The Anglesey Murders Box Set

by Conrad Jones

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello, is David there please?’ I asked.

  ‘No, he’s out at work at the moment, sorry,’ she said chirpily. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘It’s not important, thanks. What time is he back?’

  ‘They usually finish on the farm about five-ish,’ she answered. He worked on a farm which linked him to Critchley. The farming communities are tight. Everyone knows everyone.

  ‘No problem, I’ll call him later on.’

  ‘Shall I say who called,’ her curiosity got the better of her, but I didn’t want to get into any conversations with her. Making a mistake would be too easy so I hung up and thought about my next move. I typed the address into my phone and searched Google Maps for the position. It was a small side street not far away from the pub where I’d stayed when I hunted Blackman. The house was halfway down the street which consisted of two rows of small terraced houses. I would be noticed if I parked anywhere on that street but there was a street adjacent to it with a newsagent and a fish and chip shop. I could buy chips and a newspaper and sit there for a while without being noticed. I pushed my way out of the stinking phone box and enjoyed the taste of fresh mountain air again. I’d located my prey and the hunt was on.

  CHAPTER 8

  I reached Corwen in twenty minutes or so and when I passed the pub where I’d stayed, I turned left down the hill towards the river. The houses there were built on a steep gradient and the roofs of the buildings at the bottom of the hill were at eye level as I steered the Landy down the narrow road. I could see the shops halfway down the street. The newsagents had an awning above the window. The red and white stripes were faded and dirty, years of weathering had taken their toll. The chip shop was next door and there was a queue of people outside waiting to order their supper. As I drew nearer, the smell of chips and vinegar drifted into the Landy making my mouth water. I hadn’t eaten all day and my stomach was telling me to give it something to digest. As I pulled up near the curb, I saw Williams Street on the left. The odd numbers were on the left and the even on the right. Number 16 was too far away for me to identify from the numerals on the door. The houses were uniform from the front although the odd one or two looked freshly painted and stood out from the rest.

  I turned off the engine and climbed out of the Landy. I stretched and focused on the houses in Williams St. There wasn’t a soul about. The queue outside the chip shop was dwindling, but I decided to let it go down while I bought a newspaper. I walked into the shop and a bell above the door alerted the owner that they had a customer. A woman in her sixties half smiled and eyed me suspiciously. Tourists were a novelty this far from the main roads. I scanned the rack of red-top newspapers, taking in the headlines.

  A knot squeezed my guts when I saw my picture looking straight back at me. The Sun had linked the satanic cult in Carrog to my plight a year before and although they were speculating that it may be the same cult that had forced me into hiding and that the murders could have been self-defence, the photograph was the last thing that I needed now. The article read, ‘Author still on the run-in connection with three murders, could have been targeted by a cult connected to the Cannibal Killer.’ It read on to describe briefly the events of twelve months ago and was almost sympathetic to my situation. They highlighted the fact that there was irrefutable evidence that the dead policeman found at my house was a member of the Order of Nine Angles. My appearance in the photograph was much heavier with a fuller face. I was slimmer now and disguised enough not be identified easily from the photo but raising the profile of my disappearance didn’t help me one bit. The last line made me smile as it warned the public not to approach me as I was considered dangerous. They were spot on, hunted men are dangerous but in my case the only danger I presented was to the Niners. I’d decided a long time ago that if the police came for me, I would give myself up and take my chances with the judicial system. Despite hating confined spaces, being gunned down in the street didn’t appeal to me either.

  I picked up the newspaper when the woman behind the counter coughed into her hand. I must have taken too long reading the headlines without making a purchase. I folded the paper into my jacket and dropped a fifty pence piece onto the counter without speaking to her. She grunted something as I turned and walked away but I didn’t respond. I could feel her eyes following me as I walked past the window into the chip shop. Maybe I was being paranoid or maybe she’d recognised me. Either way, I didn’t want to stand and chitchat with the miserable cow while my photograph was splashed over the front pages.

  I ordered chips, fish and mushy peas on a tray and drenched them in vinegar, before climbing back into the Landy to eat them while I watched out for Harris. I scanned the headlines but couldn’t concentrate on anything outside of the front pages. The food tasted as good as it smelled, and I demolished the fish and left half of the chips uneaten. My appetite was not as keen as it once was. As I screwed up the wrapping paper, a heavy-set man stepped out of a doorway roughly where number 16 would have been. I grabbed my mobile and dialed the number for David Harris which I’d taken from Blackman’s contact list. As the number that I’d dialed began to ring, the big man reached into his jeans and took out his mobile. He looked at the screen with a confused look on his face. Bingo, I’d found him.

  CHAPTER 9

  David Harris looked to be over fifty years of age and he was wide at the shoulders, almost bursting the seams of his tartan shirt and had a beer belly which hung over the top of his chino trousers by about six inches. His well-worn pair of Caterpillar work boots looked to be about a size eleven. He was a big man. As he climbed into an old Ford Mondeo, I guessed he was about six feet tall and weighed eighteen stones or more. Lifting him up or squaring up to him in a fist fight were not options that I wanted to consider. I needed to lure him somewhere remote and entrap him. If I couldn’t think of a way to incriminate him or link him to Critchley, then I would have to kill him and let nature help me out in disposing of his bloated body.

  He started the engine, indicated and pulled the Ford away from the curb, before turning around at the end of the street and driving back towards me. I hid my face behind my newspaper as he drove up the hill, starting the engine as soon as he had gone and then followed him up to the main road. He turned right and headed up the A5 towards the Snowdonia area which gave me an idea. I needed somewhere remote; somewhere dangerous where nature could take a man’s life.

  I was frustrated when two hundred yards on, he slowed down and pulled the Mondeo into a parking bay outside the Spar shop. It was a total journey of about 300 yards, but the lazy bastard had chosen to drive to the shop rather than walking up the hill. I parked across the road and watched as he walked back to his car with eight tins of strong lager and a family sized bag of crisps. Obviously, his physique had been built on a mixture of poor diet, alcohol, and no exercise. As he turned his car around and drove back down the hill towards his house, I lit a menthol and pulled the Landy back onto the A5, driving north in the opposite direction. I knew exactly where I was going.

  All I had to do was convince Harris to follow me. It was a thirty-mile drive to Betws-y-Coed and the sunlight was fading. I needed to wait awhile, so that Harris had drunk enough lager to impair his judgment but couldn’t wait until he was incapable of driving. I’d never met the man, but I’ve met enough Niners to know what makes them tick. Once he was comfortable in his armchair munching on his crisps and drinking beer, it would be difficult to tempt him to get into his car and drive north. There was one person for who he would drive under the influence, no matter what the time was and so I sent him a text message from her on the way.

  ‘Be at the Miners’ Bridge, Betws at 9 p.m. I need to talk to you, Fabienne W x.’

  The ‘message sent’ alert appeared on my screen. My phone vibrated almost immediately. ‘How do I know it’s you?’ the text reply said.

  ‘I am Baphomet Sekhemet, your high priestess and you will come to me, or I’ll come to you,’ I replied.

>   ‘Okay, sorry, just making sure. Do I need my stuff?’ He replied.

  ‘You know what to bring, you fool.’ I replied. I had no idea what ‘his stuff’ would be, but it didn’t matter. The bait had been taken, but I’d made a silly mistake; one that I would live to regret.

  CHAPTER 10

  Betws-y-Coed is a pretty village which lies in the Snowdonia National Park and is one of the most visited tourist spots in Wales. The name meaning ‘Prayer house in the wood’ links the origins of the village to a Christian place of worship. Betws was built around a monastery by the Anglo-Saxons in the late sixth century. Situated in a valley where the River Conwy is joined by the River Llugwy and the River Lledr, its waterfalls and forests are renowned the world over for their beauty. They’re also known for their treacherous ravines and the powerful currents, chutes, siphons and whirlpools. Many walkers, climbers and canoeists die in the mountains and rivers every year.

  When I reached the village, I parked the Landy next to the slate-built railway station and put four-pound coins into the parking meter. I grimaced at the price to park for two hours and then stuck the ticket to the inside of the windscreen. As I looked around, the souvenir shops which lined the station building were illuminated by their interior lights as dusk settled into the valley. It was as pretty as a picture and the village had calmness to it that evening and I could hear the roar of the Llugwy in the distance as it thundered down the falls.

  I felt a terrible pang of loneliness as I watched couples walking arm in arm across the village green. My normal life was gone. I wished that I was parking up and booking into a bed-and-breakfast with my partner for the night. I wished that we could stroll along in search of a romantic restaurant to eat and drink wine and chat about the world but there was no partner for me anymore and no woman in her right mind would want to chat to me about the world in which I was living.

  ‘What did you do this week babe?’

  ‘Oh, I tracked down a little nonce in Corwen and strung him up from the rafters. It was such a hectic week but worthwhile seeing him dangle. You should have seen his eyes bulging out of his head. I thought they were going to pop out at one point.’

  My imaginary conversation dragged me down to the lowest point that I’d been for months. I was alone in my terrible quest and the pain of loneliness bit deep into me that night as I watched the normal people strolling along enjoying the peace and tranquillity of the village. There were a few dozen tourists, mostly climbers and ramblers, milling around the outdoor pursuit shops, while couples and families browsed the souvenir shops and café bars. I wondered how things would be if I’d never stumbled across Fabienne Wilder. My life had become an existence outside of normal society. I was no longer a civilised human being who could feel the warmth and tenderness gifted by others. I was a predator, cold as ice when confronted with a Niner and focused on killing, yet inside there was still the man that I used to be, and he was afraid and alone sometimes. Loneliness and desperation wrapped itself around me like a living thing and I felt stinging tears welling up in my eyes. I wiped them away with the back of my hand and headed across the village green. It was darker there and no one would see me sobbing as I walked. I let the tears run freely down my cheeks and felt bitterly alone. It wasn’t the first time that I’d cried, and it wouldn’t be the last. When Evie Jones was with me, it didn’t seem so bad. Her undying affection carried me through the bad days but in the end, she was a giveaway to who I was. The police were looking for a bald man with tattoos and a Staffie. I’d taken her to my ex-partner’s new home and tied her to the gate. Driving away and leaving her there broke my heart, but she’d be safer there than with me and it was easier to blend in when I was alone. There have been good days and bad days since I left her, but I’m not in the position to crumble emotionally, the alternatives are far worse.

  When the tears had stopped, I walked across the village green and crossed the Pont-y-Pair Bridge, which is pictured on hundreds of postcards. Recent rains had flooded the three rivers to bursting point and the water of the Llugwy roared through all three arches that supported the ancient, bluish stones. That day, even the bravest canoeists deemed the water too high to venture onto.

  On the other side of the bridge was the shop that I wanted to visit. I had no idea if it was still in business as it had been several years since I’d visited it previously. The section of road leading to it had no street lights illuminating it and the trees which overhung the pavements turned into dark silhouettes as the sunlight dissipated into darkness. The branches looked like skeletal fingers reaching for me. A shiver ran through my soul and chilled me to the bone. My loneliness was eating away at my inner strength. I had to get a grip before it wore me down and made me weak. I thought about the victims at the Critchley farm and how their mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters would be feeling, knowing what their kin suffered before they died. Their bodies were desecrated, and their flesh devoured by sick animals like Harris. I steeled myself with the anguish that the families would be feeling and felt the passion and the anger returning to me. Anger was good. It made me focused again.

  The shop that I wanted stood alone a hundred yards away from its nearest neighbor, tucked away beneath the trees at the bottom of a cliff face. A solitary strip light burned inside the front of the shop. The top attic window, directly above the main entrance, was blanked out completely. The doorway was virtually blocked by a display of kitbags, army issue camouflage jackets, military cocoon sleeping bags, and an array of baskets overflowing with boots, gloves and hats. The sign above the door read ‘military surplus’ and the shop did exactly what it said on the tin. I’d bought some army issue desert boots and a jacket years before and they were still going strong. The shop was an Aladdin’s cave for climbers and walkers who dared to take on the elements in the mountains. I needed something a little more dangerous than a sturdy pair of boots this time and I was hoping that the owner might have a stash of stuff which he sold under the counter. I remembered that he sold some pretty dodgy weapons at the back of the shop. Sheath knives of every shape and size and knuckle-dusters with evil spikes and barbs welded to them. You have to wonder how they got away with selling them, but I hoped that they were just the tip of the iceberg.

  The sound of a thrash-metal band drifted from the doorway, the lyrics unidentifiable and the guitars deafening. I was sure that the same track was playing years ago when I bought my boots. I decided that all that heavy stuff sounded the same to me as I ducked beneath a rucksack and entered the building. The walls on the left were hidden beneath an avalanche of military kitbags of every shape, size and colour. To the right was a glass counter which contained an array of Swiss Army knives and camping tools, Mag-lights and GPS devices. Sat behind the counter was the owner of the shop; a man-mountain called Bren who stared out through a thicket of black hair and whiskers. His Motorhead T-shirt was riddled with burn holes, obviously caused by years of smoking cannabis. There was a strong smell of incense sticks, probably employed to hide the smell of dope. They were failing miserably.

  ‘all right,’ Bren growled as I walked in.

  ‘all right.’ I scanned the wall behind him. There were twenty or more high-powered air rifles displayed there and a range of hunting crossbows which fired tungsten bolts.

  ‘Are you just looking, or can I help you with anything specific?’ Bren stood up and turned the music off; his full height was nearer the 7 feet mark than 6. I figured he weighed twenty-five stones or thereabouts. He followed my eyes as I checked over the array of weapons.

  ‘I need a lantern, but one with a timer fitted,’ I decided to start with the non-lethal items first.

  ‘Walk this way; I’ve got a few over here.’ Bren lumbered between shelves crammed with mess tins and camping stoves. He had to duck beneath a beam which had a dozen pairs of highly polished infantry boots hanging from it. ‘Do you want battery or self-winding?’

  ‘Battery.’

  ‘Disposable batteries or rechargeable?’


  ‘Disposable.’

  ‘This one has a timer which switches the lamp off only, or this one can be set to go on and off three times in a twelve-hour period.’

  ‘I’ll take the one which can be set three times.’

  ‘Do you want the batteries too?’ Bren seemed to be staring at my face intently.

  ‘Yes, give me two sets, please.’ I smiled and walked away. His closer inspection of my face was making me nervous. ‘Have you got any ponchos?’

  ‘On the wall over there,’ he grunted. ‘They’re all one size just the camo pattern that’s different.’

  ‘I’ll take two, the black one and the green camo one please.’

  ‘Are you doing some hunting?’ Bren eyed me suspiciously but there was a glint in his eyes. ‘Rabbits, badgers?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I smiled thinly and walked towards the back of the shop.

  ‘16th Air Assault Brigade.’ Bren wagged a finger.

  ‘What?’ I had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘Paratrooper regiment—’ he shrugged his huge shoulders as if I should know what he was talking about ‘—they wear these ponchos when they’re in the field. I got a couple of dozen at an auction the last time they went out to Afghanistan.’

  ‘Sorry, I get you now.’ I laughed. I browsed the walls and shelves as I neared the glass display cabinets which were fitted to the back wall of the shop. Steel blades of varying lengths glinted from inside, some serrated some saw-toothed and all razor sharp. ‘Nice collection of blades here.’

  ‘You looking for anything special?’ He towered above me. The knowing glint was still in his eyes. ‘This double-edged stiletto is still the weapon of choice for taking somebody out quickly. If you know what I mean?’ He made a huge fist and placed it beneath his bushy beard. ‘Push it straight up into the windpipe through the roof of the mouth and into the brain. Dead in seconds.’