by Shaun Hutson
‘You planned it, didn’t you? Or was it his idea?’ Reed hissed. ‘Mr Jonathan fucking Ward. I knew you were a bitch, but this is a new low, even for you.’
‘I’ve got nothing to say to you, Frank,’ Ellen said, reaching for the phone.
‘And if you don’t mind I’d like to get on with my job.’
‘Fuck the job,’ he roared, sweeping the phone from the desk. ‘This is my life I’m talking about.’
‘I’m going to call the police,’ the salesman told him, seeking refuge behind a car, ‘if you’re not out of here in thirty seconds.’
‘You won’t get away with this, Ellen’ Reed said fists clenched.
‘Get out, Frank,’ she said, her own heart beating that little bit faster now.
‘I know what you’re trying to do.’
Another man appeared from the office behind, a taller, older man dressed in a grey suit. ‘What the hell is going on out here?’ he asked.
‘I told this man I’d phone the police,’ the salesman said.
‘I know what you’re trying to do and it won’t work,’ Reed continued, oblivious to the other two men. His attention, and his rage, focused on Ellen.
The taller man hesitated, saw the fury on Reed’s features.
‘Call the police,’ he said to the cowering salesman.
‘Just go, Frank,’ Ellen told him.
‘You won’t take my daughter,’ he said raising an accusatory finger and pointing it in her direction.
‘If you don’t leave immediately we’ll call the police,’ the taller man insisted.
‘YOU WON’T TAKE MY DAUGHTER!’ Reed bellowed, then he turned and headed for the exit, his breath coming in gasps.
‘It’s over, Frank’ Ellen called after him.
‘No it isn’t,’ he shouted back. ‘It’s only just started. I won’t let you take her away from me, Ellen. I’ll kill you before I let you do that.’
And he was gone.
Had he turned, he might have seen the slight, almost imperceptible smile which flickered briefly on Ellen’s lips.
Seventy-three
Cath just caught the lift, calling to the single occupant to hold the doors as she hurried through the main entrance of the block.
She was carrying a bag of shopping in each hand and she didn’t fancy walking up the steps to her flat with such a weight.
The man in the lift lived on the third floor.
She’d seen him occasionally since he moved in three months earlier.
They’d never spoken at any length. Indeed, she couldn’t remember speaking to any of the other residents for more than three or four minutes at a time ever since she’d taken up residence in the block.
Everyone above, below and around her could be dead in their beds for all she knew. The residents didn’t socialise much.
There were two couples about her own age on the floor below who she’d seen together sometimes but, apart from that, contact was limited to polite nods of recognition or perfunctory bouts of conversation in the lifts.
That was the way in London.
And that was the way Cath liked it.
She did manage a warm smile at her fellow lift traveller and received a similar gesture in return, aware of his gaze lingering on her legs, tightly clad in denim.
‘I hate shopping’ the man said, nodding towards the two bulging carriers she’d put down on the floor.
‘Me too,’ Cath said, jabbing button one.
The lift doors slid shut.
‘My girlfriend does all my shopping for me’ the man said, a little too smugly for Cath’s liking.
She glanced at him again, saw him looking at her more intently.
When he noticed she was aware of his admiring glances at her legs and buttocks he did little to disguise the fact: merely smiled to himself.
‘Are you married?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘I’m getting married soon,’ the man told her.
‘Isn’t your girlfriend lucky?’ Cath said, sarcastically.
As the lift bumped to a halt, she picked up her shopping and stepped out.
‘See you around’ he said as the doors slid shut.
‘Not if I see you first’ she whispered under her breath.
Jesus, what a creep.
She reached the door to her flat and put down one of the shopping bags, fumbling in her pocket for her keys.
As she did she leaned against the front door.
It swung open.
Cath stepped back, shocked, her heart suddenly thumping heavily against her chest.
She put down the other shopping bag and stood at the doorway, ears straining to catch any sound from within.
Cath inspected the lock, noticed some small scratches on it. The metal was scored in several places.
She took a step inside.
Go and get help. Go now. Bang on the next-door flat.
She hesitated a moment, then moved another step into the hall.
‘Oh God’ she murmured under her breath.
The pictures which had hung on the wall lay scattered across the carpet. The glass in the frames of two of them was shattered.
A small ornamental table and the plant which it held had also been overturned.
Glass crunched beneath her feet as she advanced towards the sitting room.
What if the intruder was still inside?
She stood motionless.
Get out now.
The flat was silent. She moved on, into the sitting room.
As she looked around, one word flickered in her mind.
Devastation.
Anything that could be broken, had been.
The three-piece suite had been overturned, ornaments had been knocked from their places, some shattered
against walls. Pictures had been ripped from the walls and destroyed.
Her desk had also been overturned, the PC with it. Paper was scattered over the carpet. A vase of flowers which had stood on the coffee table lay in a dozen pieces close by, the flowers strewn over the floor.
Bookcases had been knocked over, their contents spilled wantonly.
Her mind reeling, she walked through into the kitchen.
Drawers had been pulled out, cutlery and broken crockery lay everywhere. Even the clock which hung on the wall had been pulled down and hurled across the room: it was lying in the sink.
Cupboards had been pulled open, the door of one ripped from its hinges by the ferocity of the intrusion.
She took a step backward, back into the living room, then beyond to her bedroom.
More damage.
The bedclothes had been pulled off, bedside cabinets overturned. The wardrobes stood open, and her clothes had been scattered over the bed and floor.
Coat-hangers had been pulled from the wardrobe and hurled across the room. One had struck the radio alarm clock, cracking the plastic window that covered the flashing red digits.
Cath could feel her head spinning, and for a second she thought she would faint, but the feeling passed and she sucked in several deep breaths, trying to regain her composure, moving back into the living room to find the phone.
She glanced around the room again, stepping over the printer of the PC which had been tossed to one side.
The printer.
Why hadn’t they taken the printer?
Cath reached for the phone, and looked around her as she pressed three nines.
Why hadn’t they taken the computer itself?
She frowned.
The stereo was still in position in one corner of the room.
Untouched.
Why hadn’t they taken it?
The video was still there.
Untouched.
So was the television.
Cath swallowed hard.
By the time the voice on the other end of the phone asked her which service she required, her heart had slowed its mad thumping.
She announced that she needed the police, gave her name and addre
ss, then put down the phone.
Video untouched. TV untouched. Stack system untouched.
She went back into the kitchen.
The ghetto blaster was still there.
Untouched.
What kind of burglars were these?
The flat had been ransacked but, as far as she could tell, little, if
anything, had been taken.
Cath returned to the sitting room and it was then, as she glanced around, she noticed that there was something missing.
Seventy-four
When she heard the knock on the door, Cath had looked anxiously at Phillip Cross.
The photographer had remained by her side for a moment, slowly getting up to answer it.
Cath glanced at her watch.
11.23 p.m.
Despite Cross’s presence she felt suddenly afraid.
Burglars aren’t going to knock, are they?
She ran a hand through her hair and sucked in a breath.
The last policeman had left the flat more than four hours ago. She’d called Cross and he’d come to the flat immediately. Together they’d cleared up the mess left by the intruders although there were still traces of the aluminium and carbon powders on various surfaces dusted by the police fingerprint man.
She shivered involuntarily as she saw the profusion of prints, but even as a layman she knew that most of the smudges were smooth.
Now she pulled her legs more tightly beneath her, listening to voices in the hallway.
A moment later Cross walked back in.
‘Someone to see you’ he said.
DI James Talbot followed him in, looking briefly at Cath, then glancing around the room.
‘Doesn’t look like they did that much damage’ said the DI.
Cath regarded him silently for a moment. ‘What do you want?’ she said, finally.
‘I heard about what happened here, I thought I’d come and have a look for myself.’
‘If you’ve come to gloat you’re a bit late’ she said, acidly. ‘We’ve cleaned up the mess.’
‘Who do you think it was?’ the DI asked, sitting down uninvited.
Cath shrugged. ‘Burglars.’
‘And yet nothing valuable was stolen?’
‘You’re supposed to be the detective, Talbot. You tell me who did it.’
‘Someone with a grudge. Someone who doesn’t like you. Mind you, that narrows down the suspects to about half a million, doesn’t it?’
‘If that was all you came here to say, you can go now’ she told him, getting to her feet.
Talbot didn’t move.
‘What the hell did you come here for, anyway?’ she persisted.
‘The case interests me.’
Cath sat down again.
Cross looked at both of them, feeling somewhat helpless.
‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked the policeman.
Cath shot him a withering glance.
‘Whiskey, please,’ Talbot said, smiling. ‘As it comes.’
‘So, what’s so interesting about my case, then, Talbot? What’s fascinating enough to bring you here at this time of the night?’
The DI accepted the drink from Cross and took a swig.
‘I’m interested in why they broke in here and then took nothing’ he said.
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Intrigued.’
‘Only they did take something, didn’t they?’
Cath nodded.
‘A photograph of you and your brother’ the DI said. ‘That’s all that was stolen.’
Cath watched as he took another sip of the whiskey.
‘You remember that day at Euston, not so long ago’ the policeman asked, ‘Some
geezer had thrown himself under a train?’
She nodded.
‘And you heard about the bloke at that gun club in Druid Street who blew off his own head? And the one who took a dive through the top of The Greenhouse restaurant?’
Cath sat forward.
‘The same thing happened to them a week or two before they topped themselves,’
Talbot told her.
‘You mean they were burgled?’
He nodded.
‘Either their houses or their cars,’ the DI said. ‘And in all three cases, the only thing that the intruders stole were photos of those three men. Just like you.’ He drained what was left in his glass and put it down on the table before him.
‘Do you think the same people broke into my flat?’ she asked incredulously.
‘Why would they do that?’
Talbot shrugged. ‘It might be a coincidence’ he said. ‘But it’s stretching things a bit. Four similar breakins in the space of ten days, no valuables stolen -just a photo of
the victim. In three cases, less than a week after the breakin, the victim commits suicide. You might be number four.’
‘If you’re expecting me to kill myself, Talbot, don’t hold your breath waiting’ she told him defiantly.
‘A man can dream can’t he?’
Despite her bravado, Cath felt the hair rise at the back of her neck. ‘Who were these men?’
Talbot smiled. ‘Now there’s the funny thing’ he said, humourlessly. ‘They were all professional men, all working on one project, all happy family men. All with plenty to live for.’
‘What was the project?’ Cath asked.
‘Those warehouses at Limehouse Reach.’
‘Jesus! Have you been investigating this?’
‘What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing?’ he snapped.
‘And it wasn’t murder?’
‘I think I would have noticed the difference,’ he answered, acidly.
‘But why do you think I might be involved?’
T didn’t say you were, I just said it’s a hell of a coincidence. Their places were robbed and only a photo was stolen. Now your place is turned over and nothing but a picture is nicked. The circumstances are the same, whether or not the perpetrators are remains to be seen.’
He prodded his empty glass, pushing it towards Cross who got to his feet and returned with the bottle, which he set down before the detective, watching as he poured himself a large measure.
‘One thing, Reed’ he said. ‘I don’t want you bothering the families of those dead men. If I so much as sniff that you’ve been round to any of their places I’ll arrest you.’
Cath smiled. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ she said, softly.
He eyed her malevolently.
‘Why did you tell me all this, Talbot?’
‘I thought you had a right to know.’
‘And if it scared the shit out of me that was just a bonus, right?’
‘Someone could be after you, I just thought I’d warn you,’ he said.
She watched as he sipped his drink.
‘By the way, have you had any weird phone calls or mail, any shit like that recently?’ the DI asked.
Cath nodded.
‘Some threatening phone calls,’ she admitted.
‘Did you report them?’
‘No. I thought they might be something to do with this child abuse story I’m working on, you know, parents warning me off.’
‘They actually made threats?’
She nodded.
‘Two of the three dead men had threatening phone calls too. Looks like you might have more in common with them than you thought.’
The DI finished his drink and got to his feet.
Cross rose with him.
‘I’ll see myself out,’ Talbot said, heading for the door.
‘How do I know they won’t come back, Talbot?’ Cath called after him.
‘You don’t.’
‘Then what about some sort of police guard?’
‘Are you fucking serious? I’ve got better things for my men to do than stand around here keeping an eye on you twenty-four hours a day.’
‘So what do I do?’ she demanded, getting up and following him to the front door.
H
e hesitated in the doorway.
‘Watch yourself’ he advised, a smile creeping across his face. ‘Sleep tight.’
She slammed the door on him.
Seventy-five
Frank Reed hadn’t slept well the night before, a fact confirmed by the haggard-looking reflection that stared back at him from the glass of the car window.
The teacher locked the door, transferred his briefcase to his other hand and set off across the playground.
He’d swallowed a couple of Panadol with his coffee that morning, but they seemed to have done little to relieve the gnawing pain thudding away at his temples and spreading over the top of his scalp. It felt as if the skin there was slowly contracting, squeezing his skull until he felt sure it would collapse under the pressure.
He raised a hand in greeting to one of his colleagues, whose car was heading for the teachers’ car park. He winced at the sound of the engine as the vehicle passed him. Every sound seemed to be amplified.
He walked on.
At the staffroom window he could see some of the other teachers getting ready for the day ahead. Two of them were gazing out into the playground holding cups of tea, as if steeling themselves for what the day might bring.
They both saw him, but when Reed raised a hand towards them they both turned away from the window.
Perhaps he wasn’t the only one who’d had a rough night.
Christ, that was an understatement.
He’d made a couple of phone calls, left a message on Cath’s answering machine, wondering why she hadn’t called back.
He’d even tried to phone Ellen.
Fucking bitch.
There had been no answer.
Perhaps they’d been at the police station giving statements. Even now, in the cold light of day, the absurdity, the inanity, of the whole episode seemed no clearer.
He had been accused of molesting his own daughter.
Even the thought made him feel nauseous.
What sort of mind could dream up such an obscenity?
Ellen?
Or her fucking lover?
He had wondered if Jonathan Ward might be behind it. The thought had tormented him all the previous night. He knew how besotted Ellen was with the man. Just how far would she go to please him?
What had they said to Becky to make her agree to such outrageous claims?
Did she really believe he had touched her? Hurt her?
The questions tumbled over in his mind as they had done the previous evening.
