Her Moons Denouement (Fallen Angels Book 2)

by Max Hardy

  ‘Detective Inspector, are you alright?’

  I stand up in agitation, pushing my chair back, leaning over the table as I position the two piles of pictures into rows in front of me, scanning the faces back forth from left to right.

  ‘These pictures on the right Mr Massah, are you sure the dates and times are correct. Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. Why?’

  The features are the same, the hair is the same, the build is the same and his whole demeanour is the same.

  ‘Why. Because in these ten pictures, at those times and dates I wasn’t with Jessica, I can prove without question that I was elsewhere. Which means that if your camera was set correct, somewhere out there I have a double, a doppelganger.’

  Chapter 7

  ‘What the fuck are you playing at you slimy twat!’ Bentley roared, a pulsing clenched fist swinging up from his side as he stormed into the Lab, approaching Laurent at a pace that belied his heavy set frame and suggested a deftness of foot akin to a boxer. It coursed up through the air, past the point at which Bentley expected impact, surprise entering his furious features. Laurent had quickly stepped to the side of the onrushing Bentley, out of the arc of the uppercut. He stuck a leg out and Bentley tripped, his forward motion causing him to flounder into the Lab bench, his splaying arms knocking over phials, tubes and samples.

  ‘Ignorant bastard.’ seethed Laurent as he raised an elbow and steadied himself, ready to ram it into Bentley’s back as he squirmed trying to gain his footing.

  ‘Marcel, stop’ shouted Le Fenwick as he ran into the lab, closely followed by DC Tait. Le Fenwick thrust his arms around Laurent and pulled the falling elbow away from Bentley’s back, steering the Frenchman towards the side of the room.

  ‘It was that fat imbecile who started it!’ cried Laurent in defiance as he tried to struggle ineffectually from Le Fenwick’s grasp.

  ‘I know it was, but be the bigger man and don’t let petulance overwhelm you. If you do, then you are no better than him.’

  ‘Just hold him there Dick, and I’ll show him exactly who the fucking bigger man is.’ rumbled Bentley as he started to rise from the floor.

  ‘Can’t let you do that Sir.’ Tait said as she snapped a handcuff over Bentley’s left hand, which he was using as leverage on the desk to help him stand. She quickly grabbed his right arm, which he tried to swing at her, and dragged it behind his back using the motion of the swing. She clapped the other cuff over the wrist quickly, pressing her free hand into the small of Bentley’s back, forcing him onto the floor.

  ‘You don’t want to make an enemy out of me Tait, so I’d let me up right fucking now if you know what’s good for you girl!’ Bentley spat the word ‘girl’ as he writhed on the floor, trying to get any kind of footing, any kind of traction, but Tait’s slight, sinewed body held him tight to the ground.

  ‘Then I’ll have to be your enemy Sir, because I can’t bear to see you make a bigger fool of yourself than you already have.’

  ‘What the hell is going on here?’ squealed a high pitched, agitated woman’s voice from the corridor, the sentence continuing and the tirade getting louder as the owner of the voice entered the room.

  ‘There’s so much bloody commotion going on, I’ve had the Super bending my ear, asking if we’ve got a prisoner on the loose. Then the guys tell me it’s one of my Senior Detective’s being an arsehole and I don’t have to think two seconds about who the hell that could be, do I Bentley!’

  DCI Gaynor Cruickshank came to an abrupt halt as she entered the room, throwing an admonishing glare over the vista in front of her as she banged a black patent leather pump, with a grosgrain bow on the front, hard down onto the floor, literally stamping her authority onto the room. She wore a knee length black skirt covering pronounced bandy legs, a crisp white blouse and a half length black jacket over her diminutive frame. Her beady features were as sharp as her scathing tongue and they were accentuated by her jet black hair that was pulled fiercely back from her forehead and tied in a bun.

  She shook her head disconsolately, folding her arms in resigned anticipation across her flat chest. ‘Well Bentley, do you want to tell me who has breathed too loudly in your direction today?’

  ‘This French fuck is trying to fabricate evidence just because he is pissed that I contaminated his crime scene.’ Bentley rumbled from the floor, his squirming diminishing under the admonishment.

  ‘Really Bentley? You really think that is the level of professionalism in your colleagues? That they would try and involve you in a crime just because they were pissed with you? Mr Laurent, do you have anything to say on the matter?’

  ‘Ma’am, you can watch the video of the whole procedure. Dr Le Fenwick was there too. The bag was opened in a sealed laboratory. There was nothing on the outside of the bag. There was nothing on the inside apart from a single hair, not even sputum from the alleged victim.’

  ‘Dr Le Fenwick?’ DCI Cruickshank asked, her demeanour already knowing that he would corroborate Laurent’s account of events.

  ‘The hair was inside the bag Ma’am. There is no doubt about that. But Marcel is right, this bag was different from the other six. There was no DNA at all inside relating to the alleged victim.’

  ‘Alright. Thank you gentleman. Dr Le Fenwick, I think it’s safe to let Mr Laurent loose now. Mr Laurent, I appreciate the restraint you have shown under the threat of attack.’ started Cruickshank, firmly glaring at the petulant Frenchman as she continued, ‘While I can fully understand that you may wish to pursue some kind of retribution towards Bentley, just think on stones, and glass houses, and how understanding management have been in other volatile encounters that you may not have been so innocent in. None of this does our reputation any good and it stops here. Do I make myself clear?’

  Laurent looked ready to burst in frustration for a second, but then Le Fenwick tightened a grip on his arm and whispered something quietly into his ear. ‘I understand Ma’am.’ he finished meekly.

  ‘Good. Now Tait, help that blithering excuse for a man up and follow me to my office. Keep him cuffed. Bentley, you give her any grief and I will suspend you on the spot. And I don’t want any of your colourful backchat, understand.’

  ‘Yes Ma’am.’ he grumbled as DC Tait relaxed the pressure on his back and helped him to his feet.

  Cruickshank executed a clinical about face, then marched off purposefully down the corridor, inquisitive heads quickly disappearing back into offices along the way. ‘Nothing to see here. If you’ve got time to gawp, you mustn’t have enough work. If that’s the case, come to my office and I’m sure I can find some menial duty to keep you busy.’ she bellowed as doors clattered closed in her wake. Bentley lumbered behind her, his complexion sweaty and ruddy, his face a visage of viciousness. Tait brought up the rear, her eyes intent on Bentley, scrutinising his every movement.

  Cruickshank opened the door to her office and ordered Bentley to sit. ‘Take his cuffs of Tait and sit down.’ she instructed while she sat down in her straight backed wooden seated chair with military efficiency, pulling in the chair and brushing down the length of her skirt in one pristine movement. There was a file open on the desk in front of her and she took a moment to read it, leaving the room in silence before speaking.

  Bentley mumbled profanities under his breath as Tait uncuffed him, pushing her hands away and throwing her a dismissive nasty glare as he rubbed his wrists and shuffled agitatedly in his seat.

  ‘Right Bentley, I want you to understand that you have no choice in this and if you argue, I will suspend you. I want you to understand that if I had a choice, you would already be suspended. You are off the O’Driscoll investigation.’

  ‘You are fu….’ Bentley started before Cruickshank shot him down.

  ‘No choice Bentley and if you swear at me once more you won’t just be suspended, I’ll throw your lard arse in a cell, charge you with assault and get internal affairs on to you. So shut the fuck up and listen.’ she finished for
cefully, her tone full and authoritative.

  ‘You are off the O’Driscoll investigation not only because we may have found one of your dog’s hairs in amongst the evidence, but because of the victim, Heather Scott. Does the name ring any bells with you?’ Cruickshank asked, watching Bentley’s reaction closely.

  A rush of ruddy rouge ascended Bentley’s complexion, married to a myriad of facial movement that made his eyes bulge and his lips tighten. For a moment he looked ready to explode into some kind of verbal tirade, but then the rouge descended and his face started to relax.

  ‘Heather Scott. Went missing in 1990. One of my first cases as a DC. I was trying to remember why I recognised the name when I saw it on the folder. We never found her body but her husband was arrested and prosecuted for her murder. We found her blood and part of an ear in their house. Bastard would beat her to a pulp, night after night when he was pissed.’

  ‘Glad you remember. Hopefully you can understand why I need to take you off that part of the case. It’s not just the dog hair Bentley. This victim is different to the other six. Someone has already been jailed for murdering her. A case where you secured that prosecution. You would compromise the investigation straight away.’

  Bentley sat in measured silence for a moment as Cruickshank finished, taking in and contemplating the implications of the information. When he spoke, his demeanour was calm and reflective, all the anger and animosity evaporated from his person.

  ‘I understand Ma’am. I apologise for my behaviour. I have no excuse other than how incensed evil bastards like O’Driscoll make me. That does not give me the right to take it out on my colleagues.’

  Cruickshank shook her head as she took in his genuine words and his humbled demeanour. ‘As I said Bentley, if I had a choice, you would be suspended despite your contriteness. But as I don’t have the luxury of spare DI’s lounging around, have seven murders, a serial killer, a suicide and a potential religious cult to investigate, and that’s just today’s workload on top of everything else we already have, for the moment you have a reprieve. Just for the moment. But let me make this clear. DC Tait will be working with you and she is in charge. She will be leading this part of the investigation and you will be supporting her.’

  Bentley’s face fell, humble replaced by humiliation. Conversely Tait’s countenance wore surprise as an alien emotion. ‘Ma’am, I don’t think I am ready to take the lead.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’ve just completed your Sergeant’s exams. Barring paperwork, you will be a DS officially in a few weeks. You are the kind of progressive detective this force needs. Use Bentley for his information and his contacts. They will be invaluable to you. As for anything else he offers, just ignore it. There is absolutely nothing he can teach you about what a good Detective should be. Isn’t that right Bentley.’

  Bentley’s large frame visibly sagged in the chair. His head started to gently shake dejectedly. ‘Aye girl, you listen to old Shankers the wanker there. She knows what she’s talking about. You’re a good lass and you know your stuff.’ he said softly, placing a hand over Tait’s on the arm of the chair and patting it gently.

  ‘I might be a wanker, but I get things done. Good, now I want the two of you to investigate our friend who committed suicide. We’ve just had a DNA match back and initial details about him have come through. Here’s copies of the info.’ Cruickshank said, passing files over to Bentley and Tait.

  ‘Name is Elvis Aarons. Mum must have been a fan, poor kid. Oh, he’s an orphan. Even worse, poor kid. Twenty five. Got a few minor convictions for petty theft and, oh, here we go, solicitation. Looks like he’s also been a rent boy for one or two of our illustrious politicians, allegedly. Got a flat on the Crombie Estate. Works at an illegal sex club down in Leith. No known religious denomination.’

  ‘We should probably start at his flat, check that out and see if we can find anything about friends or acquaintances who might know anything about the ‘Fallen Angels’, whatever they are.’ answered Tait eagerly, looking between Cruickshank and Bentley. Cruickshank nodded in encouragement but Bentley was still looking through the file, deep in thought.

  ‘Sounds like the right course of action, doesn’t it Bentley!’ prompted Cruickshank, raising her tone.

  Bentley looked up, distracted. ‘Yes. Sorry, yes, that’s the right thing to do. We need to go to his flat, on the Crombie Estate.’ he emphasised the words ‘Crombie Estate’, seemingly replaying them over in his mind.

  ‘Would you like to share your thoughts with us Bentley? What really works well as a Detective is sharing hunches, or suppositions with your colleagues.’ Cruickshank reproached.

  ‘Sorry Ma’am, it’s totally unrelated, the names of places just stirred a few thoughts. Remember the case a few weeks ago down in Northumberland, where we handed over our files on the Michael Angus murder?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely tragic. Still no further forward in finding out who did it. Still no closer to finding Rebecca Angus either.’ Cruickshank answered.

  ‘That’s just it, the thing niggling in my mind. Rebecca Angus. She lived on the Crombie Estate as well. And if it were just that you would say, so what. But she was also a part of the BDSM sex scene in Leith, and her favourite club was the same one our Elvis worked at: Sodom and Gomorrah.’

  Chapter 8

  Something has changed. I’m not sure what, or when, but I know it has changed.

  The first thing I ever remember about my life is as vivid to me today as it was, quite literally, on the day I was born. When I say vivid, what I really mean is blurry. But the memory of those first blurred images, white wimples floating like whispered wraiths above my new born head, their near silent susurrations more pronounced in my mind than the incessant shrill of the other new born babies around me, are still so vivid. It’s not that I remember everything instantly. It’s just that I don’t seem to forget anything. At the time I didn’t know what a wimple was. I didn’t know that the Nuns were speaking Italian. I had no idea that I was in an incubator. For all I knew, the myriad of tubes sticking out of me were appendages the same as the tiny, five fingered hands which fascinated me for hours. But I can take myself back there, back to that memory and relive every moment of it.

  Some people might call it a gift. I often wondered if Jacob inherited it.

  I am lying on the floor of his bedroom, looking up to the nightlight shining off his twirling mobile as it slowly turns above his cot to the theme tune of Pinocchio. In his short life, I did this most nights I was home, putting my hand up through the bars of the cot and either feeling his pulse, or resting it on his chest and feeling his heart beat. It was the only way I knew he was alive. I would lie and talk to him about what I had seen that day. Cars, trees, animals, people. Not what I had done, but what I had seen. I would read to him from Pinocchio and then when I had finished I would just lie there and wonder how much he understood. I would try and see the world through his eyes, from his perspective.

  I look straight up, not wavering my eyes at all. Jacob couldn’t, so I don’t. I don’t know that he could hear, I have to assume he couldn’t, so I mentally block out the sound of the mobile. Just see the characters gently bobbing up and down as it turns. But then I know his pupils never dilated, so I have to wonder if he could differentiate darkness and light. If he couldn’t, did that mean that even though his eyes were open, it was only the darkness he saw? Only the darkness he felt? Only the emptiness he lived in.

  And that’s where my mind would end up. Every time I thought about my beautiful baby boy. To the emptiness of forever. The one, the only consolation I ever had was his heartbeat. In that emptiness, in that despair that always overwhelmed me, I always had the hope of his heartbeat.

  His cot is empty now. Cold. But that isn’t what has changed. Something is different about the room from last night, from every night I remember. What is it?

  How I remember, with such vivid clarity, is to take my mind back to the moment, to find a chink in the memory and to start opening it up,
an iota at a time. So last night, the mobile was turning. I had my fingers through the fourth bar in the cot, gently clasping Jacob’s cold sheet. My other hand was circling a half empty bottle of vodka. The mobile was turning and the shadows were dancing. Bouncing off the glow of the nightlight, flickering from the ambient light coming in through the slightly open blinds, angled in such a way as to make the shadows dance in the chaos of the elements.

  They aren’t doing that tonight. It is just the steady mechanical turning of the shadows.

  I stand up quickly and shuffle over to the window. The blinds have been moved. They have been angled downwards. I didn’t move them. How have they moved? Why have they moved?

  I bend down and look out of the blinds, up along the angle of their decline. Dusk is settling in as I scan the tops of trees visible through the slits, my eyes coming to rest on one particular tree, with the dark, hollow holes of glassless windows staring back at me.

  Jacob’s tree house. It might sound strange that I had built a tree house for him. After all, he couldn’t really climb and play like other boys. But we spent quite a bit of time up there, with me pointing him in a direction and explaining what it was he could see. More therapy for me I think, to at least cushion the reality of the sparseness of his life with some normality.

  Now who the hell has been using that as a vantage point to look into Jacob’s bedroom? More to the point, how did they get into the house to do it, and why?

  I stare into the darkened windows for a moment, waiting to see if there is any movement, if anyone is still there, watching. All is still. I turn from the window and walk eagerly across the room and straight over the landing into my studio, grabbing a remote control from the pile of pictures of the other me, my doppelganger, I had been poring over earlier.