Guilty

by Conrad Jones

  ‘We’re working on the assumption that the cases are linked though?’ a detective asked.

  ‘For now,’ Braddick said.

  ‘Surely the Albanians were taken out over drugs,’ he challenged.

  ‘We have to assume that,’ Braddick agreed.

  ‘This is different,’ Sadie cut in.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The Albanians were on the radar. Matrix were on their operation for months, and we know they were in conflict with Eddie Farrell and the Karpovs,’ she said. ‘It was sharks against minnows. I’m surprised they lasted as long as they did.’

  ‘True,’ Braddick said.

  ‘Thomas Green isn’t even a blip on the radar for Matrix. No one has ever heard of him. He’s no one in that organisation. He may have worked for Premier Security, but a big part of their success has been the legitimate side of their business.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Braddick said.

  ‘Green was a part-time bouncer at Wetherspoons in Runcorn. His house was clean and tidy but he certainly wasn’t raking in thousands. He was scraping by. I don’t think he had anything to do with their operation.’

  ‘Okay, I agree,’ Braddick said, nodding. ‘Let’s not rule out a drug connection, but we’ll park it for now.’ He looked at the officer from the tech team. ‘Did we get anything from his laptop?’

  ‘It’s early days, but there are a few interesting things.’ The officer checked his notes. ‘Green was chatting to a woman on Facebook the week he disappeared. The conversation was flirtatious to say the least, but we only have one side of it.’

  ‘Why?’ Braddick asked.

  ‘The profile he was talking to has been deleted. We’re trying to get it back from his hard drive but it could take time. We’re trying to do it without approaching Facebook themselves, they’re a real pain in the arse to deal with and very slow. It could take months that way. The last message Green sent to whoever he was chatting to was “Great, I’ll text you now! Xx”, so it would appear that numbers were exchanged and the conversation continued offline.’

  ‘Safer if you have something to hide.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Maybe he went to meet someone. Have we managed to get hold of his network provider?’ Braddick asked.

  ‘Now we have his address we’re on it; we know he was with Vodafone. We’ve requested all his messages and call data with a warrant this morning.’

  ‘When will we have the information?’

  ‘Tomorrow, at the latest.’

  ‘Good. We need to know who he was talking to, and if she was genuine or bait. What else have we got?’

  ‘This is very interesting,’ the tech said. ‘We checked his Facebook footprint and at first we thought it was pretty bland. He doesn’t have many friends on there and he rarely interacts with anyone, but then we found he was an active member of a predator hunting site. He was an admin, posted every day, and participated in a lot of the stings they made. He has hundreds of photographs of their operations.’

  ‘Predator hunters?’ Braddick said, surprised. ‘Flushing out paedophiles online, now that is interesting,’ Braddick said. ‘How many?’

  ‘How many what?’

  ‘How many stings did they make?’

  ‘Twenty-five in the last five years, leading to fifteen convictions.’

  ‘Wow.’ A ripple of chatter spread through the gathering. ‘Twenty-five stings. Like or loath vigilante groups, that’s impressive,’ Braddick said. Some of the gathering agreed but others shook their heads. ‘I know what some of you think of these groups, but to run twenty-five operations takes organisation and dedication.’ He paused. ‘That group was obviously an important part of his life.’

  ‘He posted every day,’ the tech said. Braddick looked at Sadie and Google. They were both nodding. ‘On the face of it, it all looks to be above board and run with the best intentions,’ the officer said. ‘But when you look at it from the other angle, there were ten operations they got wrong.’

  ‘This is motive,’ Sadie said.

  ‘A thousand per cent,’ Google agreed. He began typing on his laptop.

  ‘If someone has been trapped and jailed by this group’s actions, they are going to be pissed off, and if they have accused someone wrongly, likewise,’ Braddick said. ‘Both scenarios are motive to me.’ Nodding heads agreed with him. ‘I want this group and its active members investigated. Google, I want you to go back through their site as far as it goes and see what you can find.’

  ‘I’m already on it, guv,’ Google said, searching the posts on their page.

  ‘Sadie, can you organise splitting up the stings, and investigate each one – especially the ones that ended up with someone doing time?’

  ‘How many admins are there in that group?’ Sadie asked.

  ‘Six, I think,’ the tech said.

  ‘Get me their details.’

  ‘What are you thinking, Sadie?’ Braddick asked.

  ‘We need to speak to each one,’ she said. ‘There may have been threats made, especially if they got it wrong so many times.’

  ‘Good thinking. Everyone knows what we’re looking at here. Let’s get on with it. If any one of you have even a sneaking suspicion you’re looking at the killer, you call it in and we go in with armed backup. No heroics on this one, understand?’

  The nodding heads told him they did. Braddick felt a rush; instinct told him they were onto something.

  20

  Richard Vigne woke up and wondered where he was. The surroundings were unfamiliar. His head was pounding and there was a dull ache behind his eyes. He didn’t feel rested. Then it came back to him. The pain and emotional trauma of being evicted from his home by the woman he idolised, and shunned by the daughter he worshipped, had broken him. Their words echoed like flying shards of glass, cutting him open. They’d said they were disgusted by him. His own daughter. The woman he had lived with and loved, had children with, couldn’t bear to look at him. It was heartbreaking, but how could he blame them? They were looking at the evidence and it was overwhelming. The photo was conclusive evidence of physical contact, it was impossible to explain away. The pregnancy was a fact that couldn’t be denied; Nicola Hadley had been pregnant and she had aborted the pregnancy. That was a fact. He couldn’t deny it had happened. All the facts were undeniable. The killer piece of evidence was Nicola’s statement. She said that he had made her pregnant that night. A thirteen-year-old girl said that he’d had sex with her, on a settee. He said, she said, except for the evidence. There was nothing to support his claims of innocence, not one thing. Celia would divorce him and Jaki would never talk to him again.

  He could tell that Jake had wanted to believe he was innocent, but couldn’t see past the facts. How could he possibly see past the facts? He was fifteen. The truth was impossible to see when there was so much evidence against his father. It twisted Richard up inside to think that his kids believed he had taken advantage of a thirteen-year-old girl and made her pregnant. They believed it. That was a fact too. A fact that he had to deal with. Jake wanted to believe him. That was the only positive in a lake of negatives. He looked around and tried to recall the night before.

  He remembered booking into a Travel Lodge with a bottle of Scotch and a Tesco mobile phone. The police had his mobile and laptop. He remembered drinking the burning whisky and he remembered the terrible anger inside him. The whisky seemed to fuel it. The more he drank, the angrier he became. It had spiralled out of control and he’d wanted to lash out at those responsible for his position. The fucking predator hunters. They had made a mountain out of a molehill and shattered his life in just a few hours. He hadn’t done anything to deserve their attention. Everything he had done that night with Nicola Hadley was done with manners and integrity, apart from the kiss, but she had grabbed him. She had instigated it and it was seconds, no more. The photograph said he was guilty but he knew he wasn’t. It was all lies and fabrication. Trying to convince other people was virtually impossible because of that ima
ge. All those years of doing good deeds counted for nothing. The way he had lived his life should indicate who he was as a man. He had chosen to protect and nurture children as a career, for fuck’s sake. He hadn’t chosen it for the money, that was for sure, it was his vocation. The thought of crossing the line with his pupils made him feel physically sick. How could anyone think him capable? How could his colleagues, his wife and kids think that of him? Didn’t they know who he was?

  Hot tears ran from bloodshot eyes and his anger boiled again. He looked at the phone as a message came through. The memories of the night before tumbled back into his mind. He had gone on the predator hunters’ page and messaged the admins. In fact, he had messaged as many people as he could before he passed out. He had told them what a bunch of retarded twats they were, and offered to meet up with any or all of them so he could smash their faces in. He said he was going to kill them. His mind went into freefall. Was there a way to recall the messages, delete them before they were read? There must be. The new message was a reply from one of them, telling him that his threats would be passed over to the police investigating his case. His stomach lurched.

  That was all he needed. He ran to the bathroom and collapsed, holding the toilet bowl as a bottle of scotch and yellow bile splattered the porcelain. As he remembered how angry he was when he’d written the messages, another contraction spewed acidic vomit into the bowl. He was at rock bottom. Things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  21

  He had waited patiently for John Glynn to finish work. He worked at the all night mini-market in the student area of Brownlow Hill, behind the Catholic cathedral. His walk home would take him along the cobbled streets, past the old Victorian terraces on Rodney Street, towards Toxteth. It was the same walk he made five nights a week when he’d finished his shift at 3am. John took the same route every night, never deviating, and he had followed him four times, each journey was identical to the first. The only stop John made, was to light a cigarette when he reached Smithdown Road. There, he would pause, and look down the hill at the Anglican cathedral, which looked majestic at night. The city lights reflecting off the surface of the Mersey were mesmerising. A view John could never grow tired of. He would stare for a few minutes, finish his cigarette, and flick the stump down a grid, before walking the mile to his flat.

  It was a dry night and John Glynn had finished on time. He waved goodbye to the morning shift and stepped out into the cool breeze that came from the river. It managed to find its way through any clothing, touching your flesh with its icy fingers. He zipped up his fleece jacket and pulled the collars up to cover his ears and mouth. The man watched him from his white Iveco van. It was a big van, with three panels down the side and a twin wheelbase at the rear. Big, yet almost invisible. It was a white van, they blend into the periphery of your memory. John crossed the road and looked around, nervously. That was unusual. He normally walked as if he didn’t have a care in the world. The city was relatively safe at night. Most of the trouble happened in the centre. Tonight, John Glynn looked worried. He wondered if he had a sense that something bad was going to happen. He wondered if he had an instinct that had warned him evil was stalking him. Some people have that, he thought. He had it himself. He always knew when it was time to move on. His instincts had kept him alive. Not always at liberty, but alive nonetheless. Going to prison was the hardest thing he had ever done. He was claustrophobic, so being put in a cage for four years had broken his spirit and he had felt helpless. Once the legal wheels had begun to turn, he was helpless – thrown into a cell, then a van, then another cell, each one suffocating. Panic attacks had come frequently but nobody cared. The prison officers didn’t give a fuck if he choked on his own tongue, and all the time there was nothing he could do about it. All the time he was helpless, unable to leave until they said he could. That feeling tortured him still. It was a feeling the predator hunters needed to experience themselves. They had to endure the same feelings: the total loss of control of your life, your liberty, your freedom. It had driven him more insane than he already was.

  His anxiety levels were rising as he thought about it. There he was, in touching distance. He could almost smell him. John Glynn, just a few metres away from him. He was one of the architects of his incarceration. Him and his stupid idiot friends playing Batman and Robin on the Internet, sticking their big noses in where they needn’t be. They were responsible for his torture behind bars. He took a deep breath and tried to control his rage. Killing him here would not help the situation, it had to be done to plan. There always had to be a plan. Pure rage made a mess and left clues; clues are what put people in jail. Stick to the plan and leave no evidence. Savour the moment he realises he is helpless. Watch him suffer and break. John Glynn was in the palm of his hand. One of the founder members of the group. One of only two that were alive. It was his time now.

  He waited for John Glynn to reach the end of Rodney Street, before starting the engine and driving down the street that ran parallel to it. There were no cameras there. He waited at the junction for him to finish his cigarette, and then drove up the hill, turning left into an alleyway that ran between the tall houses. He stopped twenty metres in and turned off the lights, climbing out of the van quietly. Glynn would walk by any minute. He waited for the sound of footsteps and took out the taser. One, two, three, four … then nothing. He froze in the darkness and listened. Was Glynn spooked by something? His breath stuck in his chest as he waited. The sound of shoes on concrete started up again. Step, step, step, quicker now. Instinctively, he ducked into a doorway. John Glynn had crossed the road to the other side and was looking over his shoulder at the alleyway. He never crossed the road at that point. There was something wrong. Glynn was behaving skittish, nervously looking around as he climbed the hill towards his home.

  He stayed hidden until he couldn’t hear footsteps any more. What had spooked Glynn? Why was he so nervous? It was inconvenient at best. He ran back to the van and climbed in. Getting close enough to use the taser wasn’t going to happen now. There was only one more street where there were no cameras. He started the engine and turned on the headlights, driving slowly to the end of the alleyway before doubling back and getting ahead of Glynn once more. He could see him walking up the hill. There was no traffic and he was walking down the centre of the road, following the white lines, so as not to be near the alleyways. Why was he being so cautious tonight? It didn’t matter. It had to be done, one way or the other.

  Glynn was half walking, half jogging up the hill. His mouth was open and he was panting. The man put the van in neutral, so the engine was ticking over quietly, and let it roll over the crest of the hill. Fifty metres away, Glynn spotted the van coming towards him. The man dropped into third gear and put his foot on the accelerator. Glynn moved over to the right-hand side of the road to allow it to pass, but didn’t go near the pavement. He was spooked about the alleyways. Not that it mattered. Ten metres from Glynn, the man swerved the van violently, and smashed into him at about forty miles an hour. The bumper smashed his legs below the knees and Glynn was catapulted into the air. He landed heavily in the middle of the road, behind the van. It took two minutes for him to open the van doors and bundle the injured Glynn into the back of it. It wasn’t worth tying him up yet. He would be out for a while, and, from the shape of his legs, he wouldn’t be running anywhere. The van drove unnoticed through the streets of Liverpool. He smiled to himself. It hadn’t been as simple as he had planned, but life could be like that. The outcome was the same: John Glynn was about to experience helplessness.

  22

  Alec sipped his whisky and savoured the flavour – a single malt with one cube of ice, the only way he could drink it. He didn’t like the blended brands, no matter how famous or well marketed they were. He didn’t like them and that was that. He had been searching the Facebook pages used by ex-pats in Ko Lanta and, so far, hadn’t had much luck. The island of Ko Lanta Yai looked beautiful. It was long and narrow and surrounded by secluded be
aches that stretched for miles. Although a popular destination for travellers, it didn’t appear to be spoiled. Not yet, anyway, Alec thought. Only a matter of time before they ruin everywhere. It’s in human DNA to explore, experience, exploit and destroy. There seemed to be some hope for the more remote islands, in the Andaman Sea, at least. Frankie Boyd had chosen to go there because it was remote, yet accessible – Alec would bet his last pound on it. It was probably the reason he’d chosen Phuket in the first instance: it was a busy port with an international airport, easy to escape from if the net was closing in. He had no doubt that Boyd would likely have built up contacts in the local police, long before they’d come looking for him. He seemed to build a protective shield around himself wherever he operated. His escape plans were cemented before he had taken off his shoes and settled there. Alec was convinced Boyd had escaped the clutches of the Bangkok police by bribing their colleagues in Phuket. He hadn’t done much travelling himself, but it was accepted that the Thai legal system could be manipulated by cash, as could most of the judicial systems on the planet. He was only two hours away from the mainland but, in effect, he had vanished. No one in South East Asia was too concerned where he was, and they certainly wouldn’t have sent out search teams for him. The only reason anyone knew where he had gone was because he had been killed in a motorbike accident. That is one sure way to pinpoint where you are: die abroad. From his research, Alec established that motor accidents were the biggest killer of British tourists abroad; it didn’t surprise him, and Thailand being the worst place for them didn’t surprise him either. Boyd had become just another statistic.

  Alec scrolled though thousands of posts on the ex-pat Facebook page. Most were from small businesses – bars and guesthouses – touting their trade. Others were from travellers to fellow travellers, recommending some places and warning of others. Then there were stories of interest: births, deaths, marriages, and a lot of posts about accidents, lots of accidents. It seemed there were six to ten deaths on the island every year, especially through the busy season. The novelty of not wearing a helmet was enough for some people to throw caution out of the window and ride without protection; head injuries were the biggest killer by far. The posts seemed to go on forever, and he was growing tired when a picture appeared that spiked his interest. There was a news report and dozens of posts about it. Three motorbikes had collided with the back of a bus when it had swerved to avoid a child, who had run into the road after his dog. Easily done. It only takes a second and you’re gone. It had happened in a remote area of the island. Two British men were killed instantly and a third died in hospital a week later, having never regained consciousness. Their names were listed underneath a follow up article, which included their passport images. The dead men were named as Frankie Boyd, Bill Evans and Carlton Harris. The report said Frankie Boyd was decapitated in the accident. The authorities hadn’t wasted any time: his body was burned then scattered at sea as no one had claimed him – scattered at sea was Thai for ‘thrown in the bin’. His passport photograph was just how Alec remembered him: his eyes piercing and dark. He read on but could find nothing more about the accident. It was simply another three tourists killed on motorbikes, nothing more. It happened regularly. He emptied his glass and refilled it, disappointed at reaching a dead end. The tingle had gone.