The Devil's Cliff Killings

by Simon McCleave

  ‘What about Frank Cole?’ Nick asked.

  ‘Frank sorted out all the orders and all the money. Everyone was scared of Frank, so there were no problems. Or if there were, they got dealt with.’

  ‘Until Curtis Blake arrived,’ Nick said dryly.

  ‘Yeah ... you could say that,’ Gareth snorted.

  ‘And your mother wouldn’t do what Curtis Blake wanted, is that right?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Gareth nodded.

  ‘And that’s why Rosie was taken?’ Ruth asked.

  Gareth looked around at his solicitor. ‘No. I’ve told you, I don’t know what happened to Rosie. Why would I lie about that?’

  ‘But Blake made threats to your family if you didn’t do what he wanted? Is that right?’ Nick asked.

  ‘Listen, I’m not saying anything else now until I see details of what is on offer for me to give evidence against Curtis Blake.’ Gareth looked over to his solicitor.

  ‘My client has made it clear that he will cooperate in this investigation and give evidence if he is required to. However, we have no details or anything in writing. My advice to my client is he should wait until we have direct contact with the UKPPS via the National Crime Agency.’

  The UK has a nationwide witness protection system managed by the UK Protected Persons Service, and it is responsible for the safety of around three thousand people. The UKPPS is part of the National Crime Agency that dealt with investigations into organised crime.

  ‘It would be prejudicial for him to continue answering your questions. My advice to my client from here on in would be to give a “no comment” interview.’

  Ruth and Nick exchanged a look – the interview was effectively over and they were no closer to finding Rosie Wright.

  HAVING SPENT HALF AN hour upstairs with Jones and Drake, Ruth was starting to feel that the search for Rosie had hit a brick wall. They had released Hayley as there was no evidence to hold her or charge her. They had no tangible leads and the search for Rosie had slipped right down the national news agenda and had been replaced by the plight of a beached whale that had become stuck upstream in the River Avon. It was that time of year.

  As Ruth headed back to her office, Sian and French arrived.

  ‘Boss, I’ve got Martin Hancock in a holding cell downstairs,’ Sian said.

  ‘What for?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘He lied about his alibi. He was sitting talking to Jason Wright and Steven Haddon in the garden of The Royal Oak pub until around seven o’clock last Monday. And then they all left the pub together,’ Sian explained.

  ‘That’s weird,’ Ruth said.

  ‘Not as weird as having a framed photograph of Rosie Wright on his bedside table,’ French said as he took out his phone to show them a photograph he had taken of Rosie’s framed picture.

  ‘What? What the hell is that about?’ Nick asked.

  A slight feeling of uneasiness came over Ruth. A convicted paedophile with Rosie’s photograph at his bedside, meeting with the girl’s father and neighbour.

  ‘We thought his interest was in teenage boys,’ Sian said.

  ‘Are we missing some other connection here? Paedophiles don’t normally have photos in frames by their bedside. They tend to hide their sick fantasies,’ Ruth said.

  ‘He lives on his own. He doesn’t need to hide anything from anyone,’ Nick said with a shrug.

  ‘It does explain him striking up a friendship with Jason Wright. We’ve seen paedophiles groom the parents before,’ Ruth pointed out. ‘Daniel, while I go and have a chat with Mr Hancock, can you dig out everything we have on him on the PNC?’

  French nodded and turned to go. ‘Boss.’

  Nick looked at an email on his phone and then over at Ruth. ‘Boss, we’ve had a hit on ANPR for a vehicle belonging to Christian Vasilescu. The vehicle is somewhere in Bangor. Tech have also triangulated Hayley Collard’s phone to a road in Bangor. It can’t be a coincidence.’

  Ruth nodded. She looked at Sian and they held each other’s glance for a moment.

  ‘Nick, go with Sian to Bangor. And put your foot down.’

  CHAPTER 22

  Striding into Interview Room Two, Ruth could see by Hancock’s face that he wasn’t remotely fazed by being held in the police station. He had lied about being at home on the evening that Rosie had disappeared, so technically he could be charged with perverting the course of justice. However, unless he had lied to cover another crime or help someone else commit a crime, it was unlikely that the CPS would take it any further.

  Beside him sat his duty solicitor, a thin man, balding with thick glasses. At a glance, Ruth thought he looked almost Dickensian.

  The most viable line of enquiry into Rosie’s abduction was the link between her mother and brother to the smuggling of drugs and phones into Rhoswen and the likely conflict with Blake. This was made all the more likely as Blake’s MO was often to target the families of those he needed to intimidate. And car bombs were a particular favourite of Blake’s cousins, Craig and Graeme, who had helped him take over the sale of class-A drugs in Glasgow. A rival drug dealer had been blown to pieces in Tollcross in 2017.

  Ruth looked across at him, sat forward in her chair and started the voice recorder. There was a long beep followed by a moment’s silence.

  ‘Mr Hancock, Martin, can I just remind you that you are still under caution?’ Ruth said as she sat back in her chair and opened her file.

  ‘Are you going to charge me?’ Hancock asked.

  Ruth wasn’t in the mood for Hancock’s bullshit.

  ‘Martin, can you tell me why you lied to one of my officers about your whereabouts last Monday evening?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘I didn’t lie. I made a mistake, that’s all.’ Hancock looked over at her. His air of arrogance was annoying her already.

  ‘A teenage girl goes missing from your village and you forget where you were that evening. I find that very hard to believe,’ Ruth said.

  ‘It’s the truth. I don’t work, so one day is very much the same as the next.’

  ‘Except this wasn’t just any day, was it?’ Ruth looked at him, trying to gauge what he was hiding. When a crime like Rosie’s abduction takes place, people tend to make a mental note of where they were and what they were doing at that precise moment. It is human instinct. So Hancock was lying. Why? ‘What are you hiding from us, Martin?’

  ‘Nothing. It was a genuine mistake. And you know as well as I do there is no chance of you charging me with perverting the course of justice.’ Hancock looked at her. His pulse hadn’t altered since they started and, even though it was hot, there were no traces of sweat. He was a cold fish.

  ‘What is your relationship like with Jason Wright?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘I don’t have a relationship with Jason Wright. He’s someone that I bump into at the pub. We have a drink and chat.’

  Ruth looked down at her notes. ‘The bar staff at The Royal Oak seem to think that you and Jason spend a lot of time drinking and chatting?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say “a lot of time”. There is nothing clandestine about mine and Jason’s chats at the pub. We talk about cricket, music or Brexit. That’s about as racy as it gets, I’m afraid,’ Hancock shrugged with a bemused smile.

  ‘You and Jason were together with Steven Haddon at the pub on the evening that Rosie disappeared, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘As I have already explained, they were at the pub. We had a drink together.’

  ‘And then you all left the pub together?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. There was a band playing in the pub garden who were very loud. Jason said that he was leaving as he couldn’t hear himself think. Steven and I decided that was a good idea.’

  ‘Where did you all go?’

  ‘We all went home. Separately.’

  ‘And you were home on your own for the rest of the evening?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘Yes. I have been through all this with anothe
r one of your officers,’ Hancock said, shaking his head.

  ‘Can anyone vouch for you being at home?’ Ruth asked.

  ‘I wish they could, but I’m afraid not.’

  Ruth pursed her lips as she looked down at the file. ‘Can you tell me why you have a photograph of Rosie Wright in your home?’

  ‘Jason asked me to take some photographs of Rosie a few months ago,’ Hancock explained. ‘I had told him that I was a keen photographer. I put my favourite one in a frame. I don’t think that’s a crime, is it?’

  For a few seconds, Ruth processed Hancock’s bizarre explanation.

  ‘Jason Wright asked you to come and photograph his teenage daughter?’ Ruth said in a tone that bordered on utter disbelief.

  ‘Rosie had expressed some interest in doing some modelling. I told Jason that he would pay a small fortune to have a professional photographer create a portfolio. I offered to come and take some photos, that’s all,’ Hancock said so matter-of-factly that Ruth shook her head.

  ‘Come on, Martin. You offered to take photos of Rosie Wright, the teenage daughter of someone you know casually from the pub? For some reason, you keep a photo of Rosie by your bed. Last Monday evening, Rosie is attacked and abducted. Can you see how that looks?’ Ruth said.

  ‘Yes, I can see how it looks. But it’s the truth. I’m a homosexual, so I have no interest in teenage girls. And I had nothing to do with Rosie’s disappearance,’ Hancock said. ‘In fact, I feel guilty that you’re wasting time talking to me.’

  ‘But we only have your word for that, don’t we, Martin?’

  Hancock looked at his watch and then at his duty solicitor. ‘I’ve said everything that I’m going to say now. By my calculations, you have eighteen hours to charge me with something. And I am happy to go and sit in the holding cell until you have to release me because the only answer I am willing to give you from here on is “no comment”.’

  FIVE DAYS, EIGHTEEN hours

  Bangor was the oldest city in Wales and lay on the north coast overlooking the Menai Strait and beyond that, the island of Anglesey. The shadows of Bangor Mountain lay across the centre of the city, so from November to March some parts received no direct sunlight. Another ridge rose to the north of the high street, dividing the city centre from the south shore of the Menai Strait. This area was known as Upper Bangor, and it was where Nick and Sian were heading.

  The intel they had picked up was that the car that Nick suspected belonged to Christian Vasilescu had been registered on the ANPR cameras in Bangor. There was a male driver and two young female passengers. Nick assumed one was Hayley Collard. Could the other one be Rosie Wright?

  Tech had also managed to triangulate Hayley Collard’s mobile phone to a road in Bangor. As Nick slowed the car on the residential street, it wasn’t long before he spotted the dark red Audi parked on a drive by a small detached house with a brown pebble dashed exterior.

  ‘Bingo,’ Nick said as he parked discreetly further down the road.

  ‘Irish plates,’ Sian said. ‘Do we need back-up, Sarge?’

  ‘Let’s go and have a look first,’ Nick said as he unclipped his seatbelt.

  The house was dilapidated and dark curtains were pulled at all the windows. The concrete drive and path were cracked and covered in flowering weeds.

  Creeping along the outside of the house, Nick peered into the windows. Through a narrow gap in the stained curtains, he could see an empty room in virtual darkness. No furniture, no carpet, nothing. Just bare walls and wooden floors. Even though it was warm in the sun, the peeling window frame smelt of damp.

  Glancing over at Sian, who was now crouched outside the front door trying to look through the letterbox, Nick gave her a quizzical look. Signs of anyone inside? She shook her head. Nothing.

  Heading down the side of the property, Nick looked over the rickety wooden fence and gate that were about five feet high. Reaching over, he slid the rusty bolt lock and opened the gate to the back garden.

  Was this some kind of holding location for the girls before Vasilescu took them up over through Anglesey to Holyhead and then down to Dublin? The garden was wild and overgrown. Thick curtains hid the lounge from view. Nick thought he could hear movement from somewhere inside. And then talking.

  ‘Can you hear that?’ he whispered to Sian who had followed him round the back.

  She nodded. The talking was getting louder and more urgent. He didn’t recognise the language. Had they been spotted?

  Nick was aware of a growing smell that had replaced the scent of grass and flowers. Thick and pungent.

  Sian shot him a look and frowned. Smoke? Something was burning somewhere, and it wasn’t a bonfire.

  Glancing quickly up to the first floor, Nick suddenly spotted black smoke pouring from the thin gaps in a window.

  And then another smell that he recognised. Petrol.

  ‘Shit!’ Nick thundered as he clicked his Tetra radio. ‘Control from three-six. We’re at number three Orme Road, Bangor. We have a house fire. Request assistance. I need a fire engine, ambulance and uniformed officers, over.’

  ‘Three-six received. Will advise, over,’ the dispatch controller radioed back.

  Somewhere in the house there was a scream and a woman’s voice.

  ‘Help me! Someone!’

  Nick looked urgently at Sian and yelled, ‘Go around the front and see if there’s a way in. I’m going in this way!’

  ‘Sarge,’ Sian said. She turned and ran out of the garden.

  Glancing left, Nick saw a rusty metal base that had once held a garden umbrella. That would do. It was the size of a dustbin lid and weighed a ton.

  Heaving it up onto his chest, he flung it against the large ground-floor window. The metal base smashed through the glass pane and disappeared.

  Nick kicked at the shards of glass until there was space for him to swing his leg over into the house. As he ducked into the lounge, a remaining blade of glass cut into his neck. It stung like fuck and he could feel the blood trickle down his back, but there was no time to stop.

  As he moved urgently into the room, he could hear more shouting and screaming.

  ‘Help us! Help us!’

  It was coming from upstairs.

  Black smoke was everywhere and getting thicker by the second. His eyes, nose and throat stung as he went to the door. He needed to crouch lower where the smoke would be thinner. It wasn’t the fire that was going to kill him, it was the smoke. If he wasn’t careful, he would be unconscious and then dead long before the flames burnt his flesh.

  Moving swiftly out into the hallway, he could see daylight flooding in through the open front door. Beyond that, through the haze, Sian was manhandling Hayley Collard to the ground outside.

  If Rosie was in here, she was upstairs. Was that her shouting for help? Where was Vasilescu?

  Nick tried to peer through the thick, sooty air but he could only see two feet in front of him. There was another scream. Someone was locked in a room upstairs.

  Crawling up the stairs, Nick was starting to feel dizzy and disorientated. His brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen. He coughed, trying to breathe. And now he could feel the growing heat of where the fire was raging on the first floor.

  Coughing uncontrollably and gasping, he got to the top of the stairs. There was a door straight ahead. It was closed, but someone was hammering and choking from inside. It was locked. Shit! He didn’t have time to talk or even shout a warning.

  Lunging at the door, he hit it with his shoulder as hard as he could.

  Nothing.

  His streaming eyes were burning with the smoke. Feeling his lungs struggle to get any oxygen, he knew that he needed to get downstairs and outside soon. Or he was going to die.

  Taking a few steps backwards, he could feel his legs beginning to wobble under him.

  But he wasn’t going leave and let people die inside.

  Running as best he could, he flung his whole bodyweight at the door. The lock snapped and the door swung ope
n.

  Two teenage girls pushed past him as they escaped, coughing and screaming. Retching, he tried he wipe his eyes as he watched them go.

  Neither of them were Rosie Wright.

  Glancing across the landing, Nick could see that the other bedroom doors were open. He hoped that meant there was no one else inside the house.

  The noise of the flames was getting louder. Part of the ceiling crashed down onto the landing, filling the smoky air with plaster. It was time to get downstairs and out.

  Then suddenly, he saw a figure crawling out of the front bedroom.

  Cristian Vasilescu.

  Still clinging to a large, black petrol can, Vasilescu’s face and clothes were charred and burnt. He must have underestimated how quickly the petrol would ignite. More likely, Vasilescu had underestimated how flammable the petrol fumes were. Nick had seen it dozens of times before. Someone standing a long way from where they had poured petrol throws a match or a burning rag only to be hit by the burning flash as the vapours combust like an explosion.

  Pushing through the smoke, Nick got as low as he could to try to get cleaner air. He needed to pull Vasilescu out of the house. Not because Nick wanted to save the scumbag’s life, but because he might know where Rosie was.

  As Vasilescu reached forward, Nick could see that he wasn’t holding onto the petrol can. It had merely melted into the skin of his hand. Worse, as Vasilescu dragged himself along the burning carpet, Nick could see that petrol was still spilling out.

  There was a whoosh sound like the sudden rush of wind. The trail of petrol and the can lit.

  VUMP!

  Vasilescu was engulfed in a corridor of orange flames. He screamed for a few seconds and then passed out.

  The smell of burning hair and flesh nearly made Nick vomit as he crawled away and tumbled down the stairs. He didn’t care if he broke a limb.

  Someone grabbed him under the shoulder and lifted. Pushing his feet against the floor, his face was lit by sunlight, his lungs gasped and heaved for the fresh air of outside.