A Quiet Death

by Cari Hunter

  “Are any of the men talking?” Sanne asked.

  “No,” he said. “But they’ve all been charged. I can tell you the counts, if you want us to be here till midnight.”

  “You’re welcome to stay. I have cake.” She made the offer lightly but then sobered. There was only one obvious loose end, and it was the one that had initiated the entire investigation. “What about the girl at Greave?”

  “Her name is Halima Hashiba, and she was fourteen years old.” Eleanor flipped to a different page of her notepad, though she didn’t seem to need the prompts. “One of the vics rescued during that last SOET raid had been held with her at Nab Hey. Apparently, Sadek brought her over with her older sister Nabila, whom we haven’t yet been able to find. There’s no mention of either of them on Sadek’s computer—he’s not that stupid—but Interpol have managed to contact their family in Pakistan. The labs have confirmed it was Halima’s blood in Sadek’s car. She probably cut herself going through the window.”

  “Sadek told the family all the right things,” Nelson said. “That the girls would get a good job and the chance to learn English. He was a dab hand at getting these people to trust him.”

  Sanne took the printout that Eleanor held out: a colour photograph of Halima, embarrassment flushing her face, and her clothes pristine, as if her mother had insisted she look her best. The woollen bracelet around her wrist now sat in Evidence.

  “We’ll probably never prove who was driving Sadek’s car that night, will we?” Sanne said.

  “Not unless we find a witness.” Eleanor took the photograph back but didn’t put it away. Perhaps that would have felt like admitting defeat. “Sadek will go to prison for umpteen other charges, but he may never be held accountable for Halima’s death. Not in a court of law, at any rate.”

  “Wanker,” Sanne muttered.

  “Of the highest order.” Eleanor regarded her closely. “I’ve asked one of the SOET detectives to take your statement. There’s no rush. Just give me a shout whenever you feel up to it.”

  “Thanks, boss.” Sanne hadn’t broached the subject with Eleanor, but the prospect of describing her abduction to one of her EDSOP colleagues had filled her with dread. “I’m loads better than I was. My doc promised to let me out tomorrow.”

  “In which case,” Nelson delved into the gift box and emerged holding a large, round tin, “I think that calls for cake.”

  “There aren’t many aspects of my life that don’t call for cake.” Holding the chair’s remote in her good hand, Sanne lowered her legs and grabbed her crutch. “C’mere, Nelson.”

  He stooped obediently and allowed her to hang on to him. “What’s your plan?” he asked as they stood together.

  “Find a nurse. Acquire plates and a knife.”

  “Sounds doable.” He settled his arm around her waist, hugging her close. “Ready? On three…”

  EPILOGUE

  Sanne hadn’t been bluffing. She’d felt bright and chipper that morning, raring to go. Her trainers had pinched a little after her warm-up exercises, rubbing on a couple of sore spots, but she hadn’t been planning on a long run, just an easy circular jog to get her back into the routine.

  “Hey, you.”

  Meg’s voice made her jump. She stared at the floor, ashamed for a reason she couldn’t articulate. Meg didn’t seem to notice, though. Still in her pyjamas, she perched on the kitchen counter, brandishing a postcard.

  “Your mum’s been sledging with huskies and fishing for king crabs, and she’s seen a pod of beluga. She sounds like she’s having a whale of a time,” Meg said, and laughed at her terrible pun.

  “That was disgraceful.” Sanne threw a grape at her. It missed. “I’m surprised the card beat the ship.”

  “Me too. The Norwegian post must be highly efficient.” Meg passed her the card, waiting in silence for her to read it. “You’re not very muddy,” she said, once Sanne had turned the card over.

  Sanne studied the picture: the aurora borealis swirling above a snow-capped mountain, its waves of fluorescent green mirrored in the fjord below.

  “I only got as far as the garden gate,” she said, her toes curling on the cold tiles. She’d left her trainers on the mat, her running socks stuffed in them. “I opened it, but I couldn’t go through it.”

  “Are you worried about going back to work tomorrow?”

  “No, it’s not that. I don’t…” She raised her head. “I just couldn’t.”

  Meg drummed her fingernails on the counter and then hopped off it, a decision apparently reached. “Make some butties. I’ll be ready in ten.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “I’ll have egg on mine!” Meg yelled, pounding up the stairs.

  Half expecting Meg to come down in purloined running gear, Sanne was relieved when she reappeared toting rucksacks and woolly hats. She chucked trousers and a fleece at Sanne, and added a bag of sweets to the picnic laid out on the table.

  “How’s about Blackden Brook?” she asked, and Sanne stopped chewing the skin from the side of her thumb for long enough to nod.

  They parked in a lay-by at the base of the route, a steep and little-used path that followed the track of a stream onto the northern edge of Kinder Scout. It was one of Sanne’s favourite scrambles, the path disappearing in places to merge with rock-strewn waterfalls. Standing by the lay-by’s kissing gate, she peered up at the deep cleft splitting the hillside. Patches of snow still nestled in sheltered high spots, but the lowermost vegetation showed the first signs of spring, speckling the dull brown with dabs of fresh growth. It was a typical Peak District big sky day, with a vigorous breeze sweeping clouds across the blue, promising showers one minute and warm sunshine the next.

  Sanne pushed her wrists through the straps on her hiking poles and stabbed the poles into the ground, dispelling the jitters that had been tempting her back to the car.

  “All set?” Meg asked.

  “Yep.”

  The path was narrow, obliging them to go single file. Meg offered Sanne the lead, letting her dictate their pace, any attempts at conversation hampered by the roar of the stream in spate and by their laboured breathing. As they climbed higher, a thick mist settled in the clough, blanketing everything in grey and dappling their clothes with dew. Sanne persevered for another half mile, her eyes on the ground rather than the ghostly shapes floating across the brook. Then she stopped short, forgetting to call a warning and making Meg skid on loose stones to avoid a collision.

  “Jesus, San!” Meg flicked droplets from her hair, the brusqueness of her actions softening as she looked at Sanne. “Do you want to go home?”

  Sanne shook her head, almost in tears.

  Meg raised Sanne’s chin and kissed her damp lips. “Do you want me to go first?”

  “Yes,” Sanne said. “Maybe just for a bit.”

  The chaos of rocks at the top of the brook provided the perfect distraction. Busy picking a safe passage, Sanne began to enjoy the burn of effort in her chest and the scrape of gritstone on her fingertips. She hauled Meg up a particularly dicey section, teetering with her on the brink of a stone slab until Meg urged her to carry on. They reached the summit together, climbing onto the tallest of the rocks to catch their breath. The sun gradually broke through the clouds, banishing the mist into the valley to leave the Peaks clear. Sanne turned a slow full circle, but she couldn’t see another soul beside Meg. The Snake, its steady stream of traffic, and the farms scattered along it were all hidden away.

  “Top of the world,” she murmured.

  “Aye.” Meg spread a plastic bag on the rock, and they sat down, stretching their legs out. “How are your poor battered tootsies?”

  Sanne knocked her boots together. “Slightly damp but otherwise sound.”

  “And what about the rest of you?”

  Sanne paused to take stock. Although Meg hadn’t put much weight behind the question, her expression was solemn as she waited for an answer.

  “I think I’m okay,” Sanne said. She was
n’t one hundred percent, but completing the ascent certainly felt like progress. She kissed Meg’s cheek. “Thank you for not letting me hide in my kitchen forever.”

  “It’ll keep getting easier, San. Consider this a first baby step. Soon you’ll be crayoning on the walls and sticking your fingers into plug sockets.”

  Sanne smiled. “If you ever get tired of medicine, you’d be ace at motivational speaking.” She stood and pulled Meg up. “Come for a wander with me.”

  “Did you have a destination in mind?”

  “Not as such.” Sanne jumped down onto the peat. “I thought we’d plod north for a bit. Find some more rocks, eat our butties, see what we can see.”

  “So basically you’re leading me astray.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Splendid. Which way’s north?”

  “T’other way.” Sanne gently tugged her in the right direction.

  Meg squinted at the compass, her attempts to orientate herself sending the pointer haywire. “Damn. This is why I never became a brain surgeon.”

  The path was wide enough now for them to walk side by side, and the mild warmth of the spring sun began to dry their clothes. A skylark soared overhead, its song mingling with the cackled “g’back” reproach of a nearby grouse.

  Sanne had no intention of going back. She clasped Meg’s hand in hers.

  “Stick with me, love,” she said. “I won’t let you get lost.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Cari Hunter lives in the northwest of England with her wife, two cats, and a pond full of frogs. She works full-time as a paramedic and dreams up stories in her spare time.

  Cari enjoys long, windswept, muddy walks in her beloved Peak District. In the summer she can usually be found sitting in the garden with her feet up, scribbling in her writing pad. Although she doesn’t like to boast, she will admit that she makes a very fine Bakewell Tart.

  Her first novel, Snowbound, received an Alice B. Lavender Certificate for outstanding début. No Good Reason, the first in the Dark Peak series, won a 2015 Rainbow Award for Best Mystery and was a finalist in the 2016 Lambda Literary Awards. Its sequel, Cold to the Touch, won a 2016 Goldie for Best Mystery.

  Cari can be contacted at: carihunter@rocketmail.com

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