Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  Sam nodded. She managed a smile. All the high-tech equipment they had at their disposal and they were using supermarket carrier bags.

  ‘All the photographs are taken,’ Julie told her. ‘We’ve done the video. There’s a plate in the tent, but you can get in.’

  ‘To be fair, Julie, we’ll just look in through the tent door,’ Sam said. ‘We can see what we need to from there. Jim Melia’s on his way.’

  ‘Right on cue,’ Ed said, looking over his shoulder, the pathologist striding towards them, bright green moleskins tucked into his black Hunter Wellingtons.

  ‘What we got then?’ Jim said, hands in the pockets of his waterproof, looking like he’d been awake for hours.

  ‘Head injury by the sounds of it,’ Sam said.

  ‘Best have a look then.’

  The three of them put on the white suits and overshoes. As ever, Ed, 6’4”, and broad shouldered, struggled to turn himself into a Teletubby lookalike.

  Julie pulled the tent flap back. They all couched down and peered inside. The body was laid on its side, facing away from them, hair matted with blood, a gaping wound in the back of the skull just above the neckline.

  His clothing – jeans and a T-shirt – suggested he’d been on a night out.

  Jim stepped inside on to the metal plate and knelt down by the body, looking at the head but touching nothing. Sam was still at the entrance to the tent and he spoke to her without looking up or turning around.

  ‘I was at a body the other night, different force, not naming names,’ Jim Melia said. ‘New SIO asked me about time of death. I told him I could stick as many thermometers into as many holes as he wanted, but it’s still a guess. He looked devastated. Really thought I was going to say time of death between X and Y, to the second almost. I told him this was real life, not TV. No voodoo mumbo jumbo.’

  Jim shot back on his haunches. ‘Jesus, Ed, you made me jump.’

  Ed had walked around the tent, removed a metal peg and thrust his head under the canvas. ‘Thought so. Sorry Jim.’

  ‘Thought what?’ Sam said.

  Ed walked back around the tent, hands in pockets, head down.

  ‘Luminous orange trainers,’ he told her. ‘It’s Glen Jones.’

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  ‘There’s a big rock over here, covered in blood,’ a white-suited SOCO shouted, emerging from the long grass. He was 20 metres away, 20 metres closer to the student accommodation block.

  Sam and Ed walked over to him.

  They remained on the path, the SOCO, back in the grass, photographing the stone in situ. It needed to be recovered before the drizzle washed it clean.

  ‘Good spot that,’ Sam said.

  She remembered the discovery of Yorkshire Ripper Peter Sutcliffe’s hammer. Thorough search or another search officer taking a leak?

  Jim exited the tent and walked to Sam and Ed.

  ‘Skull crushed, probably one solid blow but I’ll know better when we get him to the mortuary.’

  Sam pointed to the orange plastic box crate covered in brown paper, which the SOCO was now carrying towards them. Sam marvelled at the odds and sods SOCO carried in their vans.

  ‘What about what’s in this crate?’ she asked Jim Melia.

  He glanced under the paper.

  The large stone looked like it belonged in a garden rockery, something of a size not many would be able to carry in one hand. The small, dark brown stain was a dirty blemish on the smooth pale grey surface, a couple of strands of matted hair moving in the cool breeze. Anything more than a drop was ‘covered’ as far as SOCOs were concerned.

  ‘That would fit the bill,’ Jim said, bending forwards for a closer look. ‘You’ll know for certain when you do your tests on the blood and hair.’

  He straightened his back. ‘Nothing more for me here.’

  He strode off and didn’t look back when he shouted: ‘See you at the mortuary.’

  ‘Not a hammer then,’ Ed said, as he and Sam walked back towards their cars.

  ‘Maybe more spontaneous, maybe the killer didn’t have another hammer, but it’s another Mortimer, another link.

  The dampness magnified the smell of the grass and bushes, but the cold and wet were hindering her thought processes. She hated being cold, hated being wet. Fine on a yacht, not at work. The two together were a nightmare as far as she was concerned.

  ‘Why carry the rock, what, 20 metres? What was that all about?’ Ed said.

  ‘Who knows?’ She kicked another stone, sunk her hands deeper into her North Face jacket. ‘We’re missing something here. I know we are, but what?’ She pulled her hood up, bowing her head as the drizzle turned to rain. ‘I feel we’re one piece short. Find the last piece and we can start to put the jigsaw together. How are we doing with Amber and Elliott?’

  ‘They need a bit more time,’ Ed told her.

  ‘That’s one thing we’re pretty short of.’

  She answered her phone. ‘Morning Darius. How are you?’ She tapped Ed’s arm and pointed to a large oak tree.

  ‘Give me a minute.’ They sheltered under the huge tree. Sam put the phone on speaker.

  ‘Hi Sam. Fine thanks. Listen, just to give you the heads up: the editor’s going to slate you in his editorial.’

  ‘Just what we need,’ Sam said, heart rate increasing, thoughts racing.

  ‘Knobhead,’ Ed mouthed.

  ‘Incompetent investigation, serial killer on the loose, you know the drill,’ Darius was saying. ‘He’s not particularly well liked and everybody knows he has a beef with the police... goes back to his leftie student days when he was locked up at some rally, but he’ll run with it Sam. He sees it as his civic duty.’

  Ed mouthed ‘Tosser’.

  ‘Okay, thanks for the heads up,’ Sam said into the phone. ‘I’ll let you know if we get anything. No doubt we’ll have a press conference later.’

  ‘Bound to happen,’ Ed said, as they started walking.

  Sam’s pounding heart and clammy forehead were a reaction to the self-doubt racing like river rapids through her veins. Pilloried in the press would be just the beginning. Soon it would be police officers whispering in corners, stealing glances as Sam walked past.

  ‘Yeah, suppose so.’ She stopped again, took a deep breath, spoke slowly. ‘Would cops walking along here last night have made any difference?’

  ‘Look at it,’ Ed told her. ‘Two miles of path, two miles on each side that is, four miles to cover in total. If we had a cop every 100 metres maybe, but what would that be? Something like 60 cops? We had four on mountain bikes and a couple on horses, and getting that many was a bloody miracle.’

  Sam knew even those resources were really an exercise in trying to reassure a nervous public.

  ‘The media will still say we could have caught him,’ she said.

  Ed wiped rain of his shaved head.

  ‘Years ago, when everybody was clamouring for more cops on the streets, I read somewhere that a bobby on the beat would catch a burglar red-handed once in their career, so once in 30 years in other words… Come on, I’m getting soaked.’

  They went to their cars.

  Ed turned the key in the ignition and adjusted the climate control to high. His trousers clung to his thighs as he depressed the clutch, his leather-soled shoe slipping on the rubber pedal.

  What had Sam said? A piece missing from the jigsaw?

  He pulled away, the noise of the blown air fading as he lost himself in the mental search going on through the fog of his brain. The piece he was after was floating around, a fuzzy shape he couldn’t quite grab.

  His wasn’t concentrating on the road; he was a child again, running around, trying to catch the bubbles his mother was blowing through a red plastic circle on the end of a red plastic stick.

  He saw the teenager sprint, zigzagging across the road, dodging puddles, a cigarette clasped between his teeth.

  ‘Fucking idiot,’ Ed muttered, the palm of his right hand slapping the top of his forehead
. He didn’t mean the teenager.

  His eyes darted between the rear-view mirror and both wing mirrors before he swerved into a junction, spun the wheel and re-emerged back on the main road, now travelling in the opposite direction. The surveillance team called a 180-degree turn a reciprocal.

  His reciprocal was nothing to do with a surveillance target; he’d caught the bubble.

  His finger jabbed the screen of his phone.

  ‘Sam, it’s me. Meet me back on the tow path. I want to check something out whilst SOCO are still there.’

  ‘What is it?’ Sam said, hurrying towards him.

  Ed was standing next to the same oak tree.

  ‘A young lad ran across the road, dodging puddles but still smoking,’ he told her. ‘Smokers smoke whatever the weather.’

  ‘Okay, let’s skip the lecture,’ Sam said, more sharply than she intended.

  Ed held out his hands. ‘I’m not having a go. We stood under this tree for shelter. What if somebody stood under here to conceal themselves?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘If they were waiting, they’d be tense,’ Ed continued. ‘They might chew gum, maybe smoke. I looked at the ground when you were on the phone but it didn’t register. They’ve gone now but there was six cigarettes butts on the ground. I had SOCO photograph and recover them. It’s been raining but they haven’t been there long. They can’t have been. The brown filters were still intact. They weren’t like soggy cotton wool.’

  ‘So maybe the killer was waiting?’ Sam said, letting Ed’s theory play out.

  Ed’s eyes were alive, shining.

  ‘And if you were chewing gum and about to attack someone, would you spit it out, risk making a noise or would you quietly take it out of your mouth and stick it on the bark?’

  ‘Tell me there was chewing gum on this tree?’ Sam almost held her breath.

  ‘Just there.’ Ed pointed at the bark. ‘Also photographed and recovered.’

  If Ed was right, the hidden killer must have known Jones was going to be on the path.

  ‘What are we, a hundred metres from the body, 120 from the weapon deposition site?’ Sam said now. ‘If he was killed where he fell, why let him get 100 metres in front? Why let him get that far away?’

  She walked away, lit a cigarette and inhaled.

  ‘Did the killer carry that rock 100 metres?’ she went on. ‘Can’t see it. Did it just happen to be there on the path? It doesn’t fit. Wait to intercept him, but not have a weapon to hand.’

  ‘What if it was put there beforehand?’ Ed asked.

  ‘I suppose, but why?’ Sam looked up, the grey sky a reflection of the investigation. ‘Clear as bloody mud.’

  They decided to eat before the post mortem – Sam reasoning if she was going to have a shit day it may as well be with on full stomach – and Ed suggested the Ocean View, a long-established spot by the promenade.

  ‘It won’t be open, will it?’ Sam said.

  Ed smirked and spread out his arms, palms turned up.

  ‘Samantha.’ He paused to add to the sarcasm. ‘When I first joined back in 1978, I was told even when it was pouring with rain a good copper never gets wet. Why? Because he’s always got a tea spot to visit. It’s 6.45. Of course it’s not open, but Richie, the chef, will be there. We go way back. He’ll knock something up.’

  Sam smiled and shook her head. Was there anyone Ed didn’t know in this town?

  Within an hour they were in Ed’s car heading to the mortuary, Sam’s Audi left in the Ocean View car park.

  ‘Feel better for that?’ Ed asked.

  ‘Just what the doctor ordered,’ Sam told him, thinking... it would have tasted even better if I wasn’t waiting for that bloody editorial.

  It was a myth that dead bodies affected the appetites of the investigators; they still needed to function. Ed recalled a post-mortem years ago in the early hours where the pathologist suggested a break halfway through for bacon sandwiches.

  Ed turned into the hospital grounds, drove to the mortuary, and pulled alongside the SOCO van. They were still in the car when Coolio’s ‘Gangsters in Paradise’ started in his pocket.

  Sam made a face and Ed gave her a ‘what? I like it!’ look in return

  ‘Alright Paul,’ he said into the mobile. ‘Hang on. Sam’s here. I’ll put you on speaker.’

  ‘The blood on the hammer is Jack Goddard’s, and there’s DNA on the handle,’ Paul told them. ‘No hits on the database but it’s a full profile.’

  Chapter Forty

  The concrete floor of the large examination room was soaking wet, steam still rising, the smell of disinfectant so strong Sam had to rub her eyes. Glen Jones, naked, was on the metal table unaffected by the ammonia, his Chucky-like eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling, sink hole between his ankles. A SOCO stood on top of a pair of wooden stepladders photographing him from above.

  ‘Ready to begin?’ Jim Melia said, standing in a green gown and white Wellington boots, his clothing a much better fit than the white paper suits and overshoes the police were wearing.

  Sam looked around: SOCOs and the female mortuary attendant, poised, sprinters under starter’s orders, watching her and Jim, waiting for the signal to start. What a place. No dignity in death. She shuddered. I hope I die from a diagnosed illness. I don’t want to end up here, naked, cold, surrounded by strangers and disinfectant.

  ‘Yeah, let’s make a start,’ she said.

  Jim began his external examination, beginning with the head. The first incision would wait.

  Two hours later they were out of the paper suits and back in Ed’s car. Jim’s findings were as his scene observations – one crushing blow with a smooth object, but an object with a wide surface area. The rock found in the long grass would fit.

  ‘I’ll sort the Press out,’ Sam said. ‘You prioritise the rock. I need to know if that’s the weapon and let’s see if it’s Glen’s blood. Authorise the premium service. I want to know ASAP.’

  Ed nodded. ‘No problem.’

  ‘We need to give some thought to the Persons of Interest in this investigation,’ Sam went on. ‘Tracey, Charlotte, Alex, Amber, and Elliott. None of them have any previous so they’re not on the DNA database. We need to get samples from them.’

  ‘How do you want to do that?’ Ed asked her.

  ‘Let me think about it,’ Sam’s mind was in investigation overdrive. ‘And get the cigarettes and the gum fast-tracked.’

  Sam did the maths. Six cigarettes, one piece of gum, one rock. Eight items, each to be fast-tracked. Bang goes the budget.

  Coolio’s voice filled the car.

  ‘Hi Ranjit.’ Ed answered the call. ‘I’m on hands-free. The boss is in the car with me.’

  ‘I just wanted to touch base before I went to bed,’ Ranjit’s voice sounded thin and tinny through the speaker. ‘All the tapes are logged and there’s written summaries of what’s been said. But my overall feeling, which I haven’t put down on paper, is that she’s dead. No bounty hunters involved. Why aren’t they looking for her?’

  Ed agreed but they all knew gut feeling wasn’t enough.

  ‘They say anything interesting?’ he asked.

  ‘They all got up about four and there was a conversation about how we wouldn’t find her but nothing that’ll take us very far at the minute,’ Ranjit told them. ‘The father spoke about going back to see old man Singh. Then at breakfast time there was a bit of a domestic. Daughter can’t find her suitcase. Accused the brother of stealing it. I hope you don’t think I’m speaking out of turn.’

  Sam jumped in. ‘Ranjit, absolutely not. We welcome your input. Now do yourself a favour, go to bed and get some sleep. And thanks for the call.’

  ‘He’s right about the bounty hunters,’ Ed said after Ranjit had gone.

  Sam gazed out of the side window. April, and people were still hunched under grey skies and drizzle, collars upturned, umbrellas held aloft.

  I need a holiday. Somewhere warm.

  ‘Let’s see ho
w we get on this week with the monitoring,’ she said after a pause. ‘If there’s nothing, we may have to think of a way to spark a reaction in that household.’

  Ed pulled into the Ocean View car park.

  Sam jumped out. ‘See you later.’

  Before Ed had time to reply, she was opening her car door.

  Sam saw the waiting Press pack as she approached HQ.

  ‘Bloody marvellous,’ she muttered to herself. It never ceased to amaze her how quickly the media mobilised, the satellite vans already in the lay-by. They were all there – BBC, ITV, Sky, reporters sipping hot drinks, milling around, swapping gossip.

  The first person she saw inside the building was Assistant Chief Constable Monica Teal. Teal was walking towards her, deep in conversation with the Police and Crime Commissioner. As she neared Sam, she spoke without altering her stride.

  ‘Looks like your audience awaits, Sam. Anything you need, let me know.’

  She was past Sam when she raised her voice. ‘You have our full support as always. Pop into my office today, give me a full update.’

  Following the ACC was Inspector Mick ‘Never’ Wright. He slowed noticeably. ‘Be careful, though.’ Wright was gloating. ‘Don’t want them writing your obituary.’

  Peter Hunt, the Press Officer, was waiting for her.

  ‘We’ve been bombarded this morning,’ he said in greeting. ‘Everyone wants to know if we’ve got a serial killer, whether we’re linking some or all the attacks. Nothing you can’t handle.’

  Sam looked up at the clock. 10.50am.

  ‘How about noon?’ she suggested. ‘It can go out on the lunchtime news.’

  Peter Hunt thought that would be perfect.

  ‘Give me an idea what you want to say and I’ll write up your statement,’ he said. ‘Then we can go through the likely questions.’

  It took Sam less than five minutes to give him the information he needed.

  The two officers in the LP – the Listening Post – were still unsure of the identification of the third man. Two voices clearly belonged to Bhandal and Baljit but the third was unknown. They referred to him as ‘male 3’ in their log.