A Quiet Death

by Cari Hunter

  “Would you stick with me?”

  “Of course.” His radio buzzed, the noise accompanied by the blare of a car horn. When he looked across, Eleanor was flashing the car’s headlights at them. “Boss?” he said into his mike.

  “Snake Pub,” Eleanor said over the radio. “Sanne’s at the Snake Pub. Get Meg over there ASAP. They’re screaming for an ambulance.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Two men in pyjamas and winter coats had assumed sentry duty by the Snake Pub. They began to wave their torches when they spotted the blue lights, signalling Nelson into a car park mostly taken up by a petrol tanker abandoned at an angle.

  “She’s in the snug,” one of the men shouted. “We’ll stay out and wait for the ambulance.”

  Meg scarcely heard him. She left Nelson to collect her kit and ran into the pub, almost colliding with a bearded man carrying a woolly hat and a box of paracetamol.

  “We’re shut, love,” he said. “We’re having a bit of an emergency.”

  “It’s okay, I’m a doctor. The police are with me.” She didn’t have any ID, but Nelson had caught her up, and he showed his badge over her shoulder. The man immediately gave her the hat and the tablets, as if anxious to relinquish responsibility to an actual medic.

  “She’s not been able to tell us much,” he said, ushering them ahead of him. “She’s more awake than she was, and we’ve done our best, but we can’t get the poor lass warm at all.”

  The room he took them into was so hot it made Meg’s head swim. A log fire was blazing like a smelting furnace, and a man in a Texaco uniform was kneeling by the sofa with a mug in his hand. He moved away to allow Meg through, and she caught a glimpse of Sanne, buried beneath a mound of bedding and propped up on pillows almost as white as she was. She didn’t realise Meg was there at first, but when she did she started to cry.

  “Hey. Shh, don’t get upset.” Meg crouched beside her and placed a hand on her forehead. Despite the stifling heat, her skin was cold, and she was shivering uncontrollably. Meg used the hat to dry the tears. “Come on, love, you’re scaring Nelson.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Sanne whispered, her words tumbling together. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t do anything daft, I didn’t. I went for chicken food.”

  “I know, I know.” Meg touched her fingers to Sanne’s lips. “You’re safe now, and you’re not in any bother. Stop fretting.”

  Sanne tried to push herself up, but she couldn’t get her hands out. “Did you find Dorina and the others? Nelson, I drew a map on a bag.”

  “The helicopter’s already looking for them,” Nelson said. “The chaps here gave some rough coordinates when they phoned in about you, and we’ve arrested Sadek.”

  That was enough to settle her. She sagged against the pillows and closed her eyes. “I’ve buggered my legs up,” she mumbled. “Trudy took most of my clothes off me. And my boots.”

  Meg rocked back, hitting the table and sending a glass of brandy to the floor. She’d thought she’d prepared herself for the worst when she’d seen the blood on the wire, but no one had warned her that Sanne had been forced to undress and had then crossed miles of frozen moors in that state. She wiped the sweat from her face, glad that Sanne wasn’t watching her.

  “How buggered is ‘buggered’?” she asked.

  “Pretty buggered. They hurt like the dickens.”

  The simple admission helped Meg focus. Pain was something Sanne rarely acknowledged, and it was something Meg could fix. She fished out her obs kit and IV pouch. “Right, then, let’s top-to-toe you.”

  Sanne seemed too done-in to protest. Her nose did wrinkle when Meg stuck the thermometer in her ear, but it was a token effort.

  “What’s my score?” she asked.

  “Crap.” Meg showed her the screen, which just read “LOW.” She tossed Nelson a bag of saline. “Do me a favour, Nelson: warm this. Sit it by the fire or something. And put a bloody rocket under ambulance control.”

  He nodded briskly, heading for the hearth with his radio in one hand and the IV bag in the other.

  She waited until he was out of earshot and then perched on the sofa, stroking Sanne’s cheek. “It’s just you and me now. I’m going to uncover your legs, okay?”

  Sanne looked at Meg, her hazel eyes a bright contrast to the bruising below. “They didn’t touch me,” she said. “They knocked me about a bit, but it could’ve been worse.”

  Meg nodded, still too distraught to appreciate this. She wanted to switch off the lights and hold on to Sanne until everything mended, but that was as unrealistic as wishing the night’s events had never happened. Sanne fumbled a hand out from the blankets and took hold of Meg’s. There were deep lacerations encircling her wrist, but her grip was strong.

  “I’m not letting you out of my sight again, Sanne Jensen,” Meg said.

  “Mm.” Sanne smiled. “Does that mean you’re going to come running with me? Once my legs are better, that is?”

  “Still going to be running, are you?” Meg didn’t know why that came as a surprise. Sanne had never let anything knock her down for long.

  “I hope so. I’ll stick to wearing trainers, though.”

  “As your doctor, I would advise that.” Meg sighed. “I don’t suppose you fancy swimming instead? Something safe and indoorsy?”

  “I like the hills, Meg.”

  “I know you do, love.” She wasn’t going to argue a point she’d never win. She placed Sanne’s hand on top of the bedding and put the woolly hat on her head. “How about I fill you full of morphine and you have a nap?”

  “You really need to work on your pickup lines.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not on top form.” Meg tightened her tourniquet around Sanne’s arm and ripped open a cannula. “It’s been a hell of a night.”

  *

  Eleanor banged twice on the side of the police van and watched it pull slowly away, keeping within the fresh tyre tracks carved into the field as it made a U-turn, with her fifth and hopefully final perp locked in the back.

  The unidentified Romanian photographed with Miklos at Sadek’s shop had been discovered nursing a twisted ankle on the nearside of Stryder Clough. For the price of a cigarette and two ibuprofen, he’d confirmed that Sadek had travelled to the farm alone, which left the four women who’d escaped with Sanne the only people unaccounted for. Mountain Rescue teams were focusing their efforts around the area of moorland that Sanne had described, and several ambulances were waiting in the yard of Black Gate Farm. Though little remained for EDSOP to do out there, Eleanor wasn’t budging until the women were found, and none of her detectives had uttered a word about going home.

  “It’s official: I am definitely a city boy.” Russ stomped thick clods of crap off his boots and wrapped his arms across his chest. He had to shout past the scarf he’d raised over his nose. “Speaking of useless urbanites, what time are we expecting DCI Litton to grace us with his presence?”

  “We’re not,” Eleanor said. “DCI Litton has gone directly to HQ to address the media. I’m to notify him of any developments.”

  Russ scoffed, sucking his scarf inward. “Did he at least have the decency to admit he was wrong?”

  “No.”

  “What a prize twat,” Russ said, and then stood quietly as Eleanor answered a radio query. “Any sign of them?” he asked.

  “Not yet.”

  They looked in unison at the sky, watching the shaft of light streaming from the underbelly of the police helicopter. It was some distance away, the beat of its blades inaudible.

  “I wonder whether its thermal imaging will work if the women are severely hypothermic,” she said.

  “I have no idea.” He stamped again. “How on earth could Sanne stand this? I’ve only spent a couple of hours out here—fully dressed, mind—and there are parts of me I doubt will ever defrost.”

  “I don’t imagine she stayed still long enough to think about it.”

  “No, probably not.” His eyebrows knit together. “What’s t
he latest from Meg?”

  “That she’s stable and heading to theatre, to debride the wounds on—and I quote—‘legs that look like they’ve been through an industrial fucking shredder.’”

  “Ouch.”

  “My sentiments exactly.” The barn loomed in the periphery of Eleanor’s vision. She hadn’t been inside again since the arrival of SOCO, happy for once to let them tease apart the details of what had happened in there. “Knowing Sanne, she’ll drag herself to work in a bloody wheelchair, but I’ll have to get something in place for her. Counselling or peer support, or,” she shook her head, “or, I don’t have a clue, Russ. What the hell do you put in place for this?”

  “Probably not a counsellor,” he said. “Sanne doesn’t strike me as one who’d open up to a stranger. She’s more likely to talk to Nelson, or to you, or maybe just to Meg.”

  Eleanor watched the helicopter circle, its searchlight outshining the moon, before it swooped and hovered above a precise spot.

  “You might be right,” she said. “She’ll have to give a statement, but we’ll cross that bridge later.”

  Her earpiece crackled, delivering a bolt of static that made her wince. As the transmission cleared, she recognised the pilot’s voice and gave Russ a thumbs-up halfway through the concise account. Relief made her knock-kneed, and she sat heavily on the back step of the SOCO van, longing for a Scotch and a week’s worth of sleep.

  “Three walking and talking, one poorly but stable,” she repeated for Russ’s benefit. “A Mountain Rescue team found them—almost fell on top of them. They should be down in a few minutes. The chopper’s just looking for somewhere to land.”

  “Bloody brilliant,” Russ said. At her nod, he put out an open-channel message to recall the search teams. He was still fielding enquiries when Fred approached her. One glance at his face set her on edge; even in the torchlight, he looked green around the gills.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “We found something in Sadek’s car,” he said. “Probably easier to show you.”

  George was waiting at the rear of the Range Rover, a crowbar and a screwdriver by his feet. He’d hung his jacket over the tailgate and rolled his sleeves up.

  “The floor of the boot seemed weird,” he said. “It didn’t quite sit right, and we found a lock box where you’d expect a spare tyre. I just jemmied it open.” He collected his jacket and let Eleanor step into his place. He’d shut the box again, but its contents were neatly arranged across the boot’s interior: heavy-duty bin bags, a plastic tarp, three Tyvek suits, disposable gloves, a saw, and a machete.

  Eleanor tasted bile at the back of her throat. She closed the boot and walked around the corner of the smaller barn, where she knelt and vomited until there was nothing left but dry heaves and sour spit.

  Russ found her eventually. He gave her a Polo Mint and helped her to stand.

  “Come on,” he said. “I’ll give you a lift to the hospital.”

  *

  In flagrant violation of Sheffield Royal’s “no flowers” policy, Meg arranged the daffodils in a spare jug and put them next to the roses on Sanne’s bedside cabinet. The nurses were turning a blind eye, and Meg was determined to make the room as cheerful as possible for Sanne, whenever she decided to wake up. Late morning sunlight was streaming through the blinds, casting warm hues on the sterile equipment, and the cadence of Teresa’s knitting needles sounded to Meg like a lullaby.

  She retook her seat, wrapping her fingers over Sanne’s. Sanne continued to snore softly, rendered insensible by a cocktail of anaesthesia and pain relief. Given her low tolerance to drugs, she’d probably be out for the count halfway into next week. Meg stretched out her legs and swallowed a mouthful of Cherry Coke from the can she’d bought hours ago. It had lost all its fizz, but the caffeine provided a welcome kick.

  “She came home looking like this once,” Teresa said. The tap of her needles slowed and then stopped. Every now and again she would touch Sanne as if to reassure herself that Sanne really was there. “Those girls had ripped her school bag from her and thrown her books in a puddle, and the meanest one belted her when she went to pick them up.”

  “I remember her coming to school with a split lip,” Meg said. “But I’m pretty sure she told me Keeley had done it. I’d have bloody leathered them if I’d known.” She reconsidered. The girls in question had been notoriously vicious, and at least two of them now had criminal records. “Well, I’d have given it a damn good go.”

  Teresa neatened the edge of a blanket, aligning it with the one underneath. “She didn’t want anyone fighting that battle for her. Even our Michael offered to have words, but she wouldn’t let him.”

  “Headstrong little soul,” Meg said, more to Sanne than to anyone else. She would never understand the contradictions inherent in Sanne, why Sanne would kowtow to authority yet choose to face down seemingly impossible odds on her own. “That stubborn streak probably got her through last night, Teresa.”

  “I’m sure it helped.”

  “Far more than I did.” She had lowered her voice to a whisper, but once the words were out she couldn’t take them back, so she kept going. “I was so bothered about smothering her or mithering her that I left her for hours with those men. If I’d contacted Nelson earlier, the police would’ve gone to the farm, and she might never have ended up in here.”

  Teresa adjusted her chair until she faced Meg properly. “Stop talking nonsense. How on earth is any of this your fault?”

  “Because I’m supposed to keep her safe.” Meg pressed the point when Teresa didn’t answer. “Aren’t I?”

  “You can certainly try.” Teresa’s even tone was a direct contrast to the challenge in Meg’s. “Lord knows I’ve tried since she was a babe, but it doesn’t always work out. You know that as well as I do. She’d be as nowty as a wet hen to hear you talking like this.”

  “Don’t mention those sodding hens,” Meg muttered.

  Teresa laid her palm on Meg’s cheek. “Sanne’s never asked anyone to protect her. Not as a child, and especially not now. And she’s been happier than I’ve ever seen her, these past few weeks. The last thing she’ll want is you blaming yourself.”

  “I suppose.”

  Teresa rapped the back of Meg’s hand with a knitting needle. “Suppose nothing, Megan Fielding. You’re being an idiot, and you’ve made me drop a stitch.”

  Meg smiled at her indignation. “Sorry about the hole,” she said. “But thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Teresa resumed her knitting, signalling an end to the discussion. She didn’t speak again until she paused to watch Meg wipe a trickle of saliva from Sanne’s chin.

  “I’d almost given up on you two ever seeing sense,” she said. “I can’t count the number of times I’ve wanted to knock your bloody heads together.”

  “You can’t rush these things, Teresa.”

  “Rush?” She gave Meg the look she traditionally reserved for the naughtiest of Keeley’s brood. “You’ve been courting each other since you were eleven.”

  “That’s not true.” Meg took Sanne’s hand again, brushing away the dried flakes of blood that mapped the lines of her palm. “We didn’t have our first kiss till we were twelve.”

  *

  Sanne had no idea why she was sleeping on her back. She’d just choked herself snoring, and her chin was wet with drool. She coughed and attempted to turn over.

  “Oh, hey, no! Don’t do that.”

  The bed dipped as someone sat on it. Hands pressed on her shoulders, keeping her in place but being careful not to exert too much force.

  “You’ve slept for long enough. How about you wake up instead?”

  It took Sanne an age to make sense of the question. Meg’s voice was the only thing she recognised. The bed and the smell of the room were unfamiliar, her pyjamas didn’t fit her, and her body felt as if it had been steamrollered and then dipped in lead. She groaned, coughed some more, sucked water through the straw that was pushed between her lip
s, and finally opened her eyes.

  Two relieved smiles were the first things she saw. She smiled back, even though her face throbbed and the pain in her legs was making her bottom lip wobble.

  “Morning.” Meg kissed her forehead and, ever practical, proffered a cardboard bowl. “Think you might need this?”

  “Maybe,” Sanne conceded. She could only bend four of her fingers to grasp the bowl, drawing her attention to the bandages covering her wrist. Her fingernails were caked with dirt and blood from the barn. She gagged and abruptly brought back the water she’d just drunk. “Shit.”

  “Here, I’ve got it. It’s all right.” Her mum moved the bowl out of sight, returning with paper towels to wipe Sanne’s face clean. Not trusting her stomach to behave itself, Sanne lay still and let her mum fuss.

  “This will get better, I promise,” Meg said, tapping Sanne’s contrary finger. “You’ve had a tendon repaired in your wrist, that’s all.”

  “Mm. Ron tied the wire really tight,” Sanne said, too groggy for subterfuge. She blinked against the sunlight, trying to organise her scattered thoughts. “Dorina?”

  “Safe and sound,” Meg said. “Mirela is here in the Burns ITU, and Dorina is at St. Margaret’s with Paree and Fadiya. They’re all doing okay.”

  Sanne murmured the unfamiliar names. She’d marched the girls out onto the moors, compelling them to trust her, but she’d never asked what they were called. She wondered which of them had saved her life by attacking Miklos with the rock.

  “Nelson, Zoe, and Eleanor have visited,” Meg continued. She held up a packet of chocolate HobNobs. “Nelson reckoned you’d appreciate these more than flowers.”

  “He was right,” Sanne said. The thought of being able to dunk biscuits with Nelson and go home with Meg tightened her throat. She sniffled and rubbed her nose on her bandages. “Can I save them for later, though?”

  “Of course you can.” Meg was watching her intently, no doubt reading something into every crease on her face. “How bad is the pain?”