by Ben Cheetham
Jim deleted the first two photos. He hesitated over the third, his forehead knotting. Again, Anna’s words reverberated in his mind. Is that how you brought down Forester and Harding? By being careful? His finger was still hovering above the delete icon when Garrett knocked and entered the office. The Chief Superintendent showed no surprise at finding Jim at his desk several hours after he’d been due to knock off. Since being cleared to return to duty, Jim had been first in the office and last out. His cardiologist had warned him against working long hours. Those who knew him better knew such warnings were a waste of breath. The job was all he had left.
‘Evening, Jim.’
Jim nodded in return. The greeting wasn’t exactly friendly – their approach to the job and life was too different for them to ever be friends – but there was a grudging respect in both men’s eyes. ‘Let me guess, Miles Burnham’s been on the phone.’
‘He’s not happy. What were you hoping to achieve by showing Mr Villiers those photos?’
‘I just wanted to see his reaction.’
‘Well you certainly got a reaction. Mr Villiers is threatening to file a harassment complaint against you.’
Jim grunted with amused contempt. ‘The last thing Villiers wants to do is draw attention to himself by kicking up that kind of stink.’
‘You’re probably right, but…’ An uneasy frown pulling at his forehead, Garrett indicated the board of names. ‘These aren’t people to be toyed with, Jim. They have the power to hurt us just as badly as we can hurt them. That’s why we need to be—’
‘Especially careful how we deal with them,’ Jim interrupted, finishing Garrett’s sentence for him. He’d heard this speech too many times over the past year. ‘Well I’m sorry, but being careful doesn’t always get results. I know you don’t want to hear this, but if we’re going to move this investigation forward we need to start taking more risks.’ He jerked his thumb at the board. ‘And that means stopping giving these pricks such an easy ride.’
‘We’ve interviewed every living person on there more than once. Taken DNA samples. Run detailed background checks. I fail to see how that equates to an easy ride.’
Jim made a sharp dismissive motion. ‘We need to pull their lives apart. Talk to their families, friends, colleagues, anyone who might have information.’
His frown deepening, Garrett shook his head. ‘We have no evidence of criminal activity by these people.’
‘We have Herbert Winstanley’s book.’
‘That’s not enough. If we were to do as you suggest, it would amount to publicly linking them to murder, rape, paedophilia and corruption.’
‘Would that be such a bad thing?’
‘Yes. Yes it bloody would. As things stand, it would mean the end of this investigation. And most probably the end of our careers too.’
Jim gave a sneer that he didn’t allow to reach his lips. Since inheriting Charles Knight’s uniform, Garrett had made a lot of noises about changing departmental culture, adopting a zero-tolerance approach to crime and the conduct of his officers. But when it really came down to it, nothing had changed. The same principle still reigned supreme – look out for number one.
‘There are a lot of people watching us, waiting for us to slip up,’ continued Garrett. ‘So we have to do this right.’
‘I don’t understand. Why give me this job, why even set up this unit if you’re just going to box us into a corner?’
‘You’re not boxed into a corner. Get back out there on the streets, start interviewing prostitutes again. All we need is one witness who’s willing to talk about what went on at the Winstanleys’ house.’
‘We’ve already spoken to every prostitute and pimp in South Yorkshire. Nobody’s talking.’ Jim jabbed his finger at Thomas Villiers’ photo. ‘Villiers is the weak link. No one else can be directly connected to both Edward Forester and the Winstanleys – at least, no one who’s alive. If you’d just give us permission to talk to the former residents of homes he’s worked at, I’m sure we could dig up some dirt on him.’
Before Jim had finished, Garrett was shaking his head again. Jim threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Then you might as well shut us down.’
‘Actually, that brings me to another thing I have to tell you.’ Garrett’s voice took on a faintly apologetic tone. ‘It’s been decided that from today your unit will be stripped back to yourself and Detectives Geary and Greenwood.’
No flicker of surprise showed on Jim’s face. He’d been expecting something like this for the past couple of months. Nor was it a surprise who’d been chosen to remain on the unit. Scott Greenwood was Garrett’s man through and through, his earpiece. As for Reece, Garrett was clearly uncomfortable with his continued presence on the Major Incident Team. The Chief Superintendent didn’t need to be much of a detective to realise Reece’s past was less than pristine. And that posed a threat to his future vision for both the team and himself. It was obvious to Jim that Reece’s days were numbered. Sooner or later, Garrett would find some excuse to shunt the big detective out of Major Incidents, quite possibly even out of his job. He would probably have already done so if Jim hadn’t taken Reece under his wing. ‘Decided by who?’
‘The decision’s been made. That’s all you need to know.’
Garrett’s reply confirmed what Jim already knew. The decision had come from higher up. And when enough time for the sake of appearances had passed, no doubt another decision would be made to shut down the unit altogether. Jim could just imagine the ripple of relief that would pass through the force’s upper echelons when that day came. This case was simply too much of a hot potato for the top brass to handle.
Garrett glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway, I’d better be going. My wife will be wondering where—’ He broke off, realising the insensitivity of his words. ‘I’ll see you Monday.’ He started to turn away, then added as an afterthought, ‘Oh, and Burnham told me about what happened outside the station. Have you deleted the photos?’
Jim was silent a beat, before replying, ‘Yes.’
When Garrett was gone, Jim opened a desk drawer and took out a key. It was flat with notches on both edges. He ran his thumb thoughtfully over the notches. With a sudden decisive movement, he picked up the phone and punched in a number. After several rings, Anna Young’s ever-intense voice came down the line. ‘Who is this?’
‘Jim Monahan.’
‘Chief Inspector Monahan, I didn’t expect to be hearing from you so soon.’
‘Call me Jim. We need to meet.’
‘Where and when?’
‘Do you know the White Lion?’
‘On London Road?’
‘That’s the one. I’ll see you there in about twenty minutes.’
‘This is about more than just my camera, isn’t it?’
Jim’s eyebrows lifted slightly at Anna’s perceptiveness. ‘Yes,’ he said and hung up.
The White Lion hummed with the conversation and laughter of Friday-night drinkers. The softly lit bar with its dark-stained beams, worn varnished floorboards, old round tables and stools, brought a little rush of memories back to Anna. The pub was a popular match-day haunt for Sheffield United supporters. Her dad had taken her there many times for a pre-match drink. She hadn’t been back since his death. Spotting Jim at the bar, she threaded her way through the drinkers to him. He was sipping whisky and staring at a key, turning it over in his hand. ‘You look like a man with a lot on his mind,’ she observed.
Jim’s rugged face creased into a smile. ‘Thanks for coming, Anna. What are you drinking?’
‘I’ll have a pint of cider, thanks.’
Jim caught the barman’s attention and ordered Anna’s drink and another whisky for himself. They took them to a vacant table. ‘I’ve never been able to get used to seeing women drinking pints,’ said Jim as Anna knocked back a good portion of her drink. ‘My ex-wife, Margaret, used to say I was a sexist.’
‘She was right.’
Jim glanced into his own glass. ‘She wo
uld have given me hell for drinking this too. I had a heart attack last year.’
‘Sounds like your ex-wife was an intelligent woman.’ The ‘was’ indicated Anna knew what had happened to Margaret.
‘She was the best woman I ever knew. Far too good for me, really.’ Jim was silent a moment, his face tense with scarcely subdued pain. Then he took out Anna’s camera and handed it to her. She switched it on. Her eyebrows lifted.
‘You haven’t deleted all the photos.’
‘His name’s Thomas Villiers. I have reason to believe he’s part of the Winstanley house paedophile ring.’
Anna’s eyes widened some more. ‘What reason?’
‘Herbert Winstanley had a book. It contained a list of clients or members.’ Jim placed a sheet of paper on the table. Anna’s forehead contracted as her gaze ran down the names printed on it.
‘Why hasn’t this been made public?’
Jim pointed at a name. ‘Laurie Boyce is an aide to a cabinet minister.’ His finger moved down the list. ‘Maurice Chaput is a French diplomat. Sebastian Dawson-Cromer is a High Court judge. Alvaro Gabriel Gaspar is a high-ranking EU official. Andrew Templeton is also a judge. As for the rest of them, they’re CEOs of big companies, financial managers, stockbrokers, doctors. There’s even a fucking celebrity on there.’
Anna met Jim’s gaze, her eyes hard. ‘Let me get this straight. You’re protecting these people.’
‘No. Not any more.’
‘So you want me to publish this?’
‘I want every single person in this fucking country to know who and what these people are.’
‘I get the feeling you don’t exactly have permission to do this.’
Jim’s smile returned, crookedly. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Why me? Why not go to the newspapers?’
‘The newspapers wouldn’t touch this with a ten-foot pole. They’d be sued for everything they’ve got.’ Jim heaved a sigh. ‘The fact is, we don’t have anything concrete on these people.’
‘But you’re certain they’re guilty.’
‘As certain as that heart attack I had.’
Anna’s eyes returned to the list. An edge of uncertainty entered her voice. ‘If I do this, what happens to me?’
‘I won’t lie to you, Anna. They’ll try to destroy you, financially, emotionally, any way they can.’
A moment passed. So did Anna’s uncertainty. Her lips thinned into a smile as uncompromising as her eyes. ‘Is that all?’ She took another big mouthful of her pint and banged her glass down like an exclamation point. ‘So what else can you tell me about these wankers?’
Jim laid it all out for her – where Villiers worked; how he was connected to Forester; the work Dr Reeves had done at the children’s home. She shook her head incredulously. ‘How is it possible that the newspapers haven’t got hold of any of this?’
‘There are a lot of powerful people working hard to keep it quiet.’
Anna scowled. ‘It makes me want to puke. Bastards like these think they can fuck us with impunity. Well it’s time they learnt differently. I’m going to make their lives a living hell.’
‘And they yours.’
Anna let out a disdainful laugh. ‘They’re about twenty years too late for that.’
Jim looked at her with concern. He tapped the list. ‘Is there any way you could publish that anonymously?’
‘Yeah sure, but why would I do that?’
‘I know you don’t think so, Anna, but it seems to me you’ve got a lot to lose. Your blog’s almost certain to get shut down.’
Anna shrugged. ‘So I’ll start another. And if they put me in prison, I’ll write it from there. That’s the beauty of the internet. They can’t silence us, no matter how hard they try.’
‘And what about your mum? Will she be able to handle it if you end up in prison?’
Anna eyed Jim narrowly. ‘I’m a little confused. You brought this thing to me. Now you’re trying to talk me out of it.’
‘I just want to make sure you’re going into it with your eyes open.’
‘My eyes have been fully open for a long time now. Look, we both know that if I’m going to do this it’s got to have my name attached to it. Otherwise it’s just another bit of worthless internet shit-flinging.’ Anna smiled again, and this time there was a trace of softness in it. ‘Your concern’s touching and all, but believe me I can take care of myself.’
So could Margaret, thought Jim. His expression troubled, he unconsciously took out the key again and thumbed its edge. He hadn’t wanted to involve Anna in this, but her blog was the perfect platform to get the word out. Her integrity was untainted by any allegiances other than to the victims of crime themselves. Moreover, her readers didn’t simply trust her, they loved her. That much was obvious from the comments beneath her blog posts. And that combination of factors gave her a kind of power no mainstream media possessed.
‘What’s with the key?’ asked Anna.
‘It’s a copy of one found in Edward Forester’s bunker that had Freddie Harding’s fingerprints on it. I’ve spent months trying to work out where it’s for. To be honest, I’d almost given up on it until you mentioned the red devil keyring. Not that I have any reason to believe the two things are connected, but… well it got me thinking about it again.’
‘Can I have a look at it?’
Jim gave Anna the key.
She turned it over in her hand as he’d done. ‘It looks like a garage door key.’
‘That’s exactly what it is. It’s a Gliderol key. They manufacture residential and industrial roller garage doors.’
‘There are no markings on it.’
‘There aren’t any on the original either.’
‘So this is most likely a copy of a copy.’
Jim nodded. ‘You’ve got a good eye for detail.’
‘So where have you tried it?’
‘Harding’s work place, Forester and his mother’s garages and work places, the Winstanleys’ garages, various storage units near Harding’s house in Wath upon Dearne. Problem is, Gliderol doors are so common it’s an almost impossible task. Bar trying it in every roller door in South Yorkshire, I’m not sure what else to do.’
‘Do you mind if I have a go at finding where it fits?’
Jim’s eyebrows drew together. Noting his concern, Anna continued, ‘I’m about to put myself directly in the line of fire. I hardly think it’ll make much difference if I make some enquiries about a garage door.’
‘OK, but don’t broadcast it over the internet or anywhere else. I’m the only one with a copy of that key. If my superiors find out you’ve got it, it’ll be pretty obvious where it’s come from.’
‘Don’t worry. I know I’ve got a big gob, but I can do things on the quiet too.’
Jim didn’t doubt that. Anna clearly had a talent for this kind of work – a talent that had been sucked into one long fruitless search for her missing sister. He felt a familiar surge of impotent anger at the thought of it. He handed her his card. ‘If you happen to find anything out, call me straight away.’
‘I will.’
‘I mean it, Anna. Straight away,’ stressed Jim. ‘The same goes if anyone contacts you about the list. Don’t try to deal with it on your own. These are extremely dangerous people.’
Something about Jim’s tone reminded Anna of her dad. After Jessica’s abduction, Rick Young had become so smotheringly protective he’d barely been able to let Anna out of his sight. Even when she was at school, he’d phoned to check up on her dozens of times a day. In the end, she’d had to threaten to leave home unless he gave her some space. She held in a sigh. ‘You’ve read my blog, right? So you know about the type of people I’ve gone up against – rapists, abusers, murderers.’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to patronise you, it’s just that…’ Jim trailed off, his eyes growing distant. In his mind, he saw Margaret – the torn tights, the knife in her chest, the bloody voids where her eyes had been. After her death, he’d sw
orn to himself he wouldn’t risk any lives other than his own. And yet here he was, doing just the opposite. ‘I don’t want to be responsible for you getting hurt.’
‘You’re not going to be, no matter what happens. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve got other copies of the photos of Villiers.’ Anna took out her phone and showed Jim the photos. ‘I’d have put them online as soon as I worked out who the fucker was. And then I would’ve drawn fire just the same, but without you backing me up.’
Jim’s expression relaxed a little. Anna wasn’t Margaret. She knew exactly what she was getting into. He held out his hand. She shook it, sank the remainder of her pint and stood up. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
During the walk home, Anna spotted a roller door. On impulse, she tried the key in it. The lock didn’t turn. She stared at the key as if it was taunting her. Was it possible? Might this key have once been attached to the red devil keyring? The link was tenuous, if not existent only in her mind. She knew that, and yet for the first time in years she felt a fresh swell of motivation. ‘I’m going to find out where you fit, you little bastard,’ she told the key. Then she continued on her way, eyeballing every garage she passed.
The graveyard was locked up for the night. Jim squeezed through a gap in the railings and traversed the ranks of graves, until he came to a grey marble headstone inscribed with simply ‘MARGARET HARRIS. 1957–2012. ALWAYS MISSED’. Harris. Jim had never got used to seeing her called by her maiden name. She’d always be Margaret Monahan to him.