Fallen Angel (11 page)

Tony Woods made his way slowly along Downing Street in the city of Cambridge and let three years' worth of wonderful memories flow through his mind. After the morning briefing DI Collins had suggested finding a theologist to analyse the religious elements of the murder case, and he had jumped at the chance to revisit his old stamping ground.

Having driven up from London that morning, he had arranged to have coffee with his old tutor from the Department of Experimental Psychology, Dr Marcus Panton, before meeting with the head of the university's Faculty of Divinity.

In the impressive surroundings of the faculty building, they greeted each other warmly. Dr Panton had always had a soft spot for Tony Woods and had considered him to be one of his best students.

‘Good to see you again, Tony. Come in and have a coffee.'

Woods followed Panton into his study with its tall ceiling and dark-wood panelling. ‘So how is life treating you?'

‘Oh, can't complain. I'm hoping you've come back to discuss that Ph.D. we talked about before you left.'

‘I'm afraid not. My student days are long gone.'

‘So what are you up to these days, then?'

‘Working for the police.'

‘Fantastic. I always thought you'd do well as a criminal psychologist.'

Dr Panton's assumption made Tony laugh. ‘Not quite. I'm a detective sergeant.'

‘Oh, what a waste of a good talent. But I always knew you liked a bit of the rough stuff.'

Woods spent another half hour catching up with his old friend before heading over to the other site for his appointment with Professor Philip Beechwood.

‘You do understand that what I'm about to show you has to be kept absolutely confidential,' Woods began.

The professor nodded excitedly, clearly pleased by being given access to information not available to the general public.

‘This concerns the murder of Daniel Eliot,' Woods continued.

The initial excitement in the professor's face quickly faded as Woods began to divulge details of the gruesome case and showed him copies of the cryptic notes left by the killer. Beechwood put on his glasses and studied the pages carefully. Woods left him to his own thoughts for a few moments before asking his first question. ‘So can you tell me what it means?'

Beechwood sighed. ‘I think you know this already, but whoever is behind the death of Daniel Eliot is a very dangerous man.'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘Because he appears to be twisting the Scriptures in order to justify his actions. In his mind, he is doing no wrong because he is following the word of God.' He pointed to the second note. ‘This is from Exodus,
Chapter 20
.
That's where the Ten Commandments first appear in the Bible. Depending on your faith, it's part of either the first or second commandment. From memory the full text goes something like:
For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sins of the fathers to the third and fourth generation of those who hate Me.
'

‘Sorry, Professor, I'm not really the religious type, can you put that in laymen's terms?'

‘Sure. In essence it says that if you commit a sin, then three or four generations of your children will suffer as a result.'

‘So, someone could be going after Daniel's father and grandfather?'

‘It's possible. But then there's the other passage:
By the sin of one man, all men were made sinners.
That one is from Romans
5
. Tell me, Mr Woods, do you know what Original Sin is?'

‘Enlighten me.'

‘The Bible teaches us that in the beginning, man was without sin and man lived for ever. But when Adam ate the forbidden apple from the Tree of Knowledge, he committed a sin and since then, man has been mortal. By eating the apple, Adam brought death to the world.'

‘I don't understand how that relates to this case.'

‘The person who used this quotation is saying that those who are without sin will live for ever. By the same token, those who die, no matter what the circumstances, do so because they have sinned.'

‘And that even applies to an eight-year-old boy?'

Professor Beechwood nodded grimly. ‘As I said, you're dealing with a very dangerous man.'

DI Collins arrived at the underground car-park at New Scotland Yard just as DCI Blackwell was getting out of his own vehicle. He waited for her, knowing it was his opportunity to take her down a peg or two.

‘You really fucked up last night, didn't you?' he said with a smirk as soon as she opened her door. ‘I always knew you were wrong for this case. I'm surprised you didn't try to fit the family up for it anyway.'

Collins knew exactly what Blackwell was getting at. ‘You should get your facts straight before you start accusing people, sir.'

‘Everyone knows you tried to fit up that child molester.'

Collins laughed. ‘You're so full of shit. Did you know the only reason that case collapsed was because Forensics contaminated the DNA sample?'

‘But that doesn't give you the right to frame him.'

‘And what gave him the right to go out and rape a twelve-year-old girl seven days after we had to let him walk, sir?'

Blackwell was lost for words. He had not known the full facts of the case and could only stand silently by Collins's car as she made her way into the main building for the press conference.

DCS Higgins was waiting outside the press room, looking smart in his Met dress uniform. He smiled when he saw
Collins appear, looking equally smart in her black trouser suit and white cotton blouse.

‘You all right?' asked Higgins, who could tell something was bothering Collins.

‘I'm fine, sir – you know how I feel about press conferences.' Collins was trying her best to put the confrontation with Blackwell out of her mind and focus on the job in hand.

‘You've heard David Eliot's back home.'

‘I heard it on the way here,' Collins said. ‘And we've confirmed his whereabouts at the time that Daniel was taken, so we're back to square one.'

At that moment Blackwell joined them and Collins fell silent.

‘Well,' Higgins said, trying to break the awkward silence between the two officers, ‘they're all waiting.'

‘Then let's get it over with,' said Blackwell, his tone of voice in front of DCS Higgins nothing like the one he had used in the car-park.

Collins gave him a filthy look, and then the three of them walked into the room and upon to the standard blue police podium, where they were greeted by blinding flashes of lights. The room was packed with reporters and camera crews, all of whom fell silent as the officers took to the stage.

‘Good afternoon. I am Detective Chief Superintendent Mark Higgins. To my left is Detective Chief Inspector Colin Blackwell of SCD7, the Kidnap and Extortion Unit, and to my right is Detective Inspector Stacey Collins of the homocide division.

‘I'd like to start by reading a short statement. As you
already know, at approximately 18.45 on Friday evening, the body of eight-year-old Daniel Eliot was found inside the church of St Andrew's in Peckham.

‘I can today confirm that a ransom demand had been made for Daniel's safe return.

‘Daniel disappeared near his home sometime during the afternoon on Wednesday. We are today issuing some new photographs of him and making a fresh appeal for witnesses who may have seen him between Wednesday morning and the time his body was found on Friday evening.

‘This is an appalling crime, perhaps the worst I have seen in my twenty-five years on the force, and it is essential that Daniel's killer is brought to justice. My colleague, Detective Inspector Stacey Collins, is heading the investigation, and we will now take any questions.'

Suddenly there was a riot of voices and a crowd of hands as each journalist tried to have their question answered first. Higgins pointed at a reporter in the front row.

‘Trisha Bennett,
Daily Telegraph.
Is it true, Inspector, that this is the first time a kidnapping handled by the Met has resulting in a fatality?'

Higgins turned to Blackwell, who was struggling to keep his composure. ‘Yes, I can confirm that, sadly, this is the first time we have failed to recover the victim of a kidnap alive.'

Another hand shot up, and Higgins pointed. ‘Damien Groves, the
Sun.
Is it true that Daniel was murdered because the Met refused to pay the full ransom of just £25,000?'

Blackwell knew this journalist had spoken to someone
on the inside. ‘I'm afraid it's our policy not to comment on operational decisions of ongoing investigations.' He'd lost count of the number of times he'd recited that in his thirty-year career.

The journalist raised his voice, and everyone knew what the next question would be before he asked it. ‘So are you saying the police now put a price on the life of a child?'

Blackwell looked directly at the tabloid reporter. ‘The police never have and never will put a price on saving any life.' The room was suddenly filled with the scratching of shorthand.

‘Sandra Gordon, ITN. So how close are you to apprehending a suspect?' The question was directed towards Collins this time.

She didn't answer for a moment, causing the murmurs in the crowd of journalists to die away; then, just as she planned, she picked out a television camera at the back of the room from one of the main broadcasters, the red light at the front indicating that it was recording. An image flashed into her head: it was of a man, a faceless man, watching the television. Watching her. There was no doubt in her mind that whatever she said would be taken in and picked over by the person she was trying to catch, and it was important to get it right.

‘So far,' she said, her voice level and her eyes not leaving the camera, ‘we have very little to go on. At present there are no witnesses, no leads and almost nothing in the way of forensic evidence to further our enquiry.'

There was a murmur from the crowd, and Collins could feel Higgins giving her a hot, sidelong glance. ‘The truth is we don't have very much at all.'

Sandra Gordon spoke again. ‘So let me get this straight, Detective. You refused to pay the full ransom and as a result Daniel Eliot was brutally murdered. And now you have almost nothing to go on. Is that the situation?'

Collins needed only one word to reply.

‘Yes.'

Outside the room, Higgins pulled Collins into a vacant office a few doors down. He slammed the door and started fuming at the DI before she could speak to him. ‘What are you playing at? This isn't the fucking time for games with the press.'

‘It'll be fine, sir,' she told him calmly.

‘What do you mean, it'll be fine?' Higgins ranted. ‘You know how that lot will twist what you've just said. We're going to end up looking unprofessional and incapable.'

‘Not if we find our murderer, we won't.'

Higgins was almost incandescent now. ‘And how do you propose to do that, DI Collins? You've just publicly admitted we've got nothing to go on.'

‘If you're going to carry on screaming at me, sir, I'll be happy to go home and spend the day with my daughter.'

There was a pause. Higgins looked as though he was about to explode again, but thought better of it. When Collins spoke again it was in a much calmer way – not conciliatory, exactly, but not far off.

‘I need the killer to think we're groping in the dark. Everything he's done in the past few days has been precisely worked out in detail: he's figured out how to keep in touch with us without being traced; he knew exactly when to enter the church without anyone knowing.'

‘Get to the point.' Higgins almost managed to sound surly.

‘The point is this: so far he hasn't put a foot wrong. If he thinks we're on to him, he'll redouble his efforts. But if he feels overconfident – that he's in control and that we don't know what we're doing – then maybe he'll get sloppy. Frankly, I think that's worth a bit of egg on the face, don't you?'

Higgins stepped closer to her. ‘Listen to me, Collins, and listen carefully. You've worked for me for over three years, and I know you can sometimes be a loose cannon. But don't forget there're plenty of people out there waiting for you to take a fall – just don't give them a chance to say “I told you so.”' And with that, he walked out of the office.

The drive back from Central London to Peckham was the first free moment she had had all day and one she intended to take full advantage of. She pulled her mobile from her handbag and punched out a number without even looking at the keys. It rang twice before it was answered with a simple ‘Yes?'

‘Hi, Mum, it's me.'

‘Oh, hello, love,' came the chirpy reply.

‘Is Sophie there? Can I have a word?'

There was a pause. ‘Listen, love, Sophie's still very upset by what happened yesterday. She … she told me that she doesn't want to speak to you right now. I think it would be best if you could just come home, spend some time with her. Do you think you'll be able to do that?'

‘That's why I'm calling. I'm not working late tonight so should be home in time for tea.'

‘Oh, that's wonderful, dear. I'm sure it will all be sorted out in no time at all. Do you want me to tell her?'

Stacey thought for a second. ‘Tell you what, don't say anything. I want to surprise her.'

Collins and her team spent the rest of the afternoon going through CCTV footage of the van that Cooper had isolated, but none of the images showed the vehicle's registration number.

Cooper could not hide her frustration. They had got what they wanted, but it wasn't enough to move the investigation forward.

‘Let me go down there, guv, and I'll see for myself if there are any more cameras around showing that street.'

‘Sure. See what you can get. I'm going home to see Sophie.'

At six thirty Collins was in her car. She stopped off at the local supermarket on the way home in order to pick up Sophie's favourite pudding – crème brûlée – and it was only when she got back on the road that her keen sixth sense suddenly kicked in.

It took a moment for her to appreciate fully what was wrong, but, in the way that an image slowly appears on a Polaroid photograph, things filled out and came into focus. It was the car in her rear-view mirror. The red BMW. It had been there ever since she had left the office. It was newer and bigger than hers. Collins sped up and took the next right turn without indicating. A second later she saw the red BMW had done the same. She accelerated hard and vanished out of sight around another tight bend. The BMW came hurtling round after her.

So far as she could tell, there was only one person in the car behind. She took another sharp corner, braked hard and quickly got out of her car.

The BMW slowly drew up behind and mounted the edge of the kerb. She recognized the driver straight away. Tall, drawn, in his mid thirties with a pock-marked face and shaven head, it could only be Danny Thompson, Jack Stanley's enforcer.

‘Why the fuck are you following me?'

‘I have a message for you.'

Thompson looked to his left and right, a pointless attempt to make sure no one was listening in. There was no one around.

‘What's the message?' said Collins again, now beginning to get impatient.

‘Jack Stanley wants to see you.'

‘When?'

‘Seven. Tonight. He say's you'll know where.'

‘I can't … I've …'

But the man had already spun around and started to walk back to his car. ‘All I know is that he's going to be there and that he's got something for you. If you don't want it, that's down to you.'

It took another hour to make it to Chislehurst. By the time Stacey arrived at the ruined manor house she was fuming with rage. She had made arrangements to spend some time with her daughter, but Jack Stanley had managed to get in the way.

She took deep breaths and tried to calm herself as she approached the ruins. She needed his help and that meant she had to control her emotions. At least for now. When she was ten feet from Jack, he stood up and nodded in her direction.

‘What have you got for me?' asked Stacey.

‘Nothing.'

‘Is that supposed to be funny? Is that your idea of being fucking clever? You bring me all the way down here just to tell me that you're not going to give me any help until I do you the one favour you know I can't actually do …'

Jack held up a hand to silence her. ‘Don't jump the gun,' he said calmly. ‘I didn't say anything about not wanting to give you any help. I know you're struggling with the idea at the moment – but I'm pretty sure you're going to come round to my way of thinking. And in the meantime, I'm quite happy to help you out anyway I can, Princess.'

Stacey winced at the sound of the nickname she had grown to hate. ‘Stop playing fucking games with me.'

Jack took his time replying. ‘You know I never play games,' he said at last, ‘but there's nothing to tell.

‘I got a couple of the boys to ask everyone who knows anything around on the estate. And I'm telling you, a pigeon can't even take a shit on the windowsill in any of those blocks on the Blenheim without someone seeing it happen.' As he came closer to her, Stacey turned her head the other way as he whispered, ‘Even my lookouts have lookouts, if you know what I mean?'

‘So what did they see?'

‘Nothing. Nada. Zilch. I'm telling you, Princess, if your man was ever on the estate, if he ever arranged any kind of money-drop or anything to do with the kidnap when he was there, then he must be a fucking ghost because not a single person in that whole place saw him.'

Stacey took in the news. It simply didn't make any sense. The money-drop is the single most important and challenging part of any kidnap operation. No one would suggest a location for it to take place that they didn't know well or at least have spent some time in. What on earth was this guy playing at?

Jack's voice snapped Stacey out of her thoughts. ‘I've
done what you asked me to. So what are you going to do about my problem?'

‘I can't get hold of that information, you know I can't.'

‘Don't give me that. I know for a fact that a lot of the stuff you've fed me over the years, I could have found out for myself if I'd gone and looked for it. I know how careful you've been, but I also know that if there's one person who could find a way to get that information, it's you.'

Stacey didn't bother to smile at the compliment. ‘But what are you going to do with the information, Jack? I know what happens to grasses in your world. They end up dead. I can't have blood on my hands. I can't be a part of anything like that.'

Jack held up his empty palms in a gesture of innocence. ‘What kind of guy do you think I am? You've got me all wrong. I just want to send the guy some flowers.' As the joke he was about to tell got the better of him, Jack could no longer hold in the snigger building up inside. ‘But they probably won't be for his birthday.'

He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. ‘It could be one of six people. Here are their names and a few details about each of them. Just do what you can, Princess.'

Jack held out his hand, and Stacey reached out to take the envelope. Their fingers touched briefly and their eyes met. Jack started to smile, but Stacey remained stern-faced. She tried to take the envelope, but Jack refused to relax his grip.

‘Stacey … I …'

‘Don't, Jack,' she said, looking down at the ground.

She pulled at the envelope once more, and it slipped through Jack's fingers. She tucked it into her bag and, without a word, spun on her heel and started to walk away.

Somewhere in the distance, the shutter of a camera with a powerful zoom lens clicked repeatedly.