Spider's Web (18 page)

The Volvo reversed out of the driveway and accelerated away. Jim was about to follow it when he saw something that stopped him cold. A girl stepped from the house, waving at the receding car. She was about Sharon Walsh’s height, but slimmer. A satchel was slung over her shoulder. She was dressed in a knee-length black skirt, a white shirt and a navy-blue school blazer. She looked to be about fourteen or fifteen. Surely too young to be Ronald and Sharon’s daughter. It wasn’t her age, though, that truly sparked his curiosity.

She set off walking in Jim’s direction. He made a show of fiddling with the car radio as she passed. She didn’t give him a glance. She had earphones on and was singing along silently to whatever she was listening to. Jim could see nothing in her bland teenage face that suggested Ronald had told her about his visit. He glanced uncertainly in the direction of the Volvo, then got out of his car and began to tail the girl.

She made her way to a bus stop crowded with other schoolchildren and workers heading into the city centre. As she waited for a bus, she chatted to several girls. Jim phoned Scott Greenwood. ‘How’s it going with the phone records?’

‘I’m still working on getting a subpoena.’

‘I need you to do something else. There’s a girl living with the Walshes. Find out everything you can about her. And I mean everything. Who her biological parents are. Where she was born. When her birth was registered.’

‘Will do. Have you spoken to Reece? He’s not come into the office.’

A bus pulled in and the girl got on board. Quickly explaining the situation with Staci, Jim followed the girl onto the bus. She took a seat with her friends. He sat several seats back from her. Over the chugging of the engine, he caught snippets of her conversation. Just usual teenage girl talk – who was wearing what, who was going out with whom. Five stops later, the bus emptied of schoolchildren at the gates of a large comp. Jim disembarked too. As he watched the girl head into the school, his phone rang. When he saw the caller’s number, he eagerly put the phone to his ear. But his voice was carefully professional as he said, ‘This is DCI Jim Monahan. Who am I speaking to?’

‘Red fucking Riding Hood, who do you think?’

Jim felt a rise of relief at the familiar abrasive voice. ‘Anna, are you OK?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Knackered but fine. Those Special Branch pricks kept me up all night, hammering me with questions and threats.’

‘What sort of threats?’

‘Just the usual crap. How they’re going to stop my benefits and have me and Mum kicked out of our house. How if anything happens to anyone on the list they’re going to prosecute me for inciting a crime. I told them I hope they get the chance.’ The bravado suddenly left Anna in a sigh. ‘They’re going to do it, you know. They’re going to take away our house. Eviction proceedings have already begun. They showed me the papers. I honestly don’t know if Mum could survive without that house. It’s her last remaining connection to Jessica and Dad.’

‘No it’s not. You are.’

‘You don’t understand.’

‘Yes I do.’ Jim thought of the house he’d shared with Margaret, of the reluctance he’d felt to sell it, and the relief that had rushed over him when he finally worked up the courage to do so. True, the house had been a connection, but it had also been a burden, weighing on him so heavily he couldn’t move.

Anna sighed again. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter because I’m not going to give them what they want.’

Jim didn’t need to ask what they wanted. He already knew the answer. They wanted to do to him what they’d done to Lance Brennan. ‘I’m in Nottingham. You need to get yourself here. There’s something, or rather someone, I think you should see.’

‘Who?’

‘I’d rather not say over the phone.’

‘Why? Do you think Special Branch are listening in?’

‘Maybe, but that’s…’ Jim paused as if searching for a way to explain something inexplicable. ‘When you get here you’ll understand.’

‘OK, but it’s going to take me some time. I’m in Watford and my van’s still in Leeds. I’ll have to pick it up, then head back down to you.’

Jim arranged to meet Anna in a pub he’d spotted not far from the Walshes’ house. He caught a return bus back to his car. Ronald and Sharon were still out. There was nothing else to be done for the moment. He drove to a nearby café and ordered breakfast. His phone rang again. It was Reece. Bracing himself for the worst, he answered the call.

‘How is she?’

‘Not good, Jim.’ Reece sounded exhausted. ‘Her liver’s just about ready to pack in. It looks like she’s going to need a transplant.’

‘Fucking hell. Is there nothing they can do?’

‘They’re already doing everything they can and it’s making no difference. She needs to get to South Africa or—’ Emotion choked Reece.

Jim winced at the anguish in his friend’s voice. ‘Any word on when that’s going to happen?’

‘No, but she’s going to be too ill to travel if it doesn’t happen soon.’ Reece drew a breath and collected himself. ‘What about you? How’s the investigation going?’

‘Forget the investigation. You just concentrate on looking after Staci and Amelia.’

The choke came back into Reece’s voice at the mention of Staci’s daughter. ‘I keep thinking how do I tell Amelia if her mum dies? I mean, for Christ’s sake, how do you tell an eight-year-old something like that?’

His question was almost a plea. Jim made no reply. Experience had taught him that there was no easy way to break that kind of news.

With another long breath, Reece returned the conversation to the investigation. ‘Have forensics ID’d the skeleton?’

‘No, but I told you to forget about all that. Believe me, Reece, work is the last thing you should be thinking about right now.’

‘You’re right, Jim. It’s just…’ Reece trailed off as if he didn’t have the energy to explain.

‘It’s OK.’ Reece didn’t need to explain himself. Jim understood it was easier for him to focus on work rather than what was happening in his personal life. He’d been there himself. ‘And don’t worry about Garrett. I’ll let him know what’s going on.’

‘Thanks, Jim. You’ve done so much for me this past year. I’m sorry for letting you down.’

‘Don’t talk daft. You’re not letting anyone down.’ Jim’s voice assumed a gentle pretence of authority. ‘Now get back to that girl of yours. That’s an order.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Reece replied, his tone briefly lightening. The heaviness returned as he added, ‘I’ll call you as soon as I know what’s happening with South Africa.’

Jim resumed his breakfast of decaf tea and muesli. With each tasteless mouthful, he thought of Margaret, of how much she would have approved. It made his lips curl in self-contempt to remember how, after she walked out on him, he used to take a childish pleasure in doing things he knew she would disapprove of. How could he have wasted so much energy on such self-destructive behaviour? How could he have been so blind to what was truly important? Well, he wasn’t blind any more. He saw the truth with a stinging clarity. He was an idiot, a fool, good for nothing except everything that was bad about life. That was why he was so proficient at chasing down criminals.

After breakfast, he returned to the Walshes’ house. At mid-morning they reappeared and unloaded shopping bags from their Volvo. Then Ronald set to mowing the front lawn, whilst Sharon polished the insides of the house’s windows. It was a perfectly normal domestic scene. And yet something about it made Jim’s forehead crease faintly. It seemed to him that the Walshes performed their tasks with a kind of exaggerated enthusiasm, like actors in a show.

It was early afternoon when Scott Greenwood phoned back. ‘The girl’s name is Emily Walsh,’ he told Jim. ‘She’s fifteen. I’ve been on to the General Register’s Office. According to her birth certificate, Ronald and Sharon are her biological parents.’

‘They’re a bit old, don’t you think?’

‘Maybe they had IVF.’

‘Maybe,’ Jim echoed, unconvinced. ‘Where and when was Emily born?’

‘The Maternity Unit at Queen’s Medical Centre, Nottingham, on the twenty-eighth of May 1998.’

‘And I take it all the documents were in order.’

‘According to the guy I spoke to. Do you want his name and number?’

‘No. What about the phone records?’

‘Sorry, Jim, no dice. We’re going to need more than Gavin Walsh’s fingerprints to convince Judge Lawson to cough up a subpoena. He did approve the search and seizure warrant for Villiers’ house, though.’

‘That’s something, I suppose.’ Jim drew a certain grim satisfaction from the thought of Villiers’ house being turned upside down, his personal documents and computers being seized. And who knew, maybe something of interest would be found.

He got off the phone and returned his attention to the Walshes’ house. There was no sign of activity. The show – if that’s what it had been – was over for now. He looked up Queen’s Medical Centre. It was three or four miles away on the west side of the city. He punched the address into the satnav and set off.

The hospital was a multi-storey, block-like building. He followed the signs for Maternity and showed the nurse at reception his ID. ‘I want to confirm whether or not the information I have about someone born here is correct.’

‘Do you have the mother’s name and her child’s date of birth?’

He told the nurse what she needed to know and she disappeared into an office at the rear of reception. She reappeared shortly with a printout. ‘Sharon Walsh gave birth to a girl in this unit via natural delivery at three twenty a.m. on the date you gave.’

‘Does it say who delivered her?’

‘Midwife Janet Shaw.’

‘Would it be possible for me to speak to her?’

‘Janet’s not on duty. I can give you her home phone number.’

‘That’d be great.’

Jim entered Janet Shaw’s number into his phone. He thanked the nurse, headed outside and hit dial. No one picked up. He left an answerphone message, saying who he was and asking Mrs Shaw to call him. He returned to his car and the Walshes’ house. As he parked up, he glimpsed a figure in an upstairs window. Sharon Walsh. She was staring between the bushes directly at him. He returned her gaze and she quickly retreated from view. Their eyes had only met for an instant, but it was enough to give him the distinct feeling that she knew who and what he was. He rubbed his unshaven jaw, frowning. So the great show her husband had made about not upsetting her had been just that – a show. Which begged the question: why had Ronald been so adamant about him not talking to Sharon? The answer seemed plain. It wasn’t Sharon that Ronald didn’t want him to talk to. It was Emily. They probably hadn’t told her about the murky side of her family’s past.

Jim’s phone rang. Janet Shaw’s number flashed up. He put the phone to his ear. ‘Thanks for calling me back, Mrs Shaw.’

‘What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?’ she replied.

Jim explained what he was trying to find out. ‘Do you remember delivering Sharon Walsh’s baby?’

‘If the hospital birth records say I did, then I did.’

‘That’s not what I’m asking. I want to know if you specifically remember doing so.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding me. I’ve been a midwife for thirty-odd years. Do you know how many thousands of babies I’ve delivered?’

‘I thought you’d say something like that, but this is extremely important. I really need you to try and think back.’

Janet sighed. ‘I’ll try.’

Jim described Sharon and Ronald. Janet was silent a moment, then she said. ‘Sorry, I’d like to be of help but nothing’s coming to me. Look, why don’t I call round my colleagues, see if any of them remembers this woman? I doubt they will, but it’s worth a try. I’ll get back in contact if I find anything out.’

Jim thanked her and hung up. If his suspicions about the Walshes were correct, there was a chance she was lying to him. But he didn’t think it was much of a chance. Experience told him that the vast majority of people – average people, not clever bastards like Villiers – would avoid the police like the plague if they had anything to hide.

He glanced at the dashboard clock. It was nearly three. The schools would be kicking out soon. He started the engine and turned out of the street. If Sharon had made him, there was little point in sitting on the house. As he drove, a text message beeped on his phone. It was from Anna and read ‘I’m at the pub.’

When Jim pulled into the pub car park, Anna was sitting in the open doors of her camper van, smoking a cigarette and sipping a pint of cider. There were dark smudges under her eyes. Her short blonde hair lay flat and greasy on her head. She gave Jim a weary but undefeated smile as he lowered his window and said, ‘Get in.’

Anna locked up her van, then, still clutching her pint, ducked into the car. Jim gestured at her drink. ‘You don’t need that.’

‘Bollocks I don’t after what I’ve just been through. I tell you, train travel in this country is no joke.’

Jim couldn’t help a small smile at her dry humour. By the time they arrived at the school, Anna had drained her glass and children were streaming out of the gates. Jim scanned the ranks of faces. Laughing faces, serious faces, faces as yet unmarked by the dirt of life. His gaze came to rest on one such face. Emily was chatting to a boy who looked to be the same age as her. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, like apples ready to be picked. Her expression was open and unguarded with the merest hint of shyness. There was nothing of the closed wariness, the deadness he’d seen behind the eyes of abuse victims. It made him ache inside to think how her face would change if his suspicions proved correct.

He pointed at her. ‘There.’

Anna’s eyes followed the line of his finger. ‘What am I supposed to be lookin—’ she started to say. Her voice broke off with a harsh click, like something snapping shut. She squeezed her eyelids together and opened them, as if she didn’t trust what she was seeing. Her fingers were white on the pint glass.

‘What do you think?’ asked Jim. Not that he needed to. Her reaction said everything.

Anna made an inarticulate sound in her throat. Suddenly, the glass broke in her hand. Blinking like someone jarred out of trance, she looked at her palm. Blood was welling from a shallow cut.