by Max Hardy
Rebecca fell silent, looking down into her nearly empty coffee cup, her face cogitating. ‘Anything up?’ I ask.
‘Just.’ she started, pausing, taking a deep breath, her breasts perking up on the inhale, her stomach tightening, the snake writhing under her taught muscles. ‘Just recalling something I read about Cotton Mather.’
‘You mean, apart from him being a religious nutter.’
‘Apart from that, yes.’ she answers with a droll tone, before continuing. ‘It’s this inbreeding direction we are going down. Apart from being a barking religious madman, apart from being convinced he had found a Nephilim, he was also an eminent scientist.’
‘Okay, what does that have to do with inbreeding?’
‘Everything. He conducted one of the first ever recorded experiments on plant hybridization. He started cross breeding plants, which led to cross breeding animals.’ Rebecca sounds off, agitatedly excited by her train of thought.
‘But what does that have to do with inbreeding?’ I ask, still a little confused.
‘So, you have a religious madman, who thinks he has found a Nephilim, a child of a Fallen Angel, who is also a scientist renowned for cross breeding species.’ Rebecca prompts, staring at me incredulously, frustrated I cannot see the inference. ‘What if he started human cross breeding? What if he started cross breeding humans and Nephilim?’
My face must have painted a picture of impatience as Rebecca frowns at me, frustrated. ‘He didn’t have a live Nephilim, only the fossils of one.’
‘But what if he found the bloodline of one? What if he found one and cross bred. What if he found one, cross bred, and then started to selectively inbreed to purify the bloodline: to get back to a pure child of an Angel?’
Chapter 13
The toilet cubicle walls were festooned with every conceivable type of graffiti. Simple words scratched into the industrial grey plastics, drawings of cocks with telephone numbers below them, ‘such and such woz ere’ scrawled all over, all intermingled with the odd dry bogie and smear or two of faeces. Strange sat quietly on the closed, loose toilet seat, listening patiently to the sounds outside the cubicle door, waiting patiently for the man he could hear washing his hands to leave. The frantic roar of the hand drier cut out and the main door to the toilets clicked shut, leaving the rest room in silence.
Strange quickly unzipped his holdall which was sitting on the floor in front of him and, rummaging around stealthily, pulled out a small brown teddy bear and started to examine it closely.
‘So why did John leave you at the apartment Ian Bear? It must have been something important?’ Strange mumbled to himself, his attention caught by a slight rustle as he squeezed the small toy. He flipped it onto its back, where the stitching was, and noticed a couple of the stitches near the base of the torso were loose. He tugged on the thread gently, making a hole big enough to get his wizened little finger inside, and felt around until it touched something harder than the soft filling. He wriggled his finger until the tip of a piece of white paper poked out of the hole. Carefully, he slid the scrolled tube of paper out and unfurled it in his hands.
Strange’s eyes opened wide in surprise, his body visibly jolting as he took the words on the note in, so much so that the loose toilet seat slipped, almost tipping him to the floor. He thrust his arms out and steadied himself on the filthy cubicle walls, then read the note again.
‘We did not kill McFetrich. We killed Dessie in self-defence. Fenny killed himself. I know how it looks, but we are being played. Right now, I’m not sure why, but I think it is by the man in the photographs. He used to be a Fallen Angel, but turned extreme. Trust no one Jerry. Even your closest friends, family and colleagues could be playing you, just as they have been us. Bring the bread. Jacob is alive.’ Strange relayed on whispering lips, shaking his head in astonishment as he went over the last sentence again. ‘Jacob is alive!’
‘Shit!’ he announced loudly as he caught the time on his Rolex watch. He thrust Ian Bear back into his holdall while standing and flung the bag over his shoulder, zipping it as he vacated the cubicle and headed out of the restroom. He quickly strode down the bustling main thoroughfare of the station, slipping the note into the inside pocket of his moleskin jacket just as he reached the door to the main Incident room, Cruickshank’s booming furious voice rattling its frame as he pushed it open and entered.
Cruickshank finished speaking mid rant and threw him a simmering glare of admonishment. ‘Oh, DCI Strange, nice of you to join us. Only a mere ten minutes late for the briefing. It’s reassuring to know that your time keeping is as proficient as your investigative skills.’ she spat scathingly, contemptuously disregarding him as she returned to haranguing her previous victim. ‘It’s not good enough Trentor. Coleen Naismith has been in our charge for more than twenty four hours now. Surely she must be able to remember something?’
Strange walked nonchalantly down the aisle between the rows of grey, worn plastic seats facing the Incident boards and plonked himself down next to Trentor, flashing an encouraging smile in the Detective’s direction as he sat, dropping his holdall under the seat.
‘She had her arms chopped of Ma’am and was more than likely sexually molested with her own hands. It’s quite probable she was also forced to watch Pastor Bentley eat her arms. I think it’s more than understandable that she is struggling to remember anything else. I will keep working with the psychiatric team and as soon as she is stable enough to question, then I will be there straight away.’ Trentor replied, a tinge of attitude in amongst the deference in his words.
‘Well just make sure we aren’t waiting a bloody week. She’s a key witness. She was there when both Desiderate and Fenny died. She is the one person that can tell us if Saul and Angus were involved. Don’t forget that. How about the McFetrich murder. Have we any more on his last movements? Any known associates? Any link to Saul or Angus?’ Cruickshank posed, still evidently annoyed with Trentor.
‘There are no known connections between Saul and Angus, save for the fact they were all at ‘Sodom and Gomorrah’ when it was raided. At the time of the raid, McFetrich was midway through a sexual act with a Douglas Ettrick and a Sheila Warren. We are trying to locate them both now for questioning. No one has seen or heard from McFetrich since yesterday afternoon Ma’am, when he left a meeting in Newcastle at around 5pm.’
‘Someone must have seen him Trentor. Interview the people he was meeting with. Check out CCTV footage on the roads back from Newcastle. Follow through with Ettrick and Warren, they may know something. On the subject of Saul and Angus, have we any more leads, Purves?’ Cruickshank asked, turning her attention from Trentor to DI Rosamund Purves, whose middle aged dyed blonde hair, grey at the roots, was bent over the notes she was reading on the pad in her lap.
‘We carried out a full house to house on the main and surrounding apartment blocks Ma’am. No one in the main apartment block can recall seeing either of the suspects. In the adjacent block, there was an apartment that had been rented out, which was directly opposite the one we raided. The odd thing about it was that it had been cleaned with bleach, every surface wiped down and not a single fingerprint anywhere.’ Purves relayed.
‘Promising, could that be where they were staying? Would you have been able to hop onto the Wi-Fi connection of the other apartment from there? Have you talked to the owner? Do they know who rented it?’ Cruickshank fired off the questions in rapid succession, not even taking a breath between them.
‘Yes Ma’am, you can hop onto the Wi-Fi connection from there. The owner lives in an apartment on the ground floor. He didn’t recognise either Saul or Angus. The woman who rented the apartment was described as in her late fifties, early sixties, greying hair, rather frail. Name was Yolandi Grainger. We are checking into that now.’
‘Good. Also check CCTV from the apartments and from the surrounding streets for the past few days. Let’s see what Yolandi Grainger was doing that required her to bleach down the apartment.’
Crui
ckshank turned and addressed an extremely tall, skinny man next, the handlebar moustache he wore warming the rim of the thermos mug he was supping from. ‘Gregory, where are we with the Fallen Angels and the ‘Unknown Man’? Have we found anything at all?’
‘Forensics have confirmed that the DNA from Madame Evangeline was in fact that of Jessica Seymour. We are now working with our colleagues in Northumbria, with the help of DCI Strange, to dig into the background of Mrs Seymour further and see if we can find a connection back to the Fallen Angels. We have no other open lines of investigation from the other three ‘Fallen Angels’ who committed suicide. As for the ‘Unknown Man’, so far there is nothing Ma’am. Facial recognition has turned up nothing, feedback from GCHQ and Interpol has turned up nothing. Armed forces checks have turned up nothing. So far Ma’am, he’s invisible.’ Gregory fed back, supping his warm coffee as he finished.
‘Well, we know he exists, because he is in four bloody pictures with four serial killers. Four serial killers who know him. Four serial killers who could tell us exactly who he is. Strange has an idea of how to approach interviewing them to try and make them give something up about him. Gregory, could you work with him to prepare that and see if we can get something moving there.’
Cruickshank shook her head, irritated, tutting as she looked around the room at her assembled Detectives. ‘We need to pick the pace up team. These ‘Fallen Angels’ have potentially moved on to murdering people now: famous people at that. We won’t be able to keep McFetrich’s death out of the press any longer than today, and when they find out, then the bloody circus we’ve had to endure so far will be like a child’s party compared to what will come. So, everyone focus on every single open line of enquiry and follow them through quickly and thoroughly. We need positive movement people and we need it today. Dismissed.’ Cruickshank finished firmly, her tone radiating frustration.
Strange watched the weary, down beaten detectives stream past him and out of the Incident room in near silence, not a single one of them discussing the case with their colleagues. Shaking his head disconsolately, he stood and walked up to the front of the room, where Cruickshank now had her back to him, examining the evidence boards.
‘Gaynor, the team are looking a little demotivated. A few positive words might help just to buck them up a little. They have had a hard few days. You have had a hard few days.’ Strange relayed softly, coming up behind her and placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
Cruickshank flinched under it, brushing the contact off and turned to face him with a furious glare, her body tense and angry, ready to unleash an onslaught of abuse. She opened her mouth, looking up into his beseeching brown eyes, and stopped herself, the tension ebbing from her body, the anger subsiding.
‘I know they are. But this is me Strange. Don’t think you know me just because we’ve shared two nights of passion. In this room, we are professionals. I won’t stand for tardy timekeeping and I certainly won’t stand for incompetent investigation. I will be firm, I will be clear and I will be hard on everyone, even you, until we have a clear line of sight on this. This is me Strange, live with it or leave.’ Cruickshank stated firmly, but without any anger or frustration.
Strange smiled magnanimously. ‘I will live with it. As much as I disagree, I respect your candour and professionalism. But please, recognise that for me this isn’t about right and wrong, it’s just about embracing our different approaches to achieving the same ultimate goal.’
‘I will bear that in mind and I am grateful for the perspective you are bringing to this investigation. But as I mentioned, I won’t accept tardiness. Now, let’s go and find out if Laurent has had a chance to look at Saul’s DNA samples.’
Cruickshank strode off, assertiveness returning to her pronounced gait and glare as she passed Strange and headed out of the Incident room and down the thoroughfare in the direction of the Forensics Laboratory.
Strange dutifully fell in behind her, his slow long laconic strides, accentuated by a twist of the hips as he walked, easily catching her short sharp steps up. ‘I was surprised that Laurent though he would be able to tell the difference between two identical twins, so this is going to be interesting.’ Strange mused as he followed Cruickshank into the Lab and approached the white coated, angular faced, svelte form of Marcel Laurent, studiously lost in an open sheath of papers on the workbench in front of him.
‘So Laurent. Have we got twins, or is there just the one Saul?’ Cruickshank asked bluntly, coming right up to his side and looking over his shoulder, speed reading his notes.
Laurent raised his head in surprise, still lost in the information that he was reading, his features a mask of intrigue underneath the irritation of distraction.
‘From my analysis of the three DNA samples we have of Saul, they all belong to him. No twins there. However, your question got me checking the DNA of our other suspects and victims, especially Rebecca Angus and Jessica Seymour/Madame Evangeline. That is where things start to get really interesting.’
‘Tell me more.’ Cruickshank demanded as she tried to decipher the complex formulas on the notes.
‘Three different people, Saul, Angus and Seymour. Three different people with a ninety eight percent DNA match. I would never have seen it if you hadn’t suggested I check Saul’s results.’
Strange looked on nonplussed, seeing a similar confused expression on Cruickshank’s features. ‘What does that mean? Are they related?’ Strange queried.
‘More than related. Much more than related. A normal person will get 50% of their DNA from mama, 50% from papa. A sibling is the same, but they may get a different 50% from each parent. So in general, siblings will tend to have a 25% DNA match. To get a ninety eight percent match in three different people is either a one in a billion fluke, or…’ Laurent paused, his own voice filled with excitement and confusion.
‘Or what?’ Cruickshank said, her words impatiently irritated.
‘Or the particular family they belong to have been inbreeding for a very long time. I need to get these samples off to some experts, because they just can’t be right. Even that isn’t the most remarkable thing.‘
Strange stood there listening with a look of utter surprise etched onto his features, his mouth agape, eyes wide and nostrils flared. ‘Something more remarkable than that!’ he stated.
‘Yes. The DNA from Jessica Seymour and Madame Evangeline are 99.999% the same. There is only one chromosome different.’ Laurent relayed.
‘So does that mean they are identical twins?’ Cruickshank questioned.
‘Possibly, and one of them has had their DNA genetically modified.’
Chapter 14
The red light started a stuttering dance, revolving in time to the loud klaxon that burst into life with a piercing shriek, both pre-empting the opening of the tall metal gates at the entrance of The Fielding Institute. Rebecca, wearing a grey bob wig, pristine tweed twin set and made up to look old, drove the people carrier into the holding area between the gates that had just opened, and a second set just in front of her. The ones behind closed with a sturdy metallic thud, just as the ones in front opened. She manoeuvred the car out of the holding area and into an empty car park in front of the contemporary reception entrance at the front of the Institute.
‘Now remember. You are Dr Marsha Evans.’ Saul’s voice quietly echoed in her left ear, from the small receiver hidden deep within the canal. One the left lapel of her tweed jacket was a small Scottie dog pin brooch, behind which was glued a minute microphone.
‘Got that DI Saul. Sixty three year old spinster with a wee dog called Hamish, a cottage on the seafront at Amble and an uncontrollable craving for mint humbugs.’ Rebecca answered sarcastically, stepping out of the car and heading off towards the reception entrance, her shoulders stooped and her footfalls short and bustling.
The inside of the reception area was as contemporary and minimalist as the exterior, with large swathes of glass and exposed metal beams throughout. Sleek leather chairs lou
nged in the waiting area next to brushed chrome tables covered in upmarket magazines. Rebecca bustled up to the solitary security guard sitting behind the glass and chrome reception desk, glancing for a second across to the large painting of an Angel with its wings stretched out, holding the palms of his hands upwards to show the stigmata in the centre of them. With a bright, bubbly smile on her face, she turned back to the portly, ruddy cheeked guard and addressed him jovially.
‘Morning sonny. It’s quiet in here today, that’ll leave you plenty of time for tea breaks I would imagine? What’s your name son?’ Rebecca asked, her voice slightly high pitched with an exaggerated lisp to cover the speech impediments caused by the lack of her tongue.
‘Call me Henry, Dr Evans. It is quiet today. The last of the patients was moved on Friday. Apart from the occasional visit from your crew, this place is like a morgue. Could I see your ID please?’ Henry requested, returning Rebecca’s smile warmly.
‘There you go Henry.’ Rebecca answered, passing over the Northumbria police ID badge Saul had fashioned for her from his own. ‘Plenty of opportunity for tea then. If you happen to be making one, I like mine with milk and three sugars please, and I am partial to a Custard Cream, if you have any?’ she finished cheekily, leaning into the reception desk furtively.
Henry’s smile broadened as he handed her back the ID badge, hardly even giving it a cursory glance. ‘I’ve got Custard Creams and Malted Milk. I’ll go put the kettle on. Where are you going first and I’ll bring a cuppa down to you?’
‘Down to the archives first, then a quick recce of Dr Ennis’s old office to pick a few files up.’ Rebecca relayed, dropping the ID badge back into her pocket.
‘Do you know the way?’ Henry asked, getting up from his seat ready to point her in the right direction.
