Guilty

by Conrad Jones

  ‘Yes. That’s him, Aunty Sue,’ Shelly said, scowling. ‘His picture has been all over Facebook. Dirty paedo.’

  ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, pervert. Get out of my café,’ Aunty Sue said.

  ‘What’s up, Sue?’ a man asked from the corner. He was a big man, dressed in hi-vis clothing and a vest. His colleagues looked on from the same table.

  ‘This fella here, is that paedophile teacher from the news,’ she said. Richard thought it was time to make a sharp exit. He flushed with embarrassment and headed for the door. His guts were cramping again. It was the worst feeling in the world. ‘Yes, go on, dirty paedo!’ she called as he opened the door. ‘Having sex with a child, you should be strung up by the bollocks.’

  ‘What did he do?’ the builder asked.

  ‘He was having sex with a young girl, nonce.’

  ‘How young?’ another asked, scowling.

  ‘Thirteen she was. He got her pregnant.’

  The builders stood up as one and headed out of the door. The customers in the café watched through the window.

  Richard had only taken a few steps, glad to be away from the accusing eyes. He had never been so embarrassed. It was a dreadful feeling to be ashamed of who he was, despite being innocent. The sense of hopelessness smothered him. He could feel his eyes filling up.

  ‘Hey, paedo!’ a voice growled.

  Richard turned around into a fist. The punch landed square on his nose, breaking it. He was knocked backwards, blinded by the force of the blow. Another punch landed to the side of his head and he collapsed on the concrete.

  ‘Someone call the police!’ said a passer-by.

  ‘What are you doing, you animals?’ another voice shouted. ‘Leave him alone, you bullies.’

  ‘Piss off and mind your own business,’ one of his attackers growled. ‘He’s a paedophile!’

  ‘Kick him harder,’ another voice piped up.

  Kicks landed to his ribs, hips and thighs. He curled up as tightly as he could to protect himself. A well-aimed boot landed on his testicles and he doubled over, gasping for breath. White light flashed in his brain. The faces around him blurred into one. Women shouted and screamed for the violence to stop, but no one was listening. The kicks didn’t stop and the onslaught gathered momentum. He slipped and his head became exposed. His skull was kicked like a football and he felt his jaw crack. The pain was debilitating. He couldn’t move. He cried out for them to stop but the kicks carried on, accompanied by a torrent of abuse. Richard knew he was going to die right there unless he moved. He struggled up but was knocked back down, repeatedly. He crawled blindly on all fours as fast as he was able, deflecting blows when he could. Suddenly, the concrete beneath him disappeared and the beating stopped. It was a blessed relief. He felt himself falling and he opened his eyes. He realised, as he slipped into unconsciousness, he was heading into the deep, dark waters of the dock.

  29

  Alec dialled the number in Thailand and listened to a series of clicks before the ringtone began. It was answered after the fourth ring.

  ‘Peter Bevans.’

  ‘Peter, it’s Alec.’

  ‘Hello, Alec, I was going to ring you,’ he said.

  ‘That’s a likely story,’ Alec joked.

  ‘Seriously. After we spoke the other day I looked through the paperwork that was sent over from Ko Lanta, and I’ve been through it with my interpreter. It makes interesting reading.’

  ‘What do you mean, “interesting”?’

  ‘It’s a typical farang versus Thai, crash report.’

  ‘Farang, meaning what?’ Alec asked.

  ‘Sorry, local speak for foreigners.’

  ‘I get it. Go on.’

  ‘The entire thing is a whitewash.’

  ‘No surprises there,’ Alec said. ‘Go on, tell me more.’

  ‘Over here, if there is a road accident involving a farang, everything is whitewashed so the Thais are never at fault. Whoever is at fault foots the bill here, so they tend to stitch up the farang wherever possible. Anything involving dead bodies is very expensive here; removal, cremations, burials, all cost a fortune, especially for foreigners. I think this report has been doctored to claim the costs from the insurance companies.’ Peter explained. ‘The Ko Lanta police claim a child ran into the road after his dog, which had run into the path of an oncoming bus. Neither the child nor the dog were insured, so the next best culprit is the bus driver, but he isn’t at fault because he was driving safely enough to stop without killing the child or the dog. The persons at fault were the motorcyclists, who were travelling too fast to stop and weren’t wearing helmets. Apparently, it was carnage. They never found Boyd’s head. So, because it was deemed they were at fault, the authorities can claim from the farang rental company that hired the bikes to them and didn’t make them wear helmets. They claimed the bus was a write-off, and claimed the costs for disposing of three dead bodies and sending their belongings back to where they came from.’

  ‘I thought they didn’t have to wear helmets over there,’ Alec said.

  ‘You don’t, unless you’re in an accident, then you do. The point is, the accident was on the east coast of the island, as far south as the road goes, and it took the first responders forty-five minutes to get there. By the time they arrived, most of their identification – credit cards and such – had vanished, and so had the hotel keys from their pockets.’

  ‘That’s why there were no belongings,’ Alec said. The tingle was back with force.

  ‘There’s very little listed on the reports – basically, what they had in their pockets, minus anything valuable.’

  ‘And their identification was missing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Except for Boyd’s driving licence.’

  ‘Yes. How do you know that?’

  ‘A friend of the family told me.’ There was a suspicious tone to his voice.

  ‘And you think that’s suspicious, Alec?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why was Boyd’s licence the only ID found?’

  ‘You don’t think this Frankie Boyd character died on Ko Lanta, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Alec said, ‘not for one second.’

  ‘What is this about, Alec?’

  ‘I think Boyd may have taken the opportunity to vanish, and turn himself into someone else.’

  ‘By leaving his driving licence on a dead body?’

  ‘Easily done in a situation like that, in a foreign country.’

  ‘Okay, it’s feasible,’ Peter said. ‘Let’s say your man stumbles across the accident. It was very remote.’

  ‘He could have been visiting the area.’

  ‘He may even have witnessed it,’ Peter said. ‘He goes to help the injured, realises they are dead, and sees the opportunity to change his identity.’

  ‘He may even have been a passenger on one of those bikes,’ Alec said. ‘He could have been with them.’

  ‘Maybe. There were no other witnesses.’

  ‘If he was a passenger, we have to assume he would have known the men. He may have befriended them at some point,’ Alec mused. ‘He would have known where they were staying and where their money, passports and IDs were.’

  ‘That’s feasible. Either way, witness or participant, he could have seen it as an opportunity to stop anyone from looking for him.’

  ‘Exactly. A decapitated body and a missing head. Is the head missing because he made it disappear?’ Alec asked.

  ‘He would have had plenty of time.’

  ‘He could have placed his driving licence into the pocket of the dead man, taken his ID, and turned himself into someone else, all in one instant. Frankie Boyd is dead and he becomes the other guy.’ Alec was convinced.

  ‘So, who was the other guy?’ Peter asked.

  ‘That is the question I need to answer. If Frankie Boyd didn’t die on that island, I need to work out who he became,’ Alec said.

  ‘The other tw
o fatalities, Bill Evans and Carlton Harris,’ Peter said, ‘that’s where I’ll start.’

  ‘They may have been travelling together,’ Alec agreed.

  ‘I’ll check – they could have been travelling together, or they could have been travelling with someone else, assuming they knew each other before that day, of course.’

  ‘Do you have the name of the company they hired the bikes from?’ Alec asked.

  ‘It will be on the accident reports.’

  ‘You said they were a farang company.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They may be able to tell you how they paid – together or separately,’ Alec said. ‘They may even have payment details.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ Peter said. ‘Things are done differently here, Alec. Cash is king. It was a long time ago, and the seasonal workforce are transient. Most bike hire companies are run by bar or guesthouse owners as another source of income. Businesses don’t keep records here, but I won’t rule it out. It might be worth making a few phone calls.’

  ‘I could do it, if you like?’ Alec said. ‘I’m asking a lot from you and, if you give me the company details, I can follow that lead while you look at the police records. It would save time.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll dig it out and call you back. I still think the missing persons route offers the best chance. If the guy had family, they may have made enquiries about him when contact stopped. It happens all the time here,’ Peter said.

  ‘Would there be a record of such an enquiry?’ Alec asked. ‘Can you check the Thai missing persons reports online?’

  ‘There are some websites for missing tourists but the police are not really interested. People come here and never go home.’

  ‘I could check the websites myself,’ Alec said.

  ‘Good luck with that one. Some people go to those islands to disappear. They don’t want to be found. It would be like searching for a needle in a bucket full of needles. Let me search the reports for the Andaman coastal areas for that period, but don’t hold your breath, Alec.’

  ‘I won’t. I appreciate your help.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘If you get any possible names, let me have them,’ Alec said. ‘I can pull a few strings and see if they ever flew to the UK. You never know your luck.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find.’

  ‘Boyd has a problem with staying out of trouble. He may already be back inside somewhere. If he has been in trouble, I can find him, but I’ll need a name.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can for you, Alec.’

  ‘Thanks, Peter.’

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why are you tracing this Boyd character?’

  ‘He’s a very bad man,’ Alec said. ‘A very bad man indeed.’

  30

  Danny Goodwin tried to call John Glynn again: voicemail. He now knew something had happened to him, it had been too long without contact. The police had been to his home and there was no reply. That was a bad sign. Work said he had finished on time the night before and left for home as usual. Idiot. Danny had warned him not to walk home alone. John had laughed it off at first, but, eventually, he’d managed to make him see sense. The suicides and accidents were too much of a coincidence. There was a crazy nonce out there hunting the hunters. He had warned him but he hadn’t listened. Silly bugger. He’d said he couldn’t afford to get taxis home, as he was only earning minimum wage. It seemed like a solid investment from where Danny was sitting. Pay for a taxi, or end up dead – no brainer.

  The police had called earlier about the article and given him a bollocking for going to the press; they asked him a load of stupid questions and told him they were bringing him in for questioning. They also told him he might be a target. No shit, Sherlock. He didn’t need to be a detective to work that one out. They warned him to sit tight until a uniformed unit arrived at the back door. That might have frightened a lesser man, but not Danny Goodwin. He had a samurai sword, two machetes, a taser, and a baseball bat on standby. Any dirty paedo coming for him had better be ready for a good hiding. He thought about what Kevin Hill had written in the Echo. The article had rattled some cages, which was what he had wanted to do. If he had walked into a police station and told them his theory, they would have laughed him out of the door or sent him to the asylum. His theory was fact based. It was solid. Kevin Hill had sensationalised the facts, but that was his job. It had done the trick and given the group some well-deserved publicity; any publicity was good publicity in his mind. Their YouTube videos, of paedos being arrested following their sting operations, had over two million hits, and had generated him a lot of money. He had made over forty grand from the advertising royalties in the last twelve months. None of the other members knew they were making any money, he’d kept that to himself. He had started it off, and he selected their targets and planned each mission in fine detail. It was his creation and he was proud of it. He deserved every penny. The Echo article had sent their Facebook page into meltdown. Messages of support were coming in their hundreds and YouTube was being hammered. It would generate thousands in royalties. He chuckled to himself, bitterly. Their exploits had attracted the attention of dozens of angry paedos. They all made threats, but this one was in a different league. He was the real deal. A real-life serial killer nutcase. He had taken out five of the original six members, but he hadn’t got to Danny Goodwin. Danny was too sharp, too aware of what was going on. He analysed everything then analysed it again. The others dying had solved one problem: the YouTube money would never be questioned now. John had once asked how many hits you had to achieve before advertising revenue began to generate – that was before they had started generating a penny. Danny had laughed it off at the time, but his plan was always to keep building the revenue stream. Kevin Hill said he wouldn’t be surprised if the nationals didn’t pick it up; it was big news if it could be proved as being true: five of the six original members of online predator hunting group dead, in suspicious circumstances. The story would generate thousands of pounds of income. Every cloud has a silver lining, he thought.

  A knock on the kitchen window made him jump. He looked up to see a man staring in at him through the glass. The man held up an ID card and gestured for Danny to open the door. Danny froze for a second and glanced at the baseball bat next to the back door. The man rapped hard on the window and gestured frantically to the door again. He tapped his watch, to say, ‘hurry up’, and his face darkened, impatiently. The plod weren’t big fans of vigilante groups. This one had an attitude on him. Danny walked to the window and inspected the ID. He had seen enough fake IDs to spot them a mile away. It was genuine. He nodded his head and walked to the back door, opening it with one hand, turning off the light with the other. He blinked and felt a sharp flash of pain across his throat. Arterial spray splattered the kitchen walls. He put his hands to his neck to try to stop the bleeding, but the slash was too precise and too deep. Blood sprayed the ceiling, windows and door, as he staggered around aimlessly. Air hissed from his windpipe and he made a gurgling sound as the blood rushed into his lungs, choking him.

  ‘Hello, Danny,’ the man said. ‘Nice to meet you again.’ Danny looked at him, confusion and panic in his eyes. ‘It’s okay to be frightened, Danny. You’re dying and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.’ Danny collapsed to his knees, still holding his throat with both hands. His eyes were wide with panic. ‘Do you feel helpless yet?’ the man asked. Danny fell backwards. The man stood over him and watched him bleeding, a warm smile on his face. ‘It’s not a nice feeling, is it, Danny?’ he cooed. ‘Helplessness. I need to be quick, because I want this to hurt a lot.’

  31

  Braddick looked through the window and watched the doctors trying to keep Richard Vigne alive. They prepped him for theatre and took him away for emergency surgery. He had been kicked in the head so hard that his brain had swollen. They said they needed to drill a hole in his skull to relieve the pressure, or he would have no chance
of survival. Four men had been arrested at the Albert Docks, on section-18 charges, much to their dismay. They couldn’t see what they had done wrong. One of them found it amusing, until he was told they could be looking at a murder charge and he vomited on the custody suite floor. The chances of Richard Vigne surviving were slim. Jo Jones was there when he’d arrived but had gone to make a call. Richard’s wife was on her way to the hospital with their children – twins apparently.

  ‘Any news?’ Jo Jones asked when she returned.

  ‘No, not yet,’ Braddick replied. ‘They have taken him down to theatre.’ Jo looked concerned. ‘Thanks for meeting me here. I want your take on Richard Vigne.’

  ‘No problem. I want to speak to the wife and children anyway. I phoned her earlier, to let her know the good news about him being innocent, and the next call she receives is from the hospital, saying her husband is in intensive care. She has a lot of questions.’

  ‘I bet she has.’

  ‘The guilt is kicking in – she didn’t believe him and she booted him out.’

  ‘Now he’s in intensive care.’ Braddick sighed. ‘She’ll never forgive herself if he doesn’t make it.’

  ‘Let’s hope he does.’

  ‘You know he’s been making threats to kill, against the predator hunting group who gave you the information?’

  ‘I heard. It was mentioned in the newspaper that he had made threats,’ Jo said.

  ‘I’ve heard them,’ Braddick said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was pissed out of his mind, could hardly speak. Some members of the group have been spooked and are blowing it out of all proportion.’

  ‘Are you seriously thinking they’re being killed off, one by one?’

  ‘Yes, it looks that way,’ Braddick said. ‘Too many coincidences to be anything else.’