A Quiet Death

by Cari Hunter

  “Apparently, she asked to go for a cigarette,” Fraser said. “When I arrived at the ward, the nurse on the desk had already alerted Security, but Anca had been AWOL for over an hour by then.” He delivered the facts calmly, but that did little to placate Meg.

  “It took them that long to realise that she wasn’t coming back? What the hell were they playing at?” Meg didn’t have the energy to stay angry for long, however. She slumped onto the bench near the hospital’s main entrance. Below the “No Smoking” sign an emaciated twenty-something, trailing a drip and sporting a stump where his right leg should have been, sparked up a cigarette and inhaled as if his life depended on it. Another man in hospital-issue pyjamas asked him for a light and lit his own cig. A woman with her hands swathed in bandages wouldn’t have stood out in this crowd.

  “She timed her request to coincide with shift handover,” Fraser said.

  “You mean her husband timed it,” Meg countered. “There’s no way she planned this herself. Her injuries would stop her from driving, so she’d have needed a lift.”

  “I know.” Fraser paused to speak to someone else and sounded brighter when he came back on the line. “Do you want a bit of good news?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Okay, well, the Burns Unit has reported Anca as vulnerable and missing, so my team can officially get involved with trying to find her. Security are sending us the CCTV from the hospital grounds. Hopefully, that’ll shed some light on who met her and what that person was driving.”

  “She probably came out round the back. What few cameras there are don’t work very well.” Meg didn’t want to rain on his parade, but an ongoing staff campaign to increase CCTV coverage around the hospital’s satellite buildings had highlighted how shoddy and dysfunctional the current system was.

  “O ye of little faith,” he said. “Security estimated they could pull the footage and get it across to us by tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime I ran Cezar Miklos through the PNC, and he doesn’t have a record.”

  Sleet began to fall, sending the amputee and his fellow smoker scurrying for cover. Meg stayed where she was, in a foul enough mood to welcome the gloomy weather. “He gave a false address when he booked Anca in to A&E, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Fraser said, with obvious reluctance. “A patrol unit went round there today. It’s a private property owned by a Pakistani family who don’t have any Romanian friends or lodgers. I think we can safely assume that all the details he gave, including the names, are bogus.”

  “Little wonder, if he gets his kicks pinning his wife’s hands in boiling water.” Meg stalked back toward the ambulance bay before she could upset any of the relatives streaming in for visiting hour. “I bet he only brought her to the hospital because he was worried she wouldn’t be able to do the fucking housework.”

  “That’s a distinct possibility. Abuse victims rarely get medical treatment unless something goes badly wrong.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Meg slowed her pace. She felt sick, and her back was aching in sympathy. A van with tinted windows pulled up in the bay, and two hospital porters began to unload an empty stretcher. Despite the best efforts of the coordinator, Barry’s parents had refused permission to harvest his organs, and the van was here to transport his body to the morgue. It had, Meg decided, been one of those days. “I have to go,” she said, following the stretcher into the corridor. “Sorry for being arsey. I really appreciate everything you’re doing.”

  “I’ll keep you updated,” Fraser said. “I just wish I had better news.”

  She ended the call as the porters neared the Viewing Room. From behind the closed door, sobbing was clearly audible. Barry’s family was large and devoutly Catholic, and they had arrived en masse half an hour too late.

  “Hang fire, lads.” Meg put a hand on the stretcher, waylaying the porters. “I’ll see if the family are ready for you.”

  The men steered the trolley to the side, grateful to have an intermediary. Meg wiped the sleet from her face with her sleeve and knocked on the door.

  *

  Eleanor paused in the middle of the sentence she was typing. She had left her office door ajar, and she went to meet Sanne and Nelson as soon as she heard their voices in the corridor.

  “You might want to leave your coats on,” she said, catching Sanne in the middle of unfastening hers. Sanne’s eyes widened in expectation, and Nelson stopped trying to unpeel his wet scarf. They smelled like cold air, bracing and fresh compared to the fustiness of the office.

  “Did you find something, boss?” Nelson asked.

  Eleanor sat at the closest desk and waited while they found temporary perches.

  “I spoke to a contact at Special Branch, and he confirmed that the EISD are on their current watch list,” she said. “They’ve mainly been responsible for the more obvious extremism-related offences: vandalism, racially aggravated assault, one attempt to torch a corner shop that failed when the perp set fire to his own trousers.”

  Sanne swung her legs to and fro. She was always in motion when she was thinking, although she didn’t seem aware of that. “So the kidnap and rape of a minor would be a big departure for them,” she said.

  “Very much so. Special Branch keep an eye on them, but they’re not rated as a high threat. Their numbers dwindled after a leadership battle that saw a few punches being thrown in the Dog and Duck pub.”

  “Oh no,” Nelson said, making the leap a split second before Sanne hid her face in her hands. “Are these idiots based on Malory Park?”

  Eleanor displayed the information she’d printed out. Occasionally, she missed not spending her shift out in the field, speaking to witnesses or knocking on suspects’ doors, but she was happy to pass on this one. “Forty-three Phelot Walk is the current HQ of the EISD, or the Beswick family, as they’re more commonly known. Sid Beswick, the paterfamilias, has previous for GBH and possession, and one of the lads is serving three to five at a young offenders’ institute.”

  “Dare I ask?” Sanne said.

  “Burglary, mostly.” Eleanor checked the sheet. “And nicking cars, only he can’t drive, so he started his stretch with a broken leg.”

  “Outstanding,” Nelson said. “Are we going to need Tactical Aid for our house call?”

  Eleanor had discussed a risk assessment with Special Branch and accepted her contact’s conclusion that the family, though unpleasant, were unlikely to pose a serious threat. “I think the two of you will be fine. Just remember to give a clear warning before you Taser anyone.” She handed the paperwork to Nelson. “I doubt they have anything to do with the girl’s death, but it’ll be worth having a chat with them about the hate mail, at least. Besides which, if we drop the ball on a lead and it comes back to bite us on the arse…”

  “Say no more.” Sanne already had her woolly hat out of her pocket. “Has anyone made any headway today?”

  “Not as yet.” Eleanor tried to avoid looking at the clock on the wall. Litton was expecting a progress update at six p.m., and unless a miracle occurred in the next ninety minutes, her report would be brief to the point of nonexistence. Despite the negatives coming in from every possible line of enquiry, she knew she would stay late on the off chance that something came up, and undoubtedly go home empty-handed to a family already in bed. “There was no manufacturer’s tag on the vic’s clothing, but Forensics found traces of animal faeces, which have been sent for further analysis. In all likelihood they came from the moors, though, so it’s not exactly a breakthrough. Other than that, we have nothing from the house-to-house or the fingertip, nothing from the airports, and nothing from the hotline.”

  “What about the vehicle?” Nelson asked.

  “There’s a team working on the partial plate and the analysis of make and model. I’ve been advised not to hold my breath.” This time she did glance at the clock and immediately wished she hadn’t.

  “We’ll let you get back to it, boss,” Sanne said.

  “Keep in touch.” Eleanor listened to t
heir chatter fade as the lift arrived. Then she turned back toward her office and the telephone that had already started ringing again.

  *

  A muscle at the corner of Sanne’s jaw began to twitch as Nelson left the bypass and entered the Malory Park housing estate. She’d had the twitch on and off for a while—stress-related, Meg reckoned—and her sweaty palms seemed to confirm the diagnosis. She hadn’t been back to Malory since the afternoon in January when she and Nelson had inadvertently tracked down a serial killer and she had offered her own life in exchange for that of a six-year-old boy.

  “You okay, San?” Nelson asked.

  “Yep.” She dried her hands and looked out at Balan Road through the sleet.

  Nothing had changed. The council estate was as dour and derelict as ever, the anaemic glow of its streetlights not enough to conceal how bad things were. A school bus stopped in front of their car, and Nelson let the engine idle as a handful of teenagers got off. In an effort to improve attendance, the council had launched a free route from the estate to the local secondary school, but the bus had been almost empty by the time it turned onto Balan. Three bobbing orange dots marked the kids’ progress along the pavement. They had all lit cigarettes the instant they’d left the bus.

  “Next right,” Sanne said, directing from memory.

  Nelson slowed as she counted the numbers for him. “Maybe we should stop and say hello to Ma Burrows,” he said, recognising one of the worst houses on the walk.

  Sanne shuddered at the prospect. “You go right ahead. I’ll wait here for you.”

  “I think I’ll pass as well.”

  No one had bothered to take down the Christmas lights at number forty-three. The wind had knocked a moth-eaten reindeer loose from its fixings, leaving it swinging at an angle like a welcome sign at a haunted motel.

  “Well, this looks to be a fine establishment,” Nelson said. “I absolutely cannot wait to get inside.”

  A fierce wind drove the sleet into Sanne’s eyes as she stepped out of the car, but not even that could make her hurry to the front door. Pausing by a hole in the fence where a garden gate should have hung, she listened to an argument between two children of indeterminate age, their shadows moving behind threadbare curtains. An adult yelled at the kids to shut the fuck up, and the sharp sound of a slap was followed by wailing.

  “Home sweet home,” she muttered, reminded of those rare occasions when her dad had copped for babysitting duty.

  The wailing softened to muted sobs, giving Nelson’s knock a chance to be heard. A dog responded more quickly than the other occupants, barrelling up beneath the front curtains onto its hind legs and barking.

  “Just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse.” Nelson—definitely more of a cat person—eyed the dog with unease. “Is that a Staffy or one of those banned monsters?”

  “Staffy,” Sanne said. “Still capable of taking a chunk out of your arse, though. Oh, aye up.” She nodded at the small figure peering through the door’s single glass panel and held out her ID. “Police. Can you open the door, please?”

  The figure scarpered, returning seconds later trailing an adult male who opened the door a crack.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  “Mr. Beswick?” Sanne redisplayed her ID. “Police, Mr. Beswick. We need to ask you a few questions.”

  The man spat and hoiked his jeans beneath his sagging beer belly. His nose had been broken so many times it resembled a malformed potato. “’Bout what?”

  Sanne sighed. “Would you prefer we came back with a warrant and the Tactical Aid Unit? Only, they tend to make a mess.”

  “For fuck’s sake.” He yanked on the door and stood in the gap, his arms folded. “Happy now?”

  “Delirious.” She made a point of glancing over her shoulder, where, true to form, curtains in the houses opposite were starting to twitch. “Do you really want to do this on the doorstep?”

  Instead of answering, he stepped aside with a sarcastic little bow.

  “After you,” she told him, preferring not to have him at their backs. “Could you put the dog somewhere secure, please?”

  Mumbling a string of obscenities, he paused at the first door and yelled through it. “Spud! Stick that fucking dog in the kitchen, then fuck off upstairs!”

  They waited as boots stomped across a hard floor and a connecting door banged, muting the dog’s yips. Spud made an appearance seconds later, scowling at Sanne and regarding Nelson with an expression traditionally reserved for shit on the bottom of a shoe. Genetics had not been kind to Spud. A short lad of about fifteen, he had oversized lips that dominated his face, drawing attention away from beady eyes and ears like the handles of a Toby jug. That he was overweight and stank of grungy teenager was almost incidental.

  “Fuck do they want?” he asked.

  Sid clouted him over the back of his head. “Shut your trap and take our Peggy with you.”

  Peggy, tear-stained and much younger than Spud, with pigtails and missing teeth, was the child who had first come to the front door. She scampered upstairs ahead of her brother, hesitating midway to throw another furtive glance in Nelson’s direction.

  “Why’s Dad let a Paki in?” she whispered to Spud.

  Spud’s answer was lost as they vanished into the gloom at the top of the stairs, but Sanne hoped that some rudimentary form of ethnology would be included in his response. She entered the living room a step behind Nelson and almost slammed into him when he stopped abruptly.

  “Mrs. Beswick?” he said, and Sanne heard the ripple and slap of flesh, as if something immense had attempted to move. Coming to stand beside Nelson, she realised how accurate her conjecture had been.

  Mrs. Beswick’s girth was spread across two sofa cushions. A rancid smell and the food wrappings strewn around her ulcerated legs implied that she hadn’t changed position for some time.

  “What’ve yer done now, yer numb twat?” she asked, digging her hand into a family-sized bag of cheesy puffs.

  “Dunno yet.” Sid grinned at Sanne and settled onto the sofa’s remaining cushion. “What’ve I done now, officer?”

  Sanne didn’t bother to correct him. She pulled photocopies of the Al Amin hate mail from her file and gave them to him. “Do you recognise these?”

  He made a show of reading the letters, his lips moving unconsciously. “Nope,” he said at length.

  “But you are a member of the EISD?” She gestured at his right forearm. “Your tattoo would certainly suggest that.”

  He scowled, probably regretting his decision to wear a T-shirt. His George Cross tattoo had EISD running through the centre of it. “Yeah, so what if I am?”

  Nelson stepped forward, narrowly avoiding the ham toastie smeared across the uncarpeted floorboards. “So, our information tells us that you’re the group’s current boss, which means letters like this only go out with your approval.” He shrugged at Sanne. “Unless one of your members has gone rogue, of course.”

  Hitting Sid’s ego proved a sound tactic. He bristled visibly, caught between admitting culpability and appearing vulnerable as a leader. “I didn’t send ’em, but I might know who wrote ’em,” he said, his eyes flashing in defiance. “And those Pakis deserve everything they get, the mucky bastards.”

  Sanne toed the toastie aside and swapped the letters for a photo of the girl’s body. “Do they deserve this?”

  “Wh—?” He stared at the image and then up at Sanne. “You think I did this? I didn’t. I never. I mean, come on!”

  “‘We will rape your daughters,’” Sanne read from the letter. “This child was sexually assaulted, Mr. Beswick, and left to die. So yes, whoever sent this threat to the mosques is obviously a suspect.”

  “But it wasn’t me!”

  “It wasn’t him.” Mrs. Beswick shook her head, setting her chins wobbling. “He’s always home with me, on account of my disability.”

  “Give us a name, then,” Nelson said. “If it wasn’t you, who was it?”

  A
sudden clatter and a yell from upstairs made Sanne jump. She whipped around to face the door just as Sid leapt off the sofa.

  “Run, Gobber! Go, lad!”

  “Oh, you stupid bollock,” Sanne spat, hurtling out into the hallway. She took the stairs two at a time and kicked the back bedroom door open. As she crossed the threshold, she was greeted by the sight of an older lad disappearing through the window, and Peggy slugging her thigh with a baseball bat.

  “Jesus Christ,” she hissed, hopping on her good leg and grabbing the bat before Peggy could use it on Nelson. Spud whooped as the lad cleared the opening, where Sanne saw him teeter on a ledge before jumping across to a flat-roofed shed. “Find a way round the back!” she yelled at Nelson, who had Peggy by the scruff of her cardigan as she pinwheeled her fists at him. He certainly wouldn’t fit through the window, but Sanne thought she might.

  “Please don’t break your neck,” he shouted.

  Pumped up for the chase, she hauled herself onto the sill. The window was small enough to act as a burglar deterrent, but as a kid she had sneaked out of her bedroom on Halshaw more times than she could count, and the principle of “legs first, let the body follow” held true. Standing on the rain-slickened ledge, she caught her breath as Gobber performed a clumsy high wire act on the garden wall. He swore when he saw her land on the shed, his left foot slipping and his arms flailing. He didn’t fall, though, and he dropped out of sight again as Sanne ran toward him. Using her momentum, she leapt for the wall, managing to launch her upper half over it and swing her legs up. She sat atop the bricks, gauging Gobber’s inelegant egress and her own route down.

  “Nelson, he’s heading south, south!” she shouted into her radio. An upended wheelie bin made an improvised stepping stone, and she hit the ground in a crouch, her knees groaning at the impact.

  Phelot Walk sprawled in all directions, the backs of houses overlooking the fronts of others, with a car park forming a central space. Gobber ducked out from behind a Ford Fiesta and sprinted across the car park, aiming for the next maze of terraces and almost coming a cropper on a stray dog. He kicked at the mutt, giving Sanne a chance to close the distance. Water hit her knees as she dashed through puddles in an effort to sidestep the snapping dog.