‘Whoever it was, they’ve succeeded in putting the wind up me . . . and the rest of the hunt.’
‘Look on the bright side—’
‘What bright side?’
‘Your terror, and your ability to share it first-hand with fellow hunt members, is the reason you’re alive — they’ve turned you into a talking fox.’
She watched Charles’s face tighten. No man likes to be used, even though it was a relatively easy thing to do. She continued, ‘My impression is that since the hunting ban, Sabs just monitor and film breaches of the legislation. Tell me, honestly — it’s important — have you, personally, breached the new legislation?’
He was about to shake his head but then changed his mind. Keeping his eyes on the garden he replied, ‘I may have helped the terrier-man fill in a few holes to stop the foxes going to ground. If the hounds get distracted by a real fox there’s not a lot we can do about it . . . it’s nothing that would stand up in court.’
‘If I were you, Charles, I’d advise that terrier-man to go to ground.’ She let the implication sink in. ‘One more thing. Did your attackers leave anything on you?’
‘Like what?’
‘A turkey feather.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘It’s just another line of enquiry.’
‘They may have.’ Charles shrugged. ‘But as I said, when the ambulance arrived I was unconscious. The paramedics may have seen one, but I didn’t.’
The paramedics who treated Charles hadn’t been able to say if there’d been a feather.
Mia drove back to London, to see the woman in her twenties who’d been handcuffed to a radiator. She too had been unconscious when found, suffering from severe dehydration and with extensive bite marks (of her own making) around her wrist. Her name was Sally Greaves.
Sally opened her door with suspicion.
‘What yer want?’
‘Hello, Miss Greaves. My name’s Mia Langley and I’d like to ask you some questions about your ordeal.’
‘You from the papers?’ The door remained on the security chain. ‘If you want my story you’ll have to pay.’
‘No, Miss Greaves — I’m a consultant working for the police—’
‘Then you can fuck off! I’ve said all I’m going to say to them bastards!’
The door slammed shut.
Mia watched Sally’s shadow disappear down the hallway through the wired and wrinkled glass of the partially glazed door. Bending down, she shouted through the letterbox.
‘Sally, I’m not with the police …’
But her victim turned up her radio and the rest of Mia’s sentence was drowned out by the thump of loud music.
‘You’ll not get anything out of her. Tight as a duck’s arse that one –wouldn’t pee on yer if yer were on fire.’
Mia looked up to see a woman in her sixties, leaning against the door jamb of her own front door, smoking a roll-up.
‘You know Miss Greaves well, then?’
‘As well as anyone round here. Want a cuppa?’
‘That sounds great!’
The woman raised her eyebrows at Mia’s over-enthusiastic response, but stubbed out her fag on the much-burned door frame and stood aside to let her guest enter first.
‘Sorry about the mess, but me back don’t lend itself to much housework these days. Name’s Betty by the way.’
‘Nice to meet you, Betty. Mine’s Mia.’
‘I know. I heard yer tell Sally. Here, let me move these papers.’
Betty picked up a pile of old newspapers from the only other chair in the tiny kitchen, thereby creating a second small area free from clutter. She then carefully lowered herself into the other chair, thankfully forgetting the reason for her invitation.
‘So what’s Sally done now?’ she asked.
‘Now?’
‘If it’s not punters it’s the police at her door — both groups, regular as clockwork.’
‘Sally’s a working girl?’
‘If you call lying on your back for fifteen minutes working.’ Betty sniffed.
‘And the police?’
‘To be fair, it was her fella they were after most of the time. Nasty piece of work. Him and his bloody dog.’
‘Dog?’
‘One of those pitbull things — all muscle and bark. Had a spiked collar and a temper to match, though it’s hardly surprising the way they treated the poor thing.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I used to hear Gary — that was her fella — cursing and kicking the poor creature. The more it barked the more he kicked. It got so bad I called the RSPCA once, but they never came — leastways not in time.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘Gary got put inside and Sally went off with some other fella. She left the dog tied to the radiator. It was only found when Doris — t’other side of her — rang the council to complain about the smell.’
‘I see.’ Mia stood. ‘I need to check something out with Sally.’
‘You’ll be lucky — won’t give you the time of day unless cash is involved.’
‘Well, thanks very much, Betty. You’ve been really helpful.’
‘Don’t suppose you’ve got time for that cuppa?’ She looked at the dirty crockery piled high in her sink.
‘No, I’m sorry. I’ve got to get on.’
The radio had been turned down, and when Mia knocked again she watched the shadow shuffle back up the hallway.
‘What?’ Sally didn’t bother opening the door.
Mia took a ten pound note from her purse and pushed it through the letterbox, but pulled it back as soon as she saw the shadow lean forward.
‘What you playing at?’ The security chain rattled off its catch and the door flew open. An indignant, dishevelled woman stood glaring at her. BO floated from her thin frame in waves.
Mia had already read Sally’s witness statement; it had been one page long. She had fallen asleep on her sofa in the small hours of the morning and woken up chained to a radiator in an empty flat. She had not seen or heard anything. Probably due to the chloroform rag the police found when they searched her flat.
‘I’ll give you this tenner if you answer me one question.’
Sally eyed the note.
‘When you came round, did you find anything odd on you?’
The woman looked blank.
‘Did you see a feather — a large black feather?’
Mia watched the colour drain from Sally’s drug-addicted face.
‘They left one in me hair.’ Sally snatched the note from Mia’s raised hand.
‘You didn’t keep it by any chance?’
Sally looked at her as though she was mad and slowly closed the door.
Mia decided to stay in London. She deserved a weekend at home. But as she let herself into her minimalist flat, it no longer felt like home. The one place where she’d always done what she wanted, when she wanted and how she wanted now felt empty. Something flickered at the edge of her consciousness and she suddenly recognised it for what it was; a continual feeling of homesickness for the idea of ‘home’.
She shut the door on the shriek of a passing siren. It was Friday night and she had nothing to do . . . or, more precisely, no one to do it with. She could go back to Leeds, back to Mark, but she was too knackered.
She opened the wine cooler which was as large as the fridge but far better stocked. Her university housemates had called her the ‘prick and ping queen’ — if it didn’t go in a microwave it didn’t get cooked — life was too short for such mundane activities. Tonight, however, she wished she could cook. It would take up time in a useful, constructive, positive way. Instead she spread out the collection of takeaway menus on the glass worktop and decided on Thai. She phoned in her order and then opened a bottle of rosé. Red was too dangerous, too sad, while white was too light — too inconsequential. Tonight felt like a pink night. She poured her first glass.
Sally Greaves’ revelation was something of a ga
me-changer. She should at least phone Mark and update him, but work talk would inevitably lead to non-work talk and she didn’t have the energy. She should just sleep with him. Put him out of his misery. But she didn’t want another notch on the bed-post. She wanted more . . . but from him? Refilling her glass, she switched on the TV. A re-run of Game of Thrones would have to do.
‘They’re still missing!’ Mark Johnson burst into her cubby-hole without knocking and slapped a thin brown folder onto the desk.
Mia slid exhibit SAB/15 under another file. She’d been considering the best way to broach a request to have it DNA tested.
‘I’ve had sniffer dogs cover every bloody inch of that farm and nothing! Not so much as a digit.’
‘Surely that’s a good thing. It means you’re still investigating a single murder rather than a serial killer.’
‘Well . . . there’s that I suppose.’
Mark, like any SIO, would relish catching a serial killer, but he didn’t strike her as the sort to then flout such glory by undertaking the type of self-serving lecture tours she’d had to sit through during her various studies.
‘When were the lads last seen?’
‘That’s the thing.’ Mark’s tone brightened. ‘As far as we can make out they all disappeared around the same time as the dead man, and no one’s seen them since.’
‘Maybe Peter Pan’s spirited them away.’
‘What?’
‘You know — the lost boys.’ Her smile faded as she realised Mark wasn’t in the mood for whimsy.
She withdrew the turkey feather and gently waved the exhibit. ‘There seems to be a pattern with another two jobs I’m consulting on. There’s a missing accomplice in the Norfolk turkey bashing and a black feather was left in the hair of that woman in London I told you about.’
Mark perched himself on Mia’s desk, close enough for their legs to touch.
‘And what is it you’re hoping this feather will tell us if I authorise testing?’
‘Maybe nothing, evidentially. But if this exhibit turns out to be from the same bird as the Norfolk feather, it’ll provide a link between the two murders which will be hard to ignore.’
‘Who’s their SIO?’
‘DI Jayne Sykes.’
Mark picked up the exhibit. ‘As long as she can get authorisation for her feather to be tested, there’d be no point in doing just one.’
‘Or you could offer to pick up their feather and the cost of the test. West Yorkshire’s budget is so much bigger than Norfolk’s.’
‘We’ll see.’
Mark left the room with the feather and Mia smiled. It was great when a plan came together.
Only it didn’t.
All the DNA testing proved was that the two feathers were completely unrelated. Not only were they not from the same bird, they weren’t even from the same breed of turkey.
Mark stared at her across a cup of cold coffee. ‘Do you know the cost of sending a police bike the length of the country and back?’
Mia was unapologetic. ‘You could have used a commercial courier.’
‘Not worth the risk to continuity.’
‘Which means you thought it was worth the punt too — and even though they’re not forensically linked, they’re still an important aspect, a motif.’
‘A calling card?’
‘I think so.’
‘Okay, but what now?’ He pushed himself free of the desk, free of Mia’s aroma.
She stood up too, smoothing the creases from her tight-fitting skirt. ‘Now I’m off down to Oxford to see a man about some monkeys. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have anything of use.’
‘Great — if anything needs testing down there, make sure Thames Valley pay for it!’
Mark kept his face passive, stopping himself from pointing out she’d just cancelled another dinner date.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Darkness is needed to see the stars.
Ellie found herself ducking as she pushed through the low, badly-fitting, kick-scuffed door. The pub was a hovel. Tucked away in the Welsh-speaking valleys, it existed in a time-warp that refused to recognise the existence of wine, pub grub or licensing hours. Despite it being three in the afternoon, two lit candles stood in their own dripped wax at either end of a single plank bar, subsidising the grey sunlight filtering in through the one, small window. The slate floor hadn’t seen a mop in years and in the middle of the room, an unlit fire remained the source of old smoke that hung in the air, mingling with the smell of stale beer and a sense of brooding malevolence.
She could only see one customer, a farmer, who reeked of his cows in a way that reminded her of Paul. He was sitting on an old beer barrel, talking in guttural Welsh to the barman, who was wiping dirt onto a glass with a filthy, once green tea towel. Both men stopped talking and gave her matching scowls of open hostility.
‘You lost?’ the barman demanded.
‘Don’t think so.’ Ellie faced the two men with a belligerence that matched theirs. ‘I’m looking for Alex.’
The barman raised a bushy eyebrow, but nodded to a dark corner and returned to his Welsh conversation with the man on the barrel. Although not a Welsh speaker, Ellie was aware that she was now the subject of their conversation. She moved slowly into the shadows at the side of the cold fire.
‘Alex?’
‘Who’s asking?’
‘My name’s Ellie Grant. I was told I might find you here.’
‘And who would be telling you that?’ The voice was a lot younger than she’d expected.
‘Captain James Cordell.’
‘Jamie Cordell. What would that jumped-up gobshite be doing talking to a wee lassie like you? You’re not his type — more country than County.’
Not waiting to be asked, Ellie sat down opposite the voice in the dark.
‘I’m not here to find a partner . . .’
‘Just as well—’
‘But I am after men.’
‘And what is it you’d be wanting these men to do?’
‘What they’ve been trained to do — survive, evade, resist and extract.’
‘And where would they be undertaking this survival?’ The man’s tone held a touch of amusement.
‘All over — from country to council estates.’
‘Really? And who would they be evading?’
‘The police, mainly.’ She could sense the man’s surprise.
‘And who would we be resisting?’
Ellie liked the move from they to we.
‘Individuals mostly, plus some organised criminal gangs.’
‘And who would my men be extracting? Their victims?’
‘Occasionally, but mainly it will be the criminals I want extracted.’
Ellie reached behind her and picked up another candle in a beer bottle from the low beamed mantelpiece. She placed it firmly in the middle of the small square table that separated them and stared at the man sitting opposite her.
‘You’re not what I expected.’
‘What was it you were expecting, lassie? Full camouflage, a blacked-up face and an automatic?’
‘No. When James said you’d retired from the unit I thought you’d be older, that’s all.’
He wasn’t much older than her — late thirties or forties at a guess. His hair was longer than she’d expected; a non-descript brown that matched an unkempt beard. The light was too poor to tell the colour of his eyes, but the scar, which puckered the skin just below his right eye, was hard to miss as it dived in a diagonal line towards his chin, disappearing into his beard.
‘I see you’re no oil painting yourself.’ He snorted approval of her forthright manner and she pushed on. ‘James says you were in Iraq and Afghanistan together.’
‘That gobshite says a deal too much! You didn’t tell me how you and he got to be so chatty.’
‘I rescued him.’ She fought hard to keep the smugness from her voice as she enjoyed the look of surprise that flicked across the man’s face.
‘Y
ou rescued a captain in the SAS? Now that’s a story worth hearing.’
‘Buy me a half and I’ll tell you it.’
Ellie hated the taste of alcohol, but needs must when the devil drives.
‘They don’t do halves in this place. Bert! Bring the lady a pint of your best — and make an effort with a clean glass!’
She took a sip of beer, trying not to wince at its bitterness. ‘Several months ago, during that really bad, unexpected storm, I was digging some sheep out of a snow drift on my place in the Beacons, when Ollie—’
‘Ollie?’
‘My collie.’
Alex grinned. The grin altered his face, softening it in an unexpected way that made her stomach crunch. Shit — he’s really . . . good? No . . . confident . . . no . . . odd-looking. Powerful. I wonder how many people he’s killed.
‘Anyway, Ollie started barking at a pile of snow in the far corner of the field. I’d found all five of my sheep—’
‘Not much of a farm then — five sheep.’
‘It’s not a farm; it’s a rescue centre. Anyway, Ollie wouldn’t come to heel. So I trudge up to where he’s digging into the snow which, at that point, had drifted higher than the stone wall. By the time I get there he’s pulling on some clothing.’
‘A bit of snow wouldn’t be a problem for Jamie.’ Alex took a pull on his own pint.
‘Probably not . . . on its own. But his leg was broken and he was unconscious from hypothermia.’
‘You telling me a wee lassie like you, dragged a man the size of Cordell, off a mountain in a blizzard?’
‘The blizzard had stopped and I radioed Mick and Craig, who hiked up with a stretcher. They do mountain rescue in their spare time.’
‘Men, radios — sounds like you’ve already got yourself an army.’
Ellie paused. Don’t mess this up. Don’t put his back up.
‘Mick and Craig just help out with the shelter I run for abused animals. We use radios because there’s no mobile signal.’
Alex’s face didn’t soften and she continued talking to a fixed glare. ‘Anyway, as soon as we got him back to the farm, the snow kicked off again and he was with us overnight, until we could get the rescue helicopter out.’
She Will Rescue You Page 6
