Angel of Death (8 page)
‘How long before he wakes up?’ Jim asked the duty nurse.
‘Normally you’d expect a young, healthy patient to start showing signs of responsiveness an hour or so after general surgery,’ she replied. ‘But that doesn’t mean he’ll be fit to talk to you.’
Jim turned to his colleagues. ‘You head over to the crime scene, Scott. I’ll stay here.’ As Scott turned to leave, Jim said to the constable standing guard, ‘Go get yourself a cuppa.’
When he was alone, Jim sat down and expelled a breath that seemed to come from his shoes. Somewhere nearby, someone let out an agonised wail. The sound gave him a sinking feeling in his stomach.
How many times
, he mused,
have you sat in this place, surrounded by pain and death?
But of course the answer was obvious – too many. He just didn’t have the stomach for it any more.
Jim found himself wondering whether it would have been better for Mark Baxley if he hadn’t survived. After all, what sort of life did he have to look forward to? A life without trust, that’s what. A nightmare of loneliness and paranoia. Jim had seen it many times before in people who’d survived an attempt on their life by friends, spouses and the like. He’d watched as they withdrew from the world and locked themselves in the worst kind of prison – a prison of their own minds. Over the years, he’d built barriers of a different kind around himself – barriers to keep his emotions at bay so that he could view cases dispassionately and from every angle. In the past some people – people who didn’t understand him – had called him cold and cynical. Margaret understood him better than anyone, but that hadn’t lessened her need for a love that at some point he’d lost the capacity to give. He knew that was why she’d left him, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself. The job had ripped out his heart. Losing Margaret had taken everything else.
Suddenly, Jim knew he had to leave, not just the hospital, but the city, the job, everything. He had to get away before it was too late, before the last vital spark in him was extinguished. His head spinning with a confused mixture of excitement and anxiety, he stood and took a few hesitant steps towards the exit. He paused at the sound of a moan from Mark Baxley’s room.
The nurse moved from behind her desk and entered Mark’s room. Pinching the fingers of Mark’s left hand, she called his name. He moaned again, feebly trying to pull his hand away. His eyelids flickered open. First the whites, then the pupils rolled into view. A hoarse voice slurred, ‘Cha… Charl… Charlotte.’
‘Your sister’s in a coma, Mark, but she’s alive.’
Mark gave out a whimper and a light that seemed to hold both relief and triumph came into his heavy-lidded eyes.
‘Have you got any pain anywhere?’ asked the nurse.
Mark slowly shook his head. ‘I’m thir… thirsty.’
The nurse poured water from a jug into a cup and held it to Mark’s lips. He took a sip, dribbling most of it down his chin. The nurse dabbed him dry with a paper towel. ‘That’s all for now. I don’t want you to choke.’
The nurse checked Mark’s vital signs, compared them to readings on the heart monitor, then made a notation on his chart. ‘I know it’s hard, Mark, but try to relax. A doctor will be by to see you soon.’
As the nurse left the room, Jim asked, ‘Is that true about his sister?’
The nurse nodded. ‘The doctors say it’s a miracle. There was about a one in a hundred chance she’d survive the operation.’ Her voice dropped. ‘Mind you, there’s still a long way to go before she’s out of the woods.’
The word
miracle
sparked a little fire of contempt inside Jim. As far as he was concerned, there were no such things as miracles. There were only things that happened. Some of those things were beyond human control, but that didn’t mean God had anything to do with them. ‘Can I speak to Mark?’ The question came automatically, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.
‘Yes, but only for a few minutes. And don’t press him too hard. He’s very weak.’
Jim drew a chair up to Mark’s bedside. As Mark’s head lolled towards him, Jim resisted the urge to turn away from the mute pain shining out of his eyes. ‘Hello, Mark, I’m Detective Inspector Jim Monahan of the South Yorkshire Police Homicide and Major Incident Team,’ he began, his tone businesslike. ‘I realise this is a difficult time, but I need to ask you some questions. Someone will take a full statement later when you’re feeling stronger. For now, I just want to hear what happened.’
‘Da—’ Mark winced on the word as though it tasted bitter. He licked his scorched lips, before continuing in a strengthening voice, ‘Dad shot Mum and Charlotte. Then he tried to kill me.’
‘Did you see him shoot your mum and sister?’
‘No. He—’ A choke came into Mark’s voice. Whether from pain or emotion, Jim couldn’t tell.
Jim picked up the glass of water. ‘Here,’ he said, putting it to Mark’s lips.
Mark swallowed a mouthful. ‘Thanks.’
‘Now take you time and tell me exactly what happened.’
Starting with the phone call, Mark gave Jim the full story. Jim jotted down the main points, pausing occasionally to give Mark another sip of water. He glanced up, frowning, when Mark got to the part about the strange sobbing he’d heard on entering the house. ‘Do you think it was your dad?’
‘No. I never saw Dad cry in all my life. It sounded more like a child.’
Jim’s eyebrows drew closer together as he wondered whether there was another body waiting to be discovered. ‘Could there have been someone else in the house other than your parents and sister?’
‘There could have been, but I don’t think there was. The telly was on in my parents’ bedroom. That’s probably what I heard.’
‘Probably,’ agreed Jim, thinking,
Christ, I hope that’s all it was.
His voice cracking, Mark recounted the fight with his father, and the discovery of his mother and sister. By the time the tragic, horrific tale was finished, tears were streaming down his cheeks. Again, the rawness of the emotion in his eyes almost made Jim flinch from his gaze. He reached to give Mark’s wrist a squeeze, but stopped himself. He’d spent his entire working life learning how to separate truth from lies. The fact that Mark’s story tallied so closely with his own reconstruction of events, coupled with Mark’s obvious relief at hearing his sister was alive, was enough to convince him that what he’d heard was the truth. But technically Mark was still a suspect, and sympathy for a suspect would only serve to cloud his judgement.
‘Can you think of any reason your father might have had to do what he did?’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? Think carefully. Did he ever mention troubles with money or his relationship with your mother?’
‘He never mentioned anything about anything to me. We barely spoke.’
‘Why? Had you fallen out?’
Mark shook his head. ‘That’s just the way it was, the way it’s always been between—’ His tears suddenly overwhelmed his speech.
‘OK, Mark, we’re done for now.’ Jim’s tone was still businesslike, but despite himself, a gentle note had crept into it.
You’re going soft in your old age
, he thought, making to stand.
Mark lifted a hand to touch Jim’s arm. ‘Stay with me. Please. I… I don’t want to be alone.’ His voice was awkward, almost as if there was something shameful in his words.
Jim stared uncertainly at Mark. He knew he should get back to the crime scene. Garrett would be there by now, and no doubt severely pissed at his absence. More importantly, Mark’s story had opened up several lines of enquiry that urgently needed to be followed. But he couldn’t bring himself to deny the request of this man who was only just a man, this man who’d gone through, and was still going through, a hell that made Jim’s problems seem as nothing.
‘OK, but I’ve got to make a phone call.’
Jim left the room and dialled Amy Sheridan. ‘I was just about to call you,’ she said. ‘The DCI’s going to brief the team and he wants you here for it.’
Jim glanced through the observation window at Mark. The sense of duty instilled into him by decades of loyal service urged him to say he’d be there as soon as possible, but the desperation in Mark’s eyes caused him to bite the words back. ‘Tell him I won’t be able to make it.’
‘He’s not going to be best pleased.’
‘Yeah, well he’ll just have to lump it.’ It felt good, liberating even, to go against his superior’s orders, especially when that superior was a smarmy careerist like Garrett. ‘Listen, Amy, I’ve spoken to Mark Baxley, and he had some interesting things to say.’
Jim relayed the details of his conversation with Mark. When he got to the part about Mark hearing what sounded like a child crying in the house, Amy hauled in a breath and said, ‘Bloody hell.’
‘My thoughts exactly. Any developments at your end?’
‘The background check brought up some info on Stephen Baxley that’s almost as interesting as what his son had to say.’
‘Such as?’
‘I’ll fill you in when I see you. Right now, I’d better look into what you’ve told me. Mind you, the firemen still aren’t letting us upstairs. Apparently the damage is worse than was first thought.’
Jim told Amy he’d see her soon, then returned to Mark’s bedside. Mark gave him a glance that was part gratitude, part relief. Neither of them spoke. For the moment, there was nothing else to say. As he sat watching Mark’s eyelids grow heavier, Jim asked himself whether he’d been serious about walking out on the job. Or had it just been a crazy moment? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he had a duty to at least follow up on the leads he’d been given. After that… well, he would just have to see. Maybe it really was time to call it a day, time to try and salvage something from life, some small fragment of happiness. But even if it was, he was still left facing the same old question: if he was no longer a policeman, what the hell would he do with himself? It made his head pound to think about it.
So stop thinking about it
, he told himself.
Just concentrate on getting through the night.
When Mark’s eyes finally drooped into sleep, Jim padded from the room. The constable had returned from wherever he’d been on his break. Giving him a nod, Jim headed for the lift.
During the drive back to the crime scene, Jim sifted through the details of what Mark had told him, searching for chinks in his story. There were none, so far as he could tell. And if there were, they would soon be rooted out by forensic examination of the shotgun, and a simple check of Mark’s phone records. When he reached the lane, he found it clogged by media vans with satellite dishes on top, ready to transmit details of the grisly events to the nation. He squeezed past them, sounding his horn at a clutch of journalists.
He parked up and walked towards a lorry marked ‘Major Incident Command Unit’, but his step faltered as he caught the sound of Garrett’s voice from inside it. His nose wrinkled with annoyance. He’d never particularly liked any of his previous DCIs, but he’d respected them. He couldn’t bring himself to like or respect Garrett. Every time the guy fixed him with his phony earnest eyes it raised his hackles. The feeling was mutual. He knew Garrett considered him a dinosaur, a relic whose time had passed. That much was obvious from the way he often gave the plum assignments to younger team members. And maybe he was right to do so. Maybe his most senior detective had become out of touch with new policing methods. But he was still in touch with the streets – something Garrett had never been. And he could read criminals’ minds like Garrett could read Detective Chief Superintendent Knight’s moods.
‘Ah, to hell with him,’ muttered Jim, continuing past the lorry towards the house. He’d get the details of the briefing off Amy.
A fireman barred his way at the front door. ‘Sorry, I can’t let you in. It’s not safe.’
‘Do I look like I give a shit?’ Jim stepped around him into the hallway. Noting that Stephen Baxley’s body had been removed, he headed upstairs.
‘Hey guys, you’d better get out of there,’ the fireman called to his colleagues. ‘Some idiot’s gone upstairs.’
The master bedroom’s floor sagged noticeably where the weight of the charred four-poster bed rested on it. Hugging the walls, Jim edged towards the television. He pulled on a pair of forensic gloves, then took out his penknife and prised open the DVD drive, revealing the edge of a disc. He snapped the blade shut and opened out the screwdriver attachment. The television’s fire-warped casing cracked as he twisted out the screws that held it together. He levered the casing apart and disconnected the DVD drive. Then he took apart the drive and removed the DVD. He returned downstairs and sought out Ruth Magill. Finding her stooped over the corpses in the forensics tent, he showed her the DVD. ‘Got anything I can watch this on?’
‘You can use my laptop. What’s on it?’
‘If I knew that I wouldn’t need to watch it. I took it from the master bedroom’s television.’
Arching an eyebrow, Ruth gently admonished him. ‘Naughty boy. How did you know it was there?’
Jim recounted his conversation with Mark Baxley as he followed the pathologist to her car. She booted up her laptop and inserted the DVD. Grainy colour footage of what appeared to be some sort of basement popped up on the screen. A date and time flickered in the corner of the footage: ‘22:43, 1/9/97’. A windowless, whitewashed brick wall, foam-insulated pipes and quarry-tiled floor swept before the camera’s lens as it swung round to focus on a group of figures. There were four adults – three men and a woman – standing in a row. Although the camera cut off their heads, their genders were easily determined because all of them were naked. The woman was slim with small breasts, narrow hips and a triangle of dark pubic hair. To her right was a stocky, pot-bellied man whose barrel chest was covered with curly black hair. And to his right was a slim man with a wisp of white-blond hair between his nipples. A purple blotch like a mole was visible on his left hip. To the woman’s left was a man with broad shoulders and muscular arms. His body was as hairless as an egg. His hand groped at his erect, circumcised penis.
Two more figures were lying on cushions on a rug. One was a strikingly beautiful, full-lipped girl of fifteen or so, wearing white cotton underwear. A dull needle of memory prodded Jim’s brain at the sight of her straight black shoulder-length hair and almost luminescent blue eyes. He knew those eyes, but where from? The question was thrust from his mind as the girl bent over the second figure – a cherubic-faced boy of about eight or nine with curly blond hair falling over his forehead, partly covering glassy, drugged-looking eyes. The boy was dressed in navy-blue pyjamas. He exhaled a barely audible moan, his head lolling sideways as the girl began to unbutton his pyjama top. Then the boy was coming out of his pyjamas and tears were coming out of Jim’s eyes. ‘Oh God,’ he murmured, in a voice thick with horror.
