Angel of Death

by Ben Cheetham

  ‘The obvious answer is that she wasn’t in the car when Nicola was dumped outside A & E.’

  ‘That’s our thinking too.’

  ‘What do you know about the gun that was used to shoot Castle?’

  ‘We recovered two nine-millimetre rounds from the scene, but no gun. We have it from a reliable source that Castle carried a Glock. So it looks like he may well have been shot with his own gun.’

  ‘I’ve got your email, Debra,’ said Amy. ‘I’m going to open the voice file.’

  Amy clicked on the email attachment and a recording of Debra’s suspect talking to a hospital receptionist began to play. The woman had a broad north-eastern accent, but a couple of times during the conversation Jim caught a vague undercurrent of something more like a Yorkshire accent. ‘We’ve had the recording analysed by a phonetics expert,’ said Debra. ‘He thinks the voice belongs to someone who’s lived in the north-east for a lot of years but originally comes from somewhere further south, possibly Huddersfield, Leeds, Barnsley, Doncaster or—’

  ‘Sheffield,’ put in Jim.

  ‘Exactly. Which is why I’m so eager to find out what your enquiries are about.’

  ‘Before we get into that, I’d like to have a look at the CCTV footage.’

  Amy opened the second file. Jim squinted at a pixelated colour image of a slim, hunch-shouldered figure with a dis­tinctly female body shape. Hood up and head down, the woman quickly passed along a corridor out of the camera’s field of view. The footage cut to another camera pointed at a set of double doors with circular windows. The woman appeared at the doors. She peered furtively through the windows. The camera caught her face as she glanced over her shoulder. Amy paused the footage and zoomed in on the woman’s face until the pixels started to blur her features.

  Jim held the photo from Grace’s case-file next to the laptop’s screen. The woman’s eyes were sunk so deep that they looked black. Her cheeks were gaunt and colourless, and her nose had a bump over the bridge as if it had been broken at some point. In contrast, the fifteen-year-old Grace’s cheeks were round and flushed like ripe fruit, and her nose was straight as a knife. Both the woman and Grace had full, pouting lips, and there was something similar in the line of their jaws. ‘What do you think?’ he asked Amy.

  ‘It could be her, but then again…’ Amy spoke into the phone. ‘We’re not sure about the woman’s identity, Debra. We’re going to have to lift an image from the CCTV file and run it through facial recognition software.’

  ‘Who were you hoping to see?’ asked Debra.

  Amy gave her a brief rundown of the case they were working.

  ‘That’s a hell of a situation you’ve got there,’ said Debra. ‘I don’t envy you your task. Could you email me a copy of Grace Kirby’s case-file?’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Thanks. Obviously I’ll contact you at once if there are any new developments up here.’

  Amy promised to do the same, thanked DS Kennedy and hung up. Jim’s gaze was still bouncing between the photo and the CCTV image. ‘The more I look at them, the less similar they seem.’

  ‘The facial recognition program will pick up any similarities.’

  ‘I can think of someone who might be able to give us a faster, more accurate answer.’

  ‘Linda Kirby?’ When Jim nodded, Amy continued, ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Go home. You’ve just pulled a double shift.’

  ‘I don’t think you should go see Linda on your own. I don’t like the look of her husband. I get the feeling it wouldn’t take much for him to go off big time.’

  Before setting off for Hillsborough, Amy forwarded DS Kennedy’s email along with a message explaining the situation to everyone on the Homicide and Major Incident team. ‘So what’s your take on the Castle murder?’

  Jim stared at Grace’s photo as though trying to read the mind of its subject. ‘I think he fucked with the wrong girl.’

  12

  Angel studied the house, debating whether she should wait for its occupants to go to bed before making her move, or simply knock on the door and shove her gun in the face of whoever opened it. She couldn’t see an alarm box, but the dog would almost certainly alert its owners if she tried to break in. On the other hand, if she knocked on the door, the occupants might look out of a window to see who was calling. In which case, there was a chance – albeit a tiny one – that she would be recognised. And then the door would remain closed, while the police or someone else with the power to hurt her far worse than they could was called. As much as she was tempted by the idea, she decided the direct approach was too risky. She would wait and hope she could gain entry via a window without disturbing the dog. After all the years of feeding her habit, she had enough experience of breaking and entering to know how to smash a window quietly.

  Angel scrunched her thin shoulders against the cold. It was a clear evening and the temperature was dropping faster than the light. She warmed herself with the thought of what she would do to Herbert and Marisa. Herbert and Marisa – those names had been burnt into her brain like acid on glass since the night Stephen had introduced her to them. She’d giggled upon first hearing the name Herbert. He’s a right Herbert was one of her dad’s favourite terms of abuse for royalty, politicians, the rich and anyone else he considered too big for their boots. But she hadn’t laughed later when Herbert raped her for the first though not the last time.

  A light came on at the back of the house. The dog ran out into the garden. It was some kind of spaniel. It cocked its leg against one of the trees that fringed the lawn, then wandered in Angel’s direction, sniffing at the ground. It jerked its head up suddenly. Angel held herself as still as possible. The sodding thing was staring right at her. With a low growl, it warily approached her. She picked up a dead branch, gripping it like a baseball bat. A metre or so from where she was hidden, the dog stopped and began yapping furiously. She offered a silent apology to the animal. She didn’t want to hurt it, but it was only a matter of time before its owners came to investigate the racket. She sprang out, bringing the branch down with all the force she could muster. There was a loud crack as it broke across the dog’s skull. The animal collapsed, letting out a high-pitched whine. She silenced it with another blow. Then she concealed its body and herself amongst the trees.

  Five minutes passed. Ten. Marisa appeared from behind the house. ‘Oscar!’ she called out. ‘Here, boy!’

  A tremor passed through Angel. Marisa’s voice was the same as she remembered – loud and mannishly deep, with a cut-glass accent. The mere sound of it had once been enough to make her wince.

  Marisa made her way along the edge of the garden, peering into the undergrowth. ‘Oscar! Oscar! You come here or you’re going to be in trouble when I find you.’

  Angel’s mouth was suddenly dry. Cold sweat prickled her back as memories came at her like bullets. She was fifteen years old again. Herbert was writhing on top of her, grinding his lips against hers. She couldn’t move, and not just because Marisa was pinning her arms. She was groggy and loose-limbed. There was a salty aftertaste in her mouth from the wine she’d been given when she’d arrived at the house. She’d blacked out not long after drinking it, and when she came round the first thing she saw was Herbert’s pudgy face swimming above her, his thick lips contorted into a grin of lust.

  Angel took a slow breath, seeking that same brutal calm she’d found in killing Castle, chasing the images away with the flame of her desire for vengeance. Marisa was close enough now that her bobbed brown hair and narrow, horsey features were clearly visible. She flinched to a halt as Angel stepped into view with the gun levelled at her face. The two women stared at each other, Marisa’s eyes swollen with shock, Angel trembling with nervous rage.

  Marisa broke the silence. ‘What do you want?’ Her voice was frightened but controlled. There was no hint of recognition in it.

  ‘Turn—’ Angel’s voice caught in her throat. She freed it with a sharp rasp. ‘Turn around and go
back into the house.’

  ‘If it’s money you want, we don’t keep much in the house.’

  ‘Turn the fuck around and do as I say.’

  Marisa reluctantly obeyed. Angel followed a couple of paces behind her. When they reached the back door, Angel warned her, ‘You say one word other than what I tell you to say and I’ll put a bullet in you.’

  They entered a large kitchen with a stone-flagged floor, a beamed ceiling, an oak dining table and an Aga. Warmth flowed from a log-burner in a tall fireplace. It was a cosy scene at odds with the images that gnawed at Angel like hungry rats. ‘Go into the hallway,’ she whispered.

  Angel recalled how the first time she’d stepped into the hallway, she’d gazed wide-eyed at the landscape paintings and portraits hanging on the walls, the glittering crystal chandelier suspended from the high ceiling, and the grand staircase with its ornate rails. She’d been apprehensive, not because she felt in danger, but because she felt way out of her league. The hallway was bigger than the house she’d grown up in. What could she possibly have to say that would be of interest to people who lived in a house like that? She needn’t have worried on that score. Herbert and Marisa hadn’t invited her there for her conversation.

  Angel’s gaze lingered on an oak panel under the staircase. You wouldn’t have known it from looking, but the panel was a door. If you pushed on it in the right way, it slid back to reveal a stairway leading down. The low babble of a television drew her attention to a half-open door. With the gun’s barrel, she prodded Marisa towards it.

  Nothing much had changed in the lounge since Angel had last been there. The room was full of the same valuable-looking antique furniture. Dark red leather sofas were positioned on either side of the fireplace. A thick rug covered the floorboards between them. As far as she could tell, the only new addition was a cabinet with a television in it. But there was one thing missing. Whenever she’d been there before, a silver box had stood open on the coffee-table, displaying a colourful array of pills, capsules and powders. Herbert had never been able to get it up without the help of Viagra and cocaine. Ketamine had quickly become Angel’s drug of choice. Not because it aroused her, but because it numbed her to what was happening.

  Herbert wasn’t in the room. Angel gestured with the gun for Marisa to return to the hallway. ‘Call Herbert.’

  Marisa gave Angel a searching look. The questioning fear in her eyes suggested it had occurred to her that maybe this wasn’t just a simple robbery. Angel could see her trying to work out who she was, but no suggestion of recognition came into her features. Angel had screwed so many men that their faces had all blended into one more or less homogenous mass over the years. Doubtless it was the same for Marisa when it came to all the girls and boys she’d raped.

  ‘Herbert.’

  It gave Angel a thrill of satisfaction to hear the tremor in Marisa’s voice. In the past, Marisa had been the one in control. Now the tables were turned.

  ‘What is it, darling?’ Herbert’s voice – a thin, reedy voice at odds with its owner’s stocky physique – came down the stairs.

  ‘Tell him to come here,’ hissed Angel.

  ‘Can you come here please?’

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. Breathing out an annoyed sigh, Herbert said, ‘I was about to get in the bath. If this is about that bloody dog, I’ll—’ He broke off with a sharp intake of breath on seeing Angel. He’d changed into a dressing-gown, tied loosely at the waist. He clutched its hems together as if shy of showing his darkly hairy chest. Angel almost let out a caustic laugh. On every previous occasion she’d been to the house, Herbert had always been the first to get naked. She motioned for him to stand beside his wife. ‘W…W… What is this?’ he stuttered, the blood leaching from his cheeks. ‘What do you w… want?’

  ‘I’ll get to that in a bit.’ Angel was invigorated by Herbert’s fear, her voice strong and commanding. ‘Right now, I want you to open the basement door.’

  ‘This house hasn’t got a basement,’ said Marisa.

  A smile like a blade thinned Angel’s lips. ‘Lie to me one more time, bitch, and it’ll be the last thing you ever say.’ She pointed at the oak panel. ‘Now open that fucking door.’

  Marisa and Herbert exchanged a glance. At that moment, both of them knew they were in serious trouble and it showed.

  ‘Do as she says,’ said Marisa.

  Herbert pressed the panel at mid-height. There was a click, and as the panel slid aside, the basement exhaled a faint, stale breath. He switched on a light, illuminating cobwebby bare-brick walls and a flight of steep, narrow stone steps with an iron handrail.

  ‘You go down first,’ Angel told Herbert. ‘Try anything funny and I start shooting.’

  Angel’s heart pounded against her ribs as she followed Herbert and Marisa. She’d only been down those stairs once before. Her body had walked out of the basement later that night, but her mind had remained trapped there. She’d spent the years between then and now trying to blot out the memories of what happened, of what she’d done. But there was no blotting it out. It was as though she was stuck in a nightmare from which there was no waking up. As she stepped into the basement, she half expected to be confronted by a naked, ketamine-addled ghost of her fifteen-year-old self. But, of course, no such thing happened. If it had, she would have screamed at herself, Don’t do what they want. Don’t fucking do it!

  Angel’s gaze swept over the whitewashed walls, the racks of dusty wine bottles, and the bits of old furniture. The rug and cushions were no longer there. Neither was the video camera. But then that hadn’t belonged to Marisa and Herbert. It had belonged to a man whose name she didn’t know. A man who, unlike Angel, had wanted to make sure he never forgot that night. Herbert and Marisa, Stephen Baxley, they were perverts of the worst kind. But that man was something more than a simple pervert. The first moment she’d looked into his eyes, some instinct of self-preservation had told her he would have given no more thought to killing her than crushing an insect under his heel. There would have been no pity, no remorse, just a slight distaste at having dirtied his shoe. More than all the others, he was the one she wanted to track down.

  ‘Look here,’ said Herbert, mustering enough courage to meet Angel’s eyes for a fraction of a second. ‘I don’t know what you want, but whatever it is, you’re not going to get away with it.’

  Now Angel did laugh, an empty, harsh sound. ‘Who said I gave a shit about getting away with it?’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Marisa.

  ‘Don’t you recognise me?’ Angel pulled back her hood. ‘Take a good look. Imagine me with long black hair and blue eyes. Then try to imagine what I might look like if I hadn’t spent the last fifteen years shooting myself full of junk to try and forget you sick fucks.’

  Marisa scrutinised Angel for a long moment. Finally, a light of recognition flickered in her eyes. ‘Angel!’

  ‘Who?’ said Herbert.

  ‘The girl Stephen was infatuated with.’

  Herbert’s eyes bulged as he remembered. ‘It was you! You murdered Stephen. And now you’re here to do the same to us.’

  ‘That wasn’t me,’ said Angel.

  ‘Liar!’ Herbert clapped a hand over his mouth as though he couldn’t believe what he’d said.

  ‘Believe me, I wish it was me who’d killed that bastard, but it wasn’t.’

  ‘So what’s this about?’ said Marisa. ‘Is it blackmail? Because if it is—’

  ‘I don’t want your fucking money,’ broke in Angel, her lip curling at the idea. ‘I want names.’

  ‘What names?’

  ‘Don’t fuck with me. You know what I’m talking about. I want the name of every scumbag who’s ever come to one of your little parties. But most of all, I want the names of the two men other than Stephen Baxley and your husband who were in this cellar that night.’

  Marisa compressed her lips into a silent line. The fear in her eyes had been replaced by fatalistic defiance. The air between her and Angel
seemed to vibrate with tension. Herbert opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it shut again as Marisa shot him an acid glance.

  ‘I’m going to count to five,’ said Angel. ‘And if I don’t start hearing names by the time I’m finished, I’m going to put a bullet in one of you.’ She began to count with slow relish. ‘One… Two…’

  Marisa held Angel’s gaze with grim intensity. Herbert’s panicky eyes darted back and forth as if looking for a way out.

  ‘Three… Four—’

  ‘Wait!’ gasped Herbert, holding up his hands, palms facing Angel. ‘There’s a book in my desk, in a hidden compartment—’

  ‘Don’t you say another word, Herbert!’ growled Marisa, shaking her finger at him as if she was scolding a naughty child.

  ‘But it’s just a list of clients. Even if she went to the police with it, what could they do?’

  Marisa shook her head and heaved a breath. ‘You always were a bloody fool. You just don’t get it, do you? She’s not here to find evidence to put us in prison. She’s here to kill us.’

  Herbert’s bottom lip trembled. Fat tears welled into his eyes. ‘Oh God, oh God.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Herbert, are you really going to let a common slut reduce you to a blubbering wreck? Stand up straight and look her in the eye.’ Marisa glared at Angel. ‘You don’t have a clue what you’re getting into. The people in that book will destroy everything and everyone you care about before they let you hurt them.’

  ‘They can’t hurt me any more than I’ve already been hurt.’

  A smile of disdainful superiority curled Marisa’s lips. ‘Oh what a pathetic, ignorant little cunt you are.’

  A quiver passed down Angel’s arm into the gun. Marisa’s smile was as oppressive as the basement, leaching away her confidence, making her doubt whether she had the strength or the will to carry her plan through. Then the images of what had happened there came crashing back in on her. And she knew that regardless of strength or will, regardless of anything, she had to do what she’d come to do. ‘I may be a junkie and a whore, but at least I’m not a child-rapist.’