Cold Sacrifice (18 page)

‘Are we going for a drive then, or are you just going to sit around gassing about it?’ Megan asked.

They were soon racing around the car park. Megan screamed every time they swerved or rattled over a bump.

‘Just as well the car park’s empty,’ she shrieked as the car spun round a corner.

‘Just shut up, will you? I’m trying to concentrate.’

‘Ooh, I’m trying to concentrate,’ Megan mimicked him.

Mac took no notice. He was enjoying himself. Driving was easy. Not for everyone, perhaps, but he was a natural. He felt like a prince. All Megan could do was sit there, powerless, travelling wherever he wanted. He had complete control.

‘How long are we going to do this?’ Megan asked after they had gone round a few times. ‘What if someone comes?’

Mac shrugged. He had no idea how long he was going to stay at the wheel, and what was more, he didn’t care. He wished she would stop fussing. It was beginning to get on his nerves.

‘We’ll keep going as long as the petrol lasts,’ he said. ‘Chill out, will you? We’re free spirits, remember?’

‘Yes, I know, but don’t you think we should quit before someone sees us?’ she asked. ‘What if the owner comes back?’

‘Shut up.’

Mac wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop, even if he wanted to, but once she started on at him she wouldn’t give up. Typical of a girl. He was taking her out for a drive, which was more than most thirteen-year-old boys could do, and all she did was moan.

‘Look, we’re staying here as long as I say,’ he snapped. ‘Who’s driving, you or me?’

The other vehicle came out of nowhere. One second they had the place to themselves, the next they were careering towards a red car. Mac saw the whites of a woman’s eyes and her mouth hanging open in a silent scream. Sunlight flashed on glass and red metal. A horn was hooting loudly while at his side Megan was screaming, a long, high-pitched screech. Fear flooded through him making his legs feel numb. He could barely move his arms. If he had been on his feet he would have fallen over. The noise of the crash exploded in his ears before darkness swallowed everything.

S
ANDRA WAS LATE.
I
T
was impossible to keep an eye on her father who was growing increasingly confused. One night last week she had received a call from the police to say he had been found wandering along the front, lost, claiming he had gone out to buy some milk.

‘You don’t need to go to the shops by yourself, dad,’ she had scolded him when she got him back home, past midnight. ‘You just have to tell me what you want and I’ll get it for you on my way over. Whatever you want, you only have to say.’

It was hard not to be angry with him. She was doing her best. She visited him at home most days, which was more than her brother managed, although he only lived in Ramsgate.

Even at the weekend, she no longer dared go a day without checking on him. But she couldn’t be at his side constantly. It was the time in between her visits that worried her. As she put her foot down, a carrier bag of shopping on the seat beside her flew onto the floor. Cursing, she looked around for somewhere to stop so she could get out of the car to repack it, and saw the entrance to the Dreamland car park just across the road. Her father used to take her to the Dreamland theme park when she was a child. She smiled, remembering how terrified she had been on the Big Wheel. The whole place had closed down years ago, but the car park was still in use. She drove in, taking no notice of a warning sign that ‘Cars parked here without authorisation will be clamped’. She was only going to stop for a moment. Through the gate, she glanced down at tins and jars rolling around on the floor of the car. A pot had smashed. Shards of glass winked up at her, half buried in sticky marmalade. Looking up again, she barely had time to register a dark car rushing towards her with what appeared to be a child at the wheel. His mouth was open in horror, his eyes glaring wildly at her. With a sick feeling, she realised they couldn’t avoid a crash. Instead of turning his wheel, the other driver sat rigidly clinging to it while his vehicle raced straight at her.

Sandra swung her steering wheel, slamming on her brakes. The car skidded and slid to crash into the oncoming vehicle at an angle. If the other car had taken similar evasive action, they might have avoided a collision. As it was, the impact was deafening. The airbag blew up in her face as the car juddered to a halt. She was shaking so badly, she could barely manage to reach for the door handle. All she could think of was that she had to get out of the car. It might explode, or burst into flames, with her still inside it. She seemed to be sitting for hours, frantically rattling the door handle.

Suddenly the door flew open. A face peered in at her. Despite her wooziness, she saw that it was a policeman.

‘Help,’ she croaked. ‘Help!’

She must have lost consciousness for a second, because when she looked again the policeman had vanished. Tears sprang to her eyes at the realisation that she was on her own. Gingerly she tried to move her arms and legs. Everything seemed to be working normally. She told herself she hadn’t been travelling very fast when the vehicles crashed, and it had probably sounded worse than it was. She struggled to slide her legs round so she could get out and as she did so, the sound of a siren reached her. She fell back on her seat, crying with relief. Of course the policeman hadn’t abandoned her. He had been calling for help.

As if in response to her thoughts, he returned and leaned down to talk to her through the open door.

‘Don’t worry.’

It was such an inane thing to say, she felt like laughing. It occurred to her that her father probably felt similarly helpless. She wondered what he really thought of her attempts to reassure him. He was always polite, and appreciative, but inside he must feel as tormented by the futility of her efforts as she was. The policeman was talking again.

‘We’ll soon have you out of there.’

He looked very young, and very grave. She thanked him quite lucidly and his worried frown relaxed.

‘That’s the spirit. You’re going to be OK,’ he said with forced cheerfulness that made her want to cry, because she understood so well how he was feeling.

The keys had gone from the ignition. The young policeman must have reached in to switch off the engine. Sensibly he hadn’t attempted to move her but had left that to the experts who were already on their way. Before long two firemen were lifting her gently out of the car. They laid her on a waiting stretcher and the paramedics took over. No longer panicking, Sandra became aware that her head was pounding, and her whole body ached as though she was suffering from a serious bout of flu. A paramedic gently felt her limbs and neck and asked her if anything hurt.

‘Everything,’ she groaned.

Having established it was safe to move her, they carried her into an ambulance and she was taken off to hospital for a more thorough examination.

‘What about the other driver?’ she asked.

‘They’re fine,’ she was assured.

She closed her eyes and felt unexpectedly peaceful. For once, other people were taking over the responsibility for what was happening.

‘Is there anyone we can call?’ a voice asked.

Without opening her eyes, she gave them her husband’s phone number. As for her father, her brother would have to step in for once.

* * * * *

The first thing Police Constable Michael Rogers did on seeing the mangled vehicles was call for urgent assistance. A dark blue Honda had crashed into a red Mini. Behind the Honda, a figure lay motionless on the tarmac. He ran over to the woman who had been run over and knelt down to check for signs of life. The awkward position in which she lay made him suspect that he was too late. As he leaned forward, a putrid smell wafted towards him from the body and he gagged. Dutifully, he pressed on. He couldn’t find a pulse and she didn’t appear to be breathing. He became aware of a rattling sound behind him. Turning his head, he saw the driver’s door to the Mini was being shaken from inside. He ran over and yanked it open.

A middle-aged woman was sitting in the driver’s seat, moaning. She blinked up at him and called out for help. Michael leaned in and turned the engine off. He wasn’t sure it was safe to move the woman, but she didn’t appear to be in any immediate danger so he decided it was best to wait for the paramedics. They soon arrived, closely followed by a fire team ready with cutting equipment in case anyone was trapped, and a police car. Quickly, Michael brought them up to speed: a driver in the mini, a driver and one passenger in the Honda, and a woman who had been knocked down on the tarmac. A paramedic ran over to the woman lying on the ground. After a few seconds, he stood up and shook his head.

Having passed the responsibility for dealing with the victims on to those who were equipped to help them, Michael busied himself setting up a cordon to keep the public out of the car park. It wouldn’t be long before people started to gather. When more police officers showed up, he returned to the scene of the crash to find out the extent of the damage. The bodywork of both vehicles was badly damaged. The drivers and passenger were suffering from shock, but appeared to have escaped serious physical injury. The pedestrian who had been knocked down was dead. A white-faced boy of about twelve was sitting in an ambulance, wrapped in a silver blanket, shivering, while a paramedic was chatting quietly to him.

‘He was driving the Honda,’ the paramedic told the constable.

Seeing the policeman’s uniform, the boy glared, blinking furiously. Michael had the impression he was on the point of tears so he spoke to him gently.

Macauley Hobbs was thirteen. He had found the car with the keys in the dashboard, so he had driven it round the car park ‘for a laugh’, no doubt intending to impress his companion, a little blonde girl who was sitting in another ambulance, crying hysterically. Even if Michael had been trained to question underage witnesses, he would have to wait for a suitable adult to be present. The two children’s mothers had both been contacted and were on their way.

‘Your mother will be here soon,’ he reassured the boy who shook his head vehemently, and looked more frightened than ever.

‘You can’t tell my mum. She’ll kill me if she finds out what I done.’

First to arrive was a blonde woman in a black coat who was escorted through the cordon and over to the ambulance where the young girl was still sobbing. Soon after that, there was a commotion at the cordon and a fat voluble woman marched into the car park, waving her arms in the air. Michael recognised her companion, a female constable called Susan Bailey who was trained to question children.

‘Where is the little sod?’ the fat woman was shouting.

Michael hurried to intercept them.

‘You must be Macauley’s mother?’

‘Where is the little sod?’ she repeated loudly.

‘Mrs Hobbs –’

‘It’s Miss.’

‘Miss Hobbs, your son has just been involved in a collision and he’s in shock. You’ll need to give him time –’

The woman rounded on him, her large face quivering with anger. Her cheeks were pink, and there was a faint sheen of perspiration on her forehead.

‘Don’t you tell me how to deal with my own son.’

As soon as Macauley’s mother saw the boy inside the ambulance, her whole demeanour altered. Her shoulders drooped and she ran forward, arms outstretched, her face creased with emotion. She had to be restrained from enfolding the boy in her arms before he had been thoroughly checked for internal injuries.

Privately Michael wondered if they were all being a bit soft. The boy had stolen a car and driven it. As a result of his boyish escapade, a woman had died. They needed to establish her identity. Neither of the drivers involved in the crash seemed to know that there had even been a pedestrian knocked down in the accident.

‘Who is she?’ Michael asked.

‘We haven’t got an identity yet,’ a constable told him. ‘She must have been knocked down, and no one noticed, with all the noise and ruck of the crash.’

‘What a sad way to die,’ Michael said softly. ‘No one even noticed.’

F
EELING GUILTY THAT HE
hadn’t remembered to leave a note, Ian was home by early afternoon. He even remembered they were meeting friends for a drink that evening. But when his work phone rang soon after he reached the house, he answered without hesitation. He would never have admitted as much to Bev, but he was eager to get back to the station and find out how things were going. Checking online or by phone wasn’t the same as being there, in the bustle and pressure of the physical team. Her expression darkened when he said he was on his way before he rang off.

‘What did you say?’

Her eyes grew bright with anger as he gave an apologetic shrug and explained he had to go.

‘Go where?’

‘I’ve got to go and follow something up.’

‘You can’t. It’s Sunday. It’s your day off. You’ve only just got home.’

‘Unfortunately there’s no law that says people can’t be killed at weekends. It would make my life a whole lot easier if there was.’

‘You’re not supposed to be working today. We’ve arranged to go out later on.’

‘You’ll have to go without me.’

‘You know I can’t.’

Losing patience, he spoke harshly.

‘A woman’s been run over and killed, and the car involved is registered to someone we’re currently investigating. I don’t have a choice, Bev.’

‘You do have a choice,’ she muttered crossly.

He didn’t bother to answer. They had been through this many times before. She should know by now that he wasn’t going to leave his job. He had been through too much, and come too far to quit now.

‘You go on ahead if I’m not back in time,’ he said. ‘I’ll join you when I can.’

He didn’t stop to argue any more. Scene of crime officers would already be crawling all over the site of the car crash in Margate. A forensic tent would have been erected. A forensic medical examiner would be looking at the body where it lay, before a post mortem was carried out once the body arrived at the morgue. As far as he knew neither of the drivers was seriously injured. They had both been taken to hospital to be checked. But he wasn’t going there to find out about the crash. He wasn’t concerned about the underage driver, or even the fatality. The reason for his interest was that one of the vehicles involved in the collision was registered to Henry Martin who had telephoned the police to report it stolen earlier that morning. This was Ian’s chance to find out exactly when the car had been moved from outside Henry’s house in Herne Bay, and have it thoroughly searched again by forensic officers. There was a chance Henry had paid someone else to dump it, and the job had been bungled. He imagined finding a knife with one sharp edge and a bent blade, a knife stained with Martha’s blood and Henry’s prints all over the handle. With growing excitement, he put his foot down.