Fallen Angel (20 page)

She often asked about the scars and about the skin grafts, but in the months they had known each other she had never once seen any part of his disfigured body. Then, one night after school, as they were walking home through the local park, Karen asked Duncan what his hand was like under the gauntlet.

‘You don't want to know. It's horrible,' he said.

‘It can't be that bad. I've seen pictures of people with burns before.'

‘Not like this, you haven't.'

‘Oh, go on, Duncan. I feel like you're keeping a big secret. Sometimes I think there's nothing wrong with your hand at all, and you just wear it because you think it makes you look cool.'

After a moment's pause they both laughed at this. Then Duncan
sighed and slowly started to undo the straps from the gauntlet. He looked into Karen's eyes as he slipped it from his arm and held up his hand in the fading afternoon light.

Karen knew Duncan well. She cared about him. She felt she was prepared for anything, but what she saw when he removed his gauntlet made her run away from him in fright.

And at that moment, the moment she left him alone in the cold night air, Duncan knew that he would always be alone.

After that he became a virtual recluse, splitting his time between his mother, the church and his miniature battlefields. It was also at this point that he stopped believing that his life and that of his family had been ruined because of his sin. It had been ruined because of one person and one person alone: Peter Dawney.

At first he had simply wanted to kill Peter Dawney slowly and painfully; he wanted him to suffer just as he had suffered. He got his first taste of death when a stray cat entered his garden one afternoon. He broke every bone in the animal's body before holding its neck down and watching the cat's eyes until the life slipped out of them. It was satisfying but over far too quickly.

As the years went by and his thoughts matured, Duncan realized that when you kill a man, he suffers, perhaps for a few seconds, maybe even for a few hours, but eventually he dies and his pain ends. He is at peace. Duncan himself had prayed for death for years, knowing it was the only release there would be from the constant pain he was forced to live with.

Instead of killing Peter Dawney, he wanted him to feel pain. Not just any pain but a deep-seated, long-lasting pain that would stay with him for the rest of his life. The insurance money and his inheritance meant that he could live quite comfortably without having to work, and this gave him plenty of time to plot a far more sinister
revenge, which he went about with military precision. He began to study Peter, watching him, following him. He wanted to learn everything that there was to learn about his enemy, to find every weakness.

He was there in the shadows when Peter Dawney met his wife for the first time, took out the lease on a new office building and launched his first product. He was even there in the background when Peter got married.

And of course Duncan was watching from a distance when Peter started his affair with Christina Rogers. The pair would regularly meet up at remote locations and hotels across the south-east.

And then, when Alice Dawney became pregnant, everything changed. Soon afterwards he saw with great satisfaction the look of hurt on Peter's face as the affair came to an end. But the greatest prize came a few weeks later when he was going for his six-monthly check-up at the local hospital and saw Christina Rogers enter the ante-natal unit. His mind was buzzing. The Lord did indeed work in mysterious ways. But he had to be sure. If they were both his children, they would both pay for the sins of their father.

He had learned patience from his father and knew he would not do anything while his mother was still alive; Duncan would remain the dutiful son. But six weeks after she died, he put his murderous plan into action.

Lesley Riding burst into tears many times as she told Collins and Woods everything she knew about Duncan Jenkins. At the end of the story, she cried once more.

‘For months after it happened, I would wake up in a cold sweat. I had nightmares in which I would hear that terrible scream, see the burning skin. Sometimes I was the one who was burning. Sometimes I would see other children burst into flames. In the end I had to be prescribed sleeping tablets and antidepressants, but to be honest they made me feel worse. I know Duncan was scarred for life by what happened, but I've been scarred too – on the inside.'

Collins listened patiently to the woman's story. She had to let her speak at her own pace, but at the same time she was anxious to get on with the investigation. Duncan Jenkins was by far the strongest lead they had come across so far. He had the right kind of motive for the crime and, from what Lesley had said, was more than capable of planning something so intricate.

‘Lesley,' said Collins as softly as she could manage, ‘I do appreciate that this is a very difficult time for you, and that the guilt you've been carrying around for years must be spiralling out of control now that you know he's a prime suspect in this particularly heinous crime, but I need you to focus. I need you to help us. What we really
need to know right now is where Duncan Jenkins is. Where does he live? Do you know anyone who might be able to tell us?'

Lesley had not been in touch with anyone from the school for many years and had no idea where Duncan could be found. Collins and Woods sat while she made a series of phone calls to long-lost friends and former teachers at Duncan's school, slowly piecing together information about what happened to the pupil after she left.

‘From what I can gather,' she said, ‘he stayed in the area. He returned to the school for a couple of years but didn't fit in. His mother passed away recently. They say they lived in the same house until she died.'

‘Where is it?'

‘I don't know the exact address. But it's in Dulwich near the park.'

Duncan opened the door to the makeshift cell. He could see Michael sitting in the corner, where he had been for the past two days. He smiled as he walked over to him, enjoying the sight of his suffering.

He lifted the boy up and threw him on to the bed. ‘Please, no. Not again. Please no. I want to see my mummy.' The boy's face was a picture of terror. He liked that. He revelled in the control he had over him.

‘Relax, Michael,' Duncan said softly. ‘I just want to talk to you. It's nearly over.'

Michael shrank away from his captor and, while still shivering with fear, curled his knees up into his belly, trying to avoid eye contact.

Do you love your parents?'

Michael nodded.

Do you see much of your father?' Duncan already knew the answer.

Michael shook his head.

I always used to see my father. We used to play together all the time. Do you ever play with your father?'

Another shake of the head.

‘I bet you wish you had a brother. Then you'd have someone to play with all the time.'

Michael shrugged.

Did you know you had a brother?'

Michael whispered, ‘No, I've not got a brother
.'

‘You have, Michael. But I killed him. Five days ago. He was in this very room.'

Michael's eyes widened with fear.

‘Don't worry, I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to take you somewhere and then your father is going to come and collect you. Would you like that?'

Michael nodded as tears ran down his cheeks.

‘I'm going to take you out of this room now, but I need to make sure you stay quiet.'

And with that Duncan took out a roll of gaffer tape and used it first to bind his hands and feet and then to gag him, while Michael remained motionless with fear.

When Duncan had finished, he sat Michael upright and stood in front of him. ‘You've grown into a handsome boy. I've watched you from the day you were born. I saw your first birthday party, a barbecue on the lawn, and I was there for your last birthday, when you went go-karting at Streatham.'

Duncan began to unbutton his shirt and loosen his belt. ‘I knew your father. We used to go to school together. He's not a nice man. Do you want to see what he did to me?'

Michael remained still.

Duncan continued to undress. ‘I'm going to show you what he did to me.' And with that, he opened his shirt and allowed his trousers to fall to the ground, closing his eyes to better savour the sound of the boy's muffled screams.

‘Cooper, it's Collins. I need a name check.'

‘Sure, guv.'

‘I'm looking for a Duncan Jenkins; the address is somewhere near the park in Dulwich. I need you to run a vehicle check and see if there's anything registered.'

‘Okay. Give me a minute.'

Collins was in the passenger seat of Woods's Mondeo, speeding through the streets of South London as they made their way towards Dulwich, her mobile phone pressed tightly against her ear.

Cooper came back on the line. ‘I've got three hits in SE21. No Duncan, though.'

‘What are the first names?'

‘Frank, Stephanie and Jacqueline.'

‘Are any of them near the park?'

Cooper activated a second computer terminal beside her and quickly called up a road map of Dulwich. ‘No, the nearest one is closer to Peckham Rye Park.'

Collins had to think fast. There had to be another way to find them. And then it clicked.

‘Look up the Deaths' Register. Look for a female with the surname Jenkins from the Dulwich area who died in the last two years.'

Collins heard the sound of frantic typing on the other end of the line. ‘I've got a Grace Jenkins. Died six weeks ago.'

‘Okay, cross-reference that on the archives.'

‘Here it is. Grace Jenkins, 42 Druce Road.' Cooper paused while she looked at the map again. ‘It's just off Court Lane, right next to the park.'

‘Thanks, Natalie. Stay by your desk. I might need you again.'

Her next call was to DCI Blackwell. If Jenkins was the kidnapper, then there was every possibility that Michael was being held at Druce Road. She dialled his number, but it kept ringing out, going to the answering machine. She left one message and tried again. After five attempts she gave up and called DCS Higgins.

‘Sir, it's Collins.'

‘Yes, Collins.'

‘I've been trying to get hold of Blackwell, but he's not answering his phone – I think we've found our main suspect for the Eliot and Dawney cases.'

‘Who?'

‘Duncan Jenkins. I need permission to go to the address.'

‘You think the boy might be there?'

She explained in brief the story of Jenkins and his reason for hating Dawney. Higgins heard what Collins was saying and knew that she definitely had a lead.

‘Okay, it seems a long shot, but go and check it out – carefully, though. If it's him, the last thing we want to do is make him panic and kill Michael. Report back to me as soon as you can – we've got just over three hours before the drop-off.'

Duncan Jenkins had grown up in a classic red-brick Victorian semi-detached house with large sash windows that looked out on to a quiet residential street in South London. As Collins and Woods slowly drove past, she noticed immediately that the driveway was broad enough to allow someone to back a transit van up to the front door and take in whatever they wanted without being noticed.

‘We need to have a closer look,' said Collins. ‘We can't see anything from here.'

‘We'd better be dead careful, though, guv,' said Woods. ‘If he's in there with the kid and we go knocking on the door, he'll kill him.'

Collins glanced out of the window as Woods parked two streets away and saw a young postman pushing a trolley loaded with letters and parcels, stopping at each house as he made his deliveries.

‘I've got an idea,' said Collins.

Five minutes later Tony Woods, uncomfortably dressed in an ill-fitting Royal Mail jacket, made his way along the front path of No.
42
, his eyes scanning each window for movement.

He reached the door and rang the bell. There was no response. He held open the letterbox, crouched down and peered inside. ‘Postman,' he shouted. ‘Got a delivery.'

Again, no response.

He turned back and went to meet Collins, who was waiting at the top of the road with the bemused postman, who took back his jacket and continued his rounds.

‘No one home,' said Woods, as they headed back to the house. ‘You want to go and get a warrant?'

‘No time – follow me,' said Collins, cautiously keeping to the right-hand side of the property, where a narrow path led to the back garden. The high wooden gate was firmly locked. Collins immediately wished she had been wearing jeans and trainers instead of her usual black trouser suit, open-necked white blouse and low-heeled court shoes.

Woods cupped his hands together. ‘You want me to give you a bunk up?'

‘Piss off.'

‘Worth a try, guv.'

Collins reached up, gripped the top of the fence with both hands and pulled herself up to the top, giving Woods a sly look as she dropped down on the other side.

She found herself on a small patio looking out over a garden with neat flowerbeds and grass that was perfectly manicured. As Woods dropped down beside her, the pair turned and looked in through the half-glass door at the immaculate white-laminate L-shaped kitchen.

Collins stood back and scanned the rear of the building for any open windows. There were none. She returned her attention to the door, crouching down and pushing open the cat flap.

‘What's that noise?'

‘What noise?'

Collins smiled mischievously as she straightened up. ‘I distinctly thought I heard a baby crying. Sounds very distressed. I think that gives us probable cause.'

Before Woods could even begin to object, Collins had smashed a small pane of glass by the side of the door, reached in and unlocked it. She waited a few moments to
see if the sound of breaking glass prompted any kind of reaction, then stepped inside.

‘Jesus, it's like stepping back in time,' said Woods, as he looked around him, taking in the dated surroundings. The walls were covered in faded magnolia woodchip paper; the worktop was a speckled black-and-white formica. ‘My grandmother had a kitchen like this, but nowhere near as clean.'

Collins led the way past the breakfast table, into the hallway and towards the front door, but she stopped short when she spotted a panelled wooden door under the staircase. She held up one hand, silently signalling to Woods that he should stand still. She turned to him and put one finger to her lips, then crept towards the door and placed her ear against it.

Woods raised a questioning eyebrow. Collins shook her head, indicating that there was no sound from the other side of the door. She stepped forward and placed her mouth close to Woods's ear. ‘If he's down there, he may not have heard anything,' she whispered softly. ‘Or he might have gone out and left Michael down there alone.'

Woods nodded, gripped the handle and gently pulled the door open a fraction, allowing a soft light and musty smell to rise up from the basement below.

‘Shit,' she whispered again, a rush of adrenalin pulsing through her veins. ‘I think he's down there.'

Collins slipped off her shoes and, with Woods following close behind, began to creep down the stairs. Her hands and forehead were covered in a thin film of sweat, her senses acutely alert and ready to face whatever horrors she might encounter. She kept her eyes fixed on the
last few steps, which curved around to the left into the basement, keeping it just out of view.

She was almost at the bottom when she froze at the sound of footsteps coming up the path to the front door. She turned and stared wide-eyed at Woods, who swiftly but silently made his way back up to the top of the stairs and pulled the door to, leaving only a tiny gap for him to look through.

His heart raced as he saw a shadow approaching through the glass of the front door. He looked down at Collins and mouthed the word ‘shit'. The shadow grew larger and larger, until the figure was directly outside the entrance. Woods closed his eyes and pulled the door all the way shut. At that moment he and Collins heard the distinctive sound of a pile of letters hitting the tiled floor.

‘Fucking postman,' said Collins under her breath, continuing her way down the final steps to the basement. She paused at the point where the steps twisted, her back rigid against the wall as she peered round the corner.

‘Shit.'

Woods came running down behind her. ‘What is it?' he gasped. But as he turned the corner he immediately knew what she had meant.

In front of them was a small square room, no more than four feet wide. A pile of old paint pots sat in one corner and a collection of rusted DIY tools sat in another. The bare brick walls were stained with damp, and it was obvious that the room had been used for nothing more than storage for many years.

‘Not quite what I expected, guv.'

‘No. You couldn't swing a cat in here. I thought these places had huge basements. This is more like an old coal bunker. Better search the rest of the house.'

They started in the lounge. The room was dominated by a light-brown corduroy sofa and armchair, both slightly worn. The walls were bare apart from a picture of the crucifixion of Christ that sat above the dark-green tiled fire surround. The only modern thing in the room was the large flat-screen TV with a Sky box and DVD player/ recorder in the corner on a glass stand.

Collins walked over to the ash-veneer sideboard and drinks cabinet, and glanced at the collection of framed photographs of a young child with his parents, smiling cheekily and playing up for the camera. She reached out and picked up the picture in the centre of a young boy posing in his school uniform. At the bottom of the print, embossed in gold, were the words
Dulwich Park School
. It was the first time she had seen Duncan Jenkins up close, even though the picture was nearly thirty years old. She studied his features. He was a slightly chubby boy with mousy-coloured hair, brown eyes and an innocent angelic face. She placed the photo back and noticed that there were no photos of him after that age. It was as if time had stood still after the accident.

‘Tidy fellow,' said Woods, nodding towards the armchair on which the three remote controls had been neatly arranged. Woods pulled open some drawers. They were full of yellowing newspapers and dog-eared books.

‘We're wasting our time. There's nothing here.'

‘Let's check the other rooms anyway.'

They made their way upstairs and started with the room at the front of the house. The pastel colours, delicately patterned floral wallpaper and lace-edged bedclothes showed this had been his mother's bedroom. Pictures of her were everywhere. Collins noticed a worn leather-bound Bible on the bedside table and a wooden crucifix on the wall above the bed.

‘It's like a shrine,' breathed Collins. ‘What do you think?'

‘I'll bet you any money that this room hasn't changed one iota since the day his mother died. This guy's got some serious personality disorders. OCD for one and an unnatural obsession with his mother.'

‘OCD?'

‘Obsessive compulsive disorder,' explained Woods. ‘Turns you into a perfectionist. Everything has its place and function, and nothing can deviate from that. It can develop as a way of dealing with severe trauma.'

They continued their search across the hall. Compared to the master bedroom, the olive bathroom suite seemed plain and functional. Collins opened the mirrored cabinet above the sink. It contained mouthwash, toothbrush, toothpaste and a range of over-the-counter cough and cold medications.

‘Don't suppose there's a bottle of chloroform in there?' asked Woods.

‘Chance would be a fine thing.'

The second bedroom was more modern than the first, with a pine chest of drawers, wardrobe and double bed. Woods opened a couple of drawers. Underwear, socks
and T-shirts were neatly packed away and colour coded. ‘Classic OCD,' he said softly.

‘He's a big guy,' said Collins. Woods turned and saw that his boss was holding up a pair of trousers she'd taken out of the wardrobe and scrutinizing the label. ‘Judging by the clothes, he's over six foot and well built.'

Next door was an unremarkable box room. The real surprise came when they entered a room at the back of the house.

Expecting another bedroom, they instead found themselves staring at a richly detailed model landscape of hills and fields covered in hundreds of tiny model soldiers. More figurines stared down at them from shelves on all sides of the room, and a desk in the corner held a selection of magnifiers, paints and crafting tools.

‘Look at the detail on these things,' gasped Woods, picking up one of the figures and examining it closely. ‘He's done all this by hand. It's amazing.'

‘It's a bit creepy,' replied Collins. ‘We're wasting our time here. Let's go.'

‘You think Jenkins is our man?' asked Woods, as they made their way back down the stairs.

‘Maybe. Let's get one of the pictures from the lounge. Maybe Forensics can age it to give us an idea of what he looks like now.'

‘Good idea, but a bit of a stretch, even with the latest software.'

‘I know, but it's better than nothing. I'll take one of his dad too. That might help.'

As they returned to the lounge, Collins found herself
staring at the picture of the crucifixion of Christ on the wall. She shuddered slightly.

‘You okay, boss?'

‘I didn't tell you this at the time, but Sophie went missing last night. I was in pieces … I kept thinking about Daniel hanging in the church …'

‘Jesus, why didn't you tell me? Where is she now?'

‘There was nothing you could have done – thankfully, she's back with my parents.'

‘Have you been having problems? I thought you two were close.'

‘It's been hard lately. The job's been getting in the way, and I keep letting her down. I'm scared that if I'm not there, she'll go off the rails.'

‘I'm sure it's just a phase.'

‘Maybe.'

She walked over to the sideboard and reached for the school photograph. But before her fingers could touch the frame, another of the images caught her eye. It was a picture of Duncan and his mother sitting on a wooden bench alongside a handsome, dark-haired man. The first time she had seen it, Collins had assumed he was Duncan's father, but, looking more closely now, she saw that this man was quite different.