The Angel: A shocking new thriller – read if you dare!

‘You surprise me.’ She raised her eyebrows before getting in the car. She thought about her own parents in relation to the poem, how all of their choices had impacted her life, made her who she was. Another line sprang to mind: Man hands on misery to man. Never a truer word was spoken.

Chapter 6 (#ulink_722db4a8-3184-5eba-9d16-440d9fdb25c2)

Imogen rang the doorbell to the STREETWIZE charity HQ, a disused clothing shop in Exeter’s Sidwell Street, next to a kebab shop Adrian had visited many times before after a drink in town. Adrian walked around the building and found a side door. He banged on it. They heard some movement, followed by the sight of a woman in a dressing gown opening the door. Her face was flushed red and her eyes were swollen and puffy. She coughed uncontrollably the moment she started to speak.

‘Hi, I’m DS Grey and this is DS Miles. Are you the lady that runs the STREETWIZE charity?’ Imogen asked when the woman had stopped.

‘I am. My name is Claire Morgan. Sorry, I’m just getting over the flu. Come in, but I’d keep my distance if I were you.’

They went inside, to a small living room with a two-seater sofa and a coffee table strewn with little balls of screwed-up tissues. There was a palpable taste of eucalyptus in the air where copious amounts of Vicks had obviously been applied. Imogen was hit by the sheer heat of the room. The lady pulled her dressing gown around her tighter, oblivious to the heat.

‘We’re investigating the fire in the signal box up at Central Station,’ Adrian said.

‘I saw that on the news. What’s it got to do with me?’

‘Well I don’t know if you saw, but we found the remains of a male in the room; we think he was seeking shelter from the rain in there. It seems quite probable that he was homeless,’ Imogen said.

Claire Morgan’s hand went up to her mouth and Imogen saw the clear look of distress in her eyes.

‘Do you know how many homeless there are in the city?’ Adrian asked.

‘I used to but the numbers are always growing. It’s getting a lot less … personal.’

‘Is anyone missing, to your knowledge?’

‘It’s hard to know when someone is missing,’ Claire said. ‘Sometimes people just want to be alone. Sometimes people move on, sometimes they get moved on. There can be a variety of factors why they wouldn’t be around anymore. Over the last few months I would say there’s a couple of people I haven’t seen in a long time. But there are new faces too. As you can imagine, it’s a very transient community.’

‘Do you keep records of the people who pass through your charity?’ Imogen asked.

‘No, I don’t. Some people are homeless by choice, and I think it’s only fair to respect that choice and respect their privacy.’

‘And what is it you do here exactly?’

‘People donate money and the money buys supplies for the homeless. So, if you wanted to donate thirty pounds, I would put together a pack of a sleeping bag, a thermal blanket and some protein bars or something like that. Then when people come in and ask for help, I can give that to them. It’s not much, but it’s all I can do.’

‘It’s a lot more than most people do.’ Imogen smiled at her, feeling guilty that she didn’t do more.

‘I was homeless myself once,’ Claire said. ‘Not through choice. I was lucky that people helped me and eventually I got myself back on track. Most people genuinely try not to think about it. It’s as if they think about it, it might happen to them – as if it’s somehow contagious. So they actively choose to ignore it.’

Imogen pulled out a card and handed it to the woman. ‘Please call us if you hear anything.’

‘I will.’ She smiled and paused as though she was thinking for a moment. ‘It’s good to see you’re taking it seriously.’

‘One more thing, if you don’t mind.’ Adrian stepped in. ‘Do you know of anyone who used to sleep in that signal box? Or have you heard of anyone who maybe hung out there?’

‘The only one I can think of is a man called Bricks,’ Claire said slowly. ‘But the last I heard he had been arrested and put in prison. He had some mental health issues – he tried to rob the post office last year. He’s spent his whole life in an out of the system in one way or another.’

‘You don’t happen to have a picture of him, do you?’

Claire frowned and shook her head. ‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t.’

‘OK, Claire, thank you for your time. We’ll see ourselves out,’ Imogen said, not wanting to make the poor woman stand up again.

‘Feel better,’ Miles said as they pulled the door closed.

Imogen was glad to be outside again, out of Claire Morgan’s house which seemed to be an incubator of sorts, the air so hot and thick you could feel yourself getting sicker with every passing moment. She breathed in heartily, ignoring the myriad of smells coming from the industrial wheelie bins in the alley adjacent to the charity.

‘Never thought I would be grateful for the smell of old kebabs.’

‘Come on, a nice doner with a big salad and chilli tomato sauce is one of your five a day!’

‘You disgust me.’ She smiled and walked on ahead.

Chapter 7 (#ulink_91d69f36-0469-548a-bedc-eb94a28a6044)

The prison bed wasn’t comfortable. The blanket was itchy and the pillow may as well not have been there at all. At least there was a mattress – something that hadn’t been in the police holding cell. Gabriel’s eyes were closed as he tried hard to block out his surroundings. He thought of Emma and her white skin. She wore talcum powder instead of foundation to make it even whiter and when they would kiss he could taste it on the edge of her lips. He imagined her lips on his and realised he was holding his breath. He couldn’t ask her to wait for him. It would possibly be weeks until he got a trial date and the sentence he was likely to receive would mean that it would be foolish to hope that she could put her life on hold. They had been apart for nine days now and already he found himself giving up on the idea that he would be with her again. Without that hope he didn’t know what else he had to hold onto. He’d had relationships before, but this was different. She was the one. They just fit together. He couldn’t imagine never seeing Emma again; his stomach hurt at the thought of it.

He found his mind returning to that day. Why had he not checked the building before starting the fire? Why had he even gone there in the first place? He deserved this punishment. He had taken someone’s life.

He was grateful for the darkness. His eyes were so sore from the air in here; it was noxious, unclean and unfiltered. He sucked in a breath hard as he tried to fill his body with clean air. Any air. He gulped to try and stop the tears that refused to stay beneath the surface any longer. Ready to burst from his bloodshot eyes.

Surely this was all a big mistake? Prison? He couldn’t be here. This couldn’t be real. Just over a week ago, he and Emma had been making plans for the summer. Everything they had talked about was now gone. No going back to college or work or holidays. No more hope. No future. Or at the very least, a future he hadn’t accounted for and most certainly didn’t want. This would never go away. It couldn’t. Someone had died because of him. Someone had lost their father, brother, son – all because of Gabriel’s stupidity.

He couldn’t feel sorry for himself, but he could feel anger. The numbness inside had gone. He had spent so long focussing on how to behave and making sure he didn’t upset anyone that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel anything. His eyes no longer stung and he realised he was crying. Thank God he was alone.

Gabriel turned on his side and drew his knees up to his chest. The release of pressure was immense; he could feel himself letting go and breathing for what seemed like the first time in a week. Tears coming until there were no more. The short burst of emotion had calmed him down. His breathing normalising, he drifted into thoughts of Emma, wishing he had that T-shirt so he could at least inhale her scent.

That’s when he noticed the light. A break in the darkness. His heart stopped as he heard the sound of metal against metal. The bolt sliding across and his door opening, followed by shuffling and quiet footsteps. Should he hold his breath or pretend to be asleep? Should he turn and look? He balled his hand into a fist, ready to punch anyone who touched him. No one had said anything to him when he was arrested, but he knew what they had all been thinking. It had been his first thought when he’d been told he was going to prison. Prison rape was a joke to most people. Don’t drop the soap. It had stopped being funny the second the prison gates opened and the van pulled inside.

Gabriel heard whispering in the room now, but the sound of his exaggerated heartbeat in his ears made it impossible to discern the words. This was the most vulnerable he had ever felt in his life. This was worse than the strip search, which at least had taken place in the daylight. This was worse than using the servery for the first time, shoulder to shoulder with the unknown, eyes all over him. He didn’t recognise the whispered voices but there were more than one. It was becoming clear that they weren’t here for him though. They were going through Jason’s things. Taking them away. He heard them toss the mattress aside and check underneath it. What had Jason done? What had happened to him? Whatever it was, Gabriel hadn’t heard Jason’s name spoken among the other inmates in the nine days since he had gone. He didn’t want to get himself in trouble by bringing it up, but he found it very odd how quickly the disappearance was accepted. Why wasn’t anyone else curious? The lack of curiosity was more upsetting to Gabriel than Jason’s unexplained departure.

When Gabriel was sure he was alone, he opened his eyes. The room was dark again, silent once more. He allowed his sight to adjust before turning over in his bed. He wanted to see what had been taken. He moved as though he were still asleep, eyes open a sliver. Everything belonging to Jason was gone, the cupboard empty, door open. The books and pictures on the wall had vanished. It was though he had never been there.

Chapter 8 (#ulink_b9918b2e-f372-5e75-bc58-4745b2a51056)

Imogen knocked on the door of the church and pushed lightly against it. It swung wide open. The building inside looked empty. She had never been a religious person but she found the church quite calming in itself; the well-worn wooden seats, the dancing light from the stained-glass windows, the smell of incense and burning candles. It reminded her of her childhood; her mother was always burning incense and leaving candles lit through the night. It was a miracle there had never been an accident. She thought of her mother, painting by candlelight and she knew that was why she liked churches: they reminded her of her mum, the peaceful mother that would quietly paint in the half-light and not the manic mother that would continually forget to collect her from school.

‘Hello?’ she called out tentatively.

Adrian had no such compunction and walked down the aisle and up towards the altar.

‘Hello?’ His voice echoed hers. Seconds later a door opened to the side of the altar and a priest emerged.

‘I’m Father Berkeley. How can I help you?’

Imogen joined Adrian as the priest approached, they both pulled out their IDs and the priest’s smile got a little tighter.

‘We’re conducting an investigation. We heard that you have a lot of homeless people in and out of here. We just wondered if you had noticed anyone missing recently?’ Imogen said, as Adrian wandered off towards the candle bank, the tiny shine of the tea lights burning away even when no one was there.