Cold to the Touch

by Cari Hunter

  Chapter Seven

  “San? San! Check this out!”

  Waylaid, Sanne stopped in the middle of the office and watched open-mouthed as Fred performed a series of dance-like manoeuvres. Either that, or he was suffering from some kind of waking seizure—in all honesty it was difficult to tell. At the desk opposite, Fred’s partner, George, thumped his head onto his mouse mat and began to emit a strained noise that might have been laughter. Having finished his display with a flourish of finger snapping in lieu of castanets, Fred beamed at Sanne.

  “Am I getting good at this or what?”

  Sidestepping the obvious response, she gave an enthusiastic round of applause that made him blush. “I never knew you could dance,” she said.

  “He can’t, the big lummock,” George muttered around his sleeve.

  Sanne diplomatically ignored him. “What was it?” She hazarded a guess based on the invisible castanets. “Flamenco?”

  “Salsa,” Fred said. He mopped his brow with a polka-dotted handkerchief. “I’ve been going to evening classes.”

  “Really? Good for you. They’re working a treat, mate.” She eyed his waistline. “Have you lost a bit of weight too?”

  “Aye, two pounds, but Martha’s bringing a ginger cake this week, so I’ll probably put it all back on again.”

  “Martha, eh?” Light began to dawn for Sanne, helped along by George crossing his eyes and thudding his head back onto the desk.

  “Five to one,” Fred said with unadulterated glee. “You should try it, San.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s the ratio of women to men. I’ve got as much rhythm as a day-old corpse, but they can’t get enough of me. It’s bloody brilliant.” He twirled Sanne around, tripped over his feet, and sat on his desk as if he’d meant to do that all along.

  “I’ll bet you there’s a few lezzies there,” he said, still out of puff. “There’s this couple with short hair and a right lot of tattoos. I danced with one of ’em once, but she scared the shite out of me.”

  “Those damn butches.” She patted his shoulder sympathetically, somehow keeping a straight face. “They can be pretty mean.”

  “I’ll say!” Fred seemed to be on the verge of elaborating, but his phone rang and interrupted him. “Speaking. Yep. Aw, bollocks. When?”

  Sanne pushed a pad toward him and recognised the address he scribbled down as a street on the outskirts of Malory.

  “We’ve got one,” he said to George when he’d hung up. “Murder most foul.”

  George levered himself from his chair with a grimace and several clicks of his spine. “Anything exciting?”

  “Stabbing. Some poor sod who was minding his own gas-huffing business found the vic on a patch of wasteland.”

  “Lovely.”

  Sanne waved them off, grateful that Carlyle hadn’t tried to ditch this one on her and Nelson as well. “You boys have fun, now.”

  Ignoring George’s obscene gesture, she returned to her desk. “Fred reckons I should take up salsa,” she said to Nelson.

  Nelson raised an eyebrow. “Is that what he was doing over there? I thought he was having a stroke.”

  Sanne’s chuckle turned into a full-blown fit of the giggles.

  “White men of a certain age should not attempt to dance,” Nelson said, his tone so serious it set her off again.

  “Oh fuck.” She wiped her eyes and tried to remember what she had been doing before Fred accosted her. “Okay, Natalie Acre in twenty minutes.” The name sobered her; although Natalie had broken up with Andrew Culver six months previously, she’d sounded devastated when Sanne phoned her. “Are we both interviewing her?”

  Nelson rattled his pen between his teeth, considering. “You take it, if you want. I’ll see if I can chase down Mr. Burrows and type up my notes from the landlord, such as they are.”

  It was meant as a vote of confidence, and Sanne accepted it graciously. “Cheers, mate.”

  “I know the circumstances weren’t ideal, but you should meet up with Meg more often,” Nelson said quietly, as if he’d been unsure whether to broach the topic. “She’s good for you.”

  Sanne couldn’t argue with him. She had been in a buoyant mood all day, able to focus on her work and make progress despite her lack of sleep.

  “It was great to see her,” she said, but then held up a finger in warning. “Don’t you go and bloody tell her that, though. Her head’s big enough as it is.”

  *

  The East Derbyshire force had done well out of the recent government project to update, amalgamate, and centralise police stations. Awarded enough funding for a new four-storey building, it had relocated its HQ and administrative services there and remembered, somewhat as an afterthought, that its Special Ops department also needed a home. Tagged on at the back, the EDSOP offices were nevertheless modern and well equipped, with the added bonus of views over rolling fields.

  Adjacent to the main open-plan office were two interview rooms. Interview One, with its dull grey walls, one-way mirror, institutional furniture, and general air of claustrophobia, was used for suspects, uncooperative witnesses, and anyone else who might fall beneath the umbrella term arsehole. Interview Two had a more homely feel, its comfortable chairs and decor sharing a warm colour scheme, with a window to soften the effect of the overhead lighting. It was designed to ease answers from the bereaved or the victims of crime, and it was into this room that Sanne escorted Natalie Acre.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked. “Tea? Coffee?”

  Natalie shook her head and sat in the chair that Sanne indicated. She crossed her legs but uncrossed them again when her skirt rode up, her movements stilted and self-conscious. A smell of cigarette smoke lingered on her clothing, and she didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands now that she had nothing with which to occupy them. Slim, of average height, with red-rimmed eyes and dirty-blond hair tied back in a ponytail, she looked like an adult version of most of the girls Sanne had gone to school with. She had previous convictions for Class A drugs possession and shoplifting, but nothing in recent years.

  “Thank you for coming in,” Sanne said, once Natalie had settled and the recorder was running. “I appreciate how difficult this must be for you.”

  Natalie blotted tears with a tissue, careful to avoid her mascara. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard. Still can’t.” Her accent was pure Sheffield, and grief thickened it even further.

  “We spoke to Kevin Hopkins, who said that you and Andrew had been engaged for a while.”

  “Yes, almost a year. Andy proposed at the Dog and Duck just before the bingo.” Her smile was a watered-down version of her carefree grin in Culver’s photo. “He never bought me a ring, but I didn’t mind.”

  Sanne jotted a note and stayed silent, waiting to see whether Natalie would clam up without regular prompts.

  “I broke it off about six months back,” she said, appearing keen to fill the gap. “He kept promising he’d get clean—he even went on methadone—but after a couple of weeks, he was selling his prescriptions. We stayed in touch, though. His parents are both dead, and he didn’t really have any friends.”

  “He and Hopkins seemed close,” Sanne said, remembering the tattered fistful of money that Hopkins had given her.

  Natalie’s lips narrowed, and a flush mottled the skin of her throat. “Oh, they were close. Who do you think gave Andy the idea of selling his scripts?”

  “Right.” Sanne paused as Natalie smoothed her skirt again, her palms leaving damp patches on the cloth. Hopkins was obviously a sore subject, but Sanne had to stick with it for now.

  “Hopkins hinted that things might have been improving for Andy, that he had seemed happy shortly before his death. Do you have any idea why that might have been? Did Andy tell you anything similar?”

  “No, nothing,” Natalie said. “But then most of what Kev says is utter crap.” She winced at her choice of phrasing. “Sorry.”

  Sanne waved away the apology. “Whe
n did you and Andy last speak?”

  “Maybe three, four weeks ago? We’d check in every now and again, you know? Text, call. Mostly text.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt him? Was there someone he was afraid of, or in trouble with?”

  Natalie rapped a manicured finger on the arm of her chair, the sound sharp and overly loud in the small room. Her eyes were lowered to the carpet. She opened her mouth to speak and closed it again.

  “Natalie, this interview is confidential,” Sanne said. “You have my word on that.”

  Natalie took a deep breath. “Andy had a fight about five weeks back. He was at the Mission Cross, and Liam set into him. Gave him a right good kicking.”

  The name made Sanne lean in closer. She didn’t believe in coincidences, and this was the second time a “Liam” had been mentioned in connection with Culver.

  “Would that be Liam Burrows?”

  “Yeah, the nasty little prick. He lives with his mam up on Phelot Walk, unless she’s booted him out again.”

  “Thanks, Natalie, that’s great.” Sanne skimmed her notes, a scrawled mess scattered with asterisks and underlined words. “Is there anything else you can think of that might be helpful?”

  Natalie sat back, her face more relaxed now she sensed the interview was coming to an end. “Will there be a press conference? One of those public appeals? I could speak at one if you needed me to. If you thought it would help.”

  “It’s very good of you to offer. We’ll let you know if we arrange one.”

  “Thanks.” Natalie’s smile fell well short of her eyes. If she had seen the negligible newspaper coverage of Culver’s murder, she must have known how unlikely a press conference was. She stood, straightened her skirt, and accepted the card Sanne gave her.

  “If you do think of anything, no matter how small, please get in touch.” Sanne shook her hand. “Thank you for your time. You know you can claim your travelling expenses, don’t you?”

  Natalie nodded. “I hope you catch him. Andy didn’t deserve to die like that.”

  “No, he didn’t.” Sanne hadn’t known him, but no one deserved that kind of fate. She escorted Natalie to the lobby, willing the lift to hurry so she could get back to her desk, start pulling her notes together, and tell Nelson they had their first potential suspect. When the lift finally swished open at the ground floor, Natalie hit the button to hold the doors.

  “Will you keep me updated, Detective? I know I’m not family, but I was the closest thing Andy had.”

  “I’ll call if anything develops. We’ve got your contact details.”

  That seemed to be good enough for Natalie. She dropped her hand and allowed the doors to close. Sanne stabbed her finger on the fourth button, cursing the lift for taking its time and wishing she’d just run up the stairs.

  *

  Meg knew something was wrong the instant she opened her front door. The wind that had bitten at her cheeks on the way from her car was still whistling around her once she’d stepped into the hallway, and a repetitive knocking was coming from the kitchen. Standing with her back to the door, she listened hard, trying to separate the natural creaks of an old house in winter weather from noises that weren’t so natural. She heard nothing, no footsteps, no voices, no obvious movements, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was alone.

  With her pulse pounding like a snare drum, she grabbed one of the hiking poles propped by her shoe rack. Brandishing it pointed end uppermost, she stomped toward the kitchen, thumping her boots on the wooden floor to give the impression that someone far larger was approaching. The draught caught the kitchen door as she pushed it, swinging it back until it banged into the wall, giving her an expansive view of the carnage beyond.

  “You fucking shithead,” she whispered.

  She slammed the pole against the tiles, hard enough to jar her arm and send tingles through the nerves in her wrist. Someone had smashed the window closest to the patio and proceeded to wreck her kitchen. It didn’t take a genius to work out the culprit’s identity. Only her brother would be stupid enough to make himself a sandwich and leave half of it uneaten beside an empty bottle of beer.

  She poked the bread with her finger, testing its staleness. It felt as if it had been sitting there for a few hours, while the bottle, stolen from her fridge, was at room temperature and free of condensation. There were no visible fingerprints on the glass, but a lab would have a field day with the DNA left around the bottle’s rim. Although Luke’s actions displayed a complete disregard for criminal forensics, Meg knew that arrogance also played a part. She had never reported him to the authorities before, so he must suppose himself untouchable by now.

  Turning full circle, she viewed the damage he had wrought: the drawers emptied and discarded on the floor, the crockery shattered on the tiles, her favourite mug in pieces next to the sink. The blind, rocking in the breeze above the smashed window, was the source of the knocking she had heard. She left the mess in situ and went into her living room, where a similar sight greeted her. Upstairs, her bedroom had borne the brunt of Luke’s wanton destruction, little there remaining intact. She had taken her wallet with her, but £50 was missing from her underwear drawer, along with her Kindle and a gold chain bequeathed by her gran. She was surprised Luke hadn’t rolled around in her bed like a dog, to tag his handiwork.

  Perching on the edge of her windowsill, she rubbed her face and tried to wait out the rage. It took some doing, but the shaking in her legs finally stilled, and her heart no longer felt as if it were pummelling through her breastbone. She picked up her house phone, put the batteries back in the handset, and slid the cover into place. It peeped a cheerful melody to celebrate its resurrection, setting her teeth on edge. Waiting impatiently for its icons to appear, she mulled over what she was about to do and realised that she had no intention of talking herself out of it. That she’d never reported Luke’s past abuse had nothing to do with misplaced family loyalty and everything to do with a child’s instinct for self-preservation. She shrugged, her fingers already dialling. She wasn’t a child anymore, but her mum might as well be, and Luke had threatened them both.

  The call was answered quickly, the new non-emergency police number still being underused by a general public accustomed to dialling 999.

  “Hello. Police. How can I help?”

  “Hello,” Meg said with estimable calm. “I’d like to report a burglary.”

  *

  Nineteen Phelot Walk was accessed via a garden overgrown with knee-high grass and dandelions, among which rusted beer cans lay like flotsam. Mud oozed beneath Sanne’s boots as she avoided a bulging bin bag and slid along the edge of a puddle. Nelson grabbed her arm to steady her, and she threw him a grateful smile.

  “Hope we don’t get invited in for tea and cakes,” he muttered.

  Sanne hesitated, about to knock on the front door. “I hope we don’t get invited in at all,” she said before thumping on the reinforced glass in a no-nonsense manner.

  When no answer came, Nelson followed up by bellowing, “Police!” through the letterbox. Seconds later, a shuffle of movement in the hallway and a yell of, “Hold your fucking horses!” announced the imminent arrival of a middle-aged woman. The door cracked open just enough for her to glare at her unexpected guests.

  “What now?” she snapped.

  “Are you Mrs. Glenda Burrows?” Sanne asked, holding out her ID. She couldn’t see enough of the woman to match her with the mugshot from the PNC. Fifty-six-year-old Glenda’s impressive criminal career had included long jail terms for dealing and a particularly devious scam that preyed on the elderly.

  The door opened a little farther, allowing the smell of the woman’s unwashed body sweating out days’ worth of alcohol to hit Sanne full in the face, an odour so replete with sense memories that it made her reel. For the second time in as many minutes, she felt Nelson’s hand supporting her, and she managed not to let her revulsion show.

  “Are you Glenda Burrows?”
She pushed the door with her foot, prompting the woman to wrench it open.

  “Yeah.” Glenda folded her arms across her grubby dressing gown. “What of it?”

  Nelson stepped forward, and Glenda eyed him with open disdain. “We’re looking for Liam, Mrs. Burrows,” he said. “We were told he’s been staying with you.”

  “Well, you were told wrong.” She spoke in Sanne’s direction, apparently viewing her as the lesser of two evils. “I turfed him out more than a month since. That toerag would nick anything that weren’t nailed down. You can come in and check if you want.”

  The distinct emphasis placed Sanne firmly in the firing line, and she heard Nelson’s muffled snort. As they didn’t have a warrant, the invitation was too good an opportunity to pass up, though, so she followed Glenda into the living room, where Glenda popped the top off a can of super-strength lager and slumped into the nearest armchair.

  “Cheers,” she said, raising the can and taking a long drink. “Don’t mind if I sit this one out, do ya?”

  “Not at all.” Sanne took Glenda’s belch as her cue to move into the kitchen. Accustomed by now to the foul atmosphere, she cast a swift glance at a week’s worth of pots stacked in the sink, and opened the three cupboards that still had doors attached. Aside from a loaf of bread and a tin of mushy peas, the larder was empty.

  She stuck her head through into the living room. “Where’s your back door key?”

  “How the fuck should I know?” Well into her second can, Glenda was beginning to slur her speech. “There’s only rats and shite out there.”

  “Lovely.” Sanne buzzed Nelson on her radio. “Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to go round the back and have a toot in the yard.”

  “Great,” he said. “No, really. There’s nothing I’d rather do.”

  Sanne grinned. “Glenda says to watch out for rats and shite.”

  “I will be sure to do that. How are you getting on in there?”

  She started up the stairs as she answered. “Well, I’ll be wiping my feet on the way out, and there’s no sign of the elusive Master Burrows. I’m just about to check under the beds. Wish me luck.”