by Cari Hunter
“How long’s she been in the job?”
“Almost two years.”
Sanne grinned. “Plenty of time yet for her to turn into a cynical old bugger like you.”
Meg smiled too, but she didn’t share Sanne’s conviction. Her tendency toward misanthropy was one of the few things she and Emily argued about, and Emily seemed determined not to develop the bleak outlook of so many public sector workers. There were occasions when her refusal to acknowledge the bad in anyone got right on Meg’s wick.
“Anyway.” Meg pushed to her feet and held out a hand to Sanne. “Enough about me. How’s everyone at Eds Up?”
Uncertainty flickered in Sanne’s eyes, but she covered it well by standing and stomping snow from her boots. “By the sound of it, we’re in the same boat as your lot. Overworked, stressed, tired out, and underpaid.” She set off walking in the wrong direction, turning only when Meg pulled her round.
“’Tis the season.” Meg kept hold of Sanne’s sleeve for a moment before releasing it and falling into step beside her. “What did you cop for in Malory Park?”
“Heroin addict stabbed multiple times, vicious even for Malory. Serrated blade about so big.” Sanne held her thumb and index finger apart.
Meg gave a low whistle. “Nasty. Any verdict on the Mulligan case?”
Sanne shook her head, her teeth gnawing at her bottom lip. Sensing a sore point, Meg studied her properly. Even half-hidden in a bulky jacket, it was obvious she had lost weight; her cheeks were pinched, her jaw more defined. Dark smudges covered the puffy skin beneath her eyes, and her lips were chapped and peeling. Her usual mop of wavy hair, the bane of her life, had been cropped in a manner suggesting utility rather than fashion. It made her look smaller, and she was only five foot four on a good day. The contrast with post-Greek holiday Sanne couldn’t have been more pronounced.
“Oh, oh!” she said suddenly, mischief brightening her eyes. “You’ll never guess what Keeley’s done.”
Heartened by her enthusiasm, Meg played along. “Sweet Christ almighty, did your sister get a job?”
Sanne laughed. “Close, but no cigar.”
“She won the lottery and is now living in a pink palace with a gilt-edged, oversized trampoline for each of her many kids?”
“Not quite, but keep going on the kid theme.”
The penny dropped with a noticeable thud. “Oh. Fuck. Off,” Meg said. “I thought you’d told her to get a different hobby.”
“I did. Unfortunately, I also gave her thirty quid to go on a hot date with Wayne.”
Meg stopped dead and yanked Sanne to a halt. “This is your fault? You funded the conception of baby number”—she paused to count on her fingers—“six?”
“It’s baby number five, and yes, I am completely to blame, because apparently my sister can’t resist Wayne’s charms when he’s gone and got her drunk on Asti Spumante.”
“Aw, who said romance was dead?” Meg rubbed her hands. “So, when’s the due date? I need time to open a book.”
“Tenth of March.” Sanne gave her a perplexed look. “Open what book?”
“The Great Baby Name Bet, of course. I wonder what odds I should put down for Kai. We’ve had a few Kais in A&E of late.” She hurried after Sanne, who was making a show of setting off without her. “Too avant-garde? How about Kermit? Kelly? Kelly’s nice. You can’t go wrong with the classics.”
By the time she caught up with Sanne, they were both out of breath and laughing. With her cheeks pink from exertion, Sanne no longer looked as if the world were beating down on her.
“We should do this more often,” Meg said.
“What? Sneak out to eat kebabs in the wee hours and then hare around the streets while the city sleeps?”
Meg kissed her forehead. “Yes, exactly that.”
Chapter Six
There was little dignity in post mortems: the body laid out naked on the slab, with every external imperfection on show and all its internal faults waiting to be discovered beneath the glare of the lights. As a rule, Sanne tended to avoid them, the transcribed reports giving her more than enough detail and making her presence at the actual dissection redundant. Nor did she feel the urge to prove that she could reach the end of one without puking or keeling over. At thirteen years old she’d had to wade barefoot through approximately half her dad’s blood volume, and there hadn’t been much left to be squeamish about after that. However, having a spare set of clothes in the boot of her car and no desire to drive home at four in the morning, she’d decided to stay in Sheffield overnight and had volunteered to get a jump on the official report by observing the examination of Andrew Culver’s body. Still shouldering a significant amount of guilt over the Mulligan trial, she was glad to take one for the team, and Nelson had all but climbed down the phone line to kiss her.
“The stomach is almost empty,” the pathologist said, enunciating clearly for the benefit of his Dictaphone. “A small amount of liquid mixed with blood, which is undoubtedly a result of the wound to the oesophagus.”
She watched him pour the meagre contents into a measuring jug before beginning to prise the layers of the stomach apart. The stab wound to Culver’s neck was so savage that it had bisected his trachea and oesophagus, making the cause of death a combination of exsanguination and suffocation. The lack of significant haemorrhage from his other injuries indicated that the neck wound had occurred first and swiftly proven fatal.
“Stomach is intact and healthy, aside from an area of erosion consistent with gastric ulceration.” The pathologist paused the tape to address Sanne. “I’m just about done here, Detective. Toxicology will take three to four days, although I don’t expect it to show much to get excited about. Was there anything else you needed?”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I appreciate you letting me observe.”
She looked from her notepad to the pathologist’s assistant, who covered up the lower half of Culver’s body and started to close the Y incision that split the torso. His part in the proceedings concluded, the pathologist stripped off his blood-slickened gloves and gown, and nodded to Sanne as she left the room.
The tang of viscera and decomposition followed her into the corridor, but it became more tolerable by degrees as she walked past the labs and through an office space where someone had overcompensated with plug-in floral deodorisers. The chemicals instantly made Sanne sneeze. She put a hand to her nose and held her breath until she made it out to the brick-walled bay where the private ambulances parked.
She had assumed the PM would take up most of the morning, but it had finished early, gifting her a small window of opportunity to make good on her promise to Meg. The bay was empty, the only noise coming from a crisp packet dancing around in the wind. She fished out her phone and then found the scrap of paper on which she had scribbled Zoe Turner’s contact information. An approaching vehicle made her hesitate, but it continued past, removing her last excuse to procrastinate. Muttering a curse, she dialled Zoe’s number before she changed her mind.
*
Sanne never fidgeted when she was nervous; she just fell back on her habit of counting things. After ten minutes waiting in a fancy patisserie that she had often drooled over but never actually entered, she knew there were fifteen types of coffee on the menu, eight flavours of syrup, and twelve varieties of cake, and that the couple seated to her right had said “oh golly” three times apiece. The cafe’s owners favoured subtle lighting and shades of blue: pleasant in sunshine, no doubt, but dingy on an overcast winter’s morning that was threatening more snow. The murkiness made Sanne feel illicit, as if she had arranged a clandestine meeting in a location where she and her contact wouldn’t be identified. In reality, Zoe had suggested the place for its excellent pastries, not that that did much to dispel Sanne’s jitters.
She rechecked her watch and then her phone, making sure no one at work had missed her yet or tried to find her at the morgue and discovered the PM had concluded half an hour previously. That scenario made
her fingers twitch, and she misjudged the size of her saucer, hitting its edge with her teacup just as the bell above the door tinkled and Zoe walked in. Spotting Sanne in the gloom, she waved and headed for the counter. Sanne watched her hang up her coat, chatting easily with the man in front of her and then flirting with the barista. By the time Zoe made her way to the table, Sanne had counted most of the stripes on the curtains.
“You have got to try one of these,” Zoe said by way of greeting. She set down a plate with two iced apricot pastries and took the seat opposite Sanne, her thin woollen sweater clinging to her curves and outlining well-toned arms as she stirred sugar into her coffee. She was so tall that she blocked out what little light the window let through, leaving Sanne to guess where her teacup was. A sudden spark of flame made Sanne inch back and blink in confusion, and then curse herself for an idiot when she realised it was just Zoe’s lighter. The wick of the tabletop burner kindled, and the table slowly brightened.
“There, that’s better,” Zoe said, the mellow glow catching her smile. “I got snared up in traffic. Have you been waiting long?”
“No.” Sanne cleared her throat. “No, not long. Do you live near here?”
“Yep, I’m renting up on Ecclesall Road. Convenient for work and great for getting into the city.” She nudged the plate closer to Sanne. “Aren’t you hungry?”
Sanne had forgotten the pastries were even there. She picked one up and took a bite. “Oh, that’s really good,” she mumbled, the buttery sweetness revitalising an appetite that had been quashed by her early morning rendezvous with the pathologist.
“Told you so.” Zoe’s gaze never left hers. “I was glad you called. What can I do to help?”
Kicking herself for letting her professionalism slip, Sanne wiped her fingers clean and passed Zoe a handwritten sheet with Luke Fielding’s details, description, and usual stomping grounds.
“This bloke is back in the area, and I’m trying to find out where he’s staying. I’ve spoken to the parole office, but he’s not one of theirs, he’s not tagged. I was hoping that you and anyone discreet enough on your shift could keep an eye out for him, maybe ask around the usual haunts.”
“Unofficially?”
“Yes, unofficially.” She didn’t want to betray Meg’s confidence by saying much, but it seemed wrong to expect assistance and offer nothing in return. Even so, she chose her words carefully. “He’s my best friend’s brother, and he’s causing trouble for her family. She doesn’t want to make a big song and dance about it, so I said I’d see if I could have a word with him.”
“Gotcha.” Zoe nodded, folding the paper in two before slipping it into her wallet. “I’ll put the word out, Detective.” She gave a crisp salute that left her with icing in her hair.
“Uh, you’ve got a bit of something here.” Sanne rubbed the side of her own head.
Laughing, Zoe swiped at the blob and took her time licking her finger clean. Sanne didn’t know where to look, and she inadvertently solved the quandary by inhaling a flake of pastry that made her cough until her eyes blurred.
Zoe slid a glass of water toward her. “Here. You okay?” she said, sounding more amused than concerned.
“I’m fine.” Sanne had gulped half the water, and her throat was still in spasm as she answered.
“I better get going. I should be on shift, but I blagged an hour off for a dentist’s appointment after you phoned.” Zoe smiled, showing her teeth. “Do they look shiny?”
“Very,” Sanne said. They were shiny, and they were quite possibly bleached.
“Enjoy your pastry.” Zoe winked at her. “I’ll be in touch.”
Pretending to busy herself with the teapot, Sanne surreptitiously watched Zoe collect her coat and blow a kiss at the barista as she left. The teapot lid chimed as it fell back into place.
“You owe me big time, Meg Fielding,” Sanne muttered. She wrapped her pastry—along with the one Zoe hadn’t touched—in a napkin, hoping they might sweeten Nelson’s mood when she confessed about the morning’s moonlighting. After casting a furtive glance around, she sneaked the leftovers into her bag, ignoring the disdainful look a thirty-something businesswoman shot in her direction. The woman barely had room for her oversized cup of coffee on a table where an iPad, iPhone, and laptop were all clamouring for her attention, while her suit probably cost more than Sanne made in a month. Not that Sanne gave a damn. She patted her bag and left with her head held high. She was her mother’s daughter, and if there was one thing Teresa Jensen had instilled in her eldest child, it was the principle of waste not, want not.
*
With the patio doors flung wide open and snow blowing onto the carpet, Meg paced across the small apartment’s living room. Eight steps took her to the kitchen counter. When she turned round, eight more brought her back to the balcony’s threshold. Clasping the metal railing, she looked over the balcony’s edge at a rectangular patch in the courtyard that contained the only visible greenery amid the expanse of concrete paving. Snow melted in her hair as she rocked back on her heels. She wanted to visit her mum and then go home, but Emily was still at the gym, and apparently it was bad form to leave without saying good-bye.
Her foot tapping out a brusque staccato, Meg checked her watch again. Planning a schedule to suit someone else was fast becoming a pain in the arse. There was too much she needed to do before her shift for her to be waiting around, but the last time that she had just written a note and headed out, Emily had spent the evening in a sulk. Holding that thought, Meg dropped onto one of the patio chairs and stared at the grey clouds tumbling across the sky. At what point had she started to rearrange her life like this? She had stayed at the flat the previous night because it was easier than having an argument about it, but Emily wasn’t at home now to stop her leaving.
“Fuck it,” she muttered, but just as she grabbed her bag off the sofa, the front door opened. She stuck her head into the hallway, curtailing Emily’s efforts to keep quiet. “Hey, I’m awake.”
“Hey, you. Good morning.” Emily kissed her, the touch light at first and then more demanding.
Meg closed her eyes as Emily’s hands slipped beneath her sweater and cupped her breasts. “Em, I can’t. I don’t have ti—”
Another kiss silenced her protest, and a rush of adrenaline made her lightheaded. Emily was a very good kisser, all soft lips and sure tongue, and Meg had proven herself useless at offering up any kind of resistance, especially when caught unawares. Splayed against the wall for support, she spread her legs as Emily dropped to her knees. Trailing a line of kisses down Meg’s torso, Emily tugged Meg’s trousers and underwear down.
“Sorry, what were you saying?” Emily asked.
“Nothing,” Meg whispered. She panted when Emily pushed the tip of a finger inside her. “I didn’t say a word.”
Emily smiled and flicked out her tongue, her hand surging upward with force enough to make Meg gasp. “Excellent answer,” she said.
*
“You were late home this morning.” Emily nibbled the skin just above Meg’s belly button and then tilted her head so that Meg could see her face. “Did Donovan make you stay on?”
“No.” Meg sat up and reached for her T-shirt, feeling too naked for the conversation they were about to have. “No, I met Sanne, and we went for something to eat.”
“Oh.” That was all Emily said, but every muscle in her body seemed to have frozen, and she kept hold of the breath she had drawn in.
“She phoned me toward the end of my shift.” Even as Meg spoke, she could feel the pit she’d been digging for herself grow wider and deeper, but she couldn’t bear to go back and try to fill it in. “She’s having some problems at work and wanted to chat.” That at least was true. Sanne might not have said as much, but something had definitely been troubling her.
“Is she all right?”
“Better now, I think.”
“It’s good that you’ve finally seen her,” Emily said, her eyes fixed at a halfway point on
the bed’s headrest. She sounded genuine, but she was still wound tighter than a spring, her limbs rigid. Meg stroked a hand through her hair.
“It was just a kebab and a catch-up, Em.”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind.” Emily began patting the bed to track down her clothes. “I woke up at half three and you weren’t here, so I was worried, that’s all.”
“I would’ve sent a text, but I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Pausing in the middle of pulling on her jeans, Emily leaned over and kissed Meg’s nose. “Next time, disturb me.”
“No problem. Will do,” Meg agreed readily, but being chastised like a child made her want to kick back against the censure. “I’m going to see my mum and then head home for a while.”
Emily wrenched the curtains open, though Meg was still only wearing a T-shirt. “I told Holly we’d meet her for lunch. I’ve rearranged my shift so that I’m doing a twilight as well, and she’s coming all the way from Harrogate.”
Meg nodded slowly. “But I already have plans.”
“Can’t you change them? Please? For me? You could wear that lovely blue shirt.”
“No.” It came out blunter than she had intended, but she knew how adept Emily was at getting her own way. “I’m sorry, Em, but I’ve told Rainscroft that I’m coming in, and I need to go home.”
Disappointment and anger passed across Emily’s face before she managed to neutralise her expression. “You’re staying here tonight, though, aren’t you?”
“I’m not sure.” That all depended on what Meg found at her house. “Probably, but don’t wait at the hospital for me, okay?”
It seemed to have dawned on Emily that she wasn’t going to win this one. She smiled brightly and forced cheer into her voice. “Just remember to text me.”
Meg smiled back, relieved to have stood her ground, and drew a solemn cross over her heart. “If I make a move, you’ll be the first to know about it.”
