by Conrad Jones
When the police saw him, he knew what they would think. He was her pimp. He was soaked in her blood and a witness had seen him holding her. As they approached, he lost the plot and punched the bus stop so hard that he cracked three bones in his hand. It was four days later when he calmed down. He began to deny murdering Pauline Holmes, but by that time no one was listening.
CHAPTER 5
My First Warning
When I left the asylum that morning, it was gone two o’clock. I was tired and confused. It was late and the interview with Fabienne Wilder was replaying in my mind. I needed some food and a drink. I drove down the expressway and stopped at the McDonald’s in Abergele. It’s open twenty-four hours a day and it was on the way home. The car park was looking scruffy that night, littered with fast food containers and drinks cartons. The street lights reflected in puddles of dirty water left behind by the storm.
I decided to use the toilet inside. As I walked towards the restaurant with my head down to deflect the wind, something grabbed my leg and I jumped. I reached down to see what held me and my hands met wet paper. It was a newspaper blown across the car park by the wind. I shivered and pulled away the scraps of paper from my clothes, crumpling them up into soggy lumps and throwing them to the side. I didn’t know why I was so jumpy.
With my heart beating like a drum, I went inside and ordered a quarter-pounder with cheese. My burger was spot on. Unfortunately, the fries were crap, but rather than complain I chucked them away. I decided to take my latte with me and drink it on the way home.
There were two vehicles in the car park, and I know from my days with the company that they were in the bays used by the staff. As I walked back to my truck, I could hear a slurping noise, like the sound of an animal drinking from a bowl. I realised it was the slurping sound you get when you reach the bottom of your milkshake. I turned towards the noise and looked into the darkness, but my eyes couldn’t penetrate it. The thought of somebody watching me from the darkness bothered me. Of course, back then I wasn’t to know exactly what I had to fear.
‘Leave it alone,’ a voice came on the wind. My eyes were adjusting, but I still couldn’t make anything out. The slurping noise came again. The owner of the voice coughed from deep in their throat as if they were having trouble breathing. It sounded male, but in hindsight I can’t be sure. I can’t be sure of anything anymore. I didn’t know if they were talking to me, so I ignored the comment. There could have been people there talking between themselves, hidden by the night, but as I climbed into the truck the voice repeated itself, louder this time. ‘Leave it alone or you will be sorry.’
‘Are you talking to me?’ I felt silly talking to shadows at the back of the restaurant. ‘Hello?’ I called out, but the wind took my words away. There was no reply.
I was convinced that they were talking to someone else. They couldn’t mean me, could they? What could I leave alone? My cheeseburger? My latte? I started the truck and pushed it into gear. As I reversed, the headlights illuminated the area where the voice had come from. It was a deserted section of the car park where the street lights couldn’t reach. There was nobody there. I pushed a Billy Idol disc into the slot and ‘Sweet Sixteen’ started playing. I love that track. I rarely listen to music anymore as I need to be able to hear them coming. I want to have the chance to get away. I won’t give up just like that.
Anyway, as I drove away, I munched my burger and sipped the milky coffee. The roads were quiet as I crossed the bridge onto the island. Suddenly, headlights appeared in my mirror. They were on full beam and they dazzled me. I took a bite of my burger and swore under my breath, ‘What an idiot, turn your main beam off.’ I thought it was a car full of boy racers on their way home from a night out in town, buzzing on cocaine and testosterone, but the headlights flashed and then a blue light whirled on the roof. It was a police car.
‘Great, just what I need right now,’ I moaned to myself as I pulled over. It was late and they probably thought I was a drunk driver.
Normally I would have got out and greeted the them, or at least wound my window down, but I was tired and hungry. I took another bite of my burger and munched it greedily while I waited for the officer to knock on my window. I could see him climbing out of his car and closing his door. Though I had no reason to be afraid then, I had a funny feeling something was amiss. The officer neared the truck, and I stuffed the last of my supper into my mouth and washed it down with a mouthful of coffee before opening the window.
‘Where are you going?’ the officer grunted. He didn’t look me in the eye. He glanced up and down the road. There wasn’t a soul in sight.
‘Home,’ I said. ‘I live in Trearddur Bay.’ I smiled. I thought if I was polite, he would realise I was sober and let me on my way. I had no idea what was going on. ‘I’ve not been drinking, officer.’
‘Where have you been?’ He looked at me and put both hands on my window. He leant too close to the truck. I could sense aggression coming my way. His breath smelled of rotting food and I recoiled.
‘What’s the problem, officer?’ I asked politely. I leant back out of range of his fetid breath.
‘I asked you where you’ve been.’
‘And I chose not to tell you because it’s none of your business.’ I didn’t like this guy one bit and I can’t stand bullies. He got my back up immediately, and as I can’t keep my big mouth shut, I decided to stand my ground. To be honest, it wouldn’t have made any difference. ‘I’m on my way home and I haven’t been drinking; that’s all you need to know.’
‘Smart-arse, are we?’
‘Not really, I’m just tired. What’s the problem?’
‘You,’ he said flatly. ‘You’re the problem.’ He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. His face remained deadpan. He licked his lips as if he was deciding what to do. I was a little shocked to say the least. If he was Joe Public, I would have knocked him on his arse, but he was a police officer. I took a deep breath before replying.
‘Okay, I apologise if I was vague earlier. I’ve been to Denbigh Hospital with Sergeant Peter Strachan from the murder squad. Then I called for a cheeseburger on the way home. Do you know Peter?’ I thought dropping in Peter’s name might help. I didn’t look at him because I was fuming inside. I was in grave danger of saying or doing something I would regret. I have a short fuse when people are rude or aggressive. The red mist descends, and it has landed me in big trouble all my life. I’m older now, but I still have to check myself before I shoot my mouth off.
The officer looked at me and shook his head slowly. ‘Sergeant Strachan is an idiot and he doesn’t realise how much shit he is in. Do you know what you’re getting involved in?’
‘Look, if you have a problem with Peter that’s your business. It’s just work to me, nothing more,’ I explained. I didn’t want to get involved in some kind of feud. I wondered what rank the officer was. I looked at his shoulder, but his numbers were missing; he had removed them. That meant he was off duty – or hiding his identity. That was the first time I realised that I was getting into something I didn’t understand. He had no right to pull me over if he was off duty.
‘Listen to me and listen well because your life will depend on it,’ he said in the same monotone voice. I was going to speak but thought better of it. There was a hammer under my driver’s seat, and I twisted slightly so that I could reach it if I needed to. This bloke was dodgy. If there was trouble, I would be ready. ‘Leave the investigation alone. We will not warn you again.’
‘Which investigation?’ I shrugged. In my mind I was thinking, how dare you threaten me. I pretended not to know what he was talking about.
‘Pauline Holmes.’ He leant forwards, daring me to do something. On the other hand, was he trying to frighten me? He stared at me as if it was a challenge. He was trying to intimidate me.
‘I was invited to watch an interview with a woman called Fabienne Wilder, not Pauline Holmes. What is your problem?’ I was losing it. I should have said okay, fine, whatever and dr
iven off, but I was curious as to why this arsehole was threatening me. What was he playing at? What was he talking about Pauline Holmes for, and why would he tell a writer to back off? I was following an investigation, not picking holes in police procedure.
‘You and I both know they’re connected. Drop it or you will regret it,’ he said. Then he made a gurgling sound at the back of his throat and spat in my face. He turned and quickly walked away. I was so appalled that I literally couldn’t move out of my seat. I laughed aloud and banged on the steering wheel. I wiped the sticky liquid away with a napkin from the restaurant and looked at it instinctively. It was mucus coloured red with blood. The smell made me feel sick; it was like rotting meat. I wretched and nearly brought my burger back up. As his car sped past, he looked me in the eye, and for a second his face turned into a hideous mask of hate. His mouth twisted into a snarl. I blinked and the car turned left and disappeared from my view. I didn’t have a clue what it was all about, but I would find out soon enough.
CHAPTER 6
The Next Day
The next day, when I opened my eyes, sweat soaked my skin from head to toe. The Staffie was lying next to me, licking my face affectionately. She made a point of sniffing the skin where the police officer spat. I could still smell the stench of decay despite washing. He had serious halitosis. It didn’t matter how many times I washed my face I couldn’t get rid of it. I was shaking involuntarily, and my eyes felt gritty and sore. I felt like I hadn’t slept properly. I had tangled the quilt up and the pillows were scattered on the floor. My mouth was dry, and swallowing was an effort. I threw the quilt off and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. I felt like I had a hangover as I wobbled down the hallway to the kitchen. The thick beige carpet felt nice under my feet and contrasted with the cold laminate on the bedroom floor. The walls were matt white and the flat had a bright, airy feel to it. I took a few minutes to look at the sea; it was dark and moody today, but the mountains were crystal clear. I loved living there.
I took a carton of semi-skimmed milk from the fridge and gulped it thirstily. My partner had already gone to work and the Staffie was weaving between my legs as I walked. She wanted to go for a walk. Every day is the same when you have a dog: wake up, walk, food and dognap. Then the entire process begins again in the afternoon. Evie Jones is a demanding dog; a real pain in the arse at times, but I love her. I didn’t know then how important she would be in my life. She sensed a dog walking by the flat and hurtled to the window at a hundred miles an hour. I could hear her barking and snarling her way along the settee every time a dog walks past the flat, Evie Jones turns into the exorcist and hurls herself at the window. It’s comical really. Some of the regular dog walkers cross the road rather than passing the flat. She is nuts, no doubt about it.
I filled a pint glass with milk and tipped some into her bowl. It mixed with the water that was already there. I leant against the cupboards and closed my eyes to clear my head. Evie bounced back through the door with a clatter, wagging her tail to let me know that the danger had passed. The dog and its owner had moved on. She sniffed the water bowl and looked at me as if to say, why did you just fuck my water up with that stuff? I laughed and walked back to the bedroom, trying desperately not to trip over her. I explained to her that I needed to go to the toilet and brush my teeth before we set off on the first walk of the day. She seemed to understand and jumped up on the bed, waiting for me to get ready. The mirror in the bathroom told me I didn’t look any younger. The wrinkles were getting deeper and spreading across my face. I moved my head from side to side, half expecting to see marks on the skin where the policeman spat at me, but there was nothing there. I rubbed my hand across my chin, feeling the stubble, which is speckled with more grey every day. I have to shave my head daily. I tell people that I choose to shave it. I say it’s cosmetic, not genetic. I can kid myself, right?
I brushed my teeth and used the toilet, reading a few pages of this week’s toilet book. I always have a book next to the loo; I think it’s a bloke thing. I went back into the bedroom and took another mouthful of milk. The Staffie jumped off the bed and made a fuss. I think she sensed I was rattled. That was weird; straight from a horror movie. I was shaken up by the events of the past twenty-four hours. I thought back to the previous night and tried to make sense of it all.
Fabienne Wilder had made an impact on me that I couldn’t explain. She was a conundrum. The interview with the doctor and the way she behaved were bizarre. The blood on her face and hands proved that she’d been present at the scene of a brutal murder, but I couldn’t accept that she was the killer. It just didn’t fit. There were two victims bearing the signature of satanic worshippers, yet the police didn’t seem to be focusing on that fact. Fabienne’s behaviour was bizarre. Was she putting it all on in an attempt to demonstrate that she was insane and therefore not responsible for her actions, or was she just an innocent passer-by trying to help? The whole thing was surreal. The way she pretended that she could see through the mirror threw the doctor and the detective off balance. Was that her intention all along? Did she overhear someone discussing the fact that a writer was shadowing the investigation and then use that information to twist the interview on its head? Was she innocent or was she a clever, manipulative psychopath? My mind was racing. In the cold light of day, the alternatives were simple: either someone inadvertently discussed my presence in front of her or she was psychic, and she sensed that I was there. The latter didn’t wash with me, which meant that she was acting. If she was innocent, why would she concoct this strange persona? If Fabienne Wilder was a vicious murderer, then she deserved an Oscar for her performance so far. The interview was strange enough, but the aggressive behaviour of the police officer on the way home was off the chart. What was that all about? He pulled me over, threatened me and spat in my face. The look of hatred on his face as he drove away made him look insane, like Fabienne, almost animal-like. Why would a serving police officer behave in such a fashion?
I was tired and my mind was playing tricks on me, or so I thought. I needed to speak to Peter. I didn’t want to drop anybody in it, but that police officer was out of order and I intended to seek Peter’s advice before I made a complaint. In hindsight, I should have picked up the telephone as soon as I arrived home and lodged a formal complaint. I dressed, put on Evie’s harness and set off to walk her. The front lawn is communal and split by a stone path which leads to the front gate. The grass was looking long and untidy and rotting leaves swirled on the breeze. I hate the garden in the winter months. It looks so scruffy when the leaves fall.
The road to the beach lined with cherry blossom trees, their flowers and leaves long since gone. The bare branches made the trees look dead. The storm from the night before had passed by, but there was still a strong breeze blowing. I looked forward to our walk. The fresh air would be good for me. I tried to clear my head, but my mind was buzzing with thoughts of Fabienne Wilder and the murders. I wanted to call Peter, but I knew he would be just waking up and he had said he would call me on his way into work. Evie was pulling like a steam train and I had to keep tugging her back. Staffies aren’t big dogs but they’re very strong. If Evie wants to go left, we go left. We walked the five hundred yards along the peaceful coast road. The waves were crashing onto the rocks below Criag-y-mor and splashing up onto the road. Detached houses built in the forties flank the road. The dark slate roofs looked shiny and wet. The cars parked next to the kerbs were newish family saloons with the odd Porsches and Ferrari throw in. Rich tourists were snapping up property around the Bay.
As we cut through a sheep gate onto the grass, I allowed Evie Jones to run the full length of the extendable lead, which she did at breakneck speed. She galloped in a huge circle, scouring the sand and greens for other dogs to kill. As she frolicked, I checked my watch and decided to give it half an hour before we turned back for home, when a voice interrupted my thoughts.
‘Pick that up, please,’ the voice said. It was a female voice. I had no idea
who she was talking to, so I looked around. There was nobody else nearby. ‘I’m talking to you,’ she said, pointing at me. She was mid-twenties and dressed in forest-green trousers and a matching fleece jacket. The gold lettering on her jacket told me she was a beach warden. Her face told me she was pissed off with me about something.
I pulled the Staffie in on a tight lead as she had tensed up and was about to kick off. I saw her launch an attack on a young bloke one day. It was completely out of the blue, and if she’d not been on the lead, she would have hurt him. He was wearing a dark shell suit with the pants tucked into his socks. She went bonkers at him, which makes me think her previous owner, who abused her, wore similar clothing. Normally she is fine with people, but she didn’t like this woman. Her ears were up and she puffed her chest out to full capacity.
‘I’m sorry?’ I said. I wasn’t sure what she wanted. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I said, pick that up.’ She was pointing towards a steaming pile of sloppy dog excrement. It looked like a small dinosaur had deposited it. Evie and I were thirty yards away from her and she was closer to the mess than us.
‘I think you’ve made a mistake. My dog didn’t do that.’ I turned and walked away from her. The thought of picking up dog mess at the best of times turns my stomach, and to be honest, when no one is looking, I pretend she hasn’t done it and leave it for the insects to eat. This particular deposit would need a spade, not a poo bag. Anyway, my Staffie was not guilty and there was no way I was picking it up.
‘If you refuse to clear up after your dog, you will be fined fifty pounds on the spot.’ She snarled the words, aggressively marching towards us. ‘It’s up to you to pick it up or pay a fine.’
‘My dog didn’t make that mess.’ I continued to walk away.
‘I saw your dog do this shit.’ She pointed at the steaming pile.
