Stolen Angels

by Shaun Hutson

  It came free easily, woodlice scuttling for cover as the stone was lifted.

  Gripping the stone like a club, Talbot turned towards the new padlock and struck it hard several times.

  The padlock held, despite his efforts.

  He struck again.

  Still it held.

  And again.

  It was the chain that eventually broke.

  The rusted links seemed to stretch, then snap, pieces of rotten metal spinning into the air like shrapnel.

  The chain swung free, the padlock dropped to the ground.

  Talbot smiled to himself and dropped the rock, digging into his pocket for a handkerchief which he wrapped around his fist. Then he took hold of the door

  handle and pushed.

  The twin doors squealed protestingly then opened a fraction.

  An almost overpowering stench of damp and decay belched forth, the dust so thick Talbot was forced to shield his nose and mouth from the noxious blast.

  He paused a moment, squinting into the gloom inside, then cautiously he took a step inside, pushing the doors closed behind him.

  The rancid half-light swallowed him up.

  For a second he wondered where the yellowish light was coming from, then he realised.

  There were four large skylight windows in the roof of the cavernous building, covered, like every inch of glass in the place, by thick dirt and grime.

  The daylight could barely force its way through, but the filth allowed enough illumination for Talbot to see where he was going. He narrowed his eyes, trying to accustom his vision to the artificial twilight.

  As he stood there he realised how large the warehouse actually was.

  For interminable seconds he stood there, the thick dust and the stench of decay filling his nostrils, his eyes struggling to adjust.

  He sneezed, the dust choking him.

  He raised the handkerchief to his face, breathing through the cotton.

  It was as he glanced down at the concrete floor that he thought he saw movement.

  A rat?

  He shook his head and took a couple of steps forward, the dust so thick it clung to his shoes.

  High above him there was a soft pattering sound.

  Like what?

  Like tiny feet?

  More rats?

  It was only to be expected, surely? The place had been derelict for years and with it being so close to the riverside it was bound to attract vermin.

  Again he heard the soft pattering above him.

  He realised it was rain against the skylight windows.

  Soft, gentle drops.

  Talbot took another few steps forward then sucked in a polluted breath.

  What he saw ahead of him stopped him in his tracks.

  Sixty-eight

  Frank Reed smiled broadly as he watched Judith Nelson light her cigarette.

  The gym mistress noticed his obvious amusement and smiled back, not even sure why he was smiling. She swept her hair back and took a long drag on the Embassy.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ she said with mock indignation, prodding Reed’s leg with the toe of one of her trainers.

  ‘You’re a great example to your pupils, Judith,’ he said, chuckling. ‘A physical education teacher smoking.’

  ‘You’re not going to lecture me, are you, Frank?’

  ‘What, me? God forbid,’ he said, grinning. ‘But, you know the risks.’

  ‘Yes, and, as the man said, non-smokers die everyday. You don’t smoke. You’re dead too.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘How did your weekend go?’ she asked him, finally.

  ‘It was fantastic’ Reed answered, ‘to have Becky around again, even if it was only for two days. We went to McDonald’s, I took her swimming, we went to the pictures. That was the first time I’d been for months.’ He smiled wistfully.

  ‘It was like being a proper father again.’

  ‘You never stopped being a proper father, Frank. It wasn’t your fault your wife took Becky away from you.’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder about that. I wonder if there was more I could have done to stop her.’

  ‘Like what? Kidnap Becky back again?’

  ‘It was great having her with me for the weekend, but now she’s gone again it

  hurts even more.’ He lowered his gaze momentarily.

  ‘Is it going to be a regular thing?’

  ‘Ellen and I haven’t discussed it yet but, God, I hope so.’ He began picking distractedly at the arm of the chair, pulling away loose pieces of thread.

  ‘Perhaps she’s come to her senses at last,’ Judith offered. ‘She probably realises she can’t keep Becky away from you forever.’

  ‘I don’t know what she’s thinking anymore, I…’

  Judith leaned forward and touched his arm gently. ‘It’ll be OK, Frank’ she reassured him. ‘You haven’t lost Becky.’

  He smiled at her.

  Reed got to his feet and picked up his briefcase.

  ‘I’m going home’ he said, smiling, glancing around the staff room.

  Judith took another drag on her cigarette and nodded, watching him as he made for the exit.

  The playground was empty as Reed crossed it, heading for his car which was parked behind one of the newer blocks. There were a number of vehicles still parked there including a large Triumph 750 which he knew belonged to one of the sixth-formers. The lad made a point of parking it close to Noel Hardy’s car because he knew it irritated the Headmaster. The fact that the owner of the bike was also going out with a fifth-year girl seemed to annoy Hardy even more.

  Reed crossed to his own car, fumbling in his jacket for the keys, whistling happily to himself as he slid the key into the door lock.

  Perhaps Becky’s visits would become a regular thing.

  Even the thought of her cheered him.

  Two days a week was better than nothing.

  He never even heard the footsteps from behind him.

  Just the voice.

  ‘Mr Reed?’

  He turned and saw the two uniformed policemen no more than three feet from him.

  ‘Frank Reed?’ the one on the left said.

  The teacher nodded.

  He looked past the two men, saw the marked car sitting there, engine idling.

  There was a third man behind the wheel.

  His first thought was of Becky.

  An accident?

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘We need to ask you some questions, Mr Reed,’ said one of the policemen, a tall man with reddish hair. ‘About your daughter.’

  ‘Oh God, what’s happened?’ he demanded, the colour draining from his cheeks.

  ‘That’s what we need to find out,’ said the red-haired PC.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘We’d like you to follow us to Theobald’s Road Police Station. My colleague will sit with you.’

  ‘Not until you tell me what the hell is going on’ Reed said, his anxiety rapidly turning to annoyance. ‘Is my daughter hurt?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said the red-haired man.

  ‘Then what are you going on about?’

  ‘As I said, we need to ask you some questions. If you’d just get in your car it would save a lot of time and aggravation.’

  Reed held up both hands.

  ‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said, wearily.

  ‘A complaint has been filed against you, Mr Reed. There may be charges.’

  ‘For what?’ he said, angrily.

  ‘Assaulting your daughter.’

  Sixty-nine

  In the dull half-light of the warehouse, Talbot had no doubt what the marks in the thick dust were.

  He moved forward a foot or so, the carpet of grime so thick it deadened his footfalls.

  Finally he kneeled, motes of dust spinning all around him in the dimly lit silence.

  Footprints.

  Some five-toed, indicating bar
e feet. Others from shoes of various sizes.

  The carpet of dust was old. These footprints were not.

  In places, the dust had been disturbed so badly that the dirty floor beneath the filth was visible.

  Elsewhere, the footprints seemed to lead deeper into the cavernous building, towards the rear of it.

  Talbot moved on, glancing around him.

  There were high metal shelves on either side of him, some rising up to ten or fifteen feet into the air. What had once been stacked on them he could only guess. To his right lay several dust-sheathed wooden pallets, broken and splintered.

  He saw what appeared to be a toolbox on one of the shelves. Like everything else inside the building it was covered by the same noxious blanket of grime.

  Talbot flipped open the lid.

  There was an old screwdriver inside.

  He moved on, glancing down at the footprints.

  The DI could only guess at how many feet had made these marks and over what period of time but, as he stopped again and kneeled over a particularly well-defined print, he saw that the covering of dust on what would have been the sole was very thin. This print looked no more than a week old.

  He straightened up, scanning the area ahead of him.

  The shelves continued practically to the back of the warehouse: beyond them he saw a door.

  The only sound inside the warehouse was the rushing of the blood in his ears.

  The silence seemed to crush him, closing around him like an invisible fist which tightened by the second.

  He reached the office door and twisted the handle.

  Locked.

  Talbot took a step back and thought about kicking it open, but then realised that he might destroy any fingerprints or other physical signs which might be on the partition. He spun round and headed back to where he’d seen the discarded toolbox.

  He scooped out the screwdriver and returned to the door, cupping a hand over his eyes, trying to see through the small window in the centre of the door.

  Whatever lay inside was in pitch blackness.

  No windows to give him even the kind of paltry light currently battling through the thick grime of the skylight openings.

  The DI steadied himself and slid the top of the screwdriver into the grooved head of a screw which secured the handle to the door.

  He twisted, surprised at how stiff the screw was.

  Again he tried, cursing when the implement slipped and gouged a lump from the door.

  ‘Shit,’ the DI hissed, even his low exhalation echoing in the thunderous stillness around him.

  The sound seemed to bounce back off the walls, echoing like some brief sibilant rattle before dying, smothered by the carpet of dust.

  He jammed all his weight behind the screwdriver this time, pushing hard against it with the heel of one hand, turning with the other.

  The screw started to give.

  Talbot grinned triumphantly and removed it, dropping it into his pocket.

  He set to work on the second one immediately.

  DS William Rafferty stood close to the guard rail which ran around the inside of the warehouse and looked over.

  He held the lighter above him but the yellow flame could barely penetrate the gloom. Even with the sickly light coming through the filthy skylight windows he could barely see the floor of the warehouse from his high vantage point.

  The DS flicked off his lighter, realising that it was doing little good, but also because it was growing uncomfortably hot in his hand. He dropped it into his pocket and walked along the raised parapet, glancing to his right and left.

  The walkway along which he moved seemed to stop at each corner of the warehouse, terminating in a door. It was towards the nearest of these doors that Rafferty now headed.

  The walkway creaked beneath him and, as with the metal stairs he’d climbed, the policeman wondered briefly if the entire structure might give way beneath him, but he pushed the thought aside and kept walking.

  The first door he met was wooden and he pressed against it with his fingertips, surprised when it opened, swinging back on rusted hinges.

  The room beyond was large: he guessed twenty feet square.

  It was completely empty but for a metal filing cabinet in one corner, now dust-shrouded like the rest of the building.

  Rafferty crossed to the cabinet and slid open the top drawer.

  Nothing.

  The second one was a little more recalcitrant and it let out a loud grating sound as he pulled it open.

  Empty.

  The third one slid out easily.

  The spider inside it looked as large as a child’s fist.

  ‘Jesus’ the DS hissed, stepping back, his heart thudding.

  It took him a second to realise that the creature was dead.

  Probably choked on the dust, he thought, shaking his head, annoyed by his own reaction.

  He peered into the drawer again.

  It was indeed empty but for the dead spider.

  Rafferty turned towards the door at his rear.

  It would, he reasoned, lead out onto the gangway which hugged the rear wall of the warehouse.

  The DS crossed to it and tried the handle.

  To his surprise it opened.

  He set off along the next walkway.

  The third screw came free and Talbot dropped it into his pocket along with the others.

  One more to go and he’d be able to remove the entire door handle. That would give him access to the room beyond.

  He eased the head of the screwdriver into the groove of the screw and began to turn it, pieces of rust flaking off as he exerted more force.

  ‘Come on, you bastard,’ he muttered, using all his strength, pausing a moment when the screw remained stuck fast.

  He sucked in a deep breath, coughing as the dust filled his lungs.

  A bead of sweat formed on his forehead, welled up then ran down the side of his face as he resumed his exertions, determined to free the last screw.

  It was rusty like the others, but this one seemed to have been welded to the rotten metal by the decay.

  The screwdriver slipped again.

  ‘Fuck,’ snapped Talbot.

  He was about to start again when he heard a sound from behind him.

  A grating, tortured sound like rusted hinges.

  Rusted hinges.

  Someone had entered the warehouse through the main door which he himself had penetrated.

  Talbot waited a moment, thought about calling out to Rafferty, shouting to him to come and help, but then he turned, squinted through the dull light of the dust-blanketed building.

  He heard footsteps.

  Slow, tentative.

  Muffled by the dust but still hesitant.

  Talbot saw a shape move in the gloom.

  A shape which was moving slowly towards him.

  And, in that split second, he knew it wasn’t Rafferty.

  Seventy

  ‘This is bloody disgraceful,’ said Frank Reed, angrily.

  He got to his feet, gripping the back of the wooden seat he’d been sitting on.

  Apart from the small table, it

  was the only piece of furniture in the interview room at Theobald’s Road Police Station.

  The room was no more than twelve feet square and the presence of both Reed and the single uniformed man in there with him made the place look overcrowded.

  ‘I’ve been here over an hour now,’ Reed snapped. ‘I haven’t been charged, I haven’t even been allowed to call my solicitor. What the hell is going on?’

  ‘If you’d just sit down, sir,’ said the constable quietly, motioning towards the chair with his eyes.

  Reed still gripped the back of it as if threatening to use it as a weapon against the policeman but, after a moment or two, he sat down heavily.

  He could smell the acrid odour of perspiration and realised that it was his own.

  What are you afraid of?

  He’d drunk two cups of coffee sin
ce being escorted into the room, his breath smelled of the brown liquid which was now going cold in the cup before him.

  What the hell was going on?

  His mind was reeling, words tumbling through it like collapsing building bricks. And each of those bricks carried a different word on it: ASSAULT

  CHARGES

  COMPLAINT

  INVESTIGATION

  Jesus Christ!

  He wanted to scream it.

  WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?

  It was like some kind of bizarre nightmare from which he felt he must wake at any second. What did

  they call them? Lucid dreams? The ability to be aware of what you’re dreaming while it happens.

  Then wake yourself up. Get out of here.

  But there was no waking.

  No respite.

  No end to it.

  Whatever it was.

  They said he’d assaulted his own daughter.

  Sexually assaulted.

  One of them had actually used that word when he’d arrived at the police station.

  Sexual assault.

  Dear God, even the words made him feel sick.

  There had been a complaint. By whom ?

  He sat forward, head resting against his hands, palms pressed to his temples as if he feared his head would explode with so many fearful and conflicting thoughts spinning through it.

  So many emotions were coursing through him, his body wired like some cocaine fiend, his mind hyperactive as it searched for answers when it didn’t even have questions.

  Sexual assault.

  An image of Becky flashed into his mind.

  How could anyone even think he would touch her?

  Who would think it, let alone say it?

  Who would …?

  He swallowed hard.

  Go on, you’re supposed to be a teacher. Think. Use your brain. Who would say it? Who?

  He clenched his teeth together so hard his jaw ached.

  The uniformed officer cast him a cursory glance, then snapped his eyes forwards again as the door of the interview room opened.

  Reed got to his feet and glared at the two men who had entered.

  ‘Can one of you tell me what the hell is going on?’ the teacher barked.

  ‘Mr Reed, my name is Detective Inspector Macpherson, this is Detective Sergeant Collier’ said the larger of the newcomers.