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

by Chris Simms

  ‘Yeah – she’s sharp as a tack, too. It’s a proper investigation now, Greg. But I really need your help.’

  He turned his head. ‘And we’re saying you’re Wayne’s brother.’

  ‘May as well, seeing as you’ve told a few that already. I thought we could say that I’ve run now out of money. I’ve got nothing better to do, so I’m sticking around until I find who killed him. Would that work?’

  ‘I’ve heard from folk with crazier schemes than that.’

  ‘So are you up for it?’

  ‘Aye, I’m up for it.’

  Jon reached over and squeezed the man’s upper arm. Beneath the bulky coat, he was painfully thin. ‘Nice one, Greg. Thanks.’

  ‘No problem. No problem at all.’

  ‘What do you reckon, then? Where should we go first?’

  He jabbed a thumb at the glass. ‘Down there. There’s no place like the Gardens for a flavour of what’s going. Just sit and let the city come to us, Jon. That’s all we have to do.’

  On leaving Burger King, Greg cut left towards a row of shops that included Boots, McDonalds and a Halifax. He nodded at an empty doorway beside the bank’s glass doors. ‘This’ll do.’

  Three steps led up to a large wooden door that was padlocked shut. Graffiti tags lacerated the dark surface. In the corner was a piece of flattened cardboard. Greg tore it in half and handed a piece to Jon. ‘Park your arse on that.’

  ‘That’s the secret, then?’ Jon asked. ‘How you sit on cold steps and pavements for as long as you do?’

  Greg flashed him a grin. One of his molars was missing. ‘That’s one of them. You can do a lot with cardboard to keep warm. But if you’re going to be grafting for a while, you get yourself a shopping basket. Tip it upside down, lay some card across it, or a free newspaper. They work fine. That’s your seat.’

  ‘Clever.’

  ‘I know all the tricks, me. If you’re sitting there in your sleeping bag, which you want to be doing come the winter, you don’t want your dirty shoes on, do you? So you put them under the shopping basket where they’ll be safe. But now you’re in your socks. Toes’ll get cold. Fold up more cardboard and put it at the end of the sleeping bag. Inside it. Your feet go on that. Nice and warm. Great stuff, cardboard.’

  ‘I’ve seen it used it for signs, too. Propped up before the person.’

  Greg shook his head. ‘Begging signs are shit. Hungry and homeless, please help. You’ll end up with far less. Got to clear your throat, speak up for yourself. Get vocal. But always be nice. You be nice and people will be nice. Watch.’ He turned his attention to a woman who was walking past. ‘Hello! Any spare change, love?’

  Her step slowed and she smiled apologetically. ‘Afraid not. Sorry.’

  ‘You take care, thanks!’

  ‘And you.’ She continued on her way.

  ‘See?’ Greg asked. ‘Just a sign and people might be like, oh, poor bloke. But they’ll sail straight past, thinking they’ll leave it to the next person to reach in their pocket.’

  ‘How many times do people actually give you anything?’

  ‘Depends on the time of day. And where you are.’

  ‘But, on average, one in ten, one in twenty?’

  ‘Somewhere posh, you’ll only get one or two giving you anything. But it’ll be a good amount. Notes, even. Somewhere ropier, you get much more people happy to give, but it’ll be small coins. In the end, it probably adds up to about the same. Unless it’s pub closing time. Friday nights.’ He let out a whistle. ‘Best time of the week by miles.’

  A scrawny man of about thirty appeared. ‘Greg, can I poach a ciggy, pal?’

  ‘Sit yourself down, Sammy. I was just going to have one myself.’

  The man perched on the edge of the bottom step. Once he’d rolled a cigarette, he gave Jon a questioning look. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘You remember Wayne? It’s his older brother.’

  The man’s eyes widened. ‘I heard you were round and about. Searching for the Dark Angel, yeah?’

  Jon met the other man’s eyes. ‘That’s right.’

  He looked Jon over. ‘Fucking size of him, Greg! It’ll be the Dead Angel, soon.’ His dry chuckle came to a stop as Greg lit his cigarette, then his own.

  ‘Have you spotted this lass about?’ Greg asked. ‘She has a wee one with her?’

  Sammy cocked his head. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A couple of boys down at the Booth Centre said they’d seen this young lass begging with a little baby. A newborn.’

  ‘Romanian or something like that, is she?’

  ‘No, local they said.’

  ‘Always spot the Romanians,’ he said. ‘Dresses like patchwork fucking quilts.’

  ‘None of that, they said. Local. You’ve seen her?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘She’ll be in the centre top of Oldham Street. That one’s for girls and that.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Greg replied. ‘Probably right.’ He lifted his chin. ‘Can you spare some change, please?’

  The passing woman sailed on past without showing she’d heard.

  Sammy flicked the end of his roll-up across the pavement and stood. ‘Got to go. See you about.’

  ‘Cheers, Sammy.’

  ‘Cheers.’ He glanced towards Jon. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Once they were alone, he leaned his head towards Greg. ‘What’s that place he mentioned called?’

  ‘The name’s something to do with a flower,’ Greg replied. ‘Spare some change?’

  The man patted his trouser pocket to demonstrate it was empty. ‘Sorry, mate. Only got contactless.’

  ‘Have a good day, sir. Thanks. It only opened recently. Dandelion, maybe.’

  ‘Daisy?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Colleagues of mine have already made contact.’ Jon adjusted his position, trying to get comfortable in the doorway. Watching the steady flow of people moving past in both directions meant tilting his head back. After a few minutes, his neck began to ache, so he let his chin sag forward. Now all he could see was legs. He observed the variety of footwear. The mind-boggling array of trainers. Laces, no laces, side laces. Fat soles. Thin soles. Heels that flared out. Tongues that lolled over. Every pair seemed like it had hardly been worn. The money people spend, he thought. Every now and again, a coin or two was dropped into Greg’s cup.

  After a bit, Greg sighed. ‘A warm day like this; it isn’t so bad.’

  Jon shuffled back so he could lean against the chipboard that had been nailed over the door’s lower half. ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘Being here, watching the world go by.’

  Jon glanced at the throng out on the pavement. ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘Sometimes, I just listen to their footsteps. Hurrying this way, hurrying that. Us? The last thing we’re short of is time.’

  Greg had a point, he had to admit. People looked so hassled. So put upon.

  ‘You got a mortgage?’ Greg asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I haven’t. No gas bills, electricity bills, water rates, council tax, either. Nothing.’

  Jon regarded the other man. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. You feel you’ve got less to worry about?’

  ‘I’ve definitely got less to worry about.’ Greg grinned, gesturing to his carrier bag. ‘Fuck all, in fact. Things can’t get much worse, can they? I mean, they could. I could get my head stamped on by a bunch of pissed-up blokes. Get frostbite or pneumonia this winter. But no point worrying about that, is there?’

  ‘That’s what they say. Don’t worry about things beyond your control. So, if you were offered a little flat somewhere, you wouldn’t take it?’

  ‘Course I fucking would, you daft twat.’

  Smiling at the comment, Jon tipped his head back. Greg’s point about a lack of bills had got him thinking about home. When he’d explained to Alice what was happening, her reaction had been mixed. Firstly, relief that he still had
a job. Then trepidation about what keeping it involved.

  ‘Out there, on your own, sleeping rough?’ she’d asked. ‘For how long?’

  ‘It’s not going to be more than a few nights. You can’t be wandering the city with a newborn baby and not get noticed.’

  Alice had looked sad. ‘She must be in a terrible state – and the poor baby ...’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But they expect you to do this with no support?’

  ‘I’ll be linked to Iona back at the base.’

  ‘What about at midnight, when someone decides to mug you?’

  ‘Mug me?’ He’d laughed. ‘What would they hope to get? My spare socks?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Being homeless: you’re so vulnerable.’

  ‘I’ll be OK. I’ve been trained, don’t forget.’

  ‘What about when you’re fast asleep? Have they thought about that?’

  ‘I have. I’ll two-up – that’s how they do it.’

  ‘Two-up?’

  ‘You find another person to share your sleeping spot with. Safety in numbers. This bloke who was in the army used to do it with Wayne. I’ll ask him.’

  ‘Any more news on Wayne?’

  Jon shook his head. ‘Nope.’

  ‘It’s not looking good for him, is it?’

  ‘Nope.’

  She’d reached up to embrace him. ‘Just make sure you come back in one piece, Jon Spicer.’

  He wrapped his arms round her and pulled her in close.

  ‘And you can tell the kids Daddy’s off on a work trip,’ she murmured. ‘Say it’s a nice hotel in the Lake District or something. Not a bloody pavement in Manchester.’

  They’d only stood like that for several seconds before Wiper spotted them. He rushed over, reared up on his hind legs and started desperately thrusting at the back of Jon’s knee.

  Alice looked down. ‘Ah look, he’s giving you one of his special hugs.’

  ‘Bloody dog. Off!’

  By the time a couple more hours had crept by, Greg had been handed two packs of sandwiches, a pasty, a pint of milk and a carton of apple juice. His cup had a few more coins in it as well. ‘Time for a bit of lunch?’

  Jon rotated his shoulders. His lower back felt numb, his arse frozen off. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘It’s serving time at the Booth Centre.’

  Booth Centre. Jon almost shuddered. The two words were like cold breath across the back of his neck.

  Greg must have spotted the impact of his words. ‘Something wrong?’

  Jon toyed with the idea of saying no. But he didn’t want to start bullshitting his companion, however painful the memories. ‘I had a younger brother. He was called Dave. He was murdered a few years ago.’

  Greg paused in the act of standing, one hand seemingly glued to the step. ‘Really? Here, in Manchester?’

  ‘Out in Haverdale, in the Peak District. But he’d been drifting around the city for a while before that. Living in squats, that kind of thing.’

  Greg sank onto his haunches. ‘That’s a shocker. What’s the Booth Centre got to do with it?’

  ‘He hung about there, sometimes. For meals. Feels really bloody odd to be doing the same.’

  ‘This was when it was based by the cathedral?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Oh, you’re alright then. New place now. Bigger. You don’t have to go back there.’

  Before they set off, Greg took his blanket back out of the shopping bag. He placed both on the lower step, with the empty cup visible in the blanket’s folds. ‘Don’t want to lose my spot, now.’

  The organisation’s new premises were tucked away on Pimblett Street, behind Victoria station. The area looked like a small industrial estate; high fencing with sharpened spikes enclosed the nearest units. Beyond it, Jon spotted the upper part of Strangeways prison’s watchtower jutting into the sky.

  An effort had been made to brighten the exterior of the Booth Centre. The gutters and window grilles had been painted purple and hanging baskets had been attached high up the walls. Above the door was a sign: Edward Holt House.

  Greg led the way through the door. On the wall just inside were a variety of notices: Activities Week, Respect Policy, The Manchester Sleepout and other information sheets.

  Jon found himself thinking of school. He looked about, wondering why. The smell, he realised. School canteen. The aroma of frying mince. Tinge of grease.

  The main room was filled with low voices and long tables, each one the required distance from its neighbours. A piano in the corner. Artwork on the walls. At the far end of the room was a large hatch, beyond which was a kitchen area. Two women and a man were dishing out food. Greg nodded towards the list of dishes on the blackboard. ‘Lancashire hotpot. Get in!’

  They made their way across. Jon saw several people glance in their direction. Quick looks. The type you might do in an unfamiliar pub. Jon waited until they were in the queue before scanning the room for any females. Out of the forty or so people dotted about, he counted three. Olivia wasn’t among them. Once they’d been served, Greg surveyed the room looking for a space. ‘Jesus, look who’s over there,’ he announced. ‘The one in the corner with the green and white bobble hat. See him?’

  Jon’s gaze settled on a large man with a huge beard. He was busily shovelling food into a mouth that was missing most of its upper teeth. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Big Ian. He was up in that building on Bendix Street the night Ryan Gardner died.’

  Chapter 25

  Even though Big Ian looked like he could rip a lamp post out of the pavement with his bare hands, Jon quickly spotted the anxiety in his eyes – especially when Greg moved the talk about the recent deaths.

  The man began to nervously smooth his beard, beady eyes repeatedly bouncing off Jon. ‘Terrible thing. Terrible. Sorry to hear about your brother, there.’

  Jon shrugged. ‘Thanks. Greg said you were with Ryan Gardner the night he died.’

  ‘I was, yes.’ He ran his fingertips through his beard once more. ‘That was also terrible.’

  ‘The person you saw that night, what did he look like?’

  ‘Well, it was only a glimpse, you realise?’

  ‘A glimpse will do if it helps me find him.’

  ‘Normal height, nothing unusual – except for those wings on his back.’ His eyes dropped to the empty plate before him, as if he couldn’t quite believe his own words.

  ‘And his clothing ...?’

  ‘Black. All black. Same as what Wayne said. Can’t believe he got to him, too. He’s in intensive care, I heard. Is that right?’

  Greg nodded. ‘Not getting out any time soon.’

  Jon sat forward slightly. ‘Nothing about his face you can tell me?’

  Big Ian lifted his chin. ‘He’s a white fellow, that’s all I can say.’

  Jon dragged his fingers along the line of his jaw. ‘I’m probably being thick here, but how did he get Ryan to the top of the stairs?’

  ‘Don’t know. But they were talking, the two of them. Only quietly, but I heard their voices as they went past the doorway of the room me and Dan were in.’

  ‘This was when they were heading towards the stairwell?’

  ‘That’s right. It was weird because neither of us had heard him come up the stairs.’

  ‘Did you hear what they were talking about?’

  ‘The bloke in black, all I heard was him say to Ryan, “Yes, I can help you.” He said it as they went past.’

  ‘“Yes, I can help you.” Is that all?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Jon glanced at Greg, who just hunched his shoulders.

  Jon considered the comment. It was an answer to something. A confirmation. Yes, I can help you. What was the person offering that Ryan wanted? ‘How did he seem that night?’

  ‘Ryan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well ... same as usual.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Getting by. Sleeping rough: som
e days are better than others.’ He looked at Greg who nodded in agreement.

  ‘Had he ever mentioned wanting to die?’

  Big Ian’s face flinched. ‘Suicide?’

  ‘Anything like that.’

  The man’s eyes started to glitter. ‘He didn’t kill himself. That bloke made him jump or pushed him or something.’ He brought his palm down on the table with a bang. ‘You think your brother was trying to kill himself? Why are you asking all these questions if you think he wanted to kill himself? If they all killed themselves? It’s this person, the Dark Angel – he’s the one doing this!’

  Greg lifted both hands. ‘It’s all right, mate.’

  The anger seemed to vanish as quickly as it had appeared. The man slumped lower and his hand slid off the table to land in his lap. ‘Sorry.’

  Jon could see a lot of heads had turned to watch. He hunched forward, keeping his voice quiet. ‘No, I’m sorry, mate. I just can’t get this straight in my head. That’s all.’

  Big Ian took in a big breath and stroked at his beard for several seconds. Slowly, he breathed out and started speaking again. ‘There’s this big crashing sound. I poke my head out the door. Ryan’s gone and it’s just him. He’s stood there with both his hands on the bannister, looking down – and he’s got wings sticking out of the tops of his shoulders.’

  ‘They weren’t there when they went past the doorway?’

  ‘No. He was normal, then. I ... I knew the noise had been Ryan falling. I just knew.’

  Jon was thinking of Wayne. How he’d landed on his back beneath the pub’s fire escape. ‘You think the bloke flipped him over?’

  ‘Maybe. He stayed that way for a little bit longer then he sets off down the steps, with those wings sort of bouncing up and down. Soon as we heard the front door shut, we were out of there.’

  ‘And you saw Ryan at the bottom?’

  He closed his eyes for a second. ‘Yeah – he was lying there. Dan took a closer look, said he was definitely dead.’

  When they got to the doorway they had been in earlier, they found a young-looking bloke – nineteen at most – sitting there. He had a pinched face and a shaved head. Grimy fingers were holding an upturned baseball cap that was nestled in the folds of Greg’s blanket. Jon had seen his type many times before; usually in the back of a police vehicle after he’d arrested them.