Talbot raised his eyebrows and smiled.
Cath turned away from him angrily, lighting a cigarette.
‘What about you, Bill?’ Talbot said, looking at Rafferty. ‘What do you think?’
Rafferty shrugged. ‘I think she could be telling the truth.’
‘Jesus’ Talbot grunted. ‘I don’t believe this. Am I the only one who hasn’t lost his fucking mind around here?’
‘There’s a lot of coincidences, Jim, a lot of similarities with these cases we’ve been investigating,’ Rafferty insisted.
Cath smiled to herself.
‘AH right,’ the DI said, irritably, turning his gaze upon Shanine. ‘Tell me
again about this “Death Hex”.’ He spoke the last two words with contempt.
‘They steal a photograph of the person they want dead,’ Shanine said, sucking on her cigarette. ‘It’s put into a box with three thorns, some cemetery earth and a dead insect, then it’s buried close to the victim’s home.’
‘And what’s this thing called?’
‘A Misfortune Box.’
‘And this is what was done to your boyfriend,’ the DI proclaimed. ‘There’s no possibility he could have just topped himself? Was he depressed? Suicidal?’
‘They killed him,’ Shanine blurted. ‘And they used the Death Hex to do it, to make it look like suicide.’
‘And we’re supposed to believe that Parriam, Hyde and Jeffrey were killed the same way? Forced to commit suicide because of this “Misfortune Box”?’
‘It does tie in, Jim’ Rafferty said. ‘The stolen photos start to make sense if this is true.’
‘And the graveyard desecrations in Croydon’ Cath added.
‘So, who’s responsible? The parents of the abused kids?’ Talbot wanted to know.
‘That’s what you’re supposed to find out, isn’t it?’ Cath said, challengingly.
‘Don’t tell me my fucking job, Reed’ Talbot snapped. He glared at her for a second then turned his attention back to Shanine. ‘This box, how big is it?’
She held her hands about six inches apart.
‘They seal it with black wax’ she told him.
Talbot eyed her suspiciously.
‘What do you get out of this?’ he said, quietly. ‘What difference does it make to you what happened to those three men? Or what happens to her?’ He nodded in Cath’s direction.
‘I just want my child to be safe.’
‘You said that the members of the group were frightened of what would happen to them if they rebelled, if they spoke out against the others. Aren’t you scared?’
‘I told you I was. That’s why I ran’ Shanine insisted. ‘But I’m more frightened for my child. I won’t let them take this one, too.’
‘What if they’ve worked this Death Hex on you?’ the DI said.
‘They might have. But they’re more likely to come looking for me.’
‘Why?’
‘To punish me.’
‘Why not just kill you?’ the DI demanded. ‘If they’re that powerful it should be easy’
‘They’d want to make me suffer for betraying them, and they’d want my baby,’
Shanine told him. ‘They wouldn’t kill me.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Talbot said.
‘Because I ran away once before, not long after my boyfriend was killed’ she told him. ‘They found me. They’ll probably find me this time, too.’
‘What did they do to you last time?’ Talbot asked.
Shanine looked at Cath and the journalist saw tears in her eyes.
‘Well, come on, tell me’ the DI persisted. ‘Make me believe that all this isn’t just bullshit.’
Shanine stood up, tugging at the buttons of her shirt, dragging it open.
Talbot gritted his teeth, his eyes fixed on her torso, her breasts.
‘Jesus Christ’ murmured Rafferty, his gaze also riveted on the young woman.
‘Is that enough for you?’ said Shanine, defiantly, a solitary tear rolling down her cheek.
The flesh from her collar bone as far down as her navel was criss-crossed by scars.
There were several darker marks around her breasts, which Talbot recognised as burns.
Shanine shrugged off her shirt and turned around slowly, and Talbot saw that her back was in an even worse condition.
There was a mark between her shoulder blades, visible through the maze of weals and scars. Darker.
It looked like an A enclosed in a circle. The sign usually associated with Anarchy.
It took him only a second to realise it was a brand.
‘There’re others if you want to look’ she said, undoing her jeans.
Talbot shook his head, reached for the young woman’s top and handed it back to her.
‘Don’t you want to know which ones were done with knives and which ones were done with whips?’ she said, angrily.
The marks on her belly were even more prominent, great red welts which seemed to glisten on the swollen flesh.
‘Get dressed’ Talbot said, quietly.
She pulled the top back on.
Rafferty looked across at his superior, who met his gaze and held it for a moment before leaning back in his chair.
‘Just assuming this shit about these Misfortune Boxes is true’ he said, finally. ‘How long would it take this … spell to work?’
‘Two or three days, maybe longer’ Shanine informed him. ‘Not more than a week.’
‘Parriam, Hyde and Jeffrey all died within a week of their photos being stolen’ Rafferty offered.
‘So that leaves you two days to find this box, Reed’ the DI murmured.
‘Otherwise it looks like you might be joining them.’
‘Where do we start looking?’ Cath responded.
‘It’ll be hidden somewhere near your house’ Shanine told her.
‘Get men round to the houses of the three dead men, search the gardens of their places and the houses close by. Use fucking JCBs if you have to. But find those boxes’ Talbot said to his colleague.
‘What about me?’ Cath asked, her face pale.
‘You’d better hope that all this is shit’ he said, flatly.
‘They usually try to work the Hex to coincide with one of the important days in the satanic calendar,’ Shanine offered.
‘Like what?’ Cath asked.
‘Candlemas, that’s February the second’ Shanine told her. ‘Or the summer or winter solstice. Some groups even use the High Priest’s birthday as a festival.’
‘Are there any dates coming up?’ Rafferty asked.
‘Beltaine. Walpurgis night. April the thirtieth,’ Shanine informed him.
‘That’s two days from now’ the DS said, looking at his colleague.
Talbot was looking intently at Shanine.
‘How do we stop the Hex?’ Cath asked.
‘It’ll come into force at midnight on the thirtieth’ Shanine told her. ‘You’ve got to find the Misfortune Box before then. You must find that box and destroy it.’
Eighty-five
Frank Reed held the piece of paper before him.
Just a simple piece of paper.
A4 size.
The envelope which he’d taken it from moments earlier lay on the kitchen table close to his elbow, close to the mug of lukewarm coffee.
He’d read and re-read the words on the paper.
Tears were running steadily down his cheeks.
Throw it away.
He put it down on the table, smoothing out the creases.
Burn it. Burn the envelope too.
Two other envelopes were in front of him, the single sheets of paper they contained also laid out for inspection.
All the notes were handwritten but the graphology was different. Three different hands had penned these notes.