The open door offered her a little extra light but she still needed to use the lighter to peer into the darker recesses of the pipes leading off in so many directions from this central point.
Cath checked a couple more.
Both were empty.
The lighter grew hot in her hand again and she flicked it off for a second.
The furnace door swung shut with a dull clang.
She was plunged into darkness so impenetrable it was almost palpable.
Cath couldn’t see a hand in front of her.
She flicked wildly at the lighter.
All she saw in the thick gloom were sparks.
It wouldn’t light.
She pushed it back into her pocket and pushed at the door.
It was stuck fast.
Cath felt sudden uncontrollable fear grip her. It raced through her veins like iced water. She pushed harder against the door.
Jesus, what if the catch had dropped back into place?
She banged on the door, but still it wouldn’t budge.
The dank smell inside the furnace was beginning to clog in her nostrils now.
She was finding it difficult to breathe.
She took a step back and aimed a kick at the door but, in the blackness she overbalanced and went sprawling.
Cath felt something hard and gritty beneath her hands, something which dug into her palms.
Cinders ?
She kicked out at the door again, frantic now.
Her second blow sent the door flying open.
She was on her haunches in seconds, pulling herself from the maw like a child desperate to escape the steel womb.
She scrambled out of the cold furnace and dropped to her knees outside, sucking in deep breaths, not caring that the air was thick with the acrid smell of paint. She could even taste it at the back of her throat.
She slammed the furnace door shut and dropped the catch.
Her jeans and shirt were covered in black smudges, soot deposits which also stained her palms.
Cath got to her feet slowly, her breath still coming in gasps, her gaze fixed on the furnace door.
How had it closed?
A gust of wind perhaps.
From where?
She ran a dirty hand through her hair.
Come on, get a grip of yourself. Your imagination’s running riot.
She looked at the furnace door, then around the basement.
Cath was shaking.
Where was that fucking box?
She knew there was only one person who could help her now.
Ninety
Her clothes had been washed, her hair shampooed and blow-dried. She smelled of soap.
She smelled clean.
Talbot glanced at Shanine Connor and thought what a pretty girl she was.
Aware of his gaze upon her she looked at him and managed a small smile but the DI merely nodded towards the three objects on the worktop before them.
Three boxes.
Each one about six inches long, half that in width.
Hardwood.
The lids had been removed, the contents placed beside them, each separate piece tagged by the pathology department.
The head of that department now stood beside the DI, his eyes also fixed on the boxes and their contents.
Phillip Barclay rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
DS William Rafferty prepared to light up a cigarette but remembered the large no smoking sign opposite him. He popped the cigarette into his mouth and flicked at the filter with his tongue.
‘Those are the Misfortune Boxes,’ Shanine said, softly.
‘Each one was found in the garden of each of the dead men’ Talbot said. ‘Any prints off any of them, Phil?’
‘None,’ Barclay told him. ‘Whoever put them there wore smooth gloves.’ The pathologist picked up a pair of tweezers and, using them with great care he touched the contents of each box, one object at a time.
Three thorns, possibly from a rose bush. Some earth, now dried. A cranefly which looked as dry as the earth itself and a small photo of Neil Parriam.
The other boxes contained exactly the same, apart from the second which had held a picture of Peter Hyde and the third which had borne a photo of Craig Jeffrey.
‘It’s hard to believe,’ said Barclay, softly.
Talbot looked at the pathologist, then at Shanine.
‘Why bury them in the gardens?’ he asked.
‘They’re always buried close to the victim’s home.’
‘Anything else, Phil?’ Talbot wanted to know.
‘A strand of hair in the second box, possibly left by whoever put it there. A speck of dried blood on the third, but not enough to type.’
‘Were they well hidden?’ Talbot enquired.
‘No more than six inches below the surface in all three cases,’ said Rafferty.
‘But who the hell would think to look for something like this, anyway? Unless the three
men knew these boxes were hidden in their gardens, why the hell would they go looking?’
‘That’s their strength’ said Shanine. ‘No one believes.’
All eyes turned towards her.
‘Ignorance is the greatest ally’ she continued. ‘They said that to me once. No one believed in what they did, no one understood. As long as they’re treated as a joke they’re safe.’
‘Do you think the group you ran from could have anything to do with the ones who killed Parriam and the others?’ asked Talbot.
‘They might be linked,’ Shanine said. ‘Lots of the groups are. Some of them exchange things.’ Her voice faded.
‘Like what?’ Talbot demanded.
‘During some of the orgies or when kids were being used, the ceremonies were videotaped or pictures of the kids were taken’ she told him. ‘They were sometimes passed around between groups and the kids were told that if they let anyone know what they’d seen then their families would be shown the films or pictures. Some of the tapes were sold too.’
‘To whom?’ Rafferty asked.
‘Paedophiles. Porn merchants’ she said, eyes fixed on the boxes.
‘I still think it’s crazy,’ Talbot muttered. ‘We’re supposed to believe that three blokes topped themselves because of these things?’ He jabbed a finger in the direction of the boxes.
‘I don’t think we’ve got much choice other than to believe now, Jim’ Rafferty echoed, still chewing the unlit cigarette filter.
‘And if you don’t find the next box before midnight tonight there’ll be another death - that journalist,’ Shanine
