Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  She pulled up outside Amber Dalton’s house and stepped into the dark, cold February evening. She walked slowly, contemplating what she was about to ask Amber to do.

  Sam knew that throughout the investigation Amber would be riding a seismic wave of emotion full of peaks and troughs, a nightmare journey few people would begin to comprehend. Consider the path the rape victim has to walk… reliving the attack in microscopic detail for the interviewing detective; each second broken down into written sentences to formulate a witness statement; staring at every man, wondering if he was the one; the temporary elation when there was an arrest; the relief if there was a charge but a growing sense of anger and injustice if there was none; the questions she would ask about him and his life, not wanting to know the answers, but with an overwhelming compulsion to ask; the sleepless nights wondering whether he would plead guilty at court, saving her from the ordeal of giving evidence; the terror of being cross-examined; the elation on conviction or the utter devastation if the jury foreman said ‘not guilty’; whether to reveal the darkness to a future partner and how much detail to tell.

  And it’s all down to you, you absolute bastard, Sam thought.

  She was aware that once in prison he wouldn’t get an easy time from his fellow inmates. Sex offenders never did. Walking up the path, part of Sam hoped that he would get attacked every day; if there was any justice, he would be raped, experiencing the violation and its after effects. Like Ed, she harboured thoughts of brutal vigilante justice, but unlike Ed, she would never speak of them.

  ‘Hi Amber,’ Sam said, smiling as the door was opened.

  ‘Hi Sam. Come in. Any news?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Sam answered as she followed Amber into the warm living room, a welcome contrast to the cold outside.

  Sam once again sat on the red leather reclining chair, but this time Amber sat on a white settee.

  ‘What we do know is that he has sent a text to your phone asking to meet.’

  Sam didn’t want to freak Amber out by saying he had sent 11 texts.

  ‘Is that normal?’ Amber asked, her voice quivering and hands shaking.

  ‘It’s not unheard of, no. Perhaps it’s something we could discuss?’

  Sam knew that she would have to be very sensitive and pick her words carefully.

  ‘Amber, we don’t have many leads at the moment. We have people we are interested in, but nothing concrete.’ She paused and took a deep breath. ‘Would you agree to meet him? We would be there to look after you, that I can promise. You would be protected. But if he turns up, we’ve got him.’

  Amber’s eyes opened wide in shock as the enormity of what was being asked hit home.

  ‘Me? Oh God, I don’t know. I don’t know if I could.’

  Amber shuffled forward and sat on the edge of the sofa. Sam watched the shroud of vulnerability drop over her.

  Looking directly at her, Sam spoke in a soft voice. ‘Amber I honestly believe that he’ll attack again. This maybe the way to catch him, to get him off the streets before any other girls are attacked. I know it’s a lot to ask. I’m not sure even I could do it if I was in your shoes. But I’m not in your shoes. I’m in mine. I desperately want to catch him and at the moment, responding to his text and agreeing to meet him might be our best chance. I’m not for one minute guaranteeing that it will work, because it might not. But I think it’s worth a go.’

  Amber stared at the floor, reached forward and slowly rubbed her calves, allowing Sam’s words to sink in. ‘What will happen?’

  Sam felt a bubble of relief and excitement, a feeling that Amber was going to find the strength to agree.

  ‘We’ll select the location, probably a café but somewhere public. We’ll have surveillance officers inside and…’

  ‘Will you be there?’ Amber interrupted.

  Sam stood and moved slowly towards Amber. She sat next to her, leaned forward and took hold of her hand. ‘I couldn’t be there, Amber. We have to work on the premise that he has seen me on TV. We’ll use people unknown to you, and more importantly unknown to him. If you don’t know who they are, you’ll not look and acknowledge them. We’ll have cameras outside. You’ll be perfectly safe. We’ll arrange a signal for you to give should he approach you. We don’t want to be jumping on someone who has just asked you if they can take a spare chair or the sugar bowl.’

  Amber laughed out loud and raised her head, flashing her stunning white teeth. The thought of some poor man getting jumped on by the police for asking to borrow the sugar was hilarious. She hadn’t laughed for a long time. This was surreal. She felt she was playing centre stage in a police drama, except that this was true, and in the real world things went wrong. She knew that better than most.

  ‘I want to do it, but I’m scared I’ll mess it up...’ Amber hesitated, turmoil written all over her face. ‘But for the sake of other girls, and those he’s already attacked…’

  There was silence as she paused. Sam was motionless.

  Suddenly Amber stood, looked directly at Sam, and nodded.

  ‘I’ll do it. I want him caught as much as you do. Probably more. Let’s do it. Let’s do it as soon as.’

  Sam reached out to touch Amber’s arm and let her hand rest gently in a wordless ‘thank you’.

  ‘Let’s go for Friday. That’ll give us enough time to set it up. We’ll text him from your phone. We’ll set up the meet for Friday afternoon, about two o’clock. I’ll have people in the place and outside as well.’

  Sam stood. ‘I’ll ring you and tell you where has been chosen. I can’t come here while we’re doing this. If he sees me, he’ll not show up. Once we text him he might start watching your house.’

  Amber nodded and placed her hands in the rear pockets of her jeans.

  ‘You’ll be followed all the way. You’ll never be out of our sight. Trust me.’

  ‘I do,’ Amber said, staring into Sam’s eyes. ‘I do.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Ed briefed Sam when she returned. ‘The surveillance commander’s been told it’s on for 2pm Friday, and we’ve got a partial thumb print on the condom wrapper. First it’ll be compared to Terry Crowther’s prints, then the three on the sex offenders’ register.’

  ‘Let’s hope that partial is enough to get a match,’ Sam said. ‘That’ll save us putting Amber through the ordeal of going to the meet.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s hope so,’ Ed agreed.

  Both knew a partial fingerprint may be enough to identify an offender but the icing on the cake would be a DNA profile.

  ‘Eleven text messages to Amber’s phone,’ Sam said. ‘Bev pointed out he was persistent but it’s the question of why he’s persistent that’s key. He wasn’t persistent with the others.’

  ‘And the answer is?’

  ‘Staring right us!’ Sam said, voice rising with excitement. ‘He knew the others had reported. He doesn’t think she has.’

  Ed nodded. ‘Could be. Could be. There must be some reason.’

  ‘He might start to think that she’s a potential girlfriend,’ Sam went on.

  ‘Jesus… One other thing. What’s important to him about Tuesdays?’ Ed said.

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘He rang Kelly on the Tuesday after the attack. Amber thought it was a Tuesday, and the examination has confirmed that the call was definitely a Tuesday. Most of the texts were also sent on a Tuesday. We’ve checked Danielle’s phone and that same number called her phone last night.’

  ‘Same night he rang me.’

  ‘Tuesday.’

  Sam ran the fingers of both hands through her hair.

  ‘Don’t know. Strange. Maybe there’s something in his past. Maybe something eventful or memorable happened on a Tuesday in his past. But it might just be something as daft as there’s nothing good on the tele on a Tuesday.’

  Ed burst out laughing.

  ‘Yeah, that could be right. Imagine all these psychiatrists suggesting this and that in his childhood when in reality it’s just
a shit night on the bloody box!’

  There was nothing more either could do today.

  Walking to his car, Ed reflected on the advances in DNA. He could remember a time when DNA was unheard of…. still a twinkle in some scientist’s eye.

  He turned the CD player up to a volume more suited to a boy racer, the beat and the lyrics of Queen booming out. It’s a Kind of Magic.

  Cocooned in his car, he was Freddie Mercury, the opening words of the song perfectly summing up his latest hunt. The rapist’s mortality would prevent his efforts to remain at large.

  ‘Fuck!’ Ed shouted, swerving into a supermarket car park. He fumbled for his phone.

  ‘Hi Jeannie. Just calling to wish Jess ‘Happy Birthday’.’

  Trevor Stewart appeared outside Sam’s office, his uniform epaulettes looking like they belonged on a doll, his shoulders filling the doorway.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Good. We’re making good progress. A lot further forward than we were on Monday.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it.’

  Stewart sat down. ‘I know about the phone call, your phone call.’

  Shit. Why am I surprised? He’s got spies everywhere, thought Sam.

  ‘Are you okay to continue? Perhaps a change of SIO?’

  ‘I’m fine sir. He’s rung a number that I put out into the public domain. It’s no big deal. I’m fine.’

  ‘Dave Smithies is willing to take over.’

  I just bet he is! Your new drinking mate, the DCI who wants my job. I’ve got sources too.

  ‘I’m fine, sir. It’s not a problem. If anything it drives me harder.’

  ‘Well if it becomes a problem, let me know. I’ve just got your welfare at heart. Just thinking chummy’s not likely to ring a bloke is he.’

  ‘He’s just as likely to ring Dave as he is me if his motivation is to taunt the ones trying to catch him.’

  Trevor Stewart stood up. ‘But he’s not likely to be fantasising about sex with Dave Smithies, is he? Keep me updated. Anything you need, let me know.’

  Sam slouched back in the chair. Now it was her fault the rapist fantasised about her. Stewart was something else. He couldn’t get her into bed but he was reminding her that he could do what he wanted with her career. Bastard.

  Sam grabbed her coat.

  A sudden snow flurry had Sam reaching to turn on the wiper blades. Great. She hated the snow. Hated it at school when the bullies amused themselves throwing snowballs at anyone who wasn’t part of their gang; hated her clothes covered in snow; hated red raw cheeks and wet hair; hated it years later when she fell over chasing a burglar in uniform, watching him escape into the arms of a colleague; hated the piss-taking that followed; even hated her one skiing trip with friends from university.

  She turned on to her driveway and despite the snowflakes clustering the headlamps like moths, the powerful beams lit up the front of the house, shining on a bunch of flowers propped up against her front door.

  Who buys me flowers? Someone’s got the wrong house.

  She dashed to the door, snowflakes invading her mouth and coating her hair like the white top of a Mont Blanc pen. The snow was melting as soon as it hit the ground and it would turn into tiny puddles as soon as she got inside.

  She grabbed the flowers, the wet paper disintegrating in her fingers, and darted into the hall, the lamp on the timer providing a dim light. Get into the kitchen, Sam. A wet, tiled floor is preferable to a wet carpet.

  The panic alarm didn’t ease the memory of last night’s call. It was bravado telling Ed she would be fine. It was outrage when she told Stewart she was okay.

  She placed the flowers on the bench, a smell like freshly cut wet grass rising from them. She hit the switch on the overhead cooker bulb and an arc of light was thrown across the grey slate floor. She bent down and shook her head over the sink. At the same time she pulled off her jacket and threw it underarm, backwards, in the direction of the table.

  More bright light as she opened the fridge door and rummaged around for tonight’s microwave ready meal. Lasagne? Or more Salmon en Croute? At least she’d be eating by 8.45.

  What was that noise? It didn’t belong in her kitchen, but her brain couldn’t process its origin. She turned away from the fridge and her legs began to shake. Lurching forward, she grabbed the bench for support. Unable to scream, unable to move, she stood rooted to the spot.

  She watched open mouthed, her fingers tightening around the edge of the worktop, as a shiny red cricket ball, the light shining on it like an actor on the boards, inched its way along the black granite bench, before dropping to the tiled floor with a dull thud, rolling a few feet before rattling to rest against the leg of a stool.

  Grabbing her phone, her hands trembling and fingers moving at speed, she flashed through the recent calls memory and hit Ed’s number.

  He answered it on the second ring.

  The words erupted from her mouth, panic oozing from her every pore.

  ‘Ed, he knows where I live. He sent me flowers. They were on my front step. He knows where I live. He knows where I live.’

  ‘Slow down, Sam. What flowers? How do you know they are from him?’

  ‘There’s a cricket ball inside them. A red, hard cricket ball. I‘ve never had a pizza delivered. He knows where I live. How does he know? I’m next Ed. He’s coming for me. I’m next.’

  Dropping the phone, Sam let her head fall on to the bench, fingers now clinging so tight to the granite they turned white. She bent down, slowly, unsteadily, and reached for the phone, aware of Ed’s distant shouts coming down the connection.

  ‘Sam! Sam!’

  ‘I’m here,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Lock the doors. Make sure that everything’s okay with the panic alarm. I’m on my way. I’ll ring when I’m outside.’

  She lurched away from the worktop, chest still heaving, her legs at first moving slowly then, as an athlete out of the blocks, her thighs were pumping like pistons, carrying her to the light switches by the kitchen door. Dazzling white lights leaped into life around the kitchen. The ceiling spotlights, the fluorescents under the wall-mounted units, the cooker and fridge lights, all engulfing the room in a heavenly white, like the spotlight from a police helicopter. Staring at the window, checking it for damage, she stumbled across the tiled floor and slammed the bolt on the inter-connecting door to the garage.

  Running around the room, she flung open the doors of every base unit, dropping into the crouch position like a member of a combat unit, looking into each of them, only convinced he wasn’t in the room once she had even peered inside the built-in washing machine.

  Her self-preservation gene kicked in and she slumped down, pressing her back against the kitchen door. If he was in the house, he would have to come to her. She wouldn’t give him the opportunity of leaping out from behind furniture in another room. The panic alarm could wait.

  The kitchen was no longer the centre of domesticity; it was her ‘panic room’, the type normally the preserve of the rich and famous.

  Never before had she considered herself a feeble woman but now, sat on the floor, her whole body shaking, teeth chattering, gasping for breath, knees drawn under her chin, arms wrapped around her shins, she craved the security of a man – her man – in the house.

  Finally the mobile danced around the floor as it rang and vibrated. She had probably sat there no more than 10 minutes. Staring at the illuminated screen, she heaved a sigh of relief; Ed’s name was displayed. Leaping to her feet, she tore open the door, and sprinted into the hallway.

  Ed looked into red, glassy, swollen eyes full of terror and relief.

  Resisting the urge to throw her arms around him, Sam was speaking before he had crossed the doorway. ‘Ed. Ed. Thank you.’

  Putting a big, wet arm around her shoulder, he ushered her inside.

  Her words left her mouth so fast they sounded like a vinyl record spinning too quickly on a turntable. ‘It was the shock. Sorry. I’m sorry. But he�
��s called me on the phone. He’s left flowers. How does he know where I live? How Ed? How?’

  His arm was pushing lightly at her back, nudging her towards the bright light, which he presumed was the kitchen. What other rooms project such fierce white light?

  ‘Slow down, Sam. It’s okay. Calm down. Look, I’ll check the house, but I’m sure everything’s fine.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ she said, almost before he had finished speaking.

  ‘That’s fine. C’mon. We’ll do it together. No worries.’

  A search of every room, albeit with Ed feeling slightly uncomfortable when he checked inside her wardrobes, satisfied them the house was clear and no windows were broken.

  Back at the kitchen, Ed took in the open doors, the lights, and the cricket ball, and grasped the enormity of her fear.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘Okay,’ Ed said as he closed the fridge door. ‘Let’s calm down. He’s not here. If it was him, he’s certainly a cocky little bastard, I’ll give him that. But cocky always equates to fuck-up.’

  Reassured by Ed’s presence, Sam was white-faced but calmer now.

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right, but it still doesn’t answer how he knows where I live. If he is what links the other girls, how am I linked to him? What links him to me?’

  Sitting on a stainless-steel high stool with a black sculptured seat, she put her elbows on the centre island and her head in her hands. ‘I’m tired. I’m not thinking straight, but the answer must be obvious. How does he know where the single women live? I suppose he could watch the houses, but how long would that take? Had someone been watching me, or my house, I’m sure I’d have noticed.’

  ‘Okay, Sam, let’s switch off for now. We’ll have clearer heads tomorrow. The key that unlocks the door of this investigation will present itself to us. One key, that’s all we need. Or as Freddie might have said, a kind of magic.’

  ‘Freddie? Freddie who?’

  ‘Never mind. Stick the kettle on. I need the loo.’