Fallen Angel
About the Author
Born in Dublin, JENNY O’BRIEN moved to Wales and then Guernsey, where she tries to find time to both read and write in between working as a nurse and ferrying around three teenagers.
In her spare time she can be found frowning at her wonky cakes and even wonkier breads. You’ll be pleased to note she won’t be entering Bake Off. She’s also an all-year-round sea swimmer.
Praise for the Detective Gaby Darin series
‘Mind blowing’
‘Keeps you on the edge of your seat’
‘A great crime procedural series!’
‘An amazing thriller from beginning to end’
‘Couldn’t ask for a better read’
‘This series just keeps getting better. I was hooked from the first page’
‘A five-star read, no question’
Also by Jenny O’Brien
The Detective Gaby Darin series
Silent Cry
Darkest Night
The Stepsister
Fallen Angel
JENNY O’BRIEN
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020
Copyright © Jenny O’Brien
Jenny O’Brien asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © November 2020 ISBN: 9780008390198
Version: 2020-10-23
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Praise for the Detective Gaby Darin series
Also by Jenny O’Brien
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Acknowledgements
Dear Reader …
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
To Ady Sarchet, the Sea Donkey, who works tirelessly for Guernsey disabled swimmers.
Prologue
She lies on her back unsure of what the delay is. After all, she’s not stupid. She’s guessed what must be next. It’s there in the gleam of his eye and the excited sheen on his forehead as he leans towards her, his hands rearranging the pale cotton around her body. She knows now that there’s no hope. No knight to rescue the damsel in distress. No future in her golden prison of green.
The light morning breeze and weak early sunshine do nothing to warm her skin or assuage her fears. If anything, her fears escalate as she wonders how much more of this glorious day she’ll manage to see. The rock underneath her shoulders and bottom is cold and hard, the musty nightdress unable to protect her tender skin or prevent the panic bubbling up underneath her fragile, pale beauty. It’s there to see in her wide-eyed stare, the black of her pupil etched against the pale grey of her iris and the pulse in her throat dancing to its own frantic beat.
With her arms and legs unbound she knows she could run. There are lots of places to hide and, having visited the Great Orme regularly since childhood, she knows most of them. But it’s not string or tape that bind her to what she suspects will be her final resting place. It’s the words she can’t forget in the dark thicket of her mind. Her throat constricts, her breath now a hollow rasp as his fingers start their inevitable journey across her flesh. If she runs someone else will die.
Chapter 1
Gaby
Wednesday 15 July, 2.10 p.m. St Asaph Police Station
Acting DI Gaby Darin was going to suppress the yawn with the back of her hand but decided not to bother. There was little point in hiding the truth. She was in one of the most exciting careers imaginable. Almost at the top of her game, if you like, with cases being flung at her from all corners as society dug deep and threw the worst kind of humanity in her direction. Yet here she was doing a cop’s version of twiddling her thumbs: flicking through the stack of cold cases they had lurking in the storage room in the bowels of the station.
She hugged her new, grey, pin-striped jacket more firmly across her chest, bemoaning the fact that she hadn’t had the foresight to wear one of her old suits. When the station had been remodelled, no expense had been spared on the glossy new reception and interview rooms. But the same couldn’t be said for the, quite frankly, miserable storage facilities hidden from public view. Oh, there were computers, high-tech systems that could do everything from trapping a perp with only part of a number plate via the ANPR tracking system, to searching international databases using state-of-the-art face-recognition software. But for that to happen records had to be electronic and the crimes she was looking through had all happened well before a desktop meant anything other than a surface to work off.
Pushing back from the table, she stood and stretched, her tight muscles rebelling against the last two hours of enforced inactivity, her eyes raking over the list of three murder victims’ case numbers she’d scribbled down to examine in more detail. The problem was one of motivation. It was easy to be enthusiastic about a current case, a case where she’d built up a sense of rapport with the victim or, in the case of a murder, their relatives. But these … While all of them were serious cases that deserved to be solved, it was likely that there’d be few people left who remembered what had happened or even cared. She wanted something exciting. Something to get her teeth into while she still had the free time to make a difference. With summer well and truly here, who knew what crimes would claim her attention? But while things were quiet, she was determined to make inroads on the ever-growing pile of unsolved cases. For one thing it would keep her boss, Henry Sherlock, out of her hair. He was forever banging on about crime rates and how well the North Wales MIT was performing against the rest of the UK – a solved cold case would garner an additional boost to those rankings.
She returned the files to their relevant boxes and, picking up her notepad, headed for the door.
‘Thank you, Colin,’ she said, tossing the grey-haired archive officer a smile before signing out and walking up the stairs back to her office. She’d have a coffee and while she was drinking it, make a list for and against each of the cases shortlisted. It shouldn’t be too difficult to narrow it down, she thought, her mind running over each one as she entered her office and threw her pad on the desk. But before she could head back into the incident room and pour a drink from the coffee pot, Detective Owen Bates barged through the door, his hands full of newspaper cuttings which he unceremoniously spread across the desk with a flourish.
Folding her arms across her chest, she threw the tall, stocky Welshman a small smile. ‘I take it you’ve decided to add to my list of potential cold cases, Owen?’ Her gaze slid to the top article and the image of a young woman, a girl really, her hair swept back into an untidy ponytail. ‘It had better be more interesting than the poor retired bank manager you were telling me about who pitched himself under that bus last month – poor sod.’
‘There’s no comparison. This one here,’ he said, placing his hand flat against the top article, his customary smile missing, ‘is a real humdinger of a case that, if rumours are to be believed, had old Stewart Tipping running around in circles.’
Gaby frowned, managing to hide her surprise. She’d worked with Owen now for nearly six months and had always found him to be the most mild-mannered of people. Nothing fazed him and, despite the often grizzly nature of their job, he was always the one to break the tension with the most inappropriate of jokes that only other members of the force could truly appreciate. So, there was something about this case that had piqued his interest, was there? Something that had made him gather a file full of tattered newspaper articles. Something that had pulled him so far out of his comfort zone as to remove any trace of humour from his face. Now, for the first time in what seemed like ages, she was interested.
She unfolded her arms, picked up the top newspaper article and started to read, her mouth saying the words out loud.
‘The body of the missing Llandudno teenager has been found on the Great Orme. A spokesperson for the North Wales police department has said that the body has been identified as eighteen-year-old Angelica Brock, who went missing from her home in Llandudno in the early hours of Tuesday morning.’
She paused as she scanned the rest of the article, the words causing her lips to curl and her jaw to tighten. A well-known phrase streaked through her mind: Be careful what you wish for. She’d been bored out of her mind since her return from sick leave, so bored that she’d even pulled out her end-of-month report, something that was never started until the warnings from above became too threatening to ignore – usually halfway through the next month. She’d wanted a case to sink her teeth into but the disappearance of an innocent girl from her bedroom and subsequent discovery of her lifeless body in a well-known picnic spot, wasn’t what she’d envisaged. Scrolling to the top of the page, she noted the date. 1995. Twenty-five years ago, which would have made Gaby only six. Far too young for her to have taken an interest in the news. But for Owen, born and bred in Llandudno, the case obviously meant something more than the facts spread out in front of her in all their messy tabloid glory.
‘Go on then.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Oh, cut the crap, Owen.’ Her voice was edged with more razors than the average barbershop. ‘You know very well I’m still only acting DI and, when we’re alone it’s Gaby or Gabriella. Even Miss Darin will suffice – but ma’am,’ she added, the slight twang from her Liverpudlian accent hammering the M into submission, ‘is not allowed – ever.’
‘Gaby then,’ he said, his expression still grim.
‘Why this case now after all these years?’ she said, her mind taking a walk through the other cold cases before switching back to Angelica Brock – there was no comparison. ‘And if you reply with the “Why not?” that I can see you’re about to, then you’re a lesser man than I thought.’
‘Because I knew her.’
Chapter 2
Gaby
Wednesday 15 July, 2.25 p.m. St Asaph Police Station
‘You knew her,’ Gaby repeated, plonking herself down in her chair and gesturing for him to do the same, only to stop, her hand tapping the rim of her empty mug. ‘Coffee, please. It’s only fair if you’re going to land this in my lap that you fuel my caffeine addiction first.’
‘I thought that was chocolate, Gabriella?’ he said, casting her a wink before backing out of the room, his hands raised as if to ward off the inevitable snappy reply.
Gaby shook her head, her mind already on the case in front of her, her hands skimming through the articles for the most reliable report. After a morning of dealing with facts, the lurid headlines almost had her wishing she’d passed on the coffee, the smell of Asda’s cheapest dry roast wafting through the door causing her nose to wrinkle and her stomach to flip.
‘There you go. Extra strong, just the way you like it,’ Owen said, making room for both mugs on the desk and pulling up a chair.
‘So, tell me about Angelica Brock then. How did you know her?’ She pushed her mug to one side. ‘You’d have only been about …’
‘Twelve, and I didn’t know her, not well.’
She leant forward, propping her elbows on the desk, her chin balanced in her hands. ‘Explain.’
‘Well, we went to the same school but she was miles out of my league. She made head girl so we all knew of her.’ Gaby watched him blink rapidly, before continuing. ‘She was quiet. Studious even. You know the sort. Heading for a posh degree in some English university to study medicine, but nice with it. Her sister was in my class, not that I had much to do with her then being as she was only a girl,’ he finished, managing a smirk of sorts.
‘Of course you wouldn’t.’ Gaby returned his stare head on, well aware that his blasé attitude was only a ruse. There was more going on under the slight blush trailing a path underneath his cheeks, only partially covered by his beard. She had a pair of older brothers back in Liverpool. She knew what it was like with boys especially when the girls looked like Angelica Brock. Dropping her gaze, she examined the top photo. Angelica had that near white-blonde hair that always ratcheted up male heartbeats. But there was also an innocence about her, an innocence that would have been bound to attract the worst kind of individual. And with that thought, something curled deep inside, dragging Gaby straight to the dark place that resided in the corner of her mind.
All coppers had such a place. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be able to survive even a week in the force. They certainly wouldn’t have a home life and as for even considering having children … They had to compartmentalise the day-to-day horrors they came up against or face drowning in their poison of choice, be that alcohol, drugs or, in Gaby’s case, chocolate.
‘So, what can you add?’ she said, pushing the pile of cuttings in his direction.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come on, Owen. Give me more. Stewart Tipping is one of the best coppers around. If the case nearly broke him, what’s to say it isn’t going to be a complete dead end or, indeed, break me?’
He didn’t answer at once, the flooring covering her office taking up more of his attention than the wood-effect laminate deserved.
‘I don’t know what else there is. Llandudno changed after that. It grew up if you like and yanked us kids along with it. Almost overnight, we weren’t allowed out at night without being interrogated about where we were going and who with. Yes, Llandudno became a little safer, but it also became a little sadder. With her death, we lost a whole lot more than her, if that makes sense?’ He lifted his head and, if Gaby didn’t know any better, she’d think that his eyes were moist. ‘I don’t know what else to say.’ He spread his hands again before twisting them and reaching for the now empty mugs. ‘I was just a lad. It was only later, when I decided to go into the force that I searched up her case file or should that be files – there’s boxes of them.’ He tilted his head, aiming a smile in her direction. ‘We all know what a stickler Stewart is for recordkeeping. She seemed so sweet and innocent when they found her, that beautiful hair billowing out like a pillow. Her pure white nightdress didn’t help. It looked like she’d dropped off to sleep. I could see then why the press hit on the tagline of The Angel Murder. The force even adopted the moniker in the case title – Operation Angel.’
Operation Angel. Gaby let the phrase roll around her mind, her hands shuffling through the photos. This Angelica Brock wouldn’t be the first pretty schoolgirl to meet a grizzly end and, sadly, she wouldn’t be the last. Wherever beauty lay there was always ugliness lurking in the shadows. So, what made this different and, more importantly, what made her think that this might be a case she could solve? She’d be arrogant in thinking she was even half as good a detective as Stewart Tipping. Before going off sick, he’d had thirty years in the force and a conviction rate that was renowned throughout the North Wales network. If he couldn’t find the clue that would break the case wide open then there probably wasn’t one to be found.
Pulling out her notepad, she scrolled through the list of the other crimes she’d jotted down earlier, before shutting it with a snap. She wanted to sink her teeth into a case that would occupy her mind and distract her thoughts. After the craziness of recent months, the idea of a cold case appealed. If truth be known, not that she’d admit it to anyone, she still suffered from exhaustion following her near-fatal stabbing during the previous case. A nice quiet mystery to work through while she continued to convalesce from her injuries would suit her nicely.
‘Okay, Owen. Let’s do this. Pop down to Colin in Archives and give him the heads up as to what files we’ll need and, on the way back, you can make some fresh coffee. That one tasted as if a mouse had thrown up in it. And after, I’ll treat you to lunch. Your usual sandwich from the canteen do?’
Chapter 3
Gaby
Thursday 16 July, 5 p.m. Old Colwyn
Stewart Tipping had once been a large, imposing figure. But the cancer had ripped through his body, stripping away the covering and leaving only the inner man under the disease-ravished flesh. His body was now skin attached to bone, his face shrunken to almost a death mask and his upright bearing now an old man’s stoop. The changes wrought since Gaby had last seen him had her hiding her feelings behind her habitual bland countenance: Stewart wouldn’t take kindly to even a flicker of compassion. After a brief smile for Sheila, his long-suffering wife, Gaby took the seat offered and got right down to business.
‘I’m sorry it’s been so long but …’
He waved her comment away, the veins standing proud on the back of his hand. ‘While you’re always welcome, I wouldn’t expect you to keep popping in,’ he said, reaching for his mug and cradling the pottery between his fingers. ‘What can I help you with? I do take it that there is something?’
‘How do you know that I haven’t popped around for a chat?’ she fired back, with an answering beam.
‘Well, have you?’
She glanced down at her hands before replying, taking the time to choose her words carefully. She’d spent all day reading up on Operation Angel but examining dry-as-dust witness statements and file notes had done little to bring the case to life. The reason she’d swung past Stewart’s bungalow in Old Colwyn was to get a first-hand feel for the crime, all those little thoughts and nuances that would need a truck-load of notebooks to fill, and she needed to do it in such a way as to not offend the man in front of her. Now she was here it was the sense of guilt that would keep her long past her original motive for visiting.
‘No.’ She raised her head, meeting his gaze square on. ‘The reason I’m here is because of Angelica Brock.’
‘Ah.’
There was a wealth of feeling in that one meaningless syllable. Stewart’s expression remained unchanged but his tightening knuckles told their own story. She’d upset him – the very last thing she wanted but it couldn’t be helped. Owen’s knowledge of the case was coloured by the viewpoint of a twelve-year-old boy. He couldn’t be the impartial partner she needed and everyone else had either retired or moved to other teams round the country. Dropping in on Stewart and Sheila on her way home was meant to be the easy option, But, by the sudden tension in the room, it felt like the wrong decision.
‘My one big failure.’
What could she say that wasn’t going to upset him any more than she was doing? After all, he was only stating the truth. All coppers had their fair share of failures. It was never just one that got away these days. With manpower pressures, they were hard pressed to keep on top of whatever came through the door let alone have the time to invest any energy into unsolved cases. Gaby sighed, thinking back to her own failings over the years. The successes never featured. The families she’d helped. The lives she’d saved. No … She sighed again. She shouldn’t have come but, now she was here, she owed this man complete honesty.
‘I can’t promise to have more success than you had, Stewart. But I’ve been reading over the files with Owen and I think it’s something that deserves our attention.’
He ran his hand over his bald head, his gaze avoiding hers. ‘Of all the cases I’ve ever worked on, it’s the one that baffled the most. We did everything we could. Followed all the angles we could think of. Interviewed half of Llandudno in the process, but nothing. It had more blind ends than Hampton Court Maze. She disappeared from a first-floor bedroom and yet there were no clues. We didn’t know if she had a secret assignation or if she’d been abducted. But if it was the latter, how was it managed without an accomplice or two? But there were no fingerprints left at the scene. No DNA on the body. The post-mortem was inconclusive as to the method of her death. All they could come up with was that her heart had stopped.’ He leant forward in his chair, his hands gripped together. ‘The truth is, all we had was the body of an eighteen-year-old. There were no indications of sexual activity and no evidence of force or bruising. Her blood alcohol level was pretty much zero as was the drugs screen. It’s as if she climbed out of the window and made her way to the Great Orme before curling up and drifting off into a sleep that resulted in her death.’
Gaby took a deep sip of tea, made the way she liked it. She was hoping that he’d give her additional information. All the little extras that on their own didn’t add up to squat but together might just have the makings of a case. But he wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know.