Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘Well it was definitely him,’ Sam said. ‘Get down and see him. He’s at court this morning. Do an intelligence interview with him…tell you what, we’ll both go. I could do with the fresh air and I can’t be bothered with these emails at the minute. Then we can go and see Aisha’s parents. I’ve got their phone number from the file.’

  The prisoner was brought into an interview room.

  ‘Elliot, this is Detective Chief Inspector Parker,’ Ed said. ‘Sit down. We want to conduct an intelligence interview. We don’t want to ask you about the paint. Do you understand?’

  A nod.

  ‘The T-shirts you were all wearing. What’s their significance?’

  ‘They’re just a laugh?’ Elliot said.

  Sam leaned in close. ‘As a woman I find them highly offensive. I find you highly offensive.’

  She allowed her words to linger in the confined room. ‘How many are in your pathetic little club?’

  His eyes stared at the grey linoleum, his speech unsteady and slurred like a Saturday night drunk. ‘About 12 of us.’

  ‘And if I was a pathetic little boy wanting to join, how do I do that?’ Sam asked.

  ‘There was just the five of us originally, the ones who live together,’ Elliot said. ‘Well that’s not strictly true. There were four. I joined when I went to live with them. I was last there. It’s why I’ve got that tiny room. It’s not even a room really, there’s not even a window.’

  ‘What you live in a cupboard?’ asked Ed. ‘Like Harry Potter?’

  Elliot raised his head. ‘I suppose so, but I just wanted to live with them. Sound lads. So I was the fifth member, Glen and Jack then let others join, if they thought they were sound.’

  He stared at Ed, the words leaving his mouth faster than a swarm of flies fleeing a chemical spray.

  ‘Look, it was just a laugh, just banter,’ he gabbled. ‘They wore pink ‘Pussy Patrol’ T-shirts in ‘The Inbetweeners’ movie. No harm in it.’

  ‘Tell that to the DCI,’ Ed said, indicating Sam.

  Prince’s eyes dropped as Sam leaned in again.

  ‘You approached a group of girls in the Jolly Roger. One of them told you to fuck off. Seen them before?’

  He looked at her. ‘Think so. About town... campus. Never spoke to them though. Glen and Jack always fancied themselves around the girls.’

  ‘Did you argue with anyone that night?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Jack argued with the doormen,’ Elliot answered. ‘Threw the dregs of a pint over one of them but I left. I didn’t want to get beat up.’

  ‘Have any of your group, what’s it called… Mortimers. Any of that group been beaten up before?’ Sam pushed.

  ‘No, not to my knowledge.’

  ‘Do you do anything other than walk around in your stupid T-shirts sexually harassing women?’ Sam said evenly.

  ‘We don’t sexually harass anyone.’ Elliot looked offended.

  Sam shot forward, her face inches from his as he squirmed backwards, trying to increase the distance.

  ‘What, so saying ‘I suppose a fuck’s out of the question’ is not sexual harassment?’

  ‘I never said it.’

  Sam moved away from the table.

  Elliott sighed heavily.

  Ed handed him his business card. ‘Think of anything else Elliott, anything, like why would someone want to kill Jack, let us know. Okay?’

  Another nod.

  Friday 13th December 2013

  I burst through the door. Mam was at the Gurdwara, Mia was in the sitting room.

  ‘Only me.’ No response; just voices from the TV.

  I sprinted upstairs. The house was boiling. Mother never acclimatised to England.

  I yanked open the bedroom door I shared with Mia. Baljit, being the only son, had his own room, bigger than ours, of course. My pink suitcase was under the bunk bed. I had the top one, privilege of rank I used to say to Mia; heard that once in a military drama.

  I grabbed a couple of dresses from the drawers. Some underwear. Stuffed them into the case. The ‘uniform’ I was wearing was the only western dress I had.

  I took a pen and an A4 pad out of my school bag, sat on the bottom bunk and started to write. More like scribble really, balancing the book on my knees.

  Dear Mammy-ji and Daddy-ji

  I am sorry but I cannot stay. I cannot marry that man. I want my own life, on my own terms. I want to go to university. I want to meet a man and fall in love with him.

  I was born here, in England. I have British values. I don’t want to marry a stranger who is way much older than me.

  I hope you understand.

  I love you all, but cannot stay.

  Sat-sri-akaal

  Aisha

  I tore the page out of the book and left it on top of the drawers. They would find it, but not straight away. Mia wouldn’t come up here until bedtime. She would probably be the one to find it.

  I glanced at my watch. 5.50pm. Sukhi should be at the end of the street now. I stopped at the door then turned. One last look. I’ve slept my whole life in this little room.

  Shit. The bathroom.

  I dropped my suitcase and ran on my tiptoes. I grabbed my hairbrush, toothbrush, and deodorant, ran back to the bedroom, bent down, and stuffed them in my case. I turned around again at the door. Justin! Can’t leave Justin. I shuffled under the bed, rummaged amongst the old toys and got the signed photo Bethany had found on eBay. ‘Put it on your wall,’ she’d said when she gave it to me. No chance. A white pop star? Just watching him on the TV would mean trouble if I was caught.

  Run. Get out of here.

  I dropped my case in the hallway, dashed into the sitting room and gave Mia a kiss on the top of her head.

  ‘Get off,’ she shouted, as she pushed me away.

  I’ve no idea when I’ll next see her and she’s pushing me away. She doesn’t know what’s happening. Fifteen and she thinks she knows everything. I silently promised to come back for her. She’s not being told who to marry.

  Tuesday 15th April 2014

  Sam knocked on the black door of the terraced house. Davinder Bhandal opened it, stepped aside, and beckoned them in. Crossing the threshold reminded Sam of emerging from an aircraft when it landed somewhere hot. The white paint on the woodchip wallpaper had long since faded to yellow, but the dark wood frame surrounding the picture of Guru Nanak was gleaming.

  Sam caught a glimpse of Mrs Bhandal in the kitchen.

  Ed and Sam were ushered into the front room and sat on the sofa. Davinder sat on an armchair. ‘My wife does not speak English. I will tell her what was said after you leave. First, some tea.’ He shouted in what Sam presumed was Punjabi. Almost immediately Parkash Bhandal appeared carrying a gold-coloured tray with upturned sides.

  Head down, she placed the tray on the large mahogany coffee table and without speaking a word, left the room. Her face had been as expressionless as a Victorian servant waiting on her master.

  Davinder passed Sam and Ed a plate, invited them to a vegetable samosa and a cup of milky tea.

  Sam spoke. ‘Mr Bhandal, as I explained on the phone, the purpose of our visit is to introduce ourselves. Myself and Sergeant Whelan are now leading the investigation into Aisha’s disappearance.’

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘My solicitor is not impressed with the police action. Everything’s been done from the view of Izzat. It is ridiculous. Aisha had a good life. We were perhaps too soft with her. I blame myself. I should have been firmer.’

  ‘So would you describe her as being happy in the lead up to her disappearance?’ Sam asked.

  ‘She was happy all the time. Not just in the lead up, as you put it.’

  ‘I know how difficult it must be Mr Bhandal,’ Sam said. ‘I cannot begin to imagine how you must be feeling. A missing child. It must be heartbreaking. We will do everything we can to find her.’

  He bowed his head, an almost undetectable couple of nods, and wiped his eyes. He didn’t look up.

&nbs
p; ‘Thank you. We just want her back home. To see her again.’

  Sam couldn’t see Ed’s right hand, it was out of her line of sight, tucked under his leg, but she saw his forearm tighten.

  ‘We will go back to the start. Review everything,’ she said.

  Davinder’s head jerked up. ‘Why? She’s with that boy. The one she was in the town with. He’s vanished. He took Aisha, kidnapped her. I wanted to say she’d been kidnapped on the TV but Ms Carver didn’t think it was a good idea.’

  Sam knew that Jill Carver wasn’t foolish enough to allow allegations to be broadcast without some substance. Better to concentrate on the lack of progress rather than throwing in spurious, unsubstantiated claims.

  Sam said: ‘We will look at everything. Start again. Make sure we have missed nothing. Everybody wants the same result, Mr Bhandal, the safe return of Aisha.’

  He held her gaze.

  ‘My wife cannot sleep. Our other daughter won’t sleep in the bedroom she shared with Aisha. Baljit wishes he’d done more to protect his sister. All because of some boy she’d met. This is what happens.’

  Ed sat forward. ‘In the press conference on Saturday you said you wanted Aisha to enjoy everything the UK had to offer.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ Davinder said. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘If you wanted her to enjoy everything the UK had to offer, surely that would include allowing her to walk around the town with a friend, boy or not.’

  Davinder stood up. ‘Mr…’

  ‘Whelan,’ Ed said.

  ‘Mr Whelan.’ His shoulders were stiff, chest inflated, hands in his pockets, the I’m-the-master-in-this-house stance. ‘By that I meant education, better standard of living, good place to raise a family, but we still believe in certain traditions, certain behaviours that perhaps white people don’t. There are certain standards expected from our daughters.’

  ‘Izzat,’ Ed said.

  Davinder’s hands shot out of his pockets. The heel of his hand hit his forehead. His words were quick, accusatory. ‘Yes of course. Is it such a bad thing? Everybody should have honour.’

  He sat down and shook his head, his words measured. ‘There are so many temptations today.’

  Sam stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Bhandal.’

  In the hallway she stopped at the photograph on the tall, narrowed-legged table. A family photograph: mother, father, Baljit and Mia sat on the sofa in the living room, a Christmas tree the background. Where was Aisha?

  ‘Last Christmas?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Yes, although a far from normal one, as you can imagine,’ Davinder said. ‘My brother-in-law took it before Mia went to stay with him. She was too upset to stay in her own bedroom with Aisha going missing.’

  ‘Thank you for your time,’ she said.

  Sam and Ed walked back to the car, feeling Davinder’s eyes on their backs before he closed the front door.

  ‘What do you make of him, then?’ Sam asked as she slid into the passenger seat.

  Ed depressed the clutch and started the engine. ‘Same as I did when I saw him on TV. You saw his reaction to Izzat. To them, it’s the most important thing in their lives. More important than everything, including their own kids.’

  Ed turned left into another terraced street, glanced at a group of youngsters bouncing a football towards each other, and saw the women talking by front doors, heads covered with scarves.

  ‘Every one of these people is a potential gatekeeper.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘East Germans grassed on their neighbours to the Stasi. Same principle here, everybody spying on everybody else. Anybody causing shame, report back to the family. Gatekeepers of Honour, Sam.’ He accelerated. ‘They’re all self-appointed Gatekeepers of Honour.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jamie Telford opened the fridge door and took out a can of Fosters. The fridge was packed with lager. If they weren’t eating take-away food, they ate tins which allowed the fridge to be the alcohol cupboard.

  He pulled the ring. Lager fizzed, shot out of the can on to his hand. ‘Bollocks.’ He rubbed his hand against the pink cotton of his Mortimer T-shirt, gulped the lager, and flicked through the letters on the kitchen table. There were two for him. One from the bank. That could wait. He didn’t need to read a statement to know he was skint. The other was handwritten, addressed to ‘Mr. J Telford’.

  He put the can on the wooden table, opened the envelope, and pulled out the folded piece of paper.

  The wind wouldn’t have flown out of his body any quicker if a boxer had punched him in the gut.

  He jumped up, knees ramming into the underside of the table. The can flew through the air, its contents exploding across the floor as it hit the washing machine. The envelope’s contents, in contrast, fluttered like a stalling paper aeroplane on to the table.

  When had that photo been taken?

  He ran to the can, kicked it hard against the wall, and then slumped into a chair. Taking hold of the paper, he stared at the photograph and handwritten words, the writing like a child’s, undoubtedly disguised by the author. This wasn’t the work of a child.

  TOMORROW THIS WILL APPEAR EVERYWHERE. SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT.

  He stared again at the photograph but didn’t recognise the room or remember the night... just another party, only this time his drink, or at least one of them, must have been spiked. He had no recollection, his memory a blank.

  His hands were shaking as they repeatedly ran through his tight, curly hair. Rohypnol, Jamie’s panicked mind was shouting. No other explanation. He fumbled in his pocket for his smartphone, jabbed the call register, and hit the entry for Elliott Prince.

  Bev Summers walked into Sam’s office.

  Yeah, Sam was right. Ed thought. Fresh as a daisy.

  ‘Got the info from Jack Goddard’s phone. Right charmer.’ She sat down, passing a folder to both Sam and Ed.

  Sam flicked through the pile of sheets, about 20 in total: lists of calls, texts, and photographs.

  The printing department had quartered the pages, each segment showing a photograph of a young woman in bed, alone, the bed covers pulled back. Most of them were topless.

  ‘Who do we think they are?’ Sam said.

  ‘University students,’ Bev said. ‘Those rooms are in the Halls of Residence. The students are asleep, unaware the photo’s being taken. Look at page 5. Look at how many followers he’s got on Instagram. More than 200.’

  Horrifying. Sam thought. Thank God social media wasn’t around when I was at uni.

  Ed stiffened in his chair. ‘The most well-connected generation in history and the loneliest. Don’t know how to converse outside their Facebook groups. They’ll get a hell of a shock when they have to step into the real world.’

  Ed had seen two pictures just the other day. One showed a young soldier on a landing craft approaching Normandy with the caption ‘A 19-year-old in 1944. High chance of certain death.’ The next showed a lad of this generation sitting alone, knees tucked under his chin, arms wrapped around his legs. The caption read ‘Because words hurt’.

  To Ed, it confirmed what he had long thought. Moral cowards who leave university with bags of debt and a Mickey-mouse degree that would get them a job behind a bar or a shop counter.

  ‘The arseholes taking the photos want stringing up,’ he said quietly.

  Sam stood up and stretched, her headache not as fierce but the furry carpet on her tongue a lingering reminder of the hangover.

  ‘That’s what’s worrying me,’ she said. ‘What if there’s a link between the deaths of these students. We may have just found a connection. Check if any of the deceased were following Goddard on Instagram. Check his Facebook account as well. What’s this then?’

  Sam had turned to a photograph of nine clearly drunk young men. Ed turned to the same page. Students, all holding cans, arms around each other, all wearing the same blue T-shirts. The printed logo, a play on Facebook and in the same font, said ‘Freshers’ and in the re
ctangular search bar ‘hashtag slags and beer’.

  ‘Are they all like that?’ Bev asked, shaking her head. ‘The so-called educated generation?’

  ‘I’m sure they’re not,’ Sam said. ‘But unis seem to get their fair share these days.’

  ‘Half of them just want a good bat,’ Ed scowled. ‘Look at this lot. Arrogance personified. We can do what we want, sod the rest of society. To think my family fought in two world wars to give these tossers their freedom. Why did they bother? They’ll all run home crying to mummy when the nasty policeman asks them questions.’

  Sam and Bev smiled.

  Bev pointed at the picture in Ed’s bundle. ‘We’ve identified Goddard, Elliott Prince, and the others who live in the house with them. There are a couple of unknowns.’

  ‘I’ll go and see the bold Elliott Prince tomorrow,’ Ed said. ‘He’ll name them for me.’

  Sam looked at Bev. ‘Nothing from Tom King?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Another thing on the list for tomorrow,’ said Sam. ‘But I’m not being late tonight. It’s my course.’

  ‘Can’t tempt you for one then?’ Bev said.

  ‘No. Take Ed.’

  ‘I’m in enough shit,’ Ed shook his head. ‘Straight home for me. I need some brownie points.’

  Sam strolled through the campus, all Tarmac, concrete and gleaming new buildings. The University of Seaton St George, USG, with the inclusive motto ‘Generation Us’, had been a polytechnic until 1992.

  The rise in tuition fees had seen it grow almost as quickly as the vice-chancellor’s salary. Almost.

  Tonight’s two-hour session would involve a discussion about Hemingway’s ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’, in particular whether Pablo was a coward because he didn’t want to blow up the bridge.

  Sam walked down the sterile corridor; plain cream walls without pictures or posters, light grey floor covering, and the sound of her heels echoing. She’d been home, changed into jeans and a light blue cashmere V-necked sweater.