Carl Sant Murder Mysteries Collection

Chloe: Lost Girl (1)

CHLOE: LOST GIRL

CARL SANT MURDER MYSTERIES BOOK 1MISSINGPEOPLE.ORG

Chloe Lee

Age at disappearance: 20

Missing since: September 9

Missing from: Leeds, West Yorkshire

Chloe did not return to her student accommodation on the night of Saturday 12th September. She left all her property at her Belle Vue Road address. There are concerns for her welfare. Her mother, who has left the country for an extended holiday, lives at an address on Dufton Approach, Seacroft. Chloe is known to frequent the city centre as well as Leeds University. She is described as white, 5ft 11in tall with long black hair. When last seen she was wearing a light blue hooded top and black jeans slitted at the knees. She can call or text Missing People in confidence any time.1

The bus arrived fifteen minutes before the hour, hissing to a stop, thick breeze pulsing ahead of it. He turned his eyes away and noticed the silhouette of a woman against the moonlit ruins. She appeared agitated, waiting for someone. Lengthening his stride, gaze narrowed and shoulders hunched, he felt a rush of adrenalin as he loomed towards the frail figure. What next? That’s what I love most about this job, he told himself. Every day a different one, every investigation a new opportunity to demonstrate my adeptness at enforcing the law. I’ve made mistakes, true, but my record on paper is unblemished. It’s only a matter of time before the men who matter sit up and take notice. On closer inspection he saw that the woman was older than her phone voice had conveyed. Fifties? Late forties at best. Even so, her glowing make-up and the vibrancy in her eyes did much to hold back the years. After what seemed like an eternity, she said, ‘Dryden?’

He nodded. ‘I’d say it’s a pleasure, though from what you told me on the phone–’

‘No time for niceties. Come with me.’

He followed her along the riverside to woods providing shelter from the rain. They found a fallen bark to sit on and she offered him a cigarette. Then she told her tale. He asked if she would mind if he used the voice recorder on his phone. She did mind very much, so reluctantly he settled for the Notes app. Dryden had two smartphones, a smartwatch and some smart sunglasses. His colleagues nicknamed him Inspector Gadget. Irritating. But it didn’t gall him. Gadget always solved the mystery. Eventually. Forty minutes later the interview was over. They shook hands and went their separate ways, the woman deeper into the woods, Dryden back to the main road, her final words ringing in his ears.

‘Can you be trusted?’

He hadn’t answered at first; didn’t know how to. Could he keep his word… and not say a word to anyone else? In the end he’d chosen no words. Just a simple nod. He glanced at the luminous dual-dial on his Tag Heur – a gift from his other half. The next bus was due any moment. Quickening his long stride, he reached the road at the same time as the bus. It began screeching to a halt. He swiftly crossed the A65, got behind the three other customers waiting at the abbey. Hopped on the bus, flashed his return ticket at the weary driver, considered for a moment before chancing his arm on the top deck. It should be quiet up there, the other passengers settling for the seats below. Climbing the stairs two at a time, he took a seat at the front, got out his iPhone X and read the few notes he’d managed in the shade of the woods. Best to fill in the gaps while things are still fresh in my mind, he thought. Seconds later came footsteps behind him, someone emerging from the top of the stairwell. He stole a glance. The man was one of the passengers who’d got on the bus with him. Wearing black from head to foot, the nondescript coat and trousers reminded Dryden of his darkly clad boss. Someone wanting peace and quiet too, he guessed. Back to the notes. Who? When? Where? And crucially, why? Why murder? And why the cover-up? He dug into his pockets for the Post-It she’d given him containing the all-important address, but he couldn’t find it. Maybe he’d dropped it. Not to worry. It was permanently printed on his memory. Then came more footsteps. Two pairs of them. Dryden glanced over his shoulder. A young man and woman were climbing the stairs. Hadn’t they boarded the bus at the abbey too? He couldn’t be sure, but it was puzzling-stroke-annoying all the same. Why come up here when the bottom deck had seats aplenty? Unperturbed at unwanted company, he began keying in names and descriptions, dates and times, all the while drawing on recall training he’d recently undertaken at police college. With so many details buzzing around his head, he swore he heard a swarm of bees close by. Then he looked out at the drizzly darkness, the copper and yellow leaves clinging to the trees. Wrong season, he told himself. He directed his gaze back to his phone, deep in thought about something the woman had said. That she was related to the girl was undeniable; and anyway, why spell out the whereabouts of the evidence – indisputable evidence – if the whole saga was a hoax or a set-up or some wild conspiracy theory? He came out of his daydream, wiping condensation off the bus window with his anorak sleeve and peering out of the semi-circle he’d crafted, though the view hardly improved through the mist and damp. He could see his mirror image smiling back, the chiselled curves of his strong jaw and strapping torso heightened by the dim light. Outside, in the murky beyond, there was nothing to be seen – but what the hell was going on behind him? From the light cast by the ceiling beams Dryden caught the hazy reflection of someone standing up. It was the man in black. Then, from the other side of his vision, the couple were standing, postures frozen. Instinct getting the better of experience, he turned around in an abrupt movement lacking caution and composure. The last thing Detective Sergeant Liam Dryden saw with both his eyes was the shining barrel of a semi-automatic pistol – pointed right at him. He never saw the bullet that shot out of the barrel, penetrated his right temple, then went through and out of his skull, shattering the misty windscreen behind him. He felt a terrible pain. His head was singing, whining, popping. His left eye went blind. He could hear his own scream. More shots were fired. Where from and by whom, his fading senses couldn’t fathom. He knew he was dying, knew he was going to die. It had happened so quickly, so inexplicably, he could barely swallow the reality of his doomed condition. So this was what it felt like to stare into the face of Death. Like crashing a car you cannot control, time suspended, impalpable, lost. But he was no longer afraid to die. He was beyond fear; beyond hope. Before the end; before his muscles packed in and his grip on life gave up entirely, one last gesture. The dynamite must be exposed. It was too hot to be buried with him. His phone had gone, but he still had a cloudy window to work on. Resting his left arm on a handrail for leverage, Dryden gradually raised his right hand above his drooping head. Then he thought ‘brevity’ – and fingered a series of numbers on the misty glass, marking a course as clear as water. He willed his body to carry on, commanded it not to fail. But try as he might to get those numbers etched for eternity, his ultimate number was up, his last ounce of energy sapping dry as he slumped to the floor. To add insult to mortal injury, he died amid the echoes of an almighty boom.2

‘You understand why you’re here?’

The man shrugged and spoke in a deep drawl. ‘No skin off my back, though it’s starting to feel like Groundhog Day. Same routine, different day.’

Detective Inspector Carl Sant spat out his mangled toothpick and rubbed the tip of his rugged nose. ‘A bit young to remember that film, aren’t you?’

‘I watched it on the plane to Thailand last year. Nearly pissed myself laughing.’

‘Did you go with Chloe to Thailand?’

‘No, that was before Chloe.’ Jake Downing, nineteen-year-old package of toned muscle, gazed up at the unpainted ceiling of the interview room. ‘Might’ve been Emma. Or was it Emily?’

‘No shortage of girlfriends.’

Jake sat up. His eyes took on a mischievous gleam as they moved to Sant. ‘Eight. Ten if you count the ones I never, you know, got inside. Girls are like taxis.’ He grinned. ‘You ride one, move onto the next.’

‘I’m sure your mother would approve, Mr Downing.’

‘Each to his own, don’t you think? Some lads find the right girl on day one and stick with her through thin and thin. Not me. I’m too young for nonsense like that.’

‘So you and Chloe were never serious?’ asked the inspector, clamping a fresh toothpick between his incisors. Jake replied by pushing up one shoulder, lazy.

‘Tell us about your… relationship,’ Sant said. He glanced at the man sitting next to him. Detective Constable Brad Capstick watched Jake without blinking. A studious type, Capstick was forever adjusting his thick-rimmed NHS-style specs, though neither the frames nor lenses were subsidised by the National Health Service. He was fifteen years Sant’s junior and a damn sight better qualified, but a love of textbooks and grand ideas hadn’t exactly equipped him for CID work. Jake’s expression became wry. ‘How can I put it? We weren’t shy with each other. Let’s just say I got to know Chloe well. Very well.’ He beamed pathetically. ‘She appreciated a man of experience.’

‘But you’re a little younger than Chloe,’ Capstick said, as if the boy needed another invitation to gloat.

‘In the biological sense, yes, but not the carnal.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’ asked Sant, eager to move on. Jake tapped the tips of his fingers on the table. ‘How many times have I been asked that question?’

Sant leant forward, arching his neck and widening his stare a fraction. ‘Are you going to make life easy for us, or do we make life difficult for you?’

‘Why you got beef, man?’

Capstick felt the steam coming off his colleague and stepped in. ‘You must understand, Jake, that whilst we’ve no wish to start a shouting match, we’re handling a missing person case of the utmost urgency.’ He breathed out. ‘Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated.’

No-one had seen Chloe Lee for over seven weeks. To make matters worse, establishing when the university student had disappeared was proving tough. Usually a time, and sometimes a place, provided a vital marker in establishing a missing person’s whereabouts. But in Chloe’s case, detectives had neither. Students living in shared apartment blocks seldom clocked in like the rest of the human race, so when asked why they’d taken so long to contact the police, Chloe’s flatmates had offered blank expressions and weak excuses. Chloe’s mother was also missing, though several sources – passport checks included – drew the same conclusion: Vanessa Lee was three months into a six-month round-the-world tour. Vanessa’s f*******: profile had been scarcely touched since her departure, although one recent post hinted at an interest in teaching English as a foreign language. A few photos of tropical forests and temples completed the picture. Perhaps six months was an underestimate. Chloe’s father was missing in another way. He’d left Vanessa when Chloe was twelve, then moved to York with his second family. He’d been interviewed by detectives already but not by Sant personally, which explained why a prearranged trip to York was pencilled in for the following evening.

‘I’ll make it easy for you,’ said Jake, enunciating each word. ‘The last time I saw Chloe was in July. The twenty-fourth to be precise. She came to a birthday party I was hosting at my digs. I saw her briefly. She left early. Simple. That’s all there is to it.’

Capstick consulted the pocket-sized tablet he carried around with him. ‘These digs you mention. Are you referring to the Moorland Avenue, Hyde Park address?’

‘Correct. I don’t live in Hyde Park now. Moved to Headingley. One notch up the social ladder.’

The constable wrote something on a page filled with his tiny scrawl. ‘And was Chloe in good spirits at the party?’

Jake stared into space. ‘As far as I recall. She was her usual, sober self. But as I said, I hardly saw her that night. We were… losing interest in each other.’

‘So you split up after the party?’

‘I’m not sure if we ever did split up. We’d had the odd argument or two, and needed to get away for a while. The summer break came at a good time.’

‘So technically speaking, you and Chloe are still together?’ probed Capstick. The young man’s eyes widened. ‘How can we be together when she’s not around?’

‘But if Chloe came through this door now, you’d still assume you and her were a pair?’

‘Suppose. Probably. Depends on Chloe…’

‘And?’

‘Well, you can’t expect me to wait forever, gents. I’ve moved on–’

Sant stifled an urge to laugh. ‘Enter girlfriend number eleven, Mr Downing.’

Jake didn’t try hard to repress the smirk rising over his solid jawline. Capstick glanced down at his tablet. ‘Did you argue with Chloe the last time you saw her. At the party?’

No sooner had it appeared than the smirk was gone. The boy was ruffled. ‘Can’t remember… maybe, maybe not.’

Sant wasn’t convinced. ‘A simple yes or no if you don’t mind.’

The teenager shuffled restlessly in his chair, his newfound nervousness not helped by the snoring of the duty solicitor by his side. He peered upwards in search of an answer and then said, ‘Probably. We argued quite a lot, like all couples.’

Sant sensed the unease and jumped on it. He thrust his thick neck aloft, closing in on his target. The stark light from the swaying bulb overhead made the inspector’s suit glow threateningly, though Jake was too busy admiring himself in the reflective glass to notice.

‘What did you argue about? It must’ve been a proper bust-up, Mr Downing, because you haven’t seen your girlfriend since.’

Jake stood up sharply, stirring the lawyer from his slumber. ‘I don’t have to take any more of this harassment. And what’s more, it’s about time I got myself proper legal representation instead of Mr Dozy here.’

The inspector rose to his feet in turn, the two of them squaring up like mismatched boxers. ‘You don’t have an iota of decency for the situation we’re facing, do you Mr Downing? A young lass is missing. Feared dead. And all you care about is what you come out of this smelling like.’

‘I’m not standing for this,’ the youngster snapped. His initial coolness had long evaporated. ‘I was invited to this cop shop for a conversation, not an interrogation. If you think I killed Chloe, arrest me; prosecute me. Go on! You haven’t a shred of evidence.’

Capstick found himself refereeing, his arms opening like scissors to force the fighters apart. ‘Let’s just quieten down and sit down.’ He turned to Jake, who was heading straight for the door. ‘For the sake of Chloe, we need as much information as possible, so please – just a few more minutes.’

‘Only if you keep him on a leash,’ he said, jabbing his finger at Sant. Capstick made a show of rebuking his partner. Then more questions were asked, principally by Capstick, but the interview came to an abrupt halt. Not because Jake Downing wanted out, but because Assistant Chief Constable Bill Gilligan wanted in. The chief officer signalled at Sant and Capstick through the thick-glazed window of the interview room, pointing a fat thumb in the direction of his office. Urgency and despair haunted his tubby face.

* * *

‘It’s Dryden. Bad news. Awful news.’

Gilligan was clearly flustered. Rarely did the Old Man – what others called him on account of his dated dress sense – drum up a conversation without a put-down remark for starters. His bushy eyebrows merged to form a thick underlining above his flushed cheeks. As the beer-bellied ACC perched on the end of his oversized desk, Sant noticed the bottle of Bell’s he kept hidden for a rainy day in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet, a ‘small drop’ of which the Old Man took with his morning coffee. The bottle was almost empty – no coffee to be seen.

‘Holdsworth?’

Capstick replied: ‘She’s on call, sir.’

‘What’s wrong?’ said Sant, gnawing on another toothpick, his way of alleviating bouts of anxiety. Like the one about to surface. A humble device, for sure, but it had helped him to kick the habit, and kept him off those ghastly e-cigs for good measure. Gilligan cleared his throat, half-closing his eyes and folding his arms. ‘I’ve never had to say this to colleagues before, Inspector, Constable, though I suppose there’s a first time for everything. To be injured in the call of duty is one thing – but to lose one’s own life on the beat is tragic.’

Capstick spoke first, gaping mouth in unison with sinking shoulders. ‘You mean… Liam is dead?’

Gilligan gave a short nod and turned away, his eyes wetting at the corners.

‘But he’s off duty, sir.’

‘So I believe.’

Splinter snapping between his front teeth, Sant uttered the first thought that came to him. ‘An accident? Or otherwise?’

Gilligan unfolded his arms. ‘That much we don’t know yet, but the circumstances appear fishy to say the least. The official line, for now, is that Dryden has been involved in some sort of road incident whilst on board a bus. But going on what I’ve heard, this is no ordinary crash. Not by any stretch of the imagination. We should be getting along to the crime scene, gentlemen, if you don’t mind?’

Sant nodded, trying desperately to digest what he’d just heard. Thoughts of missing people and cocky young men were rubbed away in an instant. An officer – a damned good one – was dead. All other tasks were withheld for now. The inspector binned what was left of his toothpick and walked out of Gilligan’s office, out into the black horror of every policeman’s nightmare.3

Through a haze of floodlights and flash-photography, Sant ducked under the police cordon and cast his eye over a scene the like of which he’d never witnessed before. Not even in his dreams. The vanishing point was the doors of the bus, jammed at right angles into the side of the wine shop. The stench of stale wine rose from red puddles strewn with broken glass. The first bobbies arriving on the scene decided to call in the fire brigade. As Sant attached a mask to cover his nose and mouth from the dust, he could just make out the golden sparks flying off a firefighter’s power-saw as it carved a colossal hole in the side of the bus. His heart sank as he thought about what awaited him. Half an hour later he sucked in all the air he could muster before crawling through that hole. The exterior of the bus looked bad enough, its bodywork battered and scorched by flames not long since extinguished. But the inside had to be worse. Much worse. He’d encountered the whole gamut of deadly road accidents during his stint as a traffic cop – the image of a biker’s head severed from the neck still troubled him – but it was plain this was no accident. Jagged steel bit into his palms, scraped his sides, as he slipped in. The shattered windows on both sides gave Sant the eerie feeling he was trapped in some kind of mechanical spider’s labyrinth. The illusion was soon broken. Positioned under canvas tents designed to protect evidence was a scattering of bodies. He gently lifted one of the tarpaulin sheets and stared down at a young man, probably still a teenager. All the blood had leaked out of his head, giving his battered face a blue hue. A gunshot wound was visible just above his left ear, chin pressed into his shoulder by neck vertebrae arching in the wrong direction. Sant breathed out steadily and peered ahead of him. Another tent was at the front of the bus, presumably housing the dead driver. A scenes-of-crime officer guided him around the tents and up the stairs. The bus had come to a stop at an acute angle. The climb to the top deck was a challenge of coordination. He tried to avoid placing his hands anywhere where fingerprints might be traceable, then thought, how many dozens of people had coated this handrail with their arches and whorls? He reached the top and threw a quick glance at the forensic team, grabbing air in front of him, shoe catching on a protruding rivet. The team was scouring every square inch around the front window and seating. Below their serious faces, Dryden’s inert form lay in the foetal position. Unlike the bodies downstairs, Dryden’s was uncovered and, very possibly, untouched. His eyes were wide open, their final gaze upwards to the heavens, the poor soul’s knowing nod to his destiny. Sant wasn’t queasy by nature, but the musty atmosphere brought on a bout of dizziness he couldn’t shake off. He muttered something to the officer who’d led him up the stairs, started to head back down. It was then that he noticed the splintered glass in front of Dryden. While the rest of the window had been left to dry naturally, a small section of glass had been encased in plastic film in order to retain the moisture. Underneath this, Sant could make out a pair of numbers: 3 and 1. And then a gap of about three inches before another figure appeared. It looked like a 5. Unless it was an S.

3-1-5?

3-1-S? A police photographer was busy snapping the rear of the vehicle. Sant waved her over and asked her to take some close-ups of the markings.

‘Already got ’em, matey.’

Photographers cared little for status or ranking, going about their job largely oblivious of who they were talking to.

‘Take a few more, just to be on the safe side,’ urged Sant. She shrugged in reluctant deference. The lower deck contained four tents compared to the two he’d noted halfway along the upper. That made six fatalities, not including DS Dryden. Seven dead in total. A bloody m******e. Home Office pathologist Dr Grant Wisdom was crouching inside one of the tents, inspecting shot wounds and crushed bones with a jeweller’s attention to detail. Sant felt a crumb of comfort at Wisdom’s presence. A man of few words, he was the best in the business. The inspector knew better than to disturb him during these critical moments of scientific scrutiny. The lights inside the bus had malfunctioned on impact. What little yellow glow could be thrown on the crime scene from police-issue spotlights was no substitute for natural daylight. The answers would come later. Just one question would suffice for now.

‘Any survivors?’

Dr Wisdom snapped on a fresh pair of Latex gloves, replied without looking up from his gory task. ‘Two men. In ICU at LGI. They were lucky.’

‘Lucky?’

‘That’s what I said, Inspector. Lucky they weren’t shot.’

Sant left the morbid bus and took shelter from the rain in the back of a video van. Shut the twin doors. A shiver buzzed over his limbs, relaxing the tension in his gut. He found a cup of something warm, took a peek at his knock-off Rolex and closed his eyes, straining to concentrate on his preferred escape-route at moments of dread like these. Meditation. A simple art. True. But to others, this daily ritual was the subject of ridicule. Even Sant had dismissed the idea at first. An old friend who’d migrated to India to become a Buddhist monk had suggested it to him. How to think right – that had been the goal. Now meditation was integral to his ways of coping with the work-life balance. A balance he’d never get close to striking without those twin virtues… watchfulness and mindfulness.

* * *

When Sant finally awoke from his cerebral trance and checked the time, he realised he’d snoozed for an hour – quite an achievement given the hubbub surrounding him. Blackbirds nearby tweeted the coming of dawn, wings thrusting them to the next patch of grass. Refreshed but frustrated, he felt those meditative powers had merely seduced him away from the harsh reality of a blood-soaked bus. All he could conjure up, for now, were questions. What was Dryden doing on the bus? Where was he travelling to? Or from? And why was he murdered? Why were the others murdered? There was nothing to do but wait. Sit in a cold police van and await forensics, await the ballistic tests, await the pathology reports. It was these moments at the very beginning of a murder enquiry, with time so precious and the risk of error so high, when Sant became agitated beyond belief. The comfort he sought in meditation often evaded him. So his other therapy was to eat his way out of the jitters. It was surefire, if unhealthy. He was a little overweight, but not out of shape. His height, all six and a half feet of him, kept away the middle-aged spread. In his late teens he’d been an exceptional basketball player. If only he’d been born an American! Professional basketball didn’t exactly constitute a feasible career in a country where the sport had next to no following. He gave up the idea – no money in it. As well as being big, Sant was unnaturally dark. He had black hair. Lots of it. Regardless of his fortysomething years, not a grey hair or bare patch could be seen. His frequent intentions of growing a beard always succumbed to changes of mind, leaving his face invariably speckled with dark stubble. Tufts of black hair on his massively broad hands added a touch of werewolf to the inky hue. The other feature that stood out was his nose. It had an acute kink in the middle where it had been broken and re-broken. Meeting above the nose, his thin black eyebrows curled at their ends like out-of-place moustaches. His dress sense was equally dark. Apart from a whimsical affinity for white cotton socks, he always wore a black suit, black shirt, black tie and black Grenson shoes, and in every season except the summer, a long black Mackintosh. He hauled his burly frame out of the police van, shading his eyes from a gust that blew cold drizzle into his face. Slammed the doors shut. His stride was silent, observant, as he headed in the direction of the scenes-of-crime teams mulling around the disfigured bus. They looked like painters and decorators from a distance. It was only close up, breathing the air they breathed, that the picture changed. This was no exercise in decoration, but the undoing of destruction; the fine-tooth combing through irrevocable wreckage. The Volvo B9TL Gemini-type double decker looked a shadow of its former self. The facelifted look of the front end was now crushed against the stone-fronted building. Over four metres high, ten metres in length and two and a half wide, it weighed twenty tonnes and contained a nine-litre engine capable of totting up two million miles. It could carry seventy-four seated and eleven standing passengers at any given time. Price tag: three hundred thousand pounds. Graham Jones, a representative from FirstGroup, was doing his best to dodge a volley of questions from reporters skirting the cordon. He kept looking over at the battered shell of steel, the expensive write-off deepening lines around his mouth. Sant signalled to him. ‘Which bus was this, Mr Jones?’

The man took a while to register Sant’s meaning, but then it came to him. ‘The number 33. From Otley. Last 33 of the night. The airport buses run later of course.’ He spoke slowly between deep intakes of breath, a blank disbelief haunting his crinkled brow.

‘What do you know about the driver?’

‘Name’s Brian Simpson. Experienced. Accident-free too. Checked my records just now.’

‘Was Simpson in good health?’

The man glanced down at the clipboard he was holding. ‘Should say so. Not a day off sick in four years.’

‘Of sound character?’

Another glance. ‘Nothing on file to say otherwise. You’re not suggesting… he might be to blame for this?’

‘I’m not suggesting anything, Mr Jones. All I know is that your driver was shot dead with a gun fired by someone on board. The killer somehow managed to get off the bus before it crashed.’

Jones shook his head. ‘I can’t make it out. How someone’s done that and got out alive...’

Sant asked the bus rep to show him the door mechanism. Jones’s blank look shifted to the driver’s guard. A large tarpaulin concealed what was left of Simpson’s head. Though his eyes began to water, he nodded, placed his clipboard under an arm and led Sant over.

‘If I understand you correctly, only the driver can open the passenger doors?’

Distasteful view out of sight, Jones regained his poise and nodded again. ‘You see up here.’ He pointed to a couple of buttons. ‘Normally these switches would activate the doors, but they’re not much use following a major incident like this.’ He pressed them a few times. ‘The circuits have been shot to pieces.’

Sant noted the position of the switches in relation to the driver’s cabin and the seats further back. ‘You’d need to know where to look for these buttons, I guess.’

‘That’s correct. Ninety-nine per cent of passengers have no idea they exist, never mind where they’d find them.’

‘So it’s likely the gunman commanded the driver to open the doors before firing at him?’

‘I’d say so, yes. The driver guard panel is designed to protect our employees from assaults and stabbings, but it’s no defence against a bullet.’

‘And the doors don’t shut automatically once the bus is in motion?’

‘No, these old Geminis come as standard driver-operated doors.’

Sant tossed the information around in his puzzled head. ‘So it would’ve been possible, would it not, for someone to fire a gun at Simpson immediately after he’d opened the doors for them, and then jump out of the vehicle before it picked up speed on its descent towards these shops.’

Jones shook his head a little less vigorously than before. ‘I suppose that’s what happened, but I – can’t exactly picture it in my head.’

Sant nodded. ‘Neither can I, though believe you me, the events leading up to most crimes stretch the bounds of credibility.’

‘He must’ve stopped the bus.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, if I read the situation rightly, the gunman has fired at the passengers first. Not the driver. The advice we give to all our drivers is to stop their vehicles promptly in the event of violent behaviour.’

‘And call the police?’ Sant scratched his nose.

‘Absolutely. They use a panic button. And if they carry a phone they can use that too, but I’m not sure–’

‘I’ve already checked. No phone was found on Simpson. Is CCTV installed?’

The bus rep adjusted his stance, defence in his tone. ‘Not in these older models, I’m afraid. The unions want cameras on all fleets to protect drivers, though as with every issue, there’s a pay-off between benefits and costs incurred.’

‘One last thing,’ said Sant. ‘Show me the last stop this bus passed through.’

Jones obliged, more than happy to get away from the ghastly chorus of press cameras flashing. He pointed to a temporary bus-stop sign. About a hundred yards up the slope, it sat atop a wobbly red pole held upright by sandbags. Sant thanked him. The wet breeze swept up Jones’s sigh of relief as he headed to his car, head shaking like a top-heavy blancmange.

* * *

The lights of a nearby bakery flickered in the distance, the prospect making Sant’s stomach rumble with hunger. He was about to set off that way when Capstick approached looking like death warmed up.

‘Get much rest?’

‘Not a wink, sir.’

‘Not a pretty sight, is it?’

Capstick gave a slight nod, swallowing hard, trying to banish all recent memories. He’d been as sick as a dog. Food was the last thing on his mind. They decided to return to headquarters and grab a swift breakfast there, Capstick doing the usual honour of driving. Back at the office, bacon butty in hand, Sant pointed to Dryden’s bare desk a few feet across from his own. The emptiness lent an eerie feel to the room.

‘We need to know what he was up to.’ He ate as he spoke. ‘He must’ve left some trace of where he was going and what he was doing. I say we start looking right here – in his drawers, files, computer, the lot.’

‘I’ve made a start,’ said Capstick. ‘No sign of any notebook. He had a work phone, but I doubt we’ll find it any time soon.’

Sant nodded. ‘I checked with forensics. He didn’t have it with him. At least, not after he’d been shot. But Dryden always carried a phone; was practically glued to it. Whoever killed him took his phone too. But why?’

‘To stop him calling for help?’

Sant let out a stifled hoot. ‘Would you know how to use a phone with a bullet in your brain? Put your thinking cap on, Capstick. The only logical reason the killer stole the phone was because it was in his interests to do so.’

‘That’s it!’ Capstick cried out. ‘Dryden was trying, before he was shot, to message something, some evidence, incriminating whoever then attacked him.’

‘Well, no-one got a message from him, though you’re right – the killer would take no chances on that front. But unless we find the phone in some far-flung gutter, there’s not much to go on.’

The door flew open and in strode Detective Sergeant Amanda Holdsworth, her permed brown hair dishevelled by the wind. She’d heard the news – it was harder to avoid it – and her flustered face spoke a paradox of dejection and determination. A single mother in her early forties, she’d suffered a lot of heartache in recent years, one more slice of bad news acting more like a jolt than a shock to the system. She deposited a large bag on her desk, leaned on the side of it, placed her hand on her chin. It was a familiar pose and Sant felt reassured whenever she adopted it. She was a clever detective and not afraid to show it.

‘A penny for your thoughts, Holdsworth.’

She paused briefly before unleashing her stream of consciousness. ‘Okay, this is how I see it. Dryden gets on a bus, where and why we don’t know. He’s returning to town from somewhere. Why take the bus? Because he’s gone to meet someone who doesn’t wish to be identified. Someone he meets in secret. Dryden wasn’t even supposed to be at work. Which makes the whole affair shifty if you ask me.’

Sant chewed his toothpick. ‘Me and Capstick think his phone was taken by the killer.’

Holdsworth perched on her chair before swivelling ninety degrees towards Capstick and stretching out her stockinged legs. ‘It makes sense. The killer shadowed Dryden, overheard his conversation with this mysterious informant, followed him back to the bus, got on board with him, and soon realised Dryden was using the phone to record what he’d heard.’

‘Precisely,’ Sant said, slapping a pint-sized hand on his chair arm. ‘All we need to do is find the informant, who should lead us to a motive and a perp.’

Holdsworth leered, spreading her arms theatrically. ‘You make it sound so easy, Carl.’

Capstick adjusted his specs. ‘The key question is: who is the killer? And why did he kill practically everyone else on that bus as well as Dryden? That isn’t so easy to explain. Maybe Dryden wasn’t the target – just someone in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘You’re right to speculate,’ said Sant. ‘We can’t assume anything hard and fast. But the main action kicked off on the upper deck of that bus. It must’ve been up there where the intended victim was fired at. Which makes the odds two-to-one against Dryden given we have three dead on the upper deck.’ He fumbled with something in his pocket. ‘The perp killed those three first and then made good his escape from the bus, though not before shooting dead anyone who could recognise him subsequently.’

‘Including the driver,’ added Holdsworth.

‘Right. He had to confront the driver in order to get him to open the doors, which left poor Brian Simpson a no-brainer for a bullet in the head. He was doomed. So were the others. No-one would get out alive. Let’s hope the two blokes in intensive care survive to tell the tale.’

‘Even if they do,’ said Capstick, ‘what chance have they of remembering what happened moments before they got a bullet for their troubles?’

‘Weren’t the survivors found to have no shot wounds?’ Holdsworth put in.

‘Right again,’ answered Sant. ‘Stick to the facts, Capstick. Facts are all we’ve got. Let’s not muck about with them.’ Capstick muttered an apology, his cheeks reddening, his eyes not registering Holdsworth’s suppressed laugh. ‘They were lucky to avoid the bullets according to Wisdom. Sadly, both suffered severe blows to the head. They were flung several yards down the bus on impact. The likelihood of recall is slim.’

‘Stranger things have happened,’ said Holdsworth. ‘The human brain is remarkably resilient.’

Sant nodded. ‘Right now, memories are the least of those men’s worries.’

‘Who’s leading the investigation?’

‘Haven’t a clue. We were his closest colleagues at the time of his death so don’t expect a free lunch any time soon.’

The pattering of hurried feet grew louder from the corridor outside.

‘The Old Man with his division of labour,’ muttered Holdsworth. Right on cue, Gilligan’s head appeared at the door. ‘Inspector Sant, conference room in five. And be smart! Every news organisation and its dog are sniffing around out there.’

Sant was taken aback. ‘What about a briefing first?’

‘No time.’

‘But what am I supposed to say?’

‘Nothing. Leave the talking to Lister and Hardaker.’

No sooner was the Old Man there than he was gone.

‘Talk about a put-down,’ Holdsworth remarked, tapping a finger to her nose. ‘Clearly the big-wigs are looking after number one, Carl.’

‘At least they’ve invited me to the party, Holdsworth, but if they think they can keep me quiet they’ve got a shock coming their way.’

They swapped brief smiles as he grabbed his Sunday-best jacket and walked out, adjusting his black tie for the media circus ahead.

* * *

He sat at the end of a long table. At the other end was Gilligan, fiddling with a mic in the fashion of a fading rock star. Between Sant and Gilligan perched the men in charge: master of ceremonies Chief Constable Edward Lister and coordinating officer Superintendent Harry Hardaker. Sant could just about stomach Hardaker. Lister was a different matter. Lanky Lister – as other officers liked to call him, though never to his face – arched his lofty skeleton, stuck out his veiny neck and signalled the start of proceedings with a wave of his bony hand. Then he summed up the events of the last ten hours, stressing that no names of any victims could be released until next of kin were contacted and identifications confirmed. All thoughts, understandably, were with the families. The only name he could release to the news hounds was the one they knew about already: Detective Sergeant Liam Dryden. Sant had already sneaked a peek at a TV screen screaming the headline POLICE OFFICER KILLED IN BUS ATTACK. The ‘other victims’ got tagged onto the end of the news ticker. Ironic. One of the few occasions an officer demanded respect was on the occasion of their death. Hardaker rounded things off with the usual call for information regarding the incident. He was a good speaker; better than Lister. Unlike most CID officers, Hardaker blossomed under the roving gaze of the public eye. The Chiefman, as Hardaker was nicknamed owing to his long red locks and pointed red beard, was a man going places fast. Questions followed. As instructed, Sant said nothing and put on his best professional pose. Seen but not heard. It brought out the kid in him.

‘Have you found the murder weapon?’

‘Not yet,’ Hardaker declared. A neat response. Honest but not without hope. ‘Teams of officers are searching the crime scene as we speak.’

‘CCTV images?’

‘Likewise, they are being retrieved and examined as we speak.’

‘Has anyone been detained in connection with the incident?’

‘No,’ uttered Lister. Less hopeful, less assured.

‘Are the police looking for more than one gunman?’

Lister shifted in his chair, his head leaning awkwardly to one side. ‘Our investigations are ongoing as far as numbers go.’

‘Numbers? So two minimum?’

‘Well, er, as I was saying, investigations are–’

‘But how can one person kill others on a moving bus, including the driver, and get out before it crashes?’

Hardaker took over. ‘Detectives investigating the incident remain open-minded about whether they are dealing with one or a number of perpetrators. The situation is fluid and we will update you with developments as soon as they become apparent.’

‘Did the shootings take place inside or outside the bus?’

‘Inside,’ Hardaker replied.

‘Can you explain your evidence for this?’

‘Certainly. The hackle marks found in the smashed window glass were at right angles to the outside surface, indicating the bullets entered the windows from the inside.’

‘Was the bus in motion or stationary when the shootings occurred?’

‘We believe it was moving,’ said Hardaker, running the show now.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘Judging by the speed of the vehicle at impact with the shop buildings, it is likely the bus was moving.’

‘So how did the killer or killers manage to escape from a moving bus?’

Hardaker replied without hesitation. ‘It was probably moving slowly at that phase. The driver appears to have applied the brakes after hearing gunshots. The perpetrator or perpetrators would have had time to escape from the open doors before the bus began to pick up speed down the slope of the hill.’

Almost perfect, Sant thought.

‘The number of fatalities?’

This time Hardaker paused slightly.

‘Six,’ Lister said. Hardaker glanced to his left. ‘Seven, including DS Dryden.’

Lister blushed slightly and bit his lip.

‘Injured?’

‘Two,’ said Lister. He got that right.

‘How many of the fatalities are women?’

‘Two.’

‘Children?’

‘None.’

‘Were the bodies found on the lower or upper deck?’

Hardaker intervened again. ‘Three on the upper, four on the lower.’ He was good at maths; Lister not so hot.

‘Did the killer start firing on the upper or lower deck?’

‘We cannot confirm that information at present.’ A textbook response from the Chiefman.

‘Any evidence of a terrorist attack? Islamist extremists, maybe?’

The Chiefman kept his cool admirably. ‘We’re not ruling anything in or out. Needless to say, the Ministry of Defence is in close touch with us.’

A flurry of further questions went by before the whole technological operation began winding down. Journalists from the big news firms had what they wanted; enough copy to see them through the next few hours. Wires were being unplugged, laptops shut. As the conference drew to a close and Lister wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, a last hand went up. The young face attached to it wasn’t familiar to Sant.

‘Was Sergeant Dryden on duty?’ the woman asked. Good question. No-one had thought of it. The other reporters cast glances her way as they packed away the tools of their trade.

‘No, he wasn’t.’ Hardaker sounded less comfortable. Heads were looking up again.

‘So if he wasn’t on duty, was his presence on the bus just a coincidence?’ the woman probed. She had a feminine yet firm voice.

‘All lines of enquiry are being pursued.’

The reporter wasn’t convinced enough to quit. ‘So there’s a chance he was deliberately targeted?’

Hardaker rolled his eyes in Lister’s direction. Nothing was forthcoming. An uncomfortable pause later, he mumbled: ‘That is – a possibility.’

‘But assuming DS Dryden wasn’t in uniform, and assuming he was the killer’s main target, surely the killer knew his victim prior to the killing. Knew he was a police officer.’

Hardaker was regretting not tying up the conference sooner. ‘That may be the case.’ He stood up to leave.

‘All things considered, are we dealing with a police assassination?’

A ripple of excitement ensued at the sucker punch. ASSASSINATION. What a word! The whole place was buzzing with its sheer sibilance. Reporters dived under and over each other, frantically plugging wires back in. Keyboards started tapping again, the microphones humming their appreciation. Recovering his composure just in time, Hardaker announced: ‘The enquiry is at an early stage and, as I said, we are ruling out nothing. We will, of course, provide updates at regular intervals.’

The young reporter still wasn’t finished. The London hacks had had their say. Now it was her turn. Her voice was carrying nicely. She had a captive audience. All routes pointed her way.

‘Is there a connection between the bus killings and any other serious crimes presently being investigated?’

Sant couldn’t believe his ears. This was exactly the conundrum he needed to unpick, except he hadn’t thrust his mind that far forward. And now this quick-witted journalist was doing the mental work for him. Other serious crimes? Which crimes did she mean? Talk about alarm bells; shivers down spines. Sant looked across at Hardaker. His eyes were wider than a runway. Was the Chiefman thinking what he was thinking? Maybe this young hack was thinking the same thoughts too. She might be telepathic. She might be a genius for all Sant knew. Lister just shook his head, scratched his ear and made a grunting noise. Then he affected a very loud cough before pronouncing the usual rehearsed denouement. ‘We cannot rule out a connection. What we can do, however, is follow every lead until whoever committed this horrendous crime is brought to justice.’

Pleased with himself, Lister gave a final wave of his bony hand and left with command in his pace, Gilligan and Hardaker trailing behind. Sant was in less of a hurry. He wanted a word with mind-reader extraordinaire. But as he peered over towards where the woman had been sitting, all he saw was an empty seat. She wasn’t a mind reader after all.4

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. Memories. 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. Being 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. She 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. Both had been outstanding recruits, but in the last ten years their fortunes had taken different turns. Superintendent Hardaker had continued to please the Chief Officers Team with his diplomacy and public-facing proficiency. Sant, an awkward son of a b***h, was thought to be doing extremely well to have achieved his lesser rank.

‘What do you make of these numbers, Carl?’

Sant bent forward for a closer look. ‘I’m stumped, Chiefman. What do the prints say?’

‘As expected, there’s a match with Dryden’s. What we’ll never know is how far the poor devil got with his last remarks before the lights went out.’

Sant pointed to the marking furthest right. ‘5? Or an S?’

The red-bearded officer squinted at it. ‘Probably a 5, though we’ll need more analysis. What do you say to the phone number theory?’

‘Already ran a check.’ Hardaker looked up, lips parting. The inspector rubbed his disjointed nose and smiled. ‘According to BT’s database, the directory is full of landline numbers beginning 3-1. But only ninety-two begin 3-1-5. I’ve got civvies trawling through those numbers as we speak.’

‘Excellent work. Let me know your findings A-SAP and I’ll report to Lister.’

Sant shuffled on his feet. ‘So I take it you’re heading up this investigation and Lister is “overseeing”.’

Hardaker stifled a laugh. ‘Don’t mock the chief constable, Carl. This isn’t the time for cheap shots. We’ve a m*********r to deal with. Let’s keep it professional. Agreed?’

Sant didn’t reply. He ambled to the back of the bus, passing technicians in masks dusting black powder onto upholstery, hunting for fingerprints. A blonde woman nearly his height was placing scraps of fabric in a plastic jar. He eased by, ignoring his body’s response to her warmth and scent. Peering out of the rear window, up the hill down which the bus had careered, he got a letterbox view of stubborn rows of red-brick terraces rising up tree-topped slopes against the raw grain of the land. To his left, light industrial estates and long-gone industrial wastelands were shielded from everyday life by shrubbery and grassy mounds. To his right, search teams were taking apart bins in the hope of unveiling murder weapons and anything else that might constitute a clue. Over the crest of the hill protruded the partially ruined tower of Kirkstall Abbey, monument to ancient Leeds. Somehow, despite all the years and all the shifting ways of life, the abbey was still standing – most of it intact. No other city in England could boast a medieval monastery as well preserved as this one. Could Dryden have met his snitch there? It seemed a likely place to hang out. Impossible to miss, secluded enough not to draw attention. Sant retraced his steps to the front of the bus, glanced again at Dryden’s lonely numbers, then left.

* * *

The police canteen was heaving, the din of chatter constant, the main topic of conversation a dead man among the rank and file. The concerned looks of officers sat at other tables made small talk with Holdsworth impossible. She and Sant ate boxed chow mein, too entwined with Dryden to close the shutters on his dreadful fate.

‘What about Dryden’s desk?’ he asked. ‘Anything revealing?’

‘Nothing we’ve been party to since forensics took over,’ said Holdsworth as she twisted her fork around a mouthful of noodles, ‘though it appears he was still occupied with a couple of hangovers from his uniformed sergeant days.’

‘A dedicated man,’ Sant said. ‘Most folk work to live. He lived to work.’

‘But that was stupid of him, wasn’t it?’ She glanced over her shoulder to warn off prying eyes. ‘Working when he wasn’t supposed to; chasing some dodgy lead without telling us.’

Sant spooned sugar in his tea. ‘That’s how some detectives do their business. It’s an addiction. Dryden wanted the world and still some. His next promotion was on his mind twenty-four seven.’

‘Except some of the time he was looking back, not forward.’ She reached for the expensive handbag perched on the chair next to her. Pulled out a plastic folder. ‘I found some notes under his desk relating to two incidents. Why he kept tabs on them is not clear.’

‘Go on.’

‘The first was an armed robbery at a jeweller’s, but I’ve tracked the latest updates and there’s a watertight prosecution under way.’

‘Must’ve done a good job,’ said Sant, thumbing his empty box to one side.

‘True, but the same can’t be said of the other case. I can’t get my head around it, Carl. It appears he brought in a young man for possession of a screwdriver – going equipped for breaking and entering. The man gave his name as Owen Madeley but had no ID on him and was told to report back to Bridewell.’

‘No show?’

‘Not as yet.’

‘Don’t hold your breath.’

Holdsworth belched shamelessly before lowering her voice and drawing closer. ‘But there’s something odd here. You see, Dryden’s notes make it clear no officer on duty that night could identify him. So no previous, unlike most youths carrying screwdrivers round town.’

Sant thought hard. ‘Maybe he’s good at disguises.’

‘What’s really strange, though, is the screwdriver. It was a cheap affair, bought by this Madeley character from a pound shop in town. I’ve seen the thing. It’s still with the duty sarge at Bridewell. The man signed a disclaimer allowing us to confiscate it.’

He chewed that one over. ‘A pointed object, regardless of its value, is capable of doing damage.’

‘Not when it’s still wrapped in its packaging.’

Sant had no argument this time. Holdsworth craned her head even closer to him, her spicy breath on his face. ‘And here lays the mystery. How do you know if someone’s carrying a screwdriver in its packaging?’

He caught her drift. ‘If you’ve seen him buy it.’

‘Absolutely. It seems Dryden shadowed Madeley to the pound shop, waited for him to purchase the screwdriver, and hey presto, nabbed him.’

‘You’re on to something, Holdsworth. Dryden was tailing the man, maybe suspecting him of something, and found an excuse for an arrest on whatever grounds he could.’

‘But what’s even more bizarre,’ she continued, ‘is that screwdrivers are not defined by law as bladed articles – anyone, kids included, can buy a screwdriver. Of course, they can be classed as offensive weapons where there are reasonable grounds for suspicion, but Madeley had only just purchased the thing. Had a receipt to prove it.’

Sant nodded. ‘Sounds like an abuse of stop and search. The only screwdrivers I’ve confiscated were adapted in some way; bent or sharpened.’

‘And this was neither. It was fresh out of the shop! We’re talking about such a petty matter. Most PCs wouldn’t even issue a caution, never mind a high-flying sarge like Dryden. I mean, how can we convict the ringleaders if we waste time on the artful dodgers?’

‘Or Owen Madeleys.’

‘Exactly,’ she said, discarding the remains of her lunch. ‘Dryden wanted Madeley badly. May’ve even set him up. All he’d have to do was collar the kid, hand him the quid to buy the screwdriver while feeding him some crap about checking the store complies with trading laws, and the result? Double-crossed Madeley – the poor pet – finds himself facing a criminal charge.’

Sant looked puzzled. ‘Didn’t you say screwdriver sales were not restricted by law?’

‘Yes, but wide-eyed Madeley would be none the wiser.’

‘I’m not convinced, Holdsworth. It all feels a bit contrived, and surely the charge was refused?’

‘Categorically. No real proof, no charge. The duty sarge overturned Dryden on the spot.’

‘Leaving the high-flying detective red faced,’ Sant added, getting up to leave. ‘It’s a line worth pursuing, but keep searching through Dryden’s stuff. His computer foremost.’

‘Computer’s out. Someone’s taken it away.’

‘On whose orders?’ barked the inspector, a fresh surge of anger brewing around the chow mein.

‘Hardaker’s of course. His desk and all his belongings are gone too.’ Holdsworth returned Sant’s glare. ‘Don’t blame me. Hardaker’s command overrides yours, Carl. I don’t like it either, but orders are orders and I’m not risking my job to save your face with the Chiefman.’

Huddling around the nearest table, a group of young officers were held captive by her rising voice. Sant knew that nothing good ever came from making a scene. He took his cue and left Holdsworth to suffer the lingering gazes. She made to leave. Hiding a grin behind a mask of madness, she took one long look at the onlookers and bawled: ‘Can’t you lot keep your noses out?’

* * *

He sat at his desk meditating over the bus murders as the afternoon wore on. Praying for a break in the forensic searches. Not a lot more could be done until Dr Wisdom delivered his preliminary report. He sat up, chair creaking. Looked at his workstation, the phone next to it, and was angry all over again. There was no jealousy regarding Hardaker. The ginger nut was a fine detective with a proven track record, comparable to his own. And besides, this wasn’t the first time Sant found himself firmly beneath the Chiefman in the pecking order. But this case was different; involved the murder of a sergeant under his watch, ploughing the same furrow in the field of death. Over the last few months he and Dryden had got on well. Sant would never forget them sharing a pint of the black stuff and, later, Dryden introducing his wife as they both swayed and laughed like morons in her charming presence. Christ, he knew the man better than Hardaker or anyone else pulling the strings. And still, no-one had asked his opinion. The questions kept coming, the absence of answers an increasing weight, a terrible throbbing pressure. What was he doing on the bus? Why would someone want to kill him? And what about the other passengers and the driver? Why them too? Was this the work of a random gunman, a serial killer? Or was Dryden the target and the others simply unlucky bystanders? Sant knew the bulk of the answers would be packaged together, boxed and locked out of sight. He rubbed his nose, stared across his office. The key lay in discovering what Dryden was investigating. What the hell had the man got involved in? Sant was not naïve; he knew officers who sometimes worked on the sly without informing their colleagues. He was not immune to lone-wolf syndrome himself. But Dryden had been a rookie when it came to missing persons cases, and certainly had never worked a serious one. Why risk his blossoming career laying a wild-card punt on tenuous intelligence? Unless, of course, the source was too good to ignore. As Sant lapsed into meditation, weighing up the visions and sounds pelting his mind, he became conscious of a buzzing noise doing battle with his inner self – his desk phone. He reached for the handset, his rigid arm outstretched like a robot.

‘Hello, is that you Carl? Hello?’

‘Speaking?’

‘It’s your mother, you silly billy!’

He shook himself out of his trance and grunted an acknowledgement, propping the handset several inches from his ear. She hailed from that generation who shouted, didn’t speak, down the line.

‘Are you taking good care of yourself? Keeping out of harm’s way?’

Now that he was a middle-aged divorcee Sant’s mother constantly worried about him. In defiance of logic, she worried more these days than ever before. He suspected his break-up with Elizabeth had tipped the scales.

‘No need to fret about me,’ he mumbled, leaning more on his elbow to rub his nose again.

‘I’ll be the judge of that. Now I appreciate you’re busy, but don’t forget your tea. Six o’clock sharp! I’ve cooked your fave. Braising steak with creamy mash.’ Not his favourite dish any more, he vaguely remembered liking it many years ago. ‘And homemade treacle sponge pudding for afters,’ she bellowed. He let the silence grow, choosing his next words. He closed his eyes. ‘That’s wonderful of you, but something’s come up.’

‘Surely not, Carl. I’ve got it all ready for you!’

‘Put it to one side and I’ll eat as soon–’

‘But–’

‘Turn on the telly, mum, and you’ll see why I don’t have time.’

He rang off and looked at his reflection in the monitor, face tight, showing his feelings. His stare went to a photo of his boys sellotaped in the corner. The pressure lifted somewhat, smile creasing his cheek. It was a sample of a school portrait. He loved it but had forgotten to order a print. His two sons were nestled shoulder to shoulder, heads leaning together, their fresh-faced dimples prominent despite the minuteness of the image. Guilt faded the smile. Like their grandmother he was a constant worrier. Worried about them all the time. How they might mix with the wrong crowd and he wouldn’t be there to protect them. Seeing his kids every day, picking them up from school, reading a bedtime story to them – precious moments his paternal soul yearned for. By comparison, separating from his wife had been painless, and brought to mind John Wesley’s famous saying: I did not forsake her, I did not dismiss her, I will not recall her. He’d asked Elizabeth to relent for the sake of Tom and Sam, but she’d made up her mind. They must split up; they had no future together; enough was enough. So they did split up. And he was the one to leave. The only place for him to go had been his parents’ home. He spent four claustrophobic months there, caring for his sick father while keeping as much distance as possible between him and his uptight mother, but when he couldn’t stand the child treatment any longer, he upped sticks and left. The custody agreement allowed him to see his sons once a week. They came to the city for a sleepover at his apartment every other Saturday night. The rest of the time, without them, he fought the sense of loss. He wanted to be a good father, yet couldn’t shake off that depressing note of failure ringing in his ears every time he thought of them. He cleared his throat, blinking. Returned to the file doing battle with the other paperwork on his crowded desk. His face inched closer to the photo of Chloe on the front page. She was staring back at him, a haunting look of innocence. She was tall – close to six feet – and her long slender figure served her well. Bright, serious eyes were as black as her hair, shining locks framing a slightly upturned nose with an elegant silver nose ring. Sant cared little for piercings, but on Chloe the jewel appeared seamless, rounding out the vitality of her face without flaw. He had no doubt she’d attract attention wherever she went. This same photo had been published by newspapers and media outlets, not to mention social media of all persuasions. Sant and his colleagues had started to sift through countless tip-offs supplied by a willing but dizzy-headed public, almost all of which only served to waste valuable time. The complexity of the case was further compounded by human rights and data protection laws which made the task of locating a missing adult much harder than a minor. If adults wished to be lost and to stay lost, well now, it was their human right – no matter how much human sadness and worry and police legwork their enduring absence prolonged. One of the few clues to cling onto was Chloe’s phone. Its signal had been tracked, via base-station data, to a McDonald’s a stone’s throw from London King’s Cross station. The Met police had been alerted to the possibility Chloe was residing somewhere in London. But Sant was doubtful. Any sensible assailant wanting to throw the investigation off track might well take a trip to the capital in order to safely dispose of Chloe’s fingerprint-free phone at a fittingly unremarkable location, before hopping on the next train north. His thoughts returned to Dryden. How had he, Sant, approached the job all those years ago? He remembered an immense feeling of inferiority; of being a minnow in a pool full of sharks. And yet that same inferiority complex had driven him to go the extra mile and show the sharks what he was capable of. Often ambition had kicked him in the face, making him the butt of everyone’s jokes, but now and then he’d land on a discovery or tie up a fruitful lead, and the buzz it gave off would make his day – even his week. Surely Dryden craved that same deep desire to succeed; to not be sneered at by high-ranking types counting the stars on their shoulder insignia. In which case, Sant realised, the obvious investigation for Dryden to showcase his talents was the Chloe Lee one. Equally important cases had come their way since the summer months, but Sant knew that nothing captured an officer’s imagination – or a news editor’s thirst for sagas – like a missing girl. A little girl lost. The eternal song of innocence. A call came through. Hardaker. The Chiefman kept it short and sweet. ‘Interview suite in five, Carl. The Andrewses are ready.’

* * *

The husband offered a limp hand to Sant and Hardaker before guiding his unsteady wife to the designated ‘comfort couch’. Mr Andrews had that numb look, as if all the people he met were cardboard cut-outs; reconstructions of an imagined tale. Mrs Andrews, in marked contrast, was extremely tearful, the make-up she’d splashed on earlier diluted by sorrow.

‘We’re very sorry for your loss,’ Hardaker began.

‘Who did it?’ Mr Andrews spoke abruptly, his voice shaking in tandem with his knees. Hardaker inhaled sharply. ‘The honest answer is we don’t know. We are searching high and low, believe me.’

‘Why did it have to be Kate?’ Mrs Andrews wept. Her husband held her close, though he didn’t look comfortable with the outpouring of emotion or where to put his arms. He settled for a hand on her shoulder. Hardaker paced himself, calming his vocals in tune with the trauma-counselling training he’d recently passed with flying colours. ‘I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.’

‘Go ahead,’ Mr Andrews said coolly. Sant peered across at Mrs Andrews. She seemed far from ready for questioning. Hardaker wasn’t waiting for a second opinion though.

‘Your daughter was travelling with a friend called Callum Willis. Does that name mean anything?’

Sant detected a slight grimace on both parents’ faces. Mrs Andrews wiped away more tears. ‘Callum was Kate’s boyfriend.’

‘Had they been together long?’

Mr Andrews cut in. ‘Not really. How is this relevant?’

The Chiefman gave a template response. ‘It’s a routine query. We don’t believe your daughter or her boyfriend had anything to do with the incident. They were hostages to fortune, in the wrong place at the wrong time. We just have to keep an open mind.’

‘Fair enough,’ said Mr Andrews half-heartedly.

‘Do you know Callum’s mother?’

Mrs Andrews lifted her head and choked a barely audible response. ‘I’ve met the woman on occasions, but we’re not close.’

‘And his father?’

‘We’ve never met him. Callum’s mum and dad broke up a long time ago.’

Hardaker scribbled a few random notes. Sant knew the Chiefman was buying time, preparing for the more awkward questions.

‘Has Kate got into any sort of trouble recently, at home or elsewhere?’

Mr Andrews, who’d been part-leaning on his wife in a sort of disinclined embrace, sat up straight. ‘I’m not sure what you mean by trouble. Let me make this clear. My wife and I brought up Kate with a firm emphasis on discipline and maturity of behaviour. We have every reason to believe she did us proud. Her friends, regrettably, let the side down, but Kate was turning into a fine, fully-fledged adult… until a greater authority chose to take her away.’

Hardaker went for softly-softly. ‘I understand, Mr Andrews, and I’m not questioning your daughter’s upbringing. It’s just we need all the background you can provide so we can follow every avenue of enquiry.’

The frown on Mr Andrews’ face lifted a fraction. Then silence. Sant looked over at Hardaker. For once, the Chiefman was hesitating over what to say next. The inspector chose that moment for an impromptu request.

‘Can you tell us where Kate and her boyfriend were travelling to?’

Mr Andrews shrugged and turned to his wife, who was clearly in no fit state to answer. Reluctantly, he replied: ‘The clubs in town, I should imagine. We did urge them not to party all night, but what can you do? Sometimes you feel you’re hampering their social life.’

‘And where were they travelling from?’

‘Sorry?’

Sant reached for something in his inside pocket before kneeling and spreading out a map of Leeds bus routes over the bare coffee table in front of him. ‘This was the route taken by Kate and Callum. It’s odd, don’t you think, that they would be travelling in this direction.’ He traced the 33 bus route with a ballpoint pen. ‘The way I understand it, your daughter still lives with you in Gipton, which is over here to the north and east of the city.’ He marked a cross on the map. ‘And Callum lives close by with his mother here’ – penning another cross adjacent to the first one – ‘in Crossgates. Which means neither Kate nor Callum were journeying from their normal places of residence.’

Mrs Andrews bent forward and stared at the map, brushing wet strands of hair from her face before speaking. ‘Kate had no friends living in that area of Leeds. Not any we knew of, anyway.’

Mr Andrews nodded coldly in agreement.

‘So Kate didn’t tell you where she was going or who she was visiting yesterday evening?’ asked Hardaker. Mrs Andrews turned to face her questioners. ‘The truth is we’d not seen her for a few days. She said she was staying with friends.’

‘A few days? Can you give us a precise figure?’

Mr Andrews was trying his best to avoid eye contact. ‘Two, three, four at most.’

‘It must’ve been last Sunday,’ Mrs Andrews added. She turned to her husband. ‘You wanted her to attend church with you but she’d… made other plans.’

Mr Andrews licked his lips and looked up, tears welling up in spite of his best efforts.

‘Last Sunday was a week ago,’ said Sant. ‘Did she often spend a week away from home?’

‘Not if we could help it,’ Mr Andrews muttered. ‘But you can’t keep your children on a leash indefinitely, try as you might.’

‘Did you phone her while she was gone?’

‘I texted her,’ said Mrs Andrews, ‘and she said she was fine. Told me she’d be… back home soon.’ Those last few words rose in crescendo as the sobs took over. Hardaker gestured that it was time for a break, but Sant had something on his mind that couldn’t wait.

‘We won’t keep you any longer. One final question – and we’d rather this remain confidential.’

‘Of course,’ said Mr Andrews.

‘Did your daughter know Chloe Lee?’

Hardaker turned on the spot, his eyes fixed on Sant, uncertain of where this line of questioning was heading.

‘You mean the lost girl?’ asked Mr Andrews.

‘I do. No doubt you’ve seen the news.’

‘Yes, but I don’t see where Kate fits in. She never talked about it. I’m sure she didn’t know the girl.’

Sant nodded and allowed Hardaker to bring the interview to a close. No need to probe further. Something peculiar about the way Mrs Andrews had reacted to the name told the inspector that a connection between her daughter and Chloe Lee, however tenuous, existed beyond doubt.5

She sang all the time. It was a wonder the radio in the kitchenette still worked after sustaining daily hits of soapy water from her singing. A bit of a music buff, she kept pace with the top songs and artists in the charts. Pub music quizzes were her speciality, though she couldn’t enter a pub these days. Too small, too social. Large public gatherings where no-one cared to know you – they were her sole domain. Halfway through the chorus of A-ha’s ‘Take On Me’ she thought she heard a knock on the door. Lowered the volume and listened. Heard nothing and twisted the volume knob, belting out a high note, shaking her shoulders, suds plopping onto the old radio. The knocking came again. No mistaking it this time.

‘Postman – parcel for you!’

She’d ordered nothing. Suspicions darted around her head. Was he really a postman? Spinning away from the sink, she grabbed a towel off the stove, wiped her hands while looking towards the door. Squared her shoulders, fast thinking, pinching her brow.

‘Thank you, leave it outside the door please.’

A slight pause before: ‘It needs signing for, madam.’

A pang of guilt warmed her. If this was a genuine postman, with a genuine parcel, it would be daft not to open up. She walked closer, stopped, hand hovering over the safety chain. It was shiny new, wood and paint behind it marred from the last time…

Her hand fell to her side. She found herself stepping back. ‘I can’t come to the door right now. Pass it through the letterbox.’

Another pause, this time a little longer. She thought she could hear whispering. Suddenly the man coughed a response: ‘No problem, madam. Here it is.’

Keeping her right hand as far from the flap as possible, she reached out and grabbed the electronic pad. It looked genuine enough. Didn’t most couriers use these devices nowadays? She scrawled her name, replaced the pen, extended fingertips to the flap. Swiftly deposited the pad into a grip like a mouth clasping shut.

‘Thank you, madam. I’ll place the parcel right outside your door. Don’t forget it’s here. Lots of unscrupulous types round these parts.’

‘Thank you.