by Ben Cheetham
Jim’s eyebrows pinched together. Anna was looking at the composite picture of Spider. ‘Are you sure?’
Her eyes snapped up to his, blazing at his doubt. ‘Of course I’m fucking sure!’ She snatched out her phone and brought up a photo of the sketch the police artist had drawn from her description twenty years earlier. The chubby cheeks, the cropped brown hair, the snub nose and thick lips. It would have been an exact match, if Spider had been wearing black-rimmed glasses.
Jim couldn’t deny the truth of his eyes. ‘You’re right. It’s him.’
Anna’s gaze moved like a dreamer’s between the two sketches. ‘And I was right about something else too – the other one of Jessica’s abductors was Freddie Harding.’
‘We still can’t know that for sure.’
‘Bollocks we can’t!’ Anna flipped the file shut and started the engine. She cast Jim an impatient look, as if to say, What are you still here for?
‘Where are you going?’
‘Where do you think? Tideswell’s nearest to here, so I’ll go there first.’
‘Maybe you should take a few hours, clear your head and think about what you need to ask.’
‘Fuck that. I’ve been thinking for twenty long years about what I’d ask if I had a chance like this. And the only thing that’ll ever clear my head is finding out what that bastard,’ she stabbed a finger trembling with eagerness at the sketch, ‘and Harding did to Jessica.’
Jim took on a tone of concerned warning. ‘Don’t let your need to know the truth get the better of you, Anna.’ As her mouth fell open incredulously, he continued, ‘I realise I’m hardly the one to be handing out such advice. But take it from someone who’s been there, it’s not worth it. Do you hear?’
Sucking in a steadying breath, Anna nodded. Jim looked at her a moment as though trying to gauge the genuineness of her response. Then he got out of the van.
Without even a glance of goodbye, she accelerated away from the layby. Following signs for Chapel-en-le-Frith, she crossed the moor and descended its far side into a deep wooded valley. Her speed crept up, until she was careering around bends. Then she was climbing out of the valley onto a plateau of drystone-walled fields and limestone outcrops. Familiar gut-wrenching images looped through her brain. Jessica’s abductor – Spider – carrying her limp body towards the van; herself lurching after them; the tearing sound; the keyring; the van speeding away; then… What then? Was this it? Was she finally about to find out what then? A vague sense of panic wrapped itself around her. Did she really want to know what then? Jessica had to be long dead – surely. She knew that, and yet until that moment, she realised, she’d never accepted it. Not truly. She thrust the panic away. She had to find Jessica, dead or alive. She had to know the truth. Jim was wrong. No matter how painful the consequences, the truth was always worth it.
She eased off the accelerator as she reached the outskirts of Tideswell. The road wound through a narrow high street of stone cottages, small shops, cafés and pubs overlooked by the pinnacled tower of the parish church. She pulled over, took out her phone and typed Debbie Tompkins’ address into Google maps. Debbie’s house was on a side road not far beyond the church. Before making her way there, she forced herself to take a moment to read through Debbie’s background history and statement. In 1988 social services had removed Debbie from the house on Moss Side she shared with her crack-addicted parents and placed her at Hopeland. Debbie herself had been heavily experimenting with drugs since the age of eleven. She was an easy target for Spider. He supplied her with a steady flow of alcohol and softer drugs such as cannabis and LSD, cultivating her dependence on him until she was willing to provide sexual favours. Over a period of nine or ten months, he’d taken her to five parties at what she thought were two different houses – she’d been too out of it on booze and drugs to be certain of that last detail. Her experiences had been pretty much identical to Dave Ward’s. She’d travelled to the parties in the back of Spider’s van. She didn’t know the location of the houses or the names of any of the people she’d been abused by at them. She’d been paid two hundred quid – more money than she’d ever seen in her life – and warned to keep her gob shut.
A tormented rage gleamed in Anna’s eyes. Is that what had happened to Jessica? Had she been taken to some country pile to be the plaything of rich perverts? She screwed up her face uncertainly. It didn’t seem to fit the pattern. These people carefully groomed their victims. They didn’t snatch them randomly off the streets. More likely Jessica had suffered the same fate as Freddie Harding’s and Edward Forester’s victims. Again, threads of doubt pulled at Anna. If that was the case, why hadn’t Jessica’s DNA been found at Forester’s bunker? And why had Harding and Forester deviated from their own pattern? For over thirty years the half-brothers had successfully abducted and murdered prostitutes. Girls they knew were unlikely to be missed. Not girls from loving families. The only known time Harding had strayed from that formula he’d ended up serving a four-year prison sentence. No, Jessica’s abduction was something else. Her gaze returned to the sketch of Spider. She remembered the ugliness she’d seen in his eyes. The desire. He’d looked at Jessica as though no one else existed, a look that said, You’re mine and mine alone.
Debbie Tompkins’ house was a pretty cottage with a small, well-kept garden. She appeared to have done well for herself, especially considering what she’d been through. Anna knew only too well how difficult it was to break free of past trauma and build a new life. She felt uneasy about raking up that trauma. But there was no hesitation in her movements as she approached the door and knocked on it. The truth – that was what mattered most.
A slimly built woman of around forty – bobbed auburn hair and a tanned, makeupless face – answered the door. She looked at Anna with direct, clear blue eyes that betrayed no hint of her past. ‘Hello, Debbie,’ said Anna, recognising her from her driving licence photo.
‘Hello. Do I know you?’
‘No. My name’s Anna Young. I was wondering if we could speak for a moment.’
‘About what?’
Anna could detect no trace of a Manchester accent. Debbie had obviously worked hard to reinvent herself. ‘Do you mind if I come in? It would be better if we talked inside.’
A faint wrinkle formed on Debbie’s forehead. The first indicator, perhaps, of some well-concealed inner anxiety. ‘Is this some kind of sales pitch, because if—’
Anna cut Debbie off with a shake of her head. ‘I just want to talk. It won’t take long.’
‘What did you say your name was again?’ Debbie’s voice was tinged with caution now. ‘And how did you get my address?’
‘Anna Young. I got your address off someone who I suppose you could say was a mutual friend of sorts. I’m searching for my sister. I was hoping you might be able to help me find her.’
‘Why would I know where your sister is?’
Anna showed Debbie the dog-eared photo of Jessica that she carried everywhere with her. It had been taken at Jessica’s thirteenth birthday party and it captured her dollish eyes and pouting lips perfectly. Debbie’s gaze flicked doubtfully between the photo and Anna. ‘You’re thinking that she’s too young to be my sister, aren’t you?’ said Anna.
‘Well… yes, actually I am.’
‘That photo was taken twenty years ago. Less than a month before my sister was abducted by this man.’ Watching closely for Debbie’s reaction, Anna showed her the sketch of Spider. In an instant, Debbie’s face became as blank as ice. Her lack of expression was more telling than any amount of histrionics. ‘You recognise him, don’t you?’
Debbie mutely shook her head.
‘He was the caretaker at Hopeland children’s home at the time you were there,’ persisted Anna. ‘You knew him as William Keyes or Spider.’
With another shake of her head, Debbie started to close the door. Anna jammed her foot between it and the frame. ‘Please, Debbie, I know what you went through. I know how hard this must be for you.’ She po
inted at the sketch. ‘But him and Thomas Villiers and all the others like them can’t be allowed to get away with what they’ve done and what they’re still—’
‘Move your foot,’ cut in Debbie, her voice as deadpan as her face.
‘We have a chance to stop them. It might be the only one we get.’
Debbie jerked the door back then slammed it forwards, forcing Anna to withdraw her foot. Anna hammered her palm against the door, shouting, ‘Look Villiers up on the internet. You’ll see what I’m talking about. We can get the bastards, Debbie.’
Anna bit down on any more words she might have said. The last thing she wanted was to arouse Debbie’s neighbours’ curiosity. Tideswell was a small, isolated village, the kind of place where once word of anything got out it spread fast.
She retreated to her camper van, lit a cigarette and waited to see if her parting words had any effect. Fifteen minutes passed. Debbie’s door showed no sign of opening. Anna reached for the case-file again. Heather Shanks was only twelve when she was placed at Hopeland. She’d been there several months when Spider came onto the scene. Like Debbie Tompkins, Heather was the product of a loveless, abusive home. Unlike Debbie, Spider hadn’t groomed her with drugs, he’d used something even more insidious. For months he’d bombarded her with affection, carefully nurturing her emotional dependency on him. He’d made her believe he was the only person in the world who truly cared for her. Then he’d betrayed that belief in the worst way imaginable.
Her nose puckering as though she’d touched something slimy, Anna set the folder aside. She glanced at the dashboard clock. It had been half an hour. Debbie clearly wasn’t about to change her mind any time soon. Anna wasn’t surprised. Nor did she feel any anger towards Debbie. It took a special kind of person to escape a past like hers. Most never truly managed it, no matter how hard they tried. And those that did would have to be extraordinarily brave – or perhaps foolish – to revisit it.
Anna looked up Heather’s address before starting the van and heading back to the main road. An hour or so later, she hit the suburbs of Manchester. She followed the signs for Levenshulme, passing through a heavily built up area of terraced houses, council estates, bustling open-air markets and local shops. She pulled over outside a flat-roofed block of maisonettes facing a rectangle of scruffy grass and a boarded-up, graffiti-tagged building. Heather only lived four or five miles from the Hopeland home. She apparently hadn’t needed, or perhaps been able, to get away from Manchester. Maybe, reasoned Anna, she would be more willing to talk about the abuse. She climbed a flight of stairs to an external landing and knocked on a battered and flaking door. There was no answer. She tried again. Still no answer. She returned to the van and settled down with a cigarette to watch and wait.
The daylight was just beginning to fade when Anna spotted Heather teetering along in high-heels, a miniskirt and a tight vest that showed off her cleavage. Her face was artificially orange and pasted with makeup. Her hair was jet black at the ends and blonde at the roots. She was arguing with a scag-faced, heavily tattooed man. A girl of eleven or twelve trailed along behind them, staring vacantly at the pavement. Her hair was the same colour as Heather’s roots. She had Heather’s broad, sullen face too.
Anna waited until they were inside the maisonette, then climbed the stairs and knocked again. The young girl opened the door on the security chain and eyed Anna suspiciously. ‘Who are you?’ she asked in a thick Mancunian accent.
‘My name’s Anna. I’d like to talk to your mum, please.’
The girl’s face disappeared from the gap. ‘Mum,’ she shouted, ‘it’s for you. Someone called Anna.’
‘Anna?’ came the mystified retort. ‘I don’t know any fucking Annas.’ Heather’s frowning face appeared at the door. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’
Anna had already decided to try a slightly less direct tack than with Debbie. ‘I’m Anna Young and I was hoping we could help each other.’
Heather rolled her eyes. ‘Fucking hell, I should’ve guessed.’
A man’s smoke-roughened voice came from further within the maisonette. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s another one of them God-botherers.’
‘Well tell ’em to piss off.’
‘I’m not a God-botherer,’ said Anna. ‘And I’m not here to sell you anything. I’ve lost something. And I know you’ve lost something too. It’s not anything we can ever get back. But maybe between us we can get to the truth of it.’
Heather’s frown deepened with uncertainty. She stared at Anna as if trying to work out whether she knew her from somewhere. Then she closed the door. A second passed. Two, three… ten seconds. She’s not going to let me in, thought Anna. But then there was the rattle of a chain and the door swung open. ‘Come in,’ said Heather.
Anna nodded thanks and followed her along a dingy hallway that stank of dog and cigarettes to a small living room. The scag-faced man was stretched out on a scuffed white leather sofa. The girl was slouched across a mismatched armchair. Both were staring at a blaring television. A thickly muscled bulldog curled up on the threadbare carpet lazily eyed Anna. Smoke spiralled from an ashtray on a smeared glass coffee table.
‘What the fuck did you let her in for?’ the man demanded to know.
Ignoring him, Heather said to the girl, ‘Go to your room, Leah.’
‘I’m watching the telly,’ protested Leah.
‘Fucking do as your mum tells you,’ snapped the man.
With an irritated huff, Leah left the room. Heather gestured for Anna to sit in the armchair. She shoved the man’s legs off the sofa and dropped down next to him. Muttering to himself, he lit a cigarette with the end of his old one and offered the packet to Heather. She shook her head, staring at Anna as if to say, So come on then, let’s hear it.
‘It might be better if we talk alone,’ said Anna.
‘Me and Kyle have got no secrets from each other.’
Kyle scowled at Anna and spoke through his cigarette. ‘What are you, a copper or something?’
Anna shook her head. She told them the story of Jessica’s abduction, taking particular care this time to describe her sister as fully as possible. She wanted to make Jessica a real person in Heather’s mind, not merely a photo to be cursorily glanced at. Kyle made some impatient noises, but Heather shushed him sharply. A trace of softness came into her hard-pinched face when Anna showed her Jessica’s photo.
‘She’s beautiful,’ said Heather. She didn’t ask the question that subsequently came to many people’s lips – how could anyone ever hurt her? Something in her eyes – some glimmer of sadness – said she was only too aware of the answer to that question.
‘That’s a shitty thing to happen,’ said Kyle. ‘But what’s it got to do with us?’
‘I have to find my sister,’ answered Anna, keeping her gaze fixed on Heather. ‘I have to know what happened to her.’
‘I’d be the same if anyone took Leah,’ said Heather.
Bracing herself for Heather’s reaction, Anna showed her the sketch of Spider. ‘This is one of the men who abducted Jessica.’
Heather stared at it for a long moment. Her eyes glistened as though she might cry, but she blinked away any tears. ‘Give me one of them ciggies.’
Kyle did so and she snatched up a lighter and lit it. There was a tremor in her hand.
‘Who is he?’ asked Kyle.
‘He’s the one I told you about when we first got together. Remember?’
‘The one you used to have nightmares about? The paedo?’
‘Yes.’
Kyle’s gaze jerked to Anna. ‘Do you know where this motherfucker is?’ The bulldog lifted its head, growling at the anger in its master’s voice.
‘That’s what she’s here to try and find out,’ snapped Heather. To Anna, she added, ‘I take it you know what that man did to me.’
Anna nodded. ‘I’ve read the case-file Lance Brennan put together on Hopeland.’
‘Lance Brennan.’ Heather said th
e name with a slight wince. ‘They fucked him over good and proper, you know. And I helped them. I helped the bastards who raped me. Do you know what I got in return? Five hundred quid.’
‘That was a lot of money in them days,’ said Kyle.
Heather scowled. ‘I was a stupid little bitch.’
‘You were scared,’ said Anna.
‘Yeah, that as well.’
‘Who gave you the money?’
Heather was silent a moment, her gaze returning to the sketch. She stubbed out her cigarette as though she was grinding it into Spider’s face. Anna listened with barely contained excitement as, with an expression that suggested something nasty was crawling up her back, Heather began, ‘I got a phone call off some bloke. I’ve never forgotten what he said. He said, “You need to buy something black.” I asked, “What for?” And he said, “Because that’s what people wear at funerals.” Then he said my parents’ names and where they lived. And he said my little brother’s name and the name of the children’s home he was in. I was only fifteen, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew what he was getting at. He told me if I told the police I was lying, there’d be a lot of money in it for me. I didn’t give a toss about my mum and dad, but I loved my brother. So I said I’d do it. The next day an envelope of money arrived for me at the house of the foster family I was living with.’
‘Tell me about Spider.’
Heather sucked on her cigarette, her eyes growing distant as she reached back into her memory. ‘He was a young bloke when I met him. Maybe nineteen or twenty, and he had this baby face. Like butter wouldn’t melt. He was nice to me. Made me feel like… well, y’know, like I was worth something. No one else had ever made me feel like that. I used to sneak up to his room at night. They always locked our dorm after lights out, but Spider gave me a key.’
Anna thought about the key Jim had given her. She took it out. ‘Was it a key like this?’ She knew the answer the answer would be no. After all, it was a garage door key. But she had to be certain.
