Her Moons Denouement (Fallen Angels Book 2) (16 page)

‘Yes it was leaving from Edinburgh airport yesterday afternoon.’ Bentley parroted sarcastically.

‘And just to confirm, your sister is called Desiderata Bentley, no other names?’

‘Yes she is called Desiderata Bentley, no other names.’ he replied, mimicking her voice.

‘That’s a problem then DI Bentley.’ Tait said calmly, paying no attention to his parroting.

Bentley’s countenance turned pensive again as he leaned over the table once more and spoke at Tait.

‘And why would my sister going to Ireland be a problem.’

‘I’m sure that wouldn’t be a problem DI Bentley.  This problem is this.  We have checked with every airline running flights from Edinburgh to Ireland.  Just to be safe, we checked with Newcastle and Glasgow airports too, on their manifests to Ireland, in case you had mistaken the airport.  And just to make absolutely sure, we asked every airline in the country who had flights to Ireland yesterday afternoon to check their manifests for us.  The problem is DI Bentley, your sister did not take a flight to Ireland yesterday afternoon.  So I have one simple question:  Where is she?’

Chapter 25

Life goes on.  Less than an hour ago there was a mini riot in the middle of one of the busiest streets in the City and now…

Now I am sitting in the corner of a little café on the ground floor of the biggest department store in town and everyone is going about their business with a normality which astounds me.  The only token gesture to even recognising the significance of what is happening in the city is the sound turned up slightly on the TV showing the Sky News Channel in the opposite corner of the room.

They have a ten minute loop going.  First minute is on Archbishop O’Driscoll, focusing on the scandal that it is causing in the Roman Catholic Church.  Half a minute given up to his victims.  Another minute is spent on Imam Mann with the usual slant towards Islamic fundamentalism.  Half a minute on victims.  One minute replaying what they call ‘Highlights’ of the two suicides and then three minutes of speculation as to who the ‘Fallen Angels’ are.  No fact.  Lots of religious references from the Bible and from the Koran, but all wild speculation.  No mention at all of the video I saw yesterday from Madame Evangeline.  The last three minutes are given over to the mini riot that happened earlier, with amateur footage of the skirmish.  In between the loop they are talking to so called ‘experts’ in the studio, even more speculation with no substance.

Harry is late.  It’s almost quarter to one now.  I look out of the window for the umpteenth time and see a procession of buses passing.  One breaks suddenly, the others following suit.  People on the pavement outside stop and look into the road.  I lean over and look as well.  Coming down the middle of the road, oblivious to the mayhem they are causing are a large group of Hare Krishna, the ones on the outside of the procession holding placards advertising a show.  I can hear them singing ‘My Sweet Lord’ through the window. 

I see Harry approaching from the main shop, looking out of the window, watching them too, his expression as bemused as the other onlookers.  He shakes his head as he spots me in the corner and approaches.

‘There’s never a policeman when you want one, is there DI Saul.  They are causing havoc out there!’ he says playfully, emphasising the ‘DI’.

‘I’ve been told in no uncertain terms not to get involved in any kind of police work in the City.  On pain of arrest.  I think the main focus of the police at the minute is over on the Royal Mile.  Did you hear about that?’

‘Yes, I saw it on the news.  Bloody stupid Catholics.  I mean, there’s a time and a place, come on.  And that time isn’t the day after one of your key leaders is exposed as a murderous loon and the place isn’t in front of where he was outed!  They say that faith is blind.  That is definitely the case with those idiots.  Totally blind to the public mood.  I have no time for buffoons.’

‘Would you like a coffee?’  I ask, tickled by his overtly pompous heirs.

‘Good god no, a tea please.  My mind frazzles if I have coffee after twelve.  My most profound apologies for being late.  It took longer than I expected to look through the footage.’

I order him a tea as he speaks, at ease and entranced by his larger than life boisterous personality. 

‘Not good news so far I’m afraid.  We definitely have images of them coming into the shop, but so far no images of them leaving.’

‘Which shop was it?’

‘This one, Jenners.  They came in the front entrance together and we have footage of them coming off the escalator on the first floor.  After that they split up.  He goes up another floor then we lose him.  She stays on the first floor and browses for about five minutes then goes back down to the ground floor and we lose her.’

‘Okay.  Now I recall that you pictured Jessica coming to Edinburgh on two separate occasions, only the first with the other me.  Did she walk on both occasions?’

‘Perceptive of you DI Saul.  Yes, on both occasions she walked from the station.  On both occasions, she came into Jenners.  I haven’t progressed the second date yet with the security team.  I will do that once we have finished on the first date.’

‘Is that going to get us anywhere though?  What is the best we could hope for?  We see them coming out of the shop and know which direction they headed.  What then, where do we go from there?’

‘Small steps DI Saul.  In my profession, patience is the watchword.  It might get me to the next store and then I will go and talk to the security team there.  And then the next, and the next and so on and so forth.  Where it might get us to, is the end of Princess Street.  What you might find out is what stores they visit, what things they buy, who they might converse with.  And if they talk to people, shop people, I can talk to those shop people too and they might remember something.’

As a Detective, sometimes there’s a reason you ask a question and it’s not necessarily because you don’t know the answer.  It’s because you want to find out if the person you are asking knows the answer.  It’s because you want to understand how they think and what makes them tick.  Harry is definitely a detail person.  That one statement tells me that if there is anything on those CCTV images to help us, he will find it.

‘Small steps Harry.  Is there anything I can do to help at the moment?’

‘No, I have as much info as I need to progress this line of enquiry.  It is just time unfortunately.’

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a banner flash across the Sky News feed.  ‘Breaking News – Video from the Fallen Angels’.  How the hell has that happened?  The police wouldn’t have sanctioned its release?  Or are they struggling to find out who the Angels are and this is an appeal?  It’s not an appeal.  It’s not being pre-empted by anyone from the force.

‘In the past half hour, Sky News has received this exclusive footage from the group known as the ‘Fallen Angels’.  The images you are about to see are extremely graphic and may cause some viewers distress.’

Everyone in the café without exception turns and looks at the TV. 

The newsreader finishes and photographs of O’Driscoll’s victims flash up on the screen, the same as the ones yesterday.  Imam Mann’s victims follow straight afterwards.  Madame Evangeline’s voice again, reciting the same message as the video I watched yesterday.  The screen stops on Imam Mann’s face and then fades to black, apart from his eyes, which turn green, the darkness then replaced by Peirrot’s face. One of her cheeks has no make up on it and she takes a handkerchief from the table in front of her and cleans the makeup from her second cheek.  She makes the speech about masks again, about us all wearing masks, then the dialogue about the ‘Fallen Angels’ being human.  Much the same as the message in the previous video.

‘Don’t just think of that question in isolation.  Look at these images of the beautiful women Archbishop Liam O’Driscoll and Imam Mann murdered and as you look into their eyes, ask yourself one question: Why do I fear my faith?’

Pictures of the women again, smiling faces, dead bodies, flicking through them at pace.  They are powerful images backing up a powerful question.

The images stop and there is a picture of a different woman.  It is a bizarre pixelated photo of another woman.  It is hard to make out, but her head looks like it is between her legs, not on her shoulders.  Her hands are out at an angle, palms up, holding something in them.  Her legs are in a very unnatural position.  She looks grotesque.

‘Just in case you think the atrocities carried out by Archbishop Liam O’Driscoll and Imam Mann are the end of these atrocities.  Just in case you think using fear and faith as weapons is confined to Christianity and Islam.  Just in case you think we are extreme in our actions, look at this poor woman’s face.  This poor woman who has been beheaded, her head thrust up into her genitals.  At one o’clock today, somewhere in the city, we will tell you all about the religious leader who exacted this brutality upon her: her and many other women.  A leader from a religion that extolls peace and love as their mantra.  It gives me no pleasure at all to say even that won’t be the end of our revelations.’

Mantra, peace and love.  Upturned palms and splayed legs.  Buddhism?  What possible part of Buddhism could exact that kind of atrocity?  There is a Buddhist Goddess who beheads herself and dances over the corpses of her lovers.  What is she called?  One o’clock? That’s only five minutes away. 

‘Think on one thing:  Even Fallen Angels Have Wings.  I am Madame Evangeline and we are the Fallen Angels.’

The video stops and the TV cuts back to the studio.  The café is silent, everyone staring at the screen, the visceral intensity of the images, of the message from Madame Evangeline still resonating on the shocked faces of the café’s customers.  Harry turns back to me with the same expression. 

‘Who on earth is she and how do they know these things?’ he asks me directly, but his question is really a bemused statement as he shakes his head.

‘Who and how aren’t at the top of my list right now.  Where, in the next five minutes, they are going to unveil the murderer, is.  It is something to do with Buddhism, I am sure.  The body position, the words peace, love and Mantra.  The body position.  There is a god with that body position, what the hell is her name.  Are there any Buddhist Temples in Edinburgh?’

I grab my phone and hit the search button, typing in ‘Buddhist Temples Edinburgh’.  Come on, come on.  No bloody Wifi.  Two results.  One just off Princess Street, one in Leith.  I click on the first one.  The Kagu Samye Dzong Centre.  It’s a terraced house.  Are they really going to make a statement to the world in front of a terraced house?  Who is going to be there to see?  I click on the second.  Another house.  Not going to happen.  The other two have been dramatic city centre locations with lots of people.  This one has to be the same, but there is no big temple.  Where else could it be?  ‘My sweet Lord’ pops into my mind, along with singing Hare Krishna.

I yank the collection of flyers I have gathered out of my pocket and throw them onto the table.   

‘What is it John?’ Massah asks me, using my first name.  Why did he use my first name?        

‘There are no big Buddhist temples in Edinburgh, but there is a show in the Festival.’  I answer, finding the salient flyer.  ‘There, ‘The Music Of Mantra’.  It’s in the Princess Street Gardens and there is a one o’clock matinee.  I saw the Hare Krishna not long ago, probably heading off to the show.  It is just on the other side of the street.’

Chapter 26

I jump up from my seat and head for the exit, throwing the door open as I sprint into the street.  I look back and see Harry rising, slow on the uptake, still in shock. It is one o’clock.  Distant screams filter through the hubbub of traffic and pedestrians on the side street as I jostle between the heavy early afternoon crowds down onto Princess Street.  The Gardens are across the road.  I see people running towards them and people running away as I dart between the traffic and run up the railings separating the gardens from the main road, right next to the gothic Scott Monument.  I run through a small gate into the gardens and up to a low stone wall, then look down over an open expanse of grass.  There is a stage on the grass, an orange awning over the top of it.  Chairs are thrown over haphazardly, decimated by the audience, most of whom are trying to get out of the vicinity of the stage, some trying to get closer.

Some trying to get a closer look at a large woman with some kind of Chinese dress on, her face made up to look ferocious.  She has a Samurai sword in her hands and has it hovering against the neck of a naked man sitting bound by barbed wire in the lotus position.  The loud speakers crackle and above the running feet, above the surprised and frightened shouting, above the panicked screams, a mantra blares out.

‘Fear and Faith, Faith and Fear.  In whose faith is your fear founded.’

This is a good vantage point.  I can see the drama unfolding with an uncompromised view.  Not just of the stage or the people who are gravitating in either direction to and from it, but the watchers as well.  It is important to watch the watchers.  Somewhere in amongst them, there is always the possibility that there will be someone who is orchestrating things.  They will be close enough to have a good view of everything, but far enough away to make a quick escape.  They will look unusually casual and that is how you usually spot them.  In this case a Madame Evangeline, or a Ben Hanlon could be watching.

My gaze darts over heads, examining faces, watching expressions, always being drawn back to events on the stage.  A large screen fires up behind the Chinese Hag, happy smiling faces of middle aged women appearing on it, slightly overlaid, names appearing below the images.  Her hypnotic poetry continues.

‘Which Numen’s dogma is decreed, to despoil innocence last breath, forced to embrace your litany, on the sanctity of life’s death.  This man, this monk, this monster, deflowered and decapitated these inquisitive women.  Women whose only wish was to learn the ways of Tantric.’

Young slim woman standing about twenty feet away.  No shock or surprise on her face, only curiosity.  My Jess radar kicks in, seeing her in the contours of the woman’s face.  A man of a similar age with a small child approaches her from the exit of the Scott Monument and directs her away from the show below, shielding the small girl’s eyes.  It is not Jess.

‘This monster not only deflowered and decapitated them, but then deflowered them with their own decapitation.’

More screams, more people backing away from the stage at the uncensored sight of the type of image that was on Sky News.  I stop searching the crowd and just stare with my mouth agape at the abominable creation in front of my eyes. Four decapitated torsos with the heads rammed into the vaginas.  Hard to tell who is who but why only four? There were five smiling faces.

‘All because of their age.  All because his faith told him that women of their age are demons.  He led them into Tantra, led them into a secret sexual sect.  A sect kept secret because his faith preaches celibacy.  His faith uses fear to keep the women who enter Tantra quiet.  His faith threatens them to suffer a millennia of hellish torments, insanity and death if they utter a word to anyone about what they know.  His faith did that to them.  His faith would have done that to me too.  I am forty three.  He was going to kill me.’

Is that why four bodies.  Is she the fifth smiling face?  I can’t let her be the fifth one to die, I can’t let her commit suicide.  I jump the small wall, wincing in agony as I do and stumble down the slight embankment towards the stage.  People are running up the hill and I swerve and dart to avoid them, running through the discarded, upturned chairs until I stand right in front of the Chinese Hag.  Close up, she is far from a hag.  She is a middle aged Asian woman with beautiful brown eyes and a round, warm profile, but with her face painted white, black makeup accentuating the eyes and lips, making them look hideous.

‘You don’t have to do this.’ I shout towards her.

‘I’m not going to kill him.  Far from it.’ she replies to my question, looking down at me.  ‘I am here today to show the world the atrocities he has enacted upon these poor women, all in the fear of his faith.’

‘I know you aren’t going to kill him.  I meant you don’t have to kill yourself.  Do you really want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that his actions had such an impact on you, that they have caused you to commit suicide?’

She laughs, throwing her head back, letting out a haggish cackle, playing the part deliberately before she looks back down at me, studying my features.

‘What is most people’s greatest fear John Saul?’

She knows my name.  How the hell does she know my name?  How you know my name is the fear at the top of my list at the moment.  What do people fear most?  Spiders, religion, being mugged, being killed.  Death.

‘Death.’ she answers before I have time to reply.  ‘We fear death above all else.  We fear it because we don’t know what happens afterwards.  It is instinct.  But if you train your mind not to fear death, not to fear what may or may not happen afterwards, and open yourself up to the endless possibilities that lie at the other side of that closed door, you will realise that there is no reason why you wouldn’t embrace death and open it’s door.’

I stare at her incredulously, her focused, lucid words sending a chill through my bones, making me fear the intensity of her belief.  She wants to die.  She is ready to die because she wants to see what is on the other side of death, not because she doesn’t want this life.  I am never going to stop her.  She smiles a knowing smile and continues talking.

‘We will no longer stand in the shadows of their gods and let these atrocities prevail.’

Police sirens break into the din of chaos surrounding the gardens, distracting my attention back to the crowd, back to watching.  I look over the far side of the gardens, to people leaning over the walls on the road up to the Royal Mile.  No one that looks ordinarily out of the ordinary.

I look behind me, to Scott’s Monument and the people looking down over the scene from the first level walkways of the tower.  I see Jess, watching events on the stage intently, leaning nonchalantly on the barrier.  Her lips move as she watches.  There is no one beside her.  Who is she talking to?  Her gaze diverts from the stage and looks directly at me.  Her lips move again.  She smiles at me, a long lingering loving smile, then looks back to the stage, to the Chinese Hag taking the sword off the bound monk’s neck.

I turn and break into a run, heading back up the embankment, heading towards the entrance to the tower, scrabbling in my pocket for some money as I approach.  I don’t take my eyes off Jess as I reach the entrance and throw a twenty pound note at the man in the booth.  Police sirens are getting louder and I hear cars screeching to a halt on Princess Street as I enter the Monument, heading up the narrow, dark, damp stone staircase.  Sirens become muffled in the confined space.  The Chinese Hag’s voice does too, but I can hear the intensity of it increasing, her tone becoming more frenetic.

‘Even Fallen Angels Have Wings.’

I clamber out of the gloomy stairwell, blinded briefly by the brilliant sunlight.  I look through the people leaning over the balcony watching the scene below but can’t see Jess.  I hear an outburst of screams and hysteria.  I hear the sound of heavy footed police officers laden with riot gear pounding into the gardens and look down quickly.  On the stage, standing proud and tall, the Chinese Hag stretches her arms out and large feathered wings unfurl from her back as she does.  The samurai sword glimmers in the sun.

‘We want justice.  Justice for Abigal, justice for Neeta, justice for Martha, justice for Elena.  We want justice for every Angel that has died.  Justice for every Angel left to bleed in the fear founded by the disease of their god’s seed.  We want the world to see the truth.’

Police pound down the embankment, shouting for people to get out of the way.  The crowd as one move backwards as the woman raises both hands above her head and grips the sword tight between them.  I push through the gawping onlookers on the balcony and reach the spot where I saw Jess.  She isn’t here. 

‘We are the Fallen Angels!’

I stop dead and stare down at the stage, see the razor sharp rapier slice through the air as the woman thrusts it into her chest, straight through her heart.  She slumps down onto her knees, then flops to one side, dead, and on her way to somewhere with endless possibilities.  That is not the fear of faith, that is the power of faith, of an unequivocal belief.

Pandemonium engulfs the balcony as the onlookers panic, pushing past each other to get towards the stairwells and get down onto the street.  I hear some talk about getting closer to the scene, others just wanting to get as far away as possible.  Regardless, their jostling is hampering me as I look frantically around for Jess.  I look through to the continuing balconies on the second, third and fourth sides of the Monument, but can’t see her.  I look to the windows higher up the Monument, at people leaning out of them, but no Jess.  I look down to street level, to the people streaming out of the exits to the Monument, but can’t see her. I can see the police starting to form a cordon around the stage and disperse the crowd.  I can see Harry looking around trying to see me.  I can see more police cars arriving on the street, more police officers running down the hill towards the stage.  But I can’t see Jess.  I bang both hands into the wrought iron protective rail on the balcony in frustration, immediately regretting it as pain shoots through the stigmata in my palms.

Focus John.  You haven’t seen her come out.  Yes, but she could have gone down a different stairwell while I was coming up.  She could have, but she might have gone up.  Get down to ground level and keep an eye on the exits.  The police will be clearing this area soon, they will clear the monument as well.  If she is still in here, she will have to come out.  I head for the nearest stairwell and quickly walk down it, out onto the pathway in front of the gardens towards Harry.  The police are already taping off the entrance to the park and ushering people out.

‘Harry, keep an eye on the exits to the Monument.  I saw Jess up there.  I don’t think she has come out yet.’

‘Stop exactly where you are Saul!’ screams a voice I recognise.  I look towards it, to DCI Cruickshank running in through the gates of the gardens, DC Tait directly behind her. 

‘Harry, keep an eye on those entrances, you know what Jess looks like.  Follow her.  Don’t make out that you know me at all.’ I whisper as I pass by him, looking directly ahead toward the approaching women.

‘For the second time in two days Saul, I find you right in the midst of this investigation.’ Cruickshank sneers in my direction as she reaches me. ‘You might fool me once Saul, but never bloody twice.  Either you are in this up to your neck, or you know a hell of a lot more than you are letting on.  Arrest him Tait.  Playtime is over.’