Stolen Angels

PART ONE

Hell is for children.

And you shouldn’t have to pay for your love With your bones and your flesh

Pat Benatar

Do you hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years?

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

One

If he hurried, he might just make it, thought Peter Hyde as he scuttled across the crowded concourse of Euston Station. He glanced at his watch, apologising as he bumped into a woman dragging a large suitcase on a set of wheels. It looked as if she was taking the luggage for a walk, Hyde mused, weaving his way through the maze of bodies which thronged the busy area.

He was torn between the options of using his briefcase as a weapon to clear a path through the milling throng or holding it close to him in case he accidentally struck anyone with it. Ahead of him he saw a young man with an enormous back-pack turn and slam into an older man in a grey suit who was sweating profusely, perspiration beading on his bald head. The suited man slapped angrily at the back-pack and marched towards the platforms.

Hyde glanced beyond him and saw what he sought.

He had minutes if he was lucky.

Would there be time?

He pushed past two porters who were standing pointing at the huge departures and arrivals board which towered over the concourse and he heard them speaking loudly to a foreigner who was having difficulty understanding their accents.

Hyde thought that it would have been hard enough for someone English to decipher the words of the porters, jabbering away as they were in a curious combination of South Asian tinged Cockney.

Not far now.

Another few yards and he should make it.

He saw his objective come into view.

Up above him, the huge clock on the board clicked round to 18.00 hours.

Now or never.

The doors were actually closing before him.

Hyde slipped through the narrow gap and smiled broadly at the assistant in the Knickerbox shop.

‘I know you’re closing,’ he said, smiling even more broadly. ‘I won’t keep you two minutes.’

The assistant, a girl in her teens wearing an enormous pair of Doc Martens, nodded and returned to her till where she was cashing up.

Hyde glanced around the rails at the array of silk and cotton underwear.

He began to browse.

He knew that Maggie loved silk. He wasn’t averse to the feel of it himself.

Especially when it was wrapped around his wife’s slender form. He smiled to himself as he gently rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger, running approving eyes over the range of lingerie.

Basques, body suits, camisoles and knickers.

Heaven, he thought, almost laughing aloud.

He selected a camisole in burgundy.

Very nice.

Now, which size?

Oh, shit. Ten or twelve? Or maybe even fourteen?

No, if he took a fourteen home she’d go crazy. She wasn’t that big, he was sure of it. A twelve should do it.

He selected a pair of knickers to go with the top, and crossed to the cash desk, laying the garments beside the till, reaching for his wallet.

The assistant dropped them into a bag and took his money, watching as he slipped the underwear into his briefcase.

She smiled at him and then he was gone, once more part of the crowd heading towards the escalators like some immense amoebic mass.

As Hyde stepped onto the escalator he glanced at his watch. He had arrived back in London earlier than he’d expected. For once the train from Birmingham had been on time and the meeting he’d attended there had finished two hours earlier than scheduled. Maggie would be surprised to see him. He glanced down at his briefcase, amused by the thought of its secret silk contents, and wondered what her reaction would be to his little present.

As he stood on the crowded moving stairway, he smiled to himself, picturing her in the flimsy attire. All around him, stern faces met his gaze, and Hyde felt he was the only one who looked happy. Two or three men were attempting to read newspapers as the escalator carried them deeper into the bowels of the earth. He glanced across to his right and saw several people pushing their way hurriedly towards the top of the up escalator. Late for a train, Hyde reasoned, or perhaps simply rushing out of habit.

The ticket area was even more crowded.

He moved as swiftly as he could through such a dense mass, and headed for the next set of escalators, glancing back to see a man trying to push his suitcase through the automatic gates, ignoring a porter’s attempts to help him.

Hyde didn’t stand on the next set of steps: he followed the line of hardier souls who had decided to walk down.

At the bottom he turned to the left, and was hit by the warm air of the subterranean cavern. The familiar stale smell, tinged with what he recognised as the smell of scorched rubber, clawed at his nostrils.

He made his way down onto the platform, groaning inwardly as he saw how crowded it was. It was going to be sardines all the way to East Finchley, he thought. He’d left his car at the station there; it was a short drive from the tube once he got there. Hyde wondered if the Northern Line would be plagued by its usual delays. He moved down the platform a little way, pushing past a tall man wearing a Walkman and tapping his fingers on his shoulder bag in time to the inaudible rhythm. Close by, another man was reading his strategically folded broadsheet. Somewhere further along the platform, Hyde could hear a baby crying, its shrill calls echoing around the cavernous underworld. He decided to head back the other way: he didn’t fancy making his journey crushed up against some howling infant.

A couple in their early twenties were kissing passionately, oblivious to the dozens of eyes turned in their direction, which quickly turned away again when the couple paused for breath. Hyde ducked past them, glancing back momentarily.

The girl was pretty. Tall, dark hair.

A little like his Maggie, only not as good looking.

He’d thought, when he first met her, that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and even now, after eight years of marriage, he still thought the same way. She was perfect.

And she’d look even more perfect in this silk stuff, he thought to himself, glancing down at his briefcase as if the underwear inside were some kind of illicit secret which only he knew about.

He heard a rumble, felt a blast of warm air from the tunnel mouth, smelled its familiar odour of dust and metal.

The train was coming.

About bloody time.

The mass of people on the platform prepared itself for the impending squeeze onto the tube, ready to fill every available gap.

Hyde saw lights in the tunnel, heard the rumbling grow louder.

Soon be home now.

The train burst from the tunnel like some oversized, jet-propelled worm, the blast filling the station.

Hyde thought about Maggie and smiled.

He was still smiling when he threw himself in front of the train.

Two

Manchester

In less than two hours it would be dark.

She feared the coming of the night but she also knew that she would be away from this place by then.

Away from them.

Shanine Connor pushed a pair of leggings into the holdall, cramming trainers, knickers and Tshirts in with them. There was no order to her packing, she merely shoved in whichever item came to hand next.

She hurried through to the bathroom and picked up her toothbrush and toothpaste, which she pushed into a plastic bag, before dropping that into the bag along with her clothes.

As she crossed in front of the window she paused to look out, ensuring that she was hidden from any prying eyes by the sheet of unwashed nylon that passed for a net curtain. She could see no movement on the ground floor, three storeys beneath her own flat. A couple of kids were kicking a ball about in the small playground over the road. Another child, no more than seven, was trundling around happily on a tricycle, careful to avoid the football which was bouncing back and forth.

She spotted a car parked a little way down the road and screwed up her eyes in an effort to see inside it.

It seemed to be empty.

She swallowed hard.

Could she be sure?

For interminable seconds she stood squinting at the stationary vehicle - then the moment passed and she remembered the urgency of her situation.

She hurried back into the kitchen and pulled open a drawer, scanning its contents.

She pulled out a long-bladed carving knife, hefting it before her, satisfied with its weight.

As she turned to go back into the sitting room she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror on the wall above the Formica-topped table.

She looked older than her twenty-three years. More sleepless nights than she cared to remember had left her looking pale and puffy-eyed. Dark circles nested beneath her eyes and her skin was the colour of uncooked pastry. Her shoulder-length brown hair needed combing, and she ineffectually ran a thin hand through it before returning to her task.

Shanine slid the knife into the side pocket of the bag.

It would be easy to reach should she need it.

She glanced at her watch.

Come on, hurry up. You’ve taken too long already.

She heard a shout from downstairs and crossed back to the window.

The two kids with the football were kicking it against the low fence surrounding the play area, banging it as hard as they could, shouting encouragement to each other.

The car was still parked.

Waiting?

Shanine finally zipped up the holdall and pulled it onto her shoulder.

She was about to open the door of the flat when she heard footsteps climbing the stairs outside, echoing on the concrete surface.

She sucked in an anxious breath, one hand sliding towards the knife.

The footsteps drew nearer.

They were almost on her landing now. She looked at the door expectantly, her hand now touching the hilt of the weapon.

Silence.

The footsteps stopped.

Shanine took a step nearer to the door, her heart thudding against her ribs.

She closed her eyes for a second, trying to still the mad beating, afraid that whoever was on the other side would be able to hear it.

The moment passed and she heard the footsteps heading up the narrow corridor, away from her door towards one of the other flats.

She waited a moment longer, then opened the door and peered out.

Two or three doors down there was an old woman carrying two bags of shopping, her face flushed with the effort. She looked disinterestedly at Shanine then pushed her key into the lock and stepped into her own flat.

Shanine stepped out onto the landing, locked her door and hurried down the concrete steps, avoiding a mound of dog excrement a few steps down. Graffiti had been sprayed on the walls in bright blue letters. She glanced at the words united are cunts as she scurried down to the next landing.

As she reached ground level she slowed her pace.

Don’t make it look as if you’re running.

The car was still parked further down the street.

Still motionless.

Still waiting?

Her attention was torn from it by a loud shout from one of the kids across the street. She looked at him blankly for a moment, aware that he was staring back at her, his gaze never wavering.

Shanine finally began walking, aware of the watchful eye of the boy, her back to the parked car.

If it was them they would know by now. They would have seen the holdall and they would know.

She quickened her pace.

There was a bus stop at the end of the road. She could catch a bus into the city centre from there. One should be due any minute.

She prayed it wouldn’t be late.

The last thing she wanted was to be standing around, in plain sight, for all to see.

For them to see.

She glanced behind again and saw that the car was still there. Ahead of her she heard the rumble of an engine and saw the bus pulling in.

She ran towards it, waiting as passengers clambered off, then she hauled herself up inside, fumbling in her jacket pocket for some change. She didn’t have much. About a pound in coins, less than ten pounds in the pocket of her worn jeans.

She got her ticket and retreated to the back of the bus, glancing anxiously around her as it pulled away, past the kids kicking the football, past the parked car.

The journey to the city centre should take about fifteen minutes.

She looked at her watch nervously.

As she sat on the back seat she hugged the holdall comfortingly, allowing one hand to rest on the part of the bag where the knife was.

As the bus rounded a corner, Shanine took one last look out of the back window.

The car was gone.

She felt her heart begin to thud more heavily in her chest.

Had it been them?

She looked at her watch again, as if repeatedly doing so was going to hasten the journey.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

Time, it appeared, was running out faster than she had realised.

Clouds gathered more thickly in the sky.

Night was coming.

She wondered what was coming with it.

Three

A sickly sweet smell filled the air, which James Talbot recognised as burned flesh.

It was a smell not easily forgotten.

Six years earlier, when he’d been a Detective Sergeant, he’d attended a fire at a house in Bermondsey. Some old guy had fallen asleep and allowed his chip-pan to catch fire. The whole house had gone up in less than twenty minutes, and the old boy had been incinerated along with the contents.

Talbot remembered that smell.

Acrid, cloying. It caught in your nostrils and refused to leave.

The chip-pan fire had been an elaborate ruse to cover up a burglary. Two kids, no more than seventeen, had stolen what little there was of value in the house, then battered the old man unconscious and ignited the chip-pan to make it look like an accident.

Simple?

Except that they’d left fingerprints on the hammer they’d used to smash his skull.

Silly boys.

Both were doing a nine stretch in Wormwood Scrubs now.

It was that case which had secured Talbot’s promotion to the rank he now held.

The Detective Inspector walked slowly up the platform at Euston, which was clear but for a number of uniformed men: London Transport employees, police and ambulance men.

One of the Underground workers was standing on the track with two ambulance men and two constables, staring down at a blackened shape which looked more like a spent match than a man.

The train was gone. The line was closed. The power off.

Talbot could imagine the annoyance of other travellers delayed because of the incident.

Inconsiderate bastard. Throwing himself on the track. Didn’t he know people had homes to go to?

Talbot saw blood on the edge of the platform close to the tunnel exit. Large crimson splashes of it, congealing beneath the cold white lights of the station. There was more on the track itself. A large red slick had even spattered one of the advertising posters on the far side of the track.

The faces of a male and female model smiling out from a poster of Corsica looked as if they’d been smeared with red paint.

‘Discover the beauty’ screamed the shoutline.

A little further along, also lying on the track, was a briefcase, its contents scattered for several yards. Papers, typewritten sheets, pens. A Knickerbox bag.

Talbot stopped at the chocolate machine on the platform and fed some change into it. He punched the

button for a WholeNut but nothing happened. He hit it again.

Still nothing.

‘Shit.’ murmured the DI.

‘His name was Peter Hyde,’ a voice beside him said.

Talbot nodded but seemed more intent on wresting the chocolate from the machine.

He struck the button a little harder.

‘All that about the King’s Cross fire being started by a match’ said Talbot.

‘That’s crap.’ He eyed the machine irritably. ‘It was someone trying to get a bar of chocolate out of one of these fucking things.’

He slammed his hand against the machine.

The WholeNut dropped into the slot at the bottom and Talbot smiled, retrieved it, and held it up like a trophy.

‘See, that’s all they understand. Violence.’ He looked at Detective Sergeant William Rafferty and nodded triumphantly, breaking off a square of chocolate and pushing it into his mouth.

‘What else?’ the DI wanted to know, pacing slowly up the platform with his companion.

‘He worked for a firm of accountants in the City’ Rafferty told him. ‘Good salary. Married. No kids. Almost thirty-one.’

Talbot offered him a piece of chocolate but the DS declined.

‘I’d rather have a fag.’ he said, gruffly.

‘Smoking’s bad for you.’

‘Yeah, and so is eating ten bars of chocolate a day. You’ve been worse since you gave up smoking.’

‘Fatter but healthier,’ said Talbot smugly, patting the beginnings of a belly which was pushing rather too

insistently against his shirt. ‘Anyway, a bit of exercise will get rid of that.’

‘You’ll be like a bloody house-side before you’re forty’ Rafferty told him, smiling.

‘Four years to go, Bill’ Talbot murmured, pushing another square of chocolate into his mouth. ‘Thanks for reminding me, you bastard.’

They continued their leisurely stroll up the platform. ‘Why did the Transport Police call us in?’ Talbot wanted to know. ‘They don’t usually for a suicide.’

‘They’re not sure it was a suicide.’ ‘How come? Did someone see him pushed?’

Rafferty shook his head. ‘They just think-‘ Talbot cut him short. ‘It’s a suicide, Bill, take it from me’ the DI said, stopping and motioning behind him. ‘The bloodstains on the platform and track are right near the tunnel mouth. He wanted to make sure that if the live rail didn’t fry him then the impact of the train would kill him. Some of the dickheads who try and kill themselves down here jump from the middle of the platform. That gives the driver plenty of time to see them so he hits the brake and, nine times out of ten, the train doesn’t even hit them. Runs over them maybe. They might lose an arm or leg, get some nasty burns from the live rail, but that’s it. They jump from the middle because they’re not sure.’ He shrugged. ‘Same as the ones who cut their wrists, you know that. If they cut across the veins of the wrist they bleed slower. They want someone to find them. The ones that do it from elbow to wrist, now they’re not fucking about. They’re sure. So was Hyde, that’s why he went off near the tunnel mouth.’

‘We couldn’t get much out of the driver, poor sod’s still in shock,’ said the DS.

‘I’m not surprised. What about the other witnesses?’

‘We’re taking statements upstairs now.

Talbot nodded.

‘Even money he topped himself,’ the DI said, looking down at the group of uniformed men gathered around the body. They moved aside.

‘Shit’ muttered Rafferty, staring at the corpse.

The stench of burned flesh was almost overpowering now.

‘Where’s his right leg?’ Talbot wanted to know.

‘The train took it off at the hip, we found it ten yards further down the track.’ Rafferty replied.

‘I want a full autopsy report as soon as possible,’ the DI said. ‘And one other thing, Bill.’ Talbot pushed another piece of chocolate into his mouth, ‘someone had better tell his wife.’

Four

Catherine Reed felt sweat beading on her top lip. She tasted the salty fluid as she licked her tongue across it, her breath coming in gasps now.

Her long dark hair was plastered across her face and neck, the flesh there also covered in a sheen of perspiration.

She tried to swallow but her throat was dry, she could only manage a deep moan of satisfaction as the sensations grew stronger. She lifted her feet, wrapping her slender legs around the form above her.

Phillip Cross had his eyes closed, his own body and face covered in sweat as he kept up a steady rhythm, supporting his weight on his fists as he drove swiftly, deeply, into Cath.

‘Oh Jesus!’ she murmured, her legs gripping him tighter, her fingers now clawing at his back and buttocks as if to pull him deeper. ‘Go on. Go on.’

He opened his eyes and looked down at her pleasure-contorted face, an expression of joy etched on his own features as he continued with the hard thrusts.

The phone rang.

‘Shit,’ gasped Cross, slowing up slightly.

‘Don’t stop.’ Cath moaned.

The phone continued to ring.

Cross withdrew slightly.

‘Leave it.’ grunted Cath.

The answering machine clicked on.

Cath hardly heard the voice on the other end of the phone, her own growing exhortations drowned it out.

She pulled Cross closer to her.

‘I know you’re there, so pick up the bloody phone.’ said the voice, sharply.

Cross looked across at the phone and the machine on the bedside table.

He slowed his pace, his own breathing still laboured.

‘Leave it.’ Cath implored.

‘Phil,’ the voice continued. ‘Pick the fucking thing up, this is important.’

They both recognised the voice.

Cross shrugged and ruefully eased himself free.

Cath allowed her legs to slide from his glistening back, her chest heaving, perspiration running in rivulets between her breasts.

Cross snatched up the phone. ‘Cross here.’ he said, clearing his throat. Cath didn’t wait to hear what he had to say. She swung herself off the bed and padded through to the bathroom, the blood pounding in her veins. She twisted the cold tap and splashed her face with water, studying her reflection in the mirror as she looked up. Her dark hair was ruffled, still matted with sweat at the nape of her neck. She eased it away with one hand. Naked, she stood before the mirror, glancing at the image which greeted her. Her smooth skin was tinged pink, particularly around her face, neck and breasts. She let out a deep breath, catching the odd word drifting through from the bedroom.

Why the hell couldn’t he have let the bloody thing ring?

She heard Cross say something else, then the sound of the receiver being replaced.

Cath stood where she was, finally seeing Cross’s reflection in the mirror behind her.

He too was naked and, she noticed, still sporting an erection.

‘That was Nicholls.’

‘I gathered that,’ she said. ‘Do you always jump when you hear his voice?’

There was an edge to her tone which Cross chose to ignore.

‘I’ve got to go to Euston. Now,’ he told her. ‘Some geezer’s just topped himself, Nicholls wants pictures. Do you want to come?’

She looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

‘If you hadn’t picked up that bloody phone I would have done,’ she said, a slight smile touching her lips.

‘Ha, bloody ha. So, what’s your answer? I’m going to be gone about an hour. Nicholls said he called me because he knew I was nearer.’

‘How convenient for him.’ Cath said, heading back towards the bedroom where she lit up a cigarette. ‘It’s a good job you live in Camden and not Chelsea, isn’t it?’

Cross was already pulling on his jeans. ‘Are you coming or not?’ he said irritably, looking round, seeing one of his cameras on a cabinet close by.

‘Why not?’ she answered, already collecting her leggings, socks and trainers which earlier had been discarded beside the bed.

They dressed quickly in silence, then Cath spoke again.

‘What’s so interesting about a suicide, anyway?’

‘Nicholls just asked me to take some pictures. I’m a humble photographer, I do what I’m told.’ He smiled. ‘You never know, there might even be a story in it for you. I thought reporters were always on the look-out for a story.’

‘Yeah, very funny. A suicide at Euston. Real frontpage stuff.’ she chided.

‘That’s the point.’ Cross said. ‘It might not have been a suicide.’

Cath’s expression changed.

‘Who was the bloke?’ she demanded.

Cross snatched up his camera bag and pointed to the name he’d scribbled on a notepad by the phone.

Cath looked at the name and nodded slowly, running a hand through her hair.

She was already heading for the door.

Five

James Talbot watched impassively as the four uniformed men lifted the body of Peter Hyde up onto the stretcher laid out on the platform edge.

Ambulance men expertly fastened the plastic body bag around the corpse, but before the zip was closed Talbot looked at what was left of Hyde’s face.

The skin around the right cheek and jaw was burned black, the remainder was a vivid red. One eyelid had been scorched off, leaving the orb glistening in the socket. It seemed to fix Talbot in a baleful stare as he looked on.

He watched as the severed leg was passed up from the track, and tucked neatly into the bag along with the body.

At the far end of the platform, two cleaners stood waiting, mops in hand.

Ready to wash away the blood.

The DI swallowed the last square of chocolate and nodded permission to the ambulance men to seal the bag once and for all. The zip was fastened.

As Talbot turned he saw a white light which momentarily blinded him.

‘Fucking press,’ Rafferty snapped.

‘How did they get down here?’ Talbot asked wearily.

‘We only closed off this platform,’ Rafferty informed him, striding towards the figure at the far end of the platform.

Phillip Cross continued snapping away. At the bloodstains. At the rails. The policemen.

The black body bag.

Catherine Reed followed him, glancing around her as if trying to commit what she saw to memory, anxious not to miss a detail.

She saw a bloodied tooth lying close to the platform edge.

Smashed loose by the impact of train and body, she assumed.

‘Who’s in charge?’ she wanted to know.

‘Get off the platform, please,’ Rafferty said. ‘You haven’t been given official clearance to be down here.’

‘Was it suicide or was he murdered?’ she persisted.

‘There’ll be a statement issued in due course.’

‘You must think it’s murder,’ Cath said, nodding towards the approaching figure of Talbot. ‘Why else would a DI be here?’

As Talbot drew nearer he slowed his pace, seeing the dark-haired woman dressed in a loose-fitting sweatshirt and leggings. He recognised her. He knew those features.

He knew …

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ he hissed, his gaze fixed on Cath.

‘The same as you, DI Talbot, my job.’

Both Rafferty and Cross watched the journalist and policeman as they faced one another.

‘You haven’t got permission to be down here, so piss off,’ Talbot snarled.

‘Are you treating this as a murder investigation?’ Cath said.

‘No comment,’ Talbot grunted.

Cath considered Talbot for a moment and then asked matter of factly, ‘When did you get promoted?’

‘What the hell does it matter to you?’

‘Just curious.’

‘Yeah, curiosity’s part of your job, isn’t it?’ Talbot rasped.

‘A Detective Inspector.’ she said. ‘You’ve done well.’

‘Fuck off, Reed. I told you, you’re not supposed to be down here. Now move it, before I have you arrested for obstruction.’

‘As charming as ever, nice to see some things never change.’

‘I’m only going to tell you once more. Piss off.’

‘When can we expect an official statement?’ Cath wanted to know.

‘You just had it.’ Talbot responded as he turned his back on her and walked back up the platform.

Cath watched him for a second then she and Cross ducked back through the

archway which led to the escalators.

‘What the hell was that about?’ Cross asked as they rode the moving staircase.

Cath exhaled deeply.

‘Did you get plenty of pictures?’ she said, sharply.

‘I asked-‘

‘Forget it, Phil.’ she said, looking back down towards the platform area.

Talbot was standing in the middle of the raised area, arms folded across his chest, an expression of anger on his face.

‘Do you know her?’ Rafferty asked him. Talbot nodded slowly, watching as the body was lifted. ‘You could say that.’ he murmured.

Six

The air inside the pub was thick with smoke and James Talbot inhaled deeply as he headed towards the table in the corner.

What he wouldn’t give for a cigarette!

He tried to push the thought from his mind as he weaved carefully around other drinkers, anxious not to spill any of the liquor he carried.

The pub was in Eversholt Street, just across the road from Euston, and it was busy. The sound of a dozen different conversations mingled with the noise of a jukebox which seemed to Talbot to have been turned up so high that it necessitated everyone in the pub to raise their voice to be heard.

Two young women cast him cursory glances as he passed, but Talbot seemed more concerned with reaching his designated table with full glasses than he did with their fleeting attention.

One of them, a tall woman with short blonde hair and cheek bones that looked as if they’d been shaped with a sander, smiled at him, and the DI managed a barely perceptible smile in return, glancing back to run appraising eyes over the woman’s shapely legs as he reached the table.

He set down the two glasses, sipping his own Jameson’s, feeling the amber fluid soothingly burn its way to his stomach.

Rafferty nodded gratefully and took a mouthful of his shandy.

‘I can’t stay too long, Jim,’ he said, almost apologetically.

‘One drink isn’t going to hurt, is it?’ Talbot muttered. ‘What’s your rush?’

‘I want to see Kelly before my wife puts her to bed.’

‘How is your kid?’

‘Beautiful,’ the DS said, proudly.

‘She must get her looks from her mother, then,’ Talbot mused, glancing at his companion.

‘It was her first day at school today,’ Rafferty began. ‘I wanted to-‘

‘Who was on duty up top this afternoon?’ Talbot interrupted, apparently tiring of Rafferty’s conversation.

‘What do you mean?’ the DS asked.

‘I want to know how those fucking press arseholes managed to get down onto the platform.’

Rafferty contemplated his superior for a moment then cleared his throat.

‘Look, Jim, you can tell me to mind my own business, but who the hell was that reporter? You don’t usually react to press like that.’

Talbot took a long swallow of his whiskey. ‘Fuck them, they’re all vultures anyway,’ he snarled.

‘You said you knew her.’

The DI exhaled deeply and sat back in his seat. ‘She did a story on me about two years ago,’ he said, looking down into his glass. ‘It was all over the paper she works for, I forget which one. Not that I really give a shit.’ He looked at the other man. ‘You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’

Rafferty nodded slowly. ‘Paul Keane.’

‘Yeah, Paul fucking Keane.’ Talbot downed what was left in his glass.

‘Was it true? About you beating him up during questioning?’

‘Her fucking allegations got me suspended for two weeks, didn’t they? Her and her “sources”. Maybe I did rough him up a bit, but I’ll tell you something, I wasn’t the only copper who did.’

‘He did some kids, didn’t he?’

‘Three of them. The fucking nonce. He raped two five-year-old girls and sodomised a three-year-old boy. Whatever he got, the bastard had it coming.’

Talbot pushed away his empty glass. ‘Three years old, can you imagine that?

Jesus.’ He sucked in an angry breath. ‘But that bitch cried “police brutality”

and splashed it all over the front of her fucking rag and there was an investigation.’

‘No charges were ever made against you though,’ Rafferty offered.

“That’s not the point,’ Talbot hissed. ‘She crucified me. She could have ruined my career, and do you know who her source was? Keane’s solicitor. He was more bent than his client. Keane nearly got off because of what she wrote.

He could have been walking the streets now because of her. Newspapers.

Wrapping up fish and chips or wiping your arse, that’s all they’re any good for. All of them.’

He looked down at Rafferty’s empty glass. ‘Another?’ he asked.

‘I’ve got to get off, Jim,’ the DS said, getting to his feet.

‘When are you expecting the autopsy results on Hyde?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘And you still reckon it was suicide?’

Talbot nodded.

‘I don’t know how anyone can do that’ Rafferty said. ‘Kill themselves. I mean, they reckon it’s a coward’s way out, but I reckon you need a lot of guts to top yourself. How could things ever get so bad you’d want to end your own life?’

Talbot shrugged. ‘It could happen to any of us,’ he said, quietly.

‘Not me,’ Rafferty said, heading for the door. ‘I’ve got too much to live for.’ He chuckled. ‘See you tomorrow.’

And he was gone.

Talbot waited a moment then returned to the bar and ordered another Jameson’s.

The woman with the finely chiselled cheekbones was still there, only now she was talking animatedly with a man slightly younger than Talbot. She didn’t even see him this time as he passed her. As he sat back down he could hear her laughter, even over the jukebox.

Talbot glanced at his watch.

It was too early to go home.

Besides, there was nothing there for him anyway.

He sipped at his drink.

‘Too much to live for.’ he murmured, remembering Rafferty’s words. The DI raised one eyebrow. ‘You’re lucky.’

He swallowed some more whiskey, the smell mingling with the stale odour of cigarette smoke.

He’d have another after this.

Maybe two.

It would take that before he could face the trip home.

Seven

Catherine Reed rolled onto her back, her chest heaving, her breath coming in deep, racking gasps.

‘Jesus.’ she murmured, trying to slow her breathing.

Beside her, Phillip Cross was also trying to get his breath back. He reached across to the bedside table and retrieved the can of Carlsberg there, taking a swig, wincing when he tasted warm beer.

‘Can I have some of that?’ Cath asked, taking the can from him.

‘It’s warm.’ he told her. ‘I’ll go and get us a couple more.’

She too sipped at the lukewarm fluid, watching as Cross swung himself out of bed and walked naked across the room.

Cute arse.

She smiled to herself, stretching her long legs, then bending them, clasping her hands around her knees as if she were preparing for some kind of exercise routine.

Cross looked back at her and grinned.

‘I thought you were going to get the beers.’ she said, looking at him, framed in the doorway.

He nodded and disappeared through into the sitting room. She heard rattling around by the fridge in the kitchen and, moments later, he returned and sat down on the bed beside her, holding out a cold can for her. As she went to take it he pressed it to her left breast, rubbing her already stiff nipple with the cold metal.

She yelped and slapped his shoulder, chuckling.

At thirty, Cross was two years her junior, but his face was heavily lined for one so young. Cath was aware of lines on her own face, but around the eyes she preferred to call them laughter lines. It was as good a euphemism as she could think of.

‘Do you think anyone at the office knows about us?’ Cross said, taking a sip of his drink.

She lay back, stretching her legs again, admiring their shape herself.

Cross ran a hand along her right calf and thigh, stroking the smooth flesh there.

‘I doubt it, we’ve been pretty discreet. Besides, nobody gives a shit. They’re too concerned with their own lives or how to fill the paper. Nobody cares about what we’re doing.’

‘What about you?’ he said, looking into her green eyes. ‘Do you care?’

‘Phil, don’t start this again,’ she said, smiling.

‘It’s not funny,’ he snapped.

‘I’m not laughing, am I?’

‘You smiled.’

‘What do you want me to do? Break down in tears?’ she swigged her beer. ‘Look, what we do together is fun, right? I enjoy being with you, but it’s not a big romance.’

‘Is that because you don’t want it to be?’

‘Can we save the big inquests for some other time, please?’

‘We just finished making love, I think that’s a fair enough time to ask about feelings, isn’t it?’

‘Phil, we just finished fucking,’ she smiled and touched his cheek. ‘There is a difference.’

Cross looked at her with accusing eyes. ‘You can be a right bitch sometimes,’

he said, acidly.

‘Sorry,’ she said, shrugging, taking a sip from the can. ‘I just don’t want you getting carried away with what’s going on between us.’

‘According to you, there’s not much to get carried away with anyway.’

Cath took one last sip of beer then clambered off the bed, pulling on her leggings.

‘What are you doing?’ Cross demanded.

‘Getting dressed. I’m going home.’

‘I thought you were staying the night.’

‘I didn’t say that, did I?’ she retorted, pulling on a denim shirt and fastening it.

‘I just thought…’

She kissed him on the forehead.

‘You think too much,’ she said, pushing her feet into her trainers.

He pulled on his jeans and followed her through into the sitting room, watching as she gathered up her handbag and jacket, checking in the pocket for her car keys.

‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ she said, kissing him lightly on the lips.

Cross pulled her more tightly to him, easing his tongue past the soft flesh, happy when she responded.

‘You’re a pain in the arse.’ he said, attempting a smile. ‘No wonder that copper at Euston got so uptight when he saw you.’

She nodded.

‘I suppose he had his reasons,’ she said dismissively, then turned and headed towards the hall. ‘I can find my own way out, Phil, and

besides …’ she nodded towards his crotch, ‘you don’t want to frighten the neighbours, do you?’ She giggled.

Cross looked down to see that his flies were undone.

As he hurried to zip them up, Cath stepped out.

He heard the door close behind her.

The photographer stood alone for a moment then sat down on the edge of the sofa, running both hands through his hair.

He could smell her perfume on his fingers.

He’d be able to smell it in the bedroom too.

He always could.

As he got to his feet, the phone rang.

Eight

‘What’s your name?’

Shanine Connor jumped slightly in her seat as the silence inside the car was suddenly broken.

She glanced across at the driver who took his eyes off the road momentarily and smiled at her.

Her own expression remained blank. Instead, she ran cautious eyes over the driver’s features. He was in his early forties, his face a little on the chubby side, his hair thick and lustrous, although in the gloomy interior of the Astra it was difficult to tell what colour.

The only other light was supplied by the lamps on the M60. There wasn’t much traffic travelling in either

direction, and even when vehicles did pass by on the opposite carriageway, Shanine hardly noticed their headlamps. She was too concerned with checking the wing mirror beside her. Glancing in it every few moments.

Checking.

She was sure she’d seen a dark blue Nissan tuck in behind the Astra about twelve miles back.

She couldn’t be sure it wasn’t still there.

Following?

The Nissan had had plenty of opportunities to overtake, but she was sure it had sat in the inside lane, keeping a respectable distance, sometimes dropping back out of sight, sometimes coming closer.

Wasn’t it?

She held the holdall close to her, one hand resting on the side of the bag where she had secreted the kitchen knife.

The driver had offered to put the holdall in the back seat for her but she’d shaken her head vehemently, preferring to keep it near.

He’d told her his name but she’d forgotten it. He’d been trying to make conversation for the last fifteen miles, ever since they left Manchester. All she could remember was that he’d said he was heading back home to Liverpool but otherwise her attention was elsewhere.

Like on the Nissan that was following?

Following?

She gazed into the wing mirror again and could see no sign of the vehicle.

Her heart began to thud a little faster against her ribs.

‘I said what’s your name?’ the driver repeated, again looking at her.

‘Shanine’ she told him without looking round.

‘That’s a nice name’ he said, tapping on his steering wheel gently, muttering to himself.

The car began to slow down.

‘What’s wrong?’ Shanine asked, a note of anxiety in her voice.

‘Bloody roadworks,’ the driver groaned. ‘It’s going down to one lane. We’ll be at a crawl for the next few miles.’

Shanine shot a glance at the wing mirror.

No sign of the Nissan.

‘They’re always doing something to this road,’ the driver continued. ‘Soft bastards.’ He looked at her and smiled. ‘Excuse my French.’

Shanine managed a nervous smile.

‘So why are you leaving Manchester?’ the driver asked. ‘I mean, I can understand why, but I was just curious, like. I mean, I only go there because I have to work there.’

She didn’t answer, preoccupied with what was visible in the wing mirror.

The Astra had slowed right down to around twenty miles an hour now, as the driver guided it between two rows of plastic bollards.

‘You seemed in a hurry to get away,’ he said, grinning. ‘Someone chasing you?’

She turned to face him, the colour draining from her face.

‘What makes you say that?’ she demanded.

He glanced across at her, saw the concern etched across her features.

‘Just joking.’ he said, almost apologetically.

Shanine spotted the Nissan.

The road had opened out into two lanes again, and the Nissan was moving up fast behind the Astra.

They were approaching a slip road, leading to a service area.

‘Can you drop me off there?’ Shanine asked.

‘I can take you all the way to Liverpool if you want.’

‘No’ she said, watching as the Nissan swept past, its rear lights disappearing.

She felt her heart slow its frantic pounding and slumped back in her seat.

‘Where are you going, anyway?’ the driver asked.

‘Drop me on the slip road, you don’t have to drive right up to the service station’ she told him, ignoring the question.

‘Don’t be soft’ he muttered, indicating, guiding the Astra up the incline.

She was reaching for the door handle as soon as he began to slow down.

‘Thanks’ she said, clambering out.

‘I can take you further …’ he began, but she was already out of the car, walking hurriedly towards the Little Chef which lay beyond the petrol station area of the services.

The Astra driver watched her for a moment, then stuck the car in gear and drove on. As he passed he saw her entering the restaurant. She paused at the door and looked anxiously around her before stepping inside.

The driver glanced into his rear-view mirror, wondering about Shanine.

What was she running from?

Boyfriend? Parents?

As he guided the car back onto the slip road that took him back to the motorway, he pondered.

Had he known the truth he might well have been relieved she was no longer in his car.

Nine

Catherine Reed could hear the sound as she turned the key in the door.

A high-pitched beeping noise which came every three seconds. The audio alert on her answering machine. There were messages.

She pushed the door of the flat closed and locked it, pulling the chain across; then she put down her car keys and door key on the small wooden table just inside the hallway.

The drive from Camden Town to her flat in Hammersmith had taken longer than usual. There’d been some sort of security alert in Central London and traffic had been diverted. Cath felt as if she’d been stuck behind the wheel of her Fiat for hours.

She pressed the Play button on the answering machine and the metallic voice announced that she had five messages.

She turned up the volume on the machine and wandered into the sitting room where she kicked off her trainers, sitting on the edge of the sofa as she massaged her feet.

The first message was from a friend, asking if she wanted to meet up for a few drinks in a couple of days’ time.

Cath padded across to the TV set and flicked it on, pressing the mute button on the remote so that just the picture glowed before her.

The second message was a guy called John Linley. She’d met him at the opening

of an art exhibition about a week ago and, for reasons which she couldn’t remember now, she’d given him her number. The message invited her to call back.

Cath shook her head.

She sat looking at the silent TV screen as the messages continued.

A wrong number.

The caller had even waited for the tone to apologise.

On the screen, two politicians were gesturing at each other, their posturing somehow more interesting without the benefit of their empty words.

She changed channels.

Boxing.

Cath pressed another button.

A seventies sit-com - at least she guessed it was, from the way the characters were dressed.

She pressed again.

A Western. She peered at it for a moment, recognised William Holden and Ernest Borgnine and smiled to herself.

“The Wild Bunch,’ she said, chuckling as the ad break caption confirmed her guess.

The fourth message on the machine was from her brother.

Cath got to her feet and walked back to the machine, jabbed the Replay button and listened more carefully to the words.

‘Cath, it’s Frank. Give me a call tomorrow night will you?

‘ need to talk to you. Any time after nine o’clock. Hope you’re well. See you.’

She scribbled a note on the small pad beside the phone and listened to the last message.

It was from her publisher.

They loved the book, there were just a couple of points they’d like to discuss if she had the time tomorrow. Could she ring the senior editor?

Thank you. End of messages.

Perhaps they were going to tell her the publication date, she mused. Inform her when they were going to pay her the remainder of the advance. She’d already spent the first part. The flat had needed decorating and it had come in handy for that. The publisher seemed to have a great deal of faith in the book though: ‘true crime’, they had told her, was a big seller. With her background in journalism she had the contacts. The book had been relatively easy to write and she’d finished the first draft in under three months.

Mind to Murder was Cath’s examination of some of the twentieth century’s most notorious murderers and, more to the point, the public fascination with them.

What was it about people like Brady and Hindley, Peter Sutcliffe, Charles Manson, Dennis Nilson, Fred West and dozens of others like them that the public found so intriguing?

Cath had already been commissioned to write a second book along similar lines about violence in the movies, but that was a long way off. She hoped the two non-fiction books could be a stepping stone to what she really craved: to have a novel published.

She pressed Rewind and listened to her brother’s message again.

He sounded fine. Chirpy, in fact.

Surprising, considering the circumstances he was caught up in at the moment.

She glanced at her watch and wondered whether she should ring him now, then decided against it.

She went into the kitchen and switched on the ghetto-blaster, which was propped on top of the microwave: the sound of Clannad filled the room. Cath filled the kettle and switched it on, dropping a tea bag and some milk into a mug which she first rinsed beneath the tap.

While she waited for the kettle to boil she walked back into the sitting room, glancing at the silent TV screen, watching as the bridge the Wild Bunch had rigged with dynamite exploded, sending Robert Ryan and his bounty hunters into the river below.

Cath stopped for a moment, struck by how incongruous the brutal image was with the lilting sounds drifting from the kitchen.

From the top of the television two photos stared back at her.

One was of her parents.

They had emigrated to Canada six years ago.

Cath hadn’t seen them since. She spoke to them every two or three months. They seemed to be enjoying themselves there, both retired. And they were proud of her achievements. Proud of both their children.

She wondered what they would have thought of Frank’s situation.

It was he who looked out at her from the other photo.

Five years older than Cath, he was powerfully built with a bushy moustache, flecked with grey like his hair.

In the picture he was sitting on a park bench with her, smiling happily, his arm around her shoulder.

The photo had been taken about eight years ago, the day after she began working for the Express, and shortly after he’d secured the deputy headmaster’s job at the school where he taught.

Happy days.

And now?

She crossed to the photo and picked it up, studying his features more carefully.

It was obvious the photo was old.

Frank was smiling.

He had something to smile about.

Cath heard the kettle boiling and set the photo back in position atop the television.

She’d spoken to him three days ago. His message seemed to imply there was something new to report.

As she headed back towards the kitchen she wondered what it could be.

It had got to the stage where she feared his calls.

Ten

The silence enveloped James Talbot like a shroud.

He pushed the front door shut behind him, muttering to himself as he stepped on the letters lying on the mat. He picked them up and carried them through into the sitting room, dropping the mail onto the coffee table without even glancing at it.

Christ, he needed a cigarette!

Instead he crossed to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a large whiskey, swallowing most of the soothing liquid in one gulp.

The cabinet, like most of the furniture in the house, was old. Some was in need of repair, some of replacement. It was like stepping back into the fifties, walking inside the place. A huge mahogany chest of drawers stood against one wall, the dark wood matching the coffee table and also the small table upon which the television was perched. The electronic contraption looked out of place amidst such relics of the past.

The walls needed a lick of paint too.

Talbot could remember that sickly shade of magnolia from when he was a small child.

His father had painted the whole bloody house in that colour.

His father.

Was it really twenty-six years since he’d died?

It seemed like an eternity. Sometimes it felt as if he’d never even lived.

Like a fading photograph, the image of his father had slowly grown more and more faint in Talbot’s mind, until he could barely recall the man’s features.

He heard shouting outside and crossed to the window, peering out to see a group of young lads passing by, chatting loudly and animatedly.

The street was littered with pieces of crumpled paper and rubbish, blown about like bizarre tumbleweeds as the cold breeze swept through the streets.

The streets always looked like this after a match.

From the front window of the house in Gillespie Road, Talbot could see the

outline of Arsenal’s stadium.

His father had taken him along to matches when he’d been a child, at first too young to realise what was

going on, aware only of the crush and throng of so many bodies packed into terraces. Then, as he’d got older, he’d travelled the short distance to the stadium for every home game. Then he’d started going to away games too.

It gave him an excuse to get out of the house for a few hours.

To get away.

To be alone.

Strange, he’d always thought, to seek solitude amongst thirty thousand people, but it seemed to have the desired effect.

And then he would return.

To the smell of the drink. The shouts and screams.

The blood.

Talbot swallowed what was left in his glass and poured himself another. He crossed to the sofa where he flopped down on the large flower-patterned seats, rolling the whiskey glass between his large palms, gazed at the letters on the table, as if the very effort of reaching for them required some superhuman feat of will.

He took another sip of whiskey and tore open the first.

Phone bill.

He put it to one side.

A couple of circulars.

He tossed them into the bin beneath the table and picked up the last envelope.

Crisp. Pristine white. It seemed to gleam in his hands as he tore it open, noticing that his fingers were trembling slightly.

He pulled out the single typed sheet and unfolded it.

The heading on the paper stood out starkly: Litton Vale Nursing Home.

He sighed, wearily, and began to read.

Eleven

It was far too beautiful a day to be surrounded by death, Andrew Foster thought as he trudged up the narrow gravel path which led off from the main walkway.

It had been on a day like this, a day of clear blue skies and gentle breezes, that death had first touched their lives, and the memory seemed to grow stronger with each successive visit.

Croydon Cemetery was bathed in the soft warming rays of a sun which had risen proudly to take its place in a sky the colour of washed denim.

The scent of flowers, some freshly laid, wafted on the breeze. The scene was idyllic, even down to the birds perched in the leafy trees whistling happily, oblivious to the misery below them, unaware that for every joyful note they uttered in those branches, a tear had fallen below them: tears of pain, helplessness, regret and anger.

Andrew had felt every one of those emotions the day he’d been told his son had died.

Ahead of him, his wife Paula walked with her usual purposefulness, moving surefootedly over the path and grassy ridges, stepping around the many other graves as they made their way to their usual destination.

They were both in their early twenties. They should be playing with their baby boy now, not bringing flowers to lay on his grave. A grave so small that Andrew could reach from one end to the other without stretching his arms.

Suffocation, the doctors had said. The child had been strangled by its own umbilical cord while still inside the womb.

He’d stood at his wife’s side as she sobbed and screamed in her efforts to birth a child who was already dead.

Andrew had cried when he’d seen that tiny body removed, wrapped in a sheet.

Cried with sorrow and rage. Why did it have to be their child?

Paula had taken it remarkably well, but the doctors had warned him there could be a delayed reaction to her grief. They’d rattled off some psychological bullshit names for the condition, most of which he’d forgotten.

He’d heard her crying at night.

He’d woken in the darkness, disturbed by his own nightmares, and he’d heard her weeping in the next room; sometimes he went to her to share her pain, and other times he allowed her to grieve in private.

Two weeks had passed since their son’s death, and Andrew was struck by the appalling irony - they had been expecting the beginning of a new life with his birth, but instead had witnessed only death. Birth and death had become inseparable. They’d become one.

His wife had given birth to a dead child.

And the weather outside on that day had been so beautiful. A day full of the promise of life had brought only pain.

A day like today.

They passed graves bearing fresh flowers, and some which needed tending; some where the headstones sparkled in the early morning sunlight: others where the stones were dull and neglected.

It seemed they were the only two people in the cemetery. They’d seen an old man almost every morning, visiting, Andrew assumed, the grave of his wife. He always nodded a greeting to them. But not this morning.

This beautiful morning seemed to have been created solely for them.

Andrew sucked in a deep breath but it tasted sour. He noticed Paula slow her pace as she reached the path leading to their son’s grave.

It lay beneath a small oak tree, the branches dipping low over the tiny grave.

A sparrow was perched on one of the lower branches, chirping gaily.

The sound grated on Andrew’s nerves and he was relieved to see the bird fly off.

He watched it rise and disappear from view as it flew towards the sun. He shielded his eyes to protect them from the glowing orb.

Then he heard Paula gasp.

She had stopped dead and was pointing ahead of her with one shaking hand.

The flowers she had been carrying had fallen to the ground. Andrew almost trampled on them as he brushed past her, his own eyes now bulging wide as he took in the horrific scene.

He paused, his breath coming in gasps, his mouth open as if he was about to say something. But no words would come. What could he say? What feeble exhortations could express the feelings that swept through him now? What words could begin to describe what he saw?

The grave of Stephen Foster had been dug up, flowers and wreaths scattered across the dark, overturned soil.

The coffin, so tiny in its small resting place, was visible through the earth.

A split snaked across the top.

The brass nameplate had been smashed off.

And, all around, dirt had been scattered. It looked as if the coffin had erupted from beneath the ground, spraying earth in all directions.

From behind him he heard Paula sobbing hysterically, and now he found the voice for one astonished cry of his own.

It felt as if it was wrenched from his soul.

He dropped to his knees in the disturbed earth.

Twelve

Phillip Barclay’s office at New Scotland yard was small and incredibly well kept. It seemed to mirror the man himself. Immaculately dressed, not a hair out of place, he was the picture of efficiency as he set down two files on his desk, arranging them with almost manic neatness. He then sat down, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve.

Across from him, DI James Talbot was snapping a Kitkat into four separate pieces. He balled up the silver paper and left it on Barclay’s desk, watching as the coroner frowned and pushed an ashtray towards him, indicating the foil with an accusatory glance.

Talbot made an exaggerated gesture of picking up the silver paper between his thumb and forefinger and dropping it into the ashtray.

‘You’ll make someone a lovely wife one of these days, Phil,’ the DI said,

smiling.

Barclay pulled the ashtray away then glared at Rafferty, who was in the process of lighting a cigarette.

‘Not in here, please’ snapped Barclay.

Rafferty looked at him in bewilderment.

‘No smoking,’ Barclay reminded him, watching as Rafferty replaced the cigarette in its box.

‘So, come on, Phil, what’s the story on Peter Hyde?’ Talbot got down to business. ‘Did he top himself or what?’

Barclay flipped open one of the files and glanced at its contents.

‘The autopsy showed no sign of alcohol, drugs or anything stronger than caffeine in his bloodstream at the time of the accident,’ said the coroner.

‘Could he have fallen?’ Talbot asked.

‘He could, but it’s doubtful. I’ve seen victims of tube accidents before.

There are usually severe burns to the palms of the hands and the upper arms, where they’ve tried to break their fall. There were no such marks on Hyde’s hands. That would seem to indicate that he wasn’t pushed either.’

‘Suicide, then?’ Talbot murmured.

‘Plain, simple suicide,’ echoed the coroner. ‘No suspicious circumstances. If I were you I’d close this one, Jim.’

Rafferty looked at his superior. ‘What if it was made to look like an accident?’ he prompted.

Talbot chuckled. ‘Piss off, Bill. Hyde killed himself, just like I said.

That’s it. End of story.’

‘I’m sorry to cheat you out of a murder enquiry,’ Barclay added.

Rafferty shrugged.

‘Terrible waste of life’ Barclay said. ‘A man so young. It makes you wonder what his reasons were for killing himself.’

‘As far as we could tell, he didn’t have any,’ Rafferty said, shaking his head in bewilderment. ‘He had a good job, a beautiful wife, lovely home, everything.’

‘You don’t know what was going on inside his head’ Talbot offered. ‘Just because the guy seemed happy doesn’t mean he was. Never judge a book by its cover and all that shit. You should know that, Bill, you’ve been on the force long enough.’ The DI chewed a piece of chocolate. ‘So, he didn’t look like a bloke who’d top himself: since when have you been able to tell someone’s state of mind from their appearance? If we could do that there wouldn’t be a criminal on the streets, we’d grab all the bastards if they even looked dodgy.

I mean, Nilsen didn’t look like a mass murderer, did he?’

Rafferty shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, smiling.

Talbot got to his feet. ‘Thanks for your help, Phil’ he said, heading for the door.

Rafferty got up to follow.

‘I don’t know if that makes it worse for his wife, knowing he killed himself’

the DS said. ‘At least if he’d been murdered she’d know there was a reason why. She might never know why he killed himself. She might blame herself.’

Talbot sighed.

‘You’re in the wrong game, Bill’ he said. ‘You should have been a bloody social worker. Give me some change.’

Rafferty fumbled in his pocket. ‘What’s it for?’

‘The coffee machine. Come on, I’ll buy you a cup of hot, brown water’ Talbot chuckled.

‘You’re all heart’ Rafferty told him.

‘That’s my middle name. Come on.’

They closed the door behind them and Barclay heard their footsteps echoing away up the corridor.

He waited a moment then took the file on Peter Hyde and slid it into one of the bottom drawers of his desk.

Thirteen

The barrel of the .357 Magnum glinted beneath the banks of fluorescents, the cylinder clicking as it was turned.

Neil Parriam pulled back the hammer and wiped the firing pin with the same oily cloth he’d used to clean the frame of the gun. The smell of gun oil was strong in the air, mingling with the less acrid aroma of coffee. Parriam put down the weapon, laying it on a cloth he’d spread out on the table. He wiped his hands on the edge of the cloth then took a sip of his coffee.

‘How long have you known?’ asked the man seated to his right.

Parriam beamed at him.

‘About a week’ he said, happily. ‘We weren’t going to tell anyone until Lynn had her first scan, but then we thought what the hell.’

‘I don’t blame you’ said Jacqui Weaver. ‘It’s not every day you find out you’re going to become a father, is it?’

She squeezed his arm. ‘I reckon you’re a clever boy.’

The other three men seated at the table broke into a chorus of chuckles.

Parriam felt his cheeks redden and he nodded humbly.

Jacqui retreated back behind the counter, glancing up as the buzzer on the main door sounded. She checked the closed circuit TV screen behind the desk, recognised the man waiting outside and buzzed him in. She recognised most of the members of the gun club. A good percentage of them were regulars, turning up at the same time on the same night, week in week out.

Parriam was a regular. Every Tuesday he booked a lane, seven o’clock until eight. He’d been a member of the club in Druid Street for the last five years.

It was the only hobby he’d ever had in his life which had made him truly relax. He felt no competitive drive here. No need to be the best shot at the club, no burning desire to be top dog.

Lynn had encouraged him to join. Her brother had introduced him to the delights of pistol shooting and he’d found the pastime instantly addictive but, over the years, the social side of the activity had taken on added significance for him. The gun club was somewhere to meet friends on a weekly basis, somewhere to unwind, to forget about the pressures of work, although, if he was honest with himself, his job brought very little pressure. He loved what he did and he got well paid for it.

Rumour had it that he was likely to be made a partner in the firm of architects he worked for. And he had yet to reach his thirtieth birthday.

And now to learn that he was to become a father.

As far as Neil Parriam was concerned, life couldn’t get much better.

A child seemed to be the one thing missing, the only remaining piece to be fitted into the jigsaw.

He’d wanted to keep it secret until they were sure the baby was going to be perfect. He and Lynn had both agreed to wait until the third month before releasing the news to friends and family, but neither had been able to contain their excitement.

They’d already been out and bought a cot.

So much for patience.

Parriam smiled to himself and sipped his coffee.

He intended decorating one of the spare rooms next weekend in preparation for transforming it into a nursery.

Nursery.

Even the word made him glow inside.

‘Have you thought about names yet?’ Graham Rogers asked.

Parriam shrugged and continued cleaning the .357.

‘Kelly if it’s a girl, or Nicole,’ he said. ‘Sounds a bit exotic, doesn’t it?’

‘What if it’s a boy?’ Rogers wanted to know.

‘I haven’t thought about boy’s names, I think we both want a girl so much.’

Parriam pushed the wire brush through each of the cylinder chambers, holding the gun up towards the light to check if there was any excess oil left in the chambers.

He reached for the box of ammunition close by and flipped it open, pushing the heavy grain shells into the chambers one by one.

The door to the range opened and the range-master stuck his head out. ‘Your

lane’s free when you’re ready, Neil,’ he said.

‘Cheers, Bert’ Parriam called as the other man disappeared back inside.

‘Are you going to be there at the birth?’ Jacqui asked, pouring herself a cup of coffee and crossing to the table where she sat down opposite Parriam.

‘Bloody right I am’ said Parriam, chuckling. ‘I might even video it.’ He pushed another slug into the cylinder.

‘I’m sure Lynn will appreciate that’ Rogers laughed. ‘You can show it to your friends over dinner. They’ll love it.’

‘My old man was there for the birth of our first’ Jacqui said. ‘He passed out.’

The men around the table laughed.

‘One minute he was telling me to push and that he could see the baby’s head, the next he went down like a sack of spuds’ she said, grinning. ‘Men!’ She shrugged. ‘I hope you don’t pass out, Neil.’

‘No chance, Parriam assured her. ‘Anyway, I’m staying up the end without the blood.’

‘Chicken’ Rogers chided, nudging him.

‘Were you there when your wife gave birth, Graham?’ Parriam asked, thumbing the final shell into the cylinder.

‘I was there in spirit’ Rogers said.

Parriam looked puzzled.

‘I was in the pub getting pissed. When I got there I said to the doctor, “Can you put a couple of extra stitches in down below, she’s never been very tight.”’

Rogers let out a cackling laugh, Parriam joined him.

Jacqui slapped Rogers on the arm and scowled in mock outrage.

‘Bloody chauvinist’ she said, grinning.

Parriam was shaking with laughter. ‘I must remember that, Graham’ he chuckled.

Then, in one fluid movement, he spun the .357 around, pushed the barrel into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Fourteen

James Talbot paced back and forth across his office, occasionally stopping to look out of the window, gazing down on the streets which led into New Scotland Yard.

Every now and then he would walk back to the desk and take a square of chocolate from the bar of Fruit and Nut he’d broken up. He chewed thoughtfully, seemingly oblivious to the gaze of Rafferty who watched his superior as he paced.

‘Was the gun his?’ Talbot asked, turning back to his desk, peering at a collection of ten by eights which lay there.

‘Everything was in order’ the DS said. ‘The certificate of purchase was in the carrying case, so was his FAC

Talbot picked up the first picture.

It had been taken by a police photographer less than ten minutes after Neil Parriam had shot himself.

The body was still upright in its seat, the gun still clutched in one fist.

It looked as if the wall behind Parriam had been coated with red paint.

‘There were at least four witnesses who saw him do it’ Rafferty said. ‘No question of foul play, the autopsy

report backs that up anyway.’ Rafferty jabbed the manilla file beside the photos.

Talbot looked at the second photo.

It showed a rear view of the dead man’s head.

The exit wound was large enough to accommodate two fists; a gaping hole which showed the full extent of the damage wrought by the heavy grain bullet.

‘There were powder burns on his lips and tongue’ Rafferty added. ‘The bullet took out three of his back teeth on its way through.’

Talbot chewed another square of chocolate.

‘One of the ambulance men pulled part of it out of the wall behind where he was sitting’ the DS added.

‘Any family?’ Talbot asked.

‘A wife. She’d just found out she’s pregnant. Apparently Parriam was over the moon about it.’

‘So happy he blew his brains out’ Talbot mused, looking at a third photo. ‘Has official identification been made?’

‘They took the body to Guy’s. His wife identified it. They’ve taken her back home now, she’s sedated.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

‘She left his personal effects at the hospital.’

Talbot looked puzzled.

‘He was carrying a wallet, credit cards, that sort of shit’ Rafferty elaborated.

‘I’m not with you, Bill’ the DI muttered.

‘He had a pocket diary with him too: one of the uniformed men at the hospital went through it - don’t ask me what he was looking for.’

‘And?’

Rafferty ran a hand through his hair.

‘There weren’t many entries in it, but one of them caught his eye and he called me. He’s a good man. Observant. He was on Euston the same day we pulled Peter Hyde off the tracks, that’s why the entry in the diary made him sit up.’

‘Bill, what the fuck are you talking about? Are you trying to excuse the actions of one of our men who went through the private belongings of a dead man because he had nothing better to do?’ Talbot snapped.

‘There was an entry in the diary for two weeks ago. It said “Call Peter at Morgan and Simons”. Morgan and Simons is the firm of accountants that Peter Hyde worked for. Parriam knew him.’

Talbot stopped pacing and looked quizzically at his companion ‘So what?’ he said, finally.

‘Jim, two men commit suicide within days of each other, both for seemingly no reason and now we find out that they knew each other. Doesn’t that strike you as strange?’

‘One entry in a diary doesn’t make them bosom buddies, and even if it does it still doesn’t prove a link between the two suicides.’

‘It’s a hell of a bloody coincidence though.’ ‘Yes it is. But that’s all it is, Bill. A coincidence.’ The two men locked stares, then Rafferty took a defiant drag on his cigarette. He inhaled then blew out a long stream of bluish-grey smoke, watching it dissipate in the air.

‘So that’s it’ he said. ‘End of story?’ ‘What the hell else do you want me to do?’ Rafferty didn’t answer. ‘I suppose you’re right’ he conceded finally.

‘You know I’m right. If I thought it was worth investigating we’d be on the case now, but what are we going to

look for, Bill? Why they killed themselves? No one but Hyde and Parriam is ever going to know that. Fuck knows what made them do it, but then again I’m a copper not a psychiatrist. I can’t read minds. Especially dead ones.’

Rafferty nodded slowly.

‘Fancy a drink?’ Talbot asked.

‘Are you buying?’

Talbot nodded.

Rafferty got to his feet. ‘Let’s go then.’

As they left the office, Talbot glanced back at his desk, at the photos of Neil Parriam.

One was a close up of the dead man’s face, eyes still staring wide. The corners of the mouth were turned up slightly. Talbot could have sworn Parriam was smiling.

Fifteen

‘I tried you twice earlier on but I couldn’t get an answer,’ said Phillip Cross.

Catherine Reed continued gazing at the screen of the word processor, scanning what she’d already written. It flickered there in green letters, almost accusingly. She waited a moment longer then pressed Delete. The screen went blank.

‘Sorry, Phil, what did you say?’ she asked, the phone balanced between her shoulder and ear.

‘Jesus, are you listening?’ Cross chuckled.

‘I was working on something; I was miles away. Sorry.’

‘Was it the guy who blew out his brains in that gun club in Druid Street?’

‘No, I didn’t cover that. I’ve been at the Dorchester most of the day.’

‘Nice work if you can get it. What happened?’

‘Some visiting Arab ambassador went ape-shit and strangled one of his wives, or tried to, according to some of the staff I spoke to. She’s in hospital.

I’ve been tearing around like a blue-arsed fly trying to speak to doctors, nurses and Christ knows who. The embassy guys and security were pretty jumpy.’

‘What did you hear about the suicide?’

‘Put a gun in his mouth, didn’t he? Did you take the pictures?’

‘No, Porter covered it. I’ve been in Croydon Cemetery today.’

‘What for?’

‘One of the graves had been dug up, the headstone had been smashed.’

‘Shit,’ she murmured, sitting forward in her seat. ‘What else?’

‘The coffin had been tampered with, apparently it’s not the first time it’s happened in that cemetery.’

‘Who did the grave belong to?’

‘A kid. A baby. I made a note of the name, don’t ask me why. I reckon I’ve been around you too long.’

At the other end of the phone she heard the rustling of papers.

Cath pulled a pad towards her and wrote on it: Desecration?

‘Stephen Foster, that was the kid’s name,’ Cross said at last.

Cath scribbled it on the pad and drew a ring around it.

‘Did you say it wasn’t the first time it had happened there?’ she asked.

‘The vicar was there when I arrived, I overheard him talking to the police about it. I didn’t catch it all.’

She sat staring at the word Desecration, chewing on the end of her pen.

‘Probably just some sick bastard pissing about’ Cross added.

‘Mmm’ Cath responded distractedly.

‘So’ the photographer said. ‘What are you doing tonight? Are you coming over here or-‘

She cut him short. ‘I’m expecting company, Phil.’

‘Anyone I know?’ Cross asked frostily.

‘My brother.’

‘Oh, right’ he murmured, sounding relieved. ‘What about tomorrow?’

‘I’ll call you.’

‘I just think there’s things we should talk about’ Cross protested.

‘Not now, Phil’ she told him, wearily. ‘I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow, all right?’

There was a protracted silence at the other end of the line.

Cath exhaled deeply.

‘Yeah, OK’ Cross said, reluctantly. ‘See you.’

He hung up.

Cath replaced the receiver, got to her feet, and headed for the kitchen. It was hot; three pots were bubbling on the cooker. She lifted the lid of each and checked its contents, smiling to herself. Then she passed back into the sitting room and picked up her wine glass, taking a sip. She had laid the table close to the window, even draped it with a clean, freshly ironed table cloth. Cath wasn’t the most domesticated of women but even her mother would have been proud of the table, she mused, glancing across at her parents’ photo on top of the TV.

There was music playing softly in the background, the volume turned low. Cath hummed as she wandered back to the kitchen, glancing at her watch.

Almost time.

It wasn’t like him to be late.

The doorbell sounded at exactly eight o’clock and Cath headed towards its source, a smile already on her face.

She checked the spy-hole and saw him out there.

She opened the door.

‘Hello, mate’ said Frank Reed, grinning, holding a bunch of flowers before him.

He stepped inside, into her welcoming arms.

Sixteen

The lights inside the tube train hurt her eyes.

Shanine Connor blinked hard and lowered her head momentarily.

When she looked up again she noticed that the man seated opposite was staring at her.

Wasn’t he?

He was in his mid-forties, dressed in an open-necked shirt and dark trousers that were far too short. As he crossed and uncrossed his legs, the material rode up to reveal the pure white of his flesh.

Shanine looked at his hairless legs. Anything rather than hold his gaze, which she felt boring into her.

Standing at one end of the carriage was a couple in their twenties, both dressed in jeans and leather jackets. They were kissing passionately, oblivious to the other passengers in the carriage.

A young woman with a dark complexion was studying a map of the Underground intermittently, glancing up at the map opposite for reassurance.

The man next to her was reading a well-thumbed paperback, chuckling to himself, unable to hear his own giggles over the sound of his Walkman.

Shanine glanced across at the man with the white legs and was relieved to see that he was gazing down the carriage at the leather-clad couple.

She pulled the holdall closer to her, hugging it tightly as if it were a sleeping dog.

She couldn’t remember how long she’d been on the train. Only that her journey had begun in natural light, overground, only to become swallowed by the tunnels as the tube had drawn closer to Central London.

Her eyelids felt as if someone had attached lead weights to them.

Christ, she was tired!

It felt as if she’d been travelling for days on end. From the service station she’d found a lift easily enough, but the journey down the motorway had seemed interminable.

And now this.

She needed sleep more than she needed food, but her stomach rumbled noisily to remind her of that particular requirement too.

Where should she get off?

She didn’t even know where the hell she was going.

The train pulled into Leicester Square station: Shanine glanced out of the grubby windows and saw the signs.

The man with the white legs opposite looked across at her.

He was staring at her.

Wasn’t he? It was obvious.

She shifted in her seat as the doors slid open.

Stop staring.

The leather-clad couple got out; so did the young woman with the dark complexion. Shanine saw her looking around helplessly on the platform seeking the way out.

Other people stepped on to replace them.

A young woman no older than herself sat a couple of seats away, brushing her long blonde hair away from her face, catching Shanine’s eye.

Shanine smiled.

The young woman ignored her and began thumbing through a copy of Cosmopolitan.

The train moved off.

How many more stops?

Piccadilly Circus.

Shanine looked around anxiously.

Should she get off here?

She hesitated a moment longer, then jumped to her feet just as the doors were sliding shut. The man with the white legs watched her as she jammed a hand between the doors to force them open again. She stepped out onto the platform as the doors closed behind her.

Shanine stood motionless, gazing around, searching for the Exit sign while dozens of other people walked,

scurried or pushed past her. She followed the largest group and saw the way out.

She rode the escalator behind a man who carried the pungent odour of sweat on him, the smell mingling with a stench like burning rubber. The moving stairway creaked protestingly as it rose, and Shanine looked to her right and left, at the posters which lined the escalator and at the profusion of faces on the down escalator to her left.

The ticket hall with its low ceiling seemed to amplify every little sound, and the noise crowded in on her. She could hear music coming from close by - many voices, some raised.

She passed through the automatic barriers, looking down at an old man who was seated cross-legged by one of the exits, a dark stain across his crotch, his grey beard resembling a hedgehog that somebody had stapled to his chin. He had a battered brown fedora on the floor in front of him with some coins in it.

Shanine passed him by, the smell of urine and alcohol strong in her nostrils.

She took the first flight of steps she came too, emerging into the cool evening air, the sound of cars and buses almost deafening. It hit her like a wall.

For a long time she stood motionless looking out across Piccadilly Circus, at the buildings towering above her and the constantly flashing neon of so many signs and hoardings. It hurt her eyes almost as much as the glaring white of the tube lights.

There was a Dunkin’ Donuts to her left and she fumbled in her pocket and found a couple of pound coins.

At least she could attend to the problem of her hunger.

And what about sleep?

She crossed the road, saw people emerging from the main entrance of the Regent Palace Hotel. Four of them, two couples, laughing and talking loudly.

Americans. She heard the accents.

One of the men looked at her.

Didn’t he?

She got her doughnut and coffee and sat down, one foot resting on the holdall.

Shanine took a couple of bites of the doughnut and looked at her watch.

She’d been gone almost eighteen hours.

They would know by now.

They would be looking.

For all she knew, they already were.

Her hand was shaking slightly as she took a sip of her coffee.

Seventeen

‘That was beautiful,’ said Frank Reed, pushing the empty bowl away from him.

‘Which branch of Marks and Spencer did it come from?’

‘You cheeky sod’ Cath said, nudging him as she retrieved the bowl and carried it to the sink. ‘That was all my own work. You should feel privileged. That’s the first meal I’ve cooked for a man in over six months.’

‘And was he as appreciative?’

‘We split up a week later, but I don’t think that was anything to do with the meal’ Cath chuckled, spooning coffee into a couple of cups.

She stood by the draining board, waiting for the kettle to boil.

‘Next time, why don’t you cook me a meal?’ she asked.

‘I’ll take you out instead.’

‘Typical teacher. You spend most of the year on holiday but you can’t even take the time to cook your own sister a meal.’

He smiled.

‘I don’t cook much. You know what it’s like when you’re on your own, Cath.’

‘I’m alone out of choice.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked, smiling. ‘What are you going to do now? Psychoanalyse me?’

‘You’re a very attractive woman, Cath. I’m just surprised you never settled down. It wasn’t as if there was any shortage of men.’

‘Now you’re making me sound like a tart,’ she said, pouring hot water onto the coffee.

‘You know what I mean,’ he said, quickly.

She returned with the coffee, nodding towards the sitting room.

Reed got up and walked through to the other room, seating himself at one end of the sofa.

Cath sat at the other end, slender legs drawn up beneath her. She sipped her coffee and looked at her brother. He looked dark beneath the eyes and his skin was pale. There was a small shaving cut on his chin which looked even more starkly red against the pallor of his flesh.

‘You make it sound wrong for me to be alone, Frank’ she told him at last. ‘Mum and Dad were always nagging me to get married. I don’t think they ever understood what I was doing. How much my work meant to me.’

‘I wasn’t preaching at you’ he teased.

She stretched out one leg and prodded him with her bare foot.

‘I know that’ she murmured, in mock irritation.

Frank caught her foot and ran his fingers slowly over the instep, pausing to massage her toes gently.

She kept her foot there, pressed against his thigh as he began to knead her sole with his fingertips.

‘So’ he continued, glancing at her, holding her gaze ‘how come you never settled down?’

‘You’ve heard of Mr Right?’ she said. ‘I found too many Mr Wrongs.’

Reed chuckled, his finger tracing patterns between her toes, across the nails and joints, stroking, squeezing.

She watched as the smile on his face gradually faded.

‘Perhaps you were right not to get married,’ he offered, finally.

‘Have you heard from Ellen lately?’ she asked, sliding down slightly, pushing her foot further into his gentle, skilful hand.

‘We spoke on the phone about a week ago. ‘A sternness had crept into his tone.

‘Was it that bad?’

‘It’s getting worse, Cath. She’s getting worse. This bastard she ran off with, Ward or whatever the hell his name is, she’s obsessed with him.’

‘Is she in love with him?’ Cath asked quietly.

Reed didn’t answer.

Cath studied his profile, saw his eyes narrow slightly.

‘It isn’t love,’ he said, finally. ‘She doesn’t make a move without his bloody say-so. He controls her, like some fucking pet.’ Reed was breathing harshly now, unable to control the anger in his voice. ‘Every time I mention meeting her she says she’s got to ask Jonathan.’ He emphasised the name with disgust.

‘All I want to do is talk to her. Be alone with her for a few hours. I want her to tell me it’s over between us.’

‘And if she does?’

‘Then I have to accept it, don’t I?’ Reed snapped, reaching for his coffee.

Cath left her foot pressed against his thigh, pressing lightly against the material of his jeans.

‘When was the last time you saw Becky?’ she wanted to know.

‘A month ago. Ellen says she doesn’t want me to see her, she says it would be too upsetting for Becky.’

‘You’re her father, Frank, you’ve got a right to see her. You’ve got rights under the law. Ellen can’t keep Becky away from you.’

‘And what am I supposed to do? Kidnap her back?’

‘Go through the courts.’

‘Can you imagine what that would do to Becky? Christ knows, she’s been through enough already. She’s seven years old, Cath, and she’s seen her mother walk out on me, take her and move in with some guy she’s only been seeing for six months. Well, six months that I know about anyway.’

‘Are they still living at Ward’s place?’

He nodded.

‘I’ve been round there,’ Reed told her. ‘But either they won’t answer the door or they’re never there.’ He clenched his fists angrily. ‘Perhaps it’s a good thing. If

I got hold of that bastard I’d probably kill him. And Ellen.’

‘That wouldn’t do anybody any good, least of all Becky. Think about her.’

‘I do think about her’ Reed snarled. ‘Why the hell do you think I feel this way? My wife cleared off five months ago and took my daughter with her. Twelve years of marriage pissed away. Flushed down the fucking toilet, Cath. And for what? So she could be with some …’ He shook his head. ‘Jesus, I don’t even know what he does for a living. I don’t know where they’re getting their money. He could be a fucking pimp or a drug dealer for all I know.’

‘I’m sorry, Frank,’ Cath said, softly.

‘I want my daughter back,’ he said, angrily. ‘And it’s getting to the stage where I don’t care how I get her.’

They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, then Reed got to his feet.

‘I’d better be going.’

Cath rose with him.

‘Frank, if there’s anything I can do to help-‘ she began.

He cut her short. ‘What, like drive the getaway car when I snatch Becky?’

‘Don’t say that.’

She walked with him to the door of the flat, watching as he slipped on his jacket. He turned to face her.

‘I won’t lose Becky’ he said.

Cath embraced him, holding him close to her, feeling his warm breath against her cheek.

She kissed him lightly on the lips.

‘Sorry to spoil the evening’ he said, apologetically.

‘You didn’t. I understand how you must feel.’

‘No you don’t, Cath. I hope you never have to understand what it feels like.’

He kissed her again, his lips pressing a little harder against hers.

‘Call me tomorrow’ she said as he stepped out into the hallway. She watched him walk to the lift then closed the door, leaning against it.

‘Shit,’ she sighed, wearily.

Eighteen

The boy knew that the man was coming for him.

He came for him most nights.

Sometimes he stank of drink.

Then he would come with anger and there would be pain.

At other times he came with kindness and there would be little suffering. He would speak to him softly, reassure him, praise him. Sometimes even smile at him.

Tonight there were no smiles.

The boy heard the banging of the door as it was hurled open, rocking back on its hinges, and he saw the man silhouetted in the bedroom doorway.

The figure paused, swaying uncertainly, then lurched towards the boy, who drew the sheets more tightly around his neck, perhaps hoping they would form an impenetrable cocoon to protect him.

Above him the figure bent down, then gripped the sheets and tore them away, exposing the boy’s frail body.

And then the boy caught that smell.

The stink of alcohol, the acrid stench of sweat and another stronger odour. A musky, choking stench which seemed to grow stronger.

The boy wanted to scream.

He opened his mouth but no sound would escape; then when he felt the blow across his cheeks, first one then the other, he knew he must remain silent.

And he knew he must keep his mouth open.

God help me.

But then why should he help tonight? He turned his back every other time.

Somebody help me.

He wanted to scream.

He had to scream.

And finally, he did.

James Talbot sat bolt upright, eyes staring, dragged from the nightmare by invisible hands.

There was a bellow of pain and rage echoing in his ears.

His own bellow.

‘Jesus’ he gasped. ‘Jesus. Jesus.’

He smelled his own sweat.

‘Fuck’ he panted.

Talbot tried to swallow but it felt as if his throat had been filled with chalk.

‘I’m as mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more…’

The voice shouted at him.

Talbot stared frantically around him.

‘Who …’ he began.

‘Let me hear you, I’m as mad as hell and I’m not going to take this any more …’

He looked at the television screen, saw the source of the voice.

Talbot jabbed the Off button on the remote.

Silence.

‘Fuck’ he whispered. ‘Fuck.’

He sat forward in his seat, leaning his elbows on his knees, and rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. Talbot kept his eyes closed tightly but the fragments of his dream floated into view, fractured images which only disappeared when he opened his eyes. He took several deep breaths, trying to slow the thunderous pounding of his heart, afraid it would burst.

He glanced across at the clock on the mantelpiece.

11.42 p.m.

He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep. Couldn’t remember.

Didn’t fucking care.

He got to his feet and wandered through into the kitchen where he spun the cold tap over the sink, scooping water into his sweating palms. He splashed his face with the cold water, then drank some from the gushing stream, forcing away the dryness in his throat. He gripped the edges of the sink for a moment, eyes closed again, water running down his face.

Then he turned and headed for the hall, where he picked up his car keys and, slamming the front door behind him, stepped out into the night.

Talbot had no idea how long he’d been driving.

The streets were quiet at such a late hour. He’d passed the usual traffic on main roads but the less populated thoroughfares of Finsbury Park, Tottenham Hale and Harringay were virtually deserted.

The DI sat behind the wheel of the Volvo, arms resting on it, gazing across the darkened street.

From where he was parked he could see only the low stone wall which fronted the building opposite.

It was in total darkness apart from a light burning outside the main entrance.

There were a couple of cars parked outside, but certainly no sign of movement either inside or outside the building.

Talbot sat motionless for what seemed like an eternity, only his fingertips

moving gently, rhythmically, on the steering wheel.

As he switched on his headlights the name plate on the low wall opposite was illuminated: litton vale nursing home. He stuck the car in gear and swung it around in the street, intent on heading home.

He didn’t know how long it would take him.

He didn’t care.

Nineteen

‘They knew they were going to die,’ said Frank Reed, pressing his fingertips together. ‘Most of them wanted to.’

‘Why, sir?’ a voice from the back of the class called.

‘Because they were stupid,’ another answered.

There was a ripple of laughter.

‘Because they were French,’ another added.

‘Same thing’ the second voice echoed.

The whole classroom erupted into a chorus of loud and raucous laughter.

Even Reed smiled as he got to his feet and crossed to the map pinned to one side of the blackboard, leaving the rest free for him to write on.

He stood beside it, scanning the faces of his pupils. Girls and boys: girls and boys aged eleven to twelve. He glanced at the row of faces: thirty-eight in his class.

It was too many. He knew it, his colleagues who were dealing with similar size classes knew it. Everyone knew it except the Government, it appeared to Reed.

He walked across to the window of the classroom and looked out. From his position he could see the Employment Exchange and, beyond that, the Adult Education centre. St Michael’s Secondary School had been built close by them, and Reed wondered if he was the only one who saw the irony. Most of the kids he taught faced a life without work and, for many, a little further down the way in Old Street was Hackney Police Station and Magistrates Court. For most of his temporary charges, Reed felt that at some time in their lives they would encounter either one or the other.

Life didn’t hold too much promise for the young or old in this part of Hackney.

He waited until the laughter had died down, then returned to the map.

It showed the battlefield of Waterloo.

‘Napoleon’s Old Guard were elite troops,’ Reed continued. ‘They were the Emperor’s personal bodyguard and they felt it their duty and an honour to die for him. They were also the final rearguard for the defeated French army. They stood and fought long enough for the rest of the army to run away and for Napoleon to escape.’

Eyes followed him expectantly as he paced back and forth.

‘Does anyone know what the Old Guard’s officer shouted back when asked to surrender?’ The teacher looked around expectantly. ‘Come on, you should have read it last night.’

A hand went up close by.

A young boy with a very short haircut and frayed sleeves on his blazer.

Reed nodded.

‘He shouted back “The Guard never dies”, sir,’ said the boy.

‘That’s very good. He actually said “The Guard dies but never surrenders”.

Historians have interpreted his answer this way. He actually shouted “Merde.”’

There was a chuckle from the front of the class.

Reed suppressed a smile. ‘And what do you want to share with us, David?’ he asked.

David Morris coloured slightly.

‘Well, my sister does French, and when I asked her what that word meant she said it meant-‘

Reed interrupted him. ‘I’m sure she told you what it meant, but that wouldn’t look too good in the history books, would it?’ he said, smiling.

‘What does it mean, sir?’ an excited voice called.

‘It means shit,’ Morris whispered. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he added, rapidly, looking warily at Reed.

The teacher was no longer able to suppress his grin, and the rest of the class erupted into a chorus of laughter.

‘Right,’ Reed said over the din. ‘So you all know that the commander of the Old Guard used to swear.’

‘I d swear if I was about to get shot,’ a voice added.

‘My mum and dad swear all the time and no one’s ever tried to shoot them’ another offered.

More laughter.

Reed looked around at the faces. Happy faces.

Except one.

A boy sat alone at the back of the classroom, his head slumped on his arms, his eyes gazing blankly at the top of his desk as if he were tracing the pattern of the wood. He ran one chewed fingernail gently over the back of his hand, seemingly oblivious to the sounds of merriment around him.

Reed knew the boy as Paul O’Brian. Twelve years old. A tall lad with thin lips and fine black hair.

He was about to call to the boy when the strident ringing of the bell cut through the air.

It was the signal for frenzied activity. Books were snatched up and shoved into bags, pencils were pushed back into pockets, exercise books gratefully stowed.

‘Read chapter twelve tonight’ Reed called out. ‘You can find out if Napoleon used to swear, too.’ He smiled to himself, returning to his desk as the children filed out quickly.

Paul O’Brian followed, alone. Shuffling as fast as he could, head down.

As he passed in front of Reed’s desk, the teacher saw that the boy was shivering. ‘Paul, can I have a word with you?’ Reed said. ‘It won’t take a minute.’

O’Brian stopped, his gaze still lowered.

‘If I’ve done anything wrong …’ he murmured almost inaudibly.

‘You haven’t done anything wrong,’ Reed assured him, noticing how the boy never met his gaze. He merely stood motionless before him, arms at his sides.

‘I just wondered if you were feeling OK,’ Reed said. ‘You were very quiet today. Usually I can’t shut you up.’ He smiled reassuringly.

O’Brian clasped his hands in front of him.

Reed frowned.

Around both the boy’s wrists there were vivid red marks.

As if aware of Reed’s gaze, O’Brian pulled down the sleeves of his jacket to hide the abrasions.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Reed persisted.

O’Brian nodded.

Reed saw another mark on his neck, close to the open top button of his shirt.

It was bluish-black. Like a bruise, the extremities yellowing and mottled.

‘Can I go now please, sir?’ O’Brian asked, head still lowered.

Reed sighed. ‘Yes, go on. You’ll be late for lunch.’

O’Brian was gone as hastily as his spindly legs would carry him.

Reed sat down at his desk, his brow furrowed.

He could understand the boy’s silence. His baby sister, Carla, had died just a week earlier. The atmosphere at his home must be distressing. That could account for the boy’s withdrawn state.

And the marks on his wrists and neck?

Reed administered a mental rebuke. Perhaps he was overreacting.

But those abrasions on the wrists had looked bad. Raw in places.

The teacher shook his head.

There would be a perfectly logical answer.

There had to be.

He picked up his bag and left the classroom.

Twenty

James Talbot brought the Volvo to a halt in the car park of Litton Vale Nursing Home and switched off the engine. He remained behind the wheel, gazing at the building, then he swung himself out of the car, scooping up the Cellophane-wrapped bunch of flowers in the process.

The gravel of the short pathway leading up to the main entrance crunched beneath his feet as he walked, and a light breeze rustled the flowers.

Litton Vale was built of grey stone, but the ivy climbing its walls and the beds of immaculately kept flowers which formed a frontage to the stonework helped to soften the forbidding appearance of the place. It was Victorian in origin but a new wing had been added only ten years earlier. It looked somewhat incongruous with its red bricks, nestling against the great grey bulk of the main building.

The scent of blossom was strong in the morning air but Talbot hardly noticed it. He continually switched the bunch of flowers from one hand to the other, aware that his palms were sweaty.

Nervous?

He climbed the short flight of stone steps to the main entrance and walked through into the reception area. To his right was the day room, to his left a staircase which

led to the first storey. There was a chair lift attached to it and, in addition, at the bottom of the corridor behind him, there were lifts.

The thick carpet seemed to muffle sounds within the building, even Talbot’s own footsteps as he moved down the corridor.

To one side of him there were rooms, and to his left was an enormous picture window looking out over a pond, which was surrounded by a Japanese garden.

Several wooden benches were set up there and he saw people sitting on them.

Men and women.

He recognised one or two.

At the end of the corridor he pushed his way through a set of double doors, walking through what looked like an enormous sitting room. There were sofas and chairs dotted all around, but mainly pointing towards a large television set close to an open fireplace.

The television was on, the sound turned up high.

Seated in one of the chairs close to the set was a woman in her eighties.

She smiled broadly at Talbot as he passed through, and he returned the gesture, again switching the bunch of flowers from hand to hand.

His heart was beating that little bit quicker now.

What is there to be afraid of?

The walls were covered by a warm lemon-tinted wallpaper and adorned with many gaily coloured paintings. Everything in the home was designed to be welcoming, soothing to the eye.

As he passed through the next set of double doors he almost bumped into one of the staff members.

She was in her mid-forties, dressed in the familiar dark blue uniform which Talbot had come to know so well.

‘Hello, Mr Talbot’ she said, cheerfully. ‘Nice flowers.’ She bent forward and sniffed them. ‘Lilies, aren’t they?’

‘I’m a copper, not a florist, Mary’ he said, smiling.

‘If all coppers were as good looking as you, I wouldn’t mind getting arrested’

the woman said, chuckling.

‘I’ve got my handcuffs with me.’

She slapped him playfully on the arm.

‘Cheeky,’ she giggled, then disappeared into a room to the right.

Talbot paused for a moment.

They all think you’re so fucking wonderful, don’t they?

The smell of the flowers was beginning to make him feel nauseous.

Talbot paused at the next set of doors.

Through the glass panels in each of them he could see out into the gardens beyond. Immaculately kept lawns, flanked by flower beds and conifers. There were more wooden benches too. Two sparrows were perched on the edge of a birdbath close to the door.

They flew off when he stepped out into the garden.

Talbot watched them fly away, disappearing over the line of conifers, then he spotted what he sought.

The single figure was seated in a white-painted wooden seat on a patio nearby.

There was a walking stick propped against the chair.

Come on. Get it over with.

He swallowed hard and set off towards the figure.

The smell of freshly cut grass mingled with the aroma of so many flowers.

Somewhere off to his left he could hear the sound of a lawnmower. There was even laughter coming from behind him but he couldn’t see its source.

Laughter.

As he drew closer, the figure turned to face him and Talbot held out the bunch of flowers as if he were warding off some predatory beast. He managed a broad smile which never touched his eyes.

You bastard. At least try and be convincing.

‘Hello, Mum’ he said, softly.

Twenty-one

Dorothy Talbot rose shakily to her feet, smiling, her arms extended.

She was dressed in an immaculately pressed green two-piece suit and her white hair was held in place by hair laquer. As Talbot embraced her he felt her head brushing against his shoulder. She gripped him tightly to her, then stood back and kissed him on the cheek. Her own face was ruddy and she looked remarkably healthy, more closely resembling a woman who has spent her life in the countryside than one who had hardly ever set foot outside London for her whole life. . She gripped Talbot’s hand and he felt the swollen veins beneath the flesh as he squeezed it, helping her to sit down again. He pulled another chair across and sat down opposite her, watching as she looked gratefully at the flowers he’d brought.

‘They’re beautiful’ she said. Then she squeezed his hand again. ‘It’s so good to see you, Jim. I wasn’t expecting you today.’

‘I can’t stop long, Mum’ he said quickly.

‘I know, dear.’

Jesus, did she have to be so fucking understanding?

Talbot shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

‘Are you busy?’ she asked.

I’m always busy, Mum. But never mind me, how’s your leg?’

She rubbed gently at her thigh and shrugged.

‘They keep telling me I might have to have one of those frames if it gets any worse but I don’t fancy that’ she said, dismissively.

‘Can you manage with your stick?’

‘I’ve been managing for the last twenty years. I’ve been taking tablets for the last week or so, I’ve had a little pain from it.’

Talbot squeezed her hand more tightly.

‘I’m lucky,’ she said, smiling. ‘He could have broken more than just my leg.’

‘I thought he did, the bastard,’ snarled Talbot, his tone darkening. A long silence followed as they both sat, lost in their own thoughts.

‘Did you ever try to leave him?’ he asked at length. ‘Just run away, I mean.’

‘I thought about it, Jim. All I wanted to do was get away from him, especially when I found out what he’d been doing to you.’ Her voice trailed away into a whisper and she glanced at her son.

Talbot saw tears in her eyes.

‘I was terrified of him,’ she said, quietly. ‘You know that. If I’d tried to run he’d have killed me, probably killed both of us. Like I said, I was lucky he only broke my leg.’

‘Did you ever tell anyone what he did to you? Or to me?’

She shook her head.

‘I think everyone round about knew what he was like anyway, especially after he’d had a few drinks in him. They never knew what he did to you, though. I never let anyone know that.’

Talbot swallowed hard.

‘I wasn’t the only wife to get a beating, you know’ Dorothy continued. ‘There were plenty round our way in the same boat.’

‘Not all of them ended up in a hospital with a compound fracture of the right leg and a dislocated shoulder’ Talbot reminded her.

‘I was trying to protect you. I would have done anything to stop him hurting you. I tried the best I could. I’m sorry for what happened, Jim.’

‘It wasn’t your fault. It was that bastard.’

Talbot got to his feet and paced back and forth in front of her.

‘It’s just a pity he didn’t die sooner’ he snapped.

‘I know, but we managed, didn’t we?’ she said, softly.

Talbot stopped pacing, turned his gaze towards her.

There was an almost unearthly serenity about her.

‘When can I come home, Jim?’

He’d been dreading the words.

‘Mum, we’ve talked about this before’ Talbot told her, sitting down again. ‘If there was any way you could, don’t you think I’d have sorted it before now?’

‘I’ve been in here for six years now. I don’t want to die in here.’

‘You’re not going to die in here or anywhere else for that matter; stop talking like that. You’re not going anywhere, Mum.’

‘I don’t belong here, Jim. The other people are older than me.’

‘You’re seventy-one, Mum,’ he said, a small smile on his face.

‘But there’re people in here with Alzheimer’s or whatever it’s called, there are some who are dying. It’s turning into a hospice, not an old people’s home.

I want to be in my house, not here with strangers.’

‘I thought you liked it here.’

‘The staff are nice but it isn’t where I belong. I don’t need people to look after me.’

‘Yes you do, Mum. That’s why you’re here. Don’t you think that if there was any other way I’d have found it? This is the best I can do for you, Mum.

Christ knows, I feel bad enough about it.’

‘You shouldn’t, Jim.’

But I fucking do.

He could barely bring himself to look at her.

‘Just speak to the doctors, ask if I can come home,’ she persisted.

‘Mum …’ he began but then merely nodded.

He got to his feet and kissed her on the cheek.

‘I’ve got to go,’ he told her. ‘I’ll be back at the weekend, I’ll try and stay a bit longer.’

She held his hand, as if reluctant to let him go. ‘I’m very proud of you, you know. What you do, what you made of yourself.’

He kissed her on the other cheek.

‘Please speak to them,’ she whispered, tears in her eyes.

He nodded.

‘I love you, Jim,’ she called after him.

He turned and waved as he reached the doors leading him out of the garden.

Hidden from her view he stood in the corridor, sucking in huge breaths. He felt as if he was suffocating, as if the walls were crushing in on him.

‘Fuck it,’ he snarled under his breath, then walked up the corridor to the reception area.

To his left was another corridor and he walked briskly down it, scanning the nameplates on each door until he found the one he sought. He knocked and waited, finally invited to enter by a voice on the other side.

As Talbot entered the room, Dr Maurice Hodges rose.

He was a tall, slim man, five or six years older than Talbot, his hair greying at the temples, his forehead deeply lined.

‘I got your letter’ Talbot said.

‘Have you seen your mother today?’ the doctor enquired.

The DI nodded. ‘She looks fine. Does she know?’

‘Not yet,’ Hodges told him. ‘We thought it best to inform you first; besides, if we tell her it could cause an acceleration. The shock sometimes does.’

Talbot ran a hand through his hair and exhaled deeply. ‘So, Doctor,’ he said, looking at the physician unblinkingly. ‘When are you going to tell my mother she’s got cancer?’

Twenty-two

Shanine Connor woke suddenly, her heart slamming hard against her ribs, the breath catching in her throat.

Something was touching her face.

She sat up, barely suppressing a scream, her movement causing the fly which had been crawling across her cheek to take off.

It buzzed somnolently in the stale air, the sound it made amplified by the emptiness of the room.

Shanine shielded her eyes from the rays of sunlight pouring in through the windows.

For a long time she sat in the corner, legs drawn up before her, arms hugging them to her chest. She watched the motes of dust twisting and spinning back and forth in the sun’s rays, her heart gradually slowing from its frenzied beating.

Outside the building she could hear the sound of traffic and voices.

She didn’t know what the building was. She hadn’t known the previous night when she’d stumbled upon it, barely able to walk another step due to the bone-crushing weariness that overwhelmed her.

She had wandered up Regent Street from Piccadilly, glancing in shop windows on the way, looking up at the glittering lights and beyond into the night sky.

She’d kept to the main streets, pushing her way through the throngs of people, happier to be surrounded by others than to be walking dark streets alone.

She hated the night.

Feared it.

The presence of others went some small way to allaying that terror.

She’d stood across the street from Selfridge’s and gazed at the huge department store, watching as people passed through its main doors. Like a child mesmerised by the lights on a Christmas tree, she’d remained transfixed by the huge building for what had seemed like hours.

Behind her she had watched people coming and going from a Burger King and a couple of small restaurants. The smells were tantalising; she hadn’t eaten much since she left home and her stomach had rumbled unceasingly as she’d sat on a bench outside, the holdall beside her.

When she’d seen two young men leave the fast-food place and toss a hamburger carton into a nearby wastebin she couldn’t help herself.

She’d grabbed the container from amongst the other refuse almost before they’d turned away. There had been a half-eaten cheeseburger inside.

She’d eaten without thinking. The food was still warm, that was all that mattered. It stopped the pains in her stomach for an hour or so.

She’d walked up Duke Street and noticed several To Let signs outside some of the terraced properties leading into Manchester Square.

Maybe one would be empty.

Easy to gain access to?

She’d tried five doors before finally discovering one which was unlocked.

Shanine didn’t care who was to blame for this security fault. All she knew was she had somewhere to sleep. A roof over her head for at least one night.

She’d lain down on the dusty floor and fallen asleep almost immediately. There had been dust sheets in the room, half-empty paint pots. She had no idea when the decorators would return, but that hadn’t mattered. She’d pulled one of the grubby dust sheets over herself and slept.

If there had been nightmares, then she could no longer remember them as she sat motionless, gazing at the warming rays of the sun.

She glanced at her watch.

10.06 a.m.

Her stomach rumbled protestingly. A sound she was becoming used to.

She had to get something to eat. Something substantial.

Shanine crawled across to the holdall and pulled out a clean T-shirt. Balling up the one she removed, she used it to wipe her face and arms before stuffing

it into the bag. As she was donning her fresh T-shirt, she looked down at her thin body. The slight smell of body odour she knew would get worse. But, at the moment, food was her most pressing concern.

The sunlight glinted on the blade of the kitchen knife.

She had to get some food or some money. Both, preferably.

Shanine touched the cold steel.

She must eat. No matter what.

Shanine ran a hand through her hair and, hauling the holdall over her shoulder, got to her feet.

Twenty-three

The doorman of the Grosvenor House Hotel nodded almost imperceptibly at Talbot as the DI walked in, not even glancing at the uniformed attendant.

His eyes, and his mind, were elsewhere. He passed through into reception. One of the receptionists glanced across at him briefly, then returned her attention to the computer before her. Talbot could hear the printer chattering away as he passed.

A couple was checking in, the woman leaning against the counter looking around. Talbot noticed that she slipped her right foot in and out of her shoe as she waited.

Two men in their early fifties walked past him, heading for the lifts, both of them speaking in hushed, almost reverential tones, as if they were reluctant to disturb the stillness of the lobby.

Cigarette smoke accosted him as he entered the Gallery Bar. Although there were only half a dozen people in there, the stale air made it seem as if each of them was already half-way through their second packet of the night. The smoke seemed to refuse to disperse, gathering instead like some invisible cloud which enveloped him as he entered.

Christ, he wanted a cigarette!

A couple of heads turned as he walked in, slowing his pace, gazing around.

Searching.

He saw her sitting at the bar, just a glass for company.

As Talbot approached her, he noticed that she was fumbling in her leather clutch bag for something. He ran appraising eyes over her.

The long blonde hair, brushed gently over the shoulders of her charcoal grey jacket, which was fastened by two gold buttons. Beneath it she was wearing a white blouse and, as she crossed her legs, the black skirt she wore slid up an inch or two to reveal her shapely thighs. She looked down and brushed a piece of fluff from one of her black suede high heels.

Talbot sat on the stool beside her, aware that she still hadn’t seen him.

The barman, on the other hand, had and he ambled towards the policeman.

‘I’ll have a Jameson’s please,’ said the DI. He looked at her. ‘And whatever the lady’s having.’

Gina Bishop looked first at Talbot then pushed her glass towards the barman who moved off to refill it.

‘Talbot,’ she said, managing a small smile. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Looking for you,’ he told her.

She pulled a packet of Silk Cut from her handbag. He watched as she lit up, the flame of the lighter reflecting in her large brown eyes.

‘You still trying to give up?’ she said, pushing the packet towards him.

He nodded, reaching for a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the bar.

The barman returned and set down the drinks.

‘That’s a nice outfit,’ Talbot told her, allowing his gaze to travel up and down her shapely form.

‘It’s Louis Feraud,’ she told him, smugly.

‘A present?’

‘I bought it myself. From Harrods.’ She took a sip of her drink.

‘You must have had a good week last week.’

‘Every week’s a good week.’

He smiled and took a swig of whiskey, feeling it burn its way to his stomach.

‘How did you know I’d be here?’ she wanted to know.

‘I’ve already tried the Dorchester and the Hilton. This was the only one left.’

‘You’re not a detective for nothing, are you?’ she said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

‘I knew it had to be one of the three. You’ve been working this same beat since you were twenty. That’s when I first arrested you, remember?’

‘How could I forget?’ She sucked on her cigarette, then blew the smoke in the policeman’s direction. ‘Look, I’ve changed a lot in five years.’

‘Yeah, you’re more expensive now.’

‘But I’m worth it.’

‘Then how come business is slow tonight?’

‘I was going to ask you the same thing. What’s wrong, no one else to arrest?’

Talbot sat back on the bar stool, drink in hand, and looked at her.

‘What are you looking at?’ she demanded.

‘I bet that outfit cost more than I earned last month,’ he commented finally.

‘Probably,’ she said, amused. ‘We’re both the same, Talbot. We both get fucked, it’s just that I get paid more.’

He ran a finger over the sleeve of her jacket.

‘Louis who?’ he said, looking at the material.

‘Feraud,’ she said, indignantly. ‘I didn’t expect you to have heard of him.’

He nodded.

‘And whose designs were you wearing the first time I picked you up? Dorothy fucking Perkins, wasn’t it? You’ve come a long way, Gina.’

‘Look, Talbot, did you come in here to reminisce or is there a reason for all this?’

‘What do you think?’

She nodded, finishing her drink.

‘My place?’ she asked.

‘It’s closer, isn’t it?’ Talbot said, downing what was left in his glass. He left a five-pound note on the bar top, waited for his change and pocketed it.

‘Aren’t you going to leave him a tip?’ Gina said, picking up her bag. She pushed the portable phone inside.

‘For bringing two drinks?’ he said, incredulously.

‘You haven’t changed a bit, Talbot. You’re still a cheap bastard.’

He grinned crookedly at her and offered her his arm, which she took.

They left the bar together.

Twenty-four

He wasn’t afraid of death.

Why should he be?

At thirty-eight years of age, the Reverend Colin Patterson had already stood over enough burials and interments to know that those who went beyond went somewhere better. It was always the relatives his heart went out to. He hated to see suffering, and many times in the past ten years he had struggled to find the words to ease the suffering of those who had lost someone close. It was never easy. It wasn’t always possible. But he did his best. That was all God had ever asked, that he did his best.

He would do his best in the army too.

Patterson had thought long and hard about his decision to join the army as a chaplain but he felt that he could do more good there than here in this part of southeast London. He needed a challenge and, despite his family’s protests, he felt that challenge would come amongst fighting men, not amongst the parishioners he’d known and ministered to for the last decade.

His mother had mentioned Bosnia, Belfast and the Falklands, although he’d respectfully pointed out that particular conflict had been over since before his ordination. She had been unimpressed. It could happen again. If not there then some other godforsaken corner of the world.

Patterson had listened attentively to all her arguments, but his mind had been made up before he’d even mentioned it.

He paused beside one of the graves near by and straightened a metal vase which

had been blown over by the wind. As he straightened up he glanced at the headstone: in loving memory of a dear father and husband. Patterson smiled affectionately and continued his walk.

The cemetery gates were opened at nine and he’d already seen a number of people moving around the large necropolis which was Croydon Cemetery.

A number of them he knew by name, the others he was on nodding terms with.

The priest glanced at his watch.

He was due to conduct a burial at eleven.

Plenty of time.

There was a bench to his left, beneath a large oak tree which had already shed several dozen of its large leaves:

they lay like a yellow carpet over the graves beneath the tree.

A bird was singing higher up, its shrill calls wafting pleasingly on the gentle breeze.

Patterson made for the newer area of the cemetery where the more recent interments were sited. The path on which he walked sloped down gently, past a tap which was dripping water. He stopped and turned it off as he passed.

Lives were like drops of water, one of his teachers had told him shortly before his ordination: fragile, precious and so quickly gone.

Patterson wondered how many he would see go in his position as a chaplain, lives taken not by old age or disease but by violence. By explosions, by bullets. By war.

He would see men die, he knew that. But he had no fear for his own life. Why should he?

As he rounded a corner he saw the first splash of colour.

Red. Vivid and almost dazzling.

The colour of blood.

It took him a second to realise that the paint was spattered across a headstone.

Patterson took several hesitant steps towards the stone, his eyes narrowed against the sun which was burning so brightly above him.

He saw that the paint was also on another stone.

He made out letters this time. Words.

GOD IS FUCKED

smeared on a white marble stone.

CHRIST CUNT

scrawled over a plinth.

‘Oh no,’ Patterson whispered.

Another headstone had been smashed, shattered by a heavy instrument. Pieces of stone were scattered over the dark earth.

He saw something else on the ground near by, on a grave.

It was excrement.

More of it was smeared on a white marble headstone close to him.

Patterson shook his head.

Not again.

One of the graves had been dug up.

He hurried across to it and saw that the stone had not been touched but, instead, daubed with something. A symbol. A shape?

Earth was scattered everywhere. The coffin was lying at the graveside, the top smashed in. There was more paint on the polished wood, more writing.

CUNT

Further on, to his left, he saw more earth had been disturbed. Another box had been disinterred, dragged from its resting place so that it stood almost vertically in the dirt.

There was black paint on the lid of that box and, again, no words, just a symbol. The same symbol as had been painted on the gravestone.

It took Patterson a moment to realise what it was. His mind was reeling.

In red on the stone. In black on the casket.

The sign he saw was a pentagram.

Twenty-five

There was a sharp crackle as another wasp flew into the ‘Insectocutor’ mounted on the wall of the cafe.

Catherine Reed looked up and noticed that there were already half a dozen charred shapes displayed on the glowing blue bars, like tiny hunters’ trophies.

Apart from herself and Phillip Cross, there were only five people in the cafe.

A couple was chatting and laughing at a table close to the door. Over to her right a man was poring over a newspaper, one finger constantly pushing his tea cup from side to side on the Formica-topped table.

One of the white-aproned waiters was chatting to a young woman who had a map of London laid out on the table before her. Cath watched as the waiter pointed to the map every now and then.

An older man, rugged and unkempt, sat alone in one of the booths at the far end of the cafe, an overcoat wrapped around him, despite the warmth inside the building. Steam rose in a steady cloud from the top of the tea urn perched behind the counter, where two more members of staff were talking while one buttered bread.

A television set, the sound turned down, sat high in one corner close to the door, the performers speaking and moving silently for those who cared to glance at them.

The air smelled of fried food and coffee.

Phillip Cross took a sip of his tea and looked at Cath. ‘How did your meal go last night?’ he asked, trying to inject some kind of interest into his voice.

‘Your brother, wasn’t it?’

Cath regarded him silently for a moment.

‘He’s got a few problems at the moment,’ she said, quietly.

‘What time did he leave?’

‘About eleven. Why?’

Cross shrugged.

‘Just curious,’ he said, pushing a forkful of chips into his mouth.

‘It was my brother, Phil,’ Cath said, irritably.

‘Well, I’ve only got your word for that, haven’t I?’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ She leaned forward, lowering her voice slightly.

‘Look, even if it wasn’t my brother, it’s none of your fucking business who I have at my flat.’

‘What about us?’

‘What about us? We’re not married, for Christ’s sake. When are you going to accept that this isn’t some big bloody romance, Phil? We both agreed we didn’t want any ties.’

‘You didn’t want any ties,’ he corrected her.

‘So now what? You want a commitment from me?’ she snapped.

There was another sharp hiss of electricity as one more wasp struck the glowing blue bars.

‘Look, I don’t mean to pressure you, Cath,’ Cross replied. ‘Maybe you’re right. Perhaps I’m coming on a bit too strong. But I think a lot of you.’

She smiled. ‘Thanks.’

‘Why do I get the feeling that it’s not reciprocated?’ Cross added bitterly.

‘I’ve been on my own a long time, Phil’ she told him. ‘I like my own company.

I’ve been in relationships before and they always end up getting too heavy.’

‘It was with the wrong guys’ he offered.

She looked at him over the rim of her cup.

‘And what if you’re the wrong guy too? Where does that leave me?’

‘Me. I. Myself. This conversation is a bit one-sided, isn’t it? Haven’t you ever stopped to think about my bloody feelings?’

‘This isn’t the time or the place, Phil-‘ she began.

‘It never is’ he hissed.

They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity.

Cath reached into her handbag and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

‘Do you mind?’ she asked, noticing that he was still eating.

Cross shook his head.

She lit up.

‘So, what sort of morning have you had?’ she asked, a smile hovering on her lips.

Cross shook his head, trying to keep a straight face but failing.

‘I should fucking hate you’ he said, grinning.

‘I wouldn’t blame you if you did.’

‘All I’m asking is that you see things from my point of view. I don’t think you realise how much I think of you.’

She took a drag on her cigarette and nodded slowly.

‘I think I do’ she said quietly.

The face of a newsreader glared out at her from the silent television screen.

Something flashed onto the screen. Uniformed policemen.

A graveyard.

The caption at the bottom of the picture read: Croydon Cemetery.

Cath got to her feet and hurried across to the TV set, curious glances following her sudden movement. She turned up the sound and stood close to the set, staring at it as if hypnotised.

She heard the voice of the priest. The caption told her his name was Colin Patterson.

‘.. . third time this kind of thing has happened here in less than two months.

I find it disgusting and I think the people who did this need help. It’s appalling…’

‘Wasn’t that where you said there’d been desecrations a few days ago?’ Cath called to Cross, who had now turned in his seat to look at the screen.

Other faces, too, were glancing at the set.

‘I’ve still got the pictures at home’ the photographer said.

‘We never ran anything on it, did we?’

‘They stuck a couple of columns inside. I think they used one small photo.’

‘Croydon Cemetery’ Cath murmured to herself.

The picture changed, the story shifted. The newsreader was talking about a new school in Hampstead.

Cath turned the sound back down.

As she sat down at the table she ground out what was left of her cigarette.

‘Didn’t you say there’d been other desecrations there, before you took those photos a couple of days ago?’ she asked, her gaze fixed on Cross.

‘I only overheard the vicar talking to a couple of people while I was there’ Cross explained. ‘He reckoned there’d been stuff going on for months.’

‘What kind of stuff?’

‘I didn’t hear properly.’

Cath was already on her feet.

‘Where the hell are you going?’ Cross demanded.

‘Croydon Cemetery. I want to speak to that priest. Fancy a drive?’

‘Cath, I can’t, I’m due at Heathrow this afternoon, Madonna’s flying in, they want pictures….’

‘Then I’ll see you later’

‘Cath, wait’ Cross called, fumbling in his camera bag. ‘Here, take this.’ He handed her a small pocket camera. ‘You might need it.’

She smiled at him.

Then she was gone.

Cross looked up, watching as another insect perished amidst a loud crackle.

The scorched fly dropped to the floor.

He drained what was left in his tea cup.

Twenty-six

Cath had never seen so many cars at a cemetery.

The car park and most of the street outside were crammed with vehicles.

Inside it was swarming with people, many of whom, she assumed, had also seen the report on lunchtime TV and come fearing that the resting places of their own relatives might have been disturbed.

She could only guess at how many people had converged on Croydon Cemetery during the two hours it had taken her to drive there.

Once within the sprawling churchyard she’d had little difficulty finding the Reverend Colin Patterson. He had been walking agitatedly back and forth, speaking to anyone who came to him or who he felt was in need of some comforting words.

In his black robe and standing over six feet tall, he was an imposing, almost threatening, figure and, Cath noted somewhat guiltily, rather good looking.

Not the kind of priest she would normally expect to find.

After a brief introduction, she got straight down to business. ‘Have you any idea who might have done this?’ she asked, pulling the pocket camera from her handbag and looking through the viewfinder.

She focused on a gravestone which bore the words god is fucked in large red letters. She snapped away.

‘No idea’ Patterson told her, sighing.

‘Could it be a personal thing, against you?’ she enquired, moving closer to another of the headstones.

This one was smeared with excrement. The smell was strong in the air. Flies buzzed round excitedly.

‘Priests don’t make many enemies, Miss Reed’ said Patterson.

‘Besides, if it was personal, whoever did this would have come after me.’

‘Not necessarily,’ she told him, snapping off more shots.

Patterson walked a couple of paces behind her as she moved amongst the disturbed earth and the smashed stones.

‘Did you call the police?’

‘They’ve been and gone. They took samples of that’ he pointed disgustedly to the pile of excrement that had been left on top of one grave. ‘They dusted the headstones for fingerprints.’

‘Did they have any ideas who might be responsible?’

‘No.’

‘Were any bodies actually removed from their coffins?’

‘No, thank God. A couple were broken but no remains were touched.’

Cath took several pictures of one such battered coffin, leaning forward to look at the nameplate. Louise banks. She glanced at the black marble headstone which bore the same name. It was spattered with red paint.

Cath read the inscription: Louise banks, aged 16

MONTHS. SLEEP IN PEACE.

She took a step back, glanced at another headstone, this one smeared with excrement.

She read it.

And the one next to it.

She took photos of them both.

‘Father, have you noticed something about the graves which have been desecrated?’ Cath asked.

Patterson looked at her. ‘They’re all children’ he said, softly.

Cath nodded.

‘Not one of them over the age of four’ she murmured.

She moved along to another headstone.

‘Why children?’ she mused.

Patterson had no answer for her. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, Miss Reed. I can’t begin to understand the type of mind that could do this.’ He made a sweeping gesture with one large hand, designed to encompass all the devastation.

‘When it happened before, were the graves which were disturbed children’s graves too?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have a list of names of those graves that I could see?’

‘What good will it do?’

‘There could be a link between them. If we find that link, we might find the reason it was done.’

‘What reason could anyone have for disturbing the body of a child once it’s been laid to rest?’ Patterson rasped.

Cath snapped another of the shattered headstones. On the plinth was a roughly drawn pentagram.

She looked at the priest.

‘The list?’ she asked.

‘I keep it in the church’ he told her. ‘And while you’re there, there’s something else I think you should see.’

Twenty-seven

She knew they were watching her.

Shanine Connor walked slowly through the perfume department of Selfridge’s and she knew that the women behind the counters were looking at her. Plastered with make-up and smelling of expensive scent, they followed her every movement with their mascara-shrouded eyes.

Some of the other customers glanced at her too as she made her way through the maze of glass counters, occasionally picking up one of the many testers and spraying her wrist. She didn’t even bother to sniff the fragrance, but the collective aromas helped to smother the more acrid smell of her own dried perspiration.

Shanine caught sight of her own reflection in one of the many mirrors and saw how pale and drawn she looked. Her hair needed washing and she ran a hand through it, wiping that hand on her grubby jeans.

She moved onwards, through the torrent of shoppers, all of who seemed to be moving in the opposite direction. In the jewellery department she paused and inspected some gold-plated chains hanging from a felt board.

The assistant behind the counter moved across and smiled efficiently at her.

‘Can I help you’ she asked, no softness in her voice.

Shanine shook her head and walked on, past the bracelets and watches, through stationery and pens.

Her stomach rumbled as she smelled food.

To her left, up a short flight of steps was the food hall.

The exquisite aroma of freshly ground coffee wafted invitingly on the air and Shanine inhaled deeply.

She looked around, at the confectionery which seemed to surround her. She put out a hand and scooped a couple of wine gums into her palm, pushing them quickly into her mouth before anyone noticed.

As she moved slowly up the steps towards the main food hall, she spotted a security camera overhead.

Fuck it. She hadn’t expected things to be easy.

She passed a fresh fish counter, the smell of seafood almost overpowering. Two Americans, distinguishable by their size and appalling taste in clothes as well as accents, were busy prodding a large salmon which the assistant had laid out for their inspection.

Shanine wandered by, picking up a basket as she entered the small maze of shelves lined with all manner of tinned, packet and fresh foods.

Come on. Do it quickly.

She walked awkwardly with the holdall over one shoulder, aware that it made her more conspicuous and, as she rounded a corner, she bumped into a woman who was leading a child around, practically dragging the youngster by his arm.

Shanine put a loaf of bread into her basket.

A packet of bread rolls she slipped into the holdall.

Tins of corned beef.

No good. How the hell would she get them open?

She found the packet meat. Slipped two packs of luncheon meat into her basket, two more into the bag.

Come on. Come on.

The woman with the child was just ahead of her, inspecting some fresh fruit.

Shanine bagged up some apples and bananas and dropped them into her basket, accidentally knocking several of the Golden Delicious onto the floor as she turned. Cursing, she dropped to her knees and started to retrieve them.

She pushed three inside the bag.

The woman with the child kneeled down and helped her pick up the other two.

‘Thanks,’ said Shanine.

The woman smiled, glanced at Shanine’s basket then at the holdall.

Did she know?

Shanine moved around into the next aisle.

A member of staff was stacking shelves there, pricing each can before placing it carefully in position.

She too gave Shanine a cursory glance.

Above her, she saw another security camera.

She moved into the next aisle.

Bars of chocolate. Sweets.

She scooped several Mars Bars into the holdall.

Enough’s enough.

She headed for the check-out, saw that only one till was open. There was a small queue.

The exit door was just beyond.

No doorman.

She stood in the queue, her heart pounding.

No one watching the door.

She never saw the woman with the child beckon a member of staff to her.

Never saw her pointing at Shanine.

Two to go, then she was at the check-out.

Shanine turned, trying to look unconcerned, despite the fact that she felt her heart was about to burst through her ribs.

She saw the uniformed member of staff walking down the aisle, gaze fixed on her.

That’s it.

Shanine dropped the basket, leaped to one side and hurdled the chain next to the other till, dashing for the door.

She heard shouts behind her.

Shanine crashed into the door, hurled it open and dashed out into the street, glancing behind her.

She saw two members of staff emerge seconds behind her. One of them shouted something which she didn’t hear.

Shanine turned the first corner and ran as fast as she could.

When she finally looked back there was no one following.

She kept running.

Twenty-eight

The steps leading down to the crypt were narrow, the stonework shiny with hundreds of years of wear.

Cath wondered how many feet had traversed these steps over the centuries.

The staircase wound down in a tight circular shape, the fusty odour which she’d detected when Patterson first opened the door now becoming more overpowering the deeper they went. Exactly how far beneath the ground they were she had no idea but she was aware of a growing chill too. Even the walls were icy to the touch, the very stone itself cold beneath her fingertips.

‘How did they ever get the coffins down here?’ she asked, her voice echoing slightly in the subterranean stairwell.

Patterson didn’t answer, he merely walked a few feet ahead of her, the powerful beam of his torch cutting a swathe through the blackness.

Cath slipped on one of the stairs.

‘Shit,’ she hissed.

Patterson looked round at her.

‘Sorry,’ she said, quickly.

The priest smiled.

‘Watch your step’ he said, grinning. ‘You could break your ankle down here.’

They continued to descend.

‘Who uses this place now?’ Cath wanted to know.

‘No one. The last body laid to rest here was in the 1920s,’ he told her. ‘I

think most people tend to see crypts and tombs as archaic, something belonging in horror films. Besides, even in the old days they were the preserve of the wealthy.’

‘What was wrong with burial?’ Cath asked, her breath clouding before her.

‘Families used to remain together even in death. A family vault or crypt was quite a status symbol.’

‘The family that plays together decays together’ Cath murmured.

‘You could say that’ Patterson chuckled.

‘Who did this crypt belong to?’

‘The Parslow family. It was built in the late eighteenth century. The family owned the land on which the church was built. Before it was a cemetery it was private land, they were a rich family. The crypt used to be above ground.’

‘Why move it?’

‘They wanted it beneath the church. Perhaps they thought it would bring them closer to God.’

Cath sucked in a deep breath, the smell of damp strong in her nostrils. She could see motes of dust turning lazily in the bright beam of Patterson’s torch. The steps were getting smaller, levelling out.

‘Look, Reverend, this is fascinating stuff but what’s it got to do with the desecrations?’ Cath asked, almost stumbling the last couple of steps.

Patterson shone the light at the far wall.

‘Jesus Christ’ Cath whispered, transfixed.

‘I don’t think Christ had anything to do with this, Miss Reed’ Patterson commented, playing the torch beam around the crypt.

It was large, fully twenty feet from end to end and side to side, the sarcophagi piled on top of each other, reaching to a height of almost fifteen feet, close to the damp ceiling of the crypt.

On the far wall an enormous pentagram had been drawn.

It looked as if it had been hacked into the stone itself with a chisel.

There were figures too.

Cath moved closer, gazing at the crudely painted outlines.

On either side of the pentagram they stood like sentinels: one of a man sporting a huge, erect penis, the woman adorned with bulbous, thick-nippled breasts.

Cath took a couple of pictures, the flash from the camera bathing the crypt in cold white light each time she pressed the button.

‘When did you find this?’

‘About two weeks ago,’ Patterson informed her. ‘I arrived at the church one morning and found that someone had broken in. I checked to see if anything had been stolen inside and noticed that the crypt door had been forced. I came down and found this.’

Again the flash of cold light. ‘Did you show the police?’

‘They said it was vandals.’

‘Is that what you think?’

‘I don’t know what to think, Miss Reed.’

Cath took a step closer to the wall, closer to the obscene figures and the massive pentagram, her eyes fixed on something else scrawled on the cold stone. Words. Symbols.

She could feel the skin prickling on the back of her neck.

Patterson kept the torch beam steady on the meaningless scribble.

‘It took me a while to work it out’ he said, softly. Cath looked at him, seeking an answer. ‘It’s the Lord’s Prayer written backwards.’

Twenty-nine

‘So who the fuck is he?’ demanded Talbot, his eyes never leaving the front entrance of the shop.

‘No one knows,’ Rafferty replied, his own gaze also directed at the building.

‘What about the girl, do we know her name?’ the DI persisted.

‘Emma Jackson. She works in there.’

‘Who saw it?’

‘One of the customers,’ Rafferty told his superior. ‘She’d just opened up,

about an hour ago now. This geezer walks in, pulls a knife out of his pocket, tells the customer to fuck off, then went for the girl. As far as we can tell she’s not hurt.’

‘Not yet,’ murmured Talbot.

The Ann Summers shop in Wardour Street looked deserted, apart from the lifeless shapes of the models standing in the window. They seemed to stare back at Talbot.

What had those blank eyes seen? he wondered.

‘Is the back sealed off?’ he enquired.

Rafferty nodded. ‘There’s no way he’s coming out of there,’ the DS said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. Traffic to the north and south had been diverted, the road closed. Red and white barriers had been erected across the thoroughfare. Uniformed policemen stood by them. At both, Talbot noticed, crowds had built up, maybe a hundred people on either side, anxious to see what was going on.

Morbid fuckers.

He even caught sight of a camera held in one set of eager hands.

‘Has anyone spoken to him yet?’ Talbot asked.

‘One of the uniformed men’ Rafferty replied.

‘And?’

‘He said he just wants to talk to the girl.’

NEMA ReVE dnA ReVEROF

YROLG eHT dNA REwoPeHT

It suddenly seemed much colder inside the crypt.

‘What the hell is it?’ she murmured.

MoDGNlk eHT SI ENIHTRoF

LlvE MoRF SuREvILED

Talbot looked incredulously at his companion.

‘He doesn’t want money, he doesn’t want a getaway car. He just wants to talk to her’ the DS said.

‘For fuck’s sake,’ sighed Talbot clambering out of the Escort. Rafferty followed him, watching as his superior brushed some dust from the sleeve of his jacket.

‘What do you want to do, Jim?’ the younger man asked.

‘Get inside there,’ Talbot answered, already taking a couple of paces towards the shop.

Rafferty joined him. ‘What about the girl?’ he asked anxiously.

‘If he’s already killed her then we may as well go in now. If he’s thinking of killing her it could take him all fucking day to make up his mind, but, if I’m right, then he doesn’t want to hurt her.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘Ever heard of a gut feeling, Bill?’

‘And what if you’re wrong, what if he does want to kill her?’

‘Have an ambulance crew standing by,’ Talbot said, indifferently.

He strode across the street, watched by the hordes of uniformed men and the curious crowd.

The man with the camera snapped off a couple of shots as the DI approached the door.

Rafferty scurried across to join him.

From either side, crouching low to the pavement, uniformed men edged nearer.

Talbot waved them back.

He banged hard on the door, leaning close to it, trying to see through the dirty glass.

The lights were off inside, it was difficult to make out shapes. All he could see clearly was a rack of basques hanging close to the entrance.

There was a counter to his right, glass topped and fronted. He could see a selection of vibrators inside.

Something moved towards the back of the shop.

He saw a figure move a couple of paces towards the door.

A young man, no more than twenty-five.

He was carrying a short-bladed knife in his right hand.

‘Fuck off!’ he screamed at Talbot.

‘Open the door or I’ll break it down,’ the DI said, impassively.

He watched as the man retreated a few feet then grabbed at something hidden by the counter. Talbot saw him drag a young woman into view.

About twenty-four, petite, pretty.

The man hauled her in front of him and pushed the knife to her face.

‘You try coming in and I’ll hurt her,’ shouted the man who was dressed in jeans and a black shirt.

Rafferty looked at his superior. ‘What do you reckon?’ he said.

Talbot shook his head. ‘Open the door now!’ he bellowed.

The young man looked at the girl, then at Talbot. ‘I’ll cut her,’ he called back, his voice cracking slightly. ‘I mean it.’

‘He’s scared shitless,’ Talbot said.

‘Be careful, Jim,’ Rafferty said, softly.

‘Keep them back,’ the DI told his companion, motioning towards the uniformed men near by. ‘I’ll sort it.’

Rafferty took a couple of paces back and barked something into the two-way radio he pulled from his jacket pocket.

Talbot kicked at the door, the glass rattling in its frame. He drove another powerful boot into it and it flew back on its hinges. The DI found himself standing inside the shop.

It smelled of cheap perfume and sweat.

Talbot looked at the girl’s face.

Apart from some puffiness around her eyes she looked unharmed. Her make-up was smudged and there were mascara stains on her cheeks but, as far as he could see, no wounds of any description.

‘Put down the knife,’ Talbot said.

‘You shouldn’t have done that’ said Black Shirt, through clenched teeth.

‘Just put it down before someone gets hurt,’ Talbot continued. He took a step forward.

‘Stay there,’ black shirt shouted.

Talbot moved forward more cautiously.

The knife blade was hovering close to the girl’s cheek.

‘Just let her walk away’ Talbot said, still taking slow deliberate steps towards Black Shirt and his hostage.

‘If you come one step closer I’ll stab her’ Black Shirt babbled, none too convincingly.

‘Go on, then.’

It was the girl’s turn to look surprised.

‘Go on then, you little prick’ snapped Talbot. ‘Kill her.’

Black Shirt was breathing rapidly now, perspiration had already beaded on his forehead.

‘You’re already looking at aggravated assault, possible ABH, maybe even kidnapping. You want to add murder to that list? Be my fucking guest.’ He moved closer, pushing aside a rail hung with silk knickers. ‘Go on, hard man, fucking cut her. Slice her up. Impress me.’

‘You’re fucking nuts’ Black Shirt blabbered.

‘Let her go’

‘He didn’t hurt me’ the girl said, seeing the DI drawing nearer.

‘Good. Then you ask him to let you go. Do you know him?’

She nodded.

Bingo.

‘Boyfriend?’ the DI continued, his progress even.

‘Look, things got out of hand’ said Black Shirt, uncertainly.

‘Let her go.’

The knife was lowered a fraction.

Talbot was about three feet from the couple now, his eyes fixed on the watery gaze of Black Shirt.

He could hear him breathing, smell his sweat.

‘Let her go.’

Two feet.

Black Shirt allowed the knife to waver a little lower but he kept his grip on the girl’s shoulder.

‘Come on, I’m not playing fucking games,’ hissed Talbot. ‘Let her go.’

Black Shirt looked at Talbot, then at his captive, and pulled his hand away.

She stepped away from him, leaning against the counter.

‘Drop the knife’ Talbot ordered.

Black Shirt stood motionless, the knife held before him now.

Talbot extended one hand, palm up. ‘Give me the knife.’

Black Shirt was shaking now, barely able to control his own breathing. He looked across at the girl who nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘The knife’ Talbot repeated.

Black Shirt reached out to hand over the blade.

Talbot gripped the proffered wrist, twisted and simultaneously wrenched the younger man towards him. In one swift movement, he drove his head forward, slamming his forehead into Black Shirt’s face.

The impact broke the younger man’s nose, blood bursting from it, spilling onto the floor, some of it spattering Talbot.

The girl shouted something and ran towards him.

Talbot felt a blow against his back.

‘You bastard,’ shouted the girl but Talbot merely pushed her away.

Rafferty came scurrying into the shop, four uniformed men behind him, one of them an ambulance man.

He saw the girl standing against the counter, saw Black Shirt crouching on the floor, blood gushing through his fingers as he clapped both hands to his face.

‘Get them out of here,’ Talbot instructed, turning towards the door. ‘And move that fucking crowd from the street, the show’s over.’

Behind him he could hear the girl crying.

Thirty

Frank Reed looked at the phone perched on the corner of his desk.

What are you waiting for?

He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms in front of him, hearing the joints of his elbows crack.

Outside his office he could hear voices and, swivelling around in his chair, he saw a group of children walking unhurriedly across the playground towards one of the more modern blocks of classrooms. He couldn’t see the face of the teacher who led them, but he recognised the broad back and the worn tweed jacket: Don Hicks, Biology.

Reed smiled to himself.

Hicks was a couple of years older than Reed and the two men got on well.

Indeed, as Deputy Head, Reed had a good rapport with all of his colleagues.

Even the older ones didn’t seem to resent the fact that a man young enough to be their son, in some cases, held such a lofty position. Even if the salary didn’t match the responsibility, Reed mused.

He turned back to face his desk.

And the phone.

The door of his office was open slightly and from the outer office he could hear the sounds of a typewriter being pounded by the secretary both he and the headmaster shared. No new-fangled technology for her. No computers or word processors. She was loyal to her old electric typewriter.

He got to his feet and crossed to the door, closing it, then returned to his desk and looked at the phone once more.

He picked it up and dialled.

Had he got the right number?

Unsure, he pressed down on the cradle and checked the number he wanted in his diary. He dialled again and waited.

It was ringing.

Come on.

And ringing.

Perhaps they were out.

Or busy?

He tapped agitatedly on his desk top with his fingertips.

What are they doing?

Reed tried to push the thoughts from his mind.

Perhaps you’re disturbing them. Perhaps they’re in bed together. Perhaps he’s fucking her.

‘Pick it up’ Reed hissed.

They might not be able to hear it. Didn’t she tell you he made her feel so good?

Reed ran a hand through his hair.

So good.

At the other end the receiver was picked up.

‘Hello’ said a man’s voice.

Reed was so lost in his own thoughts that it took him a second to react.

‘Hello’ repeated the voice at the other end.

‘Could I speak to Ellen Reed, please?’

There was a moment’s silence followed by a little chuckle.

‘Frank, how nice to hear from you’ said Jonathan Ward.

Don’t you dare laugh at me, you bastard.

‘Can I speak to Ellen, please?’ the teacher said, trying to contain his irritation.

‘And how are you, Frank? Keeping well?’ Ward said, that trace of derision in his voice. ‘We haven’t heard from you for so long we were starting to get worried.’

‘Yeah, I bet you were. Just put Ellen on, will you?’

‘I don’t know if she wants to speak to you, Frank’ Ward told him dismissively.

‘Just get her’ Reed snapped, his free hand now balled into a fist.

‘What did you want to speak to her about?’

‘That’s between her and me. It’s none of your business.’

‘Ellen and I have no secrets from each other, Frank. She’ll tell me if I ask her, anyway.’

‘Yeah, she’d do anything for you, wouldn’t she?’ Reed spat.

Ward sniggered. ‘You’re probably right, Frank’ he said. Then all Reed heard was the sound of the receiver being laid on a hard surface.

‘Bastard’ the teacher murmured under his breath.

He waited.

At the other end he heard the receiver being lifted.

‘Hello’ said the woman’s voice.

‘Ellen, it’s Frank.’

Silence.

‘Ellen, I said-‘

‘I heard you. What do you want?’ she asked curtly.

‘I need to talk to you.’

‘We’ve got nothing to say.’

‘We’ve hardly said a dozen words to each other since …’ He allowed the sentence to trail off.

‘Since I left you?’

‘How’s Becky?’

‘She’s fine.’

‘And how are you?’

‘Oh, Christ, you’re not going to make small-talk are you?’

‘We need to talk, Ellen’ Reed said, angrily. ‘About Becky, about us.’

‘There is no us any more,’ she told him, flatly.

Reed swallowed hard. ‘How’s Becky?’

‘She’s fine.’

‘I want to see her, Ellen.’

‘We were thinking of going away for a few days - it isn’t convenient now.’

‘You’re talking about my daughter,’ he rasped. ‘I want to see her.’

‘Look, I’ll call you, right?’

‘Ellen. You can’t do this to me. She’s my daughter. If I have to get the police I will. You won’t keep her from me. I’ll do-‘

‘Do what you fucking want,’ she snarled and slammed down the phone.

He sat at his desk, the receiver still pressed to his ear, the buzz of a dead line the only thing he heard.

Very slowly, he slipped the phone back onto its cradle.

Fucking bitch.

Reed waited a moment then snatched up the phone and dialled another number.

And waited.

Thirty-one

Sean Harvey thought how aptly named the restaurant in Hays Mews was.

The Greenhouse was more like a large, immaculately decorated, conservatory than an eatery. He sat glancing

around at the faces of the other diners, relatively few for a lunchtime, his gaze turning towards the restaurant’s main door every so often.

He glanced at his watch.

She was late.

Despite the fact that the windows near him were open, it was very warm inside the restaurant, as the sun hovering high in the sky overhead blazed down. The plants potted carefully all around the tables, obviously responded to the temperature and blossomed.

Harvey felt a bead of perspiration forming on his forehead.

He wasn’t sure how much of it was apprehension.

He looked at his watch again.

What if she didn’t turn up at all?

He looked at his menu, sipped his Perrier and attempted to look nonchalant.

The gesture failed miserably.

Harvey glanced towards the main entrance again and this time he saw her.

Thank Christ.

He stood up as she made her way towards his table, smiling at him, brushing her blonde hair away from her face.

Hailey Owen was dressed in a short, rust-coloured skirt and matching jacket.

She walked gracefully in a pair of high heels, the tips clicking on the tiled floor of the restaurant. Harvey couldn’t resist an appreciative glance, allowing his gaze to linger on her slender legs.

‘Sorry I’m late’ she said, sitting down opposite him.

‘You’re not, I was early,’ he told her. ‘Do you want a drink?’

She nodded as he called the waiter to him and ordered another Perrier for himself and a Baccardi and Coke for her.

‘I would have been here earlier,’ Hailey told him. ‘But I couldn’t get away.

Debbie wanted me to go for lunch with her -I had to make up an excuse about shopping. I said I was going to a wedding and had to get a dress. Then she wanted to come with me to help me pick it. I thought I was never going to get away.’

The waiter returned with the drinks.

He watched as Hailey took a sip of hers.

‘No one knew where you were going?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘What about you?’

‘I told my secretary I was meeting a client, I said I might be late back,’ he announced.

‘You don’t think anyone knows, do you, Sean?’

He shook his head.

‘We’ve been careful so far.’

‘We’ve been lucky so far,’ she reminded him.

‘We don’t even work on the same floor, Hailey, why should anybody suspect we’re …’

‘Having an affair?’

‘Three lunches and two dinners hardly constitute an affair, do they?’

‘Your wife might disagree if she found out. Where did you tell her you were the other night?’

‘She knows I work late, that I meet clients. She doesn’t suspect anything, trust me.’

‘You might be used to this, Sean, but I’ve never had an affair before. I just don’t want anything to spoil it.’

‘Stop worrying.’

He pushed a menu towards her.

‘Let’s order,’ he said, smiling.

Harvey watched her as she ran her gaze up and down the list of offerings, one hand pulling lazily at her long hair.

She noticed his attention and smiled. ‘What are you looking at?’

‘I’m just looking. You don’t blame me, do you?’ he said, quietly.

She shook her head and giggled.

‘You’re a real smoothie, aren’t you?’

Beneath the table he felt her foot brush against his calf.

Briefly. Tantalisingly.

She sipped her drink, wondering what the dark shadow was that had suddenly fallen across the table.

It was as if a cloud had passed before the sun.

But this was too small, too dark to be a cloud.

They both looked up.

Harvey opened his mouth.

Hailey didn’t even manage to give voice to the scream.

The man’s body plunged down towards them, slamming into the glass roof of the restaurant.

Glass exploded inwards, the strident eruption of splintering crystal mingling with a deafening crash as the body came hurtling through.

It struck the table where they sat, crushing glasses beneath it, overturning the table as more shards of glass rained down, exploding on the tiled floor.

And there was something hot and red splashing Hailey now.

Blood, jetting madly from a dozen wounds on the body, lacerated by the glass and the impact, spurted in all directions, some of it across her face and hair.

Finally, Hailey managed to scream.

The body flopped over onto its back, face shredded by the glass fragments, one long sliver embedded in the eye like a crystal spear.

Harvey fell away from the blood-spattered table, trying to control his churning stomach, aware that there was already a dark stain spreading across the front of his trousers.

Blood began to spill rapidly around the corpse which lay motionless amidst the shattered glass, broken crockery and scattered cutlery.

Other diners looked on in horror, one or two glancing up at the gaping hole in the glass roof left by the plummeting body. Pieces of broken glass were still dropping from the edges of the break.

Hailey felt a searing pain in her left hand and realised that the back of it had been sliced open by a piece of glass the size of a dinner plate.

But her own pain was all but forgotten as she stared down at the body, aware that the widening pool of blood around it was now lapping at the toes of her shoes.

Harvey saw that one piece of glass had torn away most of the flesh at the side of the dead man’s face. The skin had been sliced raggedly from the corner of his mouth to his cheekbone, exposing his teeth and gums.

It looked as if he was smiling.

Harvey lost his battle and vomited.

Hailey continued to scream.

Thirty-two

The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, and Detective Inspector James Talbot inhaled deeply as he walked back and forth, chewing on a handful of chocolate peanuts which he was taking from a wrinkled paper bag.

The other men in the room either watched him or sat glancing down at their notes.

Phillip Barclay opened a window close to him and tried to waft some of the smoke out.

Rafferty grinned and lit another cigarette.

Of the two other men present, one was also smoking, twisting his cigarette in his fingers, watching the ash drop into the plastic cup which had contained coffee. His companion, a younger man dressed in a black suit and white shirt which looked a size too small for him, was drawing circles on a piece of paper with his Biro.

Talbot finally stopped pacing and turned to the notice board behind him.

‘Craig Jeffrey,’ he began, tapping a black and white ten-by-eight of a smiling man. ‘Thirty-two years old, surveyor, engaged. Due to be married in three months’ time.’

‘Maybe that’s why he topped himself’ mumbled the man in the black suit.

The other men laughed.

Talbot smiled wanly.

‘They reckon it’s difficult to get a table at that bloody restaurant,’ the man next to Barclay offered. ‘Perhaps he was desperate.’

More laughter.

Detective Constable Colin Penhallow ground out his cigarette in the plastic cup.

‘Enough of the fucking cabaret’ Talbot said, chewing on another peanut. ‘Any ideas?’

‘Are we sure it was suicide?’ Rafferty asked.

Talbot looked at Barclay. ‘Phil’ he said and all eyes turned to the coroner.

Barclay cleared his throat. ‘The autopsy showed no trace of any substances, legal or illegal, in his blood. Further examination showed no reason to suspect that he was murdered. I think we can rule out foul play.’

Talbot shrugged.

‘What was he doing in that house in Hays Mews, anyway?’ Rafferty wanted to know.

‘He was doing a survey for a building society’ Talbot replied.

‘So, while he was inside, he decided to climb up onto the roof and chuck himself off’ Penhallow mused.

‘That’s what it looks like,’ Talbot added, chewing more peanuts.

‘No drink, no drugs. No reasons why he should have done it,’ Rafferty interjected. ‘Just like the other two.’

Talbot nodded.

‘Three suicides inside eight days’ he continued. ‘All professional men. A surveyor, an accountant and an architect. All with stable home lives, as far as we know, all well paid, settled. None of them had any reason that we know of for committing suicide. But they did.’

‘People kill themselves every day, Jim’ Penhallow offered. ‘What makes these three geezers so special?’

‘That’s what we need to find out’ Talbot told him.

‘Have the wives or girlfriends been any help?’ DC Stephen Longley asked, brushing at the sleeve of his black jacket.

Talbot shook his head.

‘They all gave statements: none of them reported noticing any changes in behaviour in any of the three men. They also weren’t aware that any of the men were under undue pressure. As far as they’re concerned, there’s no logical reason for the suicides.’

‘So what do we do now?’ Rafferty asked.

‘Guv, if you don’t mind me asking,’ said Penhallow, raising a hand. ‘Why are we investigating three suicides when we know that’s what they were? I mean, there isn’t a hint of foul play in any of them, is there?’ He looked at Barclay.

The coroner shook his head.

‘There’s something not quite right here’ Talbot said. ‘I want to know if there

were links, I want to know if they knew each other’

‘Parriam knew Hyde’ Rafferty offered. ‘I told you about that entry in his diary.’

‘And I told you that one entry didn’t make them close friends’ the DI reminded him. ‘But I agree with you, Bill, it’s a coincidence. It’s also a coincidence that all three were professional men. Men who may have moved in the same circles. Find out if they did.’

‘What’ll it prove, Jim?’ Penhallow enquired.

‘It might just tie up a few loose ends’ Talbot said.

‘What loose ends?’ Longley asked. ‘They topped themselves, no one knows why.

Sorry and all that, but tough. Where’s the investigation?’

‘Just check it out in your spare time, I’m not asking for a full-scale investigation. Indulge me, Steve,’ Talbot said. ‘I’m curious.’

He turned and looked at the photos of the three dead men.

‘What were you thinking?’ he murmured, his gaze travelling slowly over the three faces. The DI finally turned to face his men again. ‘OK, fellas, that’s it for now. I want reports in three days.’

The other men rose and headed for the door.

‘Phil, hang on a minute, will you?’ Talbot called to the coroner.

Barclay hesitated and closed the door as the last of the officers walked out.

‘You said the autopsies showed no trace of drugs, right?’ Talbot said.

Barclay nodded.

‘Could you have missed anything?’ the DI pondered.

‘If you’re questioning my abilities …’

The DI held up a hand.

‘I’m not questioning anything, Phil. I just wondered if there could be some kind of drug that might have been absorbed into the blood stream so fast that it didn’t show up on the autopsies.’

‘Taken voluntarily?’

Talbot didn’t answer.

‘You think someone might have made them commit suicide?’ Barclay offered.

‘Yeah, it’s crazy, I know. I think it’s called clutching at straws.’

The coroner leaned on the back of a chair and looked at Talbot.

‘If it wasn’t a drug, how about something else?

Hypnotism, something like that?’ Talbot persisted.

‘I doubt it, Jim, and, even if it was, even if someone did force them to kill themselves, you still have to find out why. What reason could there be for wanting those three men dead?’

The DI nodded slowly.

‘You’re right,’ he said, glancing at the black and white pictures again. ‘And if we find the why, we have to find the who. But just suppose it was possible.

Just suppose that someone wanted those three men dead.’ He pointed at the pictures. ‘It’s perfect. No suspect, no murder weapon. No clues.’

‘I thought you were supposed to be the cynical one.’

Talbot grinned.

‘Like I said, Phil, just clutching at straws.’ His grin faded slightly.

He continued gazing at the photos.

Thirty-three

Terence Nicholls ran a hand through his short, greying hair and turned over the next photo.

He considered each one carefully, studying every aspect of the image, like an art connoisseur.

Occasionally he would sit back in his chair, particularly intrigued by an image. When he did sit back he made a conscious effort to pull in his sagging stomach muscles. The buttons of his shirt were straining just a little uncomfortably against his belly. But it was the only part of his body that carried any excess fat. The rest of his frame was lean. His face most notably was thin, almost gaunt, his grey-flecked hair giving him the appearance of being older than his thirty-nine years. His fingernails, despite being immaculately manicured, were dirty. Grimy with newsprint and ink. Like

the pads of his fingers which he wiped every now and then on the corner of a handkerchief protruding from his trouser pocket.

His desk was unnaturally tidy for a newspaper editor. No stray pieces of paper left lying wantonly on the wooden top. No scattered paper clips or pens.

Everything was in its place. The only thing incongruous amidst this neatness was his coffee mug, which was so darkly stained inside, even the strongest detergent couldn’t restore the original colour of the china. In fact, he’d given up washing it weeks ago. The stains were as much a part of the design as the logo: shit happens and you’re living proof. Behind him, bookshelves were laden so heavily with hundreds of different-sized volumes, it seemed they would collapse at any moment. Blu-tacked to one shelf was a crayon drawing with DADDY scrawled beneath a multi-coloured figure. A gift from his three-year old son.

‘Jesus,’ said Nicholls finally, pushing the pile of photos back across his desk towards Catherine Reed. ‘Did you take all of those?’

Cath nodded.

‘This has been going on for the last three months, Terry’ she said. ‘Graves dug up, headstones smashed, graffiti on tombs.’

‘And the police know about it?’ he enquired.

‘They say it’s vandalism.’

‘Maybe it is, but it’s a bit different to smashing car windows or writing “bollocks” on somebody’s front door, isn’t it? What does the priest there make of it?’

‘He seems to think it’s vandals as well, but it’s upset him.’

‘Have you spoken to any of the relatives of those whose graves were dug up?’

‘Not yet.’

‘And they’ve always been kids, you say?’

Cath nodded.

‘There’s a story here, Terry. Something big, I reckon.’

‘What’s your angle?’

‘How far vandals will go these days. What sort of people would do this.’ She prodded one of the photos. ‘How much worse can it get? Is there a purpose to it? That kind of thing.’

He nodded and pulled half a dozen of the pictures back towards him. ‘I remember this sort of shit happening at Highgate Cemetery a few years ago.

Graves were dug up. Some coffins even had the bodies removed. There was some bloke who claimed there was a vampire loose in there.’ Nicholls chuckled. ‘I was assistant editor at the Highgate Herald then. We had front pages of the stuff for about a week. A few people reckoned they’d seen this vampire.’

He turned over the pictures again.

‘Have you thought about the witchcraft angle?’ he said, quietly, his gaze riveted to a shot of the giant pentagram on the wall of the crypt.

‘Witchcraft?’ said Cath, sounding surprised.

‘Desecrated graves, pentagrams, the Lord’s Prayer written backwards. It’s worth investigating,’ he continued.

‘The punters usually go for that kind of thing. Find out if there’ve been any animals sacrificed there, too. Check with the local police to see if anyone’s reported their cat or dog missing - somebody might have used it in some sort of ritual.’

‘Are you serious?’ she said, grinning.

‘Of course I’m serious,’ Nicholls told her. ‘Talk to the local RSPCA, too.’

‘You don’t honestly believe that this is about witchcraft, do you, Terry?’

‘A bunch of fucking druggies out of their heads on something, dancing around in cloaks and having an orgy. As far as I’m concerned that’s close enough to witchcraft to make it interesting for your average reader.’

‘Do you believe in it?’

‘Do I fuck! But some of the dickheads who do might just be stupid enough to dig up a few graves, smash a few headstones and paint signs on a church crypt wall. It’s not the devil they want, it’s a quick shag. They’re playing at it, Cath, but it makes good copy. It sells papers.’

‘Perhaps I should do some research about black magic too,’ she chuckled.

‘Whatever you want. Find as many angles as you can. Milk it. I agree with you, it could be big.’

‘I’m talking about doing a serious investigation into the causes and nature of vandalism, and you’re talking about witchcraft.’

‘I’m talking about selling papers,’ Nicholls told her, scanning some more of the pictures. ‘Has it only happened at Croydon Cemetery so far?’

‘As far as I know.’

‘Check out some others.’ He grinned. ‘Just be careful no one puts a spell on you.’

‘I’ll get my broomstick and black cat and get going, then,’ Cath joked, getting to her feet. She paused as she reached his office door.

‘Terry, what if it turns out to be real?’

He looked puzzled.

‘If it really is linked to black magic,’ she prompted.

‘Then we’ll run it on the front page next to the interviews with Father Christmas and the fucking tooth fairy.’

He heard her laughter as she closed the door.

Nicholls reached for the phone as it rang.

Thirty-four

Frank Reed sat at his desk glancing out of the classroom window into the corridor beyond.

He could see the heads of dozens of children as they hurried by, some using as much restraint as they could muster to stop themselves from running. But the final bell had sounded. They could go home and that was exactly what they were doing, with undue haste and delight.

Reed cleaned the blackboard behind him and dropped the chalky eraser onto the ledge beneath it, wiping his hands to remove the dust. He massaged the back of his neck with one hand, feeling a dull ache growing more intense there.

He gathered up his text books and shoved them into the battered leather briefcase he always carried them in.

Ellen had bought it for him for their first wedding anniversary.

Ellen.

He looked at the case and gritted his teeth.

Bitch.

As he left the classroom he locked the door, twisting the handle to ensure it was correctly secured.

Two young boys sprinted past him up the corridor.

‘Don’t run’ Reed shouted, smiling to himself as he saw them stop dead and continue at a more leisurely pace.

He watched them reach the door at the end of the corridor and was about to turn when he saw a familiar figure heading towards him.

As ever, she was dressed in a grey tracksuit, her long blonde hair pulled back and fastened in a pony tail. She seemed to bounce along on her immaculately clean trainers, and Reed smiled as he saw her.

Judith Nelson was six years younger than Reed, the head of the Physical Education department at St Michael’s for the last five years now. A divorcee who now lived alone, she’d joined the school about a fortnight after Reed.

‘Do you always have to look so bloody healthy?’ he said, smiling. ‘It’s very depressing for the rest of us.’

‘Fresh air and exercise,’ Judith said, smiling. ‘You look like you could do with some, Frank.’

They headed off towards the staffroom.

‘I could do with something,’ he said, wearily.

‘Problems at home?’ she enquired.

‘I wouldn’t bore you with it, Judith.’

‘Why not? I bored you with my problems when I split up with my husband.’

Reed didn’t answer.

‘Come on, Frank’ she persisted.

‘You didn’t have kids, did you?’

‘No, but splitting up still wasn’t easy.’

‘It’s always more complicated with kids, Judith.’

‘Is that the problem, then?’

‘Ellen won’t let me see my daughter.’

‘She can’t stop you, can she?’

‘Not legally, no. I can take it to court, fight her for custody, all that shit. But I don’t want to do that unless I have to. For Becky’s sake. I don’t want her to see me and her mother fighting over her. The problem is, I think that’s what it might come to. I’m not letting her go without a fight.’

‘Has she said why she won’t let you see her?’

‘Look, Judith, no offence but forget it, will you? I appreciate your concern but….’ He allowed the sentence to trail off.

‘Just trying to help.’

They entered another corridor and Judith glanced into one of the empty classrooms.

‘Not again’ she murmured, her attention caught by something inside.

Reed followed her gaze and saw a figure seated at the rear of the classroom.

He followed Judith inside.

The young girl who sat at the back of the room, satchel clasped on the desk before her, was about eleven; she was pale, thin-faced and a little scruffy.

The cuffs of her dark blue cardigan needed mending and he also noticed a button was missing. The white socks she wore were badly in need of a wash, as was her grey skirt.

When she saw the two teachers she seemed to sink back against the wall, as if trying to blend in with its yellow-painted brickwork.

‘Didn’t you hear the bell, Annette?’ Judith asked. ‘Home time.’

The girl lowered her gaze, reluctant to meet the stare of the teachers.

‘All your friends have gone,’ Judith prompted.

‘I’m sorry,’ the girl said, almost inaudibly.

‘Go on, run along now,’ Judith said, softly, one hand touching the girl’s shoulder.

She pulled away sharply, her head still lowered.

Reed looked on curiously.

‘Are you feeling all right?’ Judith asked.

The girl nodded and got to her feet.

As she eased herself out from behind the desk, Reed saw a large bluish-yellow bruise on her calf.

Aware of his prying gaze she hurriedly pulled up her off-white sock and made for the door.

‘Anyone would think you didn’t want to go home,’ Judith called after her.

The two teachers watched as the young girl disappeared out of the door and went slowly up the corridor.

‘That’s three times in the past week I’ve found her here after last bell,’

said Judith.

‘What’s her name?’ Reed asked.

‘Annette Hilston.’

‘I know the name. Big family, aren’t they? Five or six kids.’

‘I think Annette’s the youngest. I can’t understand it. She used to be such a happy kid - chatty, friendly - but over the last few weeks she’s become very withdrawn.’

Reed frowned. ‘Did you see that bruise on her leg?’ he asked.

‘I’ve seen other marks on her, too. In the changing rooms, when the girls have been getting ready for sport.’

‘More bruises?’

Judith nodded.

‘And marks on the wrists?’ Reed persisted.

‘How did you know?’

‘One of my lads, Paul O’Brian, he’s the same. Withdrawn, unsociable, and he had what looked like burns on his wrists. He says there’s nothing wrong, but if I didn’t know better I’d say he was acting as if he was scared of

something.’

‘Like what?’

Reed shook his head. ‘His parents, maybe?’

‘Do you think that’s the problem with Annette, too?’

‘It’s possible. Just do me a favour will you, Judith? Keep an eye on her. If you see any more injuries on her, let me know.’

‘You think the parents did it?’

‘I didn’t say that, and this conversation doesn’t go any further, right?’

Judith nodded.

‘There’s probably a perfectly logical explanation for it,’ he said, none too convincingly.

‘For the bruises and marks, you mean?’ Judith said, her words hanging in the air.

‘For the sake of those kids,’ said Reed, ‘I hope to Christ there is.’

Thirty-five

‘She should be in fucking hospital’ shouted Talbot, angrily.

From behind his desk, Dr Maurice Hodges watched the policeman pacing angrily back and forth.

‘Your mother fell, Mr Talbot, she didn’t collapse,’ the physician said, finally.

‘She should be in hospital anyway’ the DI persisted.

‘They can’t do any more for your mother in hospital than we can do for her here. She’s been examined, she’s fine.’

‘She’s got cancer, in case you’d forgotten, Doctor. That’s a bloody strange definition of “fine” Talbot rasped.

He ran a hand through his hair and finally sat down. ‘Jesus’ he muttered.

‘I can understand how you feel’ Hodges told him.

‘Can you?’

A long silence followed, finally broken by the doctor.

‘She knows about the cancer, Mr Talbot’ Hodges said, quietly. ‘When she fell, earlier today, we took her to St Ann’s for a precautionary x-ray. We wondered if she might have cracked a rib when she fell.’

‘Yeah, so?’ Talbot said, challengingly. ‘What’s a broken rib got to do with fucking lung cancer?’

‘She asked to see the x-rays and the radiologist showed her. She saw the shadow on the lung and asked me about it when she got back.’

‘So you told her?’

‘I thought it was right.’

‘The radiologist showed her the x-rays’ Talbot said, incredulously. ‘What the fuck was he doing that for?’

‘Look, that was nothing to do with us, Mr Talbot, if I’d known…’

The DI got to his feet again.

“Well, Mrs Talbot, the good news is your ribs are fine, the bad news is you’re dying of cancer. Was that it?’ He rounded angrily on Hodges.

‘Did you want to tell her yourself?’ Hodges responded.

Talbot exhaled deeply and shook his head.

Hodge watched as the policeman sat down once more.

‘She’s been asking me to take her home for a while now’ Talbot said, finally.

‘I keep telling her it’s impossible.’

‘Is there no way?’ Hodges asked.

‘Why do you think I put her in here in the first place? There isn’t a day goes by without me feeling guilty about locking her away here like some family secret.’

‘I’d hardly call it locking her away, Mr Talbot.’