Spider's Web (17 page)

‘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 miles 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.

Forty or so minutes later, he pulled up outside a modest detached house on a quiet, leafy suburban street. There was a Volvo in the driveway. Lights glowed behind curtains in the downstairs windows. The very image of normality.

Ideally, he would have liked to find out more about the house’s occupants before talking to them. Who exactly were the Walshes? How had Ronald Walsh come to work for a known criminal? What had their relationship with their son been like? He would have liked to get a look at their phone records too. Perhaps even run surveillance on them for a few days. But there was nothing ideal about this situation.

He knocked on the door of one of the Walshes’ neighbours. A woman answered. ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he said, showing her his ID, ‘but I need to ask you, and anyone else who lives here, a couple of questions.’ The woman called her husband to the door. Jim showed them the mugshot of the nineteen-year-old Gavin Walsh. ‘Have you ever seen this man at the Walshes’ house or anywhere else on this street?’ They both replied no. ‘Try to imagine him older with a goatee beard and a ponytail. Ring any bells?’ Again, the same response.

‘What’s this about?’ asked the husband.

‘Nothing for you to worry about. Thanks for your time.’

Jim worked his way up and down the street, knocking on every door, asking the same questions, getting the same replies. He wasn’t surprised. Gavin Walsh was an extremely cautious man. He’d proved that time and again over the years with his disappearing acts.

Finally, Jim knocked at the Walshes’ house. An exterior light came on and the front door was opened by a man whom Jim guessed to be somewhere in his late sixties. Like Gavin, he had intensely dark eyes. But otherwise there was little resemblance. His face was longer and thinner, his nose was sharper, and he was bald except for a frizz of grey hair at the sides of his head.

‘Are you Ronald Walsh?’

‘Yes. And who are you?’

Noting the Brummie accent, Jim produced his ID. ‘If I may, I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

Lines gathered around Ronald’s eyes. ‘About what?’

‘Your son.’

The lines spread and deepened, like cracks in a dry stream bed. Ronald stepped outside, pulling the door to behind him. ‘My son is dead.’

‘As I understand it his body was never found.’

‘My son is dead,’ repeated Ronald, as if stating an undisputable fact. ‘If you want to know where his body is, I suggest you speak to the McLeans.’

Jim gave a thoughtful wag of his head. ‘You know, Mr Walsh, that’s something that strikes me as odd. If the McLeans were careful enough to hide your son’s body where no one would ever find it, why would they leave behind his bloodstained clothes?’

‘I’ll tell you why. Because they had to let everyone know what they’d done. It was about not losing face.’ Ronald’s lips curled with hate. ‘That’s what everything’s about with people like them. That and money.’

There was no arguing with that. Jim changed tack. ‘Is your wife in, Mr Walsh?’

‘Yes, but I don’t want you talking to her. She’s not a well woman.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, but I won’t take up much of her time.’

Ronald shook his head vehemently. ‘I won’t have you upsetting her for no good reason.’

‘I assure you, Mr Walsh, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for a good reason.’

Still shaking his head, Ronald turned to head back into his house. Jim caught hold of his arm in a firm, but not so firm as to be painful grip. ‘Aren’t you even interested what that reason is?’

‘My son is dead,’ Ronald said once again, like the words were some kind of all-answering mantra. ‘That’s all I need to know.’

‘But what if—’

‘Are you not listening to me?’ Ronald broke in, his voice a sharp rasp. ‘There is no “what if”. Now please leave us alone.’

As Ronald made to close the door, Jim braced a hand against it. ‘We could have this conversation down the station, if you want to play it that way.’

Ronald looked at Jim as if to say,
Do you take me for a fool?
‘I know my rights, Chief Inspector Monahan. I don’t have to go anywhere with you unless you’re charging me with something. Now remove your hand from my door.’

Jim reluctantly did so, and before he could say anything else, Ronald shut the door in his face. Jim returned to his car, phoned Garrett and relayed his conversation with Ronald. ‘Sounds to me like Mr Walsh is hiding something,’ said the DCS.

A wrinkle of uncertainty appeared between Jim’s eyes. ‘Usually when people are hiding something they play it cooler. I’d be inclined to think Mr Walsh was genuine, except for one thing. You said the Walshes fought to have their son declared dead. And when I spoke to Mr Walsh tonight he refused to even entertain the thought that his son might be alive. I just can’t get my head round that.’

‘Maybe he knew exactly what his son was capable of, and so was relieved when it seemed he’d been murdered.’

‘You’ve got a son of your own. If he turned out to be a rapist, even a killer, would you want him dead?’

Garrett considered this briefly, then conceded, ‘No. I might want myself dead, but not him.’

Jim eyed the Walshes’ house curiously. A light had come on in the upstairs main bedroom window. ‘I’m going to stay on the Walshes tonight and see what I can see. It might be worth having a look at their phone records too.’

‘I’ll put DI Greenwood on it. Now I’d better get back to work. It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow. I have an appointment with Judge Lawson in the morning. I’ve got a lot to do if I’m going to convince him to issue a search and seizure for Villiers’ house.’

‘Let’s hope no one’s got to Lawson before us.’

A slight rise of indignation came into Garrett’s voice. ‘Lawson’s a good man.’

‘You would have said the same about Charles Knight a year ago.’

Garrett sighed. ‘Regardless, we have to follow proper procedure or whatever evidence we gather will be worthless. You know that as well as I do. We can’t keep telling lies to cover our tracks.’

Jim grunted begrudging agreement. Garrett was right. A good lawyer like Miles Burnham would have the case thrown out long before trial if procedure wasn’t followed to the letter. ‘I don’t think we’ll find much of interest at Villiers’ house anyway. He’s much too careful for that.’

‘Well, if nothing else, it’ll let him know we mean business now.’

‘True, but what we really need to do is start talking to the children at the Craig Thorpe Youth Trust home and former residents of Hopeland.’

‘We will do, believe me. But we’ve got to move carefully. This is an extremely sensitive case. There’s too much at stake and too many innocent people who could get hurt if we don’t do things properly.’

Jim prickled with irritation at this reminder that Garrett’s overly conservative side was never far from the surface. ‘And what about the other names in Herbert’s book?’

‘We’ll get to them too. And their families, friends and colleagues. But for now I think we should concentrate on Villiers. Like you said the other day, he’s the weak link. Break him and we break the case open.’

There was no arguing with Garrett’s logic. Still, it burnt Jim to think of Villiers’ accomplices remaining at least partly in the shadows. He knew it would most likely only be for a few more days, but even that was too long. The sooner they were officially outed as suspects, the sooner their power would begin to bleed away. He wanted to read their names in every newspaper, see their faces on every TV channel. So that even if they managed to avoid prosecution, their reputations would be indelibly stained by being hauled through the court of public opinion. ‘Good luck with Lawson.’

‘Thanks, Jim. And you try to get some rest. Remember, you need to take care of that heart of yours.’

As Jim hung up, his gaze was drawn to the downstairs window of the Walshes’ house. The curtains twitched. Someone – no doubt Ronald Walsh – was furtively watching him. He started up the engine and pulled around the corner. He glanced at the clock. He’d give it half an hour, then he’d find a spot from where he could inconspicuously watch the house. As he waited, he tried Anna’s and Reece’s phones again. Still no answer from either. He exhaled heavily. It was going to be a long night.

10

Jim was jerked out of a fitful doze by the sound of a car door closing. He lifted a hand to wipe away the fog of sleep, for an instant not knowing where he was. He’d been dreaming about Margaret, about a future that could never be. The dream had taunted him with images of them being together in some warm, sunny place. It was a dream he’d had many times before, and he always woke from it with a choking sob. Sometimes he couldn’t bear the thought of sleep because of it, other times he closed his eyes in the hope that it would come again.

The morning sun was streaming palely through the windscreen. It was twenty past eight. Between bushes that partially screened him from view, he focused blinkingly on the Walshes’ house. The front door was open. Ronald was in the driver’s seat of the Volvo. A woman, who from her appearance surely had to be Sharon Walsh, emerged from the house. She was mid-sixties, short and solidly built. Her broad, round face bore a striking resemblance to Gavin that was accentuated by short, too dark to be natural hair. Her movements were purposeful, as though she was in a rush. She didn’t appear to be ill. But then her husband might not have meant that she was physically ill. Jim could easily imagine how the murder of her son might have affected her mentally. The best part of thirty years had passed since then. But as he’d pointed out to Garrett, there were some wounds time could never heal.