Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Tomek Bowen returns in…
Also by Jack Probyn
Join the VIP Club
About the Author
Copyright © 2024 Jack Probyn. All rights reserved.
The right of Jack Probyn to be identified as the authors of the Work had been asserted him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. Published by: Cliff Edge Press, Essex.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying form without written permission of the author, Jack Probyn, or the publisher, Cliff Edge Press.
eBook ISBN: 978-1-80520-056-7
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-80520-057-4
First Edition
Image Copyright: Dawid Glawdzin
Visit Jack Probyn’s website at www.jackprobynbooks.com.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Every angel deserves their wings…
When flight attendant Angelica Whitaker is reported missing after a night out at one of the most popular nightclubs in Southend, the case is handed to DS Tomek Bowen for the first time in his career.
As soon as the investigation begins, the finger is pointed at the man she danced with at the club, but when her body is later found in a church, posed like an angel, the same fingers begin to point towards a calculated, composed, and sadistic killer.
But as the investigation progresses, and as Tomek delves deeper into the victim’s life, it becomes clear that there is no shortage of suspects, and everyone’s got their secrets — some more than others…
JOIN THE VIP CLUB
Get your FREE copy of the prequel to the DS Tomek Bowen series now at jackprobynbooks.com when you join my VIP email club.
CHAPTER ONE
Her body rippled and swayed in time with the music, her hips rotating elegantly, shoulders flowing freely, head lolling about as the chemicals and substances percolated through her bloodstream. She had her eyes closed so she could lose herself completely, let herself become one with the sound waves. She ran the fingers of one hand through her hair as the heavy bass shot through her core with every beat.
Around her, eyes still closed, she could hear the noise of people, dozens, hundreds of them, screaming, shouting into each other’s faces in an attempt to converse, flirt, and hopefully by the end of the night, if their luck was in, fuck.
She had been approached by a few already, drunk, alcohol steaming off their breath, the smell of their heavily applied aftershave lodging itself down her throat, all hoping to chance their luck. And there had been a few that she’d taken an interest in, spoken with for over thirty seconds before she’d inevitably turned her back on them and continued dancing. For those select few, their luck had been in. Half-luck, mind, as she had only gone so far as to hand out her number. If they wanted the full deal, they would have to put in more work, more effort than that. They had to earn it.
She continued dancing, swaying, her body and muscles relaxing, succumbing to the trance the music had put her into. All of this was a learnt sport, an art. In the past few months she had learnt to let herself really go, to free herself of the constraints and anxieties she placed on herself, to enter a different state, one that was ethereal and almost out of body.
Suddenly, in the middle of the dance floor, she became aware of the urge to drink, to replenish some of the fluid she was constantly peeing and sweating out, and with her cup firmly in hand, eyes still closed, she raised her arm to her mouth. It felt like an extension of her body, as though someone was doing the movement for her, and for a few moments, her lips searched for the straw, tongue poking out of her mouth like a turtle’s head breaching from its shell. A second later, she felt the straw being inserted into her mouth. She opened her eyes and saw a man standing immediately in front of her, guiding the straw with his fingers, a warm smile on his face. She half recognised him. James? Ashton? Percy? Or some other weird name? It was one of them. Coming back for round two. Putting in the hard yards, really trying to leave the club with more than her mobile number that would immediately block any number or call made to it twelve hours later.
The man leant closer to her, placing a hand on her waist. As he did so, she caught a whiff of freshly applied aftershave, thick, gagging, yet one of the more enjoyable, tolerable ones. Perhaps he had applied it in the bathroom and been charged a fortune for it by the toilet attendant. She wondered which one he’d gone for: Armani, Yves Saint Laurent, Dolce & Gabbana, Boss? She was familiar with them all, but this one was lost on her, yet the recognition of it lingered in the back of her mind.
