The Missing And The Dead: A tense crime thriller with a shocking twist

by J. F. Burgess

  'No. Definitely not. She used to follow me about. I felt sorry for her. Like me, she had no friends. We kind of bonded for a while. But I later found out she'd been sneaking into the Heavy Steam Machine club.’

  'Did you give her drugs?'

  'She drank a bit and smoked the odd joint, but I never saw her take anything harder than that.'

  Blake sighed, 'God, this is worse than I thought. Poor kid never stood a chance. You should have contacted her parents.'

  'She was secretive. I was only just twenty, and could barely look after myself. I'm not making excuses. I would give anything to change the past, but it's too late. We all make mistakes whilst growing up.'

  'So why didn't you come forward when Lorna was reported missing to the police?'

  She was silent for a few seconds.

  'Well?'

  'Because Lenny threatened me. Said he'd kill me if I talked to anyone about Lorna. I didn't know what happened to her; else I would have told the authorities. Honestly.'

  'Did you ever see her with older men?'

  'Not really in that way. She used to hang about talking with some, but I never saw her leave the club with anyone.'

  'That's not good enough: think carefully. I know it was a long time ago but you'd hardly forget something so serious as this,' Blake said.

  'OK. There was a man who took an interest in her. He used to lean on people, but I didn't know his name. He always seemed to be in the shadows.'

  'Are you absolutely positive about this man?'

  'Like I said earlier, I had issues with drugs back then. Some thing's I can remember happening, others I can't.'

  'That's not going to help us find Lorna Atwood, is it?'

  She shook her head.

  'You do realise Lorna was probably murdered? No one has seen or heard from her in over forty years,' he said, trying to jog her conscience.

  'I'm not trying to make excuses, but the same time she disappeared, my mum left us and my dad was drowning himself in drink, so I took comfort in marijuana, speed balls and barbiturates. My head was pretty messed up and I had no real friends. I got in with the wrong crowd. My brother tried his best to help me, but he had his own problems. Then when Antonio disappeared I became much worse. It broke my heart. I still think about him every day.'

  Blake glanced at Emerson. She had that sympathetic look that he tried hard not to show, but it was difficult sometimes, especially when suspects may have been victims themselves. Valletta Lombardi looked vulnerable. He continued, 'Sounds like you were very troubled back then?’

  'I was, Inspector, and Lenny Wilder knew this. He manipulated me with free drugs and drink,' she said, regretfully.

  Realising they were getting nowhere with leads to the Lorna Atwood case, Blake changed tack, 'We've looked into your brother's case and unfortunately haven't got any new leads regarding what happened to him, but we'll keep trying. In your original statement, you said he owed the Wilders for a gambling debt. Do you think they're responsible for his disappearance?'

  'I'm convinced of it. They had people beaten up all the time, especially anyone who owed them money. When I reported it to the police at the old station behind here, the detective I spoke to shrugged it off. Said Antonio had probably gone on a drinking bender and would eventually turn up with a hangover. He was unhelpful, and pretty racist. I'll never forget him calling my brother a Wop to another policeman.'

  'I'm sorry to hear this. Thankfully, policing has moved on considerably from those dinosaur days. Can you remember this detective’s name?' Blake asked, wanting to hear her say what he already suspected.

  'I'll never forget it: Detective Inspector Brady.'

  CHAPTER 30

  'Do you recall the assault allegations made by two women back in 1978: Valletta Lombardi and Margot Matheson? For some strange reason, the files are missing.’

  Vincent Brady contemplated what Blake said, 'Lombardi and Matheson. Doesn't ring any bells, but given the amount of cases I worked on during my career, naturally I can't remember everything. You know what it's like, Inspector. I bet you couldn't recall every crime reported from five years ago, let alone almost half a bloody century ago!'

  Blake frowned. He had to admit the old DI had a point, 'Fair enough, but if you could try it would be a big help. More importantly, we've spoken to both women and Valletta Lombardi says she remembers speaking with you about her brother going missing a few weeks before Lenny Wilder did. Antonio Lombardi, a twenty-two-year-old Italian lad, who has never been seen since.'

  He didn't mention her accusation that Brady had called Antonio a Wop and callously dismissed his disappearance as a drunken bender, knowing he'd clam up if Blake accused him of being racist.

  'Ah now, that I do remember. At first, I thought he'd just gone on a weekend drinking session, like so many other blokes did back then. We used to get regular reports. Nine times out of ten, missing husbands and such like always turned up after blowing their Friday pay packets trying to impress some young tart in the pub. Most rolled home on Sunday morning when they'd been chucked out of some dingy single girl’s flat over a chippy. You know the sort?' he said, making a joke out of it.

  Blake sensed Brady's smugness was part of his self-righteous complex, a familiar personality trait men of authority from that era seemed to have. He'd come across it before. They rarely admitted wrong-doing for fear of reprisals and tarnishing their former unblemished careers. He could see by the look on Emerson's face, the intuitive PC had the same impression.

  Seeming to sense his dinosaur attitude was likely to wind-up the politically correct modern police, Brady toned down the chauvinism. 'Well, if you've been through the records relating to the case, you'll have seen my team put a decent effort into looking for the Italian lad. Unfortunately, we had no luck. He disappeared off the face of the earth.'

  'What did you know about his outstanding gambling debt?' Blake asked.

  'I can vaguely remember his sister mentioning he owed money, but nothing more than that. Do you have the case notes with you? Maybe I could look at them to jog my memory? I'm forgetting a lot these days. It's called old age, Inspector.'

  Blake knew he shouldn't have brought them along; he'd left them in the car just in case the need arose.

  'OK. PC Emerson can you fetch the folder from the car, please?'

  She nodded politely and left the room.

  CHAPTER 31

  Blake gathered his team around the white-board in the Major Incident Room.

  'As you know, we've now questioned four people who were connected to the Wilder brothers in 1978: Margo Matheson, Valletta Lombardi, George Rills and Clifford Bates. One thing that defines all their relationships with them is utter fear. Three divulged what happened to them at the hands of the Wilders. And there seems to be dysfunction between Matheson, Lombardi and Rills. They are resentful and angry, with plenty of motive for killing Lenny Wilder.

  ‘However, we have yet to find evidence any of them actually murdered the man and, given it happened forty-two years ago, it’s going to be very hard to prove. To refocus our efforts, DS Murphy and I have summarised each suspect’s relationship with Lenny and Johnny Wilder. They have, albeit reluctantly, provided the following facts. This will help us to think more laterally and hopefully discover new evidence. Johnny Wilder isn’t a suspect yet, however, that could change as the investigation progresses' he said, distributing A4 sheets.

  1: Clifford Bates, 71 – retired café owner

  Motive: Alleges Lenny Wilder was blackmailing him, loaning him money to pay off Lorna Atwood’s parents, in return for dropping allegations of sexual misconduct against their daughter.

  Alibi: Too long ago to be credible (he can't remember)

  Evidence against him: The 8mm cine-camera reels found in his shed, a suspicious child’s butterfly necklace, and an allegation of sexual misconduct in the local news.

  2: George Rills, 68 – disabled, retired ex-employee of the Wilders, possibly bullied by them. Says he fell down concrete
steps leading to the basement at the Wilders’ arcade The Golden Nugget.

  Motive: He hated the way the Wilders treated him and abused women.

  Alibi: He was working on the arcade floor the night Lenny disappeared.

  Evidence against him: none.

  Suspicious: He may be complicit in knowing about the body in the drains.

  3: Margot Matheson, 63 – Lenny's girlfriend in 1978.

  Motive: she alleges Lenny and Johnny raped her. Lenny was abusive to her during their brief relationship.

  Alibi: She can't remember but may have been at the ABC cinema in Hanley that night in 1978; ultimately, too long ago to be credible.

  Evidence against her: Strong motive, but nothing else.

  4: Valletta Lombardi, 62 – Italian lady who dated both brothers.

  Motive: Johnny and Lenny both treated her badly. Her brother owed Lenny Wilder money and she's convinced Wilder had something to do with his disappearance, possibly even killed him.

  Alibi: It was too long ago to remember

  Evidence against her: Accused by Clifford Bates of helping a paedophile ring procure underage girls. The missing girl Lorna Attwood hung around with her. Nothing solid enough yet?

  Suspicious: She was having an illicit affair with Lenny Wilder at the same time he was dating Margot Matheson.

  Blake continued, ‘Unfortunately, any forensics linking the suspects to the crime scene are probably too old and decayed to be useful, so we need to work much harder. It’s our job to ascertain if one of these suspects, or someone connected to them, murdered Lenny Wilder. I know there's no love lost on the victim, and it seems he was an evil bastard who used and abused lots of people. But a murder has been committed and we need to nail this.'

  CHAPTER 32

  Craig Matheson sat on his mate’s moped opposite Johnny Wilder's e-cigarette shop, glaring at the open door, hoping to get a glimpse of the man. That bastard had so much to answer for. He'd ruined not only his life, but also his mother's. She’d buried the burden of being raped by him and his evil brother forty-two years ago, and now it was his time to repent. Craig glanced down at the semi–automatic hand-gun he'd borrowed from Kurtis Stroud, a nasty piece of work he'd been buying Monkey Dust from. Stroud had given him a quick lesson on the old steel works site near Etruria. A huge wasteland destined to become the council’s new Ceramic Valley retail and housing project.

  Looking up, he saw Wilder leave the shop, get in a car and head along Johns Street. He slipped the gun into the pocket of his filthy alcohol-stained coat, hit the auto-ignition button and crawled stealthily along the bus lane behind the old man.

  Hanging back behind a couple of cars, he kept an eye on Wilder's vehicle as it filtered into the ring road traffic heading toward the Cobridge Crossroads. He glanced down at the scooter’s fuel gauge. That twat, Naith, had less than a quarter of tank. He prayed Wilder didn't live too far away. As he reached the next junction, another car started following him, though he didn’t spot it.

  He continued following his prey up to Penkhull Village, where Wilder indicated and turned into the drive of a large detached house on Clarke Road. Clocking the house number, Matho eased off the throttle and parked on spare land fifty yards down the road. He'd wait to see if Wilder was in for the day before making his move.

  Ten minutes later, drug-free anxiety got the better of him. He hung his helmet on the handlebars and paced with purpose toward Wilder's house, adrenaline-fuelled anger surging.

  As he walked up the garden path past Wilder’s Merc, the sound of a petrol-mower emanated from the back garden. He sneaked down the side of the red brick garage. At the end of the garage wall, he stopped and peered round the brickwork. Wilder had his back to him, mowing a lawn half the size of a bowling green. Matho slowly withdrew the gun from his pocket and gripped it firmly in his right hand. It was now or never, he thought, without regard for the consequences.

  At full pelt, Matho charged at the old man, who was oblivious to his presence. He shoulder-barged hard into Wilder's back, knocking him onto the grass in a state of shock. The mower trundled forward on its own before crashing into a concrete edging stone. In his haste, Matho fumbled and dropped the weapon. Wilder rolled over and thrust his right leg out in an attempt to fight him off.

  'Who the fuck are you? What's your game?'

  Climbing to his feet, Matho kicked the old man hard in the stomach, ending the struggle. Badly winded, Wilder rolled around on the lawn like clubbed seal, groaning in pain

  ****

  'Craig, no! He's your father!’ Margot Matheson screamed, as she emerged from the side of the garage, hating herself for admitting it. The last time she spoke to Wilder was three years ago after she posted Craig's DNA sample through his door. Wilder used the same online lab to confirm it.

  Startled, Craig picked up the gun and aimed it at Wilder. 'Get back, Mum! This fucking animal deserves to suffer for what he did to you.'

  Still breathless, Wilder desperately grasped his mobile in his pocket and thumbed the volume button, turning it down. Seeing Craig was distracted, he slipped it into his sock. No way could he call for help with this maniac pointing a gun at him.

  Margo Matheson stepped aside and watched in horror as her son dragged Johnny Wilder by his shirt collar to his feet. He rammed the gun in the side of his head, 'Get your fucking car keys. We're going on a trip down Memory Lane, rapist!'

  'You've got this all wrong, Craig,' Wilder wheezed, just about regaining air.

  A minute later, Margot stood on the driveway watching Wilder’s Mercedes pull off erratically, her son sat on the back seat behind Wilder, aiming the gun directly at his head.

  CHAPTER 33

  The muscles in Johnny Wilder's back and shoulders ached badly. His mouth was dryer than an Arab’s sandal as he huddled, knees raised, on filthy floorboards on the upper floor of the shuttered-up Bell and Bear in Shelton. The area’s homeless had been using this derelict pub as a squat over the last two years. He glared in disgust at filthy sleeping bags and drug paraphernalia strewn across the floor in front of him.

  'Please let me explain what happened, Craig, it will help you understand,’ Wilder said, trying to exonerate himself from his crimes.

  Matho jumped off the old Lowenbrau crate he’d been sitting on and shoved the pistol under Wilder’s chin, forcing his head back. 'You're a fucking rapist, and I'm gonna make you pay.'

  'I understand you’re angry, son. I can't change what happened all those years ago, but I'm an old man now. I can help you. I've got money and property. All that could be yours one day,' he said, through gritted teeth, anxious this could be the end of the road.

  'Don't call me that. You'll say anything to save your arse. My mum suffered for years, bringing me up in a grimy bedsit, until she met my real dad; the man who was there for me. You never gave her a penny, you heartless bastard.’ he said now, pointing the pistol at Wilder's chest.

  'If he did such a good job, why did you end up a homeless druggie?' Wilder said, realising too late he sounded harshly judgemental.

  'Shut up or I'll blow your fucking head off.'

  'You'll do time for this if the cops find me. Let me go and I won't tell anyone. I give you my word.'

  Matho glared at him, 'Your word? Are you taking the piss? You're a liar and cheat.'

  'Craig, what do I have to do to convince you? Just tell me,' Wilder pleaded.

  Matho paced up and down erratically, gripping the pistol in his right hand. Then, without warning, he snapped; a deafening blast echoed around the room as he discharged the weapon into the blistering damp plaster only inches above Wilder's head.

  'Now you'll fucking understand; arsehole.'

  'OK, OK. Think of your little boy. You'll be no use to him in prison, clucking up the walls of a cell waiting for your next fix.'

  'How do you know about that, you bastard?'

  'I’ve kept an eye on your mum over the last few years.'

  'You’re fucking lying. My mother would never have an
ything to do with rapist scum like you!' He darted across the room and rammed the gun into the old man’s mouth, chipping one of his front incisors.

  Wilder groaned in pain.

  Matho withdrew the gun, stood back and paced around in a panic before leaving the room. Without hesitation, Wilder grabbed his mobile from his sock and seized his chance to text for help:

  Albert, I’m in danger. Held in old Bell & Bear pub, Shelton. Help. Maniac has gun!

  CHAPTER 34

  Blake paced up and down in his office wondering how much worse things could get.

  'I wouldn't worry too much about Clifford Bates, Tom. It was inevitable he'd get bail; I mean he's hardly a flight risk at seventy-one,' Murphy said.

  Blake took a deep breath and stopped pacing, 'Suppose you’re right. It’s those films that I'm concerned about. They're releasing a paedophile into the community. Pisses me off we could only charge him under the Sexual Offences Act for possession of indecent images of children.'

  'I agree, but the 8mm stuff is over forty years old. Maybe he's done with all that sick business now. His libido must have died years ago.'

  Blake frowned, 'Maybe, but there's something not right about Clifford Bates. He's given us too much info on the Wilder brothers. It’s starting to smell like revenge to me. When we first interviewed him at his bungalow, he casually drip-fed us information, as if he was merely recalling an old holiday or something. I'm telling you, Murph, my copper’s antenna is twitching; he's hiding something. He knows who has the camera that shot those films, and I'm convinced he was involved in this abuse. Anyway, if they find him guilty, he'll be looking at a minimum of five years.'