Fallen Angel (4 page)

Collins shook her head and followed Larcombe back into the main hall of the church. She stood beside Blackwell at the back of the pews as Larcombe walked up the aisle towards the scaffold tower that rose up directly beneath Daniel's body.

Collins was suddenly aware that everyone in the church had stopped to watch the operation in absolute silence. It was as though no one wanted to disturb Daniel from his sleep.

Two firemen climbed up to the top of the tower along with Larcombe and Jessica Matthews, the forensic pathologist. A stretcher was passed up and set in place, and the two firemen, with tears in their eyes, supported the dead weight of the child. The noose was gently lifted from around Daniel's neck and left hanging in mid-air as the boy's body was placed on the stretcher and secured ready to be lifted down. All eyes in the church were transfixed, and many of them also filled with tears as he was gently brought down to the ground.

Collins's mobile buzzed into life, alerting her to an incoming message. She retrieved it in time to see the name
of the sender appear on the screen: Sophie. She hit the ‘read' button and the full message appeared:
THIS IS NOT FAIR!!!!!! YOU'RE NEVER AROUND. YOU PROMISED!!!!

Blackwell noticed how distracted she suddenly appeared to be. ‘DI Collins, is there somewhere else you need to be?'

Collins snapped her phone shut. ‘It's nothing. I'm fine,' she whispered.

Collins walked over to where the firemen were gently laying the body down on a trolley close to the entrance. The boy's eyes were bloodshot and bulging. His mouth was wide open, as if emitting a silent scream. Up close the slash marks on his face were paler than expected, each one framed by congealed blood. His bare feet were a deep purple and horribly swollen where the blood had pooled. There were angry red rope burns around his neck, and the stump of his left arm had already been wrapped in an evidence bag.

Blackwell kept back. He felt strangely responsible for the boy's death. He hadn't been the one to hoist him up in this twisted way, of course, but the case had been his; the responsibility had been his. Damn it, it was only a few hours ago that he had promised Daniel's parents that he would bring their little boy back safely. Why had he said that?

Now he was going to have to tell them their son was dead.

They had called several times, and he had repeatedly put them off, knowing that he had to tell them face to face. Tell those poor people that their son was never coming home. Tell them that the worst thing that could
happen to any parent had just happened to them. He looked across at Stacey Collins, who was still looking over the body. He knew that all the trust he had built up with the parents of Daniel Eliot had been shattered. The best he could do for them now was to reassure them that the police would do everything in their power to find the killer of their son.

‘Collins,' he said, his voice much softer than before, ‘I need to tell the parents. You'd better come along.'

He hadn't been watching from the kitchen window when it had started. He had wanted to, but there were things that needed to be done in the basement. It didn't matter, though; in his mind's eye he could picture exactly how it had all begun.

The cat would have been strolling aimlessly through the back gardens, chasing a bird or perhaps looking for a mate. The scent of the tiny morsel of food would have hit its senses right away, and the animal would have pinpointed its source and wolfed it down. That would have put it in the perfect position to find the next scrap and the next and the next.

The trail he had laid led directly to the back door, where the especially loosened cat flap had been installed in order to encourage even the most timid of creatures to enter. It was the sound of the cat flap shutting that had alerted him, and he had hurried upstairs, panting with excitement.

The cat was in the centre of the kitchen, enjoying the veritable smorgasbord of delights that had been laid out for it. There were saucers of fresh, creamy milk, a selection of wet and dry foods as well as leftover chicken bones with a generous amount of meat clinging to them. It was this last treat that the cat had selected.

He looked down and took in the details of his new visitor. It was a smallish tom, tabby across the body, with white feet and a white tip to its tail. The cat lifted one eye lazily as he entered the room but soon returned its full attention to the feast in front of it.

He approached gently, with the manner of someone used to dealing
with nature's most delicate creations. He kept his voice soft and low, avoided any loud noises or sudden movements. It was a technique he had perfected over the years, and one that had yet to let him down.

As he drew level with the cat, he began to lower his body into a kneeling position while at the same time stretching out his left hand, gently, oh so gently. When the hand was an inch or so above the cat's head, he began to lower it, until his fingers gently brushed the cat's upright ears and then made contact with the crown of its skull.

A soft, slow scratching motion on the head and behind the ears soon produced the desired effect – a deep, soft purr from within the cat's body. The cat was half sitting now, fully relaxed, eating to its heart's content and enjoying its scalp massage. Experience had taught the man that any second now the cat would give in to pleasure and roll on to its side, inviting the man to scratch its stomach.

He felt his breathing increase in pace, his lips turn dry, as he waited for the moment to arrive, that delicious moment, the one he had been dreaming of, the one he had been working towards for so long.

And then it happened: the cat's body seemed to lose all its stiffness, and first one front paw, and then the other, stretched out in front, and suddenly the cat was on its side, legs kicking uselessly in the air, its purr a gentle gurgle.

Then he struck. His heavily gloved right hand moved in as quick as a flash, grabbing one of the front legs hard, bracing it between his thumb and forefinger and squeezing harder and harder until … crack … the bone gave way, breaking clean in two.

He could feel the animal's pain, shock and surprise. The scream was almost human. The purr was gone, the cat was wailing like a police siren. The three remaining legs moved towards the hand, scratching, gouging, the head moved up to bite, but it was useless. The glove was too thick, the hand too strong.

He began to press harder and harder on the useless broken leg, forcing it down on top of the animal's throat. Somewhere in the body he felt another small snap, followed by another yelp of agony. A rib, perhaps, an unexpected bonus.

Down, down, slowly. The man moved to his knees and leaned forward. From here he could see the cat's eyes blinking wildly as it struggled against the impossible odds. Down and down. He looked deeper. He could see his own reflection; the eyes were like two deep dark pools. Then, slowly, its face seemed to go cloudy, the light behind the eyes seemed to fade. The struggles became slower and weaker, the breathing more shallow.

At the exact second when the last flicker of light ebbed away, his face was just inches away from the cat's. At that moment he felt an enormous shiver of excitement and sheer delight run down his spine.

He relaxed his hold on the animal's neck and moved to the other legs, breaking each in turn. He was getting better and better at this. Practice really did make perfect.

It was gone eleven o'clock when DCI Blackwell and DI Collins arrived at the Eliots' house. Blackwell had sent word ahead that he didn't want anyone to inform the parents that Daniel's body had been found. He had not only lost all credibility with the parents but had also lost the case, which is why Collins would be the one to break the terrible news.

The door was opened by David Eliot, and it was immediately obvious that he had been drinking heavily: Collins and Blackwell could smell the harsh odour on his breath. He led them unsteadily through to the living room, where Christina, her face wet with tears, was slumped in a corner of the sofa next to the family liaison officer.

Christina stood up immediately. Collins had done dozens of ‘death knocks' in her time and knew only too well that no matter how well the parents had prepared themselves, confirmation would still come as a terrible shock.

Christina looked over at DCI Blackwell, who in turn looked at Collins, who took a deep breath.

‘Mrs Eliot, Mr Eliot. I think you'd both better sit down.'

Usually when she said those words people had an inkling of what was coming, and Collins had expected that to be the case here. But for some reason Christina's eyes simply widened in expectation, as though she had
not taken on board the negative implications of what Collins had just said. Her husband's emotional reactions had been flattened by the booze. The two sat down together on the sofa, Christina sitting straight and looking appealingly right into the detective's eyes.

‘I'm afraid I have some awful news for you,' Collins began, as she sat in the armchair opposite. ‘There's no easy way to say this. Daniel was found dead four hours ago.'

For a moment their faces did not change, as though the words were taking time to sink in. They just looked at Collins and Blackwell with a terrifying blankness.

Christina's reaction came first. It started as a whimper in which she breathlessly repeated the words ‘No! Oh, God, no!' Gradually her voice became louder until she was wailing. Great racking movements surged through her, as she bent over double in grief and then sat up straight again to fill her lungs with air.

But the father's reaction surprised Collins more. He looked at his wife, helpless in the face of such despair, and all signs of drunkenness fell from him. ‘Where?' he asked above the sound of his wife's crying.

‘In a church. In Peckham. I'm so sorry, Mr and Mrs Eliot. I really am so –'

In an instant Christina was on her feet, her fists pounding into the chest of DCI Blackwell. ‘You fucking bastard – you told us everything would be okay,' she screamed at the top of her lungs. ‘You told us that our little boy would be okay.'

Blackwell made no move to defend himself against the attack. His arms remained by his side as guilty feelings overwhelmed him. ‘I'm sorry, I'm so sorry …'

Christina stepped back. ‘Sorry? Is that all you can fucking say? Sorry. Why didn't you pay the money? Why? You could have paid it all. He told us not to tell the police, but you said it would be okay. And now Daniel's dead. Now my little boy is dead. My son is dead because of you.'

Christina raised her hand to slap Blackwell's face, but Collins moved between them, grabbed hold of the woman's arm and hugged her. She hugged her so tightly that Christina eventually buried her head in the detective's shoulder, and her whole body became weak as she sobbed.

Collins turned to Blackwell. ‘You'd better wait outside,' she whispered.

Blackwell left the house, still mumbling his apologies. He stood outside the front door, lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, his mind churning over the events of the day. He had followed procedure to the letter, but now Daniel was dead. Where had he gone wrong? It was a question he couldn't answer.

In the Eliots' living room exhaustion had begun to take over from raw emotion as Collins continued to comfort Christina. The two women were on the sofa while David stood in the corner pouring himself yet another drink.

‘At some stage we will need you to formally identify Daniel's body. But only when you feel up to it.'

David instantly stood up straight. ‘Let's do it now,' he said gruffly.

Collins got to her feet and put one arm on David's shoulder. ‘Really, Mr Eliot. You don't have to –'

But he quickly brushed her hand away. ‘I'll do it now,'
he said forcefully. ‘Get it over with.' He looked down at his wife. ‘She can stay here. She's in no state –'

Before he could finish, Christina was screaming again, this time louder than before. ‘No!' she yelled. ‘You're not going without me! I want to see my son! I won't believe he's dead until I've seen it for myself!' Her husband grabbed her by the arms, but she wriggled and writhed so violently that he soon took a step backwards. ‘Get off me!' she shouted. ‘Get off me! It's what you wanted, isn't it? It's what you wanted!'

David said nothing, seemingly in a state of shock. Whether it was shock at what his wife had said, or shock that she had said it in public, Collins could not tell. ‘I'll take you both,' Collins told them in a consoling but unsure voice. ‘Just as soon as you're both ready.'

David gave her a look filled with poison, then stormed out of the room.

Just then Collins felt the distinctive buzz in her back pocket. ‘Please excuse me for a moment.' She went out into the corridor and retrieved the phone. Even without looking she knew it was Sophie. The guilt was already driving her crazy. Sophie had been rehearsing her clarinet solo for the gala concert for months. Stacey had insisted that she would be there, but once again her job got in the way of family life.

‘Darling …' Stacey began. It was as far as she would get.

‘Where the hell were you? You promised. You promised. I can't believe you. You just don't care about me at all, do you?'

‘Darling, I had to work …'

‘And that's all you ever do,' Sophie sobbed. Stacey could imagine her young face red and streaming with tears. It almost broke her heart. ‘You're never around. You're never there for me. I'm the only one at school whose mother never turns up for stuff and I hate being the odd one out. You never come to anything. Your work is always more important than me.'

If there was something she could have done, anything she could have done at that moment to make it all better, she would have done it, but she knew that life simply wasn't like that. Just then the sound of the kitchen door opening and David Eliot's heavy footsteps on the laminate flooring told her that her attention was needed elsewhere.

By now Stacey could hardly hear her daughter, whose words were being consumed by floods of tears. ‘Darling, I'm really sorry, I promise I'll make it up to you this time. I really will, but right now I have to go, I really have to go. I love you, my darling, I really do.'

As she ended the call she heard a wail of protest from the other end of the line, followed by a stream of angry words she could not understand. She placed the phone in her pocket just as Christina and the family liaison officer joined David in the hallway.

‘Okay, then,' Collins said with as much compassion as she could muster. ‘Let's go.'