Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  He looked up at her, his face on fire, and began nodding his head before allowing it to drop. His hands were trembling, his shoulders shaking, and he began sliding back and forth on the chair, staring at the floor.

  ‘I steal their knickers and wank into them. I admit that, but I’m not a fuckin’ rapist. They’ll know about the indecency conviction. Fuck! They’ll pin this on me.’

  Raising his head, tears welling in his eyes, he stared at the dirty walls.

  A rapist? What a joke. Sitting here is the longest I’ve ever spent with a woman that wasn’t related to me. She’s got to get them to believe me.

  Jill Carver looked at him with a mixture of pity and revulsion. No way was he a rapist. Socially inadequate, no question. A pervert, a creep, absolutely… but a rapist? Not in the proverbial month of Sundays.

  Reaching over to her soft leather briefcase on the floor, she pulled out a pad and her Mont Blanc fountain pen, a present from a grateful client, smoothed down the skirt of her dark blue suit, and sat upright.

  ‘Okay, Terry, let’s get you out of here. I need to know where you were on the nights of the rapes, and I want you to tell me about the knickers you stole.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Satisfied that all the ‘plates’ were still spinning, Sam and Ed both put away their phones and went into the small office adjoining the mortuary where notes and tea were made, and began pulling on new paper suits.

  Jim Melia, now wearing green overalls and white wellies, his Tweed jacket and black trousers hanging from a hook on the back of the door, sounded almost eager.

  ‘C’mon then. Let’s make a start.’

  Sam’s mobile vibrated. Trevor Stewart’s name appeared on the screen.

  ‘I better take this first. Give me a minute. Morning, Sir,’ she said, walking out of the room.

  ‘I’m pleased you didn’t say ‘good’, Sam. What have we got, then, apart from the obvious – the tragic loss of a colleague.’

  Sam described the scene and the initial actions she had instructed be carried out.

  ‘Ski mask, you say. So our rapist’s now graduated to murder.’

  ‘Possibly, sir. We’ll see what we’ve got after the PM which is about to start.’

  ‘Why 'possibly', Sam? What are you thinking? Don’t tell me you think this is unconnected?’

  ‘I’m not convinced. Not at this stage. We’re exploring all the options.’

  Stewart was all cold, pompous authority. No sleaze or smut today.

  ‘We need this sorting quickly. If you think they’re unconnected, I’ll appoint Dave Smithies to run the murder and you concentrate on the rapes.’

  You manipulating bastard.

  ‘There’s no need for that, Sir. There are similarities. I suggest for now I run both.’

  Stewart was silent and Sam could picture him wanting to bring in his favourite but caught by indecision.

  ‘For now it is, then. I’ll review it on Saturday. When’s the press conference?’

  ‘After the PM.’

  ‘There’ll be a lot of interest, obviously. Make sure you’re prepared. If you need extra staff, let me know. Keep me in the loop.’ He paused. ‘Are you publicly linking the murder with the rapes?’

  ‘I intend to tell them we are keeping an open mind.’

  ‘Do that. Don’t link them. They’ll have a field day if we link them. It’ll be open season on Eastern Police. I hope we don’t find ourselves in a position where we could have prevented this.’

  ‘I need to go, Sir.’

  He hadn’t asked how Louise’s friends and colleagues working on the investigation were coping. Not asked about Louise’s family. All he was interested in was covering his arse. Maybe she should tell his wife what he’s really like.

  ‘Speak to me after the press conference, then.’ He ended the call.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Sam said and followed Jim and Ed into the mortuary and shivered. These places were always freezing. And so dark. No natural light. Well there wouldn’t be would there?

  The musty smell of death seemed to seep from every part of the building, latching on to you so no matter how many showers you took, how many times your clothes went to the dry cleaners, it clung to you for days.

  Like so many times before, Sam saw the concrete floor, the long, metal examining table, the draining hole, the knives and scalpels laid out in sequence, and the hosepipe on the floor ready to send water flowing around the body and down the plug hole, keeping the table free of blood and small matter.

  Louise was the difference, her naked body on the table, lying on her back, arms pressing against the raised sides, feet either side of the draining hole. Even the local idiots, stumbling in here accidentally, would be in no doubt where they were.

  The mortuary technician had prepared everything, and Sam did wonder how a petite, thirty-something female, ended up doing a job like this. Did they advertise in the Job Centre?

  The technician, towards the end of the examination, would use the hand-held power drill with the circular bladed saw to remove the back of the skull. Always the worst sound, thought Sam; a screeching that made her clamp her teeth together, the blade overcoming the resistance of the skull, sending particles of bone dust into the icy air.

  Sam tried to view the bodies as nothing more than carcasses, no different to animals in a slaughterhouse, and it was a mindset that generally worked, but in the inevitable silences that occurred during the post-mortem, there was no hiding the fact you were looking at a body that had recently been a living human being. She knew only too well this one was going to be tough. She looked away from Louise’s lifeless eyes, and the image of her drunken, barefoot friend flashed through her mind again.

  The Crime Scene Investigators were already milling about preparing for the examination. Under the instructions of the pathologist they would photograph each injury from a multitude of angles and label all samples that were taken.

  Post-mortems varied in length, but Sam knew this one would take a long time; cataloguing, measuring, and photographing all the injuries during the initial external examination would, in her experience, take over an hour.

  Standing less than a metre from the table, Sam swallowed hard and fought to put her emotions to one side. The first flash bounced off the camera. The examination had begun.

  Manoeuvring her car through the hospital grounds, Sam mulled over the post-mortem.

  Four stab wounds to the heart. Thirty-two wounds in total. A rage killing. The killer was in such a hyped-up state, even when Louise was dead and still, the frenzied stabbing continued.

  The blood on the bedroom ceiling confirmed the vicious unrelenting nature of the attack, but it was during the post-mortem that the sheer force was brought home. The four wounds to the heart were such the knife had gone clean through and penetrated her back.

  Was this the same man, if Louise’s killer was a man, who was the rapist? The rapist asked if he had been a good lover. Would removing his mask turn him into a butcher?

  There had been no rape this time and no torn tissue suggesting non-consensual anal sex.

  The more she replayed the murder scene on her mental DVD player, the more convinced she was that they were hunting two different people.

  The Press would no doubt link the murder and the rapes, jumping to conclusions; buzzing about like wasps around the dregs of a pint of a lager. The 24-hour news society of 21st -century Britain was a hungry beast that needed feeding, and if the media sharks weren’t fed, they’d feed themselves. Sam knew she needed to manage them.

  The so-called ‘red tops’ would sensationalise the investigation if they sniffed a connection, and more importantly, if they believed there was a lack of progress. Sam would need her wits about her at the press conference if she wanted to avoid a media circus baying for organisational blood.

  Walking into the station, the smell of fish and chips rolled down the stairs like mist floating down a hillside. Sam’s stomach lurched. When had she last eaten? In the off
ice, detectives were eating as they typed; some had a bread bun on the side, and all had a mug of tea or a can of fizzy pop.

  ‘Alright for some,’ Sam said as she walked into the HOLMES room, raising a smile from her colleagues, smiles that quickly vanished. As she walked past a detective who had his mouth crammed with food, she grabbed a couple of chips from his polystyrene tray, regretting it immediately as one of them fell and landed on her blouse.

  ‘Shit,’ she said, louder than she intended, causing the whole office to look in her direction. Examining the stain, she cursed her lack of foresight in not having a change of clothes in the office. Thirty minutes to a press conference, and her mind was now focussing on whether the stain would be visible on TV. Not the ideal preparation, Samantha.

  ‘How’s it going with Crowther?’ she asked.

  Jason Stroud was stood beside a new board, examining the still photographs provided by the surveillance commander; they had been divided into two categories, those inside the coffee shop, and those outside.

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘No coughs, then?’ Sam said, now standing next to Jason.

  Jason smiled. ‘Some people wouldn’t cough if they had bronchitis. He’s not one of them. He’s like little boy lost. He’s gone ‘no reply’ in the first interview on his brief’s say so. She said outside the interview room he’ll cough the knickers, but not the rapes. She looks fairly confident.’

  ‘Who’s his brief?’

  ‘Carver. Jill Carver.’

  ‘Pretty fit,’ said one of the interviewers.

  Sam didn’t respond to the sexist comment, but her raised eyebrows and steely stare left him under no illusions he was treading on dodgy ground. She turned back to Jason who was on more dodgy ground than he realised.

  ‘Sorry,’ Jason said. ‘He meant it from the point of view that it’s unnerving Crowther. He’s keeping his eyes down most of the time during the interview. Can’t look at her.’

  ‘Jill Carver,’ Ed boomed, walking into the office, looking around to steal a chip.

  ‘Otherwise known as the butcher, because of the cases, and detectives, she’s carved to pieces. Watch her, Jason. She’s got more faces than the town-hall clock, and she’s not averse to flashing those eyes to get what she wants.’

  ‘I gathered that much, but to be fair, watching him in the interview, I don’t think he’s our man,’ Jason said.

  Ed waited until he reached them and lowered his voice. ‘Well, just be careful with her. The butcher nickname is double sided. When it’s to her benefit, she’ll happily use her womanly charms and handle some male meat if it will help her cause.’

  ‘Ed!’ Sam said, eyes wide and blazing, her voice taut with shock and disgust but without rising above a whisper.

  ‘Sorry, Sam, but it needed to be said. I know lifelong vegetarians that worry about that particular butcher. Forewarned etcetera.’

  Ed paused and rubbed his eyes, trying to remember what a decent night’s sleep felt like, but when he spoke, his tone was alert.

  ‘You wouldn’t get her off the duty solicitor’s rota. He must have asked for someone from her practice. Why would someone like Crowther ask for a brief like her? Maybe there’s more to him than we think. Where’s Dave?’

  ‘We’ve not seen him this morning,’ Jason said. ‘Just presumed he was with you.’

  ‘Not with us,’ Sam said.

  Turning the rest of the room, she shouted to no one in particular: ‘Anything on Crowther’s computer?’

  ‘Just the usual porn sites. Nothing criminal,’ someone piped up.

  Sam glanced at the board displaying the surveillance photographs. ‘There are more stills than I thought. Any joy yet?’

  A seated detective answered: ‘Not really. Some identified. Nothing yet. Early days. We’ll get them sorted.’

  Sam spoke to Ed. ‘Find Dave. Make sure he’s alright. Whatever his relationship with Louise, the guy’s going to be in shock.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Thirty minutes later, make-up reapplied and teeth brushed, Sam, accompanied by the Head of Media Services, Peter Hunt, walked on to the raised platform in the media briefing room and cast her eyes over the assembled print, local radio and regional TV reporters. The nationals were also out in force.

  Concentrate Sam.

  Silence descended. Eleven sets of eyes watched her sit down behind a table littered with mobiles and digital recorders. Notepads were poised. TV cameras watched impassively from tripods while two photographers were on their feet, flashbulbs lighting up Sam’s face.

  I hope they can’t see that stain.

  Sam looked at her prepared statement and began.

  ‘Just after 7am this morning police were called to an address in Rothbury Close where the body of a 34-year-old female was found. She has been identified as Louise Smith, a serving police officer, who lived alone at the address. Louise was separated from her husband.

  ‘June Harker, her mother, discovered Louise this morning. Louise had been stabbed multiple times.

  ‘A Home Office Forensic Pathologist has carried out a post-mortem, and extensive scientific tests are being carried out at Louise’s home. Over 40 personnel are actively engaged on this investigation.

  ‘I urge everyone to be vigilant when it comes to the security of their homes, and to contact the police if they notice anything untoward.

  ‘I would ask anyone who has any information, or who saw or heard anything suspicious between 8pm last night and 7am this morning, to contact the incident room. Thank you.’

  The reporters looked up, the photographers sat down.

  Here we go.

  The reporter from Sky got in first.

  ‘Two single women have been sexually assaulted in their homes. Now a single woman has been killed in her home. Is it the same man?’

  I knew that was coming.

  ‘These attacks are being investigated separately. It’s too early to say if they are connected.’

  ‘Surely you must have some indication,’ Sky man pushed.

  ‘As I said, it’s too early to be making those investigative conclusions.’

  Sam looked at Sky man as she answered his question. He was now in a position of strength. Everyone else was an observer. He was having a conversation with her.

  ‘Was the police officer targeted?’ he asked.

  ‘We are following a number of lines of inquiry. That is one of them. The alternative is that she was subject to a random attack. I don’t believe that to be the case.’

  Sam could sense some hostility in the room. Nobody else could get a word in. Not my problem, she thought to herself.

  ‘Why would a serving police officer be targeted?’ he asked.

  He’s after the terrorism angle.

  So-called ‘Islamic State’ had declared their desire to murder a serving police officer.

  ‘Louise may have been targeted because she was a police officer, but equally, she may have been targeted because she was Louise. As I’ve said, these are lines of inquiry we are following.’

  More likely the latter, Sam thought silently.

  Sky man crossed his legs. Others would now get the chance in their media scrum.

  ‘You said the victim had multiple stab wounds. How many?’ asked a blonde woman at the front, who Sam knew was a journalist from one of the ‘red tops’.

  When would the less experienced reporters realise that where you sat was key? Those at the front always dominated the conference.

  ‘As I am sure you can appreciate, there are some details we need to keep back for a suspect interview. Suffice to say that Louise was stabbed multiple times.’

  Questions were asked about which room Louise was found in, when she was last seen alive, how her mother was coping, whether she had any children, siblings, and how her colleagues were coping with the news.

  It was Darius Simpson from the Seaton Post who dropped the bombshell question.

  ‘Any suggestion that the killer was wearing a ski mask
like the sex attacker?’

  Everybody in the room sat up at the potentially sensational revelation.

  How the hell does he know about the ski mask?

  Sam felt her face redden.

  ‘I am here today to appeal for information about the murder of Louise Smith, and I repeat, if anyone saw or heard anything suspicious after 8pm last night to contact the incident room.’

  ‘But can you confirm that the previous attacks were committed by a man wearing a ski mask?’ Darius asked.

  I’m going to kill whoever leaked this.

  Sam was relieved to hear calm and steadiness in her voice.

  ‘No, I can’t, but while we are talking about the previous attacks, I would urge everyone to be vigilant about their household security, and report anything suspicious to the police.’

  Sam had learnt a long time ago that the secret in press conferences was to respond to a question, not answer it. Politicians did it all the time.

  The blonde was back, picking up from Darius.

  ‘A masked man represents a serious threat to single women. Are you any nearer to catching him?’

  Sam stuck to her ‘respond’ tactic.

  ‘Every intruder represents a threat. That is why I urge people to be vigilant around their security, and that is why I am keen to seek any information from the public, however small they may deem it to be. With regard to arresting the person or persons responsible, we are following a number of lines of inquiry.’

  ‘Which you have presumably been following since...’ the blonde said, looking at her spiral-topped notebook, ‘November. What assurances can you give the public that you will catch this man?’

  Sam silently thanked Peter Hunt, himself a hack from the old school who had long-ago coached Sam through just these skirmishes. Press cons were battles for control, a fencing duel played out – for the police at least – on a minefield. One careless move…