A Quiet Death

by Cari Hunter

  Meg lit the gas burner, above which a pan sat in readiness. “The soup is all homemade.”

  “Meg, it’s Heinz tomato.” Sanne held up the empty tin she’d spotted in the recycling pile.

  “To which I have added extra pepper and a spoonful of Bovril, thus rendering it homemade.” Meg ignored Sanne’s look of disgust. “Try it before you pull that face. And, by the way, you need a new sandwich toaster.”

  Sanne’s disgust quickly changed to horror. “You haven’t—have you destroyed my toaster?”

  “No, but look at it! It’s already knackered!” Meg pointed her wooden spoon at Sanne’s beloved Breville. It was one of the first things Sanne had bought herself on leaving home, and, although ancient and missing a leg, it toasted the most perfect sandwich. She patted it reverently and plugged it in.

  “Thank goodness. Wreck this, and it could spell the end of a beautiful relationship.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Meg said. “Make yourself useful and butter that bread.”

  They ate on the sofa, balancing their plates on lap trays, with the television on low. Such a lack of decorum would have horrified Sanne’s mum, but they had long since fallen out of the habit of sitting at the table.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Sanne said, mopping up the last of her soup with a piece of sandwich.

  Meg crunched her toastie, deliberating. Then she raised her index finger. “In Alaska it’s illegal to whisper in someone’s ear when they’re hunting moose.”

  “Fuck off!” Sanne dropped her spoon into her bowl. “You made that up.”

  Meg crossed her heart. “BBC documentaries do not lie. Your turn.”

  “I don’t think I can top that.” Sanne tried to remember her day, to pick out something unusual or interesting, but then she realised that she wanted to leave it at the office where it belonged and that she had nothing to say about her hospital visit. She put her tray on the floor and curled her legs beneath her. “I like coming home to you,” she said. “I thought it might bug me because I’m used to being on my own after work, but I was so happy to see all the lights on tonight, and then there you were.”

  “Sliding gracefully across the floor,” Meg said.

  “In my jammies and my bed socks.” Sanne tugged the waistband of Meg’s pilfered pyjamas, encouraging her to sidle closer. “How’s your belly? Any bruises?”

  “Only to my pride.” Meg arranged the blanket over them both. “But do feel free to check later, when I don’t taste of Bovril and corned beef.”

  Sanne kissed her regardless. “You mostly taste of tomato,” she murmured.

  “Sanne Jensen,” Meg said, “that kind of flattery will get you anywhere.”

  *

  The measure of Scotch reflected the glow from the open fire, amber twisting brightly in the glass as Eleanor swirled it.

  “Cheers.” She tapped Russ’s pint pot and took a mouthful of her whisky, enjoying the heat it tracked down to her stomach. They had outlasted the rest of her team, the snow forcing most to retire earlier than they might otherwise have done. The inclement weather was keeping the pub quiet, and Eleanor had kicked off her heels and tucked her legs onto the seat by the inglenook.

  “Our taxi reckoned he’d be about forty minutes.” She held up her glass. “Plenty of time for you to get another round in.”

  Russ took the hint and the empties to the bar, returning with fresh drinks and two packets of scampi fries.

  “I seem to recall you having a bit of a thing for these.” He tossed her a packet and placed her drink on a damp beer mat.

  “Only when I was drunk enough.” She sipped the Scotch first, reluctant to obliterate its flavour with that of ersatz shellfish and lemon. “God, I needed this.”

  He swiped froth from his upper lip. “Here’s to one of those days that can only end in vast quantities of alcohol.” He opened his crisps. “And scampi fries.”

  “It has been a bit of a shitter,” she said. “I almost lost it with Meera. For her to have the audacity to get on her high horse, when she’d all but confirmed she’d warned the family that we were heading over there. We’ve bent over fucking backwards not to tread on anyone’s toes, but nothing we do will ever be good enough. And then I’ve got Litton sticking his oar in every which way.”

  Russ chewed and swallowed while he contemplated. “Fear makes people lash out, El. And there’s plenty of that going around, thanks to fuck-ups in Rotherham and the like. I suppose there’s a concern that the police will go all out in an attempt to overcompensate, that we’ll come down hard on suspects from ethnic minorities rather than risk further accusations of negligence.”

  “That won’t be happening on my team.”

  “No, you’ve got a good bunch here, and you’ve had some cracking cases of late. I recognised Sanne from the papers.” Russ washed his final crisp down with half his pint. “She’s smaller in real life.”

  Eleanor opened her fries and propped the bag within reach of them both. “Don’t underestimate her. She packs a mean punch. She gave our Sheffield Slasher such a clobbering last month that she’s got a couple of fingers she can tell the weather by.”

  “You’re shitting me.” When Eleanor shook her head, Russ laughed loudly enough to disturb the lone drinker at the end of the bar. “Remind me not to piss her off.”

  “We’d had words beforehand,” Eleanor said. “She has a tendency to be a bit of a shrinking violet. Three days later, she’s tackling an armed psychopath on her own.”

  “A shrinking violet, eh?” He gave her a wry look. “Sounds like someone I used to know.”

  “Christ, don’t remind me. I had to order spare shirts that first week of training. I’d sweat through them before we even started a class.”

  “And then, four months out, there was that weird bloke we did for stalking his ex. Remember him? He wouldn’t stop trying to nuzzle your hair.”

  “I remember he walked into his cell with a limp,” she said.

  Russ stole the last fry, speaking around its crunch. “I knew right there and then that you’d go far.”

  She flexed her toes as the alcohol and the heat from the fire combined to alleviate the strain of the day. “And here we are.”

  “And here we are,” he said. “And hey, here’s Doug.” He waved to catch Doug’s attention, meeting him halfway across the snug to shake his hand.

  Eleanor put her shoes on the wrong feet and spent a few seconds trying to work out why she couldn’t walk in them.

  “Bollocks,” she mumbled. Barefoot again, she shrugged into her coat as Doug held it open for her. She kissed his cheek, breathing in his familiar smell of motor oil and aftershave, and hugged his arm for balance. “Thanks for coming to rescue us. I’m a bit tipsy.”

  “Let’s get you home,” he said. Then, to Russ, “Hotel or our spare room?”

  “I’m booked into the Victoria, if it’s no trouble.” Russ took Eleanor’s other arm. “Come on, El, put your best foot forward.”

  Her shoes finally on, Eleanor did just that.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The officer on the front desk kept his phone call succinct.

  “He’s on his way up,” he told Sanne.

  “Ready?” she asked Nelson.

  “Whenever you are.”

  They’d been ready for the last hour: notes written, questions compiled. Determined not to sacrifice any further advantage, Sanne had gained permission to record the interview’s audio and to question Rafiq Sadek under caution, although she’d tempered that somewhat by booking Interview Two. She always enjoyed wrong-footing potentially hostile subjects, and nothing was quite as disconcerting as expecting to be interrogated by a pair of hardnosed arseholes and then being shown to a room bedecked with cheerful upholstery.

  As requested, she paused at Eleanor’s office. “We’re just going in, boss.”

  Eleanor pushed her chair back, giving herself breathing space from the computer, if only for a minute. “DCI Litton would like a copy of the audio as soon
as the interview concludes.”

  Sanne had expected that, but it still sent a shiver of anxiety through her. “I’ll e-mail it to you,” she said.

  Eleanor rewarded this subtle defiance with an approving nod. “DCI Litton stated a preference for the interview to be conducted by a Pakistani detective.”

  “Well, he’s got a lesbian and a black bloke, so I don’t think we can be accused of lacking political correctness.”

  “My response wasn’t quite as blunt.” Eleanor rolled her chair forward, amusement glinting in her eyes. “But it went along similar lines. Good luck.”

  “Cheers, boss.”

  The lift doors opened just as Sanne met Nelson outside Interview Two. Showing no sign of indecision, Rafiq Sadek turned in the right direction and strode toward them, two steps in front of another Asian man in a crisply pressed suit. He introduced his solicitor and declined the offer of a hot drink, pouring himself a glass of water instead and getting comfortable on the chair that Sanne indicated. Accustomed to interviewees tapping their feet and fidgeting, she was rattled by Sadek’s composure. He sipped his water, his eyes never leaving her as she activated the tape recorder and proceeded through the caution and the preliminaries. Had this been a poker game, he would have taken even Nelson to the cleaners.

  Keen to establish the pace and tone, she opened her file and gave herself time to reread her initial questions before she asked her first one.

  “Mr. Sadek, yesterday afternoon you confirmed you were the registered keeper of a silver Toyota Previa, licence plate BL58 WCZ. Is that correct?” She placed the CCTV image in front of him.

  Sadek topped off his glass and set the jug precisely in the centre of its coaster. “My solicitor would like to read from a prepared statement,” he said, and Sanne’s heart sank. There was little wonder he looked so smug if he’d decided to play that card.

  The solicitor produced a typed sheet and cleared his throat. “My client, Mohammed Rafiq Sadek, loaned the aforementioned Toyota Previa to his cousin, Kadri Afzal, on the morning of February the twenty-fourth. Mr. Afzal has taken the car to London for an indeterminate period, and my client is unsure of his exact whereabouts. As my client owns a second vehicle, he did not consider Mr. Afzal’s request to be an inconvenience. On February the nineteenth, my client collected a friend from the viewing park at Manchester Airport, leaving at approximately four thirty p.m. and travelling to Levenshulme, Manchester, where he and his friend ate dinner at a restaurant. He returned home later that evening via the Snake Pass.

  “My client has provided the names and addresses of friends and family members who can corroborate these details, but unfortunately he does not have contact information for Mr. Afzal, following a recent change of mobile phone. The route taken to and from the restaurant in Levenshulme is also provided. I have advised my client to say nothing further during the course of this interview.”

  The solicitor marked the end of the statement by presenting Nelson with a copy.

  “Thank you,” Nelson said, his tone commendably free of sarcasm. Had the solicitor given the statement to Sanne, she would probably have rammed it down his throat. She skimmed her notes again. Even if Sadek took the “no comment” route, they still needed to ask all of their questions and give him the opportunity to answer.

  “You say you travelled home on the Snake Pass,” she said. “Have you ever used Old Road instead? Perhaps to avoid the traffic?”

  Sadek looked impressed that she was even bothering to try. He sipped his water, evidently in no rush to conclude matters. “No comment.”

  Sanne wrote this down, underlining it twice to make him wonder what she’d read into it. She and Nelson were in no hurry either. They had a statement to pick apart and a DCI waiting to cast judgement on their efforts. Nelson removed his jacket, settling in for the long run and prompting Sanne to do likewise. If Litton wanted to spend hours listening to a “no comment” interview, she was more than happy to oblige him.

  *

  It wasn’t often that Eleanor allowed herself to get really pissed off, but she’d been in the office since six and missed her lunch again. A meeting scheduled by Litton to last an hour had overrun by two, giving her a headache in addition to the mild hangover she’d started the day with, and the cherry on top of it all was now filling the screen in the briefing room.

  “This isn’t worth the paper it’s typed on,” she said, leaving Rafiq Sadek’s statement up there for those members of EDSOP who’d not yet seen it. “At this juncture it’s impossible to say whether he’s involved in our case, but he’s pulling out all the stops to be an obstructive little arsehole, so I think it’s only fitting that we follow his example. I want every person named in his statement pulled in for interview and questioned under caution. Don’t just visit them at home: bring them in here and let them stew for a few hours. If they’re inconvenienced, all the better. It might make them think twice, the next time they’re asked to support some bullshit alibi.”

  She paused to drink from a bottle of water, half expecting someone to challenge her or question the wisdom of a gloves-off approach, but no one uttered a word of dissent. If anything, they seemed heartened by the reversion to standard tactics.

  “We’ll need translators on standby, boss,” George said.

  “Thank you for volunteering to arrange that.” Eleanor made a note on the whiteboard, writing his name alongside the task and turning a deaf ear to his epithet-heavy reply. “Fred, while he’s busy wrestling with Language Line, can you request ANPR records for Sadek’s current car and for the likeliest route Cousin Kadri might have taken down south?”

  She had already thanked Sanne and Nelson for not pressing that latter point in the interview; the less informed Sadek was, the more chance they had of catching him unprepared.

  “GMP are going to deal with the Levenshulme friend,” she continued. “Jay and Scotty, you’re on family members or friends with automotive expertise or garages, lock-ups, et cetera. I don’t believe that that Previa is in London, so it’s probably stashed somewhere local. Check if any of his known associates are in car sales. Ask to see diaries, receipts, VAT invoices, anything that might make them twitchy.” She spotted Sanne’s raised hand. “Go ahead.”

  “What about a search warrant for Sadek’s house and shop?” Sanne sounded far calmer than she had post-interview, when she’d walked into Eleanor’s office apparently on the verge of throttling someone.

  “Not yet,” Eleanor said. “Given the sensitive nature of the investigation, DCI Litton has set the bar quite high for those, and at the moment we barely have reasonable suspicion.”

  Sanne nodded, the flush back in her cheeks. For almost two hours, Sadek had ignored his solicitor and Nelson, and directed every one of his “no comment” responses at her. She had mentioned it to Eleanor in passing, just as an observation on his behaviour and attitude, but her damp hair and fresh shirt suggested she had been unsettled enough to shower shortly afterward.

  “I’ve drawn up a surveillance rota.” Eleanor brought up the schedule on the overhead. “Low-key, and only on the shop at this point, but I have managed to cadge a knackered, unmarked van complete with tinted windows and a camera so foolproof that even Fred could operate it.”

  “Huzzah!” Fred raised his arms in triumph but let out a yelp when his back went into spasm. “Oh, God. Help.”

  As Sanne and Nelson each lowered one of his arms, Eleanor quickly amended the rota, moving him to a later date. Then she brought up her final slide, letting it sit for a couple of seconds while her team regarded it—and her—with sombre expressions. She kept her voice low when she spoke again, guaranteeing her their full attention.

  “In an investigation like this one, that heads in a direction we weren’t anticipating and comes with so many external factors to consider, it’s easy to lose our focus.” She tapped the screen with the back of her hand, and the photograph of the dead girl beneath the rocks undulated gently. “She is our focus. This morning the labs matched her DN
A to blood found in the barn at Nab Hey. They have also isolated DNA from nine different women, which is two more than we found items for. Now, I’m not naive enough to think we will ever track all of these victims down. Our objective is to prevent any more women from sharing their fate.” She clapped her hands together, breaking the tension and making George jump. “Okay, enough of the motivational crap. Everyone know what they’re doing? Excellent. Check in when necessary, and be careful out there.”

  She stayed behind as they filed from the room, until there was only her and the dead girl in the darkness. Six days after the body was found, the image hadn’t become any easier to bear, yet it seemed wrong to snuff it out by turning off the projector. She raised her glasses to the top of her head, smudging the finer details, as she gathered her paperwork and straightened the chairs. Once there was nothing remaining for her to do, she finally flicked the switch, and the girl disappeared.

  *

  “Why are you arresting him? Why are you arresting him? He’s done nothing wrong. Leave him alone!” The voice of Hasan Faraj’s sister rose to a scream on this final demand, and she yanked on the arm Nelson was using to guide Faraj from the house.

  “Enough!” Sanne stepped between the girl and Nelson, breaking the contact and giving him a clear path to the front door. In the corner of the living room, Faraj’s mother was weeping and beseeching Allah for intervention. “He’s not being arrested,” Sanne told the girl. “Make sure your mum understands that. We’re taking him to our headquarters to question him about your cousin’s car, after which—all being well—he’ll be coming home.”

  “‘All being well’?” Bitterness rolled off the words. “You mean, if you can’t manage to fit him up for something.”

  “No.” Sanne stood her ground, despite the girl’s proximity. “I mean that if he cooperates he’ll be back here in a few hours.”