Stolen Angels

by Shaun Hutson

  Shall I go on?’

  ‘That’s bullshit’ Cath said.

  ‘You want to find out where those kids saw this Devil, then watch those films.’

  ‘But what about the things they couldn’t have seen on film, Detective Inspector?’ Maria interjected. ‘I’ve already told Miss Reed that some of the things they described they could only have experienced first hand.’

  ‘Such as?’ the DI demanded.

  ‘The smell of blood, the taste of it,’ Maria said.

  ‘They read it in a book,’ Talbot told her.

  ‘Some of the sexual acts described,’ the social worker persisted.

  ‘There was pornographic literature and videos seized,’ Talbot said. ‘The kids could have seen it.’ He laughed. ‘They might even have walked in on their parents some time.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Talbot,’ Cath said, exasperatedly.

  ‘I know you, Reed. You journalists are all the fucking same. I read that shit you wrote in the paper about satanism going on at Croydon Cemetery.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was satanism.’

  ‘You wanted it to be. It made a better story. Just like this.’ He jabbed the piece of paper in front of him. ‘The Devil. Pentagrams. Cats and dogs cut up.

  You couldn’t have found a better story if you’d invented it yourself.’

  ‘These children aren’t lying about having been abused,’ Detective Inspector,’

  Maria interjected. ‘I’m sure of that. There has been abuse.’

  ‘I don’t deny that,’ Talbot conceded. ‘But not by the Devil.’ He shook his head. ‘Those kids were abused by someone dressed like fucking Satan or they thought he was because they were drugged or they’d been watching videos with the Devil in. It’s simple logic’

  ‘So, it’s simple logic the kids who described the taste of blood had read it, right?’ Cath said, scornfully. ‘Four-and five-year-olds?

  Bullshit, Talbot.’

  The policeman turned towards Maria. ‘You’re the expert, what do you think?’

  ‘I would say that, from my experience and from what I’ve read and heard, there is evidence of ritual abuse in this case,’ Maria said.

  ‘Just because five of the kids drew a picture of the Devil?’ Talbot said, dismissively.

  ‘No, not just because of that, because of the other things they’ve said in their statements. Too many incidents point to ritual abuse,’ Maria insisted.

  ‘And these children are terrified. Not just for themselves but for their families. They’re afraid of something hurting their parents and grandparents.

  Something that has already hurt them.’

  ‘It’s an abuse ring, pure and simple,’ Talbot said.

  ‘What makes you such an expert?’ Cath snapped.

  If only you knew.

  Talbot felt the hairs at the back of his neck rise. ‘I know,’ he said, quietly, avoiding eye contact with Cath.

  She studied him thoughtfully for a moment, wondering where the brashness and abrasiveness had gone momentarily. For bewildering seconds Talbot seemed to change visibly before her, his features softening.

  Come on, get a fucking grip.

  Aware of three sets of eyes upon him he managed to shrug off the painful recollection.

  ‘What are these?’ he demanded, pointing at the grey rectangular shapes on each piece of paper.

  ‘That’s what we’ve been trying to find out,’ Maria said. ‘It’s where the children say they were taken, where they were hurt. It seems to be a building of some kind.’

  Talbot looked at several more of the sketches.

  ‘And this?’ he said, showing the sketches to Rafferty.

  On several of the drawings, the rectangular blocks had squiggly blue lines drawn in front of them.

  ‘It’s meant to be water, isn’t it?’ the DS mused.

  ‘Big grey buildings close to water’ Talbot echoed.

  Rafferty swallowed hard. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered. ‘I think I know what they are.’

  All eyes turned towards him.

  ‘The warehouses at Limehouse Reach’ the DS continued. ‘The big buildings with only a few windows, the water nearby. That’s what they’re meant to be, I’d bet money on it. That’s where these kids were taken.’

  Sixty-five

  ‘You explain it then, Jim,’ said DS Rafferty, glancing across at his companion who was gazing out of the side window of the car peering at two young women on the zebra crossing. He seemed more concerned with the duo than with the words of his colleague.

  One of the young women turned and saw Talbot staring at her. She said something to her friend, both of them laughed then waved at him. He looked away.

  ‘Jim’ Rafferty said, more loudly.

  Talbot looked at the DS.

  ‘If they’re not the warehouses, what are they?’ Rafferty persisted.

  ‘I’m not arguing with you about the possibility they might be.’

  ‘And you don’t find it just a little bit curious that the unexplained suicides of three men we’ve investigated could be linked with those same buildings?’

  ‘Come on, Bill, you’re clutching at straws now.’

  ‘Why? We don’t know that Jeffrey, Hyde and Parriam weren’t involved.’

  ‘In child abuse?’ Talbot shook his head.

  ‘Maybe that was why they killed themselves. Perhaps they were scared of being found out.’

  Talbot exhaled wearily.

  ‘Come on, Jim, for Christ’s sake, at least admit that there might be a link’

  the DS said, exasperatedly.

  ‘We don’t even know if the things that those kids drew were those warehouse, do we? If we’re wrong, then-‘

  ‘Then we’re wrong’ Rafferty snapped. ‘But it’s worth checking out.’

  ‘You said that two of the three men had received threatening phone calls shortly before they topped themselves, right?’

  ‘It could have been parents of the abused kids. Perhaps they knew who was doing the abusing. Hyde and Parriam were told to back off.’

  ‘If they’d been found out as child molesters, don’t you think the callers might have done more than just warned them off?’

  ‘So what the fuck do you think?’ snapped Rafferty.

  ‘I think that everyone’s overreacting. The social workers, the media. I don’t doubt for one minute that this is a genuine child abuse case, but linked with satanism? Do me a favour. And now you ‘re trying to tell me that three unexplained suicides might come into the same picture. There’s too many loose ends, Bill.’

  ‘But if the warehouses where those kids were molested-‘

  Talbot held up a hand to silence his companion.

  ‘No one knows that’s what those drawings are meant to be’ he said, quickly.

  ‘We’re assuming. Because if we’re right then maybe, and it’s a big fucking maybe, we’ve got something a bit more substantial.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Until then, we’re no closer.’ He looked at his watch.

  The traffic was heavy.

  It would take them another hour or more to get to Limehouse Reach.

  Catherine Reed had tried his mobile number.

  Nothing.

  Now she tried to reach Phillip Cross by his pager, wondering where the hell he was and, more importantly, how long it would be before he called her back.

  Where was he?

  Almost as a last resort, she tried his home number. The phone rang.

  Cath waited.

  And waited.

  Frank Reed wandered slowly back and forth in the main hall, peering alternately at his watch and the rows of children seated in the hall, heads down over their papers.

  The only thing that interrupted the silence was the odd cough or sneeze and, on one occasion, the particularly loud rumbling of a child’s stomach.

  Reed smiled to himself and performed his slow, measured trek once more before returning to his desk,

  which was set on top of the stage overlook
ing the hall.

  As he sat down he glanced out of one of the large picture windows which ran the length of the hall on either side. To his left he could see the street beyond.

  He’d first noticed the police car parked there over an hour ago.

  It hadn’t moved.

  From his vantage point he could see that there were two uniformed men seated inside. The driver kept removing his cap, adjusting the headgear as if it was too tight or uncomfortable.

  Reed watched them for a moment longer, then picked up the book he’d been

  intermittently glancing at.

  When he looked out again, thirty minutes later, the police car was still there.

  The time had come at last.

  She knew the one she sought. She knew where to find her.

  She even knew what she looked like. There had been a photo next to an article she’d found a day or two earlier.

  But she felt fear.

  It was an emotion she knew well.

  They would find her soon, she was convinced of that.

  Shanine Connor rubbed her swollen belly.

  She took one last look at the photo of Catherine Reed, then folded the piece of paper and pushed it back into her jeans.

  Sixty-six

  ‘Where the hell do we start?’ murmured Rafferty quietly, looking at the high wire fence which faced them.

  Beyond it stood the closest of the warehouses: large, monolithic buildings which appeared to have been hewn from one massive block of stone rather than constructed piece by piece.

  Each one was as grey as a rain-sodden sky.

  From where the two policemen stood neither of them could see any windows in the structures.

  What must once have been a service road ran from the gate before them, splitting off into several narrower Tarmac sections, linking the buildings like grey arteries.

  Just beyond the gate there was a large wooden sign which read: acquired for morgan and simons.

  There were a number of dents in the sign where someone had, over the past few months or weeks, hurled stones or bottles at it. Talbot could see several broken beer bottles littered around near by. The service road itself was strewn with pieces of broken concrete. There was even the rusting frame of a bicycle lying just beyond the gate.

  Talbot approached the gate and found there was a chain twisted through the entry way, woven around the wire mesh. He tugged on it, relieved to find there was no padlock.

  The chain looked new, the steel gleaming.

  Alongside the rusted, neglected air of everything else on the site, the chain seemed even more incongruous.

  The DI pushed open the gates, hinges that hadn’t tasted oil for years squealing protestingly.

  He walked back to the car and climbed into the passenger seat, glancing around as Rafferty slowly guided the vehicle up the service road.

  ‘They look like some of those drawings,’ said the DS glancing up at the large grey warehouses.

  ‘The kids who drew them could have been past here a hundred times’ Talbot said, dismissively.

  ‘What, all of them?’ Rafferty challenged.

  He brought the car to a halt and looked at his superior, who was still gazing up at the buildings, as if mesmerised.

  ‘What now, Jim?’

  ‘We take a look around,’ Talbot told him, fumbling in the glove compartment.

  He pulled out a half-eaten Mars Bar and took a bite. ‘You take those two’ he indicated the two warehouses to the right, the ones closest to the water.

  ‘I’ll check these.’

  ‘What if we find anything?’ Rafferty asked.

  ‘Just shout’ Talbot told him, swinging himself out of the car.

  He stood surveying his surroundings: the warehouses towering over them, the dark choppy waters of the Thames just beyond. Across the water he could see the outlines of cranes thrusting up towards the heavens like accusatory fingers. Seagulls wheeled and dived in the air above the Thames, some coming

  to rest on the roof of the nearest warehouse. They seemed to look down warily on the two men beneath them.

  A small boat went chugging past on the river, tossed and bumped by the seething brown waves which spread across the surface. Even from where he stood, Talbot could smell the salty odour of the river. But it was tinged with something more pungent: the stench of neglect and decay which seemed to hang around the warehouses like an invisible cloud. As Talbot took a step closer he felt as if that cloud was enveloping him, sucking him in.

  ‘We’ll meet back here in an hour’ he said, gesturing towards the car. ‘Unless one of us finds something first.’

  Rafferty looked at his watch and nodded.

  Talbot watched as his companion walked away in the direction of the other two warehouses.

  The DI hesitated a second longer, then headed towards the building nearest him.

  Above him, a seagull circled, its mournful cries echoing through the air.

  As he glanced up he noticed dark clouds were gathering.

  Sixty-seven

  The door was padlocked.

  Rafferty kneeled down and inspected the lock, pulling at it uselessly for a second before taking a pace or two back and peering up at the warehouse.

  The concrete edifice towered above him, the padlocked main entrance barring his way.

  He muttered something under his breath and headed off around the side of the building, picking his way along a path which was overgrown with yellowed grass and weeds, some of which stood as high as his knees. The DS looked to his left but he could see no sign of Talbot.

  Perhaps, he thought, his superior had already gained entry to one of the other buildings.

  Ahead of him he saw a door set in the side of the warehouse.

  Rafferty pressed his face against it, cupping a hand over his eyes, trying to see inside.

  There was so much dirt on the glass it was practically opaque. He could see nothing but darkness inside.

  His hand disturbed a spider’s web as he brushed against the glass, the gossamer strands sticking to his fingers. The DS wiped the sticky threads on his handkerchief, recoiling as he saw a particularly large, bloated spider drop to the ground beneath him.

  For one brief second, he felt the overwhelming urge to step on it, especially when he noticed that the purulent creature was holding a cranefly securely in its fangs, but instead he watched as it scuttled off into the long grass.

  He returned his attention to the door for a second, twisting the handle but finding, not with any great surprise, that it was locked.

  Rafferty walked on, around the building, glancing up at it every so often, aware now of the odd drop of rain in the air.

  The overgrown pathway took him to the rear of the large building and he paused for a moment to look out over the Thames. He was close enough to hear the water slapping against the bank, a fine spray rising into the air as each wave slammed against it.

  A flight of steps rose before him, hugging the side of the warehouse, rising until they reached another door.

  Rafferty paused a moment then began to climb, the steps slippery. He gripped the handrail, some of the blistered paint flaking away like leprous skin.

  Beneath there was rust. In places it had almost eaten away the metal handrail.

  The DS hoped it hadn’t done the same to the metal steps he climbed.

  The thought made him slow his pace and he climbed more cautiously now, glancing down at his feet, wondering if the steps were about to give way. He was half-way up and more than fifteen feet above the concrete below. If the stairs did collapse he’d be lucky to escape without a few broken bones.

  Pushing the thought from his mind, he continued to climb until he finally

  reached the platform at the top.

  The door which confronted him, like the other he’d found, had glass panels in it and, like the first, these panels were also thick with accumulated dirt and dust.

  Even the door knob itself was rusted and it squeaked when he twis
ted it.

  It was loose.

  Rafferty rubbed his hands together, the coppery smell of rusted metal strong in his nostrils, then he took a step back and kicked hard against the door knob.

  It came away with the first impact and the DS smiled to himself. He pushed the door with one fingertip and it swung back on rusted hinges.

  The darkness inside was impenetrable.

  Rafferty fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out his lighter.

  He struck it, raising it above his head.

  The light scarcely cut through the enveloping blackness.

  Still, he reasoned, it was better than nothing. He stepped inside.

  Talbot walked around the entire perimeter of the first warehouse and found, like Rafferty, that the doors were all securely fastened.

  However, gaining entry wasn’t such a priority for the DI.

  He was looking for something else.

  Ignoring the weed-infested paths, he walked on, beginning another circuit of the warehouse, stopping at the main entrance first.

  Two huge double doors, wide enough to accommodate an articulated lorry with ease, seemed to form most of the front of the building.

  They were secured by a padlock.

  As he’d expected.

  A rusted metal chain had been wound round the door handles, too.

  Rusted.

  Like the door knobs on the smaller doors at the side and rear of the building.

  Rusted.

  It hadn’t struck him until he’d passed the padlock for the second time.

  The lock itself was brand new.

  No rust. No discoloration.

  And there was something else.

  Talbot saw marks in the dirt and grime that covered the doors.

  Particularly at the bottom.

  The doors were scratched.

  He ran the pad of one thumb over the marks and felt rough edges.

  A new padlock.

  Scratch marks on the door.

  The DI kneeled beside the locked entrance, now certain his hunch was correct.

  These doors had been prised open recently and a new lock placed on them to keep them closed.

  Someone had been inside here.

  He turned and looked around, noticing that the concrete pathway surrounding the warehouse was cracked and broken in several places. He kneeled again, pulling at a chunk of concrete about the size of his fist.