Angel of Death

by Ben Cheetham

  They were a couple of miles from the Northern General when Amy’s phone rang. She spoke briefly to the caller. ‘Right… OK… Thanks for letting me know.’ She turned to Jim. ‘That was Scott Greenwood. Mark Baxley was telling the truth about the phone call. Just after 8 p.m. a call was placed from the Baxley house to Mark Baxley’s mobile phone. Also the techies have managed to get the CCTV hard drive working. It seems the cameras were off at the time the killings took place. Of course, neither of those things puts Mark in the clear.’

  ‘No, but they sure as hell go a long way towards backing up his story.’

  They parked up and made their way to the Critical Care Department. Jim asked a nurse how Charlotte Baxley was doing, and was informed that her condition was still life-threatening. Mark looked to be asleep, but his eyes flicked open when they entered his room. ‘This is DI Amy Sheridan,’ said Jim, indicating his colleague.

  ‘Hello, Mark,’ said Amy. ‘I know you probably just want to sleep right now, but I’m afraid we need to ask you some more questions.’

  ‘I’m more tired than I’ve ever been in my life, but I don’t want to sleep,’ said Mark. The look in his eyes suggested that the world behind them was haunted by horrifying images. His gaze moved to Jim. ‘Thanks for before. For staying with me.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘So what do you want to know?’

  ‘Well, firstly, do you know that your father’s business is in financial difficulties?’

  ‘No. Dad never spoke about money with any of us, not even Mum. But I kind of suspected something was up. He’d been working late a lot recently. In the past he always made sure he knocked off at a reasonable hour, so he could spend time with Charlotte and… well, just with Charlotte really. How serious is it?’

  ‘The business is bankrupt,’ put in Amy.

  ‘Bankrupt,’ Mark repeated in a hollow voice. His forehead twitched as he tried to assimilate the realisation that not only had he lost his parents, but he was also going to lose everything their money had paid for. ‘So that’s why the fucker did this. He lived in terror of being poor. Mum told me he used to have nightmares about losing his money and being forced to go and live in the flat where he grew up. He said he’d rather die than end up back there. Well, fine, if he would rather have died, but what made him think he had the right to… to do what he—’ Mark choked up. Tears flooded his eyes. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No need for apologies, Mark,’ said Amy, a gentleness in her tone that contrasted with her usual staunchly professional demeanour. Glancing at her, Jim caught a glimpse of someone he didn’t know, someone tender and warm. He recalled that she had two young children, a boy and a girl. He couldn’t remember their names, but he remembered the way her features softened whenever she talked about them. Like many officers, she had two faces – one for work and one for home. He too used to have two faces, but over the years his ‘home’ face had been eroded away until all that was left was the stern, unreadable mask he wore to work. Now, though, it seemed that mask was slipping and something new – he didn’t understand exactly what – was being revealed. He waited for Mark to regain his composure, dreading what he had to ask next. The thought of piling more misery on the poor kid weighed upon him like a heavy hand.

  ‘There’s another thing, another question I need to ask you, Mark,’ Jim began in an uncharacteristically hesitant voice. ‘It’s about your… It’s about Stephen Baxley. Did you know he wasn’t your…’ He cleared his throat as though something was stuck in it.

  Mark was watching Jim intensely, and suddenly his eyes grew big. ‘You’re going to ask me if I knew he wasn’t my real dad, aren’t you?’

  ‘So you knew.’

  ‘Not until now, but I suspected it more and more in the last few years. It wasn’t just that he loved Charlotte so much more than he did me, or even that I don’t look anything like him. It was something about the way he looked at me. Like…’ Mark searched for the right words. ‘Like he’d rather I didn’t exist. I mean, what sort of father looks at their child like that?’ His eyes veered away from Jim’s, a blank look in them, as though he was unsure how to feel about what he’d just learnt. He wasn’t surprised to know his dad had lied to him. But his mum… she was the only person he’d ever really trusted. How could she have kept the truth from him for so long? And why had she felt it was necessary? Had she been trying to protect him? If so, her failure couldn’t have been more complete.

  ‘I need a couple more things from you, Mark.’ Jim handed him the printout of the girl’s face. ‘Do you recognise her?’

  Heaving a sigh, Mark focused on the photo. His forehead puckered as if the sight of it pricked his brain like a thorn. Voice vibrating with uncertainty, he said, ‘I don’t think so, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘For a second she seemed familiar, but I don’t know her.’

  ‘Are you sure? Take your time.’

  Mark studied the photo a moment longer, then shook his head. ‘No. I’ve never seen her before. Who is she?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’ Jim handed Mark the other printout. ‘What about him? Do you recognise him?’

  The furrows on Mark’s face deepened. He looked bemusedly at Jim, as if to say, Is this some kind of joke? ‘Of course I recognise him. He’s me.’

  A steely glint came into Jim’s eyes, as though a suspicion had been confirmed.

  ‘I’ve never seen that photo before,’ continued Mark. ‘Where did you get it? And what’s it got to do with that girl?’

  ‘I found it at the house. I’m not yet exactly sure what it’s got to do with the girl.’ Looking at Mark’s ashen pallor, Jim felt the lie was necessary. The time would come soon enough when he had to find out the truth, but not tonight. Tonight he’d been through enough – well, almost. ‘One more thing, Mark, then we’re done for now.’

  At a glance from Jim, Amy started the audio file from the DVD. ‘That’s it!’ Mark exclaimed at the sound of sobbing. ‘That’s what I heard when I went into the house. Who is that?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No. Should I?’

  Give him some more medicine, Angel. Do it. Isolating the voice from the DVD’s images stripped it of its gut-wrenching impact, but none of its insidious cruelty. Mark’s face twisted in a look of uneasy disgust. ‘What is this?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that right now. Do you recognise the voice?’

  ‘Yes, it’s my—’ Mark bit down sharply on the word ‘dad’. ‘It’s Stephen.’

  ‘Are you absolutely certain? Do you want DI Sheridan to play it again?’

  Mark shook his head. He pressed his hand to his mouth, swallowing hard as if to force back down rising vomit.

  ‘Are you OK?’ asked Amy. ‘Do you want me to fetch a nurse?’

  ‘No. I just need some water.’

  Amy poured Mark a glass. He took a few sips, then rested his head against the pillows and took a slow breath. ‘Sorry, I suddenly came over feeling sick. I think I need to close my eyes and rest.’

  ‘You do that.’ Jim stood to leave, but hesitated. ‘Who had access to the safe in the master bedroom?’

  ‘Only Stephen. That’s where he kept the cash he used to dole out for Mum’s and our weekly allowances. I told you, he was extremely controlling about money. If you ask me, the fucker got a kick out of knowing we were totally dependent on him.’

  As Jim and Amy strode towards the lift, Amy asked, ‘Why does it matter who had access to the safe?’

  ‘Maybe the safe was open because that’s where Stephen Baxley kept the DVD. I’m trying to figure out whether or not his wife knew about its existence.’

  Amy thumbed over her shoulder towards Mark’s room. ‘Let’s hope for that poor bastard’s sake that she didn’t. I wonder why Stephen Baxley put the DVD on for Mark to see? Do you reckon he got some kind of power kick out of knowing that was the last thing Mark would ever see?’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to know what the b
astard got out of it.’

  ‘You guessed the boy in that film was Mark, didn’t you?’

  Jim nodded. ‘When I thought about when it was made and how old Mark is, it seemed like the logical conclusion. I just couldn’t bring myself to say it. The thought that some­one could do that to a child they’re supposed to love, it’s just too…’ He shook his head, signifying his disgust was beyond words.

  ‘Mark obviously has no memory of what happened.’

  ‘They had him drugged up to the eyeballs. The poor little sod wouldn’t have had a clue what was going on.’ Jim ground his knuckles against the lift wall. He felt like hitting something – hard. He closed his eyes and the shadowy figures from the DVD emerged like phantoms from his raging brain. And he knew the only way he would ever drive them out was by hunting them down and bringing them to justice.

  ‘You look done in, Jim. Why don’t you go home and get some sleep? I’ll cover for you with Garrett.’

  Jim shook his head. He was tired, but not in the way Amy meant. He was tired of the job, of manning a seemingly endless conveyor belt of misery. He wanted off. He wanted out. But the look he’d seen in Mark’s eyes – both as an adult and a child – pinned him in place like a butterfly to a board. ‘Thanks for the offer, though.’

  The cindery glow of dawn touched the chimney pots of Pitsmoor’s terraced houses as they drove to South Yorkshire Police Headquarters, a squat, rectangular concrete-and-brick building on the edge of the city centre. Jim pulled over outside it. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  Faint lines of confusion spread across Amy’s forehead. ‘I thought you wanted to keep working.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘So what about those old case-files the DCI wants us to review?’

  ‘You’ll have to start without me. There’s someone I need to see.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bryan Reynolds.’

  The wrinkles on Amy’s brow grew more pronounced. ‘I don’t think that’s advisable, Jim.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I’m going to do it anyway. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do anything stupid. I just want to look into his eyes and gauge his reaction to the news of his old pal’s death.’

  ‘Perhaps I should come with you.’

  Jim shook his head. ‘There’s no point both of us getting in shit with the brass. Besides, Reynolds and I go back a long way. I know how the bastard operates. He won’t speak to me if you’re there. If I’m alone, it’ll get him wondering if maybe I’ve come to deal for information.’

  ‘OK, but call me as soon as you’re done with him.’

  ‘Ditto you if you find anything in the files. Pull Reynolds’s file as well.’

  ‘What do you want me to tell the DCI?’

  ‘The truth,’ said Jim with a crooked little smile, knowing it would get up Garrett’s nose big time.

  Amy got out of the car. Flicking her a wave, Jim accelerated away. He lit a cigarette, thinking about Bryan Reynolds. The guy was a sociopath of the worst kind. Friendship, love and affection were alien to him – or at least, Jim had thought so before tonight. The knowledge that Reynolds had done time for Stephen Baxley had changed his thinking. The two men obviously shared some sort of deep connection. The question was, did that connection have anything to do with the DVD? Reynolds kept a string of women. He made a great show of lavishing gifts on them. But maybe, like the legitimate busi­nesses he owned, they were a front designed to hide his real nature. Maybe he and Stephen Baxley had shared a mutual fantasy, a mutual perversion that had forged a lifelong bond. That was why Jim wanted to be the one to tell Reynolds about Baxley’s death. He knew it might be the only chance he would ever have to see behind the macho, arrogant mask Reynolds presented to the world.

  8

  Angel didn’t realise she’d passed out until she came round. The blue fingers of dawn were pushing through the curtains, crawling across the floor towards her. Cold sweat filmed her forehead. Mucus streamed from her nostrils, mingling with the blood crusted around her mouth. She wiped it away with a hand that trembled as though a fever was raging inside her. A raw pain gnawed at her guts. She glared at Deano’s sleep­ing form. She wanted him to feel something of that pain, but she was barely strong enough to push herself upright, let alone hurt him. Besides, she knew that if she attacked him, physically or verbally, she would only get it back ten times over. She staggered to the bathroom and examined her face in the mirror. Her upper lip was split and swollen to twice its normal size. Lavender-dark bruises were flowering on her cheekbones and jaw, but Deano had been careful to avoid hitting her nose or eyes. Her upper arms and back had taken the worst of the punishment. With arthritic slowness, she removed her t-shirt, revealing a blanket of bruises.

  She bent to swallow cold water from the tap. After rinsing the sour taste of blood out of her mouth, she tried the other tap. As usual, there was no hot water. She turned on the electric shower and stood beneath the warm trickle of its limescale-clogged head, arms hugged around herself. As her blood drained down the plughole, she felt life seeping back into her bones. The water didn’t stop her from wanting to claw at her itching flesh, though. Only one thing could do that.

  After drying herself with a grubby towel and squeezing the water out of her hair, Angel re-dressed and returned to the bedroom. Deano didn’t stir as she sat down on the bed. Nothing short of a grenade exploding outside the window would wake him before midday. She forced herself to eat a slice of bread, even though her cramping stomach wanted to reject it. Her gaze came to rest on the corner of an envelope poking out from underneath the pillows. She knew what it contained without opening it – a fresh supply of smack. She also knew that Deano would know exactly how many wraps there were, and that she’d be in deep shit if she took one with­out permission. The tendons of her neck stood out like whipcords with the force of will it took to resist cooking up a hit. In a futile attempt to take her mind off the envelope, she switched on the television.

  The morning news was showing an aerial shot of a large house set in equally expansive landscaped gardens. Something big must have gone down, judging by the number of emergency service vehicles in the driveway. As the camera homed in on burnt-out windows, Angel reached for the remote-control. She didn’t like the news, partly because it bored her, but mostly because it depressed her. She already had enough violence and death in her life without wallowing in other people’s misery. She hesitated to switch over, knowing she should keep watching to see if there had been any developments in the Ryan Castle murder case. Turning to Deano again, she felt in his tracksuit pockets and pulled out a cigarette packet and lighter. She sparked up, inhaling deeply. The nicotine wouldn’t ease her cravings, but the act of smoking was one more thing to distract her mind from them.

  ‘…on the outskirts of Sheffield is believed to be the home of a prominent local businessman and his family.’

  Hearing the newsreader mention her home city, Angel peered closely at the television, trying to see if she recognised the area. But all that was visible were fields and grazing sheep. Wherever the house was, it was a far cry from the congested streets of Hillsborough where she’d grown up. The newsreader said something about a police press conference, and the live footage cut to a video clip of a grim-faced detective. ‘I can confirm that shortly after 8 pm yesterday a call was made to the police control room from an address close to the Ringinglow Road,’ he told a wall of journalists. ‘Officers were dispatched to the scene and it was discovered that a man and a woman were dead in the house. It is our belief at this stage that the woman died of shotgun wounds. The exact cause of the man’s death has yet to be established. A teenage girl and a young adult male were found outside the house, both suffering from serious shotgun wounds. They were taken to the Northern General Hospital, where they remain in a critical condition.’

  ‘Can you also confirm whether you’re looking for anyone else in relation to this shooting?’ asked a journalist.

  ‘The investigation is at a very early stage,’ an
swered the detective. ‘All I can say right now is that a full forensics team is at the house seeking to establish exactly what happened and identify all the individuals involved. I would, however, like to reassure people that, at this time, we have no reason to believe this is anything other than an isolated event.’

  So in other words you aren’t looking for anyone else, thought Angel. The implication of this was obvious – someone at the house, almost certainly one of the men, had gone on a murderous rampage. It was the same old story. She’d seen it a thousand times in a thousand forms, but it always amounted to the same thing: there was nothing more dangerous than a man angry and disappointed at life. Other than perhaps a woman sick and tired of being beaten down by men, a voice in her head added.

  The news cut to a live shot of a reporter standing in front of a cordon of police tape. ‘The names of the victims still haven’t been released,’ said the reporter. ‘But since that press conference we’ve learnt that the house behind me is the home of local businessman Stephen Baxley, his wife Jenny and their two children, who can’t be named for legal reasons. A representative of South Yorkshire Police has also informed us that a resident of the address was a lawful holder of a shotgun licence.’

  The reporter began to speculate on the obvious possibilities these revelations might hold, but Angel wasn’t listening any more. At the mention of Stephen Baxley’s name, her body had stiffened as if she’d been poked with an electric cattle prod. She stared at the screen without seeing it, her face deathly pale. Stephen Baxley! The name was like a hand reaching out from the past – a past she’d been running from her whole adult life – to grip her throat. She rocked like someone in a trance. Twisted, perverse images were rushing at her, overwhelming her consciousness. She saw a young boy with curly blond hair and drugged blue eyes. She saw a group of figures hovering over him like vultures over their prey. Finally, she saw Stephen Baxley, his lips repulsively moist, an infinitely more repulsive light in his eyes. She heard his voice as though he was right there in the room. ‘Take your underwear off, Angel.’ And as she obeyed, hate ate at her like acid – hate for Stephen Baxley, hate for the other figures, hate for herself.