Fallen Angel (15 page)

‘Do we have a name?'

Collins walked purposefully into the incident room. As she did so, Cooper handed her a grainy black-and-white photograph. It was unmistakably the white transit van, but the number plate was now completely in focus and clear.

‘Excellent,' she breathed softly.

Cooper nodded towards Khan. ‘Einstein over there managed to do something with it. Don't ask me what.'

Collins moved over to where Khan was sitting. ‘Are you sure about this?'

‘Course.' He looked offended.

‘I'll ask you again – are you absolutely sure? Last time we ended up looking like idiots and raiding the wrong house.'

For a moment Khan didn't reply. Then he glanced down at his screen. ‘One hundred per cent.'

‘Well done, Khan,' she murmured, before turning back to Woods. ‘Who's it registered to?'

‘Address in Coulsdon.' Woods pointed to a large map of London and its surrounding areas on a wall, indicating an area to the south of Croydon, just inside the M25. ‘His name's Richard Morgan, a plumber by trade. Ran a PNC check. No convictions, but then we ran him through ViSOR and got a hit. He was cautioned two years ago.'

Collins could feel her pulse quicken. ViSOR, the Violent and Sex Offenders Register, was a huge database containing the names of all those convicted or cautioned with sexual offences. Although there had been no sign of sexual abuse on the body of Daniel Eliot, there had been cases in the past where paedophiles had snatched children with every intention of molesting them but killed them out of panic before any abuse could take place.

‘Has DCI Blackwell been informed?' she asked.

‘Not yet, he's over at the Yard.'

‘Okay.' Collins played with a pen as she collected her thoughts. ‘I'll call him right now. You go and arrange back-up.'

‘Armed?'

‘Yes. And get some people down there now to make sure he's there.'

Collins moved to a meeting room in order to be able to talk to Blackwell in private. She was trying hard to keep the excitement growing within her from raging out of control. In a few hours' time they just might have the killer of Daniel Eliot and the kidnapper of Michael Dawney behind bars. For all she knew, Michael could be being held at that very address.

She dialled his number.

‘Blackwell.'

‘Sir, it's DI Collins.'

‘I'll be over to brief you and your team in an hour.' His tone was sullen, and it was obvious that her team was not his priority.

‘But, sir, we've had a breakthrough.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘We've got the registration number of the white transit van that was seen following Daniel Eliot.'

Blackwell was suddenly focused on what Collins was telling him. SOCO had reported that fresh tyre tracks consistent with a transit van had been found on the edge of the woods close to where Michael Dawney had been snatched.

‘Who is it?'

‘His name's Richard Morgan. A plumber by trade. And we also got a hit on ViSOR.'

Blackwell felt his pulse quicken. ‘Give me the address.' The tension between the two officers had faded away with the prospect of making an arrest.

‘Get everyone into position and wait for me,' Blackwell continued. ‘I don't want anyone to breathe until I'm there. Our top priority is Michael's safety.'

‘I understand.'

‘One more thing, Collins.'

‘Yes, sir?'

‘Well done.'

It took less than an hour before everyone was in situ.

The house in question was situated just off the A23. For such a busy location, it was strangely quiet. By the time Blackwell and Collins had arrived, unmarked vans from SO19 had sealed off either end of the road.

The house itself, No. 18, was nondescript. The neat front garden looked much like all the others in the row, perhaps a little less well maintained. On one side was a gravelled area where a white transit van, identical to the
one Collins had seen on the CCTV, was parked at a slightly awkward angle.

The two detectives peered through the windscreen. The weather had changed dramatically in the last hour or so, the sweltering heat giving way to a blanket of thick black rain clouds that rolled ominously overhead. In the background there was a rumble of thunder. ‘Speak to SO19,' Blackwell told Collins. ‘Make sure they're ready.'

Collins spoke into the handset of the police radio: ‘Is everyone in position?'

There was a crackly pause before a terse voice came over the airways. ‘Roger that.'

‘Have you confirmed that the target is in the house?'

‘Roger. Thermal cameras show one occupant in the back room.'

Collins and Blackwell glanced at each other as the SO19 officer continued: ‘A white male was seen entering forty-five minutes ago. The back entrance is being watched, and nobody has left. He's there, all right.'

Collins passed Blackwell the handset. He took a deep breath before he spoke. ‘This is DCI Blackwell,' he announced.

‘Go, go, go.'

Again the standard response: ‘Roger that.'

The moment Blackwell spoke the words, the backs of the unmarked vans opened and a dozen black-helmeted officers sprang out. Each carried a dull black MP5 assault rifle and moved with choreographed swiftness to the front of the house. Half stood guard to one side of the door, their rifles trained directly at the house. The remaining men moved forward and one swung a battering-ram at
the door's hinges and kicked it to the ground. The second team repeated the action at the rear of the building.

The shouts of the armed response team could only barely be heard above the commotion. ‘Get on the floor! Get on the floor!'

‘Let's go,' Blackwell told Collins.

The scene that presented itself inside the house was one of chaos. Broken glass and pieces of furniture upturned by the entry team were scattered around. Splayed out in a kneeling position, his head and his arms pressed firmly against the brown leather of a sofa, was a well-built, balding man. His face was pointing away from Collins, but his voice spoke more of anger than fear. ‘What the fuck's going on?' he shouted as Blackwell and Collins entered.

One of the armed police bent down and frisked him thoroughly. He looked up at the officers.

‘He's clean.'

Blackwell approached the man. ‘Richard Morgan, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Daniel Eliot. You do not have to say anything but anything you do say …' Blackwell continued to read him his rights as Morgan was lifted to his feet.

‘You've got no evidence.' As he was led out of the house, he continued his protest. ‘I'll be back home before the pub shuts.'

Alice Dawney sat quietly in the living room of her home. The family liaison officers were starting to get on her nerves, asking if she was okay every five minutes. Of course she wasn't okay, her son was missing. She had read in the paper about the terrible things the killer had done to Daniel Eliot. Visions of the same things being done to her son were constantly running through her mind.

Peter was in his study, desperately trying to raise the money before the deadline. He had already raised £1.5 million, secured against the home and business, both of which would have to be sold in order the repay the debt. Well-wishers had so far donated and pledged another £300,000. That left £1.2 million still to find, and he was fast running out of time.

Alice tried to occupy her mind with anything other than the words that the kidnapper had said on Radio 2 earlier that morning.

A few cards had arrived from neighbours who had heard that Michael had gone missing and assumed that he was the kidnapped boy. Alice flicked through them out of little more than politeness. The people meant well, she knew that for sure, but at the same time there was nothing that any of them could say or do that would make any difference to their current situation. Under the circumstances, she would rather have simply put the letters to
one side, but somehow that seemed disloyal to Michael. It would almost be as if she was saying that she didn't really care about him as much as she actually did. No matter how quickly, she had to go through each and every one by hand.

There was another reason too. The kidnapper of Daniel Eliot had sent the parents a card, and there was always the possibility that he might do the same in this case. The post office had been alerted, and in the meantime the family liaison officers had been given additional instructions to check all hand-delivered items. Alice had had enough of them and sent them to another room. They meant well but she needed space.

As she worked her way through the small pile, she came across a jiffy bag addressed to Peter. The handwriting was incredibly neat and regular, and it took Alice a few moments to realize that whoever had done it had used a stencil.

As she braced the package against her leg and ripped open the top, something rolled out and hit the floor with a wet, slapping sound. She looked down and saw a child's hand, severed at the wrist, surrounded by a pool of blood.

The sound of Alice's excruciating scream brought everyone rushing to the room. As Peter entered, he could see the hand on the floor in front of him. He started crying as Alice began to wail. ‘Oh, God, Michael, what has he done to you?'

He moved over to his wife, cradling her in his arms and turning her head away from the horrific sight. But Peter himself could not stop looking at the hand, and, as
he peered more closely, he saw that something had been written on the palm with a black marker pen:
Behold the hand of your son
.

‘What was inside it, Woods?' asked Blackwell again, still not quite believing what he was hearing.

‘A hand. A child's hand, severed at the wrist.'

Collins recalled the body on the autopsy table. ‘Just like Daniel Eliot.'

‘Exactly like Daniel Eliot,' said Woods grimly. ‘So Michael Dawney could be dead.'

Tony Woods had pulled Collins and Blackwell aside just as they were about to conduct their first interview with Richard Morgan to inform them of the latest development at the Dawney house.

‘We don't know that for sure,' said Blackwell.

‘The parents are convinced. And there was a message too?'

‘What did it say?'

‘Something along the lines of “here is the hand of your son”. Written on the palm.'

Collins had to hold back her emotions, fearing that if she let them rise she would lose control when she came face to face with the prime suspect. But, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get the image of the small hand being cut from the wrist out of her head. Except that, in her mind's eye, the child's face was that of her daughter. She knew that if she was alone, she would break down.

‘The bastard,' she muttered.

Woods nodded in agreement. ‘Yup. Bad enough killing kids, but why make some kind of game out of it? What do you think, sir?'

Blackwell's tone was firm. ‘Let's wait for Forensics to confirm the DNA. Get yourself down the lab and don't leave until they give you the answer.' He turned to Collins. ‘How do you want to play it with our plumber now?'

‘We've got to crack this sick fuck.' Her voice was low and filled with an anger neither man had witnessed in her before. ‘We need to break him down layer by layer. We've got to get him to tell us where Michael is.'

Collins excused herself and went to the toilet to splash cold water on her face. She looked at herself in the mirror and knew she would get what she wanted, whatever the cost. She wished she could hold Sophie in her arms now more than ever. She desperately needed to feel close to her. She pulled out her mobile and sent Sophie a text:
I LOVE YOU SO MUCH X
.

As the officers entered the interview room, Richard Morgan looked up. Beads of sweat were beginning to form on his forehead, and he was fidgeting constantly.

They sat down opposite him, and Blackwell switched on the video camera and recording machine at the side of the table. After waiting for the beep that indicated that the tape was running, he went through the standard procedures, listing the persons present in the room and the time and date.

‘Richard Morgan. You've been offered the chance to be represented by a solicitor and I understand you've declined this,' Blackwell began. ‘I just want to give you the opportunity to change your mind.'

‘What do I need one of them for?' Morgan replied, picking away at the calluses on his hands. ‘I haven't done anything wrong.'

‘Then why do you look so nervous?' asked Collins.

‘Nervous? I'm not nervous. I just need a fucking cigarette. I haven't gone this long without a fag since I was a kid.'

‘Where were you last Wednesday between the hours of twelve and five?'

Morgan laughed. ‘I can't remember what I was doing yesterday, let alone last week.'

Collins stared directly at him. ‘Have you heard of a boy called Daniel Eliot?'

‘Yeah, he was that kid that was killed.'

‘So you can remember beyond yesterday.'

Morgan could not look at either officer.

‘I was working.'

‘Where?'

‘All over the place. I was doing call-outs.'

‘So you must have records.'

‘Don't need them. I work for myself.'

Collins sat back in her chair. ‘So how do people get hold of you?'

‘They call me.'

‘On your mobile?'

‘That's right.'

‘So we can check your phone records and confirm that with your customers.'

Morgan hesitated, and started to look concerned.

Both officers waited for an answer. When Blackwell realized there would not be one, he leaned forward. ‘How is your memory of earlier today?'

Morgan shrugged.

‘Where have you been this morning?'

‘No comment.'

‘Come on, Richard, you must know where you were this morning.'

‘No comment.'

‘Where's Michael Dawney?'

‘No comment.'

‘If he's bleeding to death somewhere, you'll be up for two murders.'

‘I want a lawyer. I'm not saying another word until I get a lawyer.'

Blackwell turned to the microphone. ‘Interview suspended at 20.37 hours.' He switched off the machine and pressed the buzzer to call for an officer to escort Morgan back to his cell.

‘You know what happens to child killers in prison, don't you?' Collins hissed. ‘They'll tear your fucking bollocks off.'

It would take at least two hours for the duty solicitor to arrive. Collins had tried her best to find someone who could attend sooner, knowing that every minute wasted took Michael closer to death. But deep down she and Blackwell already feared the worst.

She needed to get out and have a break. She headed through the summer rain over to her parents' flat, where Sophie was staying overnight. She had decided to take a couple of weeks' annual leave over the summer and wanted to talk to Sophie about taking a trip abroad. It would be a much needed rest and a chance for the two of them to get close again.

It was gone nine when Stacey arrived at her parents' flat on the Blenheim Estate. There were the usual kids and trouble-makers hanging about, trying to get a rise from whoever walked past. But they could sense Stacey was in no mood for their stupid antics and let her pass by in silence.

When she entered the flat, her father was in the living room reading a book on the First World War, a present that Stacey had bought for him last Christmas. She found her mum and Sophie in the kitchen, clearing up after a late dinner.

‘Hi, love,' she said, trying to be cheerful. Sophie ignored her mother once again.

‘I've booked some time off in a couple of weeks. I thought we could go abroad, just you and me.'

Sophie wouldn't even look at her. Instead she brushed past her while putting the plates away in the cupboard behind her.

‘Sophie, I'm talking to you.'

Sophie continued to clear away.

Stacey was trying her best to make amends, but her daughter's rejection, on top of everything else that had happened that evening, was too much to take. ‘Are you ever going to talk to me?'

Stacey's mother interrupted: ‘She's okay, aren't you, darling?'

‘I'm fine, Gran.'

‘Stay out of this, Mum – better still, maybe sometimes you could give me a little support.'

‘Leave her alone,' hissed Sophie.

‘Finally you talk to me.'

‘Just leave me alone.'

‘Leave you alone? I rush home from work to spend time with you and that's all you can say!'

‘Well, go back there – it's always more important than me.'

Stacey had had enough; she didn't deserve this. She took Sophie by the arm and swung her round. ‘You listen, you ungrateful child.' She snatched up the newspaper from the kitchen worktop. ‘You see this.'

Sophie looked away.

‘Look at it!'

With the increasing anger in her mother's voice, Sophie began to look frightened. She glanced at the paper, and there on the front cover was a picture of Daniel Eliot in his school uniform, smiling innocently.

‘This boy was murdered on Friday night, and the man who did it has taken another child. I have to find him before the same thing happens. Do you hear me, young lady?' She lifted Sophie's head so their eyes met. ‘I have to find that boy before he dies.'

‘That's enough, Stacey.' Her mother put her arm around Sophie, who was obviously shocked by her mother's onslaught.

‘For fuck's sake, Mother, why not for once just back me up? Every time I come home lately you're giving me a filthy look or lecturing me on what little time I spend with her.'

‘Sophie's too young. She doesn't need to know about things like this.'

‘Well, maybe if she did, then she'd understand why I can't always be home when she wants.'

‘But if it's not this case, it's some other case. You always seem to put your work before your family.'

‘What I do is important.' Stacey knew as soon as the words left her lips what her mother's response would be.

‘More important than your family?'

‘You know that nothing is more important than my family. Ever since what happened to Dad, I've been there for you. But lately it seems as though every time I come home you two are waiting to have a go at me.'

Her mother and her daughter stood there in silence.

‘Is that it, then?'

Sophie had tears in her eyes.

‘Forget it,' said Stacey. ‘This is bollocks.' And with that she stormed out of the flat.

The clouds had broken, and the sun was setting as Stacey headed back to the station.

The argument had left her feeling guilty. She knew she didn't spend enough time at home, and Sophie was growing up so fast. She was missing the best years of her little girl's life.

They used to be so close, but since she had transferred to the murder squad she had precious little time for anything else. She felt as if she were being pulled apart. She could not stop the tears from falling as she made her way through the evening traffic.