Shadows

by Conrad Jones

  “I’ll talk to Finnen. This is on me, not my crew,” Linus said shaking. He could see their predicament clearly. He looked at his crew one by one. They looked terrified. Not one of them had thought that they were doing something wrong. They sat shivering from the cold and the fear, tears were running freely down their cheeks. “This is not your fault, lads. Don’t worry. I’ll fix this. This is not your fault at all.”

  “Whose fault is it, Linus?” the man said, looking bemused.

  Linus shook his head and shrugged. “This is down to whoever was supposed to meet us here,” he said confidently. “This is on them. We did our part crossing the sea.” Linus shook his head. “This is on them. They fucked up. They should have been here as planned. I’ll tell Finnen that they didn’t show but you did. I’ll explain it to him.”

  The man frowned. His men sneered. One of them spat on the dock. “Oh, Linus, how stupid are you?” he sighed. “They did show up.” He gestured to one of his men. The man aimed his torch towards the rusty metal girders that held up the roof, illuminating the purple bloated faces of four men. They were hanging upside down from the rafters. Their feet and hands were trussed behind them, their features swollen and grotesque, tongues lolling from their bloody lips. Two of the men were clearly dead, their eyes lifeless, only the whites showing. The other two were twitching, close to death, suffering, every second a living torment.

  One of the fishermen gasped, another began to cry loudly and muttered the Hail Mary. Linus heard his prayer and felt tears of frustration running down his own cheeks now, all hope leaving him fast.

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Linus cried out. “Don’t worry, lads,” he said, his voice breaking. “We’ll come to an arrangement to pay Finnen back. I’ll fix this. I will.”

  “Do you have a million Euros, Linus?” the man scoffed. “I think not or you wouldn’t be sitting there pissing your pants. You would be in a nice warm pub counting your money.”

  “I’ll take whatever I have coming from Finnen. Let us go,” he pleaded. “These young lads didn’t mean any harm to anyone. They didn’t know anything about the drugs. I’ll square things with Finnen.”

  “How?” the man sighed. “The only way that you could pay him back for his loss would be to sail for him again and again, everyday for the rest of your days until the debt was paid. I can’t allow that to happen. You understand that, I’m sure?”

  “I’ll sort something out with him. If not, Finnen can go and fuck himself. I won’t smuggle anything for him again. I don’t care what he does to me. You have my word.”

  “Brave words but when he starts hurting your family?” he shrugged. “You will do anything that he asks. Your only hope now is to tell me who he works for.”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Then your next voyage will be your most interesting yet,” the man said, waving a hand. “String them up next to those lowlifes. I want to know what they know. One of them knows something. Let’s make sure Patrick Finnen doesn’t send anymore of his shit across the sea.”

  As the foreigners moved towards the six, Linus and his men began to scream for mercy. Their cries echoed into the darkness, lost on the inky black sea.

  3

  Detective Inspector Braddick checked the mirror. His hair and whiskers were speckled with grey, shaved tight to his skin. He climbed out of his Range Rover Evoque and struggled into his heavy leather jacket. His grey suit was no match for the island’s winds. The drive from Liverpool to the Anglesey port of Holyhead had taken him two hours. Two hours of overtaking lorries and caravans, motor homes and dawdling tourists. The scenery was spectacular but it was lost on him under the circumstances. He was stiff and bad tempered. The wind howled across the harbour, chasing moody clouds before it. As he walked from the vehicle the rain poured sideways. His boots splashed in muddy puddles, their thick soles covered by the water.

  The order to drive there had come from an Assistant Chief Constable, new to the position. He had been abrupt and knew little about the circumstances of the crime scene that he was sending Braddick to. All he knew was it was a multiple murder scene and that the North Wales Police wanted the presence of Merseyside detectives. The details were sparse at best. At the time, Braddick had to bite his lip, tempted to ask the ACC if he knew his arse from his elbow. He hated walking into joint operations without a proper briefing. It was embarrassing at best. He couldn’t imagine why their presence had been requested or why the ACC had singled him out for the job but asking the reasons why wasn’t always appreciated by the top brass. ‘Shut up and do as you’re told’. Thinking for himself wasn’t always seen as a strength. He had to bite the bullet and do as he was asked, not for the first time and not for the last.

  The rain was almost horizontal as he ran towards the police cordon, wind cut through his clothes and chilled his flesh. Yellow crime scene tape flapped wildly, threatening to snap. A gaggle of journalists were huddled behind a Nissan, trying to keep their cameras dry. They showed only a passing interest as Braddick went by them, snapping a few shots and then returning to their chitchat. A miserable looking uniformed officer lifted the tape and mumbled a greeting. Things could be worse, he thought. He could be him, ordered to man the line in the pissing down rain and a howling gale. A fine example of job dissatisfaction in the force. Braddick half smiled at his plight as he ducked beneath the tape and scurried towards the entrance of the abandoned fish factory. The doors had been opened, making it look like the mouth of a cave. He was pleased to see the miserable expression on a familiar face as his DS saw him. Detective Sergeant Adrian Burns waved as he approached. Braddick’s face creased as the stench from inside hit him. The dark lines in his skin deepened.

  “What the hell is that smell?” Braddick asked, covering his nose with his hand. His black skin glistened with the rain.

  “It is a heady mixture of fish and dead people,” Ade said flatly, his expression never changed. He looked like he had been to bed in his clothes, not slept and then got out the other side to go to work. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. His tussled hair was as unkempt as his black suit. “In fact, there are lots of fish and lots of dead people to be precise.”

  “Fish and dead people? Okay, that explains that then,” Braddick shrugged and nodded, familiar with his sergeant’s sarcasm. “You had better fill me in. What have we got and why have we been called all the way here?”

  “What did the ACC tell you?” Ade asked. His face was etched with wrinkles, his mouth a permanent scowl.

  “Bugger all to be honest,” Braddick sighed. “The details were sketchy. I’m not sure if he knows what day of the week it is yet.”

  “He’s new at the job. It is early days yet,” Ade shrugged. “Follow me, Guv and I’ll show you what all the fuss is about,” Ade said, gesturing for him to follow him. His trench coat was creased where he had been sitting on it during the drive. “How was your journey down here?”

  “Crap. Fucking caravans everywhere,” Braddick said smiling thinly. “The Evoque was like a balloon in the wind coming across the island. Tell me that we’re not wasting our time here.”

  “Oh no, we’re definitely not wasting our time,” Ade said, shaking his head. “I didn’t expect this when I woke up this morning. You’re going to love this.”

  “I doubt that very much.” They walked through the cavernous building, avoiding the deeper puddles as they went. The ground was littered with rotting refuse, dumped over decades. An old mattress had turned into a fungus garden, shopping trolleys lay rusting next to washing machines and a burnt out Ford Escort had been turned into a makeshift den by local kids. A headless doll had been placed into a broken pram and thoughtfully covered in an old pink blanket. The sound of waves breaking on the harbour wall provided a constant backing track to what was going on. He looked beyond the harbour and saw a lighthouse at the end of a long breakwater. Waves crashed over it, engulfing it before landing in the harbour. A huge ferry was navigating the breakwater before heading off to Dublin,
leaving thick white foam in its wake. Braddick spotted vehicles from the Coast Guard, Border Patrol, Crime Scene Investigation and the local plod. Uniformed men stood huddled in groups, talking in hushed tones while white clad technicians scoured the scene for clues. “What’s going on here? This is a fucking circus.”

  “Every man and his dog are here. I’m not sure who is in charge. No one seems to know yet. It is going to be a logistical nightmare,” Ade muttered to himself. “Two men have been strung up from the girders. They’re over here.”

  As they approached the hanging gallery, the magnitude of the crime became clear. “The local plod have identified them. Their ID’s were left on the dock. I’ve checked their ID’s, Guv…” he was cut short by Braddick’s reaction.

  “Jesus,” Braddick hissed as he studied the battered faces of two men, their bodies hanging upside down, more reminiscent of Iraq or Columbia than a Welsh port. One of the men had a message carved into his chest, his grey hair caked in congealing blood. “Whoever did this wanted to get someone’s attention.”

  For the attention of Patrick Finnen, Dublin, Ireland…… stay in Dublin…

  “Has to be drugs,” Braddick muttered. “There’s only a couple of outfits I know who would leave the bodies on show and make a statement like this.”

  “My thoughts exactly, Guv. I was trying to say…”

  “What the fuck are they doing this far out of the cities?” Braddick interrupted, stopped and eyed the scene. He imagined it without the white clad figures and uniforms. It was a bleak place where decay saturated the atmosphere. “A miserable place to die,” he said, shivering.

  “Aren’t they all, Guv?”

  “Some more so than others.”

  “I suppose so. Look, Guv...”

  “The locals must have a three or four hour head start on us,” Braddick said, interrupting him again, gesturing to two detectives who appeared to be coordinating the scene. He walked off before his DS could finish his brief. “Let’s introduce ourselves.” The locals spotted them approaching and turned to greet them. “I’m DI Braddick, and this is my DS, Ade Burns.”

  “Thanks for coming over here, much appreciated.”

  “No problem.”

  “We met your sergeant earlier.”

  “You did?” Braddick said, studying the bodies, not really listening.

  “Yes. He’s been very helpful so far. I’m DI Grady and this is DS Thompson.” The locals greeted him with a brief handshake and a nod of the head. From the way they looked at him, Braddick didn’t think they had many black detectives in their stable. “I’m glad you’re here. We need to put our heads together on this one. Let me explain. Follow me,” Grady said, walking away. Braddick noted that they were dressed for the office obviously not expecting to be called to the coast. They stood directly beneath the bodies and Grady pointed to the rusty girder that they were tied to. Orange patches striped the metal at regular intervals. “Can you see the other rope burns?”

  “Yes. I count eight friction marks,” Braddick said, frowning. It was obvious that other ropes had been wrapped around the beam recently and then removed.

  “There were more than just these two hung up there.”

  “It certainly looks that way,” Braddick agreed. “So where are they?”

  “We’re still looking.”

  “Have you called divers in to check the water for more bodies?”

  “Yes. We have divers on the way,” Grady said coldly.

  “How long will they be?”

  “They are on the way.”

  “It’s important that they get in there quickly,” Braddick said, pointing to the breakwater. “The wind and tide will take the bodies out in no time.”

  “Yes, we know about winds and tides. That’s why we called the divers in.”

  “You should get the coastguard to patrol the mouth of the harbour too, in case any of them float up.”

  “Funnily enough, we thought of that too.”

  “Have you checked the tides today?”

  “Yes we have checked the tides and the coast guard are on the case already. We have dealt with bodies in the sea once or twice before,” Grady said calmly. His face flushed red.

  “Of course you have,” Braddick said, realising that he had offended the Welsh detective. “No offence meant, I’m just thinking aloud.”

  “No offence taken.”

  “Ten possible victims?” Braddick looked at the friction burns on the girders above them and grimaced. “What the hell happened here?”

  “Drug deal gone wrong,” Grady shrugged. He looked up at the beam again and gestured for them to follow him. “Badly, badly wrong,” he added. “We haven’t seen anything like this on our patch before. Come this way.” They approached the trawler and stopped to look over the deserted deck. CSI officers were at work inside. The nets were rolled up at the stern, the deck wet but clean. “It isn’t a local trawler...”

  “Can I take a look?” Braddick asked before he could finish, stepping on board before he had the answer.

  “Help yourself,” Grady said irritated by Braddick. He rolled his eyes skywards and shook his head. “Is he always so impetuous?” he asked Ade.

  “He’s usually worse. I think he’s making a real effort today,” Ade replied with a straight face. He shrugged and followed his DI aboard. “He sort of grows on you,” Ade added as he stepped aboard.

  “I doubt that very much,” Grady mumbled to himself.

  Braddick crossed the deck and climbed into the wheelhouse, analysing the surroundings before walking down steep wooden steps into the bowels of the boat. A narrow galley was tidy but had been used recently; there were coffee mugs upside down on a tiny draining board. The smell of bacon and eggs lingered in the air. Six berths, three port and three starboard were made up with sleeping bags and pillows. The bunks were narrow and the odour of unwashed men drifted to him. He looked beneath the pillows and the mattresses but found nothing but mobile phones and a couple of iPads. There was no sign of a struggle and the men who had made up their bunks that morning had every intention of climbing into them that night. Braddick glanced into the hold and then climbed back to the deck. He stepped over the bulwark onto the dock.

  “Where are the crew of this boat?” Braddick asked himself as he scanned the scene and spotted a white van about fifty yards further on up the wharf. Dead fish littered the wharf, their scales still shiny and wet but their eyes sunken. “These fish are not recent catch. They look like they have been on ice for days. They probably used them to mask a shipment.”

  “Agreed. One of the bodies has Irish identification on him. We’re assuming he sailed in on the trawler with five crewmembers. It is registered from Dublin Port to one of the dead men, Linus Murphy. He’s the poor bastard with the message carved into his chest. As for his crew, we haven’t got a clue where they are.”

  “The rope marks on that girder tell me we’re looking for more bodies,” Braddick said, looking around. “An Irish trawler in Holyhead. I assume you have checked if their paperwork is legit?” Braddick asked. “Any log or manifesto on board?”

  “No,” Grady said with a half-smile. “You know a bit about boats?”

  “Liverpool is a port,” Braddick said grinning. “We have boats there too and I don’t need to be Captain Birdseye to see that their nets are completely dry and the deck is spotless. They weren’t fishing. When a dragger that size pulls in its nets, there’s crap everywhere. Tons of crap.”

  Grady shrugged in agreement. “There’s no ice on board, no fresh catch, no paperwork and they never made contact with the coastguard. They knew the port well enough to know about this place. The covered dock hasn’t been used for landing fish for twenty years. Linus Murphy was old enough to have been here when it was operational though. It is accessible from the sea and hidden from view of the town and the port. The Coast Guard told us that it has been used before by smugglers.”

  “It seems like the ideal spot for a delivery. This is a nasty one but wh
y call us?” Braddick couldn’t see the connection to Liverpool yet. Grady gestured to follow him towards the white van. As they approached, Braddick could see that it was a refrigerated vehicle.

  “The logo on the side identified it as belonging to a fishmonger from Everton. Your neck of the woods. Over there is a Ford Focus, a sports model.” Grady pointed. “Your DS checked the phone number and the plates on the van,” Grady said, gesturing to Ade. “The business doesn’t exist. False name, false number. There’s a clipboard inside with a bill of sale for four crates of fish of various description. I think they were making a pickup and then they were going to drive back to Liverpool. If they were unlucky enough to be pulled over by traffic, they had an invoice for their load and appeared legit.”

  “Let me guess,” Braddick shook his head. “The crates of fish listed on the invoice have gone.”

  “Bingo. No sign of them apart from what is spilled on the dock.”

  “And the Ford Focus belongs to who?” Braddick asked.

  “We’re still working on that. It is registered to a limited company in a place called, Litherland?” he said, looking at Braddick for conformation. Braddick nodded that he knew the area. “I think two of the men were planning on driving the fish van and the Ford was their escort. There is a sawn-off shotgun under the passenger seat. The second victim hanging from the rafters is also from your neck of the woods.”

  “He had ID on him?” Braddick asked with a frown. He glanced at Ade, who was staring at his feet.

  “Yes,” Grady glanced at Ade too. “Sorry. I thought your DS would have told you. That is why we called you.”

  “Sorry, Guv,” Ade said, blushing. “I did try to tell you but you interrupted me. I didn’t have the chance to finish what I was saying.”

  “Sorry, Ade,” Braddick said. He knew he had a habit of not listening when he was thinking. “Who is it?”

  “The second body is, Gary Mason,” Grady explained.

  “The Gary Mason?” Braddick said, turning to Ade, eyebrows raised.

  Ade nodded and shrugged. “The Gary Mason, Guv.”