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

by Chris Simms

  ‘Our man at the MoD was a bit cagey. But he reappeared in the Scots Guards in 1995 and served in it for another fourteen years. Left the army completely in 2009.’

  Jon sat forward. ‘I don’t get it. Where was he for the middle bit? Still in the army?’

  ‘Still in the army.’ Iona nodded. ‘But that part of his file is restricted access. Basically,’ she continued in a lower voice, ‘he was recruited into covert stuff. Given his background and the years he was off radar, he thinks it was probably undercover work in Northern Ireland. Better chance than an Englishman of infiltrating the IRA.’

  ‘The IRA? Christ.’

  ‘And this was the Eighties, Jon. He was saying about it being some of the worst parts of the Troubles. Maze Prison escapes, bombing of Harrods, assassination attempt of Thatcher.’

  ‘I remember that; the Brighton hotel bombing. She was lucky not to have died.’

  ‘To quote him, if he was over there, it took balls of steel.’ She folded her arms. ‘Still not sure about him?’

  Shock and guilt vied for supremacy in Jon’s mind. Had his view of the man been prejudiced? Just because he slept on the streets and had a shady past? ‘Let’s see what Kieran says. And if his number features on any of the victims’ phone records, if they ever come through.’

  ‘Spicer!’

  Jon turned to see Kieran Saunders approaching from the direction of the doors. ‘Hey mate, how did it go?’

  ‘That place is organised. I reckon the guy in charge hopes to be promoted to running Strangeways one day.’

  Jon smiled. ‘Apparently, the regime isn’t to everyone’s taste. No chance anyone ducked out during the night, then?’

  He perched on the adjoining desk. ‘Not unless they’re related to Houdini. CCTV was good quality. Honestly, once that place goes into lockdown, it really goes into lockdown.’

  Jon felt a sense of relief. Looked like Greg was probably in the clear. ‘OK, thanks for doing the check. When are you due back at the airport?’

  ‘Straight after lunch.’

  ‘And then that’s it?’

  ‘Yup. They’re on an afternoon flight back to the Big Apple.’

  Jon could see Alicia Lloyd in his head. Had she waited up, expecting him to turn up at her hotel room last night? He checked his desk drawer, wondering what he’d done with her business card.

  Kieran was now moving back towards his own desk. ‘By the way, Jon,’ he pouted. ‘Love your fragrance. What is it?’

  Jon raised his middle finger. ‘Ask Iona: it’s hers.’

  Kieran turned in her direction. ‘Iona, care to share? It’s gorgeous.’

  She smiled back at him. ‘I had you down more as a Brut kind of guy, Kieran. That’s from the 1970s, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, very funny.’

  Iona joining in with the banter, Jon thought, lowering his finger and then lifting a thumb towards her. Nice!

  She grinned briefly before her eyes cut to her screen. ‘Wayne’s phone company has just sent the records.’

  A few minutes’ later she’d printed out the last three months of his calls. He’d rung three numbers on the night he died. Two early evening, one at nine forty-one. Jon retrieved his own phone and brought up Greg’s number. It wasn’t among them. Looks like I was wrong about the bloke. ‘OK: we’ve got one landline and two mobiles.’

  ‘He also received a call,’ Iona said, finger on a separate column, ‘from another mobile.’

  Jon noticed the time the call had come through. ‘Odd time for someone to be ringing him: gone two in the morning.’

  ‘And,’ Iona said, ‘he rang that number the day before. Look: eleven forty-six at night. Stayed talking for almost half an hour.’ She scanned a few more columns. ‘There – the previous week. ‘Wayne rang it again: another late-night call lasting twenty-three minutes.’

  ‘Could be his mate,’ Jon said. ‘The one whose sofa he kipped on sometimes.’

  They looked at each other. Normally, it would be a case of handing the number to the comms team for them to do a discreet trace. But they both knew there was no time for that.

  ‘Who calls it? You or me?’ Iona asked.

  What, Jon thought, if it’s the drug dealer? The one I battered. That would be bloody typical. ‘You.’

  She regarded him. ‘OK. Any particular reason, me?’

  ‘Yes. But you don’t need to know. Plus, I’ve been asking enough questions of people. There’s a chance my voice will be recognised.’

  She tapped the number in and listened. After a second, her eyebrow lifted. ‘Sorry – I’ve dialled wrong.’ She hung up and turned to Jon. ‘The person said it was the Manchester Veterans’ Helpline.’

  Jon frowned. ‘A helpline?’

  Iona had already started typing at her keyboard. ‘Yeah. Here it is.’

  Jon moved his seat closer so he could see her monitor.

  ‘Where are they based?’

  She selected the ‘About’ tab. ‘Right here. Down near Shudehill.’

  Jon scanned the menu that listed the website’s other sections. ‘Go to “Who we are” can you? Let’s see what it tells us about the staff.’

  There was only one name and a photo on the click-through screen. ‘James Pearson,’ Jon murmured. ‘Looks like a retired major. What do you think, Iona? Should we pop down to the office for a little visit?’

  ‘Let’s see what Weir and Pinner reckon,’ Iona replied, printing the charity’s details off.

  Pinner raked back his hair back while letting out a sigh. ‘I agree, it’s certainly very interesting. Martin, what are your thoughts?’

  Weir was still studying the phone records laid out on the table in Pinner’s office. ‘But Olivia Farnham didn’t call this number, correct?’

  Pinner lowered his arms. ‘Correct. But in all ways, she’s a bit of an anomaly, isn’t she? Female, didn’t serve in the armed forces, wasn’t homeless in the same way the ex-soldiers were.’

  ‘You mean,’ said Iona, ‘like he’s now altered who he’s targeting?’

  ‘That would be one interpretation,’ Pinner replied.

  Jon tapped the phone records with a finger. ‘Here’s what seems odd to me: this number called Wayne at two nineteen in the morning. Shortly after that – possibly within an hour – Wayne is dead.’

  ‘Forgive me if I’ve got the wrong end of the stick; are these helplines not there to be a ... last option for people who are considering suicide?’ There was a faintly derisory tone in Weir’s voice. ‘Places like that, I should think the measure of an operator having a bad night is a caller taking their own life. A pretty common occurrence, given the nature of the work. No?’

  ‘But,’ Jon countered, ‘that number rang Wayne, not the other way round. It doesn’t seem right to me.’

  Weir was studying the records. ‘But you said just now Wayne had rung this number ... when was it? Here you go: the day before. At 11.46 p.m., and spoke for twenty-seven minutes. So, Wayne is feeling particularly low. He rings the number for support. Speaks to an operator or volunteer or whatever they call themselves. That person marks Wayne down as vulnerable, at risk of suicide, etcetera. Whoever is working the following night – possibly the same person, possibly not – follows up to see how he’s doing.’ He glanced at Pinner. ‘I’m not convinced we should be focusing our efforts on this particular avenue.’

  The ping of an email arriving came from Pinner’s computer. Sighing, he hauled himself out of his seat and went over to his desk. As he read whatever was on the screen, his eyes narrowed. After a moment, he sat down. ‘What was that number again?’ he called over. ‘The one that called Wayne on the night he died?’

  Jon read it out.

  Pinner regarded them over his monitor. ‘I’ve got the phone records for Luke McClennan. He was found dead on Thursday the second of July, but it’s estimated his body had been there for a month. The last activity on his records is a call that he received on Wednesday third of June at 3.06 in the morning.’ He stared directly
at Jon. ‘And it was from the number you just read out.’

  Jon kept his eyes on Pinner, even though he wanted to lean close to Weir and shout triumphantly in his face. ‘Sir, can you tell me if another number features?’ He removed his phone and read out Greg Scott’s mobile.

  Pinner checked his screen. ‘Nope. Just that one call from the same number that called Wayne Newton.’

  That’s it then, Jon thought. Greg isn’t part of this.

  Pinner started tapping a finger. ‘We keep talking about this number ringing the victims. Means nothing. Let’s stop talking about it being a number that called them; it’s a person. We need to know who.’

  Chapter 35

  Jon and Iona were outside the offices of the Manchester Veterans’ Helpline within twenty minutes. The street was narrow; tall Victorian buildings rearing up each side. The entrance was on the junction with another road and, before they got to the steps, Jon slowed his pace to check no one was nearby. A motionless figure was lying in a deeply recessed doorway opposite, blankets completely swathing his head. Out for the count, Jon thought, turning to Iona. ‘Before we give anything up, let’s be totally sure of how this outfit operates.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Iona responded. ‘And I also think we should assume the guy in charge – this James Pearson – could be involved.’

  Jon nodded. ‘True, even though he seemed eager to help when I rang.’

  ‘So how shall we play it? You taking the lead, or me?’

  ‘Let’s see what sort of a person he is.’

  ‘Fine.’

  From a gap in the folds of the blanket draped over his head, Gavin Conway watched the man and woman. They made an odd couple. He was large with closely shorn hair and clothes that looked like he’d just fished them out of a bin. She barely came up to his elbow. Jet black hair tied back in a neat ponytail, small briefcase and office-style clothes. Some of what they’d said was indistinct, but he’d heard enough to learn who they were and the person they were going to see: James Pearson. What he’d feared was going to take place was already happening. The police were on to him.

  Once they’d entered the building, he threw the blanket back and sat up. He felt like he’d been poisoned. Sweat had started breaking out across his forehead and down his back. There were pins and needles in his toes. What should he do? He’d hoped to spend the early part of the evening searching for more who needed helping on their way. How long would it take the two officers to get his name and address? What if it had been Pearson who had called them? Other officers might already be at his house. Or watching it. Why had he used his work phone to call back people who’d rung the helpline? Always the little things that messed up a plan.

  He took a deep breath. Keep calm, he told himself. No point in panicking. The doorway was in shadow and, with a hood over his head, no one was going to recognise him. Best to wait. See what else he could find out.

  The receptionist directed them up to the second floor where they found a tall man in chinos and an Oxford shirt waiting. His presence out on the landing irritated Jon. It was like he’d wanted to surprise them. Take the initiative.

  ‘Detectives Spicer and Khan, I’m James.’ A hand was extended.

  Iona shook first. Jon delayed a second before lifting his hand. The hesitation caused Pearson to glance up. Jon met his eyes and held them as they shook. The man’s grip was firm, but not overly so. Certainly not the vigorous pump of a military man.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind us chatting out here,’ he said. ‘Only, the office is very modest – and open-plan. I don’t have a room of my own.’

  ‘Well,’ Jon replied, ‘we can’t talk out here.’ He dipped his head to see through the window of the door. Two rows of tables, three people sitting around chatting. Immediately, Jon sensed a shoestring operation, probably relying on a few generous donors and a load of volunteers. Like most small charities.

  ‘Right, yes,’ Pearson said, sounding a little flustered. ‘There are breakout rooms which we’re meant to book. We could chance it, if we can find one that’s empty.’

  The man seemed so ... nice. Almost vicarly, Jon thought. ‘After you.’

  He led them along the corridor to a pair of red doors. ‘Ah – we’re in luck. This one.’

  The room had a circular desk in the middle surrounded by four chairs. The window looked directly out at other offices across the narrow street. Jon could see a lady behind the nearest window gesturing at a whiteboard. He slid out the chair on the far side.

  ‘Always can tell a policeman.’ James smirked. ‘Never sit with their back to a door.’

  Iona nodded. ‘That’s DC Spicer. He’ll walk out of a pub rather than sit somewhere he can’t see everything.’

  So this is how we’ll work it, Jon thought. I’ll be the quiet suspicious one. Fine with me. ‘Old habits,’ he murmured.

  Pearson’s laugh was brief and polite. ‘Nothing wrong with that.’ Once they were all sitting, he looked from Jon to Iona and back again. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘I think,’ Iona answered, taking out a pen, ‘it would be best if you could start by telling us how your organisation works.’

  ‘Sounds a bit ominous.’ He tried a grin, but just got a tight smile back from Iona. Jon’s face didn’t move. ‘Right. We’re here to offer support to ex-servicemen who find themselves struggling. It could be that they get in trouble with the police or behind on their rent. Issues with drink or drugs. Sometimes relationships break down. Whatever the reasons, many end up homeless and often in a very fragile mental state. We are here to listen and, if we can, give advice and support.’

  ‘Like the Samaritans, then?’ Iona asked.

  ‘Yes, but with a focus on the particular issues those coming out of the armed forces might face. Often that’s post-traumatic stress disorder.’

  Iona was jotting things down. ‘And the people who work with you, they all served, themselves?’

  ‘Yes. That’s a prerequisite. They need that perspective. Often, they’ve been through similar situations themselves. Of course, that isn’t anything unusual among volunteers.’

  Jon wondered what Pearson had been through. What thing had motivated him to set up a telephone helpline?

  ‘How many do you have in at any one time?’ Iona asked.

  ‘That varies. But not all our volunteers are based in the office. Some of them keep a phone with them at home. I’d say, in all, the team averages about fifteen.’

  Jon placed an elbow on the table. ‘How does it work, then? When someone calls?’

  Now he was addressing two people, Pearson adjusted his chair slightly. ‘There is a central number – the one that appears on all our literature. When someone rings it, the switchboard routes the call through to a line that’s free. I try to make sure we have three people available to take calls at any one time. Demand rarely exceeds that. Perhaps in the early hours of a weekend.’

  Jon was thinking about when Wayne had rung the number. And when that number had rung him. ‘That’s a peak time for you, is it?’ he asked. ‘The early hours?’

  ‘Yes. If your thoughts are keeping you from sleep, it can be particularly bleak.’

  Jon nodded. ‘So when you say “line”, you actually meant someone with one of your phones?’

  ‘Yes. The telephones here in the office are connected to the switchboard. It routes calls to them first, but if the volunteers here are all busy, that call goes to one of the mobile phones. For the person calling, there’s no difference. The call is free, whoever they end up speaking to.’

  ‘And the people with a mobile phone – they can be living anywhere in the country?’ Iona asked.

  ‘In theory, yes. But this is a Manchester-based service. All of them live locally.’

  ‘How many mobile phones have you handed out?’ Iona asked.

  ‘Currently? Eleven, including mine. Phone bills are by far the charity’s largest overhead.’

  ‘We’re going to need the name and address of each person who’s currently in possess
ion of a phone registered to this organisation,’ Iona said. ‘Do you have a list?’

  ‘I do.’ His face was sombre. ‘I take it this is something I have no choice in handing over?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Jon said. ‘You could refuse. Then we go away and come back in a bit with the necessary authorisation to obtain that list. And what have you achieved? Apart from pissing us off big time, you’ll have probably contributed to the death of at least one person. Maybe more. We can work out exactly how many later and let you know.’

  ‘The death of ...’ Pearson looked crestfallen. ‘How? I don’t follow.’

  ‘Just get us the fucking thing,’ Jon growled. ‘We don’t have much time.’

  They were leaving the building with the list in less than ten minutes. Jon waited for the front door to click shut behind him. He was about to start speaking, but there was an office worker off to the side smoking a cigarette. No way of knowing which company she worked for.

  He gestured to Iona and they moved across the street. ‘Is it there?’

  ‘Is what there?’

  ‘Come on, Iona. The number that called Wayne on the night of his death.’

  ‘Oh, that number.’ She grinned up at him. ‘Yes!’

  He came to a stop and pumped a fist up and down. ‘So, we have a name and address, then?’

  ‘We do.’

  He set off again. ‘Right, let’s get back and run a full check on him. I should think we’re going to need an architect’s plan of where he lives, too.’

  ‘It’ll be treated as a hostage situation, then?’

  ‘If he has someone else’s baby in his bloody house, yes.’

  Jon saw a hand holding a cup rise from the shadows of the doorway they were passing. The cup waggled from side-to-side. The homeless person had woken up, then. Remembering how it felt to be sitting down there, Jon patted his pockets. Nothing in the tracksuit bottoms. ‘Sorry mate.’

  Down in the doorway, Gavin waited until their footsteps had faded. So, he had a little time before they came for him. That was useful to know. At least now, he could make some sort of a plan for his final hours on earth.