John Pritchard - Angels of Mourning

COPYRIGHT Copyright Dedication Part 1: The Mercy of Angels Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Part 2: The City of Crows Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Part 3: Death is Sweet from the Soldier of God Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Keep Reading Acknowledgements About the Author Other Books By About the Publisher

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © John Pritchard 1995

John Pritchard asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780006480136

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008219482

Version: 2016-10-26

Any similarity between characters in this story and real police officers or units is certainly not intended! Nor is Rachel’s workplace based on any one hospital.

DEDICATION Dedication Part 1: The Mercy of Angels Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Part 2: The City of Crows Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Part 3: Death is Sweet from the Soldier of God Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Keep Reading Acknowledgements About the Author Other Books By About the Publisher

To

Veronique and Huw

For all their sense and humour

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part 1: The Mercy of Angels

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part 2: The City of Crows

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Part 3: Death is Sweet from the Soldier of God

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Keep Reading

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Other Books By

About the Publisher

PART 1

The Mercy of Angels

Chapter 1

I remember waking up on that first, awful Friday, and thinking how good it felt to be alive.

I’d come to the surface in my own sweet time. No need to grope for my alarm clock through the darkness – nor meet my pasty-faced reflection in the bathroom mirror, the window beside it still black from the night outside. No call to venture out into the pre-dawn city chill.

No more Earlies for me this week. I wasn’t on until one.

So I just lay where I was, content and clear-headed from a full eight hours, and soaked up the duvet’s warmth. With bed and bedclothes all to myself, I’d snuggled deep into a cosy little nest: the hardest sort of all to quit. And maybe I’d started building it when I should have still been sharing – at least if Nick’s usual complaints were anything to go by.

But Nick was long gone now; out before six to catch his shift-change. His turn to tiptoe to the bathroom, and dress in the dimness, and let himself out into the darkest hour.

I hadn’t woken.

Sleep – at long, long last – was somewhere I felt safe.

The light through the curtains was pale and flat; they were going on about snow on the radio news. But it didn’t really register until I’d gone through, yawning, to open the front door – and couldn’t find the milk bottles.

The doorstep was a shapeless heap; our street was blanketed. I started delving – then stopped again to listen to the hush. It seemed unreal: like the sallow, sick-rose pink of the sky above the rooftops. For a moment I just knelt there, not feeling the chill that came gnawing through my nightshirt. Knelt, and stared in wide-eyed wonder, and couldn’t stop the grin spreading over my face. Because I’ve always loved the early-morning snow: loved the way it can turn a dreary winter city to another world. From back when I was a girl growing up in the Midlands, to now, in drab North London, the magic hadn’t changed. It still made me want to play snowballs.

Even the prospect of the chaos I’d face getting in to work didn’t dampen my mood.

A note on the cork board caught my eye as I came back in with the bottles. Raitch. I’ll get some more bread on the way home. Love, Nick . Which probably meant he’d finished the loaf; no wonder there were all those kisses at the end. I blew him one back, and carried the chilled milk through into the kitchen.

After breakfast, with a couple of hours left to kill, I wandered round the house for a while. Some stray bits of dirty washing to be rounded up (Nick!) ; a few fastidious flicks of the duster. But it had been a lived-in sort of place from day one, which was what I really liked about it. Overlooking Clissold Park: two bedrooms – one damp – and it had cost us. But it was ours now. A place of our own. A place we’d begun to call home.

Ours . Something special: something shared. Something to make the past seem very far away.

Sometimes.

And sometimes it seemed like yesterday. Three crowded years just fled away, and the dark was so close it made me catch my breath. But such moments were more fleeting now; much fewer. I might still dream the dreams, but I couldn’t recall them. And they didn’t wake me, sobbing, in the night.

Ready to go – bag packed, and travelcard ready in my purse – I wrapped up warm, and picked my way out into the silent street. The snow was slick and icy underfoot – I almost slipped – but there was a narrow, gritted gap down the middle, like the safe path through a minefield, and I followed it carefully towards the main road. This was busier, and already mostly slush. A queue of people were waiting by the bus-stop, and I’d joined them just long enough for my cheeks to start stinging when the number 73 came rumbling into view.