No Good Reason (8 page)

Tracking the numbered bays, Sanne found her Vauxhall Corsa parked between an expensive-looking Audi and a really expensive-looking Range Rover. Neither vehicle evoked a shred of envy in her. The Corsa was nippy, practical, and surprisingly effective in the snow, and it was also the best form of transport she’d ever had. Most of her family still walked or relied on the bus. Sheltered behind the open boot, with the high wall of the car park boxing her in, she stripped off the scrubs and pulled on her spare outfit. The jeans were too casual for the office, and the shirt’s short sleeves didn’t cover the bandages swathed around her arm, but it was a definite improvement. Remembering Meg’s advice, she drank half a bottle of water. Then she damped her hair down with a cupped handful and headed for the main entrance, clipping her ID badge onto her shirt as she approached. The badge and her warrant card were always somewhere about her person. She even carried them in her pack when she went out running. No one out on the moors had questioned her authority that morning, but it had been reassuring to know her credentials were there, just in case.

She displayed her badge to the officer on the front desk and took the stairs two at a time. The muscles in her legs complained, reminding her that she had started the day with a lengthy run and then added bruises. She persevered, though, and by the time she reached the fourth floor the short burst of exercise had left her feeling much less decrepit. She walked straight into the chaos that traditionally accompanied the early stages of a case: phones ringing, paperwork cascading onto the floor as people brushed against fragile piles, a variety of ringtones announcing incoming texts, and Fred in the corner, kicking the photocopier.

“It’s this drawer, mate. It’s always getting stuck there.” Sanne flipped open the offending part and teased the sheet of paper through. “There, try that.”

Fred hit the green button and beamed as the machine sparked into motion. “You bring sunshine to my life,” he sang, to a tune only he would ever recognise. “I’d make you a brew, but the boss wanted to see you as soon as you got in.”

“Right.” She rocked back a little, and he placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“You done a statement?”

“Yes, at the hospital. Nelson’s faxed it over here already.”

“Got nothing to fret about then,” he said, and she smiled, almost believing him.

As she went over to Eleanor’s door, George Torren—Fred’s partner—crossed himself and raised his eyes heavenward. She stuck two fingers up at him, knocked, and walked into the office. It smelled like apples. She had no idea how Eleanor did it, since she had never seen her eat one, but the room always brought to mind a crisp Granny Smith.

Mid-sentence on a phone call, Eleanor acknowledged Sanne but continued her conversation. Her nose and forehead were bright pink. Evidently, she hadn’t expected to spend hours exposed to the sun that morning, and her fair skin had paid the price.

“Yes, sir.” She tapped one fingernail on the desk. “I can get that to you within the hour. No, there’s been no word yet. She’s still in surgery. Yes, I will, as soon as SOCO have been allowed access.”

Sanne couldn’t hear the reply, only that it was curt and swiftly followed by the dial tone. Eleanor placed the receiver back into its cradle with admirable restraint.

“Well, you look like you’ve been in the wars.” An uncommon softness in her voice took Sanne aback. “Are you okay to work?”

“Yes, boss.” Sanne’s answer was as absolute as she could make it. The thought of being sent home and kept off the case was anathema.

“Just checking.” Eleanor gave her a sly smile. “Welfare of my team, and all that crap. I’m sure there’s a manual on it somewhere.” She waved a hand toward a shelf full of white lever-arch files so rarely handled that they were still pristine. “I’ve read your statement. It’s very thorough. Images were excellent too. They’ve already gone to the lab for enhancement.”

Her mobile phone rang. She checked the caller ID and flicked the call through to her voicemail. When she looked up again, Sanne felt the full force of her scrutiny. “Did you consider staying at the scene instead of accompanying the victim to the hospital?” she asked, in a tone that gave no hint as to the right answer.

“Yes, ma’am, I considered it, but the victim was our most valuable piece of evidence, and I wanted to maintain a documentable chain.” Sanne paused for a breath, providing an opportunity for correction or contradiction, but when Eleanor remained silent she pressed on. “I don’t believe that area of the moor is our actual crime scene, ma’am. I think the victim was held somewhere else, or perhaps escaped as she was being moved, so I made the decision to arrange the Mountain Rescue team in a wide perimeter and to travel with the victim myself.”

She held Eleanor’s gaze, letting her know she had finished. It was an explanation that she had mentally rehearsed until she could deliver it verbatim, and it was as clinical and analytical as Eleanor’s standards demanded, even if it didn’t begin to scrape the surface of Sanne’s actual reasoning. She wondered whether something in her expression or her posture would give her away, a flicker in her eyes or a twitch in a muscle that would betray her emotions.

If Eleanor saw or suspected anything, however, she made no comment. She clicked the nib of her pen and made a short note in an open file. “You did a good job out there, Sanne.”

Sanne licked her dry lips and waited for the inevitable “but.” To her astonishment, it never came.

“I’ve scheduled a team briefing for four p.m.,” Eleanor said. “That gives you ninety minutes to prepare your account. Is that enough?”

Sanne just about stopped herself from saluting. “Yes, boss.”

Eleanor smiled. “How is it that I’m glowing like a bloody lobster and you’re not?”

“I had a cap on, boss. And sun cream.”

“Yes, I imagine that would do it.” She touched the tip of her nose, making it blanch beneath the slight pressure. “Get something to eat before you start your report, Sanne. You look peaky.”

“I’m fine,” Sanne said, and for the first time in hours, she did feel fine. Relief and pride had dispelled all of her aches and pains.

Eleanor made a non-committal noise but didn’t push the point. “I’ll see you in ninety minutes, then,” she said, and swore as her mobile and desk phone began to ring simultaneously.

Sanne took that as her cue to leave, shutting the door behind her. Fred met her with a cup of tea and a Double Decker. She took the mug and the chocolate bar, and pecked him on his cheek, laughing as he fake-swooned and cupped the place where her lips had touched him.

“You’re a daft bugger, Fred.” She sipped the tea as she went over to her desk. The clock on the wall told her she had eighty-six minutes to meet Eleanor’s deadline. It was a good thing she thrived under pressure.

*

Despite her daunting task and the ticking clock hanging over it, Sanne was thankful for the opportunity to review her mobile phone footage before presenting it to the team. She hadn’t taken many photographs, but the ones she had were graphic and unflinching in their focus, and she had to go to the bathroom to wash the sweat from her face and neck as soon as she finished her notes. Fortunately, her reaction went unnoticed in the commotion around her, and half an hour later, she was composed enough to stand in front of her peers and talk through the events of that morning.

Everyone had made it back for the meeting, which Eleanor opened with a short précis before handing over to Sanne. Her fingers tight around the computer’s remote control, Sanne outlined her findings, actions, and initial thoughts, her words punctuated by the sharp click of the images changing. She saw the anger on her colleagues’ faces harden into determination as they watched. As a junior member of EDSOP, she was used to being the butt of jokes, but on this occasion, no one interrupted to make a glib comment or inappropriate remark. This was the first time most of the detectives had seen the images, and they too seemed rattled. Sanne’s hand trembled as she paused to drink her water. Her nerves had dissipated within the first few minutes, but she still found the photograph of the woman’s feet hard to bear. She heard Mike Hallet swearing beneath his breath. She knew he had two daughters, both in their early twenties.

Once she was sure she could continue without her voice shaking, she set her glass down and glanced at her notes to find her place. As she did so, something caught her eye, and she turned to look at the projected image again.

“Boss, could those be splinters?” She aimed the red dot of the laser pointer at the woman’s heel. Marks that had been indistinct on her computer screen now appeared to be slivers of wood embedded in the peat-smeared sole. She crumpled her paperwork in her fist as she picked up the thread of a theory and began to follow it. “Only, I’ve run that route a few times, and there’s nothing that’d cause injuries like that. There’s a wooden stile within a mile of where she was found, but unless she’d stood there and stamped on it with both feet—”

“Why the hell would she do that, Jensen?”

Sanne tried not to react to Duncan Carlyle’s withering tone. One of these days, she would tell him where to shove his criminal psychology degree, but this definitely wasn’t the right time.

“Well, she wouldn’t,” she said, as if explaining something very complicated to someone quite dim. “She might have climbed over it, but that’s all she’d have done.”

She leaned back on the desk, imagining herself up on the moors, sick with terror and not knowing where to go for help, knowing only that she had to get as far away as possible. Adrenaline would have cut through the pain and lent her strength, at least at the beginning. Strength enough, perhaps, to untie her bonds and escape from wherever she had been imprisoned.

“Maybe she had to kick her way out when she first got herself loose,” she said, with the calm certainty of having fathomed the answer. “If he’d kept her in a disused building, it might’ve had a boarded-up entrance or just a wooden door. Her hands were bound, swollen, so she was limited with what she could do with them, but her legs were free.” Perching on the desk, she raised her feet and kicked out in demonstration. “She hammers at the wood, driving the splinters into her heels, but she smashes through it and runs.”

“That makes it likely she was held out there somewhere,” Fred said, and Eleanor raised a hand as everyone began to speak across each other.

“Okay, thank you,” she said as the babble of voices faded. “It’s still useful to bear the other possibilities in mind: that the victim was intentionally thrown over the ridge, or that she escaped onto the moors from her abductor’s vehicle. We’ll know more once SOCO have been able to examine her. Right now, we have an unidentified victim. Finding out who she is is an absolute priority.” She took the remote from Sanne and switched to an image of the woman’s face. “And here’s what’s going to make that an absolute ball-ache.”

Sanne saw several heads bob in understanding. The woman’s features were so distorted by her injuries that it was likely even close family would struggle to recognise her. Meg had found no distinguishing marks during her examination—no birthmarks, tattoos, scars, or piercings—and the CT scan had failed to detect any surgical metalwork that might have helped.

Eleanor consulted the file in front of her. “Fred and George, you take missing persons reports. Chase up anyone who matches or comes close to matching her description, and start fitting together details for a press release. Scotty, Jay, you’re on access roads, rest stops, and lay-bys, with one of the rangers and as many officers as Traffic can spare. Plot the closest routes to Laddaw Ridge and start there. If he drove her out to the moors last night, he must have parked somewhere. Talk to anyone and everyone you come across. Show them her picture. Even if they didn’t see her yesterday, they might recognise her if she walks up there regularly. Sanne, Nelson, Duncan, and Chris”—she ticked off the names as she went along, like a schoolteacher trying to coordinate an impossible project—“I want you up on the moors at first light, to organise the uniforms. A grid has been blocked to cover a realistic area, based on the vic’s physical condition, and we need as detailed an examination of that area as possible. Bag and tag anything that looks to have been discarded recently, and if anyone finds a series of bare footprints that we can follow back to some kind of lair, that would be very helpful.” Eleanor paused to acknowledge the wild improbability of that, and Sanne heard Carlyle mutter something beneath his breath. When she glanced at his notepad, it was completely blank. He hadn’t even taken the lid off his pen.

“We’ve been in touch with Derbyshire Cave Search and Rescue, who are going to start a systematic check of the cave formations in that neck of the woods. Apparently, these hillsides are riddled with potholes and tunnels, so if she was held out there the perp may have utilised one. Try to steer clear of them yourselves. A number of them are structurally unsafe, and the department can’t afford the liability damages at the moment. Now for the good news: we have a group of locals who are willing to help out tomorrow.”

A predictable chorus of groans welcomed that revelation. It would be a difficult enough day without the added burden of supervising amateur sleuths. Above the protests, Eleanor continued to speak.

“Bear in mind that the perp could well live locally, and we all know how many of these idiots get their jollies assisting the police after the fact. The Mountain Rescue truck can get you within two miles of the scene.” A smile twitched at the corner of her lips. “Dress appropriately, chaps. I think Sanne would recommend that you wear a cap.”

The disdain on Carlyle’s face tightened into a scowl as he watched George pull at the neck of his shirt and fan himself with his notepad.

“Saw the forecast earlier,” George told him. “Ouch. Full sun and eighty-one degrees. You’re going to need more than a cap, Sarge. You’re going to need a bloody miracle.”

Carlyle was a redhead, with a ghostly complexion that broke out in freckles and acne the instant it was exposed to sunshine, but Sanne suspected something more lay behind his reaction. He was a city boy, living in the centre of Sheffield and making no secret of his antipathy toward the rural villages and their small-fry criminals. He had submitted several applications to transfer to Manchester and London, but each time he had failed at interview level. Eleanor actively encouraged his ambition to move on from EDSOP. His swift promotion to sergeant had owed a lot to a well-placed uncle, and she had played little part in his being selected for her team. His insistence on addressing everyone by surname, possibly because two names per person was one too many for him to remember, was not appreciated either. The team, in return, called him a grudging “Sarge” to his face and all kinds of names in private. Sanne knew he would perceive tomorrow’s task—being forced to work in an area familiar to her, and to defer to her local knowledge—as an insult to his seniority, and he would either sulk or attempt to reassert his authority by behaving like an arsehole.