Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  Ten minutes after the debriefing, Sam had some startling answers. Romeo’s had delivered to them all. Each described the delivery by a man in his early 20s with blond dirty hair, yellow teeth, and all said he would lewdly stare at them.

  Emily Sharpe named him as Terry Crowther. She had gone to school with him.

  ‘Let’s do some background checks on Terry Crowther tomorrow,’ said Sam.

  As everyone was leaving, she walked across to Ed. ‘Me and Bev are going for a drink. Fancy one?’

  ‘Would love to, but best not. Need to keep the bride happy.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  For two hours Terry Crowther swam in the pool. He saw a couple of tanned beauties, wearing their brightly coloured bikinis, but he was beginning to give up hope. From the water he saw three women chatting by the communal lockers, swimsuits on, but still dry. Good looking, in their early 20s, he watched them walk towards him and the pool. He climbed out of the water. His heart stopped for a fraction of a second, and then began beating faster. One of them had left her locker open. With short, quick steps, not wanting to slip over and attract attention, he went straight to it, walked past the open door and grabbed the pair of white knickers from on top of a pink towel. His stride pattern hadn’t altered as he continued walking into the gents’ toilets.

  The soft lacy material excited him and it took all his effort to keep himself under control. Now wasn’t the time. He returned to the pool for two reasons; firstly, he needed to identify which of the three women owned the knickers to enhance his future pleasure, and secondly, if he left the pool after them, he would less likely be accused of theft.

  He soon discovered ‘Lady Luck’ was on his side tonight. His prize belonged to the long-haired athletic blonde with a deep golden tan. He committed her image to memory for future use.

  Twenty minutes later, he walked through the leisure centre reception area. No one asked him whether he had seen anything suspicious. He skipped out of the building like a schoolboy enjoying a private joke.

  Sue had cooked Ed a beef stew with oven-crispy dumplings. He was now slumped in his favourite red leather reclining chair, his feet on the stool, eyes closed, allowing the contentment to envelop him, as it always did when he’d had a hot bath and eaten. Flicking through the TV menu, Sue selected a comedy film, more for her benefit than her husband’s. He was already snoring. She fought the urge to wake him and ask about his day with Sam Parker.

  Sam lay in her bath, her thoughts washing over her brain. She really needed to catch this one before he struck again. Debating with herself what to eat, she considered ordering a pizza, but the thought of some sleazy deliveryman looking her up and down put paid to that idea. She opted for one final security check, a tin of soup and an early night.

  Her bed was cold these days. It was always cold. No warm body to snuggle up to. An empty bed in an empty house.

  He had read, listened and watched every piece of media coverage about Danielle. Her name hadn’t been mentioned, of course. Only he, the police and those she had privately told about the rape, knew who she was. He felt like he belonged to some sort of secret society, knowing what the world at large would never suspect.

  Sitting on his bed, caressing the moleskin notebook, he was certain there was nothing that could lead the police to his door. The first couple of days were nerve-wracking nevertheless. Questions flashed like lightning strikes through his brain, query after query, each shooting into his head before he had the chance to answer the one before. Had someone seen him running? Had he missed a CCTV camera, one that captured his image and could place him outside at the time? Had someone given his name to the police, although there was no rational reason why they should? Had he left his fingerprints when he removed his gloves to put the condom on?

  That reminded him he needed to buy more condoms. He hated doing that. He was convinced all the shop assistants were laughing at him, asking themselves, ‘who’d go to bed with you?’. Why were they always girls? Maybe he should buy them from machines in pub toilets? No, that would be worse. In a place like the gents in a pub, the laughing could turn into a kicking. Best to put up with public embarrassment. He would get them on Thursday when he went to buy another dark-blue tracksuit. He also needed to buy a new hat and gloves. It would be easier to buy them off the Internet, but that would leave an electronic money trail.

  Had he spilt semen when he was putting the condom in the sandwich bag? No! Stop being stupid! Stop panicking. They’ve got nothing. Calm down.

  Altering his position on the bed, he stretched out on his back and replayed the police TV interview in his head, visualising the whole thing. That Sam Parker was a real looker. Older than he would normally go for, but he had to concede that she was fit. How much of a man would he be if he were able to get into her bed? That would be something. To make love with, what did they call her? The Senior Investigator, that’s it. To make love to the Senior Investigator who was trying to catch him. Letting out a slow, long whistle, enjoying his own building heat, he could almost smell her. He closed his eyes. How good would it be in her bed? What did her bedroom look like? He had no idea how any of the rooms in her house looked.

  But he knew where she lived.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tuesday

  Sam announced the number of the dedicated mobile during every media interview. While it wasn’t something she would do on all major investigations, she had used this tactic before with good effect. She was hoping for a twofold result: information about the attacker and giving a helpline for rape victims still too fearful to report.

  Of course, there was always a chance she would get an abusive call but it had never happened yet.

  With the media interviews complete, Sam and Ed travelled to a scheduled 10am meeting with the Crown Prosecution Service to discuss an impending murder trial.

  When it was over, Sam suggested they go for a walk around the marina and clear their heads.

  ‘Good idea,’ Ed said. ‘Listening to that lot in there, it’s a bloody miracle we ever get anyone to court. They want a shed load of work doing.’

  ‘We’ll just have to get it done then, won’t we?’

  ‘Bloody CPS. They should be called the Criminal Protection Society. Christ, these days they want an eye witness, an admission, and bomb-proof forensics. If it’s not nailed on, they won’t take it to court. I could flaming well prosecute the cases.’

  Sam smiled, teasing him and his endless harking back to his so-called golden age.

  ‘You’ll remember the days when the police prosecuted their own cases,’ she said.

  ‘Bloody right! Much easier then.’

  ‘No independence, though,’ Sam reminded him. ‘That’s what led to so many miscarriages of justice.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, but still. If they had to run around doing all this work, they might think twice. But no, they just give it to us daft buggers, and tell us to get on with it. And you know as well as me, when we’ve done what they ask, the defence won’t even be arsed to look at it.’

  ‘Are you going to stop moaning, you old goat?’

  ‘Well, it’s such a bloody waste of time. No wonder we moan about them.’

  ‘And I’m sure they whinge about us.’

  ‘Probably.’

  After two tough hours with the CPS, a walk in the fresh sea air would let them refocus on the rapes.

  Seaton St George marina was a purpose-built facility containing yacht berths, shops, bars, restaurants, residential flats, and office units. Within walking distance were a cinema and an array of fast food outlets.

  Leaning against the railings, looking across the water, Sam and Ed were taking a battering from the wind, which Sam estimated was blowing a steady, strong Force 6 on the Beaufort scale. Yachts of all sizes were in the water, their masts swaying from side to side, the standing wire rigging rattling in unison, a cacophony of sound. The low-flying squawking seagulls, drowned out by the wind and rigging, were today contributing little more than background n
oise.

  ‘Could you fancy sailing away into the sunset Ed?’ Sam asked, having to raise her voice.

  ‘Not me. I got seasick on a pedalo in Kefalonia. You?’

  ‘Couldn’t think of anything better, at least back in the day. Leave everything behind. Just you, the sea, and whoever you invite aboard. Your own world, no outside intrusions. Bliss.’

  Pausing, she turned her head to Ed. ‘I used to sail with Tris.’

  ‘I know.’ Ed looked away.

  ‘Yeah. We did quite a few of the Royal Yachting Association courses. Got some qualifications. You know, navigation and things. We went on a few flotilla sailing holidays. Loved it. We both did. Good times.’

  Ed thrust his hands into his pockets and pushed his chin into his chest. ‘You should think of going again.’

  Sam lowered her head, her voice barely audible. ‘Yeah… One day.’

  Ed stood still, not wanting to break the temporary silence. His tongue licked the walls of his dry mouth. ‘You want to talk about it?’

  She shook her head, took a deep breath. ‘You don’t like the water, then?’

  ‘It’s not the water,’ Ed said. ‘It’s the motion of the sea I can’t cope with. I’ve done dinghy sailing in the Lakes, body-board surfing in Cornwall. I enjoyed doing those, but I get really sick out at sea. I learned years ago when I went sea fishing. Sick as a dog all day. I can see the appeal, but it’s not for me.’

  ‘Pity. It can be so tranquil.’

  ‘Or not, depending on the weather.’

  The blood rushed to his face, his head about to explode. ‘Sorry.’

  Sam closed her eyes, concentrating on the sounds of the boats and the sea and found herself drifting into foreign waters, Tristram scampering across the deck in shorts and a polo shirt.

  A quick sniff stopped her eyes glassing over.

  ‘Right. Back to business,’ she said, banging the black railing and standing up straight.

  ‘Okay. Well, I admit I’m still not 100% sold on these categorisations you like so much,’ Ed said, leaning on the railings, staring down into the water.

  ‘Any reason in particular?’

  ‘It’s the whole 'wanting a relationship' thing I can’t get my head around. It just seems, well…’ His voice trailed off.

  Sam’s ears were straining to hear each word as he continued.

  ‘I’ve never told anyone else this, and I would ask that you don’t repeat it.’

  ‘Goes without saying,’ Sam reassured him, wondering where this was going.

  Ed looked down at the water, his words so quiet that Sam bent down, moved her head closer to his.

  ‘My niece was attacked three years ago.’

  ‘Oh Ed. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.’

  His right palm wiped both eyes. ‘Bloody wind… No reason why you should. It happened in a different force area. She’s my brother’s daughter. He and his wife divorced years ago and my niece uses her step-father’s name.’

  ‘Was she okay? Is she okay now?’

  Sam’s genuine concern let his words to tumble out, the momentum in his speech getting ever faster.

  ‘She’s changed. She’s gone from being a confident girl into a recluse. She wasn’t raped as such. Dragged into an alley after being repeatedly punched in the face, her jaw broken in the process. He just came up behind her and punched her. Got her into the alley and punched her in the ribs. Told her what he was going to do to her. Luckily two bouncers saved her. Kept him until our lot arrived.’

  He drew breath as he raised his head, and when he spoke his words were much more audible.

  ‘I’d have given him a kicking like he’d never known given half a chance.’ Ed turned, looking directly into Sam’s eyes. ‘So tell me, Sam, does that sound like a guy wanting a relationship?’

  She took in the hurt and the hatred and chose her words carefully.

  ‘No. But the man you’ve just described is a totally different kind of person, a different kind of rapist. Ours is using surprise and serious planning. In your niece’s case, he ran up and just started hitting her before she knew what was happening. Even the words he used suggests a lot of anger. He doesn’t like women. He wants to punish and degrade. He uses unnecessary force to try and satisfy all that rage. Your niece was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  She pulled up the collar of her coat, and pushed her hands into her pockets. ‘Think about it, Ed. Your niece’s attacker was an opportunist, ours is a planner. The type who attacked your niece is referred to as ‘Anger Retaliatory’. He’s a lone wolf, but not a loner. Our guy’s a real loner. Ours will undoubtedly be single, perhaps having been around a domineering female. Your niece’s attacker may have been married and was probably openly angry with women in general. He was impulsive but ours isn’t. There are differences, Ed, both in the style of attacks, and the type of personality that commit them.’

  Ed considered what Sam had said, listing the differences he now saw with clear eyes.

  ‘He did live with someone,’ Ed said. ‘He was the life and soul according to his barrister. It’s just hard to get your head around the fact that according to you, some want a relationship. Jesus. They’re still all bastards. Sick bastards, whatever tag you hang on them ‘

  Sam held his eyes. ‘As a woman, I know what I would do with them, but as a cop, I have to put that emotion to one side, just as you do Ed. Just as we all do.’

  She paused and allowed her hand to lightly touch his forearm.

  ‘Ed, I really hope your niece comes through this. There’s lots of counselling out there. Some of it’s very good.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Ed straightened, rubbing his hands together. ‘In some way these girls are linked. They don’t know each other, so the rapist is the common denominator. It’s him who links them all together. What is it that he knows about them? How does he know it? If we find the link, we find him. It’s that simple, Sam. Find the link, catch the bastard.’

  ‘That’s why I’m keen to hear at the debrief what we’ve turned up on Terry Crowther.’

  ‘Terry Crowther,’ Ed repeated slowly. ‘Might just be our man.’

  Sam took a last look at the grey, churning sea.

  ‘Sometimes we just need to get lucky. And I’ve always believed you make your own.’

  Terry Crowther hadn’t woken until almost 11am. As soon as he opened his eyes, he reached under his pillow, smiling as his fingers touched soft lace, remembering every curve of her body.

  He rolled on to his side, marvelling once again how something so everyday could provide such an instant hit of satisfaction and relief, the type a smoker feels when he draws on that first cigarette outside the airport after a long-haul flight.

  He decided to go for a run. He wasn’t at work until 5pm.

  Selecting one of his tracksuits, he dressed quickly. His training shoes were by the door, and once they were on his feet, he pulled on a woollen hat. Opening the front door, the cold air attacked his throat as he jogged down the path. He turned right, into the wind, his eyes streaming before he had run 10 metres.

  It was colder than he expected, wind chill no doubt playing its part, and it wasn’t long before he was wishing he had worn his thicker gloves. Increasing his stride, his feet pounding on the pavement, the jog now a run, he knew it wouldn’t be long before he forgot about the weather.

  Sam was now carrying two mobiles – her everyday one and the one she described to the media as the ‘dedicated SIO phone’. It was programmed with a different ringtone so she knew what it was as soon as it rang. She instinctively hurried towards the row of shops where she hoped the buildings would provide some shelter from the buffeting wind.

  A female voice spoke to her and the brief conversation ended with Sam saying that she and Ed would be at the caller’s house in 20 minutes.

  Sam put the phone back into the pocket of her electric-purple Jaeger pea coat. Her face seemed blank, distant before a hardness hit her eyes.

  ‘That was a woman who thinks her hu
sband might have something to do with the rapes.’

  ‘Let’s go then,’ Ed said, increasing his stride, walking towards the car.

  ‘I said that we’d be there in 20 minutes. Ed. The call. It was from Jason Stroud’s estranged wife.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ed stopped walking and whipped his head around to face Sam. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Wish I was. That call’s the last thing we need.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Ed, shaking his head.

  They continued to Ed’s car without speaking.

  ‘Where to then?’ Ed asked as he clicked the remote and opened the Golf’s doors.

  ‘24 Dundee Street.’

  ‘Well at least that’s the opposite side of town to the Gull and Conifer estates,’ Ed said with relief in his voice.

  ‘As I said, they’re estranged. They don’t live together. She moved out of the marital home about five months ago. Jason Stroud lives on Alnwick Road. He lives on the Gull estate.’

  ‘Shit. Why does she think it’s him? That’s one hell of an accusation.’

  ‘Said she’d give us her reasons when we get there. Wants to do it in person. Wouldn’t do it on the phone.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Ed said, his thoughts flying around like a scrap of paper caught in a gale. How would they play this? How would it pan out? A cop? A cop he knew, albeit not very well. He recalled police officers being convicted of rape, but he had never worked with them. Could Jason really be the bastard they were looking for? No way. Not a chance.

  ‘He’s too shy. He hasn’t got it in him,’ Ed said, his voice quickening with every word. ‘I often wondered how he got through his two-year probation. He’s not confrontational. Bloody hell, Sam, he’s not a rapist. He hasn’t got the bottle. Break into their houses wearing a mask, and then rape them? Jason? It just doesn’t fit.’