The Anglesey Murders Box Set

by Conrad Jones

  The toilet block was the bait which attracted like-minded men like moths to a flame. Little did they know there was psychopath stalking the place and many of them had their wings burnt. He had spent many hours wondering what his father was, and he’d concluded that there was no specific category to label him with. There was no box the stick him in. He was a sexual predator who escalated to murder and enjoyed it. He thought about his father and mother and their encounters. His existence was proof that his father also had sex with women. If you could call rape sex and he wasn’t sure you could. It appeared to him, his father wanted violent sex with either male or female as long as he was the assailant.

  He wasn’t like his father in that respect, not exactly. Sex with females had been far more satisfying although rare. His awkwardness socially made it difficult for him to attract women. They rarely hung around long enough to get to the stage where they would consider having sex with him. On the occasions he went with men, they’d been effeminate and compliant. If he closed his eyes, they could have been female until they wanted him to touch them. That was when he knew he preferred women. It was all academic anyway but the differences between him and his father were clear.

  Yet here he was at Pensarn Beach, watching men cruising in the toilet block, just like his father had all those years ago. He was going to replay his father’s final murder for the world to see but he would improve on it. It would be like comparing a painting of ‘our house’ by a five-year old to a masterpiece by Da Vinci. Once this was done, the mimicking would cease. He’d paid homage to his father enough and he would step up to a level his father could never have dreamed of, let alone achieved. He would show him what could be done with thought and planning and intelligence. It was the natural progression of the next generation. He would move on and move up. His next murders would be epic. They would be on an unimaginable scale and would reach television screens the world over. They would launch him into immortality.

  A vehicle approaching the toilet block slowly caught his eye. This was the one.

  CHAPTER 58

  Alan woke up with a thick head and a sore throat. Gemma was curled up on his feet and Henry was on the pillow next to him. Henry sensed he was awake and licked his face.

  ‘Henry!’ Alan moaned, pushing him off the pillow. Henry righted himself and scurried back onto the pillow, launching a second offensive. ‘How the bloody hell did life come to this, Henry?’ Alan said stroking his head. ‘What did I do to deserve you? The first thing I see in the morning is your ugly mug.’

  He pushed off the quilt and swung his legs out of the bed. Gemma jumped down and stretched, her tail wagging furiously. ‘Who wants to go out?’ Alan asked, climbing into a pair of grey joggers. He pulled a hoodie on and padded towards the kitchen, flicking the lights on as he went. Dan was in the living room watching the news, eating a bowl of cereal. Alan poked his head around the door.

  ‘Morning,’ he said.

  ‘Have you seen this, Dad?’ Alan rubbed his eyes and squinted at the screen. His eyes were still bleary. It was BBC Breakfast news.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. The image of Peter Moore appeared on the screen, followed by an image of Zak Edwards and Henry Roberts. It answered his question. His heart pounded in his chest. He felt his stomach churn. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, how the hell have they got that already?’

  ‘I’m guessing you didn’t release this?’ Dan said, slurping his tea.

  ‘No, I did not but when I find out who did, they’re going to get a kick up the arse.’

  ‘Why. Was it leaked?’

  ‘Yes, probably. It would have got there eventually but we wanted a bit of breathing room before it did. This is going to bring attention from way upon high. I’ll have the top brass breathing down my neck at every turn and they’ll be second guessing every decision I make. On top of that, every journalist within a thousand miles will be mithering for an exclusive.’

  ‘Give them one and make a few quid,’ Dan said, shovelling granola into his mouth. ‘Or tell me what to say and I’ll do it and split the money with you.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ Alan said, heading into the kitchen. He opened the patio doors and let the dogs out and then switched the kettle on. His mobile began to vibrate. He took it out of his hoodie pocket and looked at the screen. It was Dafyd. ‘Morning, Dafyd.’

  ‘Have you seen the news?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How the hell did they get hold of this?’

  ‘I don’t know. It could have come from anyone actively working the case, the technical staff, the uniformed division, you know how these things go,’ Alan said, yawning. He grabbed a mug and plonked a teabag into it. ‘I’m certain none of the detectives would want to attract this kind of attention.’

  ‘I don’t like to think it but it would be worth a lot of money to someone.’

  ‘It’s all right to think it just don’t say it aloud. The other option is the killer told them what the similarities are between his murders and Peter Moore. The fact we were keeping the stab patterns under wraps for now must have been pissing him off. He will want that splashed across the Internet.’

  ‘Do you think that’s likely?’

  ‘It’s more likely than one of my detectives doing it.’

  ‘I suppose so but I’m not sure the ACC will see it that way. He’ll be pointing his finger at everyone within earshot of the case. You know what a trusting soul he is.’

  ‘He’ll see it for what it is, a media shitstorm heading in his direction. His natural reaction will be to duck so it hits someone else in the face. If he starts giving you grief, tell him to lean on the press to tell us where they received the information. If it’s an anonymous tipoff, they’ll be open and tell him it was but if they paid an informant for it, they won’t confirm or deny anything. Then we’ll know where it came from.’

  ‘Do you think he wants the attention that much?’

  ‘Yes. Our killer has a fascination with Moore and he also likes the limelight. He’s seeking notoriety and the best way to get that is to expose what he’s trying to achieve. I don’t suppose we’ll know his exact reasoning until we catch him.’

  ‘I’ll have to call you back, Alan,’ Dafyd said. He sounded stressed. ‘The ACC is on the other phone.’

  ‘Good luck with that,’ Alan said, putting the phone down. He made his cup of tea and walked to the patio doors, looking out over the fields to Snowdonia. The sun was coming up, chasing the stars from the sky. It was a peaceful vista. He soaked it in, and it calmed him. The calm before the storm. His phone vibrated. It was Dafyd again. ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Not quick enough. I’ve just had my ears bashed. Apparently, it’s my responsibility to keep a lid on the press and make them print balanced articles rather than sensationalist ones about serial killers from the nineties.’

  ‘How do you do that?’ Alan asked, sipping tea.

  ‘I should have asked for instructions. Bloody idiot.’

  ‘You didn’t call him that, did you?’

  ‘No not yet. I’m to contact our press office and ask them to find out where the information came from.’

  ‘Like I said, good luck with that.’ The line went quiet. Dafyd was talking to someone. Their voices were muffled. He could hear Dafyd swearing under his breath. He waited for him to come back. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes. We’re going to need more than luck, Alan,’ Dafyd said.

  ‘What now?’ Alan asked, not wanting to know the answer.

  ‘A body was found this morning, stabbed to death in Pensarn. He’s a thirty-two-year-old father of three from Abergele.’

  ‘Not in the toilet block on the beach?’

  ‘Unfortunately, yes.’

  ‘Jesus Christ! This guy is completely off the scale.’

  ‘How do you want to play this one?’

  ‘Who’s on the case?’

  ‘Detectives from St Asaph, until you get there.’

  ‘Tell them I’ll be an hour and tell them to ke
ep the press as far away as they possibly can. It won’t take long for them to make the connection.’

  ‘As you said before, good luck with that. I’ll ring you later.’

  The line went dead, and Alan sipped his tea. He stared at the mountains and breathed deeply. The dogs came into view, racing back across the field. He put food and water in their bowls and went back into the living room. The news was still focused on the possibility of a copycat serial killer in North Wales and they were interviewing a profiler who had worked with the Metropolitan force ten years before. It was a tenuous link at best. All they needed now was a medium and a criminal psychologist and they had the full serial killer interview kit. He sighed and shook his head.

  ‘This will turn it into a circus.’

  ‘This is great. It’s going to be sick,’ Dan said. ‘You’ll be famous.’

  ‘And you’ll have no friends left.’

  ‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ Dan said, standing up. He finished his tea and looked at his phone. ‘I’ve had texts this morning from people I haven’t spoken to since school. Everyone is buzzing about this and you’re Johnny on the spot. I think I’ll start a vlog. People make a fortune from vlogs.’

  ‘Oh, good. At least we can take some positives from it,’ Alan said, rolling his eyes. ‘It amazes me what excites people. There’s a nutter out there who’s killing men because he has a fixation with a murderer from nearly thirty years ago and people are reaching out to you to see if you know anything they don’t.’

  ‘Pretty much, yes,’ Dan said. ‘I’ll be flavour of the month at work. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone anything you’ve said about it.’

  ‘I haven’t said anything about it,’ Alan said.

  ‘I can make stuff up, just to impress them.’

  ‘Please don’t make stuff up. Let the press do that themselves.’

  ‘I’m joking, Dad,’ Dan said hugging him. ‘I’m off to work. I’ll see you later. I won’t say have a good day at work because it looks like it will be shit.’

  CHAPTER 59

  Bob Dewhurst was listening to the radio. The news was well and truly focused on the Anglesey murders and the possibility of a copycat killer. Copycat killer. It rolls off the tongue, he thought. The only upside was it took the focus away from the painfully overreported issues with Europe. If anyone mentioned Brexit again, he would arrest them. As the news reports drifted from one angle to the next, the complexity of the story became clear. This would be big. Very big indeed. It would attract the interest of the average person and it would be big news. It was going to get very crowded on the island. Every film crew, their production teams, and their dog would be jostling for hotel rooms and a parking space. The hotels, cafés, and bars would do well out of it, if nothing else. An active serial killer was always good for the local economy.

  He was considering handing in his retirement papers early when a call came in from the station. A concerned local had phoned the non-emergency line in the early hours of the morning and reported a man staggering drunkenly on an isolated stretch of road near the base of the mountain. He’d last been seen climbing a gate into a field. The station was under pressure, so he decided to look into himself. He had to drive that way on his way to work.

  He slowed down when he reached the area the caller described. There was a ditch alongside the road, then a barbed wire fence. Beyond the fence was a narrow line of trees and then open grazing land. A few hundred yards across the field was a farm building made from corrugated polycarbonate, green in colour. It was low and Bob didn’t recall it being built. He didn’t recall who the land beyond the fence belonged to either. It would be one of the local farmers. When he reached the five-bar gate the caller had mentioned, he stopped the car and climbed out. He walked to the gate and looked into the trees. If someone had climbed over, looking for shelter against a bitterly cold night and driving rain, they could be injured somewhere in the long grass beyond. He swore beneath his breath and climbed over the gate. The metal was cold and wet. He landed with a bump on the other side, his knees reminding him they were over fifty. There was flattened grass ahead of him leading to the trees. The pattern indicated someone had walked there recently. Probably as recently as last night. Bob fastened his jacket and followed the trail.

  The footprints led through the grass, beneath the trees, and across the field towards the green building. The grass was too long to see a human lying down. He decided to carry on, just in case someone had fallen asleep drunk. They would die from hypothermia before they sobered up. Bob kept walking in a zigzag pattern to cover as much ground as possible. As he did, he noticed the whiff of cannabis on the breeze. It was subtle but it was there. He scanned the horizon for someone smoking but there was no one in sight. There was a difference to the odour. It didn’t smell burnt. It smelled fresh, like the plant. As he neared the building, he heard the hum of electricity—the type of sound you would hear from an electric substation. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled. He looked around for signs of life but couldn’t see anything but the green building. There was cannabis being grown nearby, probably inside. He was certain and decided to get closer to investigate. It was then another smell drifted to him. It was the unmistakable stink of human decay.

  CHAPTER 60

  Alan arrived at the scene and parked on the sand. Pensarn Beach was wide and seemed to go on forever in both directions. Dafyd had done a good job of keeping this one from the press so far. There were a handful of onlookers further up the beach, taking pictures on their phones. The toilet block had been cordoned off and two CSI vans were parked nearby. He walked across the sand and ducked beneath the tape. Two detectives from St Asaph were standing in the doorway of the gents. They saw him approaching and greeted him. Alan was familiar with their faces but couldn’t remember their names. He shook hands with them and went inside. The stench of urine made his eyes water. Graffiti covered the walls and the frosted glass windows were cracked. Pamela Stone was kneeling on the tiles, recovering something she thought was relevant. Alan was certain that taking DNA swabs and trace evidence from a public toilet was probably every CSI’s worst nightmare. Pamela looked up and smiled thinly. Her eyes weren’t as bright as they usually were and her expression showed that her work was taking a toll today.

  ‘He’s in that cubicle here and he’s in that cubicle there,’ she said, pointing to the only two cubicles. ‘His ID is there. Philip Trotter from Abergele, aged thirty-three.’

  Alan frowned. That didn’t sound good. He looked into the first cubicle. Philip Trotter’s body was kneeling on the floor, the torso leaning over the bowl as if he was being sick. His hands were tied behind his back. He looked into the second cubicle. The seat had been put down and Trotter’s head was placed on it facing the door for impact, eyes wide and staring, tongue protruding in a silent scream.

  ‘He’s escalating,’ Pamela said. ‘Removing the head is not his MO.’

  ‘This one hasn’t developed his MO yet,’ Alan said. ‘He was mimicking Moore from the outset but he’s a showman, hence the escalation. Everything he does is to attract attention to his crimes. First, he mimics a serial killer to get a shock reaction when we realise what he’s doing, then he goes one better and removes the head. God knows what’s next. This was Moore’s last murder. He was arrested shortly afterwards. There’s nothing to copy now, so what’s he going to do next?’

  ‘He’s going to develop his own MO from here on,’ Pamela said.

  ‘Whatever he metamorphoses into, it’s not going to be pretty.’

  CHAPTER 61

  Kim drove through Llaingoch until she reached a cluster of police vehicles and CSI vans. A uniformed officer with a yellow hi-vis waistcoat waved traffic away, making drivers turn around and use alternative routes to wherever they were heading. Thankfully, there was no media scrum clogging up the narrow access road. She pulled onto the grass verge, as close to the ditch as she dared. It had been raining and the water was flowing quickly. She left the vehicle and walked t
o the gate where Bob Dewhurst was waiting. He saw her approaching and waved hello.

  ‘Hello, Kim.’

  ‘Bob,’ she said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Bloody awful, to be honest.’ Bob gestured to the path beneath the trees. ‘I’m thinking of packing this in and getting a proper job.’

  ‘At your age? It’s way too late for that,’ she said. ‘They don’t have lollipop men anymore.’

  ‘Cheeky bugger. It’s a few hundred yards past the edge of the tree line. I’ll walk you over there.’

  ‘Is there any vehicle access?’ she asked.

  ‘No. You’ll see why when we get there.’ They walked through the trees and across the meadow. ‘Whoever owns this doesn’t want anyone driving too close to it.’

  ‘How did you find him?’

  ‘A concerned citizen called in and said they’d seen a man staggering down the road drunk and were concerned he might end up being knocked over or fall in the ditch. I came this way to work and checked it out. There was a trail leading to the farm. I could smell cannabis and hear electric transformers, so I carried on, thinking I’d stumbled on a cannabis farm. That’s when I saw the body. I smelled it first and followed my nose,’ Bob explained. ‘The right arm and hand were protruding through the soil. It looked like it had been disturbed recently.’