Justice for the Damned (44 page)

“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 11-17 – 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’s 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’s name.

“And did you and Dr Reeve discuss what took place during his therapy sessions?” asked Jim.

“We discussed the wellbeing 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. “Detective 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 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 percent 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. Well 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 5:10pm, 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 sheaf. The sheaf 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’s 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, Detective 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’s 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 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’s 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 facade 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 pot shot 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’s 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 matchday 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.”