The Anglesey Murders Box Set

by Conrad Jones

  Dutroux was unemployed and receiving state benefits, but he regularly received deposits of tens of thousands of dollars in his bank accounts. After tracing the money trails, five additional people were arrested. Some were charged with abduction and illegal imprisonment of children. Others were arrested on suspicion of criminal association. One man was a Brussels born businessman, Jean-Michel Nihoul (I don’t mind naming him. I hope he rots). He confessed that he had organised satanic sex parties in various Belgian castles with many VIPs as guests, including the judge who led the initial investigation. Judge Connerotte was dismissed from his position as a judge on 14th October.

  In December of the same year, Belgian newspaper La Derniere Heure published a guest list of the attendees at a satanic gathering in a Belgian chateau. The orgy included judges, senior politicians, lawyers, police officers, and a former European Commissioner. There it was in black and white. My proof was there. It wasn’t supposition or idle gossip; it was hard evidence used to convict a murdering rapist and his associates.

  My interest in the sinister way began there, and in hindsight I wish I’d never stumbled across Dutroux. The thing is, I still wasn’t convinced that their gatherings were about worshipping Satan or any other evil deity. I believed that it was about perverted sex. I thought that it was a group of paedophiles indulging themselves with others who shared their sick fantasies. My initial assessment of the whole thing was that it wasn’t about religion, it was about child abuse. I was wrong about them. I underestimated them as just sexual deviants, but I was to learn quickly that my initial assessment was wrong.

  CHAPTER 2

  Nine Angels

  The first time I encountered the occult in person was two years after The Child Taker was published. The book wasn’t about the occult, but I did allude to them when talking about child trafficking and organised paedophile rings. It hadn’t occurred to me that the book would bring them unwanted attention and make me a target. Anyway, that night, when I looked outside, a thunderstorm was brewing. The moon was shining and illuminated the clouds with hues of silver as they floated silently across the night sky. Does that sound like I’m writing teenage horror? Probably, but this is not a pale imitation of those books about handsome vampires and beautiful virgins which plague the bestseller lists. If you’re expecting fur and fangs, tales of vampires and werewolves battling for the heart of a sullen teenage beauty, then you will be disappointed. There is no happy ending here, no wooden stake to drive through their hearts while they sleep, and no silver bullet. The evil I’ve encountered is real; its insidiousness has spread through society and its reach is truly shocking.

  When it all began, it was a dark and stormy night, but there was no howling in the distance, just the sound of traffic drifting from the harbour and the occasional whine of an ambulance siren. It was a night like any other. It might not be the ideal way to begin a horror story or a book about zombies, but this is not fantasy; the victims and their murders are well documented. The perpetrators are human but monsters, nonetheless. They appear normal; they bleed and they breathe. They have families and they go to work every day. The good thing is that they can be killed like us, but they are many and because of exposing them in my books, they’re coming for me.

  Those of you that have read my books before will know my name. I’m Conrad Jones, author of fictional thrillers. I’ll be fifty-four years old in July, if I live that long. I genuinely do not believe that I will. They cannot let me live because I brought them so much attention and many of them were arrested. I know their secret and I’m prepared to tell it. I know what they do, and I’m going to write this book about it and tell the world. People will look for them on the Internet and find them in seconds. Be careful not to abuse them in their chat rooms they monitor them and trace IP addresses; their websites are written by intelligent, articulate people and that makes them dangerous enemies.

  They call us ‘normal’ people, the ‘mundane’, and in their minds we are sheep that can be abused, slaughtered, or sacrificed as they choose. Their websites describe in detail how to live the sinister way and avoid detection from their neighbours and friends. The more chaos they cause, the greater their standing within the group. If they commit evil, then it has to be proven. That’s where the Press comes in. If their crimes are reported, their status is elevated. Their sites teach how to acquire a subject, slaughter them for ritual and make the body disappear. If the victim is random, that’s fine, but if it’s someone who has turned away from them or tried to expose them, then that has added kudos.

  By now you will be wondering if I’m a rambling fruitcake or whether you have bought a fantasy book. If you’re unsure, then google them now before you read on. I challenge you to; google O9A.org right now and you will see this is fact. You will find them as ‘Nine Angles’ and ‘Nine Angels’, and you will see they’re spread across the globe and they use the Internet as well as any international organisation does. There are even some Facebook pages dedicated to them and their followers, although I would question the intelligence of those who openly affiliate themselves with such dark arts. The Facebook members are wannabees in my opinion. None of the hardcore nexions would be stupid enough to link their profiles with such nonchalance. It would be akin to joining a paedophile fan page. The Internet is an amazing place to meet people of a similar ilk, whether looking for customers, friends or, in their case, other evil folk, and for the majority of the time it’s anonymous. They will try to stop me finishing this book, and if they find me, they will kill me. It’s just a matter of time before they track me down; you see, you cannot hide from them forever, because they’re everywhere.

  I found the Nine Angels by accident that first night. At the time, I was writing my tenth book and watching the clock tick by between chapters. Time seems to warp when I write a story. I go into my mental bubble and time flies by at speed. I look at the clock, and then write. When I look again, the hands have whizzed around as if I’ve been sleeping. I can only describe creating a book as dreaming while awake. Have you ever had those dreams that feel so vivid that you can feel real emotions during them, even when you’re almost awake? If you have, then that’s the place I go to when I write. It can be a dark and lonely place.

  I like to watch thunderstorms, and on the night in question I had the curtains open so that I could watch the lightning flash across the sky, as thousands of volts forked towards the earth. I went to Jamaica once with an ex-girlfriend, and at about two o’clock every afternoon it rained without fail. Not great for sunbathing, but the tropical storms at night were incredible to watch. The power of Mother Nature is astounding.

  Sorry, I’m drifting again, but these minor details all add credence to the story. As I said, I loved watching lightning back then. It’s different now, though, because I know they’re out there. I know they’re searching for me, and storms make me feel uneasy now; I associate the start of this nightmare with the thunderstorm that night. Anyway, as I was writing, I was tapping away on my laptop when there was a huge flash. It was as if a giant firework had exploded outside the window. Seconds later, there was a second flash and I counted in my mind as I waited for the imminent thunder to follow. One, two, bang, and I could feel the deep rumble vibrating in my chest. The storm was directly overhead, and Evie Jones was shaking like a leaf. She is a beautiful, brindle Staffie with a white throat and chest. In the summer, her stripes are gold like a tiger’s. She sits next to me when I write, her head on my thigh, waiting for the odd tummy tickle between chapters. Fireworks and thunder are the only things I’ve seen which make her tremble with fear.

  As the storm roared overhead, I was stuck on a chapter of my book and I needed to research something on the Internet. I decided to top up my red wine before logging on and searching for the information I needed. I walked into the kitchen, which is a long room with fitted cupboards on either wall. Two huge windows look out over Craig-y-mor and Trearddur Bay and the mountains on the Llyn peninsula. The windows and the view make it a bright, hap
py room in the daylight hours. I looked at the clock on the wall and it seemed as if it had flown round again. I topped up my glass of merlot and thought about having a cigarette at the back door, but my partner at the time hated me smoking and she could smell my indulgence from a mile away, so I decided against it.

  Anyway, with a full glass of wine I went back to writing my thriller. I was writing a chapter about a prostitute murdered by her pimp and I wanted to look at some real cases on the Internet. Factual events inspire all the books I write. As I searched for murder cases similar to my imaginary scenario, a photograph loaded, which took my interest immediately. The piece I found was a newspaper article from a few months earlier and it contained a black-and-white photograph of a murdered girl. It looked innocent enough, but my nightmare began with that picture. The article said that there were signs that the murder was ritualistic.

  The picture was a close up of her face. She had the most striking looks: her skin was black; she had full thick lips and pencilled eyebrows that gave her a surprised look; her hair was ebony, almost jet, and she tied it up over her ears as if she wanted to keep it under control. Because the photograph is black and white, you can’t tell what colour her eyes are, other than that they’re dark, nearly black. At first, I thought the picture quality was poor, but they were not dark brown. They were pure black, as black as the night. I’ve been to Africa many times, but I’ve never seen eyes so black or a woman so pretty. The murdered girl had been incredibly beautiful. Her eyes stared out of the screen straight at me, accusingly. In my memory of her, she still accuses me; of what, I can’t be sure.

  The name of the girl was Pauline Holmes, but in the following weeks I found out that she was not born with that name. She was nineteen when she died. I’ve put her picture and a copy of the story onto a memory stick. If they find me before I finish this book, the location of all the files and my diaries are in my computer and stored elsewhere on file-sharing websites. I’ve tagged them all with auto-send. If I disappear and don’t cancel the send commands, they’ll automatically go to dozens of reputable reporters. It’s the only way to be sure the story is told.

  The original article has disappeared now. They removed it from the Internet and the newspaper initially denied that they ever printed the story. The truth came out in the end, but that was an example of how powerful they are. They’re everywhere, in every walk of life and in the halls of power across the planet. That’s why I know they’ll find me eventually. I’m now a fugitive from the law, but I can’t turn myself in. I would be a sitting duck. People died at my house and others have died since. Would anyone believe it was self-defence? I doubt it. They blame me.

  As I said, it was raining, and a storm was overhead. After reading about Pauline Holmes, I wanted to know more about the case as the report was vague and the details sketchy. I wanted to find out as much as I could about her background. I knew that if I went to bed, I wouldn’t sleep because the book was on my mind. That’s what happens when I write. The next chapters are lining up in my mind while my body screams at me for rest, but my brain won’t allow it to. Sometimes when I wake, the next few chapters of a book are there in my mind. That gift may stop one day, until then, I’ll write.

  I looked out of the window as I scrolled through the phonebook on my Samsung. The trees were bending, and the wheelie bins were being blown across the car park. Trearddur Bay is the windiest place on the island, yet Anglesey council insists we use recycling trolleys. I would lose at least three trolleys a year to the wind.

  Anyway, I text-messaged an old friend, Peter, to see if he was working. The display on the screen said it was three in the morning. Peter is a local police detective with whom I’m friendly. Before I became a writer, I was an area manager for McDonald’s, and Peter was a young assistant manager when we first met. In his early twenties, he left the burger giant and joined the North Wales Police. Peter married his teenage sweetheart, Susan, who was the sister of three brothers, who all worked for McDonald’s at the time, and we would see each other frequently at christenings and weddings, stag dos and birthday parties.

  We often talked about my books and I used to quiz him about police procedure, if I needed to add clarity to a chapter. I’d talked to him earlier in the week to enquire about her case as the article mentioned she was killed on the island. He told me she’d been found in a, secluded woods close to the inland sea. At that point, he didn’t mention any signs that it was a ritualistic murder. He said that he was working late and that if I had any questions to get in touch. Peter messaged back and said he was free to talk. Excited, I rang him.

  ‘Hi, Peter, I know it’s late, but you said to call you back about the Holmes girl.’

  ‘You’re up late or is it early for you?’ Peter yawned. ‘I’m just finishing, so it’s late for me.’

  ‘I’ve been working all day, so it’s late for me too.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Well, whatever you’re prepared to tell me, really.’ I knew there were limits to what he could tell me. ‘I’m interested in her background. I want to understand how a young woman like her ends up working the streets before being murdered in a woods.’ Of course, I really wanted to ask about the ritual side of the murder, but I didn’t want to charge in and appear rude.

  ‘How do you know she was a working girl?’ he asked. ‘We’ve withheld that.’

  ‘Not from Facebook, you haven’t. You know what gossip is like here. It’s a small town.’

  ‘Bloody social media. It will be the death of me. You know the score with the details that I can give you, right?’ Peter turned serious. We were not at a party now, where a few pints loosened his tongue and his professionalism wobbled. There had been many times previous when he had told me details that were not in the public domain. ‘You’re not going to use any names, are you?’

  ‘No, this is purely for a fictional story. I just want depth to her past and to make sure I get police procedure right.’ That was the truth, but there also a morbid curiosity about the occult connection driving me.

  ‘It’s a weird one, Conrad,’ he said. She went missing down south two years ago, joined a cult and then decided she didn’t want to play that game anymore. There were a few brief calls to her parents and the police, and then she disappeared again. The next time she came onto the radar, she was working the truck stops in North Wales.’

  ‘She definitely joined a cult?’ My mind tingled. ‘What type of cult?’

  ‘How many types are there?’ Peter laughed but there was no mirth in it.

  ‘Hundreds,’ I said. ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘Apparently, it was satanic. She was into some kind of devil worshipping; whatever that is,’ Peter said sarcastically. ‘The Met don’t think it was anything heavy. She got mixed up with some goths and disappeared for a few months before contacting her parents to ask for some money.’

  ‘So, how did she come to your attention here?’ I asked, ignoring his remark about goths. Most people think that it’s purely to do with music, but my research had taught me otherwise. There are many groups campaigning to have goth websites monitored by the police because of the influence they were having on their teenagers; many suicides were being linked to their negative effect. I had no idea why she’d left them; I was curious why she’d moved so far north. ‘Was she running from something?’

  ‘We don’t know much about her. She was picked up for soliciting in Llandudno a few months ago. She gave a false name, but when her prints came back, she was on the system as Pauline Holmes.’

  ‘Did they tie it up with the missing person’s report?’

  ‘Yes, they did, but it was too late; they connected it after she’d been released. Uniform released her once she’d been charged, but when the missing person’s report flagged up, they tracked her down.’

  ‘Where was she?’

  ‘On the same street corner, they’d arrested her on.’

  ‘That’s not very bright. I wonder why she went straigh
t back?’

  ‘Most of them do, Conrad,’ he explained. ‘Drugs, drink, violent pimps, the reasons go on and on.’

  ‘So, when they found her, did they take her in again?’

  ‘No,’ Peter scoffed. ‘There’s no point. They had a chat with her about the missing person report, but she said she wasn’t missing and didn’t want to be contacted by her family and that was the end of that. We have to respect her wishes as an adult. The next time we came across Pauline Holmes, she was a murder victim.’

  ‘That’s a very sad story. I wonder why she didn’t want to be found?’ I asked. I didn’t understand her rationale. ‘She sounds like a mixed-up kid.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it. We’re still waiting for forensics to tell us if it’s actually the same Pauline Holmes on the missing person report.’

  ‘How come?’ I didn’t understand why they couldn’t just check the fingerprints.

  ‘Working girls use different names all the time, Conrad.’ Peter sounded matter of fact again. Sometimes he sounded patronising. ‘The prints on file down south match hers, but we have no proof that the original prints actually belong to the Pauline Holmes who is missing.’

  ‘How will you confirm it is her, DNA?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long will the DNA take?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, mate. She was reported missing to the Met, ended up in Plymouth and then she was found dead on our patch. There are three forces involved now and none of them can invest the time and resources to identify a dead brass.’

  ‘Politics?’ I said. ‘She might have been on the game but she’s still someone’s daughter.’