Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘I came in here for a pint and what did I find?’ McFadden said.

  ‘What?’ Luke said, watching him.

  ‘Your man here deep in conversation with a certain Ray Reynolds.’

  Luke and Mark exchanged a look.

  ‘Is that true Harry?’ Luke said.

  Harry Pullman looked like a punter who realised he had been shouting home the wrong horse.

  ‘Now hang on,’ he said. ‘Don’t try shifting this onto me. Reynolds was in here for a pint. He’s always in. And he’s retired.’

  ‘Fuckers like him never retire,’ Luke said.

  McFadden liked more and more where this was going, turned the screw when he saw the chance.

  ‘How many times over the years did your dad say Reynolds must have a good informant because he was always getting close?’

  Harry Pullman lunged forwards. ‘You cheeky bastard!’

  Mark grabbed him around the neck and pulled him backwards.

  ‘Calm down Harry,’ Luke said. ‘Nobody’s accusing you of being a grass...not yet anyway...but I need to see your phone, quick look at the call register.’

  Harry Pullman was watching his plan unravel faster than smelly stuff off a particularly well-polished stick.

  ‘It was an unknown number,’ his voice getting ragged. ‘Jesus you’re not believing this fucker?’

  McFadden grinned, made another move, feeling like a Grand Master going for the kill.

  ‘Maybe Harry went to this caravan I’ve never heard of...’

  Harry Pullman lunged forward again and this time Mark didn’t stop him, the punch knocking Stuart McFadden to the floor.

  Mark stepped forward and pulled Harry away, McFadden pushing himself up, wiping the trickle of blood off his lips with the back of his hand and grinning.

  ‘Big protests from the copper’s nark.’

  Harry lunged again but Mark pulled him back.

  ‘Settle down Harry,’ Luke said.

  He turned his attention back to McFadden.

  ‘So you’re saying you didn’t ring Harry this morning?’

  ‘I didn’t ring him.’

  ‘And you’re saying you never went to see Mat in his caravan?’

  ‘What caravan?’ McFadden told him. ‘I didn’t even know he had a caravan.’

  Luke kept his gaze on him for seconds that seemed like minutes in the sudden silence.

  ‘So,’ he said at last, shifting his eyes, turning them on Harry Pullman. ‘If Stuart didn’t ring you Harry, how the fuck do you know about Mat’s caravan?’

  Where McFadden was cool, Harry’s gaskets were blowing, his voice desperate.

  ‘I don’t know anything about a fucking caravan!’

  Luke had done his own checks, been in touch with the site and confirmed a caravan there was in Geoff Mekins’ name. He was surprised him and Mat had managed to keep it under wraps.

  ‘One of you two definitely knew,’ he said now. ‘That’s a fact.’

  The knock on the door was loud. Mark opened it and two heavies, both Luke’s muscle, squeezed sideways into the cellar.

  ‘Nobody leaves,’ Luke said.

  The two suited men nodded and stood with their hands clasped in front of them below the waist. They looked like they could have been in church.

  ‘So who’s lying?’ Luke said.

  The door was pushed open again.

  ‘Both of the fuckers.’

  The owner of the voice was hidden behind the two suits but

  Harry Pullman and Stuart McFadden didn’t need to see a face.

  The suits separated and the voice stepped between them.

  ‘Alright Harry, alright Stu.’

  It was the turn of the brothers to grin.

  All three of them.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Ed Whelan felt his mobile vibrate, took it out of his pocket and saw Sam’s name on the screen.

  He stepped outside The Ship, answered the call.

  ‘Bloody hell it sounds like you’re outside a nightclub,’ Sam said, picturing something more high-season Salou that Seaton St George. ‘Do me a favour and move away from the door. It looks like they’ve found Skinner.’

  Ed began walking, already sure Skinner was dead by the tone of Sam’s voice.

  ‘He was naked, tied up and covered in what looks like coke,’ Sam told him. ‘Anonymous call. He’s up at the old Spikers factory. Did you get a lift down there?’

  Ed said yes, said nothing attracted the Black Rats more than a police party.

  ‘I’ll pick you up in ten,’ Sam ended the call.

  Ed walked back into the pub and said his goodbyes.

  ‘You off already?’ Reynolds caught him on his way back from the gents. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

  Ed gave him a ‘something-like-that’ look, told him to look after himself, and stepped outside.

  He heard the voice before he saw the owner.

  ‘Fucking hell, Ed, it’s shit when we can’t even have a pint in our pub because of you retired bobbies.’

  Carol Pender, Seaton St George’s all-peroxide-blonde, stopped in front of him.

  Ed noted the December weather hadn’t been high on Carol’s priorities when she chose her outfit, the short yellow leather jacket and brown felt mini-skirt a courageous call, not to mention the huge yellow-hooped earrings.

  The only concession to the cold was her footwear, but that was just luck. Carol liked her black cavalier thigh high boots, liked the effect they had on the men she would catch having a stolen look.

  By her own admission she needed to be eye-candy; if she couldn’t get testosterone pumping through their blood what was the point?

  Ed had known her and her family for years, Carol through prostitution, the male line through a compulsion to end every drinking session with a fight.

  Ed thought Carol had been off the game for years. Looking at her now, maybe she had just stopped getting caught.

  ‘I’m not retired Carol. How’s things?’

  ‘Can’t grumble,’ she tugged at the boots one after the other. ‘You’ll be busy with those three nonce murders are you? Good enough for them. Should do that to all the kiddie-fiddlers if you ask me.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Ed wishing Sam would get a move on.

  Carol put her hands in the pockets of her jacket.

  ‘Ed, you can’t tell me you wouldn’t do it to them if you got the chance,’ she glanced around, leaned in close, and dropped her voice. ‘Anyway, who the fuck got Billy Skinner? I couldn’t believe it.’

  She backed away satisfied nobody could hear or see her.

  ‘Good enough for that bastard as well.’

  She took a packet of menthol cigarettes out of her fake leopard fur shoulder bag, allowing the long hooped gold chain to dangle against her boots. She put the unlit cigarette to her lips. ‘I mean setting up them traffic lights. How good was that?’

  Ed’s interest perked up.

  ‘You’ve got your ear to the ground,’ he said. ‘Who do you think’s behind it?’

  She lit the cigarette, put the bag back on her shoulder, and adjusted the gold strap.

  ‘There’s nothing Ed,’ blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth so it missed him. ‘Plenty of people guessing, talking shit. This one’s behind it, that one’s done it. Nobody’s got a clue. And you know yourself if nobody knows, it’s usually an outsider.’

  ‘Possibly,’ Ed struck again by the way things had been kept under the radar.

  ‘You seen Linda then?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Linda Pritchard, little Miss-Prim-and-Proper,’ she spoke through a spluttering cough. ‘My arse!’

  Ed said: ‘You know her then?’

  Carol tapped the cigarette, tugged at the boots again.

  ‘Course I do, not that she’d let on,’ here words battled through another cough. ‘So do you.’

  Ed furrowed his brow, shook his head, said he had only met Linda Pritchard on Saturday.

  ‘Some detective yo
u are,’ Carol swapped the cough for a wheezy laugh. ‘Mind she’s had her teeth and tits done since you knew her.’

  Ed was baffled, shrugged again.

  ‘Linda Avery,’ Carol said, like a conjuror pulling silk scarves from her sleeves. ‘Former escort and Billy Skinner’s one time bed warmer.’

  It came to Ed in a rush and he kicked himself, stunned he hadn’t remembered.

  ‘The hair,’ he said. ‘It’s longer, darker.’

  This time Carol went from cough to laugh and back again.

  ‘Get lost,’ she gasped. ‘You’ll have been too busy staring at her tits to notice her hair. Not that I blame you. They look good, but so they should. They’re years younger than the rest of her.’

  Now Ed realised what was wrong in the house. It wasn’t the family photographs or the obnoxious granny; it was the fact that a one-time escort was living in relative grandeur with descendants of the judiciary. That’s what he couldn’t put his finger on. It was all wrong.

  He smiled. Hue and Cry were right. He wasn’t looking, Linda found him.

  Sam Parker pulled up alongside them.

  Carol bent down, looked at Sam, and quickly stood up, brushing her skirt straight. ‘Still pulling the lookers Ed?’

  ‘She’s my boss.’

  Carol said ‘yeah right’ as Ed opened the passenger door.

  ‘If you hear anything, give me a shout,’ he told her. ‘I might even get you a couple of drinks.’

  ‘Yeah that’s right up your street,’ Carol shot a look at Sam. ‘Get a girl pissed.’

  She walked away, raised her arm and waggled her hand.

  ‘Friend of yours?’ Sam asked as Ed settled into the seat.

  He tugged on the belt, clicked it in place.

  ‘Carol? Known her years. Ronnie Pender’s daughter. Rough diamond and on the game back in the day. I always got on alright with her.’

  Sam put the car in gear and drove off.

  ‘It looks like it,’ the smile getting one back in return.

  As they drove Ed told her about Linda Pritchard and her past, still chewing himself that he hadn’t twigged.

  ‘Can Carol be trusted?’ Sam asked him. ‘She looks a dangerous woman.’

  Ed grinned. ‘I know, trust me I know.’

  ‘You haven’t have you?’ Sam said, glancing at him.

  Ed kept eyes fixed on the windscreen.

  ‘Course not. Anyway, who’s at the scene?’

  Sam decided it was best to let it drop.

  ‘Uniform. Tommy Evans.’

  ‘Tommy Evans? Young blond haired lad?’

  ‘He’s got about ten years in,’ Sam told him.

  ‘That’s what I mean, young. Good lad. He’ll do it by the book.’

  Sam pushed the indicator stalk and turned left.

  ‘I think he got a bit of a shock,’ she said. ‘Not every day a uniform finds the head of a crime family naked and covered in white powder.’

  When the investigation talk stopped, the silence felt only mildly uncomfortable.

  Ten minutes later the pool of vomit outside the factory told them just how shocked Tommy Evans had been.

  ‘Everything alright Tom?’ Sam asked.

  ‘Yes boss,’ his face a strange shade. ‘Nothing’s been touched in there.’

  He sheepishly looked at the vomit. ‘Sorry about that.’

  Ed smiled. ‘At least we won’t have to recover it now we know it’s yours, and judging by the consistency, you need to eat breakfast young man. You can’t be viewing dead shitbags on an empty stomach, even if we all praise the Lord for their passing.’

  Everyone smiled. One sentence and Tommy Evans’ embarrassment was gone.

  ‘We may as well wait for SOCO and the pathologist,’ Sam said. ‘You sure it’s Billy Skinner, Tom?’

  ‘It’s him. I don’t know if this is connected, it might have nothing to do with him, maybe it’s just been left by a kid…’

  ‘Spit it out Tommy?’ Ed said.

  ‘On the floor, near the metal workbench he’s tied to. There’s a gorilla mask.’

  Five against two was not good odds, odds that were significantly lengthened when the two suits handed out the iron bars.

  Mat and a suit rushed McFadden.

  Luke and the other stormed Harry.

  Harry and McFadden were both knocked off balance by the suits.

  As Harry stumbled back into the wall, Luke raised the cosh and struck a crushing blow against the back of his head. Harry dropped to the floor, already semi-conscious, blood seeping from a gaping wound.

  McFadden regained his balance much quicker than a man of his age should have. He sprung back onto his feet, planted his heels against the concrete floor and adopted the stance of a boxer. But nobody in the ring ever had to defend an iron bar being swung in a vicious arc towards his jaw.

  McFadden tried to jerk his head backwards away from the blow. Blocking it with his forearm wasn’t an option; it would have broken any bone with ease. For McFadden it happened to be his cheek. He stumbled forward, blood rushing from his nose, and screamed as Mat smashed the bar against his collarbone, snapping it clean.

  Mat hit him three times across the back each blow harder than the last, each blow forcing McFadden finally to the floor.

  ‘You tried to fucking blow me up,’ Mat was breathless, his eyes wild.

  He took two steps back, ran forward and kicked McFadden in the stomach.

  Harry was on the floor, groaning and trying to crawl away. Luke bent down and pulled his head up.

  ‘So you thought you’d take over did you?’

  Harry’s response was barely audible. ‘It was your big brother’s idea.’

  Luke stood up and dropped the bar, breathing heavily.

  ‘He was hurting about Geoff, but he’s still family,’ Luke said. ‘Came to his senses when fuck-dust there tried to kill him.’

  McFadden lay motionless.

  Luke turned to the suits. ‘Clear the pub. Send the barmaid home. Give her a hundred quid for lost wages and seeing nothing and bring two chairs down and tie these fuckers up.’

  Harry whispered: ‘If our Dean comes here...’

  ‘He won’t,’ Luke said, moving towards the door. ‘Unless he swims better than he runs, he won’t be coming anywhere.’

  Luke walked back, bent down, and thrust a mobile into Harry’s face.

  The screen showed Dean Silvers slumped against the blue wheelhouse.

  Luke used his thumb and forefinger to zoom in on Dean’s face, puffed, bloody and eyes wide with terror.

  ‘You bastard,’ Harry pushed himself up onto all fours.

  Luke walked away but then turned, ran and kicked him in the stomach so hard Harry’s body jerked upwards, breath flying out of him faster than a kite caught in a gale.

  The suits returned with two chairs and blue nylon rope.

  ‘Pub cleared?’ Luke asked.

  ‘The lassie’s doing that. It’ll be clear in a few minutes.’

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  John Elgin sat in the Jolly Roger nursing a pint of cooking and a Bell’s whisky. Visits to Jill Brown and Linda Pritchard after his meltdown in the police interview had left him drained.

  Why was Scaramangers shut? He needed to talk to Harry Pullman. His car had been in the car park together with a large 4x4 and a BMW. He didn’t recognise them but neither looked like it belonged to a brewery rep.

  What a life. Married to a battleaxe, mixed up with gangsters, and one sex tape from ruin.

  Rot in hell, Granddad

  He stared at his pint glass and reflected on the day.

  Jill Brown hadn’t been happy that he had told the police about Curtis. She seemed more bothered about what Ed Whelan thought than how the chain of abuse had affected him. It was all about her and her toffee-nosed attitude.

  What will people think? How could I bring up another man’s baby pretending it was my husband’s?

  Then he’d met Linda Pritchard in a lay-by on the outskirts
of town. She’d told her paedophile-rearing mother-in-law, her heartfelt description, she needed to get out for an hour. Even without make-up Linda looked stunning.

  He replayed the meeting in his head, how he had told her about the police, the photograph in the park.

  ‘So what?’ she had said. ‘It makes no odds now.’

  He was dumbfounded to discover she had set up the park scene herself.

  ‘I wanted to show the bastard men still wanted me even if he didn’t.’

  Elgin had been gutted, felt used and foolish.

  ‘So I was just a pawn?’ he’d asked.

  ‘You were never just a pawn John,’ Linda had said, and kissed him.

  When he asked how she knew Ray Reynolds it all came out.

  Reynolds had given her the name of a retired cop with a good camera and she had done the rest.

  Elgin swallowed the whisky.

  He doubted Julius Pritchard even knew the photograph existed, Linda probably waiting to bring it into play when she thought the time was right. Her husband would know she was getting it elsewhere and, Elgin believed, men like Julius Pritchard hated that thought.

  With Julius dead Linda would now own the house and receive whatever policies were in place.

  Elgin picked up the lager, gulped a couple of mouthfuls, and wiped the foam from his mouth

  Women really are the root of all evil...

  Thinking about it, Elgin conceded he wasn’t being fair. It was his own weakness for women; that was the root of his problems.

  Linda, Jill, Tara, Zara and Chloe... lumped together they sounded like that 60’s pop group who sang Legend of Xanadu.

  Elgin closed his eyes, took himself back to school, and hummed the song.

  The smell of liver and onions, carried by a young waiter, snapped him back before he could mimic Dave Dee’s cracking whip.

  Whatever place he was in right now, it was neither idyllic nor magnificent.

  He was a long way from Xanadu. He had been most of his life.

  Harry Pullman was dazed and disorientated, the gash in his head still bleeding. Strapped to the chair, head slumped forward, he realised he should have told Luke about his meeting with Mat as soon as it happened.