Murder Of Angels - a crime thriller (Detective Inspector Declan Walsh Book 2)

by Jack Gatland

  Copyright © 2021 by Jack Gatland

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without written permission from the author, unless for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, places of learning, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Hooded Man Publishing

  DI Declan Walsh Books

  LIQUIDATE THE PROFITS

  (A short story prequel - free when you join the Reader’s Club)

  LETTER FROM THE DEAD

  * * *

  MURDER OF ANGELS

  * * *

  HUNTER HUNTED

  (Coming 21st February 2021)

  WHISPER FOR THE REAPER

  (Coming April 2021)

  BEHIND THE WIRE

  (Coming June 2021)

  To Mum.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  1. Paying A Debt

  2. The Pick Up

  3. Returning Home

  4. Grave Secrets

  5. Personal Crisis

  6. Night Terrors

  7. Fathers

  8. Village Life

  9. Early Days

  10. The Worst Conversation

  11. Hidden Things

  12. Secret Rendezvous

  13. Revelations

  14. Double Trouble

  15. Teenage Kicks

  16. Mothers and Fathers

  17. The Calvary Cometh

  18. Against The Wall

  19. Sisters and Mothers

  20. Interview Two

  21. Duality

  22. Revelations 2

  23. Meetings

  24. Jigsaw Pieces

  25. An Invitation To Meet

  26. Missing Persons

  27. Visitations

  28. Hideaway Gathering

  29. Peace Talks, War Acts

  30. Mexican Standoff

  31. Countdown

  32. End Times

  Prologue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  The mornings always started with a coughing fit.

  Derek Salmon leaned over the side of his bed, violently coughing into a small clear Tupperware container that he’d left there for such situations. He’d found out the hard way that coughing blood onto a carpet first thing in the morning destroyed the weave in it, and as he’d spent a lot of money on having the entire house re-carpeted a few years back, this wasn’t on. Now Derek started his mornings leaning to the side and racking up phlegm and blood into a small plastic box; one that used to hold his packed lunch back in the days when he used to have a job.

  Cancer was a bastard.

  Getting to his feet, Derek stretched his arms and opened out his chest, trying to shake away the morning sluggishness. This was an important day. He needed to be at the top of his game today, although he had been nowhere near the top of anything in quite a while.

  After a quick shower, Derek stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. The chemotherapy had turned his once dark brown hair white, but it hadn’t fully fallen out yet, and this now made it nothing more than a collection of random white threads of hair that damply flattened out over his scalp.

  This wouldn’t do.

  Grabbing a cordless shaver, Derek ran it over his head, allowing the shaver to remove the wispy white hair, leaving the scalp with nothing more than a small amount of stubble. This done, he used the shaver on his beard scruff; he needed a full shave for the day ahead.

  Now, with a closely cropped head and a clean jawline, Derek felt he looked a little more respectable. He pulled at his skin as he stared in the mirror; his face was drawn and haggard, the skin from his rapid weight loss gathering around his jowls. But he expected this, and there was nothing that he could do about it.

  Not even makeup would hide the fact that he was dying.

  Next was dressing. For the last month he’d worn jogging bottoms and an old tee shirt as his daily clothing, with maybe a hoodie placed over it when he got a little colder, which was increasingly more common these days. He wasn’t going out anywhere, and it seemed churlish and vain to tidy himself up, to wear his better clothes for pottering around the house. But today was a day that he needed to be taken seriously. And so it was a shirt, tie, and suit day for Derek Salmon. It was the first time he’d worn such a sartorial combination in months.

  He didn’t have any breakfast as he didn’t know when he’d eat next, and he also knew that there was a very strong chance that he’d throw it back up anyway, most likely in a holding cell. No, it was better to risk hunger than shame. And, if he was finding himself peckish later, he was sure that some old friends would help him out, maybe with a few biscuits or a sandwich.

  Pulling his scarf on, Derek looked over to the sideboard in his living room. On it were photos of two women, both in their own respective frames. The older of the two was his ex-wife, Amanda. They’d been separated for over ten years now and barely spoke these days, but he liked the photo and had kept it up. As far as Derek knew, Amanda didn’t know about his illness and the terminal diagnosis; that was unless the woman in the second photo, his daughter Evie, nineteen years old and starting her second year in University right now had told her. Derek had decided early on that no matter what happened with Amanda, Evie had to be a part of this, had to be aware of this, if only to cope with the administration nightmare that would occur once he died.

  Now ready for the day ahead, opening his front door and walking out into the brisk North London air, Derek smiled to himself. For the first time in a long while he had a purpose, a reason to do something. It might not be something that he wanted or even expected to do, but he could still do it. The doors were closing on him, but this door was still wide open and beckoning.

  He didn’t have a car anymore, but the walk to the Tottenham North Crime Unit where he once worked wasn’t that far a stroll. That said, by the time he reached the entrance he was already woefully out of breath, forced to lean against the door to gain his breath before entering.

  The reception to the Unit was the same as any other London Police Station; the floor was a strange linoleum swash of lines and squares; the walls were a mixture of salmon and cream, as if they had once been lighter but years of constant crime passing through the doors had darkened them, while the doors themselves were a pale blue. And, at the front was a glass window above a white counter where the Desk Sergeant sat, waiting for people to come in and most likely ruin her day. Today, it was empty, and the Desk Sergeant looked up as Derek entered the Crime Unit, her face paling as she saw the horrific changes to the once Detective Inspector. She hid it well with a fake smile, though. Derek knew it was a fake smile. He’d seen so many of them over the last six months.

  ‘DI Salmon!’ she exclaimed. ‘Good to see you up on your feet.’

  ‘It’s just Derek these days, Maisie.’

  ‘You’ll always be DI here, sir.’

  Derek smiled back. Unlike the Desk Sergeant’s nervous one, his was genuine. Derek genuinely appreciated the sentiment, even if he was going to destroy every piece of goodwill that he’d built up there over years in the next few minutes.

  ‘Did y
ou want to go through?’ the Desk Sergeant continued, indicating one of the pale blue doors to the side. ‘I can call ahead, let them know?’

  ‘It’s not really that sort of visit today,’ Derek replied. ‘I need you to call DCI Farrow down. Or, if he’s not about, call for anyone in serious crimes.’

  The Desk Sergeant’s face broke into a frown. ‘Are you alright?’ she asked, the concern obvious in her voice.

  And it was the concern that finally broke ex-DI Derek Salmon’s patience.

  ‘Of course I’m not bloody well alright!’ he snapped. Then, composing himself, he continued. ‘Look, Maisie, we’ve known each other for years, and you’re a lovely person, but I have terminal pancreatic cancer. I’m absolutely riddled with the bloody thing. I’ve been told I have weeks left to live. Every pain-ridden moment is now important to me, and I can’t waste the minimal time I have left.’

  He leaned closer to the screen now, his voice rising.

  ‘So if I say I need to speak to DCI Farrow or the serious crimes unit, I suggest that rather than having a nice little chat about it, you do your bloody job and call them down here!’ The last part of this was shouted, and Derek felt light-headed, his legs giving way.

  No, goddammit.

  Forcing himself to straighten, he looked to the Desk Sergeant, already on the phone. After a moment, she looked back to him, the warm, sympathetic smile now gone.

  ‘DCI Farrow will be down in a bit, sir,’ she said, her tone now cold and expressionless. Derek nodded at this. He understood why she’d feel that way. At the same time though, after he’d said to Farrow what he was there to say, nobody would smile at him again, so she was ahead of the curve there.

  A minute later, DCI Farrow opened the pale blue door beside the counter, emerging cautiously into the reception area, already aware of Derek’s outburst. With his wire-rimmed glasses and tufty hair sticking out to the sides, Farrow was often likened to a rather irritated owl by the detectives who worked under him. He’d transferred into Tottenham North around six months before Derek had started his treatments, so Derek hadn’t really worked with Farrow much in the time they’d both been in the Crime Unit, and he had known little about the man except for Declan’s occasional updates.

  But he’d known enough to know that DCI Farrow was a jobsworth.

  ‘Derek,’ Farrow said, holding out his hand. Derek didn’t shake it, so Farrow let it fall back to his side. ‘What can we do for you?’

  ‘I need to speak to DI Walsh,’ Derek replied.

  ‘You need to keep up a little,’ Farrow smiled. ‘Declan Walsh no longer works here. He was transferred—’

  ‘I know, to Alex Monroe’s team,’ Derek nodded. ‘But I need you to bring him here. He needs to lead this case.’

  Farrow frowned at this, as if worried that Derek was having some kind of episode, one where he thought he was still a DI himself.

  ‘Case?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Derek said. ‘And yeah, I know you’re thinking what’s the old bugger playing at now, but it’s important to me.’ He pointed to the Desk Sergeant. ‘Promise me, in front of this witness, that after I’ve explained, you’ll bring Declan Walsh in to run the case.’

  Farrow sighed. ‘Or you could just toddle off down to Temple Inn, find him there and leave us out of whatever this is.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Derek shook his head. ‘I have to confess here. It’s part of the agreement.’

  ‘Fine,’ DCI Farrow held up his hands. ‘You do whatever it is, explain what it is you need to explain, I’ll get Walsh and his friends to come here and play with you, and you can bugger off with them, okay?’

  Derek thought about this for a moment.

  ‘I needed a legal witness,’ he explained. ‘You might change your mind. I wanted to ensure you can’t. If you don’t bring Walsh in now, a court can take my confession as under duress. I could call for a mistrial.’

  ‘What bloody confession?’ Farrow was getting exasperated at the theatrics now.

  ‘You know I’m terminal, right?’ Derek asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then you’ll understand that because of this, I’ve gone beyond the British personality disorder of caring what people think about me,’ Derek continued. ‘You’re an obnoxious little shit, Farrow, and I’ve hated you since you took over. And yes, I know, I stepped down because of all this,’ he pointed to his white stubble, ‘but there’s something just wrong with you. I can’t pinpoint it. I know it’s like my cancer, but this time it’s affecting everyone here.’

  ‘Is this the explanation?’ Farrow asked, bored now. ‘Because I really need to—’

  ‘For one bloody second just listen!’

  The reception area was silent.

  Stone faced, and silent now, Farrow motioned for Derek to continue.

  ‘You remember the Angela Martin case?’ Derek asked. ‘Was right before I stepped down fully from duties.’

  Farrow nodded, now all business, as if the mention of actual police work had brought his interest back. ‘Of course. Seventeen years old. Went missing while out with her boyfriend in Walthamstow.’

  ‘That’s the one,’ Derek said. ‘Never found a body, never found a witness. She could be out there under another name as far as we know.’

  ‘So what’s this got to do with this minor scene you’re making?’ Farrow asked. Derek shrugged.

  ‘I killed her,’ he replied. ‘I killed her, and I hid the body in Epping Forest.’

  Neither Farrow nor the Desk Sergeant spoke for a good few seconds.

  ‘That’s not funny,’ Farrow’s tone had grown dark now. ‘I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, that your condition has given you a gallows humour…’

  ‘Do I look like a damned comedian?’ Derek screamed. ‘I killed her! I confess! And when Declan Walsh takes over the case, I’ll take you to where the body’s buried!’

  He paused, a smile now on his lips, the anger fading.

  ‘But until then, how about a cuppa for old times?’ he asked. ‘I’m gasping.’

  1

  Paying A Debt

  Declan Walsh leaned nervously against the wall of the cottage and looked down at his rifle. A Heckler & Koch MP5, it was a semi-automatic carbine with a torch augmented onto the fore grip, currently aiming out of the window at the approaching Armed Response Vehicle, or ARV, that was making its way cautiously up the mud and gravel path that led towards Declan.

  This was not how the day was supposed to start, he thought to himself.

  Nervously, he let the MP5 hang down on its strap as he pulled out his gun, a Glock 17, examining it in his gloved hand, ensuring that the first bullet was in the chamber. The seconds wasted if it wasn’t could mean life or death right now. Happy that it was ready for whatever was to come, he slotted it back into the holster and watched out of the window again.

  He wore black overalls, and with the lights in the cottage not working, he hoped that this would help him blend into the shadows. His bulletproof vest was sparse; usually it would have a taser, cuffs, a radio and a ton of other things velcroed onto it; but that was for police. And currently Declan Walsh and his team were as far from police as you could get right now.

  Can’t be pissed at that, he thought to himself. This was all on us. And bloody Monroe.

  On his face was a black balaclava hiding his identity, and a helmet and goggles covered his head and eyes. It felt like overkill to Declan; when he had been in the Military Police, he’d never bothered with the headwear, preferring the simpler ballistic glasses over his eyes. That said, he was glad for the extra protection. The lack of visual appearance gave him plausible deniability in what he was about to do. And, as the enemy clambered out of the ARV, cocking their weapons and moving into positions, Declan could see that they wanted blood. His blood.

  DCI Monroe–no, now just Alex Monroe emerged from a side room, dressed the same as Declan, although he wasn’t wearing his balaclava yet, holding both it and the helmet in his hands. Monroe was slim
with a runner’s frame due to his ongoing obsession with park running, and the black overalls that he wore seemed too large for him, giving him the appearance of a young boy trying on his father’s clothes. White hair, thinning at the parting, framed a face with clear, blue eyes above a well-cropped white beard under them.

  ‘They’re here?’ he asked. Declan nodded. Monroe grimaced.

  ‘Christ, how did we get into this mess?’ he muttered, checking his own carbine.

  ‘We listened to you,’ Declan said. ‘You should put the helmet on.’

  ‘It’s too big,’ Monroe complained. ‘It’s all too big.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Declan grinned, still monitoring the activity outside. ‘You’ll grow into it one day.’

  Monroe didn’t reply, instead raising up two fingers in a V sign before pulling on the balaclava.

  ‘Where are the others?’ Declan asked, still watching the enemy outside as they moved around the building, and resisting the urge to remind Monroe once more that this total mess was because of him. ‘We need to watch out. They’re trying to flank us.’

  ‘Marcos and Davey are trying to board up the kitchen, and Anjli and Billy are upstairs with the hostages,’ Monroe replied.

  ‘Why do you do that, Guv?’ Declan asked. ‘Anjli and Billy by their first names, Marcos and Davey by their surnames?’