The Anglesey Murders Box Set

by Conrad Jones

  ‘I owe you one, but I doubt that I’ll ever get the chance to pay you back.’ I offered my hand. ‘You should leave now and let me get on with what I have to do.’

  ‘Can you hear that?’

  ‘The helicopter is over the mountain,’ I said.

  ‘It’s dark now,’ he said looking through the curtains. ‘I can see a searchlight.’

  ‘They’ll be combing the trees. You should leave now.’

  ‘I’ll take the quad back through the trees with the headlights on,’ he said, ‘they might think it’s you and follow me.’

  ‘Wait until that searchlight is on the other side of the woods,’ I didn’t want him to draw attention to the farm.

  ‘It might be better if I stay here with you,’ he said.

  ‘Bryn, trust me when I tell you that you don’t want to be around me for too long,’ I said firmly. It took me another twenty minutes to cajole Bryn into going home. His face was a picture of disappointment as he closed the back door. I thought about making a brew before getting onto the computer, but I didn’t have time to rest with a cup of tea. A small army was hunting the mountain and the woods for me. I had to make the most of whatever time I had left.

  Locking the back door behind Bryn, I went back to the dining room, the smell of mothballs replacing the dank smell in the hallway. The computer was displaying a screen saver of various waterfalls on a slideshow. I typed in ‘standing stones on Anglesey’ and waited for the search to complete. You can imagine my surprise when the computer showed me the recent ‘related’ searches and it became obvious that someone else was interested in them too. I looked at the web destinations which the last user had visited, and my heart sank. Someone had been surfing for information about the ley lines on Anglesey, which was too much of a coincidence to ignore. They’d been searching significantly darker sites too.

  One of them was a site explaining the Satanic calendar. I’ve included a copy of it in the back of this book, read it and then tell me these people are a figment of my imagination. Can you believe that’s online for anyone to access? If that isn’t incitement to kidnap, rape, and murder then what is?

  I grabbed the pad and studied the scrawl. The dates scribbled on the pad corresponded to some of the key dates in the Satanic year. Bryn’s father was either a Niner or he was investigating their websites out of curiosity. I doubted that. I was beginning to believe that he’d recognised me as soon as I walked into his shop. No wonder he’d been so keen to allow me to book in without a confirmed reservation. The nerves in my spine tingled and the apprehension, which I’d felt approaching the farm, seemed justified. It seemed that I’d developed a sixth sense about them, similar to the way Evie Jones had. I missed her every minute of the day. My instincts had told me not to go into the farmhouse, yet I hadn’t listened to them. I felt vindicated for feeling anxious, yet vindication had given me no comfort. I was incredibly aware of the danger I was in. Was Bryn’s father one of them or was he just curious?

  I had to distinguish which it was. It didn’t take me long to find some evidence. I clicked on the ‘downloads’ file and then ‘pictures’ and waited for the images to appear in tiles. Images of women and children of both sexes being sexually abused appeared in the hundreds, possibly thousands if I’d trawled through the filth he’d downloaded. Having those images saved to the computer was concrete proof that he wasn’t just investigating the dark side, he had stepped into it. It couldn’t be an accident. Stumbling across unsavoury images can happen when you’re surfing occult sites but downloading them to your computer is no mistake. I wondered now if he was an active member of a nexion, or just a curious pervert with a similar taste in non-consensual sexual activity. The news coverage, which my plight had attracted, had sparked interest and even curiosity from those appalled by the Niners and it would also interest those of a similar twisted mindset. The scandals uncovered by the police investigations would expose many members, but it would attract new ones too. Bryn’s father was obviously interested in joining them, or he was already a follower of the sinister way.

  I searched for the Order of Nine Angels and sure enough his historical searches for them appeared. I clicked on the most recent site, which was simply named ONA.org. The homepage appeared and the usual Satanic shite loaded up on the screen. The site asked me for a password. I typed in Gwen-2468, which Bryn had used to access the computer. It didn’t work. Maybe he wasn’t a member after all. Then a thought crossed my mind. Maybe he’d been a member for a while. I typed in Cantona-2468, which was a much older password and unsurprisingly, I gained access. I clicked on news feed and felt my hands starting to shake. The forum was rife with recent posts about my whereabouts. One post mentioned the stones of Trefignarth as my final destination. Another explained that there are only two bridges onto Anglesey, which meant it would be easy to watch for me driving onto the island, while a post uploaded only thirty minutes earlier gave my position as in the area of the Nant-y-Col waterfalls and predicted which route I would have to take to reach the stones. I felt very frightened and alone and as I sat there with my head in my hands, I heard a key rattling in the back door. I knew that I’d left the key in the lock. I always did as a precaution, twisted slightly off centre so that it couldn’t be pushed out from the other side. It would never stop a determined assassin from breaching the door, but it was an effective early warning sign. I grabbed my bag and my gun and headed for the front door, killing the lights as I went.

  CHAPTER 26

  You might think it odd that I chose the front door but under the circumstances, I had to assume that whoever was trying to get in, meant to harm me. Why did I think that? A number of things occurred to me when I heard the key rattling in the lock. First, the police wouldn’t attempt an entry like that when an armed killer was inside. They would surround the building, create a siege situation and then when they decided that forced entry was the only option remaining, they would use smoke bombs and stun grenades first, to disorientate the gunman, namely me. I knew it wasn’t the police. Bryn didn’t have a key, or he would have used it when we first arrived. He told me where the key was and asked me to leave it safe when I left, therefore it wasn’t Bryn trying to get in. Whoever it was had a key, so I had to assume it was his father, who I’d just discovered was an affiliate, at the very least, to the cult that was hunting me.

  He was trying to gain entry through the back door with a key. I didn’t know if he was aware that I was hiding in the house or not, but I had to assume that he did, which would mean that he wouldn’t have come alone. No one in their right mind would attempt to take on an armed man who had demonstrated that he was willing to kill to survive. An average man planning to drive his target out of a building would use the tactics that he’d seen many times on the television, which was basically a load of crap made up by researchers and script writers. If he was trying to gain entry to the back of the house, then he would have ordered someone to guard the front of the house to act as an ambush, to kill the escaping target as they desperately fled the building. Grouse hunters use unarmed beaters to drive the birds towards an impenetrable line of double-barrelled shotguns where they’re blown to smithereens. The safest thing for a smart grouse to do is to fly towards the beaters.

  I knew that they couldn’t get in without breaking a window or door and they wouldn’t want to do that as a first option. They’d banked on the key opening the door, so now they would need another plan of action. I had a few minutes and no more to react. I ran from the dining room into the kitchen, down the cellar stairs and looked for the generator. I hoped that there would be spare fuel down there. Sure enough, a five-gallon jerrycan stood near the rattling machine. I snatched it and bolted up the stairs. As I ran and planned my next vital steps, something in the cellar registered in my brain but it would have to be shelved until another time. I sprinted to the Welsh dresser and grabbed a reel of cotton from the drawer, skidding across the tiles and banging into the kitchen door frame, I ducked low and moved quickly along the hal
lway. I reached the front door and slid a brass bolt open, twisting the Yale lock at the same time, leaving it on the latch. I tied the end of the cotton around the handle and headed back to the kitchen, switching on the hallway light as I went, signalling to those outside that I was moving towards the front door.

  When I was safely in the kitchen, I tugged the cotton opening the front door. Shotguns roared, shattering the leaded glass and long splinters of wood became deadly shrapnel as they were blasted from the door frame. The front door was decimated as shot after shot exploded around it. The light bulb at the base of the stairs shattered into a million particles and a split second before the light went out, I saw one of the pastel drawings disintegrate into pieces. As the shooters reloaded, I heard two sets of footsteps running away from the back door, passing the kitchen window and heading towards the front of the house. I ran to the cooker and switched on the electric rings, placing the petrol drum flat on top of them so that all four came into contact with it.

  Another volley of shotgun blasts ripped chunks from the front door and the hallway walls, but this time there were more guns firing. I opened the back door and peered through the gap. The barns stood like inky black silhouettes against a darker backdrop. There could have been a shooter there, but I doubted it. They were all at the front of the house, blowing the shit out of shadows. Happy that it was safe, I bolted for the barn. Every muscle in my body was tensed and I took shallow breaths as I ran, waiting for a shotgun blast to knock me off my feet. None came. As I reached the barn wall, I hid in the long weeds and scanned the farmyard behind me. Nothing moved. The shotgun blasts had become less intense and more sporadic. They sounded muffled and there were flashes of light in the windows that looked as if they were coming from inside the house.

  I figured that they’d reached the kitchen when I heard raised voices, some of them panicked and then the windows at the rear of the farm exploded. Glass clattered and smashed against the walls of the barn and pinged off the metal silo. Towers of flame erupted through the window frames, spiralling across the farmyard and into the air. Muffled screams were cut short by the explosion. A single figure staggered from the back door burning from head to foot. The mouth was open in a silent scream; a gaping black maw surrounded by orange flames. I could see the shape of a pair of Wellington boots bubbling and sizzling, the flames below the knee a different hue of orange to the rest. The figure dropped to its hands and knees and crawled a few yards before collapsing completely, the limbs twitching violently as life left the body and floated skyward with the smoke. I was mesmerised for a moment but then another scream came from the burning building. I realised that some of them may have survived. I sprang up and ran between the huge wooden doors into the barn. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, the scene before me stopped me in my tracks.

  I took a flashlight from my bag and scanned the scene quickly, fearing that the light would attract my pursuers. The quad bike was still parked there, the keys in the ignition. A Volkswagen Polo from the 1990s was behind it, the tires slashed. The bonnet was raised, and all the spark plug leads had been cut, along with the hoses and the fan-belt. The damage was recent. My first thought was that Bryn was part of the cult too and that he’d pretended to leave while he waited for backup. It wasn’t beyond reason that he was the Niner, not his father. I played the torchlight around the entire barn and there was the answer to my question, Bryn right in front of me. He had been there all the time. As I looked into his eyes, I knew that he wasn’t a Niner.

  Bryn’s lifeless body was crucified to the wall; a pitchfork had been driven through one arm deep into the wood and two chisels drilled through the other. His throat had been slashed just below the chin and his tongue had been pulled through the wound so that it hung like a short pink tie against his neck. A piercing pang of guilt stabbed my guts, but I had no time to feel sorry for him. I knew the gunshots and the explosion would bring the police down on top of me. They would see the flames from miles away. I had to get out of there quickly. It was difficult to ignore the butchered body of the young man who had helped me to get off the mountain, but I had to act if I was to escape the carnage.

  Placing the Mossberg across the seat, I pushed the quad next to the VW and scanned the barn for a length of pipe. There was a green hosepipe rolled up and hung on a rusty nail. I cut a length and ran to the petrol flap. It was locked. I used my blade to pop the flap and then fumbled for the keys to open the cap. My hands were shaking, and my breathing became laboured. Thick black smoke was drifting into the barn and the flames cast an orange glow over the farmyard. I threaded the pipe into the tank and sucked hard. The stinging liquid hit my lips and I spat it out and shoved the pipe into the bike’s tank. The fumes were acrid and began stinging my eyes as I siphoned the fuel from the car into the quad. The tank was full within minutes although it felt like an age, standing there staring at Bryn’s crucified corpse. His eyes watched me accusingly. I’d made him leave for his own safety but all I’d achieved was his brutal death. Looking at the amount of blood, I guessed that he’d be pinned up while his heart was still beating. I wondered if his death was at his father’s hands or those of another.

  ‘You bastard.’ The voice sent my heart into my mouth. Torchlight illuminated Bryn’s body and then blinded my eyes. I grabbed the gun and crouched behind the quad, my own torch now pointing at the man. His face was blistered and raw on one side, the hair gone and the ear nothing more than a smouldering lump. Smoke drifted from his charred clothes and his right hand looked like a blackened claw. ‘You bastard.’

  ‘I didn’t kill Bryn,’ I said. ‘Put your gun down and move out of my way.’

  ‘You animal,’ the charred figure stepped forward. The grey curly hair and beard which remained on one side of his face, told me it was Bryn’s father. He looked like a character from Batman only far more sinister. His shotgun hung uselessly from a smouldering hand. He tried to raise it but the effort was too much. His knees buckled and he went down heavily. I climbed onto the quad and pressed the ignition button. The engine growled into life. ‘She’ll get you and you’ll burn in hell.’ he shouted over the noise.

  ‘You’re already there, arsehole.’ I engaged first gear and steered around him, heading into the farmyard. What the police would make of the scene, I had no idea and didn’t really care, but I had a feeling that they would blame me. If his father hadn’t killed him, then one of his sicko friends must have. I could only hope that the killer had been barbecued in the farmhouse. The building was completely ablaze now, and I could hear the helicopter moving closer. In the dark, I had a slim chance of making it across the fields to Barmouth, if I could find the gates which linked connecting the fields and avoid any rocks and ditches. Once there, I could circumnavigate the back streets avoiding the main roads and search for an opportunity to escape. The threads of a plan were beginning to form. If I could reach the coast, I could get to Anglesey avoiding the bridges and the roads which the Niners and the police would be watching. All I needed was a boat and someone who knew how to pilot it.

  CHAPTER 27

  I steered the quad through the farmyard and into the field, purposely avoiding the track which led to the coast road. Once the fire was spotted, the police and fire brigade would be swarming up that track. I guessed that no one at the farm would place an emergency call, if of course they’d survived the explosion, and it was so secluded that there would be no passing traffic. My greatest concern was the helicopter. I steered the machine as fast as I dared in the darkness. The quad had headlights, but I couldn’t risk using them. I could hear the helicopter in the distance, and it didn’t appear to be any closer yet. After ten minutes of bouncing around on the padded seat and hanging on to the handlebars for dear life, the first of a series of dry-stone walls loomed out of the night. I knew there would be a gate into the next field, but I didn’t know if would be to the left or to the right. I had a 50/50 chance of fucking it up. As I contemplated which direction to take, the engine noise from the sky changed tone.
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  The sound of the rotor blades echoed from the mountain as the helicopter soared above the trees towards the burning farm. I estimated that I was a mile away from the scene and I elected to follow the wall to the right simply because it took me further away. Three hundred yards on, there was a gate and thankfully it was open. I guided the quad through it and opened up the throttle. As I picked up speed, I glanced behind me. Two sets of blue flashing lights were moving quickly along the coast road from the direction of Nant-y-Col. They’d responded quickly, so I assumed that they’d been part of a roadblock on the main road who had then been dispatched to investigate the fire. The helicopter searchlight illuminated the farmyard and I could see that the fire had spread to one of the barns. I couldn’t tell which one from that distance, but I hoped it was the one which contained the bodies of Bryn and his father. That would be two bodies that couldn’t be attributed to me if the barn burned down.

  The ground began to slope away, and I let the gradient take the quad, praying that there were no ditches dissecting the fields. As my speed increased, so did my confidence. It was only a matter of time before I stumbled across another farm track and as long as I took the downhill direction, I would eventually reach the coast road. As I was planning what I would do when I reached Barmouth, headlights appeared three hundred yards to my left. I could hear a throaty diesel engine and from the direction of the beams, the vehicle was set on a collision course with the quad. Even though it was dark, I knew the vehicle had entered the field via a gate further up the slope, which meant that I was heading in the wrong direction. I was steering towards the corner of a massive square, blindly following the gradient into a dead end. The vehicle adjusted direction, aiming straight towards me; the headlights blinded me.

  There was little point in driving blindly anymore. I switched on the lights and steered the quad at an angle from the oncoming vehicle. Illuminated in the beams I could see that it was a short wheelbase Land Rover, which meant that it wasn’t the police. The driver of the vehicle altered course again, determined to meet the quad head on. Whoever it was, they weren’t coming to tell me to get off their land. With the field between us illuminated, I opened up the throttle and steered directly into the path of the speeding Land Rover. I thought about raising the shotgun and blasting the windscreen through but as I’m not Bruce Willis and it wasn’t a movie; I didn’t think that I could shoot and stay on the quad simultaneously. As the vehicle neared to within a hundred yards of me, I could see a blackened face beneath a flat cap. A bulky figure was hunched over the steering wheel, his teeth bared in a fixed grimace. He looked determined not to swerve out of the imminent crash. Had I been in the two-ton vehicle, I probably would have done the same thing, however I wasn’t, so my choices were limited. Keep going and hope that he bottled it or change direction at the last minute and go around him.