‘Are they still living at Ward’s place?’
He nodded.
‘I’ve been round there,’ Reed told her. ‘But either they won’t answer the door or they’re never there.’ He clenched his fists angrily. ‘Perhaps it’s a good thing. If
I got hold of that bastard I’d probably kill him. And Ellen.’
‘That wouldn’t do anybody any good, least of all Becky. Think about her.’
‘I do think about her’ Reed snarled. ‘Why the hell do you think I feel this way? My wife cleared off five months ago and took my daughter with her. Twelve years of marriage pissed away. Flushed down the fucking toilet, Cath. And for what? So she could be with some …’ He shook his head. ‘Jesus, I don’t even know what he does for a living. I don’t know where they’re getting their money. He could be a fucking pimp or a drug dealer for all I know.’
‘I’m sorry, Frank,’ Cath said, softly.
‘I want my daughter back,’ he said, angrily. ‘And it’s getting to the stage where I don’t care how I get her.’
They sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, then Reed got to his feet.
‘I’d better be going.’
Cath rose with him.
‘Frank, if there’s anything I can do to help-‘ she began.
He cut her short. ‘What, like drive the getaway car when I snatch Becky?’
‘Don’t say that.’
She walked with him to the door of the flat, watching as he slipped on his jacket. He turned to face her.
‘I won’t lose Becky’ he said.
Cath embraced him, holding him close to her, feeling his warm breath against her cheek.
She kissed him lightly on the lips.
‘Sorry to spoil the evening’ he said, apologetically.
‘You didn’t. I understand how you must feel.’
‘No you don’t, Cath. I hope you never have to understand what it feels like.’
He kissed her again, his lips pressing a little harder against hers.
‘Call me tomorrow’ she said as he stepped out into the hallway. She watched him walk to the lift then closed the door, leaning against it.
‘Shit,’ she sighed, wearily.
Eighteen
The boy knew that the man was coming for him.
He came for him most nights.
Sometimes he stank of drink.
Then he would come with anger and there would be pain.
At other times he came with kindness and there would be little suffering. He would speak to him softly, reassure him, praise him. Sometimes even smile at him.
Tonight there were no smiles.
The boy heard the banging of the door as it was hurled open, rocking back on its hinges, and he saw the man silhouetted in the bedroom doorway.
The figure paused, swaying uncertainly, then lurched towards the boy, who drew the sheets more tightly around his neck, perhaps hoping they would form an impenetrable cocoon to protect him.
Above him the figure bent down, then gripped the sheets and tore them away, exposing the boy’s frail body.
And then the boy caught that smell.
The stink of alcohol, the acrid stench of sweat and another stronger odour. A musky, choking stench which seemed to grow stronger.
The boy wanted to scream.
He opened his mouth but no sound would escape; then when he felt the blow across his cheeks, first one then the other, he knew he must remain silent.
And he knew he must keep his mouth open.
God help me.
But then why should he help tonight? He turned his back every other time.
Somebody help me.
He wanted to scream.
He had to scream.
And finally, he did.
James Talbot sat bolt upright, eyes staring, dragged from the nightmare by invisible hands.
There was a bellow of pain and rage echoing in his ears.
His own bellow.
‘Jesus’ he gasped. ‘Jesus. Jesus.’
He smelled his own sweat.
‘Fuck’ he panted.
Talbot tried to swallow but it felt as if his throat had been filled with chalk.
‘I’m as mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more…’
The voice shouted at him.
Talbot stared frantically around him.
‘Who …’ he began.
‘Let me hear you, I’m as mad as hell and I’m not going to take this any more …’
He looked at the television screen, saw the source of the voice.
Talbot jabbed the Off button on the remote.
Silence.
‘Fuck’ he whispered. ‘Fuck.’
He sat forward in his seat, leaning his elbows on his knees, and rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. Talbot kept his eyes closed tightly but the fragments of his dream floated into view, fractured images which only disappeared when he opened his eyes. He took several deep breaths, trying to slow the thunderous pounding of his heart, afraid it would burst.
He glanced across at the clock on the mantelpiece.
11.42 p.m.
He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep. Couldn’t remember.
Didn’t fucking care.
He got to his feet and wandered through into the kitchen where he spun the cold tap over the sink, scooping water into his sweating palms. He splashed his face with the cold water, then drank some from the gushing stream, forcing away the dryness in his throat. He gripped the edges of the sink for a moment, eyes closed again, water running down his face.
Then he turned and headed for the hall, where he picked up his car keys and, slamming the front door behind him, stepped out into the night.
Talbot had no idea how long he’d been driving.
The streets were quiet at such a late hour. He’d passed the usual traffic on main roads but the less populated thoroughfares of Finsbury Park, Tottenham Hale and Harringay were virtually deserted.
The DI sat behind the wheel of the Volvo, arms resting on it, gazing across the darkened street.
From where he was parked he could see only the low stone wall which fronted the building opposite.
It was in total darkness apart from a light burning outside the main entrance.
There were a couple of cars parked outside, but certainly no sign of movement either inside or outside the building.
Talbot sat motionless for what seemed like an eternity, only his fingertips
moving gently, rhythmically, on the steering wheel.
