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This ebook edition published by HarperCollins Publishers 2016
First published in paperback in A Walk on the Darkside by ROC Books, 2004
Copyright © Paul Finch 2016
Cover design © Debbie Clement 2016
Paul Finch asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authorâs imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © January 2016 ISBN: 9780008173739
Version: 2015-12-18
Skelton didnât know which one of the photographs he found the most disturbing.
The first depicted the aftermath of a brutal lynching in Serb-occupied Kosovo; a man who had been murdered by being hacked and disembowelled, had been hoisted into the air on a metal pole â several children, presumably that same manâs children, were screaming and crying and trying to console each other around his dangling feet. The second featured a murder actually in progress; it had been taken during the atrocities in Rwanda, and showed a child â perhaps no more than two or three years old â naked and curled in the dust, but shrieking with pain and terror as two men in baggy jungle fatigues and big, heavy boots, stamped it to death. The third picture was an odd one, but was explained by the rough caption someone had handwritten on the back of it: Congenitally-deformed prostitutes, Rio. It displayed a hellish backstreet slum, where two women waited idly amid the trash. One wore a very short dress and high heels, the other a halter top and tight shorts. There, the charm â if âcharmâ was the correct word â ended. The woman in shorts had both her legs in callipers; the right one ended in a hefty clubfoot, the left tapered down to a stump at the point where the ankle should be. The woman in the dress and heels had a nice figure and shapely legs, but bizarrely, her face had sunk inward â scrunched like a deflated football. Presumably, theyâd both got used to their disabilities; by their shoulder bags and saucy postures, they were touting for business.
Skelton assessed the pictures for several minutes, his heart thumping. Heâd seen a lot of nasty in his time, especially during his ten years as a beat cop in one of the cityâs most rundown districts, but never anything quite like this. He laid the pictures to one side, and continued to empty the filing cabinets, shoving files and folders into the various cardboard boxes. When heâd been told the narrow, dusty room was a library, the least heâd been expecting was reams of heavy books â probably video tapes and microfilm cans as well. Of course, newspaper libraries were slightly different. He should have realised that when heâd first found out where theyâd be working today. Not that this operation was a newspaper as such. The Catholic Echo was a hefty broadsheet that came out weekly, but it catered exclusively to the Catholic communities of Britain and Ireland, detailing the latest developments in Church affairs, plus world news of interest to the religious-minded. The majority of the photographs in the drawers reflected this, showing groups of monks and nuns smiling, priests posing beside their altars, celebrities launching charity events, or landscape views of St Peterâs Square, Knock and the Holy Grotto at Lourdes.
Skelton looked again at the three horrific photographs.
Even a Church newspaper had to cover the real world, of course, the downside of life. Thereâd also been shots of dismal ghettos, discarded syringes in gutters, nervous British troops on the bombed-out Bogside streets â but these three particular images had an unsettling quality all of their own. He gazed at the prostitute with the head like a kicked-in football, at the mangled remains of the Bosnian father, the weeping, wailing children gathered beneath him. Again, he placed the photos to one side. He wasnât sure why he didnât throw them into the boxes with all the rest â at least, he wasnât sure yet.
âRay!â Jervis said, sticking his tousled head through the door. Jervis was Skeltonâs foreman. âHow you doing, pal?â