So many faces.
‘Read that shit’ the DI said disdainfully, pushing the folded up paper towards his colleague.
Rafferty scanned the words, glancing too at the photos which accompanied the piece.
Talbot took another swig of coffee as he sat watching Rafferty who finally looked across at him.
‘What’s the problem, Jim?’ he asked.
‘See who wrote it?’ Talbot said, irritably. He jabbed a finger at the name.
‘That stupid cow I spoke to at Euston the day Hyde topped himself. Remember?’
Rafferty nodded.
‘She says it’s been going on for a while’ the DS offered. ‘Those pictures seem to back her up.’
‘Do you believe it, Bill?’ Talbot wanted to know.
Rafferty shrugged.
‘She’s just shit-stirring again’ Talbot said before his colleague had time to answer. ‘Catherine fucking Reed.’ He pushed the paper away from him.
The headline blared from the centre spread, photos of the desecrated graves and crypt at Croydon Cemetery adding silent weight to the large black letters which screamed across the two pages: VANDALISM OR SATANISM?
‘Do you think they’ll talk?’ asked Terry Nicholls, scratching his head with the end of a pencil.
‘I don’t know’ Cath told him, shifting position in her seat. ‘My brother didn’t say what they were like.’
‘Your brother knows them?’
‘Their son attends the school where he teaches.’
‘You’re going to have to be careful, Cath’ the editor told her. ‘Now this story’s broken, every paper in the country is going to be crawling over it. I don’t want anyone else getting info we don’t have. This is your story, you make sure you follow it up. We should be able to run features on this for the next week or so. Find out what the other families think, too. Speak to the O’Brians, by all means, find out how they feel about their daughter’s grave being desecrated, but speak to the other families it happened to as well. If they won’t talk to you, then speak to their neighbours, their relatives, anyone who might be able to tell you more.’
Cath nodded slowly.
Nicholls tapped the paper on his desk.
‘This is good stuff,’ he said, smiling. ‘Get some more.’
Cath grinned and got to her feet.
When the pigeons took off it sounded like the applause of a thousand invisible hands.
Shanine Connor sat on the bench in Trafalgar Square and watched the birds rise into the clear blue sky.
However, for every one that had left there seemed to be two more in its place.
The entire pavement seemed to be alive with them. She sat watching them as they strutted back and forth in front of her, heads bobbing back and forth, bright eyes occasionally looking up at her as if to ask for food.
Christ, she barely had enough to feed herself.
The man seated on the bench next to her was flicking through his copy of the Express, impressed neither by Shanine’s close proximity nor by the mass of pigeons all around.
He was dressed in trousers and a shirt and tie, and Shanine thought how hot he looked.
She watched as a bead of perspiration popped onto his forehead, then ran down his nose.
She suppressed a chuckle and glanced at his paper.
The word struck her like a hammer.
He had the paper open at the centre pages.
Shanine edged closer to him, trying to read over his shoulder.
She could see the photos from where she sat. She could make out the headline, but the rest of the piece was a blur to her.
The man scanned the story quickly and turned the page.
Shanine felt like grabbing the paper from him, telling him she wanted to read the story that covered the middle pages. Instead, she just sat looking at him, turning away quickly when he glanced in her direction.
She gripped the holdall closer to her, eyes fixed on two pigeons close by pecking at discarded fruit where someone had missed the nearby wastebin.
Wasps buzzed frenziedly around the bin, the sound of their wings a constant accompaniment to the noise of the pigeons and the more powerful sound of traffic passing by.
The man glanced at his watch and got to his feet.
Shanine watched as he rolled the paper into a funnel, then stuck it into the wastebin, heading off across the square, scattering birds in his wake.
She pulled the paper from the bin and tore it open at the centre pages.
Despite the warmth of the day, as she read, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck begin to rise.
Forty-seven
‘You saw that boy’ snapped Frank Reed. ‘You saw what had been done to him. You must call the police.’
Noel Hardy sat forward in his chair, hands clasped together as if in prayer.
He was a short man and the large desk which bore his nameplate seemed to dwarf him even further. Reed had sometimes wondered if the furniture in the school had been designed to suit the importance of the person who sat behind it.
Predictably, as Headmaster, Hardy sat behind a desk of almost ludicrously oversized proportions. For a man of fifty-five he looked remarkably sprightly, the only flecks of grey visible on him being in his eyebrows which hovered
like bloated furry caterpillars above his dark brown eyes: eyes which now seemed to be gazing into space as if seeking some kind of answer.
As he looked across his office, his stare focusing on the vase of fresh flowers on a table near the door, he was aware of Reed leaning on the front of the desk.
Hardy could hear the younger man breathing.
‘Come on,’ Reed said, irritably. ‘Why wait any longer?’
‘It’s not that easy, Frank,’ Hardy said, finally, blinking hard. The spell, it seemed, was broken. ‘We have no proof.’
‘You saw the marks on his body. He didn’t do that to himself. That kid is terrified. God alone knows what he’s been through. The only way to help him is to call the police. They have to find out what’s been done to him.’
‘There are other considerations.’
‘Such as?’
Hardy lowered his gaze again.
‘The publicity’ he said, sheepishly. ‘This kind of thing could reflect badly on the school.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Reed snapped, exasperatedly. ‘There’s a kid here that’s been beaten, possibly by his parents. Not just slapped around but badly abused physically and mentally. You don’t have to be a bloody social worker to see that. And all you’re worried about is the reputation of the school. What matters more to you, Noel? The state of St Michael’s or the well being of its pupils? So what if it does attract some publicity? Good. It might stop some more kids from being mistreated.’
‘What makes you think there are others?’ Hardy wanted to know.
‘Ask Judith Nelson. She’s seen one of her girls in more or less the same state.’
‘Which girl?’
‘Annette Hilston. She lives about two streets away from the O’Brian boy.’
‘So what do you want me to do? Have every home in that area investigated, just in case the children there might be in danger?’ Hardy glared at his assistant.
‘Frank, you’re a parent yourself, how would you feel if someone started yelling abuser at you? If they accused you of harming your child?’
‘If my daughter looked and behaved the way Paul O’Brian does then they’d have every right to accuse me, because the chances are they’d be right. That boy needs
our help, Noel, and the only way he’s going to get it is by you calling the police. Now.’
