Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘Go on.’ Sam stood and walked to the window.

  ‘The boy she’s with has not been found. The suggestion is that either they ran away together, or he has caused her harm. From the family point of view, walking in town with a boy is shameful behaviour, affects the family Izzat.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Paul looked up from his writing pad.

  ‘Izzat. Honour. That could be a trigger for the family to cause her harm, or spirit her away. The other is the fact that she’s even in the town. The question has never been asked, but I have a feeling her family thought she was at college. I suspect she never told them college finished early on a Friday.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’ Bev asked.

  ‘Buys her some freedom. You have no idea the life some of these girls lead. They’re exposed to Western society, Western freedoms, on a daily basis, when they go to school or college, but when they go home, it’s like stepping back in time. They’re back in rural India, back to being second-class citizens.’

  ‘Poor kids,’ Sam said, turning to look out of the window: bright blue sky, wispy cirrus clouds, and contrails from a commercial aeroplane. She hoped Aisha was looking up somewhere, enjoying the sunshine.

  ‘What a life. What was the reason the family waited until Monday before reporting her missing?’

  ‘This is a huge indicator that something’s not right,’ Ed said. ‘Her father told the police the family thought she must have gone to stay with friends for the weekend. Without them knowing about it? Not a cat in hell’s chance would they allow that to happen. Not look for her? She was allowed to stay out all night? Without her telling them? No chance. Families like that control their daughters. She wouldn’t be allowed out for the weekend even if she asked their permission. They would fear being talked about in the Gurdwara.’

  Ed saw the puzzled look on Paul’s face.

  ‘Sikh temple…the boy, the shopping centre, the deceit about college finishing early on a Friday, any one of those is enough for them to kill her.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Paul said.

  ‘Girls have been killed for wearing jeans, make-up, becoming too westernised, having a mobile. Izzat is more important to these people than their own kids. Unless Aisha managed to make a run for it, we’re looking for a body.’

  Chapter Four

  Inspector Mick Wright was determined to use the death of Jack Goddard to improve his reputation.

  He’d already organised a ‘Special’ – a post-mortem conducted by a Home Office Forensic Pathologist. It would take place later that morning. Forget the cost. It would come out of the Major Incident budget, out of Sam Parker’s budget, but she couldn’t argue. A young man dead in the river. A fall or something more sinister? He was just being thorough. Never again was Parker going to criticise him.

  He hated the CID, a bunch of poseurs and piss-heads. Uniform did the real work, around-the-clock policing, not just cherry-picking jobs. CID got everything they wanted – staff, equipment, the lot. On Jack Goddard’s death it was him and two PC’s. If Parker were doing it, she’d have a full team.

  It was the same when he’d been on the Accident Unit as a PC. He’d deal with a fatal collision alone. They’d have an army on a murder. Why did society treat road death victims as the poor relation to murder victims? Try explaining that to the family of a teenager killed in his mate’s car while the driver walked away.

  Jack Goddard was the same age as his son, went to the same university. He’d ask his son tonight whether he knew him. West Midlands Police delivered the death message in the early hours to Jack’s parents. Fortunately Jack had not changed the address on his driving licence.

  Mick had spoken to Clive Goddard on the telephone, a short, difficult conversation. Weren’t they always? His parents were already discussing emptying his digs. Distraught, they were en route from Birmingham. They had provided Jack’s student address. He must remember to update the message, certainly before the likes of Nosey Parker got wind of it.

  He read the statement from Alex O’Connell again. He didn’t want to miss anything.

  At 4.05am I was walking along the south-side tow path by the river after a night out with my friends.

  He skim read the friends’ names. It never ceased to amaze him why young girls walked home in the early hours along a river tow path. Alcohol usually had something to do with it, although the officer who took the statement had said Alex wasn’t too drunk.

  I was walking in a westerly direction towards Stanhope Road. I was texting my friends Charlotte Swains and Tracey Davies who had ‘pulled’ in The Jolly Roger. I wanted to make sure they were safe.

  I looked up from my phone and my attention was drawn to something in the river. It was floating, but had got snagged in the weeds on the opposite bank to where I was stood.

  I immediately knew it was a body. It was approximately six metres away. There is street lighting, and my view was unobstructed. The body was floating face down in the river. It appeared fully clothed, but the T-shirt had ridden up at the back. I couldn’t tell whether it was male or female, although by the size I suspected it was a male.

  Mick Wright shook his head. What a waste.

  At no time while I was on the tow path did I see anyone else until the arrival of the police. I did not hear anything untoward.

  At the time I was wearing a red sleeveless silk top, black shorts, and silver thigh-high boots.

  At least she would be easy to eliminate if anybody else on the tow path mentioned seeing her.

  Mick Wright scribbled in his book: no follow-up witnesses as a result of Alex’s statement, no CCTV on the tow path. His phone rang. The pathologist was at the mortuary.

  ‘Do you know Mick Wright’s doing a Special?’ Sam asked, returning from the toilets. ‘He’s just rang me.’

  ‘Know nothing about it,’ Ed said.

  ‘It would have been nice if he’d ran it past me before he spent a few grand of my budget. I’d have said yes. Can’t be too careful, especially with all the attention these student deaths are getting in the Post.’

  The Seaton Post had until quite recently been an evening paper, but like so many provincials it was now on the streets in the morning. Cost savings no doubt.

  ‘At least Darius hasn’t gone along with the serial killer theory bandied about by a lot of the students,’ Sam said.

  ‘Darius Simpson,’ Ed grinned. ‘The Seaton Post’s intrepid sleuth who swoons at the mere mention of your name.’

  ‘Behave yourself.’

  ‘Anyway, he knows better than to print garbage. Students trying to get police patrols on the tow path. We all know why they fall in.’

  Sam’s mobile rang.

  ‘Hi Julie… yeah that’s fine. Thanks for the call… yeah keep them right.’

  She ended the call and looked at Ed.

  ‘Julie Trescothick’s the Senior SOCO doing the PM. She just wanted to make sure we knew about it.’

  ‘Good girl is Julie,’ Ed said. ‘Right, back to Aisha… I think we should also re-interview her friends at college.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Sam said. ‘Bev, can you start that off. Get their names. Let’s start revisits first thing. Paul, grab the CCTV.’

  Paul raised his eyebrows and nodded. He knew he’d cop for that job.

  ‘Ed, let’s go into my office.’

  Sam sat on her chair. ‘Still think she’s dead?’

  Ed spoke as he pulled out a chair.

  ‘The more I read, the more I find out about it, yes, unless she got away. If she got away, she might be okay. Whether they’d send bounty hunters after her, who knows.’

  ‘Bounty…would they? Send bounty hunters?’

  ‘People in that community get paid to track missing girls down. It’s not unheard of.’

  ‘Jesus, it’s a different world.’

  ‘It is,’ Ed said. ‘I see from the Misper file her phone’s not been used since she went missing, and what little money she had in her account’s not been touched. Her debit card’s not been us
ed. Not good signs with normal Missing from Homes, but in Aisha’s case potentially the opposite. She’d be too scared to leave any sort of trail. She’d know they’d be coming after her.’

  ‘Hospitals?’

  ‘All checks negative according to the file.’

  Sam dug her cigarettes out of her handbag.

  ‘Jesus, Ed, what sort of parent even contemplates hurting their own child?’

  ‘Not one you’d relate to. None that most people in this country would relate to. But we’re not talking about most people.’

  ‘Pass me her photograph please.’

  Sam looked at Aisha, a young girl sat on the sofa in her living room, wearing what looked like college uniform.

  ‘She looks like every other young girl in the country, happy, a zest for life, looking forward to the future.’

  ‘Notice how the family provide a picture of her wearing school uniform?’ Ed said.

  ‘It’s not so unusual,’ Sam told him. ‘Some parents, it’s the only photograph they have of their kids.’

  ‘Agreed, but in this case, bet your bottom dollar, it’s the only photograph they have of her in Western dress,’ Ed said. ‘Giving us a photograph of her in a sari doesn’t back up their claim of her being integrated, able to go to her mates for the weekend without telling them.’

  ‘But they all wear saris and traditional dress.’

  ‘Of course they do, at weddings, special occasions, family gatherings, but not every day. Walk the streets. See how many young Sikh girls are wearing jeans, tracksuits, whatever. I can guarantee that didn’t happen with Aisha. Just look at the way her parents were dressed on the TV.’

  Sam’s mobile rang again.

  ‘Hi Julie…shit… okay…thanks… yeah. Twenty minutes. Cheers.’

  ‘Julie Trescothick,’ Sam said. ‘Jack Goddard may have been pissed, we’ll get toxicology on that, but his death’s not a case of a drunk stumbling into a river.’

  Ed looked at Sam. Many cops got over-excited when something out of the norm occurred. Not Sam. In the main she was unflappable.

  ‘He’s got a depressed fracture at the back of his skull, caused by something like a ball hammer. Easily missed at the scene under his thick hair.’

  ‘Could he have hit something in the river?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Always a possibility, but he hasn’t drowned. He’s been asphyxiated.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘There’s a tiny piece of plastic in his mouth. It’ll need more tests but it looks like a bit of a carrier bag.’

  Chapter Five

  Sam was already getting her coat. She looked at the as-yet-unopened copy of Yachting Monthly on her desk. Maybe she should get out on the water again. ‘I’ll go to the mortuary. Speak with Mick Wright.’

  ‘Who’s doing the PM?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Jim Melia.’

  ‘Good old Jim.’

  Sam was at the door.

  ‘They’ve got an address for Jack Goddard. Lives with his student mates. Take Paul. See what they can tell you. I’ll get Bev to call out some more staff. She can also sort out the press office.’

  ‘You doing a press conference today?’

  ‘Not on a Sunday. They’ve all got skeleton crews. We’ll get minimum coverage. We need impact. We’ll arrange it for first thing in the morning. Then we’ll have a shit storm.’

  ‘The students?’

  ‘Yep,’ Sam shouted, already striding down the corridor. ‘Adds credence to their theory of the serial killer.’

  The terrace house had been built in the early 1900s. Like many period town centre houses it had gone from middle-class family home to landlord-owned student let. Not all students wanted to live in new apartment blocks.

  Five students lived in this particular house, but those inside were about to be told that, as of the early hours, they were now a four.

  A dishevelled male, early 20s, short and plump with ginger hair and a face full of freckles, answered the door. Ed and Paul stood on the stone steps, the black paint flaking, scrubbing them daily a thing of the past.

  ‘CID,’ Ed said. ‘Can we come in? We need to speak about Jack.’

  Elliott Prince turned, sprinted into the house.

  ‘Lads, lads,’ he shouted. ‘Get down here…get down here now…it’s Jack. The police are here.’

  Elliott ran upstairs leaving the front door open. The detectives stepped inside, stood in the hallway and listened to the raised voices.

  Three others, looking as hung-over as Elliott, followed him downstairs. Only Elliott had a tracksuit on, the rest were in their boxer shorts.

  ‘What’s happened?’ one of the three asked, peering over the banister, the last in the line.

  ‘Is there somewhere we can all sit down?’ Paul said.

  Elliott led everybody into the living room. The stench from stale cigarettes, cheap lager and body odour hit the detectives like the clapper striking Big Ben. Overflowing ashtrays were on the floor, discarded beer cans and pizza boxes were everywhere.

  Ed brushed crumbs and whatever else off the armchair and sat down. Paul remained standing, not wanting to risk the other armchair. The four students squashed on to the three-seat settee.

  ‘What’s happened?’ one of them asked again, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you that Jack’s dead?’

  The young man covered his face with the palms of his hands. Elliott and the other two sat in silence.

  ‘How? What happened?’

  ‘He was found in the river in the early hours of the morning,’ Ed said. ‘When did you last see him?’

  The talker stood up and walked to a small dining table buried under a mound of clothes, rummaged around, and found a packet of cigarettes.

  ‘Last night we were all out together.’ He lit up. ‘What do you mean in the river? Another one drowned?’

  ‘All of you were out together? All of you in this room?’ Ed said.

  ‘Yes,’ the young man said as he exhaled smoke.

  The others nodded slowly.

  ‘Where were you all?’

  ‘The Jolly Roger until we got thrown out,’ Elliott said.

  Ed didn’t miss the glare the smoker flashed at Elliott.

  ‘Okay, I need you all to come to the police station right now. Get some clothes on. I’ll sort out some transport.’

  Mick Wright waved when Sam walked into the morgue. Sam smiled. Wait until I tell Ed you were in the viewing room, up a height behind a glass screen, with your handkerchief over your nose.

  She and Ed always stood close to the pathologist, close to the body, close enough to smell it, but more importantly close enough to see first hand the injuries.

  ‘Hi Sam,’ Jim Melia said. ‘I’ll show you the depressed fracture.’

  Sam walked across to the metal table. Jack Goddard was laid on his stomach, his broad shoulders squeezed in between the raised sides of the steel table.

  Sam went up close, bent forward, face inches from the deceased’s head. Jim had neatly trimmed the hair around the fracture.

  ‘See what you mean. Almost perfectly round. A ball hammer is a good bet. What do you think?’

  ‘Approached from behind.’ Jim stepped away from the body, took off his gloves, and washed his hands in the sink. ‘Whacked. If it didn’t render him unconscious, it would certainly temporarily incapacitate him, knock him off his feet. Then asphyxiated, possibly with a carrier bag over his head. Julie’s got the fragment for testing.’

  Julie Trescothick held up a small, clear bag containing the piece of plastic. ‘Then dumped in the river once dead,’ Jim continued. ‘Obviously don’t go public with any of that just yet. Let me do some more tests.’

  ‘Sure. Murder then?’

  ‘If not, it’s one hell of a way to commit suicide.’ Jim smiled.

  ‘Jim, you’re getting as bad as Ed.’

  ‘I know, but it’s Sunday. I was hoping to be carving a joint of beef not this young lad. Anyway, I’ll tell you more when everythin
g’s done and dusted. I haven’t started anything yet other than the external examination, but I wanted you to see the fracture.’

  ‘Thanks, Jim, you’re a star.’ She looked across to the viewing room. ‘For continuity, you okay to stay Mick. We’ll pick up the investigation.’

  He nodded.

  Sam strode out, lines of enquiry flying around her head: tomorrow’s press conference, appealing for witnesses and information, down-playing the serial killer angle that would no doubt be raised, fingertip search of the area near where the body was found, a walking search across a broader area – she would set the parameters with the Police Search Adviser or POLSA for short – looking for discarded weapons, CCTV examination of the town centre looking for Jack, who he was with and whether he was he followed, examining his sodden mobile for incoming and outgoing calls, texts, social media, checking his background, his associates and lifestyle and enemies, probing the accounts and potential alibis of the friends he was out with.

  Her brain felt like Vesuvius; if the molten ash was the lines of enquiry pouring out of her head, Ed and the rest of the team were Pompeii, about to be engulfed in a shed-load of work.

  She took out a Marlboro and lit up, remembering again how the death of a colleague in February last year had sent her back to the bosom of her nicotine mistress, her long smoke free sabbatical gone in a moment. She inhaled deeply. Her feet were tapping.

  God, I Iove this job!

  By the time he got to the police station Ed Whelan had made a snap judgement on the dynamics of the group he was about to interview: Elliott appeared the weak link, Glen the strongest. Elliott had been taken straight into an interview room. The door was closed and he was sat alone.

  A uniform officer was sitting with the other three, his orders simple... don’t let them talk to each other, watch them like a hawk and report their NVC’s, the non-verbal communications that could sometimes speak louder than words.

  Ed stood outside the interview room, ear pressed against the door, and listened. He heard the chair scrape along the floor, then footsteps, light-footed; Elliott was pacing about. Ed stepped back from the door and nodded at a passing uniform but didn’t speak.