Stolen Angels

by Shaun Hutson

  ‘And?’

  Rafferty ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘There weren’t many entries in it, but one of them caught his eye and he called me. He’s a good man. Observant. He was on Euston the same day we pulled Peter Hyde off the tracks, that’s why the entry in the diary made him sit up.’

  ‘Bill, what the fuck are you talking about? Are you trying to excuse the actions of one of our men who went through the private belongings of a dead man because he had nothing better to do?’ Talbot snapped.

  ‘There was an entry in the diary for two weeks ago. It said “Call Peter at Morgan and Simons”. Morgan and Simons is the firm of accountants that Peter Hyde worked for. Parriam knew him.’

  Talbot stopped pacing and looked quizzically at his companion ‘So what?’ he said, finally.

  ‘Jim, two men commit suicide within days of each other, both for seemingly no reason and now we find out that they knew each other. Doesn’t that strike you as strange?’

  ‘One entry in a diary doesn’t make them bosom buddies, and even if it does it still doesn’t prove a link between the two suicides.’

  ‘It’s a hell of a bloody coincidence though.’ ‘Yes it is. But that’s all it is, Bill. A coincidence.’ The two men locked stares, then Rafferty took a defiant drag on his cigarette. He inhaled then blew out a long stream of bluish-grey smoke, watching it dissipate in the air.

  ‘So that’s it’ he said. ‘End of story?’ ‘What the hell else do you want me to do?’ Rafferty didn’t answer. ‘I suppose you’re right’ he conceded finally.

  ‘You know I’m right. If I thought it was worth investigating we’d be on the case now, but what are we going to

  look for, Bill? Why they killed themselves? No one but Hyde and Parriam is ever going to know that. Fuck knows what made them do it, but then again I’m a copper not a psychiatrist. I can’t read minds. Especially dead ones.’

  Rafferty nodded slowly.

  ‘Fancy a drink?’ Talbot asked.

  ‘Are you buying?’

  Talbot nodded.

  Rafferty got to his feet. ‘Let’s go then.’

  As they left the office, Talbot glanced back at his desk, at the photos of Neil Parriam.

  One was a close up of the dead man’s face, eyes still staring wide. The corners of the mouth were turned up slightly. Talbot could have sworn Parriam was smiling.

  Fifteen

  ‘I tried you twice earlier on but I couldn’t get an answer,’ said Phillip Cross.

  Catherine Reed continued gazing at the screen of the word processor, scanning what she’d already written. It flickered there in green letters, almost accusingly. She waited a moment longer then pressed Delete. The screen went blank.

  ‘Sorry, Phil, what did you say?’ she asked, the phone balanced between her shoulder and ear.

  ‘Jesus, are you listening?’ Cross chuckled.

  ‘I was working on something; I was miles away. Sorry.’

  ‘Was it the guy who blew out his brains in that gun club in Druid Street?’

  ‘No, I didn’t cover that. I’ve been at the Dorchester most of the day.’

  ‘Nice work if you can get it. What happened?’

  ‘Some visiting Arab ambassador went ape-shit and strangled one of his wives, or tried to, according to some of the staff I spoke to. She’s in hospital.

  I’ve been tearing around like a blue-arsed fly trying to speak to doctors, nurses and Christ knows who. The embassy guys and security were pretty jumpy.’

  ‘What did you hear about the suicide?’

  ‘Put a gun in his mouth, didn’t he? Did you take the pictures?’

  ‘No, Porter covered it. I’ve been in Croydon Cemetery today.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘One of the graves had been dug up, the headstone had been smashed.’

  ‘Shit,’ she murmured, sitting forward in her seat. ‘What else?’

  ‘The coffin had been tampered with, apparently it’s not the first time it’s happened in that cemetery.’

  ‘Who did the grave belong to?’

  ‘A kid. A baby. I made a note of the name, don’t ask me why. I reckon I’ve been around you too long.’

  At the other end of the phone she heard the rustling of papers.

  Cath pulled a pad towards her and wrote on it: Desecration?

  ‘Stephen Foster, that was the kid’s name,’ Cross said at last.

  Cath scribbled it on the pad and drew a ring around it.

  ‘Did you say it wasn’t the first time it had happened there?’ she asked.

  ‘The vicar was there when I arrived, I overheard him talking to the police about it. I didn’t catch it all.’

  She sat staring at the word Desecration, chewing on the end of her pen.

  ‘Probably just some sick bastard pissing about’ Cross added.

  ‘Mmm’ Cath responded distractedly.

  ‘So’ the photographer said. ‘What are you doing tonight? Are you coming over here or-‘

  She cut him short. ‘I’m expecting company, Phil.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’ Cross asked frostily.

  ‘My brother.’

  ‘Oh, right’ he murmured, sounding relieved. ‘What about tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  ‘I just think there’s things we should talk about’ Cross protested.

  ‘Not now, Phil’ she told him, wearily. ‘I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow, all right?’

  There was a protracted silence at the other end of the line.

  Cath exhaled deeply.

  ‘Yeah, OK’ Cross said, reluctantly. ‘See you.’

  He hung up.

  Cath replaced the receiver, got to her feet, and headed for the kitchen. It was hot; three pots were bubbling on the cooker. She lifted the lid of each and checked its contents, smiling to herself. Then she passed back into the sitting room and picked up her wine glass, taking a sip. She had laid the table close to the window, even draped it with a clean, freshly ironed table cloth. Cath wasn’t the most domesticated of women but even her mother would have been proud of the table, she mused, glancing across at her parents’ photo on top of the TV.

  There was music playing softly in the background, the volume turned low. Cath hummed as she wandered back to the kitchen, glancing at her watch.

  Almost time.

  It wasn’t like him to be late.

  The doorbell sounded at exactly eight o’clock and Cath headed towards its source, a smile already on her face.

  She checked the spy-hole and saw him out there.

  She opened the door.

  ‘Hello, mate’ said Frank Reed, grinning, holding a bunch of flowers before him.

  He stepped inside, into her welcoming arms.

  Sixteen

  The lights inside the tube train hurt her eyes.

  Shanine Connor blinked hard and lowered her head momentarily.

  When she looked up again she noticed that the man seated opposite was staring at her.

  Wasn’t he?

  He was in his mid-forties, dressed in an open-necked shirt and dark trousers that were far too short. As he crossed and uncrossed his legs, the material rode up to reveal the pure white of his flesh.

  Shanine looked at his hairless legs. Anything rather than hold his gaze, which she felt boring into her.

  Standing at one end of the carriage was a couple in their twenties, both dressed in jeans and leather jackets. They were kissing passionately, oblivious to the other passengers in the carriage.

  A young woman with a dark complexion was studying a map of the Underground intermittently, glancing up at the map opposite for reassurance.

  The man next to her was reading a well-thumbed paperback, chuckling to himself, unable to hear his own giggles over the sound of his Walkman.

  Shanine glanced across at the man with the white legs and was relieved to see that he was gazing down the carriage at the leather-clad couple.

  She pulled the holdall closer to her, huggin
g it tightly as if it were a sleeping dog.

  She couldn’t remember how long she’d been on the train. Only that her journey had begun in natural light, overground, only to become swallowed by the tunnels as the tube had drawn closer to Central London.

  Her eyelids felt as if someone had attached lead weights to them.

  Christ, she was tired!

  It felt as if she’d been travelling for days on end. From the service station she’d found a lift easily enough, but the journey down the motorway had seemed interminable.

  And now this.

  She needed sleep more than she needed food, but her stomach rumbled noisily to remind her of that particular requirement too.

  Where should she get off?

  She didn’t even know where the hell she was going.

  The train pulled into Leicester Square station: Shanine glanced out of the grubby windows and saw the signs.

  The man with the white legs opposite looked across at her.

  He was staring at her.

  Wasn’t he? It was obvious.

  She shifted in her seat as the doors slid open.

  Stop staring.

  The leather-clad couple got out; so did the young woman with the dark complexion. Shanine saw her looking around helplessly on the platform seeking the way out.

  Other people stepped on to replace them.

  A young woman no older than herself sat a couple of seats away, brushing her long blonde hair away from her face, catching Shanine’s eye.

  Shanine smiled.

  The young woman ignored her and began thumbing through a copy of Cosmopolitan.

  The train moved off.

  How many more stops?

  Piccadilly Circus.

  Shanine looked around anxiously.

  Should she get off here?

  She hesitated a moment longer, then jumped to her feet just as the doors were sliding shut. The man with the white legs watched her as she jammed a hand between the doors to force them open again. She stepped out onto the platform as the doors closed behind her.

  Shanine stood motionless, gazing around, searching for the Exit sign while dozens of other people walked,

  scurried or pushed past her. She followed the largest group and saw the way out.

  She rode the escalator behind a man who carried the pungent odour of sweat on him, the smell mingling with a stench like burning rubber. The moving stairway creaked protestingly as it rose, and Shanine looked to her right and left, at the posters which lined the escalator and at the profusion of faces on the down escalator to her left.

  The ticket hall with its low ceiling seemed to amplify every little sound, and the noise crowded in on her. She could hear music coming from close by - many voices, some raised.

  She passed through the automatic barriers, looking down at an old man who was seated cross-legged by one of the exits, a dark stain across his crotch, his grey beard resembling a hedgehog that somebody had stapled to his chin. He had a battered brown fedora on the floor in front of him with some coins in it.

  Shanine passed him by, the smell of urine and alcohol strong in her nostrils.

  She took the first flight of steps she came too, emerging into the cool evening air, the sound of cars and buses almost deafening. It hit her like a wall.

  For a long time she stood motionless looking out across Piccadilly Circus, at the buildings towering above her and the constantly flashing neon of so many signs and hoardings. It hurt her eyes almost as much as the glaring white of the tube lights.

  There was a Dunkin’ Donuts to her left and she fumbled in her pocket and found a couple of pound coins.

  At least she could attend to the problem of her hunger.

  And what about sleep?

  She crossed the road, saw people emerging from the main entrance of the Regent Palace Hotel. Four of them, two couples, laughing and talking loudly.

  Americans. She heard the accents.

  One of the men looked at her.

  Didn’t he?

  She got her doughnut and coffee and sat down, one foot resting on the holdall.

  Shanine took a couple of bites of the doughnut and looked at her watch.

  She’d been gone almost eighteen hours.

  They would know by now.

  They would be looking.

  For all she knew, they already were.

  Her hand was shaking slightly as she took a sip of her coffee.

  Seventeen

  ‘That was beautiful,’ said Frank Reed, pushing the empty bowl away from him.

  ‘Which branch of Marks and Spencer did it come from?’

  ‘You cheeky sod’ Cath said, nudging him as she retrieved the bowl and carried it to the sink. ‘That was all my own work. You should feel privileged. That’s the first meal I’ve cooked for a man in over six months.’

  ‘And was he as appreciative?’

  ‘We split up a week later, but I don’t think that was anything to do with the meal’ Cath chuckled, spooning coffee into a couple of cups.

  She stood by the draining board, waiting for the kettle to boil.

  ‘Next time, why don’t you cook me a meal?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll take you out instead.’

  ‘Typical teacher. You spend most of the year on holiday but you can’t even take the time to cook your own sister a meal.’

  He smiled.

  ‘I don’t cook much. You know what it’s like when you’re on your own, Cath.’

  ‘I’m alone out of choice.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked, smiling. ‘What are you going to do now? Psychoanalyse me?’

  ‘You’re a very attractive woman, Cath. I’m just surprised you never settled down. It wasn’t as if there was any shortage of men.’

  ‘Now you’re making me sound like a tart,’ she said, pouring hot water onto the coffee.

  ‘You know what I mean,’ he said, quickly.

  She returned with the coffee, nodding towards the sitting room.

  Reed got up and walked through to the other room, seating himself at one end of the sofa.

  Cath sat at the other end, slender legs drawn up beneath her. She sipped her coffee and looked at her brother. He looked dark beneath the eyes and his skin was pale. There was a small shaving cut on his chin which looked even more starkly red against the pallor of his flesh.

  ‘You make it sound wrong for me to be alone, Frank’ she told him at last. ‘Mum and Dad were always nagging me to get married. I don’t think they ever understood what I was doing. How much my work meant to me.’

  ‘I wasn’t preaching at you’ he teased.

  She stretched out one leg and prodded him with her bare foot.

  ‘I know that’ she murmured, in mock irritation.

  Frank caught her foot and ran his fingers slowly over the instep, pausing to massage her toes gently.

  She kept her foot there, pressed against his thigh as he began to knead her sole with his fingertips.

  ‘So’ he continued, glancing at her, holding her gaze ‘how come you never settled down?’

  ‘You’ve heard of Mr Right?’ she said. ‘I found too many Mr Wrongs.’

  Reed chuckled, his finger tracing patterns between her toes, across the nails and joints, stroking, squeezing.

  She watched as the smile on his face gradually faded.

  ‘Perhaps you were right not to get married,’ he offered, finally.

  ‘Have you heard from Ellen lately?’ she asked, sliding down slightly, pushing her foot further into his gentle, skilful hand.

  ‘We spoke on the phone about a week ago. ‘A sternness had crept into his tone.

  ‘Was it that bad?’

  ‘It’s getting worse, Cath. She’s getting worse. This bastard she ran off with, Ward or whatever the hell his name is, she’s obsessed with him.’

  ‘Is she in love with him?’ Cath asked quietly.

  Reed didn’t answer.

  Cath studied his p
rofile, saw his eyes narrow slightly.

  ‘It isn’t love,’ he said, finally. ‘She doesn’t make a move without his bloody say-so. He controls her, like some fucking pet.’ Reed was breathing harshly now, unable to control the anger in his voice. ‘Every time I mention meeting her she says she’s got to ask Jonathan.’ He emphasised the name with disgust.

  ‘All I want to do is talk to her. Be alone with her for a few hours. I want her to tell me it’s over between us.’

  ‘And if she does?’

  ‘Then I have to accept it, don’t I?’ Reed snapped, reaching for his coffee.

  Cath left her foot pressed against his thigh, pressing lightly against the material of his jeans.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Becky?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘A month ago. Ellen says she doesn’t want me to see her, she says it would be too upsetting for Becky.’

  ‘You’re her father, Frank, you’ve got a right to see her. You’ve got rights under the law. Ellen can’t keep Becky away from you.’

  ‘And what am I supposed to do? Kidnap her back?’

  ‘Go through the courts.’

  ‘Can you imagine what that would do to Becky? Christ knows, she’s been through enough already. She’s seven years old, Cath, and she’s seen her mother walk out on me, take her and move in with some guy she’s only been seeing for six months. Well, six months that I know about anyway.’

  ‘Are they still living at Ward’s place?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’ve been round there,’ Reed told her. ‘But either they won’t answer the door or they’re never there.’ He clenched his fists angrily. ‘Perhaps it’s a good thing. If

  I got hold of that bastard I’d probably kill him. And Ellen.’

  ‘That wouldn’t do anybody any good, least of all Becky. Think about her.’

  ‘I do think about her’ Reed snarled. ‘Why the hell do you think I feel this way? My wife cleared off five months ago and took my daughter with her. Twelve years of marriage pissed away. Flushed down the fucking toilet, Cath. And for what? So she could be with some …’ He shook his head. ‘Jesus, I don’t even know what he does for a living. I don’t know where they’re getting their money. He could be a fucking pimp or a drug dealer for all I know.’