The Dee Valley Killings Read online

  THE DEE VALLEY KILLINGS

  By Simon McCleave

  A Ruth Hunter Crime Thriller

  Book 3

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a purely fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual

  events is purely coincidental.

  First published by Stamford Publishing Ltd in 2020

  Copyright © Simon McCleave, 2020

  All rights reserved

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  "The ends justify the means."

  Niccolò Machiavelli

  “No man is justified in doing evil on the ground of expediency.”

  Theodore Roosevelt

  “To defeat evil, I shall become a greater evil.”

  Lelouch Vi Britannia

  CHAPTER 1

  8 December 2018

  The picturesque market town of Bala lay at the heart of the Dee Valley on the outskirts of Snowdonia National Park. Dating back to Roman times, most of its inhabitants were Welsh speakers – until the tourists came in the summer months. To the north of the town was the imposing summit of Mount Snowdon, now covered in snow. Folklore said that Snowdon was the burial mound of Welsh giant and king, Rhitta Gawr, notorious in the fifth century for murdering kings, cutting their bloody beards from their faces and stitching them together to make a macabre, regal cloak to keep him warm from the cold. Rhitta would not be satisfied until he had the beard of the legendary King Arthur of England as the crowning centrepiece of his deadly shawl ... However, in a gruesome battle, Rhitta was killed by King Arthur and then buried at the top of Snowdon.

  It was a bitter winter’s day and the threat of sleet was in the air. It being early December, the town’s high street was brightly festooned with colourful Christmas decorations. Shop windows twinkled and glistened with festive displays of green, red and gold. Further along the road, a small group from the Salvation Army, in smart black uniforms, sang ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’ enthusiastically while rattling their buckets, appealing to the season’s charitable spirit.

  A man in his forties, slim and athletic in build, slowed his car and parked in a space on the main road. He looked up and saw that the town’s Indian restaurant had gold tinsel hanging in the windows. He smiled. The lead-up to Christmas was Andrew’s favourite time of year. It was a happy and exciting time. However, as he turned off the ignition he was feeling a little nervous. He was meeting a blind date in the pub. Given how all his other ‘encounters’ had ended badly or dramatically, he had used an online dating website even though he’d sworn he never would. He was concerned. How safe were they? What if the person he was meeting was a homicidal freak? A maniac? He could always make his excuses and walk away. What if they took one look at him and left? Or laughed? He was having second thoughts. Pull yourself together, he told himself. A couple of drinks would take the edge off. It usually did. And maybe his date would be perfect. The kind of romantic night he had planned in his head all day.

  Pulling down the sun visor, he checked his appearance in the small mirror. He knew he was boyishly handsome even with the scar that went horizontally across his left eyelid – the result of messing around in his garden as an eight-year-old. He and Dan Bagley had created a gigantic seesaw catapult with bricks and a plank of wood. They had marvelled at it and planned to launch all sorts of projectiles at various neighbours they disliked – namely flaming bags of dog shit at that cow Mrs Orwell from number seven. However, while Andrew examined the fist-sized rock they were about to launch at Mrs Orwell’s greenhouse as a test run, Dan stamped on the other end, sending the rock into Andrew’s face. It split his eyelid in two and he had to wear an eye patch to school for over a month. He heard every pirate joke going but was lucky to have kept his sight. And he now had a thick scar. But scars weren’t wounds to him. Scars were the result of healing and becoming whole again. And Andrew could deal with the physical scars. They were like medals. Emotional scars were different. They could eat away at your very soul.

  Taking a deep breath, Andrew got out of the car, pulled up the collar on his coat and headed across the road, which was becoming slushy underfoot. He could feel the tension in his stomach and groin. He had always been anxious, ever since he could remember. Andrew passed the statue of T. E. Ellis, a nineteenth-century MP and Welsh nationalist, that was now flecked with sleet. A small snowflake hovered, circled and then landed perfectly on the end of the statue’s nose.

  On the left was Bar Lounge, which he knew to be a popular hang out and restaurant. Strings of cream fairy lights hung magically from the dark green awning at its front. Approaching the door tentatively, he opened it, allowing a group of women who barely acknowledged him to exit. He was used to that. Invisibility was his superpower.

  Scanning the room, his heart was beating hard. The air was warm and boozy. From somewhere there was the fragrant smell of spiced mulled wine. The sound of chatter, laughter and Dean Martin Christmas songs. And over in the corner, beside the brick fireplace and flickering wood burner, was his date. An olive-skinned man in his thirties; big, brown eyes, tasteful Norwegian jumper, nursing a large glass of red wine.

  The man looked up, met Andrew’s gaze and smiled. Andrew walked over, relieved that his date was handsome. Very handsome. He was feeling more positive already.

  ‘Stefan?’ Andrew asked, getting into his stride.

  ‘Andrew? Let me get you a drink. What can I get you?’ Stefan’s voice was deep, soft and confident.

  ‘Pint of bitter. Thanks,’ Andrew said, taking off his coat and placing it on the back of the chair. He was wondering what Stefan had made of him.

  As Stefan returned with the drinks, Andrew sat on a creaky wooden chair and took a moment to compose himself. Keep it together, smile and don’t say anything weird, he said to himself.

  ‘Cheers,’ Andrew said as they clinked glasses.

  ‘I’m a bit nervous actually,’ Andrew admitted as he sipped his pint. Phew, I’ve said it and it feels better already.

  ‘Me too. I’m not one for dating sites usually,’ Stefan said.

  ‘My first time. But you sounded lovely in your messages so I thought, What the hell?’

  Andrew need not have worried. The next few hours were a whirl of chatter, laughter and alcohol. He knew within minutes that Stefan had everything he looked for in a man. A landscape gardener with his own business. A love of theatre and dance. It wasn’t long before they were holding hands across the table, the candle throwing soft shadows over their faces. As far as Andrew was concerned, it was perfect. They were made for each other.

  Andrew surprised himself when he asked Stefan if he wanted to go somewhere quieter. The booze had calmed Andrew’s nerves and given him confidence. That’s what alcohol did for him. It transformed him. In fact, the excitement was getting the better of him. It always did. Andrew suggested that they go back to his house. It wasn’t far, and he had a car outside.

  Despite only having had a few drinks, Stefan seemed to be incredibly drunk as they headed for Andrew’s car. In fact, he had to help Stefan cross the road. Andrew didn’t mind. I
n fact, he thought it was hilarious.

  As they drove slowly out of Bala, Andrew watched the sleet turn to snow. Christmas lights looped from streetlight to streetlight and couples walked arm in arm below their glow. It was a winter wonderland, he thought to himself.

  Andrew didn’t want the evening to end. Up to this point it had been everything he had hoped for. ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham played on the radio and they sang along. Stefan’s words slurred a little and Andrew thought it made him even more attractive.

  Yet Andrew still had his doubts. What if Stefan was looking for a one-night stand? He would never see him again. He wanted something that would last. He didn’t want him to go in the morning. The panic and paranoia began to set in. No, no, no. Don’t let those thoughts overtake you.

  As they sped along the A494 towards Corwen, the snow became heavy and Andrew slowed as visibility got worse. Stefan put his hand on Andrew’s thigh and gave him a sexy wink. Something about Stefan’s face unnerved him for a moment. Maybe it was just the glazed look in his eye? Maybe this was too good to be true?

  Andrew knew for certain that Stefan would leave after they slept together. He could just tell. No, you’re not going to let that happen. Andrew hated himself for his neediness but he was terrified of being left alone.

  Suddenly, a metallic noise from the back of the car startled him. A clang or a bump. It completely unnerved him.

  ‘What’s that?’ Andrew asked, pushing the brake and slowing the car.

  Stefan frowned and then grinned. He was hammered. ‘I didn’t hear anything. Sorry, love.’

  How did he not hear that? It sounded like they had gone over something.

  ‘It came from the back. Hang on ...’ Andrew carefully pulled the car over to the side of the road. ‘I’m just going to check,’ he said as he clambered into the snowstorm and went around to the back of the car. The snow blew into his face, making it difficult to see. There was nothing. Then he opened the rear door and peered in at the floor. ‘I think it came from here, didn’t it?’

  Stefan turned and frowned. ‘I’m not sure. I honestly didn’t hear anything.’ His voice was slurred and he looked as though he was trying to focus his eyes.

  Andrew sat on the back seat behind Stefan and smiled. He would not let Stefan get away. He was perfect. Too perfect. You’re not going to leave me.

  With one swift movement, Andrew grabbed a thick rope from under the seat and wrapped it around his hands. He looped it around Stefan’s neck, pulling him back against the seat with a violent jolt. He hoped this wouldn’t take long.

  ‘What ... the hell are you ... doing?’ Stefan coughed, terrified and choking.

  Andrew knew exactly what he was doing. He pulled the rope tight, pushing his knees into the back of the passenger seat to give him leverage. The rope was hurting Andrew’s hands, but that was part of the thrill. He liked the burning sensation on his skin. The muscles in his arms were taut.

  For Andrew, this was heaven. Come on you beauty, just give in. He watched Stefan struggling, fighting for his life. He clawed at the rope, trying to free it from his throat, but it was no good. His legs kicked and jolted as he tried to suck in air.

  Andrew was getting aroused. He felt the movement in his trousers. This was such a rush. Power.

  Andrew pulled with every ounce of his strength. Squeeze the life out of him. Squeeze, and he’ll be mine. Then Stefan’s foot hit the windscreen hard, and it cracked.

  Bloody hell, thought Andrew. He would have to get that fixed tomorrow. It was a new car. What a shame.

  A moment later, Andrew felt relief as the tension in the rope gave out and the life passed from Stefan’s body. He smiled to himself and gave a little laugh. That felt amazing. Wow. He let out a sigh of relief. Now he could have the perfect, romantic evening that he had planned all along.

  ‘I’ll be home for Christmas’ by Elvis played on the radio.

  The rush of excitement was too much for Andrew. He moved across the back seat so he could look at Stefan’s dead face. He unzipped his trousers and touched himself, and a few seconds later, orgasmed before slumping back onto the car seat with a sigh.

  Bliss. I don’t want this feeling to ever end.

  CHAPTER 2

  It was a Monday morning in Snowdonia, and despite the temperature being zero degrees, the sun was bright and the sky blue and clear. The serenity of the scene overlooked by the horseshoe of mountains was broken by a dark blue, unmarked Astra which came into view as it sped around the bend. Detective Inspector Ruth Hunter and Detective Sergeant Nick Evans of the North Wales Police were making their way into Llan Ffestiniog – also known as just Ffestiniog – a picturesque village in the heart of Snowdonia. It was famous as the starting point of the Welsh Highland Railway, the world’s oldest narrow-gauge railway, which ran through Snowdonia Park and past the foot of Snowdon.

  On their way, Nick had pointed out Llechwedd Slate Caverns, a big tourist attraction with a zip wire, high ropes and an underground trampoline adventure.

  ‘I don’t really do the whole outdoor-adventure thing,’ Ruth admitted.

  ‘You do surprise me,’ Nick said sarcastically.

  ‘Not many slate quarries in South London.’

  ‘These caverns are meant to be haunted by a pair of Victorian miners who were last seen walking off together into the darkness of the shaft and were never seen again. The sounds of their pickaxes on rock can be heard echoing in the disused pit on the anniversary of their disappearance,’ Nick explained in a faux scary voice.

  ‘Ohh, thank you for that, Nick. Remind me not to go there any time soon. You know how much I love ghosts,’ Ruth said sarcastically. That kind of thing really did spook her, which was strange as dead bodies at a crime scene didn’t.

  Ruth smiled as she looked out at the stunning landscape that stretched for as far as she could see. It certainly beat chasing drug dealers through the deprived estates of Peckham in South London. Despite transferring from the Met two years ago, she still counted herself as a virtual newcomer to North Wales. And despite thinking that she would enjoy a quieter, more peaceful time in the North Wales Police, her time there had proved to be anything but. Nearly two years ago, the Dinas Padog murders had broken her, and it was only four months since the Owen Ankers murder case and the shootings involving Callum Webb and one of her colleagues.

  ‘Fairytale of New York’ by The Pogues came on the radio and Nick reached over and turned the volume up.

  ‘Oh, I love this song. My favourite Christmas tune!’ he said with a grin.

  ‘As a recovering alky, why isn’t that a big surprise?’ teased Ruth. She remembered the video with Shane MacGowan swigging Irish whiskey straight from the bottle.

  Since she’d first met her sergeant, she had seen him ride the roller-coaster of alcoholism many times, but he was doing well.

  ‘Three months sober today,’ Nick said with an element of pride.

  Ruth nodded. She should know how long he had been sober – she had picked him up from the police-funded rehab on the North Wales coast. She also knew that he hadn’t been able to go more than a week or two sober for over a decade.

  ‘What’s changed?’ Ruth asked. It was such a big achievement to go from being controlled by and addicted to alcohol, to putting it down for three months.

  Nick thought for a moment. ‘I asked for help, did as I was told and stopped thinking I could beat it on my own and my way.’

  ‘So, a bit of common sense and humility?’ Ruth asked, summarising.

  ‘I guess so ... Yeah.’

  Nick slowed the car and Ruth peered at the street names. She had some intel on a series of violent burglaries that had taken place across central Snowdonia in recent weeks. It was the elderly who had been targeted in particular and this angered her. The teenage burglars, who had worn masks, were brazen and callous enough to carry out the robberies with occupants in the house. They had restrained several pensioners, causing rocketing levels of fear in the community and causing one eighty-y
ear-old man to have a heart attack as his home was ransacked. Evil wankers, Ruth thought. She would like to find and arrest the suspects, take them back to Llancastell Police Station and leave them in an interview room with Nick. He could explain North Wales Police Force’s policy on those who tied up, tortured and robbed pensioners. She had seen Nick lose his rag a few times in the past, and it wasn’t a pretty sight.

  They slowed, and Ruth gazed out at a small, scruffy row of houses where an eighteen-year-old male suspect, Ethan Reid, who had a long record of petty crime, lived. What did teenagers do in a place like Ffestiniog, she wondered.

  Opening the car door, the air was icy and bitter against her face. She could feel the breeze freezing her lungs as she breathed. The car dashboard had read zero degrees a few minutes earlier. The sound of the wind swirled noisily around her ears and she pulled up the collar on her woollen coat.

  ‘This is it. Number twelve,’ Nick said, pointing to a small dilapidated cottage. The grey stone had once been painted white, but was now worn and scruffy. Plonked in the centre of the facade was a large satellite that cast an oblong shadow on the flaky brickwork.

  Ruth heard the reverberating sound of a motor. At first, she thought it was a lawn mower. Then suddenly from the side of the cottage, a black scooter and rider in a black helmet appeared at speed, screeching into the road and speeding away. Ethan Reid, she assumed.

  ‘Shit!’ Ruth said as they ran back to the car.

  ‘Little wanker!’ Nick growled.

  As Ruth clicked her radio, the air was full of bitter exhaust fumes. ‘Dispatch from three-six. We are in pursuit of a possible suspect. Eighteen-year-old male, Ethan Reid. Black Honda Scooter. Sierra-tango-five-nine, foxtrot-lima-alpha. Heading north out of Ffestiniog. Over.’

  ‘Dispatch received,’ her Tetra radio replied. ‘Stand by.’