The Moth Man (Alex Hastings Series) Read online

  The Moth Man

  Jennie Finch

  Contents

  Title Page

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Also by Jennie Finch

  Copyright

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to everyone who has read and commented on the previous two books in the ‘Alex Hastings’ series. Knowing there are readers out there who enjoyed and shared the stories makes it all worth while.

  Once more I have drawn on Jackie’s recollections and expertise for much of the detail, especially in relation to probation work in the 1980s. I have made some changes to this excellent information in places and any errors are mine alone.

  Thank you to Sandie for the ‘buried treasure’ story. I hope you like what I have done with it. Also, Derek’s expertise with goats has been invaluable. An especial thanks to Arnold who first told me the story of a real offender, very similar to the Moth Man. Once I had that it all fell into place.

  I am fortunate to have such friendship and support from Alex Lewczuk and all at Southside Broadcasting/Siren FM. I’m proud to be part of the team. Many thanks also to photographer Shaun Cook for the cover image.

  This book is dedicated to Janet Wright, one of the finest probation officers I have ever met and to Nigel Leech, an inspirational teacher and good friend. Both gone too soon.

  Prologue

  The spring sunlight warmed the gardens around the Somerset Levels and many residents opened their windows and doors, welcoming the fresh air into their homes. Despite the evening chill, the temptation to linger in the slowly-cooling conservatories proved too great for some and as the light faded from the sky lamps were lit, books opened and gardening journals resumed. Birds called for mates, rustling the new leaves and settling into hollows and eaves as they prepared the sites of their new nests. It was a soft and gentle evening, a time for supper and a chat with a loved one before closing up the house and settling down for the night.

  Out in the dusk he waited, eyes fixed on the gap in the garden hedge and the view into the conservatory. When the lights came on inside he could see her as she sat, feet crossed neatly at the ankles and legs tucked under, relaxing in the big armchair by the window. As the last of the sun dribbled away beyond the horizon he began his preparations, glancing up occasionally to check she was still there. Finally he was ready. The wind was cold on his skin and he shivered, both from the cool evening and with anticipation. Inside the glass room the woman glanced up and he froze, afraid she had heard him or seen something but she turned back to her magazine and he breathed again.

  His mouth was dry now, though the palms of the hands sweated as adrenaline began to run through his body. This was the moment. The moment he had dreamed of since first seeing the house three weeks ago. Inside, the woman reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and it was the most exciting, provocative gesture he had ever seen. He was shaking though he no longer felt the cold on his bare body. Pulling the stocking over his head to mask his features, he slid through the bushes surrounding the garden and ran towards the house, a human moth drawn to the light and heat of the woman inside.

  They heard her screams the whole length of the street but by the time help arrived, he was gone.

  Chapter One

  Deep in the wing at Dartmoor prison, far from events out on the Levels, William ‘Newt’ Johns lay awake, staring up at the ceiling as the first light of dawn crept over the stone windowsill and into his cell. His cell-mate, a skinny and slightly pungent little weasel called Ron, snored softly in the bunk below giving occasional whistles through his chipped teeth. Newt ignored him, used now to an ever-changing roster of short-term inmates. He wondered if this was a deliberate ploy on the part of the prison staff. Newt’s father, Derek Johns, had been a powerful and influential figure with a reach far beyond his immediate patch of the Levels in Somerset. In the first months of his sentence, Newt had benefited from the support and protection offered by the Johns’ family connections and his reputation as the heir to Derek’s little fiefdom had earned him a high level of respect and standing, especially considering he had only just had his twenty-third birthday.

  Life inside, he reflected, had been tedious, uncomfortable and occasionally undignified but overall his sentence was passing without any great trauma. After an early escapade, an escape engineered to help his late father, Newt had been a model prisoner. Gradually the impact of his ‘prison break’ – in reality a short sprint into the village to make a phone call – had faded away and life rolled on in relative peace. He read a lot of books, worked wherever he was placed and stayed away from fights. Only his mother’s most recent visit, this week past, had made any impact on him.

  She had looked different, he thought, watching her cross the room to sit at the table in front of him. At first he thought it was her hair. Iris had always taken great pride in her appearance and her hair had remained resolutely (and improbably) peach blonde for as long as he could remember, but recently she had allowed the colour to fade and the first streaks of grey began to show through. Then, just last month, she had appeared with a different haircut. This was new in itself, for Iris had always grown her hair in a long, thick mane that flowed down her back, teased and twined into a French plait. She watched his face as she settled into the hard wooden seat, her expression guarded and just a little defiant.

  ‘I figured it was getting too much, all that time spent colouring and brushing and carrying on,’ she said. ‘Reckon there’s no need for it now.’

  Newt wanted to reach out and hug her, to comfort her, as the loneliness within her poked its head out past the protecting shell, but he could not. Even if the rules hadn’t forbidden physical contact, even if he hadn’t been hemmed in by sharp-eyed, feral men watching for a moment of weakness, there was an air of reserve about his mother. Her innate dignity and the strength of will she projected had made the gesture unthinkable.

  That last visit, though, something fundamental and deep had changed and his mind worried at it through the long nights and tedious days. It had been an unexpected visit, arranged by Alex Hastings, his probation officer in Highpoint, and he had sat frozen with horror as his mother described her ordeal at the hands of his father – his late father, whom he’d thought had died the previous year. Derek had disappeared down the main canal on the Levels, swept away at the end of a murderous vendetta against all the people he had held responsible for Newt’s imprisonment and the death of Biff, Newt’s younger brother.

  ‘So where’d he bin then?’ he demanded, trying to make sense of Iris’s narrative.

  ‘Don’t know,’ she said. ‘Don’t know and to be honest, lad, don’t care much now. Just glad it’s all over at last. Funny.’ She squinted up at the strip lights, blinking in the flat, bright glare. ‘Seems I never felt he was gone before. I kept finding myself lookin’ over my shoulder, double locking the door. Didn’t feel safe, not without them finding a body.’

  ‘So is that why you never had no memorial service or nothing?’ asked Newt.

  Iris shrugged. ‘M
ebbe. Just didn’t seem – right, somehow. Still, at least we get to lay him to rest now, proper, like his family wants. Your probation officer, she’s talkin’ to the prison, see if we can get you out for the service.’

  Newt doubted very much he would be allowed to attend the funeral. His escape attempt, laughable as it had been, was still on his record and in addition to losing him half his parole it meant he was unlikely to be considered for compassionate leave. When word came down he was to be escorted to the church and allowed to go back to the house to support Iris on the day, his admiration for Alex knew no bounds but, still, he mused on the difference he perceived in his mother. She was sad – or maybe not so much sad as thoughtful. Catching her eye across the table, she had glanced away and when he pressed her, she simply shook her head.

  ‘Just thinking about things,’ she said and smiled vaguely. ‘Lot has happened and it seems all the world’s changed this past year or so.’ She rummaged in her bag for a tissue and blew her nose before finally meeting his gaze. ‘One thing, mind. He loved you and Biff, even if he’d not the words to tell you. Don’t you ever forget that now.’ She reached over and squeezed her son’s hand, in defiance of the rules, and the officer seated off to one side glanced away, ignoring this breach of protocol.

  The light grew stronger outside and Newt slid off his bunk, landing without a sound on the cold stone floor. Moving softly to avoid waking his cell mate, he shaved and washed his face and hands before sitting in his prison uniform for the warders to collect him. They would bring his court suit, the only smart clothes he possessed, and he wondered fleetingly whether he would get any breakfast this morning but the prospect of a day away from the prison, even such a terrible, grief-filled day, had him churning with excitement. Too roiled up to feel hungry, he forced himself to sit quietly and wait.

  At the probation office at Highpoint, Lauren was surprised to hear Alex and Sue intended to go to Derek Johns’ funeral.

  ‘Don’t reckon I’d fancy it,’ she said as she sat in the staff room and demolished a bacon sandwich.

  Sue watched her, amusement mixed with disapproval. Lauren’s appetite still astonished her, even after knowing her for the last eighteen months. Lauren was only four feet tall but could out-eat (and probably out-drink) any member of the probation staff and most of the clients too.

  ‘Only good reason for going,’ Lauren continued stuffing the last of the roll in her mouth and lobbing the greasy paper towards a bin, ‘Only reason is to make sure he’s really dead this time. I don’t want to think what he’d look like, coming back alive again. Was bad enough last time.’

  Alex smiled ruefully, shaking her head at Lauren’s callousness. They had both suffered at the hands of the late, unlamented Mr Johns. Derek had stalked Alex for months, tormenting and hounding, before finally trying to lure her into a deadly trap. Lauren had been the bait, stuffed into a car boot and then almost killed in a mad, whirling escape down the flooded canal. Neither had any reason to mourn his passing, though Alex was a little more diplomatic about her feelings in public

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Lauren, ‘I know Alex has to go on account of Newt bein’ there on her say-so but I don’t see why you is.’

  ‘I’m going for Iris,’ said Sue. ‘She’ll have all those other members of his gang hanging around her, all his family and I bet not one of hers will turn up. I think she’ll need a friend. And I’m picking up Ada on the way.’

  This was news to Alex who allowed the surprise to show on her face.

  ‘What?’ Sue demanded staring at her.

  Alex shrugged. ‘Nothing. Just – well, does Ada want to go?’

  Ada had suffered at the hands of Derek Johns even more than the rest of them. He had murdered her husband and tried to frame her son, Kevin. Ada had defended herself robustly when he tried to break into the house out on the Levels and Alex had helped to prove Kevin was innocent, but even so, Ada more than anyone must have been relieved to have Derek’s death confirmed.

  ‘Reckon she really does want to make sure he’s dead,’ said Lauren as she slid off her chair and headed for the door. Alex and Sue watched her disappear round the curve of the staircase before Alex spoke again.

  ‘There’s something you’re not telling me about all this. The police said you were with Ada and Iris when Derek arrived at the house and he was raving about something, even after he collapsed and they hauled him off to hospital. What happened out there that night?’

  Sue stood up and carried her beaker over to the sink, making a show of washing up and putting it back in the cupboard before answering.

  ‘I wasn’t there when Derek arrived,’ she said finally. ‘So I didn’t hear what was said to make him so angry. You’ll have to ask Iris about that.’

  Alex glared at her retreating back. Sue had been reluctant to talk about the night of Derek’s death and Alex recognised the little tricks she was using to avoid revealing something without actually lying. She puzzled over this as she sat at her desk in the day centre, wondering what it was Sue was hiding and, more importantly, why she felt it necessary to keep a secret from her friends. Finally she abandoned all pretence of work and wandered out into the reception area looking for some company. There was no-one at the front desk but several young men fell silent and sat up straight in the chairs as she walked in. Nodding in recognition Alex carried on through to the main office where the clerical staff was hard at work.

  Her own administrator, Alison, was off on a day’s leave and Alex drifted over to her desk, looking for a file she had sent down for updating a few days previously. Rummaging through the piles of papers, forms and assorted memos lying on the cluttered surface, she spotted a familiar document tucked in a new, green folder. Pulling the file towards her, she read her own name on the front. The word ‘Confidential’, was stamped in big, red letters across the top and from the feel of it, there were a number of documents inside.

  Alex resisted the desire to glance over her shoulder at the women busily tapping away around her. Instead she leaned over the desk to shield the folder from view before opening it and flicking through the contents. The personnel files had all been checked and reconstructed following the departure of Garry, the previous senior probation officer who had suffered a spectacular nervous breakdown. Increasingly obsessed by what he imagined to be the moral failings of his team, he had spent a number of nights supplementing the records, adding little touches of his own to the official files. When his actions were finally discovered, Alex’s personnel record included a facsimile pamphlet of the Great London Plague, a number of deeply unpleasant photographs from a book illustrating ‘moral degenerates’, the title page torn from Aleister Crowley’s 777 and other Qabalistic Writings and some seemingly random caricatures by the eighteenth-century artist James Gillray. Alex had quietly removed the offending items and spent some time trying to work out their significance. Entering a mind as disturbed as Garry’s was not a pleasant experience and she finally put the puzzle to one side. They had never exactly got on and she was already too familiar with his personal opinion of her character, her work and her ideals. She didn’t need all that extra paper to tell her Garry disapproved of just about everything she held dear.

  Now restored to a more traditional format, her file held details of her job interview, her contract of employment, Garry’s supervision notes (she glossed over these, knowing they contained nothing good) and, at the back, copies of her formal qualifications and certificates. She glanced at her degree certificate and was just closing the folder when she noticed the corner of another document sticking out at the back. Sliding it to the top of the pile, Alex was startled to read the full academic transcript from her university. She hadn’t realised the service had a copy. Not that there was anything to hide, but still, it made interesting reading and raised more than a few questions. Before she could do more than glance over it, a shadow fell across the desk.

  ‘Can we help you with anything?’ asked Pauline, the senior administrator.

  �
��No, no thanks.’ Alex stuffed the page back into the folder hurriedly. ‘Just checking all the unofficial additions have gone.’ She managed a rather sickly smile as she tucked the folder back under a pile of client files.

  Pauline was utterly unconvinced but, after all, the officers were entitled to access their own files whenever they wanted. They just needed to ask.

  ‘There’s a client in reception for you,’ she said.

  Alex raised her eyebrows. ‘Did they give a name?’ she asked.

  Pauline shook her head. ‘No, and I don’t recognise them either. Are you expecting anyone new?’

  Alex pondered for a moment. ‘I think there was a referral from the court last week,’ she said. ‘I was off that day but Alison left a note.’

  A few weeks previously, Alex had survived a bruising encounter with Max, a gang leader from Bristol, and the incident had triggered a series of short-lived but debilitating migraine headaches. Still weakened from a bout of meningitis over the previous winter, she had spent several days curled up in a darkened room, emerging only to forage for food that was not cooked by Sue. Although Sue was a good housemate and loyal friend, she was possibly the world’s worst cook and Alex had vowed never to eat anything produced by her ever again, if it could possibly be managed. As a consequence of her illness she had missed the weekly allocation meeting, and with Alison on leave she was at a loss to identify her visitor.

  Pauline hesitated and then took pity on her, reaching over the cluttered desk and pulling out a slim file. ‘There you are. I think that’s all we’ve got on him at the moment but there’s a contact number in there somewhere for his old probation office.’

  Alex took the folder and turned towards reception with a heavy heart. Great, she thought. An unknown recidivist client who just turns up out of the blue. Thanks team – I owe you one. She took a moment to glance at the name on the file before opening the office door.