them.’
‘We felt that there were children at risk.’
‘Why were those particular homes targeted?’
‘They were random, apart from two. We had received reports …’
‘Was one of those houses the O’Brian house?’
Maria looked stunned.
‘My brother was the teacher at St Michael’s who made the initial report,’ Cath explained. ‘I know that the O’Brian boy was one of the children taken into care.’
‘How much more do you know?’ Maria asked, cupping both hands around the styrofoam container.
‘Not enough. There are too many loose ends already, things going on which may or may not be linked to this child abuse ring.’
‘I didn’t say it was an abuse ring,’ Maria interjected.
‘You said abuse was involved, though.’
‘Not all of the seventeen children we brought in had been abused, at least not physically.’
‘How many had?’
‘Nine.’
‘Including the O’Brian boy?’
Maria nodded slowly.
‘Do you think it was the parents?’
‘That’s not for me to say, Miss Reed. You’ll have to ask the police.’
‘Have they been informed of the physical abuse?’
‘They’ve seen the medical reports. Whatever further action is taken, and who it’s taken against, is up to them.’
Cath sipped her coffee, glancing around the office again.
‘What’s the video for?’ she asked.
‘In certain cases, like this one, evidence is recorded on audio and videotape, as well as written statements being taken.’
‘But video evidence isn’t permissible in court, is it?’
‘It’s mainly to help our people here, to make sure we get all the facts, everything the children tell us.’
‘Did any of them mention graveyards?’
The question was unexpected and Maria couldn’t disguise her surprise. For a
long time she merely gazed at Cath.
‘Why do you ask?’ she said, quietly.
Cath sighed.
‘It’s probably nothing,’ she said. ‘But the O’Brians lost a baby a little while ago, it was buried in Croydon Cemetery. I don’t know if you’re aware, but there’ve been… desecrations, for want of a better word, going on there for the past few weeks. Graves dug up, headstones wrecked, stuff written on them. Even the church itself there has been vandalised. The grave of the O’Brian baby was one of those dug up. I just wondered if any of the other children might have mentioned graveyards in their statements.’
‘What kind of vandalism?’ Maria wanted to know.
‘As I said, mainly the smashing of headstones, and graves being disturbed, but there was an incident with a cat. Some sicko nailed a cat to the church door.’
‘And cut its head off,’ Maria added.
It was Cath’s turn to be shocked. She nodded slowly.
Maria reached into the bottom drawer of her desk and pulled out some pieces of paper which she laid before Cath on the desk top.
Cath noticed that some of the drawings were done in crayon. Some in pencil. A number were rough, almost impossible to distinguish, but others, in their crude way, were easily recognisable.
One was of an animal spreadeagled. From the long tail she guessed it was meant to be a cat. There was a great scrawl of red crayon beneath it then a round object with two slits for eyes and a couple of ears. The long whiskers made it obvious the artist intended it to be recognised as a cat. The head was also surrounded by red.
‘That was drawn by a six-year-old’ said Maria.
Cath looked carefully at the other drawings.
She recognised a pentagram, drawn with remarkable dexterity.
There were more pictures of animals, usually headless.
Another pentagram.
Then some writing.
At first it looked like meaningless scrawl, then Cath looked more closely. She swallowed hard. I’ve seen this before’ she whispered, looking at the roughly drawn letters.
‘We couldn’t make it out’ Maria said.
Cath reached into her handbag and pulled out a small make-up mirror then she held up the piece of paper, turning it towards Maria.
‘How old was the child who wrote this?’ the journalist asked.
‘Eleven,’ Maria told her, trying to pick out the letters in the mirror.
She studied each one carefully, the words running into each other.
‘I still can’t see what it says’ she said, quietly.
‘I saw this in the crypt of the church at Croydon’ Cath explained, pointing out the reversed words. ‘“The power and the glory, for ever and ever, Amen.”’
‘The Lord’s prayer.’
‘Written backwards.’
She lowered the mirror and the piece of paper.
‘Is that reversed too’ Cath asked, pointing at more words written on a piece of paper below a large grey block that had been carefully shaded in.
Maria shook her head.
‘No’ she said. ‘It’s Latin. Written by a seven-year-old. The grammar’s probably wrong but we managed to work out the meaning. “Deus mihi mortuus.” It means “God is dead to me.” Now where the hell would a seven- year-old learn that?’
The social worker got to her feet and crossed to the closest filing cabinet.
Cath continued staring at the Latin words.
From a seven-year-old?
‘Look at these’ said Maria, laying out five more pieces of paper before the journalist.
Each one bore the sketches, some rough, some more detailed, that had invaded Maria’s dreams.
The horned figure.
‘That’s the person the children say hurt them’ she told Cath.
Cath traced the outline of the horns with her finger.
‘The children have been kept apart ever since they were brought in’ Maria told the journalist. ‘They couldn’t have copied this figure from each other. They would have to have seen it.’
‘But each drawing is almost identical.’
‘In other abuse cases children have reported being touched or hurt by people dressed as clowns, even Father Christmas, but this is the first time I’ve seen any draw …’ She was unable to finish.
Cath gazed blankly at the drawings.
‘The Devil,’ she whispered.
Sixty-four
For a long time the two women stared at the pictures of the horned figure, then Cath pointed to something else on the sheet nearest to her.
It was in the top left-hand corner.
