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  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.’

  Three

  [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 t
he 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.’

  Four

  [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 night, a Friday, I’d been out playing squash. Had a few beers after with the guys, then got home, but Sarah wasn’t in. The house was cold and she’d usually have the heating on. She likes it warm. And poor Milhouse hadn’t been fed. He’s our cat. Sarah loves him to pieces.’ He shut his eyes. ‘He’s missed her . . .’

  ‘You never received any messages?’

  ‘None. And believe me, I was looking.’ Langton gestured at Butcher. ‘There aren’t many people who I’d show my phone to, but he’s been through it.’

  ‘Fine-tooth comb.’ Butcher nodded. ‘We haven’t managed to recover Sarah’s phone, either. Last location was outside her house.’

  Corcoran looked at Langton. ‘Cambridge, correct?’

  ‘Quiet village on the outskirts.’ Langton sighed. ‘Can’t help but think if we lived in a town, it would’ve been much harder for them to take her.’

  ‘Living in a city isn’t much protection from abduction, sir.’

  Langton nodded, like it had closed off some avenue of worry. ‘What else can I say? She loves photography. Got her a new Sony camera at Christmas, not that she . . .’ His nostrils quivered. ‘We both run. Do the London and Paris marathons each year. We’d been talking of doing Boston and New York next.’

  Corcoran glanced at Butcher. ‘Was she into fitness tracking?’

  ‘She got a smartwatch last summer to track her running and so on. Weighed herself on these fitness scales every morning. One of those fancy ones that measures body fat and . . .’ Langton’s lip quivered. ‘She was obsessed about getting it below fifteen percent. Now she’s . . .’ He reached for another tissue and masked fresh tears with blowing his nose.

  A shadow passed over the door’s glass just before it opened. Dr Yadin stood there, smiling. ‘Mr Langton, Sarah’s parents have arrived. Can I ask you to assist them?’

  ‘Sure thing.’ Langton got up, then stopped, frowning at Corcoran. ‘Do you need anything else from me?’

  ‘I’m sure there’ll be other things, sir, but you should spend time with them.’

  ‘Okay.’ Head low, Langton followed Yadin out of the room.

  Butcher got up and started pacing the room. ‘Poor guy.’

  ‘One way of looking at it.’ Corcoran leaned back, arms folded. ‘What was all that animosity?’

  ‘Guy’s angry at everyone for what’s happened. You must’ve seen that yourself, yeah?’

  ‘Sure that’s all it is?’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. I’m not some local idiot cop messing up here.’ Butcher’s shoulders slumped. Not the joy of a man whose missing person h
ad been found, but the fear of a man about to get his backside kicked for not being the one to recover her. He slouched in the seat Langton had sat in. ‘Trouble is, Sarah was just another MisPer. You must get loads in Thames Valley, right? Students under so much pressure to succeed at Oxford University. Same as with Cambridge. The ones who don’t try to kill themselves, some just up and leave. Then there are all the little towns and villages, where people run away from home every day . . .’

  ‘Did you have any suspects?’

  ‘Funny you should ask.’ Butcher leaned forward and looked at the door. ‘I thought it was possible he’d murdered her.’

  Most murder victims knew their killer. Starting with the family was the obvious strategy.

  ‘What made you think that?’

  ‘My first thought was she’d run off with someone.’ A darkness twisted Butcher’s features. ‘But we never found any big withdrawals or any other telltale signs she’d been planning to scarper. And him . . . he kept phoning me up. Never anything new, but it felt like he was fishing, seeing if he was a suspect.’

  ‘You get any evidence to support that theory?’

  ‘Thing is, his story checked out. He was out with his mates from squash. Pub CCTV, bus CCTV, street CCTV.’ Butcher gripped his thighs. ‘Doesn’t mean he didn’t have help.’

  The door opened again. Thompson thundered in and collapsed next to Corcoran, nudging his shin with her shoe. ‘Budge.’ She reached into her pocket for a mint and crunched it without offering the packet round. ‘I’ve spoken to my boss and our opposite numbers in Cambridgeshire police. This is now a major inquiry and I’m Deputy SIO, for my sins. Means it’s my arse on the line here. Means we’ll get more bodies in to help us out.’ She gave Butcher a frosty look. ‘I appreciate all your efforts so far, Constable. You’re seconded to my team, so you can thank me later. We’re based at Thames Valley Force HQ, okay?’ She popped another mint in, sucking this time. ‘Initially we’re keeping a media blackout. Then we’ll release as few details as possible. Last thing we want is to scare the public.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Unless you think they should be scared?’