by Cari Hunter
They didn’t rest for long. There was no obvious path, so they used the patches of vegetation as stepping stones to circle the tarn without soaking their boots. The air was cooler here, the rocks and the steep hillside channelling the wind and casting the moor into shadow. The droplets of water at Sanne’s hairline soon made her face cold, and her damp shirt clung to her unpleasantly.
“Never thought I’d say this, but I miss the sun.” She could see goose pimples rising on Nelson’s arms as he nodded.
“That poor girl,” he said. “Escaping from God only knows what and finding herself in the middle of this.”
Sanne had spent the day trying not to think about such things, and the unwelcome reminder sent a prickle of goose pimples across her own skin. If the woman had screamed, the only response she would have heard was an echo. It must have been terrifying.
Shaking off the image, Sanne returned her attention to the ground, scanning for signs that anyone had recently passed that way. The cotton grass and heather sprang back into shape the moment she lifted each foot, making it unlikely they would find a discernible trail, but there was a chance that the peat would hold a footprint.
“This is bloody daft,” Nelson muttered, pulling his leg from a bog he hadn’t spotted. The peat made an obscene sucking sound as it released his foot. “We’re both knackered, we can’t see properly any more, we’re miles away from the pick-up point, and I need a wee.”
“Go for a wild one.” Sanne consulted the map, altered her heading slightly to aim for the caves, and set off again. “I promise I won’t look.”
“Of all the people on this moor, San, you’re the least likely to sneak a peek.”
“True. Carlyle would probably insist on comparing sizes.”
Nelson let out a bark of laughter. “He’d lose,” he said and ducked between two rocks.
Leaving him to it, Sanne scrambled into a grough that threaded up toward the side of the hill. Wind gusted through the passage, blowing grit into her eyes and lashing the straps of her rucksack against her. She heard Nelson shout her name, and as she took a breath to reply, the cold air made her cough. Her eyes watering, she sneezed twice and fumbled for a tissue to blow her nose.
“Nelson?” She pulled the tissue away from her face and sneezed again. “Fuck. Nelson?”
“San? You okay?” He appeared over the ridge of the grough. Crouching down on its edge, he regarded her with a concerned expression.
“I can smell smoke,” she said. “Can you see a fire?”
He scrambled quickly up out of sight again, no doubt sharing the same thought: that the recent hot weather had left the moor as dry as a tinderbox, and one carelessly discarded cigarette would be enough to spark it up.
“I can’t see anything,” he yelled back. Then, softer and closer, as if he’d got down from a high vantage point, “No smoke. No fire. Are you sure?”
She had walked farther up the grough, and she was sure. Her pulse beat against her temples, and she cried out when a hand closed around her arm.
“Fucking hell!” She whipped around, leading with her fist and forcing Nelson to step hastily out of her range.
“Easy, partner.”
She bent over, panting. Somewhere beyond the sound of her own gasps, she heard him sniff the air experimentally.
“Definitely smoke,” he said as she straightened. “I’ll call it in, just in case.”
She put her hand on his, stopping him from activating his radio. “And then what? We just wait for Carlyle’s Cavalry to arrive?”
That gave him pause. He allowed her to lower his hand.
“Why don’t we see what there is to call in, first?” She could hardly believe she was making the suggestion, but they were going to get summoned back to the pick-up point within the hour, and she couldn’t bear the thought of going home empty-handed, when they might be on the verge of a genuine break in the case. “Ten minutes? If we don’t reach the source by then, or we spot a moor fire, we’ll call it in.”
He checked his watch and nodded slowly. “Okay. Ten minutes. Go.”
She set off before she could second-guess her decision. The gully was gently sloping and easy to negotiate. Keeping to its centre and away from its friable edges, she broke into a trot. The smell of burning gradually became stronger even as she became less convinced that the moor was on fire. In her earpiece, Carlyle barked an order to regroup on Laddaw Ridge. Ignoring him, she dragged herself above the lip of the grough and crouched there, coughing against the irritation in her throat. By the time Nelson joined her, she had her torch pointed at a thin plume of grey.
“Bingo,” she said.
The torch picked out a dark circle, half buried by a rock fall, almost invisible except for the thread of smoke guiding the eye.
Without speaking, Nelson helped her up, and they walked toward the narrow gap. She could hear him breathing heavily as they drew closer, and wondered whether he too was afraid that someone might be lying in wait to attack them. They had no weapons, nothing with which to defend themselves, and their backup was currently heading in the other direction, toward Laddaw. She strained to listen for any sounds that were out of the ordinary, but there was only the crunch of heather beneath their boots, and the rustle of wind through the cotton grass. She was beginning to relax, when Nelson grabbed her arm.
“Jesus! What?”
“Look.” He swirled his torch beam to direct her attention.
She saw what he was indicating, and dismissed her fears of ambush. Whoever had started this fire must be long gone, otherwise he would have ensured that nothing was left for them to find.
“I’ll have to call it in now, San.”
“I know. I guess he didn’t pitch that tent after all.”
She felt like crying, not out of sadness but out of anger that someone could have dragged another human being to a place like this, bound her, abused her, and then left her alone. She stared at the hole that led into the depths of Gillot Tor. In front of it, smoke drifted and danced in the breeze. A little came from the cave itself, but most was rising up from the remains of a wooden pallet by the entrance. The wood was charred but not destroyed, and even from a distance Sanne was certain of one thing: it would be a match for the splinters SOCO had pulled from the woman’s feet.
Chapter Eight
The rock was coarse and unforgiving beneath Sanne’s buttocks. She wondered whether the old wives’ tale was true, whether sitting on cold, hard surfaces for a prolonged time really did cause haemorrhoids, and, if so, what exactly a haemorrhoid was and how she would know if she had one. She made a mental note to ask Meg, whenever she was finally allowed to go home.
“So, can either of you explain that to me? Jensen?”
In front of her, his hair aflame in the glow of a torch, and his face only a shade less red, Carlyle seemed to be waiting for a response. As she had missed the first part of his question and couldn’t tell him why she’d not been paying attention, she looked to Nelson for assistance.
“Because Sanne had already smelled the smoke by then,” he said, and she realised Carlyle must have been asking why they’d disregarded his order to head back to the ridge.
“And you took it upon yourselves to wander blindly across the moor on a wild goose chase?”
“Wild grouse,” Nelson murmured, and feigned innocence when Carlyle glared at him.
Sanne ran her fingertips across the gritstone, letting it wear away her skin like an over-keen emery board. Such distractions were a coping method she had used for as long as she could remember. They stopped her from flinching and cringing at raised voices or raised fists, and from yelling back and getting herself in even more trouble. Not that she and Nelson were really in trouble now. They might have pissed Carlyle off by proving him wrong and stealing his glory, but he wasn’t stupid enough to report them for persevering and actually finding something.
Whatever else he might have said was cut off by the roar of the police helicopter, swooping low on its final approach. S
omeone much higher up the pecking order than Carlyle was evidently convinced that the crime scene had been located, and had increased the budget for the case accordingly. In a fraction of the time it had taken Sanne’s group to cover the distance by truck and on foot that morning, the chopper had already completed two round-trips to drop off equipment and personnel, and it was currently on its third. Powerful floodlights, brought in on the first flight, illuminated the mouth of the cave, and for the past two hours, forensics officers in Tyvek suits had been scurrying in and out like termites.
Experienced enough to leave the scene undisturbed, Sanne and Nelson had stayed out of the cave, but one of the younger lads from SOCO had stopped to speak to them and confirmed that an accelerant had been used to start a fire in a chamber close to the entrance. It had burned poorly in the damp atmosphere, leaving hair, fibres, and bodily fluids, which were being collected for analysis. Until SOCO cleared the scene, there was nothing more that Sanne and Nelson could do, but Carlyle hadn’t yet given them permission to leave.
As the helicopter landed and the beat of its rotor blades slowed, Sanne bent forward, her eyes closing of their own accord. She forced her head up again as she sensed Nelson take a step toward her, but he merely sat by her on the rock. She leaned into him, grateful for his support.
As if disgusted by this show of solidarity, Carlyle strode away to greet Eleanor, the only person to leave the helicopter’s landing zone.
She, however, went straight past him, making a beeline for Sanne and Nelson. “Well, if it isn’t Nancy Drew and her favourite Hardy Boy,” she called.
Sanne got to her feet. “I think Nancy Drew had better hair than me, boss.”
“And the Hardy Boys were white,” Nelson chipped in.
Eleanor took a moment to observe the activity at the cave. “Nice work,” she said, turning back to them. “But I’m assuming you’re not just sticking around for me to get here and pat you on the head.”
“Not really, boss.” Nelson shrugged but offered no further explanation, and Sanne developed a keen interest in her bootlaces.
“The helicopter’s waiting for you.” Eleanor laughed at their startled reactions. “I need you at your desks bright and early tomorrow, so I’m not going to ask you to walk back.”
“Oh.” Sanne swayed and felt Nelson pull her back into position.
“What about Carlyle?” he asked.
“He can’t go anywhere until he’s briefed me, can he?” Eleanor’s tone implied she already knew everything there was to know about the day’s events. She smiled, her teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “So he’ll just have to stay out here a little while longer.”
*
Three and a half years of working shifts as a uniformed officer had taught Sanne to function on very little sleep. She could also demolish a hot meal in less than five minutes, and catnap while sitting bolt upright with her boots on, although those were more questionable talents. Nelson was proficient at the latter skills, but not so adept at the first, so Sanne made coffee strong enough to stand the spoon up in and put it on his desk the moment he arrived.
“Got three sugars in it,” she said, her voice making him recoil like a drunk with the mother of all hangovers. “I also got you this.”
His expression shifted from pained to blissful as he took the paper bag. “Runny egg?” he asked, breathing in the scent of artery-clogging fat.
“Of course. I thought you might need a treat, so I got you bacon and sausage.”
“Don’t ever leave me.” He spoke through the first bite of his sandwich, making egg-yolk drip onto his chin.
“The boss is briefing us at seven thirty.” Sanne checked her watch. It was 7:22. “Plenty of time to get that down your neck.”
A third of the barm cake already devoured, Nelson gave her a thumbs-up and mumbled a question that she interpreted as “any news on the vic?”
“She’s ‘stable,’ which Meg reckons is one up from ‘critical but stable.’ They might try to wake her later today. Meg’s on a twilight, but she’s going in early if the neurosurgeon gives her a shout.”
Nelson washed down his mouthful with a gulp of coffee. “Any word from SOCO?”
“I’ve not heard anything yet, but I think that’s what the briefing will be about. Speaking of which…” Her prompt made him cram in the last of his breakfast and grab his mug. She shook her head at his bulging cheeks. “One of these days you’re going to make yourself sick.”
The office had filled up during Nelson’s speed-eating feat. Teaspoons clinked against mugs, and the smell of coffee, toast, and microwave porridge drifted through from the kitchen. With such early starts, people tended to wait until they arrived for their shift before eating breakfast.
Sanne and Nelson filed into the incident room ahead of George and Fred.
“I’ve put in an application to swap partners,” Fred announced loudly. “I want to work with Detective Jensen, so her women’s intuition rubs off on me.”
Sanne looked back and arched an eyebrow. “I’m not rubbing anything off on you, Detective Aspinall.”
Fred’s ears turned pink as Nelson and George laughed. Thrice divorced, with six children, he was in his mid-fifties, but that didn’t stop him from flirting with Sanne at every opportunity. Nor was he deterred by the fact that she was, as he put it, “a big old lezzer.” The first time he said that, he might have been trying to push her buttons and gauge his limits, but they had got along just fine after the only thing she objected to was his use of the words “big” and “old.”
He linked his arm in hers. “Sit next to me, love, so we can compare notes.”
Squeezing his arm, she allowed him to lead her to a couple of spare chairs. “I love what you’ve done with your hair,” she said.
He rubbed his head and made a show of preening. He was as bald as a coot.
The chatter faded when Eleanor walked in. She opened a file on the computer and perched on a desk just to the right of the overhead screen, which now showed a wide-angled exterior shot of the cave at Gillot Tor.
“Okay, this is where we’re at.” She waited out the clicks and crackles as her team readied pens and notepads. “SOCO have been at the scene overnight and through the early hours. The labs are expected to take three to four days to come back with DNA and fibre analysis, but it’s looking certain that the vic was held in a small, well-concealed chamber, approximately forty metres from the cave entrance. A thread of rope matching the one she was bound with has been recovered, along with several hairs, and traces of blood, vomit, faeces, and urine.”
George raised his hand and cleared his throat. “No semen?”
Eleanor switched to an interior shot before answering. “SOCO went over the area with a Wood’s lamp, but nothing showed. Obviously, the labs will be taking a close look at the fluid samples. Conditions in the cave are far from ideal. There’s standing water, the walls are wet, and the perp covered as much as he could with petrol before he sparked it up. No prints have been recovered, and my gut feeling is that all the DNA will point to the vic. But there is a bit of light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak.”
Another image, taken at dawn, showing a rough dirt track down a rugged hillside.
“One of the Rangers took SOCO out here this morning. The track meets up with an access road for a long-abandoned barn, a road that in turn connects to the Snake Pass. It tapers out a little under three miles from the scene, and yes”—she smiled at George as he began to lift his hand—“we found tyre treads, which are being cast as we speak. The use of this route—and I think we have to assume this is his access and egress—points to a perp with in-depth knowledge of the area. That he took the time to return to the scene to destroy evidence suggests we’re looking for someone with a certain amount of acumen, even if he only managed a half-arsed job in the end.”
She flicked through a series of images, before alighting on one that made Sanne avert her eyes.
“This is the photograph we’ve released to the press.”
Eleanor let that sink in for a few seconds.
Sanne steeled herself to look again and managed not to react this time. The photograph had been taken in the ITU, with a harsh light rigged to provide the necessary detail. The woman’s eyes, temporarily relieved of the tape that had kept them closed, were mere slits amid balloons of bruising. The tube in her mouth distorted her lips, and bandages concealed what remained of her hair.
“I know, I know,” Eleanor said, in response to the general discord. “We’re pissing in the wind with this, but somewhere a parent or a partner might be missing her, and there’s always a chance we’ll get lucky.” She shut the computer down, and the image vanished.
Sanne slowly uncurled her toes, and the pain from where they had rubbed against her hiking boots began to ease. When she looked at the notepad in front of her, she could still see the shape of the woman’s face in silhouette. She stared at it as she listened to Eleanor switch Carlyle and his partner to door-to-door enquiries, leaving George and Fred with Missing Persons and the new telephone hotline that was to open that morning. By the time she heard her own name, the paper showed nothing but her notes.
“Sanne, Nelson, the chopper will pick you up from the playing field in twenty-five minutes.”
Snapping to attention, Sanne hoped her jaw hadn’t dropped as far as she feared. Her reaction made Eleanor smile.
“One of the SOCO chaps is going to take you on a walk-through of the scene,” Eleanor explained. “I want to know what your impressions are.”
“Haven’t you been in there, boss?” Nelson asked.
“Yes, but three opinions are better than one, don’t you think?”
Nelson nodded, no sign of tiredness now as he sat up straight and beamed at Sanne. They both understood that this was their reward for their efforts the previous day. In her eagerness to get going, Sanne almost bolted from her seat the moment Eleanor ended the briefing.