Stolen Angels

by Shaun Hutson

  Rafferty was in the process of doing so when the two-way burst into life.

  ‘Puma Three, come in. Over.’

  Rafferty reached for the radio.

  ‘Puma Three receiving. What is it? Over.’

  ‘Bill, this is Penhallow. We’ve found something. Over,’ the DC informed him.

  Talbot looked across.

  ‘Where are you, Colin? Over,’ Rafferty replied.

  ‘In the garden of Neil Parriam’s place. If I were you I’d get here as quick as you can. Over.’

  Talbot took the radio from him.

  ‘This is Talbot. What have you found? Over.’

  ‘It’s easier if you come and look, guv. Just one thing. Do you want us to open this now or wait until you get here? Over.’

  ‘Open what? Over.’

  ‘We’ve found the box.’

  Eighty-nine

  Cath tugged at the furnace door, finding, as she had expected, that it was wedged shut.

  A latch sealed it and, by the look of it, whoever had been painting down in the basement had given the furnace a coat of emulsion too. It looked as if they’d painted over the latch, making it impossible to move by hand.

  Cath pressed the tip of her finger tentatively to the metal, ensuring that it wasn’t wet. Seeing that it wasn’t, she tried to release the catch, but her efforts proved useless.

  She glanced around and saw another large box close by. It was filled with tins of paint, rags, brushes and a bottle of clear liquid which she guessed was turps.

  Cath rummaged in the box and found a thick piece of wood, which she guessed had been used to stir the paint.

  It might just do the job.

  She slid the thick wood between the latch and furnace door and levered the catch upwards.

  For a long time it resisted her efforts then, finally, paint flaked off and the latch gave way.

  Cath tossed the piece of wood aside and pulled at the furnace door.

  It opened with a loud creak, which echoed around the large basement.

  A chill breeze seemed to blow from the open mouth of the furnace, like cold air from some yawning set of metal jaws.

  The furnace was clean inside. No ashes left over from the days when it had been fully functional. Cath reached for her lighter and flicked it on, squinting into the darkness beyond.

  It was huge. Large enough to allow her passage if she wished.

  The door might be a tight squeeze but, once inside, she could see that the furnace was large enough to allow her to stand upright. She could see the outlet pipes leading off from the centre.

  Could the box be hidden in one of those?

  She paused for a moment.

  Who would bother to clamber through a furnace door four feet square to secrete the Misfortune Box inside?

  Someone who wanted her dead.

  She paused a moment, flicked off the lighter. It was growing hot in her hand.

  Inside the furnace?

  Cath sucked in a deep breath. A breath tinged with the smell of paint. Then, cautiously, she ducked through the furnace door into the blackness beyond.

  She flicked on the lighter once more and checked the pipe closest to her.

  Nothing.

  And the next.

  Empty but for a few ashes at the bottom.

  The air inside was stale, acrid.

  She coughed, the sound reverberating around her.

  The open door offered her a little extra light but she still needed to use the lighter to peer into the darker recesses of the pipes leading off in so many directions from this central point.

  Cath checked a couple more.

  Both were empty.

  The lighter grew hot in her hand again and she flicked it off for a second.

  The furnace door swung shut with a dull clang.

  She was plunged into darkness so impenetrable it was almost palpable.

  Cath couldn’t see a hand in front of her.

  She flicked wildly at the lighter.

  All she saw in the thick gloom were sparks.

  It wouldn’t light.

  She pushed it back into her pocket and pushed at the door.

  It was stuck fast.

  Cath felt sudden uncontrollable fear grip her. It raced through her veins like iced water. She pushed harder against the door.

  Jesus, what if the catch had dropped back into place?

  She banged on the door, but still it wouldn’t budge.

  The dank smell inside the furnace was beginning to clog in her nostrils now.

  She was finding it difficult to breathe.

  She took a step back and aimed a kick at the door but, in the blackness she overbalanced and went sprawling.

  Cath felt something hard and gritty beneath her hands, something which dug into her palms.

  Cinders ?

  She kicked out at the door again, frantic now.

  Her second blow sent the door flying open.

  She was on her haunches in seconds, pulling herself from the maw like a child desperate to escape the steel womb.

  She scrambled out of the cold furnace and dropped to her knees outside, sucking in deep breaths, not caring that the air was thick with the acrid smell of paint. She could even taste it at the back of her throat.

  She slammed the furnace door shut and dropped the catch.

  Her jeans and shirt were covered in black smudges, soot deposits which also stained her palms.

  Cath got to her feet slowly, her breath still coming in gasps, her gaze fixed on the furnace door.

  How had it closed?

  A gust of wind perhaps.

  From where?

  She ran a dirty hand through her hair.

  Come on, get a grip of yourself. Your imagination’s running riot.

  She looked at the furnace door, then around the basement.

  Cath was shaking.

  Where was that fucking box?

  She knew there was only one person who could help her now.

  Ninety

  Her clothes had been washed, her hair shampooed and blow-dried. She smelled of soap.

  She smelled clean.

  Talbot glanced at Shanine Connor and thought what a pretty girl she was.

  Aware of his gaze upon her she looked at him and managed a small smile but the DI merely nodded towards the three objects on the worktop before them.

  Three boxes.

  Each one about six inches long, half that in width.

  Hardwood.

  The lids had been removed, the contents placed beside them, each separate piece tagged by the pathology department.

  The head of that department now stood beside the DI, his eyes also fixed on the boxes and their contents.

  Phillip Barclay rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  DS William Rafferty prepared to light up a cigarette but remembered the large no smoking sign opposite him. He popped the cigarette into his mouth and flicked at the filter with his tongue.

  ‘Those are the Misfortune Boxes,’ Shanine said, softly.

  ‘Each one was found in the garden of each of the dead men’ Talbot said. ‘Any prints off any of them, Phil?’

  ‘None,’ Barclay told him. ‘Whoever put them there wore smooth gloves.’ The pathologist picked up a pair of tweezers and, using them with great care he touched the contents of each box, one object at a time.

  Three thorns, possibly from a rose bush. Some earth, now dried. A cranefly which looked as dry as the earth itself and a small photo of Neil Parriam.

  The other boxes contained exactly the same, apart from the second which had held a picture of Peter Hyde and the third which had borne a photo of Craig Jeffrey.

  ‘It’s hard to believe,’ said Barclay, softly.

  Talbot looked at the pathologist, then at Shanine.

  ‘Why bury them in the gardens?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re always buried close to the victim’s home.’

  ‘Anything else, Phil?’ Talbot wanted to know.

  ‘A stran
d of hair in the second box, possibly left by whoever put it there. A speck of dried blood on the third, but not enough to type.’

  ‘Were they well hidden?’ Talbot enquired.

  ‘No more than six inches below the surface in all three cases,’ said Rafferty.

  ‘But who the hell would think to look for something like this, anyway? Unless the three

  men knew these boxes were hidden in their gardens, why the hell would they go looking?’

  ‘That’s their strength’ said Shanine. ‘No one believes.’

  All eyes turned towards her.

  ‘Ignorance is the greatest ally’ she continued. ‘They said that to me once. No one believed in what they did, no one understood. As long as they’re treated as a joke they’re safe.’

  ‘Do you think the group you ran from could have anything to do with the ones who killed Parriam and the others?’ asked Talbot.

  ‘They might be linked,’ Shanine said. ‘Lots of the groups are. Some of them exchange things.’ Her voice faded.

  ‘Like what?’ Talbot demanded.

  ‘During some of the orgies or when kids were being used, the ceremonies were videotaped or pictures of the kids were taken’ she told him. ‘They were sometimes passed around between groups and the kids were told that if they let anyone know what they’d seen then their families would be shown the films or pictures. Some of the tapes were sold too.’

  ‘To whom?’ Rafferty asked.

  ‘Paedophiles. Porn merchants’ she said, eyes fixed on the boxes.

  ‘I still think it’s crazy,’ Talbot muttered. ‘We’re supposed to believe that three blokes topped themselves because of these things?’ He jabbed a finger in the direction of the boxes.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve got much choice other than to believe now, Jim’ Rafferty echoed, still chewing the unlit cigarette filter.

  ‘And if you don’t find the next box before midnight tonight there’ll be another death - that journalist,’ Shanine offered.

  A heavy silence descended.

  It was broken by the ringing of the phone.

  Barclay ambled over and picked it up.

  ‘Jesus Christ’ hissed Talbot. ‘So many fucking leads but nothing to link them, not one concrete piece of evidence.’ He exhaled deeply. Angrily. ‘Three suicides that could be witchcraft murders; all three men are involved on a building project which just happens to involve a warehouse supposedly used as a meeting place for a ring of child abusers and satanists. Seventeen kids taken into care, some showing signs of physical abuse, some saying they were raped by the Devil. Those same kids are now being released back to the families we suspect did the damage to them because we can’t prove otherwise.

  Cemetery desecrations in Croydon and a pregnant tart who thinks she’s a witch who’s running to stop her kid being sacrificed.’ He looked at Shanine and Rafferty. ‘Would one of you like to tell me what the fuck is going on because I’ve just about given up.’ He held out a hand to Rafferty. ‘Give me a fucking cigarette.’

  The DS handed his boss the packet of cigarettes and the lighter, watching as he lit up and inhaled deeply. He looked at the no smoking sign and blew out a stream of smoke in that direction. ‘Fuck it’ he muttered.

  Barclay turned towards him, one hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.

  ‘Jim, it’s for you’ said the pathologist.

  Talbot looked puzzled.

  ‘She says it’s urgent’ Barclay continued, holding out the phone towards the DI. ‘She insists she’s a journalist. Catherine Reed. She sounds frightened.’

  Talbot took the receiver from him.

  ‘Talbot’ he said.

  1 can’t find it’ Cath told him. ‘I can’t find the box.’

  ‘We’ve been luckier. We found boxes at the homes of all three dead men.’

  ‘So it is true? They were witchcraft killings?’

  Talbot didn’t answer.

  ‘Talbot, if they killed those other three men then they’re going to kill me’

  Cath said anxiously.

  ‘Unless you find that box’ he reminded her.

  ‘Let me help her’ Shanine Connor offered.

  Talbot looked at the young woman, then at Rafferty, who nodded almost imperceptibly.

  ‘Where are you?’ Talbot asked.

  Cath told him.

  ‘Just sit tight’ the DI said. ‘There’ll be someone there as quickly as possible.’

  Cath sat on the edge of her chair looking down at the phone. Should she call Phil?

  He was in Glasgow. A light aircraft carrying sixteen passengers including the French Ambassador had gone down just outside the city, killing all those on board. Terrorism was suspected.

  Cross wasn’t expected back until the following day.

  He didn’t even know what was going on.

  Didn’t even know her life was in danger.

  ” it was.

  She hesitated a second, then dialled her brother’s number. There was no answer. Cath put down the receiver and waited.

  Ninety-one

  The summons had arrived in an official-looking brown envelope.

  Summons.

  Frank Reed looked at the headed notepaper and read the word over and over again.

  So, at last, the waiting was over.

  He was to appear at Hackney Magistrates Court in three days time for a preliminary hearing. After that a decision would be made on whether or not his case went to trial.

  What fucking case?

  The alleged abuse of his own daughter?

  He wanted to shout and scream at the top of his voice, to give vent to the rage and frustration he felt building inside him. A pain which had grown steadily over the last few days, swelling and expanding until he thought the pressure would erupt within him, would destroy him.

  Thoughts and emotions whirled around inside his head, too numerous to focus on, too jumbled to consider.

  He felt dizzy.

  Was there one single word to describe how he felt? One solitary exhortation to express his desolation at the enormity of this situation he faced.

  He sat at the kitchen table, staring at the summons, his fingers curled into fists.

  At least at the hearing they would be forced to consider his feelings, his views.

  There shouldn’t even be a hearing.

  They would hear what he had to say and they would understand.

  And if they didn ‘t 1

  Reed found a vision forcing itself into his already confused mind. A man standing in the dock, in court, facing a jury.

  Him.

  Jesus, the thought was too much to bear and he tried to push it aside, but it persisted.

  He swallowed hard, fear now creeping in amongst his other emotions. It glided easily in beside the anger and the pain.

  He got to his feet and wandered through into the sitting room, snatching up the summons as he went.

  As he reached for the phone he sucked in a couple of deep breaths, trying to control his rage then, satisfied it was under control, he dialled.

  And waited.

  The voice at the other end wasn’t the one he’d expected to hear.

  ‘Can I speak to Ellen Reed, please?’ he said, falteringly.

  The voice on the other end told him she wasn’t in that morning.

  ‘Thank you, I’ll try later …’

  The voice told him that Ellen had taken a couple of days off work.

  He put down the phone and dialled another number.

  It rang for what seemed like an eternity but the answering machine didn’t kick in so he assumed someone was there.

  A second later he was proved right.

  He recognised Ellen’s voice and, overcome with conflicting emotions, he found it impossible to speak.

  When she spoke again it seemed to break the spell.

  ‘Ellen. It’s me’ he said, trying to keep his voice low.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you,’ she snapped.

  ‘It didn’t hav
e to come to this. Court. What are you trying to do to me?’

  ‘I’m doing this for Becky, not you.’

  ‘You’re doing it for yourself,’ he snarled.

  ‘Goodbye, Frank’ Ellen said, flatly.

  ‘No wait’ he said, imploringly. ‘Listen to me, Ellen. All we had to do was talk. It didn’t have to go this far. It’s not too late. You can stop these court proceedings: you started them.’

  ‘Afraid of what they’ll find out, Frank? Frightened they might uncover the truth?’

  He gripped the receiver tightly, his jaw clenched.

  He wanted to bellow at her and the effort of restraining himself was almost too much.

  ‘I don’t want you near our daughter again’ Ellen told him. ‘This court case will make sure she’s kept away from you.’

  ‘You don’t have the right-‘

  ‘I have every right after what you did to her’ Ellen snapped.

  ‘I did nothing to her’ he roared, desperately. ‘Speak to her. Ask her. She’ll tell you nothing happened.’

  ‘She says it did.’

  ‘She’s saying what you tell her to say, you and that bastard Ward.’

  ‘Don’t bring Jonathan into this.’

  ‘He’s a part of it, he has been since the beginning.’

  ‘I love him, Frank, and I love Becky, that’s why I’m protecting her from you.’

  ‘You bitch!’ he bellowed.

  ‘See you in court,’ she said, calmly, and hung up.

  ‘No!’ He screamed the word, his rage uncontrollable now.

  Reed snatched up the phone and hurled it across the room with such force that it cracked in three places, the wire torn from the wall.

  ‘Fucking bitch!’ he yelled, then the anger seemed to drain from him. ‘Fucking bitch.’ It was replaced by that growing sense of desolation.

  He was fighting back tears now, but he sucked in a deep breath.

  She wasn’t going to get away with this.

  If only he could see her, speak to her.

  Reason with her.

  No, it was too late for that. Reed looked across at the shattered remains of the phone, the lead hanging from the wall like some ruptured umbilical cord.

  There was to be no reasoning.

  No talking.

  He knew there was only one option left.