by Cari Hunter
“Reckon there’s anything you can salvage?” Sanne asked, prepared to consign her beloved Corsa to the scrap heap.
Billy fired up the engine and tossed a bag onto the seat beside her. “With a new exhaust bracket, new rim, and three new tyres, she’ll be fine.” He began to make a cautious turn, the amber lights on top of the truck a warning to other motorists.
“Really? That’s great.” The bag began to slide toward the floor, and she put a hand on it, catching both the canvas outer and part of its contents.
“I can do the tyres as reconditioned if you want,” Billy said. “It’d be a lot cheaper.”
“Mm.” She nodded, her eyes fixed on the loose end of rope in her hand. “Sounds good.”
Without altering her position, she eased the bag open. The rope coiled inside was bright orange, with a synthetic coating. She ran her fingers across it, examining the way it was plaited, its thickness and texture, and remembering how much effort it would take to saw through it using a Swiss Army knife. A nasty grain of suspicion began to form as she lowered the flap of the bag and looked at the mobile number smeared on the back of her hand. In the front of the cab, Nelson and Billy were chatting about football, neither of them paying her any attention. She entered the security code on her phone, anxiety making her fingers clumsy and her chest tight. Forcing herself to take slower breaths, she opened her inbox and then her work folder.
“Sanne, Nelson says you’re a Bolton fan. Please tell me he’s talking crap.” Billy glanced at her in the rear-view mirror.
She plastered a smile on her face and shrugged. “Blame my granddad. He had a season ticket for years. Used to take me to some of the home matches.”
Billy’s eyes were back on the road before she had finished her explanation. Nelson said something she couldn’t hear, and Billy laughed, pulled back into a conversation that didn’t include her. She looked down at her phone again and selected the e-mail at the top of the folder. Mal Atley’s client list filled the screen. Three lines down, she found the initials “BC” and traced her finger across to the corresponding phone number, tilting her left hand as she did so.
“One of these days, I’ll take you to see a real footy team,” Billy called to her.
She nodded, her mouth too dry to answer. The number exactly matched the one scribbled on the back of her hand.
*
For the third time in less than five minutes, Sanne double-checked the number on her e-mail against the one inked on her skin. Nothing had changed. She hadn’t been mistaken. The cab was quieter now. Nelson and Billy had run out of the usual conversational topics of strangers, and to cover any awkwardness, Billy had switched on the radio and was humming along to soft rock. Sanne looked out the window. They had dropped below the cloud cover, but the rain was still belting down hard enough to keep them well beneath the speed limit.
Strapped into the cramped back seat, Sanne had had plenty of time to think everything through. It was true that Billy Cotter fitted the profile of the perpetrator. An athletic, single male, he had been raised in the area, and he seemed to have had dealings with Mal Atley. His experience as a mechanic meant that removing the VIN on a Land Rover would be child’s play to him. Meanwhile, Sanne was sitting mere inches away from a bag full of rope identical to that used to bind Josie.
She dug her fingers into the seat, aware of how inconclusive her reasoning was. Two minutes on Google would locate any vehicle’s VIN, and that particular type of rope was used in many professions. All she had was a series of coincidences amounting to little of any significance, especially compared to the evidence against Ned. A persistent, objective part of her, though—the part not swayed by her friendship with Billy—insisted that it made sense for Ned to have worked in collaboration with someone, that he simply wasn’t capable of orchestrating this crime alone. Josie had only ever described one abductor, but her recollection was so poor that she could easily have been mistaken.
Sanne shut her eyes miserably. Her colleagues thought they had closed the case. Their success had been front-page news that morning, and everyone had received a congratulatory e-mail from the brass. Bringing in a second suspect would open a can of worms—and yet she didn’t want to be accused of ignoring a lead because it might incriminate a friend of hers.
That alone was enough to make her decision for her. She typed out a text, and covered her bases by writing an e-mail as well. She copied it to every member of EDSOP, hoping that someone would be working late, that Ned would still be in holding and so blindsided by Billy Cotter’s being implicated that his reactions would give him away. As she pressed send, the truck swerved, knocking her into the doorframe and rattling her teeth.
“Sorry, love,” Billy said. “This wind’s a devil.”
Trying to ignore the sweat trickling down her back, she waved away his apology and wondered how well she knew him after all.
Chapter Twenty
Nelson had an expert poker face. It was a skill he and Sanne often utilised, and it was the reason he regularly trounced her at cards, but she had never appreciated how good it was until the moment he received her text. She had taken a risk including him in the recipients. Cold feet almost made her grab his arm in a panic as he reached for his phone, but his face betrayed nothing. He simply read her message and tucked the phone back into his pocket.
“Just the missus saying good night,” he said, in response to Billy’s quizzical glance. “She knows the reception out here is dodgy, so she won’t be waiting for a reply.”
The implicit warning made Sanne’s heart sink. She hadn’t even considered that. Sure enough, when she checked her signal it was fluctuating between one bar and none.
“Home sweet home,” Billy said as the garage came into view. He took the turn wide and edged into the yard. “You two can head in while I get everything put away.”
Sanne’s legs felt rubbery as she jumped down from the cab. Nelson gripped her arm, steadying her and then pulling her aside. He waited until Billy had driven well beyond them before speaking.
“What the hell is going on, San? Is he a suspect now?”
Behind him, lights flickered on in the reception area. If she and Nelson didn’t go inside soon, Billy or Joan would start to wonder why.
“I don’t know,” Sanne whispered. “Like I said on the text, his number’s on the list, and that rope is a match.”
“Anyone replied?”
“No.” She chewed her lip, at a loss what to do. “I probably didn’t even word it right. Did it sound crazy?”
“Yeah, a bit.” He gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “Are you sure about this?”
“No, not at all.” But as she peered into the darkened yard, she remembered the small workshops scattered around its perimeter, and a sudden need to find out what was in them began to edge out her uncertainty.
Nelson shook his head, pre-empting her. “We don’t have a warrant, San.”
“I know, but what if Rachel’s—” She stopped speaking as she spotted Joan Cotter’s profile in the window. “I’ll go in.” She raised her voice deliberately. “Why don’t you see if Billy needs a hand?”
Nelson glared at her but didn’t argue. She watched him hurry around the side of the building until she lost sight of him in the unlit yard. Then she pushed open the reception door.
“Hey, Joan. I really am sorry about this.” Heat and smoke hit her full in the face. She tried not to cough, wishing she could turn around and head straight out again.
Joan used her cigarette to wave away the apology, sending ash cascading to the floor. “Where’s your partner?”
“Helping Billy.” She hadn’t mentioned that Nelson was with her, so presumably Billy must have phoned his mum while he was hitching up the truck. The idea made Sanne uneasy, though she couldn’t pinpoint why. With no sign of either man returning from the yard, she looked past Joan into the hallway that led to the main garage. She had never been farther than the kitchenette that customers were allowed to use, but she remembered t
hat the corridor connected right through to the Cotters’ house. Having forced Nelson into an illicit search, she felt she should do more than stand around and passive smoke, so she played the oldest trick in the book.
“Do you mind if I use your loo? We’ve been stuck out there for a while.” Her voice sounded alien to her. Nervousness made her hop from foot to foot, adding unintentional credence to her request.
Joan took a long drag on her cigarette. Smoke obscured her when she exhaled. “There’s one just here. I’ll show you where it is.”
“Cheers.” Sanne followed her down the corridor, furious that she had forgotten about the grubby little cloakroom next to the kitchenette.
Joan stopped in front of it. “Is someone coming to pick you up?”
“Uh, I think so.” Sanne didn’t have the faintest clue. She knew Meg would still be at work, and she had intended to phone her about a bed for the night but had ended up sidetracked. “I’ll double-check with a friend when I’m done.”
“Billy can’t be taking you to Meg’s,” Joan said, identifying the “friend” without hesitation. “He’s running things on his own at the moment. He needs his rest.”
Sanne felt her face redden. The Cotters had done her a huge favour, and yet here she was, snooping around and thinking the worst of Billy. “I’ll call a taxi,” she said. “We’ll be out of your hair in no time, I promise.”
Joan gave her a thin smile, showing yellowed teeth clenched around her cigarette. “Use the phone at the desk. You can wait there for your taxi.” She left Sanne and went into the house, shutting the door behind her.
Sanne poked her head into the bathroom, grimacing as the odour of urine hit her. The cubicle was probably not somewhere Joan frequented. The seat had been left up, the sliver of soap on the sink was oil-smeared, and there was no toilet paper. Leaning back on the corridor wall, she stared at the carpet. Years of greasy boot prints had left a blackened trail across the red and gold pattern. She longed to follow those prints toward the light still glowing in the reception, to phone Meg, and to radio Nelson and make sure he was okay. They could come here again in daylight, with backup, a search warrant, and Eleanor’s blessing.
Instead, she went in the opposite direction, knocked hard on the door Joan had gone through, and pushed it open.
“Joan?” She raised her voice, making sure it carried. “It’s only me. Have you got any loo paper?” It was a feeble excuse for going into the house, but she wasn’t sneaking around. If Joan came and told her to leave, she would leave. “Joan? Geoff? You there?”
She walked down the narrow hall and stopped when it widened. Remnants of the business gave way to homeliness—a telephone table holding a lamp beside a china bowl of dusty potpourri, a picture of Billy, his arm flung around his dad’s shoulders, hanging next to a slightly askew Bless this Mess sign. Three doors led off the vestibule. Sanne knocked on the first.
“Joan?” She went through the door as she spoke. “Don’t mean to barge in, but there’s no loo paper.”
A well-worn leather couch took up much of the room’s floor space, while used mugs and car magazines surrounded a single armchair pulled close to the television. Something was emitting a slightly rotten scent, although the single visible plate contained only a few crumbs. Joan was nowhere to be seen, but a second door, leading off the living room, had been left ajar. Maintaining her strategy, Sanne knocked again and called out as she ventured onward. She hesitated at the bottom of a flight of stairs. They were in darkness, but she assumed Joan or Geoff must be up there, since they hadn’t heard her shouting. Using the handrail as a guide, she began to ascend.
“Joan?” Her voice fell away, and she put her hand over her nose and mouth. “Jesus.”
The foul smell she had noticed in the living room was now intense, and it hit her full force. There was no mistaking it: something or someone up there was dead.
“Fuck.” She hurtled up the remaining stairs, no longer caring about procedure or how she might explain her actions to her superiors.
To the left of the landing a clock ticked, but not loudly enough to muffle a scrabble of movement in the only room showing a strip of light beneath its door. A harsh, phlegm-rattled cough from behind the door told Sanne she had found Joan. She looked around the landing, struggling to distinguish shapes in the gloom. There was nothing she could use as a weapon, so she pulled her CS gas from the pocket of her combats. Her hands shook as she primed the canister, and she had to take a breath to calm herself. Then she kicked the door open, catching a glimpse of a bloodstained double bed and a pink sheet on the floor in the instant before the light snapped off.
Disorientated, she made a blind grab for the doorjamb. She whipped her head from left to right, trying to gauge where a potential assailant might be, but no one attacked her, and nothing leapt out from the shadows. With her hand still in contact with the wood, she inched forward, willing her eyes to adjust, even as she readied the CS gas.
“Joan, put the light back on,” she said.
There was no reply, but she could hear stifled wheezing from the near side of the bed. The vile smell was more distinct, breaking down into its component parts—faeces, blood, and decomposition. She slid her hand over the wall, feeling in vain for a light switch. The squeak and rasp of Joan’s breathing stayed constant, a lure just out of reach.
“I’m going to come over to you. I don’t want you to move, okay?” She left the relative safety of the door and moved slowly toward the bed, her eyes gradually becoming accustomed to the light, allowing her to make out Joan’s profile, black and featureless as she stood waiting.
“I didn’t mean to do it!” Joan’s frantic hiss made Sanne’s skin crawl.
“Didn’t mean to do what?” Sanne was close now, not quite within touching distance but close enough to see that Joan’s eyes were wide glints of grey-white. “Joan, I can’t help you unless you tell me what’s going on.”
Completely focused on her target, she stumbled as her foot jammed against something solid. She tried to draw back but wavered, off-balance, her trainer snared in the sheet she had forgotten about. She lurched forward, and her hands touched the bed, springs bouncing beneath her fingers and loosening her hold on the gas canister. Sensing movement, she glanced up and saw Joan’s raised arm.
“Don’t!”
She dropped instinctively, twisting to the side to land in an awkward crouch. She felt the rush of air as a heavy object swung past her ear. Missing her completely, it hit the bed, and she heard Joan grunt with anger and with the effort of lifting it again. Sanne hurled herself forward, colliding with Joan’s midriff and then moaning in pain as Joan brought the weapon down across her shoulders. The shock of the blow made her arms and hands numb. She kicked out instead, aiming for Joan’s knees and scoring a solid hit on a bone that collapsed beneath her trainer. Joan screeched, flailing for leverage, and Sanne kicked again, hearing the clatter of metal as Joan lost her hold on her weapon.
“It wasn’t my fault!” Joan didn’t have the energy to scream, but she was trying, her voice rising and falling in a shattered wail. A cough became an uncontrollable bout that racked her thin body.
Folding one of Joan’s arms behind her, Sanne shoved her against the bed. Too distracted by coughing, Joan offered no resistance as Sanne found her handcuffs and eventually managed to fasten them around Joan’s wrists.
“Where’s the fucking light switch?” She hauled Joan closer to her.
Joan spat in her face.
“You’re under arrest,” Sanne said, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand and retrieving the canister from the bed. “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.” She recited the Miranda by rote, leaving Joan to curse and rage and demand an ambulance for the hip Sanne had probably broken.
There was a lamp just visible on the bedside table. When Sanne flicked its switch, Joan screamed and buried her face in the mattress. Poised
to radio for backup, Sanne froze with her finger on the priority button.
“My God.” She looked down at the pink sheet that covered the floor. “What did you do?”
There was a body beneath the sheet. It lay motionless, its distended abdomen an ominous mound. Fluids had seeped into the cotton, creating an obscene Rorschach blotch.
“Is that Rachel?” she whispered, even as she knelt at the head and gently lifted the sheet. She rocked back on her heels as she recognised the face.
“He was going to tell on my boy.” Joan’s voice, calmer now, cut through the silence with measured precision. “I couldn’t let him do that.” She held Sanne’s gaze, refusing to look at her husband’s body. “I couldn’t let him do that.”
Sanne scrambled to her feet, ignoring the shooting pain across her back and the acrid taste of bile in her mouth. “Where’s Rachel? Where is she?”
Joan had started to rock back and forth, her eyes glazed. Giving up waiting for a response, Sanne raised her radio instead.
“Nelson?” she shouted over the open channel. “Nelson, please come in. Nelson?” Bypassing priority, she hit the emergency button instead. “I need backup now! Cotters Garage, Lower Bank Road, off the Snake Pass. Officer down. Repeat, officer down!”
Confident that Joan was incapacitated, she sprinted down the stairs. On the radio, a police unit called out an ETA of twenty minutes. She hooked the handset onto her belt as she shoved the living room door open and dodged past the furniture. She slowed as she approached the reception area. It was the most likely place for Billy to launch an attack. She strained to listen for him, her hand tense around the gas canister. All she could hear was her own laboured breathing and panicked heartbeat. The door creaked when she pushed it, the noise grating on her nerves, but the reception was empty. She snatched up a wrench abandoned by the desk, the cool heft of the metal giving her the impetus to go through into the yard.
