Dark Angel_a fast-paced serial killer thriller

by P. J. Nash

  ‘So, you gonna dance a haka for us, wog?’ snarled McAuliffe, the most hate fuelled of the trio.

  ‘Maybe we'll dance one for you after we bury in the car park,’ Cottle, the second of the trio, chipped in.

  ‘Yeah, we can bury you there, but we don't wanna see your wog wife and your brats parking there. It's a whites only car park y'hear?’ piped up Dawson, the third of the three unwise men.

  Munu had remained stony faced throughout the insults pinging like air gun pellets off a King Tiger Tank. The trio advanced but weren't keen to press home their advance. It was as James knew they were strictly amateur hour. They broke up as they closed, and Dawson was left in the lead. He threw a slow right hook. Munu leant back and jabbed a low cut into Dawson's exposed gut, punching the piss and wind out of the racist. Dropping his hands to his winded stomach, Dawson's exposed face was hit by a volley of punches, sending him to the asphalt in a cloud of blood and snot. Munu wasn't even breathing hard. Cottle was the next cab off the rank. He feinted a right hook and jabbed with the left burying his fist in Munu’s shoulder with minimal effect. Munu came off the backfoot and buried the hard part of his forehead into Cottle’s face, snapping his nasal bone like a twig. Munu stepped back as Cottle fell to the floor, hands clasping his smashed in face.

  ‘Looks like it’s just me and you, fella,’ said McAuliffe, flicking open a wicked butterfly knife. ‘It’s cold steel that bought you savages to heel. Now you’re gonna feel it up close and personal,’ he sneered.

  He raised himself on the balls of his feet, knife aloft. Movie fights always saw the knifeman keeping it low, but that was horseshit and left you with your wrist exposed and your body offline after a thrust.

  Munu stepped back, palms raised. ‘Not so—’ His words were cut short as the piece of four by two-inch timber wielded by Lawrence James connected with the back of his knees. Munu stepped in, grabbed McAuliffe’s knife hand and snapped his wrist with a crack. James swung the timber again smacking it into the prone McAuliffe. James stepped back dropped the piece of wood and grabbed McAuliffe’s left wrist in a lock and pulled the man to his knees.

  ‘Tell me who the fucking chief is now?’ said James.

  ‘Fuck you, Pom.’

  James twisted the man round bodily, the grip on the wrist a few degrees from snapping. ‘Say it, you fucking cunt,’ he snarled.

  ‘He’s the fucking chief,’ McAuliffe said, nodding towards Munu.

  ‘It ends here, do you understand?’ said James, picking up the butterfly knife into the lower part of McAuliffe’s back. ‘You tell me it ends here, or I’ll fucking bag you right now.’ He pressed the tip of the knife into McAuliffe’s lower back.

  ‘Ok, it fucking ends here,’ groaned McAuliffe.

  James flicked the knife shut and pitched it across the lot. ‘You can have that one for free, Chief,’ said James with a bow to Munu. With one savage punch, he knocked McAuliffe out cold. The two other men embraced.

  ‘The beers are on me,’ said Munu, as they walked out of the lot.

  Ruzyne Military Hospital, Prague

  James snapped out of the dream he’d had, the fight in the car park, the beginning of the end for the reign of corruption led by his fellow cops on the Melbourne Police’s armed offender’s squad. There were no white lights or thinking nurses were angels. Lawrence James just woke up like he’d had a Sunday lie in. Sitting next to the bed was a familiar figure, Adrian Marsh.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake, you lazy bastard,’ said Marsh. He handed James a beaker of water. James went to sit up, but his legs had a different idea.

  ‘You might need something stronger than water, mate. The headline is you’re going to need extensive surgery on your thigh. You might be in a wheelchair for a while,’ said Marsh, hugging James. ‘The good news is that you’re awake and kicking. The Dark Angel took a severe tumble and is in ICU down the corridor being guarded by Jiri’s boys. Hopefully, she’ll come around, and we can have words. And the sniper who apparently ate his own gun is in a steel drawer in the morgue.

  ‘Fuck, that’s a lot to wake up to,’ said James.

  Marsh fiddled with the control and James’s bed raised him upright.

  ‘No offence, mate, but where’s Jessie?’ asked James.

  ‘In Melbourne, at a mental health release hearing,’ Marsh let the words sink in.

  ‘You can’t seriously mean—?’

  Marsh handed him the water. ‘Yes, indeed, a mysterious benefactor has funded a top headshrinker to lodge an appeal based on an indeterminate sentence being cruel and unusual treatment.’

  James took another sip of water. ‘Well, it’s been one hell of a fucking day so far. First, I’m told I’ve ended up as Ironsides for a while, and now, the girl who tried to kill me is out of jail.’

  Alice, the daughter of Martin Havilland, the notorious “Dingo” serial killer, had stabbed James in a fight in which he’d killed her father. He’d taken Catholic priest who’d abused him as a child hostage.

  ‘So, what are the percentages?’ Marsh looked puzzled.

  ‘About seventy-thirty in her favour. The panel’s stocked with bleeding hearts.’

  ‘Well, that’s shit,’ said James.

  ‘Let’s get you a coffee and then liven them up with this,’ said Marsh, flourishing a hip flask. ‘Stellar plan, but I gotta shake the snake first,’ said James, nodding towards the plastic bowl next to the bed.

  State of Victoria Appeal Court, Melbourne

  Jessie Sandersen had always been proud of her reputation as a hard-bitten professional, and the carapace she’d woven for herself would protect her from life’s thousand natural shocks. Today, it has cracked. Her face was tear-stained; she clutched a wad of tissue, skulking in the women’s toilets like the bullied teenager of her former years who was teased for being too bookish and not good at sports. She’d been standing on the steps of the court watching in despair as reporters gathered in front of the preening Tove Naysmith.

  She knew the outcome in the closed confines of the hearing. But the reality had really hit home hard when that uber bitch Tove had opened her pearly white mouth.

  ‘Alice Havilland has proved that she is fully rehabilitated and can lead a normal and productive life outside of an institution. In my eyes, she was as much of a victim of her father’s crimes as the girls he killed. As a consequence of this, we will be seeking compensation for unlawful imprisonment from the State of Victoria and civil claims for assault from Lawrence James.’

  This had been too much for her and sent her scuttling to the bathrooms. Sandersen sat down in a cubicle and took some deep breaths. She wasn’t a teenager anymore, and she was a damn better psychiatrist than Tove fucking Naysmith. The pair had been rivals since completing their PhDs. Naysmith had found fame after writing a cod psychology book entitled, A Sheep in Wolf’s Clothing purporting that killers were products of society and that punishments meted out to them were no better than burning witches or heretics. Which was bullshit, of course.

  Sandersen stood up unlocked the cubicle and splashed cold water over her face. Striding out of the court, she hit the first 7/11 and bought a pack of Winfield’s. Sitting on a bench, she lit one up and inhaled deeply. A Lycra clad inline skater clattered to a halt.

  ‘Hey, this is a non-smoking zone, you know,’ he said from behind his wraparound shades.

  ‘How good’s that safety equipment you’re wearing?’ Sandersen asked.

  ‘Top of the line,’ he remarked smugly, folding his arms. Sandersen’s knee came up fast and strong, connecting with his groin. He fell forward to the floor in a scatter of skates and shades.

  ‘Fucking harder to breathe now,’ said Sandersen, before throwing the half-smoked butt on him. It had been a long day. She needed a drink. And while she was doing it, she’d book herself on the next flight to Prague.

  Ruzyne Military Hospital, Prague

  James was sat up in bed, swiping at the screen of an iPad. Between them, Jezek and Marsh had cut out and scanned a swathe
of articles from the newspapers about the shootout and the revelations about the killer. Katerina Manes was a thirty-three-year-old Czech shopworker who had been tempted into dancing at a lap dancing club and then coerced into prostitution by a Russian mafia pimp, who it turned out was her first victim. She had fallen pregnant to a customer but had been forced into an abortion that had left her unable to have children. At some point along the way, she had been gang raped by a group of British men on a stag party. Men who wouldn’t take no for an answer. She ended up with a sexually transmitted infection and had to go on a course of antibiotics. But after the abortion, the rape had sent her over the edge.

  ‘Fucking harrowing what she went through, eh?’ said Marsh, putting a coffee next to James.

  ‘Well, it certainly puts why she did what she did in perspective. But I’m assuming the guys she killed where innocent, apart from being horny for sex with a prostitute?’ asked James.

  ‘Suppose so, but she made the decision that once they’d crossed that line, they got what they deserved,’ said Marsh.

  James rolled his eyes. ‘Way above my pay grade, I’ll leave it to Jessie to get down to the whys and the wherefores. But I can see from the papers this case has opened up a whole can of worms about the treatment of women here. In fact, that might be the only good thing to come out of this whole shitstorm.’

  Marsh nodded in agreement. ‘Well, thankfully, Jessie is on her way. Which is great timing, as Katerina just came around.’

  Fitzroy, Melbourne, Australia

  Operation John Doe was in its fourth day. The grandly entitled project consisted of Toohey and Johnson, a small rented office space downtown and the venerable Ford Falcon they were currently sitting in. While both men were nominally civilians, the police commissioner had issued them with police IDs to ensure they could fend off any nosey civilians or uniform cops. Both men were packing Glock 17s, and a Remington pump action shotgun lay on the back seat under a camouflage of empty takeout coffee cups and food wrappers.

  ‘Can you believe this shit?’ asked Toohey, slumping the front page of the Herald Sun.

  ‘Dingo Daughter Freed,’ he spat.

  ‘You shouldn’t read that shit, Toos, it does your blood pressure no good,’ said Johnson, sipping his latte.

  ‘What the fuck is with you and that Docachino?’ asked Toohey.

  ‘We’re supposed to be a couple of mullets looking to score some grass, not long-haired Yuppie scum.’ Johnson took another sip.

  ‘Well, this long-haired yuppie scum just scored some glass from that yonder cart,’ he said, nodding towards the pedal-powered coffee tricycle cart manned by the inevitable hipster with requisite beard and oriental style tattoos. Johnson opened his hand to reveal the rocks of crystal meth. Toohey took a closer look.

  ‘Fuck me, have Walter White and Jesse Pinkman moved to Melbourne?’ Johnson smiled.

  ‘Well, it explains how that hipster twat is making his bucks. It’s certainly not from selling fucking Caramel Lattes.’ Toohey laughed. ‘Let’s say Doccahino is pushing ice. He must have a backer. Someone with some muscle, someone with some nous for the street. And it sure isn’t that gorilla Tucker Watson. He’s a puppet, and we need to find whose hand is up his ass.’

  Johnson nodded in agreement. ‘A year ago, the Plantagenets were shaking down grog shops for a hundred bucks a week. Last month, they took down an armoured truck with fifty million in used notes onboard. The guys said the hairy bikers were toting AR15s and Desert Eagles. You don’t get that artillery or inside intel from hanging out down The Purple Turtle,’ Johnson said.

  Toohey loosened the Glock in his shoulder holster. ‘Let’s go and have a word with Noah or whatever shit his name is,’ Both men got out of the car. Toohey approached the cart with his wallet out.

  Johnson slipped around the back of the young hipster and shoved the barrel of his Glock into the young man’s back. ‘Come on a walk with us to our car, Noah. My friend wants you to explain your tattoos to him,’ Chivvied along, the man went with them.

  ‘You got the wrong guy. My name’s not Noah, it’s Zion, said the hipster.

  ‘Iron, Zion, fucking Lion, get a move on,’ said Johnson.

  Ruzyne Military Hospital, Prague

  To say the shit had hit the fan after the shootout at Divoka Sarka was an understatement. It was definitely the biggest news story since the death of Vaclav Havel in 2012. Like a stone thrown into a pond, the ripples had spread far and wide. Vigilantes had hospitalised a number of pimps who normally swaggered about Wenceslas Square. The vicious beatings of the mostly African men had been filmed on mobile phones and the footage posted on YouTube on an account using the “Dark Angel” moniker.

  Groups of women and students had begun to picket well known brothels and strip joints, filming the comings and goings of the punters. Not surprisingly, trade was severely disrupted. James sat in his wheelchair. An operation to take some muscle from his back and repair his thigh had left him feeling groggy.

  On TV Nova, Prague’s Mayor, Karel Karban, was taking a barrage of questions from the assembled press. Ever aware of the need to be seen to be taking action, he had set up a citywide crackdown on strip clubs and brothels, and police had carried out raids across the city. More helpfully, a free telephone helpline had been set up for sex workers to get help in getting out of the industry. Financial aid was also promised to help them get back on their feet. It was a bravura performance, so James thought. He was glad something good was coming out of the horror. A soft knock on the door caused him to turn away from the television. In walked in Jiri Hofshcnadir.

  ‘No more fucking grapes, please,’ said James, nodding at the brown paper bag the policeman held.

  ‘Bushmills,’ said Jiri.

  ‘Děkuji very much,’ said James.

  Jiri opened the bottle and poured two generous measures into two plastic beakers. Jiri handed one to James.

  ‘Na zdraví,’ said James, toasting Jiri and necking the amber liquid. “I bet you had some fun explaining things down at City Hall.’

  ‘That is, as you say, the fucking understatement of the century,’ said Jiri, smiling.

  ‘I hear the guy who put me in this contraption is no longer with us,’ said James. There was a pregnant pause.

  ‘I visited the gentleman in his hotel room before he left for Moscow. When he found out what he’d done, he was overcome with remorse. Shortly after I left, he shot himself,’ said Jiri. He poured more whiskey into the beakers.

  ‘Shot himself with a Czech Police issue pistol using his non-dominant hand, I heard,’ said James.

  ‘Sadly, the investigation was halted after the suicide weapon was lost during an audit of the Property stores,’ said Jiri.

  ‘Prague is a strange old city with lots of weird things going on, perhaps it was the Golem?’ said James.

  Smiling, Jiri said, ‘Yes, perhaps.’

  James raised his beaker. ‘Here’s to the Golem,’ and downed his drink.

  Halfway House, Melbourne.

  Alice Havilland was free, but she was also dead. The newly minted Casey Jones looked from the mirror to her new passport picture and was pleased. Her long, blonde hair had given way to a black bob, and her pointy witch nose had been shaved to a snub button nose thanks to a well-paid surgeon. The State had given her a discretionary payment of a hundred thousand dollars to set up her new life. Her new iPhone beeped. She shuddered with pleasure. It would be Geoff. He was the one who’d made this happen. He had been her case worker from day one at the hospital. She’d been called a patient, but the door to her room and the end of the corridor had been locked day and night.

  Thanks to her deep regression therapy sessions with Tove, she had also seen that none of what happened was her fault. She was a victim and so was her father. Years of abuse first by his parents and later the priests had turned him into what he had become. Alice got up from the stool, opened the window and waited for a passing lorry. An open truck finally passed by. She pitched the phone from the thi
rd-floor window, it landed in stinking pile of garbage. She picked up her rucksack, that contained her passport and the bundle of notes. After hefting the rucksack onto her back, she put on a baseball cap, pulling it down over her eyes. She unscrewed the cap off a bottle of nail varnish remover and poured the contents over the dressing table and vanity mirror. After flicking a lighter, she lit the liquid. There was a satisfying whoosh as the liquid caught fire. The cover of her Alice Havilland passport curled and shrank in the heat. Leaving the door open to help the airflow, she walked out into the corridor, broke the seal on the Fire Exit and made her way down the fire escape. Casey Jones hailed a cab and got in.

  Mental Health Unit, Ruzyne Military Hospital, Prague

  Tucked away inside its own perimeter fence to the rear of the larger main hospital building was a squat concrete, single storey building. It was a secure mental health unit, more prison than hospital. During the Communist era, it had been used to imprison dissidents who it was easier to categorise as “mentally ill” and hence detain for longer until they gained their “sanity” in embracing the one true message of socialism. More recently, a couple of secure rooms were kept on standby for anybody detained at the nearby airport who needed holding securely until they could be released or moved to more long-term accommodation. Katerina Manes had been detained on suspicion of several murders and one count of abduction. Given the high profile of the case, Hofschnadir had managed to get her detained under mental health legislation. Sansdersen would have a week to interview Manes before she had to appear at a criminal court.