Fallen angel, p.1
Fallen Angel, page 1
Chris Brookmyre was a journalist before becoming a full-time novelist with the publication of his award-winning debut Quite Ugly One Morning, which established him as one of Britain’s leading crime authors. His Jack Parlabane novels have sold more than one million copies in the UK alone, and Black Widow won both the McIlvanney Prize and the Theakston’s Old Peculier Crime Novel of the Year award.
Also by Chris Brookmyre
Quite Ugly One Morning
Country of the Blind
Not the End of the World
One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night
Boiling a Frog
A Big Boy Did It and Ran Away
The Sacred Art of Stealing
Be My Enemy
All Fun and Games Until Somebody Loses an Eye
A Tale Etched in Blood and Hard Black Pencil
Attack of the Unsinkable Rubber Ducks
A Snowball in Hell
Pandaemonium
Where the Bodies are Buried
When the Devil Drives
Flesh Wounds
Dead Girl Walking
Black Widow
Want You Gone
Ebook only
The Last Day of Christmas
Siege Mentality
Copyright
Published by Little, Brown
ISBN: 978-0-3491-4321-7
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Christopher Brookmyre 2019
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Little, Brown
Little, Brown Book Group
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www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
About the Author
Also by Chris Brookmyre
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
2018: Ivy
2018: Amanda
2018: Celia
2018: Amanda
2018: Ivy
2018: Marion
2002: Vince
2018: Amanda
2002: Rory
2018: Amanda
2018: Ivy
2018: Amanda
2002: Sylvie
2018: Amanda
2002: Rory
2018: Amanda
2002: Sylvie
2018: Celia – Marion
2018: Celia
2018: Celia
Part Two
2002: Vince
2018: Ivy
2018: Amanda
2018: Ivy
2018: Ivy
2002: Celia
2002: Rory
2018: Ivy
2002: Rory
2018: Marion
2002: Rory
2018: Amanda
2002: Marion – Rory – Sylvie
2018: Amanda
2002: Celia – Vince
2018: Amanda
2002: Rory
2018: Ivy
2002: Vince
2018: Amanda
2018: Ivy – Amanda
2018: Amanda
2002
2018: Amanda
2002: Rob
2018: Ivy
2018: Amanda
For Marisa
Temple Family Tree
Prologue
Human beings find it impossible to make sense of death. The sum of our civilisation and learning has left us uncomprehending of its finality, stalked by its inevitability and yet stunned by its caprice. It is surprising then that we do not take greater solace in the knowledge that some people truly deserve to die.
In such circumstances, death can seem magical, killing a liberation. A figure who loomed so large as to sometimes dominate all my thoughts, instantly rendered null. A once terrifying threat extinguished, an unforgivable wrong avenged. And the greatest transformation of all is that there is no reason for me to be afraid of him any more.
Undoubtedly, his memory will echo, but that is all he can now do.
He is slumped over his desk, his right hand extended as though reaching for one of the documents piled next to his monitor. This was his sanctuary, a place he must have imagined he was untouchable. But such was the hubris of one who so clearly disdained other people for being as stupid as they were powerless.
There are books and papers all around, as befitting a learned individual with a busy mind. Framed certificates on the walls, conspicuous badges of achievement. They are trappings of respectability, part of the façade that disguised the man he truly was, what he was capable of and how low he was prepared to sink.
If someone walked in they might think he had fallen asleep on the job, or perhaps read a particularly depressing email. You would have to come close and look in his eyes to see that he is dead.
It will look like a heart attack. They will not find the tiny needle mark. They will not know to test for insulin. For what he had done, for what he had taken away, he did not deserve that it should have been so quick or merciful.
There is no noise from outside, a sense of respectful stillness surrounding the building, like the world itself is acquiescent of the deed. It feels strange that killing should be so quiet, particularly when that killing is both an act of vengeance and in defence of what is right and true. In real life it is not accompanied by a swell of strings or, in this case, even a cry for help. There had merely been that gasp of horrified astonishment, followed by a look of resignation. It was as though only in this moment did he understand the inevitability of it ending like this, the crushing knowledge that he had brought such a fate upon himself.
What were his last thoughts as he slumped forward onto the mahogany, before the light faded in his eyes and darkness descended for ever? Were they of those he had loved, those he had betrayed? Were they of his life, his career, his achievements, his regrets? Or did his fading mind allow him one last picture of blue skies and a sparkling sea: a place he once believed he was king, but where he had sown the seeds of his destruction?
PART ONE
The most effective conspiracy has the smallest number of participants. By definition the minimum is two. That is also the ideal maximum.
Max Temple
2018
Ivy
Rain is lashing down as she emerges from the Tube station, gusts of wind angling the deluge almost to the horizontal. A tenaciously brutal winter had relinquished its grip only with grudging reluctance, giving way to some unseasonably hot and sunny late spring days, but this meant that it caught everyone off-guard when the heavens opened this morning.
Ivy had overheard a woman in the carriage talking about the recent warm spell’s contrast to the Beast from the East, saying she had almost forgotten what it was like to feel the sun on her shoulders. Ivy realises this is true of her too, but that doesn’t mean she has missed it. Living in London, she seldom spends much time out of doors. Her office and her apartment are climate controlled to within a decimal point of perfection. What does she need sunshine for?
Sunshine is a disinfectant, people say, as though bringing simply anything into the light is an unambiguously wise and healthy thing to do. As far as Ivy is concerned, the only value of sunshine is that it casts shadows, and that is where she operates.
The problem with sunshine is that it makes people believe everything is going to be all right, and in her area of PR, that isn’t good for the bottom line. It isn’t good for clients’ welfare either, to be honest. Clients need to be able to envisage an approaching worst-case scenario, so that they can take appropriate steps to avoid it, and the most appropriate step, always, is to retain her services.
She reaches Lincoln House on Remnant Street, where the Cairncross Partnership occupies two floors, hurrying through the revolving doors out of the downpour. There is a trail of water on the floor ahead of her, leading to where a woman has stopped to shake off a dripping umbrella, this action complicated by one of its spokes having bent. Ivy estimates her to be in her forties, probably a mother of teens from the look of her; lower-to-middle-tier management, if that. Her body language is cowed as though apologising for her very existence: someone who has reached that point in life at which she realises all the things she once thought she might achieve or experience are never going to happen. Probably been kidding herself for the past decade and a half that the kids would make up for it, telling herself that raising them was a worthy achievement in itself before coming to realise – too late – just what a wretched con that was.
Somewhere between the revolving doors and where she now stands, it must have struck the poor cow that the price of a replacement was worth more to her than her dignity in trying to salvage a conspicuously buggered brolly in front of other human beings.
Glancing down, Ivy notices that her own umbrella has a kink in one spoke too, from being caught by a billowing gust only yards from the entrance. It is an Aspinal that she had bought yesterday on the way home, having checked the forecast. In a business entirely about appearances, it doesn’t look good to turn up drenc hed, not least because it betrays that you didn’t anticipate a coming storm.
The woman glances her way and offers a smile of solidarity as she clocks the damage. Ivy feels a familiar surge of revulsion. No, bitch, she thinks. In her world, there is no such thing as ‘me too’, whether that is a bent brolly or anything else you might delude yourself into thinking you have in common.
Ivy holds her gaze for a moment, unsmiling, before jamming the two-hundred-quid Aspinal into a nearby bin.
She proceeds towards the lifts, pulling out her swipe card and fixing her gaze on the barriers as she passes reception. Her singularity of purpose proves insufficient to prevent an unsolicited greeting from behind the desk.
‘Morning, Ms Roan.’
Ivy responds with the tiniest, most cursory micro-smile: one so fleeting and perfunctory as to convey the extent to which she begrudges the burden of such a courtesy.
She takes the lift to the twelfth floor and strides towards her office on swift feet, rounding a corner in time to see one of the junior account managers notice her approach and warn his colleagues. At that distance she can’t hear what he says but she doesn’t have to be much of a lip reader to discern his two-word heads-up: ‘Poison Ivy.’
In a supposedly creative business, it’s hardly the most imaginative of derogatory nicknames for them to have come up with, but she is nonetheless rather proud that it has stuck. She doesn’t need any of them to like her. Her job is to make you like other people, and their job is to help her do that.
Her phone buzzes in her hand as she strides between rows of desks. The contact ID flashes up, the caller listed simply as L. She knows he is about to get on a plane, and it won’t be anything important. ‘Just phoning to hear your voice,’ something like that. She sighs and declines the call. Again. A few moments later there is a text, telling her his flight is on time. Good to know.
She gives a beckoning nod to Jamie, her assistant. He terminates the call he is on and follows her into her office.
Jamie is as loyal as he is dependable. He doesn’t call her Poison Ivy, even among his junior peers. She knows this because she has eavesdropped on occasion and has only ever heard him refer to her as Ms Roan.
She is not sure whether she respects him more or less for this.
Jamie gives her a breakdown of where they are with various accounts. He tells her nothing she doesn’t already know, but it functions as an opportunity to review matters in the light of any new developments, and to prioritise accordingly. Theoretically, it also allows her to delegate, but that’s not going to happen. That’s when things go wrong.
Her eyes stray towards her mobile as Jamie speaks. There’s been a dozen alerts since, but she is thinking about the text from L stating when his flight is due in. She can picture his face as he urges her to let someone else shoulder some of the burden, or at least the scut work, so that they can spend a few more waking hours together. There’s a part of her that wants that, but that’s the part of her she’s afraid of. She can’t afford any oversights. In this job, control is everything.
L scores points for never actually using the word ‘workaholic’ but she knows she’s one of the few people this cliché could be accurately applied to. It’s an addiction for sure. Ivy knows, because she’s been back and forth on most of the other ones: drinking, drugs, eating, not eating, stealing, and of course, sex. Someone once said of alcohol that the crucial thing is to be getting more from it than it takes from you. Work is the one thing that distinction has proven true of. It is the one addiction that has served her.
Jamie has bought her ‘lunch’ first thing, as per: a bottle of still water and an apple. He puts this meagre offering down on the desk and stares at it a moment, plucking up the courage to state his concern. He makes it sound breezy to disguise the fact that he knows it’s none of his business but he’s wading in nonetheless.
‘I don’t know how you can function on so few calories.’
If it was anyone else in here, she’d add a few more calories by biting their heads off, but she likes Jamie. She knows that’s probably not a good thing – for him, anyway. He deserves better. He is genuine and solicitous, with an eagerness that is not purely career-driven. All of which will get him abused.
‘I burn fuel very efficiently,’ she replies.
This is a paraphrase of something L said to her: his typically elliptical and sensitive way of suggesting she might be unhealthily thin.
‘You wouldn’t like me if I was fat,’ she’d told him, a banality intended to shut the issue down.
‘Who says I like you?’ he had hit back.
But she knows he does. That’s the problem.
To think that she slept with him that first time because she thought he was a safe bet: and by safe bet she doesn’t mean someone she was guaranteed to tempt back to her place within hours of meeting. She means someone she was sure would get lost sharpish after. A safe bet that he detested her as much as she detested him; that it was a mutually understood grudge-fuck.
Her judgement has proved way off on this one, which worries her, but L will soon go the way of all the rest. It’s been almost two months, and that’s roughly how long it takes for them to see who she is. Or rather, the point at which she ditches them before they begin to see who she is.
Jamie is hovering, his hesitation telling her not only what he is about to mention but inadvertently how he feels about it. When he speaks he does an impressive job of sounding neutral, but it’s already too late. Even without the momentary reluctance, she’d have picked up on details in his intonation, and the briefest involuntary pause before he mentions the name of the prospective client.
‘Sir Jock would like a meeting to discuss whether you’ve had any further thoughts on the DKG thing ahead of the client dinner.’
Any further thoughts. Deftly self-insulating as ever on the part of the boss, Sir Jock Davidson. He’s known in the game as Raffles, as in the gentleman thief, in reference to his rapacious billing practices. Like her, he is aware of the nickname and has embraced it, but there are other aspects of his reputation he is more protective of. That’s why he wants her to make his mind up for him, and by that she further understands that he wants her to take the blame if she gets it wrong.
This is a firm where they are necessarily flexible with regard to the ethics of who they represent and what means they deploy in the service of that representation. But even here there is some division over whether they should go down the road DKG wants them to. For some – such as Jamie – it comes down to moral squeamishness; but for the likes of Sir Jock and the other partners, their reservations relate to potential blowback for the shop.
Any further thoughts. Ivy’s had plenty, yes. And one of them is that you’re not much of a PR outfit if you don’t believe that come the worst, you can always launder your own reputation.
‘I’ve still to make a final decision,’ she tells Jamie. He tries to hide it, but she can see a hint of sadness in his expression. He believes she has already made up her mind. He’s probably right.
She wakens to see L standing in the doorway. She was sleeping light despite the alcohol, aware that he was due here sometime in the night. She feels woozy as she sits up, not quite sure whether she’s already hung-over or still drunk. She sharpens at the sight of him, though. It’s game time. She sits up so that he can see she’s naked, and her movement causes the figure alongside her to stir. Peter, she thinks his name is. He works for DKG, and they met at the client dinner earlier in the evening.
She had detected something irresistibly calculating and self-assured about him: coldly analytical, reading his environment for possibilities the second the business part of the meal was concluded. It had given rise to just this flash of a moment, their eyes meeting and recognising the same thing in each other. She had leaned over deliberately, pretending to retrieve something from her bag but making sure her blouse fell open just enough. She caught him looking. It was something she could have used any way she wished: made him uncomfortable, pretended to take offence. Tonight though, she had thought of L and simply decided: it’s time, and you’ll do.
But not before a few more martinis and a couple of lines.
There is a thumping in her head, behind one eye especially. She tells herself it’s a hangover symptom, but it usually means something else: stress.
