by Cari Hunter
“Sorry, I thought I’d missed you,” she said as Sanne caught them up.
Pausing on the pavement, Sanne straightened her coat and readied her file and ID badge. She motioned for Nelson to lead the way, conscious that their presence had immediately been noted by the customers milling among the groceries.
The clocks didn’t exactly stop when they walked inside, but conversations became muted, and a child stuffing sweets into his mouth lost a couple as his jaw dropped. The lad behind the butcher’s counter, almost obscured by the lamb carcasses swinging around him, pointed his knife toward the rear of the shop when Sanne asked for Mohammed Sadek. The customers’ reactions must have acted as a tip-off, however, because a smartly dressed Pakistani man came and met Sanne and Nelson in front of the main counter.
“Mohammed Sadek?” Nelson asked.
“Yes, but I go by Rafiq.” The man offered his hand as Nelson made the introductions, and he greeted Meera in Urdu. “Would you like to come through to the back? There’s not much space out here.”
He opened a section of the counter, swapping places with a slightly younger man who took over the till. Boxes of wholesale stock lined the walls of the room Sadek took them into.
“Please sit.” He indicated a pair of wooden chairs and a sofa with sunken cushions. “Can I get you something to drink?”
He provided refreshments regardless of their polite refusals, snapping open cans of mango Rubicon and pouring the juice into mismatched mugs that he set on the low coffee table. Sanne watched him move around the cluttered space, clearly unperturbed by their unannounced visit and keen to play the gracious host. According to Eleanor’s information, he had just turned thirty and lived two streets from the shop with his wife and three young sons. Although he was dressed traditionally, the cloth of his kameez was stretched taut across his broad chest and prominent biceps, and his accent owed a lot more to Sheffield than to Pakistan.
“So,” he said, once satisfied that everyone was catered for. “How may I help?”
Sanne opened the image Eleanor had sent to her phone and passed it to him. “Are you the registered keeper of this car?”
“Yes, I am. It’s taxed and insured, and I have the logbook at home.”
“Has it been involved in any accidents recently?”
“Not to my knowledge.” He returned her phone and sipped his drink straight from the can. “Unless Kadri’s trashed it. Is that why you’re here? Has he done something stupid?”
Sanne made a note of the name, but she had a sinking feeling that she knew where this was going. “Who’s Kadri?”
“My cousin. He borrowed the car for a trip to London.”
Nelson shifted slightly, his knee rattling the table. “When would that have been?” he asked, stilling the metal frame with his hand.
Sadek fetched a calendar from the wall but didn’t seem to find the answer on it. “I’m not too sure. Wednesday, I think. It was all pretty last-minute.” He looked at Meera as if she would understand. “You know how it is with family. They ask and you give.”
Sanne interrupted before Meera could steer them off topic. “We’ll need the address Kadri is staying at in London.”
Sadek opened his hands. “Sorry, but I don’t have it. He has a ton of friends down there, and he didn’t tell me any specific place.”
Despite his apparent sincerity and willingness to cooperate, red flags were popping up all over for Sanne. She drew a line beneath the cousin’s name and decided to push a little harder. “Can you confirm why the car was at Manchester Airport on the nineteenth of February at four thirty p.m.?”
Again Sadek glanced at the calendar, but Sanne had already noted that every date was blank.
“What is this concerning?” he asked.
“And then in Hawdale off the M67, some six hours later?” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken.
“I think I know what this is concerning,” he said quietly. “I saw in the paper that you couldn’t pin it on those racist idiots from Malory, so you’re looking for someone else to blame.” He stood and moved toward the door. “If we’re going to continue this conversation, I would like to have legal representation present.”
She nodded slowly, trying not to infer anything from the request. Few people these days, guilty or innocent, were comfortable talking to the police, and the wariness was heightened within minority communities.
“Would tomorrow morning at nine suit you?” She placed her card on the table, overriding any dissent. “We’re based at the main Sheffield HQ. The officer on the desk will direct you when you arrive.” She smiled to smooth the edge from her instructions. “Ask for ‘Sann-er’ Jensen, but it won’t matter if you cock up the name.”
“‘Sann-er.’ Right.” He gestured at the door. “I really have to get back to the shop.”
“Thank you for your time,” she said.
She and Nelson walked to the car in silence as Meera hurried in the opposite direction. A covering of wet snow had left the pavements slippery and deserted, and lights began to appear in windows. Nelson started the car but didn’t put it into gear. Sanne waited for his verdict, curious to see whether it matched her own.
“Hmm,” he said.
“Hmm, indeed.”
“A missing car and a half-arsed story.”
“And then no story at all for the airport trip,” she added.
“Summat’s off.”
“Yep.” She set her wet boots on the dash. “Let’s go and see what the boss has to say about it.”
*
In the middle of pouring a cup of coffee in lieu of the lunch she’d not even had a chance to unwrap, Eleanor ground her teeth as someone knocked on her door. Loath to sacrifice her drink, she crossed the carpet with cup and spoon in hand. She would have expected Litton to enter straight away, or for one of her team to respond to her hail, but Meera, obviously unsure of protocol, waited until the door was opened for her.
“Come in.” Eleanor glanced down the corridor. “Are Sanne and Nelson with you?”
“No, I set off before them.” Meera declined the offer of coffee with an agitated wave. When she wouldn’t sit, either, Eleanor stayed in front of her desk, resting against it.
“What can I do for you?” she asked, already uneasy. The timing of Meera’s arrival in the office earlier that morning, shortly after GMP had picked out the second Previa, had been so uncanny that Eleanor suspected Litton’s involvement. Having decided that Eastern Europeans—the current, acceptable bogeymen in the eyes of the popular press—would turn out to be the culprits in this case, Litton had thrown a conniption fit down the phone when she’d told him the Previa belonged to a Pakistani lad from Sharcliffe.
“Rafiq Sadek is a good family man,” Meera said in a rush. “He’s worked hard to build his business and—”
Eleanor cut her off. “Do you know him, Meera? Personally?”
“No, not really. But his auntie is related to my husband, and she says he wouldn’t be involved in anything illegal.”
“You should’ve disclosed your relationship before accompanying my detectives today.” Eleanor put her mug down harder than she had intended. She was annoyed at herself more than anything for not seeing this coming. Meera had been born in Sharcliffe and had made no secret of the fact that she still had relatives in the area.
“I’m a community liaison.” Meera enunciated the words clearly, as if addressing a child. “The role assumes I am familiar with the people in that community.”
“I’m aware of that, and ordinarily it wouldn’t be a problem. But you said you’d spoken to the aunt. Did you tell her about today’s visit?”
“No.” The muted reply suggested Meera had told someone, but when she looked up again her eyes were blazing. “It’s too easy for you to lay the blame at our doorstep, to say that one of us is responsible for this crime.”
“Nothing about this case has been easy.” Eleanor managed not to snap, but it took all of her self-control. Meera’s inclusion as a liaison wa
s testament to how carefully and respectfully EDSOP had tried to tread, yet it seemed their efforts would still be deemed inadequate. “Watching the body of an abused child being cut up on the slab wasn’t easy, nor was walking through the barn where that child and several other women were probably imprisoned and raped. My team and I are following the best leads we have, which isn’t saying much, and if one of those brings forth a Pakistani suspect, then so be it, but don’t think for a second that Rafiq Sadek is a convenience.”
“You don’t understand how much this will taint him,” Meera said. “It will shame his entire family. That boy has worked his way up from nothing.”
Eleanor had heard enough. “Did Sanne and Nelson question Sadek in public?” she asked.
“No, but—”
“Did they disclose their business within earshot of others?”
“No, they didn’t.”
Eleanor felt better for that confirmation, though she hadn’t doubted their conduct for a second. “Was Sadek able to explain why he’d been at the airport and the subsequent delay in getting to Hawdale?”
“No,” Meera said quietly, but then seemed to collect herself. “He requested legal representation, which is only sensible.”
“Very,” Eleanor agreed, her interest piqued. The delay would also give him time to get his story straight. “When is he coming in?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
Eleanor pushed up from the desk and returned to her chair behind it. “You won’t be permitted to attend that interview, and I would strongly advise you against any further contact with the family.”
Meera bristled but offered no rebuttal. “I’m going home,” she said.
Eleanor nodded. “Close the door behind you, please.”
*
The EDSOP Brainstorm was an informal event that usually involved hot drinks and snacks of some sort, a huddle around a spare table, and bullet points on a good old-fashioned, low-tech flipchart. Awarded the title of special guest, Russ Parry had provided the cake and assumed the role of scribe. He wrote RAFIQ SADEK at the top of the first page as Sanne finished handing out plates. With energy to burn, despite scant sleep and a long day, she sat on one of the back tables so her legs were free to swing.
“To summarise briefly,” Eleanor said, once everyone had settled. “While Rafiq Sadek doesn’t fit the bill for a suspect, he is certainly a person of interest. His Toyota Previa has allegedly taken a rather convenient trip below the Watford Gap to destinations unknown, and it seems he may have needed more time to think about why said car was spotted at Manchester Airport and then Hawdale, because he terminated the interview at that point. A married man with three children and no priors, he owns a thriving business and would appear to be a pillar of the community. Given the general mistrust of the police within that community, it may be remiss to read too much into his request for legal assistance. So, initial thoughts on how to proceed?”
When Sanne raised her hand, Parry scribbled his first bullet point and hovered by it, pen poised.
“How about ANPR cameras, now that we have a full registration to play with?” she asked. More than eight thousand of the traffic cameras fixed around the country had the capability to recognise number plates. Any passing “vehicles of interest” were immediately flagged for investigation, but a record of every other vehicle was also taken and stored in case of future need.
“A request is being processed,” Eleanor said. “There are no ANPRs on the Snake or Old Road, but an idea of Sadek’s movements in general would definitely be useful. The post mortem estimated the twenty-first or twenty-second of February for time of death, but the date we currently have Sadek’s car at Hawdale doesn’t tally with that. It’s a couple of days too early.”
Sanne had already been pondering the discrepancy. “He could conceivably have been collecting from the airport or another holding place on that day and transferring the women to the barn at Nab Hey.”
Her supposition sent a few dissenting murmurs through the team.
“He might just have played airport taxi for a relative and gone home on the Snake,” George said. “You join both roads from Hawdale, and the placement of the camera doesn’t tell us which route he took.”
“In which case, why not give us the specifics when we asked?” Sanne countered. “It’s not us putting him under the spotlight; he’s doing it to himself. And if we can confirm that his Previa was in Hawdale again around the twenty-first or second, that would be a more conclusive link to the body at Greave.”
Eleanor intervened before things became too heated. “We would need the car and forensic evidence to establish that beyond doubt,” she said. “But obviously we’re still going to be working on the CCTV footage around the estimated TOD. Good. Anything else?”
“Check for local body shops, garages, or possible storage for the Previa, if we think that the cousin story is a load of codswallop,” Fred said. “And personally I do.”
“Me too.” Mike Hallet waved his slice of cake, sending crumbs flying. “Maybe we should put the EDSOP ‘ayes’ on one side and the ‘nays’ on t’other, like they do in Parliament.”
Sanne chewed her pen, firmly on the side of the “ayes” and encouraged by Fred and Mike’s accord. The fact that Sadek had gifted himself hours to establish an alibi for his airport visit was gnawing at her. He was probably racking up his phone bill right now, contacting relatives willing to attest to whatever story he concocted and verify that he had loaned his car to a needy family member.
“For fuck’s sake,” she muttered, and accidentally kicked George’s chair. “Shit. Sorry, mate.”
“S’okay, love,” he said, shuffling beyond the line of fire.
The exchange drew Eleanor’s attention. “Something to add, Sanne?”
Sanne skimmed the flipchart, making sure she’d not missed anything while she’d been assaulting George. “Will we be speaking to Sadek’s family?”
“That depends what comes up during his interview.” Eleanor walked to the board and faced her team. “It would be an understatement to say that these developments have made DCI Litton apprehensive. Obviously he can’t stop us pursuing this line of enquiry, but he has requested that we proceed with the utmost caution.”
“No calling round to interview Sadek’s wife while he’s in here tomorrow, then?” Nelson said.
“Absolutely not, unless you’re curious to know what happens when our DCI’s blood pressure reaches critical level. I do want eyes on the shop, though. If Sadek is running a second business, that’s as good a place as any to do it from. I want to see if any of those coming and going are known to us or to Manchester’s MST. DI Parry is going to provide us with a rogues’ gallery from his patch, and I’ll get a surveillance rota drawn up by tomorrow.” Eleanor managed a weary smile. “Okay, that’s enough for today. Go home. You all look shattered, and I need a Scotch.”
“Excellent idea,” Fred said. “Pub, anyone?”
There were plenty of “ayes” this time around, but Sanne shook her head when he called her name.
“My dad’s in the hospital,” she said. “I’m going to see him, and then I’m going home.”
Fred put his arm around her. “Will someone be at home for you when you get there?”
She looked up at him. “God, I hope so.”
*
A persistent fall of snow had covered the Snake Pass, not enough to shut it but enough to slow Sanne’s journey to a bum-numbing, clutch-foot-aching crawl. The driver of the truck in front was struggling for control on the corners and skittish on the descents. When he almost jackknifed on a blind bend, she began to consider the pros and cons of stopping where she was and hiking the rest of the way. Knuckles white around the steering wheel, she managed to stay the distance, pulling into the lay-by at the top of her access road and murmuring a heartfelt thank-you when she recognised the car she had parked behind.
Wellies and winter woollies donned, she embarked on the home stretch with a bounce in her step, the memories of
her dad as still as a corpse—though steadfastly refusing to become one—banished by the wet flakes landing on her tongue and by the promise that Meg would indeed be waiting for her. Her small cottage was lit like a beacon, Meg using every lamp at her disposal to ensure Sanne didn’t miss her turn and end up in the henhouse.
Sanne entered the kitchen to a rush of warmth and the sight of most of her fridge’s contents arranged on the countertop. Before she had a chance to wonder about the food, Meg ran from the living room and skidded across the tiles toward Sanne with her arms outstretched. Underestimating the lack of traction on the bed socks she’d stolen, she overshot her mark and almost ended up in the sink.
“Well, that was dignified,” Sanne said.
“Thanks.” Meg rubbed her offended belly. “I was aiming for romantic enthusiasm, like in the films, where the reunited lovers bound into each other’s arms.”
“Don’t they usually do that in flowering meadows and slo-mo?”
“I chose to exercise a degree of artistic licence.” She kissed Sanne’s frozen nose. “Your dad still chugging along?”
“He is. Thanks for giving my mum a lift home.” Sanne laid her cold cheek against Meg’s flushed one. “And for being here.”
“My pleasure.” Meg turned to stand shoulder to shoulder with Sanne. “Now, you may be wondering about the mess.”
“I assumed you’d be getting to that,” Sanne said, flipping off her wellies and hanging her wet coat on a chair by the wood burner.
“I was fully intending to cook you something complicated and delicious,” Meg said. “But then I started to watch this nature documentary, and a fluffy baby seal was being chased by a polar bear, so I muted it and shut my eyes, and when I woke up it was two hours later. How does soup and toasties grab you?”
The ingredients on the counter—leftovers ideal for stuffing in sandwiches—suddenly made sense to Sanne. “Sounds great.”
