No Good Reason

by Cari Hunter

  “Hark, I think I hear the dulcet and loving tones of your sister,” Meg said, dropping the cheese into her bag.

  “We’re meeting her at the sweet stall.” Sanne turned toward it, guided by the sound of disconsolate sobbing. She waved at Keeley’s brood as they approached, and Kiera’s tantrum ceased abruptly.

  “Hey, sweetie.” Sanne picked her up and blotted the tears from her face with a tissue. “Have you been eating dirt again?”

  Kiera chortled, her grubby fists clutching at Sanne’s hair.

  Rolling a double buggy back and forth, Keeley tried to keep the older toddlers, Kasper and Kerby, asleep. Her lips smacked together as she chewed a piece of gum. “She wanted jelly babies, but I don’t get paid till tomorrow.”

  “Oh, did you get a job?” Meg said brightly.

  Sanne shot her a look, warning her to behave. They both knew the likelihood of Keeley finding gainful employment was akin to gold falling from the sky and gilding the pavements of Halshaw.

  “No. It’s when my bennies come in.” Keeley’s tone implied that the question had been particularly stupid.

  “Ah, right, my mistake.” Meg sighed and offered her fingers for Kiera to chew on. “I guess someone ought to buy you some sweets then, eh, kiddo?”

  Leaving Meg to deal with Kiera’s requests, Sanne surveyed the outdoor stalls. “Which one is he on?” she asked. A number of the booths sold CDs, DVDs, and mobile phone accessories. Each was doing brisk business.

  Keeley had tucked herself into a corner with her back to the market. When she spoke, she barely opened her mouth. “Third from the end, between the wool and the bloke selling fake leather bags.”

  “He can’t hear you, Keels. Hell, from here he can’t even see you.”

  “Good. I have to come here every week. I don’t want people to know I set the coppers on to him.”

  “I’ll be discreet, I promise.” Sanne crossed her heart. She knew it was hard for Keeley to live on Halshaw and have a sister in the police force. While their mum was nothing but proud of Sanne’s achievements, it must have been difficult for Keeley to gain the trust of friends, though unfortunately, the useless men she fell for never seemed deterred.

  “Here.” Sanne fished out a tenner and passed it to her. “Take the kids to the chippy. I’ll come and find you when I’m done.”

  The money was in Keeley’s pocket before Sanne could blink.

  “You said you’d send some cash for me and Wayne, remember?” Keeley’s eyes were fixed on Sanne’s wallet.

  “Aye, I remember.” Sanne gave her another thirty pounds. If Keeley’s tipoff helped with the case, it would be money well spent. “Don’t get too drunk.”

  Keeley blew a bubble in her chewing gum and popped it over her grin. “You’re such a goody two-shoes, San.” All smiles now, she took hold of Kiera and cooed at the bag of sweets she held up. “Say thank you to your auntie Meg.”

  Not quite adept at speech yet, Kiera waved a beheaded jelly baby instead.

  “How much did that cost you?” Meg asked, watching Keeley head for the chippy on the corner of the high street.

  “Forty bleedin’ quid.”

  Meg whistled. “I think I got away lightly.” She offered Sanne a black-and-white mint. “Fancy a bit of DVD shopping?”

  They wandered toward the stall, attempting to remain incognito by detouring via the bakery, where Meg bought Eccles cakes and chattered casually with the cashier. Sanne caught herself tapping her foot as she waited for Meg to count her change. She should have asked Eleanor before she came out here. This wasn’t her investigation to run. She couldn’t just go off tracking down her own leads. She had never wanted to be a loose cannon.

  “Oh, hey, have you seen this? It’s supposed to be great.”

  Caught by the sleeve, Sanne found herself staring at the cover of a random action film Meg had plucked from the first rack of DVDs. The man behind the counter nodded at them but continued to chat on his phone. Approximately forty years old, he was of slim build, with receding hair, a compensatory beard, and pockmarked skin. She didn’t recognise him, and she hoped that meant he had no idea who she was either. As Meg continued to extol the virtues of Vin Diesel, Sanne scanned the rest of the shelves. She was no expert, but none of the films or box sets looked like rip-offs. Most were labelled as second-hand, and an advertisement above them offered “excellent” rates for used discs.

  “These are all old,” Meg said. The stallholder had just finished his call, and she was standing close enough for him to overhear. “Maybe you should ask him about the other stuff.” She elbowed Sanne in the ribs, making the gesture obvious.

  The man turned the pages of a tabloid newspaper while using his little finger to pick his teeth, but he was clearly listening. Sidling over to his counter, Sanne didn’t need to act nervous. Her face felt warm, and the inside of her mouth was as dry as sandpaper. He looked her up and down as she approached, his eyes lingering over the curve of her chest. She quelled the urge to slap the leer from his face.

  “Our Wayne reckoned you had better films than this,” she said, laying on her thickest Halshaw accent. “Reckoned we had to ask for them special.”

  “Did he now?” He folded his arms. “Wayne who?”

  “Peters. He’s my cousin.” She took a gamble on his not knowing Wayne except as a casual DVD-laundering acquaintance.

  “Ambleside Walk?”

  She sidestepped the trap with ease. “Nah, Browbeck. He still lives with his mam.”

  “Yeah, Browbeck. That’s the one.” He slapped his own forehead in fake remembrance and lowered his voice. “So, what is it you’re looking for? I can get brand new releases before they’re even in the cinemas over here. Downloads from iTunes and Netflix? Or maybe you and your bird are after something with a bit of kink?”

  Wrong-footed by the accuracy of his gaydar, she let the latter comment slide. “What’ve you got in?”

  He delved beneath the counter and slid out an indexed box of thin plastic sleeves, each containing a single disc. “Seeing as you know Wayne, I can do you a bit of a deal. Four for five quid.”

  Sanne took her warrant card from her pocket and laid it open on his newspaper. “How about I do you a deal instead?”

  “Fucking hell.” He stared at the card and then at her, as if trying to reconcile the smartly dressed officer on her ID badge with the scrubber in front of him. “I’ll fucking kill Wayne.”

  “I doubt that.” Built like a brick shithouse, Wayne was a nightclub bouncer and more than capable of snapping the man’s neck. “And he only gave me your name to save his own skin. Now I’m going to give you a similar opportunity.”

  Her doubts and trepidation forgotten, she slipped easily back into her role as a detective. She’d been dealing with small-time criminals for years—interviewing them, visiting them at home or in the cells, arresting them on the streets. The one thing they had in common was their ability to figure out what was in it for them. The man in front of her was doing that now—studying her face, mulling over her words, trying to determine her angle.

  “I need a name,” she said.

  “Terry Thorpe,” he blurted, before she could go any further.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Is that your name? I don’t need your name, you pillock, but thanks anyway.” She took her pad from her back pocket and made a note. “I’m looking for someone, possibly local, who’s dealing in illegal, hardcore pornography—DVDs, magazines, still images. I’m not talking about a ‘bit of kink,’ Terry. Most likely they’re imported, and there are quality sleeves on the discs, so it’s not an amateur operation.”

  Terry toyed with the edge of his newspaper. “I don’t know nobody doing that.”

  “No?” She sighed. “You know I’ve got enough cause to search your house, Terry. Confiscate all your gear, your computers and discs. Bang you up for a few months. Slap you with a huge fine and a criminal record. What would your missus say?”

  The hand sporting his wedding ring vanished beneat
h the counter, and his bottom lip began to tremble. “Mal Atley,” he muttered. “Malcolm Atley. He lives on Lower Ulverston. I don’t know what number. He brings stuff to the pub. Sells it out of his car. Proper dodgy shit—rape, kiddies. Says he gets it from Poland and Romania. I’ve heard he does drugs as well. He can get his hands on all sorts of crap.”

  “Which pub?” Sanne asked, frantically scribbling notes. The drugs connection was an unexpected bonus. If Atley had supplied Ned Moseley’s pornography, who knew what else he might have sold him?

  “Coach and Horses, but he also does the Working Men’s and the Crown.” Terry gripped her arm. She saw Meg take a step toward them and held up her free hand to stop her from intervening. “You won’t tell him I snitched, will you?” he asked.

  “No. I strongly suggest you don’t either.”

  Her forearm stung as he released it. She didn’t recognise Mal’s name, but Terry was obviously petrified of him.

  “I think I’ll close early today,” he said, his eyes flitting from side to side as he tried to gauge who might have witnessed the exchange.

  The shutter on his stall was clattering into place as Sanne met back up with Meg in the market’s main aisle. Meg grinned and linked her arm through Sanne’s.

  “What are you smiling at?” Sanne asked. She felt Meg’s grip tighten and Meg lean into her.

  “You are such a badass,” Meg whispered.

  Sanne laughed. “Don’t be a twerp.”

  “I can’t help it. You gave me chills. Look.” Meg displayed arms covered in goose pimples.

  “You must’ve been standing in a draught.”

  “Did you get your name?”

  “A name, most of an address, and three pubs.” Sanne took a deep breath. “All I have to do now is tell Eleanor what I’ve been up to.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The mood in the office was subdued when Sanne walked in. Fred and George were at their desks, and Jay Egerton was over at the copier, but no one spoke beyond a perfunctory greeting, and they all looked dog-tired.

  “The boss around?” Sanne asked.

  Fred nodded toward Eleanor’s office.

  Sanne knocked on the office door and waited for a response before she entered. During the drive over, she had given herself a pep talk, reassuring herself that she had investigated the lead in her own time. In any case, EDSOP had never identified the source of the drugs used to subdue Josie. If Atley confirmed he had dealt to Ned Moseley, they might have their first concrete piece of evidence linking Ned to the abductions. This additional possibility gave Sanne the assurance to stand in front of Eleanor’s desk and explain where she had spent the afternoon, although she didn’t disclose that it was nagging doubts about Ned that had led her to the market in the first place.

  Eleanor listened, jotting the occasional note, but it wasn’t until Atley’s name came up that she showed any reaction.

  “Mal Atley,” she repeated. Her lips twisted as if at something foul. “Vile individual. Did time for GBH, but it’s difficult to make anything stick to him. Are you sure about this?”

  “As sure as I can be. Thorpe was scared to death of him. I don’t think he’d have given me the name lightly.”

  “Definitely not.” Eleanor pushed her glasses onto her head and folded her arms. “I should let you out on your own more often.”

  Sanne shrugged, but the praise buoyed her immeasurably. “I have connections in low places, that’s all.”

  That brought a smile to Eleanor’s face. “We’re stretched too thin as a unit to set up a stakeout, so I’ll push this up the chain and let them decide who brings Atley in. Have you ever met him?”

  “No, boss.”

  Eleanor’s smile broadened. “You’re in for a treat.”

  *

  The previous night’s vigil had been the first night shift Sanne had worked in months, and she had forgotten the hung-over, disorientated feeling of having her body clock completely disrupted. Slouched on her sofa in her pyjamas after a late supper, she scrolled through the case reports, repeatedly adjusting the glare of the laptop, and absorbing little of the information. She opened a medical file that listed Josie’s injuries in stark, emotionless terminology—“base of skull fracture, large subdural haematoma, multiple superficial lacerations (most likely inflicted with a razorblade or small knife), contusions consistent with being kicked or punched, fractured left femur”—and a forensics report with next to nothing of any import. Nine days into the investigation, EDSOP had an entirely circumstantial suspect; a young woman missing, presumed dead; and a trail that was growing colder by the minute.

  The buzz of Sanne’s mobile stopped her from taking her frustration out on the computer. Expecting Meg to be the only other idiot awake at such an hour, she frowned when she saw Eleanor’s number instead.

  “Hey, boss, you’re up late.” She heard Eleanor sigh and guessed she was still in her office, heels off, blouse untucked and unbuttoned at the neck. The bottle of Scotch she kept for dire emergencies or the successful closure of cases had probably taken a battering.

  “I could say the same about you.” There was a rustling noise as Eleanor shifted the phone, and seconds later, a fanfare signalled the shutdown of her computer. “I’m just about to leave, but I thought you’d want to know that Mal Atley was arrested a couple of hours ago.”

  Sanne dropped her legs off the sofa and sat upright, as if a teacher had rapped her knuckles. “Bloody hell, that was fast.”

  “I know. Either Sex Offences have too much time on their hands, or they didn’t want to risk Thorpe cracking and warning him. I would suspect the latter. They set up surveillance at each of the pubs Thorpe had mentioned, and they arrested Atley in the car park of the Coach and Horses. He was too busy flogging a bag of DVDs to a local school governor to notice the officers approaching him.”

  “Is he talking?”

  “Not tonight. I think they want him to stew a while in holding first. Plus, they have a warrant for his house, so they’ll wait and see what they find there before interviewing him.”

  “That makes sense.” Even so, Sanne couldn’t resist looking at the clock on her mantelpiece. The arrest had happened far sooner than she could have hoped, yet nothing seemed to be moving quickly enough.

  “I spoke to DI Anderson,” Eleanor said. “He agreed to let you speak to Atley once he was done with him.”

  Sanne almost lost her grip on the phone. “Boss, I’m only Tier Two.”

  Eleanor didn’t miss a beat. “And perfectly capable of dealing with a toe-rag like Atley. It’ll be tomorrow afternoon at the earliest, which means you’ll have the morning to warn Nelson and prep.”

  “Right. Okay.” Sanne started pacing across her living room. “I’ll let Nelson know.”

  “Sanne?” Eleanor sounded amused.

  “What, boss?”

  “Get some sleep.”

  “Yep. Will do.”

  Eleanor hung up and left her listening to silence. Peering out into the pitch-blackness, Sanne wondered whether she’d break her neck if she went for a jog. She dropped her mobile on the sofa and headed into the kitchen to make a brew. If she couldn’t run, tea was her only fallback.

  *

  Sanne glanced at the file on the table in front of her and then looked across at Malcolm Atley. He pursed his lips to blow her a kiss, filling the space between them with the pungent odour of cigarettes and aftershave. If he was at all concerned about the eight charges filed against him that morning, he was hiding it well.

  “Aren’t you two just the poster children for Affirmative Action?” he said pleasantly.

  Dressed in a smart suit, he was clean-shaven and handsome in a bland, boy-band way. Living on Halshaw for the past ten years had knocked the edges from his well-bred Cheshire accent, but it was still audible beneath the flattened vowels and hint of Yorkshire. The thirty-one-year-old son of a self-made millionaire, Atley had had a privileged public school education and had apparently inherited his father’s business
acumen. An unfortunate cocaine and amphetamine habit had eaten into his earnings, however, and since arriving in the area he had moved from petty offences to more organised, serious crime. A small stash of ecstasy, cocaine, and ketamine, bagged and ready to sell, had been recovered from the water tank on his toilet, and his pornography distribution racket had turned out to be far more extensive than Terry Thorpe had thought. The Sexual Offences squad had found a schedule in Atley’s bedroom listing a dozen people recently employed to trade the DVDs and magazines, suggesting Atley himself now focused on product acquisition and reproduction. The only reason he had been caught red-handed the previous night was that the school governor had insisted on dealing with him in person. Sanne doubted Ned Moseley would have commanded the same respect, though there was no harm in asking. Atley might even have been a viable suspect in the abduction case, had airline tickets and a travel itinerary not placed him in Bucharest for fifteen days out of the past three weeks.

  “Mr. Atley, I’d like you to tell me if you recognise this man.” She slid Ned Moseley’s mugshot toward Atley, studying his face for any twitch of reaction, but he remained utterly impassive, even as he picked up the photograph to make a show of giving it close attention.

  “Nope.” He set the image down again. “Never seen him before.”

  Sanne tried to catch him in a lie. “You don’t watch the news? Read the papers? He’s had a real rise in his profile of late.”