by Shaun Hutson
Stolen Angels
Shaun Hutson
Catherine and Phillip believe that the suicides of three men, the desecrations of a number of children's graves, and the suspected child abuse of a number of school pupils are connected in some way. It soon becomes apparent that the specter of child abuse is merely the tip of a terrifying iceberg.
PART ONE
Hell is for children.
And you shouldn’t have to pay for your love With your bones and your flesh
Pat Benatar
Do you hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years?
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
One
If he hurried, he might just make it, thought Peter Hyde as he scuttled across the crowded concourse of Euston Station. He glanced at his watch, apologising as he bumped into a woman dragging a large suitcase on a set of wheels. It looked as if she was taking the luggage for a walk, Hyde mused, weaving his way through the maze of bodies which thronged the busy area.
He was torn between the options of using his briefcase as a weapon to clear a path through the milling throng or holding it close to him in case he accidentally struck anyone with it. Ahead of him he saw a young man with an enormous back-pack turn and slam into an older man in a grey suit who was sweating profusely, perspiration beading on his bald head. The suited man slapped angrily at the back-pack and marched towards the platforms.
Hyde glanced beyond him and saw what he sought.
He had minutes if he was lucky.
Would there be time?
He pushed past two porters who were standing pointing at the huge departures and arrivals board which towered over the concourse and he heard them speaking loudly to a foreigner who was having difficulty understanding their accents.
Hyde thought that it would have been hard enough for someone English to decipher the words of the porters, jabbering away as they were in a curious combination of South Asian tinged Cockney.
Not far now.
Another few yards and he should make it.
He saw his objective come into view.
Up above him, the huge clock on the board clicked round to 18.00 hours.
Now or never.
The doors were actually closing before him.
Hyde slipped through the narrow gap and smiled broadly at the assistant in the Knickerbox shop.
‘I know you’re closing,’ he said, smiling even more broadly. ‘I won’t keep you two minutes.’
The assistant, a girl in her teens wearing an enormous pair of Doc Martens, nodded and returned to her till where she was cashing up.
Hyde glanced around the rails at the array of silk and cotton underwear.
He began to browse.
He knew that Maggie loved silk. He wasn’t averse to the feel of it himself.
Especially when it was wrapped around his wife’s slender form. He smiled to himself as he gently rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger, running approving eyes over the range of lingerie.
Basques, body suits, camisoles and knickers.
Heaven, he thought, almost laughing aloud.
He selected a camisole in burgundy.
Very nice.
Now, which size?
Oh, shit. Ten or twelve? Or maybe even fourteen?
No, if he took a fourteen home she’d go crazy. She wasn’t that big, he was sure of it. A twelve should do it.
He selected a pair of knickers to go with the top, and crossed to the cash desk, laying the garments beside the till, reaching for his wallet.
The assistant dropped them into a bag and took his money, watching as he slipped the underwear into his briefcase.
She smiled at him and then he was gone, once more part of the crowd heading towards the escalators like some immense amoebic mass.
As Hyde stepped onto the escalator he glanced at his watch. He had arrived back in London earlier than he’d expected. For once the train from Birmingham had been on time and the meeting he’d attended there had finished two hours earlier than scheduled. Maggie would be surprised to see him. He glanced down at his briefcase, amused by the thought of its secret silk contents, and wondered what her reaction would be to his little present.
As he stood on the crowded moving stairway, he smiled to himself, picturing her in the flimsy attire. All around him, stern faces met his gaze, and Hyde felt he was the only one who looked happy. Two or three men were attempting to read newspapers as the escalator carried them deeper into the bowels of the earth. He glanced across to his right and saw several people pushing their way hurriedly towards the top of the up escalator. Late for a train, Hyde reasoned, or perhaps simply rushing out of habit.
The ticket area was even more crowded.
He moved as swiftly as he could through such a dense mass, and headed for the next set of escalators, glancing back to see a man trying to push his suitcase through the automatic gates, ignoring a porter’s attempts to help him.
Hyde didn’t stand on the next set of steps: he followed the line of hardier souls who had decided to walk down.
At the bottom he turned to the left, and was hit by the warm air of the subterranean cavern. The familiar stale smell, tinged with what he recognised as the smell of scorched rubber, clawed at his nostrils.
He made his way down onto the platform, groaning inwardly as he saw how crowded it was. It was going to be sardines all the way to East Finchley, he thought. He’d left his car at the station there; it was a short drive from the tube once he got there. Hyde wondered if the Northern Line would be plagued by its usual delays. He moved down the platform a little way, pushing past a tall man wearing a Walkman and tapping his fingers on his shoulder bag in time to the inaudible rhythm. Close by, another man was reading his strategically folded broadsheet. Somewhere further along the platform, Hyde could hear a baby crying, its shrill calls echoing around the cavernous underworld. He decided to head back the other way: he didn’t fancy making his journey crushed up against some howling infant.
A couple in their early twenties were kissing passionately, oblivious to the dozens of eyes turned in their direction, which quickly turned away again when the couple paused for breath. Hyde ducked past them, glancing back momentarily.
The girl was pretty. Tall, dark hair.
A little like his Maggie, only not as good looking.
He’d thought, when he first met her, that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and even now, after eight years of marriage, he still thought the same way. She was perfect.
And she’d look even more perfect in this silk stuff, he thought to himself, glancing down at his briefcase as if the underwear inside were some kind of illicit secret which only he knew about.
He heard a rumble, felt a blast of warm air from the tunnel mouth, smelled its familiar odour of dust and metal.
The train was coming.
About bloody time.
The mass of people on the platform prepared itself for the impending squeeze onto the tube, ready to fill every available gap.
Hyde saw lights in the tunnel, heard the rumbling grow louder.
Soon be home now.
The train burst from the tunnel like some oversized, jet-propelled worm, the blast filling the station.
Hyde thought about Maggie and smiled.
He was still smiling when he threw himself in front of the train.
Two
Manchester
In less than two hours it would be dark.
She feared the coming of the night but she also knew that she would be away from this place by then.
Away from them.
Shanine Connor pushed a pair of leggings into the holdall, cramming trainers, knickers and Tshirts in with them. There was no order to her packing, she
merely shoved in whichever item came to hand next.
She hurried through to the bathroom and picked up her toothbrush and toothpaste, which she pushed into a plastic bag, before dropping that into the bag along with her clothes.
As she crossed in front of the window she paused to look out, ensuring that she was hidden from any prying eyes by the sheet of unwashed nylon that passed for a net curtain. She could see no movement on the ground floor, three storeys beneath her own flat. A couple of kids were kicking a ball about in the small playground over the road. Another child, no more than seven, was trundling around happily on a tricycle, careful to avoid the football which was bouncing back and forth.
She spotted a car parked a little way down the road and screwed up her eyes in an effort to see inside it.
It seemed to be empty.
She swallowed hard.
Could she be sure?
For interminable seconds she stood squinting at the stationary vehicle - then the moment passed and she remembered the urgency of her situation.
She hurried back into the kitchen and pulled open a drawer, scanning its contents.
She pulled out a long-bladed carving knife, hefting it before her, satisfied with its weight.
As she turned to go back into the sitting room she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror on the wall above the Formica-topped table.
She looked older than her twenty-three years. More sleepless nights than she cared to remember had left her looking pale and puffy-eyed. Dark circles nested beneath her eyes and her skin was the colour of uncooked pastry. Her shoulder-length brown hair needed combing, and she ineffectually ran a thin hand through it before returning to her task.
Shanine slid the knife into the side pocket of the bag.
It would be easy to reach should she need it.
She glanced at her watch.
Come on, hurry up. You’ve taken too long already.
She heard a shout from downstairs and crossed back to the window.
The two kids with the football were kicking it against the low fence surrounding the play area, banging it as hard as they could, shouting encouragement to each other.
The car was still parked.
Waiting?
Shanine finally zipped up the holdall and pulled it onto her shoulder.
She was about to open the door of the flat when she heard footsteps climbing the stairs outside, echoing on the concrete surface.
She sucked in an anxious breath, one hand sliding towards the knife.
The footsteps drew nearer.
They were almost on her landing now. She looked at the door expectantly, her hand now touching the hilt of the weapon.
Silence.
The footsteps stopped.
Shanine took a step nearer to the door, her heart thudding against her ribs.
She closed her eyes for a second, trying to still the mad beating, afraid that whoever was on the other side would be able to hear it.
The moment passed and she heard the footsteps heading up the narrow corridor, away from her door towards one of the other flats.
She waited a moment longer, then opened the door and peered out.
Two or three doors down there was an old woman carrying two bags of shopping, her face flushed with the effort. She looked disinterestedly at Shanine then pushed her key into the lock and stepped into her own flat.
Shanine stepped out onto the landing, locked her door and hurried down the concrete steps, avoiding a mound of dog excrement a few steps down. Graffiti had been sprayed on the walls in bright blue letters. She glanced at the words united are cunts as she scurried down to the next landing.
As she reached ground level she slowed her pace.
Don’t make it look as if you’re running.
The car was still parked further down the street.
Still motionless.
Still waiting?
Her attention was torn from it by a loud shout from one of the kids across the street. She looked at him blankly for a moment, aware that he was staring back at her, his gaze never wavering.
Shanine finally began walking, aware of the watchful eye of the boy, her back to the parked car.
If it was them they would know by now. They would have seen the holdall and they would know.
She quickened her pace.
There was a bus stop at the end of the road. She could catch a bus into the city centre from there. One should be due any minute.
She prayed it wouldn’t be late.
The last thing she wanted was to be standing around, in plain sight, for all to see.
For them to see.
She glanced behind again and saw that the car was still there. Ahead of her she heard the rumble of an engine and saw the bus pulling in.
She ran towards it, waiting as passengers clambered off, then she hauled herself up inside, fumbling in her jacket pocket for some change. She didn’t have much. About a pound in coins, less than ten pounds in the pocket of her worn jeans.
She got her ticket and retreated to the back of the bus, glancing anxiously around her as it pulled away, past the kids kicking the football, past the parked car.
The journey to the city centre should take about fifteen minutes.
She looked at her watch nervously.
As she sat on the back seat she hugged the holdall comfortingly, allowing one hand to rest on the part of the bag where the knife was.
As the bus rounded a corner, Shanine took one last look out of the back window.
The car was gone.
She felt her heart begin to thud more heavily in her chest.
Had it been them?
She looked at her watch again, as if repeatedly doing so was going to hasten the journey.
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.
Time, it appeared, was running out faster than she had realised.
Clouds gathered more thickly in the sky.
Night was coming.
She wondered what was coming with it.
Three
A sickly sweet smell filled the air, which James Talbot recognised as burned flesh.
It was a smell not easily forgotten.
Six years earlier, when he’d been a Detective Sergeant, he’d attended a fire at a house in Bermondsey. Some old guy had fallen asleep and allowed his chip-pan to catch fire. The whole house had gone up in less than twenty minutes, and the old boy had been incinerated along with the contents.
Talbot remembered that smell.
Acrid, cloying. It caught in your nostrils and refused to leave.
The chip-pan fire had been an elaborate ruse to cover up a burglary. Two kids, no more than seventeen, had stolen what little there was of value in the house, then battered the old man unconscious and ignited the chip-pan to make it look like an accident.
Simple?
Except that they’d left fingerprints on the hammer they’d used to smash his skull.
Silly boys.
Both were doing a nine stretch in Wormwood Scrubs now.
It was that case which had secured Talbot’s promotion to the rank he now held.
The Detective Inspector walked slowly up the platform at Euston, which was clear but for a number of uniformed men: London Transport employees, police and ambulance men.
One of the Underground workers was standing on the track with two ambulance men and two constables, staring down at a blackened shape which looked more like a spent match than a man.
The train was gone. The line was closed. The power off.
Talbot could imagine the annoyance of other travellers delayed because of the incident.
Inconsiderate bastard. Throwing himself on the track. Didn’t he know people had homes to go to?
Talbot saw blood on the edge of the platform close to the tunnel exit. Large crimson splashes of it, congealing beneath the cold white lights of the station. There was more on the track itself. A large red slick had even spattered one of the advertising posters on the far side of the track.
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The faces of a male and female model smiling out from a poster of Corsica looked as if they’d been smeared with red paint.
‘Discover the beauty’ screamed the shoutline.
A little further along, also lying on the track, was a briefcase, its contents scattered for several yards. Papers, typewritten sheets, pens. A Knickerbox bag.
Talbot stopped at the chocolate machine on the platform and fed some change into it. He punched the
button for a WholeNut but nothing happened. He hit it again.
Still nothing.
‘Shit.’ murmured the DI.
‘His name was Peter Hyde,’ a voice beside him said.
Talbot nodded but seemed more intent on wresting the chocolate from the machine.
He struck the button a little harder.
‘All that about the King’s Cross fire being started by a match’ said Talbot.
‘That’s crap.’ He eyed the machine irritably. ‘It was someone trying to get a bar of chocolate out of one of these fucking things.’
He slammed his hand against the machine.
The WholeNut dropped into the slot at the bottom and Talbot smiled, retrieved it, and held it up like a trophy.
‘See, that’s all they understand. Violence.’ He looked at Detective Sergeant William Rafferty and nodded triumphantly, breaking off a square of chocolate and pushing it into his mouth.
‘What else?’ the DI wanted to know, pacing slowly up the platform with his companion.
‘He worked for a firm of accountants in the City’ Rafferty told him. ‘Good salary. Married. No kids. Almost thirty-one.’
Talbot offered him a piece of chocolate but the DS declined.
‘I’d rather have a fag.’ he said, gruffly.
‘Smoking’s bad for you.’
‘Yeah, and so is eating ten bars of chocolate a day. You’ve been worse since you gave up smoking.’
‘Fatter but healthier,’ said Talbot smugly, patting the beginnings of a belly which was pushing rather too
insistently against his shirt. ‘Anyway, a bit of exercise will get rid of that.’
‘You’ll be like a bloody house-side before you’re forty’ Rafferty told him, smiling.
