She knew she shouldn't, but the house seemed abandoned. And she didn't want to appear hasty calling in the cavalry if it turned out to be merely a similar house.
****
Blake stood with DS Murphy and PC Haynes, all wearing stab-vests, outside an address linked to Vince Brady, hoping to find incriminating evidence connecting him to the past. He didn't think it warranted the brute force of more officers, given they were dealing with a seventy-two-year-old, but, as always, they were armed with pepper sprays and Tasers.
Blake lifted the oxidised door-knocker and hammered it repeatedly onto the hardwood door. They waited, but there was no answer, so he tried again.
****
Startled by what sounded like distant knocking from above, the man in the cellar froze. Adrenalin surged through his weary veins as he peered up at the cast-iron light-well. Faint shadows of shoe soles were just about visible on the inch-thick glass squares. He grabbed the heavy steel box and frantically began to seek a hiding place among dust-coated wooden crates stacked on top of a pile of old cream and red suitcases. He pulled out one of the cases, toppling several crates onto the cobbled floor. Dropping to his knees, he fumbled the clasp, and lifted its tight lid, releasing a cloud of dust. He stuffed the box inside and covered it with the suitcase’s contents: girls’ clothes from a bygone era.
****
No one responded to her knocking. Ignoring what she'd been told, Emerson tried the hardwood door. It was locked. She leaned on it hard, but still it wouldn't budge. She retrieved her baton from her duty belt, forced it into the door frame and levered it. With a creak, the door swung open onto a long hallway that hadn't been decorated for decades, judging by the filthy, flowered paper just about clinging to the damp walls.
****
PC Haynes staved the front door in with the big red key. Blake barged in, his baton drawn. DS Murphy followed closely behind, with Haynes in tow. They moved stealthily along the dank musty hallway of the Victorian house, opening doors, shouting ‘all clear!’
****
A loud bang startled the man. Footsteps echoed on the floorboards above. He stepped lightly across the cobbles and entered the small dark room that split the cavernous space spanning the length and breadth of the house. Inside, he closed the door and stood behind it. A dull glow emanated from a ten-watt bulb attached to a cable that hung from a cross-beam in the corner. Firmly gripping the razor-sharp bowie knife he'd retrieved from the scabbard on his belt, he glared with menace at the woman handcuffed to an old wooden dining chair pushed against the filthy wall. Raising the knife, he placed the unsharpened edge of the blade on his pursed lips.
Her eyes darted frantically around the darkened prison. Her scream of terror caught in her throat; blocked by silver duct tape.
****
‘Hello! Is anyone there?’ Emerson shouted, moving down the hallway, Taser gripped in her right hand.
She entered an old kitchen with high-gloss orange cupboard doors that harked back to another era; probably the seventies, she thought, glancing around the room. There were no utensils, kettle, or anything else, to suggest it had been used recently. She swiped her finger through a film of dust on the Formica worktop nearest to her.
She saw a small brown door that looked like it would lead into an old- fashioned pantry. She grabbed the handle and opened it. A steep, narrow stairwell down to the cellar confronted her. She flicked on the LED inspection light clipped to her stab-vest. The eighty lumens bulb lit up the dark staircase. 'Hello, anyone there?' Her voice echoed down the narrow shaft. Aiming the Taser in front of her, she descended the worn steps.
At the bottom she tested her radio. The signal was hazy and weak. Slipping the Taser back into its holster momentarily, she hit the push-to-talk button on the service-issue mobile velcroed to her vest, '481, over?’
The woman at control replied, '481, go ahead?'
'Need back-up at 43 Paragon Road, Longton. Possibly identified the murder suspect’s house, over.'
Nothing came back. She fumbled the button again, but the connection was down. Startled by a sudden noise from across the looming space, she unholstered the Taser and crept forward. Her torch lit up the cellar. Old suitcases lined the far wall, with wooden crates stacked on top of them. There was a suitcase on the cobbled floor, its lid closed but not fastened: the rusty metal clasps were jutting out. Then she saw a door, faint light emanating from under it.
Standing deadly still, listening for movement, her heart pounded as all kinds of irrational thoughts raced through her mind. What if an armed assailant was behind the door? DI Blake would bollock her for this stunt, that was for sure. But right now she needed to calm herself and stay alert to any danger.
****
'To get out, I need to silence that copper,' the man behind the door thought, adrenalin surging. He waited in the shadows, blade raised in his right hand, ready to attack. This was it. From here on in, there was no turning back. He sensed his deep deception was coming to end. If not her, other officers would pursue him. He'd first discovered this place in the mid-seventies after following a drunken tramp one night. Excitation rose inside him as he recalled his hands throttling the last breath out of him in this very room. Oh, he'd had so much more pleasure than any man!
CHAPTER 48
'Inspector Blake?'
'Speaking.'
'It’s Fia Reilly. I'm the lead CSI at 43 Paragon Road, Longton.'
'Oh, hi, it's been a while. I was just about to call Jeff Foxhall for an update.
'Jeff's been seconded onto another job. You'll have to make do with me,' she said, in a soft Edinburgh brogue. 'I wanted to let you know what we've found. I'm assuming you’re en route?'
'I'll be there asap.'
****
Blake signed into the crime scene, ducked under the police tape and slipped a protection suit and booties on, then entered the late Victorian terrace he assumed Vince Brady had been using as a bolt-hole for the last forty-one years. In the kitchen, Fia Reilly stood arranging evidence, recovered from the suitcases in the cellar, onto a sterilised aluminium table perched in the centre of the grimy lino.
She said, ‘Thankfully, the woman this sick bastard was holding captive is still alive. The ambulance has taken her to Royal Stoke, along with PC Emerson. Looks like she's got a nasty leg break?'
'Yeah, I admire her guts: she saved the woman's life. But it was a foolish move, coming in here, tackling the killer without back up. Suppose it could have been a lot worse, though,' Blake said, knowing the Chief Constable would want Emerson disciplined once she was back on her feet. 'How did the captive seem?'
'Very shaken up. Naturally, you'll want to talk to her at some point. Poor woman will be traumatised for years, no doubt,' Reilly said.
'I dread to think. At least she's physically unharmed. I suppose that's one good thing to come out of all this,' Blake said.
'This lot’s disturbing, though. There's several trophies off the wee girl Lorna Atwood, including some of her clothes. I used the control sample we have for Vince Brady to cross-examine those,' she said, looking at her laptop screen.
'Sickening,' Blake said.
'I feel the same. Never gets any easier no matter how many times you process this stuff. His fingerprints are all over the girl’s bus pass and his DNA is on the torn dresses and underwear.'
Blake shook his head in disbelief.
‘I found other prints and DNA which I thought belonged to the poor girl, but I got a hit on the database for a nominal named Wilder. These men are pure evil.'
The revelation shocked Blake. 'Is the Christian name Johnny with two ns?'
'How did you know, Inspector?'
'He's linked to Vince Brady in two Misper cases and other unsolved historical crimes. Great work.' His scalp prickled as he looked over the items on the table. A butterfly necklace, the same as the one found hidden in Clifford Bates’ wife’s old clothing, seemed to glare back at him. Brady must have bought them for more than one girl.
&
nbsp; He’d thanked Reilly, turned and entered the hallway, when the CSI called him back.
‘Inspector, almost forgot. We found this box-file in one of the old crates in the cellar, along with the other evidence,' she said, passing it over.
Blake opened it to reveal a pile of yellowing old police forms. He skimmed the faded biro report on the top page. 'Bloody hell, these are the missing allegations of rape linked to this case!'
CHAPTER 49
The following morning, Blake had all his ducks lined up ready to confront the killer.
'I really don't see the point of denying this any longer, Mr Brady. The evidence we found inside a locked strong box hidden in the cellar of number 43 Paragon Road clearly implicates you in the disappearance of the teenager Lorna Atwood in 1978. If it wasn't for PC Emerson's lightning reactions with her Taser, you would still be at large. Considering you were a respected DI for twenty years, this will have deeper implications for the Hanley police force. It appears you used your position, and influence within certain criminal circles, to abuse underage girls,' Blake said, with disgust.
Brady sat there with a disapproving scowl.
'Well, aren't you going to say anything, Vincent?'
'I was storing that stuff for someone,' he shrugged, expressing no remorse or regret.
'You can't be serious. Yours and Johnny Wilder's DNA were all over that poor girl’s shoes and clothes.'
'It's the truth.'
'Thing is, you're the second suspect involved in the case to say that. Who is this ghost of a man no one has ever seen? It's blatantly obvious one or both of you are lying to cover up the sordid truth. Why would you risk spending years in prison to protect Johnny Wilder? It doesn't make any sense.'
Brady shook his head.
'Which part of his DNA and prints are on Lorna Atwood's clothes doesn't register?'
'I wouldn't expect you to understand. He hides in the shadows until everyone has gone, then rises like an uncontrollable tornado that crushes everything in its path. He paid me handsomely over the years to store it for him, 'Brady said, still trying to absolve himself from any blame.
'Cut the crap, Vincent, because we don't believe you. In fact, this is just a ruse to delay the inevitable. The uncomfortable truth is you're a paedophile and a murderer; a sick man, who’s managed to avoid detection his whole life. Stop protecting Johnny Wilder.' Blake shot Brady’s lawyer a look.
'You can think what you like - I can't change that - but I didn't murder that girl!' Brady protested.
'Either you or Wilder did. Where is he, Vincent?'
'How should I know?'
Blake handed the baton to his sergeant. 'You recognise this?' DS Murphy said, placing Lorna Atwood's faded bus pass in a clear evidence bag on the table.
Brady glanced at it, and looked away.
'A forensics officer found it in a locked box hidden inside a suitcase in the cellar at number 43 Paragon Road. Can you give me a legitimate reason how it got there?' DS Murphy said.
'I've already told you, I was paid to store a box for someone. I never had the keys to open it.'
'For an ex-cop, you really are a terrible liar, Vincent. If you never opened the box, why are your fingerprints all over Lorna Atwood’s bus pass?’
'Must be old age catching up with him?' Blake said.
'Along with the bus pass, we found these.' Murphy placed a colour image of the poor girl’s worn knickers on the table.
Brady shoulders curled in a protective huddle as he looked down at his lap, attempting to avoid acknowledgement of the incriminating objects in front of him.
Blake continued, 'Tell us about Lorna Atwood. How did you and Wilder come into contact with her, initially? Did Clifford Bates introduce you?'
'No comment.'
'Really, Vincent. You want to add another two years to your sentence for making the victim's parents suffer, on top of wasting police time? You, of all people, should know judges take these factors into consideration when passing sentence. We have more than enough evidence to charge you with murder right now. This is your chance to give your side of the story.' Blake paused to give Brady chance to confess. 'Along with Lorna's underwear and bus pass, we've seen film footage of you abusing young girls at the property we now know to be 43 Paragon Road and at Newfield Children's Home. Lorna is one of these girls. We had to show the film to her elderly parents to get a positive I.D. It destroyed them,' Blake said, angrily. He hated himself for having to do that but, because she disappeared such a long time ago, it was the only way.
'You can't prove it was me in those old films.'
'Was it Johnny Wilder?’
'No comment.'
'Come on, Vincent. We have more than enough evidence to convict you.'
DS Murphy took over, 'A sixty-seven-year old paedophile is going to have a rough time in prison, that's for sure, but an ex-copper to boot, well, I wouldn't like to think about how that will play out. But, if you help us, you might be shown some leniency?'
Brady looked worried. As if chained by shackles, he clenched his fists and turned to consult his lawyer.
'OK, I'll cooperate, but I want some assurances first.'
'And those would be?' Blake asked.
'A category C prison, away from hardened criminals, such as HMP Stafford.'
'You do know that place is full of sex offenders?’
Brady didn't reply. Ashamed, he nodded.
'That all depends on you, Vincent. You still haven’t told us what happened to Lorna Atwood. She disappeared around the same time you investigated allegations of abuse by the Wilder brothers on Valletta Lombardi and Margot Matheson: allegations that were suddenly dropped only a week later. Were you on the Wilder brothers’ payroll?’
Brady sneered.
Blake ignored his callous contempt, 'Where is Lorna Atwood's body buried?’
'That fucking tease knew what she was doing,' he said, without remorse. His tense body posture and squirming were merely expressions of annoyance at finally being caught after years of cruel deception. He knew they'd penetrated his armour.
Blake glanced at Murphy, 'Now we're getting somewhere. What exactly do you mean by that?'
'She hung around the arcade in short skirts, flirting with all the men. She was asking for it.'
'By it, I take it you mean sex with older men who frequented The Golden Nugget arcade?'
'Yeah.'
'Lorna was bloody fourteen years old; still a child!'
'Well, she certainly didn't dress like any child I've ever seen. She hung around with older girls. They were legal alright; the Lombardi woman will tell you. She was a fucking whore, as well. She was screwing both the Wilder brothers and used to bring young girls to some of the parties,' Bates said, vindictively, and to his lawyer's dismay.
Blake didn't rise to his vile slur of the poor girl, 'For the tape, you're saying Valletta Lombardi arranged for underage girls to have sex with paedophiles?'
'Yeah, she was a druggie with a habit to feed. Lenny Wilder gave her free gear if she groomed the girls.'
'What proof do you have Lenny Wilder was involved in this paedophile ring?' Blake said.
Brady arched a sly brow, 'The Evil Man paid Lenny Wilder, who then paid me to keep quiet.'
'Evil man? If you’re going to persist in this time-wasting charade, give us a bloody name, Vincent?'
'No comment.'
'This is wearing thin now,' Blake said.
DS Murphy shot his boss a knowing look and nodded in agreement. They'd be bringing Lombardi and Bates back in very soon for further questioning. Seems the pair had a lot to answer for. But they still hadn't located Johnny Wilder.
'Where did you and Johnny Wilder bury Lorna's body, Vincent? We're done being patient. Do the right thing for once in your life.'
'I didn't kill her. For fuck’s sake, listen to me, man!'
'The evidence says otherwise. Besides historical sex crimes against underage girls, you'll also be charged with abduction. It’s likely you'll see y
our days out in prison, Mr Brady,' Blake said, hoping to put the fear of God into him. They needed him to reveal Lorna Atwood's burial ground and the name of this mysterious tyrant he'd supposedly been storing trophies for.
'Alright, alright! His name is Ellgore Rigs.'
'What's that, East European or some other foreign name?’ Murphy asked.
'I don't know.'
'And that's supposed to convince us this mythical child-killer exists? It’s Johnny Wilder, Vincent,' Blake said, sceptical.
'It’s the name he goes by, has done for years. Those who cross him disappear or end up dead. Take it or leave it, I'm too old to give a shit anymore. Charge me and have done.'
'I think we'll take a comfort break to give Mr Brady time to reflect,' Blake said to Brady’s lawyer.
As Brady and his lawyer were leaving the room, Blake said to his sergeant, 'Check this Ellgore Rigs in HOLMES, John?'
Brady turned in the doorway being held open by PC Haynes, 'You’re deluded if you think that evil bastard is on your database. He's a seriously organised criminal. He's never been arrested. The man’s a ghost. I don't even know what he looks like.’
****
Exactly as Brady had said, there was no record of an Ellgore Rigs in HOLMES. Which confirmed their theory Brady was probably lying to protect Johnny Wilder. The man was in denial.
'I want it in writing, signed by the CPS and a judge, or I'll keep everything to myself, understand, Inspector? I heard they do gardening and art classes in Stafford Nick. It didn't do Rolf Harris much harm, by the looks of him,' Brady said, expressing no remorse or regret for his sick behaviour.
His lawyer looked horrified and asked for another break to consult with his client, but Brady was a man who needed to bare his tortured soul while he still could. Being a past-master of the interview game, he knew how to play them. He signalled for his lawyer to sod off, with a hooked thumb. The two detectives made no attempt to stop him leaving the room.
The Missing And The Dead: A tense crime thriller with a shocking twist Page 12
