by Ben Cheetham
Her words provoked another chorus of insults. A man grabbed Jim’s arm. Reece brought a heavy hand down on the assailant’s wrist, breaking his hold. Someone flung a coin that bounced off Reece’s forehead, opening up a small cut. Again, the constables made as if to charge. Again, Jim raised his hands, yelling, ‘Remain where you are. That’s an order!’ He turned to Linda. ‘Can we talk?’
‘I’m done talking,’ she retorted. ‘Now’s the time for action.’
‘Please, Linda. All I’m asking for is five minutes. Just listen to what I’ve got to say. And if you don’t like what you hear, then do what you need to do. I for one won’t stand in your way.’
Linda eyed Jim uncertainly, as if she suspected some trick. Then she said, ‘Alright, five minutes, for the sake of everything you did for my Grace.’
They moved away from the crowd. Linda faced Jim, her arms folded, her mouth set hard. ‘You have every right to be angry with us,’ he began. ‘We’ve let you down in the worst way possible. But as of today that’s going to change. No more softly, softly. We’re going to pull Villiers’ life apart piece by piece until we find out what we need to know.’
‘Why?’ Linda’s voice was sharp with scepticism. ‘What’s changed since yesterday?’
‘New evidence has come to light that could be the break we’ve been waiting for. I can’t say much more right now, except to tell you things are finally moving. But if you do this—’ Jim jerked his chin at the crowd. ‘If you damage Villiers’ property or, worse still, hurt him you could also damage the entire investigation.’
‘Why should I believe a single bloody word you say?’
Jim leant in close to Linda. ‘Who do you think passed Anna Young the information on Herbert Winstanley’s book?’
Her scowl turned thoughtful. ‘Anna mentioned a source with police connections. Not a policeman.’
‘If you don’t believe me, call her and she can tell you herself.’
Linda mulled Jim’s words over. The line of her mouth softened. When she next spoke, the harshness was gone from her voice. ‘I should have known. I’m sorry, Jim.’
‘No need for apologies. Just keep things peaceful here and I swear to you I’ll do everything I can to give your Grace and all the other victims the justice they deserve.’
‘OK. I’m going to trust you one more time. I’m going to believe that you’ll do what you say.’
‘Thank you, Linda. Oh, and I don’t suppose I need ask you to keep all of this to yourself.’
Linda made a mouth-zipped gesture. They returned to the crowd. As Linda raised her hands and made a calming gesture to her supporters, Jim pressed the intercom on the gate. ‘This is DCI Monahan. Let me in.’
There was a buzz and the gates swung inwards. Jim handed Reece a tissue and the big man staunched the bleeding on his forehead as they approached the front door. A constable opened it and directed them into a large, well-furnished living room. Villiers was nursing a tumbler of some spirit by French doors that looked out on a large patio and lawn. Beyond the garden, a field and a strip of trees insulated the house from the edge of the city proper. He was dressed in a polo shirt and chinos. Out of his suit he looked smaller, less imposing. He looked too as if he had a heavy cold. His eyes were bleary and he was dabbing his nostrils with a handkerchief. A gleam as sharp as his beaky nose sprang into his eyes at the sight of Jim. ‘Chief Inspector Monahan,’ he said with a bitter twist of his lips. ‘I’m amazed you dare show your face here.’
‘I just wanted to let you know the situation’s under control,’ said Jim, his tone impersonal.
‘Under control?’ Villiers gave a snort of disbelief. ‘There’s a mob out there baying for my blood. I’m a prisoner in my own home. My wife is upstairs in floods of tears. My…’ A little catch came into his voice. He swallowed it and continued, ‘My children are refusing to speak to me. And it’s all your fault. And you expect me to believe a word you say?’
‘I’ve spoken to Linda Kirby—’
‘Oh yes, and what did you say to her? That she doesn’t need to kill me because you’re going to do the job yourself.’
Jim moved closer to Villiers – close enough that he could smell the whisky on his breath. ‘I’d be careful what you say, if I were you, Mr Villiers. Slander is a serious matter.’
‘Slander, hah! You’re damn right it’s a serious matter. And I’m going to make sure you pay for what you’ve done to me. First I’m going to have you out of your job. Then I’m going to take you to court for every penny you’ve got. And finally I’ll see you put behind bars.’
There was a ranting edge to Villiers’ voice that Jim hadn’t heard before. Some people might have mistaken his anger for strength, but Jim knew it for exactly what it was – weakness. Villiers was wobbling. A few more pushes and he might fall over.
‘I don’t think so.’ Jim’s voice was icily calm. ‘I think you know what’s going to happen now. And from the sounds of it so do your wife and children.’
Villiers whitened with fury. ‘Get out of my house!’ he yelled. ‘Go on. Get out.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Villiers. We’ll talk again soon.’
‘Not if I’ve got anything to do with it. You’re finished, Monahan. Do you hear me? Finished!’
‘Oh no. I’ve barely begun.’
Jim turned his back on Villiers’ quivering face and returned outside. The crowd were still chanting, but their voices had lost the threatening edge. ‘Well, you’ve definitely got under his skin,’ commented Reece.
‘Before I’m done with him I’ll be so deep under there the fucker won’t be able to see any face but mine when he closes his eyes.’
‘We still don’t have anything concrete on him.’
‘Maybe not, but we’ve got a chance of finding what we need now. And that’s a hell of a lot more than we had two days ago.’
As they made their way back past the crowd, Linda’s supporters threw nothing worse than glares at them. Jim’s phone rang. ‘We’ve lifted some prints off the garage door,’ Scott Greenwood informed him. ‘We’re running them now.’
The news was promising, but Jim knew better than to get excited. The prints most likely belonged to the owner of the lock-ups. ‘And what about Donald Turner? What did he have to say?’
‘Nothing much. Mr Daeja rented the lock-up between 1991 and 2007. Mr Turner claims not to have had any contact with him since then. All payments were made in cash. Mr Turner also claims to have no knowledge of what the garage was used for. He says he makes it a rule not to snoop into his customers’ business. He describes Mr Daeja at the time of last seeing him as having a goatee beard and long hair in a ponytail. Oh, and by the way, there’s no record of the name Clotho Daeja on any of the databases. It appears to be a completely made-up identity. Nor are there any tax records for a company called The True Wiccan.’ Scott’s voice took on a conspiratorial tone. ‘Listen, sir, the DCS told me to warn you not to return to Leeds. There are some heavy-duty characters looking for you here.’
‘IPCC?’
‘Worse. Special Branch. They’ve been asking all sorts of questions about you and Anna Young.’
With an unsurprised rumble of his throat, Jim thanked Scott and hung up. He turned to speak to Reece and saw that he was also on the phone. He guessed at once that it was bad news. Reece’s face was colourless and furrowed. He got off the phone and hurried past Jim. ‘What’s happened?’ Jim called after him.
‘Staci’s collapsed,’ Reece replied anxiously. ‘They’ve got her at the Northern General.’ He ducked into his car. Tyres biting hard, he sped towards the roadblock.
The helplessness Jim had heard in Reece’s voice caused a familiar thought to push its way into his world-weary mind. What does the job matter? What does any of this bullshit matter if you can’t protect the ones you love? It was the same thought that had paralysed him for weeks after Margaret’s death. He shook it away with a jerk of his head, reminding himself that this wasn’t about the job any more. It was about justic
e. For a long time he’d thought the two things were mutually dependent. Now he knew otherwise.
He drove to the roadblock. A TV van had turned up. A constable was shaking his head at a journalist. Jim got out of his car and said, ‘Let them through.’
‘But, sir, my orders are—’ the constable began to protest.
‘I don’t give a monkey’s what your orders are, Constable. I’m telling you to let them through.’
‘Yes, sir.’
As the constable moved the cones, the journalist made to say something to Jim. But Jim waved him away, saying, ‘Speak to Linda Kirby. She’ll tell you everything you need to know.’
He looked towards Villiers’ house. Another thought came to him Why not just kill the bastard? It wouldn’t be difficult to get away with. Half the city’s out for his blood. Again, he shook his head. No. That would be too easy on him. Better to take away everything he has and let him kill himself. That would be true justice.
9
As afternoon wore into evening, the crowd gradually lost its voice and began to disperse. Jim had hung around partly to make sure things didn’t get out of hand on either side, but mainly because there was little else for him to do. During the hours he’d been there, more TV vans had turned up, along with reporters from local and national newspapers. Linda Kirby had done interview after interview, speaking with fierce eloquence about the abuse her daughter and unknown numbers of others had suffered, and about the powers-that-be’s attempts to hush it up. Villiers and his fellow perverts, it seemed, were about to hit the front pages.
Several times, Jim had tried to phone Reece to find out how Staci was doing but only got his answering service. Reece’s silence gave him a bad feeling. He recognised that there was something at the centre of his own being – something hard like an impenetrable callus – that allowed him to simply go on no matter what shit life flung at him. He recognised too that Reece wasn’t the type who could simply go on. He was the type who, if he lost the thing he loved most, would fall apart and never get himself back together.
When the road was finally empty of demonstrators, Jim got into his car and somewhat reluctantly set off in the direction of his flat. Regardless of Garrett’s warning, his instinct was to head back to Leeds and work the case into the small hours. But experience had taught him what happened if he didn’t give his body the rest it needed.
He flicked on the indicator but didn’t turn onto his road. There was an unfamiliar car outside his flat. A BMW 5 Series – a car commonly used as an unmarked pursuit vehicle. In the softening light, he made out two suited men in the front seats. Who were they? Special Branch seemed the most likely possibility. But they could also be IPCC. Taking a quick mental note of the BMW’s reg, he accelerated out of view and pulled over. He phoned Police HQ and ran the reg. It didn’t show up on the DVLA database. That decided him – they were Special Branch. He restarted the engine and continued driving away from his road. He had no intention of tangling with Special Branch. At least, not tonight.
He headed into the city centre, got himself a room at the Holiday Inn overlooking the murky waters of the River Don and lay watching the news. He was disappointed to see nothing about the demonstration at Villiers’ house. No doubt, some powerful strings were being pulled to supress the story. They wouldn’t be able to do so for much longer, though. Not if Garrett was as good as his word. If Villiers was publicly declared a suspect, it would give the story a legitimacy no one would be able to deny.
Jim’s phone rang. This time it was Garrett. ‘Where are you?’ asked the DCS.
‘Lying low at the Holiday Inn. There’s someone on my house.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me. You’ve stirred up a real hornet’s nest, Jim. Special Branch have been throwing their weight around. They’ve taken our Miss Young.’
Jim’s heart gave a quick beat. ‘Where?’
‘I’ve no idea, but they won’t let us talk to her.’ Garrett took on a tone of offended authority. ‘I told them they’re obstructing a murder inquiry, but these people seem to think they can do as they please.’
‘Did you check them out?’
‘Believe me, they’re for real. Only Special Branch officers could be as arrogant as them. They outright accused you of being the source of the leak. They even had the gall to suggest you be suspended from duty.’
‘And am I?’
‘No, you’re bloody well not. I decide how best to deal with my own people, and until such time as they have evidence to back up their allegation you’ll remain on duty.’
For the second time that day, Jim had the strange sensation of feeling something like a nagging affection for Garrett. The DCS was going way out on a limb by backing him. It was one thing being loyal to your people. It was another entirely to refuse to discipline someone whose culpability was plain for all to see. That merely made it look as though you’d lost control of the officers under your command.
A note of warning replaced Garrett’s indignation as he continued, ‘But I’m telling you this, we need to move fast because I get the distinct feeling it won’t be long before the decision is taken out of my hands.’
‘Any luck with the prints?’
‘That’s the second reason I’m calling. We got a hit. And I’m guessing you won’t be surprised to hear they belong to a man who’s supposedly been dead for twenty-six years.’
Garrett was right. Jim wasn’t surprised in the slightest. Spider was seemingly an expert at assuming dead or fictional identities. If the prints had belonged to someone alive and easily traceable, Jim would have doubted their worth. The fact that their maker was supposedly dead fitted the pattern perfectly, giving him a gut feeling that rather than leading them down another blind alley, the prints had revealed Spider’s true identity. ‘When you say “supposedly”, I take it you mean there’s a chance this man’s alive.’
‘You take it right. I’m sending you a mugshot of him.’
There was a ping as the photo arrived. The instant Jim opened it he knew his instincts were on the mark. The man was little more than a boy, perhaps eighteen or nineteen. He had the same short dark hair, the same slightly flattened nose, and the same chubby cheeks as the sketches of Jessica Young’s abductor and Spider. The only thing that was vaguely different was his eyes. In the sketches they were dead, like a doll’s eyes. But in the photo they had a kind of sly directness, like a fox. ‘It’s our man.’
‘His name’s Gavin Walsh and he was a thoroughly unpleasant piece of work. Gavin had just turned nineteen when he went missing in July ’87 a few weeks after being cleared of the rape of a fourteen-year-old girl. The girl’s name was Jody McLean. Gavin’s father, Ronald, worked for Jody’s father, Kevin.’
‘Kevin McLean. Why does that name seem familiar to me?’
‘Kevin McLean was a prominent Birmingham gangster with suspected connections to Irish organised crime groups.’
‘That’s right. He was jailed back in the eighties for murdering a policeman, wasn’t he?’
‘He shot a constable during a routine traffic stop. The attack was completely unprovoked. He received a life sentence and died in jail in 2003.’
‘So is Walsh’s father a criminal too?’
‘No. He’s got no record. Along with his criminal enterprises, Kevin Mclean owned several legitimate businesses in Birmingham. Ronald Walsh was his accountant. Apparently the two men were good friends. That is, until Jody accused Gavin of raping her. Gavin was a keen birdwatcher who spent his weekends pursuing his hobby in the countryside around Birmingham. One Saturday he took Jody with him and it was during this daytrip that he supposedly raped her. Jody didn’t report the assault right away. It came out several weeks later when she broke down and told a teacher who then called the police. Gavin was interviewed but denied the accusation. A full investigation was carried out, but it was decided there wasn’t enough evidence to charge Gavin and the case was dropped. Two days later he went missing. His bloodstained clothes were found in woods a couple of mile
s from his house. Suspicion immediately fell on Jody McLean’s older brothers, Patrick and Kieran, who’d publicly sworn revenge. However, no body was ever found. So no convictions were brought against the brothers. Despite the absence of a body, Ronald Walsh and his wife, Sharon, fought to have their son declared dead. Which he eventually was in 1997.’
‘Are they still alive?’
‘Yes. According to the DVLA database, they live in Nottingham now.’
Garrett gave Jim the address. Jim glanced at his watch. It was half eight. He could be at the Walshes’ house in an hour. He ached with the need for a hot bath and bed, but there was no time for that now. He reached for his jacket. ‘Any news on the skeleton?’
‘The DNA testing is being fast-tracked. We should have the results in a day or two.’
‘I’m heading to Nottingham. I’ll call you when I’ve spoken to the Walshes.’
As Jim rushed down to his car, he phoned Anna and got her answering service. ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Jim Monahan,’ he said in a businesslike voice. If Anna was still in Special Branch’s custody, there was a good chance they were monitoring her phone. Any attempt at subterfuge would only serve to highlight his guilt. Better to be open. After all, he had a legitimate reason for contacting her. ‘I urgently need to speak to you. Could you please return my call as soon as you get this message.’
Next, Jim phoned Harry Dutton, a trusted old contact in the Met. ‘Special Branch are talking to someone involved in a case of mine. I’m trying to find out where they’ve got her. Her name’s Anna Young.’
‘I’ll ask around and get back to you,’ said Harry.
Jim was speeding along the southbound carriageway of the M1 when his phone rang. Harry’s voice came tensely down the line. ‘Jesus Christ, Jim, who the fuck is this Anna Young? I almost got my ear bitten off for asking about her. On second thoughts, don’t tell me. I think it’s better if I don’t know. Special Branch have got her in Watford. That’s all I could find out.’
It reassured Jim somewhat to know the officers who’d taken Anna were at least who they’d claimed to be. Crooked or not, they surely wouldn’t dare harm her physically. Psychologically was another matter. These people knew every trick in the book when it came to wearing down and scaring detainees into spilling their guts. Anna had proved herself as tough as they come, but everyone had their weaknesses. Anna’s was her mother. They’d already threatened to take away Fiona’s house. No doubt they had plenty of other threats of a similar nature up their sleeves. He was half tempted to bypass Nottingham and go in search of Anna. But he knew that even if he found her, he wouldn’t be allowed to see her. He’d just have to hope that, like his tired body, she could hold out.
