by Cari Hunter
“I don’t get it,” Sanne said. “Why else would someone have taken her? Personal grudge? Ransom?”
“I’m glad it’s not my job to figure that out. I’m not sure I want to know.”
“I want to know. It’s the only way we’re going to catch this bastard. If she escaped from him before he was done, chances are he’s already looking for another victim. Shit, I need to speak to Nelson.” Sanne stood too abruptly and swayed on the spot, her flush of anger vanishing, leaving her face pallid and clammy. “Whoa, what the fuck?” she muttered, grabbing the hand that Meg flung out to brace her.
“Sit your arse back down.” Meg pushed her into the chair. “Apart from half a piece of shortbread, what’ve you eaten today?”
“Does a smoothie count?”
“Sort of. What else have you had?”
“Some water. That tea.”
“And how far had you run before you embarked on your impromptu rock climb?”
“About eight miles.” She peeked up at Meg. “Who told you about the rock climb?”
“Nelson.” Meg didn’t try to disguise her exasperation. “You’re probably dehydrated, and even an idiot could see you’ve hurt your arm. So, drink the rest of your tea and get that coat off.”
Sanne shuffled in the chair like a scolded child. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what? Tea or coat?”
“Coat. I think it’s stuck.”
“The zip?”
“No, the sleeve.”
Meg touched Sanne’s forehead, checking for warmth. “You, my darling, are not making much sense. Did you bump your head?”
“No, but I sort of bumped my arm.”
“You bumped it?”
“On the rocks.” She had the grace to look guilty. “It was more of a flaying, really, if you’re being picky.”
“Ah.” Meg nodded in sympathy. Raw skin and dry fabric did not make for a happy marriage. “Come on, then. Let’s find a nice secluded cubicle and a bucket of warm water.”
Sanne stood up, with more caution this time. “Can’t refuse an offer like that, can I?”
*
“Ow,” Sanne said, with a certain amount of understatement. She had never been one for making a fuss, and she had a commendable pain threshold, but the warm water burned like acid on her wounds. She swallowed repeatedly, trying to breathe through her nose, and when those tactics failed she closed her eyes and thought of nothing. Nothing, just blackness and silence. It was an old childhood trick, honed in the hours she used to spend hiding beneath her bed. It buried the sound of yelling, or crying, or flesh pounding into flesh, or a fist pounding against her mum, and it still worked. By the time Meg’s hand cupped her cheek, the coat was gone, and Meg had positioned her arm on a dry sheet.
“You okay there?” Meg asked carefully, as if rousing someone from hypnosis.
“Yep, I’m fine.”
Meg tapped the mattress, and Sanne swung her legs onto the bed. The pillow beneath her head felt luxuriously soft. She eyed the tweezers laid out on a tray beside a collection of dressings, but was too weary to care about what came next.
“Do your worst.”
“Might sting a bit. Sure you don’t want anything stronger than paracetamol?”
“I’m sure. Codeine wipes me out.” Sanne spoke with more confidence than she felt. Half of the Dark Peak appeared to be embedded in her upper arm, and Meg was not renowned for her bedside manner.
“Probably because you don’t drink.” Meg dug into Sanne’s arm without further ado and snared her first piece of grit. “Ooh, that’s a big one.”
Her wholly inappropriate enthusiasm made Sanne smile, even through her clenched teeth.
“Feels like the worst skinned knee in the world.”
“Wait till I add antiseptic to it,” Meg said. “I’ll kiss it better, though, if that’ll help.”
Sanne’s toes curled as another chunk came free. “Wouldn’t that violate some sort of doctor-patient rule?”
Meg grinned. “I’ve kissed you in far naughtier places than your elbow, Detective.”
“Jesus, Meg!” Using her good arm to cover her burning face, Sanne silently thanked the old woman next door for choosing that moment to tell the entire department that she needed a wee. “You’ll get me sacked. You’ll get yourself sacked.”
“Probably.” Meg didn’t sound at all troubled by the notion. “Not for kissing you, you berk, but I do still have a tendency to swear at patients.”
“I thought you’d agreed to work on that.”
“Yeah. It’s hard, though, sometimes. Some wanker will sneak in under my defences, and out it comes.”
As Sanne lowered her arm, a smell of sweet copper hit her, and she noticed the woman’s blood still caked beneath her fingernails. “Lot of wankers out there,” she said quietly.
Meg hesitated, the tweezers poised in mid-grab. “Yes, there are.” She patted the back of Sanne’s hand and resumed her task. “Let’s get you patched up so you can go and catch this one, eh?”
Chapter Five
When a uniformed officer met Sanne in the police HQ car park and handed her her car keys, she could almost have kissed him. There were spare clothes in the boot of her car, which meant she wouldn’t have to walk through HQ in the ill-fitting pair of scrubs Meg had found for her. Her running gear and the soggy coat were currently folded up in one of her evidence bags.
“Nelson asked me to pick your car up from the reservoir,” the officer said. “I’ve left it over in A3.”
“Appreciate that. Thanks very much.”
The keys were hot against her palm, the sun still beating down, reflecting off the four-storey building that housed the main administrative infrastructure of the East Derbyshire police force. EDSOP had been relocated there during a recent modernisation process. They were secreted away at the rear of the building, but their technology was top of the range, the main office had a pleasant view of fields, and the female locker room was a purpose-built facility instead of a toilet cubicle next to the urinals. The little kitchen annex even came with a geyser, negating the need to boil a kettle. Fred Aspinall, one of the older detectives on the team, had welcomed that innovation with a wonder more suited to the discovery of life on Mars.
Tracking the numbered bays, Sanne found her Vauxhall Corsa parked between an expensive-looking Audi and a really expensive-looking Range Rover. Neither vehicle evoked a shred of envy in her. The Corsa was nippy, practical, and surprisingly effective in the snow, and it was also the best form of transport she’d ever had. Most of her family still walked or relied on the bus. Sheltered behind the open boot, with the high wall of the car park boxing her in, she stripped off the scrubs and pulled on her spare outfit. The jeans were too casual for the office, and the shirt’s short sleeves didn’t cover the bandages swathed around her arm, but it was a definite improvement. Remembering Meg’s advice, she drank half a bottle of water. Then she damped her hair down with a cupped handful and headed for the main entrance, clipping her ID badge onto her shirt as she approached. The badge and her warrant card were always somewhere about her person. She even carried them in her pack when she went out running. No one out on the moors had questioned her authority that morning, but it had been reassuring to know her credentials were there, just in case.
She displayed her badge to the officer on the front desk and took the stairs two at a time. The muscles in her legs complained, reminding her that she had started the day with a lengthy run and then added bruises. She persevered, though, and by the time she reached the fourth floor the short burst of exercise had left her feeling much less decrepit. She walked straight into the chaos that traditionally accompanied the early stages of a case: phones ringing, paperwork cascading onto the floor as people brushed against fragile piles, a variety of ringtones announcing incoming texts, and Fred in the corner, kicking the photocopier.
“It’s this drawer, mate. It’s always getting stuck there.” Sanne flipped open the offending part and teased the sheet of pap
er through. “There, try that.”
Fred hit the green button and beamed as the machine sparked into motion. “You bring sunshine to my life,” he sang, to a tune only he would ever recognise. “I’d make you a brew, but the boss wanted to see you as soon as you got in.”
“Right.” She rocked back a little, and he placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.
“You done a statement?”
“Yes, at the hospital. Nelson’s faxed it over here already.”
“Got nothing to fret about then,” he said, and she smiled, almost believing him.
As she went over to Eleanor’s door, George Torren—Fred’s partner—crossed himself and raised his eyes heavenward. She stuck two fingers up at him, knocked, and walked into the office. It smelled like apples. She had no idea how Eleanor did it, since she had never seen her eat one, but the room always brought to mind a crisp Granny Smith.
Mid-sentence on a phone call, Eleanor acknowledged Sanne but continued her conversation. Her nose and forehead were bright pink. Evidently, she hadn’t expected to spend hours exposed to the sun that morning, and her fair skin had paid the price.
“Yes, sir.” She tapped one fingernail on the desk. “I can get that to you within the hour. No, there’s been no word yet. She’s still in surgery. Yes, I will, as soon as SOCO have been allowed access.”
Sanne couldn’t hear the reply, only that it was curt and swiftly followed by the dial tone. Eleanor placed the receiver back into its cradle with admirable restraint.
“Well, you look like you’ve been in the wars.” An uncommon softness in her voice took Sanne aback. “Are you okay to work?”
“Yes, boss.” Sanne’s answer was as absolute as she could make it. The thought of being sent home and kept off the case was anathema.
“Just checking.” Eleanor gave her a sly smile. “Welfare of my team, and all that crap. I’m sure there’s a manual on it somewhere.” She waved a hand toward a shelf full of white lever-arch files so rarely handled that they were still pristine. “I’ve read your statement. It’s very thorough. Images were excellent too. They’ve already gone to the lab for enhancement.”
Her mobile phone rang. She checked the caller ID and flicked the call through to her voicemail. When she looked up again, Sanne felt the full force of her scrutiny. “Did you consider staying at the scene instead of accompanying the victim to the hospital?” she asked, in a tone that gave no hint as to the right answer.
“Yes, ma’am, I considered it, but the victim was our most valuable piece of evidence, and I wanted to maintain a documentable chain.” Sanne paused for a breath, providing an opportunity for correction or contradiction, but when Eleanor remained silent she pressed on. “I don’t believe that area of the moor is our actual crime scene, ma’am. I think the victim was held somewhere else, or perhaps escaped as she was being moved, so I made the decision to arrange the Mountain Rescue team in a wide perimeter and to travel with the victim myself.”
She held Eleanor’s gaze, letting her know she had finished. It was an explanation that she had mentally rehearsed until she could deliver it verbatim, and it was as clinical and analytical as Eleanor’s standards demanded, even if it didn’t begin to scrape the surface of Sanne’s actual reasoning. She wondered whether something in her expression or her posture would give her away, a flicker in her eyes or a twitch in a muscle that would betray her emotions.
If Eleanor saw or suspected anything, however, she made no comment. She clicked the nib of her pen and made a short note in an open file. “You did a good job out there, Sanne.”
Sanne licked her dry lips and waited for the inevitable “but.” To her astonishment, it never came.
“I’ve scheduled a team briefing for four p.m.,” Eleanor said. “That gives you ninety minutes to prepare your account. Is that enough?”
Sanne just about stopped herself from saluting. “Yes, boss.”
Eleanor smiled. “How is it that I’m glowing like a bloody lobster and you’re not?”
“I had a cap on, boss. And sun cream.”
“Yes, I imagine that would do it.” She touched the tip of her nose, making it blanch beneath the slight pressure. “Get something to eat before you start your report, Sanne. You look peaky.”
“I’m fine,” Sanne said, and for the first time in hours, she did feel fine. Relief and pride had dispelled all of her aches and pains.
Eleanor made a non-committal noise but didn’t push the point. “I’ll see you in ninety minutes, then,” she said, and swore as her mobile and desk phone began to ring simultaneously.
Sanne took that as her cue to leave, shutting the door behind her. Fred met her with a cup of tea and a Double Decker. She took the mug and the chocolate bar, and pecked him on his cheek, laughing as he fake-swooned and cupped the place where her lips had touched him.
“You’re a daft bugger, Fred.” She sipped the tea as she went over to her desk. The clock on the wall told her she had eighty-six minutes to meet Eleanor’s deadline. It was a good thing she thrived under pressure.
*
Despite her daunting task and the ticking clock hanging over it, Sanne was thankful for the opportunity to review her mobile phone footage before presenting it to the team. She hadn’t taken many photographs, but the ones she had were graphic and unflinching in their focus, and she had to go to the bathroom to wash the sweat from her face and neck as soon as she finished her notes. Fortunately, her reaction went unnoticed in the commotion around her, and half an hour later, she was composed enough to stand in front of her peers and talk through the events of that morning.
Everyone had made it back for the meeting, which Eleanor opened with a short précis before handing over to Sanne. Her fingers tight around the computer’s remote control, Sanne outlined her findings, actions, and initial thoughts, her words punctuated by the sharp click of the images changing. She saw the anger on her colleagues’ faces harden into determination as they watched. As a junior member of EDSOP, she was used to being the butt of jokes, but on this occasion, no one interrupted to make a glib comment or inappropriate remark. This was the first time most of the detectives had seen the images, and they too seemed rattled. Sanne’s hand trembled as she paused to drink her water. Her nerves had dissipated within the first few minutes, but she still found the photograph of the woman’s feet hard to bear. She heard Mike Hallet swearing beneath his breath. She knew he had two daughters, both in their early twenties.
Once she was sure she could continue without her voice shaking, she set her glass down and glanced at her notes to find her place. As she did so, something caught her eye, and she turned to look at the projected image again.
“Boss, could those be splinters?” She aimed the red dot of the laser pointer at the woman’s heel. Marks that had been indistinct on her computer screen now appeared to be slivers of wood embedded in the peat-smeared sole. She crumpled her paperwork in her fist as she picked up the thread of a theory and began to follow it. “Only, I’ve run that route a few times, and there’s nothing that’d cause injuries like that. There’s a wooden stile within a mile of where she was found, but unless she’d stood there and stamped on it with both feet—”
“Why the hell would she do that, Jensen?”
Sanne tried not to react to Duncan Carlyle’s withering tone. One of these days, she would tell him where to shove his criminal psychology degree, but this definitely wasn’t the right time.
“Well, she wouldn’t,” she said, as if explaining something very complicated to someone quite dim. “She might have climbed over it, but that’s all she’d have done.”
She leaned back on the desk, imagining herself up on the moors, sick with terror and not knowing where to go for help, knowing only that she had to get as far away as possible. Adrenaline would have cut through the pain and lent her strength, at least at the beginning. Strength enough, perhaps, to untie her bonds and escape from wherever she had been imprisoned.
“Maybe she had to kick her way out when sh
e first got herself loose,” she said, with the calm certainty of having fathomed the answer. “If he’d kept her in a disused building, it might’ve had a boarded-up entrance or just a wooden door. Her hands were bound, swollen, so she was limited with what she could do with them, but her legs were free.” Perching on the desk, she raised her feet and kicked out in demonstration. “She hammers at the wood, driving the splinters into her heels, but she smashes through it and runs.”
“That makes it likely she was held out there somewhere,” Fred said, and Eleanor raised a hand as everyone began to speak across each other.
“Okay, thank you,” she said as the babble of voices faded. “It’s still useful to bear the other possibilities in mind: that the victim was intentionally thrown over the ridge, or that she escaped onto the moors from her abductor’s vehicle. We’ll know more once SOCO have been able to examine her. Right now, we have an unidentified victim. Finding out who she is is an absolute priority.” She took the remote from Sanne and switched to an image of the woman’s face. “And here’s what’s going to make that an absolute ball-ache.”
Sanne saw several heads bob in understanding. The woman’s features were so distorted by her injuries that it was likely even close family would struggle to recognise her. Meg had found no distinguishing marks during her examination—no birthmarks, tattoos, scars, or piercings—and the CT scan had failed to detect any surgical metalwork that might have helped.
Eleanor consulted the file in front of her. “Fred and George, you take missing persons reports. Chase up anyone who matches or comes close to matching her description, and start fitting together details for a press release. Scotty, Jay, you’re on access roads, rest stops, and lay-bys, with one of the rangers and as many officers as Traffic can spare. Plot the closest routes to Laddaw Ridge and start there. If he drove her out to the moors last night, he must have parked somewhere. Talk to anyone and everyone you come across. Show them her picture. Even if they didn’t see her yesterday, they might recognise her if she walks up there regularly. Sanne, Nelson, Duncan, and Chris”—she ticked off the names as she went along, like a schoolteacher trying to coordinate an impossible project—“I want you up on the moors at first light, to organise the uniforms. A grid has been blocked to cover a realistic area, based on the vic’s physical condition, and we need as detailed an examination of that area as possible. Bag and tag anything that looks to have been discarded recently, and if anyone finds a series of bare footprints that we can follow back to some kind of lair, that would be very helpful.” Eleanor paused to acknowledge the wild improbability of that, and Sanne heard Carlyle mutter something beneath his breath. When she glanced at his notepad, it was completely blank. He hadn’t even taken the lid off his pen.
