The Missing And The Dead: A tense crime thriller with a shocking twist

by J. F. Burgess

  'I can't just agree to your demands. I'd need to speak with the CPS and a judge, and get them to agree, which isn't guaranteed.'

  Leaning across the table aggressively, Brady challenged Blake, 'Well, you'd better do some fucking grovelling then, or that girl’s parents will never know what really happened to her.' he dropped back in his chair with cold-hearted casualness.

  The detectives were unsettled by his total lack of empathy for the girl's parents. He was a vile sexual predator with serious mental health issues.

  'Why did you kill Lorna Atwood and Lenny Wilder, Vincent?'

  Brady's body stiffened at the remark, 'Don't take me for an idiot, Inspector. I never laid a finger on Lenny Wilder, and just because I had a bit of fun with the Atwood girl that doesn't mean I killed her. How many more times do I need to say it?'

  Blake ignored his derogatory remarks about Lorna, 'What about Antonio Lombardi? Did you have anything to do with his disappearance?'

  'Fuck’s sake! I told you last time, I bloody investigated his disappearance. You should be talking to Johnny Wilder about that.'

  Blake struggled to comprehend how a former police officer could hide this horrific murder and child abuse for so long. Like Solomon Black in the Lancaster kidnap case, Vincent Brady was pure evil.

  CHAPTER 50

  DS Murphy ushered the three suspects into Hanley police station’s conference room and asked them to sit. Clifford Bates looked a shadow of the man they’d questioned at the start of the case. Being held in custody seemed to have taken its toll on his health and he looked pale and gaunt. George Rills and Valletta Lombardi both looked anxious about being summoned to this impromptu meeting and, judging by their inability to sit still and engage eye contact with one another, they may have sensed what was coming.

  Blake stood at the head of the table and scanned their faces with an air of sympathy, 'As you all know, we will be charging former Detective Inspector Vincent Brady with several offences, ranging from child abuse to corruption, blackmail and murder. Albert Carmelo has been charged with the abduction and murder of your brother, Mrs Lombardi. We've also got a warrant out for the arrest of Johnny Wilder who we're hoping to charge with aiding and abetting Antonio’s murder and with child abuse. Mrs Lombardi, you have our deepest sympathies for your brother’s tragic death.'

  Valletta bowed her head and wiped away the tears welling in her eyes.

  ‘The discovery of Lenny Wilder's remains has opened up deep, disturbing wounds in all your lives. Clearly, you are not the people you were back in 1978, and we know from your statements you are all victims of the Wilder brothers’ cruel crimes. We would like to offer you victim support regarding this. However, we believe there are only two possible solutions to Lenny Wilder's murder,' Blake said, handing over to DS Murphy.

  Murphy cleared his throat, 'We've concluded that Lenny Wilder's murderer is either dead or in this room.'

  A look of shock appeared on their faces.

  Clifford Bates spoke up, 'That's ridiculous. How can you accuse us without any hard evidence, Sergeant? And what about Margot Matheson? Where the hell is she?'

  'We'll get to that in a minute,' Blake said.

  Valletta Lombardi stood up as if to leave, 'This is out of order. I'm not listening to any more. We are the victims here, not that murdering bastard Wilder.'

  'I understand your frustration, Mrs Lombardi, but please sit down while I finish.'

  George Rills interrupted, 'It was forty-two years ago, for God’s sake. We've all told you what happened around the time Lenny disappeared.’

  'This is based on your anecdotal evidence. As you rightly point out, it’s a lifetime ago, but there's no denying all of you had means, motive and opportunity to kill Lenny Wilder. But you couldn't have done it, George, as you were lying unconscious at the bottom of the cellar steps with a broken back. Which leaves you two and Margot. Isn't that correct, DI Blake?'

  'Indeed. You're all victims of Lenny Wilder's vicious cruelty. The deceased and his brother have caused you great suffering. But three of you had a hand in killing him, and covered it up all these years. That's why Vincent Brady summoned you all to the Old Sal pub with his note. He knew the net was closing in on him and needed you all in one place, to try and dispose of you before we linked him to these historical crimes against children,' Blake said.

  Their eyes were fixed upon him; their silence an admission of guilt.

  Bates said, 'A lawyer would rip this theory of yours to bits, Inspector.'

  'Maybe, maybe not. Because we've been unable to verify your alibis, it’s been difficult proving a case against any of you; until now, that is.' Blake turned to his sergeant, 'DS Murphy, can you let her in, please?’

  To their clear astonishment, Margot Matheson entered the room, already cowering.

  'Vincent Brady, not Johnny or Lenny Wilder's deadly legacy, has been the real threat to exposing your murderous conspiracy.'

  Margot Matheson stood like a frightened child about to be caned by a fearsome headmaster.

  DS Murphy grabbed a chair and helped her to sit.

  'What’s going on, Margot?' Lombardi shouted across the room. 'Where the hell have you been? We were worried sick.'

  'I'm OK.'

  'We found Margot locked in the cellar of Vincent Brady's second house in Longton. He'd kept her captive since your meeting at the Old Sal. Margot's been in protective custody ever since. She's now had a chance to reflect on her life and has finally told us everything that happened the night you all murdered Lenny Wilder.

  ‘We now know it was an altercation that got out of hand, and you were in fear of your lives. Clifford, after Lenny rammed your face into his desk, Margot grabbed him around the neck from behind to stop him bludgeoning your head in. But Wilder was a maniac. He tossed her on the floor and tried to strangle her. That's when you dealt the fatal blow to the back of his head with the fire extinguisher: the one we found discarded further down the drain. That fractured his skull and knocked him to the floor. Whilst he was disorientated and bleeding out, Margot and Valletta suffocated him to death with a chair cushion. Then the three of you rolled him in the blood-soaked rug he lay on, and carried him down to the cellar to dump his body through the manhole into the old drains. But you had to delay that when you discovered George lying unconscious with a broken back.’

  Margot could barely raise her head to look at the other three, who sat in disarray after hearing their sordid past exposed.

  Valletta Lombardi gulped, 'What's going to happen to us now?'

  ‘We've spoken to the CPS, and the threshold test to charge you hasn't been met. They're not satisfied there's enough evidence to provide a realistic prospect of a conviction against each of you, because this happened forty-two years ago and we only have Margot's word. However, that doesn't mean you're all off the hook and this case will go on record. If you commit any crimes in the future this will be taken into consideration. You’re all free to go. Apart from you, Mr Bates: we need to clarify something with you,' Blake said.

  The other three glanced at each other suspiciously as they filed out of the room.

  CHAPTER 51

  George Rills stood on the steps of Hanley police station pondering why they'd held Clifford Bates back. Putting the thought to the back of his mind, he watched Margot Matheson and Valletta Lombardi go their separate ways. It had been a horrible few weeks. What started off as a few awkward questions about the old days had soon become a deeply disturbing police enquiry that dredged up the past, and he was glad it was over. Valletta Lombardi stopped on the corner of Bethesda Street and waved, before disappearing past the two-hundred-year-old restored Methodist Chapel the street was named after.

  His phone pinged, informing him his cab had arrived. Using his stick for support, Rills carefully navigated the steps and headed toward the taxi waiting by the boarded-up construction site of the new six-million-pound Potteries Museum extension that would house one of the world’s last remaining Spitfires.

  He op
ened the rear passenger door, stooped to slot his stick in the foot-well of the empty seat next to him, and climbed in behind the driver.

  It was a short eight-minute journey down to Stoke town. Upon arrival, Rills slipped the driver an extra tenner and asked him to wait, before exiting the cab outside his dilapidated terraced house.

  Inside the hallway, he hung his stick on a coat-hook. Placing his hands in the small of his back, he arched to stretch out the kinks, straightening up from the pathetic crippled haunch to his full height of five-ten. Like a man half his age, he bounded up the narrow stairs to his bedroom.

  Momentarily, he stood looking at the open case on the bed. On top of his neatly packed shorts, trunks, and summer shirts lay a black hand-held 8mm camera with silver lens and trim: luckily, he knew where to still get the film online. The company delivered to any address in the world for a small fee. He picked up the camera and ran his finger over the badge of the now defunct Kodak company. He smiled wryly as he shut the lid, zipped it up and turned to take a last look at his beloved glass shadow box of butterflies on the wall. Pinned in the centre of the glorious insects was the beautiful Pyronia Tithonus, commonly known to lepidopterists as the Gatekeeper because of its rigorous patrol of hedges and woodland rides.

  Grabbing the case, he headed down the stairs. In the hallway, he glanced down at the filthy white sliders he'd worn ever since that bastard Albert Carmelo yanked his toenails out. Rest assured he'd be paying that fucking Cypriot’s sister a visit once he was settled: she had two twelve-year-old daughters. Maybe he'd send Carmelo a postcard in prison. Wouldn't that be sweet justice?

  Outside, he popped the taxi’s boot-lid, tossed the case inside and climbed in the back.

  'Where we going, my mate?' the Asian driver asked.

  'Manchester Airport, please,' Rills said, placing a hundred quid in crisp twenty pound notes on the armrest next to the driver.

  ****

  Just over two hours later, Rills made his way to passport control in plenty of time to catch the 2p.m. plane out to Ercan Airport from Terminal Two. He'd already acquired the necessary visa to enter the north of the island, several weeks before. He knew full well the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus had no extradition treaty with the UK. Effectively, the island was split in half. It was a place where men like him could happily satisfy their needs for less than the price of a decent meal in a UK restaurant.

  A tap on his shoulder startled him. Turning nervously, he was confronted by an armed police officer.

  'Mr Rigs?'

  Seeing what the officer was holding, he hesitated anxiously, 'Yes?'

  ‘You've dropped this,' the officer said, handing him his passport opened on the laminated ID page.

  'Oh, what a dopey sod I am,' he said, veering off toward the Gents’.

  Inside one of the spotless cubicles, he rummaged in his hand luggage and fished out another passport: the one that coincided with his outbound flight ticket. Confusion was always the best policy.

  CHAPTER 52

  ‘Mr Bates, come with us to Interview Room Two, please?' Blake said.

  Clifford Bates watched the detectives nervously, but didn't say a word as they headed down the corridor.

  When they were all seated, Blake asked, 'Would you like a lawyer present? Because what I'm about to tell you is going to come as a shock, with implications for both you and your daughter.'

  Clifford Bates knew he'd need legal representation, and soon, but wanted to hear what they had to say first.

  'The DNA results are back in on your daughter Joanne.'

  Bates looked puzzled.

  'Do you know a Bethan Ellis, Mr Bates? Have you had an affair or a sexual encounter with the woman in the past?'

  Bates shook his head.

  'I suspected not. Bethan Ellis was tragically killed in a house fire in 1978, along with her husband, David. They had a six-year-old daughter, Daisy, who it’s thought was trapped in her bedroom while flames engulfed the house. But only two bodies were ever recovered from the property: two adults. The little girl was never found. The police officers who searched the back garden found Daisy’s teddy bear and comfort blanket by the open back gate which led out onto an alleyway,' Blake said, referring to the yellowing file on his lap.

  'Why are you telling me this, Inspector?'

  'Because this crime scene report states the police believed six-year-old Daisy Ellis was abducted on that same night.’

  'That's all very tragic, but what has this to do with my Joanne?'

  'Bethan Ellis's sister, Joy, came forward in the late nineties and gave a DNA sample, in the hope that if Daisy was ever found she could be identified.'

  Bates continued to stare almost straight through him and DS Murphy. They could see he was trying hard to quell his emotions.

  'DS Murphy, can you put Mr Bates out of his misery?'

  'It disturbs me to say that the DNA database has identified a familial match between your daughter Joanne and Joy Ellis.'

  A look of despair spread across Clifford Bates’ face.

  'So what do you have to say about this strange set of circumstances surrounding your daughter?'

  Bates broke down and openly wept. Forty years of hiding this dark secret must have weighed heavily on his mind. And the final reckoning took its toll.

  'We take no pleasure in seeing you suffer, Mr Bates, but clearly something is very wrong here. If you tell us everything you know about this, I'm sure it will ease your conscience,' Blake said.

  Regaining composure, Clifford Bates seemed finally ready to reveal the sordid truth, 'I... don't really know how to say this...'

  'Please go on?' Blake said.

  'I don't need to tell you that the investigating officer in the Ellis house fire was Vince Brady.’

  'Vince Brady was a very devious character with questionable morals. Yes, I realise that sounds like the kettle calling the pot black. But, as I told you before, that parasite Lenny Wilder was blackmailing me in relation to the Lorna Atwood allegation. I suspected Brady may have been a corrupt officer working for the Wilder brothers.'

  'And what bearing has this on what we've just told you?' Blake asked.

  'Early in 1978, I remember my wife talking with a friend in our café, about children. Brady used to come in often, order a pot of coffee and sit by the counter smoking whilst he read the papers. My wife was telling her friend how we'd been turned down for adoption several times because we both worked long hours at the cafe and because her cousin had been convicted for child cruelty. We were both devastated, Inspector. Sheila would have given any child all the love in the world. It was so unfair. Anyway, Brady overheard them, but didn't let on, and nothing more was said for a few weeks. Then one day, he came into the café when my wife was out and propositioned me in the kitchen. He said he was investigating a paedophile ring and some evil men had abducted a six-year-old girl. He said, because her parents died in a house fire, she had no relatives and was destined to be taken into the care system which several of these paedophiles had access to.'

  The two detectives were shocked by his admission, but not surprised by Vince Brady's involvement. The man was a duplicitous sick bastard.

  'And this little girl was…?'

  'Our Joanne.'

  'You mean Daisy Ellis?' Murphy said.

  Bates reluctantly nodded in agreement.

  ‘And no one, not even your neighbours, asked questions about where the little girl had suddenly appeared from?’

  'Yes, of course they did, but the neighbours knew we were applying for adoption. Of course, they didn't know all the ins and outs of it. The details of our adoption application were private. So when she turned up, they were pleased for us.'

  'I find it hard to believe that Vince Brady would do this for you. I mean, we have evidence that the man's a paedophile. Doesn't that strike you as a very odd contradiction, Mr Bates?'

  'Sadly, yes, but like I said, I had my suspicions about him. We couldn't let this little girl be subjected to a life
of abuse and misery. We had to do something. Considering her parents had died, and even though it would seem morally wrong to others, we thought it was in the child's best interest. I know that sounds terrible, but we genuinely believed it. Joanne has had a very happy upbringing.'

  'So Vince Brady brought Daisy to you and no further questions were asked by anyone?'

  'Yes.'

  'Surely the authorities would have been alerted in some way? For example, if you applied for child allowance or a social worker did a spot check or something of that nature?' Blake said, incredulously.

  'We ran a successful business and didn't need handouts from the government. We avoided all interactions with the local authorities. It was hard at first. We nearly slipped up a few times, but after a while it became second nature and, although Joanne was traumatised by what had happened to her, she accepted the situation. It was a different era, and there wasn't the kind of scrutiny there is today.'

  'But Daisy should have been raised by her real mother’s sister, Joy Ellis, Mr Bates. Surely you can see that?' Murphy said.

  'It’s easy for you to pass judgement, but Brady told us she had no living relatives, and we had to act fast to save her from the clutches of paedophiles. Rightly or wrongly, we saved her. I'm very proud of the way Joanne has turned out. And I stand by our decision.'

  Seeing Clifford Bates’ dilemma, Blake tried to understand, 'We accept you gave the child a good life, but you've prevented her blood relatives from seeing her. They've suffered the considerable pain of not ever knowing what happened to Daisy all these years.'

  'I'm deeply sorry for that, but what can I do now to make amends?' Bates said, mournfully.