Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  One conviction indecent exposure to a 15-year-old girl (Crowther 17 at the time).

  Internet Open Source check – Crowther doesn’t appear to use social network sites, doesn’t shop online, has no loyalty cards.

  Local authority confirms his house has four bedrooms, and he is claiming single-occupancy reduction for purposes of council tax.

  House is owner-occupied. No outstanding mortgage.

  He looked up and took a smaller bite from the beef and vegetable pasty, the stomach-churning hunger of a few seconds ago reduced. He chewed slowly as his eyes returned to the document.

  Saeed Jamal is the owner of Romeo’s Kebab and Pizza shop. He is Iraqi, and Crowther is the only non-Iraqi to work there.

  Crowther is a good employee. He works every night except Monday, and is paid £6.50 per hour + a free 10” pizza or kebab every night.

  Crowther drives a white van when he is at work. It has the pizza shop logo on the van sides.

  Crowther owns a black Ford Focus. It’s about 10 years old. Registered number yet to be confirmed.

  Dave Johnson examined the photograph of Crowther attached to the report. A skinny man standing in between two Arab-looking men, taken inside a take-away food shop, presumably Romeo’s.

  He stared into Crowther’s eyes. Is it you, you twat?

  He returned to the report.

  Crowther was stopped by the police at 4.30am Saturday – three weeks ago. He was out jogging. Uniform found nothing suspicious about him. The stop-check form shows he wasn’t searched.

  He stood up and slowly brushed the flakes of pastry off his shirt. Who the hell goes running at 4.30 in the morning?

  Sam and Ed were silent as they drove away from Celine Stroud’s, reflecting on what they had just been told.

  Ed was the first to speak. ‘Shit… what did you make of that?’

  Sam stared ahead at the road and considered her response. She had been asking herself the same question since they walked out of the house. ‘What people get up to within their four walls is a matter for them, but I’ll never look at him in the same light again. Neither will Celine. He actually wanted to play out a rape fantasy. How sick’s that? Makes my skin crawl.’

  Sam shuddered. ‘That said, just because you play out a rape fantasy, if that was the intended fantasy, doesn’t mean that you’ll commit a rape. People fantasise about many things. It’s why there is such a variety of porn available on the net.’

  ‘But?’ Ed said, knowing from her tone that there was more.

  ‘It was some of the other things she said… the domineering mother, limited sexual experience, loner, playing computer games, jogging. Throw all that together with the close geographical location of his house to the victims, the ski mask… even the bloody red-beamed torch. It could be him. He could be the one. And when she spoke about the rape fantasy…’ She paused, rubbing her eyes. ‘It was like we were listening to a victim.’

  ‘But she’s not,’ Ed said. ‘She’s telling us about Jason’s fantasy. As you’ve just said, people fantasise about many things. It’s not an indicator of him being a suspect. There’s no evidence that points to him as a suspect.’

  ‘There’s not,’ Sam agreed. ‘But what if we’d just got that info about Crowther?’

  ‘I know. I know. We’re going to have to look at him. We have no choice. Not with that information.’

  ‘Ed, we may need to make him a TIE.’

  The police acronym for ‘Trace’, ‘Interview’, and ‘Eliminate’ was one step down from a suspect. All TIE’s were subject to stringent elimination criteria set by the SIO.

  Ed nodded, tension in his eyes.

  ‘I think we need to establish whether we can alibi him out in the first instance,’ Sam continued. ‘Do it in a way that doesn’t get out. If the hierarchy believes that we have a cop who might remotely be a suspect, half of them will want him suspended. Professional Standards will definitely want him suspended. You know what they’re like. I don’t want to see a guy suspended because he played sex games with his wife, even if they are sick.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Ed said. ‘But nor do we want this bastard, whoever he is, roaming the streets.’

  Sam drew breath, buying time, considering her options.

  ‘Okay. Start off by seeing if Jason was working when the attacks were committed. Maybe he was on annual leave. Hopefully he’ll have been away one of the weekends with lots of friends and we can move on.’

  ‘Problem with that Sam is if his wife is to be believed, he hasn’t got any friends.’

  ‘I know. Bloody hell. Let’s just keep this between me and you at the minute. You check whether he was on leave.’

  ‘Yeah, will do.’

  Sam gazed out of the passenger window, the passing houses a blur. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible above the hot air rushing out of the vents.

  ‘The other worrying thing is she said he had trouble getting an erection. He needed the games to help.’

  ‘Why’s that worrying?’

  ‘Erectile dysfunction, according to studies, often occurs with the ‘Power Reassurance’ rapist.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Sitting with Dave Johnson, Sam and Ed listened as he brought them up to speed with what had happened since they left for their meeting with the CPS.

  All the victims had been spoken to again and there wasn’t anything distinctive about the odour of the rapist, other than he smelled a little sweaty, and without putting words in mouths, none had picked up the smell of curry or spices. They all described him as having a local accent, none of them recognised his voice, and they were all 100% certain that their attacker wasn’t a previous boyfriend or anyone they knew socially. Kelly believed the weapon was something like a big penknife.

  None of them had any unusual callers in the weeks leading up to the attacks. During his conversations with them, they now remembered that the rapist asked what they liked to do in their spare time, as well as asking if they enjoyed the sex.

  Using the parameters Sam had set down, Dave had reduced the number of sex offenders on the Gull Estate from 13 to four and two officers were conducting background checks into them.

  It had been confirmed that it was Emily Sharpe’s partial fingerprint on the cricket ball.

  ‘We’ve got a photograph of Terry Crowther and the checks on him are moving along nicely. He looks promising,’ Dave said.

  ‘Why?’ Sam asked.

  Dave handed her the Officer’s Report.

  ‘Interesting. Where did we get the photo from?’ Sam asked, passing the report to Ed.

  ‘Confirmed as Romeo’s. It was on the wall. It shows him with two other workers.’

  ‘Dave, make some copies of the photo and show it to all our victims. I want to make sure that they’re all talking about the same guy.’

  ‘Okay,’ Dave replied, dragging the word out.

  Sam guessed he was questioning this decision. ‘Dave, there’s no identification issues here. I want to establish if the girls are talking about the same delivery man. That’s not going to compromise any future evidence of identification. If Crowther’s our man, we’re not showing the victims a photograph of a suspect who they could pick out on an identity parade. There won’t be a parade. He’s wearing a mask. There’s no problem showing them a photograph. I want to make damn sure the person delivering their pizzas is Crowther.’

  ‘And finally,’ Dave said, trying to ignore the rebuke, ‘Duncan Todd’s been detained overnight in hospital for observations with a head injury he received during an assault this afternoon in the Jolly Roger pub.’

  ‘And he is?’ Ed asked.

  ‘The ex-boyfriend of Danielle Banks. He didn’t want to make a complaint, but he told uniform that his two assailants had been sent by her father, Brian Banks.’

  ‘THE Brian Banks?’ Ed asked, eyebrows raised.

  ‘The one and only,’ Dave replied.

  ‘Enlighten me,’ Sam said.

  ‘Brian Banks,’ Ed told
her, ‘is a successful businessman who made his money in the scrap metal business years ago. Still runs his scrap business, although he got into property developing in the late 80s. Now owns over 200 terraced houses. No criminal convictions, but certainly believed to have been involved in drug trafficking over the years. He also owns a big farm on the edge of town and drives numerous high-powered cars. Been married to Donna for best part of 30 years.’

  Ed inhaled slowly before continuing.

  ‘I didn’t realise he was Danielle’s father. He has the normal contacts you’d expect for someone of his background. There are people who’d do anything for a fee or as a favour to him.’

  ‘Would he have Duncan beaten up if he thought he was responsible for raping his daughter?’ Sam ventured.

  Ed feigned shock before his mouth twisted into a sneer.

  ‘He would have people seriously beaten up if they passed wind in front of his wife. My view? If he really thought Duncan had raped his daughter, he would’ve had him killed. It would have been slow and it would have been unpleasant.’

  Ed pulled his chair closer to the desk, Sam and Dave waiting for the next instalment.

  ‘People have had their fingers chopped off. Fingers forced around a door frame, with the door part open, and then some heavy kicks the door shut. That would be the type of punishment if they stole from him. The mind boggles at what would happen if he found out who raped his daughter. His cock would probably be cut off, gypsy-style punishment.’

  ‘Then we need to find the rapist before he does,’ Sam said calmly.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Ed answered with a look in eyes. ‘Brian Banks would inflict more pain on him than any court of law could ever do.’

  Sam held his eyes for a second, trying to read his expression.

  ‘I know that you don’t mean that.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Ed said. ‘But part of me wouldn’t mind Brian Banks or his kind getting to the bastard first. Before his barrister starts telling the court what a sad childhood he had, how he was very remorseful, and how it wasn’t his fault.’

  Barristers. Even in the dictionary you find them between barracuda and bastard.

  ‘Alright, back to the job in hand,’ Sam said. ‘Instead of talking vigilantism. Dave, this is a long shot, but can you check the systems for any reports of stolen knickers. I’m just thinking of what Danielle said to Bev Summers. About her thong being stolen. Go back two weeks before the first attack.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Dave asked.

  ‘If he’s stealing knickers when he’s not committing rape, which is not unheard of, we may just find a witness who saw him stealing some. It’s just a thought. Certainly a long shot, but worth a look.’

  ‘Okay. Will do,’ Dave said. He got up and walked out of the office.

  Sam had a long soak in a deep, hot bath when she got home and was now curled up on a large white leather settee, the collar of her fluffy pink dressing gown turned up. She could do with an early night and the decision had been made for her when she discovered her two trusted police friends had other arrangements; Bev Summers was going food shopping and Louise Smith was taking her widowed mother out for a meal.

  The supermarket ready meal – salmon en croute with rice – had served its purpose. Cooking was a joy when Tristram was alive but since he had gone, she just couldn’t summon up the motivation. If it took longer to cook than it did to eat, she wasn’t interested. The kitchen clock, in need of a new battery, had stopped working weeks ago but there was no need to use it to co-ordinate a meal. The ping of the microwave was all she needed. Perhaps she should start cooking again after all the revelations about horse meat in supermarket food.

  A natural history documentary on the TV provided nothing more than background noise. The table lamp cast enough light for her to read the latest copy of ‘Yachting Monthly’. She no longer sailed but couldn’t resist reading the magazines. That said, on the small occasional table was a paperback ‘Left for Dead’. She hadn’t got past the opening chapter of this true account of the 1979 Fastnet yacht race disaster. Some things were too raw.

  She was so absorbed in the magazine that she jumped when the dedicated SIO phone rang. She recognised the number, but couldn’t place it, and there was no list of contacts programmed into the phone. Was it Ed’s? Why would he ring this phone?

  ‘Sam Parker.’

  Heavy breathing.

  Fuck! Is this him? Is the cheeky fucker ringing me?

  Sitting bolt upright, the phone shaking in her hand, she took a deep breath, and muted the TV.

  ‘Sam Parker,’ she said again, fighting to keep her voice calm.

  The breathing was getting louder, more rapid. Bloody hell - is he wanking?

  Her mind was racing but she chose her words carefully, her voice quiet, inquisitive.

  ‘What are you imagining us doing?’

  The use of ‘us’ was crucial. If this was the rapist, she was trying to reinforce the fantasy of a relationship, of her being a willing participant. She wanted him to speak. Would she recognise his voice? Was it Crowther? Jason?

  ‘Why won’t you speak to me? Tell me what you’re doing?’

  Was that a muffled laugh, or was it her imagination?

  Resisting the urge to tell him to go fuck himself, she ended the call.

  Kicking off her mule slippers, she sprinted, hit the landing light switch and took the stairs two at a time, only the tips of her toes coming into contact with the carpet. Without turning on any other lights she ran into the front and rear bedrooms, pulled the curtains open and glanced out of the windows.

  Where are you, you twisted fuck? Are you watching?

  Stumbling as she ran downstairs, she grabbed the handrail. She slid along the kitchen floor in her plain grey woollen socks, grabbed the back door handle and rattled it up and down. Locked. Like a child in a school obstacle race, she turned and sprinted towards the front door. Her legs were burning as she grabbed the handle. Locked. She collapsed on the settee and tried to convince herself that the breathlessness and increased heart rate were caused by the sudden physical activity. The reality was different. The cause was psychological not physical. Did he know where she lived?

  Deep breaths got her heart rate under control. She was his bloody puppet. He was pulling her strings.

  ‘I’ll get you, arsehole, and we’ll see who’s pulling the fucking strings then.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  That call was exhilarating. Sitting in the dark, the driver’s seat reclined, his trousers around his ankles, he had seen the landing lights go on and envisaged her checking all the doors and windows. Had he frightened her? Would she guess he was outside? He had seen the curtains upstairs being flung open but she was gone in a second. Total control. Talking to a policewoman. Him! Who would have imagined that? And not just any policewoman. He’d been talking to the one trying to catch him. ‘Cosmic,’ as ‘Only Fools’ Rodney would have said.

  It was a pity that she had ended the call before he had finished. He would finish at home, in his own time, thinking of her, imagining her playing with him. He leaned his head back. What had she said? ‘Imagine what we are doing.’

  Christ, she wants it! He took the newspaper off the passenger seat, stared at her photograph and decided there and then to finish what he had started.

  Afterwards, he closed his eyes, his whole body tingling, and decided that on Sunday he would take the press cuttings about the latest attack and put them with the others in the teapot buried in his allotment. He would cut out the photo of Sam Parker and keep it at home. It might not be as good as a driving licence but it would do for now; the press photo and the sound of her voice speaking to him would turn him on again when he got home.

  Scrolling through the contacts menu of the mobile, he selected a girl and called her. The phone went straight on to her voicemail.

  ‘Hi, it’s Danielle. Sorry I can’t take your call, but if you leave a message, I’ll get back to you.’

  Perhaps s
he had no signal, or maybe she couldn’t get to the phone. He might try again later in the week. For now he would satisfy himself with the memory of the phone call to DCI Parker.

  Wednesday

  Sam was in the office at 7.30am. A sea fret hovered around Seaton St George and the morning had a damp, cold feel to it.

  Ed was in the HOLMES room, standing by the tall beige kettle which had just started to boil, the steam mingling with the heat from the radiators.

  ‘Timed to perfection,’ Ed said. ‘You must have smelled it.’

  Sam smiled, but Ed noticed that she seemed pre-occupied.

  With a brief nod of the head he said, ‘You alright?’

  She looked over her shoulder. ‘Can I have a quick word in my office?’

  Ed followed her, closing the door behind him, knowing on instinct that something was wrong. He repeated his question.

  ‘He rang. Last night. The rapist. He called the dedicated phone.’

  ‘What? Jesus! Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. It felt kind of spooky, but I’m okay, really.’

  Her voice was slow and deliberate and her brown eyes, always capable of transmitting messages to those who knew her well enough to read them, were fixed downwards. As she lowered herself into her chair, Ed sat down opposite.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He never spoke. I could hear him breathing, heavy breathing. I think he may have been masturbating.’

  ‘Dirty bastard. We’ll get a panic alarm put in your house today. Fuckin’ arsehole!’

  ‘No need to fuss, Ed.’

  ‘I’m not fussing. But we’re not taking any chances. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here. We’ve put them in other girls’ houses, so we’re definitely putting one in yours.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’

  There was little point in arguing. Ed wouldn’t let her go home until one was installed. It was nice, she thought, that he was so caring. A true gentleman was Ed. She looked at him and smiled with an expression that a ditched daughter might give to her father, one of gratitude, one that expressed thanks for understanding.