Three sofas, each capable of seating three people, were placed around a large black marble-topped coffee table, each affording a panoramic view of the sea. Every external wall had a floor-to-ceiling window. On the balcony, a table and four chairs with enough space for a marquee.
Books filled the shelves and an iPad sat on the coffee table next to a Mac Air laptop.
‘Nice place,’ Ed said.
‘I like it.’ Her diction and Home Counties accent suggested a life of privilege. ‘Please, take a seat.’
‘Great views,’ Ed said, looking at the North Sea.
Sam was trying to rekindle her love of the water. A lifetime ago she felt bonded to the sea, but that was when Tristram was alive, before the accident. In February last year she’d jumped into a fisherman’s coble in a vain effort to rescue someone from the sea. That had been the first time she’d set foot on a boat in years. She wondered if she would ever sail the seas again. She loved it once. Maybe she could grow to love it again.
‘Why Seaton St George?’ Sam said.
‘It was the closest daddy would let me get to Newcastle,’ Alex said. ‘He reasoned that if I was miles away and had to travel, I wouldn’t be in the big city, partying every night.’ She laughed. ‘If only he knew. It’s no different here. It’s the North East. Everybody parties.’
Ed smiled. ‘My wife once said the CID would throw a leaving party if someone was moving desks.’
Alex laughed again. ‘Yeah I can imagine. Detectives seem fun but with that air of arrogance. Us girlies like that, real men. Military, police, fire. We’ve been chatted up by detectives before.’
‘Not as old as this one I hope,’ Sam said, jerking her thumb towards Ed.
Alex smiled.
Sam continued. ‘As we mentioned on the phone, we just want to ask a couple of questions if that’s alright?’
‘Yes,’ she hesitated. ‘Only, will it take long? I’m supposed to be meeting some friends later for a drink, then dinner.’
Ed smiled again. Call him old school but in the North East, dinnertime was around noon, tea was the evening meal, and supper was eaten in your dressing gown, usually consisting of a couple of Jacob’s cream crackers.
‘Not long at all,’ Sam said. ‘I’m just trying to get everything in chronological order. Get things right in my own mind. What are you studying?’
‘English.’
‘Nice subject. I did psychology. Anyway... Saturday. Were you at anytime in the Jolly Roger?’
‘Yes,’ Alex said. ‘We were in there from about 7.30 until, let me think…until about 10. The music’s decent and the drink’s cheap.’
‘Who were you with?’
‘Friends. Let’s see. There was Juliette, Charlotte, Tracey, Anastasia and myself.’
Sam saw a photograph of a group of five girls on the TV stand.
‘Is that them by any chance?’ She pointed at the photograph.
‘That’s them.’ Alex got out of her seat and passed the framed photograph to Sam.
‘Who’s the redhead?’
‘That’s Tracey. She’s from the North East. Everybody else is from Cirencester. I’ve known the other girls for like, forever, but I met Tracey on the course. She’s great.’
‘Did she have an argument with any boys on Saturday?’ Sam said.
‘Tracey? Every week. Look at her, gorgeous. Six foot. And that hair. There’s always somebody hitting on her. We girls have a code. If we like someone, we’ll say to the group ‘is that assignment due in next week?’ If we don’t like them, we’ll say ‘what time does your mother arrive?’ That way everybody in the group knows whether to stay for another drink or move on.’
‘And Tracey does this, does she?’ Sam asked.
‘Tracey?’ Alex laughed. ‘No. If she likes somebody, she’ll just say Julian, Conner... whatever, is going to buy me a drink. If she doesn’t like them, she’ll just tell them to eff off.’
‘Are you out with Tracey today?’ Sam said.
‘No. She and Charlotte had a late one. They both went to a party with some guys they met. I was texting Charlotte to make sure she was okay, you know, before I saw the…’
Her head dropped forward.
‘That’s why I said I’m supposed to be meeting someone. I’m not sure I can face going out. Juliette and Anastasia will want to know all the details.’
‘It’s a natural human tendency,’ Sam said. ‘You’re in the limelight. How long have you lived here?’
‘Not long. I was pleased to get out of the halls. Daddy looked at some rentals but didn’t like them. He bought this place so I didn’t have to share.’
Sam passed Alex her card.
‘If you need anything, or just want a chat, give me a call. What you saw in the early hours is not something people normally see. If you want to talk to someone about it, there are organisations I can recommend.’
‘Thanks,’ Alex said.
All three stood up and walked to the door. Sam looked at the spiral wooden staircase with brushed metal banister going to the upstairs of the apartment. Penthouse by the sea. Daddy’s got some cash.
‘May as well do Tracey while we’re out,’ Sam said, speed-marching to the car.
‘No problem,’ Ed said. ‘Nice flat.’
‘Very, and all because daddy doesn’t want her sharing. Must be nice.’
Tracey Davies’s flat was on the Conifers, an estate built in the 80s; two-storey buildings, each flat with its own ground-floor door.
Sam stared out of the passenger window.
‘I can’t drive past this place now without thinking of Danielle Banks and that masked bastard.’
It wasn’t a bad area per se. Dealers and low-lifes hadn’t infested it, but it was no penthouse by the sea.
Tracey answered the door and invited them in. Still in her dressing gown, she looked like she’d spent the night in a wind tunnel, hair wild and her naturally pale skin, a signpost to her Scottish heritage, so white she could have had an appointment with an embalmer.
‘Sorry about the state of the place, but it was a heavy night.’
Sam saw the wet patch on the carpet, her nose twitching at the lingering smell of vomit. A half-eaten pitta, red-stained doner, and a wilting salad lay in a Styrofoam container on the floor; even the pirate-eye-patched Jack Russell snoozing by the window had been blessed with sufficient canine common sense to leave the food well alone.
Tracy flicked the top of a gold Zippo and lit a cigarette.
‘You’re aware that Alex found a body in the river last night,’ Sam said.
‘God I know. How awful for her. I saw it on her Facebook, not the body, the notification… I think I’d have thrown up… I did that anyway.’
A short burst of laughter was followed by a long bout of smoker’s cough. Tracey shot up, raced into the kitchen and the detectives heard her clear her throat then spit. Sam hoped it was into the sink.
‘Sorry about that,’ Tracey said, dropping on to the armchair and putting three pieces of sugar-coated chewing gum in her mouth, the cigarette no longer in her hand.
She confirmed that she’d been in the Jolly Roger with her friends.
‘Yeah, a group of lads came over. Pissed and wearing the same T-shirts. Juveniles. Anyway they were drooling all over us. I told them to fuck off. You know what it’s like.’
She looked at Sam.
Sam shook her head. Yes, she’d been chatted up, had her share of wolf whistles and the like, but there seemed no barriers now. Somehow it seemed much worse. The number of schoolgirls and students suffering indecent assaults their attackers passed off as ‘banter’ was frightening. Social media had sparked an explosion in cyber bullying, trolls threatening rape and worse from the safety of a laptop screen and anonymity.
‘Had you ever seen these men before?’ Sam asked.
‘Not that I remember. Was it one of them in the river?’
‘We’re following a number of lines of inquiry,’ Sam said. ‘Have you seen them around the cam
pus?’
‘I don’t think so.’
She popped more chewing gum in her mouth.
‘As a matter of interest, Tracey, what are you studying at university?’ Ed asked.
Tracey flashed a big smile, looked Ed up and down, and fixed her eyes on his. ‘English Lit.’
Sam stood up. ‘Thanks for your time. Somebody will take a statement from you tomorrow.’
Tracey shook Sam’s hand then Ed’s, her hand lingering on his just a little longer than needed.
Walking down the path, Ed’s stride was longer than normal as he rushed to the car. He bleeped it open, pushed the key in the ignition, and had the engine running before Sam sat next to him.
She pulled her seat belt towards her and looked at him.
‘Well how much was she flirting?’
‘Don’t be daft. She’s the same age as my daughter.’
Sam patted his thigh. ‘Her eyes were devouring you.’
Ed’s face flushed. He shoved the gear stick into first and hit the accelerator harder than necessary. The car shot forward, the engine whining, demanding second gear.
‘Oh Ed,’ she cooed. ‘You’re embarrassed!’
‘Look, over the years it’s happened, women coming on to you, thinking you have an exciting life. But when it’s young lasses like that, well, it makes me uncomfortable.’
‘She’s very confident alright.’
‘Maybe, but there was something about her,’ Ed said. ‘The way she spoke about what happened in the pub, really spat the words out. Her eyes gave nothing away but she’s one aggressive young lady. Almost regressed back into that situation, a cognitive interview without any prompting from us.’
At the turn of the millennium more and more academics became involved with police interview techniques. Ed had undertaken the nationally recognised witness interviewing training that cascaded out of the academic research.
The cognitive interview revolved around getting the witness to describe sounds and smells, in an effort to put them back in the moment, the theory being it would maximise the information.
‘So what’s your point?’
Ed said: ‘Not sure there is one, except there’s more to her than meets the eye.’
Chapter Eight
‘Sorry I’m late,’ Ed said, removing his jacket, pulling out a chair from underneath the table in the kitchen, his stomach reminding his twitching nostrils how hungry he was. The two guests nodded. His wife glared.
‘We’re used to it,’ Sue said, in a monotone voice without a hint of humour.
Roast beef and Yorkshire puddings were off the menu; today it was chicken curry, lamb curry, dhal, and roti.
Surinder, or Sue to almost everyone, was a wonderful cook and over the years all of Ed’s friends and colleagues had jockeyed for invites to his famous home curry nights. Indian restaurants were fine, Punjabi restaurants better, but nothing beat the curries Asians made at home.
Sue, like Aisha, was of Punjabi Sikh heritage, but while Sue had been able to choose her own husband, Ed doubted the same would apply to Aisha.
Ed spooned chicken curry on to his plate and tore his roti.
‘Do you know this family, the Bhandals?’
‘Not personally,’ Sue said. ‘But Leela and Eric do.’
Sue glanced at her lifelong friend. They’d met on the first day of infants, two Sikh girls in a predominantly white school.
‘You still think she ran away?’ Ed asked.
‘Not unheard of and there’s nothing to say otherwise,’ Sue said. ‘Why you asking?’
Ed picked up the ice-cold Kingfisher, the condensation wetting his fingers. ‘We’re doing a review of the initial investigation,’ he told her. ‘Nothing unusual in that, but that press conference yesterday... ’
‘Yeah, I saw that,’ Ekbir, Eric to his friends, said. ‘The CCTV with the boyfriend. I thought that was a bit iffy at the time.’
‘How?’ Ed asked, picking up some chicken with a piece of roti. There were no knives and forks when they were eating curry.
‘The father’s at the Gurdwara nearly every day. Then his daughter’s on the TV walking around a shopping centre with a boy.’
Leela nodded.
‘Nobody around this table is a practising Sikh,’ Eric said. ‘I don’t wear a turban, but even I might find it difficult if my daughter is supposed to be at college and then she’s seen walking around the shops with a boy. It’s deceitful, disrespectful.’
‘Multiply that by a hundred, a thousand if they’re strict,’ Leela said, dabbing her napkin around the corner of her mouth.
Ed raised the bottle to his lips and drank a little. This was a social occasion but he couldn’t let it drop.
‘You obviously know him, know the family. What are they like?’
‘He’s a bit of a leader in the community,’ Eric said. ‘Not the go-to guy, but a respected member. Had an arranged marriage, wife came from the Punjab. Her brother followed her. He’s anti-Western everything where Sikh women are concerned. Like the mother, thinks all white women are trash.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You don’t need to scream your views from the rooftops,’ Eric said. ‘You know that. Body language, throw-away sentences... it’s hard to hide your attitudes and beliefs.’
‘Another bottle, Eric?’ Sue said, her chair scraping across the tiles as she pushed it away from the table. At the fridge, out of sight of Leela and Eric, Sue raised her eyebrows, the non-verbal communication for ‘Back off Ed'.
Ed nodded.
‘So do you think she ran away?’
He would just have to deal with the domestic argument that would follow.
‘Everything’s possible,’ Eric said, nodding his appreciation at the lamb curry. ‘I’ve no doubt she’s not at home but whether she removed herself or was removed, I don’t know. That’s your job, Ed, not mine, but after the TV today, I did hear that she was promised.’
‘Where did you hear that?’ Ed said, trying to stop his voice rising.
‘Ed, we have been friends for many years and I respect you. Our wives went to school together but there are some things you cannot ask me because I will offend you when I refuse to answer, and I have no desire to offend you.’
‘The arranged marriage. Aisha’s. Was he in India?’
‘Yes,’ Eric said. ‘Same village as her mother. There was an engagement party when Aisha was four, although I suspect if she remembers it, she’ll just remember a party.’
‘In India?’
‘Of course.’
‘What do you think happened?’
‘Ed!’ Sue exclaimed.
‘It’s okay,’ Eric said. ‘As I see it, she either ran away, was shipped off to India, or was… you know, look, well I don’t want to make wild accusations.‘
Sue’s voice was just loud enough to be above conversational, it’s tone slightly aggressive.
‘And you weren’t invited round to do anything of the sort. That’s quite enough, Ed. Our friends have come around for a pleasant evening, not to be given the third degree like one of your police interviews.’
‘What the bloody hell were you thinking about,’ Sue shouted as soon as she slammed the front door, goodbyes exchanged. ‘It was bad enough being an hour late but then you start interviewing them about that poor girl.’
She followed Ed into the sitting room where he flopped into an armchair. ‘You’re always at work,’ Sue raged. ‘You were there yesterday, today, all weekend you’ve been there.’
Her hands were on her hips, voice getting louder. Ed stared at one particular spot on the wall.
‘Today was meant to be a couple of hours and you were there all day. You see more of Sam Parker than you do of me.’
Ed jumped up and side-stepped around Sue.
‘It’s my job,’ he shouted, walking to the door.
‘That’s right. It’s always the job.’
Ed climbed the stairs as Sue rushed into the hallway.
‘Go on,’
she shouted. ‘Go to bed. Half 10 and you’re off to bed. Funny how you can stay out all hours when you’re working or down the bloody pub but when you’re here with me, you’re straight to bed.’
Ed slammed the bedroom door.
‘I’ll sleep down here tonight.’ He heard Sue’s parting shot.
Ed undressed, slipped into bed. Another day in paradise.
Ed was under the duvet before Sam left the office.
Her whiteboard was full. She had split the board in five columns, each column representing a student who had died in the river. The columns covered the usual: name, date of birth, date of death, where discovered, who by, where they’d been on the night of their death, toxicology results, visible injuries, physical characteristics.
Once she had gleaned that information from the respective files, she had sat for about 30 minutes on the edge of her desk trying to establish if there was a connection.
Were they known to each other? Nothing in the files to answer that question either way. Had they come into contact with the same people when they were out? Another unknown. All had drunk to excess. All were male. Was there something in that? Physically, none were as big and muscular as Jack Goddard.
There was no apparent pattern regarding the days of their deaths – they didn’t all happen on a Saturday night, Sunday morning.
Only Jack Goddard had injuries inconsistent with falling into the river and drowning. He was the only one not to have drowned.
She stood up. It was late and on a Sunday this corridor in Headquarters was deserted. The Force Control room was on the other side of the building. She opened the window, lit a Marlboro Gold, and inhaled deeply before walking back to the board. She drew a line underneath the last of the entries and wrote MOTIVE. She stared at the board. Nothing. She couldn’t think of one. Sexual? No evidence. Theft? Nothing stolen. A random need to throw people in river? Why? Nothing linking the victims.
The serial killer theory might gain some momentum in tomorrow’s press conference, but here, in her office, it was slowing quicker than a bobsleigh with the brakeman doing his job.
The first four deaths, while tragic and avoidable, appeared to be down to drink.
Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set Page 36