‘One of the graves had been dug up, the headstone had been smashed.’
‘Shit,’ she murmured, sitting forward in her seat. ‘What else?’
‘The coffin had been tampered with, apparently it’s not the first time it’s happened in that cemetery.’
‘Who did the grave belong to?’
‘A kid. A baby. I made a note of the name, don’t ask me why. I reckon I’ve been around you too long.’
At the other end of the phone she heard the rustling of papers.
Cath pulled a pad towards her and wrote on it: Desecration?
‘Stephen Foster, that was the kid’s name,’ Cross said at last.
Cath scribbled it on the pad and drew a ring around it.
‘Did you say it wasn’t the first time it had happened there?’ she asked.
‘The vicar was there when I arrived, I overheard him talking to the police about it. I didn’t catch it all.’
She sat staring at the word Desecration, chewing on the end of her pen.
‘Probably just some sick bastard pissing about’ Cross added.
‘Mmm’ Cath responded distractedly.
‘So’ the photographer said. ‘What are you doing tonight? Are you coming over here or-‘
She cut him short. ‘I’m expecting company, Phil.’
‘Anyone I know?’ Cross asked frostily.
‘My brother.’
‘Oh, right’ he murmured, sounding relieved. ‘What about tomorrow?’
‘I’ll call you.’
‘I just think there’s things we should talk about’ Cross protested.
‘Not now, Phil’ she told him, wearily. ‘I’ll see you for lunch tomorrow, all right?’
There was a protracted silence at the other end of the line.
Cath exhaled deeply.
‘Yeah, OK’ Cross said, reluctantly. ‘See you.’
He hung up.
Cath replaced the receiver, got to her feet, and headed for the kitchen. It was hot; three pots were bubbling on the cooker. She lifted the lid of each and checked its contents, smiling to herself. Then she passed back into the sitting room and picked up her wine glass, taking a sip. She had laid the table close to the window, even draped it with a clean, freshly ironed table cloth. Cath wasn’t the most domesticated of women but even her mother would have been proud of the table, she mused, glancing across at her parents’ photo on top of the TV.
There was music playing softly in the background, the volume turned low. Cath hummed as she wandered back to the kitchen, glancing at her watch.
Almost time.
It wasn’t like him to be late.
The doorbell sounded at exactly eight o’clock and Cath headed towards its source, a smile already on her face.
She checked the spy-hole and saw him out there.
She opened the door.
‘Hello, mate’ said Frank Reed, grinning, holding a bunch of flowers before him.
He stepped inside, into her welcoming arms.
Sixteen
The lights inside the tube train hurt her eyes.
Shanine Connor blinked hard and lowered her head momentarily.
When she looked up again she noticed that the man seated opposite was staring at her.
Wasn’t he?
He was in his mid-forties, dressed in an open-necked shirt and dark trousers that were far too short. As he crossed and uncrossed his legs, the material rode up to reveal the pure white of his flesh.
Shanine looked at his hairless legs. Anything rather than hold his gaze, which she felt boring into her.
Standing at one end of the carriage was a couple in their twenties, both dressed in jeans and leather jackets. They were kissing passionately, oblivious to the other passengers in the carriage.
A young woman with a dark complexion was studying a map of the Underground intermittently, glancing up at the map opposite for reassurance.
The man next to her was reading a well-thumbed paperback, chuckling to himself, unable to hear his own giggles over the sound of his Walkman.
Shanine glanced across at the man with the white legs and was relieved to see that he was gazing down the carriage at the leather-clad couple.
She pulled the holdall closer to her, hugging it tightly as if it were a sleeping dog.
She couldn’t remember how long she’d been on the train. Only that her journey had begun in natural light, overground, only to become swallowed by the tunnels as the tube had drawn closer to Central London.
Her eyelids felt as if someone had attached lead weights to them.
Christ, she was tired!
It felt as if she’d been travelling for days on end. From the service station she’d found a lift easily enough, but the journey down the motorway had seemed interminable.
And now this.
She needed sleep more than she needed food, but her stomach rumbled noisily to remind her of that particular requirement too.
Where should she get off?
She didn’t even know where the hell she was going.
The train pulled into Leicester Square station: Shanine glanced out of the grubby windows and saw the signs.
The man with the white legs opposite looked across at her.
He was staring at her.
Wasn’t he? It was obvious.
She shifted in her seat as the doors slid open.
Stop staring.
The leather-clad couple got out; so did the young woman with the dark complexion. Shanine saw her looking around helplessly on the platform seeking the way out.
Other people stepped on to replace them.
A young woman no older than herself sat a couple of seats away, brushing her long blonde hair away from her face, catching Shanine’s eye.
Shanine smiled.
The young woman ignored her and began thumbing through a copy of Cosmopolitan.
The train moved off.
How many more stops?
Piccadilly Circus.
Shanine looked around anxiously.
Should she get off here?
She hesitated a moment longer, then jumped to her feet just as the doors were sliding shut. The man with the white legs watched her as she jammed a hand between the doors to force them open again. She stepped out onto the platform as the doors closed behind her.
Shanine stood motionless, gazing around, searching for the Exit sign while dozens of other people walked,
scurried or pushed past her. She followed the largest group and saw the way out.
She rode the escalator behind a man who carried the pungent odour of sweat on him, the smell mingling with a stench like burning rubber. The moving stairway creaked protestingly as it rose, and Shanine looked to her right
