Dark Angel - a gripping serial-killer thriller with a nail-biting ending

by Chris Simms

  She twirled on her heel, stomped across to the last empty chair at the table and flopped down.

  Jon looked about. Duggy was shovelling the last of his food in like it was a race, Wiper tracking every movement with doleful eyes. Holly had an elbow either side of her bowl, head bowed, fringe hiding her face. Alice was busily tapping something into her phone, even though they weren’t allowed at the table. ‘Well,’ Jon announced cheerfully. ‘Aren’t we one big happy family?’

  No one replied.

  Once Duggy and Holly had left the room to get ready for school, Alice pointed to the shelf above the radiator. ‘Oh, there’s a letter there from Miss Jennings.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That adult who is always in your daughter’s classroom. Her form teacher?’

  ‘I thought it was a bloke. Mr Roberts?’

  ‘You mean, Richards? That was last year, Jon. Miss Jennings is the one you would have met the other day when I arranged that meeting. If you’d been able to leave work in time to get there.’

  Ouch, Jon thought. ‘This about Holly’s behaviour?’

  Alice was looking pleased with herself. ‘She said not to be worried. Apparently, Holly’s all sweetness and light when she’s in school. And her grades are all good. More than good, in fact.’

  ‘So it’s just us two getting the special treatment?’

  ‘Seems to be.’

  ‘I told you, Ali: she’s a premature teenager. Got there three years too soon. She’ll grow out of it.’

  Alice groaned. ‘Yeah, but when? I can’t take years of her current attitude.’

  He smiled. ‘She’ll be all right.’

  ‘What’s going on at work, then?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Last night, when you had to stay back.’

  He was about to fob her off again, but a little voice stopped him. Do not start snaring yourself in lies. You know it never ends well. ‘Actually, it was Senior. He wanted me to meet with this lad who used to play at Cheadle Ironsides. He’s homeless and two people he knew have both died recently.’

  ‘Other homeless people?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Alice looked sad. ‘It’s a disgrace what’s going on. I read this article in the Manchester Evening Chronicle – it was about how many are ending up back on the streets now government money for Everyone In has ended.’

  Everyone In, Jon thought. A scheme to bring the nation’s homeless into temporary accommodation while the pandemic was bad.

  ‘So,’ Alice said. ‘He thinks there was something suspicious?’

  He stood, took the car keys off the shelf and nodded. ‘That’s right. They both were in the army. That’s why he wanted to chat with me.’

  Alice looked uneasy. ‘Jon – don’t do anything silly, will you? This job you’ve got now, the Counter Terrorism Unit was—’

  ‘I know: the only place that would take me. Don’t worry, I’ll mention everything to my boss. Get his permission before I do anything.’

  Her smile disappeared as her eyes went to the clock. ‘Shit, I’ve not done their packed lunches. Before you go, make sure they’re dressed and have done their teeth, can you?’

  ‘Will do.’ He reached across the table for her hand. ‘See you later.’

  She squeezed his fingers. ‘Later.’

  At the bottom of the stairs, he called out as he started to climb. ‘You two fungus-breaths? If those teeth aren’t clean, I’m going stick your heads down the toilet, add some mouthwash and press the flush.’

  Chapter 5

  Radio Manchester brought him out of a sleep that had been swirling with visions of Claire and Sophie. Waking up was a relief, even if it the apartment now only had him in it. He turned onto his back, kicking about to unsnarl his legs from the twisted duvet. One pillow was half off the bed, the other squashed up against the headboard. He checked the backs of the fingers on his right hand for fresh bruises; lately, he’d been waking up with them. It had taken him a while to figure out he was flailing his arm in the night. The edges of the bedside table were unforgiving.

  The news was just coming on. Long tailbacks on the approach roads to Manchester Airport. People protesting about the proposed extra runway. A stabbing in Hulme. A factory in Swinton that supplied plastic drums for chemical storage was closing. Forty-six people to join the jobless count. Manchester United had lost again.

  He reached across and turned the radio off. It wasn’t like he was going to fall back to sleep. The bedroom’s plain walls seemed to press in on him. With one smooth movement, he swung his legs off the mattress and stood. Peering round the edge of the curtain, he surveyed the drab street. Early afternoon and most people were hidden away indoors. Two flimsy scraps of blue; a couple of discarded face masks on the pavement. The phone mast on the roof of the old warehouse opposite his flat seemed to be reaching for the grey clouds scudding across the dull sky. Trying to snag them on its stiff metal fingers.

  The flat would have been almost unrecognisable to anyone who’d visited when they were a family. When Claire had run the show, her touches made it feel like a home. Things like wallpaper. Framed pictures. A rug with cheerful colours running through it. After they’d gone, he’d got rid of everything. Tore the wallpaper down. Threw the pictures away. Rolled the rug up and left it outside a charity shop. The only room he hadn’t touched was Sophie’s. He wasn’t sure why. Just had shut the door and never gone in it again.

  Now all there was in the living area was an armchair positioned squarely in front of an old-fashioned television. A single bookshelf, devoid of books. Beside the kitchenette was a small table with four chairs. Three too many. The walls were as bare as the bedroom’s except for one item: a pair of black wings. Measuring barely more than a metre from tip to tip, they had been carefully mounted at eye level.

  He padded across the bare floorboards to a foam mat, unrolled it and lay down. Abdominal crunches and leg raises. Onto his elbows to do a plank. Down onto his front. Press-ups. Arms wide, then together. Squat thrusts followed by a hamstring stretch. It was the best thing the army had taught him: the importance of staying in shape. Sometimes, he thought it was the only thing keeping him together.

  By the time he sauntered round to the kitchenette, he felt a slight distance from the sense of desolation that always followed him. Exercise always did that. Got him ahead of it. For a bit. Some cereal while the kettle boiled. Standing there, bowl in hand, his mind wandered to the phone call from the day before. Wayne. The man was so close to being ready. In fact, yesterday, the time had seemed right. He’d almost asked to meet him, but then something had happened to make Wayne end the call. No matter. He’d ring again, soon enough.

  The calendar pinned to the cupboard door caught his eye. Soon, it would be time to turn to the next sheet. Pinch punch, first day of the month and all that. He lifted the page and his eyes moved across to the 4th. On that day, two names were written.

  Claire and Sophie.

  After that, the entire month was empty. As was the next month. And all the ones after that. Every single month that would ever pass.

  It didn’t seem possible the 4th would mark an entire year since they’d left him behind. All the plans he’d formed with his wife during the time he’d been over in Afghanistan on tour. The hours he’d spent searching the Internet, plotting their route. Sleepovers in rooms above isolated Scottish pubs. Bed and breakfasts, lodges and farms. Sometimes car parks if they overlooked a beach or a loch.

  Everything destroyed in one night.

  He approached the wings on the wall. He’d loved to watch Claire as she’d carefully constructed them in the evenings after Sophie was in bed. Threading each snow-white feather into place on the gossamer-light frames. He’d helped her with the tiny hinges so that, with a pull on the line at the back, the wings extended out to full stretch. It had been their daughter’s dream. To have wings. To be able to fly. To spread happiness. Her voice echoed in his head. ‘Every angel has wings, Daddy.’

  He s
tudied the feathers – now spray-painted black – and lifted a finger to smooth some filaments of a larger one back into place. Six more days and they would all be together again. Forever.

  Chapter 6

  Jon had his ID ready as he reached the barrier into the car park. ‘Morning, Terry. Getting a bit chillier, isn’t it?’

  The old boy nodded. ‘It is sitting in here. Does my piles no good.’

  Jon grinned as the barrier lifted. The CTU building that he worked out of was located on the edge of an industrial estate at Trafford Park. Chest-high hedges screened off the outside area from prying eyes. After parking, he crossed to the main building, electing to enter via the interior garage. Surveillance vehicles lined one side of the flooring: a variety of cars both new and old, commercial vans picked up from auctions with the previous company’s lettering still faintly visible beneath the paintwork, a couple of lorries and even an ice-cream van.

  Michael, the weapons inventory officer, was waiting by a dark-blue saloon as two firearms officers checked the armoured box in its boot contained everything the inventory said it did.

  ‘Morning, lads,’ Jon announced as he went by.

  At the top of the metal stairs, he had to lean down in order to press his card against the reader. Over a year into the job, and he still hadn’t got round to finding a longer lanyard.

  Immediately beyond the door was a long room known as the foyer. Seats and wall-mounted mirrors provided an area where officers could check their appearance before going out on surveillance jobs. Something Jon was rarely called on to do: anyone over six-feet tall wasn’t ideal as their height was likely to draw attention. He proceeded straight through to the main office, spotting Iona at the desk beside his.

  So many sheets of paper were spread out, they covered her keyboard. Her head was down, glossy black hair hanging forward. My daughter, he thought, sits like that at every meal. Very unsocial it is, too. ‘Morning.’

  Her head didn’t move.

  ‘Iona, I said ...’ A thin white lead trailed across the desk to her computer. She was plugged in, listening to something. He picked a paperclip out of the little pot by his monitor and tossed it across.

  She looked up, bright blue eyes taking a moment to refocus. ‘Hi.’ She smiled, pressing a button on her keyboard before slipping the earpieces out.

  ‘Hello. What are you so busy with at this time of the morning?’

  She sighed. ‘Earwigging. Endless earwigging.’

  ‘Waiting for that magic phrase?’

  ‘Correct.’

  Jon couldn’t imagine anything more tedious than listening to recordings of bugged phone conversations. Someone suspected of no good. Chats that, to the casual ear, were entirely innocent. Mundane, even. But, in reality, might contain a code or reference or hint of something ominous. Maybe just a certain word popping up too often. He didn’t know how she did it. ‘Is that what you’re on today?’

  ‘Probably the week. These are just the first of a new tap. The bloke talks more than my gran used to. What about you?’

  When he first joined the CTU, Jon didn’t like the fact it took a silo approach to jobs: officers were brought together in groups dictated by what the job needed and the particular skill-sets officers possessed.

  Iona was brilliant at analysis: studying columns of figures, scanning records, listening for patterns. Stuff like that. Me? Jon thought, I’m better at the ... hands-on stuff. Like punching people. One job, they might be working as a pair, the next they’d be part of a thirty-officer team. Other times, they worked separately. If nothing else, it ensured variety. ‘Not sure. We have a briefing at half nine.’ He dumped his phone and keys in his top drawer, shrugged his jacket off and then asked, ‘Need a brew?’

  But her head was already back down, wire vanishing behind her fringe. No use talking to you, he thought, hanging his jacket on the back of the chair and heading back towards the stairs.

  DCI Weir’s door was partly open. ‘Sir, do you have a minute?’

  ‘Yup, in you come. Take a seat.’

  His senior officer had wispy blonde hair, lips that were too wide and eyes that were too far apart. Frog-face was the name he was known by. Jon wondered how to start. ‘Sir, I got a tip yesterday evening about a couple of deaths within the last month involving homeless people. The reason it reached me was because both victims served in the army. The person I spoke to saw someone suspicious at the time one of them died. A male figure, dressed completely in black.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  No way I’m mentioning any bloody wings, Jon thought. ‘Average height, slim build. Anywhere from twenty to forty in age. White.’

  ‘Definitely white?’

  ‘As sure as he could be. It was at night on the roof of a car park. I’m thinking if the skin wasn’t pale, he wouldn’t have been able to notice.’

  ‘So what are you asking for?’

  ‘Permission to dig around on the system. Perhaps speak to the investigating officers. A few hours’ work, maximum.’

  Weir considered this. ‘You know how many homeless people are veterans?’

  Jon shook his head, not sure which way this was going.

  ‘About one in five,’ Weir stated.

  Jon raised his eyebrows. ‘That many?’

  Weir nodded. ‘And their mortality rates are far higher, too. Suicide, mainly.’

  Surprised at the other man’s level of knowledge, Jon glanced to the side wall and saw a photo of a younger-looking Weir in army combats. Ah-ha: that’s why.

  ‘Were these two recorded as suicides?’ his senior officer asked.

  ‘Haven’t had a chance to check yet.’

  ‘What are you down for today?’

  ‘Not sure. There’s a briefing about something at half nine. Operation Flyer?’

  ‘That’ll be the delegation arriving from the States. One of the party merits an armed response unit being in attendance.’

  ‘What’s the visit about?’

  ‘The proposed airport expansion. They’ll be offering expertise or money. Or both. Your guess is as good as mine. Anyway, there are a load of visits lined up: council bigwigs, the mayor, that crew. You’re on the team escorting them about.’

  Which, Jon thought, means sitting on my arse, waiting around for bloody hours in a car. Great.

  Chapter 7

  ‘Those airport security boys are seriously close to losing their shit,’ chuckled Detective Constable Kieran Saunders, his Welsh accent adding a sing-song quality to his words.

  Jon glanced up from his phone and peered through the windscreen. Beyond the restricted area where they were parked, the group protesting about the airport expansion were causing chaos. As soon as the security personnel succeeded in clearing one of them from the road, another would lie down to take their place. Placards bobbing about bore slogans like: ‘There is no planet B.’ ‘Plane Stupid.’ ‘One World, Last Chance.’ ‘Planet before Profit.’ Traffic was backed up towards the roundabout; drivers had started beeping their horns, passengers had started climbing out of stationary cars and approaching the terminal on foot, dragging suitcases behind them. Like the protestors, most of them were wearing face masks.

  ‘Surprised they’re not just arresting them,’ Jon stated. ‘There are special measures in place for airports, aren’t there?’

  Kieran regarded the nearby police van with hopeful eyes. ‘If they get the green light, shall we go over and lend a hand? Cuff ’em and stuff ’em. It would be nice to haul their crusty arses out of here, wouldn’t it?’

  Knowing they would never be allowed out of their vehicle for simple crowd control, Jon went back to studying the information on his phone. His Internet search on homeless deaths in Manchester had brought up a long list. Topping it were news articles by the likes of the Manchester Evening Chronicle, the Guardian and the Independent. Next were reports from organisations that included the Rowntree Trust and St Mungo’s. The entry for a Manchester-based drug and alcohol service caught his eyes. New Dawn �
� working since 2016 to help young people and their families affected by substance abuse.

  Shame, he thought, you weren’t around for my younger brother.

  Further down, various website entries for homeless charities that operated in the city began to appear. He scanned their names: Mustard Tree, Barnabus, the Booth Centre.

  The third name on the list sent his mind racing back to when he’d been trying to find Dave. His younger brother had been thrown out of the family home by their dad while he was still in his teens. He’d ended up living an unorthodox life that, sometimes, involved dropping into the Booth Centre to get a free meal.

  Jon remembered visiting the place: back then, it had been located in some cramped rooms beside the city’s cathedral. The address now showing was different. Wondering when it had moved, his finger hovered over the screen. But he knew visiting the charity’s website would only stir stronger memories of the sad sequence of events that led to his younger brother’s murder.

  Needing to think about something else, he ran over the events from earlier that morning. His DCI hadn’t categorically said he couldn’t look into the homeless people’s deaths. So, before the nine thirty briefing, he’d accessed the records for both. Jim Barlow had been found on the 15th of September. It was as Wayne had described: the body had been spotted shortly before dawn by a delivery driver dropping off supplies on nearby Turner Street.

  The uniforms attending had reported that there were no apparent signs of life and duly cordoned off the scene. A Home Office pathologist had stated what was probably obvious to everyone – the nature of Barlow’s injuries suggested he’d fallen from a considerable height. There was a bit from a detective who’d conducted a search of the car park’s roof. A fair amount of drug-related detritus was up there, but none close to the point from where Barlow had fallen. Jon thought back to Wayne’s account; the man had stated how the voices he’d heard weren’t particularly close. And, when the figure had passed him, it had been over twenty feet away.

  Barlow’s corpse had then been packaged and removed for autopsy. Cause of death was severe impact trauma to the front of the head: he’d probably been more-or-less horizontal in the air when he’d connected with the ground. Toxicology had shown he had a decent cocktail of drugs in his system, but not enough to render him unconscious. Stomach contents showed he hadn’t eaten anything more than snack foods in the hours before death.