by Conrad Jones
She sank to her knees and tried to calm herself. Her breathing was fast and shallow. It was cool but perspiration formed on her back regardless, making her feel clammy and uncomfortable. There was no sound from above; no television or radio, footsteps or voices. She thought about screaming for help but she had to assume that whoever lived in the building above knew that she was in the cellar. They had either carried out, or were party to her arrest. Passers-by wouldn’t hear her. She was sure of that. Her captor would have gagged her and tied her up if there was any chance of her attracting attention by screaming. It was probably a remote location. All she could achieve by screaming was alerting her kidnapper that she was conscious. She had choices to make. Wait for him to return and submit or fight, or she could use the blades on her veins and end it herself.
A tiny red light caught her eye. It was to the right of the hatch. He was watching her on camera, or maybe it was to record whatever he did to women in the basement with his surgical tools, probably both. Either way it sent ice cold fear racing through her veins, chilling her to the bone. The urge to pee was becoming more urgent than the urge to vomit. The urge to scream was overwhelmingly at the top of the urge list but peeing was accelerating fast and ready to overtake on the inside rail. She squeezed her thighs together and tried to force it from her mind. Screaming was useless. She needed to maintain her strength for the fight with her attacker. It was inevitable that he would come back and when he did, she would use every ounce of energy that she had left to escape. He would have to kill her to hurt her. Tasha had decided that compliance wasn’t an option this time. This wasn’t her stepfather with his twisted version of affection and sickening sexual fantasies. Nor was it an inebriated punter acting out his urges to rape and abuse; she could switch off for them but not this. She couldn’t hide in the dark recesses of her mind while a lunatic played doctors with a scalpel. Whatever he had planned, she wasn’t playing. While she still had breath in her lungs, she would fight. She had been an athlete at school. Her genes were from Jamaica, gifting her with lean powerful limbs. She wasn’t as fit as she had been but she could summon enough strength to plunge a pair of scissors deep into her attacker’s eye socket or to slash his jugular vein with the scalpel. The nightmare she would suffer if she failed would add strength to her struggle. She felt comfort from the weapons that she held and they gave her hope. Slim fragile hope, but hope in any guise was welcome. Although empowered by sharp steel, she still needed to pee. The thought of wetting herself during the imminent battle made up her mind. She had to satisfy the burning urge.
Tasha shuffled into the corner beneath the camera. She pulled her thong down her thighs and sighed as she released the offending liquid. The splashing noise sounded deafening against the silence and the warm aroma of urine drifted to her. She was nearly finished when she heard a noise above. Despite the pressure from her bladder, the jet of urine stopped in a millisecond as she clenched tight. She listened intently. Footsteps. Not directly above but definitely in the building above. They were tentative footsteps. Someone above was nervous, unsure and listening as intently as she was.
“Hello,” a man’s voice called. It was a cautious call; searching and unsure if there was anybody there. It was the type of call people on the television made when a mad axe-man was hiding nearby. The type of ‘hello’ that the caller didn’t want an answer to. “Hello.” She heard it again, closer this time. He was uncertain and hesitant, yet he was searching. Tasha wanted to scream out for help but fear gripped her. “Hello.”
There was no reply, no second set of footsteps heading towards the first. There was almost an echo, not quite but almost as if the rooms above were spacious but not cavernous. If she could hear him then he would be able to hear her.
“Hello,” the voice grew louder. “Is anybody there?” The footsteps were at the far end of the room. “Mister Weston, are you there?”
Tasha realised that whoever he was, he was looking for the occupier, her kidnapper. She pulled up her underwear and screamed at the top of her voice.
Chapter 15
The MIT office was only half full but it was a hive of activity nonetheless. The investigation was picking up momentum as leads turned up names, and names turned into results which could be explored, verified or discounted. The press had been informed that a number of bodies had been recovered from the area around Crosby Beach. One of the local journals broke the news with the headline, ‘Butcher of Crosby Beach Slaughters Five’, which began an international media frenzy that gained momentum by the hour. When two more bodies were discovered, the attention intensified. Crowds of reporters gathered at the entrance roads to the beaches, held back by uniformed officers. Some of the more enterprising hacks hired rowing boats and motor cruisers to take pictures of the forensic operation from the sea. Detective Superintendent Alec Ramsay had been appointed as the senior detective. He had been a week into a joint taskforce meeting of Interpol with his foreign counterparts in London when the case broke and now, he was struggling to keep up with the details. Annie had relayed what they knew but the scale of the investigation meant that it was an uncontrollable beast which needed to be reined in quickly. Alec ran his fingers through his greying sandy hair and studied the detectives in the room. They were the cream of the division, handpicked from every department to work on the case. Happy with the quality of the team, he listened as another briefing began.
“Charlie Keegan was forty years old,” Stirling talked excitedly to the remnants of the team who were in the office. The majority were out and about chasing information across the city. “We have circulated his record; you should all have a copy to hand.” Stirling looked around as nodding heads confirmed that copies had been distributed. “He fronted a property development company, New Generation Holdings. They specialise in buying up property and land, which local governments can’t afford to keep on, parks, schools, libraries, community centres and the like.”
“They fund projects such as youth clubs in the more deprived areas of the city, which looks good on paper, but what they’re actually doing is snapping up real estate,” Annie added.
“Vulture capitalists,” Alec joked. A ripple of laughter spread through the crowd. “Is it a legitimate operation?”
“That is where Keegan gets interesting, Guv,” Annie carried on. “Over the last six months, there’ve been a number of allegations about bribes being taken, especially over property grants in the more affluent areas like Woolton and Mossley Hill.”
“The real estate value of a school with playing fields in those areas would run into the millions.” Alec shrugged. His wrinkles deepened as a wry smile crossed his lips. “You could build ten, five bedroom houses on a decent sized plot like a library; fifty on a school playing field. Who owns the company?”
“Keegan was a director,” Stirling explained, “we’re checking Companies House for the other directors’ names but so far, all we have are a number of shell companies registered in Russia.”
“There were a number of high profile campaigns, which ran to stop the sale of public land.” Annie flicked images from protests onto the screens. “A Facebook campaign reached a million likes and a petition with a hundred thousand signatures was handed into the Town Hall last month. Have a guess who led the campaigns.”
“Lacey Taylor,” Alec answered. “She was all over the television trying to stop the sale of that special school in Woolton.”
“Correct,” Annie said as the images changed again. “So we have Keegan, tortured and decapitated and Lacey Taylor is missing. She ran the campaigns against Keegan’s acquisitions and now we have to assume they’re both dead.”
“And your informant, Richard Tibbs?” Alec prompted.
“He saw two men walking near the pond where we found Keegan and he saw one of them stuff the dog collar into a litter bin, here.” Stirling pointed to a photo of the area. “The collar belongs to Lacey Taylor’s dog. Her family has verified that much. Tibbs told us that one of the men bears a strong family rese
mblance to John Ryder.”
“Could he actually be a relative?” Alec asked.
“Ryder doesn’t have any kids.” Annie smiled.
“Sounds like there’s a ‘but’ coming.”
“But he is married to his brother’s widow, Laura Ryder and she has a son, Brendon. John Ryder is stepfather to his brother’s son.”
“Keeping it in the family?” Alec grunted.
“The brother, James, died in suspicious circumstances when Brendon was a toddler.” Stirling pointed to the crime scene images. “His body was washed up near the airport. From the time of death and the internal injuries found on the victim, it was deemed that he jumped from Runcorn Bridge the day before he was found.”
“What’s the mystery?” Alec opened his top button and slipped off his grey suit jacket. The back of his shirt was un-ironed. Since his wife died, only the front was ironed properly. The backs were skimmed over at best. “Was foul play considered?”
“He was wealthy, healthy and had no enemies.” Annie raised her eyebrows and smiled. “The Ryder brothers inherited a substantial property portfolio when their parents died in ninety-nine. Laura inherited James’s share when he ‘jumped’ from the bridge.”
“The postmortem showed bruising to the upper arms, consistent with being restrained and lifted and there were traces of an adhesive residue on his top lip,” Stirling explained, “but the suicide note was deemed as genuine and he’d been to see his GP the week prior complaining of anxiety and insomnia. The coroner ruled it as suicide.”
“And then John marries her and gets the lot.” Alec frowned and deep lines creased his forehead. “Can we link the Ryders to New Generation Holdings?”
“We’re looking into it,” Annie nodded. “If there’s a link, we’ll find it, not that that would give us grounds for arrest but we could question them.”
“I’m not prepared to wait.” Alec rubbed the dimple on his chin. “Bring the stepson in,” Alec ordered. “Put him in a line-up and see if Tibbs can identify him.”
“He won’t agree to a line-up, Guv.” Annie shook her head. “We’ve got nothing on him and if John Ryder gets a sniff of what we’re doing, he’ll have him out of the country in a second. He has property all over the place.”
“Maybe you’re right. A drawn out extradition battle will make us look incompetent. Okay, if we can’t put him in a line-up, find him for an informal chat,” Alec suggested, “and make sure Tibbs gets to see his picture in the office somewhere. If he recognises him then at least we know we’re on the right track.”
“You know that we can’t use his evidence?”
“Yes but if we shake their tree, something might fall out.” Alec pointed to Stirling. “Send Jim. He’s got the tact of a wrecking ball. If anyone can provoke a response, it’ll be him.”
“Thanks, Guv. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You’re welcome, but it wasn’t meant as a compliment.”
“I’ll get on it now, Guv,” Stirling said smiling. Although they had nothing to hold Brendon Ryder on, he was itching to make an arrest and question him. The DS had given a green light and that was all he needed. He picked up his leather jacket and tapped a DC on the shoulder. They headed for the lifts with a purpose. “I’ll arrange for uniform to pick up Tibbs on the way, Guv.”
Alec knew that he was treading on thin ice but he had to give his detectives as much rope as he could without hanging them. “Okay, Inspector,” he turned back to Annie and clapped his hands together. “What have we got on the prawns?”
“Guv!” she chided. Another ripple spread through the room. “Am I the only one not calling them prawns?”
“Until we’ve got some names,” Alec shrugged. “What have we got?”
“Seven victims in various stages of decay.” Annie flicked a series of images onto the screens. “Kathy is estimating that the oldest body was buried two years ago, possibly longer. The most recent is this one here, which we found first near the car park. She’d been there over a month but not much more than that.”
“All buried alive?”
“Yes.”
“We have no identities yet?”
“No but we have three, who match names and descriptions on the missing persons’ lists. We’re crosschecking DNA where we can. I’m hoping that we'll have names later today.”
“What about this missing girl?”
“Tasha James.” Annie brought up another image. “She was last seen getting into a van. We have traffic looking for a white Ford van with STD on the number plate.” She looked towards DC Mason, who was taking a call. She nodded and gave a thumbs-up signal. “They think it’s registered to a hire company in Huyton. They’re coming back with a name any minute now.”
“We’ve got an address, Guv,” Mason grinned. She scribbled the number down. “One, six, three Breck Road. The van’s registered to a Mark Weston. He’s got no priors.”
Alec and Annie exchanged worried glances. It was an exciting breakthrough. Having no priors didn’t mean much when dealing with a serial. They couldn’t take any chances. “Take armed backup and see what Mr Weston has to say for himself,” Alec said concerned. “Find Tasha Jenkins and take her home.”
“Get a uniformed unit from the area to cruise by and see if the van is there,” Annie ordered. “Put a unit on the rear of the house too. Tell them we’ll be fifteen minutes and I want to know what we’re dealing with before we get there, okay?”
“Guv.”
“I’ll call in as soon as we have anything,” she said to Alec as she walked away. “My team with me. Let’s go.”
Chapter 16
Francis Grant nearly jumped out of his skin when the screaming started. Although it was muffled, it was definitely close by, in the house; probably below him. It was high pitched, ear-splitting, desperate screaming. Someone was terrified and screaming for help at the very top of their vocal range. He froze as he tried to pinpoint where it was coming from. The screams seemed to grow louder and more desperate. He took one step into the living room and listened again. It was coming from beneath him. The room had high ceilings and ornate plaster coving as did all houses from that era. A bare light bulb hung from a fancy ceiling rose, which deserved a chandelier. He searched the wall for the switch but couldn’t find it; his fingers stroked bare plaster. His imagination pictured barbed wire and broken glass and razorblades waiting to puncture his fingertips. His mind played tricks on him while fear grabbed him from within.
On the occasions he’d been before, he’d never noticed details like that but now he wished that he had. He peered behind a dark panelled door but saw nothing but shadows. The heavy curtains were closed. It smelled of damp, dust and mothballs but there was something else too, something rotten. The place gave him the creeps. The owners wanted the building put on the market and he could see why. The string of recent tenants had neglected the house. It was a decaying hovel and its value was depreciating rapidly as the area became less desirable. He was the junior estate agent and always pulled the crappy jobs. This one wasn’t just crap, it was frightening. He glanced over his shoulder at the hallway. Although it was dark there too, it seemed preferable to stepping into the living room. His brain told him to go back out of the front door, telephone the police and hand in his notice, but the girl’s screams mesmerised him. How could he walk out without helping? It should have been easy enough to do. Francis was the first to shout at the television when a character was heading for the darkness where the deranged killer was hiding with a drill or a chainsaw. ‘Why would they do that? I would run and call the police.’ But here he was, faced with an empty hovel and a woman screaming in the cellar. His instincts said run as fast as you can, but he just couldn’t leave without at least trying to help. He took a sharp breath, reached around the door and fumbled for the light switch. His fingers touched a brass plate, its coldness felt soothing against his sweaty palm. He slid his index finger across the metal until it reached the rocker but he hesitated when the screaming stop
ped. He paused, held his breath and waited for a sound. Maybe he had imagined it.
“Please help me,” she screamed again. He could hear her words clearly. This was the real deal and the woman was distraught.
“Where are you?” he called back.
“I’m in the cellar.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Yes,” she shouted. Her voice was garbled. “He hit me with a Taser. Please get me out of here.”
“I’ll call the police.” Francis reached for his mobile and dialled nine, nine, nine. His phone displayed that there was no signal. “Shit, shit,” he hissed. “How did you get down there?”
“I don’t know. Please hurry up!”
“Are there any stairs?”
“No,” she shouted.
“No stairs,” he whispered. “How the hell do I get down there then?” He felt for the switch again. He reached the rocker and his fingers scrambled to press it. “Come on, switch on for God’s sake,” he muttered. The bulb flickered into life and cast a dull light around the room. The darkness receded but not far enough to make him feel comfortable.
“There’s a hatch in the corner above where I am,” she shouted. “Get me out before he comes back please.”
He looked towards where her voice emanated from. A beige three-seater occupied the centre of the room. The seat cushions were stained dark where it was most worn; the stuffing flattened unevenly. To the left, a matching armchair was pushed back against the wall. The arms had been blackened over decades by an army of sweaty hands and a dark black stain had spread from the seat down to the floor as if a tacky fluid had been spilled and allowed to dry. It could have been blood, but then it could have been blackcurrant cordial too. Whatever it was, it was years old. It seemed to belong to the room. Filth and grime, stains and odours were all in keeping with the decor. They belonged there. There were no pictures or paintings, photographs or mirrors on the walls. They were bare and cold looking. Dark scuff marks gathered on the plaster around the armchair and Francis couldn’t help but liken them to claw marks. Maybe the girl had been dragged into the cellar kicking and screaming for her life. Maybe she wasn’t the first. Looking at the number of scratches and their positions, there had been many. A shiver ran down his spine as he envisaged them, naked and bleeding, bloody, battered and bruised as a demon sucked them down into the depths. Razor sharp teeth cut through flesh and bones, muscle and intestines splattering the walls with visceral matter. He saw their nails splitting and breaking as they clawed at the walls, desperate to escape what awaited them in the cellar. His imagination taunted him with images from his worst nightmares and her screams fuelled his imagination further. He couldn’t move from the spot.
