When he fell silent Sam waited to make sure he had finished before she asked him another question, asked whether his wife knew the truth about his past.
For the first time something different flashed in Elgin’s eyes.
‘Stupidly I told her before we got married,’ unmissable regret in his voice. ‘Now she has a hold on me for the rest of my life. You saw my name on the prize winners’ board down there. So could anyone else who looked.’
Sam watched Elgin and felt his pain. Her husband may have died prematurely but child abuse always seemed to be on a different level, victims moving with their dreadful secrets in a world that was oblivious.
‘How did you feel when you found Jeremy Scott was dead?’ Sam asked quietly.
Elgin looked at her, only hatred on his face now.
‘How do you think I felt,’ he spat out the words. ‘I would pay to dance on his grave and piss all over it.’
‘And your relationship with Jill Brown?’
Elgin shook his head, bemused. ‘Why?’
‘Come on John,’ Ed joined in. ‘You’re abused, your grandson’s abused. Jill Brown’s son’s abused.’
Elgin never looked away as the tears came.
‘He’s my son too.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Scaramangers was like a half-forgotten church on a wet Sunday morning - empty save for a few older souls scattered around, lonely and lost in their own thoughts.
Harry sometimes listened to the woes of his congregation but today he wasn’t up for the Barman’s Confessional. Too much going on.
So the sight of Ray Reynolds walking through the doors almost gave him a migraine on the spot.
‘Pint of your finest landlord.’
Harry picked up a glass and stepped towards the pumps.
‘Another early start Ray, it’s becoming a habit. It’s not a weekend now you know.’
Reynolds tossed him a look.
‘Who are you, my mother? Just grabbing a quick one before the Pensioners’ Party.’
Harry passed him a pint. ‘On the house.’
‘Cheers.’ Reynolds raised his glass and gulped, heard Harry asking him where was the party?
‘The Ship,’ Reynolds said. ‘They’ve hired it out. Closed to the public for the afternoon.’
Harry was hoping another customer would get him off the hook, even for a minute or two.
What are you really after you nosy bastard?
‘Any more thoughts on your boss going missing?’ Reynolds asked him. ‘You know, after Dean’s memory suddenly came back.’
Here we fucking go…
‘He was excited Ray, shouting his mouth off like young lads do.’ Harry was squirming but doing his best. ‘He knows as much as I do, which is nothing. You know me. Keep my head down. You just having a solo one before the party.’
‘Couple of the other lads might come in,’ Reynolds glancing behind him when he heard the door.
Stuart McFadden, walking to the bar, seemed calm enough, relaxed even.
‘How are you, Mr. Reynolds,’ the greeting easy, respectful.
Reynolds said he was sound and then got right to it.
‘What’s happened to your boss then?’
He put his glass to his lips and waited.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ McFadden told him. ‘He’ll turn up. Pint of cooking Harry.’
They always referred to non-premium lager as ‘cooking lager.’
‘Oh I think you can guarantee he’ll turn up,’ Reynolds said, the hint of a smile. ‘What state he’ll be in is anybody’s guess. But you know what they say, live by the sword.’
McFadden turned to face him.
‘Probably best you don’t overstay your welcome,’ McFadden said, picking up his glass. ‘Lots of people aren’t happy about Billy being snatched and if they thought you were gloating…’
Reynolds put his glass on the bar and stood up straight. ‘What would they do? Have a go at me?’
If McFadden was intimidated he was hiding it well.
‘Mr. Reynolds all I’m saying is that you’re out of the game now,’ the tone considered. ‘Don’t try and come back into play. It’ll only end in tears.’
‘I hope that’s not a threat Stuey.’
He smiled when McFadden’s grimace showed he’d hit a nerve. He knew McFadden hated being called Stuey.
‘And as you’re buying,’ Reynolds said, ‘I’ll have another beer, just to make sure I do overstay my welcome. Can’t have people thinking I’m running scared. Especially from plastic gangsters like you and your cronies.’
He turned to face Harry Pullman. ‘Same again landlord. Stuey’s in the chair.’
Harry pulled a pint and passed it across the bar.
Reynolds took a slow, single sip. ‘On second thoughts Harry, that tastes like shit. Not your fault. Maybe the pint had an allergic reaction to the person who bought it.’
He looked at his watch.
‘Best be off. Places to go, people to see. Cheers Harry.’
Reynolds walked away from the bar, pushed open the door and shouted ‘see you later Stuey.’
He didn’t turn around. He knew McFadden would be raging.
Sam walked along the pier, coffee in hand. She needed to be alone, out of the office, process the information that was bouncing around her head.
The sea air always cleared her head like a vapour rub eased congestion. She smiled. Three things cured every ill as far as her mother was concerned: Vicks, Germolene or a good night’s sleep.
At the end of the pier she leaned against the railings and watched a yacht half-a-mile-out sail by on a starboard tack. The white sails look well-trimmed, the yacht making good progress through the water. She sipped the coffee, wondering who was on board, where they were headed. Could she really do it again?
Maybe I can, maybe…
She thought about John Elgin. Started off with a life of privilege, wealth and future all mapped out, then everything snatched away because he had the audacity to be abused. He even had to watch his grandfather use his money to destroy his mother.
Sam stared into the water and shook her head at the rank injustice.
Elgin’s revelation he was Curtis’ father had been a gob-smacker, Elgin only finding out himself later in life. When Jill Brown had discovered she was pregnant she had chosen to end their affair and tell her husband the child was his.
For Elgin to learn he had a son and that his son had been abused would have been hard for anyone to handle. To find out his son had been abused by Jeremy Scott, his own hated predator, would have sent anybody over the edge.
His grandson’s ordeal at the hands of Julius Pritchard and Hans van Dijk took Elgin’s story to somewhere unimaginable.
Sam shuddered and searched her pockets for the Marlboros. Commonality - the sharing of features or attributes - was important in complex investigations.
Sam knew she had them in spades with this one.
Three generations of the same bloodline, all victims of child sexual abuse. All three abusers murdered, each dying horrific, violent deaths.
She lit a cigarette.
One murder reported by a known drug user, Curtis Brown, Elgin’s son. Was he really there to buy drugs? The other two reported via an anonymous phone call.
Who rang that in?
The call had been traced to a call box different to the one used to anonymously ring Elgin, if that call had ever really happened.
The more she turned it over, the more it was clear.
John Elgin was slap bang in the centre of the whole conundrum.
He had the motive big time and the connections to the Skinners and Harry Pullman. Was Elgin capable of burning a man alive? Who knows what was going through his mind when everything came out but for Sam, picturing Elgin turning Jeremy Scott into a screaming fireball of smoke and flame was a stretch too far. The Skinners, even Harry Pullman, on the other hand…
And Curtis Brown, putting himself there at the time of Sc
ott’s death by ringing the police. Was he involved? Another with the motive box ticked but if he was involved why make the call? Double bluff?
Pritchard and van Dijk, the abusers of Elgin’s grandson, strung up with their throats cut; another gangland-style punishment.
Elgin and Linda Pritchard in the park added another thread to the tangle and now Billy Skinner had been abducted, his wild son Mat possibly missing. Had the two soldiers, Jeremy Scott’s former pupils and possible victims, used their military know-how to stage the slick ambush?
Sam returned her gaze to the yacht, suddenly wishing she was aboard, nothing to think about but the sails, the wind and the tidal flow, the sound of the boat moving through the water and the movement of the boom, salt spray and coffee on her lips. She stared as the yacht sailed further away, destination unknown.
She was about to discover wind and tidal flows would mean nothing where she was going.
PC Tom Evans had driven from job to job since he started at 7am.
He’d joined the police with the noble intention of helping people and their communities; instead he was permanently firefighting, helping almost nothing but response targets.
He gripped the wheel, flexed his forearms and tried to forget his hunger. Oversleeping had left him with a tough decision on his morning ritual. He’d settled for shit, shower and shave at the expense of the porridge, blueberries and scrambled eggs.
Now he was in no hurry. The anonymous call to control room about a body being in a deserted factory was inevitably a hoax, the local urchins taking the piss.
On the approach he slowed even more; the little bastards could be hiding, watching him, ready to laugh and leg it.
He drove through the two-tone matt red and rust gates and negotiated the bricks, stones and broken green glass scattered around what was once the car park.
He’d lived in Seaton St George all his life, recalled that somewhere nearby was where the boss-man used to park his shiny red Jaguar XJ6.
That was back in the day when he was a child himself and the factory employed hundreds of seamstresses. He glanced at the sleeve of his police issue shirt, wondered whether it was made in China.
His mother and grandmother had both worked here, both made redundant the same day, their skills amounting to a big fat zero in the profit and loss column.
He got out of the patrol car, stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and idly kicked a stone. He knew people who had left here and had never been employed again, sentenced to a lifetime of low self-esteem whilst the clothes they used to make were manufactured thousands of miles away on the cheap.
He walked through the doorway, past the rusting clocking-in- machine that still hung on the wall, no use even to the scrap metal thieves.
Stepping onto what had once been the huge factory floor he mentally heard the deafening clatter of a hundred and more machines, women’s hearing left permanently damaged in the days before Health and Safety at least gave them a chance.
The sight in front of him dragged him away from memory lane in a heartbeat.
Breathless he spoke into his radio. ‘PC Evans to control.’
‘PC Evans go ahead.’
He remembered the ABC of radio procedure as preached by his older colleagues years ago - accuracy, brevity, clarity.
‘Naked body at Spikers factory. Face covered in white powder. Deceased believed to be Billy Skinner.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
The Christmas party was in full flow and so was the beer and lager, the revellers of an older cut but not a blue-rinse perm or Velcro fastening in sight.
The back room of The Ship was bouncing, men of physical stature in suits, smartly dressed women, all discussing the good old days and how modern policing was fucked.
Ray Reynolds was holding court.
‘Not a man under 5’10” in the old days, men who joined when minimum height restrictions were enforced, before the bloody PC brigade kicked off about ‘heightism’ and the tiny tots flooded the force.’
For emphasis he held his right hand, palm down, against his hip.
‘Christ half of the latest recruits look like they could audition for fridge magnets.’
The group burst into laughter, even though they’d heard it all before.
Ray Reynolds sipped his pint and looked around. Some of the assembled throng were in their seventies, but many were in their fifties, people who joined at 19, 20, 21 and retired after their 30 years’ service, all bonded by a lifetime in ‘The Job’.
Through the cranked up speakers George Michael was singing Last Christmas, the four staff crammed behind the tiny bar handing over pints quicker than George’s lover gave away his heart.
Ed Whelan walked in. Sam had told him to take an hour out, show his face at the party. He’d worked with a lot of them, signed up with some, and would have been retired himself by now if he hadn’t left and rejoined.
‘Still hard at it Ed?’ Ray Reynolds shook his head. ‘Bloody dinosaur like you. How the hell do you cope?’
Reynolds looked like most people would imagine a senior detective to look like; neatly cut hair, navy blue suit, red tie, shiny black shoes.
Ed shook Reynolds’ hand and turned down the offer of a pint.
‘I’m working. Just popped in to see a few of the old faces.’
Reynolds followed Ed’s eyes as he scanned the room.
‘Surprised you’ve got time to pop in at all, what with Billy Skinner missing.’
‘Missing presumed dead,’ Ed said, having to raise his voice above the racket.
‘We can all hope,’ Reynolds beamed. ‘Sam Parker must be due another promotion.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘They didn’t look like that in my day mind, more’s the pity.’
Ed let that go while the group around them, hanging on Reynolds’ words like backstage groupies, nodded in eager agreement.
‘I’d say she deserves to step up,’ Ed said. ‘But who knows what goes on in the head of the Chiefs?’
‘Fuck all if they’re still like they used to be,’ Reynolds said, the man on a roll.
The laughter could have come straight from a can.
‘Anyway I’m surprised you managed to make it,’ Reynolds said now. ‘You’ve got more dead bodies than Agatha Christie. Anything on the one up at Bill O’Grady’s old place?’
‘Jeremy Scott?’ Ed said. ‘Nothing. It’s like it said in the papers. Charred body found. The only thing we kept back was the fact we believe there was three there.’
Reynolds raised his glass.
‘Still on the beer then,’ Ed grinned.
‘You know me,’ Reynolds priming another one liner. ‘When I want a cocktail I’ll order lager. So three? Sounds interesting.’
Ed put his hands in his trouser pockets, widened his stance.
‘Three pairs of boots and three sets of dungarees burnt out in a brazier by the garage. Took the lab ages to piece them together but they seem convinced. Other than that, nothing.’
Ed shrugged his shoulders and continued.
‘No sightings around his house, total dead-end at the minute. But you all know how it is, suspected paedophile found dead and it’s a case of, who gives a fuck?’
Nods all round. They knew the score.
‘When I saw it on the TV I thought Sam’s got some job on there,’ Reynolds said. ‘Still I suppose for some there’s a sense of justice. Scum like that deserve everything that comes their way. Sure you don’t want a drink?’
Ed took his hands out of his pockets, said he was fine.
‘Nothing on the two up at the abattoir?’
Ed shook his head and shrugged.
‘Same story,’ he told Reynolds. ‘Everybody’s been diagnosed with ‘who gives a fuck syndrome’.’
‘Let’s go downstairs to the cellar,’ Harry said. ‘I don’t trust Ray Reynolds not to come back.’
Stuart McFadden walked behind the bar and down the steps, head low.
He paused at the entrance, his eye
s adjusting to the gloom. The shove in the back catapulted him forward.
‘Fucking hell Harry.’
McFadden regained his balance, straightened, and turned around.
‘Alright Stu.’
Harry hit the light switch.
Luke and Mark Skinner emerged from the dark corners of the cellar nearest the door.
Harry took two steps to his left and leaned against the whitewashed wall.
Luke and Mark blocked the door, the only exit unless McFadden could magically drill through walls.
With nowhere to run he stood still, faced his captors and waited.
‘You’ve been a naughty boy Stuart,’ Luke said. ‘Harry here has told us all about it.’
McFadden glanced at Harry then settled his eyes back on Luke, his face blank. He needed to think quickly.
‘So where’s my father?’ Luke said.
‘Your father?’ McFadden indignant. ‘I don’t know what shit this idiot’s been feeding you, but I’ve nothing to do with Billy going missing. Remember, it was him,’ he nodded towards Harry, ‘who your dad thought was skimming. Since when did he become Mr Fucking Trustworthy?’
Luke looked at Harry and then Mark and then back to McFadden.
‘Since he filled us in on your telephone call about Mat.’
McFadden felt his heart rate increase but he could still walk away from this. It would be his word against Harry Pullman’s, his king ‘checked’ but ‘mate’ a long way off.
‘I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.’
McFadden tried to relax, keep his voice calm and controlled.
‘Harry said you were up at Seahouses and that you blew our kid’s caravan up,’ Luke said.
McFadden stepped backwards and leaned against the cellar wall.
‘I can’t remember the last time I was at Seahouses, and I don’t know shit about any caravan.’
Luke told him it had been on the morning news but McFadden said sorry, he hadn’t seen the news, hadn’t made a call to Harry or anyone else, sensing he was taking back control.
Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set Page 86