Her Moons Denouement (Fallen Angels Book 2) (5 page)

Le Fenwick stood firm, raising two conciliatory hands in front of him.  ‘I get that Fenny, and believe me I wish it was that simple.  The problem is, we found the hair inside the sealed bag.’

Chapter 6

She had another baby.  What kind of relationship did we have where she felt she couldn’t talk to me about that?  Especially when that was where her guilt over Jacob came from.  The same kind of relationship where I couldn’t tell her about the demons living behind the rickety doors in my rickety rooms.  A crap relationship.  And I thought I knew her.  Shows how much I really knew.  Nothing.  God, to have gone through childbirth, to have held your dead baby in your arms.  I thought looking into Jacob’s vacant empty eyes was despair, but that, how the hell did she get past it.  I suppose she never did get past it.  What was it she said… 

Mumbled words and distant shrill noises begin to invade my swirling thoughts.

‘There are things that happened in my past, things I don’t ever think I will come to terms with.  They still haunt me now and cast a shadow over you and I.’  I see her tear stained face reciting those words, standing in my studio two weeks ago, giving me my freedom, giving me her blessing to go and love another woman, to be with Jessica.  I betrayed her in every conceivable way and she still loved me.  Loved me enough to want me to be happy with someone else.  To be happy with Jessica.  Jessica’s beautiful, sensuous face screams into my mind, dispersing the image of Sarah.

Her lips are moving and I can hear mumbled words.  I feel something shake my arms.  I hear a car horn, coming closer.  I strain to hear what she is saying and as I try to move closer to her face, in my mind, her image starts to fade as the words become clearer.

‘Are you OK?  Sir, are you OK?  We should really get out of the road.’

Jessica dissipates and my vision snaps back into focus, back into now and there is a very concerned woman standing in front of me, gently holding my arm.

‘Are you OK Sir?’ she asks again.  I look beyond her.  Jesus.  I am in the middle of the road, holding up a line of traffic.  There are horns blaring, irate faces sneering at me from behind fly smeared windscreens.  Crowds are gathering on either side of the street, a myriad of faces with a myriad of feelings: pity, concern, humour, anger, Jessica, empathy, derision, sympathy…

My head darts back. Jessica.  I saw Jessica. I raise a hand in apology and say ‘Sorry.’ over and over again to the drivers and the woman as I lurch away from her, my eyes frantically scanning the faces of the crowd to the left, looking for Jessica. 

I see expressions turn to worry, people stepping back from the kerb out of the way as I approach.  I can’t see her.  People start to leave, to go about their business.  I see the back of a redheaded woman walking away down a side street.  She is the same height as Jessica, the same build.  Jessica didn’t have red hair.  But Madame Evangeline did.    

As I try to run, excruciating pain shoots up through my legs from the wounds on my feet, meeting the agony from my damaged scrotum as it jiggles from side to side under the exertion. I slow into a crablike hop, trying to keep a pace, but trying to keep the pressure off my injuries.

‘Jess!’  I shout after the receding figure as I enter the side street, the crowd now fully dispersed.  She turns into an alley halfway down the street, not acknowledging my call.  My heart thumps furiously.  With the exertion, with the pain, but also with the overwhelming conviction that it was her, it was Jess and she is not dead!

I reach the entrance to the alley just in time to glimpse a slender leg in a red stiletto turn left at the end of the alley onto a main street.  Hobbling as fast as I can I reach the same place in about ten seconds, sweat pouring down my face with the effort.  I stumble into the main street and turn left immediately, frantically looking at the melee of people walking up and down the street. 

I can’t see her.  I shuffle on, head darting to the shop entrances, staring in, staring through their windows.  On to the next, still nothing.  Looking across the road, looking up the pavement, looking back into the shops.  Nothing.  I reach a crossroads at the top of the road and pirouette around, looking everywhere for the redhead, the red stilettos.  She is nowhere to be seen amongst the constantly moving throng who are giving me a wide berth.

Was she really there?  Or is my mind just playing tricks.  Every time I think of Sarah, every time I think of Jacob, Jess’s image just sears into my mind, opening a chasm in the fissures of grief and spawning a maelstrom of uncontrollable guilt.  I should hate her.  I should detest her for what happened, if it was her that instigated it.  But I can’t.  What kind of a bastard does that make me?

I look around again, one last forlorn sweep of the static faces, and then slowly trudge off towards Dacre Street, scanning the ground for red stilettoed feet. 

There is a very small, but finely filigreed bronze nameplate on the solid oak door, proclaiming ‘H. Massah.  Private Detective.’, as I arrive in front of it.  Not something I would expect.  Private Detectives tend to be very practical and generally not keen on spending too much on aesthetics.  I buzz the intercom and a male voice answers.

‘Harry Massah, Private Detective, how can I help?’

‘Afternoon Mr Massah.  It’s DI John Saul here.  I understand you worked on an assignment for my wife, Sarah Saul a little while back.  I would like to talk to you about that if it’s convenient?’

Pause.  A long pause. 

‘I was wondering when you would turn up.  Come on in, straight down the corridor and second door on the left.’  The door clicks open into a tongue and groove panelled hallway painted a rustic lichen, with a deep walnut stain on the oak flooring.  Definitely not your normal Dick.  A bit more upmarket.  There are some original watercolours decorating the walls as I approach the door on the left, which is slightly ajar.  Some modern, with some beautiful sunset vistas over the Tyne, and some more traditional. 

Massah stands as I enter the office and approaches with an eager outstretched hand and an understated compassion evident in his soft, slightly paunchy features.  He is tall, probably about six two, broadly built with a shock of floppy brown hair, overlong and ruffled.  Mid forties.  He is wearing a tailored green Harris Tweed jacket, a pink Ralph Lauren shirt and beige chinos bottomed off with scuffed brown brogues on his feet.  Definitely an upper class Dick.

‘Detective Inspector Saul.  Please accept my condolences, I am so sorry for your loss.’ he relays and he shakes my hand, cupping his second hand over the top of the shake.  There is nothing but genuine warmth and compassion in his eyes.  Why?  He doesn’t know me from Adam.  But he knows I cheated on my wife.  It shocks me and I look away from his gaze, mumbling a muted thanks.

‘Please, take a seat.  Can I get you anything to drink?  Tea, coffee, water or something stronger?  A whisky perhaps? I have a very exclusive 64’ Black Bowmore?’

My mind screamed single malt.  My body needs it.  It is aching from the earlier exertion.  But I need to stay focused.  ‘Water will be fine, but thanks for the offer.  So you were expecting me?’ 

‘At some point, yes.  I have been following the news.  I see many unknowns in the reporting of the case.  I know a Detective of your reputation won’t let them stay unknown indefinitely.’

I scan the room while gingerly sitting as he makes drinks at a small cabinet off to the left.  It has a very intimate homely charm, more like a snug or study than an office.  His desk is a behemoth walnut affair topped with pictures of kids and horses and pets, with an organised chaos of papers and files off to one side.  There’s a pair of Hunter wellies, a brolly and a Barbour jacket in a hat stand next to the drinks cabinet.  The walls, painted in country cream, are also covered in pictures of happy children.  Three kids, probably fifteen, thirteen and ten.  Ten year old on a horse with a friend.  A familiar friend.  Strange’s daughter.  Is that how Sarah found out about Harry, from Strange?  No pictures of a mum?  Divorced, separated?  He’s wearing a wedding ring.  Widowed?  Is that why so much empathy? On the wall opposite the door into the room, a large, what looks like an original Munch painting, ‘Golgotha’.

‘I need to talk to you about Jessica Seymour.  I know that Sarah had you follow the two of us and I know that you took a great deal of pictures of our ‘liaisons’, shall we say.’  What the fuck does that mean, ‘Liaisons’.  We were screwing around and he knows it.

He hands me a glass of iced water as he sits down on the opposite side of the desk and I can see his features are perplexed and ruminating on the best way to answer the question.

‘I often get irate partners banging at the door, threatening to thump me for following them, wanting someone to blame for exposing their philandering.  Part of the territory.  I don’t judge, I just help.  I don’t think I’ve ever had someone I’ve been following come and ask me about their lover though.’

‘Believe me, if I could ask her, I would.’

I saw his face drop and a visage of guilty ineptitude flood over it and spill into his words.  ‘Sorry, that was insensitive of me.  How can I help?’

‘Apart from when she was with me, what other things did you see Jessica doing?  Did she meet up with anyone else regularly?  What places did she tend to visit?  Did you notice if she travelled much?’

He pulled a fairly thick manila folder from the pile of documents to his right and started rifling through notes and pictures.  I noticed a few images in full that Sarah had ripped to smithereens.  Of Jessica and I kissing.  Guilt roared at me, but it was always shouted down by the aching emptiness of loss.

‘She spent a lot of time with you, that’s one thing I will say.  Just about every day for the two weeks I was commissioned.  Other people:  she met a few ladies for coffee occasionally.’ He pulled out some pictures of Jess, looking elegant and beautiful, laughing, coming out of a café with another woman I didn’t recognise.  Two weeks?  Was I really with Jess nearly every day for two weeks?  ‘I saw her going out in the company limousine on a few occasions, twice she was dropped off at the train station and caught the Flying Scotsman up to Edinburgh, once meeting you at the station.’

I was never with her for two weeks solid, work and home life didn’t let that happen.  Did he say Edinburgh?  With me?

‘Did you say Edinburgh?  With me?’

‘Yes.  Here’s a picture of the two of you getting on the train.’

Impossible.  I have never been on a train with Jess.  That’s me though.  What date, what time?  That can’t be me.  I wasn’t even in Newcastle on that date. 

‘Is everything alright, you look a tad overcome?’ 

‘Can I see the other photographs of the two of us please?’

He passes them over and I start flicking through them, scanning the dates and times in the bottom corner.  First one, yes, I remember that, we had snuck off for lunch in Corbridge.  Pile on the left.  Next.  Yes, we were planning our weekend away in Manchester.  Pile on the left.  Next.  No, no way.  I was at the station then.  In a briefing on a case.  Pile on the right.  Next, right.  Next, right.  Next, left.  Next, right.  Next, next, next, next, next.  Jesus.  Twenty ‘assignations’.  Ten on the left, ten on the right.

‘Detective Inspector, are you alright?’

I stand up in agitation, pushing my chair back, leaning over the table as I position the two piles of pictures into rows in front of me, scanning the faces back forth from left to right.

‘These pictures on the right Mr Massah, are you sure the dates and times are correct.  Are you absolutely sure?’

‘Absolutely.  Why?’

The features are the same, the hair is the same, the build is the same and his whole demeanour is the same.

‘Why.  Because in these ten pictures, at those times and dates I wasn’t with Jessica, I can prove without question that I was elsewhere.  Which means that if your camera was set correct, somewhere out there I have a double, a doppelganger.’ 

Chapter 7

‘What the fuck are you playing at you slimy twat!’  Bentley roared, a pulsing clenched fist swinging up from his side as he stormed into the Lab, approaching Laurent at a pace that belied his heavy set frame and suggested a deftness of foot akin to a boxer.  It coursed up through the air, past the point at which Bentley expected impact, surprise entering his furious features.  Laurent had quickly stepped to the side of the onrushing Bentley, out of the arc of the uppercut.  He stuck a leg out and Bentley tripped, his forward motion causing him to flounder into the Lab bench, his splaying arms knocking over phials, tubes and samples.

‘Ignorant bastard.’ seethed Laurent as he raised an elbow and steadied himself, ready to ram it into Bentley’s back as he squirmed trying to gain his footing.

‘Marcel, stop’ shouted Le Fenwick as he ran into the lab, closely followed by DC Tait.  Le Fenwick thrust his arms around Laurent and pulled the falling elbow away from Bentley’s back, steering the Frenchman towards the side of the room. 

‘It was that fat imbecile who started it!’ cried Laurent in defiance as he tried to struggle ineffectually from Le Fenwick’s grasp. 

‘I know it was, but be the bigger man and don’t let petulance overwhelm you.  If you do, then you are no better than him.’

‘Just hold him there Dick, and I’ll show him exactly who the fucking bigger man is.’ rumbled Bentley as he started to rise from the floor. 

‘Can’t let you do that Sir.’ Tait said as she snapped a handcuff over Bentley’s left hand, which he was using as leverage on the desk to help him stand.  She quickly grabbed his right arm, which he tried to swing at her, and dragged it behind his back using the motion of the swing.  She clapped the other cuff over the wrist quickly, pressing her free hand into the small of Bentley’s back, forcing him onto the floor.

‘You don’t want to make an enemy out of me Tait, so I’d let me up right fucking now if you know what’s good for you girl!’  Bentley spat the word ‘girl’ as he writhed on the floor, trying to get any kind of footing, any kind of traction, but Tait’s slight, sinewed body held him tight to the ground.

‘Then I’ll have to be your enemy Sir, because I can’t bear to see you make a bigger fool of yourself than you already have.’

‘What the hell is going on here?’ squealed a high pitched, agitated woman’s voice from the corridor, the sentence continuing and the tirade getting louder as the owner of the voice entered the room.

‘There’s so much bloody commotion going on, I’ve had the Super bending my ear, asking if we’ve got a prisoner on the loose.  Then the guys tell me it’s one of my Senior Detective’s being an arsehole and I don’t have to think two seconds about who the hell that could be, do I Bentley!’

DCI Gaynor Cruickshank came to an abrupt halt as she entered the room, throwing an admonishing glare over the vista in front of her as she banged a black patent leather pump, with a grosgrain bow on the front, hard down onto the floor, literally stamping her authority onto the room.  She wore a knee length black skirt covering pronounced bandy legs, a crisp white blouse and a half length black jacket over her diminutive frame.  Her beady features were as sharp as her scathing tongue and they were accentuated by her jet black hair that was pulled fiercely back from her forehead and tied in a bun.

She shook her head disconsolately, folding her arms in resigned anticipation across her flat chest.  ‘Well Bentley, do you want to tell me who has breathed too loudly in your direction today?’

‘This French fuck is trying to fabricate evidence just because he is pissed that I contaminated his crime scene.’  Bentley rumbled from the floor, his squirming diminishing under the admonishment.

‘Really Bentley?  You really think that is the level of professionalism in your colleagues?  That they would try and involve you in a crime just because they were pissed with you?  Mr Laurent, do you have anything to say on the matter?’

‘Ma’am, you can watch the video of the whole procedure.  Dr Le Fenwick was there too.  The bag was opened in a sealed laboratory.  There was nothing on the outside of the bag.  There was nothing on the inside apart from a single hair, not even sputum from the alleged victim.’

‘Dr Le Fenwick?’ DCI Cruickshank asked, her demeanour already knowing that he would corroborate Laurent’s account of events.

‘The hair was inside the bag Ma’am.  There is no doubt about that.  But Marcel is right, this bag was different from the other six.  There was no DNA at all inside relating to the alleged victim.’

‘Alright.  Thank you gentleman.  Dr Le Fenwick, I think it’s safe to let Mr Laurent loose now.  Mr Laurent, I appreciate the restraint you have shown under the threat of attack.’ started Cruickshank, firmly glaring at the petulant Frenchman as she continued, ‘While I can fully understand that you may wish to pursue some kind of retribution towards Bentley, just think on stones, and glass houses, and how understanding management have been in other volatile encounters that you may not have been so innocent in.  None of this does our reputation any good and it stops here.  Do I make myself clear?’

Laurent looked ready to burst in frustration for a second, but then Le Fenwick tightened a grip on his arm and whispered something quietly into his ear.  ‘I understand Ma’am.’ he finished meekly.

‘Good.  Now Tait, help that blithering excuse for a man up and follow me to my office.  Keep him cuffed.  Bentley, you give her any grief and I will suspend you on the spot.  And I don’t want any of your colourful backchat, understand.’

‘Yes Ma’am.’ he grumbled as DC Tait relaxed the pressure on his back and helped him to his feet.

Cruickshank executed a clinical about face, then marched off purposefully down the corridor, inquisitive heads quickly disappearing back into offices along the way.  ‘Nothing to see here.  If you’ve got time to gawp, you mustn’t have enough work.  If that’s the case, come to my office and I’m sure I can find some menial duty to keep you busy.’ she bellowed as doors clattered closed in her wake. Bentley lumbered behind her, his complexion sweaty and ruddy, his face a visage of viciousness.  Tait brought up the rear, her eyes intent on Bentley, scrutinising his every movement. 

Cruickshank opened the door to her office and ordered Bentley to sit.  ‘Take his cuffs of Tait and sit down.’ she instructed while she sat down in her straight backed wooden seated chair with military efficiency, pulling in the chair and brushing down the length of her skirt in one pristine movement.  There was a file open on the desk in front of her and she took a moment to read it, leaving the room in silence before speaking.

Bentley mumbled profanities under his breath as Tait uncuffed him, pushing her hands away and throwing her a dismissive nasty glare as he rubbed his wrists and shuffled agitatedly in his seat. 

‘Right Bentley, I want you to understand that you have no choice in this and if you argue, I will suspend you.  I want you to understand that if I had a choice, you would already be suspended.  You are off the O’Driscoll investigation.’

‘You are fu….’ Bentley started before Cruickshank shot him down.

‘No choice Bentley and if you swear at me once more you won’t just be suspended, I’ll throw your lard arse in a cell, charge you with assault and get internal affairs on to you.  So shut the fuck up and listen.’ she finished forcefully, her tone full and authoritative.

‘You are off the O’Driscoll investigation not only because we may have found one of your dog’s hairs in amongst the evidence, but because of the victim, Heather Scott.  Does the name ring any bells with you?’  Cruickshank asked, watching Bentley’s reaction closely.

A rush of ruddy rouge ascended Bentley’s complexion, married to a myriad of facial movement that made his eyes bulge and his lips tighten.  For a moment he looked ready to explode into some kind of verbal tirade, but then the rouge descended and his face started to relax.

‘Heather Scott.  Went missing in 1990.  One of my first cases as a DC.  I was trying to remember why I recognised the name when I saw it on the folder.  We never found her body but her husband was arrested and prosecuted for her murder.  We found her blood and part of an ear in their house.  Bastard would beat her to a pulp, night after night when he was pissed.’

‘Glad you remember.  Hopefully you can understand why I need to take you off that part of the case.  It’s not just the dog hair Bentley.  This victim is different to the other six.  Someone has already been jailed for murdering her.  A case where you secured that prosecution.  You would compromise the investigation straight away.’

Bentley sat in measured silence for a moment as Cruickshank finished, taking in and contemplating the implications of the information.  When he spoke, his demeanour was calm and reflective, all the anger and animosity evaporated from his person. 

‘I understand Ma’am.  I apologise for my behaviour.  I have no excuse other than how incensed evil bastards like O’Driscoll make me.  That does not give me the right to take it out on my colleagues.’

Cruickshank shook her head as she took in his genuine words and his humbled demeanour.  ‘As I said Bentley, if I had a choice, you would be suspended despite your contriteness.  But as I don’t have the luxury of spare DI’s lounging around, have seven murders, a serial killer, a suicide and a potential religious cult to investigate, and that’s just today’s workload on top of everything else we already have, for the moment you have a reprieve.  Just for the moment.  But let me make this clear.  DC Tait will be working with you and she is in charge.  She will be leading this part of the investigation and you will be supporting her.’

Bentley’s face fell, humble replaced by humiliation.  Conversely Tait’s countenance wore surprise as an alien emotion.  ‘Ma’am, I don’t think I am ready to take the lead.’

‘Nonsense.  You’ve just completed your Sergeant’s exams.  Barring paperwork, you will be a DS officially in a few weeks.  You are the kind of progressive detective this force needs.  Use Bentley for his information and his contacts.  They will be invaluable to you.  As for anything else he offers, just ignore it.  There is absolutely nothing he can teach you about what a good Detective should be.  Isn’t that right Bentley.’

Bentley’s large frame visibly sagged in the chair.  His head started to gently shake dejectedly.  ‘Aye girl, you listen to old Shankers the wanker there.  She knows what she’s talking about.  You’re a good lass and you know your stuff.’ he said softly, placing a hand over Tait’s on the arm of the chair and patting it gently.

‘I might be a wanker, but I get things done.  Good, now I want the two of you to investigate our friend who committed suicide.  We’ve just had a DNA match back and initial details about him have come through.  Here’s copies of the info.’  Cruickshank said, passing files over to Bentley and Tait.

‘Name is Elvis Aarons.  Mum must have been a fan, poor kid.  Oh, he’s an orphan.  Even worse, poor kid.  Twenty five.  Got a few minor convictions for petty theft and, oh, here we go, solicitation.  Looks like he’s also been a rent boy for one or two of our illustrious politicians, allegedly.  Got a flat on the Crombie Estate.  Works at an illegal sex club down in Leith.  No known religious denomination.’

‘We should probably start at his flat, check that out and see if we can find anything about friends or acquaintances who might know anything about the ‘Fallen Angels’, whatever they are.’ answered Tait eagerly, looking between Cruickshank and Bentley.  Cruickshank nodded in encouragement but Bentley was still looking through the file, deep in thought.

‘Sounds like the right course of action, doesn’t it Bentley!’ prompted Cruickshank, raising her tone.

Bentley looked up, distracted.  ‘Yes.  Sorry, yes, that’s the right thing to do.  We need to go to his flat, on the
Crombie Estate
.’ he emphasised the words ‘Crombie Estate’, seemingly replaying them over in his mind.

‘Would you like to share your thoughts with us Bentley?  What really works well as a Detective is sharing hunches, or suppositions with your colleagues.’  Cruickshank reproached.

‘Sorry Ma’am, it’s totally unrelated, the names of places just stirred a few thoughts.  Remember the case a few weeks ago down in Northumberland, where we handed over our files on the Michael Angus murder?’

‘Yes, absolutely tragic.  Still no further forward in finding out who did it.  Still no closer to finding Rebecca Angus either.’  Cruickshank answered.

‘That’s just it, the thing niggling in my mind.  Rebecca Angus.  She lived on the Crombie Estate as well.  And if it were just that you would say, so what.  But she was also a part of the BDSM sex scene in Leith, and her favourite club was the same one our Elvis worked at:  Sodom and Gomorrah.’