Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  Ed stopped and shook his head, nostrils twitching and throat tightening despite the toffee he was still working on.

  Only Sam Parker could suck on a sweet and a cigarette at the same time.

  ‘But why would he do that?’ Ed got back to Skinner. ‘He’s never done it before, he’s not exactly struggling, and if he wanted to expand he’d have done it when he was younger.’

  Ed couldn’t put it together, the pieces not matching the picture.

  ‘What about his sons?’ Sam said, blowing out more smoke. ‘Maybe one of them has rubbed up the wrong people.’

  Ed knew The Apostles brought different talents to the party, although plodder Mark’s was hazy at best, absolute loyalty Ed’s best guess. Luke was ruthless, Ed had no doubt, but calm and smart when it mattered, more difficult to read. Mat was the open book, the hothead who did first, thought later. If someone had lit a fire for the Skinners, Mat would be odds on the one with the matches.

  Ed shook his head.

  ‘It just doesn’t make sense, unless…’

  He stopped, closed his eyes, and let the new thought take shape in the silence before it vanished as quickly as it had arrived. ‘Unless what?’ Sam brought him back.

  ‘Unless it’s somebody in their own group.’

  Sam’s expression told him she would need convincing.

  ‘It would have been inconceivable ten years ago, even five years ago, that somebody would take Billy Skinner on, someone local at least,’ Ed working through it as he spoke. ‘But he’s getting older and as you so often like to remind me, nothing stops for progress. If the enemy’s from within, someone close, even the sons, they’ll have been hiding in plain sight.’

  Sam was still struggling to picture Billy Skinner letting it happen, dropping the guard that had kept him where he was for so long.

  ‘Why are you so surprised?’ Ed watching her. ‘Remember Aisha?’

  Ed instinctively stroked the scar on his neck, the memory of the knife attack that almost killed him running like an ice river down his spine. ‘Just because it’s family doesn’t mean it can be ruled out.’

  They drove without speaking, tiredness and the noise of the tyres on the road lulling them both.

  They reached Ferrybridge, the end finally in sight and the carriageway now three lanes, the outside closed to the HGVs.

  Sam waited for Ed to make some comment but he stayed silent as she accelerated, powered down her window, and flicked her latest cigarette away.

  ‘We’ve had no intelligence about a potential gang war have we?’ Sam said, glancing Ed’s way again.

  ‘No,’ the reply slow, the voice dry. ‘And thanks, I was asleep there.’

  Sam said oops, sorry and, well, what did he think; why was the grapevine so quiet?

  ‘If it was to settle a score or even a proper outside takeover you’d expect to get a whisper at least,’ Ed stretched the best he could in the confines of his seat. ‘But if it’s all inside Skinner’s own set up…’

  They both knew an inside job was fraught with danger for the one looking to take the head of their own snake. The element of surprise was inevitably their trump card; that relied on lips staying sealed.

  ‘So if it’s the sons…and this just stays between us two…are we thinking all of them?’ Sam kept their kite flying. ‘Luke stepping out of his dad’s shadow or Mat taking him on?’

  Ed was only sure Mark could be ruled out for any solo coup.

  ‘He can probably find his mouth with his fork if the light’s on but you wouldn’t send him to the corner shop with a note.’

  Sam smiled. ‘Not leadership material then?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Ed kept his face straight. ‘He would probably fit nicely in our wonderful corridors of power. They could all go to the corner shop together. Make sure they made it back safe.’

  Mathew Skinner was an altogether different beast, moved by impulses he seemed unable or unwilling to control, the wild man charging around in his own red mist.

  ‘Feels he should be the one to step up when Skinner retires,’ Ed said. ‘But the craic has Billy handing over to Luke come the day.’

  But could Mat plot a successful take over; plan something like the traffic lights grab from the compound and a precision job like the ambush?

  Ed couldn’t see it: ‘If Mat’s involved he’s getting help.’

  A team effort by all three brothers was something neither Sam nor Ed were happy to rule out.

  John Elgin pushed open his black metal garden gate and walked past his postage stamp sized Astroturf lawn; they’d lived in this house, a council house, for thirty-odd years.

  He preferred to live amongst those he represented, show he hadn’t forgotten his roots unlike some pompous clowns on the council.

  His socialist principles notwithstanding, he bought the house under the Right to Buy Scheme, using some of the discount to have a new kitchen fitted. Was that really twenty years ago?

  At least Tara made him feel young again, if only for a few hours, and he felt a warm glow even now just thinking about her.

  After pulling himself round in Scaramangers he’d taken a long walk by the sea, a chance to clear his head and prepare to face the music.

  His own personal she-devil had been in bed when he got home last night, snoring like a bull elephant with bronchitis, the room reeking of booze and body odour. He couldn’t sleep in the same bed. Not that he wanted to, especially after Tara.

  He’d gone to the spare room and was already up and out before his wife woke, or more accurately to Elgin, came round.

  Now his warm glow thawed faster than an ice cream in a microwave as he crossed the threshold.

  Her voice, loud enough to wake the dead, boomed from the sitting room like biblical thunder.

  ‘Where’ve you been you arsehole and what fucking time did you get in last night?’

  He heard her grunt and wheeze, pictured her heaving herself up on bingo wing arms, his sympathies with the long suffering settee.

  Her bulk filled the door.

  ‘Come on then,’ the walls shaking, cider fumes almost visible around her like an aura. ‘Where the fuck have you been? Another one of your little slappers?’

  Elgin muttered ‘out’ and backed towards the front door.

  She charged at him, deceptively quick over the short length of the hallway.

  ‘What do they call this one?’ shouting on the move, the distance closing.

  He grabbed her podgy wrist as she threw a windmill right hander, the motion half turning him round.

  ‘Another one of your slappers?’

  She was swinging her wrist from side to side trying to break free, saliva flying from her wet lips.

  ‘What time did you get in?’ she screamed.

  Elgin pushed her away, wiped something moist from his cheek, and said ‘fuck this’ before he turned and walked out.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Most of the lights in Police HQ were out but they were burning in the HOLMES room.

  Ed got out of the car, bent over and rubbed his thighs. His knees were aching, the side of his neck on fire.

  ‘You alright you old crock?’ Sam said. ‘I keep telling you to take it easy.’

  Sam flicked open a packet, lit a Marlboro, and leaned against the bonnet. ‘Wonder how they’re getting on with Skinner?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Ed said, now standing straight, raising his right knee to his chest.

  ‘Camping in that van of yours looks well and truly over,’ Sam watched him stretching. ‘You better think about cashing it in.’

  Ed looked hurt.

  ‘Sell Doris? Be like selling a child.’

  Selling the wife… now there’s a thought.

  Bev walked towards them, head down as she lit a cigarette.

  ‘No sign of Skinner,’ she told them. ‘Media are all over it, as you’d expect. Never seen so many out on a Sunday. So much for you seeing me tomorrow.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Ed
raised his left knee to his chest and winced. ‘It’s just a case of waiting until his body turns up.’

  Bev looked at Sam. ‘Who’s rattled Mr. Aerobics’ cage?’

  Sam smiled. ‘He’s done nothing but whinge for the last hour about how stiff he is.’

  ‘A bit stiff are we Ed?’ Bev said with a smile. ‘Need a hand with anything?’

  ‘I’ll let you know,’ he said. ‘Nice to see the PC Brigade haven’t infiltrated the entire police force…yet.’

  ‘Service,’ Sam corrected him.

  ‘Yeah right.’

  Sam inhaled the cigarette.

  ‘Not much we can do tonight,’ she said. ‘Skinner could be anywhere. Any sign of Mat?’

  ‘No,’ Bev said, flicking ash onto the car park.

  Ed planted his heels on the ground and started rocking back and forth on them. ‘Could be with his father.’

  ‘What the two of them snatched?’ Bev said.

  ‘Or Mat’s the one who snatched Billy,’ Ed said, still rocking.

  Sam gave Bev an update on their trip to Jeremy Scott’s old school, the revelations about John Elgin drawing a ‘bloody hell’ and the hurried lighting of another cigarette.

  ‘Look we’ll regroup tomorrow,’ Sam said now. ‘Get everybody away home Bev but keep the school thing to yourself. We’ll tell everybody in the morning.’

  Bev turned and walked away, a teasing ‘night night stiffy’ to Ed over her shoulder.

  He looked beat, Sam thought, and not just physically.

  You should be coming home with me.

  ‘What sort of reception will you get?’ she asked him.

  Ed shook his head and puffed out his cheeks, knowing nothing good would be waiting.

  ‘Probably a two-sandwich buffet,’ a weary grin at Sam’s puzzled expression. ‘Cold-shoulder and tongue. Just a question of which will be first.’

  Shoulders slumped he turned and walked away.

  ‘See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Ed,’ Sam hesitated. ‘Fancy a drink?’

  Ed stopped and turned around and thrust his hands in his pocket. ‘You know what, I do.’

  At another house on another street he pressed the bell on the front door, hoping for a different reception.

  Jill Brown wasn’t wearing her short skirt and heels but she didn’t try to punch him.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon,’ she smiled. ‘Trouble with you know who?’

  She stepped aside.

  ‘The usual,’ Elgin walked into the kitchen. ‘The only time she’s not drinking is when she’s in a coma.’

  Jill Brown felt for him but her sympathy was tempered. She had been telling him for years to leave, that people would understand, that he was the only one who could make it happen.

  Easier said than done was Elgin’s usual response.

  ‘You got any beer in the fridge?’ he asked now.

  She brought him a bottle of Flag Porter, a favourite from the small Darwin Brewery in Sunderland, worried it was too cold.

  Elgin told her the beer would be just fine.

  He took the small bottle with the galleon on the label and followed her into the sitting room, Jill muting the TV and sitting down.

  Gas flames danced around the coal effect fire, the only light from the small table lamp and the curved TV.

  He sat next to her. ‘Anything good on?’

  ‘Nothing special, just channel hopping,’ Jill sounding uneasy. ‘Look I’m sorry about yesterday. It was just…it was the shock.’

  She picked up the half full glass of red wine that was on the carpet. ‘To think I took him there. No wonder he went off the rails.’

  Elgin took hold of her hand, told her to stop blaming herself, that Scott had all the blame on his back.

  His eyes glanced at the TV, the news, what looked like a car wreck.

  ‘Turn that up,’ he said.

  On the screen was a damaged BMW, windows out, airbags inflated.

  Elgin realised it must be a recording not live - it was still daylight.

  ‘What is it?’ Jill said.

  ‘Shhh’

  The voice of the reporter filled the room.

  ‘The police have made no statement as yet but we understand that as the car,’ the camera zoomed in on the BMW, ‘stopped at these lights,’ the traffic lights came on the screen, ‘masked men launched a violent attack and abducted the driver, making off in a Ford Transit van.’

  The item over, Elgin muted the TV and drank from the Porter like a man finding a standpipe in the Sahara.

  ‘What is it?’ Jill asked.

  ‘I think that was Billy Skinner’s car.’

  Elgin slouched into the settee and closed his eyes. Harry had been as cool as the proverbial cucumber this morning. Was this what he’d meant by ‘wheels in motion’, a mobile abduction? He took another pull on the Porter, eyes still shut.

  Out of the frying pan John, out of the frying pan.

  But as long as Harry kept his word and got the tape…

  ‘You alright,’ Jill’s voice jolted him. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  Elgin forced a smile: ‘I’m fine…just you don’t expect people getting kidnapped in broad daylight. Not in Seaton St George anyway.’

  Jill got up and headed for the kitchen, speaking over her shoulder on the way.

  ‘Play with fire you get burnt,’ she said. ‘And Billy Skinner’s played around fires all his life.’

  Elgin closed his eyes again and wondered where the flames were heading next.

  Stuart McFadden had seen the news bulletin, but unlike Elgin, he wasted no time sitting around. He took a coke from the mini-bar and drank it as he walked to reception.

  He was just another faceless guest but if he was on the in-house CCTV, he had a cover story…hotels and prostitutes not exactly an unknown mix.

  She had left immediately by the fire escape stairs, glad of the money but wondering if she had done something wrong.

  Timing was everything now, Stuart knew.

  Mat Skinner hadn’t been seen since Geoff Mekins was tied up and beaten.

  Luke would be holding it together, trying to work it all out, to find out where Mat was, what he was doing. Mark would be Nero, watching as their empire burned, and Marge, genuinely grieving, would be seeking solace from the bottle.

  No doubt Mekins was fish food now but Mat would be like a rabid dog. And everybody knew the best way to deal with that kind of animal.

  Stuart jumped into his car. Plenty were likely to think Mat was behind the snatch on Billy Skinner and now was the time to strike.

  Game on.

  He headed north out of Seaton St George. He knew exactly where he would find Mat. As Skinner’s most trusted employee, the man Billy paid to be his in-house gatherer of intelligence, there was very little he didn’t know.

  But that didn’t mean he shared everything.

  Some gold was best held in reserve; only reveal the nuggets when maximum impact was anticipated.

  It had been months ago when Geoff Mekins, crying because Mat had his eyes on a new cock, needed a listening ear. Stuart had built his life on being a listener.

  Mekins droned on for about half an hour, sobbing, shaking his head, declaring his love for Mat, even though Mat had spent the previous night chatting up some young blond guy.

  Stuart’s grandmother had always told him good things came to the ones who waited and now his wait had proved worthwhile.

  Mekins told him how hard he’d worked to make the caravan special, a place to escape. He’d even chosen the selection of paperbacks.

  It only needed Stuart to be sympathetic, nod in the right places, before Mekins disclosed the caravan’s location.

  Stuart found it in the early hours one morning when he suspected they were there, just to make sure of Mekins’ story. Mat’s car provided the confirmation.

  Now as he drove north up the A1 his thoughts weren’t consumed by how he would kill Mat. That was easy. One bullet, two tops
. His mind was preoccupied with getting rid of the body after it was done.

  A sea disposal had long been the Skinner family’s preferred choice but Stuart didn’t have access to a boat, and while Mekins told him once they had an inflatable with an outboard motor for fishing trips, he didn’t fancy lugging the body into one of those unstable things.

  An empty mineshaft would have been ideal, but as far as he knew there were none left. All of the old mines had been landscaped, the headstock wheels born during the Industrial Revolution airbrushed off the horizon.

  What he couldn’t do was leave the body with a bullet in the head to be found by the police or the Skinners. After he’d killed Mat he would vanish, but only temporarily. He’d make some calls and prepare for a takeover. He knew he could count on Harry Pullman and his nephew Dean. The Skinners were on borrowed time and he had no intention of being caught on the wrong side of a gunfight.

  Parking on the outskirts of Seahouses he took a rucksack from the boot, and put on his walking boots and waterproofs. What was more natural than a hiker in Northumberland, rucksack and tent on his back?

  He didn’t know if there were any CCTV cameras, but keeping your head and face obscured wasn’t a problem.

  The handgun in his waistband was a risk but how many cops would be up here on a Sunday night?

  He made his way up the hill overlooking the site, lay down on the wet grass and took out the binoculars from his bag. They weren’t brilliant in the dark, but they were better than nothing.

  He scanned the site and found Mat’s silver Porsche parked away from the caravan. There were no lights on in the caravan, but there were no lights on in any of them. He didn’t even know if the site was open.

  He pressed the binoculars tight against his eyes.

  Well I’ll go to the foot of our stairs.

  He grinned. Maybe he didn’t need the gun. Maybe he didn’t need to dispose of the body.

  The caravans were in darkness, but Lady Luck was shining. He smiled, focused on the entrance gate and watched the two-staggers-forward-one-stagger-sideways progress of someone pissed-up.

  Mat Skinner, chest pointing at the ground, was weaving across the site like Bambi on ice. He swayed as he put one outstretched arm against the caravan door. Three times he tried to put the key in the lock, finally opening the door on the fourth attempt.