by Max Hardy
Cruickshank paused a moment with her hand on the door, rocking back on her heels, her lips pursing, holding back furious words, before she whipped the door open and strode purposefully out, slamming it behind her.
‘Fucking mad bastard.’ she mumbled under her breath as she surged down the corridor of interview rooms indignantly, the fury and frustration boiling from her neck into her fiery façade. ‘And what the hell does that suave sod think he’s doing interrupting my interview!’ her mumbling continued as she rounded the end of the corridor and headed animatedly toward the interview control room.
The door opened as she approached, a tall, emaciatingly thin man with a white Afro, wearing a moleskin three piece suite, paisley braces and brown brogues stepping out to greet her.
‘Gaynor my darling, how you doing!’ Detective Chief Inspector Jeremiah Strange effused, a warm endearing grin spreading to his vibrant eyes as he stretched out his arms offering up an embrace.
Cruickshank’s determined, furious stride didn’t stop and her arm raised as well, not in a reciprocal manner, but with a damning, pointed forefinger that thrust hard into Strange’s oncoming chest.
‘What the hell do you think you are playing at Strange? You distracted me and he saw it. He saw weakness. He is going to use that now and it will be even harder to break him down!’ Cruickshank admonished, stopping as Strange backed up slightly, but still hammering her forefinger accusingly into his chest after every word.
Strange’s expression didn’t flinch and still oozed endearment as he raised his arms in surrender, steadying his footing under her onslaught, a disarming chuckle entering his voice as he spoke. ‘Whoa there girl. He was getting off on every single photograph you put in front of him. He was reliving the torture he inflicted on them. Did you not see that?’
‘Firstly, I’m not your darling. Secondly, I’m definitely not your girl and thirdly, I am well aware that he was getting off on the pictures. He was also becoming emotionally involved. If he’s emotional, I will find a crack and I will exploit it. Up to that point he had been an impenetrable wall. Back to bloody square one now. Fourthly, what the hell is your boy up to?’
‘Okay, okay, I am sorry. I didn’t think it through. Partly I just wanted you to know I had arrived. If I had for one second thought that hearing my voice would distract you as much, I would have kept quiet. I really didn’t think I would make such an impression on you. It is your investigation and I should keep my bulbous meddling beak out of it.’ Strange ruefully apologised, his grin subsiding, but still playfully present as he lowered his arms around Cruickshank’s prodding finger, gently forcing it off his chest.
Cruickshank’s eyes widened and a look of utter incredulity danced around her agape features. ‘Jesus Strange, go and check that ego in at the desk will you, it’s bloody criminal. I didn’t ask you up here to be battered by your obsequious charm. I want to know what the hell John Saul is up to. The one thing our mad Pastor Bentley has bob on, is that John Saul and Rebecca Angus were involved in the death of his children. We have their fingerprints and DNA all over the bodies and the murder weapon.’ she finished, pushing his hands away from her still viscous finger.
‘No, John can’t have been involved in their murder, there must be some kind of mistake. I know he has been under a lot of pressure, but I can’t believe that of him.’ Strange responded, his countenance changing to concerned as he took in Cruickshank’s confrontational candour.
‘You better follow me then and have your beliefs changed. It’s been a week of that up here in Edinburgh. The Fallen Angels are making everyone question their beliefs. You can start by looking at this picture.’ Cruickshank chastised, thrusting the picture of Pastor Bentley and the white haired man into Strange’s still outstretched hands before she turned on her heels and strode off down the corridor at a pace.
‘We found that photograph in Saul’s hotel room, along with a full evidence wall of very damning information, and one or two crucial pieces of evidence.’
‘Who is that with Bentley?’ Strange asked, falling in behind Cruikshank’s military march towards the Incident room.
‘That we don’t know. What we do know is that he knew all four of the serial killers that the Fallen Angels exposed this week. We found photographs of him at the residence of the Fallen Angels who committed suicide. It’s more than probable Saul’s hotel room was also the abode of Madame Evangeline, or Jessica Seymour or Eve or Annie Tait, whatever name she wanted to be known as, the Angel who committed suicide last night.’
‘More than probable?’
‘We found her DNA on Saul’s bed. Along with her sexual fluids, mixed with Saul’s semen. How’s your belief standing up? This is really going to test it. There was another person’s sexual fluids and DNA intermingled with them. Those of Rebecca Angus. Seems your boy had both of them on the go, at the same time. Does that sound like him?’ Cruickshank added with a hint of rancour, waving officers in the corridor to one side as she continued her unwavering march.
‘No, it doesn’t. There must be something more to this than John just being involved with these two women?’
‘Oh, there is. You haven’t heard the half of it yet. That’s why I asked you up here. Did you know for example, that Saul has a white mobile phone: which I gather was evidence from the Featherstone Hall case, where his wife died?’ the last few words were filled with scathing venom.
Cruickshank thrust the door to the Incident room open and strode into the empty room, heading straight for the evidence wall that had been taken from Saul’s hotel. There was a table in front of the wall, on which were a number of items, one being a white mobile phone.
Strange followed with a perplexed furrow on his forehead, taking in the photographs, notes, post-its and other paraphernalia in front of him. ‘That should be locked up back at Northumbria headquarters. Along with quite a few images on that wall.’
‘I thought as much. Then there is this.’ Cruickshank proclaimed, holding out a computer hard disk drive.
Strange looked at it, then back up to Cruickshank, his gaze nonplussed.
‘Judging by your expression, I gather you have never seen this disk drive in relation to the Featherstone Hall case?’
‘No. What is on there, exactly?’
‘Exactly twelve hours seventeen minutes and three seconds footage of Rebecca Angus being interviewed by Dr Ben Hanlon. Recordings taken over the course of one day, which according to my search of the case notes from Featherstone Hall, were never mentioned. How are you rationalising that, Strange. How is your belief marrying these facts with your view of John Saul? Because from where I am standing right now, with all of this evidence in front of me, there are at least twenty different charges I could throw at him, the daddy of them all being the murders of Desiderata and Fenny Bentley and possibly his own wife and son.’
Strange shook his head slowly, his eyes wide in disbelief, his scrawny shoulders sagging under the weight of Cruickshank’s accusations, under the weight of evidence in front of him. He scanned the wall, attention caught by the word ‘Doppelganger’ under a blurry photograph of a man in a limousine who looked like Saul, and another photograph of Saul with Jessica Seymour. He bent over the table to take a closer look at the post-it next to the two photographs.
‘I have a twin, with three exclamation marks after it.’ Strange read out loud, the tone reflective.
Hurried footfalls pre-empted the arrival of DI Barry Trentor through the door into the Incident room. They didn’t interrupt Strange’s ruminations, but Cruickshank snapped the second she heard them, before the Detective was fully in the room. ‘We are busy Trentor, whatever it is, come back later!’ she ordered, throwing a scowling glare in his direction.
Trentor stopped on the threshold of the room, teetering in the thermals of Cruickshank’s terse tongue. Bravely, he spoke, the words coming out nervously. ‘I am really sorry Ma’am, but you need to know this. We may have another murderer.’
‘Stop dallying in the doorway an
d get over here and brief me then. Have the Fallen Angels been in touch again?’
Trentor hastily shuffled into the room and joined Cruikshank. Strange turned from the evidence wall as he arrived and flashed a welcoming smile toward the Detective, reaching out a hand and introducing himself. ‘DCI Jeremiah Strange. Pleased to meet you DI Trentor. Call me Jerry. What is your first name?’
‘Jesus Strange. The man has just told us about a possible murderer, can we do without the bloody pleasantries.’
Strange didn’t flinch and shook Trentor’s hand, his expression still waiting for an answer to his question.
‘Barry Sir. Sorry Ma’am. No it’s not the Angels.’ Trentor started, taking a little confidence in the warm handshake and the clandestine wink that Strange flashed him. ‘We have started to get the DNA results through from the people we arrested after the raid on ‘Sodom and Gomorrah’ the other night. One set matches the DNA found on the decapitated head of a seventeen year old school girl, Abbigail Gare, who was killed last year.’
‘I remember the case well, we only found her head. If I recall correctly, the DNA was from semen that was found in her eyeball of all places. Out with it, who is the suspected murderer?’
‘That’s right Ma’am. I worked that case. We had no other evidence and the DNA we found wasn’t a match to anyone, up until now. This is going to get very messy, very quickly Ma’am. The DNA was from the Member of Parliament for Leith, Connor McFetrich. It looks very probable our local politician is a murderer.’
Chapter 3
The first thing that twitches is his little finger and for the briefest of moments my heart stops, like every other time. For that fraction of a second there is a universe of hope waiting on baited breath, wishing that the tiny twitch was a natural movement, praying that Jacob is at last controlling his limbs. Senses become heightened. Eyes pick up every nuance of the twitch, looking for an unnatural susurration of the muscles in the finger. Ears attune to his breathing, listening for the shallowness that forewarns a fit. Nose sniffs out the odour of burning chocolate that exhales on his last full breath and is so strong you can taste it. Hand reaches out to touch his wrist and see if the pulse is steady, or dropping. All in that split second. Every sinew of my being straining that split second to turn into a full second, then two, then three and for the little finger to twitch naturally.
Hope is a fragile thing, even in a universe of it. This time, like every other time, his breathing falls, exhaling the burning chocolate smell which oozes its agony into my soul, which deepens my darkness, which stretches the emptiness of forever, which means Jacob is starting to fit.
Unlike every other time, Rebecca is sitting opposite me on the bed, reaching out and feeling the pulse on Jacob’s other wrist. Her emerald eyes are bloodshot from the agony of all the tears she has shed in the past few hours, yet the irises are alive and scanning his twitching little finger as well. She looks up to his wide open eyes and scans them intently.
‘Does it hurt Jacob?’ Rebecca asks. I look to his open green eyes as well, watching for the only natural movement his body can complete: dilating a pupil.
It dilates once.
Once means ‘Yes’.
My stomach suddenly cramps a screaming hollow, the already emotional maelstrom flying around my mind from the previous night’s revelations being absolutely trumped by the instant knowledge that our son is about to go through sheer agony. The hell I suddenly feel is also painted across Rebecca’s face as she looks across at me imploringly.
‘There’s nothing we can do Rebecca, we just have to let him see it through.’ I answer, feeling totally inadequate and superfluous.
‘There is always something, even if that something is just comfort. You may not have known it before John, but you know it now. It hurts him when he fits.’ Rebecca answers with a steely determination entering her previously broken voice. ‘We are here for you Jacob. Snuggle Ian Bear in and try and make your mind relax. Once upon a time, there was an old toymaker called Gepetto…’
His hands are shaking now, hard enough for the buzzer and alarm on his Pinocchio motion sensor watch to go off. I press the button on the side and switch them off. His arms start to twitch frantically and the length of his body starts to jerk sporadically. Ian Bear drops out of the crook of his chin were Rebecca has seated him and she picks the small stuffed toy up and holds it back there, her other hand stroking his quivering arm as she softly recites his favourite story, looking lovingly into his frightened eyes.
It is hard to believe that just a moment ago Rebecca was lying on the bed a broken woman, lost in the contemplation of what happened last night, or possibly trying to forget it. It’s hard to tell which, as she hadn’t said a single word since we arrived back at the apartment after the revelations in the underground cave. After she had stabbed Dessie Bentley. After Fenny Bentley had killed himself. After Eve had exposed Pastor Bentley as a murderer. After Eve told us that Jacob was also Rebecca’s son. After Eve killed herself as well. I guess I had been the same, trying to rationalise everything, just lying on the bed opposite her, our son in between.
Our son.
I can see now why Adam, or Dr Ben Hanlon or my bloody doppelganger wanted Rebecca to look after Jacob now. Not just because she is his mother, but because of how she is with children. She is just so focused, nothing else exists for her at this moment. Jacob has her complete attention, he is her universe, and keeping him calm as his chest starts to furiously shake is all that is on her mind while she softly continues telling him the story of the little puppet who turns into a real boy.
While what’s on my mind is how the hell can she possibly be Jacob’s mother? What is on my mind is: why are Rebecca, Jacob and I so important to the Fallen Angels. What is on my mind is: why Eve felt the need to kill herself. What is on my mind is: who is the man in all the pictures of the killers the Fallen Angels exposed, and why are they trying to expose him as well. What is on my mind is: if we are Gods to these Fallen Angels, what are their plans for us and what the hell is their end game. I still feel like we are pawns being played in some fucked up game of life that is totally out of our control.
Jacob’s body is fully tense with all of his extremities extended as the apex of the fit overwhelms him, his whole body shaking furiously, his head thrown from side to side and spittle splashing from his quivering lips. I hold his arm tightly, my own body anxiously tense, while Rebecca is exactly the opposite. She exudes a serene calmness and her movements are flowing, slow and delicate, even her voice is silky smooth, not an iota of concern, worry or trepidation being displayed.
‘…and Pinocchio followed the Ass excitedly down the cobbled street…’
The police will be looking for us. They will have a ton of forensics from the cave. It will all point to our involvement in the deaths of the Bentleys, regardless of the circumstances. I know they will have raided my hotel room. I would. We should give ourselves up. We should. But we can’t. We won’t find out anything about the Fallen Angels locked up in a cell. I’ve broken too many laws to be innocent now. The only thing we can do, is find out why the hell they are doing this. That is the only way we will get any closure. That is the only way we will get our lives back. And to get our lives back, we have to take control. We have to find out who Adam and Eve are. A starting point for that is back at the apartment where Adam had his base. There may be something there that will tell us where he is. We also know Eve was born Jessica Seymour and Adam was born Robert Caldwell. The other tiny revelation in the mix of all the revelations yesterday was that the man we thought she was married to was actually her father. We have to explore that. We need to dig into the history of the Seymour family. The rickety rooms in my mind are screaming at me as well. They are screaming Italy. The place where I seemed to spend a large part of my childhood in isolation. The place where I recall Gordon Ennis telling me the sister of Henry Seymour lived. The place where Sarah and I went to have IVF in order to conceive Jacob.
‘Rebecca. Where di
d you and Hannah go to have your eggs implanted when the two of you conceived Michael?’
Rebecca glances at me and throws an admonishing stare from her focused eyes, before returning to look at Jacob, whose body is now calming down, the spasms and shaking reducing as he starts to come out of his fit. I watch as his torso stops bucking and his head stops shaking, gently lolling to the right, in Rebecca's direction, as his extremities calm down as well, his whole body, in an instant, reverting to inert.
'Sleep now little angel' Rebecca sings to him, gently closing his eyes as she brushes a hand tenderly down his face. 'That's the first time he has had a fit in the three weeks I have had him. Are they always that violent?'
'Three weeks! That's impossible. He tends to fit at least once a day. Yes, they are always that violent, but I never knew they hurt him.' I answer, absolutely gobsmacked that he hasn't been fitting.
'Perhaps it's to do with him being able to communicate now. Perhaps he has control of more than just his irises. But that is definitely the first time. Now that you know it hurts him, you have to start thinking about how you interact when they happen. I could see you withdraw. I saw you try to distract your mind and think about anything else but Jacob. You can't do that. You have to think of him. You have to comfort him. You have to console him. And if you find that hard, then that's just fucking tough. If we have a son...'
'If?' I interject.
'Yes, if. Just because Eve has told us that he is ours, doesn't mean it is true. We both know her and Adam have been playing us. This could just be another test, another temptation. Don't get me wrong. I think he is our son. I think that is why Dr Hanlon brought me back from the brink of insanity. I think that is why he wanted me to look after Jacob. But let's not presume, let's find out for sure. You have a son, and we might have a son, and you need to realise now that he feels, just like you or I. He hurts, just like you or I. And if he hurts anything like you or I are at the moment, then we need to comfort his beautiful little being all the more. How do we do a DNA test?'