Paul Finch - Sacrifice

Claire glanced around the room again. In another corner, two more crime scene blow-ups were mounted on a noticeboard amid masses of scribbled notations. One was a close-up glossy of a middle-aged black woman. She looked to have been propped against a wall in a house or flat. Her grin stretched from ear to ear – literally, because someone had slashed her cheeks with a razor blade and had fixed a stick vertically in her mouth. The other had been taken in a bedroom, which looked like it had been wrecked by a hurricane. The bed occupied the centre of the image. A figure lay in it hidden by a sheet, though so much blood had soaked through this that a clear outline of the body was visible. On the wall above it, bloody handwriting proclaimed: ‘Hey Mum, he fucked me first!’

‘And this you call “slush”?’ Claire said, unable to conceal her revulsion.

‘It’s just a turn of phrase. Every one of these files represents a life lost. You can’t hide from that. But it’s an odd fact that by far the highest percentage of homicides committed in the industrialised West, however they may initially appear, are the work of family members or other so-called loved ones. Either that, or they’re one-off events committed by people who will probably never break the law again. The result of anger, greed, jealousy … course, we need to establish that before we send them back. Oh crap, your tea’s gone cold.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘I’ll make you another.’ He attended to it. ‘If there’s one thing I’m supposedly good at round here, it’s brewing up.’

Claire pulled a chair and sat down. She hoped Heck didn’t notice that she needed to.

‘The upside to all this,’ he said, as he handed her a fresh mug, ‘is that there’s no better feeling than getting justice for these people.’

‘It’ll make a change,’ she said. ‘Doing a job that feels worthwhile.’

He sat down too. ‘You must have done some useful stuff in your previous jobs.’

‘No, you were right before. Telling lies to cover ministerial incompetence, massaging figures to make inaccurate departmental forecasts look good, putting out endless spin to save someone their one-forty-K-a-year salary … that doesn’t always make you feel like a useful member of society.’

‘There you are then,’ Heck replied. ‘You’re in the right place with SCU. No one ever screws up here.’

She caught his sidelong glance, and couldn’t help but chuckle. Heck smiled – and almost on cue Gemma appeared in the doorway, peeling off her raincoat. She made a good job of disguising her double-take at the sight of them cosied up together.

‘Morning,’ Claire said, standing.

‘Morning Claire. Heck.’

Heck stood up too. ‘Ma’am.’

‘None of the other sleeping beauties checked in yet?’

‘I’m sure they’re on their way.’

Gemma glanced at her watch. ‘They’ve got forty-five minutes. If no one’s shown by then, start making phone calls. And don’t shy from using harsh language.’ She moved back out into the main corridor, but then reappeared. ‘Heck, you haven’t seen Joe Wullerton this morning, have you?’

‘Not so far, ma’am.’

‘I’ve got a note to go up and see him.’

‘Can’t help you with that.’

‘Okay.’ She breezed away.

Heck turned to Claire. ‘Forty-five minutes. Enough time for breakfast?’

‘Breakfast?’

‘There’s a smashing little deli round the corner. They do a nice egg sandwich.’

Claire glanced again at the photo of the woman with the stick in her mouth. ‘I’m not sure I can eat, but … hey, the fresh air can’t hurt.’

Gemma watched from the other end of the corridor as they headed off together.

For a thirty-year-old, Claire Moody was already very experienced. Her references had been among the best Gemma had ever seen, and she’d interviewed excellently. The girl’s good looks and lively personality were another bonus – the bulk of the detectives in SCU were men, and if that would make them more deferential around her, all the better; at least until she’d found her feet. It was no surprise that Claire was being hit on of course, though it took Gemma aback a little to see Heck’s interest.

Not that she could afford to worry about that now. She let herself into her office, dumping her coat and brolly and thinking again about Joe Wullerton.

She hadn’t known him very long – he’d only been in his post about half a year, having replaced the disgraced Jim Laycock, and from the beginning had set his stall out to be an affable, approachable boss with an even temper and easy manner. On first arrival, he’d voluntarily changed his official title, replacing the macho Metropolitan Police-style ‘Commander’ of the National Crime Group with the more neutral ‘Director’, which she fully approved of. But she wasn’t naïve enough to think it would be warm and fuzzy all the way. Wullerton had transferred in from the Hampshire Constabulary’s Critical Incident Cadre, which he’d run effectively for fifteen years, so he was clearly a sharp bloke who knew his job, and probably a toughie as well. And he would need to be for the new position he occupied: as well as the Serial Crimes Unit, NCG also comprised the Organised Crime Division and the Kidnap Squad, and that little lot would take some managing.

She glanced again at the memo to go and see him. Rather than being emailed to her, it had been handed to her – in fact shoved into her grasp – the moment she’d entered the building.

Somehow that seemed ominous.

Kate wasn’t sure how long she’d lain in the darkness.

It was difficult to work out how far she’d fallen when he’d dropped her down into this pitch-black hole – ten feet, twelve, maybe more. But the impact at the bottom, though slightly cushioned by what felt like straw, had knocked her unconscious for a time.

Sick and dazed, Kate now lay balled up in a crumpled heap. The blanket had been ripped away as she’d descended, but wherever she now was, it smelled equally disgusting.

That was when she realised that she wasn’t alone.

Movement sounded somewhere to her left; she detected a dull, hoarse breathing.

Kate jerked upright onto her knees.

Her late father, who’d been a coal miner, had often used the phrase ‘it’s as black as the pit’, meaning there were no chinks of light at all. That was the situation now. Impenetrable blackness veiled Kate on all sides. Yet she knew there was somebody else there. She could hear them – shuffling about, and not too far away. She groped into the pocket of her Afghan, where mercifully her cigarette lighter was still in place. She held it in front of her as she struck it, as though to ward off a blow.

The sudden flame, though weak and wavering, was initially like a burst of lightning in the pitch blackness. She had to shield her eyes, but when they finally adjusted, she didn’t know which to be more horrified by: the sight of the cell she’d been imprisoned in or the sight of her two cellmates.

The former resembled the bottom of a well. Its geometry was circular, its walls constructed from damp, mildewed brick and rising into opaque shadow. There were no windows and no apparent handholds or footholds by which she could climb out. Its floor was hard-packed earth covered in straw. She also saw where the stench came from: one side of the cell – and it was close at hand, because the entire place was probably only ten feet in diameter – had been used as a toilet. Numerous human droppings were scattered there, indicating the length of time her fellow prisoners had been confined. One of these sat against the opposite wall, his knees drawn up to his chest; the other was kneeling about three yards away on her left.