by Conrad Jones
‘And we don’t do coincidences.’
‘We don’t do coincidences.’
‘He’s not your man,’ Jo said, nodding towards the empty space where Richard had been. ‘Never in a million years. When do you think it started?’
‘Roughly, eighteen months ago.’
‘Way before Richard Vigne was mentioned to the Facebook group.’
‘I know, but we have to check.’
‘He’s been through enough without being fingered as a serial killer too. In hindsight, we never should have pulled him. If the girl had been interviewed first, we never would have.’
‘Why?’ Braddick said. ‘I thought it was a nailed-on case?’
‘It looked that way with a first glance at the evidence.’
‘Sounds like there’s a “but” coming?’
‘There are a lot of “buts”.’ Jo spotted Celia and the twins arriving. They were ushered into the relatives’ room by a nurse. ‘The wife and kids are here. I’ll let the doctors speak to them before I go in there and apologise for fucking up their lives.’
‘You can’t blame yourself.’
‘I don’t,’ Jo said. ‘I blame the press.’
‘Let’s go and get a coffee,’ Braddick said. He gestured to the vending machines nearby. They walked over and he put enough money into the slot for two white coffees with sugar. ‘You still take sugar?’
‘I never took sugar, but you always forgot. Don’t worry about it,’ she said, shaking her head. She sipped the hot liquid and grimaced. ‘It’s not great but it will do.’
‘Tell me what happened.’
‘At first, we had all the evidence we needed to bring him in,’ Jo explained. ‘The victim, Nicola, told her father she had been in a relationship with an adult since she had become pregnant at thirteen. We had emails, we had text messages, and we had photographs.’
‘Anyone worth their salt would have brought him in with that.’
‘On the face of it, I suppose.’
‘So, what is the truth?’
‘He went to a golf tournament in Wales, got pissed, and ended up letting a young girl sleep on the settee because she couldn’t get home. He was sharing the apartment with another guy, Ralph Pickford,’ Jo explained, her voice hushed. ‘I think Pickford comes back to the apartment, finds the girl on the settee, and has sex with her. She thinks his name is Richard, because she’s drunk, and he lets her believe that.’
‘Because she’s underage?’ Braddick said.
‘Not just underage, pregnant.’
‘Nightmare.’
‘Anyway, she doesn’t tell her parents who the father is, has an abortion, and keeps seeing him. Pickford carries on seeing her, up until six months ago when he’s killed in a car crash. The girl thinks he’s dumped her, becomes ill, suffers a breakdown, and spills the beans to her dad about who the father of her baby was. He goes ballistic and passes the information to the predator hunters, they pass it on to us, with photographic evidence and years of emails, texts and so on.’
‘It would look cut and dried.’
‘It was, but we couldn’t speak to Nicola. She was too ill to be interviewed.’
‘You were damned if you did and damned if you didn’t,’ Braddick said.
‘I interviewed Vigne myself because I didn’t like it. He didn’t seem the type to me. I believed him when he said he was innocent. I went to see Pickford’s brother, he was the only relative. They had given some of his stuff to a charity shop and sold some on eBay.’
‘Nice,’ Braddick said.
‘We traced his laptop and downloaded the hard drive. All the emails he had sent were there. When I finally got to speak to Nicola, she identified Pickford as her lover. Richard Vigne was innocent the whole time.’
‘Poor man,’ Braddick said. ‘His face has been splashed across the newspapers. They won’t run a story about him being innocent, will they?’
‘Not a chance,’ Jo said. ‘That’s not a story. He’ll have to live with the whispers and comments for a long time to come.’ She paused, and looked at Richard Vigne’s empty bed. ‘If he pulls through.’
32
Alec dialled the number of the Easy Bar on Ko Lanta. It rang for a full three minutes before it was answered by a local lady who spoke no English. He tried very hard to ask for the owner and eventually she went looking for help. He waited patiently and after a few minutes longer heard footsteps approaching.
‘Easy Bar,’ a man with an Australian accent said impatiently.
‘Hello. I am trying to speak to the owner, a Mr Gerrard.’
‘You’re speaking to him.’ The abrupt reply came.
‘My name is Alec Ramsay, I’m a detective from the UK,’ Alec lied. There was no need to be retired at this point in the conversation.
‘What can I do for you, detective?’ he asked, amused. ‘Half of my customers are on the run from something, usually their wives, the other half are too drunk to know their names.’
‘I can imagine,’ Alec laughed. ‘I am trying to trace a British man who was on the island six or seven years ago. Where you the owner then?’
‘I’ve been here for twenty years,’ Gerrard said. ‘I’ve drunk a lot of Chang since then though.’
‘Maybe you can help,’ Alec said. ‘The man I’m looking for is called Frankie Boyd.’
‘Never heard that name, sorry.’
‘Do you remember renting some motorcycles to three men who were killed in an accident with a bus, in the south of the island, about that time?’ The line was quiet. ‘Hello?’ Alec said. ‘Are you still there?’
‘I’m still here.’ Gerrard’s voice was flat, suspicious. ‘What do you want, exactly, Mr Detective?’
‘Two of the men, Bill Evans and Clinton Harris, hired scooters from your bar.’
‘What about it?’
‘According to the police, the third man killed that day was Frankie Boyd, the man I am trying to trace. Can you remember any of the men they socialised with? Maybe someone they were travelling with?’
‘Like I said, I’ve drunk a lot of Chang since then. People come and go here. I’ve seen a million faces over the years and they all start to look the same, eventually.’ He sounded bitter. ‘I don’t remember the men who hired those scooters; I remember renting out scooters that never came back, and I remember having to bribe the police to fuck off and leave me alone because they wanted the insurance company to pay out. Lots of tourists die on scooters here, detective. It’s just part of the job. You’re going a long way back.’
‘Yes, I realise it is a long time ago, I appreciate it would be impossible to remember everyone.’ Alec sighed. ‘I thought it might be worth a try.’
‘Sorry.’ Gerrard paused. ‘There’s one thing I do remember.’
‘Really?’ Alec said.
‘I remember they were sent here to hire my scooters because the bar where they drank had hired all theirs out.’
‘Can you remember what the bar was called?’ Alec felt a twinge of excitement.
‘I can,’ Gerrard said. ‘It was called Pangea Bar.’
‘Can you spell that for me, please?’
‘It won’t help you, detective. It burnt down three years ago.’
‘Ah,’ Alec said, disappointed, ‘seems like a dead end. Thank you very much for your time.’
‘No worries. Sorry I couldn’t be more help.’
Alec heard the line go dead. He felt disappointed and frustrated, but that was the lot of a police detective. Good detectives didn’t give up. Each dead end was just the elimination of one line of enquiry. It wasn’t the end of the case. He put down the phone and walked to his laptop. It was open on the Ko Lanta ex-pats site. He searched for the Pangea Bar and looked at the photographs of the fire and the burnt-out shell that was left behind. The owner hadn’t insured his stock and fixtures and fittings, and couldn’t afford to rebuild it. Alec scrolled back through the months before the fire. Pictures of tourists holding cocktails and beers seemed to go on foreve
r. When he reached the posts from six years ago, he decided a glass of scotch would make his search more bearable.
33
Braddick nodded a hello to the uniformed officers manning the cordons. He climbed into a blue protective jumpsuit and pulled on overshoes. Sadie was waiting at the front door. She looked grey. The scene inside had shocked her. He ducked beneath the crime scene tape and walked towards her. They didn’t speak as they stepped into the hallway and nodded to Graham Libby. He was finishing up his notes.
‘There are no great mysteries here,’ Libby said. ‘There is arterial spray on both the outside and inside of the back door. My guess is, he opened the door and was immediately slashed across the throat while his hands were busy. There are no defensive wounds – he didn’t try to defend himself because he didn’t have time. The killer used a Stanley knife of some description, severing the jugular, trachea, and carotid arteries with one blow. He slashed right to left, so is probably right-handed. There are no obvious prints that I can see and the footprints are flat so he wore overshoes, or similar. The victim staggered backwards into the kitchen where he collapsed, and that is where the killer cut out his tongue, sliced off his genitals and stuffed them into his mouth. Your killer is a very sick puppy.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s a lot of blood but there’s none beyond the kitchen. The killer entered and exited through the back door.’
‘Who found him?’ Braddick asked.
‘The uniformed unit sent to pick him up and bring him in,’ Libby answered. ‘They said the blood was still pumping when they arrived. The killer had been there minutes before they arrived.’
‘Did they look for him?’ Braddick asked.
‘One of them stayed with the body, the other drove around the area, apparently.’ The doctor gestured to the kitchen. ‘They’re out the back, waiting for you. One of them doesn’t look very well, to be honest. I’ll have my report with you this afternoon.’
‘Thanks, doctor.’ Braddick walked into the kitchen and looked around. ‘He didn’t last long,’ he said, looking at the arterial spray. It arced up the walls and onto the ceiling; blood splatter was visible on all four walls, the ceiling and the windows. ‘He must have opened the door himself. That means either he was unaware the attacker was there, or he felt safe opening the door.’
‘He was expecting uniform to knock on the back door,’ Sadie said.
‘It’s no coincidence that the killer used the back of the house.’
‘Agreed,’ Sadie said. ‘How did the killer know he was expecting someone to knock on the back door?’
‘Police scanner, maybe,’ Braddick said.
‘There’s no other way of knowing.’
‘He’s becoming reckless,’ Braddick said. ‘All the other murders were planned and executed with patience and precision. This was panic. The first cut was enough to kill Goodwin, yet he risked being caught at the scene to indulge himself, knowing the police were on their way. Why would he take that risk?’
‘Hate,’ Sadie said. ‘He wanted to hurt Goodwin, no matter what. That is rage: he hated him.’
‘I agree. What set him off?’
‘The newspaper article,’ Sadie said. ‘It has rattled him. He’s been able to operate in the shadows, move around freely. Suddenly, his crimes are in the press and he must know we’re onto him. He had to act before we brought Danny Goodwin in.’
‘What’s his next move?’ Braddick asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘If it was me, I’d be getting on a plane.’
34
Alec scrolled through pages and pages of posts from the Pangea Bar. He took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. They were tired – they seemed to be tired more often these days. Old age was creeping up fast. He sipped his scotch, put his glasses back on, and returned to his relentless search. The Pangea was an open-air beachside venue, with a thatched roof supported by coconut tree trunks. The images posted were of white sands, idyllic sunrises and sunsets, beach parties and barbeques; happy people drinking cocktails from coconut husks. He gazed at a thousand smiling faces but didn’t see any he recognised. Then a post appeared that had names tagged, he didn’t understand what tagging meant. He clicked on one of the tags and it took him to posts with images of the same person. A lightbulb came on in his mind.
‘Why didn’t I think of that before?’ he scolded himself. He went back to the Pangea Bar page and typed the name Carlton Harris into the search bar. Half a dozen posts appeared with photographs attached. The images showed groups of men posing with local girls. Alec shook his head, fat middle-aged men with pretty Thai women, it didn’t sit right with him. The images were all group shots. He identified Harris in the crowd of faces, and spotted Bill Evans in two of them. The two photographs had been tagged to some of the people in the pictures. One name was on both photographs with Evans and Harris: Noel Cook. He typed Noel Cook into the search bar; nothing new. The same two photographs returned. Alec sighed and sat back. He exited the Pangea page and returned to the main Ko Lanta site. It had to be worth a shot. He typed Noel Cook into the search bar again. The page reloaded with a raft of posts and he scrolled through them. There were photographs of Cook scuba diving, cycling, riding a moped, and drinking with local girls. Then it hit him.
Frankie Boyd was standing behind Noel Cook, talking to Bill Evans. He was standing side-on and probably didn’t know he had been photographed. Boyd did know the men that had died, the photograph proved it. It was too much of a coincidence, otherwise. Alec continued to scroll down but couldn’t find anything else of any use. He thought carefully about his next step; he could call Peter in Thailand and ask him to run the name through missing persons, but that would take time. Peter had said there were missing persons pages on Facebook. Alec typed: missing persons, Thailand, and hit search. The page opened and it did what it said on the tin. He searched for Noel Cook. Three posts come up asking for information about him, they had been posted six months apart by his daughter. No one had interacted with the messages. That was it. Boyd knew the men socially, and Noel Cook had gone missing when Frankie Boyd died. He didn’t need any more evidence.
Alec picked up the telephone and dialled Braddick. It rang twice.
‘Alec,’ Braddick answered. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘I might have a lead for you,’ Alec said. ‘I think Frankie Boyd is still alive.’
‘What?’ Braddick asked, shocked. ‘How can he be?’
‘It’s a long story, so I’ll cut it short,’ Alec said. ‘He was involved in an accident in Thailand but I don’t think he died.’
‘Okay. I’m listening.’
‘I think one of his friends died and Boyd switched driving licences to make it look like he had been killed. It gave him the opportunity to disappear and become a ghost.’
‘Sounds feasible,’ Braddick said. ‘Do you have a name?’
‘Noel Cook,’ Alec said. ‘I don’t want to insult your intelligence, but Frankie Boyd has a habit of getting into trouble. Changing his name won’t change that.’
‘I’ll run a PNC check on him and see what comes up,’ Braddick said. ‘Are you okay to wait a minute or do you want me to ring you back?’
‘Yes, I’m fine to wait,’ Alec said. The tingle was there again. He could hear Braddick typing then there was nothing. He must be reading something, Alec thought.
‘Alec,’ Braddick said. ‘You won’t believe this.’
‘What is it?’
‘Noel Cook was arrested during a sting conducted by an online predator hunter group on Facebook,’ Braddick said. His mind was whizzing at a million miles an hour. ‘They groomed him and then set a trap. He served four years of an eight-year sentence. Guess what for?’
‘Have you got all night?’ Alec said. ‘Nothing would surprise me about that man.’
‘Possession and distribution of indecent images of children.’ Braddick was excited, Alec could hear it in his voice. ‘The group set him up, pretending to be a paedophile ring looking for child p
orn, and passed all the information on to us. He was arrested in a dawn raid and sent on remand immediately. This is motive, Alec.’
‘Have you got an image of Cook?’
‘Yes,’ Braddick said. ‘It’s him alright.’ The sound of typing again. ‘He’s still in the system. I’ve got an address.’
‘Where?’
‘Chester. I know the area. It’s bedsit-land for students.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’ll put someone on the address while I sort out a warrant,’ Braddick said excitedly. ‘I’ll call you back when I can.’
‘Good,’ Alec said. ‘Be careful, Braddick.’
‘Always,’ Braddick said. ‘Thanks, Alec.’
35
Frankie Boyd was sitting in his white Iveco, waiting for Jane Hill to finish her shopping. She shopped at Aldi most days on her way home from the gym; Kevin Hill earned enough to allow her to be a full-time housewife. She dropped her three children at school at eight thirty, Monday to Friday, went for coffee at Starbucks with two other mothers from the school, Sarah and Leanne, then she would go to the gym before shopping for tea on the way home. It was amazing how easy it was to map out someone’s routine, just by following their social media accounts. Names, dates, times and habits were available for all to see. Most of the time it was safe to post about who you had coffee with in the morning, but not when Frankie Boyd was hunting you. Then it was dangerous. Not that she would know he was hunting her until it was too late. He planned to take Jane Hill and her children first. That would make it easier to control Kevin Hill. It was time for Kevin to feel helpless; it was time for all the Hills to feel helpless. Jane and her children were guilty by association. They would learn how it felt to watch a family fall apart around them. It would be a lesson they wouldn’t enjoy, but one they needed. They had to experience helplessness before they died.
He thought back to when he became Noel Cook. He had grabbed the opportunity with both hands and tried to rebuild his life. It was a magical time, like another life. He had been given a chance to be free from the scrutiny of the law. Getting caught was his downfall. It was his obsession with photographs that dropped him in the shit every time, but he hadn’t learned his lesson. Photographs were his living, but they were the evidence that exposed him, yet he couldn’t leave them behind. The residual income was all he had to live on. He had made a lot of money from his photographs when he was Frankie Boyd; his time working in the city was his favourite. He had invested weeks and months following the major players, building portfolios of them and their families, friends and associates. Blackmail was a lucrative business. That had led on to rivals buying the evidence that he had on their enemies, and so he slipped into a world of crime lords and criminals. His knowledge of forensics was the tip of the wedge that allowed him into the even darker underworld of murder for money. Selling information about the disposal process, to men desperate to make people disappear, was easy. He helped some of them, made money, and his reputation grew. It wasn’t long before they skipped a step and paid him to take care of everything. Killing was simple for him. He enjoyed the suffering of others. Disposing of bodies was academic, he knew how to do it. When the heat of the law came a little too close for comfort, he could apply pressure from the top down and his tracks were covered by a blanket of silence. Everyone knew he had evidence on everyone, and no one wanted to risk it. His reputation as an accomplished assassin was cemented in folklore. He was untouchable then, but it couldn’t last. Nothing does. It was his legitimate job in forensics that exposed his alter ego. He should have given it up and moved into the shadows, but he left it too late. Being around the dead made him happy.