A Quiet Death

by Cari Hunter

  She switched off her torch, relying on the threads of daylight to guide her exit. She’d seen enough.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The forensics tent blazed with LEDs, the background rumble of the generator giving DCI Litton the perfect excuse to raise his voice at Eleanor, not that he ever needed one. Having arrived at Nab Hey Farm an hour after her, he’d declined her invitation to walk up to the buildings now established as crime scenes, probably because he didn’t want to get cow shit on his expensive shoes, and he’d spent much of his time attempting to use his phone in an area renowned for unreliable mobile coverage.

  “Fucking stupid godforsaken place!” He jabbed at the screen of his iPhone and thrust it back into his pocket. “You need to liaise with GMP’s Modern Slavery Team. If they start bitching about their budgets, tell them that Manchester is your probable entry point, and get as many of their boys on board as you can.”

  “Yes, sir,” Eleanor said, tolerating his patronising “teaching your granny to suck eggs” approach only because she hoped it might expedite his leaving the scene.

  “With luck this will turn out to be the work of our friends from the Eastern Bloc.” He rubbed his hands, his expression suddenly jovial. “That mob are up to their eyes in this sort of shit, and we’ll be able to avoid any messy confrontations with the Pakistanis.”

  “Yes, sir.” By this point she would have agreed to pretty much anything to get him to shut up and go.

  “Right, well.” He drew his coat collar closed and eyed the sky beyond the tent. Thick clouds had obliterated the stars, driven by a northerly wind that was making the canvas billow. “I’ll be issuing a brief statement to the media tonight, with a view to scheduling a full press conference once the forensics begin to yield results. Keep me informed.”

  She gave a curt nod, hoping he would chair the press conference himself. Although media involvement was crucial, he had a love for grandstanding that she didn’t share.

  “Will do, sir.”

  He marched away, but his escape was hindered by a SOCO tech at the entrance, and they performed an awkward two-step dance before Litton resorted to shoving his way past. The tech stared after him for a moment and then headed across to Eleanor.

  “That’s everything from the barn, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.”

  Eleanor took the evidence bags from him and arranged them side by side on the trestle table. There were seven in total: five new ones to add to the two that Sanne had given her earlier. As before, their contents were distinct, each suggesting the presence of a separate individual: three more shreds of cloth, one brightly patterned and the others faded cotton; a fragment of cheap, gold-plated jewellery; and a Pakistani rupee coin. Running out of space, she nudged the bags until they overlapped, keeping them apart from those containing a selection of discarded condom wrappers. It didn’t seem right, somehow, to let them touch.

  “Fucking hell,” she said, too quietly for the departing tech to notice. It wasn’t the crime that she took personally; anyone with an ounce of humanity would be repulsed by what appeared to have gone on here. But the thought that someone operating in her patch had stored people like animals, had kept them in pens and abused them, and then managed to herd them on to who knew what future? That really did piss her off.

  “Boss?”

  She spun around, grateful for Sanne’s cautious interruption. Sanne hadn’t moved beyond the entrance of the tent. Looking starved with cold and dead on her feet, she seemed oblivious to the mud on her trousers and the flakes of fresh snow dotting her hat. Eleanor forced herself not to comment. She had never treated Sanne any differently to the men on her team, but still there were moments when she had to bite her tongue and let Sanne tough it out.

  “All the other buildings are clear,” Sanne said. “They’ve only used those two. SOCO have just removed the second mattress. I spoke to a tech, who said blood typing would be done overnight. DNA comparisons will take longer to run, but they’ll have the samples gendered by tomorrow.”

  “Hair and fibres?”

  “We’ve got both, as well as tissue samples from the wall. No semen, though. I guess everyone used protection.” She came across to the table as she answered. She glanced at the array of multicoloured packaging and picked up the bag with the coin in it. “I spoke to Nelson. He got back okay, but he’s struggling to trace the current owner of this place. I wondered about calling in to see Ron Stanton on my way home. He ought to know who lived here, at the very least. Nelson left me the pool car, so it wouldn’t be a bother, and I have to order some chicken feed from Ron.”

  That last detail made Eleanor smile. “Okay, then, but only if you need to go there anyway,” she said, knowing damn well that Sanne—like herself—would rather be heading straight home to a hot meal and bed.

  “I’ll set off now, before the snow really kicks in.” Sanne put the coin back in its place. “Briefing’s at seven tomorrow, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  Neither commented on working the weekend. All leave had been cancelled as of that afternoon. While it didn’t happen often, it was simply assumed that everyone would be on shift or on call until the investigation concluded.

  “I’ll e-mail you when I get in.” Sanne tugged her hat lower. “Night, boss.”

  “Drive safely, Sanne.”

  Eleanor waited for the tent’s flaps to fall into place behind Sanne and then took out her mobile. With the signal hovering at one dubious bar, she dialled the number from memory, her mood brightening as a long-familiar voice answered.

  “Russell Parry, MST.”

  *

  Never sure when the local pub quiz was, Sanne had phoned ahead to check Ron would be at home. She parked beside his Land Rover and jumped out into a thick layer of slush.

  “Bollocks.”

  Cold water seeped into her boots, refreezing toes she had just managed to thaw. Her empty stomach rumbled, and the wind biting at her cheeks made her sneeze.

  “Sanne? Good Lord, girl, get in here and sit by the bloody fire!” Ron shouted. He was standing at the kitchen door, not daft enough to venture outside, but one of his collies trotted across to greet Sanne and subtly shepherd her in the right direction.

  The heat from the AGA set her shivering, and Ron plucked off her hat as she worked on unzipping her coat with numb fingers.

  “Sorry to call round so late,” she said, shocked to see the wall clock ticking past a quarter to nine. “I won’t stay long.”

  He hung her wet coat by the door. “Don’t worry, love. Come into the living room. Trudy’s just made a pot of tea.”

  Almost falling over her socks in her haste to get to the open fire, Sanne waved at Trudy, who was plating up thick slices of fruit cake.

  “You can adopt me any time, y’know.” Sanne accepted a mug and settled onto the sofa with the collie. Steam rose from her trousers as she pushed closer to the fire. “Well, maybe we could arrange a part-share with my mum.”

  Ron laughed into his mug but then sobered. “So what’s happened at Nab Hey?”

  “We’re not entirely sure yet,” she said slowly, deliberating on how much to disclose. “An organised gang might have been using it, but SOCO—sorry, Scene of Crime Officers, like the CSI off the telly—are still working on the details.”

  “Has it to do with the child at Greave?” Trudy asked.

  “Quite possibly.” Sanne sipped her tea. “She may have been held in one of the farm buildings for a while.”

  Ron’s mug clattered as he set it down on his plate. “Bloody hell! Why the devil would they go up there?”

  “Good question, and one I was hoping you might be able to help answer.”

  He scratched the coarse growth of his beard, anger sending a tremor through his hand. “I don’t get over that way, San. I don’t have any reason to use Old Road.”

  “No, I didn’t think so. That’s not why I came here.” She fished out her notepad. “We’re having trouble tracking down the present owner of Na
b Hey, and I thought you might know.”

  “That’d be the Burkes.” Ron scoffed. “Burke by name, berks by nature, if you catch my drift.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I take it you’re not close friends?”

  “We got on fine with Marvin Burke,” Trudy said, cutting another slice of cake and sliding it onto Sanne’s plate. “But he’s been dead eighteen months or more now, and his children aren’t worth the cowclap on his boots, the grasping little misers.”

  “Ah, right,” Sanne said, beginning to get the picture. “Well, you know what they say. Where there’s a will, there’s a relative.”

  “Aye,” Ron said. “They all moved out of the area, and none of them wants to take the farm on, so they’re bickering over their piece of the pie. It’s been tied up in probate since Marv passed.”

  “That explains a lot.” Sanne tapped her pen on her teeth. “Don’t suppose you have any contact information for the children?”

  “Not as such, but I know the law firm handling the probate, if that’ll be any use.” He went to the telephone table and flicked through an address book. It took him a while to find the right page, but he eventually scribbled a name and number down and handed her the slip of paper. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks, Ron. I’m sure this’ll be a great help.”

  “No problem. Now, what about them chickens and that miserable little bastard of yours? Do you want the same as usual?”

  She stuffed in the last of her cake and nodded until she’d swallowed. “Yes, please.” She followed him back into the kitchen.

  “Fox not got him yet?”

  “Not yet.” She began to pull on her boots, her toes recoiling from the damp insides. “I live in hope.”

  He waited for her to fasten her coat and took the twenty-pound note she dug from her wallet. “Should have it in by Thursday. Have you got enough to see you through?”

  “Yep, Thursday’s fine.”

  He walked with her across the yard, patting the roof of her Landie fondly as she fastened her seat belt. “Take it easy. I doubt it’s done snowing yet.”

  “So long as it holds off for half an hour. Tell Trudy thanks for the cake.”

  “Will do.”

  She ground the gears into reverse and gave Ron’s toes a wide berth. As the warm glow of the kitchen receded in her rearview mirror, she concentrated on reaching the Snake Pass without fishtailing into a hedge. She wasn’t in any rush to get home. With Meg on nights, her cottage would be cold and empty. No supper waiting on the table, and no warm body to share the bed.

  She changed down a gear as the engine began to whine, reminding herself that she’d spent years on her own and that this was what she usually came home to. Besides which, it would be nice to have some alone time. Pausing at the junction, she decided this carefully constructed argument was a right load of crap. After a day like today, alone time was the last thing she wanted.

  *

  Wrapped in a blanket and with a belly full of soup and toast, Sanne was trying not to fall asleep onto her book again when the phone rang. Fearing an EDSOP summons to drag her back out into the snow, she checked the caller ID through her fingers, only exhaling when she saw Meg’s name.

  “Hey, you,” she said. “How goes it?”

  Meg’s response was interrupted by a siren, indicating she was hiding in the ambulance bay as usual.

  “Everyone is very very drunk tonight,” she said, once the background din had subsided. “Except for me, of course. And Horny Keith. He was sober as a judge.”

  “Horny Keith?” Sanne closed her book, suitably intrigued. “I’m assuming there’s a story behind that name.”

  Meg crunched something before she answered. “Nice old chap got himself a new girlfriend, only she’s forty-eight and he’s eighty-four. He pops three Viagra in a pre-coital fit of nerves and promptly faints. Thinking she’s killed him, she snaps two of his ribs performing over-enthusiastic CPR like she’s seen on the telly.”

  “Oh, dear God. You couldn’t make this shit up, could you?”

  “Not a chance.” Meg slurped a drink and laughed at the same time. “Sorry, this is the first break I’ve had. You’ve not been waiting up for me, have you?”

  “No, not at all. This book I’m reading is really good.” Sanne didn’t put much effort into the fib. She knew Meg would see through it in a heartbeat.

  “You’re a daft sod. Are you in again tomorrow?”

  “I am now.” The log burner’s flames were throwing patterns onto the chimney breast, and Sanne let her eyes unfocus as she watched them. “Zoe called in a lead at a farm off Old Road. It looks like a gang have been trafficking women through the area and using one of the barns as some kind of holding station. We were out there most of the day.”

  “And most of the night by the sound of you,” Meg said. “No wonder you’re not asleep. Are you okay?”

  Sanne hesitated; her statutory “I’m fine” never washed with Meg. “I’m as okay as I’m going to be.” She drew up her knees, sending her book thudding to the floor. “But it’s so fucking frustrating, Meg. We’ve no idea how long it’s been going on for, or how many people are involved, and we’ll probably never trace all of the victims. They have no identity over here and no one to protect them, and they’ll just vanish into the worst kind of life imaginable.”

  “At least you know now that it’s happening. You have a place to start.”

  Sanne hugged her knees with her free hand. “Aye, but a child had to die first. Jesus, we’re complacent around here. It’s like everyone walks about with their eyes shut, smug in the belief that bad stuff only happens in the city.”

  “Till some arsehole comes along to disprove that.”

  “Yeah, there’s been a few of those recently.” She sighed, aware that she’d have to let Meg go soon. “Speaking of arseholes, did you manage to see my dad?”

  “I did, and I got his blood results about ten minutes ago.”

  “How bad are they?” she asked, alerted by Meg’s careful tone.

  “If I were his doctor, I’d be dragging him into A&E by his ear. He’s been vomiting blood, so he’s anaemic, and his liver function is diabolical, which means he’s not clotting properly. I’ve e-mailed his GP, and I’ll phone the surgery first thing Monday morning. My hands are a bit tied, with it being the weekend.”

  “Any idea what’s causing the bleeding?” Sanne wasn’t asking for her dad’s sake; she just wanted to warn her mum if the prognosis was likely to be poor.

  “Probably an ulcer, but I have no way of knowing for sure. He won’t let me do anything about it.” Meg cursed beneath her breath as someone in the background shouted her name. “I’ve got to run, San. Try not to worry about your mum,” she said, effortlessly pinpointing where Sanne’s concern lay.

  “I’ll try,” Sanne said, though she knew she’d fail. “Night, love.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Eleanor didn’t look up from her paperwork when someone rapped on her door. Confident that it was too early for Litton, she shouted, “Come in!” and turned a page, frowning at the scarcity of the detail in the forensics report.

  “Morning, ma’am.”

  The Mancunian accent and the scent of fresh coffee had her smiling before she raised her head, and she left her desk to greet her visitor with a warm handshake.

  “Hey, stranger. It’s been far too long.”

  “I know.” Russ Parry planted a wet kiss on her cheek. “I tried to work it out last night. Is it really five years? That conference in Nottingham?”

  “Integrated Offender Management? Bloody hell, that was a fun day.” She watched him take the chair in front of her desk and set out napkins and polystyrene boxes. Five years had put a couple of inches on his waist and left his dark hair peppered with grey, but he’d weathered better than some of her colleagues, and she was genuinely glad to see him. He slid one coffee toward her and then changed his mind, swapping the two cups.

  “There’s a shot of espresso in mine,” he sai
d. “Getting up at four a.m. damn near killed me.”

  He’d brought their usual breakfast from Den’s: bacon and egg barmcakes with mushrooms. Eleanor debated cutting the fat off her bacon rasher but decided it was too much trouble and tucked straight in. He grinned at her, taking obvious delight in leading her astray.

  “Are you still in Didsbury?” she asked.

  “No, Altrincham. We downsized after Ed went to uni. Doug and the kids okay?”

  “They’re all fine. Anna’s in her second year at York, and the lads are both in sixth form.”

  “Great stuff. Give them my best.” Russ dabbed egg yolk from his chin and gulped down half his coffee. “Ah, that’s the ticket. Right, where are we at?”

  “These are the overnight forensics from the barn,” she said, gathering the pages and handing them over. She would have liked to spend more time catching up, but with an early team briefing scheduled, she knew they didn’t have the luxury. “Did you manage to read through everything I sent you?”

  “Yes, and I’ve copied a few recent case studies into the main directory to give your team an idea of what they might be dealing with.” He pushed aside the remnants of their breakfast to make space for his laptop. He’d always been adept at switching from small talk to business, a trick that frequently wrong-footed perps during interview. “We have a number of individuals under surveillance, but none of them seem to be stepping out of area, and none have known links to your patch.”

  “That would make our job far too easy, wouldn’t it?” She stirred sugar into her coffee, grinding the spoon against the base of the cup. “Despite everything we found yesterday, we’re no further ahead. These bastards imprisoned and raped multiple women and left barely any trace of themselves. At some point they even had the balls to go back and attempt to clean house, probably after realising we had no fucking clue what type of crime we were even investigating.”