by Cari Hunter
“Bugger.” Her gloves left smudges in a thin layer of dust as she righted the dog. Satisfied that he wasn’t going anywhere, she dropped to her knees and began to sort through the paperwork crammed onto the cabinet’s shelf.
Twenty minutes of skim-reading and categorising told her a lot about Steven Rudd’s life. A pile of repeat prescriptions and hospital discharge notes spoke of recent ill health, with well-documented treatment for high blood pressure and depression. The overflowing ashtray and empty whiskey bottle by the arm of the sofa implied that his doctors’ advice to stop smoking and drinking had fallen on deaf ears. His bill payments were sporadic and often late, leading to frequent disconnection of his utilities, while missed appointments at the job centre had seen his benefits cut by sanctions.
Spotting patterns was something Sanne thrived on. She set aside three notifications of reductions to his Jobseeker’s Allowance, along with a handwritten response pleading for the decision to be overturned, in which he cited eighteen months of obediently jumping through every hoop the job centre had set for him. The letter, dated two days before Andrew Culver’s murder, had been signed but obviously not posted. Meanwhile, a shopping receipt from the Friday after Marcus Jones’s death mainly comprised alcohol and cigarettes.
Ignoring another call to her mobile, Sanne delved into the first drawer, finding a stash of thiamine and vitamin B—mainstay treatments for alcoholism which she recognised from her dad’s prescriptions—plus several old boxes of painkillers, and leaflets from local takeaways. Her stomach growled at the gaudy images of kebabs and curries. It was past teatime, and a packet of crisps had made for a meagre lunch.
“San! Come and take a look at this!”
At Nelson’s yell, she abandoned the leaflet atop her miscellaneous junk pile and ran back out into the hallway. “Which room?” she called.
“Bedroom. Last on the left.”
He met her in the doorway, holding up a pair of jeans liberally decorated with dark-red splotches.
“Oh, hey, did you hit the jackpot, mate?” She touched a gloved finger to the cloth, feeling the rigidity of the stains. A familiar metallic-sweet smell confirmed that it was blood.
“He’d shoved them behind the immersion heater in the airing cupboard,” he said. “There’s something else there, but it’s stuck.”
“There might be a pair for each murder. Half his wardrobe could be stuffed in there by now.”
“True. I’ll give the boss and SOCO a shout. How’ve you been getting on?”
“Okay. No smoking gun so far, but anecdotal evidence of someone slowly letting things slip.” She picked up a framed photograph from the dresser, its glass bearing a large crack across it, distorting the image of a proud-looking man holding a newborn baby. “Is this him?”
“Yep.” Nelson pointed toward a paper envelope, the type used to mail out photographs before everyone had switched to digital. “Two kids and a wife in those, but there’s no sign of them ever staying here. Mind you, Rudd doesn’t seem native to these parts either.”
“He certainly doesn’t.” Sanne paused at a picture taken in the back garden of a detached house, in which Rudd—handsome and tanned in a smart suit—toasted the camera with a glass of wine. She looked around his bedroom, at the curtains that failed to meet in the middle, the dirty sheets strewn on the threadbare mattress, and the two soggy condoms tossed onto the carpet.
“A couple of drinks at lunch, a couple more when he gets in, stressful job. Maybe he overstretches himself on an expensive house and car.” She gave the envelope back to Nelson, who took up the story.
“He loses his job to the booze and can’t meet his mortgage payments. His wife gets sick of him or trades him in for someone who can pay the bills. She jumps ship with the kids, and he gets re-homed in North Bank.”
“Where he snaps?” Sanne said, not confident enough to phrase it as a statement. “He’s taking antidepressants, but I’ve not found anything to suggest he’s prone to violent psychotic episodes.”
Nelson rustled the evidence bag into which he’d placed the pair of jeans. “I think I might have.”
“Yeah,” she said. The bloodstained clothing certainly lent the scenario credence. “Who’d have thought the Sheffield Slasher was once a respectable middle-class dad?”
Nelson rummaged in his suit for his radio. “It takes all sorts. Although these days, those sorts are more likely to take their kids for a drive off a cliff, just to punish the ex.”
Sanne shuddered. They hadn’t yet found any contact information for Rudd’s family, and the urge to check on their well-being was an ache she had no immediate way to soothe.
“It’ll be the first thing the boss does,” Nelson said, following her train of thought. “At least we know who we’re looking for now. That’s a heck of a lot more than we started out with this morning.”
“I better get back to it,” Sanne said, somewhat reassured. “Before SOCO get here and chase us off with a big stick.”
“I thought I’d leave the airing cupboard to them. It was full of spiderwebs.”
“Probably wise. Take the kitchen instead. Knowing your luck, you’ll find the murder weapon stashed in the bread bin.”
“Or in the corn flakes.” He grinned, willing her to get the joke. “Y’know, because he’s a serial, cereal…”
She groaned as she walked away. “Oh God, that’s terrible. Promise me one thing, Nelson,” she called over her shoulder.
She could hear him laughing even as he answered.
“What?”
“Never give up your day job.”
*
“Courtesy of Mrs. Gaskell at number eleven.” Eleanor proffered the tray until everyone had taken a mug. “She took a shine to Sergeant Carlyle.”
Sanne turned her mug to avoid its chipped rim and took a grateful sip. As predicted, SOCO had requested space to work, leaving her and Nelson no option but to meet Eleanor back on the walkway, where icy rain was now blasting over the railing and soaking their feet.
“Let’s keep it short and sweet,” Eleanor said. “We can discuss the finer points at HQ when my face has thawed.”
Nelson took the initiative. “SOCO have just fished out a coat to go with the jeans, both covered in what appears to be blood. They couldn’t see anything else in the cupboard, and the rest of the bedroom and kitchen were clear. The only other significant find was two used condoms.” He swallowed a mouthful of coffee to hide his grimace. “They, uh, appear to have seen recent action, but we’ve not found anything to indicate who Rudd’s been sleeping with or whether he’s currently in a relationship.”
“Neighbours haven’t noticed anyone,” Eleanor said. “But it could’ve been a late-night hookup, or a prostitute. Mrs. Gaskell goes to bed at nine fifty on the dot, before the ten o’clock news can give her nightmares.”
“Have Rudd’s family been contacted?” Sanne asked. A small writing pad found tucked between the sofa cushions had listed their address and phone number.
“Yes, they’re safe and well in”—Eleanor checked her notes—“Horsforth, Leeds. George and Fred are on their way to interview the ex-wife, but she claims not to have spoken to Rudd for more than six months. Apparently, his e-mails and phone calls just stopped, and he missed the birthday of their youngest son. She described him as ‘charming but temperamental.’ He lost his job after an investigation into financial irregularities, started hitting the bottle, and became less charming, more temperamental.”
“It’d be interesting to put together a timeline and see if there are any other triggers for what’s happened.” Sanne toed the bag of paperwork she had set by the front door. “I’ve only been able to go through about half of that so far.”
“Right, good. Add it to your to-do list.” Eleanor retrieved the tray and gave it to Carlyle. “Let’s head to HQ for a quick summary briefing and find out what everyone else has been doing while we’ve been freezing our arses off here.”
Interpreting that as a dismissal, Sanne led the
way to the car, her numb feet making her tread heavy. She clasped her hands across her rumbling belly.
Nelson laughed. “Whoa, San, are you okay?”
“No, I’m bloody starving. Do you fancy grabbing a curry or something? My treat.”
“Can I have bhajis with mine?”
She tapped her pocket, jingling the loose change in it. “Yes, I’m sure the budget will stretch to bhajis.”
He gave a contented sigh. “San, if I wasn’t married and you weren’t gay, we’d be perfect for each other.”
The thought of food seemed to spur him on. He outpaced her and clicked the fob to unlock the car the instant it came into view. He’d started the engine and was flashing the headlights at her when her phone rang again.
“Crap,” she muttered. As she hadn’t recognised the number on her missed call log, she hadn’t bothered listening to her voicemail, reassured that it wasn’t Meg trying to contact her. That same mobile number was calling now. She jabbed a finger to accept it, expecting to be hijacked by a nuisance sales pitch. “Hello?”
“Sanne? It’s Emily Woodall.”
The name failed to register at first, its significance buried beneath the snap of irritation and the clink of cutlery in the background. Emily didn’t wait for a response, though, and her next question scared Sanne so much that she almost dropped the phone.
“Is Meg with you?” Emily phrased it as an accusation, the verbal equivalent of someone stomping their feet.
Sanne didn’t give a shit about the insinuation. She was too busy trying to remember what time Emily had first called. It must have been hours ago, just as Sanne had gone into Steven Rudd’s flat.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispered. Then, louder and rapid-fire, “Meg’s not with me. I’m at work. When did you last see her? Is she not answering her phone?” She forced herself to pause, to give Emily a chance to reply.
“No. She sent me a text this morning to say that she was going home to pick up a shirt—we were supposed to be having supper with my family—but she didn’t meet me after I’d finished my shift, and she’s been ignoring my calls, so I drove to Harrogate on my own.”
“Had you argued?” It wasn’t really Sanne’s place to ask, but she was trying to be logical, to think like a detective and not like a terrified best friend.
“No, but I suppose I should’ve expected this. It’s typical of her. She wasn’t keen to come here, and if she doesn’t want to do something, she doesn’t do it. No one in A&E has seen her, and she told me that the two of you had been in touch recently.” She left the implication hanging, as if to provoke a denial.
Sanne was already running for the car. “Will you phone me if you hear from her?” She yanked the car door open, barely acknowledging Emily’s answer before she hung up.
“What’s wrong?” Nelson asked, as she dialled Meg’s home number.
“I’m not sure.” She counted the rings until the answer phone clicked on. “Meg, give me a call when you get this. It doesn’t matter if you wake me up.” Her voice began to shake, as some subconscious part of her accepted that Meg wasn’t going to phone. “Shit. I’m coming over, Meg, okay?”
She set her mobile on her knee where she could keep an eye on its screen, and met Nelson’s concerned gaze. “Emily doesn’t know where Meg is. She hasn’t answered her phone since this morning.”
“Have they had a fight?”
Sanne shook her head. “No. Meg said she was heading home for something, and Emily just left her to it because she doesn’t have a fucking clue what’s been going on with Luke. God, I need to—can you get me back to my car?”
He pulled onto the main road, accelerating beyond the speed limit. “You’ll miss the briefing,” he reminded her gently.
“I know. I’ll speak to the boss in the morning.” Her career was way down the list of her current priorities. She glanced at the dash, willing him to go faster.
“Do you want to send a patrol round?”
“No.” She had considered but discounted that option. “There’s every chance it could be a false alarm. Emily sounded pissed off, so she might not have told me everything.” She began to feel calmer as she rationalised aloud, almost able to convince herself that it would turn out to be a lovers’ tiff. “I’ve got a key for Meg’s house. She wouldn’t appreciate a giddy officer kicking her door in.”
He slammed the brakes on for a red light, too far away to jump it as he had the last two. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, but thanks. Just try to cover for me at the briefing, if you can. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” She managed a weak smile and beat down the doubts threatening to overwhelm her. “I’ll find her and bollock her, and everything’ll be fine.”
Chapter Sixteen
The Snake Pass was light on traffic and clear of snow, but Sanne cursed every pitch-black bend and steep climb that devoured all of her hard-fought speed and reduced her Land Rover to a crawl. Even though it was cold in the car, sweat was trickling down her back, and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath.
Far from easing, her panic intensified once she hit the final descent and passed the Rowlee two-mile marker. Meg’s house was no more than five minutes away, and on an ordinary visit Sanne would have given her three rings at that point to tell her to put the kettle on. Instead she was sobbing as she turned onto the road, her legs shaking so hard that she ground a gear and almost stalled the car. Most of the houses in the terrace had lights glowing behind closed curtains, their residents settled in for the night, but Meg’s house was in complete darkness, the curtains open and the driveway empty. Sanne pulled into the space where Meg’s car should’ve been, terror boiling up in her again. If Meg wasn’t here, where the hell was she?
As Sanne got out of the car, the nip of frost and the smoke from a neighbour’s chimney irritated her throat. She coughed, the sound loud and grating in the otherwise peaceful street, but none of the curtains so much as twitched. With no idea what she was about to walk into, she threw open the back of the Land Rover and ransacked its puncture repair kit, bypassing the jack and a lightweight spanner for a far heftier wrench. With the cold burn of the metal against her palm and the CS gas readied on her harness, she unlocked Meg’s front door.
“Meg?” she called from the welcome mat, her hand slapping at the wall until she hit the light switch. The low-energy bulb came on slowly, giving her eyes time to adjust. The first thing she noticed was Meg’s coat slung over the banister, and then the boots that Meg always wore when it snowed.
“Fuck.” Leaving the door wide open, she took a wary step into the hall. “Meg?”
She raised the wrench, her body rigid with tension as she listened for the slightest hint of movement, but it wasn’t movement that she heard. It was Meg’s voice, thin and breathy.
“San?”
Sanne sprinted toward the kitchen, but then stopped and pushed the door carefully, uncertain of Meg’s exact whereabouts. The light from the hallway was enough for her to distinguish a motionless form in the middle of the floor.
“Christ,” she hissed.
Congealed blood and streaks of vomit covered the tiles close to where Meg lay surrounded by shards of glass. The arm Meg was using to shield her eyes trembled as she shivered. There was a draught coming from somewhere, and the room was frigid. Leaving the wrench on the kitchen table, Sanne tiptoed around the debris and dropped to her knees beside Meg. When she lowered Meg’s hand, the damage she revealed made her feel sick.
“Hey.” She touched Meg’s face, avoiding the laceration that had left a wide split in her cheek. Meg’s skin was slick with cold sweat, and she was breathing in quick, shallow gasps. Sanne jumped at a sudden crack of glass, but it came from the base of a broken pasta jar that Meg had just loosened her grip on.
“Open your eyes for me, love. Come on. I’ve left the light off.”
The chivvying worked. Although Meg moaned, she complied, squinting painfully at Sanne. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I tried. Couldn’t get up.�
��
Sanne used her sleeve to dry Meg’s tears and then shrugged out of her coat. “Here. Let’s get you a bit warmer.” She tucked the coat around Meg, her common sense overriding the part of her that just wanted to curl up by Meg’s side. “Where else are you hurt?”
Meg licked her chapped lips, her voice hoarse. “My back, ribs, I think. I hit the sink.”
“Luke?”
She nodded. “He was waiting when I got home. He took my car.”
“Have you been like this all day?” The thought horrified Sanne, as did remembering every stupid thing she had done since that morning—the snowball fights, chatting to the kid with the toffees, joking with Nelson—while Meg had been lying here bleeding and scared half to death.
“Mm.” Meg barely shaped the sound, but the hint of a smile tugged at her lips. “You took your bloody time getting here.”
Sanne gave a slightly crazed laugh. “I really didn’t. I broke a lot of speed limits.” She squeezed Meg’s hand. “Painkillers still in your bathroom cabinet?”
“Yeah. Bring me a bucket load.”
“I won’t be a minute.” She scrambled to her feet. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Ha. Ha.” Meg flipped Sanne a lethargic but recognisable bird.
Having shut the front door on her way to the stairs, Sanne doubled back to fasten its security chain. In the bathroom, she filled her pockets with tablet boxes as she phoned the police control room, gave her collar number, and requested backup.
“Twenty-five minutes,” the dispatcher promised her. “The ambulance should be there sooner.”
Steeling herself for a battle with Meg about the latter, she thanked the dispatcher and then stopped on the stairs to send Emily a brief text: Found Meg, she’s okay. Will call when I can. Cryptic wasn’t exactly Sanne’s style, but as she didn’t know what else to say, sticking to the basics seemed the safest option.
“You still awake?” she asked Meg as she entered the kitchen.
