by Ed James
Copyright © 2020 Ed James
The right of Ed James to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain in 2020
by HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
First published as an Ebook in 2020
by HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
Cover credit © Clayton Bastiani/Arcangel Images (chair) and nexus 7/Shutterstock (window). Cover design by Patrick Insole.
eISBN: 978 1 4722 6805 1
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise for Senseless
About the Book
Dedication
Day one
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Day two
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Day three
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
One year later
Chapter Fifty-five
About the Author
Ed James is the author of the bestselling DI Simon Fenchurch novels, Seattle-based FBI thrillers starring Max Carter, and the self-published Detective Scott Cullen series and its Craig Hunter spin-off books. During his time in IT project management, Ed spent every moment he could writing and has now traded in his weekly commute to London in order to write full-time. He lives in the Scottish Borders with far too many rescued animals.
Praise for Senseless:
‘Senseless is a stand-out crime novel in a genre where the bar has never been higher. Taking us into the dark heart of a missing person investigation, Ed James skilfully ratchets up the tension and the pace never drops for a second. Some great wry humour too! Chilling, highly original, and highly recommended’ Caz Frear
‘I can’t remember the last time I read a book in one sitting, but with ingenious plotting, clever pacing and a hold-your-breath race against the clock, I couldn’t stop myself. It’s the best police procedural I’ve read in ages’ Michelle Davies
‘Just when your heart rate is getting back to normal, Senseless smacks you in the face with another twist. Compelling stuff’ Jenny Blackhurst
About the Book
ALL YOU WILL BE LEFT WITH IS FEAR.
DAY ONE
Six weeks after vanishing, Sarah Langton is suddenly found – delirious and starved close to death.
The police struggle to find any answers.
DAY TWO
When another missing person reappears, half-crazed and hysterical, a terrifying pattern emerges: a twisted predator is pushing his victims to insanity.
DS Corcoran, haunted by a previous case, and Dr Marie Palmer, a leading criminal psychiatrist, must try to establish a link between the survivors.
DAY THREE
As it becomes clear others are in grave danger, every second will be critical. But can Corcoran and Palmer unravel the deadliest of puzzles in time?
To Kat
Day one
One
[Bob, 11:10]
Bob Rutherford stepped back and took one last look at his handiwork. Aside from the slate wall missing some ivy, nobody could tell which part he’d spent the past couple of hours patching up. Thin slices, neatly stacked, following the path of the road weaving towards the village.
A car rumbled behind him, going way too fast along the single-track lane.
Bob pushed himself face first against his van. The dark SUV shot past in a blur of kicked-up leaves and diesel fumes, then disappeared round the bend, lost to the canopy of trees.
Missed me by inches!
Berk.
Bob hopped in the cabin and twisted the key in the ignition. The engine spluttered into life and he set off. His phone rang through the dashboard.
‘You on your way home, then?’ Shirley’s voice boomed out of the speaker.
Bob turned it down as he eased round the bend. ‘Got my tax return to do, haven’t I? Absolutely starving, I am. Magnificent job, though, even if I do say so myself.’ No sign of the pillock in the SUV up ahead. He took another bend, the trees darker and thicker here, blocking out the morning sun. More slate walls on both sides, a gap on the right for Proudfoot Farm. He caught sight of the SUV, idling on the right. Then it shot off away from Bob at a rate he couldn’t hope to catch.
But he also spotted a shape on the ground, almost white against the lush green.
Bob slammed on the brakes and let out an almighty screech. He jerked forward, the belt digging into his ribs.
‘What’s up, Bob?’
Flat, low, and resting on a bed of nettles, almost hidden by the thick bush encroaching on the road.
A body.
A human body.
‘Bob?’
‘Shirley, I think I’ve just seen a dead body.’
Her gasp rattled out of the speakers. ‘Call the police!’
‘Yeah, of course.’ Bob snapped out of his daze with a vigorous nod, as though she could see him. ‘I’ll phone you back.’ He jabbed the red button, then tapped 999 into the keypad, keeping his focus on the motionless shape, leg jigging up and down, the phone ringing and ringing and—
‘Emergency. What service?’
‘Police, please.’ Bob cracked open the door and stepped out of the van. A gentle breeze rustled down the lane, carrying the cloying smell of honeysuckle through the whispering leaves.
He took
another look at the body. Definitely a woman. Young, too. And naked as the day she was born . . .
‘You’re through to the police.’ A male voice, high and bright as a summer’s day. ‘What’s the address or location of your emergency?’
Bob tightened his grip on the mobile, staying exactly where he was. He looked up and down the lane. ‘I don’t know the exact postcode or map co-ordinates, but I’m just outside Minster Lovell. Little place near Witney in Oxfordshire. It’s . . . It’s the top road coming into the village.’
‘Just a second. And what’s your name, sir?’
‘Bob Rutherford.’ He watched both ways for any other cars, listening closely, then took another step across the road.
‘Hi, Bob, would that be the Leafield Road?’
‘Sounds about right. Mate, I’m fixing a wall for this old couple. The Maitlands. Live a few hundred yards past the village sign.’
‘Okay, I’ve got you.’ Sounded like the guy was smiling. ‘Now, Bob, what’s happened?’
‘I’ve found a girl’s body.’ Bob looked over again. She was painfully skinny. He groaned. ‘Listen, she’s like a sack of bones. I think she might be a druggy.’
‘Is she breathing?’
‘Mate, you need to send someone out to sort this—’
The woman rolled over onto her side.
‘Christ!’ Bob jumped back, pressing himself against his van.
The woman’s eyes were shut, but her chest was moving, like she was sipping shallow breaths.
‘She’s alive.’
‘Thanks, Bob. That’s . . . That’s good.’
Heart racing, Bob approached her, keeping low. ‘You okay there, love?’
The woman didn’t react.
‘I made a mistake. I said police to the operator. You need to send an ambulance and pronto.’
‘They’re both on their way, Bob.’
The girl’s eyes opened and her head swivelled towards him, her gaze wild and lost to something. Maybe drugs, but maybe not. Maybe something else.
‘It’s okay, love.’ Bob held out his free hand, smiling at her. ‘I’m Bob. What’s your name?’
Her fingers twitched, then bunched up around the weed bed she lay on, screwing up the nettles and dock. Like she was trying to get up, but just didn’t have the energy.
Bob took another step forward, widening his smile. ‘Hey, it’s okay.’
‘Sir, I advise you to—’
She started blinking, hard and fast. Then she squinted at Bob and let out a moan, low and loud. Like that feral cat who’d made a nest under their decking, protecting her kittens as the Cats Protection woman caught them for rehoming.
He took another step and the woman screamed.
Two
[Corcoran, 11:55]
Detective Sergeant Aidan Corcoran shifted on the passenger seat, trying to get comfortable as they bombed down the country lane. He straightened his leg out into the footwell. His right hip was in spasm, not excruciating, but—
Something clicked and he let out a shallow sigh. Almost panting with relief.
DI Alana Thompson drove the pool Volvo like an idiot, battering across the bridge, and something metallic crunched underneath. The cricket ground and its car park passed in a blur, then she swerved out to overtake a cyclist, bumping onto the grass verge. A weeping willow caressed the windscreen with its leaves.
Corcoran gave her a look. ‘Ma’am, can you slow down?’
‘Don’t ma’am me, Sergeant. You’re not in the Met any more.’ Thompson rounded the bend onto another road that looked like the right one, but you never knew out here in the sticks. They tore through a picture postcard village. Country pub, a hodgepodge of stone cottages, some with thatched roofs, then the density thinned out in that middle England way, the village not quite ready to give up its grip as it gradually turned into countryside. A car park on the right had no sign what it was for, just a warning of a single-track road without passing places. Neat slate walls lined the lane on both sides.
Thompson jerked to a halt, the tyres screeching.
A young lad in uniform leaned against a wall, clutching a clipboard, half a roll of police tape flapping in the breeze as it blocked the lane beyond. He set off towards them, eager and keen.
Thompson lowered the window and held out her warrant card. ‘This strictly necessary, Constable?’
The uniform stood up tall like he was meeting the Queen. ‘Sorry, ma’am, but I thought there might be forensics?’
She twisted the key and the engine rattled. ‘She’s dead?’
‘No, ma’am, but—’
‘Stop ma’aming me. It’s Alana.’ Thompson got out and slammed the door.
Corcoran let his seatbelt ride up slowly, opened the door and stepped out onto the lane, taking his time to analyse the scene.
An ambulance idled up ahead, the lights pulsing in the bright sunshine. Another two uniforms stood by it, chatting to a green-clad paramedic. In the distance, a female uniform blocked off the lane from that end.
Thompson stuffed her hands in her pockets. ‘Any idea who she is?’
‘Afraid not. Bloke found her naked. I’ve searched the vicinity but no clothes, no phone, no wallet, nothing.’
‘And what stopped you searching?’
‘Your colleague told me to take over down here.’ The uniform pointed at a female plainclothes officer halfway up the lane.
Not someone Corcoran recognised, but that didn’t narrow it down much. She was taking a statement from a ruddy-faced man standing by a van. Stonemason’s overalls. Heavyset, like so many round here. Farming stock. Tinge of red in the cheeks, meaning a drinker, his belly indicating beer.
The uniform nodded up the lane. ‘That’s the bloke who found her. Bob Rutherford. Had a little chat with him. Bore the arse off you, mate.’ He smirked at Corcoran, then scratched at his neck. ‘Reckons he saw an SUV going pretty fast not long before. Chased after it, but saw her lying there so stopped. Could be a VW or a Vauxhall. Black, maybe dark grey.’
Corcoran looked back at Bob giving his statement, assessing him. He’d already listened to the 999 call on the way out and he’d read the statement later, then take a view. And if this guy was a hell of a bore, he’d just repeat his story, but each new version would increase his role in the mystery.
Corcoran gave the uniform a conspiratorial nod. ‘I’ll take your advice, then.’ He scanned the immediate area. No tracks, no footprints, not even the imprint of a human body. Just a bed of weeds under a bush. ‘Do me a favour and call in the SUV sighting, okay?’
‘Sarge.’
Thompson patted the uniform on the arm. ‘Call Control and tell them I want forensics here, okay?’
He gave a nervous nod as he tapped his Airwave police radio. ‘Ma’am.’
Thompson blundered through the tape and made her way down the winding road, her round shoulders drooping low, head forward, beady eyes scanning the lane.
Corcoran followed, but struggled to match her pace. ‘Alana, wait up.’
She stopped, frowning back the way. ‘You know, that just sounds weird.’
‘Shall we just stick with “ma’am”?’
‘No, apparently I need to develop a better rapport with my subordinates, so let’s go with Alana.’ Thompson slowed as they closed on the ambulance, the engine still rumbling. Two uniforms let Thompson through to the paramedic. ‘Where is she?’
The paramedic stopped folding up the ramp. ‘Neil Hart’ was stamped on his uniform. He pointed inside the ambulance with his left thumb. ‘In here.’
‘Okay, get out of my way.’ Thompson nudged him to the side.
Inside, Neil’s colleague crouched by a gurney, holding out a giant silver sheet. ‘Come on, I need you to—’
‘No!’ A voice, female, weak but still a shout. ‘No!’
But the paramedic got his way, wrapping the blanket around the woman. She was flat on her back on the gurney, her legs raised up. Her head peeped out of a hole in the silver, wild-eyed, h
er mouth open like she was in constant pain. Hair curled and matted thick like badly done dreadlocks. Her skin was pale, almost white, with a tinge of blue. And she was skeletally thin, no fat or muscle to cushion the bones in her skull and jaw.
The paramedic wrapped a woolly blanket round her shoulders and didn’t seem to get any resistance.
Corcoran smiled back at Neil the paramedic. ‘Any chance we can speak to her?’
‘We really need to get her to hospital.’ A sharp shake of the head. ‘Her body’s in starvation mode, so we need to get her stabilised. Those blankets will get her body temperature up, but we’re limited with what we’re able to do here. I’ve called ahead and they’re prepping a room for her.’
‘The Radcliffe?’
‘Afraid so.’ Neil checked his watch. ‘Oxford traffic is a nightmare at the best of times, and this is the worst.’
‘I’ll see what I can do to ease your way.’ Thompson got out her mobile and set off.
‘Kind of lucky we got here so fast. Responding to a prank call in Witney. First time I’ve ever been thankful.’ Neil shook his head again. ‘She wouldn’t have lasted much longer if we hadn’t got here.’
Corcoran took another look at the woman, now shivering uncontrollably as her body started to heat up. Weird how it worked like that.
‘Druggies in Oxfordshire!’ Down the lane, the stonemason was shouting, arms wide. ‘What’s the world coming to, I ask you?’
Corcoran played that through as a possibility. Heroin user with a deep debt, maybe a prostitute. Taken out to the countryside and released, kept alive to send a message to her and her fellow streetwalkers. Not killed so she could repay that debt.
Or was that his brain still being stuck in London? Out in Oxfordshire, sure they had their problems, but this?
He frowned at Neil. ‘Any evidence that she’s a drug user?’
‘You mean heroin?’ The paramedic stopped what he was doing and sucked in a deep breath. ‘No track marks on her arms.’ He looked back inside with a frown. ‘Her ankles, though . . .’
‘Injection marks?’
‘No.’ Neil clicked his tongue a few times. ‘Thing is, her skin’s worn, like she’d been tied up, and not like it was her boyfriend’s birthday, if you catch my drift.’ He gave a crafty wink.