Shifting Sands Read online

  Shifting Sands

  Phil Tyler Thrillers, Volume 2

  Barry Litherland

  Published by Barry Litherland, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  SHIFTING SANDS

  First edition. May 16, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Barry Litherland.

  ISBN: 978-1393394396

  Written by Barry Litherland.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

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  Further Reading: Rising Tides

  Also By Barry Litherland

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  ‘I’m telling you, man, this guy was butt-naked, walking down a country lane at two in the morning and whimpering for someone called Bunny. Scared the shit out of me, I can tell you. I mean, it’s not what you expect, is it? There I am outside this big house, minding my own, and I’m edgy enough, if you know what I mean, when I hear this weak, tinny voice coming out of nowhere. I don’t believe in spirits or ghosts or any of that shit, but I tell you, man, at that moment...

  ‘“Bunny! Bunny!” he calls. “Bunny!”

  ‘Then he emerges from the darkness like a ghost, hasn’t an item of clothing to his name, and he’s got his hands out like he’s reaching for something, like a little kid who’s just learned to walk, and he’s repeating over and over, “Bunny! Bunny!”’

  ‘Okay, Winston, I get the picture. Can you just lower your voice a little? People are staring.’

  We’re in Maggie’s café in the precinct, sitting by a window which looks out into the pedestrian area. It’s crammed with tourists, it being summer, and the school holidays being underway. The café is full, and most of the customers have spent the last few minutes listening to Winston. I mean, you don’t have much choice. Winston is loud. It’s as if he’s unaware that there’s anyone else in the entire world, as if there’s just you and him. He doesn’t suffer from embarrassment. He never has.

  I do.

  Not for the first time, I want him to shut up or lower his voice or maybe just go away.

  Yeah, going away would be good.

  Only Winston has never learned to take a hint. You could drop a hint by clubbing him with a cricket bat, or you could scream in his face. It’d make no difference. He’s always been the same. A nuclear warhead would bounce off Winston.

  ‘Hey, man, what are you worried about? It’s a great story for that paper of yours. You should thank me. But I haven’t told you the best bit.’

  He snorts with laughter and leans forward as if he’s going to whisper, but then he doesn’t.

  ‘I mean, whoever this Bunny is, this guy is really hot for her, if you know what I mean. He’s got a dick like that leaning tower — what do they call it?’

  ‘Pisa,’ I whisper, ‘the Leaning Tower of Pisa.’

  Winston rolls back his head, opens a cavernous mouth, and roars with laughter. ‘Well, that’s appropriate. This guy is signposting heavenward with the most enormous...’

  ‘Okay, Winston, okay. There’s no need to get graphic. I’ve got the picture.’ I glance round, and heads turn away instantly. ‘Everyone in the room has got the picture.’

  A couple of older women leave their afternoon tea with haughty looks and head for the door, but plenty more remain over empty cups and plates. They’re listening and pretending not to, and suddenly I’m on a stage and we’re improvising this scene and I’ve no idea what’s coming next or how it’s going to end, and everyone is waiting for my contribution.

  Then I see Maggie over by the counter and I know exactly how it’s going to end and what I have to do. She’s formidable even when she’s smiling, but she’s not smiling now. She’s dusting her heavyweight hands on a tea towel, flexing her muscles, preparing for a fight. She isn’t even looking at the old guy who’s talking to her. Her eyes are trained on Winston and me. I look at my chest, imagining a little red light targeting me.

  It’s understandable, I guess. Winston isn’t her regular type of customer. This is more of a middle-aged, middle-class, genteel, tea and cakes sort of establishment — the sort of place my mum likes. Maggie doesn’t care for tourists, and she can’t abide anyone with children. She looks at anyone under the age of 50 as if they’re about to spring a trap. She only smiles at them when they’re leaving, and that’s more out of relief than anything else. Winston is in a category shared by drunks, dog owners, and people who don’t pay. She looks at him as if he’s trodden both feet in something unpleasant with the sole intention of bringing it into her café.

  When she hears his latest outburst, she’s had enough, and now she’s rolling our way like a lumbering, doom-laden cloud.

  ‘Come on, Winston, it’s time to go.’ I drag him to his feet and head for the door. ‘Sorry, Maggie,’ I call over my shoulder. ‘We’re leaving.’

  He’s still trying to cram the last of his cream cake into his mouth as I push him through the door and into the stream of pedestrian traffic.

  ‘And don’t come back!’ Maggie shouts after us. ‘We don’t want your sort in here.’

  Winston looks back with an enormous grin.

  ‘Is it a race thing?’ he calls.

  If she was holding a knife, she’d throw it, I swear.

  I steer him round a couple of corners and only slow down when I’m sure no one is looking at us.

  ‘What the hell, Winston? I could be a column in my own newspaper tomorrow.’

  ‘No one reads newspapers anymore. No offence.’

  ‘My mum and dad do. And what do you mean, “Is it a race thing?” Do you know how many times I’ve heard you say that?’

  ‘Shuts them up though, don’t it?’

  We’re walking slowly now, getting jostled by tourists in a hurry to get nowhere special. I direct him to a seat that a large woman with an even larger shopping bag has just vacated. There are flowers in a circular bed just behind the bench, contained by a low, brick wall — part of the town centre improvements. My boss, Liz, says they’re incongruous. She says it’s like sticking a candle in a turd.

  ‘What do you think of my story?’ Winston asks. ‘Is it worth a few quid?’

  ‘No disrespect, Winston, but I’d need more than your word before I wrote a story about a naked rambler. I’m sure you’ve got a lot of admirable qualities, but honesty isn’t the first that springs to mind. You’d lie to your mother.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Winston grins.

  ‘Besides, I can’t help wondering what you were doing on a
country lane at two in the morning. Hardly your scene, is it? I mean, when I think of you, I don’t really picture nocturnal nature walks. What were you doing there?’

  ‘Just a bit of private enterprise.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Nah, with Benny.’

  ‘Benny Jarrett? Jesus, Winston, you mean you were burgling a house?’

  ‘Me? No. I was just standing at the end of the road, waiting for Benny. I was his driver, man. He lost his licence, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, that happens when you drive at ninety down the promenade and swerve into the concrete seating. They reckon if he hadn’t been drunk, he might have killed himself.’

  ‘That’s always been Benny’s trouble. He likes a drink, and he likes cars. But at least it wasn’t his car. Every cloud...’

  ‘He enjoys burgling remote houses too, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Benny’s okay. He never hurts anyone.’

  ‘I’m not sure his victims see it that way. Did Benny see your mysterious nudist?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you mean you don’t know? Didn’t you discuss it on the way back? I mean, it’s the sort of thing you might mention. “Hey, Benny, guess what I just saw...” that sort of thing. Wouldn’t it make an interesting conversation, even for a couple of dough brains like you and Benny?’

  ‘He was in there for ages. After the naked guy turned up, I figured I’d split before someone came looking.’

  My head is spinning and I’m in danger of following Winston’s stream of consciousness towards a cliff edge. I think maybe I’ll keep to the important points.

  ‘So where were you when all this happened?’

  Winston hesitates as his fine-tuned, automated instinct for self-preservation kicks in.

  ‘Maybe it’s better you don’t know,’ he says.

  ‘Come on, Winston, I don’t betray my sources, not even when they’re thieving bastards like you and Benny.’

  He relaxes, and the big smile returns. You can’t offend Winston. God knows I’ve tried. I used to think if I was offensive enough often enough, he’d get the hint and leave me alone. He didn’t.

  ‘We were out towards Westleigh, a few miles after the railway crossing. There’s this house behind the trees — Westleigh Lodge — that has single-glazed windows in a couple of rooms round the back. I mean, shit, man... in this day and age... don’t they know there are thieves about? I mean, it’s like an invitation.’

  ‘Yeah, I know the place; it’s near Westleigh Hall, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘So, this guy...’

  ‘Yeah, just like I said — “Bunny! Bunny!” It was weird, man.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ve just seen a naked man walk past you on a country lane calling out for this...’

  ‘Bunny! Bunny!’

  ‘Will you stop doing that, Winston — putting on that simpering little voice? It’s getting really irritating, and people are looking.’

  ‘Hey, chill, man.’

  ‘You’ve just seen this helpless guy walking down the lane. Forgive me for stating the obvious, but did you call the police?’

  ‘Hell no. Think of Benny, man.’

  ‘Ambulance?’

  ‘Nah.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I figure someone will see him eventually. Then I think maybe I’d better get out of there before the police arrive or someone sees me and starts asking questions. Like you say, it’s difficult to explain being up there at two in the morning. And with Benny up there at the old house... you catch my drift?’

  ‘With both hands, Winston, with both hands. So, you get in your car and drive off, leaving Benny and the naked rambler to sort themselves out.’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘You’re all heart, Winston. You know that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he grins again.

  ‘Did you pass the guy on your way back to town?’

  ‘I went the other way. I didn’t want to meet anyone coming to throw a towel over him. It took ages, and I nearly got taken off the road by this four-by-four. You don’t expect it on a country lane, do you? The bastard thought he owned the place.’

  ‘There are a lot of things you don’t expect to see on a country lane at that time of night. You’re pretty high up the list yourself.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess.’

  ‘What did Benny think when he came out with his sack of loot to find his driver had done a runner?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him. I’m keeping a low profile till he calms down.’

  That grin is irritating me. I think it’s time I took my leave.

  ‘Yeah, I can see the sense in that. I’ve got to go, Winston — work, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, see you, man.’

  I stand up and head towards the promenade. I figure I’ll walk for a while and get Winston out of my system. Only, I don’t get far before I hear him calling after me.

  Everybody within a hundred yards hears him.

  ‘He had electrodes all over him too, and he was covered in gel,’ he shouts, ‘head to toe. Even his...’

  I turn a corner but not my head and walk towards the fresher air of the Sefton seafront. The word follows me, and I imagine heads turning, watching me all the way to the sea.

  Chapter 2

  I’ve got to admit I’m intrigued by Winston’s story. I think maybe it’s worth a few phone calls — the hospital, the police — just to see if someone more compassionate than Winston phoned in about this guy. I mean, someone must have seen him eventually, even at that time of night. There’s usually someone around with a camera phone nowadays. No tragedy would be complete without some desensitised moron making a few quid from his crap picture. We even get them at The Evening Post.

  Hey, I’ve got a picture of those kids who burnt to death. They’re standing at the window screaming. It’s a great picture. What’s it worth?

  They just don’t get it.

  You’d think someone would have missed this guy by now though, wouldn’t you? He must be from somewhere, some house, some clinic. Someone must have noticed something — an empty bed, an open door or window?

  Mustn’t they?

  Only, they haven’t. The hospital is a blank. No one matching that description has been admitted to the hospital during the night, and since he’d be pretty hard to miss, I guess that’s a dead end. I try the police. The desk sergeant knows me, but he still sounds like he thinks I’m winding him up.

  ‘Naked, you say?’

  ‘Yes, totally.’

  ‘I see and it’s — what time did you say?’

  ‘About two in the morning.’

  ‘Near Westleigh Lodge?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And... er, gel, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I think he’s trying not to laugh, and I haven’t even reached the funny part yet. I take a deep breath.

  ‘He was calling out for someone called Bunny and....’

  No, I just can’t tell him.

  ‘You saw this yourself, did you?’

  ‘No, it was... a friend.’

  ‘Could you tell me his name?’

  Winston is well known. If I mention him, this guy is going to laugh out loud.

  ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ the sergeant says. He pauses, probably writing notes, maybe for an after-dinner speech. ‘What was your source doing out there at that time of night?’

  I start to feel uncomfortable.

  ‘He was just driving home.’

  ‘Had he been drinking or indulging in recreational drugs, do you think?’

  He’s fighting back laughter; I can hear it. I bet he’s got tears running down his cheeks. I’m really glad I didn’t mention the naked guy’s most distinctive feature. Someone should remind this guy that taking the piss is only funny when you’re both laughing.

  ‘Can you let me know if you hear any
thing?’ I ask.

  ‘You’ll be the first to know,’ he tells me, ‘I promise.’

  As I close my phone, I feel my face glowing with embarrassment. I can just see him now, calling to his colleagues.

  Hey, guys, you want to hear a good one?

  Shit. He’ll probably phone Slattery too. They were mates back in the old days.

  I head to the office and bury myself in work until my emotions stabilise and my colour returns to normal, but the story is still niggling away at me. It’s not something I’d admit publicly, but I believe Winston. I mean, he’s got no reason to make stuff up, has he? And this is a bit too surreal, even for him.

  I wonder what the naked guy and this Bunny were into, what with the gel and electrodes. Was it some sadomasochistic, nurse-patient thing?

  I try to shake the thought away, but there are some images you just can’t shift once they’ve attached themselves to your brain.

  There’s something else too. Where had Bunny hopped off to? Did she have a burrow out that way? Were there two of them wandering about, naked, in a state of frenzied arousal?

  Suddenly ‘Bunny’ seems like an appropriate name.

  I shudder and try to think of something else, something the complete opposite of frenzied arousal.

  Liz.

  Yeah, I think I’ll talk to Liz. She’s my editor, and, even on a good day, I’m terrified of her. She has this look, you see. She turns it on you and you feel like you’ve just been stapled to the wall, and you get this message which flashes like some weird code from her eyes. It has a kind of sequence. When you decode it, you find it goes like this:

  I don’t suffer fools gladly; you know that don’t you, Philip?

  Yes, Liz.

  Are you a fool, Philip?

  No, Liz.

  You look like a fool from where I’m standing, Philip.

  No, I’m not a fool, Liz.

  Yes, you’re a fool, Philip. Repeat after me, “I am a fool, Liz.”

  I’m not a fool, Liz. Really, I’m not.

  I don’t like you, Philip.

  Okay.

  She’s about 50, five foot two, and made of carbon fibre. I mean, she’s tougher than anyone I’ve ever met. But she’s devoted to the paper, and she’s a real professional. There are no typos in her paper, no grammatical errors, no mistaken names, dates, or locations, and no dodgy sources. Liz’s news is so thoroughly researched and corroborated, it’s as watertight as a nuclear warhead. And when she gets her teeth into something, it would take a six-foot crowbar and a team of brave men to prise her off it. Even the owners of the paper shudder at the thought of questioning her judgement. I’ve seen them standing outside her door, taking deep breaths before entering.