Desolate Sands Crime Book 5 (Detective Alec Ramsay Crime Mystery Suspense Series)

by Conrad Jones

  “No. The lawns and the backyard are clear,” she said dismissively, “however we have another dump site in the cellar.” She took his elbow and guided him along the path to where the excavation was busiest. Ladders protruded from the ground and four white clad figures were busy in the pit. Alec could make out the rear wall of the house, above and below ground. Paving stones had been uncovered and lifted. “We’ve found two skeletons beneath the slabs. They pre-date the beach victims by at least two years, maybe more.”

  “So this is where the Butcher learned his trade?” Alec mused. “Annie knew that he had more victims somewhere. She’ll be pleased when she wakes up and I tell her that she was right.”

  “She will say, ‘I told you so’.”

  “She will indeed. I take it our victims are female?”

  “I don’t have any identities yet and there could be more of them.”

  “The twine at Tibbs’s house, it does match our victims?”

  “Yes it’s the same brand and one of the reels matches up with two of the victims exactly. You’ve got enough to convince the CPS to prosecute him.”

  “I’m going to charge him with the murder of Lacey Taylor first; then with the assault on Annie. That will give us enough time to piece together all the forensic evidence. There will be a mountain of it by the time you’ve finished here.”

  “We may never have enough to charge him with each individual victim, but I’ll make damn sure that you have enough to lock the bastard up and throw away the key.” They looked into the excavated cellar and sipped hot coffee, their breath making clouds in the cold morning air. The thoughts of the victims below, what they suffered before they died and who was left to mourn their disappearance, were mutual yet unshared. Some things were best kept inside. Alec had the feeling that things were coming to a close, yet there was no comfort or satisfaction in that thought.

  Chapter 39

  Dazik Kraznic stayed in his cell until the last convict on the third tier of C wing had gone for the slop that they passed off as food. The smell of cabbage and boiled beef drifted up to him but despite always feeling hungry, he couldn’t rush to get his food. If he went anywhere near the other inmates they attacked him. Being spat at was nothing. There were far worse things in prison than that. He had asked to be segregated but the governor had refused on the grounds that he was only in for kidnapping and assault and also because he hadn’t been convicted. He was still on remand, awaiting trial. Despite keeping a low profile, he had been kicked black and blue every time the guards turned their backs. There had been threats of worse to come too. If Cuthbert pulled his finger out of his arse, he should be out before anybody had the chance to bring their threats to fruition. Kolorov must have reached out before he was shot. The slut had been convinced to change her statement, so it was a matter of days at worst until he was released. Until then, he had to be extra careful.

  He peered through the narrow gap between the door and the frame. He could see the back of a con’s head turning onto the second landing. As he turned to walk down the next flight, the con looked up at his door and spotted him peeking out. He stopped and smiled but there was no mirth in it. A tattooed dragon ran from his left eye, above his ear and down his neck. He ran his forefinger across his throat and his smile turned into a twisted sneer. Dazik hid quickly, waiting a few seconds before checking if the skinhead had descended. The metal staircases and landings were empty, although the chatter of the inmates echoed off the walls making it seem as if they were close. There were voices everywhere, yet no one was there. C wing had over one hundred inmates and ten guards, but he had never felt lonelier in his life. Kolorov had promised him protection if he was jailed, but his reach was limited. Walton was a local prison with few foreigners. He was branded as a rapist, a woman beater, a nonce, and as such, he was prey for the predators inside. There would be no protection for him here. Here he was alone. Totally alone. Alone and frightened. Just like the women he had taken for him. Guilt spread from his stomach outwards, creeping through his veins. It mingled with regret and sorrow and a dose of self loathing. Why had he ended up in this shithole? Why had he chosen to do those things? For money? It wasn’t as if he had made a lot of money. He threw him crumbs when he felt like it; just enough to make walking away difficult, but not enough for him to walk away for good. Once he was out, things would be different; he would brush the streets before he would go to jail again. He took a deep breath and opened the door wider and checked both directions before stepping out onto the landing. A plate smashed somewhere below, making him jump. The sound was amplified by the vaulted ceilings. A chorus of jeering followed the breakage. “Sack the juggler!” drifted up to him. “While you're down there butter fingers.” A harsh scouse accent echoed above the other catcalling. It sounded like the man had a throat full of phlegm.

  He tucked his towel under his arm and headed for the showers, keeping close to the wall so that the peering eyes below wouldn’t spot him. Fear had designed his schedule for him. Showering was infrequent and had to be done while the others were eating. Eating had to be done when the others had finished their food and were moving into the recreational areas. He would shovel whatever slop was remaining onto his tray as fast as he could and then rush back to the relative safety of his cell to eat it. Despite being careful, they had still managed to get to him but that day, he had been stupid enough to walk into the yard. He had been feeling claustrophobic and the draw of fresh air had dulled his survival instincts and he’d been attacked before he reached the outer door. When the guards finally intervened, his nose was broken and his eyes were swollen shut. He couldn’t allow anymore lapses before he was released.

  The shower room was silent apart from the dripping sound of water. He was so scared that a drop of water from the showerhead hitting the tiles sounded like a cricket ball hitting a pond. It looked to be unoccupied although the further reaches of the wet area were hidden in dark shadows. In the recesses of his mind, blood crazed inmates lurked there, wielding cut-throat razors and craft knives. The thought of a craft knife slicing his bare wet flesh while he showered was enough to never bathe again but he stank. Timers controlled both the lighting and the length of time the hot water flowed for. He hit the rubber covered switch and the lights flickered into life with a humming sound. The bank of fluorescent tubes chased the dark shadows away and replaced it with a harsh white glare. He blinked to focus. The shower nearest to him hissed into life and he jumped back against the wall, his breath trapped in his chest. A second shower jet hit the tiles and steam began to rise. As the airlocks in the pipes settled, the water stopped. He laughed nervously and hung up his towel. His nerves were taut, to say the least. He removed his boots and socks in one, placing them onto the bench which lined the wall beneath the clothes hooks. Instinct made him check three hundred and sixty five degrees before he unfastened his belt and pulled off his underwear and jeans together. Nakedness heightened his feeling of vulnerability. His skin was unprotected, there to be slashed or burned, stabbed with a shank of metal, or punctured by a sharpened object. He tried to push the thoughts from his mind. His shirt remained buttoned as he pulled it over his head and hung it on a hook. The smell of his body odour was foul. He couldn’t stand it anymore. Showering was the priority over eating.

  He took three steps and pressed the shower button, tipping his head back to allow the water to hit his face. Waiting for it to warm up was a luxury that he couldn’t afford. When the general population wanted to rape and kill, time was precious. He lathered cheap green soap into his bits and pits and rinsed as quickly as he could. A clanging noise from his left made him stop. He held his breath and listened. Had he heard a footstep on the landing or was it a cell door closing? The jet of water was all he could hear and as it was on a timer, he couldn’t turn it off. Two more sounds echoed off the tiles, louder this time; louder and closer. They were footsteps, two sets or maybe even three, or were they downstairs on another landing? Noise travelled on the landings. Maybe he was being parano
id. A scraping sound cut through the air. He looked to his left where the noise had come from. Something metal clattered on the tiles, out of sight somewhere. The noise was from the right and he turned to face it. There was no one there. He could feel his blood pumping through his ears. His temple pulsed in rhythm with his frightened heart. More footsteps, this time from both directions. Another scraping sound came from the left and the sound of boots. Two sets? They weren’t creeping anymore; they were at both ends of the shower area. A clatter of metal in a sink and then glass shattered and tinkled across the tiles.

  “Is there a rapist in there?” a voice whispered. “You’re going to learn what it feels like, nonce.”

  “A murdering scumbag rapist?” another voice drifted to him.

  “Attacking defenseless women and raping them?” a third hissed.

  Kraznic turned to run. His feet slipped in the soapy water and his legs tried to do the box-splits without informing his brain. His hips screamed in pain and his hamstring muscles felt like they might snap. He scrambled to maintain his balance but the more he panicked, the more frantic his movements became. Although his feet were running, he wasn’t moving an inch. He looked like a cartoon character running on fresh air. His left hand grabbed for the shower pipe and his fingertips gained purchase for a second, allowing him to adjust his body weight over his knees. He placed his feet flat onto the tiles as wide as he dared and steadied himself against the wall. His chest was heaving as he sucked oxygen into his constricted airways. He swallowed hard and braced himself for an attack. His vision was blurred by the steam in the air and the water in his eyes. He blinked it away and turned full circle to face his attackers, but there was no one there. His breathing was fast and shallow and his entire body was tensed ready to defend himself.

  No attack came. He couldn’t hear anything but the water hitting the tiles and the thumping of his heart in his chest. His sense of hearing was ultra-aware but there was nothing but his breathing and blood pulsing in his inner ear. Reluctant to let go of the wall, he walked arms out, zombie-like to where his towel and clothing was. Fear was far more powerful than modesty and he grabbed his belongings beneath his arms and wrapped the towel around his waist. A piercing scraping noise stopped him in his tracks. It was the sound of broken glass being dragged over a mirror, or a nail scratching a window, both rolled into one. He froze and stared into the steam. The water cut out with a deep gurgling sound and he knew that the lights would go out soon afterwards. He opened his mouth to scream for help but a huge hand covered the lower half of his face. Kraznic felt himself lifted off the tiles and saw the wall heading towards him at speed. As his forehead connected with a sickening thud, his brain shut down to protect itself and the lights in his mind went out.

  Chapter 40

  Chief Carlton stepped out of the lift. Two familiar faces looked surprised to see him entering the MIT office unannounced. The detectives stepped in to the lift as he exited. They wouldn’t speak until the doors had closed. Visits from the Chief usually coincided with times of great success or times of total calamity, but were almost always preannounced. They nodded a silent hello to each other and he headed for Alec’s office. The office space was full of detectives who stopped working at their desks for a moment as the senior uniformed officer walked briskly through the office. Phone calls were momentarily muted and the typing of emails paused. Raised eyebrows and whispered expletives were passed amongst the team. A dark cloud hovered over the investigation and the tension in the room was palpable. The early editions of the newspapers and broadcasts on local radio stations were the obvious reason for his presence. His face was ashen and his shoulders were stooped, as if he carried a great burden upon them. He paused before knocking on the door but didn’t wait for an answer before entering. Alec looked up from his laptop and sighed. Stirling stood from his chair and plunged his hands into his pockets like a nervous schoolboy. The door closed and the team exchanged theories about what would be said and then went back to their business.

  “Chief,” Alec stood and greeted him formally. He wasn’t sure what the purpose of the visit was yet, although he had a good idea. Chief Carlton had his uniform on, as always, but he didn’t have his hat. He must have left it in his office, which was a good thing. If he had come on official business, he would have brought his hat. Alec relaxed a little. “You’ve heard the news then?”

  “Heard it, seen it, read it and had it relayed to me by the Home Secretary, who then quizzed me on what she had told me!” he sat down with a sigh and gestured for Stirling and Alec to sit too. “Please tell me that this is news to you too.”

  “It was one hell of a shock,” Alec said. There was a knock at the door and DC Lewis poked his head around the gap. His smile vanished when he saw the Chief. “Oh sorry, Guv. I didn’t know you had a meeting going on.”

  “And I suppose no one out there told you either, did they?” Stirling chuckled. It was almost a ritual in MIT. If anyone asked if the Governor was busy, everyone replied ‘no’.

  “I did ask if you were busy, Guv,” Lewis blushed purple. “The tossers out there said you weren’t.”

  “It’s a never ending source of amusement,” Alec shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to tell you that I’ve downloaded the footage that has been sent from the pub in Brighton where Tina Peters worked.”

  “Good,” Alec said. “Get on it straight away.”

  “One question.” Lewis raised a finger and smiled. “I don’t want you to think that I’m thick, but who exactly am I looking for?”

  Alec looked at Stirling and then back to Lewis. “Good question.”

  “Tibbs would be a good start, although very unlikely,” Stirling offered. “Otherwise you’re looking for someone who shows up on our facial recognition system.” He shrugged and winked at Lewis to leave it at that.

  “How is the new system going?” the Chief asked. He had championed it, despite its teething problems. Stirling rolled his eyes to the ceiling and gestured for Lewis to leave it. He had entered a picture of the Prime Minister, David Cameron and the system identified him as a fraudster from Prescott called Nathan Giles. Apt, but flawed at best.

  “I’ll crack on with it, Guv,” Lewis took the hint, evaded the question and closed the door behind him.

  “I take it that there are still issues with the program,” the Chief smiled wryly. “Back to my earlier question, did you know about this?” His eyes looked watery and tired. There was no aggression or disdain in them. “The early editions have set tongues wagging but when the daily nationals hit the shelves I would like to have answers.” Alec turned his laptop towards the Chief. He removed his reading glasses from his pocket and put them on. As his eyes focused, he shook his head and closed his eyes. “Oh dear,” he sighed. “Have you spoken to the Governor?”

  “Yes,” Alec said. “Five minutes before you walked in.” He stood and stretched his back, then walked to the window. The Liverpool Ferris wheel was turning slowly. It was a magnificent attraction to add to the waterfront quarter. The views from the top were spectacular. It was also a safe addition to the attractions, unlike the yellow duckmarines, which had been withdrawn from service. They were yellow amphibious vehicles that ferried tourists around the streets of the city before sailing around the docks. They kept sinking. Alec had been watching from the window when the last one went down a few months earlier. Imagine a yellow bus which floats, full of tourists and suddenly stops floating. Alec recalled the almost comical images of people climbing out of the windows as it began to sink. His mind drifted back to the point at hand. “They found Kraznic hanging upside down in the showers. He had been beaten and slashed repeatedly, sodomised and then they shoved a sharpened toothbrush into his right ear, puncturing his brain. His lips were sewn together anti-mortem.”

  “I’m seriously concerned that the inmates at Walton not only knew that he was vaguely connected to our investigation, but they also knew details like the stitching of the vi
ctim’s lips. How the hell does something like this happen in a prison?” The Chief shook his head. “More to the point, how have the press got a hold of that picture?” He pointed the front page of the Echo. The early edition led with the headline, ‘Is the Butcher Dead Meat?’ and a close up photo of Kraznic covered the page. His eyes were blanked out but it was clear to see that it was him. “It had been taken inside the prison sometime before the attack. There’s no doubt about it.”

  Alec leaned against the window ledge and rubbed his eyes. They were sore and tired. “We’ve been blindsided good and proper. Someone in the prison leaked the story to the press and they were probably well paid for it too. The first we knew was a report on the radio this morning.” He frowned. “It’s no big surprise though. Walton is full of local guards and local cons, right?”

  “Right,” Stirling agreed. He knew that if the inmates got wind that Kraznic was linked to the murders, he would be attacked, but he hadn’t expected Kraznic to be quite so badly beaten and certainly not murdered. “They will have family members in the local press and probably in this building too. As soon as they got a sniff that he was linked to the murders, he was a target.” He was keen to deflect any blame from their interview. “One of the guards asked us if we were questioning him in connection with the Butcher. He might have said something on the wing and bingo, Kraznic is toast.”

  “I can see that,” Carlton agreed, “but the photo for heaven’s sake! It was as if it had been planned all along. How did they take that?”

  “Mobile phone,” Alec said. “Mobiles are like gold dust in clink but they’re there nonetheless. Killing him is a message of solidarity to the victims’ families on the outside.” He took his seat behind the desk and folded his fingers together. “We need to take the initiative back from the press. You need to distance Kraznic from the Butcher investigations, Chief. Call a press conference. Once the link is denied, it will fizzle out quickly. We will charge Tibbs today with the murder and kidnap of Lacey Taylor and leak that he’s our number one suspect in the Crosby murders. Their focus will change before the teatime news. This nonsense will be gone before breakfast tomorrow.”