Her Moons Denouement (Fallen Angels Book 2) (8 page)

Chapter 11

‘Not here Chris, my boss is in the car!’  Tait pleaded, standing on the doorstep to her flat, her boyfriend brooding in the doorway, his dark expression directed towards the beaten up Volvo parked up at the other side of the road, towards Bentley who was staring at him intently, listening in on the over loud conversation.

‘You told me you were his boss now.  Is that another lie?  Another one of your convenient excuses?’ he shouted over her head, pushing her hands off his sweaty running top as she tried to direct him back into the hallway.

‘I told you I had been put in charge of the case.  I didn’t tell you I was his boss.  He is still a DI.  I know you are pissed I was out late again last night, but I explained that, you’ve seen the story on the news.’ she whispered, pleading.

‘Just excuses Annie, always excuses with you.  Just do one.’ he shouted, pushing her forcefully out of the door, causing her to stumble on the step and stagger into the sidewall between the houses.  ‘And if you can’t be home at a reasonable time, don’t bother fucking coming home at all.  Have Fancy Dan over there put you up, or put one up you, if he hasn’t already.’  And with that last vitriolic slur, he slammed the door shut.

‘Chris, don’t be an arse!’ she shouted at the unresponsive solid oak door, tears smudging her mascara, her eyes already puffed and panda.

She knelt down and picked up the contents of her bag from the path where he had thrown it earlier.  She gave the flat one last forlorn look, then, arms crossed protectively across her chest, she turned and walked toward Bentley’s car, opened the passenger door and slouched into the ripped and dirty leather seat, sighing in time with the rustle of the empty crisp packets she sat on.

‘I’m sorry about that Sir.’ she said apologetically, not looking at him, not able to, but searching out a tissue from her dishevelled bag.

‘It he usually that much of a twat?’ Bentley asked conversationally as he started the car and pulled out of Great Stuart Street with its precise and well kept rows of Georgian Houses and into the arc of Randolph Crescent, a semi circle of even more opulent buildings, some converted to flats, most offices and consulate buildings.

‘It’s not his fault.  I should have called him.’ she answered, flipping down the dirty sun visor, which fell off at the hinge and plopped into her lap.  She looked at Bentley wide eyed and surprised.  ‘I am so sorry about that!’ she continued, lifting the visor and clumsily trying to fix it.

‘Don’t worry about it, just use the mirror like that.  It’s a bit cracked and probably a bit dusty.  Part of the job, being out late.  Does he not understand that?’ Bentley asked as he turned right onto the A90 and headed off towards the Police Headquarters on Fettes Avenue.

Annie raised the visor to her face, trying to gauge from her reflection how much of the smearing around her eyes was her makeup running and how much was the dirt on the mirror.  She started to dab at the makeup anyway.

‘He’s just a bit jealous, that’s all.  It doesn’t help when I don’t let him know what I am doing.  He tries not to be jealous and we are working on it.’ she replied, most of the smudged makeup now rubbed away.

‘Really?  I think you need to grow a pair and tell him how it is.  Tell him to get over himself.  Can’t abide fucking pussies.’ Bentley replied, his features thoughtful, watching her straighten her face out of the corner of his eye.

She sat back abruptly in her seat, slightly taken aback at the candour in his comments and looked over to him.  He turned to look at her, his face still thoughtful.

‘Don’t let him bully you.  Whatever he does, you make sure you stand up to him.  You’re a fucking police ‘person’.’ he sneered with sarcasm. ‘Start fucking acting like one.’

Tait stared at him wide eyed for a second, head nodding as she took in his words and let her mind ruminate on them. 

‘Alright Bentley.  I’m not quite sure who the biggest twat is, you or my boyfriend, but if that’s the way you want to play.  What did you find out at the club last night?’ she asked curtly, thrusting the dirty hanky into her bag and dropping the visor into the foot well.

‘Better, much better.’ he said, flashing a wink as he continued, ‘Our Elvis seems to be a bit of a loner.  He’s got a regular list of ‘clients’ that he hooks up with but doesn’t hang out much with the ‘staff’ at the club.  I talked to half a dozen of the ‘staff’ and none of them could even tell me where he lived, let alone who his friends were.  No one had heard of an organisation called the ‘Fallen Angels’.’

‘Did you get a list of the ‘clients’?’  Tait asked innocently.

Bentley burst out laughing, a huge raucous guffaw that shocked Jackson into barking. ‘God girl, are you really that raw.  This is a fucking illegal S&M gaff we are talking about here, they don’t have frigging lists, they don’t even have bloody ‘clients’, just people who turn up there and fuck in a hundred depraved ways and somewhere, somehow, money changes hands.  You won’t get a single member of ‘staff’ to tell you who those people are.’

‘Even if we bring them in?’ she retorted.

He looked over to her with wide, flabbergasted eyes. ‘That’s the one fucking sure way to shut them up tight and lose any kind of trail there may be.  And I told Shankers that I thought you were smart.  What a dick I am.’ he finished, shaking his head as he pulled into the headquarters car park and killed the engine.

‘So there was a lead then?’ she pushed, sitting up and leaning into him slightly, ignoring the insult.

‘You’re learning.  I didn’t get a list, but I managed to get them to point out two ‘clients’ who were in there last night.  I talked to them.  They would mainly meet him at the club or occasionally at hotels, depending if they wanted to do anything even more debauched.  Stupidly I asked how debauched.  One of them was into sexual asphyxiation and our Elvis seemed to be a something of an aficionado on that particular perversion.’ 

Bentley climbed out of the car, pushing the rear passenger window down and throwing Jackson a dog biscuit out of his jacket pocket.  Tait climbed out as well and hurried to catch up with him as he slouched towards the station. 

‘So what does that mean?  That he was in on the killings with O’Driscoll?  Why would he expose him if that were the case?’ 

‘I don’t think so, that wouldn’t make sense.  None of his rhetoric suggests that he was involved.  Perhaps it’s how he found out about O’Driscoll though.  Something to consider.’

They walked into the station entrance and the Duty Sergeant shouted after them as soon as they came through the door.

‘Bentley, she’s after you.  Wants you up there straight away.  You too Tait.’

‘Oh fucking joy of joys, whoop de do.  Thanks Bob.’  Bentley answered sarcastically as he trounced off towards the stairs, Tait in tow.

‘Did you talk to anyone about Rebecca Angus?’ she asked, a step behind his broad frame, not able to walk alongside on the narrow stairwell.

‘Aye.  No one admits to seeing the psycho recently and no one can recall if she knew Elvis.  How did you get on at his flat?  How far away was it from her place?’

‘It was a couple of streets away.  Close enough to be there in a few minutes.  Much like you, not really a lot there.  The flat was sparsely furnished. A table with a single chair in the kitchen, a painting of some flowers on the wall above it.  Nothing in the living room and a single freshly made bed in the only bedroom.  To be honest, it didn’t even look lived in.  Forensics have been through it thoroughly and found next to nothing.  No prints apart from his, even on the front door, which is odd.  You’d expect at least the postie’s.  No mail or any other documents at all in the place. Not even any clothes.  Only thing they did find was a photograph on the kitchen table, a picture of O’Driscoll with another man.  The two of them dressed in some kind of uniform, smiling at the camera while clanking pints of Guinness.’

‘Feels like a fuck hole.  Somewhere he takes people to do the deed rather than somewhere he lives.  Where’s the photo?’

‘It’s with forensics.  They are scanning it into the system to see if we can get a hit on facial recognition.’

‘Or they could have just shown it to us old farts who might recognise who it is!  That’s two fucking days wasted and they won’t come back with anything, never bloody do.’

He stopped at Cruickshank’s office door and stepped to one side, letting Tait past.

‘Sir?’ she said as she stepped past him, perplexed.

‘First off, don’t call me Sir.  You’re the fucking officer in charge.  Second, you’re the fucking officer in charge, so you go in first!’ 

She stared at his worn, haggard expression, looking for a glint of his normal weary cynicism but only saw helpful impatience in its place.

‘Thanks Bentley, I appreciate that.  By the way,’ she said, reaching into her bag and taking out a photograph, ‘I have a copy here.  Do you recognise him, you old fart?’

Bentley took the photograph and studied it intently, shaking his head slightly as he examined the faces.  ‘No, don’t recognise him.  Hold up.’  He paused, bringing the photograph closer to his face, looking fastidiously at the lapel on the fatigues O’Driscoll wore. ‘Fuck, ‘Óglaigh na hÉireann’, that’s an IRA badge he’s wearing.  Jesus.  Head of the fucking Catholic Church in Scotland, Serial Killer and member of the bloody IRA.  Storming CV he’s got.’ He handed the photograph back to Annie.

‘Better tell Shankers then.’  Tait said, and knocked on the door.

‘Come.’ came the bellowing reply.  Tait opened the door and walked into Cruickshank’s office, Bentley lumbering in behind her. 

‘Tait, this is DI John Saul, a colleague from our Northumberland patch.  Bentley, the two of you have already met I gather.’ introduced Cruickshank, formally.

Saul stood up slowly from where he was sitting opposite Cruickshank and offered his hand to Tait as she approached him. 

‘DC Annie Tait.’ she started, smiling with sympathetic nervousness, taking in his tall, well groomed figure and noticing the small plaster in the palm of his hand as she shook it.  ‘So sorry to hear about your loss.’ She stepped slightly to the side and Bentley shook Saul’s hand firmly, visibly causing him to grimace.

‘See you’ve ditched the Tuxedo then?’ Bentley commented as the three of them sat down.

‘It was a rag by the end of that day, sweat and blood were the only things holding it together.  And dog piss.’  Saul answered with sardonic joviality.

‘Aye, heard you had a bad time of it.  For what it’s worth, sorry for your loss. Jackson tends to get pissed off when people make me angry, then pisses on them.  What can I say; better than having him bite you.  What brings you north of the Border?’ 

‘When I was nailed naked to a chair and just about to have my heart ripped out by your friend Gordon Ennis, a man saved me.  I don’t have a clue who that man was.  He could be called Rob Adams, could be Ben Hanlon, he could even be the twin brother I never knew I had.  What I do know is that he saved my life and his parting words to me were ‘Think on one thing, Even Fallen Angels Have Wings.’  The same words that Elvis Aarons used yesterday just before he committed suicide.  Now what I want to know is are they the same person, and if not, what’s the connection?’

‘He was no friend of mine, how the fuck was I to know he was ten bricks short of a hod!  Still had that nutter Angus pegged right.  You know what they say.  Takes a psycho to know a psycho.’

‘Bentley!’  Cruickshank admonished sternly.

‘Sorry Ma’am.’

‘I take it you still think Madame Evangeline was a figment of Rebecca’s imagination.’

‘Oh fu..flip, here we go again.  Okay, she might not have mutilated her son, but she sure as hell still shagged him, was there when he tripped and died, and there is no evidence whatsoever to corroborate the existence of Madame flippin Evangeline.  I’m telling you, the bird is all in her sick, twisted mind.’

‘Gentlemen, I don’t think that’s really helping us and I don’t think it’s what we should be focusing on at the moment.’ started Tait, her voice still full of nerves, but tinged with authority.  ‘The important thing is there are potentially two people divided by two weeks and a hundred miles that have used the same phrase.  Calls the theory that Elvis was a loner into question straight away.’

Cruickshank nodded approvingly ‘Quite right Tait.  You two stop the pissing contest and Saul, please tell us everything that you know.’

There was an urgent rapping on the office door and it was immediately pushed open, DI George McCalvey striding into the room, an open laptop in his hands.