A Deeper Song (Detective Hannah Robbins Crime Series Book 6) Read online

  A DEEPER SONG

  Rebecca Bradley

  Text copyright © 2020 Rebecca Bradley

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Design for Writers.

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  Prologue 1

  If I’d heard correctly, the girl hadn’t bolted the door behind herself properly. All I had to do was bide my time and wait for everyone to settle down for the night. Not that I knew how many people there were here but I would wait until it felt right.

  There was no clock in this room. No sense of time.

  I had no idea how much trouble the girl would get into for leaving the door insecure but that wasn’t my problem. I had one thing on my mind and that was to find a way out of this place.

  I trusted my team and knew they would find me but I also had to trust in myself. I had the control here this evening and I would grasp it with both hands. All I had to do was get out of the building. Once out I could find a passing car on a nearby road – not that I could hear cars from here, but I would run until I reached one. Or a neighbouring house with a phone. That was all I needed, a phone and I could make contact with Aaron, alert him to where I was and I’d be safe again.

  I had no idea what was happening here. The girl hadn’t told me anything. I got the feeling she was scared and was simply doing as she was told. I’d be able to help her once I was out. I’d come back for her and get her out, as well as finding whoever was behind this.

  Tonight, I’d be breaking free from this place and I’d be going home. No more locked rooms. No more scared girls feeding me. Tonight this was going to end.

  1

  I fretted at the piece of skin, pulling it away from the side of my nail as my dad walked back into the living room. Tugging at it with my teeth. Feeling my way along it with the tip of my tongue. It would be sore if I pulled it off, but leaving it there meant I would be distracted by it for days to come.

  Dad placed the mug down on the coffee table in front of me. Steam curled out and whispered away to nothing. Dad returned to his seat. He’d brought me here this evening and ambushed me.

  I looked across the room to my sister Zoe. She was pale and looked smaller than I remembered her from the last time I’d seen her. I tried to avoid my sister and saw my dad when I knew she was out, or arranged to see him out of the house. I was a detective inspector with Nottinghamshire police working within EMSOU – MC (East Midlands Special Operations Unit – Major Crime) which was a five force collaborative unit comprising Nottinghamshire, Derbyshire, Leicestershire, Northamptonshire and Lincolnshire, and Zoe was a drug user who had been arrested, charged and sent to prison for possession with intent to distribute. Not only that, but she’d been staying at my place at the time she’d been arrested and had stashed drugs in my apartment. My home had been searched, the drugs located and I’d been placed under investigation. I’d seen my whole career flash before my eyes. Eventually I was cleared but I hadn’t forgiven Zoe.

  Her eyes looked huge as she gazed back at me, arms wrapped around her body, hugging herself tightly as though she were cold. Hair pulled back and tied in a knot at the top of her head, face pale and drawn. She’d barely spoken. She’d left most of the talking to Dad. Knew I wouldn’t explode at him, or not to the extent I would if it had been her explaining the circumstances to me.

  My tongue wiggled the piece of skin, and my finger tingled, indicating how sore it would be should I pull the loose thread off. Would a quick and ruthless tug be better than days of picking and messing about with it?

  ‘Drink your tea,’ said Dad. ‘I bought green tea especially for you.’ He attempted a smile but it fell somewhere short.

  Still Zoe didn’t speak.

  I pulled my finger out my mouth. ‘How long?’ I asked eventually.

  He furrowed his brow. The question could mean many things. How long had they been hiding this from me? How long had they been plotting to tell me? How long did I have to decide? How long if I said no?

  I wasn’t even sure myself which of those questions I wanted answering. I needed all of them to be addressed for sure but, right at this moment, which was the most pertinent? Or pertinent to me?

  I looked from Zoe to Dad. ‘Has it been going on?’ I decided.

  Dad ran a hand through what was left of his hair. It was thinning on top, a deep widow’s peak over his forehead accentuating the lines that told the story of his age and his worries. There was a small patch at the back of his head that was balding, but he was doing well to hold on to his hair, the silver shining under the light that he’d turned on when I came in. He blew out air through pursed lips and looked to Zoe who had the decency to look sheepish and bowed her head. ‘I’m sorry, Hannah. Zoe wanted to try to connect with you properly, make amends for what happened before she came to you with all this. I went along with her because it was what she needed.’

  Zoe had attempted reconciliation when she was released from prison and I glared at her now. She still hadn’t yet looked up from her knees. This was all Zoe’s fault. I caught myself. It wasn’t exactly her fault. But how she had dealt with it was. How she dealt with anything was always the problem. Once caught with the drugs in my home she told me they were supposed to have been a temporary thing, a between-drugs home thing, a one-night-only affair, but it had gone wrong and she’d been caught before she’d had a chance to move them out. She had never meant to involve me in her problems.

  And here I was, again, in the middle of Zoe’s problems.

  My heart twisted in my chest. I was being harsh. But I couldn’t forget what she’d done. How she’d torn Dad’s world apart by going to prison not long after Mum died. It was always about Zoe and now it was about Zoe again and Dad was asking for my help.

  Zoe was asking for my help through Dad.

  She’d barely said a word.

  I looked at her. Stared hard at her. Angry at her for putting me in this position. For making me this angry at her. Finally she lifted her head and met my eyes.

  ‘You don’t have to, Hannah. I understand.’ Her voice was quiet.

  I waved a hand over towards Dad. ‘You think he’s going to accept that?’

  ‘Hannah…’ he spluttered.

  It wasn’t fair. I know. But he wouldn’t.

  ‘Dad’ll get over it,’ she said. ‘This is between me and you and I’ve done a lot to hurt you. It’s expecting a lot. To ask this of you. I accept that. But you have to believe I’m clean. I’ve been clean for months. I stay away from people in my old life. I’m making an effort, Hannah.’

  Dad stayed silent. Letting us thrash it out.

  ‘And Dad’s been tested?’ I asked, trying to bring my fury down a notch or two.

  ‘He’s not a match.’

  I looked over at Dad and watched him slump into the sofa. He’d do anything for his kids. Even if we were no longer kids and no matter what we put him through. It pained him so much that we were at loggerheads the way we were. All he wanted was for us to be sisters again. To not be able to help Zoe in her time of need must be killing him. I reached over to him and squeezed his hand. He forced a
smile but it was lacking.

  I returned my attention to Zoe. ‘So you had to come to me.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

  ‘Trust me, I’d rather I didn’t have to. I’ve put on you enough.’

  I barked out a laugh. ‘That’s an understatement.’

  Zoe bowed her head.

  I tried again. ‘If I do this, what’s involved?’

  She shrugged. ‘Not much to be honest. There are two options, one is you’re hooked up to a cell-separator machine where you have a needle in each arm. With that I think they have to give you an injection every day for four or five days in the run up to the process.’

  ‘And the other option…’

  ‘They drill…’ she shrugged again, ‘down into your bone and remove some marrow and give it to me. You’ll be a bit sore but other than that, you’ll be fine. You’ll only need about a week off work to recover and that’s because you’ll be sore and to prevent infection, I think.’

  ‘And you?’ I asked flinching at the thought of the drilling.

  ‘They say with a bone marrow transplant I should be as good as new.’

  I studied her face again. Saw how pale she was. I’d noticed this last time I’d seen her but thought nothing of it. When she was on the drugs she had never been the healthiest-looking person in my life, so when she was genuinely sick it passed me by. I leaned forward and picked up the tea. The warmth of the steam prickled my nose. I sipped the familiar calming drink and tried to think.

  I’d been angry with Zoe for so long it was ingrained in me. I struggled to feel anything else. Of course I didn’t want her to die. She was my sister when all was said and done, but so much water had gone under our bridge I didn’t know how to go about repairing our relationship. On one level it felt that I was here because she needed something from me again, as she had back then when she’d needed a place to stay and she’d brought her drugs with her. It was this that drove the irritation and fury that bit at my heels. On another level, she was sick and no one could help getting sick. Not even Zoe. Though I wouldn’t put it past her if it was a possibility, a way of wheedling her way back into my good graces. But here we were. She needed me.

  I stuck the tip of my finger in my mouth, felt for the loose skin. Touched my tongue to the edge of it, then clamped down with my teeth and pulled it away, clear and free. A sharp sting ran to my brain and I winced.

  2

  The car was a quiet relief compared to the compressed stress of Dad’s house. I turned the radio off, cracked the window a little, let the air circulate and blow through the emotions rattling about in my head and steered myself home.

  It was early April and the weather was unpredictable but this evening it was fine and clear.

  I’d left the house with a promise to think through Zoe and my father’s request, though everyone knew I would end up saying yes eventually. There was no way I would let my sister die. Not because my father would never forgive me but because when it came down to the wire, she was my flesh and blood. My mother would turn in her grave at the state of us at the moment. Yes, I was angry at Zoe. I’d been angry for a long time. So angry and so long that I didn’t know how to let go of that anger. It was like a balled-up fist of knots in the bottom of my stomach, that had been there so long it had bedded itself into me.

  Traffic was light, barely another car on the road. I was grateful for this. My mind was a mess and I wasn’t best placed to be driving. I wanted to be at home in my apartment at the base of Nottingham Castle with a glass or two of red wine and a couple of painkillers. My arm was throbbing. An old injury I’d sustained on the job eighteen months ago when a woman had sliced me with a knife during an operation that had gone badly wrong. After that I’d needed some time off work but had returned as quickly as I could because my team needed me. My GP had been helpful in providing me with prescription medication to control the continuing pain the wound caused me. He was cautious and reviewed it regularly but understood the pressures of the job meant I needed to concentrate.

  As far as I understood it from this evening’s discussion I would not be off work more than a couple of days, a week at the most if I donated my bone marrow to Zoe. I could cope with that.

  I was in the inside lane on Canal Street, taking it steady when suddenly he was there. As if magicked into place. In front of the car. On the road.

  In front of my moving car.

  Stumbling. Falling.

  Arms wheeling like he was trying to grab hold of something.

  His head jerked sideways and he looked in at me. Eyes unfocused but the clearest blue I have ever seen. Lit up by my headlights bearing down upon him.

  I hit the brakes. Forcing my foot down hard. The tyres squealed as they skidded on the asphalt. My arms locked, and my head slammed forward. The airbag inflated and the breath was forced from my lungs with a violent grunt as it smashed into me at full throttle. I coughed and choked trying to regain breath, sucking up air.

  Unable to see out the windscreen as the airbag blocked my view.

  What the hell?

  I couldn’t see him. He wasn’t standing in front of the car and I couldn’t see him running down the street in front of me or in my rear-view mirror. Dread shimmied its way up my spine.

  As I pulled on the handbrake a soft beige powder covered my hands. The airbag, now deflated, sagged in my lap. I patted my trouser pocket for my phone and jumped out of my Peugeot. A car passed by on the other side of the road. No one had noticed what had happened. No one had noticed the young man come flying from Trent Street junction into the middle of the road.

  My heart was slamming into my chest wall. My ribcage felt too fragile to hold it in place as I moved to the front of the car.

  And there he was. Laid on the ground, the lower half of his legs out of view under the Peugeot 308. His face so pale in the amber glow of the street light I feared he was dead, but his wide blinking eyes looked at me with such intensity my thudding heart nearly stopped.

  He was covered in blood. His T-shirt and jeans were smeared with the stuff. I could see it clearly in the bright light of the car’s headlamps. This was serious.

  I pulled out my phone and crouched down beside him, calling an ambulance and reassuring him that he would be okay, but telling him that he wasn’t to move. I was terrified of what injuries he may have sustained and didn’t want to make an already disastrous situation worse. My heart was now in my throat. I dialled the control room but didn’t know if I would be able to talk, to inform them of what I had done. The call was connected and I found myself stuttering and stammering, making clear I needed supervisory support as I’d been involved in an accident. As was always the case with control room they were professional and prompt, checking to see if I needed medical assistance and then reassuring me that support was on its way.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked as I sat on the cold concrete ground next to his head. Frightened for him.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He blinked at me. There wasn’t a scratch on his face.

  ‘You don’t know your name?’

  He blinked again and bent his arms, forcing his elbows onto the road, then tried to push himself upright. ‘No. I don’t… I don’t know.’ A look of panic crossed his face, it paled even further and he looked grey.

  I took his hand. Like the rest of him, it was smeared in blood. ‘Stay where you are, there’s an ambulance coming. Stay there.’ Gently I rubbed my fingers over his hand but there were no injuries that I could feel. No bones broken beneath my touch, no open wounds.

  He tried to push himself up again but pain spasmed through his body.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice calm, fearing he was about to do himself further harm. He’d obviously hit his head but I wasn’t sure what other damage might have been done and it didn’t look good.

  He rolled his eyes upwards. ‘My leg, I think one of my legs is broken.’

  A car horn sounded behind us, the driver unable to see a driver in my vehicle or me and
the young man on the ground in front of the car. An impatient, angry sound ripping through the cool night air as I gripped the man-with-no-name’s hand. I looked up at my car and realised in my rush to get out I hadn’t put my hazard warning lights on. The vehicle was stationary in the middle of the lane. I twisted and stretched my arm out, waving it in the middle of the road, hoping the impatient driver would see what was happening. There was a rev of an engine and a slow manoeuvre as a black Fiat pulled up at the side of us.

  The driver slid his passenger side window down. A young man with serious looking glasses leaned over. ‘Need a hand, love?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ve called an ambulance. It’s on its way.’

  He didn’t move.

  ‘You all right, mate?’ he tried again, this time asking the young man lying under my car.

  He looked at me, a question on his face. I gripped his arm tighter. He was frightened.

  ‘Yes, I think I am.’ He didn’t look towards the driver of the Fiat but kept his gaze locked on me. He needed something to cling to in this moment of uncertainty.

  ‘Okay then.’ The Fiat driver drove away.

  ‘I need to put my hazard lights on so drivers know to go around us.’ I let go of the lad and his eyes widened in panic. ‘I’ll be a few seconds, that’s all. I’ll be right back.’ The fear didn’t leave his face.

  I jumped up, moved to the car and switched on the orange. The car needed to be left where it was so accident investigation could check out what had happened.

  Back on the ground I asked, ‘How do you feel? Does anything else hurt?’

  He blinked at me. ‘I don’t think so but why don’t I know who I am?’

  I didn’t have an answer for him.

  In the distance I could hear the two-tones. Help was on its way. I looked down at the hand in mine, the bloody smeared hand, and realised the blood was dried. It wasn’t from the accident.