The Spider's Web

by Ben Cheetham

  Forty or so minutes later, he pulled up outside a modest detached house on a quiet, leafy suburban street. There was a Volvo in the driveway. Lights glowed behind curtains in the downstairs windows. The very image of normality.

  Ideally, he would have liked to find out more about the house’s occupants before talking to them. Who exactly were the Walshes? How had Ronald Walsh come to work for a known criminal? What had their relationship with their son been like? He would have liked to get a look at their phone records too. Perhaps even run surveillance on them for a few days. But there was nothing ideal about this situation.

  He knocked on the door of one of the Walshes’ neighbours. A woman answered. ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he said, showing her his ID, ‘but I need to ask you, and anyone else who lives here, a couple of questions.’ The woman called her husband to the door. Jim showed them the mugshot of the nineteen-year-old Gavin Walsh. ‘Have you ever seen this man at the Walshes’ house or anywhere else on this street?’ They both replied no. ‘Try to imagine him older with a goatee beard and a ponytail. Ring any bells?’ Again, the same response.

  ‘What’s this about?’ asked the husband.

  ‘Nothing for you to worry about. Thanks for your time.’

  Jim worked his way up and down the street, knocking on every door, asking the same questions, getting the same replies. He wasn’t surprised. Gavin Walsh was an extremely cautious man. He’d proved that time and again over the years with his disappearing acts.

  Finally, Jim knocked at the Walshes’ house. An exterior light came on and the front door was opened by a man whom Jim guessed to be somewhere in his late sixties. Like Gavin, he had intensely dark eyes. But otherwise there was little resemblance. His face was longer and thinner, his nose was sharper, and he was bald except for a frizz of grey hair at the sides of his head.

  ‘Are you Ronald Walsh?’

  ‘Yes. And who are you?’

  Noting the Brummie accent, Jim produced his ID. ‘If I may, I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

  Lines gathered around Ronald’s eyes. ‘About what?’

  ‘Your son.’

  The lines spread and deepened, like cracks in a dry stream bed. Ronald stepped outside, pulling the door to behind him. ‘My son is dead.’

  ‘As I understand it his body was never found.’

  ‘My son is dead,’ repeated Ronald, as if stating an undisputable fact. ‘If you want to know where his body is, I suggest you speak to the McLeans.’

  Jim gave a thoughtful wag of his head. ‘You know, Mr Walsh, that’s something that strikes me as odd. If the McLeans were careful enough to hide your son’s body where no one would ever find it, why would they leave behind his bloodstained clothes?’

  ‘I’ll tell you why. Because they had to let everyone know what they’d done. It was about not losing face.’ Ronald’s lips curled with hate. ‘That’s what everything’s about with people like them. That and money.’

  There was no arguing with that. Jim changed tack. ‘Is your wife in, Mr Walsh?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t want you talking to her. She’s not a well woman.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but I won’t take up much of her time.’

  Ronald shook his head vehemently. ‘I won’t have you upsetting her for no good reason.’

  ‘I assure you, Mr Walsh, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for a good reason.’

  Still shaking his head, Ronald turned to head back into his house. Jim caught hold of his arm in a firm, but not so firm as to be painful grip. ‘Aren’t you even interested what that reason is?’

  ‘My son is dead,’ Ronald said once again, like the words were some kind of all-answering mantra. ‘That’s all I need to know.’

  ‘But what if—’

  ‘Are you not listening to me?’ Ronald broke in, his voice a sharp rasp. ‘There is no “what if”. Now please leave us alone.’

  As Ronald made to close the door, Jim braced a hand against it. ‘We could have this conversation down the station, if you want to play it that way.’

  Ronald looked at Jim as if to say, Do you take me for a fool? ‘I know my rights, Chief Inspector Monahan. I don’t have to go anywhere with you unless you’re charging me with something. Now remove your hand from my door.’

  Jim reluctantly did so, and before he could say anything else, Ronald shut the door in his face. Jim returned to his car, phoned Garrett and relayed his conversation with Ronald. ‘Sounds to me like Mr Walsh is hiding something,’ said the DCS.

  A wrinkle of uncertainty appeared between Jim’s eyes. ‘Usually when people are hiding something they play it cooler. I’d be inclined to think Mr Walsh was genuine, except for one thing. You said the Walshes fought to have their son declared dead. And when I spoke to Mr Walsh tonight he refused to even entertain the thought that his son might be alive. I just can’t get my head round that.’

  ‘Maybe he knew exactly what his son was capable of, and so was relieved when it seemed he’d been murdered.’

  ‘You’ve got a son of your own. If he turned out to be a rapist, even a killer, would you want him dead?’

  Garrett considered this briefly, then conceded, ‘No. I might want myself dead, but not him.’

  Jim eyed the Walshes’ house curiously. A light had come on in the upstairs main bedroom window. ‘I’m going to stay on the Walshes tonight and see what I can see. It might be worth having a look at their phone records too.’

  ‘I’ll put DI Greenwood on it. Now I’d better get back to work. It’s going to be a busy day tomorrow. I have an appointment with Judge Lawson in the morning. I’ve got a lot to do if I’m going to convince him to issue a search and seizure for Villiers’ house.’

  ‘Let’s hope no one’s got to Lawson before us.’

  A slight rise of indignation came into Garrett’s voice. ‘Lawson’s a good man.’

  ‘You would have said the same about Charles Knight a year ago.’

  Garrett sighed. ‘Regardless, we have to follow proper procedure or whatever evidence we gather will be worthless. You know that as well as I do. We can’t keep telling lies to cover our tracks.’

  Jim grunted begrudging agreement. Garrett was right. A good lawyer like Miles Burnham would have the case thrown out long before trial if procedure wasn’t followed to the letter. ‘I don’t think we’ll find much of interest at Villiers’ house anyway. He’s much too careful for that.’

  ‘Well, if nothing else, it’ll let him know we mean business now.’

  ‘True, but what we really need to do is start talking to the children at the Craig Thorpe Youth Trust home and former residents of Hopeland.’

  ‘We will do, believe me. But we’ve got to move carefully. This is an extremely sensitive case. There’s too much at stake and too many innocent people who could get hurt if we don’t do things properly.’

  Jim prickled with irritation at this reminder that Garrett’s overly conservative side was never far from the surface. ‘And what about the other names in Herbert’s book?’

  ‘We’ll get to them too. And their families, friends and colleagues. But for now I think we should concentrate on Villiers. Like you said the other day, he’s the weak link. Break him and we break the case open.’

  There was no arguing with Garrett’s logic. Still, it burnt Jim to think of Villiers’ accomplices remaining at least partly in the shadows. He knew it would most likely only be for a few more days, but even that was too long. The sooner they were officially outed as suspects, the sooner their power would begin to bleed away. He wanted to read their names in every newspaper, see their faces on every TV channel. So that even if they managed to avoid prosecution, their reputations would be indelibly stained by being hauled through the court of public opinion. ‘Good luck with Lawson.’

  ‘Thanks, Jim. And you try to get some rest. Remember, you need to take care of that heart of yours.’

  As Jim hung up, his gaze was drawn to the downstairs window of the Walshes’ house. The curtains
twitched. Someone – no doubt Ronald Walsh – was furtively watching him. He started up the engine and pulled around the corner. He glanced at the clock. He’d give it half an hour, then he’d find a spot from where he could inconspicuously watch the house. As he waited, he tried Anna’s and Reece’s phones again. Still no answer from either. He exhaled heavily. It was going to be a long night.

  10

  Jim was jerked out of a fitful doze by the sound of a car door closing. He lifted a hand to wipe away the fog of sleep, for an instant not knowing where he was. He’d been dreaming about Margaret, about a future that could never be. The dream had taunted him with images of them being together in some warm, sunny place. It was a dream he’d had many times before, and he always woke from it with a choking sob. Sometimes he couldn’t bear the thought of sleep because of it, other times he closed his eyes in the hope that it would come again.

  The morning sun was streaming palely through the windscreen. It was twenty past eight. Between bushes that partially screened him from view, he focused blinkingly on the Walshes’ house. The front door was open. Ronald was in the driver’s seat of the Volvo. A woman, who from her appearance surely had to be Sharon Walsh, emerged from the house. She was mid-sixties, short and solidly built. Her broad, round face bore a striking resemblance to Gavin that was accentuated by short, too dark to be natural hair. Her movements were purposeful, as though she was in a rush. She didn’t appear to be ill. But then her husband might not have meant that she was physically ill. Jim could easily imagine how the murder of her son might have affected her mentally. The best part of thirty years had passed since then. But as he’d pointed out to Garrett, there were some wounds time could never heal.

  The Volvo reversed out of the driveway and accelerated away. Jim was about to follow it when he saw something that stopped him cold. A girl stepped from the house, waving at the receding car. She was about Sharon Walsh’s height, but slimmer. A satchel was slung over her shoulder. She was dressed in a knee-length black skirt, a white shirt and a navy-blue school blazer. She looked to be about fourteen or fifteen. Surely too young to be Ronald and Sharon’s daughter. It wasn’t her age, though, that truly sparked his curiosity.

  She set off walking in Jim’s direction. He made a show of fiddling with the car radio as she passed. She didn’t give him a glance. She had earphones on and was singing along silently to whatever she was listening to. Jim could see nothing in her bland teenage face that suggested Ronald had told her about his visit. He glanced uncertainly in the direction of the Volvo, then got out of his car and began to tail the girl.

  She made her way to a bus stop crowded with other schoolchildren and workers heading into the city centre. As she waited for a bus, she chatted to several girls. Jim phoned Scott Greenwood. ‘How’s it going with the phone records?’

  ‘I’m still working on getting a subpoena.’

  ‘I need you to do something else. There’s a girl living with the Walshes. Find out everything you can about her. And I mean everything. Who her biological parents are. Where she was born. When her birth was registered.’

  ‘Will do. Have you spoken to Reece? He’s not come into the office.’

  A bus pulled in and the girl got on board. Quickly explaining the situation with Staci, Jim followed the girl onto the bus. She took a seat with her friends. He sat several seats back from her. Over the chugging of the engine, he caught snippets of her conversation. Just usual teenage girl talk – who was wearing what, who was going out with whom. Five stops later, the bus emptied of schoolchildren at the gates of a large comp. Jim disembarked too. As he watched the girl head into the school, his phone rang. When he saw the caller’s number, he eagerly put the phone to his ear. But his voice was carefully professional as he said, ‘This is DCI Jim Monahan. Who am I speaking to?’

  ‘Red fucking Riding Hood, who do you think?’

  Jim felt a rise of relief at the familiar abrasive voice. ‘Anna, are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine. Knackered but fine. Those Special Branch pricks kept me up all night, hammering me with questions and threats.’

  ‘What sort of threats?’

  ‘Just the usual crap. How they’re going to stop my benefits and have me and Mum kicked out of our house. How if anything happens to anyone on the list they’re going to prosecute me for inciting a crime. I told them I hope they get the chance.’ The bravado suddenly left Anna in a sigh. ‘They’re going to do it, you know. They’re going to take away our house. Eviction proceedings have already begun. They showed me the papers. I honestly don’t know if Mum could survive without that house. It’s her last remaining connection to Jessica and Dad.’

  ‘No it’s not. You are.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘Yes I do.’ Jim thought of the house he’d shared with Margaret, of the reluctance he’d felt to sell it, and the relief that had rushed over him when he finally worked up the courage to do so. True, the house had been a connection, but it had also been a burden, weighing on him so heavily he couldn’t move.

  Anna sighed again. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter because I’m not going to give them what they want.’

  Jim didn’t need to ask what they wanted. He already knew the answer. They wanted to do to him what they’d done to Lance Brennan. ‘I’m in Nottingham. You need to get yourself here. There’s something, or rather someone, I think you should see.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’d rather not say over the phone.’

  ‘Why? Do you think Special Branch are listening in?’

  ‘Maybe, but that’s…’ Jim paused as if searching for a way to explain something inexplicable. ‘When you get here you’ll understand.’

  ‘OK, but it’s going to take me some time. I’m in Watford and my van’s still in Leeds. I’ll have to pick it up, then head back down to you.’

  Jim arranged to meet Anna in a pub he’d spotted not far from the Walshes’ house. He caught a return bus back to his car. Ronald and Sharon were still out. There was nothing else to be done for the moment. He drove to a nearby café and ordered breakfast. His phone rang again. It was Reece. Bracing himself for the worst, he answered the call.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Not good, Jim.’ Reece sounded exhausted. ‘Her liver’s just about ready to pack in. It looks like she’s going to need a transplant.’

  ‘Fucking hell. Is there nothing they can do?’

  ‘They’re already doing everything they can and it’s making no difference. She needs to get to South Africa or—’ Emotion choked Reece.

  Jim winced at the anguish in his friend’s voice. ‘Any word on when that’s going to happen?’

  ‘No, but she’s going to be too ill to travel if it doesn’t happen soon.’ Reece drew a breath and collected himself. ‘What about you? How’s the investigation going?’

  ‘Forget the investigation. You just concentrate on looking after Staci and Amelia.’

  The choke came back into Reece’s voice at the mention of Staci’s daughter. ‘I keep thinking how do I tell Amelia if her mum dies? I mean, for Christ’s sake, how do you tell an eight-year-old something like that?’

  His question was almost a plea. Jim made no reply. Experience had taught him that there was no easy way to break that kind of news.

  With another long breath, Reece returned the conversation to the investigation. ‘Have forensics ID’d the skeleton?’

  ‘No, but I told you to forget about all that. Believe me, Reece, work is the last thing you should be thinking about right now.’

  ‘You’re right, Jim. It’s just…’ Reece trailed off as if he didn’t have the energy to explain.

  ‘It’s OK.’ Reece didn’t need to explain himself. Jim understood it was easier for him to focus on work rather than what was happening in his personal life. He’d been there himself. ‘And don’t worry about Garrett. I’ll let him know what’s going on.’

  ‘Thanks, Jim. You’ve done so much for me this past year. I’m sorry for let
ting you down.’

  ‘Don’t talk daft. You’re not letting anyone down.’ Jim’s voice assumed a gentle pretence of authority. ‘Now get back to that girl of yours. That’s an order.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Reece replied, his tone briefly lightening. The heaviness returned as he added, ‘I’ll call you as soon as I know what’s happening with South Africa.’

  Jim resumed his breakfast of decaf tea and muesli. With each tasteless mouthful, he thought of Margaret, of how much she would have approved. It made his lips curl in self-contempt to remember how, after she walked out on him, he used to take a childish pleasure in doing things he knew she would disapprove of. How could he have wasted so much energy on such self-destructive behaviour? How could he have been so blind to what was truly important? Well, he wasn’t blind any more. He saw the truth with a stinging clarity. He was an idiot, a fool, good for nothing except everything that was bad about life. That was why he was so proficient at chasing down criminals.

  After breakfast, he returned to the Walshes’ house. At mid-morning they reappeared and unloaded shopping bags from their Volvo. Then Ronald set to mowing the front lawn, whilst Sharon polished the insides of the house’s windows. It was a perfectly normal domestic scene. And yet something about it made Jim’s forehead crease faintly. It seemed to him that the Walshes performed their tasks with a kind of exaggerated enthusiasm, like actors in a show.