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 impatience 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.
‘You planned it, didn’t you? Or was it his idea?’ Reed hissed. ‘Mr Jonathan fucking Ward. I knew you were a bitch, but this is a new low, even for you.’
‘I’ve got nothing to say to you, Frank,’ Ellen said, reaching for the phone.
‘And if you don’t mind I’d like to get on with my job.’
‘Fuck the job,’ he roared, sweeping the phone from the desk. ‘This is my life I’m talking about.’
‘I’m going to call the police,’ the salesman told him, seeking refuge behind a car, ‘if you’re not out of here in thirty seconds.’
‘You won’t get away with this, Ellen’ Reed said fists clenched.
‘Get out, Frank,’ she said, her own heart beating that little bit faster now.
‘I know what you’re trying to do.’
Another man appeared from the office behind, a taller, older man dressed in a grey suit. ‘What the hell is going on out here?’ he asked.
‘I told this man I’d phone the police,’ the salesman said.
‘I know what you’re trying to do and it won’t work,’ Reed continued, oblivious to the other two men. His attention, and his rage, focused on Ellen.
The taller man hesitated, saw the fury on Reed’s features.
‘Call the police,’ he said to the cowering salesman.
‘Just go, Frank,’ Ellen told him.
‘You won’t take my daughter,’ he said raising an accusatory finger and pointing it in her direction.
‘If you don’t leave immediately we’ll call the police,’ the taller man insisted.
‘YOU WON’T TAKE MY DAUGHTER!’ Reed bellowed, then he turned and headed for the exit, his breath coming in gasps.
‘It’s over, Frank’ Ellen called after him.
‘No it isn’t,’ he shouted back. ‘It’s only just started. I won’t let you take her away from me, Ellen. I’ll kill you before I let you do that.’
And he was gone.
Had he turned, he might have seen the slight, almost imperceptible smile which flickered briefly on Ellen’s lips.
Seventy-three
Cath just caught the lift, calling to the single occupant to hold the doors as she hurried through the main entrance of the block.
She was carrying a bag of shopping in each hand and she didn’t fancy walking up the steps to her flat with such a weight.
The man in the lift lived on the third floor.