Fallen Angel Read online

  Powell fought back a grimace. God, she was annoying. Everyone waited while she opened up the email attachment. Powell glanced surreptitiously at Vance, who had pushed his way right up beside his sidekick. They were like The Joker and Harley Quinn, those two. He wasn’t sure which one he despised more.

  He shifted back to Gardner, in time to see her face fall. Her mouth opened and she scowled. He felt a jolt of excitement in his chest. Vance was frowning now too, squinting over her shoulder as he read the screen.

  ‘Who is it?’ Powell blurted.

  Vance’s frown deepened and he straightened up. ‘Oh, that’s okay,’ he said with forced confidence. ‘That’s easily explainable.’

  ‘Who is it?’ Powell persisted. Gardner gave him a quick glance then looked away again, saying nothing.

  Powell couldn’t see her screen without getting up and walking around the pod of desks, and he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. One of the young guys gathered around saved him the trouble.

  ‘Simon Beetham,’ he said, ‘who’s that?’

  Powell felt a glow of satisfaction inside. ‘He’s the witness,’ he said, ‘the one who says he heard Manning threatening the victim.’ He felt Vance and Gardner’s eyes on him. He ignored them. ‘You know, the one we based our Surveillance Device Warrant on.’

  ‘Means nothing,’ Gardner said defensively. ‘There’ll be a reasonable explanation for it.’

  ‘Like what?’ Powell scoffed. ‘He was in the victim’s apartment and left his blood behind?’

  Vance gave him a dirty look. ‘How does that mean he killed her?’

  ‘How does it mean he didn’t?’ Powell was almost beyond caring now. He felt emboldened by what they obviously saw as a hiccup.

  ‘Pull your head in, mate,’ Gardner said, crossing her arms. She turned to Vance, looking up at him. ‘Doesn’t he do the fix-it jobs around the place?’

  Vance’s face lightened. ‘Exactly. He does.’

  ‘Well there you go,’ she said.

  Vance turned to the young cop who had spoken. ‘You, track down Beetham and get a statement from him covering that off.’

  ‘Hold on, hold on,’ Powell said, holding up his hand to stop them. ‘What if he’s the offender? Why would you go and tip him off with the one reliable, independent piece of evidence we’ve uncovered so far?’

  ‘He’s not the offender,’ Gardner said firmly.

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Powell insisted. ‘So you’re saying that if it had been Manning’s DNA there, even though he’s the victim’s boyfriend, that would’ve been a smoking gun? But if it’s someone else’s DNA it’s something that’s easily explainable?’

  He could see the doubtful looks on the gathered staff. Behind them he could see the DI had entered the office and was listening. Vance and Gardner both had faces like thunder.

  ‘Don’t you worry about it, Andy,’ Vance told him, ‘you’ve made your opinion pretty clear, so if you no longer want to be on the team, just let me know.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Kennedy said, coming forward to the semi-circle of investigators.

  ‘No problem, boss,’ Vance returned. ‘We have a DNA hit from a microscopic trace of blood on the victim’s bedroom door handle. Comes back to the witness Beetham, the handyman.’ He tossed his chin towards Powell, who was now well and truly in the spotlight. ‘Mr Powell here has a different view on it from the rest of us, that’s all.’

  Kennedy’s rat-like face pinched even further. ‘Detective Powell,’ he said, staring hard at Powell’s chin. ‘It’s time we had another chat. On me.’

  He turned and stalked away. Powell locked his computer and got to his feet, following reluctantly.

  He heard Gardner give a snigger as he walked away.

  ***

  The morning tea crowd had emptied out of the cafeteria by the time Buck got there, and he spotted Jessie Partridge immediately, sitting alone at a wall table.

  She gave a wave and he smiled, pausing just long enough to grab himself a cup of instant-death-coffee before he joined her. She had a matching cup of sludge, no doubt loaded with artificial sugar to kill the taste.

  ‘I got your text,’ he said, ‘I was just downstairs for a meeting.’

  ‘Thought you were quick off the mark.’

  ‘What’s up?’ He took a sip of coffee and felt the enamel on his teeth begin to erode.

  ‘A continuation of what I’ve already told you,’ she said, her voice low. ‘You didn’t hear this from me, but I just ran into Andy Powell before.’

  Buck frowned, trying to place him. ‘The guy on Major Crime?’

  ‘Make that the guy off Major Crime,’ she said. ‘He’s just been dumped.’

  ‘Isn’t he on the homicide?’

  ‘Was. They had a DNA hit from the victim’s apartment.’

  Buck’s eyebrows shot up to his fringe. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Your mate’s neighbour, apparently. A guy called Simon Beetham.’

  Buck cocked his head. ‘I think I know who you’re talking about. What’s his DNA doing in her apartment?’

  ‘That’s the million dollar question.’

  Jessie relayed the conversation she’d had with Powell. Buck listened quietly, ignoring his coffee. Based on past experience, he should’ve known better than to even make it.

  ‘So they’re trying to write him out of it?’ he said when she was finished.

  Jessie nodded.

  ‘Who is this guy anyway? Why’ve we got his DNA in the first place?’

  ‘I had a quick look at him.’

  Buck’s eyes widened. What she meant was that she’d looked him up in the national intelligence database, which was their day-to-day information source. Problem was, every query on NIA left a footprint and had to be justified. Everything was traceable.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, seeing his surprise, ‘I got Steve to do it.’

  Her husband Steve was on Organised Crime, and Buck knew that the OCS guys often had covert access to NIA. It saved them tipping off any leaks as to their interest in a particular target.

  It was a smart move on her part, but still risky.

  ‘He got locked up three years ago for assault,’ Jessie said. ‘He had DNA taken at the time, so he’s on the database.’

  ‘What was the circumstances of the assault?’

  ‘Nothing of relevance to this,’ she said, ‘just a drunken thing at a work do. He smacked some joker who tried to stop him driving home drunk, nothing major.’

  ‘Hmm. Still, a propensity for violence…’ Buck’s mind was ticking over and he subconsciously pinched his lip.

  ‘So ask me,’ Jessie prodded him.

  ‘Ask you what?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘What? Oh, what else did you find out?’

  ‘Well.’ She grinned conspiratorially now and glanced around them to make sure they were clear. ‘He got questioned five years ago after he did a job at someone’s house – because he’s a sparky – and they reckoned he’d stolen some lingerie from the client’s drawer.’

  ‘Wow. That’s not good customer service.’

  ‘No, not at all. It didn’t go anywhere, they said he did, he said he didn’t, the undies were never found and it ended up just being filed. Interesting though, I thought.’

  ‘Definitely. What else?’

  ‘Nothing. That’s it.’

  ‘That’s awesome, Jess,’ Buck said. He pushed his chair back. ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘You off then?’ She gave a pout, and Buck grinned until he realised there was some feeling behind the play act. Their eyes met and he could see her cheeks colour. His grin faltered and he looked away.

  ‘Um, I kinda just nipped out.’ He pulled a face. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Story of my life.’ Jessie played with her cup and Buck felt a pang of regret. There had always been something unspoken between them, and he felt like he’d just run roughshod over it.

  ‘I better go,’ he said apologetically. ‘Thanks aga
in though.’

  ‘Sure.’ Jessie watched him hurry off. Her coffee had gone cold. ‘See you around,’ she muttered to herself.

  ***

  Like most people on social media, Simon Beetham was an open book.

  He had plenty of photos of his activities at the squash club, work, hanging out with various people, and the usual videos and funnies that he shared or liked. Problem was, it was mostly inconsequential stuff that didn’t give any real insight into his life.

  As she went, Molly noticed that he had liked or commented on many posts from other people, with minimal return.

  Molly trawled through it all, taking screenshots of anything that might be of interest, and saved it all in a folder. She took notes as she went, but even by lunch time she hadn’t added much to what she already had.

  Beetham only had a few dozen Facebook friends, so she scanned through them as well. The majority seemed to be people he had no other link to, presumably people he’d only interacted with online. There was less than ten people that she was confident that he actually knew in person.

  She had almost finished scanning the online friends, and was starting to think about lunch, when she opened up the profile of Cameron Potter. He was a UK resident, early twenties, into cars and heavy metal.

  And he had a runner’s build and an overbite.

  Molly did a double take at the first photo she opened up. Although he was missing the lazy eye, he was the spitting image of a younger Beetham. She felt her pulse kick up a beat as she started to delve into this new find. Like most young people his page was full and constantly updated, and she realised it would take some time to trawl through it all.

  She got up, made herself a cup of blackberry tea, and sat back down with a clean notebook page and a renewed interest. Cameron Potter was very open about his interests and activities, most of which seemed to revolve around car events, gigs, getting wasted and chasing girls.

  Up until a month ago, that is. A month ago, Cameron got a girlfriend. Apparently Laney was an old school friend he ran into at an underground gig, rekindled a relationship and now he was in love with her. Deeply, deeply in love with her. So deep, in fact, that he was trying to pick the design to get her name tattooed on his arm.

  The arm he showed on Facebook was skinny and undefined, so maybe a tattoo would improve its appeal in some way. Unlike Cameron, however, Molly wasn’t convinced that the name of a new girlfriend was really the best choice. It had taken Dan three months to tell her he loved her, and that had seemed quick at the time. No tattooing had been involved.

  There were numerous comments from his million Facebook buddies about how cool it would be, or what type of design he should have, or how lucky he was to have landed Laney. There was more than one who publicly lamented having lost her, but acknowledging that Cameron was the better man and would treat her right.

  For a young girl, Laney had broken a number of hearts, Molly mused. Perhaps it was the nose ring, or the green hair. Maybe the death-black eyeliner and matching lippy. Who knew; it was a different scene to what she had experienced.

  She scrolled down, scanning the comments, and just when she was about to move on to the next posting, she hit pay dirt.

  Remember son, tattoos are forever. A comment from Simon Beetham, buried amongst all the gushing and fawning from Cameron’s online friends. Son. Interesting.

  She glanced down. 13 replies. Opening them up, they were 11-2 in favour of Cameron. Apparently Cameron didn’t appreciate the comment from Simon Beetham, and said so in short words that were easy to understand.

  Even Molly was taken aback by the feeling he conveyed. Beetham attempted to placate the younger man but Cameron was having none of it. Apparently Simon Beetham knew nothing about relationships and was in no position to comment.

  The last reply was from Cameron. It was simply a photograph with the accompanying text Mum would have understood.

  Even more interesting.

  Molly’s pulse was racing now. She knew she was onto something, she just wasn’t sure quite what it was yet.

  She enlarged the photograph from Cameron’s comment. It looked dated, maybe fifteen or twenty years old, and showed a couple with their arms around each other, grinning at the camera. They were in semi-formal attire and standing in front of a long table with food, drink and presents on it. The table was against a plain wall, with a tinsel-edged banner hanging near the ceiling.

  Happy 40th Doreen.

  The man on the right was clearly Simon Beetham, with a little bit more hair and a few less lines. He wore beige walk shorts with long socks and sandals, and a lime green short-sleeved shirt.

  The woman on the left, with her arm around him and a wide grin, was plump and jolly looking, in a floral 60s-style dress. She wore Jesus sandals and had flowers braided into her hair.

  Each of them had a cigarette visible in their free hand.

  Molly screenshot it and sat back, her mind churning. She knew there could be other explanations, but she believed she had discovered Simon Beetham’s past. A wife and son back in England.

  Mum would have understood. Would have. If this was Doreen in the photo, and she had to assume it was, then Doreen was dead.

  The question was; how?

  Chapter 26

  The car park was a tiny thing sandwiched between a dodgy pool hall and a dodgier massage parlour, off a back alley off a side street off upper Queen Street.

  There was a gap between a battered old Nissan hatch and a sleeker white Lexus SUV.

  Manoeuvring a double-cab Ford Ranger through the narrow spaces had tested Mike’s skill, but he had ended up reversed into the spot with a view of the service lane across his front. The truck was a charcoal grey and he kept it scrupulously clean and free of detritus, unlike Dan’s work car.

  In the back was a bag containing various changes of clothes and other equipment he sometimes needed while out on a job. Within a minute of switching the engine off, his contact arrived.

  John Bolton was shorter than Mike, wiry and very fit. He had thick dark hair and a boyish grin, and was dressed in a casual-business shirt and chinos. He climbed into the passenger seat, removed his shades and they shook hands.

  ‘You’re looking very city these days mate,’ Mike said.

  ‘It’s how they do it,’ JB replied.

  ‘You still with the spooks?’ Mike had heard through the army grapevine that JB had got an attachment to the Security Intelligence Service. It seemed a far cry from his normal counter-terrorist role in the Commando squadron of Special Forces.

  JB nodded briefly. ‘It’s a good gig.’

  ‘You picked a hell of a funny meeting place.’ Mike jerked his thumb towards the massage parlour on his left. ‘This your local?’

  JB grinned. ‘Not likely, mate. You know me, I’m a ladies man. No need for that.’

  Mike grinned because he knew it was true. JB had always been a player on the scene back when they were in green together.

  ‘How’s the PI gig going?’ JB said. ‘I heard you killed someone.’

  Even though he knew the other man was joking, the words gave Mike a jolt in his chest. JB noticed immediately.

  ‘Sorry, hombre,’ he said. ‘A bit too soon?’

  ‘Just a bit,’ Mike said. ‘It’s what I need some help with, anyway.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  Mike filled him in briefly on the circumstances, explained how Simon Beetham fitted into the picture, and rounded off with his neighbour’s supposed military service.

  ‘So you wanna know if he did ever serve in the UK,’ JB said.

  ‘Yep.’

  JB’s brow furrowed momentarily. ‘Look, I’ll do it on the down low, okay. I can’t make a formal request to another agency over there for it because this is nothing to do with the Service, but I do know some people who could find out. Failing that I also know some dudes in the SF community who could find out.’ He sucked his teeth. ‘You need to know as soon as, I suppose?’

  ‘Yep.’


  ‘And if he never served, how does that prove he’s the murderer and not you?’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ Mike said.

  ‘But it proves him a liar and therefore affects his credibility.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  JB nodded to himself. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Bloody Walts.’

  ‘Walts?’ Mike wondered if his old friend had gone mad.

  ‘Walters, Walter Mitty? Fantasist? You wouldn’t believe how many clowns there are out there who chuck these stories around. Must think it makes them look cool.’

  Mike grunted. JB grinned and stuck his hand out. They shook and he got out. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said through the open window. He slid on his shades and grinned again. ‘Stay sexy, my man.’

  He headed back towards Queen St and Mike watched him go. On second thoughts, maybe JB was a perfect fit for this spooks business. He fired up the engine and was good to go when he caught movement from the corner of his eye.

  Two large Samoan guys were approaching from the direction of the pool hall. One was lugging a yellow wheel clamp.

  ‘Can’t park here, bro,’ the first one rumbled. He had a collection of prison tats on his meaty forearms and hands, and shoulders that would fill a doorway.

  ‘Just going, mate,’ Mike said, dropping the handbrake.

  ‘Can’t go yet, bro,’ the guy said, reaching the door. ‘You got clamped, gotta pay your fine.’

  Mike scowled. ‘I didn’t get clamped, so don’t try and screw some coin out of me.’ In the wing mirror he saw the other guy leaning down at the back of the truck, about to clamp his wheel. ‘Oi, get out of it.’

  ‘Got signs up bro, says you get clamped. Five hundy to get it released.’ The big man was right at Mike’s window, blocking out the sun.

  ‘Five hundred bucks? You’re dreaming, mate.’ Mike slapped it into gear and gunned it forward, leaving the clamper sprawling behind him. The big man shouted something and as Mike cranked the wheel in a hard turn into the service lane, something crashed into the rear window of the truck’s canopy, obliterating the window and thumping into the tray.

  He hit the picks and leaped out. The big man was flexing his fingers and rolled his neck, making a point of loosening up. Most men would have baulked about then, but Mike wasn’t most men it hadn’t been a great week so far.