Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  When Sam started to sob Bev threw her arms around her.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know.’

  Sam trudged into her office and turned on the computer. The room was freezing and emanated the only light on that wing of the building. She had sent Bev home after getting her update on Mia, satisfied she was safely settled with an older couple on the edge of town. She thought she could answer a few emails while she waited to hear from Ian Robinson and the search team’s progress at the Bhandals.

  But all she could think about was Ed.

  She rang the hospital at 1am and was told he was still in surgery.

  It was gone 2am when the search team requested her attendance at the uncle’s house.

  Later, Sam would struggle to remember the journey there. The rest would never leave her.

  She was standing inside a tent in Gurmej’s back garden, suited up, hands in pockets, under bright white lights powered by a generator. Ian Robinson had already apologised to the neighbours. The press had started arriving soon after, a story born and gathering wings. They would be there for the duration.

  Cold and starved of sleep, Sam looked into a newly dug hole in the patio.

  She stared at the writing. The name was clearly visible, printed on the paper inside the leather label. Mia Bhandal.

  ‘Open it,’ Sam said.

  One of the SOCO’s unfastened the suitcase’s brass catches but it remained shut, the two bungee ropes and their end fastenings holding firm. Once they were simultaneously released the suitcase flew open, under pressure like a cork shooting from a champagne bottle.

  The arms and legs were bent at unnatural angles beneath the torso; long black hair was trapped in the sides of the case. The eyes were open but held no light.

  Aisha’s unmarked grave was below her uncle’s shed; Mia’s suitcase was her coffin.

  Sam wiped her eyes. She said a short prayer and then telephoned the control room to request a Forensic Pathologist.

  Jim Melia’s counterpart attended.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Sam arranged for a transit van to come into the alleyway. Screens were placed at either end to block out the telephoto lenses. Aisha was placed in the back of the van.

  Under Sam’s instructions she was still in the suitcase. The van floor was covered in layers of new brown paper to avoid cross contamination with particles of debris on the floor. Aisha would be removed from the suitcase at the mortuary; the clinical environment ensuring not one scrap of forensic evidence was lost. Once she had supervised the removal and arranged for the post mortem later that morning Sam drove home and collapsed in the armchair. There was no point in going to bed.

  Less than three hours after she walked through her door, the shower was again pounding her body.

  With a towel wrapped around her she looked in the mirror. Did the sunken eyes in the gaunt face staring back really belong to her?

  Nothing a couple of days at a spa won’t sort, she told herself.

  Who was she kidding? She needed to get away properly. No phones, no emails, no dead bodies, no human grief, just food and drink, preferably alcoholic.

  She had called the hospital almost before her eyes were fully open.

  Ed was in an induced coma. The official press statement would give his condition as ‘critical but stable.’

  No one needed to tell Sam he had lost a lot of blood.

  Dressed but still only half awake, she grabbed a couple of chocolate biscuits out of the fridge and snatched her car keys.

  Her head was spinning again, her forehead clammy. She had a job to do, but she couldn’t think beyond Ed.

  Induced coma. No guarantees he would come through.

  Come on Sam, she said it out loud. What would Ed say? Sort this mess out.

  Who killed Aisha? Who killed Jack and Glen? How was she going to prove it?

  Those thoughts consumed her until she reached HQ. The sight of the black Porsche was her snapping point.

  Sam felt like the water-skier no longer able to grip the towrope, tumbling and skimming across the surface before eventually going under. Snatching up breaths and consumed by raw anger, she leapt out of her car and quick-marched towards Jill Carver who was striding towards her.

  ‘My clients will be making complaints of assault,’ Carver was saying even as she moved closer, her index finger wagging. ‘Their treatment has been appalling and...’

  Sam walked into the wagging finger: the fight in her snarling face, eyes wide-open, matched the venom of her words.

  ‘Before you go any further, Ed Whelan’s in a coma, stabbed by one of your clients last night and Aisha’s body has been discovered in a family suitcase under her uncle’s shed. I suggest you consider your words and your next course of action very carefully.’

  Sam glanced around and saw no one. She bent down and put her mouth to Carver’s ear, lips almost touching the Pandora pearl and silver earring that was firing off chards of watery sunlight.

  ‘Now fuck off, I’ve got work to do.’

  Friday 25th April 2014

  Sam turned off the ignition, lifted the button that applied the handbrake and stepped onto the car park. The bonnet shimmered in the sun.

  It was just after 10.30am; less than fifty-seven hours since she’d been asked to go the uncle’s garden.

  She’d been told to keep away. Ed’s family didn’t want to speak with anybody from the Murder Team. All family liaison had to be done via Monica Teal.

  Sam strode towards the entrance.

  As far as she was concerned some instructions were there to be ignored. This was one of them.

  What did her father used to say? ‘Rules are there for the obedience of fools and the guidance of wise men.’

  Exactly.

  Ed was a colleague, a friend, and whatever Sue Whelan thought of her, she was going to see him. Sleep deprivation always made her belligerent.

  He was in a private room, laid on his back, eyes sunken and shut. She smiled at him; she’d never seen him with stubble.

  There were tubes everywhere, the bleeping and hissing machines and monitors doing the work some of Ed’s organs used to do.

  Sam sat in the brown leather armchair next to the bed. A portable TV was plugged into a DVD player on the small table; her knowledge of football wasn’t great but the commentary and the tinny sound of the crowd told her someone had left Ed with Alan Shearer’s greatest hits. Sam smiled. Ed would like that. She wished she’d thought of doing that for him.

  Sam had no idea if he could hear her, but talking made it seem less real, less threatening, less final.

  ‘I know, I know, you’re right,’ she said, taking hold of his hand. ‘I do look like shit but I didn’t get to bed the night you were attacked and I still haven’t caught up on my sleep. Me and Bev are supposed to be going to a spa this weekend and while we’re away we’re going to sort out a holiday somewhere warm.’

  She stroked the back of his hand.

  ‘They’ve all been to court this morning. Mother, father, uncle and son all coughed their roles in Aisha’s murder.’

  She dipped a tiny sponge on a stick into a plastic jug of water and gently rubbed it across Ed’s lips.

  ‘Mother was the last, evil bitch. Only coughed it after Carver advised her all the others had coughed.’

  Sam poured herself a glass of water and sipped. It was hospital warm.

  ‘Carver represented them all,’ she said. ‘Bhandal, Baljit and Gurmej coughed killing Sukhi.’

  She let her fingers trace a gentle circuit around Ed’s, dropping instinctively into the rhythm of the machines around him.

  ‘You were right of course,’ Sam said. ‘No remorse. Honour was more important than any white man’s law. Izzat before Gora’s law.’

  She leaned forwards, put her ear next to his mouth and imagined he was speaking.

  ‘What did you say? You’re always right? If you insist, sweetheart.’

  She kissed his forehead.

  ‘Sue was pissed
off when she saw me the other night,’ she began speaking again. ‘Bev hit the nail on the head. She thinks Sue’s pissed off because another woman got to stab you before she did.’

  Sam imagined Ed laughing. He’d have liked that line.

  ‘We got Aisha and Sukhi ID’d by their dental records and got hair samples from their brushes,’ she told him. ‘We’ll get a DNA comparison through next week.’

  She began stroking his fingers again.

  ‘Baljit drove the car to Plymouth. He also coughed the murders of Jack and Glen. His motive...’

  Sam heard a commotion nearby, voices raised and doors banging.

  ‘...You’ve guessed it. The photos. And the good news, if there’s any to come out of all this, is that our favourite editor has been suspended pending his court case and reading between the lines, he’ll then be sacked.’

  She dipped a new sponge into the water and let the droplets fall onto Ed’s lips.

  ‘Anyway, the temporary editor is under strict instructions to write a powerful editorial all about the dangers of students and heavy drinking, so that should put the serial killer theory to bed.’

  Sam stood, walked to the window, and watched noiseless waves rolling towards high tide.

  ‘No bail applications,’ she said to the distant water. ‘Even Carver knew she’d never get round the risk of them all running. The mother’s been charged with your attempted murder.’

  She shook her head, disbelief etched on her face.

  ‘All of this because of some skewed view of honour. ’

  She sat back down, took hold of his hand.

  ‘Anyway, I best be off. I’m not even supposed to be here. Long story. I’ll tell you later.’

  Sam pushed herself out of the chair and kissed his forehead again.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow if I can.’

  Her eyes glassed over.

  ‘The Spa will have to wait. I can get plenty of carrot juice down my neck and cucumbers on my eyes at home for a loss less cash.’

  Sam was reaching for Ed’s hand again when the door burst open and Sue stormed in.

  Two flustered nurses were behind her, apologies written all over their faces.

  ‘Out!’ Sue shouted. ‘Get out! We don’t need you here. You’re not welcome.’

  She held the door open and pointed with an outstretched arm and rigid finger.

  ‘Go on, get out!’ Her voice was a taunting sneer. ‘Go and find someone single you shameless whore.’

  Sam dropped her head, stared at the floor and walked into the corridor.

  Outside she let the tears come and when they had gone, she stared at the rolling sea and the hypnotic movement of the breaking waves.

  Why is it that something that once gave me so much joy, seems to do nothing now but cause so much pain?

  The tide edged up the beach, cold and remorseless and as likely to turn early as a world without murder.

  Acknowledgments

  As ever I am indebted to the team of people around me.

  Thanks go to Cheshire Cat Books Head of Publishing Paul Jones and my editor Garry Willey. Without you guys, as always, this book would not be what it is.

  As ever, my photographer son Ben and designer Laura Swaddle have come up with a great cover.

  And thanks to you, the reader. A book that is not read is just words on a page.

  In 2007 I set up the first dedicated helpline for victims of Honour Based Violence and Forced Marriage. In its first month that line took over 100 calls from across the country.

  I had tremendous help and support with the set-up from all spectrums of the Asian community, the vast majority of whom are peaceful, law-abiding people who want no part of this practice.

  Public awareness of Honour Based Violence and Forced Marriage is much greater now but tragically they haven’t gone away; so-called honour killings are still reported in the press. I whole-heartedly agree that there is no honour in murder, but those who worry about the label miss the point: it is the ‘honour code’ that drives the behaviour.

  The law has changed since I retired and I am pleased to see that forcing someone to marry is now a criminal offence.

  I was privileged to meet survivors of forced marriages; young people who ran away from their families to live the life they wanted even though that meant leaving everything behind. I shared platforms with some of them at conferences and their stories never failed to bring a lump to my throat. Their bravery is a source of inspiration to us all.

  There are many organisations out there offering help and support and I would actively encourage anyone who feels the need to contact them. Please remember, you are not alone.

  To Jean and Ken, Tanis and Tania.

  Your lifetime of support makes everything possible.

  Copyright © Tony Hutchinson 2018

  Tony Hutchinson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1984 to be identified as the author this book.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover photograph copyright © Ben Hutchinson.

  The book is published by Cheshire Cat Books Ltd

  Suite 50-58 Low Friar Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE1 5UD.

  ISBN 978-1-9164457-2-7

  Angels and Apostles

  A Dark Tides Thriller

  Book Three

  Chapter One

  Thursday 11th December 2014

  ‘Scream as much as you want nonce.’

  The voice wasn’t raised, the words softly spoken.

  ‘No one outside can hear you and no one in here gives a shit.’

  The interrogator in the blue boiler suit and steel toe-capped boots was on his haunches, peering into the dark and dust of the vehicle inspection pit, torch pointing into the captive’s face.

  The other two stood silent, gloved hands gripping their own black machined aluminium Maglites, staring down at the man whose arms stretched backwards, hands tied around an old green oil drum, the thick rope useful again after years left coiled in a cobweb-covered heap.

  The steady beams illuminated decades of neglect in the desolate garage, discarded needles and rusted metal Castrol signs from conflicting times; what was once a busy petrol and MOT station reduced to a foul-smelling junkies den, a relic like some broken beast left to rot by poachers on a bone dry African plain. For poachers with rifles and night sights read cheap supermarket fuel and shiny vehicle service centres, all testaments to so-called progress.

  ‘You know why you’re here?’

  The interrogator’s voice remained quiet, soft almost. He was too experienced to raise it. Conversational and controlled was always more threatening.

  ‘I don’t,’ the man shouted, his desert dry mouth fighting to release saliva. ‘I really don’t. I’ve done nothing. I’m retired. All I did was try to collect my television.’

  ‘Well let’s see if we can jog your memory.’

  The interrogator turned to one of his accomplices. ‘Pass the petrol.’

  ‘No!’ the man’s ragged voice ricocheted around the pit, heels scrambling for leverage, his back pushing against the drum.

  The interrogator stood up and tipped the can.

  Petrol flowed over the captive’s hair, streaming into his blinking eyes, into his mouth, his convulsing body sending the viscose liquid down his torso onto his cheap brown trousers, the smell and taste making him retch.

  ‘Please no,’ he screamed.

  Back on his haunches the interrogator took out a cigarette, struck a match and lit up. He inhaled, slow and deep, then spoke as he exhaled.

  ‘Now then Jeremy,’ still with that unnerving calm. ‘The little boys in your school. How many?’

  ‘None! I
swear. I didn’t do anything. I was acquitted.’

  The interrogator shook his head, shook it slowly.

  ‘We both know an acquittal just means your defence barrister was better than the prosecutor, a bit sharper. It’s got fuck all to do with truth and justice.’

  He inhaled again.

  ‘But in here it’s different. There are no legal tricks, Jeremy, no loopholes or laws about inadmissible evidence. The whole system’s not weighted in the defendant’s favour. This is a fairer courtroom. Here, truth prevails. Justice is served. Everything is admissible. Everything.’

  Capturing Jeremy Scott had been easy. A promotional ‘claim-your-prize’ letter from a fictitious company, the bait of a 52” flat screen TV, and a request the retired schoolteacher be at home on the given time and date with proof of ID. The police had deployed the same tactic to round up people for years. Play the greed card and reel them in once they bite.

  When the interrogator had arrived he had asked Jeremy to help carry the TV from the van. Greed made some people so gullible. When the back doors had opened, he was quickly shoved forward and four arms had yanked him into the van.

  ‘Jeremy.’ The voice remained soft. He struck another match and waved it towards the pit.

  Jeremy Scott sagged and let his head drop to his heaving chest.

  ‘It was a lifetime ago,’ he said, as if somehow time was his saviour, his get out clause. ‘Who remembers?’

  The interrogator turned to look at the two others, held their eyes for a moment, and then moved his gaze back. The torch beam burning through tiny motes of drifting debris had never wavered.

  ‘The innocent boys remember Jeremy, the ones who came forward and others the police don’t even know about. They all remember even if you pretend you don’t.’