by Conrad Jones
“This is Detective Superintendent Ramsay and this is Detective Annie Jones,” she introduced them. “Simon, I want you to tell them what you told your mum this morning, okay?”
The teenager nodded almost imperceptibly. He looked to his parents for support and his father nodded and smiled at him. “It’s okay, Si,” he said squeezing his hand. “Nothing can hurt you anymore.” Annie thought that he didn’t look as confident as he sounded but who could blame him. His brother had abducted his child. An aura of guilt surrounded him.
Annie smiled at Simon. “There’s nothing to be worried about,” she assured them. “We’re here to listen to you.”
“Tell the detectives what you told me,” his mother said softly. Annie detected her voice breaking. The emotion was raw and it was painful. Her eyes were watery but there was anger in them too. Intense anger.
“Take your time, Simon,” Alec encouraged him.
“Uncle Peter took me,” he swallowed hard. His eyes filled up and he buried his head into his mother’s chest. Annie looked at Alec and frowned. They waited a few moments for the boy to settle.
“He can’t hurt you now,” Annie soothed him. “Can you tell me where he took you from?”
“I was at the park playing football,” he sniffed.
“Which park?”
“Woodend,” his father answered for him. “It’s just down the road.”
“I need to hear this from Simon,” Annie smiled. The father nodded and blushed. “It’s very important that I hear this in your own words, okay?”
“Yes,” Simon nodded.
“Tell me what happened in the park. Who were you with?”
“I was playing football with my friend James at first.”
“James Goodwin?” Annie glanced at Alec.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“We were playing football, then another boy turned up and James said it was his brother, Paul.”
“Had you met Paul before, Simon?”
“No. He lived somewhere else.” Simon mumbled. “James said he had run away from a home.”
“He was in care like James,” Annie said smiling.
“We didn’t know that he knew this boy,” his mother said apologetically. “If we had known, we never would have let him mix with them.”
“It wasn’t their fault,” the father snapped. “You can’t blame them just because they were in care.”
“I’m not blaming them.” She said very quietly. “I’m blaming your brother.” She glared at him and Annie could feel the tension between them.
“That’s why I didn’t tell you that he was my friend,” Simon groaned. “I’m sorry, mum.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” she held him tightly.
“Tell me what happened when Paul turned up, Simon.”
“He had some money and a bottle of beer.” Simon blushed. “He gave us a sip but I didn’t like it much.” He paused as if he was worried about continuing. “He said a man in the park had given him some money and the beer.”
“Then what?” Annie coaxed.
“Paul said that he could get some more from the man that he had met. He said that the man had a bottle of cider that we could have.” He seemed to be thinking about his words. “I didn’t want to go. I told James that he shouldn’t go but they said that I was a big girl if I didn’t.” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t go and so they walked off down the woodland trail. I played with the ball on my own for a bit but then I got bored of waiting for them.” He swallowed hard and looked at his father. “I followed them but I couldn’t find them at first so I turned back to come home.” He stopped and put his hands over his eyes. Tears leaked between his fingers and he leaned further into his mother. Annie waited for the moment to pass. “Then I heard them shouting. Paul was swearing at someone. I ran through the bushes to see what was happening and I could see a man holding them around the neck. They couldn’t get away.” The sobbing began again.
“I know how hard this is,” Annie said calmly. “You’re doing very well. Take your time.” She waited a minute. “Did you recognise the man?”
“No.” Simon said wiping his nose.
“What happened next?”
“There was a van,” he said between the sobs. “The man dragged them to the side door. I ran and shouted for him to stop but he wouldn’t. Then the door slid open and Uncle Peter was inside the van!” Simon curled up, his knees against his chest. “He saw me and chased me!” The boy became hysterical, his sobbing heartbreaking to listen to.
“Can we leave it there for now?” his father asked. Tears welled in his eyes. “I don’t think he’s in any fit state to carry on.”
“Of course,” Annie nodded. “Can I have a word with you alone, Dana?” Annie said softly to the family liaison officer. She turned to the parents and smiled. “If he says anything new, please call me immediately,” they nodded and hugged their child. “Thanks for your time. Good luck.”
“Thank you,” they said together.
“Good luck,” Alec smiled and followed Annie out of the room.
“Let’s go to the car,” Annie said opening the front door. They walked down the path and climbed into her Audi. Annie felt shell shocked by what they had heard. “Did you hear the full version when he was speaking to his mother, Dana?”
“Yes,” Dana sighed. “He said that they were tied up, gagged and blindfolded. Apparently there was a lot of arguing between the uncle and the other man because Simon was there.” She paused. “He heard them talking about killing him. They were driven for a long time, Simon couldn’t say how long and then they were separated. He was kept blindfolded but he thinks that the uncle fed him a few times before he was moved.”
“Did he say if Barton hurt him?”
“He said he didn’t but he said that he could hear the other boys being hurt. He wouldn’t expand. He just shut down when I asked him.”
“Did he say how he got to Ryder’s villa?”
“No. He was drugged and woke up in a cage.” She shook her head. “Ryder told him that he was looking after him for a friend.”
“Jesus!” Alec sighed. “The poor kid.”
“He was lucky compared to what happened to Paul and James Goodwin.” Annie added. “What did he say about when Barton turned up in Spain?”
“Not much. Barton told him to keep his mouth shut or he would come and find him. He’s still traumatised.”
“The lying bastard did it all along!” Annie looked at Alec and banged the steering wheel with her fist. “He’s been playing games from day one and he’s made fools of us.”
“How much of what Harris claimed is true?” Alec sighed. “Was he telling the truth about Barton setting him up?” Annie didn’t know the answer yet but she felt sick inside.
************************************
Annie felt rough. The night before, it had taken three bottles of Shiraz to numb the feeling of being stupid and now she was suffering. It had been a pointless exercise. Today, she still felt stupid but she felt ill too. The breeze on her skin was refreshing but it couldn’t shift the cobwebs from inside her head. The police line was two hundred metres from the factory unit and as frustrating as it was, she had no desire to enter the building until the bomb squad were convinced that there were no more devices.
“You look rough,” Alec said as he approached. “Did you go home and do what I did?”
“Looking at your eyes,” Annie nodded and smiled. “I think that’s a yes.”
“One bottle or two?”
“Three and a bit.”
“Fair play to you,” Alec tipped his fingers to his head in mock salute. “Just a ‘bit’ more than I did.”
“Guv!” Stirling shouted them from the comms van. “We’re clear to go in.” Alec nodded and they walked through the cordon. Stirling joined them as they approached the unit and they were greeted by a bomb squad officer.
“You’re clear now,” he said and gestured with a thumb up. “The pla
ce was rigged to blow. Three different devices, one on the door, one in a side room and one attached to a refrigerator.”
“Sounds like we’ve hit the jackpot,” Stirling said as they stepped inside.
Annie pointed to the nearest vehicle. “Jackie Webb’s Mercedes.” She shook her head and kicked herself inside. The unit was L shaped with a vaulted roof. There were three vehicles including the Merc and Annie walked around them. She looked into a small anteroom and cringed at the sight. Shackles hung from the wall and the floor was stained beneath them. Her imagination filled in the blanks as she moved on. She spotted a desk against the wall to her left. As she neared it, she saw a latex glove inside a clear plastic container. It was marked with ‘Harris’. Next to it was a stack of sample sheets, each wrapped in plastic to preserve the imprints on them. A set of craft tools and a selection of adhesives were near them.
“Barton was crafting fingerprints,” Annie said loudly. She shook her head and felt her heart sink as she studied the desk. The bomb squad had left the drawers open after checking it over. Annie stared inside at velvet trays, which held gold and silver rings. Each one was labelled and dated. She let out a loud sigh as she thought about the trophies that they had found in the grave. Barton had planted them and then played her to find them. He had manipulated her like a puppeteer with his hand up her backside. Her stomach knotted in anger.
“Annie,” Alec shouted. She shivered as she walked over to where he was stood. “Take a look.” He said stepping back from the refrigerator. Annie looked at packets and sample jars and she leaned close enough to read the small labels. Head hair; blood; semen; skin; fingernails clippings; used condom; pubic hair.
“Harris’s?” she asked herself in a whisper.
“Must be,” Alec answered quietly.
“Everything we had was there because he gave it to us,” she sighed.
“Not everything,” Alec patted her shoulder. “Harris was a sick rapist. Barton spotted that and used it to his own advantage.”
“Just to prove how clever he could be?”
“More likely to torture Harris mentally.” Alec shrugged. “And to prove to himself and us how evidence can be manipulated.”
“Think about it,” Stirling said looking over her shoulder. “It’s the ultimate nightmare for a criminal. Knowing the police have concrete evidence to nail you to a crime, yet you know that you didn’t do it. Imagine how that would feel when they slammed the cell door closed.”
“Can’t say I’ll lose any sleep over it.” Annie nodded and shrugged. She couldn’t disagree with him but she had no sympathy for Harris. “Justice comes in many forms. As long as it comes, I’m not too fussy how it happens.”
“I want to be there when Barton when gets his,” Stirling grumbled. “The bastard has led us a merry dance indeed.”
“What I wouldn’t give to see that happen,” Annie agreed although she doubted that she would.
****************************************
He finished his whisky in one gulp and felt it burn his gullet as it went down. Calling it whisky was an affront to every malt on the planet. It was made locally and would have fit into the firewater category of spirits. He could feel his head spinning and the voices around him were becoming garbled echoes. Their black faces leered at him from the stools along the bar; huge smiles seemed to melt into one. They were friendly enough but there was a sense of danger beneath the smiles. Each time he wandered around the back to the ditch, which they called the toilet, he kept one hand on his knife. The roof of the bar was made from thatched reeds but there were no walls. He could hear the sea lapping at the shore but there were no lights on the beach. The sound of the waves was reassuring but he couldn’t see it. Beyond the beach bar it was pitch black. There were no lights on the narrow mud roads, which hugged the coast. He gripped the arms of the chair and pushed himself up. Dizziness rocked him again and he had to close his eyes until it faded.
“Are you leaving already?” the barman grinned. His white shirt was open to the chest, revealing a chiseled black chest. Dark sweat patches were spreading beneath his arms. “Have another whisky!” The men at the bar jeered and encouraged him but he had had too much. Way too much. He knew that they didn’t want him to leave because he had been buying all the drinks for the last few hours. They were less likely to mug him if he shared his wealth freely. Not that it was much money to him. They were poor locals. A round of drinks was a day’s wages to them.
“I need to go,” he bumbled.
“Tomorrow, we see you?” the barman called.
“Yes, tomorrow.” His voice was thick and slurred. He staggered across the bar towards the Jeep. The door was unlocked and he wrenched it open and climbed in. He knew that there would be no police around. When the sun went down, the Gambian police retreated to their stations in the towns. After dark, the streets were too dangerous, even for the police.
Barton fumbled for the keys and started the engine. He crunched the gearbox but eventually found first and the Jeep lurched forward into the night. “Shit,” he mumbled when he realised that he couldn’t see. “Put your fucking lights on,” he mumbled to himself. The headlights flicked on and illuminated the road. Swarms of insects hurtled towards his windscreen and splattered on the glass. As long as he kept the sea on his left, he knew that he would eventually reach his hotel. It was a half hour trundle along the narrow pitted roads, where he wouldn’t be able to get out of third gear. Deep ruts had been carved into the red mud by passing traffic and tropical rainstorms. He couldn’t stop the vehicle from lurching from one side to the other. The rocking sensation made him feel sick. He could feel the acidic whisky rising and he tasted thick yellow bile at the back of his throat. He retched and felt hot sticky vomit landing on his crotch. The smell reached him and made him vomit again. He felt the goo landing on his feet and dribbling between his toes. It made his flip-flops tacky and uncomfortable. His stomach retched again and he heard the bile splatter in the foot-well. He had no idea how many times he was sick. His focus was keeping the Jeep on the track. He had been driving for over forty minutes when he realised that he hadn’t reached hotel.
Barton pulled in and looked around. There was no sign of the coast, just jungle on either side of the road. He swore beneath his breath and found first gear again. He checked his watch but didn’t know how long he had been driving for. The engine roared and the Jeep lurched forward at speed. He gripped the steering wheel tightly as he pushed the vehicle through the gears. The ruts became deeper and the Jeep bounced up and down violently as he encountered a series of potholes. Suddenly, the mud track ended and he was faced with a wall of vegetation. The front wheel hit a large rock. He felt the vehicle veer to the right and he yanked the wheel in the opposite direction. His momentum was too great and he hit the trees at speed. The Jeep broke through the undergrowth and careered over the edge of a ravine. Barton was thrown about like a leaf in a wind tunnel as it tumbled and somersaulted down the rocks and through the tree canopy into the valley below. It didn’t stop until it landed on its roof at the bottom.
When he came to, Barton was struggling to understand what had happened. The sun was up and he could see himself in the rearview mirror. When you look in the mirror, what looks back at you? He could see bone protruding from his left thigh and his right arm appeared to have three elbows, each bent in a different direction. His back was twisted at an acute angle and a piece of metal had punctured his torso from the kidney to his right hip. The whisky was masking some of the pain but not much. As his brain calculated the extent of his injuries, it suddenly realised the amount of agony he should be in and he was hit by a wall of pain. He opened his mouth and screamed but there was no one to hear him. All those years of hunting and killing his prey, flashed through his mind. He was too intelligent to be caught, too clever to die like this. He had spent months learning ancient scripts to make it possible for the police to track his murders abroad so that he could bask in the glow of his victims’ agony. He wanted the credi
t for killing them but only when he was ready to claim it. His intelligence was supreme as was his addiction to pain. Other peoples’ pain. But now he was wallowing in a sea of agony. His own. As the agony increased, so did his desperate attempts to escape the wreck. The more he moved, the more intense the pain became. At night, the insects and rodents came to feed. They didn’t care that their meal was still twitching. His screams echoed off the walls of the ravine for three days before his heart finally gave up.
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