Stolen Angels

‘That’s what it feels like to me.’

‘There are people who can look after her at her home if that’s what you want.

The Macmillan nurses are a fine organisation - they tend to cancer patients in their own homes, visit on a daily basis.’

Talbot shook his head.

‘Then you might have to think about finding her a place at a hospice when the

time comes’ Hodges said, softly.

‘No way’ Talbot snapped. ‘I’m not sticking her in one of those places. It was bad enough putting her here.’

‘You haven’t any family who-‘

‘No.’ Talbot snapped. ‘No family.’

No fucking family.

He got to his feet once again, this time walking towards the door of Hodges’

office.

The doctor rose and followed him.

‘I’m sorry about this, Mr Talbot,’ he said, quietly.

The DI smiled humourlessly and, when he spoke, there was a crushing weariness in his tone.

‘So am I, Doc,’ he murmured.

He held the physician’s gaze for a moment, then turned and walked away.

Cath saw him enter the office and smiled briefly before returning her attention to the screen before her.

Unlike her editor’s desk, Cath’s was organised chaos. Notebooks, pieces of paper, books, even a piece of half-eaten cheesecake, all looked as if they’d been piled on the desk in some bizarre kind of competition to see how much rubbish could be placed on one single piece of furniture. There was scarcely room for her word processor. She sipped from a plastic cup as she worked, oblivious to the noise around her; the constant symphony of ringing phones and chattering voices, of shouts and occasional laughter.

‘Did you find what you wanted this afternoon?’

The voice startled her and she spun round in her seat to see Phillip Cross standing beside her.

The photographer was looking at the screen glowing before Cath.

‘At Croydon Cemetery’ he continued. ‘Was it worth the trip?’

‘It was incredible’ she said, excitedly. ‘Phil, look at these.’

She pushed some of the photos she’d taken towards him, watching as he inspected each one carefully.

‘You could have done with a bit more backlight on some of these’ Cross said, grinning.

Cath eyed him irritably.

‘Not bad for a beginner,’ he said, still grinning.

‘I didn’t want your professional opinion’ she snapped, snatching the pictures back from him.

‘Excuse me,’ said Cross holding up his hands.

She returned her attention to the screen once again.

‘You saw what was done to those graves’ she said, fingers skipping over the keyboard. ‘It’s the same as what was done a few days ago. The pictures you took there.’

‘Same idiots,’ he said, shrugging. ‘What’s the big deal?’

‘Can I have those pictures, Phil?’

‘Why, don’t you think your own are good enough?’ Cross chuckled. He looked at his watch. ‘What time are you getting out of here tonight?’

‘Why?’

‘I wondered if you wanted to get a takeaway, we can go back to my place and-‘

‘Not tonight, Phil’ Cath cut in.

‘Why not?’

‘I’m working on this story, and besides, tonight’s no good anyway, I’m seeing my brother about something.’

‘Again? Are you sure it’s your brother?’

‘Don’t start that again. Tomorrow night, OK?’

He looked down at her. ‘Maybe, I’ll have to check my diary’ he snapped and walked away.

Cath turned to say something then decided against it. She looked at the screen, then at her watch. Another hour. She went back to work.

Thirty-six

Shanine Connor still had most of the food left. As she sat on the pavement in

Leicester Square looking around her at the dizzying array of neon, she slipped a hand inside the holdall and pulled out a Mars Bar.

As she did, her hand brushed against the knife.

Two girls, no older than she, passed by and shot her curious glances.

As they moved away from her, Shanine saw one turn and look back briefly.

She watched as they headed across the road towards a club which seemed to be lit entirely by red and blue fizzing lights. She saw others approaching the doors. A sign which read ‘BUZZ’ glowed brightly in the night, above the entrance. The bouncers, dressed in black suits, stood impassively, expressions hidden behind the dark glasses they wore.

Shanine watched the two girls approach the entrance.

Girls like her.

One was dressed in a short black dress which clung to her slim form like a second skin, a black silk jacket slung casually around her bare shoulders. Her blue-black hair seemed to gleam in the reflected glow of the neon.

Her companion was wearing a trouser suit, immaculately tailored.

Shanine pulled at a rip in her grubby leggings, running one filthy hand through hair which needed washing.

The girls had disappeared inside the club.

Girls like her.

She got to her feet and hooked the bag over her shoulder.

Leicester Square was busy, this night and every night. Constant streams of people criss-crossed en route to or from restaurants, cafes or cinemas, forming one enormous amoebic mass until each face became indistinguishable from the next. Shanine moved among them, glad of the anonymity the crowd offered.

She chewed at the Mars Bar as she walked, the craving in her belly satisfied long ago. The food should last her another day or so she guessed.

And then what?

It was money she was desperately short of.

The smell of body odour that tugged at her nostrils was, she knew, her own.

Jesus, what she wouldn’t give for a nice long soak in a bath, followed by a soft bed.

Perhaps if she could find a hostel. She knew there were plenty in London. If she could find one …

What if they found her there?

For all she knew they were already searching for her.

How would they know she was in London?

They seemed to know everything.

They knew her thoughts before she did.

Ahead of her the lights grew even brighter and she heard music blasting out into the night. Loud and powerful.

She paused at the door of The Crystal Room, looking in at the massive array of electronic games, the noises they made competing with the music for supremacy.

She could see people inside. Mostly young men.

There were some young women, mostly in groups of three or four. Some standing talking, others playing the machines.

Girls like her.

She stepped in, looking around. The music seemed to engulf her.

“With the lights out, it’s less dangerous One or two of the occupants of the place glanced at her.

‘Here we are now, entertain us… .’

She had no idea what she was looking for in this place.

Was it help she sought?

‘I feel stupid and contagious

Standing beside one of the motor racing games, a tall man with a barrel chest and neck as thick as chopped oak watched her from behind his sunglasses.

‘Here we are now, entertain us….’

Shanine heard rattling behind her as money spilled from one of the machines and the happy winner scooped up his bounty.

Money.

She looked at it as a starving man would look at food.

The tall man watched her.

Shanine wandered slowly around The Crystal Room, the music still thundering in her ears.

‘A mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido Some of the faces in here were pale and gaunt like her own.

Lost. Afraid.

She walked towards the exit.

No help in there.

The tall man watched.

The music blasted on. A deafening litany.

A denial. A denial. A denial

It swept her back out into the night.

Thirty-seven

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried.

Fifteen years.

Twenty.

Longer?

James Talbot sat in his armchair, the glass of whiskey clutched in one hand, his head lowered, his cheeks streaked.

He took a sip of the whiskey, feeling it burn its way to his stomach.

How many was that?

He’d lost count.

He’d drink the entire contents of the bottle if he had to. All he wanted was oblivion. At the moment he was even being denied that.

Fuck it.

He looked across at the TV set, the screen blank. His own reflection was the only thing that showed there; slumped in the chair gripping the glass.

Just like his father used to be.

His father.

That fucking, stinking, drink-raddled piece of shit.

‘Cunt’ hissed Talbot, sniffing back more tears.

From the top of the TV set, the photograph of his mother gazed back at him.

He couldn’t hold that blank gaze, and downed what was left in his glass rather than face her stare.

Accusing. Denouncing.

It’ll be your fault if she dies.

He shook his head.

You left her to rot in that place. You said you did it for her sake but you lied, didn’t you? It was for you. You couldn’t cope with her. You didn’t want to cope with her. You couldn’t be bothered. Your career came first. You discarded her like a dirty tissue.

‘No,’ grunted Talbot. He reached down the side of his chair and pulled up the bottle of Jameson’s, pouring a large measure into his glass, swigging it.

She’ll die there now. Because of you.

He shook his head, felt more tears pouring warmly down his face.

The tears used to come afterwards, didn’t they?

How long since he’d cried? Twenty years?

Try thirty-two.

That was when it had first started, wasn’t it?

He’d been four years old when he’d first smelled that whiskey stink in his face, felt those hands on his body, felt them touching him, forcing him to touch too.

Four when he’d felt that agony for the first time.

Penetration.

Talbot took another hefty swig.

It made him cough. Choke.

Remember that sensation too. Choking. Gagging as it was forced into your mouth. That salty, bitter taste, then the oily, tingling sensation in your

throat and the smell of the whiskey. The rough hands.

Talbot sat forward in his chair, hands pressed to his temples as if he feared his head would explode, so full of memories was it.

Vivid and painful like cuts across his consciousness.

Jesus it was all fucking pain.

It was then and it was now.

But she’d been there to help sometimes. She’d tried to help. To help you.

She’d fought with him. She’d fought with your father until he’d beaten her bloody, then he’d returned to you, her blood on his hands. Your blood on his hands, too.

Christ, the fucking pain!

Penetration.

But you’d stopped crying after the first half a dozen times.

You’d learned to endure it, in silence.

No tears. No tears for thirty-two years.

Until now.

Talbot gripped his glass in one fist, squeezing more tightly. His body was racked by sobs.

He looked across at the photo on top of the television set.

‘Mum, I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

Too late for apologies.

She was dying.

Leaving you.

Alone with your pain.

He squeezed the glass more tightly, tears scalding his cheeks.

The glass shattered in his hand, lumps of crystal slicing into his palm, splitting the skin effortlessly. Blood spurted from the cuts, gushing from a particularly deep wound at the base of his thumb, dripping to the carpet, mingling with the whiskey.

Talbot turned his palm and stared at it, the burning sensation of the liquor in the wounds agonising.

He stared at the ravaged hand, pieces of glass sticking out of the torn flesh.

Blood was running down his arm.

Fuck it. Fuck it.

Who fucking cared?

He hurled what was left of the glass at the wall, watching as it exploded into hundreds of tiny beads of crystal, spraying all around the room like transparent shrapnel.

Frozen tears.

‘You fucker!’ he roared at the top of his voice, his head tilted backwards, then he slumped in the chair once again, his bleeding hand dangling uselessly at his side.

Pain. Rage. Guilt. Anger. Memories.

He didn’t know what had brought these tears, but as Talbot sat sobbing in the chair he wondered when they would stop.

Or even if they could.

Thirty-eight

When Cath walked back into the room she noticed her brother was holding something, gazing down at it.

As she sat down opposite him she saw that it was a small, pink teddy bear.

‘I found it the other day when I was tidying up’ Reed told her, still looking at the stuffed toy, seeing his own distorted reflection in its blank eyes. ‘It must have been the only thing of Becky’s that Ellen didn’t take when she left.’

Cath watched him silently for a moment as he ran a thumb over the bear, ruffling its smooth fur.

‘You still haven’t heard from her, then?’

He shook his head.

‘If she’s hurt Becky, her or that fucking arsehole she lives with,’ he rasped, still staring at the teddy. ‘If either of them has hurt Becky, I’ll fucking

kill them, I swear to Christ, I…’

Cath frowned, leaning forward in her seat.

‘Frank, what are you going on about?’ she said in bewilderment. ‘Why would Ellen want to hurt Becky? She loves her as much as you do.’

‘Then why the hell did she take her away from me?’ Reed snarled.

‘Just because she took her away doesn’t mean she’s going to hurt her, Frank.

What makes you think that?’

He dropped the teddy onto the sofa beside him and rubbed both hands over his face. ‘Shit, I’m sorry, Cath,’ he murmured. ‘There’s two kids at the school -

I’m worried about them. The boy in particular. I think he might have been . .

.’ Reed was struggling for the words. ‘Roughed up, knocked about or something.

It made me think of Becky.’

‘You think it’s the parents?’

‘It looks like someone’s given him a bloody good hiding.’

‘Could it be one of the other kids?’

‘I doubt it. I’d say it was the parents.’

‘If it is, Frank, it’s nothing to do with you, is it?’

‘It is if I think that child is being beaten.’

‘Come on, Frank, that’s a bit strong, isn’t it?’

‘You didn’t see him. He had bruises on him the size of your fist, and marks on his wrists too. Like weals.’

‘Maybe his mum or dad just got a bit carried away. Dad used to wallop us when we were little.’

‘A slap on the backside is a bit different to leaving bruises, Cath. Besides, this kid isn’t the only one. There’s a girl too, I saw her today. Same bruises, same marks.’

‘So, two sets of parents decide to get a bit heavy with their kids. That doesn’t mean Ellen’s going to start knocking Becky about, does it?’

Reed regarded her impassively.

‘Ellen wouldn’t, but what about Ward? I don’t know anything about that bastard,’ Reed spat.

‘Frank, why should he?’

Reed got to his feet and crossed the room to a small mahogany cabinet. He took out a bottle of Courvoisier and two glasses, pouring himself the larger measure.

He returned and handed the other glass to Cath.

‘You know, you’d better be careful, Frank,’ she advised. ‘You can’t go yelling abuse all over the place. It’s a dangerous word. The parents of those kids could sue you unless you can prove it. How would you feel if someone accused you of hurting Becky? What are their names, anyway?’

‘Annette Hilston and Paul O’Brian, they’re both about ten.’

‘O’Brian?’ Cath said, frowning.

Why did that ring a bell?

‘Paul’s sister died a few months ago. She was only a baby and-‘

Cath was already on her feet, heading across the room towards her briefcase.

Reed watched as she flipped it open and rummaged around inside.

‘Where was she buried?’ she asked.

Reed looked puzzled. ‘How on earth should I know?’ he said, watching in bewilderment as Cath sat down beside him, a set of photographs in her hand.

‘Do you think it might have been Croydon Cemetery?’ she asked.

‘It’s possible, the family moved from there after her death. What makes you think-‘

She handed him a photo.

It showed a broken headstone.

The name on it was Carla O’Brian.

‘Jesus’ murmured Reed. ‘And this was taken in Croydon Cemetery?’

She nodded and handed him the other pictures.

Reed flicked slowly through them, his forehead creased, a look of dismay on his face.

‘If it’s a coincidence, it’s millions to one’ she said. ‘Same name, same age,

same cemetery.’

‘That’s why I thought the boy was quiet in the beginning, I knew his sister had died …’ He let the sentence trail off. ‘Who the hell did this?’

‘No one knows yet. That’s what I’m trying to find out. Who and why.’

He paused at a picture showing a shattered headstone with a pentagram scrawled on it, peering at the name and age on the remains of the stone.

‘Another child,’ he whispered.

‘All the graves belong to kids, all the ones desecrated,’ Cath elaborated.

‘Oh Jesus’ Reed hissed, looking at a picture of a coffin that had been hauled from its resting place. The lid had been split, the woodwork riven and scarred.

He came to the ones taken in the church crypt.

Cath watched him as he studied them.

‘How much do you know about witchcraft, Frank?’

Reed looked at her blankly.

‘Are you serious?’

‘My editor told me to play up the black magic angle. I just wondered what you knew.’

‘Are you asking me in my capacity as a history teacher or as an ordinary member of the public?’

‘Both.’

‘As a history teacher I can tell you about the Inquisition, the Salem Witch trials, Matthew Hopkins the Witchfinder-General, even Hitler’s interest in the occult. Is that good enough for starters?’

‘And as an ordinary member of the public?’

1 think it’s bollocks.’

‘You don’t believe in it?’

‘Whoever did that,’ he gestured dismissively at the pictures, ‘they were sick bastards, but I doubt if they were witches.’

‘So you think the O’Brian family would talk about what happened to their daughter’s grave?’

‘Are you asking as my sister or as a muck-raking, sensation-seeking journalist?’ he asked, smiling.

‘I prefer investigative news reporter’ she retorted, feigning indignation.

‘Would they talk, Frank? You could put me in touch with them. Give me an address.’

Reed looked down at the photos again.

‘I might even be able to find out whether or not you’re right about the parents whacking their kid if I speak to them’ she persisted.

He looked at her.

‘Excuse me, Mr and Mrs O’Brian, how do you feel about your baby’s grave being dug up, and by the way have you beaten up your son lately?’ he said, sardonically.

She held his gaze.

‘The address, Frank’ she murmured. ‘That’s all.’

He glanced down at the top picture.

A headstone, cracked, smeared with excrement.

Sick.

When he looked up, she was still gazing at him.

Waiting.

Thirty-nine

James Talbot dropped two Alka-Seltzer into the glass of water and watched as they started to dissolve,

turning the liquid opaque, fizzing loudly. He watched bubbles rising to the top of the fluid, following their journey from the bottom of the glass to the surface with disproportionate fascination.

Across the table from him, William Rafferty watched his superior, noticing how pale he looked.

The other two men in the room didn’t seem to notice.

DC Stephen Longley was more concerned about the temperature in the room,

fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat and occasionally tugging at his shirt collar as he felt the heat building.

His companion, DC Colin Penhallow, was turning a cigarette lighter abstractedly between his thumb and forefinger, tapping it on a file which lay before him.

Talbot used the end of his pen to stir the Alka-Seltzer, licked the Biro dry and took a large swallow of the white fluid.

‘Rough night?’ Rafferty asked.

‘You could say that’ Talbot murmured, clambering to his feet and crossing to a nearby window, which he pushed open. The noise of traffic from below was loud, the stink of engine fumes strong, even three floors up. He closed the window again.

‘OK, fellas, what have you got?’ he said, turning to face his colleagues.

‘A little bit more than we knew a few days ago,’ said Penhallow. ‘But not much.’ He lit up a cigarette, watched almost longingly by Talbot who swigged from his glass again.

‘Thrill me,’ Talbot said, flatly.

‘It’s mostly background stuff, guv’ Penhallow said. ‘Upbringing, work, family life. That sort of shit.’

‘Anything to connect them?’ the DI wanted to know.

‘Now that is the interesting thing’ Penhallow continued.

Talbot drained what was left in the glass, grimaced and sat down, his gaze fixed on his colleague. ‘Don’t tell me, they all went to the same boarding school’ he said, a thin smile on his lips.

‘They’re all masons’ Longley chuckled.

‘I wouldn’t say that too loud around here’ Talbot reminded him, and all four men laughed.

‘They were all working on the same building project’ Penhallow announced, taking a drag on his cigarette. ‘There are some old warehouses near the West India Dock Pier, along Limehouse Reach. They’ve been empty for five or six years now. Somebody bought the warehouses and the land they stand on. It’s going to be a new development. Flats, that sort of stuff.’

‘More yuppie hideaways’ Rafferty added.

‘Do we know who bought the land?’ Talbot asked.

‘Believe it or not, it was a firm of accountants’ Penhallow informed him.

‘Morgan and Simons’ Rafferty elaborated. ‘The firm Peter Hyde worked for.’

‘Part of Hyde’s job was to cost out the project,’ Penhallow offered.

‘What about the houses nearby?’ Talbot enquired. ‘Had there been any complaints about this building project from local residents?’

‘None that we could find’ Rafferty replied.

‘So, how are Parriam and Jeffrey linked to this?’ Talbot enquired.

‘Jeffrey was a surveyor, right? Guess what he was working on when he topped himself?’ Rafferty said.

‘And Parriam had already designed two office blocks and fifteen different types of apartment that were to be built on that land once the warehouses were levelled’ Penhallow added.

‘There’s your link, guv’ Longley finished.

‘That still doesn’t explain why they all topped themselves’ Talbot said. ‘If they’d been murdered then I’d say let’s find out who didn’t want those warehouses being knocked down, find out who had a reason for wanting them dead, but it still doesn’t make any sense, does it?’

The policemen sat around in silence for a moment, the stillness finally broken by Talbot.

‘None of them was connected to anything to do with villains, were they? None of them taking backhanders from anybody who might run that manor or want a bit of the cream once those new flats were built?’

‘Backhanders?’ Longley chuckled. ‘They were in the building trade. How many honest builders do you know?’

The other men laughed.

‘You know what I mean’ the DI added, smiling.

‘Not a sniff of villainy with any one of them’ Rafferty told his superior. ‘If they’d smelled any sweeter you’d have seen them on a fucking perfume counter.’

Talbot rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Who stood to benefit by the three of them dying?’ he asked.

‘No one that we know of’ Longley responded.

‘And that’s the only link between the three of them, this building project?’ the DI continued. ‘Looks like we’re fucked.’

‘There was something else’ Rafferty told him. ‘And this is weird.’

Talbot turned to face his colleague.

‘In the two weeks leading up to their deaths, all three men reported having been burgled,’ Rafferty said. ‘Either their houses, their offices or their cars were turned over, but - this is the weird thing - nothing of any value was taken. None of the places was wrecked or even damaged. Whoever broke in knew exactly what they were looking for. They never touched TVs, videos, money, tapes, CDs. Nothing.’

Talbot frowned.

‘Someone went to the bother of breaking into Hyde’s, Parriam’s and Jeffrey’s’

Rafferty continued. ‘They could have cleaned them out. But, in each case, the only thing stolen was a photograph of the dead man.’

Forty

The ringing of the phone startled him.

Frank Reed heard the high-pitched tone and shook his head, as if to rouse himself from his stupor.

Lying on his sofa, feet up, he’d drifted in and out of sleep, his attention barely gripped by the programme on the television, which still glowed before him.

He swung himself upright and walked across to the small desk where the phone stood, alongside a pile of exercise books, which he knew he had to finish marking.

Later.

He picked up the phone, running a hand across his face as if that simple gesture would restore his alertness.

‘Hello’ he croaked, clearing his throat.

‘Frank.’

He didn’t recognise her voice at first.

‘Frank. It’s Ellen.’

He pressed the phone more tightly to his ear, gripping the receiver hard.

‘Ellen’ he said, finally. ‘What a pleasure.’

‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’

He sat down at the desk.

‘Well, if my own wife can’t disturb me, who can?’ Reed said, sardonically. ‘I suppose I should be grateful you found the time to fit me in.’

‘If you’re going to be a smart-arse, I’ll hang up now.’

‘And deprive me of your attention. No, please don’t do that.’

‘How are you keeping?’

‘As well as can be expected, and don’t make small-talk please, Ellen, it’s embarrassing. What do you want?’

‘I’ve been thinking about what you said. You’re right, we do need to talk.’

He swallowed hard.

‘About us?’ he asked.

‘About Becky. You’re right, she’s your daughter, you do have a right to see her. I spoke to Jonathan about it and-‘

‘Well, as long as Jonathan agrees that’s all right, isn’t it? She’s my daughter, Ellen, not his. I don’t want him making any decisions to do with her.’

‘Don’t dictate to me. He’s her father now.’

‘He’s not her father and he never will be,’ Reed snarled, angrily. ‘Just because you walked out on me for that bastard doesn’t mean he can ever take on my role in Becky’s life.’

‘Becky thinks a lot of him.’

Reed felt something like physical pain.

‘I suppose you’ve told her how wonderful he is, how good he makes you feel.

Have you got around to telling her how wonderful in bed he is yet?’

‘Look, Frank, I rang you because I wanted to do the right thing-‘

He cut her short, trying not to shout, but struggling.

‘Then leave Ward and come home,’ he said, angrily, gripping the receiver so tightly it seemed in danger of snapping.

‘My home is with Jonathan now, and so is Becky’s,’ she told him, defiantly.

Fucking bitch.

There was a long silence, finally broken by Reed.

‘So, what do you want?’

‘You want to see Becky, spend some time with her. That’s fine. How about this weekend?’

He swallowed hard, not daring to believe what he’d heard.

‘Jonathan and I are going away for a couple of days and I thought-‘

He interrupted. ‘You needed a babysitter, is that it?’ he snapped. ‘You want me to babysit my own daughter while you and lover boy fuck off somewhere, right?’

‘You either want to see her or you don’t, Frank.’

‘You know I want to see her.’

‘So you’ll take her this weekend?’

‘And that’s it? One weekend, because it’s convenient for you? What about after that, Ellen? What about every weekend? What’s wrong with that? Or does Jonathan have plans for Becky?’

‘If you take her this weekend we’ll see about you having her on a more regular basis.’

‘Not just when it suits you,’ he spat.

‘Will you do it this weekend?’

‘Of course I will.’

‘I’ll drop her off on Saturday morning.’

‘You can remember how to get here, can you?’ he asked, acidly.

‘Just leave it, Frank.’

‘And don’t bring lover boy with you when you drop Becky.’

‘Jonathan’s busy in the morning anyway.’

‘I’ll bet he is.’

‘I’ll be round about ten.’

‘I’ll be waiting.’

‘I thought you might have had the decency to thank me,’ Ellen told him.

It was all Reed could do to prevent himself slamming down the phone.

‘Ten o’clock Saturday morning,’ he said through gritted teeth, then slipped the phone back onto its cradle, staring down at it.

He didn’t know whether to jump for joy or punch a hole in the wall.

Forty-one

The pain was deep in her belly.

Shanine Connor knew that it wasn’t hunger. She had come to recognise, only too well, that gnawing discomfort.

This was stronger, more intense.

It felt as if someone had wrapped a red hot band around her stomach and was slowly tightening it.

She groaned loudly and clutched at her belly, running her hands over it as if to soothe the pain, but it didn’t help.

It had woken her, dragged her from her fitful sleep, and now, huddled in the doorway of an empty shop on the Strand, she curled up into a foetal position, hugging her knees, eyes tightly closed.

Perhaps if she stood up …

She struggled slowly to her feet, the pain intensifying and, for a moment, she thought she was going to faint.

A car passed by, the driver glancing at her as the vehicle was forced to stop at a set of traffic lights.

It was just after two in the morning; there were few vehicles on the road now.

The continual stream of traffic had slowed just after one and now was virtually a trickle. Late-night revellers and tourists were probably safely tucked up in bed by now.

Jesus, what she wouldn’t give for a bed. For a proper night’s rest.

Shanine walked a couple of yards, one hand pressed to her belly, still watched by the lone driver waiting at the lights. She was a convenient diversion for him while he waited for the green light to come, which it finally did. He drove off without a second glance, leaving her to her pain.

She walked another few steps, passing a huddled shape in another doorway, unable to see if it was human or not. It looked as if someone had hurled a pile of dirty clothes into one corner of the shop doorway.

It moved slightly as she passed, and Shanine heard what sounded like low, guttural snoring.

She paused before the shape.

Should she ask for help? Should she shake this untidy bundle and see what lay beneath?

She decided against it, taking another few paces instead, the pain still intense.

Shanine was trying to control her breathing, panic beginning to set in as the spasms showed no signs of abating. She kept her hands clapped firmly to her belly then turned and walked back down the street towards her own sheltering doorway.

Again she swayed uncertainly, fearing she would faint, but she kept a grip on consciousness and shot out a hand to support herself, mouthing words silently to herself as she stood there.

The pain receded slightly and Shanine swallowed, hardly daring to believe that it might leave her, but as she walked tentatively back and forth in front of the shop doorway she realised that the spasms were indeed lessening in ferocity.

She sucked in a deep breath, taking the stale, grimy air deep into her lungs.

She rubbed her stomach and sat down again, pulling the holdall nearer to her, as if it were a long-lost friend. The only friend she had.

The pain had all but gone now and she lay back, eyes closed.

Shanine slid a hand down the front of her leggings, inside her knickers, withdrawing it hastily, her heart pounding faster again when she felt moisture there. She lifted her palm, terrified of seeing a dark stain but she saw only glistening perspiration.

No blood.

The pain hadn’t been what she had feared.

She massaged her belly gently.

No blood.

She smiled.

As far as she knew, the baby she carried was still safe.

Forty-two

He didn’t sleep because with sleep came dreams.

Those dreams.

Talbot stood in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil, coffee already spooned into his mug.

He stood silently, watching as the gas flame flickered beneath the kettle, blue tongues lapping at the metal above.

So, what are you going to do? Stay awake all night?

Every night?

He knew he couldn’t run.

How can you run from something inside your own head?

Talbot knew he couldn’t run, but he could at least hide occasionally. By drinking. By stopping the intrusion of dreams.

The DI turned and walked into the sitting room, glancing down at the files that were scattered haphazardly over his sofa and coffee table.

There were photos on the front covers of each.

Peter Hyde.

Neil Parriam.

Craig Jeffrey.

All dead.

Lucky bastards.

And yet, what had they had to run from? Talbot mused. Why had they found it so easy to take their own lives, when he continued to survive, continued to live with the pain.

They were braver than you.

He wandered back into the kitchen, saw that the kettle was boiling. Talbot lifted it clear of the gas flame, but didn’t turn off the burner, his gaze drawn to it like a moth to bright light.

They escaped. Why can’t you ?

He stared at the gas flame until it hurt his eyes. Then, slowly, he passed his hand through it.

The hairs on the back of his hand shrivelled immediately and he felt a stab of pain but Talbot kept his hand there a moment longer, teeth gritted.

Have you got the guts ?

He could smell the flesh on the palm of his hand beginning to burn, the skin seared by the flame.

He pulled his hand away, his breath coming in gasps.

Talbot held the reddened palm before him, inspecting the damage, seeing the blisters which were already beginning to form.

For interminable seconds he gazed at the hand then, with a shout, he slammed it down on the worktop. ‘Fuck!’ he roared at the top of his voice.

He sagged against the sink.

‘Fuck it’ he whispered. ‘Fuck it.’

The gas flame still flickered.

‘I would never ordinarily have dreamed of calling you at this time in the morning,’ said the Reverend Colin Patterson. ‘But I thought you had to see this.’

Cath Reed pulled her jacket more tightly around her and walked alongside the clergyman, her trainers crunching on the gravel of the pathway which led to the church.

‘You didn’t disturb me, I was working,’ she told him, but the clergyman seemed not to hear her.

The church loomed above them, large and imposing, the night closed around it like a black glove.

Glancing around, Cath could see the odd light in houses near the cemetery but, apart from the torch Patterson carried, they were immersed in blackness.

‘I don’t know what woke me,’ Patterson told her as they drew nearer to the church. ‘Some kind of noise perhaps. I looked out and saw that the chains on the cemetery gates had been pulled off. I ran straight across here.’

‘Where from?’

‘I have a small house across the road,’ he explained. ‘It goes with the job.’

‘Did you call the police?’

‘No, I called you first.’

Patterson stopped in his tracks and shone the torch at the main doors of the church.

‘Oh God’ Cath murmured, her stomach contracting.

The cat had been decapitated, the head lay close to the door in a spreading pool of blood.

The body of the creature had been nailed to the heavy oak doors of the church, a large metal spike driven through each of its four paws.

Cath noticed that the body was upside down, the stump of the neck facing the ground, still dripping blood onto the gravel.

Patterson held the torch beam steady, allowing her to inspect every inch of the dead feline.

There was a slit which ran from its breast bone to its genitals, the stomach walls pulled open, the intestines hanging freely like the bloated tentacles of some bloodied octopus.

‘Shit’ she murmured, reaching into her jacket and pulling out the pocket camera.

As Patterson held the torch, Cath began taking pictures.

Forty-three

Talbot pressed hard on the buzzer of Flat 5b, Number 23 Queens Gardens, keeping the digit so firmly against the button that the tip of his finger began to turn white.

The building, like the rest of the road, was in darkness apart from a light which burned brightly in the covered porchway.

Talbot looked up at it and winced.

Fucking thing.

It hurt his eyes.

He heard a crackle and then a voice from the speaker on the wall next to the panel of buttons.

‘Who is it?’ said the voice, a little uncertainly.

‘Open the fucking door,’ Talbot rasped back into the other speaker, pressing his face close to it.

There was a moment’s silence.

‘Come on, Gina, for Christ’s sake, open the door,’ Talbot said again.

‘Talbot?’ said the voice on the other end. ‘What the hell-?’

‘Open it,’ he persisted.

There was a loud buzzing sound followed by a metallic click and the policeman pushed against the front door, which swung open to admit him.

He stood motionless in the spacious hallway for a moment, looking around at the closed doors of the other flats, then he headed for the stairs, thudding up them with almost purposely loud steps.

Gina Bishop appeared in the doorway of Flat 5b, her blonde hair unkempt, her body covered by a short white towelling robe.

Talbot smiled at her but found the gesture wasn’t reciprocated.

As he stepped past her into the flat he ran one hand over the soft material of the robe.

‘Calvin Klein?’ he said, haughtily.

She shot him an angry glance.

‘What the hell is all this about?’ she cried. ‘It’s two-thirty in the morning.’

Talbot sat down on the sofa and lay back, eyes closed.

‘You’ve been drinking,’ Gina said.

‘Brilliant deduction.’

‘How did you get here?’

‘I drove. Did you think I fucking walked all the way from north London? Good job I didn’t get stopped by the police, wasn’t it?’ He cracked out laughing.

‘You’re drunk.’

‘Not yet, but if you’re offering I’ll have a whiskey.’

Gina hesitated a moment then crossed the sitting room to a drinks cabinet. She took out a bottle of Scotch and a glass and walked back to Talbot, handing them both to him.

‘Here’ she muttered. ‘You might as well finish the job.’

She watched as he poured himself a large measure and swallowed most of it in one gulp.

‘Not joining me?’ he asked, watching as she sat down on the seat opposite, pulling the robe around her as best she could.

She crossed her arms, covering her chest even more.

‘A sudden attack of modesty?’ chided Talbot. ‘Surely not.’

‘Look, Talbot, just finish your drink, do whatever you came here to do and fuck off, will you?’

‘You know, you’re not the best hostess sometimes, Gina.’

He poured himself another drink. ‘Did I interrupt something?’

She shook her head.

‘You weren’t entertaining, then?’ he asked.

‘I got back about an hour ago.’

‘Busy night?’

‘What do you care?’

‘Perhaps I’m interested. Perhaps I want to know what you did. Who you did it with!’

‘What are you going to do? Arrest me?’

‘If I wanted to do that I’d have done it five years ago.’

‘Sometimes I wish you had. At least it might have got you off my bloody back.’

‘An unfortunate turn of phrase,’ he grinned. ‘Just remember, it’s only because of me that you haven’t been pulled in before now. The only reason you’re out there doing business every night is down to me.’

‘Am I supposed to be grateful for that? I keep up my end of the bargain, don’t I? You always get what you want.’

He poured himself another drink and glanced around the room, his gaze drawn to a photograph on top of the stack system. The DI got to his feet and crossed to it.

‘Who’s that?’ he asked, indicating the picture.

‘My mum and dad.’

‘Are they still married?’

Gina looked puzzled. ‘Yes. Why?’

Talbot ignored the question.

‘You look like your mum,’ he said softly, touching the photo with the tip of his finger. Then his tone changed. Hardened. ‘Do they know what you do for a living?’

She snorted incredulously. ‘Oh, yeah, of course they do, Talbot. The first thing I did was tell them I’d left the escort business and become a call girl.

What do you think?’

‘So, what do they think you are? They must have seen this place. They’d know you couldn’t live in a flat in Bayswater on a shop assistant’s wages. What do they think you do? Air hostess? Brain surgeon?’

‘They think I work in a PR company.’

He laughed.

‘PR. Prick relief,’ he snorted. ‘Very appropriate.’

Gina got to her feet, her expression darkening.

‘Look, I know what you came here for’ she snapped. ‘So just get it over with.

This is what you want, isn’t it.’

As Talbot watched she pulled at the cord around her waist and opened her robe, shrugging it from her shoulders, allowing it to drop to the floor. She stepped away from it and stood naked before him, watching as his eyes flickered back and forth, his gaze passing from her small, rounded breasts, down her smooth belly to the small triangle of light hair between her slim legs.

‘Well’ she said, sitting down again, lying back in the chair, one hand brushing the hair away from her face. ‘Come on.’

Talbot took a step towards her.

‘Do you need some help?’ she asked, allowing her right hand to glide over her breasts, her thumb scraping across one nipple. She used the nail delicately, rubbing until it rose into a stiffened bud.

Talbot watched impassively, the whiskey tumbler still in his hand.

‘Still nothing?’ she said, scathingly. ‘Does this help?’

He watched as she slid both hands down to her softly curled pubic hair, the index finger of her left hand tracing featherlight patterns across the mound.

She moved one leg so that it was dangling over the arm of the chair, and simultaneously she pushed her right middle finger into her mouth, drawing it glistening from that warm refuge. Using the slippery digit, she drew the gleaming saliva over her cleft, rotating it gently.

Talbot took another step towards her, looking down at her, at that finger.

‘Do you just want to watch me tonight?’ she purred.

Talbot stooped, picked up the robe and dropped it on her. ‘Put it on,’ he said, turning his back on her.

She pulled on the robe, fastening it haphazardly.

‘If you don’t want that, what the hell do you want?’

He sat down opposite her, head bowed. ‘I just wanted to talk,’ he said, wearily.

‘Talk about what?’ Gina snapped. ‘Talk dirty? Is that what you want tonight?’ She dropped to the floor, crawled across to him and placed one hand on his thigh, looking up into his face. ‘I’ll talk dirty for you, baby. I’ll get you hard, I’ll make you feel so good. I’ll make you come.

It’ll feel great. My mouth on your cock, so soft. Sucking. Licking. Until you come in my …’

He grabbed her hand, pulled her upright so that her face was inches from his.

‘I just want to talk to somebody,’ he snarled, pushing her away.

His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Just talk’ he murmured, and when he looked at her she saw there were tears in his eyes.

He put down his glass and got to his feet.

She saw that he was heading for the door.

‘Talbot, wait’ she called.

He was already turning the door handle.

‘Thanks for the drink’ he said quietly, then stepped out, shutting the door behind him.

She heard his footfalls on the stairs. Receding.

‘Fucking idiot’ she hissed.

She heard the front door slam.

He was gone.

Forty-four

The relative silence of the classroom was broken by a muffled yelp of pain.

It was followed by several muted giggles.

Frank Reed looked up from the book he was reading and surveyed the faces before him, or rather the tops of heads. Most of the classroom occupants were hunched over sheets of paper, hurriedly scribbling down the passage in one of their text books which he’d instructed them to copy.

He looked in the direction of the yelp and the giggles but saw nothing to alert him. Hiding a smile, he paused a moment to run an appraising gaze over his wards before continuing with his own reading.

Paul O’Brian was seated at the back of the room again, head bent so low over his desk it looked as if his forehead was resting on the wooden top.

Reed watched him for a few minutes before returning his attention to his book.

There was a loud snapping sound.

Another yelp.

More giggling.

Reed caught the slightest hint of movement out of his eye corner.

He saw one of the boys towards the back of the class turn around, saw another flick a rubber band at him.

‘Right, that’s enough,’ the teacher said, jabbing a finger towards the culprits. ‘If you want to indulge in target practice, don’t do it in my time’

he told the lad with the rubber band.

‘Sorry, Mr Reed,’ the lad said, humbly, returning to his book.

Other eyes turned in his direction. More giggles.

‘All right,’ Reed told the class. ‘The cabaret is over, get back to work.’

He noticed that Paul O’Brian hadn’t taken much interest in the disturbance. In fact, the boy hadn’t even raised his head.

And yet, he didn’t seem to be writing.

His head was still bent low over his desk, the pen still gripped in his hand.

His forehead was on the desktop.

It took Reed a second or two to realise that O’Brian wasn’t moving at all.

The teacher hurried from behind his desk and towards the back of the classroom, other eyes turning to watch.

Reed’s only concern was O’Brian.

As he drew closer he could see how pale the boy’s skin was.

His eyes were closed.

‘Paul,’ Reed said, gripping the boy’s shoulder.

He didn’t stir.

Reed squeezed harder, sucking in a deep breath as O’Brian slid to one side.

Reed managed to catch him before he slid off the chair, scooping him up into his arms, holding him as if he were some kind of lifeless doll.

The rest of the class had turned their attention fully to the scene at the back of the room now. They looked on as Reed held the boy, looking down at his milk-white face.

There were scratches on his neck. They stood out vividly against the whiteness of his skin.

‘Gary, Mark’ Reed snapped, nodding towards two boys near the front of the class. ‘Run along to Mrs Trencher now, tell her that Paul’s ill and that I’m bringing him along immediately. Go on.’

The two boys didn’t need to be told twice, both scooting to their feet and hurtling out of the door. Reed heard their footsteps pounding away up the corridor as he advanced through the rows of desks, carrying his limp cargo.

Is he dead?’ a voice called.

Reed looked down at Paul O’Brian’s gaunt face.

And the scratches.

‘No, he’s not dead,’ Reed replied, reaching the door. ‘You all just get on with your work until I get back.’

He headed out into the corridor, carrying the frail form of the boy with little difficulty. So little that he found he could run.

The school nurse’s office was about a hundred yards away but Reed sprinted along with his unconscious cargo.

O’Brian hadn’t stirred.

Reed ran a little faster.

Speed suddenly seemed important.

Forty-five

‘What happened to him?’ asked Amy Trencher, removing the cuff of the sphygmomanometer from Paul O’Brian’s arm with a sound resembling ripping fabric.

‘I haven’t got a clue’ Reed told her, looking down at the boy who was semi-conscious now, his eyes flickering open every few seconds. ‘He passed out. Blacked out. I don’t know.’

‘His blood pressure is low,’ the nurse told Reed. ‘I’d better listen to his heart.’

Reed watched as she began to undo the buttons of the boy’s shirt, gradually easing back the material on both sides.

‘Jesus,’ whispered Reed, his eyes fixed on the boy’s torso.

It was criss-crossed in several places by long, red marks.

Weals.

Scars, he noted, across the belly and close to the shoulders.

Amy hesitated a moment then pressed the stethoscope to O’Brian’s chest.

Reed also moved closer, running his gaze over the emaciated body. O’Brian’s ribs pressed so insistently against his pale flesh it seemed they must tear through the thin covering.

The boy stirred slightly, as if embarrassed by his own condition, and he pulled at one side of his shirt with a thin hand.

The nurse helped the boy to sit up, slipping the shirt from him.

There were more marks on his back, some of them vivid red against the pallidity of the skin.

Amy pressed the stethoscope to his back in several places, her brow furrowed.

Again Reed stepped closer to get a better look at the marks, reaching out to touch a dark line running from shoulder blade to lumbar region.

He felt the hard, coarse surface of a scar.

Amy was shining a pen-light at the boy’s eyes, watching as his pupils dilated and contracted with each flash of light.

‘Paul’ she said, softly. ‘We’re going to have to take you to hospital, do you understand?’

It was as if the boy had suddenly been hit by a 25,000-volt cable.

He leaped to his feet, pulling his shirt back on, anxious to cover his body, his eyes wide and staring.

‘No,’ he said, pleadingly. ‘Please. I’m all right.’

‘I want a doctor to take a look at you,’ Amy said, trying to slip an arm around him.

He pulled away violently, crashing into a trolley, overturning it.

It struck the floor, the instruments which had been laid upon it scattering over the tiles.

O’Brian backed into a corner.

‘Leave me alone,’ he said, his eyes filling with tears.

Reed took a step towards him.

‘We just want to help you, Paul,’ the teacher assured him, extending a hand.

The boy drew back even further.

‘Who did this to you?’ Reed asked.

O’Brian was panting madly, his eyes bulging wildly in their sockets as he looked anxiously from the teacher to the nurse.

‘Don’t call a doctor, please,’ he implored.

‘Why not?” Reed asked. ‘They’ll help you.’

‘No. I mustn’t tell’

‘Tell what?’ Reed asked. ‘Tell who did this to you?’

The boy was buttoning his shirt with one hand, keeping the other before him to ward off the teacher.

Reed saw bruises on the boy’s wrist. More red weals.

‘Have you been told not to tell who did this?’ the teacher persisted, taking a step back.

‘Don’t get a doctor, please,’ the boy repeated.

Reed sat down on the nearest chair, trying to keep the tone of his voice as low as he could.

‘Who told you not to tell, Paul?’ he asked, softly. ‘What do you think will happen if you do?’

O’Brian was quivering uncontrollably now, his eyes still bulging as he looked from the teacher to the nurse and back again.

Reed saw tears begin to trickle down his cheeks. ‘They told me not to tell’ he stammered.

‘Who?’ Reed demanded.

‘Please’ O’Brian sobbed.

‘Were you told something would happen to you if you told, Paul?’ Reed persisted.

The boy wiped his eyes with the back of one shaking hand.

‘Did someone threaten you?’

No answer.

‘Did the people who did this to you threaten to hurt you if you told?’ the teacher coaxed.

Amy looked at Reed, mesmerised by the tableau unfolding before her.

‘Did your mum or dad do this?’ Reed asked, his voice even.

‘They said they’d kill them’ O’Brian blurted, his body shaking uncontrollably.

‘Who? Your parents? Someone threatened to kill your parents if you told what happened? Is that it?’ Reed asked, swallowing hard.

Take it easy. Be patient.

He held out a hand to the boy, beckoning gently.

‘Just take your time, Paul’ Reed said, softly, his hand still extended. ‘We just want to help you.’

Reed got to his feet and took a step forward.

O’Brian pushed himself more tightly to the wall, tears now streaming freely down his cheeks. ‘Please don’t tell anyone’ he pleaded, his voice cracking.

‘I’m not going to’ Reed assured him. ‘I just want you to tell me who did this to you. Did someone hit you?’

O’Brian looked at the extended hand. ‘They said they’d kill my mum and dad’ he repeated.

‘So it wasn’t your parents who did this to you?’ Reed asked.

No answer.

He could almost touch the boy now.

Another step.

‘I can’t remember’ the boy said, weakly.

Reed reached out and clasped his hand gently. It felt so frail. So cold.

O’Brian suddenly ran to him, wrapped his arms around Reed’s waist, and the teacher felt the boy sobbing hysterically into his midriff. He closed his arms around the thin form and held on.

‘It’s OK’ he whispered. ‘No one’s going to hurt you now.’

‘They’ll kill my mum and dad and my sisters’ O’Brian blurted. He suddenly looked up into Reed’s face, his eyes wide and bulging.

‘Please help us’ he wailed, then buried his head in Reed’s comforting arms once again, his body shaking madly.

Reed looked at Amy.

‘Fetch Hardy’ he said, softly. ‘I want him to see this.’

Forty-six

‘Fucking garbage’ snorted Talbot, dropping his copy of the Express onto the table.

Rafferty looked up from his own paper and glanced first at his superior, then at the newspaper which was folded open at the centre pages.

Talbot took a sip of his coffee and ran both hands over his face.

He felt the perspiration on his skin, and when he looked at Rafferty it was through eyes rimmed vividly red, the whites criss-crossed by dozens of blood vessels.

Sleep had eluded him for most of the previous night. Two or three hours of oblivion at most had come to him. He’d been up since five, standing beneath the shower trying to reactivate his mind as well as his body. Now, five hours later, he felt as if someone had spent the night systematically beating him about the head with a plank of wood.

Too much whiskey usually had that effect.

The cafe in Charing Cross Road was empty but for himself and Rafferty, both men sitting at a corner table, Talbot periodically gazing out into the street at the passers-by.

So many faces.

‘Read that shit’ the DI said disdainfully, pushing the folded up paper towards his colleague.

Rafferty scanned the words, glancing too at the photos which accompanied the piece.

Talbot took another swig of coffee as he sat watching Rafferty who finally looked across at him.

‘What’s the problem, Jim?’ he asked.

‘See who wrote it?’ Talbot said, irritably. He jabbed a finger at the name.

‘That stupid cow I spoke to at Euston the day Hyde topped himself. Remember?’

Rafferty nodded.

‘She says it’s been going on for a while’ the DS offered. ‘Those pictures seem to back her up.’

‘Do you believe it, Bill?’ Talbot wanted to know.

Rafferty shrugged.

‘She’s just shit-stirring again’ Talbot said before his colleague had time to answer. ‘Catherine fucking Reed.’ He pushed the paper away from him.

The headline blared from the centre spread, photos of the desecrated graves and crypt at Croydon Cemetery adding silent weight to the large black letters which screamed across the two pages: VANDALISM OR SATANISM?

‘Do you think they’ll talk?’ asked Terry Nicholls, scratching his head with the end of a pencil.

‘I don’t know’ Cath told him, shifting position in her seat. ‘My brother didn’t say what they were like.’

‘Your brother knows them?’

‘Their son attends the school where he teaches.’

‘You’re going to have to be careful, Cath’ the editor told her. ‘Now this story’s broken, every paper in the country is going to be crawling over it. I don’t want anyone else getting info we don’t have. This is your story, you make sure you follow it up. We should be able to run features on this for the next week or so. Find out what the other families think, too. Speak to the O’Brians, by all means, find out how they feel about their daughter’s grave being desecrated, but speak to the other families it happened to as well. If they won’t talk to you, then speak to their neighbours, their relatives, anyone who might be able to tell you more.’

Cath nodded slowly.

Nicholls tapped the paper on his desk.

‘This is good stuff,’ he said, smiling. ‘Get some more.’

Cath grinned and got to her feet.

When the pigeons took off it sounded like the applause of a thousand invisible hands.

Shanine Connor sat on the bench in Trafalgar Square and watched the birds rise into the clear blue sky.

However, for every one that had left there seemed to be two more in its place.

The entire pavement seemed to be alive with them. She sat watching them as they strutted back and forth in front of her, heads bobbing back and forth, bright eyes occasionally looking up at her as if to ask for food.

Christ, she barely had enough to feed herself.

The man seated on the bench next to her was flicking through his copy of the Express, impressed neither by Shanine’s close proximity nor by the mass of pigeons all around.

He was dressed in trousers and a shirt and tie, and Shanine thought how hot he looked.

She watched as a bead of perspiration popped onto his forehead, then ran down his nose.

She suppressed a chuckle and glanced at his paper.

The word struck her like a hammer.

He had the paper open at the centre pages.

Shanine edged closer to him, trying to read over his shoulder.

She could see the photos from where she sat. She could make out the headline, but the rest of the piece was a blur to her.

The man scanned the story quickly and turned the page.

Shanine felt like grabbing the paper from him, telling him she wanted to read the story that covered the middle pages. Instead, she just sat looking at him, turning away quickly when he glanced in her direction.

She gripped the holdall closer to her, eyes fixed on two pigeons close by pecking at discarded fruit where someone had missed the nearby wastebin.

Wasps buzzed frenziedly around the bin, the sound of their wings a constant accompaniment to the noise of the pigeons and the more powerful sound of traffic passing by.

The man glanced at his watch and got to his feet.

Shanine watched as he rolled the paper into a funnel, then stuck it into the wastebin, heading off across the square, scattering birds in his wake.

She pulled the paper from the bin and tore it open at the centre pages.

Despite the warmth of the day, as she read, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck begin to rise.

Forty-seven

‘You saw that boy’ snapped Frank Reed. ‘You saw what had been done to him. You must call the police.’

Noel Hardy sat forward in his chair, hands clasped together as if in prayer.

He was a short man and the large desk which bore his nameplate seemed to dwarf him even further. Reed had sometimes wondered if the furniture in the school had been designed to suit the importance of the person who sat behind it.

Predictably, as Headmaster, Hardy sat behind a desk of almost ludicrously oversized proportions. For a man of fifty-five he looked remarkably sprightly, the only flecks of grey visible on him being in his eyebrows which hovered

like bloated furry caterpillars above his dark brown eyes: eyes which now seemed to be gazing into space as if seeking some kind of answer.

As he looked across his office, his stare focusing on the vase of fresh flowers on a table near the door, he was aware of Reed leaning on the front of the desk.

Hardy could hear the younger man breathing.

‘Come on,’ Reed said, irritably. ‘Why wait any longer?’

‘It’s not that easy, Frank,’ Hardy said, finally, blinking hard. The spell, it seemed, was broken. ‘We have no proof.’

‘You saw the marks on his body. He didn’t do that to himself. That kid is terrified. God alone knows what he’s been through. The only way to help him is to call the police. They have to find out what’s been done to him.’

‘There are other considerations.’

‘Such as?’

Hardy lowered his gaze again.

‘The publicity’ he said, sheepishly. ‘This kind of thing could reflect badly on the school.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Reed snapped, exasperatedly. ‘There’s a kid here that’s been beaten, possibly by his parents. Not just slapped around but badly abused physically and mentally. You don’t have to be a bloody social worker to see that. And all you’re worried about is the reputation of the school. What matters more to you, Noel? The state of St Michael’s or the well being of its pupils? So what if it does attract some publicity? Good. It might stop some more kids from being mistreated.’

‘What makes you think there are others?’ Hardy wanted to know.

‘Ask Judith Nelson. She’s seen one of her girls in more or less the same state.’

‘Which girl?’

‘Annette Hilston. She lives about two streets away from the O’Brian boy.’

‘So what do you want me to do? Have every home in that area investigated, just in case the children there might be in danger?’ Hardy glared at his assistant.

‘Frank, you’re a parent yourself, how would you feel if someone started yelling abuser at you? If they accused you of harming your child?’

‘If my daughter looked and behaved the way Paul O’Brian does then they’d have every right to accuse me, because the chances are they’d be right. That boy needs

our help, Noel, and the only way he’s going to get it is by you calling the police. Now.’

Hardy got to his feet and crossed to his window. It looked out over part of the school playground. He could see children out there now, some standing around in groups talking, others running about. Some boys were kicking a football against the wall opposite.

There were a number of houseplants on the window sill and, as he stood there, Hardy gently stroked the smooth leaves of a spider plant.

‘You say you’ve seen injuries on another pupil too?’ the Headmaster said, quietly.

‘I haven’t but, like I said, Judith Nelson said she had. Call her in if you want to.’

Hardy shook his head slowly, his back still to Reed. ‘There are serious ramifications for everyone concerned if your allegations are right or wrong, Frank’ he said, still gently stroking the plant leaves.

‘I realise that. But I’m prepared to take that chance.’ Hardy turned to face him. ‘Yes, you’re prepared,’ he snapped. ‘I’m not sure I am. As I said, perhaps, if we had more proof.’

‘Come on, for Christ’s sake! What are you going to do? Wait until a child is killed? Will that be proof enough for you?’ Reed pushed the phone angrily towards his colleague. ‘Call the police, Noel.’

Hardy held up a hand as if to silence Reed. ‘Assuming you’re right’ he said, returning to his desk. ‘What will the police do? Visit the boy’s family? Ask a

few questions? If they find nothing to support your allegations then you could make it worse not just for the school but for the boy himself. Perhaps you haven’t considered him, Frank.’

‘He’s my only bloody consideration’ Reed snapped.

‘We’re not responsible for those children once they’re outside our care’ Hardy said, defensively.

‘So what do we do? Turn our backs on them when they need help?’ Reed demanded.

‘That boy needs help. You know that. We’re the only ones who can give it to him.’

The two men stared at each other in silence for what seemed like an eternity.

It was Reed who finally spoke again.

‘Call the police, Noel’ he said, pushing the phone nearer to the Headmaster.

The older man glanced at the phone.

Reed kept his gaze fixed upon him.

Hardy looked at him, his face pale.

‘And if you’re wrong?’ he said, the words hanging in the air.

Reed pushed the phone a little closer.

‘Call the police, Noel’ he said, quietly.

Forty-eight

All Phillip Cross saw when he answered the door of his flat was the bottle of Moet et Chandon dangling before him, gripped by two slender fingers.

The photographer smiled even more broadly as Catherine Reed stepped into view, clasping the bottle to her as if it were a child.

‘Peace offering,’ she said, indicating the champagne.

Cross ran appraising eyes over her, over the long dark hair, which he could smell: freshly washed. There was a vibrance to her features which he’d not seen for a while. If he’d harboured any thoughts of giving her a hard time they vanished quickly. She remained before him in the doorway and crossed one shapely leg in front of the other, the split in her skirt opening to reveal the smooth skin beneath. She raised her eyebrows quizzically.

‘Come in’ Cross said, chuckling, stepping aside as he ushered her into the flat.

Cath put down the bottle and wrapped her arms around him, feeling his lips press urgently against hers, his tongue probing beyond the hard edges of her teeth. She responded fiercely, pulling him more tightly to her.

When they finally separated, it was Cross who spoke first.

‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he asked, grinning. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’

She shrugged and sat down on the sofa, kicking off her shoes, drawing her legs up beneath her, watching as he retreated to the kitchen to fetch a couple of glasses. He returned a moment later with two large tumblers, blowing in one to remove the dust.

Cath watched him as he uncorked the champagne and poured some into each of the tumblers. She smiled.

‘That’s really classy, Phil’ she chuckled as he passed her the glass.

He raised his own glass and tapped it gently against hers. They both drank.

‘You still haven’t told me why,’ Cross said, sitting beside her, snaking one arm around her shoulder.

Cath shrugged. ‘I’ve been working hard lately. I think I’ve been a bit of a bitch to you.’

‘I’d like to argue with you but I can’t’ he said, smiling as she punched him playfully on the arm.

‘I haven’t meant to be,’ she persisted. ‘But this story I’m working on is big.’ She sipped her champagne. ‘It’s important to me, Phil.’

‘You didn’t come round here to tell me how much your career means to you, did you? I already know that. I’ve never wanted you to change the way you think about your work; I know how much it means to you. I just don’t see why I have to be separate from it. We are in the same business, after all.’

‘Feeling left out, were you?’ she chided, pulling at his cheek.

His smile faded and he caught her face in his hand, holding her there, gazing

into her eyes.

‘I miss you when I can’t see you’ Cross said, quietly. ‘I like being around you, Cath.’

He ran his hand through her hair, then gently stroked the back of her neck, kneading the flesh there between his thumb and forefinger.

‘I don’t want to talk about work tonight’ she said, softly, sliding closer to him.

‘Good, that makes a change. What do you want to talk about?’

She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. ‘I don’t want to talk’ she murmured, leaning forward, kissing him hard on the lips, one hand fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

He felt her slim fingers gliding across his chest, his own hand slipping down to her thigh, stroking gently, pushing up beneath the material of her skirt, moving higher.

His fingers brushed something smooth, soft.

Cross realised with delight that it was her gently curled pubic hair.

He pulled back slightly, smiling.

Cath grinned at his reaction.

‘So,’ he said, his breathing now more rapid. ‘What time are you leaving me tonight?’

She leaned back, fumbling inside her handbag, pulling something free that she held up before him.

They both began to laugh.

Cath was brandishing a toothbrush between her fingers.

Talbot slumped wearily in the chair, head back, eyes closed.

The silence inside the house was, as usual, oppressive, and he thought about switching on the television just to shatter the solitude but, finally, he decided against it.

The DI poured himself a whiskey, then sat back down, rolling the tumbler between his palms, gazing down into the soothing fluid as if seeking some answers in the bottom of the glass.

Fucking bitch.

He’d tried the Grosvenor House, The Dorchester and the Hilton. He’d even wandered around to the Park Lane Hotel, taking a drink in each of their bars before driving to number 23 Queens Gardens.

There had been no answer there either from Flat 5b.

Gina Bishop was nowhere to be found.

Bitch.

He snatched up the phone and tried her number.

It rang twice, then the metallic whine of her answering machine began: ‘Hi.

I’m not here now, but if…’

Talbot pressed down on the cradle, waited a moment then dialled another number.

Her mobile.

Ringing.

‘Come on,’ he whispered.

Then a voice.

‘The Vodaphone number you have dialled is not in use …’

‘Fuck!’ he snarled and slammed the receiver down.

Mind you, if she was with a client she wouldn’t have the bloody thing turned on, would she?

Fucking bitch.

He took a hefty swallow from the glass, then dialled again, her home number this time, waiting for the message to end, for the long beep to signal he should start talking.

He heard it and tried to speak but found he couldn’t say the words.

The tape was recording silence at the other end.

He pressed the receiver hard to his ear, his eyes closed.

Say something.

Tell her to call you. Tell her you’ll meet her somewhere.

He gripped the handset more tightly.

‘Gina,’ he said, finally then he heard another long beep.

Time up.

‘Fucking bastard!’ he roared at the phone, at the answering machine.

At himself?

He dropped the phone back onto its cradle and got to his feet, refilling his glass.

And if she’d answered, what would you have said to her?

He glared at the phone.

He needed to talk to her.

To anyone.

Talbot walked back to the phone and dialled again.

PART TWO

.. . Let me show you how I love you. It’s our secret, you and me. Let me show you how I love you, But keep it in the family…

Megadeth

.. . The sleeping and the dead

Are but as pictures; ‘tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted Devil.

Macbeth, Scene II, Act II

Forty-nine

He thought he’d wet himself.

Doug O’Brian rolled over in bed and slid a hand down towards his groin, his eyes half open, his head still clouded.

He felt no moisture, just the wrinkled skin of his scrotum. O’Brian also touched his penis.

Checking.

He must have been dreaming.

Only then did he become aware of the pressure inside his bladder.

No wonder he’d dreamed he’d pissed himself.

He swung himself quickly out of bed, pulled the cord of his pyjama bottoms tighter and headed for the bedroom door.

Half-way across he tripped on one of his own discarded shoes and almost overbalanced.

He muttered something under his breath and kicked the offending article out of the way, tugging open the bedroom door, his haste to reach the toilet now increased.

The floorboards on the landing creaked protestingly as he crossed, past two other closed doors and another to his right which was slightly ajar.

He peered in and saw two of his children sleeping, one of them hanging precariously close to the edge of the top bunk.

O’Brian thought about tiptoeing in and pushing the child back, but his desire to empty his bursting bladder proved too strong.

The window on the landing was letting in the first, dirty rays of dawn and O’Brian squinted, as if the dull, greyish-blue light was too much for him.

Another day.

A day just like all the rest. They had become indistinguishable from one another, or so it seemed to O’Brian. Get up, work, go to bed.

Sandwiched between were worries about his job (he’d heard that fifty were to be laid off from the Bankside Power station in Southwark where he’d worked for the last fifteen years), his family and his car, which looked like packing up on him again. Bloody thing. It hadn’t run right for more than a week since he’d bought it from his brother-in-law three years ago.

But, at the moment, the only thing which concerned Doug O’Brian was relieving himself.

He pushed open the bathroom door, flipped up the seat and began urinating.

The relief.

He smiled to himself, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His black hair was sticking up at one side like a wayward punk rocker, his eyes looked puffy and he needed a shave.

Otherwise he didn’t look too bad for such an early hour.

He finished urinating but chose not to flush the toilet, not wanting to wake anyone, least of all any of the children. Especially the youngest. She’d be in their bedroom like a shot if he disturbed her. O’Brian wondered if he might just get another hour’s sleep before the alarm woke him. If the youngest heard him moving about he had no chance.

He tiptoed back onto the landing, glancing out of the window, pausing a moment.

There were two police vans parked in the road outside.

He could see uniformed men moving about, pointing to various houses. They were talking to a couple of smartly dressed civilians, one of them a woman.

O’Brian rubbed his eyes.

What the hell were the law doing out there at this time in the morning?

He glanced at his watch.

5.16 a.m.

More uniformed men climbed from the back of a third van, which pulled up and parked on the other side of Luke Street.

The men paired up and O’Brian watched as they headed off in different directions, some towards the front doors of houses.

He blinked hard, as if the uniformed men might disappear.

Perhaps they were part of his dream, too.

Then he saw two of them approaching his house.

The loud knocking on the front door that he heard seconds later convinced him this was no dream.

Two streets away in Blackall Street, there were no vans, just police cars.

Each officer had a plain clothes companion as he approached his designated house.

They all seemed to pause outside the doors of those houses chosen, then, as if a signal had been given, they knocked.

Annette Hilston had watched the police vans draw up in Weymouth Terrace, crouched on her bed, the eyes of a dozen pop stars glaring blankly at her from the posters festooning her walls.

She had seen them approach the house.

She had heard them bang on the door.

Now she listened to shouting. Her father and her mother were yelling at someone, but she heard no words in reply.

Annette remained kneeling on her bed, hands clasped together, clutching a key-ring with a picture of the lead singer of her favourite pop group on it.

She carried it everywhere, for luck.

Now she gripped it like some kind of rosary.

Downstairs she could still hear the shouting and swearing.

She continued gazing out of the window.

Even when she heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

Some rose meekly, shocked.

Some wanted to fight back.

Some tried.

Tempers frayed like old rope, stretched and finally snapped.

There were tears, screams, curses but no arrests.

And there was anger.

Fear.

By 6.00 a.m. that morning, it looked as if the entire might of the Metropolitan Police Force had invaded Hackney.

By 7.00 a.m. it was all over.

Catherine Reed heard the voice and thought it was part of her dream. Only when she felt the hand on her shoulder did she stir, sitting up quickly, almost knocking the mug of tea from Phillip Cross’s hand as he stood over her.

‘Morning’ said Cross, grinning.

Cath looked at him and blinked myopically, then she too smiled and reached for the mug, burning her fingers. She hissed and set the tea down on the bedside table.

‘What time is it?’ she asked, flopping back against the headboard.

‘Half seven,’ he told her.

She ran two hands through her long, dark hair and groaned.

‘What day is it?’ she murmured, smiling. ‘Where am I? Who am I?’

Cross chuckled.

‘I’m going to have a shower’ he said, glancing at her naked breasts.

She watched as he walked from the bedroom, her gaze fixed on his naked backside.

‘Thanks for the tea’ she called, smiling as he turned. ‘And for everything else.’ She looked at his groin and raised her eyebrows. ‘I must have been good, to get tea in bed.’

‘Not bad’ he said, grinning.

She threw a pillow in his direction, listening as he made his way towards the bathroom. A moment later she heard the hiss of the shower.

Cath picked up the remote control from the bedside table and pressed the standby switch. The small portable TV fixed to a bracket on the bedroom wall sputtered into life.

She flicked channels.

A cartoon on one channel.

Some self-important so-called celebrity enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame on another.

More cartoons.

An overdressed woman plugging her new book, whining on in a grating Anglo-American accent.

Nice to know some things never changed, thought Cath, and the mediocrity of breakfast TV was certainly one of life’s constants.

She jabbed the buttons again, checked Ceefax and Teletext for the headlines, then ran through the channels once again.

This time she found some news.

Picking up her mug of tea she lay there listening to a report on the latest famine in Africa.

Some things never changed.

She glanced around the room and saw her clothes were scattered around the floor, left in untidy heaps along with Cross’s. She chuckled to herself when she saw his underpants hanging on the back of a chair opposite.

From the bathroom she could still hear the sound of the shower and she was about to call to the photographer to hurry up, when her attention was caught by something on the television.

The camera was showing a street in London. The caption beneath the reporter said Hackney.

Cath turned up the sound, annoyed with herself that she hadn’t heard the beginning of the report.

‘… haven’t released an official statement yet, but it’s thought that up to fifty or sixty officers and members of Hackney Social Services carried out the dawn raids.’

Cath sat forward.

‘More than twenty houses were raided and, as far as we know, something like fifteen or sixteen children were taken by the Social Services. Again, we have no official word as yet, but it appears that police are investigating a possible child pornography ring.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ murmured Cath.

She slid across the bed, picking up the phone from the other bedside table.

With one eye still on the screen she jabbed out a number and waited.

Fifty-one

The room was twenty feet square and, to Talbot, it appeared that every single inch of floor space was covered by large, brown cardboard boxes. Each one about three feet deep and two feet wide.

There were yellow labels attached to each one with a name and address written in marker pen.

At one end of the room, a couple of uniformed officers were searching through

the boxes; another, seated at a desk, was scribbling down the nature of the contents as his companions inspected every object they removed, looking at it closely before returning it.

All three men wore transparent rubber gloves.

Detective Inspector Gordon Macpherson lit up a cigarette and offered the packet to Talbot who shook his head.

‘I’ve given up,’ he said, quietly, his eyes fixed on the array of boxes.

Macpherson nodded and pushed the pack inside his jacket before running a hand through his thin blond hair.

He was three years older than Talbot; a slightly overweight, red-cheeked man whose features were almost boyish. His eyes darted constantly back and forth as if he were watching some invisible tennis match: a habit all the more disconcerting when Talbot looked him directly in the face.

However, at the moment, the younger man was concerned only with the boxes filling the room of the police station in Theobald’s Road.

‘How many kids?’ he said, finally.

‘Seventeen,’ Macpherson told him. ‘All aged from three to sixteen.’

‘How come you’ve got the stuff here, Mac? Because you’re closest?’

Macpherson nodded.

‘Someone from the Yard’s coming to fetch it. We’re just doing the spade work.

Inventory and boxing it up. They want to know what came from each house.’ He looked at Talbot and smiled.

‘I thought that’s what you were here for, Jim,’ the older man said. ‘To collect it.’

Talbot shook his head.

‘Where are the kids now?’ he wanted to know.

‘Hackney Social Services have got them, interviewing them.’

‘Who tipped you off about what was going on?’

‘We don’t actually know anything is going on yet, Jim. It’s a precautionary measure. Social Services requested it.’

‘Social Services requested a fucking dawn raid?’ Talbot snorted. ‘I’d call that a bit more than a precautionary measure, Mac’

‘One of the local schools, St Michael’s, called us in. They reckoned two, maybe more, kids there were being knocked about by their parents.’ He shrugged. ‘We checked it out, sent a report to Hackney Social Services and they thought there could be something going on.’

‘Who reported it?’

‘A teacher.’

‘When was this?’

‘Two days ago.’

‘How the hell did Social Services get wardship orders so quick?’

‘You tell me.’

Talbot wandered across to the nearest box and peered in.

It was full of books, videos, magazines, and he even noticed some clothes in the bottom.

‘It’s the same in all of them,’ Macpherson told him, reaching inside another of the boxes. ‘What do you reckon?’ He held up a magazine which showed a young woman kneeling in front of a man, gripping his penis with one hand, her lips closed over the end.

‘Don’t fancy yours much’ said Talbot, dismissively, glancing at the title: Wild Cum Party.

‘We found loads of them’ Macpherson said, indicating more of the magazines. He flicked through another.

‘No law against those, Mac’ Talbot reminded him.

‘Some of the stuff’s going to the Vice Squad, some of the heavier stuff.’

‘Like what?’

‘In two of the houses we found paedophile magazines and photos. And that’s just what’s been checked so far.’

‘How bad?’

‘Kids as young as two.’

‘Shit’ muttered Talbot.

‘We raided twenty-three houses, took stuff from every one, and we’ve done inventories on twelve so far. Out of those twelve we’ve found enough porno magazines and videos to decorate a block of flats, and we’re not finished yet.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Like what?’

‘Equipment. Bondage gear. Anything that might have been used on the kids.’

‘Not unless you count three vibrators, a blow-up doll and some of those fucking love eggs.’ He smiled. ‘You know, those things women stick up their-‘

‘Yeah, I know what they do with them, Mac’ Talbot interrupted.

He wandered over to another of the boxes and looked inside.

More magazines. More videos.

He pulled one out.

‘Cannibal Ferox,’ he read aloud.

‘And video nasties,’ Macpherson added. ‘We’ve found plenty of those. Driller Killer. I Spit on your Grave. S.S. Experiment Camp. The lot. The Exorcist-‘

Talbot interrupted him.

‘I’ve got a copy of that’ he said.

‘So have I’ Macpherson echoed. ‘I’m just telling you what we found.’

‘Not all from one house?’

‘No. I wish it had been: we might have been able to nail someone quicker. If there was one geezer supplying the rest of the neighbourhood it’d make things much easier, but it seems to be spread around.’

‘So how much have you got to go on? What’s the likelihood it is a child abuse ring?’

‘We’re not going to know that until Social Services finishes questioning the kids. That could be days. Then there’s the medical reports if they do find any physical damage.’

‘Damage isn’t always physical’ murmured Talbot.

‘What did you say, Jim?’

‘Nothing’ he lied.

You know all about that, don’t you?

Talbot reached into one of the boxes and pulled out some Polaroids.

Damage isn’t always physical.

They showed a naked woman spreadeagled on a worn and battered sofa. She was sucking one index finger. She was skinny. The outline of her ribs showed clearly.

There were only red dots where her pupils should have been.

Talbot shook his head, flicking through the remainder of the pictures.

The same woman holding a cucumber to her mouth, licking the tip.

The absurdity of the pose was striking.

There was one of a naked man, gripping his penis in one large fist.

Another of the skinny woman with her middle finger pushed into her vagina. She looked back with that familiar red-eyed expression.

Talbot noticed that there was a budgie cage in the background behind the sofa on which she was spreadeagled.

‘Whoever took them was no fucking David Bailey, was he?’ said Macpherson chuckling. ‘And she’s no Cindy Crawford.’

‘How many times have you seen Cindy Crawford pose with a cucumber?’ Talbot asked, smiling.

‘We can all dream, can’t we?’ Macpherson smiled, taking another drag on his cigarette.

Talbot stepped away from him as he blew out a stream of smoke.

He could do with one now.

He dropped the photos back into the box.

‘You don’t mind if I have a look around, do you, Mac?’ he asked.

‘Help yourself,’ Macpherson told him, watching as the younger man moved slowly from box to box, his gaze drawn to the contents of each one.

‘You looking for anything in particular, Jim?’ Macpherson asked.

Talbot chose not to answer him.

Jesus, the fucking press would have afield day with this lot.

‘If you don’t mind me asking, Jim,’ Macpherson said, cautiously, ‘what’s your interest in this?’

‘What makes you think I’ve got an interest?’ Talbot snapped without looking at his colleague.

‘You’re here, aren’t you?’

The two men regarded each other silently for a moment then Talbot spoke again.

‘You remember, a couple of years ago I was suspended for slapping some fucking nonce around.’

Macpherson nodded.

‘Let’s just say that case aroused my interest in this sort of thing’ he lied, nodding towards the boxes. ‘If there is a child abuse ring in operation here then I want to know about it.’

Fifty-two

‘It looks pretty quiet’ said Phillip Cross, his voice hushed almost reverentially.

Catherine Reed peered out of the side window of the Fiat, her eyes drawn to one particular house, then she glanced at the computer print-out spread across her lap.

There was nothing moving in Luke Street, Hackney, apart from a motley-looking Labrador, which was padding back and forth across the street.

Cath watched as it stopped to cock its leg against a hedge before disappearing up the pathway of a house.

Cross pulled a camera from his bag and focused.

‘That house’ Cath told him, pointing at the building almost opposite them.

She sat gazing at it, listening to him clicking off shots.

‘Are you sure it’s the same O’Brian family?’ the photographer asked.

‘I double-checked the address with my brother’ she said. ‘The kids go to the school where he teaches.’

‘And they’re the same ones whose kid was dug up in Croydon Cemetery?’ Cross continued.

Cath nodded, her eyes still on the house.

‘I hope that list’s right,’ Cross said, nodding towards the computer print-out.

‘These are the houses that were raided this morning’ she said, flicking the paper with her middle finger. ‘Nicholls got it from a contact of his at the Met.’

‘Off the record, presumably?’ Cross said, changing lenses.

Cath looked at him and raised one eyebrow. ‘What do you think?’

She folded the print-out and pushed it into the glove compartment then opened the driver’s side door and swung herself out.

‘Let’s have a closer look’ she said, pausing beside the car, her gaze fixed on the house opposite. She set off without waiting for Cross who scuttled up alongside her.

The gate at the end of the short path creaked as she pushed it open. As she approached the front door she noticed that the milk was still on the doorstep.

Cath knocked three times and waited.

Cross looked up, trying to spot signs of movement inside the house.

There was no answer.

She tried again.

‘Perhaps they’re out’ Cross offered.

Cath knocked once again then crossed to the front window, cupped one hand over her eyes and tried to see inside.

She could see very little through the curtains, only that she was staring into the sitting room.

Cross imitated her action, squinting through the window on the other side.

‘Cath’ he called. ‘I think there’s someone inside.’

She hurried across to join him.

‘I thought I saw someone moving in there’ he assured her.

She could see nothing.

‘I think they saw me looking in’ Cross continued.

Cath returned to the front door and knocked again. Harder this time.

‘Why don’t you leave them alone?’

The voice came from behind her.

‘You’re reporters, aren’t you?’ the voice said, and now Cath turned to find its source.

The woman standing in the garden of the house next door was in her early thirties, long reddish-brown hair reaching past her shoulders. She had both hands tucked in the pockets of her jeans.

‘I just wanted to speak to Mr and Mrs O’Brian and-‘ Cath began.

‘And what?’ the woman snapped. ‘Stick your fucking nose in where it’s not wanted. Why don’t you just piss off?’

‘Take it easy’ Cross interjected.

‘You want some pictures?’ the woman said, raising two fingers. ‘Take one of that.’

‘How well do you know the O’Brians?’ Cath asked.

‘Don’t expect me to talk to you. I’m not answering any of your fucking questions.’

‘Did you have children taken this morning?’ Cath persisted.

The woman took a step towards the low hedge which separated the two gardens, her expression dark.

‘I told you,’ she hissed, ‘I’m not going to talk to you, I’m not going to help you write your fucking lies.’

I’m just trying to find out the truth’ Cath told her.

‘Jesus. Since when have newspapers been interested in the truth? You couldn’t care less what you write about people, how you hurt them, could you? As long as you get a story. You’re all the same. You’re scum.’

The front door suddenly opened and Cath turned to find herself looking into the haggard features of Doug O’Brian.

‘Fucking reporters, Doug,’ said the red-haired woman, scathingly.

‘What do you want?’ O’Brian said, looking at Cath with red-rimmed eyes.

Cross snapped off a couple of shots of him.

‘Bastard,’ snapped the redhead.

‘My wife’s indoors crying, would you rather get a picture of that?’ O’Brian said, turning his attention to the photographer.

‘I just wanted to speak to you, Mr O’Brian, just a quick word,’ Cath said. ‘I wondered if you knew why your children had been taken away. What reasons could the police and Social Services have for taking them?’

‘Just go, will you?’ said O’Brian, half closing the door.

‘Yeah, piss off,’ shouted the redhead.

‘You’ve got a right to give your side of the story,’ Cath told him.

‘And that’s what you’re here for, is it? To let me have my say?’

‘People will make up their own minds from what they read. You deserve a chance to put your point of view forward.’

‘I don’t know what I hate about you people the most, your lies or your hypocrisy,’ said O’Brian and slammed the door.

‘Just fuck off’ the redhead continued.

Cath shot her a withering glance, then turned and headed back towards the car, Cross close behind her.

As she slid behind the wheel of the Fiat she noticed that the red-haired woman had retreated to her front step. From there she was still shouting, gesturing angrily towards the car, but Cath could barely hear her furious exhortations.

Just before she pulled away, Cath saw a figure peering from behind a curtain in an upstairs room of the O’Brian house.

Watching.

Then, like an apparition, the shape was gone.

Fifty-three

Nikki Parsons was shaking.

As she tried to light the cigarette the twenty-nine-year-old found that she could scarcely keep the tip steady in the flame of the match. She took a heavy drag and blew out a stream of smoke.

Beside her, Janice Hedden, a year younger, merely kept both hands clasped around her mug of coffee and gazed vacantly ahead of her, occasionally glancing at her companions.

Besides herself and Nikki, there were three other women in the room, all seated around a large table. The walls of the room were dotted with a variety of leaflets distributed at various times by Hackney Council and Social Services. Leaflets on giving blood, on how to cope with multiple sclerosis, AIDS, suicide, drugs.

It was their daily routine.

Janice and her companions were used to dealing with suffering.

With pain.

She had wondered if she would ever become immune to it. Able to distance herself from some of the frightful tales of deprivation and suffering which she heard on a daily basis. Like her companions, she walked a fine line between compassion and efficiency, solace and practicality. She, like her colleagues, walked that line every day, rarely touched by what they heard, able to walk away from it at the end of the working day. It was, after all, a job.

Until today.

Maria Goldman was the senior official amongst them: senior in experience if not in years. At thirty, she’d worked in Brixton and Islington before moving to Hackney.

She’d found no resentment from her older colleagues.

One of them was in the room now.

Valerie Weston swept her short brown hair away from her forehead in a gesture that implied habit rather than necessity.

A nervous habit perhaps.

At the moment she had plenty to be nervous about.

Juliana Procon chewed the end of her pen, her eyes fixed on a sheaf of papers spread before her. There were drawings on some of them. She swallowed hard and pushed one of the drawings out of sight beneath more paper, her attention drawn towards the head of the table where Maria Goldman coughed, kept her hand over her mouth for a moment, then finally raised her gaze to look at her companions. She could feel the beginnings of a headache gnawing at the base of her skull.

It was almost 1.46 p.m.

It had already been a long day and she feared there was much more to come.

She took a sip of coffee, wincing when she found it was cold; then she cleared her throat again and glanced around the table at the other women.

She found it hard to disguise the weary look on her face.

1 thought it best to call a break,’ Maria said, looking at her colleagues. ‘I think we all need it.’

Nikki Parsons nodded, her hand still shaking slightly.

‘I wondered if anyone had any comments to make before we examine the first set of statements,’ Maria continued.

The women seemed reluctant to speak, but it was Janice Hedden who finally broke the uneasy silence.

‘How many more children are there to interview?’

‘Eight,’ Maria told her.

‘Same age range?’

Maria nodded.

‘The ones I spoke to seemed very afraid’ Janice continued. ‘Mainly that they weren’t going to see their parents again. The younger ones in particular.’

‘That’s only natural’ Maria said.

‘It seems to be about the only thing concerned with this case that is’ Val Weston offered.

‘I’ve never seen or heard anything like it’ Nikki Parsons echoed, her voice

low.

‘Do you think any of them are lying?’ Maria asked.

‘It’s possible, but most of the stories seem too complex to have been invented’ Nikki continued. ‘Especially by children so young.’

‘Janice, you said the children you spoke to seemed afraid’ Juliana interjected. ‘I noticed that too, but not so much afraid of their parents as of …’ she shrugged, struggling to find the words. ‘Of what might happen to their parents. They didn’t seem afraid for themselves, just puzzled by what had happened to them.’

‘Some of them spoke out without too much prompting’ Val Weston said. ‘The others were difficult, some still haven’t spoken.’

‘Any physical evidence of abuse?’ Maria wanted to know.

‘On two of them’ said Nikki.

‘One’ Janice added.

‘Three of them I interviewed’ Juliana said.

‘Val? What about yours?’ Maria asked.

‘Just the odd scratch or bruise’ Val Weston said.

‘I saw one boy who was scarred quite badly’ Maria confessed. ‘He told me how it happened but he wouldn’t show me the injuries below his waist.’ She swallowed hard. ‘He said that a stick had been pushed into his bottom, that it was painful when he went to the toilet.’

‘When’s the doctor arriving?’ Nikki asked.

‘He’s here now’ Maria replied. ‘He’s examining all of the children.’

‘A three-year-old boy and a six-year-old girl I spoke to reported having objects pushed into them’ Val added. ‘The girl drew that when I asked her to describe the object.’

Val pushed a piece of paper towards Maria.

On it was a cylindrical object scrawled in red crayon, round tipped and about six inches long.

Maria nodded slowly.

‘There were no physical signs, though,’ Val continued.

‘And you’re all sure that none of the children had a chance to speak to each other before you interviewed them?’ said Maria, looking at the other women.

‘There’s no way they could have worked out stories between them?’

The others shook their heads.

‘All right’ Maria said, wearily. ‘We’ll look at the statements now. I’ll start.’ She lifted the top sheet from the pile of papers at her left elbow and scanned it, her eyes narrowing slightly. ‘This is from a four-year-old, Alex Cutler.’ She traced the words with the tip of her finger as she read: ‘“They make you stand in a circle and they laugh at you and sometimes I cried but then some more uncles and aunts come and they put the baby on the floor and then everyone walks around with their arms up and they shout. And you can see their willies. And then one of my uncles jumped on the baby.”’

‘Aunts and uncles,’ murmured Nikki. ‘The children I spoke to called them that.’

‘It’s common. The abusers make the children feel as if they’re some kind of extended family members. Aunts and uncles covers a multitude of sins,’ said Maria, cryptically. In more ways than one.’

She flipped through the sheaf of papers before her.

‘This is from a six-year-old’ she said, sucking in a tired breath. ‘“I loved my puppy but they killed it. They cut off its head and put the blood in a cup.”’

‘“Sometimes they used animals and they stuck a knife in them and then they put the blood in a jug’” Nikki read, holding a piece of paper before her.

‘“They stick swords in the cats and kill them and they made me drink the blood,”’ Janice added.

Maria ran a hand through her hair and sat back in her seat.

‘Nearly every statement mentions the killing of animals,’ she murmured.

‘Not the usual paedophile pursuit, is it?’ Juliana offered.

Maria shook her head.

‘Why animals?’ Janice asked.

Maria had no answer. She had her eyes fixed on the sheet of paper in front of her, the drawing on it.

‘The children I spoke to mentioned cameras’ Val Weston said. ‘That one of the uncles always had a camera, that he was taking pictures of them when they had no clothes on.’

‘I saw one of those video cameras taking pictures of the baby’ Juliana read.

‘They made me touch Uncle Paul’s willy. I had to put my hands on it and he put it in my mouth and it tasted funny and they took photos’” said Nikki, quietly.

‘That statement is from a six-year-old boy.’ Her jaws were clenched tightly together, the knot of muscles there pulsing angrily.

‘We’ll finish interviewing the other children today,’ Maria told her colleagues. ‘Once we’ve been through all the statements and I’ve got the medical reports from the doctor, we’ll run through what we’ve got again.’

‘I would have thought it was obvious what we’ve got, Maria,’ Nikki said, scathingly. ‘A paedophile ring. How much proof do you need?’

Maria Goldman kept her gaze fixed on the sheet of paper before her, eyes tracing the outlines of the shape which had been drawn there.

‘I have no doubt that you’re right, Nikki’ she said, touching the scrawled image with her finger. ‘I just hope that’s all we’ve got.’

As she looked at what had been drawn on the paper, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

Fifty-four

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ said Frank Reed, a broad smile spreading across his face.

Cath raised her eyebrows as she slipped inside his office and smiled back.

‘I thought you’d have been out gathering information for some Pulitzer Prize-winning article’ Reed chuckled, offering her a seat.

‘Not quite, Frank’ she answered, accepting it. ‘But this isn’t a social call.

I need your help on something.’

‘So, what else is new?’

‘You’ve seen the papers this morning? The news?’

‘The police raids, you mean?’

She nodded.

‘I didn’t expect things to go quite this far’ he said, softly.

‘Jesus, Frank, what did you think was going to happen? You scream child abuse and it warrants more than a few polite enquiries by the neighbourhood bobby on the beat.’

‘I heard somewhere they’d raided twenty-three houses.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Cath, what I did, I did for the good of those children. It had to be reported. What the hell was I supposed to do, sit around and let it just happen?’ he said, challengingly. ‘Anyway, what’s your problem? It’s given you something to write about, hasn’t it?’

‘Look, take it easy, I’m on your side, right?’

He sat back in his seat, glancing out of his office window. There was a group of children crossing the playground, chattering loudly until the teacher leading them called for silence.

‘So, what can I do to help?’ Reed said, finally.

Cath reached into her handbag and pulled out the computer print-out which had spent most of that morning stuffed into her glove compartment. She stood up and walked around the desk so that she was standing next to her brother; then she laid the print-out down before him, smoothing out the creases as best she could.

‘It’s a list of the families whose houses were raided this morning’ she told him. ‘I want to know how many of the kids go to school here.’

Reed looked up at Cath, then at the print-out.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘I’m looking for links, Frank, anything that ties these cases together.’

He spotted one name immediately.

Paul O’Brian.

Reed jabbed a finger at it.

‘I know. I’ve already been there this morning. The parents, well, the father at any rate, wasn’t very cooperative’ she informed him.

Reed studied the list.

He pointed to another name.

‘What about the address?’ said Cath.

The door to Reed’s office opened unexpectedly and both he and Cath watched as Noel Hardy entered.

The Headmaster glared at Cath, then at her brother, paused in the doorway a moment, then slammed the door behind him and strode across to the desk.

‘Haven’t we had enough of the press already today?’ the older man said, acidly.

T hate to tell you, Mr …’

‘Hardy’ the older man snapped. ‘In case your brother hadn’t told you, I’m the Headmaster here. This is my school. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.’

‘You said that other members of the press had been here today. I think I’m entitled to the same courtesy you may have extended to them’ Cath said, officiously.

‘There was no courtesy extended to any of them’ Hardy assured her. ‘But I’ll give you the same statement I gave the rest of them. No comment.’

‘A number of the children taken into care attended your school,’ Cath informed him. ‘Doesn’t that bother you?’

‘Are you trying to infer that the school is somehow to blame for what has happened to these children?’

‘I’m not trying to infer anything, Mr Hardy, but if you’re worried that inference might be attached to yourself or your school…’ She allowed the sentence to trail off.

‘I knew nothing of this …’

‘Abuse’ Cath said, with an air of finality.

‘Nothing’s been proved yet,’ the Headmaster reminded her.

‘Come on, Noel’ snapped Reed. ‘You know what’s going on here. We all do.’

‘I warned you,’ Hardy snapped, angrily. ‘I said that if this was reported it could damage the reputation of the school, whether you were right or wrong.’

‘So what matters more to you?’ Reed wanted to know. ‘The welfare of the children or the reputation of the school?’

‘I have to take into consideration the damage this publicity could do to St Michael’s,’ said Hardy.

‘What about the damage that’s already been done to those kids?’ snapped Reed.

‘That’s nothing to do with this school.’

‘Then why worry about it?’ Cath interjected. ‘It’s not you or your school that’s on trial, Mr Hardy. I’m just looking for the facts.’

‘Journalists’ clichĂŠ number one’ Hardy snorted, as he moved towards the door.

‘Look, I didn’t come here to see you, I came to see my brother’ Cath said, irritably.

Hardy opened the office door and let it swing wide.

‘Then do it somewhere else,’ he said, angrily. ‘If you’re not off these premises in thirty seconds I’ll call the police.’

Cath shrugged, gathered up the computer print-out and pushed it back into her handbag.

‘Nice to see you again, Mr Hardy’ she said flatly, as she reached the door.

Then, turning to her brother ‘I’ll speak to you later, Frank.’

Hardy slammed the door behind her.

‘You can’t run away from this, Noel’ Reed told him.

‘I’m trying to protect this school.’

‘And I was trying to protect those kids.’

Hardy turned to leave, pausing in the doorway briefly. ‘Perhaps you should start thinking about your own job’ he said menacingly.

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘I’m just protecting the school’ Hardy snapped then he was gone, the door

slamming behind him.

Reed sat back in his chair, exhaled deeply then looked down at the phone.

He waited a moment, then dialled.

Fifty-five

Dorothy Talbot sipped at her tea, then carefully replaced the cup and saucer on the table close to her, the china rattling.

James Talbot shot out a hand to steady the cup, fearing it would overbalance, but he withdrew it just as suddenly when he saw his mother push the cup further onto the table.

‘It’s all right, Jim, I can manage,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m not a cripple, you know.’

No. You’re just dying of cancer.

They were the only two people in the day room at Litton Vale. The other residents, or a party of twenty of them, had been driven in to the West End to see a film. Dorothy couldn’t remember the title but she hadn’t fancied it.

Some Victorian-based thing, she’d said.

‘You should have gone, Mum’ Talbot said. ‘You might have enjoyed it.’

She shook her head.

‘It didn’t sound very exciting,’ she told him. ‘Anyway, you know me, I like a good Western. Like the ones I used to take you to see when you were little.’

Talbot tried to hold her gaze but found that he couldn’t.

Guilt, perhaps ?

‘You took me to see all sorts,’ he said, chuckling as brightly as he could.

‘We saw Planet of the Apes four times when I was ten. You hated it, I remember you saying. But you still went back with me.’

She reached out and touched his hand.

‘What’s wrong, Jim?’

Could she read his fucking mind too? See inside him?

He forced himself to look at her, noticing that she looked pale, a little drawn around the eyes.

He thought about asking her if she was in pain.

‘There’s nothing wrong,’ he lied.

‘Is it work?’ she persisted. ‘You should try and get a rest, and I bet you’re not getting enough sleep.’

‘Mum, I’m fine, you’re the one who’s ill …’ The sentence trailed off.

She squeezed his hand more tightly, gripped it with surprising strength.

He met her gaze and held it.

‘Jim, I don’t want to die in here,’ she whispered.

‘Mum, you’re not going to die.’

‘Doctor Hodges told me how far advanced the cancer is.’

‘You’re not going to die’ he said, angrily, as if his fury would somehow reprieve her.

But you know she is.

‘These bloody doctors they don’t know shit,’ he snapped.

‘Just don’t let me die in here, that’s all I ask.’

He could face her no longer.

Talbot got to his feet and walked across the day room, looking out into the immaculately kept gardens beyond. The sun was shining. He could hear birds singing.

It was a beautiful day.

Yeah, fucking brilliant.

He cleared his throat but didn’t turn to face her.

‘Have they given you anything?’

‘I take some tablets, I can’t remember what they’re called,’ she informed him.

‘I’m not even sure what they do. Doctor Hodges did tell me but I can’t remember.’ She laughed humourlessly. ‘I think I’m going senile as well.’

‘Are you in pain?’

There, now you’ve said it.

‘No.’

‘You wouldn’t tell me if you were, would you?’

He turned to face her, saw she was sipping at her tea again. As he looked at her, Talbot felt more helpless than

he had ever done in his life. Helpless to ease her pain, helpless to comfort her.

How often did she help you?

He walked back and sat down beside her.

‘I’ve been reading in the newspapers about those children,’ she told him.

‘Isn’t it terrible? It made me think about what your father did. How he hurt you.’

‘Forget it, Mum. That’s in the past.’

‘But it never goes away, does it, Jim? The memories never go. I hated him for what he did to you. I hated myself for not stopping him.’

‘You tried. Every time you tried.’

‘I should have killed him. After the first time he did it to you I should have killed him.’

He saw her eyes misting over.

‘I didn’t even have the guts to leave him,’ she said, softly. ‘To take you away from him.’ She gripped his hand. ‘Jim, I’m sorry.’

A single tear rolled down her cheek.

‘Jesus Christ, Mum, you’re not the one who should be sorry,’ he told her, watching as she wiped the tear away with a hankie.

It should be me. For putting you in this fucking place.

As she shifted position in her chair he saw a flicker of pain on her face.

‘Are you OK?’ Talbot asked.

She smiled and nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘All I’m asking is that you let me come home, Jim,’ she pleaded quietly.

He sucked in a breath and got to his feet.

‘I’ll speak to the doctor,’ he said.

Fucking liar.

Talbot embraced her.

She kissed him on the cheek and smiled up at him.

‘I love you,’ she said.

‘I know’ he told her and she watched as he walked towards the exit, turning to wave as he left.

Dorothy Talbot winced, held her breath against the pain, waiting for the spasm to pass.

It didn’t.

She reached into her handbag for the morphine.

Talbot strode down the corridor towards the main entrance, slowing his pace slightly as he reached the door which bore the nameplate dr m. hodges.

He paused.

Go on, you bastard. Go in.

He raised his hand to knock.

Do it.

He wheeled away from the door, almost running from the building to his car, leaning against the Volvo, eyes closed.

It was a long time before he moved.

Fifty-six

Maria Goldman heard the knock on the office door but continued reading, her attention fixed on the piece of paper before her.

When the second knock came, more insistent this time, she finally managed to mutter something which passed for an invitation to enter.

The door opened slightly and Nikki Parsons stepped inside.

‘Maria,’ she said, quietly, looking at her colleague who was still staring at the report she held.

When she finally lifted her head, Nikki saw how pale she looked.

‘I’m sorry, Nikki,’ she said, softly. ‘I was miles away. Sit down.’

The younger woman did as she was asked, peering towards the stack of papers on Maria’s desk.

‘The doctor’s reports?’ she said, although it sounded more like a statement

than a question.

Maria nodded.

‘Did he examine all the children?’ Nikki wanted to know.

Again Maria nodded.

‘And?’

Maria sat back in her chair and blinked hard. It had been a long day and it seemed to be getting longer.

‘Where do you want me to start?’

‘“Considerable bruising around the entrance of the vagina and on the inner thighs’” she read from one report. ‘“Evidence of anal penetration.”’ She turned to another sheet of paper. ‘“Pelvic injuries, caused by crushing.

Possible damage to the bladder.” “Cervical rupture.” “Penetration by a sharp instrument, possibly a stick, causing internal lacerations of the anus.”’ She put down the reports. ‘How much more do you want to hear?’

Maria handed the reports to her colleague, watching as Nikki read them for herself, shaking her head slowly as she scanned the words.

‘Rape’ she said, softly. ‘The doctor’s report specifies evidence of rape in the case of three of the girls.’

‘All under eleven’ Maria added.

‘And anal rape of six of the children, either that or penetration of some kind.’

‘Coupled with numerous cuts, bruises, contusions and burns in nearly every case.’ Maria closed her eyes. ‘I think it’s worse than any of us first thought.’

‘It says that most of the cuts and bruising were on the ankles or wrists. As if they’d been tied up at some stage.’

‘Some of the children specified that in their statements, didn’t they?’

‘They also mentioned sex, sometimes with one particular person.’

‘Person?’ said Maria, challengingly. ‘Some didn’t mention people, some mentioned animals. Some of these children were forced to have sex with animals, Nikki, if we believe these reports, if we believe them.’

‘Why shouldn’t we?’

‘We know that the children we interviewed were kept apart from the time they were brought here. There’s no way they could have invented stories like this together. No way they could ensure that each one gave evidence to support his or her friends’ statements. That may be true with older children but not with four-and five-year-olds. You need a good memory to be a liar.’

‘Are you saying that some of the children are lying about what they saw, about what happened to them? How can you? You’ve got the medical evidence there to back up their statements.’

‘I’m not accusing any of them of lying. Far from it, but just because we might believe them doesn’t mean the police will. These statements wouldn’t be enough to secure a conviction.’

‘Even with the medical evidence to back them up?’

‘It’s still not enough. No one is named. Who are they going to arrest?’

‘But the parents-‘

Maria cut her short. ‘We don’t know that.’

‘So you’re telling me that the parents of these children had no idea of what was happening to them?’

‘Are any of them named in any of the statements? No. The only references are to aunts and uncles. Not one of them says “Daddy did this or Mummy did that”.

Even we don’t know how involved the parents are.’

‘I think it’s safe to assume that some are!

‘The police will need more than an assumption, Nikki. I know, I’ve seen it before. Abused children given back to the people who abused them because there’s not enough evidence against them.’ She exhaled wearily. ‘I don’t want that to happen this time. Especially not this time.’

‘You said something earlier today about us having a possible child abuse ring on our hands, hoping that was all we had. What did you mean?’

‘I didn’t push it this afternoon; I was worried the rest of you might think I

was overreacting. But these statements, some of the things the children say -

there’s a uniformity to them that frightened me. I can’t think of any other word to describe it.’ She found the piece of paper she sought and tapped it with a pencil, running the tip down a list. ‘The sacrifice of animals and being made to drink the blood. Having their bodies painted. Being filmed or photographed while they were being abused. Penetration by sticks. Being given pills and drinks that made them feel funny. Enclosure in cupboards or boxes. A figure who hurt them, people dressing as clowns or monsters. Latin chants.’

She looked at Nikki. ‘This isn’t ordinary abuse.’

‘What do you mean?’ said the younger woman, frowning.

‘I think there could be a ritual element to it. When we asked the children to draw a picture of the person who hurt them, this is what one of them drew.’

Maria handed a sheet of paper to her colleague, watching her expression as she scanned it.

The drawing showed a large figure wearing what appeared to be a cloak. Red crayon had been used to colour in where the eyes should have been. There was also red crayon on the figure’s hands. But it was the head which held Nikki’s attention. It was crudely sketched but it resembled the head of a sheep or goat.

There were two horns protruding from above the eyes.

‘As far as that child was concerned’ said Maria, ‘it was hurt by the Devil.

How many six-year-olds do you know who’d draw something like that?’

‘But, Maria, it’s just one child.’

Leaning forward, Maria laid four more sheets of paper before her colleague.

Each one showed the same horned figure.

Fifty-seven

Frank Reed inspected his reflection in the bedroom’s full-length mirror, running a hand through his hair yet again.

He looked across at the clock on the bedside table, and then at his own watch.

She was late.

He felt his heart quicken.

What if she didn’t come?

What if there’d been an accident?

Perhaps she was ill, or …

The front doorbell rang and Reed hurried down the stairs, slipping the chain off, pulling the door wide.

Rebecca Reed stood before him, smiling up at him.

‘Becky,’ he beamed, sweeping her into his arms, kissing her.

It felt like an eternity since he’d seen her last.

‘You look so big’ he told her, cradling her in his arms. ‘I think you’re getting too heavy for me to hold.’ He pretended to drop her.

Becky chuckled as he set her down.

‘There’s something for you in the living room,’ he said.

She looked round, as if seeking reassurance from the woman who stood impassively on the doorstep.

Ellen Reed nodded and Becky ran off, disappearing from view through a door on the right.

‘Thanks for bringing her,’ said Reed, his smile fading. ‘Do you want to come in for a minute?’ He stepped back and extended an arm.

An invitation.

‘Jonathan’s waiting in the car,’ Ellen told him. ‘I can’t be long.’

‘I thought I asked you not to bring him with you,’ Reed said.

‘He’s in the car, Frank,’ Ellen said, irritably, stepping inside.

She followed him through into the kitchen where he boiled the kettle, glancing at her as she stood by the kitchen table.

‘You can sit down, you know,’ he told her. ‘This is your house too.’

‘It used to be, Frank’ she reminded him, pulling out a chair. ‘You’ve kept it neat.’

‘Did you expect me to start living like a pig just because you walked out on me?’ he snapped.

He handed her a mug of tea and sat down opposite, pushing the sugar bowl towards her.

She took a sip.

‘What happened to your sweet tooth?’ he asked. ‘It used to be three spoonfuls in a mug didn’t it?’

‘Jonathan said I was putting on a little weight, so I’ve cut out sweet stuff.’

‘Oh, well, if Jonathan says you’re getting fat …’ he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘Has he specified an optimum weight and size he’d like, or will he just tell you when you’ve completed the task?’

‘I didn’t come here to argue, Frank’ she told him, sipping her tea.

‘I can’t see too much wrong with you’ Reed told her.

He ran appraising eyes over her and thought how good she looked. Her hair was cut in a short bob, the blonde tresses gleaming. She wore little make-up except for a touch of eye-liner, but her skin seemed to glow. She was dressed in a dark green two-piece suit and a white blouse, immaculately pressed.

‘Did he pick those out for you, too?’ Reed asked, nodding towards her. ‘Is he a fashion expert as well as a weight-watcher?’

As she closed her hands around the mug, Reed pointed to her left hand.

‘Where’s your wedding ring?’

‘When I left, I took it off. We’re not together any more.’

‘But we’re still married. Or was that Jonathan’s idea too?’

‘Just leave it, Frank. It’s down to him that Becky’s here today. He suggested I let her see more of you.’

‘How fucking magnanimous of him! What am I supposed to do, run out and tell him how grateful I am that he’s agreed to let me see my own daughter?’

‘You can’t blame him for everything that happened, Frank.’

‘He took you away from me: I can blame him for that.’

‘He didn’t take me. I chose to go.’

‘Yeah, and take our daughter with you.’

They both heard footsteps hurrying back towards the kitchen and, a moment later, Becky rushed in clutching a GameBoy, brandishing it like a trophy.

‘Look, Mum,’ she said, staring at the screen. ‘It’s got Mario on it.’

She handed the GameBoy to Ellen then rushed across to Reed and threw her arms around him.

‘Thanks, Dad,’ she beamed, kissing him on the cheek.

He squeezed her tightly for a second, then let her slip from his lap, watching as she reclaimed the game and scurried off into the living room again, blonde hair flying behind her like wind-blown silk.

‘Don’t you think that’s a little advanced for a seven-year-old?’ Ellen asked.

‘And a little extravagant? You can’t buy her back, Frank.’

They eyed each other coldly then Ellen spoke again.

‘I thought you didn’t approve of those things for kids. I’d have expected you to buy her a set of encyclopaedias or something more educational,’ she said.

‘Perhaps Jonathan can teach her how to use it,’ Reed snapped. ‘He seems to be an expert on everything else.’

Ellen got to her feet. ‘I think I’d better go.’

Reed followed her out into the hallway.

‘I’m going now, Becky,’ she called and the little girl ran out from the living room once more, still clutching the GameBoy.

Reed watched as the two of them embraced, then Becky retreated from sight again.

‘I’ll pick her up at eight on Monday morning,’ Ellen said.

‘You’d better hurry,’ Reed said. ‘You’ll keep Jonathan waiting.’ He closed the door behind her and stood there for a moment, listening to the sound of her footsteps receding down the path. Then he headed for the living room.

Fifty-eight

‘What the hell are you playing at, Talbot?’

Gina Bishop stood before him in the bar of the Holiday Inn, Mayfair, lowering her voice, aware that several heads had turned upon her entrance.

Talbot was convinced it was because of the black, double-breasted jacket and

short skirt she wore that the attention of some of the other drinkers was momentarily diverted. She towered above him on her heels, blonde hair falling forward as she leaned towards him, whispering her words through clenched teeth.

‘Sit down,’ he said, running his eyes over her slender legs. ‘You make the place lock untidy.’

She paused for a moment, then slid into one of the chairs opposite him, catching the attention of a white-coated waiter who hurried across towards her. His speed increased when she crossed her slender legs and her short skirt rode a little further up her thighs.

‘What can I get you, madam?’ he said, smiling.

‘I’ll have a spritzer’ she said, brushing strands of hair from her face.

‘Another Jameson’s, please,’ Talbot added, and the waiter retreated almost reluctantly.

‘Been raiding the piggy bank again?’ Talbot said, nodding towards her suit.

‘Or has work been particularly good lately?’

‘I’ve told you before. Work’s always good.’

‘It’s not bad,’ he said, almost approvingly.

‘Not bad? It’s Gianni Versace, for God’s sake. The shoes are Manolo Blahnik’

she said, indignantly.

Talbot plucked at the sleeve of his own jacket.

‘Man at C&A,’ he said, smiling.

The waiter returned with the drinks, set them down, then scuttled away to another table.

‘So, what do you want, Talbot?’ she asked, taking a sip of her drink. ‘You interrupt my afternoon, tell me to be here tonight, you stop me working on one of my busiest nights. Do you know how much I could have made tonight? I had to cancel two appointments because of you. I could have made three grand tonight.’

‘A special, was it?’ he said, sardonically.

‘Two Japanese businessmen.’

‘Japs. You don’t advertise in the Tokyo Yellow Pages too, do you?’

‘I was recommended,’ she told him defiantly.

‘Two of them, eh? Both at the same time?’

‘If that’s what they’d wanted. The Japs tip well, too.’

‘Fuck your appointments. You wouldn’t have any at all if it wasn’t for me letting you work that beat.’

‘I’m so grateful,’ she said, scornfully.

They regarded each other in silence for a moment, then Gina spoke again.

‘So, what do you want?’

‘I want to talk.’

‘Like you wanted to talk the other night?’

‘I wondered if you wanted to get something to eat. We could walk down the road, there’s a pizza place.’

‘Do me a favour, Talbot, you don’t have to wine and dine me. You know that. If you want to fuck me, let’s go back to my place now and get it over with.’

‘I offered to buy you a meal.’

‘In a bloody pizza parlour. Do you think I’m walking into Pizzaland dressed in an outfit that cost more than their staff earn in a year?’

‘It’s only a fucking suit, for Christ’s sake.’

‘Clothes say a lot about a person, Talbot. I mean, look at the state of yours.’

‘You think those designer labels you insist on wearing mean anything?’

‘They mean something to me.’

‘Maybe, but shit’s still shit, even if it’s wrapped in silver paper.’

‘I don’t have to put up with this,’ she snapped.

‘Wrong,’ he said, downing what was left in his glass.

‘You’re a cunt,’ she hissed.

‘Careful, Gina, the mask’s slipping.’

‘You are.’

‘Who’s arguing? Now, are we going to eat or not?’

‘Not in a fucking Pizzaland,’ she told him and he watched as she opened her bag and pulled out her mobile phone, stabbing digits. She smiled when she heard a voice at the other end.

Talbot watched her.

‘Hello, it’s Gina Bishop, I was in the other night. I was wondering if you had my usual table, I know you must be busy but … Oh, you can, that’s wonderful. I’ll be there in five minutes. Thank you.’ She switched off the phone and slipped it back into her bag.

‘One of your customers own a restaurant?’ Talbot asked.

‘I eat there a lot. They know me.’ She got to her feet. ‘Come on, Talbot, let’s go. We’ll get a cab. Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it.’

He joined her, leaving a ten-pound note on the table to cover the cost of the drinks.

They walked through the reception together, Gina a step or two ahead of him.

The blue-clad doorman nodded at them as they walked out.

‘Can you get us a taxi, please?’ Gina asked, and the man hurried into the road to hail one.

As they climbed in, Gina sat behind the driver, aware that he was looking at her in his rear-view mirror.

‘If I’m going to listen to your shit all night,’ she said to Talbot, ‘I might as well do it in comfortable surroundings.’ Then to the driver: ‘Overtons please.’

Talbot looked across at her.

She was staring out of the window, away from him.

The taxi pulled out into traffic.

Fifty-nine

‘Did any of those names you showed your brother check out?’ asked Phillip Cross, spooning rice from the foil container closest to him.

Catherine Reed, kneeling beside the coffee table on the carpet next to Cross, nodded, her eyes flicking back and forth over the array of takeaway food. She picked up several forkfuls of meat and dropped them into the bowl with her rice.

‘Nine of the kids on that list attended the school where Frank teaches,’ she told Cross.

‘Did any of the parents talk?’

‘Two closed doors, two fuck-offs and five that either wouldn’t or couldn’t answer,’ Cath told him.

‘What do you think is going on, Cath?’

She sat back against the sofa, one eye on the TV screen, but her mind concentrated on the question Cross had just asked her.

‘There’s abuse of some description going on, I’d bet money on it’ she said, taking a mouthful of rice. ‘But no one will talk about it and I don’t really blame them. Although, if they’ve got nothing to hide …’

‘You think it’s the parents who are doing the abusing?’

‘Some of them must be involved either directly or indirectly. I’m not saying they’ve actually done damage to their own kids, but they must have known what was going on.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘I need to speak to someone from.

Hackney Social Services, see what kind of statements the kids made.’ She continued staring blankly at the TV screen, the sound turned down.

‘Something’s been bothering me too. I mean, there’s probably no connection but one of the families, the O’Brians, their boy was taken away by the Social Services, right? A couple of weeks before that, the grave of their dead baby daughter was desecrated. You remember all that shit that was happening at Croydon Cemetery?’

He nodded. ‘The smashed headstones, the graffiti and all that?’

‘Some of it was pretty heavy.’

‘You’re not trying to say that the O’Brians were involved in what went on there, are you? I mean, they’re hardly likely to dig up their own kid’s grave, are they?’ Cross snorted.

‘Maybe they’re not. It could be someone with a grudge against the family.’

‘So what about the other graves that were desecrated? And that cat that was nailed to the church door. Was that a grudge thing, too?’

‘Phil, I haven’t got a clue what it was. For all I know, Nicholls could be right, it could have been some kind of witchcraft thing.’

‘So you think this is satanic abuse?’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time it’d happened, would it? What about those cases in Cleveland, Nottingham and the Orkneys? They were supposed to be satanic abuse cases.’

‘And none of them was ever proved,’ Cross said, flatly.

Cath pushed a forkful of food into her mouth.

‘Don’t try looking for a story that isn’t there, Cath,’ Cross told her.

‘Don’t tell me how to do my job, Phil’ she said, irritably. ‘I don’t tell you how to take pictures.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he responded. ‘I just don’t want you making a fool of yourself.’

She was about to say something else when the phone rang.

Cath got to her feet and crossed to it, lifting the receiver.

‘Hello,’ she said.

Silence.

‘Hello.’

Still nothing.

The line went dead. Cath replaced the receiver and returned to her dinner. ‘If I can get someone from one of the families who had kids taken away to talk, or even someone who knows them,’ she said, excitedly, ‘then I might have a chance of finding out what’s going on.’

‘And you think they’re going to talk to you?’ Cross said, shaking his head.

‘Someone will talk, they always do.’

The phone rang again. Cath muttered something under her breath and prepared to haul herself up off the floor again but Cross put his hand on her shoulder, swinging himself off the sofa.

He picked up the phone. ‘Hello.’

Again, only silence.

‘Listen, I think you’ve got a wrong number.’

There was a click as the line went dead once again.

He was about to sit down when it rang again.

‘Jesus,’ Cross muttered.

‘Leave it,’ Cath told him. ‘I’ll let the answering machine take care of it.’

She heard her own voice on the tape, then the beep, then nothing.

Barely ten seconds had passed when the phone rang again.

Cath jumped to her feet and snatched up the receiver. ‘Hello, again,’ she said, smiling.

‘Catherine Reed?’ said the voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Keep your fucking nose out, you slag. Keep it out of other people’s business, right? Are you fucking listening to me?’ The voice was low, guttural.

‘Who the hell are you?’ Cath demanded.

‘Back off, bitch, or you’re fucking dead.’

At the other end the phone was slammed down.

Cath held the receiver for a moment then gently replaced it.

‘Are you OK?’ asked Cross, seeing how pale she looked.

She nodded, still looking down at the phone.

Waiting.

It was another thirty minutes before it rang again.

Sixty

Talbot was too busy eating to notice Gina Bishop glance at her Cartier watch.

She sighed.

Ten-thirty.

]esus Christ, how much longer was he going to be?

She puffed agitatedly at her cigarette, gazing at the policeman through a thin film of smoke.

Around her, the low buzz of conversation from the other diners seemed to rise and fall in volume, the chink of cutlery on crockery the only other sound disturbing the relative peacefulness of the restaurant.

Talbot finally took a last mouthful of food and pushed his plate away.

‘Very nice’ he said, raising his eyebrows. He glanced around at the other customers.

‘How many of this lot do you know?’ he asked.

She looked puzzled.

‘Any of them help to pay for that outfit?’

‘What’s wrong, Talbot?’ she snapped. ‘Fed up with talking about your mother now?’

He shot her an angry glance.

‘You’ve done nothing but talk about her since we got here, why change the subject?’ Gina said, acidly.

‘I said I wanted to talk, I didn’t ask for your fucking opinions, I just needed someone to listen.’

‘And why was I singled out for that honour?’

‘Because there isn’t anyone else,’ he said, quietly.

‘What, no friends? Mind you, I’m not surprised.’

‘Do you think I’d choose to speak to you if I had other options?’

They regarded each other in silence.

She took another drag on the cigarette and blew smoke into his face.

‘What about your colleagues?’ she asked. ‘Surely they’d listen to you.’

‘I wouldn’t bother them with my problems.’

‘How considerate, but you’d bother me.’

‘Their time’s important. Yours isn’t.’

He took a swallow of his drink, watching as she drew on the cigarette.

‘So what are you going to do about your mother?’ she asked, eventually.

‘I don’t know,’ he muttered.

‘Why not let her come home?’

‘Who the hell is going to look after her?’

‘Pay someone.’

‘That’s what I do now. They don’t let her stay at Litton Vale out of the kindness of their fucking hearts. It costs money.’

A man sitting at the next table glanced across at Talbot who met his glance with a withering stare.

‘If she comes home you’ll save money that you’re paying at the hospice-‘

‘It’s not a hospice.’

She shrugged.

‘Whatever. You’ll save the money that you spend keeping her there. Spend it on a nurse to look after her at home. That seems pretty logical to me. It won’t cost you much, anyway. From what you’ve said, she’s not going to be around very long.’

Talbot glared at her furiously.

‘Or is it that you don’t want her home, Talbot?’ Gina said, flatly.

He had no answer.

Well, is that the reason?

He downed what was left in his glass and banged it down hard on the table, drawing more glances from the other diners.

‘You said earlier on that you owed her,’ Gina told him. ‘What did you mean?’

He shook his head slowly.

‘Forget it,’ he said, quietly.

‘Tell me.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘You wanted to talk, Talbot. I’m talking. You wanted me to listen. I’ve listened.’

‘All part of the job, isn’t it?’ he snapped. ‘You listen to dirty old men, sad fucking bastards who can’t get it up with their wives. Who have to pay you. Or

you talk to them and you tell them how good they are, while you’re watching the clock and adding up the pounds. You talk, you listen. You do anything for money. For anybody and with anybody. As long as the price is right.’

‘I’m not like the others and you know that.’

‘You’re a tart. Pure and simple. The only difference between you and the slags that work around King’s Cross is that you wear designer clothes to cover the dirt.’

‘And you need me, Talbot. That’s why you hate me, isn’t it? You’ve got nobody else. No friends. No family. Nothing. I’m all you’ve got.’

He ran his finger slowly around the rim of his empty glass, watching her as she ground out her cigarette.

‘I told you before, we’re both the same. The only difference is I wouldn’t let my mother die in an old people’s home. If you do that, Talbot, then don’t ever have the nerve to call me scum again.’

He eyed her malevolently, watching as she caught the attention of a waiter who scurried off to fetch the bill.

When he returned, Gina laid a Gold American Express card on the plate with the bill. The waiter scooped them both up and disappeared again.

‘Money talks’ she said, a thin smile on her lips. ‘Bullshit walks.’

The waiter reappeared and she signed the blue slip. Then she got to her feet and Talbot followed her out into the cool night air.

A taxi was approaching and Gina stuck out an arm to flag it down.

‘My place?’ she said, unenthusiastically.

Talbot had already begun walking up St James’s Street towards Piccadilly.

The taxi pulled into the kerb.

‘Talbot’ she called after him.

He kept walking.

Gina waited a moment, then climbed into the cab.

It sped off.

She didn’t look round as she passed him.

Sixty-one

‘Cath, you’ve got to call the police’ said Phillip Cross. ‘You don’t know what kind of fucking maniac might be making these calls.’

Cath sat on the sofa, legs drawn up beneath her, eyes fixed on the telephone.

There had been two more calls since the last one.

Both violently abusive.

But, she thought, different voices.

‘They can trace where these calls came from’ Cross insisted.

‘Whoever’s making them isn’t on long enough for the police to set up a trace,’

Cath said, quietly, her gaze never leaving the phone.

At any second she expected it to ring again.

‘At least ring them’ the photographer said, angrily.

‘It’s probably the parents of one of the kids who’ve been taken into care,’

she observed. ‘They told me to back off.’

‘They also threatened to kill you. What’s next after the phone calls. Someone banging on your door? Petrol poured through your letterbox? Ring the police, Cath.’

She shook her head.

‘There’s no way I’m leaving you alone tonight.’

She smiled at him, touching his hand as he squeezed her shoulder. ‘I didn’t want you to leave anyway,’ she whispered, moving closer to him.

Cross enveloped her in his arms and she clung to him fiercely.

‘How the hell did they get your number anyway?’ he wondered. ‘I thought you were ex-directory.’

‘I am’ she said, softly.

‘Jesus Christ, Cath’ he exclaimed. ‘If they can find that out what else can they do?’

She moved away from him, got to her feet and crossed to the window of the flat and peered out into the night.

‘They’re probably using a public phone’ she mused. ‘It’d be harder to trace.’

“Whoever’s doing it probably hasn’t even thought about that,’ said Cross, dismissively.

‘There’s been nothing for two hours now’ she said, still gazing out into the blackness. ‘I think they’ve finished for the night. Probably fed up. They think they’ve

made their point.’ She turned to face Cross. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

He nodded slowly, watching as she flicked off the lamp on top of the TV set, glancing down at the photo of herself and her brother that took pride of place there.

She reached out and touched the photo, touched the image of his face briefly.

Cross had already wandered across the hallway to the bedroom.

Cath took one last glance across at the telephone, then flicked off the main light, closing the sitting-room door behind her.

Outside, hidden by the enveloping shroud of night, prying eyes saw the light go off.

The flat was in darkness.

Now it was just a matter of time.

He watched her as she slept, crouching inches from the side of the bed.

Frank Reed watched the steady rise and fall of his daughter’s chest, listened to the faint hiss of her breathing.

She looked so beautiful. So peaceful.

He reached out and, very gently, brushed a strand of hair away from her mouth.

She rolled over in her sleep and Reed took a step back, fearing that he’d woken her, but she remained still.

He leaned forward and kissed her softly on the forehead.

‘I love you,’ he whispered, then rose to his feet and walked slowly from the bedroom, pausing in the doorway, his gaze still upon her.

He wouldn’t lose her.

No matter what it took.

He’d already lost his wife: he didn’t intend losing his daughter.

He pushed the bedroom door shut.

Maria Goldman woke with a start, her eyes staring wide, the last vestiges of the nightmare still imprinted on her mind.

She looked anxiously around the room, searching for that huge cloaked figure which had pursued her through her dreams.

The horned figure.

Was it hiding in the shadows of the room? Skulking in the blackness?

She let out a frightened gasp as she felt the hand touch her back.

Her husband, woken by her sudden movement, ran one hand over her soft skin and asked her if she was OK.

Maria nodded and moved closer to him, feeling his arm around her, sliding towards sleep, drifting quickly into oblivion once more.

She wondered if the horned figure would be waiting in the dark recesses of her dreams.

He couldn’t remember how long he’d been walking or even where.

Talbot might as well have been walking in circles.

Each street looked the same, every building indistinguishable from the next.

The darkness had grown colder as night had become early morning.

And still he walked, collar turned up to protect him from the biting wind that whipped down some of the side streets, tossing waste paper and empty cans before him.

Hands dug deep into his pockets, he walked on.

Sixty-two

Detective Sergeant Bill Rafferty knocked on the door of the office, waited a moment, then stepped inside.

The room was empty.

Talbot’s desk was unoccupied.

Rafferty muttered something under his breath and glanced to his left and right along the corridor. He spotted a uniformed man heading for the exit doors at the far end.

‘Have you seen DI Talbot this morning?’

‘No, sir’ the uniformed man called back.

Rafferty went back into the office, perched on the desk, and turned the phone to face him. He jabbed one of the buttons on it and waited.

He recognised the voice on the other end.

‘Colin, it’s Rafferty here,’ said the DS. ‘Have you seen Talbot this morning?’

‘I haven’t seen him for a couple of days’ DC Colin Penhallow told him. ‘What’s the problem, Bill?’

‘He’s not here, that’s the problem. I’ve had two messages from Macpherson over at Theobald’s road saying he wants to talk to him, but so far, no sign.’ The DS looked at his watch.

‘Sorry, I can’t help you, Bill’ Penhallow said apologetically. ‘What does Macpherson want with him anyway? He’s in charge of that child abuse case, isn’t he? That’s nothing to do with us.’

‘Try telling that to the DI. It seems to have been the only thing on his mind in the last few days.’

‘Why the hell is he so interested?’

‘That’s what I’d like to know.’ He glanced down and saw a red light blinking on the console. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, there’s another call on three. Cheers, mate.’

Rafferty jabbed the third button,

‘DI Talbot’s phone.’

‘Bill, is that you?’ said the voice at the other end.

It was low, rasping.

‘Who’s this?’ Rafferty asked.

‘It’s me.’ A cough. ‘Talbot.’

‘Jesus Christ, I’ve been trying to get hold of you for the last hour, are you all right?’

‘Yeah. Listen, can you pick me up from home in about an hour?’

‘No problem. Jim, Macpherson’s been on the line this morning, something to do with this child abuse case in Hackney.’

‘What did he want?’

‘He said he’s seen the medical reports on the kids that were taken into care.

A number of them were physically abused. He also left the name of the woman at Hackney Social Services who he said you wanted to talk to.’

‘Right, pick me up as soon as you can. I want to talk to her.’

‘Jim, if you don’t mind me asking, what the fuck is going on?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This case at Hackney. Why the interest? We’ve got enough shit of our own to deal with. This is Macpherson’s problem.’

‘Right, you get on with what you’ve got to do - just give me this woman’s fucking name’ rasped Talbot.

‘Jim, I just asked. It seems like you’ve become obsessed with this bloody case and-‘

‘The name,’ Talbot snapped.

‘Maria Goldman.’

‘Right. Look, if you’ve got other stuff to do, then get on with it. I’m going to speak to this Goldman woman.’

‘I’ll pick you up,’ Rafferty said, wearily. ‘We’ve been digging around on those three suicides, too. Remember, the case we were working on before this shit at Hackney came up?’ the DS said, sarcastically.

‘And?’ Talbot said.

‘Apparently, two of the three dead men had reported strange phone calls about a week before they topped themselves.’

‘What do you mean, strange?’

‘Parriam and Hyde both got calls warning them off.’

‘How come this has just turned up?’

‘We spoke to their secretaries.’

‘You mean it’s taken this fucking long?’

‘Hyde’s had been away on honeymoon; Parriam’s has just come back from sick

leave.’

‘Were threats actually made?’

‘They were told to back off. That’s all.’

‘What about Jeffrey?’

‘Nothing strange there.’

‘Look, Bill, just pick me up as quick as you can, right? We’ll go over this shit later.’

‘I think it’s important-‘

Talbot cut him off. ‘So is this abuse case, now get a fucking move on.’

He slammed down the phone.

Rafferty looked at the handset for a moment then slipped it gently back onto the cradle.

Frank Reed held his daughter tight, feeling her warm breath against his cheek.

‘Did you have a good time?’ he asked her, glancing up at his wife who looked down at them impassively.

‘Come on, Becky, we’ll be late,’ said Ellen glancing at her watch.

Becky kissed her father on the cheek. ‘I love you, Dad’ she said then turned towards the door.

‘Go on, run out to the car’ Ellen told her.

‘I could have taken her to school’ Reed said, irritably.

‘It’s on my way to work’ Ellen said, picking up her daughter’s small holdall.

She turned to leave.

‘Thanks, Ellen,’ he said, almost grudgingly.

‘For what?’

‘For letting me have Becky for the weekend. I know I’ve got every right to access but…’

‘I’ll be in touch, Frank’ she told him and turned away.

He watched as she walked down the path towards the waiting car. Becky was already in the back, waving to him.

He waved back.

Christ, it hurt to see her leave.

Ellen slid behind the steering wheel and started the engine.

‘That’s it, Becky’ she said, a smile touching her lips, ‘You wave goodbye to your Dad.’ She glanced across and looked blankly at Reed for a moment, silhouetted in

the doorway. ‘It might be a while before you see him again.’

The car pulled away.

Sixty-three

‘As I explained to you when you rang, I can’t let you see any of the children’

said Maria Goldman, holding open the door of her office.

Catherine Reed entered, glancing around the small, immaculately tidy room. She accepted the chair offered to her and sat down opposite Maria.

The journalist afforded herself a brief glance around the office. She spotted a small television set and a video, set up in one corner, the clock on the video flashing constantly. The walls were a mass of filing cabinets and shelves and what spare space there was seemed to be covered with a collection of posters and leaflets.

‘Have you finished with them all yet?’ Cath enquired.

Maria nodded.

Cath reached into her pocket and pulled out a small notepad.

‘You don’t mind if I use this, do you? I’ve got a lousy memory.’ She smiled.

‘Would you like a coffee?’

‘Thank you. No sugar.’

Maria got to her feet and headed for the office door.

‘The machine’s just down the corridor,’ she explained. ‘I won’t be a minute.’

As she disappeared, closing the door behind her, Cath sat motionless for a moment, then crossed to the door and peered through the tiny crack between frame and partition. She could see Maria standing in front of the vending machine, feeding coins into it.

Cath hurried back to the desk, stepping around Maria’s side, glancing over the

stacks of papers arranged there.

She saw a large book that looked like a ledger of some description.

Cath flipped it open, scanning it for anything which resembled a list of names.

Nothing.

She pulled open the top drawer of Maria’s desk.

Manila files but no names.

In the next drawer there was a framed photo of a man in his early thirties.

Smart, good looking.

She was about to open the next drawer when she heard footsteps heading back up the corridor.

Cath scuttled around to the chair and sat down, sucking in a deep breath, picking up her pen and drawing rambling circles on the top of the page.

Maria entered carrying two styrofoam cups of coffee. She pushed the door shut with her backside and handed one of the cups to Cath.

‘Now, what can I do for you, Miss Reed?’

‘Call me Cath, please’ she said, sipping her coffee. ‘I wondered if you’d finished interviewing all the children that were brought in.’

‘Yes, we have.’

‘And from what you’ve heard, are you satisfied that there is child abuse involved?’

‘Unfortunately yes.’

‘In every case? There were seventeen children seized, weren’t there?’

‘Seized sounds a bit melodramatic,’ Maria said, smiling.

‘Well, dawn raids are pretty melodramatic, aren’t they? You obviously felt the need to go through with them.’

‘We felt that there were children at risk.’

‘Why were those particular homes targeted?’

‘They were random, apart from two. We had received reports …’

‘Was one of those houses the O’Brian house?’

Maria looked stunned.

‘My brother was the teacher at St Michael’s who made the initial report,’ Cath explained. ‘I know that the O’Brian boy was one of the children taken into care.’

‘How much more do you know?’ Maria asked, cupping both hands around the styrofoam container.

‘Not enough. There are too many loose ends already, things going on which may or may not be linked to this child abuse ring.’

‘I didn’t say it was an abuse ring,’ Maria interjected.

‘You said abuse was involved, though.’

‘Not all of the seventeen children we brought in had been abused, at least not physically.’

‘How many had?’

‘Nine.’

‘Including the O’Brian boy?’

Maria nodded slowly.

‘Do you think it was the parents?’

‘That’s not for me to say, Miss Reed. You’ll have to ask the police.’

‘Have they been informed of the physical abuse?’

‘They’ve seen the medical reports. Whatever further action is taken, and who it’s taken against, is up to them.’

Cath sipped her coffee, glancing around the office again.

‘What’s the video for?’ she asked.

‘In certain cases, like this one, evidence is recorded on audio and videotape, as well as written statements being taken.’

‘But video evidence isn’t permissible in court, is it?’

‘It’s mainly to help our people here, to make sure we get all the facts, everything the children tell us.’

‘Did any of them mention graveyards?’

The question was unexpected and Maria couldn’t disguise her surprise. For a

long time she merely gazed at Cath.

‘Why do you ask?’ she said, quietly.

Cath sighed.

‘It’s probably nothing,’ she said. ‘But the O’Brians lost a baby a little while ago, it was buried in Croydon Cemetery. I don’t know if you’re aware, but there’ve been… desecrations, for want of a better word, going on there for the past few weeks. Graves dug up, headstones wrecked, stuff written on them. Even the church itself there has been vandalised. The grave of the O’Brian baby was one of those dug up. I just wondered if any of the other children might have mentioned graveyards in their statements.’

‘What kind of vandalism?’ Maria wanted to know.

‘As I said, mainly the smashing of headstones, and graves being disturbed, but there was an incident with a cat. Some sicko nailed a cat to the church door.’

‘And cut its head off,’ Maria added.

It was Cath’s turn to be shocked. She nodded slowly.

Maria reached into the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out some pieces of paper which she laid before Cath on the desk top.

Cath noticed that some of the drawings were done in crayon. Some in pencil. A number were rough, almost impossible to distinguish, but others, in their crude way, were easily recognisable.

One was of an animal spreadeagled. From the long tail she guessed it was meant to be a cat. There was a great scrawl of red crayon beneath it then a round object with two slits for eyes and a couple of ears. The long whiskers made it obvious the artist intended it to be recognised as a cat. The head was also surrounded by red.

‘That was drawn by a six-year-old’ said Maria.

Cath looked carefully at the other drawings.

She recognised a pentagram, drawn with remarkable dexterity.

There were more pictures of animals, usually headless.

Another pentagram.

Then some writing.

At first it looked like meaningless scrawl, then Cath looked more closely. She swallowed hard. I’ve seen this before’ she whispered, looking at the roughly drawn letters.

‘We couldn’t make it out’ Maria said.

Cath reached into her handbag and pulled out a small make-up mirror then she held up the piece of paper, turning it towards Maria.

‘How old was the child who wrote this?’ the journalist asked.

‘Eleven,’ Maria told her, trying to pick out the letters in the mirror.

She studied each one carefully, the words running into each other.

‘I still can’t see what it says’ she said, quietly.

‘I saw this in the crypt of the church at Croydon’ Cath explained, pointing out the reversed words. ‘“The power and the glory, for ever and ever, Amen.”’

‘The Lord’s prayer.’

‘Written backwards.’

She lowered the mirror and the piece of paper.

‘Is that reversed too’ Cath asked, pointing at more words written on a piece of paper below a large grey block that had been carefully shaded in.

Maria shook her head.

‘No’ she said. ‘It’s Latin. Written by a seven-year-old. The grammar’s probably wrong but we managed to work out the meaning. “Deus mihi mortuus.” It means “God is dead to me.” Now where the hell would a seven-year-old learn that?’

The social worker got to her feet and crossed to the closest filing cabinet.

Cath continued staring at the Latin words.

From a seven-year-old?

‘Look at these’ said Maria, laying out five more pieces of paper before the journalist.

Each one bore the sketches, some rough, some more detailed, that had invaded Maria’s dreams.

The horned figure.

‘That’s the person the children say hurt them’ she told Cath.

Cath traced the outline of the horns with her finger.

‘The children have been kept apart ever since they were brought in’ Maria told the journalist. ‘They couldn’t have copied this figure from each other. They would have to have seen it.’

‘But each drawing is almost identical.’

‘In other abuse cases children have reported being touched or hurt by people dressed as clowns, even Father Christmas, but this is the first time I’ve seen any draw …’ She was unable to finish.

Cath gazed blankly at the drawings.

‘The Devil,’ she whispered.

Sixty-four

For a long time the two women stared at the pictures of the horned figure, then Cath pointed to something else on the sheet nearest to her.

It was in the top left-hand corner.

About half-way down the page on another sheet.

At the bottom on another.

‘What are these meant to be?’ she asked, indicating the shapes.

They were all rectangular, box-like constructions, all of them shaded in black or grey.

In one or two, windows had been drawn.

‘The children say that’s where they were taken,’ Maria explained. ‘We don’t think they’re houses. Children usually draw very simplistic houses - a square with a slanted roof, four windows and a front door.’

‘Coffins?’ Cath offered.

Maria shook her head. ‘Whatever they are, they’re on nearly every drawing.

There’s a uniformity about what they’re telling us that makes it difficult to think they’re lying.’

‘Why should they lie?’

‘It has been known. Kids with a grudge against their parents have screamed abuse. The parents have been pilloried by the press.’ She looked at Cath and raised her eyebrows.

‘But you don’t think these children are lying?’

‘The stories have too many common threads, too many similarities, and they’re too detailed. In some statements, children talked about smells and tastes.

Sensations they could only know by having experienced them. They didn’t see them on TV or read about them. They went through them’

‘And the Latin? The backward writing? The figure?’

‘They would have had to have seen them.’

‘Here?’ Cath said, pointing at the grey rectangular shapes on the paper before her.

‘Possibly’ Maria muttered, taking a sip of her coffee. ‘If only we could find out what that is.’

There was a knock on the office door and Nikki Parsons stuck her head inside.

She smiled at Cath, then at Maria. ‘There are two policemen here to see you.’

‘I am popular this morning, aren’t I?’ Maria said, wearily.

Before she could say anything else the office door was pushed open. Talbot strode in, Rafferty close behind him.

He shot a withering glance at Cath.

‘What are you doing here?’ he snapped.

‘My job, the same as you’ she told him.

They locked stares for a moment.

‘You two know each other?’ Maria asked.

Talbot ignored her question, pulling his ID from the inside pocket of his jacket. Rafferty did likewise.

‘It’s getting a little crowded in here’ Maria commented, an amused smile on her lips.

‘Yeah, it is. Why don’t you piss off, Reed? This is none of your business anyway’ Talbot hissed.

‘Hackney’s not your usual beat is it, Talbot?’ she said, scornfully. ‘What’s wrong, don’t you trust the local coppers to do the job as well as you?

Frightened there might be some suspect you’ll miss? One you could slap around a bit?’

‘Why don’t you fuck off, you’re in the way.’

‘I had an appointment with Mrs Goldman, I haven’t finished yet.’

‘You have now. On your bike.’ He hooked a thumb in the direction of the door.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt’ said Maria. ‘But this is my office, and if you two are going to have a running battle, I’d rather you didn’t do it here.’ She smiled efficiently at Talbot. ‘Miss Reed and I had almost finished, if you could wait just a couple of minutes.’

‘Fine,’ said Talbot, nodding. ‘We’ll wait here.’

He picked up his chair and moved it to one side of the desk.

Rafferty stood beside him.

There was a moment of awkward silence, broken by the DI. ‘Well, go on, don’t let us stop you’ he said. ‘We wouldn’t want to get in the way of a great journalist doing her job.’

‘Why don’t you make yourself useful?’ Cath hissed at him. ‘What do you make of that?’ She handed him one of the drawings of the horned figure.

‘If this is evidence you shouldn’t even be looking at it’ he barked, snatching it from her.

‘What does it look like, Talbot?’ the journalist persisted.

‘A kid’s drawing’ he said, dismissively.

‘What of?’

‘The Devil’ said Rafferty, looking over his colleague’s shoulder.

‘How the hell do you know?’ Talbot demanded.

‘That’s what a kid would draw. I should know, my Kelly’s five’ the DS told him.

‘And the child who drew that was a year older’ Cath informed him.

‘So, that’s our suspect, is it? The Devil’ Talbot sneered. ‘Well, we should be able to pull him in pretty quick, we’ll just put out identikits of a bloke with a goat’s head, a cloak, a pitchfork and cloven hooves. Should have him banged up by the end of the week. Well done, Reed, you’ve cracked the case.’

She glared at him.

‘What’s your explanation, then?’ she demanded. ‘How come five different children have, independently, all drawn almost identical pictures of the person they say hurt them? They’ve seen this, Talbot. Whatever it is. They haven’t imagined it.’

‘I’m sure they have seen it’ the DI snapped. ‘As you probably know, amongst the stuff seized from some of the houses were horror videos including The Devil Rides Out, To the Devil a Daughter, The Exorcist, Devil Within Her.

Shall I go on?’

‘That’s bullshit’ Cath said.

‘You want to find out where those kids saw this Devil, then watch those films.’

‘But what about the things they couldn’t have seen on film, Detective Inspector?’ Maria interjected. ‘I’ve already told Miss Reed that some of the things they described they could only have experienced first hand.’

‘Such as?’ the DI demanded.

‘The smell of blood, the taste of it,’ Maria said.

‘They read it in a book,’ Talbot told her.

‘Some of the sexual acts described,’ the social worker persisted.

‘There was pornographic literature and videos seized,’ Talbot said. ‘The kids could have seen it.’ He laughed. ‘They might even have walked in on their parents some time.’

‘Jesus Christ, Talbot,’ Cath said, exasperatedly.

‘I know you, Reed. You journalists are all the fucking same. I read that shit you wrote in the paper about satanism going on at Croydon Cemetery.’

‘I didn’t say it was satanism.’

‘You wanted it to be. It made a better story. Just like this.’ He jabbed the piece of paper in front of him. ‘The Devil. Pentagrams. Cats and dogs cut up.

You couldn’t have found a better story if you’d invented it yourself.’

‘These children aren’t lying about having been abused,’ Detective Inspector,’

Maria interjected. ‘I’m sure of that. There has been abuse.’

‘I don’t deny that,’ Talbot conceded. ‘But not by the Devil.’ He shook his head. ‘Those kids were abused by someone dressed like fucking Satan or they thought he was because they were drugged or they’d been watching videos with the Devil in. It’s simple logic’

‘So, it’s simple logic the kids who described the taste of blood had read it, right?’ Cath said, scornfully. ‘Four-and five-year-olds?

Bullshit, Talbot.’

The policeman turned towards Maria. ‘You’re the expert, what do you think?’

‘I would say that, from my experience and from what I’ve read and heard, there is evidence of ritual abuse in this case,’ Maria said.

‘Just because five of the kids drew a picture of the Devil?’ Talbot said, dismissively.

‘No, not just because of that, because of the other things they’ve said in their statements. Too many incidents point to ritual abuse,’ Maria insisted.

‘And these children are terrified. Not just for themselves but for their families. They’re afraid of something hurting their parents and grandparents.

Something that has already hurt them.’

‘It’s an abuse ring, pure and simple,’ Talbot said.

‘What makes you such an expert?’ Cath snapped.

If only you knew.

Talbot felt the hairs at the back of his neck rise. ‘I know,’ he said, quietly, avoiding eye contact with Cath.

She studied him thoughtfully for a moment, wondering where the brashness and abrasiveness had gone momentarily. For bewildering seconds Talbot seemed to change visibly before her, his features softening.

Come on, get a fucking grip.

Aware of three sets of eyes upon him he managed to shrug off the painful recollection.

‘What are these?’ he demanded, pointing at the grey rectangular shapes on each piece of paper.

‘That’s what we’ve been trying to find out,’ Maria said. ‘It’s where the children say they were taken, where they were hurt. It seems to be a building of some kind.’

Talbot looked at several more of the sketches.

‘And this?’ he said, showing the sketches to Rafferty.

On several of the drawings, the rectangular blocks had squiggly blue lines drawn in front of them.

‘It’s meant to be water, isn’t it?’ the DS mused.

‘Big grey buildings close to water’ Talbot echoed.

Rafferty swallowed hard. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered. ‘I think I know what they are.’

All eyes turned towards him.

‘The warehouses at Limehouse Reach’ the DS continued. ‘The big buildings with only a few windows, the water nearby. That’s what they’re meant to be, I’d bet money on it. That’s where these kids were taken.’

Sixty-five

‘You explain it then, Jim,’ said DS Rafferty, glancing across at his companion who was gazing out of the side window of the car peering at two young women on the zebra crossing. He seemed more concerned with the duo than with the words of his colleague.

One of the young women turned and saw Talbot staring at her. She said something to her friend, both of them laughed then waved at him. He looked away.

‘Jim’ Rafferty said, more loudly.

Talbot looked at the DS.

‘If they’re not the warehouses, what are they?’ Rafferty persisted.

‘I’m not arguing with you about the possibility they might be.’

‘And you don’t find it just a little bit curious that the unexplained suicides of three men we’ve investigated could be linked with those same buildings?’

‘Come on, Bill, you’re clutching at straws now.’

‘Why? We don’t know that Jeffrey, Hyde and Parriam weren’t involved.’

‘In child abuse?’ Talbot shook his head.

‘Maybe that was why they killed themselves. Perhaps they were scared of being found out.’

Talbot exhaled wearily.

‘Come on, Jim, for Christ’s sake, at least admit that there might be a link’

the DS said, exasperatedly.

‘We don’t even know if the things that those kids drew were those warehouse, do we? If we’re wrong, then-‘

‘Then we’re wrong’ Rafferty snapped. ‘But it’s worth checking out.’

‘You said that two of the three men had received threatening phone calls shortly before they topped themselves, right?’

‘It could have been parents of the abused kids. Perhaps they knew who was doing the abusing. Hyde and Parriam were told to back off.’

‘If they’d been found out as child molesters, don’t you think the callers might have done more than just warned them off?’

‘So what the fuck do you think?’ snapped Rafferty.

‘I think that everyone’s overreacting. The social workers, the media. I don’t doubt for one minute that this is a genuine child abuse case, but linked with satanism? Do me a favour. And now you ‘re trying to tell me that three unexplained suicides might come into the same picture. There’s too many loose ends, Bill.’

‘But if the warehouses where those kids were molested-‘

Talbot held up a hand to silence his companion.

‘No one knows that’s what those drawings are meant to be’ he said, quickly.

‘We’re assuming. Because if we’re right then maybe, and it’s a big fucking maybe, we’ve got something a bit more substantial.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Until then, we’re no closer.’ He looked at his watch.

The traffic was heavy.

It would take them another hour or more to get to Limehouse Reach.

Catherine Reed had tried his mobile number.

Nothing.

Now she tried to reach Phillip Cross by his pager, wondering where the hell he was and, more importantly, how long it would be before he called her back.

Where was he?

Almost as a last resort, she tried his home number. The phone rang.

Cath waited.

And waited.

Frank Reed wandered slowly back and forth in the main hall, peering alternately at his watch and the rows of children seated in the hall, heads down over their papers.

The only thing that interrupted the silence was the odd cough or sneeze and, on one occasion, the particularly loud rumbling of a child’s stomach.

Reed smiled to himself and performed his slow, measured trek once more before returning to his desk,

which was set on top of the stage overlooking the hall.

As he sat down he glanced out of one of the large picture windows which ran the length of the hall on either side. To his left he could see the street beyond.

He’d first noticed the police car parked there over an hour ago.

It hadn’t moved.

From his vantage point he could see that there were two uniformed men seated inside. The driver kept removing his cap, adjusting the headgear as if it was too tight or uncomfortable.

Reed watched them for a moment longer, then picked up the book he’d been

intermittently glancing at.

When he looked out again, thirty minutes later, the police car was still there.

The time had come at last.

She knew the one she sought. She knew where to find her.

She even knew what she looked like. There had been a photo next to an article she’d found a day or two earlier.

But she felt fear.

It was an emotion she knew well.

They would find her soon, she was convinced of that.

Shanine Connor rubbed her swollen belly.

She took one last look at the photo of Catherine Reed, then folded the piece of paper and pushed it back into her jeans.

Sixty-six

‘Where the hell do we start?’ murmured Rafferty quietly, looking at the high wire fence which faced them.

Beyond it stood the closest of the warehouses: large, monolithic buildings which appeared to have been hewn from one massive block of stone rather than constructed piece by piece.

Each one was as grey as a rain-sodden sky.

From where the two policemen stood neither of them could see any windows in the structures.

What must once have been a service road ran from the gate before them, splitting off into several narrower Tarmac sections, linking the buildings like grey arteries.

Just beyond the gate there was a large wooden sign which read: acquired for morgan and simons.

There were a number of dents in the sign where someone had, over the past few months or weeks, hurled stones or bottles at it. Talbot could see several broken beer bottles littered around near by. The service road itself was strewn with pieces of broken concrete. There was even the rusting frame of a bicycle lying just beyond the gate.

Talbot approached the gate and found there was a chain twisted through the entry way, woven around the wire mesh. He tugged on it, relieved to find there was no padlock.

The chain looked new, the steel gleaming.

Alongside the rusted, neglected air of everything else on the site, the chain seemed even more incongruous.

The DI pushed open the gates, hinges that hadn’t tasted oil for years squealing protestingly.

He walked back to the car and climbed into the passenger seat, glancing around as Rafferty slowly guided the vehicle up the service road.

‘They look like some of those drawings,’ said the DS glancing up at the large grey warehouses.

‘The kids who drew them could have been past here a hundred times’ Talbot said, dismissively.

‘What, all of them?’ Rafferty challenged.

He brought the car to a halt and looked at his superior, who was still gazing up at the buildings, as if mesmerised.

‘What now, Jim?’

‘We take a look around,’ Talbot told him, fumbling in the glove compartment.

He pulled out a half-eaten Mars Bar and took a bite. ‘You take those two’ he indicated the two warehouses to the right, the ones closest to the water.

‘I’ll check these.’

‘What if we find anything?’ Rafferty asked.

‘Just shout’ Talbot told him, swinging himself out of the car.

He stood surveying his surroundings: the warehouses towering over them, the dark choppy waters of the Thames just beyond. Across the water he could see the outlines of cranes thrusting up towards the heavens like accusatory fingers. Seagulls wheeled and dived in the air above the Thames, some coming

to rest on the roof of the nearest warehouse. They seemed to look down warily on the two men beneath them.

A small boat went chugging past on the river, tossed and bumped by the seething brown waves which spread across the surface. Even from where he stood, Talbot could smell the salty odour of the river. But it was tinged with something more pungent: the stench of neglect and decay which seemed to hang around the warehouses like an invisible cloud. As Talbot took a step closer he felt as if that cloud was enveloping him, sucking him in.

‘We’ll meet back here in an hour’ he said, gesturing towards the car. ‘Unless one of us finds something first.’

Rafferty looked at his watch and nodded.

Talbot watched as his companion walked away in the direction of the other two warehouses.

The DI hesitated a second longer, then headed towards the building nearest him.

Above him, a seagull circled, its mournful cries echoing through the air.

As he glanced up he noticed dark clouds were gathering.

Sixty-seven

The door was padlocked.

Rafferty kneeled down and inspected the lock, pulling at it uselessly for a second before taking a pace or two back and peering up at the warehouse.

The concrete edifice towered above him, the padlocked main entrance barring his way.

He muttered something under his breath and headed off around the side of the building, picking his way along a path which was overgrown with yellowed grass and weeds, some of which stood as high as his knees. The DS looked to his left but he could see no sign of Talbot.

Perhaps, he thought, his superior had already gained entry to one of the other buildings.

Ahead of him he saw a door set in the side of the warehouse.

Rafferty pressed his face against it, cupping a hand over his eyes, trying to see inside.

There was so much dirt on the glass it was practically opaque. He could see nothing but darkness inside.

His hand disturbed a spider’s web as he brushed against the glass, the gossamer strands sticking to his fingers. The DS wiped the sticky threads on his handkerchief, recoiling as he saw a particularly large, bloated spider drop to the ground beneath him.

For one brief second, he felt the overwhelming urge to step on it, especially when he noticed that the purulent creature was holding a cranefly securely in its fangs, but instead he watched as it scuttled off into the long grass.

He returned his attention to the door for a second, twisting the handle but finding, not with any great surprise, that it was locked.

Rafferty walked on, around the building, glancing up at it every so often, aware now of the odd drop of rain in the air.

The overgrown pathway took him to the rear of the large building and he paused for a moment to look out over the Thames. He was close enough to hear the water slapping against the bank, a fine spray rising into the air as each wave slammed against it.

A flight of steps rose before him, hugging the side of the warehouse, rising until they reached another door.

Rafferty paused a moment then began to climb, the steps slippery. He gripped the handrail, some of the blistered paint flaking away like leprous skin.

Beneath there was rust. In places it had almost eaten away the metal handrail.

The DS hoped it hadn’t done the same to the metal steps he climbed.

The thought made him slow his pace and he climbed more cautiously now, glancing down at his feet, wondering if the steps were about to give way. He was half-way up and more than fifteen feet above the concrete below. If the stairs did collapse he’d be lucky to escape without a few broken bones.

Pushing the thought from his mind, he continued to climb until he finally

reached the platform at the top.

The door which confronted him, like the other he’d found, had glass panels in it and, like the first, these panels were also thick with accumulated dirt and dust.

Even the door knob itself was rusted and it squeaked when he twisted it.

It was loose.

Rafferty rubbed his hands together, the coppery smell of rusted metal strong in his nostrils, then he took a step back and kicked hard against the door knob.

It came away with the first impact and the DS smiled to himself. He pushed the door with one fingertip and it swung back on rusted hinges.

The darkness inside was impenetrable.

Rafferty fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out his lighter.

He struck it, raising it above his head.

The light scarcely cut through the enveloping blackness.

Still, he reasoned, it was better than nothing. He stepped inside.

Talbot walked around the entire perimeter of the first warehouse and found, like Rafferty, that the doors were all securely fastened.

However, gaining entry wasn’t such a priority for the DI.

He was looking for something else.

Ignoring the weed-infested paths, he walked on, beginning another circuit of the warehouse, stopping at the main entrance first.

Two huge double doors, wide enough to accommodate an articulated lorry with ease, seemed to form most of the front of the building.

They were secured by a padlock.

As he’d expected.

A rusted metal chain had been wound round the door handles, too.

Rusted.

Like the door knobs on the smaller doors at the side and rear of the building.

Rusted.

It hadn’t struck him until he’d passed the padlock for the second time.

The lock itself was brand new.

No rust. No discoloration.

And there was something else.

Talbot saw marks in the dirt and grime that covered the doors.

Particularly at the bottom.

The doors were scratched.

He ran the pad of one thumb over the marks and felt rough edges.

A new padlock.

Scratch marks on the door.

The DI kneeled beside the locked entrance, now certain his hunch was correct.

These doors had been prised open recently and a new lock placed on them to keep them closed.

Someone had been inside here.

He turned and looked around, noticing that the concrete pathway surrounding the warehouse was cracked and broken in several places. He kneeled again, pulling at a chunk of concrete about the size of his fist.

It came free easily, woodlice scuttling for cover as the stone was lifted.

Gripping the stone like a club, Talbot turned towards the new padlock and struck it hard several times.

The padlock held, despite his efforts.

He struck again.

Still it held.

And again.

It was the chain that eventually broke.

The rusted links seemed to stretch, then snap, pieces of rotten metal spinning into the air like shrapnel.

The chain swung free, the padlock dropped to the ground.

Talbot smiled to himself and dropped the rock, digging into his pocket for a handkerchief which he wrapped around his fist. Then he took hold of the door

handle and pushed.

The twin doors squealed protestingly then opened a fraction.

An almost overpowering stench of damp and decay belched forth, the dust so thick Talbot was forced to shield his nose and mouth from the noxious blast.

He paused a moment, squinting into the gloom inside, then cautiously he took a step inside, pushing the doors closed behind him.

The rancid half-light swallowed him up.

For a second he wondered where the yellowish light was coming from, then he realised.

There were four large skylight windows in the roof of the cavernous building, covered, like every inch of glass in the place, by thick dirt and grime.

The daylight could barely force its way through, but the filth allowed enough illumination for Talbot to see where he was going. He narrowed his eyes, trying to accustom his vision to the artificial twilight.

As he stood there he realised how large the warehouse actually was.