Murder Path (Fallen Angels Book 3) (4 page)

Chapter 5

I’ve never thought I was that good at lying or pretending to be someone other than myself.  Even when I was having an affair with Jess and lying to Sarah about where I had been, I was absolutely sure she saw through every single untruth.  I guess that I have a knack for it that I didn’t realise, because in the past few days I have been someone who is so far removed from me, I don’t even recognise him.  I’m not talking about how I look, I’m talking about how I have behaved.  Is that what Adam and Eve have been trying to do?  Trying to mould me into becoming a different person.  One who doesn’t care about lies, doesn’t care about morals and to a degree, doesn’t even care about people?  I fucked Rebecca up the backside the other night.  A person I had only met the day before.  A person who could still be a killer: and I fucked her up the behind because I wanted to.  I didn’t care about anything else, I didn’t even really care about what she wanted, or if it was even pleasuring her, when you boil it all back to basics.  I just wanted to fuck.  What kind of person does that make me?  It certainly doesn’t make me feel like a god.  It makes me feel like shit.  Yet here I am again, pretending to be someone I am not. 

Dressed up in disguise this time, with a greying wig over my hair, thick horn rimmed glasses covering my eyes, false, very nicotine stained teeth making my lips protrude, and white foundation on my face to make it look older, pallid and slightly ill.  I am wearing a tailored Ralph Lauren suit with a long black coat over the top, my black Oxford’s shuffling along the pavement as I limp along the road towards Randolph Crescent.  In one hand is a copy of today’s Times and in the other a solid gold White Spot Dunhill cigarette holder sporting a Sobraine Black Russian cigarette.

There are Police Officers outside the flat that Eve used when she was pretending to be Annie Tait.  We expected that.  But we need to get into the building next door, where Adam had his rig of TV screens monitoring everything Rebecca, myself and the Fallen Angels were doing.  We have to find him again and that is the best starting point.  To say I am nervous would be understating the obvious.  The Officers up ahead will be briefed and will be looking out for Rebecca and me, or for any suspicious characters around the area.  They are going to stop and question me as soon as I approach the flat.

So how do you counter that, how do you control the situation?  In this case it’s easy.  You start and lead the conversation.

There are a few cars driving through the nearby road and a couple of people walking down the tree lined pavement opposite, but otherwise, the streets are fairly quiet as I limp up towards the two Officers chatting. 

‘Afternoon gentlemen, it’s a lovely day isn’t it.  There’s nothing wrong with Detective Constable Tait is there?  She is such a helpful young lady.  Always on hand to assist me picking up the milk in the morning.  Her boyfriend can be a bit of a boor mind you.’  I start, in my most clipped and refined accent, deepening the tone, adding a gravelly rasp to the timbre, trying with every sinew to keep the nervousness bubbling in the pit of my stomach out of my voice and away from my open, inquisitive features.

‘And who are you Sir?’  Officer Number 967 asks bluntly, his face going straight into featureless, his tone the same.

‘Sorry Officer, how impolite of me.  Justin Hanratty, from Hanratty, Deleval and Penshore.  We have an office in the building next door.  The second I say the words, the other Officer turns his back on the conversation and speaks into his radio.  He will be calling back to HQ to get a check on the name and the building occupants.

‘Are you at your offices every day Mr Hanratty?’  PC 967 asks, stepping in front of his colleague to block out any sound from the conversation he is having.

‘Not every day, no.  Perhaps two or three times a week.  The office is where we store a lot of old case files.  We use it mainly for research, study and case preparation.  I do hope DC Tait is alright?’ I prompt again, immediately letting a pained expression enter my face as I allow my body to sag and reach out for the stone wall of the small front garden for support.

‘Are you okay Sir?’  PC 967 asks, with a hint of concern entering his voice as he steps down ready to support my arm.

‘No need to worry Officer.  It just my riddled old bones failing me.’  I flash the cigarette in front of him before taking another long draw of the toxic nicotine stick. ‘Fifty years of devouring these devils is finally coming home to roost.’  Deliberately, I lean against the wall, forcing him to come out of the garden and stand in front of me on the pavement, allowing me to hear the conversation of the second officer as I talk to PC 967.

‘We are just trying to ascertain DC Tait’s whereabouts Sir.  Can you recall the last time you saw her?’  There is a slight look of concern at the edge of PC 967’s features now, along with a modicum of trepidation.  He is unsettled, not quite sure how to address a frail old man who has just suggested he is dying.  Just what I wanted.

‘Oh, must have been about two days ago, in the morning.  I think she would have been leaving for work as I was arriving at the office.  We talked for a few moments about the happenings in town with the Fallen Angels.  Strange business.  I haven’t seen her since, nor her boyfriend come to think of it.  Sorry Officer, do you mind if I head up to my office.  My morning constitution calls, I can’t be late with my cocktail of contraband unfortunately, it’s the only thing that keeps my riddled bones at a manageable level of pain.  I will be there all day if you have any other questions and please, let me know if you find her.  She is such a lovely lady.’  From behind me, I hear the radio conversation stop, knowing that the officer has confirmed my identity and that of the firm of solicitors I purport to work for.  I see PC 967 make eye contact with his colleague and nod imperceptibly.

‘Thank you for your time Sir, and my apologies for delaying you.  I will definitely let you know if we hear anything.  Would you like some assistance up to your office?’

‘Thank you, that is a very kind offer, but no thank you.  I am a stubborn old goat, and this thing won’t get the better of me.’  Using the tumultuous adrenaline coursing through my veins, I groan and force myself up from the wall, letting the nervous energy out as sighs and moans.  I take limping, laboured steps away from PC 967, waving my paper behind as I approach the entrance to
my
block of flats, and pop a key into the lock, opening the front door.  I shuffle in, then gently close the door behind me, leaning my back against it as I let out an elongated sigh, letting the tension dissipate from my limbs.

‘We are in.’ I state into the air, and into my earpiece.

‘You do doddery old fart to perfection.’ Rebecca’s voice echoes around inside my head from the earpiece.

‘I’ve had a lot of practice at doddery lately.  How are you getting on researching the Seymour’s?’  I enquire, letting the adrenaline abate.

‘There’s not a lot to go on, but I’m starting to get a few leads.’ she answers distractedly.

‘Okay.  I’m off into the flat now.  Keep listening and I’ll shout if I need you.’

Right, I might not have long, it’s hard to tell if the show I put on was good enough.  So, let’s see what’s on the TV’s at the moment. I sprint up the stairs, taking them two at a time, my injuries from two weeks ago and the ones from last night smarting, letting the doddering old fart know they were still able to inflict pain.  I reach the landing which Adam’s flat is on and unlock its door and enter, quickly closing it behind me.  I head straight for the bedroom, knowing that there are a bank of monitors hidden behind a false wall in the room.  I pass the empty drawing room where less than twenty four hours ago Rebecca and I had questioned Fenny Bentley about the disappearance of all of the women his father and daughter had murdered and ate.  It still saddens me to think that he felt the need to kill himself: he knew nothing about those murders. 

I quickly enter the bedroom and stride straight for the wall, pushing my hand against a spot on the duck egg blue tongue and groove panelling that looks just like any other spot.  A low murmur of a motor kicks in and the wall slowly starts to open to the left, exposing….

Exposing what should be eighty monitors, eight rows by ten columns.  The first three columns are empty, the monitors aren’t there. 

‘Fuck’ I say out loud.

‘Problems?’  Rebecca asks with concern.

‘It looks like the monitors have gone!’  A sense of panic overwhelms me as I grab the end of the panelling that is moving and try and force it open faster.  It doesn’t move any quicker, no matter how hard I push.  I poke my head behind the panel, between the empty shelves, looking into the darkness to see if I can see any sign of the screens, head bobbing in and out of each row.  Nothing.  Not one. 

‘Hold on, there’s something.’  What’s that, on the bottom shelf, right at the end, as the panel completely opens.  One monitor.  One solitary monitor left.  I crouch down on the floor taking in the image on the screen.  It’s a room I recognise.

‘There’s only one monitor left.  It’s showing the Incident room at Edinburgh police HQ.’  I relay.  Why is there only one monitor left showing that? Where are all the others? Wait, what’s that on the Evidence wall?  That’s the evidence from my hotel room.  I thought they would have it by now.  And there are pictures of Rebecca and myself on there as well.  Well I guess that makes it official: we are definitely suspects and definitely on the run. That doesn’t help us at all though.  We needed the other monitors.  We needed some clue as to Adam’s whereabouts.  It’s going to make it harder to find him now. 

‘That’s a problem.  Has he removed everything else?’  Rebecca enquires.

I quickly scan the bedroom, looking for anything that may have been left.  It is totally empty, I doubt if it will even have a single fingerprint.  I leave the bedroom and set about searching the other rooms.  The bathroom, the drawing room, the study, all devoid of everything, even a speck of dust.  All of his makeup and prosthetics gone as well. 

‘The place has been totally emptied Becca.’  Totally disheartened, I enter the last room, the kitchen, and see pristine, clean high gloss white units glaring innocently at me.  Not a single thing on any of the worktops.  I know the cupboards will be just the same, but my instinct won’t let me leave without checking them.  I pull a drawer open expecting a resounding thrum of nothing. 

There’s a leaflet, one of those tourist types, advertising a country house. I pick it up and read the cover.  ‘Chillingham Hall, in the heart of Northumberland.  Visit this splendid country estate, home to one of the rarest breeds of animals in the country: The Chillingham Cattle.’ This wasn’t left by accident.

‘Was that a Tourist Information broadcast?’  Rebecca enquires.

‘Sorry, I found a leaflet in a drawer.  It’s all that’s left in the apartment.’

My ears prick up.  I can hear the feint sound of voices coming from the corridor.  I tense instinctively, listening intently to the sounds, breaking up the different voices.  I make out three talking loudest and a general hubbub of conversations sitting in the background.  They aren’t coming from the corridor, or from outside.  They are coming from the bedroom.  From the solitary monitor.  It sounds very much like the start of a briefing.

I slip the leaflet into my inside jacket pocket as I walk speedily out of the kitchen and back into the bedroom, my mind already assimilating the information that is being relayed in the conversations I am hearing.

‘Are you alright John, is there someone there? I can hear muffled voices?’

‘I’m fine, it’s the morning briefing starting at HQ. Can you hear it?’

‘Not clearly, no.’

I recognise DCI Cruikshank’s voice, and DI Trentor’s and…Jerry.  They have called in Jeremiah Strange.  Well, it was only a matter of time.  Another mass murderer?  I thought Bentley was the last of the Angels killer reveals.  A politician called Connor McFetrich. Cruickshank is pinning a picture up on the board, to the right of the other four serial killers exposed by the Fallen Angels and above the photographs of Rebecca and me.  What’s the significance in that?  I recognise him, I have seen him recently, now where was that?

‘At 11:33 am this morning we raided Mr McFetrich’s house in Longformacus on suspicion of him being involved in the disappearance of Abbigail Gare.  We found Mr McFetrich murdered and mutilated, hanging from chains.  Around his body, using his own intestines were spelt the words ‘Even Fallen Angels Have Wings’.  Mr McFetrich was into BDSM and in an annex off his cellar we discovered the amputated legs of a further thirteen women.  There were names and dates – we presume murder dates- next to each leg.  There was also an instrument case in the room with the moniker Unas on it.  We can presume they are the trophies of his victims but will have that confirmed shortly when the DNA results are back in.  We are treating this as another ‘Fallen Angels’ reveal, even though the circumstances are different.’