118
Monday 19 January
Jessie knew what she had to do, but as the moment approached her body went into panic mode and froze on her.
He was getting closer. Each clang of the rung slow, steady, determined. She could hear his breathing now. Getting closer. Closer. Nearing the top.
Above her she could hear a sound, like the clatter of that helicopter again. But she ignored it, not daring to be distracted. She turned, holding the knife in her hand, then finally dared to look down. And nearly dropped the knife in terror. He was only a few feet below her.
His right eyeball was at a grotesque angle, almost as if it was peering back into its own socket, half sunken in a gunge of coagulated blood and grey fluid, the whole socket encircled inside a livid purple bruise. The massive spanner protruded from the top pocket of his anorak and he was holding the rung with one hand, the carving knife with the other, staring up at her with an expression of utter hatred.
It was a long way down. Her brain was spinning. Trying to think clearly, to remember her instructions, but she’d never been taught how to kick in a situation like this. If she could plant both feet hard on his face she could dislodge him, she knew. It was her one chance.
In a swift moment, she squatted, fighting off the vertigo as she stared down, trying to concentrate on him and not the long drop below. She took all her weight on her hands, braced herself, bent her knees, then kicked as hard as she could, clinging to the slats of the grid with her fingers.
Instantly she felt a searing pain in the ball of her right foot.
Then, crying out in pain, she felt a vice-like clamp around her left ankle. He was pulling her. Pulling her. Trying to dislodge her. And she realized in this instant she had made a terrible mistake. He had jammed his knife into her right foot, let go of the rung and was now holding both her ankles. He was much stronger than he had looked. He was pulling her. Trying to dislodge her. He was being suicidal, she suddenly understood. Taking a gamble. Either he dislodged her and they both plunged together, or she was going to have to pull him up.
Then she felt another searing pain in the ball of her right foot, followed by an agonizing one in her right shin. And another. He was holding on with his left hand and slashing at her foot with the knife. Suddenly there was a terrible, terrible pain in the back of her right ankle and her foot felt powerless.
He had sawn through her Achilles tendon, she realized.
In desperation she jerked sharply backwards. And fell on to her back. He had let go.
She scrambled to her feet and promptly fell over again. She heard a clatter as her knife skidded away from her and then, to her horror, it plunged through the railings. Moments later she heard a ping a long way below her. Her right foot, in terrible agony, would not longer support her.
Oh, Jesus. Please help me.
He was hauling himself up over the edge, on to the grid, the carving knife still in his hand.
Trying desperately to think clearly despite her agony, she struggled to remember her training. This was a better position. Her left leg was still working.
He was on the gridded platform now, only feet away from her, on his knees and getting to his feet.
She lay still, watching him.
Watching the leer on his face. He was smiling again. Back in control. Coming after her.
Upright now, he towered over her, holding the knife, with blood on the blade, in his right hand and taking out the spanner from his top pocket with his left. He took a lurching step towards her, then raised the spanner.
In less than a second, she calculated, he would bring that spanner down on her head.
She bent her left knee, then kicked forward with every ounce of strength that remained in her body, visualizing a point a yard behind his right kneecap, heard the snap as she connected, driving her foot into the kneecap, just as she had driven that hockey stick all those years before into the knee of the school bully.
Saw the momentary shock in his face. Heard his hideous howl of pain as he fell over backwards, with an echoing clang, on to the grid. Then, hauling herself up with the help of the railings and holding on, began to hop, dragging her right foot, away from him.
‘Owwww! My knee! Owwwwww, you fucking, fucking, fucking bitch.’
There was a vertical ladder she’d seen earlier at the far end of this walkway. She lunged at it, not looking down, ignoring the height. Gripping the edge with both hands she half-hopped, half-slipped, down, down, down, down.
He still had not appeared above her.
Then, as she reached the bottom, a pair of hands gripped her waist.
She screamed in terror.
A calm, gentle, unfamiliar voice said, ‘Jessie Sheldon?’
She turned, quaking. And found herself staring at a tall man with silver wisps of hair either side of a black baseball cap. On the front of the cap was written the word police.
She fell into his arms, sobbing.
119
Friday 23 January
‘You’re unbelievable! You know that? You are un-fucking-believable! You know how much evidence there is against you? It’s un-fucking-believable! You filthy pervert! You – you monster!’
‘Keep your voice down,’ he replied, in a subdued tone.
Denise Starling stared at her husband, in his shapeless blue prison tracksuit, with the black patch over his right eye, sitting opposite her in the large, garishly furnished, open-plan visiting room. A camera watched them from the ceiling and a microphone was silently recording them. A blue plastic table separated them.
Either side of them, other prisoners talked with their loved ones and their relatives.
‘Have you read the papers?’ she demanded. ‘They’re linking you with the Shoe Man rapes back in 1997. You did those too, didn’t you?’
‘Keep your bloody voice down.’
‘Why? Are you afraid of what they might do to you in the remand wing? They don’t like perverts, do they? Do they bugger you with ladies’ shoes in the showers? You’d probably enjoy that.’
‘Be quiet, woman. We’ve got things to discuss.’
‘I’ve got nothing to discuss with you, Garry Starling. You’ve destroyed us. I always knew you were a sodding pervert. But I didn’t know you were a rapist and a murderer. Had a good time on the ghost train with her, did you? You took me on the ghost train on one of our first dates and jammed your finger up my fanny. Remember? Get your rocks off on the ghost train, do you?’
‘I didn’t go on any ghost train. It wasn’t me. Believe me!’
‘Yeah, right, believe you. Ha! Ha fucking ha!’
‘It wasn’t me. I didn’t do that.’
‘Sure, right, and it wasn’t you at the cement works, was it? Just someone who looked like you.’
He said nothing.
‘All that tying me up shit. Making me do things with shoes while you watched and played with yourself.’
‘Denise!’
‘I don’t care. Let them all hear! You’ve ruined my life. Taken my best years. All that not wanting to have children because you had such an unhappy childhood shit. You’re a monster and you’re where you deserve to be. I hope you rot in hell. And you’d better get yourself a good solicitor, because I’m not standing by you. I’m going to take you for every penny I can.’
Then she began to sob.
He sat in silence. He had nothing to say. If it had been possible, he would have liked to lean over the table and
