Justice for the Damned (29 page)

Jim rose and advanced towards the wolfhound, brandishing his baton. The dog eyed him warily, letting out a deep rumbling growl. ‘Get out of here,’ hissed Jim, giving a warning slash through the air. ‘Go on.’

The wolfhound retreated, but didn’t run away. Keeping his eyes fixed on the dog, Jim stooped to pick up the boot. It had a metal-tipped stiletto heel and a sharply pointed toe. The upper was made of wet-look PVC, most of which had been melted into a congealed, sooty mass. A grim frown clouded his face. Melinda had been wearing identical boots in the photo Reece had shown him. He jerked around at the sound of the iron door grating open. At the same instant, the wolfhound barked and lurched at him. Instinctively, he flung the boot into the trees and the dog went tearing after it. As Edward Forester stepped into view, Jim bore down on him like a train. There was no more need for subterfuge. He was certain now – Melinda was in the bunker. Whether she was dead or alive was another matter.

Edward’s eyes jerked wide. ‘Who the hell—’ he managed to gasp out before Jim lashed the baton across his shins. Letting out a shrill cry, he collapsed to the ground. He flung his hands up in front of his face as Jim stooped to grasp the collar of his coat.

Oblivious to the pain in his knee, Jim dragged Edward back into the bunker. ‘Is there a light in this place?’ he demanded to know.

Edward twitched a finger at the generator.

‘Don’t you fucking move,’ warned Jim, reaching to fire it up. As the bulb blinked into life, he pulled the door shut. There were two heavy-duty internal bolts. He shot them and turned to Edward, his eyes as sharp as scalpels. ‘Where is she?’

‘Where’s who?’ whimpered Edward.

‘Don’t play games with me.’ The threat of violence seethed just below the surface of Jim’s voice. ‘Where’s Melinda?’

‘I don’t know who you’re talking about. Please, you have to believe me! You’ve made some sort of mistake.’

There was no hint of a lie in Edward’s expression. Like all his kind, he was a consummate actor. If Jim hadn’t known better, he might have been taken in by the politician’s frightened, sincere eyes. ‘There’s no mistake. I know exactly who and what you are. You’re Edward Forester, Labour MP for Sheffield South-East. Your mother is Mabel Forester. Your father was Norman Harding. His son, Freddie Harding, is your half-brother. Like him you’re a rapist.’ Jim recited the date and time that had been tattooed onto his brain ever since the night of Stephen Baxley’s murderous rampage, ‘On the first of October, 1997, at ten forty-three p.m., Stephen Baxley, Marisa and Herbert Winstanley, Henry Reeve and yourself drugged and molested Mark Baxley and Grace Kirby in the basement of the Winstanleys’ house.’

As Edward listened, his face grew waxy with the realisation that this was one situation he wasn’t going to be able to talk himself out of. And yet, knowing no other way, he persisted to try. ‘You’re right about who I am. As for the other things you said, I don’t know where you’re getting your information from, but you’re wrong.’ He pressed his hands together as if in prayer. ‘I swear to you on everything I hold sacred, I’d never hurt anybody, least of all a child.’

Jim’s lips stretched into something that looked like but wasn’t a smile. ‘I didn’t say Mark and Grace were children.’

Edward’s eyes danced as if searching for something he’d lost. ‘You didn’t have to. I’ve read about them in the newspapers. That’s how I knew how old—’

‘Enough!’ Jim barked. ‘You wouldn’t know how to tell the fucking truth if your life depended on it. Which is unfortunate for you because it does.’

Tears sprang into Edward’s eyes. ‘Oh God, please don’t kill me. If it’s money you want, I’ll give you all I have.’

Jim’s nose wrinkled as if he’d smelt something nasty. ‘You can’t buy your way out of this.’

‘I… I…’ Edward stammered, as if he couldn’t compute what he’d heard. ‘I wish I could help you, but I don’t have the answer you want.’

There was an echoing metallic boom as Jim brought his baton down hard against one of the steel drums. Edward clutched his hands over his head, dissolving into a blubbering mass. Jim glared at him, blood pounding in his veins, urging him to smash his skull into a hundred pieces. The man was more rotten than any of the governments they’d lived under. The sooner he was crushed out of existence the better. But this wasn’t just about Forester. There were others out there who had to be brought to justice – Freddie Harding; Amy and Grace’s killer; everyone who’d ever been to one of Herbert and Marisa’s ‘special’ parties. And besides, killing Forester would almost be an act of mercy compared to what he would suffer in prison. A warning thought came to him:
You still need to find the evidence to put the bastard in prison.

Jim’s eyes travelled the room. Power saws, corrosive chemicals, lye, digging tools – everything you’d need to dispose of a body. Along with the PVC boot, they were incriminating items. But they weren’t enough. He needed more, much more if he was going to bury Forester for life. His gaze lingered on the steel drums, whose lids had been welded shut. ‘What’s in these?’

‘Petrol for the generator,’ Edward managed to say, his voice shaking badly.

Jim looked at the shelves again, contemplating whether to use the tools to cut open the drums. His forehead wrinkled as something occurred to him. He measured the room with his eyes. It was seven or so metres long by about three metres wide. From outside the bunker was ten, maybe even fifteen metres long. Surely that meant there was another room. But where was the door to it? He scanned the floor, thinking that maybe the bunker had an underground level. There was no visible trapdoor. He pushed aside one of the steel drums. It was heavy. The effort made his head reel. There was nothing under the drum but concrete.

‘Move the rest of them and the bags of lye,’ he told Edward, struggling not to let his wooziness show through in his voice. The politician was a coward. That was obvious. But even cowards were capable of attack when cornered – especially if they sensed weakness.

Edward obeyed. Again, no trapdoor. ‘There’s nothing here but what you see.’

Jim made a doubtful noise in his throat. ‘Give me the door key.’

Edward tossed Jim a bunch of keys. He locked the door. ‘Now lie flat on your face, hands behind your head.’

Jim stamped on the floor in a couple of places, producing a dull, solid sound. He approached the shelves, removed a plastic container and rapped his knuckles against the backing board. It echoed hollowly. He pulled at a shelf tentatively, then more forcefully. There was a click. The board swung outwards a few centimetres. Jim flashed Edward a triumphant glance. The politician wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were closed and he was grinding his face into the floor as if trying to dig a hole with his nose.

‘On your feet,’ said Jim.

Edward didn’t seem to hear. There was blood on his forehead where he’d rubbed the skin away. He was making a small whining sound in his throat, like a dog in pain. Jim grabbed his collar and hauled him upright. He twisted one of Edward’s arms up behind his back, warning, ‘Any sudden movements and I’ll break it.’

He guided Edward towards the shelves. ‘Open it.’

Edward fully opened the door and they entered the second room. The first thing Jim saw was the shelves with their array of supplies, video tapes, DVDs and sex toys. Then he saw the photos, and in that instant, he knew Vernon Tisdale had got it right and everyone else had got it horribly, horribly wrong.

Jim forced Edward down to the floor again. Edward made no attempt to resist as Jim snatched a pair of handcuffs off a shelf and snapped them around his wrists. The politician squeezed his eyes shut, trembling uncontrollably, mumbling to himself.

‘What’s that?’ growled Jim, pushing his face close to Edward’s. He caught the word
mummy
. ‘Mummy can’t save you now, you sick, sick, sick bastard!’

Jim stood over Edward, the baton quivering in his hand as if electrified. He didn’t merely want to beat Edward’s brains to a pulp any more. He wanted to damn him to the same hell of cruelty and agony as he’d damned his victims. But he couldn’t do it. His gaze returned to the photos. Roxanne Cole, Carole Stewart, Jennifer Barns, Cheryl Wright, and all the others, they deserved better than that kind of justice.

Drawing in a slow breath, Jim stepped away from Edward. His gaze traversed the tapes and DVDs to the year 1997. He pulled out DVDs until he found what he suspected he would. ‘Mark and Grace – 1/9/97’ was written on the cover. His features tightened at the memory of what the film contained. There was enough here to make sure Edward Forester never again breathed free air. It was more than Jim had expected, but still less than he’d hoped for. Even so, now was the time to call in Garrett. Jim took out his phone. Whether because of the thick concrete walls, the isolated location, or a combination of both, there was no signal.

‘Shit,’ muttered Jim. His eyes measured the walls again. This room was maybe three or five metres long. That meant there was perhaps another three metres unaccounted for. He pulled at the shelves. They came away easily from the wall, revealing the bolted door. He didn’t even bother to look through the slit in the door. He simply threw back the bolts and opened it. Stomach knotting at the stench, he entered the room. His heart gave a heavy beat when he saw the girl. She looked worse than a lot of corpses he’d seen. But then she lifted her head and her pretty blue eyes peered at him through their raw, swollen lids. Her body stiffened as he dropped to his haunches at her side.

‘It’s OK, Melinda,’ Jim said gently. Seeing her staring at the baton, he put it away. ‘My name’s Jim Monahan. I’m a policeman. You’re safe now.’

Melinda’s fear-paralysed limbs didn’t relax. But a tiny glimmer of hope mingled with the terror in her eyes. The glimmer grew as Jim took out Edward’s keys, found the one that fitted the padlock at her neck and removed the collar.

‘Can you move?’ asked Jim.

‘Yes,’ Melinda replied in a dry-throated whisper. Quivering with the effort, she raised herself into a sitting position, then to her feet. She swayed as if she might fall over. Jim reached out to steady her, but she shrank away from him against the rear wall, eyes darting about like those of a trapped animal searching for an escape route.

Jim spread his hands, palms outwards. With one hand, he reached slowly to take out his police ID and displayed it to Melinda. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, Melinda. I’m going to take you away from this place.’

Melinda’s gaze flickered between the ID and Jim’s face. Jim had the same coloured eyes as the man – or men – behind the gimp mask. But that was where the similarities started and ended. Jim’s eyes weren’t mean little piggish things, they were wide-spaced and wide open, and even in his ID photo, a sort of weary, sad compassion shone through.

Jim motioned for Melinda to follow him into the second room. She warily moved away from the wall. Even with the ID, she wasn’t ready to believe. Was this just another game? Another way to give her false hope in order to wring every last drop of perverse pleasure from her? A man was lying on the floor outside the door. He looked respectable, like someone’s father. But she’d learned a long time ago not to trust appearances. Was he the one who’d done this to her? She couldn’t tell without seeing his eyes. And his eyes were tightly closed. Her breath snagged in her throat as she caught sight of the photos. It was like standing in a room of mirrors and seeing your death reflected back at you over and over again.

Jim yanked off Edward’s wellington boots and trousers. With a knee across the back of his neck, he unlocked the cuffs and removed his wax jacket. He re-secured the cuffs and proffered the clothes to Melinda. ‘Put these on.’

She hesitated, repulsed by the thought of wearing her abuser’s – if that’s what this man was – clothes. But also suddenly wondering at the absence of other police officers. Surely any policeman would have called in back-up before tackling someone so dangerous. ‘How did you find me?’

‘There’s no time to explain now.’ Jim was thinking about the second vehicle he’d heard pull over outside Southview. If someone was keeping an eye on Forester, how long would have to pass before they came to check on him? ‘Please. We’ve got to move quickly.’

Still, Melinda made no move to take the clothes. It was clear to Jim that he wasn’t going to gain her trust with words alone. Christ knew what sort of games Forester had played with her head. He took a spray can out of his pocket. ‘This is pepper-spray. Take it, and if I make one move you don’t like feel free to use it on me.’

Melinda reached out tentatively, then quickly took the can. She examined it as though trying to work out whether it was genuine. She noticed the man on the floor watching her. His eyes were only open a slit, but it was enough. She thrust the can towards them and pressed the nozzle, shooting a stream of spray. He jerked his face away. A second or two passed. Then he began to writhe and cry out, ‘It burns!’

‘Good!’ Melinda’s voice burst out of her in a surge of shuddering rage. ‘I hope it burns your fucking eyes out.’

She made to hit Edward with another blast of spray, but Jim caught hold of her arm. ‘That’s enough,’ he said, his voice as gentle but firm as his grip.

Melinda jerked free. ‘It’s not fucking enough. It’ll never be enough to repay that fucker for what he’s done.’

I know
, said Jim’s eyes. But he didn’t move out of Melinda’s way. She glared at him for a moment. Then the rage seeped away, leaving only pain and exhaustion behind. Tears trembled in her eyes. Swiping them savagely away, she reached for Edward’s clothes. The trousers were far too big for her, but they stayed up after she knotted their belt. She tried the boots on, then kicked them off. If she needed to run, there was no way she would be able to do so with any great speed in those clumping things.

As Melinda dressed, Jim dragged Edward into the cell and secured the collar around his neck. He took a couple more sets of restraints from the shelves and cuffed Edward’s feet to his hands. Even though he doubted Edward had the balls to do it, he didn’t want to give him the chance to rig up some way to hang himself. After closing and bolting the door, Jim headed for the outer room. He didn’t like leaving Edward in the bunker, but if something happened on the way back to the car, he was going to need both hands free. Besides, he doubted anyone else had a key, except perhaps Freddie Harding. And it seemed unlikely to him that Harding would risk coming here during daylight hours.