The Child Taker to Criminally Insane Box Set, Crime Books 1, 2 and 3 Detective Alec Ramsay Mystery Series (Detective Alec Ramsay Crime Mystery Suspense Series)

by Conrad Jones

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Heysham

  Geraint Jones was driving home from a long shift in the customs sheds. He had worked for the port authority as a customs officer at Heysham ferry terminal for over ten years. Heysham was situated on the northwest coast of England, and was a key container port connecting Ireland to Europe. The port had always been busy, and trying to stop weapons and hard drugs crossing the Irish Sea was a twenty-four hour, three hundred and sixty-five days a year operation. Tensions at the port had been heightened by the all-ports bulletin being issued in response to the kidnap of the Kelly twins from a tent in the Lake District. No one thought that they would be brought back to the north, and the ports on the south coast were favourites to find the suspect horsebox.

  Geraint lived in a rural area, inland from the port, and his journey home took him over a single-track bridge which crossed the River Lune. The water was high at this time of year, flooded further by the heavy rainfall that had been falling for days now. The road wound through miles of green open farmland separated by dry-stone walls, and hilly wooded areas, which couldn’t be farmed. Agriculture was the biggest industry in the area apart from the port. He was listening to the news on the radio, looking forward to getting home and opening a bottle of Merlot, when he past an abandoned derelict petrol station, one of many which were dotted all over the English countryside. The rise of petrol monopolies and supermarket domination had scuppered thousands of small garage businesses across the country, and rural farming areas were the worst hit. Geraint glanced at the rusty pumps and the shattered signage, which swung gently in the wind. He had taken his first car there once for a head gasket change, an old Mini Cooper that he thrashed around the country lanes until it fell to bits. The garage had been a big part of the community back then, but now it was a dangerous eyesore. The metal grids which covered the underground tanks had long since been stolen and sold for scrap, leaving treacherous deep holes in the ground. Behind the single-storey frontage was an old workshop, one used to house a servicing and minor repair business, and Geraint was certain that he’d seen a large blue vehicle parked in it as he glanced sideways. He slammed on the brakes and brought his Ford to a stop. His watch said it was five o’clock in the morning and the horizon to the east was starting to brighten as the sun began to rise.

  Geraint reached for his hands free kit. The icon on the screen told him that he had no signal, normal service for that part of the world. The network was patchy at best in rural England. He made a decision and slipped the gearstick into reverse, slowly rolling the car backward to the garage forecourt entrance. He looked over the building; it was filthy and the paint was blistered and peeling. He swung the vehicle onto the forecourt and his headlights illuminated the petrol station and the workshop beyond it. There was no mistake. He had seen a blue truck parked inside the old workshop.

  Geraint edged his car forward at a crawl towards the rear of the building, and as he rounded the corner, the dark vehicle came into full view. It was a navy blue horsebox, which was the vehicle that they had been alerted to be on the lookout for. He was looking directly into the deserted driver’s cab. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he weighed up his options.

  Geraint was no coward, but he was no hero either. He had a wife and three children at home, and they were his number one priority in life. The faces of his three daughters flitted through his mind, and anger began to build up inside him. The thought of a paedophile ring stealing his precious daughters and subjecting them to unthinkable things made him feel nauseous, and he knew that he had to act. He opened the door and went around to the back of his car. He popped the boot and reached inside to remove a torch, and a tyre iron. The iron felt cold and strangely comforting in his hand, he flicked on the torch beam and walked towards the horsebox. The ground beneath his feet was blackened with engine oil, and air was heavy with its smell. Geraint froze as a loud creak reached his ears, but when he turned, it was just the old signage caught by the breeze. His heart was pounding ten to the dozen as he neared the workshop. He played the torchlight all over the vehicle, checking beneath it and illuminating the furthest corners of the building. Nothing moved, but did he dare to enter the building, risking his own life to see, or did he leave now and drive somewhere that he could get a signal and alert the authorities? If it was his daughters in that vehicle, and a passerby left them to die because he didn’t have the courage to help them, would he be able to forgive them because they were scared for themselves?

  The answer was simple and he began to tiptoe around the horsebox. He reached the back of the vehicle and he could see that the ramp was lowered. As he shone the torch beam over the wooden ramp, he could see that it was coated in thick sticky liquid. Geraint bent closer to it and he could smell the thick coppery odour of blood. There were gallons of it dripping from the vehicle through the sides of the horsebox, onto the oil-stained concrete. He felt very scared as he stepped gingerly onto the ramp. The breathing sound stopped suddenly and the silence deafened him. He shone the torch inside, frightened by what he would find, and the scene which met him was worse than anything that he could have imagined.

  The carcasses of four large horses lay butchered on the floor of the horsebox. Their underbellies had been slit from the breastbone to the groin, and their innards had been pulled from their bodies and dumped on the straw next to them. The intestines had been ripped apart as if someone were trying to find something. Geraint had seen similar scenes in photographs during his training. They were used to demonstrate the lengths drug smugglers would go to in order to recover their contraband if something went wrong with their operation. The stench of offal and excrement cloyed at his nostrils and he had to grab at the handrail to stop himself from being sick. There was no sound at all except the driving rain outside.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Alfie sipped a cup of steaming hot coffee and pressed a tea towel filled with ice to a large bump on his forehead. He was shaking like a leaf and his nerves were shot. The trauma of being inside the prison bus when the sides were ripped open had been matched in ferocity by the motorcycle ride away from the scene. He had closed his eyes and clung on for dear life as he watched the speedometer climbing over one hundred miles an hour. Initially he had been over the moon to be free, but now reality was hitting home and he had to ask why anyone would go to such lengths to free him. The coffee burnt his lips and he spat it back into the cup. He looked to his rescuer, but there was little information to be gained from him. He had barely said three words to him since they arrived. They were in a detached factory unit somewhere north of Crewe, about forty miles south of the Delamere farm. Cardboard boxes filled pallets as far as he could see. It was set in similar countryside, isolated yet conveniently situated close to the major motorway networks.

  “How long do we have to stay in this dump?” Alfie tried to make conversation. The Moroccan shrugged and sipped his tea.

  “Hajj will have an escape plan right, to get me out of the country for a while?”

  The Moroccan shrugged again, and this time he smiled as he drank. The sound of a vehicle approaching diverted their attention.

  “Thank God for that. I don’t think I can stand any more of your riveting conversation.” Alfie frowned as he placed the ice pack back onto his bruised head. He heard footsteps approaching the unit, and then a door opening echoed through the building. Hajj appeared in the doorway of the room, and Alfie could tell from his expression that he wasn’t happy at all. His colleague Rahid followed him through the door, closing it behind them.

  “Hajj, thanks for getting me out of there.” Alfie stepped forward and offered his hand to the Moroccan mafia boss. Hajj ignored the offer and punched Alfie in the teeth. The blow rocked Alfie backwards. Hajj grabbed the iced towel and wrapped it around his knuckles, before punching Alfie a second time.

  “Hajj!” Alfie shouted as he spat a tooth covered in blood and saliva onto the floor. His top lip split against his incisor teeth and swelled painfull
y.

  “What did you tell the police, Alfie?”

  “Nothing, honest,” Alfie spat blood again. He hesitated before continuing, which was his undoing. “I wouldn’t tell them anything, Hajj, I’ve got too much to lose.”

  “Did they question you?”

  “Yes, of course they did, but I didn’t tell them anything, honestly.” Alfie stressed the last word. He knew that it would only be a matter of time before Hajj found out the truth. The police would be swarming all over Delamere Forest by now.

  “Did they ask you about the children?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Nothing. That bastard Howarth had told them that I kidnapped the twins.” Alfie played for time.

  “How do you know that he told them that?”

  “They were waiting for me at his caravan.”

  “Where was he?”

  “They had already taken him away. I walked right into a trap, and that fucking pervert is to blame.” Alfie pretended to be annoyed, but his fear was tangible.

  “You think that Jack telephoned the police?”

  “Yes, he did, and he tried to set me up for the kidnap.”

  Hajj laughed and paced up and down for a moment. He was mulling over the situation as he understood it. Normally, he left the planning on the ground to Rahid and the competent cadre of associates he’d acquired over the years but this time he’d become personally involved. Someone would throw his name into the police investigation. While it did no harm to let the peons know who was in charge, being this involved was an amateurish mistake.

  “Good old Jack! He’s not stupid is he?” Hajj laughed again, but there was little genuine mirth in it. “What did you tell them about the twins?”

  “I told them that I didn’t know anything about them.” Alfie swallowed hard. Suddenly, his throat felt dry.

  “And you think they believed you?” Hajj’s eyes darkened as if he was trying to see the truth inside his head.

  “I think so.” Alfie felt beads of sweat running from his temples, and his lip was swelling painfully.

  “Did they get your car, Alfie?” Hajj spoke quietly.

  “Yes.”

  “You put the twins into your trunk.”

  Alfie could see where the conversation was going. Hajj didn’t believe that he hadn’t said anything and he was fishing for clues in his story.

  “They were wrapped in the sleeping bag, Hajj. There isn’t any evidence of them being in the car,” Alfie flapped.

  “There will be skin and hair. It will not take them long to prove that you transported the twins, and then you’ll be looking at a long stretch in jail. Then it would be in your own interest to tell them everything that you know. You will give them my name eventually.” Hajj shrugged as he spelled things out the way that he saw it.

  “You could get me out of the country, Hajj, they’d never catch me.”

  “Every policeman in Europe will be looking for you and Jack Howarth. You’re far too much of a liability, I’m afraid.”

  “What do you mean Jack Howarth?”

  “He’s on the run somewhere, but I’m not worried about him.”

  “How did he escape?” Alfie was shocked by the news; with Jack Howarth disappeared all fingers of blame would be pointing at him.

  “That’s of no consequence now. I’ve taken a small insurance policy out, Alfie, just to make sure you haven’t said anything.”

  “What are you talking about?” Alfie looked worried and confused.

  “Your parents are at the stables, Alfie, surrounded by enough explosives to send them to kingdom come and back.” Hajj dropped a Polaroid that had been taken earlier. It showed the terrified elderly couple strapped to a set of camp beds. Alfie sat down and put his head in his hands, his own pain forgotten for the moment. “You’re quiet, Alfie, what’s the problem?”

  “They are nothing to do with this, Hajj!” Alfie wailed, panicked. “Let them go, Hajj. I’ll sort everything out, I promise.”

  “I thought you didn’t say anything to the police.”

  “Fucking bastard!” Alfie shook his head. Salty tears welled in his eyes. “They are old people, Hajj, please let them go.”

  “If the police don’t know about the farm then they will be safe, so what’s the problem?”

  Alfie started to cry like a baby, his hands shook and tears streamed down his face. Hajj didn’t need to hear any more, it was obvious that Alfie had given away the location of the stables, which he’d anticipated anyway. He pulled a shiny Bulldog revolver and pointed the huge gun at Alfie’s head. Alfie closed his eyes tightly as a forty-four calibre bullet smashed into his brains.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Heysham

  Alec Ramsay drove over a narrow grey stone bridge, which crossed the River Lune. Tall trees covered the steep banks on either side. The drive north had taken him nearly two hours, and his head was still thick with a hangover from the whisky that he’d drunk the previous night. His wife Gail hated him drinking. In fact, she hated most of things he did. She’d developed a keen interest in diet and fitness. Slowly but surely the familiar contents of the kitchen cupboards were replaced with healthy options. Coffee became decaffeinated, sugar replaced by sweeteners, biscuits turned into rice cakes and salt disappeared completely. Similar things happened in the fridge. Red meat vanished, replaced by Quorn, bacon became turkey strips and meat sausages were prohibited.

  Leading the investigation into the abduction of the Kelly twins had given him sleepless nights, and whisky numbed his senses and gifted him a few hours of fitful slumber. The investigation itself had spiralled out of control over the last few days as their two main suspects had been sprung from custody, resulting in the deaths of one armed officer and one special volunteer constable. The police station had been torched, which caused the destruction of their main investigation room, and hundreds of witness statements connected to the case had been lost in the blaze. Last but not least, two senior officers had been killed in an explosion, along with ten firearms specialists. The loss of so many of his colleagues had devastated the morale of the division and set the investigation back in the process. The major incident team were trying to set up a new operations centre at a neighbouring police station, but it was going to take time to get organised, and many of the witness statements that had been lost could never be replaced. The discovery of the blue horsebox was a major breakthrough, and he had to go to the scene himself to see what evidence could be recovered.

  It was close to midday and the sun was getting hot as he navigated a tight bend in the road and almost drove past the entrance to the derelict petrol station where the horsebox was found. Yellow crime scene tape flapped in the wind and a uniformed officer was keeping a gaggle of photographers away from the overgrown forecourt. Alec indicated that he wanted to drive onto the weed-strewn garage, and he honked his horn to get the police officer’s attention. The constable waved to him and walked over to the car, bending to the window as he lowered it.

  “I’m Detective Ramsay, Cheshire Division; I’m here to meet your forensic team.” Alec could smell whisky on his own breath, and from the look on the young constable’s face, so could he. The uniformed officer frowned and lifted the yellow tape.

  “They’re round the back of the building, Sir, and I’d get some mints if I was you, Sir,” the officer said as he passed by.

  “Smart arse,” Alec muttered as he pulled the vehicle on to the tarmac. He closed the window and reached over to his left. There was half a packet of extra strong mints in the deepest darkest reaches of the glove box, and after a few dredges he felt them in his grasp. The wrapper was tattered and torn, and the top mint was dirty so he tossed it into the back seat, and then crammed the next two from the pack into his mouth. Alec checked himself in the rear view mirror before opening the door and climbing out of the vehicle. His eyes were not as red as they had been earlier, so at least his liver and kidneys were getting to work on the alcohol that was
coursing through his bloodstream. The sunshine was warming, and he had to squint against the glare. He breathed in deeply, and the country air lightened his mood considerably. The rainfall from the previous night was evaporating quickly, making the atmosphere moist, and fresh.

  “Inspector Ramsay?” A female voice disturbed his thoughts.

  “Yes, and you are?” Alec was taken aback by her appearance.

  “Doctor Peters, crime lab. Come this way please.” She almost purred when she spoke, a gentle Southern Irish lilt to her voice adding to her attractive demeanour. Doctor Peters was a stunning brunette and despite the fact that she was wearing a blue paper jumpsuit, Alec could tell that she had the body of a glamour model. “If you could put this on I’d appreciate it.”

  Alec stopped at a second line of tape, where he was handed a similar paper garment to put on. He ripped open the packet and struggled into it clumsily. The doctor took the empty packaging from him and smiled as he pushed his legs into the jumpsuit.

  “Whoever invents one of these things that is easy to get on will make a fortune,” the pretty doctor joked.

  “I’m with you there, Doctor,” Alec replied. He closed the zip up to his neck, and then smoothed the paper suit down with his hands. “Ready when you are.”

  “We’ve found something interesting. My colleagues are about to open it now.” The doctor sounded excited as she walked towards the derelict garage. “Have you been brought up to speed with what we have found so far?”

  “Not really, my information was sketchy to be honest. That’s why we requested a visit to the scene,” Alec was staring at the doctor’s rounded behind as he walked.

  “Watch that manhole.” She pointed to one of the open tanks, stopping him from disappearing into the earth.

  Alec blushed and sidestepped the hazard. They rounded the corner of the petrol station, and the old workshop came into view. A navy blue horsebox was parked inside, barely visible from the road. Lying on the tarmac were the carcasses of four horses. They had been placed onto plastic sheets, and a forensic officer was probing a slimy pile of intestines with gloved hands. It looked like they had been disembowelled.