Stolen Angels

by Shaun Hutson

  Cath picked up the remote control from the bedside table and pressed the standby switch. The small portable TV fixed to a bracket on the bedroom wall sputtered into life.

  She flicked channels.

  A cartoon on one channel.

  Some self-important so-called celebrity enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame on another.

  More cartoons.

  An overdressed woman plugging her new book, whining on in a grating Anglo-American accent.

  Nice to know some things never changed, thought Cath, and the mediocrity of breakfast TV was certainly one of life’s constants.

  She jabbed the buttons again, checked Ceefax and Teletext for the headlines, then ran through the channels once again.

  This time she found some news.

  Picking up her mug of tea she lay there listening to a report on the latest famine in Africa.

  Some things never changed.

  She glanced around the room and saw her clothes were scattered around the floor, left in untidy heaps along with Cross’s. She chuckled to herself when she saw his underpants hanging on the back of a chair opposite.

  From the bathroom she could still hear the sound of the shower and she was about to call to the photographer to hurry up, when her attention was caught by something on the television.

  The camera was showing a street in London. The caption beneath the reporter said Hackney.

  Cath turned up the sound, annoyed with herself that she hadn’t heard the beginning of the report.

  ‘… haven’t released an official statement yet, but it’s thought that up to fifty or sixty officers and members of Hackney Social Services carried out the dawn raids.’

  Cath sat forward.

  ‘More than twenty houses were raided and, as far as we know, something like fifteen or sixteen children were taken by the Social Services. Again, we have no official word as yet, but it appears that police are investigating a possible child pornography ring.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ murmured Cath.

  She slid across the bed, picking up the phone from the other bedside table.

  With one eye still on the screen she jabbed out a number and waited.

  Fifty-one

  The room was twenty feet square and, to Talbot, it appeared that every single inch of floor space was covered by large, brown cardboard boxes. Each one about three feet deep and two feet wide.

  There were yellow labels attached to each one with a name and address written in marker pen.

  At one end of the room, a couple of uniformed officers were searching through

  the boxes; another, seated at a desk, was scribbling down the nature of the contents as his companions inspected every object they removed, looking at it closely before returning it.

  All three men wore transparent rubber gloves.

  Detective Inspector Gordon Macpherson lit up a cigarette and offered the packet to Talbot who shook his head.

  ‘I’ve given up,’ he said, quietly, his eyes fixed on the array of boxes.

  Macpherson nodded and pushed the pack inside his jacket before running a hand through his thin blond hair.

  He was three years older than Talbot; a slightly overweight, red-cheeked man whose features were almost boyish. His eyes darted constantly back and forth as if he were watching some invisible tennis match: a habit all the more disconcerting when Talbot looked him directly in the face.

  However, at the moment, the younger man was concerned only with the boxes filling the room of the police station in Theobald’s Road.

  ‘How many kids?’ he said, finally.

  ‘Seventeen,’ Macpherson told him. ‘All aged from three to sixteen.’

  ‘How come you’ve got the stuff here, Mac? Because you’re closest?’

  Macpherson nodded.

  ‘Someone from the Yard’s coming to fetch it. We’re just doing the spade work.

  Inventory and boxing it up. They want to know what came from each house.’ He looked at Talbot and smiled.

  ‘I thought that’s what you were here for, Jim,’ the older man said. ‘To collect it.’

  Talbot shook his head.

  ‘Where are the kids now?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘Hackney Social Services have got them, interviewing them.’

  ‘Who tipped you off about what was going on?’

  ‘We don’t actually know anything is going on yet, Jim. It’s a precautionary measure. Social Services requested it.’

  ‘Social Services requested a fucking dawn raid?’ Talbot snorted. ‘I’d call that a bit more than a precautionary measure, Mac’

  ‘One of the local schools, St Michael’s, called us in. They reckoned two, maybe more, kids there were being knocked about by their parents.’ He shrugged. ‘We checked it out, sent a report to Hackney Social Services and they thought there could be something going on.’

  ‘Who reported it?’

  ‘A teacher.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Two days ago.’

  ‘How the hell did Social Services get wardship orders so quick?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  Talbot wandered across to the nearest box and peered in.

  It was full of books, videos, magazines, and he even noticed some clothes in the bottom.

  ‘It’s the same in all of them,’ Macpherson told him, reaching inside another of the boxes. ‘What do you reckon?’ He held up a magazine which showed a young woman kneeling in front of a man, gripping his penis with one hand, her lips closed over the end.

  ‘Don’t fancy yours much’ said Talbot, dismissively, glancing at the title: Wild Cum Party.

  ‘We found loads of them’ Macpherson said, indicating more of the magazines. He flicked through another.

  ‘No law against those, Mac’ Talbot reminded him.

  ‘Some of the stuff’s going to the Vice Squad, some of the heavier stuff.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘In two of the houses we found paedophile magazines and photos. And that’s just what’s been checked so far.’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘Kids as young as two.’

  ‘Shit’ muttered Talbot.

  ‘We raided twenty-three houses, took stuff from every one, and we’ve done inventories on twelve so far. Out of those twelve we’ve found enough porno magazines and videos to decorate a block of flats, and we’re not finished yet.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Equipment. Bondage gear. Anything that might have been used on the kids.’

  ‘Not unless you count three vibrators, a blow-up doll and some of those fucking love eggs.’ He smiled. ‘You know, those things women stick up their-‘

  ‘Yeah, I know what they do with them, Mac’ Talbot interrupted.

  He wandered over to another of the boxes and looked inside.

  More magazines. More videos.

  He pulled one out.

  ‘Cannibal Ferox,’ he read aloud.

  ‘And video nasties,’ Macpherson added. ‘We’ve found plenty of those. Driller Killer. I Spit on your Grave. S.S. Experiment Camp. The lot. The Exorcist-‘

  Talbot interrupted him.

  ‘I’ve got a copy of that’ he said.

  ‘So have I’ Macpherson echoed. ‘I’m just telling you what we found.’

  ‘Not all from one house?’

  ‘No. I wish it had been: we might have been able to nail someone quicker. If there was one geezer supplying the rest of the neighbourhood it’d make things much easier, but it seems to be spread around.’

  ‘So how much have you got to go on? What’s the likelihood it is a child abuse ring?’

  ‘We’re not going to know that until Social Services finishes questioning the kids. That could be days. Then there’s the medical reports if they do find any physical damage.’

  ‘Damage isn’t always physical’ murmured Talbot.

  ‘What did you say, Jim?’

  ‘Nothing’ he lied.

  You kno
w all about that, don’t you?

  Talbot reached into one of the boxes and pulled out some Polaroids.

  Damage isn’t always physical.

  They showed a naked woman spreadeagled on a worn and battered sofa. She was sucking one index finger. She was skinny. The outline of her ribs showed clearly.

  There were only red dots where her pupils should have been.

  Talbot shook his head, flicking through the remainder of the pictures.

  The same woman holding a cucumber to her mouth, licking the tip.

  The absurdity of the pose was striking.

  There was one of a naked man, gripping his penis in one large fist.

  Another of the skinny woman with her middle finger pushed into her vagina. She looked back with that familiar red-eyed expression.

  Talbot noticed that there was a budgie cage in the background behind the sofa on which she was spreadeagled.

  ‘Whoever took them was no fucking David Bailey, was he?’ said Macpherson chuckling. ‘And she’s no Cindy Crawford.’

  ‘How many times have you seen Cindy Crawford pose with a cucumber?’ Talbot asked, smiling.

  ‘We can all dream, can’t we?’ Macpherson smiled, taking another drag on his cigarette.

  Talbot stepped away from him as he blew out a stream of smoke.

  He could do with one now.

  He dropped the photos back into the box.

  ‘You don’t mind if I have a look around, do you, Mac?’ he asked.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Macpherson told him, watching as the younger man moved slowly from box to box, his gaze drawn to the contents of each one.

  ‘You looking for anything in particular, Jim?’ Macpherson asked.

  Talbot chose not to answer him.

  Jesus, the fucking press would have afield day with this lot.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, Jim,’ Macpherson said, cautiously, ‘what’s your interest in this?’

  ‘What makes you think I’ve got an interest?’ Talbot snapped without looking at his colleague.

  ‘You’re here, aren’t you?’

  The two men regarded each other silently for a moment then Talbot spoke again.

  ‘You remember, a couple of years ago I was suspended for slapping some fucking nonce around.’

  Macpherson nodded.

  ‘Let’s just say that case aroused my interest in this sort of thing’ he lied, nodding towards the boxes. ‘If there is a child abuse ring in operation here then I want to know about it.’

  Fifty-two

  ‘It looks pretty quiet’ said Phillip Cross, his voice hushed almost reverentially.

  Catherine Reed peered out of the side window of the Fiat, her eyes drawn to one particular house, then she glanced at the computer print-out spread across her lap.

  There was nothing moving in Luke Street, Hackney, apart from a motley-looking Labrador, which was padding back and forth across the street.

  Cath watched as it stopped to cock its leg against a hedge before disappearing up the pathway of a house.

  Cross pulled a camera from his bag and focused.

  ‘That house’ Cath told him, pointing at the building almost opposite them.

  She sat gazing at it, listening to him clicking off shots.

  ‘Are you sure it’s the same O’Brian family?’ the photographer asked.

  ‘I double-checked the address with my brother’ she said. ‘The kids go to the school where he teaches.’

  ‘And they’re the same ones whose kid was dug up in Croydon Cemetery?’ Cross continued.

  Cath nodded, her eyes still on the house.

  ‘I hope that list’s right,’ Cross said, nodding towards the computer print-out.

  ‘These are the houses that were raided this morning’ she said, flicking the paper with her middle finger. ‘Nicholls got it from a contact of his at the Met.’

  ‘Off the record, presumably?’ Cross said, changing lenses.

  Cath looked at him and raised one eyebrow. ‘What do you think?’

  She folded the print-out and pushed it into the glove compartment then opened the driver’s side door and swung herself out.

  ‘Let’s have a closer look’ she said, pausing beside the car, her gaze fixed on the house opposite. She set off without waiting for Cross who scuttled up alongside her.

  The gate at the end of the short path creaked as she pushed it open. As she approached the front door she noticed that the milk was still on the doorstep.

  Cath knocked three times and waited.

  Cross looked up, trying to spot signs of movement inside the house.

  There was no answer.

  She tried again.

  ‘Perhaps they’re out’ Cross offered.

  Cath knocked once again then crossed to the front window, cupped one hand over her eyes and tried to see inside.

  She could see very little through the curtains, only that she was staring into the sitting room.

  Cross imitated her action, squinting through the window on the other side.

  ‘Cath’ he called. ‘I think there’s someone inside.’

  She hurried across to join him.

  ‘I thought I saw someone moving in there’ he assured her.

  She could see nothing.

  ‘I think they saw me looking in’ Cross continued.

  Cath returned to the front door and knocked again. Harder this time.

  ‘Why don’t you leave them alone?’

  The voice came from behind her.

  ‘You’re reporters, aren’t you?’ the voice said, and now Cath turned to find its source.

  The woman standing in the garden of the house next door was in her early thirties, long reddish-brown hair reaching past her shoulders. She had both hands tucked in the pockets of her jeans.

  ‘I just wanted to speak to Mr and Mrs O’Brian and-‘ Cath began.

  ‘And what?’ the woman snapped. ‘Stick your fucking nose in where it’s not wanted. Why don’t you just piss off?’

  ‘Take it easy’ Cross interjected.

  ‘You want some pictures?’ the woman said, raising two fingers. ‘Take one of that.’

  ‘How well do you know the O’Brians?’ Cath asked.

  ‘Don’t expect me to talk to you. I’m not answering any of your fucking questions.’

  ‘Did you have children taken this morning?’ Cath persisted.

  The woman took a step towards the low hedge which separated the two gardens, her expression dark.

  ‘I told you,’ she hissed, ‘I’m not going to talk to you, I’m not going to help you write your fucking lies.’

  I’m just trying to find out the truth’ Cath told her.

  ‘Jesus. Since when have newspapers been interested in the truth? You couldn’t care less what you write about people, how you hurt them, could you? As long as you get a story. You’re all the same. You’re scum.’

  The front door suddenly opened and Cath turned to find herself looking into the haggard features of Doug O’Brian.

  ‘Fucking reporters, Doug,’ said the red-haired woman, scathingly.

  ‘What do you want?’ O’Brian said, looking at Cath with red-rimmed eyes.

  Cross snapped off a couple of shots of him.

  ‘Bastard,’ snapped the redhead.

  ‘My wife’s indoors crying, would you rather get a picture of that?’ O’Brian said, turning his attention to the photographer.

  ‘I just wanted to speak to you, Mr O’Brian, just a quick word,’ Cath said. ‘I wondered if you knew why your children had been taken away. What reasons could the police and Social Services have for taking them?’

  ‘Just go, will you?’ said O’Brian, half closing the door.

  ‘Yeah, piss off,’ shouted the redhead.

  ‘You’ve got a right to give your side of the story,’ Cath told him.

  ‘And that’s what you’re here for, is it? To let me have my say?’

  ‘People will make up their own minds from what they read. You deserv
e a chance to put your point of view forward.’

  ‘I don’t know what I hate about you people the most, your lies or your hypocrisy,’ said O’Brian and slammed the door.

  ‘Just fuck off’ the redhead continued.

  Cath shot her a withering glance, then turned and headed back towards the car, Cross close behind her.

  As she slid behind the wheel of the Fiat she noticed that the red-haired woman had retreated to her front step. From there she was still shouting, gesturing angrily towards the car, but Cath could barely hear her furious exhortations.

  Just before she pulled away, Cath saw a figure peering from behind a curtain in an upstairs room of the O’Brian house.

  Watching.

  Then, like an apparition, the shape was gone.

  Fifty-three

  Nikki Parsons was shaking.

  As she tried to light the cigarette the twenty-nine-year-old found that she could scarcely keep the tip steady in the flame of the match. She took a heavy drag and blew out a stream of smoke.

  Beside her, Janice Hedden, a year younger, merely kept both hands clasped around her mug of coffee and gazed vacantly ahead of her, occasionally glancing at her companions.

  Besides herself and Nikki, there were three other women in the room, all seated around a large table. The walls of the room were dotted with a variety of leaflets distributed at various times by Hackney Council and Social Services. Leaflets on giving blood, on how to cope with multiple sclerosis, AIDS, suicide, drugs.

  It was their daily routine.

  Janice and her companions were used to dealing with suffering.

  With pain.

  She had wondered if she would ever become immune to it. Able to distance herself from some of the frightful tales of deprivation and suffering which she heard on a daily basis. Like her companions, she walked a fine line between compassion and efficiency, solace and practicality. She, like her colleagues, walked that line every day, rarely touched by what they heard, able to walk away from it at the end of the working day. It was, after all, a job.

  Until today.

  Maria Goldman was the senior official amongst them: senior in experience if not in years. At thirty, she’d worked in Brixton and Islington before moving to Hackney.

  She’d found no resentment from her older colleagues.

  One of them was in the room now.