Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  Head bowed, Scott’s lips moved but the words were half-formed and too mumbled to hear.

  ‘Please look up Jeremy, look at me...that’s better.’

  His voice was more like a counsellor than an interrogator.

  ‘Now, it may have been a lifetime ago for you, but for those boys every single day has been full of memories as fresh and horrific as the moment you made them. Do you know genuine fear Jeremy?’

  Scott nodded, almost hypnotised by the voice.

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure,’ the interrogator said. ‘I’m not talking about the fear of a parent when they lose a child in a busy department store or the fear of a hard working single mum when another bill drops on her mat and she knows she won’t be able to feed her kids. I’m talking real down-deep fear. The fear I want you to feel now...an overweight, retired, never-been-married-teacher in a badly-fitting brown suit stinking of piss and petrol.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ he muttered.

  The interrogator moved the beam up and down Scott’s rope-bound body, silent until he centred the light back on his face.

  ‘Did you listen to those little boys when they said that? Did you hear their fear when you walked into their dorm in the middle of the night, terrified and not knowing if it was going to be their turn? Did you stop when they begged you to leave them alone? When they cried out in pain? Did you stop?’

  Scott’s voice rose again, his frantic mind grasping for a new escape route.

  ‘Alright I did it,’ he shouted. ‘There. Is that what you want?’

  The interrogator paused as if he was contemplating his answer. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘What we want is justice. Society’s spent a lifetime watching people like you, people everyone knows are guilty but who still walk free, people whose slick barristers get important evidence kicked out and bully victims in the witness box, victims who are already emotional wrecks, middle-aged men now but still carrying the scars a piece of shit like you inflicted.’

  He stood, dropped the cigarette, and stubbed it out with his boot.

  The movement made Scott jerk and his eyes began to dart from the interrogator to the others.

  He struggled again against the rope around him.

  ‘Just let me go,’ he said quickly.’ You’ve got your admission. You’ve got the fear you wanted.’

  The interrogator let the words drift through the specks of dust floating lazily in the torch-light, watching the trembling mouth and the man that spoke them.

  He was right about the fear, but the admission? Hand him over to the police and even a z-list lawyer would have that kicked out once they discovered how the confession came about. All lies dished out under ‘duress’ to save his skin from the bad men. That’s how it would play.

  The interrogator lit up again, turned his back, and smoked the cigarette, the smoke curling towards the grime-covered skylights.

  ‘One last thing,’ he said, turning back towards the pit, flicking the cigarette in the air.

  Jeremy Scott watched wide-eyed as the glowing red end arced over the inspection pit and dropped safely on the other side.

  ‘Do you go to the dentist regularly?’

  Realisation came in a flood and the screams that returned sounded more like wails.

  ‘I think he understands,’ the interrogator shouted over his shoulder. ‘Not lost that public school brain.’

  Then the voice dropped and was quiet again as he turned back.

  ‘After you’re found, the victims will need to know it’s definitely you,’ he said. ‘That’s where your teeth come in. Believe me, there’ll be nothing else.’

  The interrogator picked up an empty milk bottle, filled it with petrol and stuffed a rag into the liquid.

  ‘No!’ Scott screamed. ‘Please. I’m begging you!’

  The interrogator lit the rag with a steady hand and hurled the bottle.

  ‘Too late for begging,’ he said as the glass shattered in a fireball of searing heat and flame. ‘Burn in hell you piece of shit.’

  He and the men walked away in silence. There was nothing to be said. The screams would die long before the flames.

  Detective Chief Inspector Sam Parker, hands deep in pockets, walked amongst the late evening Christmas crowds on Seaton St George’s High Street, Ed Whelan, her Murder Team Detective Sergeant, alongside her.

  ‘So you’ve got absolutely no idea what you want to buy your wife for Christmas?’

  ‘That’s why you’re here,’ Ed said, a Baker Boy flat cap protecting his bald head from the cold air. ‘I’m counting on you for some inspiration.’

  ‘Bloody hell Ed, Sue doesn’t even like me,’ Sam looked up at the Christmas lights hanging above the road. ‘If she thought I was helping you buy her present she’d probably kill us both.’

  Ed grinned: ‘Which is why I’m not going to tell her.’

  Sam stopped to take a Marlboro Gold from her pocket, glanced up and down the street, and lit up. ‘What if she sees us?’

  ‘She won’t,’ Ed said, standing next to her, sounding more confident than he felt. ‘So...any ideas?’

  Sam inhaled on the cigarette and exhaled slowly, hoping somewhere in the breath a light would shine.

  ‘I don’t know. Underwear?’

  Ed felt the bones in his neck crick as he snapped his head sharp right to face her.

  ‘Underwear? Are you having a laugh? If I gave her underwear she’d think I’d bought it for my bit-on-the-side.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had one of those.’

  ‘Ha ha. Look I haven’t got a clue what to get her, that’s why you’re here. The daughter normally does this sort of thing but she’s not speaking to me at the moment.’

  Sam inhaled again, waiting for Ed to continue.

  ‘All I asked was whether she watered her new boyfriend every day because he seemed to have the IQ of a plant.’

  Sam raised her eyebrows and smiled. Ed Whelan and his lost career as a diplomat.

  ‘You haven’t met him,’ Ed protested. ‘Thick as pig-shit and recently had his personality surgically removed, I swear.’

  ‘Well I can see why she’s not doing your Christmas shopping,’ Sam muttered. ‘You want some help picking out a present for him?’

  ‘Who? Jasper?’

  ‘Jasper?’

  ‘Exactly. Bloody dog’s name, and just as smelly. ’

  ‘Alright Ed?’

  The voice from behind was one Ed immediately recognised, the Devon accent as slow and pronounced as the rising bubbles in a glass of cider.

  Sam and Ed turned around.

  ‘Alright Ray. How’s it going?’

  Ray Reynolds, thick jet black hair swept backwards, was an inch bigger than Ed at 6’6”, and not looking much older or fatter since he retired over ten years ago.

  ‘Good. And this is?’ the raised eyebrows an attempt to send Ed’s cheeks strawberry red.

  Ed recognised the look, the unspoken question...‘colleague, affair or both?’

  At least Reynolds hadn’t seen them shopping together, especially for underwear.

  Jesus, just imagine. Ed winced inside.

  He smiled. ‘My boss. Sam Parker. Sam, this is Ray Reynolds, retired Detective Super.’

  Ray Reynolds extended his hand and shook Sam’s.

  ‘Delighted. I’ve seen some of your TV performances. Very accomplished.’

  ‘Thank you and I’ve heard the stories about you.’

  Reynolds shook his head.

  ‘Don’t listen,’ he told her lightly. ‘War stories always sound better with the passing of time. Anyway I must crack on. Pleasure, Sam. Take it easy Ed. Might catch up with you at the Pensioners’ Party.’

  Reynolds walked into the crowd, hair visible above the throng.

  ‘He’s never changed,’ Ed said. ‘Not everybody’s cup of tea but fiercely loyal if you were loyal to him.’

  Sam watched the impressive hair get smaller in the distance.

  ‘He’d see a few changes if he came back now.’
<
br />   Ed shrugged, remembering different days.

  ‘The Ray Reynolds of this world wouldn’t cope with all the politically correct crap today. A man’s man, no time for pussyfooting. Job first, beer second, upsetting people not even on his radar. But all our yesterdays isn’t getting the shopping done.’

  Sam stubbed the cigarette onto the top of a bin before flicking it inside. ‘Perfume? A nice scarf? New gloves?’

  What would it be like if you were buying them for me?

  ‘Genius. A scarf sounds good.’

  ‘Right I know just the shop. Nice and expensive.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Then you’re buying the coffees and a slice of Christmas cake.’

  Chapter Two

  The dark brown leather armchair was so big William Skinner looked like he was on a Hollywood film set auditioning for Land of the Giants or The Borrowers, his stumpy legs barely able to touch the floor. The ice in the gin and tonic had long since melted, a casualty of his wife’s love affair with central heating and a nod to the time in their lives when they could have food or warmth but not both. In those days he’d still be drinking pints at 8pm, but not now. He looked around. He loved the living room with its sunken sitting area, the dark wood flooring and Chinese pale blue rugs, the pool table, balls racked, on the raised area.

  The smell of garlic drifted from the kitchen. When they first married he’d made the mistake of telling her he liked her spaghetti bolognaise. Now it was a ‘treat’ she cooked every Thursday. He couldn’t even remember why it had to be a Thursday. Thirty-three years of bolognaise and the nearest he had ever been to Italy was watching Liverpool beat Milan on the TV. Even his sons did their best to be somewhere else on a Thursday.

  Still she was fiercely loyal and plenty tough. She never succumbed to police threats, kept a clear head whenever he was arrested and turned a blind eye when his own eyes wandered.

  ‘Won’t be long,’ she shouted from the kitchen.

  He stood up, walked to the timber-framed patio doors and looked across the carpet-bowls lawn and the borders full of plants and colour. The monthly cost of the gardeners was more than the rent on their old two bedroom flat but the two acres resembled Augusta. Not that he played golf.

  Growing up the only green he saw in his concrete jungle was the school football pitch and that was often more mud than grass. He smiled, remembering his mother running out of money for the electric meter. He’d go to bed in the dark more often than not, no sheet on the mattress, brothers lying alongside, coats piled on top. Only rich people had blankets.

  Now he had the best cotton on every bed and enough electricity to light up his garden like a football stadium, power the nine feet high security gates and service CCTV cameras that blinked red like dragons’ eyes 24 hours a day.

  ‘It’s on the table,’ his wife shouted.

  He turned away from the garden and walked to the kitchen, by-passing the formal dining room.

  ‘Looks great,’ he said, pulling the stool closer to the kitchen table.

  Marge bent down to kiss his head. ‘You’ll say ‘owt but your prayers Billy Skinner.’

  The mobile started to dance around the bench.

  ‘You eat. I’ll get it.’ Marge answered the phone. ‘Yeah, I’ll tell him.’

  Billy looked up from the spaghetti covered in so much Parmesan it looked like snowfall.

  ‘Stuart’s on his way.’

  Billy nodded and slurped the pasta.

  Stuart McFadden parked next to the fountain, a must-have for Marge the moment she saw the Trevi on a friend’s hen trip to Rome and fell in love. Walking across the gravel, Stuart eyed the marble mermaid surrounded by spouting water flumes from her sculptured rock and shook his head. He remembered the bloated monstrosity had been installed after the weekend break in Copenhagen.

  It was true what people said: money couldn’t buy class.

  He rang the bell and listened to something that would have given Big Ben a run for its money.

  ‘Come in Stuart. Do you want anything to eat?’ Marge asked.

  On a Thursday? Not bloody likely.

  ‘I’m fine thanks.’

  He followed her into the kitchen and pulled out a chair.

  ‘Don’t get comfy, I’m coming.’ Billy stood up, dropping the linen napkin on the table. ‘We’ll see you later Marge.’

  She walked over, kissed his cheek and told him: ‘Okay.’

  A minute later Billy had settled into the tan leather of the BMW Seven Series and stretched his legs as Stuart started her up.

  ‘Pussycats?’

  Billy Skinner nodded.

  Skinner had opened Pussycats, a lap dancing club, in the mid-nineties on an industrial estate on the outskirts of town. There had been the usual protests over the years, do-gooders demonstrating about the exploitation of women, but it was well run and the police were never called.

  Stuart pulled up outside and threw the keys to one of the doormen.

  Inside, the lights were as low as the bikini tops. Suits sat around tables, talking to the beachwear or watching even slinkier numbers glide up and down the pole.

  Stuart followed Billy across the blue carpet into the back office.

  ‘Anything?’ Billy looked at the manager, a forty something with no convictions, the Pussycats front man.

  ‘Councillor Elgin’s in.’

  He zoomed the CCTV onto the tall, dark haired, fifty-year-old with the looks, but not the wealth, of a 1950s movie idol. The navy suit, so shiny it looked polished, reflected the spinning stage lights; the grubby pink tie had been out of fashion so long it was a museum piece. Milk bottle white fingers squeezed the shoulders of the two girls sitting on his knees.

  Billy pulled out a chair. ‘Tell Zara and Chloe to look after him. I’ll sort their wages. Tell them to say it’s on the house.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’ Forty-something left the room.

  ‘Stuart, I want him videoed shagging them two. Nothing concentrates your mind more than being caught with a couple of young fillies, especially when you’re married to a battle-axe like he is. The woman’s scary.’

  ‘No bother. The Green Room’s all ready.’

  ‘Great. The boys will be here soon. I want to run through the figures.’ He walked over to the free-standing safe, opened it, and took out two £1000 bundles.

  ‘Give that to Zara and Chloe, and send a bottle of cheap fizz to their table. No point wasting the good stuff on Elgin.’

  Billy’s three sons walked in, Mathew, Mark, and Luke. People called them The Apostles, but only behind their backs. They were all short and squat, like their father, and each was wearing an expensive suit with an open necked white shirt.

  ‘All done?’ Billy asked.

  ‘All good,’ Mathew said, the oldest of the brothers and the one with a cigarette permanently sticking out of his lips. ‘Half a kilo dropped off at all of our establishments, all couriers safe, no thefts.’

  The couriers were young, female and drove non-descript family hatchbacks provided by Billy. Most importantly they were all of previous good character, their job being to collect and deliver the packages to the trusted managers of each establishment. The family had twenty pubs and clubs throughout the north east and the Skinners controlled the supply of cocaine within them.

  None of the delivery girls had ever met Billy Skinner. Each went to a public pay phone at a specified time, was told where to collect the packages and where to deliver them. The phone boxes continually changed, and the girls were given their location by text twenty minutes before the call. None of them had ever opened a package and were never told what they contained, although at £200 a drop they must have worked out they weren’t delivering bar snacks or bingo cards.

  The Skinners bought loyalty with two things: cash and the threat of violence. The price of disloyalty, on an escalating scale, was a limb rendered useless through to death itself. Billy had been the enforcer years ago, but his sons had taken over that role and Mathew, not the luckiest when the brain cell
s were being dished out, was darkly imaginative when it came to punishments. He revelled in striking fear into people, loved being called Iron Man. A cruel streak ran through his DNA like the hidden metal in reinforced concrete

  Billy opened a ledger. He didn’t trust computers; if hackers could slip inside the computers of NASA and the FBI, what chance did he have?

  ‘Takings seem to be down at ‘Scaramangers’. Why?’

  He loved James Bond, ‘The Man with the Golden Gun’ his favourite.

  ‘Sound the doormen out. See if trade’s dropped off the last few weeks. The bar’s down, the food’s down, and we haven’t had the return we should have had on the coke. Don’t go in all guns blazing, especially you Mat, but let’s make sure no one’s taking the piss.’

  Mathew looked at the floor. Being rebuked in front of his younger brothers was bad enough, but having that ingratiating Stuart there really nauseated him.

  ‘Harry Pullman’s been with me for years. I can’t believe he would skim but he’s hit the bottle big time since his wife died. Drink does funny things to men.’

  He closed the ledger. ‘After that and before you hit the clubs, go and see your mother.’

  He looked at each of them and smiled. ‘You never know, there might be some spaghetti left.’

  Everyone in the room laughed except Mathew. He was shooting daggers at Stuart McFadden.

  Who the fuck are you to laugh at my mother?

  ‘Right,’ Billy said, ‘Where’s Pixie?’

  ‘Cellar,’ Mat tried to hide his anger.

  Billy stood up. ‘Best go and see the little fucker then.’

  Peter ‘Pixie’ Carlton, slumped and tied to a wooden chair surrounded by kegs, raised his head when the metal door swung open, the draught from the corridor a small reprieve from the stale air that had built up over the three hours of his incarceration. His whole body was shivering, a combination of fear and nakedness.

  ‘Pixie. How are you?’ Billy, smiling, sounded as if he was greeting a welcome guest at a family wedding.

  Tears rolled down Pixie’s face. The nickname had stuck since his first day in secondary school when the older kids saw the gangly 6’ plus 11-year-old for the first time. He finally stopped growing when he reached 6’8” and the nickname had remained.