by Chris Simms
Dark Angel
(Book 9 in the Spicer series)
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Some Amazon reader reviews for books in the Spicer series
‘Sympathetic characters and a brilliant chase to catch the killer. I didn't want to put it down until I found out who done it! More from this author, please.’
‘I have just finished this book, it may just be his best yet! Gripping from the first page to the last.’
‘The opening scene is utterly compelling, and the story drives along relentlessly, with thoroughly evil and malicious villains, and further glimpses of Spicer's troubled family history. I couldn't put this down on holiday.’
‘Brilliant, and scary. Looking forward to the next one. Love Jon Spicer.’
‘A terrific thriller from a crime author I had not come across before. Easily as good as some of my favourite British crime novelists like Peter Robinson and Peter James.’
‘I really could not put the book down, and burnt the midnight oil. Shocking murders, a team leader who stood in the way of the investigation, and a grisly ending. GET IT! You won't be sorry.’
‘A brilliant story, well worth a read and you'll want to read the rest of the series.’
Praise for Chris Simms
‘Chris Simms has been quietly building one of the best police procedural series in this country.’
(CATHOLIC HERALD)
Simms has written a gritty novel that grips from start to finish. I just couldn’t put it down.’ (HORRORSCOPE)
‘An absolutely ace British police procedural.’
(IRISH INDEPENDENT)
‘After many years of reviewing crime fiction, it’s not often my jaded nerves get actually, physically jangled.’
(MORNING STAR)
‘An intricate plot is enhanced by good writing and human sympathy. Highly recommended.’ (LITERARY REVIEW)
This Amazon reader says . . .
‘I’ll be downloading more of Chris Simms’ books ASAP. I feel like I’ve discovered a hidden gem.’
Get it for FREE at my Readers Club!
Contents
Title page
Some Amazon reader reviews for books in the Spicer series
Praise for Chris Simms
Get your FREE book
Dark Angel
The Spicer series – full list of titles
About the author
Prologue
The soft night breeze carries the sounds of the city up to him. A sudden clatter as empty bottles cascade into a bin. Clop-clip-clop of heels striking pavement. Single coughs. Muffled conversations. Raucous bursts of laughter. A name shouted over and over. Lee! Lee! Fuck’s sake, Lee! And, behind it all, the low drone of car engines that never fade. Not even in the dead hours before dawn.
He opens his eyes and gazes at the massed lights beneath him. By letting his focus drift, he transforms the city centre into a distant, hazy galaxy. A constellation floating in the vast darkness of space.
When a life ends in this world, where does the person go? He knows the answer: somewhere better.
A scraping of cold stone against his cheek brings him fully back. He must have sagged forward, head tipping to the side. He becomes aware of how tightly his fingers grip the ornately carved surface. In the spring, when he’d first copied the key to the clock tower, he’d been told no one was allowed up here – especially when the peregrine falcons were nesting at the top.
Back then, a CCTV camera had been trained on the nest; images available to view online. Three chicks, clad in comedy suits of white feather. That summer, he’d sit on the benches in St Peter’s Square and watch the adults scoring the sky in their hunt for prey. Targeting weaker, slower birds. Helping them on their way.
Was that, he wonders, when I first thought I could do the same with humans?
He stares across the jumble of dark rooftops. Chimneys and skylights and air vents. The silhouettes of small plants sprouting from clogged gutters. In the gaps where he can see down to the street, there are people. Their little lives being played out. None comprehends how fragile things are. That person – staggering along, phone before his face – a minor stumble and the car accelerating along Princess Street will hit him. Or maybe the driver will swerve and plough into the huddled group smoking outside The Oak. Death is so much closer than any of them knows.
His chest begins to buzz. Short and regular. Moving back from the windowless arch, he reaches into the pocket of his black coat. That same number on his phone’s screen. The person calling doesn’t realise, but it’s his turn to die next.
He clears his throat. ‘Hello, you’re through to Manchester Veterans’ Helpline. Is that Wayne calling? It is, isn’t it? Recognised your number, mate. How are you feeling tonight? Don’t worry. Take your time. I’m listening. I’ll listen as long as you want me to. It’s all right, Wayne. Let it out. Just let it out. No one’s judging you. Remember, I’m here to help you. That’s all, just help.’
Chapter 1
DC Jon Spicer killed his car’s engine. As things went quiet, he looked through the windscreen towards his house. The curtains of every ground-floor window were closed; thin cracks of yellowish light showing around their edges. His eyes travelled up to the smaller window above the living room. That one glowed orange. The sight filled him with a warm feeling as he pictured his family inside the terraced house.
Duggy must still be getting ready for bed. Alice would be up there, too. Probably watching to make sure he was actually brushing his teeth. Holly would definitely be downstairs, relishing having the telly room to herself. He felt his smile slip. Recently, they’d both noticed a change in their daughter. Flashes of hostility when asked to do something. A scowl marring her smooth skin. Alice said she was ready to leave primary school, that was all. Outgrown it.
And Wiper? Stretched out in front of the fire or, if Alice wasn’t looking, trying to worm his way under Duggy’s bed. They’d got the boxer a month before Alice realised she was pregnant again. Once Duggy was born, it hadn’t taken long for the family pet to adopt the newborn baby as his special companion: now they were inseparable.
Jon yanked the car keys out, prompting the vehicle’s interior light to come on. A brief glimpse of himself in the rear-view mirror as he dragged his briefcase off the passenger seat. Square face and a heavy brow. A slightly crooked nose and a left eyebrow bisected by a neat scar. Sometimes, he wished he looked a little less like a bouncer. His eyes returned to his son’s bedroom window and he speculated which book would have been chosen for his bedtime story. Please, not Little Owl Learns To Fly. The book was starting to do his head in.
Halfway to his front gate, a voice came out of the dark. ‘Spicer, you’re still ugly.’
The gruff tone caused a mix of emotions. Happiness at seeing his old rugby coach. Unease at why he’d been lurking outside his house. He turned. A stumpy figure stepped out of the shadows. Sloping shoulders and no neck. Arms hanging straight down.
‘That was good timing.’ The gnarled old man gestured behind him. ‘Just got here as you pulled up.’
Jon stepped towards him. ‘Senior. Nice to see you, mate.’
They shook hands in silence, the other man’s grip as crushing as ever. Jon searched for clues in his eyes. ‘How’s things down at the club?’
‘Same old, same old.’
He thought about how it was Senior who marked out all the pitches each week, Senior who made sure meals were laid on for visiting teams, Senior who tidied up after
everyone had left. The bloke must be well into his seventies by now. ‘You mean it’s still you doing all the work at that place?’
‘You know what they say: no mugs, no clubs.’
‘Why don’t you get someone in part-time? The club’s got enough bloody money stashed in the bank.’
‘One day, mate. One day.’
‘That’s what you always say. So ... you coming in?’
Senior grimaced. ‘Got a favour to ask, Jon. Remember Wayne? Thick as pig-shit, played prop for us a good ten years back? Went off to join the army?’
Jon let his hand drop. Bollocks. This didn’t sound good. ‘Not sure. Action Man haircut? That guy?’
‘Yeah, him.’
‘Surname began with an N ...’
‘Newton.’
‘That’s it. Wayne Newton.’ Jon recalled an amiable lad, even when the opposition were trying to wind him up in scrums. He’d liked him. Loyalty stirred. A teammate. Jon struggled to remember a specific match, but it didn’t matter: they’d have supported each other out there, on the pitch. That’s the way it worked. ‘Always smiling, wasn’t he?’
Senior’s single nod revealed regret. ‘He’s not doing so well since he came out. Lost his job, missus slung him out. Drinking and stuff. He’s ended up homeless.’
Letting the ‘stuff’ bit slide, Jon said, ‘That sounds unfortunate. He’s properly on the streets?’
‘Well, he gets to use the odd sofa at mates’ houses. But not every night.’
Jon was aware that time was ticking on. Duggy might well be climbing into bed by now. The chance to read him a story was slipping by. ‘Where do I fit in?’
‘He remembers you. Remembers you were a copper.’
‘OK.’
‘I bumped into him the other day.’ Senior’s eyes shifted and Jon sensed the untruth. ‘Saw him begging,’ he stated. ‘We went for some food and a catch-up.’
Typical Senior, Jon thought. Bought the guy a meal and probably gave him all his cash, too.
‘So he mentioned you, asked if I was still in touch. Told him you’d fucked your career and got busted back down to detective constable.’ Senior’s eyes glinted as he gave a quick grin.
Jon lifted a middle finger. ‘Twat.’
‘Said you were building things back up. That you’d been moved to the Counter Terrorism Unit. His ears properly pricked up at that.’
Jon wanted to sigh. Detective constable was right; he was just a grunt now. He carried no weight. ‘Not sure how—’
‘Two people have died recently, Jon. Homeless, like him. He knew both of them.’
Jon was surprised; Senior was also ex-forces. Had done a stint in the SAS. He wasn’t ignorant. ‘That’s regular police stuff, Senior. I’ll happily check who’s handling the cases, but other than—’
‘He knew them because they’d both been in the army, too. Apparently, they tend to stick together a bit. On the street.’
Jon cocked his head. Now things made more sense. ‘Were their deaths suspicious?’
‘The police think not.’ His eyes touched on Jon’s house. ‘Can you just speak to him? Listen to what he has to say?’
Jon looked along the road. Spotted Senior’s ancient red Volvo parked beneath a tree. ‘Where is he?’
‘Not far.’
Jon sighed. ‘Come on, then.’
Chapter 2
As he reached the Volvo, Jon noted the smattering of leaves littering its bonnet and roof. He wondered how long Senior had really been waiting for him to arrive home from work.
‘Do you not want to tell Alice what you’re doing?’ Senior asked, as he opened the driver’s door.
‘I’ll call her. Tell her I’m still at work.’ He caught Senior’s raised eyebrow as he climbed in. ‘It’ll be a lot easier than poking my head through the front door, only to head straight back out, believe me.’
Senior was silent and Jon knew he’d be wondering how things were with Alice. The job’s erratic demands were a permanent niggle in their marriage. A few years back, she’d tried to split up with him. The months he’d spent on his own had been the worst of his life. Eventually, she’d had a change of heart. Accepted police work was all he’d ever wanted to do. All he was capable of doing. She could live with that, she’d said – as long as he was always honest with her about what was going on.
Jon couldn’t help looking towards the house as his call was answered. ‘Hello, you. I’ll be a little bit yet. Yeah, me too. Something came in. I know. Kiss the kids for me, can you? And see you later.’
Once he’d pulled out, Senior glanced across. ‘How’s that little bruiser of yours?’
‘Duggy? He’s great, cheers.’
‘Holly?’
Jon decided to skim over that. ‘Growing up fast, she is.’
‘And Alice?’
‘Yeah, good. Still working part-time. Enjoys it.’
‘And they’re happy with you looking like that, in the Counter Terrorism Unit?’
Jon glanced down at his battered jeans and old corduroy jacket. Beneath that, he was wearing a faded sweatshirt. Ancient Adidas trainers on his feet. ‘Need to blend in, Senior. That’s what it’s all about.’ He knew the other man was ribbing him; Senior had served in Northern Ireland. A plain-clothes unit whose job was to go in and snatch IRA suspects out of their communities. That would have been a bit hairy.
‘Blend in? A big lunk like you? That’s funny.’
Jon looked Senior up and down. He was wearing a tracksuit. He was always wearing a tracksuit. Some horrific beige anorak over the top of it. White socks and black leather shoes. ‘Says him with the fashion sense of an asylum seeker.’
Senior chuckled and they drove in silence for a while. Jon could see they were heading into the city. Before them, the single red warning lights of motionless cranes hung in the night sky like frozen fireflies. ‘I’ve never seen so much building work going on.’
‘Luxury flats though, isn’t it?’ Senior said glumly. ‘Big money pouring in from abroad. I don’t like it.’
There was a lot of similar talk at work. How the council was eroding the city’s character by approving so many prestige apartments. Jon wasn’t so sure; Manchester had never enjoyed a gently paced, orderly evolution. It had developed at breakneck speed, powered by profits from the cotton industry. Mills, warehouses, the canals and railways. The grand civic buildings like the town hall, the cramped terraces and the massive merchant’s homes on the outskirts. All of it had sprung up in a hectic rush. The world’s first industrial city.
They were now on the A6, heading towards Levenshulme train station. Not one of Manchester’s more affluent areas. ‘Where are we going, anyway?’
‘Just up here on the left. A mate of his has let him stay these past few nights.’
A few minutes’ later, Senior turned down a side street. When he got to a large house at the intersection of another road, he pulled in. ‘This one.’
Jon examined the overflowing bins fighting for space in the front yard. Multi-tenancy, by the looks of it. Like most big houses, it had been split up into smaller apartments. Senior got to the front door and pressed a button.
A metallic voice spoke a few moments later. ‘Yeah?’
‘It’s Senior.’
‘The rugby club guy?’
‘That’s right. Come to see Wayne.’
‘Hang on a sec. I’ll be down.’
Jon caught Senior’s eye. Something was up. A hazy form soon came into view behind the frosted window panes. The door clicked open to reveal a bloke in his mid-twenties. Messed-up hair and bare feet. He peered out, caught sight of Jon and had to lift his chin to make eye contact.
Jon nodded hello.
He mirrored the gesture, then turned to Senior. ‘He’s not actually here.’
‘OK,’ Senior replied.
The man glanced towards the stairs. Jon could see a grubby hallway, peeling wallpaper and the usual spread of junk mail littering the floor. ‘My girlfriend showed up. Had some holiday she
had to take. Wayne knew the score ...’
‘Where’d he go?’ Senior asked.
The man looked awkward. ‘Not sure. He said the city centre. Usually, when he sleeps out, he picks this place on Stevenson Square.’
Senior glanced at Jon.
‘I know it. It’s in the Northern Quarter. Whereabouts in Stevenson Square?’
‘There’s this office building with an overhanging porch-thing at the front. It was a printers? Went bump during the first lockdown. It’s next to the building with the basement club called the Tiki Bar.’
‘I know the Tiki Bar,’ Jon said to Senior. A work do and hollowed-out pineapples full to the brim with rum cocktail. Memories were vague after they’d staggered out.
‘And he’ll just be in the doorway, will he?’ Senior asked.
‘He used to have a pop-up tent, but the council banned them. So, yeah, I suppose.’
‘Cheers,’ Senior said, now turning fully to Jon. ‘Is it OK if …?’
Jon shrugged. ‘Of course.’
The man had begun to close the door. ‘Are you the one who’s in the police?’
Jon looked at him. ‘That’s right.’
The man grinned. ‘Wayne was talking about you the other night. Said about this time playing rugby with you. A fight where you laid out two from the other team? One punch each, he said.’
Senior erupted in laughter. ‘Yeah! Liverpool Collegiate, it was. Cracking match.’
Jon grinned, enjoying the memory. ‘I’m not like that now. Well,’ he added, giving the bloke a wink, ‘unless they’re Scousers.’
It was now almost quarter past eight. Jon realised Holly would be in bed, asleep, by the time he got home. Damn it. Senior found a place to park on an adjacent road and they set off towards the square. Away to their left was the start of Ancoats, the latest part of the city being targeted by investors. Jon could see the tips of more cranes, clustering around the place like praying mantises. He remembered reading something about vacant land where a Toys-R-Us store used to be. Locals wanted it transformed into a community space; developers were converting it into another car park.