by Ben Cheetham
Lance’s gaze dropped, taking his head with it. Jim could almost feel the weight of shame pressing on the ex-detective. After a minute or so, Lance went on in a subdued tone, ‘That’s the one thing I can’t forgive myself. When I think about Villiers and those children and all the other children who must have come under his care since then, it’s like all the good things I did – the thieves, rapists and murderers I locked up – it’s like all that counts for nothing.’
Jim wondered if Lance was fishing for sympathy. If so, he was casting a hook in the wrong place. Jim understood why Lance had compromised in the way he did, but he had no respect for it. His own unwillingness to compromise had cost him a higher price than he could ever have imagined. He briefly wondered what he would do if he could go back in time, knowing what he knew now. Would he let Edward Forester off the hook if it saved Margaret? The question was arbitrary. There was no going back. ‘What else is in that file of yours?’
Lance pulled himself upright with a visible effort. ‘A few years after getting sacked, I decided to put together a file of my own on Hopeland. I already had copies of some of the victims’ statements. I rewrote the others and my own notes as best I could from memory. I hoped the file might one day be of help to someone. Although, to be honest, I stopped believing a long time ago that my hope would ever be fulfilled. Then, yesterday, my son rang me to tell me about the list.’ A spectre of guilt flickered in his expression again. ‘After cancer took his mother four years ago, I told him about the Hopeland case. I wanted to try and make him understand why things had gone so wrong for our family. Turns out he set up an alert on his computer to let him know if Villiers was mentioned on the internet. So here I am.’
Slowly, carefully, as if he was handing over a flaming torch, Lance proffered the file.
Jim accepted it. ‘Why bring this to me?’
‘I considered coming to you when it first came out about what went on at the Winstanleys’ house. But I had to be sure you weren’t just another puppet of the same bastards who did for me. Now I know you’ll do what I couldn’t and nail Villiers.’
Not just Villiers, thought Jim. All of them. He rose to his feet. ‘I’d better phone my Super. He needs to hear your story.’
Lance stood up too. ‘You’ll have to tell him it for me. I’ve never had much liking for the brass.’ He indicated the case-file. ‘My number’s in there if you need me.’
They made their way to the front door. Lance held out his thick, dirty-nailed hand. His eyes were watery, pained. ‘If you do speak to the children, let them know how sorry I am.’
Jim wondered whether Lance was referring to Debbie, Heather and Jamal, who would be in their late thirties by now, or whether he meant all the children who’d ever come under Thomas Villiers’ care? He shook the ex-inspector’s hand. Lance shuffled away, stooped with regret. Still, no flicker of pity came into Jim’s heart. If anything, he felt a touch of envy. Lance had been given a choice, and as perhaps any right-minded person would, he’d chosen his family. That didn’t mean he’d made the right choice, if such a thing even existed. But whatever the rights or wrongs, his regret was a small price to pay for the knowledge that he wouldn’t live and die a lonely man. For many years Jim had thought of the police force as a kind of extended family. By the time he realised his mistake, Margaret had already walked out on him. He felt close to no one in the job now, apart from Reece. In some perverse way, the names from Herbert Winstanley’s book were more akin to family. They were bonded to him by blood. Margaret’s blood. There were no more choices. Only two things could part him from them – imprisonment or death.
He returned to the case-file. As Lance had said, there were photocopies of statements mixed in with seventy or so pages of handwritten notes. There was also a map of Manchester and the surrounding region with red lines drawn on it to indicate Lance’s fruitless search for the houses the children had been taken to. Is this it? he wondered. Is this the break that will finally bring it all down? As he skimmed through the pages, he reached for the phone and dialled Garrett. ‘What do you want?’ the DCS asked coldly upon picking up.
‘I need to speak to you.’
‘So speak.’
‘Face to face. Some new information’s come to light.’
A hesitant note entered Garrett’s voice. ‘What new information?’
Jim’s gaze moved back and forth over the notes, lingering on words and phrases like ‘inappropriate sexual contact’, ‘touching’, ‘oral sex’, ‘vaginal and anal penetration’. ‘I don’t want to say over the phone.’
‘OK, I’ll meet you at headquarters. But this had better be good.’
Good. The inappropriateness of the word struck Jim. There was nothing good about any of this. He quickly showered and shaved. He considered putting on a work suit, but decided against it. Garrett was never more at ease than when they were wearing their respective uniforms. And he didn’t want him to be at ease. He wanted him to know – as if he didn’t already – that this was about more than simply doing the job.
When Jim arrived at Police HQ, he didn’t go directly to Garrett’s office. He stopped off first at the photocopy room and made a copy of the case-file. Then he locked the original in his desk drawer. He didn’t bother to knock on Garrett’s door. He stepped straight into the office – a dour room with the usual desk, computer, chairs, telephone and shelves of folders and manuals, and a window looking out on an equally soulless concrete building. Garrett was sitting behind the desk in full uniform. Unlike the previous day, he was shaved and composed. Only the faintest ripple of annoyance passed over his face at Jim’s unannounced entrance. Jim slapped the folder down on the desk. The DCS looked at it, but didn’t reach to pick it up. Again his voice came hesitantly, almost as if he feared he was being led into some kind of trap. ‘What’s this?’
‘Read it,’ came the abrupt reply.
Garrett motioned for Jim to sit. But Jim remained standing, looming over the desk like a lion ready to pounce. Shifting a little uncomfortably in his chair, Garrett opened the folder. After flipping through several pages, he looked up at Jim, his forehead marked by deep furrows. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘From the man who wrote it.’
‘And how is it possible we don’t already know about this?’
‘Because it was buried beyond our sight.’
Jim repeated what Lance had told him about Special Branch appropriating the case-file. Garrett’s expression became dubious. ‘Are you seriously suggesting Special Branch suppressed evidence about a paedophile ring?’
‘Why is that so implausible? In fact, why is it so different to what’s been happening around here these past months?’
Garrett’s thin veneer of composure faltered. His voice rose. ‘There’s no comparison. This file contains direct evidence of abuse. If I’d known about its existence previously, I’d have—’
‘What would you have done?’ broke in Jim, his voice harsh with challenge. ‘Would you have let me interview the children at the Craig Thorpe home about Villiers?’ He slapped the file with the back of his hand. ‘Would you have even let me talk to the names in there?’
‘I would have let you do whatever the evidence warranted.’ Garrett slammed a palm against the desktop. ‘We do not protect criminals around here, Chief Inspector Monahan, no matter who they bloody well are.’
Prove it, retorted Jim’s eyes.
‘I—’ Garrett started to say, but he bit down on his words and continued in a controlled tone, ‘I need to make some enquiries. I’ll let you know when I’m done.’
‘I’ll be in my office.’
Whilst Jim waited, he gave the file a more thorough read through. Lance’s hatred of Villiers shone through in his writing. Usually such files consisted, for the most part, of a dry recounting of facts. But Lance had included his personal impressions of Villiers as being, amongst other things, manipulative, arrogant, devious and egocentric. What had really raised Lance’s hackles, though, was Villiers’ refusal t
o admit any kind of responsibility for the abuse that had taken place right under his nose. At that point in the notes, Lance’s writing took on an unbalanced, ranting quality that left Jim wondering whether he had been truthful about not assaulting Villiers.
He set the file aside. The background information it contained on Villiers added nothing to what he already knew. Far more important were the victims’ statements. He logged onto the PNC database and searched to see if any of them had a record. Heather Shanks had convictions for drugs offences and prostitution. Jamal Jackson had a long history of assaults, petty theft and burglary. As recently as 2012, he’d served time in HMP Leeds for handling stolen goods. Jim wasn’t surprised. In the race of life, the poor sods had started so far behind they’d never stood a chance. According to the computer, Heather still lived in Manchester and Jamal lived in Liverpool. Jim found Debbie Tompkins on the DVLA database. She lived in Tideswell – a pretty Peak District village located between Sheffield and Manchester. Jim felt a glimmer of hope that maybe she’d found some way to overcome the handicaps of her past.
The office phone rang. It was an internal call. Jim didn’t bother answering it, he simply stood and returned to Garrett’s office. Garrett’s mouth was set in a tense line, as though he was prepared for a confrontation. He cleared his throat and began. ‘I’ve been on the phone for the past hour and I’ve learnt some interesting things about this,’ he tapped the case-file, ‘and its author. Firstly, the original file wasn’t taken by Special Branch. It was simply removed by Lance Brennan’s superiors to a place beyond his reach.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Brennan was obsessed with Thomas Villiers. He publicly accused him of murdering Dave Ward. And when the Hopeland case was dropped, he made all sorts of threats against him. Several of his colleagues expressed their concerns that he would carry them through, and it seems they were proved right.’
‘Brennan claims he never touched Villiers. But even if he did, it doesn’t change the basic facts of the case.’
‘And what are those facts? Four children were abused at Hopeland by a man who called himself William Keyes. There was no evidence that Villiers, or any staff at Hopeland besides Keyes, were involved in the abuse.’
‘What about the three children who made complaints against Keyes? Complaints which Villiers didn’t investigate.’
‘He may have failed to properly carry out his duties, but that doesn’t prove he was an accomplice to the abuse.’
Jim gave a dismissive swipe of his hand. ‘Villiers was in on it then, and he’s in on it now. Have you read the victims’ statements? How they were accidentally touched, asked questions about their sexual experiences, shown pornographic films. Sound familiar, does it? Well it should do, because Henry Reeve was pulling the same tricks at the Craig Thorpe home. And what about the country house orgies? I suppose it’s all just coincidence, is it?’
‘Of course not, but the fact is this case-file changes nothing. We still don’t have the evidence to charge Villiers.’
‘No, but we might be able to get it now.’
‘How? By talking to the children at the Craig Thorpe home? If anything, this just proves that would be a waste of time.’
‘What about talking to the Hopeland victims?’
Garrett shook his head. ‘That case was dead in ’89. What good would resurrecting it do?’
Jim threw up his hands. ‘I knew it! I fucking knew it. They’re going to bury my investigation the same way they buried Brennan’s. In fact, they already have done.’
‘No one’s burying anything. There’s no conspiracy here.’
‘Isn’t there?’ Jim fixed Garrett with a penetrating stare. ‘You know me as well as anyone around here. And I know you. I know exactly what you’re about. Now look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong.’
Garrett held Jim’s gaze and repeated, ‘We don’t protect criminals.’
‘Then let me talk to the Hopeland victims.’
‘For what purpose? What could that possibly achieve besides opening up old wounds?’
‘Probably nothing with Jamal Jackson. But Debbie Tompkins and Heather Shanks might recognise their abusers from amongst the names in Herbert’s book.’
‘And what if they did? Where would that get us?’ Garrett gestured at the victims’ statements. ‘These people have zero credibility. They retracted their statements. And they’ve kept quiet for over twenty years. Nothing they say will stand up in court.’
‘Not necessarily. If I can prove they were intimidated into dropping their accusations—’
‘How are you going to do that after so much time has passed?’
‘I don’t know. And if I don’t try, I won’t find out. That’s all I ask, just let me try.’
Garrett was silent a moment, his forehead wrinkled as though he was pained by what he had to say next. He gave a little shake of his head. ‘I’m sorry, Jim. I can’t.’
The apology as good as confirmed to Jim that his suspicions were true. He could almost hear the thud of the ‘No Further Action’ stamp being brought down on the files he’d compiled against Villiers and the rest of them. He made a cutting movement with his hand, as though severing an invisible cord. There was no point arguing further. Garrett was nothing more than a mouthpiece for higher forces. ‘Do you know something? There was a moment back when you gave me this job that I thought I saw something else in you. Something more than just a badge on a uniform. Clearly I was wrong.’ He made to pick up the case-file, but Garrett laid a firm hand on it.
‘Listen to me carefully, Chief Inspector Monahan,’ he said. ‘If I find out you’ve talked to the Hopeland victims, you will be suspended from duty with immediate effect. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes.’
Garrett’s voice jumped. ‘Yes what?’
A sardonic edge came into Jim’s tone. ‘Yes, sir. May I be dismissed?’
‘Go on, get out of my sight.’
Pausing at the door, Jim glanced back at Garrett and said sadly, ‘There are some wounds that never heal.’
The Chief Superintendent blinked and looked away from him.
On his way out of the building, Jim collected the case-file from his office, along with printouts of the Hopeland victims’ up-to-date particulars and photos of everyone in Herbert’s book. A reckless anger was surging in him – anger at Garrett’s cowardly careerism; anger at himself for being foolish enough to expect any different; but mostly, anger at the invisible fingers of power that were pulling him back at every step. He punched Anna Young’s number into his mobile phone and when she picked up, he said, ‘We need to meet.’
5
The camper van grumbled its way up the hill. Ahead loomed a broad sweep of purple-flowering moorland. Behind, Sheffield stretched away into the haze of the summer day. Anna pulled into a layby thinly screened from the road by bushes. Jim was already there. He got out of his car and approached the camper van, glancing around warily. He was holding a cardboard folder. Anna leant across to unlock the door and he climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Did you do as I said?’ he asked.
Anna nodded. ‘I drove all the way to Manor Top before doubling back on myself. I’m positive no one followed me. You sounded properly pissed off on the phone. What’s happened?’
‘Before I say, you have to promise you’ll keep what I tell you to yourself until I give you the go-ahead to put it out there.’
‘Sure, I promise.’
‘An ex-inspector named Lance Brennan came to me today with information about Villiers.’ Jim gave Anna a quick rundown of the Hopeland case details.
She listened with an increasing expression of disgust. ‘The filthy fucking bastards,’ she growled when Jim finished. He couldn’t tell whether she was referring to the abusers, the officials who’d buried the case or both. ‘No one can say now that you haven’t got good reason to come down on Villiers with everything you’ve got.’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’
‘What does tha
t mean?’
‘I’ve been ordered not to talk to the victims.’ Jim’s voice was low, as though he was ashamed of what he was saying. ‘The Hopeland case is closed, and as far as my superiors are concerned, it’s going to stay that way.’
Anna let out a scathing laugh. ‘It really is true what they say, isn’t it? It’s one fucking law for the rich and another for the rest of us.’
Jim made no reply. Like most coppers, he’d joined the force believing in one law for all. And like most coppers, he’d quickly come to realise that money, connections and lawyers made a mockery of such ideals.
‘So let me guess,’ continued Anna, ‘you want me to talk to the victims, find out if their abusers are on the list.’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you got their addresses?’
Jim patted the folder. ‘Everything you need’s in here.’
‘You’d better hand it over then.’
Jim started to do so, but a familiar hesitation stayed his hand.
‘You’re not going to try talking me out of doing what you need doing again, are you?’ Anna said, reading his troubled expression. ‘Because if you are, don’t waste your breath. I’m in this now. All the way. With or without you.’ Her voice was as inflexible as Jim’s obsession with bringing down Villiers.
With a small sigh, he passed her the folder. ‘If anyone asks where you got it from, tell them Lance Brennan gave it to you. He’ll back you up if necessary.’
Anna flicked through the case-notes. She stopped suddenly, her face rigid, white. ‘It’s him.’ The words came like she was dragging them from some place deep within. ‘It’s one of the fuckers who took Jessica.’
