by Conrad Jones
‘Oh dear. The kids are having a two-week trip to Disney for free and she has to spend a week in her holiday home. Poor woman.’ Carla sounded sarcastic. ‘Poor Angie. She must be traumatised.’
‘There’s no need to be sarcastic. She’s upset.’
‘Sorry. It just winds me up the way you tiptoe around her.’
‘She’s the mother of my children.’ Carla stayed silent. ‘I know I worry about her too much. She’ll be fine. What’s was the worst that can happen?’
***
Alan and Kim drove past the industrial units which housed Anglesey Land Rover. A Lincoln Continental was parked outside next to a mishmash of Volkswagen campervans and the shell of an army truck.
‘You don’t expect to see a vehicle like that in Morawelon,’ Kim said, looking at the huge American car. ‘What is that place?’
‘They import and export Land Rovers and muscle cars,’ Alan said. ‘I had a look around in there a few years ago.’
‘Business or pleasure?’
‘Business. There were a lot of Land Rovers going missing from the island, so we paid them a visit and checked their vehicles. Everything was documented and accounted for. They turn out some impressive vehicles.’
‘Petrolhead’s heaven, I bet.’
They drove on and pulled up outside a block of apartments in Ffordd Beibio. Rory Atkins had been confirmed as the victim found at the burial chamber at Bryn Celli.
‘I can’t believe the time Pamela confirmed his identity.’ Kim said.
‘Half-past five this morning. She’s keen enough, isn’t she?’
‘When does that woman sleep?’
‘Maybe she’s been bitten by Mathew Hudson.’
‘I’ll get her to look in my mirror the next time I see her. What did she say on the initial report?’
‘She said, Rory Atkins has a burn mark on the back of his neck. It’s consistent with him being tasered from behind. Then he was bound with wire, some kind of ritual torture occurred and then his throat was slit. Cause of death is exsanguination, but the blood was removed from the scene.’
‘It’s got Hudson written all over it; it’s part of his vampire delusions.’
‘Agreed. Let’s go and take a look at Atkins’ flat before his family are informed.’
‘Where do they live?’
‘He has a sister around the corner in Nimrod Walk.’
‘I know it. Let’s see what we can see before they find out.’
The stairwell to the flats was concrete and smelled of urine. There was a faint odour of bacon and toast, but it was losing the battle to dominate the air. They reached the third floor and used the key recovered from Rory’s bag to open the door. The flat was dark and gloomy; all the curtains were closed. Alan opened them in the living room. It was tidy and well kept. The furniture smacked of Ikea and was reasonably new. There was a fifty-inch flat screen mounted on the wall.
‘Pricey for a student, don’t you think?’ Kim asked.
‘Less than three-hundred quid online nowadays. Could be a present from a family member. The place is very tidy for a teenager.’
The galley kitchen was spotless apart from one cup left in the sink. It all looked normal until they entered the bedroom. The walls and ceiling were covered in posters; fantasy horror and vampires, similar to the Hudson house. He had a sheep’s skull on the dressing table which he used as a candle holder and there was a ceremonial dagger next to it.
‘This looks familiar,’ Alan said. He took a close look at the knife without touching it. It looked more for decoration than for practical use.
Next to it was a printed calendar. Alan picked it up and read it.
‘Look at this. It’s the satanic calendar,’ he said. Kim read it with him. ‘January the seventh, St Winebald’s day. It’s a blood sacrifice day and should be celebrated with the death of a human male.’ He moved his finger along the dates. ‘January twentieth until the twenty-seventh is the time to abduct and prepare the victim for sacrifice on Candlemas, which is a blood and sexual festival. The victim should be female of any age.’ He shook his head and read on. ‘This is a day by day guide to what should be done on each date, by who and to who. The detail in this is incredible. This specifically tells followers when to kidnap, when and how to have sexual ceremonies, and when and who to kill.’ He stabbed a finger at the page. ‘Look here at St Walpurgis day. A blood consuming and dismemberment ceremony. Look at the date.’
‘That’s the date Mabel Jones was murdered,’ Kim said. ‘Where is this from?’
‘It was downloaded from a website called, Open Scroll. It’s on the top of the page here,’ Alan said. ‘Look here. Roodmas day. A human sacrifice day, which should be carried out at a site of ancient evil. Rory Atkins was reported missing around this date. Hudson is following this calendar.’
‘Definitely,’ Kim agreed. ‘It explains what he was doing at Bryn Celli and why Hudson was there. They had similar interests for sure.’
‘They met at college, got talking, and realised they were both into the occult.’
‘I bet when we get the results from their laptops, there will be similar websites visited and communication between them.’
‘Undoubtedly. So, they know each other, become friendly, Hudson lures him there under the ruse of conducting some kind of ritual, but Rory doesn’t realise he’s the sacrificial lamb?’
‘It explains how he got there without being dragged or carried. He went willingly.’
‘It’s too simple,’ Alan said.
‘What is?’
‘Something doesn’t sit right with me.’
‘What is it?’
‘Hudson.’
‘He’s a strange one.’
‘When we found Hudson, he was cowering under his bed and when we spoke to him, he had an attitude about him, but he didn’t strike me as a leader. I can’t see him planning these crimes himself, can you?’
‘He’s difficult to fathom. I wouldn’t put it past him, but I can see what you mean.’
‘Do you see Hudson as the type of character who would plot this type of attack and lure Rory there alone?’
‘You don’t think he’s acting alone?’
‘We haven’t seen any evidence that there is more than one assailant but is he responsible for the planning and organisation or is he listening to someone else. Someone in charge.’
CHAPTER 19
Mathew had a shower and watched as the water turned blood red. It circled the plughole before disappearing down the drain. He washed his hair and let the hot water run over him. Turning his face to the jet, he closed his eyes, allowing the memories of the last few weeks to flood his mind. There was a part of him that felt shame and guilt, horror and revulsion at what he’d done but it was a diminishing part of his psyche. The monster inside him was growing, becoming more powerful, taking control of him and he welcomed it. Fabienne was watching over him and he knew she would have been proud of him. He smiled and turned off the water, grabbing a thick bath sheet from the rail. He dried himself and went into the bedroom, avoiding the blood on the carpet. It was congealing and he didn’t want it sticking between his toes. That would be unpleasant. He raided the wardrobe. The husband was a size or two bigger than Mathew, but he helped himself to a full change of clothes; underwear, socks, trainers, vest, jumper, and a nice warm anorak. If it rained today, at least he would stay dry and warm. There was no guarantee he would find somewhere indoors to sleep, and he was tired. Very tired indeed. It had been an exhausting night. He decided to rest awhile before he continued on his way; he lay on the bed next to Angie and closed his eyes. Her body had a strange odour. He breathed in deeply through his nose. There was no rush to leave and she wouldn’t mind. She’d clung to life as long as she could, but her struggle was over, and she was beyond caring now. He closed his eyes again and dozed for a while but when he awoke, he felt more tired. Time had gone by and he had no idea how long he’d slept. His watch was still in the bathroom. He leaned up on one elbow and k
issed Angie on what was left of her lips. She was cold now and unresponsive; her body already stiffening with rigor.
He went back into the bathroom and put his watch on, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His eyes looked darker and he looked more mature; he was sure he did. He combed his hair and then went downstairs, whistling a tuneless song as he went; there was a spring in his step. When he reached the kitchen, hunger pangs gripped him. He needed to eat. There were bacon and eggs in the fridge and fresh bread on the table. He treated himself to four pieces of bacon, two eggs, and two pieces of toast and a large glass of orange juice. The food gave him a boost of energy and he felt fit for whatever the day would bring. As he finished his juice, he heard a car engine. He peered around the living room door and saw the husband climbing out of his car; a look of concern on his face.
***
Phil Gould was fuming. He wasn’t sure if it was guilt or genuine anger that he felt. Angie still hadn’t answered her phone. His night of passion had been ruined because he was worried about her and Carla picked up on his angst and stormed out, telling him not to contact her outside of work ever again. That added fuel to the flames, and he told Carla she was sacked and not to bother coming to the office for her things. He told her he would post them. She retorted that she would tell Angie they had been screwing for years and post pictures of them online. It was a juvenile exchange which became heated and he regretted some of the things he’d said but not all of them. The entire situation had been created because Angie was refusing to pick up her phone. She could be so selfish. Selfish?
Your wife spoiled your night in bed with your secretary, who you’ve been having sex with for over two years and she’s selfish? Get a grip, Phil, he thought. She’s the mother of your children and is your best friend and you’re screwing a bimbo behind her back. Imagine the devastation that would be caused if she found out. The kids would hate you for the rest of your life and Angie would never have you back in a million years. No chance. Sort your head out, right now!
The guilt squeezed his insides again. It was time to stop messing about and be faithful to the woman he loved. He did love her; there was no doubt about that but the sex with Carla was too freely available. It was no strings attached at first. There was a physical attraction, which had been satiated after the first few times. After that, it was just sex for the sake of having sex for him. It meant a lot more to her although she played it cool for a while. It was only a few months before she’d begun putting on pressure and demanding more than just sex; suddenly, she felt she deserved more than ten minutes of frantic physical activity a few times a week. They’d used the office at first. The desk, the chairs, on the settee, over the settee, on the floor, against the bookcase, and the filing cabinet. The passion burned so hot it didn’t matter where it was. There was no romance involved just pure animal instinct. Things changed. She wanted hotel rooms. Expensive hotel rooms with room service and prosecco. She wanted lunches and wining and dining, presents, spending time with each other; romance. That’s what she said she wanted. Romance. She wanted to be treated like a lady, she’d said, not just a plaything. That’s exactly what she was; a plaything. It was fun bending her over the desk whenever they felt the urge but now, she wanted all the trappings of a full-blown relationship. Bollocks to that. It was time to stop playing with fire and treat Angie like the beautiful wife and mother she was, and he was going to start now.
Phil put his key in the front door and twisted it, but the barrel wouldn’t budge. He tried it again with the same result. It had been locked from inside. That was worrying. A sense of foreboding passed through him; he was suddenly desperately worried for Angie’s safety. Why would she lock the door from the inside and turn her phone off? He pressed the bell and knocked on the door and then walked towards the kitchen window. Looking through it, he could see the back door was wide open. He saw dark smudges on the cupboard doors and splatter marks on the walls and ceiling. It looked like blood. In fact, there was no doubt in his mind that it was blood. What else could it be? His stomach somersaulted. He ran around the house to the back door and stepped inside.
‘Angie!’ he shouted. There was no reply. ‘Angie!’
Phil moved quickly through the kitchen into the living room. He was panicked; his breathing was coming in short gulps. The house became alien to him, as if he’d never been there before. Bloody finger marks ran along the wall for the length of the room. His insides knotted and he felt a mixture of fear and panic. ‘Angie!’ he called again as he ran down the hallway towards the bedroom. The bedroom door was closed, and he stopped before grabbing the handle and opening it. His eyes took in the scene. What he saw inside made his legs buckle beneath him, tears blurred his vision and he vomited the contents of his stomach onto the carpet.
CHAPTER 20
Mathew Hudson watched the husband run into the house. He heard him shouting her name. His voice was pained. There was fear in it. Mathew could feel his pain just as he’d felt hers. It was almost tangible. Fabienne had taught him well. Life before had been truly mundane but now he’d experienced emotions that were, quite simply, off the scale. The feeling of power and control was godlike. Witnessing the panic and pain of human suffering was exquisite, exciting, and addictive. It was also making him feel more complete. As if each experience was taking him to another level on a journey with no limits; the constraints of society were no longer of consequence to him. His heartbeat began to increase as he listened to him calling her name; his voice coming from deeper inside the bungalow. He wanted to be there when he saw her just to see the expression on his face. The cry of anguish when he reached the bedroom was incredible. It reached deep into him, touching his dark soul with icy fingers. Was there just a touch of sympathy there for him? No; there was none. All there was inside was a delicious hatred of the human race. He shivered in ecstasy. There were a few seconds of silence and then his cries pierced the air once more, becoming increasingly garbled. It was a very special moment. One he would remember and cherish forever. Fabienne would be so proud of him.
Mathew held the billhook tightly and brought it up to his face. He could smell her blood on it. He licked the blade slowly as if it was honey from a teaspoon. Then he headed for the backdoor of the bungalow. It was time to introduce himself to the husband. He could explain what had happened to Angie in detail and demonstrate how some of her injuries were caused. It felt like there was electricity coursing through his veins, filling him with dark energy. He stepped inside the kitchen door and locked it behind him, putting the key into his back pocket. Phil Gould was sobbing in the bedroom. He could hear him. At some point, he would want to call the police. Best to introduce himself before he had the chance.
CHAPTER 21
Joss Jones walked into the Trearddur Bay Hotel and approached the reception desk. A pretty young lady with a warm smile greeted him. She was familiar. Her smile took the edge off his nerves and he smiled back at her. If he was attracted to women, she would be his type. He checked his watch.
‘I’ve got a business meeting at one o’clock,’ Joss said.
‘What name is it?’
‘Joss Jones.’
‘Oh, of course. I thought I recognised you. I’m Jack’s cousin, Erin.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Joss said, blushing. His ex-partner’s murder had split the family. Most of them blamed Joss despite of the evidence saying otherwise. He blushed. His brief relationship with another man was an embarrassment to him. Erin sensed he was uncomfortable and obviously didn’t want to dwell on his ex.
‘You’re meeting Igor Karpov and his associates?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s arrived already with his colleagues. They’re in the Penrhos suite. Down the corridor to the left.’
‘Thank you.’
‘There’s tea and coffee available in the room.’ She smiled. ‘Would you like anything else?’
‘Can you send a double brandy in please?’ Joss asked.
‘One of those meetings, is it?’
she joked.
‘I’m not looking forward to it.’
‘They did seem to be a little intense.’
‘Intense is a good way to describe them,’ Joss said, shrugging. ‘Psychos-yr-us is another. Was there a big guy with them wearing an eyepatch, scar down his face, and a hook for a hand?’
‘Gosh,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I didn’t notice anyone like that.’
‘I’m joking,’ Joss said. ‘They’re okay really, just Russian. They can’t help being intense; it’s just what they do.’
‘I’ll send your brandy in. If you need another one, there’s a phone in the room. Press nine and it will come through to reception.’
‘Thank you, Erin.’
Joss headed for the meeting room. He paused outside and took a deep breath before going in. The room was lined with dark oak, more akin to a courtroom than a meeting room. Three men were sitting in high back leather chairs, wearing expensive suits with open-neck shirts. He recognised Igor but didn’t know the others. They didn’t look related. Igor stood up and stepped towards him. They shook with their right hands; the left hands clasped the other’s shoulder into a half hug.
‘Hello, Joss,’ Igor said. His voice was flat and deep. ‘This is Boris, and this is Hector.’ Both men nodded a greeting but didn’t stand. Joss could feel the tension in the room. They eyed him coldly. ‘Take a seat.’
‘Thank you,’ Joss said. ‘First of all, let me apologise for the delay. I had a problem at the unit.’
‘Your problems are not our concern,’ Hector said. His voice was gravely; his eyes dark and cold. ‘We’re not here to listen to your excuses.’ Joss looked at the men, one at a time. They stared at him. ‘We don’t do business with people who can’t keep to a schedule.’ They continued to glare.
‘What is this?’ Joss asked, smiling. ‘Good gangster and bad gangster?’ he said. He pointed to Boris. ‘Which one is which? What are you supposed to be, scary gangster?’
‘Do you think this is funny?’ Hector asked, sitting forward.
