Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  The Asian woman, a few streaks of black in her predominantly grey hair, was about 50 metres away when Ed saw her. He counted seven bulging carrier bags in her hands. He stepped away and walked towards her.

  'Sat-sri-akaal, Mrs Maan.’

  ‘Sat-sri-akaal, Ed.’

  He had known her almost as long as he’d known his wife. ‘Let me help you.’ He reached towards her bags but she took a step backwards. ‘I can manage.’

  The sudden movement caused the aromatic smell of fresh coriander to envelop Ed and his stomach rumbled. Mrs Maan’s curries were legendary.

  He put his hands in his pockets and walked alongside her as she continued her way home.

  The Fiesta drove past.

  ‘Still looking for that girl, Aisha?’ she asked.

  Ed told her they were.

  ‘Lovely girl,’ Mrs Maan said quietly. ‘Known her since she was a baby.’

  With each step, Ed’s foot paused mid-air, trying to match his strides with her shuffle.

  ‘Terrible what has happened, Ed,’ she said. ‘Her running away like that. The girls are Westernised these days, don’t want to carry on the traditions. You should know that better than most… I remember the day Sue’s mother told me she was seeing a white boy.’

  She giggled, an old woman suddenly a schoolgirl again.

  ‘Lucky for you her family were forward thinking. Not everybody was. Not everybody is.’

  The Fiesta drove past again.

  ‘Why is that car driving up and down?’

  ‘It’s the same make as the one Aisha’s boyfriend had,’ Ed answered. ‘Have you seen it in the street before?’

  Mrs Maan looked around, checking for twitching curtains.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said in a whisper. ‘But I cannot talk here. Get Sue to meet me in the Gurdwara tomorrow morning, about 10. I’ll talk to her.’

  She reached her red door, opened it.

  ‘What can you tell Sue?’ Ed asked.

  Mrs Maan nervously scanned the street again.

  ‘The weekend Aisha went missing I did see a car like that,’ she said. ‘People were fighting, shouting.’

  She stepped inside and turned to Ed. She was already closing the door when she said: ‘I know who was fighting.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘It’s full of risks and ethical issues.’

  Sam was staring out of the office window over the rim of her mug of coffee, the car parks of Headquarters almost empty.

  ‘What have we got to lose?’ Ed said. ‘Mrs Maan will never make a statement. It’s a piece of intelligence, a potential pointer in the right direction, something we might never get otherwise.’

  Sam nodded. She couldn’t argue with Ed’s logic. Nothing had come from the door to door. That’s not to say nobody would contact the police on another day. There were times when people didn’t want to be seen talking on their doorsteps but would later get in touch.

  Mrs Maan only talked because she knew Ed. Had she not seen him, it was doubtful she would have said a word.

  ‘At least speaking to her might give us a steer,’ Ed went on. ‘That’s more than we’ve got now, more than we’ve got in four months.’

  Sam knew he was right.

  ‘Don’t mention it to anybody,’ Ed said. ‘The only people who know are you, me, Mrs Maan and Sue when I tell her. If she has information and it has to go in the system, I’ll put in an Officers Report, something to the effect I’ve been told by a source. Not a proper CHIS, just a source in the community.’

  Covert Human Intelligence Sources were still informants, snitches, snouts, grasses and narks to Ed. He was using the term ‘source’ in its literal sense... where something began.

  Sam sipped the coffee.

  ‘Look,’ Ed said, ‘let’s just see what she has to tell us. Nobody up to now has even mentioned seeing the car in the street, never mind a fight. If there was a fight, I’d rather know about it. Then at least we can start to look for some corroboration.’

  ‘What about Sue?’ Sam asked him, still uneasy.

  Ed smiled. ‘She’ll love the opportunity to catch up with Mrs Maan.’

  ‘Tell me you’re joking,’ Sue said, eyes wide. ‘Tell me you don’t want me acting as your Special Constable.’

  She was standing by the cooker, stirring a big pan of chicken curry, Ed’s stomach grumbling more now than when he smelled Mrs Maan’s coriander.

  ‘All I’m asking is for you to have little chat with her,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that, nothing unusual.’

  Sue glared at him, spoon frozen in mid-stir. ‘Except I’m reporting back to you.’

  ‘Mrs Maan knows that,’ Ed said. ‘It was her suggestion. She wants to tell us something but can’t be seen talking to police. We both know what the community’s like.’

  Sue had her back to him, the wooden spoon again going around in slow circles.

  ‘What if I miss something out? I’m not trained to remember things like you are.’

  ‘We’re not trained to remember,’ Ed said, sensing success.

  ‘You could have fooled me.’ Sue’s tone had lightened. ‘You still remind me of the night me and Leela came home drunk and that was five years ago.’

  Ed came up behind her, put his arms around her waist, and whispered into her ear.

  ‘It could go a long way to finding out what’s happened to Aisha,’ he said. ‘And at least it’ll stop you moaning at me for going into work on another Saturday.’

  She spun around and pointed the spoon at his face. ‘In with your girlfriend again are you?’

  Ed didn’t respond. Sometimes it was best just to stay quiet.

  ‘Okay, I’ll do it, but only because it might help Aisha, and I know Mrs Maan,’ Sue said. ‘Not because it’ll get you in Sam bloody Parker’s good books.’

  Sam was walking along the tow path. It was 11.30pm but she had no desire to rush home. She wasn’t tired and she had declined Bev’s suggestion to go to the pub... too much going on for her mind to be dulled by alcohol.

  She wanted to speak to the cops who were down on the tow path at her behest, thank them for their time and effort. Sometimes she did ask people to do pretty joyless tasks.

  She had a quick word with the two mounted officers. As always, she admired the size and beauty of the two massive horses – one black, the other grey. If she remembered correctly, a primary school pupil had named the grey horse in a competition organised with Darius and the Seaton Post. She couldn’t remember the horse’s name.

  She wondered how Ed was getting on with Sue and began wrestling with her decision to allow her to become part of the investigation. But what choice did she have? The fight might have involved Aisha, her boyfriend or both of them.

  The blood results from the settee were due tomorrow.

  Then there was Sukhi’s car. Who had driven it into the garage? What if Sukhi wasn’t capable of driving?

  Sam stopped and leaned her shoulder against a tree, its bark rough, and examined the river, the grass bank sloping towards its edge. At this point, and for a half-mile in either direction, there was a drop of about four feet into the water. Had the students just fallen in drunk and been unable to get back out? There was no safety equipment as such, no red life-saving belts, but even if there were, they’d be no good to a lone student. Who’d throw the rings in to them?

  But what if they hadn’t fallen? What if they’d been pushed? And if they had, who’d done the pushing?

  Tracey, Charlotte, Alex and Amber had all been in the vicinity the night Jack Goddard died. Correction, Sam told herself. Their phones had been there. Was she really looking for a group of female vigilante serial killers?

  She started to walk again, getting further away from her car.

  Was Amber’s group called the Sisters of Macavity? Had they sent the photographs? If so, how had they taken them? How had anybody got the boys to pose? Drugs? Rohypnol? Payback time was one thing, but killing?

  And Aaron Leech, the arm
in the Hashtag photograph. He had drowned. But was he pushed? Even the slightest suggestion of that and the media circus would come to town. Was it just a coincidence? No Senior Investigating Officer in the country believed in them. Coincidences happened but only after SIOs had exhausted every other hypothesis.

  And Elliott Prince? The leader? She still couldn’t get her head around that, even if it had no bearing on the investigation. Sometimes human nature just surprised her, the Keyser Söze syndrome.

  Sam stopped again. The flame from the lighter illuminated her face. She drew deep on the Marlboro Gold, allowing the smoke to fill her expanding lungs, imagined the nicotine rushing around her veins, held her breath, then slowly let the smoke escape in swirls through her mouth and nose. She knew neither investigation was going to be brought to a swift conclusion.

  ‘All quiet?’ she said to a passing Community Support Officer astride a bike.

  ‘Yes ma’am.’

  She hated being called ma’am. It made her sound like some old woman from a bygone age. She was much happier with boss, even happier with Sam.

  Saturday 19th April 2014

  Ed dropped Sue at the Gurdwara at 9.45am. The morning had been a two-fold rarity... a leisurely breakfast and the enjoyment of her company.

  While she’d had fresh berries and muesli, he’d devoured the kind of ‘Full English’ that had fuelled the working men in his family for generations: miners, shipyard welders and riveters, sent out with a belly full of bacon, fried eggs, fried potatoes and strong tea.

  He parked in the town centre and went for a coffee. No point in going into the office. As soon as Sue had finished at the Gurdwara, he needed to pick her up and hear what Mrs Maan had to say.

  He avoided the mass-market coffee shops and went into the Italian, run by the same family for decades. He opened the dark brown door and stepped into the small, cool, dark interior, all deep brown tables and chairs, brown paint on the walls, Antonio had his arms folded on the deep brown counter, back bent, smiling at the customers, a scene unchanged since the first time Ed had gone in more than 30 years ago. Antonio’s white shirt and black apron were as immaculate as always.

  ‘Ed, how are you today?’ Antonio’s sons had been schooled here, but he still had the accent he arrived with from Sicily a lifetime ago.

  ‘Good. How are you, Don?’

  The nickname, hardly original, had been bestowed in the early 70s, a throwback to the release of The Godfather movie. The affectionate moniker had stuck and now the majority of people didn’t know Antonio’s real name. Before the decade of Slade, Wizard and British Leyland strikes had finished, he’d even changed the name of the café from Antonio’s to Corleone’s.

  ‘I’m fine, Ed. The usual?’

  ‘Please,’ Ed said, sitting on one of the tall stools at the counter, feet perched on its crossbar and buttocks planted on the hard, unforgiving wood.

  ‘One double espresso coming up,’ Antonio told him.

  Here the choice was simple... espresso with or without milk, a short drink or a long one. And unlike the endless choices you got at the chains, in Corleone’s it was either pastries or amaretto biscuits.

  They discussed football. Antonio was devoted to the national team of his homeland but shared Ed’s passion for Newcastle United.

  Ed’s phone vibrated and danced across the counter, the screen telling him the text was from Sue. She was finished.

  ‘Have to dash, Don.’ The coffee was like a shot of adrenalin.

  ‘Slow down, Ed,’ Antonio said reaching for the tiny cup. ‘Enjoy the little things. Before you know it the big thing, death, will find you.’

  Ed ran a hand over his smooth head and took in Antonio’s jet-black wavy hair, still full and thick at 70 years old. Slow down? Perhaps he had a point. What had his dad once said to him? Nobody lying on their deathbed ever wished they’d spent more time in the office.

  Sue was waiting for him on the corner of the street and jumped in the car as soon as he stopped in the middle of the road.

  ‘How did you get on?’ Ed asked as he pulled away.

  ‘Hang on, let me get my seat belt on.’

  He tried to hide his frustration. He was desperate to discover what Mrs Maan had said and whether it was worth knowing.

  ‘I’d forgotten how many people go to that place on a morning,’ Sue told him. ‘Anyway, I made an excuse, felt guilty about not being there for a while. Luckily Leela was there so it looked normal. Me and Mrs Maan chatting was just two old neighbours from different generations catching up.’

  Ed glanced across at her.

  ‘Alright, alright, I know,’ Sue sighed. ‘Firstly, she won’t repeat this to anybody and just deny ever saying it if necessary. She saw a car like the one driving up the street yesterday but didn’t say anything because... well you know why.’

  ‘Community,’ Ed said.

  Sue nodded then went on.

  ‘She didn’t know the driver, a young boy, but she saw Aisha talking to him. It looked like she was putting a bag on to the back seat. Aisha got grabbed from behind, two men attacked the boy and... ’

  ‘Does she know who they are?’ Ed stopped her.

  ‘God, are you this impatient at work?’

  His head jerked around to face her. ‘I am when people are going round the houses.’

  She screamed his name.

  He slammed the brakes; rubber screeched against Tarmac, his bumper stopping inches from the rear end of the stationary car in front.

  He took a deep breath, told himself to calm down.

  Sue pressed her nose against the side window. ‘Watch what you’re doing.’

  Ed moved off with the traffic.

  The 20 seconds she took before speaking gave Ed enough time to curse his impatience.

  ‘Yes, she does know them,’ Sue said. ‘Aisha’s brother grabbed her. Her father and the uncle from India, the one who took part in the honour killing... ’

  ‘She knew about that?’ Ed broke in again.

  Sue gave him a look.

  ‘Come on, Ed, just because the police don’t know… anyway, she says they beat up the young boy. Then the father and brother dragged Aisha home. The boy, who looked unconscious, was thrown on to the back seat and driven away by the uncle.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Sam rubbed eyes that stung through lack of sleep and blinked as the email forwarded by Bev Summers from DC Welch at Devon and Cornwall Constabulary came into focus.

  DC Summers.

  Re Ford Fiesta, registered to Sukhvinder Sahota

  Sam skimmed over the details of the vehicle’s VIN plate and which body parts were missing.

  The car was discovered yesterday in a lock-up garage near Plymouth Hoe. This garage was subject of an ongoing operation into organised car theft.

  Many parts of the car are missing – this garage is believed to be a chop-shop.

  The front windscreen and interior rear-view mirror are still on the car. There are a number of fingerprints on the inside of the windscreen and two partial prints on the mirror. All prints are unidentified.

  A witness did see a young Asian male drive the vehicle into the garage. This witness is confident of identifying the male. For the time being, Devon and Cornwall Police do not wish to reveal the identity of this witness.

  Obviously a CHIS, Sam guessed.

  I will forward a statement covering the recovery of the vehicle.

  She answered the desk phone.

  ‘It’s Jill Carver.’

  Brusque as ever, Sam thought.

  ‘What was going on last night? My clients are extremely concerned about the impact a street full of police officers had on their family life, their private life. You do remember the Human Rights Act, Chief Inspector, Article 8, Right to a Private and Family Life?’

  Sam took a silent breath.

  ‘I’d have thought they would be pleased we’re still putting resources into their daughter’s disappearance,’ she said. ‘It seems strange to me that your
client and his son last night expressed their anger personally and clearly they’ve expressed it to you. Why don’t they want us to do our jobs? Is there something they’re not telling us?’

  Jill Carver’s voice was sharp and clipped.

  ‘You know as well as I do there have been suggestions of honour killing in the media,’ she said. ‘The police have done nothing to stop them.’

  Sam reminded Carver the police had no part in censuring the Press.

  ‘It’s called freedom of speech, the freedom of the Press... you know, free from state intrusion, which includes the police,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll find that’s Article 10.’

  The silence was loaded, the voice that broke it crypt cold.

  ‘You’re skating on thin ice, Inspector.’

  Another one wanting to demote me. Do they think I’m that hung up on rank that I’m bothered by their games?

  Sam didn’t respond. This time it was Jill Carver faced with silence.

  ‘My clients feel that they are being harassed, which in turn is causing them distress,’ she said finally. ‘They are respected members of their community and these suggestions around honour crimes are ill-informed and without a shred of substance or foundation.’

  Sam let that hang for long seconds before she spoke again.

  ‘Neither I, nor any other police officer, has publicly said this is an honour crime. Nobody from Eastern Police has referred to it as anything other than a missing-from-home inquiry. Now is there anything I can help you with?’

  Carver switched tack.

  ‘Has your investigation discovered anything new?’

  ‘We are following a number of lines of enquiry,’ Sam trotted out the time-honoured answer. ‘When we have any news, your clients will be the first to know.’

  Sam could almost feel Carver’s anger seep like sea fret from the receiver.