Angels Bleed (Fallen Angels Book 1) (8 page)

6:34 am

There was heavy, laboured panting in the almost consuming darkness. Moans and groans could be heard.  A single piercing narrow beam moved quickly from left to right as the source of the panting and of the beam seemed to be dragging themselves tortuously, their body gyrating and contorting in time with the groans.

‘Shit.’ exclaimed Corporal Garry, the person holding the pen torch, as it settled on the eye of a webcam which was taped to the underside of a floor beam.  He was underneath the floorboards of the drawing room in Featherstone Hall. He was on his back in the foot high void, snaking his body to move him further into the claustrophobic space. So far he had seen three webcams, six pressure sensors and a dozen motion detectors around the floor space where the crate was positioned in the room above. 

‘It doesn’t look like we are going to get into this bloody thing from underneath.’ he relayed into his mike, ‘I’m coming out now.’ he finished as he started to shuffle backwards, towards a hole in the floor which he then climbed out of and emerged into the main corridor of the house.

In the corridor, two of his colleagues had a small scanner on wheels facing the door of the drawing room.  ‘How’s the scanning going?’ he asked.

‘No joy with X-Ray, the bitch is lead lined.  IR is showing motion sensors all around it.  Nothing coming up on UV.  RF, fuck RF is going wild.  There’s a ton of transmissions coming from that thing.  All seem to be from a spot in the top right corner.  I can’t see any hardwiring into it at all.  Oh yeah, and I can confirm there’s enough Semtex on the outside of that thing to blow this house to kingdom friggin’ come.’  

‘Shit.’ Garry said, again.  ‘I better go and give the Suits the good news.  Thanks guys.’ he finished as he walked off down the corridor to the main entrance.  He was a short, slim yet muscle bound soldier, his army fatigues filthy from crawling under the floor, his ginger hair full of dirt and cobwebs, which glistened in the arc lights as he came out of the Hall. He jogged across the drive to the MIU and bounded up the stairs into the meeting, which was in full flow.

All available seats were filled in front of the white boards and half a dozen technicians and technical forensic staff were sitting at the computer screens on the back wall.  All of the plasma Video Conferencing screens were on, showing the Path Lab, the Mortuary, a meeting room at HQ and the Chief Superintendent.

DCI Strange now had his jacket off, rainbow suspenders holding up his trousers and sleeve garters gathering his shirt arms up around the elbow.  Those arms were leaning on the table, listening intently as DI Munro finished relaying back findings from his initial investigations.

‘Okay then, we have ten missing persons to chase up.  In the next two hours we need to have talked with every one of their families in detail to rule them in or out.  Mick, have you got enough support to get that done?’

‘We’ve got Henshaw, Simons and Gilbert on the case from HQ. I’ll shout if we need any more resource.’ Munro answered.

‘Great.  Now Leigh, where are we with finding out who this guy is?’ asked Strange. 

‘So, none of the surrounding neighbours have seen any activity at the Hall for over two years, when it was boarded up.  Jimmy Greeson, from the adjoining farm, told us it used to be owned by a ‘Lord Featherstone’ up until he died.  It had been in the Featherstone Family since 1800 or so, but the current Lord was the last in the family line.  A bit of a recluse by all accounts.  It was sold to developers on his death.  They had grand plans to turn it into a luxury hotel.  No one locally met these developers.  Initial searches on the online Land Registry Service state an offshore holding company called ‘Axiom’ acquired the property in 2011.  There is no one in the Land Registry Offices or Companies House yet to get any further information.  Registered address for ‘Axiom’ is a PO Box in the Cayman Islands.’ 

Strange jotted down pertinent points on the board and then asked, ‘Have you tried any escalation routes with those organisations?’

‘Already on it, voicemails left with everyone we know and the organisations out of hours numbers but no answer back yet.  Worst case scenario is the offices open at eight, but I would hope to get traction before then.  DC Anderson is searching the net at the moment to see if we can find out anything else about Axiom.’  filled in Saxon, efficiently, motioning to DC Anderson, a middle aged, stern faced woman, sitting at one of the computers.

‘A waiting game there then. Phyllis,’ Strange said, addressing DC Anderson, ‘can you own that now and let us know what you find?’ he asked, to which she nodded acknowledgement. ‘Great. So Leigh, what about the calls and the phone lines?‘

‘Well, the phone line is also registered to ‘Axiom’.  No individual’s names.  Bills are paid via direct debit from an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.  No further info at the moment.  Mr Reynolds has been looking at the calls.  Do you have any news?’ she asked a very young looking, scrawny individual sitting at a bank of three monitors beside DC Anderson. 

He turned his evidently twitching head to the watching audience, his pallid features flushing red as he addressed them. ‘I c…can c…confirm,’ he began, stuttering slightly, ‘That the voice on the 999 c…call and the voice on the later c…call are the same person.’ he said, pointing to one of the monitors on which overlapping voice waves were in synch.  ‘There are no other records of c…calls to or from the phone in the past two years.  I am starting to c…check background noise to see if that can give us any c…clues on where he c…called from.  Both c…calls were made from the same mobile phone.  It’s a pay as you go, so we have no way of telling who owns it.  We are waiting on info back from the provider on the location of the c…cell the c…calls were made from.  I will have that in the next half hour.’ he paused, taking a deep breath.

‘Good.’ Strange said, in the gap. ‘Well done, feedback that info as soon as you get it.  Have you managed to check the feeds into or out of the room?’  

‘Not yet, I was waiting on the Bomb Squad c…checking it out first.’ Reynolds finished, relief evident in his tone.

‘Gaz,’ Strange started, addressing Corporal Garry, ‘what can you tell us about the crate and are we clear to start checking the room further?’

‘There’s two boxes, the wooden crate you can see, then inside that, a lead lined box.  Between them is a layer of Semtex.  At this point we don’t know how it is armed or what the trigger mechanism is, but it looks to be inside the lead lined box.  My guess at the moment would be the trigger is wireless given the amount of RF activity that’s coming from the thing.  I would suggest the AV is also being fed wirelessly as we can’t see any cables going into or coming out of the box.  We’ve checked under the floor to see if we can get into the crate from underneath without being seen.  No Go.  There’s webcams and motion sensors down there.  It’s alright for you to start doing non-intrusive wireless scans but don’t do anything invasive unless you talk to us first.  As soon as we have finished our checks, I’ll get one of the guys to sit with Mr Reynolds to see what activity is going on.’ briefed Garry.

Just as he finished, the conference phone on the desk beeped, announcing that ‘DI Saul’ had joined the call.

‘John, good of you to join us.’ started Strange. ‘Thanks Gaz, I know I don’t need to tell you this, but the quicker we can work out where those feeds are going to…’ he left the sentence dangling.

‘I know.’  Said Garry, holding up a hand. ‘And as soon as we are sure the whole thing won’t blow us all to hell, I will gladly let you in there.’

‘Thanks.’ Strange nodded appreciatively, then spoke into the conference line. ‘John, how did things go with Rebecca, did you have a chance to talk to her?  Do we have any leads?’

‘I think what we have Sir, are more questions than leads.  Rebecca has potentially been kidnapped.  Either that or has been broken out.’ he started, relaying the pertinent parts of the conversation with Dr Ennis.  ‘I’ve e-mailed over CCTV footage of the Dr Hanlon that took Rebecca.  It was taken by the Institutes system when she was transferred into his care.  It is very clear.  We also have footage of the van that moved her and also of a guard who assisted.  My gut is telling me that this is the same guy who set this thing up.  Who else would have anything to gain from kidnapping her?’

‘Possibly, but do we have any facts at this point to back that up.  Didn’t Dr Ennis say he had an Irish accent?  Our guy doesn’t.  Have you run a PNC check on the van?  What about facial recognition on the Dr and the guard?’ asked Strange.

‘Looks like the van had false plates.  PNC has them registered to a 1999 Ford Fiesta, uniform are on their way to the keeper now just to make sure.  No facial recognition yet, I’ve only just got the images.’

‘We will pick that up John.  What about the Dr Hanlon at Broadmoor.  Are we sure he isn’t involved in this in some way?’

‘We can’t rule him out yet and I have the guys at HQ checking out phone and e-mail records that Dr Ennis claim were to him.  We do have a picture of him.  He looks nothing like the Dr Hanlon we have on CCTV.  At the time Rebecca was being moved he was on holiday in Cyprus with his family.  HQ are co-ordinating a local Detective to interview him and to corroborate his story.’

Strange leaned against the table again, rocking gently back and forward, a pensive look on his face for a second before he spoke again.  ‘Do you have any evidence at this point to suggest that Dr Ennis is involved with this?’

There was a pause before Saul answered.  ‘No, no evidence.  He has been open in providing the court documents, the CCTV information and the e-mail and phone records of his dealings with the Dr Hanlon he knew.  He seemed genuinely shocked when he found out about the real Dr Hanlon.  I watched him closely.  While my gut tells me he is a bastard, at this point, there is nothing to suggest he is involved.’

‘OK, thanks John.’ Strange said, still mulling this new turn of events over in his mind.  He turned back to the board and wrote the name ‘Dr Hanlon’ to the side of ‘Unknown Caller’, with an arrow pointing to it and a question mark above.  He then drew a line down to a box with the name ‘Rebecca Angus’ in it and looked intently at that name.  ‘Did Dr Ennis say if Rebecca had mentioned anyone else being involved in her son’s murder?’ he asked, still facing the board, his features still ruminating on the information in front of him.

‘He did.  Rebecca talked about someone called Madame Evangeline.  However, Ennis believes that this ‘person’ is a multiple personality inside Rebecca herself.  Apparently there was no evidence at all to suggest that she was real.  We need the detailed case files to confirm this.’ answered Saul.

‘We do need those files.  John, a DI Bentley is on his way down from Edinburgh with the files at the minute.  PC Buglass is rendezvousing with him to get them.  It might be worth you going instead to pick his brains about the case, as we don’t have Rebecca.  Can you do that?  He’s only free for about an hour?’  Strange asked, slightly distracted, still looking at the board, moving the marker between various bits of information, his mind still digesting everything in front of him.

‘Yes, no problem.  I’ll give Buglass a call.’ answered Saul.

Strange put the marker pen below Rebecca’s name and slowly started to draw a line down, towards a box with the words ‘Person in the crate’ inside of it.  ‘The one thing we do have to consider, if our caller and the fake Dr Hanlon are indeed one in the same, and if she has been kidnapped rather than broken out.’ Strange said, putting a question mark above the line he had just drawn before turning back to the room. ‘Is that the person in the crate could be Rebecca Angus.’

7:07 am

Rebecca’s head turned towards the high pitched squeaking that came from down the corridor beyond the open door to the cell.  It grew louder and louder until a rusting old trolley, its wheels barely moving freely, came into view, quickly followed by Dr Hanlon pushing it into the cell.

‘Do you know what it’s like,’ he said, puffing slightly as he rolled the trolley up to the side of Rebecca, ‘to find anything decent to transport things on when the kitchen is shut.  Bloody Impossible!’ he finished, flopping into his seat.

‘Now, what I have here is breakfast: Full English.  You have a choice.  I can either feed you, or loosen your arms so you can feed yourself.’ he finished, looking questioningly at Rebecca.

She sniffed in the amazing aromas of the sausages, bacon, eggs and mushrooms, closing her eyes and savouring the smells.  ‘Do you know how long it is since I have smelt anything as delicious as that, let alone eaten anything that hasn’t been liquidised or through a tube.’

She opened her eyes and looked back at Dr Hanlon, a slight smile on her lips.  ‘Do you think you can trust
me
yet?  I think that when you pop off and leave me, you are going back to your little room, with its little monitors, and you are checking to see if I injure myself when I am alone.’ she offered, the smile still there, her eyes wide and challenging.

Dr Hanlon’s eyebrows raised, and he nodded gently.  ‘There’s no pulling the wool over your eyes, is there.’  They sat staring at one another for a few seconds, neither one wavering, before Dr Hanlon continued. ‘I think I can trust you.  There’s only one way to find out.’ he said, standing up and loosening the straps on her arms and wrists. 

Rebecca stretched them out as he did, rubbing her hands together, letting the fingers play over the lesions on her wrists, pressurising them as she looked at Dr Hanlon.  ‘I am curious.’ she said, running fingers up and down her arms, revelling in the movement that she now had, returning to her wrists again and again, and digging what finger nails she had into the open wounds.

‘Curious about what?’ Dr Hanlon asked. 

‘About why you are helping me? About who you are?  About where we are?’ she said, looking down towards the old trolley, then around the stained and ripped padding on the cell walls around her.  ‘This place is old, nothing like the facilities I’ve come across either as a patient, or when I was a professional working in healthcare.  Where are the orderlies?  Where are the guards?  That door has been open for the past half an hour and I haven’t seen or heard a single person walking up and down the corridor. Look at the floor out there, the parquet is lifting, the tiles are broken’ she said, her gaze returning to look at him quizzically after sweeping the room.  ‘Can I have that breakfast now?  I’m starving.’

‘That’s a lot of questions.  A lot of curiosity.’ he reflected, lifting a plate from the trolley and putting it onto her lap.  He picked up a knife and fork -a metal knife and fork- and paused, looking at her intently, before handing them over.

She took them, holding the fork up to her eye line.  She then brought it forward, pushing the end of the prongs into her soft, scarred lips, continually looking at Dr Hanlon as she did, deliberately defiant.  She moved the prongs onto her cheek, digging them in, the cold metal leaving four red imprints in the hollow where she applied the pressure. 

‘I think,’ she began, the fork snaking up her face towards her eyeball.

‘At the moment,’ she continued, the prongs now less than a millimetre away from her contracting iris, her hand as steady as the gaze which hadn’t blinked at all while staring at Dr Hanlon.

‘The urge to eat this breakfast is probably just beating the urge to kill myself.’  With that, she dropped the fork to the plate and with the knife, cut off a piece of bacon and devoured it with obvious relish, saliva dribbling from the corner of her mouth as she continued to speak while chewing.

‘So, who are you?’ she asked mid chomp.

He sat down in his chair and crossed his legs, enjoying the vigour with which she devoured the meal. ‘Who I am isn’t important.  But if it helps, I’m Ben Hanlon.  I am a psychiatrist and I am here to care for you.  Why you are here is important.  Do you know why you were committed?’

She stopped chewing and laughed on a full mouth of food, little bits of bacon popping out of her lips. ‘I think that is pretty damn obvious isn’t it.  Raving psychopath, rips the heart out of her son and eats it.’

‘You might think it’s obvious, but it’s not.  You have no recollection at all, either consciously, or subconsciously of carrying out that act.  Dr Ennis believes you suffer from a condition known as Dissociative Identity Disorder, that’s why you were certified.  Do you know what that is?’

‘Multiple personalities.’ she shot back, straight away, devouring the last of her sausages.  ‘I know that.  They think Madame Evangeline is just a figment of my imagination.  They are probably right.  It doesn’t detract from the fact
I
, whichever personality that is, am a raving psychopath.
I
, whichever personality that is, killed my son. 
I
, with the personality I am now, doesn’t have a clue how that happened.’ She was getting agitated as she spoke, still chewing, but now on her bottom lip, a drip of blood slipping down her chin.  Her arms were shaking and her knuckles where white as she gripped the cutlery in each hand tightly and started to bang the base of each against the arms of the chair.

‘I. Still. Killed. Him.’ she pronounced, spitting each word, banging the cutlery in time.  Then she stopped, suddenly, tension flowing from her body, and took the last piece of bacon from the plate, speaking as she chewed, in a convivial manner.  ‘Now, stop changing the subject.  Tell me why we are here.  Where the hell is here?’

Dr Hanlon laughed, a huge guffaw and threw himself back into his seat.  ‘Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca.  I am really not avoiding the subject.  I am a psychiatrist.  You know what we are like, we always answer a question with a question.  By the way that was impressive, truly impressive self-restraint.  Which only strengthens my belief that you are far from psychotic.  Right.  Straight answers.  We are in Broadmoor, in an older part of the hospital, well away from the wards.  I have been trying, unsuccessfully I may add, to bring out Madame Evangeline.  In the past two weeks you have been weaned off your sedatives and have had various sessions of hypnotherapy to try and break down the mental barriers between your personality and Madame Evangeline’s.  Nothing, absolutely nothing I have tried either psychologically or physiologically has found even a glimmer of a suggestion that she is inside you.  She is real Rebecca.  You are not delusional, you do not have DID and in my informed medical opinion you are perfectly sane, cognitive and rational, if ever so slightly OCD.’

‘But I still killed my son.’ she answered, softly, yet intently, finishing off the last of the egg on her plate.

‘You may have been involved in his death, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you killed him.  We have to try and fill in the blanks of your recollection.  You told me certain things under hypnosis.  We need to try and get you to remember them while you are conscious and yourself.  Some of the things you told me have to do with your care, how you were treated at the Fielding Institute.  That’s one of the reasons I brought you to this part of the hospital, away from the main body of staff, away from anyone else who might feedback to Dr Ennis what you have already told me about him and his team, and other things you might not have remembered yet.’

He handed her a napkin, taking the empty plate from her.  She wiped her lips, wiped the blood off her chin and started to play with the edge ply of the napkin between her thumb and forefinger, the rest balled into her hand.  Her eyes were welling up with tears, and she dabbed them away with the napkin.  ‘I want to understand why, I want to understand how.  If you have found out things in my subconscious that can help me make some sense of this, give some credence to the madness of it all, then I want to know.  I promise, I will not try and harm myself: at least, not until we have worked out what happened.  After that, I can’t promise anything.’

He reached over and cupped both of his hands over her balled fist holding the napkin and squeezed.  She didn’t pull away, she looked down with the saddest smile on her lips as he said, ‘I will do everything in my power to help you remember, to help you get to the truth, to help you understand: I promise that.  After that, hopefully we won’t need promises, hopefully you will see a light that’s worth following.’

‘Thank you Doc.’ she said, putting her free hand over his.  ‘One thing I do remember, one thing I always knew, but never told anyone.  I didn’t think it was important and to be honest, given what even I thought about my state of mind, it could have been just one of my own delusions.  Now I know it wasn’t.  It’s about Dr Ennis.’

‘Go on.’ encouraged Ben.

‘When I told you earlier that I knew what he was like, how I knew all about his voyeuristic tendencies.  It wasn’t just what happened in the hospital, it wasn’t just that I have lived those tendencies too.  After the first time I went to the lap dancing club, on the hen night, I went back many, many times afterwards.  To that club and many others.  As a voyeur, you like to keep your anonymity.  Going back to the same place too many times gets you known, it takes the edge of the thrill.  However, you do start to see regulars, people with the same fetishes.  I started to go to straight as well as gay clubs, to be honest, anywhere I could watch.  It was in one particular S&M club I had visited a few times that I saw him.  He was there every time.  I didn’t know who he was and never spoke to him.  I just saw him.  It was only the very first time I was being fingered by a guard at the institute, and caught the sight of him staring at me through the door, masturbating, that the memory of him came back to me.  It was Dr Ennis, he used to frequent the S&M clubs in Edinburgh.’