Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘Do you know the name of the cleaner?’

  ‘It changes. Just depends. They come from an agency. ‘Mrs Muck Out’ or something liked that.’

  ‘How often?’

  ‘Once a week. Always on a Wednesday. Our Louise said they were very good.’

  Paul Adams talked generally about inquests, funerals, and the set-up of the investigation, before June politely asked if he could come back later. She looked exhausted.

  ‘Is there anyone I can call to come and sit with you?’ Paul asked.

  ‘No. There’s no one. I prefer to be by myself anyway.’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Is that okay?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  The single tear that trickled from her right eye slid slowly down her cheek.

  Alone in her house, she shuffled into what had been the dining room of her pre-war semi before Louise converted it into a bedroom (‘I’m not spending good money on a stair lift our Louise’) and rested her weight on the Zimmer frame she had kept out of sight of the detective. She gripped the metal as tightly as her bony arthritic knuckles would allow and stared at the crucifix on the wall, tears now rolling down her face.

  ‘How did you allow this to happen?’ she whispered.

  Nothing anyone had ever preached from the pulpit had prepared her for the discovery of her only child’s mutilated body.

  Her chest heaved, her voice wailed and the sobbing began.

  Chapter Forty

  The cold air was a welcome contrast to the stifling heat in the house. Paul Adams walked to the car, relieved the awkward first meeting, a step into the nightmare of another’s personal tragedy, was over. He had been there for hours and his only short break was when he walked down June’s path to hand a photograph of Louise to another member of the team. Copies would be needed for the press conference.

  There would be many more visits, more tears and recriminations, but the first one was over. No introductions would be necessary at the next.

  He now had information he could feed into the HOLMES room, information that would be important to build the picture of Louise and her life. He knew Sam Parker would value his contribution to the investigation. ‘The more we know about the victim, Paul, the more we know about the killer,’ Sam would say, like a mantra.

  He wanted to impress her. Sam Parker wielded influence. She could get him on to her team where he would work on high-profile investigations and get noticed, improve his chances of promotion. He would accept the piss-taking by the older detectives on the team. It was part of the game and promotion was everything.

  Bev Summers had joined the police at 18, and now 23 years later, had never married. A career detective, she preferred to live alone under her rules rather than living a married life of compromises.

  Staring into the glass panel of the door, the internal hall light bounced back her reflection as clear as if she’d been peering into crystal blue water on a sunny day. Her light grey suit and blue-and-white-striped blouse had seen better days; her short blonde hair with its split ends would require Lisa’s wizardry when she had time for a trip to the hairdressers. The tight wrinkles around her mouth, the result of a lifelong love affair with cigarettes, were beyond monetary, or human, intervention.

  Sam was standing next to her. She wanted to speak to Bev about the phone call and the flowers, confide in a woman, a woman she had known for years. The journey had provided the opportunity.

  Bev knocked on the brightly painted green front door, a complete contrast to the rotting window frames, of 19, Felton Drive, a detached house on the Gull Estate.

  ‘You do the talking,’ Sam said.

  A man in his mid-20s opened the door, his short dark brown hair drawing the eyes to his short, pointed nose.

  ‘Yes?’ he said in a quiet, almost timid, voice, showing Bev more of the left side of his face than his eyes.

  Bev held forward her warrant card.

  ‘Hi. Mr Spence? Michael Spence? I’m DC Summers. CID. I wonder if I can have a word? Nothing to worry about. It’s about a broken window, and you telling a lady that you saw a couple of young lads running away with a cricket bat.’

  ‘Oh. Yes, the boys with the bat. I remember.’

  ‘Can we come in?’

  Sam watched him change his stance; right hip pushed against the door frame, left arm touching the other side. Was he blocking their way in? He looked vaguely familiar. She hardly saw her postman – she was at work or still in bed when the post arrived, but a few weeks ago she did sign for a couple of books. Was it him?

  ‘Will it take long?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really. Just a couple of details I need,’ said Bev.

  ‘Okay. Alright. I’m not sure I can help much.’

  They followed him down a long hallway then took the first door on the right into the lounge. A harsh, pungent smell like ripe blue cheese hit them like a punch, the stale odour a physical thing. Sam’s mouth twisted in a reflex and Bev’s right hand shot up to her nose, her nostrils drawing in the welcome remnants of nicotine from her fingers.

  A long, gold faded Dralon settee was against the back wall and two worn matching armchairs were either side of it. The stained, threadbare carpet hinted it had started life as brown a couple of millennia ago. Sun-faded yellow paint covered the woodchip wallpaper, and the ornate wall lights had patches of brass-coloured metal showing through the gold paint. The decor matched the era in which the house was built, the only concessions to modernisation and the movement of time an enormous flat-screen wall-mounted TV, a Sky digibox and an Xbox.

  After a quick glance, checking for things they would rather not touch, Sam and Bev sat down on the armchairs, Bev suddenly thankful of her old suit.

  ‘Michael. As I said, I’m investigating the broken window, you know, where you saw some men running away.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said shuffling on the settee. ‘I was delivering. I work for the post office, as you can probably guess,’ indicating his uniform with hands so small they looked as though they should be on the wrists of a child.

  Sam couldn’t help notice the tramline creases on his shirt and trousers. At least he keeps himself clean, she thought, not like this bloody house.

  ‘I heard the sound of broken glass, and then they ran past me. One of them was carrying a cricket bat.’

  ‘Were they running towards you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you see where they came from?’

  ‘I think they ran down one of the driveways, but I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t think the CID would be interested in broken windows?’

  ‘We’re interested in all crime,’ Bev said, her voice light, unthreatening. ‘Now, can you describe these men?’

  ‘More like boys, really. About 16, 17, I would say. I can’t remember what they looked like. I didn’t think it would be important. I thought it was just two lads who’d broken a window playing cricket.’

  ‘Can you remember anything about them?’

  ‘They had tracksuits on. Adidas, I think. Yes. Adidas. Black. Both were black. One lad was ginger, one was dark haired. About my height.’

  ‘Five foot ten?’

  ‘Yeah. About that.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, not really. I only saw them for a couple of seconds, and then they were past me.’

  He shuffled.

  ‘What about the bat? Can you remember anything about that?’

  ‘Not really no… wait… yes. Yes, I can. It was a Slazenger bat. I remember that now.’

  ‘Did they speak to each other?’

  ‘No, they were just laughing.’

  Sam glanced around the room. There was no personal footprint; not one ornament, not one print or poster on the walls, and no family photographs.

  ‘Who do you live here with, Michael?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Is that important?’ he mumbled, staring at the floor.

  ‘Just making conversation. Typical detective, always asking questions.�
��

  ‘I live by myself since my mother died. I used to live with her.’

  ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry but I’ve told you what I know.’

  Sam pressed on regardless. Was he getting agitated?

  ‘Michael, do you always deliver on the Gull estate?’

  ‘I do. It’s terrible what has been happening there. I mean not being safe in your own house. The papers have been full of it.’

  ‘Yes, it’s terrible. But we’ll catch him.’

  ‘I hope you do,’ said Michael in a quiet voice, his gaze fixed on the floor, his hands, clasped together, resting on his knees.

  Staring at the top of his head, Sam said nothing for about 10 seconds and then rose to her feet.

  ‘Did you know any of the girls who’ve been attacked?’

  ‘I know them by sight. I don’t know them, though. Like I said, it’s terrible.’

  Sam resisted the urge to probe further. How did he know who the victims were? They had never been named. Had he seen the police activity at the houses when he was delivering the post and put two and two together? Did he deliver those books?

  He may need to be interviewed again and they could get to the bottom of it.

  One thing was already certain: he would know who lived alone. Single women living alone didn’t get post addressed to anyone else. Chances are he would have more knowledge about single females than Crowther. He would pass unnoticed in the area during daylight. What was more natural than a postman walking up someone’s driveway?

  According to the house-to-house team, no one else had seen anyone running away from the broken window. Would he have said anything to anyone had the witness not asked him about it?

  Walking through the hallway, Sam looked over her shoulder.

  ‘Do you play cricket, Michael?’

  ‘Can’t stand the game.’

  ‘Me neither,’ Sam said, stepping outside, filling her mouth, nostrils, and lungs with cold, clean fresh air. Was she imagining her skin itching?

  ‘Michael, did you tell the occupant of the house that you had seen two boys running away?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. Thanks then,’ and she walked off down the path, Bev following.

  ‘I never see her. She’s always at work,’ he shouted.

  Sam didn’t turn around.

  In the car, Bev lit a cigarette, put the pink lighter back in her handbag, and blew smoke through the open window, her two-fingered salute to the anti- smoking brigade who had banned smoking in police vehicles. Sam hadn’t objected when they were driving here.

  Sam ignored the cigarette. Her eyes were fixed on his front door, her mind replaying their conversation.

  She had been in the house for a matter of minutes, but there was something not quite right about Michael Spence. He had looked nervous, shifty even. He couldn’t really describe what the boys looked like, yet he remembered the make of their clothing. He hated cricket, but in what could have only been a fleeting glance, he recalled the bat was a Slazenger. Two separate pieces of information, each where he remembered the manufacturers. It was almost as if he remembered too much. Too much, and yet nothing he said would lead to an identification of the two youths.

  Sam had a niggle, a feeling like an itch she couldn’t quite reach.

  Had she just been talking to the rapist?

  Why had he not told Emily? Was she always at work? Easily checked. It would be great to have Emily signing for something from him after the window was broken.

  She smiled to herself. She loved the hunt, and was an ardent believer that if you took everything at face value, trusted everything you were told, nothing would ever be detected.

  The ‘ABC’ of investigations: accept nothing, believe nothing, challenge everything.

  Paul Adams leaned against a railing, inhaled deeply on his cigarette, and gazed over the River Tyne. Alan Smith lived in a two-bedroom apartment on Newcastle’s quayside, a converted bonded warehouse, with its large living room and kitchen opening on to a balcony overlooking the river and the quayside’s lively bars and restaurants.

  The furniture was modern, neutral walls displayed abstract framed prints, while the flowers on the windowsill hinted at a feminine touch.

  Alan’s heavily pregnant-looking stomach showed a love for his work that was confirmed by the hangdog jowls and the broken veins in his cheeks. At 32, his nose hadn’t yet taken on the bulbous, angry red of the hardened drinker, but the facial signposts suggested it wouldn’t be long.

  Stubbing his cigarette end on the top of a bin, Paul wondered how Alan Smith had ever pulled Louise. He had certainly been punching above his weight, but the world seemed full of fat men with attractive women.

  He telephoned Dave Johnson. ‘I’ve seen June. I’ve just left Alan’s, and I’m about to go back to June’s.’

  ‘How are they?’

  ‘June’s devastated, and Alan’s blaming himself, saying if he’d not left her, this wouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘A bit late for that now,’ Dave said.

  ‘He’s going on about visiting June. I’ll mention that to her. June has no time for him. Understandable, I suppose.’

  He gave Dave Johnson an update of both visits.

  June Harker sat alone in her front living room. Was this how it felt when your heart had been ripped out?

  Photograph albums covered her thighs and she turned the pages, holding them with the tenderness of a historian handling a precious old book, pausing to look at each photograph of Louise. Her husband had been a keen amateur photographer when he was alive, and the pictures had always given them thousands of memories.

  She looked at Louise in school plays, on family holidays, her teenage birthdays, and her police passing-out parade. Tears flowed down her face. She knew then that her broken heart would never heal.

  Coping with the loss of her beloved Jack, who had succumbed to cancer, had been hard enough. But this? Her Louise gone. Taken from her like that? She would never recover. She didn’t even feel like she wanted to.

  Jack had been 78. She was 73. Louise was a young woman. Why? Not even her faith would provide the emotional crutch she needed to walk this path. Church? What good had come from going there? A life spent being a believer. A believer in what? No God would have left Louise so unprotected, allowed that to happen to her in her own bedroom.

  Was suicide a sin? She couldn’t remember, and in reality she didn’t care. What did she have left to live for now? Her family had been taken from her. Everything she held dear was no longer with her.

  The nice young policeman had explained the coroner would look to release Louise’s body within 28 days, whether or not anyone was charged with her murder. June knew she wouldn’t wait that long. She couldn’t go to her own daughter’s funeral. She looked at the photograph of Louise on the mantelpiece in her police uniform and vowed that her own funeral would take place before her lovely, beautiful daughter’s.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Approaching the police station door, darkness already descending, Ed was aware of someone coming up behind him. Looking over his left hand shoulder, he saw Jason Stroud.

  ‘Can I have a private word?’ Jason asked.

  Ed stopped, turned around, and walked back into the car park. ‘Everything alright?’ He looked directly at the detective as he spoke.

  Jason spoke so quickly Ed wanted to tell him to stop and breathe.

  ‘I know that you and Sam have spoken with Celine. She’s told me what she’d said, and I know she told you about the rape fantasy but whatever it sounded like, I’m not the rapist. You can’t think that Ed. Think what you want about me, but I am not the rapist.’

  Ed listened. He knew better than to interrupt and start asking questions. The words were speeding from Jason’s mouth, like a toddler scampering down a hill, each step more rapid than the last, trying to retain their balance.

  ‘There’s a world of difference between fantasy and reali
ty. What two consenting adults do behind closed doors is a matter for them. Other people might not agree with it, but if it’s consenting, there’s no issue. That’s a world away from breaking into someone’s house and raping them. Fuckin’ hell, Ed, I’d never do that!’

  Ed’s voice, in contrast to Jason’s, was so controlled it was almost hypnotic.

  ‘Jason, believe you me, if we thought you were the rapist, we’d have arrested you. You can thank Sam for not overreacting to what Celine told us. We both know bosses who’d have shit themselves, gone running to someone else to make the decision what to do with you. She didn’t. She kept the lid on it.’

  Changing to a more assertive tone, Ed continued: ‘She’d have arrested you if there was other corroborative evidence, you know that, but there wasn’t. Fuckin’ hell, Jason, she didn’t even take you off the inquiry.’

  ‘I know. I know. I panicked when Celine told me. I could just imagine how it must have sounded. I tried to imagine how I would have reacted if someone told me that about another cop. Not sure what I would have done.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Ed said. ‘So you’ve got Sam to thank. It wasn’t my decision.’

  ‘I appreciate it, Ed.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, thank her.’

  ‘I will. Cheers. It would’ve destroyed me if that had got out.’

  It might still destroy you, Ed thought. You even had my skin crawling.

  Ed found Sam in her office, sitting behind her desk but obviously deep in thought.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m fine. I’m just trying to put something into perspective about Louise’s death. I’m still not sure about the rapist and the killer being the same person.’

  Ed nodded, his mind turning over the twists and turns of the investigation, all they knew and everything that remained maddeningly out of reach.

  ‘I’ve been giving it some thought too,’ he said. ‘Let’s say that they’re not the same. If that’s the case, we’re looking at someone staging a crime scene.’