The Deal (The Fallen Angel Series Book 1)

  The Fallen Angel Series

  Book I

  The Deal

  by

  Siobhán C Cunningham

  Other books available by Siobhan C Cunningham

  The Penance List

  Amazon Book I of The David Trilogy

  Unfinished Business

  Amazon Book II of The David Trilogy

  For My Sins

  Amazon Book III of The David Trilogy

  (in progress)

  Ginormous Joes Broken Bark

  Children’s Picture Book Series

  Karma

  Amazon Book II of The Fallen Angel Series

  (in progress)

  Copyright © 2017 by S C Cunningham

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  www.sccunningham.com @sccunningham8

  Siobhán C Cunningham

  Author of The Penance List, Unfinished Business and The Deal, Cunningham creates psychological crime thrillers with a skilled mix of fuelled tension, dark humour, and pulsating sex scenes Her works offer a fresh level of sincerity and authority, rare in fiction.

  Abducted as a child, she survived; and every night for months afterward, she prayed to God, asking for a deal. This personal journey sparked the fuse behind the intriguing and riveting fictional world she portrays in The Deal, the first in the series.

  An exmodel, British born of Irish roots, she married a rock musician and has worked in the exciting worlds of music, film, sports, celebrity management and as a Crime Investigator and Intel Analyst for the Police - Wanted and Absconder Unit, Major Crime Team, Investigations Hub.

  She is the proud mother to Artist Scarlett Raven and owned by three dogs.

  Thank You

  A special note of grateful thanks to all those inspiring Emergency & Rescue Service workers. The unsung heroes who live quietly among us, working tirelessly, in sometimes dire circumstances and with no thanks, helping to keep us and this planet safe. I salute you. And in particular the hard working men and women of Sussex Police.

  Thank you to all my supportive friends. You know who you are! To my hero of a mum, who keeps lighting the candles and saying the prayers, in the hope that one day I may settle down and get a sensible job. To the three loving, soul-soothing dogs who lie snoring at my feet as I write.

  To my gorgeous proof-readers; Andrea Watts, Gigi Jessiman, Sue Robinson. To my supportive work colleagues. To the wonderful girls at Inspirations.online who opened my eyes to the beauty of crystals and other such magical wonders.

  To the amazing cover artist, Mike at 10dollarcovers.com, who custom-made a brilliant vibrant Matrix’esque cover for me (this was a tricky story-line to depict, and he nailed it).To my brilliant editor, Linda Kasten, at lindakasten.com, who had the faith, patience and skills to turn my lump of coal into a diamond. Thank you for making editing fun.

  To my uber talented daughter, Scarlett Raven, my reason, my life. Angel, thank you for the endless support, belief, courage, and idea-crunching. Two dyslexic blondes didn’t do too bad! I am honoured to have you in my life.

  The Deal

  Dear God, I was taken by a bad man, I got away,

  but the next girl didn’t.

  If I promise to be a good girl, when I die,

  can I sit on a cloud for a while,

  be invisible, and get the baddies that you

  and the Police don’t get?

  Amy Fox, age 4 yrs.

  Dear God, thank you for keeping our deal.

  But WTF…really!

  Haven’t we got enough to deal with?

  I get we’re just physics

  Erthfolk don’t understand yet,

  but if criminals don’t play by the rules,

  then why the hell should we?

  What’ya gonna do? Kill me?

  I’m already dead.

  Amy Fox, age 32 yrs.

  Brompton South Police Station, London, UK

  The door to the custody interview suite burst open. The warm stench of cannabis, disinfectant, and rancid carpet hit Detective Constable Tony DeAngelo’s face as he stepped into the dark, soundproofed box-room.

  He flicked a switch. Harsh fluorescent light bounced off grey walls, worn flooring, and cheap brown office furniture. No windows, no pictures, no comfort in this room. It was a place to confess, to tell lies or remain silent. Soaked heavy in confession and deceit, it’d heard it all.

  An empty desk sat tucked up against the wall on the left, flanked with four plastic bucket chairs, two either side. A wall-bracketed touchscreen computer protruded at head height over the desk. A CCTV player and screen sat on a cupboard against the opposing wall.

  DeAngelo held the door open for the prisoner to enter. The waft of stale sweat, semen, and a night in the cells hit DeAngelo’s nostrils as the slovenly male shuffled past him.

  DeAngelo took shallow breaths, grateful for the strong-smelling nasal gel he wiped across his top lip prior to interview. The pine fresh vapours prevented retching when dealing with his less hygienic suspects. Especially when three or four bodies - Solicitors, Appropriate Others, Interpreters - squeezed into the airless room, got hot and bothered during questioning.

  “Sit on the other side of the desk, please, sir. Your Legal Advisor, Mr. Maydew, will sit beside you.”

  DeAngelo pointed across the desk at the chair against the wall.

  “Have you been here before, sir?”

  The prisoner shuffled around the desk, pulled out the chair and manoeuvred his large frame into the seat. He grunted and shook his head; he wasn’t used to being called ‘sir.’

  “No,” he mumbled, his hooded gaze darting and scanning the space around him.

  Above the table, a red plastic strip sat at shoulder height: a panic alarm. He would have to get passed his Legal Advisor and the Investigator to get to the door, then tackle five or six Custody staff and three coded doors to get out of the station. No chance.

  “Well, I’ll explain it to you once we’re seated. Are you comfortable? Do you want water?”

  “No.”

  The prisoner closed his eyes and rocked his head back. For twenty years he’d managed to live undetected, below the radar. What the hell had gone wrong?

  Immaculately suited and booted, Mr. Maydew flounced into the room, full of pomp and self-importance, his nose twitching at the sour odour emanating from his client. He plonked his shiny leather briefcase noisily on the table, dragged his chair away, as far as was polite, and sat beside the prisoner.

  “My client would like to move cells,” he announced. “It’s disgusting. He’s been kept awake by the occupant in the next cell all night, shouting, banging, and—”

  “This is not a hotel, Mr. Maydew,” interrupted DeAngelo with a sigh.

  Maydew was a regular Legal Advisor in Brompton South Custody, a known complainer; he liked to show off in front of his clients and use whatever means possible to upset the rhythm of an interview, in an effort to change the power dynamics, but he just managed to piss everyone off. And DeAngelo sometimes wondered if his legal advice was sound.

  “And now he has started a dirty protest. Excrement has been smeared everywhere. The stench is disgusting. My client needs to be moved…for his asthma.” Maydew noisily banged the tip of his black ballpoint pen on the table between them. “I demand it.”

  DeAngelo calmly closed the door and seated himself opposite the prisoner. He placed a black file on the desk and reached up to the touchscreen. He tapped
the start button and started to log into the interview system.

  “Did you hear me, Officer?” The black pen tapped in time with his words. “I demand a move for my client.”

  DeAngelo carried on, entering information to the screen.

  “Right, sir.” He looked at the prisoner, ignoring Maydew. “You’ll notice that on the wall and ceiling above us are microphones and cameras. This interview will be digitally recorded and given as evidence should the matter go to court. I can give you a copy of...”

  “Will you talk to the Custody Sergeant about a move?” insisted Maydew, increasing the pressure on his drumming pen, not liking being ignored.

  DeAngelo looked the prisoner in the eye, paying no attention to Maydew, and continued.

  “After the interview, I can give you a form, which tells you how to get a copy of the interview, should you wish. You’re entitled to free and independent legal advice—in person or via the telephone—throughout your stay in custody.”

  The prisoner wasn’t paying attention. He dropped his hands to his lap and absent-mindedly scratched the skin of his forearms. DeAngelo wondered if he was suffering from drug withdrawal.

  “I see you’ve taken legal advice. Are you happy with the advice you’ve been given?”

  The prisoner’s eyes shifted to the pompous man sitting beside him. He gave a resigned tilt of his head and nodded. The two men couldn’t be more different.

  “Are you happy to continue?” asked DeAngelo.

  The prisoner nodded, staring into his lap, watching nails tear into skin.

  “If you would like to stop the interview at any time and confer with your advisor, let me know, we can—”

  “The stench is disgusting,” interrupted Maydew. “Shit everywhere…I could smell it from the disclosure room.” Incessantly tapping his pen, a spoilt little boy trying to get attention.

  “I will see if the Honeymoon Suite is available after the interview, Mr. Maydew. Now, if you please, let us continue.”

  The prisoner sniggered.

  DeAngelo punched the final setup details onto the screen.

  “Very funny,” tutted Maydew indignantly, reaching over the table and waving his pen at DeAngelo. “I will report you, DC DeAngelo.”

  DeAngelo ignored the threat, lined his file neatly in front of him, and focused on the prisoner.

  “Once I start the recording, I’ll introduce each of us in the room. I’ll caution you, and then explain the caution. I’ll then ask you why you are here today, giving you an opportunity to put your side of events forward.”

  The prisoner nodded, sweat gathering on his top lip.

  “I ask that you speak up for the benefit of the recording, so that you can be heard. I also ask that you don’t interrupt me when I’m talking, that you listen to my question, and in turn I’ll listen to your answer and not interrupt you, do you understand?”

  The prisoner squeezed his hands together, in an effort to stop the scratching, and nodded.

  “Right. Are you ready?”

  The prisoner nodded again.

  “Are you ready, Mr. Maydew?”

  “Yes, yes, yes… Let’s get this over with, and then I’ll have words with the Custody Sergeant,” grumbled Maydew with a wave of his pen.

  “You know the protocol, Mr. Maydew. I assume your phone is turned off.”

  “Err…no…actually…err.” Maydew blustered as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a phone. He fumbled clumsily with buttons, trying to turn it off. “Damn this bloody thing!”

  DeAngelo caught the prisoner’s eye; they gave each other a mutual look of annoyance at Maydew’s antics.

  Maydew finally succeeded in silencing his phone and slipped it back, out of sight, into his pocket. “Yes, yes…it’s off. Now go ahead. Let’s get on with it, for heaven’s sake,” he muttered, as if it were DeAngelo’s fault.

  “Thank you. I will now start the interview.” DeAngelo pressed the recording button; the screen lit up with a timer.

  “The time is now 10.18 hours. It is Sunday, the 18th of January, and we are in Brompton Custody Suite. I will introduce those present for the recording. I am DC DeAngelo, also present is…” DeAngelo waved his hand at Maydew.

  “Allister Maydew, Legal Advisor for Winchestern Solicitors,” mumbled Maydew in a jaded, I’m-way-too-important-to-be-here tone.

  DeAngelo looked at the prisoner.

  “Can you please give your name?”

  “No comment.”

  “For heaven’s sake, old boy,” Maydew chided. “The no comment is for the questions. You can give your name; they know your name.”

  “No comment,” repeated the prisoner, jaw set, eyes cast firmly down towards his lap.

  DeAngelo continued.

  “Can you please give your date of birth?”

  “No comment.”

  “Ughh...” Maydew sighed, shaking his head, as if talking to a simpleton. “They know your date of birth. You can give—”

  “Mr. Maydew,” said DeAngelo, tired of the interruptions. “This is the prisoner’s interview. You’ve been invited to give him legal advice, which it seems he is taking. May I ask you to stop interrupting? If you and your client wish to confer further, we can stop the interview and adjourn whilst you do so.”

  Maydew sat upright, tight lipped, quietly seething.

  “Continue.” He swept his pen at the room.

  “Thank you.” DeAngelo looked at the prisoner. “Are you happy to continue? Did you want to confer further with your Solicitor… sorry,” looking to Maydew. “Could you confirm, are you a Solicitor or Legal Advisor?” knowing full well that the man didn’t have the broader training of a Solicitor.

  “Legal Advisor.” Maydew spat, tightening his lips into a thin line.

  “Thank you,” DeAngelo turned back to the prisoner. “Are you happy to continue?”

  The prisoner nodded.

  “I am now going to caution you and then explain it’s meaning. OK?”

  The prisoner nodded again, head down, his gaze boring into his lap.

  “You don’t have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later reply on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” The prisoner shifted in his chair.

  “To explain, you don’t have to talk to me or answer my questions. Anything you do say will be given as evidence via this recording, but if you don’t answer my questions today, and it does go to court, the court may wonder why you waited until then to answer my questions. They may also wonder if you’re telling the truth. Do you understand the caution?”

  The prisoner nodded.

  “For the benefit of the recording, you are nodding your head. Is that correct?”

  “No comment.”

  “Last night you were arrested for the offences of GBH, grievous bodily harm, and possession of indecent images of children, what can you tell me about this?”

  “Bollocks.”

  Maydew sniggered.

  DeAngelo didn’t flinch.

  Maydew held up a hand to stop DeAngelo’s next question. He opened his briefcase with a smart double click of the locks and took out a piece of A4 lined paper.

  “My client has written a prepared statement,” he announced triumphantly, dropping the briefcase to the floor and placing the paper on the table in front of him.

  The statement consisted of a handwritten short paragraph with Maydew’s large black spidery letters scrawled across the page and the prisoner’s tiny, meticulous signature along the bottom. DeAngelo noted that for a large, unkempt man, the prisoner had surprisingly small writing. Controlled, heavy pressured, narrow letters, all sloping to the left and making contact—suggested to him a highly cautious, intelligent, inhibited personality with authority issues.

  “Would you like me to read it out to you, Officer?” Maydew tapped his pen on the table, smug that he was back in control.

  “Yes, thank you.” DeAngelo gave him his full attention.
>
  Maydew swept up the statement with a theatrical sweep of his hand, and read to the gallery in a loud thespian voice. Enjoying the drama.

  “I, the above-named person, categorically deny the offences against me. With reference to the GBH offence, I do not know of the victim, have never met the victim, and was at home, alone, watching football during the date and time disclosed. I know this because it was an important Chelsea V Manchester United match that day. With reference to the indecent images offence, my computer is shared by many friends and acquaintances, and is left alone when I am at the local library, acquiring coffee. If there are images on my laptop, I do not know who put them there.”

  Maydew triumphantly placed the paper in the middle of the table and slid it over to DeAngelo.

  “Thank you, Mr. Maydew.”

  DeAngelo picked it up and quietly reread the text, taking his time as the two men waited in silence. He opened his file and placed the exhibit statement to the back, seemingly unbothered by its contents.

  “I would first like to talk to you about the assault. I would like you to look at Exhibit Numbers AD06 to AD011, which are five images taken of the victim after the attack.”

  DeAngelo carefully pulled out five full-colour, A4 photographs and slowly placed them, one by one, in a line down the middle of the table, facing the two men. He took extra care to align each image, placing them equidistant between each other and the table’s edges. Giving the two men time to absorb the horror. The colour red oozed before them.

  Silence.

  Maydew leaned forward to get a closer look, at first not understanding what he was seeing. When he realised he was looking at skin and muscle torn from a man’s face and that the patches of bloody white were skull bone, he shot back in his chair in shock, swallowing back a retch.