Stolen Angels Read online

  Cath wondered how many feet had traversed these steps over the centuries.

  The staircase wound down in a tight circular shape, the fusty odour which she’d detected when Patterson first opened the door now becoming more overpowering the deeper they went. Exactly how far beneath the ground they were she had no idea but she was aware of a growing chill too. Even the walls were icy to the touch, the very stone itself cold beneath her fingertips.

  ‘How did they ever get the coffins down here?’ she asked, her voice echoing slightly in the subterranean stairwell.

  Patterson didn’t answer, he merely walked a few feet ahead of her, the powerful beam of his torch cutting a swathe through the blackness.

  Cath slipped on one of the stairs.

  ‘Shit,’ she hissed.

  Patterson looked round at her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, quickly.

  The priest smiled.

  ‘Watch your step’ he said, grinning. ‘You could break your ankle down here.’

  They continued to descend.

  ‘Who uses this place now?’ Cath wanted to know.

  ‘No one. The last body laid to rest here was in the 1920s,’ he told her. ‘I

  think most people tend to see crypts and tombs as archaic, something belonging in horror films. Besides, even in the old days they were the preserve of the wealthy.’

  ‘What was wrong with burial?’ Cath asked, her breath clouding before her.

  ‘Families used to remain together even in death. A family vault or crypt was quite a status symbol.’

  ‘The family that plays together decays together’ Cath murmured.

  ‘You could say that’ Patterson chuckled.

  ‘Who did this crypt belong to?’

  ‘The Parslow family. It was built in the late eighteenth century. The family owned the land on which the church was built. Before it was a cemetery it was private land, they were a rich family. The crypt used to be above ground.’

  ‘Why move it?’

  ‘They wanted it beneath the church. Perhaps they thought it would bring them closer to God.’

  Cath sucked in a deep breath, the smell of damp strong in her nostrils. She could see motes of dust turning lazily in the bright beam of Patterson’s torch. The steps were getting smaller, levelling out.

  ‘Look, Reverend, this is fascinating stuff but what’s it got to do with the desecrations?’ Cath asked, almost stumbling the last couple of steps.

  Patterson shone the light at the far wall.

  ‘Jesus Christ’ Cath whispered, transfixed.

  ‘I don’t think Christ had anything to do with this, Miss Reed’ Patterson commented, playing the torch beam around the crypt.

  It was large, fully twenty feet from end to end and side to side, the sarcophagi piled on top of each other, reaching to a height of almost fifteen feet, close to the damp ceiling of the crypt.

  On the far wall an enormous pentagram had been drawn.

  It looked as if it had been hacked into the stone itself with a chisel.

  There were figures too.

  Cath moved closer, gazing at the crudely painted outlines.

  On either side of the pentagram they stood like sentinels: one of a man sporting a huge, erect penis, the woman adorned with bulbous, thick-nippled breasts.

  Cath took a couple of pictures, the flash from the camera bathing the crypt in cold white light each time she pressed the button.

  ‘When did you find this?’

  ‘About two weeks ago,’ Patterson informed her. ‘I arrived at the church one morning and found that someone had broken in. I checked to see if anything had been stolen inside and noticed that the crypt door had been forced. I came down and found this.’

  Again the flash of cold light. ‘Did you show the police?’

  ‘They said it was vandals.’

  ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think, Miss Reed.’

  Cath took a step closer to the wall, closer to the obscene figures and the massive pentagram, her eyes fixed on something else scrawled on the cold stone. Words. Symbols.

  She could feel the skin prickling on the back of her neck.

  Patterson kept the torch beam steady on the meaningless scribble.

  ‘It took me a while to work it out’ he said, softly. Cath looked at him, seeking an answer. ‘It’s the Lord’s Prayer written backwards.’

  Twenty-nine

  ‘So who the fuck is he?’ demanded Talbot, his eyes never leaving the front entrance of the shop.

  ‘No one knows,’ Rafferty replied, his own gaze also directed at the building.

  ‘What about the girl, do we know her name?’ the DI persisted.

  ‘Emma Jackson. She works in there.’

  ‘Who saw it?’

  ‘One of the customers,’ Rafferty told his superior. ‘She’d just opened up,

  about an hour ago now. This geezer walks in, pulls a knife out of his pocket, tells the customer to fuck off, then went for the girl. As far as we can tell she’s not hurt.’

  ‘Not yet,’ murmured Talbot.

  The Ann Summers shop in Wardour Street looked deserted, apart from the lifeless shapes of the models standing in the window. They seemed to stare back at Talbot.

  What had those blank eyes seen? he wondered.

  ‘Is the back sealed off?’ he enquired.

  Rafferty nodded. ‘There’s no way he’s coming out of there,’ the DS said, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. Traffic to the north and south had been diverted, the road closed. Red and white barriers had been erected across the thoroughfare. Uniformed policemen stood by them. At both, Talbot noticed, crowds had built up, maybe a hundred people on either side, anxious to see what was going on.

  Morbid fuckers.

  He even caught sight of a camera held in one set of eager hands.

  ‘Has anyone spoken to him yet?’ Talbot asked.

  ‘One of the uniformed men’ Rafferty replied.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said he just wants to talk to the girl.’

  NEMA ReVE dnA ReVEROF

  YROLG eHT dNA REwoPeHT

  It suddenly seemed much colder inside the crypt.

  ‘What the hell is it?’ she murmured.

  MoDGNlk eHT SI ENIHTRoF

  LlvE MoRF SuREvILED

  Talbot looked incredulously at his companion.

  ‘He doesn’t want money, he doesn’t want a getaway car. He just wants to talk to her’ the DS said.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ sighed Talbot clambering out of the Escort. Rafferty followed him, watching as his superior brushed some dust from the sleeve of his jacket.

  ‘What do you want to do, Jim?’ the younger man asked.

  ‘Get inside there,’ Talbot answered, already taking a couple of paces towards the shop.

  Rafferty joined him. ‘What about the girl?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘If he’s already killed her then we may as well go in now. If he’s thinking of killing her it could take him all fucking day to make up his mind, but, if I’m right, then he doesn’t want to hurt her.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Ever heard of a gut feeling, Bill?’

  ‘And what if you’re wrong, what if he does want to kill her?’

  ‘Have an ambulance crew standing by,’ Talbot said, indifferently.

  He strode across the street, watched by the hordes of uniformed men and the curious crowd.

  The man with the camera snapped off a couple of shots as the DI approached the door.

  Rafferty scurried across to join him.

  From either side, crouching low to the pavement, uniformed men edged nearer.

  Talbot waved them back.

  He banged hard on the door, leaning close to it, trying to see through the dirty glass.

  The lights were off inside, it was difficult to make out shapes. All he could see clearly was a rack of basques hanging close to the entrance.

  There was a counter to
his right, glass topped and fronted. He could see a selection of vibrators inside.

  Something moved towards the back of the shop.

  He saw a figure move a couple of paces towards the door.

  A young man, no more than twenty-five.

  He was carrying a short-bladed knife in his right hand.

  ‘Fuck off!’ he screamed at Talbot.

  ‘Open the door or I’ll break it down,’ the DI said, impassively.

  He watched as the man retreated a few feet then grabbed at something hidden by the counter. Talbot saw him drag a young woman into view.

  About twenty-four, petite, pretty.

  The man hauled her in front of him and pushed the knife to her face.

  ‘You try coming in and I’ll hurt her,’ shouted the man who was dressed in jeans and a black shirt.

  Rafferty looked at his superior. ‘What do you reckon?’ he said.

  Talbot shook his head. ‘Open the door now!’ he bellowed.

  The young man looked at the girl, then at Talbot. ‘I’ll cut her,’ he called back, his voice cracking slightly. ‘I mean it.’

  ‘He’s scared shitless,’ Talbot said.

  ‘Be careful, Jim,’ Rafferty said, softly.

  ‘Keep them back,’ the DI told his companion, motioning towards the uniformed men near by. ‘I’ll sort it.’

  Rafferty took a couple of paces back and barked something into the two-way radio he pulled from his jacket pocket.

  Talbot kicked at the door, the glass rattling in its frame. He drove another powerful boot into it and it flew back on its hinges. The DI found himself standing inside the shop.

  It smelled of cheap perfume and sweat.

  Talbot looked at the girl’s face.

  Apart from some puffiness around her eyes she looked unharmed. Her make-up was smudged and there were mascara stains on her cheeks but, as far as he could see, no wounds of any description.

  ‘Put down the knife,’ Talbot said.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that’ said Black Shirt, through clenched teeth.

  ‘Just put it down before someone gets hurt,’ Talbot continued. He took a step forward.

  ‘Stay there,’ black shirt shouted.

  Talbot moved forward more cautiously.

  The knife blade was hovering close to the girl’s cheek.

  ‘Just let her walk away’ Talbot said, still taking slow deliberate steps towards Black Shirt and his hostage.

  ‘If you come one step closer I’ll stab her’ Black Shirt babbled, none too convincingly.

  ‘Go on, then.’

  It was the girl’s turn to look surprised.

  ‘Go on then, you little prick’ snapped Talbot. ‘Kill her.’

  Black Shirt was breathing rapidly now, perspiration had already beaded on his forehead.

  ‘You’re already looking at aggravated assault, possible ABH, maybe even kidnapping. You want to add murder to that list? Be my fucking guest.’ He moved closer, pushing aside a rail hung with silk knickers. ‘Go on, hard man, fucking cut her. Slice her up. Impress me.’

  ‘You’re fucking nuts’ Black Shirt blabbered.

  ‘Let her go’

  ‘He didn’t hurt me’ the girl said, seeing the DI drawing nearer.

  ‘Good. Then you ask him to let you go. Do you know him?’

  She nodded.

  Bingo.

  ‘Boyfriend?’ the DI continued, his progress even.

  ‘Look, things got out of hand’ said Black Shirt, uncertainly.

  ‘Let her go.’

  The knife was lowered a fraction.

  Talbot was about three feet from the couple now, his eyes fixed on the watery gaze of Black Shirt.

  He could hear him breathing, smell his sweat.

  ‘Let her go.’

  Two feet.

  Black Shirt allowed the knife to waver a little lower but he kept his grip on the girl’s shoulder.

  ‘Come on, I’m not playing fucking games,’ hissed Talbot. ‘Let her go.’

  Black Shirt looked at Talbot, then at his captive, and pulled his hand away.

  She stepped away from him, leaning against the counter.

  ‘Drop the knife’ Talbot ordered.

  Black Shirt stood motionless, the knife held before him now.

  Talbot extended one hand, palm up. ‘Give me the knife.’

  Black Shirt was shaking now, barely able to control his own breathing. He looked across at the girl who nodded almost imperceptibly.

  ‘The knife’ Talbot repeated.

  Black Shirt reached out to hand over the blade.

  Talbot gripped the proffered wrist, twisted and simultaneously wrenched the younger man towards him. In one swift movement, he drove his head forward, slamming his forehead into Black Shirt’s face.

  The impact broke the younger man’s nose, blood bursting from it, spilling onto the floor, some of it spattering Talbot.

  The girl shouted something and ran towards him.

  Talbot felt a blow against his back.

  ‘You bastard,’ shouted the girl but Talbot merely pushed her away.

  Rafferty came scurrying into the shop, four uniformed men behind him, one of them an ambulance man.

  He saw the girl standing against the counter, saw Black Shirt crouching on the floor, blood gushing through his fingers as he clapped both hands to his face.

  ‘Get them out of here,’ Talbot instructed, turning towards the door. ‘And move that fucking crowd from the street, the show’s over.’

  Behind him he could hear the girl crying.

  Thirty

  Frank Reed looked at the phone perched on the corner of his desk.

  What are you waiting for?

  He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms in front of him, hearing the joints of his elbows crack.

  Outside his office he could hear voices and, swivelling around in his chair, he saw a group of children walking unhurriedly across the playground towards one of the more modern blocks of classrooms. He couldn’t see the face of the teacher who led them, but he recognised the broad back and the worn tweed jacket: Don Hicks, Biology.

  Reed smiled to himself.

  Hicks was a couple of years older than Reed and the two men got on well.

  Indeed, as Deputy Head, Reed had a good rapport with all of his colleagues.

  Even the older ones didn’t seem to resent the fact that a man young enough to be their son, in some cases, held such a lofty position. Even if the salary didn’t match the responsibility, Reed mused.

  He turned back to face his desk.

  And the phone.

  The door of his office was open slightly and from the outer office he could hear the sounds of a typewriter being pounded by the secretary both he and the headmaster shared. No new-fangled technology for her. No computers or word processors. She was loyal to her old electric typewriter.

  He got to his feet and crossed to the door, closing it, then returned to his desk and looked at the phone once more.

  He picked it up and dialled.

  Had he got the right number?

  Unsure, he pressed down on the cradle and checked the number he wanted in his diary. He dialled again and waited.

  It was ringing.

  Come on.

  And ringing.

  Perhaps they were out.

  Or busy?

  He tapped agitatedly on his desk top with his fingertips.

  What are they doing?

  Reed tried to push the thoughts from his mind.

  Perhaps you’re disturbing them. Perhaps they’re in bed together. Perhaps he’s fucking her.

  ‘Pick it up’ Reed hissed.

  They might not be able to hear it. Didn’t she tell you he made her feel so good?

  Reed ran a hand through his hair.

  So good.

  At the other end the receiver was picked up.

  ‘Hello’ said a man’s voice.

  Reed was so lost in his own thoughts that it took him a second to r
eact.

  ‘Hello’ repeated the voice at the other end.

  ‘Could I speak to Ellen Reed, please?’

  There was a moment’s silence followed by a little chuckle.

  ‘Frank, how nice to hear from you’ said Jonathan Ward.

  Don’t you dare laugh at me, you bastard.

  ‘Can I speak to Ellen, please?’ the teacher said, trying to contain his irritation.

  ‘And how are you, Frank? Keeping well?’ Ward said, that trace of derision in his voice. ‘We haven’t heard from you for so long we were starting to get worried.’

  ‘Yeah, I bet you were. Just put Ellen on, will you?’

  ‘I don’t know if she wants to speak to you, Frank’ Ward told him dismissively.

  ‘Just get her’ Reed snapped, his free hand now balled into a fist.

  ‘What did you want to speak to her about?’

  ‘That’s between her and me. It’s none of your business.’

  ‘Ellen and I have no secrets from each other, Frank. She’ll tell me if I ask her, anyway.’

  ‘Yeah, she’d do anything for you, wouldn’t she?’ Reed spat.

  Ward sniggered. ‘You’re probably right, Frank’ he said. Then all Reed heard was the sound of the receiver being laid on a hard surface.

  ‘Bastard’ the teacher murmured under his breath.

  He waited.

  At the other end he heard the receiver being lifted.

  ‘Hello’ said the woman’s voice.

  ‘Ellen, it’s Frank.’

  Silence.

  ‘Ellen, I said-‘

  ‘I heard you. What do you want?’ she asked curtly.

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  ‘We’ve got nothing to say.’

  ‘We’ve hardly said a dozen words to each other since …’ He allowed the sentence to trail off.

  ‘Since I left you?’

  ‘How’s Becky?’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘And how are you?’

  ‘Oh, Christ, you’re not going to make small-talk are you?’

  ‘We need to talk, Ellen’ Reed said, angrily. ‘About Becky, about us.’

  ‘There is no us any more,’ she told him, flatly.

  Reed swallowed hard. ‘How’s Becky?’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘I want to see her, Ellen.’

  ‘We were thinking of going away for a few days - it isn’t convenient now.’

  ‘You’re talking about my daughter,’ he rasped. ‘I want to see her.’