Her Moons Denouement (Fallen Angels Book 2) (6 page)

Chapter 8

Something has changed.  I’m not sure what, or when, but I know it has changed.

The first thing I ever remember about my life is as vivid to me today as it was, quite literally, on the day I was born.  When I say vivid, what I really mean is blurry.  But the memory of those first blurred images, white wimples floating like whispered wraiths above my new born head, their near silent susurrations more pronounced in my mind than the incessant shrill of the other new born babies around me, are still so vivid.  It’s not that I remember everything instantly.  It’s just that I don’t seem to forget anything.  At the time I didn’t know what a wimple was.  I didn’t know that the Nuns were speaking Italian.  I had no idea that I was in an incubator.  For all I knew, the myriad of tubes sticking out of me were appendages the same as the tiny, five fingered hands which fascinated me for hours.  But I can take myself back there, back to that memory and relive every moment of it. 

Some people might call it a gift.  I often wondered if Jacob inherited it.

I am lying on the floor of his bedroom, looking up to the nightlight shining off his twirling mobile as it slowly turns above his cot to the theme tune of Pinocchio.  In his short life, I did this most nights I was home, putting my hand up through the bars of the cot and either feeling his pulse, or resting it on his chest and feeling his heart beat.  It was the only way I knew he was alive.  I would lie and talk to him about what I had seen that day.  Cars, trees, animals, people.  Not what I had done, but what I had seen.  I would read to him from Pinocchio and then when I had finished I would just lie there and wonder how much he understood.  I would try and see the world through his eyes, from his perspective.

I look straight up, not wavering my eyes at all.  Jacob couldn’t, so I don’t.  I don’t know that he could hear, I have to assume he couldn’t, so I mentally block out the sound of the mobile.  Just see the characters gently bobbing up and down as it turns.  But then I know his pupils never dilated, so I have to wonder if he could differentiate darkness and light.  If he couldn’t, did that mean that even though his eyes were open, it was only the darkness he saw?  Only the darkness he felt?  Only the emptiness he lived in. 

And that’s where my mind would end up.  Every time I thought about my beautiful baby boy.  To the emptiness of forever.  The one, the only consolation I ever had was his heartbeat.  In that emptiness, in that despair that always overwhelmed me, I always had the hope of his heartbeat. 

His cot is empty now.  Cold.  But that isn’t what has changed.  Something is different about the room from last night, from every night I remember.  What is it?      

How I remember, with such vivid clarity, is to take my mind back to the moment, to find a chink in the memory and to start opening it up, an iota at a time.  So last night, the mobile was turning.  I had my fingers through the fourth bar in the cot, gently clasping Jacob’s cold sheet.  My other hand was circling a half empty bottle of vodka.  The mobile was turning and the shadows were dancing.  Bouncing off the glow of the nightlight, flickering from the ambient light coming in through the slightly open blinds, angled in such a way as to make the shadows dance in the chaos of the elements. 

They aren’t doing that tonight.  It is just the steady mechanical turning of the shadows. 

I stand up quickly and shuffle over to the window.  The blinds have been moved.  They have been angled downwards.  I didn’t move them.  How have they moved? Why have they moved?

I bend down and look out of the blinds, up along the angle of their decline.  Dusk is settling in as I scan the tops of trees visible through the slits, my eyes coming to rest on one particular tree, with the dark, hollow holes of glassless windows staring back at me.

Jacob’s tree house.  It might sound strange that I had built a tree house for him.  After all, he couldn’t really climb and play like other boys.  But we spent quite a bit of time up there, with me pointing him in a direction and explaining what it was he could see.  More therapy for me I think, to at least cushion the reality of the sparseness of his life with some normality. 

Now who the hell has been using that as a vantage point to look into Jacob’s bedroom?  More to the point, how did they get into the house to do it, and why?

I stare into the darkened windows for a moment, waiting to see if there is any movement, if anyone is still there, watching.  All is still.  I turn from the window and walk eagerly across the room and straight over the landing into my studio, grabbing a remote control from the pile of pictures of the other me, my doppelganger, I had been poring over earlier.

I had stuck a couple on the case wall, next to the blurred image of the Limousine driver who had taken Rebecca and Michael to Featherstone Hall on the night he died.  The Limousine Driver who looked like me.  Next to those was a photograph of Rob Adams and two post-it notes, one with the words ‘Unknown Caller’, one with the name ‘Dr Ben Hanlon’.  The only thing that makes any logical sense in the uncertainty of this case is that the other me, my double, my doppelganger was the same person as all of the other personalities.

Which means, if he was, then he knew Jess intimately.  Which means that the two of them could have been colluding for years to setup the events which happened at Featherstone Hall. 

Why?  I don’t have even a crumb of an idea. 

How? Even less of an inkling. 

I know she was with me all evening the night Michael died.  That is fact.  That is indisputable.  That is what is driving me mad.  That’s why I had gone to lie in Jacob’s room, to distract my mind, to think of something else, to think of my beautiful baby boy.  That’s when I noticed something had changed.  Now who the hell moved the blind?

Well, I should be able to find out exactly who has been in Jacob’s room.  It’s the one place inside the house where we installed CCTV.  Sarah insisted.  Her story was that she wanted to keep a record of the number of times he had fits.  It wasn’t.  I would come home from a late shift and find her in my studio, studying the recordings from the day, looking for a stutter, a flick, a twitch.  Looking for any kind of voluntary movement at all from our immobile little angel.  Her anguished, empty smile as she greeted me always told me her search had been equally as empty.

There is a bank of four screens to the right of my case wall.  On one of them is a frozen, slightly juddering image of the door to the hotel room where Jess and I stayed in Edinburgh.  I have been playing it over and over again, willing the door to open, knowing it never will. 

One of them is showing BBC One.  It’s coming up to ten o’clock, time to turn it up and listen to the news, see what they are saying publicly today about the case. 

I turn the volume up and then flick another button on the remote to turn on another monitor which shows a live feed from Jacob’s room.  I know the blinds were turned up last night, so they had to have been moved between eleven o’clock last night and me getting home tonight at seven.  I press rewind on the remote.

‘Even Fallen Angels Have wings.’  What the hell did he mean by that?  Is he suggesting she flew out of the bloody hotel room?  That’s just ludicrous.  But how else could she get out if not through the main door.  Through the window?  It is three floors up onto a main thoroughfare in the centre of Edinburgh, someone would have seen her.  I see images of Edinburgh start to appear on the News Headlines on the TV as the sound bites seep through my thoughts.

‘Mayhem at the Fringe Festival in Edinburgh today as a lone gunmen commits suicide while exposing a senior Roman Catholic leader as a possible serial killer.’

The Fringe is on the Royal Mile, just around the corner from the hotel Jess and I stayed in.  A blurry camera phone image of a screaming, running crowd is on the screen, a large cabinet with a person on a crucifix visible through the darting people. 

Could Jess have climbed out of our bedroom window and walked along the ledge to the next room?  Did anyone come out of the next room?  Have I got CCTV footage of that?  I start to rewind the image of the hotel room too, looking down the corridor.  I can just see a couple of inches of the bottom of the door to the next room along. 

The video of Jacob’s room is rewinding, no movement visible in the room back to lunchtime.

‘Our Edinburgh correspondent, Ewan Daniels is at the scene.’

‘Thanks Hew.  As you can see from the amateur video, at approximately 10:30 this morning outside the Cathedral behind me, a lone gunman, dressed as a Court Jester…’

Court Jester.  Why would a gunman dress up as a Court Jester?  Ah, Fringe Festival, no one would think that was anything odd.

Stop!  11:28. What’s that in Jacob’s room?  I stop the video and slowly fast forward it.  About ten minutes after I left the house this morning.  There.  That’s a woman.  I put it in normal playback.  A woman wearing a black coat.  A slim woman with auburn hair, wearing a black coat and red high heels.  The same woman I saw this afternoon!  She walks with her back to the camera over to the cot, gently spinning the mobile and then picks up a small teddy from the myriad of toys.  It’s Ian, a cheap tatty little bear that we bought on a trip to Ikea.  She puts it up to her face and I see her shoulders hunch.  Is she smelling it?  Taking in the scent?  She puts the toy into her pocket as she starts to walk around the cot towards the window.

‘The Roman Catholic Church has so far declined to comment on the allegations that Archbishop Liam O’Driscoll was involved in the murders of seven…’

Seven women, sodomised and asphyxiated.  Jesus.  If that’s true, it’s not surprising they are refusing to comment, 

Turn around, for fucks sake, turn around so I can see who you are.

Stop!  12:25 am.  That’s a foot isn’t it, stepping out of the door one down from our hotel room?

‘As for the lone gunman, the police have not released any information as to his identity.  Nor have they commented on the potential links with any Religious factions…’

Religious factions?  Some extremist activity?  Generally extremists kill other people when they commit suicide.

Shit.  That’s not just a foot, that’s a foot in what looks like a black boot.  A high-heeled boot.  A high-heeled boot like the one Madame Evangeline was wearing that evening.

‘While there are many references to ‘Fallen Angels’ in religious texts, there are no known fundamentalist factions with that name operating today and no known references at all to the phrase emblazoned on the cabinet: Even Fallen Angels Have Wings.  Back to you in the studio Hew.’

What!  ‘Even Fallen Angels Have Wings’.  In Edinburgh?  Was that the ‘Unknown Caller’?  Has he killed himself?  What’s that got to do with Jess?  What’s that got to do with Madame Evangeline?

Fuck.  My eyes have been darting between the screens, my brain the same, but it is now completely focused on the grainy image on the CCTV from Jacob’s room.  The woman turns around after she alters the blinds.  Her head is initially bowed, but as she walks towards the door, she lifts it, smiling directly into the camera.  The bottom drops out of my stomach:  It’s Jess.

Chapter 9

A brilliant white, almost full moon hung in a cloudless dusky evening sky, its reflection gently shimmering off the slowly lapping waves of the Forth Estuary.  The waves rebounded softly off the shoreline of a small peninsula, on top of which lived one of the large granite bases supporting the span of the Forth Railway Bridge.

A rusty old Volvo, once grey, but now almost the same colour as the bridge above it, slowly crunched up a gravel road underneath the bridge, towards a solitary property sitting on the peninsula.  Brakes squealed louder than the chorus of gulls circling the nearby harbour as Bentley parked the car up.  He pulled up into an overgrown, dishevelled garden, a once white picket fence marking its boundary now falling to bits, the posts rotten and mildewed green.  A dirty and worn Georgian fronted house stood at the centre of the garden, looking out over the Firth of Forth, the reflection in the dirt encrusted windows making the stunning evening vista look dull and lifeless.

Bentley moaned and groaned as he forced himself up out of the car and walked around the back to open the boot.

‘Come on Jackson, better have yourself a shite before you go in.  You know how crotchety Dessie can get.’  Bentley said affectionately to the old black Labrador who achingly stood up and jumped down from the boot, then padded dejectedly off into the overgrown grass.  Bentley closed the boot and leaned up against it, looking out over the bay, the evening moon shining through the metal trusses of the bridge, casting dancing shadows onto the rippling waves of the estuary.  Jackson trotted back towards him, tail now wagging, a gnarled bone protruding from his mouth.

‘It’s coming up to a full moon son, that doesn’t bode well.’  Bentley said as he crouched down, sighing, still looking out over the bay as he stroked Jackson’s head.  ‘You know you can’t take that in.’ he continued as he took the bone out of the dog’s mouth and threw it back into the overgrowth.  ‘Come on, let’s go and face the music.’

Bentley groaned again as he pushed his large frame up and walked to the front door, opening it and ushering Jackson in as he arrived. 

‘Fenny, Fenny, Fenny!’ came the excited, almost ecstatic screech from a short, slightly rotund woman skipping down the hallway towards the front door.  She wore a blue smock, a tea towel dangling from a bulging pocket in its front, over a floor length black dress.  The black dress billowed as she ran, exposing her bare feet.  She reached Bentley and thrust her podgy arms straight around his neck and pulled him tightly into her ample chest. 

‘You are Late!  Did you get them, did you get them!’ she admonished and questioned in one breath with a mixture of frustration and anticipation.

Bentley hugged her back with the same intensity, a look of concerned resignation on his features as he answered.  ‘Sorry Dessie, should have let you know but had a case to work on.  Something I need to talk to you and Father about.  But yes, I’ve got them.’

‘Brilliant, that’s just so brilliant.  Supper is ready, I’ve kept it warm for us.  It’s just normal beef stew, still waiting on the next delivery of the posh stuff.  Take that grubby coat off though or Father won’t be pleased.’  Bentley’s sister instructed, breaking their embrace and helping her brother off with his coat.               

‘Jackson, in your bed son.’  Bentley instructed, the Labrador doing as instructed and slinking into a small, well kept kennel by the back door.      

Unlike the outside of the house, the inside was pristinely clean.  The décor in the hallway was pure 1970’s, with slightly faded orange starburst wallpaper on the walls and brown swirled linoleum on the floor of the hallway.  There was a G-Plan lacquered teak side board on the right wall and Bentley threw his car keys into a moulded Lucite bowl which sat on top of it. 

They entered the kitchen, Bentley’s expression still troubled and his sister still effusive as she darted in front of him.

‘Father, he has the papers!’ she exclaimed as she danced around the dining booth on one side of the high gloss aubergine kitchen and sat down next to her father, shaking in excitement.

‘Calm down Desiderata.  Your brother needs to explain why he is so late for supper and couldn’t bring himself to telephone and let us know.’ said Pastor Edward Bentley.  He wore a black shirt, the brilliant white clerical collar the only brightness in his dark garb and even darker expression.

Bentley eased his ebullient stomach into the narrow cushioned bench on the dining booth and addressed his father apologetically.

‘Sorry father.  I have no excuse.  I apologise for my tardiness and will endeavour to be a better person.  Dessie, thank you for keeping supper warm for us, I am sorry.’

‘They are just words Fenny.  Words I have heard too many times before.  It is not good enough, do you hear me.  Your sister has spent hours preparing our supper.’  Pastor Edward said with a raised voice full of simmering anger. ‘We have been waiting over two hours for you to come home.  Now, say grace, so we can eat and then you better have a really good explanation or it will be the cupboard for you tonight.’

Bentley sat in diffidence, his gaze turned down to the steaming stew pot on the table top in front of him, not able to hold the ferocity of his father’s glare.  He reached his hands out over the table, clenching those of his father and sister who were doing the same and said grace with an obvious tremor of trepidation in his tone.

‘O Lord, we thank you for the gifts of your bounty which we enjoy at this table. As you have provided for us in the past, so may you sustain us throughout our lives. While we enjoy your gifts, may we never forget the needy and those in want.’  

Bentley looked back up, his eyes moving between the scolding expression of his father and the eager excitement of his sister.  He let go their hands, but father and sister maintained hand holding with each other.

‘Children.’ said Pastor Bentley.  ‘Please, eat.  Fenny.  Tell us why you are late.’

‘Yes, you said you needed to talk to us!’ exclaimed Desiderata as, still clasping her father with one hand, she started to ladle the stew out into bowls with the other.

‘I don’t know if you have seen the news today, about Archbishop O’Driscoll being exposed as a killer by a man who then committed suicide on the Royal Mile.’ asked Bentley, tucking into his stew with gusto, despite the anxiousness in his demeanour.

‘I heard, yes.  Shocking, if it is true.’ answered Pastor Edward.

‘I saw it too.  Did he really have wings!  Do you think he was an Angel?’  interjected Desiderata eagerly, with wide eyed innocence.

‘No Dessie, they were mechanical wings and as far as we can tell he was a lone loon.  We can’t find reference to any organisation, group or faction known as the Fallen Angels.  That’s not the thing we need to worry about.’

‘Do we need to worry about something?’ queried Pastor Bentley.

‘Yes we do father.  There is no doubt that O’Driscoll killed six of the seven women that he was alleged to have murdered.  He can’t have murdered the seventh.  We know the seventh: Heather Scott.  And somehow, the evidence we have from the Crime Scene today indirectly links me to her.’

‘Heather was a long time ago.  How could that happen Fenny?  We are so careful.’ queried Pastor Bentley.  Desiderata dropped her spoon into her bowl with a clang and clung onto her father’s hand tighter, looking at him anxiously.

‘At the minute, I don’t know.  It could be a total coincidence.  It is possible that some fucker…’ he started in frustration.

‘Fenny!’ shouted Pastor Bentley.  ‘I will not have that kind of language under my roof!’

‘Sorry father.  It’s possible that the evidence has been mixed up.  It’s possible that someone is out to get me.  Do you remember Rebecca Angus, the mental case who slaughtered her son a few years back?  She went missing from the nuthouse a few weeks ago and may just hold a grudge against me.  She could be involved in this.  Either way, the case into Heather Scott’s death will be reopened and I will probably be under scrutiny.  That’s why I think we should put our plans for Coleen on hold.’

‘No!’ screamed Desiderata, aghast.  ‘We can’t.  Everything is arranged.  Everyone is lined up.  We just needed the passport and you have that now.  We can’t father.  Please say we don’t have to stop.’ she finished, clawing Pastor Bentley’s arm with her hand imploringly.

‘Now, now Dessie.  Keep calm.  There’s no need to halt our plans.  Your sister is right Fenny.  Everything is lined up.  It is too late to pause things. And if you are going to be under scrutiny, it would be better to do it now so she is out of the way. You will just have to be extra vigilant.  That is my final word.’ Pastor Bentley stated firmly.

Bentley dropped his spoon into a now empty bowl and sighed heavily as he took a passport from his inside jacket pocket and placed in onto the table.

Desiderata, all anxiety gone, replaced once again by excitement, grabbed the passport and flicked to the picture and the personal information.  ‘Carly Dawson.  Coleen is now Carly.  That should be easy for her to remember.  She is ready for you Fenny.’ said Dessie as she jumped up out of her seat and leapt over to one of the high gloss aubergine drawers.  She pulled it open and grabbed a white carrier bag from inside and dropped it with a heavy thud onto the table in front of Bentley.  ‘It’s all in there.’ she finished, her eyes wide with anticipation.

‘It’s getting late now, time for Dessie and I to retire.  You know what you need to do Fenny.  And once you have, you need to tidy up the kitchen and it will be the cupboard for you tonight.  Do I make myself clear?’ Pastor Bentley stated as he stood up and shuffled his portly frame out of the dining booth. 

‘I understand father.’ Bentley answered contritely as he watched Dessie and his father walk past him, hand in hand, into the hallway and up the stairs.

He sighed heavily and whispered ‘Fucking bastard’ quietly under his breath as he slowly stood up and grabbed the plastic bag from the table.  He walked to the back door, at the rear of the kitchen, and opened it, stepping into a garage which was attached to the side of the house.

The garage was full of junk.  Old rusting car parts festooned the floor.  A menagerie of abandoned tools skulked on every available surface in between open topped paint tins with brushes left inside to harden. 

He stepped instinctively through the junk on the floor to the back wall of the garage, to a clear area of floor in front of the bare tongue and groove slats.  He grabbed the top edge of one of the slats and firmly pulled it, revealing a disguised door made from a dozen or so of the slats.

He reached inside the wall to the left and flicked a switch, illuminating a recess about a metre deep with a step ladder heading down into the ground.  Bentley climbed onto the top rung and started to descend, the contents of the plastic bag tolling off the ladder as he did, cursing under his breath at every step.

At the bottom of the ladder, he pushed a door to his right, which opened into a dimly lit room no more than three metres wide, by the same length, the roof just above the height of his head.  The walls and roof were solid granite, worn oak boards on the floor.  Bentley ducked as he entered, and looked over to the single bed that stretched across the far end of the room.  The only other pieces of furniture in the room were a white paint flaked wooden chair that sat beside the bed, and a small wooden table next to it with gouges in the surface and a half full glass of water on the top.

The bed was made with crisp white cotton sheets and a patchwork eiderdown, slightly ruffled from the woman that was sitting, back to the wall and knees pulled up to her chest, on top of it.  The woman wore nothing on her feet, a pair of three quarter length jeans and a simple white vest top.  This exposed the bottom of her legs, her arms, shoulders and neck.  On every visible part of her skin were bruises, cuts and lesions interspersed with the odd cigarette burn.  Her face was equally bruised, her eyes bulging with swelling, the balls barely visible through blackened slits.

Bentley crossed the room and sat his large frame down in the seat next to her, compassion entering his grumbling countenance as he looked at her, smiling. 

She smiled back at him nervously, her fingers shaking and fidgeting agitatedly on hands sitting on top of her pulled up legs, which were also shaking. 

‘I guess it is time.’ she said in a croaky, hoarse voice.  

He fumbled around in the plastic bag that he had placed between his legs and pulled out a sealed syringe packet and a small phial of clear liquid.  His own hands were shaking as he ripped the seal of the syringe and stuck the needle into the phial, sucking up the contents.