The Anglesey Murders Box Set

by Conrad Jones

  ‘The traffic was bad,’ the courier mumbled. ‘Sign the screen, please.’

  Mr Roberts made a squiggle that was illegible and took the package. The energy from the knife seeped through the bubble-wrap, cardboard, and packing tape and made his skin tingle. He could feel its power travelling through his hand into his veins, saturating his very being with a malignant force. There was evil inside it, cast in the steel. He could feel the courier staring at him as he drove away. Mr Roberts walked away from the gate along a moss-covered path, overgrown with brambles, tearing at the packaging frantically. When he reached the small farmyard where the real Mr Roberts had been found face down with his trousers around his ankles, he could hardly contain himself. He threw the cardboard into the weeds and gripped the handle. There was a swastika engraved on the hilt. The blade glinted in the half light. He ran his tongue along the serrated side of the military knife, drawing blood. He felt the heady rush of adrenalin. He was at the murder scene, holding the weapon used to dispatch Mr Roberts in 1995. The malevolence coursed through him. It was something unholy. He could feel the killer’s presence through the handle. The connection between them was finally complete. He could never deny him now, not if he tried. His mother had told the truth all along.

  CHAPTER 6

  At eight o’clock in the morning, Julie Adams identified her husband, supported by her eldest son. Alan and Kim waited for them to compose themselves. They were shown into an interview room, designed specifically for bereaved families. It was comfortable with settees and no tables or desks. There were no barriers. They had tea and coffee brought in for them and Julie was given a box of tissues and a glass of water. She was obviously distraught.

  ‘I’m very sorry for your loss, Julie,’ Alan said. ‘Do you mind if I call you Julie?’ She shook her head and blew her nose into a white tissue. Her son looked like he was on the edge of breaking down. He appeared to be late teens. ‘We want to ask you a few questions about Kelvin and his whereabouts over the last few days, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Yes.’ She blew her nose and shook her head. ‘Kelvin didn’t have an enemy in the world. He was such a lovely man. I can’t believe anyone would hurt him. I just can’t believe he’s dead.’

  ‘It must be a terrible shock. Tell me a little about him.’

  ‘I don’t know where to start. What do you need to know?’

  ‘Where did he work?’ Alan asked.

  ‘He works at the Jaguar plant near Liverpool,’ Julie said. ‘I mean, he worked. Past tense.’ She broke down, her body shaking. Alan waited until she’d calmed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘There’s no need to apologise. It’s only natural you’re grieving.’ He paused to allow her to compose herself. ‘You said he worked at Jaguar. That’s in Speke, near Liverpool, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What does he do there?’

  ‘He’s an engineer.’

  ‘That must be a good job,’ Alan said. ‘How long has he been there?’

  ‘Since school. It was Fords then. He completed his degree there and then stayed. It pays well and it’s secure, although it’s had its moments over the years.’

  ‘Everywhere does,’ Alan said. He paused for a moment. ‘Did he work shifts or was it a Monday to Friday job?’

  ‘He did shifts when he was an apprentice but for the last twenty years, it’s been Monday to Friday. He always finished early on a Friday so we could do something with the boys. My youngest couldn’t come. I’ve had to leave him with my mother. He’s heartbroken.’

  ‘I’m sure he is. Are Kelvin’s parents alive?’

  ‘No. They both died last year within three months of each other.’

  ‘That’s sad. How old were they?’

  ‘Late eighties.’

  ‘A good innings, I suppose,’ Alan said. Mrs Adams looked at him, not sure if she was offended or not. Alan sensed how fragile she was. One wrong word could ruin the interview. ‘Are you familiar with the area where Kelvin was found?’ Alan asked.

  ‘Porth Dafarch. Yes,’ she said. ‘We stayed in a caravan there when we were courting and we went back every year. He loved it. He went fishing there once a month religiously, no matter what the weather.’

  ‘Once a month?’ Alan asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it the same day every month?’

  ‘No. It depended on what we had on at home with the boys. It was usually near the end of the month,’ Julie said. She looked at Kim, confused. Kim smiled thinly.

  ‘Did he ever meet anyone else when he went fishing?’ Alan asked.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I mean, was he a member of a club or did he have any fishing pals?’

  ‘Oh, I see. No. He took the boys when they were younger but they grew out of it. He usually went alone.’

  ‘We’re a bit confused about the circumstances,’ Alan said.

  ‘Oh. Like what?’

  ‘Some of his clothing was found in the toilet block near the beach. We can’t explain that,’ Alan said. ‘Do you know what his routine was when he got there?’

  ‘Were they found in the disabled cubicle?’ the son asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve been there with him a few times. He used it to change his wet clothes before he drove home,’ the son said. ‘It’s never locked. There are lights in there that always work and a heater. He used it to change his waterproofs before getting into the car.’

  ‘I see,’ Alan said, nodding. Julie Adams frowned. ‘That makes sense.’

  ‘Why would that be confusing?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Alan said. ‘We have to be clear.’

  ‘It seems perfectly obvious to me.’

  ‘We have to clarify the sequence of events. What you’ve told me tells me that he was on his way back to the car when he was attacked,’ Alan said.

  ‘As opposed to what?’ Julie asked. Her face was like thunder. ‘As in why else take off his clothes in a public toilet?’

  ‘There are several possibilities we had to consider,’ Alan said. ‘It was late at night in a remote spot.’

  ‘You thought he was there to meet other men, didn’t you?’ she said. Her son glared at Alan. His face darkened in anger.

  ‘Anything is possible. We have to consider all the angles and eliminate them as we collect the answers. It’s all part of investigating a murder, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You always see the worst in people, you lot.’

  ‘Obviously, we try not to but we’re dealing with a serious crime.’

  ‘Kelvin was a family man, who never put a foot wrong. He wasn’t the type of man to look for sex in a public toilet.’

  ‘Is that what you think my dad was doing?’ the son asked.

  ‘No, we don’t. We have to consider all possibilities in a case like this,’ Kim said. ‘Things are seldom what they seem but we have to explore all the options. We don’t mean to offend you.’

  ‘Well, you have offended us. He’s still lying on a slab in there and you’re questioning his sexuality and his marriage. How dare you,’ the son said. He stood up and grabbed his mum’s arm. ‘Come on, Mum. Let’s go before I punch him in the face.’ They stormed out of the room and slammed the door. There was a moment of awkward silence.

  ‘That went well,’ Kim said. She looked at Alan, shaking her head. ‘You’re as tactful as ever. It’s a real talent, you know.’

  ‘It was always going to be a difficult conversation,’ Alan said with a sigh. He turned to face her. ‘I don’t mean to sound horrible but I can’t think about how offended she is, we had to ask the question and something about this, stinks.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’m not buying the fishing trip story,’ Alan said. ‘Not that night.’

  ‘But they said he went every month.’

  ‘Maybe he did but all the equipment in that car was bone dry. Okay, the waterproofs were saturated, and I’ll accept that he may well have been getting changed into dry clothes w
hen he was attacked, in which case, where had he been to get soaked?’

  ‘Wave watching, walking, looking for a spot safe to fish in the storm?’

  ‘No. He knew the area well. There’s nowhere along that coast where you can fish in a storm like that. It was pitch-black that night, he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, never mind the waves.’

  ‘You have a point,’ Kim said. ‘Do you want to tell me what you think happened?’

  ‘Nope,’ Alan said. ‘I haven’t got a clue but I know he wasn’t fishing.’

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Owen Collins pulled up outside his workshop. He’d worked there as a mechanic since he was ten years old, helping his dad after school and at weekends. By the time he’d reached his teen years, he had stripped and rebuilt an iconic V8 engine, which his father had taken out of a Rover and kept. They worked on it in their spare time and fitted it into a black Capri which his dad drove around for five years. It was the fastest car on the island for a time. He was a natural, feeling his way around an engine with ease. When he left school, he joined his dad in the business and built a reputation as a talented mechanic and a fair businessman. Things went well for twenty years until his father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. After six months of traumatic treatment, he succumbed to the disease. Owen was bereft. He’d spent his entire life with his dad at his side. It was as if half of him had died too. Keeping the wheels turning at the workshop had been the only thing stopping him from breaking down. He’d laughed with his wife about being a mechanic having a breakdown. So far, they’d managed to keep it together. Business had taken a downturn with only one pair of hands, but he’d kept his financial issues to himself. He would pull it back. Taking on another mechanic was the solution, but good mechanics were at a premium on the island. The best mechanics usually upped and left for the big money in the cities. There were plenty of poor ones—taking on the wrong person could finish the business. He had to be careful.

  Owen opened the shutters and turned on the lights, the radio, and the kettle. He sifted through his worksheets for the day. It was going to be a long shift. A Volkswagen Golf was the priority. He needed to change the starter motor and the oil before lunchtime which was achievable if he had the new starter motor on the shelf. Europarts were supposed to deliver it yesterday but his account was over its limit. He had to clear three-hundred pounds before they would okay any new orders but the three hundred had taken him to his overdraft limit. He was at the end of the road, financially. Cashflow was a killer, everyone knows that. If he could clear all the vehicles waiting to be fixed, he would be liquid again. He wasn’t losing money; it was merely a cashflow crisis.

  The kettle boiled and he made a brew. It was hot and sweet and the cup warmed his fingers. Nothing worse than cold fingers when you’re wrestling a rusty nut with a spanner. A blue van pulled up and he breathed a sigh of relief. It was the starter motor delivery. Today was going to be a good day, he could feel it in his bones. His old dad was up there somewhere looking out for him.

  ‘Morning, Owen,’ the delivery driver said. ‘Volkswagen starter motor for you, if you could sign here for me, I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘Morning, Dai. You’re a sight for sore eyes,’ Owen said, scribbling on the screen. ‘I can crack on now that’s here.’

  ‘Hey, while you’re here on your own, I’ve got ten gallons of Castrol Magnatec in the van. It fell off the back of a lorry yesterday,’ Di said, lowering his voice. ‘I can let you have it for a ton.’

  ‘That’s a bargain, Dai but cashflow is a bit tight at the moment,’ Owen said. It was an offer too good to refuse even though he wouldn’t normally touch anything dodgy. Things were tight and oil was an easy way to make money. He had to drop the oil in the Golf anyway, which would use some of it. ‘If you can wait until Friday for the cash, I’ll take the lot.’

  ‘Friday it is,’ Di said. He shook hands with Owen. ‘Where shall I put it?’

  ‘Stick it next to the tyres over there, please mate,’ Owen said. He knew it was going to be a good day. ‘Do you want a brew?’

  ‘No thanks, Owen,’ Di said. ‘I’ve got fifteen drops to make this morning. I’ll unload the oil and get off. Someone has to keep the wheels of industry moving.’

  ‘Cheers, Di,’ Owen said. They carried the oil in and stored it on a shelf. Di waved and beeped the horn as he drove off.

  Owen waved goodbye and walked back to his brew. He finished it off and took the starter motor from the box. The old motor was already removed so fitting the new one would be simple. It was all going to plan. He was fastening the last bolt when a black Range Rover pulled up outside. The windows were blacked out and the booming baseline of gangster-rap vibrated from inside. Owen recognised the vehicle. It was a small island and only one person drove a vehicle like that. The music went off and the front doors opened. Jamie Hollins climbed out of the driver’s side, his wingman, Tony John jumped out of the passenger side. Owen had a sinking feeling in his guts. They were trouble with a capital T.

  ‘Owen, my friend,’ Jamie shouted. ‘How’s it going?’ Jamie smiled from ear to ear as if Owen was his oldest friend and he hadn’t seen him for years. His eyes darted everywhere as if he was nervous, searching for danger. ‘Good to see you,’ Jamie said, offering his hand. ‘Always good to see you,’ he repeated.

  ‘Likewise, Jamie,’ Owen said, shaking his hand. He was confused and concerned by Jamie’s greeting. They barely knew each other. They knew of each other because it was a small town. Owen’s father fixed Jamie’s father’s vehicles over the years but they were hardly old friends. ‘What can I do for you, trouble with the Range Rover?’

  ‘No, she’s sweet as a nut,’ Jamie said. ‘I’ve come to talk business with you.’

  ‘Business?’ Owen said, wiping his oily hands on a rag. ‘What business would that be?’

  ‘I’m buying a taxi company and I’m going into the motor trade. I’m expanding and I’m going to do you a favour at the same time,’ Jamie said.

  ‘And what would that be, Jamie?’ Owen asked, his concern deepening. Jamie Hollins didn’t do favours for nothing.

  ‘A little birdie tells me that you’re experiencing cashflow problems,’ Jamie said. ‘I’m here to offer you a way out. It’s a way to turn your business around and help me out at the same time.’

  ‘I’m not sure where you get your information from but my business is in good shape, thank you,’ Owen said. He felt his guts tighten; anger and concern eating him. ‘I appreciate the intent but I’m making a living.’

  ‘Let’s not bullshit each other. Your credit limit at Europarts is up to the limit, you’re over your overdraft with the bank, and a friend at the council offices tells me your business rates are due and they’re going up this year,’ Jamie said. His smile disappeared. ‘You couldn’t pay cash for the knock-off oil you just bought.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Owen muttered

  ‘Eyes and ears everywhere, Owen. That’s my forte,’ Jamie said. ‘Your business is floundering at best.’ He paused to let the information sink in.

  ‘How do you know all that?’ Owen asked again, fuming.

  ‘This is a small town. I have eyes and ears everywhere and a cousin who works at Santander,’ Jamie chuckled. ‘You’re going down the toilet. I can help you to pull it together.’

  ‘I can manage, thank you,’ Owen said.

  ‘You might not be able to manage if some of your customers go elsewhere.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You’ve been servicing Jack Anthony’s courier vans since he started, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Owen said.

  ‘He’s your best customer. His business is the difference between you folding and trading.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Jamie?’ Owen asked. His face flushed red.

  ‘I’m saying that Jack is considering taking his fleet elsewhere and if he does, it will finish you off.’

  ‘He was here yesterday and he didn�
��t mention being unhappy,’ Owen said.

  ‘He doesn’t know he’s unhappy yet. But if I tell him he is, he will be. Do you see what I mean?’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Because I can.’ Jamie picked up a wrench and tapped it on a workbench. ‘You have something I need and in return, I can help you.’

  ‘What exactly do you want?’

  ‘Like I said, I’m here to help you,’ Jamie said. ‘You need Jack’s business and you need another pair of hands.’ Owen was about to protest but Jamie held up his hands. ‘Let me finish. I’m going to give you a mechanic. A good one and I’m going to pay his wages for you and I’m going to speak to Jack about keeping his business with you.’ Owen opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t think of any words to say. ‘I’m buying a taxi firm in Bangor and I’ll give you all their services and MOT’s plus any breakdowns. There’s fifteen cars and two minibuses in the fleet. It will turn this place into a little goldmine.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Owen asked. He shook his head perplexed. ‘Why would you do that, Jamie?’ Owen put his spanner down and stepped closer to him, incensed. ‘Nobody does anything for nothing. What exactly is the catch?’

  ‘No catch. I want to help you. I’m prepared to give you a second pair of hands and extra business,’ Jamie said. ‘You know Daisy, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I know him,’ Owen said. ‘He’s a good mechanic.’

  ‘He wants to work for me, here. Except he’ll be working for you.’

  ‘Daisy has worked for Peter’s garage for years. Why would he want to come here?’

  ‘He’s fallen out with the old man and don’t underestimate your reputation. He wants to work for someone reputable.’

  ‘It all sounds too good to be true,’ Owen said.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. What do I want in return?’ Jamie smiled. ‘This is how it works. You take two cars a week for me and let Daisy work on them here. You bill me enough to cover the parts and Daisy’s labour. The rest of the week, he’s your mechanic. That’s it.’