DARK MURDER a gripping detective thriller full of suspense

by Helen H. Durrant

  The man’s response was to take his daughter’s hand and lead her away, muttering, “Stupid thuggish behaviour — why in Heaven’s name did a pair like that want to come on a trip like this, anyway?”

  Fortunately, a few minutes later, the coach arrived. Everyone lined up to give their names and have their luggage stored in the boot. Once their two bags were safely stashed Daz and Tan took their seats.

  “So when’s the first stop, then?” Tan asked.

  “Services near Stafford; we’ll have about half hour to get gone.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “We get off and go for a coffee like everyone else, but then we sneak off without being spotted. Well, that’s the advice from Geegee so we’d better not cross him,” Daz warned. “We do it like he wants, okay?”

  “How do we get away? Places like that, they’re full of CCTV.”

  Daz tapped the side of his nose. “The disguises, idiot — in that rucksack down here.” He kicked between Tan’s feet.

  “When we leave, no one will recognise us,” Daz assured him.

  “Disguises — what sort of caper is this? I still don’t like all this cloak-and-dagger stuff. It smacks of something big, and how do we get away from the services?”

  “A car has been left for us; I’ve got the keys.” Daz tapped his pocket.

  * * *

  “No Matilda this morning, sir?” Grace remarked as Greco entered the office.

  “Suzy, my wife, is back, so she’s seeing to her. We’ve been talking and we’d still like your mum to have Matilda after school, perhaps a couple of times a week.”

  Ordinarily Greco wasn’t given to explaining himself. He rarely discussed his personal life with the team. But over these last few days he’d come to appreciate that Grace was different, she understood. And it helped, the talking, sharing their problems, it definitely had benefits. He was feeling a little better.

  But he could see the disappointment in her face. He might feel happier, but this outcome wasn’t what Grace had had in mind. Nonetheless she nodded. “I’ll organise it. Perhaps when she has Holly, the two get on so well.”

  “The Duggan have been on, sir,” Craig Merrick interrupted. “Professor Batho, no less, and he said it was urgent.”

  Greco went to the phone.

  “We’ve fast-tracked the potato peeler,” Batho began, “fingerprints first and we’ve struck lucky. There is one thumb print on the handle and it belongs to a Mr Grady Gibbs. An individual known to you I believe, as both his prints and DNA are on record.”

  “Thanks, we’ll bring him in.”

  “Also — I was given a further sample of oil late yesterday sent courtesy of DC Merrick. I’ll do my best to get it matched today against that found under Brenda Hirst’s fingernails. If our endeavours prove fruitful then I’ll ring you.”

  Greco was dubious. As far as he was aware the man did nothing legal for a living and certainly nothing that involved oil. The print was a break but it was also frustrating. They’d had the individual in custody and had been obliged to let him go. It was small consolation that he couldn’t have gone off and killed Rose at that point, because she’d already been dead for a day or two.

  “Sergeant!” He called down the room to Quickenden. “We need to bring Gibbs in again. His prints were on the peeler.”

  Greco watched Quickenden’s face fall as the full implication of that fact hit home. What was it the man wasn’t telling him? There was definitely something, and it had to do with Gibbs’s alibi.

  “Right, sir, we could try the Spinners.”

  “So early? Are you sure?”

  “He has breakfast there,” Speedy explained.

  “You seem to know a great deal about this particular villain, Sergeant. Would you like to explain why that is?”

  “I know him of old, sir. He’s local, I’m local, that’s all there is to it,” he shrugged. “He’s been dragged in here many times . . .” He thought for a moment, “but never for murder.”

  “Well, that’s what’s going to happen now,” Greco told him grimly. “We have no choice. We have a print on a weapon. It will be checked but I’ll lay odds that it’s Rose’s blood on the blade.”

  The rest of the team were flicking their eyes from one man to the other. They knew Greco was no fool. They knew about the card game and Speedy’s losses, but Greco didn’t. If he found out, and with Gibbs in the cells again, it was highly likely, it’d be curtains for Speedy’s career with the force.

  “Organise that search of the canal bank,” he told Merrick. “Let’s see if any other items turn up that the CSI team might have missed.”

  “They don’t usually miss much, sir,” Grace reminded him.

  “I don’t doubt that. This case, however, could be the exception.” Greco had his own opinion about what was going on, but at the moment that’s all it was — an opinion — so he wouldn’t share it. He had a shrewd idea that items were being deliberately left for them to find, but he had no proof.

  Quickenden said very little as he drove them the short distance to the pub. Greco had organised backup from their uniformed colleagues in case Gibbs got ambitious and tried to run. “You’re very quiet, Sergeant. Anything you want to tell me?”

  “Like what, sir?”

  “I don’t go a bundle on gut reaction but that doesn’t mean I’m immune to it. I get the distinct feeling that there’s more going on between you and Gibbs than just growing up in the same area.”

  Quickenden shrugged.

  “I’ll ask one more time, because if I find out you’re lying, if Gibbs tells me you had anything to do with the alibi he suddenly pulled out of the bag, then that’s your career, Sergeant.”

  “I wouldn’t be so daft, sir.”

  “I hope not, because you could lose your job for a lot less,” Greco reminded him soberly.

  The Spinners was empty. Quickenden looked at Les. “Geegee?”

  Less shook his head. “Not been in.”

  “His flat, Sergeant,” Greco barked.

  They drove along Link Road; Greco re-directed backup and then they pulled up outside Geegee’s flat.

  “Which one?”

  “He lives on the second floor, number five.”

  Quickenden banged his fist on the door. No answer.

  “Open this door or we will force the lock!” Greco shouted.

  Several minutes went by and then a neighbour appeared. “Drunk he was yesterday, so he won’t hear you. He’ll be sleeping it off.”

  “Get back up to break-in,” Greco instructed Quickenden. But then a dishevelled Gibbs threw open the door.

  “What the fuck do you lot want? I’m not receiving guests today.” He grinned cheekily. “Not myself; had a skinful and I’m sleeping it off.”

  Greco wasn’t amused. “You’re coming down to the station with us, Mr Gibbs. We need you to answer a few questions. “I want this place searching, Sergeant,” he ordered.

  “For fuck’s sake not again! I’ve not got time to piss about with your lot another day this week, got things to do,” he said glancing back at the laptop on the table. “And you don’t get in here without a warrant,” Geegee said, facing him up. “I know my rights and you can’t come in without my say-so.”

  “Get on the phone and get it organised, Sergeant.”

  Gibbs gave Quickenden a toothy grin, pointed his finger at him and coughed. What did that imply? Greco wondered.

  Gibbs was handcuffed and led away by a uniformed officer.

  * * *

  After several stops to pick up more passengers, the coach finally pulled into the service station. Daz was relieved — this was tedious; he hated coach travel. He had long legs and there was never quite enough room. The coach was full of kids and they were so noisy he’d reached the point where he couldn’t think straight anymore.

  The motorway services was packed with people. Daz grabbed Tan’s arm and led the way to a coffee counter. He ordered two lattes and made for a table at the far end of the café.


  “We need to find somewhere to change,” he told Tan.

  “Change?”

  “Yeah, the stuff I’ve got in here.” He picked up the rucksack and placed it on the table. “The problem is where we go.”

  “The gents — it’s obvious.”

  “Not with these disguises we can’t,” Daz grinned.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I had a sneaky peek, that’s why,” he told his friend. “We might go in the gents as blokes but that’s not how we’d be seen coming out.”

  “You’re having a laugh — what’s that bastard given us to wear?”

  “Look, sit down, drink your coffee and wait until this place is less crowded.”

  “Not until you tell me what’s in here.” Tan prodded the rucksack.

  “Wait and see,” Daz grinned.

  The young men hadn’t noticed, but the little girl from the bus station had wandered to their table and was standing beside them staring down at Darren’s feet again. “He’s got trainers like mine,” she told her daddy who was seated two tables further down.

  He glanced at them and then came across to pull her away. “Yes, love,” he said, leading her back to their seats and handing her a drink. “Don’t speak to people you don’t know.”

  “But they’re on our coach, Daddy!” She pulled a face. “And his trainers are like mine, except for the sparkles.”

  Daz watched them walk away, before continuing to outline his plan to Tan. “There’s a corridor where the toilets are. At the end there’s a door that leads out to a fenced off area at the back. We’ll sneak out there and change.”

  Tan shook his head. This all sounded very weird and he was nervous. The little girl was still looking around and smiling at them. “Cute kid,” he said absently, smiling back.

  “Just keep your mind on the job. You’re attracting too much attention, bro. Stop looking at the kid — at this rate they’ll remember us. And we defo don’t want that.”

  Minutes later the child and her dad moved away.

  “Time to go,” Daz decided.

  They darted down the corridor to the toilet block, pushed open the door and went out into the yard.

  “No cameras,” Daz noted, looking around. He rummaged in the rucksack and handed Darren a plain black garment. It was a burqa. “Just get it on and no smart-arsed comments either. Change and keep it shut.”

  “I can’t wear this!” Tan exclaimed, shaking his head. “You’re off your flaming head — you and that crazy Geegee.”

  “Look, it’s just until we get to the car so shut up. Pull it over your clothes, it’s plenty big enough.”

  Daz demonstrated, easing his own garment over his tall frame. It covered him from the neck down to his toes and when he pulled the head-piece into place it left only a narrow slit for his eyes. Darren Hopper had disappeared under yards of black fabric and no one would ever guess his identity. Then he minced up and down the yard on his toes, trying to appear more feminine.

  “No chance,” Tan protested. “I can’t; it’s not what men wear.”

  “You want the rest of the money, don’t you? If you wimp out now, Geegee’ll do his nut. He’ll beat the crap out of you.”

  Tanweer scowled and shook the thing. He really didn’t have much choice. “Hold the other end while I wriggle into it,” he complained. “But don’t you dare tell anyone what we did, and don’t take any photos with that damn phone of yours either,” he warned.

  “You look fine, we both look fine. No one will know it’s us.”

  “We look like fucking idiots. Look at you, the thing’s too short —it’s half way up your leg.”

  “I’ll just hunch over as I walk, and stop stressing. We go back down the corridor, past the café, and we’re out of here.”

  This was getting worse with every passing second. Tanweer couldn’t understand why it all had to be so convoluted. What the hell was wrong with simply walking to the car in their ordinary clothes?

  Daz led the way with Tanweer shuffling along behind him. They got a few odd looks but nothing more.

  “The coach driver’s over there,” whispered Tan.

  “He’s not going to recognise us, is he, stupid?”

  “Some of the others are waiting to get back on — that kid and her dad, look.”

  “Tan, will you give it a rest,” Dan hissed back. “We shouldn’t talk, people will guess something’s wrong — men in burqas, that’s not normal!”

  The two strolled past the waiting queue as casually as they could. Tanweer was nervous — about being caught, about wearing this thing, and he couldn’t quite get the gait right. He felt as if he was wearing fancy dress, and trying to act like a female was just too damn difficult.

  * * *

  The little girl spotted them. She was giggling and tugging on her dad’s arm.

  “It’s that man again, Daddy!” She laughed. “The one with my trainers. He’s wearing a funny dress now.”

  He took hold of her hand, and glanced up. She had to be wrong, because all he saw was two Muslim women in burqas. They were heading off towards the car park. They were too far away to make out the footwear but something was wrong. They were big, clumsy-looking and with their long strides, neither of them looked like a woman. Perhaps she was right. So what were those two fooling around at now? he wondered, and if they were fooling around wasn’t their choice of garb in bad taste? He’d no idea what was going on, but he’d have a word when they got back on the coach.

  But, of course, neither did get back on. Everyone waited patiently for the first ten minutes or so and then the annoyance set in. People were anxious to be off — this was eating into the time they had to spend in London. The man had promised to take his daughter up to Oxford Street to some of the big shops.

  A woman made her way to the front and had a few choice words with the driver. He didn’t seem sure of what to do. He got off and disappeared into the café, returning minutes later and calling on his mobile.

  “Sorry, folks, I’ve got to give them another twenty minutes,” he told everyone finally. “It’s the rules, and so I don’t have any choice in the matter.”

  “Are those men naughty, Daddy?” she asked. “Is that why everyone is getting angry?”

  Her dad patted her hand and nodded. “Why were they wearing those funny dresses? Have they gone to a party instead?”

  She was right — he should have taken what he saw more seriously. Their behaviour was way off beam. What had they been up to that merited such a disguise? It hit him — they hadn’t been fooling around, they’d been leaving. They had no intention of rejoining the coach, and if they’d come prepared, brought the burqas with them then this had been planned. A dozen different possibilities thundered through his brain leaving him feeling very uneasy. He had to speak to the driver. “Come with me,” he said, taking his daughter’s hand. “And bring your stuff.”

  The little girl picked up her coat and her bag and followed her daddy.

  “They’re not coming back,” he told the driver. “We saw them heading off towards the car park earlier and they were both wearing a disguise. I think we need to get everybody off this coach and call the authorities.”

  The driver looked at him as if he’d lost his head. “No, mate, they’ll have lost track of time,” he replied casually. “I’ve asked them in the station to put out a call on the PA system.” He smiled. “Don’t worry, they’ll be out in a minute and we’ll be on our way.”

  “No, they won’t. I’ve told you, they’re not coming back. They planned to do this. But what’s more important is that their luggage is still in the boot.” This terrified him more than anything. “You must remove it — leave it behind or at least see what’s in their bags.”

  “Don’t be daft, I can’t do that. It’s against the rules,” the driver prickled with annoyance.

  The man shook his head. He could see that all the driver wanted was a quiet life, a steady run down the motorway system before he had to do battle with the
traffic of inner London.

  “You have to ask yourself why they’d do a runner like that, and why they’d wear burqas to conceal their identity. Think about it man, they didn’t want to be picked up by the CCTV.”

  “Wear what?”

  “They were both wearing a burqa,” he explained patiently. “You know, the long garment that some Muslim women wear — covers everything but the eyes.”

  “Are you sure, mate? You could be mistaken. If they were all covered up, how can you be sure it was them?”

  “My daughter recognised the trainers that one of them was wearing.” He shook his head, he was losing patience. “Look, are you going to act on this, or what? I think something’s going on, and I think you should do something about getting people off this coach and having that pair’s luggage examined.”

  “If you’re wrong, I’ll look a right fool.” The driver shuffled uncomfortably in his seat.

  Things weren’t moving fast enough. Surely the coach firm must have set procedures in place for an incident like this? He couldn’t wait any longer. Taking hold of the microphone the driver used for announcements, he addressed the passengers himself. A few, those who were sitting near the front had already heard everything he’d said and were whispering amongst themselves.

  “We’ve lost a couple of passengers,” he began. “They got off like the rest of us but they haven’t returned. Instead they’ve disappeared towards the car park wearing disguises. I, for one, am concerned that their luggage is still here, in the hold. At the very least I want it removed and handed over to someone who can have it examined.”

  “Bollocks! Let’s just get going,” a man shouted from the rear of the coach. “We’re wasting valuable drinking time holed up in this shit-hole.”

  The concerned man swore under his breath. They were morons, the bloody lot of them.

  “Come on, we’re leaving,” he told his daughter. “You can give me my luggage; we’re definitely not going any further,” he told the disgruntled driver.

  “But I want to go to the show, Daddy.” She tugged at his arm. “I want to stay at the hotel, I’ve told my friends and everything, and I want to go to the shops.”

  Tears were welling up in her eyes. He felt really bad about having to disappoint her but something wasn’t right here. “We’ll do something else, love,” he promised her.