Angel of Death (11 page)

‘Can you also confirm whether you’re looking for anyone else in relation to this shooting?’ asked a journalist.

‘The investigation is at a very early stage,’ answered the detective. ‘All I can say right now is that a full forensics team is at the house seeking to establish exactly what happened and identify all the individuals involved. I would, however, like to reassure people that, at this time, we have no reason to believe this is anything other than an isolated event.’

So in other words you aren’t looking for anyone else
, thought Angel. The implication of this was obvious – someone at the house, almost certainly one of the men, had gone on a murderous rampage. It was the same old story. She’d seen it a thousand times in a thousand forms, but it always amounted to the same thing: there was nothing more dangerous than a man angry and disappointed at life.
Other than perhaps a woman sick and tired of being beaten down by men
, a voice in her head added.

The news cut to a live shot of a reporter standing in front of a cordon of police tape. ‘The names of the victims still haven’t been released,’ said the reporter. ‘But since that press conference we’ve learnt that the house behind me is the home of local businessman Stephen Baxley, his wife Jenny and their two children, who can’t be named for legal reasons. A representative of South Yorkshire Police has also informed us that a resident of the address was a lawful holder of a shotgun licence.’

The reporter began to speculate on the obvious possibilities these revelations might hold, but Angel wasn’t listening any more. At the mention of Stephen Baxley’s name, her body had stiffened as if she’d been poked with an electric cattle prod. She stared at the screen without seeing it, her face deathly pale.
Stephen Baxley!
The name was like a hand reaching out from the past – a past she’d been running from her whole adult life – to grip her throat. She rocked like someone in a trance. Twisted, perverse images were rushing at her, overwhelming her consciousness. She saw a young boy with curly blond hair and drugged blue eyes. She saw a group of figures hovering over him like vultures over their prey. Finally, she saw Stephen Baxley, his lips repulsively moist, an infinitely more repulsive light in his eyes. She heard his voice as though he was right there in the room. ‘Take your underwear off, Angel.’ And as she obeyed, hate ate at her like acid – hate for Stephen Baxley, hate for the other figures, hate for herself.

The cigarette burnt down to Angel’s fingers, searing the images away. She twisted round, her eyes desperately searching. Spotting the gun, she snatched it up and pressed the barrel to her temple. She closed her eyes, her breath coming sharp and tight. Her knuckles whitened on the grip. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. Thirty.
Pull the trigger
, she muttered inwardly.
Just fucking do it. No more pain, no more sorrow. A bullet in the head. Quick, simple, easy!
The final word tolled like a warning in her brain. Yes, suicide was easy – too easy, both for her and for those who’d driven her to the brink of it. It was time to stop running. It was time to start fighting back.

She lowered the gun and looked at it. Fifteen bullets. More than enough to go round, even if Stephen Baxley was still alive. She swore a silent oath to herself. They would pay. Every one of them. For what they’d done to her, and for what they’d made her do to the boy. Oh, how they would pay! But first she had to deal with Deano.

Angel looked at him with eyes like cold stones. She knew he’d never let her go. His pride wouldn’t allow it. But neither could she allow him to give her name to the police. That would end her plans before she’d even had a chance to properly formulate them. Her gaze returned to the envelope. She pulled it from under the pillow and emptied its contents on to the mattress. There were fifty cellophane wraps of Mexican brown. She picked up three of them. A triple dose would easily be enough to kill him, especially with the amount of junk he already had in his system. She melted the sticky coal-black lumps and drew the solution into Deano’s syringe. Very gently, she spread his legs and felt for the pulsing artery.

Angel started to move the needle towards Deano, but hesitated. Sweat that had nothing to do with withdrawal symptoms stood out on her upper lip. She’d been swept along by a tsunami of rage when she killed Castle. This was different. Sure, Deano was grade-A scum. And sure, she hated him. But her hate was tempered by other feelings. If only for a brief instant, things had been good between her and Deano. He’d adored her and taken care of her. She shook her head vehemently. No, he’d groomed her for his own pleasure, just like those other bastards who’d plucked her off the street as a fifteen-year-old runaway. And as soon as she was out of the picture, he’d do the same to other girls. She couldn’t allow that to happen. A glance at her battered face in the mirror gave her the final push she needed. She slid the needle into Deano, drew the plunger slightly to make sure she’d hit his vein, then depressed it.

Deano gave out a soft moan. His eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. Angel watched until the rise and fall of his chest became indiscernible. She didn’t feel the way she had done after killing Castle. She didn’t feel anything much at all. Neither she nor anyone else would grieve for Deano. No one would even come looking for him. As far as she knew, he had no family, and he certainly had no friends. His customers would wonder where he was, but they were hardly likely to report his disappearance. It might be weeks or even months before someone found his body. And even then, few questions would be asked. After all, junkies died in this neighbourhood practically every day of the week.

Angel cooked up a hit that was weak enough not to knock her off her feet but strong enough to ease her craving. After shooting up, she rifled through Deano’s belongings until she found her money. She put it in her handbag, along with the gun, the Mexican brown and some needles. Then she concealed the worst of her bruises with a thick layer of makeup. After peering out of the window to make sure there were no police about, she headed outside.

As she made her way to Middlesbrough Railway Station, there was a purpose in her step and a steel in her eyes that made early-morning commuters shift out of her path. ‘When’s the next train to Sheffield?’ she asked the ticket-seller.

‘8.20, platform one,’ came the reply. ‘Arrival time in Sheffield is 10.20 a.m.’

‘How much for a ticket?’

‘One way or return?’

‘One way,’ Angel replied without hesitation. She paid for her ticket and walked onto the platform. A shudder passed over her, but not because of the breeze blowing along the tracks. In a few hours, for the first time in nearly fifteen years, she would be home.

9

Bryan Reynolds’s house was different from Stephen Baxley’s in every respect except one – it too was worth a cool couple of million. The four-storey, flat-roofed ultra-modern house with its glazed walls, galvanised-steel balconies and panoramic roof terrace was set well back from the road, behind tall gates. A tank-like Hummer with mirrored windows was parked in its driveway. Two heavily muscled pit bulls eyeballed Jim through the gates. Reflecting that the leafy Ranmoor street was about as far as you could get, in lifestyle if not distance, from the sinkhole estates where Reynolds had grown up and where he still plied his trade, Jim hit the intercom button and held it down. An angry, broad Sheffield voice cut through the buzzing. ‘You’d better stop pushing that button or I’ll come down there and shove it up your fucking arse.’

‘Sorry, Mr Reynolds, did I wake you?’ asked Jim, unable to keep a note of satisfaction out of his voice.

‘Yeah you fucking did. Who is this?’

‘Detective Jim Monahan.’

‘Monahan,’ repeated Reynolds, obviously searching his memory to put a face to the name. ‘Look up at the camera.’ Jim lifted his gaze towards the CCTV camera on the gate, and Reynolds continued, ‘Oh yeah, I remember you. You tried to pin some bullshit drug charge on me a while back. What do you want?’

‘Just a friendly chat. I’ve got some information about an old friend of yours that might interest you.’

‘I haven’t got any old friends.’

‘Are you sure about that, Mr Reynolds? Think carefully. I’m talking about someone from way back.’

The intercom was silent a moment. Jim could almost hear Reynolds’s brain whirring into motion. Reynolds wasn’t an educated man. If any of the students at the nearby university were ever unfortunate enough to meet him, they might have thought him stupid. But they’d have been very, very wrong. His intelligence was simply of a different nature to theirs. He was a master of bluff and bullshit. But he was also as cold and calculating as a snake, with a mind that could weigh up all the angles as fast as any copper. Faster. That was how he stayed ahead of the game when most of his contemporaries were in prison or dead.

‘Are you alone?’ asked Reynolds.

‘Yes.’

The intercom buzzed and the gate clicked open. Reynolds’s voice crackled down the line, ‘Come on up to the house.’ He chuckled as Jim glanced warily at the bulldogs. ‘Don’t worry about my girls. They won’t bother you. Just don’t make any sudden movements.’

The dogs sniffed at Jim’s ankles as he approached the house. Reynolds met him at the door, wearing a loose kimono. He was in his late forties but had a better body than most men half his age. A hairless, tanned, heavily muscled chest showed through the kimono. He had close-set blue eyes and the broken-nosed, angular face of an old wolf. His scalp glistened pink through thinning blonde hair scraped back into a limp ponytail. The dogs jumped up at him, wagging their stubby tails. Stroking their broad, flat heads, he looked Jim up and down. A smirk flickered at one corner of his mouth. ‘You’ve put on some weight since I last saw you.’

Resisting an urge to yank open the kimono and check for identifying features, Jim forced a return smile. ‘That happens when you get old.’

‘Speak for yourself, mate. I’m as fit as I was when I was twenty-one.’ Reynolds patted his washboard stomach. ‘Fitter.’ Motioning for Jim to follow him, he crossed the minimalist white entrance hall and started up the steel-and-glass spiral staircase. ‘Do you know what my secret is?’

‘You work out and eat right.’

‘Yeah, I do all that stuff, but that’s not it.’ Reynolds stopped halfway up the staircase and turned round. His eyes were still amused, but something else was lurking in them too, something that made Jim tense up as if in anticipation of having to defend himself. ‘Sleep. That’s the secret to a healthy life. If I didn’t get a solid eight hours a night, I’d soon end up looking like… well, like you. No offence, but I’d rather be dead than look like you.’

‘None taken. Sometimes I’d rather be dead than look like me too.’

Reynolds chuckled. ‘You’re alright, copper.’ He continued up the stairs to a large, unlived-in-looking lounge furnished with beige leather sofas, Persian rugs and oriental art. In one corner there was a well-stocked glass bar. The room had the opulent but tacky feel of an expensive Las Vegas hotel suite. ‘How do you like my little pad? Not bad for a Park Hill boy, eh? What kind of place have you got?’

‘I’m not here to talk about me.’

‘I’ll bet you live in some pokey semi, don’t you? And I’ll bet you’ve got some dumpy little wifey who spends half her life keeping it clean.’ Reynolds clicked his tongue thoughtfully, his gaze running over Jim’s creased, stained shirt. ‘Or maybe not. Maybe wifey realised she was pissing her life down the drain looking after you and decided to move on to greener pastures.’ He gave Jim that same crooked smile, baring two rows of white and gold teeth. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? I can see things in people’s eyes. It’s a gift I’ve got.’

Usually, Reynolds’s words would have been like empty air to Jim, but after the events of the night they grated on his nerves. There was an unpleasant kind of relish in his voice as he asked, ‘What else can you see in my eyes?’

A slight frown came over Reynolds’s chiselled face. ‘OK, copper, enough of the shit-talking. Let’s get down to business. What’s this information you’ve got for me, and what do you want in return?’

‘I don’t want anything in return – well, not money anyway.’ Jim paused to let his words sink in, knowing Reynolds’s mind would be working overtime, asking itself,
If this bastard doesn’t want money, what the fuck does he want?

Reynolds’s frown intensified. ‘So come on then. Let’s hear what’s so important that it’s disturbed my beauty sleep.’

‘Is the name Stephen Baxley familiar to you?’

‘You know it is, copper,’ Reynolds replied, with an impatient sigh. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t be here asking me about him.’

‘When was the last time you talked to Mr Baxley?’

‘I’m not obliged to answer your questions, but being as I’m a nice bloke who’s always happy to help the police, I will do.’ There was a sarcastic edge to Reynolds’s voice.

With an equally sarcastic tone, Jim countered, ‘I appreciate your cooperation, Mr Reynolds.’

‘Now let me think.’ Reynolds puffed his cheeks. ‘It’s got to be twenty-odd years since I last spoke to Stephen. Why? What’s the silly boy done? He’s not gone and got himself into some sort of trouble, has he?’

‘No, he’s not in any trouble. He’s dead.’

Jim searched Reynolds’s face for the effect his words might have. Reynolds blinked. Just a blink, nothing more, but it was enough to tell Jim his revelation had pierced Reynolds’s armour of unfeeling arrogance. As if they too sensed their master’s hurt, the dogs nuzzled his shins, whining. He shushed them sharply. ‘How did he die?’

‘Well it wasn’t of natural causes.’

‘Yeah, I’d worked that out. What I can’t work out is what this has got to do with me.’

‘We’re talking to anyone who’s got history with Stephen Baxley. When we ran a CRC, your name came up. That was a nice thing you did, taking the full hit on those assault charges in ‘88. I didn’t think you had it in you. Baxley must’ve been a real close friend.’

Reynolds turned away from Jim. ‘What about his wife?’

‘Jenny Baxley also died in the same incident.’