Murder Path (Fallen Angels Book 3) (3 page)

Trentor hastily shuffled into the room and joined Cruikshank.  Strange turned from the evidence wall as he arrived and flashed a welcoming smile toward the Detective, reaching out a hand and introducing himself.  ‘DCI Jeremiah Strange.  Pleased to meet you DI Trentor.  Call me Jerry.  What is your first name?’

‘Jesus Strange.  The man has just told us about a possible murderer, can we do without the bloody pleasantries.’

Strange didn’t flinch and shook Trentor’s hand, his expression still waiting for an answer to his question.

‘Barry Sir.  Sorry Ma’am.  No it’s not the Angels.’  Trentor started, taking a little confidence in the warm handshake and the clandestine wink that Strange flashed him.  ‘We have started to get the DNA results through from the people we arrested after the raid on ‘Sodom and Gomorrah’ the other night. One set matches the DNA found on the decapitated head of a seventeen year old school girl, Abbigail Gare, who was killed last year.’

‘I remember the case well, we only found her head.  If I recall correctly, the DNA was from semen that was found in her eyeball of all places.  Out with it, who is the suspected murderer?’

‘That’s right Ma’am.  I worked that case.  We had no other evidence and the DNA we found wasn’t a match to anyone, up until now.  This is going to get very messy, very quickly Ma’am.  The DNA was from the Member of Parliament for Leith, Connor McFetrich.  It looks very probable our local politician is a murderer.’

Chapter 3

The first thing that twitches is his little finger and for the briefest of moments my heart stops, like every other time.  For that fraction of a second there is a universe of hope waiting on baited breath, wishing that the tiny twitch was a natural movement, praying that Jacob is at last controlling his limbs.  Senses become heightened.  Eyes pick up every nuance of the twitch, looking for an unnatural susurration of the muscles in the finger.  Ears attune to his breathing, listening for the shallowness that forewarns a fit.  Nose sniffs out the odour of burning chocolate that exhales on his last full breath and is so strong you can taste it.  Hand reaches out to touch his wrist and see if the pulse is steady, or dropping.  All in that split second.  Every sinew of my being straining that split second to turn into a full second, then two, then three and for the little finger to twitch naturally. 

Hope is a fragile thing, even in a universe of it.  This time, like every other time, his breathing falls, exhaling the burning chocolate smell which oozes its agony into my soul, which deepens my darkness, which stretches the emptiness of forever, which means Jacob is starting to fit.

Unlike every other time, Rebecca is sitting opposite me on the bed, reaching out and feeling the pulse on Jacob’s other wrist.  Her emerald eyes are bloodshot from the agony of all the tears she has shed in the past few hours, yet the irises are alive and scanning his twitching little finger as well.  She looks up to his wide open eyes and scans them intently.

‘Does it hurt Jacob?’  Rebecca asks.  I look to his open green eyes as well, watching for the only natural movement his body can complete: dilating a pupil. 

It dilates once. 

Once means ‘Yes’.

My stomach suddenly cramps a screaming hollow, the already emotional maelstrom flying around my mind from the previous night’s revelations being absolutely trumped by the instant knowledge that our son is about to go through sheer agony.  The hell I suddenly feel is also painted across Rebecca’s face as she looks across at me imploringly. 

‘There’s nothing we can do Rebecca, we just have to let him see it through.’ I answer, feeling totally inadequate and superfluous.

‘There is always something, even if that something is just comfort.  You may not have known it before John, but you know it now.  It hurts him when he fits.’  Rebecca answers with a steely determination entering her previously broken voice. ‘We are here for you Jacob.  Snuggle Ian Bear in and try and make your mind relax.  Once upon a time, there was an old toymaker called Gepetto…’

His hands are shaking now, hard enough for the buzzer and alarm on his Pinocchio motion sensor watch to go off.  I press the button on the side and switch them off.  His arms start to twitch frantically and the length of his body starts to jerk sporadically.  Ian Bear drops out of the crook of his chin were Rebecca has seated him and she picks the small stuffed toy up and holds it back there, her other hand stroking his quivering arm as she softly recites his favourite story, looking lovingly into his frightened eyes.

It is hard to believe that just a moment ago Rebecca was lying on the bed a broken woman, lost in the contemplation of what happened last night, or possibly trying to forget it.  It’s hard to tell which, as she hadn’t said a single word since we arrived back at the apartment after the revelations in the underground cave.  After she had stabbed Dessie Bentley.  After Fenny Bentley had killed himself.  After Eve had exposed Pastor Bentley as a murderer.  After Eve told us that Jacob was also Rebecca’s son.  After Eve killed herself as well.  I guess I had been the same, trying to rationalise everything, just lying on the bed opposite her, our son in between. 

Our son.

I can see now why Adam, or Dr Ben Hanlon or my bloody doppelganger wanted Rebecca to look after Jacob now.  Not just because she is his mother, but because of how she is with children.  She is just so focused, nothing else exists for her at this moment.  Jacob has her complete attention, he is her universe, and keeping him calm as his chest starts to furiously shake is all that is on her mind while she softly continues telling him the story of the little puppet who turns into a real boy.

While what’s on my mind is how the hell can she possibly be Jacob’s mother?  What is on my mind is: why are Rebecca, Jacob and I so important to the Fallen Angels.  What is on my mind is: why Eve felt the need to kill herself.  What is on my mind is: who is the man in all the pictures of the killers the Fallen Angels exposed, and why are they trying to expose him as well.  What is on my mind is: if we are Gods to these Fallen Angels, what are their plans for us and what the hell is their end game.  I still feel like we are pawns being played in some fucked up game of life that is totally out of our control.

Jacob’s body is fully tense with all of his extremities extended as the apex of the fit overwhelms him, his whole body shaking furiously, his head thrown from side to side and spittle splashing from his quivering lips.  I hold his arm tightly, my own body anxiously tense, while Rebecca is exactly the opposite.  She exudes a serene calmness and her movements are flowing, slow and delicate, even her voice is silky smooth, not an iota of concern, worry or trepidation being displayed.       

‘…and Pinocchio followed the Ass excitedly down the cobbled street…’

The police will be looking for us.  They will have a ton of forensics from the cave.  It will all point to our involvement in the deaths of the Bentleys, regardless of the circumstances.  I know they will have raided my hotel room.  I would.  We should give ourselves up.  We should.  But we can’t.  We won’t find out anything about the Fallen Angels locked up in a cell.  I’ve broken too many laws to be innocent now.  The only thing we can do, is find out why the hell they are doing this.  That is the only way we will get any closure.  That is the only way we will get our lives back.  And to get our lives back, we have to take control.  We have to find out who Adam and Eve are.  A starting point for that is back at the apartment where Adam had his base.  There may be something there that will tell us where he is.  We also know Eve was born Jessica Seymour and Adam was born Robert Caldwell.  The other tiny revelation in the mix of all the revelations yesterday was that the man we thought she was married to was actually her father.  We have to explore that. We need to dig into the history of the Seymour family.  The rickety rooms in my mind are screaming at me as well.  They are screaming Italy.  The place where I seemed to spend a large part of my childhood in isolation.  The place where I recall Gordon Ennis telling me the sister of Henry Seymour lived.  The place where Sarah and I went to have IVF in order to conceive Jacob. 

‘Rebecca.  Where did you and Hannah go to have your eggs implanted when the two of you conceived Michael?’

Rebecca glances at me and throws an admonishing stare from her focused eyes, before returning to look at Jacob, whose body is now calming down, the spasms and shaking reducing as he starts to come out of his fit.  I watch as his torso stops bucking and his head stops shaking, gently lolling to the right, in Rebecca's direction, as his extremities calm down as well, his whole body, in an instant, reverting to inert.

'Sleep now little angel' Rebecca sings to him, gently closing his eyes as she brushes a hand tenderly down his face.  'That's the first time he has had a fit in the three weeks I have had him.  Are they always that violent?' 

'Three weeks!  That's impossible.  He tends to fit at least once a day.  Yes, they are always that violent, but I never knew they hurt him.'  I answer, absolutely gobsmacked that he hasn't been fitting.

'Perhaps it's to do with him being able to communicate now.  Perhaps he has control of more than just his irises.  But that is definitely the first time.  Now that you know it hurts him, you have to start thinking about how you interact when they happen.  I could see you withdraw.  I saw you try to distract your mind and think about anything else but Jacob.  You can't do that.  You have to think of him.  You have to comfort him.  You have to console him.  And if you find that hard, then that's just fucking tough.  If we have a son...'

'If?' I interject.

'Yes, if.  Just because Eve has told us that he is ours, doesn't mean it is true.  We both know her and Adam have been playing us.  This could just be another test, another temptation.  Don't get me wrong.  I think he is our son.  I think that is why Dr Hanlon brought me back from the brink of insanity.  I think that is why he wanted me to look after Jacob.  But let's not presume, let's find out for sure.  You have a son, and we might have a son, and you need to realise now that he feels, just like you or I.  He hurts, just like you or I.  And if he hurts anything like you or I are at the moment, then we need to comfort his beautiful little being all the more.  How do we do a DNA test?'

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 Have 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.’