by Cari Hunter
“Get her out.” A man’s voice, his words thickened by an Eastern European accent.
The metal floor bucked as someone clambered in next to her and dragged her out by her T-shirt. She managed to stay on her feet, but her legs collapsed the second he let go, her knees smashing into the hard ground. Trying to blank out the pain, she looked beyond him to the shadowed bulk of the tor and the full moon slipping behind thinning clouds. He yanked her up, propelling her forward, and stones and ice-covered puddles began cutting into the soles of her feet, forcing her to watch where she was walking instead. He steered her into a stone barn, where she was glad to be out of the wind, if nothing else.
Ron had followed them across, but he stopped a few feet inside the barn. “I’ll phone him from the house,” he said, his hands wide in supplication. “I’m sure he’ll come and sort this. I’ve got room for her Land Rover in my shed.” He couldn’t look at Sanne, and he almost ran to the door, slamming it shut behind him and leaving her squinting and petrified in the glow of two torches and a pair of paraffin heaters. She could just make out another man waiting by a small pen at the far end of the barn.
The man still holding her arm tugged on it, marching her over to the pen, where he stopped and ran a finger down her cheek, skimming the bruise that Trudy had left her with and clucking his tongue. He smiled and said something in a language she assumed was Romanian. His companion, whom she’d only ever known as Cezar Miklos, ripped the tape from her mouth.
“I don’t care if you scream,” he said. He touched his thumb to her abraded lips, his gaze roaming over her body. “You were in the newspaper. I think Mr. Stanton is right, Mr. Sadek will come and sort you.”
“Bring him here,” she said, before she could consider the consequences. “We’ve been looking for him.”
Miklos barked a laugh, rattling off something she couldn’t understand and pushing her into the pen. She managed not to fall, and glanced around to see four young women huddled beneath blankets by the wall. Although filthy and haggard, they were unbound, and they had divided themselves along racial lines. Two Pakistanis were clinging to each other a short distance from two white women, one of whom was obviously sick, her eyes glassy and unfocused, her hair stuck to her face with sweat. Tattered bandages covered her hands.
“My God,” Sanne whispered. Not only had she found Miklos, she’d found Mirela Costea.
*
The mother of the twenty-three-year-old moaning in cubicle two bathed his face with a flannel she’d apparently brought from home, as she scrutinised Meg’s every move. So far that had amounted to taking a quick check of the lad’s baseline obs and providing him with a vomit bowl he had yet to fill.
“Will he be all right?” his mother asked. She stroked his hand, almost in tears.
“He’ll be fine.” Meg’s eyes wanted to roll right out of her head, but she suspected the woman was a complaint waiting to happen, so she glued on her best reassuring smile. “He has a virus. Very common at this time of year and absolutely not life-threatening.”
“But he’s terribly dehydrated. And look at him shiver.”
“Yep.” Meg removed the blanket that the woman persisted in drawing up to his chin. “He’s shivering because he’s hot, but he kept his paracetamol down, and he’s not been sick since arriving in the department, which is very encouraging.”
The woman smoothed a crease out of the blanket and advanced it an inch. “You can’t possibly be thinking of sending him home! He can barely walk.”
Meg’s smile began to slip. Ambulance crews were queuing almost out the door, and all this lad needed was a stat dose of Man-the-Fuck-Up. “I’ll keep him here until I get his temperature under control,” she said. “And then, yes, I’ll be sending him home.”
“I don’t think I like your attitude,” the woman snapped. “I want a second opinion.”
“That’s no problem.” Too tired to argue, Meg threw her gloves into the bin. “I’ll ask someone else to come in.”
For once she was glad to find Donovan lurking at the nurses’ station. “Number two’s mum would like to see you,” she said. “She’s not happy that I plan to discharge her son.”
Donovan peered at her over his glasses. He might be a pain in the arse, but he didn’t take kindly to his staff being second-guessed, unless he was the one doing it.
“Diagnosis?”
“Mild gastritis. No red flags. Passed a fluid challenge with flying colours and tolerated a gram of paracetamol.”
He snorted and adjusted his tie. “Leave her to me.”
She waved him off, waiting until he’d disappeared behind the curtain before she checked her phone. One glance confirmed what she’d suspected: it was late, and Sanne still hadn’t been in touch.
“Something up?” Liz asked. Meg had thought her occupied with blood bottles, but she’d always had eyes in the back of her head.
“No, probably not.” Meg moved her mobile to her breast pocket, where she’d definitely feel it vibrate. “I was hoping for another sneaky restaurant rendezvous with San, but I’ve not heard from her.”
“Is she with her dad? GI might’ve let her in if they know she’s a bobby.”
Meg picked up one of the desk phones to call the ward but put it down again without dialling. “It’s just not like her. She’s usually sent me a text by now.”
Liz finished labelling her last sample and sat next to Meg. “Do you want me to call them?”
“No.” Meg smiled to soften her refusal, but she didn’t want to start chasing Sanne around, checking up on her every hour or demanding that she post regular status updates so that Meg always knew where she was. As friends they hadn’t lived in each other’s pockets, and she didn’t want their relationship to change in that regard.
Liz touched Meg’s hand. “Are you worried about her?”
Meg nodded, the simple question cutting through all of her rationalisations. She and Sanne had fallen into the habit of texting to say good night, and, while she’d never remarked on it, she’d always felt better knowing Sanne had got home safely.
“She’s probably in bed,” she said. “Her phone might’ve done a bunk. I’m sure she’s fine.”
“Could she still be at work?”
“I doubt it.” Meg faltered, however. Last-minute late night surveillance duty was a possibility, but it wouldn’t have stopped Sanne from sending a message. “I have Nelson’s number somewhere. It’s for emergencies, though. She’d kick my arse if I mithered him for nothing.”
“You’re giving me a bloody headache,” Liz said. “Look, why don’t you try the ward, and if she’s not there, leave it another hour. I’ll be worried about her by then, too, and I’ll mither Nelson if you don’t.” She handed Meg the phone. “Extension four-four-three-seven.”
“Thank you.” Meg blew her a kiss and dialled the number.
*
Sanne had lost track of time. She sat by the other women, all of them as still as statues, their knees drawn to their chests to preserve what little warmth the heater emitted. Like her, they were all half naked, and they had clearly decided her presence meant trouble. None of them would make eye contact with her, and no one spoke. Too scared to try to make inroads, she strained to listen for the slightest disturbance outside. Every clatter the wind sent through the barn made her curl into a tighter ball as if that might somehow be enough to protect her. Eventually, with hyperventilation beginning to hook her fingers into claws, she found something to count, concentrating on the blanket that covered the woman next to her and numbering its multicoloured squares until the pins and needles began to abate and she no longer felt so dizzy.
She let her head fall back to the rough stone wall and stared upward, though she could see nothing above the rafters. The walls around the pen were equally solid, with no sign of weak spots or previous escape attempts, which left the door as the sole point of access. She closed her eyes, sketching a mental plan of the barn and what she had seen on the way in, but she couldn’t recall an
ything that might be useful as a weapon, and the men seemed content to play cards and double-up on guard duty. Unless one of them left, she had no chance.
She jumped as something touched her arm, her feet kicking out and her eyes flying open. The twitch of her wrists against the wire tore a thin cry of agony from her.
“Shh.” The woman next to Sanne carefully shifted one of her blankets to cover Sanne’s bare legs. The oldest of the four, she was probably in her early twenties, though fatigue had carved sharp lines into her face. A scrap of dirty lace held back her hair, and bruises encircled her slender arms. She glanced across at the men, checking whether they had heard anything, but they remained engrossed in their card game. The fingernails on the hand she laid on Sanne’s chest were bitten to the quick. “Is better,” she whispered. “Not so fast.”
“No.” Sanne fought again to slow her breathing. “Not so fast. Thank you.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “English?”
“Yes. Police.”
“There are more?” The woman looked toward the door as if expecting an imminent rescue, until something in Sanne’s expression told her there wasn’t going to be one. “No more,” she said. “Just you.”
“Just me. I’m sorry.” Sanne choked down the fear that was threatening to overwhelm her again. “My name is Sanne Jensen,” she said, sounding the words out carefully. She wanted the woman to remember them. If she died, she needed someone to tell Meg what had happened to her.
“Sanne,” the woman murmured, pronouncing it “Senn-er.” She hesitated. “My name is Dorina,” she said at length, bowing her head. “He says he will cut off our hands if we untie you.”
Sanne’s vision dimmed, and she thought she might be sick. She could feel every inch of the wire that bound her. Her fingers were hanging swollen and useless, and her wrists burned in distinct lines. There was no way she could get free without help, when the slightest unguarded movement crippled her.
Dorina tucked Sanne’s blanket more securely around her, the gesture bringing their faces close together. “Later, one goes next door, to sleep or to fuck,” she said. “We wait. Yes?”
Sanne nodded, ignoring the needles of doubt telling her that Sadek was on his way, that she couldn’t afford to delay. Dorina’s offer was far better than nothing. Unseen beneath the blanket, though, Sanne twisted her hands, fighting to loosen them and only succeeding in splattering her palms with blood. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted over from the card table, followed by the hiss of a ring pull. With tears streaming down her face, she rested her cheek on her knees and waited.
*
Meg eased her foot from the accelerator as the speedometer arced past sixty-five and chevrons warned her of an upcoming bend. Her shift seemed to have stretched on forever, her anxiety levels climbing beyond mere concern and hitting frantic as text after text went unanswered and the nurse on the GI desk confirmed Sanne hadn’t visited.
The lay-by closest to Sanne’s cottage stood empty. Using it as a landmark, Meg turned off the Snake and belted down the access road, still undecided whether to kiss or kill Sanne when she managed to find her. She stopped on the deserted driveway and stared at the darkened cottage.
“Shit.”
She didn’t want to go inside. From the lack of fresh prints in the thin layer of snow, she could tell Sanne hadn’t been there. When she finally plucked up the courage to let herself in, the cottage was cold and silent. The dish and mug Sanne had used for her breakfast were still sitting on the drainer, and nothing apart from a relative’s birthday was written on the calendar. Meg checked every room in case Sanne had got a lift home, and then she sat at the kitchen table and phoned Nelson. To his credit, he answered within three rings, no trace of sleep in his voice as he stated his name.
“Nelson, it’s Meg,” she said. “Sanne’s Meg. I can’t find her, Nelson. She didn’t come home. Is she with you?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not at work. She left with me just after seven. Where are you now?”
“At her cottage.” Unable to sit still, Meg paced to the window. The kitchen light reached as far as the untouched snow covering the grass around the henhouse.
“Could she be at yours?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think so. I’ve been ringing and ringing my house, and even if she had gone there, she’d have stopped here first to feed the chooks, but she hasn’t. I contacted every A&E in the area before I left the Royal, and no one fitting her description has been admitted.”
She heard rustling and the jangle of a belt as Nelson started to get dressed.
“Okay, well, that’s good,” he said, but his voice was as tight as a drum. “Why don’t you go home and make absolutely sure she’s not there? Give me a shout when you arrive, and in the meantime I’ll start making a few phone calls.”
“Right.” Meg wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I’ll speak to you in about twenty minutes.”
“Take care driving.”
“I will.”
She hung up and was about to head to her car when she remembered the damn chickens. Sanne would never forgive her if she let them starve. She shook the last of the feed into a bucket and jogged over to the coop, where a chorus of indignant squawks greeted her.
“Okay, okay, keep your feathers on. I’ll find your mum. She’s much better at this than I am,” she said, spilling half of the pellets around the trough. The chickens were too hungry to notice her lack of finesse. She left them to scrabble and ran back to her car.
*
Eleanor hurried into the office, half expecting to be confronted by a maelstrom of activity: phones ringing, her team bustling around following leads or exchanging theories. Instead, Fred and George sat at their desks looking pale and upset, Scotty nodded at her but continued to type an e-mail, and Nelson—no doubt accustomed to the sound of her heels—didn’t even notice she’d arrived, thanks to the trainers she’d thrown on with her jeans. He finished a phone call as she approached.
“Where are we up to?” she asked.
He waited for the other three to pull chairs over and join them in a tense huddle around Sanne’s desk. Eleanor spotted a clip-framed photograph of Sanne and Meg holding a newborn and each other’s hands, only visible to someone sitting right in front of Sanne’s computer.
“I’ve just spoken to Traffic,” Nelson said. “They’ve confirmed a sighting of Sanne’s Landie on one of the Sheffield cameras en route to the Snake Pass. It’s timed at seven thirty-seven, so I think we can assume she was heading home or going to Meg’s. According to Meg there’s no indication she made it to either address. Traffic are checking the M67 cameras on the other end of the Snake but haven’t spotted anything as yet. Meg’s on her way here. She’s already called around the local hospitals, and Traffic have got a couple of patrols doing a slow run of the route to spot for possible accident debris.”
Eleanor took a copy of the summary he handed out. It ran to half a page, establishing a timeline that started with Sanne leaving the office at 7:23 and nearing the Snake Pass fourteen minutes later. Meg’s first unanswered text had been sent at 8:15, and it was almost five hours after the last sighting of Sanne’s Land Rover that she’d alerted Nelson.
Eleanor raised her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “What were you and Sanne doing before you went home?” she asked Nelson. “Had anything new come up?”
“No, nothing. We were killing time, really, prioritising suspects for TAU raids. We thought we’d be interviewing Sadek’s wife, but then you phoned, so we packed it in for the night.” He shook his head, almost in tears. “She was joking about that daft rooster of hers and having beans on toast for her tea.”
“Check her files anyway. Notes in the margins, anything she might’ve spotted and not mentioned. I know it’s a long shot, but we need to cover all our bases.”
“What about Sadek?” Nelson asked. “He’s been weird with her from the outset, and we’ve no idea where he is now.”
“You think he’s hurt her?” Fr
ed said, sounding horrified. “Run her off the road or something?”
Eleanor intervened before his imagination could go on the rampage. “It’s very unlikely that Sadek has anything to do with this. He seems far too disciplined to risk acting on a personal grudge.” She held up her hand to cut off the argument Fred seemed about to launch. “I’m not ruling it out entirely—of course we’ll have to consider it as a possible scenario—but we can’t do much in that regard without an ID on his current vehicle, and the dearth of ANPR hits on the one he left his house in suggests he switched cars soon afterward.”
“I’ll start chasing down local CCTV,” Fred said. “See if I can spot San’s Landie and check out the cars behind her.”
“Good. Thank you,” Eleanor said. It was a long shot, but it would give him a task to focus on, if nothing else. “George, help him out with that, please. Nelson and Scotty, you take Sanne’s files and liaise with Traffic. Jay and Mike can fit in with you when they arrive.”
“Should we start organising search parties?” George asked. “Mountain Rescue, or get out there ourselves with some unis?”
“Get out where?” Eleanor countered gently. “If Traffic find the slightest trace of her car on the Snake then we’ll go out to search with every available resource, but we need a place to start. We can’t just wander around in the dark on the off-chance that we’ll fall over something.”
“Or slip in something,” Nelson said.
“Yes, or slip in something.” She smiled, remembering how bad Sanne had smelled after her encounter with the sheep. She pushed her chair back until she could see everyone. “I know you’re all worried about her, but she’s probably the most capable person on this team in terms of looking after herself in the Peaks. Try to stay focused, and give me a shout if you hear anything or need anything.”
Russ met her on the way to her office. He followed her inside and shut the door. “You okay?” he asked, looking as shell-shocked as she felt.