‘I doubt it. I’d say it was the parents.’
‘If it is, Frank, it’s nothing to do with you, is it?’
‘It is if I think that child is being beaten.’
‘Come on, Frank, that’s a bit strong, isn’t it?’
‘You didn’t see him. He had bruises on him the size of your fist, and marks on his wrists too. Like weals.’
‘Maybe his mum or dad just got a bit carried away. Dad used to wallop us when we were little.’
‘A slap on the backside is a bit different to leaving bruises, Cath. Besides, this kid isn’t the only one. There’s a girl too, I saw her today. Same bruises, same marks.’
‘So, two sets of parents decide to get a bit heavy with their kids. That doesn’t mean Ellen’s going to start knocking Becky about, does it?’
Reed regarded her impassively.
‘Ellen wouldn’t, but what about Ward? I don’t know anything about that bastard,’ Reed spat.
‘Frank, why should he?’
Reed got to his feet and crossed the room to a small mahogany cabinet. He took out a bottle of Courvoisier and two glasses, pouring himself the larger measure.
He returned and handed the other glass to Cath.
‘You know, you’d better be careful, Frank,’ she advised. ‘You can’t go yelling abuse all over the place. It’s a dangerous word. The parents of those kids could sue you unless you can prove it. How would you feel if someone accused you of hurting Becky? What are their names, anyway?’
‘Annette Hilston and Paul O’Brian, they’re both about ten.’
‘O’Brian?’ Cath said, frowning.
Why did that ring a bell?
‘Paul’s sister died a few months ago. She was only a baby and-‘
Cath was already on her feet, heading across the room towards her briefcase.
Reed watched as she flipped it open and rummaged around inside.
‘Where was she buried?’ she asked.
Reed looked puzzled. ‘How on earth should I know?’ he said, watching in bewilderment as Cath sat down beside him, a set of photographs in her hand.
‘Do you think it might have been Croydon Cemetery?’ she asked.
‘It’s possible, the family moved from there after her death. What makes you think-‘
She handed him a photo.
It showed a broken headstone.
The name on it was Carla O’Brian.
‘Jesus’ murmured Reed. ‘And this was taken in Croydon Cemetery?’
She nodded and handed him the other pictures.
Reed flicked slowly through them, his forehead creased, a look of dismay on his face.
‘If it’s a coincidence, it’s millions to one’ she said. ‘Same name, same age,
same cemetery.’
‘That’s why I thought the boy was quiet in the beginning, I knew his sister had died …’ He let the sentence trail off. ‘Who the hell did this?’
‘No one knows yet. That’s what I’m trying to find out. Who and why.’
He paused at a picture showing a shattered headstone with a pentagram scrawled on it, peering at the name and age on the remains of the stone.
‘Another child,’ he whispered.
‘All the graves belong to kids, all the ones desecrated,’ Cath elaborated.
‘Oh Jesus’ Reed hissed, looking at a picture of a coffin that had been hauled from its resting place. The lid had been split, the woodwork riven and scarred.
He came to the ones taken in the church crypt.
Cath watched him as he studied them.
‘How much do you know about witchcraft, Frank?’
Reed looked at her blankly.
‘Are you serious?’
‘My editor told me to play up the black magic angle. I just wondered what you knew.’
‘Are you asking me in my capacity as a history teacher or as an ordinary member of the public?’
‘Both.’
‘As a history teacher I can tell you about the Inquisition, the Salem Witch trials, Matthew Hopkins the Witchfinder-General, even Hitler’s interest in the occult. Is that good enough for starters?’
‘And as an ordinary member of the public?’
1 think it’s bollocks.’
‘You don’t believe in it?’
‘Whoever did that,’ he gestured dismissively at the pictures, ‘they were sick bastards, but I doubt if they were witches.’
‘So you think the O’Brian family would talk about what happened to their daughter’s grave?’
‘Are you asking as my sister or as a muck-raking, sensation-seeking journalist?’ he asked, smiling.
‘I prefer investigative news reporter’ she retorted, feigning indignation.
‘Would they talk, Frank? You could put me in touch with them. Give me an address.’
Reed looked down at the photos again.
‘I might even be able to find out whether or not you’re right about the parents whacking their kid if I speak to them’ she persisted.
He looked at her.
‘Excuse me, Mr and Mrs O’Brian, how do you feel about your baby’s grave being dug up, and by the way have you beaten up your son lately?’ he said, sardonically.
She held his gaze.
‘The address, Frank’ she murmured. ‘That’s all.’
He glanced down at the top picture.
A headstone, cracked, smeared with excrement.
Sick.
When he looked up, she was still gazing at him.
Waiting.
Thirty-nine
James Talbot dropped two Alka-Seltzer into the glass of water and watched as they started to dissolve,
turning the liquid opaque, fizzing loudly. He watched bubbles rising to the top of the fluid, following their journey from the bottom of the glass to the surface with disproportionate fascination.
Across the table from him, William Rafferty watched his superior, noticing how pale he looked.
The other two men in the room didn’t seem to notice.
DC Stephen Longley was more concerned about the temperature in the room,
fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat and occasionally tugging at his shirt collar as he felt the heat building.
His companion, DC Colin Penhallow, was turning a cigarette lighter abstractedly between his thumb and forefinger, tapping it on a file which lay before him.
Talbot used the end of his pen to stir the Alka-Seltzer, licked the Biro dry and took a large swallow of the white fluid.
‘Rough night?’ Rafferty asked.
‘You could say that’ Talbot murmured, clambering to his feet and crossing to a nearby window, which he pushed open. The noise of traffic from below was loud, the stink of engine fumes strong, even three floors up. He closed the window again.
‘OK, fellas, what have you got?’ he said, turning to face his colleagues.
‘A little bit more than we knew a few days ago,’ said Penhallow. ‘But not much.’ He lit up a cigarette, watched almost longingly by Talbot who swigged from his glass again.
‘Thrill me,’ Talbot said, flatly.
‘It’s mostly background stuff, guv’ Penhallow said. ‘Upbringing, work, family life. That sort of shit.’
‘Anything to connect them?’ the DI wanted to know.
‘Now that is the interesting thing’ Penhallow continued.
Talbot drained what was left in the glass, grimaced and sat down, his gaze fixed on his colleague. ‘Don’t tell me, they all went to the same boarding school’ he said, a thin smile on his lips.
‘They’re all masons’ Longley chuckled.
‘I wouldn’t say that too loud around here’ Talbot reminded him, and all four men laughed.
‘They were all working on the same building project’ Penhallow announced, taking a drag on his cigarette. ‘There are some old warehouses near the West India Dock Pier, along Limehouse Reach. They’ve been empty for five or six years now. Somebody bought the warehouses and the land they stand on. It’s going to be a new development. Flats, that sort of stuff.’