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

by Chris Simms

  When he’d first found the nest, the missing section had been lying on the floor directly beneath it. He wondered if it had been ripped away by the person who’d wielded the canister of gas that must have been used to kill off the insects. There was no doubt they’d been slaughtered; he’d spotted the corpses of adult wasps among the debris on the floor. And, looking closer, he’d also found dead larvae. Nothing more than dried out little white pellets.

  He reached a hand into the ragged crater and, using the nail of his forefinger, prised open the papery cap of an undamaged cell. Snuggled inside lay the tiny corpse of a baby wasp, its wings, legs and eyes yet to form. So delicate. So vulnerable. The sight always made him think of his wife and daughter. How they’d both suffocated in their sleep. The pair of them side by side in the fold-down bed of the mobile home. He imagined their sleeping faces. His wife’s arm, draped over Sophie’s little form. Hugging her close.

  He used the tip of his finger and thumb to lift the little body clear of its resting place. He held it before his face, moving his hand fractionally to the side so it was lit by a thin spike of light lancing down from the roof above. My Sophie. You were so perfect, so full of potential. He swivelled his wrist to make the corpse rotate. You never got to grow your wings, to spread them and fly. He replaced the brittle husk before wiping the tears from his eyes.

  He tried to imagine how many cells were contained in the bulbous structure. It was the size of a small beanbag. The endless rows, forming layer after layer. Thousands. Tens of thousands. More than the number of rooms in any tower block. An immense catacomb. A city of dead insects.

  Somewhere nearby, a lorry’s horn blared. His attention went to the sound, as it bounced around the canyon-like street below. The echo allowed him to picture the sheer variety of buildings that rose up from the ground to form the city centre. The office blocks, shopping centres, theatres, banks, hotels, pubs and restaurants. The library, art galleries and cathedral. The car parks, warehouses and mills. And, suddenly, he knew there was still hope. Still a way to help people.

  How could he not have thought of this? They didn’t need to phone him; he would find them. He knew the type of place they sought out when needing to end it all. The quiet bridges and silent rooftops. The darkest corners of the city. The places that others avoided. He would come to them in their hour of need, just like he’d been doing. Yes. He would be there for them. He would be there. When they needed him, he would be there. Yes.

  Chapter 23

  The main room felt subdued. No one’s looking at you, Jon said to himself, as he approached his desk. That’s promising, surely? But the feeling of being a trespasser wouldn’t leave him.

  A detective coughed lightly as Jon passed. Another took a sip of tea, eyes idly drifting in Jon’s direction. Neither seemed shocked to see him there.

  See, Jon thought. Weir was just mouthing off last night. He wasn’t serious about kicking me out. Jon began to relax a bit, nodded a good morning to another colleague and stepped into the aisle that led to his desk.

  To his right, the office manager was hanging up his phone. He spotted Jon and clicked his fingers. ‘You’re wanted upstairs. Weir’s office.’

  Jon changed course so he didn’t need to lift his voice. ‘What’s he want?’

  ‘Not sure. I gather he’s in there with a couple of others.’

  Shit, Jon thought. ‘Now?’

  The office manager nodded.

  ‘Who are they?’

  ‘Best you head up, mate. Said I’d send you up soon as you appeared.’

  ‘Tell him I’m on my way.’ Jon continued to his desk, wondering if it was worth even taking off his jacket. He might be back in two minutes, collecting it on his way out. Iona was there, anxiety clouding her face.

  ‘You heard that?’ he muttered.

  ‘Yes.’

  He found himself checking the display of his desk phone for any messages. He wanted to turn his computer on, take a seat, do what he’d normally do. Instead, he draped his jacket over the back of the chair. ‘I’d better go.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Iona whispered.

  When he reached the top-floor corridor, the first thing he saw was Weir standing outside his office.

  ‘DC Spicer,’ he glanced at his watch. ‘You’re late.’

  Jon wanted to say he wasn’t sure if he was even meant to show up for work.

  ‘Come on, DCI Pinner’s expecting us.’

  Pinner, thought Jon. The other manager of their section of the CTU. It was serious. You didn’t get to sit with the two of them if it wasn’t. Weir had already walked ahead of him. He was knocking on the door three further along and pushing it open. ‘He’s here.’

  Jon heard Pinner’s voice from inside. ‘OK. This is the person we mentioned.’

  We? Jon frowned. Who else is in there? Someone from human resources? An arsehole who knew what protocols to follow when someone needed to be jettisoned.

  Weir stepped back from the doorway and held his hand out. ‘After you.’

  Waving me to my execution, Jon thought, stepping past him without a word.

  Pinner was over on a soft chair beside his desk. The man sitting next to him was turning round. Farnham, Jon thought. That’s Ed Farnham. The bloody mayor of Manchester. Why the hell did he need to be here?

  ‘Take a seat, Jon,’ Pinner announced softly, in a businesslike way.

  First name? Now feeling totally confused, Jon chose the seat furthest from the two men. The door clicked shut and Weir settled into the last empty chair. There was silence for a moment.

  ‘This,’ DCI Pinner stated, ‘is Ed Farnham, our mayor.’

  Jon inclined his head. ‘Sir.’

  Farnham lifted a hand and let it drop. ‘No need for that; Ed’s fine.’

  ‘There’s an ongoing situation,’ Pinner said, ‘and when I described it to DCI Weir, he mentioned that you’re in a position to help.’

  Jon turned to Weir. But the man’s face showed nothing.

  Pinner gave a cough. ‘We gather the assignment you’ve been on over the past few days involves working among the homeless community?’

  Now, he thought, it’s an assignment? Tearing his eyes from Weir, he decided the safest thing was to just nod.

  Pinner turned to the mayor. ‘Ed, perhaps it would be easiest if you ...?’

  Farnham crossed his legs. ‘Are you married, Jon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘What are their ages?’

  ‘Ten and six,’ Jon replied, wondering if the man’s next question would be to ask their bloody names.

  Farnham gave a wistful smile. ‘Nice ages. After that, not so nice. Make the most of it.’

  Jon returned the smile, even though he was finding the man patronising.

  ‘I have just the one daughter,’ Farnham continued. ‘She turned eighteen in March. We don’t really get on, unfortunately.’ He studied the end of his shoe. ‘Her name is Olivia, though most people know her as Liv. She dropped out of school last year, left home shortly after her eighteenth birthday and moved in with her boyfriend – in what I think was a squat.’ He quickly lifted his gaze, checking Jon’s expression.

  Jon looked straight back, eyes steady.

  Farnham’s attention moved back to his shoe. He reached down to adjust a lace that had become twisted. His voice grew harder. ‘Yesterday, I was approached by the boyfriend. It transpires my daughter now has a newborn baby. Add to that post-natal depression. Now she has disappeared from the place they shared. She’s somewhere in Manchester, it seems, sleeping on the streets.’

  Jon had to make an effort not to sound appalled. ‘With a little baby?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘How young are we talking?’

  ‘I’m led to believe, about three weeks.’

  Led to believe, Jon thought. Surprised you didn’t say, ‘allegedly’. That’s the word arseholes
normally chose. He flicked his eyes quickly to Pinner for confirmation; the man’s head was bowed. Weir was keeping his mouth shut, too.

  ‘Well,’ Jon stated cautiously, ‘she shouldn’t be hard to locate if that’s the case. There is a definite community among the rough sleepers. I’m surprised none of them have approached the emergency services already.’

  Pinner drew air into his nostrils, readying himself to speak. ‘I gather that you’ve fostered a useful contact. An ex-serviceman who knows what’s happening.’

  That had to have come from Weir, Jon thought. Had to. What’s the shifty little bastard been saying? All three men’s eyes were on him. Fuck me, this is like tiptoeing across a field of landmines. ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Would this person be likely to mention to you if he had knowledge of ... Olivia’s whereabouts?’ Pinner asked.

  ‘I reckon he would.’

  Pinner sent a pleased glance in Weir’s direction. The look said, you were right. Well done.

  Weir sat forward. ‘What I want you to do, DC Spicer, is continue with your assignment, but with a shift in focus. Olivia and the baby need to be located, quickly and without any fuss. That is the priority now. I want you on it full time, with Iona providing all the support you need back here. We’ll set you up with comms, so she’s in your ear whenever you need her.’

  Jon sat back. So, there we have it. Weir had been given an opportunity to shine and now the deaths of the veterans were being shunted aside. What a greasy bastard. Clever, too, though. There’s a newborn baby out there, somewhere. And her mum in no state to take care of her. Resolve this and be in the mayor’s good books.

  ‘What were you working on, if I may ask?’ Farnham enquired.

  ‘A cluster of suicides—’

  Weir cut in. ‘It wasn’t going anywhere.’

  Jon was glad one of his hands was cupped over the other: none of them could see how deeply his fingernails were dug into his palms.

  Farnham regarded Jon. ‘You think you can find my daughter?’

  ‘Can you give me a photo of her?’

  He reached into the jacket of his suit and passed Jon a glossy photo. He glanced down. Christ, she would have fitted in at the airport protests the other day. He screened out the half-formed dreadlocks and nose piercings. Studied her actual face. Tried to get a sense of the person beneath. She had fragile features and a slightly haunted look. He wondered if she’d had episodes of depression in the past. ‘How tall is she?’

  ‘Five feet four.’

  Jon guessed, with Farnham’s position in life, there was a good chance his daughter had been privately educated. Although the mayor proudly flew a set of socialist credentials, it wasn’t totally certain the values extended to his offspring’s education. ‘Where did she go to school?’

  ‘Altrincham Grammar.’

  Private, then. ‘Does she have an accent?’ Farnham’s eyes narrowed. ‘If she sounds posh, she’ll stand out even more,’ he explained.

  ‘She doesn’t sound like she’s from some Salford comprehensive, if that’s what you mean.’

  The type of place I went to school, Jon thought. He let the arrogance within Farnham’s statement pass. ‘I should think finding her won’t be hard. But how come we’re doing it this way? Surely uniforms, community support officers, social services: all those channels would be more efficient?’

  Pinner lifted a finger. ‘Discreet enquiries have been made and, in fact, are ongoing.’

  ‘And the only thing from all that,’ Farnham said in a sour voice, ‘is a single possible sighting of her on Tuesday in an outreach facility for homeless women on Oldham Street.’

  Pinner sent the mayor a placatory look before turning back to Jon. ‘The staff in the Daisy Centre reported someone matching Olivia’s description had dropped in – and it appeared she had a newborn baby concealed beneath her coat. But she left before they could offer her assistance. Jon: what we need is someone out there, with their ear to the ground. That’s what we in the CTU can deliver, without creating any ripples. This all needs to be handled sensitively, is that clear?’

  ‘Certainly is.’

  ‘Good.’ Pinner sat back.

  Seeing Weir stand, Jon realised his time was up. He glanced at the mayor. But Farnham had already turned away and was speaking to Pinner in a low voice. Weir got the door open and gestured urgently to Jon.

  Once they were a safe distance along the corridor, the DCI looked back. ‘You’re clear on this, then?’

  Jon shook his head. ‘Not really. Your office or mine?’

  Weir looked taken aback. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Your office or mine? Not that I have an office, which leaves discussing it out here.’

  The DCI pushed his door open and stepped through. ‘Yes?’

  Jon moved past him and waited until the door was closed. ‘What’s the link with Pinner and Farnham?’

  ‘The link?’

  ‘Come on. The CTU on a missing person? Why’s Pinner agreed to it? Mates, are they?’

  ‘I believe they went to the same university.’

  ‘Same Masonic lodge, too?’

  Weir crossed his arms. ‘DC Spicer, are you forgetting our talk yesterday? I’m giving you a chance, here. Don’t fuck things up at the first hurdle.’

  ‘From here, it looks like my chance is your chance.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Last night, the sight of me was making you want to puke. Now, this time I’ve been spending on the streets has suddenly become an assignment of yours. Something you can simply repurpose to solve Farnham’s embarrassing little problem.’

  Weir reddened. ‘As I said, it’s a chance for you, Spicer. Get it sorted and you’re back in the game. As far as I’m concerned, the incident from that parking lot never happened.’

  ‘And if things fuck up? God forbid, but if Farnham’s daughter is found floating in the canal, the baby at the bottom, is all still forgiven then?’

  Weir was moving towards his desk. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘In the meantime, what if more ex-servicemen show up dead?’

  ‘I seriously doubt that will happen, DC Spicer,’ he replied, sitting down and reaching for some paperwork. ‘But, while finding Farnham’s daughter and her baby, keep your ears open.’

  ‘And Iona has official time to pursue things this end?’

  He looked up. ‘You really like to push things, don’t you?’

  ‘Listen, I’ll find that baby and her mum. But I need to know that Iona can continue with what we were doing.’

  ‘As long as it doesn’t impinge on the prime concern here, yes.’

  I’ll settle for that, Jon thought.

  ‘And Spicer?’

  Jon paused in the doorway to look over his shoulder.

  ‘Remember DCI Pinner’s words: no ripples.’

  Chapter 24

  ‘Greg, how’s it going?’

  The ex-soldier looked up from his doorway. He took in Jon’s appearance: dirty jeans, battered trainers, old coat and woollen hat. Frowning, he asked, ‘What the hell has happened to you? Wife kicked you out?’

  Jon hitched the shoulder strap of his battered little rucksack a bit higher. ‘Can we go somewhere and talk?’

  Greg looked across Piccadilly Gardens to the Burger King on the far side. ‘There’s always my office.’

  Jon nodded. ‘Sounds good to me.’

  Greg removed the blanket that was covering his legs, emptied the change from the cup before him into his hand and pocketed it. He then climbed stiffly to his feet, placed the empty cup onto the ruffled blanket, rolled it all up and stuffed it into a massive a shopping bag that, Jon spotted, already contained a few items of food.

  Once they were back on the first floor, sitting on the same pair of stools overlooking the Gardens, Jon scratched at the stubble on his chin. ‘There’s been a new development.’ He pictured Farnham’s daughter, somewhere in the city with a tiny baby. ‘It’s not a good one, but – even so – it works to our advantage.�
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  Greg was busily tipping sachets of sugar into his tea. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’ve been given the go-ahead to be out here full-time.’

  ‘Out here?’

  He tipped his head toward the window and city beyond.

  ‘Yeah? And what does “full-time” mean?’

  ‘Knocking about during the day, finding somewhere to sleep at night. The whole thing.’

  ‘Which is why you’ve got the rucksack,’ Greg murmured. ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘Sleeping bag, blanket, a couple of T-shirts, some thick socks, gloves. Not much else.’

  Greg looked faintly amused. ‘You’re going to try roughing it, are you?’

  ‘Well, I thought I’d stand a chance if I could find someone who knows the ropes.’ He slid a look at Greg. ‘A seasoned pro, so to speak.’

  ‘You did?’ He smiled.

  ‘This development – it means my boss has given permission for all this. Actually, he ordered it.’

  ‘So what’s changed?’

  ‘This can’t go any further than us, OK?’

  Greg tipped his head to the side. ‘Think I don’t know how to keep my mouth shut?’

  Without revealing exactly who Olivia was, Jon told him what was going on. Once he’d finished, Greg shook his head with disgust. ‘So, the deaths of five – six, if Wayne doesn’t pull through – homeless ex-servicemen count for nothing. Then a rich and powerful man’s daughter ends up on the street and everything changes.’

  Jon took a sip of coffee. ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head.’

  Greg’s smile was grim as he peered out the window. ‘And she has a baby with her?’

  ‘Looks that way, yes.’

  ‘Jesus. You can’t be hiding a baby. The things cry all the time, don’t they?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Someone must know something. Unless she’s keeping it hidden away somewhere.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Here’s what I reckon: the baby needs to be found. No question of that. And whatever the hell’s happening with these deaths, it needs to be sorted, too. We can do both, don’t you think? What do you reckon? Shall we give it a go?’

  Greg’s lower lip bulged as he ran his tongue across his teeth. ‘And you’ve got a colleague following up on stuff back at your office?’