Talbot grinned.
‘Like I said, Phil, just clutching at straws.’ His grin faded slightly.
He continued gazing at the photos.
Thirty-three
Terence Nicholls ran a hand through his short, greying hair and turned over the next photo.
He considered each one carefully, studying every aspect of the image, like an art connoisseur.
Occasionally he would sit back in his chair, particularly intrigued by an image. When he did sit back he made a conscious effort to pull in his sagging stomach muscles. The buttons of his shirt were straining just a little uncomfortably against his belly. But it was the only part of his body that carried any excess fat. The rest of his frame was lean. His face most notably was thin, almost gaunt, his grey-flecked hair giving him the appearance of being older than his thirty-nine years. His fingernails, despite being immaculately manicured, were dirty. Grimy with newsprint and ink. Like
the pads of his fingers which he wiped every now and then on the corner of a handkerchief protruding from his trouser pocket.
His desk was unnaturally tidy for a newspaper editor. No stray pieces of paper left lying wantonly on the wooden top. No scattered paper clips or pens.
Everything was in its place. The only thing incongruous amidst this neatness was his coffee mug, which was so darkly stained inside, even the strongest detergent couldn’t restore the original colour of the china. In fact, he’d given up washing it weeks ago. The stains were as much a part of the design as the logo: shit happens and you’re living proof. Behind him, bookshelves were laden so heavily with hundreds of different-sized volumes, it seemed they would collapse at any moment. Blu-tacked to one shelf was a crayon drawing with DADDY scrawled beneath a multi-coloured figure. A gift from his three-year old son.
‘Jesus,’ said Nicholls finally, pushing the pile of photos back across his desk towards Catherine Reed. ‘Did you take all of those?’
Cath nodded.
‘This has been going on for the last three months, Terry’ she said. ‘Graves dug up, headstones smashed, graffiti on tombs.’
‘And the police know about it?’ he enquired.
‘They say it’s vandalism.’
‘Maybe it is, but it’s a bit different to smashing car windows or writing “bollocks” on somebody’s front door, isn’t it? What does the priest there make of it?’
‘He seems to think it’s vandals as well, but it’s upset him.’
‘Have you spoken to any of the relatives of those whose graves were dug up?’
‘Not yet.’
‘And they’ve always been kids, you say?’
Cath nodded.
‘There’s a story here, Terry. Something big, I reckon.’
‘What’s your angle?’
‘How far vandals will go these days. What sort of people would do this.’ She prodded one of the photos. ‘How much worse can it get? Is there a purpose to it? That kind of thing.’
He nodded and pulled half a dozen of the pictures back towards him. ‘I remember this sort of shit happening at Highgate Cemetery a few years ago.
Graves were dug up. Some coffins even had the bodies removed. There was some bloke who claimed there was a vampire loose in there.’ Nicholls chuckled. ‘I was assistant editor at the Highgate Herald then. We had front pages of the stuff for about a week. A few people reckoned they’d seen this vampire.’
He turned over the pictures again.
‘Have you thought about the witchcraft angle?’ he said, quietly, his gaze riveted to a shot of the giant pentagram on the wall of the crypt.
‘Witchcraft?’ said Cath, sounding surprised.
‘Desecrated graves, pentagrams, the Lord’s Prayer written backwards. It’s worth investigating,’ he continued.
‘The punters usually go for that kind of thing. Find out if there’ve been any animals sacrificed there, too. Check with the local police to see if anyone’s reported their cat or dog missing - somebody might have used it in some sort of ritual.’
‘Are you serious?’ she said, grinning.
‘Of course I’m serious,’ Nicholls told her. ‘Talk to the local RSPCA, too.’
‘You don’t honestly believe that this is about witchcraft, do you, Terry?’
‘A bunch of fucking druggies out of their heads on something, dancing around in cloaks and having an orgy. As far as I’m concerned that’s close enough to witchcraft to make it interesting for your average reader.’
‘Do you believe in it?’
‘Do I fuck! But some of the dickheads who do might just be stupid enough to dig up a few graves, smash a few headstones and paint signs on a church crypt wall. It’s not the devil they want, it’s a quick shag. They’re playing at it, Cath, but it makes good copy. It sells papers.’
‘Perhaps I should do some research about black magic too,’ she chuckled.
‘Whatever you want. Find as many angles as you can. Milk it. I agree with you, it could be big.’
‘I’m talking about doing a serious investigation into the causes and nature of vandalism, and you’re talking about witchcraft.’
‘I’m talking about selling papers,’ Nicholls told her, scanning some more of the pictures. ‘Has it only happened at Croydon Cemetery so far?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘Check out some others.’ He grinned. ‘Just be careful no one puts a spell on you.’
‘I’ll get my broomstick and black cat and get going, then,’ Cath joked, getting to her feet. She paused as she reached his office door.
‘Terry, what if it turns out to be real?’
He looked puzzled.
‘If it really is linked to black magic,’ she prompted.
‘Then we’ll run it on the front page next to the interviews with Father Christmas and the fucking tooth fairy.’
He heard her laughter as she closed the door.
Nicholls reached for the phone as it rang.
Thirty-four
Frank Reed sat at his desk glancing out of the classroom window into the corridor beyond.
He could see the heads of dozens of children as they hurried by, some using as much restraint as they could muster to stop themselves from running. But the final bell had sounded. They could go home and that was exactly what they were doing, with undue haste and delight.
Reed cleaned the blackboard behind him and dropped the chalky eraser onto the ledge beneath it, wiping his hands to remove the dust. He massaged the back of his neck with one hand, feeling a dull ache growing more intense there.
He gathered up his text books and shoved them into the battered leather briefcase he always carried them in.
Ellen had bought it for him for their first wedding anniversary.
Ellen.
He looked at the case and gritted his teeth.
Bitch.
As he left the classroom he locked the door, twisting the handle to ensure it was correctly secured.
Two young boys sprinted past him up the corridor.
