by Conrad Jones
Chapter Thirty Three
Alfie Lesner
Alfie sipped a cup of boiling coffee and pressed a tea towel filled with ice to a large bump on his forehead. He was shaking like a leaf and his nerves were shot. The trauma of being inside the prison bus when the sides were ripped open had been matched in ferocity by the motorcycle ride away from the scene. He had closed his eyes and clung on for dear life as he watched the speedometer climbing over one hundred miles an hour. He was over the moon to be free initially, but now reality was hitting home and he had to ask why anyone would go to such lengths to free him. The coffee burnt his lips and he spat it back into the cup. He looked to his rescuer, but there was little information to be gained from him. He had barely said three words to him since they arrived. They were in a detached factory unit somewhere north of Crewe, about forty miles south of the Delamere farm. It was set in similar countryside, isolated yet conveniently situated close to the major motorway networks.
“How long do we have to stay in this dump?” Alfie tried to make conversation. The Moroccan shrugged and sipped his tea.
“Hajj will have an escape plan right, to get me out of the country for a while?”
The Moroccan shrugged again, and this time he smiled as he drank. The sound of a vehicle approaching diverted their attention.
“Thank god for that, I don’t think I can stand anymore of your riveting conversation,” Alfie frowned as he placed the ice pack back onto his bruised head. He heard footsteps approaching the unit, and then a door opening echoed through the building. Hajj appeared in the doorway of the room that he was in, and Alfie could tell from his expression that he wasn’t happy at all.
“Hajj, thanks for getting me out of there,” Alfie stepped forward and offered his hand toward the Moroccan mafia boss. Hajj ignored the offer and punched Alfie in the teeth. The blow rocked Alfie backward. Hajj grabbed the iced towel and wrapped it around his knuckles, before punching Alfie a second time.
“Hajj!” Alfie shouted as he spat a tooth covered in blood and saliva onto the floor.
“What did you tell the police, Alfie?”
“Nothing, honest,” Alfie spat blood again. He hesitated before continuing, which was his undoing. “I wouldn’t tell them anything, Hajj, I’ve got too much to lose.”
“Did they question you?”
“Yes, of course they did, but I didn’t tell them anything, honestly,” Alfie stressed the last word. He knew that it would only be a matter of time before Hajj found out the truth. The police would be swarming all over Delamere Forest by now.
“Did they ask you about the children?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing, that bastard Howarth had told them that I kidnapped the twins,” Alfie played for time.
“How do you know that he told them that?”
“They were waiting for me at his caravan.”
“Where was he?”
“They had already taken him away. I walked right into a trap, and that fucking pervert is to blame,” Alfie pretended to be annoyed, but his fear was tangible.
“You think that Jack telephoned the police?”
“Yes, he did, and he tried to set me up for the kidnap.”
Hajj laughed and paced up and down for a moment. He was mulling over the situation, as he understood it.
“Good old Jack! He’s not stupid is he?” Hajj laughed again, but there was little genuine mirth in it. “What did you tell them about the twins?”
“I told them that I didn’t know anything about them.”
“And you think that they believed you?” Hajj’s eyes darkened as if he was trying to see the truth inside his head.
“I think so,” Alfie felt beads of sweat running from his temples, and his lip was swelling painfully.
“Did they get your car, Alfie,” Hajj spoke quietly.
“Yes.”
“You put the twins into your trunk.”
Alfie could see where the conversation was going. Hajj didn’t believe that he hadn’t said anything and he was fishing for clues in his story.
“They were wrapped in the sleeping bag, Hajj. There isn’t any evidence of them being in the car,” Alfie flapped.
“There will be skin, and hair. It will not take them long to prove that you transported the twins, and then you’ll be looking at a long stretch in jail. Then it would be in your own interest to tell them everything that you know,” Hajj shrugged as he spelled things out the way that he saw it.
“You could get me out of the country, Hajj, then they’d never catch me.”
“Every policeman in Europe will be looking for you and Jack Howarth, you’re far too much of a liability I’m afraid.”
“What do you mean Jack Howarth?”
“He’s on the run somewhere, but I’m not worried about him.”
“How did he escape?” Alfie was shocked by the news, with Jack Howarth in the wind all the fingers of blame would be pointing at him.
“That’s of no consequence now; I’ve taken a small insurance policy out, Alfie, just to make sure you haven’t said anything.”
“What are you talking about?” Alfie looked worried and confused.
“You parents are at the stables, Alfie, surrounded by enough explosive to send them to kingdom come and back,” Hajj dropped a Polaroid that had been taken earlier. It showed the terrified elderly couple strapped to a set of camp beds. Alfie sat down and put his head in his hands, his own pain forgotten for the moment. “You’re quiet, Alfie, what’s the problem?”
Alfie started to cry like a baby, his hands shook and tears streamed down his face. Hajj didn’t need to hear any more, it had become obvious that Alfie had given away the location of the stables, which he’d anticipated anyway. He pulled a shiny Bulldog revolver and pointed the huge gun at Alfie’s head. Alfie closed his eyes tightly as a forty-four calibre bullet smashed into his brains.
Chapter thirty four
The Horsebox
Detective Crab drove over a narrow grey stone bridge, which crossed the River Lune. The drive north had taken him nearly two hours, and his head was still thick with a hangover from the whisky that he’d drunk the previous night. Leading the investigation into the abduction of the Kelly twins had given him sleepless nights, and whisky numbed his senses and gifted him a few hours of fitful slumber. The investigation itself had spiralled out of control over the last few days, as their two main suspects had been sprung from custody, resulting in the deaths of one armed officer and one special volunteer constable. The police station had been torched, which caused the destruction of their main investigation room, and hundreds of witness statements connected to the case had been lost in the blaze. Last but not least, two senior officers, the head of the armed unit and the Divisional Commander, had been killed in an explosion along with ten firearms specialists. The loss of so many of his colleagues had devastated the morale of the division, and set the investigation back in the process. The major incident team were trying to set up a new operations centre at a neighbouring police station, but it was going to take time to get organised, and many of the witness statements that had been lost could never be replaced. The discovery of the blue horsebox was a major breakthrough, and he had to go to the scene himself to see what evidence could be recovered.
It was close to midday and the sun was getting hot, as he navigated a tight bend in the road and almost drove past the entrance to the derelict petrol station where the horsebox had been found. Yellow crime scene tape flapped in the wind and a uniformed officer was keeping a gaggle of photographers away from the overgrown forecourt. Crab indicated that he wanted to drive onto the weed strewn garage, and he honked his horn to get the police officer’s attention. The constable waved to him and walked over to the car, bending to the window as he lowered it.
“I’m Detective Crab, Cheshire Division, I’m here to meet your forensic team,” Crab could smell whisky on his own breath, and from the look on the young constable�
��s face, so could he. The uniformed officer frowned and lifted the yellow tape.
“They’re round the back of the building, Sir, and I’d get some mints if I was you, Sir,” the officer said as he passed by.
“Smart arse,” Crab muttered as he pulled the vehicle on to the tarmac. He closed the window and reached over to his left. There was half a packet of extra strong mints in the deepest darkest reaches of the glove box, and after a few dredges he felt them in his grasp. The wrapper was tattered and torn, and the top mint was dirty so he tossed it into the back seat, and then crammed the next two from the pack into his mouth. Crab checked himself in the rear view mirror before opening the door and climbing out of the vehicle. His eyes were not as red as they had been earlier, so at least his liver and kidneys were getting to work on the alcohol that was coursing through his bloodstream. The sunshine was warming, and he had to squint against the glare. He breathed in deeply, and the country air lightened his mood considerably. The rainfall from the previous night was evaporating quickly, making the atmosphere moist, and fresh.
“Detective Crab?” a female voice disturbed his thoughts.
“Yes, and you are?” Crab was taken aback by her appearance.
“Doctor Peters, crime lab, come this way please,” she almost purred when she spoke, a gentle Southern Irish lilt to her voice added to her attractive demeanour. Doctor Peters was a stunning brunette, and despite the fact that she was wearing a blue paper jump suit, Crab could tell that she had the body of a glamour model. “If you could put this on I’d appreciate it.”
Crab stopped at a second line of tape, where he was handed a similar paper garment to put on. He ripped open the packet and struggled into it clumsily. The doctor took the empty packaging from him and smiled as he pushed his legs into the jumpsuit.
“Whoever invents one of these things that is easy to get on will make a fortune,” the pretty doctor joked.
“I’m with you there, Doctor,” the detective replied. He closed the zip up to his neck, and then smoothed the paper suit down with his hands. “Ready when you are.”
“We’ve found something interesting, my colleagues are about to open it now,” the doctor sounded excited as she walked toward the derelict garage. “Have you been brought up to speed with what we have found so far”
“Not really, my information was sketchy to be honest. That’s why we requested a visit to the scene,” Crab was staring at the doctor’s rounded behind as he walked.
“Watch that manhole,” she pointed to one of the open tanks, which stopped him from disappearing into the earth.
Detective Crab blushed and sidestepped the hazard. They rounded the corner of the petrol station, and the old workshop came into view. A navy blue horsebox was parked inside, barely visible from the road. Lying on the tarmac were the carcasses of four horses. They had been placed onto plastic sheets, and a forensic officer was probing a slimy pile of intestines with gloved hands. It looked like they had been disembowelled.
“What happened to them?” Crab grimaced as the thick stench of offal and excrement drifted across to him.
“They were obviously being used as mules, if you’ll pardon the pun,” the doctor explained.
“I don’t follow.”
“They were force fed condoms full of crystal meth. It would appear that the smugglers changed their plans and had to recover their drugs from the horses’ intestines before nature could take its own course. They must have been in a hurry,” she pointed to the piles of intestines, and a swarm of flies took off as they neared them.
“Jesus,” the detective muttered.
“It’s common practice nowadays detective, especially now sniffer dogs are so prevalent. The dealers have developed new ways to trick the dogs, horses are often used.”
“Why here though, how was the vehicle found?”
“According to our uniformed officers a local man, who knows the area like the back of his hand, was passing on his way home from a shift on the docks at Heysham. He’s a customs officer and they had been alerted to keep an eye out for the vehicle earlier in the week. He saw it parked here, thought it was unusual and called us.”
“Do you think that the port was their destination?”
“Without a doubt, thoroughbred horses are shipped over to Ireland everyday of the week to be used for breeding racehorses,” the doctor stepped into the workshop away from the smell of the rotting horses. “This vehicle and those horses would have sailed across the Irish Sea without a hitch if there hadn’t been an alert put out.”
The detective nodded, and processed the information that he’d been given. Their investigation had been focused on the ports to the south, assuming that the twins were destined for the continent. He followed the doctor around to the back of the horsebox. The walls of the building were made from corrugated iron, and it was covered in rust and a thick curtain of cobwebs. The smell of congealing blood filled the air, and he longed to be back in the sunshine away from the stomach-churning stench. The ramp of the vehicle was sticky, and he could feel blood squelching beneath his shoes.
“We think there is a hidden compartment behind that wall,” the doctor pointed toward the bulkhead of the stable box. “There seems to be about eight feet of space missing from the inside of the vehicle when it’s compared to the exterior dimensions,” the doctor smiled at her colleagues who were clearing bridles and saddles from the tack wall. They walked past the detective and nodded silent hellos, and the bridles clinked as they placed them into neat piles on the workshop floor.
“It would be the ideal place to smuggle two small children,” Crab said excitedly.
“We didn’t notice it at first, but don’t get your hopes up we haven’t heard any signs of life in there I’m afraid.”
“We’re ready to pull the wall down, Doctor,” one of the scientists said, as he stomped back up the ramp. He was a portly grey-haired chap, and his paper suit was stretched to its outer limits.
“Okay, if we’re all ready then let’s see what’s behind there,” the doctor sighed. She turned to the detective and rolled her eyes. “I’m not looking forward to this,” she said.
“How long would the twins have been in the horsebox, assuming that they are actually in there?” the detective asked. Two forensic officers set to work with electric screwdrivers, and the high-pitched whining noise that they made reminded him of a dentist drill. He pressed his teeth together at the thought.
“Who knows?” she shook her head without committing herself to a speculative guess.
The panel came away easily once the screws, which held it in place, were removed, and the secret compartment was revealed.
“Dear god,” the pretty doctor said under her breath. She put her hands over her nose and pressed her fingers into the corner of her eyes, trying to stem the tears that were forming there. One of the forensics began to click photographs of the terrible scene before them, and it was all detective Crab could do to stop himself from vomiting.
“That’s identical to the sleeping bag that the twins were taken in,” the detective said to himself referring to a blood soaked quilt.
“How could anyone do that to another human being?” the doctor shook her head.
“I guess she was a mule too,” the detective sucked air between his teeth as he looked at the carnage. Ramah had been a sexy young woman when she entered the horsebox with the twins. Her role was to nurse them on the ferry journey across the Irish Sea. She was also made to swallow fifteen condoms full of cocaine. It would appear that she had suffered the same grizzly end as the horses had when the deal went sour and the voyage had to be cancelled. She was spread eagle on a cot bed, her chest had been ripped open from her neck to her groin, and her intestines had been sliced open and strewn across the floor. The compartment was small and compact, and apart from Ramah’s savaged corpse, it was completely empty. The twins were gone.
Chapter thirty five
Two days later/Sylvia Lees
Sylvia Lees crushed out a c
igarette in the overflowing ashtray of her car as she tried to gather her thoughts. The nicotine hit had only succeeded in making her feel lightheaded, and hadn’t calmed her nerves one bit. She reached for her packet of Benson and Hedges Gold, and swore when she realised that it was empty. That meant that she had smoked twenty cigarettes since teatime yesterday, considering that she was trying to give up, it wasn’t good.
She had parked a few hundred yards down the road from the Kelly residence, in order to avoid the crowd of paparazzi that were still encamped outside, waiting for a shot of a devastated mother to plaster on their front pages, or a snippet of information about the case. The disappearance of the twins was news enough to cause a media storm, but the torrent of violence and intrigue which had dogged the investigation over the last week was unrivalled by anything that had happened before. The fact that Karl Kelly hadn’t been seen at the house for a few days had not gone unnoticed, it had fuelled speculation of a marital split, and that wasn’t helping to quieten the furore either. The police were not coming out well in the newspapers, as the broadsheet editors dissected one blunder after another.
