Hunting Angels (Box Set) (The great horror writers (Masterton, Saul, Herbert) and now Jones)

by Conrad Jones

“I wonder why she went straight back.”

  “Most of them do, Conrad. Drugs, drink, violent pimps, the reasons go on and on.”

  “So when they found her, did they take her in again?”

  “No,” Peter scoffed. “There’s no point. They had a chat with her about the missing report. She said she wasn’t missing and didn’t want to be contacted and that was the end of that. We have to respect her wishes as an adult. The next time we came across Pauline Holmes she was a murder victim.”

  “Why would she not want to be found?” I didn’t understand. “She sounds like a mixed-up kid.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. We’re still waiting for forensics to tell us if it’s actually the same Pauline Holmes on the missing persons report.”

  “How come?” I didn’t understand because of the fingerprints.

  “Working girls use different names all the time, Conrad.” Peter sounded matter of fact again. Sometimes he sounded patronizing. “The prints on file down south match hers, but we have no proof that the original prints actually belong to the Pauline Holmes who is missing.”

  “How long will the DNA take?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine, mate. She was reported missing to the Met, ended up in Plymouth and then she was found dead on our patch. There are three forces involved now.”

  “Politics?”

  “Yep, afraid so. It slows thing down, but we’ll get there eventually.” Peter paused.

  I changed tack. “What kind of family was she from?”

  “Assuming that she is Pauline Holmes?” Peter sounded patronizing again. His voice lowered a few octaves, making him sound like Inspector Morse correcting a young Lewis.

  Silly me for daring to assume anything, patronising twat, I thought. “Sorry, yes, assuming that she is.” I tried to sound humble and stupid.

  “From what we know she was placed into care at a young age and then went through the fostering program until her late teens. She has a colourful record as a teenager.”

  “So the parents that reported her missing were not actually her parents?”

  “Foster parents apparently,” Peter yawned. “Must be embarrassing to lose the child you’re fostering, not to mention the financial blow. They get paid decent money to take kids in.”

  “That’s a bit cynical isn’t it?” I laughed.

  “This job makes you a cynic, mate,” Peter added. “Listen, I spoke to my gaffer about you shadowing us on a case and he was keen as long as you stick to the guidelines.”

  “Nice one.” It was my turn to yawn. Research as a writer has gained me access to several prisons, hospitals, military bases and police stations. Shadowing a case could only be good, or so I thought at the time. What I didn’t know was the superintendent was looking for some information on the cheap. “Have you got anything in the pipeline?”

  “Not yet but I’ll be in touch if something comes up okay?” He sounded a little odd when he said that. Now I know why.

  “Brilliant, thanks for the help, Peter.”

  “No problem, see you soon.”

  I remember coming off the telephone a little disappointed. Pauline Holmes was brought up in the care system, dropped out of school and ended up working the streets. It was hardly a groundbreaking character profile for a new book. It was almost the perfect stereotype of a hooker in any major city. The bit about a cult was the only unusual part of her profile, but it was the part that interested me and I had a gut feeling early on that there was more to it than met the eye.

  Peter had mentioned that she had been hanging around with goths, and I searched through dozens of word documents that I’d written for The Child Taker. I had page after page of information taken from the news reports which had followed school massacres committed by teenagers. In every case, the shooters had been influenced by the occult side of the goth culture. I was sure that most of them were nothing more sinister than grumpy, teenage music fans with an attitude. However, there was powerful evidence to prove that some of the subversive messages in the music were being translated literally. One group, the Beasts of Satan, were jailed along with some of their roadies for the ritual rape and murder of three teenagers in northern Italy. It was interesting reading but it was only the tip of a monstrous iceberg.

  When I began looking into murders linked with demonic rituals, a very dark world of child abuse, rape and torture opened up. At that point, I wondered how far into that world Pauline Holmes had travelled before she had decided that she didn’t belong there. Anyway, I didn’t think that I would hear from Peter for a few weeks. I was very wrong.

  Chapter 3

  Another Murder

  The next day was a normal one, until Peter called just after the late news. I’d been writing all day and was thinking about going to bed when my blackberry buzzed and Peter’s ringtone sounded. I’d set his calls to the theme tune from The Bill, which amused me, at least. There was a tingle of excitement as I answered the call.

  “Hi Peter, working late again, I see.”

  Peter didn’t waste any time with small talk. “We’ve found another woman killed in the same area as Pauline Holmes. It is nearly a month to the day since we found Pauline. Do you want to shadow the case, be good for your book?” Peter sounded excited, but there was something else in his voice. It sounded like he wanted to add something but couldn’t because others were listening.

  “Yes please, that would be great. What’s happened?” He hadn’t mentioned any signs of the occult at the crime scenes. I had to restrain myself from asking him straight out. The details may have been withheld for a reason.

  “This woman was found in the same park as the Holmes girl earlier on tonight.” He was annoyingly vague. “There are similarities.”

  “I heard about a murder on the news, but I didn’t know it was in the same park,” I said to him. “It doesn’t seem like a month since Pauline Holmes was killed.” I was lying. I always knew when the moon was full. My father was in the Royal Navy, and he taught me the constellations and the phases of the moon from an early age. I didn’t realize why at the time, but the moon always affected my mood. Back then it made me feel excited and strong. Now it makes me feel sick with fear because I know it drives them too. If you look into their websites, you will see that they encourage their nexions to perform their rituals around the full moon.

  They say the moon affects women more than men because their bodies contain more water. I don’t know if that’s true, but if you think the moon’s gravity moves the tides, it makes sense that it can affect our brains, right? I know one thing for sure: it affects them. The females become far more powerful than the males, and their strength is incredible. So is their propensity for violence and mutilation. The murders I’ve researched that I think are connected to the Niners are all committed around the time of the moon’s peak. My research is irrefutable. Their activity wanes and increases around the lunar cycle. It sounds like I’m writing about werewolves, but the facts are clear for all to see.

  “Well time flies and it’s a month since we found her. The press are out in force, mate. Two bodies in the same park; they’re speculating that we’re hunting a serial killer already. I can see ‘Ripper’ headlines all over the Manchester Evening News tomorrow.”

  “I suppose it sells newspapers.”

  “Yes, and it brings out all the nutters too,” Peter laughed. “We’re under pressure on this one and we don’t need headlines like that. If you want to tag along, you’re more than welcome.”

  I sat up and shook my head to clear my mind. The reality of being allowed to watch a real murder investigation had arrived and my heart was pounding. “Brilliant, thanks mate!” I was struggling for something to say as Peter seemed to be edging around the facts; he was hiding something. I decided to pry. “So what happened to the latest victim?”

  “From the evidence so far it looks similar to the Pauline Holmes murder.”

  “No wonder the press are linking it, then.”

  “She’s had her
throat slashed and there are signs of sexual assault. We can’t be sure until the forensics come back, but it looks like she’s been raped.”

  “Was she a prostitute?”

  “We haven’t confirmed her identity yet.” Peter became serious again and he wasn’t giving any details away. I had the feeling that he was sitting next to another officer.

  “What will your senior officer say about me being there?” I asked. I knew that he’d cleared the idea in principle but I wanted to be sure. A few days earlier, Peter’s superintendent had e-mailed me a confidentiality document, which I returned to him twenty minutes later. I was keen to take the opportunity to follow his team.

  “He’s okay about it. I mentioned that you were writing a fictional book based on the Manchester police and the murder squad. He said as long as you agree to stick to the confidentiality agreement and he can censor anything connected to the case, and you’re constructive, you’re welcome.”

  “That’s great.” I tried to sound grateful, but something didn’t feel right. “Constructive is my middle name.”

  “He also thinks that you might be able to help us out,” Peter added, ignoring my joke. Sometimes he was a pompous arsehole. I knew he was beating around the bush somehow. I’d known him long enough to sense that there was an aspect I hadn’t been shown yet.

  “That sounds ominous! How can I help you?” I asked, trying to add surprise to my voice. I wasn’t surprised.

  “There were some signs cut into the bodies,” Peter said vaguely. I’m sure he thought that I was a mind reader. When he worked for me at McDonald’s he’d been a grafter, but I held him back from promotion to senior management because he didn’t have the business acumen or intelligence required to step up the ladder. It was one of the reasons he chose a different career. A decade on in our new roles, when we talked about work, I often got the impression that he was trying to prove a point. If I was a psychologist, I’d say that he had an inferiority complex, but I’m not so I’ll call it “small man syndrome”.

  “What do you mean, ‘signs’?” I pressed for details trying not to sound irritated. “Do you mean symbols?”

  “Yes, symbols,” he snapped. “It’s the same thing. That’s what I said.”

  It wasn’t what he had said at all, but I decided to leave it. “Can you describe them or show them to me?”

  “The governor thinks it may have something to do with a group in one of your books.” He sounded unsure. “I’ll explain when I see you.”

  “Okay.” It sounded simple enough. I’d written ten novels by this time and there were bad guys galore in them. So I was none the wiser, but I was hoping that it would be linked to the occult. “Shall I meet you tomorrow?” I asked. It was late and the thought of going out in the rain did not appeal to me. Evie Jones was snoring gently and I wanted to sleep.

  “I’m not sure she will still be here tomorrow, Conrad. I think it will be wrapped up tonight. They’ll transfer her,” Peter said. He lost me completely.

  “Who won’t be there?” I asked confused. “Sorry you’ve lost me.”

  “Sorry, I’m way ahead of you here. We have a suspect in custody, but they’re taking her to Winwick Hospital. She’s flipped her lid.” Winwick was once a huge Victorian mental asylum. It closed its doors in 1997 and a desirable housing project covers some of the old grounds, but they built a new mental health hospital section called Hollins Park. It looks inconspicuous until you see the razor wire and high mesh fences around it. The old hospital looked like something out of a vampire movie. It was built from dark sandstone and it had turrets and tall chimneys. I remember the barred windows and the screams of the insane echoing across the grounds. It reminded me of a Hammer Horror set from the Seventies. The new facility looked modern in comparison, but you can still hear the inmates – or patients, as they should be called.

  “They’re going to assess if she’s fit to be interviewed. You can meet me there if you like.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  The asylum was a five-minute drive from where I lived. I have been in many institutions while researching novels, but never that asylum. The opportunity was too good to miss. I thought about pulling on my jeans and a warm jumper because the wind was still howling, and then I thought better of it and put on a dark blue suit, white shirt and a tie and picked up my laptop bag from the desk. I wanted to look the part of an investigative author. I’m not sure what people expect when they think of an author, but I don’t fit the stereotype. People rarely believe I write books when they first meet me. I have a shaven head and look like a bouncer or a drug dealer, especially when I’m walking the Staffie in the summer. I have tattoos. I work out and usually wear a vest in the summer. I’m no Charles Dickens.

  When I walk Evie Jones down the road to the park, most people are at work. I have lost count of the number of times passing motorists shake their heads in disapproval. Random people have shouted “get a job” to me more times than I can remember. I don’t leave for work with my lunchbox under my arm and I look like a thug, hence the jibes from passers-by. The fact I start writing at 7.30 a.m. every morning and work seven days a week is irrelevant. I look like a thug with a dog, and so human nature dictates that people make assumptions.

  Anyway, back to that night. I dressed conservatively and went through the front door to the side gate. I ran with my head down so that I wouldn’t get wet. The wind was blowing a gale and the rain was almost horizontal. I jumped into the driver’s seat and for the first time saw the moon as a complete silver disc. It looked like a lone white eye glaring defiantly down at the world, watching the mayhem below. It was cold and the wind cut through my suit as if it wasn’t there. I shut the door of the truck and shivered inside. I was excited about going to the asylum, but I was anxious too. Something was telling me to be careful. I wish that I’d listened to that nagging doubt.

  The truck played up when it was cold, I think the heater plugs needed changing, but it started on the third attempt. It’s a big silver Navara and I loved driving it. I had to sell it because they knew it was mine. It was too easy to spot and the registration plate would lead them to me easily. I remember the smell of the leather upholstery; there is something about the smell of leather in a car. While I was driving, the rain tried to blind me by hammering on the windscreen in a deluge. It soaked the streets, and the lightning still flashed somewhere beyond the edge of the sprawling building as I neared Hollins Park. There wasn’t much traffic around at that time of the night, so I was at the hospital within five minutes and I left the truck in a visitor’s parking space. The moon was behind the clouds as I got out of the truck, and a tortured scream reached me from inside the asylum. Despite the new bricks and architecturally designed gardens and shrubbery, the place smelt of lunacy.

  There were two uniformed security guards in the main reception area. They looked bored and disinterested by my arrival. The presence of police detectives late at night was probably disrupting their television time. Although it was a hospital, it was nothing like the casualty department of the general. I visited the general two weeks earlier, researching the accident and emergency department for a novel. It was madness, packed with sweating nurses, abusive drunks and foreigners shouting, swearing and arguing in any number of languages. The Eastern Europeans were still flooding into the country then. They drank heavily and often ended up in fights.

  The reception area at the asylum was at the opposite end of the spectrum. It was more akin to a hotel. The lights were dim, and apart from the random screams from the secure wards, it was silent. Peter was waiting near the desk and he walked across the polished tiles and gave me a visitor’s badge. I clipped it to my top pocket and straightened it. He looked tired and his jeans were darkened where the rain had dripped from his leather jacket.

  “Are you all set?” He was short and had an old man’s voice, not suited to his face. He had closely cropped greying hair and a nose that had been broken so many times that it was almost flat again
st his face. Years policing the dangerous streets of Manchester had taken their toll. Peter was ten years younger than me, but we looked about the same age.

  “Yes, ready when you are.” I decided not to ask any questions for now and no further information was offered. I think Peter liked it when he was in charge. It was his turn to be in control. We headed towards the rear of the reception and pushed through the double doors leading to a corridor off which were the interview rooms. The acrid smell of bleach made my eyes water. There was a line of identical green doors, each with a small observation window at head height, an oblong of glass reinforced with wire mesh. Each door had a letter stencilled on it and F was about halfway along the corridor. Peter knocked once and a uniformed guard opened the door. I thought then how strange it was that they were using private security employees to control mental patients. Peter opened another door and I stepped into a small anteroom. Through a two-way mirror, I saw a girl sitting at a table, which was screwed to the floor. When I saw her, my breath caught in my chest. She was the image of Pauline Holmes.

  “Who’s that?” I asked, wondering what was going on. I couldn’t take my eyes from her. “Is she your suspect?” I asked incredulously. My excitement caused me to lose control of my volume.

  “Keep your voice down!” Peter tapped me on the back and whispered into my ear. “She was found at the scene. It looks like she did it.”

  From our earlier telephone call, I knew they had a suspect, but I was surprised that they’d arrested someone at the scene. The fact that the suspect was such a young woman shocked me too. When I saw her, I couldn’t believe it. She looked hardly out of her teens. Two men walked into the interview room and sat down. It was obvious from their dress that one was a medical man, the other a detective. The doctor took a pad and pen out of a white shoulder bag while the other loaded tapes into a machine.

  “My name is Dr Brook,” he said to the girl. He hung the bag over the back of the chair. “I’m a doctor here at the hospital.”