Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  Please let them go away.

  My body was shaking like an old man I’d once seen outside the mini-market having a fit.

  I listened. Nothing.

  I couldn’t see what was happening on the street. All I could see was the inside of the red skip. Should I risk a look over the top?

  Don’t Aisha. They’ll see you.

  I lay down, covered my legs and body with cardboard, and kept the last two pieces for my head. I tried to breathe slowly, tried to stop my body shaking. If I could stay there until morning, another four hours probably, I would get help even if it I had to run through the streets screaming.

  I just had to hide.

  The rubble dug into me but it was safer than lying in my bed.

  I had to be still, couldn’t move. The cardboard mustn’t move. I eased myself on to my side, checked the cardboard on my legs and body, lay down and covered my head.

  I closed my eyes, thought of 4.36pm, Friday, 6th December, one minute before my mother changed my life. A week later there I was lying under cardboard in a skip, hiding from my family. Why had they not accepted British values?

  Suddenly I heard voices. Were they far away or just talking quietly?

  I knew who they were. Who else was out at this time of night in an Asian area? A couple of sons perhaps, but they’d be really quiet if they were sneaking in so late.

  It was my family.

  Why hadn’t they turned right?

  Maybe they had and were doubling back on themselves. I hoped so. That would have meant they had no idea where I was.

  I had to lie still. If they looked in here, they’d see rubble and cardboard.

  Would they hear my breathing?

  I shut my eyes. If I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me.

  You’re not four years old, Aisha.

  My lips were moving really fast, like when I did my times tables at school, only now they were repeating ‘I’ll be okay’ over and over again.

  I couldn’t relax. My body was stiffer than the cardboard.

  Four hours. That’s all. Then help.

  I saw Sukhi’s smile.

  BANG!

  The first punch had sent blood spurting from my mouth. The second made me dizzy. Hands clawed at me, dragged me by the hair, by the arms.

  My uncle had jumped into the skip, punched me in the stomach. I couldn’t breathe.

  A hand covered my mouth and I was dragged backwards over the top of the skip. I could feel the skin peeling away from my back. My head was tilted backwards. I was looking at the ground. I recognised my father’s shoes.

  He punched me in the mouth.

  Is this what it’s like before you pass out?

  The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth.

  My ankles were grabbed, gripped tight. It must have been my uncle. Between him and my father they hauled me out of the skip. When my legs were clear, they dropped me. I crashed on to the pavement, landing on my shoulder. I cried out, but nobody heard. There was nothing to hear.

  My father’s black shoe booted me in the ribs. What air was left in my body flew out without carrying a sound.

  What were they shouting?

  My father grabbed me under my arms. My uncle grabbed my ankles. They started walking, carrying me like a rolled up carpet. They flicked me on to my side. Through my tears, through my terror, I saw my brother.

  Will someone, anyone, help me?

  Nobody did.

  As they carried me up our path, I twisted my head and saw my mother open the front door. I tried to speak but couldn’t. She must have seen the fear in my eyes.

  As my father stepped over the threshold with his human roll of carpet, she punched me in the head. No words, just a punch.

  They carried me to my room. I didn’t speak, didn’t scream. What was the point? Even my family weren’t speaking. My mother ripped my clothes off and threw them on to the landing. The last thing I saw before the door was slammed shut and I heard the bolts being rammed in place was my uncle, my mother’s brother, staring at my naked body.

  I sat on the bed, legs tucked under my chin, back pushing against the corner of the two walls. My shins were red raw. The tops of my arms had finger bruises where they grabbed me, my face was swollen and my back felt like it had been skinned. But the one thing that bothered me the most? I honestly thought my uncle was coming back.

  I sat like that for hours. Cold, alone, frightened.

  Morning came. I heard knocking at the front door. The bolts moved on my bedroom door. My uncle walked in. I pushed back against the wall.

  ‘Say one word and I have your mother’s permission to rape you.’

  He stood there, the door open, leaning against the door frame, his black eyes locked on me, his tongue sliding around his lips.

  I bowed my head, closed my eyes.

  Please just go away.

  I heard my mother speak in Punjabi. It was the young Singh brothers. I’d forgotten about the new settee, but my mother and the shop owner hadn’t.

  My mother was polite, made small talk, no indication that her daughter was upstairs, naked, being guarded by her uncle.

  Mia came into our bedroom. She didn’t look at me but I knew she was scared. She pulled her big case from under the bed, rummaged through it and took out a scarf. She looked at me. Can eyes plead? She never spoke. What could she say?

  It must have taken about 20 minutes to take out the old settee and bring the new one in.

  My uncle just stood there. I didn’t say a word.

  I heard the van driving off. The bedroom door was slammed shut.

  I got off the bed, walked to the chest of drawers and picked up the bottle. I sat back on the bed, unscrewed the top, sniffed, raised the bottle to my lips and took a mouthful.

  It burned. I coughed, took another mouthful. I wasn’t going to touch the tablets, but I was going to get drunk.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Saturday 19th April 2014

  ‘It’s Aisha’s,’ Ed said.

  Sam dropped her head.

  ‘Primary or secondary transfer?’ She asked after a moment. ‘Not that it matters at the minute. We need to prove the settee was delivered after they reported Aisha missing and then they’ve got some explaining to do.’

  Primary meant Aisha had bled on to the settee; secondary, somebody had Aisha’s blood on them and came into contact with the settee.

  ‘It’s a primary transfer,’ Ed said. ‘There’s too much blood for it to be anything else. It’s seeped into the cushion.’

  She lit another cigarette, her third on their short walk.

  ‘It won’t be enough to charge them, unless they cough of course, but it’ll be enough to arrest the parents. We’ve got plenty already to arrest the son for vehicle theft without the fingerprint results, but we’ll wait for those anyway. So that means all three adults in that house arrested.’

  Ed had been watching her closely. Now he smiled.

  ‘You’ve got that glint in your eye.’

  ‘Get them all in,’ Sam told him. ‘Get the youngest daughter looked after by Social Services and then the house is empty.’

  ‘I see where you’re going. It could work. Very resource intensive though,’ Ed said.

  ‘There’s no rush to jump yet,’ Sam went on. ‘Aisha’s been missing for months. Let’s get the girls in tomorrow and see where we stand. If we can get that investigation boxed off, it’ll allow us to divert some staff on to Aisha’s… I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’

  ‘Somebody will be going out for food.’

  They walked back towards the building.

  All that was left in Sam’s office to indicate she and Ed had eaten was the empty polystyrene trays and the pungent smell of sweet-and-sour pork balls, beef foo yung, curry sauce and chips.

  ‘I needed that,’ Ed said, his hands around the cold can of Pepsi Max.

  His phone rang.

  Sam sighed. ‘Can’t you change that gangster song?’

 
‘Coolio? It’s quality. Ed Whelan... Hi Paul… Good shout. We’ll meet you there… Cheers.’

  He ended the call.

  ‘Six-ten this morning Mrs Bhandal is in Newcastle station. There was a train to Kings Cross at 6.20.’

  ‘I knew it,’ Sam said, slapping the desk.

  ‘I told him we’ll get up there,’ Ed said. ‘We don’t want him arresting her by himself and be wide open to false allegations.’

  ‘And they’ll definitely go on the attack,’ Sam agreed. ‘What times are the trains coming in?’

  ‘There was a train out at 11.35 that gets in just before three,’ Ed answered. ‘After that they’re about every hour.’

  Sam looked at the wall clock – 1.30pm. ‘Plenty of time. Interpreter?’

  ‘We’ll set that in motion as soon as we get her,’ Ed said.

  Sam was playing out the arrest sequence in her mind.

  ‘Everything changes now,’ she said. ‘If we arrest mother, we have to get father and son. That means we need to see the guy who sold them the settee.’

  Sam knew it wasn’t ideal. She hated being rushed. Now there was no choice if they wanted to get Aisha’s mother in possession of the bank card.

  ‘What about Darlington station?’ Ed asked.

  Sam shook her head.

  ‘We haven’t got the staff to cover that. She got on at Newcastle, so it’s a fair bet she’ll get off there… hopefully.’

  Newcastle railway station – all Victorian arches and amber stonework – has a dozen platforms and two footbridges crossing multiple sets of track, but the London trains invariably stop at the platforms nearest the entrance, platforms directly underneath the first of the bridges.

  Sam and Ed were on the bridge with a good view of the main entrance, watching for any family coming to meet Mrs Bhandal, but the next London train came and went without her or anyone else showing up.

  ‘Coffee?’ Sam said. ‘We’ve got an hour to kill.’

  Sam bought Americanos from one of the platform cafes.

  ‘Jesus,’ Ed said, shaking his head and smacking his lips. ‘Do you think they just let the water sniff the coffee beans?’

  ‘Stop moaning. You didn’t pay for it.’

  ‘Just as well at the price,’ Ed moaned. ‘At least Dick Turpin wore a mask.’

  Sam was fishing for her cigarettes. ‘Let’s get outside. I need a smoke.’

  The road in front of the station was busy with stags and hens arriving for the weekend; some would get no nearer to their hotel than the Irish bar directly opposite.

  Ed walked away when his phone rang.

  Sam inhaled on the cigarette and watched a group of young men with strong Yorkshire accents walk past, all wearing American Indian costumes, all drinking cans of cheap lager, and with the groom-to-be in the middle dressed as a squaw.

  She blew smoke and smiled as the squaw started talking to a group of unlikely ballerinas, all in pink tutus, the bride-to-be sporting L-plates and her bridesmaids, mother and future mother-in-law, wearing pink sashes identifying them as such.

  All fun for now but for some, she knew, the long weekend would no doubt end in tears.

  ‘The prints are Baljit’s,’ Ed said, back at her side.

  ‘Get in!’ Sam did a solo fist-pump. ‘Come on then. Let’s get back on the bridge. I don’t want to be spotted. The family sees us here and they’ll ring her and tell her to stop on the train. Next stop Berwick, then Edinburgh Waverley.’

  Joey ‘Fatty’ Sanderson was deep in conversation with the man Bev presumed was the proprietor when she walked into the back-street furniture shop. Sanderson turned around when he heard the bell above the door tinkle.

  ‘They’re popping up everywhere this week,’ he said with eyebrow’s rising.

  ‘Alright Fatty?’ Bev nodded.

  ‘Not really. You still working with Whelan?’

  Bev nodded some more as he walked towards her.

  ‘Give him my best, won’t you,’ Sanderson grumbled. ‘Thanks to him I’m in here buying a new sofa for that psycho Wilson.’

  He looked over his shoulder.

  ‘See you later, Karan.’ Sanderson’s pronunciation made the man’s name sound like a girl’s. ‘Watch this one... CID.’

  He yanked open the door and strode out, the bell rattling behind him.

  ‘Mr Singh, my name is Bev Summers. I’m from the CID. I need to speak to you about a sofa you sold.’

  His English was good but still heavily accented.

  ‘In 30 years in this business, never has one item of furniture caused me so much trouble.’

  He reminded Bev of a serene religious figure; white turban, resplendent white beard, the type of man everybody wanted for a grandfather.

  ‘How can I help you?’ he asked now, arms out wide.

  ‘I need to ask you about two sofas Davinder Bhandal bought from you in December,’ Bev told him. ‘And it’s me who might be able to help you.’

  ‘Help me?’

  Bev smiled. ‘I know the man who just left charges you for security.’

  The train was due in 15 minutes. They were back on the footbridge, one eye on the passengers milling about on the platform, one eye on the main entrance. If she wasn’t on this train, they were stuck another hour.

  Sam gently tapped Ed’s leg with her foot. ‘She’s on this one.’

  Ed looked at the entrance, understood immediately. ‘Jackpot.’

  Standing by the ticket barriers, looking up at the arrivals and departure boards, he could have been just another husband picking up his wife.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  ‘Mr Singh... '

  ‘Please, call me Karan. I was just about to have some tea before Mr Sanderson came in. Would you like some?’

  ‘That would be very nice,’ Bev said.

  She followed him into the storeroom at the back of the shop.

  He flicked on the kettle, spooned loose-leaf Assam tea into the blue patterned Royal Doulton teapot, watched the kettle vibrate as steam came out of the neck, and poured boiling water into the pot.

  He still had his back to Bev as he added milk from a glass bottle.

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  He handed a cup to Bev.

  ‘Please take a seat.’ Karan extended his right arm, the cuff of his shirt sliding up towards his elbow, a thin wrist and forearm visible. ‘There’s plenty to choose from.’

  Bev smiled and sat down on a green velour sofa.

  ‘As I said earlier, I’m here to talk about Davinder Bhandal and two sofas he bought from you in quick succession.’

  ‘Yes,’ Karan said. ‘Very strange.’

  He sat on an armchair opposite. ‘Mr Bhandal bought a sofa which my grandsons delivered on the Saturday morning. Then on the Monday morning, first thing, he was waiting outside the shop. He said his wife didn’t like it, she had given it to some relative, and he needed another sofa. He needed it that day because the other one had already been collected the day before, the Sunday. He chose one and my grandsons delivered it about an hour later.’

  ‘Do you have records showing the transactions?’ Bev asked him.

  ‘Yes, of course. I have a book of receipts. Self-carbonating. I’m too old for computers.’

  Karan placed his cup and saucer on the floor and stood up.

  ‘I’ve used the same system since I opened this shop in 1974. The year I started supporting Newcastle.’

  ‘Malcolm Macdonald era.’ Bev smiled.

  ‘Supermac... Kevin Keegan... Shearer,’ Karam rattled off the names. ‘Great players.’

  He walked across to the writing desk and took out a couple of well-used receipt books together with a hard-backed A4 book.

  ‘They got to the Cup Final that year. I thought it would be a good idea to support a team from the region, one that looked destined for years of success. Oh well…’

  Bev puffed out her cheeks. ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Closed the shop on Saturday afte
rnoons so I could go the match,’ Karan said, the past flooding the present. ‘My wife hated me being at football when I could have been making money.’

  He paused. ‘I don’t go now. Too old and I can’t sit in those seats. I get stiff.’

  He flicked through the books, found two receipts separated by one other, and handed them over.

  ‘There you are officer.’

  ‘Please, call me Bev.’

  Karan dipped his head and tapped the pieces of paper in Bev’s hand.

  ‘As you can see, Bev, the receipts are dated and timed with a description of the sofa and the name and address of the purchaser.’

  She nodded.

  He sat down, turned the pages of the A4 book.

  ‘And here is the record of the two deliveries, one on the Saturday, one on the Monday.’

  ‘Can I take copies of these please,’ Bev asked. ‘I won’t take the documents themselves as I know you’ll need them for your business, but I would ask that you don’t destroy them in case they are ever needed for court.’

  Karan laughed, his dark eyes sparkling.

  ‘My dear, had you wanted a receipt from 1974, I could have given you it. I’m a hoarder. Nothing gets thrown away… am I allowed to ask why the police are so interested in two sofas? Has it something to do with their daughter?’

  Bev looked at Karan’s enquiring eyes, curious and alive.

  ‘Sorry, Karan, but I can’t say. Now... about Mr Sanderson.’

  She stepped off the train, walked slowly towards the ticket barrier, exited and met up with her husband. Sam and Ed hurried off the bridge. The Bhandals had taken less than five steps when they caught up with them. The couple turned around before a word was said, bottom jaws dropping and their mouths wide open. He clamped his shut very quickly but she collapsed on to all fours, her large bag sliding across the floor and coming to rest next to one of the coffee stall’s three metal tables.

  ‘Police brutality!’ Bhandal shouted. ‘My wife has a heart condition. A shock could kill her.’

  People looked but kept on walking as he helped her to her feet, retrieved the bag, and handed it to his shaking wife.