‘I can’t believe you walked out of here without telling me.’
Penny is seething. I’ve never seen her like this before. I can’t blame her.
‘I’m sorry. I needed to do something, and I knew you’d try to stop me.’
But she’s not going to be placated.
‘Damn right, I would have. What’s got into you, Ally? I don’t recognize you any more. You always need to do something, but when are you going to need to be with Megan?’
‘That’s not fair, Pen. I’m doing this for Megan. You know Peter Benson couldn’t have done this. Megan was attacked by Simon Pascoe, the paramedic. He was parked nearby the whole time.’
Penny is shaking her head.
‘You don’t get it, do you? I don’t care. I doubt Megan cares either. She just wants you by her side. Now more than ever.’
‘I know that and I’m here now.’
‘But for how long? She responded to my voice, Ally, not yours. Doesn’t that tell you something?’
I hold her gaze.
‘It tells me you happened to be singing to her when she came round for a moment.’
Penny shakes her head.
‘You’re unbelievable.’
‘Penny, they’ve got the wrong guy.’
‘So what?’ she snaps. ‘Wrong guy, right guy. None of it gets Megan better, does it?’
‘You can’t send an innocent man to jail. And it does matter. What’s to say he isn’t going to do this again to another young girl? Or even have another go at Megan?’
‘Leave it, Ally.’
But I know why she’s so reluctant to talk about it.
‘What? Like you left it with Ian? Only you didn’t, did you? Ian has been with you these last twenty years. He’s stopped you having children, having relationships, having a life. You still think he’s going to turn up any day now. You’re still living in fear of him. That’s why I can’t leave it. I don’t want that for Megan.’
She’s horrified I’ve raised the spectre of Ian.
‘That’s not true,’ she says quietly.
I feel bad and I know I should leave it, but I can’t. Penny needs to understand why I have to do this.
‘It is true. In the same way that it’s true about Sean. I left that, didn’t I? And look where that’s got me? I don’t want that for Megan. I want her to be free from all of this, free to live her life without fear.’
‘She has to be alive to be free and you need to be here to help her get better.’
‘And I will, but first I have to do this, and I need your help. Holt doesn’t believe me. I need evidence to prove Pascoe is guilty and I can’t do that by being in the hospital.’
It doesn’t take her long to work out what I’m saying. She grabs my arm.
‘You’re leaving again, aren’t you?’
‘Just for an hour or two.’
‘I don’t believe this.’ She points at the door to Megan’s room. ‘Megan is in there and she needs you right now.’
I keep my back to the door. If I turn around, I’ll cave in.
‘I won’t be long. If I don’t do this, it will never end. We both know that.’
Penny folds her arms, her lips tightly pursed; she reminds me of Bernadette.
Simon Pascoe lives at number 19 Lavender Gardens, a beige brick house on an estate on the edge of Bidecombe that’s as nondescript and unmemorable as its owner.
An estate car bearing ambulance insignia is parked on his driveway. He’s borrowed the works car overnight. That’s not unusual in rural areas like this. It means we can get to jobs quicker. I do it, but I don’t use it to steal someone’s Wi-Fi and groom young girls.
I park some distance away, but with clear sight of his front door. Pascoe’s on a day shift, the ambulance station told me, when I called pretending to be HR wanting to check his holiday entitlement with them. He’s in at nine, call back then.
The door opens and there he is, in his green paramedic uniform, talking into a mobile. The sight of him momentarily throws my theory into doubt. His slight figure and barely-above-a-whisper voice make it almost impossible to believe he could hurt anyone. He’s devoted his life to saving people. How in the hell could a person who does that do what they did to Megan? But he did.
Pascoe’s car passes by me and I launch myself across the passenger seat in case he sees me. A good ten minutes elapse, enough to ensure he’s not returning any time soon, before I get out of my car and walk towards the house. I’m about to press the intercom when the voice in my head reminds me that what I am about to do is illegal. I just about got away with visiting the crime scene and Lily Benson, but this is a different level. It’s not too late; I can walk away, take Penny’s advice and leave it up to the cops. For some strange reason, the image of Mrs Ellis, the old lady who was robbed of her husband’s watch, slides into my consciousness. Follow your hunch, she said, and never give up, not even when those around you doubt you.
I press the buzzer.
‘Who’s there?’
‘My name’s Linda Smith. I’m a colleague of Simon Pascoe’s.’
‘He’s not here. Come back tomorrow.’
The voice belongs to a woman. I don’t why, but this shocks me.
‘It’s not Simon I’m after. I was hoping to speak to someone who knows him. We want to nominate him for an OBE, and we’re collecting information. Confidentially. Could I come in?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m on my own. Normally Arjun’s here, but he’s gone.’
There’s a sadness in her voice.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, but this won’t take long. Sorry, are you related to Simon?’
‘Yes, I’m his wife, Jackie Pascoe.’
Pascoe has a wife. I was not expecting that.
‘Jackie, your husband is a wonderful paramedic, as you know’ – the words almost choke me – ‘and we, at the hospital, strongly believe he should be recognized for all that he’s done.’ Silence. She’s not buying it. ‘And, of course, he, and you, will get to meet the Queen.’
The door opens for me, but the hallway is empty. Its shiny laminate flooring and white walls give the impression of a dentist’s waiting room, but for the sickly synthetic lavender aroma drifting from one of those plug-in air fresheners.
‘In here,’ a voice calls. I trace it to an open door on the right that leads to a different world of flowery rose wallpaper, matching curtains with frilly edges and dozens of miniature teddy bears, perched on every available surface – the mantelpiece, the windowsill, the sofa – watching me with fixed hard stares. There are three television screens, all paused on the image of a beach. When it suddenly refreshes, I realize it’s the live cams on Morte Sands.
‘You work with Simon?’
In the centre of the room, in a recliner that dwarfs her, I find Simon Pascoe’s wife. Little more than a waif in a grey dress that reminds me of a hospital ward gown, her legs are no wider than my arms and she has severe alopecia. The table next to her is piled with empty Haribo packets.
‘Yes, at the hospital. I’m in HR. Linda’s the name.’
She takes my hand limply like she’s not sure what to do with it. Hers feels lighter than air.
‘I’m Jackie.’ She presses her hairless brow bone down into what I discern must be a frown. ‘You look familiar. Have we met before?’
Shit. My TV performance.
‘No, I don’t think so. So, as I said, we’d like to nominate Simon for an OBE and we’re just gathering lots of evidence to support his nomination.’
Her large eyes widen with interest.
‘An OBE? I wish Arjun was here. He’d be so excited for him.’
‘Is he a friend? Perhaps I should speak to him too.’
‘No. He used to be my carer, but Simon says he’s not what he seems.’ She lowers her voice and puts the back of her right hand next to her mouth like we’re in a crowded room. ‘He got fired for stealing.’
‘I see. Well, as I was saying, we believe Simon should be recognized publicly for his heroic work.’
She nods.
‘Yes, yes. Is this about what happened the other day?’
I’ve no idea what she’s talking about, but I can’t let on.
‘Er, yes, that and all the other wonderful things he’s done.’
‘He was so brave, going down the cliff face like he did. That young girl is lucky to be alive. If it hadn’t been for my Simon, God only knows what would have happened to her.’
‘Yes, it was a very brave thing to do. We’re all very proud of him.’
‘It’s in the papers and on the internet, you know, and his boss said that he’ll probably get a medal, too, but you’ll know that already.’
‘Yes, absolutely. Simon’s bravery is just one of the reasons we think he should be put forward for an OBE. Obviously, we know all about the fantastic work he does as a paramedic, but could you tell me about any charity work he’s involved in?’
‘Yes, he belongs to the church. That’s how we met.’ She looks down at herself, her tiny body outlined in her voluminous grey dress. Why is she so thin? Is Pascoe starving her? If he is, what’s with the sweets? ‘I could get out a bit more in those days before my thyroid problems started.’
I make a play of jotting down some notes.
‘He’s clearly very special. What sort of work does he do at the church?’
‘He runs the cycling club for men. They’re not all there.’ She taps the side of her head. ‘They’re not easy to deal with, but they adore Simon. He drives some of the elderly parishioners to the day-care centre, too, and he’s on the fundraising committee. They’ve raised around £400 for the new church roof.’
A regular fucking saint.
‘Crikey. You must never see him,’ I joke, but it has the opposite effect and her mood darkens. I’ve touched a nerve.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing. Just that he’s a busy man.’
She selects a beige teddy in a pair of white pants and horn-rimmed glasses. Surely, that’s not meant to be Gandhi?
‘He is out a lot, but I’m so lucky to have him. Everyone says so.’
‘Yes, he’s a lovely man. Well, I think I have enough information. Thank you. Just to remind you, this has to be absolutely confidential. If Simon finds out, it will jeopardize his nomination. He can’t know a thing about it.’
‘Yes, yes, I won’t say anything.’
‘Do you have a toilet I could use?’
‘Yes. Use the one upstairs. It’s the first door on the left.’
‘Thanks.’
The bathroom smells differently to the hall. The stench of disinfectant clings to its stark white walls and shiny white tiles, reminding me of the mortuary. I shut the door loudly for Jackie’s benefit.
There’s another door that leads into a large room – a bedroom with no more furniture in it than a prison cell. One corner is occupied by a single bed, its white covers crisp and crease-free, like it’s been iced. At the end, there’s a desk with nothing on it. Even though it’s daylight, the Venetian blinds are down, and the room is barely illuminated by the light seeping through the slats.
I try the desk drawers. They’re locked. I could easily open them without leaving a mark, but I won’t be able to relock them and Pascoe will know someone has been in his room. I abandon the idea and try a fitted wardrobe.
The door opens with a sigh, displaying a rail of three white shirts, brown jackets, slacks and jeans all crisply ironed. I quickly check the pockets. Nothing. Next to Pascoe’s civvy clothes are two paramedic uniforms.
Just as I’m about to pull the wardrobe door to, something catches my eye on the floor beneath the clothes – a row of identical brown brogues, polished to perfection.
I pull the first pair out by the laces so as not to leave any trace of myself on the shiny leather and lift them high enough for me to see the underside. Imprinted on the sole is a crest and above it the name of the manufacturer: Windsor Shoewear.
I have seen this before. Only I thought it was a V, not a W. It was cast in sand on a stone step beneath a statue of a serpent coiled around a woman’s torso on the night Janie Warren was murdered. Oh God. No. I knew someone else was on the quay that night. I had no idea it was Simon Pascoe. Pascoe killed Janie Warren. Pascoe is a killer. It repeats over and over in my mind and my heart spikes with fresh fear that I’m dealing with something greater and far more evil than I could have imagined.
My instinct is to get out of the house, to run and to keep running. I stand up to leave when something else in the bottom of the wardrobe catches my eye and, once again, my breath stalls in my throat.
At first glance it looks like a child’s whistle. I don’t want to touch it so I gather my hair behind my head and bend forward to inspect it at close quarters. An aroma hits my nostrils – it has that sickly sweet artificiality that makes it impossible to work out what fruit it’s mimicking, but I’ve smelled it before. It’s Cheryl Black’s vape and there’s no other reason for Pascoe to have this other than he killed her too.
Simon Pascoe murdered Cheryl Black and Janie Warren. And he almost killed Megan. But why these women? They’re all different to each other. What, if anything, connects them? Another thought comes to mind. Are there any others?