A Quiet Death

by Cari Hunter

  “Chai would be lovely, thank you.” Sanne had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth and was particularly fond of the spiced tea. She had declined several earlier invitations, but that had been before the downpour snapped two of the spokes on her brolly.

  Having hung Sanne’s coat on the banister, the woman steered her past the ubiquitous collection of paired shoes lining the hall, and into the front room.

  “Sit, please.” She indicated a pristine sofa covered with clear plastic.

  “No, no, I couldn’t. I’m all wet.” Sanne’s trousers squelched as she patted them. She wasn’t sure whether it was her obvious mortification or the threat to the soft furnishings that changed her host’s mind, but the woman clucked again and escorted her into an adjoining room where the seats were well worn and where four pairs of curious eyes latched on to her.

  “Hiya.” Sanne waggled her fingers at the two toddlers playing in front of the gas fire and nodded to acknowledge the elderly man in the bed against the wall. A younger woman sitting on the sofa shifted to make space, so Sanne perched on the edge of it, still conscious of her soggy clothing. “Thank you. Sorry, I didn’t mean to barge in on you.”

  The young woman waited until the elder had gone into the kitchen and begun to clang pots about. “My mother-in-law. You can’t say no to her once she’s set her mind. It’s best just to do as she tells you.”

  “Yeah, I got that impression.” Sanne put her paperwork on the sofa arm and displayed her ID. “I’m Detective Jensen, and I work for East Derbyshire Special Ops. We’re investigating the death of an Asian girl whose body was found yesterday.”

  “The one up on the moors? I saw it on the news this morning.”

  “Yes, that’s right—”

  “Parveen!” The shout from the kitchen sounded as if it had come through a loudhailer. Parveen shook her head in apology and obeyed the summons, leaving Sanne with one child encroaching on her bootlaces and the other using a plastic hammer to tap her knee. She scooped the boot-botherer onto her lap and gave him her keys to jingle, as animated conversation and the sizzle of oil drifted into the room.

  The family had extended the house into their backyard, the addition of a galley kitchen halving the concrete square. Above the fireplace, an ornate gilt frame held a photograph of the Hajj, while the television was tuned to a soap opera on Dekho TV. The smell of spices soon replaced that of hot oil, and Parveen reappeared bearing a laden tray. She passed around mugs of milky tea and swapped the toddler for a plate of onion bhajis.

  Raised on a diet of English-only fare, thanks to her dad’s refusal to eat “bloody foreign muck,” Sanne had spent years catching up for lost time by sampling food from as far away as she could, and bhajis were a favourite of hers. She reluctantly declined a second and took her time wiping her fingers on a napkin, loath to break the easy hospitality with a blunt return to business. Parveen, however, switched the subject for her.

  “The girl under the rocks, she was Pakistani?”

  Sanne set down her mug. “As best we can tell, but it’s not an exact science.”

  “You have her picture?”

  “Yes.”

  Mindful of the children, she passed the images across. Parveen studied each in turn, her lips thinning in anger and her fingers tight on the margins. Her mother-in-law murmured “Allah” as she looked over Parveen’s shoulder en route to the kitchen, but she showed no sign of recognition.

  “This was all she wore? No salwar?” Parveen indicated her own trousers.

  “No, no salwar, just the kameez.”

  Swearing beneath her breath, Parveen returned the photographs. “She’s so young.”

  “Between twelve and fifteen, we think.” Sanne slid the images out of sight, trying not to show her frustration. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from the morning: some sort of key development or vital clue? A sudden revelation followed by a positive ID? From her time as a patrol officer, she knew that Pakistani families often extended over entire streets and that unrelated neighbours tended to be good friends, sharing personal and official business. Perhaps that had led her to hope for an early breakthrough, when realistically the victim was unlikely ever to have set foot in Sheffield and the entire day would turn out to be a waste of time.

  “Do you have a copy of the sketch?” Parveen asked. “My sisters are still at school, and they don’t miss much. I can show them the sketch but not the other pictures.”

  Sanne gave her one of the duplicates she’d intended to take to the mosque. “Please show it to as many people as you can. My number’s on this card if you do hear anything.” She finished the last of her tea and stacked the mug on her empty plate. “Shall I take them—” She pointed to the kitchen, but Parveen raised a hand.

  “I think you’re busy enough without volunteering to wash up.”

  “Yes, I should get back out there.” It was still raining. Sanne could hear it hitting the roof slates, and the wind had set a gate banging in the alley. Leaving the cosiness of the sitting room, she went into the hall and was pulling on her damp coat when Parveen’s mother-in-law bustled toward her, proffering a tinfoil parcel.

  “For later,” she said, thrusting the package into Sanne’s hands.

  Common sense told Sanne not to resist. “Thank you, you’re very kind.” She opened the front door to a wet gust that slapped at her face and played hell with her hair. Across the road, Nelson paused between houses to throw her an enquiring look. She shook her head as she pulled up her hood and made a beeline for number thirty-one.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The human body was never designed to survive a fall of two storeys onto concrete. Its bones snapped far too easily, its organs ruptured, and its arteries sheared. If the victim was lucky, a combination of these things happened upon impact, and death was instantaneous. Meg’s twenty-five-year-old patient hadn’t been so fortunate. Still conscious on arrival in the shock room, he had battled and screamed and would no doubt have kicked, had his pelvis not resembled a shattered eggshell.

  “Any word on his parents?” Meg asked for the umpteenth time.

  “ETA was fifteen minutes.” Liz watched the monitor calculate his blood pressure. Her eyebrow arched as the numbers appeared on the screen. “Christ. Will he last that long?”

  Meg hung another bag of fluid and closed the door on the rapid infuser. “I don’t know. I’m surprised he hasn’t arrested already.”

  Everything she did now was aimed at reaching that deadline. It was an hour since Maxwell from Neurology had taken one look at the CT scan and advised that the patient be treated with TLC in a side ward. His stark verdict meant that nothing else would be fixed either, so blood was continuing to pour into the lad’s pelvic cavity, and his lungs were filling with fluid despite the drains. Meg wasn’t sure which would kill him first, his failing heart or the swelling to his brain. Sedated and intubated, he was at least clean and warm and comfortable, with bandages soaking up the haemorrhage from his open skull fracture, and the rest of the damage hidden under blankets. His scaffolder’s boots and overalls were folded neatly in a property bag, and the Resus doors had been marked with laminated pictures of butterflies, warning ambulance crews and department staff that someone within was dead or dying. The only thing missing was his parents.

  “I’ll go and keep an eye out in the ambulance bay,” Liz said.

  Meg nodded, using a fresh piece of gauze to wipe the blood trickling from the lad’s nose. Barry, she reminded herself. “Bazza” to his mates. Single, hardworking, liked footy and playing darts. His shell-shocked colleague had offered these personal details in apology for knowing nothing of his medical history.

  Meg raised her head hopefully when the curtains around the bed rustled, but it was only the organ donation coordinator.

  “Aren’t they here yet?” he asked.

  “Ten minutes,” Meg said. “An officer’s blueing them over from Leeds.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Shite. At this rate, ther
e’ll be nothing left to salvage.”

  “Bloody hell.” The coordinator squeezed Barry’s hand. “Your mum and dad are coming, mate. Try and stick it out till they get here, okay?”

  For a long, silent moment, Meg watched the rise and fall of Barry’s chest as the vent breathed for him. Every breath encouraged his heart to beat, killing him in increments by pumping more blood into the void.

  “Never know the minute, do you?” she said quietly. It was something she tried not to think about; those who dwelt on the subject didn’t last long in emergency medicine. “He got up this morning, ate his breakfast, tied his boots, probably swore at the traffic like the rest of us. Then one slip of his foot, and his brain’s mush and he’s circling the drain in here.”

  “I never leave the house on an argument,” the coordinator said. “No matter how annoyed I might be.”

  Meg primed another bag of fluid. “I doubt any of us do.” She hesitated at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  “His parents are here,” Liz said, panting as if she’d run a marathon. “The car’s just pulled up in the bay.”

  Meg tore off her plastic apron and checked her scrubs for blood. Satisfied that she was presentable, she turned to the coordinator. “Do you want to wait in the Rellies’ Room? They should come and see him first.”

  Accustomed to the routine, the coordinator gave a curt nod and hurried out of sight.

  “Shit, Liz, can you just…?” Meg mimed wiping her nose, and Liz grabbed some gauze to clean Barry’s face. “It’s the basal skull fracture. I can’t stop it bleeding, but I don’t want to plug his damn nostrils.”

  “I’ll keep him tidy. You go.”

  Meg met Barry’s stricken parents at the Resus door. A couple in their mid-fifties, they were clinging to each other like passengers on a sinking ship. Meg shook their hands in turn, but they were already looking past her at the door that barred their way.

  “I’m Dr. Fielding. I’ve been taking care of Barry.”

  Barry’s mother sobbed, and her husband tightened his hold on her. “The officer told us it didn’t look good,” he said, phrasing the statement almost as a challenge. “But he’ll be all right, won’t he, Doc?”

  Even though Meg had expected the question, it still felt like a sucker punch.

  “No,” she said, providing the answer immediately, because everything else she said was likely to be lost. “I’m very sorry, but his injuries are so severe he won’t recover from them.”

  She spotted the warning signs in Barry’s father at once: his rapid breathing, clenched fists, and altered stance.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” he demanded. “Are you letting him die?”

  “No, sir. We’ve done everything we can to keep him alive. It just isn’t going to be enough.”

  This admission knocked the bluster out of Barry’s father. His posture sagged instantly, making him look smaller and more frail. Seeming to remember his wife, he wrapped an arm around her, supporting much of her weight as her legs shook.

  “Can we see him?” he said.

  “Of course.” Meg led the way into Resus, explaining about the vent and the sedation, and deciding it would be kinder to lie when Barry’s mother asked if he would be able to hear them. “He might,” she said. “We’ll never know for sure. Don’t be scared of touching him or holding his hand.”

  Liz had silenced the monitors so that Barry’s parents wouldn’t be greeted by a cacophony of frantic alerts. His blood pressure had plummeted in the minutes Meg had been away, and his heart had given up trying to compensate. Standing at a discreet distance, she checked her phone as it vibrated: Fraser. She dropped it back into her pocket. Much as she wanted to speak to Fraser, he would have to wait.

  *

  The local secondary school was emptying out by the time Sanne met Nelson and Meera at the far end of Crooke Road. Groups of teenagers were swaggering along the wet pavements, sharing bags of toffees or chips, their conversation a polyglot of English and languages Sanne could only guess at. Here and there among the black hijabs and the navy blazers she spotted a skirt rolled up above the knee or a pair of brightly coloured trainers, a rebellion against the strict dress code, but the kids were far better behaved than the foul-mouthed, dope-smoking rabble she had shared her own school classes with.

  Conscious of sticking out like a sore thumb, she returned a few curious smiles, but the majority of the kids she passed were far more interested in their mobile phones and iPods, only noticing she was there when they had to step out of her way. Earlier that afternoon, the school’s head teacher had taken copies of those case photos suitable for display to his young charges and promised to broach the subject in the morning assembly. Neither he nor the available staff members had recognised the dead girl, and Sanne approached the entrance to the Al Amin mosque resigned to ending the day with nothing to show for it.

  Situated within a row of three-storey terraces, the mosque’s sole distinguishing feature was a string of tattered bunting. A middle-aged man met Sanne and Nelson in the entrance, where, accustomed to the procedure, they removed their boots and added them to the assortment of flip-flops and moccasins left by the door. The man nodded his thanks before leading them along a hallway carpeted in pristine Axminster and rapping on a door at the far end.

  Sanne hung back, allowing Nelson and then Meera to precede her into the room. The imam left his desk to meet them halfway, shaking Nelson’s hand and returning Meera’s greeting. Sanne introduced herself but knew better than to offer her hand.

  “Please, sit. Would you like something to drink?” He directed them into chairs and retook his own, nodding at their polite refusals. “Of course, I’m sure you’re very busy. May I see the photographs?”

  Sanne watched his reaction closely as he considered the images. He was younger than she had expected, and his hands were trembling when he returned her file.

  “I don’t recognise her,” he said, with a slight catch in his voice. “I wish I could be of more assistance, but no one has approached me recently with any concerns.”

  “Would you be able to ask your”—Nelson floundered for the right word—“congregation?”

  “Yes, of course. Tomorrow would probably be best, at Jumu’ah—Friday prayer. Do you have a card with your details? Thank you.” The imam tapped the card on the desk, looking as uneasy as a perp in a line-up of one.

  “Was there something else, sir?” Sanne asked.

  “No, not really. Well, yes, but I’m not sure it bears any relevance to your investigation. I’ve already reported the matter on the 101 helpline, and an officer is supposed to be coming to collect the letters at some point.”

  Sanne’s ears pricked up, and she sensed Nelson lean forward.

  “What letters, sir?” Nelson asked.

  The imam opened the top drawer of his desk and withdrew two envelopes. “The first came on Monday. Then a second arrived yesterday. We receive mail like this on a weekly basis, even more so following the exploitation cases in Rotherham. We try not to make a fuss, but you said on the phone that this child had been assaulted sexually, so…” He pushed the letters across the desk.

  Sanne and Nelson donned latex gloves before taking an envelope each. Sanne opened hers, noting the local postmark, and unfolded a sheet of lined paper on which someone had scrawled an itemised list of unimaginative threats: burning down the mosque, destroying all the “Paki” shops, and highlighted in capitals at number one, “WE WILL RAPE YOUR DAUGHTERS.” As if afraid that the emphasis might be lost, the word “your” was underlined in red several times. Both letters were signed EISD: English Infidels, Sheffield Division.

  “Seriously?” Sanne said, forgetting where she was for a moment. “They actually signed it?”

  Nelson swapped his letter for hers. “They also spelled mosque with a K, San.”

  “This is true.”

  “Central Masjid and Etter Street Masjid have received identical correspondence,” the imam said.

  “We’ll sp
eak to them this evening.” Sanne made a note of the two mosques and dropped the letters into an evidence bag. “Thank you, sir. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Do you think this group might be connected to the girl’s death?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “But we’ll certainly be paying the EISD a visit. Can you contact us immediately if you receive any further threats?”

  “Certainly. We’ve warned people to be extra vigilant.”

  “Good.” Nelson stood to leave. “We won’t take up any more of your time.”

  Back out on the street, Nelson made a radio call to reallocate their remaining house-to-house streets and asked one of the nearest groups of officers to pick up Meera. Relieved to be off the chaperoning hook for a while, Sanne dug out her parcel of bhajis as she and Nelson walked back to the car park.

  “How the heck did you manage to wangle these?” he asked, his cheeks bulging.

  “Charm, wit, but mostly by being small and getting rained on.” She was stuffing in a last mouthful when her mobile buzzed. She smiled as she read the text. “Oh, hey, I’m an auntie again!”

  He slung an arm around her and gave her a quick hug. “Boy or girl?”

  “Girl. Seven pounds four, safely delivered at home.”

  “No name?”

  “Not yet.” She looked up at him. “Keeley’s probably still trying to decide how to spell it.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense. Meg persuaded me to put a fiver on Kayci.”

  “Only a fiver? She conned a bloody tenner out of me!”

  Nelson laughed. “Your girlfriend could sell coals to Newcastle.”

  “She could,” Sanne agreed easily, but then stopped walking. “Y’know, I’ve never called her that before.”

  “Well, now you have. And look, the world’s still turning.”

  Sanne gazed up at the darkening sky and took a deep, elated breath. “Yes, it is,” she said.

  *

  “What do you mean, she walked out? How the hell could she just walk out?” Meg paced to the far end of the ambulance bay, away from the crew coaxing an elderly gentleman into a wheelchair. She swapped her phone to her other ear as if that would somehow change what Fraser was telling her.