Stolen Angels Page 19

  The taxi pulled out into traffic.

  Fifty-nine

  ‘Did any of those names you showed your brother check out?’ asked Phillip Cross, spooning rice from the foil container closest to him.

  Catherine Reed, kneeling beside the coffee table on the carpet next to Cross, nodded, her eyes flicking back and forth over the array of takeaway food. She picked up several forkfuls of meat and dropped them into the bowl with her rice.

  ‘Nine of the kids on that list attended the school where Frank teaches,’ she told Cross.

  ‘Did any of the parents talk?’

  ‘Two closed doors, two fuck-offs and five that either wouldn’t or couldn’t answer,’ Cath told him.

  ‘What do you think is going on, Cath?’

  She sat back against the sofa, one eye on the TV screen, but her mind concentrated on the question Cross had just asked her.

  ‘There’s abuse of some description going on, I’d bet money on it’ she said, taking a mouthful of rice. ‘But no one will talk about it and I don’t really blame them. Although, if they’ve got nothing to hide …’

  ‘You think it’s the parents who are doing the abusing?’

  ‘Some of them must be involved either directly or indirectly. I’m not saying they’ve actually done damage to their own kids, but they must have known what was going on.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘I need to speak to someone from.

  Hackney Social Services, see what kind of statements the kids made.’ She continued staring blankly at the TV screen, the sound turned down.

  ‘Something’s been bothering me too. I mean, there’s probably no connection but one of the families, the O’Brians, their boy was taken away by the Social Services, right? A couple of weeks before that, the grave of their dead baby daughter was desecrated. You remember all that shit that was happening at Croydon Cemetery?’

  He nodded. ‘The smashed headstones, the graffiti and all that?’

  ‘Some of it was pretty heavy.’

  ‘You’re not trying to say that the O’Brians were involved in what went on there, are you? I mean, they’re hardly likely to dig up their own kid’s grave, are they?’ Cross snorted.

  ‘Maybe they’re not. It could be someone with a grudge against the family.’

  ‘So what about the other graves that were desecrated? And that cat that was nailed to the church door. Was that a grudge thing, too?’

  ‘Phil, I haven’t got a clue what it was. For all I know, Nicholls could be right, it could have been some kind of witchcraft thing.’

  ‘So you think this is satanic abuse?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time it’d happened, would it? What about those cases in Cleveland, Nottingham and the Orkneys? They were supposed to be satanic abuse cases.’

  ‘And none of them was ever proved,’ Cross said, flatly.

  Cath pushed a forkful of food into her mouth.

  ‘Don’t try looking for a story that isn’t there, Cath,’ Cross told her.

  ‘Don’t tell me how to do my job, Phil’ she said, irritably. ‘I don’t tell you how to take pictures.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ he responded. ‘I just don’t want you making a fool of yourself.’

  She was about to say something else when the phone rang.

  Cath got to her feet and crossed to it, lifting the receiver.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  Silence.

  ‘Hello.’

  Still nothing.

  The line went dead. Cath replaced the receiver and returned to her dinner. ‘If I can get someone from one of the families who had kids taken away to talk, or even someone who knows them,’ she said, excitedly, ‘then I might have a chance of finding out what’s going on.’

  ‘And you think they’re going to talk to you?’ Cross said, shaking his head.

  ‘Someone will talk, they always do.’

  The phone rang again. Cath muttered something under her breath and prepared to haul herself up off the floor again but Cross put his hand on her shoulder, swinging himself off the sofa.

  He picked up the phone. ‘Hello.’

  Again, only silence.

  ‘Listen, I think you’ve got a wrong number.’

  There was a click as the line went dead once again.

  He was about to sit down when it rang again.

  ‘Jesus,’ Cross muttered.

  ‘Leave it,’ Cath told him. ‘I’ll let the answering machine take care of it.’

  She heard her own voice on the tape, then the beep, then nothing.

  Barely ten seconds had passed when the phone rang again.

  Cath jumped to her feet and snatched up the receiver. ‘Hello, again,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Catherine Reed?’ said the voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Keep your fucking nose out, you slag. Keep it out of other people’s business, right? Are you fucking listening to me?’ The voice was low, guttural.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Cath demanded.

  ‘Back off, bitch, or you’re fucking dead.’

  At the other end the phone was slammed down.

  Cath held the receiver for a moment then gently replaced it.

  ‘Are you OK?’ asked Cross, seeing how pale she looked.

  She nodded, still looking down at the phone.

  Waiting.

  It was another thirty minutes before it rang again.

  Sixty

  Talbot was too busy eating to notice Gina Bishop glance at her Cartier watch.

  She sighed.

  Ten-thirty.

  ]esus Christ, how much longer was he going to be?

  She puffed agitatedly at her cigarette, gazing at the policeman through a thin film of smoke.

  Around her, the low buzz of conversation from the other diners seemed to rise and fall in volume, the chink of cutlery on crockery the only other sound disturbing the relative peacefulness of the restaurant.

  Talbot finally took a last mouthful of food and pushed his plate away.

  ‘Very nice’ he said, raising his eyebrows. He glanced around at the other customers.

  ‘How many of this lot do you know?’ he asked.

  She looked puzzled.

  ‘Any of them help to pay for that outfit?’

  ‘What’s wrong, Talbot?’ she snapped. ‘Fed up with talking about your mother now?’

  He shot her an angry glance.

  ‘You’ve done nothing but talk about her since we got here, why change the subject?’ Gina said, acidly.

  ‘I said I wanted to talk, I didn’t ask for your fucking opinions, I just needed someone to listen.’

  ‘And why was I singled out for that honour?’

  ‘Because there isn’t anyone else,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘What, no friends? Mind you, I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Do you think I’d choose to speak to you if I had other options?’

  They regarded each other in silence.

  She took another drag on the cigarette and blew smoke into his face.

  ‘What about your colleagues?’ she asked. ‘Surely they’d listen to you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother them with my problems.’

  ‘How considerate, but you’d bother me.’

  ‘Their time’s important. Yours isn’t.’

  He took a swallow of his drink, watching as she drew on the cigarette.

  ‘So what are you going to do about your mother?’ she asked, eventually.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he muttered.

  ‘Why not let her come home?’

  ‘Who the hell is going to look after her?’

  ‘Pay someone.’

  ‘That’s what I do now. They don’t let her stay at Litton Vale out of the kindness of their fucking hearts. It costs money.’

  A man sitting at the next table glanced across at Talbot who met his glance with a withering stare.

  ‘If she comes home you’ll save money that you’re paying at the hospice-‘

&nbs
p; ‘It’s not a hospice.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Whatever. You’ll save the money that you spend keeping her there. Spend it on a nurse to look after her at home. That seems pretty logical to me. It won’t cost you much, anyway. From what you’ve said, she’s not going to be around very long.’

  Talbot glared at her furiously.

  ‘Or is it that you don’t want her home, Talbot?’ Gina said, flatly.

  He had no answer.

  Well, is that the reason?

  He downed what was left in his glass and banged it down hard on the table, drawing more glances from the other diners.

  ‘You said earlier on that you owed her,’ Gina told him. ‘What did you mean?’

  He shook his head slowly.

  ‘Forget it,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘You wanted to talk, Talbot. I’m talking. You wanted me to listen. I’ve listened.’

  ‘All part of the job, isn’t it?’ he snapped. ‘You listen to dirty old men, sad fucking bastards who can’t get it up with their wives. Who have to pay you. Or

  you talk to them and you tell them how good they are, while you’re watching the clock and adding up the pounds. You talk, you listen. You do anything for money. For anybody and with anybody. As long as the price is right.’

  ‘I’m not like the others and you know that.’

  ‘You’re a tart. Pure and simple. The only difference between you and the slags that work around King’s Cross is that you wear designer clothes to cover the dirt.’

  ‘And you need me, Talbot. That’s why you hate me, isn’t it? You’ve got nobody else. No friends. No family. Nothing. I’m all you’ve got.’

  He ran his finger slowly around the rim of his empty glass, watching her as she ground out her cigarette.

  ‘I told you before, we’re both the same. The only difference is I wouldn’t let my mother die in an old people’s home. If you do that, Talbot, then don’t ever have the nerve to call me scum again.’

  He eyed her malevolently, watching as she caught the attention of a waiter who scurried off to fetch the bill.

  When he returned, Gina laid a Gold American Express card on the plate with the bill. The waiter scooped them both up and disappeared again.

  ‘Money talks’ she said, a thin smile on her lips. ‘Bullshit walks.’

  The waiter reappeared and she signed the blue slip. Then she got to her feet and Talbot followed her out into the cool night air.

  A taxi was approaching and Gina stuck out an arm to flag it down.

  ‘My place?’ she said, unenthusiastically.

  Talbot had already begun walking up St James’s Street towards Piccadilly.

  The taxi pulled into the kerb.

  ‘Talbot’ she called after him.

  He kept walking.

  Gina waited a moment, then climbed into the cab.

  It sped off.

  She didn’t look round as she passed him.

  Sixty-one

  ‘Cath, you’ve got to call the police’ said Phillip Cross. ‘You don’t know what kind of fucking maniac might be making these calls.’

  Cath sat on the sofa, legs drawn up beneath her, eyes fixed on the telephone.

  There had been two more calls since the last one.

  Both violently abusive.

  But, she thought, different voices.

  ‘They can trace where these calls came from’ Cross insisted.

  ‘Whoever’s making them isn’t on long enough for the police to set up a trace,’

  Cath said, quietly, her gaze never leaving the phone.

  At any second she expected it to ring again.

  ‘At least ring them’ the photographer said, angrily.

  ‘It’s probably the parents of one of the kids who’ve been taken into care,’

  she observed. ‘They told me to back off.’

  ‘They also threatened to kill you. What’s next after the phone calls. Someone banging on your door? Petrol poured through your letterbox? Ring the police, Cath.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘There’s no way I’m leaving you alone tonight.’

  She smiled at him, touching his hand as he squeezed her shoulder. ‘I didn’t want you to leave anyway,’ she whispered, moving closer to him.

  Cross enveloped her in his arms and she clung to him fiercely.

  ‘How the hell did they get your number anyway?’ he wondered. ‘I thought you were ex-directory.’

  ‘I am’ she said, softly.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Cath’ he exclaimed. ‘If they can find that out what else can they do?’

  She moved away from him, got to her feet and crossed to the window of the flat and peered out into the night.

  ‘They’re probably using a public phone’ she mused. ‘It’d be harder to trace.’

  “Whoever’s doing it probably hasn’t even thought about that,’ said Cross, dismissively.

  ‘There’s been nothing for two hours now’ she said, still gazing out into the blackness. ‘I think they’ve finished for the night. Probably fed up. They think they’ve

  made their point.’ She turned to face Cross. ‘Let’s go to bed.’

  He nodded slowly, watching as she flicked off the lamp on top of the TV set, glancing down at the photo of herself and her brother that took pride of place there.

  She reached out and touched the photo, touched the image of his face briefly.

  Cross had already wandered across the hallway to the bedroom.

  Cath took one last glance across at the telephone, then flicked off the main light, closing the sitting-room door behind her.

  Outside, hidden by the enveloping shroud of night, prying eyes saw the light go off.

  The flat was in darkness.

  Now it was just a matter of time.

  He watched her as she slept, crouching inches from the side of the bed.

  Frank Reed watched the steady rise and fall of his daughter’s chest, listened to the faint hiss of her breathing.

  She looked so beautiful. So peaceful.

  He reached out and, very gently, brushed a strand of hair away from her mouth.

  She rolled over in her sleep and Reed took a step back, fearing that he’d woken her, but she remained still.

  He leaned forward and kissed her softly on the forehead.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispered, then rose to his feet and walked slowly from the bedroom, pausing in the doorway, his gaze still upon her.

  He wouldn’t lose her.

  No matter what it took.

  He’d already lost his wife: he didn’t intend losing his daughter.

  He pushed the bedroom door shut.

  Maria Goldman woke with a start, her eyes staring wide, the last vestiges of the nightmare still imprinted on her mind.

  She looked anxiously around the room, searching for that huge cloaked figure which had pursued her through her dreams.

  The horned figure.

  Was it hiding in the shadows of the room? Skulking in the blackness?

  She let out a frightened gasp as she felt the hand touch her back.

  Her husband, woken by her sudden movement, ran one hand over her soft skin and asked her if she was OK.

  Maria nodded and moved closer to him, feeling his arm around her, sliding towards sleep, drifting quickly into oblivion once more.

  She wondered if the horned figure would be waiting in the dark recesses of her dreams.

  He couldn’t remember how long he’d been walking or even where.

  Talbot might as well have been walking in circles.

  Each street looked the same, every building indistinguishable from the next.

  The darkness had grown colder as night had become early morning.

  And still he walked, collar turned up to protect him from the biting wind that whipped down some of the side streets, tossing waste paper and empty cans before him.

  Hands dug deep into his pockets, he
walked on.

  Sixty-two

  Detective Sergeant Bill Rafferty knocked on the door of the office, waited a moment, then stepped inside.

  The room was empty.

  Talbot’s desk was unoccupied.

  Rafferty muttered something under his breath and glanced to his left and right along the corridor. He spotted a uniformed man heading for the exit doors at the far end.

  ‘Have you seen DI Talbot this morning?’

  ‘No, sir’ the uniformed man called back.

  Rafferty went back into the office, perched on the desk, and turned the phone to face him. He jabbed one of the buttons on it and waited.

  He recognised the voice on the other end.

  ‘Colin, it’s Rafferty here,’ said the DS. ‘Have you seen Talbot this morning?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him for a couple of days’ DC Colin Penhallow told him. ‘What’s the problem, Bill?’

  ‘He’s not here, that’s the problem. I’ve had two messages from Macpherson over at Theobald’s road saying he wants to talk to him, but so far, no sign.’ The DS looked at his watch.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t help you, Bill’ Penhallow said apologetically. ‘What does Macpherson want with him anyway? He’s in charge of that child abuse case, isn’t he? That’s nothing to do with us.’

  ‘Try telling that to the DI. It seems to have been the only thing on his mind in the last few days.’

  ‘Why the hell is he so interested?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like to know.’ He glanced down and saw a red light blinking on the console. ‘Look, I’ve got to go, there’s another call on three. Cheers, mate.’

  Rafferty jabbed the third button,

  ‘DI Talbot’s phone.’

  ‘Bill, is that you?’ said the voice at the other end.

  It was low, rasping.

  ‘Who’s this?’ Rafferty asked.

  ‘It’s me.’ A cough. ‘Talbot.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, I’ve been trying to get hold of you for the last hour, are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah. Listen, can you pick me up from home in about an hour?’

  ‘No problem. Jim, Macpherson’s been on the line this morning, something to do with this child abuse case in Hackney.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘He said he’s seen the medical reports on the kids that were taken into care.

  A number of them were physically abused. He also left the name of the woman at Hackney Social Services who he said you wanted to talk to.’