Dark Angel_a fast-paced serial killer thriller

by P. J. Nash

  ‘I know the cops lifted you and sweated you down. And I know you kept your mouth shut. Which is good, very good. But in the light of doing something for the greater good. I want you to talk. And if you’re talking delivers the goods, they’ll be plenty more of this,’ he said, pointing to the cigars and cognac. ‘And, more importantly, a shedload of dough,’ added Bain.

  ‘I’m listening, Mr Bain,’ said Noah, taking a pull on his cigar. His day had gotten a whole lot better.

  Mental Health Unit, Ruzyne Military Hospital, Prague

  Sandersen came out of the room to see James sitting in his wheelchair next to Jiri.

  ‘So, how did it go?’ asked James.

  ‘I need some fresh air,’ she said.

  ‘Capital idea. Can I bring Potsem?,’ asked James, smiling at Jiri.

  ‘Err, I suppose so,’ she replied. They went through a couple of high security doors, then up in a lift to a caged off area that was for smoking. Jiri lit up a Davidoff, and James fussed with his pipe and smoking ephemera.

  Sandersen took a few deep breaths and shook her head. ‘And…back in the room.’

  It was a technique James had seen her use many times to depressurise from the intense concentration that interviewing killer took. Not letting them into your head and not “bringing your work home” was an essential part of staying on the right side of sanity.

  ‘What’s all this Potsem stuff?’ she asked, popping some chewing gum.

  ‘It’s about dogs,’ said James.

  ‘Dogs?’ Jiri exhaled a plume of smoke.

  ‘Mr James heard lots of old ladies shouting ‘POJĎ SEM’ to their dogs. He thought all Czech dogs were called ‘Potsem’.

  Sandersen looked puzzled.

  ‘So, Mr Jiri here explained that it means ‘come here’ in Czech,’ James said, finally lighting his pipe.

  ‘So, Mr James, forgetting I am Prague’s top murder cop, thinks I am just a wheelchair pusher for him, so calls me Potsem,’ said Jiri. They both laughed. But Sandersen was lost in a world of her own. ‘Jessie, you ok?’ said James, putting his arm around her waist.

  ‘Nuremburg,’ she muttered.

  ‘Nuremburg?’ asked Jiri. ‘She, Katerina said her victims were as bad as the pimps and the traffickers, and like at Nuremburg, there was no defence saying, ‘Well, my mates are doing it, and the girls are there for it.’ Whatever part they played, it was still part of the overall horror,’ she said. They all fell silent for a while.

  ‘That’s harsh,’ said James.

  ‘No, I agree,’ said Jiri. ‘If you are only driving the getaway car, you are still taking part in robbing the bank.’

  Watson’s Truck n’ Tow, Melbourne.

  It was just after midday when a BearCat armoured vehicle smashed through the perimeter fence of the junkyard. In a squeal of tyres, it continued its rampage through the frontage of the Plantagenet’s Outlaw Motorcycle clubhouse. Skidding to a halt, a cloud of CS gas spewed from its external nozzles as the black-clad members of Victoria Police’s Special Operations Group swarmed out of the armoured beast. Shock and awe in its purest form put pay to most resistance from the Plantagenets. A posse of leather waist coated bikes were quickly subdued, bound with cable ties and bought out to the front of the wrecked clubhouse at gunpoint. A second convoy of marked police cars and van, sirens blaring, skidded up and officers exited their vehicles, fanned out and a formed a cordon. Striding through the smoke, the police commissioner spoke to the lead officer of the assault group.

  ‘Have we got the fat man?’

  The balaclava-clad cop shook his head. ‘Negative, sir, we think he must be in the redoubt, we’ll get the BearCat out of here and search the area again,’ he replied.

  ‘Okay, but don’t let him escape.’

  Uniformed officers ran out blue and white tape, creating a cordon. On roofs on the surrounding buildings, sniper teams swept the area with high-powered binoculars. There was a series of shouts from the inside of the wrecked clubhouse.

  ‘There’s a room under the car ramp,’ shouted the strike team commander. ‘Permission to blow it, sir?’

  The Commissioner nodded his permission. A shaped charge was placed on the base of the ramp, and the police officers escaped to a safe distance. There was a huge bang, and a pout of flame erupted. The strike squad swarmed forward, weapons up, as smoke billowed out of the interior. They surrounded the newly-formed hole in the floor and threw in flashbang percussion grenades. As the sound died down, several figures staggered up the concrete steps from the cavern underneath.

  ‘Armed police, get your hands up and kneel on the ground,’ shouted the strike team. The figures did as they were commanded and knelt down on the concrete. Black clad figures stepped forward and cuffed their arms behind their backs and dragged them out into the daylight. A huddle of uniformed officers surrounded the three bikies, frisked them and pushed them into waiting vans.

  ‘That’s him, sir, the fat one with all the tats,’ said the strike team commander.

  The Commissioner looked confused. ‘They’re all fat with tats,’

  ‘The one with the smouldering mullet. Sir.”

  ‘Well done, it all went down smoothly. And make sure you grab that White Boar flag for the trophy room,’ said the commissioner, gesturing at the White Boar flag flying on the pole.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the strike team leader.

  Vaclav Havel Airport, Prague.

  The incident was all over the police radio as Jiri and Jezek were returning from the unit at Ruzyne.

  ‘Let’s check it out,’ said Jiri.

  Swerving the Skoda to a halt at the kerb, he put his “Police” sign on the dash.

  ‘You might need this, boss,’ said Jezek with a wink, handing him a telescopic baton.

  They made their way to the Terminal which handled the non-Schengen area flights. There was pandemonium inside. A group of people, mostly young women, were shouting and waving placards. In a nod to the previous “slut shaming walk”, they were all dressed provocatively in lingerie or tight dresses. Waving placards which read: “GO HOME RAPIST PIGS’ and ‘DARK ANGEL WILL MAKE YOU PAY FOR WHERE YOU PUT YOUR PENIS’.

  Jiri thought they were quite clever. The protestors’ vitriol was aimed at several groups of drunken young British men who had just arrived off a plane. Currently, they were penned in by half a dozen uniform cops. The sergeant in charge looked sheepish. He didn’t have enough officers to get the young men through past the group without an incident.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on? Get those yobs out of here and on the bus, or there’ll be a riot,’ shouted Jiri.

  ‘Sir, I’m not sure we’ve got enough officers,’ he replied over the din. The situation went up a notch when the men saw the placards.

  ‘You need some real cock, you dykes,’ shouted one man and grabbed his crotch.

  The women responded by waving their little fingers and shouting, ‘Little Dick Brits.’

  Then one man and then another unzipped and started waving their penises and advancing towards the women. The officers were surrounded, jostled and pushed over.

  ‘Fuck this, arrest the ringleader and call for reinforcements,’ said Jiri. His shout galvanised the officers.

  Jezek waded into the fray and grabbed the nearest man in a wrist lock. He was young and strong. He twisted around and spat in Jezek’s face, then snarled. His triumph was short-lived as a haymaker from Jezek shattered his nose. Jezek waded into to finish the job, but Jiri pulled him back. Turning, Jiri got a punch in the face that split his forehead, drawing blood. He replied with a straight left and a right uppercut sending his assailant to the ground.

  Coming up for air, he saw a young girl wearing shorts and a crop top. Three men had surrounded her. One was dragging her by the hair. Another grabbed her bodily in a bear hug as she scratched and kicked like a wildcat. Jiri couldn’t see properly as blood streamed into his eyes. But he recognised the scream of the girl. Something primordial straight from the lizard brain kicked in.
Someone blocked his path. Felling the man with an elbow strike, he surged forward, snapping open his baton. Arcing it back in a swing, he drove it straight into the back of the knees of the man who was holding his daughter in the bear hug. The baton connected, bones snapped, and Jiri felt alive like never before.

  Fullilove Ranch, Northern Territory

  Nathalie Vukasin was struggling with a young Hereford calf that had gotten stuck in a stock fence. She was just wondering how in the hell it had got there when she was hit from behind. There was bright flash in front of her eyes as she staggered under the blow. But before her assailant got another blow in, she lashed out blindly and heard a groan. There was a blue flash, and she collapsed to the floor as a huge blast of electricity hit her from a taser.

  ‘Have some of that, you bitch,’ said Casey Jones, pushing the steel tines onto Vukasin’s prone body.

  After ripping off a piece of her shirt sleeve, she plugged the nosebleed from where the feisty stockwoman had hit her. Vukasin’s boss, Gary Fullilove, was already in the farm’s Ute, unconscious after succumbing to the effects of the drugged coffee. Jones slung Vukasin over her shoulder and then behind the seat of the quad bike. Jones smiled as he thought of how Clive Webb had cried just before he blew his brains out all over the ranch house kitchen. Jones had drugged him with a cocktail of pills. Out of his head and hallucinating, she’d convinced him that Vukasin had left him for Fullilove. He’d shot himself, but not before writing a note confessing to their murders, his hand guided by Jones. A short quad bike ride bought Jones out to the Ute and Fullilove. Like she’d done with Fullilove, she smeared glue over Vukasin and stuck her to the Ute’s front passenger seat.

  ‘Aw, what a lovely couple you make,’ she said to herself as she raised Webb’s pistol and fired a volley of shots through the Ute’s window screen. Walking to the rear of the truck, she lit the rag protruding from the petrol tank and held it to the funeral pyre. She jumped aboard the quad bike and rode off to return the murder weapon to the ranch and Webb’s cooling body. Then, she would be off, making sure the little Hereford calf was returned safely to its mother before she left, of course.

  Mental Health Unit, Ruzyne Military Hospital, Prague.

  ‘So, what’s your conclusion, Doctor?’ asked Jiri. Sandersen, Jiri and James were seated around a table in a small conference room.

  ‘Well, and as you know, this is only my opinion. Katerina was a normal, sane person who got into the sex industry in the mistaken perception that she could make great money and be safe. Then, she was subjected to a horrific and prolonged gang rape and forced to have an abortion which left her infertile. Subject to this massive trauma, she snapped and developed some sort of blend of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, leading to a protracted psychotic episode, which led to the killings and her very specific selection of victims. Killing became her outlet, her catharsis for her pain for her lost child. She felt good doing it. It made her feel again.’

  Jiri nodded. ‘Has she shown any remorse?’

  Sandersen took a sip of water. ‘Not a bit.’

  Jiri sighed. ‘So, she’s a danger to all men?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not at all, as we saw with Lawrence when he went undercover – literally. She was toying with us.’ added Sandersen.

  ‘So, mental hospital or prison?’ asked James. ‘Mental hospital indefinitely, I’d say? Her wiring’s severely damaged, and the events are too recent for the long-term ramifications to be clear yet. Of course, that’s for the courts to decide.’

  Jiri looked at his file. ‘Karban has said she’s not going to prison. As far as he’s concerned, he doesn’t want a martyr for the feminists, his words not mine. As you say, it’s clear that she’s also been a victim and was clearly out of her rational mind when she killed those men. She’s going to a former convent that handles some of our long-term and whole life cases. It’s secure, but there are gardens and a farm. She’ll be out of harm’s way but not locked in a cell twenty-three hours a day,’ said Jiri.

  ‘Well, we caught our killer, so it’s back to Melbourne for us. I’m going to miss you, Potsem,’ said James. A few hours later, after fond farewells and a promise to send Jiri and his family plane tickets to Australia, James and Sandersen climbed aboard the flight back home.

  Undisclosed House, Melbourne

  ‘Dave fucking Spinks, back? In my city, selling product on my fucking streets,’ snarled Cyrus Bain.

  Noah Hudson nodded.

  ‘Look, mate, there’s no need to go all fucking scared on me. It’s him I’m pissed off, not you,’ said Bain, putting a friendly arm around the former hipster.

  ‘Two of our boys were roughed up in the Domain. The guys who put them in hospital said to tell you Dave Spinks is back in town,’ said Hudson.

  Bain toyed with a cigar. ‘You mean, they said to tell me specifically?’

  Hudson offered Bain a match. Yes, you Cyrus Bain,’ he replied.

  ‘Which means he must know I’m alive and kicking,’ said Bain, taking a long pull on the cigar.

  ‘It stinks like week old fish,’ said Hudson. ‘Why would Spinks come here and start pissing in your yard, knowing full well you’re going to fuck him up pretty much pronto?’ he added.

  ‘That my, friend, is the big question. What I think is that Spinks has been put out there like a rodeo clown to attract me the stupid bull. And when I go out there snorting and trying to gore him to death, somebody’s waiting to blow my bloody horns off,’ said Bain.

  ‘The fucking sheriff or Ironsides, Lawrence James,’ said Hudson.

  ‘The one and fucking only,’ said Bain.

  Hudson stood up and stretched. ‘So, what do we do?’

  Bain took another drag on his cigar and exhaled. ‘Don’t you worry, Tonto. I’ve got someone closing in on James and his bitch right now. Have you ever heard of Alice Havilland?’ asked Bain.

  Hudson looked back at him blankly, and then, it twigged. ‘Fuck a duck, you really are a piece of work, Mr Bain.’

  Wonky Wombat Bar, Katherine, Northern Territory

  Lara Tierney had leant down and slapped James when he had wheeled himself up to the front door of the house to pass on his condolences. She had foregone a full police funeral for a small, private cremation. James, Sandersen and host of Tierney’s former colleagues had gathered for a wake of sorts. James was picking up the tab, having put a substantial mark in it himself.

  ‘It’s no use you blaming yourself,’ said Sandersen. She was sipping from a glass of white wine and had been trying in vain to stop James from getting blasted on Scotch.

  ‘It’s funny, I used to joke about getting “paralytic”. Now I am before I even fucking start. I’m going for a piss,’ James said, wheeling himself to the toilets.

  ‘I’ll go and see what I can do,’ said Marsh.

  ‘Thanks, Adie,’ said Sandersen. There was a smash and thud from the men’s toilets. James’s wheelchair was lying on its side.

  ‘Ah fuck!’ James screamed. Marsh offered an arm. James swatted him off. ‘Get fucked,’ he was told.

  Marsh hauled him up off the floor in a headlock and shoved him under a cold tap, sluicing him with water, then slapped him across the face hard.

  ‘Snap out if it, you pathetic shit,’ he shouted. ‘Do you fucking get me? You’re better than this.’ Marsh picked James up and sat him up on a toilet. ‘You think I don’t know what it’s like? It’s visceral, the pain balls up in your gut and you think you can drink it out. Well, you can’t. Sure, have a good session, but don’t start having a Scotch for breakfast. You’re in a wheelchair, you shouldn’t be. But shit happens, it happens to us all. You’ve got a scumbag to catch. Jessie needs you, I need you, and the guys need you – sober, front and centre. Even Lara will come around eventually. And let’s face it, Tierney fucked up. You can’t carry the all the guilt, or it’ll destroy you,’ said Marsh.

  James blinked water from his eyes. ‘Thanks mate. I know you’re right.’ Then, he let out a wail, tears welled in his eyes, and he
shook with grief.

  ‘It’s going to be ok mate,’ said Marsh, embracing him in a huge hug.

  Alchemy Investigations Office, Victoria Police HQ, Melbourne

  The team had agreed to meet in the hastily arranged new headquarters – a suite of offices and a kitchen that was only used during major incidents or as a casualty bureau for Victoria Police. The mood of despondency had lifted a little since Tierney’s funeral. Johnson and Toohey were getting coffee when James and Sandersen came in.

  ‘Morning, guys, good to see you all,’ said James breezily, a new energy having encompassed him since his dark night of the soul in the men’s toilets. Everyone sat down and looked to James.

  ‘Well, I have a shitload of bad news, but I thought we’d start on the positive. Johnson, Toohey, what have you got?’

  Johnson stood up. ‘On the good side, Noah Hudson, our informant, gave us Tucker Watson, lock, stock and barrel. He and his bad breathed acolytes are out of the ice business. He and his five main lieutenants are looking at fifteen to twenty, and the Plantagenets have been declared a criminal enterprise and their assets seized. The clubhouse is being knocked down to build a care home,” said Johnson.

  ‘Tucker will need a room there when he gets out of Barwon,’ smiled James.

  ‘The remnants of the gang packed up their bikes and headed north. Our trackers on the bikes put them somewhere near Cape Tribulation,’ said Johnson.

  ‘So, that’s the good news, but I can see from the look on Toohey’s face there’s a fart that needs airing,’ said James.

  Toohey laughed and said, “Well, as your copper’s nose is probably telling you, it was all too easy. Hudson gave us Watson and Co on a plate. Meaning, we were meant to clear the table. Hudson has been turned and not been in contact for over a week. However, every cloud and all that. We tracked him to a big new built place in Deepdene. It’s owned by an offshore brass plate company in the Seychelles. But to cut a long story short, it’s the domain of Cyrus Bain. Right down to the fucking koi pond and Monet Bridge. We did a flyover with a drone. He’s definitely in residence.’