by Conrad Jones
‘Nice to meet you, Kerry.’ Tudor shook her hand a little too long and then put his glasses on. His serious face returned. ‘Is my client under caution?’
‘Not yet,’ Simon said. ‘Mr Price wouldn’t cooperate with us so we thought it would be simpler to continue here in case we need to caution him.’
‘I see,’ Tudor said, glancing at his client. He wasn’t sure why his client was so nervous. He’d seen enough guilty clients to be able to gauge their stress levels. Nervous clients were a liability. ‘I think we should start at the beginning. Wipe the slate clean and see where we end up, shall we?’
‘That’s fine,’ Simon said. He turned his attention to Glen Price. ‘Are you okay, Glen?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you mind if we call you Glen?’
‘No.’
‘Good. I want to clarify something, Glen. When we spoke to you yesterday, you told us that you talked to Kelvin Adams after work on the night he died.’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you call him about?’ Glen blushed red and looked at his hands. He couldn’t maintain eye contact. ‘Glen?’
‘I can’t remember, exactly.’
‘Come on, Glen,’ Simon pushed. ‘Your friend of twenty years was murdered, you spoke to him hours before, and you can’t remember what you spoke to him about. I don’t believe you.’
‘I mean I can’t remember the exact conversation. I’d had a few glasses of wine. It was something to do with work.’
‘What about work?’
‘Nothing you would understand. A technical issue.’
‘We wouldn’t understand. Really?’ Simon said, shaking his head.
‘My client answered your question,’ Tudor said. ‘I think we should move on.’
‘Okay. Do you know a man called Derek Kio?’ Simon asked. ‘He worked at Jaguar and was known as Degsy.’
‘No. The name doesn’t ring a bell.’ Glen look very uncomfortable.
‘Here is a picture of him,’ Kerry said. Glen glanced at it. He shook his head but it was obvious the image had an impact on him. ‘You must remember him. There was a drug raid at the factory and he was caught with cocaine in his locker.’ Glen looked blankly at the photograph. ‘It was a lot of cocaine. Two kilos. He was selling it to the nightshifts. That type of thing doesn’t happen every day.’
‘I don’t remember the name or recognise him. There were thousands employed there.’
‘You must remember the drug raid. It was six years ago.’
‘No. I don’t recall it.’
‘You were interviewed about it and that’s something people don’t forget in a hurry.’
‘I vaguely remember. That’s a long time ago,’ Glen said. He looked like he’d been given an electric shock.
‘This man, Derek Kio, was sentenced to four and a half years for possession with intent to supply. That doesn’t happen every day. Are you sure it doesn’t ring any bells?’
‘No. I can’t say it does, sorry.’
‘Derek Kio worked on the production line when he was arrested,’ Kerry said. ‘You, Barry Trent, and Kelvin Adams were all interviewed by the detectives investigating.’ She waited for an answer. Tudor looked perplexed. ‘I assume your client hasn’t mentioned this to you.’
‘What my client has discussed with me is our business. Why are we focused on this Derek Kio character?’
‘It will become clear,’ Simon said.
‘Can I ask where you’re going with this line of questioning?’
‘We’re not going anywhere. We just want Glen to tell us why he called Kelvin just hours before his murder. I don’t think we’re asking too much, do you?’ Simon asked.
‘He’s told you. It was a technical issue at work. Now, move on please.’
‘Okay, we’ll accept your explanation for the night of the murder but you called him after work eight times this week,’ Kerry said. Glen looked stunned.
‘How the hell do you know that? Have you looked at my phone records?’
‘Of course, we have,’ Kerry said.
‘They can’t do that,’ Glen said.
‘We can,’ Simon said. ‘And I told you we would be accessing your records.’
‘They can,’ Tudor said. ‘And they obviously have. Do you need a break to talk to me?’
‘No. I’m all right. I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘No one is saying you’ve done anything wrong, Glen,’ Simon said. ‘We’re trying to map out the last days of Kelvin’s life. You spent a lot of time with him at work and called him eight times this week after work. Surely, you can see why we’re asking you about it.’
‘Not really. I think you’re wasting my time and your own.’
‘You worked with him all day. So, why call him eight times in three days after work?’ Kerry asked. ‘It’s a simple question.’
‘Tell us what’s going on, Glen. Your friend was bludgeoned to death with a hammer.’
‘Nothing is going on. I’m sorry Kelvin is dead but it’s nothing to do with me.’
‘Why all the calls after work?’
‘I told you. Technical stuff.’
‘Why not wait until the next day to discuss it?’
‘I was working late at home.’
‘Do you recognise this number?’ Kerry asked, showing him her screen. Glen shook his head. ‘It’s a prepaid number and it called you twenty times in the last seven days. Who does this number belong to?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know who called you? You spoke to them, Glen,’ Kerry said. Glen blushed. ‘You answered the calls from this number six times last week and you spoke to the caller for over an hour in total. Then you stopped answering the calls but they never left a voicemail.’
‘I don’t know who it was.’
‘I find that odd,’ Kerry said.
‘It’s not odd, he’s lying,’ Simon said.
‘You spoke to them for an hour, Glen, and then when you came off the phone, you made two calls within minutes. Can you remember who you called?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I’ll remind you. One was to Kelvin Adams and the other was to Barry Trent.’ Kerry waited for an answer. Glen wrung his hands and avoided eye contact. ‘I find it a huge coincidence that the three of you were calling each other each time this number called you.’
‘Who does this number belong to?’ Simon asked.
‘Glen, if you know who that number belongs to, I suggest you tell them,’ Tudor said.
‘Listen to your brief, Glen,’ Kerry said. ‘Who did you speak to for over an hour and why did you call Kelvin Adams and Barry Trent straight afterwards?’
‘Okay, that’s enough for now. My client is obviously stressed. We’d like to take a break, please.’
‘That’s because he’s lying.’
‘I need a break to speak to my client,’ Tudor said. ‘Can we have ten minutes and some tea, please?’
‘No problem,’ Simon said, standing up. ‘Any sugar?’
‘No thanks,’ Tudor said. He looked at Glen who just shook his head. Simon had seen many suspects in his time and Glen Price looked more like a suspect than a witness every time he spoke to him. There was a haunted look in his eyes. He’d been backed into a corner and he couldn’t talk his way out of it. Whatever he was hiding, there was no doubt in his mind it had something to do with the murder of Kelvin Adams.
CHAPTER 41
The drive to the quarry was hampered by vehicles blocking the narrow road. It was a popular spot for dog walking in the mornings. The railway banking was still there, flanking the road on both sides, so there was nowhere to turn around. A traffic police car was trying to reverse the jam up the narrow track but it was a slow process. Half an hour later, when the bottleneck was cleared, they drove to the quarry and parked up next to a CSI van. Two uniformed officers guarded the entrance to a path which led to the waterfilled pits. Crime scene tape had been strung across. There were two pits, both square, both
very deep and bitterly cold. A human couldn’t survive in the dark waters for more than a few minutes, not that it had mattered to Zak Edwards.
Alan climbed out of the BMW and looked around. It looked different to the last time he’d been there. In happier times, his ex-wife had kept her horses nearby. Holy Mountain towered above them, sheer cliffs climbed up to gentler grassy slopes higher up. The quarry buildings had been renovated and cleaned and the tall chimney rebuilt and made safe. Most of the buildings were shells but one had been turned into a café—the site attracted a lot of visitors, locals and tourists. The grounds were landscaped and new paths had been built. Alan was impressed and made a note to bring the dogs there sometime. They headed towards the path and a uniformed sergeant met them.
‘Morning, guv,’ he said, lifting the tape. He looked visibly shocked. ‘He’s down here.’
They followed the path between tall blackthorn bushes in silence until they reached the first pit. Pamela Stone was kneeling next to a line of yellow evidence flags that were stuck in the ground. The body was covered. It was close to the water’s edge. Pamela looked up as they approached.
‘Morning, Pamela,’ Alan said.
‘Hello,’ she replied.
‘We really need to stop meeting like this,’ Alan said.
‘It’s becoming a habit.’
‘What have you got so far?’
‘This is Zak Edwards. He’s nineteen years old.’ She removed the plastic sheet which covered his body. ‘He was found in the water topless and his jeans had been pulled down to his knees. There are multiple stab wounds to the back, buttocks, and legs. I’m not sure exactly how many but there’re over thirty.’ She covered him again.
‘Any signs of a struggle?’
‘No. If you follow me over here.’ She walked to a nearby bench. The commemorative plaque was to a man who’d been mayor of the town for a while and the biggest crook on the island, Alan remembered. ‘See the blood pooled here and the body shape in the middle?’ she said. Alan nodded. ‘I think he was stabbed in the back here and he fell forward onto his face and then the killer followed him down and kept on stabbing him. He bled out here and was then moved and put into the water later. Much later. I think he was here for a while, a few hours at least. He wasn’t robbed. His wallet is still in his pocket, his watch is on his wrist, and there’s a gold chain around his neck.’
‘It’s not a robbery,’ Alan agreed. ‘I don’t know what it is for certain but I hope it isn’t what I think it is.’
‘What do you think it is?’
‘Familiar.’
‘You think there’s something familiar about the way he was killed?’ She looked at Alan and waited for a response, unwilling to go any further. He nodded but didn’t speak.
‘I can see by the look on your face that there’s something else on your mind,’ Alan said. He looked at Kim, who’d been quiet so far. ‘What do you think?’ he asked Kim.
‘The way the victim was killed is familiar,’ Kim said. ‘Trousers down and a frenzied knife attack from behind. The same as Henry Roberts, Peter Moore’s first victim.’
‘Exactly,’ Pamela said. ‘I haven’t examined the wounds in detail but first impressions are it’s a hunting knife of some type with a jagged edge on one side, blade on the other.’
‘Which is similar to the weapon Moore used,’ Alan said.
‘Correct. I’ve not confirmed the number of injuries yet but I’m betting there will be thirty-six stab wounds,’ Pamela said.
‘I wasn’t going to say anything until you did,’ Alan said. ‘They’re too similar to be anything but a copycat. And I don’t want that repeated in the newspapers,’ he said looking around. ‘We’ve got enough going on without the world’s press descending on the island too. That’s all we need.’
‘It’s going to happen,’ Kim said. ‘This makes Brian Hindley’s disappearance look completely different too. They were both stabbed and dragged into the water. The press will say it’s the same killer or worse, we’ve got a serial.’
‘What about Kelvin Adams?’ Pamela asked. ‘People will link all three, even though the MO is different.’
‘We can’t stop people speculating, especially online. It’s going to happen whether we like it or not.’ Alan sighed. ‘Have we found his clothes?’
‘A T-shirt and jacket,’ Pamela said. ‘I’ve had them rushed to the lab.’
‘Thank you,’ Alan said. ‘Had they been in the water?’
‘No. They were folded on the bench.’
‘We need to find Brian Hindley’s body and we need to get lucky with Kelvin Adams, so we can separate the cases before the press pick it up.’
‘Are you sure they’re separate?’ Kim asked.
‘I’m ninety per cent,’ Alan said.
‘I’m ninety-five,’ Pamela said.
‘Me too,’ Kim said.
‘We need to go and speak to the Edwards family,’ Alan said. ‘He doesn’t look like he was dragged here. What do you think?’
‘There are no defence wounds, his face isn’t marked. I think he was brought here of his own volition, lulled into a false sense of security, and attacked from behind. The first blow may have incapacitated him instantly but I won’t know until we get him to the lab.’
‘What’s the address on his identification?’ Kerry asked.
‘Nine Porth-y-felin Road,’ Pamela said, reading her notes.
‘Do you know it?’ Kerry asked.
‘Yes,’ Alan said. ‘It’s next to the Vic. I knew the landlord there for years. John Green his name was. He’s dead now.’
‘We’ll go and see the family before they find out from Facebook,’ Alan said, pointing to people on the mountain. They were a long way away but they were filming the scene. ‘There won’t be a signal up there so we’ve got a head start. Come on,’ he said to Kim. ‘I’ll let you do all the talking. I don’t want to upset another family this week.’
CHAPTER 42
The house on Porth-y-felin was built on a steep hill, at the end of a terrace. The quarry road crossed above it less than a few hundred yards down the hill where there was an old railway bridge. Through the archway was the dry dock for the marina and a pub called the Boathouse. The dry dock was like a graveyard of old boats rotting away—the toys of the rich that had become bored with the novelty of owning a boat. Alan knew Zak must have known the area very well. When Alan and Kim arrived, Zak’s family were eating breakfast; the smell of bacon hung in the air. They broke the news as sympathetically as they could, keeping the details to a minimum. Explaining their theory, Zac had been murdered in the same manner as a victim, murdered by a serial killer twenty-three years prior, wouldn’t help the family to cope. The family was very close. His mother, sister, and stepfather were devastated by the news. It was chilling to watch them breakdown. Within twenty minutes of being told, the house was packed with grieving family and friends. The sound of wailing could be heard down the street.
Despite the pandemonium, Alan asked to see Zak’s room and his sister took him up to the third floor, where the loft had been converted into a fourth bedroom. His room was very tidy. Tidier than any bedroom his own sons had slept in. The walls were decorated with black and white photographs of the island, mostly coastal shots. They were good photographs. Zak obviously had an eye for a picture. On his bedside table was a picture of himself and his sister, Leyla.
‘Zak was a keen photographer?’ Alan asked.
‘He was always out walking along the coast to the quarry. The mountain was his favourite place,’ Leyla said. ‘I can’t believe someone has killed him.’ Her bottom lip quivered, and the tears spilled over. ‘He was such a gentle boy, with a beautiful soul.’
‘Did he often go to the quarry at night?’
‘He went there any time he fancied, no matter the time or weather. His boyfriend has a boatyard down there,’ Leyla said, sobbing. ‘Have you spoken to him yet?’ Her eyes narrowed.
‘No, we haven’t spoken to a boyfriend. I didn
’t know he was gay,’ Alan said. ‘Now you’ve told me, we will.’
‘You must be the only one in town who doesn’t know,’ she sniffled. ‘They call him Zak gay, like there’s loads of other Zaks to identify him from. My mum knew he was gay before he did.’
‘What’s his boyfriend’s name?’
‘Lloyd Jones,’ she said. She was holding back. The name rang alarm bells in his head. Her expression changed. The light in her eyes darkened.
‘You don’t like him, do you?’
‘That’s an understatement. I can’t stand the creep.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Lloyd is all about Lloyd. He doesn’t acknowledge Zak in public. He’s ashamed of who he is. I’ve told Zak a thousand times to get rid him.’
‘There must be more to it than that.’
‘He’s dangerous.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘What he does for a living.’
‘Which is?’
‘He’s a dealer. And a shit one at that.’
‘What makes you say he’s shit?’
‘His gear is crap. Everyone says it is.’
‘Really?’ Alan feigned surprise. ‘Do you think he would ever hurt Zak?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past him. They were always arguing, splitting up, fighting about something or another. He gave Zak a black eye last year. My family were livid. Zak insisted it wasn’t Lloyd but we all knew it was. Lloyd was nearly lynched.’
‘Really? What, did they argue about?’
‘They could argue about what colour the sky is,’ she said. The tears flowed again as she sat on the bed and picked up their picture. ‘Lloyd wouldn’t come out. That was the main thing, and he was jealous, very jealous. Zak couldn’t talk to anyone. He made him come off Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. Zak loved Instagram. He had thousands of followers. His photographs are amazing. Zak told me there’d been argument yesterday.’
‘Between him and Lloyd?’
‘And Lloyd’s father.’
‘What about?’
‘Lloyds father is a retarded bigot.’ She shrugged. ‘He didn’t hear it all but it was something about Lloyd’s mum. His dad said something nasty about Zak. He’s a total homophobic knobhead. Zak said he left and told Lloyd not to ring him again until he was prepared to come out. He was very upset.’
