Angels Bleed (Fallen Angels Book 1)

by Max Hardy

  ‘That poor lady.’ said Strange sadly. ‘Whether she did or didn’t kill him, whether she is mad or not, to feel so desolate, so bereft as to inflict that kind of pain upon yourself is unimaginable. I agree. I don’t think it is her in the crate, but let’s keep the photo there for now, until we know any different. What about her?’ he asked, pointing to the photo fit in Saul’s hand. ‘Where do we put her?’

  Saul took a marker and wrote the name ‘Madame Evangeline’ just to the right of Rebecca and stuck the picture under it. ‘I know Ennis thinks she is just another personality inside Rebecca, but as I said, I don’t trust one jot the thoroughness of his assessment. I believe we have to treat her as real. We already have the potential corroboration of Rebecca’s story about this place.’ he said, glancing out of the window to the Hall. ‘We know there is a huge inconsistency with how Rebecca remembers leaving the party on New Year’s Eve and the evidence the police found. I think we have to work on the basis she is real and figure out how we prove that, and more importantly find her.’

  ‘True, but is that enough to go on, is that enough for us to get any evidence to suggest she is real in the next 16 hours, let alone find her?’ started Strange, before being interrupted.

  ‘Right,’ said Reynolds, interrupting Saul, ‘The C…C…CCTV footage is ready now Sir.’

  ‘Excellent, thank you Steven.’ answered Strange, turning and walking past the table which was covered in documents from the Evidence files provided by DI Bentley. Saul turned from the white board and followed Strange to the far wall, where one of the plasma TV’s started to show a clear black and white image.

  ‘So, you can see the high street clearly with a taxi waiting. Lots of revellers passing by, quite a few in fancy dress. It is New Year’s Eve after all.’ Strange said, relaying the footage. ‘There, pause there please Steven.’ he finished, then approached the screen.

  ‘Okay, we have what looks to be a male in an all-black Gimp outfit being led by a woman dressed in similarly black attire approaching the taxi. She certainly looks like Rebecca. That’s a very clear shot of her face.’ said Strange. ‘There’s not another woman there John.’

  ‘I see that!’ said Saul abruptly, pondering, and moving closer to the screen. ‘She’s on a mobile. Can you see that?’ prompted Saul, pointing to her right arm which was raised towards her ear. ‘Reynolds, just move that forward a few frames. Great. Now stop. Look, you can see a white mobile in her hand. Now who is she calling?’ mused Saul.

  ‘It is New Year’s Eve John, not too far off midnight, she could be calling anyone.’ answered Strange.

  ‘Yes, possibly, but she had no family, very few friends, and her son is with her. Play on Reynolds.’ instructed Saul. They watched as the two of them got into the taxi and it started to drive off. ‘Stop, there again.’ Saul said quickly. ‘Look, clear as day, she’s laughing. Whoever she is talking to, she’s laughing. Does that look like the face of a woman who is going to rip her son’s heart out to you?’

  Saul turned to the table, eyes scanning the various documents until they settled on one poking out of a small pile. ‘They would have inventoried and checked any mobile phones and calls.’ he said, picking up a bundle of papers headed ‘Flat Inventory’ and running his finger down the first page, then flipping to the second. ‘There it is.’ he said, looking up from the papers to Strange, his tone slightly perplexed. ‘The inventory lists her mobile as a Nokia Lumia, a black Nokia Lumia.’ He flicked further through the bundle, stopping on a page near the back. ‘There’s a list of calls to that mobile. The last was to her son’s mobile at 4:48pm for 15 minutes. And then no calls at all after that.’

  Strange was back at the whiteboard, and wrote ‘White Mobile Phone?’ underneath Rebecca’s name. ‘What does that tell us then?’ he asked, turning to Saul.

  ‘The main thing it tells me is that I am even more concerned about how thorough the original investigation was. There’s no notes at all about that phone in the files.’ said Saul, picking up one of the main documents at the front of the table: Rebecca’s original statement.

  ‘She makes no reference to it either. Yet it’s there. Rebecca mentions being in a limousine with Madame Evangeline and her Gimp. Why didn’t she refer to him as her son?’ he mused, before continuing. ‘She doesn’t mention anything about the two of them getting into a Taxi. Reynolds, play the video of them getting out of the Taxi.’ Saul instructed.

  Reynolds did so, and the image changed to a Taxi pulling up on a street with a few shops, all of them closed. No one was visible apart from Rebecca and the Gimp getting out of the Taxi. They linked arms and started to walk off down the street, in a direction away from the camera. They were visibly swaying from side to side as they walked.

  ‘What’s the name of that street, can you zoom in on the sign Reynolds?’ asked Saul, pointing to a blurry name plate. Reynolds did so, the words ‘Settle Avenue’ coming into view.

  ‘Reynolds, bring up a map on your computer and punch in the addresses of that street and Rebecca’s flat.’ Saul said brusquely.

  ‘What are you thinking John?’ asked Strange, looking at Saul, whose eyes were darting from the notes he was reading, to the screens in front of him.

  ‘I’m wondering why they didn’t get dropped off at her flat. Reynolds, can you also overlay the locations of known CCTV camera’s onto that as well?’ he enquired, moving towards the screen as a map appeared of the Leith area.

  ‘I’ll try.’ answered Reynolds as he entered the address information, two red pins appearing on the screen about a centimetre apart.

  ‘They seem to be heading off in the direction of her flat, but it’s about a half a mile away. Why?’ Saul pondered, drawing his finger over the route between the two pins.

  ‘John, they may just have wanted a bit of fresh air. If you look at the way they were staggering, there’s no doubt they were intoxicated. How do you think this helps us figure out if Madame Evangeline is real? Please remember we only have sixteen hours left and we have to focus our efforts. I know you are seeing inconsistencies, but are they material in a way that will help us?’ Strange stated in a soft, conciliatory tone.

  A look of frustration shot into Saul’s eyes as he quickly turned to look at Strange, but it abated almost immediately as he recognised the openly honest, challenging demeanour of his superior. ‘Sorry Sir.’ he said. ‘We have a half mile trip within which we don’t know what happened. What if it was Madame Evangeline she was talking too on the phone, arranging to meet up? If this woman is real, she is someone who likes to maintain her anonymity, she is someone who likes to cover their trail. It’s half a mile where they could have possibly climbed into a limousine and headed here. If we can get other CCTV footage of their short trip?’ Saul finished, the last words half statement, half question.

  ‘Possibly, John, being the operative word. We still have no conclusive evidence to suggest this is the location Rebecca was talking about. It’s just as likely that our ‘Unknown Caller’ has set this up based on openly available information in the case documentation: we have to consider that.’ posed Strange.

  ‘I understand that Sir. But either way, we were led here, in particular, I was led here on the basis of there being evidence which would point us to an alternate ‘killer’. If that alternate ‘killer’ is Madame Evangeline, we have to try and find out who she is and how she was involved. We have to find a link between both this location and how they arrived here.’

  ‘Sir,’ interrupted Reynolds, ‘I’ve managed to map all the CCTV cameras in the area.’

  Saul and Strange turned back to the screen, dozens of purple pins now highlighting camera locations, the immediate radius around the red pin of Rebecca’s flat clear, the nearest camera being the red pin on Settle Avenue.

  ‘Shit.’ shouted Saul in frustration, realising there were no other cameras on the trip to the flat.

  ‘Well, I guess that rules out getting any images of the two of them closer to the flat, which is possibly where Bentl
ey and our Leith colleagues got to in their investigation.’ said Strange firmly, addressing the still brooding, calculating countenance of Saul.

  On the screen just to the left of the map, Harris nervously edged himself into the empty seat in the Path Lab Video Conferencing suite. ‘Hello gents. Can you hear me?’ he asked, uncomfortably staring into the camera.

  ‘Ah, Ian, what news have you got for us?’ asked Strange, his tone turning jovial again.

  ‘We’ve got results back on the other blood samples taken. One really odd, the other interesting. The odd one is the blood spatter. Initial tests showed it was animal blood, which subsequent tests confirmed. The odd thing is that the animal is snake. Now, it would have taken a large number of snakes, I’m talking a couple of hundred, to create the amount of blood that was splayed around the room. I would suggest checking exotic pet suppliers to see if any registered keepers have been on a buying spree recently.’

  ‘That’s promising Ian.’ nodded Strange, walking to the whiteboard and writing ‘Snake Blood’ under ‘Unknown Caller’. ‘Phyllis, could you start looking into breeders and suppliers in the area please?’ he asked, coming up behind her and placing a hand gently on her shoulder, smiling appreciatively down at her. She nodded, a fleeting smile crossing her stern features.

  ‘Okay Ian, what about the interesting news?’ asked Strange, looking back up at the screen.

  ‘The interesting result is from the older bit of dried blood and hair that were on the edge of the fireplace. Interesting in that it is definitely blood and hair from Michael Angus. Given how ingrained it was in the fireplace and how much it was dried out, my opinion is that the blood has been there for a while, more than likely from the time Michael died. Darrie is currently checking the contusion on Michael’s head.’

  ‘Do you think Michael may have banged his head on the fireplace?’ Strange asked, directly.

  ‘That’s what it looks like.’ answered Harris.

  ‘Which gives us,’ Saul interjected, ‘something concrete to tie Michael into this location. Which tips the balance of probability towards this being the place they visited on the night he died, in line with Rebecca’s statement. Which also means, we have one bit of information our Leith colleagues never had.’

  ‘Which is?’ questioned Strange.

  ‘The route they would have left the city. There are only three A roads that bring you here. The A1, the A68 or the A697. We might not have the footage from close to her flat, but we can now check CCTV for a black limousine heading out of Leith, near midnight, on one of those three roads, towards Featherstone Hall.’

  8:55 am

  The toilet role holder was metal, she could see the edge of it was rusting and serrated with age. She ran a thumb heavily along the uneven surface, specks of rust dropping off under the force, drawing a sliver of blood. One of the screws securing the holder to the dull white painted stone wall was slightly loose. Her eyes lit up at the sight of it and she shot a furtive glance to the cubicle door which was slightly ajar.

  ‘It’s the simple things that strip away the dignity, that make you feel worthless.’ Rebecca began, her voice slightly raised, her face intent, eyes darting between her shaking fingers and the door as she slowly turned the screw. ‘Wearing nappies was the worst. A grown woman, wearing nappies. Having the orderlies change me, like a baby. Not that they needed it, but giving them another opportunity to fiddle with me as they cleaned. I was never complicit in that. I hated it. I felt dirty and degraded. It was always a challenge, on medication, to keep control of my bowels and bladder, but I tried. I would sometimes hold it in for days so they wouldn’t have to touch me. It was dirty. Dirty. Dirty. Dirty. This is the first time since I was committed that I have sat on a real toilet. Thank you for letting me do this.’ she finished, noisily unrolling the paper as she finished loosening the screw, which she wrapped in a piece of tissue with one hand as she wiped herself below with the other. She then secreted the little parcel up inside her vagina, smarting slightly as she forced it in.

  ‘All done.’ she said loudly, flushing the chain as she stood and made her way unsteadily out of the cubicle. Dr Hanlon was leaning against one of the ceramic sinks as Rebecca approached an empty one beside him. There was a mirror on the wall behind it. She stopped dead as she saw her reflection looking back at her, her whole body visibly sagging, mouth dropping open and eyes widening with shock as she took in her damaged façade.

  ‘Jesus.’ she said, her voice trembling, lips quivering, eyes glistening with the tears that were starting to form. ‘I never realised.’ she continued, raising a hand to her face and stroking it gently over the scars on her cheek, letting the fingertips linger on their ridges. Tears started to meander from the corners of her eyes, following the landscape of scars to meet those fingertips. She moved her fingers down to the cracked lips, opening her mouth to lick away a ravaged tear. She physically convulsed as she saw the wizened, gnarled stump of her tongue. ‘Oh God, what have I done!’ she shrieked, as another convulsion wracked her body and she bent double, vomiting into the sink. Dr Hanlon stood up immediately and grabbed her around the waist as she began to sag, her body convulsing again as she emitted another spurt of vomit: most of her breakfast.

  ‘It’s okay Rebecca, it’s just shock, let it flow, just let it flow.’ Dr Hanlon said, consoling her, supporting her body over the sink and rubbing her back gently. She was breathing heavily, looking down into the vomit strewn bowl, the wracking now abating. She turned on the tap and started to wash away her sick, straightening her back as she did so.

  She looked into the mirror once more and let out a strained humourless laugh. ‘I am one scary motherfucker.’ she said while trying to get control of her breathing.

  Dr Hanlon’s head peered over her shoulder, his reflection exuding a charming, crooked Irish smile, warmth radiating from his eyes as he said, ‘I don’t think it’s your best look, no.’

  ‘I’m alright now Doc, thanks, just need to clean myself up.’ she said to his reflection. He nodded and took one step back from her, still keeping eye contact in the mirror. She finished cleaning the bowl, then splashed her face with cold water, letting out a huge sigh as she did so.

  ‘Well Doc, I think I need a sit down now.’ she said, turning towards him and linking his arm. ‘I’ll help you back to the cell, shall I?’ she finished, with a sheepishly mischievous look.

  ‘Oh, okay.’ he acknowledged playfully. ‘My leg is playing up a bit, so any support you can give me would be greatly appreciated.’ he continued as she held his arm tightly, almost snuggling into it. They left the washroom and slowly headed back down a narrow corridor, one side covered floor to ceiling in cracked, stained white porcelain bricks, the other similar, but broken up by narrow metal cell doors every two metres.

  ‘I don’t believe anybody deserves the kind of suffering you have put yourself through.’ he started, feeling her body tense as she prepared to rebuke him, adding quickly, ‘Regardless of how justified you think it is. We have failed you.’

  ‘I don’t think you had much hope with a head case like me. Anyway, how can you say ‘We?’ You have only looked after me for the last few weeks. I’ve only known you for a few hours. You,’ she said, poking a finger into his ribs, ‘are the first person to make me care enough to want to understand. So, less of the self-deprecating ‘We’ please, that’s my territory.’

  ‘That’s not quite what I meant, but alright, I’ll stop going on about it. Tell me more about Madame Evangeline. What was your relationship like?’ Dr Hanlon asked as he limped back into the cell, both of them sitting down in their respective seats.

  ‘I was her slave to start with and she was my teacher. I would agonisingly waiting for a text or a call that would signal our next assignation. I couldn’t call her. Yes, she had given me a mobile, but every time she called, the number came through as unknown. It was the same when she texted me, ‘Unknown’: I didn’t even think that was possible.’

  ‘How did you feel about that, b
eing totally at the behest of someone else?’

  ‘Honestly? When I didn’t hear from her, which was sometimes weeks at a time, the anticipation, no, the frustration of the wait was exquisite agony. I felt like a lovesick teenager all over again, feeling a hollow sorrow that tomorrow was far too far away. I know it was control. I know that she was teaching me, and when that phone bleeped, or rang, it felt totally different. The exhilaration was overwhelming and the thought of our next date consumed me, absorbing my every thought until it happened.’

  ‘It was the thrill of the unknown. I was never sure when she would get in touch and I was never sure where we would be going. It would usually start with a text telling me what to wear. It would either be something she knew I had, or an order to go to a particular shop and buy a specific outfit. From then, through the rest of the evening, usually until about ten o’clock, I would receive dozens of messages. Some would be instructions on what I needed to do next while getting ready. Some were seductive teases asking me to think about particular moments on our previous encounters, asking me to relive where she laid her hands on me.’

  ‘But you didn’t have any say in that, any choice in how a date would go?’ Dr Hanlon probed.

  ‘I always had a choice, when you come down to it. I could have thrown the phone in the bin and just got on with my life. It was my choice to get involved, to live through each and every enlightening encounter we experienced together. It was only the last…’ she paused, her lip starting to tremble as she talked, hands crossed on her knees, one fingernail rubbing the strap weal on her wrist momentarily, before she regained control and continued. ‘Let’s not think about the last time, just yet.’ she finished, looking deep into Dr Hanlon’s eyes with a haunted smile on her face.