The Dee Valley Killings

by Simon McCleave

  ‘He’s doing so well, isn’t he?’ Pat said with a proud smile.

  ‘God, I remember the first time Nick ever had a drink,’ Cerys said with a grin.

  ‘Oh, really ....’ Nick rolled his eyes as Pat started to laugh.

  ‘He had been drinking cider and eating peanuts with John next door. He came back hammered in just his skimpy white underpants, went into the bathroom and pebble dashed the whole wall! Disgusting!’

  Amanda laughed with Pat and Cerys.

  ‘Thanks, Cerys. That’s an image that Amanda really needed in her head,’ Nick said with a wry smile.

  ‘You’re welcome, cuz.’

  An hour later, Nick and Amanda were sitting in his car outside her house. He turned off the radio and the wind whistled through the car.

  ‘Alex is beautiful, isn’t he?’ Amanda said.

  Nick grinned at her in the darkness. ‘Yeah. It’s genetic.’

  Amanda laughed and shook her head. ‘You really are a twat.’

  ‘Charming,’ Nick said smiling and then leaned over and kissed her.

  ‘You do know that despite your twat-ishness, I’m falling for you,’ Amanda said.

  ‘Is “twat-ishness” even a word?’ Nick said as a way of skirting what she had said.

  Amanda looked directly at him with a frown. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘If I say “I’ve fallen for you too” then I sound like a prize nob.’

  ‘I think that ship has sailed, Nick.’

  ‘But just so you know, I fell for you the first time we ever kissed,’ Nick said.

  CHAPTER 21

  Ruth looked out at the press conference with some trepidation. Journalists from around the country were clamouring over Gates’s case and the hunt for his whereabouts. The room was bustling with local and national newspapers, radio and television. Ruth could feel the nerves in her stomach. Behind them was a banner on the wall: Heddlu Gogledd Cymru – North Wales Police, Gogledd Cymru diogelach – A Safer North Wales. The irony of the slogan wasn’t lost on Ruth. In the last twenty-four hours, they had created a far more dangerous North Wales. There was also a large map of North Wales with various locations along the Dee Valley marked with red plastic pins.

  On the table in front of Ruth was a jug of water, glasses and several small tape recorders and microphones that eager journalists had placed there.

  ‘Good afternoon, I’m Detective Inspector Ruth Hunter and I am the senior investigating officer on the Andrew Gates case. I want to update you on developments in the last twenty-four hours. Our primary concern at the moment is the safety of the public in North Wales, in particular the Snowdonia Park area.’ Ruth took a moment and sipped her water. Now she had started, her nerves were under control. ‘Andrew Gates escaped from police custody while taking officers to the site where we believed that he had buried one of his victims. All measures and precautions had been taken with regards to Andrew Gates’s security and it was an extraordinary set of circumstances that led to his escape. Our thoughts are with the families of the victims of these horrific crimes at what must be a very difficult time.’

  Ruth looked up to see Drake enter at the back of the room. He gave her a supportive nod and his appearance settled her. She was glad that Superintendent Jones hadn’t shown his face. He was a spineless politico, and she didn’t have much time for him.

  Clearing her throat, Ruth continued. ‘We are absolutely committed to finding Andrew Gates and we are using every resource available to us to bring our search to a conclusion as quickly as possible. There are currently a number of operations underway in the Snowdonia area. For obvious reasons, I am unable to explain where or what those operations are.’

  For the next five minutes, Ruth continued to update the press on the developments of Gates’s case before opening up the conference to questions, which she was dreading.

  A young male journalist at the front of the room indicated he wanted to ask a question and Ruth nodded in his direction. ‘Jonathan Holmes, Daily Express. Can you explain to our readers how Andrew Gates, a dangerous, violent killer, was allowed to escape even though, from what I understand, there were ten officers from the North Wales Police with him? That seems extremely negligent and has put the general public in danger.’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to give details of Andrew Gates’s escape yesterday. However, the incident will be investigated thoroughly. We have also voluntarily referred this to the Independent Office for Police Conduct and we will fully cooperate with their independent investigation and any rulings.’ Ruth knew this wasn’t what the journalist was looking for, but no one was going to tell the press how Gates had got away.

  Ruth pointed to a middle-aged television journalist who was standing towards the back of the room. ‘Katie Lawton, BBC News. Can you tell us what resources you have available in the search for Andrew Gates and whether you believe they are adequate?’

  Ruth nodded as she began. ‘We have over a hundred police officers working on this case at the moment. We have received resources, in terms of officers, vehicles and expertise, from Merseyside, Greater Manchester, Cheshire and Shropshire Police Forces. I would like to thank my colleagues from across the country for their ongoing support.’

  Ruth fielded a few more questions and then thanked the assembled media.

  By the time she got back to CID, Ruth was exhausted. She needed a ciggie and coffee.

  There was a note on her desk that Steven Flaherty had called and left a message to ring him. He was her liaison officer at the Met dealing with Sarah’s disappearance. Flaherty was a kind man who had never given up hope that they would find out what had happened.

  Each time there was a message or any kind of contact from him, Ruth’s heart would leap. She wouldn’t let herself believe that Sarah could ever be found alive, but she prayed for something concrete about the events that day.

  Ruth dialled the number and tried to remain calm. Her hopes had been dashed too many times before. ‘Steven, it’s Ruth Hunter,’ she said.

  ‘Hi, Ruth. Thanks for getting back to me. It’s nothing earth-shattering, but we’ve had a message from Dorset Police. Someone fitting Jurgen Kessler’s description tried to get a job at Bournemouth University. He had fake certificates, but someone thought there was something wrong with the passport. When he was challenged, he disappeared,’ Flaherty explained.

  ‘Have they got the passport?’ Ruth asked. It could be very useful.

  ‘Yes. They’ve lifted a fingerprint from it and sent it to the police in Berlin to match against Kessler’s.’

  ‘What about CCTV?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘There’s something from the car park and the corridor. I’ll have a look and let you know as soon as I can,’ Flaherty said.

  ‘Thanks, Steven.’

  ‘I’m sorry it’s not more. And I’ll call you in the next few days. Okay?’

  Ruth felt a little deflated. She always did, but she had to console herself with some progress. The other question that now rattled around her head – why had Kessler decided to hide out in the UK?

  GATES HAD SPENT THE night sleeping in a shed at the end of a large garden in the village of Carrog. It had been freezing, but he had managed to find an old sleeping bag. It smelt of damp earth and wood, but he didn’t care.

  The house was detached, modern and large. Gates could see the occupants were affluent. And for him, affluent was just what he needed. He had spent the last hour watching a well-dressed, middle-aged woman come and go from the double garage. She had swept away snow and replenished the bird table with seeds.

  Overnight, Gates had conceded that he would not be able to stay on the run for ever. One day he would get caught or killed. It was just a matter of how long. In his head, he had imagined being interviewed on a television documentary. Something you might find on Netflix these days. It would be a male interviewer – intelligent, thoughtful and keen to understand. He had imagined and rehearsed the questions they would ask him as he drifted in and out of sleep on the wooden floor of th
e shed.

  He could see the television cameras and lights that had been set up to record the interview in his prison. The camera crew and director watching him as they waited for the interview to begin.

  Interviewer: So, Andrew, the question that gets asked the most about the types of crimes that you committed is why? Why did you feel the need to murder seven innocent young men?

  Gates: I think as a child I felt very alone and abandoned. After my father left us, I was effectively brought up by my grandfather, my taid, for a time. But he died in front of me when I was eight years old.

  Interviewer: I’ve read that you felt that this was a pivotal moment in your life and the way you developed?

  Gates: Yes. I stayed with my taid’s body for the whole day. I was just looking after him. And even though he was dead, I didn’t feel alone or scared because his spirit, his being, was still with me.

  Interviewer: There are other things as you grew up that you believe had a profound influence on your character?

  Gates: Yes. My mother was very cold and suffocating. It was just me and her, and she seemed to be scared for me to do anything by myself. So I felt that I had very little control as a child or as a teenager. Maybe those feelings became mixed with my confusion about my sexuality. Doing what I did gave me complete control for those moments and I found that sexually very exciting and liberating.

  Interviewer: Were you, therefore, attracted to the men that you murdered?

  Gates: Very much so. And my control over whether they lived or died was a very addictive feeling. And once they were dead, I just wanted to keep them with me for as long as possible. Sometimes that meant just keeping a part of them. But I believed that by doing this, I had part of their soul, their being, with me at all times.

  Gates was familiar with Carrog. It was a village in Denbighshire, a few miles from where he had made his escape. It lay within the parish of Llansanffraid Glyndyfrdwy and took its modern name from the Great Western Railway station on the opposite bank of the River Dee.

  He looked at the scratches and bruises on his forearms. He was covered with minor injuries but he didn’t care. He was desperate to get the handcuffs off, for starters, and had identified the garage as a place he could do that. He just needed the right moment when he could slip out of the shed unnoticed, through the hedgerows and bushes, and into the double garage where he assumed there would be tools.

  Ten minutes later, Gates saw his opportunity. The woman’s mobile phone rang, and she answered it and went inside the house, talking loudly about a Christmas recipe she needed to find for the caller. Moving quickly on his toes, Gates was inside the garage thirty seconds later and rooting around for tools. Bolt cutters were too much to hope for. Then he spotted a metal hacksaw. It might take a few minutes, but it would cut through the link between the cuffs for starters.

  Trying to avoid slipping and cutting himself, Gates cut the metal enough for him to break the link between the cuffs. He would keep the hacksaw and try to get the cuffs off later. It was such a relief to be able to move his arms properly. He swung and bent them, trying to stretch out the muscles. That’s better, he thought as the feeling returned to his shoulders.

  Looking around the garage, a white Volvo C90 4x4 sat in the main part of the room. That would be perfect, Gates thought to himself.

  A noise interrupted Gates’s train of thought. He glanced over and saw the middle-aged woman coming into the garage. She was distracted and didn’t see him at first. She had a black labrador beside her. The labrador sensed his presence and strained at the leash for a moment. Gates held his breath and froze. Opening the tailgate, the woman clicked her fingers, and the dog jumped in and sniffed in Gates’s direction.

  ‘Good girl,’ the woman said as she closed the tailgate with a slam.

  Grabbing a long screwdriver off the workbench, he moved towards her. She had a handbag over her shoulder and as she locked the garage door to the house behind her, Gates guessed that she was going out.

  In a split second, Gates moved behind her, his arm locked around her throat as he pressed the screwdriver to her neck. The labrador began to bark in the car.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you if you do exactly as I say. If you don’t, I will kill you right here. Do you understand?’ Gates could feel the woman shaking with terror as she nodded her head.

  Gates slowly released his grip, came around the front, grabbed her by the hair and pushed the screwdriver hard against the skin at the side of her neck again. The labrador scratched noisily at the glass at the back of the car and barked.

  ‘What- what do you ... w-want?’ the woman stammered.

  ‘Car keys. Then your purse. And phone,’ Gates said in a relaxed voice. ‘Please ...’ He was enjoying himself and he knew that with a car, money and a phone, he had a good chance of making his escape out of the area, even if it wasn’t for long.

  The woman fumbled in her handbag but she was shaking too much. Gates let her hair go in frustration, grabbed the bag and poured its contents onto the concrete garage floor.

  ‘Please, I have ... six ... grandchildren.’ The woman bent down, gathered up the keys, purse and phone, and handed them to Gates.

  ‘PIN number for your phone and bank cards.’

  ‘They’re all the same number,’ the woman said.

  Gates pulled a face. ‘Not very secure. You’re not meant to do that. What is it?’

  ‘One-nine, three-four,’ she said.

  ‘1934? As in the year? What happened in 1934,’ Gates asked, intrigued.

  The woman looked at him as though he was mad. ‘My father was born.’

  ‘Right. Makes sense. You do know that if your PIN number is not one-nine, three-four, I will be back and I will kill you and whoever lives here in your sleep,’ Gates said nonchalantly.

  The woman nodded. ‘I’m not ... lying. I promise.’

  Gates clicked the car key, the indicators blinked as it automatically unlocked. He then turned to face the woman.

  ‘Okay. I want you to face that wall and count to a hundred as I drive away. Do not look up before you get to a hundred. Understood?’ Gates said as though he was running a children’s party.

  The woman looked at him and turned towards the back wall of the garage, still shaking with fear. The labrador’s barks had turned from angry growls to more anxious whimpers.

  ‘Are your eyes closed?’ Gates asked.

  ‘Yes ...’

  ‘You can start counting,’ Gates said and waited a moment. ‘Now!’ he snapped.

  ‘One, two, three, four ...’ the woman whispered.

  Gates grabbed a steel spade that he had spotted earlier, swung it and cracked the woman across the back of the skull, hard. She crumpled and fell in a heap. He wasn’t sure whether he had knocked her unconscious, put her in a coma or killed her. And frankly, he didn’t care.

  Ten minutes later, Gates was driving along the A5 towards Llangollen with Christmas songs playing on the radio. The sense of total freedom he felt was overwhelming. No one knew where he was. The labrador had laid down in the boot and stopped making any noise.

  And then his mind turned to what was next on the agenda. He needed to save one more young man, at least. Release his soul and his being from the pain of being alive. Like an addict craving his next fix, Gates could feel the excitement growing. The elation of the power, that feeling of total superiority and control combined with a sexual thrill, was overwhelming. It was better than any drug he could ever imagine.

  I need to kill again.

  CHAPTER 22

  It was twelve o’clock when Nick saw the first signs to Bethesda, where Carol Chivers lived. Knowing that David Chivers had four daughters, Nick needed to see if they had alibis for the time of Harvey Pearson’s murder. If they knew that Harv had been intimidating and threatening their ageing father, it would give them motive to attack him. Nick had also already established that the attack was likely to have been carried out by more than one person. Moving Harv’s body behind the rock wo
uld also have been almost impossible for a lone killer. And witnesses had spotted a group of four middle-aged women on Snowdon on the afternoon of the murder. The hypothesis was that they had followed Harvey and Jack Pearson to the mountain. When Jack had left Harvey alone on Miners’ Track, the daughters had made their move. Maybe they had just meant to warn Harv off? Things got out of hand and he ended up being pushed or falling down the ravine. They had strangled him to cover themselves and hidden his body.

  Nick could see the sun trying to burn through the grey clouds that lay still across the sky. To his right, he looked over to see Llyn Ogwen, a spectacular ribbon lake that ran alongside the A5. It lay between the two mountain ranges of the Carneddau and the Glyderau and stood at the head of the Nant Ffrancon Pass, four miles from the village of Bethesda. It was another lake that claimed to be the final resting place of the sword of Excalibur.

  Ten minutes later, Nick walked along an uneven, stony track towards a small cottage off the main road through the village. An inquisitive ewe with a muddy coat looked up at him and scuttled away. Charming, Nick thought to himself. The path to the front door was potholed with ice. From somewhere, a dog barked aggressively, and it seemed to echo all around.

  Carol Chivers answered the door and invited him inside. She was small, with a brunette bob, and a little frumpy. Nick followed her into the kitchen and sat at the long wooden table. He spotted half a dozen bottles of homemade gooseberry wine and a bottle scotch with only an inch left. That was the thing with being an alcoholic, you were always hyperaware of booze; who was drinking what and where drink was kept. Nick would watch in amazement as people in restaurants left half a glass of wine at the end of the meal. It made little sense to him.

  Sitting down on a hard wooden chair with arms, Nick tried to settle himself and took out his notebook. Carol stood by the cooker as the blue gas flame flickered under the kettle before bringing it to a boil.