Katerina Diamond - The Angel

They made their way forwards, the firefighter handed them hard hats although it seemed unnecessary as there was nothing above them anymore, the ceiling and roof had been completely burnt through. Adrian started picking through the rubble of the structure. The floor was burned, the machinery charred black and as their eyes adjusted, they could make out a human-being-shaped pile of debris. The firefighter shone a light at the ground.

The station manager gagged and crumpled forwards at the sight of the body. Imogen looked at Adrian who gave a nod.

‘Show me the CCTV,’ Imogen said to the station manager before following him back out towards the platform, leaving Adrian to deal with the body.

Adrian bent down and looked at the ground. The body was contorted, almost in a foetal position, crisp and delicate, with obvious fracture points where the entire floor had caved in on top of it, smashing the skull to smithereens. What was previously the floor now lay around the body in charred splinters, the wood had been so dry it had almost entirely burnt away. He shone his torch upwards to see the smouldering hole where the fire had torn through the roof and exposed the inky sky overhead. Back on the ground he noticed debris, rat droppings, chunks of wet, singed wood. It was like staring at a black and white TV, everything in monochrome, various shades of grey. Dark wet ash, light dry ash, everything covered in some variant of grey dust. Even the red-brick walls were blackened with soot.

The crime scene technicians approached and Adrian took a couple of markers, the bright yellow practically glowing against the dirge of this tiny burnt-out structure. He focussed on the shape of the body, the hands shrivelled into claws. Adrian shuddered at the thought of the man, hiding in here from the cold when the fire broke out.

‘How long does it take for a body to get like that?’ Adrian asked the crime scene technician once he’d checked that Imogen had taken the station manager a safe distance away.

‘It really depends on how hot it got in here. It’s a small space and fairly well insulated despite the broken glass upstairs. There’s a lot of metal in here too, which would have added to the intensity of the heat. I spoke to one of the firefighters and he said it was at least forty-five minutes before they made it down here onto the tracks safely. It’s out of view, and although there aren’t many trains at this time of night, a lot of calls had to be made before they could access the building. It’s a tricky spot to get to as well. And who knows how long it was burning before anyone noticed, the CCTV footage should be able to tell you more.’

‘Will we be able to get DNA from the body?’ Adrian had taken out his notebook and was scribbling as the technician talked.

‘I can’t say at this stage, I’m sorry. It really depends on a variety of factors. We’ll know more when we get the remains back to the lab.’

‘Thank you.’ Adrian closed his notebook and walked back to find Imogen. He felt strange walking alongside the tracks, remembering his mother’s old obsession with the fact that this was probably how he would die. Growing up, their house had backed onto the lines at Exeter St Thomas station, and every time he left the house she would warn him not to play about on the tracks. The trains had been delayed tonight, so he knew he was safe. Still, this felt like an act of betrayal.

Adrian stepped into the railway office and saw Imogen sitting with the station manager, going through the CCTV footage of that night. He went over to them and sat down, wanting a closer look at the screen. They were rewinding back from the fire. Five figures came out of the signal box, two wearing hoodies. They looked like males, probably teenagers. The rain was coming down. Adrian could see a girl with a baseball cap on, but there was no clear shot of her face, and another girl who was wearing a short skirt and had a newspaper covering her head. There was a young man with her, holding her hand and helping her down the stairs. He was tall, with shoulder-length dark hair obscuring his face and clearly alternative clothing.

‘We’ll never get an ID from that picture.’

Imogen spun around on her chair to face him. ‘There’s not many places for the alternative crowd to go around here, Miley. I think I know where we can start looking.’

Imogen showed the girl on the door of the nightclub her police ID and was waved forward into the club. She felt a rush of adrenaline as they entered; this was her thing, this was who she used to be. It was hard to rebel against her flighty mother when Imogen was a teen. Irene Grey would waft around wearing bright, multi-layered skirts and cardigans, smoking pot and occasionally flashing the neighbours as an act of protest. When Imogen was small her mother had insisted on dressing her in much the same way. As soon as Imogen could, she’d started wearing a pair of baggy black skater pants and a hoodie, partly to fade into the background, but also to make sure everyone knew that she was nothing like her mother. She would go to the local goth clubs, and her mother became increasingly concerned that she was exhibiting the same mental health issues that she had. The opposite was the truth; Imogen was just trying to pull away from Irene, to become an individual in her own right.

She tugged now at the clip in her hair and let it fall onto her shoulders. For the first time in a long time she felt like a traitor, slightly uncomfortable being here on duty. Here to disrupt the enjoyment rather than take part in it. The goths she had known were all quite anti-authority. She tousled her hair a little and clocked Adrian staring at her curiously. She doubted he had ever set foot in a place like this in his life. Girls in short skirts, corsets, excessive theatrical make-up. Men in motorcycle masks, tight-fitting clothing and eyeliner. There were a few people who didn’t fit into either category at a cursory glance.

‘How did you know about this?’ Adrian shouted to her above the music.

‘I know lots of things. Besides, I was going to come anyway, the band they have on tonight are pretty decent.’

‘You like this?’

‘Oh yeah, I like this.’

Adrian nodded to the bar; Imogen looked over and saw a tall man waiting to order drinks. He had shoulder-length hair, and was dressed in the same way as the man they had seen on the CCTV footage. He had the same red tartan punk trousers on, also known as bondage trousers, with straps that crossed and clipped to the opposing legs, expensive and distinctive. His hair was tucked behind his ears. Imogen looked him up and down. He looked the right height and build for the man in the video. He turned toward them and met Imogen’s gaze, she flushed a little. She composed herself before walking over to him and flashing her ID.

‘Can we have a word?’ she asked.

The man looked at the ID, he seemed a little confused but not alarmed. He necked his drink and followed them both into the lobby.

‘I’m DS Imogen Grey and this is my partner, DS Adrian Miles.’

‘Gabriel Webb.’ He held his hand out, Imogen took it and shook it. He was very direct and seemed both polite and unfazed by this interaction.

‘Can I ask where you were this evening?’

‘With some mates. Around.’

‘We have CCTV of you leaving a signal box.’

‘Right, yeah, I was there.’ He brushed his hair out of his eyes.

‘Who were you with?’ Adrian asked.

‘Why?’ Gabriel Webb narrowed his eyes. He didn’t seem like someone with something to hide.

‘Did you perhaps start a fire inside the signal box?’ Imogen asked, hoping to God he said no. Perhaps he had no idea at all about the man in the room below in the signal box. The repercussions of this were bigger than anyone his age should have to deal with. Despite his height, he had a young face; he couldn’t have been much older than eighteen. She wanted to send him home, before his world got turned upside down. It was always hardest with the young ones.