Stolen Angels Read online

  ‘Frank. It’s Ellen.’

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

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

  ‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’

  He sat down at the desk.

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

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

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

  ‘How are you keeping?’

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

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

  He swallowed hard.

  ‘About us?’ he asked.

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

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

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

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

  ‘Becky thinks a lot of him.’

  Reed felt something like physical pain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Fucking bitch.

  There was a long silence, finally broken by Reed.

  ‘So, what do you want?’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘You know I want to see her.’

  ‘So you’ll take her this weekend?’

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

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

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

  ‘Will you do it this weekend?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

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

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

  ‘Just leave it, Frank.’

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

  ‘Jonathan’s busy in the morning anyway.’

  ‘I’ll bet he is.’

  ‘I’ll be round about ten.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’

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

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

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

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

  Forty-one

  The pain was deep in her belly.

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

  This was stronger, more intense.

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

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

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

  Perhaps if she stood up …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She paused before the shape.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  No blood.

  The pain hadn’t been what she had feared.

  She massaged her belly gently.

  No blood.

  She smiled.

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

  Forty-two

  He didn’t sleep because with sleep came dreams.

  Those dreams.

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

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

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

  Every night?

  He knew he couldn’t run.

&n
bsp; How can you run from something inside your own head?

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

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

  There were photos on the front covers of each.

  Peter Hyde.

  Neil Parriam.

  Craig Jeffrey.

  All dead.

  Lucky bastards.

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

  They were braver than you.

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

  They escaped. Why can’t you ?

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

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

  Have you got the guts ?

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

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

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

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

  He sagged against the sink.

  ‘Fuck it’ he whispered. ‘Fuck it.’

  The gas flame still flickered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Where from?’

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

  ‘Did you call the police?’

  ‘No, I called you first.’

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

  ‘Oh God’ Cath murmured, her stomach contracting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  As Patterson held the torch, Cath began taking pictures.

  Forty-three

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

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

  Talbot looked up at it and winced.

  Fucking thing.

  It hurt his eyes.

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

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

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

  There was a moment’s silence.

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

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

  ‘Open it,’ he persisted.

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Calvin Klein?’ he said, haughtily.

  She shot him an angry glance.

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

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

  ‘You’ve been drinking,’ Gina said.

  ‘Brilliant deduction.’

  ‘How did you get here?’

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

  ‘You’re drunk.’

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

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

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

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

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

  She crossed her arms, covering her chest even more.

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

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

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

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

  She shook her head.

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

  ‘I got back about an hour ago.’

  ‘Busy night?’

  ‘What do you care?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘My mum and dad.’

  ‘Are they still married?’

  Gina looked puzzled. ‘Yes. Why?’

  Talbot ignored the question.

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

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

  What do you think?’

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

  ‘They think I work in a PR company.’

  He laughed.

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

  Gina got to her feet, her expression darkening.

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

  This is what you want, isn’t it.’

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

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

  Talbot took a step towards her.

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

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

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

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

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