by Cari Hunter
Keeping to the side of the building, she jogged around to the main garage. Rain and mist obscured the yard, forcing her to dry her eyes every few seconds. Ahead of her, the automated shutters on the garage gaped wide, and a light blinked like a warning beacon as it swayed in the wind. She sobbed quietly when she caught the faint hum of Nelson’s radio coming from somewhere beyond the threshold. She could be walking into a trap, she knew, but the thought of Nelson lying injured or worse compelled her to take the quickest route, straight across the yard toward the garage entrance.
She had only covered a fraction of the distance when she was blinded by a sudden flare of light. She stopped dead, unable to pinpoint its source, shielding her eyes and bracing herself for whatever was going to happen. An engine roared, impossibly loud, and tyres spun on the wet gravel, the sound bouncing back off the cavernous building. She had no time to turn. From the corner of her eye, she saw the van bearing down on her, its tyres jumping through potholes and puddles, giving it the appearance of a living thing.
“Oh, fuck—”
Her body responded before her brain could process the danger. Hurtling out of the van’s path, she lost her footing almost at once, momentum carrying her forward until she landed sprawled on the gravel. Her forehead thumped against something sharp-edged and unyielding, and for an instant, all light and sound was gone.
When she opened her eyes again, the van was thirty yards away, its rear lights casting a red hue on the mist as it sped past the reception. Gasping, with blood hot on her face, she managed to get to her knees and then stand. The abrupt movement made her retch, and she spat a thin stream of vomit and blood into the dirt. With more caution, she raised her head again. The taillights were still visible, the bumpy track slowing the van to a crawl. She limped after it, determined to see its registration plate and in which direction it would head at the main road, but it gained speed as it approached the junction, the driver not seeming to care about traffic. It swung right without pausing, and a split second later, a tumultuous crunch of metal slamming into metal made Sanne weave precariously. Pulling up short, she watched through the rain as the van folded in on itself, its side buckling under the impact of a ten-wheeler lorry. Smoke poured off the lorry’s tyres and its brakes squealed as its momentum took it past the junction, forcing the van ahead of it, its trailer juddering violently, before it finally came to a halt.
Blood trickled from Sanne’s forehead, clouding her view of the carnage on the road. The din had set her ears ringing. She set off running toward the crash, rubbing at her eyes, trying not to think about what it might have done to anyone dumped, unrestrained, in the back of the van. As she got closer, she could see the lorry driver in his cab. He was conscious and seemed to be trying to release his seatbelt.
“Are you okay?” she yelled. He nodded, looking dazed. She nodded back and darted round the cab to the van. An anguished cry through its smashed windscreen told her that Billy Cotter had survived the collision. He wasn’t her priority, though. The lorry was crushing the driver’s side, so she ran around to the far side and wrenched the rear door open. She bent double, her guts aching, when she saw the empty compartment. She took her frustration and relief out on the van, rattling its bodywork as she slammed the door shut.
Billy didn’t seem to have noticed her at first. Through the shattered passenger window, she could see that he was trapped, his right leg pinned beneath the steering column. His only other obvious injuries were two deep slashes across his face and neck that were bleeding profusely. He didn’t have a weapon. His hands were empty. She opened the passenger door.
“Sanne, help. My leg’s stuck.” His entreaty came out as a pathetic whine, and she could see teeth gleaming through the laceration on his cheek as he spoke. It wasn’t clear what he’d cut himself on, but the wounds were severe.
“I don’t give a shit about your leg,” she said, and her vehemence made his head jerk. “Where are they?”
“Who? I don’t know what you mean. Please, Sanne, get me out of here.”
She batted away his hand. “Nelson and Rachel,” she said clearly. “Tell me where they are, and I’ll radio for an ambulance.”
His expression hardened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He was wasting time. She wanted to grab his neck and smack his face into the steering wheel until he told her the truth. Instead, she yelped, as a hand touched her shoulder.
“Easy, love.” The lorry driver stepped back again, out of the line of fire.
She shook her head, splattering crimson on the van’s leather seat. “I’m a detective.” She pulled her ID from her pocket and angled it to the light so he could see it. “More police are on the way.”
There was a coil of rope and a toolbox in the footwell. She grabbed the rope and bound Billy’s hands to the steering wheel. She had lost her CS gas and wrench somewhere in the yard, but the toolbox was full of makeshift weapons. She handed the lorry driver a spanner and a hammer, and helped herself to a Maglite.
“If he so much as fucking blinks at you wrong, feel free to clobber him.”
“What the hell did he do?” The lorry driver looked from Billy to the hammer.
“Tried to kill me,” she said, cutting a long story short. “I need to find my partner. Stay here, okay?”
He shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
After the shock and turmoil of the crash, the Cotters’ yard was eerie in its stillness. Nelson’s radio was still chattering, unheeded, as Sanne ran into the garage. She found a panel of switches and tried three before a strip light came on.
“Nelson?”
A deep groan followed by a cough guided her into the second vehicle bay. She spotted his boots first, sticking up out of an inspection pit. He was trying to move, but his efforts were lethargic and uncoordinated. She jumped down beside him and pinched his ear until he opened his eyes. With her other hand, she felt his skull, finding a large swelling at the back of his head.
“Hey, mate,” she said, as he licked his lips in confusion. She took off her jacket and tucked it around him. Even though it was soaked, the inner layer would be warm. “You stay still, now. There’s an ambulance coming. I’m going to try to find Rachel.” Her voice broke as his eyes closed again. She didn’t want to leave him, didn’t know what to do for the best.
“Third workshop, set back with no windows,” he whispered, pushing at her with both hands. “Billy was over there with a van. He saw me watching. Go.”
She didn’t need telling twice. Following his instructions, it was easy to find the building, even though it was mostly concealed between two larger workshops. Its door was locked but rattled loose in the frame when she shook the handle. Hearing sirens whooping in the distance, she began to pound her foot against the lowest panel. It splintered into pieces, scratching and tearing at her trousers. Holding the Maglite in her teeth, she clawed at the shattered wood, snapping it and throwing it aside until she’d created an opening big enough to crawl through.
Knowing that she was probably too late, she held her breath as she straightened on the other side. The Maglite’s thin beam afforded her snapshots of the room’s contents: a bucket, a chair lying upended, a bare mattress. She had taken a step, intending to call Rachel’s name, when someone barrelled into her with enough force to send her back against the wall. She threw up her hands, catching hold of a bony arm that was trying to shove a shard of crockery into her neck.
“Rachel, stop!” There was no one else it could be.
Rachel gave a weak cry, sagging into Sanne’s arms and taking them both onto the cold concrete. The piece of broken plate smashed as she let it drop. Sanne saw thick strings of blood already glistening on the fragments. The wounds she had seen on Billy’s face suddenly made more sense.
“It’s okay, I’m with the police,” she said. “You’re safe now, honey. You’re safe.”
Rachel whimpered, the sound choked and faint and agonised. She clung to Sanne’s fleece, wrapping it in her fists. F
rayed strands of rope still encircled her swollen wrists, and she was naked apart from an old overcoat. Dried blood and contusions covered the skin left exposed.
“He said he would come back for me.” Her voice was so hoarse she couldn’t raise it above a whisper. “I couldn’t let him touch me again.”
She began to cry, her body shaking with the violence of her sobs, but she wore herself out within seconds and leaned limply against Sanne’s chest. Somewhere on the road, a howl of sirens reached a crescendo and then stopped. Through the broken wood of the door, Sanne could see far-off flashes of red and blue lights. Rachel cowered as men yelled in the distance, but they seemed to have been distracted by the traffic collision.
“Do you want me to help you out of here?” Sanne asked. The room stank, making the air difficult to bear, and no one beside Nelson knew where they were. She felt Rachel nod, and she guided her to her feet. “Let me just get these sorted.” One by one, she fastened the buttons on Rachel’s coat.
“Did you find Josie?” Rachel asked, stuttering on the question. She folded her arms as if to protect herself from the answer.
“We found her. She’s fine,” Sanne said, and the material slipped from her fingers as Rachel’s knees buckled. Sanne grabbed her to stop her from collapsing.
“What do you mean?” Rachel was struggling to stand, her eyes fixed on Sanne’s in the dull light. “She—she can’t be! He said he’d—he told me he’d killed her.”
Sanne shook her head, cursing her own lack of forethought. She should have anticipated this. “No, he lied, Rachel. Josie got away from him, so he lied. She’s in the hospital, but she’s okay.”
Rachel’s hand flew to her mouth. “Promise me?” she whispered. “Promise me you’re telling the truth.”
Sanne crossed her heart, the gesture bringing a slight smile to Rachel’s face. When she held out a hand, Rachel clasped it in both of hers.
“I promise,” Sanne said.
Chapter Twenty-one
There were times when Meg wished she were a smoker, or at least a nail biter. Ordinarily, the prospect of a multi-casualty incident wouldn’t faze her, but knowing that one of those casualties was Sanne made it the perfect occasion to start a nasty habit.
“You’ve already checked that,” Emily said, nodding at the IV tray.
Meg gave up fiddling with the tray’s contents and chewed the side of her thumb instead.
“Sanne did say that she was all right,” Emily reminded her.
“I know.” Meg had received a brief text from Sanne minutes after the pre-alert from the ambulance service. Since then, half the police force seemed to have arrived at the hospital, including Eleanor, who had gone upstairs to speak to Josie.
Rachel’s a mess, but alive, the text read. I banged my head, and it’s bled a bit. Fine though. See you soon. Reading between the lines, Meg translated that as, I am covered in claret. Please don’t panic when you see me, which hadn’t exactly filled her with confidence.
“Come on,” Emily said. “I can hear sirens.”
“Right.” Meg dropped her gloves, swore at them, and plucked out another pair.
Stopping in front of her, Emily barred the door. “Breathe, Dr. Fielding.”
Meg nodded and took an exaggerated breath.
The first crew passed them halfway down the corridor with a familiar figure strapped to a scoop stretcher. Despite being immobilised, Nelson waved when he spotted Meg.
“Got to stop meeting like this,” she said as he was manoeuvred past.
“She’s in the next one, by the way,” he said.
“Does she look better than you?” Meg called after him. She heard him laugh.
“Always!”
When she turned back, Sanne was the first person she saw. She had prepared herself for the worst, but Sanne was hurrying alongside a stretcher, easily keeping up with its pace, heedless of her bloodied face and the stained dressing wrapped around her head. She tried to smile at Meg, though she couldn’t quite manage it.
“Shock room,” Meg said, feeling a terrible sense of déjà vu as the unconscious patient—Rachel, she realised—was steered past. She caught hold of Sanne’s sleeve, stopping her.
“I need to stay with her,” Sanne said, trying to pull away.
“No, you need to get your head looked at.”
“I’m okay. I have to—”
“Sanne.” Meg tightened her grip. Water was seeping from Sanne’s sodden fleece and dripping to the floor. “There’s a specially trained officer in there, and a consultant from St. Margaret’s. I should be in there, and instead I’m arguing with you.” She hated herself for using such an underhand tactic, but it worked. The tension left Sanne’s muscles, and she stepped back from the door.
“I really am okay,” she whispered.
“I know you are.” Meg walked her over to a line of wheelchairs and sat her in the first one. “How about a compromise? You stay here, try not to bleed on my floor, and I’ll come and get you cleaned up as soon as I can.” She rested her hand on Sanne’s cold cheek. Sanne closed her eyes and nodded reluctantly.
During her years as a doctor, Meg had had to make some shitty decisions, but abandoning Sanne in the corridor was one of the hardest things she had ever done. She turned her back before she could change her mind, and headed straight into the shock room.
*
Sanne wasn’t sure how she’d avoided being dragged off to provide a statement. So far, it seemed no one milling about the corridor was senior enough to debrief her, and they had all given her a wide berth. She tried to sit up straight for when someone did come, but the movement made her grip the chair until her fingers ached. Her head throbbed, the skin across her shoulders was tense and swollen, and she felt chilled to the bone despite the warmth of the corridor.
The sound of hasty footsteps forced her to lift her head again, and she tried not to groan aloud. A nurse was bustling toward her.
“Mucky bandage and wet-through clothing. You must be Sanne,” the nurse said. “I’m Liz.” Without giving Sanne a chance to protest, she wrapped a thick blanket around her, draped clean scrubs over the arm of the chair, and handed her a mug of tea. “White, no sugar. Did Meg get it right? Because I never know with her.”
“Spot on. Thank you.” Sanne cradled the mug, sending needles of heat through her fingers. “How are Rachel and Nelson doing?”
“The policeman? He’ll be off to X-ray in a few minutes, but the doc doesn’t think his head injury is too serious. They’re still assessing Rachel, so I can’t tell you much there.”
“Is she awake?” The paramedics had given Rachel enough morphine to ensure she was comfortable throughout the journey, and she had slept most of the way in.
“No, she’ll be asleep for a while yet.” Liz pulled the blanket closed at Sanne’s neck, fussing with its edges. “They sedated her so they could examine her properly.”
Sanne nodded, but the few sips of tea she had drunk threatened rebellion in her stomach. The elation of finding Rachel alive had swiftly been superseded by the horror of what she had suffered.
“What happened to the bastard who did this?” Liz asked. “He’s not coming here, is he?” Twin flares of red coloured her cheeks as she kicked the wheel of the chair behind Sanne.
“No. They took him and his mum to Manchester Central, to keep them away from Rachel and Josie. Their families shouldn’t have to—” Sanne realised her voice had risen. Trying to be professional, she tempered it and chose her words carefully. “It wasn’t appropriate to bring them here.”
Billy’s only apparent injuries had been a fracture to his lower leg and the facial wounds Rachel had inflicted, which meant that EDSOP should be able to question him within the next couple of days. As they still had no idea whether anyone else had been involved in the abductions, Ned Moseley remained in custody. Sanne had only just read the messages on her phone informing her that his transfer from the holding cells had made it impossible for anyone to question him about Billy’s poten
tial involvement. In any case, events since then had rendered the urgency of her request moot.
“I better get back,” Liz said. “You should change out of those wet things.”
“I will.” Sanne didn’t even attempt to sound convincing. She had no intention of moving. Liz made a sceptical noise beneath her breath but left without pushing the point. As her footsteps faded, the sharp tap of heels took their place.
“Is there a reason you’re not in a bed?” Eleanor’s voice held none of its usual edge, and she crouched so that Sanne didn’t have to look up at her.
“I wanted to wait, boss. Meg’s going to check me over when she’s got a minute.” Sanne didn’t have the energy to worry about what Eleanor might say. She just sat and waited for the tirade.
Eleanor pulled a chair alongside Sanne’s and sighed in relief as she sat down. “Carlyle’s over at HMP Nottingham with Ned Moseley. Moseley’s admitted to being friends with Cotter. Close as brothers, he reckons, the stupid sod. He agreed to hold on to Cotter’s porn stash, after Cotter told him his dad would kick him out if it ever got found at home.”
“Christ. Why the hell didn’t Ned say something?”
Eleanor opened her hands in exasperation. “Because Cotter was supposed to be his best mate, and in Moseley’s words, ‘Best mates don’t snitch.’”
“Even when facing a jail sentence?”
“I don’t think he ever expected things to get to that point. Carlyle said he seemed sure Cotter would come forward and help him out. Instead, it’s looking increasingly like Best Mate Billy set the poor sap up. Cotter knew about the garage on Turner Street, and he had his own key to Moseley’s house.”
Sanne had a hundred questions chasing each other around her aching head, but she couldn’t marshal any of them. “Did you tell Josie?” she asked eventually.
“Yes.” Eleanor shuddered, the movement so subtle that Sanne almost missed it. “Her family are with her, practically sitting on her to keep her in her bed. I’ve never seen anyone so happy in one breath and so devastated in the next.”
