Stolen Angels Read online

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

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

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

  She pulled on the robe, fastening it haphazardly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He put down his glass and got to his feet.

  She saw that he was heading for the door.

  ‘Talbot, wait’ she called.

  He was already turning the door handle.

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

  She heard his footfalls on the stairs. Receding.

  ‘Fucking idiot’ she hissed.

  She heard the front door slam.

  He was gone.

  Forty-four

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

  It was followed by several muted giggles.

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

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

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

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

  There was a loud snapping sound.

  Another yelp.

  More giggling.

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

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

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

  he told the lad with the rubber band.

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

  Other eyes turned in his direction. More giggles.

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

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

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

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

  His forehead was on the desktop.

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

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

  Reed’s only concern was O’Brian.

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

  His eyes were closed.

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

  He didn’t stir.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Is he dead?’ a voice called.

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

  And the scratches.

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

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

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

  O’Brian hadn’t stirred.

  Reed ran a little faster.

  Speed suddenly seemed important.

  Forty-five

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Weals.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He felt the hard, coarse surface of a scar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  O’Brian backed into a corner.

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

  Reed took a step towards him.

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

  The boy drew back even further.

  ‘Who did this to you?’ Reed asked.

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

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

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

  ‘No. I mustn’t tell’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Who?’ Reed demanded.

  ‘Please’ O’Brian sobbed.

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

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

  ‘Did someone threaten you?’

  No answer.

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

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

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

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

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

  Take it easy. Be patient.

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

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

  Reed got to his feet and took a step forward.

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

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

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

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

  No answer.

  He could almost touch the boy now.

  Another step.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Reed looked at Amy.

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

  Forty-six

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

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

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

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

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

  Too much whiskey usually had that effect.

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

  So many faces.

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

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

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

  ‘What’s the problem, Jim?’ he asked.

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

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

  Rafferty nodded.

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

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

  Rafferty shrugged.

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

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

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

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

  ‘Your brother knows them?’

  ‘Their son attends the school where he teaches.’

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

  Cath nodded slowly.

  Nicholls tapped the paper on his desk.

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

  Cath grinned and got to her feet.

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

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

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

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

  Christ, she barely had enough to feed herself.

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

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

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

  She suppressed a chuckle and glanced at his paper.

  The word struck her like a hammer.

  He had the paper open at the centre pages.

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

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

  The man scanned the story quickly and turned the page.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Forty-seven

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

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

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

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