Carl Sant Murder Mysteries Collection

Chapter 4-1

She knew the dangers. Now there was no way back.

Years, decades had passed, and there was no telling how long it would last. She’d been content enough before now, living her secretive existence, looking over her shoulder. But the time had come to play her hand.

The uncertainty lay in deciding which cards to lay down first…

The advice she’d been given on who to talk to and what to say was good. But how to broach the topic had been more knotty. Perhaps the anniversary had spurred her on. Wasn’t it ironic that things should take a turn on that date, on Halloween of all days, when the living pay their respects to the dead?

She wasn’t even superstitious. Yesterday.

All she was sure about was this: he was the right man for the job. She didn’t know much about him beyond the recommendation, though it was enough to convince. He was young and eager to do well, not young enough for age to count against him. And he’d expressed a deep passion for upholding the law, no matter what.

He was also a diplomat, prepared to negotiate for the sake of putting people at ease. Most officers steered away from malpractice by complying with a strict code of conduct. Only the most gifted treated the code as a mild inconvenience and favoured their own intuition above all else.

She couldn’t be sure whether the policeman was really gifted or just competent. In fact, she decided, pinching the dimple on her chin, she couldn’t be sure of anything.

Maybe he’d do nothing. Maybe he was privately laughing at the absurdity of what she’d told him. Or maybe he would pass the information to the wrong people; to those she hated and feared the most.

Lying in bed, safe in the anonymity of her two-bed flat on the eighth floor of her dreary council block, she couldn’t help worrying about the night before. It had been a long trek back, the exercise relieving the stress, though the walk had not been free of adventure. Had she been followed? Her eyes moved to the filthy windows across the room, black with the soft glow of daybreak smeared above the blinds. She squirmed her head back onto the pillow and pulled the sheet under her chin.

She looked left at the bedside table. A gift from the girl she loved the most. A retro clock. Nearly ten. It always brought a smile to her face when she recalled those words – so you can wake up early and walk me to school. They were always late, regardless. Their best excuse? The burial of a guinea pig. The others were equally as dubious.

so you can wake up early and walk me to schoolMemories. Never forgotten…

The sun peeped under the blinds, smears of orange sharpening to creeping yellow rays. She always felt guilty about lying in. But then, what was there to get up for these days? She had no job. Didn’t want one. Last year she’d joined the gym (not that she needed to lose weight, her BMI judging her borderline underweight). She had hoped to find discipline and motivation there. Her New Year’s resolution to do thrice weekly workouts was soon abandoned.

Rubbing a lock of hair between her fingers, she held it up, mouth turning down. It needed dyeing again. She let out a breath, pulled the sheet off. Seeing her legs always improved a sour mood. One foot glided up the opposite calf, low purr coming from her throat. She knew the effect they had on young men. On those who gave her the look.

the lookBeing free and single was her ultimate lot, all the same. Life hadn’t treated her well on the relationship front. She’d married young – her greatest mistake. Eight years of misery living with a violent man who expected her to attend to his every need. The only positive from the sorry affair was not getting pregnant.

Reflecting on one’s past is a sign of too much time on one’s hands. So preached the agony aunt in the magazine she’d read the night before.

Reflecting on one’s past is a sign of too much time on one’s handsShe got up, made tea and toast, turned on the telly.

The usual morning routine.

In many ways her life felt like a football match. A game of two halves. The first half amounted to something like a career, though no job for life had blessed her lucky stars. The only jobs she looked back at with pride had culminated in the unspeakable horror; the half-time dressing down after a losing strategy.

And, crucially, no whistleblowing.

The second half, thus far, amounted to much the same without a future.

She didn’t mind the tedium. Life was less complicated now. Her girl was a grown-up, more or less independent for the time being, and that lifted some of the worry.

What truly bothered her, as she burnt her lip on boiling hot tea, was a lingering desire to face up to the unspeakable – that something she’d once witnessed and tried to forget. Had been advised to forget. Forever.

It was like a rash that wouldn’t go away. She’d failed to pluck up the courage to do anything about it. Until now. The rash was feeling less sore this morning. She’d been persuaded to act. And despite the worries plaguing her, she was feeling good. A little better than before.

She took a large bite of toast and washed it down with the last of her tea. It had been a late night and the round trip through the woods had caught her out by surprise. Perhaps re-joining the gym wasn’t such a bad idea. And yet those first steps towards revealing the secrets, the facts, the evidence she’d pent up inside for so long, had given her a new lease of energy.

Things were looking up. She dared herself to believe it… and could not.

* * *

Countless TV crews armed with tripods and windjammers formed a semi-circle around the blue and white cordon as Sant attempted to ghost through. One plucky reporter almost dragged him back under the cordon. He growled a curse, gave a firm shove and kept moving. Police and press helicopters glared down on the onlookers, giant mutated dragonflies with a nose for trouble. Contrary to the opinions of the Keep Sunday Special campaign, few people went to work on the Sabbath – and here was evidence to prove it.

Capstick had already drawn up an inventory of items found in the pockets of the deceased with the help of a few white coats. He read from the list as Sant struggled to hear him over the sound of sawing and drilling. The bus was proving a monster to shift.

‘First, the driver. It turns out Mr Simpson did twelve months at Her Majesty’s pleasure for armed robbery.’

‘How long ago?’

Capstick consulted his tablet. ‘Mid-eighties.’

Sant scratched his neck with satisfaction. ‘And there’s me thinking bus drivers were the salt of the earth. Good work, Capstick.’

A graduate fast-tracked up the pay scale on the strength of his report-writing skills, DC Capstick made up in cleverness what he lacked in courage. Sant knew his weaknesses. Capstick was considered ‘soft’. He dreaded confronting anyone remotely criminal, preferred desk-work or studying his criminology books to dealing with the real thing. Sant had overheard the words ‘coward’ and ‘Capstick’ uttered in the same sentence on more than the odd occasion.

Since joining up with Missing Persons in the summer, however, things had changed. Those hair-raising encounters Capstick feared the most were getting more frequent. And less pleasant.

Sant was breaking him in.

‘Who else, Capstick?’

The detective constable hitched up his glasses. ‘Identities are coming through on the two young passengers seated towards the middle of the upper deck. Behind Dryden, that is. The male deceased was called Callum Willis. He was nineteen. Here’s his driver’s licence – passed his test six months ago.’

Sant cupped his massive hands to shield the photocard from the sunlight. The man in the photo was smiling. A true smile. The smile of a young man looking forward to a life on the road. A life he’d never live.

‘What do we know about him?’

‘Not a lot, sir.’

‘Parents informed?’

‘The mother, yes. The father is estranged.’

Long-lost dads. Sant stumbled upon them all the time.

‘And this was found on the female passenger sat next to Callum. A gym card for Kate Andrews, also aged nineteen. Callum and Kate were travelling together and my guess is they were more than just friends. Her parents were only informed an hour ago. It’s a bit early to ask them, you know, but they’ve agreed to speak to us as soon as they deem fit. Perhaps you’d be willing?’

Speaking to grieving relatives was the worst. Sant nodded. He was no novice where grief was concerned.

‘What’s been found on Dryden?’

‘No details as yet.’

‘And the other passengers?’

‘Ditto. We’re expecting an update by midday.’

Sant massaged his forehead with the thumb and fingers of his right hand. ‘Do a bit more chasing, Capstick. Talk to officers who’ve helped out Dryden of late. Uniforms especially.’

Capstick nodded and pointed towards the bus, one side of which was being hacked at by firefighters in a futile attempt to dislodge the chassis from fallen masonry. ‘I assume you’ve seen the numbers, sir.’

‘Numbers?’

‘Found on the window next to Dryden.’

Sant cursed his failing memory. ‘I’ll take another look.’

‘3-1-5 seems to be the consensus. Should we go public and see if anyone out there knows what they refer to?’

‘I’d rather keep them under wraps right now. They probably mean more to the perps than anyone else.’

‘Perps? More than one?’

‘Highly likely,’ shouted Sant, raising his voice above the din of a chopper circling overhead. ‘The whole episode feels orchestrated. The only thing out of place is the mess left behind. Ask yourself this, Capstick: was the bus really supposed to crash?’

‘Answers on a postcard.’

‘Or the forensic report if we’re lucky.’ Capstick made to leave but Sant called him back as the helicopter coasted away. ‘By the way, once we’re back at HQ, fill me in on progress with the Chloe Lee case.’

‘What progress, sir?’

The inspector extracted a new toothpick from the inside pocket of his black raincoat. ‘I know it’s hardly high on our things-to-do list. But in the wise words of Old Man Gilligan, we must maintain momentum no matter how overcome we are with work, not least what’s happened here.’

Capstick looked at his boss. ‘See a connection?’

Sant bit hard at the toothpick before replying: ‘Dryden was working on the same cases as us. That might mean something.’

‘You mean, this could be some kind of reprisal?’

‘Stranger things have happened.’

He left his partner to mull things over and caught a glimpse of Hardaker decked out in full forensic gear entering the bus, the hackers moving off to take a break. He put on some overalls of his own and followed the Chiefman up the stairs to the top deck. Veins standing up from hands gripping the rail relaxed when he saw Dryden’s blood-soaked body was no longer there.

‘You move fast, Chiefman.’ Hardaker, kneeling by the window, paused his scrutiny of the enigmatic numbers to look up and nod. ‘Don’t get your hands dirty. The next news briefing is on the hour.’

Hardaker held up his white gloved fingers. ‘No chance of cross-contamination here.’

Sant and Hardaker had joined CID at the same time. They were the same age, height and blood group, and were both native Yorkshiremen. They could have been twins.