by Conrad Jones
‘I suppose not,’ Alec agreed. He’d been too busy working to consider having children. Another regret.
‘I felt so sorry for her. They returned his belongings in an envelope,’ she whispered. ‘One envelope. Can you imagine all you have left of your son fitting in one envelope?’
‘They must have been devastated.’
‘Inconsolable, she was. He was the apple of her eye, no matter what he’d done.’
‘I’m sure he was.’
‘Anyway, the Thais sent her his stuff. There were some travel insurance documents and a driving licence.’
‘Was that it?’
‘That was it,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘When she queried where his clothes were, they said they had never found out which hotel he had been staying in, and so had never recovered a suitcase, or anything.’ Margaret paused. ‘If you ask me, they thought no one would ever come looking for him and his stuff did a disappearing act. There was something dodgy about the whole thing. His name is never mentioned any more – black sheep of the family, and all that kind of thing.’
Alec tapped his nose and winked that he understood. He made a mental note to call Peter Bevans in Thailand again. Margaret was right, there was something dodgy about it all. Suddenly, the tingle was back.
26
Braddick was looking out of the window as the Liverpool Eye turned slowly; it was bright white against a blue sky. The river flowed silently by, relentless on its way to the sea. His thoughts were of men wrapped in wire mesh, seven years apart. Men who would have been at the bottom of the sea if things hadn’t unravelled the way they had. There were many ways to dispose of a body, and, given time, most killers will choose the simplest, safest method with the least risk. Nobody wants to rush getting rid of a body. It is very difficult. Bodies are heavy and bulky and difficult to move. They also stink. Unless they are disposed of cleverly, they will be discovered, eventually. Mistakes are made when things are rushed. He could understand that completely. But, to painstakingly encase the entire body – head, torso and limbs – in chicken wire, while the victim was alive, wasn’t disposing of a victim, it was pure evil. It wasn’t coldheartedly dumping evidence to ensure they avoided capture, that was understandable; it was torture, physically and mentally breaking down a human until they were a gibbering wreck, and enjoying the process. The victim would be aware that what was happening to them was irreversible, and was merely part of a ritual that would ultimately end with their death, probably much further down the line. They would have time to think about their life, their death, their families, their friends, their good times and their regrets. And he knew the killer would talk to them all the way through. He knew that, because it would give him a buzz – telling the victims what was going to happen next, savouring their terror, was what turned the killer on. The anticipation of their pain would be mind-bending. He told them what was coming and he fed off their terror. Braddick knew that 100 per cent.
The killer may well have slipped into their role as enforcer, or cleaner, or silencer, whatever they wanted to call it, but fundamentally he was a narcissistic psychopath, who enjoyed killing immensely. He killed for the sake of killing. He wanted to inflict pain, panic and fear so he could witness human suffering up close. Killing can be profitable, and money may be a by-product of his passion, but it certainly wasn’t his motivation. Whoever he was, it would take some stopping him, and he would have to be stopped as there was no way he would stop himself. He liked killing too much. A knock on the door disturbed Braddick’s thoughts.
‘Come in,’ he called.
The door opened and Sadie walked in with Google behind her. She was flushed with excitement. Braddick smiled, he loved her mannerisms. She reminded him so much of someone he once knew.
‘We’re onto something,’ Sadie said, putting a pile of news reports on his desk. She opened her laptop and put it on his desk. Google did the same with his.
‘You were right,’ Google said. ‘You were right,’ he repeated, as if he was surprised.
‘About what, exactly?’
‘Motive,’ Sadie said.
‘Let’s hear it,’ Braddick said, looking at their screens.
‘There has been a string of incidents and accidents, and when you look at them in isolation, they aren’t significant, but together, it’s a different story.’
‘Okay,’ Braddick said.
‘Eighteen months ago, uniform found a car abandoned, with the engine still running, down by Otterspool prom,’ Sadie began. ‘The owner, Gary Roberts, was never seen again. He was a founder member of the predator hunters. There was no phone or bank activity and no body was ever found. It was put down to suicide, although the coroner left an open verdict on file.’
‘That doesn’t seem too odd, in isolation,’ Braddick agreed.
‘We know Thomas Green was murdered and dumped in the river, but it was a fluke that we found him,’ Google said, taking over. ‘What is new to us is, a few months ago, a man called David Rutland threw himself under a train at Hough Green Station, following a failed sting by the predator hunting group. Another suicide. There was no note and no sign of distress at his home. He had no debts, and a reasonable amount of savings.’
‘Okay, I’m following,’ Braddick said, nodding.
‘Last week, a dog walker found this man, Philip Coombes, another founder member, drowned in a canal near St Helens in a freak fishing accident.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was drunk, slipped into the canal, and became tangled up with his line. He drowned. Allegedly.’
‘Okay. There’s a pattern emerging.’
‘There is. They were all the original members of the group. It’s too much of a coincidence,’ Sadie said. Her complexion was returning to normal: alabaster white.
‘That leaves John Glynn, who lives in Toxteth, and Danny Goodwin, who lives in Allerton, as the only surviving founder members of the predator hunters,’ Google said.
‘Good work,’ Braddick said. ‘Have you contacted them?’
‘Both mobiles are going to answerphone at the moment, but we’ve sent uniform to their homes and we’ll keep trying.’
A knock on the door interrupted them. It opened and one of the detectives from night shift poked his head around; he was about to start his shift.
‘Sorry to bother you, guv.’
‘No problem, Carl. What is it?’
‘Have you read the local rag today?’
‘No. Why?’
‘The paedophile hunter group that we’re looking at are all over the evening edition of the Echo,’ he said, holding up a copy.
‘Jesus,’ Braddick hissed. ‘What does it say?’
‘One of the group, Danny Goodwin, reckons there’s a serial killer out there picking them off, one by one.’
The detectives looked at each other. Google put his head in his hands.
‘All that work gone to waste,’ he said. ‘All we had to do was wait for the Echo to come out.’
‘It certainly reinforces what you’ve found – that story could only have come from one of them,’ Braddick said, angrily pointing to the pictures of John Glynn and Danny Goodwin. ‘They must have worked it out together. If the killer didn’t know we were onto him, he does now. Find out which idiot published the story and get in touch, will you? I want to know who he spoke to, Goodwin or Glynn.’ He pulled up the online version and they read it, skimming the speculative bits.
‘It gives a few names, guv.’
‘What names?’
‘The names of the people who have made threats to kill them.’
‘This is a vigilante nightmare,’ Braddick said.
‘One guy specifically has made threats to kill them all, as recently as yesterday,’ Google said.
‘Where are you reading that?’
‘Third page.’
‘There are three pages?’ Braddick said, sighing.
‘A teacher they outed this week for having underage sex with a thirteen-year-old. He’s be
en contacting members of the group and threatening to kill them.’
‘Richard Vigne,’ Braddick said.
‘That’s him.’
‘Who’s investigating the underage sex charge?’
‘The child protection unit,’ Sadie said. ‘That will be Jo Jones.’
‘Find Danny Goodwin and John Glynn and speak to them, and arrest Richard Vigne, let’s put some pressure on him.’
‘What for?’
‘Making threats to kill will do for a start. If he’s our man, we’ll soon know.’
‘I’ll speak to Jo Jones and see what she thinks about our Mr Vigne.’
27
He read the newspaper and shook his head; that sewer rat, Kevin Hill, had done it again – printed a story full of speculation and coincidence. Danny Goodwin had spotted the pattern before the police had, but they would be onto it now. That changed the dynamic of the game. It would speed things up and make them complicated, like a multi-ball feature on an old pinball machine. He loved those things. The game was hard enough with one ball, but when the multi-ball feature kicked in it was such a rush. The machine would go batshit crazy, lights flashing, sirens blaring, with three balls in play at once. He remembered the first time it happened when he was playing, he’d nearly pissed his pants, he was so excited. The rush was incredible. The adrenalin had taken him so high that, when it was finished and all the balls were lost, he’d felt drained – mentally and physically. This would be the same. Kevin ‘twatty-bastard’ Hill had just flicked the switch. It was multi-ball time and he didn’t even know what he had started, but he would. Both he and Danny Goodwin had conspired to expose the plot, not realising what that would ignite. They would, when it was too late to stop the wheels from turning. There was no need to live in the shadows, planning, plotting and sneaking about in the undergrowth any more. It was time to up the ante. There was no need to make events look like something else – not now. Things would have to be done sooner rather than later, and probably with a little less finesse than he would have liked. No matter: the end result was all that mattered. He picked up his tools, gloves and balaclava and walked to the garage at the rear of the farm. A side door led him into the parking bay. He climbed into the van and put his equipment on the passenger seat.
‘How are the legs feeling?’ he said to John Glynn. ‘Sore, I bet.’ John was sitting upright in the back of the van. He was tied up and gagged. His face was swollen and bruised but his legs were much worse. The left was twisted the wrong way round and the right was swollen so much it looked like it might explode. He could see John Glynn was suffering badly. ‘Your friend, Danny Goodwin, has been talking to the press.’ He said, looking in the mirror. John tried to ask for help but he couldn’t. The pain was unbearable. His eyes were red from crying. The man started the engine and the garage door opened automatically; when it had fully opened he drove out. ‘Did Danny warn you about what he had worked out?’ he asked, conversationally. ‘He did, didn’t he? That was why you were so skittish last night, isn’t it? He told you to avoid the alleyways on the way home, didn’t he?’ John began shaking as the van moved out of the garage. The man slammed on the brakes, sharply, sending John sliding into the bulkhead. His muffled screams were tragic. The sound would break the heart of the strongest men. Not the man’s. He closed his eyes and listened. It was beautiful.
‘That hurts, doesn’t it, John?’ he said. John was shaking and sobbing, choking on the gag. His eyes begged for mercy. ‘It is only just beginning, John,’ he said. ‘You have no idea how much worse it is going to get. You have no idea, honestly.’ He smiled coldly. John was hysterical. ‘I need to sort those legs out for you.’ He reached into the tool bag, picked out a six-inch nail, and held it up for John to see. ‘We could try nailing them together, couldn’t we?’ John’s eyes bulged as if they might pop from his head, he shook his head manically. ‘No? You don’t think so?’ John gurgled at him. ‘I’ll think about it,’ the man said.
He turned round and put the nail back in the bag. The sound of muffled sobbing grew louder as he steered the van down a narrow farm track. Rocks and rubble made it a rough ride. The vibration sent John’s pain to a whole new level. He was slipping into shock. His heart was pumping at a million miles an hour. The pain was incredible. ‘Your friend Danny Goodwin is a smart boy. How long has he known, I wonder?’ He spoke into the mirror again. ‘I knew something was wrong when I followed you. Your friend was right. I’m not sure what he told you, but he told the Echo there was a killer stalking your shitty Facebook group, slaying members and making it look like an accident or suicide. He is right: I did kill your friends and I am going to kill you, and then I’m going to kill Danny, and then I’m going to kill Kevin Hill,’ he said, angrily. ‘And then, I’m going to fuck off somewhere hot for a while.’ He paused. ‘Listen to me, waffling on. You don’t know why you’re here do you? Rude of me not to tell you, sorry. Very remiss of me. Let me explain, you’re here because you’re a cunt.’ He looked at John in the mirror and smiled. ‘You think you and your cunt friends can take the law into your own hands and ruin people’s lives, and that is what you do, when you trap people by playing your little games online, pretending to be Looby fucking Lou, aged twelve.’ He banged the dashboard. ‘That is what happens when you fuck about with people’s lives: you ruin them. You make them helpless. Do you know what helpless feels like yet, John?’ He looked at John, his eyes closed, wincing in pain. ‘Are you listening to me, you little fuck?’ he shouted. John didn’t open his eyes. ‘Listen to me, John.’ He stopped the van and climbed into the back. ‘Are you feeling helpless yet, John?’ he shouted. John opened his eyes, tears running down his cheeks. He nodded yes, he was feeling helpless. Very helpless. ‘Are they hurting, John?’ he asked, pointing at John’s legs. John whimpered and nodded again. ‘Good.’ He kicked him in the left knee and was surprised how spongy it felt. There was hardly any bone intact. ‘I’m sure it is very painful, but not as painful as it’s going to be. Are you ready, John?’ John looked at him, his eyes begging for mercy. There was no mercy. The man began stamping on his broken legs and white-hot lightning bolts of agony seared through his brain. Eventually, after what was an eternity, his heart gave up the ghost and John Glynn left the pain behind.
28
Richard Vigne felt sick as he walked along the river near the Albert Docks. Although the fresh air made him feel better, the whisky taste was still in his mouth and on his skin, despite brushing his teeth and taking a long shower. His stomach grumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything solid for days. He decided to try a late breakfast with some coffee – if he could keep it down it would aid his recovery. He didn’t cope with hangovers well, he never had. That was probably why he didn’t drink very often: the fear of the next day. Some of his friends at university had been able to drink themselves into a coma then go to lectures the next morning after eating a tin of cold beans; Richard could never think straight until teatime the following day. Alcohol wasn’t his thing: not then, not now. He turned away from the promenade and walked towards the brick archway, which led to the interior of the docks where all the bars and restaurants were.
It was a warm day, and when he emerged from the archway the sun was beaming down on the water. Yachts and old sailing ships were anchored around the wharfs and people were milling around enjoying the sunshine. It was hard to believe the last few days had happened, and that the world was going about its business, despite the nightmare he was going through. He had been happy and healthy all his life and then, wham, it was all gone in a flash. A bolt from the blue had shattered his world to pieces. Walking amongst others, in such a tranquil environment, felt surreal, almost like nothing had happened at all. It lifted the gloom for a moment and he welcomed the relief.
He walked along the docks, enjoying the sun on his skin. Ten minutes on he spotted a café, and looked at the menu in the window. The description of the full breakfast made his mouth water. It had everything on it but the kitchen sink, and it came w
ith toast. His stomach lurched slightly at the thought of eating fried food but it was a kill or cure moment. He could see there was one table free; he pushed open the door and the smell of bacon and strong coffee hit him. He sat down and picked up a menu. A young waitress walked over to take his order.
‘What can I get you?’ she asked. She had a city centre accent: harsh and guttural.
‘I’ll have the full English and a mug of coffee, please,’ Richard said. She smiled, and reminded him of his daughter. The sick feeling descended again. Jaki’s words echoed around his mind. The waitress looked over her shoulder as she walked away.
He took out his mobile and checked the messages: nothing. That was good. He was worried about the backlash from the threatening messages he had sent; there would be some comeback, somewhere. They had said they would hand them to the police and he had no reason to think they were lying. He regretted it. It was a stupid thing to do and he knew it was wrong, but whisky and anger don’t mix. He thought about turning himself in to the police and apologising, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about it any more – even if they did charge him. But what would they charge him with? Threats to kill were serious, but would they take them seriously? He wasn’t a violent man; he had only said it because of the trauma and because he was drunk. It had made him act differently. Surely, they would see that. Then he thought how people had reacted when he was accused of being a paedophile. No one had given him the benefit of the doubt. He was guilty until proven innocent, so why would that be any different this time? It wouldn’t be.
‘Are you that teacher, Richard Vigne?’ A woman’s voice disturbed him. She was standing next to his table, wearing an apron, arms folded across her chest. She glared at him with disgust.
‘Pardon?’ he said, shaken by the question. The other diners were looking over.
‘Shelly, the girl who served you, said you’re that pervy teacher who has been in the Echo,’ the woman said. Her accent was harsh too. ‘Her friends all go to the school you teach at.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Are you sure it’s him, Shelly?’
