Murder Path (Fallen Angels Book 3)

by Max Hardy

  ‘And he knew Ennis as well?’ Saul pondered, sitting in silence for a moment. ‘That’s too much of a coincidence. Is this murderer man the link between them? Did he turn them into killers? Is Douglas Ettrick also a killer? Ennis, Mcfetrich and Ettrick. All into BDSM, two of them killers. I think we need to delve back into that world to investigate further. It’s the one place where we might find answers. But I doubt if anyone will be going to clubs in Edinburgh after ‘Sodom and Gomorrah’ was raided. How would you feel about going back into that world?’ Saul asked, looking over to Rebecca with a slightly embarrassed expression on his face.

  ‘John,’ Rebecca started, noticing the awkwardness in his features, ‘there’s no need to feel uncomfortable talking about sex with me. I have no problems going back into that world, in fact, I’ve got a tingling just thinking about it. You, on the other hand, will need to ditch your prudishness pretty sharpish if you intend to go there. I can help you with that.’ she finished, teasing, running a hand along the inside of his thigh, all the way up to his groin.

  Saul jumped, causing the car to swerve slightly as Rebecca squeezed his crotch, a flush of red flicking into his cheeks as he steadied it again. ‘I think you probably can, and I would welcome the opportunity to research with you. However, not driving down the A697 and definitely not with Jacob in the car. So, deliberately changing the subject entirely, how did your research go?’

  ‘Spoil sport.’ Rebecca taunted playfully, before continuing in a more sombre tone. ‘Sorry again about digging too deep and getting caught.’

  ‘No need to be sorry. There was always the chance they would be monitoring, that’s why I set you up to use the Wi-Fi from the apartment opposite. Hopefully digging that deep has found something useful?’ Saul asked, his features suddenly becoming sullen as they approached a side road off to the right.

  ‘I think I may have found a roundabout link between the Seymour family and Fallen Angels. An American puritan minister from the 17th Century called Cotton Mather. Have you heard of him?’ Rebecca asked, noting Saul stare out over the fields to the right, distracted from the conversation. ‘Are you alright John?’ she queried, stroking fingers down his arm with affectionate concern.

  Saul quickly looked back at the road ahead, then turned and smiled sadly at Rebecca. ‘What’s left of Featherstone Hall is just over those fields. The place Sarah died less than three weeks ago. Such a fucking pointless waste of life. I still can’t get my head around this Fallen Angels ethos about death. It just being a door to the next life, when you have done everything you want to with this one. I don’t think Sarah had done everything she wanted. Nor Michael, come to that. Do you think they truly understand the impact those deaths have had on us? Do you think they even care?’

  ‘I think perhaps that’s the point John. If you believe, as they do, that there is a door into another life after this one, then why would you even shed a single tear over someone dying? I think perhaps that is what they are trying to teach us.’

  ‘I get that, I just still don’t get why. What is so special about us, that the people we loved were expendable? You don’t need to answer that, it’s just me being me, and questioning. Sorry, you mentioned a name. Cotton Mather. American puritan minister. Wasn’t he involved in the Salem Witch Trials in some way?’ Saul asked as they approached Wooler, the sun setting just above the Cheviots.

  ‘Amongst a whole host of other things, yes. He also had an absolute conviction that fossilized leg and teeth bones found in 1705, near New York, were the remains of Nephilim, the offspring of Fallen Angels and humans.’ Rebecca answered with a tinge of excitement.

  ‘Okay.’ Saul answered, a thoughtful look on his face. ‘How does that link to the Seymour family?’

  ‘From the limited amount of public information that is out there about the Seymour family, and believe me, there isn’t much, they are descendants of Cotton Mather, coming back to England and settling in Northumberland in the 1870’s.’

  ‘Tenuous, but certainly something to explore further.’ Saul commented, still ruminating on the information.

  ‘I get that, but at least it is something. The other key thing for me is the religious angle. Cotton Mather was devoutly religious, to the point of fervour, to the point of instigating witch trials for anyone who didn’t uphold the puritan belief. But we can only really infer a connection from that.’ Rebecca agreed, still buoyed even under Saul’s pragmatic appraisal of the research.

  ‘Did you find out anything about Henry Seymour’s sister who lived in Italy, or about the clinic we both had fertility treatment at?’ Saul queried, scanning the sign posts and side roads off the A697 as they came out of Wooler.

  ‘I couldn’t find a public record with any information about a sister. There was nothing at all either on Jessica Seymour being his daughter. The only information I found were newspaper articles about her marriage to Henry and subsequent charity work together. As for the fertility clinic, it is still there and still very popular. I couldn’t find anything that directly linked it with the Seymour family, but then you called, and I stopped searching. We should be there soon, shouldn’t we?’ Rebecca asked, looking at the road signs as well.

  ‘A mile or so on now.’ Saul answered, his features still contemplative as he scanned the road. ‘The only person that seemed to know more about the Seymour family was Gordon Ennis. He knew about the sister, about the brother and about the family ‘curse’, caused by inbreeding, so he thought. Henry specifically funded the ‘Fielding Institute’ to research it. Ennis also said, with Henry’s death, the last of the known Seymour bloodline ended. We need to get hold of the information Ennis had on the family.’ Saul finished, his attention now fully focused on the straight road ahead: on the solitary figure standing in the middle of the straight road ahead, next to a road sign pointing left, towards Chillingham.

  Rebecca noticed Saul’s gaze, seeing a glint of anger scream from his eyes and watched as his hands gripped the steering wheel until they were knuckle white. There was a sudden roar and lurch of the people carrier as he dropped two gears and floored the accelerator, the speedometer shooting up to sixty miles an hour. Rebecca stared down the road and saw the man in the road as well: the man who was the doppelganger of Saul.

  ‘John, what are you doing, slow down!’ Rebecca demanded with a firm yet concerned tone, her anxious gaze darting between Adam in the road, getting closer, and Saul in the seat, becoming visibly more furious.

  ‘Time to take control Rebecca. If he’s not bothered about dying, then let’s just kill him. One less person for us to worry about. One less person to play us.’ Saul snarled, the speedo now hitting seventy, Adam now only eight hundred metres away, standing resolute, staring at the oncoming vehicle.

  ‘One less person to fucking question, one less person to help us figure out what the hell is going on John. Think! You’ve got our son in the car. Do you really want to risk his life to avenge Sarah and Michael? Stop being a fucking alpha male and think John, fucking think!’ Rebecca screamed, trying to wrestle the wheel now, not budging Saul’s fixed, frenetic hands.

  The people carrier was four hundred metres away now, and hitting eighty miles an hour. Adam was staring directly at Saul, his body language relaxed.

  ‘I can stop the pain in a second. All the pain you were put through, all the pain I’ve been put through: stopped in a second! Stopped at its source.’ Saul snarled.

  ‘That’s just fucking life John, get used to it. It won’t bring any of them back. Not Sarah, not Michael, not Jessica. It won’t get us any closer to finding out why. And most importantly it won’t stop Jacob’s pain, every time he has a fit. But Adam managed to stop him having fits and managed to stop the pain.’ Rebecca screamed, still scrabbling ineffectually at his arms.

  Two hundred metres, ninety miles an hour: Adam still not even blinking as he stared at Saul.

  Saul slammed a foot down on the brakes, the wheels locking instantly, a plume of ravaged rubber billowing out into the air behind the
car as it swerved from side to side. Saul battled with the wheel, wavering left to right, his whole body pushed back into the driver’s seat, rigid. His glare was still filled with fury, his eyes not leaving the unmoving figure of Adam quickly approaching.

  Fifty metres away and the car is still doing forty miles an hour.

  ‘He’s not moving John. Drive around him!’ Rebecca shouted, her own body tense and forced back into the passenger seat.

  ‘I’m stopping, but I’m not swerving. If he doesn’t move, then that’s his choice. It’s down to chance then, just the way he likes it.’ Saul simmered as he reached down and forcibly pulled the handbrake on, anticipating the slight skid and steering into it, keeping the vehicle straight, heading directly at Adam.

  Twenty metres, twenty miles an hour.

  Adam raised his arms from the side of his body and crossed them over his chest calmly, his head tilting slightly as he smiled toward Saul, a sardonic lilt to the curve of the lips.

  Saul glared back, his hands held firm on the steering wheel, holding the line straight, feeling the speed ebb from the vehicle, watching the distance between himself and Adam decrease, enraged by the humour in the whites of his eyes.

  Zero metres, zero miles an hour.

  Chapter 9

  The flickering strip light of the ‘Police’ sign hanging above the entrance to the Edinburgh station cast dancing shadows off the officers leaving the building under the rising full moon. Strange looked up to the moon, contemplative, after he bade goodnight to his colleagues, waiting patiently for Cruickshank to finish talking to the Duty Sergeant.

  ‘Anything Bob, anything at all, just call!’ Cruickshank shouted, one last order as she too left the building, and joined Strange on the step, following his eyes to the brilliant ball of whiteness hanging low in the evening sky, observing his thoughtful gaze. ‘These lingering silences as you stare longingly into the distance are really disconcerting. Is it an investigative technique they teach you down in Northumberland? Saul was the same. If you have something on your mind, just spit it out!’

  ‘It’s called reflection Gaynor. Something any half decent detective should always do to ensure they have thought through every possibility and considered every single angle.’ Strange answered, smiling ruefully at her.

  ‘Stick to facts, and you invariably get to the same place in my experience.’ she countered brusquely. ‘Do you need a lift to your hotel?’

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to book one yet, I’ll just have a reflective stroll into town and grab the first one I come across.’ Strange responded, his words deliberately provocative.

  ‘Any half decent detective would have thought of the practicalities and ensured he had a bed for the night before a long shift: unless he was being presumptuous of course.’ Cruickshank answered, a teasing tone entering her voice.

  ‘How could any man even begin to be presumptuous with a fierce and forthright lady such as yourself? However, I do have an unopened bottle of Morgan’s in my bag. If you could spare a bed for the night, we could discuss the case over a wee dram or two?’ Strange countered, playfully.

  ‘Only if you fuck me afterwards.’ Cruickshank stated bluntly as she flashed Strange her fierce and forthright glare, tinged with an irreverent sparkle, then headed off towards her car, without waiting for an answer.

  Strange stood gobsmacked, looking on after her short, squat frame as it methodically marched to her car. ‘Well, you are nothing if not practical and to the point Gaynor Cruickshank, and where sex is concerned, that will always work for me.’ Strange whispered to himself. He picked up his bag and followed her to the car, jumping into the front passenger seat.

  ‘But before we go anywhere near that little assignation,’ Cruickshank stated firmly, dampening the obvious ardour in Strange’s eyes, ‘what is the story with you and Saul. Why are you so protective of him?’ she questioned, pulling out of the car park and heading left towards the west end of the city.

  ‘Bottom line Gaynor, John has always been more of a friend to me than a colleague. We both started work in the same week, god, more than eight years ago now. He’d just come from uniform, in as a DC. I had landed in from Jamaica, first black DCI on the Northumbria force. It was challenging, to say the least, I mean, look at me. Thin streak of piss with a silver afro. It was even silver back then. You can imagine the kind of stick I got from the troops, some of it absolutely racist.’ Strange started, watching the nightlife of Edinburgh go by out of the windscreen.

  ‘You can imagine the stick a short, uptight, brusque female DCI gets from the troops, some of it absolutely sexist.’ Cruickshank countered, turning right into a cul-de-sac.

  ‘Touché. John wasn’t like that at all. I think as we were both new, regardless of rank, we struck up a friendship. Not that I needed anyone to watch my back, but John did. He’d pull up publicly anyone who stepped over the mark. Not just those sledging me you understand, but anyone. Don’t get me wrong, he enjoyed a laugh, but would always stop it going too far. I liked that about him immediately. It made him a few enemies, but many, many more friends. He has never been anything other than open and honest with me.’ Strange added as Cruickshank brought the car to a halt in the drive of a small, nondescript detached house.

  Other houses in the cul-de-sac had pleasant front lawns with colourful flowers and plants. The front of this house was concreted, not a single stem of flora in sight. The windows were dark, with plain, drab black blinds rolled half way down, the sills bereft of ornaments.

  ‘Up until now.’ Cruickshank answered acerbically, climbing out of the car. She headed for the front door and opening it, reached inside and flicked the hall light on. Strange climbed out of the passenger seat, grabbing his bag from the foot well, and followed Cruickshank into the house, closing the door behind him.

  ‘Take your shoes off at the door, put them on the rack and make yourself comfortable in the living room. I’ll go and get two glasses for that Morgan’s.’ Cruickshank ordered, pointing to an open door to the right.

  Strange took in the spartan décor of the entrance hallway, the only furniture a solitary shoe rack with one full row of neatly lined up flat brogues and one empty row below them. He kicked of his shoes and placed them on the empty row. There were no pictures on the walls, which were painted a bland magnolia, and there was no shade on the stark light bulb. Strange entered the equally minimalist living room. There was a single brown corduroy sofa, a tartan chesterfield chair with a blanket over one arm and a small glass topped coffee table with a battery powered portable radio sitting on top of it. There were no other furnishings. No pictures on the walls. No light shades and no colour apart from cream and magnolia. He sat down on the sofa, reached into his bag and took out the bottle of Morgan’s Rum.

  ‘I like the Army chic you’ve got going on here.’ Strange said in a raised voice, tinged with sarcasm. ‘Were you in the army?’

  ‘Get real Strange. I am four foot eleven with flat feet and the physique of a fairy. The Army wouldn’t even look at me.’ Cruickshank answered, entering the living room with two glasses in her hand. She had taken her shoes off and was now in stocking feet and had also removed her jacket and unbuttoned the collar button of her frilled blouse, exposing a sliver of chest flesh. Placing the glasses on the coffee table, she sat down next to Strange on the sofa, curling her legs up under her backside. ‘Pour the drinks man, some of us are gasping.’ she demanded.

  Strange obliged, handing her a half full glass and taking his own, reaching it out to toast hers. ‘Cheers.’ he started, clinking glass. ‘So why the Army austerity?’ he finished, throwing his gaze around the simple room.

  ‘Father was in the Army. I spent most of my childhood in one set of perfunctory accommodation after the next. It was practical, it did a job. Just like this place. It’s all I need.’

  ‘Didn’t your mum want to bring a bit of life to the digs, make them a home?’

  ‘If she’d been around, then perhaps. But she left when I was four. Army life
didn’t suit her. Father didn’t suit her. I didn’t suit her. But Army life is all I have ever known. Up until the force. Now they did take a four foot eleven flat footed fairy.’ Cruickshank divulged factually, without a hint of emotion.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’ Strange responded, his tone and demeanour awkwardly embarrassed as he took a long swig of rum.

  ‘Don’t be. This is me. You get what you see. Don’t expect to peel back the layers and find a soft centred feminine side. It doesn’t exist. But I appreciate it in others, when it’s genuine. That’s what I like about you, your feminine side. It infuriates me, but I find your tactile manner and nurturing nature strangely arousing. So why do you think Saul has started lying to you, given you are such good friends.’ Cruickshank finished, downing her rum in one go and holding the empty glass out to Strange for a refill.

  ‘It’s as I said to you earlier, I think John is trying to figure out what is happening to him. Whoever these Fallen Angels are, I think they have compromised him. I think that happened right the way back at Featherstone Hall and he knew it. That’s why he kept the videos and the phone. And just to be clear, even back then I warned him that if I found any evidence of his involvement in that affair, I was going to arrest him. He understood that. At the time, I did warn him that it could be Jessica Seymour who was playing him. I am sure he realised that too. The one thing it is vitally important you understand about John, the thing that makes him such an excellent detective, is that he doesn’t forget. He doesn’t forget anything.’ Strange responded as he filled both their glasses again, this time to the top, half the bottle gone already.