Cold to the Touch
Page 1
Table of Contents
Synopsis
What Reviewers Say About Cari Hunter’s Work
By the Author
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
About the Author
Books Available from Bold Strokes Books
Synopsis
Winter in the Derbyshire Peaks: months of knee-deep snow, short days, and rocketing crime rates.
Detective Sanne Jensen is living in self-imposed isolation and quietly falling apart, while Dr. Meg Fielding—Sanne’s best friend and occasional lover—is struggling to cope with her violent brother, who is back in town and demanding money that she doesn’t have.
When the murder of a drug addict is dumped onto Sanne’s already unmanageable caseload, she suspects the death may be the start of something more sinister. But how can she investigate a crime when no one cares about the victim? And how can she stop a killer who has no identity, no motive, and no conscience?
What Reviewers Say About Cari Hunter’s Work
“[Snowbound] grabbed me from the first page and kept me on the edge of my seat until nearly the end. I love the British feel of it and enjoyed the writer’s style tremendously. So if you’re looking for a very well written, fast paced, lesbian romance—heavy on the action and blood and light on the romance—this is one for your ereader or bookshelf.”—C-Spot Reviews
“[Desolation Point] is the second of Cari Hunter’s novels and is another great example of a romance action adventure. The story is fast paced and thrilling. A real page turner from beginning to end. Ms. Hunter is a master at an adventure plot and comes up with more twists and turns than the mountain trails they are hiking. Well written, edited and crafted this is an excellent book and I can’t wait to read the sequel.”—Lesbian Reading Room
“Cari Hunter provides thrills galore in her adventure/romance Desolation Point. In the hands of a lesser writer and scenarist, this could be pretty rote and by-the-book, but Cari Hunter breathes a great deal of life into the characters and the situation. Her descriptions of the scenery are sumptuous, and she has a keen sense of pacing. The action sequences never drag, and she takes full advantage of the valleys between the peaks by deepening her characters, working their relationship, and setting up the next hurdle.”—Out In Print
“Once again Ms. Hunter outdoes herself in the tension and pace of the plot. We literally know from the first 2 pages that the evil is hunting them, but we are held on the edge of our seats for the whole book to see what will unfold, how they will cope, whether they will survive—and at what cost this time. I literally couldn’t put it down. Tumbledown is a wonderful read.”—Lesbian Reading Room
“Even though this is a continuation of the Desolation Point plot, [Tumbledown] is an entirely different sort of thriller with elements of a police procedural. Other thriller authors (yes, I’m looking at you Patterson and Grisham) could take lessons from Hunter when it comes to writing these babies. Twists and turns and forgotten or unconventional weaponry along with pluck and spirit keep me breathless and reading way past my bedtime.”—Out In Print
“Truly terrible things, as well as truly lovely things, abound in the mystery-thriller No Good Reason. The plot takes off immediately as a captive woman makes her bloody escape and the—Well, this is not a romance, dear reader, so brace yourself. …After visiting America for her last two books, Desolation Point and Tumbledown, Hunter returns to the land of hot tea and the bacon butty in her latest novel. Our heroines are Detective Sanne Jensen and Dr. Meg Fielding, best mates forever and sometimes something more. Their relationship is indefinable and complicated, but not in a hot mess of drama way. Rather, they share unspoken depths, comfortably silly moments, rock-solid friendship, and an intimacy that will make your heart ache just a wee bit.”—C-Spot Reviews
“Cari Hunter is a master of crime suspense stories. No Good Reason brings tension and drama to strong medical and police procedural knowledge. The plot keeps us on the edge of our metaphorical seat, turning the pages long into the night. The setting of the English Peak District adds ambiance and a drama of its own without excluding anybody. And through it all a glimmer of humour and a large dose of humanity keep us engaged and enthralled.”—Curve Magazine
Cold to the Touch
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Cold to the Touch
© 2015 By Cari Hunter. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-527-5
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: December 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Cindy Cresap
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design By Sheri (graphicartist2020@hotmail.com)
By the Author
Snowbound
Desolation Point
Tumbledown
No Good Reason
Cold to the Touch
Acknowledgments
Thanks and a bag of pork scratchings to the good folks at BSB, particularly Sandy, who always gets the sticky end of my e-mails. To Cindy, for being a fab editor, for her sage advice, and for letting me keep the pork scratchings. To Sheri, for the lovely cover. To Kelly, for sweets, laughs, cheesy ball challenges, and making me do “the lift” while driving on blues. I miss you! To her husband, Col, who fielded a few of my more obscure research questions. To Kirsty, for Meg’s “we can’t fix stupid” line. To everyone who’s read my books, sent feedback, written reviews, and become friends. And to Cat—last but never least—who betas tirelessly and loves me to the bottom of my knackered work boots.
Dedication
For Cat
Always
Chapter One
The water was tepid and straight from the tap, its overriding taste one of chlorine. Trying to ignore the avid gaze of the twelve people seated to her right, Sanne Jensen drank it regardless, wishing she had painkillers to chase down.
“Detective Jensen?”
The curt prompt from the prosecution barrister sent a spasm through Sanne’s fingers, and water spilled over the edge of her glass to form a small puddle on the wooden shelf. Unseen behind the lip of the witness stand, she
pulled her jacket sleeve down over her hand and used it to clean up the mess.
“No,” she said, and the twelve faces shifted back in her direction like a crowd at a slow motion tennis match. “There is no possibility that the chain of evidence was disrupted or that the evidence was contaminated. My partner Detective Nelson Turay and I personally supervised the collection of Mr. Mulligan’s clothing, and proper procedures were adhered to at all times.”
The prosecutor nodded, an unmistakeable glint of relief in her eyes. “So in your opinion there is no likelihood that Miss Gordon’s blood could have been accidentally transferred onto the shirt of the defendant?”
“No. None at all.”
“Thank you, Detective. No further questions.”
Sanne waited for the judge to grant her permission to step down and then walked across the courtroom. She kept her head high, maintaining an air of professional confidence, although her body felt as if it had been pummelled and her legs threatened to give everything away by simply folding beneath her. Sitting in the gallery, Nelson smiled as she caught his eye, but his expression still bore the strain of the last two and a half hours.
The passageway to the exit was dimly lit and empty. Once certain she was out of sight, she leaned against the wall and wiped her face on her damp sleeve. Her head was throbbing, a dull, insistent beat that had become a constant companion.
“Fucking hellfire.” She thumped the wall hard, sending an echo reverberating through the corridor, but the gesture didn’t clear her head or work a miracle on her mood; it just made her knuckles sting. Too tired to care, she straightened her jacket and went out to face the music.
*
“Did I balls it up?”
Sanne’s quiet question broke the silence in the car. After meeting her outside the court, Nelson had said nothing, only snarling at a diversion forcing them into Sheffield’s city centre, which hardly counted as conversation.
He hit the brakes, avoiding the bumper of the van in front by inches. Red light blazed across his face as he turned to look at her.
“Almost.” He raised his hand, his thumb and index finger nearly touching. “You were this close, Sanne. This close to sending four months of work down the drain. She deserved better.”
“I know,” Sanne said. Sleet battered the windscreen, and wind gusted between the high buildings that lined Church Street. She clenched her teeth to stop them from chattering.
Trevor Mulligan had murdered his girlfriend after an argument about dishwashing had ended with him smashing her face to pieces with a beer bottle. Although he had concocted a story about a random intruder and done a competent job of removing trace evidence, he hadn’t fooled Sanne or Nelson for a second. On the first day of his trial, a friend had provided an alibi and the defence successfully fought to suppress Mulligan’s previous conviction for domestic assault. Now, on day four, Sanne’s faltering performance on the witness stand had threatened to derail the entire case.
She peered out at the shops closing for the day and commuters rushing to catch trams, their collars and hoods drawn tight against the bitter weather, their umbrellas rendered useless by the strengthening wind. Defunct Christmas lights swayed between lampposts, waiting for the council to strip them down. Until then, they lingered unlit, underscoring that miserable period straight after New Year when everyone commuted in the dark, when the weather was at its shittiest and there was nothing to look forward to. With moods at a low ebb and tempers short, it was no wonder that crime rates shot through the roof. The nine detectives in EDSOP—the East Derbyshire Special Ops department—were struggling to keep their heads above the seasonal onslaught of rapes, beatings, and murders that traditionally occurred once the presents and tinsel were stashed away and the credit card bills began to drop onto the doormat. Every member of the team was exhausted, nobody was seeing much of their families, and the seemingly endless brutality was wearing on the most hardened nerves.
Still, Sanne knew, she had no excuses. Sensing Nelson reach over, she turned away from the window. His focus was already back on the traffic, but she noticed a ripple of warm air begin to thaw her fingertips and realised he had switched the heater to its highest setting.
“Do you want to get something to eat?” he asked. “Talk things through?”
The thought of food made her queasy. She shook her head. “I really am sorry about today,” she said. “I’ll be better, I promise.”
He stopped at a junction, knocked the gear into neutral, and pulled on the handbrake, his movements methodical and unhurried. In front of the car, pedestrians jockeyed for position as they began to cross the road. He watched them for a moment before leaning back in his seat.
“Everyone has a wobble now and again, San.” His voice had lost its edge, and his gentle tone made her want to hold on to him and bawl. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing him as well.
“I’ve been wobbling for a while now.” She drew in a deep breath that smelt of car exhaust and takeaway pizza. “Time to get on with things, I think.”
“Yeah, it probably is.” Pink and green neon swirled over the dash as he drove past a line of kebab shops. “Easier said than done sometimes, though.”
“Aye.” Misery crept in over her again. When she finally spoke, she could only manage a whisper. “Ain’t that the truth.”
*
The sleet turned to snow as Nelson broke free of the snarled-up city streets, the sat nav muted in favour of Sanne’s less convoluted directions.
“It’s not supposed to stick,” she said, watching wet flakes obliterate themselves on the windscreen. “Not tonight, anyway.”
Nelson scoffed, waggling a finger toward the lights flashing on an approaching sign. “Famous last words, San.”
The sign indicated the closure of the Snake Pass, the high, tortuous cross-Pennine road linking the cities of Manchester and Sheffield, a link connecting directly to Sanne’s cottage.
“It’s not sticking here, though,” Nelson said, almost to himself. Then, louder, “Let’s give it a go, eh? See how far we get.” Accelerating past the sign, he began to whistle an off-key rendition of the Mission Impossible theme, drumming along with his fingers on the steering wheel. His enthusiasm proved contagious, snapping Sanne out of her glum mood and prompting her to provide backing vocals. He was one of only two people she ever dared to sing in front of.
“Bet you’re glad you swapped your last piece of junk for your current piece of junk,” he shouted over her finale. “You might even make it into work tomorrow.” The streetlamps ended without warning, plunging the road into darkness, and he squeaked in a way that could only be described as unmanly. They didn’t have the best track record on this route.
“I’ll have you know I’m rather fond of my current piece of junk, and there was nothing wrong with my bloody Corsa either.” She folded her arms, sticking out her tongue in a deliberate attempt to distract him.
He gave a bark of laughter. “Oh no, it was absolutely fine until it attempted to murder us on this very road. You know there’s a plaque on that wall we hit, commemorating the fact that we barely escaped with our lives.” He spoke lightly but then sobered as he recognised the underlying truth of his words. Although the collision had been minor, its consequences later that night had almost killed them both.
“I say a little prayer every morning to give thanks for the unbreakability of your head,” Sanne said.
To her relief, he grinned. “Thank you. Coming from an atheist, that means a lot.”
“Yeah, I nick your god for a minute or two. Do you think she’ll mind?”
“I think she’ll be fine with that.”
“How very benevolent of her.”
Sanne propped her feet on the dashboard and let Nelson concentrate on the road, the only noise the grinding of his teeth as he negotiated a succession of sharp bends. The snow reverted to sleet before stopping altogether, but the dearth of vehicles travelling in the opposite direction told them that the summit was impassable.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Positive. Even if you got down there, you wouldn’t be getting back up. You’re welcome to kip in my spare room, but I reckon Abeni would like to clap eyes on you for once.”
He pulled the car to a careful stop at the verge. “I did tell her I’d try to make it home for tea. At this rate I’ll be lucky if she’s not fed it to the cat.”
“So kick me out here and head back to your lovely wife.”
“I don’t know, San. You’re not dressed for a trek.”
“Pop the boot for me. I put a pair of wellies in there this morning when I saw the forecast.” She was already halfway out the door, the cold air stinging her lungs and pricking her ears. When the boot sprang open, she gripped the cold metal for balance as she replaced her smart shoes with battered wellies. Her feet instantly went numb. She had remembered the boots but forgotten to pack thicker socks.
“Text me when you get in,” Nelson said, his brow knitted.
“Yes, Mum.” She waved him off, yelling, “You text me too!” as he made a U-turn.
He stuck his thumb up through the open window but yanked it back when the car skidded. Sanne waited until the brake lights disappeared round a bend and then gave him a count of fifty just to be certain that he hadn’t slipped into the first ditch. From forty onward, all she could hear was the sharp breeze rustling through the frozen ferns, and her own heartbeat.