Page 31 of Slack Tide Kill

"Red Farb-gel." Sally smiled. "I had to think fast."

"Farb-gel?"

"It's basically silly string." Her smile spread, then faded again. "The girls in the back of the van. You have them?"

"Yeah. All five. They're with paramedics now. The brother's already en route to Rye, nearest police station."

Sally thought that through. Her pulse was finally slowing. "Good. It's people trafficking, Liam. Probably forced prostitution."

"Right, I saw their clothes." Liam rubbed his jaw. That would be the airbag impact.

She felt heat building in her throat too, where Rook had choked her. There'd be bruising, but she wasn't about to report it now. She couldn't give Mayhew any reason to take her off the case.

Instead she turned to the track leading back to Umberside Lodge.

"We don't need a warrant now, do we?"

Liam stiffened. "I don't know. That depends."

"Screw depends," Sally said, and started back along the track.

"Where do you think you're going?" Mayhew shouted from behind.

"They're prostituting girls, DCI," Sally answered. "Maybe trafficking, too. You sure that was all of them in the van? We're cleared under PACE section 17 to search."

The DCI said nothing for a moment, then cursed. "All right. Come on, O'Connell."

Mayhew broke into a jog, forcing Sally and Liam to hobble after her. Across the muddy yard, over wheel ruts left by the panel van, they reached the side door to the barn.

Padlocked.

Mayhew picked out a length of metal jutting from the piles of junk, then pulled it loose and wedged it into the loop of the padlock.

Liam looked at Sally, then Mayhew yanked down. The bar levered against the door, dragging the clasp's screws out with a rasp and forcing the door inward.

Sally sped in first.

A corridor of mildewed plasterboard led deeper, pinned with wallcharts, calendars and what looked like work schedules. The floor was scattered with torn papers, shreds of lingerie and small colorful tubes with a bright trigger, almost like toddler toys. Vape pens, Sally recognized. Doorways opened to left and right, and she looked into the first.

It was a box-like partition framed with more damp plasterboard, brightly lit with industrial lamps on stands. Their harsh white glow lit some kind of stage set; a rumpled double bed scattered with teddy bears, backed by a fake white panel wall with bookshelves to either side.

"What in hell?" Mayhew asked.

Thick gray cables ran along the floor to a dusty desk, where a clean rectangle lay in the dust. A spilled coffee cup lay to one side, a half-eaten sandwich in a disposable box on the other.

"Livestream porn," Sally muttered, pointing. "Laptop there. Cameras here. The girls in the van were performing, maybe being forced to. Rooks could've been making thousands a day with this set up."

Mayhew stared. "What's this got to do with the murder?"

"I don't know."

She pushed back past Liam and Mayhew and headed to the next ‘room' over. This scene echoed the backseat bench of a London black taxi cab, more lights, some tripods, with a rear screen projecting a street retreating away. She went to the next room, a small kitchen. Kettle, toaster, table and four chairs. More clothes hung off chair backs, looking like costumes.

A vial rested on the plywood counter. Sally didn't touch it but ducked close, reading the information.

Her heart skipped a beat.

"Ketamine," she said.