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

by Chris Simms

  A while later, a key was inserted into the lock and the door opened. The face of the police officer looking down at him was filled with disdain. ‘Fucking disgrace.’

  ‘How long have I been in here?’ Jon rasped.

  The officer stepped to the side. ‘Long enough to piss everyone off. Go on, shift.’

  Jon took his time getting to his feet. Once upright, he tried to assess how bad he was. The inside of his skull felt like someone had crammed it full of drawing pins. Drawing pins that, when he moved, started ricocheting off each other. Christ almighty, this was worse than a whisky hangover. He eyes felt red, raw and itchy, and that sour taste ... it was still on his tongue. Sharp and chemical. The pain at various points across his back told him he’d probably taken a few whacks from an extendable baton. There was a lump above one ear, too. Plus some tender spots down his thighs. Bastards.

  Wet socks flopping against the floor, he made his way slowly down the narrow central aisle. If anyone else was still locked up in the vehicle, they were keeping quiet. Outside, it was dusk. No, dawn, surely? He recognised the building the mobile detention van was parked outside. Bootle Street station. At least, I’m still in the city centre.

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  He looked down and to the side to see Iona standing by the van. The two uniforms next to her were staring at him intently. He took a deep breath, hoping the influx of oxygen wouldn’t make him keel over. ‘Isn’t it a fine morning?’

  One of the officers shook his head. ‘Twat.’

  Oops, thought Jon. I really must have been a pain in the arse. But enough to warrant them beating me? Not wanting to show he was in any discomfort, he made his way down the ramp. ‘This us?’ he asked, gesturing to the nearest car. To his relief, Iona nodded.

  He ambled past the watching officers. Catching the hostility in their eyes, he paused. ‘Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure.’

  They didn’t reply.

  He was about to get in the car, when he stopped. Lifting one foot, then the other, he slid the sodden socks off his feet. His tightly-folded twenty-pound note fell to the ground. After pocketing it, he held the bedraggled socks up to the watching officers. ‘Would you mind taking these? They’re a bit pissy.’

  Iona opened the driver’s door while speaking softly. ‘Just bloody get in, Jon.’

  Realising she sounded slightly worried, Jon dropped his socks into the footwell and climbed inside. Only once the doors were shut, did he let out a sigh. ‘I think I’m dying. Please tell me there’s some water in here.’

  ‘Glove compartment.’

  He got it open. Inside was a litre bottle of Buxton. You absolute beauty. He cracked the top and had gulped half of it down before they were out of the car park. ‘Jesus,’ he announced, pausing for breath. ‘That is the best water I’ve ever tasted.’

  Iona pulled to a stop besides the first bin they came to. ‘Sling them in there.’

  ‘Sling what?’

  ‘Your socks!’

  ‘Oh.’ He lowered a window and lobbed them in. ‘Done.’ She continued to look at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

  ‘What do you expect me to say?’

  ‘Well ...’ She broke eye contact to pull the car away from the kerb. They turned onto Deansgate and she headed towards the Mancunian Way. ‘What do you remember?’

  Looking down at his bare feet, Jon started to shake his head. Instantly regretted it. ‘Not a lot after the patrol car turned up in Stevenson Square.’

  ‘How about chucking the member of public about in that doorway like a rag doll?’

  ‘Oh yes – I remember that. How do you know?’

  ‘I’ve seen the report.’

  ‘Oh. Who else has? Weir?’

  ‘Not as yet, but he will eventually. Once it goes through the system.’

  ‘So did that member of the public make a statement?’

  ‘He did.’

  Good, Jon thought. That means the bastard would have been required to leave his name. So long as it’s not fake, I’ll catch up with him one day. ‘I assume he and his mate are choosing not to press charges?’

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Iona’s head turn. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Because I woke up with that member of the public’s fingers poking about in my mouth. He drugged me, Iona. Rubbed something nasty into my gums.’

  ‘I don’t ... why would he do that?’

  ‘Why? Because I was lying there, fast asleep and helpless. A bit of garbage to have fun with.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Which would explain why you—’

  ‘Exactly. What the hell did I do?’

  ‘Hang on, he can’t get away with that. If he drugged you, we should be paying him a visit.’

  Oh, he’ll get a visit, all right, Jon thought. One day. ‘It’s not worth it. I’ll be OK. I’m more interested to know what I did.’

  ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  He drained the rest of the water and lobbed the empty bottle onto the back seat. ‘You tell me.’

  By the time she’d got to him being re-arrested while kneeling before a soft drinks machine on a petrol station forecourt while talking to a five-pence piece, Jon’s head was pounding again. He realised he was clenching his teeth and had to close his eyes while taking a few deep breaths. What if I’d run into traffic? Or got to a canal and tried to jump across it? One day, he promised himself, the man who spiked me will wake up to find himself lying in a hospital bed.

  ‘You OK, Jon?’

  ‘Yeah. Just thinking things over.’ He opened his eyes to see they were now on the Mancunian Way, doing seventy. He wondered why the hurry.

  ‘It gets worse,’ Iona announced.

  ‘Really? Can it?’

  ‘It took a few, but they eventually got you in the MDV. Obviously.’

  Jon became aware of the throbbing across various bits of his body. ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Every other cubicle already had a drunken City fan in it. A brawl down near Deansgate Locks, apparently. Some were singing football songs. Apparently, you started calling them all pansies for liking football.’

  Jon shut his eyes again. ‘I used that word. Pansies?’

  ‘You did. Which set them off. So then, you bellowed a Sale Sharks song at them – non-stop – for over an hour.’

  ‘Sale Sharks song?’ Jon thought of all the times he’d watched the rugby team play. ‘But there aren’t any Sale Sharks songs.’

  ‘Saaa-le,’ Iona crooned softly in a monotone voice, dragging the word out into two syllables. ‘Saaa-le.’

  Jon closed his eyes. ‘No. I shouted that for over an hour?’

  ‘Then urinated over the floor of your cubicle and fell asleep.’

  No wonder the officers weren’t looking too impressed with me, he thought. ‘How the hell did you find me?’

  She pointed to a bag of possessions beside the empty bottle on the back seat. ‘They took your phone when arresting you in Stevenson Square. I tried ringing it about forty-five minutes ago. Luckily, the custody officer answered. They had no idea who you were.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’ He glanced at the dashboard clock. ‘Hang on: why were you ringing me before six in the morning?’

  She took a quick breath before answering. ‘There’s been another death.’

  Jon felt his chest tighten. The pain coursing through his body was instantly forgotten. ‘Someone has gone off a roof?’

  ‘Correct. Only this time, the whole thing has been captured on film.’

  Chapter 31

  Back at base, they found a pair of trainers for him in the costume box of the departure lounge: the room where officers going out on surveillance operations prepared their appearance.

  ‘You seriously need a change of clothes, too,’ Iona said, looking him up and down with a grimace.

  ‘Later,’ Jon replied, with a quick point at Iona’s bag. ‘Got some perfume or anything in there?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’
<
br />   ‘Just give us a spray; that’ll do for now.’

  ‘That most certainly won’t do for now,’ she replied, taking out a small bottle and releasing a few bursts of fine mist at his torso. ‘Turn round, lift your arms.’ She fired a few more at his back and armpits. ‘Congratulations. You now smell like the rancid guard dog of the world’s worst brothel.’

  ‘Cheers. Where are they?’

  ‘Third floor. Main meeting room.’

  Sitting round the table were DCI Weir, a few other detectives and the office manager. Cups of coffee were dotted about and the room smelt faintly of bacon. All their heads turned as the door opened. Weir, halfway through what looked like a breakfast burger, gave Jon a what-the-fuck look.

  ‘Just in time,’ the manager said, gesturing to a younger man in jeans and T-shirt who was busily tapping at a wireless keyboard. ‘Finn, here, is an analyst with the video unit. He’s bringing up the footage now.’

  Jon pushed a chair as far from the table as possible.

  ‘Something wrong with us, DC Spicer? Weir asked.

  ‘Not you, me,’ Jon replied. ‘It’s been a bit since I had a shower.’

  ‘Looks it.’ Weir shot back, balling up his food wrapper and turning to the table. ‘This footage came from where, exactly?’

  ‘A crane operator,’ Finn replied. ‘There’s a construction site on the adjacent street to the building you’re about to see.’

  ‘And what is this building?’ Weir demanded.

  ‘It was a hall of residence owned by the University of Manchester,’ Iona replied, sitting down next to Jon. ‘Situated at the top of Granby Row. It’s now empty, awaiting demolition.’

  ‘When’s the footage from?’ Jon asked.

  ‘About three hours ago,’ Finn replied. ‘Apparently you left a flag on the system for deaths involving falls from high places and the wearing of fancy dress?’

  Jon caught Weir’s look of surprise. ‘I did.’

  ‘Well, nights when the crane operator can’t sleep, he heads in to work early. As if things on building sites don’t start early enough as it is, Jon thought.

  ‘Once there,’ Davis continued, ‘he likes to watch the sunrise from up in his cab. Sitting there just before dawn, he spotted a figure on the roof of the university’s hall of residence.’

  Weir sat back and crossed his legs. ‘I get it: he does what ninety per cent of the population do on witnessing something suspicious: reaches for his phone and starts filming. Finn, how are we going, there?’

  ‘Ready. Shall I play it?’

  ‘Please do.’

  The footage was dark and grainy. The only thing to break up the different grades of grey was a dim line of yellow splodges towards the edges. Finn immediately pressed pause. ‘So, just to orient you, we are looking down at the rooftop area from an elevation of about thirty metres. These glowing points of yellow are streetlights, viewed from above. The square shape filling the central area is the top of the roof. That squat shape to the left is the access point from the stairwell. Directly behind it, you can just make out a person. Very faint. You see? Standing at the perimeter railings of the roof. Continue?’

  ‘Go for it,’ Weir immediately responded.

  ‘OK,’ Finn replied. ‘And the voice you’re about to hear is that of the crane operator.’

  The footage continued for a few more seconds before there was a sound of a cough. ‘Not sure what they’re up to, but it don’t look good to me.’ The man’s voice was little more than a murmur and, even though the words were spoken softly, they carried an undercurrent of excitement. Jon was reminded of TV programmes; a wildlife cameraman who’d finally struck lucky.

  A moment later, a second figure appeared through the door that gave access to the roof.

  ‘Hey up,’ the crane operator whispered. ‘Some company’s arrived.’

  Finn paused the footage once more. ‘We can get this footage tidied up a fair bit, given time. But my guess is the newcomer is male. Not quite six foot tall. A few inches under. He’s wearing a black hat and long black coat, which is why he’s so poorly defined. I’ll let it continue.’

  The figure stood perfectly still, just the head moving as he surveyed what was around him. A thought suddenly struck Jon. Greg was about five foot ten. Thinly built. And he’d been missing from his usual haunts all last night.

  The person took a step back and was in the act of turning round when he stopped. After a couple of seconds, he began to move again. But now he proceeded more cautiously as he skirted round the stairwell. He stopped again.

  Jon cocked his head to the side. Could it be Greg? All done up in black clothing?

  ‘He’s spotted the other person!’ The crane driver’s voice. ‘Thank Christ for that.’

  They watched as the taller figure slowly approached the smaller one at the railings.

  ‘As you can see,’ the video analyst announced, pressing pause once more. ‘The top railing comes to well above waist-height for the person who was there first. For the newcomer, I’d say it’s about level with the thigh. From that, we can surmise the smaller person is about five feet four. The other, just under six foot.’ He pressed play once more and, this time, sat back in his seat.

  ‘Some sort of conflab,’ the crane driver’s voice stated as the taller figure turned slightly and placed an arm round the shorter one’s shoulders. ‘Go on, son. You’re doing well. Now get them away from that bloody edge.’

  The two figures stayed that way for a bit. Then the arm of the taller person withdrew. He appeared to be speaking to the shorter one who, after a second’s hesitation, began to tentatively climb over the railings. The crane driver’s voice was ragged. ‘What are you doing? No. No. Stop him, why aren’t you stopping him?’

  The shorter one now had now got both legs over and, keeping one hand on the railing, faced away from the taller person, who seemed to continue talking before holding an arm out, pointing to the city below then up to the stars. Shaking their head, the smaller person turned back from the edge and began to lift up a leg, as if to climb to safety.

  The taller person suddenly stepped forward and shoved hard with both hands. The smaller one’s grip on the rail was lost. Both arms windmilled for a second before the figure vanished.

  ‘Oh, my fucking God.’ The picture became unsteady. ‘He pushed him! Oh, Christ, he pushed him off. Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

  When the image steadied once more, only the taller figure remained. Slowly, he shrugged the long coat from his shoulders.

  ‘This is where it gets weird,’ Finn whispered.

  They all watched in silence as two thin, elongated shapes extended out from the person’s shoulders.

  ‘Holy shit.’ Weir’s voice had gone up a notch. He shot a disbelieving glance at Jon before turning back to Finn. ‘Are ... are those wings?’

  ‘Pause it!’ Jon barked.

  Finn did as asked. ‘I would guess each one is about sixty centimetres long. The shape is definitely that of a wing – or a pair of wings, but it’s impossible to say what they’re made from. Feathers, cardboard, silk: could be anything.’

  Jon’s mind was reeling. It was all true! My God: the rumours swirling around the homeless community were accurate. He was wearing a pair of bloody wings! Jon could hardly believe his eyes. ‘What happens next?’

  Finn looked to the DCI for approval. Weir gave a quick nod.

  The wings stayed stretched out as the person’s head tipped back. It was almost, Jon thought, like the fucking freak was drinking in a beautiful aroma. Savouring a magnificent sound. Gradually, the angle of the person’s head altered as his gaze returned towards earth. He peered over the edge for a second, then an arm moved and the wings folded in, seemingly absorbed by the expanse of his back. He half-turned and bent forward, the action causing most of him to blend in with the shadowy roof.

  ‘He’s retrieving his coat,’ Finn explained. ‘You can see better very soon.’

  It was a few seconds before he straightened back up. The ball
ed-up coat was now held to his chest as he strode purposefully back to the access point of the stairwell.

  ‘That’s it. He doesn’t reappear,’ Finn announced, pressing stop.

  It was like a room-full of people trying to stir themselves from sleep. A sigh. Someone stretched their arms above their head. Another rubbed at his face. Jon glanced at Iona; she was still staring in shock at the screen.

  Weir picked up his pen and made a few notes. ‘The victim: we now have confirmation the person is female, correct?’

  Jon’s head whipped round in Iona’s direction; she appeared equally surprised.

  ‘Correct,’ the office manager replied sombrely.

  ‘Female?’ Jon asked. ‘What do you mean, female?’

  Weir turned to Jon with a tired expression. ‘Officers at the scene reported the body was that of a female.’

  ‘Was there any ID? Do we know who she is?’

  Weir shook his head. ‘Not as yet.’

  ‘But ... surely there’s a strong chance it could be Olivia Farnham?’ He thought back to the faint image of the person in the phone’s footage. ‘Whoever it was on top of that roof, she had a lot of hair, practically dreadlocks; you could see it piled on the head. And she’s about five foot—’

  ‘Ed Farnham’s on the way to the hospital now,’ Weir snapped. ‘DCI Pinner is meeting him there. You think we haven’t considered that?’

  ‘Was there a baby with the body?’ Iona asked in a small voice.

  ‘Apparently not.’ Weir sighed. ‘And before you ask, no, the officers checked: there was nothing on the roof. So, first thing we’ll need to do is gather in CCTV from the adjoining—’

  ‘What did he pick up?’ Jon asked.

  Weir closed his eyes for a second. ‘What?’

  ‘He picked something up from the roof. After the wings folded back in, he bent down for a bit.’