by Conrad Jones
The Howarth case had taken its toll, and he was exhausted. After speaking to Alec, Will opened a bottle of Pinot. He poured a generous measure into a glass tumbler and swallowed it in one gulp. The doorbell rang and he switched off the television, grabbed the bottle and headed for the front door.
“Hello, Detective,” she cooed. He could smell her perfume, and the scent made him heady.
“Come here.” He pulled her inside and pushed her body against the wall. “You smell good enough to eat,” he whispered as he kissed her lips. She opened her mouth and welcomed his tongue into her mouth, tickling it with hers.
“Good, because I like it when you eat me,” she gasped into his ear. “Are we going to stand here all night or are you going to take me to bed and show me how hungry you are?”
Will picked her up in his arms, and they giggled as he carried her upstairs. Their lovemaking was frantic, almost desperate, and when they were spent, she slept soundly in his arms. Will reached for the wine. The liquid burned his throat, but it helped his mind to rest and allowed him to sleep soundly. He thought about replacing the top on the bottle, but decided to empty the remainder into the glass. Will downed the wine, and it made his eyes water. Two minutes later, he closed his eyes and turned on his side next to her. The wine numbed his senses. Sleep claimed him quickly, but his dreams were dark and haunted by the murder victims he had seen through his career. His mind kept asking him questions about the case whilst his body cried for rest. It took a long time before his breathing settled and he fell into a deep sleep, but when he did, the days of working constantly caught up with him.
Downstairs the front letterbox opened, and a length of green hosepipe poked through it. The pipe grew longer as a man dressed in black fed it through the gap, and it was four yards along the carpet when petrol began to pour from it. The fuel seeped into the thick carpet and soaked from the hallway into the lounge. Petrol saturated the area from the front door to the narrow staircase, and fumes filled the air. At the back of the house, another man dressed in similar fashion sprayed petrol from a pressure tank used for applying weed killer. He soaked the back door in the liquid and sprayed it through the keyhole into the kitchen. Fuel covered the linoleum floor before the man threw the tank into the bushes. As Will drifted deeper into an exhausted sleep, a single match turned the ground floor of 16 Palace Mews into a vision of hell.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Alec
Alec heard the telephone ringing in his dream. He was wearing a coat, which was much too tight, and the boat he was on was sinking fast. Someone was behind him calling for help, but every time he turned around, they were gone. His dream made no sense, and it faded rapidly. The telephone rang again. He opened his eyes. They felt gritty and sleep held them together. He rubbed them with the back of his hands and looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock in the morning, and he was still on the couch. The television was on, but the movie he had been watching had finished six hours ago. The ringing continued, and he rubbed his hands across his chin, feeling the stubble there. He reached for his mobile and looked at the screen. “Morning, Alec,” the chief spoke first. “Are you okay?”
“Morning,” Alec yawned. “I feel like I was out on the piss until four o’clock. Another night on the sofa, what’s up?”
“Look, Alec, I’m sending an Armed Response Unit to your house. They should be with you in five minutes,” Chief Carlton babbled. “I don’t want you to panic, but pack some things, just enough for a few days...”
“Woah!” Alec interrupted. “I have just opened my eyes, I feel like shit, and you are rattling on about armed units!” Alec stood up and stretched. “Slow down and tell me what the hell is going on.” He walked to the curtains and looked outside. Daylight was creeping up behind the grey clouds, but the streetlights still glowed. The shadows in the park looked dark and foreboding.
“There have been some developments, Alec, and I think you may be in danger.” The chief took a moment before he tried to explain. “We transferred Howarth to the Cat-A unit in Manchester as a precaution. The cellular van was involved in an RTA en-route.”
“You are fucking kidding me!” Alec put his hands through his hair. “Don’t tell me that bastard is on the loose.”
“We don’t know what’s happened yet, Alec.” Carlton cleared his throat. “Traffic responded to an alarm call, found the van upended and there are fatalities at the scene. Look, there is much more to this, Alec. I need you to listen to me.”
“What fatalities?” Alec asked angrily. The chief was dancing around something. He was too tired to play guessing games. “Just cut the bullshit and tell me straight!”
“Howarth is not at the scene, Alec,” Carlton explained, sounding embarrassed. “The vehicle’s alarm was activated by the driver an hour ago, but when traffic arrived on the scene, they reported the guards shot, one fatality, and the prisoner missing. Look, this isn’t the reason for the call.”
“Did it crash or was it ambushed?” Alec didn’t feel like he was getting a straight answer. The fact that the guards had been shot was lost on his sleepy brain. The Category-A unit in Manchester held the most dangerous criminals. Gangsters and terrorists were always an escape risk whilst in transit. “Was Howarth the only prisoner on board, I mean who shot them, for Christ’s sake?”
“It looks like an ambush, but we don’t know who did the shooting. Howarth was the only prisoner,” the chief admitted. “Look, Alec, there is more.”
Alec heard the sound of sirens approaching. They weren’t far away. “What the fuck is happening, Chief?”
“There’s been a fire, Alec.”
“A fire?” Alec was baffled, tired and irritated. “What are you talking about?”
“The fire brigade were called to an address in Woolton in the early hours of this morning,” the chief sighed. “One of my officers attended the scene and recognised the address as Will Naylor’s house.” Alec stayed silent. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck tingling.
“Fucking hell, Chief, isn’t this a bit over the top?” Alec had a bad feeling. The sirens seemed much closer now. If Gail were home, he probably would have her pack some things.
“Did you hear what I said?” Carlton asked. “Are you there, Alec?”
“Yes, I’m here.” Alec watched an armed response unit turning into the street. The lights flashed and rotated in the half-light. “What has happened?”
“They think someone started the fire deliberately near the front door. There are signs of accelerant. They found the bodies of a man and woman on the stairs. It looks like they tried to escape, but the smoke overcame them on the stairs.”
“They?” Alec repeated. His voice was emotionless. “Who are they?”
“I’m sorry, Alec, there really is no easy way to say this,” the chief stalled again. His voice was thick with emotion.
“Say what?” Alec was becoming agitated. “Is Will okay?”
“Will is dead,” the chief said. There was no of saying it without sounding blunt. “I’m afraid he died from smoke inhalation.”
“Jesus wept,” Alec whispered. “Are they positive?”
“It is Will. That is definite.” Chief Carlton coughed nervously. “Look, Alec, about the woman.”
“What woman, who was she?” Alec was confused.
“Her car was on the driveway, and they found her driving license in her handbag.” Carlton paused again.
“What are you trying to tell me, Chief?” Alec’s throat choked and his eyes watered.
“The woman is Gail, Alec, I’m afraid she’s dead.”
Alec felt the wind knocked out of him as sure as if he had been punched in the guts. His knees trembled, and he felt bile rising in his throat. “Gail is dead?” He croaked. “How the fuck could she be at Will Naylor’s house?”
“We don’t know, Alec.” The chief coughed nervously again. “I am worried about your safety, Alec, hence the armed unit. They could target you next.”
“Someone set fire to h
is house? Yes, I can see why you were worried now,” Alec muttered. “You’re sure it’s Will and Gail? Have they got the right address?”
“Yes, there’s no doubt about it.” The chief was adamant. “I don’t know what to say to you, Alec, I know you and Will were tight, but Gail?”
“There isn’t much to say really.” Alec was choked. “It hasn’t sunk in yet. Were they fully clothed or naked?”
“I’m not sure,” Carlton lied.
“Don’t insult my intelligence,” Alec growled. “Were they naked?”
“Yes, Alec, but it might not be how it looks,” the chief said too quickly. “I think it’s linked to Jack Howarth,” he added. “It must be.”
“No, Chief, Will wasn’t involved in the arrest.” Alec sat down on the couch as if a huge weight had knocked him over. He covered his eyes with his free hand, and hot stinging tears filled them. They spilled over his lids and trickled down his cheeks. He had to control a sob by biting his lip. All the angst of the case, the brutality of the murders, added to Gail leaving, had left his nerves raw and exposed. It had all built up over the last few weeks, and the news of this betrayal brought it all crashing down on him. The two most important people in his life had been cheating on him, sleeping together, having sex with each other, and then behaving perfectly normally to his face. Gail hadn’t left because she was lonely; she’d fallen in love with another man. A man who had given her all the things that he hadn’t. A man who had given her sex, probably the best sex she had ever had. He couldn’t remember the last time they had had sex. His hands began to shake uncontrollably, and tears streamed from his eyes. He couldn’t stop them running down his cheeks.
“Alec, I know this is shocking news, but I need to make sure that you are safe.”
The chief was making sense, but then he would. He hadn’t just discovered that his wife and his best friend had been lovers and had died in an arson attack. He waited until he had control of his voice again before speaking. Thinking about work was all he could do to soften the pain. “If Howarth planned that escape, then I’m Houdini. It was public knowledge that we had Howarth in custody, wasn’t it?”
“It was all over the late editions and the evening news,” the Chief agreed. “It’s not important right now. Why does that matter?”
“Once he was arrested, it was obvious that he would be moved to a Cat-A unit,” Alec thought aloud. There was a loud knock at the door, and Alec could see armed officers walking up the path. He was conscious that his eyes were red and full of tears. “Zamir Oguzhan threatened Will at the station. If he knows that Howarth killed his grandson and his family, and he blames Will for keeping their bodies in the morgue, then this could be retaliation. It would take a well-armed team to knock over a cellular van with an armed guard on board. Oguzhan’s organisation could carry out a job like that.” The officers banged on the front door, but their knocking was louder this time. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Does any of the team know about Will and Gail?”
“Yes, rumours are flying around the station. We can’t keep a lid on something like that, I’m afraid, Alec.”
“No, I realise that, I’ll see you shortly.” Alec ended the call. He couldn’t decide whether he hated them or not. Half an hour ago, he had loved them both. Now he knew the truth, but it didn’t make any sense, or did it? He could understand why Gail had been unhappy, but of all the men to fall into bed with, why him? Why Will?
“Poor Will,” Alec wiped tears from his face, “you’re the talk of the town in life and death, my young friend, and your choice of women was shite. You always picked the wrong ones.” Alec ignored the pounding at the door and picked up a photograph of their wedding. Gail looked beautiful, but she always had. He touched her face with his fingertips. He put his back to the wall and slid down onto the floor. His legs buckled and the tears flowed down his face. His body trembled and shook as he looked at her picture, and the thoughts of their life together tumbled around his head. “When I find out who did this to you, they will pay. I promise you that. I did nothing for you while you were alive, but I promise you this one thing. They will pay.”
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Jack
Jack felt a hard slap to his face, and his teeth cut the lining of his cheek. He tasted blood in his mouth. “Open your eyes,” a foreign voice ordered. Another stinging blow hit him, and he opened his eyes and looked around. He didn’t like what he saw. He closed them again, trying to drift off to his special place. A bottle of smelling salts cleared his senses and dragged the clouds of unconsciousness away from his mind. “Open your eyes,” the voice bellowed. Another slap rocked his head to the side. Jack tried to speak, but the face guard hindered him. “Are you Jack Howarth?” a different voice asked.
Jack turned to the voice and looked into the cold watery eyes of an old man. He looked foreign. He looked like Salim Oguzhan, but much older. “Oh, fuck,” Jack tried to say. The old man was smartly dressed. A heavy slap sent a bolt of light through Jack’s brain. He looked at the man who had hit him. He was a man- mountain with hands the size of shovels. Jack tried to move, but they had tied his hands above his head. The straps and restraints fixed by the police were still there, but his new captors had repositioned them. His paper pants were gone. They had hung him from the ceiling and stripped him naked. The sensation of travelling and engine noise told him that he was in some kind of lorry. The size of the space around him made him think that he was in a large container, probably an articulated vehicle. There were several large crates built from new wood. The scent of resin drifted in the air. The big man punched him hard in the stomach, and the blow forced the air from his lungs. He rocked backwards like a human punch bag. Jack gasped for oxygen, choking on the face guard.
“Answer the question.” The big man grabbed his cheeks and squeezed them hard. The face bar dug into his lips, and Jack felt his lungs wheezing for breath. “Are you Jack Howarth?”
“Take that thing off his face.” Te old man waved a hand. “I don’t want him to choke to death.”
Clumsy fingers fumbled with the straps at the back of his head, and the mouth guard fell away onto the floor. The relief was welcome; he sucked in air greedily. “Who are you?” Jack spluttered. “Why am I here?”
“Are you Jack Howarth?” The old man asked calmly. “Answer me, or Sami will hurt you.”
Jack thought about giving a smart answer but thought again. “Yes, I am Jack Howarth.” He spat congealed blood onto the floor.
“Do you know who I am?” The old man raised his eyebrows.
“No, I haven’t got a clue.” Jack tried to smile, but it turned into a sneer. “I’m figuring you’re not my parole officers.”
The old man smiled and nodded his head. “Funny,” he pointed at Jack with his index finger, “very funny indeed.” His smile faded quickly. “My name is Zamir Oguzhan.”
Jack swallowed hard and kept eye contact with Zamir. “Am I supposed to know who you are?” He sounded confused but a flicker in his eyes gave his lie away.
“You murdered my grandson, his wife and my great- grandchildren, Mr Howarth.” Zamir pointed his finger again and wagged it from side to side. “Family is everything to me, and you slaughtered them.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jack looked surprised at the accusation. “I was arrested for murder, yes, but I killed my partner in a fight. I don’t know anything about your family.”
“Oh dear,” Zamir frowned. He looked at his minder and shook his head. “Until we know that you killed Salim for sure, we can’t exact our revenge, Mr Howarth. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, you know what I mean, don’t you?”
“Not really,” Jack said shakily. “I don’t know your family.”
“The police are convinced that you are their murderer,” Zamir shrugged his shoulders. “Am I supposed to think they got it all wrong?”
“They get it wrong all the time,” Jack insisted. “Honestly, I killed my business partner because he was rippin
g me off.” Jack nodded his head and looked both men in the eyes. His eyes flicked from one to the other. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
“I’ve been reading all about you, Mr Howarth.” Zamir walked past Jack. He was out of view, but Jack heard the rustling noise of paper moving. “You’re famous, look!” Zamir held up three different newspapers, all leading with the story about the capture of the ‘Child Taker’. A dated photograph of him appeared on the front pages. “I’ll read this to you, shall I? It may jog your memory. ‘Jack Howarth, people trafficker, known paedophile, was arrested on suspicion of the murder of Louise Parker. Police sources are indicating that they will further charge him with the murders of Salim Oguzhan, his wife and two children.’ It goes on. Shall I read on? ”
“They’re stitching me up!” Jack’s eyes filled up with tears. He knew he was in terrible trouble. The anticipation of the pain that was coming made his stomach cramp. Sheer terror gripped him. He knew they were going to hurt him. The memory of Father Thomas pulling him along the corridor by the scruff of his neck crept into his brain. The priest who had dragged him night after night into his stinking office seemed almost real, as if he was next to him. Jack could smell his sweat, he could feel his fetid breath on his neck, and he could taste his semen at the back of his throat. He remembered the anticipation of the pain he was about to endure, and it occurred to him that those memories drove him to do the things he did. They frightened him so much that he relived them by hurting others. It was role reversal. He was the predator in a bizarre fantasy world where he lived and breathed his own pain and the sweet pain of others. It was all about helplessness and suffering. It was about knowing that no one was coming to help. “It wasn’t me who killed your family, it was Patrick Lloyd,” Jack began to whimper.
