Salt Lane

by William Shaw

  The problem now would be how to get the corpse out of the water. Cupidi knew, from her own experience, how challenging it was to climb out of these drainage channels. Hard enough to move yourself, let alone a dead weight.

  And then Ferriter was hobbling towards the car.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  She was shaking her head as she ducked under the tape. What did that mean?

  Yanking open the car door: ‘It’s not her! It’s not her. She’s got dark hair.’

  Oh God.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘They just said. Black hair. Long.’

  You could see the relief among the other coppers; it was visible in the way they stood now, bodies less stiff.

  ‘Jesus.’

  They all looked at Cupidi, some grinning. As she emerged back onto the site, a copper clapped her on the shoulder. It was bizarre; as if she had won a prize. Not one of ours. But the guilty smiles vanished just as quickly. It was still a body. Somebody else’s daughter.

  ‘Let me see,’ she said.

  The victim was being held in the water by the recovery crew. She was naked, dressed only in fronds of weed that stuck to her skin. The same as Freya Brindley, thought Cupidi; strip the clothes and leave the body in the water to make identification hard and to degrade the DNA. They stood, waist high in water, one on each side of the woman whose head was tilted towards Cupidi. Her dark hair hung down into the water.

  From the bank, the people shone torches. Her eyes were wide, whites catching the light. Rain fell into her open mouth.

  The men edged forwards, feet unsteady in the mud, and as they did so, the victim’s head lolled sideways.

  Coppers gasped. Cupidi could see why. There were large wounds where her neck met her shoulder; washed by the water, they were clean, and gaped open as the skin stretched.

  She had been stabbed several times close to the nape, the weapon penetrating downwards towards her body cavity. The gashes were so deep, at least one would have passed through the carotid artery.

  The woman had the pallor of the bloodless.

  A stench of decay rose up from the trench; old mud disturbed by the men released its ancient stink.

  ‘Get a tarp,’ shouted one of the frogmen. ‘In the back of the van. And rope.’

  They threw it to them and the man wrapped the blue sheet under her, tying the line to the tarpaulin’s eyes.

  Above, coppers hauled on the ropes as the men below lifted the body. Slowly the victim was dragged up the bank, bumping hips on hummocks of grass.

  It’s not my daughter, Cupidi thought. But where was she, then? She was supposed to be concentrating on the dead woman, on the crime scene, making notes of what was happening.

  A copper was kneeling, pulling the rope out of the tarpaulin’s eyelets so he could open it.

  ‘God. I’m so relieved it’s not Zoë, boss.’ Ferriter was standing beside her.

  She turned to her. ‘Did you see the wounds?’

  ‘No. Bad?’

  Cupidi nodded. ‘She was stabbed several times.’

  The officer had finally managed to loosen the knot and had pulled back the tarp, exposing the body inside.

  And as he did so, Ferriter’s eyes widened.

  Bodies do not look like the people they were. The muscles relax. The face changes shape. Cupidi had not recognised her at first either.

  Ferriter did. Cupidi dragged her eyes away from the body and turned to look at the constable. She was standing, shocked, open-mouthed.

  There was a reason Najiba had not been home.

  Ferriter’s chest rose and fell. In the rain streaming down her face, it was impossible to make out tears.

  It was Cupidi’s turn to put her hand around the constable’s shoulders, feeling their judder.

  ‘A shock,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t really even know her, I suppose.’

  The weather was relentless. The bank they were standing on was already a mess of mud.

  With a torch, Cupidi knelt at the body’s side and looked close.

  Normally she would not touch a body herself, but it had been disturbed already. With gloves on, she leaned across the body and picked up Najiba’s left hand. There was a slash across the palm. Lifting her right arm, she saw another cut, bone-deep, at her elbow.

  ‘Defensive wounds,’ someone said.

  She nodded. She imagined Najiba standing, holding her arms up in front of her to protect herself from whoever had the knife.

  It had been swift and brutal. Four times the weapon had made it past her raised hands. It was someone who knew how to kill. They were going for the weak spot between the shoulder blade and the spine. Once the knife found the artery, it would have all been over.

  ‘It’s our fault, isn’t it?’ said Ferriter miserably.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We were so keen to persuade her to give us the addresses. That’s why they killed her.’

  Maybe it was true. They hadn’t known what they were doing when they turned up at the caravans. People had escaped. That’s what had put her life in danger.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Cupidi said, but she felt unsettled. She was still too many steps behind.

  They had met this woman. She had tried to help them. Now she was dead.

  ‘Why is there bruising around the wound?’ she asked.

  There were dark marks on the skin where she had been stabbed.

  ‘Jesus. He must have hit her hard with that knife.’ Standing at her feet, a copper whom Cupidi didn’t recognise was miming downward jabbing actions.

  ‘Do that again,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That movement.’ She watched him stabbing into air, a puzzled look on his face, then looked back down at the open wounds.

  The same shape her daughter had made when copying the girl she had seen in the night. The downward motion of the fist.

  ‘Oh,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  Taking Najiba’s head in her gloved hands she tilted it slightly to one side. Rigor had gone completely. The autopsy would confirm it, but she had been dead at least two days, Cupidi guessed. ‘A bit more light, please.’

  Somebody shone the torch from their phone onto the woman’s other shoulder. And there, on the opposite side, were more bruises; but no wounds this time.

  A hand was tugging at her shoulder. ‘Your phone’s ringing, Sarge.’

  Was it? She looked down. The screen was lit up, shining through the wet material of her trousers. She dug it out, stood and held it to her ear.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Where were you?’ Stupid to let the anger into her voice. ‘Sorry. I was worried.’

  ‘At Christmas Dell hide. The rain came. I would have got soaked so I stayed. Are you all right, Mum?’

  ‘Yes. I am.’

  ‘I’m home now. Got soaked anyway. Those people in Arum Cottage. Who are they?’

  The body recovery team had arrived. They would be lifting Najiba into the back of a van soon. Ferriter was looking white; Cupidi wondered if she was going to faint. She was young; not used to the dead.

  ‘Mum? Who are they?’

  ‘I’ll explain in the morning. It’s a long story. I love you, darling.’

  ‘What’s wrong, Mum?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. I just wanted to say I love you, very, very much.’

  ‘You’re being weird. When are you coming home?’

  ‘Don’t be angry. I have to work late. It’s what I do. Go to bed.’ Her daughter didn’t answer. She looked at the body. This is what I do.

  She got back into the police car, started the engine and put the fan on, doing her best to dry herself out.

  There was not much to do at a crime scene like this. In the morning, after a forensic team had done their work, they would search the wider area, trawl the drain for any clothes or artefacts, looking for the weapon. Even if they all knew that there was almost certainly no chance of finding any evidence here. There had been none when Hilary Keen’s
body had been dumped; this would be the same. If there had been any tracks or footprints they would have been long gone.

  Ferriter opened the door.

  ‘Get in,’ Cupidi said. She looked at the young woman. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  She reached out and took her hand. The interior light faded and they were left in the darkness, watching them struggling over the slippery mud with Najiba’s body.

  The frogmen were stripping down again; they had done their job.

  Nobody was speaking any more; the excitement of a fresh crime scene had gone. In its place was the struggle to carry out these dismal tasks in horrible conditions.

  First the coroner’s officer left, followed by the Marine Unit. Ferriter had booked them to return in the morning for a fingertip search of the ditch. Finally the pathologist’s team closed the doors of their vehicle.

  When they tried to leave, they discovered they had driven the van too far into the mud. Wheels spun, uselessly, until a group of the remaining coppers helped push it out onto the tarmac.

  When Moon had put the cordon tape back in place, he got into the back of Cupidi’s car.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said, lowering his hood. ‘What a foul night. Not much else we can do here until the morning. Let’s hope the weather’s better then. Back here at seven? That right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘Jill? You OK? You’re looking a bit peaky.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said.

  His head appeared between the two headrests. ‘Is there a Support Officer on the way to look after the site overnight?’

  ‘Yes, poor bastard,’ said Ferriter. ‘Don’t fancy that much. He’s forty minutes away. It’s OK. I’ll wait. I don’t mind.’

  ‘How’s your leg?’

  ‘Not so bad,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think you should even be out here,’ said Moon.

  ‘I won’t be able to sleep now anyway. Not after that.’

  ‘You knew her?’

  ‘Yes. She helped us.’

  The land around them was black; there was no sign of habitation anywhere.

  ‘Which car are you going to use?’

  ‘Shit,’ she said. The car she’d come in had left already.

  ‘You’ll have to take this one,’ said Cupidi. ‘Will you give me a ride home, Peter?’

  ‘Not on your own, Jill,’ said Moon, looking round. ‘You shouldn’t be here on your own.’

  Cupidi said, ‘I should get a decent look around outside the perimeter, just in case there’s anything that’s not going to last till forensics get here.’

  ‘In this weather?’

  ‘It needs doing.’ A team would search the wider area methodically tomorrow, in the light, but the rain might be washing away evidence. She should take a look round to make sure there was nothing that would be washed away in the next few hours.

  ‘Rather you than me,’ said Ferriter.

  ‘Is that your car there, Peter?’

  An elderly Subaru; a boy-racer car, metallic blue, with spoilers and alloy wheels.

  ‘Yeah. I was just clocking off when the call came through.’

  ‘It’s a good idea of yours to stay with her, Peter, till the relief arrives. Why don’t you do that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said she shouldn’t be on her own. You’re right. She shouldn’t. I’ll square it with McAdam.’

  ‘I’ll be OK,’ Ferriter said again.

  ‘Can I drive home in yours, Peter?’

  ‘My car?’ said Moon.

  ‘Don’t fret. I won’t scratch the paint job.’

  ‘You never know, even you could probably pull, driving that one,’ said Ferriter.

  ‘That’s what I was hoping.’ Always the stupid banter. Even on a night like this.

  ‘Right,’ said Moon. ‘Yeah. Of course.’

  ‘I better get this done, then,’ Cupidi said, looking out at the rain.

  ‘You want a hand?’

  She shook her head. ‘You two are going to be out here a while. Stay in the dry.’

  The rain was finally easing. Torch in hand, she walked the length of the road, back and forth, taking photos of an old cigarette packet that, from the state of it, had been discarded here long before the body had been dumped, an empty bottle of Sprite and the insole from a shoe that looked much too large to have been Najiba’s.

  There was nothing else; none of the victim’s clothes, no obvious car tracks apart from their own. She was not surprised.

  She returned to the car and sat next to Ferriter. Digging inside her handbag, she brought out tissues. ‘Here,’ she said, giving her the packet.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘If you’re using my car, I’ll just get my phone charger,’ said Moon, getting out.

  Ferriter rubbed her eyes with a tissue. ‘I barely knew her,’ she said. ‘I mean. Not really. What was she doing around here anyway?’

  ‘We don’t know she was. She could have been killed anywhere.’ Cupidi thought for a little while. ‘Whoever dumped Freya Brindley knew the land around here. They knew no one was likely to find her for a few days. By which time much of the forensics would be lost.’

  The light came on in Moon’s car. He was in the passenger seat, checking his hair in the mirror.

  ‘That’s right. Whoever did this… One thing they’re not is stupid,’ said Cupidi. ‘And I think they’re local. And the other one. The man in the slurry pit. He’s connected too. Like you thought. Left where the evidence disappears.’

  ‘I just thought we were wrong to assume it was a separate case.’

  The rain had stopped now, and the night was oddly quiet. Cupidi wound down the window. ‘Something else,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Najiba’s wounds. The girl my daughter met the night before last. She was trying to tell Zoë something but she didn’t speak any English. All she could do was mime.’

  Cupidi copied Zoë bringing down her fist, just as the copper had done. She was miming someone stabbing downwards; just as Najiba had been stabbed.

  ‘Oh Christ. She’d seen it?’

  ‘That’s what she was trying to say. She was trying to tell Zoë she’d witnessed a murder. That’s why she was so scared.’

  ‘And she was around here?’

  ‘About a half a mile away. Over there.’ She pointed into the nothingness.

  Moon got back in the car. ‘All right?’

  Cupidi switched on the police radio. Flooding in New Romney had closed the road off completely now. She thought of the town below the sea.

  ‘You should go home,’ said Ferriter. ‘We’ll be all right here.’

  Cupidi looked at her watch and was surprised to see how late it was. ‘I don’t know if I can sleep,’ she said. ‘It’ll be light soon.’

  It’ll be light soon. She thought of the Arctic tern; the migrant who travelled for thousands of miles for the length of the days; for the extra food that provided.

  The length of the days; fifteen hours at this time of day. The long daylight of the temperate zone in summer.

  ‘Hundreds of people used to live around here,’ Cupidi said, ‘labouring in the fields.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘What if they still are?’

  In the back of the car Moon laughed nervously. ‘You’re spooking us out now, Alex. No people round here now.’

  ‘What if there are people out there, only you can’t see them?’

  ‘Fuck off.’ He giggled. ‘You’re trying to freak us out. I’m not afraid of the dark.’

  ‘I am, Peter,’ she said.

  She thought of the buses she had seen picking people up to take them to the fields. Of the girl, biting the imaginary apple.

  ‘Seriously,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at.’

  ‘No. Nor me,’ she said. She looked at her watch again. It was hardly worth going to bed.

  ‘Just imagine. Coming through all that, living
in the bloody Sahara desert, to end up dead in four foot of cold English water. It’s not fucking fair,’ Ferriter said.

  ‘It’s not fucking fair,’ Cupidi answered. She turned to Moon in the back of the car. ‘I want your keys,’ she said.

  He pulled them out of his jacket pocket. The key ring was a small white skull.

  ‘I’m going to drive around for a bit,’ she said. ‘I’ll go home, change, be back by seven. Meet back here?’

  ‘OK,’ Moon said.

  She was halfway out when Ferriter asked, ‘You’re not going to do something daft, are you?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  She sat in the bucket seat of his car, adjusting the mirror. The gear stick had been customised; there was a large red dice instead of the knob. When she switched on the ignition, the stereo suddenly played Iron Maiden’s ‘Run to the Hills’, loud.

  She thought about lowering the volume, then decided against it. She looked behind her and reversed the car back down the lane. Before she turned she glanced through the windscreen again, towards the railway line and the ditch.

  Across the road, the yellow tape. Two people in a police car, interior light on.

  FORTY-TWO

  She drove along the lanes aimlessly for forty minutes, following the patterns of the old ditches, riding on the centuries of labour that had made this place. Killing time, hoping to chance on something.

  Finally she headed the car north of the crime site, to where the land started to rise, and parked on the track that Connie Reed’s horse had emerged from, cautiously backing the car behind the curtain of green. She turned off the lights and waited.

  If she was so sure of herself, she wondered, why hadn’t she called it in when she could? She could have asked for some backup.

  Maybe she wasn’t sure of herself at all. It was a hunch, not too much more.

  She would give herself until five in the morning. No one would have to know she had been here. That would give her time to get home, wash, change, have breakfast and be out at the crime scene at seven, to be there when they began the futile business of searching.

  When she had lived in the city, the ghosts had worked in restaurants and brothels, cleaning offices or making beds. She had known they were there. Here in the countryside, they laboured in the fields, or in warehouses, processing the food.