Chloe- Lost Girl

by Dan Laughey

  ‘Good news at last,’ said Capstick. ‘We need his testimony a-sap.’

  ‘Not any time soon,’ added Holdsworth. ‘Initial comments from the surgeon suggest he won’t be fully conscious for seventy-two hours and won’t speak intelligibly for days after that.’

  ‘Well, once he’s ready and able,’ Sant said, ‘we’ll be waiting by the man’s side. Is that everything, Holdsworth?’

  She turned over a document. ‘The passengers purchasing the tickets at 23.12 and 23.18 have been traced. Both retained their receipts.’

  ‘Good work, Holdsworth. You’re no substitute for Hardaker, but you’re a damn sight better looking. I’ll recommend promotion right away.’

  She grimaced. ‘A poisoned chalice if ever one existed.’ Then she turned and stared meaningfully at Sant. ‘Carl, you tread carefully. The vibe I’m getting isn’t good. You’d be wise to touch base with Hardaker and Gilligan sooner rather than later. They’re pissed off with you, Carl.’

  ‘Let them stay pissed off,’ Sant replied. But deep down he knew Holdsworth was right, so the inspector-cum-wanted-man sauntered off to face his superiors.

  7

  Waking. Sleeping. Waking. Sleeping. Waking. Or just dreaming of waking? Dreaming of what?

  She was wanted.

  A wanted woman.

  She knew she’d been drugged, her arms and legs tied with thick rope. The only blessing was her clothes. They were intact.

  She felt no pain. Only panic.

  She was lying on a thin rug in an ordinary living room of an ordinary house. The midday sun streamed through the laced curtains, scattering pins of light around the walls like pieces of an unfinished jigsaw. She rolled on her side and came face to face with a navy blue sofa. Perhaps her kidnapper had laid her out on the sofa, and then she’d rolled off and landed on the floor without waking.

  She could hear the sound of cooking in the kitchen. A kettle came to the boil and the unmistakeable smell of fried bacon streamed through the open door.

  Merry bleeding Christmas.

  She tugged at her shackles for a wishful moment, but sensing no give in the rope, she gave up. She must conserve energy. She needed all the willpower she could muster.

  A few minutes later a man walked in with a mug of coffee and a bacon sandwich.

  ‘Brought you some breakfast, luvvie. I’ll untie your hands. Eat up quick. We’ve things to discuss.’

  She didn’t feel hungry but drank the coffee to awaken her senses. Whatever they’d forced down her throat had gone straight to her head. She was falling asleep again when the man’s cold hands slipped under her armpits, lifting her to her feet. She was guided onto the sofa and a second man wedged a cushion to prop her up.

  ‘Know who we are?’

  She could make a decent guess, but shook her head.

  The second man towered over her: ‘I’m John and he’s Jim. We’d make a good double-act, but Jim’s about as funny as a kick in the teeth. No, we don’t do comedy. Or variety. We’re headhunters – and not the sort who offer six-figure salaries.’

  Jim laughed out loud. ‘Works every time, Johnny lad. Every time.’

  John scowled at Jim and returned a hard gaze the way of his prey. ‘You see, we are headhunters in the old sense. We hunt for heads. Usually the heads of men, but just for you, luvvie, we’ll make an exception.’

  ‘Let’s call ourselves cunt-hunters from now on, Johnny.’

  More laughter.

  The tip of John’s nose went white. ‘Shut the fuck up, Jim!’ He stared down at her. ‘I apologise for my colleague. Jim’s a loose cannon at the best of times.’

  John steered Jim to the other side of the room and exchanged heated words. Jim slumped his shoulders. They wore the same nondescript uniform, only without a company name or logo. John returned, dropping down beside the woman on the sofa and wrapping his brawny arm around her.

  ‘Let me explain our plan, honey,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘We don’t know your name, we don’t know anything about you, we just get paid for bringing you in. Understand?’

  She nodded indifferently.

  ‘Our client has asked us to treat you well, do you no harm, make you feel at home.’ He gestured with a sweeping arm, body radiating domesticity and odour in one fell swoop. ‘In eight hours from now we hand you over to our client. You won’t see us again after that. We’ll be a figment of… what’s it called, Jim?’

  ‘Your imagination, Johnny.’

  ‘Precisely. But we have a proposition. You see, unless we dislike the thugs– sorry, people we are paid to capture, we always give them the opportunity to escape. At the right price. Understand?’

  She didn’t garner much hope, but asked anyway. ‘How much?’

  ‘You a wealthy woman, Mrs – ?’

  She didn’t offer a name. ‘What do you think?’

  John scratched his bold head. ‘Umm, that’s sure been bugging me and Jim. You see, we know where you live, and let’s face it, those flats aren’t up to much. Even if you own one, it can’t be worth twenty grand. And if you really are minted, why live in a grubby council block anyway?’ The question went unanswered. ‘You’ve also got no car or anything valuable, so unless you’re cash-rich or a secret lottery winner, we reckon you’re virtually broke.’

  Jim stifled another laugh. ‘I’ve got a good name for her, Johnny. Skint Bint. Like it?’

  John gave Jim another stern look and drew closer to his frail quarry. ‘This is the strange part. Normally we deal with the higher end. Bankers, lawyers, stockbrokers, etcetera. Some client or other wants payback, wants to frighten them senseless. And in return for our professional services we receive a few grand, say five thousand reddies.’ He patted the bulging wallet in his trouser pocket. ‘But let me explain how we negotiate in the victim’s favour. Consider, say, the unfortunate banker who’s about to lose all his teeth. If said banker can find, say, eight thou before our client turns up, we let him go. Usually. Of course, such an affair fucks off our client, so the necessary down payment has to account for some future loss of business. Understand?’

  She nodded again. It was clear where all this was heading.

  ‘So here you are, and excuse my French, but to us you’re no more than a jobless woman living in a council flat, though no bad-looking chick for your age. And here we are, Jim and I, hit-men par excellent, being paid no less than fifteen – I repeat – fifteen thou, not hundred, fifteen thousand sterling for your capture.’ He was showing off now. ‘Tell me why that should be.’

  She showed no surprise. No fear. Those beasts had hunted her down for a long time and now she was about to face them. These two idiots could have charged whatever they liked for their client’s services. No price was too high for her head.

  There was a long silence before John got up and circled the room. ‘We didn’t think you’d say much, honey. And guess what? We’re not bothered. Me and Jim, we’re not nosy people. Isn’t that right, Jim?’

  Jim needed no invitation. ‘We’re cocky lads, Johnny. Know what I mean, luvvie?’ He massaged his crotch and panted like a randy dog.

  ‘We don’t care what happens to you or anyone else for that matter. We’ve got a business to run, simple as that.’ Then John stared at her meaningfully. ‘And whilst we’re talking business, if you can cross our spotless palms with twenty grand cash before close of play today, we’ll let you go.’

  She grinned drily and shook her head.

  Silence again. Then she was sleeping. Waking. Sleeping. Waking.

  The man was slapping her face. Her feet were cold. The man was tickling her feet. He thrust his pale face into hers. ‘Okay, honey. Me and Jim are feeling generous on this sunny autumn afternoon. Our final offer is eighteen. Eighteen grand and you’re a free… woman.’

  She shook her head again.

  ‘Seventeen thousand, five hundred.’

  Sleeping. Waking.

  Her mouth was dry but she choked out the words: ‘I don’t have that much.’

&nbs
p; ‘Seventeen and not a penny less.’

  Sleeping. Waking.

  John stared at her for a while and sighed. ‘We didn’t think so either. Hard luck, honey. We wish you the best. And one last thing – have another glass of water. On the house, if you catch our drift. It’ll help you sleep.’

  Jim handed her the water. Without a moment’s hesitation she gulped it down before relapsing into torpor.

  Sant, en route to Hardaker’s office, was struck by Gilligan as he passed by. The Old Man faced Sant, tucked in part of his shirt. Sant refolded his cuffs and endured a tone of accusation to learn that Hardaker was busy coordinating matters at the Abbey Road crime scene.

  Gilligan was the bane of his life. They’d known each other for twenty years, ever since Sant had made the move to CID, and not once could he recall a word of gratitude directed his way.

  The ACC was the least competent of five West Yorkshire Police assistant chief constables. He was overweight for his physique, yet short enough to be thrown around, belly filled with a sense of his own self-importance. It went with a high-pitched voice that did nothing to help Gilligan stamp his own brand of authority on the minions beneath him.

  To compensate for his squeal, Gilligan took great care with his dress sense and all-round presentation. This was not to say his attire was smart. What Gilligan considered fit for a man of his rank, everyone else interpreted as a screwed-up fore into vintage clothing. Bowler hat, bootlace tie, Edwardian-style suit. Cheesecloth shirt and corduroys for social occasions. V-neck ski jumpers were winter favourites. Indeed, the Old Man’s wardrobe was the subject of much amusement and speculation. Not even charity shops sold the sort of outmoded gear he favoured.

  Gilligan was also partial to a dram or two of whisky with his lunch – a worse-kept secret the department found hilarious, and yet another reason to belittle his authority.

  The Old Man’s performance was driven by an overriding sense of duty to his boss, Chief Constable Edward Lister – the ultimate mover and shaker. Humble and obedient in the presence of his boss, Gilligan was a self-interested bastard in the presence of everyone else.

  Fortunately for Sant, the Old Man was too busy pleasing Lister to bother too much with the riffraff below. Unfortunately for Sant, Dryden’s murder was reverberating so loudly through the senior ranks that Gilligan felt compelled to offload as much flak as he could get away with, on any officer who deserved it. The Old Man respected Hardaker enough not to shit on him. But not Sant.

  ‘Inspector!’ Gilligan barked as he shoved the man under his charge securely into his outsized office. Sant averted his eyes from the empty chair Gilligan was signalling towards. ‘I need an update on your missing person investigation for the Chief Officers Team. Ordinarily I would ask for this in report form, but urgent matters call for urgent actions.’

  Sant was actually quite pleased at the loss of tedious paperwork. He talked the Old Man through developments in the Chloe Lee case, friends and acquaintances interviewed, and what he’d found out from her father. The only significant detail he omitted was the Seacroft neighbour lead. He’d keep that to himself for now.

  After he finished Gilligan leant close to Sant. Breath minty-flossed. The rest of him reeked of whisky.

  ‘As for the murder of our esteemed colleague Sergeant Dryden,’ he murmured as if imparting secret intelligence, ‘I know it’s early days and you’re just one of a team of detectives smoking out the monstrous architect of this heinous crime, but it’s vital you relay to me everything that comes up on a regular basis. And by regular, Inspector, I mean daily – for the foreseeable future.’

  Sant combed fingers through his black hair, glanced around. ‘Isn’t Hardaker my immediate port of call as coordinating officer?’

  ‘He’s the man in charge on the ground, Inspector, but I’m the ultimate sounding box. As far as you’re concerned,’ he went on, jabbing a finger in Sant’s chest and puffing out his pale cheeks, ‘I’m where the food chain ends and the next one begins. Do I make myself plain?’

  Very plain. Sant made to leave, in pursuit of fresh air.

  ‘Before you get back to work, Inspector, one more matter. This may sound implausible and no doubt difficult for your limited imagination to grasp.’ Gilligan hitched his corduroys over the bulk of his sagging belly. ‘I’ve been made aware of a possible link between Dryden’s killing and the disappearance of Chloe Lee. Are you party to such a link?’

  Sant looked at the vacant chair and sagged a little.

  What was Gilligan up to? How in God’s name did he know? Sant didn’t understimate the Old Man’s propensity for effective detective work, but no way could he have bundled two cases in the same breath without someone tipping him off. Sant was sure of it. The only colleagues he’d revealed his suspicions to were Capstick and Holdsworth, neither of whom would go out of their way to tell Gilligan what he’d told them. They held the same low opinion of the Old Man as he did.

  ‘Inspector? Did you hear me?’

  Sant snapped out of his musings and composed himself. ‘It’s news to me. Who suggested a link?’

  ‘None of your business. As it happens, there’s no evidence to prove your missing person’s anything to do with that godforsaken bus, so we’ll leave speculation for another day.’

  The initial shock over, Sant felt like persisting a little. ‘If there is information, no matter how tenuous, I should have it without delay.’

  Gilligan shuffled a few papers on his immaculate desk. ‘Thought about visiting an audiologist, Inspector?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘An audiologist!’ the Old Man wailed, flecks of spit landing on Sant’s neck. ‘Might be worth a visit, Inspector, to check if you’re hard of hearing, ‘cos what I just said was spoken in simple words even you should understand. Stop wasting my time! You have an urgent appointment with Dr Wisdom. He has the preliminary report for the shootings.’ Gilligan stabbed a finger at his watch. ‘You are over an hour late and I have a press conference in ten. And guess what, Inspector? I don’t need you – you can leave.’

  ‘Hope you get a speaking part this time,’ was Sant’s parting shot. He made a beeline for the door, half expecting to be called back for this latest show of insolence, but the Old Man made no attempt.

  Only too glad to be rid of me, Sant reflected. Then he grinned. Get rid of me?

  ‘You took your time,’ Dr Grant Wisdom remarked in his measured Welsh accent, delivered at walking pace and no quicker. ‘I reported to your esteemed cop pals a good meal ago.’

  Sant held up his hand. ‘I got side-tracked, but in a good way.’

  Wisdom snorted. ‘Must’ve been good if it was worth missing what I’ve got to tell. See these bags?’ He tugged gently at sagging skin beneath bloodshot eyes. ‘What credit does an overworked pathologist receive? Nothing but take-home pay, and that’s not much to write home about. All the glory goes to you plainclothes with your fancy badges and media appearances.’

  Sant grinned. ‘Not me. I’m barred from the limelight on the Old Man’s orders. What do you have for me, Grant?’

  ‘What do I always have for you?’

  ‘Dead people?’

  ‘Cadavers, my dear boy. Use the right terminology.’

  Sant wasn’t especially keen on ‘dear boy’, but since the white-haired Wisdom was a dozen years his senior, he let it pass.

  The morgue was much smaller than it should have been owing to austerity cuts that forced a late alteration to the new Elland Road Police Station HQ. Sant rubbed a spot under his chin and nearly spat at the thought of bureaucracy.

  A miniscule lab or compulsory redundancies?

  That was the blunt choice CC Lister had put to the one-thousand officers, seven-hundred staff and three-hundred community support officers under his command.

  Sant followed Wisdom into a whitewashed side-room. His assistant lifted the plastic sheet concealing Dryden’s body, laid as it was across a portable bed. Wisdom placed a pair of pince-nez-style glasses halfway up his long
nose and read from an orange autopsy card, composed, assertive.

  ‘Male. White. Age: 28. Time of death certified at 11.47pm Saturday – a little over thirty-six hours ago. The subject suffered fatal trauma to the sphenoid, the crash causing his head to impact with an interior handrail. A crushing blow.’

  Wisdom’s assistant replaced the sheet over what was left of Dryden’s head.

  ‘What about the bullet wounds?’

  Wisdom adjusted his glasses before referring back to the card. ‘Two of them, both fatal. Wound A was caused by a projectile fired from a distance of three to four metres, travelling through the rear of the skull and coming to rest in the left frontal portion of the skull cavity.

  ‘We can safely assume Wound B was the second shot fired at the victim. A contact wound just below the mouth. The bullet was fired upwards, probably intended to enter under the chin. There’s a strong likelihood Dryden was still conscious at that stage and may’ve instinctively tried to dodge out of the way. This second bullet caused fracturing to the upper jaw and incisors before travelling through the brain and coming to rest three centimetres above the meningeal artery.’

  Sant folded his hands in front of him. ‘So he died instantly.’

  ‘It was not instant.’ Wisdom extracted another card from the inside pocket of his long white cloak. ‘Paramedics arrived on the scene at 11.40pm and Dryden was pronounced dead seven minutes later.’

  ‘Who identified him?’

  Wisdom thought for a second. ‘Initially a fellow officer – name escapes me. Not long after his wife arrived and confirmed the ID.’

  Poor woman. Sant wondered where Claire Dryden was now, and whether she was receiving counselling. He’d only met her once, in much happier circumstances, and now he felt a mounting urge to see her again. There was something he’d noticed on first impression – something sad and lonely and hostile to outside curiosity – that had endeared her to him. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was.