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

by Chris Simms

  ‘Oh, that’s his name is it – Greg?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He shook his head. ‘Not since about lunchtime. But if you find him, tell him I might have seen that girl he was asking about.’

  Jon masked his interest. ‘Which one?’

  ‘About twenty, wearing a big army coat. Woven into her hair were little dreadlocks and that. She stopped to give me some change.’

  ‘Yeah? When was that?’

  ‘Two hours ago?’ He nodded in the direction of Piccadilly. ‘She was going that way. Her and this other girl who was a bit Paki-looking. Loads of jewellery,’ he traced a dirty finger round the outer part of his left ear, ‘all along that bit. She called her Anura.’

  ‘The girl in the army coat called the other one Anura?’

  ‘Yeah. She called out Ann to begin with, but she never heard. So then she shouts, Anura! Anura waits until she caught up and they carried on that way.’

  ‘Right, I’ll mention it. What was this Anura wearing?’

  He shrugged. ‘Jeans and trainers? Not those dresses they wear, anyway.’

  ‘OK. Nice dog, by the way.’ He got to his feet. Dusk had set in. The flow of people was mostly one way: towards the train station. The last of the city’s workforce heading home for the night. Going against the human tide, Jon made his way into Piccadilly Gardens. The row of market stalls selling scented candles, trays of fudge and mementos of the city were packing away.

  He stood in the gap between two of them and removed his phone. ‘Iona, hi. Listen, can you get me a number for Farnham? Might have a sighting of his daughter in the vicinity of Piccadilly Station.’

  ‘OK – I’ll call you back.’

  ‘Cheers.’ He slipped the phone out of sight and re-emerged from the two stalls. Burger King was directly in front, and he glanced up at the windows, hoping to see Greg’s face. Nothing.

  A feeling of unease announced itself at the very back of Jon’s mind. The atmosphere of the city centre was rapidly changing as it emptied out. He felt like he was being left behind. Nowhere to go for the night. Exposed. Alone.

  He shook himself free of the thoughts, cutting across to the top of Mosley Street and walking purposefully along the pavement. He suspected people were drifting out of his path. He looked more closely and could tell their eyes were avoiding his as they passed. I look different to them, he realised. With my big coat and rucksack hanging from one shoulder. Beginnings of a beard and a woollen hat. I look homeless.

  Office buildings rose up on either side. Brightly lit upper floors. Window after window with nothing behind them. Deserted workstations. Empty meeting rooms. So much space and all of it denied to people like him.

  Three people were already preparing a sleeping area in the portico entrance of what used to be Jamie’s Italian at the top of King Street. Greg wasn’t among them. No one had seen him.

  A portly man with a bushy beard scrutinised Jon for a second. ‘Why are you looking for him?’

  ‘We were going to two-up for the night.’

  ‘Right.’ He shook out a blanket and turned away.

  Jon hovered for another moment. No space at the inn, he thought. ‘If you see him, can you say I’m over in Stevenson Square? He knows the spot.’

  ‘Will do.’

  He looked around, realising it was now properly dark. Where the hell had Greg got to? There was a pub opposite. Clusters of office workers lined the bar. A blackboard on the pavement announced that pie, chips and gravy cost eight pounds. There was an emergency twenty-pound note tucked down one of his socks. But he couldn’t wander into the place – not in full view of the lot behind him setting up their spots for the night. And besides, the two guys in bomber jackets at the front door probably wouldn’t let him in.

  Taking his time, he wandered down King Street, passing Belstaff and DKNY. Each had closed for the day, but the interiors were still brightly lit. Spotlights carefully arranged to pick out certain items. He gazed through the thick plate glass at dresses and coats that cost several hundred pounds. Handbags that cost thousands. The gulf between those that had money and those who had none had never jarred so badly. At Cross Street, he turned right. By continuing straight on, he could circle round the Arndale, angle up through Shudehill and reach the Northern Quarter. Twenty minutes, at most, he’d be back in Stevenson Square. What do I do, he wondered, if Greg isn’t there?

  Security screens protected the fronts of most shops. A figure, swaddled in blankets, lay in the doorway of what was once a bank. In a narrow side street beside Boots was a line of wheelie bins. A stack of flattened cardboard boxes had been placed beside them. He remembered Greg’s advice about using the material for an insulation layer to lie on. As he diverted towards them, the temptation to check no one he knew was approaching was strong. Going through bins, he said to himself. Doesn’t get much more humiliating than this.

  The boxes had been secured with a thick strip of adhesive tape. The ones at the top of the pile had been splashed with liquid. An overturned Caffé Nero cup lay behind them. At least it’s not piss, Jon said to himself, peeling the tape back and discarding the damp cardboard. He guessed the rest of the stack consisted of seven or eight boxes. Enough to make some kind of platform to sleep on.

  There were a couple of guys positioned at the steps of the Arndale. Jon paused in passing. ‘Seen a bloke called Greg around?’

  One glanced up. ‘Saw him coming out the Booth Centre earlier.’

  Jon moved the cardboard to his other arm. ‘When was that?’

  ‘Around lunch?’

  ‘Did he say where he was off to?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Did he find that lass he was looking for? The young one with a baby?’

  ‘Not a clue, pal. Got a tab?’

  ‘Don’t smoke, sorry.’

  The bloke turned to his mate and their conversation resumed. Jon continued round the corner of the giant shopping centre, following the road as it inclined upwards. The garish neon signs of the Printworks were now on his left. A horde of lads in shirts and smart trousers were heading towards him. Jon kept to the side of the pavement, suddenly aware he could be a target to a group like that, especially if they’d been drinking. To his relief, they cut across the road to start queuing outside a bar.

  The platforms of Shudehill tram stop were almost deserted. A few couples with shopping bags. A man with a loosened tie, staring at his phone. Everyone heading home for the night. He thought of his own front room. His slobbing-out chair beside the fire with its threadbare armrests. Alice on the sofa, legs curled beneath her. Wiper, crashed out on the carpet, paws occasionally twitching. Duggy and Holly, snuggled down beneath their duvets.

  The pubs and bars of the Northern Quarter were busy. People who looked barely in their twenties sitting at tables with brightly coloured cocktails before them. This lot had no young kids to worry about. Wide eyes and loud laughter. Thumping music. No one seemed to notice him as he passed through; just a ghost, drifting on the breeze. A woman who might have been somewhere in her thirties was positioned on the pavement at the intersection of Hilton and Oldham Streets. There were so many blankets arranged around her lower half, she looked like she was melting into the pavement. He realised she’d noticed him. And her expression, while not welcoming, wasn’t hostile.

  ‘Alright?’ he asked, coming to a hesitant stop.

  ‘Yeah.’ A brief smile. ‘Bagged yourself some cardboard there?’

  He shifted the stack to his other arm. ‘Too good to miss.’

  Her eyes rotated in their sunken sockets as she studied the street behind him. ‘Slow, isn’t it?’

  He glanced into the cup she was holding. A few coins, some of them silver. He wanted to ask how come she was out begging, on her own, at this time of night.

  He wanted to ask what had happened in her life that had led her to this. He wanted to ask if she had somewhere safe when she needed to sleep. But those weren’t the type of questions you came out with. Not if you were homeless.
Instead, he said, ‘Have you seen a lass wandering about? Early twenties. She has a baby with her?’

  She frowned. ‘Greg was asking about her before. I’ve not seen her. Don’t know anyone who has. Not a lass with a little baby. Why are you asking?’

  He shrugged. ‘Greg was asking me, that’s all. Didn’t know who he was on about either.’

  ‘Sounds like he’s asking everyone.’

  ‘When did you see him?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Earlier today. Around lunch?’ She took another look at him. ‘Are you knocking about with Greg at the moment?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She nodded. ‘He mentioned you. Said you’re trying to find out what happened to your brother.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  She lifted an eyebrow. ‘Said you’re trying to catch the Dark Angel.’

  ‘I’m just trying to find out what happened to my brother.’

  Her other hand emerged from beneath its covering layers. She swigged from a stubby little bottle and let out a sigh. The bottle sank below sight once more. ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Where did you see Greg? Only, we were meant to be meeting and can I find him? Can I fuck.’

  ‘It was here. You tried the Spar? He’s often around there.’

  ‘Yeah, no luck. I might try again.’

  ‘So you were in the army, too, then?’

  ‘Me? Nah – building trade’s all I know.’

  She nodded. ‘He prefers ex-soldiers. For when he needs to two-up.’

  Jon paused. She said soldiers. Plural. ‘Right. Like Wayne?’

  ‘And the other one. Before Wayne showed up.’

  Jon looked off down the street, as if something nearby was more interesting. ‘Who was that, then?’

  ‘Luke. I liked Luke, cheeky little fuck that he was.’

  Jon’s head turned. ‘Luke?’

  ‘Topped himself. Found his body near the railway arches. Poor bastard.’

  ‘From Wales?’

  ‘Yeah, the Welsh boy. Him.’

  She means Luke McClennan, Jon thought. Greg would two-up with him. Why didn’t he mention that? He took a step away. ‘See you about.’

  ‘You take care.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  He left her sitting there with her drink and cup of spare change. Someone had been in the doorway in Stevenson Square; there was an empty bottle of Tropicana, a few crumpled sandwich cartons and a half-eaten pasty lying in the corner. He put the stack of cardboard down in the middle of floor and sat on it.

  What the hell was going on with Greg? He was mates with two victims in this, he thought. He trawled back, trying to remember if Luke’s name had ever been mentioned. In Burger King earlier on? I didn’t use actual names, he realised, but surely Greg was aware Luke had died? After all, the woman who’d been begging knew all about it.

  The air was getting colder and he wondered what temperature it would be by the early hours. A few degrees less than this. Will I be warm enough wearing my coat inside the sleeping bag? I’ll soon find out, he thought.

  He watched the people going past, perfumes and aftershaves trailing in their wake. The thought occurred about his own aroma. He was sure that he didn’t smell yet, but he might do in another day. He ran through possible places where he could go for a wash. Two pubs with large disabled toilets sprang to mind. Ones with a sink and hand dryer. If the staff let him into the pub, they’d do nicely.

  Passing footsteps came to a stop. He lifted his chin to see a couple of women looking down at him. One of their hands was outstretched, painted fingernails so close to his face, they were out of focus. ‘It’s only a bit of shrapnel, sorry.’

  It took him a moment before he realised she was trying to give him money. ‘Oh. Thanks—’ He was about to say there was no need, but she carried on speaking.

  ‘You need a cup or something.’ Her voice was a bit wobbly and he suspected she’d been drinking. ‘For collecting?’ Her hand moved up and down. She didn’t know where to place the coins.

  He raised a palm. ‘Cheers. Just getting organised.’ The change clinked as she let it go.

  ‘A friend of my sister’s, she lives in Bristol, and her neighbour – this guy who had a job at a big warehouse. I met him a few times. Lovely bloke. He ended up losing his flat and having to sleep out. It was terrible.’

  Her friend had started moving away. ‘Louisa.’

  Her eyebrows had a sympathetic tilt. ‘I hope things work out for you.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you. Thanks.’

  She smiled briefly then turned to catch up her friend.

  Jon examined the money. About eighty pence. Greg can have that, he thought. When he shows up. He felt his phone vibrate. Iona calling, at bloody last.

  ‘No joy, Jon. Sorry.’

  ‘How come?’

  He’s giving a speech at an official function and can’t be contacted.’

  Jon couldn’t believe it. The fucker’s daughter and her baby are missing and he won’t take my call? Unbelievable. ‘What official function?’

  ‘A private dinner. In that new restaurant that opened. Mistral.’

  ‘The one in Spinningfields?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jon had seen the newspaper stories: part of a small but very exclusive chain. The first had opened in London. Then Edinburgh. Absurd prices to ensure only the great and good could afford to dine there. ‘I’ll go and see him myself, then.’

  ‘Jon, do you think that’s—’

  ‘Oh, I do. I definitely do.’

  The restaurant was nestled at the edge of a lawned square closed in by plate glass edifices to corporate power. The entire development was fairly recent, but with its proximity to the Crown Court, law firms were soon vying for office space. Next in were the big financial sector companies. Posh shops and restaurants soon followed.

  Jon was marching past the live-flame torches that formed an avenue to the restaurant’s entrance before he realised that, to all intents and purposes, he looked homeless. The door staff had already positioned themselves to block his way.

  ‘Closed,’ one of them announced with a stony face.

  ‘Right: so what are all those people doing inside?’

  The man crossed his arms by way of reply.

  Jon contemplated his next move. It was already gone ten o’clock. Surely it would be winding up soon? He backed off and settled himself on the low wall outside the neighbouring building.

  Less than an hour later taxis started aligning themselves on the road that led down from Deansgate. Soon after, people began to step out from the restaurant’s doors. Men in dinner jackets and bow ties, women in evening dresses. Jewellery sparked and glinted.

  Jon removed his woollen cap and stood just beyond the line of torches. Even though the men closest to him didn’t acknowledge his presence, Jon could see their shoulders were just a bit too stiff. Some of the women used the pretext of adjusting an earring or stray strand of hair to partly turn their heads. Nervous eyes brushed him and words started being whispered.

  Farnham was making his way along, shaking hands and flashing smiles as he went. He spotted Jon and his face fell for just a moment. Jon lip-read the words ‘Over there,’ before Farnham inclined his head fractionally to the left.

  Jon moved towards the corner of the building, enjoying the bewildered looks from the group. Taxis began manoeuvring themselves alongside the kerb. A flash of pale hair caught Jon’s eyes: Alicia Lloyd. She was wearing a plum-coloured oriental-style dress that shimmered in the soft light. Silk, he thought.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Farnham asked in a low voice.

  ‘I tried to get through to you on the phone.’

  ‘Really? When?’

  ‘Earlier.’

  ‘No one told me.’

  Jon didn’t believe him. ‘You weren’t taking calls, apparently.’

  ‘You couldn’t leave me a message?’

  ‘I hate leaving messages. Especially if it’s urgent: missing people, babies,
that kind of stuff.’ Alicia was talking to an old bloke who barely came up to her shoulder. She kept glancing over the man’s bald head in their direction. ‘Does your daughter have a friend called Anura?’

  ‘Anura? I ... not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘A girl – possibly Indian. Line of piercings in her left ear?’

  ‘I’ve never seen her with any ... with anyone like that. Why?’

  ‘It was a possible sighting from earlier today. The one called Anura was wearing jeans and trainers. Her companion had on an army coat.’

  Farnham was edging away. ‘It could have been two students; there’s a big block of student flats behind the station.’

  ‘Perhaps you could check with her friends, if it’s not too much trouble? See if any of them have heard of an Anura?’

  ‘Will do. I’ll get word to you via Trevor. DCI Pinner.’ He melted back into the gathering.

  Jon watched him go. Leave me a message. Christ. He realised Alicia’s eyes were on him again as a silver-haired man stepped forward to speak with her. Jon wandered towards Deansgate, glad to leave the chattering crowd behind him.

  He’d got as far as Kendals when a white Range Rover turned into the side street before him and came to an abrupt stop. The rear door opened and a long pair of legs swung out. Alicia. Now straightening her dress, she smiled in his direction. ‘I thought it was you.’

  Awkward, thought Jon. He checked over his shoulder. No one was near. ‘I really can’t talk. Not here.’

  She stepped closer. ‘I wondered what happened. One minute you’re escorting me ... your partner, the one from Scotland—’

  ‘Wales.’

  ‘The one from Wales, then. He wasn’t saying anything.’

  Jon moved round the corner to be out of the glaring lights of Deansgate. ‘I was redeployed. It happens.’

  ‘Undercover, by the looks of it.’

  He nodded.

  ‘Will I see you again? For the escorting work?’

  ‘You fly home tomorrow afternoon, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Probably not, then.’

  ‘Are you working now?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Until when?’