Dark Angel - a gripping serial-killer thriller with a nail-biting ending Page 8

  James leaned forward slightly, voice lowered so no one else could hear. ‘Gavin. You do realise we’re now almost at the anniversary ... when you lost your wife and daughter?’

  He gave a stiff nod. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘So is that not a good reason for you to ... you know ... step back from helping others. Commit some time to yourself, for a change.’

  ‘I won’t lie. It’s not been easy. Sometimes, I ...’ He sighed, eyes cutting to the window. The rain was falling steadily, now. ‘You know what Winston Churchill said? “When you’re going through hell, keep going.” I need to be busy, James.’

  ‘But is that just so you can avoid your feelings? I’m a bit concerned, Gavin. To be honest, I am. The grieving process is something that shouldn’t be avoided. We,’ he gestured to the room, ‘of all people realise that.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’ He glanced up. ‘Other than I think it’s better I continue.’

  James held his eyes. It felt like the man was peeling away layers, gazing into his head, seeing the night skies, the rooftops, the lost souls as they finally buckled, giving way to despair, their sobs of anguish, their bodies tumbling into the dark ... Gavin had to break eye contact.

  ‘Are you OK, Gavin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure? You know you can tell me anything. Christ, we’ve all been through things. That’s why we choose to do this. To help.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘So I can’t persuade you to have a break? To give yourself time to think – and reflect.’

  ‘No. I appreciate your concern. But there’s really nothing to be concerned about. Honestly.’

  ‘You know, I could just put a stop on that phone? If I felt that it was for your own good.’

  He had to grip the undersides of his legs to stop from kicking out. ‘That’s not ... please don’t do that, James.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, don’t worry. But have a think about this, OK? We’ll be fine. There are enough people to cope if you have a break.’

  He got to his feet. ‘I will. I’ll have a think. Is that all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK. Bye.’ He turned around and, head down, made for the door.

  There was a look of concern on James Pearson’s face as he watched Gavin go.

  Chapter 15

  ‘And just pop me a little autograph there,’ the WIO said from behind the protective grille. He turned the clipboard in Jon’s direction before picking the Glock off the counter and sliding it into the rack behind him.

  Pop me a little autograph. Jon wondered if the man would ever tire of saying the line. Probably isn’t aware he’s even using it, he thought, as he signed the form and pushed it back through the hatch. ‘Cheers, Michael.’

  ‘Right,’ Kieran said next to him. ‘A cheeky snifter before heading home?’

  ‘Tempting,’ Jon said. ‘But I need to meet someone. I’ll catch you tomorrow, yeah?’

  Kieran was smirking. ‘Yeah?’

  Jon glanced at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Meet someone? Who might that be, then?’

  Jon took a moment before the penny dropped. ‘Oh, right, I’m hot-footing it over to The Lowry Hotel and asking reception if they can tell Alicia Lloyd I’ve arrived.’

  Kieran laughed. ‘And she’ll say, scrub him clean and send him up to the penthouse suite. There she’ll be, waiting in a silk dressing gown with nothing on underneath ...’

  ‘You’ve really thought this one through, haven’t you?’ Jon retorted, tapping his temple. ‘Safely stashed it up here for later?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Kieran said. ‘Oven-ready, it is.’

  Sitting at the wheel of his car, Jon stared at his phone for a second before calling home. Answerphone. Which meant Alice was probably upstairs with Holly. ‘Hi, babe, I’ve just got some last bits to sort out at the office. I reckon an hour. If my tea’s in the dog, ping me a text and I’ll grab something en route. Otherwise, see you soon. Love you.’

  He cut the call, but continued staring at the screen. Why did you do that? Why didn’t you just tell her the truth? Because, he thought, she would go off on one if I did. And, what’s more she’d be right. What am I doing going on forays among the city’s rough sleepers? I should be going home to tuck in my kids.

  He pocketed his phone and reached for the seat belt. I will, he said to himself. Before I get any deeper into this, I’ll tell her what’s going on.

  He parked on the same side street close to Stevenson Square and walked round. But the doorway to the printing business was empty. Jon scanned the surrounding pavements. No luck. He could see why the police struggled to follow-up incidents involving street-sleepers: you never knew where the hell they’d be.

  Deciding that Piccadilly Gardens might be worth a look, Jon set off through the narrow back streets. He emerged by a bus stand where a crowd of people waited. Among them was a couple of kids, neither more than six years old. Jon checked his watch. Almost nine at night. The mum was on her phone, face mask tucked beneath her chin, lit cigarette in her spare hand. One of the kids asked her something.

  ‘Stop fucking mithering, me!’ she snapped, not taking her eyes off the screen. ‘Doing my head in! Seriously. Both of you.’

  The harshness of her words had no visible effect, other than to make them both look even more bored. The surrounding people seemed oblivious to her outburst.

  Jon checked for anyone sitting beside the row of cashpoints to his right. Two blokes: neither was Greg. A woman encased in a mound of blankets outside the Wetherspoons pub. Remembering people often asked for change near the pedestrian crossing at the approach road to Piccadilly Station, he set off in that direction. He’d almost reached the twenty-four-hour Spar when he saw Greg step through its doors. The man immediately turned left, and left again, onto a dim side street leading back towards the Northern Quarter.

  Jon broke into a jog. ‘Greg!’ he called, rounding the corner. The other man’s stride slowed and he looked back.

  Jon lifted a hand. ‘Greg: it’s Jon – we spoke the other night?’

  He came to a stop. He looked like he needed a good sleep. Shadow formed an unbroken ring round each eye.

  Jon came to a stop beside him. ‘You walk fast, mate.’

  ‘Went to try and see Wayne earlier,’ Greg said.

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘They wouldn’t let me in. Intensive care ward.’

  ‘Yeah, he’s not great. What do you know?’

  ‘That an ambulance took him from behind a pub near Ardwick.’

  ‘Word gets around, then?’

  Greg nodded.

  ‘Look, can I get you a coffee or something?’

  His shoulders lifted a fraction. ‘OK.’

  Greg led him towards the Burger King at the far end of the Gardens, explaining that the staff were very laid back about who came through the doors – and the upstairs seating area was large and usually quiet. On the way, they passed four more people positioned with empty cups on the pavement before them. Jon noticed the perfunctory way Greg nodded at most of them. Like you would on passing a colleague at work.

  They found two stools at the large windows which overlooked the public space. Except for the tram tracks curling across it, the entire area immediately below them was pedestrianised. Puddles glistened everywhere. Everyone was picking their way around them, heads down, shoulders up.

  ‘Good spot, this,’ Greg stated. ‘For seeing what’s going on.’

  Jon watched as he emptied five sachets of sugar into his tea. The big video screen on the side of the building away to their left was flashing up an ad for a new make of rum. A low-ceilinged bar in what was probably meant to be a Cuban back street, full to bursting with a young crowd partying away. Sultry couples with glistening skin doing the tango or something. Old guy bashing away on the piano. Smouldering looks passing between people as they sipped from tall glasses. Pile of bollocks.

  ‘When did you see Wayne last?’ Jon ask
ed, taking a sip of his black coffee.

  Greg stirred his drink for a bit longer before saying anything. ‘Yesterday, about four. Half-four, maybe. He thought he was getting the sofa back – at his mate’s flat. But then the girlfriend decided to stay on. We’d planned to head for that pitch on Stevenson Square, but then that little toerag came by and Wayne ended up scoring. That’s the last I saw of him.’

  ‘The dealer?’

  Greg nodded.

  ‘The one who sold Spice to Wayne the other night?’

  ‘Yeah, him. He had some other stuff, too. Don’t ask me what; I can’t be doing with it. Wayne spent all his money on it, though. Stupid twat.’

  Exactly the sort of thing my brother would have done, thought Jon, sadly. ‘What’s the situation with services to help people get out of using? I saw a website for one called New Dawn—’

  ‘Good bunch at that place. But the building they’re in – I heard the landlord is hiking the rent. Knock-on effect of all these bloody skyscrapers going up, isn’t it? They can’t spend time helping people and raising the money they need for rent.’

  ‘What’ll they do?’

  ‘What other outfits have had to do: find somewhere outside the city centre that’s cheaper. But then they won’t be near the people who need their help. Shit situation, it is.’

  Jon looked briefly out at the rooftops. The cranes that lurked behind them silently going about their business. ‘What happened next with Wayne?’

  ‘He disappears in the direction of Piccadilly saying he’ll be back about nine. Yeah, right, I thought. I ended up in Stevenson Square on my own. And I never can sleep if I’m on my own. Wayne didn’t come back, obviously.’

  ‘Who told you about Wayne going off in the ambulance?’

  ‘There was a few chatting.’

  ‘What were they saying?’

  ‘Just that someone had seen a load of emergency vehicles parked up. Word is, it was Wayne.’

  ‘Did they say if anyone else was there with him in the pub?’

  ‘No. I can try and find out. Did he overdose or something?’

  Jon turned to look at him. ‘He fell. From the top of the fire escape.’

  Greg looked genuinely shocked. ‘Jesus. No one said about that. He fell?’

  ‘That’s why I need to know if he was there with anyone else. Maybe that dealer you mentioned?’

  Greg shook his head. ‘That little parasite doesn’t stick around. Once he’s made his sales, you don’t see him again. He’s got a flat of his own nowadays, out Eccles way.’

  ‘He was homeless?’

  ‘Yeah. Once.’ He sipped at his drink. ‘You think that this could be another suspicious one?’

  ‘It’s a bit early to say. But falling from a high place? I don’t like the sound of it. How did Wayne seem to you yesterday afternoon? Was he feeling down?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. He was really pissed off when he realised he wasn’t going back to that mate’s place. Really pissed off. That’s why he scored.’

  ‘Did he ever mention not wanting to carry on? Anything like that?’

  ‘Not carry on?’

  Jon gave a nod.

  ‘You mean suicide?’

  Jon thought of the young man he’d once played rugby with. Always smiling, always positive. He inclined his head.

  ‘It had crossed his mind, in the past. But he’s been much steadier lately. Of course, throw in the drugs and who knows.’

  Jon lifted his Americano and turned his attention to the Gardens. On the grassed area near the fountain were a few benches. Two men were in a heated discussion about something. One kept waving an arm towards Mosley Street; the other didn’t seem happy. Eventually, he sat on the bench and crossed his arms. The one still standing kicked the other’s sleeping bag and rucksack over and started remonstrating once more.

  ‘Right, I need to go.’ Greg announced, gulping back his tea. ‘Got an offer on somewhere for the night.’

  ‘You mean a hostel bed?’

  Greg smiled. ‘Something like that.’ He peered through the windows. ‘That dealer I mentioned? He’s known as Jay. That’s him – hassling the bloke by the benches.’

  Jon turned. ‘The one who’s standing up?’

  ‘That’s him.’ Greg started to go, then stopped. ‘Also, Wayne did say to me once, he’d never jump. Said he couldn’t stand the thought of those seconds on the way down. Both us were agreed on that – we said sitting down in front of a train would be better.’

  ‘You’d discussed suicide with him?’

  ‘Not seriously. It was more to pass the time. When you’re lying there, looking up at the stars. Like when you discuss what’s beyond space. Or if there are aliens.’ He shrugged. ‘That type of chat. See you.’

  Jon watched him heading down the stairs. Seconds later, he came into view below, walking with short fast steps towards Chinatown. Jon checked the benches. Jay now appeared to be taking some money off the man. It was people like him who’d sped his younger brother, Dave, towards his death. Vile parasites who preyed on people’s vulnerabilities. Jay, he said to himself. It’s time you and me met. He slid off the stool, coffee half-finished.

  By the time he got outside, the man over on the benches was alone. Jon spotted Jay about thirty metres away, wandering towards the top of Oldham Street. Striding fast, Jon closed the gap, then slowed down to a safe distance.

  He guessed the dealer was in his early thirties. Five-eight, thinly built, shaved head. The brown padded coat looked like it cost a few quid. One of those things with fur lining the hood. Fat trainers on his feet.

  Every time he reached a person asking for money, Jay paused for a quiet word. The first few shook their heads, but – outside The City pub – he found a customer. A young lad in a sleeping bag with a filthy deerstalker cap over his head. Jay crouched down in the shop doorway and an exchange was swiftly made.

  Jon was thinking about his younger brother again as he shadowed Jay round the corner. A narrow side street led to a small, poorly lit open space. An empty car park. Jay was cutting straight across, trainers crunching on the gravel. Jon checked for any cameras. None that he could see. He lifted the hood of his own top over his head.

  ‘Jay? Wait up, mate.’

  The dealer turned round, a questioning look on his face.

  Jon knew he had a few seconds at most before the other man sensed something was up. He kept walking, a hand now in his pocket, as if bringing out money. ‘I heard you’ve got pills.’

  Jay’s head tilted to the side, a frown forming on his sharp features. ‘You what?’

  ‘Pills,’ Jon repeated. Four more steps would be enough. ‘Here.’ He brought his hand out, a ten pound note visible in his fingers. But he allowed his arm to keep rising, a fist forming at the very last second. Knuckles connected with the underside of Jay’s nose and his head snapped back. Just a little jab. Not enough to floor him, but it would do for starters. Jon planted his front foot close to Jay’s, flexed his knees and swung a meaty fist into the underside of his ribs. That’s for my little brother, he thought. The blow emptied the other man’s lungs of air and, as he started to drop, Jon caught him in the side of the head with a left. And that’s for Wayne.

  Before he hit the ground, Jon had him by the hood and was dragging him to the side of the car park where the shadows were deeper. Jay was starting to cough and gasp. Which meant, next, he’d try shouting. Jon brought a fist down on his upturned face. ‘Shut it.’

  Once he had him by a low perimeter wall, he lowered a knee onto the man’s right bicep and reached across to pin his other arm by his side. That left Jon’s right arm free. He started going through the man’s pockets. Little bags of green stuff. Pills. Dirty yellow powder. Zipped into an inner pocket was a wedge of cash. Easily a grand, Jon guessed. Jay was recovering once again, splutters and whimpers. Bubbles of blood ballooning from his nostrils. Jon slapped him. ‘I said, shut up! And keep your eyes closed.’

  Next was a phone and a set of keys. Something metalli
c and ridged. Knuckleduster. Nasty. Jon reached his arm back and hurled the phone against the wall. It split apart. One by one, he tore the bags open and starting to empty them on Jay’s face. ‘You sold some gear to the wrong person, you scummy little turd.’ Powder was in his eyebrows and eyelashes, across his cheeks, in his hair. Specks of green were sticking in the blood pouring from his nostrils. Pills rolled off his face into the folds of his coat. Jon flipped him onto his front and yanked the fur-lined hood over his head before scooping up the cash, knuckleduster and keys. He jangled them above Jay’s head. ‘I know where you live. I see you doing the rounds again, I’ll come and take your kneecaps off with my hammer. Hear me?’

  Jay’s head moved.

  ‘Good. Lie here. Have a think about it.’

  Duggy’s night light filled his room with a soft orange glow. He was beneath his duvet, lying on his front, a thumb nestled in his partly open mouth. Jon traced his fingers through his son’s hair then moved next door to Holly’s room.

  She was in her customary position, back to the wall, curled in on herself. He eased himself onto the edge of the bed and gazed down at her. Whatever was playing out in her head was causing her eyes to move restlessly behind their lids. A tremor went through her lower lip. He reached over to cup the side of her head in his palm. To try and smooth the bad thoughts from her mind. He spotted the dark specks of blood on the backs of his fingers and withdrew his hand before it made contact.

  The noise of the bathroom taps masked the sound of Alice coming up the stairs. Before he knew it, she was behind him, arms sliding round his waist. Her voice sounded beside his ear.

  ‘What’s that on your hands?’

  He paused with the nail brush to examine his fingers. The lie was out of his mouth before he could stop it. ‘Must be ink from the photocopier. I had to change the cartridge at work just before setting off.’

  She rested her head on his shoulder blade. ‘You look tired. Did you eat?’