A Quiet Death

by Cari Hunter

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “I can sing if you prefer?” He filled his lungs in preparation but blew it all out when she walloped him in the gut. “Hey! That wasn’t very nice.”

  She tried to keep her face straight. “Every time you sing, your god murders a kitten.”

  “That’s a rotten fib, Sanne Jensen.”

  She snorted with laughter and had to clamp a hand on her nose while she found a tissue. “Aw, fuck. You made me snot on myself.”

  “Serves you right.”

  “Shit. Speaking of rights,” she watched their junction sail by, “you needed to turn there.”

  As Nelson muttered and made a U-turn, Sanne peered out at the huge, gated, detached houses lining the road. Lying southwest of the city centre, Thirlow was one of Sheffield’s most affluent suburbs, and not somewhere that she and Nelson often found themselves.

  “Maybe the Previa was bought for the nanny, who uses it to take little Tarquin and Delilah to school,” she said, only half joking, as she counted the Audis, Jags, and BMWs in the driveways.

  “Perhaps.” He pulled onto the verge by the house she indicated. “But then there are some people who have no desire to be ostentatious about their weal—Ah.” He spied the brand new Range Rover and the Porsche 911 flanking the approach to their destination. “We should’ve called ahead, shouldn’t we?”

  “Naw.” She left her finger on the security buzzer a few seconds longer than necessary. “It’s more fun when we catch people off guard.”

  A disembodied voice asked them to state their business. Sanne responded by holding her ID in front of the fisheye lens, and the wrought iron gates opened with studied indifference, as if daring them to sully the spotless resin-bound gravel.

  “Okay, then.” She kept hold of her ID as she broached the threshold, always more nervous about dealing with moneyed folk than scrotes. “Is that actual marble?” she whispered, when they reached the faux-Georgian pillars and steps at the front of the house.

  “Probably just fancy plastic,” Nelson said, and surreptitiously kicked the first step. “Ow, no, it’s marble.”

  The doorbell resonated around the porch, bringing to mind every BBC costume drama ever made, replete with liveried footmen and mob-capped scullery maids. Her imagination running riot, Sanne was disappointed when a balding forty-something chap in a Superdry hoodie opened the door.

  “Can I help you?” For a Sheffield inhabitant, he was remarkably accent-free.

  Sanne redisplayed her ID, immediately on her best behaviour. The man might have been dressed casually, but his outfit and Rolex watch didn’t look like eBay knock-offs.

  “Morning, sir. Sorry to call around so early. I’m Detective Jensen, and this is my partner, Detective Turay. We’re with East Derbyshire Special Ops.”

  The man nodded in obvious confusion. “Neil Caulfield. Would you like to come in?” Despite having no close neighbours, he was peering over Sanne’s shoulder, and although he relaxed slightly when he saw their unmarked car, he still seemed keen to conduct his business in private.

  “Thank you. This shouldn’t take long.” Sanne tried not to sound too enthusiastic. While she was content with her own life, nosing around posh houses was undeniably a perk of the job.

  Caulfield escorted them through an expansive entrance hall and into the first reception room, where a wall-mounted living-flame fire formed the centrepiece, and a lad was playing a first person shooter on a cinema-sized television.

  “Skedaddle,” Caulfield told him as he removed his headphones and gawked at Nelson. “And find your mum.” Caulfield gestured for Sanne and Nelson to sit, before taking a seat on the matching white leather sofa.

  Sanne slid the CCTV image from her file and laid it face-down on her knees. So far she had no opinion of the man’s innocence or guilt, but he was certainly wealthy enough to have the right connections.

  “Mr. Caulfield, are you the registered keeper of a Toyota Previa, registration plate BM15 GXR?” she asked.

  He had been sitting ramrod straight, every inch of him on guard, but the question made him sag like a deflated balloon.

  “What did she do this time?” He rubbed his forehead, where drops of perspiration were forming. “Is it compensation they’re after? Because clearly I can pay.”

  “Huh?” Sanne glanced at Nelson, who gave her a “your guess is as good…” look in return. “Who are you talking about, sir?”

  “Jessica, of course.” He stood up and bellowed “Michelle!” out the door. Seconds later, a woman with waist-length blond hair and a tan so false she reminded Sanne of an Oompa Loompa entered the room.

  “Where’s Jessica?” Caulfield demanded.

  “Upstairs, with Chelsea.” She suddenly noticed their guests and rolled her eyes. “Oh, bloody hell, Neil. What’s she done this time?”

  Much as Sanne wanted to grab a box of popcorn and let the drama play out, it wasn’t getting them anywhere. “Just…” She raised a hand for silence. “Right. Who is Jessica?”

  “Our nanny,” Michelle said.

  Sanne hoped she didn’t look as smug as she felt. “And she’s the only one who drives the Previa?” The Caulfields appeared to consider that a rhetorical question, so Sanne continued. “Am I to assume she’s not the best of drivers?”

  Neil Caulfield scoffed. “I don’t know why we bought her anything bigger than a Punto. She can’t park for toffee, and she’s lost three wing mirrors and a headlight in four months. Bloody hell, she’s not put anyone in the hospital, has she?”

  “No, she hasn’t,” Nelson said. He leaned forward, notes at the ready. “Why might she have been at Manchester Airport on the twentieth of February at 7:05 p.m.?”

  Michelle entered a code into her mobile and navigated its screens with a manicured finger. “She was picking up Granny Caulfield,” she said. “The flight arrived at 6:20, direct from Tenerife. I can forward you the itinerary if that’ll help.”

  “Yes, please. This has my e-mail on it.” Sanne gave her a card. “Would it be possible to speak to Jessica?”

  “She’s doing Chelsea’s hair.”

  Nelson tilted his head, a movement so subtle that no one but Sanne realised things were about to get awkward. “No problem,” he said. “We’ll hang on here and take her down to HQ when she’s finished.”

  The prospect of losing the help for several hours brought about an immediate change of heart.

  “Why don’t you go upstairs and see her right now?” Michelle said. “It’s the first bedroom on the left. The pink one, you can’t miss it.” She didn’t seem inclined to escort them, and she shut the door behind them as soon as they had gone into the hall. Sanne heard a series of fierce whispers but couldn’t distinguish more than the odd word.

  “They’ve got nothing to do with our case, have they?” she said to Nelson.

  “Nope.”

  She eyed the balustrade encircling a landing bigger than her bedroom. “But in the interests of being thorough, we should at least confirm the airport trip with the nanny?”

  Nelson nodded. “Yes, exactly. We’re just being thorough.” His poker face began to slip. “But mostly we want to see what else is up there.”

  She grinned. “Now you’re talking.”

  They took their time on the staircase, a grand sweeping affair that made Sanne long for a crinoline dress in which to swish down it. Forgetting Michelle’s directions, she accidentally poked her head into a state-of-the-art wet room boasting a shower so high-tech that a laminated instruction manual hung off its dial.

  “I just have tepid and ‘fucking hell!’ on mine,” she said.

  “I live with a wife and two daughters,” Nelson countered. “I’m lucky if I can get near ours.”

  Heading away from the rap music and automatic gunfire clattering behind a pale blue door, they made a beeline for the only pink one, its panels bedecked with glitter and fairy decals.

  “Sweet merciful Christ,” Sanne whispered. Expecting to interrupt a pamper
party, she peeked round the door and was surprised to find the girl—Chelsea, she remembered—curled up on her bed, listening to her nanny read her a story. They both started at the intrusion, and the nanny slammed the book shut.

  “Who are you?” Chelsea asked. Sanne guessed her age at no more than six, and her question combined a precocious child’s curiosity and her indignation at having her private space encroached upon by strangers.

  “Apologies,” Sanne said formally. “I’m Detective Sanne Jensen, and this is Detective Nelson Turay.” She shook Chelsea’s hand. “You must be Miss Chelsea Caulfield.”

  Chelsea nodded. “And this is Jessica.”

  Jessica had gone a funny shade of pale. “I got it fixed myself,” she said. “They promised they wouldn’t tell anyone if I paid for the repairs.”

  “It’s okay. We’re not here about that.” Nelson picked up the book she’d dropped. “Oh, this is a good one,” he said, and Chelsea beamed at him. “Which page are you up to?”

  With Chelsea distracted, Sanne perched on the bed beside Jessica. “Is this your car?” she asked, displaying the CCTV print.

  “It’s the one I drive for the Caulfields, yes. Am I in trouble?”

  Sanne refolded the image. “No, I don’t think so. We think a car similar to this was used in a serious crime. Could you confirm why you were at Manchester Airport on the twentieth of February?”

  “I collected Mr. Caulfield’s mother,” Jessica said, without equivocating. “She was drunk as a skunk on duty free. I did ask them to buy me something smaller, but Mr. Caulfield said the Previa was safer for the children.”

  “Knock off a few more wing mirrors and he might change his mind.” Sanne watched Nelson blow out his cheeks like a puffer fish and cross his eyes. Chelsea, sitting next to him on the rug, was hanging on his every word.

  “Her hair takes me about five minutes,” Jessica said. “We use the rest of the half hour for a story. Ms. Caulfield would have her out shopping or dancing or horse riding otherwise.”

  “Don’t worry, your secret is safe.” Sanne caught Nelson’s eye, and he returned the book to Chelsea, who ran back to the bed and dived on the mattress.

  “Hurry, we’re nearly at the end!” she cried, and Jessica resumed the tale as Sanne and Nelson left the room.

  Sanne’s mobile rang halfway down the stairs, the caller ID showing Eleanor’s name. She took it outside to answer it while Nelson went to speak to the Caulfields.

  “Hey, boss,” she said. “We’re just finished in Thirlow. No joy on the Previa. The airport visit was a simple granny pickup.”

  “Well, it seems GMP are on a roll. They called Fred with another one,” Eleanor said. “Might be a bit more promising. The registered keeper is a Mohammed Rafiq Sadek, who owns a small supermarket in Sharcliffe.”

  “Great. Did you want us to meet Fred there or something?”

  “No, he can barely stand up this morning. Apparently, salsa classes are very bad for you.”

  “Aye, so I’ve heard.” Sanne coughed and changed the subject. “Are we going to Sharcliffe in his stead, then?”

  “Yes. I’ll send you the address and the images. No priors for Sadek. He’s owned the shop for three years, and his wholesale website states that he’s lived locally all his life. We have the car joining the M56 from Manchester Airport at 4:21 p.m., which would tally with the arrival of a PIA flight from Lahore. It’s next seen at 10:52 p.m., leaving the M67 at the Hawdale junction.”

  “I wonder why that took so long,” Sanne said. Even in rush hour, the journey was a couple of hours at most.

  “Good question. Perhaps he went for a meal or to visit family, or perhaps he waited until he was damn sure no one else would be using Old Road.”

  “Could make for an interesting chat,” Sanne said, falling into step with Nelson on the driveway and mouthing “the boss” as he shot her a questioning look.

  “Indeed,” Eleanor said. “Meera came in to see how we’re getting on and offered to help smooth the way if necessary. She’ll see you there in about an hour.”

  “All right.” Sanne didn’t think they’d need Meera’s assistance, but it seemed rude to decline. “I’ll let you know how we get on.”

  “Where are we off to?” Nelson asked as she ended the call.

  “Sunny Sharcliffe, to see a chap about another Previa.”

  He nodded his approval. “Cooking on gas now, aren’t we?”

  “The boss certainly sounded more cheerful.” She waved at the sensor on the electric gates, scowling when nothing happened. “Course, we might be stuck here for the rest of the day.”

  “Open Sesame!” He snapped his fingers, and the motor whirred into life.

  She gazed at him in awe. “It’s true what they say. You really do have superpowers.”

  “Naw, just an uncanny sense of timing. Are you ready for my next trick?” He zapped the central locking on the car. “Ta-dah!”

  “Wow. Not just a superhero but a god.”

  He chuckled. “Get in, you silly sod. I might be all-powerful when it comes to opening stuff, but I can’t do a thing about the traffic.”

  *

  Sheffield Royal was the last place Meg wanted to go on her day off, but with Sanne at work she knew Teresa would be alone in the ITU. Her head was swimming pleasantly after her night shifts, the world weaving around her as if it was drunk and she was the only one sober. Having left the house without her bag, she sat in her car for several minutes before she figured out where she was supposed to be going. The journey passed in a stop-start haze, and as she pulled into a parking spot her pocket began to buzz.

  “What the hell?” Eventually, she recognised the sound of her mobile and answered the call. “Morning.”

  “Technically, it’s afternoon,” Fraser said. “Did I wake you?”

  “No, but I’ve been on nights, so I don’t know my arse from my elbow. What’s up?”

  “Could you look at a photo and tell me if it’s our man?”

  For a perplexing moment she thought he wanted her to identify her brother again, but then she remembered Anca Miklos and the hospital security footage that Fraser had requested.

  “Yes, of course. Are you going to e-mail it?”

  “It’s already on its way,” Fraser said. “Give me a shout back on this number.”

  He disconnected, and Meg opened the e-mail, tapping her foot as the download stalled repeatedly. Although the images were by no means clear, Cezar Miklos had been captured in a series of freeze-frames as he opened his car’s rear door, and Anca was recognisable thanks to her mitten-like bandages.

  Meg called Fraser back. “It’s him,” she said. “Did you get the car reg?”

  “Afraid not. We have the make and model, but the footage never gave us a good enough angle on the plate.”

  “I’m shocked.” She couldn’t summon the energy to be truly sarcastic. She rubbed a bit of sleep from her eye. “Is that it, then? Dead end?”

  “No, we’ll keep looking, and the case will stay open, but the car was potentially our best lead.”

  “And it’s come to nothing.”

  “Yeah, so it would seem,” he said. “Thanks for the ID, though. It helps to know for sure who we’re trying to find.”

  “Not a problem. Keep in touch.” She hung up and walked toward the hospital entrance, getting halfway there before she remembered to aim her car keys over her shoulder and press the lock. Snowflakes were swirling around the tarmac, melting before they had a chance to settle. She shivered and pulled her collar closed. Along with her memory, night shifts destroyed her ability to stay warm.

  The doctor at the ITU desk greeted her by name, and he winced when she asked after John’s condition. He leafed through John’s folder and found the latest lab results for her.

  “He’s had another three units of blood,” he said, “but his last count had dipped to nine point two.”

  “Which means he’s bleeding again.”

  “It would appear so. I’ve scheduled
him for another scope”—he checked the clock on the wall—“in about fifty minutes. Is he a relative of yours?”

  “He’s my partner’s dad,” Meg said. “Okay if I go and sit with her mum for a while?”

  The doctor tripped a little on the unexpected pronoun but nodded his assent. “Room two.”

  She walked through the main bay on her way to the individual cubicles, its patients all elderly, the cutting-edge technology around them a stark contrast to their wizened faces and wasted bodies. Vera Aster had never made it this far; she had died minutes after Sanne’s arrival in the shock room.

  Catching a glimpse of Teresa dozing by John’s bed, Meg tiptoed into the room and scanned his observation chart. He was hanging on by a thread, his organs teetering on failure as his blood pressure failed to stabilise. Teresa stirred when she sensed Meg’s presence, and she tried to make herself presentable by patting her hair into place.

  “It’s only me.” Meg dragged a chair alongside hers. “I thought you might like some company.”

  Teresa laid a hand on Meg’s arm. “You should be in bed.”

  “So should you.”

  “And poor Sanne’s gone into work. There’s no telling any of us, is there?”

  Meg stretched out her legs and settled into her seat. “I fear we may be cut from the same cloth.”

  “That’s as may be.” Teresa copied Meg’s position. “But is it polyester or silk?”

  “Silk,” Meg said. “Definitely silk.”

  *

  Situated at the end of a shabby precinct, Sadek Foods was doing lively trade for a Sunday afternoon. Beneath its striped awning, crates of fruit and veg were stacked against multipacks of fizzy drinks and toilet roll. A neon sign reading “Fresh Halal Meat” occupied the front window’s prime spot, with adverts for mobile phone cards and money transfers to Pakistan battling for the remaining space. As Meera was running late, Nelson had squeezed into a parking spot almost opposite the shop, from where he and Sanne could watch people meandering in and out.

  “All very ordinary,” Sanne said.

  Nelson peered through the misted windscreen. “And those loo rolls are a bargain,” he said, with a tinge of envy. “Hey, there she is.” Reacting faster than Sanne, he ducked out of the car to head Meera off before she could go inside to look for them.