Spider's Web (13 page)

Anna considered telling Jim about the Horned God lead. Lying to him didn’t sit easily with her. But now that Heather had been silenced – probably through the same mix of money and intimidation as in ’89 – she felt even more protective about the lead. ‘Nothing.’ She quickly changed the subject. ‘Any news on the break-in?’

‘There were no prints left behind, and no one saw anything.’

‘Did you expect any different?’

‘No. These people know what they’re doing. They’ve been getting away with this for a long time.’

‘Yeah, well not much longer if I can help it.’

Anna hung up and located Moonchild and The Mystic Palace on Google maps. She fully intended to talk to Heather again, but not until she’d found out where the lead took her. The shops were on opposite sides of the city centre. She started the van and headed for the closest. Moonchild was a tiny place on a backstreet whose faded sign depicted a sickle moon in a starry sky. The gloomy interior was thick with burning incense and cluttered with astrological candles, healing crystals, books on myths and magic, tarot cards, pagan jewellery, Ouija boards and all manner of other mystical tat. A man with long greying hair was sitting behind the counter. A rack of keyrings caught Anna’s eye. She rotated it and her stomach gave a squeeze. There it was! The exact same keyring that had fallen out of Spider’s pocket. She unhooked it from the rack and ran her fingers over its curved horns and bearded goat-like face. She took out the Gliderol key and attached it to the keyring, before approaching the counter.

‘Six quid, please,’ said the man.

Anna paid him. ‘This is the Horned God, right?’

‘That’s one of his names. I call him Old Horny myself, obviously because of the horns, but also because, well, he’s a horny old bugger.’ He pointed to a bookshelf. ‘If you’re interested, I’ve got some books about him.’

‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ Anna withdrew the police sketch. ‘What I’m really interested in is if you recognise this man. You might know him as William Keyes or Spider. He has a spider’s web tattoo on his chest.’

‘A spider’s web tattoo, you say.’ There was a glimmer of recognition in the man’s eyes. As he took a long look at the sketch, the glimmer solidified into certainty. ‘Now that’s a face I haven’t seen in a long time. He used to come in here,’ he puffed his cheeks, ‘it must be twenty-odd years ago. He didn’t call himself either of the names you mentioned, though. He called himself by his pagan name. Clotho Daeja. It means deadly demon. He was a bloody odd character.’

‘How do you mean, odd?’

‘I mean he wasn’t a very nice bloke. He had some, shall we say, extreme views.’

‘About human sacrifice?’

A trace of wariness came into the man’s expression. ‘Let’s just say he was the kind of pagan who gives the rest of us a bad name. Why are you so interested in him anyway?’

‘He…’ Anna searched for the right words, ‘stole something from me.’

‘Well unless it was something you can’t do without, I’d steer well clear of him.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘Like I said, twenty something years ago. Maybe in ’89 or ’90. I had to ban him from the shop. He was pestering the customers, trying to convert them to what he called the real Wicca.’

‘What’s the real Wicca?’

‘There’s no such thing. Paganism’s what you make it. I told him that and he flipped out. Called me a fake. Threatened to burn this place down. He reckoned he was going to show the world what it means to be a true Wiccan.’

‘And you’ve never heard from him since?’

The man shook his head. ‘I never want to hear from him either. Good riddance to bad rubbish, that’s what I say.’

Anna thanked him and returned to the camper van. She sat frowning thoughtfully at the keyring for a long moment. There was a faint smile on the bearded face. Almost like a taunt. She took out her iPhone and Googled ‘Clotho Daeja’. Nothing of interest came up. She tried again, including the search term ‘real Wicca’. This time she got a list of links to articles with titles such as ‘How to become a Wiccan’ and ‘What is Wicca?’. She repeated her search with slight variations until she found a link that caught her eye. It was entitled ‘The True Wiccan’. It took her to a database of UK pagan shops and practices. The entry read ‘I am the True Wiccan. I do not sell New Age fakery. I sell the truth. Come and see me if that’s what you’re looking for.’

The truth.
The words stood out as though they’d been written in blood. It was like some sort of mocking echo of her blog’s title. There was a phone number under the listing but no address. The number had a Leeds area code. She dialled it. She struggled to stay calm as the dial tone rang. Someone picked up.

‘Hello.’ It was a man’s voice with a broad Yorkshire accent.

Despite herself, Anna’s heart was thumping in her mouth as she asked, ‘Am I speaking to the True Wiccan?’

‘Who?’

‘Are you the True Wiccan?’

‘Sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong number.’

Anna told the man the number she’d dialled. ‘That’s my number,’ he confirmed. ‘But I’ve no idea who the True Wiccan is. Maybe they were a previous tenant. You could try speaking to my landlord. Do you want his number?’

‘Please.’

The man gave Anna another Leeds number. She dialled it and got an answering service message. ‘This is Tony Hulten Lettings.’ Once again, the voice had a nasal Yorkshire accent. ‘There’s no one in the office right now, but if you leave a—’

Anna cut off the message and Googled ‘Tony Hulten Lettings’. She found a listing with an address in Harehills, Leeds. Feeling slightly deflated, but relieved that the lead was still tenuously alive, she studied a road map, then threw the camper van into gear.

Jim sifted through the statements volunteered by those named in Herbert’s book. All of them were as well-rehearsed as a politician’s speech. And all of them led to the same place the investigation had been going both before and after its suspension – nowhere. ‘Shit,’ he muttered for about the tenth time since speaking to Anna. No matter what moves he made, Villiers and Co always seemed to be one ahead, backing him further and further into a corner. A cornered animal was often the most dangerous, but if none of the Hopeland victims talked he might yet prove to be something of a toothless lion. He wasn’t simply interested in what the victims had to say. After all, Brennan had already coaxed most of that out of them. It wasn’t even getting the names of their abusers that mattered most to him. As Garrett had pointed out, a good solicitor would tear them to shreds in court for withdrawing their statements. No, what he wanted most was a sign that one of them was willing to break the dam of silence. The abuse had been going on for decades. It involved a network of people spread the length and breadth of the country. There had to be dozens more victims like Debbie, Heather and Jamal out there. If they saw that one person had the courage to speak out, perhaps they would come forward. And then one would become two, three, four… Until finally sheer weight of numbers would make it impossible for their accusations to be ignored. But they had to find that one elusive person, otherwise the dam would remain intact.

Reece and Scott Greenwood entered the office. In the light of day, Reece looked if anything even more tired than he had before the weekend. His wired, bloodshot eyes suggested the stress of dealing with Staci’s illness was getting on top of him. Scott looked the same as he always did – smart, alert, solid. ‘We’re kind of at a loose end,’ he said.

Jim sighed. ‘You and me both. Have you got anything else you could be working on?’

‘Plenty.’

‘Then go do it.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Scott, but he remained where he was, waiting to hear what Jim had to say to Reece.

Jim wafted him out of the room. ‘I’ll give you a shout if I need you.’

‘I take it it’s not going well with the Hopeland victims,’ Reece said, when they were alone.

‘It’s that obvious, is it?’

‘You look as though you found a turd in your cornflakes.’

A cheerless smile pulled at one corner of Jim’s mouth. ‘Someone got to Heather Shanks. Anna hasn’t spoken to Jamal Jackson, but it’s a good bet the pressure’s been put on him too.’

Jim’s office phone rang. He answered it. ‘Hello, this is—’

Linda Kirby’s accusing voice cut him off. ‘I bloody well trusted you! I would’ve expected this of Mr Garrett, but not you, Jim. I thought you were different. More fool me.’

Jim guessed at once what had happened. ‘You’ve spoken to Anna Young.’

‘That’s right and she told me all about how you’ve been protecting those filthy perverts.’

‘I’m just following orders.’

‘So were the Nazis when they murdered millions.’

Jim winced at the comparison. Linda was right. Evil thrived on blind obedience. And silence. Two things she herself had been guilty of in the past. But no longer. He’d never seen such a change in a person as had come over Linda since her daughter’s death. Gone was the woman who’d mutely stood by whilst her husband physically abused their daughter. In her place was a bold, outspoken woman, relentlessly driven by rage. Not for the first time, Jim felt a sliver of sadness at the thought that it had taken something so tragic to spark Linda’s courage.

‘How many more children have to be abused, how many more people have to die before you bastards do something?’ continued Linda.

‘We already are.’

‘Oh yeah, you’re doing something, alright. Covering up the truth.’

‘I promise you, we wouldn’t—’

‘Save it. I’ve heard enough empty promises from you lot to last me a lifetime. Well here’s a real promise for you. I’m going to do something about Thomas Villiers. I’m going to make him regret the day he was born.’

‘Are you threatening him?’

‘Too bloody right I am!’

‘Listen to me, Linda, Villiers isn’t someone you want to butt heads with.’

Linda gave a contemptuous bark. ‘Neither am I.’

‘Please, you could do more harm than good.’

‘How? How could I possibly do more harm than what you’ve already done? Shame on you.’

With this last retort, the line went dead. ‘Linda Kirby?’ said Reece.

Jim nodded. ‘She gave me an earful about protecting Villiers.’

‘She’s out of order. You don’t deserve that.’

Jim pulled a face as though he wasn’t convinced Reece was right.

‘Why so gloomy?’ asked Reece. ‘Surely this is a good thing. If Linda Kirby kicks up a big enough stink, it might get into the news. I thought that’s what you wanted.’

‘It is. But what I don’t want is some kind of vigilante action being taken against Villiers.’

‘You must’ve known there was a chance of that when you put the list out there.’

Jim accepted Reece’s words with another heavy sigh. ‘I’d better let Garrett know what the score is.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe you could try praying Anna Young comes up with something.’

‘I didn’t think prayers were your bag.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s amazing what you’ll try when you’re desperate.’

‘Tell me about it.’

Catching the pained note in Reece’s voice, Jim asked, ‘How did it go in London?’

Reece’s mouth twitched. ‘They want to send Staci to South Africa for treatment.’

‘Listen, Reece, if you need money—’

Reece cut Jim off with a shake of his head. ‘Thanks for the offer, but it won’t cost anything. It’s an experimental treatment. They’ll be using her as a guinea pig.’

‘Sounds risky.’

‘It is, but it’s all we’ve got.’

‘Are you going with her?’

‘No. I need to stay here and…’ Reece trailed off for a second, his lips twitching again. ‘We don’t want to take Amelia out of school. We’re trying to keep things as normal as possible for her, but it’s hard.’

‘Does she know what’s going on?’

‘She knows her mum’s ill, but not that she might—’ Reece’s voice clogged on what could only have been the word ‘die’. His broad shoulders lifted as he hauled in a shaky breath.

‘When’s Staci going?’

‘We’re waiting to hear. It shouldn’t be long.’

‘If you need time off to take her to the airport just let me know.’

‘Cheers, Jim. You’re a good friend.’ For an instant, Reece looked like he wanted to say something more. Then, as though fearing he might lose control of his emotions, he turned quickly and headed into the main office.

As she drove, Anna’s gaze was drawn to the vast, desolate sweeps of moorland that flanked the M62. Moors whose boggy depths concealed so many secrets. She found herself wondering whether Jessica was buried out there somewhere, waiting to be dug up like some archaeological artefact. The thought was as cold and lonely as a peaty grave. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but she could imagine the spirits of the wronged wandering those wild expanses. If Jessica was dead, there was only one place she should be – lying next to her dad in Norton Cemetery. She’d be able to rest then. They all would.

An hour or so later, Anna was driving along Harehills Lane past street after street of terraced housing. She pulled over at a row of local shops. Her gaze came to rest on a sign that read ‘Tony Hulten Lettings’. She got out of the van, approached a window full of properties up for let and pretended to peruse them. Tony Hulten Lettings was little more than the front room of a terraced house converted into an office with a desk and chairs. A man was reading a newspaper at the desk. Not
the
man she was looking for. This one was late middle aged and overweight with a seedy, unshaven face. He smiled at Anna as she entered the office.

‘Can I help you, young lady?’ he asked.

‘Are you Tony Hulten?’

‘That’s me, or at least it was last time I looked.’

‘I’m looking for a man who used to live in one of your properties. I wondered if you had a forwarding address for him.’

‘Which property?’

‘I’m not sure, but this is its phone number.’ Anna showed Tony the number on her phone. His eyes returned narrowly to hers.

‘What’s the name of the person you’re looking for?’

‘I’m not exactly sure about that either. He might have called himself Clotho Daeja. I have a picture of him.’