‘Yeah, so?’ Talbot said, challengingly. ‘What’s a broken rib got to do with fucking lung cancer?’
‘She asked to see the x-rays and the radiologist showed her. She saw the shadow on the lung and asked me about it when she got back.’
‘So you told her?’
‘I thought it was right.’
‘The radiologist showed her the x-rays’ Talbot said, incredulously. ‘What the fuck was he doing that for?’
‘Look, that was nothing to do with us, Mr Talbot, if I’d known…’
The DI got to his feet again.
“Well, Mrs Talbot, the good news is your ribs are fine, the bad news is you’re dying of cancer. Was that it?’ He rounded angrily on Hodges.
‘Did you want to tell her yourself?’ Hodges responded.
Talbot exhaled deeply and shook his head.
Hodge watched as the policeman sat down once more.
‘She’s been asking me to take her home for a while now’ Talbot said, finally.
‘I keep telling her it’s impossible.’
‘Is there no way?’ Hodges asked.
‘Why do you think I put her in here in the first place? There isn’t a day goes by without me feeling guilty about locking her away here like some family secret.’
‘I’d hardly call it locking her away, Mr Talbot.’
‘That’s what it feels like to me.’
‘There are people who can look after her at her home if that’s what you want.
The Macmillan nurses are a fine organisation - they tend to cancer patients in their own homes, visit on a daily basis.’
Talbot shook his head.
‘Then you might have to think about finding her a place at a hospice when the
time comes’ Hodges said, softly.
‘No way’ Talbot snapped. ‘I’m not sticking her in one of those places. It was bad enough putting her here.’
‘You haven’t any family who-‘
‘No.’ Talbot snapped. ‘No family.’
No fucking family.
He got to his feet once again, this time walking towards the door of Hodges’
office.
The doctor rose and followed him.
‘I’m sorry about this, Mr Talbot,’ he said, quietly.
The DI smiled humourlessly and, when he spoke, there was a crushing weariness in his tone.
‘So am I, Doc,’ he murmured.
He held the physician’s gaze for a moment, then turned and walked away.
Cath saw him enter the office and smiled briefly before returning her attention to the screen before her.
Unlike her editor’s desk, Cath’s was organised chaos. Notebooks, pieces of paper, books, even a piece of half-eaten cheesecake, all looked as if they’d been piled on the desk in some bizarre kind of competition to see how much rubbish could be placed on one single piece of furniture. There was scarcely room for her word processor. She sipped from a plastic cup as she worked, oblivious to the noise around her; the constant symphony of ringing phones and chattering voices, of shouts and occasional laughter.
‘Did you find what you wanted this afternoon?’
The voice startled her and she spun round in her seat to see Phillip Cross standing beside her.
The photographer was looking at the screen glowing before Cath.
‘At Croydon Cemetery’ he continued. ‘Was it worth the trip?’
‘It was incredible’ she said, excitedly. ‘Phil, look at these.’
She pushed some of the photos she’d taken towards him, watching as he inspected each one carefully.
‘You could have done with a bit more backlight on some of these’ Cross said, grinning.
Cath eyed him irritably.
‘Not bad for a beginner,’ he said, still grinning.
‘I didn’t want your professional opinion’ she snapped, snatching the pictures back from him.
‘Excuse me,’ said Cross holding up his hands.
She returned her attention to the screen once again.
‘You saw what was done to those graves’ she said, fingers skipping over the keyboard. ‘It’s the same as what was done a few days ago. The pictures you took there.’
‘Same idiots,’ he said, shrugging. ‘What’s the big deal?’
‘Can I have those pictures, Phil?’
‘Why, don’t you think your own are good enough?’ Cross chuckled. He looked at his watch. ‘What time are you getting out of here tonight?’
‘Why?’
‘I wondered if you wanted to get a takeaway, we can go back to my place and-‘
‘Not tonight, Phil’ Cath cut in.
‘Why not?’
‘I’m working on this story, and besides, tonight’s no good anyway, I’m seeing my brother about something.’
‘Again? Are you sure it’s your brother?’
‘Don’t start that again. Tomorrow night, OK?’
He looked down at her. ‘Maybe, I’ll have to check my diary’ he snapped and walked away.
Cath turned to say something then decided against it. She looked at the screen, then at her watch. Another hour. She went back to work.
Thirty-six
Shanine Connor still had most of the food left. As she sat on the pavement in
Leicester Square looking around her at the dizzying array of neon, she slipped a hand inside the holdall and pulled out a Mars Bar.
As she did, her hand brushed against the knife.
Two girls, no older than she, passed by and shot her curious glances.
As they moved away from her, Shanine saw one turn and look back briefly.
She watched as they headed across the road towards a club which seemed to be lit entirely by red and blue fizzing lights. She saw others approaching the doors. A sign which read ‘BUZZ’ glowed brightly in the night, above the entrance. The bouncers, dressed in black suits, stood impassively, expressions hidden behind the dark glasses they wore.
Shanine watched the two girls approach the entrance.
Girls like her.
One was dressed in a short black dress which clung to her slim form like a second skin, a black silk jacket slung casually around her bare shoulders. Her blue-black hair seemed to gleam in the reflected glow of the neon.
Her companion was wearing a trouser suit, immaculately tailored.
Shanine pulled at a rip in her grubby leggings, running one filthy hand through hair which needed washing.
The girls had disappeared inside the club.
Girls like her.
She got to her feet and hooked the bag over her shoulder.
Leicester Square was busy, this night and every night. Constant streams of people criss-crossed en route to or from restaurants, cafes or cinemas, forming one enormous amoebic mass until each face became indistinguishable from the next. Shanine moved among them, glad of the anonymity the crowd offered.
She chewed at the Mars Bar as she walked, the craving in her belly satisfied long ago. The food should last her another day or so she guessed.
And then what?
It was money she was desperately short of.
The smell of body odour that tugged at her nostrils was, she knew, her own.
Jesus, what she wouldn’t give for a nice long soak in a bath, followed by a soft bed.
Perhaps if she could find a hostel. She knew there were plenty in London. If she could find one …
What if they found her there?
For all she knew they were already searching for her.
How would they know she was in London?
They seemed to know everything.
They knew her thoughts before she did.
Ahead of her the lights grew even brighter and she heard music blasting out into the night. Loud and powerful.
She paused at the door of The Crystal Room, looking in at the massive array of electronic games, the noises they made competing with the music for supremacy.
She could see people inside. Mostly young men.
There were some young women, mostly in groups of three or four. Some standing talking, others playing the machines.