No Good Reason

by Cari Hunter

  Are you awake? Call me.

  Call me when you get this.

  Guess you’re asleep. Call me when you’re up.

  One of the missed calls was from Meg, the other Eleanor, so the crisis must be work-related. After a moment’s hesitation—it was still only a quarter past five—Sanne sat at her kitchen table and phoned Meg, who answered on the second ring.

  “Hey. I thought you might beat my alarm clock.” Meg sounded tired, but too cogent for the phone to have woken her.

  “What happened? What’s wrong?” Sanne blurted out the questions before her courage failed her. She shrank back in the chair, expecting a blow.

  Meg duly delivered one. “Max paged me at a quarter to one. Apparently, Rachel’s nurse called him to the ITU because Rachel was becoming increasingly agitated. Just before he got there, she had a seizure. The CT showed a small re-bleed on her brain, so he took her back to theatre to fix it. She’s okay, San, the bleed was minor, but—”

  “But we’re back to square one.” Sanne slumped against the table.

  “Yeah. He had to intubate her for surgery, and he’s wary about lifting the sedation again until she’s completely out of the woods. He thinks the bleed was connected to a post-traumatic reaction. She was screaming, distressed, and her blood pressure spiked.”

  “What was she screaming? Did she say anything?”

  “No, just her name over and over. They had to restrain her. She was trying to get up.”

  “Jesus.” Sanne ran a hand through her damp hair. A jumble of questions went through her mind, but in the end she asked only one. “Have you been to bed yet?”

  The wry humour in Meg’s voice was unmistakeable. “Well, I lay in it for a few hours.”

  “You should go back. Try again.”

  “I might. Are you okay?”

  “Yep, I’m fine,” Sanne said, with more assurance than she felt. “Thanks for letting me know.”

  Meg yawned. “Sorry it was such shitty news.”

  “Bed,” Sanne told her. “Sleep. I’ll call you later.”

  “Okay. Night, love.” Meg hung up.

  “Fucking terrific,” Sanne muttered, slapping the phone’s cover back into place. Seconds later, her toast shot out of the toaster. It was burned to a cinder.

  *

  Waterlogged potholes littered the track leading down to the penultimate address on Sanne’s list. Her teeth snapped together as the car caught the edge of a rut.

  “Bloody Nora,” Nelson said. The muscles on his forearms stood out as he tried to keep the car level. “So, who’ve we got at this one?”

  Rain had blurred the names on the paper, but Sanne had already committed the details to memory. “Mrs. Edna Clegg, seventy-eight, and her son, Derek, forty-five.”

  “Does he work?”

  “Only on their land. He was a painter and decorator, but he gave that up when his dad died and his mum was left with the farm.”

  A large stone cottage came into view, and Nelson slowed the car to a crawl. “Sounds promising. Elderly mum, lots of time to duck out and get up to no good. Did he ever get married?”

  “Not according to this.”

  “Maybe he prefers helping himself to hikers off the moors.” Nelson took the keys from the ignition and rubbed his sleeve over the condensed windscreen. Rain and a thin mist were obscuring the surrounding buildings. Sanne pulled her jacket tighter around herself and then wondered why she’d bothered; the material was soaked through.

  “Not sure I want to go out in that,” she said.

  The look he gave her was little short of incredulous. “You were the one who volunteered us for this. We could’ve spent the day tucked up in the office, tracking down illicit drugs online, or Rachels on the Missing Persons database, or local suppliers of fluorescent rope.”

  “I know, I know.” She held up her hands in surrender. “I wanted to be out in the fresh air. Come on. Let’s get this one done, and then I’ll buy you a cuppa.”

  He took a moment to consider the deal. “And a pasty,” he added.

  “Fine, you can have a pasty. There’s a good bakery in Rowlee. I’ll take you there.”

  He smiled, grabbing his umbrella from the back seat. “Last one to the door’s a rotten egg.”

  With her own umbrella offering little protection against the wind-driven rain, she ignored the challenge, picking her way carefully instead through the puddle-ridden farmyard, noting its rundown outbuildings and the machinery abandoned to rust. Hens clucked in one of the barns, and somewhere close by a dog began to bark furiously.

  “That thing better be on a chain,” Nelson said.

  “I’m guessing it’d have its jaws clamped around your ankle by now, if it wasn’t.”

  He knocked on a door that bore a sticker warning off Hawkers, Canvassers, Religious Types, and Politicians. “My ankle? What about your bloody ankle?”

  “Yours are meatier.” She rang the bell for good measure, as she felt rain seep beneath her shirt and into her bra.

  A few seconds later a man shouted, “Who is it?”

  Sanne left Nelson to answer. His deeper voice carried better.

  “It’s the police, Mr. Clegg. Would you mind opening the door?”

  There was a long pause before a figure appeared behind the dirty glass window. When it did, Nelson sighed and Sanne shook her head in dismay.

  “Bollocks,” she said.

  Derek Clegg opened the door wide, enabling him to step fully into view. Approximately five feet in height, his grossly obese figure was still clad in grimy pyjamas. He gave them an excited smile and scratched his overhanging belly.

  “Is this about that girl found up Laddaw?”

  Sanne pocketed her ID badge. “Yes, it is. Could we come in and ask you and your mum a few questions? It shouldn’t take long.”

  “Course, no problem. Excuse the mess. We’re in the middle of a clear-out.”

  He turned and lumbered down a darkened hallway. Stacks of newspapers and general detritus lined the narrow corridor, and the carpet felt sticky beneath Sanne’s boots. It was apparent from the layers of dust that nothing resembling a clear-out had happened this side of the millennium. The smell of cat piss and boiled vegetables grew stronger as they followed him farther into the house. Sanne tried and failed to get the sound of “Dueling Banjos” out of her head.

  “You owe me a really big pasty,” Nelson whispered.

  The room Derek took them into looked out over a poorly maintained plot of land, with a pig wallowing in the fresh mud. The pig, at least, looked content to be living in squalor.

  “Visitors, Mum! Police officers!” Derek yelled, and then, quieter, “She’s a bit deaf.”

  “Just a minute,” his mum shouted, over the sound of a flushing toilet.

  He busied himself shifting food wrappers, magazines, and what might have been the remains of a pizza from the sofa.

  “Sit down, sit down,” he said, beckoning them forward. When Sanne lifted her boot, it had a piece of pepperoni stuck to its sole. She eyed a suspicious-looking stain on the closest sofa cushion and then gave Derek her best conciliatory smile.

  “We’re fine as we are, thanks. This won’t take a minute. And we’re dripping wet—we wouldn’t want to ruin your sofa.”

  Derek might have insisted, had his mother not chosen that moment to make her entrance. Her walking frame appeared first, propelled by chubby hands. She stopped dead and gaped when she saw Nelson, but covered her reaction by launching the frame another inch.

  “Aren’t you handsome?” she said, regarding him like an exotic zoo exhibit. “Have you offered them a drink, Del? Has he offered you a drink, Officers?”

  Nelson stepped backward as the frame almost clipped his shins. “Please don’t go to any trouble. We had a coffee at the last house.”

  Edna lowered herself into an armchair and used its remote to adjust the footrest. “We heard about that girl on the news. Terrible thing.”

  “Yes, it was,” Sanne said. She waited u
ntil Derek had settled on the sofa before continuing. There was no point asking him to account for his recent whereabouts—not when the short walk down the hall had been enough to leave him panting for breath—so she moved directly to the second set of questions, which focused on strangers in the area or locals who had been behaving oddly. Had Derek or his mum spotted anything out of the ordinary, over the past week or so?

  It soon became apparent that Edna and Derek didn’t get out much. They had their shopping delivered, and the only other person they saw on a regular basis was Ned, who came to help Derek on the farm. Due to their health problems, they were planning to sell up and buy a bungalow closer to the village.

  “What’s Ned’s surname?” Sanne asked, wondering if it was the same man who had discovered the dead sheep on the moors.

  “Moseley,” Derek said. “He told us all about the search. Said he’d found something very important.”

  “Yep, he certainly did.” She scribbled Ned’s full name into her notebook. “Has he been around much lately? Worked his usual hours?”

  Derek crinkled his brow, obviously trying to remember. When nothing was forthcoming, he looked to his mum for help.

  “He skipped Tuesday and Thursday last week,” she said. “Went fishing, instead of mucking our chickens out.”

  Sanne sensed the shift in Nelson’s stance as the detail caught his interest.

  “Is that unusual for him?” he asked. “To leave you shorthanded like that?”

  “Depends on where the fancy takes him.” Edna sniffed. “Would’ve liked more notice if he was going to bugger off and leave our hens, though. Them and the pig are all we’ve got left.” She tapped a walking stick on the floor to attract Derek’s attention. “Make us a cuppa, pet. I’m spitting feathers here.”

  “Just a second.” Suspecting that Edna’s cooperation was waning, Sanne opened her bag and took out a photograph. “I know this is an upsetting picture, but have either of you seen this woman before? Maybe shopping in the village, or out and about around here? We think her name is Rachel.”

  Derek’s double chin quivered as he stared at the image. He quickly passed it to his mum, who placed her glasses on the end of her nose and peered through the fingerprint-smudged lenses.

  “Poor little mite,” she said. “I don’t recognise her. Do you, Del?”

  “No, Mum.” He turned to Sanne. “Am I okay to make her tea now?”

  “Of course. Thank you for your help.” She gave him her card. “If you think of anything, anything at all, give me a ring on this number.”

  “Detective Sar-ner Jensen,” he read aloud.

  “Aye, that’s close enough.” She zipped up her jacket, longing to be back in the rain. “Thanks again. We’ll let ourselves out.”

  She headed into the corridor, forcing herself not to sprint for the front door. Drizzle washed over her as she left the porch, and she drew in deep lungfuls of manure-scented air.

  Once in the car, Nelson opened the windows wide and stuck his head out of the closest one. “I reckon that rates at least a seven on our shithole scale,” he said.

  “I was thinking more of an eight.”

  “Ooh, controversial. That puts it on a par with Flat 4C, Smackhead Terrace, from Assault with a Deadly Weapon.”

  Sanne fastened her seatbelt. “Yeah, you’re right. Maybe a seven.”

  He manoeuvred the car onto the track and began to weave around the potholes. “I think we can safely say that Mr. Clegg is not a person of interest.”

  “No, but Ned Moseley might be worth a closer look. Right age, good level of fitness, potential holes in his whereabouts, and an enthusiastic participant in the investigation.”

  “I totally agree,” Nelson said. “But I’m having my bloody pasty first.”

  *

  The line at the bakery was halfway out the door. Sanne joined the rest of the prospective pasty buyers, her hood drawn up against the rain. It was always a nightmare trying to find a parking spot in Rowlee’s tiny, overcrowded back streets, so Nelson had dropped her off while he looked for one.

  As the queue edged forward and she crossed the shop’s threshold, she pushed her hood down and ran her fingers through her matted hair. The gesture made the man beside her smile in recognition. He had obviously only just seen her face.

  “How do,” he said. “I thought that wreck of yours was due in for a service?”

  Geoff Cotter owned the local garage, out on Lower Bank Road. He was reliable, he didn’t try to rip his customers off, and he was fastidious about keeping up to date with scheduled work. He was also supposed to be Sanne and Nelson’s last house call of the afternoon.

  “Hey, Geoff. I meant to book in on Monday, but this case…” She left the rest of her explanation hanging. She didn’t want to go into detail in front of a crowd of locals who were now paying her their undivided attention. Some of them undoubtedly knew her—she did most of her shopping in Rowlee, and the village was small and insular enough that the sight of lesbians still turned heads—while even those unfamiliar with her had visibly pricked up their ears at her mention of “the case.” There was only one case around Rowlee in which anyone was interested right now, and the village grapevine was extraordinarily efficient.

  “I understand, pet. Just don’t leave it too long. One of your tyres was borderline on your last MOT.”

  The woman behind the counter interrupted to take Geoff’s order, and another assistant prompted Sanne for hers. Sanne added sausage rolls to the pasties, and on a whim bought three jam and cream scones as well. Nelson would probably eat his straightaway, but the other two she intended to save.

  She caught up with Geoff as they were leaving. “Are you around this afternoon?” she asked. “Only, we’re doing house-to-house enquiries, and you’re on our list. I could kill two birds with one stone: ask our questions and arrange a date to bring my car in. Say, in half an hour or so?”

  The church clock in the centre of the village chimed twice, saving him the trouble of checking the time. “That’d be fine,” he said. “Make sure you have your dinner first, though. Billy and Joan will be home as well, if you need them.”

  “Perfect.” Her phone began to ring as she returned his farewell wave. She had to fumble in her pocket for it and answer it while attempting to keep hold of her carrier bag. “They only had cheese and onion, so I got you a sausage roll to go with it,” she said.

  “That’s lovely, dear.” It was Meg, sounding very amused. “I do like a nice sausage roll.”

  Sanne laughed. “Bugger, I thought you were Nelson. The sausage rolls are all spoken for, but I did buy you a cream scone. Did you get any sleep?”

  “Four hours. Could’ve been worse.”

  “Could’ve been better. Are you okay?”

  “Bit mopey,” Meg admitted. “I’ve got the day off, but I don’t know what to do with myself. Fancy coming round for tea?”

  “Of course I’ll come round for tea,” Sanne said. “I already bought dessert, remember?”

  *

  “You should try this,” Nelson said. “Seriously, it’s a taste sensation. It’ll be on MasterChef before you know it.” Sitting in the driver’s seat with his sausage roll in one hand and his pasty in the other, he was taking enthusiastic, alternate bites of each.

  Sanne gave him the special look she reserved for moronic criminals who were caught in the act and still trying to blag their way out. She supposed she should be relieved he hadn’t yet added his scone to the mix. “I’ll stick to my pasty, thanks,” she said. “You’re lucky to have that sausage roll. Meg was all for pinching it, a few minutes ago.”

  She opened her window a crack, letting out the steam and the smell of grease, and feeling cooler air brush her cheek. Nelson had managed to find a parking spot beside the river. The rain had stopped, and the clouds were breaking up, letting flashes of sunlight through. On the near bank, a child was beginning to wail as a swan strayed too close to her fingers. The swan honked as the child’s parent shooed it away,
and that in turn set all the ducks off quacking. Ignoring the feathered mini-riot, Nelson raised the last piece of sausage roll, but then he set it down untouched on the bag.

  “San? Can I ask you something?”

  “Yep.” She poured tea from their flask and offered him a cup. “What’s up?”

  “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want.”

  “Will anything I say be taken down and used in evidence against me?”

  He laughed. “No.”

  “Right, then. Go ahead.”

  “Okay.” Now looking nervous, he sipped his tea. “Okay. So, why the hell aren’t you and Meg a couple?”

  The directness of the question caught Sanne off-guard. She choked a little on her tea and spent the next minute spluttering and coughing. Nelson slapped her on the back before offering her a napkin.

  “Thanks.” She blew her nose. Then she wiped her mouth and blew her nose again. When she had run out of other ways to stall, she propped her feet up on the dashboard and hooked her arms beneath her thighs. “Did you know Charles Darwin made a list of pros and cons before he decided to get married?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  She smiled. “You should look it up online. It’s quite funny. Meg and I sort of did the same once: we made a list of the pros and cons. Y’know, for moving in together or trying to make a go of it as a couple.”

  “What happened? Did you end up with more cons than pros?”

  “It was actually pretty balanced. She’d do the plumbing, I’d do the gardening. I’d cook, she’d wash up. We both wanted pets, and neither of us wanted kids.” Sanne poured herself more tea and refilled Nelson’s cup. “We weren’t taking it that seriously—Meg had had a lot of beer—but I think we were trying to figure it out for ourselves, all the same.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Just after we’d graduated. We were twenty, maybe twenty-one, and toying with the idea of sharing a flat.”

  “Did you?”

  “No, we’ve never lived together. We’d probably end up killing each other. She’d steal all my bloody clothes, laze around, mess up my books, and leave her journals everywhere. And I’d drive her mad, making to-do lists, trying to clean around her, or dragging her out for exercise. It just seems to work better for us the way it is. We might see other people, but we still manage to keep this status quo between us.” She hugged her legs closer. Nelson wasn’t daft. He was accustomed to a traditional family setup, but he must know that she and Meg were more than just friends. She wondered for how long he had been trying to puzzle their relationship out.