Guilty

by Conrad Jones

  Their chatter about the suicide was comical. There were several budding psychiatrists in the group, a couple of wannabe agony aunts, and some seriously uneducated idiots. Some of them had offered psychological reasons as to why people commit suicide, their posts full of spelling mistakes and the use of wrong words, while others reflected on their analysis as psychobabble, and offered different diagnoses into the mix. Most of the group couldn’t spell diagnosis, let alone understand one. Some of the less intelligent members didn’t seem to be bothered either way. One of them hit the nail on the head by saying he couldn’t give a shit why Dave Rutland had tossed himself under a train, he was weak, and Darwin’s theory of evolution was right – the strong survive and the weak die – adding that he was probably a closet gay who couldn’t face coming out, and as such, had done the world a favour. He said, with hindsight, he’d suspected he was a bummer all along. His logic was startling. Not surprisingly, that opinion was pretty much the most popular one with many more likes and comments than some of the more thoughtful diagnoses. No one mentioned how much the unfortunate Dave Rutland was liked, or if he had any family, or if he would be missed by them or by the group as a whole. Then one of the admins jumped into the argument, reminding everyone that Rutland was a founder member and deserved some respect. Some of the members told him to fuck off and indicated that he might be a bummer too. They were deleted from the group immediately, but no one cared. Good riddance. There was no loyalty between them. That was because they didn’t really give a shit. They didn’t give a shit about the people they targeted, and they didn’t give a shit about each other. It was all about the adrenalin rush of fishing for paedophiles, hooking them, and finally catching them in their net and handing them over to the police. Adrenalin was an addictive drug, and their veins would be full of it when it was their time to die, but it would be a different kind of rush, a rush they wouldn’t enjoy.

  He clicked on the profile of a man in his thirties: Phil Coombes. He had been watching Coombes for months. Coombes was a creature of habit. Monday to Friday, he worked in a warehouse on nightshift. His weekends were spent fishing, on the canal near St Helens. It was known locally as The Hotties, because the local glass manufacturer pumped hot water from the cooling process into it. Fish thrived in the warmer waters and it was easy to catch them. From Coombes’ pictures, his spot had been easy to find; he posted selfies of himself fishing, on both Facebook and Instagram, and it didn’t take long to narrow down which stretch of canal he favoured. He also posted pictures of the tins of Stella Artois he drank while he fished. Every weekend, same routine, same place. The only time he deviated was if the predator hunters were on a mission. There had been no mention of an imminent manoeuvre on their page, and Coombes had posted that he was looking forward to fishing at the weekend. As he watched the profile, Coombes posted a photograph of eight tins of Stella in his fridge, with the tagline: fuel for a sex-machine. He doubted that Coombes had sex with anybody but himself.

  That made up his mind: Phil Coombes would be the next predator hunter to die. He disliked Coombes immensely. He had been part of the inner core of the group involved in sending him to prison. There were only three of them left. Killing him would be easy and it would be a real pleasure. He would make it slow and painful, and impossible to trace back to him. The list of predator hunters was dwindling. It made him anxious. He wasn’t sure what he would do when they were all dead; a man needs a focus in life. He thought about going back to work. That excited him. It had its risks but it paid well, and, ultimately, he loved his work. It was a problem he could debate later, when the predator hunters were dead.

  9

  Braddick brought the Evoque to a halt outside a detached house in the Aigburth area of the city. The tree-lined street was quiet. It was the type of street where the neighbours never saw each other; they spent their lives hiding behind electric gates and high walls. Braddick reckoned the arrival of a retired chief inspector would have rattled a few cages – there was a lot of money in the borough, not all of it legitimate. He looked around and took it all in. It was an unlikely place for a detective to retire.

  ‘I’ll give you a penny for them,’ Sadie said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your thoughts,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ll give you a penny for them.’

  ‘I’m wondering if I’m going to end up somewhere like this when I retire,’ he said.

  ‘You won’t retire, Braddick,’ Sadie said. ‘You’re a robot.’

  ‘Maybe I am,’ he agreed. ‘The joints need oiling if I am.’ Braddick opened his door and climbed out.

  ‘A squirt of WD40 in the morning, that will do the trick.’ She stretched her arms, and smiled as she took off her seatbelt and got out.

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting Alec Ramsay,’ she said, closing the door. ‘I’ve heard so much about him, I feel like I know him already.’ She looked at the house. It was a two-storey structure with a slate roof, lots of windows, and a huge conservatory on the side. The gardens were protected by a high wall and solid gates. There were CCTV cameras dotted about. She counted six without really looking for them. ‘He likes his security,’ she commented.

  ‘Alec Ramsay pissed off a lot of serious criminals, not least the Karpovs and a Latvian organisation called Thr3e,’ Braddick said. He walked around the vehicle and headed for an intercom on the gatepost. ‘I’m surprised he’s not been whacked, to be honest.’ He pressed the button.

  ‘Inspector Braddick?’ a voice said.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Braddick replied. Sadie saw a camera move and focus on them. The gates opened slowly, allowing them to pass through a gap just big enough for one person. Once they were through, the gates closed behind them. ‘He’s just being careful,’ Braddick said, seeing the expression on Sadie’s face. She grimaced and walked up a gravel path to the front door. The lawns were well kept, the borders neatly dug and planted with shrubs. As they approached, the door opened and Alec Ramsay greeted them. Sadie couldn’t believe how much he looked like the chef he shared a surname with. She had heard people talking about it, but hadn’t realised how uncanny the likeness was. ‘Thanks for taking the time to talk to us, sir,’ Braddick said, shaking his hand. ‘This is Sadie. She’s a DS with MIT.’ Alec shook her hand.

  ‘It only seems like yesterday that I was knocking on doors as a detective sergeant with MIT,’ Alec said, gesturing them in. ‘Come in, please.’ He closed the door and walked down a wide hallway into the conservatory. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, pointing to some rattan chairs. ‘Can I get you a drink, tea, coffee?’

  ‘We’re fine, thank you, sir,’ Braddick said. ‘We don’t want to take up too much of your time.’

  ‘Call me Alec, please. I’m going to make myself a coffee anyway. Are you sure you won’t join me?’

  ‘White, with one sugar please, sir,’ Sadie said. Alec raised a finger in protest. ‘Sorry, Alec.’

  ‘I’ll have the same, please, Alec,’ Braddick said.

  Alec went into the large kitchen, which adjoined the conservatory. They heard cups clinking and the kettle boiling. The view of the gardens was panoramic and had a calming effect. Squirrels climbed the well-established trees; oak and ash stood with sycamore and beech. Rhododendrons thrived beneath the tree canopy, their purple flowers in bloom. They both felt a little bit awkward, like pupils in the headmaster’s office. A few minutes later, Alec reappeared carrying three mugs, and placed them down on the coffee table.

  ‘They’re yours,’ he said, taking one. He took a sip and sat on a rattan settee. The black cushions looked plumped up and new. ‘I know you’re not here to ask for the office stapler I stole, so, what do you want?’ he joked.

  ‘We want to pick your brains on an old case you worked on,’ Braddick said.

  ‘Sounds interesting. Go on.’

  ‘Do you remember Hugh Collins and Harvey Fitch? It was a multiple murder case, from seven years ago?’ Braddick said, sipping his coffee. Alec’s eyes were bright and intelligent looking. He looked
at the two detectives, assessing their potential without actually trying to. They were young and sharp, just like he had been.

  ‘It was a Saturday night in October, the thirteenth to be precise,’ Alec said. Braddick and Sadie smiled and exchanged glances; it was a Sherlock Holmes moment. ‘You want to know how I remember that, don’t you?’

  Sadie smiled and nodded.

  ‘Don’t be too impressed,’ Alec said, smiling. ‘Normally, I can’t remember what day it is, where my glasses are, or whether I’ve had my breakfast or not, but I remember where I was when Collins was arrested with three bodies in the back of his van. It was called in on my mother-in-law’s birthday. It was her eightieth, and my wife had booked a room at a local social club. They had arranged a disco with a break for a few games of bingo. I was bored to tears and losing the will to live. I was surrounded by the in-laws when the call came in.’

  ‘Sounds like a lucky escape,’ Sadie said.

  ‘I’ve never been so happy to hear we had found three dead bodies.’ He paused to recall the memories. ‘Gail, my late wife,’ he said, pointing to a framed portrait of a woman, ‘was furious when I said I had to go back to work.’

  Braddick felt a tinge of pain for him. They had something in common: they had both lost their partners to fire.

  ‘She was always furious about something,’ Alec continued, ‘usually something I had done. Anyway, that’s why I can remember it so well.’ He frowned. ‘That, and the bodies of course; it’s not every day you see a crime scene like that one.’ He paused again. The image of the three bodies, encased in wire mesh in the back of a transit van, played in his mind. ‘You haven’t found Fitch and Collins after all this time, have you?’

  ‘No,’ Braddick said. ‘They’re in a bar somewhere with Elvis, Lord Lucan and Shergar.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll ever find them.’

  ‘Miles and Brian worked the case – the Smiths,’ Alec said, laughing. ‘Aren’t they still with MIT?’ He was confused as to why Braddick would come and see him if they were still on the team.

  ‘Yes. It was something they said that prompted me to call you,’ Braddick said. Alec raised his eyebrows; his forehead creased with deep lines. ‘We’ve found a body washed up on Crosby Beach.’ He handed Alec four photographs. ‘As you can see, he was encased in mesh before being weighted and dumped in the river.’

  ‘Any idea where?’ Alec asked, studying the photographs.

  ‘We found weeds on the body that suggest he was put into the water upriver. If it wasn’t for the storms, we would never have found him.’

  ‘You have no ID?’ Alec asked.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘And you think the wirework is similar to the Collins Fitch case?’

  ‘We think it’s similar, do you?’

  ‘Yes, I do, it’s very similar,’ Alec said, looking at Braddick. ‘But much more detailed.’

  Braddick nodded.

  ‘Our thoughts exactly,’ Sadie said. ‘It’s as if he’s developed and improved over the years.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that, Sadie,’ Alec said, looking up. ‘Maybe he had more time with your victim – the Fitch case had three victims to dispose of, more work, less time. Your victim has much more attention to detail; he had plenty of time in a location where no one would disturb his work. Wherever he did this, there’s no chance of interruption.’

  ‘Do you think it’s the same man?’

  ‘Sorry, Sadie. I can’t make a jump like that with just these pictures.’ He smiled and studied the photographs. ‘This is very intricate, almost arty.’ He looked at Sadie. ‘I don’t think you can assume this is the work of the same person. Not without more evidence.’ He slurped his coffee and eyed the detectives. ‘You didn’t come here just to show me these pictures, did you?’

  ‘Miles and Brian told us you may have had a theory about who was responsible for the wirework?’ Braddick said. He saw Alec’s expression harden immediately. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Not in so many words,’ Alec said, shaking his head. He frowned and thought carefully about how to continue. ‘Let me try and explain what I mean.’ He took another sip and then put the cup down on the table between them. ‘Did Miles and Brian explain what happened when they investigated the murders?’

  ‘They said no one was talking,’ Braddick, said, nodding.

  ‘It was more than that,’ Alec said, frowning. ‘We’ve all encountered a wall of silence during some investigations, you know what that is like?’ They nodded that they did. ‘But there is always some chatter going on, somewhere beyond the wall. Some people can’t help themselves, they can’t shut up.’

  ‘I don’t follow, Alec,’ Sadie said.

  ‘You know how it works: when word goes out in the underworld that no one is to say anything about a particular criminal or crime, there’s always someone, beyond the wall of silence, chattering about it, gossiping in a pub, trying to impress people with their knowledge.’ He explained. ‘People on the periphery of the crime families, or drug networks chatter, you have met the type that can’t shut up.’ The detectives nodded that they did. ‘Someone will always speculate, no matter how powerful the subject being talked about is, but not this time.’ He shook his head. ‘There was nothing. No gossip, no chatter, no rumours, nothing. When Fitch and Collins disappeared, it sent a shockwave across the city. The press ran stories on the three bodies wrapped in wire, and put it down to a turf war between the city’s gangsters, but the city’s gangsters were always at war and everyone connected to them knew that. They also knew that this was something else. Fitch and Collins vanished overnight and were never seen again, and no one knew who had done it. Or, if they did, they daren’t say.’

  ‘The victims were Albanians?’ Braddick asked. ‘Their outfits are pretty brutal.’

  ‘They are brutal, but their ethos is about making sure everyone knows how brutal they can be,’ Alec said. ‘They dump their victims in plain sight. This was different. Whoever made Collins and Fitch disappear, did it in silence. We spoke to every snout in the city, and every crime family in the county was spoken to, both on and off the record, and we came up with nothing.’

  ‘Why do you think that was?’ Sadie asked.

  ‘Fear,’ Alec said. ‘Pure, unadulterated fear.’

  ‘Of who?’

  ‘That is the million-dollar question,’ Alec said, shrugging. ‘We didn’t know.’

  ‘We’re looking back at the investigation, Alec,’ Braddick said.

  ‘You’re reopening it?’ Alec looked excited. He sat forward on the edge of the settee.

  ‘In a manner,’ Braddick said, nodding. ‘It was reinvestigated last year by the cold case unit, but they hit the same wall you did. They shelved it again as unsolved.’

  ‘What makes you think you can do better than the cold case unit?’ Alec asked. ‘Have you found something new?’

  ‘Yes,’ Braddick said, pointing to the photographs. ‘Another victim.’ He smiled. ‘Plus, we’ve got something the cold case unit didn’t have.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The original investigating officers: you and the Smiths,’ Braddick said.

  ‘Good thinking,’ Alec said. He laughed. ‘I didn’t think of it like that, but you’re right. It is an advantage.’

  ‘I’ve got the Smiths re-interviewing everyone they spoke to seven years ago. There may be someone out there willing to talk. The power structure has shifted – local outfits have wrestled the foreign gangs out of the city – people may be more willing to cooperate now. I’m hoping the Smiths will uncover something from the original investigation that will link to ours.’

  ‘Makes sense to me.’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you would cast your eye over anything we find?’ Braddick asked. ‘Give us your opinion?’

  ‘That makes me sound like a consultant,’ Alec said, winking. ‘Don’t consultants get paid massive amounts of money?’

  ‘You should consult for the other side, they’re the ones earning ma
ssive amounts of money,’ Sadie said. ‘You sound interested, though, Alec?’

  ‘Do I?’ he said. ‘I guess I am. It was one of those cases that got away. The chance to unravel things and put the pieces back together was the part of the job I loved.’ The detectives nodded, completely understanding what he meant. ‘I used to keep my ear to the ground, for anything about Fitch and Collins, and for years I heard nothing.’ He recalled, rubbing his chin. ‘A few years before I retired there were rumours of an enforcer, a freelance enforcer, who didn’t just dispose of his targets, but enjoyed every second of dispatching them. There were whispers across the city but no one dared speculate who that was or who they worked for. There seemed to be substance to the rumours. I asked the question many times and some of the toughest criminals I’ve encountered refused to talk about it. That blanket of fear about the case was still out there, smothering the information. It frustrated the hell out of me.’