakneck Point just hours before he took his own life. DCI Lowe said its contents led police to conclude ‘beyond all doubt’ that Pascoe was a ruthless killer.
The senior officer added: ‘In the days following Pascoe’s suicide the SIO in charge of Janie Warren’s murder and the attack on Megan Dymond received a letter posted near to Breakneck Point.
‘In it, Pascoe refers to certain details of the killing of Janie and the attempt on Megan’s life that have not been released to the general public and which only the perpetrator could know.’
When asked if the letter was genuine. DCI Lowe said: ‘There were no fingerprints on the letter itself, but Pascoe’s prints were all over the envelope. We, of course, called in a handwriting expert who, after extensive tests, concluded Pascoe had written the letter.’
In a separate, but related incident, DCI Lowe said assault charges against Megan Dymond’s mother, Ally Dymond, have been dropped. Ms Dymond, a CSI with Devon County Police, was accused of attacking Simon Pascoe’s wife, Jackie Pascoe. Police now believe Pascoe carried out the attack.
Ms Dymond was not available for comment. However, her daughter, Megan Dymond, is reported to have regained consciousness.
Epilogue
On the desk in front of me lies Pascoe’s get well soon card for Megan. The paper that the envelope is made from is thick and creamy. It’s expensive. This is no grabbed-at-the-last-minute-from-a-petrol-station card. Thought went into its choosing. This is a card the buyer wanted the recipient to admire, be touched by, say things like, ‘How thoughtful. They don’t even know Megan.’
There’s no writing on the front of the envelope. Pascoe either wasn’t sure who to address the card to or didn’t care. Probably the latter. But I’m grateful. It will be his undoing.
My hands sheathed in latex gloves and using a pair of tweezers, I flip the card over. He’s made it easy for me. He hasn’t licked the envelope down. Sure, his DNA on the envelope would have helped, but steaming would likely have destroyed it and, anyway, Pascoe could be one of those people who don’t produce enough DNA in their saliva to get a profile.
It doesn’t matter: I have what I need.
I pause a moment, picturing another set of tweezers agitating the envelope in a tray of Ninhydrin, a colourless liquid chemical that releases a sharp vinegary tang into the air as it seeks out the envelope’s secrets. Then, those tweezers transfer the envelope to the drying cabinet where the purple swirls and ridges slowly begin to emerge: Pascoe’s fingerprints. Smiles all round.
Using one set of tweezers to hold the envelope steady, I use a second pair to prise open the top flap and ease out its contents. The sight of a glossy triangle of green and purple ramps up my heart rate. My brain is screaming at me to leave well alone. Don’t give him the satisfaction of thinking you’ve read it.
But I have to.
Nipping the top edge of the card with the tweezers, it slides out easily enough, revealing a single purple tulip on its cover. And a verse.
A Get Well Blessing
Like a flower
nurtured by sunlight
May you grow and
get stronger
In the light of
God’s care
Hot tears blur my vision. How dare that twisted fuck give this to me? He doesn’t know what love is and he never will. Blinking my eyes back into focus, I open the card. There’s a message inside. Of course there is.
Dear Ally,
All of us at the ambulance station are so sorry for what has happened to Megan, and we are all praying for her speedy recovery. Please know we were there for Megan. I held and comforted her myself.
Yours,
Simon Pascoe,
First Responder
Devon and Cornwall Ambulance Service
I picture Pascoe in the doorway of the cabin, card in hand, but this time, I don’t stand there dumbly nodding, thanking him for attacking my daughter, for fuck’s sake.
I ram the tweezers deep into his chest, pull them out and stab him over and over again. Thin straws of blood squirt from his wounds, spattering my face, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. Even when he crumples to the ground, clutching his chest, the thin grey metal blade pokes out through my fist and rains down on Pascoe’s back, his green uniform crimson red from a thousand cuts.
My hands are trembling like an old lady’s. I can’t do this; I need a steady hand. Close your eyes and breathe. He’s done you a favour, I tell myself. This card is a gift. If he’d just signed his name, you’d be in trouble, but the bastard has gone and written a fucking great missive about how he single-handedly saved Megan. His narcissism is your gain. You just have to do your bit.
I open my eyes. Clarity and determination have calmed my heart, levelled by breathing and stilled my hands. Lowering the tweezers back down onto the desk, I pick up the biro and begin to write.
The hours pass unnoticed, the effort of my concentration exhibiting itself in my throbbing temples and my aching hand. It’s not until I take a slight pause to check my efforts that I notice the pile of A4 paper next to me, filled with row upon row of single letters, words, entire sentences and Pascoe’s signature, repeated over and over until I’m confident it’s good enough to clean his bank account out. But it’s not his money I’m after.
Sifting through the pages, I compare my hand with Pascoe’s. My initial efforts are too round, too loopy, too uncertain. Pascoe’s letters are much more angular, more jagged, but, by the final page, my hand is firm and sure, like his. It doesn’t have to be perfect; it just has to fool the handwriting expert.
The pen is slippery between my latex thumb and forefinger like my sweat has permeated the thin blue covering and, now that it counts, I wrestle with the grip, suddenly self-conscious I’m not holding it right.
The blank piece of paper stares back at me. This needs to be written in one go, otherwise a microscope will expose it as a forgery. Magnifying lenses will reveal the ink thickening at unnatural places in the sentence where the writer has hesitated – the hallmark of a fake.
The tip of the pen touches down onto the paper and begins to move across the page in one continuous action, like an unseen force has taken control.
Seconds later, it’s done. The effort drains me, and I sink back into my chair, rubbing the soreness from my eyes that feel like they haven’t blinked in days. Leaning forward once more to pore over the words, I track the rise and fall of each letter against Pascoe’s card until the end. It’ll do.
Bringing the edges of the letter together with the tweezers, I press the fold down with the pad of my gloved palm and slide it into the envelope, nudging the top flap back under the bottom.
My pen glides once more across the envelope’s surface. Holt’s address stares back at me.
It’s done. Pascoe’s death warrant. To be served in a few short hours. Justice isn’t always a jail sentence and I was wrong: one more death can fix this.
But making Pascoe pay is the easy part. I, of all people, know there are a dozen ways to kill someone, but that’s not enough. That means his secrets die with him and I can’t let that happen. Oh no. For Simon Pascoe, there’ll be no fawning obituary in the Barnston Herald, no letters from colleagues opining his good works and bewailing his loss to the NHS and all who knew him. There’ll only be bafflement that someone so normal could commit such terrible acts along with smug whispers that they always knew there was something odd about him.
Killing him isn’t enough, the world must know Simon Pascoe as I know him: a cold-blooded murderer.
Dear DI Holt,
I killed Janie Warren and Cheryl Black. I also tried to kill Megan Dymond. I am telling you this because by the time you read this, I’ll be dead.
I got to know Janie Warren when she had a miscarriage and I was sent to attend her. I knew she’d be on the quay with her boyfriend that night. I heard them have sex and then they rowed. Her boyfriend accused her of sleeping with someone else and stormed off. That’s when I saw my chance and strangled her with my bare hands.
I have known Cheryl Black for some years. She had complex health problems and repeatedly called an ambulance out. I hid my crime by setting fire to her with a cigarette.
I met Megan Dymond because she hit her head in a gym class at school and blacked out so the school called an ambulance. Posing as Ruggerboy666, we got talking online. She thought I was a boy who liked her, which is why she agreed to meet me in Three Brethren Woods where I attacked her using an iron bar I’d stolen from Peter Benson’s garden shed. I persuaded Peter to cycle to the woods so I could frame him for Megan’s murder, but she survived and that is why I can’t go on. Sooner or later she will remember what happened to her and I can’t go to prison so I have decided to end it.
Simon Pascoe
I’m a CSI. I know what the perfect murder looks like.
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Acknowledgements
A very different version of Breakneck Point began when my good friend and fellow writer, Tim Cooke, told me I should write a crime novel, something that had never occurred to me, even though I’ve written about policing for over twenty years and used to be a scenes of crime officer. Thank you, Tim, for starting the ball rolling and for your ongoing support and friendship.
I would also like to thank the author and my tutor on the Curtis Brown Creative six-month writing course Lisa O’Donnell for teaching me to search for the ‘truth and nothing but the truth’ in my writing. That course changed my life in so many ways, not least by introducing me to the September Tribe of amazingly talented writers and all-round lovely people who have been a tremendous support to me. I hope I have been able to return the favour. Thank you, Kath, Robbie, Charlie, Sarah and Lolly.
Thank you also to Lucy Morris at Curtis Brown, the best agent any writer could wish for. Your expert guidance, your belief in me and your enthusiasm for my novel have been incredible. I’m so lucky to have you in my corner. I’m not sure there’s anyone else I’d rewrite 45,000 words for!
Thank you also to Cicely Aspinall, my editor at HQ. Your brilliant notes are so full of humour and kindness that you made the editing process as painless as it could be. You have been a joy to work with.
I’d also like to thank my brother-in-law Mick for his patience in explaining the intricacies of modern police procedure to me. I am in awe of your knowledge, and any veering off course is entirely down to me.
Thank you to my awesome children, Frank, Rose, Joseph and Alice for accepting as completely normal a mum who spends hours tapping away on a laptop.
And finally… Richard, who has not only cheered me from the sidelines for more years than I care to remember, but frequently runs onto the pitch to pick me back up again. I love you for that and for all sorts of other reasons.
Lastly, I’d like to acknowledge the men and women in the forensic suits that you see on your television screens disappearing into crime scenes. Everyday SOCOs or CSIs quietly and diligently go about the business of finding that vital piece of physical evidence that will bring an offender to justice. Without them, the world would be a more dangerous place.
