Her Moons Denouement (Fallen Angels Book 2)

by Max Hardy

  She sat back abruptly in her seat, slightly taken aback at the candour in his comments and looked over to him. He turned to look at her, his face still thoughtful.

  ‘Don’t let him bully you. Whatever he does, you make sure you stand up to him. You’re a fucking police ‘person’.’ he sneered with sarcasm. ‘Start fucking acting like one.’

  Tait stared at him wide eyed for a second, head nodding as she took in his words and let her mind ruminate on them.

  ‘Alright Bentley. I’m not quite sure who the biggest twat is, you or my boyfriend, but if that’s the way you want to play. What did you find out at the club last night?’ she asked curtly, thrusting the dirty hanky into her bag and dropping the visor into the foot well.

  ‘Better, much better.’ he said, flashing a wink as he continued, ‘Our Elvis seems to be a bit of a loner. He’s got a regular list of ‘clients’ that he hooks up with but doesn’t hang out much with the ‘staff’ at the club. I talked to half a dozen of the ‘staff’ and none of them could even tell me where he lived, let alone who his friends were. No one had heard of an organisation called the ‘Fallen Angels’.’

  ‘Did you get a list of the ‘clients’?’ Tait asked innocently.

  Bentley burst out laughing, a huge raucous guffaw that shocked Jackson into barking. ‘God girl, are you really that raw. This is a fucking illegal S&M gaff we are talking about here, they don’t have frigging lists, they don’t even have bloody ‘clients’, just people who turn up there and fuck in a hundred depraved ways and somewhere, somehow, money changes hands. You won’t get a single member of ‘staff’ to tell you who those people are.’

  ‘Even if we bring them in?’ she retorted.

  He looked over to her with wide, flabbergasted eyes. ‘That’s the one fucking sure way to shut them up tight and lose any kind of trail there may be. And I told Shankers that I thought you were smart. What a dick I am.’ he finished, shaking his head as he pulled into the headquarters car park and killed the engine.

  ‘So there was a lead then?’ she pushed, sitting up and leaning into him slightly, ignoring the insult.

  ‘You’re learning. I didn’t get a list, but I managed to get them to point out two ‘clients’ who were in there last night. I talked to them. They would mainly meet him at the club or occasionally at hotels, depending if they wanted to do anything even more debauched. Stupidly I asked how debauched. One of them was into sexual asphyxiation and our Elvis seemed to be a something of an aficionado on that particular perversion.’

  Bentley climbed out of the car, pushing the rear passenger window down and throwing Jackson a dog biscuit out of his jacket pocket. Tait climbed out as well and hurried to catch up with him as he slouched towards the station.

  ‘So what does that mean? That he was in on the killings with O’Driscoll? Why would he expose him if that were the case?’

  ‘I don’t think so, that wouldn’t make sense. None of his rhetoric suggests that he was involved. Perhaps it’s how he found out about O’Driscoll though. Something to consider.’

  They walked into the station entrance and the Duty Sergeant shouted after them as soon as they came through the door.

  ‘Bentley, she’s after you. Wants you up there straight away. You too Tait.’

  ‘Oh fucking joy of joys, whoop de do. Thanks Bob.’ Bentley answered sarcastically as he trounced off towards the stairs, Tait in tow.

  ‘Did you talk to anyone about Rebecca Angus?’ she asked, a step behind his broad frame, not able to walk alongside on the narrow stairwell.

  ‘Aye. No one admits to seeing the psycho recently and no one can recall if she knew Elvis. How did you get on at his flat? How far away was it from her place?’

  ‘It was a couple of streets away. Close enough to be there in a few minutes. Much like you, not really a lot there. The flat was sparsely furnished. A table with a single chair in the kitchen, a painting of some flowers on the wall above it. Nothing in the living room and a single freshly made bed in the only bedroom. To be honest, it didn’t even look lived in. Forensics have been through it thoroughly and found next to nothing. No prints apart from his, even on the front door, which is odd. You’d expect at least the postie’s. No mail or any other documents at all in the place. Not even any clothes. Only thing they did find was a photograph on the kitchen table, a picture of O’Driscoll with another man. The two of them dressed in some kind of uniform, smiling at the camera while clanking pints of Guinness.’

  ‘Feels like a fuck hole. Somewhere he takes people to do the deed rather than somewhere he lives. Where’s the photo?’

  ‘It’s with forensics. They are scanning it into the system to see if we can get a hit on facial recognition.’

  ‘Or they could have just shown it to us old farts who might recognise who it is! That’s two fucking days wasted and they won’t come back with anything, never bloody do.’

  He stopped at Cruickshank’s office door and stepped to one side, letting Tait past.

  ‘Sir?’ she said as she stepped past him, perplexed.

  ‘First off, don’t call me Sir. You’re the fucking officer in charge. Second, you’re the fucking officer in charge, so you go in first!’

  She stared at his worn, haggard expression, looking for a glint of his normal weary cynicism but only saw helpful impatience in its place.

  ‘Thanks Bentley, I appreciate that. By the way,’ she said, reaching into her bag and taking out a photograph, ‘I have a copy here. Do you recognise him, you old fart?’

  Bentley took the photograph and studied it intently, shaking his head slightly as he examined the faces. ‘No, don’t recognise him. Hold up.’ He paused, bringing the photograph closer to his face, looking fastidiously at the lapel on the fatigues O’Driscoll wore. ‘Fuck, ‘Óglaigh na hÉireann’, that’s an IRA badge he’s wearing. Jesus. Head of the fucking Catholic Church in Scotland, Serial Killer and member of the bloody IRA. Storming CV he’s got.’ He handed the photograph back to Annie.

  ‘Better tell Shankers then.’ Tait said, and knocked on the door.

  ‘Come.’ came the bellowing reply. Tait opened the door and walked into Cruickshank’s office, Bentley lumbering in behind her.

  ‘Tait, this is DI John Saul, a colleague from our Northumberland patch. Bentley, the two of you have already met I gather.’ introduced Cruickshank, formally.

  Saul stood up slowly from where he was sitting opposite Cruickshank and offered his hand to Tait as she approached him.

  ‘DC Annie Tait.’ she started, smiling with sympathetic nervousness, taking in his tall, well groomed figure and noticing the small plaster in the palm of his hand as she shook it. ‘So sorry to hear about your loss.’ She stepped slightly to the side and Bentley shook Saul’s hand firmly, visibly causing him to grimace.

  ‘See you’ve ditched the Tuxedo then?’ Bentley commented as the three of them sat down.

  ‘It was a rag by the end of that day, sweat and blood were the only things holding it together. And dog piss.’ Saul answered with sardonic joviality.

  ‘Aye, heard you had a bad time of it. For what it’s worth, sorry for your loss. Jackson tends to get pissed off when people make me angry, then pisses on them. What can I say; better than having him bite you. What brings you north of the Border?’

  ‘When I was nailed naked to a chair and just about to have my heart ripped out by your friend Gordon Ennis, a man saved me. I don’t have a clue who that man was. He could be called Rob Adams, could be Ben Hanlon, he could even be the twin brother I never knew I had. What I do know is that he saved my life and his parting words to me were ‘Think on one thing, Even Fallen Angels Have Wings.’ The same words that Elvis Aarons used yesterday just before he committed suicide. Now what I want to know is are they the same person, and if not, what’s the connection?’

  ‘He was no friend of mine, how the fuck was I to know he was ten bricks short of a hod! Still had that nutter Angus pegged right. You know what they say. Takes a psycho to know a psycho.�
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  ‘Bentley!’ Cruickshank admonished sternly.

  ‘Sorry Ma’am.’

  ‘I take it you still think Madame Evangeline was a figment of Rebecca’s imagination.’

  ‘Oh fu..flip, here we go again. Okay, she might not have mutilated her son, but she sure as hell still shagged him, was there when he tripped and died, and there is no evidence whatsoever to corroborate the existence of Madame flippin Evangeline. I’m telling you, the bird is all in her sick, twisted mind.’

  ‘Gentlemen, I don’t think that’s really helping us and I don’t think it’s what we should be focusing on at the moment.’ started Tait, her voice still full of nerves, but tinged with authority. ‘The important thing is there are potentially two people divided by two weeks and a hundred miles that have used the same phrase. Calls the theory that Elvis was a loner into question straight away.’

  Cruickshank nodded approvingly ‘Quite right Tait. You two stop the pissing contest and Saul, please tell us everything that you know.’

  There was an urgent rapping on the office door and it was immediately pushed open, DI George McCalvey striding into the room, an open laptop in his hands.

  ‘Sorry for interrupting Ma’am but you really need to see this.’ McCalvey said, placing the laptop on her desk. ‘We got it through from the BBC about ten minutes ago. They received a video clip. It’s from the Fallen Angels.’

  Chapter 12

  I really need to get a grip. It’s every woman, every bloody woman. Half an hour ago it was Gaynor Cruickshank. I’m looking at her and thinking, ‘Is she Jess, in disguise.’ The fact that she is a foot smaller doesn’t even come into it. I saw the curve of a jaw and my mind suddenly went there. The same with Tait. I can smell her and it reminds me of Jess. And Jess is smiling in my mind. Same height, same build, but totally different hair, colour eyes, protruding teeth, personality, everything.

  Same with Bentley. Is he Hanlon? Still the same narrow minded superficial twat I recall from two weeks ago, but that could all just be a front. At the minute, it’s difficult to know what to believe. It’s difficult to know who is who. I just need to get a grip and focus. Not sleeping isn’t helping at all.

  ‘Have the BBC run the story?’ Cruickshank asks McCalvey.

  ‘No Ma’am. They forwarded it straight onto us. They want to talk to you about when they can show it.’

  ‘Well, they can wait on both counts. Call legal straight away and get it embargoed. No backscratching on this one, I want it out of circulation for at least forty eight hours.’

  She didn’t even flinch, straight to the point and decisive. Tait looks surprised at that news, I can see the cogs whirring as she leans in toward the small screen. She is copying Cruickshank, arms crossed on the table, back straight. Bentley is thoughtful, slinking further back in his chair as McCalvey presses the play button and then leaves.

  ‘Demi Simpson, Shelley Crabtree, Josie Richards, Kelly Pieterson, Rachel Lavery and Briony Williams.’

  A female voice reading out the names, very clipped and precise, a deep husk to the tone. Quick images flashing up, headshots of mainly happy faces imposed on graphic scenes of the women spread-eagled over alters, O’Driscoll in the foreground, his privates pixelated. I thought there were seven. Did they not mention seven women on the news last night?

  ‘All masochistically murdered by this man, Archbishop Liam O’Driscoll, a paragon on the Roman Catholic Church.’

  An image of O’Driscoll fills the screen. He’s dressed in ceremonial robes, standing in front of a font at a baptism, holding a baby. The image starts a slow zoom in on his face as an anger enters her voice.

  ‘He would have you believe that these women were possessed by evil spirits. He would have you believe that his faith compelled him to rid the world of these evil spirits by killing them. He would stand in front of each and every one of you, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, whatever your religious persuasion and tell you that in the eyes of his God, your world is a safer place without them. Look into his eyes, look deep into his eyes. Do you see empathy, compassion, kindness, warmth, friendship, love?’

  I don’t. They are hard and heartless. I notice the baby in the picture is crying. I see that his hand is holding its arm tightly, just as it goes out of shot, the screen now filled with his face.

  ‘Do you see madness, insanity, evil, even the devil staring back at you?’

  His face is gone, the whole screen now filled with his brown eyes, tributaries of blood vessels snaking into the white, making them bloodshot.

  ‘Or just a man, like any other, a person, like you: or like me.’

  Just the brown of the irises fills the screen, then their colour changes to green and the pupils morph from a dull lifeless black to be full of reflected light, moving as they dilate. The camera starts to zoom out. Heavy black mascara and eyeliner around the emerald eyes. White makeup applied around the sockets and into the face. It’s the woman who is speaking, I can see the muscles of her cheeks as they come into view, they are moving in time with the words.

  ‘Look into my eyes. Do you see the devil staring back at you?’

  No, I see Jess. It is Jess. Not just the eyes, but also the curve of her nose, the high cheekbones. It is definitely Jess. I lean closer into the laptop, raising a finger to the screen, tracing the contours of her face.

  ‘Are you alright Saul? You might want to move back from the screen so we can all see.’

  Cruickshank’s tone was forceful and it broke through my obsessive compulsion that every woman I see is Jess long enough to bring me back into the room with the other occupants, to see their perplexed faces. I decide against telling them what my mind is thinking for the moment and lean back from the screen, apologising.

  ‘Or do you see a clown with a sad face. Does a clown make you laugh, or do you fear it? And if you fear it, why?’

  Her full face is on the screen now. It is Jess. Jess made up to look like Pierrot. What’s the relevance, what has that got to do with Fallen Angels? What’s that got to do with O’Driscoll? Oh shit, that picture coming into view behind her head, it’s a Cezanne. Another Cezanne. This is Jess. This is Madame Evangeline. She lifts a wet wipe to her face and rubs the white face paint off one cheek.

  ‘Underneath whatever face we paint, whatever mask we wear, whatever god we act in the name of, we are human, first and foremost. Humans with a propensity for good and evil in equal measures. Humans with a propensity to use faith and fear as weapons to control other humans. Humans with a propensity to use faith as an excuse for our own depravity.’

  Her whole torso is in view. She is sitting behind a desk. What kind of desk is that? No windows in the room, just blank white walls, a single Cezanne painting behind her head. Nothing to give a clue as to where she is. Hands, damn, she is wearing gloves. Think John, think, what are her other discerning features.

  ‘We are the Fallen Angels. We aren’t gods, we aren’t supernatural. We are humans. Humans who have a belief. Humans who have a faith. Humans who fear a lot of things, but not our faith. We bleed, we cry, we hurt, we die, just the same as you. I am not here to ask you to believe in us. I am here to ask you one simple question. Why do you fear your faith?’

  Jess, Madame Evangeline. She led me into temptation. She put me in a position where I had to make a choice. Why did she do that? Did she want to see what I would do? Was she testing me? Why was she testing me?

  ‘Don’t just think of that question in isolation. Look at these images of the beautiful women Archbishop Liam O’Driscoll murdered and as you look into their eyes, ask yourself, ‘Why do I fear my faith.’

  The girls again, smiling faces, dead bodies, flicking through them at pace. Powerful images, a powerful thought. Stop. A picture of a different woman, her eyes, nose and mouth sewn up, face bruised and bleeding around the stitching. She looks in agony.

  ‘Just in case you think the atrocities carried out by Archbishop Liam O’Driscoll are an isolated incident. Just in case you think using fear and faith a
s a weapon is confined to Christianity. Just in case you think we are extreme in our actions, look at this poor woman’s face. At midday today, somewhere in the city, we will tell you all about the religious leader who exacted this brutality upon her and many other women. It gives me no pleasure at all to say even that won’t be the end of our revelations.’

  Symbols in the stitching. Islamic symbols. ‘Praise Allah.’ A muslim religious leader. It’s going to be a mosque. Symbols. Fallen Angels and Clowns. What’s the link? One kicked out of heaven for disagreeing with God, the others are fall guys of kings. Is that it? Both with the inside track on leaders. The significance of removing the face paint. About a quarter of the face paint? Does that signify three more revelations?

  ‘Think on one thing: Even Fallen Angels Have Wings. I am Madame Evangeline and we are the Fallen Angels.’

  Yep, who the hell else was it going to be? She might look like Jess, but that’s not her voice. We can check that. There’s not enough of the face to tell. She could just as easily be Rebecca. Bottom line is, here is someone on video claiming to be Madame Evangeline.

  ‘Well Bentley, what was it you were saying about Madame Evangeline not being real. Up there with your other exemplary police work. You are a waste of space. Don’t bother protesting either.’

  He’s very subservient to a dominant woman, very aggressive to men and unusually supportive of Tait. I can see he wants to scream at me.

  ‘Ma’am, could I just get onto a web browser on this laptop please? The symbols in that stitching are Islamic. ‘Praise Allah’. We need to check how many mosques there are in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Go ahead Saul.’

  ‘Thanks Ma’am. Okay, so google ‘Mosque’s Edinburgh’. There are nine. Where are they, lets map them. Dotted all around?’

  ‘That one!’ Tait shouts as she stabs the screen. ‘That’s the Central Mosque, just off the Royal Mile. It’s a Fringe venue as well. My guess would be that one!’