by Conrad Jones
Everything was fine until Will started to decline. Gareth took over but wasn’t as bright as his uncle. He knew how to propagate cannabis plants like no one else he’d ever met. He had green fingers which could grow plants higher and bushier than anyone else. It was a skill which had made them millions of pounds and kept Lee Punk and his family in a fashion no other employer could have done legitimately. It looked like the Pinter dynasty had come to its final chapter. Lee thought about hanging around until the police were finished, then he could scavenge the sheds and barns to see if there was anything of value left. It was tempting but too dangerous. There was nothing to link him to the operation but if he got caught on the site, he would be part of the conspiracy to cultivate and distribute cannabis on a commercial scale. That was big time in prison and his missus wouldn’t put up with him doing time. She’d always been clear about her position on him being arrested and jailed. She wouldn’t wear it and she wouldn’t wait for him, nor would he see his kids until they were old enough to make their own minds up. The consequences of being caught on the farm were far too great. It was the end of an era and he would have to sit down and plan a future. He had the knowledge and skill to grow weed, if he could find an empty premises where there were no prying eyes. They would be few and far between, but it was a preferable option to getting a job. Lee took a last look at his livelihood being dismantled and turned his bike around.
‘Hello, Lee,’ Alan said. ‘We thought you might show up here. Did you work for Gareth Pinter?’
‘No comment,’ Lee said.
‘Okay. Arrest him. We’ll let Gareth know we have you in custody. He’ll be worried you’ll give evidence against him.’
‘He knows I won’t say nothing.’
‘You need to have a good think about that, Lee. You’re not just looking at conspiracy charges. You’re looking at three conspiracy to murder charges,’ Alan said. Lee frowned and looked confused.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Really?’ Alan said, scratching his chin.
‘Yes. I don’t have a clue.’
‘Paul Critchley?’ Alan said. ‘You know him, don’t you?’
‘He left town ages ago. People said he was a grass.’
‘He was a grass and he ended up buried in a hole in the top field but don’t pretend you don’t know that,’ Alan said.
‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘How many kids have you got?’ Alan asked. He paused. ‘They’ll be dads themselves by the time you get out. You’ll become a granddad in a prison cell.’
‘I don’t know anything.’
‘You can’t kidnap and string up police officers and throw them into the sea to drown.’
‘Police officers?’ Lee said. ‘You mean the ones pulled out of the bay?’
‘Yes.’
Lee looked stunned but he didn’t reply. Alan watched his reaction. His words had the desired effect. The best thing to do was plant the seed and then let him stew in his own juice. He might not have been actively involved in the kidnap, but he may have seen something out of the ordinary. Something that didn’t mean anything at the time but becomes clear with the gift of hindsight. Staring down the barrel of some serious charges tended to add clarity and loosen the tongue. Kim put his arms behind his back and Alan saw a tattoo on his forearm. It was a portrait of the scarecrow character from the late seventies and early eighties, Worzel Gummidge. That made sense. The detectives who had been tasked with following him took him to their car and put him in the back seat.
CHAPTER 68
Alan and the team were sitting in the operations room at Holyhead Station. Pamela Stone had just arrived to talk through the evidence before Gareth Pinter, Jamie Hollins, and their crews were interviewed. The sound of chatter filled the air as the team swapped information. Alan ended a telephone call with Dafyd Thomas and sighed. There was a lot to think about.
‘What did Dafyd have to say?’ Kim asked. She wiped her nose with a tissue. Alan could see she wasn’t well but she would soldier on. She was a tough one although he didn’t want the whole team coming down with a virus. He would keep an eye on her.
‘They’ve taken Jamie Hollins and his cohorts to St Asaph,’ he said. ‘Hollins is playing games.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘He’s refusing to say anything to anyone except Director of Operations Wallace.’
‘He’s National Crime Agency, isn’t he?’ a detective asked.
‘Yes,’ Alan said. ‘At the top of the tree.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Wallace is the direct link to Interpol and Europol. Hollins might have something he can use to soften the blow.’
‘He’s clever if he’s bypassing DCI Kensington. That will piss him off. What does that mean for Operation Thor?’ Kim asked. She shrugged. ‘The wheels could come off the entire operation.’
‘That’s what happens when people underestimate the value of communicating with the local force. They’ve been arrogant and that might bite them on the arse.’ Alan sipped his tea. ‘Anyway, Hollins isn’t my concern for now.’ He turned to Pamela. ‘Thanks for coming in. Where are we?’
‘That depends where you want me to start,’ she said.
‘Wherever you like.’
‘Let’s begin with the Adams evidence.’ She flicked a curl behind her ear. ‘The blood on the sweatshirt taken from the Price home is from Kelvin Adams and the mud on Price’s jeans matches samples from Porth Dafarch.’
‘Yes!’ A cheer rippled through the gathering. Some of them shook hands. Pamela waited for them to calm down.
‘We’ve also found trace in the Price’s vehicle recovered from the airport. There’s blood on the driver’s seat matching Adams and grass and pollen common to the range.’
‘So, we’re in no doubt, Glen Price killed Adams,’ Alan said. ‘His motive is the money the group made selling cocaine at the car plant. What information did you get from Merseyside about Derek Kio?’ he asked Simon.
‘We spoke to an officer who was in the Matrix unit for ten years. He remembered Derek Kio, and he said Kio bought his coke from an Albanian outfit based in Manchester. They were making a play to get a hold in Liverpool and Kio was a good customer. He said they were investigating a senior police officer who was orchestrating the deals for the Albanians at the time, but nothing came to fruition. Professional Standards Department looked into him but couldn’t nail him.’
‘Did we get any names?’ Kim asked.
‘Not on the internal investigation, obviously. The Albanian outfit was run by Agon Domi,’ Simon said, checking his notes. ‘Apparently, he was forced out of Tirana by his own bosses for being too brutal. They sent him here to oversee operations in the UK to get him out of the way.’
‘Too brutal for the Albanians?’ Kim asked.
‘Yes. He had a thing for disposing of people in barrels of acid, usually still alive. Apparently, he disposed of a judge and sent the photographs to his colleagues. It upset the status quo so they moved the problem here.’
‘Check with DCI Kensington and see if the name is connected to the outfit we’re looking at,’ Alan said. ‘They might not be the same. If they are, it doesn’t look good for the Trents. I hope Barry Trent and his wife are on a beach somewhere although, I doubt it. Let’s hope Agon Domi and his crew didn’t get hold of them.’ He slurped his tea and emptied the cup. ‘Is there anything back from the Caer Rhos farm yet, Pamela?’
‘Yes. I’ve got the initial report on Paul Critchley. He was beaten badly and then his throat was cut. Judging by the amount of blood taken from the soil, he was buried there soon after he died. Probably immediately after his throat was cut. The angle of the cut suggests he was kneeling down next to the grave, the killer standing over him at his back. Then he was cut and pushed into the grave to bleed out.’
‘So, we need to work out who put him there and why,’ Alan said. ‘There’re are no shortage of suspects. We know Critchley informed
on a robbery that was planned by three brothers, Andy, Mathew, and Thomas Hall. A dealer called Hanney was killed during the robbery and the brothers were arrested at the scene. Critchley vanished a week later. We know where he ended up but who put him there?’
‘The brothers were popular. They worked in the pubs in Trearddur Bay and Valley. Thomas and Andy were chefs in the Bull and the Driftwood and Mathew was the bar manager at the Beach Motel. They had a big family and a lot of friends,’ Kim said. ‘There would be a long line of people wanting revenge.’
‘But would any of their friends have the knowledge and knowhow to take Critchley and bury him on the Pinter farm?’ Alan asked. Kim shook her head. ‘Probably not. I think whoever killed Critchley, did it because he was an informer, not because of the Hall brothers. That narrows it down somewhat. Who had the most to lose? Hollins? Gareth Pinter?’
‘The DNA recovered from the belongings found near Critchley, all match Jarvis and McGowan as does the blood found on the handcuffs in the shed and the trace we recovered from the drain,’ Pamela said. ‘We recovered some cigarette butts too. There’s DNA on them but no match in the system. Get me someone to match them to and we can put them there.’
‘So, they were definitely tortured on that farm?’ Kim asked.
‘Yes. And it can’t be a coincidence that the UCs’ belongings were buried so close to Critchley. The chances of that happening by chance would be in the millions-to-one. We’d have to assume whoever buried Critchley, buried their belongings in the same spot too,’ Pamela said.
‘Why do that?’ Alan asked. ‘Why put all the evidence against you in one place?’
‘Unless you want it all to be found at the same time,’ Kim said.
‘Exactly. If you wanted to make us look in the wrong direction, you would figure out a way to make us stumble across Critchley’s body. Suddenly, the focus is on Gareth Pinter.’ Alan studied the faces in the room. Most of them agreed with the possibility that their find was too good to be true. ‘What about the cannabis taken from the farm?’ Alan asked.
‘It’s the same strain as the samples Jarvis and McGowan bought in town.’
‘Okay. Do we have anything that can put Gareth Pinter or Lee Punk in the room where the UCs were held?’ Alan asked.
‘No, not yet but we’re still working on the trace.’ Pamela shook her head. ‘They did a good job of washing the place down.’
‘Thanks, Pamela,’ Alan said. ‘We’ve got enough to have a first run at Pinter. Let us know as soon as you get anything else, please.’
‘I will,’ she said, standing. She put her laptop away and put on a long black bubble-coat. ‘Good luck.’
As she was leaving, Kim called after her, ‘Pamela, what’s been found at Jamie Hollins’ property?’
‘Absolutely nothing,’ she said. ‘The pub and his flat were totally clean. DCI Kensington had a warrant drafted for a garage owned by a guy called, Owen Evans but that was clean too.’
‘Owen Evans?’ Alan said. ‘I’ve known him since he was a teenager. His dad fixed all my cars when I was a lad. Why would anyone link him to Hollins?’
‘The information was that Hollins was using it to launder money but there’s no money trail and no evidence at the garage. They searched it with the drug dogs and money dogs and found zilch.’
‘Where did the information come from?’
‘I believe it came from an informer. Turned out to be a wild goose chase,’ Pamela said. ‘I’ll call if we get anything else.’
✽ ✽ ✽
Eric Stott was reading the newspaper and drinking tea from a pint mug in the Empire Café. He always took his own mug and a newspaper in with him. The news was full of the copycat murders and the reign of terror imposed by Peter Moore in the nineties and by his modern day protégé. He remembered Moore being arrested as if it was yesterday. It was a long time ago but that’s how life goes by. Blink your eyes and suddenly you’re fifty, wondering where it all went. The murders were in late 1995— he was jailed after killing four men in as many months. It was big news in Holyhead back then. The small port town could lay claim that Wales’ only recorded serial killer owned and operated the local cinema. Everyone talked about buying a ticket for a film, a choc ice or a bag of Maltesers from the murderer, even if they hadn’t been there for years. There was a macabre excitement about having been close to him and some people milked it for all it was worth. Lots of people said they had known there was something not right about Moore. He was creepy and odd looking and so on and so on. Eric remembered Toy Story was released that November because he had bought a couple of pirate copies for his video shop and they were rented out for the following six weeks. He remembered Moore too, with his Nazi moustache and piercing eyes. It was always in the eyes.
Moore had been a freak of nature, but this copycat was far more twisted. What made someone wake up and want to copy that? There had to be something intrinsically wrong with the way their brain was wired. Were they born that way or did life twist them into something unholy? What turned them into monsters? Something germinated in his mind. It was an echo from the past; it prickled his conscience. There was a voice saying, what if…
CHAPTER 69
Gareth Pinter looked devastated. He looked like a rat in a trap, eyes frightened and darting here and there. Alan and Kim sat opposite him and his brief. Her name was Gilly Something, from a practice in Liverpool and she smelled like the perfume counter at Boots. There didn’t seem to be any single scent; it was a mingle of sweet and spice. Alan introduced themselves for the tape and then took off his jacket. He undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. Gilly Something was scribbling in her notebook. He wondered if she was reminding herself that her client was one of the biggest cannabis cultivators Wales had ever encountered and that she should put her hourly rate up. He could clearly afford to pay top dollar.
‘Okay, Gareth,’ Alan said. ‘I think we should put our cards on the table and let you see how much trouble you’re in.’ Gareth shrugged but didn’t speak. ‘The charges for commercial cultivation of cannabis will be significant and I’m right in saying you don’t deny growing it?’ He shrugged again. ‘I need you to speak for the tape, please. Do you deny growing cannabis on your farm at Caer Rhos?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Everything at the farm, including the buildings and contents will be seized while the investigation continues.’
‘Have you locked the house up?’
‘There are fifty police officers there,’ Alan said. ‘Your property will be secured when the search is completed.’
‘Make sure they do,’ Gareth said. ‘I’ll sue you if anything is broken.’
‘I think you’re underestimating how long you’re going to be locked up for, Gareth,’ Alan said, calmly. ‘There’s a dead body buried in your field. Can you tell me how Paul Critchley ended up buried on your land behind shed four?’
‘I don’t know,’ Gareth said. He became agitated. ‘That’s nothing to do with me. I haven’t killed anyone.’
‘He was beaten and tortured and then his throat was cut, and he was buried in your field.’
‘Not by me, he wasn’t.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘I knew of him.’
‘Did you know he was an informer?’
‘Everyone in town knew he was a grass,’ Gareth said. ‘That doesn’t mean they all wanted to kill him. He was no threat to me.’
‘You had more reason than most to remove a police informer.’
‘How do you work that one out?’
‘You had a huge operation. People like Critchley get people like you put inside.’
‘Critchley wasn’t Sherlock Holmes. He was a retard. He only ever repeated what he’d heard from someone else. Nobody trusted him. He would never have had a Scooby Doo about me or the farm.’
‘You seem to know a lot about him, suddenly.’
‘You hear bits and pieces. It’s a small town. I didn’t know the man.’
&nbs
p; ‘How did he end up on your farm then, coincidence?’
‘I don’t know. You’re the detective, work it out.’
‘Let’s say we believe you for a moment. Who else works on your farm?’
‘No comment.’ Gareth grinned. Behind the sarcastic grin was a frightened man, Alan could feel the fear and uncertainty oozing from every pore.
‘Lee Punk works for you. Roberts is his real name, right?’
‘No comment.’
‘Anyway, we’ve got Lee Roberts in custody. We’ll be interviewing him this afternoon. He looks very nervous indeed.’
‘I’ve never heard of him.’
‘Come on, Gareth. Do you think we were born yesterday?’ Alan asked. He sat back in his chair. ‘If you lie to us, the courts will throw away the key.’
‘No comment.’
‘Tell us what happened to Mike Jarvis and Patrick McGowan in the washroom?’
‘Who?’ Gareth frowned. He looked confused.
‘They were undercover Matrix officers from Merseyside. They were hung up from a bar by handcuffs and tortured at your farm.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Gareth said. ‘I grow weed. I don’t kill coppers. Do you think I would bring coppers to my own farm if I was going to kill them?’
‘Where else would you take them?’ Alan said. ‘It’s remote there. There’re no nosy neighbours to see or hear anything. You’ve been getting away with murder there for years, pardon the pun.’
‘Why would I want to kill policemen?’ Gareth asked. He blushed red, getting angry. ‘They’ve legalised the stuff I grow. It’s only a matter of time before the government are building farms like mine. I had nothing to do with their murders.’
‘I think you realised they were staying at your hotel, which is a front, and you panicked.’
‘No comment.’
‘You thought your money laundering operation was about to be uncovered so you kidnapped them, questioned them, and then threw them in the sea.’