Guilty

by Conrad Jones

  38

  Alec stopped when he reached the edge of the farmyard. The darkness was impenetrable. He looked around. Dark shadows shifted and merged; his eyes couldn’t make out any solid shapes. He had the feeling that someone was watching him from the darkness; his nerves were on edge. The sky was black and overcast, there were no stars to be seen. An owl hooted from the woods behind the farmhouse. There were no signs of any vehicles, animals, or people, yet the solitary light still burned in a bedroom window. He didn’t know why he had come here. It had been a hunch. Another hunch. Over the years he had learned to trust his instincts. It was a feeling he couldn’t ignore, he had to investigate. He knew the farm had belonged to Boyd’s mother. She was a widow and he was her only son. The news he had died would have left her distraught. Alec figured if Boyd had contacted her, and told her it had been a mistake and he needed sheltering for a while, his mother wouldn’t have turned him away. No mother would. She wouldn’t know anything about what he had done or what he was capable of. Frankie Boyd was her only son and she missed him desperately when he went travelling, and then she was told he was dead. Alec had a hunch that, when the shit had hit the fan, Boyd had scurried home to mummy, and she would have been so overwhelmed by his return to the living, she wouldn’t deny him anything. She would be old and vulnerable by now. Boyd could hide out of sight on a farm for years and no one would know any different. Boyd was a chameleon, changing to adapt to his surroundings, blending in while he waited to strike. He would take advantage of his mother as easily as the next person. Alec pitched him as a psychopath with no empathy for other humans, including his kin. It made sense that he would return home for shelter.

  Alec checked his phone again. The signal was weaker, but it was there. He walked quietly across the farmyard and approached a downstairs window. The yard was muddy and it stank. Years of rearing cows and geese had deposited a thick layer of animal shit that never hardened, no matter how little rain there had been; it squelched beneath his feet. He looked inside and saw a metal range cooker set into an arched brick recess. An antique shotgun hung above the mantelpiece; logs were piled in a basket next to it. There was a glow from the embers beneath the range. Someone was home. He tiptoed to the next window and peered inside: a living room, complete with a fireplace, Welsh dresser, and floral-patterned furniture. Painted plates adorned the walls and Staffordshire pottery lined the mantelpiece. A wooden magazine rack was next to the armchair. He imagined the old lady sitting there, reading in front of the fire. It was like stepping back in time. All seemed normal, yet it didn’t feel right. There was tension in the atmosphere, like the minutes before a thunderstorm. He looked over his shoulder, something was skirting the farmyard. A rat, maybe. Or a fox. The woods would be full of nocturnal critters. He listened as the four-legged creature ran through the undergrowth. His mind was telling him to leave. Leave this place, Alec, and explain your hunch to the youngsters in the morning.

  He couldn’t leave. Not until he was sure. Alec investigated every window on the ground floor. Everywhere was in darkness and appeared to be as expected. It was an old farmhouse, owned by an old lady, furnished with antiquated furniture. There was no sign of Boyd or his mother. There were no sounds, no television or radio, no lights flickering on the ceilings. All was still. He checked his watch, it was getting late. His nerves were on edge as he made his way to the back door. A hoot from the trees disturbed sleeping birds and they flapped, noisily, skywards. His heart was racing, pounding in his chest. He wanted to walk back to the car and leave, but something was telling him to go inside. All his instincts agreed there was something amiss, yet he couldn’t enter the property. His common sense was telling him that he was no longer a detective, and he had no grounds to enter the building. He could call Braddick and tell him about his hunch, but if Braddick knew where he was he would flip. His presence at the farm could jeopardise the case against Boyd. A good barrister could have any evidence found at the farm made inadmissible if it was known that Alec had been there, sniffing around illegally. It was time to go and leave the police work to Braddick and the MIT. He was about to leave when a muffled cry from inside changed his mind. He took out his mobile and found Braddick’s number. It was time to call the cavalry. He had pressed dial and heard it ring twice, when a heavy blow to the back of his neck stunned him. He dropped the phone and it was smashed to pieces in the mud by a weighty boot. Another hammer blow landed on the back of his skull and he collapsed, face down in the sludge.

  39

  Frankie Boyd whistled an inane tune as he dragged Alec down the basement steps. Alec was aware he was being moved but was still unconscious. Frankie sat him on the floor and fastened his hands and feet with zip ties to a thick metal pipe. There was blood coming from an indented wound at the back of his skull. Jane Hill saw the blood on his hands and started crying again. She had been hysterical earlier and her muffled sobbing had distressed her children. Frankie had to threaten to set fire to one of her children to shut her up. Kevin Hill had been surprisingly quiet, considering his family were tied up and gagged in a cellar. They were sitting in a line, their backs against the wall. The only light in the cellar came from the kitchen above; it was impossible to see into the corners of the room. The Hill family were oblivious to the gentle sobbing coming from across the cellar, their own peril was far more important to them. The arrival of Alec hadn’t changed the dynamic, they were still terrified beyond description. Mrs Hill’s distress was becoming uncontrollable again. Frankie switched on the light.

  ‘Shut up, Jane, or I’ll kill the fat kid,’ Frankie said, matter of fact. He looked at her and smiled. ‘Don’t look at me like that, he is fat.’ He shrugged. ‘Do you feed him more than the others, or does he steal from the fridge?’ Jane Hill closed her eyes and tried to pretend she was anywhere else. She stopped crying to protect her child. ‘There, that’s better.’

  The Hills blinked against the glare. As their eyes adjusted, the figure across the room came into focus.

  ‘This is my mum,’ Frankie said, smiling. An old lady looked back at them. She had been crying for a long time, her eyes swollen and red. ‘Say hello, Mum,’ Frankie said. His mother was sitting in an old armchair, tied to it with sisal rope. She blinked and scowled at him. Seeing the family sitting on the floor, opposite her, had confused her. She focused on the children. ‘Don’t be rude, Mum. Say hello.’

  ‘Shut up, Frankie,’ she snapped. ‘You let those children go this minute. What do you think you are doing, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Are you going to say hello?’

  ‘No, you idiot. You’ve gone too far this time.’

  ‘My apologies for her rudeness,’ Frankie said to the Hill family.

  Alec groaned and began to focus. He looked around and analysed the situation. It wasn’t good. Frankie Boyd looked as if he had lost his mind completely. The air of menace that surrounded him was like an aura of evil. Alec tested his bonds but he was fastened tightly. There was no way to escape them. A sculpture across the room caught his eye, making his heart beat faster. It was an angel made from wire mesh, standing six feet tall, at least. The wings were intricately crafted from thin wire, weaved and threaded with skill. There were others behind it. A full-size horse was next to the wall. Each sculpture could have been shown in any reputable art gallery.

  ‘Look who is awake.’ Boyd kicked Alec’s feet. ‘I’m glad you’re awake,’ Frankie said. He followed his gaze to the statues. ‘Are you impressed?’

  ‘Very,’ Alec said, nodding. ‘You obviously have a talent with wirework.’

  ‘It was a hobby but it didn’t pay as much as photography.’

  ‘You are obviously skilled at it,’ Alec said.

  ‘I think you knew that anyway, detective.’

  ‘No. I didn’t know anything.’ Alec looked at the statues. ‘Not until now.’

  ‘But you don’t seem surprised to see me, Detective Ramsay?’ He frowned. Alec didn’t answer. ‘You’re not surprised to see me, are you?’ Al
ec shook his head. ‘That was your biggest problem. You always were a smart-arse.’

  ‘And you were always trouble,’ his mother said, interrupting him. ‘From the day you were born, you were trouble. No wonder your father left us. He couldn’t stand you.’ She shook her head and talked to the Hill family. ‘His father said he was wrong in the head before he could speak, and he was right.’

  ‘Shut up, Mother,’ Frankie said. ‘If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.’

  ‘Nice?’ she said. ‘You don’t know the meaning of nice. You wouldn’t know nice if it came up and bit you on the arse.’

  ‘Shut up, Mother.’ Frankie flushed red. ‘You’re getting on my nerves.’

  ‘Someone needs to get on your nerves,’ his mother said. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘I’m teaching Mr Hill a lesson in humility,’ Frankie said. Kevin Hill looked up and listened; Alec watched in silence. The atmosphere was tense and explosive. Boyd was on the edge, he could sense it. ‘He wrote some terrible things about me, didn’t you, Kevin?’ Kevin shook his head. ‘I lost everything. It’s time to set the record straight.’

  ‘Who is he?’ his mother asked, confused.

  ‘He’s the newspaper reporter who slated me all the way through my trial,’ Boyd said, childlike. ‘He lied about me.’

  ‘He told the truth,’ his mother disagreed.

  ‘He lied!’

  ‘Enough of this nonsense, Frankie,’ she said. Her face darkened in anger. ‘Let those children go, immediately,’ she shouted.

  ‘Be quiet, or I’ll slit your throat right now.’ Frankie looked at her and she glared back. Alec didn’t think he was bluffing. His eyes were void of emotion. The woman in the chair may have been his blood mother, but it meant nothing to Boyd. Alec could see that. She was purely the means to an end. Her loyalty to him had been repaid by him strapping her to an armchair in the cellar. He didn’t care who she was.

  ‘You don’t frighten me, Frankie Boyd,’ she said. ‘You’re a bad egg, always were, but you don’t frighten me.’

  ‘I won’t tell you again, shut up.’ There was menace in his voice now. Alec knew the old lady was pushing her luck.

  ‘I will not. This is my house.’ She shook her head. ‘All those years I thought you were dead, I never for one minute thought I would wish you were. Well, I do. I wish you were dead.’

  Frankie walked over to the armchair and stood next to her. She looked up at him with angry eyes. He tilted her head back and drew the Stanley knife across his mother’s throat. Jane Hill began to struggle violently against her ties, flapping around on the floor like a fish out of water. Her children were screaming, their muffled voices distressing to hear. Blood gushed from the wound and Boyd held her head still until the light had left her eyes. When she had stopped twitching, he let her chin fall to her chest. The sound of her blood dripping on the cellar floor filled the air. Frankie looked disturbed. He frowned, and looked around the cellar as if it was the first time he had seen it. The knife in his hand dripped with his mother’s blood. Alec shuffled up against the pipe and tried to move his wrists. He tried to stretch the zip ties, but they were strong. Boyd looked his way and he stayed still. He didn’t want to attract his attention at the moment. One wrong move could set him off.

  ‘There was no need for that, was there?’ Frankie said, shrugging. ‘I told her to shut up.’ He wiped the blood from his hands onto his trousers. ‘She never did know when to be quiet.’ He shook his head. ‘You heard her, she blamed me for my dad leaving. That’s bullshit. He left because she didn’t let him get a word in edgeways.’

  Jane Hill was trying to hold it together but her panic was coming in waves. She was choking back sobs, her breath short and sharp. Kevin Hill kept eye contact with her, trying to reassure her. Exactly what he could reassure her about was beyond Alec. Their position was dire. As bad as it gets. The chances of any of them getting out of the cellar alive were zero. Boyd had moved from being a stalker, picking off his prey at will, to snatching a family and killing his own mother. His demeanour was that of a man who was disintegrating from the inside out. The consequences of his actions were no longer of any concern to him, and that was the problem. Alec had encountered men who no longer cared what happened to them, and the ending was never good. Jane was jabbering again.

  ‘I can see you’re not happy, Jane,’ Boyd said. He sounded concerned. ‘But if you don’t stop all that fucking noise, I swear, your kids won’t last five minutes. You’re making me edgy and I’m not at my best when I’m edgy. Do you want me to slit their throats right now?’ Jane Hill shook her head, her eyes were bulging. She stopped struggling and tried to calm down. ‘Good, that’s better.’ He walked over to Kevin Hill and removed his gag. ‘Now then, Kevin. Here we are, face to face after all this time,’ he said, smiling coldly. Kevin Hill licked his lips, his mouth was dry with fear. He tried not to make eye contact with Boyd. Alec thought that was a good thing. Boyd was slipping further into madness, his grip on reality was loosening. ‘This is all your fault, Kevin. I hope you realise that, Jane,’ Boyd said, looking at her. ‘This is not my fault. You have been very nasty to me, over the years. I had a family once, you know?’ He chuckled, dryly. ‘Of course you know I had a family, don’t you?’ Boyd asked. ‘I was Noel Cook then. You called me a sick monster. When they arrested me, you said I was a paedophile. Can you imagine what that did to Cathy and her children?’ Kevin Hill shook his head. ‘No, you can’t. Not that you give a shit about what happens to the people you write about. I lost my woman and her children. They were my family. I loved them.’ Boyd stood up and strutted back and forth across the cellar. He was becoming agitated. Alec could feel the mood darkening. ‘They weren’t mine, granted, but I loved them all the same.’ He pointed a finger at Hill. ‘You insinuated that I may have interfered with her children. I never touched those kids. The thought never even crossed my mind. You called me sick, you’re sick.’ Boyd began to shake and had to take a breath to calm himself. ‘You made that up. That came from your mind, not mine. You took my family from me.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Kevin tried to object.

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ Boyd snapped. ‘You insinuated I had sexually abused my step kids, and that was one of the reasons Cathy wouldn’t speak to me.’ He paused. Kevin didn’t speak – he daren’t. ‘She fucked off back to her husband, and I never heard from them again because of what you said. You took them from me. She wouldn’t even speak to me.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Do you have any idea how that made me feel?’ Boyd asked. Kevin shook his head. Alec watched Jane and the children. They were terrified, transfixed on the conversation between Boyd and their father, fear in their eyes. ‘It made me very sad. It made me feel helpless, Kevin, because there was nothing I could do about it. Nothing at all. Have you ever felt helpless, Kevin?’ Kevin didn’t answer. ‘I doubt it. Not like that. Not like losing your family and not being able to stop it. That is what helpless feels like, Kevin.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You need to know how it feels,’ Boyd said, nodding. ‘I’ve thought about how to teach you what helpless feels like.’ Kevin shook his head. He didn’t want to hear Boyd’s idea. Alec tensed and waited to see what depraved bullshit was going to come out of his mouth next. ‘I don’t want to kill you, Kevin,’ Boyd said. He sounded calm. His eyes were dull and dark. ‘I want you to understand what helpless is; I want you to suffer like I had to, but I don’t want you to die.’

  ‘Good, because I don’t want to die,’ Kevin said. He was trying to communicate, but Alec didn’t think it was the best move. One wrong word could tip the scales. ‘Look, I was doing my job and I’m sorry for what happened to your family.’