Senseless

by Ed James

  Corcoran finished his coffee, the taste turning bitter. ‘Regularly?’

  ‘Like clockwork, mate. Every Monday, Wednesday, Friday.’

  Corcoran felt a stabbing pain in his gut, that familiar realisation that someone could know her movements inside out, could know precisely where she’d be at what time. Someone who’d followed her for a couple of weeks and established a pattern.

  Or someone who knew her.

  Six

  [18:17]

  Sarah Langton lived in a two-storey stone cottage, the low-maintenance front garden filled with pebbles and mature shrubs. It looked empty and dark. Had to be rented – no way a young couple could afford to own a house here. Inside, a cat mewed, pawing at the door.

  ‘Someone needs to feed him.’

  Butcher was leaning back against his car, arms folded, lips pressed tight. ‘Better remind Christopher.’

  Corcoran took another scan of the house. ‘So, this Andy?’

  ‘Three doors down.’ Butcher set off, leaving the stone end of the street for the more modern brick incursion, post-war and still way out of a cop’s price range. He opened a squeaking garden gate and walked up the short path, giving the door a sharp policeman’s knock.

  Over by a small shed, an angle grinder hid under a navy tarpaulin. Sawdust heaped in a sagging pile, rain-free, unlike the rest of the garden. Meaning freshly used.

  The door clunked open and the reek of fresh paint burst out, slightly masking the smell of cooking garlic. A man stood there, his topless torso splashed with emulsion, his running shorts somehow escaping it. Late twenties, but his thick beard was streaked white with paint, giving him the look of an ancient mariner. A few seconds of staring at Butcher, then he frowned. ‘Is there some news about Sarah?’

  ‘Can we come in, Andy?’

  ‘It’s bad? Shit.’ Andy collapsed back against the wall. Stayed standing, but it looked touch and go.

  ‘We’ve found her. Alive. She’s not in a good way, but she’s alive.’

  Worry eased off Andy’s face. Then it tightened again. ‘How bad a way are we talking?’

  Corcoran stepped in front of Butcher and cleared his throat. ‘Sir, I need to speak to you. Can we do this inside?’

  ‘It’s an absolute pigsty, mate.’ Andy stepped out onto the path and pulled the door behind him. ‘How can I help?’

  Corcoran stood there, arms folded. Not letting the cops in was never a good sign, even if you were mid-decoration. ‘She was found in rural Oxfordshire, starved almost to death. On the CCTV from the night Sarah disappeared, she waved at you, correct?’

  Andy blew out garlicky breath. ‘That’s right.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I’ve been over it so many times in my head, you know? I didn’t see anything. Wish I had.’

  ‘It’s possible you were the last person to see her.’

  Another breath. ‘That night, I was going through some personal stuff and . . .’ He leaned back against his front door. ‘I had to get out and pound the pavements.’ He kneaded his beard like it was bread dough. ‘My father-in-law had a stroke at Christmas time, so Kate’s back in Australia, helping her stepmother cope with everything. I’m doing this place up while she’s away, and every night when I’m working all I can think of is Sarah waving at me. I wish I could’ve stopped her there and then. Saved her from whatever’s happened. But I was so caught up in my own bullshit.’

  ‘This isn’t your fault, sir.’ Corcoran pulled out a sheet of paper, a grainy screen grab of the Audi. ‘Do you recognise this car?’

  Andy took it off him and nodded. ‘DC Butcher here asked me about it, but I don’t remember seeing it.’

  ‘Ever see that car back round here?’

  ‘No, sorry.’ Andy handed the page back. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Corcoran folded it carefully and put it away. ‘You were close to Sarah, right?’

  ‘Running alone is great thinking time. With someone else, you get to know them. Most of your brain focuses on the mechanics of running, so there’s no bullshit or subterfuge or games, just who you are. I went out with Sarah a few times, just the two of us, and we put the world to rights.’

  Just the two of them on a run. Could be innocent, but could be something. And Andy would know her running patterns.

  ‘She ever talk about her job?’

  ‘Not that kind of chat, mate.’

  ‘What about her husband?’

  ‘Chris is a good guy. No issues there, least not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘She ever mention any threats?’

  ‘Threats?’ Andy’s mouth hung open. ‘You think someone’s . . .?’ He swallowed again. ‘Never mentioned a threat to me, no.’

  Corcoran waited for him to make eye contact again. There. ‘Now that Sarah’s been found, is there anything that sticks out?’

  Butcher gritted his teeth. ‘Now wait a minute . . .’

  Corcoran shut him up with a glare. He refocused on Andy. ‘Any conversations that take on a different light?’

  ‘None.’ Andy frowned, though. ‘Well . . . There’s something Sarah said. To Kate, actually, not me.’ His frown deepened. ‘Just before Christmas, she told Kate about this work colleague. A man.’

  Corcoran clocked Butcher’s surprise. ‘What about him?’

  ‘She got the distinct impression this guy might’ve been stalking Sarah.’

  [18:45]

  Butcher drove out of the far side of Cambridge, the elegant houses giving way to twenty-first-century office buildings, all glass and chrome catching the evening sun. Some Cambridge University science buildings nestled in amongst big-name tech firms and some lesser-known names. He looked over at Corcoran. ‘You seriously think this colleague could’ve taken her?’

  Surely if this guy had been a sufficiently credible threat, Butcher’s investigation – no matter how scant – would’ve got some sniff of it. Wouldn’t it?

  Then again, a work colleague would know her daily movements. Wouldn’t even have to follow her to find the most opportune moment in her day.

  Butcher muttered something as he pulled up at a security barrier. A sign was filled with a logo that might’ve read ‘Lens Lock’. Behind, a giant building loomed, two-storey on three sides, the fourth at least ten high. He wound down the window and let in the motorway rumble. Must be close, maybe a few hundred metres away.

  A security guard stepped out, big and strong and carrying a hell of a lot more threat than the police station’s guard. He looked at Butcher, his expression emotionless. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  Butcher flashed his warrant card. ‘Here to see Wendy Templeton-Smith.’

  ‘You got a prior appointment?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  The guard gestured with his fingers, like he wanted them to turn around. ‘You’ll just have to come back when you do. This is a secure site, sir.’

  Corcoran got out his warrant card. ‘DS Aidan Corcoran of Thames Valley Police. We’re investigating the disappearance of one of your employees.’

  ‘I can’t change the directors’ calendars, sir. Now, I need you to—’

  ‘She’s been found in a lane in Oxfordshire.’ Corcoran left out any facts of her appearance, instead motioning at the building. ‘Now, I don’t know what the hell you lot are up to in there, but I gather some people might strongly disagree with it. I’d hate to be the one having to explain to your boss how you refused two friendly cops entry before some animal rights terrorists claimed credit for an attack on an employee. You know how PR works, right? Getting ahead of the story and all that?’

  The guard looked round at the building, his gaze sweeping up the tower. ‘Ask for her at reception. I’ll approve your access.’

  [19:02]

  The office was near the top of the tower, with a view across Cambridge towards the University colleges, lit up in the night sky in all their opulence.

  Corcoran perched on a stool at a glass desk. No chairs lower than that in the whole room. ‘So what exactly is it you do here?’


  Wendy Templeton-Smith ran a hand through her deep-red hair, sipping iced water from a glass, tall and thin like it’d been modelled on her figure. ‘Lens Lock are committed to ending childhood blindness. That’s our mission, Sergeant.’

  Corcoran mixed a good amount of frown into his smile. ‘So you experiment on animals?’

  ‘This is a research company.’ She gave a frosty look as she crunched an ice cube between her teeth. ‘We operate within the legal guidelines of several jurisdictions.’

  ‘But you do receive threats, right?’

  ‘Frequently.’ She waved at the window. ‘Hence the extreme security. You’ll notice there’s no car park? All of our employees get a ride-share car into work. It’s the only way to protect them.’ She rested her glass on the table next to Butcher. ‘But I’m relieved to learn that Sarah’s been found.’

  ‘She’s very far from being out of the woods, but at least she’s alive.’ Corcoran scanned Wendy’s face for any signs of malice or foreknowledge. Nothing, but someone who had an office like this would have a few tricks up their sleeve. ‘Did Sarah personally receive any threats?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’ Wendy walked over to her desk and stood behind a giant aluminium computer, raised up so she could work standing. ‘While some of our employees have been named online and targeted by some groups, Sarah is a project manager and isn’t responsible for any of our, uh, day-to-day operations.’

  ‘But sometimes employees try to be heroes and hide threats, right?’

  Wendy looked over the screen with an arched eyebrow. ‘That has happened, despite the extensive training and monitoring we have in place.’ She took a slow breath. ‘But that sort of thing usually affects their job performance and Sarah’s was consistently excellent. She was going places.’ She stared into space, like Sarah’s destination was this very office.

  Corcoran pulled out his notebook and rested it on the glass next to his untouched water. ‘I notice from the file that we’ve asked for the CCTV from the night of the twenty-seventh of January. DC Butcher, have you received it?’

  Butcher cleared his throat. ‘Not as of yet.’

  ‘I’ll arrange to send it on.’ Wendy looked over at Butcher. ‘I’ve got your contact details on file.’

  Butcher grunted. ‘You weren’t so compliant back in January.’

  ‘Things have moved on.’ Wendy gave him a wolf grin. ‘We have to prioritise our activities.’

  Corcoran let her stew for a few seconds, watching for any tells. An overhead air freshener hissed out a pine scent. ‘Were you aware of any issues between Sarah and any work colleagues?’

  Wendy licked her lips. ‘I assure you there’s nothing in whatever you’ve heard.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  She laughed, but said nothing.

  Corcoran got up and walked over to her desk, resting his palms on the perfect glass as he faced her, eye to eye. ‘This isn’t a Missing Persons case any more. It looks very much like someone abducted Sarah, starved her for weeks and let her go.’

  She took a halting breath, but didn’t say anything.

  ‘I need any help I can get, especially from you.’ He waited for a nod, and got only a small one. ‘Now, we’ve heard that someone who worked with Sarah was stalking her.’

  ‘Stalking?’ Wendy shook her head. ‘God, no.’

  ‘If I find that you’re lying to—’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’ Wendy combed her fingers through her perfect hair. ‘The someone you’ve heard about did indeed work for Sarah, but they were having an affair.’

  Seven

  [19:27]

  Butcher pulled up on a suburban cul-de-sac on the outskirts of Cambridge, the lights on inside most of the houses now. ‘Whatever you’re thinking, I—’

  Corcoran got out of the car and walked up the drive, past a shiny Nissan Leaf. He stopped dead.

  A silver Audi sat inside a garage, the same sports trim as the one on the CCTV.

  Corcoran shifted his focus from the car to the house. Low-slung, new build. Expensive windows and doors. Snazzy lighting more focused on mood than security. Tasteful jazz bleeding out of the nearest room. He looked round at Butcher and thumbed at the car. ‘Run the plates. Check ANPR. Whatever it takes, your job is placing this car at the scene of the disappearance.’

  ‘Sarge.’ Butcher got out his phone with a sigh and walked off.

  Corcoran took it slowly as he approached the house door. He pressed the button on the high-tech ringer mounted in the mushroom door.

  A rising chime blasted out. The door opened and a woman peered out. ‘Can I help?’ Western European accent – German, Swiss, Austrian, maybe even Dutch.

  ‘DS Corcoran.’ He flipped out his warrant card. ‘Looking for a Klaus Werner.’

  ‘At this time of night?’

  Corcoran checked his watch. Seven twenty-eight was nobody’s ‘this time of night’. ‘Mrs Werner?’

  ‘Podolski, Lena Podolski. But I am the wife of Klaus, yes.’

  ‘I need a word with your husband.’

  ‘Do you have a warrant? Does he need a lawyer?’

  A flash of movement behind her. A tall man, hiding behind his wife.

  ‘Just a quick—’

  She shut the door.

  Corcoran raised his hand, ready to knock this time.

  ‘Sarge.’ Butcher crunched up the gravel drive towards him, waving his phone around. ‘That’s our car. ANPR has it getting on the M11 at the Madingley Road ten minutes after that sighting. Then off at the A14, which is how you’d get to Sarah’s. Still, it didn’t show up on the CCTV in Sarah’s street because of whatever they’d done to the plates.’

  Corcoran tried to figure out what it meant. The night she was taken, Werner had left Sarah’s work, then visited her home. He’d masked the number plates, but that’s all they had. Was it enough to bring him in? Hell yeah. He thumped the door this time, hard and insistent. Then waited.

  Nothing.

  He knelt and flipped open the letterbox. ‘Klaus, this is about Sarah Langton. I think you know what happened to her.’

  The door opened and Klaus Werner stood there, head slumping. An elaborate goatee beard covered his chin and the surrounding flesh. Smooth skin led up to an even smoother haircut. Quite the looker, though he maybe didn’t know it. ‘You’ve found Sarah’s body?’ No trace of a German accent, but it certainly sounded like he’d lived in East Anglia for a good few years.

  Corcoran stepped over the threshold and patted the man’s sleeve, ready to grab tight if needed. ‘We need to speak to you down at the station.’

  Lena appeared again, punching Klaus on the arm, hard. ‘What the hell is going on?’

  ‘Just need a quiet word with—’

  Lena slapped Klaus, sounding like a body hitting the sea from a great height. ‘Who is this Sarah?’

  ‘Stop!’ Corcoran got between them, deflecting her attacks until her blunt forearm barely touched her husband’s shoulder. He tightened his grip on Klaus and led him away.

  [20:22]

  The Cambridge police station interview rooms weren’t up to the same standard as Thames Valley’s, especially the Kidlington HQ. The walls were several years past needing a new coat of paint and every slight movement echoed around the cramped space.

  Klaus sat opposite Corcoran, scratching at his beard. A machine coffee smouldered in front of him, the acrid tang a world away from the wonders of Butcher’s filter, two fresh cups of which sat on Corcoran’s side of the table.

  Butcher took a delicate sip. ‘We gather you worked for Sarah Langton?’

  Klaus looked at his lawyer, a grey suit where a human being should be, then just shook his head. Still hadn’t said anything.

  Corcoran focused on the lawyer, eyebrows raised. ‘You might want to get your client to speak to us. A woman’s been found and—’

  ‘Sarah?’ Klaus looked up, eyes wide. ‘You have found Sarah’s body?’

  ‘In Oxfordshire.’

&nb
sp; Klaus’s mouth hung open. ‘My god.’

  Corcoran sat back and watched his reaction unfold. His eyes widening, his mouth closing, his jaw clenching. Nothing that showed he knew her fate. Or that he was acting. ‘We know you were sleeping with Sarah.’

  ‘That’s . . .’ Klaus sucked in a deep breath. ‘I . . . Where did you . . .?’

  Corcoran pulled out the CCTV still and took his time unfolding it, then slid it across the scarred wood. ‘That’s your car outside Sarah’s house, isn’t it?’

  No reply from Klaus.

  ‘Mr Werner, this doesn’t look good.’ Corcoran gave a long pause before pulling out the ANPR extract. ‘You followed Sarah home from work the night she went missing.’

  ‘That isn’t what happened!’

  Corcoran took a long drink of his coffee and let him stew for a moment. ‘What did happen, then?’

  Klaus traced a finger across the bottom of his left eye. ‘My wife can’t learn any of this.’

  Corcoran gave a slight nod. Left nothing on the record.

  ‘Okay, so I work with Sarah.’ Klaus held up a finger. ‘With, not for. She’s the project manager and I’m the research lead. Technically, she should work for me.’ He looked at his lawyer, long enough to get a nod. ‘And I was sleeping with Sarah.’ His shoulders deflated with the release of the long-held truth coming out. ‘It started at a conference back home in Germany. We were both drunk and . . . We agreed it was a one-off thing.’ More rustling as he scratched at his beard. ‘But she kept wanting to see me. So we . . . We embarked on an affair.’ He leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling, seeming to relax for the first time in months. ‘To avoid detection from our . . . from our spouses, Sarah would run home and I’d meet her in a lane and we’d . . . in my car. I’d give her a lift home and it’d look like she’d run all the way.’

  ‘That must’ve been a lot of guilt to hold on to for the six weeks she’s been missing.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

  ‘Of course, this is what you told my colleague here?’

  ‘I didn’t speak to him.’

  ‘Which is very curious. This was in the news, correct?’