Broken Angel

by Diane M Dickson

  His computer was in the office, they had been working on it and probably it was too soon to expect a report, but it must be there, in the headquarters. She had no choice but to wait for morning. She swallowed some yoghurt, drank coffee cooled to acceptable with lots of milk. By five she was dressed and ready, her fingers tapping at the keyboard, trying to be patient. She needed to move now, she couldn’t let him get away. This was nearly over, nearly a success; despite the two women victims it had gone well, though they would always haunt her. She accepted that, it was part of the job. They had that right.

  Chapter 49

  The IT department worked on a flexible time system, and the first computer nerd turned up at seven. Tanya was standing in the corridor, leaning against the wall, scrolling through messages on her phone, catching up with reports from the day before.

  He sighed when he saw her, he’d been planning on a nice relaxed coffee before anyone else came in. Anyway, he booted up his machine and inserted the drive they had made as a clone of Harper’s computer. She signed the requests, formalised everything, pleaded with him to let her have hard copies of the diary entries, the casual database of work that he had. There would be stuff here, hidden somehow, but to do with the delivery of stolen goods; she’d pass that on to Kate to work through but what she wanted was his customer database. His records of house clearances. As the printer spat them out she grinned her thanks at the technician and jogged up to her own office.

  There weren’t that many. She shouldn’t do this on her own. She could call Charlie or one of the others, but they had finished late last night, and this was just an idea. It could come to nothing.

  She opened Google Maps, put in the first address, printed out a copy of the map and then used an old-fashioned pen to mark the other places. It didn’t seem that he travelled far, he used the council tip often and of course the charity shops. He had them marked with the name of the manager and whether they sold wedding dresses. She smiled as another little key slotted home.

  The first two addresses were small houses, terraced and occupied. Either the residents who had employed his services had been having a clear out or, if they had been sold, they already had new owners. The third was a flat in the top of a block of expensive apartments, speaker entry systems, heavy duty locks on the front and back doors. No way.

  Then her route took her away from the city of Oxford, out into the countryside. A small village with a big name: Woodstock. Famous for Blenheim Palace but small in terms of a town. The address was in a narrow street of stone houses. She parked in the car park by the library, even this early it was nearly full, but the on-street restrictions gave her little choice. She walked through the winding streets. The houses had bay windows with tiny panes, old doors with fanlights. It was very English, quaint. The house that he had cleared had scaffolding erected over the three-storey frontage. The lower windows were protected with boards. There was a small gate that gave entry to a side passage. It was old and mouldy with iron nail heads in the panels, and a rusted old handle. She reached out and was surprised when it opened.

  She pushed into the narrow passage and closed the gate behind her. It was damp, weedy and neglected and led to a tiny rear courtyard garden. There was no sign of life.

  Tins of paint, planks of wood and other building debris had been dumped in what should have been a charming little space. A set of furniture covered in plastic sheets was piled in a corner, forlorn and dirty.

  The rear windows were boarded the same as the front, protection from the machinations of builders. She walked to the door, bent low to look at the doorknob. There were scratches here, grooves in the wood, damage that was not in-keeping with the degree of protection elsewhere. This was probably a listed building, had to be treated with respect, not dug at, and besmirched with a careless screwdriver.

  She stepped back. She should call for back up. Charlie would be awake now, Joshua would have seen to that, surely. But, if she was wrong, it was a long way for him to come on a wild goose chase and there was plenty of other stuff for him to be getting on with.

  * * *

  The floor inside was gritty and covered in sheets of polythene. The smell was damp plaster, paint and putty – an old-fashioned smell in an ancient house. The small square kitchen had been stripped of units and the tap dripped into a plastic bucket standing on black and white tiles.

  She paused, listened. There was nothing. But that back door should have been secured, the garden gate fastened.

  There was a narrow hallway, a flight of stairs to the upper floors and doors into rooms at the front. She glanced into them and found more of the same: polythene, paint cans, folding work benches. On the stairs, in the dust, there was just one set of footprints, heading upwards. Big, man-sized. She took in a breath, pulled the can of PAVA spray from her shoulder bag and began to climb.

  Chapter 50

  The boards on the windows let in little stripes of light, enough to walk around without her torch. She glanced into the bathroom, a nasty sixties suite was in here, the green plastic bath was the same as her mum and dad used to have. There was a room at the front, empty, dirty and one at the rear overlooking the little garden. She turned on the half landing and went up to the next floor. The rooms there were not as big, having sloping ceilings, and smaller windows. They hadn’t got this far with the boarding and it was easy to see that the rooms were empty. So, it had been a wasted journey. She was glad now that she hadn’t bothered anyone else. The landing on the third floor was a small square, there was a trap door above it and she wondered for a moment, remembering where she had found Jane, but it would be a squeeze for her to get through and Harper was much bigger than she was. The only other door was beside the tiny second bathroom, in the centre of the house. It was a linen closet. Instinct told her to check everywhere.

  He didn’t give her a chance to pull the door fully open. As soon as it had moved a crack he burst forward. The door smashed into the side of Tanya’s head, knocking her towards the steep staircase. She spun and clung to the newel post at the top, her ears ringing, tears of pain blurring her eyes. He strode towards her, two steps only for his long legs in the small space. She had regained her balance, planted her feet more firmly on the creaking boards but he was on her now. Grabbing and clawing at his face she tried to drive him backwards. She screamed at him. The blow from the door had knocked the spray can from her grasp and it had rolled into the corner, out of reach.

  She was lifted bodily, yelling, and twisting in his arms. He moved half a pace sideways to the top of the stairs, tensed, leaned, and hoisted her above the level of the balustrade.

  She clutched at his sweatshirt, grabbing the edge of the hood, the tie string tangling around her fingers. She kicked at him, tried to aim her foot at his groin, but couldn’t get the space, the angle was all wrong. She tried to butt him, but he pulled back. Now she had squirmed sideways and hooked her feet around the banister rails, wrapping her arms more tightly around his neck. She tried to bite, to claw, but he bent and leaned and jerked away.

  Then he dragged her forward, forcing her feet from the rails. She shouted with the pain in her ankles, she thumped and hammered at him – any part of him that she could reach. He was strong, but she was fighting for her life and desperation made her more than she was.

  She stretched up, pulled his head forward, bending him at the waist, her fingers locked in his hair. She opened her mouth and clamped her teeth onto his cheek. He screamed, his arms loosened, she fell, thrusting him away, grabbing again at the banisters as the force pushed her backwards down the first two steps.

  He had covered his face with his hands, blood was seeping between his fingers. He wiped at the bloodied cheek, looked down at her, shook his head, turned and ran from the tiny landing into the bedroom at the front of the house. She was after him before he had a chance to slam the door.

  He lurched across the boards and launched himself at the window, smashing through frame and glass and landing in a heap on the scaffolding in f
ront of the house. He rolled onto the wooden walkway. One of the vertical metal poles stopped his forward movement but momentum carried his legs over the edge. He began to slide. Though she didn’t know what his intention had been, she watched in horror as instinct caused his hands to clutch at the metal bars. Gravity pulled him further, his legs kicking and flailing in mid-air.

  It was too far for her to reach him from inside. She would have to step onto the scaffolding. It shuddered with the weight of him dangling two floors above the street.

  He raised his face to look at her, blood from the bite wound dripping from his chin, fear widening his eyes, bruised black from where she had broken his nose in the cottage. She felt the ache in her ankles, remembered the pathetic curled heap of Jane in the attic, the sparkle and gleam of beads and sequins on the gowns of his angels. She knew that he was mad, that the legal system would put him in a place of safety. Sarah wasn’t coming back, Millie wasn’t coming home. There was no justice for them, nothing could change their fate.

  She heard the screech of car tyres in the street outside, the shouts of pedestrians gathered to look up at the man hanging from the scaffolding.

  His blood slick hands were slipping on the metal pole, he was sliding downwards, away from her, out of her reach.

  Chapter 51

  Sirens screamed in the distance. Someone in the street below had stopped filming long enough to do some good and call the emergency services. The sound of colleagues racing towards her snatched her back to the present, to the thing she had to do. Tanya stepped through the window – clinging to the frame, and crouching – out onto the scaffolding. Her stomach lurched when she saw the distance from the ground, the upturned faces in the street below. She pushed back the panic and focused on the man in front of her, sliding further over the edge. The fingers of one hand clawed around the pole. His legs flailed less wildly, his attention was on his upper body. She saw the desperate grip, the bulging muscles of his arms that were beginning to quiver and shake. She reached for him, wrapped a hand around one of his wrists. His other hand was clinging to the edge of the walkway where a metal strut ran under the wood, an inadequate grip. This arm was further away, a different angle, harder to reach. She forced herself to let go of the window frame, moved a few inches, nearer to the edge. The crowd were mostly quiet, suspended in the drama. Now and then when Harper’s legs moved, or the scaffolding groaned and creaked, someone would scream, and there would be a communal gasp.

  His wrists were thick, Tanya’s hands didn’t wrap all the way around, there was no way she could drag him back to safety, the most that she could hope for was to hold him until help arrived or he found his own way to clamber back. She was exposed out here, kneeling on the rough boards, nothing to cling to if he fell, as surely he must. He would drag her with him and they would both plummet into the street below. She should lay across the boards, hook her feet around the window frame. She didn’t know how to do it, couldn’t find a way. Her legs were tucked under her body in a half crouch. She had made a terrible mistake. She needed to stretch her legs out from beneath her, she couldn’t force her body to obey. Terrified to move in case that was the moment he lost his battle with gravity, she was frozen.

  His eyes met hers, terror reflected in them. “Come on.” She managed a gasp, “Come on you bastard.” She stretched further, slid her hand around his wrist a little tighter, further up his right arm. She bent her upper body nearer to the boards, if she could just stretch out her legs she would be safer, she needed to do it now. She glared at him, “Come on.”

  She saw as his eyes shut down, watched as he accepted what had become inevitable; she felt his hand relax, saw the fingers loosen. She would go with him when he went, he knew that didn’t he? She saw that he knew that.

  She wasn’t ready to die.

  She let go her grip, closed her eyes and listened to the screams.

  The thud of his body was faint where she was but after a second of shocked suspension, the crowd erupted in turmoil.

  * * *

  There were things she should do, she ought to take charge but for now, with her knees turned to water and her heart pounding, all she was capable of was falling back onto her behind and leaning against the window frame. She knew already that his face, as he gave up the struggle, would stick with her for a long time, maybe forever.

  She had tried. She had tried as hard as she could. Hadn’t she? Had the few moments that she hesitated, her mind filled with thoughts of the dead women, made that much difference? Had fear for her own safety caused her to fail? She lowered her head onto her knees and let the shock and reaction have its way.

  As soon as she was able she gathered herself and, with a deep breath, swivelled around, jumped back into the room, and went to join the first responders who had screamed to a halt outside, sirens wailing, blue lights bouncing reflections from the windows of the houses in the narrow street.

  As she brushed the tears from her face and crossed the room towards the stairs she pulled out her phone and called Charlie.

  “I’m in Woodstock. Can you come?”

  She told him only that she’d found Harper, there’d been an incident, gave him the name of the street and assured him that he’d find it, no problem, and it would be best if he came over as soon as he could. Dragging out her warrant card she stepped into the crowded scene, glancing just once at the broken body on the flags. She didn’t need more, she had witnessed his last moments, it was enough. Incredibly none of the gawping bystanders had been hurt, though one or two were sitting on the pavement quaking with shock, tended by friends or strangers. The officers from the cars were pushing back those who still wanted more of the spectacle and the paramedics knelt beside Peter Harper, no infusions, no attempt at resuscitation, their quiet told her everything there was to know.

  * * *

  By the time Charlie arrived they had a plastic cover shielding Peter Harper’s corpse. The road was closed to all but the police vehicles. Tanya was back inside the house, sitting on an upturned box sipping a cup of strong tea stolen by a policewoman from the provisions the builders had kept in a carton in the kitchen.

  She heard Charlie’s voice outside, put the thick paint-spattered mug on the floor and went out to where he was catching up on what had happened.

  “Hiya Charlie.”

  “You okay, boss?”

  She nodded at him, managing a smile. “I don’t know why I called you, Charlie. I don’t know what you can do really. We’re waiting for the van to take him away. There’s no mystery here, I was part of it, but I just wanted some support.” She knew she sounded weaker than she should. If it had been anyone else she couldn’t have been so honest, but this was Charlie. He raised a hand, she knew his instinct was to hug her, that was how he was, but he touched her shoulder just once, nodded, looked up at the broken window, “I thought you didn’t like heights?”

  “Yeah well, nothing’s changed there.” She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder. “I’m in the car park, I’ll meet you at the end of the road. Best get back, there’ll be a heap of paperwork after this and I could murder for a bacon sandwich.”

  “Good enough, and I think it’s your turn for breakfast. All the team’ll be there. This is going to cost you.”

  With a last glance at the plastic tent she turned away. There was still a lot to do.

  Chapter 52

  The team were hyped up. There was a round of applause as Tanya and Charlie walked into the office, their hands full of bags from the café. She grinned at them. That was nice. The drive back to Oxford and the bacon sandwich had done a lot to calm her nerves.

  There would be off-colour jokes, black humour, and despite the little knot of horror deep inside she knew that she would laugh and shake her head and let them believe she could shrug it off and leave the experience behind her.

  There was a meeting later with the boss, there was the paperwork, the internal enquiry; it would all move on.

  She would go to the funerals, both of them, they wo
uld send flowers from the team. No court case though, not this time and it was a sort of blessing because they all knew that he hadn’t been fit to be tried and it would never have felt enough seeing him locked away in a secure hospital.

  She would go to the other grave as well, just take some flowers. Now that there was a name, she could write it on the label – recognition.

  “So, I need to get up to speed on the pilfering. What’s the situation there?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Kate and Paul have got it pretty much wrapped up I reckon. There were four other people involved, three from the hotel and one from his office, a secretary. She had a hand in fiddling the books. I don’t think they were making much from it to be honest, it’s all a bit low key, a bit sordid. But it’s another point for us, isn’t it?”

  “I wonder whether he killed himself because of the theft or more because he had an idea that Peter Harper was – well who he was.”

  “Apparently he’d been part of the congregation at the church Simpson preached at most often. People there said that they were close. He might well have had an idea that there was something not right about him. At the least he had brought him to the service areas, regularly, up in the offices where he could look down on the punters.” He shrugged again. “They’re both dead. There are going to be some questions we’ll never be able to answer.”

  She nodded, pushed her chair back, sipped at the second cup of coffee. “How’s Joshua, Carol?”

  The mention of his family made Charlie smile. “Yeah, not bad. Joshua actually slept for a good while last night. Carol is still struggling, but you know, she’ll be okay. We’ll make it.”

  “You should take a couple of hours off. Spend some time with her before the next job.” A shadow crossed his face, he glanced down at the napkin in his hand. “I will, I was going to put in for some leave to be honest.”