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

by Chris Simms

  With the death being suspicious, the coroner had opened an inquest which was ongoing. That meant the body hadn’t yet been released. Jon had flicked through the rest of the report, searching for the property inventory. Not surprisingly, the list was extremely short – aside from some small change, a ring and a cigarette lighter, it was just his clothes.

  The circumstances of Ryan Gardner’s death were extremely similar. The landlord of the building, having heard it was being used by homeless people, had gone to inspect how they were getting in. In the main hallway, he’d immediately discovered Gardner’s body, lying at the base of the stairs. There were some additional injuries caused as he’d bounced off the banisters on the way down but, again, cause of death had been given as trauma to the head. Both deaths would probably end up as unexplained, but everyone would be assuming suicide.

  As the briefing for Operation Flyer was being called, he’d had time to do two things. First was to ask Peter Collier – one of the civilian support workers – if he could check the system for any other recent deaths involving homeless men who’d served in the army. Second was to go on HOLMES to leave a flag in case of a lone male being seen in the vicinity of any subsequent cases of what appeared to be a homeless person’s suicide. The system let him enter some search parameters for the lone male: ‘Approximately six foot tall’, ‘Slim build’, ‘Caucasian, twenty to forty years of age’, ‘Black clothing’. At that point, he’d paused. After a moment of indecision, he added a final one: ‘Fancy dress – wings / superhero’.

  The radio on Kieran’s vest gave a two-tone beep. ‘Delta Tango, they’re going to use a rear exit for leaving the terminal building.’

  ‘Wise choice,’ Kieran replied. ‘There’s a right kerfuffle going on out the front here.’

  ‘Be advised that you’ll meet us at the top of the access road that’s about forty metres in front of where you’re parked. See it?’

  Jon pointed to a narrow turning that was cut off by a barrier and several large no entry signs.

  ‘Got it,’ Kieran replied.

  ‘We’ll be about five minutes. Stay where you are until I give you the word.’

  ‘Will do.’ He waited a second to make sure the convoy commander was really gone. ‘What a shit-show.’

  Jon didn’t bother glancing across. ‘The protest or this op?’

  ‘This fucking op.’

  Jon had to agree: in the briefing, the operational firearms commander had made it clear that the escort was purely a cosmetic measure, put in place only to make the visiting Americans feel important. Or, more accurately, the particular high-worth individual among them. It was the sort of decision hatched in high-up offices that made those on the ground resent their superiors.

  Kieran sat back, attention on the protest once again. ‘Really? They’re just going to let them do this? I bet it’s affecting the M60, by now.’

  ‘You don’t reckon they have a point?’ Jon asked. ‘I mean, the planet is fucking melting.’

  Kieran shrugged. ‘Come on, pal, they’re breaking the law.’

  ‘Peaceful protest: they’re not being aggressive.’

  ‘But this?’ He gestured at the queue of cars. ‘Causing ordinary people to miss their flights isn’t doing their cause any favours. Proper channels: that’s how they need to do things.’

  ‘Proper channels aren’t working,’ Jon murmured.

  Kieran shot him a glance. ‘Not turning all alternative on us, too?’

  Now it was Jon’s turn to shrug. ‘I’ve got kids, mate. Have to think about the world they’ll end up living in.’

  ‘And when you turn up for your cheap week in the sun to find you can’t get to your flight because of this lot?’

  He was considering his reply when a taxi jinked to a stop directly before their vehicle, even though the whole area was a mass of yellow hatching.

  Kieran flashed the lights, but the driver’s hazards went on. A portly man wearing a jumper with an argyle check got out. ‘Fuck’s sake.’

  ‘I’ll handle it,’ Jon said, pulling on a police baseball cap as he opened the door. ‘You need to move, sir! This is a no-stopping area.’

  The driver was too busy scanning the terminal building’s doors to even turn his head. ‘They are here. I got a text. They are already through baggage reclaim.’

  Jon stepped right up to him and dropped his voice. ‘Sir, move. Now.’

  The man looked to the side. Jon was in the full uniform of an authorised firearms officer: combat boots, dark military-style cargo trousers, black short-sleeve top. Over that was a police vest, with tool belt and sidearm hanging off it. It was a look intended to deter and, if necessary, intimidate.

  ‘I’m not fucking around,’ Jon continued. ‘Block us in, we just ram you out the way. And then bill you, too.’

  That did the trick: the taxi driver retreated to his car and quickly drove off.

  ‘What did you tell him?’ Kieran asked as Jon climbed back in.

  ‘Warned him there was a sex-starved Welshman in the vehicle who was getting quite turned on by his woolly jumper.’

  Chapter 8

  The convoy that emerged from the service road beyond the protest consisted of a lead vehicle with a specialist escort driver at the wheel and, beside him, the convoy commander. Next were two black Jaguars – the second of which was the oyster vehicle, nicknamed that because it contained the principal, along with a close protection officer. Kieran and Jon formed the rear sweeping vehicle.

  ‘Here we go at last,’ Kieran said, accelerating across the yellow hatching to slip in just behind the bumper of the oyster vehicle as the road curved round, away from the airport buildings.

  Jon eyed the fast-receding protest in the car’s side mirror with a sense of relief. It didn’t matter that the risk to the principal was negligible; any heaving mass of people could be used as cover by some proper bad pixies.

  ‘Who is she, again?’ Kieran asked.

  Jon sighed. He really liked Kieran, but the bloke’s attention span could be put to shame by a toddler with a bellyful of blue Smarties. ‘Did you tune out for that bit of the briefing?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘She’s the daughter of a senator. Her dad was high up in the Bush administration. Almost ran for president one time. And she’s high up in the outfit that’s offering to help fund the third runway – if airlines from America get the best slots.’

  ‘They said all that in the briefing?’

  ‘Most of it. One of the analysts was also explaining that the only places ready to put cash on the table are America and China. And China’s not so popular right now.’

  ‘Too right. Any soy sauce with your bat?’

  Jon closed his eyes. ‘You don’t have a filter, do you?’

  ‘Nope. So, it’s big bucks stuff. Movers and shakers.’

  Jon smiled. The man’s Welsh accent always made him sound like he might just be taking the piss, even when he wasn’t.

  As the convoy joined the M56 towards the city centre, Jon noted the traffic crawling along on the other side of the barrier. Kieran was right; the airport protest was snarling everything up. Ahead of them, the upper parts of Manchester were coming into view: the high-rise developments and accompanying cranes that were so dramatically transforming the skyline.

  ‘Which hotel are they in?’ Kieran asked.

  ‘Guess,’ Jon replied.

  ‘I know Weir said it’s one of the five-star ones,’ Kieran replied. ‘The Hilton?’

  Until recently, the tall glass building had been the highest in Manchester. But now its crown had been taken by the Deansgate Square South Tower. Jon had heard that would soon be eclipsed by a monstrosity that construction was due to start on next year. Where, he wondered, is the money pouring in from? ‘Something a bit more Manchester, mate.’

  Kieran frowned. ‘That one where the politicians stay when they have their conferences? With all the fancy brickwork: that one?’

  ‘The Midland?’ Jon shook his head. ‘
That’s not five-star, is it?’

  ‘Well, it’s bloody flash,’ Kieran countered.

  ‘Not there,’ Jon said. ‘Last try.’

  Kieran lifted a forefinger. ‘I know: The Lowry! Got to be.’

  ‘Give that man a leek,’ Jon said. ‘But that’s not where we’re going first.’

  ‘No?’ Kieran glanced across the schedule balanced on Jon’s knee. ‘Not even dropping off their bags?’

  ‘They’re being delivered by some minion. We’re going straight to meet the reception committee.’

  ‘They don’t even get to wash their pits?’ Kieran sounded outraged.

  ‘Seriously?’ Jon said. ‘You’ve never heard of business class? Never turned left when you board a plane?’

  Kieran increased the vehicle’s speed to close the gap. ‘Left? What the fuck are you on about now?’

  ‘They’ll have been seated in the posh bit,’ Jon said. ‘Seats as big as sofas. Restaurant service, shower rooms, a bar.’

  ‘Fuck me,’ Kieran replied. ‘On a plane? There’s me thinking I’m royalty by paying twenty quid extra for an aisle seat on easyJet.’

  Jon suspected the other man was now joking, but he still couldn’t tell.

  ‘You’ve been there, have you?’ Kieran glanced at him. ‘Where you end up by turning left?’

  Jon laughed. ‘Of course. Then straight into a limousine which took us to the Sheraton International. Like fuck.’

  The convoy made its way clockwise round the M60 for a couple of junctions, coming off on the A56 and following the road past Old Trafford cricket ground and Manchester United’s stadium. Soon, the Ship Canal was on their left. Jon looked at the wide expanse of sluggish brown water, always amazed that the thing had been dug out with spades. An army of Irish navvies, his great-grandfather among them.

  Puzzled by the route, Jon got on the radio to the convoy commander. The reply came back that they were going on a roundabout route so the American delegation could see a bit of the city.

  They crawled along Deansgate for a bit, then cut right. Soon, the circular structure of Central Library and, directly beside it, the Town Hall, appeared.

  Jon had to admit the pair of buildings was bloody impressive. The dome-roofed library was built from ghostly white stone. With its heavy front portico supported by five pale columns, it resembled something from Ancient Rome. The Town Hall was a different matter. Dark and imposing, its style was Neo-Gothic, complete with gargoyles perched on parapets and tall stained-glass windows.

  ‘Shame the thing’s being refurbished,’ Jon commented. ‘It’s the sort of thing the Yanks would bloody love to look round.’

  ‘What’s that, then?’ asked Kieran.

  Jon realised his eyes were firmly fixed on the vehicle in front. ‘The Town Hall, you numbnuts.’

  ‘Closed, is it?’ he asked nonchalantly. ‘How long for?’

  ‘Oh, only about four years.’

  Now Kieran’s head turned. ‘Really? What are they doing? Building another one inside it?’

  ‘Not far off, I think.’

  Kieran shot a glance at the chipboard barrier that had been erected round the base of the building. ‘Fuck me, Acorn. Used to work for them, I did.’

  ‘Who?’ Jon asked.

  ‘See the leaf-shape logo on the hoardings? Them. When they were restoring Victoria Baths.’

  ‘You were in construction before doing this stuff?’

  ‘Nightwatchman. Easiest job to get when you come out the army. They trained you up for reading the various sensors, like for heat and smoke, but that wasn’t hard. Never watched so much porn in my life. Happy days. Well, nights.’

  They were now approaching an access point that had been opened into Lincoln Square. The vehicles filed down it before coming to a halt at the ornate entrance of an old red-brick building. Waiting there was a group of smartly dressed men, all wearing face masks. Behind a temporary barrier to the side were a few people in more casual clothes, one with a camera mounted on his shoulder.

  Needing to stretch his legs, Jon climbed out of the vehicle. A few curious passers-by had slowed to a stop and were looking at the parked cars to see who was getting out. Probably hoping for a footballer. Jon scanned the windows of the office building on the far side of the square. He could see faces gathering at some of the windows. Something to briefly break the monotony of work.

  ‘Clever,’ commented Jon, leaning down to the car’s open window and pointing to the statue of a gaunt-faced man in a long overcoat who was standing on a plinth in the middle of the square. ‘Abraham Lincoln – the American president.’

  ‘Go on,’ sighed Kieran. ‘What’s he doing here, then?’

  Jon could still remember the school history trip. ‘Because of Manchester supporting the Union in the American Civil War: refused to buy cotton from the southern states.’

  ‘No doubt that will be stressed heavily to our visitors.’

  ‘No doubt it will.’

  The front door of the second Jaguar was now opening. Jon recognised the close protection officer who got out. Lazy twat who, if he didn’t lose a bit of weight, was going to get floated from the role. Two uniformed officers had also appeared from the rear of the lead vehicle. Security personnel were twitching about closer to the building’s entrance.

  Now the rear door of the lead Jaguar began to open. First to emerge was a statuesque woman in her mid- to late-thirties. Long, platinum hair hung over a tailored ice-blue suit jacket. The matching trousers were perfectly smooth. As she appraised her surroundings, Jon thought she didn’t look like she’d just flown across the Atlantic. Her eyes turned in his direction and, for a second, her gaze lingered on him. Even though she was about twenty metres away, he felt a jolt at the lasciviousness of her look. Did I just imagine that? he asked himself. It was more suited to a nightclub. Not that he’d been in one for years.

  Her eyes swept the remainder of the square before she set foot on the cobbles. The reception committee edged forward. First to extend a hand in greeting was the city’s youthful mayor, Ed Farnham. Not long ago, he had been a prominent politician down in Westminster.

  ‘That’s the bird, then?’ Kieran called from inside the vehicle. ‘The one with the rich and powerful daddy?’

  Jon realised his colleague couldn’t have noticed the look she’d flashed across the small square. He’d have said something, if he had. Which means, he concluded, it was all in my head. ‘I think so.’

  Once everyone had been introduced, Farnham led the way toward the entrance. But, before taking them in, he paused to gesture at the statue. All the Americans turned, their faces showing polite interest as they listened to the spiel. Jon realised Farnham had positioned himself so he was half-facing the journalists. The man really had learned the media side of things during his time in London.

  With Farnham’s speech over, a journalist lifted an arm. ‘Mayor Farnham, I’ve seen the recently released proposal for Redgate Towers – the development which would create an impressive 1,520 new flats for the city.’

  Farnham paused. ‘Yes: another part of the regeneration process that’s sweeping our city.’

  The journalist’s tone switched. ‘And the fact that none of the three towers have any affordable housing planned, whatsoever?’

  Farnham was clearly caught by surprise. ‘Well, as I said, negotiations are ongoing.’

  ‘And Section 106 money, how much of that will be provided by the developers for community projects?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Farnham replied, now turning his back on the reporters.

  ‘Is the character of Manchester being ruined by these overseas investment opportunities, Mr Mayor?’

  Farnham was now trying to usher the Americans ahead of him.

  ‘What about the companies funding these projects who are based in secrecy jurisdictions? Any comment on that?’

  Seconds later, the building’s doors swung shut and the smirking journalists began to disperse.

  ‘How long are we here for?’
Kieran asked, unclipping his seat belt as Jon got back in the car.

  Jon consulted the schedule and groaned. ‘Two bloody hours.’

  Chapter 9

  The television was mounted high enough on the wall so no one could reach it. Watching it from a plastic seat in the corner was a young woman. Her thick mop of hair was long and straggly. The beginnings of dreadlocks. The folds of a scarf poked out of the neck of a thick army-style coat. She was bending forward as if cold, even though the room was pleasantly warm. Every now and again, she sipped from a mug of tea.

  There were other people in the room. Some chatting to each other. Several were also on their own, flicking through newspapers or, like her, staring at the screen. The posters that adorned the walls either addressed health-related issues or gave information on citizens’ rights. Housing benefits, emergency social payments, the bedroom tax.

  She knew the two ladies that worked there were watching her. Soon, one would come over, try and start a conversation. She just wanted to drink her brew and watch the telly. The presenter started talking about the visit of Alicia Lloyd, daughter of Bill Lloyd, one of the key figures from when the Bush administration had been in power.

  That bunch of fucking crooks, she thought. The arseholes that had wrecked Iraq, then doled out the construction contracts to companies they had interests in. The ones who were still in charge, behind the scenes. They didn’t give a shit about the environment, or the welfare of farm animals or, for that matter, people. Not ordinary people, anyway.

  Her thoughts were like balloons, jostling about in her skull as she listened to the presenter describe the purpose of their visit. Typical, just fucking typical. Like the planet needed another runway so more aeroplanes could be flying about! She reached up and rubbed at her temples. It made her feel ill just thinking about it. Made her want to curl up and cry. Just stop breathing and have done with everything. What was the point? What was the point in anything?