Her Moons Denouement (Fallen Angels Book 2)

by Max Hardy

Bentley looked at O’Driscoll’s grinning visage in the mirror, then turned to DC Tait with a pained expression on his face. He murmured under his breath. ‘Shit, I think this fucker is a totem short of a friggin pole. He is one scary son of a bitch.’

  ‘More a roof missing than a tile Sir.’ Tait muttered in response.

  ‘Proverbs 2:18-19 speaks of her. ‘Her house sinks down to death, and her course leads to the shades. All who go to her cannot return and find again the paths of life.’ She is the Night Hag, the one who came before Adam. She is my demon and she seeks atonement. She is Lilith. She knows where demons hide inside a human body. They wallow in the bowels, in the detritus of digestion, feasting on our waste. She is the incarnation of lust, and she uses me. She uses me to get to where they wallow, so she can seduce them, lead them through the writhing ecstasy of intestines, up through the churning bile of a terrified stomach, sliding and gorging on the sputum slipping down a constricting throat as she propels the demon out of the humans mouth, into the plastic bag as I orgasm, reciting the rite of exorcism, ‘Vade retro satana’, imprisoning the demon. She slivers back down through the dead body, back into me and their soul is delivered into Gods Kingdom. And the world is freed of another demon. For the life of one, the lives of many are saved.’ he proclaimed proudly, smiling at his reflection all the while.

  ‘What a steaming pile of horse shit. Shelley Crabtree, sodomised and asphyxiated. You killed her.’ shouted Bentley in anger, hammering his finger into the picture in front of him. He reached for the next file.

  ‘We imprisoned Shabnock. We ridded the world of the scourge of gangrene and worms.’ O’Driscoll said calmly, still smiling, still holding his stigmata out.

  ‘Demi Simpson, sodomised and asphyxiated. You killed her.’ Bentley continued, veins in his temple pulsing purple, his face reddening with anger as he opened the folder and threw the picture of a dead Demi in front of O’Driscoll.

  ‘He is Belial. No more do the Sons of Destruction roam this earth.’

  ‘Josie Richards. Sodomised and asphyxiated. You killed her!’ spat Bentley, pulling another photograph out of a folder and flinging it in front of O’Driscoll.

  ‘He is Baalberith, he makes men blaspheme and murder. He is imprisoned.’

  Bentley picked up the next folder, utter frustration and acrimony dancing on his features: which were broken by a visible uncertainty as he looked at the name on the folder, taking the photograph out as he did.

  ‘Heather Scott. Sodomised and asphyxiated. You killed her.’ Bentley said, less assured as he placed a photograph of the dead woman on an altar, the Archbishop standing in front of it with his erect penis out, onto O’Driscoll’s outstretched hands.

  ‘I do not know this woman.’ O’Driscoll started, looking down at the name and at the photograph. He looked intently at Bentley, then to the DI’s reflection in the mirror before continuing. ‘You know this woman. Your Demon knows this woman. Your Demon knows this woman intimately. You have tasted her.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about? She’s there, in a picture with you and your raging hard on, dead. There’s a signed confession in the folder as well.’ answered Bentley, trying to imbue his voice with bravado, but there was a worry evident in it, which was even more evident in his expression, and he saw that when he took in his own reflection.

  ‘I can see your Demon, in your reflection. He whispers to Lilith, he speaks of your transgressions.’

  Bentley was obviously rattled as he pushed his chair back and stood up, leaning over the table, towering over the calm form of O’Driscoll. ‘Just shut the fuck up you utter nutter. You killed seven women. And it’s not just your confession and these photographs that prove it. Forensics have seven plastic bags wrapped in your stupid fucking scrolls downstairs and in less than an hour will have the necessary physical evidence that will let us lock you up and throw away the key for good you sick fuck.’

  O’Driscoll’s expression suddenly changed, utter terror entering his features. He started to shake his hands in their restraints, trying to loosen them as he stood up suddenly, tipping his chair as he did.

  ‘You can’t open the bags. They will escape. You can’t break the seal on the bags or the demons will escape and these women’s sacrifice will all have been in vain!’ he screamed at Bentley, spittle flying from his mouth with the pleading words.

  Bentley stood back, out of the way of O’Driscoll’s flailing hands. Hands which were trying to yank the dull grey table that was bolted to the floor in order to get closer to Bentley and Tait. Hands that shook it so hard, Bentley’s Celtic mug toppled over, spilling the coffee. DC Tait backed out of her seat too, the two detectives slowly moving towards the door.

  ‘You mustn’t! You must not break the seal on those bags!’ screamed O’Driscoll, more a forceful order than an imploring request this time, his whole person now wracked with intense broiling animosity and, with unnatural strength for such a small, frail man, he still tried to pull the table from the floor, shaking his bindings furiously.

  Bentley opened the door to the interview room and shouted on one of the Officers in the corridor. ‘Can you get someone to come and restrain this nutter now! You might want to get a shrink in as well. He’s definitely one sail short of a yacht.’

  ‘You will be judged and damned to suffer an eternity in hell if you release those Demons into the world! You will be judged!’ screamed O’Driscoll after Bentley, banging the table furiously with his bleeding palms.

  ‘No mate, it’s you who will be judged and sent down for a long time, in with the nonces and rapists who will bugger your sick, twisted arse to damnation.’ countered Bentley as he and DC Tait left the room, pulling the door closed behind them, cutting out O’Driscoll’s screeching rant.

  ‘Jesus Sir, it sounds as though he really believes there are Demons in those bags.’ Tait said incredulously as they walked down the corridor of interview rooms back toward the main Incident Room.

  ‘That’s belief for you Tait. Especially fucking Catholics. He’s a fag short of a packet, make no mistake.’ Bentley replied, a pensive expression on his agitated, sweating features.

  Le Fenwick was approaching them from the other end of the corridor with a determined stride. ‘Bentley, we need to talk, now!’ he said firmly as he stopped in front of them, halting their progress.

  ‘Oh fuck man, what the hell is it, we’ve got a madman and seven tossing murders to investigate, not to mention a bloody suicide, so make it quick.’

  ‘This is particularly relevant to the investigation. It’s particularly relevant to you.’ Le Fenwick replied, standing firm and ignoring the disdain in Bentley’s tone.

  ‘What do you mean, relevant to me?’ Bentley questioned, his whole manner suddenly becoming guarded.

  ‘When we were examining the plastic bag that was used to asphyxiate Heather Scott we found a hair from your dog.’ imparted Le Fenwick factually, with measured concern.

  Bentley looked at him incredulously, then at Tait with the same expression, annoyance rising in the rouge that ruddied his pock marked cheeks. He looked down at his hair covered coat, then back up at Le Fenwick. ‘Aye Dick. That will be from my fuckin coat. I was at the crime scene in case you’d forgotten you daft twat.’ Bentley hissed, taking a step forward ready to push past Le Fenwick.

  Le Fenwick stood firm, raising two conciliatory hands in front of him. ‘I get that Fenny, and believe me I wish it was that simple. The problem is, we found the hair inside the sealed bag.’

  Chapter 6

  She had another baby. What kind of relationship did we have where she felt she couldn’t talk to me about that? Especially when that was where her guilt over Jacob came from. The same kind of relationship where I couldn’t tell her about the demons living behind the rickety doors in my rickety rooms. A crap relationship. And I thought I knew her. Shows how much I really knew. Nothing. God, to have gone through childbirth, to have held your dead baby in your arms. I thought looking into Jacob’s vacant empty eyes w
as despair, but that, how the hell did she get past it. I suppose she never did get past it. What was it she said…

  Mumbled words and distant shrill noises begin to invade my swirling thoughts.

  ‘There are things that happened in my past, things I don’t ever think I will come to terms with. They still haunt me now and cast a shadow over you and I.’ I see her tear stained face reciting those words, standing in my studio two weeks ago, giving me my freedom, giving me her blessing to go and love another woman, to be with Jessica. I betrayed her in every conceivable way and she still loved me. Loved me enough to want me to be happy with someone else. To be happy with Jessica. Jessica’s beautiful, sensuous face screams into my mind, dispersing the image of Sarah.

  Her lips are moving and I can hear mumbled words. I feel something shake my arms. I hear a car horn, coming closer. I strain to hear what she is saying and as I try to move closer to her face, in my mind, her image starts to fade as the words become clearer.

  ‘Are you OK? Sir, are you OK? We should really get out of the road.’

  Jessica dissipates and my vision snaps back into focus, back into now and there is a very concerned woman standing in front of me, gently holding my arm.

  ‘Are you OK Sir?’ she asks again. I look beyond her. Jesus. I am in the middle of the road, holding up a line of traffic. There are horns blaring, irate faces sneering at me from behind fly smeared windscreens. Crowds are gathering on either side of the street, a myriad of faces with a myriad of feelings: pity, concern, humour, anger, Jessica, empathy, derision, sympathy…

  My head darts back. Jessica. I saw Jessica. I raise a hand in apology and say ‘Sorry.’ over and over again to the drivers and the woman as I lurch away from her, my eyes frantically scanning the faces of the crowd to the left, looking for Jessica.

  I see expressions turn to worry, people stepping back from the kerb out of the way as I approach. I can’t see her. People start to leave, to go about their business. I see the back of a redheaded woman walking away down a side street. She is the same height as Jessica, the same build. Jessica didn’t have red hair. But Madame Evangeline did.

  As I try to run, excruciating pain shoots up through my legs from the wounds on my feet, meeting the agony from my damaged scrotum as it jiggles from side to side under the exertion. I slow into a crablike hop, trying to keep a pace, but trying to keep the pressure off my injuries.

  ‘Jess!’ I shout after the receding figure as I enter the side street, the crowd now fully dispersed. She turns into an alley halfway down the street, not acknowledging my call. My heart thumps furiously. With the exertion, with the pain, but also with the overwhelming conviction that it was her, it was Jess and she is not dead!

  I reach the entrance to the alley just in time to glimpse a slender leg in a red stiletto turn left at the end of the alley onto a main street. Hobbling as fast as I can I reach the same place in about ten seconds, sweat pouring down my face with the effort. I stumble into the main street and turn left immediately, frantically looking at the melee of people walking up and down the street.

  I can’t see her. I shuffle on, head darting to the shop entrances, staring in, staring through their windows. On to the next, still nothing. Looking across the road, looking up the pavement, looking back into the shops. Nothing. I reach a crossroads at the top of the road and pirouette around, looking everywhere for the redhead, the red stilettos. She is nowhere to be seen amongst the constantly moving throng who are giving me a wide berth.

  Was she really there? Or is my mind just playing tricks. Every time I think of Sarah, every time I think of Jacob, Jess’s image just sears into my mind, opening a chasm in the fissures of grief and spawning a maelstrom of uncontrollable guilt. I should hate her. I should detest her for what happened, if it was her that instigated it. But I can’t. What kind of a bastard does that make me?

  I look around again, one last forlorn sweep of the static faces, and then slowly trudge off towards Dacre Street, scanning the ground for red stilettoed feet.

  There is a very small, but finely filigreed bronze nameplate on the solid oak door, proclaiming ‘H. Massah. Private Detective.’, as I arrive in front of it. Not something I would expect. Private Detectives tend to be very practical and generally not keen on spending too much on aesthetics. I buzz the intercom and a male voice answers.

  ‘Harry Massah, Private Detective, how can I help?’

  ‘Afternoon Mr Massah. It’s DI John Saul here. I understand you worked on an assignment for my wife, Sarah Saul a little while back. I would like to talk to you about that if it’s convenient?’

  Pause. A long pause.

  ‘I was wondering when you would turn up. Come on in, straight down the corridor and second door on the left.’ The door clicks open into a tongue and groove panelled hallway painted a rustic lichen, with a deep walnut stain on the oak flooring. Definitely not your normal Dick. A bit more upmarket. There are some original watercolours decorating the walls as I approach the door on the left, which is slightly ajar. Some modern, with some beautiful sunset vistas over the Tyne, and some more traditional.

  Massah stands as I enter the office and approaches with an eager outstretched hand and an understated compassion evident in his soft, slightly paunchy features. He is tall, probably about six two, broadly built with a shock of floppy brown hair, overlong and ruffled. Mid forties. He is wearing a tailored green Harris Tweed jacket, a pink Ralph Lauren shirt and beige chinos bottomed off with scuffed brown brogues on his feet. Definitely an upper class Dick.

  ‘Detective Inspector Saul. Please accept my condolences, I am so sorry for your loss.’ he relays and he shakes my hand, cupping his second hand over the top of the shake. There is nothing but genuine warmth and compassion in his eyes. Why? He doesn’t know me from Adam. But he knows I cheated on my wife. It shocks me and I look away from his gaze, mumbling a muted thanks.

  ‘Please, take a seat. Can I get you anything to drink? Tea, coffee, water or something stronger? A whisky perhaps? I have a very exclusive 64’ Black Bowmore?’

  My mind screamed single malt. My body needs it. It is aching from the earlier exertion. But I need to stay focused. ‘Water will be fine, but thanks for the offer. So you were expecting me?’

  ‘At some point, yes. I have been following the news. I see many unknowns in the reporting of the case. I know a Detective of your reputation won’t let them stay unknown indefinitely.’

  I scan the room while gingerly sitting as he makes drinks at a small cabinet off to the left. It has a very intimate homely charm, more like a snug or study than an office. His desk is a behemoth walnut affair topped with pictures of kids and horses and pets, with an organised chaos of papers and files off to one side. There’s a pair of Hunter wellies, a brolly and a Barbour jacket in a hat stand next to the drinks cabinet. The walls, painted in country cream, are also covered in pictures of happy children. Three kids, probably fifteen, thirteen and ten. Ten year old on a horse with a friend. A familiar friend. Strange’s daughter. Is that how Sarah found out about Harry, from Strange? No pictures of a mum? Divorced, separated? He’s wearing a wedding ring. Widowed? Is that why so much empathy? On the wall opposite the door into the room, a large, what looks like an original Munch painting, ‘Golgotha’.

  ‘I need to talk to you about Jessica Seymour. I know that Sarah had you follow the two of us and I know that you took a great deal of pictures of our ‘liaisons’, shall we say.’ What the fuck does that mean, ‘Liaisons’. We were screwing around and he knows it.

  He hands me a glass of iced water as he sits down on the opposite side of the desk and I can see his features are perplexed and ruminating on the best way to answer the question.

  ‘I often get irate partners banging at the door, threatening to thump me for following them, wanting someone to blame for exposing their philandering. Part of the territory. I don’t judge, I just help. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone I’ve been following come and ask me about their lover though.’


  ‘Believe me, if I could ask her, I would.’

  I saw his face drop and a visage of guilty ineptitude flood over it and spill into his words. ‘Sorry, that was insensitive of me. How can I help?’

  ‘Apart from when she was with me, what other things did you see Jessica doing? Did she meet up with anyone else regularly? What places did she tend to visit? Did you notice if she travelled much?’

  He pulled a fairly thick manila folder from the pile of documents to his right and started rifling through notes and pictures. I noticed a few images in full that Sarah had ripped to smithereens. Of Jessica and I kissing. Guilt roared at me, but it was always shouted down by the aching emptiness of loss.

  ‘She spent a lot of time with you, that’s one thing I will say. Just about every day for the two weeks I was commissioned. Other people: she met a few ladies for coffee occasionally.’ He pulled out some pictures of Jess, looking elegant and beautiful, laughing, coming out of a café with another woman I didn’t recognise. Two weeks? Was I really with Jess nearly every day for two weeks? ‘I saw her going out in the company limousine on a few occasions, twice she was dropped off at the train station and caught the Flying Scotsman up to Edinburgh, once meeting you at the station.’

  I was never with her for two weeks solid, work and home life didn’t let that happen. Did he say Edinburgh? With me?

  ‘Did you say Edinburgh? With me?’

  ‘Yes. Here’s a picture of the two of you getting on the train.’

  Impossible. I have never been on a train with Jess. That’s me though. What date, what time? That can’t be me. I wasn’t even in Newcastle on that date.

  ‘Is everything alright, you look a tad overcome?’

  ‘Can I see the other photographs of the two of us please?’

  He passes them over and I start flicking through them, scanning the dates and times in the bottom corner. First one, yes, I remember that, we had snuck off for lunch in Corbridge. Pile on the left. Next. Yes, we were planning our weekend away in Manchester. Pile on the left. Next. No, no way. I was at the station then. In a briefing on a case. Pile on the right. Next, right. Next, right. Next, left. Next, right. Next, next, next, next, next. Jesus. Twenty ‘assignations’. Ten on the left, ten on the right.