Dark Angel_a fast-paced serial killer thriller

by P. J. Nash

  James went puce with rage. “That motherfucker, he is behind all this. There’s no way Hudson would get that kind of info. The question is what the hell is Bain up to? He’s got to keep the dough rolling in. With his ice lab out of action the junkies are going to be itching for something. We need to know what it is and where it’s coming from. And now Hudson is blown, we need a new guy on the inside,’ Johnson nodded in agreement.

  ‘What about “The Chief”?’ he asked.

  ‘My thoughts exactly. He’s got plenty of beef with Victoria PD, and he’s just coming out for a stretch for dealing,’ said James.

  ‘Excuse fucking me, but we know he was fitted up,’ said Toohey.

  ‘Yeah, that’s granted, but his background story fits like a glove,’ said James.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Toohey,

  ‘I’ll arrange a meeting with him ASAP,’ said James.

  The door was flung open, and Marsh entered. He went straight to the filing cabinet and took out a battle of brandy. Screwing off the cap, he sloshed a measure into a mug and downed it.

  ‘Bad morning?’ asked James flippantly.

  ‘This is bad, it’s so fucking bad,’ Marsh babbled. He went across to the laptop linked to the projector and tapped furiously on the keyboard. A webpage appeared of The Age newspaper: ‘Three dead after Love Triangle Murder at Ranch’.

  James didn’t need to read the text. On the page below the banner headline were the pictures of Natalie Vukasin, her boyfriend, Clive Webb, and her boss, Gary Fullilove.

  ‘Holy fucking Jesus, pass me the brandy,’ James said.

  Undisclosed Apartment, Melbourne

  Casey Jones unlocked the door to the secluded apartment she’d rented on Air BnB for three weeks. After chucking her bags on the table, she flopped down in a chair, took a swig of her takeout latte and picked up one of the sheaf of newspapers she’d bought. She looked at the lurid headlines and was pleased with her handiwork. Geoff had already texted her and told her how proud her dad would have been. She didn’t quite know how the woman and two men had offended him. But that was beside the point. Geoff had asked her to sort them out and she had done so. She knew that it had to be concealed. Unsolved murders led to curious cops and cops came and put you inside.

  Inside, that’s where she’d been when he’d found her. It wasn’t just the walls and locked doors. It was the drugs they’d put her on. A handful of harmless looking pills washed down with water every morning. And then nothing, inside just a void hour spent looking blankly ahead. Hours, days and weeks, lost in a catatonic stupor. Then, Geoff had arrived. Using hypnosis techniques, he’s bought her back to life. He also told her the truth about her father and how that British cop had killed him.

  After a few weeks of avoiding her medication, she felt herself again. A real, living person imbued with a purpose; to be like Shiva the Goddess of Death, to wreak vengeance on those who had wronged her. But first, she had to talk to them – the headshrinkers and the counsellors. She had to show them that she had been a bad person and that she was sorry for what she had done. That she hadn’t meant to help her father abduct and kills those girls and that most importantly that instead of being the loving father who had rescued her from her teenage oblivion, that he was a monster.

  Geoff had told her about Pavlov and his experiments with feeding dogs and ringing a bell. The staff at the hospital were like these dogs. If she said the right words in the right way, the bell would ring in their heads, and they would lap it up. Casey’s coffee had gone cold. She picked up a broadsheet newspaper. They’d tried to paint Clive Webb as a sort of victim of love gone wrong. Well, he was a victim, they were right. She chuckled to herself at something Geoff had said, ‘Like Stalin said, any fool can arrange a murder. It takes a professional to organise a suicide.’

  She put down the paper and looked at the text on her phone. On it was a list of supplies. She needed to get to an electronics store. No time like the present, she thought, picking up her bag and locking the door behind her.

  Big Joe’s Coffee, Melbourne

  Steam swooshed as the barista steamed the milk for a flat white. Caught in his craft, the big man with the resplendent black hair missed the man in the wheelchair, his nose barely level with the counter.

  ‘Hey, you big Maori shit, just because I’m down near the floor doesn’t mean you can ignore paying customers.’

  Ari Munu turned and was thinking of a response when he looked down and recognised the face of Lawrence James. ‘We got three steps and a narrow corridor to keep the likes of you out,’ he smirked.

  ‘Well, Chief, I got over your obstacle course, and I want an Americano.’

  ‘Look, pal, I appreciate you’re in a wheelchair, but I take it your fully compos mentis. I won’t commit the crime of making that abomination, two wheels or two legs.’

  James smiled back and said, ‘Make it a flat white, then.’

  Munu nodded and went back to the coffee machine, a smile on his face. “The Chief” had had a racial slur slapped on him by his enemies. But after the fight in the car park, he had disempowered it, turned it around and taken it as his own.

  It was mid-morning, and trade was slack. Munu placed the flat white on the table in front of James and took a seat on the vinyl bench that ran along the back of the shop. The whole place was vaguely themed on the classic American Diner.

  ‘Thanks for the stuff you sent to me on the inside man,’ said Munu.

  ‘Look, Ari, I am the one who needs to apologise. You got set up, and I walked away.’ Both men laughed at his turn of phrase.

  ‘Well, at least you won’t be able to do it again,’ Munu said.

  James took a sip of coffee.

  ‘You paid for my defence lawyer, you funded my appeal and kept my family in their home. You have enough shit in your past without another turd appearing in the bowl. You just created some professional distance. Someone had to take the blowback and that was me. You’d got more to lose, and you staying out of jail left you able to help me,’ said Munu.

  James nodded. ‘Well, I’m glad you see it that way. But I’m here to ask you to put your head in the noose again.’

  ‘Cyrus fucking Bain?’ asked Munu.

  James smiled, ‘Cyrus fucking Bain,’ he answered.

  ‘So, what’s that got to do with me?’ asked Munu.

  ‘You’ve heard the story of Lazarus,’ asked James.

  ‘The guy who rose from the dead?’ asked Munu.

  James nodded and placed a surveillance photograph on the table.

  ‘He’s alive?’ said Munu in consternation.

  ‘Yes, and he’s pouring the very finest brown onto the streets as we speak. And he’s fireproof, a series of cut outs and front companies. Added to which he’s officially fucking dead,’ said James, putting the photograph back in an envelope.

  ‘So, you need a man on the inside?’ asked Munu.

  ‘Exactly. What could be better than a jaded ex-cop with a record for dealing?’ said James.

  ‘Hey, man, I might only be making lattes, but it’s a living and I like it here,’ said Munu.

  ‘That’s good,’ said James.

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’ snarled Munu.

  James said nothing and slid over a document to Munu. ‘You just became the owner of Big Joe’s,’ said James. ‘In the next few days, some of Bain’s goons will approach you and offer you a deal you can’t refuse.’

  Flinders Street Station, Melbourne

  Flinders Street Station, Melbourne

  RAAF Loadmaster Norm Sidwell jumped off the tram and walked through the grandiose main entrance. He was looking for the left luggage office. The city felt cold after the blasting heat of Afghanistan, and the busy city left him buzzing on adrenaline. After spending eight months in a country where anyone who wasn’t in the same uniform as you might try to kill you any second, it was hard to pare it down. It was less than a day since he’d disembarked from the plane.

  In his NATO issue Bergen rucksack was fiv
e kilos of unrefined heroin. Norm had achieved everything he wanted in the air force. At thirty-eight, he wasn’t going anywhere up the ranks. The “War on Terror” was grinding on into its second decade with no sign of letting up. It was time for a change. Serving Queen and country was all very good in principle, but it paid jackshit. Norm had seen where he wanted to be.

  One day, as he had slogged through the dust with his section, a convoy of black four by fours had blasted past. Hanging off the roll bars toting the latest in body armour and automatic weapon, were a bunch of private military contractors. Staring down imperiously from behind their Oakley shades, a couple of them had given him the high five. Norm had felt like a medieval peasant indentured to his liege lord. Sent to war with a pitchfork while the knights in their shiny armour, standards flying, charged past on their snorting destriers. This bit of business would see him right for a while, then he would sign up with Blackwater or some other outfit.

  After checking in his Bergen to the left luggage office, he sent a text from his throwaway mobile phone and went into the ACMI Café on Federation Square and ordered a straight black coffee. From his shoulder bag, he took a battered paperback of Killing Floor by Lee Child. He’d read the whole series and had started again. During the boring nights on base, Norm had followed Jack Reacher across his adventures across the USA. When he got the cash from this deal it was Norm’s plan to “do a Reacher”, namely travel across the great country on Greyhound buses, not carry any luggage and pursue a rootless existence for a while, a world away from duties and rosters and officers.

  Without looking up from his book, Norm knew someone was watching him. An Asian guy in a flash suit had entered the coffee shop. Norm tensed and, dropping the book slightly, made subtle eye contact. The man ordered a double espresso and sat at a table next to Norm’s. He took a sip of coffee and looked around. Having assured no one was listening, he pulled a battered paperback from his expensive looking leather satchel. Opening the book, he began to read. Norm’s phone rang. Standing up, he answered while holding his book in his other hand. The Asian man was on his phone talking about a business deal. As he spoke, he nudged the book off the table and onto the floor. Norm stopped down to pick it up and returned the book to its owner. The man waved his thanks, picked it up and left the coffee shop. Norm sat down and flicked through his book. Neatly paperclipped to the interior pages was a ticket for the left luggage office at the train station. A few minutes later, he went to the office handed and retrieved a Bergen rucksack. Hefting it over his shoulder, he strode back into the city a lot richer.

  Undisclosed House, Melbourne

  Collin Jarvis was too nervous to enjoy the surroundings of the ornate garden. Clutching his coffee as if his life depended on it, he watched the man reading his two-page report.

  ‘Fucking Broome,’ said Cyrus Bain, dropping the report on the wooden table.

  Jarvis sat looking like a dog who’d done something he shouldn’t have on the lounge carpet. A week earlier, an anonymous lawyer had called his private investigations business asking him if could locate a missing child. When he heard the fee proposed, his mouth had dropped open. Within an hour off the call, a motorcycle courier had dropped off a file of information and the first half of the fee, in cash.

  ‘Relax, fella, you’ve done really good,’ said Cyrus Bain with a crocodile smile. ‘My boys have been on this for three months and found squat.’

  ‘Er…it’s just a matter of accessing the right computer systems after greasing a few palms,’ replied Jarvis.

  ‘As far I’m concerned, you’re Melbourne’s answer to Philip Marlowe. I’m putting you on retainer. How does twenty grand a month sound?’

  Jarvis took another swig of coffee to irrigate his terror-dried mouth. ‘That seems more than generous,’ he replied.

  ‘Good stuff,’ said Bain, lighting a Montecristo Number 2 cigar. ‘Now we know where she is, you can start sorting out getting her back here.’

  ‘That could prove difficult,’ stuttered Jarvis. Bain looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘Difficult is not the word I’d choose. Sure it’s not a piece of cake. But I’ll supply you with some good guys. You’ve got to see the bigger picture now, Collin. You’re not working for a mom and pop shop for nickels and dimes. You’re management now. You move the pieces on the board, and things get done. It’s an achievable goal. I’ll tell you what is difficult…rising from the fucking dead.’

  The Wyandotte Inn, Carlton, Melbourne

  Hudson saw his man sitting in the dark shadows of the pub – rear table facing the window and just a short hop to the rear exit. Bain had been giving Hudson a free rein to recruit his own guys. So here he was, meeting the Maori man-mountain that was Ari Munu.

  Hudson was wearing a Colorado Avalanche’s Hockey Shirt and carrying a copy of The Age. Munu stood out from his sheer physical size.

  ‘Get you a beer?’ asked the barkeep.

  ‘Yeah, a Hoegaarden and whatever he’s drinking,’ said Hudson.

  ‘I’ll bring ‘em over,’ said the barkeep.

  Hudson dropped a twenty on the bar and went and sat down. ‘Afternoon, thanks for coming,’ he said, extending a hand.

  Munu grasped it in his huge paw and shook back.

  ‘Mr Smith said you come highly recommended. You hate cops?’

  Munu rolled his eyes. ‘Of course I do. I did eighteen months inside cos of those bastards.’

  The barkeep brought the drinks over.

  ‘You were tight with Lawrence James, though, yeah?’ Munu picked up his schooner and took a long pull.

  ‘Yeah, well, that was in a past life. That bastard didn’t lift a finger to help me,’ he said.

  ‘So, you’re up for helping us with some business?’ asked Hudson.

  ‘Sure, I’m not gonna get any serious dough slinging lattes to hipsters. So, what we are we talking, I thought it was all ice nowadays,’ said Munu, finishing the schooner off.

  ‘Ice is yesterday’s news, too much heat after Breaking Bad.’

  Munu raised his hand. ’Another one, please, mate,’ he shouted. ‘You’re telling me people stopped taking ice because of a TV series?’

  ‘Yes, gospel. It got the wrong vibe, got seen as the choice of hookers and street bums, with no teeth,’ said Hudson.

  ‘Ah, the fickleness of youth. So, what’s the deal now, then?’

  The barkeep put another schooner down. Munu nodded his thanks.

  ‘Brown, straight from the source. You okay with that?’ asked Hudson.

  ‘People wanna shoot their veins full of shit, that’s fine by me. As long as I make lots of dough. What’s the cut?’

  Hudson looked around furtively. ‘Well, I assume you’re not floating in cash, so we would front you a key and you take thirty percent minus your repayment.’

  Munu sat back in his chair. ‘How’s it go out the door?’

  ‘Like all things in this city, coffee and WhatsApp. They order a certain coffee combo in your place, you print a receipt with a WhatsApp group invite on it. They order, pay via an app, and we deliver. We got some guys on mopeds shucking the stuff out. Like delivering pizza,’ said Hudson, taking a swig of beer.

  ‘Sounds like you and Mr Smith have got it buttoned down,’ said Munu.

  ‘Tight as a duck’s arse,’ said Hudson.

  ‘You got yourself a new franchisee,’ said Munu, offering his hand.

  Broome, Western Australia

  Tim Hogan had been having a shit day. An hour after he’d arrived at work, he’d been summoned into the manager’s office. His role was being outsourced to India. His contract would end on Friday. He’d lost his rag effing and jeffing at the boss. Security hauled him out and tossed him on the pavement. His briefcase was still on his desk and his jacket still on the back of his chair. Calming down, he decided he’d go for a coffee and go crawling back later, apologise and get his stuff.

  ‘Rough day?’ the coffee shop guy had asked.

  ‘Something like that,’ he grunted.


  ‘Make this Irish?’ the coffee guy had asked, flourishing a bottle of Jameson’s.

  ‘Yeah, why not,’ he’d replied. That was four Irish coffees ago. He’d fallen asleep in the booth at the rear of the shop when his phone had gone off.

  ‘Mr Hogan? This is Tess’s class teacher. She’s been sick, and the nurse thinks she has a virus. Can you come and pick her up please?’

  Reeling from the booze, he stood up. ‘Sure, I’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  Pocketing his phone, he staggered to his car and drove slowly to the school. Tess was standing in the car park, and he waved to the teacher who disappeared back into the school.

  ‘Get in, darling,’ he said. She climbed into the front passenger seat.

  ‘Are you ok, Daddy?’ the little girl asked.

  ‘Daddy’s just had a poo day,’ he replied. He gunned the engine and left the carpark indicating to turn left. Tess made a choking noise and vomited across the dashboard.

  ‘Aw crap, Tess,’ he shouted. In a flash of anger, he shot the car out into the road without looking. The truck coming the other way saw a flash. The driver hit the air brakes, but it was too late. Going into a skid, the truck hit the car side on pancaking it like a bug under a boot. There was a horrendous screeching and twisting of metal and then silence.