Stolen Angels

by Shaun Hutson

Macpherson leaned against the table, the DS stood close to the door as if fearing Reed was going to make a run for it.

  ‘Look, I’ve been sitting here for over an hour,’ Reed snapped.

  ‘That’s a slight exaggeration, Mr Reed,’ Macpherson told him. ‘It hasn’t been anywhere near that long.’ The detective perched on the edge of the table and motioned for Reed to sit down, which he did.

  ‘I want to know why I’m being held here,’ Reed said, trying to control his temper.

  ‘We received a report about you and your daughter,’ the DI told him.

  ‘From who?’

  ‘Ellen Reed. I believe that’s your wife.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Reed rasped, leaning back in his chair. ‘I should have fucking known. What did the bitch say?’

  ‘You and your wife are separated, aren’t you?’ Macpherson said.

  ‘I want to know what she told you.’

  ‘We’ll come to that, Mr Reed. If you could just answer these questions it would make things a lot easier.’

  A heavy silence descended on the room, all eyes fixed on the teacher.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, finally. ‘We’re separated.’

  ‘And she lives with a Mr Jonathan Ward and your daughter Rebecca. Correct?’

  Reed nodded.

  ‘Are you divorced?’ Macpherson continued.

  ‘No. She just walked out on me and took my daughter, but you’d better ask her about that.’

  ‘Your daughter stayed with you over the weekend?’ the DI asked.

  ‘Yes. For the first time since my wife took her away.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Reed snorted.

  ‘Where did you go? What did you do together?’ the detective continued.

  ‘Went out, saw a film, had some fun. We did what most normal fathers and daughters do,’ Reed said, shaking his head.

  ‘Did your daughter sleep in the same bed as you at any time?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, don’t be so ridiculous. Is that what Ellen said? Is that what all this is about?’

  ‘Did she sleep in your bed at any time during the weekend?’ Macpherson persisted.

  ‘No.’

  ‘She didn’t get into bed with you at any time?’

  ‘Well, she came and woke me up on the Sunday morning,’ Reed said. ‘She woke up early, she came and woke me up.’

  ‘And got into bed with you?’

  ‘Yes. It’s perfectly natural, you know. Seven-year-olds do that.’

  ‘Was there any physical contact between the two of you while she was in bed with you?’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Reed hissed, angrily. ‘If you mean did I touch her the answer is no. No, sorry, I hugged her once or twice, is that against the law?’

  ‘Were you fully clothed at the time?’

  ‘I was in bed,’ Reed blurted, incredulously.

  ‘Naked?’

  ‘I was wearing pyjama bottoms.’

  ‘Did your daughter have a bath while she was with you?’

  ‘Yes, on the Saturday night before she went to bed.’

  ‘Did you bath her?’

  Reed swallowed hard and glared at the DI.

  ‘I ran the bath for her,’ he snapped. ‘I made sure she was OK, then I left her to it.’

  ‘You left her alone.’

  ‘I was in the next room, in case she needed me.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘In case she slipped, in case she wanted to get out. In case she swallowed the fucking soap. What do you think?’ Reed snarled.

  ‘And when she’d finished?’

  ‘She got out and dried herself.’

  ‘Did you help her?’

  Reed shook his head, letting out a weary breath. ‘Yes, I helped her,’ he said quietly. ‘She asked me to help her. Then she got dressed.’

  ‘On her own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you dried her off?’

  ‘I wrapped her in the towel, she was cold, she was damp. I helped her, then I left her to dress herself.’

  ‘Which parts of her body did you dry?’

  Reed gripped the edge of the table.

  ‘Her feet, her toes, her back,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘Between her legs?’

  The question hung in the air.

  Macpherson’s stare was unflinching.

  ‘Did you touch your daughter between the legs?’ he persisted.

  ‘No, I did not’ Reed hissed.

  ‘You didn’t dry her there?’

  ‘I may have … I…’

  ‘Did you touch her vagina?’

  ‘You sick bastard,’ Reed breathed.

  ‘Did you touch your daughter’s vagina, Mr Reed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you say you may have helped her to dry herself between her legs. Surely you must have touched it.’

  ‘Perhaps I did, but not in the way you mean.’

  ‘What do you think I mean?’

  ‘Ellen says I molested Becky, doesn’t she?’

  Macpherson stood up, fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He lit one, blowing the smoke in Reed’s direction.

  ‘I just want your side of the story, Mr Reed’ the DI said.

  Again a heavy silence descended, broken this time by Macpherson.

  ‘You took your daughter swimming at the weekend, didn’t you?’ he said. ‘Did you dry her off when she’d left the pool?’

  ‘Of course not, she was in the changing rooms’ Reed said, irritably.

  ‘So, you couldn’t be sure if she was dry. If she’d dried herself properly?’

  Reed gazed blankly at the DI.

  ‘If you couldn’t be sure, then why did you find it so necessary to be sure after she got out of the bath?’ Macpherson asked, quietly.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Reed said, his voice low. He swallowed hard.

  ‘If it’s so ridiculous, Mr Reed, then you’ve got nothing to worry about’ the DI told him.

  ‘I’m not worried, I’m angry’ Reed snapped. ‘Has Ellen actually pressed charges?’

  Macpherson shook his head.

  ‘Not yet’ he said, flatly.

  ‘Then you have no reason to hold me here.’

  ‘We thought you should have the right to give your-‘

  ‘Side of the story, yes I know, you already told me that’ Reed interrupted.

  ‘Look, I can understand your feelings, Mr Reed.’

  ‘Can you? Have you got kids?’

  Macpherson shook his head.

  ‘Then don’t tell me you understand. If you had kids you’d know I was telling the truth’ Reed said.

  The DI shrugged.

  ‘I should warn you, Mr Reed, that charges will probably be made within the next day or two. You’re not planning on going anywhere, are you?’ the policeman wanted to know.

  ‘Why should I? I’ve got nothing to hide.’

  Reed got to his feet. ‘Does this mean I can go?’ he said, challengingly.

  Macpherson nodded.

  ‘I should be sueing you for wrongful arrest,’ Reed barked.

  ‘You weren’t arrested, you came here voluntarily’ the DI reminded him. He held Reed in that unflinching gaze once more. ‘Next time, it might be different.’

  Seventy-one

  Talbot pressed himself up against the metal shelves, using them, as best he could, for cover.

  He held the screwdriver in one hand, ready to use it as a weapon if necessary.

  The figure was less than fifteen feet from him now, moving slowly, staying in the shadows.

  Talbot ducked down and scuttled towards it, using the shelves to cover his approach, knowing the thick dust would muffle his footsteps. Dust disturbed by his feet clogged in his throat and nostrils, and it was all he could do to prevent himself coughing but he held his breath, emerging through a gap in the high shelves.

  The figure was ahead of him now, close to the office door.

  The D
I squinted in the direction of the intruder.

  Whoever it was obviously hadn’t heard him.

  He began walking towards the figure, his hand now gripping the handle of the screwdriver so tight his knuckles were white.

  He was ten feet away.

  The figure was leaning close to the door, inspecting the damage.

  Six feet.

  Talbot tried to hold his breath, his heart thudding harder against his ribs.

  Two feet.

  The figure straightened up.

  Talbot raised the screwdriver.

  The figure turned.

  Talbot shot out a hand, grabbed for the intruder’s throat.

  The scream which filled the warehouse was deafening, amplified by the cavernous structure.

  Talbot took a step back. Catherine Reed swallowed hard and glared at him with bulging eyes.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Talbot rasped. She looked at the screwdriver which he still held poised in his fist.

  ‘Are you going to put that down?’ she said, nodding towards the sharp implement.

  He lowered his arm.

  ‘I asked you what you were doing here,’ the policeman continued.

  ‘I followed you,’ she told him.

  ‘I could arrest you for interfering with police business.’

  ‘Why not just stab me with the bloody screwdriver, as you were going to,’ Cath said her heart hammering hard against her ribs.

  ‘This is private land. You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘This is news, Talbot, I’m doing my job.’ She looked at the loosened handle on the office door. ‘I see you’ve been busy too. Have you found anything yet?’

  ‘What’s it got to do with you?’ he snapped, pushing past her.

  Cath regarded him wearily as he stood by the door. ‘You believe what Maria Goldman said don’t you?’

  ‘About those kids being ritually abused?’ He shook his head.

  ‘Then why are you here? It’s because of what those kids drew, isn’t it? You think this is where the abuse happened.’

  ‘We’re exploring every possibility’ Talbot said without looking at her.

  ‘Why are you so resistant to the facts, Talbot?’ Cath said angrily, watching as the DI set about loosening the last screw on the door handle.

  ‘What facts?’ he said, straining to release it, the veins at his temple standing out with the effort.

  ‘The children’s statements.’

  ‘The mentions of the Devil? Give me a break.’ The screw was coming free.

  They both looked round as they heard the main door opening.

  ‘Jim.’

  Talbot recognised Rafferty’s voice.

  ‘Down here,’ he called and the DS hurried to join his companion, slowing his pace when he saw Cath standing there.

  ‘I heard a scream,’ Rafferty said.

  ‘It was her,’ the DI told him. ‘Sticking her nose in where it’s not wanted again. She nearly got hurt.’

  The screw was almost out.

  ‘Did you find anything?’ the DI enquired.

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘Well, somebody’s been in here, and recently,’ Talbot told his colleague.

  The screw came away, the door creaked open an inch or two.

  ‘What do you think about what you heard from Social Services?’ Cath asked Rafferty. ‘Do you believe there’s ritual abuse going on?’

  ‘Just ignore her, Bill’ said Talbot. ‘She’ll go away.’

  ‘Well?’ Cath persisted.

  ‘I don’t know’ Rafferty said, quietly, watching as his superior pushed the door further open.

  It swung right back on its hinges.

  Talbot took a step inside.

  The room beyond was large, twenty-five feet square at least.

  If it had been an office, it had been a big one.

  Talbot looked down at the floor.

  There was only a light covering of dust.

  ‘Look’ said Cath pointing.

  ‘I can see it’ Talbot murmured, glancing in the direction of her finger then further around the walls.

  She stepped into the room with the two policemen.

  ‘Jesus Christ’ murmured Rafferty.

  There were a dozen large wooden boxes in the room, seven or eight of them in the centre, built up, stacked on top of each other in three block-like stacks.

  Behind them, painted on the wall in black paint, was a massive pentagram.

  ‘Don’t touch anything’ Talbot snapped at Cath, then, turning to his companion, ‘Bill, I want a forensics team down here now. I want this place gone over with a fine-tooth comb, got it?’

  Rafferty turned and sprinted from the room.

  There were several dark stains on the floor.

  Talbot crossed to the closest and ran the tip of one index finger over it, sniffing the digit.

  ‘Wax’ he murmured.

  Cath was looking at the other symbols drawn on the walls.

  A large upturned cross.

  Another, smaller pentagram.

  Some writing.

  She recognised it as Latin.

  Talbot saw another dark stain on the ground close to the piled boxes, more of

  the rusty coloured tint on the boxes themselves.

  He moved towards another of the boxes and peered in, screwing up his face, struck by the stench coming from the box.

  There was a sack in the bottom, covering whatever was giving off the rank odour.

  The DI pulled a pen from his inside pocket and jabbed it under the sack, lifting the cover away.

  ‘Shit,’ he hissed.

  Whatever lay inside, he guessed, must once have been a dog.

  An Alsatian possibly.

  The head was missing. The body had been slashed open from breast bone to genitals.

  The intestines had also been removed, torn free like most of the internal cavity.

  Talbot dropped the sack back into place and crossed to another of the boxes.

  Cath pulled the pocket camera from her handbag and snapped off two or three shots, the cold white light of the flash illuminating the inside of the room.

  She glanced around towards Talbot, waiting for him to admonish her, but he seemed more concerned with what was inside the box.

  She took two more pictures.

  Talbot slipped a handkerchief from his pocket as he reached for the object in the bottom of the box. He wrapped the linen around his hand, not wanting to disturb any fingerprints which might be present.

  Again that stench of decay.

  Of death.

  ‘Reed’ he called.

  She turned slowly, aware that Talbot had something in his right hand.

  Something fairly large.

  He threw it towards her.

  Cath screamed as the object landed at her feet, her eyes fixed on it, staring down at it.

  Talbot smiled humourlessly.

  The journalist took a step back, her stomach somersaulting.

  At her feet lay the head of a goat, a large portion of the hide still attached.

  The eyes were gone, the entire object shrunken, bloodless.

  Drained.

  The hair of the hide looked dull and matted.

  She put a hand to her mouth, eyes inspecting the long horns which jutted from the skull, bone visible in places where the skin had peeled away.

  And there was that stench.

  The rank odour of decay.

  Talbot prodded the goat’s head with his foot, then looked scathingly at the journalist.

  ‘There’s your Devil,’ he snapped.

  Seventy-two

  The Jaguar Showroom in Kensington High Street looked deserted as Frank Reed scuttled across the street, bumping into people in his haste.

  Most turned and shot him angry glances, one shouted something at him but Reed didn’t hear the words.

  He’d heard very little since leaving the police station in Theobald’s Road over an hour ago, his anger and impatie
nce directed towards the traffic and other drivers, all of who seemed to be conspiring to prevent him reaching his goal.

  But now it was in sight.

  He could feel perspiration soaking into the back of his shirt, beading on his forehead, and his skin felt hot.

  He’d parked the car a couple of streets away and run, finding the effort more taxing than he’d imagined but, as he pushed open the door of the dealership, that effort seemed worthwhile.

  He sucked in ort* or two deep breaths, trying to slow the pace of his breathing, to steady the thunder of his heart.

  The fluorescents in the ceiling shone coldly, their white light reflecting in the immaculate and sparklingly clean paintwork of the vehicles arranged inside.

  Reed barely saw them.

  He headed towards the rear of the showroom, towards a desk. Beyond it was an office, the door slightly ajar.

  The phone on the desk was ringing.

  Where the hell was everyone?

  Where was she?

  The phone was still ringing.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  The voice came from behind him.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t see you come in,’ said the balding man who approached him. ‘I was checking something on one of the cars.’

  Reed saw the appraising look the man gave him.

  T want to see my wife,’ said Reed.

  T can sell you a car, sir, not a wife,’ said the balding man with the practised laugh of an experienced salesman.

  Reed heard the irritating combination of servility and duplicity in the man’s tone that he’d heard a hundred times before from salesmen of all kinds.

  On the desk the phone was still ringing.

  Ellen Reed emerged from the office, slowing her pace when she saw her husband facing her.

  ‘You fucking bitch,’ he hissed.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said the salesman, taking a step towards him, his forehead furrowed now.

  ‘Keep out of this.’ Reed glared at him.

  The man took a step back.

  The phone continued to ring.

  ‘What are you playing at?’ Reed snarled at Ellen.

  ‘This isn’t the time or the place, Frank,’ she told him.

  ‘I think it is.’

  ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave, sir,’ the salesman said as bravely as he could.

  ‘How could you do it to me, Ellen?’ Reed said, ignoring the man. ‘What did you make Becky say?’

  ‘I didn’t make her say anything,’ Ellen told him, defiantly.