Angels and Apostles
A Dark Tides Thriller Book Three
Tony Hutchinson
Cheshire Cat Books Ltd
Also in Dark Tides Thriller Series
Be My Girl : The Darkness is his Playground
(Dark Tides Thriller Book 1)
Comply or Die : The Price of Honour is Blood
(Dark Tides Thriller Book 2)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Thursday 11th December 2014
‘Scream as much as you want nonce.’
The voice wasn’t raised, the words softly spoken.
‘No one outside can hear you and no one in here gives a shit.’
The interrogator in the blue boiler suit and steel toe-capped boots was on his haunches, peering into the dark and dust of the vehicle inspection pit, torch pointing into the captive’s face.
The other two stood silent, gloved hands gripping their own black machined aluminium Maglites, staring down at the man whose arms stretched backwards, hands tied around an old green oil drum, the thick rope useful again after years left coiled in a cobweb-covered heap.
The steady beams illuminated decades of neglect in the desolate garage, discarded needles and rusted metal Castrol signs from conflicting times; what was once a busy petrol and MOT station reduced to a foul-smelling junkies den, a relic like some broken beast left to rot by poachers on a bone dry African plain. For poachers with rifles and night sights read cheap supermarket fuel and shiny vehicle service centres, all testaments to so-called progress.
‘You know why you’re here?’
The interrogator’s voice remained quiet, soft almost. He was too experienced to raise it. Conversational and controlled was always more threatening.
‘I don’t,’ the man shouted, his desert dry mouth fighting to release saliva. ‘I really don’t. I’ve done nothing. I’m retired. All I did was try to collect my television.’
‘Well let’s see if we can jog your memory.’
The interrogator turned to one of his accomplices. ‘Pass the petrol.’
‘No!’ the man’s ragged voice ricocheted around the pit, heels scrambling for leverage, his back pushing against the drum.
The interrogator stood up and tipped the can.
Petrol flowed over the captive’s hair, streaming into his blinking eyes, into his mouth, his convulsing body sending the viscose liquid down his torso onto his cheap brown trousers, the smell and taste making him retch.
‘Please no,’ he screamed.
Back on his haunches the interrogator took out a cigarette, struck a match and lit up. He inhaled, slow and deep, then spoke as he exhaled.
‘Now then Jeremy,’ still with that unnerving calm. ‘The little boys in your school. How many?’
‘None! I swear. I didn’t do anything. I was acquitted.’
The interrogator shook his head, shook it slowly.
‘We both know an acquittal just means your defence barrister was better than the prosecutor, a bit sharper. It’s got fuck all to do with truth and justice.’
He inhaled again.
‘But in here it’s different. There are no legal tricks, Jeremy, no loopholes or laws about inadmissible evidence. The whole system’s not weighted in the defendant’s favour. This is a fairer courtroom. Here, truth prevails. Justice is served. Everything is admissible. Everything.’
Capturing Jeremy Scott had been easy. A promotional ‘claim-your-prize’ letter from a fictitious company, the bait of a 52” flat screen TV, and a request the retired schoolteacher be at home on the given time and date with proof of ID. The police had deployed the same tactic to round up people for years. Play the greed card and reel them in once they bite.
When the interrogator had arrived he had asked Jeremy to help carry the TV from the van. Greed made some people so gullible. When the back doors had opened, he was quickly shoved forward and four arms had yanked him into the van.
‘Jeremy.’ The voice remained soft. He struck another match and waved it towards the pit.
Jeremy Scott sagged and let his head drop to his heaving chest.
‘It was a lifetime ago,’ he said, as if somehow time was his saviour, his get out clause. ‘Who remembers?’
The interrogator turned to look at the two others, held their eyes for a moment, and then moved his gaze back. The torch beam burning through tiny motes of drifting debris had never wavered.
‘The innocent boys remember Jeremy, the ones who came forward and others the police don’t even know about. They all remember even if you pretend you don’t.’
Head bowed, Scott’s lips moved but the words were half-formed and too mumbled to hear.
‘Please look up Jeremy, look at me...that’s better.’
His voice was more like a counsellor than an interrogator.
‘Now, it may have been a lifetime ago for you, but for those boys every single day has been full of memories as fresh and horrific as the moment you made them. Do you know genuine fear Jeremy?’
Scott nodded, almost hypnotised by the voice.
‘Oh, I’m not sure,’ the interrogator said. ‘I’m not talking about the fear of a parent when they lose a child in a busy department store or the fear of a hard working single mum when another bill drops on her mat and she knows she won’t be able to feed her kids. I’m talking real down-deep fear. The fear I want you to feel now...an overweight, retired, never-been-married-teacher in a badly-fitting brown suit stinking of piss and petrol.’
‘Please don’t,’ he muttered.
The interrogator moved the beam up and down Scott’s rope-bound body, silent until he centred the light back on his face.
‘Did you listen to those little boys when they said that? Did you hear their fear when you walked into their dorm in the middle of the night, terrified and not knowing if it was going to be their turn? Did you stop when they begged you to leave them alone? When they cried out in pain? Did you stop?’
Scott’s voice rose again, his frantic mind grasping for a new escape route.
‘Alright I did it,’ he shouted. ‘There. Is that what you want?’
The interrogator paused as if he was contemplating his answer. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘What we want is justice. Society’s spent a lifetime watching people like you, people everyone knows are guilty but who still walk free, people whose slick barristers
get important evidence kicked out and bully victims in the witness box, victims who are already emotional wrecks, middle-aged men now but still carrying the scars a piece of shit like you inflicted.’
He stood, dropped the cigarette, and stubbed it out with his boot.
The movement made Scott jerk and his eyes began to dart from the interrogator to the others.
He struggled again against the rope around him.
‘Just let me go,’ he said quickly.’ You’ve got your admission. You’ve got the fear you wanted.’
The interrogator let the words drift through the specks of dust floating lazily in the torch-light, watching the trembling mouth and the man that spoke them.
He was right about the fear, but the admission? Hand him over to the police and even a z-list lawyer would have that kicked out once they discovered how the confession came about. All lies dished out under ‘duress’ to save his skin from the bad men. That’s how it would play.
The interrogator lit up again, turned his back, and smoked the cigarette, the smoke curling towards the grime-covered skylights.
‘One last thing,’ he said, turning back towards the pit, flicking the cigarette in the air.
Jeremy Scott watched wide-eyed as the glowing red end arced over the inspection pit and dropped safely on the other side.
‘Do you go to the dentist regularly?’
Realisation came in a flood and the screams that returned sounded more like wails.
‘I think he understands,’ the interrogator shouted over his shoulder. ‘Not lost that public school brain.’
Then the voice dropped and was quiet again as he turned back.
‘After you’re found, the victims will need to know it’s definitely you,’ he said. ‘That’s where your teeth come in. Believe me, there’ll be nothing else.’
The interrogator picked up an empty milk bottle, filled it with petrol and stuffed a rag into the liquid.
‘No!’ Scott screamed. ‘Please. I’m begging you!’
The interrogator lit the rag with a steady hand and hurled the bottle.
‘Too late for begging,’ he said as the glass shattered in a fireball of searing heat and flame. ‘Burn in hell you piece of shit.’
He and the men walked away in silence. There was nothing to be said. The screams would die long before the flames.
Detective Chief Inspector Sam Parker, hands deep in pockets, walked amongst the late evening Christmas crowds on Seaton St George’s High Street, Ed Whelan, her Murder Team Detective Sergeant, alongside her.
‘So you’ve got absolutely no idea what you want to buy your wife for Christmas?’
‘That’s why you’re here,’ Ed said, a Baker Boy flat cap protecting his bald head from the cold air. ‘I’m counting on you for some inspiration.’
‘Bloody hell Ed, Sue doesn’t even like me,’ Sam looked up at the Christmas lights hanging above the road. ‘If she thought I was helping you buy her present she’d probably kill us both.’
Ed grinned: ‘Which is why I’m not going to tell her.’
Sam stopped to take a Marlboro Gold from her pocket, glanced up and down the street, and lit up. ‘What if she sees us?’
‘She won’t,’ Ed said, standing next to her, sounding more confident than he felt. ‘So...any ideas?’
Sam inhaled on the cigarette and exhaled slowly, hoping somewhere in the breath a light would shine.
‘I don’t know. Underwear?’
Ed felt the bones in his neck crick as he snapped his head sharp right to face her.
‘Underwear? Are you having a laugh? If I gave her underwear she’d think I’d bought it for my bit-on-the-side.’
‘I didn’t know you had one of those.’
‘Ha ha. Look I haven’t got a clue what to get her, that’s why you’re here. The daughter normally does this sort of thing but she’s not speaking to me at the moment.’
Sam inhaled again, waiting for Ed to continue.
‘All I asked was whether she watered her new boyfriend every day because he seemed to have the IQ of a plant.’
Sam raised her eyebrows and smiled. Ed Whelan and his lost career as a diplomat.
‘You haven’t met him,’ Ed protested. ‘Thick as pig-shit and recently had his personality surgically removed, I swear.’
‘Well I can see why she’s not doing your Christmas shopping,’ Sam muttered. ‘You want some help picking out a present for him?’
‘Who? Jasper?’
‘Jasper?’
‘Exactly. Bloody dog’s name, and just as smelly. ’
‘Alright Ed?’
The voice from behind was one Ed immediately recognised, the Devon accent as slow and pronounced as the rising bubbles in a glass of cider.
Sam and Ed turned around.
‘Alright Ray. How’s it going?’
Ray Reynolds, thick jet black hair swept backwards, was an inch bigger than Ed at 6’6”, and not looking much older or fatter since he retired over ten years ago.
‘Good. And this is?’ the raised eyebrows an attempt to send Ed’s cheeks strawberry red.
Ed recognised the look, the unspoken question...‘colleague, affair or both?’
At least Reynolds hadn’t seen them shopping together, especially for underwear.
Jesus, just imagine. Ed winced inside.
He smiled. ‘My boss. Sam Parker. Sam, this is Ray Reynolds, retired Detective Super.’
Ray Reynolds extended his hand and shook Sam’s.
‘Delighted. I’ve seen some of your TV performances. Very accomplished.’
‘Thank you and I’ve heard the stories about you.’
Reynolds shook his head.
‘Don’t listen,’ he told her lightly. ‘War stories always sound better with the passing of time. Anyway I must crack on. Pleasure, Sam. Take it easy Ed. Might catch up with you at the Pensioners’ Party.’
Reynolds walked into the crowd, hair visible above the throng.
‘He’s never changed,’ Ed said. ‘Not everybody’s cup of tea but fiercely loyal if you were loyal to him.’
Sam watched the impressive hair get smaller in the distance.
‘He’d see a few changes if he came back now.’
Ed shrugged, remembering different days.
‘The Ray Reynolds of this world wouldn’t cope with all the politically correct crap today. A man’s man, no time for pussyfooting. Job first, beer second, upsetting people not even on his radar. But all our yesterdays isn’t getting the shopping done.’
Sam stubbed the cigarette onto the top of a bin before flicking it inside. ‘Perfume? A nice scarf? New gloves?’
What would it be like if you were buying them for me?
‘Genius. A scarf sounds good.’
‘Right I know just the shop. Nice and expensive.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Then you’re buying the coffees and a slice of Christmas cake.’
Chapter Two
The dark brown leather armchair was so big William Skinner looked like he was on a Hollywood film set auditioning for Land of the Giants or The Borrowers, his stumpy legs barely able to touch the floor. The ice in the gin and tonic had long since melted, a casualty of his wife’s love affair with central heating and a nod to the time in their lives when they could have food or warmth but not both. In those days he’d still be drinking pints at 8pm, but not now. He looked around. He loved the living room with its sunken sitting area, the dark wood flooring and Chinese pale blue rugs, the pool table, balls racked, on the raised area.
The smell of garlic drifted from the kitchen. When they first married he’d made the mistake of telling her he liked her spaghetti bolognaise. Now it was a ‘treat’ she cooked every Thursday. He couldn’t even remember why it had to be a Thursday. Thirty-three years of bolognaise and the nearest he had ever been to Italy was watching Liverpool beat Milan on the TV. Even his sons did their best to be somewhere else on a Thursday.
Still she was fiercely loyal and plenty tough. She never succumbed to police
threats, kept a clear head whenever he was arrested and turned a blind eye when his own eyes wandered.
‘Won’t be long,’ she shouted from the kitchen.
He stood up, walked to the timber-framed patio doors and looked across the carpet-bowls lawn and the borders full of plants and colour. The monthly cost of the gardeners was more than the rent on their old two bedroom flat but the two acres resembled Augusta. Not that he played golf.
Growing up the only green he saw in his concrete jungle was the school football pitch and that was often more mud than grass. He smiled, remembering his mother running out of money for the electric meter. He’d go to bed in the dark more often than not, no sheet on the mattress, brothers lying alongside, coats piled on top. Only rich people had blankets.
Now he had the best cotton on every bed and enough electricity to light up his garden like a football stadium, power the nine feet high security gates and service CCTV cameras that blinked red like dragons’ eyes 24 hours a day.
‘It’s on the table,’ his wife shouted.
He turned away from the garden and walked to the kitchen, by-passing the formal dining room.
‘Looks great,’ he said, pulling the stool closer to the kitchen table.
Marge bent down to kiss his head. ‘You’ll say ‘owt but your prayers Billy Skinner.’
The mobile started to dance around the bench.
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