by Conrad Jones
‘The hat fits you okay then?’ He said sarcastically. His features were angular as if his face had been chiselled from granite.
‘Yes, and the glasses fit too,’ I replied in a whisper. I put my finger to my lips. ‘It’s my idea of a disguise. I came down here to get away from the missus, but I’ve heard she’s coming down to try to find me.’
‘Oh, I get it, disguise it is then,’ he tapped his nose and nodded conspiratorially. ‘I split up with my missus five years ago. The bugger took everything, and she still haunts me now. You can have the glasses on me.’
‘Thanks,’ I smiled.
‘The hat is £9.99.’
‘Absolute bargain,’ it was my turn to be sarcastic. ‘Like I said, thanks.’ I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. ‘I’ll take this lot too please.’
‘Right you are,’ he rubbed his hands together before keying it into the till. I noticed his hands were strong. They looked scarred around the knuckles. The total increased as each item was added. Each addition seemed to lift his demeanour. He looked out of place working in a camping shop. ‘Seventy-five, ninety-nine; where are you thinking of heading for?’
‘What?’ I asked suspiciously.
‘I assume you’re going to a campsite?’ he nodded towards the tent and accessories and smiled. ‘I just wondered which one.’
‘South, I think I’ll see the west coast,’ I lied. I wanted to head north towards Harlech. I handed him four twenty-pound notes. ‘Where’s the best place for breakfast around here?’
‘If you want to stay out of the way, there’s a greasy spoon down the next street,’ he smirked. ‘It’s not the best, but it’s cheap and cheerful.’
‘I’ll give it a try.’
‘Have you seen the news at all this morning?’ His eyes narrowed.
‘No,’ I picked up my purchases nervously. Maybe I’d pushed my luck too far.
‘You might want to have a look at it.’
‘Why is that?’ I could feel my face tensing up and although I couldn’t see myself, I knew that I’d gone red.
‘You might have a little more than your ex-wife to worry about.’ He shut the till drawer and stepped back slightly. ‘According to the television, more members of that cult from Carrog were found dead near Betws-y-Coed last night. Papers said there was a ‘Massacre in the mountains.’ Sounds like they got what they deserved to me.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean, but thanks for the glasses.’ I turned to walk out of the shop. Obviously, the events of the night before were public knowledge.
‘It probably doesn’t mean much but I’m right behind you,’ he half smiled. ‘The police are linking the murders to all that shit that went on in Carrog. They’re nothing but paedophile scum. Whoever killed them should get a medal. Paedophile scum and nothing more than that.’
I looked at him and nodded but I couldn’t think of anything to say. He knew who I was, hat and shades or not. Any thoughts I’d had about breakfast evaporated. I needed to get away from populated areas quickly while I planned my next steps. ‘Nothing more than that,’ I agreed quietly.
‘What I think of it might not mean much to you,’ he nodded gravely, ‘but here’s my card. If you ever need anything and you can’t risk going to a town, call me or email me.’ He handed me a business card from the till. ‘My name is Joseph.’ He held out his hand and I took it. ‘I mean it, any time.’
‘Thanks, but I wouldn’t want to get anyone else into trouble,’ I turned and walked away. I was strangely touched by the gesture but doubted very much, his offer of support would ever be tested. I opened the door and checked outside. ‘Thanks, though,’ I said as I left.
‘They found one of them alive,’ he called after me.
Obviously, Williams had survived. That pleased me. The quality of life he would have would be no more than he deserved. I jogged from the shop to the Landy. I bundled the tent and supplies into the back before climbing into the driver’s seat. The shopkeeper stood in the doorway and saluted as I drove away. A strange gesture but his solidarity with my actions lifted me somewhat. As his image grew smaller in the mirror, I searched for a local radio station. Sure enough, when the news came on, the lead story was about two fires and a number of suspicious deaths in the Betws-y-Coed area of Snowdonia. The report said that four men had been found dead, one was missing and that a local woman and man were helping the police with their enquiries. The follow up report stated that the police were searching for another man in connection with the case, the author Conrad Jones. They directed listeners to the pictures which were on their website and warned the public not to approach me, as I was armed and dangerous. There was a soundbite, from the lead detective. ‘We’re appealing to Mr Jones to turn himself in. We know that his life was threatened, and things have got out of hand. Turn yourself in before things get worse. We know that you’re a frightened man and if you cooperate with us, we can help you at this stage.’
Help me to do what? Secure a life sentence maybe. I didn’t think things could get any worse. Yet again, I underestimated just how low rock bottom really was.
CHAPTER 22
I stayed on the coast road for six miles. The road climbs onto the headlands above the sandy beaches. The views were stunning. Sunlight glinted off the sea making the rock pools look like puddles of molten silver. When I reached the tiny village of Nant-y-Col, I turned right onto a single-track road. A brown signpost directed me to a campsite situated high above the village. Driving over a series of bone shaking cattle grids, I entered the campsite and trundled around until I found a pitch well away from the other campers. There was a single storey shower block with a slate roof and a small camp shop attached. The arrival of a new vehicle attracted the attention of a few random campers. Some of them waved hello, others just glanced and looked away, returning to whatever they were doing. I kept my head down and ignored the well-meaning greetings. Campsites are traditionally friendly places to be but the last thing that I needed now was attention. New friends were not a commodity that I could risk having.
Parking next to a dry-stone wall, which separated the campsite from a copse at the base of the mountain, I used the Landy as both a windbreak and a shield from curious eyes. The wall had deteriorated in places where campers had stolen the stones to make camp-fire rims. I picked a spot next to a section of wall with a deep ‘v’ in it and pitched the tent a yard from the break in the wall. It took me twenty minutes to pitch the tent and set up my stove. Hunger was still stalking me and my newfound jubilation at being ready to cook a meal was snatched from me by the realisation that I had nothing to cook. The camp shop was my only option. I looked across two hundred yards of open grass which was teardrop shaped; tents and camper vans lined the edge at regular intervals. The sound of children playing blended with the rumble of the Nant-y-col waterfalls. The bleating of sheep, which looked like tiny balls of cotton wool on the surrounding green slopes, echoed across the camp. This was heaven for those seeking to escape their mundane nine-to-five routines. The peace and tranquillity soothed my jangling nerves. It was a peaceful place far away from the nightmare of the previous night.
Trade at the shop looked steady, campers drifting in and out. I pulled my cap down tightly and pushed the shades up to the bridge of my nose. I took a deep breath and headed across the field towards the shop. The smell of bacon cooking on camping stoves drifted to me from nearby. My mouth was watering and my stomach rumbling. The closer to the shop I got, the more campers I encountered. I nodded silent greetings to those who said hello. Every glance was a stare, every look an accusation. Hunger drove me on, and I kept my head low as I entered the building.
To my left was a magazine rack. Everything from archaeology to zoology had a periodical dedicated to it. The shelves were crammed three publications deep, floor to ceiling. Daily newspapers lay face-up on the floor next to them. I scanned the front pages nervously. Thankfully the red tops were all leading with the breaking news that a leading Tory MP and two Labour Peers were being
linked to the Order of Nine Angels. There was also mention of a flurry of senior police officers resigning under a cloud of disinformation. Dozens of people had come forward to make complaints of abuse at the hands of members of the cult. It appeared that my hunt was bearing fruit. The deaths at Brunt Boggart had blown the roof off the Angels and a detailed widespread investigation began into the cult and its network of paedophile rings. It seemed that the investigation was gathering pace. Police analysis of computer hard drives and mobile phone bills had revealed an insidious web of cult members and affiliates, reaching from the poorest suburbs to the halls of power at Westminster and beyond. International links were being found. Maybe the world wouldn’t think that I was a crazy after all. There was sympathy with my plight, but it wouldn’t extend to a courtroom. Of that, I was sure.
Directly in front of me was a chilled shelf. Packets of farm killed smoked bacon screamed at me to eat them. I walked to the chiller and picked up three packets of bacon, a black pudding and six pork and apple sausages. My mouth was watering at the thought of them sizzling in a pan.
‘All bred, slaughtered and cured on our farm,’ a voice informed me proudly. A gentle nudge in the ribs reinforced the claim. The farmer piled fresh packets of lamb chops into the chiller as he spoke. His smile faded as he looked at me. ‘Have you booked to camp on here?’
‘I booked online in January.’ I lied. I’d camped there years before and remembered that Nant-y-Col was booked solid most of the year. Although it was remote, it was oversubscribed through the summer months. It was one of a few camps, which actively encouraged campfires and sold sawn logs to facilitate it. I’d spent many an evening watching the burning embers floating towards a star filled sky with a beer in one hand and a frazzled sausage in the other. The memories of happier days tugged at my heart strings. I also remembered that the camp’s website was archaic, and their administration had holes that you could drive a bus through. ‘I booked three nights, one adult a tent and a Landy.’
‘Just checking.’ The farmer smiled but his bushy grey beard masked it. Yellowed teeth hid deep behind the bristles. ‘We’re booked three months in advance, all year round here, you know?’
‘That’s because it’s such an idyllic spot,’ I smiled. ‘I’ve been here for the last five years running with the family, wouldn’t go anywhere else.’ I hoped that my flannel would avoid him looking for my booking. ‘I’ve come on my own this time. I want to get some walking done.’
‘I thought your face looked familiar,’ he nodded his massive head. Wispy white curls quivered above his ears. He had a look of Santa without the jolliness. He nodded towards the counter, ‘my son does all the checking in and out now.’ A sly wink and a whispered, ‘right clever bastard he is, but they all think they are at that age, eh?’
‘Don’t they just.’
‘Not as clever as he thinks he is though.’
‘I remember him selling logs from his quad bike in the evenings,’ I reinforced the fact that I’d been there many times. ‘He was always a very polite lad.’
‘He’s not a bad one.’
‘Keep that to yourself.’ I laughed nervously as I walked to the back of a queue, four campers long. The shelves around me contained tins and bottles of every description and colour. It was a Tesco store crammed into a double garage with prices that you would choke at anywhere else, but halfway up a Welsh mountain you can pretty much charge what you like, I guess. The young man behind the counter didn’t bear any resemblance to his father. Three decades of waking with the sunrise and weathering the mountain winds had taken their toll on the farmer. It felt like an age for it to be my turn, but it was probably a few minutes in the real world.
‘Morning, have you booked in yet?’ The teenager asked abruptly without looking at me.
‘No, not yet,’ I tried to smile, but it probably looked like I had wind. ‘I’ll take these and pay for my pitch if that’s okay.’
‘Name?’
‘Jones.’
‘Initial?’
‘J for John.’
‘We haven’t got a booking for a John Jones, sorry.’
‘I booked it online months ago,’ my smile was now more of a grimace. I wanted to give the kid a slap and then go and cook my bacon. ‘Every time I book a pitch online here, I have problems when I arrive.’
An icy glare met my comments but at least he was looking at me now. ‘There’s nothing wrong with our new website.’ He challenged. ‘It works perfectly if the users are Internet-savvy.’
‘I’m a programmer for Apple, so I know a bit about websites,’ I lied, ‘my booking was made and confirmed.’
‘Apple,’ he stuttered. ‘Are you really?’
‘God’s honest truth,’ I lied. I was a murderer so being a liar seemed to be a step in the right direction, as far as redeeming my soul went. ‘So, I know my way around computers somewhat.’
The kid didn’t know how to take me. ‘Well we don’t have a booking in that name and we’re full all week.’
‘Check it again.’
‘We’re fully booked.’
I looked behind me. There were four campers waiting patiently. The farmer had stopped loading the chiller with meat and was eyeing the situation coolly. ‘You said that your new website was perfect?’
‘It is.’
‘What about the old one?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is it still online?’
‘It is, but it directs customers to the new site.’ He smiled sarcastically.
‘The direct links to the old booking page are still active and there is no notice of a change of site on the booking page. The home page might direct them to the new site, but your contents pages don’t come up with the link.’
‘What?’ His face reddened. His lips were tight together.
‘Your regular customers, like me will just use the links direct to the booking page of the old website. Why would I need to use the home page when I come every year?’
‘Well…’
‘Well nothing, Einstein,’ I slapped sixty pounds onto the counter. The noise made him flinch visibly. ‘Take the old site down or disable the booking pages or link it to your new site. Do whatever you need to do to correct your mistake and while you’re online, look up some customer care courses because your attitude stinks. There’s my money so give me my docket and my shower room key, and I’ll be on my way, shall I?’
‘Best to do just that, Bryn,’ the farmer stepped behind the counter. ‘I told you to get someone proper who knows what they’re doing to change that website.’ he scolded. ‘I’m sorry for your inconvenience. Three nights you said?’
‘It’s no problem. Like you said, they know it all at that age.’ I grinned at the red-faced kid and felt a little sorry for him, but I needed to eat and then sleep in peace. The farmer grinned and seemed to revel in his son’s discomfort.
‘Enjoy your stay and the bacon.’ He placed four-pound coins on the counter. The youth glared at me angrily. ‘Home reared and home killed.’
‘Yes, you said.’ I smiled. ‘I will. Thank you.’ I turned and walked past the growing queue. The campers avoided looking at me as I walked out. The sunlight warmed me as I trudged back to my camp. Ten minutes later, I was forking my sizzling breakfast straight from the pan into my mouth as fast as I could. The flavours were intensified by my hunger, every taste receptor tingled as the cooked meat caressed them. It was probably the best breakfast I’d ever had, listening to the gentle roar of the falls and the sound of children playing in the river. Peace seeped through my soul and I realised just how shattered I was. I desperately needed sleep. My body ached, every muscle sore and every joint creaked. I grabbed the Mossberg and wrapped it with the sleeping bag. Crawling into the tent, I instantly fell into a troubled slumber, holding the shotgun as if it was the most beautiful woman in the world.
In my dreams, I could hear the gentle roar of the waterfalls upstream and all was well with the world, until a different roar joined the first.
I heard the helicopter blades initially and then the first siren pierced the tranquillity, swiftly followed by another. I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. My watch told me that I’d been sleeping for eight hours. I was in a panic, confused and fuzzy headed. You know what it’s like when you awaken from a deep sleep with a start. It took me minutes to work out where I was, never mind what was happening to me. I could hear sirens, but they were neither approaching nor dissipating; they were static. I held the Mossberg tightly and crawled on my knees to the door. I grasped the zip and pulled it up six inches, peeping through the gap with bleary eyes.
The camp was silent. The sound of children was gone. There was no sound apart from the sirens and the waterfalls in the distance, which blurred with the deep hum of the helicopter above.
‘Conrad Jones,’ a metallic voice boomed, startling me. ‘Armed police. You’re surrounded. Come out of the tent with your hands up.’
There was a sick feeling in my guts as I realised that the camp had been evacuated while I’d slept, and the police had moved in quietly. They’d used the sirens to alert me to their presence. I instinctively knew the farmer’s son had bubbled me. I unzipped the door flap to the top and looked around.
‘Armed police.’ the voice boomed again. ‘Come out now and lie face down on the ground.’
Fifty yards across the field, three marked police cars were side on to me. Each had two or three armed officers behind them. They were all pointing standard issue Glock-19 automatics at the tent and more specifically, at me.
‘Do it now or we will shoot.’
I looked to the right. A dry-stone wall snaked up the valley as far as I could see. There was a sniper perched behind it to cover my flank. The sheep in the field behind him grazed oblivious to my predicament.
‘Come out of the tent with your hands up now,’ the voice was more urgent now. He was becoming more aggressive in an attempt to shock me into action. ‘This is your last warning.’
It’s funny, but I wasn’t feeling the same urgency as he was. Looking back, I was remarkably calm, almost glad that they’d found me. I had no intention of shooting anyone, except Niners of course, so I didn’t see the reason to panic. If I couldn’t see a way out, then it was all over and something inside me took comfort in that. I looked at the officer with the loudspeaker and our eyes met for a few long seconds. The evening air was cool but there was sweat running from beneath his peaked cap and he looked far more scared than I felt. I suppose they knew that I was armed with a shotgun and that I’d left a trail of bodies behind me. Fugitives like me usually went out in a blaze of glory, guns blazing, or they turned their own weapon on themselves. I had no desire to do either of those things. It might sound weird, but I actually smiled at him. The confused look on his face was priceless. I caught surprised glances passing from his officers as they trained their weapons on me.