by Conrad Jones
‘Could be relevant why?’
‘The three families: the Hollins, the Jones, and the Greens.’
CHAPTER 13
Simon and Kerry were shown into the engineering department and taken to the manager’s office through an open workspace—computer terminals were fixed to black desks in rows of thirty or more. Simon counted over a hundred desks with high definition screens on them. Some of the employees hardly paid any attention to the strangers while others speculated who they were in whispers. The section manager looked flustered when he greeted them at the door. He had ‘I’m too busy for this shit’ written all over his face. His tie was fastened loosely around an open collar and his sleeves were rolled up. There were sweat patches beneath his arms. His eyes had dark circles beneath them, and his thin lips were pale and turned down at the corners. He had a permanently unhappy expression.
‘Barry Trent,’ he introduced himself.
‘I’m DS Brady,’ Simon said.
‘DS Leach,’ Kerry added.
‘I’m Kelvin’s boss. Or I was, I should say. Sit down please. How can I help you?’
‘We wanted to speak to you and Kelvin’s workmates about his general demeanour the last few weeks,’ Simon said. ‘Did you notice anything out of character?’
‘That’s a bit vague. I’m not sure what you mean?’
‘Did he have any arguments with anyone, did he look stressed or depressed or worried to you?’
‘We’re always stressed here. The deadlines are unachievable. They’ll replace us with robots eventually and they’ll probably burn them out too.’ Simon smiled but there was no mirth in Barry Trent. His expression didn’t change. ‘So, to answer your question, no to all the above.’
‘He didn’t have any disagreements with anyone?’ Simon asked.
‘No. Kelvin was a model employee, never upset anyone, never caused me any problems at all. He was always on time and never phoned in sick. We got your request for his computer but obviously it contains a lot of patented information so we can’t let you take it, I’m afraid. I’ve taken the liberty of having the hard drive from his computer downloaded onto this,’ Barry said. He handed a disc to Kerry. ‘Obviously, we’ve had to remove the classified stuff but his emails, internal and external, are on there. If there’s anything else we can do, don’t hesitate to ask.’
‘Thank you,’ Kerry said, taking the disk. ‘Who were his friends?’
‘He was friendly with everyone,’ Barry said.
‘Who did he sit next to?’ Simon asked.
‘Glen Price,’ Barry said. ‘They worked together on most projects.’
‘Can we speak to Glen?’
‘No. He’s been off sick for a few days,’ Barry said. He looked from Simon to Kerry. They exchanged surprised glances.
‘When did he go off sick?’ Simon asked.
‘The day before yesterday.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Kerry asked.
‘Sickness and diarrhoea his wife said when she called in sick for him,’ Barry said. ‘I’m sorry. Why are we talking about Glen?’
‘Because he sat next to a man who was murdered the same day he called in sick,’ Simon said. ‘We’re going to need his address.’
✽ ✽ ✽
Lloyd Jones snorted a line of his own product and closed his eyes to wait for the effect. It was hardly worth waiting for. The gear was shit, again. His sales were down seventy per cent the week before and eighty the week prior to that. The suppliers had stitched him up again. His regular source had just been banged up for ten years and as soon as he was sentenced, his supply chain collapsed. It was like the Wild West now, cowboys everywhere. He’d spent days in Liverpool and Manchester trying to secure a decent supplier. His contacts were running scared from new gangs trying to muscle in on the void caused by Operation Suzie. It was a dangerous time to be unconnected. The samples he’d tried had been reasonable quality, but the end product was garbage. This was the third week with only crap cocaine to sell.
It was better to have no product than to sell shit product. Especially when Jamie Hollins was still selling quality cocaine. He couldn’t fathom how that tosser had managed to maintain his supply. Lloyd had spoken to other dealers along the North Wales coast and they were all complaining. All except Hollins; he was a gobshite, full of himself.
He heard an engine running and grabbed his baseball bat before peering through the curtains. There was a taxi outside the house across the road, dropping off the old bint who lived there. She was another gobshite. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her sober. You could set your clock by her movements, ten minutes to eleven in the morning, she left to go to Gleesons, a pub on the high street. At half past six, she arrived home with a bottle of wine and a kebab and occasionally, a male victim. One of them had moved in for a few weeks—they didn’t have half a dozen teeth between them and the ones they had were black. She saw him looking through the curtains and stuck her middle finger up at him. There was no love lost between them. He flicked a finger back at her and closed the curtains.
Lloyd looked at the packages of cocaine. He’d paid for one kilo and owed for the other. They had given him a line of credit as a gesture of goodwill. He couldn’t sell goodwill. They hadn’t done him a favour; they’d ripped him off. He wasn’t letting anyone get away with that. He picked up his phone, dialling the supplier again. It clicked straight to voicemail. He told them he wasn’t paying what he owed them, left a string of expletives in a garbled message, and threatened to shoot them the next time he saw them. The men he’d dealt with were Eastern European, Albanian, or some other godforsaken hellhole. He should have known better, but he was desperate for product. Doing business with Albanians was dangerous; he’d been warned but he hadn’t listened. They’d taken him to a rundown pub which stood alone on some waste ground. It was intimidating to say the least. The cocaine was on the table in plain view, not that it mattered—the only people in there were their gang members. There must have been twenty of them, armed to the teeth. Some played pool, some played poker but most of them watched the deal, scowling at Lloyd and his minder, Ron Took. Ron was a giant, but he couldn’t stop a bullet. The samples they gave him were quality but the packages he came away with were crap. They promised to deliver the same every two weeks. Securing a regular supply was priceless, so he took the deal not realising the quality was so poor.
If he tried to sell it and pass it off as decent gear, he would lose the customers he had left for good. They would never come back. Most of his customers only came to him because they couldn’t buy from Hollins, probably because they owed him money. Their options were limited but they wouldn’t buy crap. He had to cut it with something that would give the buyers a buzz, even if it wasn’t great and didn’t last long. The only thing that would do that was benzocaine. He could buy it online for ten pounds a kilo, cook it with the cocaine, and make ‘Brack’, similar to crack but cheaper to make and just as addictive. That would triple his money and get him back in the game. Cashflow was king and all his cash was invested in two kilos of shit cocaine. He would have to make the best of a bad lot.
Lloyd sat down with his laptop and searched online for the benzocaine. An hour later he was more frustrated than he had been before he started. Every site that sold the drug was out of stock. It was obvious he wasn’t the first dealer to think of the idea. There was so much shit gear being wholesaled, every man and his dog was buying it up and he was at the back of the queue. He googled the other options. Lidocaine had similar properties but was more expensive. It would eat into his profits but he had no choice so he went back through the search process. Lidocaine was sold out too. He stood up and kicked the chair over. It clattered against the wall and landed upside down. It was then he noticed the boots standing in the kitchen doorway. As his eyes moved upwards, he saw the barrels of a sawn-off shotgun pointed at him.
‘Are you pissed off, Lloyd?’ Tony asked. ‘I see you’ve had a delivery.’ Tony gestured to the packages of dru
gs. ‘If it’s from Liverpool, it’s shite,’ he added.
‘What do you want?’ Lloyd asked, angrily.
‘Jamie wants a word with you,’ Tony said. ‘You’ve stepped over the line, my friend. I told you to keep your mouth shut last year but you won’t listen, will you?’
‘I’m not going anywhere with you. If you’re going to shoot me, shoot me here,’ Lloyd said. ‘I know you lot killed Paul. If you think I’ll be as easy to kidnap, think again.’ Lloyd pulled a flick knife and the blade clicked open.
‘You never were very bright,’ Tony said. A Taser sent fifty thousand volts through Lloyd’s neck and he collapsed onto the carpet. ‘Pick him up and stick him in the van,’ Tony said to the men who had entered through the front door behind him.
‘What about his gear?’ one of them asked.
‘Leave that where it is,’ Tony said. ‘We don’t move crap like that.’
✽ ✽ ✽
Alan and Kim arrived at the house in Pump Street. A marked police car was parked outside. Nearby, a uniformed officer was talking to a man Alan recognised as Steven, although his surname eluded him. They climbed out of the vehicle, struggled into forensic suits from the boot and walked to the front door. The officer left Steven and met them.
‘Ronny Green is in the kitchen, guv,’ he said. ‘I’ve called CSI. They’re on their way. The place has been turned over.’
‘Okay. We’ll take a look,’ Alan said. He pointed to Steven. ‘Did he find him?’
‘Yes, guv. He hadn’t seen him in the pub for a few days. He said the house was locked up, which was unusual. Apparently, Ronny ran an open house. His front door was always open, and people called around all the time. He couldn’t get an answer, so he climbed over the back wall and saw Ronny on the floor in the kitchen. He broke in and then called us. The house is as he found it.’
‘Is he telling the truth?’
‘I think so, guv. I know him, he’s not a bad lad. He was good friends with Ronny.’
‘Thanks,’ Alan said. ‘Let’s take a look, shall we.’
The front door led straight into the living room. The odour of a ripe dead body hit them. Alan studied the furniture and moved into the kitchen. He knelt next to Ronny. His face was injured, and blood had run from his nose and mouth.
‘He’s in the foetal position,’ Alan said.
‘Meaning?’
‘A doctor once told me it indicated the victim was in pain. Not external pain but internal,’ Alan said. ‘It’s clear the house has been ransacked but there’s no sign of a struggle in here. The witness said he saw the body through the kitchen window. Let’s check that.’
They walked out of the kitchen into the yard and looked through the window. The body was in clear view. They went back inside, checked the utility room, and looked in the freezer. Despite being frozen, the tripe and worms were pungent. They scowled and moved away, closing the lid quickly.
‘I’m going to have a quick word with Steven outside,’ Alan said.
‘Is something bothering you?’
‘Yes. I don’t like being treated like an idiot,’ Alan said.
‘I’ll take a look upstairs,’ Kim said, smiling. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m wondering what they were looking for, whoever they are.’
Alan walked through the living room and out of the front door. The CSI team had arrived. Pamela Stone wasn’t with them. He hoped she was busy on his cases. He said hello and walked over to Steven and the uniformed officer.
‘You’re Steven, aren’t you?’ Alan asked.
‘Steve. Only my old dear calls me Steven.’
‘What’s your surname, Steve?’ Alan asked.
‘Dillon,’ Steve said.
‘That’s right,’ Alan said. He nodded. ‘I remember now.’
‘Do I know you?’
‘Yes. I nicked you for possession in the nineties. It was in the Angel on a rock night.’
‘Sorry. I don’t remember the nineties,’ Steve said, shuffling his feet. He stared at the floor.
‘Funny man,’ Alan said. ‘It was a long time ago. I’ll give you that.’ He paused. ‘Why did you break in, Steve?’ Alan asked. ‘If you looked through the kitchen window, it’s clear Ronny is dead.’
‘I just wanted to make sure,’ Steve said. ‘He might have needed an ambulance or something.’
‘I don’t think you thought that, Steve,’ Alan said, wagging his forefinger. Steve frowned. He looked nervous. ‘You told the officer it was unusual for the house to be locked up.’
‘It was. Ronny always left the front door open. I couldn’t get in so I jumped over the back. That’s when I saw him.’
‘Why do you think the door was locked?’ Alan asked.
‘How would I know?’
‘Who searched the house?’
‘I don’t know that either.’
‘Did Ronny hide gear for Jamie Hollins?’
‘Jamie who?’ Steve asked, squinting. ‘I don’t know who you mean.’
‘You do,’ Alan said. ‘He was with you when I arrested you in the Angel.’
‘Was he?’
‘Yes. He was.’
‘Like I said, I don’t remember the nineties.’
‘You did say that,’ Alan said. ‘If we look at your phone, I reckon there will be a call made to Jamie Hollins or one of his cronies before you called us.’
‘Look. I just found the body,’ Steve said, feeling the urge to run away. He hadn’t deleted the calls. ‘That’s not a crime is it?’
‘No. But breaking in to a crime scene to remove contraband before reporting a crime is,’ Alan said.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Did you know Ronny had cameras all around the house?’
‘No.’
‘They’re well hidden. We’ll check them and if you’re lying to me, you’re in trouble.’ Steve turned white. He looked like he was going to puke. ‘You don’t look very well. Are you okay?’ Steve nodded. There was an uncomfortable pause. ‘I’ll let you into a little secret. There are no cameras, but your reaction tells me everything I need to know. We weren’t born yesterday, Steve. We’ll need to speak to him again.’ Alan turned to the uniformed officer. ‘Do you have his details?’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘That’s all for now,’ Alan said. ‘Don’t be booking any holidays for a while. We’ll need to speak to you again, soon.’
Steve turned and walked away quickly, shoulders hunched, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. ‘Knock on some doors,’ Alan said to the uniformed officer. ‘If people were coming and going all the time, someone may have seen a familiar face leaving through the front door.’
‘Yes, guv.’
Alan’s phone rang. The screen showed it was the station.
‘DI Williams.’
‘Alan, it’s Dafyd,’ the superintendent said. ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in Holyhead. We’ve got another body,’ Alan said. ‘It’s a suspicious death connected to Jamie Hollins.’
‘Are CSI on it?’
‘They’ve just arrived.’
‘I need you and Kim back here immediately,’ Dafyd said. He sounded stressed. ‘There’s been an important development we need to discuss.’
‘I was going to follow up on a lead on our UCs. They were seen eating breakfast in town a few times, so they may have been staying nearby.’
‘No. I need to talk to you both immediately. Head back here straightaway.’
The line went dead and Alan looked at the screen, a little bit miffed and very confused.
CHAPTER 14
He watched the docudrama with mixed emotions. Part of him was fascinated, part of him seething with the inaccuracies in the timeline. Peter Moore, the man in black. The story of Wales’s only recorded serial killer. Recorded being the operative word. He watched the credits at the end and took it back to the beginning before pressing play again. The knife was resting on his lap. The knife. His knife. It had a lif
e of its own, it whispered to him. When he touched it, images flashed through his mind, the sounds and voices of those it had cut echoed through his consciousness. His fingertips stroked the blade as if it was a loved one. He closed his eyes and relived the recent kill. The man’s face, his eyes, the warmth of his blood, the coppery smell, and the sound of his last breath leaving his lungs. He wondered at the ease with which the blade had sliced through him. It was a monumental moment in time. The connection between them was eternal, almost religious. Their souls were entwined for eternity as if they were one person. He checked his watch and wondered how long there was left to watch. There was enough time to watch it through again before he had to go back to work and then he could morph into who he really was. He was changing all the time, becoming more like him by the day. His fate was already mapped out before him. He would become far greater than his predecessors. It was as if he was invisible, walking among them like a ghost, picking and choosing who lived and who dies.
CHAPTER 15
Simon and Kerry pulled up outside a house in Prestatyn. It was on the coast road, detached from its neighbours by a few hundred yards. Ornate wrought-iron gates were fastened to tall brick gateposts, topped with smoked-glass globes. The house was substantial, probably four bedrooms, with a triple garage to the side. It was in total darkness.
‘It looks like there’s no one home,’ Kerry said.
‘It does. We’ll have to come back another day,’ Simon agreed. He put the Ford into first and indicated to move back into the light traffic. A Porsche Cayenne stopped opposite them and indicted to turn into the driveway. The gates opened automatically, and the Porsche pulled across the road. ‘I think we’re in luck. They’re home.’ He tucked the Ford behind the Porsche and followed it down the driveway. The driver spotted them and stopped sharply. ‘I think we’ve been spotted.’