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Authors: Alastair Gunn

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BOOK: The Advent Killer
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14.
 

Despite the careers advisor at school suggesting she train as a nanny, Hawkins had never liked the idea of looking after other people’s children. And, as she formally introduced the room’s occupants to various recording devices, the twenty-eight-year-old sitting four feet away was reminding her why.

‘I didn’t kill nobody,’ Marcus De Angelo repeated as soon as she’d finished. He looked like a defiant teenager, slumped in his plastic chair, staring at the interview room’s dirty grey wall somewhere above her and Mike’s heads.

‘So you keep telling us.’ It was the thirteenth time he’d said the same thing since they’d left Silvertown.

‘I had no reason to do her in. She was a good shag.’

‘How romantic.’ Hawkins couldn’t resist. ‘I can’t believe we ever suspected you.’

De Angelo responded with a patronizing smile.

‘We just wanted to ask you some questions, Marcus.’ Mike leaned forwards in his chair. ‘You got
yourself
arrested when you got all Muhammad Ali with our officer.’

‘Little prick – eyeballed me all the way here.’

‘We’ll come to that.’ Hawkins took over. ‘First tell us if you knew either Glenis Ward or Tess Underwood.’

‘Not that I remember.’ De Angelo wasn’t taking this seriously at all. ‘But I’ve known a lot of girls, if you get my drift.’

‘Ever kill any of
them
?’ Mike asked.

‘Fuck off, mate.’ De Angelo’s hand returned to the mark on his cheek where Mike had braced him against the wall. ‘Or I’ll have you done for GBH.’

Hawkins shot a sideways glance at her colleague, warning him to back off. De Angelo still hadn’t requested his solicitor’s presence, and she didn’t want to encourage him, but this display of confidence worried her. He obviously knew they had very little linking him to Jessica’s murder, let alone either of the others.

‘If you’re innocent,’ she said, ‘why didn’t you come forward two days ago?’

De Angelo held Mike’s stare for a few more seconds before transferring his gaze back to her. ‘Reason’s right there in front of you, darling.’

‘For the record,’ Hawkins said, ‘Mr De Angelo is referring to a copy of today’s
Sun
newspaper, dated December twenty-first. And why is that, Marcus?’

‘I was doing her.’ De Angelo smirked. ‘And they paid me ten grand to talk about it. I don’t reckon your offer would have been so generous. So what else do you want to know?’

She paused, mainly to ensure De Angelo didn’t hear the rising temper in her voice. ‘We’d like to hear your side of the story.’

‘Don’t you read?’

Hawkins picked up the paper. The headline shouted:
MY AFFAIR WITH MURDERED JESSICA
, above an image of De Angelo’s face. She began flicking through the pages.

‘Even the
Sun
gets things wrong occasionally, Marcus.’
She kept her tone casual. ‘Sometimes by mistake, other times to sell more papers. Have you read it through?’

Silence.

‘Interesting.’ She had his attention. ‘Shall we check some key facts, just for your peace of mind?’ Still no response, but he had started chewing his lower lip.

‘This is nice.’ Hawkins paused at a double-page spread covered with male-model style shots of De Angelo, and a biographical interview. He certainly had the looks to sell papers, with his chiselled physique and shoulder-length black hair. ‘You hide your grief very … professionally.’

‘I’m used to the attention.’

Hawkins arrived at the centre pages, where another large, flatteringly lit photo of De Angelo accompanied his account of the affair.

She laid the tabloid on the table and sat back. ‘Just give us a brief summary of what you told them.’

De Angelo sighed, dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling, as if weighing his options. Then he began to talk, in a tone that suggested he was repeating himself for the hundredth time.

‘My company installs air conditioning. I met her about two months ago when I gave her a quote for some work on their other gaff in Surrey. Apparently, good old Charlie was off giving some speech about how good the Olympics were. She was bored.’ He grinned. ‘So I asked if her old man took care of business at home. Ten minutes later, we were at it.’

Hawkins nodded. It seemed Jessica had been suffering from underappreciated housewife syndrome, despite the Anderton’s happy-couple image. She wrote herself a
reminder to check the intelligence team’s progress chasing up the other ‘business’ contacts on Jessica’s phone records.

‘And how many times did you hook up after that?’ Mike asked.

‘Not many. Four or five.’

‘Where at – her place?’

‘No, they never did have that work done. Well, not by me, anyway – I only went there the one time. After that she came to mine. Safer that way, with no nosy neighbours watching out for her all the fucking time.’

‘So why’d you show up at their home in Hampstead on Sunday?’

De Angelo tried to hide a look of surprise, but his smirk dissolved.

‘All right,’ he said, after a few seconds. ‘We’d arranged to meet that morning, my house, ten o’clock. But she never showed. Usually if something came up she’d let me know, but this time I got nothing. I tried calling, just kept getting the answer phone. Anyway, I knew she was in London and that Charlie boy was away, so I went round there. But there was no answer when I knocked on the door and the curtains were closed, so I left. Wasn’t till the next morning I found out she’d been murdered, or whatever.’

‘And then you decided to contact the papers rather than the police,’ Hawkins said.

De Angelo shrugged.

Hawkins couldn’t escape the thought that it wasn’t just artists whose true value was often only realized posthumously: Jessica was dead; soon to be followed by her husband’s career, and all this arsehole cared about was
money. But as she drew breath to ask another question there was a knock at the door. It opened, and Connor’s head appeared.

‘Sorry to interrupt, ma’am. Could I have a minute?’

Hawkins paused the session, then she and Mike stepped out into the corridor to join him.

The interview suite at Colindale Police Station was unusually quiet even for a Wednesday afternoon in Christmas week, but Connor kept his voice low nonetheless.

‘Hope this doesn’t mess things up in there’ – he held out an A4 sheet – ‘but your man has an alibi.’

The faxed image was grainy black and white, but Hawkins realized straight away that it wasn’t the topless young woman on the sun lounger she was supposed to be looking at; it was the guy rubbing lotion on her.

Mike beat her to it. ‘That’s De Angelo.’

‘Points for you.’ Connor prodded him. ‘Ian sent this over just now. The photo never made it to print, but apparently she’s the next Jordan or something. It was taken on Bondi Beach in Australia last week – he checked with the photographer. Last Sunday, as it turns out.’

Hawkins studied the bottom corner of the image, and just made out the date signature. The day Tess Underwood was killed.

Mike said, ‘So, unless De Angelo is Superman, he can’t get back to the UK in time to be our perp.’ He turned to Hawkins. ‘Looks like your boy isn’t the one.’

‘It’s OK.’ She handed the picture back. ‘He wasn’t a strong suspect, anyway. But we’ll need to see the original of this, and check the dates with passport control.’

‘I’m waiting for the Home Office to call me back.’
Connor began walking away. ‘And John’s on his way to collect the full set of photos on disc from Ian.’

‘Thanks, Eddie,’ Hawkins called as the DS reached the stairs. ‘Good work.’

She turned back to Mike with a wry smile. ‘But before we give our friend Marcus the great news, let’s see what else he knows.’

15.
 

De Angelo had his eyes closed when Hawkins and Maguire re-entered the interview room.

Mike managed to make him jump by slamming the door. ‘Up and at ’em, Marcus.’

‘Let’s continue.’ Hawkins sat down.

De Angelo stretched. ‘Get me a coffee and I’ll think about it.’

‘In a minute.’ She held down the red button on the recording equipment until the light reappeared. ‘Interview resumed at nine forty-eight. Present are Detectives Hawkins and Maguire, and Mr De Angelo. So, Marcus, if you didn’t kill Jessica Anderton, who did?’

‘How should I know?’ He yawned. ‘Isn’t it your job to find out?’

‘We will,’ Mike said, ‘but this doesn’t need to be tough if we’re smart here.’

‘Yeah? How’s that?’

‘Look at it like this. You tell us who you think killed Jessica, then we go do some investigating. We bag the guy, he gets convicted and you’re home free.’

‘What if I don’t fancy telling you shit?’

‘That’s your prerogative, sure enough. But the faster we eliminate you from our enquiries, the sooner you get outta here.’

Hawkins saw a flicker of anxiety cross De Angelo’s
expression. Mike had obviously seen it, too, as he glanced at her before he continued, his voice suddenly softer: ‘What’s up, Marcus. Don’t you wanna go home?’

De Angelo’s expression reverted to its original, cocky state, but there had definitely been something there.

‘And what made you panic earlier,’ she joined in, ‘sufficiently that you would punch a police officer?’

‘I told you.’ De Angelo was struggling to maintain his composure. ‘I’d happily go home. Would’ve been there yesterday except I didn’t want to get banged up. No point sitting around where you lot could find me. Plan was to lay low until you lot caught the guy who did it, yeah? No harm done.’

‘Well, no harm done except to one of our officers.’ Hawkins let her expression become more serious. ‘You know this won’t be a short custodial sentence. Assaulting a police officer can land you in jail for up to a year.’

‘You can’t put me away for that long! Not for lamping some little prick!’

‘Maybe not,’ she continued, ‘but I promise you, Marcus, charges for resisting arrest, attempted assault on a second officer, and withholding evidence without a good reason won’t help your case. And pretty boys like you are always popular in the prison showers.’

De Angelo sat up a little straighter. ‘What do you mean “without a good reason”?’

‘Well,’ she said evenly. ‘Suppose you thought you were putting yourself in physical danger by telling us the truth? That’s why you didn’t come forward, and why you ran. In that case, the charge of withholding evidence might be … overlooked.’

De Angelo’s gaze drifted into the distance, before he closed his eyes and his head dropped.

‘Come on, Marcus.’ Mike’s tone was practically that of an older brother now. ‘We know you didn’t kill Jessica, but let’s get this done so we can all grab some lunch.’

When De Angelo’s muted reply came, his head stayed down, but the
EastEnders
accent had softened.

‘Anderton knew all right? About me and Jess. I don’t know how, but he knew.’

No wonder Charles Anderton had looked sick during their brief meeting on Tuesday. He had known news of his wife’s affair would surface eventually.

And even though it provided him with a convincing motive for Jessica’s murder, he hadn’t said a word in his defence.

Suddenly, his important business trip seemed unlikely.

‘Go on,’ Hawkins coaxed.

‘She turned up at mine the other day,’ De Angelo continued, ‘white as a fucking sheet. When she calmed down enough to talk, she said Charlie had told her he knew. Said he didn’t care about us, but if the story ever got out we’d be sorry.’

‘Those were his exact words?’

‘Yeah, well, something like that. No threats exactly.’ He looked up at them. ‘But she said there was this look in his eyes, you know?’

‘So why did you go to the papers?’

De Angelo shook his head. ‘I’d already tried to sell the story once before, but they weren’t offering decent money. After she died it was different, though. They called
me
, talking big numbers this time. I thought Anderton would
be too caught up in it to worry about me. Anyway, I was booked on a flight to Italy this afternoon.’

‘So you thought you’d make a quick ten thousand and disappear?’

‘Yeah, couldn’t see anything wrong with that. I stayed at a mate’s house while we did the interviews and stuff. Just went home to pack my gear, but when your geezer turned up and I realized he wasn’t a reporter, I thought Anderton had sent him to do me in. When he reached into his coat I freaked out.’

Half an hour later, Hawkins watched as De Angelo was escorted downstairs, where he would be cautioned and released. They had a video statement and a guarantee from him that he’d testify against Anderton should the need arise. In return, she’d promised to put in a good word when his assault trial came up.

She handed De Angelo’s passport to Mike. ‘Can you deal with that?’

‘No problem.’

‘And you can stop looking smug now.’

‘Hey, I can’t take all the credit – you catch on fast.’

‘We’re assuming De Angelo isn’t just a very convincing liar.’

‘No way.’ Mike was smiling now. ‘Ian was right about that guy. He’s a fuckwit.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘I’ve worked these kiss-and-tell deals before. That story was worth at least thirty thousand.’

16.
 

The figures lined the perimeter of the room, each silhouette barely visible in the darkness. Some named, others broken; motionless like granite sentinels. His toys.

Outside, lightning made silhouettes of the branches on the dead oak tree. Light flicked across the room; revealing the effigies. He scanned their features and recoiled.

Every face was his father’s.

A rumbling sound began. At first he thought it was thunder, but then he realized it was the collective voice of the pack. Then the mob started to jeer and chant, cajoling him to leave the sanctuary of his bed. To begin the intimidating journey towards the landing.

He covered his eyes, willing it to end, but their screams grew louder in response. Then, as suddenly as they had begun, the crowd became silent, allowing him to hear a fragile voice.

‘Aren’t you going downstairs?’

He lowered his hands and looked at the little girl standing beside the bed. A diminutive child, no older than he.

‘You always do,’ she said, ‘in the end.’

He stared at the door, weighing his options. Eventually, he slid one foot out from under the covers and hung it over the edge of the mattress. But, as he moved, the wooden pillars at each corner of his bed began to change and stretch. He just had time to withdraw his leg and curl into a ball as a cage grew around him, entwining above his head into a tangled mass of jagged, tapering stems.

He looked sideways across his knees, out through the latticework to where the girl remained just beyond.

‘Well?’ She cocked her head. ‘What are you waiting for?’

He sat for a moment, too afraid to move. Then his hands reached out and gripped the most delicate part of the structure. He pulled, but the slender limbs resisted, sharp edges digging into his skin. He stood, bending over in the confined space, and kicked out, twice, three times. But the structure held, while the toy sentries howled mock encouragement.

‘Oh, dear.’ The girl leaned closer. ‘Maybe you should use this?’

She posted a small hatchet through the gap.

He took it, seating the handle carefully in his palm, wrapping his other hand on top, the way his father showed him. So he wouldn’t get blisters. He searched the cell’s inner surface for signs of weakness. Then he lined up the weapon and drew it back.

He brought the hatchet down, flinching as it cracked into the blackened limb. The blade jerked and dug in, firing splinters as a cheer rose from the horde. In the same instant, his bedroom window erupted inwards, its shattered glass slung across the room by the huge gust of wind that swept in behind, knocking him off balance. But he gripped the wooden handle and hung on.

When the wind had died he steadied himself and pulled the hatchet free. The wood had fractured.

‘Harder!’ The crowd chanted.

He raised the weapon and took aim again. The toys roared as the blade closed on its target, but then everything switched into slow motion: the trees outside froze at perilous angles; the wind tearing at his skin became a gentle push; and the surface of the cell wall began to change.

He tried to stop, but the hatchet moved on.

The branches were reordering themselves, their craggy shapes blending into a familiar form, becoming recognizable as a woman’s face.

Her
face.

He cried out as the weapon made contact, and her perfect features exploded into tiny wooden fragments that hung before him in the heavy air. The girl’s laughter filled his ears for a split second before the rest of the world suddenly reverted to its normal pace.

The spectators shrieked anew, and the wind became a brick wall once more, driving the shards of her shattered face into his skin, where they stung like hot needles. He screamed.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, the pain was gone. The wind stopped and he blinked his eyes open. The wooden cage had disappeared and his toys no longer stood. The sky had cleared, and moonlight glowed gently through the undamaged window. Once more the room looked just how he remembered it.

‘Good.’ The girl pointed towards the landing. ‘Now you can go. Just try not to get scared,
OK
?’

He stared at her for a second before she nudged him. ‘Go on, silly. I won’t watch.’

She skipped out of the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

He waited till her footsteps had faded before he climbed out of bed, and stood looking at the door. There was nothing stopping him now. He took a tentative step.

Everything remained still, the silence in the room broken only by the swish of a gentle breeze stirring the fields of corn out on the farm. He looked outside. The sky was calm, and to the south he saw the bridge that marked the edge of his father’s land.

His bed socks skimmed the floorboards as he approached the
door, but a familiar knot grew in his stomach as he reached for the handle. Would things be any different this time?

There was only one way to find out.

He pulled, and the door swung open.

BOOK: The Advent Killer
12.71Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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