Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘No.’

  ‘What’s going on, Elliott?’ Ed pushed. ‘Is this something to do with your little group?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Elliot Prince said slowly. ‘Maybe. Jack dead. Jamie getting this.’

  ‘So Jamie was in your Mortimer group?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Elliot answered. ‘He doesn’t live with us, but he’s in the group.’

  ‘The note says, ‘see how you like it’. What’s Jamie done?’ Ed went on.

  Elliot looked at the carpet.

  ‘Some of the lads take pictures. You know, of the girls when they’re asleep, pissed up.’

  ‘And then you circulate them on social media,’ Sam said. ‘We’ve seen some of them.’

  Her voice was cold with contempt and disgust.

  Elliot didn’t look up. ‘We never harmed anybody.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ Ed shouted. ‘Circulating pictures of girls? Pictures you had no right to take let alone spread around. Some might say this Jamie Telford character is getting what he deserved.’

  Elliot’s shoulders shook and his breathing resembled an asthmatic reaching for their inhaler.

  ‘There’s a difference between taking photographs of them sleeping and what they’ve done to Jamie.’

  The condensation on the windows was hiding everything outside. Ed turned the ignition key, depressed the switch for the windows, and opened them all a crack. ‘Tell that to the girls.’

  Sam spoke. ‘Elliott, do you think there are photos of you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘There could be. Jamie couldn’t remember anything about that photo. He says he must have been drugged. He’s convinced of that.’

  ‘So what do you think then Elliott?’ Sam said.

  His jaw tensed and his eyes grew dark.

  ‘People are after us,’ he said. ‘I can’t get hold of Jamie. Glen’s not answering his phone. Jack’s dead.’

  ‘Elliott, I want you to drive Ed to the police station,’ Sam told him. ‘He’ll take a statement from you. I want to know the name of every girl you photographed... ’

  ‘There are loads,’ he said in a whisper.

  ‘Well you better start racking your brains then, and I want the name of every member of this pathetic group of yours. Is that understood?’

  He nodded, rubbed his eyes and sniffed.

  ‘Good,’ Sam said. ‘And Ed will show you a photograph of a group of you wearing T-shirts with the hashtag ‘slags and beer’ written on them. I want the name of everybody in that group.’

  ‘I don’t know which photo you’re talking about,’ Elliot told them.

  ‘Ed will show it to you,’ Sam said. ‘I’m sure it will jog your memory.’

  Elliott Prince had given Ed the names of 14 girls before they reached the police station. In the interview room he identified every lad in the hashtag photograph.

  ‘Glen will give the names of any girls I’ve forgotten or didn’t know about,’ he said. ‘Glen was there every time with Jack.’

  Ed wrote the girls’ names on a piece of paper, the boys’ names he wrote on the photograph.

  ‘Do you think any of them had anything to do with Jack ending up in the river?’ Elliott said.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was only supposed to be banter. It wasn’t about killing people.’

  Ed finished with Elliott and found himself walking along Aisha’s terraced street. He walked past her house, got to the junction, turned around and watched. He had no idea what he was looking for. Inspiration?

  Friday 13th December

  He was at the end of the street. I was worried he wouldn’t be there. What if he hadn’t come? Then what? I didn’t know whether to walk or run. Running would attract attention. My bag felt heavy, but that was more to do with my heart than its actual weight.

  I’d lived in this street all my life: played hopscotch, hide-and-seek, street games. It was great until I reached puberty, then wallop. Everything changed. I’d known about Izzat since I was about seven, but by the time I entered my teenage years, the levels of expectation around my behaviour increased massively.

  And the thing was, you had absolutely no idea who was watching you and reporting back. The only way to stay out of trouble was to conform. But how many teenage girls brought up in England want to do that? Have a guess. Exactly. Zero.

  So you ended up in No Man’s Land. We did the First World War at school, so I understand the concept. That’s where I was; caught between the land where I’d been born, and the land that was dictating my behaviour. My No Man’s Land might have been invisible but it was no less real.

  The car lights were off but I could make out Sukhi behind the wheel. The car was parked directly under a lamppost.

  I had no idea where we’d go. South, I supposed. Not Birmingham or Leicester, way too many Asians. As soon as you turned up they’d be asking where are you from, who are your parents, what village are they from? That’s what it’s like. Everybody is linked, everybody knows someone in your family. Not London either. Too big and I like being by the sea.

  I remembered watching holiday programmes on the TV. Cornwall always looked nice. Bethany’s been there, said she had a great time. The sea is warmer than it is up here. And that Rick Stein’s from there, you know, the chef on the TV who cooks fish.

  I liked the sound of Cornwall. Suggest it to Sukhi. It’d take a few hours to drive there, maybe three? I was just guessing. I’d got no idea. Hey, we might be there in time for fish and chips. That’d be good, especially if Rick cooked them.

  And it’d be worth the journey because I’d never heard my family talk of any Sikhs living there. No Asians, no questions. And if people were looking for us, we’d be miles away.

  Sukhi would have to get rid of his car. They’d be able to trace us through that. I saw a programme once. It might have been on the news, or was it a short documentary? Anyway, a girl like me had run away. The family didn’t report her missing. They reported a theft, said she ran off with a load of money. Police saw her car, arrested her. Family dropped the charges saying they would take her back, forgive her. What happened? You guessed it. She was never seen again.

  Sukhi was out of the car now, stood by the passenger door. I was memorising as much as I could, even the colours of the doors. It’d be a long time before I was back in this street. Probably never.

  Cornwall. We might need to buy a map.

  Wednesday 16th April 2014

  Sam’s intention was to drive straight back to HQ, not park up, but she was distracted, fishing the rivers of her memory, trying to catch Macavity.

  The Sisters of Macavity? The answer was swimming in there somewhere.

  She found Classic FM, turned the blown air to high and pulled out of the lay-by. Johan Strauss seeped from the speakers, emptying her head of everything except a school trip to Vienna, a life of first dates and friendships, dead boys and missing girls not on her teenage radar.

  She headed out of town, concentrating on the music, trying to forget about Aisha and Jack Goddard.

  Her fingers tapped the wheel. Strauss and Vienna... theatres, costumes, darkened auditoriums. Her mind lingered – theatres, costumes, dark auditoriums.

  Strauss was still playing when her left palm slammed the wheel, a bite on her metaphorical rod. Eliot, not Elliott. She dropped into third gear, sped towards the university, and called Stella Burton en route.

  Stella, in the corner of the canteen, stood up when Sam walked in.

  ‘Sam. Good to see you.’

  They air kissed each other’s cheek. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘That’ll be great. White. No sugar. Thanks.’

  Sam sat on the metal chair and took in the soft yellows and earthy browns on the walls, glancing at academics huddled in twos and threes and talking in whispers. Stella was standing perfectly still in the queue, a 50-year-old spinster with frizzy, mousey hair, thick-framed black glasses, and a heavy-duty, ankle-length, olive-green, knitted skirt that probably wei
ghed more than she did.

  She walked back towards Sam, greeting a couple of people as she negotiated the tables.

  ‘So, you’re interested in Macavity.’

  ‘I am,’ Sam said, pulling the coffee towards her.

  ‘Thomas Stearns Eliot. T.S.Eliot. Genius of a man. Macavity was the only villain in Eliot’s Cats. You know, the mystery cat, the flying paw, the master criminal, baffling Scotland Yard, driving the Flying Squad to despair.’

  Again Sam was entranced, lost in Stella’s almost musical voice. She might consider a degree in English Literature.

  ‘So if I aligned myself to Macavity, am I saying I’m a criminal, albeit an educated one?’

  Stella said: ‘I think it’s more subtle than that. Educated to the extent that the individual knows about T.S.Eliot’s Cats. Macavity was outwardly respectable.’ Stella leaned across the table and whispered.

  ‘Although they say he cheats at cards.’

  She laughed and rocked back in her chair.

  ‘When the police arrive at the crime scene, he’s not there. So it’s more than just being a criminal. It’s about a criminal who never gets caught.’

  Worrying, Sam thought.

  ‘The cats had colours, didn’t they? What colour was Macavity?’

  ‘Tall, thin, and ginger,’ Stella said.

  An image appeared... a tall, redheaded English Literature student Sam had recently met.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The middle-aged Sikh man ignored Ed as he walked past. Ed didn’t ignore him. He stared long and hard: grey stubble, thin lips, maroon turban. His heart rate increased. It always did when he made his own luck.

  He’d seen that combination of stubble, thin lips and maroon turban before.

  His eyes never left the short man with the un-pressed black trousers and scuffed dark brown shoes, willing him to knock on Aisha’s door.

  Ed held his breath. The Sikh was about three doors away, four, tops. If he walked past, Ed would follow him.

  The Sikh didn’t walk past. He didn’t knock. He walked straight in.

  Jackpot. He’s family.

  The man in the background of the photograph Bethany Stevens had taken as a joke, the photograph showing Aisha kissing Sukhi, is family. The Kiss of Death scenario had just seen its odds slashed.

  Ed walked slowly towards the house. It would be considered incredibly rude not to introduce everyone inside if you were the head of a Sikh household. Get inside and he would know who was in Bethany’s photograph.

  He knocked. Davinder Bhandal answered.

  ‘Sergeant, come in please.’

  Ed looked at the photograph on the table. Sam was right. The settee Mia and Baljit were sitting on did look new.

  In the living room, thin lips was on his feet. It was a different sofa to the one in the picture.

  ‘Gurmej, this is Sergeant Whelan. Sergeant Whelan, this is my brother-in-law Gurmej.’

  Ed held out his hand. Gurmej shook it, albeit with some reticence.

  ‘Tea, Sergeant?’ Davinder asked. ‘Or perhaps something a little stronger?’

  ‘No thanks. I won’t take up much of your time.’ Ed sat down, the others followed. He looked at the father. ‘In the initial report you said Aisha had her mobile with her when she went missing.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Had you ever considered she had more than one?’

  ‘I’d never thought of that, Sergeant. I don’t think she’d have had any money for phones, but I’ll ask my wife.’

  ‘It’s just with her not using the number you have for her, I wondered if anybody ever suggested she may have had another one.’

  ‘Not to my knowledge Sergeant, but I will ask the family, see if it could be a possibility.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Ed stood up. ‘I’ll not keep you any longer.’

  Ed was shown to the door. Pleasant good-byes followed.

  Ed grabbed his mobile. He needed a lift back to HQ. His face was gleaming, his body glowing. It was always like this when a plan came together. Whether Aisha was alive or not, and he still hoped she was, the family were of the belief Ed thought she was. That’s exactly what he wanted them to think.

  He burst into Sam’s office.

  ‘The guy in the background of the photo, the one Bethany took, it’s Aisha’s uncle.’

  ‘Really? Oh my God.’

  Ed filled Sam in with the details of his visit.

  She stood up and walked to the window. It was still one of those miserable days you get in April, although this April had been warmer than most, but at least it had stopped raining a couple of hours ago.

  ‘Macavity was the bad guy in T.S.Eliot’s Cats,’ Sam said. ‘The criminal who never got caught.’

  Ed sat down. ‘Very clever. Goddard’s group’s called Mortimers. A play on Mickey Mouse? I’m shooting from the hip here.’

  Sam nodded. ‘Feel free.’

  ‘Motto – if you love the mouse, chase the pussy. One of the Mortimers gets a compromising photo, sent by the Sisters of Macavity. Sisters, suggesting women, and Macavity’s a cat. Cats chase mice. Is this making sense?’

  Sam turned around and leaned against the window.

  ‘Absolutely. Plus Macavity suggests a decent standard of education. And Macavity was a skinny, tall, ginger cat. Not unlike... ’

  Ed smiled. ‘Our very own feline Tracey Davies.’

  ‘Well you certainly made her purr,’ Sam teased.

  ‘Ha ha, very funny, but seriously, it’s all a bit far-fetched, tenuous bordering on the ridiculous.’

  ‘I agree.’ Sam sat down.

  ‘That said, I did say that there was more to Tracey than meets the eye, and she was aggressive, but murder?

  Sam was lost in thought.

  ‘And she was with Amber Dalton at the university last night.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Did I not tell you?’ Sam said. ‘Sorry. I’ll fill you in on that later. Okay, let’s check out Tracey’s movements for Saturday night after Goddard was thrown out of the Jolly Roger. And the girl who got tapped up…Charlotte. What was her name?’

  ‘Swains, plural of the guy who played for Villa years ago – Kenny Swain. That’s how I remembered it.’

  ‘And Alex O’Connell,’ Sam continued. ‘She found the body. Get their phones done. I know Alex said she was checking up on Charlotte, so no doubt she did text her. Question is, was Alex’s phone in close vicinity to Charlotte’s when the text was sent?’

  ‘Will do,’ Ed said. ‘We need to know where we stand with these girls.’

  ‘And we need to check out Aisha’s uncle,’ Sam added.

  Ed was at the doorway.

  ‘By the way, you were right,’ he said. ‘The settee in the photograph does look new.’

  Tracey Davies opened her front door. The look of disappointment on her face was instant and obvious.

  ‘Can I see some ID please?’

  Bev Summers showed Tracey her warrant card.

  ‘Sorry about that, but I was expecting Ed.’

  Obviously, Bev thought.

  Tracey’s eye shadow was subtle, the pale red lipstick accentuated her plump lips, the swirl of perfume just a little heavy for 2pm.

  ‘He sends his apologies,’ Bev said.

  She followed Tracey into the living room, watched her short red skirt ride up her long thighs as she sat down.

  ‘I just need to ask a few questions about Saturday,’ Bev said as she sat in an armchair. The room was a lot tidier than Sam had described, probably down to ‘The Ed Factor’.

  ‘Sure, fire away. I was expecting to do this on Monday.’

  ‘Sometimes things happen in an investigation that take priority,’ Bev told her. ‘After you spoke to Jack Goddard in the Jolly... ’

  ‘Hardly spoke. He came up to us.’

  ‘My apologies. After Jack Goddard left your company, what happened during the rest of your night?’

  ‘We saw him get thrown out by the doormen,’ Tracey said. �
��We stayed a bit longer, probably until about 10. Charlotte and me got talking to a couple of lads in there. We arranged to meet up with them later and go to a party. We went to Rendezvous club about 11. Left there with Charlotte and the lads about half three then went to the party. It was crap.’

  She reached across the floor and picked up her cigarettes and disposable lighter. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Not as long as you don’t.’ Bev said, reaching into her handbag.

  They both lit up.

  Tracey blew smoke and spoke again.

  ‘Left the party about half four, got a kebab from the all-night takeaway and came home. Knew no more until I saw Alex’s post on social media and then when Ed and the woman came round. I saw her last night at the uni.’

  Bev took a piece of folded A4 from her bag and rummaged for a pen.

  ‘Okay. The lads first. What were their names?’

  ‘No idea,’ Tracey said behind more smoke. ‘I mean, I knew at the time, but not now. I couldn’t remember the next day. Charlotte might know.’

  ‘Had you met them before?’

  ‘Seen them around,’ Tracey said. ‘But never spoke to them.’

  ‘Can you describe them?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Did you see Jack Goddard or Glen Jones again that night?’

  ‘No,’ Tracey said, tapping her cigarette on a clean tin ashtray.

  ‘Okay, I’ll just get a quick statement,’ Bev told her. ‘It won’t take long.’

  She stubbed her cigarette and began to write.

  Charlotte Swains was shorter than Tracey but no less attractive. They were making Bev feel old. Where did the time go? It only seemed like yesterday when she was their age. It was as if she’d closed her eyes for a moment and shot forward 20 years or more in a time machine. Now standing in the small kitchen, watching Charlotte make the coffees, she felt like a granny, more years behind her than in front. Maybe it really was time to start planning retirement.

  ‘So, Saturday,’ Bev said. ‘Tell me about your night.’

  ‘We all went to the Jolly Roger at eightish. Me, Alex, Tracey, Anastasia and Juliette. Left there about 10 and went to Rendezvous.’