Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  ‘After what happened to dad, Harry decided things wouldn’t be the same so he took early retirement,’ Luke said. ‘Can’t say I blame him. We gave him a nice package.’

  He glanced at the Rolex on Reynolds’ wrist.

  ‘Obviously not as good as yours, but we can’t all get police pensions. He asked me to say goodbye.’

  Reynolds picked up his pint. ‘All a bit sudden?’

  Luke shrugged, kept the story spinning.

  ‘Nothing to hang around for,’ he told Reynolds. ‘Wife gone, just him and Dean. Said he was going to London and then off, flying to wherever. Said he might try Argentina.’

  Reynolds sipped his beer, nodded his approval to Jason Tonks.

  ‘Never mentioned anything to me,’ another drink, two swallows this time.

  ‘Why would he? Once the filth always the filth.’

  Luke smiled and waited for a reaction. He got none.

  ‘Harry enjoyed reading about escaping Nazis and loved Diego Maradona,’ Luke enjoying himself, seeing how far he could go. ‘Argentina seems the perfect combination. He said he might go and watch Boca Juniors, Maradona’s first club.’

  Reynolds watched him, face blank, and raised the pint back to his lips.

  ‘He discussed a lot with you in a few hours,’ he said mildly, not taking the bait.

  ‘He certainly did,’ Luke told him. ‘Strike while the iron’s hot and all that.’

  ‘Talking of irons, where’s your Mat?’ Reynolds licked foam from his top lip.

  Luke grinned. ‘Another one who wanted to travel, get away from this place.’

  ‘Everybody seems to be flying away,’ Reynolds took two more mouthfuls of the black liquid. ‘Or have they gone swimming?’

  Nobody spoke.

  ‘Word is,’ Reynolds said, putting the glass back on the beer mat, ‘your dad liked to see people having a splash in the water.’

  The grin had vanished but like Reynolds, Luke was keeping his reactions in check.

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that Mr. Reynolds. I was just a kid when you and dad were sparring.’

  He looked at his Omega. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got a business to run.’

  Luke walked back behind the bar, a look to Jason Tonks as he passed and headed for the cellar.

  ‘Fancy a seat John?’ Reynolds asked Elgin, who had watched the exchange without a word.

  They chose a table in a quiet corner.

  ‘What do you make of all that then?’ Reynolds asked.

  ‘Not my job Ray,’ Elgin uncomfortable. ‘Not yours anymore. None of us getting any younger.’

  ‘Did Harry get the package you needed?’ Reynolds asked.

  Elgin looked around. ‘Not here Ray. I appreciate the advice you gave me when I rang but the matter’s closed now.’

  Reynolds sighed and looked into Elgin’s face.

  ‘John you’re not at one of your council meetings. Did you get it or not?’

  Elgin looked away, shook his head. ‘No.’

  Reynolds finished his drink and stood up.

  ‘Must dash. Catch up with you later John. Keep smiling.’

  Declan Doherty fiddled with his red neckerchief as he leaned against the bonnet of his black pick-up.

  Watching the youngsters chasing each other around the caravans always made him smile. Others would be arriving throughout the week with their parents and grandparents, Saturday’s wedding getting closer by the minute.

  He still found it hard to believe she was seventeen and all grown up.

  Where had it all gone? Those years since he married in Seaton St George? It seemed one night he went to bed a teenager and when he woke he had a wife, two daughters a grandson and two granddaughters.

  At 61 he had already outlived the 33% of his community who die before they’re 59.

  The wedding venue, booked and paid for by a friendly Gorgio, would be kept secret, announced only after the marriage ceremony. That was the way.

  No Gorgio establishment wanted a gypsy wedding; no grandfather of the bride wanted its location made public and the big day ruined because the hotelier got wind of it and cancelled.

  He watched the car approach and park in between the pick-ups and Mercedes, watched the police officer get out of the car.

  ‘Morning Declan,’ the policeman said.

  ‘And a fine one at that. What can I do for you?’

  ‘More what I can do for you.’

  The men shook hands, a mutual respect going back decades.

  ‘You’ll be wanting a drink.’

  ‘I’m fine. I don’t want to keep you. It’s just a quick visit.’

  ‘Do you want to go inside?’ Doherty indicated his twin-axle caravan.

  ‘Thanks, but this won’t take long. Mary O’Neil.’

  ‘What about her?’ Doherty wondering where this was headed.

  ‘Luke Skinner’s been telling everybody how he picked her up when she was in town last year, took her to one of their pubs, gave her a few drinks and then filled her with his Gorgio man-seed. His words not mine.’

  Doherty gave it some time. ‘And you’re telling me this because?’

  The policeman was scanning around the site, taking it all in.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I thought you should know what he’s putting about.’

  Doherty said: ‘In case I want to take the law into my own hands you mean?’

  Now it was the policeman’s turn to let a short silence speak.

  ‘Luke might be a loose cannon now his dad’s dead, but what you do with the information is a matter for you.’

  Doherty spat on the ground.

  ‘I heard about Billy,’ he said. ‘No loss. They’re all low-life scum.’

  He kicked a stone with his brown brogue boot.

  ‘But I thank you for taking the time to come and tell me,’ Doherty said. ‘Better than one of the hot-heads overhearing it in the pub.’

  The men shook hands.

  ‘Enjoy the wedding,’ the policeman said. ‘I’m sure you’ll be very proud.’

  Declan Doherty nodded, smiled.

  Same old fox; never misses a trick.

  ‘And don’t worry,’ the policeman told him. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

  Doherty watched him drive away, took the tobacco tin out of his waistcoat pocket and rolled a cigarette. Mary O’Neil wasn’t married but she was one of theirs.

  He put the cigarette to his lips, licked the paper, sparked-up with his trusty Zippo.

  Only cheeky bastards like the Skinners would dare say something like that.

  Within twenty minutes it was standing room only in his van. He had sent the women away. He spoke eloquently and despite the expected resistance he got his way.

  Within an hour of the policeman leaving, four pick-up trucks, without registration plates, screeched into Scaramangers’ car park.

  Pixie Carlton was in one of them.

  Declan Doherty had argued for his inclusion: someone who had suffered like he had deserved to be present when the Skinners got theirs, and he wasn’t so blind to see what his girls already felt for the outsider.

  Had Jason Tonks checked the live-stream CCTV he would have seen what was coming...15 armed men marching across the car park en masse, aggression mixed with honour and a dose of outrage.

  Pixie wasn’t allowed out of the pick-up.

  Pick-axes and iron bars were a sign to anyone passing by they weren’t just calling for a quiet one.

  When the door burst open, an Apache war cry hit the pub like a sonic boom and although they had probably never read him, what followed was straight from the teachings of military strategist Sun Tzu - subduing your enemy without fighting is the supreme art of war.

  Jason Tonks’ mind wasn’t fast enough. He was dragged across the bar and smashed over the back of the head before his brain ordered his body to react.

  One of the invaders, a tall, wiry man with black curly hair, shouted: ‘We have no beef with anyone in here.
Leave now. Do not speak to the police about this. Ever.’

  Everyone, including John Elgin, rushed forward quicker than punters scrambling for a ‘Black Friday’ bargain.

  Three travellers stood at the front door ushering everyone out.

  The tall wiry one pulled Tonks’ head up by his ear. ‘You the boss man here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We want Luke Skinner. Where is he?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get up and walk out without looking back. Understand?’

  Tonks nodded.

  ‘Anyone upstairs?’

  ‘No’

  ‘On your way then.’

  Tonks, still dazed, staggered past the three men at the front door.

  One of the gang went downstairs and disconnected the CCTV system while two removed the cameras. The kit would be recycled, sold in another town. They’d all get a drink out of it.

  Two ran to one of the pick-ups. One grabbed a number of plastic crates; one grabbed the large jerry can.

  Every bottle of spirit in the pub was put into the crates. Thanks to Mat Skinner and Geoff Mekins smashing everything up on Friday, the stock was high and the bottles full.

  The floor was then doused in petrol, the biggest puddle under the window.

  Booze, CCTV and men all loaded, pick-ups off the car park, the tall, wiry one stuffed a rag into a half full bottle of whisky - Irish for luck - lit the rag and hurled the bottle through the window.

  He was sprinting away while the bottle was still airborne and launching himself into the nearest truck as the first explosion spread orange flames ten feet high.

  The pick-up convoy sped away.

  Mission accomplished.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  ‘It’s already kicking off with the Skinners,’ Sam said, looking up from her computer as Ed appeared in the doorway. ‘Scaramangers has been torched.’

  He sat down and listened as Sam filled in the details.

  When she finished Ed’s face was split with a grin.

  ‘What goes around comes around,’ he said. ‘They’ve brought plenty of misery so I’m not going be crying now they’re getting some in return.’

  When Sam asked if he was sorted, Ed’s expression became as blank as Jayne Culley’s.

  ‘You had to pop out,’ Sam gave him a verbal nudge.

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry,’ Ed said. ‘I just needed to sort something out at the bank. Keep Sue off my back.’

  Sam nodded.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘This UC from Hampshire.’

  ‘Cat.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Sam’s turn to be thrown.

  ‘Cat, that’s his nickname, better than Cary.’

  ‘You’ve totally lost me,’ Sam said, pushing her wheeled chair away from the desk.

  Ed was all patience. ‘Cat, the man with two surnames, Archibald Leach.’

  ‘I’m still playing catch-up,’ Sam said, shaking her head.

  ‘He was born Archibald Leach, same real name as his father’s hero, Cary Grant.’

  Sam had the look of a schoolgirl staring at a board full of algebra.

  ‘So imagine you’re at training school,’ Ed said. ‘Do you want to be called Archibald, Archie or Cary? He didn’t want any. Someone came up with Cat.’

  Sam shook her head in bewilderment. ‘Because?’

  Ed grinned: ‘Cary Grant played ‘The Cat’ in the film ‘To Catch a Thief’ with Grace Kelly.’

  Sam had wheeled herself back to the desk, silently mourning the 30 baffling seconds she would never get back.

  ‘Talk about being off the wall,’ she said now. ‘That’s off the whole reservation.’

  Ed was still smiling.

  ‘The name stuck. He used it throughout his entire career.’

  ‘You’re well informed,’ Sam conceded.

  ‘I was in his class,’ Ed nodded. ‘It was me who christened him Cat.’

  Sam shook her head.

  ‘And you know David Stirling?’ Ed wasn’t finished.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The founder of the SAS,’ Ed beamed. ‘I’ve just remembered. His first name was Archibald.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ Sam was mentally scanning the desk for something to throw at him.

  ‘I know,’ Ed said. ‘Two Archibalds in one inquiry. Anyway back to Cat. That’s why the walk bothered me. I shared a dorm with him for ten weeks. Watched it day and night.’

  Ed gave Sam a quick history of police training at RAF Dishforth in 1978.

  Ten weeks living in a dormitory with every male member of your class: ate together, slept together, sat in class together, bulled shoes together, marched together, and you marched everywhere, Ed told her, to the sounds of a bawling retired Regimental Sergeant Major who had joined the police just to chew recruits’ arses.

  ‘Cat was Hampshire,’ Ed said. ‘You’re mates with each other when you’re there, but once you pass-out, marching in front of your parents, all white gloves and shiny buttons, that’s it. Everyone goes back to their own force.’

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’ Sam relieved sanity had returned.

  Ed nodded at the memory.

  ‘Loved it. Some hated it but I loved it, and the more they shouted and balled the more I loved it.’

  Ed smiled at the memory, a time when his personal road map had barely taken him a single pace, the future still waiting for his footsteps.

  ‘Bit different now, but I wouldn’t change it,’ Ed said. ‘Character building.’

  Sam smiled. It was good to see Ed happy.

  ‘Did you see Cat again?’

  ‘Years later, he was on the Regional Crime Squad,’ Ed told her. ‘Doing a job up here. He got in touch out of the blue. Said he was a UC but didn’t talk about it for obvious reasons.’

  Ed looked through the window behind Sam and gazed at the sky, his head replaying a military marching tune blasting out of the parade ground loudspeakers.

  ‘You still with us?’ Sam stared, waiting.

  ‘Sorry I was miles away…Anyway, next thing I’m reading in some police magazine he’d been given an award when he retired for all his work with paedophiles.’

  Ed remembered thinking that was a career path he would have struggled to survive.

  ‘Dodgy work but fair play to him,’ Ed said. ‘I saw him once after he retired, asked him how he coped with it. He just said someone had to do it otherwise half the bastards would never be caught.’

  Ed paused. He remembered asking Cat about his legends - job jargon for the personas he had used undercover.

  They had been drinking whisky, Ed’s nose almost twitching at the memory of the malt and its smell.

  ‘He said he adopted a new legend for every job, obviously, but he always chose a first name beginning with ‘A,’ Ed remembered. ‘Reckoned he found it easier, you know, with his own name being Archibald.’

  ‘I get that,’ Sam said, still not sure where this was all going.

  ‘We could always ask Ray Reynolds about him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ray always said he didn’t want to work on his own patch so Devon and Cornwall was out for him,’ Ed explained. ‘He joined Hampshire just like Cat. They probably knew each other there and if we had undercover operatives working up here in Cat’s day, Ray Reynolds would have sanctioned it.’

  Linda Pritchard, green Nike holdall in hand, walked into the toilets of the local department store, stepped into a cubicle and double-checked the lock on the door.

  Her mother-in-law had eventually agreed to look after the children while she went to the gym but Linda had no intention of doing a workout.

  And as she was a regular at the gym, the department store was a much safer option.

  Linda Pritchard went into the cubicle. Linda Avery emerged ten minutes later, feeling strange in a pink furry jacket, tight white vest top, blue skinny jeans and baby pink ankle boots with stilts for heels.

  Clarke Kent might spin around in revolving doors or telephon
e boxes but Superman didn’t have to put on make-up.

  Linda’s heavy black mascara, black eyeliner and bright pink lipstick, completed the metamorphous.

  The look had always drawn the attention of men and she knew it still worked when she stepped onto the pavement, feeling their eyes, hitting what always lay at the heart of them.

  Not that getting attention in the street mattered. Her mission was more focused, an attempt to reunite the travelling family she ran away from all those years ago. It was time. Everyone was getting older and besides, one of her nieces was getting married at the weekend.

  She looked at her reflection in one of the windows. Linda Avery stared back but Linda Pritchard was only a costume change away.

  Linda Avery had vanished the day she met Julius. She wasn’t coming back, not on a permanent basis.

  Linda shook her head at the reflection, apologised as she bumped into an old lady pushing her wheeled shopping bag.

  Linda and Julius had fed each other lies, both falling for the other’s deceit.

  His were far worse, Linda always told herself.

  Yes, she forgot to mention her traveller upbringing, the prostitution and the fact she never worked in a supermarket. She knew the lies weren’t small.

  But he just wanted her to add a cloak of respectability to his sickening life, a cover so he could carry on with little boys.

  Thank God he was dead. No new victims.

  Some small child, somewhere near here, would never know what he had escaped. The thought made Linda feel stronger.

  Fate. Karma.

  Julius’ death certainly ticked those boxes.

  Linda had no intention of leaving her children, no desire to abandon the Edwardian villa and certainly no wish to be back in the life of her childhood.

  But she wanted to embrace her old world, not ignore it. She wanted to hug her parents, her sister and the nieces she had yet to meet. Whether she told them about her children, let alone introduce them, remained to be seen.

  She took a taxi, knowing exactly where to go.

  What she didn’t know was the reaction she would get when she arrived.

  Her father had telephoned her a couple of weeks ago out of the blue and she was stunned. He had traced her number through someone in John Elgin’s Travellers Group, an individual who placed loyalty to the community above the confidentiality of personal information.