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

by Jack Gatland

  Father Lawson stared coldly at Jackie Lucas for a long moment before finally nodding.

  ‘I’ll give Daniel your regards,’ he said. Jackie spat onto the mat he stood on.

  ‘You tell Danny that we’re done if he does this,’ he said. ‘I’ve let his actions over the last year fly because of all the shit with Angie. And you too, for that matter. But once this is done? He moves on. You both do. Tell him that.’

  Father Lawson nodded and turned from Jackie, leaving the club.

  ‘I’ll pray for you both,’ he said as he walked out of the door and onto the street outside.

  Father Lawson had never met Declan Walsh before. Even though Derek Salmon had spoken of him many times, and even begged Father Lawson to frame Walsh while ending his pain, he’d never shown a photo of the man to the priest. And that was why, as Father Lawson exited the Globe Town Boxing Club, turning westwards towards Bethnal Green, he didn’t recognise the man standing on the corner of Bullards Place and Warley Street, watching the entrance to the building.

  And as for Declan, he stood calmly, watching the priest leave, allowing him to turn north down Morpeth Street, moving out of sight before following.

  Because Declan recognised Father Lawson.

  And Declan Walsh wanted closure.

  26

  Missing Persons

  The moment the neighbours had heard the gunshot, the police had been called. And the moment that the tracker on the car had shown it to be DI White’s car, DCI Bullman and Doctor Marcos had raced to the scene.

  By the time they arrived, the scene had been locked down by the Washwood Heath police, a young police sergeant currently in discussion with several worried looking PCSOs, pointing out areas to cover as the forensics team finished setting up a tent over the body.

  Exiting the car first, Bullman strode over to the sergeant.

  ‘DCI Bullman,’ she said, flashing her ID. ‘You the Duty Officer here?’

  ‘For my sins,’ the sergeant replied. He was tall with short-cut balding hair, giving him a Jason Statham-esque vibe. ‘Sergeant Parker, ma’am.’

  ‘Who’s the Divisional Surgeon?’ Doctor Marcos asked, already pulling blue latex gloves out of her coat pocket. The sergeant shrugged.

  ‘Nobody here yet, ma’am,’ he said. Doctor Marcos nodded.

  ‘Then I’ll take it on until someone does,’ she said. Bullman however grabbed her by the arm before she could continue on.

  ‘Five months,’ she whispered. ‘No crime scene duties—’

  ‘Dammit, Bullman. Monroe was in the car,’ Doctor Marcos snapped. ‘You can damn well arrest me if you want, but I’m attending the scene and I’m the best qualified here.’

  Bullman looked around the street, at the police constables, the forensics officers. They all seemed so young.

  ‘Go,’ she said, loosening her grip. ‘Find out who killed my man.’

  Pulling a mask on, Doctor Marcos walked off towards the car where three forensic officers were already working. Bullman turned to see a PCSO walking an old lady towards her.

  ‘This is Mrs Baldwin,’ the PCSO, a young Indian woman explained. ‘She saw everything.’

  ‘What did you see?’ Bullman asked. Mrs Baldwin pointed to the car.

  ‘The man there stopped the car and two other, younger men came out of one parked there. The man, the dead one that is, he got out and faced them. They shot him, grabbed an old man out of the front and a small kiddie out the back.’

  ‘Was the old man fighting them?’

  ‘He looked like they’d knocked him out,’ Mrs Baldwin said. ‘Sorry, but by that point I’d moved away from the window as I was calling you.’

  ‘Did you see the two men?’

  ‘It was a way away, and I didn’t have my glasses on. But one of them, the one that fired the gun, was black.’

  Bullman frowned at this. ‘You mean a person of colour?’

  ‘No, I mean black. Black jacket, black trousers. Looked like a funeral director.’

  Bullman nodded at this. There was only one person who fitted that sort of description.

  Macca Byrne.

  She shook Mrs Baldwin’s hand. ‘Understood. Thank you. The constable here will take you somewhere comfortable for your statement.’

  Leaving the witness to the PCSO, Bullman walked over to the white incident tent, pulling on her own gloves and mask as she did so. Peering in, she looked to the floor, where in a puddle of dried blood she could see the dead body of DI White.

  They had shot him in the face, his features mangled by the impact. His greying hair had a tinge of pink to it, and his hands were empty, open.

  He was talking. He was negotiating. And they killed him.

  Leaving the tent, Bullman walked over to the car now. Doctor Marcos was at the passenger side door now, sniffing a coffee cup that had spilled onto the floor. Beside it was Monroe’s discarded phone.

  ‘They ensured I couldn’t track him,’ Doctor Marcos showed the phone angrily.

  ‘Looks like White was stopped by Macca Byrne and a henchman,’ Bullman said. ‘He stopped the car and got out to speak to them, maybe try to reason with them. Strange they were here though, I thought with the Delcourts killing Wes O’Brien, they’d all be returning to the nest and hunkering down.’

  Doctor Marcos rose from her kneeling position by the door, motioning silently for Bullman to follow her.

  ‘We need to talk,’ she said, looking around, ensuring that as they passed the crime scene perimeter that no other officers followed them. ‘Somewhere private.’

  There was a minibus next to them; Doctor Marcos slipped behind it, out of sight of the police. Confused, Bullman went to follow–but found herself facing a furious Doctor Marcos who’d brought a wicked-looking scalpel up to Bullman’s throat.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Doctor Marcos hissed. ‘You even twitch and I will nick your carotid artery. You’ll spray everywhere, but I’m not afraid of blood. And you won’t be too, as you’ll be dead in ten seconds or so.’

  ‘What the hell?’ Bullman replied, staying completely still.

  ‘The coffee cup,’ Doctor Marcos explained. ‘It was on the passenger side. If White was driving, then Monroe would have sat there. And he would have drunk it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It looked like coffee, but there was an oily slick on the sides. Examining it, there was a hint of salt and soap to the touch and smell.’

  ‘GHB?’

  ‘Oh, you know your date rape drugs then? Good. Yes, Gamma Hydroxy butyric Acid, better known as Liquid Ecstasy. Now I’ve not done a full test on the cup yet, but I’ll bet you whatever you want that there was a shit ton of GHB in Monroe’s coffee, enough to knock him out. And if that’s the case, then the only way it would have happened was if he was given the coffee by someone who put it in. And as White was the only other person in the car…’

  ‘You think White did this?’ Bullman was appalled. Doctor Marcos shrugged.

  ‘So far, since we got to Birmingham, we’ve met a constable and a PCSO who both worked for the Byrnes. What’s a Detective Inspector to add to the list? And as he worked for you…’

  Tired of this, Bullman knocked the scalpel away.

  ‘I’m not working for the Byrnes,’ she hissed. ‘God, I only moved here a few months ago to cover maternity duty! And there may be rotten apples, but that’s not the entire unit!’

  She looked to the sky, sighing.

  ‘This isn't right. It doesn't scan correctly. Macca Byrne shot White, but if he was helping them, why would they do that?’

  ‘Maybe White worked for the father? Not the son?’ Doctor Marcos added. ' Also, why did they take Monroe rather than shooting him too?' Bullman thought for a moment. ‘They need him for something.’

  Doctor Marcos nodded. ‘That’s what worries me.’

  Bullman held her hands up. ‘We friends now?’

  Doctor Marcos nodded, placing the scalpel away. ‘I just want my DCI back.’

  Bullman placed he
r hands on Doctor Marcos’s shoulders.

  ‘Never hold a knife on me again,’ she said, bringing her knee up hard, connecting with Doctor Marcos’ midsection, sending her gasping, winded to the floor. ‘Unless you intend to use it.’ Bullman moved out from behind the minibus, returning to the crime scene. Doctor Marcos smiled to herself as she regained her breath.

  ‘Ooh, I like her,’ she muttered to herself before pulling out her phone and pressing speed dial.

  ‘It’s Rosanna,’ she said into it when the call answered. ‘Gather the babies. Code red.’

  Declan had followed Father Lawson onto the Central Line at Bethnal Green, and had changed trains at Tottenham Court Road for the Northern Line. He’d kept his distance, always ensuring that although he was still in view of Father Lawson, he was never too close, too obvious. And, staying at a distance, he followed the priest off the train at Euston, and up the escalators into Euston Station itself.

  Not realising that he was being followed, Father Lawson bought a ticket from the machine on the concourse, with Declan, a couple of people behind in the queue paying close attention to the destination. He wasn’t sure whether he’d read the screen right, but when it was his turn to reach the machine, he noted that there was a receipt on the floor, forgotten by Father Lawson when he left that stated that he had bought a single to Milton Keynes, which matched what Declan had seen. Buying similar, Declan turned and walked across the concourse towards the giant screen above the train platforms, looking for the next train there. It was a train to Birmingham New Street, although the platform wasn’t announced yet.

  Noting that there was a good twelve minutes before the train left, Declan used this time to work out his next steps. He’d deliberately left his phone in the office and needed another to contact the others, to let them know that something was occurring. He briefly considered stealing one from a commuter, but instead wandered over to a phone stand in the middle of the concourse, one aimed purely at international travellers who needed a burner while in the country, and bought a cheap, flip up pay as you go phone with twenty pounds worth of credit on it. This done, he grabbed a bottle of water from a sandwich shop and made his way onto the train, starting at the back and moving forward through the train until he saw Father Lawson sitting at a table seat near the other end of carriage D.

  Settling down a suitable distance away, Declan pulled the phone out of the box, noting with relief that it came with an almost full charge. Inserting the SIM, starting the phone up and dialling a number, he waited.

  Anjli Kapoor answered.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘I needed to contact you.’

  ‘And we you,’ Anjli replied, and Declan could tell the change in her voice wasn’t good.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

  ‘They took Monroe and the kid,’ Anjli replied. ‘Looks like Macca did it. Killed a police detective in the process. Marcos and Bullman are working on it right now.’

  ‘Any idea where they are?’

  ‘No. And more importantly, we’ve learned that both George Byrne and Janelle Delcourt have disappeared, but both sides seem to be gathering forces, as if expecting a war.’

  ‘Do me a favour,’ Declan said, keeping his voice low. ‘Go see The Twins. Find out what they know about this.’

  ‘Why them?’ It surprised Anjli that Declan would ask such a thing. Hell, it surprised Declan he’d asked such a thing.

  ‘Because I’ve been following Father Lawson since he left them about thirty minutes ago.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘On a train from Euston,’ Declan replied, looking up at the map of the route on the wall. ‘Stops at Watford Junction and Bedford before I’m apparently getting off at Milton Keynes, because that’s as far as Lawson’s ticket goes.’

  There was a pause as Anjli muffled the phone, and Declan could hear her faintly shouting across to Billy, most likely passing on what Declan had said.

  ‘Father Lawson has a church in Beachampton he attends,’ she said. ‘It’s about a… Come on, Billy…’ another pause. ‘it’s about an eight-mile drive from Milton Keynes, which is apparently the closest station.’ There was a faint mumbling, and Declan assumed it was Billy passing more information. ‘Apparently, it’s smack bang in the middle between Birmingham and London.’

  ‘Right,’ Declan muttered. ‘We need to find Monroe. Get Milton Keynes police to meet me at the station.’

  ‘We can’t,’ Anjli replied. ‘They want you for Derek Salmon’s manslaughter.’

  ‘You’re kidding me!’ Declan silently apologised to a lady across from him who glanced up at this. The train started to move.

  ‘They found the DNA match to the skin cells. Salmon made an official complaint and Father Lawson gave a similar testimony when he left. We’re using the fact that he’s not who people thought he was as a defence, and Rajesh Khanna is checking the body right now, but until we clear you, you’re a target. There’s another thing, too.’

  ‘What more?’

  ‘George Byrne’s right-hand man was stabbed this morning in Birmingham. The knife had the fingerprints on it of Dave Ewan, an enforcer for the Delcourts.’

  ‘The one Macca’s boys attacked?’

  ‘The same. Apparently he was still a little pissed at that. Killed O’Brien and left a message saying Macca was next. We’re picking him up now.’

  Declan leaned back in the chair, considering this news. ‘And all the players are in the wind, while Macca's taken Monroe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Something’s happening and I mean right now,’ Declan said. ‘Copy this number I called you on, and if anything comes up, let me know.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Anjli asked, most likely concerned to what damn fool idea Declan was going to come up with next.

  ‘I think I’m going to take confession,’ he said, disconnecting the call and glancing up the train to Father Barry Lawson, currently reading a copy of The Guardian.

  Something was going down, and Father Lawson was at the centre. Declan just knew it. And now, currently no longer a police officer, Declan found himself thinking like the soldier he’d been for twelve years before that.

  A soldier who knew how to fight, and how to kill.

  And if whatever Father Barry Lawson was involved in resulted in the death of Alexander Monroe, he’d kill every last one of them.

  27

  Visitations

  Anjli Kapoor hated that bloody Boxing Club. It was the bane of her entire existence, a reminder of her past indiscretions and the smell of sweat and leather when she walked through the door always made her want to puke.

  The club had been here since the seventies, and it didn’t look like anyone had even attempted to decorate it or update the place since then. The off-green and tobacco-stained cream paint on the walls was cracking, covered over with aged boxing event posters of boxers who were in their prime then, but most likely dead now. The boxing ring in the middle had seen better days, the surrounding ropes slightly sagging with overuse, and the physical training equipment was held together with a mixture of leather straps, glue and duct tape. Glancing around the room, Anjli saw that only a couple of young boxers were training right now, one working on the heavy bags to the right while the other was utilising a knackered looking skipping rope while the speakers played eighties rock music. However, as she entered the club one of the trainers, a meaty looking man in his forties, tracksuit over a tank top and his hair gelled back walked out.

  ‘No women allowed,’ he said as he stormed towards her, jabbing his finger towards the door. ‘Take your pretty little arse and turn around—’

  He didn’t finish as Anjli grabbed the finger, twisting it, sending the man to the floor in pain as she continued on. The two boxers, seeing this, stopped training and also moved in.

  ‘Oi,’ one of them said, the skipping rope still in his hand. Again, he wasn’t able to continue as Anjli moved in fast, grabbing the rope, wrapping it around his hand in one quick mo
tion and then, the rope over her shoulder, she pulled down, yanking hard at the arm, hearing an audible pop a split second before the boxer screamed, grabbing at his now dislocated arm.

  And Anjli continued on, towards the back room and Johnny or Jackie Lucas.

  It was Johnny that emerged though, his face a mixture of confusion and interest.

  ‘What the hell are you doing!’ he shouted, indicating the boxer on the floor, clutching his arm. ‘Lenny has a fight in a week!’

  ‘Not anymore,’ Anjli replied. ‘Send me some more, Johnny. I’ll keep going all day.’

  ‘Okay, so you’re pissed at something,’ Johnny said. ‘Get on with it, spit it out.’

  Anjli reached into her pocket and pulled out a flash drive. Waving it to gain Johnny's attention, she tossed it over to him.

  ‘Photos,’ she said. ‘Declan’s crime wall. All in high definition, all in close up. Every face, every name, every person. Taken when I was in his house. You can add that to the iMac you stole from him.’

  Johnny looked down at the flash drive in his hand. ‘As I said before, we didn’t steal anything,’ he said. ‘But why bring these to me now, though?’

  ‘They took Monroe,’ Anjli replied. ‘Macca Byrne kidnapped him. And George Byrne, Danny Martin, Mama Delcourt, they’ve all disappeared. Derek Salmon’s dead. Declan’s being blamed for it, but we know it’s Father Lawson.’

  Johnny stared at Anjli for a moment.

  ‘So what you’re saying is that things have moved on a little since we spoke?’ he smiled.

  ‘I’m saying that my DCI has been drugged and taken by a mental teenager who shot another copper in the face, and I think it’s connected to wherever everyone has gone.’

  She fell to her knees in front of Johnny.

  ‘You want me to beg? I’ll beg. But I need your help, and I’ve given you the photos you needed and more.’

  ‘Get up,’ Johnny waved, placing the flash drive on a table to the side. ‘I don’t exactly know where the meeting is, but I know that Father Lawson was here earlier trying to get us to go to it. I wasn’t here though, Jackie was. I think he was quite rude to the priest.’