The first constable reached the Civic in time to see the knife glinting in Reed’s hand.
He was about to shout something to his companion when Reed lifted it higher.
His eyes never left Becky.
‘I’m sorry’ he said again.
Then he pulled the blade hard across his throat.
‘No!’ roared one of the constables, making a dive for the driver’s-side door but, as he tugged on the handle, he found it was locked.
Inside the car Reed felt fleeting moments of pain, barely noticeable, as the knife sliced effortlessly through the flesh and muscles of his neck, severing carotid and jugular vessels.
Blood exploded from the gaping wound, spattering both the windscreen and the side windows. Great crimson gouts ejaculated from the torn veins and arteries.
Reed dropped the knife.
He was dimly aware of a battering on the side window, of glass suddenly flying inwards, of hands grabbing for him.
It slipped away very quickly.
Blood was still spurting wildly from his gashed throat, but he sat upright in his seat, his body now jerking uncontrollably as the muscles contracted.
His vision dimmed, fuzzed, then cleared slightly.
When he looked slightly to one side, Becky was gone, glancing across at the commotion around a car she could not see into, wondering what those two policemen were doing.
He tasted blood in his mouth, felt it pouring over his lips.
His head lolled backwards against the top of the seat and the gaping laceration seemed to open further, yawning like some blood-choked mouth.
Reed was surprised how little pain he felt.
One of the constables had managed to open the driver’s door by now and was reaching for him.
Through a haze he heard words like:
‘… dying …’
‘… Emergency…’
‘… ambulance…’
One twitching hand touched the summons, now also spattered with blood.
He slumped back in his seat, his vision clouded red.
Reed felt as if he was going to vomit.
It never happened.
He was dead before his stomach managed the contraction.
Ninety-six
She wondered why she hadn’t cried.
Catherine Reed sat on her sofa, legs drawn up beneath her, eyes staring blankly ahead.
Why?
It was nearly four hours now since she’d been informed of her brother’s death, and yet still she found no tears filling her eyes. Where there should have been tears she felt only dazed bewilderment. Where there should have been pain she felt only a consuming emptiness.
Talbot himself had told her the news.
He hadn’t been specific until she’d asked about the nature of the suicide.
Even then she’d felt merely a shudder, not the explosion of emotion she had expected.
She told herself she was in shock. The weeping would come. The realisation of loss.
For now she was numb.
Why had Frank been killed? Why had his picture been inside the Misfortune Box when it should have been hers?
Where was hers?
She glanced at her watch.
11.35 p.m.
Was her time yet to come?
Would she hurl herself from the window when the hands of her watch met at twelve?
Talbot had offered to leave men outside her flat.
To what purpose?
If she was going to die it would be by her own hand. No one could prevent it, short of tying her down. Even then, perhaps she could swallow her own tongue.
When it came to taking life, the human mind was blessed with quite staggering powers of invention.
The phone had rung, the answering machine collecting messages of condolence.
She had not bothered to pick it up, not bothered to return any calls.
There would be plenty of time for that.
Wouldn’t there?
What if at midnight…
She forced the thought from her mind.
Instead she got to her feet and crossed the room where she refilled her glass with Bacardi and Coke. A strong measure of the former.
‘Frank,’ she whispered under her breath.
Even mention of his name didn’t bring the tears she expected. Tears she hoped for.
Shock.
She was heading back towards the sofa when the phone rang. Who the hell would call so late? she wondered.
The tone sounded unusually loud in the stillness of the room, then she heard a voice she knew only too well.
‘Hello, Cath, it’s me,’ said Phillip Cross. ‘I…’
She snatched up the phone.
‘Phil’ she said, and suddenly the tears which she had thought locked away inside her broke free.
‘What’s wrong?’ he said, worriedly.
‘It’s Frank,’ she said. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Oh Christ!’ Cross murmured. ‘Look, I’ll be over in thirty minutes, let me get changed. I’ve just got back from that job in Glasgow.’
‘I need you, Phil,’ she said, her voice cracking.
‘I’ll be there’ he told her. ‘Just take it easy. Thirty minutes.’
‘I love you’ she said quietly.
He paused, unsure whether or not he’d heard the words correctly.
‘I love you too, Cath’ he said, softly. ‘See you soon.’
And he put down the phone.
So, Reed was dead, Cross thought as he pulled on his leather jacket.
He was out of her life. Out of their lives.
They’d always been close - too close. Cross had always felt feelings akin to jealousy for Cath’s brother. He wondered if she’d have spoken those words had Frank still been alive.
'I love you.’
He smiled.
Now there was only him to love.
No competition.
Cross flipped open his wallet and pulled something from it.
A small piece of paper.
Shiny paper.
The torn half of a photo.
It showed Cath.
The other half had shown her brother.
That had been the half Cross had buried in the Misfortune Box.
Just as he’d learned.
Just as he had known that the photos of Neil Parriam, Craig Jeffrey and Peter Hyde had been buried close to their homes.
Cross had not buried those, but he had known who had.
They had worked.
Carrying the ripped photo of Cath, he wandered into the small room next to his bedroom. He’d been using it as a home dark-room for the last couple of years.
Inside the smell of chemicals was strong.
There were photos in the developing trays. Some pinned to the thin wire which was stretched across the makeshift dark-room.
The ones which hung from the wire showed children.
Some as young as eighteen months.
Every child in every picture was naked.
Some were older, some bore bruises or scars.
There was a photograph of Shanine Connor pinned to the small cork notice board on one wall.
It had been sent to him three days earlier.
He knew what she looked like.
The network prided itself on its communications.
Her time was close.
He took down the photos from the wire, gathered them up and pushed them into one of the heavy metal drawers of a filing cabinet inside the dark-room. The ones in the tray of developer he rinsed, then clipped into position on the wire.
He would remove those when he returned from Cath’s the next day.
They would be hidden with the others until they were needed.
Cath.
He locked the dark-room behind him, glancing at the tattered half of her picture.
Her image smiled back at him.
Cross carefully folded it and replaced it in his wallet, then he picked up his car keys and headed for the front door.
He had to hurry. She’d sounded upset.
She would have a lot to tell him.
Cross smiled.
She needed him.