Looking up, Ruth met his gaze and said, ‘The most important thing for us to do at the moment is to get the identities of those men and retrieve their remains. That’s what we need to do for their families.’
Gates nodded. ‘Of course. I will do everything I can to assist you.’
Ruth feared that this was all an act and he had no intention of helping them. She had worked with killers before who had got a kick out of not revealing where the bodies were.
‘Did you find all of these men through internet dating sites?’ Ruth asked.
‘Oh, no. That was a development. It started last year with me going to pubs where I thought I could pick men up. It wasn’t until recently that I realised what a wonderful thing the internet is. A marvel. So I could do all that from the comfort of my home. I can let you have all their names.’
‘And their remains?’ Drake asked.
‘Well, this is where it gets a little complicated. I dissected five of the seven bodies. I didn’t get around to the other two. I did that in the bath in the annexe at my home. Drained away the blood after the rigor mortis had been and gone. But I always took their hands and hearts with me to the house at Abbey Terrace. Then I flushed them away.’
Gates’s matter-of-fact tone seemed no different from someone explaining how they had built an extension. It struck Ruth how completely devoid of any emotion or empathy Gates was. It wasn’t a surprise, but nonetheless, it was still disturbing to see it manifested in a human being directly in front of her.
‘Why did you do that?’ Ruth asked him.
‘A man without hands or heart causes and feels no pain. Pain is delivered by his hands. Pain is felt in his heart. Without either, he is pain-free. I saved them from the torment of life, you see?’ Gates smiled and nodded, seemingly pleased with his explanation.
‘We need you to take us to the locations where you disposed of the bodies,’ Drake said.
‘Of course. They’re relatively close to each other.’
Ruth looked over at Gates with a frown. ‘You stated in court that you murdered Harvey Pearson?’
‘Correct,’ Gates replied.
‘Can you tell me how you murdered Harvey Pearson?’ Ruth asked, thinking that this would trip him up for starters.
Gates sat back, looking confident. ‘Let me see. I was pretty drunk that day.’ He pushed his chair back and then crossed his legs.
‘I’m sure you would remember how you killed somebody,’ Ruth said, trying to hide her growing revulsion for Gates.
‘Yes, of course. I remember now. It’s coming back to me. I pushed him down the mountain.’
‘You killed Harvey Pearson by pushing him down a ravine?’ Drake clarified.
‘No. no. The fall didn’t kill him. So I had to make my way down to where he was lying and finish the job.’
‘And how did you do that?’
‘How did I do that? Well, I must have strangled him. That’s it. I hit him on the head with a rock and then I strangled him.’
‘This is bullshit,’ Drake said, shaking his head.
Ruth wasn’t sure. She had been convinced that Gates was lying, but how did he know that Harvey Pearson had been pushed down a ravine and then strangled at the bottom? Had that information been released to the public?
‘Not bullshit, I’m afraid. In fact, it’s now very clear in my mind. Before I strangled him, I unzipped his jacket so I could get at his throat properly. I noticed that he had a tattoo that appeared just at the top of his sternum. It was dark blue. It might have been oriental, like a dragon or something.’ Gates looked smug as he gave them information.
Ruth shot Drake a look. How the hell does he know that?
CHAPTER 17
Early the next morning, Nick arrived in the tiny village of St George, which was just a few miles away from the A55. He had never heard of it and discovered it was hidden away close to the town of Abergele.
As Nick slowed, he scoured the rustic buildings for the address he was looking for. He had used the PNC and council tax records to track down David Chivers, Harvey Pearson’s old teacher from St Patrick’s boarding school.
Even though Gates had admitted to killing Harv, Nick still wanted to pursue all lines of enquiry. And he suspected that Gates was somehow lying. The MO was completely different, which was unheard of for a mass killer.
Nick had also now established that it would be very difficult to overpower Harv and get him over the ridge. Nick’s instinct was that there must be more than one killer. Despite learning of the group of women walking that day, it felt unlikely that four women dressed in pink for a charity walk would have attacked Harv that afternoon. What would be the motive? However, he was keen to eliminate them from the enquiry so he had tried to contact the relevant charity to see if a sponsored walk up Snowdon had been registered. Unfortunately, there seemed to be various charities that used pink – The Pink Ribbon Foundation, Breast Cancer Care, Breast Cancer Now, Cancer Research and many more. It was going to take a while to get that information.
Cancer was also something that struck a chord for Nick. His own mother had died from it when he was only eight. Once it got hold of her, it was a hideous disease and she had died in a matter of months. From then on, Nick had been brought up by his Auntie Pat and Uncle Mike. His father, Rhys, had been stationed abroad with the Welsh Fusiliers.
Thornbank Cottage was a charming, detached cottage just down from St Steven’s church. Nick could see that it had been recently painted white and had neat flowerbeds and lawns around its perimeter. Retirement was a wonderful thing.
David Chivers, now in his seventies, answered the door, and Nick explained vaguely why he wanted to ask some routine questions. Chivers was everything Nick had expected from an old boarding-school master. Cut-glass accent, verbose with a calm air of superiority. Chivers showed Nick to the tasteful living room where the walls were lined with books and records.
Nick wondered what had happened at St Patrick’s. Were Harv’s scars and unhappiness due to violence, bullying or abuse while he was there? Harv had made it clear that he wished David Chivers harm and even death. Why? And why was he trying to organise a reunion for a school where he went for only a few years and was deeply unhappy?
‘Could you tell me when you left St Patrick’s, Mr Chivers?’ Nick asked, opening his notebook.
‘Let me see. 2001, just after the millennium,’ Chivers said.
‘And how long had you been a teacher there?’
‘Just short of thirty years by the time I took early retirement. It was a wonderful school. Do you know it?’ Chivers’s tone was a little pompous.
Nick wasn’t interested in the education of the privileged. ‘No ... And you were a history teacher and a housemaster?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Do you remember a pupil, Harvey Pearson? He was at St Patrick’s from 1994 to around 1998?’ Nick asked.
Chivers gave a bemused smile. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant. The name doesn’t ring a bell. I’ve taught thousands of pupils over the years.’
Nick nodded. Maybe it was a long shot, but if there had been anything sinister between Chivers and Harv, he might have seen a reaction.
‘He was a very good rugby player,’ Nick said to see if jogged his memory.
‘Not my sport, I’m afraid. Cricket man, myself.’ Chivers frowned and sat forwards on the sofa. ‘I’m a little confused, Sergeant. I was under the impression that you were here regarding the incidents from last week? I did speak to one of your colleagues.’
Nick only had very vague intel on the incidents. It was only natural for Chivers to think that’s why he was there.
‘Of course. It’s part of the same investigation. I do need to get the exact details of what you talked to my colleague about first,’ Nick explained.
‘There were the phone calls to start with, about two weeks ago.’
‘And what was said in these phone calls?’ Nick asked.
‘“I’m going to kill you. You’re going to die. You know what you�
�ve done.” The man was disguising his voice.’
‘So it was definitely a man?’ Nick asked.
‘Oh yes. There wasn’t a distinct accent though. I’m normally pretty good at identifying an accent.’
‘How many phone calls were made?’
‘Three.’
‘And what time of day were they made?’ Nick asked.
‘During the evening. I gave all this information to the other officer who came,’ Chivers grumbled.
‘Sorry. It’s just that as we run through it, you might remember something that you didn’t last time.’
‘Yes, I suppose that is a possibility,’ Chivers said as he crossed his legs. Nick noticed he was wearing mustard-coloured corduroy trousers. He made a mental note to get someone to shoot him if he reached the stage of life where he thought that was okay.
‘You said there were phone calls to start with?’ Nick asked.
‘Yes, then there was the peeping tom, or stalker, or whatever you want to call him. That was during the evening, about ten days ago. It happened twice.’
‘So you saw someone?’ Nick asked.
‘Yes. The first time, I saw someone running away through my back garden and over the fence. They were dressed in black so I couldn’t see anything. The second time, I heard a noise at the side of the house. When I looked out, a man walked past and he was wearing one of those balaclavas.’
Nick didn’t like the sound of the incidents. Someone had clearly been trying to put the frighteners on Chivers. He wondered if Harv had anything to do with it? It didn’t sound like it was local kids messing around.
‘But nothing recently?’ Nick asked. What he really meant was whether there had been anything since Harv’s death?
‘No. Nothing since the weekend. I refuse to be driven out of my home, but I’m getting on a bit so it’s rather frightening,’ Chivers said. Nick could see that the events had got to him and he was spooked.
‘Yes, it sounds very scary, Mr Chivers. Is there anyone that you can think of who would want to scare or even harm you?’
Chivers thought for a moment. ‘No, no. Of course not. I’ve never harmed a fly.’
Nick knew that this wasn’t true. Harvey Pearson had told his old schoolfriend that if he ever saw Chivers again, he would kill him, which can’t have been unprovoked.
Gazing around the room, Nick spotted lots of family photos on the mantelpiece. They seemed to feature a lot of women, who Nick assumed were Chivers’s daughters. One photo caught his eye. Four women, all in their thirties or early forties, standing with Chivers at some kind of celebration.
‘Mr Chivers, do you have any daughters?’ Nick asked.
‘Yes, four,’ Chivers said, glancing over at the photo.
‘That must be nice,’ Nick said, trying to disarm him a little.
‘Yes. They’re wonderful, as are my grandchildren.’
‘They all live around here?’ Nick asked.
‘Yes. All in North Wales. I’m very lucky to have them. And I have seven grandchildren, so Christmas is an utter joy for me,’ Chivers said with a beaming smile.
‘What do they do, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Two of them have just had babies so they’re pretty busy. My eldest two daughters live in Llanberis,’ Chivers explained.
And Llanberis was at the foot of Mount Snowdon.
IT WAS MID-MORNING, and Ruth stood beside the unmarked black Volvo V70 in the visitor’s car park at HMP Rhoswen. Behind her, a patrol car with blue-and-yellow markings and POLICE – HEDDLU in black lettering on the bonnet. Ruth gave the two uniformed officers, who would be with her for the duration of the day, a static wave of acknowledgement. Her attention was drawn to the arrival of the Dog Search team van with their specially trained cadaver dogs. A small white SOCO van followed and parked up alongside them.
The wind had dropped, but there was still frost and a scattering of snow on the grass verges and the prison’s AstroTurf football pitches. Towering wire fences encircled the whole area, but the newly built cell blocks wouldn’t have looked out of place in a business park. On the other side, a prison officer, in a black woolly hat pulled low over his ears, patrolled with an enormous German shepherd dogs.
Ruth could see that the sign for HMP Rhoswen had been given a modern twist. It featured primary colours and a backdrop of triangular grey shapes that were there to symbolise the mountains of Snowdonia. It was a change from the ageing signs of the London nicks that seemed so ominous and sombre. Prisoners going to Wormwood Scrubs, known just as ‘the Scrubs,’ in West London were greeted by a huge black sign that simply said HMP WORMWOOD SCRUBS in white lettering. Combined with the Grade-II-listed late-Victorian architecture of the impressive gatehouse, she remembered thinking that the Scrubs didn’t look like it had modernised since the days of Dickens and Sherlock Holmes.
Merringer was still sitting inside the car at the steering wheel, keeping out of the cold. In the back of the unmarked Volvo sat a burly male uniformed police officer, PC Harris. Harris had the unenviable job of being handcuffed to Gates for the day.
Ten minutes later, Ruth got the call that they had escorted Gates down from his cell and were getting ready for their little ‘day trip.’ The paperwork for a temporary release had to be approved by the Welsh secretary of state’s office in Cardiff such was the magnitude of the offences that Gates was facing. The chief constable of North Wales Police and HMP Rhoswen’s governor, Gordon Holmes, had also signed the release forms.
Ruth was feeling nervous. She could feel it in her stomach. Taking a killer out to locate their victims’ remains was a big operation, and it wouldn’t be long before the media caught on to what they were doing. That could mean everything from high-powered telephoto lenses to TV helicopters scrutinising their every move. She needed the day to go well.
Gates had agreed to take them to all the sites where he had buried the bodies along the Dee Valley. At first, he was reluctant to tell Ruth anything until he was in the car. She explained that he would be going nowhere until she had the rough locations of where they were going so they could carry out a risk assessment. She appealed to Gates’s ego, saying that it was very rare for prisoners to be allowed to visit the scenes of their crimes. He was a ‘special case’ by being allowed to help them.
Ruth put her phone away and indicated to Merringer and PC Harris that it was time to go get their prisoner.
Merringer got out of the car and pulled on leather gloves. ‘Glad I put on my thermal vest, boss,’ he said with a smile.
‘And thank you for sharing that with me,’ Ruth said sarcastically, looking at his ample stomach that stretched over the waistband of his trousers.
They reached a large red steel door marked Reception – Derbynfa. Mounted to the brick wall was a modern video entry phone, which Ruth buzzed and showed her warrant card to.
A minute later, an enormous prison officer clunked open the door and escorted them down to a holding cell where Gates was being held. The booking area was clean and white, with plenty of light from the frosted skylights above. There were Christmas cards and a small white Christmas tree on the reception desk.
As Ruth signed the paperwork in triplicate, Gates was brought over and gave her his usual creepy, overfamiliar smile as he was handcuffed to PC Harris. He was dressed in the standard uniform of a grey sweater and grey tracksuit bottoms. He seemed fidgety, like an excited schoolboy before a day trip.
They took Gates, went back outside into the cold and headed for the car.
Gates took a deep breath and looked up to the sky. ‘Ruth, I was researching something last night that I thought might help you. In fact, I thought specifically of you when I was reading it.’
Ruth tried to ignore Gates. She did not want him getting inside her head.
‘Just be quiet, Gates,’ Merringer barked.
As they got to the car, Merringer and PC Harris pushed Gates down into the back of the car, while Ruth got into the front.
Gates wanted to continue wi
th his story. ‘You see there was a homeless man on the streets. He had been homeless for many years. Decades.’
The sound of Gates’s voice was grating on Ruth. ‘No one’s interested. Please, just be quiet until we get to where we’re going. It’s going to be a long day.’
Gates wasn’t remotely fazed. ‘Oh dear, Ruth. I had you down as somebody who was enlightened. Let me continue. So a stranger walked by. “Spare any change, mate?” the homeless man said, holding out an old coffee cup.
‘The stranger looked at him. “Sorry. I haven’t got anything.” But then the stranger said, “What’s that you’re sitting on?”
‘“Nothing. It’s just an old box. I’ve had it for years.”
‘“Ever looked inside?” asked the stranger.
‘“No. Why? It’s just an old box. There’s nothing in there.”
‘“Have a look inside.” The stranger said.
‘So the homeless man ripped the box open. And to his astonishment, disbelief and excitement, he saw that the box was filled with money and gold.’ Gates stopped for a good few seconds. ‘You are that homeless man, Ruth. And I am the stranger. I’m telling you to look inside. Deep inside yourself.’
Ruth gazed out of the window. God, she couldn’t wait for the day to be over.
CHAPTER 18
It was mid-morning by the time Nick sat down opposite Drake to report back to him on the Harvey Pearson murder case. He had drunk too much coffee and felt jittery. Compared to swigging half a bottle of vodka or alcohol withdrawal, Nick would take too much coffee any day.
Nick knew that Drake had the same reservations about Gates’s confession as he did. He liked Drake as a boss. There were no hidden agendas, game playing or internal politics. He was upfront and clear about everything. That didn’t make him a soft touch. Far from it. When you were out of line or not performing, he made that very clear. He was also aware that Nick was in recovery and had been incredibly supportive.
‘Still doing the meetings?’ Drake asked.
‘Three times a week,’ Nick replied. ‘Keeps me sober.’
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