Stolen Angels

For interminable seconds he stood there, the thick dust and the stench of decay filling his nostrils, his eyes struggling to adjust.

He sneezed, the dust choking him.

He raised the handkerchief to his face, breathing through the cotton.

It was as he glanced down at the concrete floor that he thought he saw movement.

A rat?

He shook his head and took a couple of steps forward, the dust so thick it clung to his shoes.

High above him there was a soft pattering sound.

Like what?

Like tiny feet?

More rats?

It was only to be expected, surely? The place had been derelict for years and with it being so close to the riverside it was bound to attract vermin.

Again he heard the soft pattering above him.

He realised it was rain against the skylight windows.

Soft, gentle drops.

Talbot took another few steps forward then sucked in a polluted breath.

What he saw ahead of him stopped him in his tracks.

Sixty-eight

Frank Reed smiled broadly as he watched Judith Nelson light her cigarette.

The gym mistress noticed his obvious amusement and smiled back, not even sure why he was smiling. She swept her hair back and took a long drag on the Embassy.

‘What are you laughing at?’ she said with mock indignation, prodding Reed’s leg with the toe of one of her trainers.

‘You’re a great example to your pupils, Judith,’ he said, chuckling. ‘A physical education teacher smoking.’

‘You’re not going to lecture me, are you, Frank?’

‘What, me? God forbid,’ he said, grinning. ‘But, you know the risks.’

‘Yes, and, as the man said, non-smokers die everyday. You don’t smoke. You’re dead too.’

They both laughed.

‘How did your weekend go?’ she asked him, finally.

‘It was fantastic’ Reed answered, ‘to have Becky around again, even if it was only for two days. We went to McDonald’s, I took her swimming, we went to the pictures. That was the first time I’d been for months.’ He smiled wistfully.

‘It was like being a proper father again.’

‘You never stopped being a proper father, Frank. It wasn’t your fault your wife took Becky away from you.’

‘Sometimes I wonder about that. I wonder if there was more I could have done to stop her.’

‘Like what? Kidnap Becky back again?’

‘It was great having her with me for the weekend, but now she’s gone again it

hurts even more.’ He lowered his gaze momentarily.

‘Is it going to be a regular thing?’

‘Ellen and I haven’t discussed it yet but, God, I hope so.’ He began picking distractedly at the arm of the chair, pulling away loose pieces of thread.

‘Perhaps she’s come to her senses at last,’ Judith offered. ‘She probably realises she can’t keep Becky away from you forever.’

‘I don’t know what she’s thinking anymore, I…’

Judith leaned forward and touched his arm gently. ‘It’ll be OK, Frank’ she reassured him. ‘You haven’t lost Becky.’

He smiled at her.

Reed got to his feet and picked up his briefcase.

‘I’m going home’ he said, smiling, glancing around the staff room.

Judith took another drag on her cigarette and nodded, watching him as he made for the exit.

The playground was empty as Reed crossed it, heading for his car which was parked behind one of the newer blocks. There were a number of vehicles still parked there including a large Triumph 750 which he knew belonged to one of the sixth-formers. The lad made a point of parking it close to Noel Hardy’s car because he knew it irritated the Headmaster. The fact that the owner of the bike was also going out with a fifth-year girl seemed to annoy Hardy even more.

Reed crossed to his own car, fumbling in his jacket for the keys, whistling happily to himself as he slid the key into the door lock.

Perhaps Becky’s visits would become a regular thing.

Even the thought of her cheered him.

Two days a week was better than nothing.

He never even heard the footsteps from behind him.

Just the voice.

‘Mr Reed?’

He turned and saw the two uniformed policemen no more than three feet from him.

‘Frank Reed?’ the one on the left said.

The teacher nodded.

He looked past the two men, saw the marked car sitting there, engine idling.

There was a third man behind the wheel.

His first thought was of Becky.

An accident?

‘What’s happened?’ he asked anxiously.

‘We need to ask you some questions, Mr Reed,’ said one of the policemen, a tall man with reddish hair. ‘About your daughter.’

‘Oh God, what’s happened?’ he demanded, the colour draining from his cheeks.

‘That’s what we need to find out,’ said the red-haired PC.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘We’d like you to follow us to Theobald’s Road Police Station. My colleague will sit with you.’

‘Not until you tell me what the hell is going on’ Reed said, his anxiety rapidly turning to annoyance. ‘Is my daughter hurt?’

‘No, sir,’ said the red-haired man.

‘Then what are you going on about?’

‘As I said, we need to ask you some questions. If you’d just get in your car it would save a lot of time and aggravation.’

Reed held up both hands.

‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said, wearily.

‘A complaint has been filed against you, Mr Reed. There may be charges.’

‘For what?’ he said, angrily.

‘Assaulting your daughter.’

Sixty-nine

In the dull half-light of the warehouse, Talbot had no doubt what the marks in the thick dust were.

He moved forward a foot or so, the carpet of grime so thick it deadened his footfalls.

Finally he kneeled, motes of dust spinning all around him in the dimly lit silence.

Footprints.

Some five-toed, indicating bare feet. Others from shoes of various sizes.

The carpet of dust was old. These footprints were not.

In places, the dust had been disturbed so badly that the dirty floor beneath the filth was visible.

Elsewhere, the footprints seemed to lead deeper into the cavernous building, towards the rear of it.

Talbot moved on, glancing around him.

There were high metal shelves on either side of him, some rising up to ten or fifteen feet into the air. What had once been stacked on them he could only guess. To his right lay several dust-sheathed wooden pallets, broken and splintered.

He saw what appeared to be a toolbox on one of the shelves. Like everything else inside the building it was covered by the same noxious blanket of grime.

Talbot flipped open the lid.

There was an old screwdriver inside.

He moved on, glancing down at the footprints.

The DI could only guess at how many feet had made these marks and over what period of time but, as he stopped again and kneeled over a particularly well-defined print, he saw that the covering of dust on what would have been the sole was very thin. This print looked no more than a week old.

He straightened up, scanning the area ahead of him.

The shelves continued practically to the back of the warehouse: beyond them he saw a door.

The only sound inside the warehouse was the rushing of the blood in his ears.

The silence seemed to crush him, closing around him like an invisible fist which tightened by the second.

He reached the office door and twisted the handle.

Locked.

Talbot took a step back and thought about kicking it open, but then realised that he might destroy any fingerprints or other physical signs which might be on the partition. He spun round and headed back to where he’d seen the discarded toolbox.

He scooped out the screwdriver and returned to the door, cupping a hand over his eyes, trying to see through the small window in the centre of the door.

Whatever lay inside was in pitch blackness.

No windows to give him even the kind of paltry light currently battling through the thick grime of the skylight openings.

The DI steadied himself and slid the top of the screwdriver into the grooved head of a screw which secured the handle to the door.

He twisted, surprised at how stiff the screw was.

Again he tried, cursing when the implement slipped and gouged a lump from the door.

‘Shit,’ the DI hissed, even his low exhalation echoing in the thunderous stillness around him.

The sound seemed to bounce back off the walls, echoing like some brief sibilant rattle before dying, smothered by the carpet of dust.

He jammed all his weight behind the screwdriver this time, pushing hard against it with the heel of one hand, turning with the other.

The screw started to give.

Talbot grinned triumphantly and removed it, dropping it into his pocket.

He set to work on the second one immediately.

DS William Rafferty stood close to the guard rail which ran around the inside of the warehouse and looked over.

He held the lighter above him but the yellow flame could barely penetrate the gloom. Even with the sickly light coming through the filthy skylight windows he could barely see the floor of the warehouse from his high vantage point.

The DS flicked off his lighter, realising that it was doing little good, but also because it was growing uncomfortably hot in his hand. He dropped it into his pocket and walked along the raised parapet, glancing to his right and left.

The walkway along which he moved seemed to stop at each corner of the warehouse, terminating in a door. It was towards the nearest of these doors that Rafferty now headed.

The walkway creaked beneath him and, as with the metal stairs he’d climbed, the policeman wondered briefly if the entire structure might give way beneath him, but he pushed the thought aside and kept walking.

The first door he met was wooden and he pressed against it with his fingertips, surprised when it opened, swinging back on rusted hinges.

The room beyond was large: he guessed twenty feet square.

It was completely empty but for a metal filing cabinet in one corner, now dust-shrouded like the rest of the building.

Rafferty crossed to the cabinet and slid open the top drawer.

Nothing.

The second one was a little more recalcitrant and it let out a loud grating sound as he pulled it open.

Empty.

The third one slid out easily.

The spider inside it looked as large as a child’s fist.

‘Jesus’ the DS hissed, stepping back, his heart thudding.

It took him a second to realise that the creature was dead.

Probably choked on the dust, he thought, shaking his head, annoyed by his own reaction.

He peered into the drawer again.

It was indeed empty but for the dead spider.

Rafferty turned towards the door at his rear.

It would, he reasoned, lead out onto the gangway which hugged the rear wall of the warehouse.

The DS crossed to it and tried the handle.

To his surprise it opened.

He set off along the next walkway.

The third screw came free and Talbot dropped it into his pocket along with the others.

One more to go and he’d be able to remove the entire door handle. That would give him access to the room beyond.

He eased the head of the screwdriver into the groove of the screw and began to turn it, pieces of rust flaking off as he exerted more force.

‘Come on, you bastard,’ he muttered, using all his strength, pausing a moment when the screw remained stuck fast.

He sucked in a deep breath, coughing as the dust filled his lungs.

A bead of sweat formed on his forehead, welled up then ran down the side of his face as he resumed his exertions, determined to free the last screw.

It was rusty like the others, but this one seemed to have been welded to the rotten metal by the decay.

The screwdriver slipped again.

‘Fuck,’ snapped Talbot.

He was about to start again when he heard a sound from behind him.

A grating, tortured sound like rusted hinges.

Rusted hinges.

Someone had entered the warehouse through the main door which he himself had penetrated.

Talbot waited a moment, thought about calling out to Rafferty, shouting to him to come and help, but then he turned, squinted through the dull light of the dust-blanketed building.

He heard footsteps.

Slow, tentative.

Muffled by the dust but still hesitant.

Talbot saw a shape move in the gloom.

A shape which was moving slowly towards him.

And, in that split second, he knew it wasn’t Rafferty.

Seventy

‘This is bloody disgraceful,’ said Frank Reed, angrily.

He got to his feet, gripping the back of the wooden seat he’d been sitting on.

Apart from the small table, it

was the only piece of furniture in the interview room at Theobald’s Road Police Station.

The room was no more than twelve feet square and the presence of both Reed and the single uniformed man in there with him made the place look overcrowded.

‘I’ve been here over an hour now,’ Reed snapped. ‘I haven’t been charged, I haven’t even been allowed to call my solicitor. What the hell is going on?’

‘If you’d just sit down, sir,’ said the constable quietly, motioning towards the chair with his eyes.

Reed still gripped the back of it as if threatening to use it as a weapon against the policeman but, after a moment or two, he sat down heavily.

He could smell the acrid odour of perspiration and realised that it was his own.

What are you afraid of?

He’d drunk two cups of coffee since being escorted into the room, his breath smelled of the brown liquid which was now going cold in the cup before him.

What the hell was going on?

His mind was reeling, words tumbling through it like collapsing building bricks. And each of those bricks carried a different word on it: ASSAULT

CHARGES

COMPLAINT

INVESTIGATION

Jesus Christ!

He wanted to scream it.

WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?

It was like some kind of bizarre nightmare from which he felt he must wake at any second. What did

they call them? Lucid dreams? The ability to be aware of what you’re dreaming while it happens.

Then wake yourself up. Get out of here.

But there was no waking.

No respite.

No end to it.

Whatever it was.

They said he’d assaulted his own daughter.

Sexually assaulted.

One of them had actually used that word when he’d arrived at the police station.

Sexual assault.

Dear God, even the words made him feel sick.

There had been a complaint. By whom ?

He sat forward, head resting against his hands, palms pressed to his temples as if he feared his head would explode with so many fearful and conflicting thoughts spinning through it.

So many emotions were coursing through him, his body wired like some cocaine fiend, his mind hyperactive as it searched for answers when it didn’t even have questions.

Sexual assault.

An image of Becky flashed into his mind.

How could anyone even think he would touch her?

Who would think it, let alone say it?

Who would …?

He swallowed hard.

Go on, you’re supposed to be a teacher. Think. Use your brain. Who would say it? Who?

He clenched his teeth together so hard his jaw ached.

The uniformed officer cast him a cursory glance, then snapped his eyes forwards again as the door of the interview room opened.

Reed got to his feet and glared at the two men who had entered.

‘Can one of you tell me what the hell is going on?’ the teacher barked.

‘Mr Reed, my name is Detective Inspector Macpherson, this is Detective Sergeant Collier’ said the larger of the newcomers.

Macpherson leaned against the table, the DS stood close to the door as if fearing Reed was going to make a run for it.

‘Look, I’ve been sitting here for over an hour,’ Reed snapped.

‘That’s a slight exaggeration, Mr Reed,’ Macpherson told him. ‘It hasn’t been anywhere near that long.’ The detective perched on the edge of the table and motioned for Reed to sit down, which he did.

‘I want to know why I’m being held here,’ Reed said, trying to control his temper.

‘We received a report about you and your daughter,’ the DI told him.

‘From who?’

‘Ellen Reed. I believe that’s your wife.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Reed rasped, leaning back in his chair. ‘I should have fucking known. What did the bitch say?’

‘You and your wife are separated, aren’t you?’ Macpherson said.

‘I want to know what she told you.’

‘We’ll come to that, Mr Reed. If you could just answer these questions it would make things a lot easier.’

A heavy silence descended on the room, all eyes fixed on the teacher.

‘Yes,’ he said, finally. ‘We’re separated.’

‘And she lives with a Mr Jonathan Ward and your daughter Rebecca. Correct?’

Reed nodded.

‘Are you divorced?’ Macpherson continued.

‘No. She just walked out on me and took my daughter, but you’d better ask her about that.’

‘Your daughter stayed with you over the weekend?’ the DI asked.

‘Yes. For the first time since my wife took her away.’

‘What did you do?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Reed snorted.

‘Where did you go? What did you do together?’ the detective continued.

‘Went out, saw a film, had some fun. We did what most normal fathers and daughters do,’ Reed said, shaking his head.

‘Did your daughter sleep in the same bed as you at any time?’

‘Jesus Christ, don’t be so ridiculous. Is that what Ellen said? Is that what all this is about?’

‘Did she sleep in your bed at any time during the weekend?’ Macpherson persisted.

‘No.’

‘She didn’t get into bed with you at any time?’

‘Well, she came and woke me up on the Sunday morning,’ Reed said. ‘She woke up early, she came and woke me up.’

‘And got into bed with you?’

‘Yes. It’s perfectly natural, you know. Seven-year-olds do that.’

‘Was there any physical contact between the two of you while she was in bed with you?’

‘For God’s sake,’ Reed hissed, angrily. ‘If you mean did I touch her the answer is no. No, sorry, I hugged her once or twice, is that against the law?’

‘Were you fully clothed at the time?’

‘I was in bed,’ Reed blurted, incredulously.

‘Naked?’

‘I was wearing pyjama bottoms.’

‘Did your daughter have a bath while she was with you?’

‘Yes, on the Saturday night before she went to bed.’

‘Did you bath her?’

Reed swallowed hard and glared at the DI.

‘I ran the bath for her,’ he snapped. ‘I made sure she was OK, then I left her to it.’

‘You left her alone.’

‘I was in the next room, in case she needed me.’

‘For what?’

‘In case she slipped, in case she wanted to get out. In case she swallowed the fucking soap. What do you think?’ Reed snarled.

‘And when she’d finished?’

‘She got out and dried herself.’

‘Did you help her?’

Reed shook his head, letting out a weary breath. ‘Yes, I helped her,’ he said quietly. ‘She asked me to help her. Then she got dressed.’

‘On her own?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you dried her off?’

‘I wrapped her in the towel, she was cold, she was damp. I helped her, then I left her to dress herself.’

‘Which parts of her body did you dry?’

Reed gripped the edge of the table.

‘Her feet, her toes, her back,’ he said, quietly.

‘Between her legs?’

The question hung in the air.

Macpherson’s stare was unflinching.

‘Did you touch your daughter between the legs?’ he persisted.

‘No, I did not’ Reed hissed.

‘You didn’t dry her there?’

‘I may have … I…’

‘Did you touch her vagina?’

‘You sick bastard,’ Reed breathed.

‘Did you touch your daughter’s vagina, Mr Reed?’

‘No.’

‘But you say you may have helped her to dry herself between her legs. Surely you must have touched it.’

‘Perhaps I did, but not in the way you mean.’

‘What do you think I mean?’

‘Ellen says I molested Becky, doesn’t she?’

Macpherson stood up, fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He lit one, blowing the smoke in Reed’s direction.

‘I just want your side of the story, Mr Reed’ the DI said.

Again a heavy silence descended, broken this time by Macpherson.

‘You took your daughter swimming at the weekend, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘Did you dry her off when she’d left the pool?’

‘Of course not, she was in the changing rooms’ Reed said, irritably.

‘So, you couldn’t be sure if she was dry. If she’d dried herself properly?’

Reed gazed blankly at the DI.

‘If you couldn’t be sure, then why did you find it so necessary to be sure after she got out of the bath?’ Macpherson asked, quietly.

‘This is ridiculous,’ Reed said, his voice low. He swallowed hard.

‘If it’s so ridiculous, Mr Reed, then you’ve got nothing to worry about’ the DI told him.

‘I’m not worried, I’m angry’ Reed snapped. ‘Has Ellen actually pressed charges?’

Macpherson shook his head.

‘Not yet’ he said, flatly.

‘Then you have no reason to hold me here.’

‘We thought you should have the right to give your-‘

‘Side of the story, yes I know, you already told me that’ Reed interrupted.

‘Look, I can understand your feelings, Mr Reed.’

‘Can you? Have you got kids?’

Macpherson shook his head.

‘Then don’t tell me you understand. If you had kids you’d know I was telling the truth’ Reed said.

The DI shrugged.

‘I should warn you, Mr Reed, that charges will probably be made within the next day or two. You’re not planning on going anywhere, are you?’ the policeman wanted to know.

‘Why should I? I’ve got nothing to hide.’

Reed got to his feet. ‘Does this mean I can go?’ he said, challengingly.

Macpherson nodded.

‘I should be sueing you for wrongful arrest,’ Reed barked.

‘You weren’t arrested, you came here voluntarily’ the DI reminded him. He held Reed in that unflinching gaze once more. ‘Next time, it might be different.’

Seventy-one

Talbot pressed himself up against the metal shelves, using them, as best he could, for cover.

He held the screwdriver in one hand, ready to use it as a weapon if necessary.

The figure was less than fifteen feet from him now, moving slowly, staying in the shadows.

Talbot ducked down and scuttled towards it, using the shelves to cover his approach, knowing the thick dust would muffle his footsteps. Dust disturbed by his feet clogged in his throat and nostrils, and it was all he could do to prevent himself coughing but he held his breath, emerging through a gap in the high shelves.

The figure was ahead of him now, close to the office door.

The DI squinted in the direction of the intruder.

Whoever it was obviously hadn’t heard him.

He began walking towards the figure, his hand now gripping the handle of the screwdriver so tight his knuckles were white.

He was ten feet away.

The figure was leaning close to the door, inspecting the damage.

Six feet.

Talbot tried to hold his breath, his heart thudding harder against his ribs.

Two feet.

The figure straightened up.

Talbot raised the screwdriver.

The figure turned.

Talbot shot out a hand, grabbed for the intruder’s throat.

The scream which filled the warehouse was deafening, amplified by the cavernous structure.

Talbot took a step back. Catherine Reed swallowed hard and glared at him with bulging eyes.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Talbot rasped. She looked at the screwdriver which he still held poised in his fist.

‘Are you going to put that down?’ she said, nodding towards the sharp implement.

He lowered his arm.

‘I asked you what you were doing here,’ the policeman continued.

‘I followed you,’ she told him.

‘I could arrest you for interfering with police business.’

‘Why not just stab me with the bloody screwdriver, as you were going to,’ Cath said her heart hammering hard against her ribs.

‘This is private land. You shouldn’t be here.’

‘This is news, Talbot, I’m doing my job.’ She looked at the loosened handle on the office door. ‘I see you’ve been busy too. Have you found anything yet?’

‘What’s it got to do with you?’ he snapped, pushing past her.

Cath regarded him wearily as he stood by the door. ‘You believe what Maria Goldman said don’t you?’

‘About those kids being ritually abused?’ He shook his head.

‘Then why are you here? It’s because of what those kids drew, isn’t it? You think this is where the abuse happened.’

‘We’re exploring every possibility’ Talbot said without looking at her.

‘Why are you so resistant to the facts, Talbot?’ Cath said angrily, watching as the DI set about loosening the last screw on the door handle.

‘What facts?’ he said, straining to release it, the veins at his temple standing out with the effort.

‘The children’s statements.’

‘The mentions of the Devil? Give me a break.’ The screw was coming free.

They both looked round as they heard the main door opening.

‘Jim.’

Talbot recognised Rafferty’s voice.

‘Down here,’ he called and the DS hurried to join his companion, slowing his pace when he saw Cath standing there.

‘I heard a scream,’ Rafferty said.

‘It was her,’ the DI told him. ‘Sticking her nose in where it’s not wanted again. She nearly got hurt.’

The screw was almost out.

‘Did you find anything?’ the DI enquired.

‘Not a thing.’

‘Well, somebody’s been in here, and recently,’ Talbot told his colleague.

The screw came away, the door creaked open an inch or two.

‘What do you think about what you heard from Social Services?’ Cath asked Rafferty. ‘Do you believe there’s ritual abuse going on?’

‘Just ignore her, Bill’ said Talbot. ‘She’ll go away.’

‘Well?’ Cath persisted.

‘I don’t know’ Rafferty said, quietly, watching as his superior pushed the door further open.

It swung right back on its hinges.

Talbot took a step inside.

The room beyond was large, twenty-five feet square at least.

If it had been an office, it had been a big one.

Talbot looked down at the floor.

There was only a light covering of dust.

‘Look’ said Cath pointing.

‘I can see it’ Talbot murmured, glancing in the direction of her finger then further around the walls.

She stepped into the room with the two policemen.

‘Jesus Christ’ murmured Rafferty.

There were a dozen large wooden boxes in the room, seven or eight of them in the centre, built up, stacked on top of each other in three block-like stacks.

Behind them, painted on the wall in black paint, was a massive pentagram.

‘Don’t touch anything’ Talbot snapped at Cath, then, turning to his companion, ‘Bill, I want a forensics team down here now. I want this place gone over with a fine-tooth comb, got it?’

Rafferty turned and sprinted from the room.

There were several dark stains on the floor.

Talbot crossed to the closest and ran the tip of one index finger over it, sniffing the digit.

‘Wax’ he murmured.

Cath was looking at the other symbols drawn on the walls.

A large upturned cross.

Another, smaller pentagram.

Some writing.

She recognised it as Latin.

Talbot saw another dark stain on the ground close to the piled boxes, more of

the rusty coloured tint on the boxes themselves.

He moved towards another of the boxes and peered in, screwing up his face, struck by the stench coming from the box.

There was a sack in the bottom, covering whatever was giving off the rank odour.

The DI pulled a pen from his inside pocket and jabbed it under the sack, lifting the cover away.

‘Shit,’ he hissed.

Whatever lay inside, he guessed, must once have been a dog.

An Alsatian possibly.

The head was missing. The body had been slashed open from breast bone to genitals.

The intestines had also been removed, torn free like most of the internal cavity.

Talbot dropped the sack back into place and crossed to another of the boxes.

Cath pulled the pocket camera from her handbag and snapped off two or three shots, the cold white light of the flash illuminating the inside of the room.

She glanced around towards Talbot, waiting for him to admonish her, but he seemed more concerned with what was inside the box.

She took two more pictures.

Talbot slipped a handkerchief from his pocket as he reached for the object in the bottom of the box. He wrapped the linen around his hand, not wanting to disturb any fingerprints which might be present.

Again that stench of decay.

Of death.

‘Reed’ he called.

She turned slowly, aware that Talbot had something in his right hand.

Something fairly large.

He threw it towards her.

Cath screamed as the object landed at her feet, her eyes fixed on it, staring down at it.

Talbot smiled humourlessly.

The journalist took a step back, her stomach somersaulting.

At her feet lay the head of a goat, a large portion of the hide still attached.

The eyes were gone, the entire object shrunken, bloodless.

Drained.

The hair of the hide looked dull and matted.

She put a hand to her mouth, eyes inspecting the long horns which jutted from the skull, bone visible in places where the skin had peeled away.

And there was that stench.

The rank odour of decay.

Talbot prodded the goat’s head with his foot, then looked scathingly at the journalist.

‘There’s your Devil,’ he snapped.

Seventy-two

The Jaguar Showroom in Kensington High Street looked deserted as Frank Reed scuttled across the street, bumping into people in his haste.

Most turned and shot him angry glances, one shouted something at him but Reed didn’t hear the words.

He’d heard very little since leaving the police station in Theobald’s Road over an hour ago, his anger and impatience directed towards the traffic and other drivers, all of who seemed to be conspiring to prevent him reaching his goal.

But now it was in sight.

He could feel perspiration soaking into the back of his shirt, beading on his forehead, and his skin felt hot.

He’d parked the car a couple of streets away and run, finding the effort more taxing than he’d imagined but, as he pushed open the door of the dealership, that effort seemed worthwhile.

He sucked in ort* or two deep breaths, trying to slow the pace of his breathing, to steady the thunder of his heart.

The fluorescents in the ceiling shone coldly, their white light reflecting in the immaculate and sparklingly clean paintwork of the vehicles arranged inside.

Reed barely saw them.

He headed towards the rear of the showroom, towards a desk. Beyond it was an office, the door slightly ajar.

The phone on the desk was ringing.

Where the hell was everyone?

Where was she?

The phone was still ringing.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

The voice came from behind him.

‘Sorry, I didn’t see you come in,’ said the balding man who approached him. ‘I was checking something on one of the cars.’

Reed saw the appraising look the man gave him.

T want to see my wife,’ said Reed.

T can sell you a car, sir, not a wife,’ said the balding man with the practised laugh of an experienced salesman.

Reed heard the irritating combination of servility and duplicity in the man’s tone that he’d heard a hundred times before from salesmen of all kinds.

On the desk the phone was still ringing.

Ellen Reed emerged from the office, slowing her pace when she saw her husband facing her.

‘You fucking bitch,’ he hissed.

‘Just a minute,’ said the salesman, taking a step towards him, his forehead furrowed now.

‘Keep out of this.’ Reed glared at him.

The man took a step back.

The phone continued to ring.

‘What are you playing at?’ Reed snarled at Ellen.

‘This isn’t the time or the place, Frank,’ she told him.

‘I think it is.’

‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave, sir,’ the salesman said as bravely as he could.

‘How could you do it to me, Ellen?’ Reed said, ignoring the man. ‘What did you make Becky say?’

‘I didn’t make her say anything,’ Ellen told him, defiantly.

‘You planned it, didn’t you? Or was it his idea?’ Reed hissed. ‘Mr Jonathan fucking Ward. I knew you were a bitch, but this is a new low, even for you.’

‘I’ve got nothing to say to you, Frank,’ Ellen said, reaching for the phone.

‘And if you don’t mind I’d like to get on with my job.’

‘Fuck the job,’ he roared, sweeping the phone from the desk. ‘This is my life I’m talking about.’

‘I’m going to call the police,’ the salesman told him, seeking refuge behind a car, ‘if you’re not out of here in thirty seconds.’

‘You won’t get away with this, Ellen’ Reed said fists clenched.

‘Get out, Frank,’ she said, her own heart beating that little bit faster now.

‘I know what you’re trying to do.’

Another man appeared from the office behind, a taller, older man dressed in a grey suit. ‘What the hell is going on out here?’ he asked.

‘I told this man I’d phone the police,’ the salesman said.

‘I know what you’re trying to do and it won’t work,’ Reed continued, oblivious to the other two men. His attention, and his rage, focused on Ellen.

The taller man hesitated, saw the fury on Reed’s features.

‘Call the police,’ he said to the cowering salesman.

‘Just go, Frank,’ Ellen told him.

‘You won’t take my daughter,’ he said raising an accusatory finger and pointing it in her direction.

‘If you don’t leave immediately we’ll call the police,’ the taller man insisted.

‘YOU WON’T TAKE MY DAUGHTER!’ Reed bellowed, then he turned and headed for the exit, his breath coming in gasps.

‘It’s over, Frank’ Ellen called after him.

‘No it isn’t,’ he shouted back. ‘It’s only just started. I won’t let you take her away from me, Ellen. I’ll kill you before I let you do that.’

And he was gone.

Had he turned, he might have seen the slight, almost imperceptible smile which flickered briefly on Ellen’s lips.

Seventy-three

Cath just caught the lift, calling to the single occupant to hold the doors as she hurried through the main entrance of the block.

She was carrying a bag of shopping in each hand and she didn’t fancy walking up the steps to her flat with such a weight.

The man in the lift lived on the third floor.

She’d seen him occasionally since he moved in three months earlier.

They’d never spoken at any length. Indeed, she couldn’t remember speaking to any of the other residents for more than three or four minutes at a time ever since she’d taken up residence in the block.

Everyone above, below and around her could be dead in their beds for all she knew. The residents didn’t socialise much.

There were two couples about her own age on the floor below who she’d seen together sometimes but, apart from that, contact was limited to polite nods of recognition or perfunctory bouts of conversation in the lifts.

That was the way in London.

And that was the way Cath liked it.

She did manage a warm smile at her fellow lift traveller and received a similar gesture in return, aware of his gaze lingering on her legs, tightly clad in denim.

‘I hate shopping’ the man said, nodding towards the two bulging carriers she’d put down on the floor.

‘Me too,’ Cath said, jabbing button one.

The lift doors slid shut.

‘My girlfriend does all my shopping for me’ the man said, a little too smugly for Cath’s liking.

She glanced at him again, saw him looking at her more intently.

When he noticed she was aware of his admiring glances at her legs and buttocks he did little to disguise the fact: merely smiled to himself.

‘Are you married?’ he asked.

She shook her head.

‘I’m getting married soon,’ the man told her.

‘Isn’t your girlfriend lucky?’ Cath said, sarcastically.

As the lift bumped to a halt, she picked up her shopping and stepped out.

‘See you around’ he said as the doors slid shut.

‘Not if I see you first’ she whispered under her breath.

Jesus, what a creep.

She reached the door to her flat and put down one of the shopping bags, fumbling in her pocket for her keys.

As she did she leaned against the front door.

It swung open.

Cath stepped back, shocked, her heart suddenly thumping heavily against her chest.

She put down the other shopping bag and stood at the doorway, ears straining to catch any sound from within.

Cath inspected the lock, noticed some small scratches on it. The metal was scored in several places.

She took a step inside.

Go and get help. Go now. Bang on the next-door flat.

She hesitated a moment, then moved another step into the hall.

‘Oh God’ she murmured under her breath.

The pictures which had hung on the wall lay scattered across the carpet. The glass in the frames of two of them was shattered.

A small ornamental table and the plant which it held had also been overturned.

Glass crunched beneath her feet as she advanced towards the sitting room.

What if the intruder was still inside?

She stood motionless.

Get out now.

The flat was silent. She moved on, into the sitting room.

As she looked around, one word flickered in her mind.

Devastation.

Anything that could be broken, had been.

The three-piece suite had been overturned, ornaments had been knocked from their places, some shattered

against walls. Pictures had been ripped from the walls and destroyed.

Her desk had also been overturned, the PC with it. Paper was scattered over the carpet. A vase of flowers which had stood on the coffee table lay in a dozen pieces close by, the flowers strewn over the floor.

Bookcases had been knocked over, their contents spilled wantonly.

Her mind reeling, she walked through into the kitchen.

Drawers had been pulled out, cutlery and broken crockery lay everywhere. Even the clock which hung on the wall had been pulled down and hurled across the room: it was lying in the sink.

Cupboards had been pulled open, the door of one ripped from its hinges by the ferocity of the intrusion.

She took a step backward, back into the living room, then beyond to her bedroom.

More damage.

The bedclothes had been pulled off, bedside cabinets overturned. The wardrobes stood open, and her clothes had been scattered over the bed and floor.

Coat-hangers had been pulled from the wardrobe and hurled across the room. One had struck the radio alarm clock, cracking the plastic window that covered the flashing red digits.

Cath could feel her head spinning, and for a second she thought she would faint, but the feeling passed and she sucked in several deep breaths, trying to regain her composure, moving back into the living room to find the phone.

She glanced around the room again, stepping over the printer of the PC which had been tossed to one side.

The printer.

Why hadn’t they taken the printer?

Cath reached for the phone, and looked around her as she pressed three nines.

Why hadn’t they taken the computer itself?

She frowned.

The stereo was still in position in one corner of the room.

Untouched.

Why hadn’t they taken it?

The video was still there.

Untouched.

So was the television.

Cath swallowed hard.

By the time the voice on the other end of the phone asked her which service she required, her heart had slowed its mad thumping.

She announced that she needed the police, gave her name and address, then put down the phone.

Video untouched. TV untouched. Stack system untouched.

She went back into the kitchen.

The ghetto blaster was still there.

Untouched.

What kind of burglars were these?

The flat had been ransacked but, as far as she could tell, little, if

anything, had been taken.

Cath returned to the sitting room and it was then, as she glanced around, she noticed that there was something missing.

Seventy-four

When she heard the knock on the door, Cath had looked anxiously at Phillip Cross.

The photographer had remained by her side for a moment, slowly getting up to answer it.

Cath glanced at her watch.

11.23 p.m.

Despite Cross’s presence she felt suddenly afraid.

Burglars aren’t going to knock, are they?

She ran a hand through her hair and sucked in a breath.

The last policeman had left the flat more than four hours ago. She’d called Cross and he’d come to the flat immediately. Together they’d cleared up the mess left by the intruders although there were still traces of the aluminium and carbon powders on various surfaces dusted by the police fingerprint man.

She shivered involuntarily as she saw the profusion of prints, but even as a layman she knew that most of the smudges were smooth.

Now she pulled her legs more tightly beneath her, listening to voices in the hallway.

A moment later Cross walked back in.

‘Someone to see you’ he said.

DI James Talbot followed him in, looking briefly at Cath, then glancing around the room.

‘Doesn’t look like they did that much damage’ said the DI.

Cath regarded him silently for a moment. ‘What do you want?’ she said, finally.

‘I heard about what happened here, I thought I’d come and have a look for myself.’

‘If you’ve come to gloat you’re a bit late’ she said, acidly. ‘We’ve cleaned up the mess.’

‘Who do you think it was?’ the DI asked, sitting down uninvited.

Cath shrugged. ‘Burglars.’

‘And yet nothing valuable was stolen?’

‘You’re supposed to be the detective, Talbot. You tell me who did it.’

‘Someone with a grudge. Someone who doesn’t like you. Mind you, that narrows down the suspects to about half a million, doesn’t it?’

‘If that was all you came here to say, you can go now’ she told him, getting to her feet.

Talbot didn’t move.

‘What the hell did you come here for, anyway?’ she persisted.

‘The case interests me.’

Cath sat down again.

Cross looked at both of them, feeling somewhat helpless.

‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked the policeman.

Cath shot him a withering glance.

‘Whiskey, please,’ Talbot said, smiling. ‘As it comes.’

‘So, what’s so interesting about my case, then, Talbot? What’s fascinating enough to bring you here at this time of the night?’

The DI accepted the drink from Cross and took a swig.

‘I’m interested in why they broke in here and then took nothing’ he said.

‘Aren’t you?’

‘Intrigued.’

‘Only they did take something, didn’t they?’

Cath nodded.

‘A photograph of you and your brother’ the DI said. ‘That’s all that was stolen.’

Cath watched as he took another sip of the whiskey.

‘You remember that day at Euston, not so long ago’ the policeman asked, ‘Some

geezer had thrown himself under a train?’

She nodded.

‘And you heard about the bloke at that gun club in Druid Street who blew off his own head? And the one who took a dive through the top of The Greenhouse restaurant?’

Cath sat forward.

‘The same thing happened to them a week or two before they topped themselves,’

Talbot told her.

‘You mean they were burgled?’

He nodded.

‘Either their houses or their cars,’ the DI said. ‘And in all three cases, the only thing that the intruders stole were photos of those three men. Just like you.’ He drained what was left in his glass and put it down on the table before him.

‘Do you think the same people broke into my flat?’ she asked incredulously.

‘Why would they do that?’

Talbot shrugged. ‘It might be a coincidence’ he said. ‘But it’s stretching things a bit. Four similar breakins in the space of ten days, no valuables stolen -just a photo of

the victim. In three cases, less than a week after the breakin, the victim commits suicide. You might be number four.’

‘If you’re expecting me to kill myself, Talbot, don’t hold your breath waiting’ she told him defiantly.

‘A man can dream can’t he?’

Despite her bravado, Cath felt the hair rise at the back of her neck. ‘Who were these men?’

Talbot smiled. ‘Now there’s the funny thing’ he said, humourlessly. ‘They were all professional men, all working on one project, all happy family men. All with plenty to live for.’

‘What was the project?’ Cath asked.

‘Those warehouses at Limehouse Reach.’

‘Jesus! Have you been investigating this?’

‘What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing?’ he snapped.

‘And it wasn’t murder?’

‘I think I would have noticed the difference,’ he answered, acidly.

‘But why do you think I might be involved?’

T didn’t say you were, I just said it’s a hell of a coincidence. Their places were robbed and only a photo was stolen. Now your place is turned over and nothing but a picture is nicked. The circumstances are the same, whether or not the perpetrators are remains to be seen.’

He prodded his empty glass, pushing it towards Cross who got to his feet and returned with the bottle, which he set down before the detective, watching as he poured himself a large measure.

‘One thing, Reed’ he said. ‘I don’t want you bothering the families of those dead men. If I so much as sniff that you’ve been round to any of their places I’ll arrest you.’

Cath smiled. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ she said, softly.

He eyed her malevolently.

‘Why did you tell me all this, Talbot?’

‘I thought you had a right to know.’

‘And if it scared the shit out of me that was just a bonus, right?’

‘Someone could be after you, I just thought I’d warn you,’ he said.

She watched as he sipped his drink.

‘By the way, have you had any weird phone calls or mail, any shit like that recently?’ the DI asked.

Cath nodded.

‘Some threatening phone calls,’ she admitted.

‘Did you report them?’

‘No. I thought they might be something to do with this child abuse story I’m working on, you know, parents warning me off.’

‘They actually made threats?’

She nodded.

‘Two of the three dead men had threatening phone calls too. Looks like you might have more in common with them than you thought.’

The DI finished his drink and got to his feet.

Cross rose with him.

‘I’ll see myself out,’ Talbot said, heading for the door.

‘How do I know they won’t come back, Talbot?’ Cath called after him.

‘You don’t.’

‘Then what about some sort of police guard?’

‘Are you fucking serious? I’ve got better things for my men to do than stand around here keeping an eye on you twenty-four hours a day.’

‘So what do I do?’ she demanded, getting up and following him to the front door.

He hesitated in the doorway.

‘Watch yourself’ he advised, a smile creeping across his face. ‘Sleep tight.’

She slammed the door on him.

Seventy-five

Frank Reed hadn’t slept well the night before, a fact confirmed by the haggard-looking reflection that stared back at him from the glass of the car window.

The teacher locked the door, transferred his briefcase to his other hand and set off across the playground.

He’d swallowed a couple of Panadol with his coffee that morning, but they seemed to have done little to relieve the gnawing pain thudding away at his temples and spreading over the top of his scalp. It felt as if the skin there was slowly contracting, squeezing his skull until he felt sure it would collapse under the pressure.

He raised a hand in greeting to one of his colleagues, whose car was heading for the teachers’ car park. He winced at the sound of the engine as the vehicle passed him. Every sound seemed to be amplified.

He walked on.

At the staffroom window he could see some of the other teachers getting ready for the day ahead. Two of them were gazing out into the playground holding cups of tea, as if steeling themselves for what the day might bring.

They both saw him, but when Reed raised a hand towards them they both turned away from the window.

Perhaps he wasn’t the only one who’d had a rough night.

Christ, that was an understatement.

He’d made a couple of phone calls, left a message on Cath’s answering machine, wondering why she hadn’t called back.

He’d even tried to phone Ellen.

Fucking bitch.

There had been no answer.

Perhaps they’d been at the police station giving statements. Even now, in the cold light of day, the absurdity, the inanity, of the whole episode seemed no clearer.

He had been accused of molesting his own daughter.

Even the thought made him feel nauseous.

What sort of mind could dream up such an obscenity?

Ellen?

Or her fucking lover?

He had wondered if Jonathan Ward might be behind it. The thought had tormented him all the previous night. He knew how besotted Ellen was with the man. Just how far would she go to please him?

What had they said to Becky to make her agree to such outrageous claims?

Did she really believe he had touched her? Hurt her?

The questions tumbled over in his mind as they had done the previous evening.

And, as before, there were no answers.

He pushed open the main doors and walked in.

Three or four young boys were gathered around the noticeboard to the left, checking the names of the school under-15 football team. They seemed oblivious to his

presence as he passed them, their attention riveted to the team-sheet.

Reed passed through another set of double doors and was about to turn right into the staff room when a familiar figure appeared ahead of him.

Noel Hardy looked at Reed, his face expressionless. ‘Could I have a word with you in my office, please?’ he said, stepping back, ushering Reed in.

Reed followed, accepting the chair which Hardy offered once they were both inside.

The Headmaster’s office was slightly larger than his own, perhaps to reflect the older man’s authority.

It had a profusion of houseplants, all of which looked remarkably healthy -

due, Reed was sure, to the high temperature inside the office. It was always warm in the room. Even in summer Hardy kept the radiators on, Reed had noticed. The older man either didn’t mind the heat or didn’t feel it. Despite the fact that the morning air was a little crisp, the office was uncomfortably warm. The air smelled stale.

Beside each plant pot was a small bottle of Baby-Bio. On one windowsill he noticed a pair of secateurs. There was also a small fish tank to the left of the Headmaster’s desk: a variety of tropical fish swam back and forth.

Watching them was supposed to relieve stress, Reed recalled. He wondered if he should get one for himself.

‘I wanted a quick word,’ Hardy said, officiously.

‘Fire away.’

‘This isn’t easy for me.’

Reed frowned.

‘The incident with the police yesterday’ the Headmaster continued. ‘I saw it.

I’m sure a number of

other people did too. I’d like to know what it was about.’

‘It’s private.’

‘Not if it happened on school property it isn’t. I want to know what happened.’

‘There was a misunderstanding. I went to the police station to help clear it up.’

Hardy stood by one of his houseplants and rubbed a leaf between his thumb and index finer.

‘It’s bad for the school,’ he said. ‘Teachers involved with the police. God knows there’s been enough trouble at St Michael’s lately. Brought about, I might add, by you.’

‘If you’re referring to the children, then-‘

Hardy cut him short. ‘It’s been all over the newspapers,’ he snapped. ‘What do you imagine people will think of the school?’

‘And what would you have done? Let those kids suffer? The police had to be called in.’

‘The damage done to the reputation of this school could be irreparable and it’s because of you.’

‘To hell with the school’s reputation. What about those kids?’

‘First you bring the police here and then you yourself become involved with them. God alone knows why. What have you done?’

‘I haven’t done anything.’

‘That’s not what I heard.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You were taken to Theobald’s Road Police Station yesterday, questioned about assault charges against your own daughter.’

‘How do you know that?’ Reed demanded.

‘I know. That’s all that matters.’

‘Who told you?’

‘So you don’t deny it?’

‘I don’t deny I was questioned. But, as I told you, there’d been a

misunderstanding.’

‘It sounds like more than a misunderstanding. But then you always did have a talent for understatement, didn’t you?’

‘I want to know how you know.’

‘I’m asking the questions here, Reed,’ Hardy said, defiantly.

‘Was it my wife?’

‘I have no choice but to suspend you indefinitely, effective immediately. I’d appreciate it if you left now.’

‘This is what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ the Headmaster said, dismissively.

‘You never wanted to help those kids, did you? You were always more concerned about the reputation of your bloody school,’ Reed snarled.

‘Leave now, please.’

‘Or what? Are you going to call the police?’

‘If necessary.’

The two men locked stares, then Reed got to his feet and headed for the door.

‘You’ll be notified if any further disciplinary action is to be taken against you’ Hardy told him.

‘Fuck you. And your school.’

‘Now you know how the parents of those children felt. The ones you accused.

Not pleasant, is it?’

Reed had no answer.

Seventy-six

Detective Inspector James Talbot dropped the file onto his desk and sat back in his seat, eyes closed.

For a long time he remained like that, watched by DS Rafferty and Phillip Barclay.

The coroner had a file of his own perched on his knee and he flicked distractedly through it while waiting for some kind of response from Talbot.

Rafferty lit up a cigarette, blowing out a stream of smoke, watching it dissipate in the air.

‘It’s not much to go on is it?’ Talbot said finally, eyes snapping open. He looked at each of his companions in turn. ‘We know someone was in that warehouse: that much is obvious, but who and why?’ He shrugged, allowing the sentence to trail off. ‘What have you got, Phil?’

‘A rather mixed bag, you could say,’ Barclay answered, smiling.

The smile faded rapidly when he saw the expression on Talbot’s face. ‘A few prints, mostly footprints,’ he continued quickly. ‘Corroboration of what you already know. Someone has been inside that warehouse.’

‘How recently?’ Talbot asked.

‘A week, ten days, certainly not more recently,’ the coroner replied.

‘What about the blood?’ Rafferty enquired.

‘I’m coming to that’ Barclay told him. ‘We found traces of blood and semen.’

‘And?’ Talbot persisted.

‘The semen wasn’t much help,’ Barclay said. ‘It’s only possible to divide it into three systems anyway. Secretor and non-secretor, ABO and a PGM sub-group.

Not very specific compared to the serology.’

Talbot sighed.

‘Do you want to give me that in English, Phil?’ he said, wearily.

‘You can ascertain blood groups from semen samples, right, just as you can from sweat or urine, but it’s obviously not as accurate as a blood sample itself for DNA profiling, unless you’re talking about something like a rape.

The semen samples found in that warehouse were almost useless.’

‘Why?’ Rafferty wanted to know.

‘Because they were too old.’

‘Older than the bloodstains?’ the DS continued.

‘In most cases. The spermatocytes were dead, decayed: it makes the typing virtually impossible,’ Barclay explained.

‘Fingerprints?’ Talbot asked.

‘There were about twenty-seven identifiable, the rest were partial prints, or

whoever left them had been wearing gloves.’

‘What about the footprints?’ Talbot continued.

‘Again, difficult to pick out. I’d say fifteen or sixteen different sets but very few complete ones. The dust in the warehouse should have made it easy to pick out imprints but unfortunately it didn’t work like that.’

‘Some of the ones I saw were clear enough,’ Talbot argued.

‘Some were. Most were made by bare feet.’

‘Male or female?’ asked Rafferty.

‘Both.’

‘And kids?’ Talbot enquired.

‘None that I could find.’

‘Shit!’ hissed Talbot.

‘With the fingerprints, Phil, are they clear enough to secure a conviction if we can match them with a suspect?’ Rafferty asked.

Barclay nodded.

‘What about the blood?’ Talbot added.

Barclay sucked in a deep breath. ‘We did peroxidase tests first, just to confirm that the stains were blood. Then we ran preciptin tests on them.’

‘Keep it simple, will you, Phil?’ said Talbot.

‘Preciptin tests can identify the nature of the blood. Human or animal.’

‘And?’

‘There were thirty-two identifiable blood samples in the warehouse. Six of them were A, three were O.’

‘And the rest?’

‘Animal.’

Talbot frowned and sat forward in his chair. ‘What kind of animal?’

‘Dog and cat accounted for twenty-one of the other samples,’ Barclay told him.

‘That still leaves two unaccounted for,’ Talbot persisted.

‘That’s because we don’t know what they are,’ the coroner said, irritably. ‘We keep anti-serums for most domestic and farmyard animals.’

‘So what are you telling me?’ Talbot demanded. ‘That you don’t know which animals the other two blood samples came from? How many possible are there, Phil?

I mean, once you’ve eliminated fucking giraffes and rhinos, what’s left?

Logically, what kind of animal could have been in that warehouse?’

‘Logically, I would have said it had to be a domestic animal of some kind, a sheep or goat at a stretch. It had to be some kind of animal that was fairly easily obtainable, perhaps from a pet shop.’

‘Some kind of exotic pet?’ Rafferty offered, looking at Talbot.

‘Any ideas?’ the DI said.

‘It depends what was going on in that warehouse. If they were carving up dogs and cats, Christ knows what else they might have used,’ the DS said.

‘The bloodstains were all concentrated in one main area of the warehouse, that’s why it was difficult to identify them all at first’ Barclay explained.

‘What other physical evidence did you find?’ Rafferty asked.

‘Hair and fibres,’ said Barclay. ‘Do you want the list?’

The policemen nodded his head in affirmation.

‘Head hair, eyebrows, axillary hair and pubic hair,’ the pathologist said.

‘How the hell can you tell the difference?’ Rafferty wanted to know.

‘Head hair is circular in cross-section, pubic hair is triangular in cross section, eyebrows-‘

Talbot held up a hand to silence him. ‘Yeah, OK, Phil, we get the picture.

What about fibres?’

‘Cotton, wool, nylon. I’ve got another list’ Barclay informed them.

Talbot shook his head. ‘So, the only mystery is where those two unidentified blood samples came from, right?’ the DI said.

Barclay nodded.

‘There was enough physical evidence in that warehouse to secure a conviction, should we find a suspect’ the pathologist said.

‘The parents of the abused kids. We don’t need to look any further.’

‘How can you be so sure, Jim?’ Rafferty asked.

‘I can’t. That’s the whole point,’ Talbot told him. ‘The media has already convicted these people. Not us.’

‘And this satanism angle?’ Rafferty continued.

‘That’s bollocks, you know it is,’ Talbot snapped.

‘What if it isn’t?’ the DS persisted. ‘Those symbols we saw, the statements given by the kids …’

‘For Christ’s sake, Bill,’ Talbot responded angrily.

‘What makes you such a bloody expert, Jim?’ Rafferty hissed.

Talbot avoided his colleague’s gaze.

Trust me.

‘This wasn’t even our case,’ the DS continued. ‘Why the interest?’

‘Because the case we were working on is linked to this one, remember?’ the DI said, acidly.

A heavy silence descended, broken finally by Barclay. ‘Look, I’ve got some more work to do,’ he said, getting to his feet.

‘Find out what you can about those unidentified blood samples, Phil’ Talbot said.

Rafferty also followed the pathologist towards the door.

‘I’ve got some stuff to do as well’ he muttered.

‘Trust me on this one, Bill’ Talbot called to his colleague.

Rafferty closed the door as he left.

Talbot sat forward in his chair, head bowed. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. He brought his fist down hard on the table top. So hard it hurt.

Christ, he needed a drink.

Seventy-seven

‘There must be something you can do,’ Catherine Reed said, exasperatedly.

Her brother sat motionless on the sofa in his flat, a cup of coffee gripped in his hand. He barely seemed to notice the heat which was searing his palm, so deep in thought was he.

‘Frank’ she said and her voice seemed to shock him from his trance and make him aware of the heat he cradled.

He put down the cup and rubbed his hands together slowly.

‘The police think I molested Becky’ he said, softly.

‘They haven’t charged you.’

‘It’s just a matter of time’ he told her. ‘Ellen will press charges.’ He began rubbing the nail of his right middle finger up and down the leg of his jeans.

‘I was a fool. I should never have trusted her. It was too easy. She wouldn’t let me see Becky for months, then suddenly, out of the blue, she rings up and says I can have her for the weekend. And all the time she was planning this.

They were planning this. She and that bastard, Ward.’

Cath sat beside him and slid one arm around his shoulder. ‘Frank, if you didn’t do anything then they haven’t got a case against you’ she tried to assure him.

He glared at her. ‘What do you mean if? I didn’t do anything. Do you think I touched Becky? My God, Cath.’

‘I didn’t say that. I know you’d never hurt her. What did the police say?’

‘They said I touched her when I was drying her after she had a bath.’ ‘Did you?’

‘How can you even ask me that?’ When she looked into his eyes she saw tears there. ‘They can twist things, Frank,’ she said, touching his cheek. ‘Have you spoken to Becky?’

I’m not allowed anywhere near her until this … enquiry is over. If Ellen has her way, I’ll never see her again. That’s what she wanted from the beginning and it looks as if she’s going to achieve it.’ ‘When can you go back to the school?’ He shook his head. ‘The suspension is indefinite. Hardy was waiting for his chance too.’

‘Come on, Frank. You’ll be saying they’re in it together next. You know why Hardy had it in for you. You made him and his school look bad.’ ‘By telling

the truth?’ ‘Like they say, “the truth hurts”.’ Reed got to his feet and crossed to the window. ‘If I had touched Becky,’ he said, quietly. ‘They’d be able to prove it, wouldn’t they?’ Cath swallowed hard. What was he saying? She kept her gaze fixed on her brother.

‘There’d be physical signs’ he continued.

Cath felt the hairs at the back of her neck rise.

‘Frank’ she said, softly. ‘Did you touch her?’

‘I held her in the towel after she had a bath. She dried herself, she dressed herself.’

Cath regarded him intently.

T love her, Cath’ he said, his eyes misting over again. ‘I’d never hurt her.

But how am I going to convince people of that?’

She had no answer for him.

Only helpless silence.

She felt it kick.

Shanine Connor winced and clapped a hand to her belly. It was heavily swollen now.

Her breasts too felt uncomfortably large and conspicuous, straining against the threadbare material of the jumper she wore. It scarcely stretched over the lump in her belly.

She stood still for a moment, wincing at a sudden stab of pain, ignoring the fleeting stares of passers-by.

The sensations passed, and Shanine walked on along the Strand, one hand clutching the holdall close to her, the other gripping one of the bars of chocolate she’d stolen less than fifteen minutes ago from a small tobacconists’ at Charing Cross station.

The man had shouted at her.

She couldn’t understand his words. He was foreign -Pakistani or something.

She’d run as best she could and no one had tried to stop her.

Out into Craven Street, into the throng of people in the Strand.

Gone.

She took a bite of the chocolate and continued walking until the Strand merged, narrowed and became Fleet Street.

She slowed her pace now, eyes alert, despite the fact they had not closed for longer than six hours during the past two days.

Her condition and the sudden change in the weather had conspired to deprive her of the sleep she needed so badly.

Shanine passed a shop window and caught a glimpse of her own haggard reflection.

Another young woman, perhaps a year older, also chose that moment to inspect her own image in the polished glass.

For fleeting seconds Shanine saw how she might have been.

The other woman was smartly dressed in a charcoal grey jacket and skirt, her hair freshly washed, blowing in the breeze.

Shanine blinked and the image was gone, the woman swallowed by the crowd.

Only her own tortured features peered back.

She stuffed what was left of the chocolate into her mouth and kept walking.

The building she sought was just ahead.

She stood gazing at it, at its tinted windows and the figures she could see moving about inside the reception area: a huge, cavernous arena of concrete and marble.

Above the main entrance was a sign: the express.

She reached into the holdall and pulled out a rumpled piece of paper, unfolding it until she was looking at the face of Catherine Reed.

She knew every line and contour of that face now. As she slid the paper back into the bag her hand brushed against the handle of the kitchen knife. She waited.

Seventy-eight

Frank Reed was drunk.

Despite the amount he’d consumed, however, he found himself denied the stupor

he sought.

Reed had never been a big drinker and he’d thought that the consumption of three quarters of a bottle of Bacardi would at least bring him the numbness he wanted.

He’d been wrong.

Instead, the world swam before him and he had to steady himself against the furniture every time he stood up. But, as for oblivion, it was probably another six or seven glasses away.

He sat on the floor in the hallway, the phone by his feet, the receiver pressed to his ear as he dialled.

He could hear the ringing tone.

His head was spinning and he closed his eyes for a second, but that only made things worse.

The phone was still ringing at the other end.

Reed reached for his glass and took a sip of the last drop of liquor he’d been able to find in the house.

He hated the taste of Bacardi but it was all he’d been able to find.

It should do the job.

The phone was picked up at the other end.

‘Hello.’

Reed recognised the voice.

‘I want to speak to Ellen’ he slurred, then belched, tasting a bitter mixture of alcohol and bile in his throat.

‘I don’t think she wants to speak to you,’ Jonathan Ward told him.

Reed closed his eyes for a second.

‘Look, let me speak to her,’ he said, trying to remain calm.

Silence at the other end.

He heard muted voices briefly then Ellen’s voice.

‘You’ve got a bloody nerve,’ she said, angrily.

‘Just hear me out. About what happened the other day at your work: I’m sorry I caused a scene but-‘

‘I could have lost my job because of you.’

‘And I could lose my daughter because of you'

‘Just leave me alone.’

‘Don’t hang up, Ellen,’ he pleaded.

Silence.

‘Ellen?’

‘I’m still here. Make it quick.’

‘Why did you make Becky say those things about me? Do you hate me that much?’

‘I didn’t make her say them.’

‘I would never hurt her, you know that.’

‘Why did you call?’

‘Don’t go ahead with this. Don’t take it to court. Think about Becky.’

‘Why didn’t you think about her? Before you did what you did to her.’

‘I didn’t touch her’ he snarled, desperation now colouring his tone. ‘You know I didn’t. You planned this whole thing, didn’t you? You and him.’

‘You’re drunk, Frank, now leave us alone.’

‘I want to speak to Becky.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, it’s after eleven. Besides she’s got nothing to say to you.’

‘She’d tell me what you made her say. Why you made her say I’d touched her.’

‘Goodnight, Frank. Don’t call again.’

‘Don’t do this, Ellen’ he rasped.

‘If you call again I’ll tell the police you’ve been harassing us’ she snapped.

‘Just let me talk to her, please.’

‘It’s over, Frank. You won’t see her again.’

‘Please’ he shouted.

It took him a second to realise that he was listening to the monotonous drone of a dial tone.

‘Fucking cunt!’ he screamed at the receiver, slamming it down onto the cradle.

Frank Reed wept.

‘It’s stalled on me, Phil. I don’t know what the hell to do next. Where to go.’

Catherine Reed stared at the array of daily newspapers laid out on the carpet before her and she sighed wearily, leaning back against the sofa where Phillip Cross was lying, one hand gently massaging her shoulder.

She was wearing just a long shirt, unbuttoned to the second fastening, her long slender legs curled beneath her.

Cross was wearing T-shirt and jeans.

The jeans were unbuttoned at the waist, the T-shirt, bearing the legend same shit different day, was untidily tucked into them.

‘What about the rest?’ Cross enquired, nodding towards the other papers.

‘They’ve all got their angles’ she told him. ‘The ones who are bothering to carry stories anyway.’ Cath ran a hand through her long dark hair. ‘I sometimes wonder if we’re the only paper taking this child abuse thing seriously.’ She picked up one of the papers, another tabloid. ‘Two columns on page four. That’s it in the Mirror. The Sport ran a double-page centre spread with colour pictures of women dressed as witches, but now nothing.’

‘What do you expect? You know how they work. No tits, no story,’ Cross shrugged, still gently kneading the flesh of her shoulder.

‘Three columns in the Sun, one in Today and the broadsheets haven’t even touched it.’

‘Passing fad,’ offered Cross.

‘Jesus, Phil, we’re talking about sexual abuse of at least nine children, a possible paedophile ring, parents suspected of molesting their own kids and, to top it all, the probability there’s a ritual element to the whole thing, and still nobody gives a toss. They’d rather read how much Princess Diana spends on a sodding manicure.’

They sat in silence for a moment, just the sound of the TV in the background, the volume lowered so it was barely audible.

‘So, what do you do now?’ Cross asked.

‘No one’s talking any more,’ she told him, reaching back to touch his hand.

‘Not the police, not the Social Services, and certainly not the families. It’s like it’s all over. Pushed into some drawer out of sight. This is a bigger case than Cleveland or Nottingham, and no one wants to know.’

He continued massaging her as she went on. ‘One paper ran something about the video nasties that were found in a few of the houses. But they hardly mentioned the abuse. They were more concerned that the kids might have been watching violent movies. Instead of investigating the whole case they concentrated on the video angle. Some self-righteous MP stands up and calls for a ban on all 18 certificate videos. Jesus Christ, don’t they get it?’

‘You’re talking about politicians, Cath, they don’t live in the real world.

Any of them.’

‘What do you think?’ she asked, turning to face him.

‘About politicians? They’re all a bunch of hypocritical, arse-licking, vote-catching, back-stabbing-‘

She smiled and pressed her finger to his lips.

‘About this story?’ she corrected him, removing her finger.

‘I think there’s something going on, but don’t ask me what. Kids abused, cats nailed to church doors, graves dug up, dawn raids. It makes no sense to me, Cath. I’m just a humble photographer.’

‘But what do you believe?’

He could only shrug.

‘Do you believe my story?’ she asked. ‘Do you believe that the abuse could be ritualistic?’

‘Cath, I…’

‘I need to know, Phil.’

‘I think it’s possible’ he said, quietly, stroking her hair. ‘Why is my

opinion so important?’

‘It just is.’

She kissed him lightly on the lips.

‘What are the police doing about the case?’ he asked, sliding one hand inside her shirt, cupping one breast.

She made no move to resist.

‘They start interviewing the parents of the children tomorrow’ Cath told him, sighing as she felt his thumb brush across her nipple, the fleshy bud stiffening and rising.

‘All you can do is wait, Cath’ he told her, quietly, his hand still gently squeezing her breast.

She bent forward and kissed him hard on the lips, his mouth opening to welcome her probing tongue, his hand squeezing her breast.

She climbed onto the sofa with him, grinding her pubic mound against the bulge she could feel in his jeans, helping him to free his erection.

As he felt her hand grip his shaft he grunted with pleasure, fingers undoing her shirt, tongue snaking forward to flick her swollen nipples. With his free hand he traced a pattern across the inside of first one of her spread thighs then the other, feeling her shiver at his touch.

As she moved forward he felt the slippery softness of her cleft brush against the tip of his penis.

Cath sighed, wanting him inside her.

She glanced to one side, at the papers spread out across the carpet.

Then, as she felt the first glorious sensations between her legs, felt his stiffness slide into her, she turned her head away.

The phone was ringing when Talbot walked in. He glanced at his watch. 11.27

p.m.

Who the fuck was calling now? He snatched up the receiver. ‘Hello.’

‘Mr Talbot, this is Maurice Hodges’ said the voice at the other end.

The DI felt the colour drain from his cheeks.

Hodges sounded almost apologetic. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you at this time, but it is important’ he said. ‘It’s your mother. It’s bad news.’

Seventy-nine

That smell.

Hospitals always had that smell. Talbot didn’t know what it was but it always made him feel sick.

If he’d been in the mood he would probably have found that particular irony amusing.

As it was he had other things on his mind.

He had no idea how long it had taken him to drive to St Ann’s hospital in Harringay. The journey had been a blur, as if he’d been travelling through some drug-induced trance, not really seeing or hearing properly. He drove instinctively, amazed he hadn’t killed anyone, such had been his haste to reach this place.

This place that smelled so strong it made him feel sick.

The room in which he sat was about twelve feet square.

It reminded him of a cell but for the leaflets on the wall.

Multiple sclerosis.

Rabies.

Cancer.

Always fucking cancer.

That particular leaflet was pinned just above the red and white sign which proclaimed: no smoking.

Talbot felt more like a cigarette than he’d ever done in his life.

A nurse had brought him a cup of tea when he’d first arrived.

That same cup now stood untouched and cold on the table before him.

The room was lit by a small table lamp fitted with a forty-watt bulb. It was barely adequate and the room was filled with long shadows. Thick and black, they seemed to move of their own accord.

The door of the room opened and two men entered, one of whom Talbot recognised as Dr Hodges from Litton Vale. The other man was also, he assumed, a doctor, his features pinched, his hair swept back so severely it looked as though his scalp had been stretched.

But, for all that, he had sad eyes. Great saucer-like orbs which homed in on Talbot like searchlights on a fleeing man.

‘How is she?’ the DI asked, rising to his feet.

The man with sad eyes kept him fixed in that watery gaze.

‘I won’t lie to you’ he said softly. ‘I’ll be surprised if she lasts the night. I’m very sorry.’

Talbot stood motionless. ‘What was it?’ he said, looking at Hodges.

‘A massive heart attack,’ the doctor told him. ‘One of the night staff called me: I live close to Litton Vale, I don’t know if you know. I drove there, I called the ambulance immediately, then I called you.’

‘Can I see her?’ Talbot asked.

‘She’s in a coma,’ the sad-eyed man told him.

‘I didn’t ask you that. I asked if I could see her,’ the DI persisted.

‘I’d advise against it, Mr Talbot-‘

‘I don’t want your advice, I want to see my mother.’

The sad-eyed doctor glanced at Hodges then back at Talbot. ‘She’s in ICU. I can show you-‘

‘I’ll find it,’ said Talbot, pushing past him.

As he stepped out of the room he saw several signs on the blue-painted hospital wall.

One pointed the way to Intensive Care.

Talbot stalked off down the corridor and jabbed the lift call button, waiting as the car bumped to a halt before him.

As the doors slid open he saw an old man in a dressing gown inside, who shot him a questioning look. The man was using a frame to walk and even that didn’t seem to be of much help.

Talbot wondered what he was doing up and about at such a late hour.

The policeman stepped into the lift, watched by the old man, pressed the required button and the doors slid shut.

He leaned against the rear wall as the lift rose to its appointed floor.

The smell here seemed even stronger, but Talbot ignored it and headed towards the nurses’ station, his footsteps echoing through the stillness.

The nurse who looked up at him was in her early twenties.

‘I’m looking for Dorothy Talbot,’ he said. ‘I’m her son.’

The nurse stared at him, pity filling her eyes, then she rose.

Talbot followed her along a short corridor towards a room, the door of which she pushed open, ushering Talbot inside.

‘Oh Christ!’ he whispered.

The only sound in the room was the steady blip of an oscilloscope.

‘You can’t stay long’ the nurse said, apologetically, stepping aside as Talbot moved closer to the bed where his mother lay.

There was a plastic chair close to the bed and he pulled it over, seating himself beside her, gazing into her face.

Her skin was the colour of old newspaper, her eyes sunken so deep into her face she looked skeletal.

The nurse paused a moment then stepped out of the room.

Talbot sat gazing at his mother, at the tubes running from both arms to drips near by. At the catheter, half full of dark liquid.

‘Mum,’ he said, softly, reaching for her hand.

It was so cold.

Her skin felt waxen to his touch.

And so cold.

He could see her chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly but he couldn’t hear her breathing.

All that was covering her was a sheet, and that was only pulled up as far as her waist. Talbot muttered something under his breath and noticed a blanket carefully folded on the bottom of the bed. He unrolled it then pulled both it

and the sheet up to his mother’s chest.

Carefully he tucked one of her hands beneath the covers, gripping it gently.

‘Don’t die.’

She looked so frail, so drained of life. So different from the last time he’d seen her.

Well, at least you won’t have to worry about bringing her home, will you ? You bastard.

He squeezed her hand more tightly, as if the action might rouse her from the coma.

Heart attack.

Jesus Christ, wasn’t fucking cancer enough?

Talbot noticed that there was a small wooden cross hanging above the bed.

He eyed it malevolently.

She didn’t deserve to suffer. Her least of all.

Allowing his mother’s hand to slip from his grip, he got to his feet and plucked the cross from the wall placing it on the bedside table.

‘Satisfied now?’ he said, his words directed at empty air.

At a God he didn’t believe in.

He reached for her hand again.

So cold.

‘You sleep, Mum,’ he whispered, barely realising there were tears rolling down his cheeks. The oscilloscope continued its slow rhythm.

Everything else was silent.

The nurse came to the door, peeked through the glass panel and saw Talbot sitting holding his mother’s hand.

She hesitated a moment, then walked quietly away.

Eighty

The note had been on the pillow beside her when she’d woken that morning.

Cath had rolled over sleepily, slapping a hand in the general direction of the alarm clock, expecting also to feel the warmth of Phillip Cross’s body but the photographer wasn’t there.

She’d found the note moments later, sliding across her large bed and shutting off the alarm, glancing down to see the scribbled note: ‘Some of us have to work for a living. See you later. Love Phil.’

Cath remembered dimly that he’d said something to her the night before about having an assignment in Paddington early that morning.

Very early.

She glanced across at the alarm.

7.30 a.m.

Then she looked back at the note.

Love Phil.

Love?

Now, as she parked her Fiat in the car park at the back of the Express building, she looked down at the note once again. At first she wondered why she’d even kept it with her, stuffing it into the back pocket of her jeans.

She glanced at it and smiled.

Love?

Perhaps he did love her.

Perhaps she loved him.

Cath folded the note and slid it into the pocket again, picking up her briefcase from the back seat.

She usually entered by the door at the rear of the building. A security guard was posted there too, but he didn’t ask to see her pass as she approached him.

She smiled broadly at him and mentioned the previous night’s football results.

The security man smiled back and called something to her about Liverpool in a broad scouse accent.

She waved dismissively at him as she got into the lift. When she reached her floor, she stepped out and was enveloped by sound: raised voices, chattering keyboards, electronic printers, even the clacking of a typewriter. Some of the older journalists on the paper still typed their copy before transferring it

to their word processors. Cath wondered if they saw it as a last desperate attempt to cling onto a now archaic way of working. One of the sports writers completed all his features on an old Elite machine.

The office was open plan, desks separated from each other only by movable partitions. They didn’t offer much privacy and it sometimes made taking phone calls difficult, but Cath enjoyed the organised chaos of the newsroom. She had done ever since she joined the paper.

A number of her colleagues nodded greetings at her as she headed towards her desk. Others were either out of the office or engrossed in their own work.

She spotted the young lad who was in the office on work experience struggling with a cardboard tray filled with coffee cups from the vending machine.

Cath smiled. It seemed to be all the poor little sod did. Fetch coffee. By the time his week was up he’d probably have learned more about being a waiter than a journalist. He passed from desk to desk distributing beverages.

Cath reached her own desk and set down her briefcase. She sat down and was about to check her messages when she heard a familiar voice call her name.

Terry Nicholls stood in the doorway of his office.

‘Have you got a minute, Cath?’ he said, his face expressionless.

She smiled at the Editor and got to her feet.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked as he ushered her inside.

She saw the other occupant of the room immediately.

Cath frowned.

‘This is who you want’ Nicholls addressed the seated figure, gesturing in Cath’s direction.

As the journalist entered, the person in the swivel chair turned and looked into her eyes.

Cath looked back and met Shanine Connor’s haunted stare.

Cath saw the pale skin, the lank brown hair, the holdall which lay at the girl’s feet and she noticed the large bulge of Shanine’s belly.

‘Why don’t you tell Miss Reed why you’re here?’ Nicholls said, taking a seat behind his desk.

He motioned for Cath to take a seat, which she did, perching on the edge of the black leather sofa backed onto one wall.

She ran appraising eyes over Shanine, guessing she was in her early thirties.

It might have surprised Cath to know she was only in her early twenties. The ravages of sleeping rough had taken their toll over the past few days. There was a slightly acrid smell in the office, which Cath realised was coming from the visitor.

‘My name’s Shanine Connor,’ she said, falteringly.

‘I’m Catherine Reed.’

‘I know who you are. I’ve read your articles,’ said Shanine, fumbling in her jeans and pulling out the crumpled photo. ‘I took this from one of them.’ She held up the picture for inspection.

‘She’s been here nearly an hour,’ said Nicholls. ‘Security were going to throw her out. She kept insisting she had to see you. I brought her in with me.’

‘What can I do for you, Ms Connor?’ Cath asked, puzzled.

‘Like I said, I read your articles, you know, about the cemetery desecrations, the things that have been going on with those children. It’s terrible,’

Shanine said, lowering her gaze.

Cath looked at Nicholls, who shrugged. ‘What’s your reason for wanting to see me, Ms Connor?’

‘Shanine.’

‘Shanine,’ Cath repeated.

‘I came to tell you you’re right about what’s going on’ the younger woman told her. ‘You said it was satanism.’

‘I said that it was possible it could be satanism’ Cath corrected her.

‘It is.’

‘How can you be sure? Are you involved in it?’ Cath asked, excitedly.

Shanine looked unblinkingly at her. ‘I’m the High Priestess of a Coven’ she said, softly. ‘I’m a witch.’

Eighty-one

Cath sat motionless, her eyes trained on the scruffy, pregnant young woman before her.

Nicholls was the first to move.

He got to his feet and headed towards the office door. ‘I think I’ll leave you to it: I’ve heard Ms Connor’s story once,’ he said, smiling wanly.

As he passed Cath he bent and whispered in her ear: ‘Good luck. Enjoy yourself.’

And he was gone.

‘I know he doesn’t believe me,’ Shanine said as the office door closed behind the Editor. ‘He thinks I’m mad.’

‘Why should he?’

Shanine tried to smile but didn’t manage it.

‘Why don’t you tell me what you told him?’ Cath said.

‘You’ll probably think I’m mad as well.’

‘Try me.’

‘I don’t know where to start,’ the younger woman said, wearily.

Cath saw tears in her eyes.

‘Would you like a drink? A coffee or something?’ she asked.

Shanine shook her head. ‘I think I need something stronger,’ she said, again trying to force a smile, again failing.

‘Listen, Ms … Shanine. What you said, about being a High Priestess, a witch, it’s not that I don’t believe you, but walking in here and saying something like that,’ Cath shrugged, ‘it’s like a scene from a bad horror film.’

‘What do you want me to say? It’s the truth. I came here because I need help, because I wanted to get away from them. They’ll kill me if they find me. They were going to kill my baby, that’s why I ran away in the first place. They would have killed my baby.’

‘Who are they?’

‘The other members of the group’

‘The Coven?’

Shanine nodded.

‘How did you get involved with them in the first place?’ Cath asked.

‘My boyfriend’ the younger woman said, wearily. ‘He was in the Navy when I met him. He was twenty-two, I was seventeen. He was gorgeous.’ A slight smile flickered on her lips. ‘About six foot, blond and muscly. Really fit. We spent nearly all our time in bed.’ The smile faded slowly. 1 told him about my family. I was brought up Catholic but I got fed up with it. He said to me that I should come to a meeting with him, a meeting of his own church. I said yes.

And it was fine. There were about fifteen other people there, about five or six of Stuart’s friends from the Navy and some others’

‘Men and women?’

‘Yes. They just sat around and discussed their religion, saying how happy they were and how much they got from their faith. I just assumed they were talking about Christianity and I enjoyed it. It was really relaxed, you know, a happy atmosphere. The only strange thing was I never saw a Bible, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time.’

‘Where did these meetings take place?’

‘In Manchester. The room was like an office but with no furniture, nothing on the walls either. It didn’t seem weird though. They had meetings every week and Stuart just said that as I’d enjoyed myself so much I should keep going.’

She lowered her eyes momentarily. ‘We were still sleeping together and I think I was in love with him by then. I just wanted to be with him.’

‘What about your family? Did you tell them?’

‘My mum left home when I was six, my dad was always out on the piss. I went to live with my gran when I was eight. I didn’t see my parents again after that.

My gran was good to me but it’s not like having your mum and dad there, is it?’

Cath saw the despair in the younger woman’s eyes and shook her head gently.

‘What happened with the group?’ she asked finally.

‘Well, the next week another person, a man, joined. He’d been invited by one of Stuart’s friends. All contacts were made face to face. I found out that the group was called The Open Church.’ She began picking at the skin at the side of one nail. ‘The meetings went on for about six weeks, then they started talking about weird things -the cult, ceremonies. They gave me books and pamphlets on it to read. I thought they were trying to show me the dangers of it.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘If only I’d known.’

Cath kept her gaze fixed on Shanine.

‘They asked me and this bloke if we wanted to find out more - they called it “going deeper”. They asked us if we wanted to stay. I said yes, but it was mainly so I could be close to Stuart. The only way I could keep his attention was to go further.’

‘What about the man who joined?’

‘He left,’ Shanine told her. ‘And, as soon as he did, they changed the meeting place. If anyone left, they always changed the meeting place. We must have moved six or seven times in the first ten weeks. Then they asked me if I wanted to come to a different kind of meeting. Stuart said it would be all right and I trusted him so I went. It was in a big place, a big building.’

‘What kind of building?’

‘Like one of those MFI places but it was empty.’

‘A warehouse?’

Shanine nodded.

Warehouse.

Cath sucked in a deep breath. She reached for her cigarettes and lit one.

‘Can I have one of those?’ Shanine asked.

Cath lit a cigarette for the younger woman; she noticed that her fingers were trembling.

‘What happened in the warehouse?’ Cath asked.

‘We all had a drink - just wine, but I think mine must have been drugged. They started praying and I just seemed to fall asleep, but my eyes were open. I was out of it for about the first half-hour. I mean, I’ve done drugs before but this was something else. I was smashed. Then, when I came round they were all sitting in a circle around me. There was just one candle lit and they were all praying in some language I couldn’t understand. It sounded like Arabic or something. I felt calm though -1 think that must have been the drugs - but the rest of them were going ape. They started off excited but then they got really aggressive, shouting. And there was always one man who led them, every time.’

‘The same man?’

Shanine nodded, took a drag on the cigarette.

‘It was always the same man and he never took his eyes off me the whole time they were praying. Stuart told me they were praying I was the right person for the group because they wanted me in their church. They wanted me.’

A solitary tear trickled down her cheek.

‘That was the first time anyone had wanted me’ she said, softly. ‘I was flattered. I wanted to be there because they wanted me.’

She took a long drag, blowing the smoke out in a bluish-grey stream.

‘At the next meeting, they told me the truth,’ she said, flatly.

Cath sat forward in her seat, watching as Shanine wiped the now freely flowing tears away with one grubby hand. ‘The truth about what?’ she asked.

‘About the church, about who they were worshipping, who they expected me to serve.’ Cath looked on in fascination.

‘That was the thing, when they prayed, it was never to God, it was always to someone they called the Protector,’ Shanine continued. ‘They said I was to help them serve the Protector. I knew I’d gone too far then, that there was something wrong, but it was too late.’

‘What did they call themselves, Shanine?’

‘The Satanic Church, but they told me never to say that in front of others.’

She ground out the cigarette in a nearby ashtray. ‘After that they said I was ready.’

‘For what?’

‘Initiation.’

Eighty-two

Cath watched as the younger woman pulled another cigarette from the packet and pushed it between her thin lips.

The journalist again obliged with a light.

She watched intently as Shanine drew on the cigarette, brushing her hair from her eyes, shifting in her seat to try and ease the weight in her belly.

‘Who decided to initiate you,’ Cath continued.

‘The other members of the group,’ said Shanine, watching as Cath fumbled in her handbag and pulled out a microcassette recorder, which she set down close to the younger woman.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Cath asked, pressing the Record switch.

Shanine looked at the machine, its twin spools turning silently.

‘How many of the other members did you know by name?’ the journalist asked.

‘Apart from Stuart, none of them, but he told me that they were important people. He reckoned a couple of them were social workers. One was a businessman. There was a doctor, too. If any of the group were sick, they had to see him. We weren’t allowed to see outsiders.’ Shanine gave a hollow laugh.

‘Stuart even reckoned one of the group was a journalist.’ She looked at Cath and held her gaze.

‘What happened when you were initiated?’ Cath said.

‘They did it inside the warehouse, turned it into our place, a sort of makeshift temple. All the fittings were removable. Curtains, shrouds, altar, and there was a block. Like a big piece of stone. That was where they did the sacrifices. There was water and herbs, too, but I don’t know what they were. I can remember the smells though.’ She paused, lowered her gaze. ‘The altar was covered with a white cloth with black edging. They put a big cup on it, a chalice. That’s what they collected the blood in.’ She closed her eyes tightly, as if the effort of reliving the memory was causing her physical pain.

‘The altar cloth was covered in symbols, pentagrams, upturned crosses - that kind of thing. And there was writing on it but I couldn’t understand it. It looked foreign.’

Cath sat silently, her eyes never leaving the younger woman.

‘We were all dressed in white robes, nothing underneath. The High Priest wore a gold chain around his neck but it was really thick, like a padlock chain, and it had a gold circle on it with a smaller pentagram inside. He used to read the services from a big book on the altar. He was the only one allowed to touch it. He read the service in Latin.’

‘How can you be sure it was Latin?’ Cath asked.

‘I told you, I was brought up a Catholic,’ said Shanine. ‘I’ve had Latin rammed down my throat since I was three.’ She took a drag on her cigarette.

‘Sometimes they’d say the Lord’s Prayer backwards.’

Cath swallowed hard.

The image of the graffiti in the crypt at Croydon Cemetery flashed into her mind.

‘What happened during your initiation?’ the journalist persisted.

‘I was washed, then anointed with oil. Another woman did it, a woman in her mid-twenties, then she rubbed oil on my boobs and here,’ she motioned to her thighs. ‘She held my arms above my head while the High Priest had sex with me.

The others just watched. Even Stuart was watching.’ She lowered her eyes again, as if ashamed. ‘I had sex with another man later that night, too, with everyone watching. They said he was Satan and that I was one of his brides now.’

‘Did you get a good look at his face?’

‘No. He was wearing a mask. Like a goat’s head.’

‘Oh Christ,’ murmured Cath.

‘He was the one who cut me. Here.’

She held out her right hand and Cath saw a deep scar which ran from the bottom

of her index finger to the base of her thumb.

‘The blood was collected in the chalice along with the blood from the animal they killed’ Shanine continued. ‘A cat, I think. I had to drink some of it. I thought I was going to be sick but they’d given me drugs before and after the ceremony - I hardly knew what was happening. From then on I was a Priestess. I took part in ceremonies all the time. I had sex with men and women. I helped initiate other people into the group.’

‘Did you bring people to them?’

‘No. That was done by Stuart and his friends. I helped once the new members were there though.’ She paused, the knot of muscles at the side of her jaw pulsing. ‘I found out three months later that I was pregnant. I knew it was Stuart’s because I’d had only oral sex with the other men during that period, but they said I couldn’t

tell him. They let me go full term. They wanted the baby.’

‘What for?’

‘Sacrifice.’

There was a long silence.

Tears trickled down Shanine’s cheeks.

‘They killed it a week after it was born’ she said, sniffing, but not attempting to wipe away the tears. ‘They did it in front of me. They even made me cut her. When the High priest was making the incisions he made me hold the knife as well and when they were finished they said the baby had been offered to Satan.’

‘Did you try to stop them?’

Shanine could only shake her head, tears now pouring down her cheeks.

‘They said it was either the baby or me,’ she sobbed, finally. ‘I said I didn’t want it to happen but they said I had to let her go or Satan would be angry, and they told me if I told anyone they would kill me. No matter where I went, how far I ran. They said they would always know. That someone would always bring me back to them.’ She looked imploringly at Cath who felt helpless to comfort her.

‘Was yours the only baby killed?’

Shanine shook her head, her eyes now tightly closed as if she could shut out the visions in her mind, too.

‘They used young children. Three or four years old,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘They got them from people, I don’t know who. Not group members.

They paid them. Poor people. People who couldn’t afford to feed themselves, let alone their kids. They killed them or they abused them and they warned the kids that if they said anything they’d kill their parents. Those kids were terrified. They drugged them, too, so they wouldn’t struggle while they were abusing them.’

Cath listened intently, her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide.

She wanted to cry.

She could almost feel the pain Shanine felt.

So much pain.

‘Stuart told me he never knew they’d kill children,’ Shanine continued. ‘He said he was leaving the group. So they killed him. They murdered him and made it look like suicide.’

Cath sat forward. ‘How did they do it?’ she asked urgently.

‘They worked a Death Hex on him, they forced him to kill himself. They were powerful.’

‘I don’t understand. How could they make him commit suicide?’

‘They used something of his.’

‘A lock of hair or something?’

Shanine managed a thin smile. ‘No. It doesn’t work like that’ she said. ‘They didn’t need his hair or his finger or anything he wore. The Death Hex works without all that. All they needed was a photograph of him.’

Cath felt the colour draining from her cheeks, her flesh rising in goosebumps.

‘They stole a photograph of him’ Shanine continued. ‘Three days later, he was dead.’

Cath, her hand shaking, reached frantically for the phone.

Eighty-three

The nurse had entered the room twice during the night. That much Talbot could remember.

Each time she’d found him sitting in the same position, holding his mother’s hand, leaning forward slightly gazing at her face as if expecting his presence to drag her into consciousness.

The nurse had fiddled with the drips and the machinery and then left him in silence again.

In the dark.

He hated the night and the stillness.

There was only the ever-present sound of the oscilloscope to accompany his own breathing.

More than once he had pressed the first two fingers of his right hand hard into her wrist, searching for a pulse, terrified that she might have slipped away from him.

Each time he’d found the almost imperceptible rhythm of her weakened heart pumping blood so pathetically around her body.

He remembered that.

What he didn’t remember was when he’d fallen asleep.

It had crept up on him like a hunter in the gloom, stalking him, then claiming him, drawing him into the blackness that surrounded him.

He woke with a start, found his head on the bed close to his mother’s chest.

He still gripped her hand.

Even in sleep he hadn’t released it, perhaps thinking that to cling onto her would retain his hold on her life.

As he stirred he looked intently at her. At the slow rise and fall of her chest.

Behind him, the oscilloscope still continued its high-pitched signals.

Talbot exhaled deeply and rubbed both hands across his face.

He glanced at his watch.

8.17 a.m.

Shit.

He had to phone Rafferty, tell him what had happened, tell him he couldn’t leave his mother just yet.

Rafferty could handle things. He was a very able man.

A good man.

Like you ? Are you a good man ?

He got to his feet, patting his mother’s hand lightly, touching one of her cheeks with the back of his hand.

‘I’ll be back in a while, Mum,’ he said softly, and turned towards the door.

There was a bathroom at the end of the corridor, for the use of patients, he assumed. Not that many of them in this unit would even be able to get to the toilet.

Talbot glanced around, saw that the nurses’ station was unattended. He strode up the corridor and into the bathroom where he splashed his face with cold water. The clear fluid felt good against his skin and his flesh prickled, momentarily revitalised.

He rubbed a wet hand around the back of his neck soothingly, before running both hands through his hair, slicking it back until it looked as though his hair had been oiled.

He inspected his image in the mirror on the wall.

The face which stared back at him was that of a man who needed sleep badly.

The whites of his eyes were criss-crossed with red veins, the lids puffy and swollen. As he ran a hand across his cheeks and chin he could hear the stubble rasp.

Tuck it’ he grunted and dried his face on the roller-towel.

He felt a swelling in his bladder and urinated in the single cubicle; then, taking one last look in the mirror at his haggard reflection, he made his way back down the corridor towards his mother’s room.

As he entered, he saw a dark figure standing beside the bed.

Talbot looked at the priest for a moment, his eye focusing on the cleric’s white collar.

‘Good morning,’ said the priest.

‘What do you want?’ Talbot replied, warily.

‘I was asked to call on one of the patients in this unit’ the priest answered.

‘I usually look in on them all if I’m here.’

‘Well, you’re in the wrong room’ the DI snapped.

The priest looked at him with a slight smile on his face. He was only five or six years older than Talbot, his hair short but thick and lustrous on top.

‘I know how you must feel’ the cleric soothed.

‘Do you? I don’t think so.’

‘If there’s anything I can do to help.’

‘What, like give her the last rites or something? Why don’t you just leave her alone? You can’t do anything to help her.’

‘Then perhaps I can help you. At a time like this I find that families need help.’

‘From you?’

‘From God.’

Talbot opened the door.

‘Get out’ he said, irritably.

The priest hesitated.

‘I don’t need your help’ the policeman said. ‘Yours or God’s. If God wants to help, why doesn’t he bring her out of that fucking coma? That’d help.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way’ the priest said, almost apologetically.

‘How do you expect me to feel? Look what your God’s done for my mother.’ He jabbed a finger angrily in the direction of the bed. ‘Go on, get out and take your God with you.’

The priest left without answering.

Talbot slammed the door behind him and exhaled deeply, eyes closed.

The sharp beeping noise startled him.

For one terrible second he thought it was the oscilloscope, then he realised it was his pager.

He snatched at it and checked the number, pushing out into the corridor again, glancing around for a phone, remembering there was one at the nurses’ station.

It was manned when he reached it.

An older nurse looked up at him as he lowered over her.

‘I need to use a phone’ he said, pulling his ID from his pocket.

The nurse glanced quickly at the card, then nodded and motioned to the white phone before him.

Talbot jabbed the digits and waited.

At the other end the receiver was picked up and he recognised Rafferty’s voice immediately.

‘Bill, it’s me. What do you want?’

‘Where are you, Jim?’

‘At the hospital with my mother, she’s very bad.’

‘Christ, I’m sorry. Listen, Jim, I know this is difficult but something’s happened here. You have to get back to the Yard as soon as you can.’

‘Can’t you deal with it?’

‘You need to hear this yourself.’

Talbot hesitated.

What if he left now and she died?

Are you going to let her die alone?

‘Jim?’ Rafferty persisted.

Again Talbot hesitated.

‘What we’ve got here is going to blow this abuse case wide open,’ Rafferty told him. ‘Maybe even prove links with the three suicides.’

Another long silence.

I’ll be there in an hour’ Talbot said.

Eighty-four

They sat in silence watching him.

The three of them, eyes fixed upon him as he sat back in his chair, hands entwined behind his head, his own gaze lowered.

Shanine Connor shifted uncomfortably in her seat and took a drag on the cigarette, glancing occasionally at Catherine Reed who touched her arm reassuringly.

DS William Rafferty was perched on the corner of the desk gazing at his superior.

Talbot loosened his hands and stretched, before cracking his knuckles, the sound reverberating around the silent office.

He glanced at his watch.

12.06 p.m.

He had sat silently for almost two hours.

Listening.

Shanine Connor had spoken for the duration of that time, faltering in tears on a number of occasions, getting through a packet and a half of cigarettes.

Talbot had hardly taken his eyes off her during that time.

Cigarette smoke hung like a filthy curtain across the office and the DI got to his feet and opened a window to try and clear it.

He chewed on a mint and returned to his seat.

‘It’s bullshit,’ he said, finally. ‘The whole fucking story is bollocks.’ He looked at Shanine. ‘The only bit you left out was where you keep your broomstick.’

‘I’m not lying’ Shanine began, but Cath interjected.

‘You think she made the story up, Talbot?’ the journalist said, scathingly.

‘Why should she?’

‘Money. How much will your rag pay for shit like she’s just come out with?’

‘I don’t want money’ Shanine said. ‘I came here to stop them killing my baby.’

‘Of course’ Talbot said, scornfully. ‘You don’t want it sacrificed like the other one, do you? Why come here in the first place? Why run from Manchester to London? They’ve got coppers in Manchester you know?’

‘I wanted to get away from the group, I said that. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go’ Shanine protested, looking at Cath as if for support.

‘According to you there are groups everywhere, aren’t there?’ Talbot snapped.

‘At least three in Manchester, didn’t you say? Christ knows how many there must be in a city this size. You took a chance coming down here. Why not go somewhere nice and quiet like Devon, or are there witches down there too?’

Shanine opened her mouth to say something but the DI continued before she had the chance.

‘If what you say about murdering your own kid is true, then you’re bloody lucky we’re not charging you with manslaughter instead of wasting police time.’

‘So you don’t believe any of it?’ Cath asked.

‘What do you think?’ Talbot snapped.

‘So you’re going to ignore all the facts she’s given you?’ the journalist persisted. ‘The similarities don’t strike you as odd, Talbot? The mentions of a warehouse, the use of children, graveyard desecrations, killing animals. And what about this Death Hex? You’ve been investigating three suicides and the only thing stolen from each victim was a photo. Two days ago a photo was stolen from my flat, nothing else. Maybe I’m next.’

Talbot raised his eyebrows and smiled.

Cath turned away from him angrily, lighting a cigarette.

‘What about you, Bill?’ Talbot said, looking at Rafferty. ‘What do you think?’

Rafferty shrugged. ‘I think she could be telling the truth.’

‘Jesus’ Talbot grunted. ‘I don’t believe this. Am I the only one who hasn’t lost his fucking mind around here?’

‘There’s a lot of coincidences, Jim, a lot of similarities with these cases we’ve been investigating,’ Rafferty insisted.

Cath smiled to herself.

‘AH right,’ the DI said, irritably, turning his gaze upon Shanine. ‘Tell me

again about this “Death Hex”.’ He spoke the last two words with contempt.

‘They steal a photograph of the person they want dead,’ Shanine said, sucking on her cigarette. ‘It’s put into a box with three thorns, some cemetery earth and a dead insect, then it’s buried close to the victim’s home.’

‘And what’s this thing called?’

‘A Misfortune Box.’

‘And this is what was done to your boyfriend,’ the DI proclaimed. ‘There’s no possibility he could have just topped himself? Was he depressed? Suicidal?’

‘They killed him,’ Shanine blurted. ‘And they used the Death Hex to do it, to make it look like suicide.’

‘And we’re supposed to believe that Parriam, Hyde and Jeffrey were killed the same way? Forced to commit suicide because of this “Misfortune Box”?’

‘It does tie in, Jim’ Rafferty said. ‘The stolen photos start to make sense if this is true.’

‘And the graveyard desecrations in Croydon’ Cath added.

‘So, who’s responsible? The parents of the abused kids?’ Talbot wanted to know.

‘That’s what you’re supposed to find out, isn’t it?’ Cath said, challengingly.

‘Don’t tell me my fucking job, Reed’ Talbot snapped. He glared at her for a second then turned his attention back to Shanine. ‘This box, how big is it?’

She held her hands about six inches apart.

‘They seal it with black wax’ she told him.

Talbot eyed her suspiciously.

‘What do you get out of this?’ he said, quietly. ‘What difference does it make to you what happened to those three men? Or what happens to her?’ He nodded in Cath’s direction.

‘I just want my child to be safe.’

‘You said that the members of the group were frightened of what would happen to them if they rebelled, if they spoke out against the others. Aren’t you scared?’

‘I told you I was. That’s why I ran’ Shanine insisted. ‘But I’m more frightened for my child. I won’t let them take this one, too.’

‘What if they’ve worked this Death Hex on you?’ the DI said.

‘They might have. But they’re more likely to come looking for me.’

‘Why?’

‘To punish me.’

‘Why not just kill you?’ the DI demanded. ‘If they’re that powerful it should be easy’

‘They’d want to make me suffer for betraying them, and they’d want my baby,’

Shanine told him. ‘They wouldn’t kill me.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ Talbot said.

‘Because I ran away once before, not long after my boyfriend was killed’ she told him. ‘They found me. They’ll probably find me this time, too.’

‘What did they do to you last time?’ Talbot asked.

Shanine looked at Cath and the journalist saw tears in her eyes.

‘Well, come on, tell me’ the DI persisted. ‘Make me believe that all this isn’t just bullshit.’

Shanine stood up, tugging at the buttons of her shirt, dragging it open.

Talbot gritted his teeth, his eyes fixed on her torso, her breasts.

‘Jesus Christ’ murmured Rafferty, his gaze also riveted on the young woman.

‘Is that enough for you?’ said Shanine, defiantly, a solitary tear rolling down her cheek.

The flesh from her collar bone as far down as her navel was criss-crossed by scars.

There were several darker marks around her breasts, which Talbot recognised as burns.

Shanine shrugged off her shirt and turned around slowly, and Talbot saw that her back was in an even worse condition.

There was a mark between her shoulder blades, visible through the maze of weals and scars. Darker.

It looked like an A enclosed in a circle. The sign usually associated with Anarchy.

It took him only a second to realise it was a brand.

‘There’re others if you want to look’ she said, undoing her jeans.

Talbot shook his head, reached for the young woman’s top and handed it back to her.

‘Don’t you want to know which ones were done with knives and which ones were done with whips?’ she said, angrily.

The marks on her belly were even more prominent, great red welts which seemed to glisten on the swollen flesh.

‘Get dressed’ Talbot said, quietly.

She pulled the top back on.

Rafferty looked across at his superior, who met his gaze and held it for a moment before leaning back in his chair.

‘Just assuming this shit about these Misfortune Boxes is true’ he said, finally. ‘How long would it take this … spell to work?’

‘Two or three days, maybe longer’ Shanine informed him. ‘Not more than a week.’

‘Parriam, Hyde and Jeffrey all died within a week of their photos being stolen’ Rafferty offered.

‘So that leaves you two days to find this box, Reed’ the DI murmured.

‘Otherwise it looks like you might be joining them.’

‘Where do we start looking?’ Cath responded.

‘It’ll be hidden somewhere near your house’ Shanine told her.

‘Get men round to the houses of the three dead men, search the gardens of their places and the houses close by. Use fucking JCBs if you have to. But find those boxes’ Talbot said to his colleague.

‘What about me?’ Cath asked, her face pale.

‘You’d better hope that all this is shit’ he said, flatly.

‘They usually try to work the Hex to coincide with one of the important days in the satanic calendar,’ Shanine offered.

‘Like what?’ Cath asked.

‘Candlemas, that’s February the second’ Shanine told her. ‘Or the summer or winter solstice. Some groups even use the High Priest’s birthday as a festival.’

‘Are there any dates coming up?’ Rafferty asked.

‘Beltaine. Walpurgis night. April the thirtieth,’ Shanine informed him.

‘That’s two days from now’ the DS said, looking at his colleague.

Talbot was looking intently at Shanine.

‘How do we stop the Hex?’ Cath asked.

‘It’ll come into force at midnight on the thirtieth’ Shanine told her. ‘You’ve got to find the Misfortune Box before then. You must find that box and destroy it.’

Eighty-five

Frank Reed held the piece of paper before him.

Just a simple piece of paper.

A4 size.

The envelope which he’d taken it from moments earlier lay on the kitchen table close to his elbow, close to the mug of lukewarm coffee.

He’d read and re-read the words on the paper.

Tears were running steadily down his cheeks.

Throw it away.

He put it down on the table, smoothing out the creases.

Burn it. Burn the envelope too.

Two other envelopes were in front of him, the single sheets of paper they contained also laid out for inspection.

All the notes were handwritten but the graphology was different. Three different hands had penned these notes.

One of the envelopes bore a Hackney postmark, the others nothing at all. Not even a stamp. They had

obviously been pushed through his letterbox by hand.

But from where? From whom?

It didn’t seem to matter that much. All that mattered was that they were here.

One was written on pink notepaper bearing a printed rose in one corner. The type of notepaper usually used for ‘Thank you’ notes. The type friends would use to correspond. The sort women might use.

Perhaps this note had been written by a woman.

Maybe they all had.

The only thing missing was the scent of perfume, Reed mused, wiping the tears from his cheeks.

All the notes were short, one of them only a few words, but what mattered was that someone had taken the time to write them and, more importantly, to deliver them.

He looked at each in turn.

At the pink notepaper with its rose in one corner.

At the words it bore.

I can scarcely disguise my disgust for your actions. A man in your position should be ashamed.

You are a disgrace to your profession and to your kind. I will pray for your daughter.

The second letter was written on plain paper, but the words were remarkably straight. Reed could only imagine that the writer had used a lined sheet, placed beneath the plain one in order to keep the spaces between the lines uniform.

You deserve to die for what you’ve done.

You sick bastard. If I see you in the street I’ll spit in your filthy face.

You scum.

If you go near my lad I’ll kill you.

That’s a promise.

The last letter (two words … it hardly constituted a letter, did it?) was written on a single piece of bonded typing paper.

He could see the watermark in the paper, even the make.

Conqueror paper.

Reed looked at the words.

He felt warm tears flowing down his cheeks once again and this time he made no attempt to stem the flood. Instead, through misted eyes he fixed his gaze on the two words which stood out so starkly from the almost blinding whiteness of the paper.

Frank Reed wept as he’d never wept in his life.

CHILD MOLESTER

Eighty-six

‘We can’t do that, Mr Talbot’ said the voice on the other end of the phone.

‘Without the necessary care your mother could die within hours of leaving the hospital.’

‘You said she wasn’t going to make it through last night, but she did’ Talbot snapped. ‘I want her home with me.’

There, it’s said.

‘I can’t authorise that.’

‘She’s my mother’ the DI rasped.

‘She’s my patient at St Ann’s, I won’t take responsibility for her once she leaves the hospital.’

‘No one’s asking you to. If she wants to die at home, then let her. At least give her that much dignity.’

1 can’t authorise it.’

Talbot gripped the phone tightly, trying to control his temper.

If she comes home she dies. End of story.

‘I realise how painful this is for you, Mr Talbot, but if you insist on taking your mother home then she’ll die.’

‘She’ll die anyway’ Talbot said, quietly.

He could think of nothing else to say.

‘Can’t you do it for her sake?’ he asked, finally.

For her sake? Or for yours?

Guilt pricking a little too sharply this time, is it ?

‘Perhaps we should talk about this when you come in later’ the doctor offered.

Talbot didn’t answer. He merely put down the phone.

The DI ran a hand through his hair and sat back in his chair.

You gave up too easily. You should have insisted.

‘Jesus’ he murmured, exhaling deeply, wearily.

What next? Wait for the phone call telling him it was all over.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, then Rafferty walked in without waiting for an invitation.

Talbot looked up at him, gaze momentarily blank, then he seemed to collect his thoughts.

‘Is the girl OK?’ he asked.

‘I’ve got her downstairs in protective custody’ Rafferty told him. ‘She’s got a TV set, a bed and plenty of food, one of the WPCs is with her. She’s fine.’

Talbot nodded and got to his feet.

‘Did you order searches of the houses and grounds around Parriam’s, Hyde’s and Jeffrey’s places?’

‘Sorted’ said the DS, nodding. ‘Where do you want to start?’

‘Let’s see what Macpherson turned up when he interviewed the parents of those kids.’

As the two men made their way down the corridor, Rafferty looked at his colleague. ‘What if it does turn out to be true, Jim?’ he said.

‘Witchcraft?’ The DI shook his head. ‘It’s bullshit’ he murmured.

Rafferty noticed that some of the conviction had gone from his voice.

‘Frank!’

He heard her call his name, but he didn’t answer.

Even when she banged on the door, Frank Reed didn’t stir. He continued to sit at the kitchen table, the three letters still laid out before him, the whiskey bottle close by.

She called again, then there was silence.

The phone rang. He managed a wan smile.

She was calling him on her mobile.

Standing outside his front door, she was holding her phone and calling his number.

The phone continued to ring.

Catherine Reed listened to the tone impatiently.

He had to be inside.

Where else would he be?

She pressed the End button on the phone and bent down, peering through the letterbox into the hall beyond.

‘Frank’ she called again through the small aperture. Still no answer.

Frank Reed got to his feet and stole into the sitting room, where he slumped onto the sofa and closed his eyes.

A second later he heard the letterbox clang shut, closely followed by the sound of Cath’s receding footsteps.

He was alone again.

God, it felt so good.

As the warm water splashed her body, spurting from the shower head, Shanine Connor turned her face towards the spray. Water ran in rivulets across her skin, her hair.

Her scars.

The WPC sat outside the room while she washed away the accumulated filth of her time on the streets of London.

What would happen to her when all this was over she had no idea.

If it ever was over.

But, for now, she was safe. As safe as she was likely to be, anyway, and warmer than she’d been for a while.

She glanced down at her feet, at the soap suds and grime which were flowing down the plughole.

It was as if some outer skin was being washed away.

Shanine felt the swell of her belly, running both hands across the skin.

As she looked down she saw more scars on the insides of her thighs and knees.

There were some on her buttocks too.

The ones she had not shown to Talbot.

Reminders.

She knew that if they found her now there would be fresh ones to join those which already covered her skin.

Shanine had told Talbot that they would not kill her but, as she stood beneath that cleansing spray, she realised that the child was their only concern.

Her betrayal had left them no choice.

She would have to die.

And they would still take the child.

With her finger, she traced a path from her pubic hair to just above her navel.

That was how they would cut her to reach the child, rip her open if necessary.

What they would do before that she could only imagine.

Even beneath the warm shower spray, she shuddered.

Eighty-seven

Talbot got to his feet, pacing the room slowly, one hand rubbing his stubbled cheek.

‘No physical evidence at all’ he said, incredulously. ‘Are you fucking serious, Mac?’

DI Gordon Macpherson shrugged.

‘Twenty-three houses raided, seventeen kids taken into care, every single one of them examined and interviewed. Seven, no, sorry, nine of them. Nine. Nine of those kids exhibiting signs of physical abuse, enough porn and dodgy videos seized to start a fucking mail order business, and you’re telling me you haven’t got enough physical evidence for one single conviction?’ Talbot raged.

‘What did the parents say? What did you ask them for Christ’s sake “Did you molest your kids?” “No.” “OK, then off you go.” What the fuck were you doing?’

‘Don’t come down here throwing your fucking weight around, Jim,’ snapped Macpherson. ‘What’s wrong, do you reckon you could have done better?’

‘On the amount of evidence we had piled up it had occurred to me.’

‘We had medical reports on those injured kids: there was nothing to suggest that any of the physical damage

was inflicted by the parents,’ Macpherson told him. ‘Call the medical examiner if you don’t believe me. What did you want me to do, change the geezer’s report because it doesn’t fit in with what you want?’

‘So who abused them, if the parents didn’t?’ Talbot challenged. ‘How did they get to that warehouse? How come all the kids’ statements were virtually the same?’

‘A week ago you were the one saying it was all because of the videos they’d been watching, that they all had overactive imaginations. Make up your fucking mind.’

‘They’re going to walk,’ said Talbot. ‘Every fucking one of them. They’ll let this die down, then in six months’ or a year’s time, the same thing will happen again. More kids will be hurt, maybe even killed.’

‘There was nothing we could do, Jim,’ Macpherson told him. ‘I wanted someone nailed for this abuse business as much as you did, but we can’t prove anything against the parents. I interviewed most of them myself: some of them were as frightened as the kids.’

‘Frightened of what?’

‘That their kids were going to be taken away from them when they hadn’t even done anything.’

‘You told me yourself that there was a child abuse ring in operation,’ Talbot reminded his colleague.

‘I was wrong.’

‘No you weren’t.’

‘Then where’s the fucking evidence?’ Macpherson shouted.

‘Nine physically injured kids, seventeen statements. Jesus Christ, even Hackney Council believed there was something going on. Something bad enough to take seventeen kids into care’

‘They’re releasing the kids back to their parents tomorrow’ said Macpherson.

Talbot stared at him. ‘I don’t believe this’ he said, quietly.

‘The whole case has collapsed around our fucking ears, Jim’ Macpherson said, irritably. ‘There’s nothing left.’

‘Somewhere out there are the real abusers’ said Talbot. ‘If those parents didn’t commit the acts themselves, they know who did.’

‘And what do you propose we do? Pull them all back in for questioning?’

‘If necessary.’

‘Get real, Jim’ Macpherson said, dismissively. ‘It’s over. Face it.’

‘It’s not over for those kids.’

A heavy silence descended.

DS Rafferty glanced at the other two men in the room.

Talbot was still pacing agitatedly back and forth.

Macpherson reached for a cigarette and lit up, blowing out a long stream of smoke.

‘The girl told us that kids are sometimes bought by these abusers, bought from the parents’ Rafferty offered, finally.

‘What girl?’ Macpherson wanted to know.

Talbot explained briefly about Shanine Connor.

‘That might be the case with these kids’ Rafferty continued. ‘The parents might not have inflicted the damage themselves but they might know who did.’

Macpherson sat forward in his seat.

‘Let me get this straight’ he said. ‘You’ve got some bird in protective custody who reckons she’s a witch?’

Talbot nodded.

‘And you’re taking the piss out of me?’ Macpherson snapped.

‘I was more sceptical than you, Mac’ Talbot told him. ‘She’s very convincing.’

‘She must be. What else did she tell you? Your fortune? What’s going to win the three-thirty at Haydock?’

‘She told us how these abuse groups operate’ said Talbot.

‘The other witches?’ Macpherson chuckled.

‘Fuck you, Mac’ Talbot snapped. ‘I want those parents brought in and questioned again.’

‘No’ Macpherson said, defiantly.

‘Mac, I’m telling you.’

‘You’re telling me nothing, Jim’ the older man exploded. ‘This isn’t even your fucking case. It never was. Why the hell does it mean so much to you, eh? It’s over. We tried, there’s nothing more we can do. End of story. I’m as sorry about it as you are, but we’re fucked. No evidence, no case.’

Talbot glared at his companion.

‘You let them slip through, Mac’ the DI said quietly.

‘Fuck off, Jim. Just go, will you?’

Talbot headed towards the door, Rafferty close behind him.

The DI paused, prepared to say something else, then wrenched open the office door and walked out.

In the corridor beyond, Rafferty had to quicken his pace to keep up with his colleague.

‘Where to now?’ he asked.

‘Hackney Social Services.’

Eighty-eight

Every shred of common sense told Catherine Reed that what she was doing was insane.

And yet, common sense seemed to have deserted her.

She had been through her flat slowly and carefully, through every drawer, cupboard and container.

Searching.

She had removed books from their shelves and checked behind them. She had even checked inside shoe boxes in her wardrobe. The Misfortune Box was nowhere to be found.

Not that she even knew what she was looking for.

Shanine Connor had described it as being about six inches long, rectangular and more than likely made of hardwood.

Like a small coffin, she’d said. The similarity seemed appallingly apt.

It would be placed near the victim’s home.

Cath looked around her, satisfied after her exhaustive search that the box wasn’t hidden within the flat itself.

But where else?

How far away could it be?

In one of the other flats perhaps?

What was she to do, knock on each door, request entry and permission to search the dwellings of the other residents?

And when they asked her reasons?

‘A Death Hex has been placed upon me by some practitioners of Black Magic’

Great.

‘Come in,’ they would say. ‘Make yourself at home while we phone the nearest asylum.’

Cath locked her flat door behind her and stood in the corridor for a moment, then headed down towards the lift.

She rode the car to the ground floor and the doors slid open.

She hesitated a moment, then glanced at the panel of buttons inside the lift.

There were the numbers designating floors. A G for ground, and then another button.

She pressed the last button and the lift descended once again.

When it bumped to a halt in the basement there was a moment’s hesitation before the doors opened. When they did Cath was surprised that the smell which swept into the lift wasn’t that of damp and decay but of wet paint.

She stepped out of the lift, the smell strong in her nostrils. So strong in fact it made her wince.

The doors closed behind her and she looked up at the lighted panel to see that the lift was rising again, back towards the first floor.

The basement was huge and surprisingly well lit.

She couldn’t remember having been down here more than twice since she had moved in.

The residents were allowed to use the cavernous area for storage if necessary, but Cath had forgone that option. Others she noticed, had not.

The basement wasn’t crowded, but there were over a dozen large chests, some marked with the numbers of the flats upstairs, dotted around gathering dust.

There were cupboards on the walls too, also for storage.

In the centre of the room was a boiler, a massive metallic monolith which, she reasoned, at one time had perhaps provided heat for the entire building. It was no longer functional, the pipes leading from it along the ceiling now cold. It stood like some lifeless heart, the thick pipes that had once carried heat from it resembling wasted useless, arteries.

As Cath moved deeper into the basement the smell of paint grew stronger, closing around her.

She realised it was the wall closest to her that had been re-covered in a dark, iron-grey coat of emulsion.

The basement was lit by two large banks of fluorescents and, as Cath moved through it, she could hear them fizzing and buzzing above her like predatory insects. One flickered and she glanced up at it, seeing the long white tube flash quickly on and off, then glow brightly once again.

She crossed to the cupboards closest to her and began pulling them open.

The first two were empty.

As she opened the third a large, bloated spider scuttled across one of the shelves.

Cath gasped as the hairy creature disappeared into a funnelled web at the back of the wooden storage unit.

She checked several others and found little inside except a few old newspapers and magazines. One or two contained some yellowing paperbacks. There was even a set of copper pans in one, unusable because the handles were missing.

Cath moved towards the boxes, the tea-chests stacked in places like huge wooden housebricks.

She peered inside the first and saw that it was half full of children’s clothes.

The journalist reached inside, fumbling around, trying to find the box she sought.

About six inches long, wooden. Rectangular.

Nothing.

She moved to the next.

And the next.

There were several board games inside. Monopoly. Cluedo. Others she hadn’t seen before, the boxes of most were yellowed and ripped.

At the very bottom was a small wooden box.

About six inches long.

Rectangular.

Cath swallowed hard and reached for it.

She could feel her heart thudding hard against her ribs as she inspected the box.

It was sealed with black masking tape.

She tugged at it with her nails, cursing when one broke but she continued to pull at the tape until she finally freed the lid.

It slid back easily.

There was a number of chess pieces inside.

‘Jesus,’ breathed Cath, dropping the box.

As she raised a hand to push back a strand of hair she noticed that her hand was shaking.

She looked around relieved.

The furnace stared back at her, its rusty door closed.

Cath sucked in a deep breath then took a step towards it.

Talbot had sat in virtual silence since he and Rafferty had left Theobald’s Road Police Station.

The traffic was heavy, their progress slow.

There’d been an accident in Old Street.

Talbot tapped agitatedly on the side window, glancing across irritably as Rafferty lit up another cigarette.

‘At least wind down the fucking window,’ hissed the DI, waving his hand in the air to dissipate the smoke.

Rafferty was in the process of doing so when the two-way burst into life.

‘Puma Three, come in. Over.’

Rafferty reached for the radio.

‘Puma Three receiving. What is it? Over.’

‘Bill, this is Penhallow. We’ve found something. Over,’ the DC informed him.

Talbot looked across.

‘Where are you, Colin? Over,’ Rafferty replied.

‘In the garden of Neil Parriam’s place. If I were you I’d get here as quick as you can. Over.’

Talbot took the radio from him.

‘This is Talbot. What have you found? Over.’

‘It’s easier if you come and look, guv. Just one thing. Do you want us to open this now or wait until you get here? Over.’

‘Open what? Over.’

‘We’ve found the box.’

Eighty-nine

Cath tugged at the furnace door, finding, as she had expected, that it was wedged shut.

A latch sealed it and, by the look of it, whoever had been painting down in the basement had given the furnace a coat of emulsion too. It looked as if they’d painted over the latch, making it impossible to move by hand.

Cath pressed the tip of her finger tentatively to the metal, ensuring that it wasn’t wet. Seeing that it wasn’t, she tried to release the catch, but her efforts proved useless.

She glanced around and saw another large box close by. It was filled with tins of paint, rags, brushes and a bottle of clear liquid which she guessed was turps.

Cath rummaged in the box and found a thick piece of wood, which she guessed had been used to stir the paint.

It might just do the job.

She slid the thick wood between the latch and furnace door and levered the catch upwards.

For a long time it resisted her efforts then, finally, paint flaked off and the latch gave way.

Cath tossed the piece of wood aside and pulled at the furnace door.

It opened with a loud creak, which echoed around the large basement.

A chill breeze seemed to blow from the open mouth of the furnace, like cold air from some yawning set of metal jaws.

The furnace was clean inside. No ashes left over from the days when it had been fully functional. Cath reached for her lighter and flicked it on, squinting into the darkness beyond.

It was huge. Large enough to allow her passage if she wished.

The door might be a tight squeeze but, once inside, she could see that the furnace was large enough to allow her to stand upright. She could see the outlet pipes leading off from the centre.

Could the box be hidden in one of those?

She paused for a moment.

Who would bother to clamber through a furnace door four feet square to secrete the Misfortune Box inside?

Someone who wanted her dead.

She paused a moment, flicked off the lighter. It was growing hot in her hand.

Inside the furnace?

Cath sucked in a deep breath. A breath tinged with the smell of paint. Then, cautiously, she ducked through the furnace door into the blackness beyond.

She flicked on the lighter once more and checked the pipe closest to her.

Nothing.

And the next.

Empty but for a few ashes at the bottom.

The air inside was stale, acrid.

She coughed, the sound reverberating around her.

The open door offered her a little extra light but she still needed to use the lighter to peer into the darker recesses of the pipes leading off in so many directions from this central point.

Cath checked a couple more.

Both were empty.

The lighter grew hot in her hand again and she flicked it off for a second.

The furnace door swung shut with a dull clang.

She was plunged into darkness so impenetrable it was almost palpable.

Cath couldn’t see a hand in front of her.

She flicked wildly at the lighter.

All she saw in the thick gloom were sparks.

It wouldn’t light.

She pushed it back into her pocket and pushed at the door.

It was stuck fast.

Cath felt sudden uncontrollable fear grip her. It raced through her veins like iced water. She pushed harder against the door.

Jesus, what if the catch had dropped back into place?

She banged on the door, but still it wouldn’t budge.

The dank smell inside the furnace was beginning to clog in her nostrils now.

She was finding it difficult to breathe.

She took a step back and aimed a kick at the door but, in the blackness she overbalanced and went sprawling.

Cath felt something hard and gritty beneath her hands, something which dug into her palms.

Cinders ?

She kicked out at the door again, frantic now.

Her second blow sent the door flying open.

She was on her haunches in seconds, pulling herself from the maw like a child desperate to escape the steel womb.

She scrambled out of the cold furnace and dropped to her knees outside, sucking in deep breaths, not caring that the air was thick with the acrid smell of paint. She could even taste it at the back of her throat.

She slammed the furnace door shut and dropped the catch.

Her jeans and shirt were covered in black smudges, soot deposits which also stained her palms.

Cath got to her feet slowly, her breath still coming in gasps, her gaze fixed on the furnace door.

How had it closed?

A gust of wind perhaps.

From where?

She ran a dirty hand through her hair.

Come on, get a grip of yourself. Your imagination’s running riot.

She looked at the furnace door, then around the basement.

Cath was shaking.

Where was that fucking box?

She knew there was only one person who could help her now.

Ninety

Her clothes had been washed, her hair shampooed and blow-dried. She smelled of soap.

She smelled clean.

Talbot glanced at Shanine Connor and thought what a pretty girl she was.

Aware of his gaze upon her she looked at him and managed a small smile but the DI merely nodded towards the three objects on the worktop before them.

Three boxes.

Each one about six inches long, half that in width.

Hardwood.

The lids had been removed, the contents placed beside them, each separate piece tagged by the pathology department.

The head of that department now stood beside the DI, his eyes also fixed on the boxes and their contents.

Phillip Barclay rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

DS William Rafferty prepared to light up a cigarette but remembered the large no smoking sign opposite him. He popped the cigarette into his mouth and flicked at the filter with his tongue.

‘Those are the Misfortune Boxes,’ Shanine said, softly.

‘Each one was found in the garden of each of the dead men’ Talbot said. ‘Any prints off any of them, Phil?’

‘None,’ Barclay told him. ‘Whoever put them there wore smooth gloves.’ The pathologist picked up a pair of tweezers and, using them with great care he touched the contents of each box, one object at a time.

Three thorns, possibly from a rose bush. Some earth, now dried. A cranefly which looked as dry as the earth itself and a small photo of Neil Parriam.

The other boxes contained exactly the same, apart from the second which had held a picture of Peter Hyde and the third which had borne a photo of Craig Jeffrey.

‘It’s hard to believe,’ said Barclay, softly.

Talbot looked at the pathologist, then at Shanine.

‘Why bury them in the gardens?’ he asked.

‘They’re always buried close to the victim’s home.’

‘Anything else, Phil?’ Talbot wanted to know.

‘A strand of hair in the second box, possibly left by whoever put it there. A speck of dried blood on the third, but not enough to type.’

‘Were they well hidden?’ Talbot enquired.

‘No more than six inches below the surface in all three cases,’ said Rafferty.

‘But who the hell would think to look for something like this, anyway? Unless the three

men knew these boxes were hidden in their gardens, why the hell would they go looking?’

‘That’s their strength’ said Shanine. ‘No one believes.’

All eyes turned towards her.

‘Ignorance is the greatest ally’ she continued. ‘They said that to me once. No one believed in what they did, no one understood. As long as they’re treated as a joke they’re safe.’

‘Do you think the group you ran from could have anything to do with the ones who killed Parriam and the others?’ asked Talbot.

‘They might be linked,’ Shanine said. ‘Lots of the groups are. Some of them exchange things.’ Her voice faded.

‘Like what?’ Talbot demanded.

‘During some of the orgies or when kids were being used, the ceremonies were videotaped or pictures of the kids were taken’ she told him. ‘They were sometimes passed around between groups and the kids were told that if they let anyone know what they’d seen then their families would be shown the films or pictures. Some of the tapes were sold too.’

‘To whom?’ Rafferty asked.

‘Paedophiles. Porn merchants’ she said, eyes fixed on the boxes.

‘I still think it’s crazy,’ Talbot muttered. ‘We’re supposed to believe that three blokes topped themselves because of these things?’ He jabbed a finger in the direction of the boxes.

‘I don’t think we’ve got much choice other than to believe now, Jim’ Rafferty echoed, still chewing the unlit cigarette filter.

‘And if you don’t find the next box before midnight tonight there’ll be another death - that journalist,’ Shanine offered.

A heavy silence descended.

It was broken by the ringing of the phone.

Barclay ambled over and picked it up.

‘Jesus Christ’ hissed Talbot. ‘So many fucking leads but nothing to link them, not one concrete piece of evidence.’ He exhaled deeply. Angrily. ‘Three suicides that could be witchcraft murders; all three men are involved on a building project which just happens to involve a warehouse supposedly used as a meeting place for a ring of child abusers and satanists. Seventeen kids taken into care, some showing signs of physical abuse, some saying they were raped by the Devil. Those same kids are now being released back to the families we suspect did the damage to them because we can’t prove otherwise.

Cemetery desecrations in Croydon and a pregnant tart who thinks she’s a witch who’s running to stop her kid being sacrificed.’ He looked at Shanine and Rafferty. ‘Would one of you like to tell me what the fuck is going on because I’ve just about given up.’ He held out a hand to Rafferty. ‘Give me a fucking cigarette.’

The DS handed his boss the packet of cigarettes and the lighter, watching as he lit up and inhaled deeply. He looked at the no smoking sign and blew out a stream of smoke in that direction. ‘Fuck it’ he muttered.

Barclay turned towards him, one hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.

‘Jim, it’s for you’ said the pathologist.

Talbot looked puzzled.

‘She says it’s urgent’ Barclay continued, holding out the phone towards the DI. ‘She insists she’s a journalist. Catherine Reed. She sounds frightened.’

Talbot took the receiver from him.

‘Talbot’ he said.

1 can’t find it’ Cath told him. ‘I can’t find the box.’

‘We’ve been luckier. We found boxes at the homes of all three dead men.’

‘So it is true? They were witchcraft killings?’

Talbot didn’t answer.

‘Talbot, if they killed those other three men then they’re going to kill me’

Cath said anxiously.

‘Unless you find that box’ he reminded her.

‘Let me help her’ Shanine Connor offered.

Talbot looked at the young woman, then at Rafferty, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

‘Where are you?’ Talbot asked.

Cath told him.

‘Just sit tight’ the DI said. ‘There’ll be someone there as quickly as possible.’

Cath sat on the edge of her chair looking down at the phone. Should she call Phil?

He was in Glasgow. A light aircraft carrying sixteen passengers including the French Ambassador had gone down just outside the city, killing all those on board. Terrorism was suspected.

Cross wasn’t expected back until the following day.

He didn’t even know what was going on.

Didn’t even know her life was in danger.

” it was.

She hesitated a second, then dialled her brother’s number. There was no answer. Cath put down the receiver and waited.

Ninety-one

The summons had arrived in an official-looking brown envelope.

Summons.

Frank Reed looked at the headed notepaper and read the word over and over again.

So, at last, the waiting was over.

He was to appear at Hackney Magistrates Court in three days time for a preliminary hearing. After that a decision would be made on whether or not his case went to trial.

What fucking case?

The alleged abuse of his own daughter?

He wanted to shout and scream at the top of his voice, to give vent to the rage and frustration he felt building inside him. A pain which had grown steadily over the last few days, swelling and expanding until he thought the pressure would erupt within him, would destroy him.

Thoughts and emotions whirled around inside his head, too numerous to focus on, too jumbled to consider.

He felt dizzy.

Was there one single word to describe how he felt? One solitary exhortation to express his desolation at the enormity of this situation he faced.

He sat at the kitchen table, staring at the summons, his fingers curled into fists.

At least at the hearing they would be forced to consider his feelings, his views.

There shouldn’t even be a hearing.

They would hear what he had to say and they would understand.

And if they didn ‘t 1

Reed found a vision forcing itself into his already confused mind. A man standing in the dock, in court, facing a jury.

Him.

Jesus, the thought was too much to bear and he tried to push it aside, but it persisted.

He swallowed hard, fear now creeping in amongst his other emotions. It glided easily in beside the anger and the pain.

He got to his feet and wandered through into the sitting room, snatching up the summons as he went.

As he reached for the phone he sucked in a couple of deep breaths, trying to control his rage then, satisfied it was under control, he dialled.

And waited.

The voice at the other end wasn’t the one he’d expected to hear.

‘Can I speak to Ellen Reed, please?’ he said, falteringly.

The voice on the other end told him she wasn’t in that morning.

‘Thank you, I’ll try later …’

The voice told him that Ellen had taken a couple of days off work.

He put down the phone and dialled another number.

It rang for what seemed like an eternity but the answering machine didn’t kick in so he assumed someone was there.

A second later he was proved right.

He recognised Ellen’s voice and, overcome with conflicting emotions, he found it impossible to speak.

When she spoke again it seemed to break the spell.

‘Ellen. It’s me’ he said, trying to keep his voice low.

‘I’ve got nothing to say to you,’ she snapped.

‘It didn’t have to come to this. Court. What are you trying to do to me?’

‘I’m doing this for Becky, not you.’

‘You’re doing it for yourself,’ he snarled.

‘Goodbye, Frank’ Ellen said, flatly.

‘No wait’ he said, imploringly. ‘Listen to me, Ellen. All we had to do was talk. It didn’t have to go this far. It’s not too late. You can stop these court proceedings: you started them.’

‘Afraid of what they’ll find out, Frank? Frightened they might uncover the truth?’

He gripped the receiver tightly, his jaw clenched.

He wanted to bellow at her and the effort of restraining himself was almost too much.

‘I don’t want you near our daughter again’ Ellen told him. ‘This court case will make sure she’s kept away from you.’

‘You don’t have the right-‘

‘I have every right after what you did to her’ Ellen snapped.

‘I did nothing to her’ he roared, desperately. ‘Speak to her. Ask her. She’ll tell you nothing happened.’

‘She says it did.’

‘She’s saying what you tell her to say, you and that bastard Ward.’

‘Don’t bring Jonathan into this.’

‘He’s a part of it, he has been since the beginning.’

‘I love him, Frank, and I love Becky, that’s why I’m protecting her from you.’

‘You bitch!’ he bellowed.

‘See you in court,’ she said, calmly, and hung up.

‘No!’ He screamed the word, his rage uncontrollable now.

Reed snatched up the phone and hurled it across the room with such force that it cracked in three places, the wire torn from the wall.

‘Fucking bitch!’ he yelled, then the anger seemed to drain from him. ‘Fucking bitch.’ It was replaced by that growing sense of desolation.

He was fighting back tears now, but he sucked in a deep breath.

She wasn’t going to get away with this.

If only he could see her, speak to her.

Reason with her.

No, it was too late for that. Reed looked across at the shattered remains of the phone, the lead hanging from the wall like some ruptured umbilical cord.

There was to be no reasoning.

No talking.

He knew there was only one option left.

The time had come.

Ninety-two

There was a fairly large expanse of well-manicured grass at the rear of the flats in Biscay Road. The lawn

was edged on three sides by flower beds and shrubs, all of which were in bloom. The entire colourful display was enclosed by high privet hedges. At two corners there were strategically placed weeping willows. Here and there leaves tumbled across the grass like green confetti.

It looked delightful, but the seven individuals who stood in the centre of the lawn seemed unconcerned by the array of colour before them, unimpressed by the peacefulness of the scene.

Three uniformed constables stood stiffly alongside the other four visitors.

‘The box is here somewhere,’ said Shanine Connor, glancing around.

Talbot shook his head almost imperceptibly. ‘You’re sure it’s not inside the building?’ he asked Cath.

T looked.’

‘In every room, in every flat?’ the DI asked.

‘The other three boxes were found in the victims’ gardens, Jim,’ Rafferty offered.

Cath shuddered involuntarily at the word victim.

‘All right,’ Talbot said. ‘Get on with it.’

The three uniformed men split up, one moving to each side of the garden.

Each was equipped with a spade.

Talbot looked on as they began to dig, turning the earth as carefully as questing archaeologists anxious not . to disturb some priceless hidden relic.

The spades went no deeper than eight or nine inches each time.

Rafferty wandered towards the bottom of the garden, standing close to one of the uniformed men as he dug.

The constable worked his way along the border, turning earth, gazing down to inspect anything he may have unearthed.

Rafferty saw worms writhing in the wet soil, one of them sliced in two by the blade of the shovel.

Shanine Connor moved towards the closest hedge and kneeled beside the privet perimeter, occasionally lifting the leaves of plants to look for any signs of disturbed earth.

Cath did the same thing at the base of one tree, urging the constable there to dig around the willow. He nodded and turned more of the damp soil, muttering to himself as it clung defiantly to the spade.

He stopped for a moment, banging the blade against the small tree, clods falling from the implement.

When he dug again he struck something hard.

He kneeled, using his hands to pull away the remaining soil.

Whatever he’d hit was close to the surface.

Cath moved nearer, her heart pounding.

It was a tree root.

She sighed.

The constable continued with his task, moving a few more inches to his right.

‘What if it’s buried deeper than the others were?’ Rafferty said, rejoining Talbot who was still standing in the centre of the lawn looking around him as helplessly as a lost child in a supermarket.

‘Then we dig deeper,’ the DI replied.

‘It still might not be here,’ Cath said, agitatedly.

‘Then where do you suggest we look?’ the DI snapped. ‘This is for your benefit, try being grateful.’

Cath was about to say something when she heard Shanine Connor’s voice behind her.

Distracted.

‘What’s that?’ said the younger woman.

Cath, Talbot and Rafferty turned to see her pointing through a gap in the hedge.

She was motioning across the road towards a small children’s playground.

It was protected by a line of low conifers and a black-painted iron fence.

Shanine could see a small girl clambering to the top of a slide. Another smaller boy was hauling himself over a climbing frame. On a bench near by, a woman watched them vigilantly, calling to them every now and then.

Sounds of laughter could be heard drifting on the air.

‘We should look there too,’ Shanine said, her eyes still fixed on the children. As she watched she touched her own swollen belly.

Soon.

‘You said the box would be buried in the garden,’ Talbot snapped.

‘I said it would be close to the victim’s home,’ Shanine repeated.

Cath shuddered.

That word again.

‘That’s close,’ Shanine continued, jabbing a finger towards the playground.

‘You three stay here,’ Talbot said to the uniformed men. ‘Keep digging. If you find anything, come and get me.’

Cath and Shanine were already heading out of the garden, then hurrying across the street towards the playground.

Talbot and Rafferty followed.

The woman with the two children looked around in bewilderment as Cath and Shanine entered the playground, the plain-clothes policemen only moments behind them.

Talbot saw the concern on her face and smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

The children seemed uninterested in these newcomers: they played happily while the others wandered around them.

Cath crossed to a litter bin and peered in.

Empty.

Talbot sat on a swing and watched disinterestedly.

One of the children smiled at him and he smiled back.

Shanine pushed the leaves of a bush aside and dug at the earth with the toe of one trainer, disturbing the soil there.

Rafferty was doing something similar next to a newly planted tree.

The playground surface was woodchips, but the pathway surrounding it was concrete flagstones.

As he was taking in the scene around him, Talbot noticed that one of the flags was slightly raised, dark earth spilling from beneath it.

He stepped off the swing and crossed to the paving stone.

The rest of the path was flat, the stones flush.

The one he was peering down .at looked as if it had been prised up.

He hooked his two hands beneath it and lifted, surprised at how easily the stone came free.

Watched by the woman on the bench, he flipped it over, gazing down at the dark earth beneath.

With his bare hands he began to scratch at the dirt like a dog in search of a bone.

It was a matter of seconds before his fingertips touched something cold.

Something wooden.

The others had seen what he was doing and wandered over to join him. Shanine kneeled beside him, pulling more of the earth away.

Rafferty moved closer to Cath as if to reassure her.

Talbot and Shanine pulled the final clods away.

The woman on the bench looked on in bewilderment.

The box was about four inches below the surface.

‘Is that it?’ Talbot asked.

Shanine Connor nodded slowly. ‘Burn it’ she said, flatly. ‘It’s the only way to break the Hex.’

Talbot hesitated.

‘Do it, for Christ’s sake’ Cath urged.

The DI gripped the box in one powerful hand then brought it crashing down onto one of the paving stones.

The wood split, the lid came free.

The contents spilled out into view.

Three thorns. Some dried earth and a dead beetle.

The photo fluttered out, twisted right side up.

Half a photo.

The picture had been ripped in two down the middle.

‘Oh my God’ murmured Cath.

She was staring at an image of her brother.

Frank Reed smiled back from the torn photograph.

‘Why is Frank’s picture in there?’ she gasped.

‘Is that part of the photo that was stolen from your flat?’ Talbot asked.

Cath nodded. ‘But why Frank?’ she whispered, eyes riveted to the torn image.

‘There’s something else’ Talbot said, a note of urgency in his voice. ‘If your brother’s half of that photo is in the box, who’s got the part with you on it?’

Ninety-three

Frank Reed drew the razor slowly across his foamy cheek then rinsed it in the sink.

He splashed his face with water and gazed at the image that peered back from the bathroom mirror.

With the dark shadow of two days’ accumulated stubble removed he looked better. Fresher.

Ready.

If you look like shit, you feel like shit.

He leaned closer to the mirror and stared into his bloodshot eyes. The lids were puffy through lack of sleep.

He splashed his face again, perhaps hoping he could wash away his tired, haggard features.

Reed towelled his face dry and wandered into the bedroom where his navy blue jacket and trousers were already laid out on the bed.

He’d pressed them before showering and shaving.

He wanted to look smart.

He wanted to prove to those who saw him that he was master of this situation.

You can fool them, but you can’t fool yourself.

Standing before the full-length mirror, he slipped on a white shirt, pulled on his trousers, and stepped into a pair of shoes. Then he reached into the wardrobe for his tie. As he did so, he glanced to the other side of the cabinet, and his eyes narrowed.

When she’d walked out on him, Ellen had left a few things: only the odd item of clothing pushed into the back of the wardrobe, but a reminder.

A single white blouse hung there; beneath it a tattered pair of suede high heels, the toes scuffed and dirty.

He bent down and picked up the shoes, pulled the blouse from its hanger.

He dropped all three items into the wastebin in one corner of the room, then returned to the wardrobe to fasten his tie.

He checked himself in the mirror and was satisfied with what he saw.

Reed glanced at his watch.

He had time.

The drive would take him less than twenty minutes.

Becky didn’t leave school for another thirty.

He would be there when she walked out of the front gate.

Waiting.

He walked back into the bathroom and ran a comb through his hair, then he strode back through the bedroom, where he gathered his car keys.

He wondered if Ellen was intending to pick up Becky from school.

Perhaps she’d send Ward to do it.

Fucking bastard.

He gritted his teeth at the thought of his daughter with another man. A man who dared to call himself her father now.

I love him.’

Ellen’s words echoed in Reed’s mind. Discordant syllables.

He wondered when she had stopped loving him. What he’d done to drive her away.

It’s not your fault. She chose to go. You’re not to blame.

He went into the kitchen, glancing down at the summons which still lay on the table. Reed picked it up and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

He felt curiously calm. A serenity he’d not experienced for some time had settled over him. Even his anger seemed momentarily quelled.

Again he looked at his watch.

Becky would be leaving school soon. He must be there to see her.

Must be there when she walked from those gates.

Before Ellen or Ward.

He slid open one of the kitchen drawers and looked down at the contents.

He selected a knife with a three-inch blade, razor sharp.

Reed slid it into the pocket of his jacket, then pushed a handkerchief in on top of it.

Time to go.

Twenty-five minutes and Becky would be leaving school.

His timing should be perfect.

He headed for the front door.

Ninety-four

‘There’s no answer’ said Cath anxiously, the mobile phone gripped in her hand.

‘We’ve got to warn him’ Shanine repeated.

Cath was already turning, hurrying towards the road.

She had to go to Frank.

‘Who would want to kill your brother?’ Talbot asked.

‘I haven’t got a clue’ she gasped, pulling the keys of the Fiat from her pocket.

‘What’s his address?’ Talbot snapped.

Cath told him.

‘And a car? Make, registration?’ he added.

She stopped in her tracks, flustered.

‘Come on, for Christ’s sake. Think’ the DI urged.

‘Dark blue …’ she faltered. ‘Honda Civic’

‘The reg?’ Talbot pressed.

‘Jesus Christ, Talbot, how can I remember?’

‘If you want him to stay alive you’d better remember’ the policeman snapped.

She held his stare for a moment, her mind spinning.

‘F’ she said, chewing a nail, desperate to remember. ‘F720 PPX. That’s it. I’m sure. F720 PPX.’

The DI turned to Rafferty.

‘Put out a call to any units near that address,’ he instructed. ‘And tell them I want that car traced, too.’

The DS nodded and hurried off to relay the information.

‘You get to him now’ Talbot said to Cath. ‘We can have men at his flat within ten minutes. Fuck knows what they’re going to say to him when they get there, though.’

Cath managed a smile.

‘Thanks, Talbot’ she said.

‘Just doing my job.’

She nodded. Then she was gone.

Frank Reed sat behind the wheel of the Civic gazing into empty air.

Across the street two women were standing talking, one of them gently pushing a baby-buggy back and forth, occasionally looking down at its occupant.

A little girl about a year old, Reed guessed.

A beautiful child.

Like Becky was at that age.

As she still was.

He pulled the summons from his inside pocket and scanned it for the hundredth time that day.

The words and letters didn’t miraculously change.

Things didn’t get any better.

Summons.

He tossed it onto the passenger seat then started the engine, stepping on the accelerator a little too hard so the roar of the Civic caused the two women to look round at him.

He was aware of their stares but ignored it.

Reed stuck the car in gear and pulled away.

As he did he patted the pocket of his jacket and felt the knife there.

‘There could be another box for you,’ said Shanine, glancing across at Cath, who seemed more concerned with the car which was blocking her passage ahead.

She hit her hooter and swerved around the vehicle.

‘There might be another Misfortune Box with-‘

‘I know that,’ Cath snapped. ‘All that matters now is that I get to Frank in time.’

She drove on.

Frank Reed parked the Civic across the road from the main entrance of the school and waited.

He shifted in his seat, rolling his neck gently.

There was pain beginning to nag at the base of his skull.

He looked at his watch, checked it against the dashboard clock.

Not long now.

Other cars were parked across the street, some close to his own. More parents preparing to meet their offspring, he assumed.

He scanned some of the faces seated in the stationary vehicles.

No sign of Ward or Ellen.

Again he felt the knife in his pocket.

Again he glanced down at the summons, still lying discarded on the passenger seat.

He paid no attention to the police car which cruised slowly past.

‘Puma Three, come in. Over.’

Talbot snatched up the two-way as he heard the metallic voice crackle over the airwaves. ‘Puma Three here. Over,’ he responded.

‘That dark blue Honda Civic you wanted traced,’ the metallic voice said. ‘One of the mobile units has clocked it.’

‘Where?’ Talbot demanded.

‘Outside a school in Macklin Street, Camden. Over.’

Rafferty glanced across at his companion.

‘Tell the officers on the scene to approach the driver. Over,’ Talbot said.

‘Do it now.’

Ninety-five

Frank Reed saw the first few children scurrying through the school gates and sat up excitedly in the driver’s seat.

He turned slightly, eyes scanning the ever-increasing flow of children in blue uniforms, who were now flooding from the gates, some in groups, some in twos or singly.

There was still no sign of either Ellen or Ward.

He would be able to get to Becky first.

If only he could see her.

A number of the other children had already climbed into waiting cars, ushered in by their parents. Some of the vehicles were pulling away.

Heading home.

Home.

He looked across at the summons, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw throbbing angrily.

He didn’t even see the police car parked twenty or thirty yards behind him.

Didn’t notice the two uniformed men climb out and begin walking towards his car.

Becky emerged from the school gates with two of her friends, all three of them chattering and laughing.

God, she was so beautiful when she laughed.

His little girl.

The advancing policemen were less than fifteen yards from the car now.

Reed swallowed hard and gazed raptly at his daughter.

She was standing close to the school gates looking around.

Perhaps she expected someone to be there to pick her up.

The two constables were only ten yards away now.

Becky waved goodbye to one of her friends and stood chatting to the other who glanced at her watch, then looked up and spotted her mother. The woman had just pulled up close to the school entrance and Reed watched as the other girl hurried off and climbed into the car, waving to Becky as the vehicle pulled away.

She was alone now.

Waiting.

The two constables were within touching distance of Reed’s car.

He spotted one in his wing mirror but he thought nothing of it.

His mind was focused on Becky.

He pulled the knife from his pocket. - She was alone there.

He took one final glance at the summons.

Did Becky understand what they were saying about him? he wondered. Did she understand the shame the accusations had brought? Could she ever realise the pain he was suffering?

He felt tears brimming in his eyes.

‘I’m sorry, Becky,’ he whispered.

The first constable reached the Civic in time to see the knife glinting in Reed’s hand.

He was about to shout something to his companion when Reed lifted it higher.

His eyes never left Becky.

‘I’m sorry’ he said again.

Then he pulled the blade hard across his throat.

‘No!’ roared one of the constables, making a dive for the driver’s-side door but, as he tugged on the handle, he found it was locked.

Inside the car Reed felt fleeting moments of pain, barely noticeable, as the knife sliced effortlessly through the flesh and muscles of his neck, severing carotid and jugular vessels.

Blood exploded from the gaping wound, spattering both the windscreen and the side windows. Great crimson gouts ejaculated from the torn veins and arteries.

Reed dropped the knife.

He was dimly aware of a battering on the side window, of glass suddenly flying inwards, of hands grabbing for him.

It slipped away very quickly.

Blood was still spurting wildly from his gashed throat, but he sat upright in his seat, his body now jerking uncontrollably as the muscles contracted.

His vision dimmed, fuzzed, then cleared slightly.

When he looked slightly to one side, Becky was gone, glancing across at the commotion around a car she could not see into, wondering what those two policemen were doing.

He tasted blood in his mouth, felt it pouring over his lips.

His head lolled backwards against the top of the seat and the gaping laceration seemed to open further, yawning like some blood-choked mouth.

Reed was surprised how little pain he felt.

One of the constables had managed to open the driver’s door by now and was reaching for him.

Through a haze he heard words like:

‘… dying …’

‘… Emergency…’

‘… ambulance…’

One twitching hand touched the summons, now also spattered with blood.

He slumped back in his seat, his vision clouded red.

Reed felt as if he was going to vomit.

It never happened.

He was dead before his stomach managed the contraction.

Ninety-six

She wondered why she hadn’t cried.

Catherine Reed sat on her sofa, legs drawn up beneath her, eyes staring blankly ahead.

Why?

It was nearly four hours now since she’d been informed of her brother’s death, and yet still she found no tears filling her eyes. Where there should have been tears she felt only dazed bewilderment. Where there should have been pain she felt only a consuming emptiness.

Talbot himself had told her the news.

He hadn’t been specific until she’d asked about the nature of the suicide.

Even then she’d felt merely a shudder, not the explosion of emotion she had expected.

She told herself she was in shock. The weeping would come. The realisation of loss.

For now she was numb.

Why had Frank been killed? Why had his picture been inside the Misfortune Box when it should have been hers?

Where was hers?

She glanced at her watch.

11.35 p.m.

Was her time yet to come?

Would she hurl herself from the window when the hands of her watch met at twelve?

Talbot had offered to leave men outside her flat.

To what purpose?

If she was going to die it would be by her own hand. No one could prevent it, short of tying her down. Even then, perhaps she could swallow her own tongue.

When it came to taking life, the human mind was blessed with quite staggering powers of invention.

The phone had rung, the answering machine collecting messages of condolence.

She had not bothered to pick it up, not bothered to return any calls.

There would be plenty of time for that.

Wouldn’t there?

What if at midnight…

She forced the thought from her mind.

Instead she got to her feet and crossed the room where she refilled her glass with Bacardi and Coke. A strong measure of the former.

‘Frank,’ she whispered under her breath.

Even mention of his name didn’t bring the tears she expected. Tears she hoped for.

Shock.

She was heading back towards the sofa when the phone rang. Who the hell would call so late? she wondered.

The tone sounded unusually loud in the stillness of the room, then she heard a voice she knew only too well.

‘Hello, Cath, it’s me,’ said Phillip Cross. ‘I…’

She snatched up the phone.

‘Phil’ she said, and suddenly the tears which she had thought locked away inside her broke free.

‘What’s wrong?’ he said, worriedly.

‘It’s Frank,’ she said. ‘He’s dead.’

‘Oh Christ!’ Cross murmured. ‘Look, I’ll be over in thirty minutes, let me get changed. I’ve just got back from that job in Glasgow.’

‘I need you, Phil,’ she said, her voice cracking.

‘I’ll be there’ he told her. ‘Just take it easy. Thirty minutes.’

‘I love you’ she said quietly.

He paused, unsure whether or not he’d heard the words correctly.

‘I love you too, Cath’ he said, softly. ‘See you soon.’

And he put down the phone.

So, Reed was dead, Cross thought as he pulled on his leather jacket.

He was out of her life. Out of their lives.

They’d always been close - too close. Cross had always felt feelings akin to jealousy for Cath’s brother. He wondered if she’d have spoken those words had Frank still been alive.

'I love you.’

He smiled.

Now there was only him to love.

No competition.

Cross flipped open his wallet and pulled something from it.

A small piece of paper.

Shiny paper.

The torn half of a photo.

It showed Cath.

The other half had shown her brother.

That had been the half Cross had buried in the Misfortune Box.

Just as he’d learned.

Just as he had known that the photos of Neil Parriam, Craig Jeffrey and Peter Hyde had been buried close to their homes.

Cross had not buried those, but he had known who had.

They had worked.

Carrying the ripped photo of Cath, he wandered into the small room next to his bedroom. He’d been using it as a home dark-room for the last couple of years.

Inside the smell of chemicals was strong.

There were photos in the developing trays. Some pinned to the thin wire which was stretched across the makeshift dark-room.

The ones which hung from the wire showed children.

Some as young as eighteen months.

Every child in every picture was naked.

Some were older, some bore bruises or scars.

There was a photograph of Shanine Connor pinned to the small cork notice board on one wall.

It had been sent to him three days earlier.

He knew what she looked like.

The network prided itself on its communications.

Her time was close.

He took down the photos from the wire, gathered them up and pushed them into one of the heavy metal drawers of a filing cabinet inside the dark-room. The ones in the tray of developer he rinsed, then clipped into position on the wire.

He would remove those when he returned from Cath’s the next day.

They would be hidden with the others until they were needed.

Cath.

He locked the dark-room behind him, glancing at the tattered half of her picture.

Her image smiled back at him.

Cross carefully folded it and replaced it in his wallet, then he picked up his car keys and headed for the front door.

He had to hurry. She’d sounded upset.

She would have a lot to tell him.

Cross smiled.

She needed him.