‘I wrote them,’ roared his broken voice, the fire to Sam’s ice.
‘You? How?’
Keep him talking. Just keep him talking.
Now Dave spoke quietly, exhausted resignation heavy in his voice.
‘I hacked into his account. Louise mentioned his passwords ages ago. He used the same one for everything. He hadn’t changed it for years. I just remotely accessed his emails and sent one from his account to Louise, once it was obvious you weren’t linking the murder to the rapist.’
‘What about the key?’
‘I just stole June’s and copied it.’
‘The knife, Dave? Where’s the knife?’
‘Down one of the drains miles away.’
Sam saw Ed move two small, tentative steps closer.
‘What brought this all on, Dave?’
Looking up to the heavens, his speech was cracked and shallow.
‘I thought we’d be happy but she broke my heart. She broke it years ago when she married that twat. Then she broke it again. We argued on the day I killed her. Then she wouldn’t answer my calls. I had the key.’
Had he paused for the foghorn, or was he going to jump?
‘You know sometimes I would sit in her house when she was at work, imagining her coming home to me.’ He took a deep breath. ‘If I couldn’t have her, nobody was going to.’
Looking upwards, he shouted: ‘Why did you do this to me?’
Sam was happy to listen and buy more time, telling herself over and over to stay calm, to convince him she was the friendly shoulder to cry on, someone who wasn’t there to judge.
‘When I found out she was finally leaving Smith, I knew I had to leave Sally. Seeing the kids just every other weekend kills me, but I wanted Louise in my life and I thought she felt the same.’
‘Come down, Dave,’ Sam said, wishing she could remember the names of his children. ‘Think of your kids.’
Dave smiled his haunted smile.
‘It’s too late. Too late for anything now. It’s over. I’m sorry.’
A sudden push against the railings and he plummeted backwards towards the waters waiting below, arms and legs thrashing like a beetle on its back.
‘No!’ Sam screamed. She sprang from her seat and ran to the railings, leaning out over the mist-covered sea.
Ed tore off his jacket, hurled it to the ground, and leapt on to the bottom railing.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ Sam shouted, grabbing his arm.
Ed shook her off and climbed on to the second railing: ‘I’ve got to do something.’
She held his eyes. Control him, Sam. It’s what you do, what you’ve always done.
‘It’s too late, Ed. You know it’s too late. It was over when he walked past the door. Bad timing.’
She saw hesitation slide across Ed’s face.
And she knew the moment was gone.
‘Get on the phone to the control room. Update the RNLI. Tell them he’s in the sea,’ Sam said, her hand again on Ed’s right arm.
‘You jump and we’ll have another dead body and I for one am not telling Sue. There’ve been enough deaths this week.’
In slow motion, Ed stepped down from the railings, taking his phone from his trouser pocket. Head bowed, chin pressed tight against his chest, he made the call.
Sam placed both arms on the railings, bent her back, and stared into the sea below, letting the tears come.
Ed was back beside her and together they looked down to the water, ears straining for the sound of the lifeboat above the noise of the foghorn, oblivious to the closing sirens wailing behind them. Slowly they shook their heads in tandem.
‘I’d never thought of looking within, Ed,’ Sam said. ‘We were so focussed on Banks shouting his mouth off we never considered one of our own.’
‘And why would we?’ Ed turned to face her. ‘I thought he was sound, but let’s not beat around the bush, he was happy for Spence to take the fall, and when that plan wasn’t working, he tried to put Smith in the frame. Unfortunately for Smith, he was in the pub when Banks was talking. Dave couldn’t have known that. At least I don’t think he could. June’s dead, and so is poor Louise.’
Ed dropped his gaze back to the sea and the fog turning lazily above the water.
‘Maybe the lifeboat guys can save him,’ Ed said. ‘I hope so anyway. I don’t want him cheating justice, getting the easy way out.’
Sam inhaled deeply and filled her lungs with the cold sea air. She sighed and thrust her hands into her pockets.
‘What a waste. Those poor kids. The signs were there I suppose, that emotional attachment to Louise. Leaving his wife…living alone… the ‘Job’ forcing him to retire…’
They stood in silence, looking out to the misty horizon, the gentle lapping of the waves against the old timbers audible between the foghorn blasts. Anyone watching would think they were in a trance, motionless and watching something only they could see.
Sam’s phone broke the spell, the call over in seconds, Sam muttering a ‘thank-you’ born of obligation not elation.
‘Jason,’ she said softly, searching for the horizon in the fog. ‘Spence’s going to cough the rapes.’
Still looking out to sea, Ed gave a barely visible nod.
Sam saw a tractor towing a fishing coble across the sands, an old man in oilskins and a Breton cap aboard the open boat.
‘Where you going?’ Ed asked as Sam started walking away.
She pointed towards the boat.
‘On that coble.’ She was running now, head back and hair flying. ‘At least we can say we did everything we could when Stewart and the IPCC ask.’
Sprinting back along the pier and down on to the beach, she waved her arms and shouted at the fisherman.
The blue-and-white coble was in the water by the shore when Sam reached it. Panting, bent over, hands on her knees, she told the skipper about Dave Johnson. He was sea-testing his new diesel engine, happy, obliged even, to help in the search.
Sam waded into the water, threw an arm and a leg across the side and heaved herself onboard. She crashed on to the bottom of the boat, her right shoulder taking the impact, her clothes soaking up the dirty bilge water.
Standing close to the bow, she’d forgotten how much a boat rocked, even in a calm sea. Gripping the side, a clammy feeling spread across her body. Light-headed, she screwed her eyes shut as the recurring nightmare began to play again in her imagination like a sepia, silent movie, the noiseless splash and sinking cold taking her back to the place where her fear waited in the deep. She hadn’t wanted to return to the water like this, not a search and possible rescue. Man overboard drills were an essential part of her RYA training, but this was real.
Her nose twitched, senses recalibrating after one had shut down; now she was on the water, the sea and floating seaweed smelled stronger, saltier and more fishy, and she had completely forgotten the sharp tang of marine diesel.
She opened her eyes and willed herself to look down. The sea was murky and foreboding. If they couldn’t find him in the crystal-clear waters of the Caribbean, what chance have I got in the North Sea?
And Sam knew the North Sea was tidal.
Fine spray hit her face. It was a sensation she once loved, a feeling like no other, a feeling of freedom and adventure and a future. Now it reminded her of everything that was wrong with the sea. She hated it, despised its power and cold indifference.
And she hated Dave Johnson for drawing her on to the blue-and-white coble, back to the water and the weight of her grief.
She guessed she had been fighting her demons for only minutes when the lifeboat came into view but to Sam, every second had stretched. Her teeth were chattering, her clothing totally inadequate for the sea, but the tears streaming down her cheeks had nothing to do with the cold, nothing to do with her eyes straining to see through the fog, nothing to do with Dave Johnson’s likely death. In truth, the eyes fixed on the impassive water had seen nothing but memories and a moment.
<
br /> When she spoke, her voice was a low, hurting whisper.
‘Where are you? Where are you Tris?’
Acknowledgments
No work of fiction is ever completed without the help and guidance of a great team of people.
I am indebted to Cheshire Cat Books for having the faith to publish.
Paul Jones, Head of Publishing, has a great critical eye and the unerring natural ability to succinctly highlight weaknesses in the narrative.
Every author needs a great editor (megastar Ann Cleeves’ words not mine) and Garry Willey perfectly reflects that mantra. His skill with the written word and jovial encouragement helped make this book what it is.
Thanks also to my mate Trevor Wood for his feedback at various stages of the process.
My thanks go to my son, Ben, for providing the cover photograph and Laura Swaddle for designing the cover.
I doff my cap to all the great police officers, both uniform and CID, who I worked with for 30 years. We might not have always got it right, but I believe we always did our best.
And my final thanks are to you, the reader. A book that is not read is just words on a page.
Sadly I encountered many victims of rape and their courage in dealing with the abhorrent crime committed against them never ceased to amaze me. Your bravery is an example to us all. There are now so many wonderful organisations helping survivors I would encourage anyone who is violated to seek their help. Please remember, you are not alone.
To Ben and Flynn.
You make me smile every day.
Copyright © Tony Hutchinson 2018
Tony Hutchinson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1984 to be identified as the author this book.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover photograph copyright © Ben Hutchinson.
The book is published by Cheshire Cat Books Ltd
Suite 50-58 Low Friar Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE1 5UD.
ISBN 978-1-9164457-0-3
Comply or Die
A Dark Tides Thriller
Book Two
Chapter One
Friday 13th December 2013
I love Fridays.
No lessons after 2.30pm, two-and-a-half hours in the town before catching the bus home.
My time.
Nobody at home knows I have those two-and-a-half hours.
My time.
CF. College Friday.
My time.
College is great; when I walk through those gates I can be whoever I want to be, talk to who I want, but like all 18-year-old girls, I love shopping. Well, window-shopping in my case, but hey, we can all dream.
I’m not allowed to go shopping with my college friends on a Saturday. Not allowed to go anywhere on a Saturday.
The only time I’m allowed to wear Western dress is when I go to college. Ridiculous. I was born in Seaton St George. I’m British.
I wear black trousers and white blouses for college, a black jumper in the winter. Whoppee-do. There’s no uniform code, that’s what I have to wear: uniform code according to dad. Somebody should remind him I’m British, but I wouldn’t dare.
As soon as I get home it’s the same routine... upstairs, changed, traditional dress, Western gear abandoned until I’m next at college.
I’d love a pair of jeans.
Love to go shopping with my mates.
I’m not even supposed to have white friends, but as long as I don’t take them home, don’t go out with them, don’t go around their houses, it’s okay. My parents accept I have to mix with them, for now.
I’m not allowed any of the things my friends take for granted. They go mental when their parents ask where they’ve been when they’re coming home from clubs at five in the morning. 5am?! You must be joking. The milkman’s started before they’re home. I’m not allowed out after 10, if I’m allowed out at all, and even then only when I’m round one of my cousins.
I left secondary school with nine GCSE’s and now I’m in my second year of A-levels. The college has better courses than the sixth form at school. I’m interested in philosophy and politics. I had hoped to do them at university.
‘Had’ being the operative word. That dream was crushed last week, crushed like a piece of Indian scrub under an elephant’s foot. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve relived the memory of it. What day it was. What time it was.
Apparently, old people remember where they were when Gazza cried and Diana died. Well I remember where I was at 4.37pm on Friday 6th December 2013 – our kitchen.
I’ve got a mobile phone, but it’s only so my parents and elder brother can keep in touch with me. Keep in touch? Stalk me more like. It’s like my debit card. My dinner money and pocket money get put into my account but I wouldn’t dare get cash from a machine. They’d demand to know why I needed the money, what I was buying. Drugs? Booze? So I use the card for everything and they check my account every day. Internet banking for them is spying without leaving the house.
But can you see how manipulative it all is? Aisha’s parents must be very modern – she’s got a phone and a debit card.
The phone? I’m not allowed to use it in the house. My father gives it to me before I leave for college. He’s at work when I return, so my mother takes it off me and goes through all my messages, photos. Privacy settings? Don’t make me laugh.
I’m a social amputee outside college, cut off from everything, and don’t even ask about the college holidays. They’re the worst, especially the summer; last year it was eight long weeks of traditional clothes and Bollywood movies. I once asked my white girlfriends, Gori they’re called in Punjabi, have you any idea how long those films last? They’re endless. My friends go bowling, walking in the park or by the sea, cinema, shopping. I’m a cross between a prisoner and a slave. I have to help my mother run around after my father and brother.
I wish I were a man. I’m a bloody servant to any men who visit, men in one room, women in the other. Can you believe that? In 21st-century Britain?
That’s why I love College Friday.
Every night, when I’m in bed, before I go to sleep, I dream of freedom. I can’t imagine what it must be like to make your own choices. Some of my friends smoke. I know it’s bad for you, but I’d love to try. I’d love a drink as well. My brother drinks. So does my father. All Sikh men drink. None of the women do. Not allowed, too shameful. If I could just drink one of their beers, or the whisky my father loves, just to say I tried.
If I wasn’t talking in my head, I’d look around now, make sure nobody could hear; if I’m being totally honest, I did have a drink, and a smoke, the Tuesday after that Friday.
The heating broke in college so we all finished early, before lunch. I went round Bethany’s, she’s my bezzie, and had a can of lager and a cigarette. God, how do people smoke? It was disgusting, made me really dizzy. The lager was bitter and horrible but it was the fact I’d tried them, made my own decision that I didn’t like them, that was the difference for me. Mind you, I’ve never chewed so much gum on the bus home.
I did get out once. It was amazing; at least it was at first.
Me and Bethany got invited to a party at a doctor’s house. His daughter goes to college with us. She’s Asian. My dad let me go, obviously because I was mixing with a doctor, but the GP is nothing like my dad and of course the three of us girls went out.
I wore some of Bethany’s clothes. We’re the same size. Size 8. She knew I’d be in a Sari. The only person at the doctor’s to be wearing one; even his wife wore trousers and a jumper. I borrowed a short tartan skirt, more like a belt, and black leggings. I got to wear make-up. Bethany put that on for me. I woul
dn’t know where to start.
I was terrified that I’d bump into my brother, but the girls talked me into taking the risk. Luckily I didn’t see him or any of his friends.
The night didn’t end well even though I was only drinking coke. I went all woozy and my legs wouldn’t work. I’ve no idea why, but I was better after a lie down, although my head was banging for ages. I was okay the next day.
I was a bit panicky going home, but everything was sorted. The doctor dropped me off, told my parents I’d been very polite, had been no bother.
You see I can’t do anything that might damage the precious family honour, the family Izzat. Girls carry the family honour. My brother will eventually have to marry a nice girl from India, but before that he can go out with English girls – “white trash” my mother calls them. He can go to pubs, clubs. Me? No chance. He could probably still go out with white girls after he’s married the nice girl from India, as long as he keeps up appearances. Me? You must be joking.
He goes to university, but guess what? He still lives at home. Surprised? You shouldn’t be. Do you seriously think he’s going to move out? Who are you kidding? My mother, sister and me do everything for him. When he marries, his wife will do everything for him. Why would he move out?
Equal opportunities. No discrimination. Don’t make me laugh.
Sons and daughters: same womb, different rules.
But going back to last Friday. The argument was massive, the biggest one we’ve ever had. We really went at it. I came home from college and straight upstairs to get changed. At 4.37pm (I feel my life will forever be determined by that moment, by those three numbers) my mother showed me a photograph of the man I am to marry. She deliberately told me on a Friday. All weekend to threaten me not to tell anybody when I went back to college.
Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set Page 31