No Good Reason (30 page)

“I don’t have a Land Rover, just a scooter.”

“That’s funny, Ned”—one by one, Carlyle placed a sequence of photographs on the table—“because we found this parked up in your garage tonight, with traces of blood and bleach all over the back of it. We’ve already got people working to compare its tyre treads to those we found near our crime scene up on Corvenden.”

Ned edged away from the images as if afraid they might contaminate him. “It’s not mine,” he whispered. Then, louder, “It’s not mine. I never seen it before.” His lawyer laid a hand on his forearm, urging him to remain calm. He shook it off. “No, fuck off!
Fuck off!
”

Behind the glass, Sanne flinched, but Carlyle ignored the outburst and took an item from his briefcase.

“What the hell?” Nelson said, and Sanne shrugged, equally mystified.

“Maybe the lads at the house found something,” she said. It had taken three hours for Ned’s lawyer to arrive at headquarters, plenty of time for the search to get under way.

Carlyle set the evidence bag on top of the photographs. “If the vehicle doesn’t belong to you, explain why we found this crammed beneath the driver’s seat.”

The bag contained something green and woolly. Upon seeing it, Ned blanched.

“We’ll be sending this to the labs for DNA analysis,” Carlyle said. “You understand what I mean by that, right? You watch a lot of television. I’m pretty certain that all the hairs on this are going to prove a match to you. Do you know why I’m so certain?”

Ned’s only response was a cold glare. Carlyle smiled at him and held up a large, framed photograph, the type that would take pride of place above someone’s mantelpiece.

“Caught yourself a whopper that day, didn’t you?”

Sanne leaned forward and sensed everyone else in the room do likewise. Behind her, George let out a whoop. In the photograph, Ned was kneeling at the side of a lake, with a huge carp cradled in both hands, and the same green woollen hat askew on his head.

“Talk your way out of that, you perverted bastard,” George said.

*

“Here, Sanne darling, I saved you my last strawberry bonbon.” Fred blew her a kiss and threw her the sweet.

“Cheers, Fred. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

“Anything to see a smile on your face.”

She put the toffee into her mouth, though it was too sticky, the taste cloying and rich. Forcing herself to swallow it, she rested her elbows on her knees and dropped her head into her hands. Ned’s lawyer had requested a half-hour break, and the interview was due to recommence shortly.

“Tired?” Nelson asked.

“Knackered.” She looked up at him. “We’ve been watching Ned for three days now, and he’d been in custody for two before that.”

“I know.” His tone told her that she didn’t need to say another word.

In those three days of being monitored, Ned had remained within walking distance of his house, retreading a familiar triangular route between the corner shop, the precinct with its chippy and kebab shop, and Prospect Street. Unless he had left Rachel with provisions, the chances of her still being alive were slim to non-existent. Although Sanne knew Nelson had long since reconciled himself to that inevitability, she had refused to give up hope. Now, with the evidence stacked against Ned Moseley, she felt broadsided by a truth she should have acknowledged days ago.

Nelson rested a hand on hers. She smiled at him, and then turned back to the mirror as the door to the interview room opened.

This time Eleanor took the central seat, and Ned eyed her warily as she arranged her paperwork on the table. She began by recapping what he had already discussed with Carlyle—his whereabouts on the days he should have been working for the Cleggs—fishing, alone, in a spot he hadn’t shared with anyone, because the best carp were there. No, he still didn’t know what a vehicle identification number was, even though both VINs on the Land Rover had been scoured off. And no, he couldn’t think of anyone who might have “fitted him up” for the abductions, as he had claimed just prior to the break. He had mates, but no enemies.

“Can you provide us with a list of your mates’ names?” Eleanor asked. EDSOP had already spoken to many of the people Ned had mentioned in the course of his first interview, but they had turned out to be casual drinking acquaintances. Either he didn’t have any close friends, or he wasn’t willing to identify them.

“Already told you their names.” He directed his answer to the table.

“Any you might have forgotten?”

He shrugged and then shook his head. She leaned closer, broaching the gap between them.

“Ned, I want to help you, but I need you to cooperate. At the moment, I’ll be honest, things are looking bad for you. You’ve admitted to having contact with both victims. You involved yourself in the case and seemed familiar with the area where the victims were held. You were found in possession of illegal pornographic material and drugs. You assaulted one of my detectives and fled when we attempted to bring you in for questioning. Your alibi has more holes in it than the average sieve. And now, a vehicle that was most likely used in the abductions has been located in a garage you appropriated, and although you deny that the vehicle belongs to you, an item of your clothing has been found within it. ” She paused. “Sorry, am I going too fast for you?”

Ned glowered at her. “What’s ‘appropriated’ mean?”

“It means to take something without permission or consent.” Eleanor allowed the definition to hang between them for a pointed moment.

Behind the glass, the observation room had fallen silent. Sanne couldn’t even hear anyone breathing.

“Where’s Rachel, Ned?” Eleanor asked quietly. “You’ve not been back to her in five days. Help yourself out, here. Tell us where she is, and give her family the closure they deserve.”

Ned startled when his lawyer touched his arm. He hugged himself, rocking back slightly, his eyes wide.

“No comment,” he said.

Sound seemed to return to Sanne in a rush. Fred swore and kicked the back of her chair, and George punched the wall before stalking out. Almost at once, there was a knock on the door of the interview room, and for a second, she thought George was about to barge in there and take matters into his own hands, but it was only one of the SOCOs. Eleanor ushered him back outside and returned a couple of minutes later to throw an evidence bag onto the table. Something within gave a clank as it landed.

“Go ahead,” she said, encouraging Ned to reach for the bag. Her voice sounded strained, and the veins were standing out on her neck. She wasn’t upset, Sanne realised, she was furious.

“Those are the keys for the Land Rover, and the padlock key used to secure the garage.” She didn’t sit down, forcing Ned to look up at her instead. “They were found behind a loose brick in your air-raid shelter.” Ned opened his mouth to protest, but she didn’t let him speak. “Fingerprints found in the rear of the Land Rover have been matched to those taken from the cottage and identified as Rachel Medlock’s. Ned Moseley, I am placing you under arrest for the abduction and assault of Josie Albright and the abduction of Rachel Medlock. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court…”

Ned hid his face in his hands as Eleanor repeated the caution Carlyle had earlier delivered.

“The time is two thirty-four a.m.,” she said. “Interview halted at the request of the defence counsel.” As she switched off the tape recorder, applause rang out in the observation room.

“Beer,” Fred announced. “I need beer.”

Sanne watched two uniformed officers lead Ned away. She was too stunned to feel like celebrating. She stood with Nelson, peering into the now empty room and trying to work through the consequences of what had just happened.

“We have to tell Josie before she sees it on the news,” she said. “Once the press learn about the length of surveillance, they’ll put two and two together.”

“San,
she’ll
put two and two together.”

Sanne nodded, suddenly cold in the stuffy little room. “I know she will, but someone should be with her when she does.”

*

Snowed under with paperwork, forensics, and preparing a statement for the press, Eleanor was happy to let Sanne speak to Josie. Nelson volunteered to go as well, but Sanne persuaded him to go home. He had seen little enough of his family over the past ten days.

The doctor eating toast at the desk of the HDU dabbed crumbs from her lips and directed Sanne to the Neuro Rehab ward.

“She was still awake the last time I looked in on her,” a nurse told Sanne, when she eventually found the ward. He lowered his voice as he escorted her between two rows of sleeping patients. “Have you found her partner? Is that why you’re here?” He sounded genuinely concerned, but Sanne couldn’t bring herself to break the news twice in quick succession.

“I should speak to Josie first,” she said.

His expression turned grim. “Should I phone her mum?”

“Yes, thank you. I think that would be a good idea.”

He left her at the door to Josie’s room. On a ward dominated by elderly stroke patients, it seemed a kindness that Josie had been allocated a single room. In the ward’s last bed, a twenty-something lad with vacant eyes, a large, stapled scalp wound, and a tube in his nose gave her an infantile wave and then pulled his sheets over his head. She wondered how fast he had been driving, or who had provoked the fight that had landed him here. Screwing up her nose against the smell of disinfectants and sweet, artificial feeds, she tapped at Josie’s door.

The hand Josie had been using to hold a book flew to her mouth when she saw Sanne.

“Oh God.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Did you find her?”

All of Sanne’s carefully rehearsed words deserted her. Shaking her head, she went to sit on the end of Josie’s bed. “About an hour ago, we charged Ned Moseley with abduction and assault,” she said. “Do you remember who he is?”

“Yes. He’s the man you’ve been watching.”

It didn’t take long for Josie to work through the ramifications of that short statement. Sanne gauged the subtle change in her expression, from relief to fear to utter horror. Josie’s face paled, and her left hand began to twitch uncontrollably. She grabbed hold of it with her right, tears splattering on the sheets with each movement.

“How many days is it?” she asked. “I can’t count them.”

“Five. Josie, we’re now treating this as a murder enquiry.”

Josie sobbed, a choked, inhuman sound that curled her in on herself. “I can’t do this,” she said. “I can’t do any of this without her.”

The sudden surge of grief seemed to overwhelm her, two weeks of misery breaking free and obliterating the barriers she had managed to build around herself. When Sanne reached for her, she tried to pull away, her fist thumping weakly against Sanne’s back, but within a few seconds, all the fight had left her. She buried her face in Sanne’s neck and wept as if her heart had shattered.

*

Birdsong and the first touch of sunlight on the treetops met Sanne as she stumbled out of her car. She barely remembered driving, and it took her several attempts to select the right door key. The door caught on a pair of boots left lying behind it. She tugged them free and set them on the shoe rack, placing her own in a space beneath. She was already half-undressed by the time she reached the bathroom, her clothes in a crumpled pile under one arm. Unable to face the effort of a shower, she washed quickly and brushed her teeth.

The sheets she slid between were fresh and cool, but grew warmer by degrees as she inched across the bed. Without speaking, Meg opened her arms and gathered Sanne close. Sanne was too weary to cry, to explain, to do anything but lie still and let Meg hold her. As she felt Meg’s hand trace a never-ending figure of eight on her back, she finally allowed her eyes to close.

Meg set the cup of tea by Sanne’s side of the bed, counted to five, and blew carefully in her ear.

“Sanne.”

Sanne’s face screwed up in irritation. She batted ineffectually at the strand of hair Meg had disturbed, but she didn’t open her eyes.

Meg tried again, her voice soft. “Sanne, time to wake up.”

“Mmhm.”

“So much for the subtle approach.” Meg stood up, her hands on her hips, and bellowed, “It’s twenty past seven!”

That had the desired effect. Sanne bolted upright. “Please be kidding me.” She looked at the clock and half-fell out of bed as the sheets became tangled around her ankles. “Fucking hell!”

“Easy, tiger.” Meg knelt by her. “I’ve already spoken to Eleanor.”

“You have? You did?” Rubbing her eyes with her fingertips, Sanne took a deep breath. “Meg, what’s going on?”

Meg tugged her hand, encouraging her to sit back against the wall. “Promise you won’t be cross with me?”

“Oh God. What did you do?”

“I sent Eleanor a text telling her that you hadn’t got home till half four, and she replied to say check your e-mails for the morning briefing and sort yourself out from there.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.” An unfamiliar flatness to Sanne’s voice was the only indication of her anger.

“Would you have been any use to the investigation, running on an hour’s sleep?” Meg couldn’t feel guilty for interfering, not when the skin beneath Sanne’s eyes was so purple and swollen that it looked bruised, and when the wall seemed to be the only thing stopping her from toppling over. Meg had seen other cases take their toll in the past few years, but never to the extent of this one.

“Probably not,” Sanne said. “But none of us will have had much sleep last night.”

“And half of them also missed the briefing.” Meg patted Sanne’s knee, cutting short her agonising. “Have a shower, and I’ll sort breakfast.”

Sanne nodded but didn’t get up. “You know what happened, then?”

“I saw it on the news.” Even as Meg spoke, she made a connection that shed more light on Sanne’s beaten-down demeanour. “Did you go to tell Josie?”

“Yes.” Shivering, Sanne pulled the sheet closer around herself. “She was devastated, obviously.”

“I’ll bet she was, the poor kid. I’m on lates the next couple of days. I’ll drop in to her ward and see how she’s doing.”