by Ed James
Butcher kept his gaze neutral. ‘I don’t know what you’re getting at.’
‘It looks very much like someone’s abducted a woman, Constable. Held her somewhere for six weeks.’ Thompson tossed a photo of Sarah Langton onto the table. A further-away shot of her clad in Lycra, warming up for a run. Her athletic physique was nothing like the skeleton found by the side of the road. ‘I’m asking if there’s someone out there who will be terrified by news of us being onto them? Will they do this again?’
Butcher bristled. ‘What do—’
‘Alana.’ Corcoran shot a look at Butcher to keep him quiet. ‘Look, we still don’t know yet that she was abducted. She could’ve had a psychotic break and decided to starve herself.’ He picked up the photo. ‘DC Butcher drew a blank before, but now we’ve recovered her, alive, we can start a detailed investigation and with adequate resourcing. We’ve already discussed the possibility of it being her husband. I want to investigate that further.’
‘Okay.’ Thompson crunched another mint. ‘Usual drill. Husband, family, neighbours, co-workers, ex-boyfriends, ex-girlfriends, criminal contacts, bank accounts. Then any leads on drugs, mental illness, medical problems. Right now, we’re throwing all the bodies at it.’
Corcoran looked to Butcher. ‘Anything else we should be focusing on, Constable?’
Butcher cleared his throat. ‘The other possibility is her job. She worked as a research assistant in a pharmaceutical lab, doing statistical analysis. There’s a load of them round Cambridge, but this one was on the radar of some animal rights nutters. Received a good number of threats over the years.’
‘But?’
‘Sarah didn’t do experiments herself. And she hadn’t received any threats directly.’
Corcoran played it through. ‘I still think it’s a possibility, Alana.’
‘You have my blessing.’ Thompson got up with a fresh crunch of mint. ‘Okay, so while I’m setting up an Incident Room and all that good stuff, can you two get back to first principles? Just so we’re clear, Butcher, I’m not criticising you.’ She winked at Corcoran. ‘Get up to Cambridge and chase down any and all leads. Find out if this is an abduction and, if so, find whoever did this to that poor woman. Okay?’
Five
[17:42]
Corcoran pulled up at the gate and waited. The Cambridgeshire Police HQ sprawled around him, a lump of bulging concrete surrounding a car park dominated by a sprawling oak. He wound down his window.
A hut sat to the side, the tinny sounds of opera leaking out. The door opened and a security guard limped over to his car, each lopsided step looking like it cost him greatly.
Corcoran held up his warrant card. ‘Here to see DC Butcher.’
‘Little Will?’ The guard frowned, twisting his face tight, then nodded over at a grey Mondeo sandwiched between two squad cars. ‘Good luck finding him, he’s a slippery bugger at the best of times.’ He tapped a button on a remote and the barrier lifted, almost in sync with Corcoran’s rising window as he trundled over.
A car pulled out of a space under the giant tree and Corcoran grabbed it. His aching hip made him take his time getting out. A dull throb had settled in as he weaved around Oxford’s infernal bypass, and right now he’d give a good few years of his life for a deep-tissue massage. He shut the door, pleased to avoid any fresh stabs of pain.
‘There you are.’
Corcoran jerked round and got that sharp twinge in his side.
Butcher sucked on a cigarette, hunching low to fit his giant frame under the smoking shelter. He held out a pack for Corcoran, but got a shake of the head. ‘Trying to quit?’
Corcoran stayed outside, but still got coils of blue smoke heading his way. ‘Tried starting six times, just couldn’t get into it.’
Butcher barked out a laugh. Then took another deep suck. ‘Everything these days is either cancer or vaping. Or both.’ He exhaled through his nostrils, slowly, eyes closed like it was his sole surviving pleasure. ‘Just give me a good, honest cigarette any day of the week.’
Corcoran tried to stand upwind of him. ‘So, where do you suggest we start?’
Butcher stared at the ground, still avoiding eye contact. ‘You’re the boss.’
‘Case file would be a good place. Then witness statements, CCTV and wherever else the night takes us.’
Butcher stamped his butt out on the bin and dropped it in. ‘Don’t ask for much, do you?’
[17:47]
Corcoran followed him along the corridor. ‘You got a problem with me?’
Butcher finally looked at him as he swiped through a security reader. ‘Not with you.’
‘Thompson?’
‘Got it in two.’ Butcher set off down a long corridor, without waiting for Corcoran, his rubber-soled shoes squeaking over the lino. ‘What’s her deal?’
‘She’s a DI.’ Corcoran managed to catch up, but he was out of breath. ‘Sure you’ve got them here, right?’
‘Mate, don’t get smart with me. I was asking if she was a direct entry or something.’
‘I’m new to her team, so I don’t know. But you’ll know the way the force is going. They’ve got so much pressure heaped on their shoulders. It’s bad enough being a sergeant these days.’
Butcher shook his head.
Corcoran knew his argument wasn’t cutting any mustard with him. ‘Look, she wasn’t being a dick to you because you’ve made a mess of anything, she’s just—’
‘A mess?’ Butcher opened a door and held it for him. ‘You honestly think—’
‘No, but I know that you think that she thinks . . .’ Corcoran caught himself and sighed. ‘She’s stressed, okay? We’ve found Sarah Langton and there’s a possibility that someone’s abducted her and tortured her. Meaning a big investigation. Thompson is Deputy SIO, so she’s got all the day-to-day management. All the stress, all the hassle, all the pressure. Dealing with people like me.’ That got a smile. ‘Right now, our priority isn’t arguing about stupid stuff, it’s determining whether someone’s done something to Sarah and finding them. And if there’s something you have made a mess of, now’s the time to tell me.’
Butcher stared at him for a few seconds, lips twitching like he was going to say something, but instead set off up the staircase, clenched fists in his trouser pockets.
Cops and their precious egos . . .
[17:52]
Corcoran walked into the open-plan office space and stopped, taking in the usual display of idle cops trying to look busy. A pair of older officers bantered over by the water filter, voices low. Another two female officers looked up from their computers, following Corcoran’s path. Butcher was farting around in a kitchen area near the window, shrouded by the caramel smell of Colombian medium roast, a filter machine bubbling and hissing away next to him.
The view was mostly blocked by the sprawling oak, but the squad cars’ acid yellow cut through the foliage.
Butcher stretched out, his shirt popping out of his trousers. ‘You must be knackered from that drive. Know I am.’ He held up the jug of dark liquid and let out a yawn. ‘I brew a mean coffee.’
‘I’d rather look at the case file?’
‘Over there.’ Butcher nodded at a desk in the corner. A bonsai apple tree sat next to the monitor. ‘Sure you don’t want—’
‘Just milk, cheers.’ Corcoran walked across and pulled over a spare seat. The case file sat on the desk, looking frustratingly thin. He opened it and gave it a quick scan. Standard fare – everything in the right place, just . . . hardly any of it. Modern-day resource constraints were one thing, but this just smacked of a lack of care.
The second time, he sifted through it, aware of at least five officers’ prying eyes on him. That familiar sixth sense that could pinpoint eyes feasting on the new guy in the room. Corcoran got nothing new from his second pass, but there were a couple of names to speak to again, now that a Missing Person was a Found Person. But sod all otherwise.
Butcher was still over by the filter machi
ne, sniffing a milk carton. A man in a suit was bending his ear about something, no doubt his DI on arse-covering activities. With a final nod, Butcher picked up both mugs and walked back over, his boss’s narrow-eyed gaze locked on Corcoran.
‘Here you go.’ Butcher clunked a mug down on the table and slurped from his own. ‘So, did I give you enough rope to hang me with?’
Corcoran put the coffee to his lips and savoured the smell. Surprisingly good for a police station. Then a sip, full of deep tones, and that sweet caramel smell turned into flavour. ‘This is good coffee.’
‘I’m in charge of the machine.’ Butcher took another drink, now sitting on the edge of the desk despite his chair being free. ‘Got to watch these buggers or they’ll top up the jug with instant.’
Corcoran laughed, loud enough to bring all the attention back to him. When you’re in the lion’s den, act like you own the place. ‘It’s good. If this police malarkey goes to shit, you’ve got a promising career as a barista.’ He nudged the case file over the desk. ‘Okay, so let’s start with anyone you couldn’t speak to in January.’
Butcher set his mug down and picked up the file. ‘I was as thorough as the time would allow me. Spoke to all of her neighbours and her boss.’
‘Nicely caveated.’
Butcher shrugged. ‘My DI deprioritised the case.’
Corcoran caught the suit walking over from the side of his eye. ‘Anyone see anything?’
‘Nada.’
‘CCTV?’
Before Butcher could get out another word, the suit thrust out his hand in front of Corcoran, all smiles. Mid-forties, but the bags under his eyes and slack skin around his neck could push it higher. His thinning hair was a few shades too dark for his complexion. ‘DI Thomas Hinshelwood. It’s Corcoran, right?’
‘That’s right.’ Corcoran gave his hand a nice, tight squeeze. Didn’t get anything other than a raised eyebrow. ‘Take it you’ve been briefed, sir?’
‘Call me Tom.’ Hinshelwood stood there, arms folded. ‘And yes, Will called me on his way over. Is he playing nice?’
‘He’s a sweetie.’
Hinshelwood laughed hard, clearly enjoying Butcher’s blush. ‘Can we have a quick chat?’
‘Sure.’ Corcoran followed him over to a glass-walled office, filled on three sides by filing cabinets, the external window blocked by a desk stacked high with paper files. He left the door open.
Hinshelwood didn’t sit, instead pacing around what little of the space he could. ‘Look, Sergeant, I’ll be frank. Your presence here concerns me.’ He sighed. ‘In my experience, when people like you dig up leads we might’ve dropped, well, I’m sure you understand how it looks . . .’
‘And how will it look?’
Another sigh. ‘The day after Will caught the case, literally the next day, we landed a major murder investigation. A young couple found in the Cam just outside of the city. Strangled, naked. Case was all over the news. I had no choice but to reallocate Will. No choice whatsoever.’
‘I understand, sir. I’m not here to investigate your incompetence.’ Corcoran got a bristle instead of a smile. ‘But the fact is, Sarah Langton has turned up in a lane in Oxfordshire. She’s been starved. And we’re going to find out why and catch who did it.’
‘Assuming someone did.’
‘Quite.’
Hinshelwood adjusted his cufflinks, making them catch the spotlights. ‘The thing is, given my pressing resource constraint, I reviewed the case personally and I deemed it to be a standard “runaway”. Does it appear to be anything else?’
‘Hard to say just yet.’
‘Well, if it is, I’ll struggle to sleep, believe me.’ Hinshelwood cleared a path round to his chair and sat, hands clamped on his knees. ‘We were unable to progress the case any further due to operational constraints, so go easy on us, okay?’
‘Did you catch the killer? In the Cam strangling.’
Hinshelwood picked up a file and stared at it absently. ‘Killers.’
‘That’s a positive thing, then.’
‘Mm.’ Hinshelwood put the file down and fixed a hard glare on Corcoran. ‘Whatever you’re thinking right now, it’s not malice or incompetence. We just don’t have enough skulls to do our jobs properly. Sure it’s the same over in Thames Valley?’
Corcoran smiled, letting the frost melt a touch. ‘We don’t even get the luxury of detectives investigating Missing Persons cases.’
‘Time was . . .’ Hinshelwood shook his head, a bitter expression on his face. ‘I’ll let you get on with things, okay? I’m glad Sarah has turned up. Genuinely . . . I just wish it was safe and sound, not . . . This. What’s happened to her.’
‘Thanks, sir.’ Corcoran gave him a broad smile, then left him to his dark thoughts and darker regrets.
Back at Butcher’s desk, he picked up his lukewarm coffee and finished it in one go. ‘Anything?’
‘Perfect timing.’ Butcher nodded at the screen, black and empty. ‘Just pulled up the CCTV footage from the night Sarah went missing. Waiting on you to finish your . . .’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘What did he—’
‘Just play it.’
Butcher smacked his thumb off the space-bar on his keyboard and sat back, arms crossed.
The black screen transitioned to a dark street, a generic English village, older stone cottages muddled up with modern brick houses. Raindrops dotted deep puddles, wind battering them into a fine spray. A woman pounded along the street, splashing through the puddles, checking her watch, a bright white headphone cable dangling from a strap on her arm.
Sarah Langton, a healthy and fit young woman. Before the trauma, before the torment. Then she was gone, lost between cameras.
‘What about the other side of that building?’
Butcher crunched back in his chair. ‘That’s it. No more CCTV around her home.’
Corcoran stared out of the window, getting a partial view across the car park, leaves dappling the fading sunlight. Seeing her like that hit him hard. The before picture. Healthy and strong, not a sack of bones and skin. The coffee sat heavy in his gut. ‘Replay it.’
Another crunch of the space-bar.
This time, Corcoran ignored Sarah, instead focusing on her surroundings. In the mouth of a side street, a silver Audi idled, the exhaust pluming in the night air. He reached over to pause it, then tapped the screen. ‘Who’s that?’
‘I saw it.’ Butcher cleared his throat. ‘Of course I saw it.’ He scratched his neck. ‘Trouble was, I couldn’t get plates off it.’
Corcoran squinted at the screen, trying to decipher the hieroglyphs. Butcher was right – the plates were unreadable. Whether by malice or fortune was another thing. He knew which way he’d bet if he had to.
‘I even checked the nearby CCTV cameras, not that there’s that many. There’s a Sainsbury’s half a mile away that’s covered in them. A B&Q and a cash and carry next door. Long and short of it is, there’s just way too many Audi A4s driving at that time in that area.’
‘Take it you—’
‘Yep. All the drivers I spoke to had alibis for where they went next and where they’d been.’
‘And the ones you didn’t?’
‘Spoke to them all, mate.’ Butcher looked away towards Hinshelwood’s office. ‘Didn’t get the chance to actually check the alibis, mind.’
Cursing his luck, Corcoran checked the screen again. Something wasn’t quite right with the picture. He tapped the glass again. ‘That’s not an A4. It’s an S4.’
Butcher blushed. ‘You some sort of car dick, or something?’
‘I just know my cars.’ Corcoran traced the outline of the car on the screen. ‘Biggest difference is the engine, but it’s got a sports trim. This model’s more expensive than the vanilla, and much rarer. Meaning easier to find.’ He stood up tall. ‘Can you grant me access to the CCTV? I’ll need your—’
Butcher gasped out a sigh. ‘Fine. I’ll pass it all over.’
‘No need to be like that.’ Corcora
n hit play again and rewatched the footage. Nothing else jumped out at him. ‘But you should already be rechecking your sources for any S4s.’
‘Right.’ Butcher took his seat with a grunt and started taking it out on the keyboard.
Corcoran stood up to stretch out. ‘You want a top-up?’
Butcher nudged his mug with an elbow.
Corcoran walked over to the coffee machine and splashed out two fresh cups. The milk smelled sour, so he just added it to Butcher’s.
‘Sergeant.’ Hinshelwood had decided this was the perfect moment to start rooting around in the cupboard for a mug. ‘How goes it?’
‘Getting somewhere, maybe.’
Corcoran toasted him with his mug and headed back to Butcher. ‘Anything?’
‘Cheers.’ Butcher took a sip then smacked his lips. ‘Okay, so I’ve found three Audi S4s. All of them were caught by the ANPR camera as that road entered the M11.’ He looked at Corcoran with pleading eyes. ‘Want to head out and speak to them?’
Corcoran sat back in his chair, drinking his coffee and thinking. Hinshelwood was pouring himself a cup, looking straight at them. Each move would be under close scrutiny, so it had to be careful and precise.
He leaned forward, closer to Butcher and his computer, then replayed the footage again, but in half speed this time. Each step made Sarah look like she was running on the moon. Towards the end, she checked her watch a second time, then slightly raised her hand. Was she waving at someone?
He wound it back and played it again.
‘You’re thinking this is news to me, right?’ Butcher rolled his eyes. ‘She’s waving at another runner.’
‘Someone she knew?’
Butcher held open the case file. ‘Andy Murphy, a neighbour. In the same WhatsApp running group as Sarah and Christopher. They check who’s up for a run that night, all that jazz. Andy ran with Sarah and Christopher regularly, got to know them pretty well.’
‘So why was Sarah running alone that night?’
Butcher snorted as he rested the file on his desk. ‘Christopher told me that Sarah ran home from work fairly often. Eight miles door to door.’