by Mark Roberts
He felt the weight of her eyes on the side of his face, turned to meet the woman’s gaze. How could she?
‘That’s a pretty devastating lie, Mrs Wilson, for a daughter to tell about her father. You know’ – Stone drilled into her eyes – ‘Samantha told me... She told me you were angry with her when she told you your husband was systematically molesting her. Then she went and told the teacher in school.’
‘I thought she was being malicious because her father had refused to pay for her to go on a school skiing holiday. I thought she was getting her own back. I thought she didn’t fully understand what she was saying and was just repeaing something she’d heard in the playground about that kind of thing. I thought, If you only knew how serious this is? And when she ran away from home...’
Aged fourteen, thought Stone, three weeks on the streets of London.
Silence descended.
‘You didn’t report her to her police as missing, Mrs Wilson. Why?’
‘I thought it had been reported. My husband told me he’d reported it to the police and that he’d deal with the school because my nerves were shattered.’ She blew her nose into the crumpled handkerchief in her fist.
‘You didn’t think it was odd that the police didn’t contact you once and ask if there’d been any communication between you, your husband and your missing daughter?’
‘I thought there had been. The police rang when I was out. That’s what he told me. And that the police had advised us not to tell any family, friends or neighbours because it may harm the chances of Samantha returning...’
‘Your daughter wasn’t a liar, Mrs Wilson. But your husband was.’
‘You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.’
‘I’m not. You asked me why I thought your daughter can’t forgive you. Listen to what you’re telling me. Answer the question why? for yourself.
‘What do you mean?’
Stone looked at Samantha and the story of her life that she’d told him flashed through his mind. The relationships that didn’t work out, the jobs she couldn’t hold down, her inability to set patterns in life that could lead to happiness, in and out of Broad Oak and other psychiatric units.
‘When he was accused of grooming another child you stayed with him.’
‘It came out in court. No physical harm came to that child or any child!’
‘Because Samantha was that child. Online, she pretended to be a twelve-year-old girl. And your husband took her out of the chat room for a private conversation of a very inappropriate nature.’
‘It was entrapment.’
‘But Samantha handed the evidence over to the police and you.’
‘I don’t like your tone.’
‘You say you’re sorry to her but you still make excuses for your husband. You still apportion blame to Samantha.’
‘That’s quite enough—’
‘You buried your head in the sand—’
‘My husband’s been murdered!’
‘—and you stayed with him. Sorry is just a word.’
‘Stop picking on me! You should be supporting me.’
‘I’m trying to, Mrs Wilson. You asked me why?’ Stone drew a deep breath, feeling as though he was going to be sick. He opened the passenger door and was anointed by the cold air that poured over him and into the car. ‘I’ll be honest, Mrs Wilson. It’s all too late for forgiveness.’
He stepped out of the car, closed the door and smiled as he approached Samantha.
‘I know what she’ll have been saying to you, Karl,’ said Samantha. ‘But what did you say to her?’
He stepped into the tight space between Samantha and her mother’s car, blocking Mrs Wilson’s view of her daughter with his body.
‘That she’d let you down. In no uncertain terms.’ He looked at her and saw raw relief pass over her features. ‘You’ve got my contact details. If you ever need to talk, ever think there’s anything at all I can do for you, you can call me twenty-four/seven. I have so much respect for you. I’m here for you.’
‘You believe me?’ said Samantha. ‘Not her?’
‘I categorically believe you.’
Stone saw a weight lifting from her shoulders and tears filling her eyes. ‘I’d like to make a suggestion if I may,’ he said.
‘Go ahead,’ said Samantha.
‘I want you to walk away from her car. I want you to keep away from her at all costs. I’d do my best to forget her if I were you. She’ll never change.’
Slowly, Stone moved out of the way.
Samantha looked directly at her mother and turned her back on the windscreen.
‘Karl,’ said Samantha. ‘Do you mind if...? Will you hold my hand?’
He folded his hand around her hand and said, ‘Let’s walk away. Heads high.’
They walked.
‘I’ll drop you off at your flat,’ said Stone. ‘Don’t look back. Look forward. Keep looking forward, Sammy.’
13
8.41 pm
On the central embankment on Mather Avenue, Clay listened to her husband Thomas read back the list of clothing and toiletries that she required.
On her iPhone, the sound of his voice in her ear was reassuring, reminding her that filth she was currently wading through was not the sum of her whole life.
‘Thomas, I’ve got to go. Listen, don’t bring the bag here to Mather Avenue, take it to Trinity Road and leave it with the custody sergeant, Sergeant Harris. I love you, Thomas. Tell Philip I love him.’
‘I will do and you know what he’ll say back to me. I know she does, and I love her. I’m sorry you’re going through this, love. It won’t last forever.’
As soon as she ended the call, her iPhone rang with a number on display that she didn’t recognise but an area code that she did: 0114. She connected and said, ‘DCI Lesley Reid, thank you for contacting me.’
Reid laughed. ‘You are as good as people make out, Eve. How did you know it was me?’ Her voice had the husky undertone of a heavy smoker and Clay, in her mind, saw DCI Lesley Reid, stone-faced at a tense press conference after she had charged Steven Jamieson with abusing a minor.
‘I recognised the area code for Sheffield which is where you’re based. How’s work?’
‘I retired a year ago.’
‘Enjoying it?’
‘Loving it. Working cold cases three days a week and sleeping well at night. Your colleague Barney Cole gave me your number, said it was to do with Steven Jamieson but wouldn’t say what. Has he been up to his old tricks again?’
‘He’s been murdered, Lesley.’
‘No way?’
‘Way. It’s the second act, following on from the David Wilson case.’
‘Do you think Vindici’s back? Or is it a copycat?’
‘We think he’s back but this time he’s not alone.’
‘Let me just...’ Clay heard the metallic click of a cigarette lighter. ‘...celebrate Jamieson’s untimely demise with a cigarette.’
Clay looked at the open door of 699 Mather Avenue, lights on in every room and pouring from the hallway, and drank in Reid’s throaty chuckling. ‘So, Lesley, dish the dirt on Prince Charming, Steven Jamieson.’
Reid coughed and pulled the ring on a can of drink. ‘With a cigarette and a can of Stella Artois. So Jamieson ended up in Liverpool, the slimy little bastard. OK, Eve. I’ll give you the rundown on Jamieson. I had him right on the ropes for one eight-year-old girl called Sally Davies. We found a picture of her on the internet engaging in forced sexual activity with a man. Do you need the details?’
‘No. No thank you.’
‘The so-called man’s face wasn’t on the picture and there were no identifying features on the trunk of his body but we knew it was Jamieson.’
‘How?’
‘Because Sally Davies told us it was him. She told us it happened twice a week at least and it had started when she was six years old and finished when she was eight.’
‘Logistically, how did he manage to do this to her?’
‘Jamieson used to pay the girl’s mother, a hundred and fifty pounds a session. She was a heroin addict and so I guess in her eyes it beat peddling her own worn-out carcass on the streets and telephone booths of Sheffield. When Sally became a looked-after child, she dished the dirt on Jamieson to her carers. Round about this time, the kid’s mother made a bloody big mistake.’
Clay pictured the forlorn statue of the Weeping Child on the bedside next to Jamieson’s corpse. Sally.
‘When the mother was initially pulled into our custody on a totally separate matter – she knifed a dealer, stole his cash and stash of drugs – she cracked on to a cellmate, on remand, about how she’d squeezed cash from the rich and powerful Steven Jamieson, he of much fame in South Yorkshire as the founder of Steven Jamieson Property Management. I believe he still owns huge chunks of Sheffield and thereabouts. Well – owned. Ha!’ She drew in a lungful of smoke, exhaled with what Clay detected as quiet satisfaction and a deeply buried laugh of vindication. ‘It was his wealth and power that enabled him to get away with it for so long.’
Clay pictured the whip marks on Jamieson’s legs and made a mental note to congratulate Hendricks on his eye for detail. ‘Tell me about this jail-cell confession.’
‘Mary Davies, that was the mother’s name. Mary’s cellmate was disgusted but pretended to be impressed to squeeze as much of the lemon as she could. First opportunity she gets, the good thief comes singing like a canary to us. Mary Davies was the one to put that picture she’d secretly taken on the internet. After Jamieson binned Sally off because she was getting too old for his tastes, Mary tried to blackmail him but he calmly responded that he could have her killed for fifty quid and it would just look like a heroin overdose... You all right, Eve? That was a bloody big sigh.’
‘You’re paralysing what little faith I have left in human nature but go on, you’re doing a great job letting me know what I’m dealing with here.’
‘We dug Sally out of the care home she was in and the child protection officer managed to get a much more detailed story from her point of view. Sally identified the man in the picture as Steven Jamieson. Turns out she’s a feisty little lady, and even though Jamieson scares and disgusts her she identified him on a computerised line-up. Absolutely no shadow of a doubt.’
‘But I guess there was no forensic evidence?’
‘No forensic evidence. But Jamieson had a three-inch scar upper-left thigh. It was visible on the photograph. Sally knew his body inside out and spilled the intimate details in court via a video-link.’
‘I can’t imagine she was his only victim.’
‘We identified at least fourteen other children from the rumour mill with offences going back over twenty years. All girls. All from geographical locations in and around Sheffield. He was a two-tier pervert. He liked them six to eight years old, and twelve to fourteen. God knows what he got up to when he was away on business. It was the worst-kept secret in South Yorkshire. We had another paedophile on remand who stepped forward and tried to do a plea bargain in exchange for more names of Jamieson’s historical victims.’
Reid laughed and, taking a slurp of lager, reminded Clay that she could have done with a drink in that moment. ‘He gave us the names but got two years more than he thought he’d negotiated. We approached all fourteen. Seven denied all knowledge of Jamieson. One was severely mentally ill. Three couldn’t speak highly enough and three had recently left the area. Jamieson was rich and powerful enough to either buy silence or scare witnesses into it. Which leads to another complication with the case against him. He always seemed to be one step ahead and fully prepared for what we were coming at him with. You know where this is leading, don’t you?’
‘Jamieson had a bent copper on the inside acting as his eyes and ears,’ said Clay.
‘It was a detective constable. John Weston.’
‘That name rings a bell.’
‘Hillsborough-denier. My father was there on duty and it was all the fault of drunken Scousers. The little bastard. I could never categorically prove it but Weston was the rotten apple. The case against Jamieson went to court and Sally was a little star. She identified Jamieson as the man in the photograph, described every nook and cranny of his body. Her mother went up in the dock as the remorseful reformed junkie, confirmed she’d sold her daughter’s body for up to two years. The cash machine withdrawals record showed him pulling out a hundred and fifty quid twice a week, three times during sunny weather. He got an abysmally short nine-year sentence down to the crack legal team he employed. I suffered chronic insomnia for years afterwards. I hate to say this, Eve, but part of me hopes you don’t catch whoever’s topped Jamieson.’
‘I understand.’
‘Saying that, if there’s anything I can do just call me straight away. I can even come to Liverpool if it would be a help.’
‘Thank you,’ said Clay. ‘I get the feeling I may well be calling on your advice.’
‘Listen, Eve. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you but cases like this can really get under your skin and from the public’s point of view you’re in a no-win situation. I was the SIO on the Jamieson case and in the eyes of the general public I wasn’t seen as the copper who put Jamieson away, I was seen as the copper who put him away for what he did to one child when there were so, so many more. The key should’ve been thrown away and it wasn’t.’ The tone of her voice was suddenly laden with a heavy sadness.
‘If it’s any consolation,’ said Clay, ‘he’d have been better off in jail. Chances are he’d still be alive now if he was behind bars. He paid with his life for what he did tonight.’
‘Have you met his wife, Frances?’
‘Briefly. She was tortured by the perpetrator.’
‘The evening just goes from good to great. Bring on the champers.’
Clay laughed. ‘It must be wonderful being retired. Drinking mid-week and speaking your mind. What was Frances Jamieson like?’
‘An out-and-out bitch. She blamed Sally for leading him on and her mother for putting them together. Eve, I know you’re busy so I’m going to leave you there. Call me if you need me, OK!’
‘Thank you, you’ve been really helpful.’
‘Nice to talk to you. Keep me in the loop.’
The line went dead.
As Clay stored Reid’s number in her phone, she looked at Jamieson’s house. The thought of a bent copper and liar being involved in the case turned a key in her head.
The murder of one paedophile in their home could easily have been perpetrated by one of the victims, who knew their tormentor’s address. But with the murder of a second convicted paedophile came the disconcerting probability that someone with access to the National Police Computer and the Sex Offenders Register was passing out secret information.
Clay crossed the road towards Jamieson’s lair, with a weight on her shoulders that she knew would only get heavier.
14
8.59 pm
After a journey largely travelled in silence from Springwood Crematorium to Percy Street on the edge of Liverpool city centre, Detective Sergeant Karl Stone pulled his car up to the kerb and turned off the ignition. Bathed in orange streetlights, the tall Victorian terraced houses looked like a location from one of the many Hammer Horror films he had loved since his teenage years.
For several moments, neither Stone nor Samantha Wilson moved or spoke but the silence was not uncomfortable. Stone, who would have happily remained there, felt the pricking of his conscience and the need to get back to work.
‘Sammy,’ he said. ‘I’m going to have to go now.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘There’s been a murder. On Mather Avenue.’ He recalled the text he’d received from Barney Cole and opened as he followed Samantha and her mother from Myrtle Chapel at the end of the service. ‘I don’t know the finer details, but I do know I’m needed. Quickly.’ He turned to her and saw she was looking at him.
‘You’ve been very kind to me, Karl, and I know
you’re a busy man, but I’m a bit scared of going back into the flat by myself.’ Something glittered in her eyes and Stone felt as if he was floating, watching the scene as a spectator.
‘You want me to go in first? Put on the lights and check there’s nothing for you to be frightened of?’
‘Would you mind?’ She smiled sadly. He took the keys from the ignition and, as he double-checked that the gearstick was in neutral, he felt the weight of her hand on the back of his. ‘This is really very kind of you, Karl.’
Her touch sparked off a shiver of pleasure through his body. Stone looked at her hand on his, and then at her face, and smiled. This once-ordinary woman had transformed in the twinkling of an eye into the most beautiful being in the history of time.
Stone dragged his eyes away from her lips. ‘Yes, I’ll see you inside safely. Come on, Sammy.’
15
8.59 pm
Clay stood in the doorway of 699 Mather Avenue and tried to cleanse herself with fresh air. The wind sounded a bass note and fallen leaves scraped along the tarmac of the strangely deserted dual carriageway.
She heard the rumble of advancing vehicles and, walking down to the gate to get a closer look, noticed the damage to the black Citroën parked in the driveway. A single line had been carved on the driver’s door and the back door, a childlike drawing of a rolling set of hills, and Clay reckoned that it had been put there by the killer with the same blade that had been used to cut off Frances Jamieson’s eyelids and carve the name Vindici on both targets.
Clay watched the Anatomical Pathological Technicians pull up in their black mortuary van outside the house. At the same time a removals lorry stopped outside the house next door and two plainclothes officers climbed down swiftly from the cab. Clay waved to them and they joined her at the gate.
‘DS Terry Mason is gathering forensics,’ said Clay. ‘As soon as we’ve removed the body and Terry’s satisfied that he’s got everything we need, you’re to strip the house of everything and take it to the warehouse.’