No Good Reason

by Cari Hunter

  “We went to bring a chap in for questioning, but he didn’t take too kindly to us. Nelson took a couple of punches. He didn’t want to come here, but he’s bleeding like a stuck pig.”

  Meg pulled her to one side. “What about you?”

  “I’m fine.” Not only did Sanne look Meg in the eye as she answered, but excitement had her practically bouncing on the spot. She put her lips to Meg’s ear and whispered, “I ran after the bloke and arrested him on my own.” Her grin stretched from ear to ear.

  Meg’s kneejerk horror quickly turned to pride. She slung an arm around Sanne’s shoulders. “How the hell did a tiddler like you pull that off?”

  “I used my feminine wiles.”

  “Yeah. You don’t really have any of those, love.”

  Sanne tilted her head, considering and then conceding the point. “Okay then, I chased him into a shitload of nettles.” She displayed hands sporting a mass of raised welts. “Don’t suppose you have any calamine lotion?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Meg smiled at Nelson as he stepped off the ambulance, holding a wad of gauze to his nose.

  “The boss insisted he get a check-up,” Sanne said. “Then I’m taking him back to HQ so we can watch the interview.”

  Meg nodded, but she was only catching occasional words, and even those weren’t making much sense to her. Exhilaration had left Sanne’s cheeks rosy, and the flecks of green in her eyes were glinting brightly, a combination that was very pretty and extremely distracting. When she smiled at Meg for no reason, Meg had to have a stern word with herself about maintaining her professionalism.

  “Cubicle four,” she told the paramedics, with all the authority she could muster.

  “Righto.”

  Meg took a breath, satisfied that no one had noticed a thing. She caught Sanne’s eye and swiftly corrected herself: no one, that was, except for Sanne.

  *

  Even walking down a noisy, over-lit hospital corridor, Sanne couldn’t mistake the expression on Meg’s face. Everyone else appeared to be oblivious, but it made nerves that were already humming pleasantly begin to sing in full-throated chorus. When she poked out her tongue to wet lips that had suddenly gone dry, Meg arched an eyebrow at her, making her stumble.

  “You okay there?” Meg’s voice was hoarse but amused.

  “Yep.” Looking up, Sanne saw Nelson and the paramedics rounding a corner and took the opportunity to slap the back of Meg’s hand. “Will you bloody behave yourself?”

  Meg widened her eyes, feigning innocence. “I am behaving in an impeccable manner.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “I may well be that too.”

  Upon reaching the cubicle, Sanne watched Meg smoothly return to doctor mode, running Nelson through a brief but thorough assessment. Envying her ability to compartmentalise, Sanne took a seat in the corner, where she plucked a leaflet from a collection on the wall and began to educate herself about otitis media. She was halfway through the section on treatment, when a young-looking doctor poked her head around the curtain.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Dr. Fielding, but I wondered if you needed any help.”

  “We’re just about finished, thanks.” Meg beckoned the woman into the cubicle. “Sorry, Emily, this is Sanne Jensen. I think you’ve met Nelson already.”

  “Yes, he took my statement after Josie went to surgery.” Emily smiled at Sanne and extended a hand. “Good to meet you.”

  Her grip was warm and firm, and she held on a little longer than Sanne thought necessary. She was attractive, in a well-brought-up, designer-clothing, perfect hair and makeup kind of way. She didn’t make Sanne’s nerves tingle, though. She just made her wonder whether there were any straight people left in the NHS these days.

  The buzz of Sanne’s phone came as a welcome interruption. Emily took it as her cue to leave, and Meg followed her out to collect Nelson’s painkillers.

  Sanne leaned forward on her chair and accepted the call. “Hey, boss.”

  “Everyone still alive down there?” Eleanor asked.

  “Alive and kicking. Nelson’s got some sort of Tampax thingy shoved up his nose, but he’ll be fine.”

  “Good. George and Fred got here about fifteen minutes ago, looking quite sheepish.”

  Sanne tried not to laugh. “They ran the wrong way. Could’ve happened to any one of us.”

  “Any one of us who doesn’t know their west from their east,” Eleanor said dryly. “Anyway, I’m sending you Ned Moseley’s mugshot. Could you take it up to Josie and see if it rings any bells?”

  “No problem. Are you interviewing him tonight?”

  “We’d planned to, but the bastard really is allergic to nettles. The doc gave him an antihistamine, and he’s in one of the holding cells, sleeping like a baby.”

  “Sorry, boss.”

  Eleanor scoffed. “What the hell are you sorry for?”

  “Um. Chasing him into the nettles?”

  “Don’t be a berk. We’re going to leave him till first thing in the morning, so once you’ve seen Josie and finished your report you can head home.”

  “Wilco,” Sanne said, but the line was already dead. She dropped her phone back into her pocket and turned to Nelson. “Looks like we’ve got the night off.” Relief flitted across his bruised face. She patted his shoulder. “Sit tight, and I’ll see where Meg is.”

  Outside the cubicle, she checked the image Eleanor had sent her: a standard mugshot of Ned that perfectly rendered his confusion at the booking process. With tear-smudged cheeks and a hangdog expression, he hardly fitted the stereotype of a cold-blooded kidnapper, though Sanne knew better than to be fooled by appearances.

  Meg approached with pills in one hand and a cup of water in the other. “What’ve you got there?” she asked.

  Sanne showed her the photo. “Prime suspect Ned.”

  “He’s the one who kicked the crap out of your buddy?”

  “Yep.”

  “And the one you followed into an unlit alley?”

  “Uh, yeah.” She ran a hand across the back of her neck. The height marker by Ned’s head indicated he was six foot two.

  Meg touched her knuckles to Sanne’s chin. “Hey, I’m just relieved you came out the other side, that’s all.”

  “Me too,” Sanne admitted. After the high of the chase, the reality of the risks she had taken was beginning to set in. Putting thoughts of a bath and bed out of her mind, she steeled herself for another hour or two of work. “I have to go and speak to Josie. Will you get Nelson a coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “Two sugars.”

  “You know I’ll forget that.”

  Her nonchalance made Sanne smile. “Yeah, I know you will. Just try not to make him tea.”

  *

  The doctor in the ITU wasn’t happy about Sanne’s request for another interview with Josie only hours after the first, but he grudgingly gave permission, along with a stern warning not to cause undue stress.

  “Fifteen minutes,” he said, escorting her to the room. “She started physio this afternoon, and she’s exhausted.”

  Sanne knocked out of habit, expecting Josie to be asleep or with company, but she was alone, staring at a book that lay unopened on her lap. At some point during the day, the dressings had been removed from her head, leaving her surgical scars exposed.

  “Hi.” Her greeting was subdued. She had probably worked out that a solo, junior detective would not be conveying any significant developments.

  “Hi.” Sanne walked to the side of the bed. Then, for want of a better opening, “You suit the non-bandagey look.”

  It was such a daft thing to say that it made Josie smile. She touched the bristle of new hair. “Apparently, I’m a brunette. I didn’t remember until Helen let me have a mirror.” Her fingers approached the edge of a sutured wound but stopped just short. “I thought they’d cut it for the surgery, but it was him, wasn’t it?”

  There was no point in lying. Sanne needed to gain her tru
st. “Yes, he cut it. We’re not sure why.”

  Josie nodded, swallowing repeatedly as if something was blocking her throat. For a while she kept her eyes fixed on the door, but when she seemed sure they wouldn’t be interrupted she turned back to Sanne. “No one will tell me much or talk to me about this shit. They keep bringing me stuff—books, magazines, fucking Sudoku—but all I can think about is Rachel and what he might be doing to her. And then I think, what if she’s dead? What will I do then?”

  She started to cry, rocking back and forth in her effort to keep quiet and avoid alerting the medics. Sanne sat on the bed and took hold of her hand, and Josie clung on as if it were the only thing keeping her from going under.

  “I should never have run.” Her breath hitched between her words. “I should’ve stayed with her.”

  “You didn’t even know she was there. You did what anyone would have done in those circumstances. You got the hell out when you had the chance. Do you think she will blame you for that?”

  Josie coughed and sniffled. Sanne freed up their hands to pass her a tissue.

  “She might.” Josie wiped her face, but she was becoming more composed, and her expression softened. “She’s terrible for holding grudges.”

  “Well, I don’t think she’ll hold on to this one.” Mindful of her deadline, Sanne fished out her phone. “Josie, we brought someone in for questioning tonight. Do you feel up to looking at his photograph?” She chose her words carefully. Ned had been arrested for assault, not on suspicion of kidnapping.

  Josie studied the image for a long time, tapping the screen to reawaken it when it timed out. Sanne surreptitiously watched the monitors, but they registered no signs of distress, and Josie’s face gave nothing away. Eventually, she allowed the screen to shut itself down and handed back the phone.

  “I don’t think I recognise him.” She gave a derisive laugh. “But I wouldn’t take my word for it. A friend of mine sent me a text this afternoon, and Helen had to remind me who she was. I had a stroke after I woke up that first time. Did they tell you that?”

  “No, no one told me that.” Sanne had guessed, though. Josie was using her right hand for everything, her left lying in a stiff claw on the bed sheets. It was little wonder that she was vacillating so wildly between anger and grief. It was a miracle she was functioning at all.

  “Will the physio help?” Sanne asked, aware how intently Josie was gauging her reaction.

  Avoiding pity and shock appeared to be a sound tactic. Josie slung her bad arm across her lap and slowly unfurled her index finger. “Better than nothing, right?”

  “Damn right. That’s bloody impressive after one session.”

  A smile seemed to catch Josie unawares, and for a couple of seconds Sanne glimpsed the young woman who had written postcards about falling into bogs and being chased by cows. The smile didn’t last, but it was reassuring to know that that person was still in there.

  “You should probably go,” Josie said, covering her left hand with her right. “You must be busy.”

  Sanne thought of the report she had yet to start, the fourteen-hour shift that awaited her the next day, and the sixteen-hour one she was coming to the end of. Then she looked at Josie, who was determinedly studying the bed sheets.

  “Do you want me to stick around for a bit?” she asked.

  Josie nodded.

  Sanne shrugged out of her coat and arranged it over the back of her chair. “I have to warn you though,” she said, taking a bar of Dairy Milk from her bag and snapping it into chunks, “I’m crap at Sudoku.”

  “Me too. I think I was better at concentrating before I whacked my head. Well, I must have been, because I have a degree in classics from Edinburgh University. First class, apparently.”

  “Clever clogs.” Sanne offered her a piece of chocolate, holding it patiently as Josie struggled to take it in her left hand. She managed to curl her fingers around the chunk, but then gave up and used her good hand instead.

  “Dr. Maxwell says it will all come back to me in time. The swelling in my brain is getting better, and most of the early things are there. They’re just jumbled.”

  Sanne settled in her chair and crossed her legs at the ankles. “Did you meet Rachel at university?” she asked.

  Josie’s face brightened at the mention of Rachel’s name. “Yes. She was studying environmental sciences, but we’re both cinema geeks, so we met through FilmSoc. She works for the National Trust now, and I’m a curator at the National Museum in Edinburgh. Have you ever been there?”

  “No, I’ve not.” Sanne had never really been anywhere. She could have afforded to travel abroad now, but staying at home seemed kinder to her mum. Woe betide her if her mum ever worked that out, though.

  “You should come for a long weekend. We could give you a tour. Arthur’s Seat in Holyrood Park is—” Josie stopped suddenly, realising what she had said. She bowed her head, her fingers screwing the bedding into a knot. When she continued, her voice was little more than a whisper. “Helen sounds just like her. Their voices, their accents, they’re so similar. I can close my eyes, and it’s as if Rachel’s here in the room with me. Helen was reading to me earlier, and I fell asleep thinking everything was fixed, that you’d found Rachel and she was fine. I didn’t ever want to wake. I couldn’t bear the thought of coming back.”

  She looked up, and Sanne almost recoiled from the raw anguish on her face. There was nothing Sanne could say that wouldn’t sound trite or falsely hopeful. She rested her hand on Josie’s arm and sat silently for a while, listening to someone humming off-key in the next room and to the gradual deepening of Josie’s breathing as she began to fall into a doze.

  Half asleep, Josie fumbled with the sheets. Sanne straightened them for her, pulling the blanket under her chin. Josie turned on her side and opened bleary eyes.

  “Sanne?” Her voice was slurred with drowsiness.

  Sanne leaned closer. “What’s the matter?”

  “Please don’t tell Helen what I said.”

  “I won’t breathe a word of it, I promise.” Sanne stroked a hand through the short fuzz of Josie’s hair.

  “She’ll think I’ve given up on Rachel, and I haven’t. I haven’t.”

  “Neither have I.” Sanne couldn’t speak for the rest of her team, but she could speak for herself, and that seemed to be good enough for Josie. With Sanne’s hand still on her forehead, her eyes drifted shut.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Never sure when she would be home, Sanne had an automatic light timer in her living room, but, pulling up at the rear of the cottage that night, she wasn’t surprised to see another lamp burning in her study. She parked behind Meg’s car and drew her collar closed before making a dash through the rain to her back door. The first thing she spotted as she untied her boots was the bottle of calamine lotion sitting in the middle of her table.

  “Very funny.” She stuck out her tongue as Meg peeked around the kitchen door.

  “And you’re very late.” Meg held out her hand for Sanne’s coat. Her hair was still damp from the shower, her hands warm where they touched Sanne’s clammy skin, and she smelled like fresh summer herbs. Sanne closed her eyes and rested her head on Meg’s shoulder.

  “How was she?” Meg asked quietly.

  “Up and down. I stayed for an hour, in the end. The doc chased me out when she finally fell asleep. I can’t imagine what it must be like for her. I don’t think I want to imagine.”

  “Shh.” Meg silenced her with a soft kiss, her lips making the barest contact.

  Sanne pressed closer, feeling Meg’s lips part and the tip of her tongue flick out. Smiling at the unspoken promise, she cupped Meg’s face with both hands. “I need a shower.”

  Meg turned her head so she could kiss Sanne’s left palm. “Need me to doctor anything?”

  “No.” Sanne blew out a breath, pushing away her exhaustion and the day’s stress. “I just need you.”

  It was a very quick shower, just enough to wash off the sweat
of the chase and the grime of the alley. She found Meg sitting in the centre of her bed, wearing pilfered pyjamas and fidgeting like a toddler with a sugar rush. Meg’s wide eyes followed the towel as Sanne dropped it to the floor.

  “You seem to have forgotten your clothes,” she said. She was obviously flustered, which amused the hell out of Sanne.

  “Yeah, I think someone pinched them.” Sanne climbed onto the bed and knelt in front of her. “Do you have any idea as to who the culprit might be?”

  “Uh, no?” Her breathing quickened as Sanne popped the first button on her pyjama top, but when Sanne went no further, she changed her plea. “Maybe?” That earned her another button, and she squirmed, apparently in no mood to play hard to get. “Okay, okay, it was me.”

  “Well, that was my easiest interrogation ever.” Sanne kissed her forehead. “Please don’t ever commit a crime.”

  “I won’t. I promise.” Meg shook her head fervently, groaning when Sanne’s mouth met hers. There was nothing tentative about this kiss, and Sanne dealt with the rest of the buttons as she felt Meg nip at her bottom lip. She opened the shirt wide and used one finger to trace a line from the hollow of Meg’s throat down to her belly button. Meg squeaked, her body jerking in response to Sanne’s knuckles brushing over the sensitive skin of her abdomen.

  “Gets you every time,” Sanne whispered.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Meg lay back and attempted to wriggle out of her pyjama bottoms in a series of graceless and increasingly convoluted manoeuvres. Mesmerised by her complete lack of coordination, Sanne watched her effectively hobble herself.

  “Bugger.” Meg laughed as Sanne kissed each of her knees in turn and then freed her legs. With a contented sigh, Meg let them fall open, pulling Sanne down on top of her and kissing whatever came within easy reach.

  The touch of heated skin against hers made Sanne shiver in anticipation. She played her hand across Meg’s chest, her fingers following a familiar path that took in a pale birthmark, the rippled scar from an emergency appendectomy, and the ticklish bit on top of Meg’s clavicle. Beneath her, Meg shifted restlessly, urging her lower, so she dipped her hand between Meg’s legs and kissed her when she gasped.