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.
He’d been wrong.
Instead, the world swam before him and he had to steady himself against the furniture every time he stood up. But, as for oblivion, it was probably another six or seven glasses away.
He sat on the floor in the hallway, the phone by his feet, the receiver pressed to his ear as he dialled.
He could hear the ringing tone.
His head was spinning and he closed his eyes for a second, but that only made things worse.
The phone was still ringing at the other end.
Reed reached for his glass and took a sip of the last drop of liquor he’d been able to find in the house.
He hated the taste of Bacardi but it was all he’d been able to find.
It should do the job.
The phone was picked up at the other end.
‘Hello.’
Reed recognised the voice.
‘I want to speak to Ellen’ he slurred, then belched, tasting a bitter mixture of alcohol and bile in his throat.
‘I don’t think she wants to speak to you,’ Jonathan Ward told him.
Reed closed his eyes for a second.
‘Look, let me speak to her,’ he said, trying to remain calm.
Silence at the other end.
He heard muted voices briefly then Ellen’s voice.
‘You’ve got a bloody nerve,’ she said, angrily.
‘Just hear me out. About what happened the other day at your work: I’m sorry I caused a scene but-‘
‘I could have lost my job because of you.’
‘And I could lose my daughter because of you'
‘Just leave me alone.’
‘Don’t hang up, Ellen,’ he pleaded.
Silence.
‘Ellen?’
‘I’m still here. Make it quick.’
‘Why did you make Becky say those things about me? Do you hate me that much?’
‘I didn’t make her say them.’
‘I would never hurt her, you know that.’
‘Why did you call?’
‘Don’t go ahead with this. Don’t take it to court. Think about Becky.’
‘Why didn’t you think about her? Before you did what you did to her.’
‘I didn’t touch her’ he snarled, desperation now colouring his tone. ‘You know I didn’t. You planned this whole thing, didn’t you? You and him.’
‘You’re drunk, Frank, now leave us alone.’
‘I want to speak to Becky.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, it’s after eleven. Besides she’s got nothing to say to you.’
‘She’d tell me what you made her say. Why you made her say I’d touched her.’
‘Goodnight, Frank. Don’t call again.’
‘Don’t do this, Ellen’ he rasped.
‘If you call again I’ll tell the police you’ve been harassing us’ she snapped.
‘Just let me talk to her, please.’
‘It’s over, Frank. You won’t see her again.’
‘Please’ he shouted.
It took him a second to realise that he was listening to the monotonous drone of a dial tone.
‘Fucking cunt!’ he screamed at the receiver, slamming it down onto the cradle.
Frank Reed wept.
‘It’s stalled on me, Phil. I don’t know what the hell to do next. Where to go.’
Catherine Reed stared at the array of daily newspapers laid out on the carpet before her and she sighed wearily, leaning back against the sofa where Phillip Cross was lying, one hand gently massaging her shoulder.
She was wearing just a long shirt, unbuttoned to the second fastening, her long slender legs curled beneath her.
Cross was wearing T-shirt and jeans.
The jeans were unbuttoned at the waist, the T-shirt, bearing the legend same shit different day, was untidily tucked into them.
‘What about the rest?’ Cross enquired, nodding towards the other papers.
‘They’ve all got their angles’ she told him. ‘The ones who are bothering to carry stories anyway.’ Cath ran a hand through her long dark hair. ‘I sometimes wonder if we’re the only paper taking this child abuse thing seriously.’ She picked up one of the papers, another tabloid. ‘Two columns on page four. That’s it in the Mirror. The Sport ran a double-page centre spread with colour pictures of women dressed as witches, but now nothing.’
‘What do you expect? You know how they work. No tits, no story,’ Cross shrugged, still gently kneading the flesh of her shoulder.
‘Three columns in the Sun, one in Today and the broadsheets haven’t even touched it.’
‘Passing fad,’ offered Cross.
‘Jesus, Phil, we’re talking about sexual abuse of at least nine children, a possible paedophile ring, parents suspected of molesting their own kids and, to top it all, the probability there’s a ritual element to the whole thing, and still nobody gives a toss. They’d rather read how much Princess Diana spends on a sodding manicure.’
They sat in silence for a moment, just the sound of the TV in the background, the volume lowered so it was barely audible.
‘So, what do you do now?’ Cross asked.
‘No one’s talking any more,’ she told him, reaching back to touch his hand.
‘Not the police, not the Social Services, and certainly not the families. It’s like it’s all over. Pushed into some drawer out of sight. This is a bigger case than Cleveland or Nottingham, and no one wants to know.’
He continued massaging her as she went on. ‘One paper ran something about the video nasties that were found in a few of the houses. But they hardly mentioned the abuse. They were more concerned that the kids might have been watching violent movies. Instead of investigating the whole case they concentrated on the video angle. Some self-righteous MP stands up and calls for a ban on all 18 certificate videos. Jesus Christ, don’t they get it?’