Cold to the Touch

by Cari Hunter

  “Sanne!”

  She kept walking, but Zoe overtook her and blocked her path.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Zoe used her height to full advantage, forcing Sanne onto her back foot. “Why are you being so fucking uptight?”

  Sanne raised her head to meet Zoe’s furious gaze. “Maybe because I spent last night in the hospital with Meg.” She was too disheartened to be angry, and her measured tone was in direct contrast to Zoe’s indignation. “Her brother beat the shit out of her, broke her ribs, split open her face. I want the bastard off the streets where he can’t hurt her again, and I thought you might be able to help me with that.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Zoe threw up her hands. “How the fuck was I supposed to know?”

  “You weren’t. You just have really shitty timing.” Sanne tried to smile, opting for placation over provocation. “I didn’t intend for this to be a date, Zoe.”

  The look Zoe gave her would have curdled milk. “I guess it’s true what they all say about you, that you’re a fucking frigid bitch.”

  “I’m going to assume that’s the drink talking.” Sanne wasn’t about to start slinging insults on the street, no matter how much Zoe might be spoiling for a fight. She walked past Zoe, giving her a wide berth and slapping away her grasping hand. She refused to run, but Zoe must have thought better of following, and within seconds, the only thing Sanne could hear was her own shuddering breaths. When she reached the car, she unlocked it and then chanced a look behind her. The entire street was deserted, the scene that had played out there already seeming like a surreal dream.

  More snow started to fall as she got into the car, but she was so jittery that she didn’t even think about going home. Instead, she pulled out of the bay and turned in the direction of HQ.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The EDSOP office was empty, even Eleanor having apparently taken her own advice and gone home for the night. The overhead lights flickered on with an irritated burr as Sanne disturbed their sensor. Intimidated, she tiptoed to her desk, where she shoved a bag of hastily bought essentials into her drawer and turned on her computer. It took its time loading up, giving her the opportunity to check her phone for texts: All Fine. Detective Fraser took my statement, and I look like I’ve been smacked with a brick. Love Meg. And one from Nelson, too: If you need me to fake an emergency for you, just let me know.

  Deciding that the whole sordid story with Zoe was too complicated to tell Nelson in a text message, she sent a brief reply to Meg and stashed her phone away. With a fresh pad of paper in front of her, she opened the case file and began to scroll through it. There was nothing new in the forensics or interview files, and none of the day’s CCTV analysis had noted anything of significance. Unsure what she was looking for, she clicked into the media folder and scrolled through scanned copies of the photographs she had found in Andrew Culver’s kitchen drawer. She paused at the Mission allotment photo. On the back row of the shot, Andrew Culver stood with his arm around Natalie Acre, while Marcus Jones and Daniel Horst crouched in the row in front of them.

  “Oh, bollocks.”

  Sanne bit down hard on her pen. She had forgotten that Natalie had been there that day. Every time she’d viewed the image, she’d focused on the three men, all of whom were now dead and all of whom had obviously been known to Natalie. Up until that point, Sanne had harboured major doubts, sure that she was wrong, that Steven Rudd having Natalie’s number was nothing more than a coincidence, but those doubts evaporated as she stared at the picture. Could Natalie have lined the victims up for Rudd? Were they a kind of Bonnie and Clyde team? If so, what could Natalie have gained from the murders? Sexual gratification? Drugs or alcohol as incentive?

  Sanne filled the first page of her pad with bullet-pointed questions and flipped over to a clean sheet. She fished out the transcript of Natalie’s interview and read it once to re-familiarise herself with the details, and then again with a more sceptical eye. A casual mention of the Dog and Duck pub—recently identified as Rudd’s local—got bullet-pointed and underlined, as did Natalie’s claim that she hadn’t spoken to Culver for three to four weeks prior to his death, a claim that the officer tasked with analysing the comms hadn’t verified. On a roll now, Sanne began to see patterns emerge: Culver’s enthusiasm about things “looking up,” along with the newly purchased shoes that he had died in. He might not have unchained his door for Rudd, but if Natalie had arranged a date and knocked first, Rudd would have had no problems gaining entry. A quick check in the comms section of the case file gave her Culver’s mobile phone record. She leaned back from the screen, her eyes flicking between Natalie’s phone number, copied out in large print, and the list of calls.

  “Don’t you have a home to go to?”

  Sanne’s reaction to the unexpected interruption was a literal kneejerk. She leapt so far off her chair that her knees bashed the underside of the desk.

  “Shit!” She looked up at Eleanor, unable to conceal anything with her in such close proximity. The best she could hope for was deflection. “What are you doing here so late?”

  “Press conference. The brass had the bright idea of offering a reward for any information leading directly to Rudd’s arrest.”

  “That should liven up the days of our hotline people.” Sanne slid her hand toward the mouse but froze when Eleanor picked up her notes and began to read them.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Eleanor murmured, now scrutinising the computer screen. “Hmm, why did Ms. Acre call our first vic three times in the days leading to his murder?”

  “She did? Ah, I knew it!” Curiosity and a surge of excitement made Sanne forget that she was trying to be evasive. “I was just checking that.”

  Eleanor took the mouse and highlighted the phone calls. “Here you go. These are all from her phone number.”

  Sanne chewed a piece of skin off her bottom lip. “She knew all three vics, boss, and I think she’s been in contact with Steven Rudd. He has that same number written here.” She handed Eleanor the Mission Cross leaflet. “And they both go to the same pub.”

  “Fucking hell.” Eleanor snatched the leaflet. “When did you figure this out?”

  “Just now. I found the leaflet this afternoon, but with the search I didn’t have a chance to look into it. She hasn’t got any violent priors and she volunteered herself for interview, so to all intents she was treated like a bereaved family member.”

  “Did you record the interview?”

  “Audio only, ma’am.”

  “And I assume you’ve tried her mobile.”

  “Yes. It’s been disconnected.”

  “Home address?”

  “Nine Rian Walk.”

  Eleanor checked her watch. “Get everything together and written up for a warrant. I’ll see if TAU can assist with a dawn raid.”

  “Right, boss.” Sanne didn’t move. “Are you sure?”

  “The question is, Sanne, are you sure?” Eleanor pulled a chair closer and sat down, swivelling the Mission leaflet so it was facing Sanne. “You found this lead hours ago, yet you said nothing. You should have told me straight away, instead of wasting the afternoon slogging through a crap-hole in the snow. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to go cap-in-hand to the TAU sarge, begging for a last-minute loan of his team.”

  Sanne stayed silent. She had no excuses to offer, and knowing that she had squandered even more time with Zoe only made matters worse.

  “Look, you’re an excellent detective,” Eleanor continued in a slightly softer tone. “You’re bright, perceptive, but you need to have the courage of your convictions. You’ll have to grow bigger balls than any of the blokes if you’re going to get anywhere in this job.” She paused and waited until Sanne looked at her. “So, are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Sanne said. “Yes. I think Acre is involved. I think she’s setting up the victims for Rudd.”

  Eleanor nodded. “Good. Get that paperwork sorted.”

  *

  “I hope you catch him. Andy di
dn’t deserve to die like that.”

  Reaching across Sanne, Eleanor paused the audio file.

  “Jesus, she’s cold.” She leaned back in her chair. “If she singled Culver out for Rudd, she may as well have stuck the knife into his chest herself. And then to come in here and give this level of performance…” She shook her head in disbelief and tossed her pen onto her notes.

  Sanne knew exactly how she felt. They had listened to the interview twice, and if Natalie Acre had been lying, the ease with which she’d done so was as impressive as it was disturbing. During the first run-through, Sanne had been on tenterhooks, waiting for the moment Acre would give herself away, for the misplaced word or off-key intonation that would blow a hole in her charade, something that Sanne had missed because she’d been too soft-hearted, too readily hoodwinked. But there had been nothing, just a woman who sounded sincere in her desire to assist the investigation.

  “The only thing I can see in retrospect is her request to be involved in a press conference. That might point to a notoriety angle.” Eleanor skipped back to the beginning of the file. “Plus, her readiness to name Liam Burrows as a potential suspect helped to keep our focus elsewhere.”

  “Five minutes of fame can’t be all she’s getting out of this,” Sanne said, trying to tune out the misgivings that were beginning to re-form. “I’ve seen her interviewed for a couple of local news reports and I think the Sheffield Post ran a piece on her, but she’s not been front-page material.”

  “It probably all boils down to sex. Male-female teams such as this are often formed around an element of sexual thrall. The gender choice here is unusual—the victims are more commonly children or women—but maybe that’s an added perk for Acre. She could be using Rudd to settle scores on her behalf.” Eleanor set her glasses beside her pen. Another sixteen-hour day had left her eyes reddened. “Sometimes I wonder what this world’s coming to.”

  The computer desktop faded as its standby mode took over, sending the office into darkness. Sanne fought to suppress a yawn. “Do you want a brew, boss?”

  “No, thank you. I’m going to go home. Are you stranded in the city?”

  “Yeah, I think so. The Snake was closed last time I checked the BBC travel site.” Sanne opened her drawer to reveal her Asda bag. “I did a bit of shopping on the way over here, though.”

  Eleanor smiled. “I’ve had to do that a few times myself. I can vouch for the sofa in Interview Two, if you want to save on a hotel room.”

  “Cheers.” Sanne still had a sleeping bag in her car, along with freshly purchased clothing and no inclination to drive back into the city centre.

  “Try to set an alarm.” Eleanor pulled her jacket on. “Sergeant Carlyle has a tendency to come in early.”

  “Oh, I’ll definitely be awake before that.”

  Eleanor laughed at her decisive accord. “Night, Sanne.”

  This time Sanne did yawn. “G’night, boss.”

  *

  Wrapped up in her sleeping bag, with her coat slung on top for extra warmth, Sanne was dozing when her phone rang. She answered it before her eyes had focused, and smiled when she heard Meg’s voice.

  “Sorry, did I wake you?”

  Sanne rolled onto her back. “No, I wasn’t asleep. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” Meg’s speech sounded thick, as if the swelling to her face had stiffened her mouth. “I evicted myself to the spare room. I couldn’t get comfy, and my wiggling was disturbing Em. She’s on an early tomorrow.”

  “Are you taking your painkillers?”

  “Yes, Mum.”

  “I only nag with the best of intentions, because I know what you’re like.” Sanne shuffled down, tucking her free hand back beneath the covers. The sofa might have come recommended, but the heating had gone off hours ago. “I’m glad you called.”

  “You are?” There was a rare note of uncertainty in Meg’s question. She didn’t usually seek reassurance, which gave Sanne an idea of how badly Luke’s assault must have affected her.

  “Of course I am. I wanted to ring you, but I didn’t know what to do for the best.” Sanne closed her eyes and swallowed against the lump in her throat. For almost nineteen hours, she had been trying not to think about Meg. She had handed Meg’s care over to Emily that morning and clapped a lid back on all the emotions rekindled by the previous night. Her fraught day had been a bonus in that respect, but after less than a minute on the phone, that lid had sprung an impressive leak and she was on the verge of blubbing.

  “Ringing me is always for the best, San,” Meg said softly. “I never got round to talking to Em, anyway.”

  “You didn’t? Why ever not?”

  “Because for once she chose not to push, and then the afternoon got taken up by Detective Fraser, but mostly because I’m a terrible coward who faked sleeping in the gaps.”

  “How long do you think she’s giving you?”

  “Probably till she finishes work tomorrow.” Meg lowered her voice to a whisper. “God, my back hurts.”

  Sanne heard the metallic crinkle of pills being popped from their strip, and two pronounced gulps as Meg washed them down. “I should let you get some actual sleep,” she said. A shuffling noise and a series of groans told her that Meg was changing position.

  “Mm. Will you stay on till these tablets knock me out?”

  “I’ll stay on for as long as you like.”

  “Thank you. So, what are you wearing?” Meg managed to sound serious right until she started to laugh.

  “A sweater, my socks, and a sleeping bag.”

  “What? I thought you were in bed. Where the hell are you?”

  “They closed the Snake, so I’m on the sofa in one of our interview rooms. I might opt for a hotel if I’m still stranded tomorrow. I have a spring sticking up my bum.”

  “Nice,” Meg drawled. “Remember that summer with your mum’s old sofa? You need to make a den, right now.”

  Sanne laughed. “I don’t have any spare blankets or garden canes, or clothes pegs for that matter.”

  “Excuses, excuses. That was the best summer ever.” Meg yawned. “I can’t keep my eyes open.”

  “So close them.”

  “You’re full of good ideas.”

  “Are they closed?”

  “Mmhm.”

  “Okay then.”

  “Can I phone you back if I need to?”

  “Of course you can.”

  “Any time?”

  “Yes, any time.” Sanne listened as Meg’s breathing slowed and deepened. “Sweet dreams, love,” she said, and clicked off the phone.

  Chapter Twenty

  Sanne had taken a shower and stashed her sleeping bag beneath her desk long before anyone came into the office. Arriving ahead of the crowd, Carlyle helped himself to coffee and microwave porridge and asked Sanne to help him set up the briefing room.

  “One on each chair. If there aren’t enough, people will have to share,” he said, dropping a pile of stapled notes into her waiting arms.

  A large photograph of Natalie Acre dominated the front page of the notes. Sanne flicked through the rest of the summary to find a short list of known associates and a précis on male-female serial killing teams that appeared to have been cobbled together from the Internet. Noticing that she had stopped to read, Carlyle placed a remote control beside his laptop and walked over to her.

  “I didn’t have much warning,” he said, for once sounding flustered rather than defensive. “Acre wasn’t home when the TAU went round there this morning, and the boss got called away to a press conference. I had a few old studies on the likes of Hindley and Brady, but I went online for some of the more recent examples.”

  “No harm in that, Sarge.” Sanne resumed her task. “You can’t write a dissertation in two hours.”

  He nodded but didn’t answer, returning to the laptop and bowing his head until the shadows swallowed his expression. When she’d reached the last chair, Sanne looked at him for further instruction, but he continued to typ
e and made no attempt to waylay her as she left the room. She found Nelson at their desk, meltwater from his snowy hair dripping down his face as the steam from his coffee caused a sudden thaw.

  “Morning.” She handed him a wad of tissues. “Still bad out there?”

  He scowled, blotting at his hair. “Worse. How did you get in so early?”

  “I never left.”

  “Ah.” He waggled his eyebrows at her. “And what happened with Zoe?”

  “Not much, really.” Sanne nudged her phone behind a stack of files and out of his sight. She had lost count of the number of apologetic texts Zoe had sent her, but they were still arriving at regular intervals.

  “No?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why are you shredding that tissue, then?”

  “Aw, crap.” There was makeshift confetti scattered across her desk. She collected the tiny pieces into her palm and watched them flutter into the bin. Recalling the events of the previous night still caused a prickle of humiliation. When she finally answered, she couldn’t meet Nelson’s eyes. “It was all a ruse, that stuff about Luke. She didn’t have anything on him, and I wasn’t in the mood to play games, so I left.”

  “And, what? She just held the door for you?”

  Sanne realised she had picked up another tissue. She forced herself to put it back in its box and wrapped one hand around the other to keep them still. “No, she followed me into the street, and I think her exact words were ‘you’re a fucking frigid bitch.’”

  Nelson folded his arms, his dark eyes set with disapproval. “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll live. I came back here, where Eleanor told me I needed to grow a pair and I told her that Natalie Acre is somehow connected to Rudd. The TAU did a pre-dawn raid on Acre’s house this morning, but she wasn’t there.”

  “Bloody hell!” The hinges on Nelson’s chair squeaked as he swung backward. “You don’t half get up to some mischief when I leave you alone. Natalie Acre, eh? Where on earth did she come from?”