by Cari Hunter
“You need me to come in?” he asked, suddenly serious.
“No, I’m okay.” She paused on the landing, fumbling for a light switch. An energy-saving bulb came on overhead, and the shadows that had surrounded her slowly faded. “I’m fine,” she said with more assurance. “Meet me out front when you’re done.”
A cursory inspection cleared the bathroom. There was nowhere to hide, and she had no desire to cross its threshold. The furniture in the spare bedroom comprised an empty chest of drawers and a single mattress, whereas Glenda’s own bedroom actually boasted a bed and a wardrobe, each flanked by towers of tattered Mills and Boons. Sanne traced her finger across a cover, revealing a muscled male and a swooning bride beneath the layer of dust. The clash between fantasy and reality couldn’t have been more pronounced.
There were more books stacked under the bed, propping up the sagging springs and leaving no space for anyone to conceal themselves. A mounting urge to get back outside gave Sanne the impetus to yank open the wardrobe, her haste making the hangers clank against the rail, shredding what remained of her courage. She slammed the door, taking a shaky breath. Nobody was lurking ready to smash in her skull, she reassured herself, and there was no corpse bleeding into the floor. There was just a mangy bedroom and a woman downstairs who wasn’t willing to kill to protect her son.
“All clear, Nelson,” she said into her radio.
“Copy that. Yard’s clear as well. I’ll see you in a minute.”
She found Glenda snoring on the sofa, beer resting on her chest, a cigarette burning close to her fingertips. Crouching beside her, Sanne pinched out the cigarette and dropped it into a crowded ashtray. She shook Glenda’s shoulder, watching as Glenda instinctively reached for her can.
“Who the fuck are you?” Glenda squinted harder. “Oh, didn’t find him hiding in me knicker drawer, then?”
“No.” Sanne stood, restoring a safe distance between herself and Glenda’s breath. “So where does Liam go when you kick him out?”
Glenda finished her beer and tapped the last cigarette from a crumpled packet. Sanne tossed her a lighter that left a greasy residue on her fingers.
“Now and again he gets a bed at the Mission Cross, but mostly he goes down by the canal with the rest of the smack rats.”
“Any idea where?”
“Cadmer Bridge? Cadbury Br—Oh, I don’t fucking know.”
Fortunately, Sanne did. “Cadman Bridge?”
Glenda nodded through her cloud of smoke. “Bingo.”
“Don’t suppose you have a current mobile number for him?”
“You don’t suppose right.”
“Thank you,” Sanne said, trying not to inhale too deeply. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Glenda spoke around her cigarette, her expression suddenly thoughtful. “Hey, what did the shithead do this time?”
“I couldn’t possibly say.” Sanne placed her card on the arm of the sofa, and then changed her mind and propped it by a four-pack of lager where Glenda was more likely to see it. “If he drops round for a cuppa, ask him to give me a call, will you?”
She left without waiting for the predictable response. Nelson met her at the front door, the apprehension easing from his face when he saw she was in one piece.
“According to Ma Burrows, Liam could be at the Mission Cross or hanging with his buddies by Cadman Bridge,” she said as they navigated back out to the street.
“Cadman Bridge? Jesus, I’m not going there in the dark.”
Sanne looked up, as if out of a daze, to see the deep blue-black of a winter evening. She hadn’t realised how late it was. “How about we head for the Mission?” she said. “If he’s there, all well and good. If he’s not, we can try the canal first thing tomorrow.”
Nelson gave her a thumbs-up and ducked into the car. She Googled the address they needed, as he sat shivering and waiting for the windscreen to defrost.
“How long till it’s summer again?” he asked through chattering teeth.
Sanne took her time calculating. “Maybe six months, more likely seven up here, and we’ve hardly even had a winter yet, you nesh bugger.”
“I beg to differ.” He pointed to the dashboard display that registered the temperature as minus three degrees. “And I can’t help being nesh. My people are used to warmer climes.”
She laughed. “Warmer climes, my arse. You were born in Manchester!”
He turned the heater up another notch and pulled away from the kerb. “I’m sure my Caribbean blood’s thinner than yours. I think they proved it scientifically on the telly.”
“You’re a pillock. You know that, don’t you? What happened to those passion killers your mum got you for Christmas? Did Abeni chuck them in the bin?” She patted his leg, trying to detect an extra layer.
The car jerked as he rolled up his trousers enough to display his thermal long johns.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Sanne said. “Those are hideous.”
He changed gear without adjusting his clothing. “They’re cosy, though, and snug in all the right places.”
She put her hands over her ears. “Enough, I’ve heard enough. Turn right at the roundabout, left at the first lights, and please, if you value our partnership, put your bloody legs away.”
Chapter Eight
Sanne wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting the Mission Cross to look like: perhaps a church or at least a building bearing some kind of religious iconography. Instead, it occupied a mid-sized unit on an industrial estate half a mile from Malory Park, a building so nondescript that Nelson drove past it twice before Sanne noticed the sign.
“Very cloak and dagger,” he said, pulling into a parking space and switching off the ignition.
Craning her neck, Sanne watched as the front door of the shelter swung open and a young woman in a coat too short for the weather tried to corral two small children and a pram while carrying three bulging plastic bags. “I guess those who need it know where it is,” she murmured.
Nelson shook his head in obvious dismay. “How’s she going to get home?”
“She’ll walk,” Sanne said. “Some folk’d rather come to these places when it’s dark.”
Nelson murmured his understanding. She didn’t need to tell him that that was what her own mum had done on the rare but—for Teresa Jensen—mortifying occasions when the money had run out completely and a food bank had been her only way of providing for her kids. She had walked there and back under cover of night, refusing even to take the bus in case someone saw her and guessed where she’d been.
As Nelson and Sanne got out of the car, the young woman hurried by with her head lowered, the pram now full of bags, leaving the children struggling to match her pace. Sanne’s feet ached in sympathy. She hoped they didn’t have far to go, but she knew that the offer of a lift home wouldn’t be appreciated.
“Come on. Let’s get this done.” She gave Nelson’s sleeve a gentle tug to prevent him intervening, and after a moment’s hesitation, he followed her lead.
Although the front door was unlocked, it led only into a vestibule, the actual entrance being controlled by a security system. Posters covered the walls—helplines for victims of domestic abuse and forced marriage, with text in English and Urdu; support groups for people struggling with substance abuse; and assistance for job seekers or those confused by recent changes to their benefits. As Sanne pocketed a leaflet about subsidised childcare, intending to pass it to Keeley, a voice sounded through a tinny speaker. Nelson had apparently buzzed for access while she’d been busy reading.
“I suppose that’d be Daniel,” the voice said, and the speaker transmitted a reluctant sigh. “Push the door and I’ll come fetch you.”
“I asked for the manager,” Nelson told Sanne.
They had just stepped into the main building when a plump, middle-aged woman walked toward them wiping her hands on a grimy apron. Either she wasn’t fond of the police or she didn’t consider her hands clean enough, because s
he didn’t offer one in greeting. She acknowledged Nelson’s introductions with an inclination of her head and studied their ID badges in turn. Her apron had Pauline stitched on it in red cotton, but she didn’t confirm her name.
“Daniel’s in the kitchen,” she said, leading them along a corridor where the smell of cooking gradually became stronger. “You couldn’t have come at a worse time.”
Teatime, Sanne realised. Tea was 5:30 p.m. sharp in the Jensen household, and the Mission canteen evidently adhered to a similar schedule. The rattle of crockery and cutlery and a hubbub of voices greeted them as they entered. It took mere seconds for their presence to register, and the diners—a mishmash of no-fixed-abodes, young families, and others not so easy to categorise—quietened, their eyes dropping to their plates as they tried to avoid being singled out.
“I think we’ve been rumbled,” Nelson said in an undertone.
“Yeah? Whatever gave you that idea?” Sanne paused in her scanning of the room to waggle her fingers at a toddler shovelling mash and gravy into his mouth. He giggled and shook his spoon, splattering the table with food.
The numerous avoidance strategies made it difficult to see everyone’s face, and Sanne had just conceded defeat when a man turned around, waving her and Nelson over. Dressed in jeans and a shabby sweater, he stood out only by virtue of being clean-shaven and having a tidy haircut. After pausing to speak to an elderly woman, he came to meet Sanne and Nelson halfway across the floor.
“Daniel Horst,” he said, shaking both of their hands. His smile was genuine, if tired. “How can I help?”
Aware of multiple ears pricking up around them, Sanne kept her voice low. “Is there somewhere we can talk that’s a little more private?”
Daniel glanced at the serving hatch, where a queue still waited.
“Ten minutes, max,” Sanne said.
His shoulders dropped in acquiescence. “We can go to the office.”
The office was locked, an understandable precaution. Daniel produced a bunch of keys and selected a blue-capped one. Once inside, he flicked on the light to reveal a room crammed with value-label food and household goods. Stacks of toilet rolls covered the desk, and both of the chairs were loaded with tins of baked beans.
He started to move a box but then realised he had nowhere to put it. “We just had a delivery from one of the supermarkets. Some of them donate damaged items or food nearing its sell-by date. This has been a good week, hence…” He gestured at the disarray.
“It’s okay,” Sanne said. “We won’t keep you for long. We’re looking for Liam Burrows, and his mum told us he stays here on occasion.”
“Ah, Liam.” Daniel shook his head in regret. “I’ve not seen him since December, when we had to sanction him.” His eyes widened as if he’d made a connection. “Does this have something to do with Andy?”
Nelson sidestepped a direct answer. “We heard that he and Andrew Culver had a fight here. Did that prompt the sanction?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Daniel touched the cross around his neck in a subconscious gesture. “The argument had started outside, something to do with Andy short-changing Liam on a deal. They were allowed in on the proviso that they remained apart, but Liam provoked a fight in the dining hall. There were several families in there at the time, so we had no option but to issue him with a temporary ban.”
“And he’s not been back since?” Sanne asked.
“Once, just after Christmas. I gave him a sandwich and a hot drink.” Daniel’s already flushed face turned a deeper shade of scarlet. “He’s not a bad lad, Detective. He’s just taken a bad path.”
“Like Andrew Culver?” Nelson said.
“Similar, yes, except that Andy made several attempts to get clean. He even volunteered with us for a couple of weeks when we were working on a community allotment.” Daniel reached behind a box and took a framed photograph from the wall. He handed it to Sanne.
“When was this taken?” she asked. It was raining in the photo, but no one seemed to mind. The ten or so volunteers were all wearing muddy waterproofs and grinning. She recognised Culver and Natalie Acre among them.
“May, I think, last year.”
“Is there anyone else who might have borne a grudge against Culver?”
Daniel shook his head. “Not that I can think of. He was a quiet lad, used to come in for a meal every now and again. We’d chat about football if he wasn’t too strung out.” He moved to Sanne’s side and tapped the photograph. “Have you spoken to Natalie? She and Andy broke up not long after this, but she’s probably the closest thing he has to a next of kin.”
“We spoke earlier today.” Sanne passed the photo to Nelson. “When you saw Liam in December, did he tell you where he’d been staying?”
A sigh preceded Daniel’s response. “‘Here and there,’ which usually means out by the canal. He was dishevelled, filthy. I let him use the shower after he’d eaten. My wife says I’m too much of a pushover, but someone has to try, haven’t they?”
“Aye.”
Nelson returned the photo to its hook. “We’ll let you get back to it,” he said.
As Daniel escorted them to the entrance, the canteen door swung back and forth, latecomers rushing in and others drifting back out into the cold.
“Are mealtimes always this busy?” Sanne asked.
“Always, and it’s getting worse,” Daniel said. “Job cuts, punitive benefit sanctions, the bedroom tax. They might be popular with the voters, but they’re driving people out of their homes and into poverty. We’re seeing more families, more people who actually have jobs and still can’t make ends meet.” He didn’t sound like a party political broadcast, merely someone who had to deal with the fallout on a daily basis. “We’re affiliated with a local church, but we don’t shout about that in case it puts people off coming to us for help.”
Sanne nodded. That explained the building’s anonymous façade, although she was sure Keeley would happily listen to any sermon if it came with free nappies.
“We appreciate you sparing the time,” she said at the door.
“I hope you find him,” Daniel said. “Liam, and whoever killed Andy.” He turned away before they could offer any hollow promises or parting pleasantries. Leaving them to navigate the icy car park, he went to greet a girl whose toes were poking through one of her shoes.
“Our perp and Liam Burrows could be one and the same,” Nelson said, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “Burrows is our sole person of interest so far. Maybe Culver tried another sour deal, but this time Liam was packing more than his fists.”
“Sounds plausible,” Sanne said. “Shall we head to the canal early doors, when we’ve more chance of catching everyone in bed?”
He grinned at her across the car roof. “You’ve got yourself a date. Are you ready to call it a night?”
“God, yes.” The very mention of going home made her aware of how tired she was. Andrew Culver’s post mortem felt like days ago, and she hadn’t slept much the night before.
As she opened the car door, her phone started to ring. Seeing Meg’s name, she paused to answer.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“He broke into my house,” Meg said, her voice sounding odd and distant. “And he wrecked everything.”
Sanne placed her hand on the car bonnet, focusing on the sting of frost beneath her palm in an effort to keep calm. “Have you called the police?”
“Yes, SOCO just left.” A sob rattled out of Meg as she paused. “I think he might come back,” she whispered.
“Sit tight, love,” Sanne said. “I’ll be there in about an hour.”
*
Sanne made it to Meg’s in seventy minutes. Factoring in the persistent sleet and a diversion to her own cottage to throw some food at the chickens and collect a change of clothes, it was possibly a new land speed record. Meg’s front door remained obstinately shut until Sanne shouted through the letterbox, and the first things she saw were the hammer and rolling pin positioned
on the second stair.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.” Meg tried to smile but made a mess of it, grimacing instead. When Sanne reached out to tuck a stray piece of hair back into its clip, Meg’s bottom lip began to tremble, and she leaned forward to rest her head on Sanne’s shoulder.
“You didn’t need to come,” she said.
“Yeah, yeah.” Sanne rubbed Meg’s back, trying to ease some of the tension in the muscles. She guessed Meg had been sitting on the stairs for hours, armed to the teeth, as she waited for her brother. “What did the police say?”
“Not much.” Meg pulled away and returned to her perch. Sanne moved the makeshift weapons and joined her.
“Did you tell them about Luke?”
Meg nodded. “The officer said he’d speak to the staff at Rainscroft, but there’ve been a few burglaries in the village the last month or so, and he seemed convinced this was related. SOCO are going to run a DNA sample—Luke helped himself to a sandwich—but that’ll take a few weeks. They didn’t find any obvious prints, so I suppose he had the sense to wear gloves.”
“How much of a wreck are we talking?”
In lieu of an answer, Meg stood and led Sanne to the kitchen, stopping just over the threshold.
“Bloody hell,” Sanne whispered. “Every room?”
“Pretty much.” Glass crunched beneath Meg’s trainers as she crossed the tiles. “I don’t know where to start. I was supposed to be on shift an hour ago, but I managed to swap onto a full night, so I’ve got till eight.”
“Can’t you call in for emergency leave?” Sanne was still trying to make sense of the scene in front of her. Anyone worth their investigative salt would have seen this was more than a simple burglary. Luke had lashed out like a spiteful child, hell-bent on teaching Meg a lesson.
“I was late in yesterday, so I’m already on Donovan’s shit list,” Meg said. “No doubt I’ll be on Emily’s as well. I’ve not told her anything yet.”