Spider's Web (40 page)

‘Do you mind if we don’t talk,’ cut in Jim. ‘I just want to close my eyes.’

Garrett shot him a searching look, but didn’t press the matter. Jim kept his eyes closed until they arrived at Big Blue’s Self-Storage an hour or so later. They got out of the car in a large wire-fenced yard crammed with shipping-style containers. Jim stood staring at the door of container 40, his heart thumping, his hands sweaty-cold. With a movement that was at once eager and hesitant, he unlocked the padlock and pulled the door open. The container echoed emptily as they stepped inside. Jim directed his torch towards its rear. It revealed three cardboard boxes. Garrett pulled on latex gloves and opened the boxes. Two were full of video tapes labelled with names and dates. ‘Maurice Chaput 1/7/88’, ‘Rupert Hartwell 22/2/89’, ‘Corinne Waterman 3/5/91’, ‘Thomas Villiers 27/11/88’, ‘Stephen Baxley 13/3/98’. And so it went on, every name in Herbert Winstanley’s black book, and more. Gavin had clearly continued procuring victims for his fellow perverts long after he stopped working at Hopeland. The third box contained photos. Hundreds of them. Photos of men, women and children in grand living rooms and bedrooms. Photos of flesh forced on flesh, innocence stolen, lives obliterated.

‘Jesus,’ murmured Garrett, his voice as hollow as the container.

Jim looked at the images until he could look no more. He left the container and drew in several deep breaths as if to clean his lungs of some noxious stench. He had everything he needed to take all the bastards down. But he didn’t feel triumphant. He felt sick.

27

The clock read 5:35 a.m. Soft light slanted through the window of Jim’s living room. The street outside was peaceful. Most people were still sleeping, but not Jim. And not the teams of armed police who in twenty-five minutes’ time would batter down the doors of fifty-four houses and flats across the country. Twenty-five minutes and every living name from Herbert’s black book plus sixteen others who’d been identified from the videos and photos – and whose number included two high-ranking officers from the Manchester Met and three from Special Branch – would find themselves in handcuffs. Hopefully.

Jim’s phone rang. He snatched it up with his uninjured hand. The fingers of his other hand were splinted and taped together. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

‘Nothing yet,’ replied Garrett. ‘We’re en route to Villiers’ house. I wondered if you wanted to come along and make the arrest.’

‘The Chief Constable won’t be happy.’

‘Yes, well you know what the Chief Constable can go and do.’

Jim smiled thinly at the out-of-character remark. ‘I’ll meet you there.’

There wasn’t much time, but there was something he had to do before he left. He dialled Lance Brennan. When the ex-detective picked up, Jim said, ‘It’s happening today. Right now. They’re all going down.’

There was a silence that seemed to stretch back through twenty-odd years of failure and frustration, then in a voice heavy with emotion Lance said the only thing there was to say: ‘Thank you.’

Jim drove through the waking city to Dore. Roadblocks were being set up a hundred metres to either side of Villiers’ house. Half a dozen tense-faced AFOs were gathered alongside a van, awaiting the signal to move in.

‘Just in time,’ said Garrett, glancing at his watch. ‘Three minutes.’

Jim eyed the house. The curtains were closed. So were the tall gates at the end of the driveway. ‘How are we going to get through the gates?’

‘We got the code from the company that installed them.’ Garrett slid a curious look at Jim. ‘You know, I keep thinking about Gavin Walsh.’ He pointed at a printout of all the targets being hit that morning. ‘I just can’t understand why they’d kill him when they knew what he had on them.’

Jim kept his face carefully expressionless. ‘Maybe they thought he was bluffing.’

‘Maybe, but why take the risk?’

‘Gavin wouldn’t leave the country. He was bound to be caught sooner or later. I suppose they decided he was better off dead than in our hands.’

Garrett puckered his lips, unconvinced. ‘Another odd thing. Traces of makeup were found on Gavin’s face. Why do you think that is?’

‘He was probably in disguise. Look, Gavin had multiple broken bones and bruises. Whoever killed him most likely tried to torture him into revealing where the videos and photos were. Maybe he gave them false information.’

‘Why would he do that when the videos and photos were the only thing keeping him alive? And why didn’t they kill his parents at the same time?’

They were good questions. Ones to which Jim didn’t have ready answers. To his relief, one of the AFOs held up a finger to signal it was time to move. Along with several other detectives, Jim and Garrett followed as the AFOs advanced swiftly towards the house. The lead man punched a code into a keypad and the gates swung open. The AFOs ran to the front door. Three blows from a battering ram buckled the lock and the AFOs charged into the house, shouting repeatedly, ‘Police! On the floor and don’t move!’

Half the officers secured the ground floor, semi-automatic rifles pressed against their shoulders. The rest thundered upstairs. The living room was empty. So too was the kitchen. The work surfaces were strewn with unwashed pots, but the table was clear except for an envelope propped against a glass in its centre. ‘Diane’ – Villiers’ wife’s name – was written on it. Guessing at once what it contained, Jim tore it open. ‘Dear Diane,’ began the letter. ‘There are no words to apologise for the pain I’ve caused. Please try to understand, I did what I did for our family. To try and give us a better future.’

Jim broke off reading as a shout came from upstairs. ‘He’s up here. We need a paramedic team.’

He tossed the letter aside. He wasn’t interested in Villiers’ pathetic attempts to justify his actions. He’d done what he did for himself. No one else.

Jim rushed upstairs. An AFO directed him into a large bathroom. The first thing he saw was the blood. The bath seemed to be full of it. Villiers was lying naked on his back with his arms folded across his chest. Blood flowed in thick dark streams from his wrists into the steaming water. He looked dead. But then his glazed eyes focused on Jim and his pale lips moved in a barely audible whisper. ‘You win.’

‘No,’ replied Jim, his voice flat and suddenly weary. ‘We’ve both lost.’

He left the bathroom and headed for the front door. Garrett followed him outside. ‘Do you think he’ll live?’

‘It’d be better for his family if he doesn’t.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ mused Garrett, looking at Jim with that same intentness as before. ‘Maybe it’d be better, too, if we never find out who killed Gavin.’

Jim held Garrett’s gaze, wondering if he meant what he said or was clumsily trying to manoeuvre him into saying something incriminating. Garrett suspected he was the killer, that was obvious. But Jim could also see he didn’t really believe it. The same thing that had put certainty into Gavin’s mind, put doubt into Garrett’s – Jim had held back from killing Freddie Harding, so why would he kill Gavin? The thousands of criminal interviews Jim had conducted had taught him how to best deal with such doubts. Without replying, he turned to walk away.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Garrett.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well wherever it is, make sure you come back.’ There was no sharpness of accusation in Garrett’s voice. Only concern.

Jim paused. He gave a little nod. Then he continued walking.

28

‘Here we are,’ said Anna, pulling into the driveway of the little semi-detached house where she’d lived all her life and would continue to do so for the foreseeable future – the threats of eviction had died with Gavin. She slid open the camper van’s side door and picked up a holdall, wincing as the stitches in her back pulled tight.

Emily hurried around from the passenger door. ‘I’ll carry that.’

They both turned at the sound of the front door opening. Fiona emerged from the house. She was smiling, but her eyes were nervous. ‘I wasn’t expecting you for a while yet.’ She carefully embraced Anna. Then, more tightly, Emily. Her gaze moved back and forth between them. Tears welled into her eyes.

‘Don’t start crying again, Mum,’ said Anna.

‘I’m sorry. I can’t help it.’ Fiona took Emily’s hand and drew her into the house. ‘Would you like a cup of tea, love?’

‘No thanks.’

‘What about something to eat? You must be hungry.’

‘Stop fussing her,’ Anna gently reproached. She smiled at Emily. ‘Do you want to see your bedroom?’

Emily nodded. She followed Anna and Fiona upstairs to a room that smelt of fresh paint. There was a single bed with a white duvet, and a pine bedside table, dressing table, chair and wardrobe. Everything looked new. Fiona pointed to the pastel-yellow walls. ‘You can change the colour if you don’t like it.’

Not seeming to hear, Emily put her bag down. ‘Was this my mum’s room?’

‘Yes,’ said Fiona, exchanging a tense glance with Anna.

Emily’s gaze moved slowly around the room, coming to rest on a framed photo of her mother. ‘It’s nice.’ Her voice was quiet, subdued.

A look of relief passed over Fiona’s face.

‘Tell you what, why don’t we leave you alone for a while?’ suggested Anna. She ushered her mum from the room, adding, ‘We’ll be downstairs when you want us.’

‘Anna,’ said Emily. Both Anna and Fiona turned to her. Emily hesitated to say what was on her mind. Catching the hint, Anna nudged her mum to leave. Somewhat reluctantly, Fiona did so. Emily glanced at the photo again. ‘Will you show me where
it
happened?’

‘You mean where Jessica was abducted?’

‘Yes.’

Anna didn’t need to ask why Emily wanted to go there. It was the same reason she herself went back time after time. It was the only place now where she really felt connected to her sister. ‘OK, but don’t say anything to your grandma. It’ll only upset her.’

Emily nodded as if to say,
I know
. ‘She still loves Jessica very much, doesn’t she?’

‘We both do.’

They returned downstairs. Fiona was in the kitchen. ‘We’re going out,’ Anna called to her.

‘Where?’

‘For a walk. We’ll be back soon.’

As they descended the steeply sloping street, Anna couldn’t help but keep glancing at Emily. She was suddenly struck by an eerie sensation that she’d stepped back in time twenty years to that fateful Sunday afternoon. She looked towards Bramall Lane, half expecting to hear the roar of the crowd. The sight of the empty red stands dispelled the feeling. She let out a little sigh. They crossed the bridge that spanned the River Sheath, heading along Queens Road in the direction of the city centre. They passed the big box of a building that had once housed the ice rink, but which had since been converted into a casino.

Anna stopped at an anonymous stretch of pavement. ‘We were right here when…’ She swallowed a tightness in her throat. ‘When
it
happened.’

They stood silent for a moment, like mourners at a funeral. ‘Are you glad Gavin’s dead?’ Emily asked in an almost reverently hushed voice.

Clashing emotions pulled Anna’s features in different directions. ‘Yes and no. Yes, because he’ll never again be able to hurt anyone. No, because my last real hope of finding Jessica died with him.’

Emily blinked away from Anna as if to hide something in her eyes. Her forehead contracted. ‘Look.’ She pointed towards the wall that bordered the pavement. Anna followed the line of her finger. Her forehead mirrored Emily’s. Several branches overhanging the wall were strung with ribbons – multicoloured ribbons like those that had decorated the trees Gavin had buried two of his victims beneath.

The ribbons were bright, not faded by time and exposure. Anna cautiously approached the wall, trying to recall how long it was since she’d last visited this spot. Maybe a month. She couldn’t be exactly sure. So much had happened since then. But however long it was, she was certain the ribbons hadn’t been there. She peered over the wall. More ribbons were tied to neighbouring trees and bushes, forming a fluttering line that led down the bank.

‘Wait here,’ she said. Gritting her teeth at the pain in her back, she shunted herself over the wall and followed the ribbons. The final one was tied to the end of a branch that trailed in the water.

Anna dropped to her knees and lowered her face until it was almost touching the water. Only her reflection stared back, featureless as a shadow, revealing nothing of her anguished realisation. Tears fell from her eyes. Sweeping them away with her hand, she straightened and clambered back over the wall.

‘Did you see anything?’ asked Emily.

‘No.’ Anna laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Come on, let’s go home.’

~

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Ben Cheetham

About the Steel City Thrillers

An invitation from the publisher

About
Spider’s Web

F
EBRUARY 14TH 1993.

Sheffield United supporters remember it as the day their team won a famous victory against Manchester United. The date is lodged in Anna Young’s brain for a different reason. That was the day her thirteen-year-old sister, Jessica, was abducted...