A Quiet Death

by Cari Hunter

  “I suppose we should feel satisfied that we had the right man,” she said.

  Nelson joined her, leaning against the wall and opening the foil on a packet of Rolos. They chewed without speaking for a few minutes. They had both missed lunch.

  “I keep thinking about those women from the barn,” he said. He retrieved a scrap of foil from the carpet and put it in his pocket. “Where they are now, and what’s happening to them. Every time we get close to an answer, it slips right through our fingers.”

  “We’ll find Sadek,” she said. “Even if he has to be extradited, we’ll get him eventually. And we’ll find Miklos and his mate from the shop. They all have faces to put a name to, Nelson, and you know how much easier that makes our job.”

  “And we have the DNA from Nab Hey,” he said, but he was shaking his head as he spoke. “Doesn’t count for much, though, does it?”

  “Not without someone to compare it to.” She patted his leg and got to her feet. “The case might go across to SOET and Parry’s MST now, especially if SOCO can put our vic in Sadek’s car. The rest of it has gone way beyond our usual remit.”

  “True.” Nelson almost sounded wistful, as if fondly remembering the simpler days of one-punch murders and interviews with idiots like Seamus and Daragh Thompson.

  “Come on,” she said. “Two more bedrooms, and we might get to go home before ten for once.”

  *

  Less than five minutes after walking into Eleanor’s office, Russ steered her firmly out to his car and drove her to the nearest coffee shop, where she tore the lid from her takeaway cup and glared at him across the sugar-sticky table.

  “I was fine at the fucking office, Russ. I’ve got a stack of things to do.”

  He removed the teabag from his cup with the little wooden stirrer and placed it on a saucer. His calmness made her want to throttle him.

  “How many times had you called Litton?” he asked.

  “Just twice,” she said without thinking, and then tried to remember. She had left multiple messages with Litton’s secretary, and Russ had caught her on the verge of marching down to his floor and demanding a meeting. “Maybe three,” she hedged.

  “Okay, so consider this an exercise in career preservation.” Russ hid the stirrer, as if afraid she might try to stab him with it. “Litton knows he’s fucked this one up. You pointing that out to him will only give him someone else to focus on. He made a shitty call, but it’s still your name at the top of the case file.”

  “There is no way I’m taking the blame for this,” she snapped, but she knew from recent experience how easy it would be for Litton to manufacture that outcome, especially if the alternative was him admitting culpability. “One day, one more fucking day on that surveillance and we’d have had that bastard. How the hell did we get to the point where a sob story in the local press determines our decisions?”

  Russ shook his head, clearly at a loss. “From what you’ve told me, Litton’s been running scared since the very start of this case, and Sadek took full advantage.”

  “Did you know that SOCO found blood in Sadek’s car?” she said. “There were traces on the rubber around the rear window, and a few spots on the seats. They’re running an urgent DNA comparison. It’s fucking typical: we finally get some concrete evidence, and we’re reduced to posting travel authority alerts and hoping we get an ANPR hit, because we let him out of our sight.”

  “Refocus on the family. They’ve helped him once, so there’s a good chance he’s reached out to them again, maybe for a car or a place to lie low.”

  “We’re already on it. His wife and the three men arrested at Gem Motors are in custody, pending interview, and we’re still looking for the Romanians from the shop surveillance, although SOET have been making noises about taking them off our hands. I managed to hold a teleconference and a team briefing before I locked myself away to have a paddy.”

  Russ beamed at her. “Atta girl. Do you think it’s safe for me to take you back now?”

  “You mean, have I quashed my murderous impulses?”

  “Yes.”

  She held up his car keys. “Just about.”

  *

  The stuffiness of the office was starting to make Sanne feel sleepy. Hiding a yawn, she tried to concentrate on the list of names in front of her, but they were all starting to merge into one.

  “Move him into Priority.” Nelson tapped the relevant line on the Excel table. “He forgot to ‘no comment’ his first interview and lied through his teeth instead. We can probably do him for assisting an offender and perverting the course.”

  Sanne made the edit, scheduling Sadek’s mate for an early morning raid. Given the number of people who had corroborated Sadek’s “my car’s been taken to London” story, EDSOP were going to be keeping the TAU very busy for the next few days. She hovered the mouse over the lower tool bar and groaned at the time: 7:17 p.m. Sadek’s wife had demanded a solicitor more than three hours ago. At this rate they’d be interviewing her at midnight.

  “Aha, saved by the bell,” Sanne said, as Nelson’s phone rang.

  He reached over the desk to answer it, leaving her with a view of his armpit and arse, and only able to hear odd words of a conversation that ended with, “Cheers for that, boss.”

  Fearing the worst, she crushed her stress ball until he retook his seat.

  “Is the solicitor here?” she asked, digging her nails into the pliable foam.

  “Nope. And he’s no longer on his way. Mrs. Sadek has apparently developed a migraine. The custody suite doc says she’s unfit for interview, and the boss has just sent us home.”

  Sanne let the ball go. “You’re having me on.”

  “I am not.”

  “We really get to go home?”

  She didn’t believe him even when he saved their document and closed her computer, though hope kindled as he collected his jacket.

  “Please don’t be pulling my leg,” she said, tentatively reaching for her coat.

  “I’m not. Be in tomorrow for a briefing at seven, and we’re to interview Mrs. Sadek at nine.” He hit the lights, throwing the office into shadow. They were the last ones out, as usual. “What’s Meg cooking for your tea?” he asked, as the lift doors opened at the ground floor.

  Sanne sighed. “Nothing. She’s on a twilight. I’ll be home alone with a plate of beans on toast.”

  They reached Nelson’s car first, and he paused at the driver’s side. “You could always invite that rooster of yours in, if you’re that desperate for company.”

  “Ha ha. No.” She waved at him as he drove away, but his comment prompted her to pull out her phone, where a reminder appeared alongside a tiny jpeg of Git Face. “Bugger,” she muttered. Resigning herself to a detour, she jogged over to her Landie, her relief at finding it unfrozen diminished by the flake of snow that drifted onto her nose. The Landie started first time, however, improving her chances of outrunning the weather. After the day she’d had, the last thing she wanted to do was hike down to her cottage in the dark.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The usual Peak District winter cycle of frost and thaw had formed deep pits along the track to Black Gate Farm. Lighting the way with her high beams, Sanne held her breath every time a rut rattled the Landie’s suspension. She hadn’t bothered to phone ahead this time; she could always collect the chicken feed from Trudy if Ron was at the pub. The snow was petering out by the time she entered the yard, bolstering her hope that the Snake Pass would remain open until she got home. She slid into the spot next to Ron’s Landie and dropped her wallet into her pocket before venturing outside.

  She could see a light in the kitchen, but no one answered her knock. Her feet grew numb as she peered through the window, the wind blasting off the high fields to chap her face and lips. Clasping a glove in her teeth, she knocked harder, loath to simply walk in. None of the nearby outbuildings showed any signs of life, though, and a couple more minutes of standing freezing in the dark made her decision for her.
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  “Ron? Trudy? It’s Sanne,” she called from the doormat, shaking off the instinct to show her ID and declare her reason for trespassing. The AGA’s warmth eased over her, restoring sensation to her toes, and she closed the door to keep the cold out. The scent of the fresh bread on the kitchen counter reminded her how long it had been since she’d eaten. She’d brought more than enough money for a loaf, if Trudy had any to spare.

  Wiping her feet on the mat, she shouted again but heard nothing in response beside the wind and the tick of a clock. Indecision halted her halfway to the living room.

  “Crap,” she muttered. For all she knew, the couple were upstairs in bed, and she certainly wasn’t going to risk interrupting anything. On the verge of turning to tiptoe back out, she hesitated as a thud sounded behind her. She spun around, hearing a second, louder bang coming from the far wall. “What the fuck?”

  Half expecting a cat to leap out at her, she crept over to the length of chequered cloth hanging on the wall and drew it aside to reveal a wooden door. It would have looked like the entrance to a traditional larder, were it not for the heavy sliding bolts securing it top and bottom. Afraid that the farm had been targeted by thieves, she pushed her back against the wall and searched her pockets, coming up empty on weapons. She had nothing with which to protect herself; her stab vest was safely stored in her locker, and she never wore her carry harness to drive home. Snarling at the “no signal” message on her mobile, she cast about the kitchen but couldn’t see a house phone.

  She tapped on the door and kept her voice low. “Ron? Trudy? Are you in there?”

  A frantic cacophony set off in response, the dull bangs seeming to come from somewhere below her.

  “Shit. Hang on, I’ll get you out.” She slammed the first bolt back but left the second one shut until she’d grabbed the biggest knife from the block on the counter. The door opened on well-oiled hinges, and the banging stopped. “Ron? It’s okay, it’s Sanne.”

  There was no light switch, so she used the small Maglite on her keyring to pan around the cubbyhole, her heart rate doubling when she saw a flight of rough wooden steps. Keeping the knife out in front of her, she edged down the first three and then stopped and crouched. The blade quivered as her hand shook, but she managed to aim the torch in the direction the noises had come from, the light glinting off a metal chain that she slowly traced to its source.

  “What the hell?”

  The metal moved, its links rising as the foot they were tethering kicked out at the wall, and for a split second nothing made sense to Sanne, as if the synapses connecting her vision to her brain simultaneously misfired. She shook her head, her breath coming in short gasps as she stumbled down to where the young girl was cowering.

  “It’s all right. It’s all right. I’m with the police. Oh God.” She peeled off the tape sealing the girl’s mouth and began to work on her bound hands. As she freed the girl’s wrists, the Maglite rolled, its beam falling on the cuff around the girl’s ankle. Sanne swore quietly and rocked back on her heels. There was no way to release the cuff without a key. The girl began to panic, pulling at the chain and then snatching the knife to try to hack at her ankle.

  “Shit! No, stop!” Sanne wrestled the knife off her before she could inflict any serious damage. “I’ll find the key, okay? I’ll find the key.”

  She tucked the knife into her belt and sprinted up the stairs, but at the top she suddenly bent double as if poleaxed. She couldn’t do this on her own. Ron and Trudy might not be in the house, but they must be close by, and they’d spot her car at some point. She needed to phone for help before she did anything else.

  The sound of the girl’s whimpers faded as Sanne ran into the living room. Despite the risk of discovery, she switched the light on and darted to the phone that sat by the sofa. She’d dialled two of the three nines when something cold and solid pressed into the back of her head.

  “Put the phone down, Sanne.” Trudy’s instruction came in the same pleasant singsong she would use to offer cake, but she added emphasis by knocking the object hard against Sanne’s skull.

  Sanne dropped the receiver into its cradle and slowly raised her hands. She could feel both barrels of the shotgun bruising her where they dug into her. Trudy snatched the knife and threw it onto the carpet.

  “Why are you snooping around at this time of night?” she snapped. “Is anyone else with you?”

  Sanne started to shake her head but thought better of it. Looking down, she could see Trudy’s bare legs sticking out from a pink dressing gown, and the daft fluffy slippers on her feet. Smears of shaving foam were clinging to her ankles. Sanne licked her lips, but her answer still came out in a hoarse croak.

  “I’m on my own. Ron said my chook feed would be in today, so I called on my way home. I thought you’d been burgled and trapped in the cellar.”

  The fucked-up simplicity of her explanation shocked a laugh from Trudy. “That little bitch make a noise then, did she? Come on, outside. I’ve told Ron umpteen times to lock the kitchen door when he’s in the far shed, but he never bloody listens to me.”

  With Trudy continuing to mutter behind her, Sanne staggered into the yard, passing so close to her Landie that she could have reached out and opened its door. Her palms itched. She had the keys in her pocket.

  “I’m a good shot, Sanne,” Trudy said, and Sanne heeded the warning, keeping her hands in view. Trudy jabbed the gun into her back. “I know what you must be thinking of me. It’s all right for you, sitting pretty with your well-paid job and your doctor girlfriend. But I did what I needed to keep my husband happy and my farm in profit. And Mr. Sadek made us a generous offer.”

  “He did?” Under other circumstances, Sanne might have been thrilled to hear confirmation of his involvement. “What did he offer? A child to abuse, and cash in hand for local storage?”

  Trudy dug the barrel in again. “I had no choice. Ron was losing interest in me, and the farm was losing money.”

  “Right.” Sanne wasn’t stupid enough to argue the point. As they neared one of the outbuildings, she glanced from side to side, judging distances and obstacles and the amount of light afforded by the full moon, but rational thought proved impossible and she was prodded over the threshold before she could come up with a plan.

  The sound of footsteps brought Ron out from beneath a John Deere, his welcoming smile faltering as he spotted the shotgun.

  “What on earth?” He wiped his hands on his overalls. “Trude?”

  “She found her,” Trudy said. “I was in the bath with the radio on, and I thought I heard something. I came down as she was trying to call the police.”

  “Bleedin’ hell. Trude…we can’t. Oh, bleedin’ hell.” Ron’s face had gone grey. Leaning heavily on the tractor, he mopped his brow with an oily rag.

  “We’re not losing all of this, Ron. And we’re not going to prison. Put her up at the barn and let them decide what to do.” Without waiting for his accord, she stepped in front of Sanne. “Strip.”

  Sanne shook her head, astounded. “It’s freezing, Trudy.”

  “That’s the idea. It’ll make you stay put.” Trudy aimed the gun at the centre of Sanne’s chest. “Strip, or I’ll get him to do it for you. Leave your underwear and T-shirt on. Trousers and boots go. Ron, find something for her hands.”

  As he turned away, Sanne began to unfasten her laces, her fingers already thick and clumsy. She kicked out of her boots and socks and then fumbled with the fastenings on her trousers, trying to get them off before he came back. Goose pimples instantly covered her exposed skin, and her teeth chattered so violently they made her jaw ache. She threw down her coat and sweater as he approached her with a length of thin wire in his hands.

  “Please don’t,” she said. “Ron, just think about what you’re doing for a second.”

  He ignored her, wrapping the wire around her wrists and pulling it tight. She felt a trickle of heat on her palms and realised he’d drawn blood.

  “Use her Landie,�
�� Trudy told him. She shook Sanne’s clothes, listening for the telltale jingle, and threw the car keys to Ron. He shoved Sanne’s shoulder, urging her toward the door, but she dug her feet into the clumps of manure and tried to stall. She didn’t want him to dump her at the barn. She had a terrible feeling she knew who was up there.

  “You gave them Nab Hey, didn’t you?” she said. “How the hell did you get involved in all this, Ron? How did you end up keeping a child in your cellar? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  He stared at her, his mouth open. Sweat was gathering again on his forehead despite the frigid temperature. “I don’t—”

  Trudy cut him off by slapping Sanne across the face, the blow hard enough to knock her sideward.

  “No more,” Trudy said. She righted Sanne and sealed a strip of tape over her lips. “Take her, Ron. I’ll deal with everything else.”

  He nodded, obviously relieved to have orders to follow. He marched Sanne to her Landie and boosted her into the rear. Unable to steady herself, she landed in a heap, bashing her head on the bench seat and lying dazed as the engine started. She felt the car back out slowly, cutting a wide circle in the yard before picking up speed and heading away from the access lane. The wheels caught the edge of furrows and rumbled over divots, throwing her around as Ron took an uphill, off-road path. Shoving herself into the gap beneath the bench, she tried to calm down, abandoning her attempts to free her hands and concentrating instead on the layout of Ron’s land, the fields that stretched alongside Stryder Clough and gave way to the moorland on Brabyn’s Tor. Although she didn’t know the farm well enough to map it accurately, visualising the route stopped her thinking about Meg or her mum, or about what was likely to happen to her once Ron handed her off at the barn.

  The Landie eventually bounced to a halt, and she tensed, listening to his footsteps and then to a low, heated argument. Minutes later, a torch beam hit her full in the face, blinding her and hiding the person who aimed it.