Stolen Angels

by Shaun Hutson

  And, as before, there were no answers.

  He pushed open the main doors and walked in.

  Three or four young boys were gathered around the noticeboard to the left, checking the names of the school under-15 football team. They seemed oblivious to his

  presence as he passed them, their attention riveted to the team-sheet.

  Reed passed through another set of double doors and was about to turn right into the staff room when a familiar figure appeared ahead of him.

  Noel Hardy looked at Reed, his face expressionless. ‘Could I have a word with you in my office, please?’ he said, stepping back, ushering Reed in.

  Reed followed, accepting the chair which Hardy offered once they were both inside.

  The Headmaster’s office was slightly larger than his own, perhaps to reflect the older man’s authority.

  It had a profusion of houseplants, all of which looked remarkably healthy -

  due, Reed was sure, to the high temperature inside the office. It was always warm in the room. Even in summer Hardy kept the radiators on, Reed had noticed. The older man either didn’t mind the heat or didn’t feel it. Despite the fact that the morning air was a little crisp, the office was uncomfortably warm. The air smelled stale.

  Beside each plant pot was a small bottle of Baby-Bio. On one windowsill he noticed a pair of secateurs. There was also a small fish tank to the left of the Headmaster’s desk: a variety of tropical fish swam back and forth.

  Watching them was supposed to relieve stress, Reed recalled. He wondered if he should get one for himself.

  ‘I wanted a quick word,’ Hardy said, officiously.

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘This isn’t easy for me.’

  Reed frowned.

  ‘The incident with the police yesterday’ the Headmaster continued. ‘I saw it.

  I’m sure a number of

  other people did too. I’d like to know what it was about.’

  ‘It’s private.’

  ‘Not if it happened on school property it isn’t. I want to know what happened.’

  ‘There was a misunderstanding. I went to the police station to help clear it up.’

  Hardy stood by one of his houseplants and rubbed a leaf between his thumb and index finer.

  ‘It’s bad for the school,’ he said. ‘Teachers involved with the police. God knows there’s been enough trouble at St Michael’s lately. Brought about, I might add, by you.’

  ‘If you’re referring to the children, then-‘

  Hardy cut him short. ‘It’s been all over the newspapers,’ he snapped. ‘What do you imagine people will think of the school?’

  ‘And what would you have done? Let those kids suffer? The police had to be called in.’

  ‘The damage done to the reputation of this school could be irreparable and it’s because of you.’

  ‘To hell with the school’s reputation. What about those kids?’

  ‘First you bring the police here and then you yourself become involved with them. God alone knows why. What have you done?’

  ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘That’s not what I heard.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You were taken to Theobald’s Road Police Station yesterday, questioned about assault charges against your own daughter.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Reed demanded.

  ‘I know. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘So you don’t deny it?’

  ‘I don’t deny I was questioned. But, as I told you, there’d been a

  misunderstanding.’

  ‘It sounds like more than a misunderstanding. But then you always did have a talent for understatement, didn’t you?’

  ‘I want to know how you know.’

  ‘I’m asking the questions here, Reed,’ Hardy said, defiantly.

  ‘Was it my wife?’

  ‘I have no choice but to suspend you indefinitely, effective immediately. I’d appreciate it if you left now.’

  ‘This is what you’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ the Headmaster said, dismissively.

  ‘You never wanted to help those kids, did you? You were always more concerned about the reputation of your bloody school,’ Reed snarled.

  ‘Leave now, please.’

  ‘Or what? Are you going to call the police?’

  ‘If necessary.’

  The two men locked stares, then Reed got to his feet and headed for the door.

  ‘You’ll be notified if any further disciplinary action is to be taken against you’ Hardy told him.

  ‘Fuck you. And your school.’

  ‘Now you know how the parents of those children felt. The ones you accused.

  Not pleasant, is it?’

  Reed had no answer.

  Seventy-six

  Detective Inspector James Talbot dropped the file onto his desk and sat back in his seat, eyes closed.

  For a long time he remained like that, watched by DS Rafferty and Phillip Barclay.

  The coroner had a file of his own perched on his knee and he flicked distractedly through it while waiting for some kind of response from Talbot.

  Rafferty lit up a cigarette, blowing out a stream of smoke, watching it dissipate in the air.

  ‘It’s not much to go on is it?’ Talbot said finally, eyes snapping open. He looked at each of his companions in turn. ‘We know someone was in that warehouse: that much is obvious, but who and why?’ He shrugged, allowing the sentence to trail off. ‘What have you got, Phil?’

  ‘A rather mixed bag, you could say,’ Barclay answered, smiling.

  The smile faded rapidly when he saw the expression on Talbot’s face. ‘A few prints, mostly footprints,’ he continued quickly. ‘Corroboration of what you already know. Someone has been inside that warehouse.’

  ‘How recently?’ Talbot asked.

  ‘A week, ten days, certainly not more recently,’ the coroner replied.

  ‘What about the blood?’ Rafferty enquired.

  ‘I’m coming to that’ Barclay told him. ‘We found traces of blood and semen.’

  ‘And?’ Talbot persisted.

  ‘The semen wasn’t much help,’ Barclay said. ‘It’s only possible to divide it into three systems anyway. Secretor and non-secretor, ABO and a PGM sub-group.

  Not very specific compared to the serology.’

  Talbot sighed.

  ‘Do you want to give me that in English, Phil?’ he said, wearily.

  ‘You can ascertain blood groups from semen samples, right, just as you can from sweat or urine, but it’s obviously not as accurate as a blood sample itself for DNA profiling, unless you’re talking about something like a rape.

  The semen samples found in that warehouse were almost useless.’

  ‘Why?’ Rafferty wanted to know.

  ‘Because they were too old.’

  ‘Older than the bloodstains?’ the DS continued.

  ‘In most cases. The spermatocytes were dead, decayed: it makes the typing virtually impossible,’ Barclay explained.

  ‘Fingerprints?’ Talbot asked.

  ‘There were about twenty-seven identifiable, the rest were partial prints, or

  whoever left them had been wearing gloves.’

  ‘What about the footprints?’ Talbot continued.

  ‘Again, difficult to pick out. I’d say fifteen or sixteen different sets but very few complete ones. The dust in the warehouse should have made it easy to pick out imprints but unfortunately it didn’t work like that.’

  ‘Some of the ones I saw were clear enough,’ Talbot argued.

  ‘Some were. Most were made by bare feet.’

  ‘Male or female?’ asked Rafferty.

  ‘Both.’

  ‘And kids?’ Talbot enquired.

  ‘None that I could find.’

  ‘Shit!’ hissed Talbot.

  ‘With th
e fingerprints, Phil, are they clear enough to secure a conviction if we can match them with a suspect?’ Rafferty asked.

  Barclay nodded.

  ‘What about the blood?’ Talbot added.

  Barclay sucked in a deep breath. ‘We did peroxidase tests first, just to confirm that the stains were blood. Then we ran preciptin tests on them.’

  ‘Keep it simple, will you, Phil?’ said Talbot.

  ‘Preciptin tests can identify the nature of the blood. Human or animal.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There were thirty-two identifiable blood samples in the warehouse. Six of them were A, three were O.’

  ‘And the rest?’

  ‘Animal.’

  Talbot frowned and sat forward in his chair. ‘What kind of animal?’

  ‘Dog and cat accounted for twenty-one of the other samples,’ Barclay told him.

  ‘That still leaves two unaccounted for,’ Talbot persisted.

  ‘That’s because we don’t know what they are,’ the coroner said, irritably. ‘We keep anti-serums for most domestic and farmyard animals.’

  ‘So what are you telling me?’ Talbot demanded. ‘That you don’t know which animals the other two blood samples came from? How many possible are there, Phil?

  I mean, once you’ve eliminated fucking giraffes and rhinos, what’s left?

  Logically, what kind of animal could have been in that warehouse?’

  ‘Logically, I would have said it had to be a domestic animal of some kind, a sheep or goat at a stretch. It had to be some kind of animal that was fairly easily obtainable, perhaps from a pet shop.’

  ‘Some kind of exotic pet?’ Rafferty offered, looking at Talbot.

  ‘Any ideas?’ the DI said.

  ‘It depends what was going on in that warehouse. If they were carving up dogs and cats, Christ knows what else they might have used,’ the DS said.

  ‘The bloodstains were all concentrated in one main area of the warehouse, that’s why it was difficult to identify them all at first’ Barclay explained.

  ‘What other physical evidence did you find?’ Rafferty asked.

  ‘Hair and fibres,’ said Barclay. ‘Do you want the list?’

  The policemen nodded his head in affirmation.

  ‘Head hair, eyebrows, axillary hair and pubic hair,’ the pathologist said.

  ‘How the hell can you tell the difference?’ Rafferty wanted to know.

  ‘Head hair is circular in cross-section, pubic hair is triangular in cross section, eyebrows-‘

  Talbot held up a hand to silence him. ‘Yeah, OK, Phil, we get the picture.

  What about fibres?’

  ‘Cotton, wool, nylon. I’ve got another list’ Barclay informed them.

  Talbot shook his head. ‘So, the only mystery is where those two unidentified blood samples came from, right?’ the DI said.

  Barclay nodded.

  ‘There was enough physical evidence in that warehouse to secure a conviction, should we find a suspect’ the pathologist said.

  ‘The parents of the abused kids. We don’t need to look any further.’

  ‘How can you be so sure, Jim?’ Rafferty asked.

  ‘I can’t. That’s the whole point,’ Talbot told him. ‘The media has already convicted these people. Not us.’

  ‘And this satanism angle?’ Rafferty continued.

  ‘That’s bollocks, you know it is,’ Talbot snapped.

  ‘What if it isn’t?’ the DS persisted. ‘Those symbols we saw, the statements given by the kids …’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Bill,’ Talbot responded angrily.

  ‘What makes you such a bloody expert, Jim?’ Rafferty hissed.

  Talbot avoided his colleague’s gaze.

  Trust me.

  ‘This wasn’t even our case,’ the DS continued. ‘Why the interest?’

  ‘Because the case we were working on is linked to this one, remember?’ the DI said, acidly.

  A heavy silence descended, broken finally by Barclay. ‘Look, I’ve got some more work to do,’ he said, getting to his feet.

  ‘Find out what you can about those unidentified blood samples, Phil’ Talbot said.

  Rafferty also followed the pathologist towards the door.

  ‘I’ve got some stuff to do as well’ he muttered.

  ‘Trust me on this one, Bill’ Talbot called to his colleague.

  Rafferty closed the door as he left.

  Talbot sat forward in his chair, head bowed. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. He brought his fist down hard on the table top. So hard it hurt.

  Christ, he needed a drink.

  Seventy-seven

  ‘There must be something you can do,’ Catherine Reed said, exasperatedly.

  Her brother sat motionless on the sofa in his flat, a cup of coffee gripped in his hand. He barely seemed to notice the heat which was searing his palm, so deep in thought was he.

  ‘Frank’ she said and her voice seemed to shock him from his trance and make him aware of the heat he cradled.

  He put down the cup and rubbed his hands together slowly.

  ‘The police think I molested Becky’ he said, softly.

  ‘They haven’t charged you.’

  ‘It’s just a matter of time’ he told her. ‘Ellen will press charges.’ He began rubbing the nail of his right middle finger up and down the leg of his jeans.

  ‘I was a fool. I should never have trusted her. It was too easy. She wouldn’t let me see Becky for months, then suddenly, out of the blue, she rings up and says I can have her for the weekend. And all the time she was planning this.

  They were planning this. She and that bastard, Ward.’

  Cath sat beside him and slid one arm around his shoulder. ‘Frank, if you didn’t do anything then they haven’t got a case against you’ she tried to assure him.

  He glared at her. ‘What do you mean if? I didn’t do anything. Do you think I touched Becky? My God, Cath.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I know you’d never hurt her. What did the police say?’

  ‘They said I touched her when I was drying her after she had a bath.’ ‘Did you?’

  ‘How can you even ask me that?’ When she looked into his eyes she saw tears there. ‘They can twist things, Frank,’ she said, touching his cheek. ‘Have you spoken to Becky?’

  I’m not allowed anywhere near her until this … enquiry is over. If Ellen has her way, I’ll never see her again. That’s what she wanted from the beginning and it looks as if she’s going to achieve it.’ ‘When can you go back to the school?’ He shook his head. ‘The suspension is indefinite. Hardy was waiting for his chance too.’

  ‘Come on, Frank. You’ll be saying they’re in it together next. You know why Hardy had it in for you. You made him and his school look bad.’ ‘By telling

  the truth?’ ‘Like they say, “the truth hurts”.’ Reed got to his feet and crossed to the window. ‘If I had touched Becky,’ he said, quietly. ‘They’d be able to prove it, wouldn’t they?’ Cath swallowed hard. What was he saying? She kept her gaze fixed on her brother.

  ‘There’d be physical signs’ he continued.

  Cath felt the hairs at the back of her neck rise.

  ‘Frank’ she said, softly. ‘Did you touch her?’

  ‘I held her in the towel after she had a bath. She dried herself, she dressed herself.’

  Cath regarded him intently.

  T love her, Cath’ he said, his eyes misting over again. ‘I’d never hurt her.

  But how am I going to convince people of that?’

  She had no answer for him.

  Only helpless silence.

  She felt it kick.

  Shanine Connor winced and clapped a hand to her belly. It was heavily swollen now.

  Her breasts too felt uncomfortably large and conspicuous, straining against the threadbare material of the jumper she wore. It scarcely stretched over the lump in her belly.

  She stood still for a moment, wincing at a sudden sta
b of pain, ignoring the fleeting stares of passers-by.

  The sensations passed, and Shanine walked on along the Strand, one hand clutching the holdall close to her, the other gripping one of the bars of chocolate she’d stolen less than fifteen minutes ago from a small tobacconists’ at Charing Cross station.

  The man had shouted at her.

  She couldn’t understand his words. He was foreign -Pakistani or something.

  She’d run as best she could and no one had tried to stop her.

  Out into Craven Street, into the throng of people in the Strand.

  Gone.

  She took a bite of the chocolate and continued walking until the Strand merged, narrowed and became Fleet Street.

  She slowed her pace now, eyes alert, despite the fact they had not closed for longer than six hours during the past two days.

  Her condition and the sudden change in the weather had conspired to deprive her of the sleep she needed so badly.

  Shanine passed a shop window and caught a glimpse of her own haggard reflection.

  Another young woman, perhaps a year older, also chose that moment to inspect her own image in the polished glass.

  For fleeting seconds Shanine saw how she might have been.

  The other woman was smartly dressed in a charcoal grey jacket and skirt, her hair freshly washed, blowing in the breeze.

  Shanine blinked and the image was gone, the woman swallowed by the crowd.

  Only her own tortured features peered back.

  She stuffed what was left of the chocolate into her mouth and kept walking.

  The building she sought was just ahead.

  She stood gazing at it, at its tinted windows and the figures she could see moving about inside the reception area: a huge, cavernous arena of concrete and marble.

  Above the main entrance was a sign: the express.

  She reached into the holdall and pulled out a rumpled piece of paper, unfolding it until she was looking at the face of Catherine Reed.

  She knew every line and contour of that face now. As she slid the paper back into the bag her hand brushed against the handle of the kitchen knife. She waited.

  Seventy-eight

  Frank Reed was drunk.

  Despite the amount he’d consumed, however, he found himself denied the stupor

  he sought.

  Reed had never been a big drinker and he’d thought that the consumption of three quarters of a bottle of Bacardi would at least bring him the numbness he wanted.