Murder Path (Fallen Angels Book 3)

by Max Hardy

  ‘Very fresh meat.’ Cruickshank started as she stepped out of the conservatory onto the grass next to Strange, mesmerised by the steam vaporising above Darrie. ‘Did you see who they were?’

  ‘I didn’t. The two ARO’s at the door might have, but they are in pursuit now. They had uniform on and looked to be travelling light. I don’t see any obvious blood trails out here onto the grass. There’s a pool of bile on the grass over there from the one that pretended to be sick, so we will get DNA evidence from that. I think it was John and Rebecca, but I don’t think they did that to Darrie.’ Strange offered, watching the thinning smoke ahead and trying to see his officers as he listened intently to the crackling of the walkie-talkie.

  ‘Really? You don’t think we disturbed them in the middle of the act and they bolted. Granted, they took precautions to escape, but it definitely looks to me like we caught them in the act.’ Cruickshank retorted sternly, staring at Strange with a bemused ire.

  ‘Look around the body Gaynor. The floor is clear of blood. Someone mutilated Darrie with a sheet around him and removed it. That same someone would have been covered in the splatter that’s dripping down the windows. The two people running weren’t covered in blood, have left no blood trail and didn’t have anywhere to be carrying a bloody sheet of the size required to cover the floor in there. I think they were doing the same as we are: trying to get to Darrie before Gabriel did. We both failed miserably.’ Strange replied, his words full of irritation, his expression vexed.

  ‘Or they could have hid the sheet and the spattered clothes in the house somewhere.’ Cruickshank tersely responded as she turned and headed back into the conservatory. ‘I’ll go and check that. At least one of use should be an objective Detective!’ she sarcastically added.

  ‘Guys, anything?’ Strange queried impatiently into the walkie-talkie. A chorus of ‘Negative Sir.’ sang back, along with one ‘There’s a road at the far side of the woods Sir. I did hear a car but when I reached the road, it was gone. Nothing else Sir.’

  ‘Shit.’ Strange mumbled to himself, before speaking into the walkie-talkie again. ‘Okay guys, head back to the house slowly and search the woods between the roads and the garden. Look for anything out of the ordinary. Thanks guys and be careful, there could still be traps. Frank, Simon, did you happen to see the two of them, where they both male, female, a mix?’

  ‘Man and woman Sir.’ Replied two voices in unison.

  ‘Thanks.’ Strange finished, then turned and entered the conservatory, taking in Darrie’s body in front of him. He shook his head disconsolately, pained disappointment oozing from every nuance of his face. ‘I thought you were my friend George. What kind of fucking monster were you?’ he whispered to himself, rhetorically, before stepping around the body and heading into the main house.

  ARO’s were lingering in the hallway, some heading back outside the front door and scanning the perimeter. Strange followed the trail of flayed skin as it snaked across the oak floor boards in the hallway and then headed up the stairs to his left. He followed it up. At the top of the stairs it turned directly to the left and through an open door, voices coming from the room. Strange entered, his brown brogues clacking off the black marble tiles on the floor. He looked at his multiple reflections staring disconsolately back at him from the four mirrored walls, and watched them weave through the myriad of sexual apparatus set out around the room as he walked past them. They all disappeared with him, as he entered an open panel in the mirror on the far wall of the room.

  The room beyond was brilliant white. The floor, walls and ceiling painted the same, the edges hard to distinguish so bright was the colour. Pinhead lights sparkled through diamante crystals embedded in every surface, their glow ululating, making the whole room mesmerizingly sway. Cruickshank was walking around the edge of the wall, behind white marble pillars set out in a circle. She was staring dumbfounded at the large glass bowls sitting on top of the pillars, watching the decapitated female heads gently floating in the liquid inside, their eyes, wide open, staring lifelessly out toward the middle of the room, where DI Munro was standing.

  ‘Sir.’ Munro started, addressing Strange. ‘I recognise most of these women. I recognise their faces and the names on the plaques. From missing persons cases. Some of them from the Ennis case. Their hearts where in his jars.’ he finished, morbidly transfixed by the soulless stares directed at him.

  ‘We think Darrie was part of a murder club. The cult of Unas. Look on the stand over there. It’s an instrument case, for a snare drum I would guess. Have a peek under the handle, you’ll find the word Unas embossed in gold lettering.’ Strange suggested as he started to walk around the inside of the ring of heads, following opposite Cruickshank. He looked over the top of one of the bowls, directly into Cruickshank’s irritated eyes, which were glaring back at him. ‘Sorry.’ he mouthed. The irritation flew from her eyes and the suggestion of an appreciative smile fleetingly danced on her lips, before she was distracted, and looked down at the last bowl in the row.

  ‘It’s empty?’ Cruickshank started, walking around to the front of the bowl and looking at the plaque on the pedestal, her stern small frame sagging, her shoulders hunching as she took in the name and date. Strange came up behind her, his arms reaching up and his hands embracing her shoulders with affectionate firmness. She didn’t flinch away this time, but rather raised a hand of her own, and squeezed his tightly. He looked down her eye line and read the plaque too, dejection entering his gaze.

  ‘Sheila Warren, died yesterday. Jesus, they have just bloody killed her. Where is the head then?’ Strange asked.

  ‘Sir, I think I’ve found it.’ Munro answered.

  Strange and Cruickshank turned quickly, Munro standing behind the instrument stand, the lid of the drum case in his hand. His eyes lowered, their eyes following his gaze, as all three of them looked into the open case. Cushioned softly in crushed velvet, her blonde hair lovingly styled around her tight skinned, beautifully made up face, lips a deep rouge, cheeks dappled with blusher, blue eye shadow accentuating the cobalt of her empty eyes, lay the severed head of Sheila Warren.

  Chapter 29

  What is it about us, as humans that heightens the propensity to hurt, to inflict pain, to torture and eventually to kill? Is it our animal instinct? Or is it our intelligence? Most animals kill to eat and to survive. That feels like instinct. The cat that traps the mouse, and teases it, toys with it, maims it so that it can’t run away and then eventually leaves it lying there, as a present for you, twitching in the throes of death doesn’t feel like instinct. That feels like intelligence without morality. Watch a hundred different cats and they will all treat a mouse in the same way. Why? What is it in their DNA that makes them do that? What makes us treat life in that way? What is it that makes people like Darrie capable of killing the women he did? What is it that makes Eve able to butcher Darrie the way she did? What is it that made Rebecca able to rip his heart out?

  I pull the Mini that I am driving into a secluded lane off the main road from Mitford into Morpeth and head down to the isolated farmhouse we have rented, pulling up inside the open large garage beside it. We have travelled the two miles back from Darrie’s house in silence, recovering from the exertion of outrunning the police, but also in differing modes of contemplation as to what we witnessed and did.

  I step out of the car, letting the cool, clean countryside air fill my still aching lungs, hoping it will get rid of the overwhelming odour of death that still lingers in my veins. I walk up to a fence bordering a narrow strip of trees, a golf course visible beyond, and beyond that, the edge of the west side of Morpeth. Two roads head into town from here, one either side of the golf course and I can see about a mile up ahead on the roads the flashing lights of stationary police cars, where the blockades are located.

  I hear the passenger door of the Mini quietly shut and feel the presence of Rebecca as she comes up behind me, wraps an arm around my waist and snuggles into my side, her eyes taking in the vie
w in front. My body involuntarily tenses under her touch.

  ‘I know you think I am a monster right at this moment John, for ripping his heart out. I can see that in your eyes and feel it in your body. I understand that, I really do, because I feel the same about myself. In my mind, there are three possible reasons why I killed him. One, because he was a brutal, barbaric monster that deserved death and every bit of pain Eve had inflicted on him. Two, because no one should have to suffer the torture he had endured, and he needed to be put out of his misery. Three, he had the information to potentially save Jacob in his heart, and I will literally stop at nothing and do anything to save our precious little boy. Which do you think it was?’ Rebecca asks with a hollow sadness echoing from each word as she looks out over the golf course.

  Perhaps our contemplations weren’t that different after all. I thought exactly the same things, but with one additional, overriding impulse. Justice. I wanted Darrie to pay for his crimes. I wanted closure for all of the families of his victims. I wanted to know that our morality had prevailed. But what kind of morality is it that would save a broken, dying man, just because I think that would allow other people to be at peace. From my own experience, that never works. Knowing who the killer of your loved one is, knowing that they are locked away from society never, ever takes away the pain of the loss. I know why Rebecca did it, I know why she feels like a monster. Thirty seconds later, and it would have been me ripping his heart out.

  I turn to her, the emotion of knowing what I am capable of spilling from my eyes as salty, stinging tears, and I hug her tightly, my head snuggling into her shoulder, my lips next to her ear.

  ‘All three Rebecca. It was all three. And I felt exactly the same. I was ready to kill him as well. But none of those was the overriding feeling in your mind. There’s the fourth one you felt. Yes, you wanted to stop his pain, to stop his suffering, then you wanted to save Jacob and lastly you wanted to kill him for what he had done. But firstly, you wanted to kill him so that I didn’t have to.’ I whisper in broken, agonised sobs.

  I feel her body start to wrack as the emotion overwhelms her too, the quiet sniffles of suffering escaping from her quivering lips. She squeezes into me even tighter, digging her hands into my back.

  ‘You aren’t a murderer John, and I’m not going to let them make you one. You aren’t like Darrie, or any of the others and certainly not like Adam.’ she whispers gently.

  ‘Neither are you. You have been totally selfless, you have killed to save. To save Fenny Bentley, to save me. You aren’t a murderer. You may have killed, but you aren’t a murderer. Whereas it looks like Adam, or Robert Caldwell, to give him his birth name, is exactly that.’ I pull gently away from her tight embrace and look down at her blotchy, tear stained face, her sparkling emerald eyes, bloodshot and puffy, looking back up at me in saddened agony. I bend down and kiss her willing lips, letting my tongue explore her mouth, searching out the gnawed stump of her tongue, feeling its warmth and wetness, understanding the pain she would endure to save the ones she loves. Her beauty and selflessness radiates from every single injury on her body. I reluctantly break the kiss and embrace.

  ‘So this note suggests that Adam is the sixth member of the Unas cult. Eve and Gabriel were desperate for us to know that. I can’t visualise in my head a scenario where that doesn’t mean Adam has killed a lot of women. How could he keep up the pretence of being a murderer and an active part of that cult if he didn’t? Is that a sacrifice that he made in order to infiltrate them and find out about Gabriel? Or is it just something that he wanted to do?’ I muse, as we both turn and head back towards the house. I quickly pull the garage door closed on the way.

  ‘Either way, we have his name and an address. Which Gabriel and Eve have as well. It feels like they are setting us up.’ Rebecca answers, wiping the tears from her eyes with a bloodstained black sleeve, it leaving a red smear on her cheek. I rub the smudge off with my finger as we enter the front door of the farmhouse, and head off across the hallway to the study, where the monitors are set up.

  ‘They are definitely setting us up. The question is, why? Do they know Adam is Robert Caldwell, or is it the last opportunity to get us where they want us? There is no way we can’t go. This feels like the end game for us. To find out about ourselves, to travel the path back to Adam and the Angels and to expose Gabriel. We just need to figure out how the hell we manage to stay alive at the end of the game and come out of it with Jacob.’ I finish, perhaps too flippantly, because flippant isn’t how I feel inside. Furious is how I feel inside.

  I sit down at the monitors as Rebecca pulls up a seat beside me, and reach to switch them on. Just as I do, I feel a vibration in my left arm just above the wrist. I turn to Rebecca, perplexed as she is lifting her right arm as well and pressing her thumb into a similar place. Six thrumming bursts, and then it stops.

  ‘Did you feel that as well?’ I ask.

  ‘Six vibrations? Yes. That is the tracking implant that the Angels put into us. What the hell does that mean?’ Rebecca ponders, looking at me quizzically.

  ‘I have no idea. I just hope that implant is nothing more sinister than a tracker. Could they be trying to contact us? If they are, how the hell are we supposed to react? It’s not like we’ve got a hotline or anything.’ I reply in frustration.

  ‘Let’s just keep an eye on it, and if it happens again, we should perhaps consider ripping them out, like I did with the one in my other arm?’ Rebecca suggests, more than seriously.

  I nod in agreement and then look toward the screens that have all powered up. I open up a web browser on one of them and punch in the address we have for Robert Caldwell into Google Maps. An ariel view of Morpeth comes up, with a pin right in the middle of the house, right in the middle of town, looking out over the river, just off the main street.

  ‘That’s in a built up area and there are going to be a lot of police around. Escape routes could be tricky. Let’s see. You’ve got three alleyways back onto the high street. You’ve got a footbridge fifty metres to the left over the river with three exits at the opposite side and a footbridge two hundred metres to the right with two exits. I suppose that’s eight ways out. We’ve always got the option of jumping in the river as well. We just have to figure out how we could potentially secure those routes and setup any necessary distractions. We’ve also got to consider the possibility of using the police to help us, unwittingly of course.’ I suggest, ruminating openly.

  ‘What have you got in mind? I can see your plotting.’ Rebecca asks, still rubbing her wrist where the implant vibrated, nervously glancing down at it occasionally.

  ‘Jerry is in town now. Perhaps it’s time to have a quiet word and bring him up to speed with everything we know and find out what else they found out at Darrie’s place.’ I suggest.

  ‘And how are you going to do that? Call him? Do you think he’d even listen? They are going to find our real DNA all over the Darrie crime scene any minute now, with mine all over his ripped up heart. In half an hour they are holding a press conference to tell the world we are fugitives at large. He thinks we are murderers.’ Rebecca says scathingly, her tone incredulous.

  ‘Very probably, yes. But he is in Morpeth, and after that press conference, there is only one place that he is going to go. One place I can guarantee he will be visiting. I need to go and meet him there.’ I answer calmly, the conversation I need to have forming in my mind.

  ‘Are you fucking loco? Walking into the middle of town and directly up to the Police officer accountable for catching us? Not a good idea John, not a good idea at all. And how the hell are you going to know where he is?’ Rebecca challenges in exasperation.

  ‘It’s where we would always meet on a Sunday, when Sarah and I took Jacob for a walk. We even had a regular bench we would sit at, with a bag of stale bread to feed the ducks. In the park by the river. He will go there because in the note I left him inside Ian Bear, I suggested that he did. I asked him to bring the bread.’

  Cha
pter 30

  Bridge Street, the main thoroughfare in the bustling market town of Morpeth was crowded not only with midday shoppers, but the streets were lined with a cavalcade of television and radio station satellite vans, national and local press vehicles with a smattering of police cars in between. Reporters were still jumping out of the vehicles and heading off down the street towards Oldgate, where the old clock tower stood imposingly in the middle of the road. They veered off to the left before reaching the tower, into the Town Hall building on the corner with Newmarket. The late arrivals tried to jostle ineffectually through the already large vociferous crowd that was gathered in the foyer to the hall. That crowd had already spilled over from the packed, noisy main hall beyond. At the front of the hall sat a single table with two chairs tucked in behind it, the surface of it covered in microphones. Behind the table stood a large banner with the Northumbria Police logo and telephone numbers emblazoned upon it and a plasma TV screen.

  The old clock tower outside the hall chimed twelve and on cue, Jeremiah Strange and Gaynor Cruickshank emerged from a side door just to the right of the table. They made their way to the two seats, Cruickshank nodding sternly to the quieting crowd as she sat down staunchly, Strange smiling amiably at the reporters he recognised before nonchalantly settling in beside her.

  Strange coughed, and the murmuring conversations in the hall were curtailed, quietness descending. ‘Ladies and gentleman, thank you for your attendance at this briefing today. I am Detective Chief Inspector Jeremiah Strange and my colleague here is Detective Chief Inspector Gaynor Cruickshank. Police Scotland and Northumbria Police are now engaged in a joint force operation as a result of the recent case in Northumberland at Featherstone Hall and the activities of the Fallen Angels case in Edinburgh last week. We have very strong evidence to suggest that those cases are linked. We also have compelling evidence to suggest that the people we are looking for may very well be hiding out in the Morpeth area. You will have noticed coming into the Town that we have roadblocks and police searches are taking place. We also have officers going door to door through the town. My colleague, DCI Cruickshank will bring you up to date with the most recent developments in the case. Please, if you could hold any questions until after that as the updates are extremely important.’ Strange finished, nodding affectionately over to Cruickshank.