No Good Reason (21 page)

“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.

Back downstairs, she found Nelson drying pots. Her mum handed her a fresh mug of tea, ushered her into a seat, and put a sandwich in front of her.

“Nelson said you missed your dinner.”

“Mm.” Suddenly ravenous, Sanne took a mouthful and spoke around it. “I was busy with an interview.”

“You need to eat, San. You’ve lost weight. Is Meg not taking care of you?”

“Meg takes care of me just fine.” She winked at her mum. One of her mum’s biggest regrets was Sanne’s and Meg’s refusal to do the decent thing and get married.

“Bring her for tea one night. It’s weeks since I saw her.”

Sanne toasted the idea with her mug and wrapped the rest of her sandwich in a napkin. “We should make a move.”

“I tried to answer Nelson’s questions,” her mum said, “but I really haven’t seen anything that might help, and your dad’s not left the house in two weeks.” She added a slice of cake to Sanne’s picnic and carried the rest into the pantry.

“What about Keeley?” Sanne asked Nelson.

He consulted his notes, biding his time to ensure her mum was out of earshot. “She said she hadn’t been into Rowlee for almost a month, because, and I quote, ‘that prick Nathan who works in the butcher’s keeps trying to cop a feel.’”

“Perfect,” Sanne said. “Thanks for trying, anyway.”

Outside, they found a light rain had started to fall, making the streets look even less inviting. They waited until a young man had ridden past on his bike, dodging potholes and broken glass, and then crossed the road. Music was blaring from the window of a nearby flat, but beneath the relentless bass an argument was clearly audible. Sanne hated coming back here, hated the claustrophobic feel of the streets: too many houses and too many unhappy people, crammed into too small a space. Of her colleagues, only Nelson and Eleanor knew she had grown up on Halshaw. She wouldn’t lie about it if someone asked her directly, but it wasn’t something she wanted to shout about. Meg had lived two streets over, and somehow they had both managed to avoid the trap of unemployment and reliance on government benefits that had ensnared their siblings. Not many people truly escaped from the estate—not unless you counted those who found a new home in a prison cell—and Sanne’s mum had been delighted the first time she had visited Sanne’s cottage.

Knowing that the DI rarely did things by chance, Sanne suspected Eleanor had assigned her that patch of Halshaw to ensure that no other members of EDSOP would happen upon her family.

“Okay, cheers for that,” Nelson said into his radio, and Sanne realised that an entire conversation had taken place over the comms without her hearing a word. He held out his list for her to consult. “We have Scafell Walk and Thirlmere Avenue still outstanding.”

She pulled a face and handed Nelson the piece of cake. The quizzical look he gave her made her laugh. “Eat it. Trust me, mate, if we’re going to Scafell we’ll need the sustenance.”

Three hours later, footsore and soaked to the skin, Sanne was attempting to question a lethargic nineteen-year-old with heroin-narrowed pupils, when the comms buzzed.

“Excuse us a minute,” she said. The lad tutted and folded his arms, as if the delay kept him from attending to something of vital importance.

She ignored his tapping feet as Eleanor’s voice greeted her and Nelson with a terse, “Where are you?”

“Halfway down Thirlmere Avenue. Is something wrong?”

“Nelson, you requested a background check on a Ned Moseley this morning?”

“That’s right,” he said. “Preliminary came back clean. I left Scotty chasing down the rest of it.”

“It was all clean,” Eleanor said, “but guess who’s come up as the general handyman and caretaker of Rowan Cottage?”

Sanne and Nelson reacted in unison. “Bloody hell.”

“My sentiment exactly. He lives on the outskirts of Rowlee, about three miles from Halshaw. George and Fred are on their way over, but the address is a terrace with a back alley, so we need someone to cover that in case he does a runner.”

“What about Tactical Aid?” Nelson asked. The TAU were far better equipped to apprehend potentially dangerous criminals than EDSOP were.

“They’re at an EDL rally in Sheffield. You’re on your own.”

“Well, we’ve both got our big-boy boots on,” Sanne said.

Nelson apologised to the lad and turned a blind eye to the answering gesture. He and Sanne hurried away from the house.

“Keep me up to speed, and be careful,” Eleanor told them.

Sanne signed off, breaking into a trot as she plotted the quickest route back to Nelson’s car.

“I’ll toss you for it!” Nelson had to shout to be heard above the thudding of their boots on the pavement.

“Tails,” Sanne shouted back.

Reaching his car, he flipped a coin and whooped when it landed heads-up. “Next time, San, I promise.” Grinning like a child, he got into the driver’s seat, stuck his blue light onto the roof, and activated the beacon as he pulled away from the kerb. “Oh, I’m getting chills. It’s been way too long since we did this.”

He skidded to a halt at the junction, set the siren wailing, and sped out onto the main road.

The drizzle had turned into a downpour. It bounced off the windscreen as Nelson extinguished his blues and turned onto Prospect Road.

“Name seems a bit cruel,” Sanne said, craning her neck to look at the street of scruffy terraced houses suggesting little in the way of good fortune.

“It was probably nicer when they built it.” Nelson eased the car into a gap between a Micra with a flat tyre and a knackered Fiat with a huge exhaust and a ludicrous body kit.

“Yeah, maybe.” Far from convinced, she raised her hand to acknowledge George.

Minutes later, they were crammed into Fred’s car, steaming up his windows while peering through the darkness at the middle house on the row. There was nothing to distinguish it from the others: a two-up, two-down, it opened directly onto the street, and its downstairs curtains were drawn as if to shut out the miserable weather.

“Lights have been going on and off, so someone’s in. The woman at the rental agency reckons he lives alone.” Fred had offered around a bag of humbugs and was picking caramel from his teeth as he spoke.

“Right, what’s the plan?” Nelson asked.

“At the moment, he’s nothing more than a ‘person of interest.’” Fred wrapped the phrase in air quotes. “We knock and invite him down to the office for tea and a chat. With a bit of luck, he’s all obliging, grabs his coat, and offers to provide the KitKats. You and Sanne just need to hang out round the back in case he decides to play hard to get.”

Sanne grinned, making her mint rattle against her teeth. “Who could possibly resist your charms, Fred?”

“My first, second, and third wives, love.” He gave a theatrical and slightly camp sigh. “Sometimes I wonder about switching to your team.”

In a flash, George had his door open. “I think that’s our cue to leave. Buzz us when you’re in position.”

At the entrance to the alley, Sanne flicked her torch on and panned it across the narrow passage. The houses on Prospect Road and those on the road running parallel had backyards instead of gardens: depressing concrete squares devoid of flowers or trees, some still dominated by air-raid shelters, and all surrounded by high brick walls. Hemmed in on both sides but unsecured at the entrances, the alley between them provided the perfect opportunity for illegal rubbish dumping.

Sanne negotiated a careful path through the heaps of debris. “Shame no one’s been bothered to gate the alley.”

“I might write an angry letter.” Nelson tripped over a rusted toy scooter before stopping on Sanne’s cue. “Is this us?”

“Yep, eighth house down.” She keyed her radio. “Ready when you are, Fred.”

“Roger that.”

A minute passed, then another. Standing to one side of the yard gate, Sanne adjusted her weight from foot to foot while Nelson kicked two squashed cans and half a loaf of bread back toward a gnawed-open bin bag. In the next street, a car alarm blared. He swung around toward it and then shook his head at his own edginess.

Sanne put her torch beneath her chin and pulled a face, making him laugh. “Maybe Ned didn’t answer the door,” she said.

Nelson flicked a crust from the toe of his boot. “Maybe he invited them in for coffee, and they’ve forgotten all about us.”

“Knowing those two—”

“Bloody hell!
Stop!
Oh, arse!” Fred’s yell cut across the comms, swiftly followed by another. “Nelson, San! Incoming!”

That was all the warning they got before the gate slammed open and a dark shape barrelled into the alley. Ned Moseley led with his fists, hitting out repeatedly at Nelson and forcing him against the wall. With no time to consider the consequences, Sanne threw herself forward, trying to put herself between the two men, but Nelson was already slumping to the floor. Seeing his escape route almost clear, Ned punched her once—a sloppy hit that caught her shoulder—and set off at a run. She took half a step after him before hesitating and looking back at Nelson.

“I’m fine.” He waved her away, urging her to give chase. His nose was bleeding, and more blood dribbled down his chin as he coughed.

“Back in a minute.” She turned to cast her torchlight down the alley.

Hampered by the near-total darkness, Ned hadn’t got far. As he floundered over an upended sofa, she ran after him, skirting the torn bin bag and then sprinting down the centre of the alley, where less rubbish had collected.

“He’s heading west, west, west,” she shouted into the comms.

“Backup’s seven minutes out.” Fred’s voice, puffing for breath. He sounded as if he was running but already winded. “He slammed the front door on us. We’re coming round the side.”

“Shit,” she whispered, and swore again as she lost her footing and collided with a gate swinging from its hinges. She quickly righted herself and charged onward, spotting Ned on his hands and knees about fifty yards ahead.

“
Police!
Stay where you are! Oh, for fuck’s sake…” She’d put everything behind her command but wasn’t surprised when he ignored her. Although she was faster than him, he definitely had the advantage in build, and she doubted her torch would double as a cosh.

The orange glow of streetlights brought the end of the alley into focus. Ned ran across the dividing road beyond it and into another unlit passageway, this one overgrown with weeds. She heard a sudden shriek and saw him hopping over to the left side of the path. For the first time, she realised he was wearing only boxer shorts and trainers. His progress became a halting dance around clumps of nettles and brambles.