by Conrad Jones
‘Well done,’ Rob said. He rolled his eyes skyward and sighed. ‘We’ve uncovered several examples of tribal footwear in this area but then you know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Of course. I’ve studied those findings, but this is very unusual,’ Claire said, from behind him. He hadn’t heard her approaching and it startled him. She looked pale and shocked. ‘It’s very unusual indeed.’
‘Finding footwear in a chamber like this, isn’t unusual,’ Rob chunnered, shaking his head. He tried to calm her with his voice. She was clearly disturbed. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. Show me where you were digging.’
‘I know we can expect to find footwear from this period, I’m halfway through a master’s degree and I’m not stupid,’ she said, reluctantly leading him down the passage. She pointed to her find. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong but the indigenous people of Anglesey didn’t wear Adidas, did they?’
‘Adidas?’ Rob repeated. It was his turn to look disturbed.
Rob bent closer and shone his torch. The three stripes were uncovered, and the word ‘Samba’ was written in gold on a black training shoe. It was covered in clear polythene. Rob took a pair of tweezers from his utility belt and pierced the sheet. The hole was tiny, but the smell of decomposition quickly filled the air, choking them. He heard Claire vomit and felt the warm sticky liquid on his leg.
‘I think we should leave,’ Rob said. He took Claire by the arm and guided her toward the exit, stopping twice while she retched. When they reached the entrance, he could feel the warmth of a watery sun on his skin. He felt safe in the sunlight and relaxed a little. The mountains towered above them across the Straits. Their majesty soothed his nerves. ‘Do you have a mobile?’ Rob asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Call the police. Tell them we think we’ve found a dead body.’
‘We think we have?’ Claire said, frowning. ‘It was definitely dead.’
‘Yes. It was but we can’t be sure it’s all there. We’ve only seen a shoe.’
CHAPTER 3
Detective Inspector Alan Williams pulled his grey BMW to the side of the road and parked outside the home of Mabel Jones. Crime scene tape sealed the driveway and uniformed officers chatted and rubbed their hands to keep warm. There was no sign of the Press yet and the locals went about their business unaware of Mabel’s fate. Her home was on the road which ran through Llanfair and the traffic was very light. The pavements were empty, which was preferable when investigating a murder. Living and working in a rural setting sometimes had its bonuses. Curious passers-by could become a nuisance.
‘Are you ready for this?’ Alan asked his detective sergeant, Kim Davies. She was looking at the sign on the Penrhos Arms across the road. It displayed the longest place name in Britain, which locals shortened to Llanfair.p.g. She took a jar of Tiger Balm from her handbag and smeared some beneath her nose. The powerful odour made her eyes water. She passed the jar to Alan. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘You’re quiet. Are you okay?’
‘I’m okay. Just the victim’s age got me thinking of my nan. She was over ninety when she died.’
‘I remember you telling me about her,’ Alan said.
‘She died in her sleep in her own bed,’ Kim added, opening the door. ‘Not like this poor old dear. Let’s go and see what we’re dealing with.’
They walked through the cordon, exchanging greetings with their uniformed colleagues. The curtains were closed in the living room and bedroom, which were positioned either side of the front door. The door was open a few inches, guarded by a constable Alan knew as Gywn.
‘Are CSI still in there?’ Alan asked.
‘Yes, Alan. Pamela Stone is in there with two photographers.’ He handed them forensic suits and overshoes. ‘She asked me to give you these.’ They wriggled into them and Gwyn opened the door. ‘She’s in the living room, to your left.’
They walked in and the smell of the dead was heavy on the air; as was the scent of candlewax. The hallway was narrow with a telephone table to the left. A grey phone was perched on a dusty telephone directory and a copy of the Yellow Pages that had numbers scribbled in biro on the cover. The dial had enlarged numerals around it.
‘How old do you think they are?’ Alan asked, pointing to the directories.
‘God knows. My nan was the same. She wouldn’t throw her directory away for years. Most of the numbers in there would have been disconnected years ago.’
‘Most of the people in there would have been disconnected years ago, too,’ Alan said. A thin smile touched his lips. He stood in the living room doorway and tried to make sense of the scene. The smile faded. Pamela Stone was kneeling near the kitchen door. ‘Hello, Pamela.’
‘Hello,’ she said, sighing. Her eyes were wrinkled at the sides and he couldn’t remember noticing the lines being so ingrained. The job seemed to be sucking the life out of her. ‘The attacker smashed a window in the backdoor and took her by surprise from behind. She was sitting in that chair.’ She pointed to an armchair which had been upturned. Blood was soaked into the floral material. ‘She was stabbed multiple times there and then moved to where she is now.’ Mabel was lying on her back, arms and legs splayed as if she was doing a horizontal star-jump. Her eyes were wide open as if surprised; she stared at the ceiling angrily. A pair of candlesticks had been placed either side of her head, the wax puddled and solidified around the bases. Between her feet, two pokers had been laid in the shape of a cross and a saucepan had been placed next to her left hip. ‘The killer removed her heart and put it into the saucepan. There are three small bitemarks taken from it; the teeth imprint should be quite clear.’
‘He’s left forensic evidence?’ Alan asked, shaking his head. ‘That’s odd. I wonder if he was disturbed before he could tidy up.’
‘I don’t know. We’ve got the teeth marks on the heart and on the neck here,’ she said, pulling Mabel’s grey hair to one side. ‘Our killer bit her and sucked her blood. You can see the bruising around the wound here. Like a love bite.’ She pointed to the saucepan. ‘There’re fingerprints on the sides here and here and that’s a lip print on the rim. I think he tipped it to his mouth.’
‘He’s clearly mentally disturbed,’ Alan said.
‘Does he think he’s a vampire?’ Kim asked, looking at the wound.
‘Perhaps,’ Pamela said. ‘There’s something occult being played out here but I’m sensing he’s a beginner.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Alan asked.
‘The candlesticks,’ Pamela said. ‘They’re from Ikea.’ Alan and Kim exchanged glances. ‘He brought them with him. They’re too new to belong to Mabel. They look old but they’re not. I found them on their website.’
‘So, the occult slant was intended,’ Alan said.
‘Yes. He brought the candlesticks with him, in my opinion. It’s ritual.’
‘It might help us find him. She isn’t a random victim. He knew she lived alone, and he knew she was old and frail. Whoever did this is either local or has local knowledge.’
‘I agree,’ Kim said. ‘Probably from the village.’
‘There can’t be many people in Llanfair with an interest in vampires and the occult.’
‘True.’ Pamela stood up. ‘I’ve sent an image of the prints to the lab. They’re running them now. If he’s in the system, we’ll know soon.’
‘Good. Thanks.’ Alan walked to the kitchen and looked around. It was clear how the intruder entered, just as Pamela had said. ‘Who found her?’
‘The meals-on-wheels lady called the police when Mabel didn’t answer the door. Local uniform checked around the back and found the glass smashed and the door open.’
Alan stepped into the kitchen. It was fitted with pine units, popular in the seventies. The appliances were dated. Mabel kept a clean house, that was obvious. Her mugs were hanging from hooks on the wall near an electric kettle. The glaze was yellowed and cracked with age. There was a neat pile of newspapers on the dining table, each one folded open at the crossw
ord page. Her reading glasses and a fountain pen were placed side by side next to them. The dining chair beneath them looked more used than the others. This was her spot to read the news and complete the crossword. Probably her daytime spot – moving into the living room in the evening when her favourite television programs started. She was a creature of habit; Alan could see that. The newspaper at the top of the pile was yesterday’s edition; the crossword completed. He glanced around but couldn’t find what he was looking for.
‘What time did the meals-on-wheels lady call the police?’ Alan called to Pamela.
‘She knocked on the door at twelve-fifteen and called the police at half past.’
‘That’s odd,’ Alan said to himself.
‘What is?’ Kim asked.
‘I didn’t see a newspaper in the hallway, did you?’
‘No, but I’ll check,’ Kim said. She walked through the living room into the hallway and checked behind the door. There was a white envelope hanging from the letter box. She removed it and looked at the address. It was a flyer from a double-glazing company. ‘There’s no newspaper here,’ she said, walking back to the kitchen.
‘Ask Gwyn to walk up the street with you to the local shop and ask them if they deliver newspapers to Mabel,’ Alan said. ‘If they do, ask them what time they usually deliver here.’
‘Okay,’ Kim said. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking today’s newspaper isn’t here. It might be a coincidence or maybe someone knew she wouldn’t be reading it today.’
CHAPTER 4
Kim pushed the door open and a brass bell alerted the shopkeeper that a customer had arrived. The walls were fitted with shelves packed with jars of sweets of every description. It was like walking into a time warp taking her back to her childhood. Chocolate limes; bullseyes; cough drops; black Jacks; fruit salads; liquorice sticks; gobstoppers – every inch was filled with retro sweets. Glass counters contained nougat of every colour and flavour and the smell of toffee filled the air. She smiled and took it all in. An elderly man with grey hair came out of the back. He stood behind the counter and straightened his tie.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said, chirpily. His green cardigan was worn at the elbows. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Good afternoon. Do you deliver newspapers?’ Kim asked. The man gestured to a magazine rack behind her. It was crammed with all kinds of monthly magazines and comics. The daily papers were stacked on the bottom shelf.
‘We do deliver. There’s not much left at this time of day, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m DS Davies,’ Kim said, showing her warrant card. ‘Do you deliver to Mabel Jones, down the road?’
‘Yes,’ the man said, nodding. He shook his head. ‘I saw the police coming and going. Has something happened to Mabel?’
‘Yes. She’s been murdered,’ Kim said.
‘Good heavens,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘I’ve known Mabel all my life. She’s a lovely lady.’
‘Did you deliver newspapers to her every day?’
‘Yes.’
‘But not today?’
‘Pardon?’
‘There’s no newspaper there today,’ Kim said.
‘Well, I don’t know why that would be. Young Mathew delivers to her every day. He’s been delivering for two years now.’
‘Mathew who?’
‘Mathew Hudson.’
‘What time would he normally deliver to Mabel?’
‘About nine. I can’t understand why he didn’t today.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘A few hundred yards up the road. Number forty-four.’
‘He turned up for his round this morning as usual?’
‘Yes. He’s very reliable. He’s never let me down, always on time.’
Kim smiled and looked at the magazines. ‘Thanks for your help,’ she said. A Marvel comic caught her eye. ‘Does Mathew read magazines?’
‘Yes,’ the man said, confused. ‘He buys Blade every month.’
‘Blade? I’ve never heard of that one,’ Kim said, frowning.
‘It’s a vampire comic,’ the man said. ‘Is Mathew in some kind of trouble?’
‘No,’ Kim said. ‘We just need to talk to anyone who recently had contact with Mabel. Please don’t tell anyone we’ve been in here asking questions – especially Mathew Hudson.’
CHAPTER 5
In Holyhead, Joss Jones looked around the unit. It was quiet for a change. There were two red Corvettes waiting to be painted. It was the last coat before they were lacquered and then they could be sold on. They looked good and he would double his money on them, but they weren’t the priority just now. The priorities were the four Land Rover Defenders which had been shipped in from South Africa. The rear section of the chassis had been lined with lead to block the X-ray machines and stuffed with cocaine. Lots of cocaine. This deal was worth over a million. It would leapfrog him into the big league. With Jamie Hollins inside, the opportunity to grab the market was too good to miss. Most of Jamie’s crew had gone down with him, which left the door wide open. There was no credible opposition. It had taken a while to secure a supply of quality coke and the first few shipments had been squeaky-bum time, but they went like clockwork. He bought out a company in Morawelon, which specialised in importing old Land Rover Defenders from around the world. They stripped them to the chassis and rebuilt them from the ground up, replacing every nut and bolt before exporting them to the USA, where they fetched ridiculous amounts of money. Anglesey Land Rover was the perfect front for importing drugs. It also offered the perfect way to smuggle them in. Lead lining the chassis was genius. The entire vehicle had to be dismantled to reach it and there wasn’t a customs officer in the country with the knowledge or expertise to do so.
The sound of a vehicle arriving made his pulse quicken. He looked around the vehicles waiting to be refurbished. There were thirty or more, perfectly legitimate projects. Even the most thorough search by law enforcement wouldn’t yield anything illegal but it still made him nervous when product was in the building. The sooner it was gone, the better. This time, the entire shipment was going north to Liverpool and Manchester. Moving up into the wholesale sector reduced the risk and increased the profit. Selling fifty-pound bags around the pubs on the island was a thing of the past. He heard a key in the office door and relaxed. Only himself and Idle-Jeff had a key. He called him idle because he was. Jeff would sleep at every opportunity. If he delivered a vehicle somewhere, it took him twice as long as it should because he would pull over and sleep, but he was reliable and had a key. His other employees used the bell to gain entry. There were nine of them. Three welders, three paint sprayers, and three mechanics. Only the welders knew anything about the illegal side of the business. On the face of it, Anglesey Land Rover was a respectable business.
‘Morning,’ Idle-Jeff called. He closed the door and then broke into a coughing fit. His lungs sounded like they were full of custard. He took out his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette as he walked through the reception into the cavernous workshop. ‘They need dismantling, don’t they?’ he said, gesturing to the Defenders.
‘Yes.’ Joss looked at his watch. The welders were due to start work. They were a law unto themselves. Being party to illegal activity meant that disciplining them for lateness or smoking weed onsite was impossible. All three of them smoked cannabis from the moment they awoke until bedtime. They were excellent workers when they turned up, but they pushed the boundaries sometimes.
‘What time are they due?’ Idle-Jeff asked, sensing his anxiety.
‘Ten minutes ago.’
‘They’ll be having a puff on the way, don’t stress. They’ll be here.’
‘They know how important today is. This handover needs to be smooth and punctual. I can’t afford any slip ups today.’
‘Do you want me to start dismantling them?’
‘Yes, please. Strip the doors off them. We can make a start while we’re waiting.’ He checked the time again. ‘I’m sure
they do this just to wind me up,’ Joss moaned. ‘They know I can’t replace them; they’ve seen too much. That’s why they take the piss.’ The doorbell rang and echoed through the unit. It rang again and again. ‘That’s them, silly buggers. Let them in, please.’
‘At least we can crack on with the job,’ Idle-Jeff said. He walked through the reception and opened the door. A baseball bat struck him in the centre of his forehead. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.
CHAPTER 6
Pamela Stone packed up her gear and took one last look around. Her photographers were finished. Mabel Jones could be moved now, and she would suffer the indignity of a post-mortem before being laid to rest. Pamela’s phone rang. She looked at the screen and saw it was the lab calling.
‘Pamela Stone,’ she answered, sighing. She was tired and hungry. It had been a long day already. Processing an old lady, hacked to bits by a psycho, had sapped her energy. Senseless violence depressed her nowadays. It didn’t when she was younger; maybe it was her age. She listened to the caller and nodded. Alan came out of the kitchen and waited for her to finish the call. ‘I think I know how to get there but text me the postcode just in case, thanks,’ she said, ending the call. ‘You’ll be getting a call in a minute,’ she said. ‘We’ve got another one.’
‘Why, what’s happened?’ he asked.
‘There’s an archaeological dig going on at the burial chamber at Bryn Celli. They’ve uncovered the body of a young male that doesn’t belong there.’
‘Doesn’t belong there?’ Alan asked. ‘Is it suspicious?’
‘He’s a few thousand years late to the party, wrapped in plastic and buried in a shallow grave, wearing Adidas trainers, I believe.’
‘Okay, that’s suspicious enough,’ Alan said nodding. ‘Are you going there now?’
‘No. I’m going to eat first. Then I’ll be there. Our victim isn’t going anywhere for an hour or so. I’ll see you later, no doubt,’ she said. Alan’s phone buzzed. He held it up and showed her the screen. ‘Told you,’ she said.
