Maria nodded.
‘Did he examine all the children?’ Nikki wanted to know.
Again Maria nodded.
‘And?’
Maria sat back in her chair and blinked hard. It had been a long day and it seemed to be getting longer.
‘Where do you want me to start?’
‘“Considerable bruising around the entrance of the vagina and on the inner thighs’” she read from one report. ‘“Evidence of anal penetration.”’ She turned to another sheet of paper. ‘“Pelvic injuries, caused by crushing.
Possible damage to the bladder.” “Cervical rupture.” “Penetration by a sharp instrument, possibly a stick, causing internal lacerations of the anus.”’ She put down the reports. ‘How much more do you want to hear?’
Maria handed the reports to her colleague, watching as Nikki read them for herself, shaking her head slowly as she scanned the words.
‘Rape’ she said, softly. ‘The doctor’s report specifies evidence of rape in the case of three of the girls.’
‘All under eleven’ Maria added.
‘And anal rape of six of the children, either that or penetration of some kind.’
‘Coupled with numerous cuts, bruises, contusions and burns in nearly every case.’ Maria closed her eyes. ‘I think it’s worse than any of us first thought.’
‘It says that most of the cuts and bruising were on the ankles or wrists. As if they’d been tied up at some stage.’
‘Some of the children specified that in their statements, didn’t they?’
‘They also mentioned sex, sometimes with one particular person.’
‘Person?’ said Maria, challengingly. ‘Some didn’t mention people, some mentioned animals. Some of these children were forced to have sex with animals, Nikki, if we believe these reports, if we believe them.’
‘Why shouldn’t we?’
‘We know that the children we interviewed were kept apart from the time they were brought here. There’s no way they could have invented stories like this together. No way they could ensure that each one gave evidence to support his or her friends’ statements. That may be true with older children but not with four-and five-year-olds. You need a good memory to be a liar.’
‘Are you saying that some of the children are lying about what they saw, about what happened to them? How can you? You’ve got the medical evidence there to back up their statements.’
‘I’m not accusing any of them of lying. Far from it, but just because we might believe them doesn’t mean the police will. These statements wouldn’t be enough to secure a conviction.’
‘Even with the medical evidence to back them up?’
‘It’s still not enough. No one is named. Who are they going to arrest?’
‘But the parents-‘
Maria cut her short. ‘We don’t know that.’
‘So you’re telling me that the parents of these children had no idea of what was happening to them?’
‘Are any of them named in any of the statements? No. The only references are to aunts and uncles. Not one of them says “Daddy did this or Mummy did that”.
Even we don’t know how involved the parents are.’
‘I think it’s safe to assume that some are!
‘The police will need more than an assumption, Nikki. I know, I’ve seen it before. Abused children given back to the people who abused them because there’s not enough evidence against them.’ She exhaled wearily. ‘I don’t want that to happen this time. Especially not this time.’
‘You said something earlier today about us having a possible child abuse ring on our hands, hoping that was all we had. What did you mean?’
‘I didn’t push it this afternoon; I was worried the rest of you might think I
was overreacting. But these statements, some of the things the children say -
there’s a uniformity to them that frightened me. I can’t think of any other word to describe it.’ She found the piece of paper she sought and tapped it with a pencil, running the tip down a list. ‘The sacrifice of animals and being made to drink the blood. Having their bodies painted. Being filmed or photographed while they were being abused. Penetration by sticks. Being given pills and drinks that made them feel funny. Enclosure in cupboards or boxes. A figure who hurt them, people dressing as clowns or monsters. Latin chants.’
She looked at Nikki. ‘This isn’t ordinary abuse.’
‘What do you mean?’ said the younger woman, frowning.
‘I think there could be a ritual element to it. When we asked the children to draw a picture of the person who hurt them, this is what one of them drew.’
Maria handed a sheet of paper to her colleague, watching her expression as she scanned it.
The drawing showed a large figure wearing what appeared to be a cloak. Red crayon had been used to colour in where the eyes should have been. There was also red crayon on the figure’s hands. But it was the head which held Nikki’s attention. It was crudely sketched but it resembled the head of a sheep or goat.
There were two horns protruding from above the eyes.
‘As far as that child was concerned’ said Maria, ‘it was hurt by the Devil.
How many six-year-olds do you know who’d draw something like that?’
‘But, Maria, it’s just one child.’
Leaning forward, Maria laid four more sheets of paper before her colleague.
Each one showed the same horned figure.
Fifty-seven
Frank Reed inspected his reflection in the bedroom’s full-length mirror, running a hand through his hair yet again.
He looked across at the clock on the bedside table, and then at his own watch.
She was late.
He felt his heart quicken.
What if she didn’t come?
What if there’d been an accident?
Perhaps she was ill, or …
The front doorbell rang and Reed hurried down the stairs, slipping the chain off, pulling the door wide.
Rebecca Reed stood before him, smiling up at him.
‘Becky,’ he beamed, sweeping her into his arms, kissing her.
It felt like an eternity since he’d seen her last.
‘You look so big’ he told her, cradling her in his arms. ‘I think you’re getting too heavy for me to hold.’ He pretended to drop her.
Becky chuckled as he set her down.
‘There’s something for you in the living room,’ he said.
She looked round, as if seeking reassurance from the woman who stood impassively on the doorstep.
Ellen Reed nodded and Becky ran off, disappearing from view through a door on the right.
‘Thanks for bringing her,’ said Reed, his smile fading. ‘Do you want to come in for a minute?’ He stepped back and extended an arm.
An invitation.
‘Jonathan’s waiting in the car,’ Ellen told him. ‘I can’t be long.’
‘I thought I asked you not to bring him with you,’ Reed said.
‘He’s in the car, Frank,’ Ellen said, irritably, stepping inside.
She followed him through into the kitchen where he boiled the kettle, glancing at her as she stood by the kitchen table.
‘You can sit down, you know,’ he told her. ‘This is your house too.’
‘It used to be, Frank’ she reminded him, pulling out a chair. ‘You’ve kept it neat.’
‘Did you expect me to start living like a pig just because you walked out on me?’ he snapped.
