A Quiet Death

by Cari Hunter

  “Shit.” Eleanor reeled, her hands reaching for the van behind her. She’d tried to prepare for this the best she could, but denial had overridden everything.

  Nelson moved first. “I’ll go, boss.”

  She shook her head and walked in step with him to the kitchen, where the smell of perspiration and aftershave mingled with home baking. An officer directed them to a door previously concealed behind a patterned curtain.

  “It’s not Sanne,” the TAU sergeant said. “But I think Sanne might’ve found her.”

  “Found who?” Eleanor asked.

  The answer came tucked in the arms of an officer: a young girl, her eyes bulging with terror, and a severed chain hanging from her ankle.

  “What the…” Eleanor stared at the girl as the officer carried her past. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “We’re not sure,” the sergeant said. “She can’t speak English, ma’am. She’s most likely Polish or Romanian. Judging by the mess, she’s been down there for weeks if not longer. The rest of the farmhouse is clear.” He pressed his earpiece, listening to reports. “Alpha team have found Sanne’s Land Rover in one of the top sheds. There’s a small amount of blood in the back, and there are fresh vehicle tracks heading along a lane behind the farmhouse.”

  “Right.” Eleanor focused on those three facts, setting everything else aside to deal with later. “That’s probably where Ron is hiding out. Get at least two teams of armed response up there. We’ll organise SOCO, a translator, and medics.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The sergeant ran outside, leaving her and Nelson alone in the kitchen.

  “I’ll phone Meg,” Nelson said. He went to the cellar door, his face pale as he looked down the stairs. “San just came here for chicken feed, boss.”

  “I know.” Eleanor pulled her radio from her belt but held it without dialling. “Jesus bloody Christ.”

  *

  The peat hag formed the lip of a deep grough, a random spot in a maze of similar trenches, where the bite of the wind lessened and an overhang provided a modicum of shelter.

  “Here.” Sanne lowered Mirela onto the damp heather and bent double to catch her breath. “I don’t think we’re getting any farther.”

  They had crossed Stryder Clough and the Pennine Way high on Brabyn’s Tor, avoiding the obvious safe haven of Greave Stones and happening by chance on this tangled labyrinth. Had it come with a roof, it would have been perfect.

  “Close, close. Good,” Dorina said, ushering the girls together and pulling the blankets around them. They were shivering, the cold hitting them hard now they’d stopped. She eyeballed Sanne in the faint threads of moonlight. “You are a runner?”

  “Yes, I run up here on these hills.” Sanne took off her blanket and added it to the ones covering the girls. The smallest girl was already dozing. Sanne had lost count of the number of times she’d lifted her from the peat.

  Dorina’s eyes narrowed. “Without shoes?”

  “No. Never. Always a first time, though, eh?” Sanne looked up, using the stars to orientate herself. “Don’t move from here, okay?”

  “But what if the men…?” Leaving the question unvoiced, Dorina pulled Mirela into her arms. “Okay. We do not move.”

  “I can’t hear them,” Sanne said. “And there are no lights anywhere. Just stay close like this. I’ll be as quick as I can.” She couldn’t afford to second-guess her decision; they weren’t making any headway as a group.

  “I have socks,” Dorina said, fumbling beneath her blanket. She’d obviously hidden them within her stolen boots. “Here. I give.”

  “No, it’s all right. Keep them.” Sanne smiled. “They’ll be too big, and I’ll only go arse over tit when they get soggy. You stay warm.”

  “You stay safe.”

  The grough tracked in roughly the right direction, and Sanne kept within its sloping walls at first, her pace steady but slow by her usual standards, her progress hampered by exhaustion and cold and the gritstone shredding her feet. The clouds broke apart in unpredictable patches, glimpses of Orion and the Twins guiding her across the undulating summit of Brabyn’s Tor in search of another clough to follow down to the Snake. She cursed every new bump, every new climb that leeched away her strength. For the most part she couldn’t see the groughs until she hit them: black walls of soaking peat with heather crusted along their edges. Unable to rely on her legs alone, she took to crawling up them, her hands buried deep in the gnarled stems of the heather while her knees battled the slope below. She collapsed at the top of a particularly brutal one, her belly aching and a stitch pulling at her side. As she lay there, a heavy shower of snow passed over and coated everything in white. She caught flakes on her tongue to quench her thirst and then scraped up handfuls, swallowing the meltwater and spitting out the gravel. It was enough to get her moving again, dropping gracelessly into the next channel and scrambling up the other side.

  She found a clough heading the right way, but it came out of nowhere, stealing her legs from under her and sending her sliding down its rock-strewn slope. This close to the top of the tor, the gradient wasn’t too steep, and she got back to her feet, shaken and sore but otherwise whole.

  “You’re fine. You’re fine,” she whispered, needing to hear something other than the eerie shriek of the moors. “Go. Go.”

  She set off again, a deadened patch on her thigh making her limp slightly. The wind burned into her lungs, her pulse hammering in a constant protest against the exertion and the elements. Shadows played tricks on her, creating forms that moved and drifted ahead, making her halt in fear until the moon came out to reassure her she was safe. There was no path for her to follow, just a stream that she kept skidding into, and loose rocks underfoot. She was forcing her way through a thigh-high thicket of dead bracken when she hit the fence.

  “Bloody hellfire.”

  She dropped out of sight, thrown into an unreasonable panic by this first sign of civilisation. Seconds ticked by, then a full minute. No one came for her. She climbed over the fence and landed, shivering, in the field on the other side. It was empty and too far from Black Gate to belong to the Stantons. She ran through the middle of it and scaled a dry stone wall, narrowly avoiding an unsuspecting sheep snoozing in the next pasture. Its irritated bleat set off a chorus that brought tears to Sanne’s eyes. She was almost there.

  *

  The TAU sergeant hadn’t gone into detail. His command had been succinct and not at all in keeping with radio protocol: “Ma’am, we need you here. There’s no sign of Sanne, but it’s a fucking mess.”

  Eleanor and Nelson travelled with an armed unit. They’d been warned to be on the lookout, although for what, no one seemed sure. The sergeant met them where the track entered a field, and Eleanor could see the glint of torches, evenly spaced in a search formation.

  “Three vehicles,” the sergeant said before she’d even got out of the car. “The rear pair probably came up in convoy. Their engines were still warm when we arrived, so you must have just missed them at the farmhouse. The Land Rover belongs to Ron Stanton, but we haven’t found him. The two Range Rovers are long-term rentals from Sheffield.” Without waiting for comment, he led them across to the larger of two stone barns. “Looks like Sanne and a number of other vics were held in here. We think they got free and did a runner.”

  Eleanor caught his arm at the barn door. Her brain felt as if it was being pummelled. “What makes you think that?”

  “Well, he does, for a start.” The sergeant used his torch to pick out an unconscious man, bleeding from multiple head injuries and covered by a police blanket. “He’s been beaten to a pulp and stripped.”

  Eleanor moved closer. She recognised him despite the swelling and lacerations obscuring his features. She covered her hand with her sleeve and nudged a chunk of rock to expose the blood on its underside. “He’s one of our main suspects,” she told the sergeant. “How many were here? How many vics?”

  “We’re not sure. There’s a pen at the back where
the flooring is scuffed and worn in several places, but it’s impossible to say for definite. We, uh…” He coughed, obviously ill at ease. “We found clothing in the next building. Some of those Pakistani-type trousers, a couple of skirts. But there was a coat with Sanne’s ID in the pocket, and there are other things in her size.”

  Eleanor heard Nelson swear and walk away, but she couldn’t afford the luxury of reacting. There was too much she needed to do.

  “Chances are we have at least two perps in the vicinity,” she said. “At a guess, Ron Stanton panicked and contacted someone to deal with Sanne. Meanwhile, she’s apparently orchestrated a fucking prison break, and now everyone’s running around in the bloody dark.”

  “Including us,” the sergeant said. “Most of the field’s too frozen to hold a print, so we’ve no idea which direction any of them have gone in, but we’re covering ground quickly.”

  “Good.” Eleanor found her notepad; she preferred to bullet-point wherever possible. “Have we got an ambulance coming for him?”

  “We’ve requested one, but their dispatch said they’re stacking calls. Mountain Rescue are en route, though, with a doctor on the team.”

  “What about the helicopter?”

  “Busy at present. We’re their next priority.”

  “That’s terrific.” She threw up her hands. “I’ve got a half-naked detective in the middle of nowhere, in this weather, and we’re in a fucking queue for the chopper?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He pressed his earpiece, his expression shifting to something that resembled relief. “On the bright side, we’ve just arrested Ron Stanton three fields over. They’re bringing him in now.”

  The last time Eleanor had seen Ron Stanton, he’d cut a distinguished figure in his Barbour jacket, a complete contrast to the snivelling man currently being shunted into the police van. He cowered into the far corner of the bench seat as she approached, his wellies squeaking on the metal floor.

  “I’d lost a cow,” he said, pre-empting anything she might ask. “I was just looking for a cow. I don’t know what’s going on. These handcuffs are pinching me. Can you take them off?”

  “No,” Eleanor said. “Did you hurt Sanne?”

  Ron shook his head. “I was just looking for a cow,” he whispered. “I don’t know why you’re all here.”

  “You’re a lousy liar.” She watched his face crumple, but he stayed silent. “And you’re fucking pathetic.” She left him to the TAU officers and went back to Nelson.

  “The rest of EDSOP are on their way,” he said, “and the unit I sent to collect Meg is about ten minutes out.”

  “Good. At this rate we might need another medic.” Eleanor looked at her watch: 3:21 a.m. “I think I’d better get the DCI out of bed.”

  *

  Sanne heard the Snake Pass before she saw it: the thunder of a heavy goods wagon taking advantage of the early hours, its rear lights as bright to her as solar flares after so long in the dark. A hawthorn hedge stood between her and the pass. She squeezed below its tangle of branches, crawling out onto the verge and simply lying there for a moment. Cold nipped at her and then made her drowsy. She closed her eyes, trying to block out an oncoming glare of light and a din that seemed to rattle her bones.

  “Stop pissing about,” she muttered. She needed to get up. Clawing onto the hedge, she made it halfway to her feet, her white T-shirt and her movement enough to bring the petrol tanker screeching to a stop. She waved, fell on all fours, and waited for the driver to come to her.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, I could’ve killed you!” the man yelled from a few yards away, but then broke into a run and knelt by her. “Hey, are you all right? Christ. What happened?” He took his coat off and used it to cover her.

  “Police,” she told him. Her voice sounded weird, the muscles in her cheeks frozen stiff. “I’m with the police. I think they’ll be looking for me.”

  “What? I don’t—what are you doing out here?”

  “Please,” she said. She didn’t have the strength to explain. “Please call the police.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll call them. Hang on. God, you’re bleeding.” He patted his trouser pockets, fumbling for a mobile. “Bloody hell, no signal.” He looked around, obviously trying to remember what he’d just driven past.

  “Don’t go to a farm,” she said. “Don’t take me to a farm.”

  He shook his head. “I won’t, love. Not if you don’t want me to. Come on, let’s get you up.” When she couldn’t manage, he lifted her carefully and cradled her against his chest. “How about the Snake Pub? They’ll have a phone.”

  “Mm.” The warmth of his tanker cab enveloped Sanne like a feather quilt. She fought to keep her eyes open. “I need a pen, paper.”

  He gave her an empty McDonald’s bag and a pencil, and she drew a sketch of the tor, marking an X where she thought the women were hiding.

  “Ask for Eleanor Stanhope.” She scrawled a note, holding the pencil in her entire fist, her fingers too numb for dexterity. “Tell her to phone Meg. Tell her I’m fine.”

  “Meg.” The man scribbled that down as well and reached across to fasten her seat belt. “San-ner Jensen,” he read from the bag, getting the name right first time. “You just rest, love. I’ll have you at the pub in a jiffy.”

  *

  Meg was out of the car before it had completely stopped, splashing down into slush and mud and throwing her kit bag over her shoulder. Her armed escort ran with her, guiding her through a rutted field. Nelson waylaid her at the door of a barn.

  “Have you found her?” Meg tried to push past him, but he held firm. “Is she in there?”

  “She’s not here, Meg. We have teams out searching, and we’re waiting for the chopper from Sheffield. The Stantons are already in custody.”

  “Searching where?” Meg couldn’t see anything other than darkness stretching for miles. She let her bag drop and looked up at him. “Searching where, Nelson?”

  “On the moors. We think Sanne got away, but—”

  A sudden commotion cut short his explanation. Meg whipped around to see an Asian man being frogmarched between armed officers, one of whom fisted the man’s jacket at the back of his neck to keep his head angled low.

  “Boss?” Nelson said urgently into his radio. “Bloody hell, boss, we’ve got Sadek.”

  Meg started at the name. “Is he the one? Did he do something to Sanne?” She watched the officers shove Sadek into a police van, slamming the security grille shut when he tried to spit at them.

  “He was sneaking back round to the farmhouse,” one of the officers said, as Eleanor hurried over. “And he’s saying fuck-all.”

  “I don’t need him to say anything. It’s enough that he’s up here. Get him out of my sight.” Eleanor sounded dreadful, and her hand was trembling as she lowered her face mask. “Meg, I hate to ask you this, but we have an injured man, and our closest ambulance gave an ETA of twenty-five.”

  “A man,” Meg said quietly.

  Eleanor nodded. “It’s Cezar Miklos.”

  Meg didn’t stop to think. If she had, she would probably have walked in the opposite direction. She picked up her bag and followed Eleanor into the barn, where the wet sound of an obstructed airway drew her attention from the forensic stepping plates that formed a path to one of the animal pens.

  “What happened to him?” She knelt on the plastic sheet newly placed beneath Miklos’s head and began to set out her equipment.

  “Someone hit him with a rock,” Eleanor said.

  “And tried to throttle him,” Meg murmured. She lowered the police blanket to get a better look at the ligature mark around his throat.

  “Apparently so.” Eleanor held up an evidence bag, its clear plastic window showing a length of bare copper wire. Although Miklos’s skin was unbroken, there were beads of crimson glistening along the metal, and Meg had a sudden sickening flash of what else it might have been used for.

  “I should leave you to die, you piece of shit,” she said, her
mouth so close to his face she could smell the stale cigarettes on his breath.

  She slid a cannula into his wrist and injected an anaesthetic, waiting until his breathing had faded to nothing before she cranked his mouth open with the blade of her laryngoscope. He was a straightforward intubation. The tube passed without incident, and the resultant breath sounds were clear and equal. His colour improved immediately as his oxygen levels began to climb.

  “Fuck you.” Meg started to sob, her tears splattering onto his mutilated face. “You fucking arsehole.”

  The plastic sheet rustled as Nelson crouched beside her and gave her a tissue. “Mountain Rescue just arrived,” he said. “There’s a doctor with them, so they’ll be able to transport him.”

  “Thanks.” She wiped her nose one-handed, the other still squeezing the ventilation bag. She’d done as much as she could for Miklos, and she wasn’t going anywhere without Sanne.

  The team took over from her with subdued efficiency, and she shuffled out of the way once Miklos was stabilised and strapped to a stretcher.

  “Come outside.” Nelson took her by the hand, leading her to the door with gentle insistence. She didn’t speak until they were back in the field, shrouded by the night and with the wind stealing her words.

  “I don’t think I’d do very well without her,” she said. Nelson didn’t reply, but she felt him tighten his hold on her hand. “We always joked about growing old together and hobbling up on the hills with our arthritis and our gammy hips, and I never believed for a second that there was a chance it might not happen.”

  “I think it’ll be gammy knees for San,” he said. “They don’t half creak and crack.”

  Meg smiled. “Occupational hazard of fell running, or so she reckons.”

  “She can still outpace me without breaking a sweat.” He nodded toward the police vehicles, where Eleanor had a map open across one of the bonnets and was speaking into a radio handset. “The boss is organising a search grid for us. I thought you might want to keep busy.”