A Quiet Death

by Cari Hunter

  “’Fraid so. Somewhere in Minors there’s an abscess I need to stick a big scalpel into.”

  “Oh God. I’m so glad you bought me custard.” Sanne hooked a hand around the back of Meg’s head and kissed her again. “Best of luck with your lancing, and I will speak to you tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The forecourt of Mukherjee Motors was nose-to-tail with clapped-out bangers, the banners in their windscreens reduced to listing features bordering on the desperate: “Electric Windows!”, “Cheap Insurance!”, “Working Air Bags!”

  “Did you buy your Landie from here?” Nelson asked Sanne as they inched their way to the navy blue Toyota Previa on the third row. He brushed against a wing mirror held on by Sellotape, and it fell off in his hand.

  “Vandal,” she said. “And no, I have more sense than to purchase a vehicle from a bloke using a caravan for an office.” She scanned the Previa’s dash, to no avail. “Bloody hell, I can’t see the VIN. We’ll need the keys.”

  Knocking on the caravan’s side sent a tremor through its plastic shell and brought a chubby Bengali man to its door. He spat a mouthful of betel onto the floor, narrowly missing Sanne’s boot, and scratched his bollocks.

  “You got a warrant?” he asked.

  “Damn, here I was thinking we were incognito.” She showed him her ID. “I don’t think we need a warrant to look at your cars, sir. Do you have the keys for the Toyota Previa?”

  “Yeah, somewhere. Would you not prefer the Micra at the front there? Very good bargain, and more suited to a woman of your size.”

  She wondered whether she’d look any taller with her Taser in her hand, but refrained from testing the theory. “Just the Previa, please.”

  He disappeared into the murky recesses of his office, and she listened to drawers open and slam shut as he maintained a muttered commentary in Bangla. She checked her list while she waited, crossing out the first address and rearranging the third and fifth to reflect their location. Working off adverts in the local press and on the Auto Trader website, she and Nelson were resuming a task previously sidelined by the Cheviot raid and the interviews of Sadek’s associates. Common sense dictated that a potentially incriminating vehicle would be chopped into pieces, burned out on wasteland, or stashed away somewhere, but when she thought about it, hiding the Previa in plain sight seemed like the audacious sort of ploy Sadek might try. All he would need was a willing collaborator, a set of spare number plates, and perhaps a paint job, together with the hope that the police wouldn’t come knocking to cross-reference the car’s vehicle identification number against the one provided in his surrendered logbook. The initial enquiries, such as they were, had focused on Sharcliffe, but Sadek’s possible links to Eastern Europeans had widened Sanne’s early morning Internet searches and given her and Nelson plenty to fit into their day.

  Her phone buzzed with a text from Zoe, who was out and about on the same assignment: Offered a free valet by a chap at Jericho Street, but he wanted to nibble my ear in return. Why are men so fucking weird sometimes? The Previa there was a no-go. And it’s pissing down xx

  Sanne struck Jericho Street off her list as the first drops of sleet rattled like shrapnel on the caravan’s roof. She pulled on her hat and caught the keys the proprietor tossed to her.

  “Post them through when you’re done,” he said, and shut the door.

  She walked back toward Nelson, pressing the key fob, which made the Previa’s indicators flash optimistically but failed to unlock it. “I think Mr. Mukherjee is guilty of false advertising if nothing else,” she said, eyeing a windscreen banner that boasted “Central Locking!” She used the key the old-fashioned way and cracked open the passenger door, the gap between the Previa and its neighbour barely wide enough for her to squeeze through and spot the VIN on the jamb. Nelson watched from the front, cutting a pitiful figure with sleet glistening in his hair. She checked the number twice before she rose and shook her head.

  “Never mind.” Nelson offered her the wing mirror as a consolation prize. “There’s still plenty of daylight left, and at least we’ll be warm while we drive to the next stop.”

  “How very ‘glass is half full’ of you.” She shoved the keys and the mirror through the caravan’s letterbox. “Come on. Last one to the car buys breakfast.”

  Hailstones the size of gobstoppers were pelting the railway arches above Azzi Automobiles. Sanne swore as yet another umbrella capitulated to the winter weather, leaving her hat bearing the brunt of the onslaught. She broke into a run, leapfrogging a puddle and bursting into the sales office. Two young Asian lads in shiny polyester suits put phone calls on hold to stare at her.

  “Sorry.” She shrugged as Nelson joined her, stamping his boots on the mat. They displayed their ID in unison. “Police,” she said.

  The lad closest to Sanne hung up abruptly and came around the desk. “How can we help?”

  “You had an ’09 plate Toyota Previa listed on your website this morning, but it’s not on the forecourt. Can you tell me what happened to it?”

  “We sold it,” he thumbed backward through a diary, “two days ago. We’ve not had a chance to update the site. Is there a problem with the car? We do thorough searches before we take any vehicle in part-exchange.”

  The rare glimpse of sincerity made Sanne smile. “No, I hope not. Could you give us the address of the buyer?”

  “Of course. She lives just around the corner.”

  Double-parked cars lined the street to which the lad directed them, and Nelson pulled up at the end of it in time to catch the Previa returning from the school run. A dishevelled Pakistani woman hefted a toddler onto her hip and crunched the hail with her tapping foot as Sanne found the VIN and made sure it didn’t match Sadek’s.

  “Thank you for your time, ma’am,” Sanne said. She waved at the child, who popped a spit bubble. His squeals of delight were still audible after his mother had taken him into the house.

  “At least someone was glad to see us,” Nelson said. Pausing in the middle of the road, he peered heavenward as if all the answers were up there. “Where next?”

  Sanne patted her pockets for her list but diverted to her ringing phone instead. Nelson carried on ahead as she answered it.

  “Hey, Zoe. Don’t tell me, free car washes for life for a zap of your Taser?”

  “Don’t give the buggers ideas. Whereabouts are you?”

  An edge to the question told Sanne this wasn’t a call to suggest meeting for lunch. “Cavendish Street, west side of Sharcliffe. Why? What’s up?”

  Zoe’s voice faded as she passed the information to her colleague. Moments later, she came back on the line. “We’ve got a suss one at Tinder Hill. Gem Motors on Sydney Street. The Previa’s red, and it’s parked at the back with a big ‘Sold’ sign on it, but there’s no visible VIN and the business owner—a Mr. Antonescu—seems to have misplaced its key. We’re in civvies, so we didn’t ID ourselves, just looked at a couple of his other cars and then withdrew. I wondered whether he might find you and Nelson a little more persuasive.”

  “Right. Or failing that, a warrant.” Sanne dashed across the road toward her pool car, raising an apologetic hand at the taxi she’d forced into an emergency stop. “Can you see the Previa from where you are?”

  “Yep. If he tries to shift it, we’ll block the exit.”

  “Fab. Be careful. We’ll see you in about twenty.”

  Out of breath, she fastened her seat belt and grabbed the A-Z as Nelson waited for an explanation.

  “Tinder Hill,” she told him. “Previa with no VIN and missing keys. Sounds dodgy as fuck. I’m going to call it in, in case we need a warrant.”

  “Okay.” He still sounded slightly bewildered, but he started the engine. “Left or right at the end?”

  “Straight on,” she said, and hit “Boss” on her contacts.

  Tinder Hill was flat as a pancake, its name an enduring mystery. A few independent artsy shops had started to appear on its main drag, but gent
rification remained a pipedream, and its population was a melting pot of economic migrants from the EU, asylum seekers, and locals who couldn’t afford to move away. Streets of empty houses stood awaiting demolition, and Gem Motors occupied a rough piece of brick-strewn land between a derelict primary school and a corner Polski sklep. Two men were milling among the cars outside, but neither seemed interested in making a purchase.

  Sanne keyed Zoe’s comms code and buzzed her radio. “We’re here. Are either of those blokes Antonescu?”

  “Negative. He’s shorter and older. These two arrived about ten minutes ago and began shifting the cars around. The Previa’s still there, but there’s less blocking it in now.”

  “We need to move, then.” She unzipped her jacket, freeing up her access to her Taser, handcuffs, CS gas, and anything else that might come in handy should Antonescu or his pals decide to play hard to get. “How about nose-to-tail in front of the exit?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Their cars arrived within seconds of each other, Nelson getting so close to Zoe’s front bumper that a feather wouldn’t have fitted between them. The two men reacted at once, one bolting toward the office and the other toward the chain-link fence at the rear. Zoe’s mate set off after the fence-climber and hauled him down by his belt, cuffing him as he lay sprawled on the wet bricks.

  “Call for a van!” Sanne yelled. There was no time to arrange backup; they would just have to make do.

  At a nod from Nelson, she kicked the office door open, catching the second man full in the face and sending the door key flying from his hand. He yelped and clutched at the blood spurting from his nose, and then stuck his head down like a rugby player and tried to force his way out. While Nelson and Zoe presented a united front to block him, Sanne dodged past them and headed for the door marked Sales. She booted this one as well, bouncing it back against the wall and startling a middle-aged man into raising his hands and imploring her not to shoot.

  “Mr. Antonescu?” When she grabbed his left hand and snapped a cuff around it, he lowered his other to make it easier for her. She had no idea what she was arresting him for, but she still wanted him secured. “I’m a detective with the East Derbyshire police. I need the keys for the Toyota Previa in your yard, please.”

  “Top drawer of the desk,” he said. “I’ll pay the money back, I promise.”

  All the hairs stood up on the nape of Sanne’s neck.

  “What money?”

  He looked at her with big, wet eyes. “Five thousand to store it and say it was sold. If anyone asks, I phone the men outside.”

  Sanne opened the top drawer and found the key. “Oh, we’re definitely asking,” she said.

  *

  The van bumped off the kerb, the officer at its wheel giving Sanne a cheery salute before accelerating away. Rocking heel to toe to work off some of the adrenaline still buzzing through her, she watched until he rounded the corner.

  “The boss, SOCO, translators at the custody suite.” She ticked them off on her fingers and turned to consult Nelson. “Are we missing anyone?”

  “Nope. Zoe’s about to leave with the fence bloke.”

  The second man had been taken away in the van, still trying to stop his nose from gushing. The men would undoubtedly have their stories straight already, but giving them extra time to compare notes was a bad idea, so they were travelling to the cells in separate vehicles.

  “Hey, Scrapper!”

  Sanne grinned as Zoe slung an arm around her. The difference in their height was so pronounced that she went up on tiptoe in a vain attempt to even things out.

  “We’re ready for the off,” Zoe said. She kissed Sanne’s cheek. “We have to do this again sometime. Or, failing that, lunch.”

  “Lunch, yes. Maybe next week?” Sanne suggested, optimistic that the case would be over by then. “I’ll give you a shout.”

  “Shout loudly.” Zoe tightened her arm but dropped it when Sanne squeaked. “Oops. Sorry. Did I crack a rib?”

  “No, not quite. Go on, get gone.”

  Gem Motors had probably never been so popular. Minutes after Zoe left, Eleanor arrived, stalking toward the Previa like a hunter tracking fresh blood. Sanne met her at the passenger side and highlighted the VIN with her torch.

  “No doubt about it. It’s Sadek’s car,” she said. “The plates don’t correspond, and he’s obviously arranged for a spray job, but the VIN is a match.”

  “Is there anything inside?” Eleanor took Sanne’s torch and shone it around the darkened interior.

  “Nothing that’s jumped out, apart from the smell of disinfectant and the fact that it’s spotless. We did notice this, though.” Sanne led her to the rear of the car and touched a gloved hand to one of the side windows. “See this glass? It doesn’t quite match the tint on the others. It’s close, but there’s a slight discrepancy when you know to compare them.”

  “Which ties in with the fragments of safety glass you found on Old Road.” A smile spread across Eleanor’s face. “What about the men you arrested? Are they talking?”

  “Not unless you count swearing and the odd bit of Romanian.”

  “I’m not waiting for forensics on this,” Eleanor said, as two SOCO got out of a van and began to assemble their kit. “TAU officers are en route to Sadek’s house and shop. Liaise with them regarding the arrest and the search warrant.”

  Sanne hadn’t been expecting to be a part of the arrest, but she wasn’t going to argue. She nodded to acknowledge the orders and scarpered in Nelson’s direction before Eleanor could change her mind.

  *

  “Nothing? Jesus Christ. We’ll meet you at the house, then.” Sanne made a circling motion with her hand, indicating that Nelson should make a U-turn. She lowered her radio as the TAU sergeant disconnected. “Sadek’s not at the shop,” she said to Nelson. “The staff say he left about ninety minutes ago, told them he had a family emergency.”

  “What a coincidence.” Nelson hit the kerb hard with the back wheels, jolting Sanne forward against her seat belt. He spun the car, its rear end skidding out before he managed to control it.

  Sanne settled back in her seat and made no comment on his driving. “One of the Romanians must have given him a heads-up. I doubt he’ll be at home either.”

  Sadek’s home was a three-storey mid-terrace with a recent loft conversion and CCTV above its front door. The TAU were already inside, the sound of their boots on the hardwood floors mingling with that of a full-volume cartoon and a woman’s high-pitched protest.

  “We have a search warrant, ma’am.” The TAU sergeant stood in the hallway, nose to nose with a woman Sanne presumed to be Sadek’s wife. “That’s what gives us the right.”

  As Sanne and Nelson ran up the front steps, the woman began to hit the sergeant’s chest, her fists beating ineffectually at his stab vest. He ignored her until she raised a hand toward his face, her painted nails aiming for his eyes.

  “Oi! Pack it in!” When he caught her hands in one of his, her screams brought a toddler into the hall, who threw down his bottle and set off wailing at the sight of his mum battling a stranger. Beckoning Sanne and Nelson forward, the sergeant shouted above the melee, “Sadek’s not here. She reckons he’s gone on a business trip.”

  “Couldn’t even be bothered getting his story straight, could he?” Sanne knelt by the distraught child and picked up his bottle. “There you go, little one. Let’s take you in here, eh?” She guided him back into a spacious living room, where a baby was sleeping in front of a massive plasma screen television. Removed from the source of his distress, the toddler slumped against Sanne’s chest. She rocked him gently, listening to the TAU searching the rooms overhead. Shouts of “Clear!” rang out at uneven intervals, and the woman in the hallway fell silent. Her child was dozing in Sanne’s arms by the time Nelson escorted her into the room. She seized the toddler and brushed off his clothing as if Sanne’s touch had tainted him.

  Nelson took out his notepad. “Where has your husband
gone, Mrs. Sadek?” he asked.

  Mrs. Sadek bared her teeth when she smiled. “No comment.”

  Sanne and Nelson exchanged a look.

  “Tear the house apart,” Sanne said. “Get someone to watch the kids. She comes in with us.”

  *

  “The neighbour on the right didn’t see or hear a thing, but I got the impression there’s no love lost between the Sadeks and the family on the other side.” Nelson checked the notes he’d scribbled, giving Sanne time to bag the brightly patterned diary she’d just found in a bedside cabinet. The writing inside was in Urdu, so she put it with the evidence she’d been saving for the translators. Piles of clothing and personal effects covered the double bed, sorted into “his” and “hers” as if the room had been targeted by tidy burglars.

  “Sadek arrived home at approximately nine forty-five this morning,” Nelson continued. “The woman on the other side remembered hearing his car approach at speed. He ran into the house, set the kids off crying, and left again twenty to thirty minutes later carrying two holdalls. She knew his car reg—they’ve had an ongoing dispute about parking—so I’ve sent it across to HQ for an ANPR request.”

  “You’re very efficient,” Sanne said. “But I bet he’s already on a flight to Lahore or Bucharest by now. And he doesn’t seem to have left anything useful behind. No laptop or other electronics, and the filing cabinet in the study is conspicuously empty.”

  “Hmm, it’s almost as if he’s trying to cover his tracks, isn’t it?” Nelson closed his notepad. “An auntie has arrived to babysit, Mrs. Sadek is going in the van, and the TAU are reporting nothing found at the shop.”

  The drawer to the bedside cabinet stuck as Sanne tried to shut it. Nelson helped her shove it back in, managing to topple a framed verse from the Koran onto the bristles of a hairbrush. Looking sheepish, he set everything back in place and tapped the top of the frame in apology. With nowhere left to search, Sanne sat on the floor and attempted to ease the ache in her lower back by drawing her knees up.