Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set

by Tony Hutchinson

  He turned his head and looked at his wife on the windowsill.

  ‘Not the good guys, that’s for sure.’

  When Reynolds rubbed his eyes it had nothing to do with the smoke.

  Sam wanted to tell him he was wrong, that the good guys always lost when they tore up the rule book and let true justice die.

  ‘So, what happens now?’ Reynolds throwing it back on her.

  ‘I want the names of those involved,’ Sam said.

  ‘You’ve got them according to your line of thought,’ Reynolds told her. ‘Me and Cat.’

  ‘A witness at the traffic lights saw three men.’

  Reynolds shook his head. ‘You get nothing if you expect me to tip up a decent lad helping two men fulfil their dying wishes.’

  ‘We’ll find out eventually,’ Sam said.

  ‘You won’t,’ Reynolds digging in, determined. ‘You’ve got nothing. No witnesses, no forensics and you’ll not get me or Cat bless him tipping up anybody.’

  Sam believed him but had to push. ‘Was he another retired detective?’

  Reynolds stared at her. ‘Move on Sam or this conversation’s finished.’

  ‘What about Declan Doherty? Did you speak to him?’

  ‘Declan’s a good sort,’ Reynolds answered. ‘Easy to wind up. He would always buy my innuendos, but you’ll have more chance charging me than you will him and his mates. Not exactly renowned for cracking in police custody are they?’

  ‘Did you give him any masks?’ Sam asked.

  ‘No law against that is there,’ this time Reynolds’ smile seemed genuine. ‘I gave them to him for the young ones.’

  ‘And John Elgin?’ Ed joining in, moving through the cast list.

  ‘A weak man but decent enough,’ Reynolds stood up. ‘Imagine being born into a life of privilege and having it snatched away on the whim of a vindictive old twat. Considering his start in life he turned out okay. He just needs to wise up, get shot of his wife, stop shagging young girls and settle down with someone nice. Life’s too short to be stuck in unhappy relationships.’

  He looked at the photograph.

  ‘I want to know why Cat replaced the headlight on the Transit and then burnt it out,’ Sam said.

  The detective in Reynolds understood the attention to detail, the need to close everything off.

  ‘Maybe the people concerned felt it had been compromised,’ he said. ‘They might have been wrong, but better safe than sorry. They certainly wouldn’t want to be caught before they sorted Skinner.’

  ‘The number plate?’ Sam said. ‘Belonging to a traffic car.’

  Ray Reynolds laughed. ‘Someone with a sense of humour. Obviously liked the thought of taking the piss out of the Black Rats. Bit like Cat. He once broke into a uniform Superintendent’s office one weekend and wallpapered it in cartoon racing cars because the Super wouldn’t stop talking about his one and only trip to Silverstone.’

  Reynolds smiled at the memory.

  ‘Easy enough to get a set of plates made up the way we would for a retirement present and before you ask, supposing I knew I won’t say where or by who and nobody who made them is going to admit it.’

  ‘What about the coke to drown Skinner,’ Sam asked, like ticking off a shopping list.

  ‘Easy enough to get it off someone like Harry I would imagine,’ Reynolds told her. ‘Enough to do the job. Maybe Harry wanted to take over. Maybe that’s why he was accused of skimming by Mat. If you’ve got him you can ask him, but he’s old school. He’s not going to drop any of his friends in the shit.’

  ‘And Pritchard and van Dijk?’

  Reynolds suddenly looked tired, seemed older.

  ‘What about them?’ he said. ‘Two favours in one if you ask me. Helped out John and Linda. I still see Linda now and again.’

  ‘Does it go beyond that?’ Sam said.

  Reynolds shook his head.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, Linda is beautiful and when I helped her years ago she did offer favours in return.’

  Sam held his gaze.

  ‘But I couldn’t betray Barbara then, just like I couldn’t betray her memory now.’

  Sam stood up. ‘Can I borrow your pen again?’

  Reynolds looked at Ed. ‘Don’t you even teach them to carry pens these days?’

  Reynolds reached towards the table, lifted the pen from the newspaper and handed it to Sam.

  She thanked him as she headed for the door.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘Now what?’ Reynolds said to Ed.

  Ed shrugged his shoulders and looked at the ticking clock.

  It was ten minutes before Sam returned with her briefcase.

  Ten minutes is a long time to sit in another man’s house in silence.

  ‘Any danger I can finish polishing my car,’ Reynolds was on his feet.

  Sam was suddenly back in the doorway.

  ‘Sit down and spare me the indignation and histrionics you murdering bastard.’

  The words hit Reynolds like a blow, his face moving from shock to rage in a heartbeat.

  ‘How dare you?’ his voice burning. ‘Don’t ever speak to me like that, not in my own home, not anywhere. You’ll show me the respect my rank warrants you jumped up little...’

  Sam moved across the room, didn’t speak until she was nose to nose with Reynolds.

  ‘You lost that the day you started your killing spree,’ she said. ‘Did you seriously think I was just going to walk away? Let your number three get away with murder. You might have torn up the rule book but I haven’t. Now sit down.’

  Ed hadn’t moved. Like Reynolds, Sam’s outburst had left him stunned. Now he was trying to work out where this was going.

  Sam sat down, opened her briefcase and took out her laptop.

  She put the laptop on her knee and powered it up.

  ‘Remember when computers were heavy as hell and stuck on desks?’ She said it almost to herself. ‘These days you can lift them in one hand and be holding more memory than you’d need in a lifetime.’

  She took a silver USB from her case, held it between her thumb and forefinger, and raised it towards the ceiling.

  ‘So much memory in one of these, too.’

  Sam pressed the USB into the computer and didn’t look up when she spoke, Reynolds watching her like a man in front of a magician.

  ‘Smaller and smaller computers with bigger and bigger memories,’ Sam went on. ‘The mobile phone you won’t have is now basically a computer.’

  Reynolds’ eyes locked on Sam, nostrils flaring in the charged courtroom silence.

  Ed was waiting, still bewildered. Experience had taught him that Sam, like a smart defence barrister, was about to drop a bombshell.

  The two men watched as Sam hit a couple of keys, listened without moving their gaze as she spoke again.

  ‘But it’s not just computers that have got smaller. Lots of technology is packed into smaller things.’

  Now Sam looked up and glared at Reynolds. ‘Maybe some evidence did smack my tight little arse.’

  She put the laptop on the floor and leaned forward. ‘Did you think it was an accident when I bumped into you yesterday?’

  Ed’s eyes were widening by the second.

  ‘Did it never cross your supercilious macho mind that I knew exactly where you were?’ Sam turning the screw. ‘That I knew you were alone, knew you were doing a crossword?’

  She waved the pen. ‘With this...’

  Reynolds jumped to his feet.

  ‘Congratulations. I’m impressed. So you knew I was in the coffee shop. What a detective you are.’

  His arm shot up and he pointed at the door. ‘Now get out.’

  Sam didn’t move.

  ‘Sit down,’ it was an order, ‘I’m not finished.’

  She held the pen like a prize or a piece of secret treasure.

  ‘Covert devices are tiny these days,’ her voice quiet now. ‘Do you know you can put a camera in a watch? Or a listening d
evice in a pen?’

  Reynolds and Ed followed her hand as she hit play on the laptop.

  It was only a moment before Ray Reynolds’ voice boomed from the speaker.

  ‘Ed Whelan’s got Harry. Jeannie Jackson’s been on the blower.’

  Sam pressed pause.

  ‘You conniving little slag,’ Reynolds spat the words.

  ‘With the tight little arse,’ Sam’s response coated in sarcasm.

  Ed was still trying to process what had happened, what had been in play whilst he was in the Lakes with Harry Pullman.

  Reynolds turned to him.

  ‘You had no idea what she was up to did you, you useless bastard. Ever thought she believed you were the third man?’

  Ed looked at Sam, said nothing.

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I thought,’ Sam said. ‘All that matters is the third man is on tape.’

  The silence moved in on Reynolds like the sliding walls of a tomb in a fantasy film. The cancer wasn’t the reason for his rapid, shallow breathing.

  ‘And he is,’ Sam said with a smile and an air of triumph. ‘I’ve just had a quick listen in the car. The two of you running through the murders, making sure you’d covered your tracks.’

  Reynolds was back on his feet, shouting, breathing deeper, his heart pumping blood to his neck. ‘Breach of privacy! You’ll never get it admitted.’

  Sam stood up, authority in every word. ‘Get your coat and lock your car. We’ll do this at the nick.’

  She closed the laptop, took out the USB, and placed both back in her briefcase.

  She took a few steps forwards. ‘Rest assured Mr Reynolds everything I have done has been correctly authorised in accordance with the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act. You might remember it. I learnt all about it on my looking after lost kids course.’

  Chapter Fifty

  Friday, 19th December

  Neither of them spoke in the car.

  Ed was thinking of The Eagles’ song ‘Desperado’. What was that line? Something about letting someone love you before it’s too late?

  He looked at Sam and smiled.

  She was aware of him looking. She glanced at him and smiled back.

  ‘I need some fresh air,’ she said.

  Fifteen minutes later she parked near the promenade.

  ‘Let’s have a walk.’

  They headed towards the pier, a wind nipping at them, carrying a fine spray and the smell of the churning water.

  ‘I need to clear my head,’ Sam said.

  The sea, rough white waves breaking early, was punching into the pier, the spray getting heavier.

  A couple, head down, had their black Cockapoo on a short lead.

  ‘Is there anything worse than arresting police officers, even if they’re retired?’ Sam said, her cheeks already numb.

  ‘Did you seriously think I was involved?’ Ed looked away as he spoke.

  ‘No.’

  Lie, Sam told herself, even though she hadn’t hesitated.

  Everything and anything was possible in her world.

  ‘But,’ she continued, ‘I didn’t want anybody on the team to know what I had planned with Reynolds. Besides, if he hadn’t got in touch with Jimmy Bell I’d have been none the wiser.’

  Reynolds and DC Jimmy Bell had retired about the same time.

  Blind loyalty, an ingrained hatred of certain types of criminal and a vicious willingness to inflict serious pain made him the perfect recruit to Reynolds’ and Archibald ‘Cat’ Leach’s no mercy mission.

  He was in the nick with a ‘fuck you’ attitude that wouldn’t survive when the remand cell was locked behind him.

  Reynolds himself was playing the dying detective card, but he had taken pride in demonstrating his planning throughout his admissions.

  Both prisoners knew the covert recordings were enough to convict them.

  Saturday, 20th December

  The wedding was in full flow when Ed walked into the seafront hotel.

  The order of the day was suits for the men and lavish ball-gowns for the women.

  The hotel management had quickly contacted a local security firm who now had burly personnel positioned by the stairs and lifts. Only guests with key cards were allowed to pass.

  Declan Doherty strode over to Ed. ‘You found us then?’

  ‘Not too difficult Declan. Followed the pony and trap.’

  Doherty laughed, slapped Ed’s back. ‘A fox just like Ray. We’re honoured that you’ve come.’

  ‘Thanks’

  ‘Now enjoy yourself,’ Declan grinned. ‘It’s a free bar.’

  Ed let his eyes scan the crowded dance floor.

  ‘Who’s the lad with the bandaged arm, dancing with the girl in the purple dress?’ he asked as he watched the pair move together to the music.

  ‘That girl is my granddaughter,’ Declan said with obvious pride. ‘The lad is another one who wasn’t sorry to learn about the Skinners’ change of fortune.’

  The two men watched as the girl turned and wiggled her hips with something unspoken behind her smile while her partner drank from a bottle he held in his good hand.

  ‘A lad whose starting to fancy our way of life I reckon,’ Declan said, grinning again. ‘Goes by the name of Pixie.’

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for taking the time to read about Sam and Ed. I really do appreciate it. Books without readers are just words on a page. If you have time please leave a review (good or bad). I do read them all.

  If you enjoyed the first three books in the series do check out the next book ‘Lies That Blind’.

  And keep up to date with forth-coming titles by visiting Tony's website:

  www.tonyhutch.com

  p.s. Turn the page to read the whole of the first chapter of book four right now.

  Lies That Blind - Chapter One

  Saturday 31st October 2015

  Shattered glass fell like hail on his head and shoulders, the sharp tang of cordite invading his nostrils and rushing down his throat, so strong he could taste it.

  The single shot had brought the noise of the battleground to a residential street…shocking, unexpected, disorientating.

  Police officer or not, nothing prepares for you that sudden sensory overload…for the sickening fear.

  Not when it happens behind you and without warning.

  Not when you’ve just closed the front door and are walking back to your car, the sweat of stolen sex still drying on your skin.

  For Paul Adams, self-preservation launched itself on a jet-blast of pure adrenaline, the animal instinct to run, to save his own skin, to let someone else be the hero.

  He sprinted down the path, away from where every cell in his scrambled brain was telling him the shot had come, diving head first across the dirty, dusty bonnet of his parallel parked car, dropping onto the Tarmac by the passenger door.

  The second shot, when it came, seemed even louder.

  Paul realised it was true…gunfire really did sound like an exhaust backfiring.

  He crawled into a sitting position, pressed his back against the passenger door, tucked his knees under his chin, and pulled the left side of his jacket away from his chest to fumble inside for his mobile.

  His thumping heart thrust panic and concern through his veins in equal measures, the twin emotions colliding in a toxic mix.

  Now his sweat ran free and stank of fear.

  Was he going to die?

  Who was the shooter?

  And there, coiling like a knot in his stomach, a different fear…how to explain why he was at Malvern Close when his wife asked the inevitable question.

  He doubted she would believe he was at the home of a younger, single woman for professional reasons.

  And he doubted his boss, Sam Parker, would cover for him.

  Cowering behind the car, Paul bit his lip and berated himself.

  He was a police officer. He needed to do his job.

  But as irrational as it was, concern was still runnin
g fear a close second.

  He knew he would be in the shit if this got out.

  He should have gone straight home, flowers in one hand, chocolates in the other, and a restaurant booked for his wife’s 32nd birthday.

  Instead, he’d ignored her calls whilst he’d been with Tara.

  Why had he ever listened to her? What could be so important?

  Tara had text him the same message three times in less than an hour:

  Please, please I need to see you. I can’t discuss it on the phone. It’s really important. Please I’m begging you. Come as soon as you get this.

  Other than rushing him upstairs, what had she needed? Nothing.

  But Paul hadn’t asked and he hadn’t said ‘no’.

  He never did.

  Even then he could have been safely away before all this madness kicked off, driving home with no need for explanations or comebacks.

  But hadn’t Tara gone and phoned him as soon as he left the house. Christ he was hardly two steps from the door.

  ‘Stand still,’ she said, her voice warm, throaty. ‘Don’t turn around. I’m at the upstairs window watching you. I want to think of you on top of me for a little longer. Don’t move.’

  She had groaned into the phone as he stood listening. He liked the thought of her watching him, touching herself, her soft moans taking him back.

  Those few moments had put him in this shit storm.

  Get a grip Paul. Time to do what you’re paid to do.

  He inched towards the back of the car and dipped below the windows, below the line of a headshot.

  At the back wheel, he lay flat on his stomach and slithered forward like a commando until the street opened up in front of him.

  The car was facing the cul-de-sac entrance and from his sniper-like position he could see most of the street.

  A tall, athletic-looking man, early twenties Paul guessed, with wide shoulders, a small waist, and wearing jeans and a t-shirt to show off his physique not counter the cold, was lying prostrate in the middle of the road.

  Was he hit by the first shot? The second? Both?

  The slap of rapid, heavy footsteps boomed through Paul’s ears and twisting his head, he looked under the car and saw the blur of white trainers.