Angel of Death

by Ben Cheetham

Linda put on a pair of glasses and studied the screen. She stated the obvious. ‘It’s a woman in a corridor.’

  ‘Do you recognise her?’

  ‘No.’ The answer came without hesitation. Linda’s brow creased. ‘Hang on. You don’t think that’s my Grace, do you?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Jim. ‘That’s why we want to get your opinion.’

  ‘Well that woman can’t be my Grace. She’s much too old.’

  ‘If she’s alive, Grace will be nearly thirty-one now.’

  Linda winced as though the thought cut through her like a knife. ‘I know, but in here,’ she touched her chest, ‘she’s still my little girl.’

  ‘I understand, but I need you to imagine what she might look like as a woman. Can you do that for me?’

  ‘I’ll try.’ Linda closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at the screen again. Her voice came falteringly. ‘I… I suppose she’s got similar lips to Grace, but her nose is different and her eyes. My Grace had such beautiful eyes, so full of life. That woman’s eyes look… dead.’ She shook her head. ‘No, it can’t be her, it just can’t be.’

  Jim and Amy exchanged a glance. He indicated the laptop with his eyes. Catching his meaning, she clicked on the audio file of the anonymous call to the hospital. Linda stiffened as though an icy hand had touched her spine. Her lips worked soundlessly. Tears misted her eyes. ‘It’s her,’ she managed to say at last.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Linda nodded. ‘Her voice sounds different, but the same.’ She reached for the laptop’s screen, stroking trembling fingers over the woman’s face. ‘Oh my baby. My poor baby girl. What have you done to yourself?’ She turned to Jim, her eyes burning with the need for answers. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘We don’t know. That footage and the phone call you just heard were recorded last night at a hospital in Middlesbrough. Can you think of any reason why Grace might be there?’

  ‘No. I’ve never been to Middlesbrough in my life. Neither has Ron.’ Linda jerked around at the sound of the front door opening. ‘Ron!’ She dashed into the hallway, her arms pressed to her chest as if cradling an imaginary child. ‘She’s alive! Our Grace is alive!’

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ, woman,’ Ron thundered, a slurred edge to his voice. ‘I told you I didn’t want to hear any more of that talk.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No! Grace is dead. Do you hear? She’s dead, and that’s all there is to it. Now where’s my supper?’

  ‘Sod your supper. There are more important—’ Linda broke off, clapping her hands to her mouth.

  Ron’s eyes bulged like golf balls. ‘More important? What’s more important than looking after your husband?’

  ‘I’m sorry, love.’

  ‘Sorry’s not good enough, Linda.’ Ron reached to unbuckle his belt. ‘I can see I’m going to have to remind you of your duties.’

  Hearing the threat in Ron’s voice, Jim stepped into the hallway. ‘Evening, Mr Kirby.’

  Ron’s mouth twisted into a scowl. ‘Oh, now I get it. I should have known you were behind this.’ He stabbed a finger into Linda’s forehead. ‘And you. Didn’t I say not to let that lot into my house again?’

  ‘Don’t do that.’ Jim’s voice was steely with authority.

  Barging his wife aside, Ron squared up to him. ‘I don’t give a fuck who you are. No one tells me what to do in my own house.’

  ‘Please, Ron,’ said Linda. ‘He’s got proof that our Grace is alive.’

  ‘What proof?’

  Amy entered the hallway, holding the laptop with a close-up of the woman’s face on the screen.

  Ron squinted blearily at the image. ‘Who the fuck’s that? Is that supposed to be Grace? It looks nothing like her.’

  ‘There’s more.’ Linda gestured for Amy to play the recording.

  As he listened to the audio file, Ron let out a snort of deri­sion. ‘That’s a sodding Geordie.’

  Linda shook her head, wringing her hands. ‘Listen! Can’t you hear it?’

  ‘I can hear perfectly fine, woman. It’s you who’s got shit in your ears if you think that’s Grace.’

  ‘We believe your daughter may be somewhere in the north-east,’ said Jim.

  ‘Based on what?’

  ‘You just heard a recording of a phone call to a Middlesbrough hospital. The same phone was used to call your house a few hours later.’

  ‘So what? That proves nothing.’

  ‘It proves there’s a woman out there about the age your daughter would be now who’s making anonymous phone calls to you.’

  ‘It was probably a wrong number. Or maybe it was a prac­tical joke. Maybe someone’s trying to fuck with our heads.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’

  ‘You’re the copper. You tell me.’

  Jim reined in a breath of irritation. ‘Granted it might not be Grace, but aren’t you even interested to find out?’

  ‘The only thing I’m interested in right now is my supper.’ Ron jerked his chin at the front door. ‘So go on, piss off out of my house. Oh, and if I find you talking to Linda behind my back again, you and me are going to have serious words. Do we understand each other?’

  ‘Likewise if I come back here and see more bruises on your wife.’

  The two men eyeballed each other for a moment. Then Jim turned his attention to Linda. ‘Thanks for your help, Mrs Kirby. Hopefully we’ll be in touch soon.’

  Ron flashed Linda a glowering look, and her gaze flinched from Jim’s to the carpet. There was fear in her face, but there was also excitement, euphoria even. Everything about her quivered with the certainty that her daughter was alive.

  Jim and Amy returned to the street. Ron slammed the door behind them, with the parting shot, ‘Fucking pigs.’

  ‘That bastard’s going to beat the living shit out of her, you know,’ said Amy.

  Jim sighed, a bitter feeling of impotence rising within him. It was a sensation he’d experienced many times in his career. He’d learnt to live with it, but not happily. ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I think Mrs Kirby knows her own daughter’s voice.’

  Jim nodded in agreement. His mobile phone rang. He glanced at its screen.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Amy.

  ‘Scott Greenwood.’ Jim put the phone to his ear. ‘What’s up, Scott?’

  ‘A report just came in of a suspected double shooting of a man and woman at a house out near Greno Woods. And, get this, apparently their bodies were found in a basement.’

  ‘Jesus.’ The word whistled from Jim’s mouth. ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘Treetops Farm, Elliot Lane, a couple of miles east of the Penistone Road.’

  ‘Got it. We’re on our way.’

  ‘On our way where?’ asked Amy.

  As Jim filled her in on the situation, he punched the address into the satnav. He didn’t need to look at her to know that they both had the same name ringing in their heads – Grace! She accelerated away sharply, siren wailing, dashboard lights flashing red and blue. Traffic pulled into the kerb to let them past as they turned onto the Penistone Road. They sped towards their destination, eyes watching for suspicious activity, ears tuned into the information coming over the two-way radio. The Firearms Unit was also on its way to the scene. The call had come in from the son of the victims, a nineteen-year-old male. Just north of the suburb of Grenoside, the satnav directed them to turn right. A couple of miles further on they pulled over at the entrance to Treetops Farm. A police helicopter circled overhead, but they were the first at the scene on the ground.

  ‘We should wait for Firearms,’ said Amy as Jim opened his door.

  ‘If Grace is behind this, I’m not going to give those trigger-happy arseholes a chance to put a bullet in her. You get on that radio, let them know I’m on scene.’

  Jim grabbed a torch from the glove-compartment and made his way along the drive at a slow jog. He hadn’t gone far when a voice behind him hissed his name. Glancing over his should
er, he saw Amy hurrying after him. ‘You’re crazy if you think I’m letting you go in alone to get killed,’ she said.

  As the house came into view, they saw that a motorcycle and a Range Rover were parked outside it. A boy in motorcycle leathers was sitting hunched on the steps, white-faced with shock. He jumped to his feet at the sight of them. ‘Stay where you are!’ commanded Jim. ‘Get your hands up where we can see them. Who are you?’

  The boy raised his hands over his head. Blood glistened on their palms. ‘I’m Xavier Winstanley. I live here.’

  ‘Was it you who called us?’

  Xavier nodded. ‘I found my parents in the basement. They’re—’ His voice faltered. He drew a shuddering breath and managed to say, ‘They’re dead. I think they’ve been shot.’

  ‘Is there anyone else in the house?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Turn around.’

  ‘I didn’t kill them,’ Xavier protested as Amy pulled his hands down behind his back and cuffed them.

  ‘Take us to the basement,’ said Jim.

  Xavier shook his head frantically. ‘Please don’t make me go down there again.’

  ‘You want to help us find whoever killed your parents, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then let’s do this and not waste any more time.’

  Jim entered the house first, glancing cautiously all around. Amy followed, holding Xavier’s arm in case he stumbled. With his head, the boy indicated the open panel under the staircase. He was shaking too much to speak.

  As Jim descended the staircase, his nose wrinkled at the unmistakable stench of post-mortem evacuated bowels. The instant he saw the basement he recognised it from the DVD. Following the line that the camera had taken fifteen years earlier, his eyes swept over the whitewashed brick walls, foam-insulated pipes and quarry-tiled floor before coming to rest on the bodies. The upper part of the man’s face was missing. Shards of skull protruded through his facial tissue, forming the rim of a grisly crater. His gaze transferred from the man’s hair-matted pot belly and barrel chest to the woman. She didn’t need to be naked for him to see that she had the same colouring and build as the woman from the DVD.

  ‘Wait here,’ Jim said to Xavier. His words were needless. The boy had turned to press his face against the stairway wall.

  Taking care not to disturb anything, Jim and Amy approached the bodies. Dropping to his haunches, Jim touched the man with the back of his hand. ‘Still warm.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Do you smell it?’

  Amy nodded. ‘Gunpowder.’

  ‘The woman appears to have been shot first. Looks like she refused to go along with the killer’s game.’ Jim felt in his pockets for a pair of forensic gloves. He pulled them on and parted the man’s lips. He did the same with the woman. ‘No overlapping teeth.’ His eyes drew a line from Marisa’s head to the wine rack. He approached it and peered through the gap where the bullet had hit a bottle. ‘There’s a hole in the wall back there. What are the bets forensics pull a nine-millimetre round out of it?’

  Jim’s attention was drawn to Xavier by the sound of him sobbing. ‘We’d better get him out of here.’

  As they made their way back upstairs, Jim asked, ‘How did you come to find your parents?’

  Between gut-wrenching sobs, the boy replied, ‘Their car’s in the drive, so I knew they were home. When they weren’t in the house, I thought they’d taken Oscar—’

  ‘Who’s Oscar?’

  ‘Our dog. I thought they’d taken him for a walk. But then I noticed that his lead was on its hook. I thought that was strange, so I started looking around the house. That’s when I found Dad’s desk all smashed up.’

  ‘Show us the desk.’

  Xavier led them to the study. He gestured in bewilderment at the wreckage of the desk. ‘Why would someone do that?’

  Jim and Amy exchanged a glance, both thinking the same thought. Because they were searching for something. ‘What was in the desk?’ asked Amy.

  Xavier shrugged. ‘Just Dad’s work stuff.’

  ‘What kind of work stuff?’

  ‘Letters, contracts, business accounts. Things like that. My dad is… was Herbert Winstanley.’ Xavier’s tone suggested that he expected them to recognise the name. ‘He owns Winstanley Accountants and Business Advisors.’

  Jim stooped to look at the computer screen. ‘This is showing a map of Fulwood.’ He read aloud the address in the Google search box.

  ‘That’s the address of Dad’s office.’

  Jim spun towards Xavier, his eyes suddenly bright with urgency. Catching hold of the boy’s arm, he drew him rapidly towards the front door. Guessing his intention, Amy said, ‘We can’t take him to his father’s office with us.’

  Jim pointed at one of the stone handrails that bordered the steps. ‘Cuff him to that.’

  As Amy did so, Xavier looked at her with frightened eyes. ‘You’re not going to leave me here are you?’

  ‘You’re not in any danger. More police will be here any minute.’

  Amy and Jim sprinted back to the car. It was only a couple of hundred metres, but Jim was breathing hard by the time they got there. ‘I’ll drive,’ he said. ‘Get on the radio and make sure Firearms know about Xavier Winstanley.’

  ‘Shall I request back-up for us?’

  Jim shook his head. ‘First let’s see what we find at the office.’

  As Amy spoke into the radio, several police cars screamed past them in the opposite direction. She hung up the receiver. ‘I realise this girl might hold the key to breaking this case, but I think you’re making the wrong call. If Grace is behind this, she’s already killed two, maybe three people. And that’s just the victims we know of. What makes you think she’ll hesitate to open fire on us if we get in her way?’

  ‘Nothing, except that she isn’t out to kill innocent people.’ Jim stepped up the car’s speed as they hit the Penistone Road, weaving in and out of oncoming traffic. ‘To be totally honest with you, Amy, there’s a part of me that’s not sure it wants to catch Grace. Let’s face it, she’s doing society a big favour bumping off these sickos.’

  A deep frown puckered Amy’s forehead. ‘Murder is murder, and we have a duty to protect all people equally.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says the law.’

  ‘Well maybe in this case the law is wrong. Think about it – even if we arrest Grace and she gives us the names of the other men from the DVD, what are the chances of us bringing successful charges against them? Fuck all, that’s what. It’ll be their word against the word of a murderess. Who do you think a jury is going to believe?’

  Amy blew out her cheeks and shook her head. ‘I can hardly believe what I’m hearing. This kind of talk isn’t like you at all, Jim.’

  ‘Isn’t it? Maybe you just don’t know me as well as you think you do.’

  ‘I’m starting to think maybe I don’t. Have you considered that Grace might be able to give us the names of others who were abused like her and who can back her story up?’

  ‘What, you mean other runaways, prostitutes and assorted cast-offs whose word carries no more weight than hers?’

  ‘Mark Baxley isn’t any of those things. There could be others like him out there.’

  ‘Yeah, and if there are, they’ve no doubt been pumped full of enough Rohypnol to turn their brains into scrambled eggs too.’

  ‘Well what about the desk? Whoever did that was obviously looking for something. Maybe that something is a complete version of the DVD, one that reveals the perpetrators’ identities.’

  ‘That was my initial thought too, but then it occurred to me that Grace doesn’t care about finding evidence to get those men arrested. She’s looking for something that’ll lead her to them. A list of names, or something like that.’

  ‘If so, surely it’s more important than ever that we catch her and get our hands on that list.’

  ‘At which point we’re faced with the same problem I men­tioned a mome
nt ago. Without physical evidence or other more credible victims or witnesses, we’re screwed.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right, maybe not.’ There was a sharp note in Amy’s voice. ‘Either way it’s irrelevant. We’ve got a job to do, and if you want to keep doing it, I suggest you don’t repeat any of this to anyone.’

  Jim heaved a sigh, wondering why he’d bothered venting his mind. He hadn’t really expected Amy to understand where he was coming from. She was still in love with the job, and the job dealt in black and white, innocence and guilt. As she’d said, murder was murder. Regardless of Grace’s past, if she was guilty, the law would show no mercy. That was the way it was. The way it had to be. Jim understood that. But the older he got, the less he agreed with it. He’d seen too many victims jailed for taking revenge on those who’d hurt them. And he’d seen too many perpetrators slip through the cracks in the law – people like Bryan Reynolds, Stephen Baxley and the Winstanleys; people who operated in a world where right and wrong were defined by those who had the power to do so. For them, murder wasn’t murder unless you were convicted of it. He found himself wondering, as he had many times in the past few years, whether perhaps the only way to beat their kind was to attack them with their own weapons. He gave a little shiver – it was a thought that never failed to send a chill up his spine.

  ‘Don’t worry, Detective Sheridan, as long as I’m doing the job, I’ll do it properly.’ As if trying to convince himself that his words were true, Jim repeated with slow emphasis, ‘Do it properly.’

  As they drove on in tense silence, news filtered through the radio that Xavier Winstanley had been taken into custody and the Firearms Unit were securing the house and surrounding area. They heard the burglar alarm’s shrill wail before they saw the building that housed Winstanley Accountants and Business Advisors. Jim pulled in behind a motorbike. A light was on in one of the downstairs windows. He caught a shadow of movement behind the blinds. ‘There’s someone in there.’

  Amy reached for the radio. ‘That’s it, I’m calling for back-up.’

  Jim got out of the car and approached the motorbike. The keys were in the ignition. He removed them and turned towards the building, his moustache twitching with uncertainty. Grace was a killer. She had to be stopped. Didn’t she? He pushed the thought aside. It wasn’t his place to ask such questions. It was his place to do his duty as a policeman. Amy wound down her window. ‘Keep the building under surveillance and wait for armed back-up. Those are our orders.’