Angel of Death

by Ben Cheetham

  After a quick check of Mark’s vital signs, the nurse said, ‘You’re hyperventilating.’ She took his hands. ‘I want you to look into my eyes, Mark, and breathe with me. In, out, in, out.’

  Gradually, Mark’s breathing returned to normal. ‘I had a dream.’

  ‘About what happened to you?’

  Mark started to shake his head, but changed his mind. Maybe the dream was about something that happened to him, not recently, but a long time ago. Perhaps it was some kind of memory trying to surface. Are you certain he won’t remember anything? The words hit the back of his skull like an axe. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Remember what? What can’t I remember? Panic nibbled at the edges of his overstretched nerves again. He forced himself to take a slow breath. ‘I need to talk to the police.’

  ‘I’ll fetch the constable.’ The nurse turned to approach the policeman stationed outside the door.

  ‘I don’t want to talk to him,’ said Mark. ‘Tell him to call Detective Monahan.’

  As the nurse left the room, Mark reached for the beside telephone and dialled a number. A woman answered. ‘Hello.’

  ‘This is Mark Baxley. Can I speak to Doctor Reeve, please?’

  ‘Hold on one moment. I’ll get him for you.’

  A man came on the line, his voice quick with concern. ‘Mark, I saw on the news what happened. They said you’d been shot.’

  ‘I’m OK, well, not OK but…’ Mark tried to find the words to describe how he was doing. ‘I’m alive. I need to see you. I think I’m beginning to remember.’

  ‘Beginning to remember what?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe the reason why I am like I am.’

  ****

  At the sound of knocking, Jim rose from the sofa and headed to the front door. After phoning the mobile number, he’d lain awake mulling over Linda Kirby’s claim that she could feel it was her daughter on the other end of the line. He’d felt some­thing too. There had been a peculiar intensity to the silence of whoever it was he’d spoken to that had made his neck prickle. It was only a feeling, an intuition that barely amounted to a hunch, but still he was unable to dismiss the idea that maybe, just maybe, Linda Kirby was right. One thing he was almost certain of was that the silent phone call she’d received hadn’t been a random thing. Why else would the number’s owner have refused to identify themselves to him? And why else would they have stayed on the line after he identified himself as police? The questions opened up another possibility – if it wasn’t Grace Kirby, maybe it was someone who had something to do with her disappearance. And perhaps, for some related reason, that same someone had been spurred into making the call to Linda Kirby by news of Stephen Baxley’s death.

  Jim recognised Amy’s outline through the door’s frosted glass. ‘Sorry, did I wake you?’ she said, when he opened it.

  ‘No such luck.’

  Jim motioned for Amy to come inside. She shook her head. ‘You’re needed at the hospital. Mark Baxley’s got something to say, and he wants to say it to you. I was about to head home when the call came in. But I thought I might as well come pick you up, seeing as I’d planned to drop by here anyway.’

  ‘Why? What did you want to see me for?’

  ‘Just to find out how you’re doing. You didn’t seem like your usual happy self earlier.’ There was a half-jokey tone to Amy’s voice – Jim was never the happiest of people – but the concern in her eyes was serious.

  ‘I’m fine,’ came the reflexive response.

  ‘Are you sure, Jim, because—’

  ‘Because what?’ Jim cut in, frowning. ‘Why don’t you just say it? You don’t think I’m up to the job any more, do you?’

  ‘That’s not it at all. I’m just trying to look out for someone I consider a friend.’

  Jim felt a twinge of guilt at the hurt he heard in Amy’s voice. ‘I’m sorry.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Truth is, I’m the one who’s starting to wonder whether I’m up to it.’

  ‘Of course you’re up to it. You’re one of the best detectives we’ve got.’

  ‘I very much doubt that, but thanks for the compliment. In any case, fit for duty or not, I’m not sure I want to do the job any more. I’m just so tired of all the shit that goes with it.’

  ‘The job’s a bastard. Always has been, always will be. But you still love it. I saw the way you were out there today. You were as eager as a dog with a new bone.’

  Jim made a dubious sound in his throat. It seemed to him that his eagerness was more like that of a dying man clinging to life for fear of what waited on the other side. ‘I’ve been thinking about applying for early release.’ Early release. Coming from someone who’d spent his whole working life locking others up, the irony of the phrase brought a faint smile to his lips.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yes, seriously.’

  ‘But what would you do with yourself?’

  That was the big question. The question to which Jim had no answer. He shrugged.

  ‘You’re not ready to retire, Jim. This case has just got you thinking you are. What this Baxley guy did to his family – it’s almost impossible to wrap your mind around it.’

  ‘You’re right, this case has got to me. But I’ve been thinking about retiring for weeks, months even.’

  ‘Look, just do me a favour. After this case is done, take a holiday and think things over before you mention this to Garrett.’

  ‘Which case are you talking about? The Baxley house killings will probably be wrapped up when the forensics come back. The Grace Kirby case could drag on for another fifteen years.’

  ‘I think you’re right about the killings. A little birdy told me they’ve lifted two sets of prints off the shotgun. Nothing’s been officially confirmed, but the word is they belong to Stephen and Mark Baxley.’

  ‘That was quick work, even considering that Stephen Baxley’s prints are already on the database,’ Jim said with a wry edge. ‘It’s amazing what can happen when some­one with a bit of money gets topped. So whose prints are where?’

  ‘Apparently Stephen Baxley’s are on the trigger and barrel, but Mark’s are only on the barrel. Stephen’s were also the only prints on the gun box and the petrol canisters.’

  Jim showed no surprise at the news. ‘I’d say that just about wraps things up as far as who tried to kill who.’

  ‘We still don’t have confirmation on the identity of the bodies. Forensics is struggling to get DNA samples from the Baxley house to match against the bodies.’

  ‘Even so, I don’t think we’re in for any surprises. Do you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any news on the DVD?’

  ‘It only had one set of prints on it – Stephen Baxley’s. And it’s too heat-damaged to recover any more of its content.’

  Disappointment curling the corners of his mouth, Jim pushed his feet into his shoes and reached for his jacket. As they headed to the unmarked car, Amy said, ‘I really can’t imagine what Mark’s got to say that he hasn’t already told us.’

  ‘I’ve been wondering that same thing. All I can think is he must have remembered something new.’

  ‘Oh that reminds me, I managed to track down the owner of that mobile phone number.’ Jim turned sharply interested eyes on Amy, as she continued, ‘It’s registered to a Lillian Smyth of Cargo Fleet Lane, Middlesbrough.’

  ‘Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘Yes. She says she didn’t make the call.’

  ‘Well of course she bloody does, but that doesn’t—’

  ‘Hold on, Jim. Before you go getting your hopes up, there are a couple of things you should know about Lillian Smyth. Firstly, she’s sixty years old. Secondly, she recently received a phone bill full of calls she claims not to have made. Her mobile phone provider has detected discrepancies between the radio fingerprint of the phone that was used to call Linda Kirby and the mobile identification number of Lillian Smyth’s phone.’

  ‘What does that mean in English?’

  ‘The call was made
with a cloned phone.’

  A thoughtful frown spread over Jim’s forehead. He associ­ated cloned mobiles with criminals who wanted a phone that couldn’t be traced to them. And there was only one person he knew with easy access to such technology who also had a link, however tenuous, to Grace Kirby. ‘Bryan Reynolds,’ he muttered.

  ‘You think Reynolds made that call?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. The question is, why would he do such a thing?’

  ‘If the Kirbys’ daughter is alive, maybe he thought news of Stephen Baxley’s death would bring her out of hiding. Perhaps he was trying to feel them out, or even put the frighteners on them.’

  ‘I might be tempted to think you’re right, except for one thing. Unless my judgement has completely gone to pot, the first Reynolds heard about Baxley’s death was when I spoke to him. And that call was made hours before then.’

  ‘Which brings us back to Grace Kirby.’

  Jim heaved a sigh. ‘Come on, we’d better get a shift on.’

  When Jim and Amy arrived at the Northern General, they were met by a tired-looking Garrett, a middle-aged male doctor in a white coat, and a man somewhere in his fifties wearing a dark blue suit and matching tie. Jim took one look at the suited man’s keen, direct eyes, neatly trimmed silver-grey beard and wire spectacles, and decided he was most likely some kind of senior medical bod. His suspicion was confirmed when Garrett introduced the men. He motioned first to the white-coated doctor. ‘This is Doctor Vincent Goodwin, the consultant looking after Mark Baxley.’ Then to the other man. ‘And this is Doctor Henry Reeve, a clinical psychiatrist who’s been treating Mark since his early teens. They’ve been fully briefed. Chief Superintendent’s orders.’

  Jim eyed the psychiatrist curiously. ‘Treating him for what?’

  ‘Jenny Baxley first brought Mark to me when he was four­teen,’ said Doctor Reeve. ‘She was worried because he was having problems sleeping. And when he did sleep, he suffered with night terrors.’

  ‘What was he having nightmares about?’

  ‘Night terrors aren’t dreams. They’re more like an intense fear reaction – screaming, shouting, thrashing around. Suffer­ers aren’t fully awake during attacks, so they have no memory of what happened the next day.’

  ‘Well what brings them on?’

  ‘Stress, exhaustion, certain drugs.’

  Jim’s thoughts turned to Grace Kirby pushing the medicine bottle into Mark’s mouth, as Doctor Reeve continued, ‘Mark had become very withdrawn. He was having difficulty forming relationships, particularly with other children and his father. From what we now know, the reasons for this seem fairly clear.’

  Jim cocked an eyebrow as if to say, No shit, Sherlock. ‘Did you never suspect Mark might be being abused?’

  ‘I considered it of course. But nothing Mark said suggested that was the case. He simply seemed to be an emotionally insecure, fragile young boy. It’s not uncommon for adolescents to experience these kinds of issues – especially boys from wealthy families, where the pressure to succeed is that much greater. And Mark responded well to treatment in every regard except his relationship with his father.’

  ‘Stephen Baxley wasn’t Mark’s father,’ Jim pointed out bluntly. He turned to Doctor Goodwin. ‘So how’s Mark doing?’

  ‘Considering what he’s been through, he’s in remarkably good physical shape,’ said the doctor. ‘The injury to his leg is superficial. It shouldn’t keep him off his feet for more than a day or two. The injury to his shoulder is more serious, but again shouldn’t cause any complications. It seems to me that it’s not the injuries we can see, but those we can’t see that have the potential to cause him serious problems.’ The doctor glanced meaningfully at Doctor Reeve.

  Taking his cue, the psychiatrist said, ‘I’d agree entirely with that assessment, especially considering Mark’s psychological history. Even with the right treatment, lifelong emotional and social problems are common following a trauma of the magnitude Mark’s experienced. But it’s far too early to predict how he’ll react in the long-term. In the short-term, the mind tends to respond in a limited number of ways. Most commonly, in order to protect itself, it will simply shut down. The shut­down can range from emotional numbness to a complete catatonic state. Alternatively, the mind can be thrown into overdrive.’

  ‘What do you mean, ‘overdrive’?’ asked Amy.

  ‘Well, rather like a rat in a maze, the mind scurries around seeking a way out of its pain, becoming increasingly hysterical and irrational. A mind in overdrive is a dangerous thing. Stripped of logic and consumed by fear, it can easily be tipped towards psychosis and suicidality.’

  ‘All of which means we have to tread extremely carefully,’ Garrett said to Jim. ‘Listen to what Mark has to say, but don’t divulge anything to him without first getting Doctor Reeve’s opinion. Is that clear, Detective?’

  Pushing down a jab of irritation at Garrett’s patronising tone, Jim nodded. ‘Is there anything else I should know?’ he asked the psychiatrist. ‘I don’t want to go saying or doing anything that might push Mark over the edge.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll do fine, Detective Monahan. And I’m look forward to getting your insights into Mark’s mental state.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up on that score. Psychological insights aren’t really my thing.’ Jim flashed Garrett a sidelong glance. ‘I’m just a plain old-fashioned copper.’

  Catching the ironic glimmer in Jim’s eyes, Doctor Reeve smiled. ‘I don’t believe that for a second. I’ve never met a police officer yet who isn’t also a brilliant instinctual psychologist.’

  Jim headed towards Mark’s room. Amy made to follow him, but Doctor Reeve said, ‘We think it’s best if Detective Monahan talks to Mark alone. We don’t want to overwhelm Mark with too many faces.’

  Mark was sitting up in bed, pale and drawn. There was an almost feverishly intense sheen to his eyes.

  ‘You wanted to talk to me, Mark?’ said Jim.

  ‘I wanted to thank you. Out of all the police I’ve spoken to since… since it happened, you’re the only one who hasn’t made me feel like I’m under suspicion.’

  Jim had no doubt Mark’s gratitude was genuine, but from the look on his face, that obviously wasn’t the main reason he wanted to talk. ‘Your story added up. The details all rang true. I’ve merely treated you accordingly.’

  ‘And I really appreciate that. I also appreciate that you’re the only officer who’s been anything like honest with me. That’s why I wanted to ask you if you know about something else that happened to me. I don’t mean the other night, I mean something way back in my past.’

  ‘What makes you ask that?’

  ‘I had a dream.’ Mark’s voice grew hesitant. Something painful flickered through his eyes. ‘Actually I’m not sure it was a dream, I think it might have been a memory that was pushed so far back I didn’t even know it was there. I don’t know why, but I think it’s got something to do with the picture of that girl you showed me.’

  ‘Was she in your… for now let’s call it dream.’

  ‘No… I don’t know… Maybe…’ Mark trailed off, haunted uncertainty hazing his eyes.

  ‘Why don’t you just tell me what you saw?’

  Jim was careful to keep his face poker-straight as Mark recounted his dream. ‘So what do you reckon?’ Mark asked. ‘Am I remembering something that happened or is it just a dream?’

  ‘I’m really not qualified to say. Did you recognise the voices?’

  ‘The first belonged to Stephen Baxley. I’ve never… or at least, I don’t think I’ve ever heard the second voice before.’

  ‘What did it sound like?’

  ‘It was a man’s voice. Well spoken, no accent.’

  Jim chewed over what he’d been told. He badly wanted to push Mark to see if he could recall any further details about the face he’d seen, but he reluctantly heeded Doctor Reeve’s warning. ‘I have to talk to my DCI, Mark. It should only take a few minutes, then we
can talk some more.’ He left the room and said to the doctors, ‘I need a moment alone with my colleagues.’

  ‘Doctor Goodwin and Doctor Reeve can hear whatever you’ve got to say,’ said Garrett.

  ‘Then perhaps Doctor Reeve can answer this for me. Is it possible for someone to lose a memory, then recover it again years later?’

  ‘That depends on why the memory was lost in the first place,’ said the psychiatrist. ‘There’s a school of thought that some experiences are so horrific the brain seals them away in its darkest recesses, where they remain unless some powerful trigger unlocks the memory. I assume Mark thinks he’s remem­bered something about the abuse he suffered as a child.’

  Jim nodded. ‘And I’m inclined to think he has too.’

  Doctor Reeve took on a cautioning tone. ‘As I said before, a mind in overdrive is not to be trusted. When thinking becomes distorted, the mind is prone to attacking itself with false memories. What exactly did Mark tell you?’

  ‘That he had a dream in which he saw several figures but was unable to make out their faces.’ Jim tapped his temple. ‘I think there’s a lot more locked away in there. Possibly enough to break this case wide open.’

  ‘Let’s assume, just for the moment, that you’re right, Detective. In that case, we have to proceed with extreme care. Memory is like a ball of string. Pull on it in the right place and the whole thing unravels easily. Do it wrong and it becomes an impossible knot.’ Doctor Reeve’s face creased in thought. ‘As I understand it, Mark was drugged at the time he was abused.’

  ‘We believe so,’ said Garrett. ‘In the film, he was seen being forced to drink something from a medicine bottle.’

  ‘Rohypnol is usually swallowed by dissolving it into a liquid,’ said Doctor Goodwin.

  ‘The date-rape drug – you think that’s what Mark was given?’ asked Amy.

  ‘There are lots of drugs that impair memory, but Rohypnol is probably the easiest to get hold of on the street.’

  ‘If Rohypnol was used, it’s no surprise Mark remembered nothing of what happened to him, especially considering his age at the time,’ said Doctor Reeve. ‘That’s not to say no conscious memories of the event were formed, but they would have seemed so unreal and disconnected as to be instantly relegated to his subconscious mind. Where, of course, they remained buried until recent events exposed them – or one small part of them at least. Hopefully, with the right therapy, the rest can be brought to the surface. But I’m afraid there are no guarantees. It may well be that what Mark remembers now is all he’ll ever remember.’