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

by Chris Simms

  A small door to the side was marked, ‘Mechanism Room’.

  He listened for a moment to the clicks, ticks and whirrs of the rotating cogs and tipping levers beyond it. The sounds had no discernible rhythm, which he thought strange.

  On a flat area of a lower roof nearby was the small wooden platform, placed there to encourage the peregrine falcons to nest. Now, the sad remains of the nest were deserted, but next spring the birds would be back, rebuilding. Of course, he wouldn’t be around by then. He would be with Sophie and Claire, all of them together once more.

  He got to the next landing. This one was smaller and draughtier, but the views through the windowless arches were far better. He liked to check the dark skyline to the north. On a clear night, it was possible to make out the twinkling red lights on the Winter Hill transmitting mast. Tonight was murkier and nothing was visible. He surveyed the city below, imagining what was going on that very second. How many people with nowhere to go, no one to be with. Tucked away in nooks and crannies. Places where the wind and rain didn’t reach.

  Time was ticking on and he decided he couldn’t sit around hoping Wayne might call. That might take ages, or never happen. He continued up, past the door marked ‘Dial Room’ that gave access to the four clock faces and their ten-foot-long hands. He’d looked in once and noticed the inscription on the wall: ‘Teach us to number our days.’ For someone with only a short time left on earth, the message struck him as particularly profound.

  Moments later, he stepped out onto the balcony itself. Up here, exposed to the elements, the stone was stained with lichen and speckled by white bird droppings. This was where the peregrines settled to disarticulate their prey and strip away the flesh; the scattered remains of pigeons were littered at his feet. Claws, wing bones, beaks. Clumps of bedraggled feathers. A severed wing lay in the furrowed dip of a gargoyle’s bunched shoulders. He removed his phone.

  Wayne had been the last person to call him, so he tapped on the number at the top of his list.

  The phone rang for about thirty seconds before the answerphone kicked in. Damn it! He wasn’t going to leave a message. Not yet. Maybe the man just hadn’t heard the phone ringing. He tried the number again.

  Four rings and success.

  ‘The fuck’s this?’

  He sounded high on something. Words slow and slurred.

  ‘It’s Gavin from the Manchester Veterans’ Helpline.’

  Nothing.

  ‘Wayne? Are you there? Can you hear me?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It’s Gavin.’

  ‘Gavin?’

  ‘From the Manchester Veterans’ Helpline.’

  ‘Gavin! What’s happening, bro?’

  Definitely off his head. Probably not sure who he’s even speaking to. ‘Wayne, how are you?’

  The other man sighed. ‘Surviving, just. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Things not so good at the moment?’

  ‘Not so good, no.’ The semblance of a laugh. ‘But that’s life, hey? Ups and downs. Got to ride them both.’

  ‘Have you taken anything, Wayne?’

  ‘Taken anything? Wooh, yeah, mate. I’m fucking ... I’m fucking fucked. That’s what I am.’

  ‘Wayne, can I come and see you?’

  ‘Say again?’

  ‘I want to come and see you.’

  ‘Yeah, you do? Have a smoke with me? Sound idea.’

  ‘Are you on your own?’

  ‘That I am. Come for a wee toot with Wayne, hey?’

  ‘Where are you Wayne?’

  ‘Me? Oh ... shit, let me see now, where am I?’

  ‘Are you inside somewhere? You sound like you’re inside.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m inside.’

  ‘Remember where it is?’

  ‘The old pub, the one that closed down. You and me, mate. Smoke.’

  ‘Where’s this pub, Wayne?’

  ‘Out back of Piccadilly.’

  Gavin pictured the area. There was one boarded-up pub he could think of. ‘The Star and Garter?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it, The Garter.’

  ‘You sure, Wayne? That’s the one you’re in now?’

  ‘Yeah, go round the back. The door at the top of the fire escape’s been forced.’

  ‘Stay put, OK? I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

  Chapter 12

  As soon as the morning briefing with the operational firearms commander was over, Jon hurried back to his desk. At eight forty-five, they were due back at The Lowry Hotel; him as the approved firearms officer in the rear sweeping vehicle, with Kieran at the wheel. They would be escorting the delegation back out to the airport, where they would be stationed for most of the day.

  Jon checked the time: seven thirty-three. That gave him a good hour to continue looking into the deaths of the two ex-soldiers before they needed to set off.

  While his computer was booting up, he surveyed the open-plan office. A smattering of detectives was already at their workstations. Iona would be in any minute, he was sure; she always got in early. Jon could never remember which days Peter Collier worked from home. If he was coming in, he never showed up much before half eight – which meant it would be a while before he’d know if the bloke had unearthed anything interesting.

  The first thing he saw once his screen settled down was a message that Peter Collier had left him the previous evening. The message was short, but significant. Two other deaths in the last three months matched much of the criteria. He’d left links to the case files for each fatality.

  A tingle started playing along Jon’s spine as he read the details of the first one. Luke McClennan’s body had been discovered beneath a viaduct close to Piccadilly Station almost eight weeks previously. He had been lying behind a fenced-off area, hidden from view by vegetation. Levels of decomposition suggested he’d been there for about a month. Jon scrolled down to the sections on the person’s identity: thirty-two years old, born in Llandudno, served in the Royal Welsh Infantry between 2005 and 2018. On leaving, it appeared he’d drifted about: social security records revealed he’d spent a few months in London, some in Reading and the rest in the Greater Manchester area.

  The second fatality was a Roy Jarratt. Twenty-six-years old, his body had been found by construction workers ten weeks ago in the rear car park of what once had been a mill in Ancoats. The building was currently undergoing renovation work and it appeared he’d climbed up some scaffolding, either slipping from that or jumping from the walkway at the top. He’d been dead no more than six hours, which meant he’d hit the ground in the early hours of the morning. Roy had served in the Duke of Lancaster’s Regiment.

  So, Luke McClennan probably died a week or so before Roy Jarratt, Jon thought as he sat back in his seat. Interesting. No witnesses had come forward for either death. Both had died from injuries consistent with having fallen from a considerable height. Both had high levels of chemicals in their bloodstreams. Jon scanned the list: alcohol, opiates, amphetamine, synthetic cannabinoid – otherwise known as Spice.

  In the coroner’s report, the family of McClennan had reported that he’d been struggling with life after leaving the army. Joblessness, mental health issues – including PTSD. The verdict had been left open, but it was obvious what everyone had concluded.

  Jon agreed that suicide would seem the most likely scenario – if you hadn’t factored in the other recent deaths, along with rumours of a darkly dressed figure being seen at the time of the third and fourth deaths. The problem, as Jon was only too aware, was the fact everything was rumour. Talk on the street. And the source of the rumours couldn’t have been worse. Wayne had been using a drug recognised for the unpredictable nature of its effects, included among them hallucinations. The other two, if they could be found, were probably the same.

  What I need, Jon thought, clicking hopefully through to HOLMES, is a credible witness. No response to the flag he’d left. Bollocks. He returned to the files and began printing off the sections he’d need to show We
ir. Surely, his senior officer would agree there was a possible pattern emerging.

  He was on his way back to his desk, printed sheets in hand, when he heard his mobile phone ringing. Increasing his pace, he made it back before his answerphone kicked in. His screen was displaying a single name: Senior. ‘Morning, pal. And to what do I owe this pleasure?’

  ‘Jon, it’s Senior.’

  Bless him: the bloke still hadn’t got the hang of caller ID. ‘What a lucky guess by me. What’s up?’

  ‘Junior’s just done a call out.’

  Junior was the name the rugby coach’s oldest son was known by. He was with Manchester Fire and Rescue Service. Jon didn’t bother sitting back down. ‘OK.’

  ‘There was a body reported. A homeless guy out back of this derelict pub by Piccadilly. Junior recognised him; it’s Wayne.’

  Jon was almost tempted to sit, after all. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Junior said he was being loaded into the back of an ambulance when they arrived. They were all saying he’d gone off the top of the fire escape stairs behind the building.’

  ‘You said ambulance. He’s alive?’

  ‘Apparently. But they weren’t sure for how long. He’d been lying there a while.’

  Jon’s mind was racing. The attending officers would no doubt be writing it off as attempted suicide, not realising the whole area needed to be treated as a potential murder scene. ‘How long ago was he found?’

  ‘An hour or so.’

  Shit, he thought, reaching for his car keys, people would have been tramping to and fro, lessening the chances of any evidence being found. ‘Which pub?’

  ‘The Star and Garter. On Cresbury Street. Near The Pits?’

  The unofficial name for the spread of five-a-side soccer pitches close to Piccadilly Station. ‘I know it. Is Junior still there?’

  ‘No. He’s on his way back to the fire station.’

  That isn’t good, thought Jon. It means people are already wrapping things up at the scene. ‘I’m on my way.’

  It took him less than twenty minutes to get to the abandoned pub. The building was in a sorry state: all the windows were covered over with chipboard, on which ugly crawls of graffiti and tattered posters for gigs around town vied for space. Two metal rods jutted out above the front door where, at one point, lamps had probably hung. He spotted that a large section of tiles was missing on one side of the roof. Rain would be getting into the building’s upper floor.

  Directly behind the property was the main railway line into the city. A train was sliding past, another heading the other way. The area had probably been a residential neighbourhood, once. But the terraced houses would have been demolished years ago. Probably as part of the slum clearances back in the 1930s. Now, the only thing near the pub was a newly built car showroom. Beside that was a kitchen appliance store.

  He’d called ahead and requested that the attending officers stay at the scene. A single car was parked in the side street. Dark-blue Volvo. Standard vehicle for detectives in the Major Incident Team, the unit where he used to work. He wondered if he’d know them as he pulled to a stop behind their vehicle.

  They all emerged from their vehicles at the same time and Jon grinned at a familiar face.

  ‘Spicer! Fuck me, still struggling on then?’

  ‘Whitey,’ Jon replied to the overweight bald man beaming in his direction. ‘Watch I don’t kick that lardy-arse of yours.’

  The detective turned to his younger colleague, a finger pointing at Jon. ‘Meet the legend himself.’

  The junior detective was extending a hand, his eyes bright with eagerness. ‘Detective Constable Platt. Andrew.’

  Reminds me of Rick Saville when he was starting out, Jon thought, shaking the other man’s hand. ‘Detective Constable Jon Spicer.’

  He frowned. ‘DC?’

  Jon nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  Platt threw a questioning glance to his partner.

  Whitey sighed. ‘You’re thinking, if he’s so good, why is he a DC? Check the end of his nose, Platt. You’ll observe it’s not covered in a brown substance.’

  Jon waved the comment aside. ‘No CSI van?’

  ‘Been and gone, mate,’ Whitey replied. ‘We were almost on our way, too. Until your request that we stay pinged up.’ He glanced up at the sky; spots of rain had started coming down and the strengthening breeze carried a chill.

  Jon looked toward the open gates into the pub’s car park. Crime scene tape had been stretched across the gap, but there was no inner or outer cordon.

  ‘How come CTU are sniffing about?’ Whitey asked. ‘This guy on your radar, is he?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Jon replied, moving towards the entrance.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Almost dying.’ That’s confused them, Jon thought. Just as I hoped. The car park was strewn with a variety of rubbish. A metal wheelie bin in the corner. Empty plastic crates that once held beer bottles. A few wooden pallets. What looked like a bedraggled pair of jeans lying beside the bin. The usual assortment of bottles and cans, probably lobbed over the wall by passers-by.

  ‘Passengers in a couple of trains saw him,’ Whitey stated. ‘See it, say it, sorted.’

  The mantra for if anything suspicious was spotted on the rail network. It was meant for bombs or terrorist activity. But, Jon thought, it obviously worked well enough for a body, too.

  ‘He’d landed half on a pallet,’ Whitey added. ‘Maybe that saved him. But probably only a temporary reprieve.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘They thought his back’s broken. Multiple fractures, punctured lung. Hypothermia, too. I should think pneumonia is on the cards.’

  Christ, thought Jon, ducking under the tape. He realised they weren’t bothering to follow him towards the metal steps of the fire escape. ‘This one?’ He pointed to the nearest pallet.

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘No one moved it?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Jon looked to the top of the steps. The pallet was more or less directly below the landing at the top. Maybe a foot or so out. ‘No witnesses come forward?’

  ‘Not as yet.’

  ‘Do you think he was up there alone?’

  Whitey’s laugh was grim. ‘Hard to say. The place is a horror-fest, mate. Part drug-den, part knocking-shop. Maybe at the same time. You’re welcome to have a peek.’

  ‘Don’t want to join me?’

  He directed a forefinger straight up. ‘I reckon it’ll be pissing down, soon. I’ll be in the car. Oh – and someone’s taken a shit in the corner. Enjoy!’

  Turning his collar up, Jon climbed the stairs. Nothing caught his eye on the rusty steps. The door at the top had also been nailed over with chipboard at one point. Someone had got a tyre iron in. Some kind of lever, anyway. The board had been ripped off, then they’d dug away at the frame, tearing chunks out before finally prising the lock. Using the toe of one shoe, he hooked the door open.

  What was probably once a bedroom lay beyond. Bare wooden floorboards, speckled with bird shit. Walls stripped of paper, empty plug sockets dangling wire. A mattress lying on the far side. More plastic crates. These ones upturned to act as stools. Debris littered the floor: cans, bottles, wrappers of food, plastic bags. A trainer.

  Jon stepped inside. The place had a damp and musty aroma. He looked into the blackened fireplace and saw syringes. Stuff was on the mattress and he had to cross the room to make it out. A pair of heavily stained boxer shorts. A few crumpled condoms beside them. How. Fucking. Grim.

  He stuck his head out to check the landing. The bedroom on the opposite side was open and daylight was pouring in through the hole in the roof. A couple of pigeons cautiously regarded him from the top of a wardrobe that had no doors. More of their crap stained the floor. Stairs led down to the first floor that was swathed in darkness.

  Back out on the fire escape. The rain was coming down harder now. He saw Whitey watching him from inside his patrol car. Jon lifted a thumb then examined the fi
re escape railings. They were waist-high. To topple over them accidentally would take a serious loss of balance. Not impossible, if you were heavily under the influence. How about a shove? Again, it would have to be a powerful one to send you over. He made a note for the pathologist to check for any bruising to Wayne’s chest or back. Leaning forwards, he examined the pallet below. A nasty drop, especially to land on your back.

  A gust of wind caused the door to begin swinging shut. Saves me the trouble, Jon decided, vaguely disappointed to not have found anything. From the corner of his eye, he registered small, rapid movements near the top of the door. Something fluttering. His head turned properly. Holy shit. A feather. Large and black, its upper edge caught in the heavily splintered wood.

  Chapter 13

  The evidence bag dangled from DCI Weir’s fingers. ‘You knew what the arrangement was, Jon. You ignored that and did your own thing. Which is the issue that keeps repeating itself, isn’t it?’

  Spicer sat perfectly still, hands folded in his lap. ‘I was anxious to get to the scene as soon as possible, sir.’

  ‘Clearly. And that decision fucks up my entire allocation of officers.’ Weir gestured impatiently at his monitor, agitation tightening his voice. ‘I had to pull an armed response officer in from somewhere else and put him on the airport job with Saunders.’

  ‘Who’d you send?’ Jon asked.

  ‘Meredith – who was down for the Lynex job. And now what do I do with you?’

  Send me to the Lynex job? Jon held back with his suggestion. ‘Well,’ he nodded at the feather safely sealed inside the evidence bag, ‘I hoped this might mean priorities would change, that we’d allocate more resources—’

  ‘This?’ Weir swivelled his wrist so the bag swayed gently to and fro. ‘You didn’t mention wings, did you? A male figure who dressed exclusively in black was what you told me. Not someone with fucking wings sprouting out of his back!’

  ‘I thought, given the source of the description, it wasn’t something to emphasise.’