No Good Reason

by Cari Hunter

  The Twix melted all over Sanne’s fingers. She sucked them clean before she spoke. “You mean that the telly lies about us? That we’re not all stunningly photogenic and accompanied by a thumping soundtrack and moody yet flattering lighting?”

  Nelson grinned. “Have you taken a close look at some of the SOCO lads recently?”

  “I try not to. A couple of them scare me.”

  They stopped laughing as someone waved them over to a dirty mass of white fluff, wedged among rocks near a small pool.

  Sanne sighed. “Sheep or hare?”

  “Sheep,” Nelson said without hesitation. “Unless it was a bloody massive hare.”

  The volunteer was evidently pleased with his find. “Think it might mean something?” he asked as they approached. To their credit, the three older men standing with him rolled their eyes and smirked. The ewe had met her demise some weeks ago, and little other than teeth, bones, and fleece remained.

  “You’re a bleedin’ halfwit, Ned,” one of the men said.

  Ned looked hurt. “Lots of violent criminals start off by slaughtering household pets,” he said piously.

  Sanne crouched by the carcass. “I think she probably lost her footing on these rocks, maybe trying to get to the water.” The position of the skeleton suggested the poor creature had ended up trapped between two of the boulders and died a slow, terrible death, but Sanne kept that to herself. She stood and clapped Ned on the back. “You’ve got a good eye, though, mate.”

  His sunburnt face glowed even hotter. “Thank you, Officer Sanney.”

  “It’s Sann-er,” she murmured, but she was already turning away, a familiar colour having drawn her attention. “Everybody just stay still,” she said, and they all froze like statues. “Nelson, look just to the left of the pool. The orange strand. Do you see it?”

  “Got it.” He herded the men off the peat and onto the low rocks.

  Taking a roundabout approach, her focus on the crumbling ground, Sanne walked over to the bog-fed pond. Beside two pronounced indentations in the mud, a shred of bright orange rope undulated gently as the wind played around it. Like the unfortunate sheep, one end of it had been trapped between two rocks, and she could clearly imagine the woman kneeling at the pond’s edge, lowering her head to drink, and placing her hands in such a position that the rope binding them became snagged.

  “Get SOCO up here,” Sanne said, but Nelson was already making the call.

  “Did you find something?” Ned asked her. “Was she here?”

  “Yes, I think so.” The rope was securely held in place, so she left it for SOCO to document and collect and went to join the men on the rocks. With a boost from Ned, she climbed onto the highest boulder and surveyed the section of moor that surrounded them. None of the volunteers had made it beyond this point, about two miles west of Laddaw Ridge, well away from the path she had been running along yesterday. Several sheep tracks meandered across the moor, any one of which the woman could have been following, but given her condition it was unlikely she could have reached Laddaw from anywhere much farther than this.

  “Well, that pisses on Carlyle’s chips a bit, doesn’t it?” Nelson said, hauling himself up to stand beside Sanne.

  “It does.” She looked out at the wild, windswept plateau. “But where on earth would she have come from? You can’t drive here, and there are no buildings, not within our agreed boundary. So what the fuck did he do? Pitch a tent?”

  “For all we know, that’s exactly what he did. If he hid it in one of these ditches, no one would have heard or seen a thing.”

  “They’re called groughs,” Sanne said absently, trying to revise her theories to incorporate a portable crime scene. She couldn’t do it—the idea seemed ridiculous—and she found herself half-agreeing with the notion that the woman had only been brought to the moors once her captor had decided to get rid of her.

  “What are?” Nelson asked, and it took Sanne a couple of seconds to realise he hadn’t moved on from her original statement.

  “The ditches. They’re groughs, and the mounds of peat are called hags.” She formed the corresponding shapes with her hands, but her thoughts were elsewhere, wondering where the splinters in the woman’s heels could have come from if she had been marched out here to die, and why, if that was the case, she had been allowed to kneel by the pond to drink.

  Sanne made a quiet noise of frustration and decided to go with what her gut had been telling her all day: that Carlyle’s cavers were looking in the wrong caves. She pointed to the sheep tracks, the easiest way to cross the bogland and knee-deep heather between her and Gillot Tor. “Is it worth regrouping and focusing on these paths? Maybe just use the uniforms? They’ll be less liable to wander over footprints or signs of a struggle. Half the volunteers are done in, anyway.”

  “I’ll call everyone together,” Nelson said. “We’ve got, what? About five, maybe six hours of daylight left?”

  She shifted around and gauged the position of the sun, already some way over to the west. “If we want to get back to the trucks in one piece, we’ve got less than that.”

  “You didn’t pack a torch?”

  She smiled. “I’ll be fine. I packed a head torch, mate. It’s you I’m worried about.”

  They heard Ned’s voice raised in warning and jumped down to the lower rocks. He had run to greet the first arrivals, urging them to stay well away from “his” discovery.

  “Do you want to tell them, or shall I?” Nelson asked in an undertone.

  Sanne winced. No one would be happy about this. The officers would be nearing the end of their shift, while the volunteers were being disbanded just as things got interesting.

  Keeping their hands out of public view, she and Nelson played a covert game of rock-paper-scissors.

  “Bollocks,” she whispered, as Nelson’s “paper” wrapped over her “rock.”

  Nelson’s attempt at a sympathetic expression failed gleefully. “I promise to intervene if they try to chuck you in the pond.”

  She punched him in his biceps and strode over to break the news to the gathered crowd.

  *

  The three-year-old boy looked directly at Meg and emptied his cup of blackcurrant juice all over the bed sheets. His mum, who seemed barely old enough to tie her own shoelaces, let alone procreate, tittered and ruffled his hair.

  “Oh, Bailey-Kaden, that’s naughty.” Her protestation was as impactful as a butterfly chastising a lion. “He must be feeling better,” she said to Meg and beamed at her son.

  “Yes, it’s amazing what a dose of paracetamol will do,” Meg said with only the faintest hint of sarcasm. “I’m guessing you hadn’t given him any before you phoned the ambulance.”

  “Oh, no!” The young woman looked aghast, as if Meg had just made the most outlandish of suggestions. “When I rang 999, they told me not to give him anything to eat or drink.”

  Meg nodded. It was the same old song, over and over. The tune never varied, and it irritated the hell out of her. “And in the hours before that, when he was feverish and miserable, you didn’t think to give him any then, either?”

  The girl stared at her, arms folded, her mouth curled into a sulky pout. “I didn’t have none in.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Meg only just managed not to snap at her. A bottle of generic paracetamol suspension cost about £1.50, was readily available in the supermarkets, and was a commonsense mainstay for anyone with a young child. “We’ll send you home with a bottle and one of these advice leaflets.” The girl needed an advice anthology, not a leaflet, but it was the best Meg could do. The child was well dressed and obviously loved, so there were no concerns regarding neglect. If she referred every dim parent to Social Services, she would singlehandedly collapse the system.

  “A nurse will be in with the extra medicine in a few minutes,” she said, and left Bailey-Kaden splashing his hands and his mum in blackcurrant.

  Outside the cubicle, she checked her pager, her phone, and her watch. It was almost
five p.m., and she had no messages. She sank into a chair at a free computer terminal and began the process of discharging the child.

  “Did you read her the riot act?” Liz called over. She was busy squirting blood into culture bottles at the sink beside the nurses’ station.

  Meg hit enter and snarled as the screen froze. “No.” She tapped the key repeatedly and with increasing force. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today. I just don’t think my heart’s in it.”

  “Your heart wandering out there on the moors, by any chance?”

  Liz probably didn’t mean anything by that, but it was such a lovely, apt turn of phrase that Meg smiled, despite her dark mood. “You might have hit the nail on the head there.”

  The needle tinkled in the sharps bin as Liz discarded it. “I’ve got a friend works up on ITU. She told me our mystery woman is as well as can be expected.”

  “Max said as much this morning.” Meg began to type rapidly as the computer decided to behave itself. “He said he might try waking her in the next couple of days.” She hit the wrong key and erased everything she had just entered. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  Liz’s hand closed over hers, stilling her fingers. “Have you had a break today?”

  Meg answered with a shrug. She honestly couldn’t remember.

  “Why don’t you take one when you’ve finished that? There are only four patients in the waiting room, and they’re all heading to Minors.”

  The computer saved the discharge summary at the second attempt. Meg glanced around. The department had several beds empty and a number of medics chatting or trying to look busy. She was senior to many of them, but she wasn’t indispensable.

  “You’ll page me if the Bat Phone goes?” she said.

  “If it’s something we can’t cope with for half an hour, then yes,” Liz replied in her stern mum voice, her hands planted on her hips. It had the dual effect of making Meg laugh and realise how ridiculous she was being.

  “I’m bloody starving,” she said, and hit print before she could jinx herself and make the phone ring.

  *

  The hospital canteen was on the verge of closing when Meg skidded to a halt in front of its counter. They’d run out of everything savoury, with the exception of a limp corned beef sandwich. Unwilling to risk it, she asked for apple crumble and custard, and came away with a portion generous enough to sustain her for the rest of the week. A glare from a cleaner warned her not to try sitting at any of the canteen’s tables, so she wandered back toward the A&E staffroom, but as she reached the stairs, she changed her mind and headed for the ITU. The nurses there were all familiar faces, who turned a blind eye to her carton of pudding, but the sight of someone far more unexpected made her pause on the threshold of room three.

  “Hey,” she said, and Emily jerked her head up. She began to stand, but Meg waved her down and walked to the foot of the bed. “Great minds think alike, eh?”

  “Apparently so.” Emily was perched uneasily on the edge of her chair. She touched her fingers to the bed sheets, several inches away from the woman’s hand, and then leaned back again without making contact. “I’m on my break.”

  “Yeah, me too.” Meg felt a twinge of guilt. She had been so intent yesterday on running the trauma and keeping an eye on Sanne that she hadn’t thought to check how Emily was. Judging by the dark shadows beneath her eyes and by her presence in the ITU, she was far from all right. She also appeared to be on the verge of bolting, so Meg shifted her scrutiny to the woman’s chart instead, which provided her with a conversation opener.

  “Did you read this? She’s a hell of a lot better than I expected.”

  Emily’s demeanour brightened a fraction. “I know. Dr. Maxwell was here when I came in. If she continues to improve at this rate, he’s going to try waking her tomorrow afternoon.”

  Meg nodded, her finger tracking the lines of figures and notes. After coping well with the surgery, the woman had responded to the drugs treating the cerebral oedema and shown no further signs of bleeding. She was running a mild temperature, but otherwise her observations were within normal parameters, and her latest blood results were promising. Taking the opportunity to look at her without having to focus on her injuries, or what treatments might be necessary, Meg saw a woman who must have been slim even before her recent weight loss. Her broad shoulders spoke of an athleticism probably associated with swimming or climbing, but whatever her sport, her fitness had stood her in good stead. It would have allowed her to quickly metabolise the drugs her assailant had pumped into her, given her the strength to escape, and helped her to survive the additional insult of her severe injuries.

  “Have you ever seen anything like this?” Emily’s soft question cut into Meg’s train of thought. There were tears brimming in her eyes.

  Meg gave her a canteen napkin and sat in an adjacent chair, watching her try to avoid smearing her mascara. “I’ve treated rape and assault victims, but nothing where the suffering has been so prolonged or so fucking vindictive.” She took a breath that smelled incongruously of crumble and antiseptic. Although the arm lying across the woman’s abdomen was wrapped in bandages, Meg couldn’t forget the damage concealed beneath. Like an animal trapped in a snare, the woman had almost degloved her hand trying to undo her bonds.

  “I couldn’t sleep last night,” Emily whispered. “I couldn’t even lie in bed. I just walked, room to room. I tried to watch something or read something, but mostly I just walked.”

  “Didn’t do too brilliantly myself,” Meg said. “Do you need to speak to someone? There are counsellors in the department, peer support…” She trailed off as Emily shook her head.

  “It’s okay. This has helped. Thanks.” Emily began to collect the pieces of the napkin she had unconsciously shredded. “They won’t let me come in here again if I leave a mess.”

  Meg gathered a couple of strips from the floor and dropped them into Emily’s palm. “If they’re okay with me bringing my lunch in, I think they’ll overlook a bit of tissue.”

  “It smells really good. What did you get?” Emily asked, and then looked mortified when her stomach rumbled.

  “Enough apple crumble to feed the five thousand. I’ll go and cadge another spoon and dish from the nurses.” Meg tapped the overbed table with her plastic spoon to overrule Emily’s weak signs of protest. “You’ll be doing me a favour by helping me eat it. If you make me finish all this by myself, I’ll curl up in the corner there and sleep through the rest of the shift.”

  *

  “G’back, g’back, g’back!”

  A tan-and-white ball of feathers shot up from the heather in front of Sanne and hurtled out of harm’s way, its warning screech giving an air of foreboding to hills blazing beneath a glorious sunset.

  “What on earth was that?” Nelson had his hand on his heart, as if checking for a terror-induced arrhythmia.

  “Grouse,” Sanne said. “I think they get a kick out of scaring folk half to death.” The birds were a common feature of the moors, lying out of sight until unwitting hikers happened upon them, and then flying to safety in a clamour of wings and cackling.

  Nelson dabbed his brow with his hanky. “No wonder people shoot the buggers.”

  Her answering smile faded as Carlyle’s voice came across the comms.

  “Jensen, Turay. Status report, please.”

  Nelson gesticulated in a way that would have made his mother blush. Sanne slapped his arm.

  “At least he said please,” she mouthed silently. Then, speaking aloud, “Just reached the tarn, Sarge. Nothing found so far.”

  “Copy that,” Carlyle said, and Sanne listened to similar negative updates from the remaining officers on Corvenden Moss.

  After hearing about their earlier find, Carlyle had become keen to lead the second stage of the search. The team up top hadn’t wasted daylight waiting for him to join them, but as soon as he had made it onto Laddaw Ridge, he had taken great delight in interfering. On his orders, Sanne and Nelson had foll
owed a path that meandered through rocks for twenty minutes before trying to lead them off a precipice.

  Considering that particular assignment at an end, they had spread their map out across the heather, and, on Sanne’s prompting, decided to take a narrow track toward a tarn near the base of Gillot Tor. The tarn itself wasn’t large enough to warrant a name, and the area around it appeared isolated, hemmed in by a succession of rock formations and the cliffs of the tor. On the map, a sporadic rash of red triangles to its west marked blocked-off potholes and unsafe entrances to a rudimentary cave system.

  The warning icons pulled Sanne in like a siren’s call. She knew there were other possibilities, most of them more likely than this one, but she couldn’t move away from the thought that, somewhere close by, the perp might have constructed a makeshift dungeon. Although Gillot Tor was a mile beyond the established search boundary, that boundary was only an estimate. Another mile might not mean much to someone running for her life.

  Afraid that Nelson would advise caution, Sanne hadn’t voiced any of this to him. One word of dissent and she would have had to cede to his better judgement. But it wasn’t as if she was planning to go potholing. She just wanted to get near enough to Gillot Tor to get a feel for it, and if they got to the tarn and then decided to go a little farther, where was the harm in that?

  In the end, Nelson’s ineptitude with a map had made things simple for her. He had followed her lead without question. All that remained for her to do was convince Carlyle it had been his idea.

  Her toes just touching the spongy shore of the tarn, she knelt and dipped her fingers into its water. This one was clearer than the last. Instead of disappearing in its murky depths, her hand remained visible, tinted brownish-orange and coated with tiny flecks of peat. The water was warm on the surface, so she plunged her hand deeper, allowing the chill to numb her fingers, before pulling them out and placing them onto her forehead. She closed her eyes in pleasure as the heat there dissipated. The crack of Nelson’s knees and a soft splash of water told her he was following her example.