Dark Tides Thrillers Books 1-3
Tony Hutchinson
Cheshire Cat Books Ltd
Contents
Be My Girl
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Acknowledgments
Comply or Die
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Acknowledgments
Angels and Apostles
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Lies That Blind - Chapter One
Acknowledgments
Be My Girl
A Dark Tides Thriller
Book One
Chapter One
Saturday – November 2012
Breathe.
The subconscious order flew around her body like a speeding white pinball. Downward pressure on her mouth pushed her head deeper into the pillow, her tongue frantically trying to escape the intrusive synthetic material that tasted new but with a hint of fresh sweat.
Breathe.
Her nose strained to fill bursting lungs, the short snorts only strengthening the pungent smell, a smell alien to her bedroom.
Breathe.
Disorientated, trying to compute the sudden surface from deep sleep, Kelly Jones’s terrified eyes blinked rapidly, fighting to focus in the dark.
Breathe.
The pressure…The aching lungs…The smell…
Breathe.
The street lamp sent a dull beam of light through the thin, unlined curtains and her eyes began to adjust.
The hazy blur receded. Her vision returned.
And then she saw them.
The eyes staring back at her through the slits of a ski mask.
Her hands shot out of the duvet, grabbing the wrist of the gloved hand on her mouth as she fought for air but the pressure on her mouth increased, forcing her head even deeper into the pillow. She thrashed her legs, arched her back, shook her head, lashed out with her arms; anything to break free, but the hand refused to budge.
Then the blade appeared inches from her face.
She froze, transfixed by the knife.
His speech was controlled, the words spoken in a conversational tone without emotion or excitement.
‘Do what I say and I won’t hurt you.’
Her body stiffened, rigor mortis like, and her bladder sent a steady trickle of urine on to the white cotton sheet.
Friday – February 2013
Under the fluorescent glow of the tubular light, Detective Chief Inspector Sam Parker swivelled her chair to face the computer and scanned the inbox of her emails for the last time of the day. Her eyes were drawn to one in the middle. Those sent by the higher ranks always caught your attention. Sam looked away from the screen and smiled. Did her emails have that effect on junior officers? She had never thought about it before, but yes, they probably did. Not that she considered herself any different to the person she was in the summer of 2001 when she first collected her uniform.
The cursor hovered over the message from the Assistant Chief Constable and she clicked it open.
From: Trevor Stewart
To: Sam Parker
Subject: Undetected Rape
Sam
I am a little concerned that we still have an undetected intruder stranger rape from November.
I am sure that the CID at Seaton St George has done a thorough job, but I would feel reassured if you and your team had a look at it.
I want you to conduct a review. We can talk resources and terms of reference on Monday. Meanwhile, I have arranged for copies of statements etc to be forwarded to your office.
Enjoy your weekend.
Trevor
Sam Parker turned off the computer, grabbed her coat from the hat stand, and walked towards the door. 7pm. Most of the offices would be empty. Everyone home for the weekend, or at the pub, striving for some sort of work-life balance.
Had she not been so tired, she would have stayed another couple of hours doing paperwork. There was always something to do and she hadn’t anything to rush home for. Not these days.
The desk phone rang. She hesitated. Answer it? Or keep on walking?
‘Sam Parker.’
‘Sam. It’s Trevor Stewart.’
Shit! Should have kept walking.
‘I’m glad I caught you. I’ll pop along.’
‘Yes, okay. No problem.’
Now what? Another one in no hurry to leave, his rented flat and take-away all he had to look forward to; wife and teenage kids living hundreds of miles away, refusing to traipse around the country as he climbs the promotion ladder. ‘Butterfly cops’ Ed Whelan called them – landing in one force before flying off to the next.
‘Sam. How’s things?’ he said, walking into her office.
Had she only ever spoken to him on the phone, Trevor Stewart would look as she imagined. The deep, booming voice fit perfectly in the barrel-chested 6’ frame.
‘Fine. I’ve just read your email.’
‘You look tired. You should try sleeping when you go to bed.’
She maintained eye contact but didn’t take the bait, her teeth and lips clamped together. Slime-ball.
He dropped into a chair.
Does he have to sit with his legs so far apart?
Trevor Stewart ran his fingers through his sandy hair and smiled at her.
‘You’ve seen my email? Good. We don’t want stranger rapes going undetected. It’s a bad news story and if we don’t sort it, then it’s bad news for everybody involved in the investigation. Gives the impression we don’t know what we’re doing. Three months old. It needs sorting as a priority. We both know he could do another one.’
Sam didn’t respond, waiting for him to continue.
‘Detecting jobs like this look good on your CV, too. Never does future promotion chances any harm.’
His eyes locked on hers, his voice, quieter, conveyed just a hint of menace. ‘But they need detecting fast and I’m not convinced the CID at Seaton have done all they could.’
That’s not how your email read, Sam thought. Another police politician – cover your back in writing while saying something else in private. She knew how the game was played, what the stakes were.
‘Ed Whelan and myself will look at it on Monday.’
‘Good. I’m sure with your experience you’ll give it a fresh coat of looking at.’ He stood up and checked the creases in his trousers. ‘I don’t want to keep you. We’ll speak Monday. I have every faith in you… but we need a result Sam…and quickly.’
He turned around when he reached the door. ‘Let me know if you change your mind about that drink.’
Dream on. Still, she needed to be careful. Trevor Stewart had formed a friendship with a Detective Chief Inspector who made no secret of the fact that he wanted Sam’s job.
Through the glass exit doors she could see the fine rain falling, a mist-like vapour highlighted by the orange street lights of the car park. She pulled up the collar of her coat, took a deep breath, and braced herself to get cold and wet.
Weekends were always the worst.
At least the review into the rape would occupy her thoughts until the next job came in and in Sam Parker’s world, the next job meant murder.
Sam pulled on to the driveway of her four-bedroom detached house. A number of the lights were on thanks to the ingenuity of plug-in timers. She wasn’t fooled by the glow. There would be nobody inside, the house as empty as she was. There would be no easy-going conversation with Tristram, no glass of wine and the inevitable discussion around their shared passion for Burgundy. Tristram had introduced Sam to the joys of the region’s acclaimed reds and was always quoting Harry Waugh, the renowned wine merchant and writer… ‘The first duty of wine is to be red, the second to be a burgundy’.
These days, none of life’s pleasures seemed to matter.
Saturday
‘Of course all men are rapists. They have constant sexual urges that they need to satisfy. If they cannot satisfy them with a consenting woman, then they will rape.’
Sitting at the kitchen table, his mouth poised around a cold slice of last night’s left-over chilli chicken pizza, he stared at the retro Roberts radio on the windowsill, shaking his head.
Where did the producers of these breakfast radio shows find these women?
‘What you need to understand is that if men cannot get the sexual gratification they need, then they will just take what they think is rightfully theirs. Masturbation is no substitution for penetration.’
Letting her words wash over him, he gazed at the ever-growing mountain of pots in the sink, transfixed like a schoolboy staring out of the classroom window on a summer’s day. The mugs at the bottom of the mound were now, in all probability, growing their own penicillin; the oven to the left of the sink could double as a photographer’s dark room, the encrusted grime on the glass door blocking all incoming light.
As he picked another slice of pizza from the cardboard box, its end drooping as he held the crust between his thumb and index finger, the rising crescendo of the educated and distinctively plummy voice snapped his attention back to the radio.
‘Fathers…sons…brothers…husbands…nephews. Every single one of them is capable of rape. The sooner women wake up to the fact that the genteel man next door, the smiling guy on the bus or train, the eloquent charmer in the wine bar, are all potential rapists, the safer they will be. Men use sex to dominate, but rape is not just about domination. It’s about dominating when they feel the urge to do so. Their needs are all that matter. All men are rapists in waiting. All men are monsters.’
He tried to picture this woman. Was she one of those professor types? A sour-faced academic with a hatred of men and point to prove? Must be. Probably took her months to come up with that masturbation sound bite. He could see her sitting by the studio microphone, lip curling as she talked about men, despising them but emulating them in the way she dressed…trousers or jeans, brown brogues and baggy T-shirt, and the obligatory short hair and no make-up.
Grabbing the table with both hands, he pushed the chair away from it with his backside and leaped across the floor, the cold on his bare feet feeling as if the outside frost had settled on the terracotta tiles. He grabbed the on-off knob and shut her up with one hard twist. What the fuck did she know? So what if she’d interviewed all those victims. Had she spoken to any so-called rapists? No chance. How did she know what motivated them, what motivated him?
Grabbing the loose-hanging belt on his white, towelled dressing gown, he pulled both ends hard and fast, just a little too tight around his stomach. Stupid cow! Rooted to the spot, he replayed her outburst and asked himself if he was a monster. Inhaling slowly, he decided that depended on your viewpoint. How can I be a monster? I’m gentle with them. I treat them well. Even ask if they’ve enjoyed it. The muscles in his face relaxed into an ever widening smile, the tightness leaving his arms and shoulders. Loosening the belt, he leaned backwards against the kitchen bench. He planned everything so meticulously; from the moment he selected a woman to making sure he didn’t get caught. And domination? What was that about? It wasn’t about domination to him.
Taking the stairs two at a time, he bolted into his bedroom. Yanking open his bedside drawer, he dropped on to the bed, sitting upright, staring at the photographs on the driving licences. Licking his dry lips, he looked at each of them, memories flooding from the past and crashing into the present. This wasn’t the time to handle the items but, as his breathing slowed, he knew no amount of time would dim the memory of what each licence meant.
Danielle Banks’s gloved hand pushed open the door into the town-centre coffee shop. Her dark brown eyes quickly scanned the customers, anxiously looking for her mother’s face. She’d already stressed in a text that morning she didn’t have much time. Glancing at her TAG Heuer watch, a Christmas present from her parents, she could see her mother was already 10 min
utes late. Danielle was late too - but she was working and had an excuse.
Dark Tides Thrillers Box Set Page 1
