The wooden bench under the willow tree, a small plaque confirming it had been a much-missed grandfather’s favourite spot, was speckled with green, decades of waxy foliage leaving its mark. Sam sat down, lit up, and inhaled as she watched a distant dog chase a tennis ball. She sipped the double espresso and began to process.
Goddard dead... Davies and Swain lying... O’Connell probably lying about her movements prior to finding the body... Amber evasive... the photographs sent by the Sisters of Macavity – or someone pretending to be the Sisters.
The ABC of investigations... accept nothing, believe nothing, challenge everything.
She looked up and saw a mouse form in the wispy cirrus clouds. Mortimer. Her brain was in full race mode, mice scurrying everywhere.
The bouncers, King and Wilson. Ed didn’t think the likes of Wilson ever changed, and young King? Why was everybody wary of him? Not forgetting, he despised men bullying women.
Sukhi’s car in the garage in Plymouth. Had they got away? Perhaps caught a train to somewhere like Falmouth, took the water taxi from there to St Mawes? Could they be living in that white cottage overlooking the harbour and a sea that didn’t judge them?
And the demos? Would there be another? Was there a serial killer on the loose? Were the dead students all Mortimers? Could Elliott Prince be believed?
What had Ed once said? ‘Crack the witnesses…’
Jill Carver... Aisha’s parents... The uncle.
Her head churned like a food mixer fighting a thickening mass of information, but the faster it spun, the more solid it became, impossible to separate, impossible to interpret.
Sam chain-smoked another cigarette.
She didn’t believe all the ingredients were in her mental mixing bowl. There was more to come.
Smoke left her lungs and forced its way out of her pursed lips like the barista’s pressurised steam. She dropped the disposal cup into a bin, bought another coffee. The ringtone broke the silence but not her concentration. She ignored the phone, ignored the subsequent text or voicemail alert.
Paul Adams was sitting with Bethany Stevens. While Ed had noticed the ageing kitchen and the fraying brown carpet, Paul had eyes only for the young woman in front of him.
‘I’m a bit of a hoarder,’ she said. ‘Here are as many notes as I could find.’
She handed him eight handwritten notes.
‘Most were written in classes when you couldn’t talk. I hope it helps. She was a writer, so it’s entirely in keeping that she could write to someone.’
Paul examined each in turn.
‘Like I said on the phone, we’re just pre-empting things really, you know, just in case Aisha gets in touch by writing.’
‘Is there any news?’ Bethany locked her green eyes on to his.
‘Did she ever talk about going to Cornwall?’ Paul asked, ignoring the question.
‘Cornwall?’ Bethany looked puzzled. ‘No. She’d never been out of Seaton St George, unless it was to go to India or visit family. She said she’d never been on holiday. But I told her about Cornwall. When I was little, Mam and Dad took me there most summer holidays. Newquay. All the fun of the surf, as my father used to say.’
Paul held her gaze. She was beautiful. Nine years younger than him but if she hadn’t been a potential witness, he would have asked her out. Now if he did anything to compromise the investigation, Sam Parker would crucify him. He’d replaced Jason Stroud on the team. Jason had left under a cloud after playing out a sinister rape fantasy with his now ex-wife. That was enough for Sam to get rid, and that didn’t happen at work. If he screwed the inquiry into Aisha, Sam Parker would finish him. He needed to stay professional.
‘Any reason you’re asking about Cornwall?’ Bethany asked him.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t say at the moment.’
‘I think about her every night.’ Bethany’s eyes clouded. ‘I just hope she’s happy. I can’t imagine what she was going through. None of us at college could. But if she got somewhere like Cornwall, somewhere miles away, I’d have thought she’d have rung me.’
Paul pushed back the urge to hug her.
‘Maybe she lost her phone, couldn’t remember your number. Maybe she didn’t want to compromise you.’
Or maybe the unthinkable happened.
Bethany didn’t look convinced.
‘Sukhi could have called… I don’t know. Would you like a tea? Or are you too busy?’
‘I think I can manage a cup, thanks.’
Stay professional, Paul. Stay professional.
Sam closed the Audi door and saw Bev marching across the car park.
‘Something urgent?’
‘I tried calling,’ Bev said quickly. ‘I left a voicemail.’
‘I was tied up. What is it?’
‘Alex O’Connell leaves Rendezvous at 3.34am, nine minutes after Jack Goddard, Tracey and Charlotte.’
‘Really?’
‘Now I’m trying to establish what time they enter,’ Bev went on. ‘I’ve started after 10pm, because that’s when they say they left the Jolly Roger.’
Sam nodded her approval.
‘You can always view the earlier CCTV if they’re lying, which they seem to be doing a lot. Is that why you rang?’
‘No,’ Bev said. ‘Inspector Wright was looking for you.’
Sam felt a small wave of dismay wash through her.
‘Any idea what Never was after?’
‘He never said.’
The word play left them both laughing.
Ed considered Joey Sanderson’s information. ‘The best I can do, providing it’s good, is get a letter to the judge, telling him you’ve provided important information. But remember, Joey, I can’t lie. He’s going to know you gave this information while you were already banged up.’
Sanderson mouth dropped into a frown.
‘Can’t you just make it all go away?’
‘Probably not,’ Ed told him. ‘A letter’s better than what you’ve got now.’
Sanderson slid down the chair and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Will you get me some fags at least?’
‘I think I can run to a packet of smokes,’ Ed said. ‘Now, I haven’t got all day. The settee?’
Sanderson was staring at the ceiling again, considering his final decision.
‘Cigarettes and a letter,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Jesus, I’m trusting you here, and it goes without saying you can’t tell anybody what I’m going to tell you.’
Ed knew Sanderson was coming on board.
‘How long have we known each other?' Ed said. ‘Years, right? Have I ever told you anything others have told me?’
Sanderson’s eyes darkened.
‘No, and by the way, I’m not one of your grasses. Grasses are scum. This is a one off.’
Ed nodded. Sanderson would be an informant; he just didn’t know it yet. Once you had them, you rarely let them go.
‘The settee was brand new,’ Sanderson began. 'You could tell by the cushions. That lot don’t go to posh furniture shops, they go to their own. I went to Singh’s, the little furniture shop not far from their house. Owned by Karan Singh. He gives me a few quid to keep an eye on his shop.’
‘Protection money?’ Ed said.
‘Ed, please,’ Sanderson looked hurt. ‘Private security. Ask him. They pay their money and they feel better protected than they do with your lot.’
Ed hid his contempt and let that go. He’d agreed to put a letter in to the judge about the handling offence. He’d not agreed to give Sanderson immunity from prosecution for other offences.
‘I don’t recall seeing people in uniform with your logo on their jackets.’
‘We’re more effective,’ Sanderson told him. ‘Undercover, my lads.’
Protection rackets had a simple USP – pay up or your business will be burgled or burnt down.
‘Was it one of your lads who helped you move it?’ Ed asked.
‘Come on, Ed. I’m not grassing on my own.’
&
nbsp; ‘And did Bhandal buy it from Karan Singh.’
‘He did, and here’s the thing,’ Sanderson said, moving his vast bulk forward. ‘He got the one he wanted me to burn delivered on the 14th December. Saturday. He didn’t know I knew that. He asked me to get rid of it when I saw him in the pub on the 15th, the Sunday. I took it out of his house on the Monday... put it on a big trailer.’
‘How do you know when he bought it?’ Ed asked.
‘Singh’s is a little furniture shop,’ Sanderson told him. ‘No computers, so everything’s written down. He’s got a little book with all sales written in it. When I asked how much it was worth, he showed me that he’d sold it to Dav for £120.’
The dates were running like a sequence in Ed’s head.
‘What did it look like?’ Ed asked now.
‘Semi-circular, brown, and so low you almost laid down on it.’
The one Aisha’s brother and sister were sitting on in the photograph.
‘And your point is?’ Ed pushed, already knowing the answer.
Sanderson sat up straight and leaned across the desk.
‘Why would somebody want to burn a settee that’s days old? No better way to get rid of evidence.’
He leaned back, stretched out his legs and put his hands behind his head.
Ed gave it a moment before he jumped up and pushed his chair against the wall.
‘You’ve wasted enough of my fucking time here,’ he said. ‘I’m impressed you know the date someone bought a new settee. Now, I’ve got work to do.’
He opened the interview room door.
‘Alright, alright keep your hair on.’ Sanderson sat up and Ed sat back down.
‘At one end of the settee, right in the corner, there was blood,’ Sanderson said. ‘They’d tried to wash it, you could tell, but there was blood. I know the difference between brown material and brown blood.’
‘Much blood?’
Sanderson smiled: ‘Enough to see. Look, something happened on that settee, otherwise why ask me to get rid, to burn it.’
Ed said: ‘Where is it now?’
Sanderson paused again.
‘I sold it to Billy Wilson.’
‘The doorman?’ Ed said.
‘Yeah.’
Ed raised his eyebrows and held Sanderson’s gaze.
‘He’s going to love you.’
Chapter Twenty-One
Driving back to HQ, Ed considered their next move. Recovering the settee from Billy Wilson was important. It wasn’t stolen but it was potentially evidential. Billy would just have to get over it. Of course he would go straight to Fatty Sanderson’s unless Ed warned him off.
Visiting the furniture shop was crucial if they were to prove continuity through Karan Singh’s records but as soon as that was done, Singh would probably notify Bhandal.
Ed would suggest to Sam they stall going to the shop until they had been able to confirm whether it was blood and if it was Aisha’s. A ‘yes’ and a ‘yes’ would see the investigation take a dramatic turn. They were told Aisha went missing on the Friday 13th, albeit she wasn’t reported missing to police until the Monday, the 16th. The settee, according to Sanderson, wasn’t delivered until Saturday 14th.
Friday December 13th 2013
I was close now, so close I could see Sukhi’s beautiful white teeth flashing me that massive smile. I always said he could advertise toothpaste. His teeth are that good.
I ran around the car to the open passenger door where he was standing. I was breathless, excited. ‘How does Cornwall sound?’ I threw my arms around him. This was it. I kissed him.
He eased me away. ‘Nearest town?’
I couldn’t remember. ‘Head south, set the satnav for Plymouth.’ I opened the back door; my pink suitcase could sit on the back seat for now.
‘We should get going,’ he said.
I don’t know what I saw first, the arm or the metal bar. I certainly didn’t see who the arm belonged to. The arm and the bar were a blur, swinging in tandem along a shoulder height arc parallel to the ground. I tried to shout, scream, but nothing came out. It was as if my vocal chords had been cut. I realised somebody’s forearm was around my neck, dragging me backwards towards the boot.
Sukhi’s head twisted, whiplash-like to the side, the sickening crack sounding like a gunshot, blood spraying from his mouth, white teeth bouncing off the bonnet.
I was choking out, darkness close, the pressure on my windpipe like nothing I’d felt before. My eyes wanted to pop out of my face.
I couldn’t breathe.
My arms were listless. I dropped my bag, saw boots swing into Sukhi’s face and stomach, then a boot stamp repeatedly on his head.
Tears streamed down my face. I was helpless, light-headed. The arm squeezed my neck, the pressure relentless, the forearm digging into my throat while another arm pushed against the back of my neck. Sukhi was lying motionless in the road, by the side of the car. The last bit of consciousness was calling his name. Then blackness.
When I opened my eyes, I saw the walls of the room, the floor where Justin had been hiding under the bed. The note was gone. My throat was raw. I stroked it. It was tender, swollen.
What time was it? Where was Sukhi? I got off the bed, crept to the window, and pulled the curtains back the tiniest amount. Pitch black.
Voices downstairs... my mother, father, uncle and brother. Mia must have been in the house somewhere.
I tiptoed to the bedroom door, took hold of the handle as if it were a bomb, slowly applied downward pressure and pulled. Nothing. It was stuck. I grabbed it, tighter this time, pushed down and pulled again. Nothing. I yanked the handle, pulled it back and forth. The door groaned but didn’t budge.
Now footsteps running up the stairs. ‘Whore,’ my mother screamed in Punjabi. ‘You little slut,’ shouted my father. ‘You dare to shame this family.’
‘Let me out,’ I screamed. Only I couldn’t scream. It was more like a whimper. ‘Let me out,’ I croaked, my voice hoarse, every syllable feeling as if Mr Geppetto was sanding my throat instead of Pinocchio’s body.
‘Stay there,’ my father yelled. ‘We’ll deal with you later.’
I banged on the door with my fists. No response. They’d gone back down. They must have put a lock on the outside of the door. How had they done that so quickly?
I walked away from the door. Then I saw them. The blister-pack on the chest of drawers. Sleeping tablets. My mother’s sleeping tablets. How long had I been asleep?
Where was Sukhi? What had they done to him? Had they left him or had he escaped? Had they done something really bad to him?
I went back to the window, pulled back the curtains. I opened the side window and peered up the street. Nothing. It looked like it always did. Deathly quiet.
No sign of Sukhi’s car.
I stared at the ground below. How far? There were no trees I could reach, no climbing plants snaking up the wall to my window. A straight drop. How many metres? Too many.
I walked on my toes to the wardrobe. The clean bedding was always on the bottom shelf. I opened the dark wooden door. Nothing. Empty. Everything was gone.
I looked around again. This time I saw the bedding had been removed from the beds.
I walked to the drawers where the sleeping tablets were. Why was there so many? Why was there a bottle of ‘Whyte and Mackay’ whisky there?
Realisation hit me.
I ran to the open window and tried to shout for help, but nothing escaped from my mouth. I remembered the old school books under my bed. Was there a pen with them?
I could still hear the voices downstairs.
I crawled under the bed, reached for the books and felt my fingers curl around a biro. Sellotape. I needed Sellotape.
I opened one the books and took a deep breath. I’d covered them with wallpaper and drawn doodles on the woodchip. I checked. Recycle the Sellotape.
I sat on the bed, ripped the front and back covers off the books, and in block capitals began writing �
�HELP ME’. Once I’d written each message I began colouring in the blocks. Any passer-by would see them. On one I even wrote ‘PLEASE CALL THE POLICE’.
I began unpicking Sellotape from the first book. I replayed finding them under the bed, how they might just help rescue me.
Then I remembered.
I slithered back under the bed. I was right. Top corner. I stretched and pulled out the old clothes. I threw the sleeveless dresses back into the darkness against the wall, but the jumpers, the trousers, anything with arms and legs I kept.
Back on the bed I stared at my treasure. It wasn’t a big pile, but it might just be big enough.
I started to tie them together, listening for footsteps coming up the stairs. If anybody came up, I’d throw them back under the bed. They wouldn’t be looking for them; they’d forgotten they were there.
I tied them as tight as I could. Would they hold my weight? What was the worst thing that could happen if they didn’t? Break my legs? Break my neck? So what? They’d left tablets and whisky for me.
It must have only taken me 10 minutes. Funny how quickly you can do things.
I crept back to the door and listened. It sounded like they were in the kitchen. I could hear cups rattling on saucers. That was good. The kitchen was at the back of the house; my bedroom was at the front.
The ‘Help Me’ signs were scattered across the floor. I didn’t care. I needed something to tie to the end of my clothes. I couldn’t afford for that something to drag across the floor as soon as it started to take my weight and crash into something, and besides I needed to keep my makeshift line as long as possible.
The bunk beds. I inched them across the carpet. A noise now and it was all over. Not just escape but me. No way would I get the beds back in time if they came upstairs.
Each drag brought it closer to the window. Finally I tied one end of my clothes rope around the leg of the top bunk.
I threw the knotted clothes out of the window, gave it one last pull to check for tightness, and climbed out.
Once I hit the ground, I was just going to run. Run as fast as I could. Run to the nearest police station. They’d know what to do.
Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set Page 44