Prologue
14 February 1993
The whistles and chants swelled to a crescendo as Anna and Jessica entered the living room. Rick Young was leaning forward on the sofa, hands clasped as if making a silent plea for help, eyes fixed tensely on the television. The stud-chewed turf of a football field filled the screen, punctuated by players wearing the familiar red and white stripes of Sheffield United’s home kit and the unfamiliar yellow and green halves of Manchester United’s away kit. The camera swung back and forth, chasing the ball with the same breathless urgency as the players. ‘Touched on by Giggs,’ came the commentator’s overexcited voice.
‘Just get hold of the bloody ball!’ yelled Rick, half rising to his feet as Manchester United drove forwards en masse.
‘Dad,’ said Anna. ‘Can we—’
She broke off as Rick gesticulated angrily at the television. ‘Come on, ref. Where’s the whistle?’
As if in the response, the referee raised his whistle to blow for full time. ‘Sheffield United have won a famous victory,’ exclaimed the commentator, his voice half drowned out by the cheers that simultaneously tore from twenty-odd thousand throats. Laughing, Rick flung up his hands and danced a little victory jig, then sprang forward to embrace his daughters and rain kisses on their blonde heads.
‘Urgh! You stink of beer,’ said Anna, squirming out of his grasp. Her younger sister snuggled in closer, giggling with delight – Jessica had always been Daddy’s girl.
‘Can we have some money for the cinema, please, Daddy?’ Jessica asked in the wheedling voice she used when she wanted something.
‘Of course you can, love.’ Rick took two tenners out of his wallet and divided them between his daughters.
‘Ten quid! Thanks, Dad.’
‘Anything for my two favourite girls. Now give me a kiss.’
As the girls leaned in to kiss their dad on opposite cheeks, he scooped them off their feet and twirled them around, singing, ‘Two one, two one.’
‘Hey, put me down,’ protested Anna, but with laughter in her voice.
Rick released his daughters, his gaze returning to the television. Home supporters were on the pitch, triumphantly mobbing their team. Anna and Jessica exchanged a victorious smile of their own. They’d hung around the house all afternoon, listening to the muffled sounds of the match, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Anna had made her move a fraction early, fearing a last-gasp equaliser would put a damper on their dad’s generosity. Jessica’s timing had been perfect. She knew how to play Dad like a finely tuned instrument. And he was happy to let her do so.
‘See you later, Dad,’ the sisters chirped together.
‘Take a key with you. I’ve got to pick your mother up from work in a couple of hours. We might not be in when you get back.’ As the girls turned to leave, Rick added as an afterthought, ‘Anna, promise me you’ll look after your sister. Don’t let her wander off anywhere alone. There’s going to be some seriously pis—’ he checked himself and continued, ‘seriously angry Red Devil’s supporters out there.’
‘I can look after myself,’ said Jessica, thrusting her bottom lip out petulantly. ‘I’m thirteen, not five.’
I promise, Anna mouthed over her sister’s shoulder. There was only a couple of years between the girls, but it had always seemed like more. Jessica was small for her age and built like a doll. Straight blonde hair fell halfway down her back, framing big blue eyes, lightly freckled cheeks and lips that constantly seemed to be on the verge of pouting. She was what their mum called a girly girl. She liked nothing more than playing around with makeup and clothes. And she had a tendency to be kind of ditzy. Although Anna knew that was more of an act to get people to do things for her than a reality. Anna had the same colour hair as her sister, but hers was wavy and tomboyishly short. Silver-rimmed glasses, whose thick short-sighted lenses magnified her pale grey eyes, lent her a serious air beyond her years. Ever since she could remember, she’d been labelled as the level-headed one. She didn’t resent the role – it had always come naturally to her to protect her little sister when they were out of their parents’ sight.
Pulling on coats and scarves, the girls headed out of the front door. The afternoon was as grey as the pebbledash of their small semi-detached house. Shoulders hunched against a bitter breeze, they descended a steeply sloping street. The sound of cheering carried on the air, like waves pounding a distant cliff. Half a mile or so beyond the foot of the hill, the red and white walls of Bramall Lane stadium loomed over a tangle of terraced streets. About the same distance again further on, a cluster of brutally angular concrete, steel and glass buildings rose like exclamation points marking out the city centre.
They crossed a bridge spanning a railway line and the River Sheaf, and turned right onto Queens Road, which was clogged with car- and bus-loads of supporters heading back to Manchester. At the end of Bramall Lane, police were directing traffic and keeping a close eye on the stream of away team supporters flowing along the pavements.
‘They look proper pissed off, don’t they?’ said Jessica, giggling at the supporters’ unhappy faces.
‘Shh,’ cautioned Anna. ‘You’ll get us in trouble.’
Jessica laughed carelessly. She’d never got into any trouble that she hadn’t been able to wriggle out of with a smile or some tears. As they neared the city centre, the stream thinned to a trickle. The sisters argued about what film they were going to see. Anna knew it was pointless – Jessica always got her own way – but the argument was like a ritual they had to go through every time they went to the cinema. And anyway, as much as she hated to admit it to herself, Anna took a guilty pleasure in watching the Hollywood fluff Jessica loved.
Jessica wrinkled her nose at Anna’s suggested film. ‘That sounds sooo boring. Who wants to see a film about someone killing people?’
Anna smiled. Jessica had a point. ‘OK, you win, we’ll—’
She fell silent as a dirty white van slowed alongside them. A chubby-faced man with crew-cut dark brown hair was peering through its passenger window. Jessica followed her sister’s line of sight. ‘Who’s he?’
‘How should I know?’ Anna replied, frowning. She didn’t like the way the man was looking at her sister. There was a strange intensity in his eyes. ‘Don’t look at him.’
‘I think he fancies you.’
He’s not looking at me, thought Anna, as her sister went on, ‘How old do you reckon he is?’
‘I dunno. Twenty-five or something like that.’
‘Urgh, imagine snogging someone as old as him.’
To Jessica, anyone over nineteen was old. The idea wouldn’t have seemed so bad to Anna, if the man hadn’t been so ugly. Not that he was particularly bad-looking or anything. Rather, there was a deeper kind of ugliness that shone through his close-set dark eyes. ‘Just ignore him and maybe he’ll go away.’
Catching the unease in Anna’s voice, Jessica said, ‘OK, big sis.’
The sisters quickened their pace, both staring straight ahead. The van continued to crawl alongside them. Anna walked as tall as she could, her expression calm although her thoughts were sliding towards fear. What did this guy want? Did he or whoever the driver was think they knew them? Or were they deliberately trying to shit them up? A car behind the van sounded its horn. To Anna’s relief, the van accelerated.
‘Yeah go on, sod off, weirdo!’ shouted Jessica.
The van’s brake lights flared and it screeched to a standstill, forcing the car behind to swerve sharply into the outer lane. The sisters stopped dead too. Ten, then twenty seconds passed. And still the van didn’t move. Nothing moved. To Anna, the world seemed to have been placed on pause. Thirty seconds. ‘Anna,’ began Jessica. Her voice was no longer cocky, it was small and held a slight tremor. Anna slid her arm protectively through her sister’s.
The van suddenly accelerated again. This time it didn’t stop until it reached the junction at the end of Queens Road. As it turned from view, Jessica’s cheeks puffed with relief. ‘My heart’s beating really fast.’
‘Mine too.’ Anna lanced a look at her sister. ‘One of these days you’re really going to get us in trouble.’
Jessica’s eyes widened apologetically. ‘I didn’t think they’d hear me.’
Anna sighed. She could never stay angry with Jessica for long – how could anyone when they looked into those big eyes? A thought came to her. ‘Did you see the registration number?’
‘No, did you?’
Anna shook her head. ‘Come on. We’ll miss the beginning of the film.’
During the remainder of the walk Anna kept an eye out for the van. It didn’t reappear. By the time they reached the cinema, Jessica was back to her usual giggling, teasing self. Despite – or maybe because of – Anna’s protests, she bought enough popcorn, chocolate and sweets to make herself feel sick. Anna struggled to follow the film. Her thoughts kept returning to the man in the van. It gave her a crawling feeling to think of how he’d looked at Jessica as if he was sizing up a piece of meat. When they left the cinema, it was dark outside. Anna hesitated at the entrance, faint lines forming between her eyes as she scanned the quiet Sunday evening city streets. ‘I’m going to phone Dad and see if he’ll pick us up.’
‘Why?’ asked Jessica. ‘Are you still worried about that stupid van?’
A defensive note came into Anna’s voice. ‘No. I just don’t feel like walking.’
Jessica cocked an eyebrow knowingly. Ignoring her, Anna slotted a coin into a payphone and dialled home. She let the phone ring five, six, seven times. ‘No one’s answering.’
‘Dad said they might not be in, remember. They’ve probably gone for a drink or something. We could catch the bus.’
Anna briefly considered the suggestion, then nodded. They crossed a road lined by tall unlit office buildings, heading for a bus stop. Anna squinted at a timetable dimly illuminated by a streetlamp. ‘The next bus isn’t for half an hour.’
‘We could walk it in less than that.’
Anna glanced back towards the pyramidal roof of the Odeon cinema, wondering whether they should wait for the bus within the safety of its confines.
‘Come on, Anna, let’s just walk it,’ persisted Jessica, tugging at her sister’s sleeve. ‘I need to get home. My tummy’s hurting.’
‘Well you shouldn’t have been so greedy,’ snapped Anna. Seeing the scolded puppy look in her sister’s eyes, she sighed. ‘OK. Come on then.’
They started walking, Jessica with her arms hugged across her stomach, Anna peering uneasily into the headlights of passing traffic. The streets were pretty much deserted, except for occasional groups of Sheffield United supporters, crawling from pup to pub, rowdily celebrating their team’s victory. Anna’s pace quickened as they passed along the lonely lower end of Queens Road. To their right, beyond a stone wall about the same height as them, a thin curtain of bushes and trees lined the near bank of the faintly murmuring River Sheaf. To their left, an identical wall ran alongside the opposite pavement, terminating after some eighty or a hundred metres at the local ice rink – an almost windowless rectangular concrete and brick building.
‘Slow down, will you,’ complained Jessica. ‘My tummy—’
‘Hurts. Yeah, I know, you already told me,’ cut in Anna, her voice quick with nervousness. They were nearing the place where the van had slammed on its brakes. ‘And I told you that you shouldn’t have—’
Anna broke off as Jessica suddenly doubled over, retching. Rolling her eyes, Anna rested her hand on Jessica’s back while she vomited. Jessica straightened, wiping a hand across her mouth. ‘Please don’t tell Mum and Dad about this, Anna.’
‘Do I ever tell them anything?’
Genuine gratitude and affection gleamed in Jessica’s eyes. ‘Thanks, big sis. You’re the b—’ Her voice died and her eyes sprang wide at the sight of something over Anna’s shoulder.
Her heart giving a quick thump, Anna started to turn. An arm snaked around her midriff from behind, pinning her right wrist and lifting her roughly off her feet. She started to scream, but the sound was muffled by a gloved hand pressing over her mouth. A man ran past Anna. The man from the van! He wasn’t much taller than her, but he was far more heavily built. He was wearing a black jacket and matching jeans that, along with his dark hair, gave him the look of a living shadow. He was moving fast, but not fast enough to reach Jessica before she could scream. The quivering high-pitched sound split the night air for a second, before being suddenly silenced by the man’s fist slamming into Jessica’s chin. Her slender frame crumpled like a broken flower under the blow. The man caught her as she fell back against the wall. He scooped her off her feet and started back the way he’d come.
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 burned 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…’
Chapter 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.
That was only a suspicion, of course. No direct evidence of criminal intent had been uncovered. But it wasn’t Henry Reeve that Jim had really wanted to talk to the children about. It was Thomas Villiers. Only he hadn’t been permitted to talk to them about him – at least, not in any way that implied Villiers was anything other than the upstanding member of society he appeared to be. As Miles Burnham never tired of pointing out, his client had been working with children for over thirty years, during which time not one accusation had been made against him. To publicly associate him with the crimes of Edward Forester, Henry Reeve and the Winstanleys simply because he appeared on an anonymously authored list of names would amount to criminal slander. A few misplaced words or indiscreet questions were all it would take to ruin Villiers’ career. And Burnham had made it clear that if that happened he wouldn’t hesitate to bring a civil case against South Yorkshire Police. So, much to Jim’s frustration, he’d been forced to bite his tongue and tread lightly around Villiers’ name.
‘And did you and Dr Reeve discuss what took place during his therapy sessions?’ asked Jim.
‘We discussed the well-being of the children, but not the actual conversations that took place between themselves and Dr Reeve. Those were confidential, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Despite himself, there was a sardonic turn to Jim’s mouth. ‘So you don’t recognise any of the other names on the list?’
‘Mr Villiers has already stated that to be the case,’ said Burnham.
‘And what about Edward Forester and Freddie Harding’s victims?’ Jim and Reece had gone through what would happen during the interview beforehand. At this point, Reece was supposed to produce the photos of the victims – not the standard mugshots that had been provided for the press, but copies of the photos that had wallpapered Forester’s bunker. Jim wanted to see how Villiers reacted to those horrific images. But Reece made no movement. Jim glanced at him. Reece was staring at Villiers, but his tired brown eyes had a faraway look in them. ‘Inspector Geary,’ Jim said insistently, ‘the photos.’
Reece blinked back to the room. He withdrew the photos from an envelope and began setting them out on the table. Each was marked with a name and a date in Edward Forester’s or Freddie Harding’s handwriting – ‘Roxanne Cole (20/2/1980)’, ‘Carole Stewart (1/5/1982)’, ‘Jennifer Barns (12/7/1983)’… There were thirty-seven photos in all. Singly they were sickening enough. But together they formed a tableau of torture and abuse that even now Jim found difficult to look at. Their subjects’ eyes stared out of bodies that had been beaten, bitten, burned, twisted, torn, sliced and starved until they looked more like grotesquely mutilated waxworks than human beings.
‘Chief Inspector Monahan, I must protest,’ exclaimed Burnham, a grimace of revulsion pulling at his face. ‘You already know full well that Mr Villiers has no knowledge of any of these people.’
‘Like I said, we want to make certain Mr Villiers is one hundred per cent sure about his previous statements.’
‘This isn’t about making certain, it’s about using cheap shock tactics to try and provoke some sort of response from my client. It’s not acceptable, Chief Inspector. And I shall be making my feelings known to Chief Superintendent Garrett.’
For the first time, an angry rise came into Jim’s voice. ‘Thirty-seven young women and girls are dead, Mr Burnham. And your client’s name was found in a book concealed in their murderer’s attic. A book we believe belonged to a man who was part of a suspected paedophile ring responsible for several further murders. So don’t you tell me what’s acceptable.’ As he spoke, he kept one eye on Villiers, watching every movement of his face. Villiers watched him right back, his lips pressed into that familiar impassive line.
‘I would remind you, Chief Inspector, that my client has never been arrested for any offence,’ retorted the solicitor. ‘I would also remind you that he’s provided a DNA sample, which you’ve failed to match to thousands of hair, blood and semen samples recovered from the scenes of the crimes you’re investigating.’
Jim turned his full attention on Villiers. ‘Look at the photos please, Mr Villiers.’
Villiers lowered his gaze. The line of his lips quivered. He put the back of his hand to his mouth as if nauseated, his eyes sweeping slowly over the photos. ‘I don’t recognise any of them,’ he said at last.
‘I suppose that’s not surprising. I doubt whether their own mothers would recognise them.’ Jim folded his arms, staring at Villiers as though waiting for him to elaborate on some unasked question. After fifteen or twenty seconds, Villiers blinked away from his steady gaze.
‘Are there any further questions?’ asked Burnham.
‘I think that’s about it.’ Jim paused a breath before adding, ‘For now. Is there anything you’d like to add or clarify, Mr Villiers?’
‘No.’
‘In that case, I’m now handing you the notice that explains what happens to the interview recordings.’ He passed Villiers a sheet of paper, then glanced at his watch. ‘The time is now five ten p.m., the interview is concluded and Detective Inspector Geary is switching off the recording equipment.’
Reece removed the tapes from the recorder. ‘Which would you like to be the master recording?’ he asked.
Villiers pointed at one of the tapes, which Reece slid into a plastic sheath. The sheath was sealed, before being signed by everyone in the room.
Villiers extended his hand to Jim. ‘I hope I was of some help. If you need anything else from me, please don’t hesitate to get in contact.’
Smiling thinly, Jim took Villiers’ hand. It was dry and cool, he noted. ‘Oh, don’t worry. We won’t.’
‘My client’s a generous man, Chief Inspector,’ said Burnham. ‘I’m not. In my opinion your behaviour is bordering on harassment and I assure you I’ll be—’
‘I know, you’ll be taking it up with my superiors,’ broke in Jim. ‘You do what you have to do, Mr Burnham, and I’ll do what I have to do. Now if you could just wait in the corridor, Inspector Geary will be along in a moment to walk you out of the building.’
Once Burnham and Villiers were out of the room, Jim turned to Reece. ‘So what do you think?’
‘About what?’ Reece replied absently, gathering up the photos.
‘Villiers’ reaction to the photos. He was faking it.’
‘Maybe.’
A note of exasperation came into Jim’s voice. ‘What do you mean “maybe”? Of course he fucking was.’
‘I’m sorry, Jim. My head’s all over the place.’ Reece squeezed his eyes shut suddenly, clenching his fists in a kind of helpless rage. ‘Oh Christ, first I lose Dad to cancer. Now it’s happening all over again with Staci.’
Jim’s forehead creased. ‘Cancer? I thought it was hepatitis?’
‘So did we, but—’ Reece broke off, shaking his head as if in disbelief. He heaved a breath and continued, ‘It seems all the shit Staci stuck in her veins over the years fucked up her liver worse than they thought.’
‘But they can treat it, right?’
Reece gave a small shrug of his big shoulders. ‘She’s been having chemo for the past few weeks. You should see her, Jim. All her hair, her beautiful red hair, it’s falling out in clumps.’ Tears came into Reece’s eyes. Blinking them back, he turned away from his colleague and reached for the interview tapes. Jim gently laid a hand on his arm.
‘Get yourself off home. Staci needs you more than I do.’
Reece motioned towards the corridor. ‘What about them?’
‘I’ll deal with those pricks.’
Reece approached the door and hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, Jim, I’ve been meaning to tell you since we found out, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it. I just keep thinking about Dad, about how much he suffered…’ His voice trailed away with a little choke.
‘You don’t need to explain, Reece. I’ll see you after the weekend. You know where I am if you need me. Give Staci my love.’
‘I will. Thanks, Jim.’
Jim’s gaze followed Reece from the room. Beyond the big detective’s shoulder he glimpsed Villiers. Anger replaced the concern in his eyes. Why did it always seem to be people like Reece and Staci who suffered, whilst scumbags like Villiers flourished? The guy was as dirty as used toilet paper. Jim knew it. Could almost smell it. And he felt sure he could prove it too, if only Garrett would allow him to delve deeper into Villiers’ life. Somewhere there was someone – a former or even a current resident of the children’s homes he’d worked at – who could expose that dirt. And if they could snag Villiers, maybe they could use him as bait to hook the other big fish in Herbert Winstanley’s book. But that wasn’t going to happen unless Garrett— Jim broke off his line of thought with a sharp shake of his head. He’d been thinking in circles for months now, wasting his time on ifs and maybes, dancing to Garrett’s tune. And where had it got him? Fucking nowhere. He frowned at the list of names. Maybe it was time to start dancing to his own music.
There was a knock on the door. Miles Burnham shoved his head back into the room. ‘Can we hurry things up, Chief Inspector? My client’s a busy man.’
Jim grimaced inwardly. Yes, Villiers was a busy man – busy running the home Edward Forester had helped him set up. The thought of it was like a kick in the gut. With deliberate slowness, Jim led Burnham and Villiers to a yard enclosed by the severe concrete façade of Police HQ, tall walls topped with spiked railings, and a three-metre steel gate. The yard was full of police vehicles, except for a Mercedes with tinted windows. As Burnham and Villiers approached the Mercedes, a camera was thrust through the gate’s vertical bars. Its flash went off and Villiers ducked down behind the car as though a sniper had taken a potshot at him.
‘Chief Inspector,’ exclaimed Burnham. ‘Did you see that?’
Jim had seen it alright. He’d seen the face behind the camera too. It was one he’d known for years – twenty years, to be precise – but it had become especially familiar to him once again in the past few months. Under different circumstances, in a different life, it could have been a pretty face. But this life had made its eyes penetratingly direct, its lips thin and taut, its cheeks pale and sharp-boned. The woman it belonged to was in her mid-thirties, maybe five five or so, wearing heavy duty Doc Martens, skinny black jeans and a black leather jacket. Her hair was blonde, short and as styleless as the black-framed glasses she always wore.
Permitting himself a ghost of a smile at Villiers’ startled face, Jim called for the gate to be opened. ‘Stay there,’ he shouted at the woman. ‘I want a word with you.’
A motor whirred into life and the gate slid sideways. As Jim crossed the yard, the woman spread her arms as if to say, What have I done wrong? Jim pointed to her camera. ‘Hand it over.’
‘Why should I?’ she responded. ‘This is public property.’
Jim thumbed over his shoulder. ‘Yes, but that isn’t. And I’ve warned you before about what would happen if I caught you taking photos here.’
The woman still hesitated to hand over her camera.
‘Do you really want to do this the hard way, Anna?’ Jim’s voice was authoritative, but there was an underlying tenderness in it.
Reluctantly, Anna gave her camera to him. ‘You’ll get it back once the appropriate photos have been deleted,’ he assured her.
‘I’ll delete them for you right now.’
‘Sorry, but I have to make certain that deleted means gone for good.’
Anna glanced past Jim at the Mercedes, behind which Villiers was still squatting. ‘He must really be someone important. Especially if he can afford a scumbag like Burnham.’
‘Go home. You’re wasting your time here.’
‘I disagree.’ An edge of frustration sharpened Anna’s voice. ‘I don’t understand why you refuse to see the connection between your case and my sister’s abduction.’
‘I don’t refuse to see it. I don’t see it because right now it doesn’t exist.’
Anna began counting off points on her fingers. ‘Freddie Harding was abducting young girls in the early nineties. He used to drive a white van. Manchester United football shirts and match-day programmes were found at his house.’
‘Harding wasn’t opportunistically snatching kids off the street. He was taking prostitutes who he knew wouldn’t be easily missed. Granted, he drove a white van at the time of his 2005 arrest. But no such vehicle was registered to him in 1993. As for him being a Man U supporter, well, there are about half a billion of them out there. And anyway, you don’t know for certain that Jessica’s abductors were Man U supporters.’
‘What about the red devil keyring? And why else would they have been driving around so close to Bramall Lane that afternoon? Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it an accepted fact that in most abductions the perpetrator had a legitimate reason for being at the scene of the crime? They might work or live nearby. Or they might have been involved in a social activity, such as attending a sporting event.’
‘You know you’re not wrong. As I’m sure you also know that the majority of abductions are crimes of opportunity. And as I said, Harding wasn’t an opportunist.’
‘What about the girl he raped on Pitsmoor Road in 2005?’
‘Ellen Peterson was the exception.’
‘How do you know there weren’t other exceptions?’
‘I don’t,’ conceded Jim. ‘What I do know is that Harding has a thing for prostitutes who remind him of his mother. And your sister doesn’t fall into that category.’
‘But she was the type Edward Forester would’ve gone for.’
‘What’s taking so long, Chief Inspector?’ called Miles Burnham. ‘Can you please hurry up and get rid of that bloody woman?’
Jim ignored the solicitor. Every opportunity to inconvenience Villiers was an opportunity not to be missed. ‘OK, look, let’s assume for a moment that you’re right. The man you saw grab Jessica was neither Harding nor Forester. Which means a third man was working with them. And that’s where the theory starts to fall apart. We’ve found no evidence to suggest an unidentified third man ever visited Forester’s bunker. Nor have we found a DNA match for your sister from the recovered remains of the victims.’ Recovered remains – the words seemed to echo in Jim’s head with added sardonic bitterness. What a fucking joke. Apart from two semi-gelatinous bodies in barrels, the only remains they’d recovered were from a jar containing thirty-eight torn and shrivelled nipples – one for each of the half-brothers’ dead victims, plus Melissa Doyle, the only girl known to have escaped the bunker.
‘Maybe Freddie Harding had an accomplice his brother didn’t know about.’
Jim pushed his lower lip out thoughtfully. ‘It’s possible. But it’s pure speculation. And right now I don’t have much use for that.’ He raised a hand as Anna made to say something else. ‘I realise you’re perfectly within you’re rights to stand out here all day, Anna, but as a favour to me I’m asking you to move along.’
‘Alright, but it won’t make any difference.’ Anna jerked her chin – which bore a thin pearly-white scar – towards the Mercedes. ‘Camera or no camera, I’ll find out who he is. And when I do I’ll put his face out there for the world to see.’
Jim took hold of Anna’s arm and firmly guided her out of sight of the yard. ‘I’d think long and hard before doing that if I were you.’ His voice was low with concern. ‘Trust me, that man’s not someone you want to antagonise.’
Anna’s lips curled into a contemptuous smile. ‘Oh yeah, what’s he going to do, sue me? You’d better tell him to get in line.’
‘Look, I know I can’t stop you from doing what you feel needs to be done. But just be careful how you go about it. Please. I’d hate to see you get hurt.’
‘Is that how you brought down Forester and Harding? By being careful?’ Anna held Jim’s hangdog brown eyes for a moment, letting the words sink in. She wrote her mobile number on a notepad and tore out the page for him. ‘You’d better not damage my camera, Chief Inspector, or you’ll be the one in trouble.’
Jim waited for her to get into a beaten-up old VW camper van across the street and accelerate away, before heading back to the yard. ‘Is she gone?’ asked Burnham.
‘Yes.’
With a nervous glance to make sure Jim was right, Villiers rose from behind the Mercedes. ‘Did she recognise me?’
‘No.’
‘Who was she?’
‘Nobody you need worry about.’
‘For once I agree with the Chief Inspector,’ said Burnham. ‘She’s just some wannabe journalist. Her name’s Anna Young. She runs a blog called The Truth.’
‘The truth about what?’
‘About whatever gets her goat. She fancies herself as some kind of crusader exposing injustice. Personally I think she’s got a screw loose. What about you, Chief Inspector?’
I think I’d like to slap the smugness off your face, thought Jim. He kept his voice neutral. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Villiers. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.’
‘Don’t bank on it,’ countered Burnham. ‘Not unless you’ve actually got something worth talking to him about.’
Villiers and Burnham ducked into the Mercedes. As Jim watched them drive away, Anna’s words stalked around his mind like a caged tiger. Is that how you brought down Forester and Harding? By being careful?
14 February 1993
The whistles and chants swelled to a crescendo as Anna and Jessica entered the living room. Rick Young was leaning forward on the sofa, hands clasped as if making a silent plea for help, eyes fixed tensely on the television. The stud-chewed turf of a football field filled the screen, punctuated by players wearing the familiar red and white stripes of Sheffield United’s home kit and the unfamiliar yellow and green halves of Manchester United’s away kit. The camera swung back and forth, chasing the ball with the same breathless urgency as the players. ‘Touched on by Giggs,’ came the commentator’s overexcited voice.
‘Just get hold of the bloody ball!’ yelled Rick, half rising to his feet as Manchester United drove forwards en masse.
‘Dad,’ said Anna. ‘Can we—’
She broke off as Rick gesticulated angrily at the television. ‘Come on, ref. Where’s the whistle?’
As if in the response, the referee raised his whistle to blow for full time. ‘Sheffield United have won a famous victory,’ exclaimed the commentator, his voice half drowned out by the cheers that simultaneously tore from twenty-odd thousand throats. Laughing, Rick flung up his hands and danced a little victory jig, then sprang forward to embrace his daughters and rain kisses on their blonde heads.
‘Urgh! You stink of beer,’ said Anna, squirming out of his grasp. Her younger sister snuggled in closer, giggling with delight – Jessica had always been Daddy’s girl.
‘Can we have some money for the cinema, please, Daddy?’ Jessica asked in the wheedling voice she used when she wanted something.
‘Of course you can, love.’ Rick took two tenners out of his wallet and divided them between his daughters.
‘Ten quid! Thanks, Dad.’
‘Anything for my two favourite girls. Now give me a kiss.’
As the girls leaned in to kiss their dad on opposite cheeks, he scooped them off their feet and twirled them around, singing, ‘Two one, two one.’
‘Hey, put me down,’ protested Anna, but with laughter in her voice.
Rick released his daughters, his gaze returning to the television. Home supporters were on the pitch, triumphantly mobbing their team. Anna and Jessica exchanged a victorious smile of their own. They’d hung around the house all afternoon, listening to the muffled sounds of the match, waiting for the right moment to pounce. Anna had made her move a fraction early, fearing a last-gasp equaliser would put a damper on their dad’s generosity. Jessica’s timing had been perfect. She knew how to play Dad like a finely tuned instrument. And he was happy to let her do so.
‘See you later, Dad,’ the sisters chirped together.
‘Take a key with you. I’ve got to pick your mother up from work in a couple of hours. We might not be in when you get back.’ As the girls turned to leave, Rick added as an afterthought, ‘Anna, promise me you’ll look after your sister. Don’t let her wander off anywhere alone. There’s going to be some seriously pis—’ he checked himself and continued, ‘seriously angry Red Devil’s supporters out there.’
‘I can look after myself,’ said Jessica, thrusting her bottom lip out petulantly. ‘I’m thirteen, not five.’
I promise, Anna mouthed over her sister’s shoulder. There was only a couple of years between the girls, but it had always seemed like more. Jessica was small for her age and built like a doll. Straight blonde hair fell halfway down her back, framing big blue eyes, lightly freckled cheeks and lips that constantly seemed to be on the verge of pouting. She was what their mum called a girly girl. She liked nothing more than playing around with makeup and clothes. And she had a tendency to be kind of ditzy. Although Anna knew that was more of an act to get people to do things for her than a reality. Anna had the same colour hair as her sister, but hers was wavy and tomboyishly short. Silver-rimmed glasses, whose thick short-sighted lenses magnified her pale grey eyes, lent her a serious air beyond her years. Ever since she could remember, she’d been labelled as the level-headed one. She didn’t resent the role – it had always come naturally to her to protect her little sister when they were out of their parents’ sight.
Pulling on coats and scarves, the girls headed out of the front door. The afternoon was as grey as the pebbledash of their small semi-detached house. Shoulders hunched against a bitter breeze, they descended a steeply sloping street. The sound of cheering carried on the air, like waves pounding a distant cliff. Half a mile or so beyond the foot of the hill, the red and white walls of Bramall Lane stadium loomed over a tangle of terraced streets. About the same distance again further on, a cluster of brutally angular concrete, steel and glass buildings rose like exclamation points marking out the city centre.
They crossed a bridge spanning a railway line and the River Sheaf, and turned right onto Queens Road, which was clogged with car- and bus-loads of supporters heading back to Manchester. At the end of Bramall Lane, police were directing traffic and keeping a close eye on the stream of away team supporters flowing along the pavements.
‘They look proper pissed off, don’t they?’ said Jessica, giggling at the supporters’ unhappy faces.
‘Shh,’ cautioned Anna. ‘You’ll get us in trouble.’
Jessica laughed carelessly. She’d never got into any trouble that she hadn’t been able to wriggle out of with a smile or some tears. As they neared the city centre, the stream thinned to a trickle. The sisters argued about what film they were going to see. Anna knew it was pointless – Jessica always got her own way – but the argument was like a ritual they had to go through every time they went to the cinema. And anyway, as much as she hated to admit it to herself, Anna took a guilty pleasure in watching the Hollywood fluff Jessica loved.
Jessica wrinkled her nose at Anna’s suggested film. ‘That sounds sooo boring. Who wants to see a film about someone killing people?’
Anna smiled. Jessica had a point. ‘OK, you win, we’ll—’
She fell silent as a dirty white van slowed alongside them. A chubby-faced man with crew-cut dark brown hair was peering through its passenger window. Jessica followed her sister’s line of sight. ‘Who’s he?’
‘How should I know?’ Anna replied, frowning. She didn’t like the way the man was looking at her sister. There was a strange intensity in his eyes. ‘Don’t look at him.’
‘I think he fancies you.’
He’s not looking at me, thought Anna, as her sister went on, ‘How old do you reckon he is?’
‘I dunno. Twenty-five or something like that.’
‘Urgh, imagine snogging someone as old as him.’
To Jessica, anyone over nineteen was old. The idea wouldn’t have seemed so bad to Anna, if the man hadn’t been so ugly. Not that he was particularly bad-looking or anything. Rather, there was a deeper kind of ugliness that shone through his close-set dark eyes. ‘Just ignore him and maybe he’ll go away.’
Catching the unease in Anna’s voice, Jessica said, ‘OK, big sis.’
The sisters quickened their pace, both staring straight ahead. The van continued to crawl alongside them. Anna walked as tall as she could, her expression calm although her thoughts were sliding towards fear. What did this guy want? Did he or whoever the driver was think they knew them? Or were they deliberately trying to shit them up? A car behind the van sounded its horn. To Anna’s relief, the van accelerated.
‘Yeah go on, sod off, weirdo!’ shouted Jessica.
The van’s brake lights flared and it screeched to a standstill, forcing the car behind to swerve sharply into the outer lane. The sisters stopped dead too. Ten, then twenty seconds passed. And still the van didn’t move. Nothing moved. To Anna, the world seemed to have been placed on pause. Thirty seconds. ‘Anna,’ began Jessica. Her voice was no longer cocky, it was small and held a slight tremor. Anna slid her arm protectively through her sister’s.
The van suddenly accelerated again. This time it didn’t stop until it reached the junction at the end of Queens Road. As it turned from view, Jessica’s cheeks puffed with relief. ‘My heart’s beating really fast.’
‘Mine too.’ Anna lanced a look at her sister. ‘One of these days you’re really going to get us in trouble.’
Jessica’s eyes widened apologetically. ‘I didn’t think they’d hear me.’
Anna sighed. She could never stay angry with Jessica for long – how could anyone when they looked into those big eyes? A thought came to her. ‘Did you see the registration number?’
‘No, did you?’
Anna shook her head. ‘Come on. We’ll miss the beginning of the film.’
During the remainder of the walk Anna kept an eye out for the van. It didn’t reappear. By the time they reached the cinema, Jessica was back to her usual giggling, teasing self. Despite – or maybe because of – Anna’s protests, she bought enough popcorn, chocolate and sweets to make herself feel sick. Anna struggled to follow the film. Her thoughts kept returning to the man in the van. It gave her a crawling feeling to think of how he’d looked at Jessica as if he was sizing up a piece of meat. When they left the cinema, it was dark outside. Anna hesitated at the entrance, faint lines forming between her eyes as she scanned the quiet Sunday evening city streets. ‘I’m going to phone Dad and see if he’ll pick us up.’
‘Why?’ asked Jessica. ‘Are you still worried about that stupid van?’
A defensive note came into Anna’s voice. ‘No. I just don’t feel like walking.’
Jessica cocked an eyebrow knowingly. Ignoring her, Anna slotted a coin into a payphone and dialled home. She let the phone ring five, six, seven times. ‘No one’s answering.’
‘Dad said they might not be in, remember. They’ve probably gone for a drink or something. We could catch the bus.’
Anna briefly considered the suggestion, then nodded. They crossed a road lined by tall unlit office buildings, heading for a bus stop. Anna squinted at a timetable dimly illuminated by a streetlamp. ‘The next bus isn’t for half an hour.’
‘We could walk it in less than that.’
Anna glanced back towards the pyramidal roof of the Odeon cinema, wondering whether they should wait for the bus within the safety of its confines.
‘Come on, Anna, let’s just walk it,’ persisted Jessica, tugging at her sister’s sleeve. ‘I need to get home. My tummy’s hurting.’
‘Well you shouldn’t have been so greedy,’ snapped Anna. Seeing the scolded puppy look in her sister’s eyes, she sighed. ‘OK. Come on then.’
They started walking, Jessica with her arms hugged across her stomach, Anna peering uneasily into the headlights of passing traffic. The streets were pretty much deserted, except for occasional groups of Sheffield United supporters, crawling from pup to pub, rowdily celebrating their team’s victory. Anna’s pace quickened as they passed along the lonely lower end of Queens Road. To their right, beyond a stone wall about the same height as them, a thin curtain of bushes and trees lined the near bank of the faintly murmuring River Sheaf. To their left, an identical wall ran alongside the opposite pavement, terminating after some eighty or a hundred metres at the local ice rink – an almost windowless rectangular concrete and brick building.
‘Slow down, will you,’ complained Jessica. ‘My tummy—’
‘Hurts. Yeah, I know, you already told me,’ cut in Anna, her voice quick with nervousness. They were nearing the place where the van had slammed on its brakes. ‘And I told you that you shouldn’t have—’
Anna broke off as Jessica suddenly doubled over, retching. Rolling her eyes, Anna rested her hand on Jessica’s back while she vomited. Jessica straightened, wiping a hand across her mouth. ‘Please don’t tell Mum and Dad about this, Anna.’
‘Do I ever tell them anything?’
Genuine gratitude and affection gleamed in Jessica’s eyes. ‘Thanks, big sis. You’re the b—’ Her voice died and her eyes sprang wide at the sight of something over Anna’s shoulder.
Her heart giving a quick thump, Anna started to turn. An arm snaked around her midriff from behind, pinning her right wrist and lifting her roughly off her feet. She started to scream, but the sound was muffled by a gloved hand pressing over her mouth. A man ran past Anna. The man from the van! He wasn’t much taller than her, but he was far more heavily built. He was wearing a black jacket and matching jeans that, along with his dark hair, gave him the look of a living shadow. He was moving fast, but not fast enough to reach Jessica before she could scream. The quivering high-pitched sound split the night air for a second, before being suddenly silenced by the man’s fist slamming into Jessica’s chin. Her slender frame crumpled like a broken flower under the blow. The man caught her as she fell back against the wall. He scooped her off her feet and started back the way he’d come.
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 burned 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…’
Chapter 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.
That was only a suspicion, of course. No direct evidence of criminal intent had been uncovered. But it wasn’t Henry Reeve that Jim had really wanted to talk to the children about. It was Thomas Villiers. Only he hadn’t been permitted to talk to them about him – at least, not in any way that implied Villiers was anything other than the upstanding member of society he appeared to be. As Miles Burnham never tired of pointing out, his client had been working with children for over thirty years, during which time not one accusation had been made against him. To publicly associate him with the crimes of Edward Forester, Henry Reeve and the Winstanleys simply because he appeared on an anonymously authored list of names would amount to criminal slander. A few misplaced words or indiscreet questions were all it would take to ruin Villiers’ career. And Burnham had made it clear that if that happened he wouldn’t hesitate to bring a civil case against South Yorkshire Police. So, much to Jim’s frustration, he’d been forced to bite his tongue and tread lightly around Villiers’ name.
‘And did you and Dr Reeve discuss what took place during his therapy sessions?’ asked Jim.
‘We discussed the well-being of the children, but not the actual conversations that took place between themselves and Dr Reeve. Those were confidential, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Despite himself, there was a sardonic turn to Jim’s mouth. ‘So you don’t recognise any of the other names on the list?’
‘Mr Villiers has already stated that to be the case,’ said Burnham.
‘And what about Edward Forester and Freddie Harding’s victims?’ Jim and Reece had gone through what would happen during the interview beforehand. At this point, Reece was supposed to produce the photos of the victims – not the standard mugshots that had been provided for the press, but copies of the photos that had wallpapered Forester’s bunker. Jim wanted to see how Villiers reacted to those horrific images. But Reece made no movement. Jim glanced at him. Reece was staring at Villiers, but his tired brown eyes had a faraway look in them. ‘Inspector Geary,’ Jim said insistently, ‘the photos.’
Reece blinked back to the room. He withdrew the photos from an envelope and began setting them out on the table. Each was marked with a name and a date in Edward Forester’s or Freddie Harding’s handwriting – ‘Roxanne Cole (20/2/1980)’, ‘Carole Stewart (1/5/1982)’, ‘Jennifer Barns (12/7/1983)’… There were thirty-seven photos in all. Singly they were sickening enough. But together they formed a tableau of torture and abuse that even now Jim found difficult to look at. Their subjects’ eyes stared out of bodies that had been beaten, bitten, burned, twisted, torn, sliced and starved until they looked more like grotesquely mutilated waxworks than human beings.
‘Chief Inspector Monahan, I must protest,’ exclaimed Burnham, a grimace of revulsion pulling at his face. ‘You already know full well that Mr Villiers has no knowledge of any of these people.’
‘Like I said, we want to make certain Mr Villiers is one hundred per cent sure about his previous statements.’
‘This isn’t about making certain, it’s about using cheap shock tactics to try and provoke some sort of response from my client. It’s not acceptable, Chief Inspector. And I shall be making my feelings known to Chief Superintendent Garrett.’
For the first time, an angry rise came into Jim’s voice. ‘Thirty-seven young women and girls are dead, Mr Burnham. And your client’s name was found in a book concealed in their murderer’s attic. A book we believe belonged to a man who was part of a suspected paedophile ring responsible for several further murders. So don’t you tell me what’s acceptable.’ As he spoke, he kept one eye on Villiers, watching every movement of his face. Villiers watched him right back, his lips pressed into that familiar impassive line.
‘I would remind you, Chief Inspector, that my client has never been arrested for any offence,’ retorted the solicitor. ‘I would also remind you that he’s provided a DNA sample, which you’ve failed to match to thousands of hair, blood and semen samples recovered from the scenes of the crimes you’re investigating.’
Jim turned his full attention on Villiers. ‘Look at the photos please, Mr Villiers.’
Villiers lowered his gaze. The line of his lips quivered. He put the back of his hand to his mouth as if nauseated, his eyes sweeping slowly over the photos. ‘I don’t recognise any of them,’ he said at last.
‘I suppose that’s not surprising. I doubt whether their own mothers would recognise them.’ Jim folded his arms, staring at Villiers as though waiting for him to elaborate on some unasked question. After fifteen or twenty seconds, Villiers blinked away from his steady gaze.
‘Are there any further questions?’ asked Burnham.
‘I think that’s about it.’ Jim paused a breath before adding, ‘For now. Is there anything you’d like to add or clarify, Mr Villiers?’
‘No.’
‘In that case, I’m now handing you the notice that explains what happens to the interview recordings.’ He passed Villiers a sheet of paper, then glanced at his watch. ‘The time is now five ten p.m., the interview is concluded and Detective Inspector Geary is switching off the recording equipment.’
Reece removed the tapes from the recorder. ‘Which would you like to be the master recording?’ he asked.
Villiers pointed at one of the tapes, which Reece slid into a plastic sheath. The sheath was sealed, before being signed by everyone in the room.
Villiers extended his hand to Jim. ‘I hope I was of some help. If you need anything else from me, please don’t hesitate to get in contact.’
Smiling thinly, Jim took Villiers’ hand. It was dry and cool, he noted. ‘Oh, don’t worry. We won’t.’
‘My client’s a generous man, Chief Inspector,’ said Burnham. ‘I’m not. In my opinion your behaviour is bordering on harassment and I assure you I’ll be—’
‘I know, you’ll be taking it up with my superiors,’ broke in Jim. ‘You do what you have to do, Mr Burnham, and I’ll do what I have to do. Now if you could just wait in the corridor, Inspector Geary will be along in a moment to walk you out of the building.’
Once Burnham and Villiers were out of the room, Jim turned to Reece. ‘So what do you think?’
‘About what?’ Reece replied absently, gathering up the photos.
‘Villiers’ reaction to the photos. He was faking it.’
‘Maybe.’
A note of exasperation came into Jim’s voice. ‘What do you mean “maybe”? Of course he fucking was.’
‘I’m sorry, Jim. My head’s all over the place.’ Reece squeezed his eyes shut suddenly, clenching his fists in a kind of helpless rage. ‘Oh Christ, first I lose Dad to cancer. Now it’s happening all over again with Staci.’
Jim’s forehead creased. ‘Cancer? I thought it was hepatitis?’
‘So did we, but—’ Reece broke off, shaking his head as if in disbelief. He heaved a breath and continued, ‘It seems all the shit Staci stuck in her veins over the years fucked up her liver worse than they thought.’
‘But they can treat it, right?’
Reece gave a small shrug of his big shoulders. ‘She’s been having chemo for the past few weeks. You should see her, Jim. All her hair, her beautiful red hair, it’s falling out in clumps.’ Tears came into Reece’s eyes. Blinking them back, he turned away from his colleague and reached for the interview tapes. Jim gently laid a hand on his arm.
‘Get yourself off home. Staci needs you more than I do.’
Reece motioned towards the corridor. ‘What about them?’
‘I’ll deal with those pricks.’
Reece approached the door and hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, Jim, I’ve been meaning to tell you since we found out, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk about it. I just keep thinking about Dad, about how much he suffered…’ His voice trailed away with a little choke.
‘You don’t need to explain, Reece. I’ll see you after the weekend. You know where I am if you need me. Give Staci my love.’
‘I will. Thanks, Jim.’
Jim’s gaze followed Reece from the room. Beyond the big detective’s shoulder he glimpsed Villiers. Anger replaced the concern in his eyes. Why did it always seem to be people like Reece and Staci who suffered, whilst scumbags like Villiers flourished? The guy was as dirty as used toilet paper. Jim knew it. Could almost smell it. And he felt sure he could prove it too, if only Garrett would allow him to delve deeper into Villiers’ life. Somewhere there was someone – a former or even a current resident of the children’s homes he’d worked at – who could expose that dirt. And if they could snag Villiers, maybe they could use him as bait to hook the other big fish in Herbert Winstanley’s book. But that wasn’t going to happen unless Garrett— Jim broke off his line of thought with a sharp shake of his head. He’d been thinking in circles for months now, wasting his time on ifs and maybes, dancing to Garrett’s tune. And where had it got him? Fucking nowhere. He frowned at the list of names. Maybe it was time to start dancing to his own music.
There was a knock on the door. Miles Burnham shoved his head back into the room. ‘Can we hurry things up, Chief Inspector? My client’s a busy man.’
Jim grimaced inwardly. Yes, Villiers was a busy man – busy running the home Edward Forester had helped him set up. The thought of it was like a kick in the gut. With deliberate slowness, Jim led Burnham and Villiers to a yard enclosed by the severe concrete façade of Police HQ, tall walls topped with spiked railings, and a three-metre steel gate. The yard was full of police vehicles, except for a Mercedes with tinted windows. As Burnham and Villiers approached the Mercedes, a camera was thrust through the gate’s vertical bars. Its flash went off and Villiers ducked down behind the car as though a sniper had taken a potshot at him.
‘Chief Inspector,’ exclaimed Burnham. ‘Did you see that?’
Jim had seen it alright. He’d seen the face behind the camera too. It was one he’d known for years – twenty years, to be precise – but it had become especially familiar to him once again in the past few months. Under different circumstances, in a different life, it could have been a pretty face. But this life had made its eyes penetratingly direct, its lips thin and taut, its cheeks pale and sharp-boned. The woman it belonged to was in her mid-thirties, maybe five five or so, wearing heavy duty Doc Martens, skinny black jeans and a black leather jacket. Her hair was blonde, short and as styleless as the black-framed glasses she always wore.
Permitting himself a ghost of a smile at Villiers’ startled face, Jim called for the gate to be opened. ‘Stay there,’ he shouted at the woman. ‘I want a word with you.’
A motor whirred into life and the gate slid sideways. As Jim crossed the yard, the woman spread her arms as if to say, What have I done wrong? Jim pointed to her camera. ‘Hand it over.’
‘Why should I?’ she responded. ‘This is public property.’
Jim thumbed over his shoulder. ‘Yes, but that isn’t. And I’ve warned you before about what would happen if I caught you taking photos here.’
The woman still hesitated to hand over her camera.
‘Do you really want to do this the hard way, Anna?’ Jim’s voice was authoritative, but there was an underlying tenderness in it.
Reluctantly, Anna gave her camera to him. ‘You’ll get it back once the appropriate photos have been deleted,’ he assured her.
‘I’ll delete them for you right now.’
‘Sorry, but I have to make certain that deleted means gone for good.’
Anna glanced past Jim at the Mercedes, behind which Villiers was still squatting. ‘He must really be someone important. Especially if he can afford a scumbag like Burnham.’
‘Go home. You’re wasting your time here.’
‘I disagree.’ An edge of frustration sharpened Anna’s voice. ‘I don’t understand why you refuse to see the connection between your case and my sister’s abduction.’
‘I don’t refuse to see it. I don’t see it because right now it doesn’t exist.’
Anna began counting off points on her fingers. ‘Freddie Harding was abducting young girls in the early nineties. He used to drive a white van. Manchester United football shirts and match-day programmes were found at his house.’
‘Harding wasn’t opportunistically snatching kids off the street. He was taking prostitutes who he knew wouldn’t be easily missed. Granted, he drove a white van at the time of his 2005 arrest. But no such vehicle was registered to him in 1993. As for him being a Man U supporter, well, there are about half a billion of them out there. And anyway, you don’t know for certain that Jessica’s abductors were Man U supporters.’
‘What about the red devil keyring? And why else would they have been driving around so close to Bramall Lane that afternoon? Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it an accepted fact that in most abductions the perpetrator had a legitimate reason for being at the scene of the crime? They might work or live nearby. Or they might have been involved in a social activity, such as attending a sporting event.’
‘You know you’re not wrong. As I’m sure you also know that the majority of abductions are crimes of opportunity. And as I said, Harding wasn’t an opportunist.’
‘What about the girl he raped on Pitsmoor Road in 2005?’
‘Ellen Peterson was the exception.’
‘How do you know there weren’t other exceptions?’
‘I don’t,’ conceded Jim. ‘What I do know is that Harding has a thing for prostitutes who remind him of his mother. And your sister doesn’t fall into that category.’
‘But she was the type Edward Forester would’ve gone for.’
‘What’s taking so long, Chief Inspector?’ called Miles Burnham. ‘Can you please hurry up and get rid of that bloody woman?’
Jim ignored the solicitor. Every opportunity to inconvenience Villiers was an opportunity not to be missed. ‘OK, look, let’s assume for a moment that you’re right. The man you saw grab Jessica was neither Harding nor Forester. Which means a third man was working with them. And that’s where the theory starts to fall apart. We’ve found no evidence to suggest an unidentified third man ever visited Forester’s bunker. Nor have we found a DNA match for your sister from the recovered remains of the victims.’ Recovered remains – the words seemed to echo in Jim’s head with added sardonic bitterness. What a fucking joke. Apart from two semi-gelatinous bodies in barrels, the only remains they’d recovered were from a jar containing thirty-eight torn and shrivelled nipples – one for each of the half-brothers’ dead victims, plus Melissa Doyle, the only girl known to have escaped the bunker.
‘Maybe Freddie Harding had an accomplice his brother didn’t know about.’
Jim pushed his lower lip out thoughtfully. ‘It’s possible. But it’s pure speculation. And right now I don’t have much use for that.’ He raised a hand as Anna made to say something else. ‘I realise you’re perfectly within you’re rights to stand out here all day, Anna, but as a favour to me I’m asking you to move along.’
‘Alright, but it won’t make any difference.’ Anna jerked her chin – which bore a thin pearly-white scar – towards the Mercedes. ‘Camera or no camera, I’ll find out who he is. And when I do I’ll put his face out there for the world to see.’
Jim took hold of Anna’s arm and firmly guided her out of sight of the yard. ‘I’d think long and hard before doing that if I were you.’ His voice was low with concern. ‘Trust me, that man’s not someone you want to antagonise.’
Anna’s lips curled into a contemptuous smile. ‘Oh yeah, what’s he going to do, sue me? You’d better tell him to get in line.’
‘Look, I know I can’t stop you from doing what you feel needs to be done. But just be careful how you go about it. Please. I’d hate to see you get hurt.’
‘Is that how you brought down Forester and Harding? By being careful?’ Anna held Jim’s hangdog brown eyes for a moment, letting the words sink in. She wrote her mobile number on a notepad and tore out the page for him. ‘You’d better not damage my camera, Chief Inspector, or you’ll be the one in trouble.’
Jim waited for her to get into a beaten-up old VW camper van across the street and accelerate away, before heading back to the yard. ‘Is she gone?’ asked Burnham.
‘Yes.’
With a nervous glance to make sure Jim was right, Villiers rose from behind the Mercedes. ‘Did she recognise me?’
‘No.’
‘Who was she?’
‘Nobody you need worry about.’
‘For once I agree with the Chief Inspector,’ said Burnham. ‘She’s just some wannabe journalist. Her name’s Anna Young. She runs a blog called The Truth.’
‘The truth about what?’
‘About whatever gets her goat. She fancies herself as some kind of crusader exposing injustice. Personally I think she’s got a screw loose. What about you, Chief Inspector?’
I think I’d like to slap the smugness off your face, thought Jim. He kept his voice neutral. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Villiers. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again.’
‘Don’t bank on it,’ countered Burnham. ‘Not unless you’ve actually got something worth talking to him about.’
Villiers and Burnham ducked into the Mercedes. As Jim watched them drive away, Anna’s words stalked around his mind like a caged tiger. Is that how you brought down Forester and Harding? By being careful?