Spider's Web (21 page)

He climbed into the van, thumbing over his shoulder at the Walshes’ unlit house. ‘Looks like they’re asleep.’

‘I was too,’ Anna admitted.

He placed a plastic bag on the table and removed two polystyrene cups and several silver-foil trays from it. ‘Coffee and Chinese takeaway. I got you chicken. Everyone likes chicken, right?’

‘Thanks. I haven’t eaten since this morning.’ Anna peeled the top off a tray. The smell of spicy food made her realise how hungry she was.

As they ate, Jim said, ‘I’ve had an interesting evening. I’ve spoken to several midwives and doctors who worked at Queen’s Medical Centre back in ’98. Not a single one remembers Sharon Walsh. Neither does the hospital have any record of her having antenatal care. Which seems especially strange when you consider Sharon would’ve been fifty-one at the time of Emily’s birth. Surely a woman of that age would’ve been keen to have every test and scan available to make sure her baby was healthy. And here’s another curious little fact for you.’ Jim pointed at the house. ‘Sharon and Ronald moved in there around the same time Emily was born. Before that they lived in Keyworth. A village to the south-east of Nottingham.’

‘I suppose the sudden appearance of a baby in a small community like that would’ve caused awkward questions to be asked.’

‘That’s exactly what I thought. I’m heading there in the morning to speak to their former neighbours. And after I’m done with that, I’ve got to go to Leicester to speak to the parents of Alison Sullivan.’

‘Who’s she?’

‘She’s the girl you found under the tree. We got a DNA hit.’ Jim flipped open his notepad. ‘She went missing on the second of June 2007. A fortnight or so before Mr Daeja moved out of Cowper Road. She was sixteen years old. According to her parents, she was going through an alternative stage. They were concerned because she’d recently got into paganism and the occult. On the morning of her disappearance, Alison left the house, supposedly to go to college. Instead she went to Leicester train station, where she was caught on CCTV boarding a train to Leeds. She was also recorded at Leeds station and in a nearby shopping precinct where she met a man.’

‘You mean Gavin Walsh was captured on camera!’

Jim nodded. ‘Don’t get too excited. There’s not much to see.’ He brought up a grainy colour CCTV still on his phone. It showed a girl with long blonde hair wearing a green and purple tie-dye skirt and a knee-length blue leather jacket. She was sitting on a bench next to a slightly paunchy man in faded black jeans and a t-shirt. A wide-brimmed bushman-style hat concealed his face except for a long goatee beard. ‘This image was shown on the national news. It must have panicked Gavin into leaving Cowper Road.’

Anna studied the image closely. It was difficult to make out Alison Sullivan’s expression. But Anna thought she detected a hint of a smile. Her mind returned to the online listing that had, no doubt, lured Alison to Leeds:
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.

Gavin had offered the truth, but all he’d had to give was pain. Maybe, Anna reflected bitterly, that
was
the truth. In all her years of searching she’d never found anything to prove differently. ‘Do Alison’s parents know she’s dead?’

‘No,’ Jim said heavily. ‘Not yet.’

Catching his meaning, Anna gave a little shake of her head. ‘It’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it, eh?’ For years after Jessica’s abduction, every knock on the front door had left her cold with panic at the thought that it was a policeman come with the news she dreaded most. Sighing, she pushed up her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

‘You look done in. Why don’t you get some more sleep? I’ll take first watch and wake you in a few hours.’

‘I don’t feel like sleeping. Besides, you need your rest more than me. It’s you who’s got the dodgy ticker.’

Anna took out a sleeping bag and pillow for Jim. He curled up on the sofa and was soon snoring deeply. She watched the house, wondering if Emily was awake too and contemplating her own truth, her own pain. The dark hours dragged by. Anna chain-smoked to keep herself awake. Once Jim stirred in his sleep and muttered something. She thought she made out a name.
Margaret.
She looked at him with something approaching sympathy. She’d heard what had been done to his wife by Freddie Harding. They’d both had someone they loved snatched away from them. But there wasn’t even the slimmest of chances that his ‘someone’ was coming back. Except in his dreams.
So let him sleep
, she thought.
Let him dream.

Night gradually gave way to a steel-blue dawn. The earliest risers amongst the street’s residents emerged from their houses and headed off to work. At the sound of a passing car, Jim sat up blinking in the pale light. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

‘I told you, I didn’t feel like sleeping.’

Jim rubbed his bladder area. ‘I need to find a toilet or a bush. My prostate isn’t what it used to be.’

‘That’s a little more information than I need.’

Smiling faintly, Jim pulled on his shoes and clambered out of the van. Anna set a kettle boiling on a camping stove. When Jim returned, she handed him a mug of tea. He sipped it and examined his face in a mirror. ‘Christ, I look about ninety.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Anna. ‘Get rid of the tash and you wouldn’t look too bad for an old geezer.’

Jim stroked his moustache. ‘I’ve had this for twenty-odd years.’

‘All the more reason to get rid.’

Jim took an electric razor from his pocket and plugged it into the cigarette lighter with an adaptor. After shaving his cheeks and throat, he hovered uncertainly over his moustache. Why had he grown it? He couldn’t remember. It was just something that, over the years, had become a part of who he was. But who was he? He’d lost sight of that a long time even before Margaret walked out on him. All he knew was that things were changing and he had to change with them or he was as good as dead. He pressed the razor against his moustache. When it was gone, he studied himself in the mirror again. A face that was both the same yet strikingly different stared back. It gave him a strangely disconnected feeling. He reached up to touch his upper lip, and was almost surprised to see the man in the mirror do likewise.

‘That’s knocked about five years off you,’ said Anna. ‘Now all you need to do is sort your hair and clothes out.’

A crooked smile tugged at Jim’s mouth again. ‘One step at a time.’

After heating up the remnants of the previous night’s meal for breakfast, Jim said, ‘Right, I’d better head over to Keyworth and see if I can catch the Walshes’ former neighbours before they go to work.’ He gave Anna a meaningful look.

‘Jesus, do we have to go through this every time you leave? Yes, I’ll call if anything happens.’

As Jim exited the van, Anna’s gaze returned to the house. The downstairs curtains were open. She glimpsed a man who fitted Jim’s description of Ronald Walsh moving around in his dressing-gown. At a quarter to nine, Ronald and a woman Anna presumed to be Sharon left the house, both casually but smartly dressed, a picture of middle-class respectability. Sharon got into the Volvo. Ronald stood staring at the camper van, before quickly following her into the car as Emily appeared in her school uniform. Anna felt a tightening of her heart at the sight of her. In the clear morning light, with her hair slightly damp and bang straight, Emily looked, if possible, even more like Jessica. She was a touch pale and puffy around the eyes, as though she hadn’t got much sleep. Had she lain awake all night agonising over what she’d been told? wondered Anna. Or had she confronted her parents about Gavin? And if so, what had they told her? Not the truth, that was for sure. Their whole life was a lie. The truth was as alien to them as lying was to Anna.

It was all Anna could do to resist the urge to jump out of the van and drag Emily away from Ronald and Sharon, drag her all the way back to where she belonged – Sheffield. Anna tailed the Volvo to the school. Emily kissed her parents, then left the car. They waited until she was well inside the gates before pulling away. Anna didn’t follow them. She was more interested in making sure no harm came to Emily. That was the important – perhaps the
most
important – thing. The realisation hit Anna with a jolt. She’d never thought anything would ever rival her desire to find Jessica. Emily was a link to the past, but she was also a bridge to the future – a future Anna had never considered even in her wildest imaginings; a future she was fiercely determined to have.

The school bell rang. Anna watched Emily file inside the building with her fellow pupils, then she reached to take her glasses off. She’d slept maybe two hours out of the last forty-eight. Now seemed like the best time to catch up on some much needed shut-eye. But first she had to have a cigarette. She lit one and rested her head back. Noticing a figure emerge from the school, she quickly replaced her glasses. It was Emily! She was walking fast, almost running. Her face wasn’t just a little pale now. It was as white as a hangover with… with what? Shock? Excitement? The thought came to Anna:
She’s found out something that backs up my words. Either that or she’s about to try and do so.
As Emily darted across the road and flagged down a bus, a second thought occurred to Anna, one that quickened her pulse.
Maybe she’s not merely going to try and find the truth, maybe she’s going to try and see it, even speak to it.

Emily was heading to her form room for registration when her phone rang. She snatched it out. It was the call she’d been expecting, wanting and dreading. ‘All phones must be switched off on school premises,’ shouted a teacher.

Dodging into the girls’ toilets, Emily put the phone to her ear. ‘Hello, Miss Allen.’

‘Hi, Emily. Please call me Lindsey.’

‘Did you find anything out, Lindsey?’ Emily asked with a nervous swallow.

‘Yes I did. I found several articles about Gavin Walsh dating to 1987. In June of that year he was accused of rape by a fourteen-year-old girl named Jody McLean. But he was never charged. Not long afterwards Gavin went missing. His bloodstained clothes were found not far from where he lived with his parents, Ronald and Sharon. Police suspected Jody’s brothers, Patrick and Kieran, had murdered Gavin. But they couldn’t find a body. I’ve spoken to a colleague who worked here at the time. Apparently there was some speculation as to whether Gavin had faked his death, but the police didn’t take it seriously. You see the McLeans were – well, still are – a notorious crime family here in Birmingham. If they wanted Gavin dead, then he was as good as dead. What’s your email address? I’ll send you the articles.’

Emily made no reply. Her head was reeling. She felt sick and sweaty. She didn’t know what to think. She didn’t want to think. But the reporter’s words kept coming back at her. They turned everything she believed to be true into a lie. They snatched away the supports of her identity. Questions hammered at her brain.
Why didn’t my parents tell me about Gavin? Who is he exactly? Who am I?

Assuming Gavin was alive, what she’d just learnt had to some extent answered the first of those questions. Her parents had kept his existence a secret to protect him from the McLeans. She couldn’t help but feel, though, that there was more to it than that. If she was such a good daughter, why hadn’t they trusted her? Surely she had a right to know she had a brother. If that’s what he was. Anna Young’s words pushed their way into her mind again.
Your parents aren’t what they seem. Your so-called parents…

‘Are you there?’ asked Lindsey.

‘Yes.’ Emily told the reporter her email address, her voice a monotone of shock.

‘Yesterday you seemed to suggest that this person who’s threatening your family believes Gavin Walsh is still alive. Can you tell me why that is?’

‘I… I’m sorry, I can’t talk any more right now.’

Emily hung up and stared dazedly at the floor for a moment. Shoving the phone into her pocket, she hurried from the toilets. As she headed for the school’s entrance, a teacher called after her. She didn’t give them a glance. She didn’t care if she got into trouble. Nothing mattered any more. Nothing, that is, except answering the questions.

When she reached the gates a bus was pulling up. She dashed across the road and boarded it. She didn’t sit down. The questions wouldn’t allow it. Her phone beeped as an email came through from Lindsey Allen. ‘Here are the articles,’ read the reporter’s message. ‘Call me anytime if you want to talk more.’ She opened an attachment and was confronted by the headline ‘Police Search For The Body Of Suspected Murder Victim’ and a grainy photo of a young man. Once again, the resemblance to her parents, especially her mum, was unmistakable.

She got off the bus at her stop and ran home. Barely pausing to close the front door, she headed up to her parents’ bedroom. She began rifling through the bedside tables, flinging their contents – socks, underwear, her mum’s sleeping pills – carelessly onto the carpet. She pulled out the drawers, checking to see if anything was hidden behind them. The dressing table and its contents received the same treatment. One of the drawers contained a locked wooden jewellery box. She searched without success for the key. She pushed a nail file into the lock and twisted it. Again, without success. Finally, she hurled the box at the floor. It popped open, scattering jewellery across the carpet. Inside was a removable tray divided into several compartments. She lifted it out, revealing more jewellery. She turned her attention to the wardrobe. Out came the clothes, the spare blankets, the suitcases. All of it dumped in a heap. She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for. All she knew was that she had to look.

She left the wreckage of the bedroom, went into her dad’s study and booted up the computer. She’d never touched it before. It was strictly for his accountancy work, although these days he was all but retired. A password prompt appeared and she typed in ‘Ronald’. ‘The user name or password is incorrect’ flashed up. She tried her mum’s name, her own name, combinations of all their names. Each time the same message. She frowned thoughtfully at the screen, then typed ‘Gavin’. The password was accepted. She logged on to her dad’s email account. Her gaze skimmed over the inbox. There hadn’t been much activity recently. There were messages from clients mixed in amongst the usual junk mail. She looked in the ‘Sent’ folder. Again, there was nothing of interest. Next she opened the ‘Deleted Items’ folder. It was empty. She clicked ‘Recover Deleted Items’. Two messages appeared. The first read ‘A policeman came here tonight asking about you. What’s going on?’ Her dad had sent the message at ten twenty-five p.m. two days ago to someone called ‘The Wicca Man’. Five minutes later he’d received the reply, ‘It’s nothing for you to be concerned about. Just carry on like normal.’