Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  It would be another 40 minutes before the Intelligence Manager could get hold of Sam and Ed for a face-to-face meeting. While Tracey was in the mood to talk, they had wanted to get as much information as possible.

  The story was on page 7 and written by a reporter whose name Ed didn’t recognise. The story told how Lord and Lady Farquarharson opened the land at Highmounde Hall, their ancestral home, for many events, among them classical music concerts, charity garden parties, and an annual book festival now in its fifth year. Ed read and made notes on an A4 pad.

  ‘If we start searching just hours after they were talking about it, they’re bound to get suspicious,’ Sam sipped a black coffee; the milk in the CID office was so far gone, it was cheese. ‘We need a way of doing a covert search. I don’t want a media frenzy, I don’t want anybody being tipped off, and I certainly don’t want to be sent on a wild goose chase by people who’ve sussed we’re listening to their conversations.’ She sat on the edge of a desk.

  ‘I might be able to help.’ Ed blew across the top of his coffee and delayed saying anything else just long enough to make sure he had her attention. ‘Brian Banks is doing the security for the literary festival and... ’

  ‘Jesus, he gets where a draught won’t,’ Sam butted in. ‘I thought he was scrap metal and property?

  She bit on her bottom lip and shook her head slowly from side to side.

  ‘Diversification.’ Ed slurped his coffee, black and bitter. ‘Look, whatever he is or isn’t, I’ve known him for years.’

  ‘What you suggesting then?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Get a couple of security uniforms off him and send a couple of our search team in to have a look around. Better than going in all guns blazing.’

  Sam’s brow creased with concern, wary of getting a helping hand from someone like Banks.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ Ed reassured. ‘I always keep him at a safe distance. We’ll make something up about what we’re doing, counter terrorism maybe. He’ll love that. Leave it with me. And you know, if there is a body close to the marquees nobody will try to move it for fear of being spotted. We’ve got as long as the literary thing is on to find it.’

  Sam squeezed shut her eyes, a headache ticking like a time bomb at her temples.

  ‘I can’t drink that.’ She stood and placed the mug on the desk.

  ‘Okay, work up a plan, the usual stuff, including a risk assessment. Let me see it before we put people at the hall. Did you find out how we’re doing with your mate Eric?’

  Ed told her Eric had done a video interview that gave up nothing they didn’t already know.

  ‘Bev Summers has found Elliott and Tracey on CCTV,’ he went on. ‘Listed their clothing. She’s gone to recover it.’

  Sam felt like her head was bursting.

  ‘Excellent,’ she said, trying to ignore the pain. ‘Next steps, you sort Banks and I’ll go for Amber. I know her. No need to make a big show. In and out.’

  Ed told her to be careful, that if she’d already killed two...

  ‘What, she’ll kill me?’ Sam said. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Well take a radio with you just in case.’

  ‘Yes Dad.’

  Ed sat in the car, enjoying 10 minutes solitude, his jaw barely moving as he worked on a steak and kidney pie. His hand reached for the ice-cold Pepsi in the drinks holder. Pity it wasn’t in a glass bottle; much nicer, or was he just harking back to his childhood?

  He swirled the fizzy drink around his mouth, the pie gone too soon even though he’d chewed slowly. He was still regretting not asking the butcher for two when he drove into Brian Banks’ scrap yard. Banks was expecting him.

  ‘Ed Whelan, as I live and breathe. Long time no see. What’s this favour you’re after then?’

  His huge hand enveloped Ed’s, the cordial handshake a sign of mutual respect.

  They walked to Banks’ cluttered office, both standing as Ed laid out what he needed.

  ‘So let me get this right,’ Banks said. ‘You want to put two cops in my uniforms to, what was that phrase, sweep the area for devices? Like bombs you mean?’

  Ed nodded, sipping the Glenfiddich and water.

  ‘Pardon my ignorance but does Health and Safety allow that?’ Banks demanded. ‘Are my staff going to be in danger?’

  Ed said to let him worry about health and safety and risk assessments.

  ‘It’s a precaution, Brian, belt and braces job,’ he said easily. ‘There are a couple of high-profile international authors attending. Bomb sweeps are becoming standard practice.’

  Banks’s face darkened, his mouth a scowl.

  ‘Fucking world we live in. Who do you blame? Bush? Blair? Muslims?’

  He downed his drink and set the crystal tumbler on one of the dust-surrounded circles on the silver tray.

  ‘Enoch was right,’ Banks grumbled. ‘If they’d listened to him, we wouldn’t be in the sticky stuff. Jesus, the garbage they’ve allowed into this country. Left-wing do-gooders. Shoot the lot of them.’

  Ed was familiar with the invective, always amazed Banks in his ingrained hatred could swat aside Ed’s own domestic situation.

  ‘So I take it that’s a yes then?’ he asked lightly.

  ‘Always happy to be of service.’ Banks raised his refilled glass. ‘Just do me a favour and keep some of those enthusiastic young detectives off my back.’

  Ed raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Since the powers that be stopped us buying with cash, they’re in the yard twice a week,’ Banks told him. ‘Half of the lads who come in here selling stuff have never had a bank account.’

  Ed knew the law had been changed because too many dealers – Banks maybe among them – were conveniently forgetting to ask where the so-called scrap had last resided.

  ‘My heart bleeds,’ he said with a grin. ‘Now where do the lads pick up the uniforms?’

  Sam knocked on the black door. It had been painted since her last visit and the garden was well kept.

  ‘Amber.’

  ‘Sam.’

  ‘Can I come in?’

  She was across the threshold and walking into the sitting room before Amber had time to answer.

  ‘What is it, Sam?’ Amber questioned, perplexed as she followed.

  Sam stayed standing, legs apart and hands on hips.

  ‘I need you to come to the police station with me, Amber, to answer some questions about the murders of Jack Goddard and Glen Jones.’

  Amber sat on the arm of the chair. Her voice was shaky and quiet. ‘Am I being arrested?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘What does that mean Sam?’

  ‘It means not at the moment,’ the voice clipped, commanding. ‘Now get your coat. Let’s go.’

  They walked in silence down the path and got into Sam’s car.

  Amber pulled the passenger door; it was heavier than she expected. ‘What’s this all about, Sam?’

  Sam turned to look at her.

  ‘Let’s cut the shit, shall we?’ She turned the ignition. ‘Put your belt on.’

  Sam pulled the Audi from the kerb, the sound of the engine a symphony to power and German engineering.

  ‘You’ve not been totally honest, Amber. You knew about the photographs of the girls, knew the name of the group, your group. I’ve cut you some slack. I’ve come for you. I didn’t send anyone else to arrest you and search your house.’

  She flicked one of the stalks on the steering column and turned left at the junction, Amber silent and still in the passenger seat.

  ‘I’m giving you a chance here. Elliott and Tracey are under arrest.’

  Amber jolted. ‘Elliott? What for?’

  ‘Murder.’

  ‘No way.’ The response was instant. ‘Not Elliott, not Tracey. They’re all talk.’

  Sam slowed for a roundabout ahead, glancing at Amber who had swivelled in the seat to stare her way.

  ‘They’ve come up with a good reason why they were on
the tow path the night Glen was killed, but it all sounds a bit convenient to me,’ Sam said. ‘And what do you mean, they’re all talk?’

  ‘They wouldn’t hurt anyone.’

  She clasped her hands together and pushed her head into the headrest.

  ‘Amber, any more lies from you and nobody will be able to help you,’ Sam said, stealing another glance.

  ‘Look, I haven’t done anything,’ Amber’s face had drained, white tension lines around her mouth. ‘They haven’t done anything.’

  ‘How do you know? Were you with them on the tow path?’

  Amber turned and looked at Sam. ‘Of course not, but I know my own brother.’

  ‘Something else you conveniently forgot to mention.’

  Sam’s phone rang, Ed’s name and number lit up on the screen.

  She pulled to the kerb and picked up the mobile.

  ‘I’ll not be long, Amber,’ Sam said, opening the driver’s door. ‘Stay put.’

  She closed the door and leaned against the bonnet, back to her passenger. ‘Go ahead, Ed.’

  ‘I’m back in the Incident Room,’ Ed’s voice sounded far away, the signal not strong but good enough. ‘The DNA’s come through on the hammer handle. The one used to kill Jack. It’s Elliott Prince’s.’

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Sergeant Ian Robinson, a Police Search adviser, was wearing a Banks Security jacket with his police issue trousers. He approached two of Banks’s men who were stood by a large marquee. ‘Alright lads, what’s the craic?’

  The elder of the two, greasy, wavy brown hair, jacket unzipped and vast stomach hanging below his crotch, spat gum at his feet.

  ‘Just look busy and draw your wages. Piece of piss.’

  ‘We’ve been told just to wander around the perimeter,’ Ian said.

  A grunt and a shrug before Ian and his colleague moved away.

  ‘Nailed on for the after-dinner speaking circuit if he ever gets sick of security,’ Ian said, glancing back as the man tried and failed to hitch his pants over his stomach.

  They had reached the middle of the field furthest from the house and adjoining a public road, a 12-feet-high brick wall marking the boundary of Highmounde, open moorland rising in the distance.

  Shooting probably made more money than a literary festival, but from what Ian had read, James Farquarharson enjoyed wandering among authors, agents, and publishers.

  Ian studied the perimeter wall, barely visible behind mature shrubs, trees and undergrowth, no doubt as old as the house.

  He was mindful of the CATCHEM database, initially kept by Derbyshire Police, but now housed at the Police College Bramshill in Hampshire. The database held the details of every child murder in the UK since 1960. In those cases where the bodies had been dumped, the deposition site was rarely more than 50 metres from the road. While a child had not been murdered in this case, the 50-metre rule still applied.

  His other thought revolved around the Winthrop search method, initially developed by the British Army and used in Northern Ireland to locate caches of arms. In its most basic guise, it required the searcher to put themselves in the shoes of the secretors: a dark game of hide and seek.

  Ian knew the roads outside the walls. If a body was hidden near the wall, and on this particular field that was the only place it could be hidden, then those responsible had two choices: come on to the field to dump the body, or throw it over the wall. There was a wooden gate accessing the field and two lay-bys adjacent to the wall a few hundred yards apart. To throw a body over would require a pair of ladders and someone with enough strength to perform a ‘fireman’s lift’.

  Ian opted for the wooden gate first and walked the 200 metres to it. ‘This looks a good bet,’ he said to his colleague. ‘Access to the road and a lot lower than the wall. We’ve got one shot at this and if we blow it, if we miss something, we’ll be doing school crossing patrols until we retire.’

  His younger colleague licked his lips and nodded nervously.

  ‘We’ll stick together and only move when we’re both satisfied we’ve seen nothing,’ Ian told him. ‘We’ve got plenty of daylight so there’s no rush. If we have to come back tomorrow, we have to come back, although I feel a right twat in this uniform.’

  His colleague smiled, still nervous. ‘They might let us keep them as a souvenir.’

  The plan was to search 75 metres in each direction from the gate. Ian had noticed when he checked a map before they arrived that a river ran by the wall.

  ‘Right, let’s crack on,’ he said. ‘And be careful when we’re near the water.’

  Sam was pulling into the station car park, silently thanking the God of rank and privilege that a bay would be waiting.

  They had talked about Elliott, how Amber had felt when she found out she had a brother, how shock had given way to excitement and discovery, and how they never stopped talking.

  Sam had listened but now she had a question.

  ‘I want you to think very carefully,’ Sam said. ‘Did you tell Elliott about your attack?’

  They opened their doors and got out, staring at each other across the Audi’s roof.

  Amber’s words were slow and hesitant when she answered.

  ‘I did... not straight away, but I did,’ she told Sam. ‘But please don’t think that sent Elliott off on some kind of crazy revenge, sent him hunting down the men he thought could do to another woman what was done to me.’

  They walked across the car park.

  ‘Were they?’ Sam asked. ‘Were Jack Goddard and Glen Jones those kinds of men?’

  Amber stopped and turned to face her, Sam letting the question hang between them.

  ‘If you’re asking do I feel any sadness for Jack Goddard and Glen Jones, I’m sorry but I don’t,’ Amber said. ‘They were vile and arrogant and thought it was funny to publish the photos of those girls. To me they got what they deserved. They’re no loss to society.’

  The words were stark and matter-of-fact unemotional, the hatred in them ice cold. Sam felt like she was suddenly watching a glacial bird of prey, pitiless and unforgiving.

  ‘I agree it was vile, but are you telling me their punishment fitted their crime?’ she asked, as they began walking again.

  ‘Any retribution should be considered a possibility.’ Amber stopped again. ‘Who knows what they would have become, how many women they would have hurt? Their deaths may have spared more victims like me and if that’s true, I can’t be sorry they’re dead.’

  They walked on in silence and when they reached the station, Sam opened the door.

  ‘When we get inside I’ll have an officer sit with you for 10 minutes,’ Sam said. ‘I’ve got to see someone first.’

  ‘I’ve driven up there,’ they heard Baljit say. ‘There’s no police. Just marquees and some private security.’

  He was speaking English so the LP team assumed he wasn’t talking to his mother.

  When the answer came, they had been right.

  ‘Even private security can find things, report them to the police,’ Bhandal told his son.

  The officers heard a snort then Baljit again.

  ‘Come on, Dad,’ he said. ‘Private security? They’re not interested in anything apart from doing as little as possible, and to find it they’d have to be really looking or very, very lucky.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have listened to you and Gurmej.’ Bhandal's voice was edgy and angry. ‘Burying is much better than just hiding and hoping for the best.’

  Baljit response came rich with the confidence and certainty of spoilt youth.

  ‘You were going to burn the car!’ It was almost a taunt. ‘Then the police would have looked for the owner, much more suspicious than people running away from home. Yeah, they might have found the car now, but they’re months behind. The trail’s gone cold. They’ve got my fingerprints but no witnesses. Even if they find a body, so what? What’s it got to do with us?’

  The LP officers heard a door open and close then Bhandal saying: �
�I don’t like it.’

  ‘Look, we had little time,’ Baljit said. ‘We did the best we could. It’ll be alright.’

  Bhandal started speaking Punjabi, explaining that Baljit had been to the ‘big house’, as he called it.

  ‘No police there,’ Bhandal said. ‘But I’m just worried it’s found.’

  Aisha’s mother was the next voice, sharp and spiteful and betraying no fear.

  ‘If it’s found, what has it to do with us?’ Parkash said. ‘If they drag us to the police station, we’ll make complaint of racial harassment. The solicitor, what’s her name?’

  ‘Jill Carver,’ Baljit said.

  ‘She’ll make complaint for us.’

  The sound of a door again, more distant, and then Mia.

  ‘Hi everyone,’ she shouted.

  The LP officers were missing nothing, even when Parkash whispered: ‘Change the subject.’

  The tape was running. Ed cautioned Elliott Prince and held up an open-topped box covered in clear plastic. Inside was a yellow-handled hammer.

  ‘I am showing Elliott Prince a yellow-handled hammer, witness reference JT4. Do you recognise this?’

  ‘No, should I?’

  ‘The blood you can see on the metal ball is Jack’s, the handle is forensically linked to you,’ Ed told him. ‘We can show you have had possession of it’

  Elliott Prince was still staring wide-eyed at the weapon.

  ‘That’s not possible,’ his voice hoarse, strung out. ‘I’ve never owned a hammer in my life. If it’s got my fingerprints or whatever, it’s a mistake or a set-up.’

  ‘So you’ve never owned a hammer?’ Ed said.

  ‘Never,’ the response as fast as a rifle recoil. ‘Why would I want a hammer?’