by Max Hardy
‘Are you okay Sir?’ PC 967 asks, with a hint of concern entering his voice as he steps down ready to support my arm.
‘No need to worry Officer. It just my riddled old bones failing me.’ I flash the cigarette in front of him before taking another long draw of the toxic nicotine stick. ‘Fifty years of devouring these devils is finally coming home to roost.’ Deliberately, I lean against the wall, forcing him to come out of the garden and stand in front of me on the pavement, allowing me to hear the conversation of the second officer as I talk to PC 967.
‘We are just trying to ascertain DC Tait’s whereabouts Sir. Can you recall the last time you saw her?’ There is a slight look of concern at the edge of PC 967’s features now, along with a modicum of trepidation. He is unsettled, not quite sure how to address a frail old man who has just suggested he is dying. Just what I wanted.
‘Oh, must have been about two days ago, in the morning. I think she would have been leaving for work as I was arriving at the office. We talked for a few moments about the happenings in town with the Fallen Angels. Strange business. I haven’t seen her since, nor her boyfriend come to think of it. Sorry Officer, do you mind if I head up to my office. My morning constitution calls, I can’t be late with my cocktail of contraband unfortunately, it’s the only thing that keeps my riddled bones at a manageable level of pain. I will be there all day if you have any other questions and please, let me know if you find her. She is such a lovely lady.’ From behind me, I hear the radio conversation stop, knowing that the officer has confirmed my identity and that of the firm of solicitors I purport to work for. I see PC 967 make eye contact with his colleague and nod imperceptibly.
‘Thank you for your time Sir, and my apologies for delaying you. I will definitely let you know if we hear anything. Would you like some assistance up to your office?’
‘Thank you, that is a very kind offer, but no thank you. I am a stubborn old goat, and this thing won’t get the better of me.’ Using the tumultuous adrenaline coursing through my veins, I groan and force myself up from the wall, letting the nervous energy out as sighs and moans. I take limping, laboured steps away from PC 967, waving my paper behind as I approach the entrance to my block of flats, and pop a key into the lock, opening the front door. I shuffle in, then gently close the door behind me, leaning my back against it as I let out an elongated sigh, letting the tension dissipate from my limbs.
‘We are in.’ I state into the air, and into my earpiece.
‘You do doddery old fart to perfection.’ Rebecca’s voice echoes around inside my head from the earpiece.
‘I’ve had a lot of practice at doddery lately. How are you getting on researching the Seymour’s?’ I enquire, letting the adrenaline abate.
‘There’s not a lot to go on, but I’m starting to get a few leads.’ she answers distractedly.
‘Okay. I’m off into the flat now. Keep listening and I’ll shout if I need you.’
Right, I might not have long, it’s hard to tell if the show I put on was good enough. So, let’s see what’s on the TV’s at the moment. I sprint up the stairs, taking them two at a time, my injuries from two weeks ago and the ones from last night smarting, letting the doddering old fart know they were still able to inflict pain. I reach the landing which Adam’s flat is on and unlock its door and enter, quickly closing it behind me. I head straight for the bedroom, knowing that there are a bank of monitors hidden behind a false wall in the room. I pass the empty drawing room where less than twenty four hours ago Rebecca and I had questioned Fenny Bentley about the disappearance of all of the women his father and daughter had murdered and ate. It still saddens me to think that he felt the need to kill himself: he knew nothing about those murders.
I quickly enter the bedroom and stride straight for the wall, pushing my hand against a spot on the duck egg blue tongue and groove panelling that looks just like any other spot. A low murmur of a motor kicks in and the wall slowly starts to open to the left, exposing….
Exposing what should be eighty monitors, eight rows by ten columns. The first three columns are empty, the monitors aren’t there.
‘Fuck’ I say out loud.
‘Problems?’ Rebecca asks with concern.
‘It looks like the monitors have gone!’ A sense of panic overwhelms me as I grab the end of the panelling that is moving and try and force it open faster. It doesn’t move any quicker, no matter how hard I push. I poke my head behind the panel, between the empty shelves, looking into the darkness to see if I can see any sign of the screens, head bobbing in and out of each row. Nothing. Not one.
‘Hold on, there’s something.’ What’s that, on the bottom shelf, right at the end, as the panel completely opens. One monitor. One solitary monitor left. I crouch down on the floor taking in the image on the screen. It’s a room I recognise.
‘There’s only one monitor left. It’s showing the Incident room at Edinburgh police HQ.’ I relay. Why is there only one monitor left showing that? Where are all the others? Wait, what’s that on the Evidence wall? That’s the evidence from my hotel room. I thought they would have it by now. And there are pictures of Rebecca and myself on there as well. Well I guess that makes it official: we are definitely suspects and definitely on the run. That doesn’t help us at all though. We needed the other monitors. We needed some clue as to Adam’s whereabouts. It’s going to make it harder to find him now.
‘That’s a problem. Has he removed everything else?’ Rebecca enquires.
I quickly scan the bedroom, looking for anything that may have been left. It is totally empty, I doubt if it will even have a single fingerprint. I leave the bedroom and set about searching the other rooms. The bathroom, the drawing room, the study, all devoid of everything, even a speck of dust. All of his makeup and prosthetics gone as well.
‘The place has been totally emptied Becca.’ Totally disheartened, I enter the last room, the kitchen, and see pristine, clean high gloss white units glaring innocently at me. Not a single thing on any of the worktops. I know the cupboards will be just the same, but my instinct won’t let me leave without checking them. I pull a drawer open expecting a resounding thrum of nothing.
There’s a leaflet, one of those tourist types, advertising a country house. I pick it up and read the cover. ‘Chillingham Hall, in the heart of Northumberland. Visit this splendid country estate, home to one of the rarest breeds of animals in the country: The Chillingham Cattle.’ This wasn’t left by accident.
‘Was that a Tourist Information broadcast?’ Rebecca enquires.
‘Sorry, I found a leaflet in a drawer. It’s all that’s left in the apartment.’
My ears prick up. I can hear the feint sound of voices coming from the corridor. I tense instinctively, listening intently to the sounds, breaking up the different voices. I make out three talking loudest and a general hubbub of conversations sitting in the background. They aren’t coming from the corridor, or from outside. They are coming from the bedroom. From the solitary monitor. It sounds very much like the start of a briefing.
I slip the leaflet into my inside jacket pocket as I walk speedily out of the kitchen and back into the bedroom, my mind already assimilating the information that is being relayed in the conversations I am hearing.
‘Are you alright John, is there someone there? I can hear muffled voices?’
‘I’m fine, it’s the morning briefing starting at HQ. Can you hear it?’
‘Not clearly, no.’
I recognise DCI Cruikshank’s voice, and DI Trentor’s and…Jerry. They have called in Jeremiah Strange. Well, it was only a matter of time. Another mass murderer? I thought Bentley was the last of the Angels killer reveals. A politician called Connor McFetrich. Cruickshank is pinning a picture up on the board, to the right of the other four serial killers exposed by the Fallen Angels and above the photographs of Rebecca and me. What’s the significance in that? I recognise him, I have seen him recently, now where was that?
‘At 11:33 am this morning we ra
ided Mr McFetrich’s house in Longformacus on suspicion of him being involved in the disappearance of Abbigail Gare. We found Mr McFetrich murdered and mutilated, hanging from chains. Around his body, using his own intestines were spelt the words ‘Even Fallen Angels Have Wings’. Mr McFetrich was into BDSM and in an annex off his cellar we discovered the amputated legs of a further thirteen women. There were names and dates – we presume murder dates- next to each leg. There was also an instrument case in the room with the moniker Unas on it. We can presume they are the trophies of his victims but will have that confirmed shortly when the DNA results are back in. We are treating this as another ‘Fallen Angels’ reveal, even though the circumstances are different.’
He was into BDSM? That’s where I remember him from. He was in the club the night it was raided. He was in a booth with a short, stout man and a tall, extremely lithe young brunette woman. This doesn’t feel like the ‘Angels’. That’s not what Eve and Adam are about. They wanted to expose killers, yes, but not kill them. Could this be something to do with the other man? What did Eve call him? The man who makes murderers?
‘While we are treating this as a ‘Fallen Angels’ reveal, we want to keep this one quiet for now. Not only because we need to get more facts on the table, but also due to the high profile nature of the victim/potential murderer. So no leaks at all people.’
That’s Laurent striding up to the front of the room. He’s looking agitatedly excited. Interesting. Has he got the DNA results in? If this was the Angels, there won’t be any DNA traces left, it’s not their style. If it’s the other man? Perhaps? What about the victims? He’s showing Cruikshank a sheet of paper, Jerry is leaning over it as well, they both look shocked. Why? What could be more shocking than what they are currently talking through?
‘Listen up people. We have the DNA results back from the victims and also from a sample of blood and a hair that were found at the murder scene. We can confirm that all thirteen limbs were indeed from the missing women, so can categorically conclude that we are dealing with another mass murderer.’
She is pausing and looking at Jerry. Jerry is shaking his head in disbelief. Why?
‘The DNA from the blood sample found at the crime scene has been matched to that of Rebecca Angus, the escaped mental patient.’
What! No, that’s wrong. Rebecca has been with me all the time. That can’t be true.
‘The second DNA sample, from the hair we found, matches that of Detective Inspector John Saul.’
I stare at the screen in utter astonishment, trying to absorb the words Cruickshank has just said. My DNA. My DNA at the murder scene. Someone is setting us up. Is this another fucking test? Is this the Angels playing us again, seeing how we will react? Or is this something different?
‘From this point forward, Angus and Saul are our prime suspects in this investigation. GCHQ have also just provided Laurent with some interesting information. They have seen chatter and searches on the internet to do with ‘Fallen Angels’, ‘John Saul’, ‘Rebecca Angus’, ‘Jessica Seymour’, ‘The Seymour Family’, along with a dozen other things related to the recent crimes we and DCI Strange have been investigating, all from the same IP address. All from the same location. All in the last hour. That location is right here in the middle of Edinburgh, in St Giles apartments, off the Royal Mile. We will be mobilising an Armed Response Team immediately.’
Shit. That’s sooner than I thought.
‘Rebecca, they are onto us. You need to start prepping for evacuation right now.’
Chapter 6
The sun slinks, midway through its afternoon descent, a vibrant suffusion of yellow mellowing in the pale blue, cloudless sky, setting life to the sandstone of the old buildings in the Royal Mile. Shadows are starting to form on the right of the street, a little respite from the heat for the revellers and passers-by enjoying the many sideshows and entertainers of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. The area outside St Giles Cathedral is cordoned off and a few Catholics are stood at the tape, placards hoisted high, still proclaiming the innocence of Archbishop Liam O’Driscoll.
From Bank Street, the road just up from St Giles, intersecting the Royal Mile, the sound of screeching tyres bursts through the hubbub of the Fringe crowd, heads turning from the entertainment to see three police vans pull up outside a restaurant called ‘Angels With Bagpipes’. Three doors slid open in unison on the sides of the vans and in convoy a stream of Armed Response Officers alight them, heading off down St Giles Street.
DCI Cruickshank jumped out of the front of the lead van as DCI Strange did likewise from the one behind. Cruickshank strode toward him, walkie-talkie in hand, already sounding off orders to the gaggle of ARO’s.
‘Every exit covered, every street corner around the building manned. An officer on the doors to each of the floors and two on the lifts. I want four on the roof with eyes on everyone going in and out of the building. One through six, you are frontline, up to floor five and wait for my command. Everyone, on my mark, positions. Go!’
*
An unnatural calmness pervaded the apartment as Rebecca quietly, yet stealthily moved around the living room, depositing various toys and pieces of equipment belonging to Jacob into a large plastic tub she held in her hands. With ruthless efficiency, she had all of the loose accoutrements securely stowed in a few minutes and placed a lid on the tub, dropping it next to a large holdall bag by the front door: just as it opened and Saul walked in, his features agitated.
‘They are in the street already. Have you got everything packed?’ Saul asked, quickly bending over to peck Jacob, who was sitting in his pushchair just inside the door, on the forehead.
‘All done. You just need to double check all the rooms and then do a door clear. Then a bleach spray of everything. Sorry John, I didn’t realise that they would be keeping an eye on what I would be searching for on the internet.’ Rebecca answered, not breaking stride or even looking at Saul as she rescanned the living room, eyes darting into every corner, making sure she had everything.
‘You don’t need to apologise. There was always that chance. But we’ve just got to follow the plan now. It’s going to be tight though.’ Saul answered as he trotted over to the bedroom and started to check it. He knelt down and checked under the bed, then inside the cupboards and drawers. Satisfied, he pulled the door closed, shouting ‘Clear’ then moved into the bathroom and repeated the same searches, the same door close and the same ‘Clear’, before turning back to the centre of the living room and scanning his circumference, Rebecca, in tandem, doing the same.
‘All looks clear Rebecca. You get yourself and Jacob out while I do a final bleach spray. I’ll meet you at Dynamic Earth in ten minutes. Just remember, they aren’t expecting an old woman with a young child in a pushchair. Use that if they see you, play it up.’ Saul instructed, turning and looking at Rebecca for the first time since he entered the apartment: looking at her blue rinse wig, her gaunt and lined features and at the classic Chanel two piece suit, Jaques Vert white blouse and the black LK Bennett sling back shoes she wore. ‘You look good rocking an old woman.’ he finished, smiling nervously as he leant over and kissed her forehead gently.
‘Not half as good as you rocking the old fart get up.’ Rebecca answered, her tone just as worried. ‘Hurry up and watch your back.’ she finished, heading towards the door, turning Jacob’s pushchair as she did, putting her left hand on the door handle and slowly turning it.
*
Six sets of black hobnail boots hammered in unison off the oak stairs, their deafening footfalls augmented and amplified in the confined stairwell as they ascended to the fifth floor. Cruikshank’s patent leather brogues were drowned out in comparison, but her footfalls marched in time. Strange struggled to keep up.
‘You might want to think about the noise a little.’ he wheezed after them. ‘You could wake a bloody corpse. I thought this was a stealth mission. It’s about as stealthy as a hippo in a mud bath.’
Cruickshank, not breaking stride, lo
oked back and glared at him with venom before arriving at the landing to the fifth floor, following her ARO’s into the carpeted corridor. Strange was a few seconds behind and entered the corridor just as the first two ARO’s were getting a battering ram into position, the four other officers with their guns trained on the solid oak door.
‘Remember, we are dealing with potential murderers here. Who knows how they will react to being confronted. You have my authority to shoot to kill if you feel there is a threat to one of your colleagues.’ Cruikshank whispered with force, backing up against the wall a few feet down from the door.
Strange joined her, shaking his head disapprovingly as he listened to her last comment. ‘Do you not think ‘shoot to wound’ would be a better policy in the circumstances? We need them alive. We need to find out what the hell is going on.’
Cruickshank turned towards him, her eyes fuming and her features furious. ‘My case Strange: I do it my way. On my mark men, burst the door down.’ she added, not taking her challenging gaze off Strange.
‘NOW.’
*
Rebecca opened the solid oak front door and stepped out into the empty corridor, flashing Saul a concerned smile as she backed Jacob’s pushchair out, pulling the door closed after her.
Saul grabbed a large canister of bleach from a long aluminium and glass coffee table and started to spray it over every surface, wall, door and piece of furniture in the room. He put a hand over his mouth and nose as a mist of the pungent gaseous liquid floated around the room, shafts of sunlight causing rainbows in the air as they refracted off the bleach. He did the same in the three other rooms before depositing the empty container in the plastic tub by the front door.
He then crossed the room to a full length window that looked out over another block of apartments across a narrow alleyway, a similar window exposing an empty room beyond, meeting his gaze. He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small, stained soft toy, Jacob’s favourite teddy, Ian Bear.