One of the envelopes bore a Hackney postmark, the others nothing at all. Not even a stamp. They had
obviously been pushed through his letterbox by hand.
But from where? From whom?
It didn’t seem to matter that much. All that mattered was that they were here.
One was written on pink notepaper bearing a printed rose in one corner. The type of notepaper usually used for ‘Thank you’ notes. The type friends would use to correspond. The sort women might use.
Perhaps this note had been written by a woman.
Maybe they all had.
The only thing missing was the scent of perfume, Reed mused, wiping the tears from his cheeks.
All the notes were short, one of them only a few words, but what mattered was that someone had taken the time to write them and, more importantly, to deliver them.
He looked at each in turn.
At the pink notepaper with its rose in one corner.
At the words it bore.
I can scarcely disguise my disgust for your actions. A man in your position should be ashamed.
You are a disgrace to your profession and to your kind. I will pray for your daughter.
The second letter was written on plain paper, but the words were remarkably straight. Reed could only imagine that the writer had used a lined sheet, placed beneath the plain one in order to keep the spaces between the lines uniform.
You deserve to die for what you’ve done.
You sick bastard. If I see you in the street I’ll spit in your filthy face.
You scum.
If you go near my lad I’ll kill you.
That’s a promise.
The last letter (two words … it hardly constituted a letter, did it?) was written on a single piece of bonded typing paper.
He could see the watermark in the paper, even the make.
Conqueror paper.
Reed looked at the words.
He felt warm tears flowing down his cheeks once again and this time he made no attempt to stem the flood. Instead, through misted eyes he fixed his gaze on the two words which stood out so starkly from the almost blinding whiteness of the paper.
Frank Reed wept as he’d never wept in his life.
CHILD MOLESTER
Eighty-six
‘We can’t do that, Mr Talbot’ said the voice on the other end of the phone.
‘Without the necessary care your mother could die within hours of leaving the hospital.’
‘You said she wasn’t going to make it through last night, but she did’ Talbot snapped. ‘I want her home with me.’
There, it’s said.
‘I can’t authorise that.’
‘She’s my mother’ the DI rasped.
‘She’s my patient at St Ann’s, I won’t take responsibility for her once she leaves the hospital.’
‘No one’s asking you to. If she wants to die at home, then let her. At least give her that much dignity.’
1 can’t authorise it.’
Talbot gripped the phone tightly, trying to control his temper.
If she comes home she dies. End of story.
‘I realise how painful this is for you, Mr Talbot, but if you insist on taking your mother home then she’ll die.’
‘She’ll die anyway’ Talbot said, quietly.
He could think of nothing else to say.
‘Can’t you do it for her sake?’ he asked, finally.
For her sake? Or for yours?
Guilt pricking a little too sharply this time, is it ?
‘Perhaps we should talk about this when you come in later’ the doctor offered.
Talbot didn’t answer. He merely put down the phone.
The DI ran a hand through his hair and sat back in his chair.
You gave up too easily. You should have insisted.
‘Jesus’ he murmured, exhaling deeply, wearily.
What next? Wait for the phone call telling him it was all over.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, then Rafferty walked in without waiting for an invitation.
Talbot looked up at him, gaze momentarily blank, then he seemed to collect his thoughts.
‘Is the girl OK?’ he asked.
‘I’ve got her downstairs in protective custody’ Rafferty told him. ‘She’s got a TV set, a bed and plenty of food, one of the WPCs is with her. She’s fine.’
Talbot nodded and got to his feet.
‘Did you order searches of the houses and grounds around Parriam’s, Hyde’s and Jeffrey’s places?’
‘Sorted’ said the DS, nodding. ‘Where do you want to start?’
‘Let’s see what Macpherson turned up when he interviewed the parents of those kids.’
As the two men made their way down the corridor, Rafferty looked at his colleague. ‘What if it does turn out to be true, Jim?’ he said.
‘Witchcraft?’ The DI shook his head. ‘It’s bullshit’ he murmured.
Rafferty noticed that some of the conviction had gone from his voice.
‘Frank!’
He heard her call his name, but he didn’t answer.
Even when she banged on the door, Frank Reed didn’t stir. He continued to sit at the kitchen table, the three letters still laid out before him, the whiskey bottle close by.
She called again, then there was silence.
The phone rang. He managed a wan smile.
She was calling him on her mobile.
Standing outside his front door, she was holding her phone and calling his number.
The phone continued to ring.
Catherine Reed listened to the tone impatiently.
He had to be inside.
Where else would he be?
She pressed the End button on the phone and bent down, peering through the letterbox into the hall beyond.
‘Frank’ she called again through the small aperture. Still no answer.
Frank Reed got to his feet and stole into the sitting room, where he slumped onto the sofa and closed his eyes.
A second later he heard the letterbox clang shut, closely followed by the sound of Cath’s receding footsteps.
He was alone again.
God, it felt so good.
As the warm water splashed her body, spurting from the shower head, Shanine Connor turned her face towards the spray. Water ran in rivulets across her skin, her hair.
Her scars.
The WPC sat outside the room while she washed away the accumulated filth of her time on the streets of London.
What would happen to her when all this was over she had no idea.
If it ever was over.
But, for now, she was safe. As safe as she was likely to be, anyway, and warmer than she’d been for a while.
She glanced down at her feet, at the soap suds and grime which were flowing down the plughole.
It was as if some outer skin was being washed away.
Shanine felt the swell of her belly, running both hands across the skin.
As she looked down she saw more scars on the insides of her thighs and knees.
There were some on her buttocks too.
The ones she had not shown to Talbot.
Reminders.
She knew that if they found her now there would be fresh ones to join those which already covered her skin.
Shanine had told Talbot that they would not kill her but, as she stood beneath that cleansing spray, she realised that the child was their only concern.
Her betrayal had left them no choice.
She would have to die.
And they would still take the child.
With her finger, she traced a path from her pubic hair to just above her navel.
That was how they would cut her to reach the child, rip her open if necessary.
What they would do before that she could only imagine.
Even beneath the warm shower spray, she shuddered.
Eighty-seven
Talbot got to his feet, pacing the room slowly, one hand rubbing his stubbled cheek.
‘No physical evidence at all’ he said, incredulously. ‘Are you fucking serious, Mac?’