by Luca Veste
The memory made me smile as I drove in and parked up in a bay. The car park was deserted – only a couple of other cars in the place. I wondered which one belonged to the man I was going to meet, if he was already there.
I noticed my hands shaking a little as I took them from the steering wheel and picked up my phone. This was the safest option I could think of when I’d arranged to meet up with someone who I didn’t know existed until a few hours earlier.
A motorway services that would still be open this late at night. Nice and public, but quiet enough that we wouldn’t be disturbed.
I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply. Tried to control the butterflies taking flight in the pit of my stomach. Opened them again and got out of the car before I could change my mind.
The car park was almost in complete darkness. The only light was emanating from the large building that lay at the side. A large sign saying ‘Welcome Break’ in green and white adorned the outside of the glass-fronted entrance, but there wasn’t much that was welcoming other than the fast-food outlets advertised as being inside. Automatic doors opened as I approached them, the noise from inside muted and discomforting. The only greeting was an array of slot machines, blinking and flashing red and yellow lights. A couple of big men in hi-vis jackets were stood over the machines, pressing buttons and placing money in them.
I took the escalator that was in front of me up to the bridge, where the various eateries were situated. It crossed over the motorway, but I couldn’t hear the traffic from inside. Bored-looking workers stood behind tills at either end. I ordered a Coke Zero and didn’t have to wait long.
He approached me, thankfully. I wasn’t sure I would have recognised him from the description he’d given me.
‘Dave?’
I stood up and shook his proffered hand, as he took the seat opposite me. Made another mental note to remember the fake name I’d given him over the phone earlier. ‘Thanks for meeting up with me at short notice, Peter. And at this time of night.’
‘No problem at all,’ Peter replied, shaking a few sugar packets into a large coffee. He was bigger than I’d been expecting – around six foot four inches, I guessed. As big around his chest and waist as he was tall. He pushed glasses up his nose and placed the lid back on his Styrofoam cup. ‘Got to say, this all feels a bit like some kind of spy movie.’
‘I doubt James Bond visits many motorway services,’ I said, keeping up the pretence that this was all a normal way of doing things. I pulled out a notebook and pen I’d found in my desk drawer. It had been filled with blank pages, but I opened it to the middle to give the impression I had more notes than I actually did. ‘Just to reiterate, this is all anonymous. I won’t use your name in anything I do, unless you want me to?’
‘No, I’d prefer to stay out of any of the stories, if possible. I don’t want him coming after me, know what I mean?’
I nodded, writing down a few words. I’d told him I was a journalist working on an expose of the Candle Man and the police’s ignorance or denial of his existence. It wasn’t a difficult lie to tell and gain attention – there had been a few similar pieces over the years, after all. ‘Tell me when you first heard about this story.’
Peter made a show of looking into the distance and really thinking about his answer. I got the feeling he wasn’t asked for any sort of opinion in his offline life. Online, he was prolific on the message boards of the pages I’d gone through. He seemed to be first to respond to every post. He was the first person I’d made contact with earlier that evening and his speed of reply had made me sure I could set something up to meet him that night. I needed to do something; my ability to just sit around and wait was finally cracking.
‘Far too long back to remember, but I really got into it about five or six years ago now,’ Peter said, nodding to himself as if it was a sure answer. Even despite the year uncertainty. His voice was a mix of Mancunian and what I suspected was Preston. ‘I had heard of these killings, but it wasn’t like I knew anything about them other than some newspaper headlines and that. Even those have died down a lot lately though.’
‘What made you want to investigate it further?’
‘Well, there’s a whole bunch of threads dedicated to unsolved crimes on the net, right? I was always posting theories and stuff on those, but it wasn’t like we ever got any answers for the most part. And they always seemed to be in America – the JonBenet Ramsay case, O.J. Simpson, or that whole Making a Murderer series. Then someone sent me a link to this thread about the Candle Man and it just really appealed to me.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Well, this one wasn’t about an actual murder or crime that took place and was unsolved or whatever – this was about whether a murderer actually existed or not. That was exciting, you know. I couldn’t ignore this thing and I’ve been working on it ever since.’
I nodded along and made notes that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else reading them in my dummy notebook. Tried to ask questions I thought a journalist would ask, but I didn’t really have a clue what I was doing. Thankfully, it didn’t seem like Peter knew either. We talked back and forth for a little while, as he explained the creation of subthreads and communities, which I didn’t really understand but pretended to be highly interested in. He spent a few minutes droning on about a split in the camp a few months back, which was probably the most exciting thing to him and the others online. At this point I was starting to worry I’d made the wrong decision in meeting him.
‘So, to get back to it,’ I said, as he paused for a second or two during a long monologue about characters I didn’t have any interest in. Some internet spat or something, which obviously still mattered a great deal to him, but made me wish I was drinking the same coffee he’d ordered. ‘At what point did you truly believe you’d discovered a serial killer who wasn’t being acknowledged by the police?’
‘Oh, a while ago now. When the red candles were first discovered.’
‘And you never believed the line that it was just coincidence?’
Peter shook his head and laughed. ‘There’s no such thing as coincidence in unsolved mysteries. Everything has meaning. That’s how we work.’
‘What do you think about this Candle Man story then . . . any theories?’
‘Of course,’ Peter replied, leaning towards me, all sense of joviality leaving his expression. ‘I think the kill count is even higher than we think. And I don’t think he works on his own.’
Twenty-Eight
There was a pause as a worker cleared and wiped a nearby table. A couple entered the restaurant area and moved past us to the furthest fast-food operator. Someone else left, leaving even fewer people in the place.
Outside the windows, sparse traffic trundled north and southbound on the M6.
‘You don’t think he was working alone?’
Peter shook his head. ‘It makes sense, even if most of them don’t agree with me. I just can’t see how one guy can do all these murders and get away with it. I think it’s a group of people.’
‘There hasn’t really been a reported link to any crime in the past year though,’ I said, as I finished my drink and slid it away from me on the table. ‘Does that not strike you as odd? Especially if there’s a group of people doing this.’
‘That’s only if you believe that there haven’t been any murders. This group are good. There are no bodies found – only missing people. It has taken us years to identify some victims, so it could be that we just haven’t caught up yet. There’s a few possible ones out there, but nothing confirmed for me. I’m guessing you’ve seen the maps and stuff?’
I nodded at his response and let him continue.
‘Yeah, well, there are two pockets of multiple victims – further north, encircling the Bowland Forest and that. Over in the Peak District. In the Highlands. And further down south near Shropshire, Brock Hope and the Cotswolds. You can draw a circle almost around those places and see what’s happening. But there’s loads more in other places.
It could be that these woodland areas are just where all the bodies are buried, with other victims being taken there or whatever. Or, if you believe my theory, there’s a network of people – killers, I should say – who are all working together and have their own patch, so to speak.’
‘Why do you think no bodies have ever been found? Wouldn’t that suggest we’re trying to give stories to these missing people, rather than just accepting they’re missing?’
‘Remember what I said about ignoring coincidences?’ Peter said, leaning back in his chair, making it screech in protest. His barrelled chest strained at the buttons on his checked shirt. ‘It’s much easier for the police and that to make us believe all these people just disappear for no reason. Much better than the idea that a serial killer is out there and they can’t find him. Or, should I say, them.’
I pretended to write down more notes, but I was desperately trying to think of the next question. I wanted to know so much more than I did, but I wasn’t exactly sure how to ask. ‘Do you have any theories about who it could be? If there’s a main guy or anything?’
‘I have a few, but they’re all based on psychological profiling, stuff like that. Probably not even close to the truth. I think it started with one guy and just became bigger and bigger. Or I’m wrong and it’s a much smaller group. That’s if the number of victims is smaller than we think it is. After all, it is possible that some people have just gone missing. That does happen.’
‘I heard it’s something like a quarter of a million people a year who do just disappear. And that’s just in this country.’
‘Yeah, but that’s a bit of a misdirection,’ Peter said, puffing his chest out and pushing his glasses up his nose again. ‘Most of them turn up within a day or two. Can you really be called missing if you only go off radar for twenty-four hours? I’m not so sure about that. The more interesting cases are the ones that don’t come back. At all. And there’s loads of them.’
The word ‘interesting’ jarred with me. I’d seen the killer’s work. Closeup. I wouldn’t have called it that. I chose my next words carefully. ‘Who do you think it is? Do you have any suspects?’
Peter chuckled softly, a nice sound in the confines of those motorway services, and given the subject matter. ‘I wish I did. I’d be a lot more famous than I am online if I’d worked that out.’
I couldn’t hide the disappointment as my shoulders slumped a little.
‘All I can say is that I’m convinced that there’s more to this story than even we know about on the threads. For all we know, it could just be a coincidence and there really is no Candle Man. It’s been over a year since the story really blew up, but you know, with you coming round to me now and the other guy a few weeks back, I think there’s going to be huge interest regenerated in the case. At some point the police are going to have to listen.’
‘Wait a minute,’ I said, frowning at the mention of someone else Peter had supposedly spoken to. ‘What other guy is this? You haven’t mentioned anything.’
‘Oh, I just figured you knew,’ Peter replied, seeming to be genuinely surprised by the question. ‘Yeah, it was some guy who was asking similar types of questions to yours. Said his name was Richard something. I met up with him, but all he wanted to know was who I thought it could be and whether I knew more than I was letting on. I don’t, obviously, but he was a bit intense about it. Not friendly, like you. I suppose journalists have to have a thick skin or whatever, but it wasn’t like it made me more willing to talk to him or anything.’
Maybe I’d just stumbled into a good lie to speak to Peter, but I didn’t think the timing was . . . well, it was Peter who had told me about coincidences. ‘What did he look like?’
Peter scratched at his face, looking away from me and actually thinking about his answer this time. ‘Like, dirty blond hair, bit curly. About your height, maybe a little taller. Scruffy beard, which was odd I thought, because he seemed in shape and still earned some looks, if you know what I mean. If he kept it trim, or shaved it off entirely, he could have probably been a bit of a ladies’ man.’
‘Manchester accent?’
Peter nodded earnestly. ‘You do know him then? I thought you might. Who is he? A rival or something? He seemed a bit scatty and nervous, so I’m sure you’re a few steps ahead of him when it comes to getting something down people want to read.’
I shook my head. ‘Sounds like someone I might know.’
‘He was talking about an anniversary approaching or something,’ Peter said, frowning as he tilted his head trying to catch my eye. ‘I didn’t know what he meant by that, but he seemed . . . Are you okay? You look pale all of sudden.’
‘Yeah I’m fine,’ I lied, feeling a sudden need to get out of there and away from the man.
He had seen Stuart.
In the days before he’d died, he’d met with Stuart and talked about the same things I was now. I wanted to ask a million and one more questions, but something stopped me.
‘Who was he?’ Peter said, his voice turning a little now. More insistent. Something dark underneath. ‘I want to know who he was.’
I swallowed and hoped I would sound relaxed when I answered. ‘It’s like you said, a rival journo. That’s all.’
‘Are you sure?’ Peter said, leaning forward and grabbing hold of my wrist. The grip wasn’t tight, but wasn’t exactly friendly either. ‘If I’m being conned here . . . ’
I shook my head and managed to extricate my hand. ‘No, it’s nothing like that. Listen, thanks for talking to me and answering my questions.’
Peter seemed to blink and go back to the way he had been before Stuart had been mentioned. His tone changing in a heartbeat. ‘Course, no problem,’ Peter said, standing up and offering his hand out. ‘Anything I can do to help.’
I shook it quickly and placed my notebook filled with gibberish in my jacket pocket and stepped away. ‘Appreciate it.’
‘Yeah, no worries. Listen, if you need anything else, just let me know. I’ll be there. Waiting for answers. That’s all I do now. So, get in touch soon, you hear me?’
It sounded like more of a threat than I thought he would have intended. When I risked a look at his face though, I could see something in his eyes. A brief moment of black before colour returned. I needed to get away from him. ‘Of course, thanks again,’ I replied, raising a hand towards him, moving away and towards the stairs that led down to the exit. I looked back as I was about to leave the restaurant area. Peter was still standing at the table, watching me leave. He raised a hand and waved it once. A smile on his face.
I took the stairs two at a time, determined to get into my car before Peter had the chance to follow. The temperature had dropped in the time I’d been inside the services and I pulled my coat tighter around me as I jogged across the car park. I was inside, with the engine turned on within seconds, pulling away as I was still putting my seatbelt on. I pulled out of the space quickly and stalled the car as I shifted back into gear and tried to drive away. Swore under my breath, then stalled again.
The entrance/exit to the services was still empty, but I kept expecting to look over and see Peter standing there. There was something about him I couldn’t work out.
Something about the way he spoke about the whole thing.
On the third try, I managed to drive properly. I pulled over once I’d passed the petrol station but before rejoining the motorway. Plugged my phone in and called Alexandra.She answered quickly, but didn’t sound too welcoming. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m sorry about before.’
There was a sigh that surrounded me from the car speakers, as I indicated to come back onto the almost empty motorway. My heart rate began to slow a little as I finally put some distance between me and whoever that had been back at the services.
‘Me too,’ Alexandra said eventually, but it didn’t sound like she meant it all that much. ‘Are you in the car?’
‘Yeah, listen, I need to ask you something.’
‘Wha
t?’
‘I’ve just met some guy I found on one of those threads you talked about on Reddit, about the Candle Man . . . ’
‘Really? I spoke to a couple on private message but never in person.’
‘Did you ever speak to a guy called Peter? I think his online name was something like MysteryBuster70.’
I heard rustling in the background and then the sound of a keyboard tapping. I waited as she checked, looking in the rear-view mirror for any cars following behind me. I bit down on my lower lip, trying to stop paranoia from taking over me entirely.
‘Yeah, I did,’ Alexandra said, reading names under her breath, then finally finding the right one. ‘He just gave me a couple of bits of info. Mainly he just redirected me to his posts that were already up there. I don’t think I ever asked to talk to him on the phone or anything. Let me just read through our messages . . . No, I used a different story on him. Told him I was just interested in the case and had stumbled on the message boards. He’s one of the main posters on there, so that’ll be why I contacted him.’
I didn’t know if I was relieved or annoyed. It would have been nice to see if he had made her as suspicious as I was now feeling. ‘Listen, he told me something that doesn’t make any sense . . . ’
‘How did you get to meet him?’
‘I told him I was a journalist working on a story about the Candle Man. He was more than happy to meet this quickly and give his take on it. But that’s not the point.’
‘Sorry, go on, what did he say?’
I took a second to check behind me again, then continued. ‘I don’t know if this is right, but I needed to tell someone. He said I was the second person to meet up with him about it recently.’
‘Who was the other person? An actual journalist?’