by Conrad Jones
Guilty
Until Proven Innocent
conrad jones
Contents
Also By Conrad Jones
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Copyright © 2018 Conrad Jones
The right of Conrad Jones to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2018 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Also By Conrad Jones
DI Braddick Series
Brick ( Book 1)
Shadows ( Book 2)
Stand alone
The Journey
Prologue
He turned down the radio so he could hear the muffled cries for help coming from the boot. The victim’s voice had been strong at first, full of anger. The energy and venom were waning. He was incoherent now, sounding almost demented. A thin smile touched his lips as he listened to the anguish. He would drive around for a while, taking an hour or so to reach his lair; it would feel like an age for his victim. There was fear in his voice and he savoured his fear. Listening to him plead for help excited him. He had no sympathy for him, only hatred and anger. It was his own fault that he was where he was; he had asked for everything that was about to happen to him. Retribution. That’s what it was. He would make him understand what he had done when he was broken, when he was helpless. It wouldn’t take long to break this one. He could tell. Some were stronger than others. At the end, they were always the same: sorry and apologetic, but their apologies were too late. They would beg for mercy at the end but there was none to be had. Where was the mercy when he had needed it? Nowhere, that’s where.
He had realised a long time ago that the world was short on mercy. Mercy and giving the benefit of the doubt were gifts that humans talked about, but rarely delivered. People are fickle. One minute you’re loved and respected, the next you’re a pariah. Given the right circumstances, lifelong friends could become enemies in the blink of an eye. Innocent until proven guilty – that was how it was supposed to be. It was bullshit. Mercy and forgiveness were rare. They were commodities that not many could afford.
He could hear him sobbing again. The anger had dissipated and burnt out – it always did. They always started out angry, shouting abuse and screaming threats. That was when they realised they were in the grip of evil. There was no going back. This was where they would meet their end, screaming, begging for mercy. Yet still they threatened him. He had heard it all. It didn’t matter. Nothing would stop him. That was the point: to show them how it felt to be helpless. They had to feel the total desolation of being helpless and alone, teetering on a knife edge between life and death, the pain so intense that death was the desirable option. Being helpless was all part of the horror they had to suffer so they could understand what they had done. Fear blurred the reality in their minds. When they realised that they couldn’t break the wire that was bound around their wrists and ankles, they would change; they couldn’t stop him hurting them, and they couldn’t talk their way out. Once that was accepted, the threats would subside. They would realise that he wasn’t about to release them, not now, not soon, not ever. Once it had sunk in that this wasn’t a situation with a happy ending, their spirit would weaken, and eventually break. The adrenalin waned from their bloodstream and they would resort to seeking mercy. But there was no mercy.
They had nothing but pain and suffering to look forward to. Pain and suffering and fear. The fear in their eyes was what drove him. It fuelled him. It was the price they paid for what they had done. They would never be found. Their loved ones would never know why they didn’t come home. They would suffer too. They would always wonder where they were and what had happened to them. They would always miss them, always grieve for them. That made him happy. He had suffered and now it was their turn. Every action had a reaction: yin and yang, karma, an eye for an eye, whichever universal power people believed in. This was revenge, and it worked for him. It would be a long night for his victim, a very long night indeed. He lit a cigarette while he listened to the dulcet tones of suffering coming from the boot.
1
Richard Vigne looked across the living room at his twins. They were good-looking kids, even if he said so himself. His son, Jake, was engrossed in an online game on his iPad, playing against his best friend who lived across town. His daughter, Jaki, was on her phone, texting at a million miles an hour. They hadn’t spoken for at least an hour. Interaction with his teenage offspring was often limited to grunts and groans, every question an intrusion into their virtual worlds. Sometimes, he wondered if they could answer a question with a complete sentence without rolling their eyes towards the ceiling, but generally they were nice kids. Their grandparents said they were ruined, and he blamed his wife for being soft when they were toddlers; she, in turn, blamed him for being soft when they became teenagers. The older they got, the harder it was to impose and police any boundaries, no matter how well intentioned. Richard had given up trying to discipline them. He preferred being the approachable parent, the one who would slip them a tenner when mum had already said no. There were no issues at their school, which was where he worked. They didn’t take drugs, drink or smoke. Academically, they were above average, they were polite and well-mannered. They seemed to be popular, well-balanced individuals, liked by the pupils and staff. Most importantly, they were healthy. As far as Richard was concerned, that was all that mattered. If they remained healthy, they would find their way in life, eventually.
Richard smiled at them, checked his watch, and turned the channel to BBC, set for Match of the Day.
‘What are you doing, Dad?’ Jaki asked, annoyed, hardly looking up from her phone.
‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m putting the football on,’ Richard replied, calmly. He scratched the dark stubble on his chin and rubbed his shaven head with his palm. It was an anxiety thing – if he sensed an argument brewing, he rubbed his head – and he knew he did it.
‘It’s Saturday night. Saturday night is football time.’ Jaki pulled a pained expression. ‘Don’t look so surprised. It’s a tradition. Downtrodden fathers across the country seek the sanctuary of Match of the Day. It’s a tiny piece of sanity in a mad world,’ he
said. ‘Saturday has been football time for many years, way before you were born.’
‘In the old days before the wheel,’ Jake muttered.
‘I heard that, cheeky bugger,’ Richard warned.
‘Oh, Dad. That’s so unfair. I was watching that programme!’ Jaki moaned, the pain on her face deepening. Her long blonde hair framed her pretty face.
‘You weren’t,’ he said, glancing at her.
Richard had a suspicion that Jaki’s lips had recently changed shape, along with half of the girls in her year group. Some of them looked fish-like. He had broached the subject with Celia but she’d fobbed him off, saying he was a dinosaur. He wasn’t sure he agreed with that analogy. Not being consulted about his daughter having injections in her face had irritated him, but he could live with it. It wasn’t the end of the world. He would have said yes, eventually. One angry female in the house was difficult enough to deal with, two were impossible. She was glaring at him, sulkily. The pout emphasised her lip fillers.
‘I was watching it!’
‘No, Jak, you weren’t watching it. You were texting.’
‘I can do both.’
‘What was it about?’ Richard asked.
‘What was what about?’
‘What was the programme, that you were watching, about?’
‘That one that you just turned over?’
‘What was it?’
‘It was about the girls and the guys competing against each other,’ she mumbled. She hadn’t been paying attention, but it wasn’t football and that was the point. ‘I can’t remember the name of it, to be honest.’
‘Oh, come on, Jak. If it was so engrossing, what was it called?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘That’s because you were texting and not watching it.’
‘I was doing both.’
‘I bought the television and I pay the licence fee.’
‘Mum pays it, actually,’ Jaki said, correcting him.
‘Same thing,’ Richard replied. He gave her a look. It was a ‘don’t push it’ look. ‘I’m not arguing with you. We’re watching the football.’
‘That’s so unfair!’
‘Stop moaning, Jak,’ Jake said, nudging her. The family always shortened her name. ‘We’re watching the football and that’s that.’ Jake grinned sarcastically. His blond hair was cropped at the sides and spiked on top.
‘But I was watching that programme,’ she protested.
‘You don’t even know what it was called,’ Jake teased.
‘I do.’
‘You don’t.’
‘I’ll miss the end!’
‘No one cares.’
‘I care.’
‘We don’t.’
‘Shut up, stupid.’
‘I’m sick of watching your reality-crap programmes anyway.’ Jake looked at his dad. ‘Aren’t we, Dad?’
‘What?’ Richard asked, half listening.
‘I said, we’re sick of watching reality programmes, aren’t we?’
‘Sick of the sight of them,’ Richard said, winking. ‘Six-packs and orange people everywhere.’
‘That’s why she watches them,’ Jake chuckled. ‘She’s orange too.’
The twins smiled and nudged each other. They looked like bookends, sitting on the settee in their Adidas tracksuits.
‘But you already know the results of the games,’ Jaki argued. She sat forward, and pouted to emphasise her point. Richard looked at her side-on. She had definitely had her lips done. ‘What is the point in watching it when you know what happens?’
‘Because we want to watch the games, retard,’ Jake muttered.
‘Jake!’ Richard said, sternly. ‘I don’t want to hear you using that word about your sister again.’
‘Tell her to stop being one then,’ Jake protested. He caught her profile too. ‘Have you had your lips done?’ he asked.
‘Shut your face!’ She blushed and covered her mouth, hiding her lips from her dad. ‘You’re such a knob sometimes!’ It was obvious from the side that she had, and all the girls in school were having fillers. Jake realised that his dad hadn’t been consulted; from the expression on his face it was obvious. He decided to shut up, not wanting to get his twin into hot water.
‘Retard,’ Jake replied.
‘I am not the retard. Watching football when you already know the scores is retarded.’ Jaki stood up and walked towards the door, her nose in the air, offended. ‘I do not see the point.’
‘I don’t see the point in a lot of things that you do,’ Jake called after her.
‘Like what, stupid?’ she answered from the doorway.
‘What is the point in putting that cream on your skin and turning yourself orange like all your Oompa Loompa friends?’ Jake replied as she left the room. ‘And as for those eyelashes, you look like a couple of spiders have died on your face.’
‘You’re such a knobhead,’ Jaki countered from the hallway. She fluttered her spider-like lashes self-consciously and glanced in the mirror, pouting. Were her lips that obvious? They would settle down in a few days. Maybe she had overdone it with the fake tan. She got a drink from the kitchen and walked back into the room, plonking herself next to her twin. He looked at her and stuck out his tongue, making his lips look bigger. ‘You’re so immature,’ she said, shaking her head in disgust. ‘No wonder April Morris won’t go out with you.’
‘I don’t even like April Morris,’ Jake said, embarrassed. He had a massive crush on her if the truth be known, but she had a boyfriend who was seventeen and had his own car. A black BMW. The only way a seventeen-year-old could buy a car like that was by having rich parents or selling coke. Jake couldn’t compete with either.
‘Oh, really?’ Jaki teased. ‘I’ll tell her you’re not interested any more. She’ll be heartbroken, not.’
‘Tell her what you want. I’m not bothered.’
‘I’ve seen the text messages you sent to her,’ Jaki said, shaking her head. It was Jake’s turn to blush. ‘They come over a bit desperate, if you ask me.’
‘Maybe I am desperate, but I’m not orange,’ Jake said, grinning. Her words stung a bit, but he knew April Morris was way out of his league. He went back to his game, keeping one eye on the television. Jaki finished her drink and stood up. ‘If you’re going to get another drink,’ he said, ‘I’ll have a Tango, unless you’ve used it all in your bath.’
‘Knobhead.’
‘Oompa Loompa.’
‘Will you two pack it in?’ Richard snapped. ‘I’m trying to watch this.’
Jaki handed her brother a glass of orange. Despite their bickering, they worshipped each other. She sat down and pretended to be bored by the football. The sport didn’t interest her but some of those thighs made her blush. Richard frowned when a phone pinged. He looked at the twins, annoyed by the intrusion.
‘Don’t look at us like that. It was your phone, Dad,’ Jaki said, chuckling.
‘Was it?’ Richard was shocked.
‘Yes!’
‘It’s never made that noise before,’ he said, frowning.
‘Sounded like an alert from Messenger,’ Jake said. Richard looked at him blankly. ‘It’s Facebook, Dad.’
Richard pulled a face. Facebook wasn’t really his thing. He had a profile page on the school site but he never looked at it – teachers avoided it, for obvious reasons. He picked up his phone and looked at the message:
Richard Vigne, we know what you did with Nikki Haley and we’re going to tell everyone. We know where you live, paedo. We’re onto you. The information will be sent to your employers, the press and the police.
Richard inhaled sharply and sat upright. He nearly choked. The kids glanced at him, concerned expressions on their faces.
‘What’s up, Dad?’ Jake asked, distracted from his game. He eyed his dad briefly. His face was pale, almost grey. It wasn’t like his dad to be shocked by something; he looked baffled but didn’t reply. He was staring at the screen. ‘Something wrong, Dad?
’
‘No, no. Nothing is wrong,’ Richard said, shaking his head. He sat back and reread the message, trying to keep calm. He looked at the sender’s name. It had come from a Facebook group called Predator Hunters Northwest. His hands were shaking as he looked at their page. It appeared to be a vigilante group that focused on trapping paedophiles online. There were dozens of pictures of men getting arrested when they turned up to meet someone they had thought was a child, and finding out that the person they had been grooming was, in fact, a group of vigilantes who were setting a trap. He scrolled through the discussions with trembling fingers. His mouth dropped open when he saw a grainy picture of a man talking to a young girl. He didn’t recognise the place, and he didn’t recognise the girl. The man in the picture didn’t look like him, but it wasn’t clear. Beneath the picture was his name:
This scumbag is Richard Vigne. He’s a teacher and a paedophile. Address to follow. Please like, share, and tweet as many times as you can. We need to stop this monster being anywhere near children.
Richard was winded as if he had been punched in the stomach. Fear gripped his guts with icy fingers and twisted his intestines. He wanted to scream at the screen. It isn’t me! It isn’t me! Who were these idiots and why were they sending him such vile messages? His head was spinning. His heart was pounding so fast in his chest he thought it was going to explode. He could barely draw breath. His teeth were grinding painfully against each other. Someone had made a mistake. A huge mistake. A massive mistake. As far as mistakes go, this one was fucking monumental. He clicked back to the message on his phone and replied:
