by Conrad Jones
The stinging sensation was so bad my eyes felt like they had acid in them. My airways constricted and I couldn’t catch my breath, and the skin on my hands and face was on fire. Debilitated is not the word. I was out of the game completely. I was rolling around my lawn, coughing and spluttering when the officer dropped his knee onto the back of my skull. I heard Big Gordon shouting, his voice mingled with Officer Wright’s, and the first kick in the head landed. White light flashed through my brain and I felt like I was going to choke to death. The second kick sent me to a world of darkness and pain.
CHAPTER 8
In the Cells
The journey to Ysbyty Gwynedd hospital was a blur. I was handcuffed to a policeman and my wrist was twisted at an awkward angle. The paramedic rinsed my eyes and skin with something, but the burning sensation didn’t wane. My eyes streamed and, my throat felt like I had swallowed glass; my head felt like it would explode. I couldn’t help but wonder what I had done to deserve this. Was the police officer mad, or was I? I know I’m not everyone’s cup of tea and can wind people up sometimes, but I genuinely didn’t believe I had done anything wrong. I knew categorically I hadn’t done anything wrong. Something else was going on. I could only feel grateful that Officer Wright had attended the scene or things could have been even worse.
At the hospital they cleaned my eyes again and bathed my hands and face. They checked me for signs of concussion and X-rayed my skull before giving me the green light to be handed over to the police. They cuffed me and put me into the back of a patrol car and drove me to the cells. Brilliant – kicked senseless and handcuffed for my troubles. The highlight of my day thus far was chatting to one of my escorts about my books. He’d read all of them during a two-week holiday in Turkey. Interestingly, he let slip that Knowles had been investigated before. He also told me that the warden’s injured arm had raised a few eyebrows at the hospital. The doctor informed the police that the wound had been caused by a thin sharp blade, like a Stanley knife, and was definitely not caused by a dog. That information made me feel relieved that Evie Jones was off the hook, but it was almost incomprehensible that the woman had gone to so much trouble to set me up.
They processed me as any other criminal would be. They took my belongings from my pockets and the chain from my neck and bagged them with my wallet and mobile. The desk sergeant asked me to remove my belt and shoes and then they put me in a urine-stinking cell. There was a stainless-steel toilet in one corner and a thin rubber mattress in the other. There was graffiti on the tiles near a narrow window high on the wall. Apparently, ‘Paul Howarth takes it up the arse.’ The cell door was painted navy blue, and as it slammed closed it seemed to be fifty feet thick. I sat down and tried to make sense of it all. If I’m honest, I was so frustrated that I felt like crying. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I must have done because the next thing I remember was waking up with my neck at a painful angle against the wall.
The police were looking into the incidents and keeping me locked up while they talked to officers Wright and Knowles. I had seen plenty of police cells before, but I could always walk out of them when the job was finished and being locked in one is no fun at all. I had an idea of how innocent men who are convicted of crimes they didn’t commit must feel: completely helpless. I remember a friend, a prison officer, taking me into the punishment block of the prison where he worked. I can’t name it as I shouldn’t have been there. They showed me the strip cell, which was for prisoners who had lost the plot. As I stepped in to look at it, they closed the cell door and locked me in. It was funny for five minutes, then it wasn’t funny anymore. This time around it wasn’t a jest; this was the real deal. I was locked up for something I hadn’t done, and the system had started its process; once the process has started, there’s nothing you do except wait and trust that justice will prevail.
That afternoon and night dragged by. I was half sleeping and half awake. The sound of drunks yelling and kicking their cell doors added to the madness of it all. They held me in a police cell against my will, but what can you do if a police officer lies? The truth is, nothing. They can frame you and throw away the key. The warden was a responsible member of the community making allegations of assault against Evie Jones and me, and Officer Knowles was accusing me of attacking him. Who would they believe? As I contemplated trying to explain myself to a judge, I heard footsteps approaching and the metallic grind of the lock opening.
Sergeant Peter Strachan put his head around the door. I was pleased to see him, to say the least.
‘What have you been up to?’ He smiled, but there was concern in his eyes.
‘I think I pissed someone off,’ I replied. My throat was still sore and talking was difficult. Peter handed me a cup of weak tea and a bag, which contained my belongings. I gulped the tepid liquid down. ‘I didn’t do anything, Peter. I honestly don’t have a clue what’s going on.’
‘Officer Wright and your big friend, the taxi driver, have backed up your story.’ Peter smiled.
‘Thank heavens for that,’ I said.
‘What can you remember?’
‘Not much to be honest.’ I sipped the tea noisily. The liquid eased my throat a little. ‘There was a bit of a row at the beach with some jobsworth warden who accused me of not picking up dog shit, and the entire thing got out of hand. When I got home, your lot arrived. Officer Wright was sound, but Officer Knowles kicked off for no reason and tried to make it look like I was being aggressive. I wasn’t. He’s a nutter. I can’t believe he’s a police officer. Did they tell you what he did the night before?’
‘It’s the talk of the station at the moment. They’ve suspended him from duty. It took three officers to pull your mate Gordon off him.’ He laughed. ‘Tell me what happened when he pulled you over.’ Peter sat down on the mattress next to me, a look of concern on his face.
‘I was on the way home from the hospital and Knowles pulled me over for no reason.’
‘When, after we met at Denbigh?’
‘Yes.’ I drained the tea and looked around for somewhere to put the empty cup. Cells are short on coffee tables, so I opted for the floor. ‘I was hungry when I left so I went for a burger and coffee.’
‘Where did he follow you from?’
‘I can’t be sure. As I crossed the bridge, he pulled me over. He asked me where I’d been and he had a real nasty attitude on him, but after a bit of arsing around I told him I’d been at Denbigh Hospital with you. He had a real bad attitude. He said you were an idiot and that you didn’t realise how much shit you were in. What did he mean by that?’
‘I have no idea. I hardly know the man, Conrad,’ Peter frowned, but he didn’t look confused. There was something else which flickered in his eyes. Maybe it was fear, maybe it was anger; I’ll never know. ‘What else did he say?’
‘He told me to leave the investigation alone or I would regret it. He told me my life depended on it.’ I swallowed hard and watched the expression on his face. He wasn’t giving much away. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Not a clue. Sounds a bit dramatic,’ Peter scoffed. ‘Did he mention Fabienne Wilder?’ His eyes focused on mine, reading my response. It was my turn to be confused this time.
‘No. He didn’t mention Fabienne but, he did mention the other girl,’ I said. ‘Pauline Holmes. He said that we both knew they were connected and that we should leave it alone. Whatever that meant.’
‘Then what?’ he asked.
‘Then he spat in my face, ran back to his car, and drove away,’ I shrugged. It was all getting on top of me. I wanted to go home. ‘The next thing is the beach warden kicked off and Officer Knowles was at my gate with his pepper spray and I ended up in here via Ysbyty Gwynedd.’
‘I don’t know what’s going on, but there have been some very strange things happening since the Holmes murder and most of them involve Knowles.’ Peter shook his head and frowned. ‘We won’t mess around with bad coppers, Conrad. He’ll be sorted out; you mark my words.’
‘
I’m glad to hear that. He’s the type who gives the force a bad name; as for what’s been going on, ‘strange’ is not a good enough description for the last twenty-four hours. I feel like I’ve woke up in the twilight zone.’
‘Yeah, well, the Wilder girl seems to be rattling a few cages upstairs. The top brass want her charged and moved,’ he said. ‘To be honest, the doctor still can’t give us straight answer about Fabienne’s state of mind; he can’t tell if she’s giving him the run around or if she’s away with the fairies. It isn’t going well.’
‘I thought you said it was open and shut.’ I coughed; my throat burning. I needed another drink.
‘Yeah, didn’t I just? We got the report back from forensics and it was the victim’s blood on her face and hands, no doubt about it. We have positively identified the victim. She was Caroline Stokes. She was a twenty-year-old hooker from Wrexham.’ Peter shrugged. ‘The problem we have is there was no blood on Fabienne’s clothes, which backs up her version of events that she found the victim and tried to help. Whoever killed Stokes would have been covered in blood.’
‘What has Fabienne Wilder said since we left?’ I threaded my belt through my jeans and fastened it. I feel vulnerable without a belt, as if my pants would fall down. Putting my keys and phone in my pockets almost made me feel human again. I was gagging for a shower and some proper sleep.
‘Well, she keeps asking to talk to you, which is complicating things. My governor has gone apeshit that she was told you’d be there. She’s ranting about a group called the ‘Order of Nine Angels’. She’s rattling on about one of your books which mentions them.’ Peter looked into my eyes as he said their name. ‘that’s what the governor wanted your help with. You’ve written about them, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. Many times. I call them Niners.’ I think Peter already knew the answer to that question. He was as subtle as a brick. ‘I used a similar cult in my second book, but I changed their name. And then I alluded to them in The Child Taker.’ Peter looked confused; the significance of the name change was lost on him. ‘Since then, they’re in several more.’
‘She says they killed the Stokes woman to convert one of them into a feeder, whatever that is. We haven’t got a clue what she’s talking about and she won’t elaborate.’
‘You have to understand that there are different levels of crazy among the Niners. Some are just along for the ride and stay on the periphery, but others go in much deeper,’ I said, wondering if he would believe a word I said about them. It’s a difficult concept to grasp. ‘To become a feeder, they have to feed on a victim’s blood at the time of death.’
‘Like a vampire?’ Peter said, eyebrows raised in surprise.
‘Yes. Cannibalism is recorded as far back as written records go. The truth is, it probably goes back way further.’ He stared at me blankly; his detective’s poker face showing no reaction. ‘What exactly did she say about the Nine Angels?’ I asked. I was uncomfortable talking about it in a police cell for obvious reasons; not everyone in uniform could be trusted.
‘She said that they killed Caroline Stokes. They were trying to initiate one of their members because she has the ability to see things.’
‘Sees things?’ I repeated. I had read about seers among O9A. They were gifted with an increased sense of perception. Not psychic; that would be silly, but perceptive. Very perceptive.
‘Yep. What she sees is beyond me. She’s babbling most of the time. We’ve had a toxin screen done and she’s clean. There are no drugs in her system. She’s obviously mad as a hatter, but she’s drug free. I don’t get this angels and angles crap. Let’s pretend I’m an idiot,’ he said. ‘Give me the idiots guide to what they’re all about.’
‘I’ve researched the Nine ‘Angles’ more than Nine Angels, but they’re all from the same mould. There are literally dozens of similar cults but they’re the real deal.’ I walked out of the cell and pulled on my boots. They were outside the door as if I had left them there to keep the cell floor clean before I went to bed. As I glanced around, there were half a dozen pairs of men’s shoes and a pair of red stilettos neatly placed next to the cell doors. It looked like it had been a busy night for the custody sergeant.
‘You have looked into both, though?’ Peter frowned. ‘So, what’s the difference?’ He was a nice bloke, trying to understand a nonsensical concept. I’m no mastermind, but my writing requires all kinds of research into all kinds of things. I’m lucky because my mind retains information; if I read something that I’m interested in, I can remember it word for word. I remembered the ‘Nine Angles’ well from researching my second novel, but their information was dated. The newer sites and more recent postings were related to the Nine Angels. I researched them in-depth.
‘Well, there are two distinct groups.’ I finished sorting my belongings out as I answered. Peter wanted answers, but I wanted to taste fresh air again. ‘Can we get out of here now and talk on the way?’
‘Let’s walk to the custody desk and get you released.’ Peter patted me on the back. I flinched. There were obviously bruises there. ‘We can talk in the car.’
Peter led the way through from the cells to the custody suite. There were curious looks here and there from his fellow officers, or maybe I was being paranoid. I think I had every reason to be.
‘Look, I’ll tell you what, we’ve just got a warrant to go around and check out her place,’ Peter said, lowering his voice. ‘Why don’t you come?’
‘I’m very tired and sore. Do they want to take a statement from me before I leave?’ I asked. I couldn’t face a detailed interview. I was knackered, but I was at the mercy of the police force. They would be waiting to see if their officer was guilty of a serious assault; I was hoping that interviewing me at that point was premature.
‘No, the warden has dropped her allegations. The wound on her arm wasn’t caused by a dog. She’s been interviewed for wasting police time,’ Peter said quietly. ‘The governor wants to gather all the information first. I think there’s more going on here than we know about.’ He didn’t expand. ‘Do you want to come to Fabienne’s flat or are you too tired?’
‘I’m interested enough to wait a few more hours for my bed,’ I agreed eagerly. Too eagerly maybe, but the girl intrigued me, and I wanted to see inside her mind. I thought that a visit to her home might provide some sort of insight into who she was.
The custody sergeant was a portly man in his fifties, probably serving the last few years of his career behind the safety of a Perspex screen. He ignored us just long enough to let us know who was in charge.
‘You’re being released without charge, pending further investigation, Mr Jones,’ he said chirpily. ‘If you sign that you’ve had all your belongings back, Sergeant Strachan can show you the way out.’
‘I would normally say thank you, but under the circumstances it doesn’t seem to be appropriate,’ I replied, equally as chirpily. ‘But you can’t tar everyone with the same brush, so thank you anyway.’ I signed the form without reading it and handed it to him with a half-smile. The custody sergeant eyed me coolly and went back to his computer screen without another word. Peter grabbed my elbow and ushered me towards the door before I could do any more damage.
We left the cellblock and the fresh air smelled good. Although the station is situated in Caernarfon, the air was as good as it is in the heart of Snowdonia, although the cloying scent of urine lingered in my nostrils for a while. We climbed into Peter’s silver Citroën and headed out of the compound. It was a sporty hatchback, which looked like most of the other sporty hatchbacks on the road apart from the Citroën logo on the bonnet.
‘The SOCO team have been in her flat all morning. I hope they’ll be finished by now and we can have a snoop around,’ he said as we pulled into the traffic. A bus was pulling out of the station as we drove by. The line of black cabs outside was shortening slowly as passengers emerged with their suitcases. Life was trundling along normally for most people; it was my world which had spiralled into th
e bizarre.
‘Do you mind if I pick your brains about these Satan worshippers on the way?’ Peter asked, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. I didn’t know as much about them then as I do now, but I knew a lot more than Peter and his colleagues. Had I known what I know now, I would have run a mile.
‘I can tell you what I learnt from my research, although there are far more knowledgeable people out there than me and a rack of books on the subject.’ I shrugged. ‘I can tell you what I do know: these groups are widespread but fractured. There are dozens of groups who publish information online about their culture and beliefs, and you can take it for granted that there are dozens more individuals and small groups that aren’t using the Internet. They’re the dangerous ones.’
‘How so?’ Peter tried to look interested, but I could tell that he wasn’t grasping the subject. His superior had told him to ask me a few questions about it, but I could tell that Peter had already made up his mind about the girl.
‘Their axiom is ‘Do as thou wilt’, which basically means do what you want. They encourage indulgence as opposed to abstinence, to cut a long story short; their goal is chaos and anarchy beyond the normal boundaries of society.’
‘Sounds like a punk rock band from the seventies,’ Peter scoffed.
‘You’re not far off the mark there with some of these people.’ I laughed because I knew what I was talking about. Peter threw me a puzzled glance. ‘Look, there are as many anti-satanic websites as there are pro-satanic. I remember one that I looked at will always stick in my mind, godhatesgoths.com.’ I waited for Peter’s expression to change but it didn’t. ‘You know what goths are, right?’