by Conrad Jones
‘Afternoon, Inspector,’ the CSI greeted him. He hadn’t seen her before. She was a redhead with corkscrew curls and white teeth. Her smile was welcoming. ‘I’m Pamela Stone,’ she said.
‘Alan Williams,’ he said.
‘DS Kim Davies,’ Kim said.
‘Do we know who this is?’ Alan asked.
‘This is Kelvin Adams,’ Pamela said. ‘He’s been sprayed with pepper spray, tied up, and beaten around the head and shoulders with a blunt instrument. He’s stiff so my estimated time of death is late last night to early hours of this morning.’
‘He had ID on him?’ Kim asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Where was it?’
‘Uniform found his wallet in the toilet block. His clothes are in the disabled cubicle. It was in the pocket of his trousers, hung on the back of the door. He got undressed for some reason.’
‘How did he get here?’
‘The people carrier parked on the hill is registered to him at an address in Pensarn.’
‘Pensarn?’ Alan said. ‘That’s fifty miles away. It’s a long way to come to use a public toilet in the middle of the night.’
‘That would depend on what you’re using the toilet for,’ Pamela said. Alan nodded in agreement. He noticed a wedding ring on his finger. Pamela followed his gaze. ‘There’s a wife. She’s registered on the vehicle insurance along with two teenagers.’
‘Have they been informed?’ Kim asked.
‘No, not yet. Uniform wanted to wait for you to arrive.’
‘What do you think the sequence was?’ Alan asked.
‘He parked up the car and went somewhere. His clothes are soaked. Then he went into the toilets, got partially undressed. He was disabled with pepper spray, tied up, and beaten to death. I think he was forced to walk over the grange. His feet are cut and full of thorns from the gorse, then he was killed here.’
‘Is there money in his wallet?’ Kim asked.
‘Yes. Over a hundred quid and his debit cards are there, along with his driving license,’ Pamela said.
‘That rules out a robbery gone wrong,’ Kim said. ‘The level of violence used is unusual. Do you think it could’ve been personal?’
‘You think he knew his killer?’
‘Maybe. He was comfortable enough to remove his trousers and hang them up. It’s not exactly a fumble in the dark, is it?’
‘Where are the rest of his clothes?’ Alan asked.
‘We haven’t found them yet but with this wind, they could be halfway across the Irish Sea. I’ve asked uniform to search the headland a hundred yards from the victim. I’m sure you’ll expand that anyway,’ Pamela said. ‘His hands are bound with duct tape.’
‘The wounds on his head look circular,’ Alan said. ‘Was it a hammer?’
‘I think so,’ Pamela said. ‘There are two deep penetrating wounds to his shoulder, so I’m thinking it was a claw hammer although we haven’t found it yet.’
‘That’s not the type of tool you carry around in your pocket,’ Kim said. ‘Or take to a sexual encounter for that matter. The killer came prepared to disable the victim with pepper spray, bind him with duct tape, and beat him with a claw hammer. It was all premeditated.’
‘Looking at the bruising here and here,’ Pamela said, pointing to the side of the trachea. ‘I would say he was strangled too.’
‘What with?’
‘The attacker’s bare hands.’
‘So, we’re thinking it was a premeditated attack,’ Alan said. ‘And quite possibly personal. Where’s his mobile phone?’
‘We haven’t found one yet,’ Pamela said.
‘Is the vehicle open?’ Alan asked.
‘No. It’s locked.’
‘Have we found any keys?’
‘No.’
‘Ask uniform to get an auto-locksmith to open his vehicle and search it. His mobile phone might be in it,’ Alan said. Kim nodded and spoke to the officer outside. She ducked back inside a few seconds later. ‘Let’s hope whoever he arranged to meet here didn’t take his phone. Let’s find out what network he’s on and get a request into his phone provider and see who he was communicating with yesterday.’
‘Are you taking him to Bangor?’ Alan asked.
‘Yes. The rain has removed a lot of our evidence but we may get lucky.’
‘I’ll have his wife meet us there to identify him. I need to ask her some tricky questions.’
‘Rather you than me,’ Pamela said. ‘Do you want me to expediate the results?’
‘Yes, please. I’ll clear the cost with head office.’
‘Guv,’ a voice called. Alan stepped outside. ‘We’ve found a bin bag with waterproof clothing in it. The car keys are in the pocket.’
‘Where was the bag?’ Alan asked.
‘Snagged on a rock over the cliff edge. It looks like someone tossed it off the cliff but couldn’t see it had snagged on a rock in the dark,’ the officer said.
‘Good man,’ Alan said. ‘Let’s have a look inside, shall we?’ He turned back to the tent. ‘Thanks, Pamela. I’ll speak to you later.’ She nodded and went back to her investigation.
Alan and Kim walked across the grassy slopes, avoiding the clumps of brambles and nettles, climbed over the stile, and approached the people carrier. It was a dark-blue Ford Galaxy. The lights flashed as it was unlocked.
Alan opened the driver’s door and Kim opened the passenger door. The vehicle was spotless and smelled of pine air-freshener. They searched the glove box and the door pockets but found nothing of interest. Alan opened the rear passenger door and closed it just as quickly, then moved onto the rear doors. Kim was next to him as he opened them. The space was packed neatly with fishing equipment. A tackle box, several carbon rods, and a large keepnet. Alan looked at Kim. She shrugged.
‘Maybe he didn’t come all this way to meet someone,’ Kim said. ‘Maybe he came here to fish.’
‘In this storm?’ Alan said. ‘There’s not much fishing going on tonight. This equipment is bone dry but his waterproofs are soaked.’
‘We need to speak to his wife,’ Kim said. She was going to add something about women’s intuition but didn’t need to. Alan nodded that he knew what she meant.
CHAPTER 2
He watched the CSI officers working. They were concentrating their efforts on the body and the toilet block. The vehicle had been removed on a trailer an hour before. He’d watched them finding the bag of clothes and retrieving it from the cliff. That was a mistake. The killer must have thought he’d tossed it hard enough to reach the sea but the wind was so strong it brought it back. Nothing had gone to plan by the look of things. The victim was stronger than he looked and had made it impossible to carry out the original plan. He guessed the intention was to march him to the cliffs, untie him, and throw him off but he’d struggled so hard, he had to be killed there and then. He couldn’t carry the body across the grange in the darkness with that wind against him, so he left him where he died. It was a calculated risk. The killer guessed the chances were the police would never connect him to the murder, not in a million years. That’s what he thought happened. He might be wrong and it didn’t really matter if he was right or not but deconstructing crimes helped him to remain at liberty. Killing someone was easy, getting away with it was not.
As he studied the scene, it occurred to him that his own crimes were far more personal and had more meaning than the one he was analysing. When the urges first appeared, his sense of right and wrong kept them in check for a while. He suppressed them but they became stronger, a constant clamour in his mind. The bloodlust became irresistible and he’d been very careful before indulging in murder and that had been an opportunist moment. Pushing the suicidal man off the cliff had been the first taste. It had given him a high unlike anything he’d experienced before. He was in the right place at the right time. They wouldn’t all be that easy. He would have to plan. If he didn’t, he would spend his life behind bars.
As time went by, it becam
e clear being too careful would narrow his choice of victims. Not that he spent long picking them; they generally picked themselves. They had fallen into his lap so far. The frequency of his attacks had increased and he was taking more chances but that was normal for all killers. It was to be expected; the natural evolution of a murderer. Practice makes perfect. Some got caught, most did not.
The urge to kill had completely overwhelmed him. He lived and breathed death. It was all he thought about. The dark desires he had, all but consumed him. It was difficult to function as a normal human being anymore; whatever normal was. Wasn’t the urge to kill in all of us but society quelled it? Religion was invented to control our instincts. Thou shall not kill etcetera. Maybe he was normal and the rest of the world were sheep waiting to be slaughtered. Maybe.
He took the binoculars from his eyes and blinked to clear his vision. The hammer that was used to kill the man was on the rock, a hundred yards to his left, still caked in blood. They had missed it so far. He imagined touching the cold metal with his fingertips. His heart rate increased and he could feel adrenalin coursing through him. Reliving the attack was a poor substitute for watching the real thing—it was as close as it could be to hearing the screams and smelling the blood. He leaned closer and inhaled the breeze. It smelled of fear and death. They were odours that he craved like heroin to an addict. Although this death wasn’t his to claim, it was different, less spontaneous, it was still satisfying.
In his experience, the excitement of stalking a victim and waiting for the perfect time and place to attack were what it was all about. Hearing them plead, listening to them weep was like music to his ear. The rush was more powerful than any drug he’d tried.
His thoughts were disturbed when his email pinged. It was a reply he’d been waiting for. His heartbeat quickened. He ran back to his vehicle and read the reply eagerly, his excitement growing to epic proportions. There was a mobile number tagged at the end of the reply. He punched the number into his phone and dialled it. His breath was trapped in his chest as he waited for an answer.
‘Hello.’
‘I’ve got your email.’
‘About the knife?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you seen the pictures?’ the voice asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Do you have the money?’
‘Yes,’ he said, his voice quavering. ‘How do I know it’s the genuine article?’
‘Because I’m an expert. I trace these items with due diligence,’ the man said, irritated. ‘Have you done your homework on the police files?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve found the evidence files online?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a photograph of all the articles taken from his bedroom when he was arrested in ninety-five,’ the man said.
‘Yes, I’ve seen that.’
‘I’ve also sent you a photograph of the knife in the evidence cage, four years later in ninety-nine.’
‘Yes. I have that too.’
‘The last picture was taken today next to a copy of today’s Daily Express. Do you have that?’
‘Yes.’ He looked at the photograph and his mouth began to water. His hands were shaking a little. It was the knife. His knife.
‘The photographs show the provenance without question.’
He studied the photographs and felt himself grow hard. It was genuine. His mind began to spin. It would bring him so close to him. This was the knife that killed four men in cold-blooded rage. One of his victims was stabbed thirty-six times, just four miles away from where he was sitting now. The weapon was within his grasp. He could almost reach out and touch it. He could smell it and almost taste its evil.
‘What’s your best price?’ he asked.
‘Don’t mess me about, mate,’ the man said. He sounded angry. ‘If you are who you say you are, the price shouldn’t matter.’ There was silence for a moment. ‘This is the actual weapon Peter Moore used to attack over forty men. Four of them died on this blade. You know the price is right.’
‘There’s always room to negotiate.’
‘Not on this. Not a chance.’ Another angry pause. ‘Listen to me, you freak. I’ve got people queueing up for this. You’re first because you’ve been a decent customer. Do you want it or not?’
‘I want it,’ he said.
‘Final answer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Ten thousand to the same account as last time. When the money appears in the account, I’ll have it couriered, to the same place as last time, first thing in the morning.’
‘I’m sending it now,’ he said. He pressed send and the money left his account. ‘Use the name Henry Roberts.’
‘That’s sick,’ the man chuckled. ‘The money is here. Got it. Nice doing business with you,’ the man said. ‘I’ll keep my eyes on the news. I’m interested in what you’re going to do with it,’ he said, hanging up.
He could feel the blood coursing through his veins. The anticipation of holding his weapon was almost too much to handle. The blade had sliced the skin of over forty men. It had been wielded with lethal force at least four times that the police knew about. It was his Holy Grail. He had so many fantasies about using that weapon. It was difficult to know where to start.
CHAPTER 3
Alan Williams headed back to divisional headquarters at Caernarvon. It was too dark to continue the search in such weather conditions; it would be restarted at daylight. He yawned and stretched his neck, lost in his own thoughts about the case. There were teams of detectives to organise for the following day, which wouldn’t take long and then he would be homeward bound—it had been a long shift.
‘A penny for your thoughts,’ Kim asked. She caught his yawn and turned the heater fan down. Her jeans were warm now but still uncomfortably damp. They would feel like that until she took them off and climbed into a hot bath. She was looking forward to a soak and a glass of pinot; preferably at the same time. She had taken to leaving the bottle in a cooler on the toilet where she could reach it, topping up her glass until the bathwater went tepid and her skin was wrinkly.
‘They’re not even worth a penny, believe me,’ Alan said. ‘It’s the same old story. We can’t pick a direction until the forensic results come in. All we can do is cover all the bases and wait to see what comes back. It’s the most frustrating part of the job for me,’ he said, glancing at her.
‘We don’t have a crystal ball.’
‘There’s a gap in the market for crystal balls.’
‘My mind will tick over all night,’ Kim said.
‘I don’t know about you but mine doesn’t switch off at night without help.’
‘I’m the same. My mind races through all the possible scenarios and suddenly it’s four o’clock in the morning. Then I fall asleep and wake up feeling so exhausted, I want to cry.’ She laughed. ‘My help is a grape called pinot,’ she said. ‘It works for me.’
‘Mine is whisky,’ Alan said. ‘I can’t sleep a wink without it. Especially when there’s a new case and no obvious starting points. I wish there was an off switch for my brain but there isn’t.’
‘There’re millions of others all looking for that switch every night,’ she said. ‘I’m looking forward to mine tonight. My bones are aching with the damp. I need wine, my bath, and my bed.’
‘There’s something bothering me about the victims in the bay,’ Alan said.
‘There’s plenty bothering me about them,’ Kim said. ‘You go first.’
‘Okay,’ Alan said, nodding. ‘Why chuck them in the sea knowing they would come up at some point?’ he asked. ‘There’s no doubt they would sink and drown but they would always come up again somewhere unless they weighted them down. They didn’t weigh them down. It’s almost as if they wanted them to be washed up somewhere.’
‘The way I see it, they had two choices,’ Kim said. ‘Weigh them down so they never come up or at least remove their head and hands and any tattoos to make them difficult to ident
ify. They did neither. Do they want us to identify them, if so, why?’
‘To send a message?’ Alan said. ‘It smacks of a threat to me. Look what happens if you cross us, type of threat.’
‘I think you’re right. I can’t see why they didn’t weight them down otherwise,’ Kim agreed.
‘We’re on the same page,’ Alan said.
‘Definitely. It won’t stop me thinking about it all night.’
‘I have the feeling double measures will be required tonight.’
‘Definitely,’ Kim agreed.
Alan checked the mirror. The grey-haired man looking back at him was bald on top with a dark-purple growth high on his forehead. It was the size of a small grape and his long-suffering wife had nagged him for years to have it removed. Before she left him, that was. Nowadays, she only nagged him about clearing the mortgage on the bungalow they’d shared for twenty-five years, bringing up their three sons, Kris, Dan, and Jack. It was an interest only mortgage and the property was in negative equity. He didn’t see what her problem was. Things would work out. They always did. Not always for the best, granted. Rarely for the best, if he was honest. He sighed and pushed it from his mind.
‘What are your thoughts about who they were?’ Alan asked.
