Her Moons Denouement (Fallen Angels Book 2) (3 page)

I turn, standing with my back to the canvas and spin the barrel of the revolver, stop it mid spin, put it to my forehead, and for the fifteenth time, pull the trigger.

Chapter 3

The squeal of seagulls swirled around in the thermals the birds were riding. They glided in circles, occasionally swooping down towards the white plastic barrier that had been erected around the Crime Scene in front of St Giles Cathedral.  The noise was sharp and biting, cutting through the jovial buzz that had returned to the Festival activities taking place on the Royal Mile.  One particular Great Black-backed gull swooped low inside the barrier, its dark wings shimmering in descent as it skimmed the heads of four people, excited by the odour of blood, and defecated onto the drab, dirty raincoat of one of the four stooping over the outstretched wings of the dead body lying on the ground.

The guano splatted onto DI Bentley’s shoulder, spattering onto the side of his face on impact.  He stood up animatedly, raising a balled fist and shaking it furiously at the ascending bird as he shouted, ‘Fucking flying rat!’, while using the other arm to wipe the white deposits from his cheek, dislodging dog hair from the sleeve of his raincoat which gently floated down onto the body below.

‘Ne pas contaminer mon Crime Scene vas te faire encule sale!’ screamed Marcel Laurent, a svelte, tall angular faced man dressed in white Personal Protection Equipment.  The Forensic Examiner straightened up as he shouted the insult and faced up to DI Bentley, shoving him backward, away from the body.   

‘What the hell do you think you are doing?’  Bentley responded in surprise as he stumbled before gaining his footing and standing his ground.  He tried to push back against Laurent, but the Frenchman was strong and determined and held him in place.

‘I said, don’t contaminate my Crime Scene you filthy fuck!’  Laurent repeated, in English this time, his features taut with fury.

Bentley tried again to push his portly, broad frame against the palm of the hand in his chest but still couldn’t move it.  Anger flowed over his paunchy ruddy cheeks, coursed through his body, diverting the balled fist that he had shaken at the receding bird and angling it towards Laurent’s head. 

A hand shot out and stopped it just before it made contact with Laurent’s skull.  ‘Gentlemen, please, we have enough blood shed to investigate here today without the two of you adding to it.’ intervened Dr Le Fenwick, the Medical Examiner, as he positioned himself between the two men.  ‘There are a also a good number of Junior officers and investigators here today, not least the lovely DC Tait, and I don’t think you are showing them a particularly good example of how senior professionals are meant to behave.  Calm down, the pair of you, or I will report you both for gross misconduct.  Do I make myself clear.’ finished Le Fenwick, his bulbous blue eyes radiating disapproval as his bald head moved back and forth, glaring at them.

‘Il est une telle chatte ecossias inconsidérée!’ mumbled Laurent under his breath, still simmering.

‘And you are a stinking oily four legged amphibian.’  Bentley growled, gutturally. 

‘Great, you are an inconsiderate Scottish Twat, and you are a slimy French frog.  You don’t like each other.  I get it.  But we have a dead body behind us.  We have a potential Serial Killer to investigate, so could you please put your bigotry to one side and let’s get back to work please gentlemen.’ asked DC Tait, a tall, pallid young woman with blonde hair tied tightly in a ponytail.  Le Fenwick looked at her in admiration and winked. 

The two men grumbled an acknowledgement, begrudgingly nodding their heads.  All four of them turned back to the dead body that was lying on the ground dressed in Jester’s Motley, wings spread out from either side of its back.

‘Cause of death is due to a single gunshot fired directly at the left temple.  The bullet passed straight through the brain and exited via the right temple.  Death was instantaneous.’ informed Le Fenwick as he crouched down beside the right side of the head, next to the blood pooling from the exploded exit point.  The Jester’s eyes were wide open, glazed and empty, a rictus grin still singing from his lips. 

‘And the wings?’ asked Tait, standing back from the body. 

Laurent bent over the body and rolled it onto its right side, the left wing rising as he did.  Their gaze followed the arc of the wing, all the way to where it met the Jester’s back.  Through the torn Motley they saw a metal bracket with hinges, the end of the wings attached to the hinges.  The bracket was strapped around the Jester’s chest. Laurent reached inside the Motley near the bracket, seeing a cable heading off up towards the shoulder and traced it all the way down the left arm, to a metal band circling the Jester’s wrist. 

‘The wings were contained in a metal harness, strapped around his body, with control wires on each wrist to activate them.  So, not a real Angel then.’  Laurent finished, smirking towards Le Fenwick.

‘And you thought it was.’ sneered Bentley.  ‘Do you have any idea who he is?  Any ID? Anything?’ he added.

‘No, nothing to identify him yet.’  Laurent answered curtly.

‘What about the Archbishop, Dick.  How are his injuries?’ Bentley asked Le Fenwick as he turned and took in the rest of the area.  Other Forensic Investigators in white PPE were examining the cabinet and various Manila files and boxes were being taken out of the drawer at the bottom of it.  A number of police officers congregated at the side of the cabinet talking to PC Simpson.

Bentley walked towards them, Tait and Le Fenwick following.  ‘Nails hammered through his hands and feet, proper crucifixion, but nothing life threatening.  He has a few cuts and bruises from the stones that were thrown but otherwise is in reasonable shape.  He had been sedated and the effects of that are starting to wear off.  An ambulance has just taken him to hospital to have the wounds treated and he will be taken to the station after that.’  Le Fenwick answered.

‘Catholic bastard.’ grumbled Bentley under his breath as he approached PC Simpson.

‘Simpson, you okay?’ Bentley asked without concern, quickly adding, ‘Good, now tell me what happened?’ before Simpson had a chance to answer. 

‘Gents.’ Bentley added, addressing the other Police Officers, ‘Go and make sure the perimeter is secure.  I don’t want the press getting any more pictures than they already have.’ he finished, his tone admonishing.

The other officers left, each patting Simpson on the shoulder as they did, mouthing words of encouragement.  Bentley looked on in irritation.

‘So Simpson, what happened?’  Bentley reiterated.

‘He blew his brains out.  He blew his fucking brains out.  Right in front of me.’  Simpson said, looking up at Bentley with imploring eyes. 

‘Yes, he blew his brains out.  Get over it.  Who was he and why did he have the Archbishop?’

‘Jesus Bentley, show a bit of compassion, the man has just seen someone die.’ interrupted Le Fenwick, kneeling down alongside Simpson while wrapping a consoling arm around his shoulders.

‘Comes with the territory.  Simpson, you are still on shift and we need to know what happened here.’ Bentley continued, unabashed.

Simpson looked up into the stern uncompromising face of Bentley, then down towards Le Fenwick’s considerate countenance.  He spoke to Le Fenwick. 

‘He said they were the Fallen Angels.  He didn’t say who he was particularly.  He said that they would no longer sit in the shadows of your Gods and let their impotence prevail.  He said, even Fallen Angels Have Wings!  And then the wings came out and he fucking shot himself!’ Simpson said, his voice rising in intensity as he shook in the seat, eyes wide with shock and panic.     

‘And what the fuck does that mean!  What about the Archbishop? What did he say about that Catholic twat?’ demanded Bentley abruptly.  The harsh words seared through Simpson’s panic, bringing him back through his emotion, to fact.

‘He said that the Archbishop had killed seven women.  He sodomised and strangled them to death on the altar in the cathedral.  He said there were files in the cabinet containing the relevant evidence.’

‘He said a Roman Catholic Archbishop killed seven women on the altar of a Presbyterian church?’ Bentley reiterated, paraphrasing.

Tait looked up at Bentley in astonishment.  ‘I think he told you the Archbishop killed seven women and you have been given the evidence to prove it.  Is Catholic or Presbyterian really that important in the context of seven murders?’

‘Isn’t it?  It seems to be important to the Fallen Angels.  Important enough to crucify him.  Important enough for one of them to commit suicide in broad daylight in front of an audience of hundreds.  Important enough to make a religious statement.  ‘We will no longer sit in the shadows of your Gods.’  What the hell do you think that is if not religious?’ Bentley said with sarcasm, shaking his head as he looked at Tait in disdain.  Tait turned away sheepishly and knelt down to join Le Fenwick in consoling Simpson.

‘So what’s in the folders?’ Bentley added, marching away from them and over to the cabinet, scooping up one of the Manila folders in his stride.

‘Sir!’ shouted the mask covered face of one of the Forensic Examiners working the scene. ‘We haven’t processed that file yet.’

‘Bog Off.  You’ve got my DNA on file, and my fucking dog’s, so you can easily eliminate me, right?’  Bentley challenged with a forceful glare. The examiner cowered under the gaze and didn’t answer, simply went back to dusting the small box in front of him for prints.

‘Prick.’  Bentley mumbled as he looked at the front of the folder.  There was a white label in the top right corner of the cover, the name Josie Richards typed on it.  He opened the cover and started to flick through the contents.  The first few pages were typed notes.  He read a few paragraphs, shaking his head as he did.

‘It’s a confession.  A typed transcript of a confession detailing everything the bastard did to her.’  He flicked to the end of the notes.  ‘And he has signed it.  It looks like the bastard has signed it in blood.’

Le Fenwick came up alongside him and he scanned the notes as well, his face contorting into disbelief as he took in the graphic atrocity being described.  Three words stuck in his mind.  ‘Vade retro satana.’ he whispered.

‘I saw that too.’ said Bentley, turning the last page of the notes over to reveal a photograph.  A photograph of a naked woman laying prone on her front over an altar.  A naked woman with a clear plastic bag over her head and taped around her neck with blue masking tape.  A plastic bag through which her dead bulbous eyes stared beseechingly out of the picture.  Beside the altar, smiling, a triumphant expression on his sweat stained face, stood Archbishop Liam O’Driscoll.  He was dressed in a surplice, a loose fitting, broad sleeved white vestment which was adorned with a purple stole over the shoulders.  The surplice was rucked up at the front, his still erect penis stopping it from falling down.

Le Fenwick’s face lost all of its colour, his complexion becoming ashen as he gagged at the image. 

‘He is one sick son of a bitch.’ said Bentley, flicking over to another photograph of a small, intricately carved wooden box.  The same style of wooden box that was on the ground in front of the cabinet.  He reached down and picked up the nearest one.  He undid a small gold clasp on the front of the box and opened the lid. 

Inside was a scroll, a red wax seal with the words ‘Vade retro satana’ embossed into it.  The scroll was covered in very fine hand drawn calligraphy, the first word in bold, centred on the paper:  ‘Amdusias’.  A clear plastic bag trimmed with a blue masking tape poked out of the scroll.

Bentley looked up at Le Fenwick.

‘Vade retro satana.  Go back Satan.  The words used during an Exorcism.  Amdusias was a demon, body of a human, head of a unicorn with claws for hands and feet.  Said to control the cacophonous music of Hell.  This sick bastard has been carrying out some warped kind of Exorcism, sodomising and asphyxiating those girls to get at their demons.  Demons he thinks he has trapped inside those plastic bags.’

Chapter 4

The last time I walked down this street I discovered my lover, Jessica, was seriously implicated in the murder I was investigating.  I discovered a lot that day.  I lost a lot that day.  That day was only two weeks ago.  I am on Grey Street in Newcastle and I stop outside Iguanas, the café where I am meeting Allie and look over the busy road toward the buildings opposite.  It’s a sunny day: it shouldn’t be.  It should be dull and oppressive, the sky should be smeared with swathes of broiling grey storm clouds rumbling overhead, threatening thunder.  Every day should be like that.  Instead the sun glistens off the darkened windows of what were Jessica’s offices, catching reflections of people going about their business behind them.  Life carries on, even as you carry the desolation of everything that has gone. 

The clicking of high heels sinks into my mind, the odd click heavier than the even, Allie’s signature walk.  She has a raised arch on her left foot and really shouldn’t wear high heels, especially not six inch high heels, but you can’t tell her that.  Flat shoes just wouldn’t go with her image.  Today the image is classically styled and still very respectful.  A black shift dress with a black Bolero over the top, a deep red rose pinned to the lapel, matching the lipstick on her always heavily made up face.  She reaches out her arms as she approaches me.

‘John, darling!’ she says, in an aching voice.  If it wasn’t for the Botox, her face may have creased in the brow and around the cheeks in concern.  As it was, only her eyes and voice manage to convey that emotion as she hugs me tightly.  It was enough.

Enough for the remorse and guilt to overwhelm me, to escape from the rickety rooms I am trying hard to contain them in so I can at least function.  I feel her comforting, warm embrace, I smell the delicate sweet scent of woman and it just engulfs me in images of Sarah, images of Jessica.  Loving images that scream in my mind.

‘I’m sorry Allie, I truly am.’ is all I can say through quivering lips. 

She hugs me even tighter, gently rubbing my back for a moment before she releases the embrace, takes one step back and then slaps me hard across the face with venom, anger instantly flashing through her eyes.

‘You utter bastard.  How could you do that to her.  How could you hurt my baby girl like that?’

The sting of the slap reverberates around my head and I clench my toes and ball my fists, straining the injuries, the nail holes in those areas to pain, adding to the intensity of the slap.  I deserve it, all of it.  It helps to cut through the emotion, making enough of a gap to remind me of why I wanted to meet Allie.

‘I know I am. I am sorry.  Let’s grab a coffee and talk.’ 

There are tears in her eyes as she looks at me, still partly in anger, partly in sorrow.  She shakes her head.

‘I want to hate you John, I really do.  But I can’t.  You are the only thing I have left of Sarah and Jacob and I know you are suffering.  But don’t think I forgive you for what you’ve done.  Don’t you ever think that.’ she reproaches as she comes alongside, takes my arm and supports me as we walk into the café.

A waiter shows us to a table in the window and we sit down.  Allie becomes Allie, instantly flirting with the young lad, thrusting her ample fake chest out as she orders herself a skinny caramel macchiato and a double espresso for me.  That irreverent glint returns to her eye for a second and to be honest, I feel it dent the glacier that is my heart.  It’s the contradiction that is Allie.  Everything that you see of her is fake, everything she says, everything she feels is real and she can ground you and make
you
feel real in an instant.

‘I was expecting you to look like a drunken bum, if I’m honest.  I didn’t expect you to be suited, booted and clean shaven.’  Allie says, smiling as she reaches out and takes my hands, turning them palm up and staring at the clean bandages around them.  ‘Do they still hurt?’ 

‘Allie, if I had come here looking like a bum, you would have slapped me twice.  You should see the studio though, it looks like someone has emptied a rubbish truck into it.  The wounds are starting to heal, but they still hurt.’

‘Do you know how the investigation is going?  I hear on the news that they are no further forward in finding out who was responsible for the explosion and that they are still sifting through all the rubble for evidence?’

I could tell there was an unasked question in her words, so I place a comforting hand over hers and answer it.

‘They have what is left of their bodies but they can’t release them yet.  It’s going to be a while before we can lay them to rest.’

Her eyes whisper disappointment as she looks down towards my hands again, running her slender manicured fingers over my bandages.  ‘And they really don’t know who did it?’

‘I check in with the team every day but there is not much more to tell other than what you have heard on the news.  They are still exploring all leads but so far nothing has come up.  We know there is a man who has assumed multiple identities but all investigations as to his real identity have turned up blanks so far.  We still can’t find Rebecca Angus.  She seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth.  And Jessica, well, I just don’t know.  That’s something I want to ask you about.  Sarah had a Private Investigator follow Jessica and I.  Did she tell you who it was?’

The waiter arrives with our drinks and winks at Allie as he places them on the table.  She smiles lewdly at him, her eyes following his tight arse as he leaves. I guess my face must have reflected the weary indignation I felt, that she could so easily be distracted from something so serious, to something so base with one wink.

‘What!’ she responds in playful innocence, ‘I don’t control my libido, it controls me!  Know me, know that truth.  You should know that too.  After all, it was you shagging around with another woman that made Sarah hire a Private Investigator.’ she finishes, the playfulness disappearing, replaced by admonishment.

‘Point taken.  Did she say who it was?’ I reiterate.

‘It was a guy from Newcastle, has an office on Dacre Street.  He was called something Massah, something, something: Harry Massah.  He was called Harry Massah.  Why did you cheat on her John?’

Good old Allie.  Keeping it real.  For a second I thought about spinning her a line, something like I just didn’t love her any more, anything really to drop the subject so I could get out of here and go and talk to Harry Massah.  Go and talk to Harry Massah about Jessica.  See if I could figure out who the hell she was.  For a second I thought that.  Allie is a bit like me though, she’s got a bullshit sensor.  But more than that, as one of my oldest friends, she deserved the truth, no matter how hard that truth was for me to tell.

‘I could tell you it was about the sex: and the sex was good.  I am a bloke after all and it’s our dicks that do the thinking.  But it wasn’t.  She understood my grief.  I couldn’t talk to Sarah about that, I couldn’t burden her with my pain when she was carrying so much of her own.’

‘Your grief?’  Allie asks me softly as I pause, collecting my thoughts, opening doors in rickety rooms.

‘Allie, you know how hard it was for us to have Jacob.  Three lots of fertility treatment in this country, then all those trips to experts in Europe: to France, to Spain, to Italy.  Five years trying.  You know the elation, the relief we felt when she eventually fell pregnant and the utter joy that consumed us when he was born.’

‘I do.  I will always feel blessed that you asked me to be there and will always be privileged that I was his Godmother.’ she says as she cups both of my hands encouragingly.

‘You also know how devastated we were when we found out about his condition.  It broke me Allie.  Seeing Jacob, day in, day out, growing up and not moving, not speaking: feeling the emptiness emanating from his eyes, it broke me.  I felt like he was dead.  Every single day I was grieving and it broke me.  I found it harder and harder to be there with them and I know that was wrong, but I couldn’t cope with the grief, I couldn’t cope with the sheer guilt that Sarah bore. I know she felt it was her fault.’

I look directly at Allie as I speak, seeing anger flash into her eyes just as she squeezes my hands hard, pain searing through them.  ‘And Jessica, that fuckhole that you wallowed in, how did she understand your grief?  How was she in a better position than your wife to help you cope?’ 

Allie’s reaction perplexed me.  I expected a little frustration when I started to talk about Jessica.  After all, she was the woman who hurt her best friend, but there was something more in the rising anger.  I continue.

‘She had lost a child as well.  She had an abortion.  We talked about our grief, about our loss.  I could talk to her about Jacob, how I felt about Jacob, the grief I felt.  We talked about the stigma, the alienation of abortion, of having a child with Jacob’s condition.  I could talk to her and she understood, because she felt it too.’

Allie releases my hands and as she swipes her arms up in the air, she knocks her skinny caramel macchiato and the liquid spills over the table.  She glares at me furiously, ignoring the drink dripping off the table edge onto her pristine dress.

‘First off, your son wasn’t dead.  ‘B’, she had an abortion, the baby didn’t die and thirdly, did you ever stop to give a second thought to why Sarah felt so guilty about Jacob’s condition.  Did you ever stop and wonder why it was so hard for you to conceive.  Did you ever stop and think about talking to her.  No I bet you fucking didn’t!  Typical bloody bloke.  Much easier to find a tramp and fuck your misery away!’

Allie prods her finger into the table as she fumes at me, spatter of macchiato spraying up with every indignant poke.  I was dumbfounded, the vitriol seemed way out of proportion to what I was telling her.

‘Did you ever talk to Sarah, I mean, ever really talk!  Did you ever talk to her about your childhood?’

Other rickety rooms started to burgeon in my mind, doors rattling in their frames.  Why was she asking that?  What did she know?

‘No you didn’t.  She told me you didn’t.  You just clammed up.  Just like you did when she tried to talk to you about Jacob.  And she was just as bad because she didn’t talk to you either.  Perhaps if you had talked to each other, shared your sordid little secrets, you would have realised she was the one woman in the world who would have absolutely understood your grief.’

Sordid little secrets, what sordid little secrets did Sarah have?  What did she know about my secrets?  What was she talking about?

‘The reason you couldn’t conceive naturally, the reason that Sarah felt so absolutely guilt ridden about Jacob’s condition is because when Sarah was thirteen, she had an abortion.  She was forced to have an abortion when she was twenty seven weeks pregnant.  Do you know what that meant!  It meant she had to go through a full delivery.  She held her dead baby girl in her arms before they took it away from her.  She felt that was the cause of Jacob’s condition.  And do you know what happened two days after she had the abortion?  The man she loved, the man whose baby it was, the man who had been locked up as a paedophile, hung himself in jail.  So if you wanted to talk to someone who understood grief, who understood loss, who understood the pain of stigma and alienation: you should have talked to your wife.’