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

by Chris Simms

  Bollocks, he thought, sitting down. The bloke is fuming. ‘Today?’

  ‘No, not today. Two nights ago, on Oldham Street.’

  Jon immediately knew he’d been wrong. It could only be about the drug dealer thing. How the hell had Weir found out? He frowned. ‘Oldham Street?’

  Weir’s jaw clenched. He held up a hand. ‘Don’t. I really haven’t time for stupid fucking games.’ He tossed half a dozen CCTV stills across.

  Jon glanced down. It was him. He was emerging from a dark and narrow street. In another he was at the kerb, looking off to the side. He remembered standing there, waiting for the cab to go past before crossing over Oldham Street. Now he was lifting the hood of his top up. Fucking cameras: they were everywhere.

  But how had Weir got hold of these precise images?

  ‘A couple of uniforms were checking a parking lot just off Oldham Street,’ Weir said, seemingly aware of what was going through Jon’s mind. ‘Recently, several vehicles have been broken into, in that exact area. So they’d stepped up their presence. They come across a badly injured individual making his way out of the parking lot, heading towards Ancoats. They realise this person is a known peddler of drugs. He’s obviously been the victim of a very recent assault, though not keen on discussing it. Which rouses their curiosity. So, once back at their desks, one of them takes a peek at the footage from the nearest CCTV cameras. Lo and behold, who did they find?’

  One of the uniforms must have recognised him and passed it onto his senior officer, who would have passed it onto his boss, who’d quietly passed it to Weir. Jon sat back and crossed his legs. This would be interesting. He knew that Weir knew that he’d done it. But, so far, he wasn’t treating this formally. And nothing could be proved. Not without the drug-dealer’s involvement. They were in a stalemate.

  ‘I’m not getting into a question-and-answer thing,’ Weir announced. ‘Because I know you’ll just play dumb. Or lie. It’s part of the homeless thing you’ve been looking into, is what I’m guessing. Who the fuck cares. But tell me this, how much time have you been spending on it?’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Wandering around that part of the city. Approaching the dregs of humanity who congregate there.’

  Dregs of humanity? Jon suppressed the urge to challenge his senior officer over his choice of words. ‘A few evenings.’

  ‘And what’s it involved, exactly?’

  ‘Just asking questions. Trying to find out if anything’s behind the deaths we discussed.’

  ‘So you still think there is something going on?’

  ‘I’m not certain. But the homeless community is, sir. They’ve even got a name for the person they think’s doing the killing.’

  ‘A name?’

  ‘The Dark Angel.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Weir’s eyes drifted to the side.

  Now it was Jon’s turn to guess what was going through the other man’s mind. It didn’t take much. Weir would be conjecturing on how soon word about the killer was likely to spread beyond the homeless community. Just like he’d done.

  He’d also be weighing up the probability of the problem actually being real. And what it would mean if he’d failed to take action when given the opportunity. Jon almost smiled. The joys of being a senior rank.

  Weir turned his gaze back on him. ‘Iona Khan informs me that there’s nothing to connect all the victims while they were serving in the army.’

  ‘So I gather.’

  Weir’s voice was softer now. ‘And you’ve not found anything that links them, either?’

  ‘Not so far. Other than that they all were in the army.’

  ‘What about this character?’ Weir pointed to the sheets. ‘How does he fit in?’

  Jon stared back.

  ‘Sorry.’ The sarcasm was heavy in Weir’s voice. ‘Hypothetically speaking, how might this character fit in?’

  Jon shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Listen, Spicer. We both know there’ll be no comeback from this assault. It’s in none of our interests, frankly. But we also both know it was you. I might not take official action but, trust me, stonewall me on this and your career in the CTU will go nowhere while I have any say in the matter. What happened?’

  Jon shook his head. ‘As I said, sir, I don’t—’

  ‘I’m offering you the chance to speak honestly, here, DC Spicer. Off the record and without any comeback.’

  Yeah, right, Jon thought. You’re just working out if you need to cover your arse. And once you’ve done that, you’ll have no hesitation hanging me out to dry if it’s to your advantage. ‘As I said, sir, no idea.’

  Weir’s lips curled. ‘That’s your position is it?’

  Jon nodded. ‘It is. I honestly don’t know what happened to him.’

  Contempt made Weir’s voice thick. ‘Everything I was warned about you – it’s all true, isn’t it? You think you know best. So you do what you like, and,’ he tapped the CCTV images, ‘when it goes wrong, you start to lie.’

  Jon stayed quiet. No point in replying to that.

  ‘Piss off home, DI Spicer. The sight of you in my office – in this building – is making me want to vomit. Go on, get the hell out of here.’

  Alice placed her elbows on the kitchen table, raised both hands and burrowed her fingers into her hair. She spoke from behind the backs of her hands. ‘Does that mean you’re sacked? Has he sacked you?’

  Jon ran the tip of his thumb across the handle of his mug. ‘I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘But what did he mean? “Get the hell out of here.” What does that mean? Go home and don’t ever come back?’

  From beyond the closed kitchen door came the sound of the telly. Duggy and Holly were through there, along with Amanda, Alice’s mum, who’d come round to babysit while they were at parents’ evening. Not that Amanda will be listening to whatever programme is on, Jon thought. She’ll have her ear turned to the door, relishing the fact something is wrong. More proof for the sour-faced cow that her daughter made a disastrous decision, marrying me.

  ‘I’ll head back in tomorrow morning and fine out,’ he said. ‘But there are two reasons he can’t just boot me out.’

  She said nothing.

  ‘If there is someone out there killing ex-servicemen and he shut me down, his career will never recover. And all he’s got is some stills of me in the vicinity of an incident. Proves nothing.’

  She lowered her hands. ‘Why Jon? Why did you do it?’

  ‘What?’ He met her eyes. ‘Filled in a nasty little scrote who preys on people who are in the depths of despair?’

  ‘No. Why do you get involved in these things?’

  He’d asked himself the same question plenty of times while driving home. In fact, he’d been asking himself that question for years. Even as Senior had asked him if he could help out, he knew it was a bad idea. And still he’d said yes. Was he missing a bit of his brain? Some kind of switch with a label that read ‘sensible’?

  Alice sighed. ‘Is it some pathological need to prove you’re a good person? That you’re ready to help out? That you’re ... oh, forget it. I don’t think you have a clue. It’s like a compulsion. You know what really pisses me off?’

  Jon stared down at his tea. I knew this was coming.

  ‘It’s the fact that you didn’t tell me. You promised to tell me and ... you didn’t. Those evenings you said you were working late. That’s what I hate, Jon – the fact you bloody lied. Again.’

  He pursed his lips. Of course, she had homed straight in on the crucial thing. ‘I was going to, Alice. Honestly, I was. I should have said straight away. I don’t know why I kept quiet. I wish I—’

  ‘Because you knew I would have said to not be so such a bloody idiot. To stop trying to be some ... I don’t know ... saviour? The person who rides in, wanting to put everything right, but does the opposite. What happens if you’re out? You’ve already told me you can’t do anything other than this job. Oh, Jon.’

  He loo
ked up. She was close to tears, staring at him in despair. He hated to see her like this. ‘Alice, it’s not that bad. I’ve got another boss who now thinks I’m a tool. Nothing new there. I’m used to that.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ She gave a sniff.

  Tentatively, he reached out, praying she’d take his hand. ‘I know. I’m a fucking idiot. I know.’

  She looked down at his fingers. Then, with a little shake of her head, she placed a hand over his. ‘You got that right. Fucking idiot.’

  Relief mixed in with his embarrassment and regret. ‘Maybe he’ll sleep on it and feel a bit differently tomorrow.’

  She lifted her other hand and used the tip of her little finger to wipe at the corners of her eyes. ‘Yeah. And maybe we’ll win the lottery and move to the Seychelles, you massive dickhead. Come on, we need to be at Holly’s school.’

  As they both stood, he leaned across the table and whispered, ‘What are the odds your mum is just outside the door?’

  ‘High,’ Alice muttered.

  Amanda was hovering in the doorway of the living room. ‘Oh, I was just coming to find you. You need to be going ...’

  Jon watched the woman’s eyes roving across her daughter’s face. She’d have clocked Alice had been crying. And now the need to know why would be like a swarm of ants beneath her clothes. He gave her the sweetest of smiles. ‘Thank you, Amanda. We won’t be long.’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Spicer?’ The staff member’s voice rang out across the school hall. ‘You may proceed to classroom two.’

  Jon contemplated how the hell he was going to get to his feet. He and Alice were sitting on a little bench. The things had been arranged in widely spaced rows across the wooden floor. He glanced about: several parents perched on their own little benches were watching. Some even had faint smiles on their faces.

  ‘Sorry: no dignified way for me to do this,’ he announced, sliding forward and placing one knee on the floor. He then planted a hand on the bench and, with a groan, hauled himself to his feet. ‘Ta da!’

  ‘Should have been a ballerina,’ Alice observed, the grey tray that held Holly’s schoolbooks in her hands.

  One of the other dads gave a little clap. ‘Can you give me a pull up when it’s my turn?’

  Following the red markers taped to the floor, they headed down the left-hand side of a corridor to classroom two. A bottle of hand sanitiser was mounted on the wall beside it.

  Alice passed him the tray of their daughter’s books as she floated him a look.

  ‘Really? Jon muttered. ‘Again?’

  She was already rubbing gel into her palms. ‘Again.’

  They made their way into the classroom where Jon almost groaned again. Two plastic chairs designed for people no bigger than munchkins were positioned opposite the teacher’s desk. Here we go again.

  Miss Jennings looked like she’d had a long day. Which, seeing as it was almost seven in the evening, was to be expected. She was taking a few hurried sips from a thermos mug as they approached.

  ‘Is this the contortionists’ class?’ Jon asked, gesturing at the chairs with a smile.

  She looked bewildered for a moment, then both embarrassed and amused. ‘Not the biggest in the world, are they?’

  Jon imagined he was readying himself for a set of squats. As his behind made contact with the seat, he hoped the thing wouldn’t buckle. Once settled in, he looked about. My knees, he thought, are almost level with my ears.

  ‘Well,’ Miss Jennings said. ‘Have you had a chance to look through some of Holly’s books?’

  Alice immediately responded. ‘She seems to be getting lots of ticks for her written work.’

  The teacher nodded. ‘I think that’s what she enjoys most. And she has such a lot to say about whatever we’re looking at. All the work on ancient Rome particularly fascinated her. She has great spelling and a very good vocabulary. She reads a lot at home, I take it?’

  ‘Always,’ Alice replied.

  ‘That’s good to hear.’ The teacher ran her finger across the print out before her. ‘Maths, she hasn’t scored quite so highly in – though well within her targets.’

  Alice produced the relevant workbooks from their daughter’s tray. ‘I noticed she’s struggling with fractions.’

  ‘We’ll be revisiting that topic; most of them find it hard at first.’ She cupped her hands together. ‘She’s a pleasure to have in the class. Always kind and considerate. Anything you wanted to ask me?’

  Alice shifted. ‘We spoke recently about her moods at home. How she’s a bit more distant with both of us. Staying in her room as much as she can. You don’t notice anything ... negative in class?’

  Miss Jennings looked down at her printout once more, as if a response might be there among the numbers. ‘No. I mean, she’s getting to that age when they start showing some independence. It’s not unusual for you – as parents – to sense that distance and be concerned.’

  Jon smiled to himself. Parental advice off someone in her early twenties, at most. Someone whose own kids were probably a hazy plan, somewhere far off in the future.

  ‘But with her peers, she’s fine,’ Miss Jennings added. ‘She’s popular. I don’t see her isolating herself or getting into disagreements.’

  Jon nodded. That was nice to hear. He placed his hands on his knees, readying himself to stand. Beside him, Alice turned the page of Holly’s exercise book. ‘This method you’re using for long division: it’s so different from the way I learned.’

  As the teacher started to reply, Jon reached over and took the uppermost book from Holly’s tray. The page he opened it on revealed a very striking picture. It was of a volcano erupting. Streaks of fire filled the blackened sky. His eye was drawn to the impressive detail in the foreground. People fleeing the scene, mouths howling in anguish. Possessions littering the roadside. He felt himself frown. Was that an infant, lying abandoned? He looked up. ‘You’ve covered Pompeii, then?’

  Miss Jennings broke off from replying to Alice and glanced at the image. ‘We have. They do seem to enjoy the more dramatic elements of what happened.’

  As the discussion about long division resumed, Jon examined the picture more carefully. Some of the people, he thought, are wearing modern-day clothes. That one has a phone in her hand. I’m pretty sure that’s the back of a car poking out of the ditch. And there, in the field beyond: surely that’s an electricity pylon?

  He realised the room was silent; Miss Jennings was now smiling at him. Their five minutes were finished and she still had loads more parents to see. He closed the book and passed it back to Alice. Now wasn’t the time to mention the picture depicted a modern-day apocalypse, not an ancient one.

  Chapter 22

  Gavin slowly made his way along the deserted corridor. Renovation work in this area was still at the preparation stage. He pushed through the double doors of the Great Hall. The chandeliers had been lowered from the vaulted ceiling and their ornate metal frames were now lined up in the centre of the vast floor. Orange and white barriers had been arranged round each one. He paused to look at the fretwork that curled and twisted above each empty light fitting, all of it converging on a wide circular band. They looked like the abandoned crowns once worn by a race of giants. Some lost time of history celebrated in this cavernous and dusty room.

  The murals along each side wall had been made ghostlike by films of semi-opaque paper. Beneath the protective layers, phantom figures sat astride watery horses that were trailed by the shadows of dogs and children. Dots for eyes, suggestions of open mouths.

  The meeting with James Pearson had left him in a daze. The feeling carried a faint reminder of when he’d first been told about Claire and Sophie. That sense of the world lurching uncontrollably beneath your feet. Knowing things had been torn beyond repair.

  He trudged across to the far corner and began to peel back a section of the padded sheeting that was protecting the end wall. Behind it was a small door. It was built into the wall’s wooden panelling and, as a
result, was almost invisible. But he knew it was there. And he knew where the catch was to get it open.

  The steep stairs beyond were unlit. He removed a torch from his pocket and turned it on as the door closed behind him. He directed the beam upward. The steps took him to the cavity above the Great Hall’s ceiling. He loved places like this. Secret areas. Vast wooden beams stretched across the floor area. In the gaps between them were unvarnished planks covered in a layer of fine dust. Above him were the arched support struts of the roof itself, then the slate tiles of the roof. It was colder up here, like in most attics. The sounds of the city leaked in. Muffled two-tone beep of a van reversing. The faint screech of a tram’s wheels scouring the rails.

  He followed a well-trodden line of his earlier footprints to a point on the far side. Here, the regular symmetry of the timbers was marred by a foreign object hanging from one of them. Rather than smooth linear curves, it was bobbly and misshapen. Almost alien in design. A closer look had revealed a surface that was as flaky as papier mâché. When he’d first realised he was looking at an abandoned wasps’ nest, he’d gawped in wonder. The thing was enormous. So strange to think it had been painstakingly constructed by a hoard of flying insects. The swirling patterns that ran across its dry surface a result the result of countless tiny regurgitations of wood pulp, each little drip deposited there by a wasp before being smoothed carefully into place by the insect’s mandibles.

  A section near the mid-part of it had been damaged; something had gouged out a large chunk. This was the part of the structure that fascinated him the most. It was a glimpse into the colony’s inner workings, like an illustrated cross-section from a book. He shone the torch in. A honeycomb of hexagonal cells. Rows and rows and rows of them separated by winding corridors. A use of space as efficient as any warehouse or factory. He gazed in, imagining the adult wasps that would have crawled along the interconnecting corridors, attending to the hundreds of larvae that were gradually taking shape in the cells.