‘Why did you make Becky say those things about me? Do you hate me that much?’
‘I didn’t make her say them.’
‘I would never hurt her, you know that.’
‘Why did you call?’
‘Don’t go ahead with this. Don’t take it to court. Think about Becky.’
‘Why didn’t you think about her? Before you did what you did to her.’
‘I didn’t touch her’ he snarled, desperation now colouring his tone. ‘You know I didn’t. You planned this whole thing, didn’t you? You and him.’
‘You’re drunk, Frank, now leave us alone.’
‘I want to speak to Becky.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, it’s after eleven. Besides she’s got nothing to say to you.’
‘She’d tell me what you made her say. Why you made her say I’d touched her.’
‘Goodnight, Frank. Don’t call again.’
‘Don’t do this, Ellen’ he rasped.
‘If you call again I’ll tell the police you’ve been harassing us’ she snapped.
‘Just let me talk to her, please.’
‘It’s over, Frank. You won’t see her again.’
‘Please’ he shouted.
It took him a second to realise that he was listening to the monotonous drone of a dial tone.
‘Fucking cunt!’ he screamed at the receiver, slamming it down onto the cradle.
Frank Reed wept.
‘It’s stalled on me, Phil. I don’t know what the hell to do next. Where to go.’
Catherine Reed stared at the array of daily newspapers laid out on the carpet before her and she sighed wearily, leaning back against the sofa where Phillip Cross was lying, one hand gently massaging her shoulder.
She was wearing just a long shirt, unbuttoned to the second fastening, her long slender legs curled beneath her.
Cross was wearing T-shirt and jeans.
The jeans were unbuttoned at the waist, the T-shirt, bearing the legend same shit different day, was untidily tucked into them.
‘What about the rest?’ Cross enquired, nodding towards the other papers.
‘They’ve all got their angles’ she told him. ‘The ones who are bothering to carry stories anyway.’ Cath ran a hand through her long dark hair. ‘I sometimes wonder if we’re the only paper taking this child abuse thing seriously.’ She picked up one of the papers, another tabloid. ‘Two columns on page four. That’s it in the Mirror. The Sport ran a double-page centre spread with colour pictures of women dressed as witches, but now nothing.’
‘What do you expect? You know how they work. No tits, no story,’ Cross shrugged, still gently kneading the flesh of her shoulder.
‘Three columns in the Sun, one in Today and the broadsheets haven’t even touched it.’
‘Passing fad,’ offered Cross.
‘Jesus, Phil, we’re talking about sexual abuse of at least nine children, a possible paedophile ring, parents suspected of molesting their own kids and, to top it all, the probability there’s a ritual element to the whole thing, and still nobody gives a toss. They’d rather read how much Princess Diana spends on a sodding manicure.’
They sat in silence for a moment, just the sound of the TV in the background, the volume lowered so it was barely audible.
‘So, what do you do now?’ Cross asked.
‘No one’s talking any more,’ she told him, reaching back to touch his hand.
‘Not the police, not the Social Services, and certainly not the families. It’s like it’s all over. Pushed into some drawer out of sight. This is a bigger case than Cleveland or Nottingham, and no one wants to know.’
He continued massaging her as she went on. ‘One paper ran something about the video nasties that were found in a few of the houses. But they hardly mentioned the abuse. They were more concerned that the kids might have been watching violent movies. Instead of investigating the whole case they concentrated on the video angle. Some self-righteous MP stands up and calls for a ban on all 18 certificate videos. Jesus Christ, don’t they get it?’
‘You’re talking about politicians, Cath, they don’t live in the real world.
Any of them.’
‘What do you think?’ she asked, turning to face him.
‘About politicians? They’re all a bunch of hypocritical, arse-licking, vote-catching, back-stabbing-‘
She smiled and pressed her finger to his lips.
‘About this story?’ she corrected him, removing her finger.
‘I think there’s something going on, but don’t ask me what. Kids abused, cats nailed to church doors, graves dug up, dawn raids. It makes no sense to me, Cath. I’m just a humble photographer.’
‘But what do you believe?’
He could only shrug.
‘Do you believe my story?’ she asked. ‘Do you believe that the abuse could be ritualistic?’
‘Cath, I…’
‘I need to know, Phil.’
‘I think it’s possible’ he said, quietly, stroking her hair. ‘Why is my
opinion so important?’
‘It just is.’
She kissed him lightly on the lips.
‘What are the police doing about the case?’ he asked, sliding one hand inside her shirt, cupping one breast.
She made no move to resist.
‘They start interviewing the parents of the children tomorrow’ Cath told him, sighing as she felt his thumb brush across her nipple, the fleshy bud stiffening and rising.
‘All you can do is wait, Cath’ he told her, quietly, his hand still gently squeezing her breast.
She bent forward and kissed him hard on the lips, his mouth opening to welcome her probing tongue, his hand squeezing her breast.
She climbed onto the sofa with him, grinding her pubic mound against the bulge she could feel in his jeans, helping him to free his erection.
As he felt her hand grip his shaft he grunted with pleasure, fingers undoing her shirt, tongue snaking forward to flick her swollen nipples. With his free hand he traced a pattern across the inside of first one of her spread thighs then the other, feeling her shiver at his touch.
As she moved forward he felt the slippery softness of her cleft brush against the tip of his penis.
Cath sighed, wanting him inside her.
She glanced to one side, at the papers spread out across the carpet.
Then, as she felt the first glorious sensations between her legs, felt his stiffness slide into her, she turned her head away.
The phone was ringing when Talbot walked in. He glanced at his watch. 11.27
p.m.
Who the fuck was calling now? He snatched up the receiver. ‘Hello.’
‘Mr Talbot, this is Maurice Hodges’ said the voice at the other end.
The DI felt the colour drain from his cheeks.
Hodges sounded almost apologetic. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you at this time, but it is important’ he said. ‘It’s your mother. It’s bad news.’
Seventy-nine
That smell.
Hospitals always had that smell. Talbot didn’t know what it was but it always made him feel sick.
