Murder Path (Fallen Angels Book 3)

by Max Hardy

  Rebecca is sitting on her knees opposite me, her clothes all covered in blood, sweat and tears from last night’s atrocities. Her face is ragged with rivulets of grief smearing her makeup, revealing the scars of self-harm she inflicted when she was incarcerated. Her eyes though, while bloodshot and puffy, are alive with a vibrant fire as she stares at me with an intensity that seems to be able to read my very soul. She knew I was trying to distract myself. She knows how hard I find it. She is right. I have to learn to comfort Jacob.

  'I think at the moment that is going to be difficult. The second we try and approach any lab to do a test, the police will be on to us. Did you go to Italy to conceive Michael?'

  'Italy?' Rebecca ruminates, and then jumps off the bed and trots towards a holdall sitting on top of a chest of drawers underneath a window looking out over Edinburgh. She rummages around inside of the holdall for a second and, grabbing something from within, quickly steps back onto the bed into exactly the same position. She hands me two flight tickets.

  'Milan, Italy?'

  'Yes. That's where Ben, sorry, Adam wanted us to go. And yes, Hannah and I went to Italy to conceive Michael. It was hard to find anywhere in the UK that would do what we wanted and a friend at hospital told me about a clinic in Brescia. It was called ‘La Clinica Dell'Immacolata Concezione‘. Why?'

  Sometimes, the smallest thing will trigger an avalanche. The echo of a scream as it reverberates around a mountain. My screams are echoing and the snow is cascading, knocking down the rickety rooms in my mind.

  'When I was a child, locked up, it was Italian Nuns that looked after me. Dr Ennis told me that Henry Seymour had a sister who lived in Italy. Adam gave you tickets to take you and Jacob to Italy. I don’t think we need to have a DNA test Rebecca. We both went to the same clinic in Italy to conceive our children. I think we can safely say that’s where we unwittingly conceived Jacob.'

  Chapter 4

  An eerie stillness enveloped the large baroque styled detached house sitting gaudily in the middle of a well maintained garden, the only sound that of leaves on the many varied bushes and shrubs gently rustling: a rustling not caused by any wind. Armed Response Officers dressed in black from head to toe and sporting bullet proof vests levelled assault rifles with laser sights through the bushes toward the house.

  DCI Cruickshank paced just outside the open gates to the property, which stood on its own surrounded by open fields as far as the eye could see. A bronze plaque stood head height to Cruickshank on the pillar of the gate, proclaiming the property as ‘Sokar’. DCI Strange stood just behind her, peering over the wall enclosing the garden, scanning the bushes and the twenty ARO’s hiding behind them.

  ‘Any sign of life from the house? Sound off one through twenty.’ Cruickshank whispered into the walkie-talkie she held firmly in her hand. Crackled responses rained back in, all prefixed with their call sign, all negative to any sightings. ‘Okay. One through six approach the front door with the battering ram. Seven through thirteen, secure the perimeter. Fourteen through twenty, circle around the back and cover side and rear entrances. On my mark. Move!’

  Her patent leather brogues stomped their way down the gravel driveway towards the house as she fastidiously watched six ARO’s detach themselves from the nearest foliage and head for the front door. Strange followed deftly in her wake, having to trot to keep up with her rapid march.

  ‘How was your time in the Army, did you make many friends?’ Strange puffed after her mischievously as they approached the ARO’s who were now lined up at the front door.

  ‘You don’t go into the Army to make friends Strange. You go to kill the enemy. And I thought you were a focused professional.’ Cruickshank grumbled scathingly as she came to a stop just to the side of the ARO’s. ‘Right, one and two, ram the front door. Three and four, full sweep of the ground. Five and six the upper floor. One and two then up to the third floor. On my mark. Move!’

  With a loud thud, the solid steel battering ram knocked into the heavy oak front door, wood splintering around three deadlocks that held it shut, thrusting it forcibly inwards until it bounced off a door stop on the floor and slowly started to close again.

  ‘Move, move, move.’ screamed all six in unison, Three and Four rushing in past One and Two through the door, guns raised and targeted, before it had a chance to fully return. Five and Six tried to follow, but butted straight into the back of Four who had stopped dead just through the doorway screaming ‘Stop, Stop, Stop!’

  In front of him, Three had doubled over involuntarily as his stomach wrenched and he vomited over the parquet flooring of the wide open lobby. The cause of the vomiting was hanging suspended from chains which were screwed into the vaulted atrium two storeys above the foot of the double curved stairway heading to the upper floors.

  Manacles at the end of the chains were clamped around the broken wrists of hands which hung limply in the bindings. Elongated arms, unnaturally long, stretched out from the manacles. The bones were broken and poking through the ripped skin. Along the length of the arms, stapled to the skin were rows upon rows of feathers, increasing in depth towards to torso, shaping the span of the arms into wings. Mutilated, empty eye sockets lifelessly glared out toward the door from a head lolling onto a butchered chest. A square of skin was missing from the chest, exposing sunken, inert lungs and an exploded heart.

  Cruickshank’s small frame hopped up and down behind the ARO’s, trying to see over the tall men who were concertinaed in front of her. She could just make out the head and outstretched arms of the body. ‘Come on gents. It’s a dead body. It doesn’t mean the house is secure. In fact, it may mean exactly the opposite, so man up Three and everyone else, spread out now!’ she bawled, forcibly pushing the officer in front.

  ‘Go easy Gaynor, that’s a horrifically mutilated body in there. I’m not surprised the poor man has been sick, it’s abominable.’ Strange countered, his taller frame able to see over the top of the ARO’s: able to see the full extent of the atrocities enacted upon the body.

  The five other ARO’s fully entered the house and set off as ordered, as a man, avoiding eye contact with the body and focusing on their mission.

  Cruickshank stepped in after, able to see the whole extent of the horror. ‘Ah, I see now. Still, you need a tougher constitution than that Three if you are ever going to make it on my team.’ she said, sidestepping the still crouching officer as she walked inquisitively towards the hanging cadaver.

  Strange shook his head disconsolately after her receding back and bent down beside the officer, wrapping a comforting arm around his still shaking shoulder, his body still retching. ‘Ignore her son, what’s your name. That’s certainly not something you see every day. Just the stench of it is making my stomach churn, never mind the rest.’

  ‘Sorry Sir, its Blackwell Sir, and it is totally unprofessional. It just took me by surprise. Who would do such a thing? What kind of monster would do that to a person?’ Blackwell’s voice trembled as he wiped the vestiges of vomit from his lips.

  ‘The kind that wants to make a statement son.’ Strange answered, patting the officer on the back as he stood and approached Cruickshank, taking in the whole gruesome scene in front of them.

  Down from the exposed ribcage of the chest, the intestines had been lifted out of the stomach cavity and were now trailing over the stomach and down between battered and broken legs with bits of serrated bone poking through the ravaged skin. In between the glistening tubes were glimpses of gnarled genitals. The intestinal tubes reached the floor, where they then wound into words, in a circle around the body.

  ‘They say the small intestine is about ten times longer than the human body. It needs to be to spell out that phrase. If you look closely, you can also see its been chewed. There’s teeth marks and bites taken out of it.’ Cruickshank ruminated as she slowly circled the dangling man, whispering every letter as she read it.

  Strange followed her, his eyes quickly scanning the whole phrase. ‘Even Fallen Angels Ha
ve Wings.’ he recited. ‘This is nothing like the Modus Operandi of the four previous revelations by the Fallen Angels. They have never murdered anyone. Quite the opposite. They have been at pains to keep them alive so their abhorrent crimes could be exposed.’

  ‘As far as we know they have never murdered anyone. Our politician friend here is certainly dead, and certainly mutilated. Definitely tortured and definitely telling us something. The large intestine is only about five foot long, and his is pointing towards that door in the corner. One through Six, apart from soft lad Three, sound off now!’ Cruikshank ordered as she looked the aberrant carcass up and down, then headed off in the direction of the pointing intestine.

  All clears crackled out of the walkie-talkie as she crossed the room, the black clad ARO’s stomping back from the corners of the building and convening at the front door.

  ‘Four, get Three out of here. One, go and find Trentor and get him to call for SOCO and the Duty Medical Examiner. This is a crime scene now. Two, get the rest of the guys to secure and tape the perimeter. Five and Six, my hunch is this door is to the cellar, go check it. On my mark. Move!’ she bawled, allowing Five and Six to hurry past her.

  ‘Go easy on Blackwell, Gaynor. He’ll feel bad enough as it is, barfing in front of his mates, without you sledging him as well.’ Strange whispered over to Cruikshank as he came alongside her at the entrance of the door, which contained a stairway leading downwards.

  Cruikshank’s small frame suddenly broadened and lengthened, her chest puffing out and her back straightening. Even though she was nearly two foot shorter than Strange, her force of character tried to dwarf him. ‘Listen,’ she scowled through gritted teeth, ‘I’ve already told you to stop interfering with how I run my team and my investigation. If you can’t do me that common courtesy, then I demand that you leave the case right now!’

  Strange looked down at her vitriolic visage and with a great effort, stopped himself from smirking. ‘Gaynor, just as a reminder, you asked me to come and assist.’ he replied, his eyes trying to cajole her ire.

  She stared furiously at his open, endearing façade for a full ten seconds, a battle of her fury against his facilitation raging. She blinked, her body ever so slightly relaxing. ‘I did Jerry, but I need your information and insight, not your impertinence. I’ll say it again, please extend me the common courtesy of allowing me to run my team my way.’

  ‘Sorry ma braw lassie.’ Strange answered, his words humble as he reached out a hand and stroked her forearm.

  Cruikshank’s face flushed red in obvious embarrassment as she flinched back from where his hand touched her. ‘Not on duty Jerry. Never on duty. I’ve told you that before.’ she answered, flustered, and headed off down the stairwell in a flurry. ‘Five and Six, sound off!’

  Her walkie-talkie crackled as she descended. ‘Clear Ma’am, but you’ll want to see this.’

  Strange watched her receding rear with a sanguine stare, belying the sombre mood of the murder scene. ‘You are an enigma Gaynor Cruickshank. An enigma I definitely want to crack.’ he mused under his breath as he dutifully followed her into the bowels of the house.

  They both stepped into blinding brightness. It was a large room around thirty metres square. Every single surface was mirrored, with pin lighting illuminating the scene, the beams reflecting and amplifying the brilliant white light. It made the already large room look enormous. It magnified and amplified the BDSM sexual apparatus dotted around the room. There were leather bondage tables, spanking horses, dungeon crosses, stocks, slave cages and suspension frames in amongst stands full of whips, floggers, paddles towsers and crops. Everything was clean and pristine, every surface spotless.

  ‘I see what you mean Five!’ Cruikshank said, mouth agape, taking in the room.

  ‘It’s not that you’ll want to see Ma’am, it’s what’s in this room. You wouldn’t have known there was a room here Ma’am if the door had been closed, it would have just looked like another mirror in the wall. But it was open.’ Five answered from the far end of the dungeon.

  Cruikshank and Strange wove their way around the sexual equipment and towards a red glow that pulsed from behind Five. As she approached the threshold, the reflective glare off the mirrored floor tiles gave way to the soft plush luxury of a Fereghan Sarouk Persian rug which adorned the floor of the intimate room beyond. Five backed into the room and allowed Cruickshank to enter, Strange following. The soft red glow slowly danced on the deep red walls of the room, reflections from the tall, thin glass tubes that stood on a long, thin mahogany table running the length of the wall parallel to the door. At the far end of the table, on a stand, stood a closed leather cello case, the word Unas embossed in gold just underneath the handle.

  ‘Jesus Five, I see what you mean.’ Cruickshank answered, quickly crossing the short distance to examine the glass tubes.

  The tubes were filled with a thick, glutinous liquid with bubbles slowly morphing and moving up and down the length of them. A subtle red light shone from the bottom of each tube, illuminating the bubbles and other contents, and causing the seductive shadows to float over the walls.

  There were thirteen tubes in total lined up on the table, each one with a solitary object floating in the viscose liquid, in between the mesmerising bubbles hypnotically moving around them. The solitary object in each tube was a beautifully shaped, curvaceous amputated left leg, serrated across from the groin, where little globules of loose flesh enchantingly meandered with the bubbles.

  ‘It looks like our politician friend upstairs may be involved in more than just the one murder.’ Cruickshank stated as she walked along the length of the table, hovering a finger over little silver plaques tacked in front of each tube. ‘Names and dates engraved on each of them. Thirteen women over a six year period. The Angels may have just exposed their fifth serial killer, and killed him in doing so.’

  Chapter 5

  I’ve never thought I was that good at lying or pretending to be someone other than myself. Even when I was having an affair with Jess and lying to Sarah about where I had been, I was absolutely sure she saw through every single untruth. I guess that I have a knack for it that I didn’t realise, because in the past few days I have been someone who is so far removed from me, I don’t even recognise him. I’m not talking about how I look, I’m talking about how I have behaved. Is that what Adam and Eve have been trying to do? Trying to mould me into becoming a different person. One who doesn’t care about lies, doesn’t care about morals and to a degree, doesn’t even care about people? I fucked Rebecca up the backside the other night. A person I had only met the day before. A person who could still be a killer: and I fucked her up the behind because I wanted to. I didn’t care about anything else, I didn’t even really care about what she wanted, or if it was even pleasuring her, when you boil it all back to basics. I just wanted to fuck. What kind of person does that make me? It certainly doesn’t make me feel like a god. It makes me feel like shit. Yet here I am again, pretending to be someone I am not.

  Dressed up in disguise this time, with a greying wig over my hair, thick horn rimmed glasses covering my eyes, false, very nicotine stained teeth making my lips protrude, and white foundation on my face to make it look older, pallid and slightly ill. I am wearing a tailored Ralph Lauren suit with a long black coat over the top, my black Oxford’s shuffling along the pavement as I limp along the road towards Randolph Crescent. In one hand is a copy of today’s Times and in the other a solid gold White Spot Dunhill cigarette holder sporting a Sobraine Black Russian cigarette.

  There are Police Officers outside the flat that Eve used when she was pretending to be Annie Tait. We expected that. But we need to get into the building next door, where Adam had his rig of TV screens monitoring everything Rebecca, myself and the Fallen Angels were doing. We have to find him again and that is the best starting point. To say I am nervous would be understating the obvious. The Officers up ahead will be briefed and will be looking out for Rebecca and me, or for any suspiciou
s characters around the area. They are going to stop and question me as soon as I approach the flat.

  So how do you counter that, how do you control the situation? In this case it’s easy. You start and lead the conversation.

  There are a few cars driving through the nearby road and a couple of people walking down the tree lined pavement opposite, but otherwise, the streets are fairly quiet as I limp up towards the two Officers chatting.

  ‘Afternoon gentlemen, it’s a lovely day isn’t it. There’s nothing wrong with Detective Constable Tait is there? She is such a helpful young lady. Always on hand to assist me picking up the milk in the morning. Her boyfriend can be a bit of a boor mind you.’ I start, in my most clipped and refined accent, deepening the tone, adding a gravelly rasp to the timbre, trying with every sinew to keep the nervousness bubbling in the pit of my stomach out of my voice and away from my open, inquisitive features.

  ‘And who are you Sir?’ Officer Number 967 asks bluntly, his face going straight into featureless, his tone the same.

  ‘Sorry Officer, how impolite of me. Justin Hanratty, from Hanratty, Deleval and Penshore. We have an office in the building next door. The second I say the words, the other Officer turns his back on the conversation and speaks into his radio. He will be calling back to HQ to get a check on the name and the building occupants.

  ‘Are you at your offices every day Mr Hanratty?’ PC 967 asks, stepping in front of his colleague to block out any sound from the conversation he is having.

  ‘Not every day, no. Perhaps two or three times a week. The office is where we store a lot of old case files. We use it mainly for research, study and case preparation. I do hope DC Tait is alright?’ I prompt again, immediately letting a pained expression enter my face as I allow my body to sag and reach out for the stone wall of the small front garden for support.