by Conrad Jones
“Well the doctors are getting nowhere. I can ask if we could set up an interview with me as lead detective and you as an observer. Might be worth a go.” He looked me in the eyes, searching for something. Was he looking for my motive? Why would I want to get involved after all the trouble it had caused so far? If he was looking for the answers to those questions, he wouldn’t find them because I didn’t have them.
Every bone in my body was screaming at me to run a hundred miles an hour in the other direction, but I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to help her. I had another idea, too. I was going to write to Eddie Duncan in prison and ask him if he would speak to me. He was protesting his innocence about the murder of Pauline Holmes, and Jennifer Booth was equally as adamant that she hadn’t murdered Caroline Stokes. The police believed that they were murdered by the same killer, so by hearing his side of the story I may have been able to help Jennifer. I decided not to discuss my idea with Peter, not yet anyway.
“I think it’s worth a try. You might not be able to use any of it in court, but at least we could learn about her. It could shine some light on the murder.” I tried to sound convincing.
“I’ll make a call and set it up. Are you busy this afternoon?” He took out his mobile. I shrugged and smiled. What else would I be doing?
Chapter 9
Eddie Duncan – Risley Remand Centre
Peter dropped me off at home an hour later, and on our journey I had casually asked which prison the original suspect was being held in. I think my interest appeared to be innocent and Peter didn’t ask any awkward questions. When I got home Evie Jones made a big fuss and it was a struggle to switch on my laptop and write a quick letter to Eddie Duncan while she was demanding attention. I made it brief and to the point. Fifteen minutes later the letter was posted and on its way to Risley Remand Centre, five miles away from where I lived. We were never destined to meet, but he called me from prison.
From talking to Eddie Duncan, I knew that as he sat in his cell he felt helpless. I knew what it was like to be arrested and locked up for something I hadn’t done, so I had sympathy for him as his situation was a thousand times worse. He was looking at a murder charge and he’d already been locked up for over a month. How he coped, I can’t imagine. He was a tough man, a survivor from the back streets of Moss Side in Manchester. As a boy he ran with a bad crowd and many of his friends didn’t make it to school-leaving age. Some of them were shot dead by the teenage gangs that controlled the drugs in the area, and some of them joined the gangs and ended up in prison.
Eddie was gifted with a good business brain and he realized that running with a gang would never make him wealthy for life. The profits from selling drugs from a gang were huge, but the downsides were numerous and the pension scheme nonexistent. He branched out on his own, dealing a few ounces of weed here and there before moving up into the lucrative hard drug market. Hard drugs are chronically addictive and very expensive, and he used the nightclub scene to sell his wares.
He was a good-looking guy with a nice smile and a charming personality to match. Eddie soon had dozens of female customers who needed the drugs but didn’t have the money to pay for them. Sex was often the only currency they had. He didn’t want sex with most of them and so he turned into a pimp almost by accident. The drugs and prostitution worked side by side, and he made a good living. Pauline Holmes was different, though.
When he met Pauline, she was working near to Piccadilly station on her own. Other working girls often attacked her for straying onto their patch, and without the support of a good pimp she was at their mercy. When Eddie first set eyes on her, her looks stunned him. Much the same as Jennifer had done to me. He approached her and they got chatting. He took her for some food and by the end of the night he’d agreed to look after her. Pauline liked Eddie. She hoped that one day he would tell her to stop working the streets and move in with him. She wanted children, Eddie’s children. Eddie wanted her too, except he couldn’t ruin his street cred by shacking up with one of his whores.
As he lay in his prison cell, he wished a million times that he had swallowed his pride and taken her off the streets. If he had, she would be alive now and he would be free. He was looking at life in jail until they arrested Jennifer Booth for a similar murder. Eddie’s solicitor jumped on the arrest immediately and there was suddenly a light at the end of the tunnel. If Eddie didn’t kill Pauline, then who did? That was the dilemma that the Nine Angels had. Eddie’s arrest meant that their involvement would never be investigated. If Eddie was freed the police would reopen the Jennifer Booth investigation, and that would cause problems for the Niners. Eddie Duncan could not leave prison. I knew that if he was released in the light of new evidence he would never talk to me on the outside. I didn’t realize it then, but asking him for that meeting was like signing his death warrant. I may as well have slit his throat with my own hands. Four hours after calling me, he was dead.
Chapter 10
Blood Ties
After posting my letter and walking the Staffie, I grabbed a few hours of broken sleep. Peter called me and said that the interview was on and that I had to meet him at Hollins Park as soon as I could. I arrived at the asylum later that day and parked the truck in the same spot as I had on the previous visit. The weather had cleared and the sun was trying to break through the clouds, though the light was fading as the day came to an end and night-time approached. The building was not as frightening in the daylight, but it still looked like a lunatic asylum. There was an aura of malevolence about it. I think it’s the wire and the fences. There’s something not right about enclosures built specifically to keep humans in rather than out.
I walked into the reception and waited for Peter. He came from the corridor where the interview rooms were and waved me over. “Okay, the doctors have agreed to let me talk to her. You are an observer. At the first sign of her being aggressive we pull the plug on the interview, okay?” Peter was talking at a hundred miles an hour. “Before we begin I need you to see the pictures of the victim, Caroline Stokes.”
“Why do I need to see them?” I’m not squeamish, but I knew there was a reason why he wanted me to see them before I spoke to Jennifer. I had my own opinion on the subject of her guilt. I could tell by the way he looked at me in her flat that he had concerns about my interest in her. “Is this to make me realize what a monster she is?” I joked.
“I need you to have no doubt in your mind that she is the chief suspect in a terrible murder,” Peter said with a stern face. Looking back, Peter always exaggerated his facial expressions, like a bad actor in a low-budget soap opera. “They found her next to the body with the victim’s blood all over her face and hands. I need you to remember that when we talk to her.” He opened a door and ushered me into an office which the detectives had borrowed temporarily. There were two other detectives there already and neither of them looked pleased to see me. Both men nodded silently when we entered. I pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Take a good, long look at them.” There were four glossy photographs, each six by five inches. Some were close-ups of the victim’s face. She was a pretty girl, but she looked older than her years. Her eyes were blank and staring. There was a savage rent in her throat reaching from her windpipe up to her left ear. I had seen crime scene pictures before, but the victims were anonymous then. This victim seemed different because I was familiar with the case. Knife wounds vary according to the shape and type of blade used. The wounds in the victim’s throat were ragged. The edges of the remaining flesh looked ripped and torn rather than cut. Other photographs showed her blood-soaked chest with the satanic symbol etched into it. The murderer had crushed her ribcage. She was wearing a white blouse, a pair of black high-heeled boots, white briefs and bra, a black leather miniskirt and a denim jacket.
“There was hardly any blood left in her body. Pauline Holmes was the same. Now that’s not all that surprising considering that they’d been stabbed in the chest and throat, but there wasn’t much blood on the g
round where we found the body, and like I said, Jennifer’s clothes were clean.” Peter tapped the photograph. If things were not so weird I may have made a vampire jibe, but the demeanour of Peter and his detectives was not akin to making jokes just now.
“Okay, I get the message. I thought suspects were innocent until proven guilty in this country.” I smiled but they did not return it. The detectives looked at me as if I had taken a dump in a church. “That was a joke.” Nobody laughed.
There was a knock on the door and a guard poked his head around it. “She’s secured in room F. We’re ready when you are.”
“Okay, thank you.” Peter tapped me on the arm. “Let’s go. We’re on.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said to the detectives as we left. They didn’t even look at me. “Nice to meet you too, Conrad,” I muttered sarcastically.
Peter threw me a withering glance as I followed him out of the room and down the corridor. My heart was racing at the thought of seeing Jennifer again. I wanted to know who she was and what her involvement with the victim was. I was convinced she had not murdered her. The lights were bright and I was tired, and I think the adrenalin in my bloodstream made me dizzy. My knees seemed to buckle. I wobbled and shut my eyes, and suddenly I was looking down at the body of the victim, Caroline Stokes. It was as if I was there.
She was right there in front of me, looking straight back at me. She was dying, but there was life in her eyes. There was a man kneeling over her, sucking on the wound in her throat. His eyes were dark circles. He turned to me and smiled. Blood ran from his chin and his teeth were smeared red. He beckoned me to drink. He was no vampire from a movie set, nor was he a monster. He was human. He was a feeder. Somewhere in his twisted mind he believed that killing an innocent victim, looking into their eyes as they died and drinking some of their blood would help him to become immortal. I didn’t know how I knew, but I did. I have a vivid imagination, all writers do, but this image was as clear as day.
“Are you okay?” Peter’s voice interrupted my thoughts. He grabbed my arm and stopped me from toppling over. I felt like I had fallen back into my body and the image was nothing more than a fading memory, like a dream just before you wake up. My head was fuzzy and I felt weak. The hallucination had left me exhausted.
“Yes, sorry, I was miles away there,” I answered, embarrassed. “I’m tired. I think this morning is catching up with me.” I felt like a light had switched on in my head, but what could I say to Peter? He is a hardened detective who deals in black and white, guilty or innocent, and I didn’t think that telling him I’d just had a hallucination would be the best way to start an interview with a woman who was locked up an asylum. “I’m just tired and nervous, I think.”
“Are you worried about talking to the girl directly?” Peter asked, concerned.
“Sort of, I’m alright though,” I smiled. I had to talk to her. “I think we should give it a try.”
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Peter frowned.
“I’m fine,” I nodded, and smiled again. This time it was more convincing. Peter opened the door to room F and we stepped into the small interview room. It was nine feet square and the floor was covered in brown carpet tiles. The table was bolted to the floor and the only light came from a powerful fluorescent tube, protected by a wire mesh. Inside the room, the two-way mirror was unnerving. Knowing that people were watching your every move from behind it was unsettling. Jennifer was sitting on a chair and her head was on the table, resting on her arm as if she was sleeping. Her wrists were manacled to a thick leather belt around her waist. She raised her head and looked at us when we walked into the room and her face lit up like a Christmas tree.
“I knew you would come. I knew it!” She reached out her hands as far as the straps would allow her to. I smiled back at her nervously. Her eyes held me in a spell. “The doctor told me all about you. You were here the other night, you’re the writer; you’ve written about them haven’t you? I knew it. I knew I was right!” she babbled excitedly.
I looked at Peter for an explanation. I wasn’t happy with too many details being handed to a murder suspect, even if I did think she was innocent. “The doctor had to apologize for ignoring what Jennifer told him about the observers behind the mirror. He has told her your name and that you are indeed a writer,” he explained. I swallowed hard. My throat was dry and tacky. I tried to smile at Jennifer without looking too concerned that she knew all about me.
“He’s a prick. The doctor, I mean, not you,” she said to Peter. “I knew you were a writer and I got the first letter of your name,” Jennifer giggled. Her black eyes sparkled. “You look a little shocked; maybe even a bit scared.”
“I’m okay. I’m tired, that’s all.”
“No, there’s something else in your eyes,” she frowned and stared into me. Her expression changed to one of realization. “You saw him didn’t you? I know you saw him.” She pointed to my head.
“Who did I see?” I asked. She stopped smiling immediately.
“Don’t treat me as if I am stupid, Conrad. The doctor doesn’t understand me, but you do. You do because you have an imagination. We are similar, you and I. You see imaginary things in your mind, whereas I see things that are real and I know you saw him.” She pointed to her head again. “You saw him in your head, didn’t you?”
“Okay, I understand what you are saying, but I’m not sure what is real and what isn’t. My imagination is working overtime today. Things have been a little strange so forgive me if I seem confused.” I smiled at her.
“You have a nice smile.”
“Thank you,” I blushed.
“You definitely saw him, didn’t you?” She lowered her head and looked up at me with those eyes. It was as if she was looking into my mind for the answer.
“Yes, I saw him,” I replied.
“Wait a minute. Who did you see, exactly?” Peter asked, confused.
“He saw the feeder; the man who killed Caroline Stokes.” She looked Peter in the eye. She seemed to be as sane as the next person was. “I didn’t kill her, he did.”
“When did you see him?” Peter emphasized the word “when” and sounded very sceptical as he looked at me.
“Just now, in the corridor,” I confessed. “I thought it was the memory of the photographs replaying in my mind or my imagination playing tricks until Jennifer asked me about it.”
“Really, and now what do you think it was?” He raised his eyebrows.
“It was your imagination,” Jennifer butted in. “But this time you imagined the truth. You saw what really happened.”
“Okay, if you believe I saw him, describe him to me.” I wanted to know if she really knew what I had seen in my mind. I am as sceptical as the next man when it comes to things like visions or premonitions. People with the power to speak to the spirits of the dead are something that I cannot accept easily, although the weight of evidence would suggest that there is something to it. I can’t explain it and I can’t understand it, therefore it’s not true. My sister Libby is a medium and she knows things about our late father that she shouldn’t know. He didn’t bring her up and she had no contact with him from about the age of six, but she knows things about him that that I can’t fathom.
“Wait a minute!” Peter interrupted. “Write down what you think you saw on here.” He passed me a pen and a sheet of paper and I scribbled three lines on it. Peter looked at it making sure that Jennifer couldn’t see it. “Okay, Jennifer, what did he see?”
She didn’t hesitate. “He saw a man in a grey suit feeding on her. He was bald on top with grey hair around the sides and he wore a blue tie with a horse on it.” She smiled at me because she knew it would shock me. “Am I right, Conrad?”
“I didn’t see colours, Jennifer,” I answered, after glancing at Peter for permission to reply. “I saw a bald man in a pale suit and tie, but I didn’t see any colours. I saw it in black and white.”
“Some people only see shades. He was feeding though, right
?” She leant her head to the side childishly.
“Yes,” I answered.
“Was she still alive?” Jennifer asked quietly.
“I think so,” I whispered.
“That’s what they do, you see.” She turned to Peter as if he needed an explanation. “They believe the ultimate thrill is to look into their victim’s eyes as they die. They capture their soul, their strength and life force.”
“What is a feeder, Jennifer?” I asked. I didn’t know how long Peter was going to go along with this, so I wanted answers to the questions that we had asked ourselves repeatedly.
She looked down at her hands and her mind seemed to drift away. When she looked up at me again, she had tears in her eyes. “What do you know about the Nine Angels? I know that you wrote some stuff about them in one of your books, that’s why I recognized your name. They’ve talked about you before, you see. They hate you because your book caused them problems. But what do you really know?”
“I know they were a satanic cult,” I shrugged. “And I know they were fascists and that they were founded by important people.”
“Why do you say ‘were’, past tense?” Jennifer asked seriously.
“Because I believe the founder renounced the organization, moved to Canada and they disbanded,” I answered. I wasn’t sure if that was the truth, but I wanted her to tell me about them, not the other way around. I didn’t want to give her anything she could twist into a story. “Am I wrong, are they still a functioning organization?”
“They are very much a functioning organization.” She looked at me with teary eyes. “There are millions and they’re everywhere. They go under many different names and guises, but they are the same.”
“They began as different groups, though?”
“Oh yes, many different groups.” She smiled again. “Some are idiots looking for something different in their sad, mundane lives, but some of them are very real and very dangerous. The Nine ‘Angles’ were real and then the Nine Angels broke away from them.”