The Anglesey Murders Box Set

by Conrad Jones

  I was soaked, my muscles ached, and I knelt on all fours, gasping for air. Sweat mingled with the rain. It poured down my face and trickled down my back. As I looked at the dead farmer, I felt bile rising in my throat and my stomach launched its contents back up the way it had come. I retched until there was nothing left, and the stomach acid stung the back of my throat. In the space of a few days, the world had become a surreal nightmare. I had killed three people in one evening and had no qualms about it. What had I done? The Staffie ran over, licking the blood from my hands and face. I patted her for saving me again, but I needed to catch my breath. I gathered my nerve and stood up, but my body was trembling with shock and exertion.

  ‘Good girl.’ I held her head close to my chest. ‘What the fuck are we going to do now, Evie Jones?’ I asked her. I heard my voice breaking and knew that tears were not far away. Evie Jones licked my face and she took my right hand gently into her mouth. Whatever it means to her, it made me get a grip on reality. There was no time for self-pity or self-recrimination. If we were to remain free, then we had to move.

  I looked around before we climbed back into the truck and I found a weak point in the farmer’s perimeter fence. I bypassed the harvester by forcing the truck through the hedge to the left of the big machine. I had not seen the gap as we had approached earlier. If I had, the farmer and his dogs would probably still be alive, but we all have choices to make and he made the wrong one.

  I could no longer take anything for granted. I’ll never know if he was one of them or if he was an upright citizen trying to apprehend a suspected murderer. Once he had fired that shotgun, it made no difference to me. I had to treat everyone as my enemy. My lesson learned I placed the farmer’s shotgun on the front seat where I could grab it quickly. My cache of weapons was growing, as was the number of pursuers. I drove down the access road and joined the main drag towards town. As we trundled through the empty streets of Llangefni, Evie Jones stretched out on the backseat, panting. She was knackered. So far, it had been a long night.

  CHAPTER 21

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  We encountered no problems as we crossed Llangefni and headed along the quiet backroads towards Menai Bridge; we crossed the straits using the old bridge and then took the Caernarfon road, before turning off to Llanberis heading towards the mountains. I stuck to the quiet roads and avoided the tourist town; some of the back roads don’t even show up on a map. We travelled all night without seeing another vehicle on the road; I wanted to keep moving. The rain stopped as dawn broke and I pulled the truck into a small car park on the edge of the river Llugwy. It’s an isolated spot, unfrequented by most tourists. More people view it looking down from the peak of Snowdon than from the road where we were. There are no rowing boats, swans or nearby chip shops, just the river and surrounding peaks. A single-track road hugs one bank of the Llugwy; grass and weeds form a living green line along the middle of the tarmac. The far bank rises into almost vertical slopes which are dangerously loose. Extending the length of the south-east side of the river are the Screes, consisting of millions of fragments of broken rock. Rising from the river to a height of almost two hundred feet. The shale slopes offer no solid foundation to walk on.

  It’s a place which has inspired poets and painters for centuries, and the peace and tranquillity was a startling contrast to memories of the previous night. The river lake was as smooth as a mirror and the hills reflected from the water as if you could walk on the surface itself. It’s such a peaceful place to be and considering what had happened over the last few days, it was exactly where we needed to be. The mountains had a humbling effect on my soul, and although I had lived through a gruesome nightmarish night, the beauty of the mountains wasn’t lost on me that day.

  I washed the dried blood from my hands in the freezing water and I looked at my reflection. I hardly recognised the man that I saw. He frightened me. I looked like a maniac. My eyes were sunk deep into my head and my face was smeared with blood and brain matter. I remembered the horror movie Dawn of the Dead. It frightened the life out of me. I looked like an extra from the film. If I’d held out my arms and walked like I’d crapped in my jeans, I would have made a great zombie, no doubt about it.

  The blood would wash off and the horrific memories would fade, but what was I going to do now? My life as it was had gone. I had killed three people, one of which could have been a perfectly innocent farmer. His remains would shock the most hardened forensic team, and where was the evidence that he’d fired at me? There wasn’t a scratch on my body and none of the shot had hit the truck. The evidence would tell the police that I’d bashed his brains out with my bare hands. I was a killer on the run, and I was armed. They would shoot me on sight if I didn’t surrender.

  No one would believe my version of events. A random case of research working alongside a murder detective had mutated into a brutal killing spree – why? Because of Fabienne Wilder, the suspect in yet another brutal murder. The authorities had sectioned and detained her in a secure mental health unit, but I had believed she was innocent when no one else would listen. They would think that I needed to be sectioned. They would either shoot me if I resisted arrest or lock me up and throw away the key.

  There was no easy option and no magic solution. I had to wait and see what the next few days would bring. I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to construct a solid plan of action. I needed some sleep and Evie Jones needed feeding. She was pottering around at the edge of the river, lapping thirstily at the water. Every now and then she’d come running back to me before scooting off again. It suddenly occurred to me that she wasn’t on her lead. I looked around and the nearest sheep was half a mile away up a mountain. She deserved a little run after what we’d been through. The dog had saved my life several times in one night. I wouldn’t have made it this far without her. She waggled over to me and rolled over onto her back, wriggling her hips against the grass. We were on the run from every police force in the British Isles and we were being hunted by a murderous satanic sect, but obviously it was tummy-tickling time. She had her priorities right.

  The next few weeks were a blur. We spent the first three days in lodgings behind a pub called the Miners’ Bridge. I was wary about using public places because of the news coverage my plight had received. But we met the landlord by chance. We’d parked near a river which we used to bathe and keep Evie’s water bowl full when we met a ruddy-faced man walking along one of the footpaths. He made a huge fuss of her because she reminded him of a dog that he’d had for seventeen years before it died. Apparently, her markings were identical. He introduced himself as Graham and asked me where we were staying. I mumbled something about needing to be away from other tourists and dogs.

  Despite having a no-pets policy, he offered me a room in a converted outhouse on the proviso that none of the other guests saw Evie. I agreed but told him that I was hiding from my ex-wife who was suing me for every penny that I owned, and that I would have to pay cash. He laughed and told me that he’d bought that particular T-shirt himself, and we signed in under the name of Eris Jones. That suited me, and we had a few days of warm water, good food, and comfortable beds. I spent the time writing on my laptop, stopping every hour to watch the news updates. The news wasn’t good. I was now the main suspect in a triple-homicide investigation, and the police were warning the general public not to approach me as I was armed and extremely dangerous. My photograph was all over the nationals, as was a description of the truck. They used photographs of trucks the same make and model. I’d parked it out of sight behind the outhouses so that none of the guests would see it. Graham had seen it though and that bothered me.

  I didn’t know where to turn, and I was thinking about turning myself in when he tapped on the door late one night. To be honest, I thought it was the police and I hugged the Staffie before opening the door, but it was Graham and he was alone.

  ‘I wondered if you fancied a few quiet drinks and some company,’ he asked. My first instinct was to refuse, but he held u
p a bottle of single malt and two glasses. ‘I think we need a chat, Eris,’ he added seriously. ‘I mean you no harm and your business, is your own, but I think you’re in trouble and I may be able to help.’

  I’m not sure why I trusted Graham, but I did. Maybe he reminded me of my father in some ways. I let him into the room, and we cracked open the whisky. He made a proper fuss of Evie Jones, and after a few drinks he asked me outright if I was the man that the police were looking for. There didn’t seem to be much point in denying it. I told him that I was indeed Conrad Jones and that I had killed those people, but I explained my reasons and told him most of the story. He listened intently and nodded his head as I explained the events of the past weeks. The whisky had loosened my tongue and the whole saga came out. After an hour or so, Graham frowned and rubbed the grey stubble on his chin.

  ‘You’re going to have to get rid of that truck if you’re to have any chance of hiding from the law.’ He lowered his voice as if someone was listening at the door. ‘Listen, I know a lot of travellers who go to and fro from Ireland and they’re always on the lookout for dodgy motors, especially four-by-fours. I’ll do you a deal.’ He raised a bushy grey eyebrow. ‘Wait here a minute.’ He tapped the side of his nose with his index finger as he got up and left the room. Evie sniffed at the door as it closed. If she liked him then I couldn’t go far wrong; I trusted her judgement.

  When he returned, he had a carrier bag stuffed with some of his belongings. He pulled out a flat cap and black rimmed reading glasses. I had already let my hair and stubble grow attempting to change my appearance. Combined with the glasses and cap, they aged me by ten years at least. The stubble on my chin was nearly silver in colour, and although it itched like crazy, it was the best disguise I could come up with.

  ‘I’ve shaved my head for years, so a wig would be good.’ I laughed as I put on the cap and glasses. It was a simple disguise, but they aged me enough to make me look like any other middle-aged tourist in Snowdonia, and there were thousands of them.

  ‘I’ve never had much call for a wig.’ He chuckled, rubbing the wiry mop of grey hair on his head. ‘Where would you buy a wig in the Snowdonia? The cap will have to do for now. I’ll get you a few grand for the truck as long as you promise to put my pub in the book.’ I laughed and gave him the keys. I’d hidden the weapons days ago in the woods behind the outhouse.

  How could I refuse his offer? His kindness will stay with me as long as I live. The next day he knocked on my door and brought out a brown envelope full of cash and a set of car keys. ‘Here’s three-grand for the truck and here’s the keys to my Land Rover. I don’t use it anymore. If I’m truthful with you, I lost my licence last March driving pissed-up and I was going to sell it anyway. I’ve taken three hundred quid out of your money for the Landy if that’s okay with you.’ I thanked him and shook his hand warmly. ‘I’ll call after closing and we can have a few drams if you like. I’ve got a lovely bottle of Talisker which nobody likes.’ His eyes smiled but there was sadness in them, too. He knew that he wouldn’t see us again. ‘Look after him, Evie Jones.’ He patted her one last time and left. His kindness will stay with me forever. With the truck gone, he was implicated in aiding and abetting a known criminal. If I stayed around, he would probably lose his pub, and I felt that it was time to move on.

  Confident that my disguise had transformed me enough not to get recognised and with a new vehicle, we drifted from one guesthouse to another. Using the Internet to search out the most remote, dog-friendly places, we stayed on the move. I began to think that we’d cracked it and I was tempted to call my partner and explain everything. Half of me wanted to hear her voice, but the other half knew that the call could be traced. And I wasn’t convinced that she would be sympathetic to my version of events anyway. I continued to write about the Niners and the story of Fabienne Wilder, but sometimes I would start to shake and cry. As the days and weeks went by, post-traumatic stress began to bubble to the surface. I was plagued by nightmares of the dead; their faces haunted me and still do. I began to question myself. Did they really need to die? Could there have been another way? The true horrors of the violent deaths at my hands were seeping into my soul and destroying me.

  I drove into Betws-y-coed one day, which is a beautiful place. I bought SIM cards from one of the supermarkets and put them into my Samsung. I was itching to call home and speak to my partner, my mum, my brother, and my friends, but I dared not. Isolation and anonymity were good therapy, and they were keeping my liberty intact.

  I bought a red top newspaper which was carrying the story of the hunt for me. No one was actually saying that I was the murderer, but the police weren’t seeking anyone else to help with their enquiries. In my mind, that means, I’m guilty as charged. The entire story had finally come out, which I thought would help me, but it hadn’t. It sounded like I had suffered a mental breakdown and turned into a violent killer. My whereabouts were a total unknown. The Press were reporting the story of the crime-thriller writer who had gone on a killing spree with a shotgun following the mysterious death of his friend, a serving officer in the murder squad. Some reporters were linking other recent victims to the story, while others were toying with the theory that, unable to cope with the murders, I may have taken my own life.

  It was big news. They plastered it across the newspapers and local and national television. Despite the fact that my appearance hadn’t raised an eyebrow for weeks, we had to pack up and move on as frequently as we dared. My picture was being broadcast daily. If they’d concentrated as much attention on the description of my dog, then we’d have been spotted weeks before, but no one knew for sure if she was with me. The forensic details from the farm hadn’t disclosed that his dogs were savaged to death. Had those details been released, I think I would be in a cell and Evie Jones would be glue.

  I bought a two-berth caravan from a farmer for five hundred pounds. He allowed me to pitch it next to a stream on his land where he rented out pitches to the odd camper who couldn’t get on the proper sites. Mould riddled the walls and it smelled damp, but it would become home for the next few months.

  As I studied the newspapers it became obvious that some of the reports were being tainted by people who had it in for me. The Niners were trying to manipulate the news to suit them. They couldn’t go public to find me, but they could use their influence to gain public opinion, so I decided to do the same. It was time to stick my head above the parapet and tell my side of the tale. When I wasn’t writing, I spent every waking hour hammering the Internet with my story. My address book is full of Press contacts from my years of publishing books. I e-mailed everyone that I had in my address book and sent them my version of events. I used open Wi-Fi networks to message everyone that was important to me. I was touched by some of the messages of support that were posted on my pages and sickened by some of the derisory comments from those who didn’t believe me, Peter’s family included. Not everyone liked me enough to take me at my word and who could blame them?

  The book forums and writers’ groups on Amazon and Facebook were buzzing with my story, but a lot of people thought that my version didn’t add up and it was just another one of my stories. Under the microscope, the facts were there for all to see. Three people were shot and killed, and I was on the run. Guilty as charged, Mr Jones. Many of my contacts shrugged off my Internet rants about the Order of Nine Angels as the desperate efforts of a condemned man to escape his fate. The Niners had members and casual sympathisers at executive level across the spectrum of the Press and they ensured that they painted me as a psychopathic murderer. Every chapter and word of my published novels were analysed, and because they are violent stories, general opinion was that my mind was already warped and that I had been a ticking time bomb waiting to go off. Maybe I am. Who knows?

  Anyway, it was pleasing at the time that my Internet campaign was working to some degree. People were hammering Google and discovering the myriad of satanic orders that are out there. There was a wave of panic ac
ross North America in the nineties following the discovery of the sexual abuse of children and human sacrifice by satanic organisations, and the Press began to drag up cases from decades ago. Look it up for yourself. You may believe me if you do. Some of them have Facebook pages. How bonkers is that? Hello, I’m in a secret satanic cult, so you can find me on Facebook if you want to chat about sacrifice, child abuse or how the dark arts are working for you today. Is it me, or has the world reached a new level of madness since the worldwide web became established?

  The beauty of it is that it works both ways. They can find each other, but you can find them in minutes. I’ve always used the Internet to its full capacity to market my books and clearing my name was no different. The sceptics among the Press were crawling all over their websites and people were beginning to ask questions about their identities; O9A was being scrutinised and they were squirming. The idiots who joined their Facebook forums were suddenly in full view for all to see, and their membership crashed overnight. Chat rooms were alive with discussions about my plight. After two full weeks of screaming my innocence, one of the big tabloids ran an investigative report into the Nine Angels and their sister groups, and because it was front page news the other red tops followed suit. The existence of dangerous satanic cults actively recruiting and operating both globally on the Internet and on the streets of the UK became an accepted fact. Some of their websites were shut down and some of them simply crashed beneath the wave of public pressure.

  A friend of the reporter Malcolm Baines highlighted the fact that he had been working on a story about the Niners when he died. The newspaper ran a thorough investigation into his research and discovered that his work had been deleted. When they tracked down the computer terminal responsible for the deletion, Jason Clement resigned in shame and his face was plastered across the news. He was arrested by the police for possession of indecent images of children; the search of his home address and his personal computer uncovered thousands more. The investigation didn’t end there. The Met’s computer boffins traced hundreds of links and documents which had been sent to an address on their own server. A high-ranking officer, Inspector Woods, was dismissed in disgrace and later arrested for possession of child pornography. Woods hung himself before he went to court.