The Anglesey Murders Box Set

by Conrad Jones

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I should say that they thought there was no rush. Get this number plate and the VIN number called in. Tell Google to run anyone connected to that van in any way ASAP. I want to know who owned it, who insured it, who borrowed it, and even who washed it!’ Alan paused and looked at the pond once more. A shiver ran down his spine. He looked at the dog handlers who were painstakingly searching a grid pattern around the farmhouse. One of them caught his eye and he waved them over.

  ‘What are you thinking, guv?’

  ‘I’m thinking where I would bury bodies on this land, especially if I had medical experience. I would know exactly what destroys DNA and trace evidence.’

  ‘Water.’ Kim followed his gaze to the pond.

  chapter 38

  Lloyd Jones had spent the night planning for today. The PO’s had told everyone that breakfast would be organised as normal with all three landings eating in the dining hall. B-Wing was off lockdown. It made doing time so much easier than being caged in an eight by four cage for twenty-three hours a day. Hours became days, days, weeks. Time dragged by so slowly in a cell. At least they could shower daily, get some fresh air, and socialise a little. Conversation could keep a man sane inside.

  Lloyd knew that despite Viktor Karpov being arrested, he wasn’t off the hook completely. The rest of the wing wouldn’t bother to act on a contract from a man looking at a life sentence but Karpov’s men would. Their families back at home would be looked after and their status in the organisation would be enhanced no end. He knew that they would try to get to him, especially Volkov. Volkov was a raving lunatic and he would come at him like a raging bull at a red flag. He wouldn’t be motivated by the money totally; he had taken things personally. Lloyd didn’t regret winding him up; if anything, it had been funny but with the doors opened, he had to be ready.

  He checked his watch. Ten minutes. A murmuring was growing louder across the landings. The inmates were restless; ready to be freed and ready to be fed. Lockdown had been a hard slog this time around, longer than usual. He finished listening to a Kings of Leon track on the radio and then turned it off. Unfastening the back, he removed the batteries, all six of them and slipped them into a sock. Then he slipped the sock inside another sock, reinforcing the material. He pushed the heavy batteries tightly into the toe and then fastened a knot in the foot to keep them in place. He felt the weight in his right hand and nodded. It was enough to do substantial damage to a human skull. Lloyd picked up his three biros and held them tightly in his right hand, taping them together with his left. He double-checked that the point of each pen was out and then slipped them into his back pocket. He stood up and faced the cell door and waited for it to be opened.

  chapter 39

  Javed Ahmed pulled up at the taxi rank and watched a scruffy man climb into his cab. He was wearing a baseball cap and a parka, like most of the men in the city his age. It was difficult to tell how old they were nowadays, drink and drugs made them look older but Botox and fillers made others look younger. The fact that middle-aged men now dressed like boys didn’t help, long-shorts, trainers and sportswear were standard issue. Javed studied his passenger in the mirror. When he had opened the door and climbed in, his expression had showed disdain. Javed saw it a dozen times a day. They didn’t have to say it; it was written on their faces. Oh no, not another Paki taxi driver! I’ve watched documentaries on you lot grooming young white girls … dirty bastards!

  The government and the press ranted and raved about racism and equality but it was mostly vote-winning bullshit. Javed was on the coalface. He saw racism every day of the week, every week of the year. It was there, entrenched in the British psyche. The multiple grooming and sexual abuse cases and the rise of radical Islam hadn’t helped and he understood that. But it wasn’t just racism against Muslims that he witnessed. He listened to customers ranting daily. Brexit this and Brexit that. Europeans trying to hold us hostage they are! I’d send them all back and tell them to fuck off!

  Javed used to try and engage in balanced conversation in the early days but racism isn’t balanced. Following the Manchester Arena bombing, one customer had reiterated the age-old adage, we should send the lot of them back where they came from! Javed tried to explain that many of the recent extremist attacks were perpetrated by British born Muslims, to which the customer replied, if a pig is born in a kennel, it doesn’t make it a dog, does it? Send them back to where their parents came from.

  Javed gave up at that point and tried hard not to have an opinion. It wasn’t worth the hassle, especially after five o’clock when most customers were intoxicated.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Javed asked, as they pulled into the traffic.

  ‘Caernarfon, Holiday Inn side,’ the man said. He was local. The accent was unmistakable. It had taken Javed years to understand the lingo. The accent was harsh and guttural and they spoke too quickly. If they were pissed, then forget it. He had told them to enter their postcode into the Satnav themselves a hundred times. It was an impossible task to understand them. ‘And don’t go the long way around either,’ the man added. The slur in his voice indicated that he had been drinking. ‘One of you lot tried to charge me a tenner last week. He was taking the piss!’

  ‘One of you lot?’ Javed repeated, quietly, wishing he didn’t need the money sometimes. He pulled up next to a bus and nodded a silent greeting to the driver. The driver looked away as if he wasn’t there. Javed looked at his passenger in the mirror. He was staring into his eyes, hatred or something similar burned in them. The thought of Del Makin paying someone to blow his head off sprung to mind like it did a dozen times an hour. Every customer was a potential assassin. He had his back to everyone permanently. It was such a vulnerable position. The police had reassured him that Makin wasn’t a major player in the city. If he had been, he wouldn’t have tried to kill Jones himself. He would have paid someone with more experience and skill to do it properly. Despite their assurances, he felt frightened but he knew that it would pass. The more time that went by without incident, the more likely the concern would fade.

  Javed put his headlights on and navigated his way through the traffic, using bus lanes where he could. It was a three-mile journey that would take twenty-minutes. The meter was clicking over and he knew that it was going to approach the ten-pound level before they stopped. His colleague had been right and honest with the fare. He sensed there would be trouble at the other end. It came before he had anticipated.

  chapter 40

  Lloyd stepped onto the landing and looked over the handrail. There were two guards on each tier as was the norm; hopelessly outnumbered. Matt caught his eye from the second tier and patted his pocket to let Lloyd know that he was tooled up. It was reassuring to know. There was no sign of Jack Howarth outside of his cell. Jack was a nonce but he was okay. He didn’t pretend to be anything but who he was. Lloyd felt a bit guilty. Not much but a bit. He had heard that his leg was badly broken in the fall. That would probably result in a loss of privileges for a while but what else could they do to him? He would tell the governor to shove his privileges up his massive arse hole.

  The prisoners were filing noisily towards the dining hall, descending the stairwells in some semblance of order. Only one man was walking against the flow. Volkov. There were shouts from below and two prisoners on the bottom tier began fighting. Lloyd didn’t know who they were but he had a hunch that they were Karpov men creating a diversion and sure enough, the guards on every landing left their posts to attend to the trouble before someone was injured badly or the fight spread to involve others and became uncontrollable.

  Volkov sensed that his time had come. He drew a shank that had been crafted from a radio handle. Tape covered one end, the other had been honed on the stone floors to a jagged edge. He held it up his sleeve and climbed the stairs to the top tier quickly, pushing smaller inmates out of the way as if they were children. As he reached the top tier, the other inmates had reached a frenzied pitch, cheering the figh
t below. Only a few had realised that it was only the prelim to the event that was about to take place on the top landing. Matt stopped walking and looked up to watch. He was one landing down on the opposite side of the wing. There wasn’t much he could do from there.

  Lloyd stopped and faced Volkov. He took out his makeshift club and waited. Volkov bared the blade and ran headlong at him. There wasn’t much room to manoeuvre on the landing but Lloyd managed to turn sideways and deflect the onrushing Russian into the wall. He fell sprawling onto the metal walkway, cracking his nose. Lloyd remained calm and set himself. Volkov regained his feet, wiped the blood from his nose and rushed at him again. This time Lloyd aimed his weapon and gauged it well. The battery filled sock cracked the Russian on top of his skull with sickening force. Blood sprayed up the walls. The blow was too powerful for the flimsy material and the sock ripped; batteries exploded from the rent clattering across the landing. The noise of metal on metal alerted the inmates to where the real action was and all eyes turned to the top tier. The volume increased to deafening levels. Volkov was stunned. He staggered forwards and Lloyd headbutted him with thunderous force. The Russian was stopped in his tracks and he fell to the floor, clutching his face. Blood poured between his fingers. He shook his head to clear his mind and tried to regain his feet. Lloyd was on him in a second, all the anger and frustration inside him exploded. He kicked the Russian in the face, landing on his jaw with incredible force. Volkov screeched in pain as his jaw was dislocated, the ligaments ripped from his skull. Fragments of teeth showered the landing, falling noisily onto the floors below. The Russian slashed at Lloyd with his blade, catching his cheek. A wicked gash opened and blood poured freely from it. Lloyd pulled out his biros and swung them in a lethal arc upwards at Volkov’s throat.

  ‘Jones! Don’t do it!’ Officer Clough shouted, rushing up the stairwell but it was too late. The improvised weapon penetrated the Russian’s throat and went up through the flesh into his mouth. Lloyd pushed the weapon harder forcing it up into the nasal cavity and into his brain. Volkov began to twitch violently as Lloyd lifted him off his feet and tossed him over the railings onto the nets where no first aid could reach him. Lloyd looked down at Matt, his face splattered with the Russian’s blood. He smiled and winked. Matt looked at him eyes widening, finger pointing. His mouth opened and he shouted a warning. Lloyd had begun to turn to look behind him when two razor blades cut through the side of his neck into the carotid artery. Arterial spray gushed from the wound like a crimson fountain, splattering the landing with blood. Lloyd collapsed against the wall, clutching at the gaping wound. His attacker, another of Karpov’s men, pulled his head back and slashed at his throat again and again, slicing the jugular veins. By the time the PO’s reached them, Lloyd Jones’s head was practically severed.

  chapter 41

  Javed indicated off the dock road into Beaumaris. The Beaumaris Eye was turning slowly, majestically spinning against the darkening sky. The north star was glinting above the Straits, soon to be joined by a trillion others. It would be dark within the hour.

  ‘Is that meter on double time, Taliban?’

  ‘What did you call me?’ Javed asked, enraged. He slammed on the brakes. Crowds were gathering outside the castle five-hundred yards to his left. This part of the town was quiet and he could stop on the cobbled road without causing an accident. He turned to face the man. ‘You are a racist!’

  ‘There’s no need to freak out,’ the man said, laughing. ‘You want to be careful. You’re trying to rip me off in my own town. I was born and bred here. I know how much it is from town to the docks and it isn’t a tenner!’

  ‘I am not trying to rip you off,’ Javed said, trying to remain calm. ‘You can see that everything is done by the meter. I do not set the meter. The council sets the meter.’

  ‘Whatever,’ the man said. The heavens opened and rain began to bounce from the pavements. ‘My car is over there.’ He pointed to a small car park next to the canal lock. ‘Take me over there and you can stick the tenner. Robbers usually wear a mask. Cheeky bastard,’ he muttered.

  Javed turned the cab around and pulled into the car park. It was dark and unlit and he didn’t feel comfortable. He parked as close to the road as he could. Across the canal, crowds were drifting beneath the huge Ferris Wheel, queuing at food stalls and bars. The meter read just over ten pounds. He turned around and took the ten-pound note from the man and then released the lock to allow him to open the door. He just wanted him out of the cab. Fifty-pence wasn’t worth arguing about.

  ‘Keep the change, knobhead,’ the man said, slamming the door.

  Javed took a deep breath and turned the taxi around. He waited for the man to get into his car and drive off before he moved. He thought about reporting him to the police for drink driving but decided that he couldn’t be bothered. Karma would bite him on the arse one day. Every action has a reaction. He relaxed as the man turned onto the coast road and mingled with the traffic. A knock on the window startled him. A woman with a baby in a pram was huddled against the pouring rain. She smiled and mouthed ‘are you free?’

  He nodded and opened his door to help her to get the buggy into the vehicle. She opened the rear door and stood back. Javed lifted the buggy up the step and fastened it into place with a safety belt. He glanced at the child and realised too late that it was a doll. Before he could register the thought, Lucy Makin blew his brains all over the back of his cab.

  chapter 42

  one week later

  Alan was standing in front of a bank of digital screens. He was leaning against a desk. His legs felt weary. Over sixty detectives had been summoned to the briefing. The discovery of bodies at the farm had attracted national and international press coverage. The senior brass and the Home Secretary were pestering constantly for news of progress. Their interest was hampering, not helping, the situation. Images from the farmhouse flashed before them as he spoke.

  ‘Nineteen bodies have been recovered so far. All of them were buried in a ditch next to this pond. We think they used a JCB or similar to excavate the trench deep enough to be below water level. They dug the trench long enough that it could be used multiple times. The bodies were dumped into it, covered in quicklime and buried. Because they were below the waterline, eventually they became immersed in water too. Between the quicklime and the water, there isn’t much left to examine. There certainly won’t be DNA trace, although we should be able to identify most of them if we can get a match against what we have.’

  He turned to look at the gathering. They were focused on his every word, their expressions grim.

  ‘We know that the farm was used to manufacture kiddie-porn on an industrial scale. We also know that the doctor who rented the place died suddenly, leaving those girls trapped in the cellar.’

  ‘I thought you had ruled him out?’ someone asked. They had been drafted in that day.

  ‘I need you all to get up to speed as quickly as possible,’ Alan said, standing up. ‘The death certificate was entered onto the system as swine flu by an admin clerk. When we traced the original notes, he was killed by a heart attack brought on by swine flu. Dr Ian Thomas is our prime suspect but we know from the tapes that he didn’t work alone. We have a team working through every tape crosschecking the offenders with our database. Some of the men wore masks so we’re trying to match tattoos, scars, moles, freckles, and the like. You all appreciate how long this will take.’ The gathering nodded. ‘In the meantime, the laptops have given up over a hundred email addresses. The UK clients are being traced and rounded up as we speak. Everything else has been passed on to Europol and the NCA.’ He paused. ‘We have teams trawling through the victims’ backgrounds trying to find a link between them. Why them?’ Alan asked, pointing to the screens. ‘How did they target their victims?’

  ‘We have checked the families that we have identified and none of them were on the doctor’s lists, either at the hospital or at the surgery,’ Kim added.

  ‘Guv,’ Google inte
rrupted excitedly. He had entered the MIT office in a fluster, wearing an anorak and a beanie hat. ‘I’ve got something on the Transit.’ He looked around the room and realised that the entire gathering was looking at him. He blushed and took off his coat. Alan waited for him to compose himself.

  ‘Take your time,’ he said, calmly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You were right about it being stripped to mask its history.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The number plates were stolen from another van which was reported stolen in ninety-five but the VIN number was kosha. I went back through the previous owners and one name jumped out.’

  ‘Don’t keep us in suspense,’ Alan joked, a flutter of hope in his guts.

  ‘The van was owned by Lloyd Jones from ninety-six to ninety-nine. After that it was never taxed or insured.’

  ‘Lloyd Jones?’ Alan repeated, incredulously. He looked at Kim. Kim shrugged and shook her head. ‘For those of you who aren’t familiar with him, we locked him up last month for two gang related murders. He was attacked and killed in HMP Berwyn a week ago.’ Alan sighed and looked at the ceiling. Another dead end beckoned, literally. ‘I don’t believe Jones was involved in that. It just doesn’t fit.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Google interrupted. ‘But there’s more.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Alan asked, confused.

  ‘He had three named drivers on the insurance, one of them has form for sex offences.’ Google paused and pulled out his information from a folder. ‘A nonce that we locked up two years ago for grooming.’

  ‘Jack Howarth,’ Alan and Google said at the same time.

  ‘Where is he now?’ Alan asked, excitedly.