by Cari Hunter
“Forty-eight hours. If there are no major developments in that time, Litton is planning to release your name to the media. He won’t even need to assign blame; if he mentions your disciplinary notice, the papers will undoubtedly do that for him, and then the shit will really start to fly.”
“Shit always rolls downhill, boss.”
Eleanor smiled sadly. She was almost as close to the bottom of that hill as Sanne. “Don’t I fucking know it?”
*
Fingers of sunshine creeping beneath the hotel curtains made dust motes dance at the foot of Meg’s bed, giving her an idea of how late it was. She hadn’t meant to go back to sleep, had insisted to Sanne that she would get up and get stuff done, although the specific nature of those tasks had remained vague. Sanne had grinned and tucked the covers back around her. Warm, cosy, and completely at peace for the first time in weeks, Meg had gifted herself a short lie-in that had apparently stretched for several hours.
Rolling onto her back, she tensed with the expectation of pain, but the bulge around her fractured ribs was less distinct, and a bearable ache had replaced the stabs of agony that had been hobbling her for the last two days. Her mobile rang from the bedside table as she was experimenting with wiggling her toes, and she answered when she saw Detective Fraser’s number.
“Morning, Meg.” Fraser was a cheerful sort who had been checking in with her on a daily basis, if only to offer assurance that his team were still working on her case. “I have good news.” He cleared his throat as if wary of sounding too buoyant, but the switch from his usual script already had Meg scrambling to sit up.
“Did you find him?”
“We’ve arrested him,” Fraser confirmed with unmistakeable satisfaction. “He tried to sell your car to a dealer, who recognised him from the photograph we’d sent out. He’s been taken to the main custody suite in Sheffield. He’ll be interviewed and charged, and—if I have anything to do with it—he won’t get bail.”
Meg touched her face, her fingers tracing the sutures in her cheek. “Please tell me you’ll have something to do with it.” She didn’t know anyone else on Fraser’s team, and she trusted him implicitly.
“I’ll be interviewing him. My intention is to get him remanded until trial, and he’s looking at a lengthy sentence.”
“So I’m safe to go home?” She kept her voice low, almost afraid of jinxing things by saying the words aloud.
“Yes, you’re safe to go home.” His answer had such conviction that it damped down all Meg’s doubts, and she switched straight to the practicalities instead.
“When can I have my car back?”
Fraser chuckled at her pragmatism. “It’s been impounded at our lot for processing. We should be able to release it in about a week, but I’ll see if I can hurry things along for you.”
“That’d be great.” She swung her legs out of bed, eager to make headway on a mental to-do list that was growing exponentially. As her feet touched the carpet, she hesitated. “Thank you. For everything.”
“Not a problem. You take care, and I’ll be in touch.”
She was by the window before he hung up, pulling back the curtains and shielding her eyes against the brilliance of the sun on the snow. She called Sanne first, leaving a message when the answer phone came on, and then she scribbled down her tasks before she forgot them: to resume work for the next day’s shift, to sort out a rental car, and to try to collect the rest of her things from Emily’s. Realising that she’d omitted something of vital importance, she rapped her forehead with her pen and searched her phone’s directory. Marvin—chief proprietor of Hairway to Heaven—answered promptly.
“Hiya, Marv,” she said, pen poised above her list. “I know I’m on the last minute, but is there any chance you can squeeze me in for a short dry cut?”
*
“I think it’s safe to assume that Natalie Acre is extremely proud of her accomplishments.” Eleanor flicked to a new image in what had become something of an endurance test for the detectives and officers squeezed into the briefing room. A pre-dawn post mortem of Steven Rudd had found a plastic-wrapped SD card lodged at the back of his throat. The card’s single folder, labelled All My Own Work, contained a horror show of photographs depicting the aftermath of each murder—including Rudd’s—in graphic detail.
Contemplating the picture that Eleanor had paused on, Sanne struggled to reconcile this grinning version of Acre, her tongue touched to the tip of a blood-coated knife, with the tearful woman who had presented herself for interview. Sanne thought herself a reasonable judge of character, but she had to admit that Acre had utterly beguiled her.
When she looked away, Fred caught her eye and smiled at her, pushing up his chin and indicating she should do likewise. Despite Eleanor’s attempts to keep a lid on matters, news of the deadline imposed by the Detective Chief Inspector and the potential consequences of failure had soon spread around the office. EDSOP was a close-knit team, and its members hadn’t taken kindly to a threat made against one of its own, no matter how veiled. Even Carlyle seemed to consider it a personal affront, which had surprised the hell out of Sanne.
“The acute downward angle of the wounds and the residual traces of soap lather found on the body suggest that Acre murdered Rudd while he was taking a bath,” Eleanor said, returning Sanne’s attention to a clinical shot of Rudd’s punctured torso. “That would explain how he ended up in there and probably rules out a further accomplice. No heavy lifting was required to position or pose the body, so we’re now operating on the belief that Acre is solo and low on money. That means she has almost certainly stayed local, and that, ladies and gents, is where you come in.”
As Eleanor turned off the screen, Carlyle hit the lights and began to hand out assignment sheets.
“This list contains the address of every hotel, motel, bedsit, B&B, and fleapit in the city,” Eleanor continued. “Meanwhile, the really lucky ones among you are going to Bradford to cover similar ground with West Yorks. We have several more known associates—primarily friends and relatives—to interview, courtesy of Acre’s phone records and a little pressure applied to her father. For the EDSOP detectives, there’s a separate breakdown of their names and addresses on page two.” She folded her arms, waiting out the rustling of paper and whispered discussions. Silence fell in fits and starts and then completely. “I’m not really one for profiling or for putting much faith in psychological claptrap, but even an idiot could predict that Acre will be aiming to go out with a bang. Consider yourselves targets and take all reasonable precautions. If in doubt, call for backup. Thank you.”
Allowing the room to empty around her, Sanne skimmed the details of those designated to her and Nelson: two of Acre’s old school friends, a cousin, and the landlord of the Dog and Duck. All of them resided on Malory, and there was a three-digit code providing a link to the notes from any previous interviews they’d had.
“Got some reading to do before we go anywhere,” Nelson said, watching the officers file out.
“I know. How about we split them two each and lead the interviews accordingly? You take the first pair.”
“Sounds sensible. If anything flags from the notes, we can prioritise that address.”
“Right.” Sanne felt better for having a plan. The more she had to do, the less likely she was to find herself rocking in a corner. The briefing had taken two hours, and sifting through transcripts would eat into even more time. Factoring in the travelling and the interviews themselves, she and Nelson would be lucky to get their visits completed before the end of the day.
“Sanne?” Nelson’s quiet question forced her out of her panicked calculations.
“What?”
“It’ll be okay.”
She nodded, too unsure to actually agree with him. When he lowered his head, she dried the sweat from her palms and began to read.
*
Meg didn’t know what stopped her on the mat. She just stopped, leaning back against her front door, one hand splayed on the wood as if to k
eep herself from pitching forward. Dappled sunlight made the hallway cheerful, but it also cast a halo on the scuff mark where Luke had bounced her head off the wall. She stayed motionless as she strained to listen for the slightest out-of-place sound. There was nothing, and Luke was definitely still in custody; after parking on the drive, she had called Fraser just to make certain of that.
“Fuck it,” she whispered, infuriated by the uncontrollable physiological reaction that had tripled her heart rate and turned her into a mouth-breather. Sealing her lips, she walked straight into the kitchen, pausing only when the first piece of glass crunched beneath her boot. This time around, no one had tidied up for her. Sanne hadn’t had a chance to, and Emily obviously hadn’t given it a thought. Amid the congealed clumps of blood and vomit, there was pasta and glass stuck fast to the tiles, the overall impression that of a collage created by an imaginative but disturbed child. A cocktail of copper and ammonia burned in her nostrils, redolent of a weekend night-shift, nothing she had ever expected to experience in her own home.
She gave the worst of the mess a wide berth, heading for the sink, where she ran the water until it steamed. She added bleach to a bucket, swishing it around to make it froth, grateful for once that its faux-pine scent was strong enough to override everything else. Brush and dustpan in hand, she started with the loose pieces of debris, sweeping them into piles and then sloshing water on the more persistent stains. She ignored her back when it began to hurt, persevering through the pain until nothing remained but spotless tiles and a half-full bin bag.
It felt weird to stand there in her kitchen, as if she should be finding something else to do, or finalising a schedule for Emily’s approval. For the moment, though, her plans involved lunch and a brew, and then she might go to the supermarket or maybe just laze around on the sofa with a book and order a takeout for her tea. Sanne was likely to phone at some point, but she’d probably keep her distance for the first few days, not wanting to imply that Meg needed a babysitter to hold her hand.
The thought made Meg look down at her fingers, at the filthy nails and the skin chafing from the bleach. She smiled and tucked them beneath her armpits to warm them. If she was being honest, she liked having her hand held, and she could only imagine what Sanne’s reaction would be if she ever found that out.
Chapter Twenty-five
“If the traffic’s not too bad, we might make the Dog and Duck before Happy Hour,” Nelson said, rummaging in his pockets for the car keys.
Sanne swore beneath her breath as she slipped on the frozen pavement, catching herself on a lamppost and grazing her hand. It summed up their afternoon perfectly: one step forward and several back, with a lot of mucking around in the interim. Their interviews with Acre’s cousin and one of her school friends had proven fruitless, and it had taken them a couple of hours to track down the other friend, whose history of mental illness had led to her being hospitalised following an overdose. The pub landlord had agreed to speak with them but warned them that he would be busy from seven thirty onward.
Footsore and hungry, Sanne sank into the car seat and rubbed her temples. She was tired of watching the clock, tired of the ever-present fear, but mainly just tired. The sole saving grace of the entire day had been Meg’s message about Luke, though she hadn’t yet had a spare moment to return the call. She let her eyes close and waited for Nelson to start the car.
“Here, get this down you.” His instruction was accompanied by a savoury smell that set her mouth watering. He passed her a large mug filled with chicken and vegetables, along with a fork. “Brown chicken stew,” he said, in answer to her questioning expression. “Abeni always makes too much.”
She nodded blissfully, already chewing. “Aren’t you having any?”
He started the car and pulled away from the kerb. “I’ll eat mine later. I think your need is greater.”
She wasn’t stupid enough to argue. “Take a left at the end,” she said, and shoved in another mouthful.
*
“Can’t say as I’m shocked. There was always something a bit off about that one.” The Dog and Duck’s landlord, Larry Sutton, wiped ale-froth from his moustache with the back of his hand. According to the case files, he hadn’t been spoken to since Rudd had been named as a suspect, but he was clearly fond of chatting and needed only a cursory prompt from Sanne to get him warmed to his theme. “She had shifty eyes, even when she was with Andy. She’d come to the bar all smiling-like, but you’d catch her looking at you sometimes and it’d just stop you cold. She had plenty of the men in here wrapped around her little finger. Made me sick how they’d follow her about with their tongues hanging out. Though, come to think of it, I never saw her with Steve.”
“Really?” Sanne asked, genuinely surprised. Like most of the local landlords, Larry’s loyalty was to his customers rather than the police, but while he wasn’t keen on giving specifics or naming names, he didn’t seem to miss much.
“I suppose they must’ve been in here together at some point. They just weren’t an obvious couple or anything.” Larry offered her a pork scratching from the bag in front of him.
“No, thanks, I’ve just eaten.” She waited as he crunched his own, wondering for how long Acre had had Rudd in mind as a potential accomplice. Long enough, apparently, to be careful about showing any overt signs of friendship. “You know your regulars well, don’t you?”
Larry grunted as the scratching cracked into pieces. “I thought I did. Turns out two of them are psychos, so…” He shrugged.
“Aye, good point.” This time, Sanne accepted a scratching. Her dad had put a packet of them in her Christmas stocking every year: pork scratchings at Christmas, and a bag of scampi fries for her birthday. He had done all his gift shopping down the pub. The taste and texture made her stomach crawl, but Larry toasted her with the last of his pint and she knew she was safe to push him further.
“Obviously we’re trying to find Natalie before she can hurt anyone else,” she said. “Can you think of friends or family members that we might not know about? People she might have mentioned or met up with in here?”
“Well, I’m not sure. Give me a minute.”
As Larry procrastinated, Nelson reached across Sanne. “Here, let me get that, Mr. Sutton.” He took Larry’s empty glass and made a subtle exit toward the bar.
“Don’t get many of his type in here,” Larry muttered, watching him order his pint. Larry’s right forearm bore an “English and Proud” tattoo, and in the last forty-five minutes he had scarcely made eye contact with Nelson. He settled back in his seat, his posture more relaxed, and bit into his final scratching. “Nat knew loads of folk,” he said, using half of the pork rind to pick his teeth. “But she weren’t close to many. She shagged around, which pissed off a lot of the women.”
Sanne nodded and handed Larry the page of contacts. “Is there anyone you can add to that?”
“Hmm. Nope, that’s all of them, I reckon.” He pointed to one of the names. “Wouldn’t bother with her. She OD-ed last night.”
“Yeah, we know.” Sanne wished they had come here first. Larry could have saved them a lot of hassle. She tapped the paper, thinking. “You said she’d upset some of your regulars. Were there any she bore a particular grudge against?”
“Half the men who come in here, apparently.” Larry guffawed, noticed Sanne’s unamused expression, and thought a little harder. “There was Portia Cocker, off Balan,” he said, his shoulders still wobbling with mirth. “And Darcy and Marcy Wilkes, twins off Benwick and Pellinore. Nat used to be thick as thieves with the three of them, but something went on and they’ve not spoke in ages. The girls stopped coming in eventually.”
“That’s brilliant. Thanks.” Sanne pushed her pen into her notebook, giving Nelson a cue to return with the fresh pint. She set her card on a neighbouring beer mat. “If you remember anything or anyone else, please give me a call.”
“Will do.” Larry took a long swig and belched. “Right, I best get back to it.”
<
br /> Nelson waited until they were in the car park before holding out his hand for Sanne’s notes. “Darcy, Marcy, and Portia? Seriously? The boss is going to think we’re having her on.”
“Better than nothing, I suppose.” Sanne kicked at the slush, her enthusiasm for the new lead rapidly deflating. “We can nip round to see them in the morning if nothing else comes up.” She checked her watch: almost 8:00 p.m. By the time she got home, it would be well past ten.
“You’re not sleeping in Interview Two again,” Nelson said, tracking her thoughts.
“No, I’m not. I’m going home to my own bed. My neighbour must be sick of feeding my chooks by now.”
“I did wonder.” Nelson unlocked the car. “I was thinking about them just last night.”
She put a hand on her heart, horrified. “While you were eating chicken stew?”
“Well, yes.” He grinned. “Don’t act so appalled. You’ve got a tummy full of it!”
“Mm, it was good too. You’ll have to give me the recipe for when Git Face turns up his toes.”
It was Nelson’s turn to look appalled. “You wouldn’t eat your own rooster!”
“Probably not.” She fastened her seatbelt and stuck her feet on the dash. “The little bastard would choke me to death just to spite me.”
*
Sanne sank onto her pillows with a sigh that was positively indecent. Getting into bed on a winter night was one of her favourite things. She had often joked to Meg that being buried in a pair of pyjamas with a quilt tucked around her would see her happy for eternity. She wriggled lower, nudging the hot water bottle until it was warming her feet, and pulled the bedding up to her chin. Having stood abandoned for four days, the cottage had thick frost on both sides of its window panes, and the bedroom was so cold she could see her breath. The irregular clanks of the radiator promised eventual heat, but she couldn’t remember ever having to wear gloves and a woolly hat to bed before. She plucked a glove off with her teeth, dialled Meg’s number, and quickly put it back on again.
