The Anglesey Murders Box Set

by Conrad Jones

  His job was his life. He found investigating the bizarre – and writing news stories about it – exhilarating, as did his colleagues. Headlines about government U-turns and the global financial meltdown were not for him. He was an investigator and proud of it. Malcolm buzzed off searching the Internet for unusual happenings, weird deaths, persons missing in unusual circumstances, and when he focused on a storyline, his tenacity to seek out the truth was unrivalled. His headlines were sculpted by him alone, not picked up from international news sites. His colleagues were a mixed bag of sports writers and mainstream columnists, but Malcolm considered himself different. He was special. When one or more of his workmates cracked a new headline, it was party time and the cocaine and alcohol flowed. ‘Work hard, play hard,’ Malcolm repeatedly told people.

  At twenty-six, he’d climbed the ladder of success quickly and he was fiercely proud of his achievements thus far. His Facebook page sported a scanned picture of his Young Journalist of the Year award, instead of a picture of himself. He knew that he wasn’t good-looking; in fact, he was overweight, his sweat glands caused him endless embarrassment and his ginger hair was thinning fast. Although he spent a fortune on cologne and designer clothing, women found him arrogant and physically repellent. His infrequent sexual encounters usually cost him money and they didn’t last very long. Still, he knew that his success at work and financial status would attract a woman one day. Probably a gold-digger, but as long as she was compliant in the bedroom, it was all good. He was in no rush.

  The whispering became louder and snapped him back to reality. Malcolm blinked and tried to focus on the room. Candlelight flickered in the darkness, casting shadows and distorting the faces around him. He wasn’t in the nightclub, of that he was certain. He blinked again as fragmented memories of the night before returned to him. A woman had invited him to a party. She was black and she was hot. He could remember that much. As he focused on the people around him, he recognised her face, but it was distorted by the flickering yellow glow. He had no idea who the others were.

  The woman he had been with in the club was stunning. He remembered her perfume was thick, almost cloying, and her eyes were so dark they were hypnotic. She’d approached him near the end of the night as his friends dwindled and headed off home in different directions. At the time, he couldn’t believe his luck. Women never chatted him up, especially beautiful women. He had noticed her earlier in the evening talking to one of his workmates, and although he noticed how attractive she was, he didn’t pay her much attention. At the end of the night when she introduced herself, she said that she knew his name and was a fan of his articles, especially the stories about missing people.

  Malcolm had a talent for investigating the lost, and writing stories about reuniting families, pulled at the heartstrings of the nation – and sold newspapers. She said that she was studying journalism at university and aspired to be as successful as he’d been. Malcolm was flattered by her attention and bought half a dozen drinks, attempting to weaken her resistance to his sexual advances. All he succeeded in doing was getting himself blind drunk. She appeared completely sober, suggesting vodka shots near the end of the night. They tipped him over the edge. He recalled her inviting him back to her place for a party before he blanked out.

  Malcolm felt rough and he couldn’t move. He guessed that the alcohol had numbed his motor neurons. ‘I’m out of my brains here,’ he slurred. The faces stared at him blankly. ‘Where am I?’

  None of the blurred faces responded. Malcolm tried to wipe the sleep from his eyes, but his arms wouldn’t move. He tensed the muscles in his arms and opened and closed his fingers repeatedly. Everything was working, so there was another reason why his limbs wouldn’t move. He looked down but his neck was stiff and trying to move it was painful. His head wouldn’t move. From the position he was sitting in, he could tell that he was in a chair. It had arms and a high back, but he could feel ridges of cold metal beneath his skin, which seemed odd.

  ‘What is going on?’ he mumbled, realising that his arms were tied to the chair. The sickly smell of incense drifted to his nostrils and tendrils of smoke from the candles hung lazily in the air. ‘Hey, has anyone got a joint on the go?’ Malcolm joked. His voice was still thick and slurred. He couldn’t see the edges of the room; the darkness beyond the candlelight was impenetrable. The flickering yellow glow couldn’t illuminate more than a few yards from the flame. The incense was making him feel nauseous. There was something else in the air that seemed familiar. It reminded him of the hot summer days of his youth when the local council workers went on strike and refused to empty the bins; black refuse sacks were piled high on the streets and maggot-riddled food spilled out of them where dogs and rats had ripped them open. It was the smell of rotting meat. As his senses sharpened, he realised that he may be stoned at a party full of strangers, but something told him that he wasn’t. His instincts told him that something was wrong – very wrong.

  He looked to the only face that was familiar. His mouth was dry, and his tongue felt furry as he spoke. ‘Hey, Janine, sorry I blanked out. Where are we?’

  ‘My name is not Janine.’

  ‘Jackie?’

  ‘Some call me ‘she’ some call me Fabienne, I like that.’

  ‘Whatever your name is, what is going on?’

  ‘You can call me Baphomet for now. Does that name ring any bells with you?’ she replied calmly.

  ‘It’s unusual but I don’t think I’ve heard it before.’ Malcolm swallowed hard and his throat prickled. He had heard the name before, and it caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. ‘Look I’m not in any fit state to think straight. Any chance of a drink? I’m parched.’

  ‘You’ve heard the name before, Malcolm Baines. Now tell me what you were going to publish about us.’ Her black skin glistened with perspiration, and in the dull light her eyes looked like circles of oil speckled with yellow jewels as the candles reflected in them. She neared him and put her hands either side of him on the arms of the chair. As she leant towards him her perfume smelled the same, but her breath smelled rancid. ‘What were you going to publish about us?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Fabienne.’

  ‘I’m not Fabienne here, mundane one,’ she whispered. ‘Call me Baphomet.’

  ‘Baphomet.’ Malcolm snorted. He was tiring of the game, and his muscles ached. He needed to stand up and clear his head. The name sent prickles of fear along his flesh. He could feel goosebumps rising on his arms. ‘You’ve had too much vodka, darling.’

  ‘I didn’t drink any vodka you fool.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Malcolm nodded, laughing. ‘You were pouring it down your throat. Are you having a giraffe?’ As he looked into her dark eyes, he answered the question himself. She wasn’t having a laugh at all. He swallowed hard and felt a raging thirst coming over him. He tried to smile and cock his head to the side, but it was held fast by something. ‘Look. Let’s stop messing around. You’ve had a laugh at my expense and now I need a beer and a piss, not necessarily in that order.’

  ‘Shut up, you fat pig, and answer my question.’

  ‘Come on love, I’m gasping for a drink here.’ Malcolm laughed nervously. ‘If you want to tie me up and play rough, I’m game, but I need the loo first.’ He struggled with the bonds around his arms, but they wouldn’t budge.

  ‘What were you about to publish about us?’

  ‘About who exactly?’ he asked angrily. ‘Let me out of this chair before I piss myself.’

  ‘About the Order of Nine Angels.’ She stared into his eyes and he sensed the contempt she felt for him. The name Nine Angels sent a shiver of fear through his brain. He’d been investigating their order for months. At first, he thought they were just another cult with delusions of grandeur, but the deeper he looked, the more his initial impressions melted away. The evidence proved that this order was far more powerful than any other he had investigated. It was also far more dangerous.

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sp; ‘This is bullshit, lady.’ He laughed, although there was a touch of panic in his voice. ‘Let me out of this chair and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. I’m busting for a pee and gasping for a drink and you’re beginning to wind me up now.’

  ‘You’ve been snooping around us and we don’t like that.’

  ‘It’s my job to snoop around people, that’s what I do for a living.’ Malcolm tried to keep his voice strong, but his words were thick and slurred. ‘Let me out of this thing and I’ll talk to you.’

  ‘You’re not moving from the culling chair until you’ve told us what we want to know. How long you spend in it before you talk is up to you.’ She leant close to his face, her nose inches from his. He could feel her putrid breath on his cheek. He realised that he couldn’t move his head at all. It wasn’t the drink that stopped him from moving, it was a clamp of some description. As he regained the feeling in his body, he felt cold metal encircling his skull.

  ‘I don’t know what type of game this is but it’s not funny.’

  ‘This is no game, Malcolm Baines, Young Reporter of the Year, and be assured that you will die here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. You will die here. The manner of your death is determined by you. Tell us what we won’t to know now and it will be quick, lie and you will know suffering as you could never imagine suffering to be.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Stop this right now.’ Malcolm kicked out his legs in a blind panic, but he realised that they were fastened to the chair too. ‘Do you think I’m an idiot?’ He thrust all his weight backwards in an attempt to tip the chair, but it hardly moved. ‘Get me out of this contraption.’

  ‘Contraption,’ she said, smiling. ‘It’s the culling chair, where we cull nosey reporters and writers and other snoopy mundane people. You’re just another one to add to the list.’

  ‘Culling chair my arse; is this thing screwed to the floor?’ he shouted at the staring faces around the room. ‘This has gone too far. You’ve had your fun and scared the shit out of me, now let me go. I’ve had enough.’ He was enraged, but the use of the name Baphomet and the term ‘culling chair’ sent bolts of fear through him. He had learnt about both in his search for a missing girl. He had found no definitive proof that either truly existed - until now.

  His research had shown him that satanic groups or ‘nexions’ were widespread and powerful, and that such groups advocated ‘culling’ – the sacrifice of any who dared to expose them. The discovery of the abused bodies of two young girls in the nineties led Belgian detectives to uncover a satanic sect whose membership included government ministers and relatives of the royal family. At the time, the Benelux news agencies ran a huge campaign to seek out nexions, and the size of their organisation and the depravity of their actions had shocked the world. Malcolm was touched by the media hype and he’d studied the cases in detail. Some of their victims were murdered by new recruits as part of their inauguration into the group. Murdering a victim in front of other members secured their silence for life and proved that they were truly willing to leave the shackles of civilised values behind. Once in the group, only death could release them. At first, he thought they were a small group of wasters dabbling with the occult, but as he delved through case after case, their shadowy form gained weight.

  Malcolm first encountered them when the mother of a young woman contacted him about her disappearance. Although he had researched hundreds of cults abroad, it was the first time he’d seen evidence of their existence here. She knew that her daughter had joined a cult and she appealed to Malcolm to help find her. That was the first time he heard of the Order of Nine Angels. It appeared that the group had emerged from older cults. That particular investigation uncovered nothing, and the girl remained on the missing list. Over the years he followed several lines of enquiry into the group, but their Internet profile gave no clues to their whereabouts. He’d specifically followed the disappearance of the young woman who joined their sinister ranks but then a few months later decided that she wanted out. She made several short phone calls to her mother and one panicked emergency call to the police, then disappeared off the face of the earth. Her family and the police were convinced that she’d been murdered, but they had no proof, no body and no idea who the nexion’s members were. If this woman was a member of the order, then he was in terrible trouble; he thought it wise to tell her something credible without incriminating himself.

  ‘Look, I was following a missing person case and stumbled upon the fact she’d joined a cult, that’s all.’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘There’ not much to tell. Her mother said that she thought her daughter had joined the Hell’s Angels, but she was old and confused.’ He laughed nervously and looked around at the faces. ‘No one here has a Harley, do they?’ The faces remained blank, so he carried on. ‘Her friends told me she wasn’t involved with any biker gangs, so I looked deeper into other groups and touched upon a website belonging to a group called the Nine ‘Angles’ not Angels.’ Malcolm shrugged and licked his lips. ‘I need a drink, please.’

  ‘You know more than that.’

  ‘Look, my head is cabbaged, and my gob feels like the bottom of a parrot’s cage. I need a drink.’

  ‘Let him drink.’

  She laughed and pushed herself away from the culling chair, and he sighed with relief as a man stepped forwards. Malcolm thought that he looked expressionless as he approached. He was hoping that he’d have a tall glass of cold beer. As the man neared, he realised that everyone in the room was naked. The dark shadows had hidden their forms from his view. The fact that they were naked panicked him further. It added to the eeriness of the whole scenario in which he found himself.

  ‘You can drink from him. We have nothing pure down here.’

  ‘Whatever, I’ve had enough of this crap.’ Malcolm licked his parched lips, not realising what she meant. The man stood in front of him and held his penis between his forefinger and thumb. ‘What is he doing?’ Malcolm shouted a second before a stream of hot urine hit him in the face. Two pairs of strong hands grabbed his head from behind, pulling his forehead backwards, pinching his nostrils and forcing his jaw downwards. Malcolm gagged. ‘You people are nutters. Get off me.’

  As his head was released, his stomach expelled its contents and vomit spewed from his mouth. The acidic liquid burnt his nostrils and the back of his throat. He gagged at the taste of cider and urine. ‘You’re sick. You’re all sick.’ He coughed and spluttered once the deed was done, and he tried to settle his breathing. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There was no doubt in his mind now that this woman was part of the group he’d investigated. He was intelligent enough to know that his situation was dire. His eyes were watering, and tears ran down his cheeks. He began to shiver uncontrollably as his mind raced, searching for a way out.

  ‘Are you still thirsty, fat, mundane man?’ She smiled for the first time. Malcolm noticed that there wasn’t a line on her face. It seemed odd to him to be attracted to a woman who was responsible for him being strapped to a chair, but then the entire night had been freaky.

  ‘I might be fat but at least I’m not crazy.’ Malcolm spat his words and globules of vomit flew from his lips. He was terrified but defiant. ‘You’re bang out of order and you have no idea who you’re messing with. I’m connected to some very serious people.’

  ‘that’s an interesting choice of words because some of our friends would be happy to mess with you.’ There were chuckles from the dark corners of the room. Some of the laughter was guttural, almost animal-like. Malcolm couldn’t see who was laughing and he found no humour in her words.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean by that, but no one is coming anywhere near me. You’ll have to kill me first.’

  ‘That’s fine. We can do that.’

  Her demeanour sent another wave of fear through him. Some of the cold cases he’d investigated in the US showed the victims had suffered violent sexual trauma.

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sp; ‘Get me out of this chair.’

  He gritted his teeth and rocked violently in the chair, but his bindings were too tight to escape.

  ‘They like to do things like that, but I don’t think you would survive it and I need you to talk. Some of them would prefer to do it once you’re dead anyway.’ She touched a manicured finger to her full lips and licked it suggestively. ‘Maybe later when you have told us what we want to know. Then we could have some fun tearing you apart.’

  Malcolm sighed loudly. His situation was hopeless. ‘Okay. You’ve got my attention.’ Malcolm spat onto the floor. The salty taste of sweat filled his senses. He was in deep trouble. Nine Angles or Nine Angels, it didn’t matter. Whoever these people were, they meant him harm. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘It’s simple. We want to know exactly what you were going to publish about us.’ Her eyes burnt into his, looking for signs of deception.

  ‘About the Nine Angels?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There was nothing of any substance, basically.’ Malcolm spat again. ‘I couldn’t find out much more than the odd ranting on the Internet. There were some old sites about the Nine ‘Angles’, mostly in America and Canada, but they haven’t been updated for years.’

  ‘We aren’t interested in history,’ she said. ‘I’m talking about the article you were writing.’

  ‘Look, I’m not the first reporter to delve into this.’ Malcolm scanned the faces for a response. ‘The Yanks had a field day with cults, but there was nothing solid here in this country. There is no story.’

  ‘You’re lying.’ She turned away. ‘Strip him.’

  Several men moved at once, helped by others that he couldn’t see behind him. Malcolm opened his mouth to protest, but a hand was clamped over his mouth as his designer clothing was ripped from him painfully. Within seconds he was naked, and he could feel metal ridges beneath his skin. They felt curved, like pipes. Being naked in public was terrifying. He hated his body; it was pale and bloated; his tiny penis was nestled in a clump of ginger pubic hair, hidden by a heavy fold of fat. Humiliated and frightened, he decided to use his considerable negotiating skills to levy a way out.