by Conrad Jones
“That kind of money will buy you a decent alibi.” Stirling muttered.
Becky grinned and carried on. “The search of his house has revealed a vast amount of what can only be called research,” she shrugged and smiled nervously, “press cuttings from across the world, maps, crime scene photographs, autopsy reports, the list goes on. We’ll be collating it all but without his input it’s hard to know what his focus was on. The information he has is too broad for us to pinpoint what he was doing.” She nodded to Annie who switched the image on the screen to a map of the Crosby Beach area. “He had a considerable amount of material revolving around the Butcher murders especially about where the burial sites were located.” All eyes were riveted to the screen. “We found spades and metal detectors during the search of his vehicle, which leads us to think that he was either burying something or looking for something.” She shrugged. “We know that Simon Barton was taken during the height of the Butcher investigation and now we know that James Goodwin was taken at the same time.” She paused for breath. “Peter Barton was arrested and convicted of Simon’s kidnap but was released on appeal when Jackie Webb stepped forward with an alibi supported by Jayne Windsor’s uncertain testimony. We also know that they received a significant amount of money from Peter Barton’s inheritance fund. Financially he was in a strong position.” Annie changed the image once again. “We have to surmise that Peter Barton was holding Brian Taylor in his cellar before he killed him with a shotgun.” She picked up another file and Taylor’s image appeared on the screen. “Barton had a stack of old cuttings about Taylor’s arrest and trial. He was following his conviction in fine detail and with good reason.” She shook her head. “An initial search of Taylor’s flat has turned up a substantial amount of child porn. We’re still going through his laptop and a more detailed sweep of the flat will be made tomorrow. Peter Barton could have discovered Taylor’s record, connected him to his aunt next door and decided that he could have abducted Simon. All he had was a hunch so he decided to interrogate him himself.” She shrugged. “There’s a possibility that Peter Barton was searching for Simon’s abductor.”
“On the flipside, what if Barton did take his nephew and Taylor knew about it? He could be systematically silencing his alibis, all the loose ends and other possible suspects?” Alec said.
“We have to consider all the options, Guv,” Becky blushed. “It may well be that Barton knows Harris. He could be the mysterious Rob Derry,” she gestured to Annie that her summary was complete.
“Thanks, Becky,” Annie said changing the image again. “Harris has always claimed that his accomplice is called Rob Derry,” Annie said. She pointed to the credit card. “He claims that he is only guilty of rape and that Rob Derry is the murderer and that he has planted all the evidence to set him up.” Sarcastic laughter and derogatory comments rippled between the detectives. “He also told us that Derry’s first name is not Robert and that it is an unusual name with a double letter somewhere. We know from the credit card that his full name is, Robden. Unusual name isn’t it?” There were confused glances exchanged. “If you add a double ‘N’, we get the spelling ‘Robdenn’.” She walked closer to the screen and pointed to the name again. “Robdenn Derry is an anagram.” Some of the detectives could see it immediately but some were lost. “Shuffle the letters and you get, Brendon Ryder.” She sighed. “The Butcher of Crosby Beach.” Annie looked around and let the information sink in. “Brendon Ryder was riddled with nine millimetre bullets and cremated four years ago.” There was silence across the office. “Tod Harris is mimicking Ryder. Look at the location where he buried the boys and the manner that he buried them. I think Tod Harris did all this and he is trying to take the piss out of us by inventing his imaginary friend, Rob Derry.”
“Is it possible that Ryder had an accomplice?” Gwen asked.
“Anything is possible although it’s not probable,” Annie replied.
“Harris had Simon Barton’s library book and the Polaroid stashed at his mother’s home. Could he be linked to Brendon Ryder?” Gwen thought aloud.
“I think it is more likely that he was imitating him,” Stirling said. “Trying to pass the murders onto Ryder by burying them on the beach.”
“As much as it pains me to do so, we may need to speak to Ryder’s relatives just in case,” Alec said shaking his head. “We would have to tread very carefully talking to that family but I think that I should go and speak to Laura Ryder,” he rubbed the dimple on his chin. “I’m sure if I make an appointment, she’ll speak to me. She may recognise Barton or Harris and if she doesn’t then we can put the idea to bed.”
“Thanks, Guv,” Annie said thoughtfully. “Here is what we need so that we can clarify things,” Annie held up her hand to stop anymore questions. “Firstly, we cross check Tod Harris and Peter Barton’s travel movements for the past five years or so. Once we have forensic results from Kathy on the bodies, we’ll know if they were victims of Harris or someone else.”
“Agreed,” Alec said. “Brendon Ryder is toast and Harris is banged up in jail,” Alec shrugged. “So our priority is that we need to find Peter Barton.”
CHAPTER 38
Becky Sebastian was tired. Working long hours was nothing new to her but this particular case had sapped her energy more than any other. The level of depravity that she had witnessed had drained her mentally and physically. It was always harder when the victims were women and children. She hadn’t seen her mother and father for nearly three weeks. Her sister had recently had twins and she desperately wanted to see more of them. Cases like this were a reminder of how much she missed her family. The job demanded huge sacrifices not least to her personal life. Her last boyfriend had lasted a month. There simply wasn’t time to balance her career and life.
When Annie had finally told her to go home, her adrenalin levels crashed and fatigue caught up with her quickly. The office was emptying out and a handful of detectives that were scheduled on the nightshift were mulling around and catching up on the day’s progress. She tidied her desk as best as she could to accommodate the influx and looked for her mobile phone. She remembered moving all her things before the briefing and she looked around the nearby desks before spotting them. She picked up her Blackberry and her keys, dropping them into her bag. Her chair had been moved too. She had hung her coat on the back of it earlier. “For God’s sake!” she muttered as she spotted it across the room. “Why can’t people put things back where they found them?” She put on her coat, said her goodbyes and headed to the lift alone. The journey to the car park was swift and when the doors opened, the breeze that blew in off the river was refreshingly cool. As she walked from the lift, her movement triggered the sensors and huge spotlights illuminated the secure parking area.
Her Suzuki was parked fifty metres away from the lift doors and she weaved between the dozen or so remaining vehicles to reach it. Using the remote, she opened the doors as she approached the car and the lights flashed twice. The interior lights came on automatically and she opened the driver’s door and climbed in. The engine fired up on the first turn and Ed Sheeran began singing on the radio. She was a big fan but she turned it down a little, tiredness made the music sound too loud. The engine purred as she engaged first gear and headed towards the gates. A uniformed officer waved a gloved hand as the gates slid open enough to let her pass. She steered her car through them and then waited at the junction to allow a bus to go by but it was closely followed by a wave of black cabs. She slipped the vehicle into neutral while she waited for them to go past. The traffic on the dock road was heavy for that time of night and she guessed that a concert at the Echo Arena had just finished. Thousands of people would be trying to leave the area at the same time. There was a continuous stream of traffic blocking her exit. She had to wait for the lights to change before she could move and then she pulled across the road and headed towards the city centre. It wasn’t her usual way home but she thought that because of the concert traffic, it would be quicker.
She pulled up at the next set of traffic lights and a motorcyclist stopped between her and the car in the next lane. She envied his ability to slip between the heavy traffic unhindered. If she had gone to work on her motorbike, it would have knocked half an hour off her journey home but she only used it in the summer. A second later, the heavens opened and hailstones the size of marbles began to bounce off her car and she changed her mind about being on her motorbike. Despite the traffic, the car was definitely the preferred mode of transport especially as the hailstorm became more intense.
She watched as the hailstones hit the road and then bounced up to waist height before settling on the ground. The world turned white in minutes. As the traffic lights changed, she could feel the ice crunching beneath the wheels and she could hear tyres squealing behind her as some of the rear wheel drive vehicles struggled to find purchase on the ice covered Tarmac. The traffic crawled until she reached the junction for Duke Street, where she waited in the filter lane until she could turn into it safely. The traffic thinned significantly and she accelerated through the gears as fast as she dared. The icy downpour had made drivers cautious. Vehicle headlights were dazzling and their brake lights were blindingly red and blurred. Her eyes were sore and felt gritty. She noticed that the motorcyclist was now a few cars in front and he was taking it easy too. It was difficult for four wheels to grip. Staying upright on two wheels would be almost impossible. She thought that if he had any sense, he would park up and wait for the storm to pass.
She opened the window an inch to clear the mist from the windscreen and the salt air rushed in. The urge to curl up into her bed was overwhelming. She needed sleep. It wasn’t far to where she lived, just a mile or two away from the river behind the Anglican Cathedral, which loomed to her left. Its monstrous gothic silhouette was framed by the dull glow of yellow street lights behind it. She glanced at it quickly, unwilling to take her eyes from the road but unable not to look at it either. She thought that it was imposing and impressive in daylight but at night, it was dramatic. It was hard not to stare at it in awe.
She focused her attention on the road ahead of her. The traffic was thinning but the ice was not. The motorcyclist was weaving between the central reservation and the curb trying to avoid manhole covers and white lines, which had been turned into lethal hazards by the ice. Becky slowed down as the cars ahead of her braked and she was dazzled by a set of headlights reflecting in the rear view mirror. She swore beneath her breath as the vehicle came dangerously close to the rear of her car.
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Annie looked out of the office window and watched the Ferris wheel turning slowly. At that time of night, it would usually be closed but the operators had kept it open to tempt the hundreds of people that were flooding out of the Echo Arena on foot. Some were heading into the bars at the Albert Docks; many more crossed the busy dock road heading into the city’s restaurants and clubs. Crossing four lanes of traffic in a hailstorm was a lottery and she smiled as she watched cars crawling along in order to avoid flattening a pedestrian on one of the zebra crossings. Braking distances were difficult to judge on the ice. Some vehicles crawled and the more reckless drivers fishtailed on the ice. She checked her watch and yawned. It was time to try to get some sleep. The traffic was ridiculous so she decided not to drive home. A couple of hours in one of the station’s cots would have to do.
She checked the desk for her mobile but she couldn’t see it amongst the files and papers. Lifting everything up, she checked again and then despite having checked twice, she looked a third time with the same result. Annie remembered putting her phone into her bag earlier but she was sure that she had used it since. She searched inside from right to left and then repeated the process left to right, again with the same result. She tutted and tipped the contents of her handbag onto her desk and then one by one she put them all back into it. No phone. She looked around her office once more before opening the door into the MIT office. “Has anyone seen my Blackberry?” she shouted across the office. Blank faces told her that the answer was no.
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The cars in front picked up speed and she breathed a sigh of relief as she accelerated to catch up with them. Her delight was short lived as three sets of brake lights illuminated simultaneously. The motorcyclist indicated left to let a Ford go past and it accelerated away throwing jets of dirty slush into the air behind it. The car in front of her followed suit splashing more dirty water onto her windscreen. Becky switched the windscreen wipers to full speed but they struggled to clear the salty slush from the glass. She almost didn’t see the motorbike swerve back to the centre of the road and she had to brake sharply causing her car to skid. She steered into the skid and managed to bring it under control but her heart was in her mouth.
Becky swore as the motorcyclist slowed to a complete halt. Aware that he was holding up the traffic, he steered the bike to the pavement so that the vehicles behind him could pass. She guessed that he had decided to wait until the hail had melted. It wasn’t below freezing and it wouldn’t be long before the ice turned to water. Familiar with motorbikes, she knew that it was the sensible option without a doubt. As she over took him, she thought about the last time she had been out on her motorcycle. The sun had been shining, the roads were clear and the fish and chips at the end of the ride had made the journey perfect. She longed for the summer months and light nights to return.
Becky yawned and rubbed her eyes. The road ahead was clear as she accelerated up the hill away from the river. She put some distance between herself and the vehicle behind although the headlights still dazzled her in the mirror. As the city turned into the suburbs, the streets changed from tall Victorian terraces to rows of rundown shops and boarded up pubs. The hail had turned to drizzle and the traffic had dissipated making the drive towards Calderstones Park easier. She stopped at a set of traffic lights; the vehicle behind encroached too close to her bumper again. Normally the infringement wouldn’t be so annoying but with a headache and tired eyes, it was infuriating. She swore beneath her breath as she waited for the lights to turn green. A single headlight flashed in her wing mirror and a motorbike pulled alongside her. She glanced sideways. The rider’s leathers matched the fairings of the bike. She wasn’t sure if it was the same motorbike as she had seen earlier or not. She was tired.
The lights turned green and the motorcycle sped away with a roar. Its acceleration was impressive. Becky pushed her Suzuki through the gears as she circumvented the tree lined park roads. The wipers squeaked annoyingly and the heater was making her drowsier. When she pulled up outside her house, the rain had stopped. She had never been so pleased to see the semidetached. Turning through her gateposts, she parked the vehicle underneath a carport that was attached to the side of her house. The security light above her kitchen door didn’t switch on as it usually did. She made a mental note to replace the halogen bulb in the morning. Becky turned off the engine and the lights and closed her tired eyes for a second.
CHAPTER 39
Jose Peres grabbed his flashlight from the passenger foot well and tested the batteries by switching it on and off a couple of times. The beam shone through the open driver’s window making a big circle of light on the crumbling whitewashed wall of an abandoned compound. He climbed out of the Guardia Civil vehicle, checked that his pistol was loaded and used the torch to illuminate the immediate area. The concrete forecourt was cracked and broken and weeds had taken hold where the slab was compromised. Six concrete posts bordered the plot; the thick metal security chains that were once slung between them had long since been weighed in at the scrapyard. A low wall surrounded a rectangular area the size of a football field, which was now overgrown with cacti and nettles. The whitewashed plaster was pockmarked and discoloured by the harsh Mediterranean sun that had sapped every drop of moisture from the weathered paint making it flake and peel. Jose could still make out the faded name of the business. Excavadora.
Years earlier, the owner of ‘Excavad
ora’ had rented heavy plant vehicles to the construction industry making millions during the hotel building boom. Later it branched out into renting cars, campers and even motorboats to tourists before going bust when the recession hit and construction ground to a halt. The building that had stood there had been demolished so that the plot could be sold on to developers. Only a concrete floor plan remained. The compound behind it was cluttered with the rusting hulks of abandoned vehicles. Jose had driven by the site everyday for over a decade. He remembered it in its heyday especially the speedboats that had sat gleaming on the forecourt. Every time that he passed, he used to think, ‘one day I’m going to buy one of those boats’. He never did but that was the way life worked. When the business folded, anything of value was repossessed and sold to clear the debts but the vehicles that needed repairs were left to rot. Other vehicles were owned by companies that had themselves gone bust in the crash and they too were left to turn into corroding carcasses. The landowners were too stingy to pay to have the vehicles removed, choosing to leave the task to whoever bought the plot. No one ever had.
Earlier that day, a call had come through from detectives in England, who were working on a double murder case and they were reaching out for information on Spanish number plates that may be linked to their killer. One of the vehicles was found in the north of the country and one was last registered as being owned by Excavadora but it hadn’t been insured for eight years. Jose guessed that it might have been left to rot and had made an offer to check out the plate the next time he passed the site. Although it was a sticky humid night and the sea breeze was warm, he felt a shiver run down his spine as he entered the compound.
