Good Bad and Pure Evil: Anglesey Mysteries (The Anglesey Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  Good, Bad and Pure Evil…

  The Anglesey Mysteries

  Book 1

  by

  Conrad Jones

  The DI Braddick Series

  Brick

  Shadows

  Guilty

  Deliver Us from Evil

  The Anglesey Murders Series

  Unholy Island

  A Visit from the Devil

  Nearly Dead

  A Child for the Devil

  Dark Angel

  What Happened to Rachel?

  Detective Alec Ramsay Series

  The Child Taker

  Criminally Insane

  Slow Burn

  Frozen Betrayal

  Desolate Sands

  Concrete Evidence

  Thr3e

  Soft Target Series

  Soft Target

  Soft Target II ‘Tank’

  Soft Target III ‘Jerusalem’

  The Rage Within

  Blister

  The Child Taker

  Unleashed

  Hunting Angels Diaries

  Blood Bath

  The Book of Abominations

  Copyright © 2020 Conrad Jones

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9798570932838

  Chapter 1

  Cristy was nervous. Her anxiety levels were off the scale. Shopping in Tesco had never been fun, but when the virus descended, everything became a whole new level of unpleasant. She didn’t want to risk catching it, but three of her elderly clients depended on her to get their shopping, so she had no choice but to use the supermarket. Being a carer was hard enough before the risk of catching COVID-19 complicated things. Now it was ridiculously difficult. She adjusted her face mask. It was itchy and uncomfortable, but she felt safer wearing it. Looking around at the other shoppers, it was clear not everyone thought the same. A lot of people didn’t want to wear a mask; selfish shitheads, she thought. She could see her neighbour, Francis O’Grady, at the fish counter without a mask, breathing her germs all over the haddock. She didn’t have asthma; if she was short of breath, it was because she was so fat. If she got the virus, Kentucky Fried Chicken would go bust. Francis, and people like her, were getting around the rules by playing the asthma card. Most of the locals knew each other anyway and being told to go away and mind their own business was part and parcel of working there as the latest lockdown tightened. People were anxious and short-tempered; fear was the new normal.

  ‘Hello, Cristy. Fancy seeing you in here,’ a voice she recognised said. It sent shivers down her spine. A cold sweat formed on her brow. The sound of his voice struck fear into her. ‘I can’t believe I’ve seen you here. It’s been a long time. Seven years in fact.’ She felt like her heart was going to explode from her chest. Fear gripped her and squeezed the air from her lungs. ‘You look good in those jeans. They cling to you,’ he said, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘And I like your hair dark like that. Very sexy.’

  Cristy didn’t want to turn around, but she couldn’t help herself. She had to see if it was him. Surely it couldn’t be. He had years left to serve. Her breath came in short gasps, trapped in her chest; her pulse quickened, and she started to tremble. She reluctantly turned to face him. Jon Price grinned at her, his eyes dark and piercing. That look had struck fear into her for years, and it still did. Their relationship had been volatile and unforgettable for all the wrong reasons. She bore the scars to remind her of him whenever she looked in the mirror. Her nose was misshapen, and the cigarette burns on her arms and legs were still red and angry; the years didn’t seem to make them fade. Nor did the memories of when he’d inflicted them. He’d held her captive. The last three days of their relationship were etched into her consciousness.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked. Her voice trembled. She was glad she had the mask on so he couldn’t see her lips quivering. Her knuckles turned white as her hands squeezed the handle of the shopping trolley tightly. She felt weak at the knees.

  ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’

  ‘No,’ she whispered, shaking her head. ‘How did you get out?’

  ‘The virus, Cristy,’ he said, beaming. ‘Early release for hundreds of us. Lucky for me, hey?’ Cristy couldn’t answer. She was stunned, frozen like a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming lorry. ‘Aren’t you going to say hello?’ Jon said, frowning. He looked her up and down, like a predator eyeing its prey. Her long black hair was tied up in a ponytail. She looked trim and gym fit. She felt his eyes on her and they were unwelcome. The intensity of his gaze on her body made her feel queasy. ‘You look amazing. I’ve missed you so much, but then prison does that to you. You miss everything, even the shit things, like a cheating, slut girlfriend.’

  ‘I’m not your girlfriend and when I was, I never cheated on you. It was all in your head,’ Cristy muttered, her voice breaking. Panic was setting in. She looked around for help, but the aisle was empty.

  ‘So you said, but you’re a liar, Cristy. I’ve had a lot of time to think about the things you said and did.’

  ‘I’m not talking to you about it and you’re not allowed to come near me,’ Cristy said, her voice breaking again. He towered over her. He was tall and lean. It appeared prison had made him bigger. His presence was enough to intimidate most people, but it was way beyond that for her; he struck sheer white-hot terror through her entire being. ‘You could be arrested just for coming near me.’

  ‘Oh, you mean the court injunction?’ he said, rubbing the dark stubble on his chin. Cristy nodded, feeling the urge to urinate, desperately trying not to piss her pants in front of him. Not again. The last time she’d done it, he laughed so hard she thought he might choke to death. ‘Do you think I’m going to do what a crusty old fart in a wig tells me to?’ He chuckled, dryly. ‘I never have before, I’m unlikely to start now. Besides, you’re my baby girl, Cristy. No matter what happens, we always end up back together. How can I stay away from you?’ He reached out his hand to touch her face. Cristy instinctively stepped back and flinched.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ she hissed, shaking her head. She put the trolley between them. He looked surprised and angry. ‘Get away from me or I’ll scream the place down.’

  ‘Scream away. I like that.’

  ‘You’re sick. I’m calling the police,’ she said, taking out her mobile. She clicked off three pictures of him and turned on the video. His face turned to thunder. ‘I’m filming you now. Get away from me or I’ll call nine, nine, nine, and you’ll be back in prison where you belong.’

  Jon nodded and a thin smile touched his lips. He held up his hands in apology. ‘I’m sorry I came near you. It was an accident,’ he said, playing to the camera. ‘I didn’t know it was you because of the facemask and your hair is a different colour. My mistake. I didn’t recognise you. I’ll go and do my shopping in Morrisons,’ he said, turning to walk away. He winked at her and the smile disappeared. His eyes told her what he was thinking; she’d seen the hate in them a hundred times. He wanted to hurt her for rejecting him. That was how his mind worked. He wanted to hurt her for testifying against him. He wanted to hurt her because he could.

  ‘Say hi to your mum for me. You’re still living in her house above Turkey Shore Road, aren’t you?’ Cristy couldn’t speak. ‘Harbour View. Of course, you are,’ he added. He walked away slowly, a swagger in his step. ‘You haven’t got the backbone to live on your own.’

  Tears rolled down her cheeks, and she felt warm fluid run down her thighs, but she couldn’t move. She was frozen in fear. A puddle formed around her
trainers.

  ‘I’ll see you soon, Cristy,’ she heard him shout from the doorway. ‘Sooner than you think.’

  Chapter 2

  Sergeant Bob Dewhurst looked through the passenger window towards Snowdonia. It was late afternoon and warm for October. There was snow on the upper slopes reflecting the watery sunshine; the lower slopes were slate grey all the way down to the tree line. The mountains dominated the horizon against the bright blue sky. It was one of those rare days when the sun and the moon shared the same sky, courting each other above the emerald sea, which separated the island from the mainland. Sergeant April Byfelt was driving the marked patrol car along the narrow back roads towards Church Bay. It was getting towards the end of their shift and this was a mission of mercy.

  ‘What’s the name of the house, again?’ April asked. She looked ten years younger than her true age. Bob, twenty-years her senior, teased that her elfin features and long dark hair made her look like a character from Lord of the Rings. April agreed as ’she had pointed ears and hairy feet.

  ‘Heathfield,’ Bob said, checking his phone to be sure. He put on his glasses to see the small print. Age was dulling his senses. ‘It should be on the left down here.’

  ‘I can’t see it,’ April said, squinting. She drove on slowly. A hundred yards further on, she saw stone gateposts. They were barely visible, overgrown by unruly hedges and sycamore trees. April pointed to them and slowed down. The name of the house was carved into the stone. The gold lettering was faded and worn by the elements. ‘There it is.’

  She turned into the gate and followed a winding driveway through a copse of evergreen trees. The house at the end of the drive was quite understated and disappointing. It looked dilapidated and poorly maintained. The window frames were peeling and cracked, and the borders overrun with brambles and weeds. All the curtains were closed.

  ‘This place has seen better days. It looks like the church is running out of money. When was the priest last seen?’ April asked.

  ‘We’re not sure. The details are a bit sketchy. He’s been calling in on vulnerable members of his congregation through lockdown,’ Bob said. ‘One of them spoke to him on Saturday morning, but no one has seen or heard from him since Sunday. He’s tried calling his mobile and his landline and has left messages on his voicemail but Father Creegan hasn’t returned his calls, which is very unusual, apparently.’

  April stopped the vehicle near the front door and turned off the engine. Father Creegan, she thought. The name rang a bell somewhere deep in her memory. Something clawed at her mind, making her feel uneasy.

  ‘All the curtains are closed. It doesn’t look like he’s up and about, does it?’ she said, looking at the windows. ‘He might be sick. He could have contracted the virus if he’s been visiting parishioners through lockdown.’

  ‘He might be. Let’s go and find out,’ Bob said.

  They got out of the car and approached the front door, gravel crunched under their feet. A crow cawed from the trees and a flock of starlings circled above. April felt a sense of unease, which she couldn’t explain. Bob tried to look through a gap in the curtains, but it was dark inside. April knocked on the door. It creaked open slightly. She hesitated, waiting to see if Father Creegan would greet them with a smile, but the door didn’t open any further. There was no one behind it.

  ‘It’s open,’ April said. She pushed it and looked inside. There was a pile of junk mail behind the door. The smell of decomposition hit her like a punch on the nose. ‘Can you smell that?’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘That’s not a good sign at all,’ she said, covering her nose and mouth. She took out a facemask and hooked it over her ears. Bob followed suit. ‘We’d better take a look.’

  ‘After you,’ Bob said.

  ‘Father Creegan,’ April called. There was no reply.

  April stepped inside. The air was musty, tainted with decay. It became stronger as they walked down the hall. She flicked on the light. The kitchen was straight ahead. April looked inside. A single cup sat on the stainless-steel draining board and half a crusty loaf was on a wooden chopping board in the centre of a small dining table. The bread was green with mould. A carving knife lay on the table next to it. She moved through the kitchen to the living room door, twisting the brass handle to open it. A two-seater settee was against the wall to her left and a single armchair to her right, next to a bookcase that was full of classics and religious literature. There was no television, which didn’t surprise her.

  ‘He must be upstairs,’ April said, backing out of the room. ‘This place gives me the creeps.’

  ‘It smells like he’s been gone a while,’ Bob said, leading the way upstairs. He switched on the landing light. The bathroom door was open, revealing an olive-green suite, popular in the seventies. A floral shower curtain hung over the bath. Some of the hooks had been ripped free from the pole. There were dark spots on the curtain and the tiled backsplash. ‘That looks like blood to me,’ Bob said. He pointed to the bath. Dried rivulets ran towards the plughole.

  They moved down the landing, and the stench intensified. The doors were closed apart from one, which was ajar. April pushed each door open and checked inside. Each room was furnished with a single bed and wardrobe. The bedside tables had a lamp, and a bible placed neatly on them. A crucifix was fixed to the wall above each bed. The last door was open. Bob took the lead this time and stepped inside. April followed and recoiled from the hellish scene before her.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Bob muttered.

  ‘Move.’ April gagged before emptying the contents of her stomach onto the Axminster. ‘Sorry,’ she said, wiping her mouth.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Bob asked. She nodded. ‘I’ll call it in. Although I’m not sure what the hell I’m calling in,’ he said to himself.

  April composed herself and looked around. The priest was tied to a chair, fully clothed, still wearing his dog collar. His chin was on his chest. Dried vomit stained the front of his shirt. The skin on his hands was white as paper and not much thicker. Dark veins and liver spots mottled them. Sitting opposite him in an armchair was the body of a male. The man was naked. Nothing remained of his head but the tongue and lower jaw; his bottom teeth left exposed. A fan-shaped bloodstain spread up the wall behind him to the ceiling. Stalactites of congealed pink goo clung to the Artex, threatening to drip onto their heads. Between his legs was a double-barrelled shotgun, his fingers still on the trigger.

  ‘He’s blown his own head off,’ April said, shaking. ‘The spatter is congealed. It happened days ago.’

  ‘That’s what it looks like to me,’ Bob said, nodding. ‘I’m getting too old for this.’

  April moved closer to the men. The stench intensified. A squadron of bluebottles was feeding on the congealed blood. Blowfly maggots wriggled around the tongue. One of them balanced on the lip and tumbled down the chin. April stepped back and nudged Father Creegan’s shoe. The priest made a gurgling sound.

  ‘Did you hear that?’

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘He just made a noise.’ April stopped and listened intently. Father Creegan lifted his head up, opened his eyes, and began to cough.

  Chapter 3

  Detective Inspector Alan Williams arrived at the vicarage. His detective sergeant, Kim Davies, was driving. Uniformed officers manned the cordon at the end of the driveway, and blue flashing lights illuminated the scene.

  ‘I hate these winter evenings. It’s as black as pitch at six,’ Alan said, running his hand over his bald head. It looked cold outside, and he wished he’d brought a hat.

  ‘There’s a beanie on the back seat,’ Kim said, as if reading his mind. They had worked together for years. Early in their partnership she noticed he touched his head when it was cold. Her perception and ability to read people was what made her a good detective. She could have advanced her rank significantly had she transferred to a bigger force, but she had no desire to leave the island. Alan reached into the back and retrieved the hat, pulling
it down over his ears without looking in the mirror. The older he got, the more he avoided mirrors; the man he saw was no longer him. ‘Shall we go and see what all the fuss is about?’ she said, pulling the BMW to a stop.

  ‘I’d rather be going home with a vindaloo and a bottle of red, but if we must, then we must,’ Alan said, opening the door. An Anglesey wind blew hard, tugging at his clothes. He pulled the hat down further. Kim tied her long blond hair into a knot on the back of her head. She grabbed a black bubble jacket from the back seat and struggled into it, zipping it tightly to the neck. The vicarage looked dishevelled; the lights burnt behind the curtains. Bob Dewhurst waved from the front door. They walked towards him; hands deep in their pockets. ‘It’s gone cold,’ Alan said to him.

  ‘Bloody freezing,’ Bob agreed. ‘Step inside. Welcome to the madness of Father Creegan.’

  ‘I think I saw that on Netflix last week,’ Alan said.

  ‘I wondered where I got that from,’ Bob smiled. ‘I thought I’d made it up myself. If it’s not a film, it should be.’

  ‘Have you heard how he is?’ Alan asked.

  ‘April went to the hospital with him. She rang just before you got here. He’s pushing seventy, so it’s touch and go. He was tied to a chair for days.’

  ‘Do we know how many?’

  ‘No. We asked him how long he’d been there, but he was incoherent. The doctors said he’s dehydrated and in shock. Severely traumatised are the words the doctor used. He’s been beaten and has a cut on the back of his head, which needed stitches. He’s been sedated while they get fluids into him.’

  ‘I want to be told when he wakes up,’ Alan said. ‘How long until forensics get here?’

  ‘The CSI unit are on their way. They’ve been working on a suspected murder halfway up Snowdon, apparently. Pamela Stone is on the way, but half of her team are still up there.’

  ‘What, actually up the mountain?’ Kim asked.