Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘Please Mr. Skinner.’

  ‘Now now Pixie,’ Billy said, his voice light. ‘A bit late for please and thank you.’

  He walked behind Pixie and looked for an unmarked patch of skin on his back. There wasn’t any. Various red, long, linear marks in the early stages of bruising would eventually join together to form a solid black and blue mass. His sons had always been accurate with pick-axe handles. He’d taught them well.

  The Skinner sons and Stuart stood leaning back against the wall. Each would do whatever Billy asked.

  Billy grabbed Pixie’s blond hair, pulled his head backwards and spat on his face.

  ‘You are not here to supply coke to your estate agent mates and play the big-I-am.’

  He slapped Pixie around the back of the head, then walked around the chair and stood in front of him.

  ‘I trust you with the product which I expect you to sell and give the profits to me. You get yours for free, but obviously that’s not been enough.’

  He bent down. His face was inches from Pixie’s although his wasn’t shaking and decorated with a trembling blob of saliva. Billy put his hands in his trouser pockets, took out four sovereign rings, and put one on each finger of his right hand.

  ‘I’m sorry Mr. Skinner it won’t happen again,’ Pixie gasped, his wide eyes flashing between Billy and the others.

  ‘You’re right there Pixie. It won’t. In Saudi they chop off a thief’s right hand. Did you know that? Safest country in the world.’

  Billy Skinner had dished out plenty of punishment beatings, but he doubted he’d seen anybody’s eyes stretch as wide as Pixie’s were now.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘No seriously. In Saudi they chop your right hand off so you can never sit at anyone’s table. That’s because they’re very clean. Wipe their backsides only with their left hand. Nobody will eat with someone who uses their left hand at the table.’

  ‘Please Mr. Skinner.’

  A river was now flowing freely down his face.

  ‘Relax. I’m not chopping your hand off. Well not this time anyway. But you have to be punished. Can’t have people thinking I’m going soft. Where would that leave me?’

  ‘Please Mr. Skinner.’

  ‘If you don’t stop bleating on like a little girl I will cut your bloody hand off. Understand?’

  A nod.

  ‘Luke, Mark. Untie this piece of shit.’

  Seconds later Pixie was upright towering over both Skinners.

  Luke and Mark grabbed his arms, arms that had never seen a gym.

  ‘Now this can be as quick or as slow as you choose,’ Billy said. ‘I can take a bolt cropper to each finger on your right hand and snap them off neatly below the first knuckle.’

  Pixie struggled but was forced back into the chair by Luke and Mark.

  Billy Skinner punched him on the face, the sovereign rings slicing his skin quicker than a tin opener cutting through a can.

  ‘Or,’ Billy continued, his voice like a businessman chairing a meeting, ‘we can put your fingers in the doorframe and kick it shut.’

  Pixie spluttered blood, his voice childlike and desperate.

  ‘Please, I’ll pay it back.’

  Billy nodded. ‘You’ll pay it back anyway, just with fewer fingers than before. Count yourself lucky. If you had really upset me, you’d be a dead man. Instead you’ll be the walking reminder if you fuck with Billy Skinner, you get fucked.’

  Mat laughed. ‘You never know they might change your nickname from Pixie to Fingers.’

  Or Miles O’Toole he thought, staring at the 20 year old’s cock.

  Billy glared at his son, then turned back to Pixie.

  ‘So, hand in door and it’s over quickly or one at a time with the bolt croppers. You decide.’

  Pixie stared at the floor, said nothing.

  ‘Okay,’ Billy said. ‘We’ll try the door first. If you move your hand there is no second chance. It will be the bolt croppers and we’ll do your fingers one at a time…over the next twenty-four hours.’

  Billy moved away. ‘Take him to the door.’

  Chapter Three

  Friday 12th December

  Declan Doherty had one hand on the wheel, the other on a cigar. The road noise from the A1 northbound buffeted his ears, more to do with the driver’s window being open than the twin-axle caravan being towed behind the big Mercedes.

  He had a couple of hundred King Edwards in his van. Each wedding guest would get one, at least the ones he knew.

  He gripped his with his teeth, fiddled with the in-car computer: average speed, average fuel consumption and distance travelled. The miles were clocking up, every minute putting Newark another mile behind him. That’s why he liked driving at night. Much easier; roads clearer, less police.

  His wife, daughter and two granddaughters were asleep in the van. He thought that might be illegal, but since when did that bother Travellers like him. It was more important that his girls got a good night’s sleep. Besides what was the difference between sleeping on the road and sleeping in those posh trains?

  The sting of the smoke was blinding him.

  ‘Bollocks,’ he muttered. He took the cigar from his mouth and threw it out of the window then rubbed his stinging eyes while he steered with his knees.

  He contemplated where to exit the A1 to get to Seaton St George. There were so many choices. At 2am it didn’t matter whether he drove past Middlesbrough, Darlington or Hartlepool. He wouldn’t get stuck in traffic, unlike a couple of days ago when he’d driven up with a few of the lads.

  Suddenly he leaned so far forward his nose almost touched the windscreen. He rubbed his eyes again but this time there was no smoke. Ahead in the quickly closing distance he saw a naked man walking along the roadside, the Mercedes’ powerful beams leaving no room for illusion or a trick of the hard-shoulder shadows.

  These fucking stag parties.

  Declan braked, pulled into a lay-by, and waited for the man to catch up.

  As he got nearer, Declan could see the man’s back was stooped and he had his right hand stuffed in his left armpit as if it was seeking warmth and protection.

  ‘Jesus,’ Declan said, as the naked stranger collapsed on the verge. Declan saw the bruising on his back, the missing fingertips on his right hand.

  He rushed into the caravan and woke the girls and together they helped the man inside.

  Declan saw his granddaughters’ wide-eyed shock. Whether that was down to the stranger’s injuries or the size of his private parts, Declan wasn’t sure.

  Sam Parker pulled up the fur hood of her military-style coat as she walked across the forecourt of the disused garage. The uniform PC, his breath visible in the cold night air, nodded at her as he lifted the blue tape to allow her and Ed Whelan to duck underneath, writing their names in the scene log as they walked towards the doors and the Senior Scenes of Crime Officer.

  ‘What have we got Julie?’ Sam asked, burying her hands in her coat pockets.

  Julie Trescothick pulled down her paper mouth mask. She was wearing a white paper suit and white paper overshoes.

  ‘Come in and see for yourself. The plates are already down.’

  She bent and picked up two clear plastic bags - a white suit and a pair of overshoes in each - and handed them to Sam and Ed.

  ‘Extra large I hope,’ Ed said. He hated fighting to get into the Teletubby suits when they were too tight but at least this time there was no crowd to watch him struggle.

  Suits zipped they followed Julie into the garage, the interior lit by freestanding floodlights powered by a noisy diesel generator.

  ‘Evening boss,’ the two other SOCOs said in unison.

  Evening? It’s bloody two am.

  ‘Info from a druggie, Curtis something or other. He’s down the nick with uniform. Came to shoot up, saw this and rang us,’ Julie said.

  The charred figure was on the floor of the inspection pit, feet near an oil drum, burnt pieces of rope close by, one piece on his le
ft wrist. His jaw was clenched shut, his fingers curled like claws, his crisp blackened skin stretched tighter than fresh cling-film.

  The smell was like putting your head into a coal fire after it had gone out.

  ‘Male or female?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Male,’ Julie said.

  ‘Enough to put you off barbecues for life,’ Ed said, trying to do what was humanly impossible; breathe out without breathing in.

  ‘You don’t improve with age,’ Sam smiled and pointed at the oil drum. ‘Looks like he’s been tied up. Fell forward when the ropes burnt through.’

  She paused, looked at what was in front of her, and remembered Albert Szent-Gyorgyi’s words – “discovery consists of seeing what everybody has seen and thinking what nobody has thought.” ‘There’s a couple of pieces behind the oil drum,’ Sam said.

  Ed put the domestic that had broken out when the call-out came to the back of his mind...another argument about work, another slanging-match about how he spent more time with Sam Parker than he did with his wife, another torrent of abuse culminating in their latest hot topic. Ed resisting retirement, especially after a stabbing that meant six months’ sick leave and almost cost him his life, had given Sue Whelan a shiny new stick when she wanted to give him a verbal beating.

  ‘There’s a strong smell of petrol in the pit, broken glass, and an oily rag,’ Julie said.

  ‘As in petrol-bombed?’ Sam said.

  ‘Possibly. Do you want the lab out?’

  ‘Yes.’ Constrained budget or not, the scientists were a necessity. ‘Any ID?’ Sam asked.

  ‘There’s a wallet. Over there on the floor.’ Julie nodded towards it. ‘His driving licence is in there. Jeremy Scott, providing it’s his.’

  Sam wiggled her toes. ‘It’s a start, but the only way he’s getting identified to the Coroner’s satisfaction is by dental records.’

  They want us to know who it is, Sam was thinking.

  Why? Giving us a starter for ten. He’s not been burnt to hide his ID.

  ‘The driving licence would make him 78,’ Julie said.

  Sam looked at Ed. ‘Name mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not right now, but I’ve only been awake about forty minutes and my brain’s too busy fighting the smell to concentrate on a name… If the druggie had the where-with-all to ring us that suggests he hadn’t started main-lining and he’s not so skint he’s had to exchange his mobile for drugs.’

  ‘How did he get here?’ Sam said.

  ‘Don’t know,’ Julie told her. ‘He’d gone before I arrived.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have walked out here would he?’ Sam said, stamping her feet. ‘Not at this time. More likely he scored his gear and got dropped off here.’

  ‘Could have bought his drugs here,’ Ed said. ‘Or he was dealing from here.’

  ‘Possibly.’ Sam looked at the charred body again. ‘What sort of people set fire to someone?’

  ‘Over the ages, plenty,’ the well-educated voice boomed out.

  Sam spun round.

  Jim Melia, the Home Office Forensic Pathologist, stepped towards them plate by plate.

  ‘Burnings at the stake started from the feet up and hordes of people turned out to watch.’

  ‘We’ve become a bit more civilised since then Jim,’ Sam said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  He peered into the pit.

  ‘But I wouldn’t make too much of a thing about being more civilised. Burnings may not be state legislated anymore, but the human capacity to inflict pain on his fellow man has never diminished. Most people keep it in check because they don’t want to end up in prison, but that doesn’t make them incapable of inflicting it. Just look at ISIS.’

  ‘A psychologist as well now Jim,’ Ed said.

  ‘A mere observer of life Ed, in all its faults and failings.’

  ‘Julie, there’s not much more for me here,’ Sam told her. ‘We’ll get away. Let me know when you’re done and we’ll see you at the mortuary. See you soon Jim.’

  Outside Sam fumbled in her pockets for her cigarettes.

  See what everybody sees…

  ‘This is really well planned Ed. Worryingly well planned. Look around. Middle of nowhere. No cameras. Set on fire in a pit. They must have known it was there.’

  She lit up.

  ‘And if they didn’t bring the rope, they must have known it was here. Same as the oil drum. They couldn’t chance that they’d just find something to tie him to. And the milk bottle, the petrol, the rag to light, if it was a petrol bomb. All had to be brought here.’

  She shook her head slowly as she smoked the cigarette.

  ‘This lot aren’t amateurs. They knew exactly what they were doing.’

  ‘How many do you reckon?’ Ed said.

  ‘More than one, probably more than two. He’s got to be transported here, tied up. At least three.’

  ‘Three psychos. Marvellous.’

  Ed was sitting in Sam’s freezing office, overcoat collar turned up, pen in hand, listening as she paced the room. The corridor outside was in darkness and the heating was off. Estates Management didn’t consider the Murder Team being called out at all hours when they set the central heating timer.

  ‘Get Bev out. She can make a start, fire up HOLMES,’ Sam said.

  Ed raised his eyebrows and smirked at the accidental pun.

  Sam gave him a look and spoke again.

  ‘No point in calling anybody else out. Let them come in at eight. It’ll be a long day. I want to speak to the druggie. Get Bev to make some initial inquiries about this Jeremy Scott.’

  She opened a desk drawer, took out a bottle of Jo Malone perfume, and sprayed her neck and her clothes.

  Ed burst into a coughing fit. ‘Bloody hell you’re choking me.’

  ‘Better than smelling like a coal fire. Jeremy Scott. His address will be on his licence. If it is him, 78-year-olds tend to notify DVLA when they move so the address should be current.’

  She put the bottle back in her drawer.

  ‘We’ll need to get round his house,’ she said. ‘See if there’s a Mrs Scott. If not we’ll need a door-to door team to check on the neighbours, see when he was last seen.’

  She took a mouthful of tea from the mug getting cold too quickly on her desk.

  ‘Then it’s associates, lifestyle, habits...the usual victimology. Jim’ll not be able to give us a time of death but it hasn’t just happened. He wasn’t smoking.’

  ‘Wasn’t drinking either the boring bastard,’ Ed grinned and Sam smiled.

  Black humour was often the only way to deal with the things they saw.

  ‘This will be a hard slog. To all intents and purposes he may as well have been in the open air. Always the most difficult to detect…’ Sam said.

  She and Ed knew the statistics. 80% of killers who murdered their victims in buildings were caught. Only 20% of those who killed in the open were ever captured.

  Sam continued. ‘This morning get someone to plot the nearest CCTV cameras. It’s a long shot but he hasn’t walked there. If we know where the cameras are we’re good to go if anyone’s seen him getting into a vehicle. See if he owns a car. If he does, where is it?’

  She sat down and put her head in her hands. ‘Burnt alive. Jesus.’

  Ed shrugged: ‘If he was burnt alive.’

  ‘Jim’ll be able to tell us that when he examines the lungs and whether there are any other injuries,’ Sam said. ‘If there aren’t, that’s a hell of a way to kill somebody. Tie them up and firebomb them. The location, the planning, taking the petrol...that’s plenty of premeditation.’

  She turned on her desktop computer.

  ‘After that, there’s not a lot can be done for now; victimology, forensic at the scene. We’ll take it from there.’

  Chapter Four

  Ed called Bev then drove Sam into Seaton St George.

  The warmth of a twenty-four operational police station was a marked contrast to the cold of Headquarters
but the comfort didn’t last long.

  The two detectives gagged in unison when they opened the door of the tiny interview room by the front desk.

  Curtis Brown was shivering next to a radiator, the stench of urine and faeces radiating from him like a chemical weapons attack.

  Sam rubbed her watering eyes.

  ‘Curtis. I’m DCI Parker and this is DS Whelan.’

  ‘We’ve met,’ Ed said.

  Curtis Brown nodded.

  Neither detective sat down, both preferring the relative safety of the open door and life-saving air stream.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Sam said. ‘It must have been a shock for you.’

  Another nod.

  ‘We just need to ask a few questions then you can go. If you feel you need some professional help to talk through what you’ve seen tonight then we can put you in touch with people.’

  The counsellors are going to love you Ed thought.

  ‘I’m okay. It’s not the first time I’ve seen a stiff.’

  Sam’s eyes were drawn to Curtis’ teeth, and in that department he was a white one short of a snooker set.

  ‘Okay. But if you do, Ed will give you his card.’

  Ed put his hands in his trouser pockets. Cheers Sam.

  ‘I’m okay. Look will it take long? I’ve got things to do,’ Curtis said.

  ‘Not long…We’re not going to search you,’ Sam told him, turning her head towards the corridor and taking a deep breath she hoped more than expected was discreet. ‘We just need you to tell us what happened tonight’.

  If someone had dropped a packet of itching powder down Curtis Brown’s clothes he wouldn’t be scratching anymore than he was now.

  ‘Scored some gear. Went into the old garage to shoot up and saw the stiff. That’s it. Listen will I have to go to court? I don’t want to go to court.’

  Ed took a deep breath, put his hands on the desk, and leaned towards Brown.

  ‘You listen Curtis, I don’t suppose anybody who works at any court wants you in their midst, but we all have our crosses to bear.’