Spider's Web (36 page)

Garrett’s eyes alternated nervously between Jim and Chief Constable Hunt. The Chief Constable had a deceptive face. When he smiled, his bushy white eyebrows and twinkling eyes made him look like a benevolent grandfather. At such times, it was easy to be misled into thinking he was a soft touch. But in the blink of an eye that twinkle could transform into a glare. When that happened – and it had happened the instant the IPCC officers left – his subordinates knew to keep their mouths shut and weather the storm.

‘This is an extremely delicate situation,’ Chief Constable Hunt said in his brusque Yorkshire voice, pacing about Jim’s office as though the floor offended him. ‘If we’re not careful, all the work we’ve done to restore the good name of this department will be wiped out.’

Jim tore his eyes from the map. ‘I don’t agree.’ His words induced Garrett to give a little wince.

The Chief Constable treated Jim to a look like a thunderclap. ‘Thomas Villiers is bringing civil proceedings against this department that could cost us hundreds of thousands, if not millions of pounds.’ He thrust a finger at Jim. ‘You’ve destroyed that man. He’s lost his reputation, his job and his family because of your accusations.’

‘Not my accusations,’ Jim stated bluntly. ‘The accusations of the children he helped abuse.’

Chief Constable Hunt shoved his words aside with a backhand swipe. ‘Perhaps you haven’t been keeping up with recent events, DCI Monahan, but none of the supposed victims are talking.’ He pounded his fist into the palm of his hand for emphasis. ‘Not a single bloody one! Add to that the fact that the search and seizure turned up no incriminating evidence and we’re left looking like we’ve victimised an innocent man.’

Jim snorted contemptuously. ‘He’s guilty and everyone knows it.’

‘This isn’t about what people know, or rather think they know,’ retorted the Chief Constable, a vein of anger swelling on his forehead. ‘This is about what can or can’t be proven in a court of fucking law!’

Jim shook his head. ‘That’s what I’m saying. This isn’t simply about the law. It’s about perception. If we back off from Villiers, we’ll be perceived as weak and corrupt. Then no one will ever trust us enough to speak out against him.’

Chief Constable Hunt glanced sidelong at Garrett as if to say,
Can you believe this bloke?
‘OK, DCI Monahan, let me tell you how I
perceive
things to be. You leaked information about an investigation you were leading. The IPCC are ready to bring disciplinary proceedings against you. They believe you should be dismissed for gross misconduct. And I’m inclined to agree with them. However, there is a way out of this mess. A way you can save yourself and this department a lot of trouble and money.’ The Chief Constable paused a breath to let his words sink in before continuing, ‘Thomas Villiers has said he’s willing to drop the civil case and withdraw his complaint if you make a full public apology for harassing him.’

Jim’s eyes narrowed with disgust but not surprise. ‘What? And you think that’s a good idea?’

‘Not only do I think it’s a good idea, I also want you to make it clear that Mr Villiers is completely innocent of all the accusations.’

Jim turned to Garrett. ‘And what about you? You’re willing to play along with this, are you?’

Garrett made a helpless, apologetic gesture. ‘What else can we do, Jim?’

‘I’ll tell you what else we can fucking do.’ Jim jerked his chin at the mocked-up image of Gavin. ‘We can catch that bastard.’

Chief Constable Hunt gave a doubtful huff. ‘Face it, DCI Monahan. Gavin Walsh is long gone. He’s most probably lying on a beach somewhere right now laughing at us all.’

‘I don’t think so. Not without Emily Walsh.’

‘We’ve scoured the length and breadth of the country for him. I fail to see how he could have evaded capture, unless he has the ability to vanish into thin air at will.’

‘Maybe he has,’ Jim muttered drily, recalling what Emily had said about Gavin claiming to possess magic powers.

‘What was that?’

‘Nothing.’

The Chief Constable made an impatient noise. ‘So what’s it going to be, DCI Monahan? Will you issue the apology?’

‘I’d rather tear my own tongue out, sir.’ Jim’s voice was strangely calm. Like the eye of a storm.

‘Then as of this moment you’re off the investigation – an investigation which, need I remind you, had been suspended because of your actions until the revelations about Gavin Walsh came to light.’

You say that almost as though you wish it had stayed that way
, Jim thought disdainfully, resisting an urge to pull out his police ID and fling it in the Chief Constable’s face. However much he wanted to quit, he knew he couldn’t. Not whilst Villiers and all the rest of them were still breathing free air. He was off the case, but that didn’t stop him working it. And to do that effectively he needed access to police files and data. He needed to hold on to the bitter end. He rose from his chair and approached the board of names. Stephen Baxley, Laurie Boyce, Charles Knight… Forty-four names. A web of depravity. A maze with no way out. His calm dissolved. The storm took control. He tore the board off the wall and hurled it past the Chief Constable’s goggle-eyed face. It ricocheted off the desk, forcing Garrett to dodge aside.

‘You’re out of your bloody mind,’ exclaimed the Chief Constable. ‘You might as well hand in your badge right now, because your time is just about up.’

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You and all the other cronies and arse-lickers.’

Chief Constable Hunt’s jaw muscles worked like he was chewing something unpalatable. He spoke in a voice of quiet rage. ‘I suggest you make yourself scarce, DCI Monahan, before one of us does something we’ll both regret.’

Jim unblinkingly returned the Chief Constable’s stare. He’d been around far too long to be intimidated by his angry Yorkshireman act. His eyes moved to Garrett. The DCS struggled to meet them. ‘If saving this department means apologising to Villiers, then this department isn’t worth saving,’ said Jim. Then he turned and left.

A full public apology.
The words swirled around his head like debris caught in a whirlwind. They made him want to pound his fists into something. He drove out of the city centre, not thinking where he was going, but unconsciously heading south. He soon reached the edge of the city. The patchwork hump of the moors loomed in front of him. He turned towards Thomas Villiers’ house and parked across the road from it. Someone had spray-painted in red letters on the garden wall ‘BURN IN HELL CHILD RAPIST’. The gates were closed, the driveway empty, the curtains drawn. Villiers was no doubt keeping his head down in some distant place where no one was likely to recognise him. A Mercedes rolled up to the gates and he saw that he was wrong. It was Villiers! The electronic gates swung open. Villiers pulled into the driveway. Jim accelerated sharply after him, blocking the Mercedes in. He got out of his car. Villiers stayed in his. Jim eyeballed him through the glass. There was no arrogance left in Villiers’ eyes. Only anxiety and exhaustion. He looked a shadow of the man Jim had interviewed three weeks or so ago. But that wasn’t enough for Jim. He pressed a hand against the window. A hand that itched to get at Villiers. To punch and punch him until blood and truth flowed from his bastard mouth.

Cringing away from the violence he saw in Jim’s eyes, Villiers snatched out a phone. ‘I’m calling the police.’

Slowly, as though he was struggling against some unseen force, Jim drew his hand away from the window. He pointed at Villiers as if to say,
I’m coming for you
. Then he returned to his car. As he drove away, he hauled in a breath, knowing how dangerously close he’d come to losing control. And knowing too that Villiers had got the message loud and clear. There would be no apology. Not now. Not ever.

His phone rang. He frowned at it a moment before answering the call. ‘What do you want?’ His tone was none too friendly.

‘To apologise,’ said Garrett. ‘I told the Chief Constable you wouldn’t go through with it, but he refused to listen.’

You should have told him the whole idea’s fucking shameful
, Jim felt like retorting. He knew it would achieve nothing though. In recent weeks Garrett had proved himself to be more than just the careerist Jim had thought he was. But going directly against the Chief Constable was a line the DCS wouldn’t cross.

‘Try to see things from his perspective,’ continued Garrett. ‘It’s his duty to protect the reputation of—’

‘If this is another attempt to try and convince me to go grovelling to Villiers, you know what you can go do,’ Jim cut in.

‘Like I said, I know that’s never going to happen. I just wanted to tell you I think you’re right. Apologising to Thomas Villiers would be a betrayal of everything we stand for. I also thought you should know…’ There was a slight hesitation, as though Garrett was unsure if he should say what was in his mind. Then he went on, ‘As of today, we’re no longer keeping tabs on Emily Walsh. The Chief Constable’s convinced Gavin has fled the country.’

Jim’s eyebrows knitted. Maybe the Chief Constable was right, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Gavin had sworn by his god that Emily and he would be together. And his god – not Cernunnos, but his true god: the god of self-gratification – would not be denied. No doubt word that Emily was unguarded was already leaking out, trickling its insidious way towards Gavin’s ears.

‘Thanks for letting me know,’ said Jim. Without waiting for a reply, he hung up and plotted Emily’s address into the satnav.

25

The dream was the same every night. There was nothing cryptic about it. Emily was running frantically through some dark place. Running and running, but getting nowhere. Something was chasing her. She couldn’t see what, but she could hear its breathing. Heavy breathing, like an obscene caller. Her own breathing was ragged. Her limbs felt impossibly heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and fear. A voice boomed out from behind her. ‘We will be together!’ The words hit her with physical force, knocking her off balance. Letting out a strangled cry, she fell to the ground. Powerful hands flipped her onto her back. She found herself staring up into a face that glowed with a red iridescence. It wasn’t Gavin’s face. It was a goat-like face with slanted eyes and pointed ears. Horns twisted out of the goat-man’s head. His torso was that of a muscular man, but his legs were woolly with matted brown hair, through which protruded a grotesquely oversized penis. She tried to cry out again. No sound would come. She tried to struggle. Her limbs refused to obey. She was paralysed. Helpless.

She felt her legs being prised apart. She felt a searing pain as the monster forced his way inside her. Then, suddenly, her eyes were open and her hands were flailing at the empty air above her bed. Mouth agape, tears streaming down her cheeks, she pressed her knees together and clasped her hands over her crotch. Gradually the nightmare’s tendrils withdrew into the black hole from which they’d slithered, but the fear refused to let go.

Emily flinched at the sound of a dog barking somewhere outside the house. She slid from beneath the duvet, padded to a window and parted the curtains a finger’s breadth. Nothing moved in the orange glow of the streetlamps. Her gaze skimmed over the vehicles parked along the kerb. They all appeared to be unoccupied. But then again it was difficult to be sure. Another bark. Another flinch. She ground her teeth against the sob of resentment that rose in her throat. Was this how it was going to be from now on? Sleepless nights. Anxious days. Afraid to be alone. Constantly looking over her shoulder.

The police had tried to reassure her. ‘We don’t believe you’re in any danger,’ the officer who’d come to the house earlier that day had said. ‘Which is why we no longer feel it’s necessary to keep watch on you.’ According to the officer, the manhunt’s failure proved Gavin had almost certainly fled the country. But the officer hadn’t been in the woods
that
night. He hadn’t seen the look in Gavin’s eyes.

Heaving a sigh, Emily returned to her bed. But she didn’t close her eyes. She lay staring at the light seeping through the curtains, wondering if it would ever again be possible for her to sleep and live without fear.

Emily sat biting her lip irritably in the passenger seat of her foster carer’s car. With her grandparents no longer in custody, she accepted that being ferried to school was still a required precaution. Although even if she’d been allowed to make her own way, she doubted whether she could bring herself to step out the front door alone.

The car pulled up outside school. Her eyes scoured the street. Then she thanked her carer for the lift and, ignoring the calls of her friends, hurried into school alongside the teacher who’d been assigned to escort her from and to the gates.

In form class, the teacher reading the register had to repeat Emily’s name several times before she responded. It was the same in her other classes and the session she had with the school counsellor. Her eyes were lost in some place beyond the reach of her teachers’, the counsellor’s, even her friends’ voices. At first her friends had asked her about what happened. Their questions were met with pained silence. How could they understand what she’d been through or what she was feeling, when she barely understood it herself? One thought preoccupied her. One question that grew angrier every time she asked herself it.
Why should I have to live like this?

At lunch break, when her friends went to a nearby parade of shops, she ate in an empty classroom. Every noise from the corridor drew an uneasy glance from her. She didn’t want to be alone. But neither could she bring herself to go outside. Not even into the playground. She felt caught, frozen in the headlights of her fear. Face twisted with hate, she threw most of her lunch away.
Why the fuck should I have to live like this?

At home time, as she was escorted to her foster carer’s waiting car, a boy approached her. ‘Hi, Emily,’ he said.

‘Hi, Leo,’ she replied, barely giving him a glance, quickening her pace.

‘Wait up, I want to ask you something. I’m having a party at my house tonight. Will you come?’