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

by Chris Simms

  ‘Yes – that was his coat,’ Finn responded, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

  Weir clicked a finger at him. ‘Back it up.’

  The footage went into reverse.

  ‘Stop,’ Jon almost shouted.

  They were looking at the moment the person came back into full view. Shadow meant all fine detail was lost, but something black was balanced across his forearms.

  ‘Whatever that is,’ Jon said, ‘he’s not carrying it: he’s cradling it.’

  Chapter 32

  Gavin Conway didn’t know what to do. He stood at the door with the tiny thing in his arms. It seemed barely alive. More than once on the walk home, he thought it had stopped breathing. Only by pausing, bringing the little mouth close to his ear and listening, was he able to hear the faint sound of breathing. Miniscule little pants. Mouse-like. Easily drowned out by any passing car.

  When he’d got into his flat, he’d stood in the middle of the room for a long time. His mind went back to the rooftop. The girl he’d found up there was already on the edge. She’d been so ready to go. That’s why she’d gone up there in the first place. At first, he hadn’t been sure whether to leave her be. He’d never assisted a woman before. But then he’d seen the feathers round her neck. A necklace of feathers and he knew it was a sign. She wanted to fly. They had a bond. A connection. Whatever pain she was in, he would help her leave it all behind.

  And when he’d done that and she’d left this world, he’d felt happy. Doubt sometimes crept into their mind at the last second. It was fine. To be expected. Her cry of terror as he’d shoved her off the ledge had quickly faded in his mind. He’d felt calm. He’d felt content. Then came the faint noise at his feet. Something was down there. He’d crouched and gingerly parted the dirty blanket lying on the floor, wary some kind of animal might scuttle out. But the little face turned up to him was human. Puffy eyes tightly closed. Was it real? A living baby? He’d touched the back of a finger against the cheek. Warm.

  He repeated the movement now, holding a finger to the smooth skin. All the times he’d held Sophie, just like this, cradled in his arms as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Left to right, left to right, gently rocking her to sleep. Except this baby was already asleep. It had never really been awake.

  The moment, less than half an hour ago, when he’d opened the door to Sophie’s bedroom came back. It was the first time light had spilled into it since she and Claire had left him behind. Stale dead air. The high-sided bed, the duvet and pillow with underwater creatures. Seahorses, starfish and hermit crabs. There was a pale-blue blanket and a pack of wet wipes. He’d peeled back the flap and pressed a finger on the top one: still moist. Cuddly toys and a night-light that sent moons and stars gliding across the ceiling.

  But it only took moments to realise the place wasn’t right. The bed was too big and the baby too small for any of Sophie’s stuff. The infant would be dwarfed by the cuddly toys. Memories came back: when babies were this little, they needed special nappies. Cream when they got a rash. Dummies. Tiny little socks for their feet. Had they kept none of those from when Sophie was this size?

  He’d placed the infant on the bed. It tensed its arms and legs for a moment, miniature fists momentarily raised before everything went floppy once more. He approached the chest of drawers and slid the bottom one out. Inside it were some dungarees and a swimsuit. Several dresses and pairs of shorts in pastel colours. Unworn trainers. Things for the coming summer that Claire would have spotted in sales and bought, knowing that when the weather got warmer once more, Sophie would be the right size. Except Sophie never got to see another summer. And neither did Claire. He picked one of the trainers up and smelled the pristine rubber sole. A little sticker said, ‘Half Price’. Below that, ‘£3.49’ been written in red biro. Through his tears, he smiled. Claire. Always planning ahead.

  He put the trainer back and returned to the bed. The infant hadn’t moved. Then he remembered the box on top of the wardrobe. The collection of items Claire had hung on to. Mementos of their daughter’s first years on this earth. He reached the box down and placed it on the carpet. So light. It took an effort before he was able to remove the lid. But this is necessary, he thought, blinking back tears. It needs to be done. The cardboard shuddered slightly as he slid the lid off. Nestled inside were several objects wrapped in tissue. He couldn’t bring himself to fold back the gossamer-like paper shrouding them. Instead, he reached straight for the stubby plastic feeding bottle and took it out. The cap took a surprising amount of force before there was a click and he could remove it. The teat still felt soft and rubbery. Maybe the cap had protected it from the air. He went through to the kitchenette. All he needed was a splash of milk in the bottle and then, what was it? About twenty seconds full power in the microwave. Yes, that was it. Test the temperature by releasing a drip against the inside of your wrist. That’s how he used to do it. Funny, he thought, how just holding an object – its feel in the hand – released a stash of memories.

  He opened the fridge and immediately saw there was no milk inside. His palm slapped against the side. Shit! Back in the bedroom, he gazed down at the tiny sleeping form. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘To not be more use to you, little thing. But don’t worry. Because I’ve thought of something.’

  Footsteps were now approaching and he focused on the door directly in front of him. The handle turned and Miriam looked out to see him standing on her landing. She was in a dressing gown and slippers. Puffy eyes immediately dropped to the blanket. ‘What have you got in there?’

  He glanced over his shoulder, even though he knew they were alone. ‘Can I come in, please?’ he whispered.

  Both her eyebrows lifted. ‘Er ... it’s very early. What is it?’

  ‘Please, Miriam.’

  ‘OK.’ She stepped back, obviously intrigued. ‘Is it for me?’

  ‘Well ...’ He edged into her hall. ‘Let’s go to your front room and I’ll show you.’

  She clapped her hands. ‘Is it a kitten? Have you brought me a kitten?’

  He pushed the front door shut with his heel. ‘After you.’

  She couldn’t stop herself from looking back over her shoulder. ‘Where did you find it?’

  The fire was on in her front room. A dozen toy cats were arranged before it on a rug. ‘Off, please!’ she said, plucking several from the sofa and placing them on the floor. ‘That’s better.’ She sat at one end and patted the space next to her. ‘Here.’

  He stayed standing. ‘Miriam, what if I told you that it’s not a kitten?’

  ‘It’s not?’ Her smile shrank. ‘It’s not a puppy, is it? I don’t like puppies.’

  ‘It’s not a puppy.’

  She now looked totally lost. ‘But ... what, then?’

  ‘It’s a baby, Miriam. A human baby.’

  ‘A baby?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Whose baby?’

  ‘A friend’s. But she’s very poorly. She needs to rest, but has no one to look after it while she does. She asked me and I couldn’t say no. Do you think you could help to look after her baby for a little while?’

  ‘Me? I don’t know.’ Her fingers fiddled nervously with the pendant round her neck. ‘I’ve not looked after a baby before.’

  He caught her eyes straying to the blanket. She was itching to see it.

  ‘What if you tried? You’re such a caring person. I think you’d be great.’

  ‘You think that?’

  There it was in her voice: hope. He nodded, now certain she would agree. ‘I think you’ll be brilliant. Here, why don’t you have a hold?’

  She couldn’t keep her smile from returning. Wriggling back in the seat, she brought her knees together, patted them and turned her palms up. ‘What’s the baby’s name?’

  Name. He looked down. Shit. The babygrow was grimy, but he could see fine pink stitching running through the hems. He said the first girl’s name that came into his head. ‘Sky.’

  ‘Ooh, Sky
? I like it.’

  He lowered the blanket onto her lap and then sat himself next to her. Keeping his eyes on her face, he watched as emotions flickered across it. Apprehension, replaced by wonder. A flash of something that could have been joy. Then concern.

  ‘Is she OK?’ Miriam asked.

  ‘I don’t think my friend has been feeding her very well.’ He looked towards the kitchenette, knowing there was one thing her fridge was full of. ‘Maybe we could warm up some milk?’

  Chapter 33

  Jon was on his feet. ‘I’m going back into town.’

  ‘For what purpose?’ Weir’s face looked sickly.

  ‘To find my contact. Someone knows what the hell is going on here. I think he’s our best bet of finding out.’

  Iona leaned back in surprise. ‘Jon, you think that’s ... don’t you need to rest?’

  ‘I’m fine. It makes sense I go. The places where he might be: I know them.’ He turned to Weir. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Keep in touch, understood? Soon as you hear anything.’

  ‘Understood.’ He looked at Iona. ‘Fancy giving me a lift?’

  She glanced at their senior officer.

  Weir’s hand lifted. ‘Go.’

  As Jon and Iona slipped out of the room, they heard the sound of paper being ripped. Jon glanced back to see Weir removing an A1 sheet from the flipchart in the corner of the room.

  ‘Where the fuck are the fat pens?’ Weir demanded. ‘We need a bloody plan, here.’

  Jon marched towards the stairs, Iona having to almost jog to keep up.

  ‘You were keeping something back in there,’ she said. ‘What?’

  He almost smiled. Not a lot got past Iona. ‘It’s my contact. He vanished yesterday afternoon and was gone all evening.’

  They started trotting down the stairs.

  ‘You think it could be him?’ she asked after a moment’s silence.

  ‘I don’t know. Just that he’s floating around in town. Put it this way: every night someone’s died, he hasn’t been far away.’ He reached the first landing and stopped. ‘The person in that footage was about the right height and build. And I’ve been thinking about the night Wayne died. It was Greg who told me that Wayne had buggered off to some derelict pub to get wasted. Greg knew which one.’

  They carried on down to the doors of the departure lounge. Jon held them open until Iona was through. ‘I mean, Greg could have turned up once Wayne was off his head. And I don’t think Wayne fell from the top of that fire escape by his own choosing. Not with him landing on his back. I reckon he was thrown and the force of that made him flip over on the way down.’

  ‘Like the woman in the phone footage. How will you find him?’

  ‘It would help if he had a bloody phone. I’ll just have to do the rounds, keep asking people. It’s how things seem to work.’

  Iona veered off to the line of cupboard doors on their left. Throwing open the first, she removed a beaten-up coat and a pair of battered jeans from the line of garments hanging inside. ‘Here.’

  ‘No time, Iona. I need to find him.’

  She threw the items at him, while pulling the adjoining door open. A faded sweatshirt landed at his feet. ‘I’m not getting in a car with you while you smell like that. I assume you’ve got some socks and pants in your locker?’

  Jon’s eyes cut to the male changing room. ‘Think so.’

  ‘Good. I’ll get us a coffee while you sort yourself out.’

  ‘Can you get my warrant card from the top drawer of my desk?’

  ‘You’re taking it with you?’

  ‘Yeah. Just in case.’

  ‘In case of what?’

  ‘I bump into some over-eager uniform again. There’s no time to be pissing about.’

  DCI Pinner scanned the other two vehicles parked outside the mortuary at the Manchester Royal Infirmary. Neither car belonged to his friend. At least I got here before him, he thought, turning his engine off.

  It took a few minutes for someone to respond to him pressing the buzzer. But this was outside official hours, so he kept his irritation in check. When the door was finally opened, it was by a middle-aged man clad in long white plastic overalls. A blue hairnet covered his head.

  Pinner raised his police identification. ‘I’m here about the young female that just came in. She was found at the base of the building on—’

  ‘Granby Row. I was told you were coming. I’ve just been cleaning her up a bit.’ He looked beyond Pinner. ‘Where’s the ...?’

  ‘On his way. Have you been told who he is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You may well recognise him – he’s the mayor of Manchester.’

  The man’s face didn’t change. ‘Makes no difference to me who he is.’

  ‘Right. What ... what sort of condition is she in?’

  ‘She’s fine for an ID. Now. There’s a lot of damage to her upper-right cranium, but I can wheel her in so that side is facing away. Besides, she has a lot of hair, so we’ve been able to arrange it to help conceal things. The wider skeletal damage; he won’t see that beneath the sheet.’

  Pinner closed his eyes for a moment. ‘When you say a lot of hair, is it in a particular style?’

  ‘Do dreadlocks count as a style? She has some of them. Bits of coloured cotton woven in. Some beads, too.’

  It’s Liv, Pinner thought as he heard the sound of a car coming round the corner.

  Iona’s car had barely come to a stop in the parking area of the Chinese supermarket on the Oldham Road before he was out the door. A few minutes’ later, he was back at the entrance of the office in Stevenson Square. The bits of cardboard were still there. No sign of his other stuff. Or Greg. He hurried down to the Spar, where he spotted the person with the brindle Staffie he’d seen the day before.

  ‘Hey, how’s things?’

  He looked up, took in Jon and nodded. ‘OK. You?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He crouched down and extended a hand to the dog. ‘And how about you, Deefer? Good kip?’

  The dog’s tail began beating furiously as Jon started to tickle behind its ears. ‘Have you seen Greg about?’

  ‘Said he was heading to the Booth Centre.’

  Jon glanced at the man. ‘Where did you see him?’

  ‘We both slept at St Joseph’s last night. You didn’t get his note?’

  ‘What note?’

  ‘He left a note stuck to the wall of that porch in Stevenson Square you were using for a pad. He waited there for you, but when you never showed, he headed off.’

  Jon searched his memory. He didn’t think there’d been anything stuck to the wall. ‘Must have missed it. What time was this?’

  ‘Just before six. You have to get there at six before all the places go.’

  When I was back at the base, Jon thought. Shit. ‘I ended up sleeping there on my own.’

  ‘You did?’ The man looked concerned. ‘Go alright, did it?’

  ‘So, so. Greg never mentioned St Joseph’s. Is it a church?’

  ‘Yeah. They turn the hall next to it into an overnight place. It’s very strict, but that makes it quieter than the main ones.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Bengal Close, Ancoats.’

  ‘I’ll have to remember that. Right,’ he patted the dog on the head before standing up. ‘I’ll try and catch Greg up. You take care.’

  ‘And yourself. Laters.’

  Jon waited until he was out of sight of the Spar before taking a sharp left and making his way quickly through the narrow streets of the Northern Quarter. Could he trust the owner of the Staffie to be telling the truth? Greg might have left instructions for him on what to say, if anyone asked about the previous night. After decades in the job, Jon knew better than to take anyone’s word about anything.

  Bengal Close was the other side of Great Ancoats Street. The church was at the top end; a soot-stained building with a stubby tower. Beside it was a much newer building with a corrugated roof. A silver-haired man with a stoop was co
ming out of the front door, dragging a large laundry bag behind him. There was a Renault Scenic with its boot open parked near the steps. ‘Morning,’ Jon announced. ‘Is this the place that’s used as a refuge?’

  He glanced at Jon. ‘It is, but we’re closed now. Doors open six tonight.’

  Jon could see the bag he was struggling with was full of sheets. One was partly hanging out and Jon noticed it had elasticated corners; the sort they used when Holly was first learning to sleep without a nappy. He lowered his voice. ‘Actually, I was hoping to have a quick word.’

  The man looked round once more. This time, Jon’s warrant card was raised. ‘Oh. Now?’

  ‘If that’s OK. I won’t be long.’

  Jon slipped it back in his pocket and nodded at the laundry bag. ‘This lot going in the boot?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand.’ Without waiting for a reply, he took a looped-handle from the man and lifted the bag clear of the wet steps. Together, they ferried it to the people carrier and slung it in the back.

  ‘Thanks,’ the man said, slamming the hatch and then rubbing his hands. ‘So ... a quick word?’

  ‘In private, if that’s OK.’

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  A loud two-tone beep sounded as he opened the front doors. Beyond them was a reception area: a row of soft seats either side of a counter with a glass window. The walls were covered by posters that detailed a variety of services: Manchester and Salford Samaritans. Turning Point: Smithfield Detox. The Manchester Veterans’ Helpline. Jon glanced through the next set of doors that led into the main hall: rows of narrow tables occupied the large, open floor. ‘Where does everyone sleep?’

  ‘In there. We serve an evening meal until eight. At ten, the people staying here collapse the tables away and stack the chairs. You see the blue plastic rectangles lining the walls? Those are mattresses. They’re unclipped and laid out across the floor. Each person gets one of those sheets we just put in the car, a pillow and a sleeping bag. There’s a screened-off area in the corner for any females. We used to sleep forty-two here. But since the Covid regulations, that’s gone down to eighteen.’