Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  He downed the whisky in one.

  ‘Did they say what happened to Aisha?’ Ed asked, taking the glass from Eric’s hand.

  Eric shook his head. ‘Not in so many words, no.’ He took the refilled glass Ed held out. ‘But she’s dead. I just know she is. Davinder said they should move the body but the brother-in-law said you’d never find the suitcase.’

  Shit! Ranjit at the LP said there was a domestic. Mia couldn’t find her suitcase.

  ‘Did they see you?’

  ‘No. The more I heard, the further I backed into the cupboard.’

  ‘Did they say where the body was?’

  Eric shook his head.

  Ed poured him another drink. ‘Eric, tomorrow I’m going to need you to make a statement.’

  He nodded.

  ‘We’ll do it on video. That way it’ll just be like a conversation. Is that okay?’

  Another nod.

  Where the hell am I going to find a Level 3 Interviewer tomorrow?

  After an hour of reassurance, Eric went home with Leela.

  Ed immediately made a phone call.

  ‘Sam, it’s me. I’ve had another visit from Eric, my Sikh mate. He overheard a conversation today between Aisha’s father and uncle. We’ll get a video interview off him tomorrow. He’s terrified. Thinks Aisha’s dead and so do I. They’ve buried her in a suitcase.’

  Saturday 14th December 2013

  It was dark again. I was lying on the bed; my head still hurt and my throat felt like it had closed up. I needed a drink of water. For some reason I remember Bethany telling me how some girl she knew had her own en-suite bathroom. How cool is that? I started to giggle, thinking about getting a drink of water from my own bathroom.

  The whisky bottle was still on top of the drawers. It wasn’t full now. I’d drunk about quarter of it, hoped it would help. It hadn’t.

  I had thought about running and jumping into the window, hoped the whisky would help me do it, but even with the drink I knew I wouldn’t survive, or if I did, I’d be in a wheelchair. Marrying off a cripple is not easy. I’d end up with someone older than my father.

  I thought about agreeing to the marriage. It was better than being a prisoner, or so it seemed until I realised I’d only be swapping one prison for another, and the thought of being imprisoned with Quasimodo as my gaoler…

  I could pretend to agree to the marriage. Hopefully that might get some of my freedoms back. Then I would escape again. Go to the police. I’d heard of those Forced Marriage Protection Orders, read about them in some magazine left in the school, but I just wanted to be away. I knew things would never be the same with my family now.

  If I could just convince them into thinking that I’d go along with it.

  Maybe it was the sound of my giggling. Whatever it was, I heard the thumping of heavy feet on the stairs. More than one set of feet.

  The noise of the bolts being flung back sounded like rifle shots.

  I scrambled up, forced myself into the corner, put my knees up to my chest, and covered my nakedness as best as I could. The room was spinning. Maybe the whisky hadn’t been such a good idea.

  I thought the door was going to come off its hinges. My father filled the frame, his face as red as the Indian sun at dusk, my mother right behind him.

  ‘Look at the drunken slut,’ shouted my mother and she pushed past my father, rushed into the room, grabbed my hair, pulled me towards her, swung her arm right back and slapped my face. If the window had been open, you’d have heard the slap across the street.

  She bent down, screamed at me. Her face was so close to mine I could feel her spit hitting my cheek. ‘We have raised a drunken whore, no better than the white trash she goes to school with.’

  My brother and uncle appeared at the doorway.

  My cheek was on fire. I covered my face with my hands, screamed as my mother grabbed my hair again. She yanked me up. My shoulder cracked as it hit the floor. Before I could move, hands grabbed my arms. My mother still had hold of my hair and she banged my forehead against the floor, three, maybe four times. I thought my head would crack like an eggshell.

  My arms were yanked above my head and I was spun on to my back. I blinked, focussed, and saw that my uncle had one of my arms, my father the other. I was trying to scream ‘get off me’ but my parched throat wouldn’t let the words out.

  My back was in agony, on fire again, as they dragged me across the bedroom and on to the landing. I could see my mother at the bottom of the stairs.

  They forced me to my feet. A hand shoved me forward. I tumbled, cried out, rolled, and somersaulted. I hit the hallway floor and whimpered. Instinctively I curled myself into a ball.

  I couldn’t breathe. Were my ribs shattered or was it just because I had never been so frightened? How many people would ever be this scared?

  My mother had stood above me as other footsteps descended. The steps were loud, but they weren’t hurried. They didn’t have to be. I doubted I could have stood up, never mind run.

  I squealed when the tops of my arms were gripped again and I was pulled to my feet. I could taste the salt from my tears. My cheek was numb. I felt battered.

  I had tried to scream ‘help’ but still nothing came out.

  The uppercut punch flew into my stomach. I doubled up, only the grip on my arms stopped me collapsing. I don’t know who hit me, but my mother couldn’t punch like that.

  My head was swimming. I lolled forward. I wanted to crash to the floor. That old band from the 80s flashed into my mind – Tears for Fears and that song ‘Everybody Wants to Rule the World’. I didn’t want to rule anything, just my own destiny, just a say in my own life, a life I wanted to fight for... but my fight had gone. I had nothing left.

  My dad and uncle hauled me into the sitting room, my legs dragging behind me, my toes burning against the carpet. They threw me on to the settee. The new settee. I landed on my stomach.

  Somebody punched me in the back of the head. I was spun on to my back, my eyes blinked repeatedly trying to focus. The blurred outline of my mother, the only sound her rapid breathing.

  ‘Soon it will be you who has to protect the family honour,’ she gasped.

  I tried to sit-up but a fist smashed into my nose: a massive crack, a blinding white light, gushing blood.

  My father put one knee on my chest. Both his hands gripped my throat. I think I peed myself. I focussed on his eyes but they were blank, nothing behind them. He started to squeeze. Blood was trapped in my throat and I retched. The vomit couldn’t get past my windpipe, couldn’t escape my throat.

  The hazy shapes of my brother and uncle had come into view. They were standing behind the settee looking down, just watching. I was past caring about my nakedness. Then fingers had grabbed my nose.

  What had I done wrong?

  Wanted to go to university.

  Wanted to choose my own husband.

  Wanted to have my own life.

  Was that so wrong?

  Was I so bad?

  Was that such a crime?

  I couldn’t move my legs, couldn’t breathe. My back arched and again my eyes felt they were going to pop out of my skull.

  Where was Mia? Was she okay?

  ‘Get Mia’s suitcase.’ The shouted, breathless, order had come from my father.

  Why did they want Mia’s suitcase?

  Mia came into my head. Mia and her smile. The last thing I would remember as my light went out.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Tuesday 22nd April 2014

  Ed did the 6am briefing, allowing Sam another hour in bed, but neither the extra sleep nor the early morning sun did anything to lighten her mood. She’d tossed and turned all night, wondering what the editor was going to say in print.

  She walked into the HOLMES room. ‘Morning. Everybody okay? How did the swoops go?’

  ‘All in the traps.’ Ed got out of his seat and flicked the kettle the on. ‘Elliott and Tracey want a brief. Charlotte’s weighing up her options a
nd Alex had daddy notified of her arrest. He’s had a solicitor from down south instruct one from up here. Never heard of him.’

  ‘Any of them said anything?’ Sam asked.

  ‘No. Alex and Charlotte were crying. Tracey apparently looked like she was going to batter the arresting officer, and Elliott seemed non-plussed.’

  He handed a mug of tea to Sam.

  ‘Okay then,’ she said, pausing to take a sip. ‘What about that other thing, what you called about last night?’

  ‘Bev’s going to see Eric in about an hour,’ Ed answered. ‘He’s off work today.’

  The HOLMES staff had their heads down, looking at computer screens, reading written documents, but all clearly had their ears tuned into the conversation; they were detectives after all.

  Sam walked out, Ed following. She closed her office door behind them. ‘Anything from the Listeners?’

  ‘Nothing worth mentioning. Eric was terrified.’

  A DC knocked on the door. Sam beckoned him in.

  ‘Thought you’d want to see the Post, boss.’

  ‘Anything in?’

  ‘Page 5,’ the detective told her. ‘Seen better.’

  She took the newspaper and waited until he’d shut the door behind him.

  The front page, written by Darius, was a factual account of yesterday’s press conference. The editorial was on page 5. She pushed her chair out of the way and bent her head towards the page, Ed alongside her.

  Keystone Cops – How many more have to die?

  Eastern Police, like the bumblers from a silent movie, are running around clueless, while a predator preys on the young men of our university community. For months the police have said they died as a result of being drunk and falling into the river. Even after the discovery of a second young man on the tow path yesterday morning with fatal head injuries, DCI Samantha Parker announced ‘there is no necessity to jump to unsubstantiated conclusions and theories’. Her answer – go home via a different route.

  Our response is that we pay the police to ensure our safety, not to suggest no-go areas. Seaton St George is not a war zone, nor is it a repeated target of terrorist activity. If the local police cannot protect us, then I suggest the Chief Constable, his Executive Team, and his Senior Investigating Officers step aside and let someone who knows what they are doing assume command.

  Perhaps it is time we all write to our local MP and suggest the Home Secretary looks at police force mergers again.

  Would anybody really lament the loss of Eastern Police?

  ‘I’d love to have that bastard,’ Sam said, grabbing the paper and flinging it to the floor. ‘Slinging shit from the sidelines.’

  ‘Today’s shit but wrapping tomorrow’s fish and chips,’ Ed pulled a chair from the desk.

  Sam turned and stared out of the window. Deep breaths, count to 10.

  ‘Nothing we can do about it now,’ she turned to Ed as he leaned against the wall. ‘Best way to stick two fingers up is to box this off but come the moment, I’ll have my day with him.’

  Ed had been holding in his smile but now he let it go, not just his mouth but his eyes and his whole face.

  ‘That may come quicker than expected.’

  ‘Brighten my day,’ Sam said.

  ‘He only got locked up last night by traffic,’ Ed grinned. ‘Drink-driving.’

  Her brow concertinaed like an accordion under the deft fingers of a maestro. ‘You’re joking?’

  ‘No,’ Ed went on. ‘Went through a red light. Almost fell out of the car and blew over a hundred on the CAMIC. He’s at court this morning.’

  She raised her arms above her head, looked up at the ceiling. ‘There is a God!’

  ‘Course he’s claiming victimisation,’ Ed said. ‘But it’s not going to get him very far when he’s about three times over the limit. He’d been speaking at some black-tie do... and it gets better.’

  Ed was enjoying himself, grinning so hard it hurt.

  ‘His boss is a tee-totaller high up in the Salvation Army, family tree back to the Temperance League, and our pissed-up editor also had some female company in the car.’

  Sam almost held her breath. ‘Please tell me it wasn’t his wife?’

  ‘‘Chantelle Bellvedaire!’ Ed delivered the name like a stand-up comic hitting the punch line.

  Sam’s eyes were as wide as a kid on Christmas Day. ‘You’re kidding me?’

  ‘The one and only,’ Ed laughed. ‘Crack addict and street prostitute. He’s hours off getting the sack.’

  Sam was shaking her head and reaching for her Marlboros.

  ‘This calls for a celebratory cigarette,’ she said, making a mental note to have the editor’s court appearance flagged up by the press office. ‘Come on then.’

  Ed asked where they were going.

  ‘I told you, a smoke to celebrate,’ Sam waited for his quizzical look. ‘And I want to revisit Jamie Telford.’

  ‘The reason being?’ Ed asked.

  ‘I want to tell him Elliott Prince’s in custody. Ask him if he thinks Elliott could have been the one who sent him the photograph.’

  Sam glanced at the silver intercom, found the button for 23, and pressed. The buzzer sounded three times. Nothing. She pressed again.

  ‘Yeah.’

  She recognised Jamie’s voice, albeit it had taken on the deep Darth Vader version that spoke of too many cigarettes and too much booze.

  ‘DCI Parker. I need a word. Buzz us in.’ It wasn’t a request.

  The door clicked and Sam pushed it open, walking into a communal hall that was surprisingly tidy considering the three-storey block was populated by students.

  Jamie was at the door to his flat, barefoot, rubbing sleep from his eyes, the rumpled T-shirt and joggers probably hastily dragged on. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘We’ll tell you inside.’

  The small square sitting room had two undersized leather armchairs, the type you’d find in one of those stuffy London gentlemen’s clubs, and a blue beanbag. The huge wall-mounted flat screen TV dominated the room.

  The detectives didn’t bother sitting down.

  It was Sam who spoke. ‘Elliott Prince is in custody on suspicion of murder.’

  ‘What?!’ Jamie flopped into one of the chairs. His hands started to shake.

  ‘Now what I’m interested in is this,’ Sam said. ‘Could he be behind the photograph that was sent to you?’

  ‘Murder?’ Jamie had closed his eyes, fingers running through his hair. ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘It’s a simple question, Jamie. Do you think he had anything to do with the photograph?’

  Jamie rubbed his face. ‘No. No, of course not. Why would he?’

  ‘The photographs of the girls, was he up for that?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Well he never said he wasn’t. Look what’s this about? How come you’re asking me if Elliott’s sent the photographs? Who’s he supposed to have murdered?’

  Ed sat on the arm of Jamie’s chair. ‘It’s like this, young man. We’re wondering whether in fact it was Elliott who got you to pose for the photos. When did he join your little group, Mortimers?’

  ‘When he moved in with Jack and Glen,’ Jamie answered slowly. ‘I still can’t believe they’re dead.’

  He covered his face with his hands. ‘Are you saying Elliott killed them? I’m leaving after this term, try to finish the course somewhere else. Either that or start again. I’ve never had a night out since Glen died. Why would Elliott want to get photos of us?’

  Sam glanced at Ed. ‘It is just something we’re exploring. Maybe he wasn’t into the banter like you all were.’

  Jamie reached for the packet of cigarettes on the floor, took one out, and managed to hold the shaking flame of the lighter close enough and long enough for the tobacco to catch. He inhaled. He looked as if he was contemplating an exam question.

  When he spoke, it was slow, deliberate. ‘You know, I’ve never considered it before, but now you come to mention it, when he laughed at
the photos of the girls it seemed a bit contrived, a bit put on. Maybe he was testing us? You know, see who enjoyed it the most. He never tried to put us off taking photographs, but he always tried to find out who wanted to do it the most. And…’ he looked at the floor, his voice dropping in time with his gaze. ‘Jack did have some Rohypnol.’

  Ed walked away from the chair.

  Sam’s spoke with thinly veiled contempt. ‘Jack had Rohypnol?’

  Jamie ran his hands through his hair again. ‘Yeah.’ Tears fell from his eyes. ‘I don’t think he used them.’

  ‘Did Elliott know about them?’

  ‘We all did. Jack was just playing the big man.’

  ‘I thought you said Elliott was the leader?’ Sam pushed him.

  ‘He was. Jack thought he was, but we always went where Elliott said, always drank what Elliott said. But he never ordered us. He was more subtle than that. He’d plant the seed; by the time we’d decided to do it, we would be convinced it was someone else’s idea. It was only afterwards you realised it was down to Elliott. Manipulative, that’s what he was.’

  Macavity, thought Sam.

  The ash hung perilously from the end of his cigarette. Jamie tapped it into the glass ashtray just before gravity did its work. ‘Why didn’t Elliott get a photo? He was always with us…maybe it was him?’

  ‘Do you remember anything about the night you had the photo taken?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Nothing. I can’t even remember which night it was, except sometimes, in my dreams, I see bright colours, shapes, and the feeling someone was stood looking down at me.’

  Chapter Forty-Four

  ‘Move it where?’ the voice belonged to Davinder Bhandal. ‘It’s fine where it is.’