by Cari Hunter
“What the fuck?” Too shocked to do anything but stare at him, she gripped the door jamb to steady herself.
“Hey, sis,” he said, as if breaking into her house for the second time was perfectly normal behaviour.
“How did you get in?” Now she knew he was there, she could smell things and see things that she hadn’t noticed before: a trace of cigarette smoke and fried food, a pan used and left full of congealing fat on her stove, and a small gap around the board covering the window that he had smashed. The glaziers weren’t due to repair it until Wednesday.
He jerked his chin at the wood, and a faint smile of pride at a job well done crept onto his face. “Needed more nails in it.”
“Right.” She flinched as he took a step toward her, and he reacted immediately, raising his hands in conciliation and coming no closer. He had gained weight, his bulk straining the seams of a shirt and trousers that no longer fitted him. Unshaven, with tatty, oil-slick hair, he smelled dirty, and in a moment of barely tempered hysteria she thought how typical it was that he had raided her food but hadn’t bothered to use her shower.
“I just wanted to see you, Meg. I wanted to talk to you,” he said, his voice thin and nasal. She had heard that whine before, usually pre-empting a demand for money.
“You hurt Mum, and you wrecked my house,” she said. “Fucking hell, Luke, you tried to steal the wedding ring off her finger. Do you really think I want to sit down and have a chat with you?”
“I were desperate.” His bottom lip curled into a pout. “I’d been inside for a few months, and I thought this bloke would forget I owed him, but he were straight on me as soon as I come out. I’ve been trying to hide, but I know he’ll find me.”
“How much do you owe?” She did a quick calculation. She could afford fifteen hundred at a push, which would be money well spent if it got rid of him.
“Twenty grand,” he said.
She closed her eyes in despair. “Twenty thousand pounds? What the hell did you do with that? Fly to the Caribbean? Buy a flashy car?”
“I owed someone else,” he snapped. “Some bent fuck who jacked up the interest. He threatened me, Meg, proper scared me. I didn’t know what to do.”
“So you took out another loan to pay off the first?”
His fist hammered on the counter, making her jump. “You got a better fucking idea? Huh? Come on then. Let’s hear it.”
She said nothing, her eyes flickering to the block of knives beside the kettle, and the drawer beneath that where she kept her rolling pin. With an obvious effort, Luke calmed his breathing and unclenched his fingers.
“I needed help, Meg, and when I went to Mum’s and Mrs. Baxter told me you’d sold the house, I knew you’d have the money. And some of that money, well, it’s mine, isn’t it? So I just want what’s mine, that’s all.” He made it sound so reasonable, his face all doe-eyes and a big smile, but the smile disappeared as Meg shook her head.
“There’s no money, Luke. The house wasn’t worth much, and Mum’s care home costs a fortune. The money ran out months ago.”
“You’re lying.” He delivered his verdict in a neutral tone, as if he hadn’t quite decided which way this would play out.
She inched away as he moved forward, her options now limited to running for the front door.
“You’re lying.” He took another step, forcing her to retreat again. “And you set the cops on me.”
Meg’s stomach lurched as Luke adjusted his stance, his knees bending slightly. She knew the signs, knew that she didn’t have much time, and she was breathing so fast that her fingers were starting to tingle.
“I haven’t spoken to the police,” she said, willing him to believe her.
“Liar!” he yelled, spittle flying from his lips. “The cops are looking everywhere! I got friends, you stupid bitch. They tell me stuff. I can’t get into the hostels or the shelters, and it’s your fucking fault!”
On the word “fault,” she bolted, turning and sprinting down the hallway, but her fingers had only grazed the door handle when a tug on her shirt sent her flying. She collided with the wall, the thud of her head on the plaster leaving her too dazed to resist as he grabbed her again. With both hands wrapped around her collar, he hauled her into the kitchen and slammed her back against the sink. She felt her ribs crack on impact, and all the air seemed to leave her in a rush.
“Stop,” she gasped. “Luke, please.”
He snarled and punched her, splitting the skin on her cheek. Her head lolled to the side, and then she was falling, her legs collapsing as he dropped her. Curling into a ball, she dimly sensed him step over her and leave the kitchen. It didn’t take him long to find the keys in her coat pocket. He shut the front door quietly behind him and started her car. Terrified that he would return to drag her out with him, she sobbed when she heard him drive away instead. Blood filled her mouth, frothing and bubbling with every breath she snatched, and when she tried to straighten, pain arched through her torso, keeping her in a foetal position.
“Oh God,” she whispered.
He had hurt her before, but not like this, never anything like this, and she had no way to get help. Her mobile was in her coat pocket, her house phone out of reach on the countertop, and her immediate neighbours both worked late. The blood running down her throat made her retch, and she vomited a stream of crimson onto the floor. Panting against the pain, she swiped a clumsy hand at the mess and then pounded the tiles with her fist. Luke had her keys. He could come back any time he wanted.
“Fuck that,” she said. “Fuck that.”
She reached behind herself and managed to open the nearest cupboard, knocking plastic bottles of ketchup and HP sauce onto the floor, until her fingers closed around a glass pasta jar. Fusilli skittered across the tiles when she smashed the glass, and the exertion made her vomit again, her vision failing her as she dry-heaved. Leaning her head on the cold tiles, she wrapped her fingers around the base of the jar and waited for the sickness to pass. A solitary beam of sunlight sparkled on the jagged edges of her weapon and threw rainbows across the floor. She watched the colours with unfocused eyes and wondered how long it would be before Emily got worried enough to come looking for her.
Chapter Fifteen
The snow might have been playing havoc with the fingertip searches, but it had certainly livened up Sanne’s day of house-to-house enquiries. Two of the local schools were closed, leaving kids to run riot on the estate, and she and Nelson had already found themselves caught in several snowball fights. Despite all attempts to bait them, however, they behaved with the dignity and composure befitting police officers—that was, until an ambush left them soaked and prompted covert but effective retaliation. The group of ten-year-olds now shadowing their every move thought they were the best thing since sliced bread.
“It’s good for community relations,” Nelson said, proving the accuracy of his aim by taking out a shrieking kid from twenty feet. “And Carlyle did say that we needed to be visible.”
Sanne flicked snow out of her ear and ducked a missile, which splattered on the wall behind her. “I’m not sure this was what he had in mind.”
“Miss! Miss!” a scrawny kid with no front teeth yelled as he ran toward her. Assuming he was referring to the snowball, she ignored him until he tugged on her coat.
“Oh, hey, what’s up?” she asked.
“Are you really bobbies?” Beaming at her, he selected a toffee from a large paper bag and shoved it into his mouth, a habit that explained the gaps in his teeth.
“Yes, we’re really bobbies.” She watched Nelson unleash a barrage from his stronghold behind a hedge. “Although you’d be forgiven for thinking otherwise.”
“Eh?” The lad obviously didn’t have a clue what she’d just said. “Where’s your cuffs, then?”
Sanne mimicked his haughty pose. “What if that’s a secret?”
He eyed her for a few seconds. “I’ll give you a toffee if you tell me.”
Toffee choosing was a
serious business, and she took her time about it, rejecting liquorice and fudge in favour of a caramel with a white swirl.
“Them’s my favourites,” he declared proudly, as if she had passed some unspoken test.
“Okay then, a deal’s a deal.” She unfastened her coat and opened it wide enough to reveal her stab vest. Her cuffs, CS gas, notebook, and radio were all clipped in place.
“Oh, cool. You’re like Batman or something.”
She nodded, not well enough versed in the gadgetry of superheroes to know whether Batman really carried CS gas.
“Have you got a gun?” he asked.
“No.”
“Why not? Bobbies have them on the telly.”
“American telly, maybe. Most of us over here don’t carry guns.”
“What about a Taser?” He mimicked an electric shock, his thin arms shaking as he giggled.
“No, I’m not trained to use one.”
“You’re a rubbish bobby.”
His disappointment was palpable, so she tried to give him a new angle to consider. “Well, I’m a detective, which means that we look at clues and evidence and then we catch the really bad people.”
He picked his nose, deep in thought. “Danny Horst used to give us toffees,” he said, wiping his finger on his trousers. “He were nice.”
“Yes, he was.”
“You’re all right ’n’ all.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
“Pow!” he said. “Like in Batman.” He nodded, apparently expecting her to be pleased, which she might have been if she’d had any idea what he was talking about.
“I’m sorry. You’ve lost me.”
He raised his eyes heavenward. “My granny reckoned you were looking for a blue van. She sleeps at the back, but my room’s at the front. P-O-W,” he said, as Sanne stared at him, dumbfounded. “Them’s the last three letters of its number plate.”
*
Sanne and Nelson played no part in tracking the van from the partial plate, but Eleanor had promised to keep them updated, and her phone call made them abandon their doorstep interview mid-question and race back to the car.
“Steven Rudd, thirty-eight years old, lives at fifteen North Bank, Parson Cross, and is the registered keeper of a navy blue Vauxhall Combo, registration Bravo X-ray zero six Papa Oscar Whiskey.” Eleanor spoke clearly, aware that Sanne had put her call through to hands-free. “No priors. The officers working to trace the van were processing by profile fit and then alphabetically, so although Rudd is on their list, he’s not been interviewed yet. He’s lived in the area for about eighteen months and—saving the best for last—he has visited the Mission Cross on occasion. He didn’t ring many bells with the staff, though. A couple remembered him as being unemployed and a hard drinker, but pleasant enough.”
“What’s the plan, boss?” Nelson asked. Far from being tired after his snowball escapades, he was almost bouncing in the driver’s seat.
“Tactical Aid are on their way to North Bank with a warrant.” Eleanor sounded more cheerful than she had in weeks. “I will see you there in half an hour. Silent approach, but blues are authorised en route.”
Nelson whooped and drowned out the hum of the dial tone by revving the engine. He grinned at Sanne. “Want to go play with the boys in big boots?”
“Best offer I’ve had all day.” She laughed as he hit the sirens and four kids pelted the car in an honorary salute. “Left at the roundabout,” she said, just in case he’d forgotten.
They travelled for a while without speaking, Nelson focusing on the roads, now icy after the snow had turned to sleet, and Sanne busy plotting a route to North Bank that would circumvent the early rush hour traffic.
“Penny for them,” he said at length, drawing her attention away from the window and the graffiti-covered concrete of the bypass.
She propped her feet on the dash, placing her boots precisely in the prints she had left there that morning. If anyone but Nelson had asked the question, she would probably have lied.
“I was thinking how random stuff is at times,” she said. “I mean, what are the odds of us meeting that lad through an illicit snowball fight? Any other day he’d have been at school, and if we’d not played along, he’d never have trusted us enough to come forward.”
“Luck and little things,” Nelson said. “We depend on those all the time. The brass would never want us to admit it, but sometimes we just fluke this detective lark.”
She put a hand to her chest, feigning astonishment. “I thought we were all intuitive and brilliant.”
“Well, we’re that too.” He slowed for a red light, glancing at her as he hung back and waited for two lanes of traffic to part for him. “You got Billy Cotter bang to rights, didn’t you?”
“Aye,” she said, trying to quell any overt reaction to the name. “But maybe that was down to luck as well.”
“No way, San.” Nelson’s eyes were back on the road, but she felt as if they were still drilling through her. “I don’t give a damn what that note in your file says. You’re the best EDSOP partner I’ve had.”
Her cheeks suddenly felt hot, and she bowed her head, bashful as ever about accepting praise. Nelson was in his eighth year on the squad, and he’d had three previous partners.
“No truth to the rumour that you’re trading me in for Fred, then?” She directed the question at her toes.
“I have to admit the salsa dancing does give him a certain appeal.” He switched the siren from whoop to wail and hit eighty in the outside lane. “But I think I’ll stick with you for now.”
*
Funnelled between two blocks of flats, the wind howled along the walkway of North Bank, prompting Sanne to pull on her woolly hat and sidle closer to Nelson. She blew on her hands and rubbed them together, her fingers already too frozen for gloves to be of any benefit. Six doors down, the Tactical Aid Unit were approaching flat number fifteen in as stealthy a manner as eight men in full body armour could manage. Several residents were watching from the opposite block, but most of them merely checked that trouble wasn’t heading in their direction and shut their doors against the cold.
“Bet you a quid he’s not home,” she whispered to Nelson.
“No bet,” he whispered back.
The blue van was conspicuous by its absence in the car park, a fact that hadn’t gone unnoticed by Eleanor, who stood conferring with Carlyle and looking decidedly less chipper. Two storeys below, an ambulance was waiting on standby, a sensible precaution given the nature of the murders for which Steven Rudd was now the prime suspect. No one was needed to cover a rear exit. The flats were one way in, one way out.
“Police! Mr. Rudd, open the door!” the TAU sergeant bellowed, hammering on a glazed partition. “Police! Open up!”
The perfunctory warning taken care of, he moved aside, allowing another officer to step forward, enforcer ram in his hands. The officer drew back the sixteen kilograms of hardened steel and battered it against the door, the impact sending a shockwave through the UPVC and rattling the neighbours’ windows. Having located a weak point, he focused a barrage of hits around the area. Someone in the next flat turned up their television, a section of the doorframe flew six feet down the aisle, and three teenagers hanging off a balcony cheered as the door finally imploded.
Further yells of “Police!” accompanied the team’s entrance, and Sanne fixed her eyes on the now-empty walkway, counting beneath her breath as seconds and then minutes passed. The sergeant was the first to reappear, a solitary shake of his head delivering his verdict.
“Fucking hell,” Eleanor muttered. It wasn’t as if the news was unexpected, and EDSOP hadn’t been idle in the interim. Alerts had already been posted, and attempts to track Rudd’s family and known associates were underway, but hopes of a speedy resolution were nevertheless dashed. She nodded in acknowledgement and turned to her three detectives. “Okay. Nelson and Sanne, top-to-bottom search. Flag anything that might point to another possible address: garage, allotment,
obliging mate, et cetera. Carlyle and I will start talking to the neighbours. We’ll see you in there.”
As Sanne unwrapped a Tyvek suit, the wind caught at it, whipping its legs out like a drunk performing the can-can. She wrestled it under control, keen to get to work.
“Tell me honestly, San, do these things make me look weird?” Nelson asked, as she swapped her hat for the suit’s hood. She took a moment to appraise him. His six-foot-plus, well-built physique was swaddled in white material that clung in all the wrong places but made his arse sag.
“Honestly?” she said, and waited for his nod. “You look like the abominable snowman’s handsome younger brother.”
He shook out a pair of gloves. “I don’t know how to take that.”
“Backhanded compliment,” she suggested.
She turned side-on to squeeze past the muscle-bound TAU lads filing out of the flat. Nelson, with no chance of doing likewise, caught up with her in the living room.
“We’ve been in worse,” she said, and he murmured his agreement.
A large leather sofa dominated the relatively tidy room, the focal point being a wall-mounted flat-screen television that was surrounded by neat stacks of DVDs, mainly horror and action films interspersed with the occasional incongruous romcom.
“Stick or twist?” he asked.
“Stick.” She gave the reply without needing to think. She had uncovered enough nasty surprises during recent bedroom searches to last her a lifetime. Her phone buzzed as Nelson left her, but she couldn’t remember in which layer of clothing she had hidden it, so she let it go to voicemail and headed instead for a mismatched cherry wood cabinet in the far corner of the room. An old-fashioned piece of furniture, probably bought on the cheap or supplied by a landlord, it wobbled as she opened it, and a three-legged china dog keeled over onto its nose.