Stolen Angels

by Shaun Hutson

  There was only the ever-present sound of the oscilloscope to accompany his own breathing.

  More than once he had pressed the first two fingers of his right hand hard into her wrist, searching for a pulse, terrified that she might have slipped away from him.

  Each time he’d found the almost imperceptible rhythm of her weakened heart pumping blood so pathetically around her body.

  He remembered that.

  What he didn’t remember was when he’d fallen asleep.

  It had crept up on him like a hunter in the gloom, stalking him, then claiming him, drawing him into the blackness that surrounded him.

  He woke with a start, found his head on the bed close to his mother’s chest.

  He still gripped her hand.

  Even in sleep he hadn’t released it, perhaps thinking that to cling onto her would retain his hold on her life.

  As he stirred he looked intently at her. At the slow rise and fall of her chest.

  Behind him, the oscilloscope still continued its high-pitched signals.

  Talbot exhaled deeply and rubbed both hands across his face.

  He glanced at his watch.

  8.17 a.m.

  Shit.

  He had to phone Rafferty, tell him what had happened, tell him he couldn’t leave his mother just yet.

  Rafferty could handle things. He was a very able man.

  A good man.

  Like you ? Are you a good man ?

  He got to his feet, patting his mother’s hand lightly, touching one of her cheeks with the back of his hand.

  ‘I’ll be back in a while, Mum,’ he said softly, and turned towards the door.

  There was a bathroom at the end of the corridor, for the use of patients, he assumed. Not that many of them in this unit would even be able to get to the toilet.

  Talbot glanced around, saw that the nurses’ station was unattended. He strode up the corridor and into the bathroom where he splashed his face with cold water. The clear fluid felt good against his skin and his flesh prickled, momentarily revitalised.

  He rubbed a wet hand around the back of his neck soothingly, before running both hands through his hair, slicking it back until it looked as though his hair had been oiled.

  He inspected his image in the mirror on the wall.

  The face which stared back at him was that of a man who needed sleep badly.

  The whites of his eyes were criss-crossed with red veins, the lids puffy and swollen. As he ran a hand across his cheeks and chin he could hear the stubble rasp.

  Tuck it’ he grunted and dried his face on the roller-towel.

  He felt a swelling in his bladder and urinated in the single cubicle; then, taking one last look in the mirror at his haggard reflection, he made his way back down the corridor towards his mother’s room.

  As he entered, he saw a dark figure standing beside the bed.

  Talbot looked at the priest for a moment, his eye focusing on the cleric’s white collar.

  ‘Good morning,’ said the priest.

  ‘What do you want?’ Talbot replied, warily.

  ‘I was asked to call on one of the patients in this unit’ the priest answered.

  ‘I usually look in on them all if I’m here.’

  ‘Well, you’re in the wrong room’ the DI snapped.

  The priest looked at him with a slight smile on his face. He was only five or six years older than Talbot, his hair short but thick and lustrous on top.

  ‘I know how you must feel’ the cleric soothed.

  ‘Do you? I don’t think so.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do to help.’

  ‘What, like give her the last rites or something? Why don’t you just leave her alone? You can’t do anything to help her.’

  ‘Then perhaps I can help you. At a time like this I find that families need help.’

  ‘From you?’

  ‘From God.’

  Talbot opened the door.

  ‘Get out’ he said, irritably.

  The priest hesitated.

  ‘I don’t need your help’ the policeman said. ‘Yours or God’s. If God wants to help, why doesn’t he bring her out of that fucking coma? That’d help.’

  ‘I’m sorry you feel that way’ the priest said, almost apologetically.

  ‘How do you expect me to feel? Look what your God’s done for my mother.’ He jabbed a finger angrily in the direction of the bed. ‘Go on, get out and take your God with you.’

  The priest left without answering.

  Talbot slammed the door behind him and exhaled deeply, eyes closed.

  The sharp beeping noise startled him.

  For one terrible second he thought it was the oscilloscope, then he realised it was his pager.

  He snatched at it and checked the number, pushing out into the corridor again, glancing around for a phone, remembering there was one at the nurses’ station.

  It was manned when he reached it.

  An older nurse looked up at him as he lowered over her.

  ‘I need to use a phone’ he said, pulling his ID from his pocket.

  The nurse glanced quickly at the card, then nodded and motioned to the white phone before him.

  Talbot jabbed the digits and waited.

  At the other end the receiver was picked up and he recognised Rafferty’s voice immediately.

  ‘Bill, it’s me. What do you want?’

  ‘Where are you, Jim?’

  ‘At the hospital with my mother, she’s very bad.’

  ‘Christ, I’m sorry. Listen, Jim, I know this is difficult but something’s happened here. You have to get back to the Yard as soon as you can.’

  ‘Can’t you deal with it?’

  ‘You need to hear this yourself.’

  Talbot hesitated.

  What if he left now and she died?

  Are you going to let her die alone?

  ‘Jim?’ Rafferty persisted.

  Again Talbot hesitated.

  ‘What we’ve got here is going to blow this abuse case wide open,’ Rafferty told him. ‘Maybe even prove links with the three suicides.’

  Another long silence.

  I’ll be there in an hour’ Talbot said.

  Eighty-four

  They sat in silence watching him.

  The three of them, eyes fixed upon him as he sat back in his chair, hands entwined behind his head, his own gaze lowered.

  Shanine Connor shifted uncomfortably in her seat and took a drag on the cigarette, glancing occasionally at Catherine Reed who touched her arm reassuringly.

  DS William Rafferty was perched on the corner of the desk gazing at his superior.

  Talbot loosened his hands and stretched, before cracking his knuckles, the sound reverberating around the silent office.

  He glanced at his watch.

  12.06 p.m.

  He had sat silently for almost two hours.

  Listening.

  Shanine Connor had spoken for the duration of that time, faltering in tears on a number of occasions, getting through a packet and a half of cigarettes.

  Talbot had hardly taken his eyes off her during that time.

  Cigarette smoke hung like a filthy curtain across the office and the DI got to his feet and opened a window to try and clear it.

  He chewed on a mint and returned to his seat.

  ‘It’s bullshit,’ he said, finally. ‘The whole fucking story is bollocks.’ He looked at Shanine. ‘The only bit you left out was where you keep your broomstick.’

  ‘I’m not lying’ Shanine began, but Cath interjected.

  ‘You think she made the story up, Talbot?’ the journalist said, scathingly.

  ‘Why should she?’

  ‘Money. How much will your rag pay for shit like she’s just come out with?’

  ‘I don’t want money’ Shanine said. ‘I came here to stop them killing my baby.’

  ‘Of course’ Talbot said, scornfully. ‘You don’t want it sacrificed like the other one, do you? Why come he
re in the first place? Why run from Manchester to London? They’ve got coppers in Manchester you know?’

  ‘I wanted to get away from the group, I said that. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go’ Shanine protested, looking at Cath as if for support.

  ‘According to you there are groups everywhere, aren’t there?’ Talbot snapped.

  ‘At least three in Manchester, didn’t you say? Christ knows how many there must be in a city this size. You took a chance coming down here. Why not go somewhere nice and quiet like Devon, or are there witches down there too?’

  Shanine opened her mouth to say something but the DI continued before she had the chance.

  ‘If what you say about murdering your own kid is true, then you’re bloody lucky we’re not charging you with manslaughter instead of wasting police time.’

  ‘So you don’t believe any of it?’ Cath asked.

  ‘What do you think?’ Talbot snapped.

  ‘So you’re going to ignore all the facts she’s given you?’ the journalist persisted. ‘The similarities don’t strike you as odd, Talbot? The mentions of a warehouse, the use of children, graveyard desecrations, killing animals. And what about this Death Hex? You’ve been investigating three suicides and the only thing stolen from each victim was a photo. Two days ago a photo was stolen from my flat, nothing else. Maybe I’m next.’

  Talbot raised his eyebrows and smiled.

  Cath turned away from him angrily, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘What about you, Bill?’ Talbot said, looking at Rafferty. ‘What do you think?’

  Rafferty shrugged. ‘I think she could be telling the truth.’

  ‘Jesus’ Talbot grunted. ‘I don’t believe this. Am I the only one who hasn’t lost his fucking mind around here?’

  ‘There’s a lot of coincidences, Jim, a lot of similarities with these cases we’ve been investigating,’ Rafferty insisted.

  Cath smiled to herself.

  ‘AH right,’ the DI said, irritably, turning his gaze upon Shanine. ‘Tell me

  again about this “Death Hex”.’ He spoke the last two words with contempt.

  ‘They steal a photograph of the person they want dead,’ Shanine said, sucking on her cigarette. ‘It’s put into a box with three thorns, some cemetery earth and a dead insect, then it’s buried close to the victim’s home.’

  ‘And what’s this thing called?’

  ‘A Misfortune Box.’

  ‘And this is what was done to your boyfriend,’ the DI proclaimed. ‘There’s no possibility he could have just topped himself? Was he depressed? Suicidal?’

  ‘They killed him,’ Shanine blurted. ‘And they used the Death Hex to do it, to make it look like suicide.’

  ‘And we’re supposed to believe that Parriam, Hyde and Jeffrey were killed the same way? Forced to commit suicide because of this “Misfortune Box”?’

  ‘It does tie in, Jim’ Rafferty said. ‘The stolen photos start to make sense if this is true.’

  ‘And the graveyard desecrations in Croydon’ Cath added.

  ‘So, who’s responsible? The parents of the abused kids?’ Talbot wanted to know.

  ‘That’s what you’re supposed to find out, isn’t it?’ Cath said, challengingly.

  ‘Don’t tell me my fucking job, Reed’ Talbot snapped. He glared at her for a second then turned his attention back to Shanine. ‘This box, how big is it?’

  She held her hands about six inches apart.

  ‘They seal it with black wax’ she told him.

  Talbot eyed her suspiciously.

  ‘What do you get out of this?’ he said, quietly. ‘What difference does it make to you what happened to those three men? Or what happens to her?’ He nodded in Cath’s direction.

  ‘I just want my child to be safe.’

  ‘You said that the members of the group were frightened of what would happen to them if they rebelled, if they spoke out against the others. Aren’t you scared?’

  ‘I told you I was. That’s why I ran’ Shanine insisted. ‘But I’m more frightened for my child. I won’t let them take this one, too.’

  ‘What if they’ve worked this Death Hex on you?’ the DI said.

  ‘They might have. But they’re more likely to come looking for me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To punish me.’

  ‘Why not just kill you?’ the DI demanded. ‘If they’re that powerful it should be easy’

  ‘They’d want to make me suffer for betraying them, and they’d want my baby,’

  Shanine told him. ‘They wouldn’t kill me.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ Talbot said.

  ‘Because I ran away once before, not long after my boyfriend was killed’ she told him. ‘They found me. They’ll probably find me this time, too.’

  ‘What did they do to you last time?’ Talbot asked.

  Shanine looked at Cath and the journalist saw tears in her eyes.

  ‘Well, come on, tell me’ the DI persisted. ‘Make me believe that all this isn’t just bullshit.’

  Shanine stood up, tugging at the buttons of her shirt, dragging it open.

  Talbot gritted his teeth, his eyes fixed on her torso, her breasts.

  ‘Jesus Christ’ murmured Rafferty, his gaze also riveted on the young woman.

  ‘Is that enough for you?’ said Shanine, defiantly, a solitary tear rolling down her cheek.

  The flesh from her collar bone as far down as her navel was criss-crossed by scars.

  There were several darker marks around her breasts, which Talbot recognised as burns.

  Shanine shrugged off her shirt and turned around slowly, and Talbot saw that her back was in an even worse condition.

  There was a mark between her shoulder blades, visible through the maze of weals and scars. Darker.

  It looked like an A enclosed in a circle. The sign usually associated with Anarchy.

  It took him only a second to realise it was a brand.

  ‘There’re others if you want to look’ she said, undoing her jeans.

  Talbot shook his head, reached for the young woman’s top and handed it back to her.

  ‘Don’t you want to know which ones were done with knives and which ones were done with whips?’ she said, angrily.

  The marks on her belly were even more prominent, great red welts which seemed to glisten on the swollen flesh.

  ‘Get dressed’ Talbot said, quietly.

  She pulled the top back on.

  Rafferty looked across at his superior, who met his gaze and held it for a moment before leaning back in his chair.

  ‘Just assuming this shit about these Misfortune Boxes is true’ he said, finally. ‘How long would it take this … spell to work?’

  ‘Two or three days, maybe longer’ Shanine informed him. ‘Not more than a week.’

  ‘Parriam, Hyde and Jeffrey all died within a week of their photos being stolen’ Rafferty offered.

  ‘So that leaves you two days to find this box, Reed’ the DI murmured.

  ‘Otherwise it looks like you might be joining them.’

  ‘Where do we start looking?’ Cath responded.

  ‘It’ll be hidden somewhere near your house’ Shanine told her.

  ‘Get men round to the houses of the three dead men, search the gardens of their places and the houses close by. Use fucking JCBs if you have to. But find those boxes’ Talbot said to his colleague.

  ‘What about me?’ Cath asked, her face pale.

  ‘You’d better hope that all this is shit’ he said, flatly.

  ‘They usually try to work the Hex to coincide with one of the important days in the satanic calendar,’ Shanine offered.

  ‘Like what?’ Cath asked.

  ‘Candlemas, that’s February the second’ Shanine told her. ‘Or the summer or winter solstice. Some groups even use the High Priest’s birthday as a festival.’

  ‘Are there any dates coming up?’ Rafferty asked.

  ‘Beltaine. Walpurgis night. April the thir
tieth,’ Shanine informed him.

  ‘That’s two days from now’ the DS said, looking at his colleague.

  Talbot was looking intently at Shanine.

  ‘How do we stop the Hex?’ Cath asked.

  ‘It’ll come into force at midnight on the thirtieth’ Shanine told her. ‘You’ve got to find the Misfortune Box before then. You must find that box and destroy it.’

  Eighty-five

  Frank Reed held the piece of paper before him.

  Just a simple piece of paper.

  A4 size.

  The envelope which he’d taken it from moments earlier lay on the kitchen table close to his elbow, close to the mug of lukewarm coffee.

  He’d read and re-read the words on the paper.

  Tears were running steadily down his cheeks.

  Throw it away.

  He put it down on the table, smoothing out the creases.

  Burn it. Burn the envelope too.

  Two other envelopes were in front of him, the single sheets of paper they contained also laid out for inspection.

  All the notes were handwritten but the graphology was different. Three different hands had penned these notes.

  One of the envelopes bore a Hackney postmark, the others nothing at all. Not even a stamp. They had

  obviously been pushed through his letterbox by hand.

  But from where? From whom?

  It didn’t seem to matter that much. All that mattered was that they were here.

  One was written on pink notepaper bearing a printed rose in one corner. The type of notepaper usually used for ‘Thank you’ notes. The type friends would use to correspond. The sort women might use.

  Perhaps this note had been written by a woman.

  Maybe they all had.

  The only thing missing was the scent of perfume, Reed mused, wiping the tears from his cheeks.

  All the notes were short, one of them only a few words, but what mattered was that someone had taken the time to write them and, more importantly, to deliver them.

  He looked at each in turn.

  At the pink notepaper with its rose in one corner.

  At the words it bore.

  I can scarcely disguise my disgust for your actions. A man in your position should be ashamed.

  You are a disgrace to your profession and to your kind. I will pray for your daughter.

  The second letter was written on plain paper, but the words were remarkably straight. Reed could only imagine that the writer had used a lined sheet, placed beneath the plain one in order to keep the spaces between the lines uniform.