Easter Tuesday. 8.15 am.

The juggernaut swept past in a shroud of dirty spray and dissolved into the greyness ahead, leaving me wet and miserable in its wake, straining to see ahead as I picked my way along the near-deserted road on my Harley.

I felt lousy. My holiday had ended suddenly after the row with Hellen and my mood, already black, had been made worse when the ferry was diverted across the Humber. Now the weather was slowing me down and soaking me to the skin. It would be a relief to reach the Humber Bridge and leave the coast and fog behind.

I dropped down a gear as a big road sign loomed out of the mist, and approached the junction for Barton with a feeling of deep dread. I’d forgotten that the road went past here, within a mile of my mother’s nursing home. I’d promised to visit her so many times, and if I had an ounce of decency I would turn off and do it now. But I didn’t. I just looked straight ahead and carried on down the hill, hoping that the bad feelings inside me would go away.

For a moment I was so buried in myself that I lost my bearings completely. Then, as I strained my eyes to see ahead, the grass verge gave way to a crash barrier, and within seconds I was driving under the enormous south gantry of the Humber Bridge, which towered through the mist, disappearing far into the sky above me.

The bridge is massive — more than a mile across — and in that weather, I soon lost track of how far I had crossed. I could just make out watery headlights on the opposite carriageway and I knew that, by now, I must be high over the estuary. But the fog was so thick that I could see no more than ten feet in front and, at the speed I was going, I knew that it would be several minutes before I reached the toll booths on the other side.

Most of the ferry’s container traffic seemed to have passed me by now. I was alone, just me and my machine, cut off from the rest of the world. So the sudden flash of headlights and the high-pitched screaming of a horn sent my head reeling in panic and my bike veering towards the crash barrier. Instinctively, I pulled back onto the straight and held the machine steady as the dark blue MGB Sports shot through the gloom beside me, water cascading off its soft-top, carbon dioxide spiralling out of its twin exhausts. It was going too fast, maybe 60 mph against my 10, its headlights ricocheting off the mist, the blare from its horn dropping to a lingering whine as it shot ahead of me, disappearing into the blanket of grey.

My heart was pounding now, my head exploding with anger. Fucking idiot! I gunned my Harley and gave chase, picking up the thin grey outline of the car again as it careered back and forth across the road ahead of me. For a few seconds I felt marginally better. But even if I caught it there was nothing I could do. So I dropped my revs, slowing back to a safe speed, breathing deeply, calming down. One crazy driver was enough. Slowly, my heartbeat returned to normal.

The fog was even more impenetrable by the time I picked up the sombre warning from the foghorn on the mid-channel buoy. I slowed down to a crawl now, peering through the gloom, keeping close to the crash barrier and praying that no other idiot would come up behind me at speed.

And thank God I was going so carefully. The MGB which had passed so recklessly was slewed across the road; its doors hung open, its headlights shining out into a wall of fog. I braked and pulled into the side, cursing the irresponsibility of the driver, as another juggernaut, its horn blaring, its lights flashing angrily, sliced through the air beside us.

I ripped off my helmet, shaking in shock. Of all the stupid, dangerous things to do…! I pulled my bike onto its stand, switched on the trafficators and ran to the car. Empty, the driver gone. Fucking stupid, irresponsible idiot! I leant quickly into the passenger side, switching on the hazard warning lights, and closed the doors, then climbed over the crash barrier at the side of the road to seek the relative safety of the cycle track below.

It was a crazy thing to do. If I’d been more clear-headed, I would have got back on my bike and driven to the toll booths with a warning. But by now I was wound up and, despite my anger, concerned for the driver of the car. The bridge has more than its fair share of suicides. It was hard not to come to the obvious conclusion.

So I made my way carefully down the steep metal ramp onto the wide cycle track alongside the carriageway and shouted out: "Hello. Are you all right?"

The mist seemed to close in around me, shutting me in and muffling my voice, like I was shouting into a cardboard box. I yelled a second time and stood very still, listening, searching the gloom all along the low railings at the edge, half-expecting to see someone sitting on them, preparing to jump. Wondering what I would do. Wondering what I would say.

And then, as the mist swirled around me, I heard her scream, some yards along the track. It was faint, muffled by the blanket of fog, but unmistakably desperate. I shouted back and as she screamed again, I hurried towards the sound, my heart thumping.

It was just then that the mist began to part ahead of me. And, for a second, time froze.

She was no more than ten yards away, at the very edge of my vision — a mere shadow, struggling against the railings. Struggling frantically against another, bigger shape. Kicking out with her feet, twisting her body. Fighting to stay on the bridge, to stay alive. Holding onto the railings, floundering in mid-air. And slowly, inescapably, being forced over the side.

"Hang on!" I heard myself screaming, momentarily petrified by fear, but unable to ignore her plight. She screamed again as the fog closed in around them. Then something inside me took over and I was running. The big bridge seemed to give beneath my feet as I propelled myself forward, my boots splashing through the water on the cycle track. As the mist cleared a second time, I saw the man glance towards me, a scarf covering his face. I hoped to God he would run.

But, instead, quite calmly, he pulled a knife out of his coat, flicked it open, and brought it up, hard, into her stomach.

The screaming stopped. The only sound as I ran those last few yards was my own feet, pounding through the tunnel of fog all around me, thumping through my head. I didn’t know what I could do or how I could stop him. All I knew was that I had to try.

I was almost upon him as he plunged the knife in a second time. I hurtled into his stomach, shoulder first, before he could pull the weapon free and use it on me. Together we crashed violently backwards, tumbling onto the rough wet track. He grabbed for me with his big hands and I rolled away, giving him the chance to run again. But he hurled himself after me, grabbing my neck and throwing me heavily, crashing and tumbling, along the pathway. Then he turned back to his victim. The woman made a desperate attempt to stand before he got to her. Her face was wreathed in terror. Moaning, whimpering, she collapsed again as he neared, flailing her arms, trying to hold him off.

I struggled to my feet, breathless, my belly churning, my heart thumping. But I was too slow. Before I had taken a single step he stabbed her twice more as she lay on the ground.

I stopped in my tracks as he turned and rose to his feet again, the bloody knife held out in front of him, the scarf wrapped right around his face. His flat cap was pulled down low so that I could see nothing of his eyes. He was around six feet tall; wearing a long black raincoat. And he said nothing. Just stared at me from under the cap. A panther cornering its prey, trying to mesmerise me with fear. I looked back as calmly as I could, trying to figure a way out, scared, more than anything, by his lack of reaction. He’d just stabbed a woman four times. Yet there was no passion, no anger, no panic in his body language.

A cold shudder ran down my spine. I backed off and opened up an exit for him again, hoping he’d run this time. Still he showed no emotion. Just looked at me and then glanced over his shoulder at the body by the railings. She looked dead, but I guess that he wanted to make sure, to get her out of the way, into the river. He took a step back towards her, keeping his eyes on me. Behind him I saw the briefest of movements from her broken body. She was still alive. I could run and leave her to him. Or I could try and stop him before he finished her off.

I didn’t really think about it. I took two steps towards him, my body angled, my hands at the ready, trying to remember the few ju-jitsu lessons I’d once taken.

He seemed to understand that I wasn’t going to give up, and glanced from me to the woman and back again. If he picked her up, I would go for him. He couldn’t heave her body over the railings and hold me off as well. Heartened by his hesitation, I took another bold pace towards him, even though I was breaking up inside. He studied me through the scarf, pointing the knife right at my belly, his eyes a band of darkness.

"Go away!" I screamed. "Leave her alone!"

He glanced at the apparently lifeless body behind him. Then he nodded his head slowly, backed away and disappeared into the mist.

I watched him go. My limbs were putty as I ran across to her. She was slumped on the ground, her left arm twisted awkwardly behind her, her right hand stretched out towards the railings. Wet mist clung in pearls to her mauve rain-jacket, her blue jeans were sodden and her hair was matted against her face, her lips blue. She was lying in a small pool of water which was slowly turning pink as it ran in rivulets across the tarmac and over the side of the bridge, dripping into the estuary a hundred feet below. She opened her eyes and tried to lift her head, her lips moving soundlessly; her expression a mixture of fear, agony and disbelief.

I put my hand beneath her head and held her steady as she fought painfully for each breath. "It’s OK, he’s gone," I gasped, trying to sound strong and comforting whilst my own heart still pounded with fear. "Take it easy. Don’t try and speak. I’ll get help."

She grabbed my arm, and a rasping noise came from her lips. "No, please…" She croaked with great effort, pulling me closer.

"Please…" Her eyes were big and desperate. "Important… file… M… Swinson… at line one…" She coughed, blood spilling out onto her lips. "Please, tell Joanna… Whittling… no one else…" Then she fell back.

I held her in my arms, panicking. "What do you mean?"

She looked up into my eyes again, alarmed; swallowing painfully and gulping air after each word. "E-mail… Please… help us… only Joanna."

It was her e-mail address: mswinson@lineone. There was something in her e-mail box she wanted me to pass on.

"But… How do I open your e-mails?" I asked. "What’s the password?" She closed her eyes, wincing at the pain.

"Benjy… two…" she coughed again painfully, her voice becoming weaker all the time, "five… six." She breathed.

"Please… tell… no one else… Promise," she demanded, grasping my arm.

I looked back into her desperate face. "I promise," I answered, heaven help me. "But where is she?"

"Urgent… Friday." She gasped, staring into my eyes, her breath growing shallower by the second. Then she lifted her head, and with all the energy she could muster, she whispered something that sounded like ‘ice’. But it was more of a gasp than a word, almost imperceptible. Then her eyes closed and her head fell back heavily in my arms.

I pulled out my mobile and dialled 999. The bridge vibrated noisily beneath my feet as traffic thundered past on the carriageway and I swore in dismay as I repeated the message a second time. By the time I put the phone away, the woman was lying quite still, her breathing almost indiscernible. But she had a pulse. She was alive — just. They’d better be quick.

I put her into the recovery position and made sure her airways were clear, then opened her jacket and tried to stem the flow of blood with my scarf. But the bleeding inside, I guessed, would be a lot worse, and there was nothing I could do to help that. Her only hope was the paramedics. At least the traffic was light today; even in the fog, they might make it in time.

I took off my leather jacket and covered her as best I could. The blood was already seeping through my scarf, turning the white silk a deep red. I desperately wanted to make it all right for this stranger who had asked me for help, but there was so little I could do. Even if I’d saved her life a few minutes ago, she looked like she might die now.

As my own terror receded, my eyes filled and my body started to shake. I’d seen too much of death lately. It was still barely eight months since my sister, Carrie, had been murdered. That was bad enough, but then, when I’d gone over to the Netherlands to find out why, I’d lost another good friend to the thugs in Amsterdam. The fact that justice had prevailed didn’t really help. Loss is loss. I’d coped. I still was coping. But that didn’t make them come back. I hoped, for the sake of her loved ones, that the woman next to me would beat the odds and survive. I also hoped that I could find her friend, whoever she might be, and pass on the strange but urgent message.

Whilst I waited, I gazed around me, trying to occupy my mind. This was a bleak and hostile place. Nothing but the cold sea below and the swirling, wet mist all around us. My shirt and jumper were sodden with rain and I no longer knew whether my shaking was delayed shock or severe cold. So I wrapped my arms around myself in an effort to keep warm and wondered: what had happened to her? She didn’t look the type to get into this sort of trouble. She can’t have been more than thirty years old; slightly smaller than me, perhaps five foot seven, with shoulder-length fair hair. She had been… Hell, I was already thinking of her as dead. She was good looking. Warm, friendly face. Casually dressed, but in expensive clothes. A plain shoulder bag. No make-up or jewellery. She looked like a woman who was comfortable with herself.

The man who attacked her had been cold and unemotional. This wasn’t a domestic, that was for sure, nor did it look sexual. Her bag was still by her side, so it hadn’t been theft either. What did that leave? Unpaid drugs bill? Gambling debts? Maybe, but then she looked too much like a good, clean living woman. I thought again about her urgent plea, "Important… file… M… Swinson… at line one," and wondered what the hell the file was. One thing was certain. The man who had tried to kill her was no ordinary thug with a knife.

I knelt down by her side. Whether it was sensible or not, I’d just made a promise. She’d given me the password for her e-mail file: Benjy 256. I’d promised to pass on the contents to her friend. More than that, I’d promised to keep the information to myself. I shuddered again.

Cameron, what are you getting yourself into? Someone has just tried to kill this woman and here you are promising to deliver a message for her. You must be crazy.

Probably. But what else was I supposed to do? Tell a dying woman to get lost?

I glanced around me and listened to make sure that I was still alone. Then, feeling like a thief, I leant across and picked up her bag, flicked open the leather clasp and peered inside, sorting carefully amongst the make-up, tissues, spare tampons and the other oddments with my fingertips, looking for an address book, or anything that might identify her friend. But there was little else except a purse. I pulled one of the tissues carefully out of the packet and picked up the purse with it, worried, somehow, about leaving fingerprints. Inside there was nothing more than loose change, a few notes and several credit cards. And the confirmation that this was indeed Magda Swinson.

Just then, and with some relief, I heard a voice. A man’s voice. "Anyone down there?" He shouted from the road above.

I returned the purse to the bag and laid it back on the ground, shouting back, urgently. "Yes, come down quick, we need help."

When he appeared out of the mist he was a small man with a big frontage; someone who obviously appreciated an all-day breakfast and a few pints.

"You all right love? What’s happened to your friend? Is she ill?" His rounded East Yorkshire accent sounded reassuring, safe. It was just good not to be alone any more. And, quite suddenly, I felt tearful.

"She’s been attacked. Stabbed." I stuttered, looking up at him and shaking now with emotion. "There was a man… he’s run off… that way."

He crouched down beside me, white as a sheet, and swore under his breath. "Is she dead?"

I shook my head. "No, but she’s barely breathing. I’ve called the ambulance. About five minutes ago. I wish they’d hurry up."

A cyclist stopped, a younger man in bright yellow waterproofs.

"What’s up?" he asked, getting off his bike.

All-Day Breakfast, the initial shock receding, stood upright again and took charge. "There’s been an accident. There’s a mobile up in my cab. Do us a favour mate, and dial 999 — get the ambulance and the police here, whilst I stay with this lady."

"It’s all right," I reassured him, standing up myself and producing my phone, "I told you, I’ve already done it."

"Better just ring again anyway," he nodded to the man in yellow, "better safe than sorry, eh?" The cyclist grunted in agreement and turned to go up the steep slope to the carriageway. "Oh and while you’re at it," he shouted, "there’s a couple of blankets behind the passenger seat. Bring them down, will you? We need to keep this poor woman warm if we can." He looked at me and my soaking jumper and shirt. "You look petrified, love." He took his jacket off and draped it round my shoulders. "Here, put this on for now. You look like death yourself, don’t want you catching a chill, do we? You want to go and sit in the cab?"

I looked down at the woman sprawled on the wet ground, her eyes shut, her mouth hanging slightly open, the water dripping down off my jacket and then onto hers and mingling with the pool that she was lying in. Though I desperately wanted to get away from the horror of it all, somehow I was reluctant to leave her. "No, it’s OK, thanks," I replied firmly. "I’ll stay here until the ambulance arrives."

By now there were a few people fussing around, but not knowing what to do. The lorry driver crouched down by the woman again, scratched his head, then looked at his watch. "I wish they’d hurry up."

So did I. I felt awful. After a lousy few days and an awful journey back from Amsterdam, all I’d wanted to do was to go home and forget Hellen. Now, I felt bad because this woman had been hurt so much… Bad, I guess, because I hadn’t been able to stop him.

The police arrived first. Two typical traffic cops, the sort you would grovel to on any motorway in the country. But, for once, the face of authority was comforting. For once, it felt good that someone who knew what they were doing was taking control. One of them dispersed the few onlookers and started to tape off the area, the other was kneeling over the woman and talking into his radio. We were moved back. The paramedics arrived a few minutes later and soon she was in the ambulance and on her way, sirens going full blast, lights flashing. Maybe she was going to be all right after all. Maybe. Maybe not.

More police arrived. One of the uniformed men took the lorry driver to his squad car straight away, And, whilst I stood back numbly watching them get on with their scene of crime work, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to face a plain-clothes officer.

"Excuse me miss, I understand that you were… witness…" The man’s voice trailed away and his mouth dropped open. "It’s Cameron, isn’t it?"

I didn’t remember him straight off. He was older and, out of uniform, more mature. The fresh-faced eagerness of the young copper I had known years ago was tempered now with both age and experience. He’d just come out of police college at the time; I’d just started work as a drugs counsellor, and we met regularly in court.

"Jimmy!" I spluttered, the memory quickly returning. "Jimmy Wilson!" I was equally surprised, and pleased to see him again — especially just now. "I’m sorry. You look different," I shook my head and momentarily forgot everything else. "I didn’t recognise you at first."

"Well you look just the same, Cameron." He smiled, standing back, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling with pleasure. "How are you?"

"Well… not so good at the moment," I said ruefully, coming back down to earth and glancing across to the place where her body had been. "I’m cold and a bit shaken."

"I’m not surprised, love." He squeezed my arm. "You better come with me. I need to take some preliminary details from you."

I followed him up the steep ramp to his car, which was parked on the side of the carriageway. I’d always liked Jimmy. Of all the cops I’d ever met, he had an uncommon warmth and humanity about him. And, all those years ago, we had found ourselves drawn into a sort of professional friendship. I guess he would be pushing thirty now. His face had filled out and he’d put some weight on, but he still looked good with his full head of wavy brown hair, his strong, angular, clean-shaven chin and those sharp green eyes of his. I preferred him in the jacket and slacks too, the formality of uniform had always seemed slightly at odds with him. He could be gay. He’d never said, and I’d never asked. Or he could just be a really switched-on sort of guy. It didn’t matter, I just liked him.

"So how long have you been in CID, Jimmy?" I asked, sliding into the front passenger seat of his car.

"Nearly three years now," he replied, starting the car and letting it idle, so that the heating came on full and hot, cascading over my cold, wet clothes. "I was made up to sergeant last year." He looked kind of proud.

"That’s great." I smiled, meaning it too. "The police need more officers like you, I’m glad you’re appreciated."

"Yeah," he laughed. "I remember. Coppers aren’t generally your favourite people, are they? Still, I enjoy the life. Whatever you think, they’re not such a bad bunch… Anyway," he started, suddenly remembering he was on duty, "enough about me, are you all right?"

"Yeah, I guess." I smiled back as best I could. I suddenly felt very tired. "Just a bit shaken that’s all — and very cold and wet. Thanks for the heat."

"Part of it’s shock, Cameron. It’s quite normal. You need to sit quietly for a while, get warm." He leant back and grabbed a blanket from the rear seat. "Here, put this round your shoulders, it’ll help." Then, when I had settled myself down and the shivering was finally abating he pulled out his notepad. "Right love, sorry to be so formal, but I have to ask you a number of questions. First, can you give me your full name and address. Then I’d like you to tell me exactly what happened."

I sighed and gave him all the details. I was glad it was Jimmy I was telling, but for all that, I was beginning to feel really dejected. Adrenalin withdrawal, perhaps. Or maybe I was just becoming resigned to the hassle that I knew would follow, once this preliminary was over. I watched as he wrote everything down in his little book and I chose my words carefully, keeping it factual and relevant. I couldn’t decide what to say about the message the woman had given me. It could be important evidence and, if I had any sense, I would tell him about it now. But, then again, I’d made a promise. A promise to pass the details on to this Joanna Whittling, and no one else. Maybe I would bide my time, at least until I knew what was in the file she’d mentioned. I could always tell them later.

"So you’ve just got back from Amsterdam. What were you doing there?"

I told him about my holiday and my early return, thinking angrily that I wouldn’t have this conundrum if Hellen hadn’t been so fucking obsessed with her career. The first few days had been perfect. Then she’d started on at me, about giving up my job and moving to Amsterdam. That was when it all started falling apart. A few days later she said that she had to go back on duty and frankly, that was the last straw. By then I’d had quite enough of a relationship with a cop.

Sergeant Wilson looked up from his notebook, his eyebrows arching slightly and a faint smile crossing his face. "You’re in a relationship with a police officer! Cameron, you never cease to amaze me!"

"I was in a relationship with one." I corrected him. "Yes, well… It was just as big a surprise to me," I added, feeling wretched at the very thought.

"Well, maybe you need someone to keep you in check. Or have you calmed down these days?"

"Yeah," I responded, not wanting to pursue this subject any more. "I’m the very model of a responsible citizen now."

"I hope not." He smiled back, good-naturedly. "Heaven forbid, that you of all people, should be that boring." I tried to respond with a quip and a smile, but somehow the joke had worn thin and all I could manage was a shrug.

We eventually finished going through everything and Jimmy left me in the car whilst he went off to see his boss. It had seemed odd, sitting there, going over the attack, giving details to someone I used to know quite well. But then, the whole morning had been bizarre. And I guessed it wasn’t over yet. Thinking about what I knew of police procedure made my spirits fall even lower.

By now there were official vehicles parked all along the carriageway. Traffic police, their yellow and blue neon insignias shining through the grey morning; panda cars; unmarked CID vehicles; a scene-of-crime van; and, in the sky, the rattle of a police helicopter, hovering overhead. All the paraphernalia of modern detection. The outside lane of the carriageway was emptying, as the last of the traffic on the bridge drove past. Behind me stood the MGB, still skewed across the road. Somewhere just behind it was my bike.

After a few minutes, Jimmy returned, looking apologetic. "Like I thought, he wants to interview you properly, Cameron. I’m sorry, that means you’ll have to go to the station and make a full statement. I assume that’s your motorbike?" I nodded, expecting the worst. "Don’t worry, we’ll take care of it for now, love. You stay here where it’s warm."

"Thanks." At least my clothes were drying out and my limbs warming up. "I don’t suppose there’s any point in objecting."

He smiled back. "None at all. You don’t know the half of it. The Guv’nor will probably close the whole bloody bridge. We have to be certain that we don’t miss anything." He hesitated, then he delved into his wallet and pulled out a card. "It’s been really nice seeing you again, Cameron, in spite of the circumstances. Maybe when you’ve had chance to recover, we could meet for a drink; have a proper chat." I nodded and smiled back, as he wrote his home number and his mobile on the back of the card. "Give me a ring when you’re ready and perhaps we can arrange something."

"Yeah, I’d like that," I answered, meaning it.

"One more thing Cameron…"

"Yes?"

"Go easy when they interview you. You were the first on the scene and they’ll be thorough with their questions. I know what you’re like. Just don’t take it personally OK? Stay cool, love."

He must have seen the look in my eyes as he opened the car door to get out, because he hesitated before he closed it behind him, and stuck his head back inside. "I’m talking as a friend now Cameron. Don’t make waves. Go easy on yourself. All right?"

I nodded back at him. "Yeah, OK, Jimmy. I’ll be as good as gold."

He grunted and threw me a dubious sort of smile as he slammed the door shut.

I sat by myself in the car for another half hour. Maybe I deserved all the hassle. Maybe it was Divine punishment. If I’d made that right turn at Barton; if I’d called in to the nursing home like I should have… I sighed, suddenly angry with my own self-pity. If I hadn’t been on the bridge, the woman would certainly have died. At least now she had a chance — however slim.

I hoped she would survive. She must have been in that swerving, high-speed car, with her attacker. She must have been so frightened, so distressed, knowing that there was nothing she could do to get away from him. I wondered again about the e-mail file and whether that was what he was after. It seemed all too likely.

The mist was starting to clear now and I could just make out the vast stretch of water beneath us. The traffic had stopped completely, meaning the bridge really had been closed. Down to my left the area had been cordoned off and some of the scene of crime officers, dressed in their white boiler suits and slippers, were combing the ground, depositing various bits of detritus and blood samples in evidence bags. A police photographer was recording the scene. And, a few yards along the road, the MGB was being put onto a low loader. My Harley would be next.

A genial face appeared at the car window and I wound it down. "Sorry to keep you waiting so long, madam. I’m Superintendent Peter Warren from CID. I’m really sorry to delay you, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to make a proper statement." He paused to blink a few times. "Naturally, we’re treating this as a serious incident and we need all the help we can get. Don’t worry about your bike, we’re taking care of that." He smiled sympathetically. "I expect you could do with a nice hot cup of tea as well. We’ll get you to our interview suite at Coltman Street — it’s much more comfortable than the station — then we can get the police doctor to give you a quick once-over, ask you a few more questions and then, perhaps, get you on your way."

I nodded as pleasantly as I could. Like Jimmy had said, there was little point in objecting.

Still, I had a strange sense of foreboding.

| Order Breaking Point from Amazon.co.uk | Back to Top |