Spider's Web (2 page)

The sight of her sister’s rolling eyes and lolling head sent Anna into a frenzy. As her own assailant whirled her towards the road, she kicked and writhed like a trapped wild animal. ‘Bitch,’ grunted a distinctly male voice at the repeated impact of Anna’s sturdy Doc Martens. He loosened his grip, but only to hammer a fist into her stomach. Her eyes bulging, all her breath rushing from her, she stiffened then sagged forward. The other man was swiftly approaching the van, which was parked with its engine running, its lights off and its back doors wide open. The van’s interior was as dark as the inside of a mouth.
Once we’re in there, that’s it, we’re as good as dead.
The thought hit Anna harder than her assailant’s fist had, pummelling fresh desperate strength into her. She bit down on the gloved hand. Her assailant yanked it away with a loud ‘Ow!’. His hold on her midriff loosened again. She thrust herself away from him and suddenly she was free.

‘Help!’ she screamed breathlessly, lurching towards Jessica. She made a grab for her sister, but caught hold of the dark-haired man’s jacket instead. There was a tearing sound and a bunch of keys fell out of his pocket. ‘Hel—’ she started to cry out again. Her voice was cut off by a gasping outrush of breath as something slammed between her shoulder blades, snapping her head back. She pitched forward and her chin smashed into the pavement, sending her glasses skittering away. A jarring pain lanced down her spine. White lights burst in front of her eyes. Through them she saw the keys half a metre or so away. They were attached to what looked like a red devil’s head keyring. She groggily reached for the keys, thinking that maybe she could use them as a weapon. A gloved hand descended to snatch them up. She groaned as what felt like a knee pressed hard into the small of her back.

The dark-haired man threw Jessica into the back of the van as though she was a sack of coal, before wheeling towards his accomplice. ‘Help.’ Anna’s voice came more weakly now. The street was swimming in and out of focus like a bad television reception. Her unseen assailant hooked his hands under her armpits and started to haul her upright. The dark-haired man hurried to grab her feet.

‘Hey! What are you doing to that girl?’ The shout came from off to Anna’s right. She twisted her head and, through a blur of tears, saw several figures running across the road outside the ice rink. Her would-be abductors instantly released her. The dark-haired man dived into the back of the van and yanked the doors shut. His accomplice, who was wearing a green parka coat with the hood up, jumped into the driver’s seat. The van screeched away in the direction of the city centre.

Her head reeling, Anna scrambled to her feet and sprinted after the van. ‘Jessica!’ she screamed. ‘Jessica!’ Her gaze dropped to the registration number, but without her glasses she couldn’t make it out. The van ran a red light at the end of Queens Road and turned sharply from view. Anna tripped and fell hard. The uprushing pavement split open her palms. She barely noticed the pain. As she struggled to rise, hands took hold of her shoulders, not roughly, but tentatively. She shrugged them off, gasping, ‘They’ve got my sister!’

‘My mate’s phoning the police,’ came the concerned reply.

Without bothering to look at the speaker, Anna started running again. She knew it was hopeless – the van was gone, Jessica was gone – but she couldn’t stop herself. She ran until her lungs burnt like acid and her legs gave way beneath her. Then she lay on her back with tears streaming from her eyes and blood from her chin, sobbing over and over to the night sky, ‘I promised I’d look after her. I promised I’d look after her…’

1

2013

Like a kestrel hovering over its prey, Jim Monahan studied the man on the other side of the interview room’s one-way window. He took in the salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed across a bald spot, the brown eyes peering through puffy pouches of skin, the slightly baggy cheeks, the lips set in an impassive line. Thomas Villiers was leaning back in his chair, hands folded together in his lap. He was meticulously dressed in what appeared to be the same solemn navy blue suit and matching tie as on the previous two occasions he’d attended the station. The bastard wore his clothes in the same way he wore his respectability – like a suit of armour. He looked relaxed and confident. But appearances could be deceptive. Those bags under Villiers’ eyes were new. He hadn’t been sleeping. Or he’d been drinking too much. Or perhaps a bit of both. Whatever the cause, they hinted at an inner tension.

‘He looks tired,’ noted Reece Geary.

Jim glanced at his colleague. There were dark smudges under Reece’s eyes too. His broad angular face had a washed-out look. ‘So do you.’

‘I’m fine. Come on, let’s do it. I’ve got a good feeling about this one. I reckon he could be our ticket in.’

Jim’s gaze returned doubtfully to Thomas Villiers. Maybe he was their ticket in. But not today. Today they had the same on Villiers as they’d had when they first interviewed him almost a year ago – the same being fuck all. This interview wasn’t about trying to lever or trick information out of Villiers, its purpose was more simple – it was a reminder, a message that said loud and clear,
We haven’t forgotten you, we’re not going away, we’re going to keep after you for as long as it takes.
Villiers turned with an impatient frown to the pudgy, bespectacled man sitting at his side. Miles Burnham made a calming motion and whispered something to his client. Burnham was one of the most experienced solicitors in the game. He was fully aware of every police tactic in the book. Jim didn’t need to hear his words to have a good idea of what he was saying.
Relax, Thomas, they’re just making you wait, it’s what they do when they’ve got nothing to come at you with.
The lines faded from Villiers’ forehead. He even managed a smile.

‘I can’t stand that fucking bloke,’ said Reece, eyeballing the solicitor.

‘Don’t ever let him know that,’ warned Jim. ‘He’ll use it against you every chance he gets.’ He glanced at his watch. Villiers had been waiting almost an hour. Normally he would have given him a while longer to stew, but with Burnham in there that could do more harm than good.

Jim entered the interview room and seated himself at the opposite side of a table from Villiers and the solicitor. He pointedly opened the file he’d compiled on Villiers, while Reece turned on the recording equipment. Reece inserted three blank tapes into the machine – a working copy for themselves, a master copy, and a copy for Burnham if his client was charged. Jim glanced at his watch again and began in a slow, deliberate voice, ‘The time is four fifteen p.m., on Friday the fourteenth of June, 2013. This interview is taking place at South Yorkshire Police Headquarters. Those present are Detective Chief Inspector Jim Monahan, Detective Inspector Reece Geary, Mr Thomas Villiers and his solicitor, Mr Miles Burnham.’ Jim looked at Villiers for the first time, keeping his expression studiedly impersonal. ‘OK, Mr Villiers, I now need to caution you.’ He read him the standard caution and asked if he understood.

‘Yes,’ replied Villiers, his voice well-spoken with the barest hint of a Lancashire accent.

‘I must also inform you, Mr Villiers, that you’re not under arrest. Nor are you obliged to remain at the police station. You’re entitled to leave at will unless you’re placed under arrest.’

Again, Jim asked Villiers if he understood. And again, Villiers replied in the affirmative. Jim settled back in his chair and stared at Villiers a moment, before asking blandly, ‘Would you like some kind of refreshment before we begin? Tea? Coffee?’

‘No thank you.’ Villiers’ voice was as flat as Jim’s.

‘In that case, Mr Villiers, I’d like to start by asking you why you think we asked you to come here today?’

‘I assume it’s the same reason as on the previous two occasions.’

‘Which is?’

‘You want to know why my name is in Herbert Winstanley’s book.’

‘Herbert Winstanley’s alleged book,’ corrected Burnham.

‘Two handwriting experts have matched the writing in the book to Mr Winstanley,’ said Jim.

‘Handwriting can be faked.’

‘Mr Winstanley’s fingerprints are all over the book.’

‘That still doesn’t mean he wrote it. Unless you have a witness who can directly connect Herbert Winstanley to the book, then it cannot be stated with certainty that he was its author. Are we agreed?’

‘No we are not agreed, Mr Burnham. But the book is only part of the reason your client is here today. We’d also like to get a fuller understanding of Mr Villiers’ relationship to Edward Forester.’

‘My client has already explained his relationship with that person to you.’

‘I realise that, but it would be a great help to us if he could explain it again. Just in case we missed anything last time.’

‘I’m employed by the Craig Thorpe Youth Trust,’ said Villiers. ‘As you know, the Trust is a charity set up to help disadvantaged children. And as you also know, it’s a charity which Edward Forester was deeply involved in. He—’

‘Involved how?’ broke in Jim.

A slight rise came into Villiers’ voice, barely discernible but there. ‘If you’ll allow me, I’ll tell you.’

Jim took a small measure of satisfaction at his response – he’d noted during their previous interviews how much Villiers disliked being interrupted. ‘Please do.’

‘The Trust recently opened a home for runaway and homeless youths, of which I’m the manager. Edward Forester organised several fundraising events to help finance the home, as well as donating many thousands of pounds of his own money. I—’

‘According to our notes,’ Jim interjected, casually leafing through Villiers’ file, ‘you first met Edward Forester in April 2011 at one of the aforementioned fundraising events.’

Villiers’ lips compressed in silence. Jim leant further back in his chair. The two men stared at each other for a long moment. Then Jim said, ‘Could you confirm yes or no whether our notes are correct.’

‘Oh sorry,’ Villiers said with obvious feigned surprise. ‘I didn’t realise you were waiting for me to speak. I assumed you were merely stating a fact. Yes, I can confirm your notes are correct.’

‘And on how many other occasions did you meet with Mr Forester?’

Villiers blew out his cheeks. ‘It’s difficult to say exactly. I met him at many social functions. I also met with him numerous times on a one-to-one basis to discuss business.’

‘What kind of business?’

‘Mr Forester liked to be kept up to date on how things were going with the setting up of the children’s home. And considering what a good friend he was to the Trust, I was happy to oblige him.’

‘So you’d say you and Mr Forester were good friends.’

‘You’re putting words in my client’s mouth,’ said Burnham. ‘What he said was Edward Forester was a good friend to the Trust. Mr Villiers and Mr Forester were business acquaintances. Nothing more.’

Keeping his gaze focused on Villiers, Jim continued as though he hadn’t heard the solicitor, ‘Where exactly did you and your friend Mr Forester meet on a one-to-one basis?’

‘Chief Inspector Monahan, I really must object. As I said, my client and Mr Forester were—’

‘Acquaintances, yes I heard you,’ cut in Jim. ‘Now, could you please answer the question, Mr Villiers?’

‘Of course, Chief Inspector. We met at my office or at his house in Woodhouse.’

‘Did you ever meet at Herbert and Marisa Winstanley’s house?’

Again, Burnham answered for his client. ‘Mr Villiers has never been to the Winstanleys’ house.’

‘But he did know them.’

‘I was acquainted with them,’ said Villiers, adopting the language of his solicitor. ‘Herbert Winstanley offered his accounting services to the Trust. For free, I might add.’

No, not for free
, thought Jim.
He was going to get paid. Just not in money.
‘And what about Marisa?’

‘I met her at the same social functions where I met Mr Forester.’

‘What about Mr Forester’s half-brother, F—’ Jim’s voice caught on the name of Margaret’s murderer – only for a heartbeat – then he forced it out of his throat, ‘Freddie Harding? Are you acquainted with him too?’

‘No.’

‘And how about the other names listed in Herbert Winstanley’s book—’

‘Alleged book,’ Burnham corrected again.

Ignoring him, Jim continued, ‘Are you acquainted with any of them?’

‘Yes, some of them,’ said Villiers.

Jim withdrew a sheet of paper from Villiers’ file. There were forty-two names printed in alphabetical order on the sheet. He placed it in front of Villiers. ‘Point out which ones and tell us exactly how you know them.’

‘Once again, my client has already been through all this with you,’ said Burnham. ‘Mr Villiers is a busy man with other pressing commitments. So unless you have any new questions to ask or information to verify, I—’

‘No, no, Miles,’ interjected Villiers, holding up a hand. ‘It’s fine. I want to do whatever I can to help the Chief Inspector.’ He scanned the list of names: Stephen Baxley, Laurie Boyce… Sebastian Dawson-Cromer, Alvaro Gabriel Gaspar… Rupert Hartwell, Charles Knight… Henry Reeve, Thomas Villiers… Corinne Waterman, Donald Woods… ‘Rupert Hartwell worked for Mabel Forester. He attended one of the fundraisers with Mr Forester. I think I spoke to him briefly.’

‘About what?’

‘Erm, I honestly can’t remember. It was well over a year ago.’

‘What about the other names?’

‘Charles Knight, well, you know who he is.’ Villiers paused as if for effect. Jim winced behind the mask of his face. Yes, he knew who that corrupt, murdering piece of shit was. As did probably most people in the country and a lot beyond. Charles Knight was a stain South Yorkshire Police might never wash off. ‘I used to bump into him occasionally at social functions. We spoke a couple of times, just general chit-chat. The only other person on the list I know – or rather, knew – is Dr Henry Reeve. We met regularly on a professional basis in early 2012 when he treated a number of children under our care who had mental health problems.’

Fourteen – eight girls and six boys, aged eleven to seventeen – that was the number of Craig Thorpe Youth Trust children Henry Reeve had treated. Jim and his team had spoken to all of them. None had reported anything that could be overtly construed as abuse, although several said Dr Reeve had asked for graphic details of their sex lives, two girls remembered the doctor ‘accidentally’ brushing up against them, and one boy had been shown a homosexual pornographic film then asked how it made him feel. The boy had answered that it made him feel sick and that anyone who tried that on him would wind up in hospital. He’d subsequently been told he was unsuitable for therapy. As had another boy who’d strongly objected to answering questions about his sex life. Jim had got the impression that these therapy sessions had doubled up as a kind of screening process. Fortunately, Dr Reeve’s death and everything surrounding it seemed to have saved the children from whatever it was they were being screened for.