Cold to the Touch

by Cari Hunter

  “About ninety, ninety-five quid,” Sanne answered absently, and then blushed.

  Meg laughed, a proper belly laugh that made her feel brighter despite the throbbing in her face. “Sanne Jensen, you’ve been Googling!”

  “No! I just—” Sanne rubbed her cheeks as if trying to account for the heat there. “Okay, yes, I Googled. It’s ninety bloody quid, though, and times are hard. You can get a lot for that these days.”

  “Twenty chippy teas,” Meg said after a quick calculation on her fingers.

  Sanne deliberated. “Slap-up meal for four at the Red Lion, now it’s gone all gastro-pub.”

  “Loads of chocolate, and I mean really nice chocolate.” Meg grinned. “You notice how food is always at the forefront?”

  “Decent running shoes,” Sanne said. “Books, books, and a few more books.”

  “Emily likes designer perfume and clothes.” Meg tried to sound nonchalant, but the truth was that Emily had money to burn even on a junior doctor’s salary—her parents saw to that—and she’d think nothing of spending twice the amount they were discussing on treating herself.

  “I think you’re worth ninety-five quid,” Sanne said quietly. “Y’know, if it was me needing to get here, I’d pay it.” She straightened Meg’s blanket and then sat down and rearranged her own. She didn’t speak for a few minutes, and Meg was wondering whether she’d fallen asleep, when her voice drifted up again. “Hell, Meg, I’d even tip the driver.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sanne was accustomed to functioning on minimal sleep, but things still felt off-kilter when she walked into HQ at 6:00 a.m., her hair wet from the hospital shower, her clothes a mixture of her own spares and those pilfered from Meg. Although she returned the smile of the officer on the front desk, she didn’t hear what he said to her, and the ping of the arriving lift startled her so badly that she took a step back and then pressed the button for the wrong floor.

  “Bollocks,” she muttered.

  Grateful to have the lift to herself, she glanced at its mirrored wall and flattened a wayward tuft of hair, wincing at the darkened skin beneath her eyes. Her less than auspicious start to the morning got even worse when the doors opened and she stumbled out in front of Eleanor.

  “Sanne. Just the person I wanted to see.”

  And that was that. No time to prepare, no chance for a nerve-settling confab with Nelson. She could do nothing but follow Eleanor into her office and shut the door at her request.

  “You look like death warmed over.” Unusually for Eleanor, she stayed in front of her desk. Leaning her backside against it and folding her arms, she eyeballed Sanne. “You missed the briefing last night.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry. I—” Sanne took a breath, poised to launch into an explanation, but Eleanor cut in.

  “How is Dr. Fielding?”

  Sanne’s mouth dropped open, her brain too scrambled to work out how Eleanor might have learned what had happened. The grapevine was fast, but it wasn’t that fast, and she was sure Nelson wouldn’t have said anything.

  “You were the reporting officer,” Eleanor reminded her. “As such, the file, while strictly within the remit of Domestic Violence, was also sent to me. I’ve just read your statement.”

  “Oh, of course.” Sanne felt like banging her head on the wall, if only to knock some sense in. “Sorry, boss. Meg’s all right. Well, she’s sore and grumpy and probably not telling me the half of it, but the doc said she was lucky, relatively speaking.”

  “Yes, I saw the photographs. Is she being interviewed today?”

  Sanne nodded. “When Detective Fraser came to see her last night, he decided that she wasn’t coherent enough to make a statement. She identified Luke—her brother—as her assailant, though, so DV have somewhere to start.”

  Eleanor leaned across to retrieve a Post-it from her desk. “I’ve spoken to Fraser this morning,” she said. “Fortunately, he’s also an early riser, and he’s going to keep me in the loop. He thinks Dr. Fielding’s car might be their best bet, and he plans to contact all the local dealers and auction houses first thing.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Tired and vulnerable enough for Eleanor’s concern to make her feel weepy, Sanne tried for a stoical approach, which didn’t fool Eleanor in the slightest.

  “Are you fit to work today, Sanne?”

  “I’ll be fine. I slept at the hospital.”

  “Excellent.” Eleanor nodded at the clock on the wall. “You’ve got twenty minutes or so. I would suggest a strong brew and some breakfast.”

  “That does sound good.”

  Sanne had turned to leave, her hand on the door, when Eleanor spoke again.

  “Detective Fraser was impressed, given the circumstances. He said the scene was well-preserved and your photographs were comprehensive. That can’t have been easy.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” A tremor ran through Sanne’s fingers, and she lowered her arm out of sight. “Everything was such a mess.”

  “I can imagine,” Eleanor said quietly. She went to sit behind her desk. “I’ll see you at half past. Go and get that brew.”

  *

  Meg could hear herself gulping for air even as she began to wake from her nightmare. The unguarded movement sent pain lancing through her back, and a monitor’s alarm drowned out the strange clack-clack sound that had infiltrated her dreams.

  “Shh, Meg. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”

  Meg struggled to place the voice, but the soothing touch that went with it, one finger circling her palm over and over, was oddly familiar. She silenced the monitor with a couple of expansive breaths and opened her eyes.

  “I thought it was you.” Her smile was broad enough to tug on her sutures. “What on earth are you doing here?”

  Teresa Jensen set her knitting aside and stood to kiss Meg’s forehead. Beyond the curtains, the lights were still dimmed, but the ward was beginning to stir. “Sanne had to go to work early, and she didn’t want you to be on your own. She asked if I’d take second watch until your Emily gets here.”

  “She didn’t need to do that.” Meg caught Teresa’s hand and held it tightly. “Thank you for giving in to her madness, though.”

  Teresa chuckled, deepening the wrinkles on her face. “I jumped at the chance. It’s been months since I’ve clapped eyes on you, Megan Fielding.” She poured Meg a fresh glass of water. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not too bad.” Meg touched her cheek self-consciously. “How does it look?”

  “Honestly?” Teresa shook her head. “It looks terrible, love. I’d tan your brother’s hide if I got my hands on him. He always was a bloody thug, that one.”

  “I know,” Meg said. Teresa had put witch hazel on enough of Meg’s bruises to speak from experience.

  “Not that our John was a prince or anything,” Teresa continued. “He wouldn’t think twice about belting us. But he can barely lift his pint pot now, and there was always something just plain nasty about Luke.”

  “I don’t think he’ll be getting a Christmas card.” Meg tried for levity, but she was tired and hurting everywhere, and she couldn’t remember when her own mum had last been able to comfort her. When Teresa sat on the bed and held out her arms, Meg tucked herself into them.

  “You and Sanne, always such little soldiers,” Teresa murmured into Meg’s hair. “She scared the life out of me last year, and here you are doing the same all over again. I have enough grey hairs already.” She guided Meg back to the pillow and mopped up a stray tear with a tissue. “There. Better now?”

  Meg nodded, and Teresa, seeming to know exactly the right thing to do, retook her seat and her knitting. Meg watched her fingers begin to work, the needles knocking together to produce the clacking sound that Meg had heard in her sleep. It brought back memories of wet Sunday afternoons at Sanne’s house, crowded around the gas fire while her dad was at the pub: Teresa in one chair, a pile of wool gradually being transformed into a sweater or a cardigan for whichever of her childre
n needed it the most, and the scent of a roast dinner making everyone’s mouth water.

  “It’s for Keeley’s newest,” Teresa said, raising the knitting so that Meg could see the bonnet taking shape. “She’s sure it’s a girl, but I went for yellow just in case. Boy or girl, it’ll be a winter babe, so it’ll need a few hats.”

  “Sanne told me Keeley was pregnant. Not long to go, is there?”

  “About six weeks. She’s usually early, though. She’s had so many now that a good sharp sneeze might be enough to birth this one.”

  The idea set Meg off laughing, and she ended up curling on her side to ease the pressure on her back.

  “I don’t know where I went wrong with her. She’s not got a lick of sense,” Teresa said. Her hands moved quickly as she spoke, the ball of wool disappearing before Meg’s eyes with hypnotic inevitability. “Kiera’s a bright little thing, though. I’m hoping she takes after her aunt, not her mum. Sanne’s the only one of my three who ever had any gumption.”

  “Sanne has gumption in spades,” Meg said. The fondness in her voice brought the needles to a standstill, and Teresa lowered the bonnet into her lap.

  “I’m glad you two are back in touch. Sanne wouldn’t say anything to me, but I could see she missed you.”

  “I missed her too.” The admission cost Meg nothing. It was the simple truth, and it felt good to speak it aloud.

  “Yes. Well.” Teresa busied herself with her knitting again, clearly reluctant to interfere. She moved onto a safer subject instead. “How’s your mum? It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to visit her.”

  “She’s much the same. She seems to like the home, and they’re really—”

  The curtain pulled back without warning, and Emily stepped into the gap, her arms full of flowers. Meg saw horror flicker across her face as she saw the extent of the injuries, but then she noticed Teresa, and confusion made her hesitate on the threshold.

  Meg beckoned her forward. “Em, this is Sanne’s mum, Teresa.”

  “Oh, hello.” Juggling the bouquet awkwardly, Emily shook Teresa’s hand.

  “Lovely to meet you. Those are beautiful flowers,” Teresa said, already starting to collect her belongings. She stooped to kiss Meg’s cheek. “Don’t be a stranger, you promise me?”

  “I promise.” Meg held onto Teresa’s hand, running her thumb over the calloused skin, unwilling to let her leave. “Wait. How are you getting home?”

  “Taxi,” Teresa said, a shake of her head cutting off Meg’s anticipated offer. “Sanne gave me plenty of money. She said it was ‘cheap at half the price.’ I’ve no idea what she meant by that, but she seemed to think you might.”

  Meg smiled, paying no heed to Emily’s miffed expression. “I know exactly what she meant. Thank you for being my second watch.”

  “Any time, love.” Teresa gently extricated her hand and picked up her bag. “I’ll see you soon.” She wagged a stern finger at Meg.

  “Aye, see you soon.”

  Emily took her time setting down the flowers, waiting until she was sure Teresa had gone before she crossed the tiny bay to give Meg a kiss. She cupped Meg’s chin in both hands.

  “I’m so sorry. I got here as soon as I could.” Her hands were cold against Meg’s swollen face, and her gaze fell away as she spoke. “God, you poor thing. What on earth happened? Sanne didn’t tell me much.”

  Too weak to provoke an argument, Meg adopted Emily’s tactic of evasion. “A man attacked me and stole my car. The police are looking for him.”

  “Do they know who he is?”

  “Yes. They’re coming back for a statement this afternoon. San gave them your address, if that’s okay?”

  That perked Emily right up. She smiled broadly, her voice slightly too loud as she answered. “Of course that’s okay. You’re not going anywhere near your house until the police have arrested this idiot. I spoke to the nurse on the way in. She thinks you’ll be discharged after the morning rounds and will just need someone to stay with you for a day or two.”

  Meg nodded, although the thought of going back to Emily’s flat was a miserable one. She didn’t want to be mollycoddled by a girlfriend with a guilty conscience, who would eventually realise—if she hadn’t already—that Meg knew far more than she was saying.

  Emily moved to the closest chair, the one not swaddled in blankets, and eyed the plates and cups on the overbed table. “Was Sanne here all night?”

  “Yes. Her mum swapped in when she left.” Meg massaged her temple. The constant sense of walking on eggshells was turning her headache into a migraine. Waves of homesickness assailed her, a longing not for her own home but for Sanne and Teresa and everything familiar that came with them. She felt like she had when she was eight years old, sore from an appendectomy and utterly bewildered by her first stay in hospital.

  “You can go back to sleep if you want to,” Emily said, her fingers brushing through Meg’s hair. “We can talk about everything properly when we get home.”

  The latter prospect wasn’t at all restful, but Meg took advantage of Emily’s suggestion anyway and closed her eyes.

  *

  Sanne slotted the receipt for Steven Rudd’s weekly shop into a date-ordered pile of similar receipts, all from the same local supermarket and none totalling more than fifteen pounds. He bought his alcohol from the precinct, a walk rather than a bus ride away, and most weeks he spent far more on that than on food. She had been fishing through the minutiae of his life all morning: his overdue bills, his shopping lists scrawled in a shaky hand, the hard-core pornography secreted away between the pages of a television guide, his appointments at Drug Alcohol Services, and the unsent letters to his children. With half a bag still to go through, she was rapidly running out of space on her desk.

  “Right, you. Time to take a break.” Nelson dropped a grease-proofed parcel in front of her.

  “Crikey, I didn’t know it was that late.” Determined not to lose her focus after the briefing, she had thrown herself into her task, and although she’d kept an eye on her mobile, she had only sent one text. Meg’s reply had confirmed her release from the hospital and that she was on her way to Emily’s, and she had signed off with: Thank you for your mum.

  “It’s only half eleven, but I factored in our early start.” Nelson gestured at her desk. “Find anything exciting?”

  Sanne shook her head, her mouth stuffed with prawn mayo and salad. She made a noise that he correctly translated as “How about you?”

  “I spent an hour at the Mission, where the staff couldn’t remember Rudd having any particular friends or even acquaintances,” he said. “He went in for a meal every now and again, perhaps more so in the past couple of months when his debts started to mount. I did find a member of the kitchen staff who seemed to have a slight crush on him, though. She told me that, like most of Malory’s hardened drinkers, his local’s the Dog and Duck, but the landlord there hasn’t seen him for about six weeks.”

  Sanne swallowed, wiping a smear of mayo off her chin. “That’d fit with his home alcohol consumption. Judging by his receipts, it’s increased quite a bit since mid-December.”

  “He might be buying for two, if he’s hooked up with someone. Like tends to call to like.”

  “Not always.”

  His dark skin flushed darker. “No, sorry. Not always.” He chewed the last of his sandwich and licked his fingers. “Have you heard from Meg?”

  “Aye, she’s out of hospital and Emily’s taking her home, but that was a few hours ago.”

  “And how many times have you checked the FWIN?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sanne didn’t even try to sound convincing. “Okay, twice,” she admitted. “No word from any of the car dealerships. No updates or developments.”

  “They’ll find him. He doesn’t stand a chance after what he’s done.”

  It was probably true, but nothing was happening quickly enough for Sanne. She screwed up her sandwich wrapper. “I bett
er get back to the grind. Are you in or out this afternoon?”

  “In. It’s bloody cold out there. I think I’m reviewing the CCTV from Rudd’s precinct. Actually, I should check that with the Ginger Whinger.”

  Sanne laughed. “That’s hair-ist.”

  “I’m not hair-ist! I’ll have you know that some of my very best friends are redheads.”

  “Just not the sarge.”

  “Exactly.”

  He walked off like a man on his way to execution, his shoulders low and his tread heavy, leaving her to delve back into her last bag of Rudd’s amassed paperwork. Whatever else Rudd might be, he wasn’t a keen recycler.

  “Here, San. You look like you need this more than I do.”

  She glanced up from a handful of Mission Cross advice leaflets to find Fred proffering a slice of cake. Word about Meg had obviously got around, because George and Scotty had been plying her with brews all morning.

  “Martha made it, so it’s guaranteed to be delicious,” he said.

  She shook her head, touched by his generosity. When he was between wives, cake was the love of Fred’s life. “Oh, Fred, I couldn’t do that to you. I’ve just had my lunch, and I’m fine, really.”

  He pulled a chair over and sat down. “How about we share?”

  She accepted half the slice, munching it as Fred rummaged among the leaflets she had been sorting.

  “Self-help sort of bloke, is he?” He held up a leaflet on smoking cessation, peering at it closely in lieu of putting his glasses on.

  “Huh,” Sanne murmured. “Fred, can I see that one?” The leaflet had black type on a red background, difficult to read, but a name and number written on the back had caught her attention. “Bloody hellfire.” She double-clicked the case file on her desktop and scrolled through until she found the main contacts list. Fred leaned over to see what she was doing, scattering crumbs as he moved.

  “Bingo,” she said, tapping a fingernail on the name at the top of the list.