Fallen Angel (21 page)

And, more than that, she recognized him. His hair was now white and his face deeply lined with age, but there was no mistaking the younger image of him. ‘Tony. Come here, you've got to see this,' she said.

As Woods appeared beside her, she held up a finger and pointed at the man in the photograph.

‘Do you know who that is?'

‘No. Should I?'

‘It's Father Connelly. The priest from the church where Daniel's body was found.'

Duncan Jenkins eased the Volvo estate into the line of slow-moving traffic and settled back in his seat. Michael Dawney was securely bound and gagged in the boot, and the police knew only too well what would happen to the boy if they tried to give him anything less than all the money he had asked for.

Everything was going according to plan. He had always known that it would. He had spent many hours of his free time in the public gallery of courts around the country, soaking up the details of police procedure and researching forensic techniques involving both physical evidence and new technology like mobile phones.

He had read voraciously about the history of crime and criminals, examining the intimate details of previous outrages and working out exactly where those responsible had made their mistakes.

He knew he would have only one opportunity to seek revenge against Peter Dawney, and he didn't want to risk being caught or compromised before his entire plan had been set into motion. If there was one thing he had above all else, it was a detailed plan.

His disfigurement had been bad enough to live with, but worse was still to come. It was only when Duncan reached puberty that the true legacy of what had happened to him as a child emerged. He was unable to have children.

As the years went past, his bitterness grew. He watched as those around him, those who had hurt him so cruelly, got older, married and had children of their own. He had lost everything. His childhood, and any chance of a normal life.

Not one day passed without his thinking about what Peter Dawney had done to him. It felt good to be finally taking his revenge after waiting for so many years. As he drove, he thought back to the moment when he had started to put his long-awaited plan into action. It had been exactly six weeks earlier. The day his mother had died.

It was a day he would never forget. He had spent the afternoon walking a dog he had picked up from a shelter through the woods at the back of Peter Dawney's house, watching through binoculars as Michael played in the garden before heading back to his own home.

When he reached the far end of his road, he sensed that somehow everything was different. The usual sounds of life and frivolity were missing. Instead there was an uneasy silence.

He had seen the ambulance rushing past him, its siren blaring away, but had not realized his mother was inside until he got closer to the house and saw a group of people standing awkwardly outside. They fell silent when they saw him and watched him closely as he made his way up the path to where his mother's best friend and regular church companion Maureen was standing.

‘I didn't know where you were, Duncan,' she said softly. ‘I tried to get hold of you. I wanted to go with her, but I knew I had to wait until you got here. I think you need to prepare yourself. Your mother is a strong woman, but I don't know if she's going to be able to recover from this.'

He remembered the tears welling up in Maureen's eyes as he asked her what had happened. ‘She collapsed in the garden. They think it's a massive stroke. I'm so sorry.'

Duncan ordered a taxi to take him to the hospital. He raced through the waiting area as fast as his legs would carry him and pulled open the heavy rubber-edged double doors that led to the
emergency ward. ‘Grace Jenkins? Where is Grace Jenkins?' The desperation in his voice was there for all to hear.

‘You are?' asked the nurse.

‘Duncan. My name is Duncan Jenkins. I'm her son.'

She took him gently by the arm, led him to a private room and sat him down, then went off to fetch the doctor, who arrived a few moments later with the nurse. He stood up as they entered the room.

‘Hello, Duncan, I'm Dr Montgomery.'

He reached out and put his hand on Duncan's shoulder. Duncan moved away.

‘I'm sorry, we did everything we could, but we were unable to save your mother.'

‘Can I see her?'

‘Of course. I'll take you.'

The doctor led Duncan through the emergency ward and stopped at a cubicle that had been screened off. The doctor reached across and pulled the curtain aside.

Duncan's mother was lying peacefully on the bed, her eyes closed. His first thought was one of instant relief. Somehow the doctors had got it wrong, somehow they had made a mistake. She was just sleeping.

But then it sank in. The skin on her face was the wrong colour: instead of pale pink, it was yellow and waxy.

‘We pronounced her dead ten minutes ago,' said the doctor.

Duncan moved slowly to her bedside and reached out with his fingers to touch her cheek. It felt warm, warm enough for her to still be alive. But there was no doubt about it. All the life had been drained away from her. She looked like a dummy in a shop window. Tears began to roll down his cheeks.

He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Goodbye, Mother,' he said softly. ‘I love you.' Then he turned and walked out of the hospital without looking back.

The sins of the fathers will be revisited upon their sons. Peter Dawney had denied him the chance to have children, so he had started out by destroying the son that Dawney didn't even know he had. And now the final part of his plan was under way.

He knew that paying the £3 million ransom would bankrupt Dawney, but that wasn't enough. His wife now knew that he had been unfaithful to her and would almost certainly leave him. Dawney would be left with nothing. No money, no family, no home. It brought a smile to his face.

In less than two hours' time it would all be over.

Father Patrick Connelly looked pale and drawn when he answered the door to his home in the grounds of St Andrew's. It was obvious to Collins and Woods that the man was still in shock. He had hardly slept since finding the body of Daniel Eliot hanging from the rafters and was struggling to get the horrific image out of his mind. He had yet to return to his duties, and the church itself was still cordoned off with a police officer standing guard outside.

‘Father Connelly, my name is DI Collins. Do you remember me? I spoke to you at your church on Friday evening.' He nodded weakly. ‘I'm sorry to disturb you again, but I need a minute of your time. Please, may we come in?'

The two detectives followed the priest into the front room, and Collins removed a photograph from her jacket pocket.

‘Is this you?'

The priest peered at the picture. ‘I need to get my glasses.' He moved over to his reading chair, slipped on a pair of half-moon glasses and studied the photograph. ‘Yes, that's me,' he said after a while.

‘And the two people beside you on the bench?' asked Woods.

‘Grace Jenkins and her son, Duncan. Grace taught
Sunday School at the church for many years. She helped out in all sorts of ways. She has been greatly missed since she passed away. I haven't seen Duncan since the funeral.'

Collins suddenly recalled the fact that there had been no forced entry to the church. Perhaps Father Connelly had not left it open after all. ‘Did Grace Jenkins have a key to St Andrew's?' she asked.

‘Yes. Of course. She often helped before and after the services.' Father Connelly seemed puzzled by the questions. ‘Why do you ask?'

Collins looked at Woods, who took her silent cue. ‘Father,' he said, ‘we believe that Duncan Jenkins may have been responsible for the murder of Daniel Eliot and the kidnapping of Michael Dawney.'

Father Connelly shook his head in disbelief as he sank back into his reading chair. ‘But why? He was such a quiet, gentle man. Why would he do such a terrible thing?'

‘We think it was revenge on the man who scarred him,' said Woods. ‘Daniel and Michael share the same father – Peter Dawney – and he was the one who caused the accident.'

‘Holy Mother of God,' whispered Father Connelly under his breath. ‘We'd spoken about the accident a few times. Whenever it came up, he was always filled with such hatred. But I never imagined it would lead to anything like this.'

‘Did he ever mention the name Peter Dawney to you?'

‘Never. His mother told me the name of the boy soon after the accident happened, but that was years ago.'

‘Do you have a more recent picture of Duncan?' asked Collins.

He got up and moved across to the sideboard, where he opened a drawer. ‘Duncan never liked having his picture taken. Avoided cameras like the plague. I remember we caught him only once.' He began to search through a pile of photos, and soon came across the one he wanted. ‘Here it is,' he said. ‘I'm afraid it's not very clear.' He passed the print to Collins.

The picture showed a group of homeless men sitting at a long table and tucking into a hearty meal. At the front, serving the men, were Father Connelly and Grace Jenkins. Father Connelly reached over and pointed to the far corner of the picture, where a heavy-set man sat in the shadows. ‘That's him, that's Duncan. It was taken two years ago at our Christmas soup kitchen. They always volunteered on Christmas Day. Duncan had been doing it ever since he was a little boy.' He shook his head mournfully as he gazed down at the image. ‘I still can't believe he's capable of doing what you say.'

‘Three million pounds can make people behave in all sorts of crazy ways, Father,' said Woods.

‘I guess so, but Duncan never struck me as the kind of person who was particularly interested in money.'

The lift doors opened, and Collins and Woods stepped out on to the fifth floor of New Scotland Yard.

‘You'd better wait here,' said Collins. ‘It's going to be hard enough for me to get in there on my own let alone if I'm with you.' Woods nodded and looked down the corridor to where a uniformed officer stood guard outside unmarked double doors.

Collins headed towards the officer who was keeping guard outside the control centre of the Kidnapping and Extortion Unit, which was known as Room 3000. Although many in the Met knew of its existence, a shroud of secrecy surrounded what actually went on inside. Only a handful of officers had permission to enter Room 3000, regardless of rank, and DCI Blackwell was one of those few.

‘Can I help you?' asked the PC as Collins approached.

‘I'm DI Collins. You need to let me in. I have to see DCI Blackwell right away.'

‘I'm sorry, ma'am, I can't do that. No one is allowed in without an authorized escort. Have you tried calling him?'

‘Several times. He's not talking any calls.'

‘I know they have a big operation going on. Perhaps if you came back later –'

‘Listen,' she said, her voice becoming increasingly
anxious, ‘a boy's life is at stake. I need to see Blackwell right now.'

The PC showed no sign of backing down. ‘I'm sorry, ma'am, but I can't let you in without an authorized escort. There are no exceptions.'

‘Well, in that case I need him out here.'

The growing frustration in the DI was clear for the officer to see. ‘Ma'am, I'm sorry, but all I can do is phone through and ask.'

He picked up a telephone receiver that hung on the wall next to the entry keypad and didn't need to wait long before it was answered. ‘Sir, I have a DI Collins out here asking for DCI Blackwell.' He paused and kept his back to Collins as he listened intently. ‘Yes, sir. I'll tell her that.'

He replaced the receiver and turned to face Collins. ‘I'm sorry, ma'am. DCI Blackwell is tied up and cannot be disturbed.'

‘You listen to me. You tell Blackwell that I've got a picture of the man he's after. He's going to need it if he's going to catch him.'

The PC reached for the phone again. The conversation was short, and before he even had time to replace the handset Blackwell had come out.

‘You'd better not be wasting my time, Collins,' he said, giving her a disdainful look. ‘I'm expecting the kidnapper to make contact at any minute.'

‘Then why aren't you at the Dawneys' house?' asked Collins.

‘I don't need to be. We can monitor all calls to the property from here. What the hell do you want?'

Collins took a deep breath, pulled out the photograph
and handed it to Blackwell. ‘We found this at Duncan Jenkins's house. It's him as a young boy with his mother and Father Connelly. His mother used to teach Sunday School at St Andrew's and had keys. That's how he got Daniel Eliot into the church. I don't think there's any doubt that this is the man we're looking for.'

Blackwell studied the print as Collins pulled out a second one. ‘Woods and I went to see Father Connelly, who gave us this.'

He held the picture close and squinted. ‘It's not very clear.'

‘I know, but it's the only picture we have of Jenkins since his accident. There's nothing else. Not even a driver's licence or passport.'

‘This isn't going to help us much,' said Blackwell. ‘There's only an hour to go before the drop, which doesn't give us enough time to get the picture enhanced …' Blackwell shifted his gaze back to the first photograph, and his brow curled as a thought struck him. ‘Collins, you say you got this from Jenkins's house. I wasn't aware a warrant had been authorized.'

Collins looked away. ‘There was no time to wait around for –'

‘For fuck's sake, Collins, what the hell were you thinking? If Jenkins is our man, then there could be crucial evidence at his house. If you've gone in without a warrant and without probable cause, then nothing we find there can be used against him.'

‘There was nothing there, sir.'

‘That's not the point and you know it. I can't deal with this shit right now, but this is far from over. I'm going to
make sure that you answer for what you've done. You can piss all over your own cases as much as you like, but don't think for a minute that you can walk in here and fuck up one of mine.'

‘I'm not fucking up anything, you needed a picture –'

Blackwell snorted in disbelief. ‘Jesus, Collins, you actually think this is going to be down to you, don't you, you arrogant bitch. Listen, I've got nine teams out there raring to go. The second we get a location for the money-drop, they're going to be all over it like flies on shit. I'll be patched in to every CCTV camera within a two-mile radius. It's going to be impossible for him to get away. Once he picks up the money, then we've got him.'

They were both distracted by the sound of the heavy double doors to Room 3000 being opened. The face of DS James Dixon appeared, flushed with excitement. He looked at Blackwell, then at Collins, then back at his boss.

‘Sir, he's on the phone.'

‘The kidnapper's made contact with Dawney?' asked Blackwell.

‘No, sir. He's called us direct. And he's asking to speak to you.'

Blackwell rushed back into Room 3000 and snatched the phone from his desk, his breath coming in harsh bursts as he spoke.

‘Yes? This is DCI Blackwell.'

He instantly recognized the voice. It was, as always, calm, cold and devoid of all emotion.

‘Do you have all the money?'

‘Yes.' Blackwell felt his heart pounding.

The voice continued, ‘Good. Michael Dawney is alive. Whether he stays that way is entirely down to you. Your actions from this moment on will determine whether this boy survives. If you understand, say yes.'

‘Yes,' said Blackwell.

‘Send an officer to the small park just south of Temple underground station at 1 p.m. The officer must have a mobile phone. Do you have a mobile phone?'

Blackwell was taken aback at the question. ‘Yes, I do.'

‘What's the number?'

Blackwell told him.

‘Okay. That's the only number I'll be calling.'

‘But I need –'

‘If you try to interrupt me again, I'll hang up.'

Blackwell fell silent.

The kidnapper continued: ‘I'll be watching. If there's any attempt to follow your officer, any attempt to apprehend me once I've collected the suitcase, Michael Dawney will die. Once I've counted the money and ensured that no tracking device has been planted, you'll receive a further telephone call telling you where Michael can be found.'

Blackwell was wary of speaking out of turn, but he knew there was one thing he had to say before the kidnapper hung up.

‘We need proof of life,' he said softly. ‘We need proof of life or we don't hand over a penny,' he said again, this time more firmly.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, followed by what sounded like a half-chuckle. ‘Of course you do.'

Although Blackwell could not see what happened next, he could imagine it vividly from the sounds coming
through the phone. He heard the kidnapper moving, his hand clamped over the receiver. Then came the muffled sound of a child whimpering, followed by the noise of tape being ripped from skin and the sudden scream of a child in pain.

‘Come here, you little bastard,' said the voice.

‘Leave me alone. Please leave me alone.' The boy's voice was getting more and more distressed. Blackwell closed his eyes as he listened.

‘Tell them your name,' growled the voice.

Blackwell felt his stomach lurch up towards his mouth and pictured the terrified little boy staring hard at the phone and hoping it might offer hope of salvation. ‘Help me, please help me,' he squealed.

He heard the sound of a slap, followed by sobs. ‘I said tell them your name.'

‘Michael Dawney.'

‘You have your proof. You have your instructions. Do you understand them all?'

‘Yes,' said Blackwell.

‘Remember, Blackwell, what happened last time when you didn't follow my orders.'

Blackwell said nothing.

‘I trust your silence means you're not stupid enough to make the same mistake twice.'

‘Please be assured that all the money is ready.'

‘Good. There is one final stipulation.'

‘What?'

‘I want the money to be carried by DI Stacey Collins.'

Blackwell opened his mouth to speak, but the line had already gone dead.