Stolen Angels

by Shaun Hutson

  Longer?

  James Talbot sat in his armchair, the glass of whiskey clutched in one hand, his head lowered, his cheeks streaked.

  He took a sip of the whiskey, feeling it burn its way to his stomach.

  How many was that?

  He’d lost count.

  He’d drink the entire contents of the bottle if he had to. All he wanted was oblivion. At the moment he was even being denied that.

  Fuck it.

  He looked across at the TV set, the screen blank. His own reflection was the only thing that showed there; slumped in the chair gripping the glass.

  Just like his father used to be.

  His father.

  That fucking, stinking, drink-raddled piece of shit.

  ‘Cunt’ hissed Talbot, sniffing back more tears.

  From the top of the TV set, the photograph of his mother gazed back at him.

  He couldn’t hold that blank gaze, and downed what was left in his glass rather than face her stare.

  Accusing. Denouncing.

  It’ll be your fault if she dies.

  He shook his head.

  You left her to rot in that place. You said you did it for her sake but you lied, didn’t you? It was for you. You couldn’t cope with her. You didn’t want to cope with her. You couldn’t be bothered. Your career came first. You discarded her like a dirty tissue.

  ‘No,’ grunted Talbot. He reached down the side of his chair and pulled up the bottle of Jameson’s, pouring a large measure into his glass, swigging it.

  She’ll die there now. Because of you.

  He shook his head, felt more tears pouring warmly down his face.

  The tears used to come afterwards, didn’t they?

  How long since he’d cried? Twenty years?

  Try thirty-two.

  That was when it had first started, wasn’t it?

  He’d been four years old when he’d first smelled that whiskey stink in his face, felt those hands on his body, felt them touching him, forcing him to touch too.

  Four when he’d felt that agony for the first time.

  Penetration.

  Talbot took another hefty swig.

  It made him cough. Choke.

  Remember that sensation too. Choking. Gagging as it was forced into your mouth. That salty, bitter taste, then the oily, tingling sensation in your

  throat and the smell of the whiskey. The rough hands.

  Talbot sat forward in his chair, hands pressed to his temples as if he feared his head would explode, so full of memories was it.

  Vivid and painful like cuts across his consciousness.

  Jesus it was all fucking pain.

  It was then and it was now.

  But she’d been there to help sometimes. She’d tried to help. To help you.

  She’d fought with him. She’d fought with your father until he’d beaten her bloody, then he’d returned to you, her blood on his hands. Your blood on his hands, too.

  Christ, the fucking pain!

  Penetration.

  But you’d stopped crying after the first half a dozen times.

  You’d learned to endure it, in silence.

  No tears. No tears for thirty-two years.

  Until now.

  Talbot gripped his glass in one fist, squeezing more tightly. His body was racked by sobs.

  He looked across at the photo on top of the television set.

  ‘Mum, I’m sorry,’ he whispered.

  Too late for apologies.

  She was dying.

  Leaving you.

  Alone with your pain.

  He squeezed the glass more tightly, tears scalding his cheeks.

  The glass shattered in his hand, lumps of crystal slicing into his palm, splitting the skin effortlessly. Blood spurted from the cuts, gushing from a particularly deep wound at the base of his thumb, dripping to the carpet, mingling with the whiskey.

  Talbot turned his palm and stared at it, the burning sensation of the liquor in the wounds agonising.

  He stared at the ravaged hand, pieces of glass sticking out of the torn flesh.

  Blood was running down his arm.

  Fuck it. Fuck it.

  Who fucking cared?

  He hurled what was left of the glass at the wall, watching as it exploded into hundreds of tiny beads of crystal, spraying all around the room like transparent shrapnel.

  Frozen tears.

  ‘You fucker!’ he roared at the top of his voice, his head tilted backwards, then he slumped in the chair once again, his bleeding hand dangling uselessly at his side.

  Pain. Rage. Guilt. Anger. Memories.

  He didn’t know what had brought these tears, but as Talbot sat sobbing in the chair he wondered when they would stop.

  Or even if they could.

  Thirty-eight

  When Cath walked back into the room she noticed her brother was holding something, gazing down at it.

  As she sat down opposite him she saw that it was a small, pink teddy bear.

  ‘I found it the other day when I was tidying up’ Reed told her, still looking at the stuffed toy, seeing his own distorted reflection in its blank eyes. ‘It must have been the only thing of Becky’s that Ellen didn’t take when she left.’

  Cath watched him silently for a moment as he ran a thumb over the bear, ruffling its smooth fur.

  ‘You still haven’t heard from her, then?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘If she’s hurt Becky, her or that fucking arsehole she lives with,’ he rasped, still staring at the teddy. ‘If either of them has hurt Becky, I’ll fucking

  kill them, I swear to Christ, I…’

  Cath frowned, leaning forward in her seat.

  ‘Frank, what are you going on about?’ she said in bewilderment. ‘Why would Ellen want to hurt Becky? She loves her as much as you do.’

  ‘Then why the hell did she take her away from me?’ Reed snarled.

  ‘Just because she took her away doesn’t mean she’s going to hurt her, Frank.

  What makes you think that?’

  He dropped the teddy onto the sofa beside him and rubbed both hands over his face. ‘Shit, I’m sorry, Cath,’ he murmured. ‘There’s two kids at the school -

  I’m worried about them. The boy in particular. I think he might have been . .

  .’ Reed was struggling for the words. ‘Roughed up, knocked about or something.

  It made me think of Becky.’

  ‘You think it’s the parents?’

  ‘It looks like someone’s given him a bloody good hiding.’

  ‘Could it be one of the other kids?’

  ‘I doubt it. I’d say it was the parents.’

  ‘If it is, Frank, it’s nothing to do with you, is it?’

  ‘It is if I think that child is being beaten.’

  ‘Come on, Frank, that’s a bit strong, isn’t it?’

  ‘You didn’t see him. He had bruises on him the size of your fist, and marks on his wrists too. Like weals.’

  ‘Maybe his mum or dad just got a bit carried away. Dad used to wallop us when we were little.’

  ‘A slap on the backside is a bit different to leaving bruises, Cath. Besides, this kid isn’t the only one. There’s a girl too, I saw her today. Same bruises, same marks.’

  ‘So, two sets of parents decide to get a bit heavy with their kids. That doesn’t mean Ellen’s going to start knocking Becky about, does it?’

  Reed regarded her impassively.

  ‘Ellen wouldn’t, but what about Ward? I don’t know anything about that bastard,’ Reed spat.

  ‘Frank, why should he?’

  Reed got to his feet and crossed the room to a small mahogany cabinet. He took out a bottle of Courvoisier and two glasses, pouring himself the larger measure.

  He returned and handed the other glass to Cath.

  ‘You know, you’d better be careful, Frank,’ she advised. ‘You can’t go yelling abuse all over the place. It’s a dangerous word. The parents of those k
ids could sue you unless you can prove it. How would you feel if someone accused you of hurting Becky? What are their names, anyway?’

  ‘Annette Hilston and Paul O’Brian, they’re both about ten.’

  ‘O’Brian?’ Cath said, frowning.

  Why did that ring a bell?

  ‘Paul’s sister died a few months ago. She was only a baby and-‘

  Cath was already on her feet, heading across the room towards her briefcase.

  Reed watched as she flipped it open and rummaged around inside.

  ‘Where was she buried?’ she asked.

  Reed looked puzzled. ‘How on earth should I know?’ he said, watching in bewilderment as Cath sat down beside him, a set of photographs in her hand.

  ‘Do you think it might have been Croydon Cemetery?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s possible, the family moved from there after her death. What makes you think-‘

  She handed him a photo.

  It showed a broken headstone.

  The name on it was Carla O’Brian.

  ‘Jesus’ murmured Reed. ‘And this was taken in Croydon Cemetery?’

  She nodded and handed him the other pictures.

  Reed flicked slowly through them, his forehead creased, a look of dismay on his face.

  ‘If it’s a coincidence, it’s millions to one’ she said. ‘Same name, same age,

  same cemetery.’

  ‘That’s why I thought the boy was quiet in the beginning, I knew his sister had died …’ He let the sentence trail off. ‘Who the hell did this?’

  ‘No one knows yet. That’s what I’m trying to find out. Who and why.’

  He paused at a picture showing a shattered headstone with a pentagram scrawled on it, peering at the name and age on the remains of the stone.

  ‘Another child,’ he whispered.

  ‘All the graves belong to kids, all the ones desecrated,’ Cath elaborated.

  ‘Oh Jesus’ Reed hissed, looking at a picture of a coffin that had been hauled from its resting place. The lid had been split, the woodwork riven and scarred.

  He came to the ones taken in the church crypt.

  Cath watched him as he studied them.

  ‘How much do you know about witchcraft, Frank?’

  Reed looked at her blankly.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘My editor told me to play up the black magic angle. I just wondered what you knew.’

  ‘Are you asking me in my capacity as a history teacher or as an ordinary member of the public?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘As a history teacher I can tell you about the Inquisition, the Salem Witch trials, Matthew Hopkins the Witchfinder-General, even Hitler’s interest in the occult. Is that good enough for starters?’

  ‘And as an ordinary member of the public?’

  1 think it’s bollocks.’

  ‘You don’t believe in it?’

  ‘Whoever did that,’ he gestured dismissively at the pictures, ‘they were sick bastards, but I doubt if they were witches.’

  ‘So you think the O’Brian family would talk about what happened to their daughter’s grave?’

  ‘Are you asking as my sister or as a muck-raking, sensation-seeking journalist?’ he asked, smiling.

  ‘I prefer investigative news reporter’ she retorted, feigning indignation.

  ‘Would they talk, Frank? You could put me in touch with them. Give me an address.’

  Reed looked down at the photos again.

  ‘I might even be able to find out whether or not you’re right about the parents whacking their kid if I speak to them’ she persisted.

  He looked at her.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr and Mrs O’Brian, how do you feel about your baby’s grave being dug up, and by the way have you beaten up your son lately?’ he said, sardonically.

  She held his gaze.

  ‘The address, Frank’ she murmured. ‘That’s all.’

  He glanced down at the top picture.

  A headstone, cracked, smeared with excrement.

  Sick.

  When he looked up, she was still gazing at him.

  Waiting.

  Thirty-nine

  James Talbot dropped two Alka-Seltzer into the glass of water and watched as they started to dissolve,

  turning the liquid opaque, fizzing loudly. He watched bubbles rising to the top of the fluid, following their journey from the bottom of the glass to the surface with disproportionate fascination.

  Across the table from him, William Rafferty watched his superior, noticing how pale he looked.

  The other two men in the room didn’t seem to notice.

  DC Stephen Longley was more concerned about the temperature in the room,

  fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat and occasionally tugging at his shirt collar as he felt the heat building.

  His companion, DC Colin Penhallow, was turning a cigarette lighter abstractedly between his thumb and forefinger, tapping it on a file which lay before him.

  Talbot used the end of his pen to stir the Alka-Seltzer, licked the Biro dry and took a large swallow of the white fluid.

  ‘Rough night?’ Rafferty asked.

  ‘You could say that’ Talbot murmured, clambering to his feet and crossing to a nearby window, which he pushed open. The noise of traffic from below was loud, the stink of engine fumes strong, even three floors up. He closed the window again.

  ‘OK, fellas, what have you got?’ he said, turning to face his colleagues.

  ‘A little bit more than we knew a few days ago,’ said Penhallow. ‘But not much.’ He lit up a cigarette, watched almost longingly by Talbot who swigged from his glass again.

  ‘Thrill me,’ Talbot said, flatly.

  ‘It’s mostly background stuff, guv’ Penhallow said. ‘Upbringing, work, family life. That sort of shit.’

  ‘Anything to connect them?’ the DI wanted to know.

  ‘Now that is the interesting thing’ Penhallow continued.

  Talbot drained what was left in the glass, grimaced and sat down, his gaze fixed on his colleague. ‘Don’t tell me, they all went to the same boarding school’ he said, a thin smile on his lips.

  ‘They’re all masons’ Longley chuckled.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that too loud around here’ Talbot reminded him, and all four men laughed.

  ‘They were all working on the same building project’ Penhallow announced, taking a drag on his cigarette. ‘There are some old warehouses near the West India Dock Pier, along Limehouse Reach. They’ve been empty for five or six years now. Somebody bought the warehouses and the land they stand on. It’s going to be a new development. Flats, that sort of stuff.’

  ‘More yuppie hideaways’ Rafferty added.

  ‘Do we know who bought the land?’ Talbot asked.

  ‘Believe it or not, it was a firm of accountants’ Penhallow informed him.

  ‘Morgan and Simons’ Rafferty elaborated. ‘The firm Peter Hyde worked for.’

  ‘Part of Hyde’s job was to cost out the project,’ Penhallow offered.

  ‘What about the houses nearby?’ Talbot enquired. ‘Had there been any complaints about this building project from local residents?’

  ‘None that we could find’ Rafferty replied.

  ‘So, how are Parriam and Jeffrey linked to this?’ Talbot enquired.

  ‘Jeffrey was a surveyor, right? Guess what he was working on when he topped himself?’ Rafferty said.

  ‘And Parriam had already designed two office blocks and fifteen different types of apartment that were to be built on that land once the warehouses were levelled’ Penhallow added.

  ‘There’s your link, guv’ Longley finished.

  ‘That still doesn’t explain why they all topped themselves’ Talbot said. ‘If they’d been murdered then I’d say let’s find out who didn’t want those warehouses being knocked down, find out who had a reason for wanting them dead, but it still doesn’t make any sense, does it?’

  The policemen sat around in s
ilence for a moment, the stillness finally broken by Talbot.

  ‘None of them was connected to anything to do with villains, were they? None of them taking backhanders from anybody who might run that manor or want a bit of the cream once those new flats were built?’

  ‘Backhanders?’ Longley chuckled. ‘They were in the building trade. How many honest builders do you know?’

  The other men laughed.

  ‘You know what I mean’ the DI added, smiling.

  ‘Not a sniff of villainy with any one of them’ Rafferty told his superior. ‘If they’d smelled any sweeter you’d have seen them on a fucking perfume counter.’

  Talbot rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Who stood to benefit by the three of them dying?’ he asked.

  ‘No one that we know of’ Longley responded.

  ‘And that’s the only link between the three of them, this building project?’ the DI continued. ‘Looks like we’re fucked.’

  ‘There was something else’ Rafferty told him. ‘And this is weird.’

  Talbot turned to face his colleague.

  ‘In the two weeks leading up to their deaths, all three men reported having been burgled,’ Rafferty said. ‘Either their houses, their offices or their cars were turned over, but - this is the weird thing - nothing of any value was taken. None of the places was wrecked or even damaged. Whoever broke in knew exactly what they were looking for. They never touched TVs, videos, money, tapes, CDs. Nothing.’

  Talbot frowned.

  ‘Someone went to the bother of breaking into Hyde’s, Parriam’s and Jeffrey’s’

  Rafferty continued. ‘They could have cleaned them out. But, in each case, the only thing stolen was a photograph of the dead man.’

  Forty

  The ringing of the phone startled him.

  Frank Reed heard the high-pitched tone and shook his head, as if to rouse himself from his stupor.

  Lying on his sofa, feet up, he’d drifted in and out of sleep, his attention barely gripped by the programme on the television, which still glowed before him.

  He swung himself upright and walked across to the small desk where the phone stood, alongside a pile of exercise books, which he knew he had to finish marking.

  Later.

  He picked up the phone, running a hand across his face as if that simple gesture would restore his alertness.

  ‘Hello’ he croaked, clearing his throat.

  ‘Frank.’

  He didn’t recognise her voice at first.