Guilty

by Conrad Jones

  The officer led the way to the first door on the right. Google stepped into the doorway and switched on the light. He was met by a wall of refuse that reached to the ceiling. Binbags, carrier bags, cardboard boxes, and suitcases were piled high to the ceiling. A narrow passageway had been left, which led to a single armchair that was surrounded by plastic Coke bottles, full of amber fluid. Urine, Google thought. He would sooner piss in a bottle than get up and go to the toilet, or was he so much of a hoarder that he couldn’t part with his own waste either? It was obvious that Reginald had a serious mental illness. He had a disorganised mind and attachment issues. A rat scurried from under the armchair, sniffed the air, and then scampered back to where it had come from. The stench of rot was becoming worse.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to lose my car keys in here,’ Google said. ‘I have enough trouble finding them anyway. Let’s move on.’ The uniformed officer grinned.

  They made their way towards a small kitchen at the rear of the house. Every flat surface was covered in takeaway cartons, mouldy plates and pots, and pans of all shapes and sizes that were full of rotting food. The windows had been covered in newspaper, which was taped to the frames so no one could see in. It seemed that Reginald knew he had a problem and wanted to hide it from the world. If they couldn’t see in, they would never know how sick he had become. Google looked around for entrances and exits. There was a back door but he couldn’t see it: the frame was just visible above the rubbish. The stench was choking now. Rotten food, rotting garbage, and human waste. There was something else too. The cloying stink of a human corpse. He couldn’t see it yet, but he knew there was one close by.

  ‘Can you smell that?’ Google asked.

  ‘Yes, sir. I don’t think our missing person is missing any more.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  Google stepped into the kitchen and looked around. There was no other entrance, no cellar door, and no stairs. It was a single-storey flat. He bent low and shone his torch around. There was a tunnel beneath the mountain of debris. At first, he couldn’t fathom how it had been made or what it was. He scrambled closer on his hands and knees. The tunnel ran a few metres in before it appeared to take a dog-leg turn to the right. It was supported by a dining table – a long one that could seat six or more. He shone the torch underneath it. The floor was thick with grease and slime. He could smell human excrement over everything else. His senses were overwhelmed with the stench as he crawled into the tunnel to the turn point. He shone the torch into the darkness and the decaying face of the house owner looked back at him. His skin was green, decomposing, his eyes sunken and blackened. The body appeared to be intact, but it was impossible to tell what had killed him without moving it. Google crawled backwards, overcoming the urge to gag.

  ‘How long have you been there, Reg?’ Google said. He reached the end of the tunnel and stood up. His face was smeared with excrement. The uniformed officer wrinkled his nose and stepped back as Google dusted himself down and turned to him. ‘Someone at social services wants a massive kick up the arse for this. Poor bloke wasn’t missing, he’s been dead under there all this time.’

  Not far away, Sadie was on a similar mission. She put the key into the lock and twisted it. It was a little stiff and needed a bit of persuasion to open. She leaned against the door to move the pile of junk mail that had been deposited through the letterbox while the owner had been absent. The house smelled musty and unlived in. She reached for the light switch; it came on, illuminating a long hallway with two doors leading off it, and the stairs.

  ‘Let me give the place a once over,’ she said to the CSI team behind her. ‘Once I’m done, I need you to find anything that will link our body to the missing person who owns this place.’ The suited officers nodded.

  ‘Who is the owner?’ one of them asked. ‘Just for our records.’

  ‘Thomas Green, aged thirty-three,’ Sadie said. ‘He was listed as missing by his employer. Hasn’t been seen since. No phone activity and no bank transactions.’

  ‘Sounds to me like Thomas is on the other side,’ the CSI said, matter of factly. Sadie glanced at him. The glance was enough to stop him commenting any more. ‘Well, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ Sadie said, nodding. She had decided a long time ago that she could never date a CSI, they were weird in so many ways; not that the opportunity had ever risen.

  Sadie walked down the corridor and glanced into the living room. A sixty-five inch TV screen was mounted on the wall above a gas fire. Attached to it was a PlayStation, with only one controller: the occupant lived alone and no kids visited. She glanced around and saw one photograph of an overweight man with dark hair. He was standing next to Ronaldo, smiling – a Manchester United fan. There was a laptop on the floor next to the settee, and a broadband router was still switched on. He had intended to come home.

  She left the room and glanced into a small kitchen. There was one plate and one cup on the draining board. She decided to let the CSIs search the drawers and cupboards. It wasn’t important for now. She climbed the stairs and looked into the bathroom. One toothbrush and a razor were on the sink. A bath towel was neatly folded over a rail. The flat was clean, tidy and functional. There were no signs of distress or mental illness. She reached the only bedroom and pushed open the door. The iconic poster of Bruce Lee, dressed in a yellow jumpsuit holding nunchakus, dominated the wall. Beneath it were four different sets of nunchakus, each mounted on brass screws. A set of samurai swords were mounted above the bed, adorned in black suede with gilded handles. Sadie thought they were probably impressive, if you liked swords. She didn’t. There was a set of dumb-bells and a sit-up frame on the floor at the foot of the bed. The quilt was tossed back to reveal semen stains on the dark bedding. It was a man cave, which had clearly never had any input from a female. She opened the bedside cabinet and looked inside. A vial of amber fluid was next to a pack of unused syringes, she read the label: Nandrolone. Steroids. Not the hard stuff that the freaks use, but size enhancing nonetheless. The owner fancied himself as an alpha male, and most that did were rarely alphas – they were much lower down the scale. She took a last look around and noticed a sharps bin, which held the owner’s used needles. A large poster of MMA fighter Conor McGregor confirmed her theory: the owner respected aggression and machoism. Thomas Green could have been the type to rile the wrong people. Aggressive people. People far more aggressive than he could have imagined. Thomas Green could have crossed someone who had the influence to pay someone else to wrap him in wire mesh, torture him, and toss him into the sea like garbage, without giving him a second thought. Someone with no empathy.

  Sadie had the feeling she was in the right place to match a name to her victim. She walked back to the front door. The CSI team were waiting to be set off the leash.

  ‘You’ll save some time if you go straight to the bedroom,’ she said. ‘There’s a sharps bin full of steroid needles, and stains all over the sheets. It’s DNA heaven,’ she said, reaching for her phone. ‘There’s a laptop in the living room. I need that rushing through.’

  ‘I’ll send it in now before we start,’ one of them said.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, as she called Braddick. It was silly o’clock but he wouldn’t mind; he never sounded like he had just woken up, whatever time she called. He was a robot, she was convinced of it.

  ‘Sadie?’ he answered. ‘What have you found?’

  ‘I think we’ve got our victim,’ she said. ‘There’s DNA all over the place and Thomas Green fancied himself as a bit of a hardcase. He may have pissed off the wrong people. I’ve had his laptop sent off to the techs so we should know who Green really is in the morning.’

  ‘Good work, Sadie,’ Braddick said. ‘Get some sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.’ She hung up and looked at the phone, a little offended by his abruptness. He was often abrupt, and she knew he didn’t mean to be, so she wasn’t sure why she was offended. ‘Goodnight,’ she said to no one, and tutted as she went ba
ck into the house.

  17

  He sipped his coffee as he read the article. A teacher had been arrested on suspicion of having sex with a minor. He had made her pregnant and she’d had an abortion at thirteen. That makes a good story: the teacher and the pupil. Just like the priest and the choirboy, or the television presenter and a vulnerable child. People in power abusing the weak. Makes good reading and has the wow factor.

  ‘How could he do that?’ People would ask.

  A man in a position of trust betrays that trust with a child. The public would say he deserves to be flogged to death, in front of baying crowds throwing rotten tomatoes. As he read between the lines, his anger rose. The story didn’t read right, there was something fishy about the entire article. He read it again. It still didn’t read right. There was a blurred photograph on page two, which appeared to be the only thing of substance to the story. To be fair to the teacher, she looked much older than thirteen, but that wouldn’t matter. They would crucify him anyway. On the flip side, he hadn’t been charged. The newspaper didn’t say he hadn’t been charged, but if he had, they would have said so. They printed the story without substance because it was a good read. He wondered how damaged the teacher’s life had become overnight. Shattered probably. Just as his had been. There was no thought given to the devastation caused when sensationalism is applied to news. None.

  He looked for the name of the reporter. There it was, in black and white: Kevin Hill. Bastard. The very same bastard who crucified him years ago. Hill had been like a dog with a bone, it seemed like he was on a mission to destroy every last grain of the man’s respect. The arrest, the committal hearing at magistrates’ court, the trial, sentencing; he had covered every step of it, and what he hadn’t known, he’d made up. Bastard. He was still at it. He ground his teeth together as he read page two, which was basically a summary of the tripe on page one but reworded slightly. He wondered who this teacher guy was. Richard Vigne. A married man with two children who were older than the victim. Great storyline Kevin Hill, you bastard, but did he do it? Who cares? No one gives a fuck what happens to Richard Vigne’s life while you sell a few newspapers on the back of his reputation. Bastard. Someone should take you down a peg or two; someone might.

  He opened his laptop and logged on. Starbucks’ Wi-Fi was the best. He opened Facebook and searched for Richard Vigne; it was an unusual name and his profile came up on the school page. There was a lot of abuse on there. Very nasty. Some people were making threats. That was against the law but no one would do anything about it. The teacher was a paedo, simple as. Threaten him, abuse him, kick his head in – if you want to. He deserves everything he gets. In fact, feel free to set up groups online to trick and trap people. Catch them and hang them from a tree by the bollocks. Do what you want. He felt sorry for Richard Vigne, guilty or not.

  Suddenly, the page disappeared. The school had removed his profile. Very clever. He wondered if Richard Vigne had read the comments on his profile. Best if he hadn’t, to be honest, innocent or guilty, he wouldn’t have enjoyed reading those posts. He searched for Kevin Hill and a raft of links appeared. His Facebook page, his newspaper articles, his Twitter account, everything he needed and more. Kevin Hill was a bastard, a bottom feeder living on people’s mistakes, people’s misery, people’s lives. It was time the bastard was stopped. Someone needed to stop him for good. It was time to shut him up once and for all, and, once he had finished with the predator hunters, he would address that.

  18

  Alec heard the landline ringing and crossed the conservatory to answer it. He watched a squirrel performing acrobatics on the washing line as he answered. It was a long-distance call. There was some static on the line and then it connected.

  ‘Hello?’ Alec said.

  ‘Alec,’ the voice said, ‘Peter Bevans here, returning your call.’

  ‘Thank you, Peter, much appreciated. Did you have any luck?’

  ‘That depends on your definition of luck, I suppose,’ Peter said. ‘Your man Boyd landed himself in hot water a few years back. I didn’t have much trouble tracing him.’

  ‘Really?’ Alec said. He could feel the tingle: a feeling he got when something new about a case came to the surface.

  ‘Yes. It seems Boyd did a lot of travelling around, hopping from here to Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, Myanmar, all over the place.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘He came to Thailand on a tourist visa, which only gives you thirty days in the country, but if you leave and cross the border, you can get another thirty days.’

  ‘I see,’ Alec said. Boyd hadn’t had time to apply for a visa before he left. That meant he’d left in a hurry. People leave in a hurry when they are running from something. The tingle intensified.

  ‘He worked as a photographer, right?’

  ‘Right. Forensics.’

  ‘That adds up.’

  ‘It does?’

  ‘Yes.’ Peter said. ‘It would appear Boyd was taking pictures he shouldn’t have been, and he was selling them on some very distasteful websites. He was making a lot of money.’

  ‘Without sounding naive, what type of pictures?’

  ‘Pornographic, mostly; prostitutes of all descriptions, women, men, lady-boys, but predominantly youngsters.’

  ‘Youngsters?’ Alec asked. There had been no indication that Boyd was that way inclined. This added a different slant to things.

  ‘Yes. That’s what attracted the Thai police to him. They’re clamping down on paedophiles coming over here as sex tourists. Anyway, their tech teams traced the IP address of who was uploading the images of kids, and Boyd’s address came up.’

  ‘An address there?’

  ‘Yes. He was renting a small villa outside Phuket. The local plods went out there to arrest him and said he had absconded, but I’m not so sure that’s the truth, looking at the reports.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Alec asked. It was all adding up. He’d known Boyd was a bad egg.

  ‘The reports from Phuket are worthless reading, filled out just to complete the paperwork for their superiors in Bangkok. I think he paid off the Phuket officers who knocked on his door, and then left the country by boat.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I can tell you that without a doubt,’ Peter said, proudly.

  ‘You can?’

  ‘Yes. Because he was killed six years ago in a motorcycle accident on an island called Ko Lanta, which is about two hours by speedboat, south of Phuket.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s dead, Alec.’ Peter could sense Alec’s disappointment. ‘They have an ex-pats Facebook page and the articles about the accident are on there, if you go back far enough you’ll find them.’

  ‘What is the Facebook page called?’ Alec asked, reaching for a pen.

  ‘I’ve written it down,’ Peter said, ‘Ko Lanta ex-pats news.’

  ‘I’ll have a look,’ Alec said, sighing. ‘Listen, I appreciate your time, Peter.’

  ‘My pleasure. I’ve asked the authorities on Ko Lanta for the paperwork to be faxed over. I suspect it will be useless, and I’ll have to have it translated, but if there’s anything interesting, I’ll call you. Anything else you think I can help you with, just ask.’

  ‘Thanks, Peter, I will.’

  ‘And come and visit sometime, now you’re putting your feet up. You’re always welcome.’

  ‘Too hot for me out there,’ Alec said. A twinge of sadness pricked him. His wife, Gail, had wanted to go there, but he had always been too busy at work. He wished he had taken her there, maybe things could have been different if he had. Maybe. Maybe not. ‘Thanks again.’

  ‘No problem, bye.’

  The line disconnected and Alec looked at the handset for a while before replacing it. Boyd was dead. That was a good thing. Boyd had become a predator in South East Asia, and his death had saved others from abuse. Part of him was happy about that, but the other part wanted him to be alive so he could satisfy his curiosity. Was Boyd the
enforcer who had wrapped the Albanians in wire mesh, tortured them, and killed them? Was he the man who had silenced an entire city? He would never know.

  19

  The MIT office was full to capacity, standing room only. Braddick was standing by a bank of screens showing images of Thomas Green, alive and dead. He clicked the remote and the images shifted from Green’s body on the beach to the Albanian men in the back of the van. They were all encased in wire, tortured and killed. It was a rare crime. Too rare to be committed by a random. Braddick and the team knew they were linked, but they didn’t know how.

  ‘Okay,’ Braddick said, waiting for the chatter to stop. ‘Our victim is Thomas Green, aged thirty-three, from Runcorn. He worked for the borough council as a groundsman, mostly grass cutting at the townhall parks here and there.’ He changed the images. ‘He also worked on the doors at a couple of pubs in the Old Town, for a company we’re all familiar with, Premier Security.’ A ripple of comments went through the crowd. ‘We all know Premier are bent and we all know they control the distribution of drugs in the city centre.’ He waited for the derisive comments to subside. ‘But, what we need to do now is decide if Premier Security is relevant to this investigation.’ He looked around at the faces in the room. They were focused and intense. ‘Is the fact that Thomas Green worked part-time for them a coincidence, or is it the reason he ended up in the river?’ They nodded in agreement. ‘What do we know about him?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Matrix, guv,’ Sadie said from her desk. ‘They’ve never heard of Green, and they reckon the Runcorn area is a sealed market. It has never changed hands for years. If a small dealer pops up and tries his hand, they get jumped on from a great height. There are some heavy-hitters over there and they don’t mess around. Matrix know the hierarchy well. Green has never been mentioned in any of their intel. He’s nothing to do with their drugs supply.’