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

by Chris Simms

  ‘Hey pal,’ Greg announced in a kindly voice. ‘That’s my spot.’

  He looked off to the side. ‘Empty when I got here.’

  ‘And that’s my blanket, too.’ Greg peered behind him. ‘Been eating my scran as well, have you?’

  He reached back, picked up Greg’s shopping bag and let if fall to the pavement.

  Greg looked at Jon. ‘This is the thing nowadays. These youngsters are showing up and they don’t give a shit about how things are done.’

  The lad yawned, seemingly oblivious to Greg’s comment. Jon knew there would be no reaction from him while things were just verbal. Only the threat of actual violence got through to people like him.

  Maybe sensing that, too, Greg shook his head as he retrieved his bag. ‘You’ve got some learning to do, son.’

  ‘Do I look like your fucking son?’ he shot back, still staring off to the side.

  Greg floated a pained glance at Jon. ‘Come on, we’ll go down to Deansgate. See what’s doing there.’

  Jon let Greg get a couple of steps in front before turning back and leaning into the doorway. ‘Want to stop me taking this?’ He started to pull the blanket off the lad’s legs.

  The fingers gripping the cap immediately uncurled. Jon saw his other hand start bunching into a fist. He bent lower, bringing his lips close to the lad’s ear. ‘Please try it, you scummy little turd.’ He moved back, giving the lad space to swing, if he wanted to.

  A second of eye contact passed. The lad’s fist relaxed and he scowled at something off to the side. ‘Have it, like I give a shit.’

  Jon reached down and gathered it up. ‘Good decision, fucktard.’

  The youngster seemed to slump in on himself as he announced in a whining voice, ‘What’s your problem? Christ.’

  Jon walked off, always amused at how quickly they could switch from aggressor to victim. ‘Here you go.’

  Greg turned round, eyes flicking momentarily to the doorway then back to Jon. ‘I won’t ask what you said,’ he whispered, stuffing the blanket into his bag.

  They walked in silence along Portland Street for a while. Across the road, Jon could see a small group sitting among a variety of bags. They’d congregated beneath the overhanging roof of a large music shop. ‘What did you mean when you said, this is the issue nowadays?’

  ‘The issue? I meant the new lot who’re now showing up on the streets. They’re so young – and they’re so full of attitude. They don’t get it.’

  ‘How you help each other out?’

  ‘Yeah – we play by certain rules. Not stealing someone’s spot, for a start. They’re young, though. Teenagers, some of them. I was talking with someone who works at the Booth Centre. She said for every one person they manage to find housing for, another three are being made homeless.’

  Every twenty metres along Deansgate there seemed to be someone on the pavement, begging. Greg stopped to chat briefly with almost every one of them. Jon kept his distance, happy to let the other man do the talking.

  ‘Nothing,’ Greg stated as they reached the turning into Saint Ann’s Square. ‘No one’s seen her. I need a ciggy. Come on, I’ll show you something.’

  He led Jon past a section of cobbles, then across ancient slabs of stone to the little church at one end. ‘Seen this?’ he asked, pointing to a bench beside the building’s main doors.

  Jon realised it was actually more of a sculpture; three quarters of the sitting area was taken up by a horizontal figure almost entirely hidden beneath a blanket. Only a pair of bare feet stuck out. The entire thing looked like it was cast from bronze.

  ‘It’s a statue to us homeless folk,’ Greg announced cheerfully, sitting down and tickling its toes. ‘See those?’

  His forefinger was moving between twin holes in the flesh of the feet. Clever, Jon thought, realising the sleeping figure was, in fact, Christ.

  ‘Homeless Jesus,’ Greg said proudly. ‘There are more of them in other cities. America, Canada, Rome, Australia and Dublin. Some other places I don’t remember. It was offered to London, first. But they didn’t want it. Their loss, I reckon.’

  Jon felt a commotion beneath his left armpit. Two brief vibrations, then a pause. ‘Got work ringing me,’ he said, tapping his side before moving quickly round the corner to be less in view. Iona’s name was on the screen. ‘Hi there.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘No luck with finding the mayor’s daughter.’ He sank into a sitting position beside what looked like a stone crypt. Judging from the smell, someone had recently taken a piss against it. ‘Can you contact a place at the top of Oldham Street? It sounds like an outreach centre for homeless women. I think the name is something to do with a flower.’

  ‘Will do. Is that where you are now?’

  ‘No. St Ann’s Square, by the church.’

  ‘Is that where you’ll be sleeping?’

  ‘Iona, I’ve no idea where I’ll be sleeping tonight.’

  ‘Can’t believe Weir’s got you doing this. Are you on your own?’

  ‘No, I’m with the one I told you about. Greg. He’s just round the corner, sitting next to Jesus.’

  ‘Did you just say Jesus?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s smoking a roll-up. Greg, not Jesus. What’s up, anyway?’

  ‘Sure you’ve not been smoking something?’

  Jon smiled. ‘Come on, have you got good news?’

  ‘No, afraid not, Jon.’

  Shit, he thought. That probably meant all her enquiries with the victims’ families had come to nothing. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Word just came in from the MRI. It’s Wayne. I’m afraid he died.’

  ‘No. When?’

  ‘About an hour ago. The hospital just phoned it through.’

  Jon let out a long sigh. The one person who might have been able to help them crack this. Now he was gone. Jon couldn’t believe it.

  ‘You still there, Jon?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I am.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘I’d better come in. Weir wants a daily update anyway. Shit.’

  ‘How long do you reckon you’ll be?’

  ‘Give me an hour or so.’

  ‘OK, see you soon.’

  He approached Greg with a sense of trepidation. The man was snubbing out his half-smoked roll-up against the sole of his trainers. Carefully, he put the remains back in his pouch. Catching sight of Jon, his face broke into a smile. ‘There you are. Ready to go again?’

  ‘Actually, Greg ...’

  When he told him, Jon was shocked to see the other man start to cry.

  Chapter 26

  Iona looked perplexed. ‘“Yes, I can help you?” He was sure that’s what the person said?’

  Jon thought back to Big Ian’s recollection of what had happened the night Ryan Gardner died. The bloke had seemed pretty clear about everything. ‘He was.’

  ‘Help with what, I wonder,’ Iona mused.

  Jon was sitting in his chair, legs stretched straight out before him. ‘There was one person who could have answered that. He gave her a glum look. ‘What was the cause of death?’

  ‘First, he was in bad shape, Jon. A lot of drug use.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Pulmonary embolism. Probably came from a DVT in his leg.’

  ‘DVT?’

  ‘A blood clot, basically. Broke off, travelled up his leg and lodged in his lung. Caused his heart to fail.’

  ‘He wasn’t even thirty, for fuck’s sake. You know, when I mentioned it to Greg, he broke down? They had a much stronger bond than I realised, those two.’ He pulled his feet in and sat up straight. ‘Anyway, how’ve you done today?’

  ‘Which order do you want it in? The mayor’s daughter or the ex-army deaths?’

  Jon quickly checked Weir wasn’t lurking nearby. ‘Better start with the mayor’s daughter.’

  ‘Well, that won’t take long.’ She retrieved a file from beside her keyboard and opened it. ‘The three ma
in charities in Manchester working with the homeless appear to be: the Booth Centre, Mustard Tree and Barnabus. The women’s outreach centre where Olivia was spotted is a new initiative created by Mustard Tree. With the homeless problem becoming so much worse since the government’s austerity measures, they’ve had to get more organised. Work together as a network.’

  Jon thought about Greg’s comment: the new flood of people now ending up on the streets.

  ‘It’s made things a bit easier for me. Recently, the charities formed The Manchester Homeless Partnership to get some proper coordination going. That has links to the Town Hall, us, mental health workers and such like. I’ve been making calls all day, but no one knows where she is.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘A big blank.’

  ‘Me, too. Greg must have asked about a dozen other rough sleepers if they’d seen or heard of her.’

  ‘Mention what to a dozen rough sleepers?’ asked a voice from behind him.

  Jon turned to see Weir approaching. ‘Sir. I was just comparing notes with Iona before giving you a call.’

  ‘Compare away. I’m all ears.’

  As they brought him up to speed with the lack of progress, their DCI made little effort to hide his disappointment. ‘When are you heading back out, DC Spicer?’

  Jon checked his watch. Coming up on five already. ‘Straight after we’re finished here.’

  Weir rose to his feet. ‘What else is there to discuss?’

  Jon struggled briefly to control it before, as usual, accepting defeat. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Just the fact Wayne Newton died earlier this afternoon.’

  Weir’s eyes hardened. ‘You want to correct the tone in your voice?’

  Jon spread his hands. ‘You want to acknowledge that we could now be on the sixth victim?’

  Weir raised a forefinger. ‘Keep the focus on Olivia Farnham. Once she’s safe, you can try gathering some evidence that supports this theory of yours. Clear?’

  Iona announced hastily, ‘Absolutely, sir. Thanks,’

  Weir’s eyes stayed locked on Jon. ‘Clear?’

  He let the silence stretch for another second. ‘Clear. Sir.’

  Weir strode away.

  From the corner of his eye, Jon could see Iona’s head shaking. ‘What?’

  ‘You. Is it a compulsion of yours, to piss off your boss?’

  ‘Ah, fuck him. He’s only after brownie points with the mayor.’

  ‘That’s called fostering friends in high places. You should try it.’

  ‘Kissing arse, more like.’

  ‘Or maybe just being sensible? You know, in terms of a career.’

  Jon shook his head. ‘I’d rather lick vomit off the pavement.’

  Iona gave a curt nod as she reached for another folder. ‘Clearly. So, I got through to relatives in three of the families.’

  Jon swivelled his seat. ‘What was said?’

  ‘I won’t lie, Jon. All of them – and we’re talking Jim Barlow, Luke McClennan and Frank Kilby here – were struggling with their mental health. I spoke to the mum of Luke McClennan. He’d been diagnosed with PTSD in the months after leaving the army. Plus, he was boozing loads.’

  ‘But had he mentioned suicide?’

  ‘He had.’

  ‘And the other two?’

  ‘Similar. Frank Kilby had visited his GP, described his state of mind and was promptly given a prescription for Citalopram.’

  ‘Antidepressant?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘The wife.’

  Jon ran a knuckle back and forth across his lips. This was the problem they faced; most people living on the streets had issues. If they didn’t arrive with them, they soon developed them. ‘Just because they had suicidal thoughts, it doesn’t necessarily mean they killed themselves.’

  Iona stayed silent. Glancing across, he spotted the look on her face. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Luke McClennan had specifically mentioned wanting to end it all. That was in the weeks prior to him disappearing from his home in Llandudno.’

  ‘And that’s according to who?’

  ‘The parents. I asked who he’d said that to; they told me he was quite open about it. It would be on his doctor’s records. He had been due to see a counsellor, but he missed the first two appointments then took off. Next time they heard from him, he was in Manchester. The mother even said she knew, in the week or so before they were contacted by police, that he was dead.’

  Jon closed his eyes, knuckle now motionless against his lips. This was going to make it so much harder to convince anyone they were dealing with anything other than suicides. Especially Weir. ‘How did she know? Mother’s instinct or something?’

  ‘No. He’d stopped calling.’

  ‘Right.’ He murmured, dropping his hand. ‘Always go for the simplest option, Jon.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Nothing. Just reminding myself of something.’ He checked the windows. The light outside was beginning to lose strength. ‘I’ll ring home before I get going,’ he announced, reaching for the phone on his desk.

  When Alice answered, she sounded slightly harassed. He sat forward. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘Jon, hi. Yes. Nearly feeding time at the zoo, that’s all. How are you doing?’

  ‘Fine. I’m sat here with Iona. Just going over things before I head off to my temporary accommodation for the night.’

  ‘Oh, Jon. Where will you go?’

  ‘I’ll let Greg decide. He’s the expert.’

  ‘I really don’t like you being out there.’

  ‘Hey, it’ll be fine. Loads of people are sleeping out, Ali. It’s not that unusual.’

  ‘Which is bloody tragic,’ she replied. ‘You want a quick word with the kids?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘This training course you’re on; I’ve told them you’re staying in your own little hotel room, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Duggy, it’s your dad. Here, say hello.’

  His little voice came on the line. ‘Daddy! Is your toilet in your bedroom?’

  ‘Hi, little fellow. Is my what?’

  ‘Is your toilet in your bedroom?’

  ‘No,’ he chuckled. ‘Why?’

  ‘Mummy said it was in your bedroom and that would be really weird. And smelly.’

  He heard Alice in the background. ‘I said it’s an en suite room, Duggy. Ask Daddy what en suite is.’

  ‘What’s on sweet?’

  ‘I do have a little bathroom, but it’s in another room that’s joined to my bedroom. So you call it en suite.’

  ‘Oh. Does it have a door?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So people can’t see you pooping?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh.’ Silence.

  ‘Are you watching telly?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  He’s watching telly, Jon thought. ‘What are you watching?’

  ‘Here’s Mummy.’

  ‘Right. Bye, then.’

  Alice again. ‘That’s your lot with him. You want a word with Holly?’

  ‘Is she there?’

  ‘Well, she’s in her room. Hang on. Holly! It’s your dad. No, you come down. The phone is on the stairs. Jon? I need to see to these fish fingers. You be careful, you hear me?’

  ‘I hear you. Love you.’

  ‘Love you, too.’

  There was a muffled bump as the handset was placed on the carpet. He waited. Faint sounds of telly in the background. The light clatter of plates. Suddenly, he wished he was there, at home, sitting in the warm kitchen with his wife.

  ‘Hello?’

  His daughter’s voice sounded flat. Sullen. ‘Hi there, Holly. How are you?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Yeah? What are you up to?’

  ‘Just in my room.’

  ‘Right. On that Insta-tube thing?’

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘Sorry. I meant Whats-chat.’

  ‘You’re so
embarrassing.’

  ‘Course I am; that’s my job. You know, earlier today, I caught someone stealing helium balloons from a shop? I held him for a while, but then I let him go.’

  ‘That’s one of your jokes, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. I let him go? So he floated away ...’

  ‘Shall I pass you on to Mum?’

  Christ, he thought. When did this humourless alien take over my sweet little girl? ‘Holly, I know you don’t like talking on the phone. But, you’re OK, aren’t you?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ She sighed.

  ‘You’re happy, right?’ He knew his approach was awful. Not only was he asking closed questions, he was phrasing them to encourage the answers he wanted to hear. ‘Things are OK at school?’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘And with your friends? Things are OK with them, too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. But, you know, if they’re ever not ... you can tell me. You know that, don’t you? You can call me anytime you want if I’m at work. Anytime at all.’

  ‘I know that, Dad.’

  ‘OK. Well, I’ll see you soon, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I love you, my little berry.’

  ‘Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Chapter 27

  The doorway of the office building in Stevenson Square was deserted. He headed over to the Spar on London Road. A bloke he’d never seen before was sitting by the entrance. Perched in his lap was a little brindle Staffie.

  ‘All right?’ asked Jon, squatting down beside him. ‘You’ve not seen Greg about, have you?’

  The man glanced to the side, bloodshot eyes touching for a moment on Jon’s face. ‘Don’t know who you mean, mate.’

  The dog’s stumpy tail was wagging. Jon held out a hand and let the animal lick his fingers. He was missing Wiper. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Deefer.’

  ‘Deefer?’

  ‘D for dog. Deefer.’

  Jon smiled. ‘Does what it says on the tin, hey? You alright, Deefer?’ The animal’s eyes half-closed as Jon tickled behind his ears. ‘Greg. Skinny bloke. About forty-five. Wears a flat cap.’