He had never wanted to work with Mat. Christ it was Mat who smashed up the pub.
He should never have believed McFadden either.
He feigned ignorance about the caravan because he thought Mat was dead. He had no doubt McFadden had blown up the caravan and Mat must have ran straight to Luke scared shitless and confessed all.
He had totally underplayed the brotherly bond. Either that or Luke didn’t have Billy’s ruthlessness. Harry knew Billy would have killed Mat. And who had snatched Billy?
Mat? Luke? Stuart?
Not Mark. He couldn’t snatch a box of cereal in a supermarket trolley dash.
Harry was snapped from his thoughts by the suits carrying a desk. McFadden was untied and pulled to his feet. He tried to fight but one good arm against ten was useless.
He was pushed face down onto the desk, wrists tied to the front two legs, thighs to the back ones.
Luke ripped off McFadden’s shirt.
Harry knew what was coming next. So did McFadden who was bucking like a bronco.
‘Where’s my father?’ Luke said.
‘Luke, listen to me,’ McFadden told him. ‘I have no idea where your father is. You should be asking Harry.’
‘You tried to take Mat out last night,’ Luke said. ‘He saw your car so he pretended to be pissed, stayed awake and heard you come in. Then he followed you out and watched you leave. He blew the caravan up, not you, you daft fucker. So I’ll ask you again. Where’s dad?’
‘I don’t know,’ McFadden screamed.
Mat bent down and pushed a plug into an extension box he had trailed from a wall socket. The iron heated quickly, sizzling when Mat spat droplets of saliva onto the steel.
‘Iron Man is back,’ he laughed at his own joke.
The suits pushed down on McFadden’s legs while Luke and Mark pushed down on his shoulders.
Mat pressed the button, watched the steam fly, and drove the iron into the small of McFadden’s back.
‘Don’t you ever laugh at my mother’s cooking you piece of shit,’ the smell of singeing flesh filling the cellar.
When the shrieking stopped Mat put his mouth against McFadden’s ear. ‘Now where’s dad?’
McFadden was pleading. ‘Luke I swear I don’t know.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ Luke said, ‘he’s asking the questions.’
He pressed hard on McFadden’s collarbone, then stepped back to give Mat room.
‘Watch your hands little brothers,’ Mat said. ‘Shoulders now.’
McFadden was unconscious before Mat completed the second, slow, swipe.
White suits donned, Ed and Sam followed Jim Melia into Spikers factory.
One of the Crime Scene Investigators was videoing the scene, careful not to step off the metal plates and destroy any forensic evidence that might be on the floor.
Jim stared at the thick neck, the white powder covering the face. ‘Looks like a yeti in an avalanche,’ the pathologist joked.
Sam smiled. She had never been keen on hairy men. Billy Skinner had grown a grey coat over his lifetime.
‘Snuffed out by his own drugs presumably,’ Jim was saying now. ‘I can’t imagine anyone buying that amount just to kill. Just hit him over the head. Hell of a lot cheaper.’
‘But not as dramatic Jim,’ Sam said, Skinner’s execution almost theatrical. ‘He’s been running the drugs trade in this town for decades.’
She stared at the body, convinced this hadn’t been a gangland hit, that no cartel would waste so much money.
‘This is somebody with a grudge against him, against the products he supplies,’ Sam said.
Jim stood: ‘A bereaved parent perhaps?’
‘They wouldn’t get near him,’ Ed said, looking into Skinner’s lifeless eyes. ‘His snatch was professional, well thought out. He was brought here. Three people, presumably men…and where would a parent get this amount of coke or the bottle to break in and steal traffic lights?’
Someone’s done a good number on you Billy Skinner, Ed thought, still looking into the eyes. Payback time.
‘Was he a grandfather?’ Sam asked, nodding towards Skinner.
‘Who cares,’ Ed said, ‘He dealt in misery all his life. Not many will be mourning and some, as Mick and David would say, will be dancing in the streets.’
Jim looked quizzically at Ed.
‘Jagger and Bowie.’
Jim nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Now someone else will fill the vacuum,’ Sam said, wondering if Skinner’s sons or outsiders would soon be the new lords of the jungle.
Sam made to leave but suddenly stopped and turned. ‘The gorilla mask,’ she said. ‘The only reason they’ve left it is to show us they’re the same people who did Pritchard and van Dijk. So we need to find out who or what links two murdered paedophiles with Billy Skinner.’
‘And who is going to so much trouble,’ Ed said.
The boat had just left its mooring lines when Luke’s mobile rang. ‘Hello,’ he shouted, straining to hear above the chugging of the diesel engine.
It was his mother, distraught and crying so hard she was difficult to understand but Luke got enough.
The police had found a body they believed to be his father.
‘Sit tight mum,’ Luke told her. ‘Me and Mark will be there in a couple of hours. Don’t say anything to the cops. Let me deal with them.’
Luke put the mobile in his pocket, rested his hands on the back of the boat and stared at the trailing wake. It was one of the few things visible.
He was in charge now. He had to follow his father’s cunning and ruthlessness if he was to protect the business; protect his mother. He knew what needed to be done.
He edged unsteadily to the bow, one hand always gripping something. He never suffered from seasickness but he couldn’t walk about a boat like a true sailor.
McFadden, barely conscious, was curled and shivering in the foredeck, groaning low every time salt spray hit his raw, naked back.
Harry sat alongside McFadden, legs tucked under his chin, hands, bound with blue nylon rope, resting on his knees. Eyes down he stared at the deck swaying under the motion of the sea, using his ears to plot the whereabouts of the three brothers and the heavies. He knew he had no real chance of escape but he had to do something. The boat was outside the harbour now, pushing out to sea. Once they had weighed him down, he would be lost to the depths. If he threw himself overboard before the chains went on, his body could be washed up and the police might investigate. At least they’d know he was dead.
‘They’ve found dad,’ Luke said, Harry listening.
‘Where?’ Mat asked.
‘I thought you might be able to tell us,’ Luke said, his voice acid.
Mat sounded caught off guard. ‘What do you mean?’
‘One or both of those fuckers might have had something to do with it, but just because you came crawling back, doesn’t mean I don’t think you were involved.’
Harry knew this might be his only chance.
‘Involved,’ he shouted with everything he had left. ‘He was the fucking ringleader.’
Mat inched towards Harry. ‘You lying twat.’
‘Back off Mat,’ Luke shouted. ‘Let him speak. Call it last requests of the condemned man.’
‘It was all his idea,’ Harry said, spitting a loose tooth onto the deck. ‘I went to his caravan with our Dean. This lying bastard contacted me. I know I should have told you.’
Harry shuffled on his backside.
‘I was never going into business with him, not against you but that’s what he wanted. He told me not to worry about your father. He’d sort him. Well he’s done that by the sounds of things.’
Mat was shaking his head.
‘Luke you’ve got to believe me. I had nothing to do with dad.’
Luke adjusted the hood and shoved his hands into the hand warmer pockets of his red Musto Offshore jacket. He didn’t look angry but sad.
‘Your problem Mat is your brains wer
e always in your cock.’
Mat stepped towards the side of the boat and sat on the portside edge, his back to the sea.
‘Look I was pissed off about Geoff,’ he said. ‘Yeah I might have let my mouth run away with me, but I didn’t have anything to do with dad and I’m not likely to go into business with Harry fucking Pullman am I? It was me and Geoff who smashed up his pub to teach him a lesson.’
‘Despite dad telling us all to take it easy with him,’ Luke said. ‘The way I see it, we’ll never know for sure, but what I do know is that one, two or all three of you carries the can.
And throw that fucker over the side now.’ Luke nodded at McFadden. ‘His crying like a girl is getting on my tits.’
As the heavies moved towards McFadden, Harry rocked forwards on his toes, sprang upwards and charged at Mat Skinner.
‘Bastard!’ Harry screamed, ducking his shoulder like a prop-forward and smashing him below the chin, his momentum driving both of them overboard into the freezing dark waters.
Harry surfaced first, retching and snatching breaths. He knew hypothermia would get him, but at least now he had a chance.
Mat had none. He couldn’t swim.
Harry spun onto his back and started kicking towards the shore. He had less than ten minutes, probably less than five, but at least he would die in his own way. Fish food perhaps, but fish food that had put up a fight.
‘Fucking hell,’ Mark shouted. ‘Turn the boat around.’
Luke banged the front of the wheel-house.
‘Straight ahead,’ he shouted at the skipper.
‘No!’ Mark staggering forwards.
Luke grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, shouted into his face.
‘This is already a big enough fuck up,’ he said. ‘Let’s get McFadden overboard and get the hell out of here. Mum needs us or have you forgotten about her.’
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Sam called it a night after the post mortem. Billy Skinner had head and facial injuries consistent with Helen Larney’s account of the abduction but his death was down to the drugs not the beating.
She had pulled on to her drive 30 minutes later, the electric timers allowing the hall lamp to give some pretence of a warm welcome.
Now changed into electric blue velour sweat pants and top, a Les Clos Chablis was already opened and poured. Mineral and laser sharp, it masked the taste of death that always hung around after a visit to the mortuary. Sam sat on the settee, tucking her legs beneath her.
She had the TV muted, whatever was on the screen just a comforting background, and was flicking through the Royal Yachting Association Day Skipper Introduction to Navigation book. It had been a few years since she qualified as a Day Skipper, passing both the theory and practical exams first time.
Leafing through the book she realised how much she’d forgotten but the more she read, the more she remembered.
Perhaps it really was time to put Tris behind her. Nothing would bring him back and she wouldn’t forget him, but putting her enjoyment of life on hold was cheating nobody but herself. For the first time in as long as she could remember Sam felt excited about something other than work.
Maybe booking herself on a short sailing voyage was just what she needed, although the North Sea even in spring was a different proposition to summer in the Med.
That said, choose the right sail school and the skippers they provided would be extremely competent.
Time slipped as she sipped and studied. At a quarter to midnight she bolted off the sofa, sprinted upstairs and scooped the washing from the basket in her bedroom. Her mother washed religiously every Monday. Sam washed whenever she remembered, usually when she was down to her last couple of blouses and knickers. The fact that today was a Monday, albeit fifteen minutes from Tuesday, was pure coincidence.
At least she was putting a dark wash in; no chance of her whites turning pink.
She took a Marlboro from the packet on the bench and watched the water fill the washing machine; was that Tristram’s last memory? The rising swell of the Atlantic?
She poured another glass. No point leaving one in the bottle. Two cigarettes later and she was in bed.
Sleep didn’t come immediately, it rarely did after a drink and never when she’d been thinking of Tristram.
But he wasn’t on her mind when she finally fell sound.
Sam had been thinking how hard would it be to trace the buyers of metal benches and girders?
Tuesday 16th December
Ed closed the front door and walked to his car. No breakfast, not even a cup of tea. Still, no tea was better than another domestic. Sue had been asleep when he got in and she was just stirring when he dressed after his shower.
He glanced up at the bedroom window as he reversed off the drive. She stood peering through the vertical blinds, coldness staring at him.
She was ready for round three after the battles of Sunday night and Monday morning. Last night’s reprieve would be waiting for him tonight, unless he got home late again.
He rubbed his stinging, blood-shot eyes, eyes that were screaming for sleep as much as his pounding head, but in the stay-at-work-go-home-early contest, work always won.
His mobile rang. He glanced at the screen, smiled when he saw it was Jayne-with-a-Y-Culley.
‘Morning Jayne. How are you today?’
‘Is that you Mr. Whelan?’
Her voice echoed around the car on his hands-free.
‘It is Jayne.’
‘Can you come and see me. I think I saw one of the men who took Mr. Scott on the television last night.’
Ed sighed. ‘Okay Jayne. I’ll pop round this afternoon. Have the kettle on.’
‘I will. Goodbye.’
Ed’s smile was shadowed with sadness. Would she remember she called him? Would she remember who or what she’d seen on the TV? Would she remember to make two cups of tea?
Dementia terrified him. Mortality was one thing, but if the last years of your life were locked in your own little world…
So why had he missed the obvious with Linda Pritchard? Linda Avery staring at him all the time.
And that so-called friend of Julius? The one involved in the abduction. What was it about his walk? He’d seen that walk before but he couldn’t place it.
Why?
For years he’d been renowned for his memory for faces and mannerisms, yet now he had failed to identify Linda Avery or the ‘walker’.
Maybe he was just getting old. Perhaps all those nights on the booze in his younger days had destroyed his brain cells.
He drove through the traffic, his thoughts turning to Ray Reynolds. He was in fine form yesterday. Great gaffer but without doubt a product of his time. He smiled again. What was Reynolds’ head like this morning? No doubt fresh as a bloody daisy. The man had always been a machine when it came to drink. Could be out all hours downing pints for fun, but come the next morning he was always first in the office, always immaculate.
He rang Sam from the car park. ‘Fancy going to see Linda Avery?’
‘Who?’
‘Linda Pritchard. Remember? Carol Pender told us about her.’
‘I’ll be out in five,’ Sam told him.
Twenty minutes later they were walking up the path of number 75.
‘Rudolph still looks pissed off,’ Ed said.
‘Not as pissed off as Linda’s about to be.’
Linda opened the door and ushered them into the lounge. The bright ceiling lights were off but the log burner was roaring.
‘Kids at school?’ Sam asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Your mother-in-law?’
‘Out for the day thank God.’
‘So it’s just us then,’ Sam said sitting down.
‘Yes.’ Linda perched on the edge of the chair, one knee across the other, hands overlapped, resting on her knee. ‘Any news? Have you arrested anyone yet?’
Ed stayed standing, watching Linda.
Miss-Prim-and-Proper.
&nb
sp; ‘I must apologise,’ Ed said. ‘Please forgive me Linda.’
‘What for?’
‘Not recognising you?’ He paused, waiting for a reaction.
‘Not recognising me?’ Linda looked nonplussed. ‘Have we met?’
Role-playing to the end.
‘Not in this lifetime but plenty in the last,’ Ed told her.
Linda’s face turned as red as the carpet.
Ed said: ‘The hair, the teeth, many things, but it was the house that really threw me. Never in a million years did I expect to see one of the Averys in a house like this.’
Linda’s puzzled expression was gone, in its place a glare and a mouth set rigid, expensive new bridge work clenched.
Ed, enjoying the moment, put his hands under the lapels of his blue Crombie and rocked back on his heels. All he needed was a gown and wig.
‘Linda Avery...shoplifter, escort, Billy Skinner’s moll and now to the manor born,’ Ed beamed. ‘Two kids, a smart house, and full makeover ending in an air of respectability.’
Miss Prim-And-Proper had vanished faster than a summer cloud burst. ‘Fuck you Whelan.’
‘There we go,’ Ed clapped his hands. ‘The real Linda’s still in there. Sewer-mouth, accent from the back streets and oh goodie, you remember me. I’m touched.’
Ed sat down. ‘So, tell me about John Elgin and that photograph.’
‘What...’
‘And before you start the bullshit we can do this in front of ghastly granny if you’d prefer.’
Linda shot to her feet. ‘Don’t you dare threaten me Whelan. Just because I never sucked you off like Carol Pender.’
Ed smiled and stuck out his arms palms facing upwards. ‘It’s not a threat Linda. It’s a promise. Now do you want to sit back down and decide whether we wait for nasty nana to return? You know the one who thought her son married beneath him because you worked in a supermarket.’
Linda muttered. ‘Same old bastard.’
‘But unlike your good self, an honest old bastard,’ Ed shot back. ‘We should have sent you to A and E for an x-ray, see if there’s an honest bone in there.’
Ed leaned back on the settee, stretched out his legs and said: ‘So are we waiting for the sweet old soul?’
Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set Page 88