‘You told me yourself that there was a child abuse ring in operation,’ Talbot reminded his colleague.
‘I was wrong.’
‘No you weren’t.’
‘Then where’s the fucking evidence?’ Macpherson shouted.
‘Nine physically injured kids, seventeen statements. Jesus Christ, even Hackney Council believed there was something going on. Something bad enough to take seventeen kids into care’
‘They’re releasing the kids back to their parents tomorrow’ said Macpherson.
Talbot stared at him. ‘I don’t believe this’ he said, quietly.
‘The whole case has collapsed around our fucking ears, Jim’ Macpherson said, irritably. ‘There’s nothing left.’
‘Somewhere out there are the real abusers’ said Talbot. ‘If those parents didn’t commit the acts themselves, they know who did.’
‘And what do you propose we do? Pull them all back in for questioning?’
‘If necessary.’
‘Get real, Jim’ Macpherson said, dismissively. ‘It’s over. Face it.’
‘It’s not over for those kids.’
A heavy silence descended.
DS Rafferty glanced at the other two men in the room.
Talbot was still pacing agitatedly back and forth.
Macpherson reached for a cigarette and lit up, blowing out a long stream of smoke.
‘The girl told us that kids are sometimes bought by these abusers, bought from the parents’ Rafferty offered, finally.
‘What girl?’ Macpherson wanted to know.
Talbot explained briefly about Shanine Connor.
‘That might be the case with these kids’ Rafferty continued. ‘The parents might not have inflicted the damage themselves but they might know who did.’
Macpherson sat forward in his seat.
‘Let me get this straight’ he said. ‘You’ve got some bird in protective custody who reckons she’s a witch?’
Talbot nodded.
‘And you’re taking the piss out of me?’ Macpherson snapped.
‘I was more sceptical than you, Mac’ Talbot told him. ‘She’s very convincing.’
‘She must be. What else did she tell you? Your fortune? What’s going to win the three-thirty at Haydock?’
‘She told us how these abuse groups operate’ said Talbot.
‘The other witches?’ Macpherson chuckled.
‘Fuck you, Mac’ Talbot snapped. ‘I want those parents brought in and questioned again.’
‘No’ Macpherson said, defiantly.
‘Mac, I’m telling you.’
‘You’re telling me nothing, Jim’ the older man exploded. ‘This isn’t even your fucking case. It never was. Why the hell does it mean so much to you, eh? It’s over. We tried, there’s nothing more we can do. End of story. I’m as sorry about it as you are, but we’re fucked. No evidence, no case.’
Talbot glared at his companion.
‘You let them slip through, Mac’ the DI said quietly.
‘Fuck off, Jim. Just go, will you?’
Talbot headed towards the door, Rafferty close behind him.
The DI paused, prepared to say something else, then wrenched open the office door and walked out.
In the corridor beyond, Rafferty had to quicken his pace to keep up with his colleague.
‘Where to now?’ he asked.
‘Hackney Social Services.’
Eighty-eight
Every shred of common sense told Catherine Reed that what she was doing was insane.
And yet, common sense seemed to have deserted her.
She had been through her flat slowly and carefully, through every drawer, cupboard and container.
Searching.
She had removed books from their shelves and checked behind them. She had even checked inside shoe boxes in her wardrobe. The Misfortune Box was nowhere to be found.
Not that she even knew what she was looking for.
Shanine Connor had described it as being about six inches long, rectangular and more than likely made of hardwood.
Like a small coffin, she’d said. The similarity seemed appallingly apt.
It would be placed near the victim’s home.
Cath looked around her, satisfied after her exhaustive search that the box wasn’t hidden within the flat itself.
But where else?
How far away could it be?
In one of the other flats perhaps?
What was she to do, knock on each door, request entry and permission to search the dwellings of the other residents?
And when they asked her reasons?
‘A Death Hex has been placed upon me by some practitioners of Black Magic’
Great.
‘Come in,’ they would say. ‘Make yourself at home while we phone the nearest asylum.’
Cath locked her flat door behind her and stood in the corridor for a moment, then headed down towards the lift.
She rode the car to the ground floor and the doors slid open.
She hesitated a moment, then glanced at the panel of buttons inside the lift.
There were the numbers designating floors. A G for ground, and then another button.
She pressed the last button and the lift descended once again.
When it bumped to a halt in the basement there was a moment’s hesitation before the doors opened. When they did Cath was surprised that the smell which swept into the lift wasn’t that of damp and decay but of wet paint.
She stepped out of the lift, the smell strong in her nostrils. So strong in fact it made her wince.
The doors closed behind her and she looked up at the lighted panel to see that the lift was rising again, back towards the first floor.
The basement was huge and surprisingly well lit.
She couldn’t remember having been down here more than twice since she had moved in.
The residents were allowed to use the cavernous area for storage if necessary, but Cath had forgone that option. Others she noticed, had not.
The basement wasn’t crowded, but there were over a dozen large chests, some marked with the numbers of the flats upstairs, dotted around gathering dust.
There were cupboards on the walls too, also for storage.
In the centre of the room was a boiler, a massive metallic monolith which, she reasoned, at one time had perhaps provided heat for the entire building. It was no longer functional, the pipes leading from it along the ceiling now cold. It stood like some lifeless heart, the thick pipes that had once carried heat from it resembling wasted useless, arteries.
