by Cari Hunter
Nelson sat beside her on the sofa. “Don’t worry, we’ll have you at the Royal in no t—”
Eleanor strode into the room, cutting him off. “I might’ve bloody known it was you two,” she said without preamble. “I didn’t have any grey hairs, not a one, until seven months ago.” She didn’t have many now, but neither Sanne nor Nelson contradicted her. “What’s the damage?” she asked the paramedic.
“She needs a few stitches, but most of the lacs are superficial. She was lucky.”
“Good. Can she travel with me?”
“Uh.” He glanced at Sanne and shrugged when she nodded. “Yeah, that’s no problem.” He made himself scarce without being told, leaving space for Eleanor to sit.
“The paramedics managed to stabilise Sergeant Carlyle,” she told Sanne in a milder tone. “He should be at the Royal by now.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Sanne didn’t know what else to say. In the last ten minutes, all of her faculties seemed to have deserted her, and fast-fading adrenaline and the warm solidity of Nelson’s body were the only things keeping her upright.
Eleanor shot a pointed glance at the blood leaking through the bandages on Sanne’s forearms. “Yes, well, there’ll be plenty of opportunity to discuss your risk-assessment process and strategic decisions at a time when you’re not bleeding onto a witness’s upholstery. Given our current run of luck, we’ll probably get sued for the dry-cleaning bill.” She sighed, letting her hard-nosed cynicism slip for a moment. “Actually, from what I’ve heard, Marcy Wilkes is singing the praises of all three of you, and there are plenty of people outside who are willing to listen.”
“There are?” Sanne turned to the window, but someone had closed the curtains. “Blue flashing lights do tend to draw a crowd.”
“Most of them are press, Sanne.”
“Really? They got here quick. How the hell did they—Oh.” Sanne felt Nelson tense as he worked it out too. “Someone had already tipped them off for Litton.” She stated it as a fact, too tired to be pissed off.
“In all likelihood.” Eleanor didn’t sound upset either. If anything, she seemed rather pleased. “The DCI may have inadvertently done us a favour, though. The media are keen to write a hero into this sordid little saga, and they’ve been directed to Malory at a very opportune moment.”
Sanne shook her head. “Boss, I can’t. Not right now.”
Eleanor stood and smoothed the creases from her coat. “I’m not asking you to say a word. Just walk out, keep your head up, and let them take their pictures. Litton will say his piece, I’ll get to say mine later, and the rest will fall into place.” She smiled, not presenting the scenario as optional. “Ready?”
Sanne let Nelson help her to her feet, grateful for the arm he kept around her. They walked out into the hallway, dodging forensic markers and bags of kit dumped by SOCO.
“Try not to scowl at anyone,” Eleanor said, and opened the front door.
*
For the umpteenth time, Meg checked the clock on the wall. Plugging the hole in Duncan Carlyle’s neck had been a useful distraction, but now that that crisis was over she’d resigned herself to watching the seconds pass by. Thanks to Nelson, ambulance dispatch had phoned Sanne’s ETA through: a sedate twenty minutes, relayed eighteen-and-a-half minutes ago. Meg pulled off her apron, washed her hands, and—unable even to pretend that she had anything better to do—went to wait in the corridor.
The rattling approach of a wheelchair with a dodgy footplate forced her attention away from the ambulance bay.
“Minors Two is free for her.” Liz bashed the chair into the wall in an attempt to park it. “Do you think she’ll need this?”
Meg smiled. “I think she’ll be safer without, but thanks anyway.”
“Speak of the devil.” Liz hit the button for the doors, and Meg turned so abruptly she almost gave herself whiplash.
Sandwiched between Nelson and Eleanor, Sanne was walking mostly under her own steam, but her face was ashen where it wasn’t bruised, and she was placing her feet with exaggerated care. Unconcerned by her audience, she stumbled into Meg’s embrace, and Meg held her close, kissing her cheek, her hair, anything she could reach without hurting her. She smelled like a war zone: blood and sweat and a chemical trace that Meg couldn’t identify. Whispering a jumbled litany of apologies, she clung to Meg’s scrubs for a few seconds before managing to stand independently.
“Can I see the sarge?” she asked.
Meg silently collected on a private bet and then led her by the hand into Resus. “Two minutes,” she said. “He’s full of morphine, and he’s going to theatre soon.”
Sanne checked Carlyle’s monitors with the skill of someone who’d spent far too much time in hospitals, before walking over to speak to him. Meg couldn’t hear the words, just an indecipherable murmur as Sanne touched his arm, but she saw his lips move in response and the ease of Sanne’s smile.
“Right, you, time to go,” Meg said. “You’re losing more blood than he is.”
Sanne left the cubicle without protest, her stiff upper lip enduring right up to the moment where her legs buckled and Meg had to dart forward with Nelson to catch her.
“Can someone grab a trolley, please?” Meg shouted. She cradled Sanne’s head as Nelson lowered her to the floor, where gravity revived her within seconds. “There you are.” Meg stroked Sanne’s forehead, making her blink. “Y’know, you’re heavier than you bloody look.”
*
Sanne stared at the needle above her arm, an evil little thing that seemed designed to inflict maximum discomfort.
“So, let me get this right,” Meg said, apparently unaware of the torment she was inflicting. “You went upstairs on your own?”
“Yes.”
“Knowing there was a serial killer up there?”
“Yes.” Sanne ground her teeth as Meg jabbed the needle in and injected something that stung like fury.
“Sorry. Should’ve warned you about that.” Meg didn’t sound very sorry. She selected a hooked needle trailing a line of thread but lowered it again when Sanne flinched. “Look, I’m not mad at you, love. Not really.”
Sanne tried to bite her lip but caught the thickened part where Natalie had punched her. “She had a six-year-old boy, Meg, with a knife stuck into his neck, and I didn’t even think. I begged her to swap him for me, and I didn’t think about what might happen after that.”
“No prizes for guessing what did happen.” Meg’s fingers were gentle where they touched Sanne’s cheek. “You could’ve been killed.”
“I know.” The painless glide of the suture thread through her skin mesmerised Sanne. What had happened that afternoon, and all of its potential and actual consequences, hadn’t really sunk in yet. They tugged at her like the needle Meg was wielding, but she couldn’t feel their sting.
“What would I do without you?” Meg asked quietly. She made several attempts to tie off a knot before setting the needle aside and using a paper towel to dry her eyes. She blew her nose and then clasped Sanne’s hand. “Will you please consider that, the next time you pick a fight with a psychopath? You’re only little, and I don’t have a cat, so I wouldn’t even turn into a crazy cat lady. I’d just be on my own and broken-hearted, and I’d have no one to dunk my HobNobs with.”
Sanne somehow managed to nod, laugh, and sob simultaneously, producing a sticky concoction of tears and snot. “I promise I’ll consider you and your HobNobs,” she said.
Meg dabbed beneath Sanne’s nose and then swapped the tissue for the needle. “Me and my HobNobs appreciate that. Now hold still.”
*
There was something about a mug of tea that provided untold comfort, even if the taste of it wasn’t particularly pleasant. Ordered to sit out four hours of observational bed rest, Sanne let the brew warm her hands and savoured every calming sip. Meg, having finished her shift, sat dozing with her feet on the bed. She stirred on occasion to ensure that Sanne was behaving herself, and she’d even managed to find a packet of biscuits for Sa
nne before falling asleep.
“Hello? Sanne? Are you in this one?”
The voice outside the curtain was so unexpected that Sanne missed her mouth and dribbled tea down her chin. She was still wiping up the last drops with her bandages when Zoe stuck her head into the cubicle.
“Hey, you!” Zoe whispered, creeping past Meg to plant a careful kiss on Sanne’s cheek. “If it isn’t Scrapper Jensen, as I live and breathe.”
Meg stirred and chuckled. “Scrapper Jensen?”
“That’s what my shift’s taken to calling her.” Zoe grinned. “You must be Meg. It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you.” She shook Meg’s hand and then pulled out a bunch of tulips from behind her back and offered them to Sanne. “I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Me too.” Sanne took the flowers, trying not to laugh at Meg’s perplexed look.
“I can’t stay. We’re on our way across to Pellinore to guard the scene.” Zoe sighed. “Trust us to miss all the excitement.”
She departed as suddenly as she’d arrived, with a blown kiss to Sanne and a wave to Meg. Once the curtain had stopped undulating in her wake, Meg leaned back and exhaled.
“She was…” She cast about for the right word.
“Tall?” Sanne suggested.
“Well, she’s certainly that. I take it she’s a friend of yours?”
“Sort of, yes.” Sanne waved the tulips in surrender. “It’s a long story.”
She was saved from further explanation by Eleanor stepping into the cubicle.
“It’s like Piccadilly bloody Station in here,” Meg muttered. She sacrificed her seat for Eleanor, who graciously pretended not to have heard her.
“You look brighter,” Eleanor told Sanne. “And by that I mean less unconscious.”
Sanne winced. “I didn’t think you’d seen that, boss.”
“It was just a little faint,” Meg said. “Nothing to be ashamed of, Sanne. It happens to the best of us.”
The look Sanne gave Meg prompted Eleanor to interject smoothly. “I’ve spoken to DCI Litton, who asked me to pass on his thanks for your courageous and selfless actions this afternoon. He would have visited in person, but the media are demanding much of his attention.” She paused to allow that to sink in.
Sanne gaped at her before realising that some sort of acknowledgement was called for. A tentative “Oh” was all she managed.
Eleanor nodded. “The police surgeon has examined Natalie Acre and deemed her unfit for interview until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. I’ll be conducting the interview with DS Rashid, but if you’d like to observe, be at HQ for one thirty.”
“She wouldn’t be in the same room, would she?” Meg asked, before Sanne could respond.
“No.” Eleanor looked straight at Meg, obviously understanding her concern. “Not this time.” As Meg relaxed back against the wall, Eleanor reverted to her usual, less formal tone. “You’ll need to give a statement, Sanne, and there’ll be an investigative process to determine any lessons to be learned from what’s happened, but I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
The pressure that had been sitting on Sanne’s chest for the past thirty-six hours seemed to dissipate, leaving her so light she felt she might float to the ceiling. “Thank you,” she said, still bordering on inarticulate.
Eleanor stood to leave. “I suspect Sergeant Carlyle will be undertaking a self-defence course, but I very much doubt that you’ll be required to attend one.” She examined the buddy splinting on Sanne’s ring and little finger. “Boxer’s fracture?”
Sanne nodded. “I broke it on Acre’s jaw.”
Eleanor’s laugh was uncharacteristically raucous. “Good for you.” She set Sanne’s hand down again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow, boss.”
As the tap of Eleanor’s heels faded, Meg began to collect Sanne’s belongings. “Come on. I’m taking you home, where we might actually get some peace.”
Sanne eased herself upright. “Can we stop for chippy? I’m starving.”
Meg held Sanne’s coat open for her and then set to work on its zip. “I’m sure we can manage that.” She pulled Sanne’s hood up. “Wait here in case the press are lurking. I’ll bring my car to the ambulance bay.”
“I thought your car was impounded.”
“It is, so I rented something sleek and shiny.”
“Oh God, really?”
Meg laughed. “No, it’s a Ford Focus, you pillock.” She kissed the top of Sanne’s hood. “Be ready to make a hobble for it when I beep the horn.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Meg pulled into the disabled parking spot closest to the entrance of HQ and left the engine running.
“What?” she said to Sanne’s disapproving frown. “I’ll only be here for thirty seconds, and you’ve been stumbling about like an octogenarian all morning.” Her fingers drummed an unrecognisable tune on the gearstick, her feet providing an intermittent accompaniment.
Sanne, already a bag of nerves, took her hand and stilled its movement. “You don’t have to come and pick me up. My car’s here. I can drive myself home.”
“Uh-uh. Not with a broken finger. Not for forty-eight hours.”
Sanne puffed out her cheeks and released the air in a manner she hoped was suitably disdainful. “Did you just magic that figure out of your arse?”
“It’s possible that I might have, yes.” Meg unclipped Sanne’s seatbelt for her. “Great, that’s settled, then. Text me when you’re done.” She took Sanne’s lapels, pulled her close, and kissed her, a shy kiss on the lips that became bolder when Sanne reciprocated with enthusiasm.
“Mm, that was for luck,” Meg said, when they eventually parted.
“Right.” Sanne rearranged her coat, trying to compose herself, when all she wanted to do was drag Meg behind the nearest wall and kiss her some more. “I’ll see you later.”
Walking across to the main building, she listened to the crunch of Meg’s tyres on the ice and then the steady acceleration away as they found traction. She’d put on her woolly hat and wrapped a scarf up over her chin, but a variety of double-take reactions told her that most of the people entering and exiting HQ recognised her. It wasn’t surprising, considering that her image had featured in all of the morning’s newspapers, the tone of the accompanying reports a far cry from what they would have been had she not thrown a spanner into Litton’s works.
The officer at the front desk greeted her with applause, but she saved her brightest smile for Nelson, who met her in the lobby. She hugged him tightly, finding the confidence to dispense with the woollies and walk with her head held higher.
“The sarge sends his best,” he said as the lift doors closed, granting them privacy. “I dropped by for a visit on my way in. Apparently the food is inedible and he didn’t sleep a wink, but he seemed happy to be here still, regardless.”
“Does he remember much?”
“Enough.” Nelson smiled. “He mentioned the nappies.”
“Oh, hell. But then again, desperate times…” She re-pressed the button for their floor as the lift stopped. “You never said, yesterday, how did he even get into the house?” It was something that had nagged at her; she hated loose ends.
“Marcy had left the back door unlocked.” Nelson shuffled closer to make space for a group of officers. “She’d been planning to grab the children and make a break for it if Natalie ever let her guard down. Carlyle was only a couple of streets away, so he got there first and let himself in.”
Sanne shook her head, impressed at Nelson’s ability to keep his cool and multitask. “You must’ve sent one hell of a text.”
“Let’s just say it was comprehensive.”
It was Saturday, but every desk in the EDSOP office was occupied, with a cacophony of ringing phones and Fred’s off-key singing creating a lively atmosphere. Sanne hadn’t even taken her coat off before George swooped, embracing her with such vigour that both her feet left the floor.
Fred hu
rried over. “Put her down, you daft sod. She’s all beaten up and bruised.” He patted her shoulder gently and unruffled her coat. “There’s cake and loads of biscuits in the kitchen—mine and Martha’s treat—and Eleanor said to tell you that they’re starting at two.”
Too keyed up for cake, Sanne bypassed the kitchen and headed for the room adjacent to Interview One, where she took a seat in front of its one-way mirror and chewed the skin off her thumb until Nelson joined her.
Eleanor abhorred bad timekeeping. At precisely 1:55 p.m., she and DS Rashid arranged their paperwork on the table of Interview One. Four minutes later, a knock on the door brought them to their feet. A uniformed officer escorted Natalie Acre and her lawyer into the room, and Eleanor made the introductions necessary for the recording.
“It’s all so civilised,” Nelson said, echoing Sanne’s thoughts. “Look at her. She’s a multiple murderer capable of disembowelling a man and leaving him for dead, and she’s sitting there like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.”
Dressed in custody-issued grey sweatshirt and jogging bottoms, Acre folded her hands in her lap and watched the preparations with an air of indifference. She seemed smaller than Sanne remembered, less alive somehow without the knife and the attitude. Purple bruising covered one side of her jaw, and there were clearly delineated fingerprints around her neck. She looked as battered as Meg had the night of Luke’s assault, but there was no trace of shock or horror in her gaze. There was no emotion at all.
“Is this where you attempt to get inside my head and figure out why I did it?” she asked, before Eleanor had even uncapped her pen.
Her lawyer almost choked himself in his haste to interrupt. “Ms. Acre, we discussed our approach to this.”
“What, no comment?” Acre laughed at his dismay and studied her newly trimmed fingernails. “I think they caught me red-handed, Gavin.” The emphasis she put on his name would have made any man’s balls shrink.
“Okay.” Eleanor opened her hands in invitation. “Why did you do it? Why did you murder Andrew Culver, Marcus Jones, Daniel Horst, and Steven Rudd, and attempt to murder two of my detectives?”
