Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

‘Why choose Sunday?’ Sam found it difficult to accept they chose any day.

  Prince shuffled in his seat. ‘We were going to do it on Saturday but your lot were everywhere.’

  Jesus, I hope this is all bull.

  ‘And if nothing happened, what... you’d just keep going back?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Prince answered, eyes down.

  Sam looked at Ed. If he’d been stretched out on a sun lounger in Kefalonia he couldn’t have looked any more relaxed. His face was expressionless, not like a poker sharp’s exactly, more a ‘what makes you think I give a fuck’ look. It came with years of practice.

  ‘So if that was the plan, what went wrong?’ Sam asked now.

  ‘Like I said, I waited under a tree. Glen walked past. We wanted to see who would follow him, but no one did.’

  Prince dropped his head, stroked his thighs. ‘I need a cigarette.’

  ‘I’m sure the Custody Sergeant will let you in the exercise yard later,’ Sam told him, an image of her own cigarettes suddenly flashing.

  Prince didn’t look up. ‘I heard something, you know, like a thud, and I ran from the tree. The further I ran, the more Glen came into view.’

  Sam watched his hands move to the table, watched his fingers tighten around the table, watched the blood drain from them. His eyes closed. He was back on the tow path.

  ‘I screamed his name. Got to him. But his head... ’

  Sam jumped as the edge of his fisted hand banged the table.

  Prince looked up. His shoulders started to shake and a sob more like a hunted animal’s howl came from somewhere deep inside.

  ‘His head,’ he cried. ‘You should have seen his head.’

  Sam had seen it.

  Prince was almost shouting above his tears. ‘I knew he was dead. I checked for a pulse. Nothing. I couldn’t believe it.’

  Neither do I. Sam sat, silent, watching.

  ‘So while you’re talking to me in here, the real killer’s out there taking the piss.’

  Sam winked at Ed, who pushed himself up.

  ‘Anyone with you under the tree?’ his first words since the tapes went on.

  ‘No.’

  Ed spoke again. ‘Under that tree are what I consider to be recently discarded cigarette butts. DNA testing may very well tell us who had them between their lips. You’ve already given a DNA swab. Now if you’re lying,’ Ed dropped his voice, ‘and believe me, I’m far from convinced that you’re telling the truth, but if you’re lying about being alone under the tree, then as far as I’m concerned your whole story begins to fall apart.’

  Prince for the first time flashed defiance. ‘What do you mean?’

  Ed shuffled his seat closer towards Prince. ‘What I mean is that everything you’ve said could be nothing more than answering in advance why we’ve been able to link you with the scene of a murder.’

  Prince opened his mouth. Ed raised his hand, pointed the palm at Prince.

  ‘So you see, from where I’m sitting, it’s like this: we don’t have any forensic evidence yet, but that’s not to say we won’t get any. You asked us down here to tell us Glen’s blood may be on your trainers. So maybe you’re getting your defence statement in first, explaining why we’ve got that forensics on you.’

  Prince was motionless, his face still. ‘It’s not like that.’

  Ed stood up and took hold of the door handle

  ‘We’ll know soon enough,’ he said, turning.

  ‘Tracey Davies!’

  Two words that sounded like an exclamation of shock.

  ‘What about her?’ Ed said, turning back.

  ‘She was under the tree with me.’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The monotony of everyday life is magnified when you’re sitting, headphones over your ears, hearing someone else’s daily domestic routine.

  Sonia Mitchell found herself listening to Parkash tell her husband about the local gossip at the Gurdwara, and what she wanted him to pick up at Akbars Mini-Market.

  The shop, in an area many whites referred to as Little India, had been there since Sonia was a child and it hadn’t changed: bunch after bunch of coriander producing the sweet smell she adored, tins of chickpeas, spinach, okra neatly stacked on the shelves; bags of flour the size of builders’ cement sacks piled on the floor; kilo bags of turmeric, each cheaper than a little glass jar of the same in the supermarket.

  ‘Baljit!’ the mother shouted. ‘Time to get up.’

  Get up? It was noon. She would never have been allowed to lie in bed that long. Her family were very British in their outlook, she’d married a white, but she was still expected to look after the men in the house. You’ve got things to do young lady, her mother used to say.

  Sonia stood up, stretching and yawning as the headphone leads pulled against their jack-point.

  Listening into others’ lives was invariably boring, even if gaining vital evidence was a possibility. How people watched reality TV shows for entertainment was beyond her. A recipe for brain death. Shock value, that’s all they had going, each becoming more outrageous than the last. At least The Truman Show, one of her favourite films, made her emotional.

  Sonia jumped when the front door slammed, lifted the earphones.

  ‘Parkash! Parkash!’ It was her brother, Gurmej.

  Sonia knew the mother was in the kitchen; she could still hear pots being washed. The plan on the wall, courtesy of the council planning department, indicated how long it would take Gurmej to walk along the hall into the kitchen. Not long, especially when you took into consideration the urgency in his voice.

  Sonia dropped into the chair, pen poised, ready for whatever he was about to say.

  ‘Look! Look! Page 7.’

  A newspaper? Sonia scribbled ‘get today’s Post’ on a sheet of paper and held it up to her colleague in the LP.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she heard Parkash speak.

  ‘They’re holding a book festival next week,’ Gurmej told her. ‘The marquees are going up today.’

  In the LP, Sonia’s colleague was already on the phone to the Intelligence Cell.

  ‘But it’s not in there,’ Parkash said.

  ‘But it’s close!’ Gurmej shouted, voice raw with panic.

  ‘What’s all the noise about?’ It was Bhandal.

  ‘Read this,’ Gurmej told him.

  Through the headphones, Sonia heard a newspaper rustling.

  ‘Sam and Ed remained in the interview room after Elliott Prince was taken back to his cell. The door was open.

  Tracey Davies, accompanied by the Custody Assistant, walked towards them, back ramrod straight, a don’t fuck with me look etched on to her face.

  A young uniform cop walked into the cell area, his instinctive reaction to stare. Tracey Davies was not your typical prisoner... healthy skin, smart and freshly cleaned clothes, and head-turning attractive – a glamour model mistakenly dropped on to the ugly catwalk of incarceration.

  She caught the young cop’s eyes.

  ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ her own eyes blazing.

  He hurried red-faced behind the custody desk, the Custody Sergeant grinning at the put-down.

  ‘Take a seat, Tracey,’ Sam said.

  ‘I’m not saying anything. I don’t need a brief, but I’m saying nothing.’

  Sam raised her eyebrows. ‘For someone not used to this kind of situation you seem to know the sketch.’

  ‘I know plenty who’ve been done over by your lot,’ her voice harsh, hostile.

  Ed put the two cassette tapes into the machine.

  ‘It’s 1.15pm. I’m DCI Parker. Also present is... ’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Whelan.’

  ‘And... ’

  Silence.

  ‘For the benefit of the tape, please state your name.’

  Davies folded her arms, turned to face the wall.

  ‘Tracey, for the benefit of the tape, state your name.’

  She spun in her chair. ‘Fuck sake. Trace
y Davies. Satisfied?’ She spun back.

  ‘Thank you.’ Sam cautioned her and asked if she wanted a legal adviser to be present.

  More silence.

  ‘For the benefit of the tape, Tracey Davies is now shaking her head.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ She spun to face Sam. ‘No, I don’t want anybody here. Alright?’

  Sam ignored the attitude. ‘I want to ask you about your whereabouts last Sunday night. Where were you after 10pm?’

  Davies stared at the ceiling.

  ‘We intend to ask you a series of questions,’ Sam told her. ‘It is your right not to answer, but as I said when I cautioned you, failing to answer now... ’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  Sam relaxed back into her chair.

  Ed hadn’t moved. He was back in his reclining position, legs outstretched and hands behind his head. He stayed that way as he spoke.

  ‘Tracey, we have interviewed Elliott Prince,’ Ed said. ‘He has given us certain information... ’

  ‘Don’t think I’m falling for that,’ she snarled. ‘Is that the best you’ve got? Keeping me in here for sod all, that’s what this is about.’

  The anger was sweeping off her like heat from a wildfire.

  ‘I can assure you there is nothing to fall for,’ Ed told her, his tone patient, unhurried, almost gentle. ‘Your friend, Elliott Prince, has given us certain information. As we speak, scientific tests are being conducted and an examination of your phone has already been completed. Amazing what information can be retrieved. Why any criminal uses them is beyond me.’

  Davies slouched forward, leaning across the desk towards him.

  ‘Did you get off on the bits where we were talking about you, saying what we’d do to you,’ her laugh dark, humourless. ‘I’ve got news for you. We just wondered what it would be like with a father figure, somebody old.’

  She ran her tongue around her lips.

  Ed had let the hate wash over him like dead air but now he sat up and moved to the edge of his seat, much closer to her. When he spoke, his voice was quiet.

  ‘Phones, cigarettes, things people take for granted,’ his eyes never left her. ‘They can yield so many forensic opportunities.’

  He paused and saw the flame in Tracey Davies’ eyes flicker.

  ‘We will be able to put you on the tow path on Sunday.’

  Ed sat back.

  Geronimo and his Apaches believed that after death the spirit left the body. Ed and Sam saw Davies’ arrogance float out of her. They’d seen it in interviews all their careers – resignation followed by admission.

  ‘You don’t get it do you?’ she said, her voice changed.

  Sam and Ed waited.

  ’Yes, I was on the path. Yes, I was with Elliott. Glen was pretending to be drunk. We weren’t trying to kill anybody. We were trying to stop someone killing.’

  Sam already knew the answer to her next question.

  ‘Who, Tracey? Who were you were trying to stop?’

  She looked at the floor, closed and opened her eyes in a slow heartbeat, and whispered. ‘Amber.’

  They had restarted the interview after a 30-minute break, Sam and Ed grabbing coffees and regrouping.

  By the time Ed set the tapes rolling again, some of Davies’ anger had been rebooted.

  ‘What that sick bastard did to Amber... ’ She was spitting out the words, the veins in her neck bulging. ‘Raped in your home by some masked arsehole who sticks a knife at your throat and then rings you up afterwards.’

  Sam had been the first person Amber had told about the attack, a memory of that day shooting into her mind.

  ‘I know how hard it was for her,’ Sam said, meaning it. ‘She went through something unthinkable and came out the other side. She even told me she was going to start a self-help group.’

  Tracey slid down the chair.

  ‘That’s what Amber did and it was good,’ she said. ‘She understood. None of us had been through what she had but she got it. We’d talk about sexual harassment, the online bullying, and those fucking photographs. 21st century yet it’s worse than it’s ever been, even at uni and that’s supposed to be full of the educated.’

  She shook her head and glanced at the ceiling before her eyes settled on Sam again. ‘Actually, half of them are thick as pig shit. The place is full of immature lads who can’t see past what’s in their pants. It’s why lots of us go out with older men.’

  She glanced at Ed, no lip-licking this time.

  ‘Did nobody think of reporting it to the university authorities?’ Sam asked.

  ‘What, for nothing to be done?’ Her bone-cold laugh again. ‘What would be the point? Anyway, things changed when Amber got back in touch with Elliott. She told him and that’s when the photographs of the lads started. Tit-for-tat, Amber called it. Elliott did the photo shop trick.’

  ‘What trick?’ Sam asked her.

  ‘They were on their hands and knees but the dildos were photo shopped,’ Tracey said. ‘The camera never lies and all that.’

  When she asked for water, Sam paused the interview, recording that Ed was leaving the room. A minute later he was back and gave Tracey a plastic cup filled with cold, filtered water. She gulped it down in a rush.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Whelan is back in the room,’ Sam said for the tape. ‘You were telling us how things changed when Elliott came on the scene.’

  Tracey took a deep breath, remembering, laying out the path that had led her here.

  ‘Amber wanted to do more,’ she said. ‘Talking never achieved anything and she wanted to be, what she called, pro-active. Her favourite phrase from then on was ‘nothing was ever resolved over a cup of tea and a biscuit’. We thought that was funny at the time. Amber told us we needed action. Elliott volunteered to set them up. Rohypnol and us girls did the rest. Next thing, the photographs.’

  Tracey fell silent but her face stayed fixed on Sam, defiance glowing deep in her eyes.

  ‘Amber reckoned you had to fight fire with fire, and I agreed with her,’ she said. ‘Sending those photographs was liberating, ‘girl power’ and all that.’

  Sam asked another question she had already answered herself.

  ‘Was the group called Sisters of Macavity?’

  ‘Yeah, that was just a laugh,’ Tracey said. ‘I can’t remember who came up with the name. It might even have been me.’

  Sam knew it was still a leap to turn Amber from a victim spreading photo-shopped revenge to a ruthless killer, no matter how much fire she had been ready to light.

  ‘Why do you think Amber was responsible for the murders?’ she asked now.

  Tracey looked surprised, and said: 'Who else could it be?'

  ‘Amber always said posting the photographs wasn’t enough for Jack and Glen. They needed worse. Me and Elliott both thought she’d killed Jack. It just fit.’

  ‘And if she’d turned up the night you were all on the tow-path?’ Sam asked.

  Tracey said they wouldn’t have gone to the police.

  ‘We weren’t going to grass. She needed help so we would have tried to get her to a psychiatric hospital. If that got us into trouble further down the line, so be it. Amber never admitted any murder but we thought she needed re-wiring. Now there’s two dead.’

  When Sam asked about the others who had died, Tracey said the Sisters of Macavity were just a ‘talking shop’ then, that Elliott wasn’t yet on the scene.

  Sam steered the interview back to the photographs of the sleeping girls, aware that Tracey had slipped into a comfort zone, everything about her now radiating control.

  ‘Amber was furious with Glen and Jack for sending out those photographs, I mean, fucking furious, and when she found out about the young Asian girl running away because of them, she was even worse.’

  ‘When did she find about the Asian girl?’ Sam asked.

  ‘A couple of days before Jack got killed.’

  Sam glanced at Ed. ‘But when we spoke to Bethany Stevens, that’s your younger sister’s
friend, she said she sent the photo to Aisha on Saturday 14th December.’

  Tracey’s defences began to trigger on reflex.

  ‘That might be right, but I’m not talking about, what was her name, Bethany,’ the voice edged. ‘I’m talking about Amber.’

  Sam pushed. ‘But Bethany says you told her not to worry, that, and I quote, ‘they’d get what’s coming to them'. Do you recall saying that?’

  ‘Hey, I might have done,’ Tracey said. ‘Sounds like the type of thing I’d say when I’m pissed off, but you’re talking about December. Elliott and Amber hadn’t even met up then. Nothing had happened.’

  Sam smiled, watched Tracey fold that comfort zone back around her. It was time.

  ‘You see, Tracey, the problem I have, I’m not sure I believe anything you say.’

  Tracey jumped up, sudden fear powering an adrenaline surge and panic masquerading as outrage.

  ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Her voice was too loud, too forced.

  ‘Sit down, Tracey,’ Ed said, his voice slow, as if she’d just disturbed him from an afternoon nap.

  ‘It’s her, calling me a liar!’

  ‘Sit down, you’re giving me a bad neck looking up at you.’

  Tracey theatrically dropped on to the seat, her outstretched arms and open mouth resembling the footballer who can’t believe the referee thinks he took a dive.

  ‘I happen to agree with her,’ Ed said.

  Tracey glared at him.

  ‘What night do you have your Macavity meetings?’ Sam said.

  ‘You know, you saw us. Tuesdays.’

  ‘So every Tuesday you meet, and yet you only mention the Asian girl to Amber a couple of days before Jack gets killed, even though you told Bethany not to worry back in December.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘This all sounds a bit convenient.’

  Tracey pushed against the desk, the chair legs screeching against the floor.

  ‘Don’t move,’ Ed said.

  Tracey relaxed her arms but her voice was still tense and loud. ‘She’s calling me a liar again.’

  ‘Going back to Sunday,’ Sam said, unmoved. ‘You tipped Amber off that Glen was out. Then what?’

  Tracey took a breath. ‘We hid under that tree and then Glen staggered past, pretending to be drunk. Nobody followed but then we heard something, like somebody running. Glen never shouted or anything but I just knew something had happened, I just knew.’ She wiped her left eye. ‘When we got there it was horrible. Glen dead. Amber vanished.’