by Cari Hunter
“I can imagine.” Sanne put a hand to her forehead, frowning when it came away tacky with blood.
“What took you into the house, Sanne?” Eleanor asked quietly.
“I needed loo paper.” Sanne wiped her fingers on the blanket, covering them with fluff. “I shouted for Joan and Geoff, but then there was this smell.”
“And you surmised from that that a life was potentially at risk?”
“Yes…” She tried not to make it sound too much like a question.
Eleanor gave a curt nod. “Good enough for me. You broke that bitch’s hip, by the way. She’s saying nothing, but the ME estimated Geoff had only been dead for around forty-eight hours.”
Sanne thought back to the first time Joan had mentioned Geoff being “off sick.” It had been at least four days ago. Just when she thought this case couldn’t get any more appalling, it took delight in proving her wrong.
“They crippled him and left him to die, didn’t they?” she asked.
Eleanor refused to commit. “We’ll know more after the post mortem.” She stood and smoothed her jacket. “I’m going to need a statement from you, obviously, but I don’t want to see you in the office until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.”
Given the gravity of the night’s events, that was a generous leave of absence. Sanne nodded her agreement.
“You did well,” Eleanor said. “There’s still a lot to sort out, but you and Nelson did a great job on this one. I have to get back to the scene. Make sure you wait for Dr. Fielding. That’s an order, Sanne.”
Sanne watched her go out into the ambulance bay. The corridor was quiet, with only the occasional medic flitting through, paying her no attention. She took hold of the scrubs and pushed up from the chair. The directions on the wall in front of her swam, the letters switching order and their colours merging.
“Shit.” Breathing through her nose, she walked slowly to the staff toilet, where a health care assistant entered the code for her. She shut the door, sat on the floor, and threw up into the toilet. Tears blinded her. She wanted to clean her face and rinse her mouth, but she couldn’t get to the sink. Resting her head on her knees, she stopped trying.
*
“Bit shorter than me. Blue fleece and combats. Fucking big bandage on her head. Ring any bells?” Meg didn’t mean to shout at the nurses standing around the desk, but they really weren’t helping.
“Try the staff loo, Doc.”
Meg spun around to face a health care assistant whose name she didn’t know.
“I let her in there about ten minutes ago,” the man said. “Haven’t seen her since.”
“Thank you.” Meg ran to the toilet and banged on the door, only then realising that its secondary lock wasn’t engaged. After three attempts, she managed to punch in the right access code. “Sanne? Sanne, it’s me.” She opened the door a crack, then swore and opened it fully. On the verge of yelling for help, she changed her mind when she saw Sanne stir. Vomit covered the toilet rim, so she closed the lid and sat on the floor beside her.
“Is Rachel okay?” Sanne sounded drunk, her words blurring together.
“Mostly. She’s gone up to HDU. Her injuries were fairly minor, but she’s dehydrated, malnourished, and anaemic. They can keep a close eye on her there.”
Sanne’s head bobbed in a vague semblance of a nod. “Did he rape her?”
“Yes.” There was nothing Meg could say to soften it.
Sanne closed her eyes, and a sob rattled her body. “She fought so fucking hard, Meg. Even after everything he did, she stopped him from putting her in that van.”
“I know,” Meg said, but she couldn’t bear to elaborate. Her last task before handing Rachel to the HDU team had been to set Rachel’s fractures. She had broken both wrists trying to untie herself. Meg wiped her damp palms against her trousers. It would be a long time before she came to terms with what she had seen in the shock room, if she ever did. She put her arm around Sanne, craving the contact and the reassurance that Sanne was relatively unscathed.
“Still feeling sick?” she asked.
Sanne burrowed into her warmth. “Not really.”
“Shall I stitch you up, then we can go home?”
“Can you do it here?”
“That wouldn’t be very hygienic.”
“Suppose not.”
Meg stroked the tufts of hair sticking out from Sanne’s bandage. “You’ve got to stop scaring me like this.”
“Sorry,” Sanne mumbled. She sounded half-asleep. Hugging her tightly, Meg gave them both a minute to rest.
*
“All done.” Meg smoothed a dressing over the laceration on Sanne’s forehead. “Try to keep the stitches dry. I’ll snip them out for you in a week or so.”
“Thank you.” Sanne forced herself to leave the comfort of the pillow and sit on the edge of the bed.
“I’ll get my coat. You stay right there, okay?”
“Yep.” Staying right there seemed like an excellent idea. She hurt in far more places than she had admitted to, but Meg was fretting enough as it was, and Sanne didn’t want to be marched straight home.
Meg was back in the cubicle within minutes, out of breath and already putting on her coat. Her movements became less harried when she saw that Sanne hadn’t done anything stupid in her absence.
“Nelson’s just gone up to the ward,” she said. “Concussion and a hairline fracture. He was asleep when they wheeled him past me, but his wife sends her love.”
Relief constricted Sanne’s throat. She could only nod and allow Meg to support her as she stood.
Meg regarded her carefully and then tipped her chin with a finger. “You want to go and see Josie, don’t you?”
At times Sanne forgot how clearly Meg could read her. She nodded again. Even if Josie was asleep or with her family, Sanne just needed to see for herself that she was all right.
“Come on, then.” Meg waggled her finger like a stern schoolmistress. “But the first wobble from you, and you’re going in a wheelchair.”
“I won’t wobble.” Sanne focused on putting one foot in front of the other. “I might fall flat on my face, but I won’t wobble.”
On the Neuro Rehab ward, the nurse recognised Sanne and Meg from their previous visits.
“Ahh…” he said, drawing the word out and looking guilty. It didn’t take a genius to fathom what he had done.
“HDU, then?” Sanne asked.
“Yeah. I took her as soon as her mum left. I think she’d have crawled there if I hadn’t helped her.”
“Can’t say I blame you,” Meg said.
The creases eased from his brow as his stance relaxed. “I’m guessing you know where it is.”
The HDU was a small unit comprising five walled bays. Sanne showed her ID to a doctor, who directed her and Meg to the end of the row where a single light shone and a nurse stood making notes on an observation chart. The nurse put her finger to her lips as they approached. Hesitating in front of the bay, Sanne saw why. She bit hard on the inside of her cheek, but tears still filled her eyes.
Wrapped in each other’s arms, Rachel and Josie were asleep, their faces peaceful, their hands clasped together. Although they were unaware of their audience, it seemed too intimate a moment for such a public setting. Sanne longed to pull the curtain closed and give them the privacy they deserved. Instead, she bowed her head and led Meg away without saying a word. They walked in silence past the nurses’ station, only stopping once they were back in the corridor.
“Don’t cry, love. Here.” Meg took out a tissue and dabbed at Sanne’s cheeks.
Sanne used the tissue to blow her nose. Exhaustion was making her eyes burn. “This was never going to have a happy ending, was it?”
“No.” Meg’s voice was hollow and wretched. “I think that’s about as happy an ending as you could hope for.”
*
Having parked as close to her front door as she could without hitting the steps, Meg yanked her keys from the ignition and
jogged round to Sanne’s side of the car. Sanne had become increasingly restless during the journey, and the weak overhead light was enough to show the gleam of sweat on her forehead. Her face went from pale to ashen as she got out of her seat and straightened in agonised increments. She hobbled to the door like a geriatric with widespread arthritis, kicking at her trainers in the hallway to avoid bending.
Crouching in her stead, Meg unfastened the laces. “Sanne Jensen,” she said, levering off the first shoe. “What else are you hiding?” She had seen the bruises and scrapes caused by Sanne diving from the path of the van, but nothing that would debilitate her to this extent.
“I’m fine,” Sanne whispered. “Can I have a shower?”
Meg didn’t argue, merely following Sanne into the bathroom and perching on the side of the bath to watch her fail to get undressed. The scrubs trousers came off without a hitch, but the top defeated her. Suspecting that the problem was muscular, Meg set the bath running and took a pair of scissors from the cabinet. She turned Sanne into the light and pulled the cloth of her top taut.
“Joan hit me,” Sanne said, surrendering to the inevitable. “It’s just stiffened up, that’s all.”
“Mmhm.” Meg chopped at the cotton, grateful that the NHS budget only ran to cheap, thin material. The shirt fell away, and she gave a low whistle of dismay. The upper third of Sanne’s back was one mottled bruise, with a raised purple line stretching between her shoulders. It was little wonder she hadn’t wanted to lift her arms. “Bloody hell, San. What did she use, a tyre iron?”
“I’m not sure. I suppose it might’ve been.” Sanne gave a small ironic laugh. “I was too busy trying to stop her from cracking me over the head with it.”
“Nasty cow.”
Sanne sucked in a breath as Meg touched the inflamed skin. A few inches higher and it could have been worse, so much worse.
“If it’s any consolation, I broke her hip,” Sanne said, interrupting Meg’s morbid train of thought.
“That does make me feel a bit better.” Meg kissed Sanne’s cheek and led her to the bath, where she eased herself beneath the suds. “Don’t duck your head under. I’ll wash your hair for you.”
The combination of heat, the late hour, and an adrenaline crash made Sanne unusually quiescent. Sighing deeply, she edged onto her side and let Meg tend to her. Once the water began to cool, Meg coaxed her out and wrapped her in a towel.
“Take these. They’re paracetamol,” Meg said.
Sanne accepted the tablets without complaint.
“And codeine,” Meg added, once she was sure Sanne had swallowed them.
Sanne rolled her eyes at the subterfuge, but Meg didn’t feel an ounce of remorse. She knew that Sanne needed sleep more than anything, and that she was such a lightweight when it came to drugs that even a low dose of codeine would knock her out. Working quickly, Meg managed to get her dressed and tucked into bed before that happened.
“I’m going to get a shower. I’ll be back in five minutes.” She stroked Sanne’s cheek, urging her to close her eyes. “You have sweet dreams.”
The drugs had hit Sanne hard. She mumbled something nonsensical, pressing her lips to Meg’s palm.
“I love you too,” Meg whispered, and dimmed the light.
Chapter Twenty-two
An undignified roll got Sanne out of bed as the church clock chimed eleven. Neatly folded on the dresser were clothes Meg had set out in readiness: a loose shirt, trousers, and slippers in lieu of socks. Meg must have heard her moving around, because a fresh breakfast of toast and cereal, set alongside a mug of tea and three painkillers, awaited her when she came downstairs.
“Take the white ones now, and the pink one after you’ve eaten,” Meg said, prodding Sanne’s stitches with professional efficiency.
“What exactly are they?” Sanne asked, wary of being slipped another Mickey. She needed to be awake enough to go to headquarters and give her statement.
“Paracetamol and Brufen. Nothing stronger, I promise.” Meg displayed the packets as proof. “Eleanor phoned an hour ago. Everyone’s as well as can be expected, and you’re due in at one. Seeing as you have no car and—judging by your buttons—no dexterity, I’ll drive you over there.”
“You don’t need to do that. I can get a taxi.” Sanne glanced at her shirt. She’d missed two of the buttons and fastened the rest in an arbitrary order. “Bugger.”
Meg knelt by her and began to sort out the mess. “They need to speak to me too, San. I can take a few journals to read while I wait for you to finish. Just humour me, okay?” An unfamiliar pleading note in her voice caught Sanne’s attention.
“Hey.” Sanne waited until Meg looked up, and for the first time she noticed Meg’s barely combed hair and the puffy, blackened skin beneath her eyes. “Did you get any sleep?” she asked quietly.
“A little.” Meg seemed to reconsider. “No, not much.”
“A lift to work would be lovely,” Sanne said, and reached for the paracetamol.
*
No one in EDSOP stood on ceremony. When Sanne entered the office, there was no applause, no colleagues lining up to hug her and offer their congratulations. Fred and George grinned at her, though, and Jay tipped an imaginary hat, while Mike Hallet lifted his mug in salute. On her desk, she found two Double Decker bars, displaying a Post-it note that read: Nice one, mate. Feeling ten feet tall, she stuck the note on her monitor. She was about to switch the computer on when Eleanor summoned her.
“I’ve asked Jay to take your statement,” Eleanor said. “I’m assuming Duncan has already waylaid Dr. Fielding.”
“Yes. He met us in the corridor.” Meg had given Sanne a parting kiss on the cheek that made Carlyle trip over his feet.
Eleanor ushered Sanne into her office, shutting the door as Sanne sat down.
“First things first. Do you need to speak to a counsellor about what happened last night?” She asked the question in her usual perfunctory manner, but there was genuine concern in her expression, and she paid close attention to Sanne’s reaction.
“No, ma’am. Thank you, though.”
Eleanor made a note in her file. “How’s the head?”
“Sore, but I’d rather get this done.”
“I appreciate that. I wanted to bring you up to speed, and then I need to ask you something.”
“Okay.” Sanne felt remarkably sanguine. She couldn’t alter anything that had happened, and she was certain that she would make the same choices again if identical circumstances arose.
“I interviewed Rachel this morning,” Eleanor said. “She was able to give a detailed and cogent account. It seems Cotter didn’t drug her, so she remembers almost everything.” She paused to drink from a mug of coffee that looked hours old. When she continued, her voice had lost its seasoned detachment. “I think it would have been a kindness if he had used drugs.”
Sanne knew she would have to read the transcript at some point, but with everything still so raw, she tried to focus on the practicalities instead. “Did Rachel say how Billy had come into contact with them? Had they met through the garage?” It was the most obvious explanation, even though he had claimed not to recognise the couple when she and Nelson had initially questioned him.
“Yes. They had a flat battery on their rental car, and Billy went out to the cottage to replace it. Rachel couldn’t pinpoint anything unusual about his behaviour, but that day was most likely the catalyst.”
Sanne leaned forward, the fog in her head lifting as she began to draw elements of the case together. Her eyes widened as she considered the timeline. “Jesus, Rachel was probably in that workshop when we went to the garage that first time. Billy was so fucking eager to help. He even offered to recheck all their recent jobs for us.”
“Easy enough to do that when you know you’ve purged the one that’d incriminate you. He never billed the car rental agency, so the job wasn’t recorded at their end,” Eleanor said.
Sanne was on a roll. “What about the Land Rover, an
d Callum Clark? Was Clark involved in the abductions?”
Eleanor went to take another sip of coffee, and then seemed to have second thoughts and put the mug down. “Yes. Well, no, possibly not in that sense. Rachel identified Billy Cotter as the sole perpetrator. Ned Moseley was released on bail a couple of hours ago, and Clark is down in holding on suspicion of assisting an offender. We got access to Cotter’s bank records early this morning, and Scotty’s spent the day trawling through them. Four days ago, Cotter purchased an Audi A4. Digging a little deeper, Scotty also found a record of a Land Rover that Cotter bought in February through the same auction centre. No surprise that it matches the vehicle from Turner Street.”
“Billy probably bought the Landie as a fixer-upper,” Sanne said. “He’s always had old wrecks lying around the yard. Most likely he just used it because it was convenient. And Clark bragged about a new car to one of the junior doctors.”
Her enthusiastic deduction brought a smile to Eleanor’s face. “Clark is the current registered owner of a 2007 Audi A4. According to his preliminary interview, the car was totally worth slicing up his hand for, so that he could feed us information about Moseley’s lock-up. He and Cotter were casual drinking buddies, and he didn’t ask any questions as to Cotter’s motives, because apparently he’s a fucking lackwit.”
Sanne frowned. “But he didn’t tell the police, he told Emily—Ah.” She felt herself flush. “He took a roundabout route, didn’t he?”
“Exactly. Cotter persuaded him to go to Dr. Fielding. If he’d come directly to us, we might have started to ask why. Throwing in an extra loop made his story more plausible.”
“And I took the bait. Hook, line, and sinker. Bloody hell.” Sanne hid her face in her hands, mortified that her relationship with Meg had been exploited in such a way. She thought of Ned Moseley, frantic and bewildered during questioning, trying to uphold some misguided code and protect his friend, who in turn had lied and schemed to shift the blame onto him. Greed had motivated Callum Clark’s involvement, but Billy had taken advantage of Ned’s vulnerability in a particularly insidious way. Had Billy been standing in the workshop with Rachel when he’d answered Sanne’s phone call the previous night? The likelihood of that, and the gratitude she had felt when he’d agreed to help her, made her want to punch something hard and keep punching until it smashed.
