Stolen Angels

by Shaun Hutson

  like bloated furry caterpillars above his dark brown eyes: eyes which now seemed to be gazing into space as if seeking some kind of answer.

  As he looked across his office, his stare focusing on the vase of fresh flowers on a table near the door, he was aware of Reed leaning on the front of the desk.

  Hardy could hear the younger man breathing.

  ‘Come on,’ Reed said, irritably. ‘Why wait any longer?’

  ‘It’s not that easy, Frank,’ Hardy said, finally, blinking hard. The spell, it seemed, was broken. ‘We have no proof.’

  ‘You saw the marks on his body. He didn’t do that to himself. That kid is terrified. God alone knows what he’s been through. The only way to help him is to call the police. They have to find out what’s been done to him.’

  ‘There are other considerations.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Hardy lowered his gaze again.

  ‘The publicity’ he said, sheepishly. ‘This kind of thing could reflect badly on the school.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Reed snapped, exasperatedly. ‘There’s a kid here that’s been beaten, possibly by his parents. Not just slapped around but badly abused physically and mentally. You don’t have to be a bloody social worker to see that. And all you’re worried about is the reputation of the school. What matters more to you, Noel? The state of St Michael’s or the well being of its pupils? So what if it does attract some publicity? Good. It might stop some more kids from being mistreated.’

  ‘What makes you think there are others?’ Hardy wanted to know.

  ‘Ask Judith Nelson. She’s seen one of her girls in more or less the same state.’

  ‘Which girl?’

  ‘Annette Hilston. She lives about two streets away from the O’Brian boy.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do? Have every home in that area investigated, just in case the children there might be in danger?’ Hardy glared at his assistant.

  ‘Frank, you’re a parent yourself, how would you feel if someone started yelling abuser at you? If they accused you of harming your child?’

  ‘If my daughter looked and behaved the way Paul O’Brian does then they’d have every right to accuse me, because the chances are they’d be right. That boy needs

  our help, Noel, and the only way he’s going to get it is by you calling the police. Now.’

  Hardy got to his feet and crossed to his window. It looked out over part of the school playground. He could see children out there now, some standing around in groups talking, others running about. Some boys were kicking a football against the wall opposite.

  There were a number of houseplants on the window sill and, as he stood there, Hardy gently stroked the smooth leaves of a spider plant.

  ‘You say you’ve seen injuries on another pupil too?’ the Headmaster said, quietly.

  ‘I haven’t but, like I said, Judith Nelson said she had. Call her in if you want to.’

  Hardy shook his head slowly, his back still to Reed. ‘There are serious ramifications for everyone concerned if your allegations are right or wrong, Frank’ he said, still gently stroking the plant leaves.

  ‘I realise that. But I’m prepared to take that chance.’ Hardy turned to face him. ‘Yes, you’re prepared,’ he snapped. ‘I’m not sure I am. As I said, perhaps, if we had more proof.’

  ‘Come on, for Christ’s sake! What are you going to do? Wait until a child is killed? Will that be proof enough for you?’ Reed pushed the phone angrily towards his colleague. ‘Call the police, Noel.’

  Hardy held up a hand as if to silence Reed. ‘Assuming you’re right’ he said, returning to his desk. ‘What will the police do? Visit the boy’s family? Ask a

  few questions? If they find nothing to support your allegations then you could make it worse not just for the school but for the boy himself. Perhaps you haven’t considered him, Frank.’

  ‘He’s my only bloody consideration’ Reed snapped.

  ‘We’re not responsible for those children once they’re outside our care’ Hardy said, defensively.

  ‘So what do we do? Turn our backs on them when they need help?’ Reed demanded.

  ‘That boy needs help. You know that. We’re the only ones who can give it to him.’

  The two men stared at each other in silence for what seemed like an eternity.

  It was Reed who finally spoke again.

  ‘Call the police, Noel’ he said, pushing the phone nearer to the Headmaster.

  The older man glanced at the phone.

  Reed kept his gaze fixed upon him.

  Hardy looked at him, his face pale.

  ‘And if you’re wrong?’ he said, the words hanging in the air.

  Reed pushed the phone a little closer.

  ‘Call the police, Noel’ he said, quietly.

  Forty-eight

  All Phillip Cross saw when he answered the door of his flat was the bottle of Moet et Chandon dangling before him, gripped by two slender fingers.

  The photographer smiled even more broadly as Catherine Reed stepped into view, clasping the bottle to her as if it were a child.

  ‘Peace offering,’ she said, indicating the champagne.

  Cross ran appraising eyes over her, over the long dark hair, which he could smell: freshly washed. There was a vibrance to her features which he’d not seen for a while. If he’d harboured any thoughts of giving her a hard time they vanished quickly. She remained before him in the doorway and crossed one shapely leg in front of the other, the split in her skirt opening to reveal the smooth skin beneath. She raised her eyebrows quizzically.

  ‘Come in’ Cross said, chuckling, stepping aside as he ushered her into the flat.

  Cath put down the bottle and wrapped her arms around him, feeling his lips press urgently against hers, his tongue probing beyond the hard edges of her teeth. She responded fiercely, pulling him more tightly to her.

  When they finally separated, it was Cross who spoke first.

  ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he asked, grinning. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’

  She shrugged and sat down on the sofa, kicking off her shoes, drawing her legs up beneath her, watching as he retreated to the kitchen to fetch a couple of glasses. He returned a moment later with two large tumblers, blowing in one to remove the dust.

  Cath watched him as he uncorked the champagne and poured some into each of the tumblers. She smiled.

  ‘That’s really classy, Phil’ she chuckled as he passed her the glass.

  He raised his own glass and tapped it gently against hers. They both drank.

  ‘You still haven’t told me why,’ Cross said, sitting beside her, snaking one arm around her shoulder.

  Cath shrugged. ‘I’ve been working hard lately. I think I’ve been a bit of a bitch to you.’

  ‘I’d like to argue with you but I can’t’ he said, smiling as she punched him playfully on the arm.

  ‘I haven’t meant to be,’ she persisted. ‘But this story I’m working on is big.’ She sipped her champagne. ‘It’s important to me, Phil.’

  ‘You didn’t come round here to tell me how much your career means to you, did you? I already know that. I’ve never wanted you to change the way you think about your work; I know how much it means to you. I just don’t see why I have to be separate from it. We are in the same business, after all.’

  ‘Feeling left out, were you?’ she chided, pulling at his cheek.

  His smile faded and he caught her face in his hand, holding her there, gazing

  into her eyes.

  ‘I miss you when I can’t see you’ Cross said, quietly. ‘I like being around you, Cath.’

  He ran his hand through her hair, then gently stroked the back of her neck, kneading the flesh there between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about work tonight’ she said, softly, sliding closer to him.

  ‘Good, that makes a change. What do you want to talk about?’

  She lifted her head and looked int
o his eyes. ‘I don’t want to talk’ she murmured, leaning forward, kissing him hard on the lips, one hand fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

  He felt her slim fingers gliding across his chest, his own hand slipping down to her thigh, stroking gently, pushing up beneath the material of her skirt, moving higher.

  His fingers brushed something smooth, soft.

  Cross realised with delight that it was her gently curled pubic hair.

  He pulled back slightly, smiling.

  Cath grinned at his reaction.

  ‘So,’ he said, his breathing now more rapid. ‘What time are you leaving me tonight?’

  She leaned back, fumbling inside her handbag, pulling something free that she held up before him.

  They both began to laugh.

  Cath was brandishing a toothbrush between her fingers.

  Talbot slumped wearily in the chair, head back, eyes closed.

  The silence inside the house was, as usual, oppressive, and he thought about switching on the television just to shatter the solitude but, finally, he decided against it.

  The DI poured himself a whiskey, then sat back down, rolling the tumbler between his palms, gazing down into the soothing fluid as if seeking some answers in the bottom of the glass.

  Fucking bitch.

  He’d tried the Grosvenor House, The Dorchester and the Hilton. He’d even wandered around to the Park Lane Hotel, taking a drink in each of their bars before driving to number 23 Queens Gardens.

  There had been no answer there either from Flat 5b.

  Gina Bishop was nowhere to be found.

  Bitch.

  He snatched up the phone and tried her number.

  It rang twice, then the metallic whine of her answering machine began: ‘Hi.

  I’m not here now, but if…’

  Talbot pressed down on the cradle, waited a moment then dialled another number.

  Her mobile.

  Ringing.

  ‘Come on,’ he whispered.

  Then a voice.

  ‘The Vodaphone number you have dialled is not in use …’

  ‘Fuck!’ he snarled and slammed the receiver down.

  Mind you, if she was with a client she wouldn’t have the bloody thing turned on, would she?

  Fucking bitch.

  He took a hefty swallow from the glass, then dialled again, her home number this time, waiting for the message to end, for the long beep to signal he should start talking.

  He heard it and tried to speak but found he couldn’t say the words.

  The tape was recording silence at the other end.

  He pressed the receiver hard to his ear, his eyes closed.

  Say something.

  Tell her to call you. Tell her you’ll meet her somewhere.

  He gripped the handset more tightly.

  ‘Gina,’ he said, finally then he heard another long beep.

  Time up.

  ‘Fucking bastard!’ he roared at the phone, at the answering machine.

  At himself?

  He dropped the phone back onto its cradle and got to his feet, refilling his glass.

  And if she’d answered, what would you have said to her?

  He glared at the phone.

  He needed to talk to her.

  To anyone.

  Talbot walked back to the phone and dialled again.

  PART TWO

  .. . Let me show you how I love you. It’s our secret, you and me. Let me show you how I love you, But keep it in the family…

  Megadeth

  .. . The sleeping and the dead

  Are but as pictures; ‘tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted Devil.

  Macbeth, Scene II, Act II

  Forty-nine

  He thought he’d wet himself.

  Doug O’Brian rolled over in bed and slid a hand down towards his groin, his eyes half open, his head still clouded.

  He felt no moisture, just the wrinkled skin of his scrotum. O’Brian also touched his penis.

  Checking.

  He must have been dreaming.

  Only then did he become aware of the pressure inside his bladder.

  No wonder he’d dreamed he’d pissed himself.

  He swung himself quickly out of bed, pulled the cord of his pyjama bottoms tighter and headed for the bedroom door.

  Half-way across he tripped on one of his own discarded shoes and almost overbalanced.

  He muttered something under his breath and kicked the offending article out of the way, tugging open the bedroom door, his haste to reach the toilet now increased.

  The floorboards on the landing creaked protestingly as he crossed, past two other closed doors and another to his right which was slightly ajar.

  He peered in and saw two of his children sleeping, one of them hanging precariously close to the edge of the top bunk.

  O’Brian thought about tiptoeing in and pushing the child back, but his desire to empty his bursting bladder proved too strong.

  The window on the landing was letting in the first, dirty rays of dawn and O’Brian squinted, as if the dull, greyish-blue light was too much for him.

  Another day.

  A day just like all the rest. They had become indistinguishable from one another, or so it seemed to O’Brian. Get up, work, go to bed.

  Sandwiched between were worries about his job (he’d heard that fifty were to be laid off from the Bankside Power station in Southwark where he’d worked for the last fifteen years), his family and his car, which looked like packing up on him again. Bloody thing. It hadn’t run right for more than a week since he’d bought it from his brother-in-law three years ago.

  But, at the moment, the only thing which concerned Doug O’Brian was relieving himself.

  He pushed open the bathroom door, flipped up the seat and began urinating.

  The relief.

  He smiled to himself, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His black hair was sticking up at one side like a wayward punk rocker, his eyes looked puffy and he needed a shave.

  Otherwise he didn’t look too bad for such an early hour.

  He finished urinating but chose not to flush the toilet, not wanting to wake anyone, least of all any of the children. Especially the youngest. She’d be in their bedroom like a shot if he disturbed her. O’Brian wondered if he might just get another hour’s sleep before the alarm woke him. If the youngest heard him moving about he had no chance.

  He tiptoed back onto the landing, glancing out of the window, pausing a moment.

  There were two police vans parked in the road outside.

  He could see uniformed men moving about, pointing to various houses. They were talking to a couple of smartly dressed civilians, one of them a woman.

  O’Brian rubbed his eyes.

  What the hell were the law doing out there at this time in the morning?

  He glanced at his watch.

  5.16 a.m.

  More uniformed men climbed from the back of a third van, which pulled up and parked on the other side of Luke Street.

  The men paired up and O’Brian watched as they headed off in different directions, some towards the front doors of houses.

  He blinked hard, as if the uniformed men might disappear.

  Perhaps they were part of his dream, too.

  Then he saw two of them approaching his house.

  The loud knocking on the front door that he heard seconds later convinced him this was no dream.

  Two streets away in Blackall Street, there were no vans, just police cars.

  Each officer had a plain clothes companion as he approached his designated house.

  They all seemed to pause outside the doors of those houses chosen, then, as if a signal had been given, they knocked.

  Annette Hilston had watched the police vans draw up in Weymouth Terrace, crouched on her bed, the eyes of a dozen pop stars glaring blankly at her from the posters festooning her walls.

  She had seen them approach the house.

>   She had heard them bang on the door.

  Now she listened to shouting. Her father and her mother were yelling at someone, but she heard no words in reply.

  Annette remained kneeling on her bed, hands clasped together, clutching a key-ring with a picture of the lead singer of her favourite pop group on it.

  She carried it everywhere, for luck.

  Now she gripped it like some kind of rosary.

  Downstairs she could still hear the shouting and swearing.

  She continued gazing out of the window.

  Even when she heard footsteps coming up the stairs.

  Some rose meekly, shocked.

  Some wanted to fight back.

  Some tried.

  Tempers frayed like old rope, stretched and finally snapped.

  There were tears, screams, curses but no arrests.

  And there was anger.

  Fear.

  By 6.00 a.m. that morning, it looked as if the entire might of the Metropolitan Police Force had invaded Hackney.

  By 7.00 a.m. it was all over.

  Catherine Reed heard the voice and thought it was part of her dream. Only when she felt the hand on her shoulder did she stir, sitting up quickly, almost knocking the mug of tea from Phillip Cross’s hand as he stood over her.

  ‘Morning’ said Cross, grinning.

  Cath looked at him and blinked myopically, then she too smiled and reached for the mug, burning her fingers. She hissed and set the tea down on the bedside table.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asked, flopping back against the headboard.

  ‘Half seven,’ he told her.

  She ran two hands through her long, dark hair and groaned.

  ‘What day is it?’ she murmured, smiling. ‘Where am I? Who am I?’

  Cross chuckled.

  ‘I’m going to have a shower’ he said, glancing at her naked breasts.

  She watched as he walked from the bedroom, her gaze fixed on his naked backside.

  ‘Thanks for the tea’ she called, smiling as he turned. ‘And for everything else.’ She looked at his groin and raised her eyebrows. ‘I must have been good, to get tea in bed.’

  ‘Not bad’ he said, grinning.

  She threw a pillow in his direction, listening as he made his way towards the bathroom. A moment later she heard the hiss of the shower.