Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Luke and Mark Skinner, dressed in salopettes and dark blue waterproof jackets with the hoods pulled up, held onto the side of the small trawler, bodies swaying and the taste of salt on their lips.

  ‘There’s something about the North Sea on a pissy night,’ Luke said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Mark tightened his grip. ‘Terrifying’s the word you’re looking for.’

  They both stared into the eerie blackness, their eyes straining to see the onboard lights of the tankers in the distance and the navigational lights of the cardinal buoys. They couldn’t see much more than Geoff Mekins and he was blindfolded.

  That their boat displayed no lights was an offence against COLREGS - the International Regulations for Preventing Collisions at Sea - but given their human cargo a breach of the sailor’s highway code was worth the risk.

  The noise of the engine and the bow cutting through the waves helped drown out Mekins’ moaning.

  He was curled up in the foetal position on the deck, shivering like a missionary with malaria, hands tied behind his back with thick oily rope; sodden jeans and t-shirt providing neither warmth nor protection.

  ‘Much further Findus?’ Mark shouted. ‘It’s fucking freezing.’

  The expression on Jimmy Rhodes’ weathered face - or at least the sliver you could see above his thick grey beard - didn’t alter. He was used to Mark thinking his mickey-taking was somehow amusing. He’d gone to school with Billy Skinner, done ‘jobs’ for him for years. It was Skinner’s money that had bought the boat a lifetime ago. Putting up with Mark, the family’s weakest link in Jimmy’s book, was a price he had to pay. Living solely from the sea got harder every year. The cash-in-hand he picked up from Skinner for his special services put food and a bit more on the table.

  ‘Another half hour should do it,’ he shouted from the wheelhouse.

  Geoff Mekins couldn’t see but he wasn’t deaf. The rattle of a chain being dragged across the deck, Jimmy’s thirty minute warning…he knew what was coming. He tried to scream but his vocal chords made as much noise as a snapped guitar string.

  Luke bent down, yanked Mekins’ head up by the hair and started coiling the old anchor chain around his upper body.

  Unable to move his arms, Mekins thrashed his legs until Mark kicked him hard on the shins.

  Jimmy Rhodes stared ahead through the wheelhouse window. He’d seen it all before.

  Luke pushed Mekins backwards so that his spine was flat against the deck and coiled the metal links around his legs. Ankles bound, Luke ran the remaining metal up to his chest, padlocked two of the links together and checked the tautness.

  Satisfied with his handiwork, he stepped back and leaned against the side of the trawler. Mekins was ready, another whose race was almost run.

  ‘Get ready to sleep with the fishes,’ Mark said, his voice lyrical like a pantomime baddie.

  In the wheelhouse Jimmy shook his head…Mark and his bloody Godfather quotes. How many times had he heard that one by now? Six? Seven? He was losing count.

  Same script. Different cast.

  He adjusted his brown peaked baseball cap and reached for his pipe.

  Georgie Mills, the Family Liaison Officer, opened the door.

  ‘Alright boss. She’s in the front room. Granny’s here, her mother-in-law.’

  ‘Kids?’ Sam said, stepping into the hall.

  ‘Two. Granny’s keeping an eye on them.’

  Ed closed the door behind him.

  ‘We’ll follow you,’ Sam said. ‘Introduce us and we’ll take over.’

  Georgie turned around and walked into one of the rooms off the hall. ‘Linda, the boss is here.’

  Sam and Ed entered a room of high, primrose yellow walls, white, deep skirting boards and a white alabaster ceiling rose as old as the house. Lamps were everywhere, all off, subdued lighting replaced by bright white light from the five-bulb close-fit ceiling centre light. Heat bellowed from the wood-burner, glass door open, the flaming logs reminiscent of a particular breakfast cereal as they snapped, crackled and popped.

  Linda Pritchard pushed herself up off the chintzy floral patterned sofa; tall, voluptuous, long black curls drawing people towards her emerald eyes. Closer examination would reveal a slightly offset nose from a historical fracture but few ever noticed.

  Her two young girls, who had been sitting close either side of her, clearly didn’t want her to move.

  ‘Please, there’s no need to stand up. I’m Sam Parker, the officer in charge of the investigation.’

  Linda extended her arm and offered Sam a limp, clammy hand. She forced a smile, giving Sam a glimpse of teeth - Christmas snow white.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Ed Whelan.’

  Linda nodded, emerald eyes down.

  Sam continued. ‘I am truly sorry that we have to meet in these circumstances.’

  If being in charge of the Murder Team was the pinnacle of her career, meeting the bereaved was the nadir.

  Sam sat on an armchair. Ed, still stood by the door, stepped aside as a silent, slightly stooped woman ushered the two girls out of the room. The grandmother. Ed guessed neither child was older than nine. Linda was probably mid-thirties, a lot younger than her husband.

  Sam was perched on the edge of the chair, hands in her lap.

  ‘I cannot begin to understand what you are going through Linda,’ she said. ‘I have sat in this seat many times, but I have never sat in yours.’

  Linda Pritchard stared at the swirls on the red carpet.

  When she spoke it was barely above a whisper, but the broad northern accent seemed out of place amongst the wood panelled walls.

  ‘Who would do such a thing? Why? Julius was a family man. He’d never abuse children. To even suggest it is sick.’

  Sam glanced at the tall white Christmas tree, lights off, a fallen bauble unreturned to its imitation branch. Never had a symbol of joy looked so out of place. The second line of ‘Deck the Halls’ flashed through her mind. Not in this house.

  ‘Linda, rest assured we will do everything we can to bring the people who did this to justice.’

  Linda fidgeted with her hands. Sam watched the beautifully manicured nails, salon perfect, scratching the palms.

  ‘I know you will have already been asked this, but is there anyone you can think of who would want to harm Julius?’

  Linda shook her head, wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.

  Sam glanced around the room. Family photographs were everywhere; on the sandstone fire surround, in the glass fronted unit, on the recessed windowsill. Each showed Julius, Linda and their two children, similar poses, different locations…cities, beaches, mountains…clothing changing to match the climate.

  Ed and Sam turned to face the ‘excuse me’ from the door. Grandmother had reappeared minus the children. ‘Might I have a word before you go?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sam said.

  The old woman turned and walked away.

  ‘Take no notice of her,’ Linda said, something flashing in her eyes. ‘Julius is her only child, the prodigal son. She’s always been difficult…you know the type…you’re not good enough for my son, he could have done so much better than you.’

  Sam made a mental note. Linda Pritchard didn’t look like she took shit from anyone.

  ‘Did you ever meet Hans van Dijk?’

  ‘No. I know…’

  She stopped, sniffed, and rubbed her eyes.

  ‘I knew they did the football together, but I never met him. Not easy with young children. One of us always stayed in with the kids. I can’t remember the last time we went out together. Can’t remember the last time we did anything together, even late at night.’

  Sam stored away the hint of domestic unrest. ‘How long had they been doing the football?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know,’ Linda said. ‘A few years, but I still don’t…’

  Linda wiped her eyes again and bit her bottom lip. ‘I won’t believe they were abusing children.’
r />   Sam knew from experience that abusers could lead the most complete double lives.

  ‘I understand and of course there’s no evidence of that at this time,’ she said now. ‘Linda the purpose of our visit is to introduce ourselves. Georgie will be your point of contact. If you need to speak to me for whatever reason let her know and I’ll be round to see you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She didn’t move.

  Sam stood and followed Ed into the hall.

  Granny appeared, her large ears, free from the thinning grey hair, looked like they’d been designed for evesdropping. She wasted no time on pleasantries.

  ‘If you’re in charge,’ she pointed a wrinkled finger at Sam, ‘you can tell the papers if they want to make libelous accusations about my son I will see them in court.’

  Feisty and a fighter, Sam thought. She probably did tell Linda she wasn’t good enough.

  ‘All my son did was to try to make the lives of those children a little better,’ her hands were trembling with anger. ‘Their own parents didn’t give two hoots, to suggest because some madman has slaughtered Julius and his friend that they are…I won’t even say it.’

  She glared at Sam and spat out the next words.

  ‘Warn them off young lady. My husband, like my father, was a respected member of the judiciary and I still have family friends in high places.’

  Ed chose his words carefully.

  ‘Your son didn’t fancy the law then?’ he asked.

  Her response was soft, tender almost.

  ‘Julius was a delicate child,’ she said. ‘Rough and tumble was not his thing. He was very shy and being away from home, unable to cope emotionally, his academic work suffered. Besides he always wanted to help others, hence the football team and before that the youth clubs. A natural response if you were bullied.’

  Or a paedophile, Sam and Ed thought in unison.

  Granny looked up into Ed’s eyes as she took a step towards him, her chin level with his chest, the anger back.

  ‘So no, he didn’t, as you so eloquently put it, fancy the law.’

  Ed wiped the fine mist of her projectile spittle from his chin.

  ‘He settled on starting his own business in computers,’ granny was saying now. ‘There wasn’t much money in it but he was always happy and he made a little extra at the university. ’

  She paused, contempt twisting her face.

  ‘That’s how he met Fanny Adams in there,’ she nodded her head to the living room. ‘She was in a class he was running.’

  ‘Here?’ Sam said. ‘Seaton St George Met?’

  Granny nodded again and stepped back from Ed, composure regained.

  ‘He could have done so much better,’ she said. ‘I arranged all sorts of dates for him, nice girls from good families, but he went for the supermarket check-out girl twenty years younger. Looks like butter wouldn’t melt but don’t be fooled. She’s pole-axed more men than a common cold. Poor Julius couldn’t keep up with her and her…needs. No man could.’

  Sam and Ed exchanged a glance.

  ‘He told you that?’ Sam said.

  Granny smiled without an inch of warmth or humour.

  ‘He didn’t need to,’ she said. ‘You could see it in his face.’

  Ed looked at the polished bannister rail curving up the twisting staircase towards the stained glass window on the half-landing, the runner rugs on the hall floor so thick they seemed ankle deep.

  ‘Family money before you ask,’ Granny said. ‘I’ll show you out.’

  The slamming door caught Ed’s trailing heel as he stepped outside.

  He pressed the fob to unlock the car and didn’t speak until he was in the driver’s seat.

  ‘What an obnoxious old twat.’

  Sam didn’t hear him, her mind processing what she had seen and heard in the house…Julius’ mother hating Linda, Linda playing happy families with a thousand photographs to make sure everyone got the message.

  ‘There’s something wrong in that house,’ Sam said. ‘Let’s get his computer tomorrow and see what we find. Meantime, we may as well bob round and see Hans’ boss.’

  Ed looked at his watch, hoping Sam would pick up the subliminal message.

  ‘You think we should call it a day?’ she got it loud and clear.

  Ed started the car. ‘We’ve got an early kick off tomorrow. Hans’ boss can wait. I agree there’s something wrong in there and right now I want my mind to stay focused on that.’

  Sam squashed her disappointment and said okay, that sounded sensible.

  She said: ‘Do you want picking up in the morning, save you driving in to HQ?’

  Ed told her thanks but there was no need, it would be the opposite direction to where they were going. He would see her at HQ.

  Jesus Sam. If Sue looked out the window and saw you picking me up at 5am…

  Ed blinked and wiped his brow. What was it about Linda?

  He rifled through the filing cabinets in his brain, pulling open drawers, ramming them shut. Nothing until…

  ‘Looking for Linda’. 1988. Hue and Cry.

  As the song says, he might have to wait until she finds him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Sunday 14th December

  Pixie Carlton, curled and shivering, stared at the faded orange canvas and the droplets of rain water ready to fall. His right hand throbbed, his back felt like the field of The Grand National had galloped over it, and he was convinced he was in the early stages of hypothermia. Pixie had never been built for rough. Now his teeth were rattling so much he swore his fillings were coming loose.

  Buying a cheap sleeping bag had been his first mistake; a blue summer number, sheet thin, zero protection. His opinion yesterday was that the salesman’s patter about sleeping bags and season ratings was all bluff, bluster and bullshit. He was in the selling business himself. He knew how it worked. Hadn’t he described every pokey little flat on his portfolio as ‘cosy.’

  Agreeing to borrow Declan Doherty’s tent was his second moment of rank poor judgement. Doherty’s grandfather must have bought the mouldy relic at some tinker fair off Baden-Powell himself.

  Rain pounded the ancient canvas, the droplets inside gathering like an invading army preparing to attack.

  Even as Pixie wrestled to get comfortable enough to sleep he knew that was never going to happen, even though the cold and the constant noise on the site had kept him awake most of the night.

  Did these people never sleep? Crying kids, screaming mothers, banging doors. He would have been better off pitching his useless tent on the hard shoulder of the A1 in rush hour.

  He glanced at his watch. 4.45am. He needed to pee and struggled out of the sleeping bag, numb fingers clumsy with the ancient ties on the tent flap.

  It was definitely warmer and only marginally wetter outside.

  Stood in mid-flow, he looked around. Two or three more caravans had arrived overnight bringing more dogs, more kids and enough Transits to start a rental company.

  He watched a couple of big dogs, breed unknown, sleeping under one of the caravans and a pair of small, scruffy terriers running about yapping.

  ‘You want a cup of tea?’

  He jumped so much he peed down his pants.

  One of Doherty’s granddaughters, smothering a laugh with her hand.

  ‘You’re up early?’ he said, his flies no easier to handle than the tent ties.

  How old is she? Seventeen? Eighteen?

  Pixie could see the outline of her body through the white kimono-style dressing gown tied low and loose, her tousled blonde bed hair falling past one bare shoulder. He tried not to stare.

  ‘I heard you getting out of the tent,’ the girl told him. ‘Thought I’d see if you wanted a cuppa?’

  Pixie looked nervously around.

  ‘Should you even be talking to me without anybody being here?’

  She laughed again, told him she was a big girl.

  ‘My sister’s getting married at the weekend,’ she said. ‘It�
��ll be my turn next.’

  Pixie realised he was staring where he shouldn’t and snapped his eyes back to her face.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘I’ll be sixteen in two weeks.’

  ‘Fifteen! You’re fifteen!’

  Pixie’s mouth dropped in shock and a blast of shame. His next emotion was pure fear.

  Caught with a half-dressed 15-year-old on a travellers’ site in the middle of the night? No one would be buying an innocent explanation, Pixie knew, and it would be something more precious than his fingers for the chop. He was just crawling back into the tent - suddenly a welcome sanctuary - when he heard ‘morning Pixie’ behind him.

  For the second time that miserable morning his heart took a nosedive.

  Declan Doherty was dressed, cheerful and very much awake.

  ‘You’re up early,’ Pixie said.

  ‘Early bird and all that,’ he seemed immune to the rain and the biting cold. ‘Come inside. I want to talk about Billy Skinner and his drugs.’

  Pixie began to follow Doherty to his caravan, relieved the granddaughter hadn’t been mentioned and his tackle was still intact.

  ‘I don’t know much really,’ Pixie told him. ‘And I wouldn’t want you starting a battle with Billy Skinner because of me.’

  Declan Doherty stopped a pace ahead of him and spun round, his eyes black ice.

  ‘Not because of you son,’ Doherty growled.

  ‘Years ago that bastard stole my daughter.’

  Ed had seen better mornings.

  It wasn’t even 5am, a long drive lay ahead for what might prove to be nothing more than a headmaster covering his backside, and Sue Whelan was on the warpath.

  She was following him from room to room as he got ready, the questions coming at him like automatic rounds from a drive-by shooting.

  ‘Why do you have to go?’ she demanded again, Ed realising he had heard the same question five times before he stopped counting. ‘You were out all day yesterday.’

  He pulled on his suit trousers. ‘It’s my job.’

  An honest answer, Ed reasoned, but as effective as a chocolate fire-guard in the face of Sue’s onslaught.

  ‘What? Sit in the car all day, listening to her fawning all over you?’ the verbal bullets flying. ‘She’s pathetic and you’re just as bad encouraging her.’