The Fall

First investigation.

Chapter I

Prologue

A rainy night in London. A night like any other. It is raining, wet, and surrounded by dampness. A musty smell surrounded me all around. And I look into his dead eyes that will say nothing anymore. Dead like my soul. Dead like me. Though I am alive, I am dead inside. My arms are tangled around his neck. I know he's dead, but I hold him still as if hoping he'll wake up again so I can kill him again. I cough up blood. I feel the adrenalin draining from me. I think the pain is one I've felt many times before. I look down. I'm bleeding from the liver area. The son of a bitch shot me. I try to get up but fall on my back. I feel the heat and cold alternately overpowering my body. Too fast. This blood is flowing too fast. The sounds of sirens are getting louder and louder in the distance. I pull out a cigarette and hold it in one hand, and with the other, I pull out my little flask. I drink what's inside. I light the cigarette. If I'm going to leave, it's on my terms. I close my eyes and try to even out the inhalation, but every drag causes pain. Sometimes I feel like this is the only feeling I know. I feel like I'm dreaming, and I see my body lying in a pool of blood.

"You are an angel, Ariel." I hear this voice in my head like a tangled tape. The sight of her laughing. In the distance, the voice of a child. It's not a dream but a nightmare. A nightmare of the past that haunts me every night.

"You're an angel, Ariel," she used to say to tease me. They say that moments before death, we see things that have already happened. And I've been harping on about positive thinking. She always said to think positive. You hear that, Joe? Think positive. You're dead, but think positive, you sick bastard. I could only kill you once. And me? How am I supposed to think positive? That I killed a paedophile and a serial killer? Or that I'm finally dying. I don't have to put a bullet in a revolver, spin a reel, put it to my temple and see if today is another day in hell. You thought you were clever, no one would catch you, and you could go on spending your sick fantasies. Finding you wasn't easy, but it was fucking satisfying.

Chapter II

Assignment

A day like every other day. The weather is bad. Cold and rainy. On the radio, they mention a record number of people with mental illness – the highest percentage of people with depression. As I look at this country, there is no sunshine, fake people with scabby faces with a mask of good manners. Human hypocrisy has no limits. False friends and associates. Laughing at your jokes and then reporting back to your superiors. I sit in my favourite bar. I'm having another drink and looking at people and trying to figure out who does what, what kind of person they are, and what drives them. I look at my watch; it's already noon. Time to get off my ass and go to the office. Check what kind of case I have again. Probably an unfaithful husband cheating on his wife. Or the other way around. Or an old maid who's lost her cat. I open the door, turn on the lights,and listen to the recorded messages. I check my e-mails. I hear a female voice.

"Good morning, Mr Fall. I want to commission you to find my fourteen-year-old daughter. She went out with her friends on Saturday, and no one knew what was happening to her. I have reported the matter to the police, but I get the impression that they don't take it that seriously. Please get in touch with me; my phone number is 07..."

Hmmm, missing fourteen-year-old daughter. The young lady probably met some punk, and they are now in Poole or Brighton. They are fucking like teenagers at that age. It should be easy money. I called the woman and arranged a meeting. She arrived late, citing traffic jams.