‘You’re talking about politicians, Cath, they don’t live in the real world.
Any of them.’
‘What do you think?’ she asked, turning to face him.
‘About politicians? They’re all a bunch of hypocritical, arse-licking, vote-catching, back-stabbing-‘
She smiled and pressed her finger to his lips.
‘About this story?’ she corrected him, removing her finger.
‘I think there’s something going on, but don’t ask me what. Kids abused, cats nailed to church doors, graves dug up, dawn raids. It makes no sense to me, Cath. I’m just a humble photographer.’
‘But what do you believe?’
He could only shrug.
‘Do you believe my story?’ she asked. ‘Do you believe that the abuse could be ritualistic?’
‘Cath, I…’
‘I need to know, Phil.’
‘I think it’s possible’ he said, quietly, stroking her hair. ‘Why is my
opinion so important?’
‘It just is.’
She kissed him lightly on the lips.
‘What are the police doing about the case?’ he asked, sliding one hand inside her shirt, cupping one breast.
She made no move to resist.
‘They start interviewing the parents of the children tomorrow’ Cath told him, sighing as she felt his thumb brush across her nipple, the fleshy bud stiffening and rising.
‘All you can do is wait, Cath’ he told her, quietly, his hand still gently squeezing her breast.
She bent forward and kissed him hard on the lips, his mouth opening to welcome her probing tongue, his hand squeezing her breast.
She climbed onto the sofa with him, grinding her pubic mound against the bulge she could feel in his jeans, helping him to free his erection.
As he felt her hand grip his shaft he grunted with pleasure, fingers undoing her shirt, tongue snaking forward to flick her swollen nipples. With his free hand he traced a pattern across the inside of first one of her spread thighs then the other, feeling her shiver at his touch.
As she moved forward he felt the slippery softness of her cleft brush against the tip of his penis.
Cath sighed, wanting him inside her.
She glanced to one side, at the papers spread out across the carpet.
Then, as she felt the first glorious sensations between her legs, felt his stiffness slide into her, she turned her head away.
The phone was ringing when Talbot walked in. He glanced at his watch. 11.27
p.m.
Who the fuck was calling now? He snatched up the receiver. ‘Hello.’
‘Mr Talbot, this is Maurice Hodges’ said the voice at the other end.
The DI felt the colour drain from his cheeks.
Hodges sounded almost apologetic. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you at this time, but it is important’ he said. ‘It’s your mother. It’s bad news.’
Seventy-nine
That smell.
Hospitals always had that smell. Talbot didn’t know what it was but it always made him feel sick.
If he’d been in the mood he would probably have found that particular irony amusing.
As it was he had other things on his mind.
He had no idea how long it had taken him to drive to St Ann’s hospital in Harringay. The journey had been a blur, as if he’d been travelling through some drug-induced trance, not really seeing or hearing properly. He drove instinctively, amazed he hadn’t killed anyone, such had been his haste to reach this place.
This place that smelled so strong it made him feel sick.
The room in which he sat was about twelve feet square.
It reminded him of a cell but for the leaflets on the wall.
Multiple sclerosis.
Rabies.
Cancer.
Always fucking cancer.
That particular leaflet was pinned just above the red and white sign which proclaimed: no smoking.
Talbot felt more like a cigarette than he’d ever done in his life.
A nurse had brought him a cup of tea when he’d first arrived.
That same cup now stood untouched and cold on the table before him.
The room was lit by a small table lamp fitted with a forty-watt bulb. It was barely adequate and the room was filled with long shadows. Thick and black, they seemed to move of their own accord.
The door of the room opened and two men entered, one of whom Talbot recognised as Dr Hodges from Litton Vale. The other man was also, he assumed, a doctor, his features pinched, his hair swept back so severely it looked as though his scalp had been stretched.
But, for all that, he had sad eyes. Great saucer-like orbs which homed in on Talbot like searchlights on a fleeing man.
‘How is she?’ the DI asked, rising to his feet.
The man with sad eyes kept him fixed in that watery gaze.
‘I won’t lie to you’ he said softly. ‘I’ll be surprised if she lasts the night. I’m very sorry.’
Talbot stood motionless. ‘What was it?’ he said, looking at Hodges.
‘A massive heart attack,’ the doctor told him. ‘One of the night staff called me: I live close to Litton Vale, I don’t know if you know. I drove there, I called the ambulance immediately, then I called you.’
‘Can I see her?’ Talbot asked.
‘She’s in a coma,’ the sad-eyed man told him.
‘I didn’t ask you that. I asked if I could see her,’ the DI persisted.
‘I’d advise against it, Mr Talbot-‘
‘I don’t want your advice, I want to see my mother.’
The sad-eyed doctor glanced at Hodges then back at Talbot. ‘She’s in ICU. I can show you-‘
‘I’ll find it,’ said Talbot, pushing past him.
As he stepped out of the room he saw several signs on the blue-painted hospital wall.
One pointed the way to Intensive Care.
Talbot stalked off down the corridor and jabbed the lift call button, waiting as the car bumped to a halt before him.
As the doors slid open he saw an old man in a dressing gown inside, who shot him a questioning look. The man was using a frame to walk and even that didn’t seem to be of much help.
Talbot wondered what he was doing up and about at such a late hour.
The policeman stepped into the lift, watched by the old man, pressed the required button and the doors slid shut.
He leaned against the rear wall as the lift rose to its appointed floor.
The smell here seemed even stronger, but Talbot ignored it and headed towards the nurses’ station, his footsteps echoing through the stillness.
The nurse who looked up at him was in her early twenties.
‘I’m looking for Dorothy Talbot,’ he said. ‘I’m her son.’
The nurse stared at him, pity filling her eyes, then she rose.
Talbot followed her along a short corridor towards a room, the door of which she pushed open, ushering Talbot inside.
‘Oh Christ!’ he whispered.
The only sound in the room was the steady blip of an oscilloscope.
‘You can’t stay long’ the nurse said, apologetically, stepping aside as Talbot moved closer to the bed where his mother lay.
There was a plastic chair close to the bed and he pulled it over, seating himself beside her, gazing into her face.
Her skin was the colour of old newspaper, her eyes sunken so deep into her face she looked skeletal.
The nurse paused a moment then stepped out of the room.
Talbot sat gazing at his mother, at the tubes running from both arms to drips near by. At the catheter, half full of dark liquid.
‘Mum,’ he said, softly, reaching for her hand.
It was so cold.
Her skin felt waxen to his touch.
And so cold.
He could see her chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly but he couldn’t hear her breathing.
All that was covering her was a sheet, and that was only pulled up as far as her waist. Talbot muttered something under his breath and noticed a blanket carefully folded on the bottom of the bed. He unrolled it then pulled both it