She pulled the top back on.
Rafferty looked across at his superior, who met his gaze and held it for a moment before leaning back in his chair.
‘Just assuming this shit about these Misfortune Boxes is true’ he said, finally. ‘How long would it take this … spell to work?’
‘Two or three days, maybe longer’ Shanine informed him. ‘Not more than a week.’
‘Parriam, Hyde and Jeffrey all died within a week of their photos being stolen’ Rafferty offered.
‘So that leaves you two days to find this box, Reed’ the DI murmured.
‘Otherwise it looks like you might be joining them.’
‘Where do we start looking?’ Cath responded.
‘It’ll be hidden somewhere near your house’ Shanine told her.
‘Get men round to the houses of the three dead men, search the gardens of their places and the houses close by. Use fucking JCBs if you have to. But find those boxes’ Talbot said to his colleague.
‘What about me?’ Cath asked, her face pale.
‘You’d better hope that all this is shit’ he said, flatly.
‘They usually try to work the Hex to coincide with one of the important days in the satanic calendar,’ Shanine offered.
‘Like what?’ Cath asked.
‘Candlemas, that’s February the second’ Shanine told her. ‘Or the summer or winter solstice. Some groups even use the High Priest’s birthday as a festival.’
‘Are there any dates coming up?’ Rafferty asked.
‘Beltaine. Walpurgis night. April the thirtieth,’ Shanine informed him.
‘That’s two days from now’ the DS said, looking at his colleague.
Talbot was looking intently at Shanine.
‘How do we stop the Hex?’ Cath asked.
‘It’ll come into force at midnight on the thirtieth’ Shanine told her. ‘You’ve got to find the Misfortune Box before then. You must find that box and destroy it.’
Eighty-five
Frank Reed held the piece of paper before him.
Just a simple piece of paper.
A4 size.
The envelope which he’d taken it from moments earlier lay on the kitchen table close to his elbow, close to the mug of lukewarm coffee.
He’d read and re-read the words on the paper.
Tears were running steadily down his cheeks.
Throw it away.
He put it down on the table, smoothing out the creases.
Burn it. Burn the envelope too.
Two other envelopes were in front of him, the single sheets of paper they contained also laid out for inspection.
All the notes were handwritten but the graphology was different. Three different hands had penned these notes.
One of the envelopes bore a Hackney postmark, the others nothing at all. Not even a stamp. They had
obviously been pushed through his letterbox by hand.
But from where? From whom?
It didn’t seem to matter that much. All that mattered was that they were here.
One was written on pink notepaper bearing a printed rose in one corner. The type of notepaper usually used for ‘Thank you’ notes. The type friends would use to correspond. The sort women might use.
Perhaps this note had been written by a woman.
Maybe they all had.
The only thing missing was the scent of perfume, Reed mused, wiping the tears from his cheeks.
All the notes were short, one of them only a few words, but what mattered was that someone had taken the time to write them and, more importantly, to deliver them.
He looked at each in turn.
At the pink notepaper with its rose in one corner.
At the words it bore.
I can scarcely disguise my disgust for your actions. A man in your position should be ashamed.
You are a disgrace to your profession and to your kind. I will pray for your daughter.
The second letter was written on plain paper, but the words were remarkably straight. Reed could only imagine that the writer had used a lined sheet, placed beneath the plain one in order to keep the spaces between the lines uniform.
You deserve to die for what you’ve done.
You sick bastard. If I see you in the street I’ll spit in your filthy face.
You scum.
If you go near my lad I’ll kill you.
That’s a promise.
The last letter (two words … it hardly constituted a letter, did it?) was written on a single piece of bonded typing paper.
He could see the watermark in the paper, even the make.
Conqueror paper.
Reed looked at the words.
He felt warm tears flowing down his cheeks once again and this time he made no attempt to stem the flood. Instead, through misted eyes he fixed his gaze on the two words which stood out so starkly from the almost blinding whiteness of the paper.
Frank Reed wept as he’d never wept in his life.
CHILD MOLESTER
Eighty-six
‘We can’t do that, Mr Talbot’ said the voice on the other end of the phone.
‘Without the necessary care your mother could die within hours of leaving the hospital.’
‘You said she wasn’t going to make it through last night, but she did’ Talbot snapped. ‘I want her home with me.’
There, it’s said.
‘I can’t authorise that.’
‘She’s my mother’ the DI rasped.
‘She’s my patient at St Ann’s, I won’t take responsibility for her once she leaves the hospital.’
‘No one’s asking you to. If she wants to die at home, then let her. At least give her that much dignity.’
1 can’t authorise it.’
Talbot gripped the phone tightly, trying to control his temper.
If she comes home she dies. End of story.
‘I realise how painful this is for you, Mr Talbot, but if you insist on taking your mother home then she’ll die.’
‘She’ll die anyway’ Talbot said, quietly.
He could think of nothing else to say.
‘Can’t you do it for her sake?’ he asked, finally.
For her sake? Or for yours?
