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Thomas Weedsley was a worried man. The much-respected former headmaster of a prestigious school in the Northwest had received a phone call. An anonymous ‘benefactor’ told him that Police Officers would come soon, to speak to him about ‘certain’ allegations.
Two things would be his downfall. His large collection of category ‘A’ child pornography and the remains of a 10-year-old boy, a runaway, lying buried under the dirt floor in the cellar of his holiday home in North Wales.
His initial attempts to destroy the pornography had proven unsuccessful, so he’d transferred it all to his cottage, several miles outside the sullen little village of Llanfinog. Here he could do the job properly, away from prying eyes.
The impending threat brought him strange new titillation, however. He knew the sensible thing was to destroy it now, straight away, but he wasn’t ready to complete the final act. Drawing the curtains, he shovelled coal on the fire and began to indulge in a final feast of sexual gratification.
Outside, on the dark windswept hill, three CROPS men settled down in their positions. Between them, they could see the whole building and its approaches. It didn’t matter the house backed onto woodland. A twenty-metre gap between the edge of the woods and the garden’s stone wall, with its little wrought iron gate and French windows beyond, provided a safety margin.
Close by, Specialist Firearms Officers and a helicopter were on hand, ready to go at a moment’s notice. Chalkie and a team from MIT sat in unmarked vehicles at various locations whilst Lizzie and the rest of the party took what relaxation they could in a hotel not too far away.