‘I only overheard the vicar talking to a couple of people while I was there’ Cross explained. ‘He reckoned there’d been stuff going on for months.’
‘What kind of stuff?’
‘I didn’t hear properly.’
Cath was already on her feet.
‘Where the hell are you going?’ Cross demanded.
‘Croydon Cemetery. I want to speak to that priest. Fancy a drive?’
‘Cath, I can’t, I’m due at Heathrow this afternoon, Madonna’s flying in, they want pictures….’
‘Then I’ll see you later’
‘Cath, wait’ Cross called, fumbling in his camera bag. ‘Here, take this.’ He handed her a small pocket camera. ‘You might need it.’
She smiled at him.
Then she was gone.
Cross looked up, watching as another insect perished amidst a loud crackle.
The scorched fly dropped to the floor.
He drained what was left in his tea cup.
Twenty-six
Cath had never seen so many cars at a cemetery.
The car park and most of the street outside were crammed with vehicles.
Inside it was swarming with people, many of whom, she assumed, had also seen the report on lunchtime TV and come fearing that the resting places of their own relatives might have been disturbed.
She could only guess at how many people had converged on Croydon Cemetery during the two hours it had taken her to drive there.
Once within the sprawling churchyard she’d had little difficulty finding the Reverend Colin Patterson. He had been walking agitatedly back and forth, speaking to anyone who came to him or who he felt was in need of some comforting words.
In his black robe and standing over six feet tall, he was an imposing, almost threatening, figure and, Cath noted somewhat guiltily, rather good looking.
Not the kind of priest she would normally expect to find.
After a brief introduction, she got straight down to business. ‘Have you any idea who might have done this?’ she asked, pulling the pocket camera from her handbag and looking through the viewfinder.
She focused on a gravestone which bore the words god is fucked in large red letters. She snapped away.
‘No idea’ Patterson told her, sighing.
‘Could it be a personal thing, against you?’ she enquired, moving closer to another of the headstones.
This one was smeared with excrement. The smell was strong in the air. Flies buzzed round excitedly.
‘Priests don’t make many enemies, Miss Reed’ said Patterson.
‘Besides, if it was personal, whoever did this would have come after me.’
‘Not necessarily,’ she told him, snapping off more shots.
Patterson walked a couple of paces behind her as she moved amongst the disturbed earth and the smashed stones.
‘Did you call the police?’
‘They’ve been and gone. They took samples of that’ he pointed disgustedly to the pile of excrement that had been left on top of one grave. ‘They dusted the headstones for fingerprints.’
‘Did they have any ideas who might be responsible?’
‘No.’
‘Were any bodies actually removed from their coffins?’
‘No, thank God. A couple were broken but no remains were touched.’
Cath took several pictures of one such battered coffin, leaning forward to look at the nameplate. Louise banks. She glanced at the black marble headstone which bore the same name. It was spattered with red paint.
Cath read the inscription: Louise banks, aged 16
MONTHS. SLEEP IN PEACE.
She took a step back, glanced at another headstone, this one smeared with excrement.
She read it.
And the one next to it.
She took photos of them both.
‘Father, have you noticed something about the graves which have been desecrated?’ Cath asked.
Patterson looked at her. ‘They’re all children’ he said, softly.
Cath nodded.
‘Not one of them over the age of four’ she murmured.
She moved along to another headstone.
‘Why children?’ she mused.
Patterson had no answer for her. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, Miss Reed. I can’t begin to understand the type of mind that could do this.’ He made a sweeping gesture with one large hand, designed to encompass all the devastation.
‘When it happened before, were the graves which were disturbed children’s graves too?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have a list of names of those graves that I could see?’
‘What good will it do?’
‘There could be a link between them. If we find that link, we might find the reason it was done.’
‘What reason could anyone have for disturbing the body of a child once it’s been laid to rest?’ Patterson rasped.
Cath snapped another of the shattered headstones. On the plinth was a roughly drawn pentagram.
She looked at the priest.
‘The list?’ she asked.
‘I keep it in the church’ he told her. ‘And while you’re there, there’s something else I think you should see.’
Twenty-seven
She knew they were watching her.
Shanine Connor walked slowly through the perfume department of Selfridge’s and she knew that the women behind the counters were looking at her. Plastered with make-up and smelling of expensive scent, they followed her every movement with their mascara-shrouded eyes.
Some of the other customers glanced at her too as she made her way through the maze of glass counters, occasionally picking up one of the many testers and spraying her wrist. She didn’t even bother to sniff the fragrance, but the collective aromas helped to smother the more acrid smell of her own dried perspiration.
Shanine caught sight of her own reflection in one of the many mirrors and saw how pale and drawn she looked. Her hair needed washing and she ran a hand through it, wiping that hand on her grubby jeans.
She moved onwards, through the torrent of shoppers, all of who seemed to be moving in the opposite direction. In the jewellery department she paused and inspected some gold-plated chains hanging from a felt board.
The assistant behind the counter moved across and smiled efficiently at her.
‘Can I help you’ she asked, no softness in her voice.
Shanine shook her head and walked on, past the bracelets and watches, through stationery and pens.
Her stomach rumbled as she smelled food.
To her left, up a short flight of steps was the food hall.
The exquisite aroma of freshly ground coffee wafted invitingly on the air and Shanine inhaled deeply.
She looked around, at the confectionery which seemed to surround her. She put out a hand and scooped a couple of wine gums into her palm, pushing them quickly into her mouth before anyone noticed.
As she moved slowly up the steps towards the main food hall, she spotted a security camera overhead.
Fuck it. She hadn’t expected things to be easy.
She passed a fresh fish counter, the smell of seafood almost overpowering. Two Americans, distinguishable by their size and appalling taste in clothes as well as accents, were busy prodding a large salmon which the assistant had laid out for their inspection.
Shanine wandered by, picking up a basket as she entered the small maze of shelves lined with all manner of tinned, packet and fresh foods.
Come on. Do it quickly.
She walked awkwardly with the holdall over one shoulder, aware that it made her more conspicuous and, as she rounded a corner, she bumped into a woman who was leading a child around, practically dragging the youngster by his arm.
Shanine put a loaf of bread into her basket.
A packet of bread rolls she slipped into the holdall.