Concrete Evidence; Crime Book 6 (Detective Alec Ramsay Crime Mystery Suspense Series)

by Conrad Jones

  “Give us a clue, Google,” Annie rolled her eyes. She could feel her heartbeat racing. Alec stepped out of the lift and clapped his hands together, happy to see that every telephone was in use. He looked expectantly at Annie. She nodded and smiled. “We’ve got a name, Guv.”

  “Do we know him?”

  “Oh yes,” Stirling said pointing at his screen. Alec leaned over and squinted to read the records. He whistled as he digested the details.

  “Google?” Annie asked impatiently. “What have we got?”

  “Six callers all giving the same location, Guv.”

  “Which is?”

  “Benidorm.”

  “Benidorm?”

  “Spain, Guv.”

  “I know where Benidorm is.”

  “Of course you do,” Google blushed. “Sorry, Guv.” He typed furiously, oblivious of the smirks around him. “The last sighting was yesterday in the area of the Old Town.”

  “Okay,” Annie pressed her palms together beneath her chin. She closed her eyes for a second. “Find out which flight he took out there and where he is staying. Run his credit cards and contact the local police. We need them to hold him until we can get out there and drag him back. Can you sort authorisation for us to travel, Guv?”

  Alec frowned as he thought about the situation. “No problem. Should be simple enough to track him down and the Spanish won’t want to obstruct the removal of a scumbag like Harris.”

  “What about Barton, Guv?” Stirling asked. “What do you want us to do about him?”

  “There was nothing in your television pitch that would make him think that we’ve connected him to the victims yet but I think that his own sense of self preservation will make him join up the dots,” Annie said. “What do you think, Guv?”

  “The link between him and our victims may be tenuous but we cannot ignore it and neither will he. I think that he will be concerned at least,” Alec agreed. “The women responsible for his release have been murdered. That means that we’re going to connect him to them sooner or later whether he was innocent or not.”

  “Take an armed unit and a forced entry team,” Annie said cautiously. “I want him shaking in his shoes when he gets here.”

  “You need to take an officer from the Bomb Squad too,” Alec added gravely. “I don’t want any risks taken. His face darkened. “If he was involved in the murders, he may have rigged the incendiary device and if he was watching Crimewatch, he’ll be expecting us. I don’t want any nasty surprises.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The Barton residence was a detached house situated on the outskirts of Halewood. It was the last house on the row before the road snaked onwards through a green-belt area made up mostly of arable farmland, woodland and grazing land. It was to all intents and purposes, the border of the city. Stirling watched the front of the house through night vision glasses. A small garden that consisted of two small lawns dissected by a path offered no obstacles to their entry but gifted them no cover either. It was a hundred metres from the pavement to the front door. There were no doors or windows on either of the side elevations of the house. They couldn’t see the back of the house at all and the rear garden was shrouded by coniferous trees.

  “There’s one light on in the downstairs room to the left of the front door,” Stirling noted. “The rest of the house is in darkness.”

  “Thermal imaging is giving one heat signature, which is in the room with the light on.” The Bomb Squad officer added. “Your suspect is sat in an armchair watching the television.”

  “I’ll send two men to the rear. As soon as they’re in place we’ll make entry through the front door.” The Forced Entry Team leader said nonchalantly. “The quicker we do it, the less chance we have of him rigging the place, right?”

  Stirling nodded. “What do you think, Lieutenant?”

  “If he has rigged anything up then we won’t know until it’s too late.” The Bomb Squad officer smiled. “He could have sensors on the windows, pressure pads behind the front and rear doors, infrared sensors in the hallways and stairs. If he has, then they’ll be battery powered so there’s no point in cutting the power. You’ll be blown to bits before you cross the welcome mat.”

  “That’s helpful,” Stirling mumbled. “Thanks for that.”

  “I’m just advising,” the lieutenant shrugged. “The possibilities are endless but if you were the suspect would you rig your home to blow and then sit in the living room watching the television?” he patted Stirling on the back. “My advice is to make sure that it’s your suspect that is home first. If he is and he doesn’t cooperate, smoke him out. Bring him to us. That way there’s less risk.”

  “That makes sense,” Stirling agreed. “We’ll stick to the same plan, two men at the rear and the rest of us out front. We’ll call him out and if he refuses, we’ll use the gas as a last resort?”

  “I’ll get the men in place. We’ll be ready to go in five.”

  **************

  Inside the house, Peter Barton was drinking whisky and surfing the internet. The Crimewatch program had rattled his fragile world. He always watched the news and read the newspapers. His interest had become an obsession. But it only confirmed how much evil there was in the world. He couldn’t handle anymore evil. Not another drop. For as long as he could remember, he had wrestled with the evil inside himself. It was a constant war of attrition but he knew that ultimately it was a battle that he would lose. He would lose because he was weak. His stepfather had told him from as far back as he could remember that he was weak. He was useless and he would never make anything of himself. His abuse was often spat out in his native Ukrainian tongue interspersed with the odd abusive word in English for good measure. The message was usually reinforced with a good hiding from his stepfather’s belt. Sometimes the belt was wielded like a whip and other times he would wrap it around his neck and choke him until he passed out. He often woke up bruised and battered lying in his own urine. The leather belt with its heavy metal buckle in the shape of an eagle was now hidden in his box with his other mementos. It was the only thing that he wanted to keep when his stepfather had finally died from cirrhosis, a reminder of the harsh and brutal upbringing he had endured. He left money too but he didn’t want it. The money that he left went to a good cause. He was the only mourner at his funeral and when the vicar had gone, Peter went behind the curtain at the crematorium and pissed on the coffin. It was the best piss he had ever had.

  After watching Crimewatch, he knew that the police would come for him. It might not be today and it might not be tomorrow but they would come. It was only a matter of time. He couldn’t go back to prison. Not for a day. His time incarcerated following Simon’s disappearance had been a nightmare. He had loved Simon, no one listened and no one understood. It wasn’t perverted or dirty; he loved him like any uncle would. They made it sound dirty. They twisted everything. He was locked up as a child killer, a paedophile, a pervert, a nonce and as such, he’d been vilified, beaten and brutalised by the other inmates. They were the animals, not him. Although he’d been freed at the appeal hearing, he was still guilty in the eyes of those he met. They sneered at his newly discovered alibi and cast aspersions at its validity. There were no bars on his windows but he was still a prisoner none the less.

  He searched online for as much information as he could find. Constantly. He drank and he searched then he drank some more. Tracking them was relentless. There were hundreds of them out there, maybe thousands. He shadowed them incessantly, recording their actions and hunting for new ones to show themselves. They plagued him day and night but the police did nothing. So many of them stayed under the radar, at liberty, free to do as they pleased but he knew that they were there. The whisky bottle was three quarters empty and his vision was blurry. He emptied his glass and refilled it, swallowing the burning liquid with a gulp. There were plenty of articles but there wasn’t much detail. Not that it mattered. They would come and when they did, he would plead his innocence and they would ignor
e him just like they had last time. They would look at him like he was dirt and lock him up again. He couldn’t go back to jail. ‘You’ll be back, paedo,’ one of his tormentors had hissed when he was leaving jail. ‘And when you do, we can have some more fun. Next time they lock you up it will be for good, scumbag.’ He heard the threats in his mind over and over. His sleep was haunted by the images of his stepfather beating him and his face would change and morph into those of the inmates. The stench of sweat and urine would overwhelm him and he would wake up in his own bed soaked to the skin in his own fluids. He couldn’t go back to jail. Not for a second.

  Peter closed the laptop and tossed it across the room. It clattered underneath his dining table, which had only one chair next to it. It had been nearly five years since he had shared a meal with another human being. Even the animals in jail refused to sit at the same table as him while they ate the slop that the prison kitchens called food. His mother and her sisters had shunned him. All of Simon’s relatives were convinced that he had abducted him, molested him and murdered him. As if he could do that to his beautiful nephew. They were the only family that he had and they despised him. Five years of persecution and loneliness had taken its toll and the blinding light of scrutiny was always upon him. It was a desolate existence at home but in prison, it was intolerable. He couldn’t go back. There was enough whisky to fill the tumbler once more. His hands were shaking as he tipped the contents into his glass. He dropped the empty bottle onto the carpet and took another long glug of the malt. It burned its way down into his stomach and he could feel the alcohol coursing through him, warming, soothing, numbing, wiping away the memories.

  Peter put the glass on the arm of his chair and reached down for his Laurona. Although it was nearly a hundred years old and single barrel shotguns were seldom sought after, it would do the job. He stood up on shaky legs and broke the gun. It was loaded. He had checked it at least six times and had unloaded it and reloaded it each time. Evil had taunted him all his life. It had burrowed into his soul and spread through him like cancer. He had sought it out and fought with it and held it at bay for a while but it always returned, niggling at his brain, making him think things that he shouldn’t. He knew that evil was a universal entity, a force that moves between dimensions and now it had focused itself on him once more. The poor women who had helped him escape the hellhole of prison had met evil themselves face to face. Their murder would make the police reopen the files on Simon’s disappearance and if they did, they might find something to shatter his alibi and send him back to jail. Once, all he wanted was his freedom. He had begged a god that he didn’t believe in to help him escape the brutal beatings, the huge walls and the barbed wire. Now he had his freedom but it wasn’t what he had envisaged. He was still tortured, still bitterly unhappy and guilt racked his very core. His search never ended. Evil was the root cause of his pain. The evil inside him was powerful but it couldn’t survive in there when he had a 12-bore shotgun. He snapped the gun closed and walked out of the room.

  **************

  “The suspect is on the move!” The lieutenant hissed as Stirling left the van and struggled into his body armour. “All units standby,” he ordered over the comms. “If you’re going to call him out, now is the time.”

  Stirling nodded his agreement and signalled for the armed unit to follow him to the front door. He fiddled with his earpiece as he walked down the path. The lights in the hallway came on illuminating three fan shaped glass panels on the front door. “Suspect has moved into the hallway,” the comms crackled.

  ‘I wonder how he fathomed that, Amazing technology,’ Stirling thought. Heat signatures were one thing but a light bulb being switched on was equally revealing.

  “I know what you’re thinking, Detective,” the lieutenant added. “That was for the benefit of the officers at the rear.”

  Stirling chuckled to himself inside, ‘take the pole from up your arse, soldier boy,’ he thought. The lieutenant and his squad were incredibly brave men. He respected that. But the officers he had met seemed to be cut from the same mould, always concerned about how others perceived them. Especially non military persons. “I’m at the front door, standby.”

  “Roger that, all units standby.”

  Stirling stepped to the left hand side of the front door and knocked hard with his knuckles. “Peter Barton, it’s the police,” he called loudly. “We need to speak you!”

  Silence.

  “Peter Barton,” he knocked harder. The door rattled in its frame.

  Silence.

  He knocked harder still.

  Silence.

  “Where is he?” Stirling whispered into the coms.

  “He’s still in the hallway but nearer the rear of the house.”

  Stirling knocked again. The door thudded against the frame.

  “Peter Barton!” The lights inside the house went out, plunging the gardens into darkness. “What happened then?” Stirling growled.

  “Barton has turned the power off.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “I’ve got more good news,” the lieutenant sounded panicked. “I’ve lost his heat signature.”

  “Forced Entry Team, green light to go!” Stirling ordered. He moved aside as an armour clad figure raised a metal battering ram and slammed it against the lock. The wood splintered and cracked and the door bust open under the first hit.

  ****************

  Peter Barton had frozen with fear when he heard the first knock. It was almost a relief when the caller identified himself as the police. Almost. Whatever doubts he had in his mind vanished immediately. He had to do it now. There was no choice now, no options, no way out; he was at the portal to a new existence. He opened the cupboard beneath the stairs and stepped inside. When the second knock resounded through his house, he opened the fuse box and pulled the main switch. The lights went out all over the house and he felt a strange kind of relief spreading over him. All his pain and the constant fear of persecution dissipated in seconds. Everything that transpired from here on in was in his hands. No one could stop it now. He could finally make amends for Simon without anyone judging him. He knew that they would kick the door in any second but they would be too late.

  *************

  The entry team moved quickly and silently. The hallway carpet was threadbare and cracks ran across the plastered walls from floor to ceiling. Their gun-lights illuminated a dark wooden staircase to their left and the unoccupied hallway to their right. As they swept the rooms, the second team entered through the rear.

  “Kitchen clear!” came over the comms.

  “Living room clear!”

  “Hallway clear!”

  “That’s the ground floor swept, Detective.”

  “No one climbed the stairs,” the lieutenant added. “He must be there somewhere.”

  Stirling followed the unit inside. It seemed obvious that the only place Barton could have hidden was a cupboard beneath the stairs. One of the entry team had a sensor against the door. He listened intently. The house was silent apart from the sound of men breathing nervously. He shook his head and signalled that they should open the door. Stirling paused to think. Could the door be booby trapped? Of course it could be but he doubted it. He nodded for the team to move.

  Heckler and Koch MP5’s were aimed at the door as it was pulled open. Stirling held up three fingers and counted down, three, two, one, go. The door was thrown open and two officers moved quickly into the cramped space. There was a few seconds of silence then they called, “clear.” Their tone was both muted and confused. “Its empty, Sergeant.”

  Stirling frowned and walked down the hallway. The smell of must and mothballs tainted the air. The entry team shuffled back to allow the big detective to look inside. The cupboard was no more than a wooden partition that boxed in the space beneath the stairs with a door added for access. The fuse box was mounted on the far wall and Stirling reached inside and switched it on. A bare bulb illuminated the cupboard. There were two
cardboard boxes and a Dyson upright vacuum cleaner. A shelf fitted to the wall above his head had a tin of furniture polish and some Brasso on it and two coat hooks were overloaded with winter jackets. Stirling tapped the walls with his knuckles. They were solid brick. He looked at the floor and stamped his foot on a filthy Moroccan rug. It sounded hollow beneath the wooden floorboards. He grabbed the edge of the rug and pulled but it didn’t budge an inch.

  “It’s glued to the floor,” Stirling grumbled. “There must be a hatch to the cellar in here.”

  “There’s no cellar on the plans,” the lieutenant informed them over the comms.

  “Been there and bought the t-shirt. Plans aren’t worth shit.” Stirling stepped out of the cupboard. “Can you cut that rug off and see what’s underneath please.”

  An FET officer unsheathed a lethal looking blade from his belt. He knelt and began cutting the dusty material away from the wood. “There are hinges here,” he panted. “There is a hatch but it must be bolted from underneath. Pass me a wrecking iron and I’ll force it.” His colleague handed him a metal tool that resembled a crowbar. “I’ll try and wrench the hinges first.”

  Stirling froze to the spot when a shotgun blast resounded from beneath them and echoed off the walls of the house.

  CHAPTER 23

  Tod Harris began to surface from a drug induced slumber. His memories of the hours before he blacked out were sketchy at best. He remembered eating and drinking and the smell of perfume. Then he remembered running as fast as his legs could carry him, breathlessness, pain in his back and then the police. The police had arrived. The image of policemen aiming their guns, shots, blood and then a face with dying eyes. Then nothing. He could hear voices. Muffled voices. Spanish voices. The odour of disinfectant drifted into his consciousness. He felt someone touching his wrist. The pressure on his flesh was almost painful. He heard two voices close by but he couldn’t understand what they were saying. Although he was becoming aware, he was as helpless as baby. He was breathing, his senses were becoming functional yet he had no control over his body. Moving was way beyond him yet. He couldn’t even open his eyes.