Fallen Angel

Chapter 6

Owen

Friday 17 July, 11.30 a.m. St Asaph Hospital

Owen bounded through the doors of the pathology department, a locked document wallet under one arm. After a quick coffee with Malachy and Jax, where he heard more than necessary about Jax’s new girlfriend and little or nothing about Mal, he’d headed back to his desk to make an appointment with Rusty. He had no idea what forensic pathologists actually did when they weren’t either on the scene of a crime or performing autopsies. But after finally managing to wheedle an appointment out of his frosty PA, he now knew that whatever Rusty did, it certainly took up most of his time.

‘Good to see you, Owen.’ Rusty rose to his feet and shook hands before placing his balled-up fist in the small of his back and bracing his shoulders. ‘If I have to read another report, I’ll go mad,’ he said, inclining his head in the direction of his laptop and the open Excel programme with an array of columns packed with figures. ‘So, tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee, if it’s not too much bother?’

‘No bother at all. I’m delighted that you’ve decided to lighten my day with your presence.’

‘Well, I’m not sure about that.’ Owen broke the grey, plastic security tag on the case, removed a red file and placed it on the desk, the photo of Angelica plonked dead centre.

Kettle on and mugs assembled, Rusty joined him.

‘May I?’

‘That’s why I’m here.’ Owen stepped back, wandered over to the window and pulled back the vertical blinds to glance out at the bright, cloudless sky before turning back to him. ‘Her name was Angelica Brock. I don’t know whether you’ve ever heard of Operation Angel, or The Angel Murder, as it was coined? It was quite a while ago – 1995 to be exact.’

‘The Angel Murder? Hmm.’ Rusty squinted down at the photo, his eyes alert behind his black-framed glasses. ‘1995. I would have been sixteen and going into my Leaving Cert year in Dublin but there’s something … something to do with a nightdress?’

‘Yes, that’s it exactly. It could have been all very innocent excepting she went to bed in her PJs and was found wearing that,’ Owen said, nodding at the photo and swallowing hard. ‘The thing is, with the North Wales MIT being so quiet, we’ve decided to look into one of the old ones gathering dust.’ He sat down on the spare chair and lifted his chin. ‘I knew her, you see. She was my wife’s sister.’

‘Ah.’

Owen watched him place the photo back on the desk and continue with the drinks, the silence in the room only broken by the sound of metal chinking against pottery. Rusty only spoke again when he’d placed the mugs down and eased himself into the swivel chair opposite, the frame creaking slightly under his six-foot-two frame.

‘So, why do you think it wasn’t solved then? I take it that it’s something you’d have investigated when you joined the force? It’s certainly something I’d have done in your position.’

Owen felt his cheeks heat under the weight of Rusty’s blue-eyed stare because, of course, he was right. Almost the first thing he’d done when he joined was to run a search on the Police National Computer, or PNC, only to learn that electronic crime records didn’t stretch back as far as the 1990s. It was all very well working for the police but checking out records he didn’t have clearance for wasn’t as easy as all that. He’d quickly discovered that the subject of Angelica’s death was something that wasn’t discussed and it wasn’t a topic of conversation he’d ever start for fear that he wouldn’t know how to finish it. Kate, for all her serene exterior and practical approach, had never gotten over the loss of her big sister. It lingered in the far corner of her mind, always slightly out of reach. But when the opportunity came for him to suggest revisiting the murder, initially he didn’t jump at the chance. There were too many things to consider, top of the list being what it would do to Kate if they were unsuccessful. To broach the subject had been difficult. One of the most difficult things he’d had to do and something he’d been regretting ever since. He had no idea what would happen to them as a couple if they failed to find her sister’s murderer second time round.

‘The force takes a dim view of coppers going off piste,’ he finally said, avoiding the question. ‘Apart from the nightdress, there was no evidence that she was even murdered. No witnesses and no DNA to speak of. Also no evidence of sexual intercourse, consensual or otherwise.’

‘Mmm. People seem hung up on DNA these days, don’t you think? They tend to forget that we still managed to solve crimes before all these profiling techniques kicked in. Oh, I agree that it’s vital in modern-day policing but not if it’s at the expense of the other elements in a crime fighter’s toolbox like our eyes, ears, touch and smell.’ He picked up the top folder and started removing the photographs, setting them out on the desk in a snowstorm of gore. ‘Detective work has always been 95 per cent common sense and we ignore that at our peril. So there weren’t any obvious clues. So what? Your colleagues still identified that a crime had been committed?’

‘Yes but lack of evidence means that I’m not sure why I’m here. Yes, I want it solved but for very selfish reasons. If I’m honest, I think far too much time has passed and if it wasn’t for Gaby sending me to you—’

‘How is Gabriella, Owen?’ Rusty interrupted, pulling out the autopsy report and quickly scanning to the conclusion.

‘Good. She still gets the odd twinge but, apart from that, raring to go. The office is far too quiet for her liking.’

‘Well, it will be. Provides too much time for thought. She was very lucky, very lucky indeed.’ He raised his head, changing the subject. ‘So, explain the crime scene to me.’

‘Angelica was found in the Happy Valley, which is …’

‘I know where it is. The place with the bandstand, halfway up the Great Orme. Carry on, I’m listening,’ he said, now holding a sketch of the crime scene.

‘There’s a stone circle. It looks old, ancient even, but it’s a relatively recent addition, placed there sometime in the 1960s. She was found on the slab in the middle by a dog walker. She couldn’t have been there long. Only a few hours or so. Her parents had barely raised the alarm before she was discovered.’

‘And she was positioned like this?’ He tapped the edge of the photo with his finger.

‘Yes, curled up into a ball, one hand under her cheek as if she’d dropped off to sleep.’

‘Mmm, I would suggest that’s relevant. She didn’t just drop off to sleep, did she? She was placed in the foetal position post-mortem. The question you need to ask is why?’

It was Owen’s turn to say, ‘Go on,’ his notebook open on his knee. The notebook was more of a prop than anything but he added a line about her position all the same.

‘I’m afraid at this juncture that I don’t have a huge lot to add,’ Rusty said, leafing through the report from the CSI team. ‘Her toxicology screen showed no traces of drugs or alcohol.’ He paused, studying the list of samples they’d collected. ‘I take it you’ll be sending the nightdress and any other articles of clothing or jewellery found on the victim back to the CSIs for further analysis? With advances in touch DNA techniques, if the killer has left any skin traces, they should be able to find them. The absence of any physical evidence makes it unlikely but you never know.’ He shuffled the papers into a neat pile. ‘I’ll revisit the samples collected at the time and, if they haven’t degraded, I’ll see if I can run some additional tests. I’d like to keep these, if I may?’ He picked up the photo again. ‘Pretty girl. Distinctive hair.’

‘Yes. Very. Kate’s very like her,’ Owen said, careful not to stare at the picture. It brought back a host of memories, most of them unhappy. He couldn’t remember the time now before Angelica’s death. He’d give anything for it not to have happened. The next best thing would be ensuring that her killer was caught.

Chapter 7

Gaby

Friday 17 July, 11.30 a.m. St Asaph

‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’

Meeting up with Amy at St Asaph’s bridal shop was as good enough a reason as any for Gaby slipping out of the office after the briefing and taking what must be the earliest lunch break in living memory. Now, faced with the reality of Amy’s quirky dress sense, she wished she hadn’t bothered. Okay so it wasn’t the pink meringue she’d feared but it was still pink, an old-rose shade that was apparently an excellent colour-choice with her second-generation Italian complexion. Gaby turned sideways but it wasn’t any better, her gaze fixed on her balloon-glass silhouette instead of the hourglass figure she craved. If she’d had to conjure up the worst possible thing to wear, ever, it would be this … this disaster in front of her.

The dress was lovely, beautiful even. The fragile lace bodice was intricate and finished with wide chiffon sleeves that fastened at the wrist with little pearl buttons. The skirt, in the same pink chiffon, was a dream. No, it wasn’t the dress that was the disaster – far from it. There was no getting over the fact that she was a big girl. She was always on a diet and therefore always hungry. In the last six months she’d managed to shed the couple of stone she’d put on in South Wales but she still had a good stone and a half before she reached her goal weight.

Amy stood from where she’d been grovelling on the floor helping the saleswoman to pin up the hem. ‘I think you’re beautiful, Gaby. That colour brings out the warmth of your skin and as for your figure – so you’re not skinny. You’re not even thin but who’s to say what the perfect body must look like? You’re fit and healthy and there’s nothing wrong with your figure that isn’t in your mind. It’s like one of those voluptuous Rubenesque paintings. And anyway, with the wedding not until the end of August you’ll have plenty of time to lose a few pounds if you want.’

In Gaby’s book, voluptuous was another word for fat. But one glance at Amy’s expression and she decided there and then to go along with any and all of her fairy-tale plans. No one knew more than her just how close Amy had come to never walking down the aisle and the terror they’d shared in that isolated farmhouse, situated on the very edge of Snowdonia. She’d swallow any ideas of a tailored dark dress in perhaps a dark blue or even navy and go along with every romantic notion in her best friend’s head. It was only for one day, half a day considering that the wedding wasn’t until noon.

‘And your hair,’ Amy continued. ‘I think down, with a few tiny flowers weaved through the top to complement your bouquet.’ She threw her a grin, which transformed her features. ‘Now, as for shoes. I was thinking of …’

Gaby zoned out, her mind drifting back to the case. She had no worries as to how Mal and Jax were getting on, and determinedly avoided any thoughts of Rusty. It was Marie she was worried about. For Angelica’s murder to be solved required total commitment from all the team. To expect the sustained period of quiet to carry on for longer than a few days would be foolhardy. Their workload could escalate in a heartbeat and there was no way that their DCI, Henry Sherlock, would allow them to waste precious resources on something that, on paper, looked like a dead end. No, they had to come up with something new pretty smartish or he’d pull rank and direct their skills elsewhere. It was all about crime stats. Numbers and not names. It didn’t matter that there was still a family struggling with the aftermath of the hand dealt them. Gaby scowled. If she ever started to think of her job solely in terms of success rates, she’d know it was time to hang up her badge. There was Owen, too, to consider, she remembered, her scowl deepening. With Kate so heavily pregnant he’d be torn between the case and his home life. She’d have to make sure that she found the time from somewhere to support him …

‘You’re not listening to a word I’ve been saying,’ Amy interrupted, holding up a pair of delightful pink courts with copper flowers pinned along the side. ‘I thought these would be perfect but if you’re not interested …?’

‘It’s not that,’ Gaby said, forcing herself to focus on the flimsy shoes. ‘They’re lovely. Perfect even.’ She slid off her plain flat black pumps before sliding her feet into them, trying not to grimace at the pull on the back of her calves. She loved shoes with a passion but long days on her feet and a non-existent social life meant she could hardly remember a time when she’d worn anything with more than a one-inch heel.

She glanced behind her to make sure that the shop assistant was out of hearing range. ‘I’m a little worried about Marie. What were you saying again about her husband?’

She watched Amy relax. Arranging a wedding was stressful at the best of times but to plan it from start to finish in less than six weeks must be viewed as herculean. Marrying someone whose parents owned a hotel with a garden big enough for a marquee helped. It was the other million things left to organise that had caused her friend to lose her normally sunny demeanour. She hoped the engagement party tonight would go some way to wiping away the trauma of the last few weeks.

‘I thought I’d upset you with me wanting everything to be perfect.’ Amy hugged her briefly. ‘I’m really not surprised Marie’s gone off the rails. Her husband did the dirty on her in the worst way possible. You’re not to share this, all right, but she confided that they’d been trying for a baby. There apparently was some difficulty. She didn’t go into any details but I suspect that’s only out of loyalty to her husband. Within weeks of receiving the test results he told her he’d found someone else.’ She bent down, picked up the shoes and returned them to their box, placing it beside the slim-heeled trifles she’d chosen to compliment her dress. ‘I think what broke her was that the new woman has kids already. A couple of toddlers – a readymade family if you like. After ten years of being together, five of them married, Marie got to walk out of her home with pretty much the clothes on her back and little else.’

‘The absolute bastard!’

‘Exactly. I’ve told Tim if they ever come into the restaurant to refuse to serve them.’ She waited for Gaby to hand her the dress before placing it back on the hanger and hanging it up beside her wedding dress. ‘Do you think it would be wrong of me to whisper something into the ears of the “boys in blue”? I’m sure there’s any number of traffic violations …’

‘Amy Potter, I can’t believe you’re even thinking such a thing,’ Gaby said, her grin belying her words. ‘While retribution might be gratifying, it also might backfire if he suspects that she’s involved.’

‘What else can he do? He’s stolen everything from her. Her past, her present and now her future. She’s mid-thirties and desperate to start a family.’ Amy walked towards the next rail and started removing evening dresses by the handful.

‘But if I’m reading between the lines, he’s not a man that can give them to her,’ Gaby said, her fingers now on her buttons.

‘You can stop right there,’ Amy tut-tutted, pointing to the pile of clothes now draped over the back of the gilt-framed chair. ‘If you think I’m letting you wear trousers to my engagement party, you’re sorely mistaken. Now, what about this?’ She held up a long navy-blue dress with a full skirt and beaded neckline. ‘It’s your size and you won’t be showing even a smidgeon of leg, much to the disappointment of Dr Mulholland I might add.’

Gaby ignored the dig, instead starting to unbutton her blouse again. She’d first seen that determined look of Amy’s when they’d worked together in Swansea and had learnt the hard way that it was best to give in to her vagaries. It made life a whole lot easier.

Chapter 8

Gaby

Friday 17 July, 2.30 p.m. St Asaph Police Station

Gaby spent the next few hours with Jax in the archives, trying to piece together the investigation. It helped that she’d had the benefit of working alongside Stewart Tipping before he’d been forced to take sick leave. He was meticulous in his recordkeeping, every piece of evidence methodically referenced and cross-referenced. Every interview transcript annotated with further questions and additional leads to follow. Every thought he’d had, he’d recorded for posterity in one of the many notebooks that were kept alongside the reams of information. And these notebooks were where she started, leaving Jax to plough through the family and friend interviews.

There were fifteen books in total, spanning the initial six months following the discovery of Angelica’s body. Each one was numbered, each entry timed, dated and initialled with Stewart’s lazy scrawl. She could imagine his expression, the frown punctuating his brow as the puzzle changed from something solvable to the Rubik’s Cube of all cases. Just like the infuriating cube, stuffed in the back of her sideboard, the case was easy to solve if only she knew how. But there was no YouTube channel dedicated to guiding each twist and turn. She was on her own with only her smarts and her team keeping her from the fear of failure. But in this instance, she wouldn’t only be letting Angelica’s family down, she remembered, her mind switching to Owen and how hard it must be for him.

‘Fancy a top-up, ma’am?’ Jax asked, starting to collect the mugs.

‘No. You stay there – you got the last lot.’ She stood and flexed her shoulders, feeling every one of her thirty-one years. While painstaking research was all part and parcel of her day-to-day job, she’d much prefer being out and about than stuck in the same position for hours on end. With the mugs in her hand, she made her way to the door, shooting a smile at the archive officer on the way. ‘Fancy a coffee, Colin?’

‘Two sugars,’ he replied with a toothy grin. ‘How’s it going?’

‘It’s not. Too many trees and not a chainsaw in sight.’

‘I know that feeling.’ He scratched his head and, into the suddenly awkward silence, said, ‘If you don’t mind me saying, the lads never knew why they didn’t pin it on the boyfriend. It seemed obvious to almost everyone except Tipping.’

‘Really?’ She eyed him briefly before picking up his mug and dangling it between her fingers. She didn’t know Colin Wynne well, but rumour had it that he was soon to retire. ‘I take it you were based here back then?’

‘Sure was. Started in 1985. I was on the beat those days and part of the team scouring the Happy Valley after she’d been found. Poor dwt. It upset us all to see her like that. To think that someone could steal her from right under the nose of her parents.’

Gaby rested her hip against the edge of his desk. She couldn’t stay standing for long without a sharp twinge in her side to remind her of her recent injury. ‘So, you all thought they should have fingered the boyfriend for the murder?’

‘Yup. He was clever. Didn’t leave any clues or anything but then he was heading off to veterinary college – he’d have known about stuff like that.’

‘But apart from suspecting him, there was no real evidence, was there and he did have a bulletproof alibi?’

‘Hmm. We never gave any credence to that. As we all know, alibis can be bought.’

‘Indeed they can. Any idea why he’d risk it though?’

‘Perhaps he couldn’t help himself.’ He paused, all trace of his grin long gone. ‘The way she was positioned, I’d forgotten all about that until that young lad there reminded me earlier,’ he said, his attention now on Jax. ‘Perhaps he went on to kill again. There’s something here, something I’ve read and recently too …’ He tapped the side of his head with his index finger. ‘It’ll come back to me. When it does, I’ll give you a bell.’

Gaby nodded before heading to the door. There were a fair few detectives she knew that would discount the views of their uniformed colleagues but she wasn’t one of them. Just because they’d decided on a different career path didn’t mean that they didn’t have a wealth of information and experience to offer. They were the detectives’ eyes and ears and as such they had much more of a feel for what was going on than a detective ever could. He’d given her lots to think about. One of the first things she was going to do on her return was to check out how far Jax had got with the interview transcripts. It all seemed a little too convenient for the boyfriend to still be in the frame but stranger things had happened.

Chapter 9

Gaby

Friday 17 July, 4 p.m. St Asaph Police Station

‘Right, quiet, everyone. We have a lot to get through and I want to leave on time for once what with Amy’s party later.’

Once she’d secured their attention, Gaby strolled across to the whiteboard, taking a moment to stare at the photo of Angelica that she’d pinned dead centre. It was her way of connecting with a case. Her way of hardwiring her brain to remember why she’d undertaken a career in law enforcement. Through the killer’s actions, Angelica Brock had missed out on what most people took for granted. A career. A secure home and future. A partner and possibly even kids. A chance to make mistakes and learn by them. It was up to Gaby to restore the balance. It was twenty-five years too late for Angelica but not for her family. Justice needed to be done. She only hoped that she was the right person to serve it.

Alongside the photo, she’d bullet-pointed some key information – top of the list being their main piece of evidence: the nightdress.

‘Right, Marie, what have you got for us?’

‘I managed to track the garment down in the evidence room, ma’am,’ she said, passing around some photos. ‘I also decided to take numerous pictures before sending it up to the CSIs as it’s unlikely we’ll be getting it back anytime soon. But I’m afraid this isn’t going to be as easy as it looks. If I’m honest I don’t think it’s going to help us unless there’s some previously undiscovered DNA that turns up.’ She paused, picking up the top photo and holding the image up for the team to see. ‘The main problem is that the nightdress is handmade so it’s impossible to trace it back to the manufacturer. Not only that but the style is based on a very common design. You see the pin-tucking around the yoke in the centre and here, the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons down the front,’ she said, tapping on the photo with her fingernail. ‘I could show you a hundred websites now selling nearly the exact garment. Oh, the fabric wouldn’t be the percale cotton I suspect this one is made of, probably some polyester mix, but the style is so common that I wouldn’t be surprised to see it being sold in branches of Primark. The fabric isn’t going to help us either. I’m guessing that, like the nightdress, it’s sold by the hundred-weight in material shops the length and breadth of the UK. I could probably track down the pattern used in the design but I think that it would be a complete waste of time. The thread used to sew it together is going to be mass produced. The sewing machine one of thousands. The stitching is regular so it’s not as if we could trace it back to the machine used if it still existed after all this time.’