Her Moons Denouement (Fallen Angels Book 2)

by Max Hardy

  ‘Based upon the information to hand Tait, I would agree with you. However, the information we have to hand is very light. While the symbols on the eye suggest Islam, there’s nothing to suggest it would be at that Mosque. Bear in mind Madame Evangeline said ‘somewhere in the city’, so we can’t exclude the other Mosque’s from our thinking. But I would agree, we prioritise that one. Tait, Bentley, rally the troops and get them down to the meeting room now. We’ve got just over two hours to work out where the hell in the city this is going to happen. We cannot have the public or the press around when it does. This has to be contained. Saul, you stay here please.’

  Bentley fires me a furious glare and stands to leave. I can get that, he’s been shown up and belittled and it was me arguing the toss about Madame Evangeline. God, it’s good to see the naïve enthusiasm in Tait’s eyes. I was like that once, still with a hunger when the chase was on. I know what Cruickshank is going to say.

  ‘Saul, I’d like to thank you for coming up and letting us know about your experience and the possible link between Hanlon/Adams and our case. As you can see, things are progressing and thanks also for that last bit of insight into the symbols, it was really timely. However, you know that I can’t let you be involved in this investigation. You are signed off. I have had clear instructions from DCI Strange to tell you to go home and rest so I would suggest you do that. Do I make myself clear?’

  How the hell does Jerry know I’m up here! Harry bloody Massah!

  ‘You do Ma’am. I can’t promise to go home. But I can promise I won’t knowingly get involved in this investigation. I just need to answer a few questions for my own sanity. Could I ask you just to consider one thing?’

  ‘Just understand one thing first, knowingly or unknowingly, if you interfere with this investigation, you will be for the high jump. What do you want me to consider?’

  ‘Rob Adams, Ben Hanlon, Jessica Seymour and Madame Evangeline. No one knows who they really are. However, for them to know the things they do, for them to have the insights they seem to have about these murderers, they must have eyes somewhere within the force. From my own bitter experience, that could be someone you know, that could be someone on your team.’

  Chapter 13

  The sun shimmered, beaming lonely in a cloudless sky, talons of sunlight shining off the darkened glass of the office buildings surrounding Edinburgh Central Mosque on Potterrow, just off the Royal Mile. The stone building, with its tall, dominant prayer tower looked clean and crisp, only the brown bricked symbols halfway up the towers breaking the uniformity. The entrance was a large rectangular stone surround, half the height of the prayer tower, with inlaid arches ever decreasing to the thirty foot high doorway into the building.

  There was an eerie silence on the streets and the open area in front of the Mosque, not a single vehicle on the roads or anyone at all wandering around. Further down the main road, about a hundred metres in either direction, flashing blue lights signified the boundary setup to secure the area, police vehicles blocking access. On the road up to the Royal Mile, the police vehicles were parked below a scaffold frame built over the road that was supporting large banners advertising the Edinburgh Fringe.

  A smaller door inside the larger Mosque door opened with a groan and a solitary policeman came out, quickly running across the concourse and road, footfalls echoing in the emptiness, towards the cars parked below the scaffold.

  ‘All secure Ma’am. There is no one in there.’ PC Campbell said, slightly out of breath as he arrived at the small group of colleagues standing in front of an open van. A line of police officers stretched right across the road, facing outward and controlling an ever growing inquisitive crowd of Festival revellers, tourists and a large contingent of press. A mirrored line of police officers stood in front of the vehicles, facing the Mosque, ready to mobilise into the empty area.

  ‘Thanks Campbell. Join the line and keep an eye on the crowd.’ Cruikshank said as she raised a walkie talkie and started to speak into it while scanning the rooftops of the perimeter buildings. ‘Armed Response Officers call off one through ten and just to reiterate, absolutely no engagement without my explicit order.’ The walkie talkie crackled and ten voices, one after the other called off their readiness, hands raising in the air from the rooftops as they did.

  ‘Excellent. Tait, is everyone in position at the other locations?’ Cruickshank asked, turning back to the Police Incident Van behind her, where Annie was sitting at a small communications bench inside it.

  ‘Yes Ma’am, all eight teams have reported back. Perimeters in place, exclusion zones clear and Mosques are now empty. Just a matter of waiting.’

  ‘Well, we’ve only got a few minutes to find out where it will be. Let’s pray we’ve read the Islamic signs right.’ Cruickshank stated as she paced impatiently in front of the van.

  A loud screech of feedback seared through the relative silence of the scene outside the mosque, emanating from the speakers at the top of the prayer tower.

  ‘I thought you said there was no one in there Campbell!’ Cruickshank shouted down the line to the Police Officer’s receding figure.

  ‘Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.’ followed the screeching out of the speakers.

  ‘That’s the start of the Adhan.’ Cruickshank shouted, confused. ‘Is that on a timer set for midday or is someone in there!’ she demanded, looking sternly at the approaching figure of a panicking Campbell.

  ‘It’s not automatic Ma’am. I checked with one of the Imam’s before we emptied the Mosque. They don’t automate Adhan.’ Campbell answered with pained anxiety.

  ‘Well that must mean someone is in there. Men, lets walk forward slowly towards the Mosque entrance. Tait, any news from the other locations?’

  ‘No Ma’am, all quiet.’

  ‘God is great, God is Great, Is God Great? Is your God really Great?’ Blared out from the speakers, the change in the order of the words accentuated, the last question pointed.

  ‘Right men, keep your eyes peeled on every doorway, window, alley, manhole cover or cubby hole that someone could hide in. This is happening here and now. That’s not the Adhan, someone is starting to make a point.’

  ‘Is your God, who would let his followers, let his leaders, let his Imam’s torture, mutilate and murder innocent women really great?’

  Cruickshank walked in front of the advancing police line, her eyes darting around the concourse, looking up at the prayer tower, delving into the shadows of enclosed alleyways.

  ‘Or is he another false god that uses fear to instil faith. In whose faith is your fear founded. What mortal flesh would you divest to appease your saviours wrath, who’s pious wrote would you impress while seeking raptures righteous path. What mortal flesh would you divest! The skin of a woman’s labia ripped off with bare teeth! Extreme Genital Mutilation. Orifices sewn shut, bodies beaten for fun! All in the name of a God who is great!’ The voice soared and echoed around the open space, the crowds gathered behind the police barriers silent in anticipation, the police lines quietly moving, intently scanning their surroundings.

  ‘One through ten call off, do you see anything!’ Cruickshank whispered into the walkie talkie, holding it to her ear as ten negative replies rang out. ‘Shit, where the hell is he?’

  ‘Raise your eyes to the sky, see the blasphemy of his god, witness not just the words of his travesty, but the impact of his actions, not from my lips, but from those of his victim.’

  A loud, piercing rip sounded out from behind Cruikshank, causing her to turn and see the large festival banners peeling away from the scaffold beam spanning the road behind her to reveal three people on a small platform. The crowd jostled backward, the police line underneath forward and everyone looked up, a collective disquiet spreading through them as they saw the occupants of the platform.

  One man, the Imam, was bound naked to a scaffold post, his hands raised above his head and tied tightly with rope, as were his feet. Barbed wire was wound
tightly around his body from toe to fingertip, biting into the bleeding flesh. He looked sedated. A second man, the Harlequin, stood beside the Imam, holding a microphone in one hand and a pile of pictures in the other. His back appeared bulbous and around his neck was a noose, the rope of which was tied tightly to the scaffold cross beam above him. A woman leaned against him, holding onto his arm. She was wrapped in a white sheet blotched with blood stains, the most pronounced of which was around her crotch. Her eyes, nose, mouth and ears were dotted with bloody, bruised pinholes. The Harlequin raised the microphone to her lips.

  ‘I was scared.’ she started nervously, her voice broken and weak, each word obviously causing her damaged lips pain. ‘He was so charming, so supportive. I am a good girl. I pray every day. I know my place and I just needed guidance. I was scared because I liked a boy who wasn’t a Muslim. I know what Allah says about that and I came to the Imam for advice. He kept asking me if I had sexual thoughts about the boy. He told me that was alright, that a woman was allowed to have those feelings and that it was only wrong to act on them. So I told him that I had because it is wrong to lie. He was still very considerate, offering me a drink of water, seeing I was terrified. I drank the water as he started to talk to me about Infidels and then I must have fallen asleep. I awoke strapped naked into a basket frame. He was naked too and started beating me and screaming at me, calling me a whore. He then started to sew my ears up. It was agony, and I screamed and pleaded for him to stop. I pleaded to Allah to forgive my sordid thoughts. He kept stitching: my lips, my nose, my anus, my eyes.’ she paused, tears streaming from her damaged eyes, her breathing frantic as she relived the Imam’s actions. The Harlequin wrapped a comforting arm around her and whispered something into her ear. She nodded.

  ‘Campbell, get me a megaphone, quickly.’ Cruickshank ordered as she walked earnestly back toward the gantry, lifting the walkie talkie as she did. ‘ARO’s, get your weapons trained on the Harlequin. Tait, stand down the units at the other site and get them here as fast as you can and for god’s sake, see if we can jam that bloody microphone signal.’

  ‘Then he gouged at my eyeballs and hit me hard in the stomach, before cutting me down below and ripping the loose skin off with his teeth.’ she said, her voice rising in intensity, full of terror as she loosened the sheet around her and let it fall to the platform, leaving her standing naked, the gaping wound of her mutilated vagina visible for all to see.

  A loud gasp escaped those in the crowd that could see the detail of her injuries, blaspheming and angry shouting following.

  ‘He would have stitched me down there too if I hadn’t been rescued by this man. And then he would have killed me, like he has so many others. I wanted help. I was afraid and I wanted help. All I wanted was his help.’ She started to cry and the Harlequin stooped and raised the sheet back over her body and cuddled her tightly into him. He took the microphone back.

  ‘This is Imam Veron Mann. He is my brother and he has mutilated and murdered five women. Perdip would have been his sixth. We were fortunate to find her just before he killed her, just before he carried out this further atrocity upon her.’ he finished, throwing the wad of pictures in his hand into the air where they caught on the thermals and floated delicately down to the ground, grotesque glimpses of ravaged torso’s, ripped and riven, the internal organs missing, flitting in and out of sight.

  Hundreds of pictures fluttered to the ground and Cruickshank grabbed one as it wafted close to her. She looked at the atrocity on the photograph, the name of the woman and the date she was murdered typed on the bottom, and physically convulsed.

  The crowd started grabbing for the photographs too, shouts and screams breaking out amongst them, some people pushing back to get out of the area, some pushing angrily forward to get closer to the Imam, hurling verbal abuse in is direction.

  Campbell arrived next to Cruickshank and handed her the megaphone. ‘Start collecting these up and get that line to push the crowd back. Try to get the photographs off them too.’ she ordered, thrusting the photograph into his hands. She raised the megaphone to her mouth and directed it upward, toward to platform.

  ‘That is tragic, absolutely tragic and I would like to thank you for bringing these atrocities to our attention. What do we have to do to ensure that there isn’t another life wasted here today? Can you help me with that? I am DCI Gaynor Cruickshank and I am here to listen. What’s your name?’

  The Harlequin smiled, hugging Perdip tighter as she shook beside him, looking out over the rooftops to the Armed Response Officers, their weapons pointed at him. ‘DCI Gaynor Cruickshank. There will be no other life wasted here today. There will only be a natural end, a conclusion, a denouement. We will no longer stand by and let these atrocities take place under the fear of faith. We will no longer stand in the shadows of your gods and let Angels Bleed in the ignominy of his seed.’ His voice was rising, calmness being replaced by fervour as he tenderly assisted Perdip to sit down on the platform, the large bulge on his back rippling, a rip of Velcro searing out through the microphone as he stood back up, stretching his arms out.

  ‘Shit, he’s getting ready to jump. ARO’s, if you have a clear wing shot -and I mean wing shot- and it does not jeopardise the safety of the woman, then you are authorised to shoot now.’ Cruickshank hissed into the walkie talkie.

  From behind his back, two large feathered wings rose in tandem with his arms, reaching out beyond their fingertips. The crowd gasped in unison, as a myriad of cameras flashed in time. ‘We will no longer let the innocent be used as pawns in their game. The weak, the vulnerable, those who believe because they know no different, because they are led. We will expose the bloody malevolence of their leaders. Even Fallen Angels have Wings.’

  A single shot rang out through the square, hitting the Harlequin on the left shoulder, forcing him to stagger back on the small platform, forcing him to fall backward into the air, the rope tied to the cross beam unravelling. A look of pained euphoria ingrained itself on his face as he fell, shouting into the microphone, ‘We are the Fallen Angels.’ a split second before the slack in the rope ran out, jerking his body viciously and breaking his neck instantly.

  Chapter 14

  Well, there is no doubt at all now that there is someone called Madame Evangeline. Who she is though is a different matter entirely. Logically I know that there is still not enough evidence to prove that Jess is Madame Evangeline. Even that video from the Fallen Angels isn’t conclusive. A painted face with similar features and a voice that is totally different. I know part of me wants to believe it is her and part of me that it isn’t. I know Jess is alive and I know I have to link the two of them together in some way. I need to find out how the hell she managed to get out of that hotel room on New Year’s Eve. If she did come up to Edinburgh on a train with someone who looks like me, I need to find out where they went. How can I find that out without using contacts in the force? How can I….hold on. What about Harry? He might have contacts? No, he’ll go running straight back to Jerry and tell him what I am up to. Possibly not if I confront him about that first. It’s worth a try.

  I limp down Princess Street, weaving through the shopperati dipping in and out of the stores to get a hit of their consumer fix. Life goes on, ever moving, even though someone not a mile away has just died, a killer has been found and a world of pain has been exposed. Couples, smiling and tactile, kissing and cuddling pass me by, oblivious of my pain, oblivious of what is happening in their city. I shuffle on and call Harry.

  ‘Harry. It’s John Saul.’

  ‘Hello Mr Saul. How are you today? What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m a little perplexed to be honest Harry. Thanks for your time yesterday, it was really helpful. Crystallised a few things in my mind and opened up a few other thoughts. I was wondering if you could help me. I am in Edinburgh at the minute, following up some leads. The DCI I was talking to appeared to know that I was coming and had explicit instructions from Jerry to order me home to rest. You would
n’t know anything about that would you?’

  Silence for a moment.

  ‘I could try and lie. I could, but I won’t Mr Saul. I saw Jerry last night when I was picking up the girls from Pony club. He asked me if you had been in touch. I told him about our meeting. He does have your best interests at heart, you do know that don’t you?’

  ‘Harry, I know Jerry is trying to look after me and I know he would have found out in one way or another what I was up to. I guess there is probably only one way that you would treat our conversations as confidential and not go reporting back to him.’

  ‘Mr Saul, it’s not like that, honestly. I feel conflicted. Jerry recommended me to your wife and really, she was my client. As a friend he just asked me to let him know if you had been in touch.’

  ‘That’s alright Harry, I don’t blame you, I just need to get past that. I would like to hire you to work for me on something. Hopefully that will dispel any conflict you might have.’

  ‘Well, if you hire me, then that’s a different thing entirely. What is it you want me to do?’

  ‘The two train journeys that you photographed Jess and the other me making, do you think you could find where they went to when they arrived in Edinburgh. See if you can find any CCTV footage of them getting off the train, figure out if they got taxis or lifts anywhere after that?’

  Silence again.

  ‘Look Harry, as far as the police are concerned Jessica Seymour is dead. They will not and I don’t expect them to put any effort into finding out what a dead person did in the weeks leading up to that. For my own sanity I am trying to piece together something that has ripped my world apart. I can’t do that on my own, I don’t have the contacts or the bandwidth to do everything. I need some help and you definitely have a starter for ten with regard to knowing what Jess was up to over the last month. Will you help me, please?’

  ‘Okay Mr Saul. Leave it with me and I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something. Is this the best number to call you on?’