Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  Sam pulled into the small parade of shops. Ed was out and marching to the butchers before she’d reached for the handbrake. He emerged with a white paper bag and a mouth full of pork pie, shedding crumbs in a shower when he got back in the car.

  ‘Bloody hell, be careful,’ Sam wincing at the passenger carpet covered in pastry flakes. ‘Is it nice?’

  Ed nodded, mouth too full to speak.

  Sam waited until he finished the first pie. A second was in the bag. ‘Why don’t you believe Harry’s gone away?’

  ‘Too convenient and too quick,’ Ed told her. ‘I think something’s happened to him, and if it has, something’s happened to Dean Silvers as well. Nobody would take out Harry and leave Dean. He’d go looking for them.’

  Ed pulled pie two from the bag, steak and onion this time.

  ‘And Deano’s way too ambitious to walk away for a new life in bloody Argentina. He can barely speak English never mind Spanish. That whole story is a piss take.’

  Ed bit into the pie, holding it on a tilt to stop the hot juice running down his fingers.

  ‘Don’t get that on the seats, I’m warning you,’ Sam picturing a full valet heading her way. ‘How do you know all this?’

  Ed smacked his lips. ‘Like I’ve just said. I know people.’

  Sam’s mobile trembled in the Audi’s centre console.

  Ed worked on the rest of the pie as she listened, nodded, and terminated the call.

  ‘That caravan,’ Sam said. ‘The one in Seahouses.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘That was the intelligence unit. It belongs to Geoff Mekins.’

  Sam shook her head, wondering how many she would need to tackle a full-on war.

  Ed stared out of the passenger window, looking at the houses and chewing the last of the gravy-moist crust.

  ‘You in a rush?’ he said.

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Fancy meeting Declan Doherty?’

  Sky Sports News would have been a distraction while he contemplated his next move. Daytime TV at 3pm was not. But if you were holed up in a budget hotel where the clientele were more rigger boots and hi-viz than shiny shoes and sharp suits, Sky Sports wasn’t part of the package.

  He had lain in the dingy room and watched the radio alarm clock and its red digital display until 5am. He must have drifted off because he didn’t wake until after 1pm.

  He was still on the single bed now, the tiny TV fixed on the wall bracket providing nothing but background noise. Time was when he’d have been in bed with the owner but they were past that stage now, had been for years.

  Still, she was a good friend and he didn’t have many of those left. Maybe he didn’t have any.

  He jumped at the two quick taps on the door but relaxed immediately. It wasn’t the pre-arranged danger signal; no need for him to leg it out of the en-suite window.

  En-suite? More like a converted wardrobe but it was on the ground floor and it did have a window.

  The door opened and she walked in carrying a tray loaded with a metal teapot, a chipped china cup, and a plate of Bourbons.

  ‘Thought you might like some tea.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What you going to do?’

  ‘There’s a problem with every plan I come up with,’ he picked a biscuit while the tea brewed. ‘All I can think is Ed Whelan. I need you to get in touch with him. Call the Murder Team and leave a message for him to ring you. Don’t mention me. When he rings, tell him to meet you here.’

  ‘You sure about this?’

  He reached for the pot.

  ‘No choice,’ he told her. ‘Out of options and nowhere to run.’

  She thought about The Commitments, thought about singing the song but saw his face.

  ‘I’ll do it now then.’

  She closed the door behind her.

  He sat up and poured the tea. More leaked out of the spout onto the tray than went in the cup.

  Harry Pullman was on borrowed time. The Skinners would come for him again, but right now they thought he was dead.

  He allowed himself a small smile.

  He doubled over the cheap pillow and stretched out, trying to get comfortable, still struggling to believe he was alive.

  The sea had been freezing but it was also black and in the darkness the Skinners couldn’t see him.

  On his back and moving his legs like a breaststroke swimmer, he wouldn’t have won any prizes for style but it was effective.

  He kicked towards the flashing red light of the port-marker-can, a navigational buoy indicating the outer edge of the channel to vessels coming into the harbour.

  On the third attempt he successfully heaved himself onto the buoy. He had probably been in the water two minutes.

  The rocking marker-can and bound hands meant getting his trousers off was a task to humble Houdini but he did it. He had one slim chance at survival.

  Before the navy dishonourably discharged him for desertion, Harry had learned two things during his 18-month service...hatred for authority and Morse code, more specifically, how to send an SOS signal.

  Marker-cans are allowed, with certain exceptions, to flash their lights in any rhythm. Flashing a pattern that might be read as three dots, three dashes, three dots would be a statistical miracle.

  Covering the red light with his trousers, Harry Pullman made the miracle happen.

  That the lifeboat crew who saved him thought the SOS signal was an extension of the training exercise they’d just finished was, Harry knew, divine intervention.

  Harry, covered in a medical foil blanket, had feigned shock and remained silent throughout the journey to shore. He knew he’d be taken to hospital, knew someone would notify the police, and knew he could never allow that to happen.

  The Skinners had contacts everywhere, in every organisation. Reach a hospital bed and he might as well have let the sea and the darkness take him.

  He had been helped into a waiting ambulance, feeling the blanket doing its job, the cold that had gripped him beginning to ease.

  When the ambulance stopped and the back doors opened, the A and E entrance a glow of light, Harry saw his moment.

  He stepped down as the driver went for a wheelchair, pushed the other green-uniformed paramedic to the ground and bolted.

  For a dead man he was surprisingly fast on his feet.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Sam had followed Ed’s directions on auto pilot, her mind full of the ruthless gang capable of military planning and execution.

  Doherty would have access to enough people and no issue with vigilante justice. But military planning? Sam wasn’t convinced it would be his style.

  She turned through a five-bar gate at Ed’s behest and slowed down. The Audi wasn’t designed for rutted country tracks and the potholes in the fading light were harder to miss.

  ‘When we pull up let me do the talking,’ Ed said.

  Sam rolled her eyes. ‘I know. Patriarchal culture. Women should be barefoot, pregnant and tied to the kitchen sink.’

  Ed laughed. ‘Something like that. God those must have been the days.’

  Sam playfully punched his left shoulder. ‘Sexist pig.’

  ‘Just kidding.’ He looked at her and smiled.

  Sam stopped the car, looked around and shook her head. ‘Why do people still want to live like this?’

  A woman inched her way towards them. Sam guessed she was less than thirty but with a back borrowed from an octogenarian and blue, swollen fingers that gripped a mug of something hot, more for the warmth than the drink inside, Sam suspected.

  ‘Mr Whelan,’ Doherty said, as Ed got out of the car.

  The woman turned and walked away.

  Doherty walked towards him, hand extended.

  ‘How are you Declan? Long time no see.’

  ‘You know how it is,’ Doherty said. ‘Just want to live a peaceful life, but not everybody wants us to have it.’

  ‘Quite a gathering,’ Ed said, looking around a
s another two white caravans were towed onto the makeshift site. ‘Council not been round yet?’

  Doherty shrugged, said by the time the council got at them they would already be on their way.

  ‘Not here long,’ he said.

  ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Parker,’ Ed said, indicating Sam with the palm of his hand.

  Declan extended his hand again.

  Sam shook it. ‘Mr. Doherty.’

  ‘Such manners on one so young and a chief inspector already,’ he smiled. ‘Now what can I be doing for you?’

  ‘Just thought I’d pop by and say hello,’ Ed said. ‘You’ve got a busy weekend coming up and we don’t want to spoil anything.’

  Declan grinned and gave Sam a wink.

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about Mr. Whelan.’

  Ed let that go, satisfied Doherty knew he knew.

  ‘Mind if I have a wander about?’ Ed asked now. ‘Police business.’

  The wattage dropped a notch on Doherty’s smile.

  ‘Be my guest, but I’ll walk with you,’ his huge hands struggling from the pockets of his waistcoat. ‘Some of the young lads aren’t as friendly as me. Just because you’re not wearing a uniform doesn’t mean they’ll not know who you are. Call it instinct.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘Does the young lady want a cup of tea?’ Doherty asked.

  Sam forced a smiled, ‘The young lady’s fine. I’m coming with you.’

  The three of them walked amongst the caravans dodging mothers hanging out washing, dogs barking, tethered horses feeding.

  ‘Who owns the pick-ups Declan?’ Ed nodded towards four vehicles, all bearing Irish number plates.

  Doherty stopped. ‘I can’t remember, Ed. It’s my age. Everyone seems to have them these days. Less and less Mercedes and Land Rovers than in my day.’

  ‘Can you find out?’ Ed said.

  Doherty crammed his hands in his waistcoat pockets again. ‘I could, but you’d have to tell me why?’

  ‘I saw your daughter the other day,’ Ed sneaking it in like a rabbit punch.

  This time the lights behind the smile went out and Doherty stared into Ed’s eyes. ‘Then you’ll know we have nothing to do with her. Not since she ran off and got in with Billy Skinner.’

  Ed kept it short. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘I heard,’ Doherty fiddled with the chain of his pocket watch. ‘Good.’

  ‘And his sons are in hospital,’ Ed said.

  ‘Even better.’

  Doherty started to walk.

  ‘Seems they were in a bad crash,’ Ed walking with him. ‘Pick-up involved.’

  ‘Go and check them for damage,’ Doherty told him, not altering stride, looking straight ahead.

  ‘And four pick-ups just like those were seen at Scaramangers pub before it was torched,’ Ed nodding towards the vehicles.

  Doherty stopped and looked into Ed’s eyes.

  ‘Torched you say,’ not a hint of unease. ‘Nasty. I‘d like to help but I don’t know how I can.’

  ‘Let’s start with the owners of those vehicles,’ Ed said, moving so close they were stood nose to nose. ‘We don’t want the site swarming with police do we? I’ve come here to keep this low-key.’

  They stood in silence like gunfighters ready to draw, the moment stretching.

  ‘There’ll be no need for that,’ Doherty turned around and shouted to a tall, wiry man with curly brown hair leaning against a caravan. ‘John. Come here a minute.’

  The man ambled over, hands in the pockets of his oily jeans, sleeveless vest covered in oily finger marks. He kept his eyes on Sam as he walked, licked his lips. The cold didn’t seem to bother him.

  ‘This is Sergeant Whelan. He wants to know who owns the vehicles. Don’t argue. I’ve said it’s okay.’

  ‘Alright.’

  Ed looked at him. ‘Full name.’

  ‘John Smith.’

  It was Ed’s turn to roll his eyes. ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘1st January.’

  ‘What year?’

  ‘Every year.’

  ‘Ah the campsite comedian,’ Ed sighed. ‘What year were you born?’

  ‘Can’t say sir,’ the hint of a grin. ‘My mother was never much good with numbers.’

  He stared at Sam, looked her up and down.

  ‘Who owns the pick-ups?’ Ed pointed towards them.

  ‘That black one’s John’s. That red one’s John’s, that...’

  ‘Are you saying they’re all owned by the same person?’

  ‘No,’ the man enjoying himself. ‘Different people, just all called John.’

  ‘All John Smith?’

  ‘You’re good at this officer,’ the grin wide and insolent as he looked into Sam’s eyes and licked his lips again. ‘I’m good at other things too.’

  Sam took two quick steps forward, her shoulders stiff, her stance aggressive. She ignored the whisky on his breath.

  ‘You might be the World Wanking Champion for all I care, but if you want to be a smart arse we can continue this conversation down the nick.’

  John Smith blushed but not with embarrassment. Anger was belching out of him like smoke from a power station.

  ‘And who owns the army truck?’ Ed said, unable to hide his smile.

  ‘Jo...’

  Doherty stepped in front of him.

  ‘What army truck?’ he said. ‘You never mentioned any army truck. Tricking people? Not what we expect from our police.’

  John Smith seethed. Sam and her put down had snapped his concentration.

  ‘We’ll be on our way Declan,’ Ed said. ‘Have a good weekend. We’ll see you later.’

  Doherty the genial host was back, although the warmth never quite made it to his eyes.

  ‘We’ll be moving come Sunday so don’t wait too long,’ he said. ‘Might see you Saturday if you find out where and want to pop by. It’ll be a free bar. You and your Irish ancestry and all that.’

  Ed thanked him for the offer, said he’d think about it.

  Sam turned to John Smith. ‘Your mother might have been shit with numbers but she wouldn’t have fallen for that three card trick. Stick with the script in future. No one likes a clever twat.’

  Sam walked away, Ed following, the silent stares like lasers on their backs.

  ‘So where do you think the army truck is?’ Sam said, as she slid behind the wheel. ‘Burnt out?’

  Ed shook his head, said they wouldn’t burn out a useful vehicle unless they had no choice.

  ‘They’ve not had time to get it on a ferry so my guess, it’ll be in a unit somewhere,’ he told Sam. ‘Any damage will be getting repaired.’

  Just like the Transit, Sam thought.

  ‘Doherty was quick to jump in when you asked that tosser about it,’ Sam said.

  ‘John, or whatever his name is, was too busy trying to play you,’ Ed told her. ‘That’s why Declan jumped in. But we got the confirmation we needed. They’ve got a truck.’

  Sam turned the car around, Jayne Culley the next name on their call list.

  ‘Stop the car!’ Ed shouted. ’Look.’

  Two boys aged about ten were chasing a group of girls. Both were wearing gorilla masks.

  Ed jumped out of the car. Sam followed.

  ‘Alright lads,’ Ed called to them. ‘Nice masks. Where did you get them?

  The youngsters had frozen but Doherty was watching, for the first time a darkness on his face.

  ‘Calm down, they’re only fucking masks,’ he said, walking towards the children.

  ‘Where did they get them from?’ Ed holding his own temper in check.

  ‘How should I know?’

  Sam stepped closer to Doherty. ‘It might be important. Do you know?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Okay thanks,’ Sam said, a plan flashing bright in her head. ‘Look, can I buy them off the children?’

  Doherty hesitated then said: ‘Everything’s got a price.’

  Five
minutes later Sam and Ed were back in the car, masks now on the back seat, purchased for £5 each.

  ‘No point in seizing them and giving ourselves a load of grief,’ Sam said. ‘A tenner’s better than needing loads of uniforms to restore order.’

  Sam drove off, the Audi pitching and rolling over the track.

  ‘And now we can see if forensics can link them to any of our scenes or victims.’

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Luke and Mark Skinner were patched up in A and E.

  An x-ray showed Luke’s left arm was badly bruised but not broken, the piece of metal was pulled with some difficulty and plenty of pain from his left thigh and the wound was cleaned and closed with 10 stitches.

  Mark had concussion, whiplash and eyes that were already blackening from the impact of the air bag.

  Both discharged themselves against medical advice.

  Marge jumped from a plastic seat in reception and ran towards them when they emerged from the swinging double doors.

  ‘Not here mum,’ Luke said, turning to protect the sling on his left arm.

  Marge stopped then head bowed she followed her sons.

  Luke looked around, checking the other people in reception, and stuck two fingers up at the CCTV camera.

  No one spoke until they got into the small hatchback, Marge’s choice instead of the showy beasts her Billy had wanted her to drive.

  Her hands, shaking like an alcoholic’s before their first drink, struggled to get the key in the ignition.

  ‘Calm down mum,’ Luke shouted from the back seat. He may be leader in waiting, but like children the world over, as the youngest he sat in the rear. ‘We need to get home sometime today.’

  Marge wiped her eye and forced the key into the ignition. ‘How can I calm down?’ she shouted. ‘What’s going on?’

  The car lurched forward, chugged and stalled. Marge dropped her head, eyes closed and white-knuckled hands squeezing the wheel.

  Luke pressed his nose against the window and sighed. ‘Just get us home mum.’

  The journey was completed in silence until Marge pulled up alongside the fountain.

  She couldn’t wait any longer.

  ‘Will somebody tell me what the fuck’s going on?’ she screamed. Luke and Mark jumped at the sudden explosion, whipped back to boyhood for a split second, ready for a tongue lashing or worse.