Josiah Dark Thrillers Box Set

by Tim Ellis

  His eyes narrowed to slits. ‘What’s that to you?’

  ‘While I was writing my penny dreadful I did some research on you.’

  ‘My private life is private.’

  ‘I know some interesting things.’

  He scoffed. ‘You don’t know anything.’

  ‘If you buy me lunch, I’ll show you my new wall.’

  ‘You’re the one who’s a multi-millionaire now. You buy me lunch and I won’t arrest you for invasion of privacy.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘So, what do you think you know?’

  ‘Here’s an appetiser: I know that the man your wife and daughters are now living with – Samuel Henchel – used to be a police officer.’

  ‘A police officer!’

  She handed him a newspaper cutting. ‘I came across that in the Dartmouth Chronicle from three years ago – in the obituary column.’

  He looked down at the two-by-three-inch piece of yellowing newspaper.

  Anthony Baker, 45

  Anthony Michael Baker, 45, of Vicarage Hill, Dartmouth, Devon, passed away on March 15, 2013 following a short illness. The funeral service, which will be restricted to relatives only, will be held on March 30, 2013 at St Martin’s Church, followed by a private cremation. Anthony was a Commander with the Metropolitan Police Service. He was single, and leaves no surviving family or relatives.

  There was a photograph of Commander Anthony Baker with the obituary, and it definitely resembled Samuel Henchel.

  ‘Is this all you’ve got?’

  ‘Lunch?’

  ‘I suppose I need to eat.’

  ‘Don’t do me any favours.’

  ‘I already have.’

  ‘So, you have.’

  ***

  John Lester Smith had abducted Amanda Lincoln earlier that day from Tangerine House Care Home in Mobberley. Dark guessed that if they hadn’t arrived and interrupted Smith when they did, the girl would have been dead within a handful of minutes.

  Wong was right. The room that Smith had been using as his workshop belonged to an old Methodist Church that building developers had converted into a community centre. Access to the room and the old Victorian sewer system was filled in with concrete due to the cost involved in making it safe.

  How Smith had found the old sewers and the room they never discovered because he refused to answer any questions put to him. He didn’t even say, ‘No comment.’

  As a consequence, Smith never told them where he’d disposed of the bodies of Judy Culbert, Gail Dell and Erica Freeman. Polly Tyree and Lisa Wong, however, were still searching for any clues that might lead to their discovery.

  ***

  Alfie Smith – Smiffy – went to live with his mother’s sister in Devon.

  ‘You’ll come back and visit?’ Paulie Sears said.

  ‘Sure. Although it’d be better if you came across the Channel to Devon ‘cause the metal detecting there is second-to-none so the experts say.’

  Robyn grunted. ‘Devon ain’t across no Channel.’

  ‘Sure is,’ Smiffy said.

  ***

  The doorbell chimed.

  He opened the door. ‘Hello, Wong.’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘So I see. Well, you’d better come in.’

  He shut the door behind her. ‘When you’re ready.’

  ‘Here in the hallway?’

  ‘We can go in the living room, if you want?’

  ‘Isn’t it enough that you were right?’

  ‘Are you reneging on our deal?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Let’s see your tattoos then.’ He sat down on the third stair and waited for her to begin.

  Wong began slowly stripping off her clothes.

  ‘Don’t make a meal of it,’ he said. ‘You’re not here to audition for the vacant position of stripper.’

  ‘You’re a bastard, Dark.’

  ‘So everyone tells me.’

  She left her panties and bra on.

  ‘Everything.’

  She took them off.

  When she stood completely naked in his hallway he slowly walked around her as if she were an exhibit in the waxworks and peered at her tattoos. ‘You’ve got a good collection going there. I particularly like the dragon on your back, and the butterfly across your breasts.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And the human canvas isn’t bad either.’

  She pulled a face. ‘Have you quite finished?’

  ‘Are those all your tattoos?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘None in inaccessible places?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why do people think they can lie to a detective?’

  ‘I’m not . . .’

  ‘We agreed you’d show me all of your tattoos. Well?’

  ‘If you ever tell anybody.’

  ‘Your secret will be safe with me.’

  She showed him.

  ‘Interesting. Okay, we’re done.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Unless you have another deal in mind?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’re the one standing in my hall naked when you should be putting your clothes back on.’

  ####

  Dark Shadows

  Chapter One

  Wednesday, January 15

  Detective Inspector Josiah Dark stared down at the twisted and mangled body of what appeared to be a young man lying on the grassy bank of the Lower Peak Forest Canal by Lock Number 9, which was part of a flight of sixteen locks known as Marple Locks. At this point, the canal passed under the steep Station Road that connected Marple to the village of Marple Bridge, which according to the signs, was meant to be a Conservation Area.

  The corpse was dressed in a long-sleeved mustard-coloured shirt, ragged jeans held up by a leather belt and one Adidas blue trainer on his left foot.

  An hour ago, Dark had been sitting in his basement office in the only 24-hour police station left in Manchester city centre – Bootle Street, near Albert Square – sifting through old unsolved cases when the call was put through from Chief Superintendent John Henn of the Serious Crimes Division, who was located on the third floor of the new Force HQ in Central Park on Northampton Road, which was three and a half miles away along the A62 in East Manchester. Dark wasn’t welcome in the SCD. The hierarchy wanted young thrusting officers with Masters Degrees in Community Policing who embraced accountability and the potential for development to senior levels. They didn’t want an ex-soldier, an ex-killer, an old-school copper – an anachronism – who believed that sometimes two wrongs did make a right in pursuit of justice, they didn’t want someone who hadn’t crawled up the promotional ladder as expected. They suspected his motives; and felt threatened by his experience, his knowledge, and his ability to solve complex murders.

  Dark by name, dark by nature they said. He didn’t give a shit what they said, just so long as they left him alone and kept feeding him the cases that no one else wanted, the ones that would embarrass the division – especially the Chief Superintendent – if they went unsolved. He was tolerated, because he made a significant contribution to clear-up rates and improved annual statistics. So, they’d hidden him away in the basement at Bootle Street like an embarrassing relative with an unsightly incurable disease. He wasn’t bothered. It was a convenient staging post on the way to the exit door, and he was sure nobody would miss him when he was gone.

  ‘Dark.’ He tried to call Henn “Sir” as little as possible, so he pretended he had no idea who was calling. He had a target of one “Sir” for each time he spoke to Henn, but if he could get away without saying it once he was having a good day.

  ‘You have a case, Inspector.’

  ‘About time. In my desperation, I was shuffling through other detectives’ unsolved cases.’

  ‘I don’t think things are that bad yet, Dark.’

  Henn was a career officer, and everything Dark hated about twenty-first century policing. At thirty-three years�
�� old, he was one of the youngest Chief Superintendents in the GMP. He was also one of those people who’d had a private education, attended Cambridge, Bramshill Police College, and boasted all the right connections to eventually become Police Commissioner of the Metropolis, a Knight of the British Empire and a Peer of the Realm in the House of Lords. In effect, he was an arse-licker, and the one thing Dark disliked more than anything else – was an arse-licker. Not only did Henn have the right socio-economic background, but he also looked the part – black hair greying round the edges; a strong jaw; a Roman nose and a perfect set of white teeth. He could easily have applied for a part-time job modelling clothes for the Littlewoods catalogue.

  ‘How long has the body been in the water, Professor?’

  ‘What you’re really asking me is when was the physiological time of death, aren’t you?’ Professor Daniel Finn was a Home Office pathologist at Wythenshawe Hospital, and was one of the best forensic pathologists in the country. He’d been awarded an MBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours List of 2002 for his work; was an Honorary Consultant to various hospitals around the country; had travelled all over the world doling out expert opinion whether it was asked for or not; and chaired the government’s Forensic Pathology Special Advisory Committee, but at seventy-two he was in the winter of his career. He had wispy grey hair, sagging jowls and rheumy eyes. If he’d been a surgeon, the hand tremors would have forced him to retire long ago, but the dead didn’t seem to mind a shaky scalpel.

  ‘And do you have it?’

  ‘My best estimate using Henssge’s temperature/time-of-death nomogram with a correction factor of 0.5; an environmental temperature of 2 degrees C; one layer of clothing on the corpse; that was found in non-flowing water and with a rectal temperature of 8.3 degrees C – is thirty-six-hours, which as you know, still requires to be confirmed by post-mortem.’

  Dark checked his watch. ‘That would make it around three o’clock yesterday morning.’

  ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘Thanks, Professor.’ He was already turning the investigative possibilities over in his mind.

  ‘I’m also guessing, due to the horrific physical injuries sustained, that he was preventing the lock gates from closing with his head and body for about twelve of those thirty-six hours.’

  ‘I’m assuming that a fair few boats have passed through the lock during that time, so why wasn’t he flushed through the second gate to disappear into the tunnel under the road?’

  ‘Could have been snagged on something.’

  He didn’t respond. It was likely they’d never find out. ‘He looks as though someone’s put him through a wringer.’

  ‘Ah! You still remember those contraptions before the invention of the washing machine and spin-dryer, do you, Dark?’

  ‘It’s how I earned my pocket-money as a young lad.’ He recalled his harsh childhood in the small Methodist chapel at Tregaron in Wales, and how his father – the minister – used the old testament as if it was a blueprint for life.

  ‘No partner today?’

  ‘You know I work alone, Professor.’ DC Annie Lake, the unwanted partner that Henn had foisted on him, had been called home to Letchworth in Hertfordshire three weeks’ ago, because her mother was rushed into hospital. He obviously wished Mrs Lake a speedy recovery, but hoped her daughter didn’t return to Manchester to annoy him any further. Partners were nothing but trouble, especially female partners.

  ‘DC Lake still away then?’

  ‘Best place for her.’

  The time was closing in on three-thirty in the afternoon, and it was so cold he could see himself breathing.

  Children had just been let out of school. Traffic was backing-up in both directions on Station Road and Brabyns Brow.

  A crowd of concerned citizens had gathered to take selfies with the mutilated body in the background. The pictures would soon spread across the internet like a virus, but there was nothing he could do about that.

  There were also people hanging out of the upper windows of the houses surrounding the lock as if it was a spectator sport that they didn’t need to buy tickets for. He noticed a man in a third-storey window looking through a camera with a telephoto lens. Further up the canal was what looked like an old mill that had been converted into flats and businesses, and a kaleidoscope of narrowboats were queuing to pass through the lock.

  Four uniformed officers were attempting to control the chaotic flow of traffic, and three white-suited forensic officers were erecting a tent that they planned to lift into place over the body when it was finished.

  ‘Who’s in charge here?’ he shouted in the direction of the forensic team.

  ‘You are, Sir,’ a female voice responded from behind a blue forensic hood and mask.

  ‘Besides me?’

  ‘Then, I suppose I am.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Avril Burrows.’

  ‘Where’s Polly Tyree?’

  ‘On holiday, Sir.’

  ‘What about Lisa Wong?’

  ‘Flu, Sir.’

  ‘I’m not happy, Burrows.’

  ‘I can see that, Sir.’

  ‘I’m a man of habit. I get Tyree, or I get Wong. I don’t like change.’

  ‘I’ve been informed, Sir.’

  ‘I don’t know you, Burrows. Are you any good?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be out here if I wasn’t, Sir.’

  He shook his head. He’d got used to working with Tyree and Wong. Trusted them up to a point. He had no idea who this Avril Burrows was. ‘Well, get that tent over the body.’

  ‘We’re not . . .’

  ‘It wasn’t a request, Burrows. By the time your people have finished reading the instructions, everybody in Manchester will have taken a selfie with the corpse.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’ She shouted orders to the three forensic officers who were trying to fit the tent together like a Rubik’s cube and not having much success. They each grabbed a bottom corner and hoisted the tent over the body.

  Dark and Finn shifted out of the way.

  ‘Dog’s dinner springs to mind,’ Finn suggested.

  ‘It’s not how I usually like my crime scenes.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘Burrows?’ he shouted.

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘When did you arrive?’

  ‘Just before you.’

  It obviously wasn’t her fault that the crime scene was a shambolic mess. At least now they had the body under cover, and out of sight from prying eyes and damned mobile phone cameras. ‘All right. Get your team organised and stop messing about, Burrows.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  As she was walking away he called her back. ‘Who found the body?’

  Burrows pointed along the canal to a green and red narrowboat with circular windows like portholes on a cruise liner. ‘A woman called Hanna Saunders. She was opening the lock gates when the body floated to the surface.’

  ‘Okay. You can carry on now.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir.’

  He walked to the road, called over one of the uniformed officers and showed him his Warrant Card.

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Cannon, Sir.’

  ‘Who’s in charge?’

  ‘Well, if it’s not you, then I don’t know who is, Sir.’

  ‘There’s four of you controlling traffic.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It needed controlling.’

  ‘I agree, but not in the way you’re doing it. Okay, get some crime scene tape and then three of you can seal off the road in both directions . . .’

  ‘That’ll cause chaos, Sir.’

  ‘It’s already chaos, Cannon.’

  The constable turned to stare at the traffic queues, the blaring horns, the people disgorging from a train that had just arrived at Marple Station, and all the parents and children traipsing up and down the hill on their way home, or to the village. ‘That’s true.’


  ‘The other one can move these people behind the tape. Tell them, there’s nothing to see anymore. Any questions?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Sir.’

  ‘Get to it then, Constable.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘Oh! And after you’ve done that . . .’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Inform the people backed-up on the canal in their narrowboats that they won’t be travelling through the lock anytime soon and should make alternative arrangements.’

  ‘Sir.’ Cannon turned to go.

  ‘And . . . Get some more people here. I want a house-to-house carried out, and tell those idiots hanging out of the windows . . .’ He pointed at the surrounding houses. ‘To close their damned curtains and get on with their lives.’

  ‘Is that it, Sir?’

  ‘Yes, Cannon . . . For now, anyway.’

  It took the uniformed officers fifteen minutes to stop the flow of traffic and move the crowds back, but eventually there was some semblance of order to the crime scene. There should have been a Sergeant with crime-scene management experience in attendance, but there wasn’t. He called the Duty Sergeant at Bootle Street.

  ‘Sergeant Morris.’

  ‘It’s Dark. I’m in Marple at a crime scene.’

  ‘Very nice for you, Sir.’

  ‘There’s four uniforms and a forensic team here, but no Crime Scene Manager controlling things – why not?’

  ‘Bit of a delay, Sir. Sergeant Polly Rosen is on her way, but there’s been accidents on route and she’s stuck in traffic.’

  ‘Well, tell her to get her arse moving, Sergeant.’

  ‘Will do, Sir.’

  He walked back to the tent.

  Burrows, at least, had organised extendable spotlights on tripods inside the tent, and the generator was humming a short distance away.

  Professor Finn was squatting over the body again.

  ‘Is that a piece of wood from the lock gates sticking out of his chest?’ he asked.