by Conrad Jones
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I thought they might be stowaways on a cargo ship. I’ve heard stories about migrants being discovered aboard ships and dumped at sea. It saves the captain days of paperwork and means he would keep his bonus.’
‘They dump them at sea?’ Kim asked, shaking her head.
‘Yes. They tie them together to make sure they don’t stay afloat for long, I guess,’ Alan said. ‘But our victims are probably from the UK and they’ve been tortured before they were dumped. What type of people use torture as a deterrent or as a means of information gathering and then dump the bodies in plain sight as a warning to others?’
‘Drug dealers,’ Kim said.
‘That was my answer too.’
‘We’ve got our fair share of them.’
‘If we had to pick one. Which of them would be so brutal?’
‘Jamie Hollins.’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ Alan said. ‘Have you met him?’
‘Yes, a few times. He gives the impression of being harmless but there’s another side to him. He’s a nice enough guy on the face of it. To talk to him, you wouldn’t think he was dangerous.’ ‘Obviously his record says otherwise.’
‘I’ve interviewed him a few times,’ Alan said. ‘It’s always entertaining, to say the least.’
‘Oh, he’s a character all right,’ Kim said. Alan chuckled and nodded. The word ‘character’ was an overused term of endearment aimed at people with issues. ‘He asked me out on a date, you know?’ She laughed dryly.
‘I don’t believe you,’ Alan said, looking sideways at her. ‘Jamie Hollins asked you on a date?’
‘Yes. It’s true. I’d arrested him on a possession charge. We bailed him and thirty-minutes later he called the nick, asked for my direct line, and tried to chat me up. He asked me out on a date and said he wouldn’t tell anyone.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’ Kim asked.
‘What did you say?’
‘What do you think I said?’ Kim asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Alan said. He shrugged and kept his face deadpan. ‘A lot of women are attracted to muscles and tattoos. It must have been very tempting.’
‘Bugger off,’ Kim said. ‘Actually, I am attracted to muscles and tattoos, just not Jamie Hollins’ muscles and tattoos.’
‘So, you said no?’
‘Of course, I did.’
‘Did you want to say yes?’
‘Shut up. I’m not having this conversation if you’re going to wind me up.’
‘So, you did say no?’
‘Yes. I said no, you idiot.’
‘I bet he was devastated,’ Alan said. Kim looked out of the window and ignored him. ‘Would you have said yes if he wasn’t a criminal?’
‘No. Now shut up.’
‘Okay. Sorry.’
‘Back to the point,’ she said. ‘He comes over as Mr Nice Guy, always laughing and joking but we both know he’s a wrong one. Is he capable of doing that to those men?’ She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. He could certainly sanction it. There’re a few nutters on his crew who wouldn’t think twice. It might be worth having a chat with him, gauge his reaction.’
‘Definitely,’ Alan said. ‘All joking aside, if you feel there’s a conflict of interest between you and Jamie, just say and I’ll take you off the case.’
‘Bugger off,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You do know that I don’t listen to a word you say, don’t you?’
‘I’m just looking out for you, sergeant.’
‘Don’t bother. I can look after myself.’
Alan pulled into the station car park and parked up. He turned to Kim and said, ‘I want you to call it a night. I’m going to be half an hour behind you. We’ll meet with the team for a briefing at nine.’
‘Any news on the team?’ Kim asked.
‘That’s what’s going to take me half an hour. I need to speak to the Super and ask him to milk the other divisional headquarters,’ Alan said. ‘We’re going to need to draft in from Colwyn and St Asaph for both cases. I want to keep them separate from the start but I don’t want the other DVHQs sending us their deadwood. We need the sharpest tools in the shed.’ Kim nodded in agreement. ‘Now, go and get some rest. Not too much pinot, mind you.’
‘Night, guv,’ Kim said. She opened the door and climbed out.
‘Night,’ Alan said. He made his way to his office and took off his coat. It was time to negotiate for the best detectives he could muster. He opened his filing cabinet and reached inside, taking out a half bottle of Bells and a crystal tumbler. Twisting off the top, he poured two-fingers, and sat at his desk. He took a sip of the warming liquid, savouring the burn in his throat. He dialled the superintendent to glean some support.
‘Dafyd Thomas,’ the super answered. He sounded weary. Alan pictured him looking at his watch muttering about who would call him at that time of night.
‘Dafyd, apologies, it’s me,’ Alan said. ‘Sorry for the call at this time but I’m going to need the A-team on this one.’
‘No worries, Alan,’ said he replied. ‘I was expecting a call from you. Where are we with it?’
‘Both cases are complicated and I think we need to keep them separate from day one. I’d like a dedicated team on each murder.’
‘There’s no chance of a link?’
‘I’m ninety-nine per cent certain there isn’t,’ Alan said. He sipped the whisky. ‘I think the Trearddur Bay victims are drug related and I have no idea what the Porth Dafarch incident is, to be honest. We have a confirmed identification and cause of death but no clear motive as yet. Both cases could go one way or the other quickly if we don’t get a grip from the start. I don’t need any donkeys working on either case, with respect.’
‘Alan,’ Dafyd said, his tone flat. ‘How long have we worked together?’
‘Since dinosaurs roamed Benllech.’
‘And in all that time, have we ever been stitched up with donkeys sent from the other DVHQs to work on important cases?’
‘Yes, sir. More times than I can remember,’ Alan said. ‘That’s why I thought I would mention it. I don’t want to be stitched up again.’
‘Fair comment,’ Dafyd said with a dry chuckle. ‘Send me a list of names you definitely don’t want and I’ll see what we can do.’
‘Appreciated.’
‘What time’s your briefing?’
‘Nine o’clock.’
‘Leave it with me. I’ll do the best I can for tomorrow and the rest will have to slot in as their current caseloads allow.’
‘Excellent, thank you.’ The call ended and Alan had the feeling Dafyd Thomas would be in his corner. He always was whenever he could. He swallowed the rest of the whisky, pulled on his coat, and headed home.
CHAPTER 4
Alan arrived home in Rhoscolyn at midnight. The bungalow was in darkness, which was odd as his son, Dan had left his car on the drive. He could hear the dogs barking in the living room but couldn’t see them. The yellow glare from the single streetlight was enough to turn the patio glass into a mirror. His bungalow was the last in the street, beyond it, there was nothing but miles of undulating farmland that stretched to Silver Bay. There was zero light pollution and the inky black sky was studded with a million twinkling orbs. The plough was clearly visible to the east. He ambled across the driveway to the front door and stopped when he found it open six inches. It was rarely locked but the boys knew better than to leave it open. It wasn’t worth the earache they would get from their father. The smell of cannabis drifted to him from inside. He pushed the door open and stepped in, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The dogs’ barking reached a crescendo and they were scratching at the back of the door, excited he was home.
‘Dan, are you in?’ Alan whispered. There was no answer. He flicked the light switch but nothing happened. Alan swore beneath his breath and walked to the electric cupboard at the end of the hallway and opened the door. The meter glowed yellow in the dark. He presse
d the emergency button and the lights came on. The sound of the television blaring came from Dan’s bedroom; it startled him. Alan knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked again and then opened it. The bed was made but the room was empty. He walked to the television and turned it off. A noise from the second bedroom made him jump. Alan tiptoed along the hallway to the living room and opened the door. Gemma, an Alsatian cross and Henry, a Jack Russell, who thought he was a tiger, exploded from the doorway, circling Alan and jumping up at him before sprinting down the corridor to the bedrooms to investigate. They disappeared into the second bedroom, yapping.
‘Get off!’ Alan heard his eldest son moaning. Alan followed the dogs and poked his head around the door. He switched the light on. Kris was lying on the floor, covering his eyes with his forearm while the dogs licked his face as if it was covered in Pedigree Chum. ‘Get them off, dad. They’re doing my head in.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Alan asked. Kris lived in Holyhead with his wife and two young children. ‘Have you had a row again?’
‘No, not really. I’ve been out with the lads and just fancied a smoke before I go home. Get off!’ he shouted, pushing the dogs off.
‘You just fancied a smoke in my house. Cannabis, I presume?’
‘What do you think?’
‘You do know I’m a detective inspector, don’t you?’ Alan said.
‘I think you might have mentioned it,’ Kris mumbled. ‘Will you please get the dogs out of here before I lose my shit.’
‘Where’s Dan?’ Alan asked. ‘His car is outside.’
‘He went to get some electric. It’s on emergency. Fflur took him to Spar,’ Kris said.
‘Okay,’ Alan said. He closed the door and left the dogs mobbing him.
‘Dad!’ Kris’ muffled voice cried. ‘Take these bloody dogs with you!’
‘You’re nearly thirty-two years old with two children,’ Alan said. He ignored him and went into the kitchen in search of his off switch. A litre bottle of Tesco’s cheapest blended Scotch. He rinsed his glass from the previous night and filled it to halfway. His eyes were tired and he needed some sleep but he knew it wouldn’t come without his medicine. He heard the bedroom door open and the dogs scurrying down the hallway. The door slammed closed again.
‘This place is a madhouse!’ Kris shouted; his voice muffled by the door.
‘It is indeed,’ Alan said. ‘Remind me, why do you keep coming back again?’
Alan opened the patio doors and let the dogs out. They sprinted into the darkness across the fields, Henry’s tiny little legs going ten to the dozen to keep up.
‘Hiya, Dad,’ Dan said from the doorway.
‘Hello. Where did you go?’
‘I had to go to the Spar to get some electric.’
‘I wondered where you were. Thank you for doing that,’ Alan said, sipping his whisky.
‘You’re welcome,’ Dan said. ‘You owe me twenty-pounds.’
‘For what?’ Alan asked.
‘The electric.’
‘Are the lights in your room solar powered?’ Alan asked.
‘No, they’re electric,’ Dan said. ‘But the last time we had this conversation, you said we should take it in turns to top up the card.’
‘And what?’
‘And it’s been my turn the last three times.’
‘I see,’ Alan said, nodding. ‘Point taken. I haven’t got any cash on me but remind me tomorrow.’
‘I’ll stick a reminder on the fridge next to the other reminders, shall I?’ Dan said, pointing to the fridge where a line of reminders hung. ‘I don’t know why we have to have a prepaid meter in this day and age. It’s so embarrassing topping it up in the shop. There’s always someone in there I know.’
‘You’ll have to blame your mum for that.’
‘How can it be Mum’s fault? She left five years ago.’
‘She didn’t pay the bill before she buggered off with her fancy man,’ Alan said. ‘I came home from work one day; she was gone and the meter was there instead. Mind you, the meter doesn’t tell me I have to come home from the pub so, it’s not all bad.’
‘Do you take anything seriously?’ Dan asked. Alan shrugged and shook his head. Dan walked into the kitchen and poured a glass of water. ‘Kris is in the middle bedroom, stoned off his box. I think he’s had a row again.’
‘I’ve seen him. He’ll sleep it off,’ Alan said. ‘He’s been smoking weed. Do you think he knows?’
‘Knows what, Dad?’ Dan asked.
‘That I’m a police officer.’
‘Sometimes he forgets.’
‘When it suits,’ Alan smiled.
‘Paula doesn’t like him smoking it in the house,’ Dan said.
‘Paula is a very smart lady.’ Alan sipped his whisky. ‘This might sound like a strange question but who are you buying your weed from nowadays?’ Alan asked.
‘What makes you think I smoke it?’
‘The smell of cannabis and tobacco that permeates from your room and the bag of skunk under your bed,’ Alan said. Dan looked offended. ‘Do you think your sheets and bedding wash themselves?’
‘I forget you’re a detective too,’ Dan joked.
‘Seriously,’ Alan said. ‘I want to know who is selling the weed in Holyhead nowadays?’
‘How come?’ Dan asked. ‘Are you moving to the drug squad?’
‘No. They’re way too busy for my liking,’ Alan said. ‘I’m in the twilight of my career. A couple of murders a day is my limit these days.’
‘Why the sudden interest then?’
‘I’m working on a hunch. Come on, I’m not asking you for names and addresses.’
‘It depends,’ Dan said. He blushed. ‘There’s lots of people selling weed but only two I use.’
‘How come?’
‘A lot of the stuff for sale is crap. My guy sells quality every time and he never runs out.’ He paused, uncomfortable with the conversation.
‘How well do you know him?’
‘He’s a good mate of mine. I’ve known him since school.’
‘And Kris?’ Alan asked.
‘I get his for him.’
‘What about Jack?’
‘He buys from my mate, direct.’
‘Why direct?’
‘He buys a bit extra than he needs himself.’
‘Are you telling me my son is selling weed to his friends in Bangor?’ Alan asked.
‘Calm down. When he moved in with his mates, they were buying it locally and it was crap,’ Dan said. ‘It’s because of the university. The students have money and they’ll smoke anything. My mate is cheaper and it’s better quality. Jack isn’t dealing, he’s buying for his friends in the house, that’s all.’
‘Good,’ Alan said. ‘Keep it that way.’
‘Why all the questions?’ Dan asked.
‘We pulled a couple of bodies from Trearddur Bay this morning,’ Alan said. ‘My hunch is it could be drug related.’
‘Locals?’
‘We don’t know yet but I have a feeling that trouble might be brewing in town. If it is, I don’t want you three anywhere near it, understand?’ Dan nodded.
‘We steer clear of the rock stars, don’t worry, Dad,’ Dan said.
‘Rock stars?’ Alan asked. ‘That’s a new one.’
‘You know the type. They walk around like they’re famous; flash cars, designer gear; sunglasses in November,’ Dan said. ‘The ‘not so discreet’ dealers. Don’t worry. We don’t go near them.’ Dan paused in thought. ‘But now you’ve mentioned it, I’ve heard a few rumours going around.’
‘Rumours about what?’ Alan asked. He finished his whisky and poured another, his interest fuelled. ‘Holyhead is always full of rumours—small towns thrive on them.’
‘I’ve heard that some of the old rivalries are coming back to the surface,’ Dan said. ‘There’s been a lot of threats made on Facebook, apparently.’
‘Who’s threatening who?’
‘Jami
e Hollins and Lloyd Jones started it off, but it seems to have spread across town. They’re making threats to shoot each other on Facebook, can you believe it?’ Dan said. ‘I didn’t think much of it until now.’
‘It might be something and nothing.’
‘Do you think your case is connected?’
‘Probably not, Dan,’ Alan said. ‘The type of people who kill their rivals don’t shout about it on social media. They get it done, and no one knows who’s done it. I’ve never come across a genuinely dangerous outfit using Facebook. Teenage gangs in London, maybe but serious gangsters, I doubt it very much. Don’t mention it to anyone for now. It will be in the press soon enough.’
‘Okay, dad,’ Dan said. ‘I’m going to bed. Goodnight.’ He walked over and hugged his dad.
‘I’m turning in myself. I’ll let the dogs back in first,’ Alan said, hugging him. ‘Sleep tight.’ He emptied the tumbler and refilled it. There was time for another quick one before bedtime.
CHAPTER 5
It was seven o’clock when the courier arrived at the farmhouse outside of Caergeiliog, nearly an hour late. He stopped the van and checked the address twice. Reluctantly, he opened the door and reached inside for the package. The customer waited impatiently at the gate, dressed completely in black. It was the oddest drop he’d made for months. He looked at the derelict structure in awe. It looked like it would disintegrate in a decent breeze. The roof had collapsed into the house years before and thick green foliage, ivy, and saplings sprouted through the rafters. It had been decades since anyone had lived there yet it was the address he’d been given and he had a job to do. Deliver the package to Mr Roberts at the front gate, get a signature, and drive away. It was simple yet looking at the man behind the gate, he knew it was wrong. It was all wrong. Whatever was in the package didn’t matter. Whoever the mysterious Mr Roberts was, didn’t matter. The fact he was outside a derelict farmhouse didn’t matter but it felt like he was party to something morally corrupt. He had never questioned his employer or a customer before, but this job was screaming ‘illegal’ at the top of its voice.
‘You’re nearly an hour late,’ Mr Roberts said. His eyes were grey and staring. They were unnerving. The courier felt vulnerable and intimidated. He didn’t want to be near Mr Roberts any longer than necessary.