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

by J. F. Burgess

  'I'm afraid that's up to the courts to decide,' Murphy said.

  'From what we now know about Vince Brady, we don't believe he would have unconditionally handed the child over,' Blake said.

  'He didn't. Just after Joanne arrived, he began blackmailing us for money. We gave him twenty percent of the café’s takings for years. We hated doing it, but knew she'd be taken away and put into care if Brady exposed us.'

  'That doesn't surprise us. The man's pure evil. He'll be spending the rest of his life in prison,' Murphy said.

  Blake said, 'We've spoken to the CPS. They've advised us to add the additional charge of accessory to child abduction to your possession of indecent images charge, but because you've already spent time in custody, you'll be released until you get a trial date.'

  CHAPTER 53

  Craig Matheson was livid at being assaulted by his so-called dad's oppo. That maniac broke his two front teeth and left him with nerve damage in his upper jaw. Peeling back his top lip with two fingers, he glared in the mirror over the fireplace in his mum’s living room at the ugly black gap. She'd informed him that Inspector Blake had put out an arrest warrant for Wilder, but he was hell-bent on getting revenge for all the misery Wilder had caused. Now drug-free, he'd spent the last few days like a P.I., talking to people who knew Wilder.

  It was no surprise there were others Johnny Wilder had crushed in the past, and several old blokes who drank in the pubs he frequented relished the thought of seeing the old-school gangster banged up. A lively fella called Tommy Groves, who had lost an eye in an altercation with Wilder back in seventy-three, told Craig the old man sometimes shacked up with a middle-aged woman called Jean who lived just off the Old Colliery Road, not far from the Old Sal pub.

  Matheson had paced the terraced streets surrounding the pub in search of Wilder's Mercedes; no such luck. But after persevering with a few more circuits of the area, he finally spotted Wilder sneaking out of a corner shop with a bottle of Scotch in his hand and a flat cap pulled low on his face. Luckily, he was so intent on not being recognised, he didn't see Craig sitting on a wall thirty yards away smoking a fag.

  Craig followed at a safe distance until Wilder was permitted entrance to number 78 by a woman with bleached blonde hair. After he'd gone in, she stood on the step in pink mules, glancing nervously left and right, before shutting the door.

  ‘Bingo’, Craig muttered as he glanced up at the City of Stoke-on-Trent street sign on the corner house: Carson Street. He headed back to the road where he'd parked the scooter he borrowed from his mate, and called DI Blake on his mobile.

  ****

  'No blues and twos, fellas. We don't want to spook Wilder into legging it before we hit Carson Street,' Blake said to a team of five officers standing outside the station by two Volvo patrol cars.

  Ten minutes later, the cars entered Carson Street as a C class silver Mercedes was easing out from a line of parked cars outside number 78.

  Johnny Wilder must have spotted them in his rear-view mirror, because he took a sharp left into the street running west and hit the gas.

  'He's running, Murph,' Blake said, as his sergeant hit the siren and accelerator.

  They cut the corner tight but Wilder's vehicle had disappeared. He'd stolen a few hundred yards on them. Now approaching the main road junction, they spotted the Mercedes heading along the Old Colliery Road.

  Blake hit the radio, ‘Requesting Traffic assistance. In pursuit of suspect in silver Mercedes reg NB66 HDT, heading north along Old Colliery Road, Tunstall.' His head rocked forward as the Volvo hit a sudden dip in the road.

  'Bastard's got a nerve trying to outrun us,' DS Murphy said, easing off the gas to pass a skinny Lycra-clad traffic obstacle. 'They're so bloody annoying. Look at that padding on his arse. Looks like he's shit himself. They want banning. Roads are for cars and vans, not middle-aged twats in Morphsuits.'

  'Eyes on the prize, John. He'll not get far: there's a busy junction with lights up ahead.'

  Wilder had slowed to give way to traffic crossing from the right. Blake and Murphy had closed the gap to three vehicles as the lights changed to red. But, even though their siren was still belting out, the cars in front had nowhere to go because of a stream of oncoming traffic in the right-hand lane.

  Without warning, Wilder jumped the lights and sped off. Gripping the wheel, Murphy spied a gap, shot out and continued in pursuit. Burning through the gears, he'd now positioned the Volvo right behind Wilder. The mad old sod was doing fifty in a thirty zone with no sign of stopping.

  The undulating road ahead narrowed as Wilder put his foot down, widening the gap momentarily as they cut through Shellnorth council estate dotted with red-bricked semi-detached houses. Murphy glanced at the speed dial hovering close to fifty-five, 'Jesus, not good, Tom. Where's Traffic?'

  Blake gripping the door handle, 'Waiting for an update.'

  The radio crackled into life, ‘X38 our ETA at the junction off the Shellnorth estate is one minute.’

  'Thank God for that,' Murphy said, easing down on the brake to navigate a sharp left-hand bend.

  As they reached the top of an incline, the junction became visible. They saw the Traffic patrol car blocking off the right-hand lane.

  "Stinger out. End of the line for suspect, X38. Ease off and keep a safe distance. Over."

  Murphy hit the brakes as instructed. The Mercedes swerved too late and flew over the spikes. They watched it skid, bounce up the kerb, and crash into a street light.

  They exited the vehicle and charged over to the scene as the Traffic cops apprehended a dazed Johnny Wilder.

  ****

  'What the hell were you thinking, Johnny? You could have killed a pedestrian driving like that,' Blake said.

  Stiff from his collision with the street light, Wilder rubbed the back of his neck. Apart from that and a minor abrasion on his hand, A&E had cleared him for interview.

  'We'll be adding dangerous driving to any charges brought against you. Do you understand?'

  'What bloody charges?'

  'You can't be serious? We know you were involved in the disappearance of Antonio Lombardi. In fact, we believe you ordered Albert Carmelo to kill him. That's accessory to murder, straight off the bat. Then there's bribing a police officer, and intimidating witnesses,' Blake swiped the smug grin off Wilder’s face.

  'You've got no evidence to support these bullshit allegations, just hearsay from a washed-up bunch of pensioners me and Lenny pissed off years ago.'

  'Is that right, DS Murphy?'

  'Mr Wilder, it’s looking like you'll be seeing out your retirement inside,' Murphy said.

  'Where's your fucking evidence?'

  Blake slid two A4 prints across the table.

  'What's this shit?'

  'A picture of poor Lorna Atwood’s bus pass which we found traces of your fingerprints on. The other picture is of her shoes and clothes. Your DNA is on the shoes,' Blake dropped the bomb.

  The colour drained from Wilder's face, 'I don't know any Lorna Atwood. Why are you trying to lay this crap on me?'

  'Lorna Atwood has been missing for forty-two years and ex-DI Vincent Brady says you paid him to keep his mouth shut.'

  'Bollocks. You can't trust the word of a bent copper.'

  'That's not all you paid him for, is it, Johnny? He was taking bungs to inform you of police surveillance ops.'

  Wilder crossed his arms, 'Fuck off. I'm saying nothing else without a brief.'

  CHAPTER 54

  'Vincent Brady, you have led a devious double life, and if Lenny Wilder's bones hadn't been discovered and opened this sordid historical can of worms, you'd have taken your horrendous crimes against children to the grave,' Blake said, disgusted. 'You conspired to mislead everyone involved in this deeply disturbing investigation. In the cases relating to missing children in 1978, you were a corrupt police officer with zero morals and connections to equally vile criminals. Rest assured, we'll do everything in our power to bring those people to justice. />
  ‘We've put the evidence to the Crown Prosecution Service and the threshold test has been met on several counts. Not least of these counts is the damning forensic evidence: your DNA all over the clothes Lorna Atwood wore the day she disappeared in 1978; the child abuse films; yet more paedophile pictures and trophies taken at Newfield Children's Home; and statements from Clifford Bates regarding you blackmailing him to keep quiet about his daughter’s true identity and her abduction in 1978.

  ‘Vincent Brady, I'm charging you, firstly, in respect of the murder of Lorna Atwood; secondly, in respect of the rape and abuse of Melody Ashton and God knows how many other children who had the misfortune to be placed in that vile place of supposed care: Newfield Children's Home. And thirdly, in respect of the intimidation of witnesses who had provided statements in the Lenny Wilder murder case and who you summoned to the Old Sal pub with the intention of killing them. Thank God you failed, in that and your attempt to murder Margot Matheson, after her abduction was foiled by the selfless bravery of PC Emerson.’

  'I never summoned anyone to that pub. I was told by Ellgore Rigs to take the Matheson woman and wait for further instructions on the others.’

  'Get this lying piece of shit out of my sight, PC Haynes.'

  CHAPTER 55

  Sat in his office, DI Tom Blake removed his tie, tossed it onto the desk and sighed deeply. The last few weeks had been tough. He thought he'd seen it all, but Vince Brady's years of depravity and abuse of power as a serving officer had ruined so many people’s lives. Taking another sip of his coffee, he looked through the glass separating him from the open-plan CID room at his team busy at their monitors. He felt thankful that beast was permanently locked away and his toxic abuse would never ruin another child's life. He'd rot to his final day in a twelve by eight cell. Isabel’s face flashed through Blake’s mind as he swivelled the chair and read a third framed commendation certificate on the wall:

  The Commissioner of Staffordshire police

  COMMENDED

  Detective Inspector /189633 / Tom Blake

  For determination and professionalism in securing jail sentences totalling sixty-years for three men from Stoke-on-Trent involved in historical child abuse and murder.

  He was pleased that PC Emerson also received recognition and a heroism commendation for outstanding bravery in the line of duty. If she hadn't Tasered Brady, they'd be dealing with Margot Matheson’s murder, and still looking for that vile paedophile.

  But despite charging Brady with child abuse and the murder of Lorna Atwood, the case was still live, and Blake was preoccupied with locating her burial ground. The last forty-two years must have been a living hell for her parents. Their despair and torment of not knowing was etched in his mind, and he needed to help them finally put her to rest. Brady's steadfast reluctance to reveal her whereabouts saddened him. He took another sip of coffee, placed the half-full mug on his desk and sifted through the case notes.

  His eyes scanned the transcript of Brady's last interview. He was focusing on the name Ellgore Rigs, when a disturbing thought struck him like a thunderbolt. Grabbing a biro from the tub of pens on his desk, he began to write, re-arranging the letters. A knock on his office door interrupted his contemplation.

  DC Longsdon gave him a pale brown eight by ten bubble-wrap envelope. 'Sir, this came for you a good while ago; four weeks ago, to be precise. It got mixed up in a pile of admin mail and has only just been found.'

  'Bloody typical,' Blake said, looking at the postage stamp. ‘Strange. The postmark is Manchester Airport.’ He flipped the envelope over and peeled the flap open. 'Thanks, Chris. Can you tell DS Murphy I want to see him asap, please?'

  He emptied the contents onto his desk. A cold sensation crept over his entire body as he stared in disbelief at an old Polaroid of what looked like the cluster of large elm trees edging the Newfield Children's Home car park. He turned the photo over. There was something written on the back in black fountain pen:

  You will find her sleeping under the arching branches, below the long grass where the Hedge-Brown butterfly dances. She is the GATEKEEPER of her soul!

  Blake jumped up, darted around the desk, opened his door and shouted across the CID office, 'Urgent meeting now! I want everyone present!'

  CHAPTER 56

  'I want George Rills handcuffed and in custody in the next twenty minutes. That evil bastard has led us a merry sodding dance. He's not going to make us look like Keystone Cops. The press will have a field day if they get wind of this before he's banged up. Haynes, I'm giving you permission to smash that excuse for a front door off its frigging hinges,' Blake said, his normal cool resolve close to boiling point.

  The four officers charged through the narrow hallway and spread out. The house was cold, like there'd been no heating on for a while. In the kitchen, Blake lightly touched the kettle: it hadn't been boiled recently. He began to open the grease-stained cupboard doors of Rill's old Formica kitchen. A garish yellow vintage larder cabinet stood next to the window, with the worktop down. Bread crumbs lay on the grubby tea-stained surface.

  'All clear in the living room, Boss!' PC Haynes shouted down the hallway.

  'Nothing in the bathroom, sir!' DS Moore bawled down the stairs.

  'Boss, I think I've found something in Rills’ bedroom,' DS Murphy said, standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  Blake joined him, and they made their way single-file up to the larger bedroom at the back of the house overlooking the yard.

  'Look on the wall,' DS Murphy said.

  'Chrissake!' Blake glared at a large glass shadow box of pinned butterflies. 'This gets worse. If only we'd searched the place. DS Brogan actually spoke with Rills here recently.'

  'Don't beat yourself up. Hindsight and all that,' Murphy tried to reassure him.

  'Suppose you’re right. Even if we'd seen it before uncovering this complex conspiracy, I wouldn't have batted an eye. It's only significant now because of the other evidence.'

  'Afraid so. Just bad timing.'

  'Anything else?'

  'Not yet, but I've only looked under the bed and in that washing basket,' Murphy said with a grimace, gesturing to a wicker cylinder with a brown towel spilling over the side. 'Stinks in here. He's a dirty old bastard. Carpet's encrusted in about half a century of dust and coffee stains; it’s bloody vile.'

  'Kitchen’s greasier than a chip-fat fryer,' Blake nodded in agreement, then unhooked the shadow box and placed it on the bed. 'Look at the butterfly in the middle, John.' Blake pointed to the paper name tag underneath it.

  'The Gatekeeper. This evil bastard is rubbing our noses in it. He comes across as a disabled man, but who the hell is he really?'

  'A very devious paedophile. It's possible he was behind everything. I hate to admit it, but Clifford Bates’ highly improbable story is beginning to look credible.'

  Murphy sighed, 'I'm inclined to agree. Likely, Vince Brady was also telling the truth about not knowing his identity, even though he was a fellow paedo.'

  'How the hell has Rills managed to deceive us all? It beggars belief. I thought we'd never see anyone as duplicitous as that crazy Solomon Black again.'

  'God knows, but Rills has managed to cover up murder and years of child abuse, whilst implicating fellow paedophiles. The man’s seriously organised. Where the hell is he?'

  'I'm leaving Haynes and Moore here for a few hours in case he comes back.'

  'I think he's gone, Boss.'

  'Sadly, I agree, but we gotta cover our bases, just in case.'

  Carefully, Blake turned the glass box over. 'Oh, God. Is that what I think is?'

  Murphy saw a lock of light brown hair, tied with string, attached with sellotape to the back of the frame.

  'As soon as we get back, give the hospital a call. I want George Rills’ full medical history asap, John.'

  CHAPTER 57

  Later that afternoon, DS Murphy bowled into Blake's office, 'Tom, I've got George Rills’ medical records: it's not good!' He handed o
ver a print-out of the email attachment he'd urgently requested from the Royal Stoke.

  'Oh fuck!'

  'Exactly. It’s mortifying!'

  With the look of condemned men, they read through the sheet of A4. Below the patient’s name, age and date of discharge from the old North Staffordshire physiotherapy department in February 1979, it read:

  Given the severity of the injury and subsequent spinal operation to pin several of his thoracic and lumbar vertebrae, I'm pleased to say that, after six months of intense physio, George Rills has made remarkable progress and can now walk unaided by crutches or a walking stick. He will likely suffer with long-term back pain, but there is no reason why, with caution, he can't lead a full and active life.

  Blake held up the sheet of lined paper he'd written on earlier that morning, 'Look, John? Ellgore Rigs.’

  'Don't want to seem dumb, but...?'

  'E.L.L.G.O.R.E. R.I.G.S.’

  'Oh shit! It’s an anagram of George Rills.'

  'Correct. Hard to comprehend, but I'm convinced George Rills is Ellgore Rigs, the Gatekeeper. It would make sense of that sick riddle I received, Blake said.

  'The same butterfly that’s in that box on Rills’ bedroom wall, and there’s the reference to the Gatekeeper in Melody Ashton's diary,' Murphy added.

  'Not forgetting Vince Brady claimed Ellgore Rigs was the name his shadow contact went by.’

  'Exactly.'

  'Oh, God help us! That evil paedo has been hiding under a victim persona right under our noses.'

  'Maybe it started as benefit fraud. Being a loner would have made it easier to keep up the pretence in public. He'd only have to act disabled in company,' Murphy said.

  CHAPTER 58