No Good Reason Page 16

  “What’ve we got?” she asked.

  “Six unis and the south side of Halshaw,” Nelson said, tapping their names with his pen.

  Carlyle laughed. “What’s the boss doing sending her little pets to that shithole?”

  Sanne had a very good idea what Eleanor was doing, but she merely gave him an enigmatic smile and walked back to her desk.

  “I’ll give you a call when I’m finished at the hospital,” she told Nelson.

  “No problem. I’m going to run a background check on Ned Moseley first, to give the good folk of Halshaw a chance to get out of bed.”

  “That’s probably wise.” On the other side of the office, she saw Eleanor waiting. “I’ve got to go.”

  “I’ll leave Windermere Avenue till last, so we can get a cuppa.”

  Sanne grabbed her bag and coat. “Mate, if I’m with you by then, we’ll be able to get more than a cuppa.”

  *

  Even without the presence of a police officer outside Josie’s room, visitors would have suspected there was something unusual about its occupant. Unlike every other bay and cubicle in the ITU, room three blazed with light, illuminating a wide section of the surrounding corridor and making Sanne squint as she and Eleanor drew closer.

  Once her vision had adjusted to the fluorescent glare, the first thing she registered was the room’s quietness. The automated noise of the ventilator had been replaced by Josie’s soft snoring, and there were fewer drips or pumps to set off alarms. With her breathing tube removed and the swelling around her eyes less pronounced, Josie was starting to resemble the woman in the lakeside photograph again. She appeared to be sleeping comfortably, her hand held in a loose grip by a slight, grey-haired woman sitting at her bedside.

  Eleanor told the uniform on duty that he could take a break, and at the sound of their voices, the woman looked up.

  “Mrs. Medlock.” Eleanor greeted her with a familiarity that suggested they had already met. She beckoned Sanne over and introduced her. Mrs. Medlock’s handshake was firm, but grief and pain were etched across her face, and her eyes were swollen from crying.

  “Please, call me Helen,” she said, gesturing to two empty chairs. She regarded Sanne steadily, as if trying to piece together half-forgotten details. Then she brightened as she made the connection. “Oh, Sanne Jensen. It’s good to meet you. I wanted to thank you for helping Josie.”

  Sanne glanced at the floor, uncomfortable accepting gratitude from someone whose daughter was still missing. “I just happened to be in the right place,” she said quietly, pulling one of the chairs closer and sitting down. “I’m sure the boss has told you we’re doing everything we can to find Rachel.”

  “Yes—yes, she has.” Fresh tears broke into Helen’s reply. She wiped her eyes with a tissue and looked over to Eleanor. “Would you like me to wake Josie up for you?”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Eleanor said. Despite her reluctance to rush the start of the interview, she had been unconsciously tapping her foot since she sat down.

  Helen laid her hand on Josie’s cheek, her thumb stroking the discoloured skin as she spoke to her. Within seconds, Josie made a guttural sound and smacked her lips in confusion. She blinked against the light, her body frozen, until she recognised her surroundings and sagged back onto her pillows.

  “Helen?” she whispered.

  “It’s just me, sweetheart. Alec went to get some sleep.”

  “Rachel?”

  Helen shook her head. “Nothing yet. There are two detectives here who need to speak to you. I told you they were coming. Do you remember?”

  Josie’s eyes had closed, but she forced them open again. “Mm. Not really.” She tipped her head, searching for her visitors and flinching at the pain.

  Sanne leaned forward to make things easier. “Hey, Josie. My name’s Sanne. I’m one of the detectives working your case.”

  Josie nodded slowly. “You were here before.” Like Helen, she spoke with a mild Scottish accent.

  Sanne smiled, surprised she had any memory of that. “I sat with you a couple of times, and I was here when you woke up the other night.”

  The continued intensity of Josie’s stare suggested that something about the explanation didn’t quite fit. Helen must have sensed that as well, because she took Josie’s hand in both of hers.

  “Sanne was the one who found you on the moors,” she said.

  Josie seemed to take the unlikely coincidence in her stride. “I think I owe you a beer.”

  Sanne chuckled. “Technically, you owe two young lads a beer. They found you first. Do you remember any of that?”

  “No. I just…Maybe your voice, but that might be from when you’ve visited. I asked the docs to stop putting shit in my IV, and I thought that would make things clearer”—anger started to eat into her words—“but they’re not, and that fucker still has Rach.”

  Her breathing rate had shot up enough to make an alarm wail. Her nurse, who had been an unobtrusive presence in the corner of the room, sprang to her feet, but with a visible effort, Josie slowed her breathing, and the nurse resumed her seat without intervening. Sanne would have given Josie another minute to compose herself, but she saw Josie was looking at her expectantly again, so she took out her notepad and uncapped her pen.

  “Can you take us through exactly what you do remember?”

  Josie gave a faint nod. “I’ll try, but it’s all in pieces.”

  “Start with the first piece. What’s the earliest thing you remember clearly?”

  “Toast.” The answer came out tinged with self-loathing. “I can’t tell you much about who took us, but I know we had toast for our fucking breakfast. Is that going to help you, Detective?”

  Sanne decided honesty was the best policy. “No, probably not. What’s the next piece?”

  “We’re walking, and it’s hot. Bright sunshine.” Josie spoke slowly, her accent more evident as she tried to remain coherent. “Rach was lagging behind. I don’t know why. She took lots of pictures, so maybe she’d stopped to do that. I always made fun of her for taking too many.” She caught her breath on a sob. “I didn’t hear him, didn’t know he was there. He must have hit me with something. I fell, and Rach shouted out.”

  She reached for a cup of water, and Sanne held it for her until she indicated she was done.

  “Can you describe him?”

  “Not really. I keep trying to see him, but all I get is a blur. He was tall, taller than me. He wore a mask, but it had gaps, so I could see he was white.”

  “What about his eyes, or his hair?”

  Josie shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  The misery in her voice made Sanne glance up from her notes. “You’re doing a great job. Don’t be apologising.”

  Obviously unconvinced, Josie licked her dry lips, her tongue lingering over a sore-looking split. “It’s like I have this image of him, but it’s all hazy, and I don’t know if it’s real or if I’m making stuff up, just so I can feel like I’m helping.”

  Eleanor cleared her throat, halting Sanne’s notes mid-bullet point. She had been so focused on the interview that she had forgotten Eleanor was there.

  “You’re consistent with these details, Josie,” Eleanor said. “What you’ve told Sanne is the same as you told the detective last night, and in my experience that’s always a good sign. We just need you to dig a little deeper. Can you remember what he was wearing?”

  “Only that it was black, and that it covered him. We were in shorts and T-shirts, and he was dressed like a fucking ninja.” Josie’s voice dropped, and she shivered. “He had black gloves on, and the sun hit his knife, and Rachel was crying, and he wouldn’t let me go to her.”

  Sanne resumed writing, trying not to put images to Josie’s rapid monologue. An ache in her chest warned her she was breathing too fast.

  “I felt sick, but he made us walk. And then I think there were rocks, and it went dark. After that it was cold, and something was dripping.” Her right han
d tapped the bedrail, sounding out the rhythm. “And all I have is flashes: pain, and being scared shitless, then feeling as if I was floating, and everything was pitch-black. I was so thirsty, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t get over to whatever was dripping.”

  “Was Rachel with you?” Sanne asked.

  Josie nodded, her eyes full of tears. “I can still hear her screaming. How could I forget about her?” Her body shook with the force of her sobs. “How could I leave her in there with him?”

  The questions were directed at Sanne, but her gaze went to Helen, and Sanne realised that it wasn’t her place to offer explanations or the absolution Josie needed. Without a word, Helen sat on the edge of the bed, gathered Josie into her arms, and held her as she wept.

  Feeling like an intruder, Sanne averted her eyes, her pen still poised above notes that told her almost nothing and more than she had ever wanted to know.

  *

  Built in the Sixties by Sheffield Council as an overspill housing development, Halshaw estate was a sprawling conglomeration of rundown council-leased properties and the occasional privately owned home. Five miles west of Rowlee, it was a blight on an otherwise picturesque landscape, and its troubled regeneration project had been stalling for several years. With high rates of unemployment, drug use, and alcohol dependency, Halshaw had a significant number of residents with criminal records, and its populace was familiar with unannounced visits from the police.

  A uniform dropped Sanne off on the estate, and she met up with Nelson outside the small parade of shops where he’d parked his car. As they headed to the next street on his list, she updated him on the morning’s events.

  “We managed to finish the interview once Josie had settled down a bit, but she blanked on his accent or any other distinguishing features, and on whether they’d encountered him prior to their abduction. There didn’t seem to be any pattern in what she could and couldn’t recall.” She paused to check a road sign, avoiding a pile of dog shit that someone had already stepped in.

  “Given what she’s been through, I’m amazed she was able to remember anything,” Nelson said, happy as ever to leave the navigating to Sanne.

  “Me too. I know it’s not helping us, but a big part of me hopes she never gets those memories back.” She pointed out the start of Keswick Walk. “Right, this is our next one to cover. There’s ten or so houses on it. Top end’s okay, but the three at the bottom are notorious for drugs, drink, and Granny Sedgely.”

  He caught hold of her arm before she could cross the road. “Granny Sedgely? Are you having me on?”

  “Nope. She’s probably knocking on for eighty now. Mean old bird. Used to have this baseball bat with razorblades stuck into it. Everyone, and I mean everyone, was terrified of her, even the dealers.”

  Nelson eyed the forlorn terrace with a wariness he rarely allowed Sanne to see. The first and fourth houses flew tattered St. George crosses, a national symbol that had become synonymous with far-right racism. Although he’d not told Sanne much about his morning, she could guess from his subdued mood that it hadn’t been pleasant.

  “Fuck it,” she said. “Windermere’s just around the corner. Let’s go there instead and leave Granny S to the unis.”

  For once, he capitulated without protest. “I’ll call up the closest team and ask them to swing by here.” When he had finished on the radio, he smiled his thanks at her. “Lead the way, partner.”

  Number thirty-two Windermere Avenue looked a lot like most of its neighbours: a dour semi-detached with small windows to deter burglars, rickety garden fencing, and a front lawn in need of a trim. It was only on closer inspection that a visitor might realise the fence had been carefully painted and the flowerbeds bordering the lawn sported a well-tended, colour-coordinated display. The lawn was looking tatty only because Sanne hadn’t had the time to come round and mow it recently. She went up the drive, plucking out a couple of weeds en route, and rang the doorbell. A child shrieked in response.

  Sanne rolled her eyes. “Sounds like the gang’s all here. We can go back to the razor-toting granny if you prefer.”

  Nelson laughed. “How many kids is it now? I’ve lost track.”

  “Four, and the eldest is five. I keep telling her to get a television—” The door opened and she smiled. “Hey, Mum.”

  For a split second, Teresa Jensen looked like a deer caught in headlights, or—more apt in her case—a house-proud sixty-two-year-old who preferred to vacuum her home top to bottom and dust her mantelpiece before she welcomed guests.

  “It’s okay,” Sanne whispered in her ear as they embraced. “We’re just here to pinch a brew. I promise we won’t be checking for cobwebs.”

  Her mum relaxed and kissed her cheek. “You look peaky,” she said. Then, to Nelson, “Don’t you think she looks peaky, dear?”

  “A little.” He shook her hand in both of his. “You, on the other hand, look as lovely as ever.”

  She tugged at her apron and blushed. “Flattery will get you everywhere. I just made a Battenberg cake. Come on in, and I’ll fetch you a slice.” As they took off their boots, she shouted down the hallway. “Keeley, put the kettle on! Sanne’s here.”

  At the mention of her name, Sanne’s niece and nephew came racing out of the kitchen. She scooped up the smaller one, Kiera, and left Kerby hanging on to her trousers. Although she despaired of her sister’s choice of names, she adored the children, and the feeling was mutual.

  Her mum led the way into the kitchen, where the smell of fresh baking made Sanne’s mouth water, and where her sister eyed Nelson with blatant appreciation. Keeley was between boyfriends, having finally split up with Kiera’s dad two months ago. There was a rumour that Kyle’s dad was back in the picture, not that anyone would guess that from the way Keeley chewed her hair and batted her eyelids at Nelson.

  Sanne gave Kiera a biscuit and set her on the floor, watching her as she toddled through the patio doors into the garden, dropped her biscuit in the mud, picked it up again, and gnawed on a damp corner. Sanne didn’t try to interfere. She had eaten countless muddy biscuits during her childhood, and they had done her no harm.

  “Sorry I couldn’t make it for tea the other night,” she said, adding milk to her brew and then passing the bottle to Nelson.

  Her mum paused in the middle of cutting thick slices of cake. “That’s all right, love. We know how busy you are. Those poor girls…Have you heard anything yet?”

  “No, not yet. That’s why we’re round here: house-to-house. We can only stay a few minutes.”

  Keeley slurped at her tea and grabbed the first piece of cake. “You missed a nice leg of lamb. But then Michael tried to convert Dad again, so Dad tried to clout him with the serving spoon.” She paused for a breath, broke her cake into chunks, and popped one into her mouth. “You should speak to Pete Farris. He was always a dodgy little shit.”

  “Keeley! Language!” her mum hissed, shooting an apologetic look in Nelson’s direction.

  “This is really good cake,” he said into the awkward silence.

  Sanne nibbled a bit of marzipan, torn between amusement and despair. “Pete Farris only has one leg, Keels. Remember? He injected into his groin and got that abscess.”

  “Yeah, right. He gets loads of disability.” Keeley spoke with unmistakeable envy. She was endlessly bitter about her own government handouts, despite the fact that they totalled almost as much as Sanne’s salary, but a well-timed wail from the garden prevented her from launching into one of her tirades. “Oh, those fucking kids.” She slammed down her mug and stamped out through the patio doors, leaving her mum shaking her head in dismay.

  “Is Dad in?” Sanne asked quietly.

  “Aye, usual spot,” her mum said.

  Sanne sighed. She didn’t want to leave the kitchen, with its warm lighting and its bakery scent, but she knew her mum would be made to pay later if her dad found out he’d been ignored. “I should probably go and say hello.”

  She left her tea and half-eaten cake and
went into the living room. It was barely four p.m., but the curtains were drawn, the only light coming from the muted television. She stopped just over the threshold, grimacing at the stink of stale booze and unwashed clothes. This room and the man sitting in its far corner were her mum’s perpetual shame. He rarely allowed her to clean anything in there, and he refused to clean himself. A pall of cigarette smoke hung in the air. As Sanne watched, her dad lit another roll-up and took a swig from the can in his hand.

  “Hi, Dad.” She walked forward slowly, kicking an empty two-litre bottle of White Ace cider from her path. Her dad grunted in acknowledgement and peered up at her, smoke rushing from his nostrils. She couldn’t bring herself to touch him, so she stopped at a safe distance, focusing on the framed picture of a cruise ship that took pride of place on top of a nest of tables.

  He ran a grimy hand over his beard and belched. “What are you doing here?”

  “House-to-house enquiries for a case. Thought we’d drop in for a cuppa.”

  He took a drag on his cigarette, indifferent to the ash falling on the carpet. “That coon with you?”

  She gritted her teeth. There was a reason Nelson had stayed in the kitchen. “His name is Nelson, and yes, he’s with Mum.”

  Her dad scoffed, flicking more ash on the floor. “Don’t know what this bleedin’ country’s coming to.”

  She stared at the photograph until the crystal blue of the ocean blurred with the white of the ship. She had nothing to say to him that wouldn’t provoke an argument. In truth, she couldn’t stand the sight of him. She was holding her breath and counting to fifty, when she heard her mum call her name.

  “I’d better go. Sounds like I’m needed.”

  He grunted. “Shut the fucking door behind you. Keep them kids out of here.”

  Sanne ran upstairs to the bathroom, where she locked the door, filled the sink with scalding water, and scrubbed her hands and face. She felt calmer when she was done. Her mum’s soap was sweet with lavender, and she had found a tub of moisturiser in the cabinet that erased the smell of nicotine and dirt completely. She flushed the toilet, hoping to explain her long absence.