Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  Sam and Ed were a couple of miles from the office, sitting with Karan Singh and his two grandsons. Sam had called him. He told her where he was.

  Ed accepted Karan’s offer of a pint. Sam had a pineapple juice. The youngest boy fetched the drinks.

  The mid-afternoon sunshine meant the bar was quiet, one of the less attractive Premier League fixtures playing out on the only TV, the sound muted.

  ‘Mr Bhandal is of the opinion that you made a mistake, that the first settee was delivered on the Thursday, not the Saturday,’ Sam said.

  Karan shook his head. ‘Impossible. The receipt books.’

  ‘Mr Singh...’ Sam leaned across the copper-topped round table and spoke quietly, ‘...do you fill those receipts in at the time or later.’

  He looked at her. Everyone at the table waited for his answer. Silence.

  Karan drank a mouthful of beer, put the half-pint glass down, and moved on to the tumbler keeping it company. He raised the tumbler to his mouth and drained the remains of the whisky.

  ‘I can’t say that I wrote them out at the time,’ he said slowly. ‘Probably didn’t, but I would have written them out within a couple of days.’

  Sam kept her disappointment off her face.

  ‘Could you have been mistaken, Mr Singh?’

  He picked up the beer.

  ‘I would be lying if I said I never made a mistake,’ Karan said. ‘But I wasn’t wrong this time. Our van was in for service. Goes in the same time every year. It went in on the Wednesday and we got it back on the Friday afternoon. The garage’s receipts are computerised. I paid by card so there’ll be records.’ He took another mouthful of beer, froth clinging to his beard.

  ‘So we couldn’t have delivered anything to Mr Bhandal on Thursday. We only have the one van. I am afraid it’s him who’s mistaken.’

  Sam could have kissed him.

  Back in the car, it was Ed who spoke first. ‘Do you want to have another interview with Bhandal?’

  Sam said no, what would it achieve?

  ‘We have him lying about the settee,’ she said. ‘We’ll tie that up nicely in statements from Mr Singh – isn’t he lovely, by the way? – and the statements from the garage where his van was serviced. We’ve started to build up a nice case but we’re a long way short yet.’

  They would release them on police bail with the usual ‘while we conduct further enquiries’ send off. Carver would have a little rant, demanding to know why they weren’t being released unconditionally. Then the listening probes would come into play.

  ‘What about the daughter, Mia?’ Ed asked.

  ‘She’ll go back to them,’ Sam said. ‘There’s no way we can suggest she’s at risk.’

  Ed’s face became tight with concern.

  ‘But she’s going to be, Sam. She’s 15. Aisha’s gone. There’s a promise to be fulfilled to a family in India. Mia will have to take Aisha’s place.’

  Sam had never thought about that. Why would she?

  ‘We have a duty of care to her,’ Ed went on. ‘She’s at risk.’

  ‘When’s that new law coming in?’

  ‘The Forced Marriage Act?’ Ed said. ‘June this year. Potentially too late for Mia.’

  Sam looked for another solution.

  ‘The civil courts,’ she suggested. ‘Forced Marriage Protection Orders.’

  Ed was all cold water.

  ‘You know the difficulties with them,’ his voice trailing away. ‘Police getting mixed up in civil law.’

  Not for the first time, Sam was struck by Ed’s passion.

  'Okay,’ she told him. ‘We’ve got the probes in the house. If her level of risk increases from anything we hear, we’ll go in and get her. She’ll be fine Ed.’

  He said nothing but his grim face spoke for him.

  Sam’s hand ached, the pen so fast it barely touched the paper, the handwriting more illegible with every word. Notes on both investigations, separate sheets for the different investigations: lines of enquiry that needed to be completed or developed further; witnesses that needed further interviews; Persons of Interest who may become suspects; identified suspects that needed interviewing; inquiries into people’s backgrounds; technical examinations, as well as the covert operation which would start as soon as the Bhandals were released.

  Logistically, it wasn’t possible today, but first thing tomorrow Charlotte, Tracey, Alex and Amber would be arrested and brought in.

  Ed came into Sam’s office and talked through the arrest strategies... which officers would go to which address... what time... which stations the suspects would be taken to... who would interview them... who would co-ordinate the searches of their houses... what the search teams would be looking for.

  The pre-arrest briefing would take place at 6am, everybody at the respective addresses no later than 7am.

  Sam called Paul into her office and agreed the interview strategies. He had made little progress with Amber’s family tree but would get on to the various agencies tomorrow.

  It was 8pm. Sam had survived the day on a bacon sandwich and a pineapple juice. She was tired, hungry, and her head was pounding. She needed home, food and bed. Tomorrow was going to be a long day.

  She ate yet another ready meal in front of the TV, poached breast of Scottish salmon, king prawns, cream cheese and asparagus. I’m spoiling myself tonight, Sam thought as the microwave sang its siren song. Sid James’s laugh filled the room, a camping field the setting for the ‘Carry On’ film she’d seen countless times before.

  Twenty-five minutes after walking through the front door she dragged herself upstairs, undressed and dropped on to the bed. Her legs ached; her head felt like the big, green watermelon from ‘The Day of the Jackal’, Edward Fox already having done his worst. Still sleep wouldn’t come. Each time she looked at the bedside clock another 15 minutes had passed. 11.50 were the last numbers she saw on the red display.

  Monday 21st April 2014

  Disorientated, she stretched for the phone and glanced at the clock – 4.03am.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, boss.’

  She pushed herself up, rolled on to her side, and reached for the pad and paper that were always on the bedside table. ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s a Body. On the tow path.’

  Fuck.

  ‘Male. Early 20s. Looks like a head injury. Found by a passing student. Uniform are in attendance. SOCO en route.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  While Eastern Police, like every other force across the country, had failed miserably in its target to recruit, and then retain, more officers from minority ethnic groups, the surveillance team had one Asian officer who spoke Punjabi fluently.

  Yesterday, Sam made sure that Sonia Mitchell was attached to the ‘listening team’ on the Aisha Bhandal investigation. Another three Punjabi speaking officers from uniform had also been drafted on to the investigation, having first been warned of the consequences of disclosing the true nature of their duties.

  Two officers were required to work each shift. Ideally it should have been four, two to each device, but cuts had every department straining at the seams. The four Asian officers would work different shifts so there would always be one Punjabi speaking officer on duty.

  Any officer removed from normal duties drives the rumour mill into overtime, colleagues asking where they’ve gone. If they’re fobbed off – ‘nothing to do with you’ or, even worse, ‘it’s on a need to know’ – they started speculating.

  Sam was only too well aware that educated guesswork could sometimes hit the mark and if the officers with big mouths started speculating, the investigation could be compromised.

  Three uniform officers from the same ethnic background would only be petrol to the curiosity flame... and a flame could become an inferno.

  Sam had brought this up with Assistant Chief Constable Monica Teal in a phone call yesterday. The ACC contacted various superintendents, informing them the three officers were required to work under the supervision of DC
I Parker for the foreseeable future. She told them the officers were to form a headquarters working party, responsible for developing Eastern Police’s response to forced marriages in view of the impending legislation.

  Hopefully the only comments would be sarcastic – the words ‘working party’ and ‘headquarters’ laughable bedfellows to plenty.

  Working the night shift, two officers were sitting, headphones on and machines recording, in an office in the secure compound which Sam and Ed had visited on Saturday.

  The Bhandals' house came alive shortly after the family’s release from custody.

  Doors slammed, the father shouted in a mixture of Punjabi and English, the son shouted predominantly in English. The mother was inaudible.

  Then it was over. Ten minutes of activity. Then nothing. Only silence.

  Had everybody gone to bed?

  In a warm office, no matter how bright, silence equates to boredom for the listeners and a subsequent struggle to stay awake. There is only so much tea, so many quiz questions. Sleep goes to war and becomes a sly, merciless enemy. Many a cop has fallen on the unforgiving fields of ‘The Battle of Stay Awake’.

  Just after 4am, Davinder Bhandal spoke, in English.

  The cops, hearts jump-started by the surge of activity, bolted upright and rubbed their eyes.

  Bhandal was in the kitchen. Water was running. A kettle being filled? ‘Where’ve you been?’

  The son spoke. ‘Out. Clear my head. Get rid of the smell of that stinking place. What are you doing up?’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep,’ Bhandal answered. ‘I will go and see old man Singh today, put him right.’

  The sound of a clicking switch. The kettle?

  ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’

  ‘He needs to be reminded of the dates, make sure he gives the police the correct information,’ Bhandal told his son. ‘That the settee was delivered on Thursday.’

  ‘And what if he goes to the police? Tells them you’ve been round?’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘Why?’ Baljit’s voice rose. ‘Because those from the mother country don’t talk to the police? They close ranks, protect their own community? I’ve got news for you – he’s already talked to them. And have you thought the police might be watching us, watching this house?’

  The two officers smiled, gave each other the thumbs-up.

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ Bhandal was asking now. ‘You seem to have all the answers.’

  ‘I don’t, but I say do nothing. Let the dust settle. The police haven’t got anything. If they had, we wouldn’t have been let out.’

  Footsteps. Flowing water. A cup being filled?

  PC Ranjit Singh was writing as fast as he could. It was true what they said. If you lost one of your senses, the others compensated. If you lost four out of five, the survivor was bordering on extra-terrestrial.

  A spoon bashed against the sides of a cup. Sugar?

  ‘And what if they come for us again?’ It was Bhandal’s voice.

  ‘I think they will,’ Baljit answered. ‘So what? What have they got? Just tell mum to keep saying nothing.’

  ‘What if they find her?’

  The officers pulled their chairs closer, sat up, and clocked the time.

  ‘Aisha?’ Baljit said. ‘Don’t be stupid. How will they do that?’

  ‘What are you two talking about?’ A new voice, a woman speaking Punjabi. Baljit answered in the same.

  ‘Dad wants to go round to see old man Singh.’

  ‘What for?’ the woman demanded. ‘What can the police do? They’ll never find Aisha. It will all just go away.’

  Silence.

  Ranjit Singh, three years into the job, desperately wanted to be a detective. He would never get another opportunity like this. Sam Parker’s opinion carried a lot of weight. Impress her and he was on his way. Drop a bollock and the chances of getting Detective Constable on his warrant card would vanish quicker than the setting Indian sun.

  He brought DC Ian Wilson up to speed.

  ‘That can be taken more ways than one,’ said the older, shorter, fatter detective with the cheap trainers and a sweatshirt Ranjit wouldn’t wear to wash his beloved black Golf GTi.

  The tall young cop with expensive taste in shoes and clothes could never envisage a day, no matter how old he got, when he would be seen in crap sportswear. Ian Wilson had obviously never heard of Adidas or Nike. Did detectives have a style transplant when they hit 50? In fairness, Ed Whelan had dodged it. He was still a sharp dresser.

  The DC continued. ‘They’ll never find her because we’ve hidden her, or hidden her body, or if we can’t find her, the police have no chance.’

  He pushed his chair back away from his desk, allowed its wheels to glide across the floor until they lost momentum. He reached sideways for the bag of toffees.

  ‘By the way, do these families use bounty hunters to track them down?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ranjit told him. ‘There are people who make it their living. In your culture you’d call them private investigators, searching for missing persons. This is slightly different. These are looking for people they know are going to be punished, perhaps even killed, once they are found. Often they’d be distributing photographs among the community in the area the family thinks they’ve gone to.’

  Wilson propelled himself forward and passed his colleague a sweet.

  Ranjit took a liquorice toffee, talking again as he struggled with the rapper.

  ‘That’s bothered me about this case,’ he said. ‘Not the distribution of photos but the fact the family hasn’t hired any bounty hunters.’

  ‘Would you know if they did?’

  Ranjit raised his eyebrows. ‘Me, probably. My wife? One hundred per cent. No bounty hunters are looking for Aisha. What does that tell you?’

  He looked at Wilson.

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘They’re not bothered,’ Ranjit said. ‘They know she’s dead.’

  ‘Haven’t even put him in the water this time,’ Sam said, walking along the tow path with Ed. ‘You get any grief for getting called out?’

  ‘Nothing that I’m not used to,’ Ed shrugged.

  They had already crossed the outer cordon, a lone young police officer, clip-board in-hand, writing the names down of every officer who passed through. The instructions had been simple – nobody passes unless it’s DCI Sam Parker. Sam knew there would be another police officer at the other end of the tow path doing exactly the same.

  Aware it was always the youngest officers on duty who copped for the Scene Log, Sam unfailingly made time to explain the importance of their task; how, for example, any allegations of cross-contamination could be refuted by the scene log. When a job was boring, it was vital that those performing it realised how much it mattered. Sam knew as far as those officers were concerned nothing got the circulation flowing better than being told you were important by a senior officer.

  She didn’t make time for the young cop today. She managed a cursory nod, no more. She knew she was walking towards a disaster zone, had known that since the call. Her own professional disaster zone.

  There was a slight drizzle – ‘wet rain’ Sam called it – and only their footsteps disturbed the early morning silence.

  Although the body had not been identified, Sam knew it was a young male. She didn’t doubt for a second he would be a student.

  ‘The press will have a field day,’ she muttered.

  Ed didn’t respond.

  She kicked a small stone, which skimmed across the ground and rolled down the bank, dropping into the water.

  ‘How long can we say they’re not linked, deny a serial killer’s on the loose?’ Sam wondered aloud.

  She knew there’d be recriminations from the young man’s family. Christ, she had organised extra patrols along the tow path for Friday and Saturday night. The original plan had been to arrest the girls – the suspected Sisters of Macavity – yesterday. Aisha’s bank card had changed all that and she�
��d forgotten to organise extra tow path patrols for last night. She’d taken her eye off the ball.

  ‘You could have saved my son, you incompetent bitch.’ Sam could already hear the grief-stricken voice.

  Professional Standards would have a field day with her. The force might even involve the Independent Police Complaints Commission, although Ed always maintained they were next to useless.

  Trying to get extra officers to patrol the tow path at such short notice would have been a nightmare, but that wasn’t the issue. She should have got them anyway, or at least tried. She hadn’t... end of.

  Sam launched the next stone with her right foot, watched it land in the water with a plop and sink without a trace. The arc of the stone replicated her career – rapid rise, dive to the depths.

  The path followed the meanderings of the river and as they rounded a bend, ducking under a wet, overhanging hawthorn bush, the white tent and the people scurrying around in white paper suits with cameras and other equipment came into view.

  ‘We’re on candid camera,’ Ed said.

  Sam looked across the river, seeing Darius Simpson and a photographer from the Seaton Post.

  ‘At times I think he’s got my bloody phone bugged,’ Sam muttered.

  Julie Trescothick, the Senior Scenes of Crime Officer, came to greet them, a paper suit in each hand.

  ‘What we got, Julie?’ Sam asked as she reached the inner cordon, waist-high tape running around the exterior of the tent.

  ‘Young male, head injury, looks like he was hit from behind. Plenty of blood. We’ve put the plates down.’

  Sam could see the metal plates, the size of small patio paving stones around the tent.

  She noticed a couple of plastic bags tied around two branches of a bush.

  Julie followed her look. ‘There’s blood on the branches. Best we could do for now. Better to preserve with a couple of Tesco carriers than not preserve at all.’