He looked at the man, blood cascading down his face and dripping onto the floor. His victim groaned and tried to move again. That poor little man with his poor little life. Opening up this little shop at the break of dawn. He added nothing to the world. A waste of space. A waste of air. A waste of the earth’s resources that he consumed. Killing him would release him from the pain and misery of the life that he felt compelled to live. It would also rid the planet of one more of the leeches that infested their society.
Gates propped the man up against a shelf of biscuits, his face now awash with blood. This really wasn’t what he had planned. He felt like an alcoholic with a pint of shandy. Taking the rope in his hands, Gates looped it around the man’s neck and began to pull as he slowly squeezed the life out of him.
Despite the shortcomings, there was still a sense of euphoria and elation. Those were the perfect words for it. But the thrill wasn’t as overwhelming as it had been before.
Maybe he would have to try again.
CHAPTER 26
The rumble of the recycling lorries clattering outside told Ruth that it was time to get up. The bed was so warm, and Sian was lying facing her but still asleep. Ruth watched her for a moment, then got up and shuffled to the kitchen where she clicked on the kettle.
A robin fluttered outside and landed on the snowy windowsill. The garden and then the fields that stretched beyond were covered in thick snow. Ruth didn’t remember snow being forecast. It might look beautiful, she thought, but driving into work was going to be a pain in the arse. The robin flapped away and Ruth went over to the advent calendar that Sian had bought her. She made a mental note to pick up one each for Sian and Ella on the way home from work. Better late than never. She drifted away into memories of Christmases when Ella was young. The pink Hannah Montana advent calendar, the excitement of wrapping Ella’s presents on Christmas Eve and the joy of being woken at some ungodly hour the next morning. Of course, Sarah was with her in all those memories and Ruth was hit by a spike of sadness.
An odd rustling noise from the living room caught her attention. It sounded like someone was moving around in there, but she knew that Sian and Ella were still in bed.
Pulling her dressing gown around her, Ruth ventured out into the tiny hallway and looked into the living room. Someone was sitting on the sofa. At first, she could only see their smart shoes and expensive suit trousers.
Overwhelmed by the shuddering feeling of dread, Ruth moved through the doorway. There was a man sitting on the sofa. She recognised his blonde hair, designer glasses and detached expression.
‘Good morning, Ruth.’ His voice had a Germanic accent.
It was Jurgen Kessler.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Ruth asked, feeling herself shaken.
‘I’ve come to tell you about Sarah. I thought you would know that?’
‘Wait. How did you get my address?’
‘Don’t you want to know what happened to Sarah? I can show you on my phone. I have pictures of her,’ Kessler said, standing and pulling his phone from his suit jacket.
Out of the corner of her eye, Ruth saw a figure on the sofa behind her. She turned for a moment. The black, dead eyes of Kerry Gates looked back at her. Her white, dead cadaver was lying across the sofa as though she was in a morgue.
Ruth woke with a start. Her pulse was still racing. She took a deep breath, held it and let it out slowly. The dreams of Kessler, though rare, were torturous.
Sian stirred, opened one eye and immediately saw Ruth’s expression. ‘Nightmare?’
Ruth nodded. ‘Oh yeah. One of those where you celebrate waking and realising the horror is over.’
Sian moved over and hugged her. ‘Bless you. Not surprising is it?’
WAKING UP TO THE METALLIC clicks of radiators expanding as Amanda’s central heating fired up, Nick stirred on the sofa, pulled back the blanket and sat up. He had slept relatively well, all things considered. He moved his shoulders to remove some stiffness from his neck and stood up. It had been a long time since he woke up on a sofa without the plunging feeling of self-loathing, hangover, urine and half-remembered blackouts.
After the AA meeting, Nick had returned to Amanda’s home and checked on her. She had been out for the count. Relieved that she hadn’t been sick or decided to get more alcohol, Nick made a cup of tea, watched ten minutes of Gogglebox and decided to go to sleep. He knew the lengths that an alcoholic would go to get booze. When he was in the grips of alcohol’s magnetic pull, he had snuck out of Auntie Pat’s old home at Pen Y Brin, which was in the middle of nowhere, and walked six miles in the rain before stealing cans of cider from a petrol station. The craving and need to get alcohol was that overpowering.
At eleven the previous evening, Ruth had called to tell him about her encounter with Gates. He knew she was lucky to be alive but tried to keep the conversation upbeat. She might have been his boss, but he cared about her.
It was nearly seven when Nick laced his brown brogues. He quickly checked on Amanda, who stirred but continued to sleep, then made himself coffee and toast. As he waited in the neat kitchen, he gazed up at the montage of photos on the wall. Amanda had certainly travelled the world. A hot-air balloon ride over a South African desert, tandem sky-diving in Australia and white-water rafting in New Zealand. It wasn’t a surprise. Amanda was an addict and could probably become addicted to anything. It wasn’t a coincidence that there were lots of adrenaline junkies in AA.
A sound came from the bedroom upstairs and Amanda appeared bleary-eyed in the kitchen doorway.
‘Morning,’ Nick said. ‘I’ve made coffee.’
‘Don’t look at me. I look like shit,’ Amanda protested, putting her hands over her face.
‘Just admiring your photos.’ He pointed to a picture of some tiger cubs playing in some grass. ‘Where was this taken?’
‘It’s a tiger sanctuary in Sumatra.’
‘And Sumatra is ...?’ Nick frowned.
‘Indonesia, you thicko. The cub’s eyes are closed for the first ten days. And then when they open, they’re this amazing blue.’ She pointed to the photo. ‘When they grow up, they go amber.’
‘Thank you, Amanda Attenborough.’ Nick smiled. This was fun, but he knew that they would have to address the elephant in the room. ‘Any idea why you picked up?’
Amanda winced. ‘No. I don’t know. I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?’
Nick shook his head with a knowing smile. ‘Most of the people in AA relapse at the beginning. It takes a while. I’ve known stubborn bastards take five years before they finally get the idea that they can’t drink. They go out every few weeks, try again and are surprised when two days later they’re drinking vodka for breakfast.’
‘You don’t hate me, then?’
‘No. Don’t be stupid. Alcoholism isn’t a lifestyle choice.’ Nick patted his pocket. ‘I’ve got your bank cards and money. I’ve checked and you’ve got food.’
‘I’m under house arrest?’
‘Definitely.’ Nick grinned.
Amanda walked towards him and buried her head in his chest. ‘I love you, you know that?’
‘I love you too,’ Nick replied quietly, surprising himself. ‘And don’t go out.’
‘Don’t worry. I have no desire to drink any booze. I feel sick.’
‘It’s not that. It’s just with your breath, hair and no make-up, you’ll scare the children,’ Nick quipped.
Amanda hit him playfully. ‘Fuck off, Nick.’
‘Take the day off. Drink water and watch TV.’ Nick turned and went, feeling a glow of contentment.
CHAPTER 27
Ruth found herself feeling out of control as she watched the CCTV footage of Gates in the convenience shop that morning. Along with the rest of CID, she had had to watch Gates murdering an innocent man after mouthing her name at the camera. However illogical, she felt that somehow she was responsible for what he was doing.
As she headed out to have a ciggie on the concrete steps
outside Llancastell nick, her mobile rang. It was a number she didn’t recognise.
‘DI Hunter?’ she said.
‘I assume you got my message from this morning?’
It was Gates. Ruth knew the voice immediately. This time she didn’t feel the lurch in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t know why, but she wasn’t surprised that he had made contact. She expected something like this, so it was a relief that it was happening.
‘How did you get my number?’ Ruth asked calmly.
‘You gave it to me, Ruth. Don’t you remember? When you talked to me outside my house in Pentredwr.’ Gates’s tone was one of mock offence that she hadn’t recalled doing so.
‘What do you want?’ Ruth said softly.
‘I’m a little bit confused, you see, Ruth,’ Gates said in his usual overfamiliar tone.
‘What are you confused about?’ Ruth was playing along.
‘Where do we go from here?’
What does he mean by that? She didn’t know if he was being deliberately cryptic or did he genuinely want to talk about what he should do. Either way, she needed to keep him talking.
‘It’s probably best that you come in. Then we can talk about it,’ Ruth said. Gates had nothing to lose by remaining on the run and that made him incredibly dangerous.
‘What are we going to talk about, Ruth?’ Gates asked.
‘I think you need to be understood, Andrew. You want people to know why you did what you did. That’s important to you, isn’t it?’ Ruth was going on what Professor Douglas had said about Gates being abandoned.
‘Not just me. Everyone needs to feel understood. And we all have our own stories. You have yours, Ruth. And that’s why I understand you.’
Ruth would not be drawn into talking about herself. ‘You can’t keep running. We will find you eventually. And you know that.’ There was no element of threat in Ruth’s voice; it was just a matter-of-fact statement.
‘Yes, I know that. If I’m honest, I’m exhausted with it all. It’s not really the right time of year to be doing all this. At first, I thought it might be fun, but it’s not what I expected. Do you ever get that?’ he asked.
‘What’s that?’ Ruth didn’t know what he was driving at but wanted him to keep talking to her.
‘The one from this morning. From the shop. I had looked forward to it. But I felt ... disappointed. It wasn’t enough. It did nothing for me ...’ Gates stopped talking mid-thought.
It was chilling for Ruth to hear him talking about taking a life with the word it and such utter disregard for another human being.
‘If you’re tired, then just come in. It’s warm, dry, there’s food. Everything is taken care of. You can sleep.’
Gates didn’t seem to be listening. ‘I need more, Ruth. Something bigger. Something more exciting. I can’t explain it.’
Ruth knew exactly what he was talking about. Gates had a dark addiction to murder. And, as with any addiction, he was becoming immune to the thrill of killing. He needed to take it a step further to get his fix, and that was a terrifying thought. She just hoped that his growing fatigue of being on the run would stop him.
‘You can explain it to me,’ she said, trying to appeal to his ego. ‘There will be lots of people who will want you to explain.’
‘I know.’ Gates took an audible breath. ‘I could always kill myself, but I think the world would be missing out, don’t you?’
Knowing Gates’s ego, Ruth wasn’t surprised at his comment. ‘Where do you want me to meet you, Andrew?’ she asked.
‘I’m only doing this if you come and meet me alone. I don’t want guns in my face, helicopters, the whole circus.’
‘I’m not going to come on my own, you know that.’
‘I need some dignity, Ruth. Put me in cuffs and lead me to the car. I’m not going to attack you and I’m not going to run. I just don’t want a machine gun at my head while I lie on wet concrete. It’s about some kind of respect.’
‘There will be other officers there, but I understand what you’re asking.’ Ruth needed to keep Gates onside. They needed his full cooperation to retrieve the remains of all his victims and detail all of his crimes. The victims’ families needed to bury their loved ones and have some idea of what had happened to them. For that, they needed Gates. ‘Yes. But there’s no guarantee that you’ll turn up.’
‘No, there isn’t. But you’re going to feel pretty stupid if I’m standing there and you’re not there to arrest me.’
Gates had a point. North Wales Police couldn’t afford another PR disaster.
A moment passed as Gates thought. ‘The Pontcysyllte Aqueduct by Llangollen, the south end. It’s a beautiful spot. I’ll see you at four o’clock sharp.’
Gates finished the call. She knew there was no point triangulating the position to get a fix on Gates’s location. He clearly had a vehicle and would be long gone by the time any officers got to the location.
AS NICK SAT BACK IN his chair at Llancastell CID, he realised he had hit a brick wall in his investigation into Harvey Pearson’s murder. If the women on Snowdon that day were Canadian, he wondered if they had been visiting the area. If they returned to Canada, it was also unlikely that they would have seen anything about Harv’s death once they left the UK. If they were still in the country, how was he going to find them?
Nick had been trawling through passenger lists for the days after Harv’s death. Unfortunately, there were far more direct flights from Liverpool and Manchester to Canada than he had expected. There were, of course, the major cities of Montreal, Toronto and Vancouver. However, there were also flights to Canadian cities such as Alberta or Saskatchewan that he’d never heard of. Having received the Advance Passenger Information, Nick still didn’t have much to go on. Passenger passport data was collated by the airlines and transmitted electronically to the authorities of the destination country. The national list for flights from Liverpool and Manchester into Canada ran into thousands.
He had a couple of CID officers trawling through CCTV at both airports to see if they could spot four middle-aged women travelling together, but so far, they had drawn a blank. Added to that, the women could have been flying in or out of Birmingham or even London.
Sitting forwards in his chair, he finished his coffee and pulled himself closer to the desk. He could feel that his waistline was growing. Alcohol had been replaced by sugar, especially chocolate. And here was the irony. For years, he had skipped dessert whenever eating out. Each time he had been handed the coffee and dessert menu, he skimmed right past the tiramisu to the only part of the menu that mattered – more alcohol. Irish coffee was always good as it seemed to be a covert way of drinking. Now he was sober, he needed to try to shift a few pounds. He didn’t want Amanda thinking he was a fat alky bastard.
Sifting through new emails, he saw that the Odeon Cinema in Llancastell had sent over their CCTV for the time and day that Rosie Chivers claimed to be at the cinema.
Nick clicked on the email, which confirmed that the Odeon had only sold seven tickets for They Shall Not Grow Old in screen seven. It was the only screening of the day. Opening the video file, Nick watched the high-angle view of the carpeted corridor on which large lettering showed each screen entrance. Screen seven was at the far end. Rolling the footage forwards, Nick counted as each person entered the theatre. Two elderly couples. Then a middle-aged man on his own, followed by a father and son. Nick rewound the video, played it again and fast-forwarded it, but there was no sign of Rosie Chivers and her friend. She had lied about her whereabouts at the time of Harvey Pearson’s murder. Carol Chivers had no alibi. It was now definitely worth checking Claire Sinclair’s alibi for that afternoon too. As for the remaining sister, Emily, they were still waiting for her to establish her Christmas shopping alibi.
The hypothesis of the four Chivers sisters on Snowdon was back on.
CHAPTER 28
The winter sky was tinted lavender as snow fluttered in the air over the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct, twirling and
skipping on the cold air currents that blew down from the deep valley. Ruth blinked as another wet, icy speck landed on her eyelashes.
It was three o’clock. Ruth and numerous members of the North Wales Police operational team were moving into position as they surrounded the Pontcysyllte Aqueduct. Confused narrow-boat owners and tourists who had come to see the world heritage site were being cleared from the area.
The aqueduct carried the Llangollen Canal across the Vale of Llangollen and over the River Dee. Ruth could see that it was an imposing piece of engineering with its eighteen stone-and-cast-iron arches. At 125 feet, it dominated the landscape, and Ruth could see for miles into the distance. To her left were the snowy peaks of Snowdonia. She looked back and watched as uniformed officers continually turned away a steady stream of cars from the tourist car park.
Before leaving Llancastell earlier, Ruth had been given CCTV footage from a local cash machine in Ruabon. Gates had used Gwenda Chadwick’s debit card at around one o’clock, just after he spoke to Ruth on the phone. Her bank’s fraud and security team, who were continually monitoring the use of her cards, contacted CID at Llancastell immediately. Twenty minutes later, the bank branch had downloaded CCTV footage of the person taking out the money. It was no surprise that it was Gates. He was dressed in a burgundy walking jacket and a black woollen ski hat pulled low over his ears and his forehead. The trademark tinted glasses were gone. Gates grinned up at the CCTV camera and waved the money at them. Ruth instructed the bank to continue to keep the cards in service. It had allowed them to keep track of Gates’s movements, and at this stage, without cash Gates was even more likely to resort to violence or worse to get what he needed. His disregard for human life was alarmingly obvious to everyone.
From the CCTV, they also got a partial number plate of a white Ford Escort van that Gates got into after taking out the money. They had it traced through the DVLA and found it had been stolen from a builder’s yard. They could now put the full registration into the ANPR, which would alert them if Gates drove on any of the main routes in the area.
The Dee Valley Killings Page 20