The Spider's Web

by Ben Cheetham

  ‘I can’t stand that fucking bloke,’ said Reece, eyeballing the solicitor.

  ‘Don’t ever let him know that,’ warned Jim. ‘He’ll use it against you every chance he gets.’ He glanced at his watch. Villiers had been waiting almost an hour. Normally he would have given him a while longer to stew, but with Burnham in there that could do more harm than good.

  Jim entered the interview room and seated himself at the opposite side of a table from Villiers and the solicitor. He pointedly opened the file he’d compiled on Villiers, while Reece turned on the recording equipment. Reece inserted three blank tapes into the machine – a working copy for themselves, a master copy, and a copy for Burnham if his client was charged. Jim glanced at his watch again and began in a slow, deliberate voice, ‘The time is four fifteen p.m., on Friday the fourteenth of June, 2013. This interview is taking place at South Yorkshire Police Headquarters. Those present are Detective Chief Inspector Jim Monahan, Detective Inspector Reece Geary, Mr Thomas Villiers and his solicitor, Mr Miles Burnham.’ Jim looked at Villiers for the first time, keeping his expression studiedly impersonal. ‘OK, Mr Villiers, I now need to caution you.’ He read him the standard caution and asked if he understood.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Villiers, his voice well-spoken with the barest hint of a Lancashire accent.

  ‘I must also inform you, Mr Villiers, that you’re not under arrest. Nor are you obliged to remain at the police station. You’re entitled to leave at will unless you’re placed under arrest.’

  Again, Jim asked Villiers if he understood. And again, Villiers replied in the affirmative. Jim settled back in his chair and stared at Villiers a moment, before asking blandly, ‘Would you like some kind of refreshment before we begin? Tea? Coffee?’

  ‘No thank you.’ Villiers’ voice was as flat as Jim’s.

  ‘In that case, Mr Villiers, I’d like to start by asking you why you think we asked you to come here today?’

  ‘I assume it’s the same reason as on the previous two occasions.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You want to know why my name is in Herbert Winstanley’s book.’

  ‘Herbert Winstanley’s alleged book,’ corrected Burnham.

  ‘Two handwriting experts have matched the writing in the book to Mr Winstanley,’ said Jim.

  ‘Handwriting can be faked.’

  ‘Mr Winstanley’s fingerprints are all over the book.’

  ‘That still doesn’t mean he wrote it. Unless you have a witness who can directly connect Herbert Winstanley to the book, then it cannot be stated with certainty that he was its author. Are we agreed?’

  ‘No we are not agreed, Mr Burnham. But the book is only part of the reason your client is here today. We’d also like to get a fuller understanding of Mr Villiers’ relationship to Edward Forester.’

  ‘My client has already explained his relationship with that person to you.’

  ‘I realise that, but it would be a great help to us if he could explain it again. Just in case we missed anything last time.’

  ‘I’m employed by the Craig Thorpe Youth Trust,’ said Villiers. ‘As you know, the Trust is a charity set up to help disadvantaged children. And as you also know, it’s a charity which Edward Forester was deeply involved in. He—’

  ‘Involved how?’ broke in Jim.

  A slight rise came into Villiers’ voice, barely discernible but there. ‘If you’ll allow me, I’ll tell you.’

  Jim took a small measure of satisfaction at his response – he’d noted during their previous interviews how much Villiers disliked being interrupted. ‘Please do.’

  ‘The Trust recently opened a home for runaway and homeless youths, of which I’m the manager. Edward Forester organised several fundraising events to help finance the home, as well as donating many thousands of pounds of his own money. I—’

  ‘According to our notes,’ Jim interjected, casually leafing through Villiers’ file, ‘you first met Edward Forester in April 2011 at one of the aforementioned fundraising events.’

  Villiers’ lips compressed in silence. Jim leant further back in his chair. The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Then Jim said, ‘Could you confirm yes or no whether our notes are correct.’

  ‘Oh sorry,’ Villiers said with obvious feigned surprise. ‘I didn’t realise you were waiting for me to speak. I assumed you were merely stating a fact. Yes, I can confirm your notes are correct.’

  ‘And on how many other occasions did you meet with Mr Forester?’

  Villiers blew out his cheeks. ‘It’s difficult to say exactly. I met him at many social functions. I also met with him numerous times on a one-to-one basis to discuss business.’

  ‘What kind of business?’

  ‘Mr Forester liked to be kept up to date on how things were going with the setting up of the children’s home. And considering what a good friend he was to the Trust, I was happy to oblige him.’

  ‘So you’d say you and Mr Forester were good friends.’

  ‘You’re putting words in my client’s mouth,’ said Burnham. ‘What he said was Edward Forester was a good friend to the Trust. Mr Villiers and Mr Forester were business acquaintances. Nothing more.’

  Keeping his gaze focused on Villiers, Jim continued as though he hadn’t heard the solicitor, ‘Where exactly did you and your friend Mr Forester meet on a one-to-one basis?’

  ‘Chief Inspector Monahan, I really must object. As I said, my client and Mr Forester were—’

  ‘Acquaintances, yes I heard you,’ cut in Jim. ‘Now, could you please answer the question, Mr Villiers?’

  ‘Of course, Chief Inspector. We met at my office or at his house in Woodhouse.’

  ‘Did you ever meet at Herbert and Marisa Winstanley’s house?’

  Again, Burnham answered for his client. ‘Mr Villiers has never been to the Winstanleys’ house.’

  ‘But he did know them.’

  ‘I was acquainted with them,’ said Villiers, adopting the language of his solicitor. ‘Herbert Winstanley offered his accounting services to the Trust. For free, I might add.’

  No, not for free, thought Jim. He was going to get paid. Just not in money. ‘And what about Marisa?’

  ‘I met her at the same social functions where I met Mr Forester.’

  ‘What about Mr Forester’s half-brother, F—’ Jim’s voice caught on the name of Margaret’s murderer – only for a heartbeat – then he forced it out of his throat, ‘Freddie Harding? Are you acquainted with him too?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And how about the other names listed in Herbert Winstanley’s book—’

  ‘Alleged book,’ Burnham corrected again.

  Ignoring him, Jim continued, ‘Are you acquainted with any of them?’

  ‘Yes, some of them,’ said Villiers.

  Jim withdrew a sheet of paper from Villiers’ file. There were forty-two names printed in alphabetical order on the sheet. He placed it in front of Villiers. ‘Point out which ones and tell us exactly how you know them.’

  ‘Once again, my client has already been through all this with you,’ said Burnham. ‘Mr Villiers is a busy man with other pressing commitments. So unless you have any new questions to ask or information to verify, I—’

  ‘No, no, Miles,’ interjected Villiers, holding up a hand. ‘It’s fine. I want to do whatever I can to help the Chief Inspector.’ He scanned the list of names: Stephen Baxley, Laurie Boyce… Sebastian Dawson-Cromer, Alvaro Gabriel Gaspar… Rupert Hartwell, Charles Knight… Henry Reeve, Thomas Villiers… Corinne Waterman, Donald Woods… ‘Rupert Hartwell worked for Mabel Forester. He attended one of the fundraisers with Mr Forester. I think I spoke to him briefly.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Erm, I honestly can’t remember. It was well over a year ago.’

  ‘What about the other names?’

  ‘Charles Knight, well, you know who he is.’ Villiers paused as if for effect. Jim winced behind the mask of his face. Yes, he knew who that corrupt,
murdering piece of shit was. As did probably most people in the country and a lot beyond. Charles Knight was a stain South Yorkshire Police might never wash off. ‘I used to bump into him occasionally at social functions. We spoke a couple of times, just general chit-chat. The only other person on the list I know – or rather, knew – is Dr Henry Reeve. We met regularly on a professional basis in early 2012 when he treated a number of children under our care who had mental health problems.’

  Fourteen – eight girls and six boys, aged eleven to seventeen – that was the number of Craig Thorpe Youth Trust children Henry Reeve had treated. Jim and his team had spoken to all of them. None had reported anything that could be overtly construed as abuse, although several said Dr Reeve had asked for graphic details of their sex lives, two girls remembered the doctor ‘accidentally’ brushing up against them, and one boy had been shown a homosexual pornographic film then asked how it made him feel. The boy had answered that it made him feel sick and that anyone who tried that on him would wind up in hospital. He’d subsequently been told he was unsuitable for therapy. As had another boy who’d strongly objected to answering questions about his sex life. Jim had got the impression that these therapy sessions had doubled up as a kind of screening process. Fortunately, Dr Reeve’s death and everything surrounding it seemed to have saved the children from whatever it was they were being screened for.

  That was only a suspicion, of course. No direct evidence of criminal intent had been uncovered. But it wasn’t Henry Reeve that Jim had really wanted to talk to the children about. It was Thomas Villiers. Only he hadn’t been permitted to talk to them about him – at least, not in any way that implied Villiers was anything other than the upstanding member of society he appeared to be. As Miles Burnham never tired of pointing out, his client had been working with children for over thirty years, during which time not one accusation had been made against him. To publicly associate him with the crimes of Edward Forester, Henry Reeve and the Winstanleys simply because he appeared on an anonymously authored list of names would amount to criminal slander. A few misplaced words or indiscreet questions were all it would take to ruin Villiers’ career. And Burnham had made it clear that if that happened he wouldn’t hesitate to bring a civil case against South Yorkshire Police. So, much to Jim’s frustration, he’d been forced to bite his tongue and tread lightly around Villiers’ name.

  ‘And did you and Dr Reeve discuss what took place during his therapy sessions?’ asked Jim.

  ‘We discussed the well-being of the children, but not the actual conversations that took place between themselves and Dr Reeve. Those were confidential, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Despite himself, there was a sardonic turn to Jim’s mouth. ‘So you don’t recognise any of the other names on the list?’

  ‘Mr Villiers has already stated that to be the case,’ said Burnham.

  ‘And what about Edward Forester and Freddie Harding’s victims?’ Jim and Reece had gone through what would happen during the interview beforehand. At this point, Reece was supposed to produce the photos of the victims – not the standard mugshots that had been provided for the press, but copies of the photos that had wallpapered Forester’s bunker. Jim wanted to see how Villiers reacted to those horrific images. But Reece made no movement. Jim glanced at him. Reece was staring at Villiers, but his tired brown eyes had a faraway look in them. ‘Inspector Geary,’ Jim said insistently, ‘the photos.’

  Reece blinked back to the room. He withdrew the photos from an envelope and began setting them out on the table. Each was marked with a name and a date in Edward Forester’s or Freddie Harding’s handwriting – ‘Roxanne Cole (20/2/1980)’, ‘Carole Stewart (1/5/1982)’, ‘Jennifer Barns (12/7/1983)’… There were thirty-seven photos in all. Singly they were sickening enough. But together they formed a tableau of torture and abuse that even now Jim found difficult to look at. Their subjects’ eyes stared out of bodies that had been beaten, bitten, burnt, twisted, torn, sliced and starved until they looked more like grotesquely mutilated waxworks than human beings.

  ‘Chief Inspector Monahan, I must protest,’ exclaimed Burnham, a grimace of revulsion pulling at his face. ‘You already know full well that Mr Villiers has no knowledge of any of these people.’

  ‘Like I said, we want to make certain Mr Villiers is one hundred per cent sure about his previous statements.’

  ‘This isn’t about making certain, it’s about using cheap shock tactics to try and provoke some sort of response from my client. It’s not acceptable, Chief Inspector. And I shall be making my feelings known to Chief Superintendent Garrett.’

  For the first time, an angry rise came into Jim’s voice. ‘Thirty-seven young women and girls are dead, Mr Burnham. And your client’s name was found in a book concealed in their murderer’s attic. A book we believe belonged to a man who was part of a suspected paedophile ring responsible for several further murders. So don’t you tell me what’s acceptable.’ As he spoke, he kept one eye on Villiers, watching every movement of his face. Villiers watched him right back, his lips pressed into that familiar impassive line.

  ‘I would remind you, Chief Inspector, that my client has never been arrested for any offence,’ retorted the solicitor. ‘I would also remind you that he’s provided a DNA sample, which you’ve failed to match to thousands of hair, blood and semen samples recovered from the scenes of the crimes you’re investigating.’

  Jim turned his full attention on Villiers. ‘Look at the photos please, Mr Villiers.’

  Villiers lowered his gaze. The line of his lips quivered. He put the back of his hand to his mouth as if nauseated, his eyes sweeping slowly over the photos. ‘I don’t recognise any of them,’ he said at last.

  ‘I suppose that’s not surprising. I doubt whether their own mothers would recognise them.’ Jim folded his arms, staring at Villiers as though waiting for him to elaborate on some unasked question. After fifteen or twenty seconds, Villiers blinked away from his steady gaze.

  ‘Are there any further questions?’ asked Burnham.

  ‘I think that’s about it.’ Jim paused a breath before adding, ‘For now. Is there anything you’d like to add or clarify, Mr Villiers?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In that case, I’m now handing you the notice that explains what happens to the interview recordings.’ He passed Villiers a sheet of paper, then glanced at his watch. ‘The time is now five ten p.m., the interview is concluded and Detective Inspector Geary is switching off the recording equipment.’

  Reece removed the tapes from the recorder. ‘Which would you like to be the master recording?’ he asked.

  Villiers pointed at one of the tapes, which Reece slid into a plastic sheath. The sheath was sealed, before being signed by everyone in the room.

  Villiers extended his hand to Jim. ‘I hope I was of some help. If you need anything else from me, please don’t hesitate to get in contact.’

  Smiling thinly, Jim took Villiers’ hand. It was dry and cool, he noted. ‘Oh, don’t worry. We won’t.’

  ‘My client’s a generous man, Chief Inspector,’ said Burnham. ‘I’m not. In my opinion your behaviour is bordering on harassment and I assure you I’ll be—’

  ‘I know, you’ll be taking it up with my superiors,’ broke in Jim. ‘You do what you have to do, Mr Burnham, and I’ll do what I have to do. Now if you could just wait in the corridor, Inspector Geary will be along in a moment to walk you out of the building.’

  Once Burnham and Villiers were out of the room, Jim turned to Reece. ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘About what?’ Reece replied absently, gathering up the photos.

  ‘Villiers’ reaction to the photos. He was faking it.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  A note of exasperation came into Jim’s voice. ‘What do you mean “maybe”? Of course he fucking was.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jim. My head’s all over the place.’ Reece squeezed his eyes shut suddenly, clenching his fists in a kind of helpless rage. ‘Oh Chr
ist, first I lose Dad to cancer. Now it’s happening all over again with Staci.’

  Jim’s forehead creased. ‘Cancer? I thought it was hepatitis?’

  ‘So did we, but—’ Reece broke off, shaking his head as if in disbelief. He heaved a breath and continued, ‘It seems all the shit Staci stuck in her veins over the years fucked up her liver worse than they thought.’

  ‘But they can treat it, right?’

  Reece gave a small shrug of his big shoulders. ‘She’s been having chemo for the past few weeks. You should see her, Jim. All her hair, her beautiful red hair, it’s falling out in clumps.’ Tears came into Reece’s eyes. Blinking them back, he turned away from his colleague and reached for the interview tapes. Jim gently laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘Get yourself off home. Staci needs you more than I do.’

  Reece motioned towards the corridor. ‘What about them?’

  ‘I’ll deal with those pricks.’

  Reece approached the door and hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, Jim, I’ve been meaning to tell you since we found out, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it. I just keep thinking about Dad, about how much he suffered…’ His voice trailed away with a little choke.

  ‘You don’t need to explain, Reece. I’ll see you after the weekend. You know where I am if you need me. Give Staci my love.’