Murder Path (Fallen Angels Book 3) (15 page)

‘Exactly.  At least I know.  It suggests that you aren’t my brother either, so let’s see what we can find out about you.  Let’s crack on.’ she smiles, wryly, and pokes her backside out to dislodge me from her body.  Flipped again, from sombre to playful.  I flop back on the floor and flick through the files quickly, noting an interesting name.  I flip the file open. 

‘Freddy The Mangler.  I’ve just found our cock gobbler.  No notes on here about any next of kin.  It looks like that particular line of insanity was well and truly bred out of the family.’ I impart, then pick up Rebecca’s file.

‘I have a feeling Margaret may be the Eve’s mother.  There’s mention in her notes of a child with that name.  More interesting in all of these notes though, are the psychological techniques that are being used in their treatment.  They are following a structured pattern for a wide variety of conditions: paranoia, histrionics, OCD, neurosis, narcissism…’

I interrupt her, continuing the list of conditions, reading them from her file. ‘Psychopathy, schizophrenia, depression, bipolar, dissociative identity disorder.’ as I stand up and walk over to her, closely watching her features fill with frustration, feeling my own simmering as well.

‘Ennis carried exactly the same structured pattern of treatment out on you, which suggests that he knew you were part of the Seymour family.  Which suggests that you weren’t there as just Ennis’s plaything.  It implies that the Seymour’s or bloody Adam and Eve or the fucking Fallen Angels, whatever you want to call them, put you there deliberately.’

Chapter 19

The gnarled and twisted larger intestine bulbously squeezed through the narrow drilled hole in the oak floor board and snaked off over the lacquered wood to the far side of the room in an insidious meander.  Strange followed the meander, noting the teeth marks and gouges bitten out at intervals along the slimy, stinking tube as it weaved in between the sexual apparatus in the play room.  He stepped over a leather whipping bench, pausing for a second to take in the precise positioning of the intestine around the leg of the bench to spell the letter ‘U’.  The trail progressed underneath a spanking horse, with an ‘N’ shaped out in the middle of its four legs, before slithering alongside a worship seat, spelling out an ‘A’.  From the floor, the tube then bent upwards and was nailed haphazardly to an oak door frame at about head height, before turning right onto the door, the very end of the intestine shaped into a large ‘S’.

‘Unas?’ Strange stated as he walked through the half open door into a darkened room.  A room dimly lit with subdued up lighting strategically angled from the floor to capture the exquisitely beautiful amputated arms floating gracefully in upright glass tubes.  A circular room with its entire circumference, at foot wide intervals, containing delicately carved marble pillars supporting the glass tubes.  There were twenty one in total.  In the centre of the room stood a black metal instrument stand and on it a black leather violin case with the word ‘Unas’ embossed just under the handle.

‘Yes, it’s on this instrument case as well.’  Cruickshank replied from the centre of the room, next to the case.  Trentor was standing next to her, his eyes mesmerised by the hypnotic way the arms gently wafted in the formaldehyde.  ‘They are either manufactured by the same firm or perhaps they were in the same club?’  Cruickshank suggested with a slight degree of irritation.

‘I’m not talking about the name on the case.  There are four letters snaked into the intestine across the floor.  They spell ‘Unas’.  I’d suggest someone is trying to tell us something.’  Strange answered, standing back as a look of fury burst over Cruickshank’s face, directed towards Trentor as she stomped back out into the play room.

‘Why didn’t we see that Trentor?  Laurent!’ she shouted. ‘Have you got photographs of these letters?’  Cruikshank walked back along the intestine, right to the ‘U’ and sat down on the whipping bench, tapping her patent leather brogue on the oak floor impatiently.

Laurent appeared at the doorway into the playroom from the stairwell, a perplexed look on his face. ‘Pardon Ma’am, letters?’

‘Yes Laurent, letters.  A yarking big ‘S’ on the door for a start, all spelling Unas.  Thank you Strange, for pointing them out.  Gentlemen it’s not good enough.  We need to have our eyes open and our wits about us.  Missing something like this could put this investigation back weeks.  Laurent, get photographs taken immediately.  Trentor, get onto HQ and have the team start researching ‘Unas’ straight away.  As Strange quite rightly points out, someone is trying to tell us something.’         

Laurent unshouldered his camera, muttering obscenities in French under his breath and started to shoot as instructed.  Trentor stood rocking, panicked uncertainty overtaking his body.

Cruickshank looked up to him in bemused frustration.  ‘Well!’ she stated.  ‘Wasn’t I clear enough?  Call HQ and get them to look into the name ‘Unas’, it’s not hard.’

‘Sorry Ma’am.  It’s just you asked me to tell you about Ettrick’s movements last night a minute ago and I haven’t yet.  What’s more important?’  Trentor meekly queried.

Strange saw thunder cross Cruickshank’s features as she started to firmly stand and quickly stepped over to Trentor, placing a hand on his shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze.  ‘Quickly tell us what you have found out about his movements Barry, then you can ring in to HQ.  Thirty seconds will make no difference.’

Cruickshank diverted her visible ire from Trentor towards Strange, her gaze blazing daggers directly into his eyes.  ‘As Strange so practically suggested Trentor, which should never have been required, spend thirty seconds telling us what you know.’ 

‘Given that we haven’t publicly announced Ettrick’s death yet, I called his office just enquiring about his whereabouts yesterday.’  Trentor started, filled with a little confidence from Strange’s support and attempting to ingratiate himself with Cruickshank again.  ‘They told me that he had been in meetings in the office in Edinburgh most of the day and left at about five thirty to go to his club for dinner.  As far as his secretary is aware, he went on his own.  I’ve called the club and they can confirm he was there last night.  They Maître Di said he had a drink and left with a woman but doesn’t know who that was.  The barman, a guy called Horncliffe, who was working last night is due in imminently and might know more.  I was going to go and ask a few questions as it’s only five minutes up the road.’

‘Thank you Barry.’  Strange butted in, not allowing Cruickshank to opportunity for sarcastic comments.  ‘Call into HQ now and we’ll go and visit the club.’

Strange nodded towards Cruickshank and then headed off to the stairs, blanking her furious stare.  He descended the stairwell, the deliberate thumping of patent leather brogues on the wooden floorboards echoing in his ears as she followed him, her breath and whispered fury inches away from his ears.  ‘Strike one Strange.  You have had enough warnings about interfering with how I run my team.  Two lives left, then you are out of here.’

‘Gaynor.’ Strange started as they reached the bottom of the stairs and vacated the building, heading off towards her parked Fiesta.  ‘You can strike me as much as you like, but this isn’t just your investigation now, it’s our investigation.  I don’t deliberately mean to undermine you, but we just have to move on.  So, they didn’t see the letters.  Neither did you.  But I did.  That’s what being a team is about.’ he finished with a modicum of irritation entering his calm demeanour.  He stood at the passenger door to the car, staring over the roof as she glared back at him from the driver’s side.

‘Being a team should never, ever excuse ineptitude.’ Cruickshank started brusquely.  ‘That goes for me too.’ she finished, her tone quieter and reflective as she climbed into the car.  Strange climbed in as well.

‘Why are you so hard on yourself?’ he enquired with concern as he fastened his seatbelt just as Cruickshank floored the accelerator in reverse, thrusting the car out of the courtyard and back onto the cobbled street, wheel spinning parallel into the road.

She quickly flipped into first gear, flooring the accelerator, the small car jerking into life and throwing both occupants back in their seats under the force of acceleration.  ‘Do you know how hard it is for a woman to progress in the force?  Do you know how many female DCI’s we have in Scotland?’ Cruickshank fumed.  The car reached thirty and she took her foot off the accelerator, but not off her frustration.

Strange smiled ruefully before answering.  ‘Let me guess.  Possibly the same number as there are Afro Caribbean black men in the whole of the country.  ‘Gaynor, you have to believe me, I’m not doing these things because of your sex, I just have a different approach to people.  We motivate in different ways.  It’s not right or wrong, it’s just different.  Vive la difference as the French would say.’ 

‘Yes, and as a person, I’ve achieved what I have to date by being strong, by not taking crap and by being able to be blunt and forthright with people.  I will never be mumsy and affectionate and I will always feel like I am fighting.  That is me.  Embrace that difference.’ she lectured as she pulled the Fiesta to a sudden halt directly outside the club. 

‘Gaynor, I do, but recognise that works both ways.  I will always be tactile, I will always be affectionate and I will always be humble.  Embrace that difference.  Let’s go and talk to Horncliffe and forget about this lover’s tiff.’ Strange finished, smiling, and trying to diffuse the tension.

Cruickshank glared at him, fury sparking in her eyes at his last comment, then leant across and kissed him aggressively, her tongue sliding into his surprised, willing lips.  She broke off the kiss just as soon as it started.  ‘No, let’s not forget, let’s discuss it later, in bed.  If we are ever going to have any kind of relationship, we have to work this out.  We haven’t got time in the middle of a case.’

‘Okay.  Later.’  Strange willingly agreed.

They both vacated the Fiesta and entered the glass revolving doors of the Jing’s club.  They crossed the heavy pile burgundy carpet to the deep mahogany reception desk, a uniformed receptionist smiling pleasantly up at them as they arrived.

‘Good afternoon Madam and Sir.  What can I help you with today.’ she asked pleasantly.

‘DCI Cruickshank and DCI Strange here to see Horncliffe, the barman.  Do you know if he is at work yet?’  Cruickshank enquired brusquely.

‘Certainly DCI Cruickshank.  He arrived in about fifteen minutes ago.  He will be in the bar of the dining area, it’s the first door on the left down the hallway.’ she informed, pointing in the relevant direction.

‘Thank you.’  Cruickshank replied as they both headed off down the hallway as directed.  The hallway was decorated in mahogany panelling, with portraits of old patrons of the club adorning the walls.  Sparkling candelabra’s cast a shimmering glow onto the dark carpet as they passed under them and then entered the dining area.  The room was empty, save for an older moustached man behind the bar cleaning glasses.

‘Mr Horncliffe?’  Cruickshank queried as she approached him.

‘Yes, what can I do to help you?’  Horncliffe responded.  He put down the glass he was drying and leant against the bar curiously.

‘DCI Cruikshank and DCI Strange.  We want to ask you a few questions about Douglas Ettrick.  We understand that you were working here last night when he was dining, is that correct?’  Cruickshank asked bluntly.

‘Yes, he was in having dinner last night and I was working.  What can I help you with?’

‘We understand that he was having dinner with a woman last night.  Can you confirm that?’

‘No, he was dining alone.  However, he did have a rather expensive whiskey with a woman.  Now that was quite a scene.’ Horncliffe imparted, leaning over the bar surreptitiously. 

‘In what way?’  Strange interjected.

‘Well, she wasn’t happy that I wouldn’t serve her an expensive glass of whisky and started to make a scene.  Mr Ettrick stepped in to try and calm her down, like the gentleman he is.  She may have looked and dressed beautifully, but she had a mouth like a sewer, if you know what I mean.’ 

‘What did they talk about?’  Cruickshank asked.

‘It wasn’t just her mouth that was a sewer.  She was here initially to meet someone else.  But their conversation got quite intimate, and she suggested that if he could persuade her, she would forget her date, and spend the evening with Mr Ettrick.  I don’t think she was on the game, but she certainly had that attitude.  She called herself ‘Madame Evangeline’, which is a little tasteless given what has happened with those Angels.’ Horncliffe advised pompously.

‘She definitely referred to herself as ‘Madame Evangeline’?’  Strange pressed, both he and Cruickshank leaning into the bar attentively.

‘Definitely.  She wasn’t quiet about it either.  There were quite a number of people looking on due to the crossed words I had with her.  Let’s just say she wasn’t keeping a low profile.’

‘And did she look like the ‘Madame Evangeline’ that you’ve seen on TV?’  Strange asked.

Horncliffe shook his head.  ‘There was some resemblance, but it wasn’t the same person.  How could it be, that Madame Evangeline killed herself.  She was tall, very lithe and beautiful.  Wearing a strapless red evening dress.’

Strange shot a hand to his inside jacket pocket and pulled out half a dozen photographs.  He quickly shuffled through them and held one up in front of Horncliffe.

‘Did she look like this by any chance?’  Strange asked directly.

Horncliffe nodded.  ‘Yes, that was her.  Do you know her?’

Strange sighed.  ‘Tell me, what was her skin like?  Was it smooth, or were there perhaps blemishes or scars underneath her makeup?’

‘Her complexion was flawless, as was her skin, and there was a lot of it on show.’  Horncliffe answered.

Strange shook his head, turning to look at Cruickshank’s quizzical expression.  He showed her the photograph.

It was a photograph of Rebecca Angus.