Dark Angel: a fast-paced serial killer thriller (The James & Sandersen Files Book 2)

by P. J. Nash

  The first carriages had arrived at the bottom station. Suddenly, the benign sense of the queue was disrupted by shouts and the thudding of boots as the atrium filled with black clad policeman carrying submachine guns. There were screams from the crowd queuing up in the ticket hall. Just behind the armed men came Jezek and James, pistols drawn. Seeing the carriage with the “closed for maintenance” notice on, James ran across and yanked the door open. On the bench seat lay Sandersen snoring.

  ‘Jessie, you’re ok! Thank fuck for that.’

  He held her prone body in his arms and kissed her hair. Jezek beckoned to the waiting ambulance crew to take over. Seeing that she had suffered no major harm, James backed off to let them give Sandersen the once over.

  Uniformed police had sealed off the funicular station at the base of the hill, and the unfortunate passengers had been corralled in one section of the atrium. They were being questioned, and their details taken. A myriad of translators was on hand to speak to the tourists. They were being decanted singly or in pair or small groups out via the fire exit after they had been interviewed in an effort to keep them away from the media scrum that had gathered outside the station.

  ‘If you get some units to Pavlov Street, you should be able to cut him off,’ shouted Quercus to Jiri, looking at the large-scale map on the wall of the control room.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. We’ll have him like a rat in a trap’.

  Jiri quickly issued some orders to two mobile units and crossed his fingers. Sweat dripped down his back, and he was aching for a smoke. Clamping the headset closer to his ear, he listened intently as the units closed in on their prey.

  Irish was approaching the flat streets of the Mala Strana after his helter-skelter trip down the hill. He hadn’t seen any cops and was glad the gentleman’s agreement had held. But he knew as soon as James had got Sandersen safely back, a police dragnet would be sweeping the streets. Deciding he needed to ditch the bike, he looked around for a suitable place. Seeing a seedy bar, he got off the bike and wheeled it towards the rear. Two homeless men approached him, asking for money. Trying to avoid them and looking for some small change, he overbalanced the bike.

  One of the bags spilled its content onto the pavement. Seeing the bounty, the men began to grab the bundles of notes. Irish dropped the bike and punched the first man to the ground. As he swung for the second one, the first man jumped on his back. They fell into a heap on the floor. Hearing sirens, he decided on drastic action and pulled the Sig Sauer automatic from his jacket. Rolling to his side and jumping straight up, he aimed at the centre mass of the first man and squeezed the trigger three times. The shots blew the man back into a bloody heap. More from instinct than need, he turned and fired another two shots at the second man who also fell back dead. Stumbling to pick up the bundles of notes, he didn’t see the two cops who had ridden up on mountain bikes.

  ‘Drop the weapon and put your hands up,’ one screamed in English.

  Irish’s hand went for his gun. He died in fusillade of shots, pitching forwards into a pile of bloodied money.

  Millennium Mayfair Hotel, London

  James had not bargained on being back in London again. Not by choice. The dirty streets, the jaded attitude of people forced to live in a place they couldn’t afford and the resentment they just had to share. And the most off-putting of all was the juxtaposition of sheer opulence cheek by jowl with depressing, crushing poverty.

  They had decided on a bit of luxury after flying into Heathrow on an afternoon flight from Prague. Tomorrow, Johnson and Toohey would fly in. Then, a lunchtime conference with representatives from the National Crime Agency, the UK’s answer to the FBI. And also, representatives from Europol and Interpol. While the murders had been only in Prague so far, it would be a great chance to check out other cases. But as Jiri had quipped, documented female serial killers were “as rare as rocking horse shit”.

  James sat on the edge of the bed in his boxer shorts, then went over the desk and poured himself a large one from a plastic duty-free bottle of Johnnie Walker Red Label. He had the flashback again. He knew that coming back to the city would reawaken the demons. He had seen it all in full HD as he’d told Sandersen who’d held him as he’d awoken screaming, balled up in the sheets and covered in sweat. He’d been there again. The crowded underground carriage, the tinny sounds of iPods playing too loud. The sweaty businessmen and everyone refusing to make eye contact, the compression of the city pressing down on him as the train clanked through the labyrinth of tunnels. And then, the drunk, stinking of cheap super strength lager, weaving through the carriage, swearing and making demands. A half drank can of booze in one hand, the other outstretched. The usual jaded commuters, looked at the floor, their eyes boring into it. But a young Japanese girl wearing a Hello Kitty T-shirt made the mistake of offering a shy smile.

  ‘Wotcher smiling at, you slag?’ he’d said in a spume of spit and bad breath. The altercation had gone on for a few seconds. No one had offered even a disapproving look.

  ‘I don’t think she appreciates the attention, sir,’ James said, stepping between the drunk and the terrified young girl.

  ‘Was it to you, cunt?’ slurred the drunk.

  James had waved his warrant card under the drunk’s nose.

  ‘A fucking pig,’ he spat in reply.

  Then, the red mist has come down. Weeks of working undercover, lack of sleep and crippling depression after the collapse of the Butcher of Balham case and his being busted from CID back to uniform, cut loose. He kneed the drunk in the crotch, then smashed him in the nose as he doubled over in pain. The drunk fell to the floor groaning. In one fluid movement, James had extracted and snapped out an extendable baton and delivered a fusillade of blows onto the prostrate man. It was over in seconds. James stood in silence, baton in hand, the drunk lying unconscious in a pool of blood and spilled lager. The train pulled to a halt, and James got off. The uniform cops found him shivering on a bench in Green Park.

  Luckily, there had been no CCTV. A new Metropolitan Commissioner was appointed during the two week’s James had been suspended. The Butcher of Balham case was reinvestigated, and James, originally accused of entrapment, had been exonerated. James faced no charges. The drunk had been taken to a hospital where two uniformed officers told the doctors how they had found him in an alleyway in Soho. They had closed ranks for James, but everything had a price. He had met his boss in a coffee shop on the Tottenham Court Road, where the offer was laid out. A gold-plated reference for a transfer to the State of Victoria Police as a drugs squad detective. And a brown paper bag of money.

  ‘Five grand from a meth lab in Stockwell,’ said DCI Matthews. ‘Think of it as a going away present. The guy it came from will be going away for seven to ten.’

  And with that, he’d drained his coffee and left.

  Light was beginning to pierce through the curtains. James drained his Scotch and decided to hit the shower. The past might be another country, but sometimes, you dropped in there, albeit as an unwilling tourist.

  The silly bitch reporter had been nabbed by the cops already. You’d seen they’d tailed her, so they’d have her phones tapped too. But that was all to the good. Publicity was good. If they printed your statement, then you would have the oxygen of publicity. Interesting, wasn’t it? Live your life like a good little girl and complain about things and you got nothing. Stab a foreign pig and leave him in the street and all of a sudden you had everyone’s attention. You will phone the bitch at the paper and demand your note be published. And tell them if not, more men will die.

  Dobra Trafika Mala Strana, Prague

  The Mala Strana or “Lesser Town” sits across the Vltava River just across from the Old Town. Being on the other side of the river doesn’t do much to reduce its popularity with tourists who throng its winding cobbled streets in search of the huge palaces and churches that are located there. A number of government buildings are also there, leavening out the tourist gift shops and other tat vendors. It’
s all a little bit more authentic and less commercialized. And like most tourist saturated cities, Prague has its hidden corners where locals can gather in safety from the gimmickry and the guided tours. Dobra Trafika is one of these.

  People passing by see an old-fashioned newsagent/tobacconist, which are dotted throughout the city, but the tobacconist shop is just the front part of the premises which emerges into a huddle of dark rooms eventually opening onto a courtyard. People drink coffee and beer, and students hover seriously over chessboards. It was here that Jiri and Jezek had decided to take a fresh look at the case.

  ‘So, let’s start at the beginning,’ said Jiri.

  They had commandeered the back room of the bar to hold a case conference where beer and tobacco were the catalysts to hopefully putting some shape to the case. In one corner of the smoke-filled room, a corkboard was pinned with pictures and maps of the location of the murders. The room was a personal little fiefdom from the station, and a sanctuary from the snooping uniforms who were not averse to taking some cash off reporters for some inside information. Whilst unethical, the Mayor had given carte blanche to capture the killer. Due process was being overlooked for a result. If a few beers got the little grey cells working, then all to the good. Plus, they were technically off duty, anyway.

  ‘Before we get going, I have an interesting update,’ said Jezek. ‘There’s a hundred grand on the bitch’s head. From the Russians.’

  ‘Euros, not Crowns I take it,’ laughed Jiri.

  ‘Fucking right.’

  ‘Any takers?’

  ‘Yes, a Moldovan is in town to get the job done. No doubt there’ll be a few more. Like flies around shit.’

  ‘Oh balls, so as well as a homicidal woman offing randy English guys, we’re gonna have him offing girls who won’t give them a hand job,’ said Jiri.

  ‘We have British men, all young, all on stag holidays, all mixing it with the strippers and beer. And they were all lured somewhere and killed.’

  ‘And butchered like pigs.’

  ‘Yes. And as Dr Sandersen says, this level of violence is suggestive of a victim striking back. She’s used way more violence than that just needed to kill. And the mutilation is part of emasculating them.’

  ‘That makes sense. But why Brits?’

  ‘Well, the way they behave like marauding Vikings, we should be looking for reasons why not to kill them.’

  The joke was made only half in jest. Both men’s female relatives had been pestered by leery gangs of drunken British men, and both men had administered some extrajudicial slapping’s after hunting down the predators in their stinking lairs the next morning.

  Jiri belched and stood up. ‘Well, I need another beer,’ he said, and left the room.

  Institute of Directors, London

  Sandersen was feeling back to her old self for the first time after the kidnapping. The Institute of Directors was an innocuous setting for a meeting. But seeing as James was a member, the meeting room was central and discreet. Being back in the hunt was the key thing. She didn’t like stag dos more than any other woman. But these men were someone’s sons, and the killer herself could be seen as a victim. Either way, she needed taking off the streets.

  James had poured himself a coffee and was mingling with two civilian staff from Interpol. The two had been combing the databases for similar crimes with the same circumstances, but had turned up precious little. Nevertheless, every little helped. Sometimes a case turned on a fragment of evidence or a mere coincidence. The next few hours would give them a chance to go over things with a fine toothcomb. But the undercover mission they were launching filled her with dread. James was putting himself out as bait. And while she admired his courage, she didn’t want to lose the one person she loved more than anything in the world, either.

  Nusle Bridge, Prague

  Officer Antonin Pavel was on foot patrol when the call came in over the radio. It was nearing the end of his shift that he’d mostly spent moving on drunks from shop doorways. Some had got a bit lippy, but a few whacks with a nightstick soon showed them who the streets belonged to. A motorist had called to say he’d seen someone acting suspiciously near the onramp to the bridge. Another caller had said they’d seen something hanging from the bridge. Not that this was out of the ordinary. Praguers called this “The Suicide Bridge”. It was the highest one in the city and not a bad place to take your last view of the earth before plunging into the abyss. Pavel radioed in that he would take a look.

  He unbuttoned the flap of his holster and flicked on the beam of his Maglite torch. Sure enough, hooked over the stanchions was a thick rope he’d only ever seen tying up sail boats. He looked around but couldn’t locate any people, save for the ones hurrying past in their cars. He leant over the parapet. The rope was taut, as if a weight were attached. Putting down his torch, he pulled with both hands. Nothing doing, he called for backup.

  A patrol car eased in from the traffic, its blue lights casting a spectral hue over the scene. Two officers exited, one still carrying a commuter mug of coffee.

  ‘Looks like another swinger,’ said Pavel.

  ‘I thought a farm boy from Moravia like you would be able to lug the guts up yourself,’ said the cop with the mug.

  ‘I thought I’d spoil your party,’ Pavel replied.

  ‘Let’s see what you caught, then,’ said the other cop.

  The pair hauled on the rope. A human arm flopped over the parapet. Closely followed by the rest of a naked male corpse. The third cop grabbed the feet and hauled it over the parapet. The corpse flopped onto the pavement like a dying fish, the lights from the car illuminating the scars and blood it was covered in. A swollen tongue poked out of the mouth, and the head flopped to one side where the noose had broken the neck. Nothing needed to be said by the three men; they’d seen swingers before. But this was no ordinary suicide. Pavel turned the corpse with the toe of his boot. Written in black paint on the pale skin of the former human’s back was the message: ‘I’M A FOREIGN RAPIST PIG. I PAID THE PRICE FOR NO ONE HEEDING THE DARK ANGEL’

  The body on the bridge a piece of art theatre for the rapist beasts. He’d begged for his life as you made him climb the parapet. Even told you about his wife and kids. Funny he hadn’t mentioned them as he kissed you, scratching you with his unshaven face and repelling you with his beery breath. Nor when he was haggling for the price of your pussy. You’d spiked his drink in the club, and he’d collapsed like a baby into the taxi. Perhaps that’s why he’d noticed that there was no driver, except you. It was surprising how much your English had improved. Talking to these creeps had really given it a boost. But the cops were upping their patrols in the Old Town and notices were being handed out in English. Maybe you should change your hunting ground soon.

  Vaclav Havel Airport, Prague

  Whilst he knew he was playing a dangerous game, acting as bait to a psychopathic serial killer, there was a part of him that was enjoying the role – the role of being an arsehole, as Sandersen had put it so glibly. He and the other four guys had boarded the bargain bucket flight at Gatwick and been necking booze ever since. Well, most of them had. They had a pre-agreed drinking schedule. The tee-total stag was easier to cover up in Prague, where non-alcoholic beer was plentiful and attracted no stigma of being a wuss. Despite being the world’s biggest beer drinkers, the Czechs had pretty much zero tolerance to drinking and driving, so the country was awash with non-alcoholic beer.

  The five men had their passports checked by a disinterested policeman and were waved through Immigration. They picked up their luggage from the carousel, and James phoned the courier from Chaos Nights, who was picking them up.

  ‘He’s stuck in traffic, going to be at least half an hour,’ said James, putting his phone back in his jacket pocket. They had been warned of the rampant pick pocketing in the city. Especially those as obvious as men on a stag do.

  ‘Time for our first Czech beer!’ shouted Johnson, the ostensible “best man” and leader of the planned car
nage.

  ‘Yeah!’ they shouted in unison. If drawing attention to themselves was the aim of the game, they were doing their level best. All were clad in bright white T-shirts emblazoned with “CAD ABOUT TOWN” on the back. But as they moved to the bar and began chugging their half litres of booze in noisy ribaldry, a trained observer would have noticed a symmetry of unit coherence not usually seen in a group of men on a stag do.

  James and Johnson were standing by the bar, concentrating on their drink. But thirty-five-year-old John Parkinson, an ex-British SBS soldier, stood nursing his beer in one hand whilst pretending to have a conversation with a worried girlfriend on his mobile phone. When, in fact, he was using the phone to scan the airport concourse. The footage was being relayed live to Quercus who would be using facial recognition software to scan the footage to see if there were matches with the sketchy shot of the woman captured in the video that had been captured in the raid on the flat. If there was a match, five-person surveillance teams were on hand to pick up the tail. The fourth man, Andy Walters, an ex-Para, was blowing up an inflatable “sex” sheep, whilst sticking close to the men’s luggage. The fifth man, Peter Jensen, an ex-cop, was chatting up a young air hostess. If anyone tried anything, they would be ready. They drank, shouted and waited.