Her Moons Denouement (Fallen Angels Book 2)

by Max Hardy

  ‘Thanks Harry, I really appreciate this. Yes, just call me back on my mobile any time, day or night. Sleeping seems to be escaping me at the moment.’

  I hang up just outside the hotel entrance, and look up at the multi windowed façade. Probably about ten feet between each window, with a very narrow ledge just below the window sills. Wide enough for someone to walk along? I’ll soon find out.

  The hotel reception is quiet as I enter, the heady odour of orange pot pourri invading my nostrils. It triggers a memory of Jess and I, still sweating from the 10k we had done, pushing each other away, laughing as we drank in the scent and teased one another about our own body odour. We ended up fucking the second we got through the hotel room door, she ripping my pants down and climbing straight onto me where we stood. The receptionist smiles as I approach and introduce myself.

  ‘Ah yes, Mr Saul. You wanted the two rooms next to each other. They are all ready for you Sir. Do you have any baggage to take?’

  ‘No, not at the moment thank you.’

  I take the key cards and head for the lifts, scanning the reception area. CCTV pointing out from the lifts to the main entrance. No CCTV in the lifts. Third Floor, CCTV cameras just outside the lifts, one pointing in each direction down the corridor. I turn left and head toward the room Jess and I shared, walking past it to the next room, the one where the booted foot came from. Damn, no other camera’s at this end of the corridor. I unlock the door with the key card and enter the room. Lights automatically illuminate, adding an unnatural lustre to the natural sunlight streaming in through the netted sash and case windows.

  The part of my mind that is creative had expected to see a black leather cat suit lying on the bed, thigh length leather boots next to it, a big flashing light above beaming ‘She got dressed here!’. Instead it was just a normal hotel room, slightly upmarket, very much the same as the one next door, just reversed, but…

  Why is the analytical part of my mind not surprised? But with a Cezanne painting above the bed. I walk over to the window and raise the bottom half, the nets billowing in the breeze. I then leave the room and go into the one next door, deliberately focusing, not breathing, moving straight to the window, ignoring the furnishings and décor and memories of my time with Jess that are pushing for prominence. I open it, thrusting my head out, breathing again, breathing in the air filled with fumes from the cars heading out over the Waverley Bridge to my right. I look to my left, to the netting blowing out of the open window in the next room and then down to the narrow ledge between them. It’s about twenty centimetres wide and there are a couple of gaps in the stonework around head height which look like reasonable hand holds.

  I climb onto the window sill, smarting as I stretch my groin, and swing both legs out, resting them on the ledge, the breeze ruffling my trousers. I can feel my heart thumping in my chest, adrenaline coursing through my veins as I look down to the people passing by three floors below. The inevitable movement of time. Everything progresses. Everyone gets on with life, in spite of the agony, in spite of the sheer aching numbness. Even I do. I could jump now. I could jump and end the torture, throw a ripple in the rivers of the throng below. But I won’t. My death of choice is by revolver. That doesn’t mean that I might not accidentally slip, and the height and precarious position is certainly making me scared. So I look straight ahead, to try and distract my mind from the height. Straight ahead to the offices across the road. Straight ahead, focusing on a window in the office across the road. Straight ahead, at the redhead standing in the window of the office across the road. At the redhead looking directly at me, smiling.

  At the red head who looks remarkably like Jess.

  Like Jess.

  I duck under the window and throw my legs back over into the room, hitting the floor in a run. Third floor, sixth window from the left, redhead, head high rubber plant beside her. I sprint out the door and down the corridor, my heart racing, my groin and feet screaming at me in agony as I reach the lift and continually bang the button impatiently. The doors open and I dive in, being as animated with the button on the inside. I can’t stand still as the lift descends: nerves, pain and frustration. Why is she taunting me? It is sheer mental torture. If she is part of this religious ‘cult’ that is the ‘Fallen Angels’, I’m not convinced about them if this type of mind games is part of their ideology. Twenty Three seconds.

  The lift doors open and I career out into the lobby, my brogues slipping on the polished tiles, almost sprawling headlong. Almost. I slow slightly and adjust my footing, open my gait into a run rather than a sprint and head out onto Princess Street, every one of my wounds now burning. I weave through the afternoon crowd, quickly looking right, quickly judging the gaps in the traffic coming out of the junction with North Bridge. Fifty one seconds.

  I shuffle between an Edinburgh Tour bus, a taxi and an irate old woman who beeps her horn maddeningly at me as she has to brake, but make it to the other side unscathed, not pausing as I reach the entrance of the Waverleygate offices where I saw Jess, slowing to a walk as I see a security guard sitting with a receptionist at the main desk in the lobby. Four floors, third one empty, six businesses on the other three. Think. Who could I be? Just need to act natural. Head for the lifts. Pretend I am from ‘Bailiss’, a company on the 4th Floor, if they ask. Seventy nine seconds.

  They don’t ask, just smile at me politely. I return the pleasantry, reaching the lift, casually calling it, my heart thumping, sweat beads starting to form on my face from the exertion. The lift opens and I slowly walk in, pressing floor 3. The second the doors close the façade of calmness disappears and I start banging the 3rd floor button erratically. Right. Lift is facing the front of the building so I will be going left when I get out. Come on! Ninety four seconds.

  The lift bings, the doors open and I sprint once again, straight to my left, into an empty corridor. CCTV facing right down the short corridor at me. The guard will see me running. Too late to worry about that. I barge through double doors at the end of the corridor into an empty open plan office that stretches the full length of the building wing. Count windows. No need, there’s the one with the rubber plant. Can’t see past it. Can’t see if she is there. One hundred and one seconds.

  I slow as I approach the plant, the adrenaline ebbing from me as I see an empty space at the far side of it. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I walk to the window, spinning around, my stomach heaving with desolation as I look for her frantically. No one. The floor is empty.

  ‘Fuck!’ I scream, taking a deep breath to counter the sobs of frustration building in my throat. A deep breath that fills my lungs with as scent. Coco Chanel. Oh my God, Jess. Your scent. I breathe deeper, luxuriating in her odour, letting it engulf me for a moment as I step toward the window sill where she had been standing, my attention caught by a card precisely placed at the centre of it.

  I pick it up. A black card with red writing, ‘Sodom and Gomorrah’, the ‘S’ and ‘M’s’ embossed. The club where Rebecca met Madame Evangeline. I turn it over. ‘Meet me at nine. Booth eight.’ in the centre of a lipstick kiss. My stomach leaps, the desolation of losing her again in under two minutes usurped by the thought that finally, there may be some answers.

  I look up, out of the window, back across to my hotel room.

  Where Jess is sitting on the window ledge, smiling at me, her long red hair billowing in the breeze. She stands and pirouettes along the narrow ledge gracefully and quickly, sitting down on the ledge of the other open window within a second, looking straight at me again. She smiles, blows me a kiss, falls backwards into the room and is gone.

  There is no doubt now. Jessica Seymour is Madame Evangeline. No doubt at all. I chose her: I chose her and killed my wife and son in the process.

  Chapter 15

  ‘Another suicide. Another mass murdered revealed. Another PR fiasco with the press having live footage of the whole sorry mess. It is not good enough girls and boys, not good enough at all. We were handed information on a plate on where and when
todays events were going to happen and we still found ourselves outwitted and quite frankly, made to look inept and incompetent. We need to get on the front foot. We need to start seeing the patterns in what is going on, we need to start delving into the evidence and working out who the hell is involved in this and how the hell they have the upper hand. One thing we know for definite is that today was not the end.’

  Cruickshank stood at the front of the Incident Room, hands thrust firmly down the sides of her perfectly ironed skirt, the fists flexing in frustration, knuckles angry, her countenance a vista of furious disappointment as she boomed out the tirade. Dozens of detectives looked anywhere apart from directly at her, their expressions beaten and sheepish.

  Apart from one. Bentley wasn’t paying attention to Cruickshank’s rant. He was looking through the case notes in front of him. At the names of the Imam’s victims. At a name he recognised.

  Cruickshank honed in on DI Barry Trentor first, glaring at the angular faced Detective who tried to busy himself in his notes under her piercing eyes. ‘So Trentor, an update on the O’Driscoll murders if you please. Hopefully with some insight as to how our friend Elvis knew all about them and we didn’t!’

  ‘Well Ma’am, we have managed to corroborate all of the forensic evidence back to O’Driscoll’s confession….’ Trentor started but was immediately cut off by Cruickshank.

  ‘Baloney Trentor. Did you listen to what I asked you? Insight into how Elvis knew about them. We know he’s bloody confessed, we know we have the forensic evidence. That doesn’t help us at the moment.’ she shouted in frustration.

  Tait nudged Bentley in the arm. ‘Did you tell Trentor what you found out about Elvis?’ she whispered over to him.

  He didn’t look up, engrossed in the evidence file in front of him, his features drawn and pallid.

  She nudged him again, harder, her question louder. ‘Bentley, did you tell Trentor about Elvis?’

  Bentley looked up at her with a haunted expression, not registering her face for a second before his countenance changed to one of recognition, then anger. ‘When the fuck have I had time to tell him that.’

  ‘Tait, Bentley!’ Cruikshank’s words seared across the room, stopping Trentor in his mumbling tracks, causing everyone in the room to turn in the direction of the two Detectives. ‘Are we keeping you from something, some private assignation? We are in the middle of a serious briefing here so your attention and focus would be greatly appreciated.’

  ‘Sorry Ma’am.’ Tait answered immediately, embarrassed under the admonishment. ‘In the speed of everything that has happened today I forgot to update DI Trentor on information we gathered from our conversations at ‘Sodom & Gommorah’ last night. Would you mind if I spent a minute doing that now? I think it is relevant to your question.’

  Bentley’s expression turned from anger to surprise then awe as his colleague consciously took the blame for his forgetfulness.

  ‘When you say ‘I’ forgot, is that who you mean?’ Cruickshank pointedly asked, probing eyes darting between Tait and Bentley.

  ‘I am the lead officer on this part of the investigation Ma’am and as such it is my accountability to ensure that all of the relevant information gets logged and passed on to the correct Detectives. So yes, ‘I’ forgot.’ Tait answered with controlled nervousness, holding Cruickshank’s glare with wavering determination.

  Cruickshank returned the gaze for a full five seconds, then with an almost imperceptible wry smile, continued. ‘Come on then Tait, you have a minute.’

  ‘According to his employer Elvis Aarons was very much a loner. We did find out that he had a regular pool of ‘clients’ that he associated with. We managed to talk to a couple of them who were there last night. One of the things they told us is that Elvis has a particular fetish with regard to sexual asphyxiation. It is possible Elvis may have come across O’Driscoll because of that Ma’am.’

  ‘Good, definitely worth a minute of interruption. However, at the moment it is just conjecture. Trentor, can you build that into your next interview with O’Driscoll. If he can corroborate that, then we possibly have a source. Purves, look at that with regard to the Mann investigation. I know things are fresh on that but where are we now?’

  DI Rosamund Purves, a middle aged woman with long, flowing dyed blonde hair, grey at the roots, flicked through the notes in front of her, taking a second to compose her thoughts in the light of Cruickshank’s mood.

  ‘We have five dead victims Ma’am as well as Perdip Tousivuna. The names and pictures are all on file. We are currently checking into the background of them all. We have carried out an initial interview with Perdip. She is still deeply traumatised by events and is in hospital having her wounds dressed. She was very lucid however and has given us some interesting leads. As well as the Harlequin referring to Imam Mann as his brother, Perdip also said that the Imam referred to the Harlequin as ‘Brother’ too. So we are checking out a biological connection. Perdip also said that she only ever saw the Harlequin but that there was also a woman present at her rescue. We want to play her the video of Madame Evangeline later to see if she recognises the voice. She was able to give us the location of where she was held captive and we have a team heading over there now. She then told us that the three of them had been up on the platform for about half an hour before the police started to arrive. They climbed on from one of the windows of the building the scaffold was secured to. We are looking at CCTV footage to try and see when they arrived at the building. One thing to note Ma’am, she is extremely reluctant at the moment to answer any specific questions about the Harlequin. At the moment, she is viewing him as her saviour.’

  ‘Understandable, but she has information which could be crucial to us, so think carefully about your interview strategy. Get personal. We need to show the kind of intimacy and empathy that the Harlequin and the ‘Fallen Angels’ seem to have demonstrated to her. Some good leads there Purves, chase them down as quickly as you can. When are we expecting news from forensics on the identity of the Harlequin?’

  ‘It’s due in the next hour.’

  ‘Keep on top of them. That’s one of our more crucial lines of enquiry. Has the Imam said anything yet?’

  ‘No Ma’am, he is still coming around from sedation.’

  Cruickshank turned and addressed an extremely tall, skinny man next, the handlebar moustache he wore warming the rim of the thermos mug he was supping from.

  ‘Gregory, have you found out anything at all about Heather Scott that can help us with this case?’

  ‘Apart from Bentley’s dog being the Prime Suspect.’ he joked, his initial smile turning rictus at the steely glares and shakes of disapproval that came from just about every other Detective in the room. No one had to say anything.

  He coughed, cleared his throat and got serious in a second. ‘The case files were brought up from storage this morning Ma’am and we are currently reviewing the key evidence that was presented at the time. At the moment, there is nothing to suggest anything different to the conviction that was made. Given the religious slant that events have taken, we are trying to find out if Heather belonged to any particular denomination. Nothing so far. We may need to go and check with relatives.’

  ‘Just think carefully about how you handle that. I wouldn’t want relatives to think we were questioning a conviction when we have no evidence of anything different happening. It will cause concern. It doesn’t mean you don’t ask, it just means be discreet. Thanks Gregory.’

  Cruickshank looked down at her notes and sighed heavily, shaking her head as she read through them. ‘Intel back from GCHQ reports no chatter at all out there in the wild about any organisation, cult, sect or faction called the ‘Fallen Angels’. Nothing at all from the National Counter Terrorism Security Office either. Not a jot. Both are now actively scanning and will keep a watching brief on our investigations.’ She sucked in her bottom lip and muttered under her breath, musing. ‘Where do they come from and where do they go. They hide in plai
n sight.’

  ‘Ma’am, I think there is one thing that we should consider exploring.’ Tait said, breaking the silence of those watching the DCI pondering.

  ‘I’m open to suggestions Tait, so fire away.’

  ‘Well, the only link we have seen so far in events is the club where Elvis Aarons worked, and the fact that someone called Madame Evangeline may have also frequented that club.’ she paused, waiting for a rebuke, feeling Bentley’s eyes glaring into her, but instead saw a nod of encouragement from Cruickshank. ‘It can’t be coincidental. Why don’t we raid the club? It is an illegal establishment anyway so we wouldn’t need a warrant?’

  Cruickshank visibly ruminated over Tait’s idea, her head bobbing in time with her obvious thoughts. Eventually her eyes raised and an expression of affirmation morphed onto her stern features. ‘Excellent idea Tait. You have whatever you need to make it happen. We will still need to inform the Superintendent. What time do you propose and I’ll get it cleared?’

  Tait baulked at the question, not having thought the DCI would agree to it and not having thought through the practicalities. Bentley saw her struggling and interjected, obvious annoyance in his voice.

  ‘There’s no point going any time before eight, there’ll be no one there. You should have a decent crowd about nine. Still plenty of time to arrest and process before the nights out.’ He answered, scowling at Tait as he did.

  ‘Nine it is then. Right everyone, the day is still young and we have a ton of evidence still to process. Remember, focus on the things that will help us identify the connections in this. We need to find out who the ‘Fallen Angels’ are. We need to work out why they are doing this. We need to understand the significance of Heather Scott. Now back to it.’

  With moans, groans, screeching of chairs being forced back and a general return of related chatter, the Detectives started to leave the Incident Room. Tait stood up to leave, expecting Bentley to follow, but he sat still, attention fully engaged on the notes in front of him again. She sat back down next to him, concerned.