Dark Angel - a gripping serial-killer thriller with a nail-biting ending

by Chris Simms

  ‘Jon, you’re delaying. Go home. We’ve done all we could.’

  She was right, but he scanned the messages anyway. Nothing significant. ‘OK. How late are you staying?’

  ‘Soon as I’ve filed this lot and sent it over to the MIT, I’m off.’

  He looked at the paperwork; all their effort gifted to another team. When Conway was finally caught, the credit would go to them. ‘Sure you don’t want a hand?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Right. If we don’t speak later, see you tomorrow.’

  ‘See you tomorrow. Sleep well.’

  He made his way to the aisle, glancing at Peter Collier’s empty desk as he passed it. Need to thank him for all his help on this, he thought. The construction company’s logo was still in his head. Why did it seem familiar? A phone started ringing behind him. He was halfway to the doors when they swung open and Kieran Saunders stepped through. Behind him, Iona called his name. He was still looking at Kieran. The logo ...

  ‘Jon!’

  He turned round to see Iona was now standing, the receiver of her desk phone in her hand. ‘That was Pinner! Conway’s flat was empty.’

  ‘The baby?’

  She shook her head.

  He glanced back at Kieran. What, he asked himself, was I just thinking? Whatever it was, it had now gone. He hurried back to Iona. ‘What did Pinner say?’

  ‘Flat recently vacated. Candle wax still warm. A woman on the floor below claims he left about twenty minutes ago, with the baby.’

  ‘Twenty minutes?’

  ‘And he had his work tabard on and a holdall he normally takes with him when he leaves for a shift.’

  Jon pointed at Iona’s computer. ‘Bring up iOPS: see what’s happening round town; 101 calls, anything. He hasn’t got a car – so he’s most likely on foot. Twenty minutes, carrying a holdall and a baby? There must have been a ping on him, surely.’

  He brought up the map of the city he kept bookmarked in his browser’s tool bar. Twenty minutes. ‘What was his postcode again?’

  Iona called it out and he tapped it in. The map zoomed in on Failsworth, to the north-east of the city centre. From there to the cinema on Upper Brook Street was a good three miles. Why would he be heading to his place of work with a baby? It didn’t make sense. He sat down and tried to imagine what was going through Conway’s head.

  ‘Pinner said there was a calendar in his apartment,’ Iona announced from behind her screen. ‘Today’s date has a big cross through it. Nothing after.’

  That was worrying. He recalled Conway’s boss mentioning this was the anniversary of when Conway’s wife and daughter had died. Please, Jon thought, don’t be planning on taking that little child with you. ‘He likes high buildings. Could he be heading back to one of the sites where he’s killed before?’ He scrolled the map back towards the city centre. Failsworth was just north of Ancoats and Piccadilly: the part of the city where several people had fallen to their deaths.

  ‘Two-hour bloody delay!’

  He looked up to see Kieran standing next to his desk. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Those Yanks flying back to the States. We had to sit around for two hours because their flight was delayed.’

  He was talking about Alicia and her party. ‘So they’ve gone?’

  ‘Finally.’

  The airport job seemed like a lifetime ago. ‘Mate, do me a favour: have a look at the website on Iona’s computer. For some reason, I connected it to you.’

  ‘OK.’

  Jon zoomed in on the network of roads. The NCP where Conway’s first victim was found. Bendix Street where he struck again. The mill where another died. All the sites were in that part of the city. It was under a twenty-minute walk from Conway’s flat.

  ‘Jon!’ Iona called. ‘There was an incident on a bus! Came in eight minutes ago. Someone reported that a man was onboard with a baby in a holdall.’

  Jon’s head went up. ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Oldham Road. Bus was at the junction with the A6010.’

  He examined the map once more. ‘He’s heading into the city. Which number bus?’

  ‘89B. It’s a service that goes to the Shudehill Interchange. But he got off when the baby started crying.’

  ‘Which side of the junction with the A6010 was it?’

  ‘The one closer to the centre of town.’

  ‘Eight minutes ago?’ He went back to the map on his screen; Conway could be at any of the sites where he’d killed before. ‘I’ll call Rick.’

  He brought up his old colleague’s number and pressed green. The phone took him through to the answerphone option. Fucking typical. ‘Rick, it’s Jon. He’s not going to that construction site on Upper Brook Street. You need to get all your manpower to the locations where he’s previously struck. They are all listed in the notes Iona supplied. Ring me if you need them again.’ He put his phone to the side. ‘Kieran, any joy?’

  His colleague was looking at Iona’s screen. ‘Oh, Acorn. Yeah, I told you about that – it’s who I used to work for. When I first came out of the army.’

  It was like a lightning strike through his brain: a flash that fused everything together.

  Escorting the Americans to the meeting near the Lincoln statue when they first arrived in Manchester. They’d driven past Albert Square, which was screened off because of the renovations taking place in the Town Hall. The construction company’s logo had been on the hoardings. Kieran mentioned he’d mostly worked at the Victorian Baths. Mostly. ‘The company have more than one project going at any one time?’

  ‘God, yeah. It’s all heritage buildings, though. Couple of times they ferried me out to that National Trust house in—’

  ‘And you could get into either site OK?’ Jon was picturing the immense Town Hall. Its Gothic architecture. The arched windows and blackened statues. Its ornate clock tower with balconies and gargoyles that peered down on the very heart of the city.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You didn’t need approval for a specific site.’

  ‘No – it’s all done on a fingerscan at the main entrance. If you’re on the system, you can get in.’

  Jon jumped to his feet. ‘I think I know where he’s heading.’

  Chapter 42

  In the shadows of a doorway, Gavin held the bottle to the baby’s lips. The bloody thing had been in a pocket of his tabard all along. After a few minutes, he lifted it up to see how much milk remained. The level was barely a notch lower. How could she drink so little? He remembered how Sophie could easily polish off six ounces when she was this small. Actually, she’d never been this small. He held the baby away from him. Something wasn’t right with her. She was so frail. He looked at her tiny face as it began to crease with discomfort. She let out a tiny gurgle.

  Need to wind her, he realised. He placed the bottle aside and propped her chin up with the crook of his forefinger and thumb. Using the fingertips of his other hand, he tapped gently against her rigid spine. Funny the speed that memories of doing this stuff return, he thought. Sophie would often let out a dribble of milk which ran across the back of his fingers. He couldn’t imagine this little mite managing that. She’d hardly swallowed anything. A second later, a bubble of air made its way up her windpipe. He felt her sag down into his hand. Fast asleep again. After he’d laid her back in the holdall, he reached for the bottle.

  No need to bring that, he thought. They’d be at the Town Hall in no time. After that, it wouldn’t take long.

  He raised himself from the steps and set off once more. Somewhere to the side, he could hear laughing. People in a restaurant. He moved away from the voices, sticking to the poorly lit back roads that formed a network in this part of the city.

  At the brightly lit Corporation Street, he hung back until a break in the traffic. Then he crossed the road quickly, head down, holdall swinging from his hand. No one knows, he told himself. You’re just another worker going about his business.

  The next main road was Deansg
ate, but that would be even busier than Corporation Street. Instead, he skirted round the back of the National Football Museum, aiming for the wide walkways and grassed areas that fronted Chetham’s School of Music. No sign of anyone. As he neared the cobbled street leading past the cathedral, music began to swirl around him. Someone was playing the organ. The squat building’s stained-glass windows were brightly lit. A service taking place.

  A figure was slumped against the low wall that formed a border with the cathedral’s pristine lawn. Gavin moved to the far side of the walkway, afraid the baby would give herself away once more. The man’s hand was in his lap, a cup held loosely in his grip. His chin was on his chest and, as Gavin got closer, he could see the person wasn’t conscious. The type of comatose state, he thought, only caused by chemicals. Probably Spice. Treading softly, he moved close to where the man was sitting, scooped every single coin from his pockets and poured them into the man’s empty cup. It was a liberating feeling to know you no longer had need of money.

  The sound of the organ continued to rise and fall and he took a moment to regard the building. Music written to honour God. He smiled. God. Didn’t they see that God had given up on this world? How else could his wife and child have been allowed to die? There was no one above them keeping watch. Making sure things were fair. No one. Nothing. His gaze dropped to the holdall. No one to take care of this baby. No one to take care of him, he thought, glancing at the man passed out on the freezing flags beside him. This world is a cold, cruel world. God might be waiting in the next, and the sooner we move on from this one to where those we love are waiting, the better.

  He strode on towards the middle of the city, the Town Hall only a few minutes away.

  Chapter 43

  Jon tore along Deansgate, blue light flickering behind the car’s front grille.

  Beside him, Iona was on her phone. ‘No, sir, Jon couldn’t get through. That’s why I rang.’ She listened for a moment. ‘We’re on Deansgate right now. We’ll be at the Town Hall in a couple of minutes at the most. Yes, he’s driving. OK, yes, will do.’

  Jon kept his eyes on the road. About fifty metres in front, a couple of people were contemplating trying to make it across the road’s wide lanes. He turned the siren on and set it to rapid pulse. Don’t even try it, you fucking idiots. The car shot past them at close to sixty miles an hour. ‘What did he say?’

  Iona was looking worried. ‘Well, he didn’t sound convinced. He said we were to proceed to where workers check in and see what the security records show.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Ring him again.’

  ‘Even if we know Conway is in the building?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Fuck that.’

  ‘Jon ...’

  He slowed to forty when they reached the junction with Peter Street. A bus pulled to the side of the road, allowing him to cut across the junction without checking his speed. The car’s tyres screeched in protest and, on the pavements, people with open mouths watched him pass.

  ‘How did Kieran say it worked again?’ he asked, straightening up and increasing speed once again.

  Iona was gripping the sides of her seat. ‘They work in three-man teams. One on the CCTV cameras, one on the radio channels and one doing a foot patrol.’

  That was it, thought Jon, recalling how Kieran had explained that, because the company specialised in heritage projects, all nightwatchmen had been trained in monitoring and checking the various smoke and heat sensors positioned throughout the building.

  ‘If access to the site is controlled by a biometric check—’

  ‘You mean a fingerprint scanner at the turnstiles?’

  ‘That’s what I’m thinking. And if he isn’t on duty, maybe he won’t get past that point.’

  ‘I get the feeling he has planned this too carefully to fuck up at the site perimeter,’ Jon replied, swinging left on to Mount Street. Beyond the domed roof of the city’s library, they could see the Town Hall’s clock tower pointing up into the sky. He regarded the tall structure uneasily: it had to be where Conway was heading with the baby. Had to be.

  ‘Jon, what if he’s not here?’ Iona asked quietly.

  He shrugged. ‘Then I’ll look like a massive knob. Anyway, they’ll have sussed he’s not at the Brook Street site by now, so there’s probably a team on their way here.’ He followed the road into Albert Square. Concrete blocks now prevented any vehicle from mounting the pavement and entering the square itself; anti-terror measures implemented after attacks involving vehicles down in London. He screeched to a stop and glanced at the hoardings erected closer to the building itself. There was the logo he’d noticed before, stuck at regular intervals along the six-foot-high barrier. An entry point was a little way in front. ‘There,’ he stated, jumping out and hurrying towards it.

  Iona appeared at his side. ‘There was what looked like a separate gate for work vehicles,’ she said. ‘The corner of the square, at the top of Lloyd Street.’

  Figures, Jon thought. There would be lorries coming and going all the time. ‘OK, we’ll need to check what security is at that point, too.’

  A variety of signs were plastered to the outer perimeter. Health and safety messages, fire procedures, clocking-in instructions. No entry to unauthorised persons. The way forward was blocked by a wire mesh door. Jon tried the handle. Locked. No surprise there. He looked about and spotted an intercom and buzzer. Directly above it was a CCTV camera. ‘This looks pretty secure to me,’ he murmured, pressing the button and reaching for his ID.

  ‘Is anyone even around?’ Iona asked, peering through the wire. Directly on the other side was a ramp that led up to a Portakabin. A sign on its door read: Identification Cards To Be Worn At All Times. ‘It seems so quiet.’

  Jon crooked his head back. High above them was the tower’s clock face. ‘Ten to seven. The regular workers will have headed home. How high do you reckon that clock tower is? Seventy-five metres?’

  ‘And the rest,’ Iona replied. ‘Nearer one hundred.’

  Jon recalled the time he’d jumped off the ten-metre platform at a swimming pool in France. Measuring up the height of the tower, he guessed it probably was the equivalent of nine or ten platforms high. A long bloody way down, that was for sure. His gaze lingered on the ornate stonework of the pillars, narrow windows and spindly turrets. Angels standing on tiny ledges, imploring the world below with outstretched palms. The heads of grimacing gargoyles jutting out on every corner. ‘Building belongs in a Batman film,’ he muttered, turning to the intercom. He was about to try again when a voice spoke. ‘Can I help you?’

  Jon lifted his ID towards the camera. ‘We need to come in. It’s urgent.’

  ‘Oh – hang on. Give me a minute to get to the Portakabin; I’m in the main building.’ The intercom clicked off.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ Jon cursed, pocketing his ID.

  Iona’s phone went. ‘Pinner,’ she announced, taking the call.

  ‘See what he wants, then. I’ll check the goods-in point.’

  He walked back to the corner of the square. Sandwiched between the Town Hall and the city council building, Lloyd Street was narrow enough at the best of times: now the barrier of hoardings running down the side of the Town Hall meant the pavement on that side had disappeared. He turned round and examined the pair of fenced gates that allowed vehicles on site. Nine feet high, with three strands of dark wire at the top. They’re probably coated in anti-climb paint, Jon thought. No way anyone was scaling that – not with a holdall containing a baby. He got back to Iona to find her still speaking on her phone.

  ‘He’s here, sir. Just been checking where they let lorries through the outer barrier. OK, I’ll tell him. Speak to you shortly.’ She lowered the phone and looked at him with a pained expression.

  Beyond the gate, he saw the Portakabin’s door open. A man clutching a walkie-talkie stepped out.

  ‘It’s unlocked!’

  Jon stepped round Iona and turned the handle. ‘What
did he say?’ he asked her.

  ‘Conway’s not at the Upper Brook Street site. Pinner’s in contact with his opposite number at the MIT. People are on their way here; we’re to stay put until they arrive.’

  ‘OK.’ He marched up the ramp towards the man waiting in the doorway. ‘Evening. Are you in control of whoever gets on site?’

  ‘Yes. Me or my two colleagues. Whoever is on the control desk in the main building.’

  ‘When did your shift start?’

  ‘Half six this evening.’

  ‘Has anyone been let through within the last thirty minutes?’

  ‘Thirty minutes? No.’

  Jon looked around the narrow room they were now in. Behind the counter running down one side was a single monitor. At the far end was a turnstile with an orange console beside it. He took a closer look. White lettering spelled: MSite. The glass screen set into it was lit. Below an oval shape in the centre of the screen was a line of text: Place Finger Here. Flat. Firm. Central. ‘This is how everyone clocks in?’

  ‘Yes. During normal hours, this desk is manned. You don’t come through if you’re not on the system.’

  ‘But it’s not manned now. How long has that been the case?’

  ‘Since we came on shift.’

  ‘What’s to stop me from just jumping over this counter?

  The security guy looked confused. ‘Well ... nothing. But you’d have to have been buzzed through the outer gate first.’

  ‘And, apart from us, you’ve not buzzed anyone through?’

  ‘No. And there are the cameras, too.’ He pointed to the unit behind the desk.

  Cameras, Jon thought, are only any use if someone’s actually looking at what they’re filming. ‘This is a massive building. Surely there are multiple doors in?’

  ‘Yes. But they are all on an alarm circuit. That went active shortly after half six. We’d know straight away if any outer door is breached. You think someone might have got on site, is that it?’