Angel of Death

by Ben Cheetham

  The cigarette burnt down to Angel’s fingers, searing the images away. She twisted round, her eyes desperately search­ing. Spotting the gun, she snatched it up and pressed the barrel to her temple. She closed her eyes, her breath coming sharp and tight. Her knuckles whitened on the grip. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Thirty. Pull the trigger, she muttered inwardly. Just fucking do it. No more pain, no more sorrow. A bullet in the head. Quick, simple, easy! The final word tolled like a warning in her brain. Yes, suicide was easy – too easy, both for her and for those who’d driven her to the brink of it. It was time to stop running. It was time to start fighting back.

  She lowered the gun and looked at it. Fifteen bullets. More than enough to go round, even if Stephen Baxley was still alive. She swore a silent oath to herself. They would pay. Every one of them. For what they’d done to her, and for what they’d made her do to the boy. Oh, how they would pay! But first she had to deal with Deano.

  Angel looked at him with eyes like cold stones. She knew he’d never let her go. His pride wouldn’t allow it. But neither could she allow him to give her name to the police. That would end her plans before she’d even had a chance to properly formu­late them. Her gaze returned to the envelope. She pulled it from under the pillow and emptied its contents on to the mattress. There were fifty cellophane wraps of Mexican brown. She picked up three of them. A triple dose would easily be enough to kill him, especially with the amount of junk he already had in his system. She melted the sticky coal-black lumps and drew the solution into Deano’s syringe. Very gently, she spread his legs and felt for the pulsing artery.

  Angel started to move the needle towards Deano, but hesi­tated. Sweat that had nothing to do with withdrawal symp­toms stood out on her upper lip. She’d been swept along by a tsunami of rage when she killed Castle. This was different. Sure, Deano was grade-A scum. And sure, she hated him. But her hate was tempered by other feelings. If only for a brief instant, things had been good between her and Deano. He’d adored her and taken care of her. She shook her head vehemently. No, he’d groomed her for his own pleasure, just like those other bastards who’d plucked her off the street as a fifteen-year-old runaway. And as soon as she was out of the picture, he’d do the same to other girls. She couldn’t allow that to happen. A glance at her battered face in the mirror gave her the final push she needed. She slid the needle into Deano, drew the plunger slightly to make sure she’d hit his vein, then depressed it.

  Deano gave out a soft moan. His eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. Angel watched until the rise and fall of his chest became indiscernible. She didn’t feel the way she had done after killing Castle. She didn’t feel anything much at all. Neither she nor anyone else would grieve for Deano. No one would even come looking for him. As far as she knew, he had no family, and he certainly had no friends. His customers would wonder where he was, but they were hardly likely to report his disappearance. It might be weeks or even months before someone found his body. And even then, few questions would be asked. After all, junkies died in this neighbourhood practically every day of the week.

  Angel cooked up a hit that was weak enough not to knock her off her feet but strong enough to ease her craving. After shooting up, she rifled through Deano’s belongings until she found her money. She put it in her handbag, along with the gun, the Mexican brown and some needles. Then she concealed the worst of her bruises with a thick layer of makeup. After peering out of the window to make sure there were no police about, she headed outside.

  As she made her way to Middlesbrough Railway Station, there was a purpose in her step and a steel in her eyes that made early-morning commuters shift out of her path. ‘When’s the next train to Sheffield?’ she asked the ticket-seller.

  ‘8.20, platform one,’ came the reply. ‘Arrival time in Sheffield is 10.20 a.m.’

  ‘How much for a ticket?’

  ‘One way or return?’

  ‘One way,’ Angel replied without hesitation. She paid for her ticket and walked onto the platform. A shudder passed over her, but not because of the breeze blowing along the tracks. In a few hours, for the first time in nearly fifteen years, she would be home.

  9

  Bryan Reynolds’s house was different from Stephen Baxley’s in every respect except one – it too was worth a cool couple of million. The four-storey, flat-roofed ultra-modern house with its glazed walls, galvanised-steel balconies and panoramic roof terrace was set well back from the road, behind tall gates. A tank-like Hummer with mirrored windows was parked in its driveway. Two heavily muscled pit bulls eyeballed Jim through the gates. Reflecting that the leafy Ranmoor street was about as far as you could get, in lifestyle if not distance, from the sinkhole estates where Reynolds had grown up and where he still plied his trade, Jim hit the intercom button and held it down. An angry, broad Sheffield voice cut through the buzzing. ‘You’d better stop pushing that button or I’ll come down there and shove it up your fucking arse.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Reynolds, did I wake you?’ asked Jim, unable to keep a note of satisfaction out of his voice.

  ‘Yeah you fucking did. Who is this?’

  ‘Detective Jim Monahan.’

  ‘Monahan,’ repeated Reynolds, obviously searching his mem­ory to put a face to the name. ‘Look up at the camera.’ Jim lifted his gaze towards the CCTV camera on the gate, and Reynolds continued, ‘Oh yeah, I remember you. You tried to pin some bullshit drug charge on me a while back. What do you want?’

  ‘Just a friendly chat. I’ve got some information about an old friend of yours that might interest you.’

  ‘I haven’t got any old friends.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, Mr Reynolds? Think carefully. I’m talking about someone from way back.’

  The intercom was silent a moment. Jim could almost hear Reynolds’s brain whirring into motion. Reynolds wasn’t an educated man. If any of the students at the nearby university were ever unfortunate enough to meet him, they might have thought him stupid. But they’d have been very, very wrong. His intelligence was simply of a different nature to theirs. He was a master of bluff and bullshit. But he was also as cold and calculating as a snake, with a mind that could weigh up all the angles as fast as any copper. Faster. That was how he stayed ahead of the game when most of his contemporaries were in prison or dead.

  ‘Are you alone?’ asked Reynolds.

  ‘Yes.’

  The intercom buzzed and the gate clicked open. Reynolds’s voice crackled down the line, ‘Come on up to the house.’ He chuckled as Jim glanced warily at the bulldogs. ‘Don’t worry about my girls. They won’t bother you. Just don’t make any sudden movements.’

  The dogs sniffed at Jim’s ankles as he approached the house. Reynolds met him at the door, wearing a loose kimono. He was in his late forties but had a better body than most men half his age. A hairless, tanned, heavily muscled chest showed through the kimono. He had close-set blue eyes and the broken-nosed, angular face of an old wolf. His scalp glistened pink through thinning blonde hair scraped back into a limp ponytail. The dogs jumped up at him, wagging their stubby tails. Stroking their broad, flat heads, he looked Jim up and down. A smirk flickered at one corner of his mouth. ‘You’ve put on some weight since I last saw you.’

  Resisting an urge to yank open the kimono and check for identifying features, Jim forced a return smile. ‘That happens when you get old.’

  ‘Speak for yourself, mate. I’m as fit as I was when I was twenty-one.’ Reynolds patted his washboard stomach. ‘Fitter.’ Motioning for Jim to follow him, he crossed the minimalist white entrance hall and started up the steel-and-glass spiral staircase. ‘Do you know what my secret is?’

  ‘You work out and eat right.’

  ‘Yeah, I do all that stuff, but that’s not it.’ Reynolds stopped halfway up the staircase and turned round. His eyes were still amused, but something else was lurking in them too, something that made Jim tense up as if in anticipation of having to defend himself. ‘Sleep. That’s the secret to a health
y life. If I didn’t get a solid eight hours a night, I’d soon end up looking like… well, like you. No offence, but I’d rather be dead than look like you.’

  ‘None taken. Sometimes I’d rather be dead than look like me too.’

  Reynolds chuckled. ‘You’re alright, copper.’ He continued up the stairs to a large, unlived-in-looking lounge furnished with beige leather sofas, Persian rugs and oriental art. In one corner there was a well-stocked glass bar. The room had the opulent but tacky feel of an expensive Las Vegas hotel suite. ‘How do you like my little pad? Not bad for a Park Hill boy, eh? What kind of place have you got?’

  ‘I’m not here to talk about me.’

  ‘I’ll bet you live in some pokey semi, don’t you? And I’ll bet you’ve got some dumpy little wifey who spends half her life keeping it clean.’ Reynolds clicked his tongue thoughtfully, his gaze running over Jim’s creased, stained shirt. ‘Or maybe not. Maybe wifey realised she was pissing her life down the drain looking after you and decided to move on to greener pastures.’ He gave Jim that same crooked smile, baring two rows of white and gold teeth. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? I can see things in people’s eyes. It’s a gift I’ve got.’

  Usually, Reynolds’s words would have been like empty air to Jim, but after the events of the night they grated on his nerves. There was an unpleasant kind of relish in his voice as he asked, ‘What else can you see in my eyes?’

  A slight frown came over Reynolds’s chiselled face. ‘OK, copper, enough of the shit-talking. Let’s get down to business. What’s this information you’ve got for me, and what do you want in return?’

  ‘I don’t want anything in return – well, not money anyway.’ Jim paused to let his words sink in, knowing Reynolds’s mind would be working overtime, asking itself, If this bastard doesn’t want money, what the fuck does he want?

  Reynolds’s frown intensified. ‘So come on then. Let’s hear what’s so important that it’s disturbed my beauty sleep.’

  ‘Is the name Stephen Baxley familiar to you?’

  ‘You know it is, copper,’ Reynolds replied, with an impatient sigh. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be here asking me about him.’

  ‘When was the last time you talked to Mr Baxley?’

  ‘I’m not obliged to answer your questions, but being as I’m a nice bloke who’s always happy to help the police, I will do.’ There was a sarcastic edge to Reynolds’s voice.

  With an equally sarcastic tone, Jim countered, ‘I appreciate your cooperation, Mr Reynolds.’

  ‘Now let me think.’ Reynolds puffed his cheeks. ‘It’s got to be twenty-odd years since I last spoke to Stephen. Why? What’s the silly boy done? He’s not gone and got himself into some sort of trouble, has he?’

  ‘No, he’s not in any trouble. He’s dead.’

  Jim searched Reynolds’s face for the effect his words might have. Reynolds blinked. Just a blink, nothing more, but it was enough to tell Jim his revelation had pierced Reynolds’s armour of unfeeling arrogance. As if they too sensed their master’s hurt, the dogs nuzzled his shins, whining. He shushed them sharply. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Well it wasn’t of natural causes.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d worked that out. What I can’t work out is what this has got to do with me.’

  ‘We’re talking to anyone who’s got history with Stephen Baxley. When we ran a CRC, your name came up. That was a nice thing you did, taking the full hit on those assault charges in ‘88. I didn’t think you had it in you. Baxley must’ve been a real close friend.’

  Reynolds turned away from Jim. ‘What about his wife?’

  ‘Jenny Baxley also died in the same incident.’

  ‘And their kids?’

  ‘Mark and Charlotte are being treated in hospital.’

  ‘Will they live?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say. You seem to know a fair bit about Stephen Baxley’s family, considering you haven’t seen him in so long.’

  ‘Yeah, well he was a Park Hill boy done good. I’ve always kept an eye out for him in the news.’ There was a trace of heaviness to Reynolds’s step as he approached the bar. He poured himself a glass of fresh orange juice and gulped it down as if his throat was burning with thirst. ‘You’d best leave now, copper.’ He looked at Jim in the mirrored wall behind the bar. ‘I’m done talking.’

  The same light Jim had seen on the stairs was back in Reynolds’s eyes, but it was no longer laced with amusement. Scenting that things could turn nasty, Jim was half tempted to prod Reynolds a little more, see if he could provoke him into totally losing his cool. There was nothing he would have liked better than an excuse to haul Reynolds down the station. Not that he thought it would serve any real purpose. Reynolds’s thousand-quid-an-hour lawyer would have a field day with the fact that his client had been questioned without probable cause or even reasonable suspicion. Still, it would put a smile on his and a lot of other cops’ faces to see the bastard locked up, if only for a few hours.

  As if he’d read Jim’s mind, a knowing, humourless smile tugged at Reynolds’s mouth. ‘You can show yourself out, I’m going back to bed. You should too, Monahan. Remember what I said, if you want to look half as good as me, you’ve got to get eight or nine hours solid a night.’

  Jim returned a crooked smile of his own. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  As Jim turned towards the stairs, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Beyond glass doors a man in jeans and a black bomber jacket was leaning against the balcony railings with his back to the room, smoking a cigarette. He was built like a brick wall. A lattice of pearly scars crisscrossed the crown of his shaved head, clearly the result of an axe or machete attack. Taking a mental note of his physical description, Jim descended to the front door. The bulldogs followed him all the way to the street. He shut the gate, resisting the impulse to snatch up a couple of stones and fling them at their snub-nosed faces.

  He hadn’t got any new information out of Reynolds, but then he hadn’t expected to. What he had got was confirmation that Reynolds and Baxley’s relationship went well beyond that of estranged childhood pals. Reynolds’s muted yet intense reaction to the news of Baxley’s death had made him even more curious as to the true nature of that relationship. Reynolds had been lying when he claimed not to have spoken to Baxley in twenty-odd years, of that Jim felt sure. What he had to do now was find some way of breaking open that lie. His instincts told him that could be the key to cracking the case, and he always listened to his instincts. His phone rang. He put it to his ear. ‘What’s up, Amy?’

  ‘I think I’ve found the girl.’

  ‘That was quick work.’

  ‘She was top of the pile. Her name’s Grace Kirby.’

  ‘Grace Kirby!’ Jim exclaimed in recognition. ‘I remember her. She went missing back when DCS Knight was doing Garrett’s job. I didn’t work the case, but everyone in CID was given a photo of her.’ He closed his eyes, sifting through the thousands of faces he’d dealt with over the years. ‘Long, dark hair, blue eyes, slim, pretty.’ No, not pretty, corrected his mind, beautiful. She was seamlessly beautiful in the way that only children can be, her face untouched by the corruption of the world.

  ‘That’s her.’

  ‘I knew I knew that girl from somewhere.’ Jim pressed a hand to his stomach as it emitted a grumble of hunger. ‘Fancy a bit of breakfast at Joe’s Cafe? It’s on me.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘I’ll see you there in ten. Bring a copy of the Kirby girl’s case-file and Reynolds’s file with you.’

  Jim drove back into the city centre through streets rapidly filling with rush-hour traffic. He parked outside a backstreet greasy-spoon not far from Police Headquarters. ‘Usual, is it?’ asked the woman behind the counter as he entered the cafe. He nodded, dropping wearily onto a chair at a Formica table. Margaret had always watched his diet for him. Saturday was fried breakfast day. The rest of the week it was cereal and toast. But after she walked out, he’d quickly got into the habit o
f eating a full English every day. Not that he had a particular love of fried food, but as with smoking in bed, he drew a small measure of satisfaction from knowing it would incur his ex-wife’s disapproval. He heaved a sigh. Christ, could he get any more pathetic?

  ‘Heavy night?’ asked the woman, setting down a steaming mug of tea in front of Jim.

  ‘Heavy like you wouldn’t believe.’

  Amy entered the cafe. She ordered coffee and scrambled eggs on toast, then sat down opposite Jim. She placed a wad of photocopied papers on the table. He leafed through Reynolds’s file. A tattoo of a red devil on the back of Reynolds’s right shoulder and a six-centimetre-long scar on his left buttock where he’d been stabbed in prison were listed under ‘Identifying Marks’. He skimmed over the remainder of the file. That eighteen-month stretch had obviously made a big impact on Reynolds – although not in the way intended. Prior to it, he’d been in and out of court, getting slapped on the wrist for burglary, car theft and other petty charges. In prison he’d made contacts with older professional criminals who’d recruited him into organised crime. In the years since his release, his name had been linked to loan sharking, gambling, prostitution, protection and drug-dealing rackets. He’d also been picked up on suspicion of GBH in 2002 following an incident at his strip-club, The Minx. But investigators had never been able to make anything stick.

  The file made for depressing reading. Jim turned his atten­tion to Grace Kirby’s file. She stared up at him from a photo­graph paper-clipped to the first page: high-cheekboned, full-lipped, hair as black and glossy as coal. She was smiling, but there was a sadness about her eyes, as though she was sorry about something – maybe something she’d done, or maybe something that had been done to her. He looked over the case-notes.