Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘She’s my boss,’ Ed said coldly. ‘I get on well with her. End of. Now can I watch the sports?’

  Ellen, listening from the hallway, ran upstairs to her room and heard the living room door slam.

  Returning to his notebook, he saw the page for Lauren Storey. She had repaired the window when he got there. It hadn’t just got a board over it. The glass had been replaced. Pity. She looked a real stunner. Still, Kelly was exciting. He had enjoyed her. A smile broke out across his face. How had he hit on the idea of targeting two women at once? It meant extra planning, of course. Twice as much work to build up the picture of each one but it doubled his chances of getting into a house… doubled his chances of enjoying a woman on any given night.

  In fairness, it was Kirsty he had to thank. He had gone to her house and found the window repaired, just like Lauren’s, the difference being he had nowhere else to go that night. That was four months ago. The feeling of despair as he left her house was gutting. All that planning and all for nothing.

  Running home that night, he vowed through gritted teeth it would never happen again. He decided to refine his preparations, have a choice of two women for any one attack.

  He still had his notes on Kirsty and, of course, on Natalie, Lauren, and Emily. In a few months, when the police activity died down, he might find himself in a position to look at them again. He would have to think of a different way in. If the Press ran stories on Danielle, no woman was going to leave broken windows unreported, and certainly not those four.

  Even if he waited for summer, single women wouldn’t leave ground-floor windows open; not now, not while he was ‘on the loose’, as the Press would say. In any case, his planning was too meticulous to count on a British heatwave. He would need to apply himself, come up with a new method. The alternative was approaching them from behind in the open air, but he wouldn’t be in control of that environment. He didn’t want a confrontation with a hero ‘do-gooder’ and he certainly didn’t want to be disturbed when he was making love.

  He closed the notebook. It wouldn’t win any literary prizes, but it wasn’t for publication. It was strictly for his eyes only. He would begin his search soon. He wouldn’t rush, he never did. Opportunists in crime were always caught, sooner or later. Luck never lasted forever. His success was measured by having sex with his chosen partner, escaping the scene, and not getting caught. Planning was fundamental. Finding the right women was all part of the process and gathering intelligence just another part of the hunt. He loved every moment.

  Reading the entries about Amber, he became lost in his thoughts again as he remembered her stunning beauty. She had obviously enjoyed herself; she hadn’t gone to the police. He should call her again. He had called her since their meeting but she hadn’t answered. Perhaps she was busy or her phone was on silent. Maybe she was one of those who won’t pick up if they don’t recognise the number. The positive was that he’d heard her sweet, sexy voice on her voicemail. He should text her. She might respond to a text.

  He carefully replaced everything in the drawer. He might contact Danielle and Amber this week.

  He started to whistle that Louis Armstrong song.

  The temperature in the car had dropped rapidly even though Sam had only been sat on her driveway for a few minutes. She longed for March and the thought of the clocks going forward lightened her mood slightly. She hated going to and from work in the dark. It was almost as depressing as coming home to an empty house. Almost.

  She had bought the house three years ago, six months after Tristram was killed. She tried to live in their marital home, the house they had bought together, but it was just too full of memories. She needed a fresh start. Married for two years, she knew Tristram was the one, her soul mate. Life would never be the same without him. She missed the walks by the sea, curling up on the sofa laughing at old Ealing comedy films, a meal in a restaurant, the lazy Sundays with the newspapers and a roast, and the wines of Burgundy. Everything wiped out in an instant. They had talked happily and for hours planning their future… holidays, houses, children, retirement, old age. Their bucket list was continually growing and being refined, their lives together stretching out before them.

  Had she known the darkness that lay ahead, that his life clock was counting down at a supersonic speed compared to hers, she would have done more living, less planning. John Lennon said: ‘Life’s what happens while you are busy making other plans.’ How tragically true that was.

  The police allowed her to take as much time off as she needed. She was offered any posting she wanted, but she didn’t want to leave the CID. When a vacancy arose on the Major Incident Team she successfully applied. Now work was a welcome distraction.

  Achievement to Sam didn’t mean climbing the ranks. It meant solving crimes, bringing some sort of sense of justice to victims. It also meant getting that true sense of satisfaction when the bad guys were convicted. She liked the feeling of making a difference. To her, that was what policing was all about. Being able to put her head on her pillow, knowing that she had, in some small way, made a difference.

  She hurried inside, thankful the central heating had automatically come on.

  She turned on some music, crashed into the deep armchair and allowed the sounds of Amy Winehouse to drift over her.

  Monday

  Startled, Sam looked around to discover where she was. Home. Feeling very cold and with absolutely no idea of the time, her blurry eyes sought out the clock on the living room wall. 2am. The central heating had long since switched itself off.

  Dragging herself upstairs, she hurriedly undressed, dropping all of her clothes on the floor. She was in bed within minutes, without brushing her teeth or washing her face. She could concentrate on nothing but sleep.

  And yet as soon as her head hit the pillow, her eyes were as wide as dinner plates. Sleep wouldn’t come easy, but it was nothing to do with this latest investigation. She had already formulated the lines of inquiry, had a media strategy in mind, and knew how many people she needed.

  Sleep would be difficult because she was a woman alone in her home at night. She was only too well aware she was dealing with a serial rapist, a monster who struck in the dead of night, and she knew he would never stop until he was caught.

  He was comfortable operating on the Gull and Conifer Estates, so maybe he lived on one of them. Eventually, Sam knew, he would travel further but not yet. It was too soon. His type liked to stay close to home at first, living in the midst of his victims, watching them, learning their habits, establishing when they would be home alone.

  Shooting bolt upright, her whole body stiff, she asked herself the question she had been avoiding all day. What if he’s watching me? It wouldn’t be the last time that night she found herself checking every window in her house. Like a young child with an overactive imagination, she saw shadows and shapes everywhere.

  The fact no windows were broken did nothing to ease her anxiety. Wishing she had a German Shepherd police dog, she left the landing light switched on and the wall lights shining above her head. She would sleep at some point, but not now.

  The fear she was feeling tonight was going to spread tomorrow. Other single women would feel it when she released carefully chosen details of this latest attack to the media. There was a balancing act between increasing the fear of crime and getting the information they needed to progress the investigation. She needed to warn people to report anything suspicious, and she needed women who lived alone to report broken windows immediately to the police.

  While the investigation worked to discover his identity, she had to do her best to thwart any further attacks.

  The balancing act would no doubt fail tomorrow.

  Ed also tossed and turned in his bed that night. Sue slept soundly next to him, her earlier outburst not affecting her sleep, but his mind was a whirl of thoughts. Not that he was thinking about her words. His mind had a single focus. Waiting for the rapist to make a mistake wasn’t an option. Nor was waiting for him t
o be confronted in a victim’s house because a woman wasn’t alone on the night he decided to strike. Ed needed to think of a way to catch him, and catch him quickly. Any delay would mean more victims, no question. Forget any potential outrage from the press if the rapist kept offending. There were senior cops who would deal with the media. He just wanted to catch the bastard as soon as possible, and glare into his eyes. He hated these bastards. He knew on a personal level the deep devastation they caused.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ed rolled over, closed his eyes, and a vision of his niece filled his head. Her whole personality had changed after she was attacked in a town about 26 miles to the west of Seaton St George. That was two years ago. Where did the time go? She was 19 and on her way home from a nightclub. Separated from her friends, she was looking for a taxi. Ed shuddered at the thought of her out there, alone, remembering he too had been at a party enjoying himself that night.

  The bastard sprinted up behind her and before she realised what was happening, before she had time to react, he had grabbed her hair, spun her around, and repeatedly punched her in the head and body. Dazed and off balance, she was dragged 10 yards into an alleyway.

  Ed could willingly have beaten her attacker senseless at the time. He probably still could. He rolled over again and glanced at Sue, envious of her deep sleep. She always slept well, whether she went to bed on an argument or not.

  His niece had told his daughter she felt her attacker’s breath on her ear as he spat out the words in a whisper. ‘I’m going to give you a good fuckin’.’ Her face had been pushed against the alley wall, and she was punched so hard in the ribs that she doubled up, unable to breathe. Her head was rammed down towards her thighs, and holding it there with his right hand, the bastard thrust his left hand up her short summer dress.

  She was terrified, semi-conscious, too frightened to scream.

  Thankfully, two lads in their early 20s had seen her being dragged into the alleyway and came to her rescue. Two public-spirited, decent young men. Thank God they had been there. Both keen boxers, they were part-time doormen at one of the clubs. Not only had they stopped her being raped, they beat the shit out of him, and held on to him until the police arrived.

  The bastard had been sentenced to nine years. The crown court judge commended the two young men. His brother’s family would be forever in their debt. Ed smiled as he recalled tracking them down to the club where they worked and shaking their hands. He had bought them each a drink and told them his only regret was that he hadn’t been with them when they saved his niece. He still felt like that.

  Jess had gone from being a bubbly young girl to a recluse. Always full of fun and outgoing, she was transformed now into a tiny timid shell, her sunken eyes telling everyone how much weight she had lost but telling nobody what was going on behind them. Ed shuddered. Yesterday her arms and legs were even skinnier.

  He turned on to his stomach, doubled over his pillow, and considered snuggling into Sue. He thought better of it.

  He remembered Jess’s hair. What a mess. She didn’t go out anywhere after dark, and certainly not to pubs and clubs. She barely went out at all. She even had to go through the ordeal of a trial because the bastard had pleaded not guilty. Not guilty! Her face was black and blue, her jaw broken. Who the fuck consented to that?

  The defence lawyers were just as bad, putting her through the cross-examination. No better than the shit they defended. God, I’ll never get to sleep if I start thinking about fucking barristers. He rolled over again, pushing his body just a little closer to Sue.

  What the hell was Sam talking about when she said the rapist wanted a relationship? He was still not totally sold on this categorisation business. That said, they needed to catch him, and Sam seemed to know what she was on about.

  Not every girl would be as lucky as Jess. Lucky? What the hell was he saying? She went to a club and was almost raped on her way home. She would have been but for those two lads. How the hell was that lucky? What type of society were we living in when a seasoned detective like him could describe his niece as being lucky because she only had a broken jaw and a few bruises? A just and proper society should have allowed her to walk home at any time in total safety. But, of course, that society doesn’t exist. Ed had spoken to many rape victims over the years. Deep down he knew it could have been so much worse for Jess.

  He slid out of the bed, glanced at Sue, and went downstairs for a cup of tea.

  A busy day lay ahead. He woke early but stood under the hot shower longer than he intended, thinking of each of them in turn. Barely dry when he put on his white dressing gown, he rushed into the bedroom, his wet feet leaving footprints on the green diamond-patterned carpet. He was filled with an overwhelming desire to check on his girls. He flopped on to the bed, rolled on to his stomach, and reached across to the bedside drawer. He handled the licences with the care of an antiquarian book dealer, puckered his lips, and kissed each photograph. Unlike the soldier overseas, he would, in all probability, not be reunited with his absent sweetheart, but the intensity of his longing to see them again was no less fierce.

  A self-satisfied smile spread across his face as he read the newly written passages about his time with Danielle.

  Were the contents of this drawer his most treasured possessions? The phone was important, but the licences, the pen, and the notebook, were without a shadow of a doubt, his most valued; with the exception of the football programme, they were also the most incriminating.

  Ed was at the office for 7am wearing a dark blue Italian suit, a light blue shirt and a red-and-gold-striped tie. There was a time when he couldn’t afford so-called labels but now, mortgage free with a reasonable amount of disposal income, he indulged himself.

  Walking into the HOLMES room, he saw Sam sitting at a computer terminal, eyes fixed on the keyboard, her two index fingers jumping across the keys. The full mug of tea on the desk suggested she had become so engrossed in what she was doing she had forgotten to drink it.

  ‘Morning, Sam. You’re nice and early.’

  ‘Hi Ed. You know the score. This job needs sorting.’

  And not because Stewart said it had to be, she thought to herself. She wanted to catch him before others were raped. Then she conceded that Stewart’s implied threats were at the back of her mind.

  ‘We’ve got a briefing at nine with the ACC.’

  Sam, like Ed, was much more business-looking today, wearing a light grey pinstripe tailored trouser suit, with black patent leather shoes with a slight heel. At 5’8’, Sam didn’t need to wear big heels, although Ed had seen her wearing seriously towering stilettos at various functions. Her white blouse looked good against her light-brown skin tone, and the make-up around her brown eyes was as flawless as ever.

  ‘What’s with the ‘we’ Sam?’

  ‘I think it’s best we both go. There’s a fair amount of information to give them, and two heads are better than one.’

  Sam knew Ed would guess why she wanted him to go to the briefing. Over the last few weeks she’d been talking to him about applying for promotion to Inspector. He’d passed the national qualifying exam, so all that stood in his way was the local process. Detective Sergeants didn’t get too many opportunities to sit around the table with Assistant Chief Constables and discuss an ongoing operational matter. Sam was very loyal to those who were loyal to her. She appreciated good investigators who contributed to the investigation process, and believed in doing what she could to help them advance their careers.

  She knew Ed was good. She valued his opinion. He had the ability to not only contribute but to bring new thoughts to the discussions. Not wild, off-the-wall thoughts, but the sensible thoughts of a thinker; the thoughts of a problem solver, the thoughts of a good detective. If in some small way she could remind the hierarchy of the existence of Detective Sergeant Ed Whelan, then she would do so. The police needed people like Ed at Inspector rank. Too many of them at that level said the right things in promotion interviews or internal me
etings but when it came to making an operational decision, at a critical moment in an unfolding event, many were found wanting. Whether that was a lack of training, or a lack of experience, wasn’t her concern. She felt everybody on her team was capable of operating at least one rank above their present one and she would do her best to give her people whatever advantage she could.

  ‘Okay. Thanks,’ Ed said. ‘What time did you say the briefing is?’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘That’ll give us time to speak with Peter Hunt first.’

  ‘Yeah, we need to formulate a press release with him. I want to appeal for witnesses to the attack on Danielle and remind everyone to report any crime, however small, and that includes broken windows.’

  ‘You’re going to be popular with the Crime Managers on the Districts if their reported crime figures start going up,’ Ed said.

  ‘I don’t care. We need as much information as possible. If that affects the figures, I can live with that and they’ll have to. Anyway, don’t we want figures that really reflect what’s happening out there?’

  ‘Whatever you say, boss,’ Ed said with mock seriousness, and for added sarcastic emphasis, he saluted.

  Sam laughed. She knew Ed cared for internal politics as little as she did.

  Peter Hunt burst into the HOLMES room with a beaming smile and directed a loud ‘Morning!’ at them. Sam smiled at the dapper, cheerful man, who she held in such high regard. His wispy, brown hair flopped around the wrinkled brow, a brow that was now just three years short of state retirement age.

  A lifelong print journalist, Peter had been with the police as Head of Media Services for four years and was a valuable asset to the SIO on major inquiries. He understood the media, their agenda, and was able to advise accordingly.

  As far as Sam was concerned, filling media services departments with marketing gurus was fine until a major incident broke, when they were as much use as an ashtray on a motorbike. If the Press was clamouring for information, Sam wanted a Peter Hunt, not someone with a degree in spinning good news and maintaining a nice force website.