Senseless

by Ed James

Genres: Crime Fiction; Mystery

Synopsis

All you will be left with is fear.

Six weeks after vanishing, Sarah Langton is suddenly found—half-crazed and starved close to death.

Without a single clue, the police struggle to find answers.

But when another missing person reappears, broken by months of solitary confinement, a deadly pattern becomes terrifyingly clear: a twisted predator is driving his victims to madness.

DC Corcoran, still haunted by a previous case, and Dr Marie Philips, a leading criminal psychiatrist, must work together to find a link between the survivors—and unravel the deadliest of puzzles. And when another woman disappears, every second will be critical....

With a gripping hook that grabs you from the very first second, this is chilling thriller is perfect for listeners of Chris Carter, M.J. Arlidge, Sharon Bolton and Fiona Cummins.

Release date: March 19, 2020

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

[Bob, 11:10]

Bob Rutherford stepped back and took one last look at his handiwork. Aside from the slate wall missing some ivy, nobody could tell which part he’d spent the past couple of hours patching up. Thin slices, neatly stacked, following the path of the road weaving towards the village.

A car rumbled behind him, going way too fast along the single-track lane.

Bob pushed himself face first against his van. The dark SUV shot past in a blur of kicked-up leaves and diesel fumes, then disappeared round the bend, lost to the canopy of trees.

Missed me by inches!

Berk.

Bob hopped in the cabin and twisted the key in the ignition. The engine spluttered into life and he set off. His phone rang through the dashboard.

‘You on your way home, then?’ Shirley’s voice boomed out of the speaker.

Bob turned it down as he eased round the bend. ‘Got my tax return to do, haven’t I? Absolutely starving, I am. Magnificent job, though, even if I do say so myself.’ No sign of the pillock in the SUV up ahead. He took another bend, the trees darker and thicker here, blocking out the morning sun. More slate walls on both sides, a gap on the right for Proudfoot Farm. He caught sight of the SUV, idling on the right. Then it shot off away from Bob at a rate he couldn’t hope to catch.

But he also spotted a shape on the ground, almost white against the lush green.

Bob slammed on the brakes and let out an almighty screech. He jerked forward, the belt digging into his ribs.

‘What’s up, Bob?’

Flat, low, and resting on a bed of nettles, almost hidden by the thick bush encroaching on the road.

A body.

A human body.

‘Bob?’

‘Shirley, I think I’ve just seen a dead body.’

Her gasp rattled out of the speakers. ‘Call the police!’

‘Yeah, of course.’ Bob snapped out of his daze with a vigorous nod, as though she could see him. ‘I’ll phone you back.’ He jabbed the red button, then tapped 999 into the keypad, keeping his focus on the motionless shape, leg jigging up and down, the phone ringing and ringing and—

‘Emergency. What service?’

‘Police, please.’ Bob cracked open the door and stepped out of the van. A gentle breeze rustled down the lane, carrying the cloying smell of honeysuckle through the whispering leaves.

He took another look at the body. Definitely a woman. Young, too. And naked as the day she was born . . .

‘You’re through to the police.’ A male voice, high and bright as a summer’s day. ‘What’s the address or location of your emergency?’

Bob tightened his grip on the mobile, staying exactly where he was. He looked up and down the lane. ‘I don’t know the exact postcode or map co-ordinates, but I’m just outside Minster Lovell. Little place near Witney in Oxfordshire. It’s . . . It’s the top road coming into the village.’

‘Just a second. And what’s your name, sir?’

‘Bob Rutherford.’ He watched both ways for any other cars, listening closely, then took another step across the road.

‘Hi, Bob, would that be the Leafield Road?’

‘Sounds about right. Mate, I’m fixing a wall for this old couple. The Maitlands. Live a few hundred yards past the village sign.’

‘Okay, I’ve got you.’ Sounded like the guy was smiling. ‘Now, Bob, what’s happened?’

‘I’ve found a girl’s body.’ Bob looked over again. She was painfully skinny. He groaned. ‘Listen, she’s like a sack of bones. I think she might be a druggy.’

‘Is she breathing?’

‘Mate, you need to send someone out to sort this—’

The woman rolled over onto her side.

‘Christ!’ Bob jumped back, pressing himself against his van.

The woman’s eyes were shut, but her chest was moving, like she was sipping shallow breaths.

‘She’s alive.’

‘Thanks, Bob. That’s . . . That’s good.’

Heart racing, Bob approached her, keeping low. ‘You okay there, love?’

The woman didn’t react.

‘I made a mistake. I said police to the operator. You need to send an ambulance and pronto.’

‘They’re both on their way, Bob.’

The girl’s eyes opened and her head swivelled towards him, her gaze wild and lost to something. Maybe drugs, but maybe not. Maybe something else.

‘It’s okay, love.’ Bob held out his free hand, smiling at her. ‘I’m Bob. What’s your name?’

Her fingers twitched, then bunched up around the weed bed she lay on, screwing up the nettles and dock. Like she was trying to get up, but just didn’t have the energy.

Bob took another step forward, widening his smile. ‘Hey, it’s okay.’

‘Sir, I advise you to—’

She started blinking, hard and fast. Then she squinted at Bob and let out a moan, low and loud. Like that feral cat who’d made a nest under their decking, protecting her kittens as the Cats Protection woman caught them for rehoming.

He took another step and the woman screamed.

[Corcoran, 11:55]

Detective Sergeant Aidan Corcoran shifted on the passenger seat, trying to get comfortable as they bombed down the country lane. He straightened his leg out into the footwell. His right hip was in spasm, not excruciating, but—

Something clicked and he let out a shallow sigh. Almost panting with relief.

DI Alana Thompson drove the pool Volvo like an idiot, battering across the bridge, and something metallic crunched underneath. The cricket ground and its car park passed in a blur, then she swerved out to overtake a cyclist, bumping onto the grass verge. A weeping willow caressed the windscreen with its leaves.

Corcoran gave her a look. ‘Ma’am, can you slow down?’

‘Don’t ma’am me, Sergeant. You’re not in the Met any more.’ Thompson rounded the bend onto another road that looked like the right one, but you never knew out here in the sticks. They tore through a picture postcard village. Country pub, a hodgepodge of stone cottages, some with thatched roofs, then the density thinned out in that middle England way, the village not quite ready to give up its grip as it gradually turned into countryside. A car park on the right had no sign what it was for, just a warning of a single-track road without passing places. Neat slate walls lined the lane on both sides.

Thompson jerked to a halt, the tyres screeching.

A young lad in uniform leaned against a wall, clutching a clipboard, half a roll of police tape flapping in the breeze as it blocked the lane beyond. He set off towards them, eager and keen.

Thompson lowered the window and held out her warrant card. ‘This strictly necessary, Constable?’

The uniform stood up tall like he was meeting the Queen. ‘Sorry, ma’am, but I thought there might be forensics?’

She twisted the key and the engine rattled. ‘She’s dead?’

‘No, ma’am, but—’

‘Stop ma’aming me. It’s Alana.’ Thompson got out and slammed the door.

Corcoran let his seatbelt ride up slowly, opened the door and stepped out onto the lane, taking his time to analyse the scene.

An ambulance idled up ahead, the lights pulsing in the bright sunshine. Another two uniforms stood by it, chatting to a green-clad paramedic. In the distance, a female uniform blocked off the lane from that end.

Thompson stuffed her hands in her pockets. ‘Any idea who she is?’

‘Afraid not. Bloke found her naked. I’ve searched the vicinity but no clothes, no phone, no wallet, nothing.’

‘And what stopped you searching?’

‘Your colleague told me to take over down here.’ The uniform pointed at a female plainclothes officer halfway up the lane.

Not someone Corcoran recognised, but that didn’t narrow it down much. She was taking a statement from a ruddy-faced man standing by a van. Stonemason’s overalls. Heavyset, like so many round here. Farming stock. Tinge of red in the cheeks, meaning a drinker, his belly indicating beer.

The uniform nodded up the lane. ‘That’s the bloke who found her. Bob Rutherford. Had a little chat with him. Bore the arse off you, mate.’ He smirked at Corcoran, then scratched at his neck. ‘Reckons he saw an SUV going pretty fast not long before. Chased after it, but saw her lying there so stopped. Could be a VW or a Vauxhall. Black, maybe dark grey.’

Corcoran looked back at Bob giving his statement, assessing him. He’d already listened to the 999 call on the way out and he’d read the statement later, then take a view. And if this guy was a hell of a bore, he’d just repeat his story, but each new version would increase his role in the mystery.

Corcoran gave the uniform a conspiratorial nod. ‘I’ll take your advice, then.’ He scanned the immediate area. No tracks, no footprints, not even the imprint of a human body. Just a bed of weeds under a bush. ‘Do me a favour and call in the SUV sighting, okay?’

‘Sarge.’

Thompson patted the uniform on the arm. ‘Call Control and tell them I want forensics here, okay?’

He gave a nervous nod as he tapped his Airwave police radio. ‘Ma’am.’

Thompson blundered through the tape and made her way down the winding road, her round shoulders drooping low, head forward, beady eyes scanning the lane.

Corcoran followed, but struggled to match her pace. ‘Alana, wait up.’

She stopped, frowning back the way. ‘You know, that just sounds weird.’

‘Shall we just stick with “ma’am”?’

‘No, apparently I need to develop a better rapport with my subordinates, so let’s go with Alana.’ Thompson slowed as they closed on the ambulance, the engine still rumbling. Two uniforms let Thompson through to the paramedic. ‘Where is she?’

The paramedic stopped folding up the ramp. ‘Neil Hart’ was stamped on his uniform. He pointed inside the ambulance with his left thumb. ‘In here.’

‘Okay, get out of my way.’ Thompson nudged him to the side.

Inside, Neil’s colleague crouched by a gurney, holding out a giant silver sheet. ‘Come on, I need you to—’

‘No!’ A voice, female, weak but still a shout. ‘No!’

But the paramedic got his way, wrapping the blanket around the woman. She was flat on her back on the gurney, her legs raised up. Her head peeped out of a hole in the silver, wild-eyed, her mouth open like she was in constant pain. Hair curled and matted thick like badly done dreadlocks. Her skin was pale, almost white, with a tinge of blue. And she was skeletally thin, no fat or muscle to cushion the bones in her skull and jaw.

The paramedic wrapped a woolly blanket round her shoulders and didn’t seem to get any resistance.

Corcoran smiled back at Neil the paramedic. ‘Any chance we can speak to her?’

‘We really need to get her to hospital.’ A sharp shake of the head. ‘Her body’s in starvation mode, so we need to get her stabilised. Those blankets will get her body temperature up, but we’re limited with what we’re able to do here. I’ve called ahead and they’re prepping a room for her.’

‘The Radcliffe?’

‘Afraid so.’ Neil checked his watch. ‘Oxford traffic is a nightmare at the best of times, and this is the worst.’

‘I’ll see what I can do to ease your way.’ Thompson got out her mobile and set off.

‘Kind of lucky we got here so fast. Responding to a prank call in Witney. First time I’ve ever been thankful.’ Neil shook his head again. ‘She wouldn’t have lasted much longer if we hadn’t got here.’

Corcoran took another look at the woman, now shivering uncontrollably as her body started to heat up. Weird how it worked like that.

‘Druggies in Oxfordshire!’ Down the lane, the stonemason was shouting, arms wide. ‘What’s the world coming to, I ask you?’

Corcoran played that through as a possibility. Heroin user with a deep debt, maybe a prostitute. Taken out to the countryside and released, kept alive to send a message to her and her fellow streetwalkers. Not killed so she could repay that debt.

Or was that his brain still being stuck in London? Out in Oxfordshire, sure they had their problems, but this?

He frowned at Neil. ‘Any evidence that she’s a drug user?’

‘You mean heroin?’ The paramedic stopped what he was doing and sucked in a deep breath. ‘No track marks on her arms.’ He looked back inside with a frown. ‘Her ankles, though . . .’

‘Injection marks?’

‘No.’ Neil clicked his tongue a few times. ‘Thing is, her skin’s worn, like she’d been tied up, and not like it was her boyfriend’s birthday, if you catch my drift.’ He gave a crafty wink.

Corcoran weighed up the evidence.

Signs of being tied up. Starvation. Panic, but nowhere near enough energy to fight off even a friendly paramedic putting a blanket on her.

What did it mean? Abduction? Prolonged captivity? His drug-prostitute-revenge theory felt less likely. Leaving him with nothing much to go on.

He fixed a hard stare on the paramedic. ‘I need to speak to her.’

‘We’ve got to—’

‘Someone’s done this to her. I need to find them. And besides, you’ve got to finish packing up here, right? Thirty seconds, that’s all I ask.’

Neil clicked his tongue again, then nodded. ‘Not a second longer.’

‘Appreciate it.’ Corcoran smiled as he stepped up into the back of the ambulance, his hip twinging.

The other paramedic kept tending to the victim, wrapping a second woolly blanket around her legs and waist.

The woman lay flat on her back, scanning the interior, her gaze landing on everything. Except Corcoran. Half-crazed, starved and deeply unwell.

Corcoran’s theory of imprisonment was looking more likely. He gave her a smile and waited for full eye contact. Not a glance, but her full attention.

There. He smiled. ‘My name is Aidan. I’m a detective. I want to help find out who did this to you.’ Her blue eyes seemed to swell as tears filled them. ‘Let’s start with your name, shall we?’

But he lost her. Her head wobbled back and stayed there, looking up. Harsh breathing, her nostrils flaring.

The other paramedic grabbed Corcoran’s arm. ‘I need to get her on a drip, so can you . . .?’

Corcoran stepped away and let him work.

But the woman’s gasps were forming into four equal sounds, like she was playing an instrument.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Say. Rah. Lang. Ton.

Sarah Langton.

Corcoran crouched down low and looked up at her. ‘Sarah Langton?’

She nodded, slight and fleeting but definitely a nod.

‘Thanks, Sarah. You’re in great hands now, okay?’ Corcoran jumped down onto the asphalt as the back door slammed.

Thompson yanked it open again, a uniform hanging around next to her.

The paramedic scowled out at her. ‘We need to—’

‘I want her to get a rape kit, okay?’ She pushed the uniform towards the door. ‘And I need an officer in the ambulance with her for continuity of evidence. Okay?’

‘Fine.’ The paramedic helped the uniform up into the back, then slammed the door in her face.

Thompson made a face at Corcoran. ‘Honestly, Aidan, you’d think we were on different sides or something.’

The ambulance set off with a pulse of siren. Ahead, the uniforms cleared the tape from the path to let it past.

Corcoran reached into his pocket for his radio and put it to his ear.

‘Control receiving, over.’

‘Safe to talk. It’s DS Aidan Corcoran. Need you to run a PNC search for one Sarah Langton. IC1 female, mid-twenties, over.’

‘You got an address?’

Corcoran gritted his teeth. ‘Afraid not.’

‘One second.’

Corcoran stood there, the breeze kicking up a sweet smell.

‘Okay, I’ve found a missing person. One Sarah Kimberley Langton, aged twenty-six. Reported missing six weeks ago from Cambridge.’

[12:40]

‘Come on, come on, come on.’ DI Thompson hurtled through the roundabout, chasing an ambulance almost bumper to bumper. ‘What’s the hold-up?’

Corcoran looked across at the hospital, the least Oxford-looking building in the world. Eight or nine storeys of sixties’ concrete and glass catching the afternoon sun, feeling a world away from the ancient colleges just down the road. ‘Please don’t beep them.’

‘I’ll beep who I like.’ Thompson stopped at another roundabout, where they seemed to be constantly losing out to the traffic coming from the right. She looked over at him, eyebrows raised. ‘You getting anywhere with her?’

Corcoran put away his phone. ‘Got hold of the investigating officer. A DC based in Cambridge.’ He pointed up at the hospital. ‘Said he’ll meet us here.’

‘And what about her?’

Corcoran showed her his smartphone, the screen filled with the photo from Sarah’s MisPer file. Happy with round cheeks and a slight tan. ‘This look like the woman in the ambulance to you?’

Thompson took the device, studying the image carefully. ‘Could be anyone.’ She handed it back, then cut across the roundabout into the hospital car park, pulling straight into a disabled bay. ‘Could even be me if I lost a couple of stone.’ She killed the engine.

‘Hence me asking our friend in Cambridgeshire to bring her husband here to confirm we’ve found his Sarah Langton and not someone else.’ Corcoran stared at the face again, then tapped back into the MisPer report. ‘Reported missing from Cambridge, then six weeks later she’s in a ditch in Oxfordshire, at least two hours’ drive away. Long way to take someone.’

Thompson opened her door. ‘You got any theories?’

‘Too many, and all of them make me sick to the stomach.’

[12:57]

‘Inspector?’ A female doctor joined them at the Accident & Emergency reception. Medium height, mid-grey hair, her face filled with laughter lines, widening as she gave a broad grin. ‘Dr Tamar Yadin. Can we have a word?’

Thompson thumbed at Corcoran. ‘You mind if the boy wonder here joins us?’

‘Be my guest.’ Dr Yadin marched off through the bleak hellscape that was the Accident & Emergency waiting area. Six rows of chairs facing each other in pairs, almost all filled with the walking wounded or relatives of the sick and dying. Yadin opened a door and held it for them.

Thompson didn’t give Corcoran the option of letting her go first. He let Yadin go, then followed her.

Into a cupboard. Shelved walls filled with cleaning materials and medical supplies. A mop was stuffed into a bucket that stank of harsh chemicals and something worse.

‘I’m sorry, but we’re stretched for space today so I’ll make this brief.’ Dr Yadin leaned back against the door, arms folded. ‘Sarah’s being rehydrated just now. That’s our first priority. Her body isn’t critically dehydrated, but we need to get her on a D5W solution in order to—’

‘A what?’

Yadin sighed at Thompson. ‘A saline solution mixed with five percent dextrose. We are commencing refeeding, supplementing the solution with vitamins to restore her electrolyte levels and with potassium to prevent any cardiac issues. Refeeding syndrome is our biggest risk over the next twenty-four hours. The body will generate glycogen, protein and fat to the detriment of blood, so we have to constantly monitor her condition and make micro-adjustments.’ She clenched her jaw. ‘I will warn you now, this isn’t going to be quick. Days, even weeks before we get a prognosis.’

Thompson rolled her eyes. ‘You mean we won’t get to speak to her?’

‘You’re welcome to try. I won’t stand here trying to stop you, you know that, but she’s in an incredibly weakened state and her care should be both of our primary concerns.’

‘This state she’s in, is it starvation?’

‘Absolutely.’ Yadin inspected a tablet computer, perched in the crook of her elbow. ‘Sarah’s showing all the symptoms: skin rashes, hair loss, ulcers, bleeding gums, cramps. And she’s as weak as a day-old kitten.’ She looked up from her machine. ‘I’ve dealt with a great number of eating disorders in adult patients and . . .’ She drifted off, her expression darkening.

Thompson gave her a few seconds. ‘Bottom line, doc?’

‘Like I say, this is going to be days and weeks, rather than hours. Sorry. And that’s if she even pulls through.’

[14:38]

A knock at the door.

Thompson opened it and peered out. Then she opened it wide. ‘Come into our grotto.’

A lumbering giant ducked under the doorway and meandered in. Early forties, bald, cheap suit hanging off wide shoulders. He held out a hand to Corcoran. ‘DC Will Butcher, Cambridgeshire police. We spoke on the phone?’

‘That was quick.’ Corcoran shook his hand, gesturing at his boss. ‘This is DI Alana Thompson.’

She kept her hands in her pockets. ‘You brought the husband?’

‘I did.’ Butcher thumbed behind him. ‘Waiting out there. Funny old world, eh?’

‘What’s so funny about it?’ Thompson opened the door again and stepped past him.

‘What’s her problem?’ Butcher scowled at the closing door. ‘You try doing a hundred on that road with a member of the public in the back . . .’

‘She’s like that with everyone, Constable. Don’t take it personally.’

Butcher gave Corcoran a narrow-eyed stare. ‘Haven’t got hold of Sarah’s parents yet. Left voicemails and sent a text to each of them.’ He rubbed a hand across his pale lips. ‘And it’s definitely Sarah?’

‘That’s what we want to find out.’

[14:50]

Christopher Langton stood in another doorway, fingers twitching as he listened to Dr Yadin. The words didn’t seem to be going in. Medium height, mid-brown hair, and slim like he ran a lot. No distinguishing features – the sort of bloke who’d be a nightmare to find if he ever went missing. He looked completely destroyed, exhausted from worry that had long since turned to grief. Deep bags under his eyes, shrouding a vacant stare. But hope had started twinkling in his eyes. He nodded and followed Dr Yadin through to a room, the small whiteboard outside earmarking it for Sarah Langton.

Butcher’s breath misted the window’s glass as he muttered, ‘The state of her . . .’

Sarah lay on the bed, asleep now. She looked even older than back at the roadside, her face hardened.

Her husband stood over her like a statue. Then he crouched, squinting, tears glistening in his eyes. He said something, then reached for Sarah.

Dr Yadin grabbed his wrist and spoke into his ear.

Langton covered his eyes with his hand and gave a slight nod. He came back out into the corridor, rubbing at his eyes, breathing hard and fast. ‘It’s her. That’s my Sarah.’ He made a noise, half sigh, half groan. Not quite at the stage of relief. Still weeks of worry ahead of him, but on the road away from abject despair. ‘She’s lost so much weight. I barely recognised her. Can’t believe someone’s done this to her.’

Dr Yadin led him away.

Thompson stepped between the two cops. ‘Lads, I need you to interview him while I brief the powers that be.’ She shook her head. ‘Two forces . . . That’s going to be so much fun.’

[15:12]

‘Through here, sir.’ Corcoran opened the door and let Langton into a family room. Tastefully decorated in shades of beige, with three sofas around a square coffee table. A box of tissues rested on top beside some fresh flowers, whites, pinks and purples.

Corcoran put a hand across the door frame to stop Butcher entering. He had to look up at him – the guy must be six or seven inches taller, but they probably weighed about the same. ‘I’m leading here, okay?’

‘Okay, Sarge.’ Butcher entered and sat opposite the husband, his long legs blocking the path between them.

Corcoran had to go round the back of Langton’s to sit on the third settee. ‘Thanks for identifying your wife, sir. I understand how difficult this is, but we’re determined to find whoever did this to her.’ He waved at Butcher. ‘I appreciate you’ve been over this with my colleague here, but—’

‘Let me get this straight, you’re interested now she’s been found?’ Langton barked out a humourless laugh. ‘The time for this was when the trail was warm. She—’

‘I understand how—’

‘Don’t give me that!’ Langton stabbed a finger towards the door. ‘You’ve seen the state of her! You’ve seen how broken she is!’ Another jab with the finger, but his head sunk low. ‘You should’ve found her before now.’

‘I understand your frustration, sir.’ Corcoran shifted forward on his seat. ‘I wish we could devote more resources to cases such as your wife’s, but DC Butcher here—’

‘Bollocks.’ Langton couldn’t bring himself to look at Butcher. ‘Absolute bollocks. He could’ve done a lot more six weeks ago.’ He swallowed the words, then screwed his eyes shut. ‘I’m sorry.’ He looked over at Butcher. ‘I’m all over the place, I . . .’

‘I understand, sir. But you’re right.’ Butcher flashed him a smile. ‘There’s always more that can be done, and I’m sorry we didn’t find Sarah before. But now we’ve got her, we know something untoward has happened to her. Before, well, it could’ve—’

Corcoran caught Butcher’s attention and his glare got him to shut up. He looked over at Langton. ‘Until we can speak to Sarah, I’m treating this as malicious. Assuming someone has done this to her, I want to find them and, with luck and time, bring them to justice.’

Langton sat there, drilling his gaze into Corcoran. ‘Someone just dumped her? How can . . .?’ Langton reached for a tissue and dabbed his eyes. ‘How can I help?’

‘It would be extremely useful if you could take us through everything from the start. I know it’s—’

‘Fine.’ Langton stared hard at Corcoran. He must’ve rehearsed this speech so many times, given it to friends, family, colleagues, even the police. ‘That. . .