Cold to the Touch

by Cari Hunter

  The sofa creaked as Emily sat up. “Surely there’s more to it than that.”

  “There really isn’t. Just your basic edict that smackheads and their like have it coming.” Meg swallowed another mouthful of coffee, welcoming its fiery aftertaste. “I don’t make the rules, Em.”

  “No, but you don’t seem bothered by them either.”

  “Maybe because I grew up with them,” Meg said quietly. “And they’ve not been rewritten since then.”

  She watched the camera linger on Adele as a caption reminded the viewers exactly how advanced her pregnancy was. In the top corner of the screen, a rotating series of photographs showed her wedding day, a visit to the Mission, and a holiday snap taken somewhere exotic. Once Eleanor began to field questions, a family liaison officer ushered Adele from the room, providing an opportunity to show images of the other two victims, but the bulletin switched to a sports round-up within thirty seconds. Emily rested her chin on Meg’s shoulder.

  “You’re probably right,” Emily said. “I just wish your outlook was slightly less cynical, at times.”

  Meg slid an arm around her. “Do you worry about me, or worry you might turn into me?”

  “A bit of both, but mainly the former.” Meg felt Emily’s chest heave as if she were preparing to plunge into deep water. “You know, it might do you good to get out of A&E for a while.”

  Meg was shaking her head before Emily finished speaking. “I love emergency medicine. I don’t want to do anything else.”

  “How about another hospital, then? One in a different area?”

  “You mean a better area.”

  “Yes! A better area, where you don’t get punched or hurt and you don’t come home so damn bitter about everything.”

  The latter point burrowed beneath Meg’s skin like a thorn. “I don’t mean to be a bad person,” she said.

  “You’re not a bad person.” Emily nestled closer, her hands warm and soft on Meg’s face. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.”

  The bell was well and truly rung, though, and Meg curled into a ball on the sofa, feeling too pummelled to offer the reassurance Emily sought.

  “I’m sorry,” Emily repeated. She kissed Meg’s cheek, her shoulder, anywhere she could reach. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”

  *

  Niamh Shelton didn’t seem able to spell her first name. She swapped the m with the h and then changed them back again, her cheeks growing pinker by the second.

  “It’s a pretty name,” Sanne said, drawing the statement paper toward her. “I think most people go with m-h. What do you reckon?” She blocked the letters out on the header and displayed them for Niamh’s approval.

  Niamh stuffed the end of her ponytail in her mouth and nodded sagely in agreement. A twenty-five-year-old regular at the Mission, with a record for assault and battery, she matched a hastily devised “person of interest” profile, which meant that her interview fell to an EDSOP detective. She was Sanne’s fourth such interviewee that morning, each being asked a standard set of questions to ascertain whether they warranted a more in-depth cross-examination. Meanwhile, uniformed officers were speaking to everyone else who had arrived at the shelter for breakfast. After the slow start typical of a Sunday morning, the Malory grapevine had evidently kicked up a gear, with the promise of gruesome gossip and the presence of the media outweighing any concerns about being nabbed by the police.

  As the shelter comprised only two dorm rooms stuffed with bunk beds plus two offices stuffed with supplies, every table in the canteen had been co-opted for the taking of statements. Utilising one of the offices as an administrative base, Eleanor had turned a blind eye to the bacon grease, egg yolk, and ketchup smeared across the submitted paperwork. Full bellies and the promise of top-ups on mugs of tea had loosened the tongue of even the most reticent interviewees.

  “Bit like speed dating, innit?” Niamh smiled and waved at a toothless man on the next table. “The Dog and Duck used to do it on a Tuesday night, but it got so that the same three blokes and Nelly Adams were the only ones turning up, and Nelly’s in her seventies. He with you, that black fella?”

  Struggling to decipher Niamh’s rapid speech, Sanne was slow to acknowledge the abrupt change in topic. She followed Niamh’s longing gaze, caught Nelson’s perplexed expression, and smothered a laugh.

  “Yes, he’s with us,” she said. “And very happily married.”

  Niamh sighed. “All the good ones are,” she said, sounding far older than her years.

  “Aye, it’s terrible.” Sanne tapped the paper in front of her. “Can you account for your whereabouts last night, Niamh?”

  Niamh frowned, distracted by her newfound crush. “Of course I can count. I’m not thick. I went to school till I were thirteen.”

  “Ac-count,” Sanne said. “Oh, never mind. Just tell me where you were last night and who you were with.”

  “At Sheila’s, watching Dirty Dancing with my mam.”

  “I’ll need their telephone numbers.”

  “Sheila’s my mam’s new girlfriend. She knows all the songs.” Niamh fiddled with her mobile and then held it out for Sanne to copy the numbers from. “We were a bit tipsy and having a right good laugh, and then Ace came in and said that Dan had been stabbed.”

  “Who’s Ace?” The detail immediately caught Sanne’s attention, though Niamh didn’t appear to realise she had said anything of significance.

  “Paul Barber, Sheila’s ex-husband. We call him Ace after his favourite cider. They’re still mates, but she’s a lesbian now.”

  Sanne paused her pen in mid-flow, deciding that wasn’t a salient point. “Can you remember at what time Paul told you about Daniel?”

  Niamh chewed her hair contemplatively. “About five past eleven. Reese was bugging us to put Match of the Day on.”

  Sanne riffled through her case notes until she found the details of the 999 call. The ambulance had been phoned at 11:02 p.m., which meant that Paul Barber had known about the attack within minutes. “Are you sure about the time you’ve just given me?” she asked.

  “Really sure.”

  “Did Paul mention how he’d found out about Daniel?”

  The chewing slowed and then stopped. “Huh. No, he didn’t.”

  “Did the two men know each other at all?” Sanne tried to keep her tone casual, but Niamh was shaking her head, wary of having disclosed something likely to cause her trouble.

  “No, I don’t think so. I don’t know, but I don’t think so.”

  “And yet Paul told you it was Daniel who had been stabbed.”

  It took almost a full minute for Niamh to catch up with Sanne’s logic. “Aw fuck,” she said. “I should’ve stayed in bed. I’ve got such a fucking hangover.”

  “How did Paul know Daniel?” Sanne asked.

  Niamh swapped her soggy hair for a false fingernail. “Food bank, free meals, same as everyone knew him. And he didn’t kill him. He was right upset last night.”

  “Were his clothes bloody?”

  “No! He didn’t touch him. There was a bloke already there trying to help.”

  “Did Paul see what happened?”

  “No, but he heard yelling, and he saw Daniel with his guts all out.”

  Sanne nodded, recording everything in a hotchpotch personal shorthand. The nature of Daniel’s injuries wasn’t widely known, so even if Paul Barber hadn’t murdered him, he had at least been close to the scene and then fled without coming forward as a witness.

  “Have you got Paul’s address and phone number?”

  The mobile came out again, and Niamh glanced around furtively before reeling off a number. “You didn’t get that from me,” she said.

  “Right.” Sanne capped her pen. “I’m sure Daniel’s family will appreciate your help.”

  Niamh gave her a dubious look, but her mood rallied as she continued to scrutinise Sanne’s face. “Y’know, you really don’t look Swedish.”

  Sanne smiled. “I’m not Swedish.”r />
  “Or Danish.”

  “I’m not Danish either.”

  Niamh paused to take a mental trip through Europe. “Dutch?”

  “Born and bred in England. I’m named after something in Norway that my mum loved, and my dad just happened to be a Jensen.” It was half the truth, but as much information as Sanne was willing to give a complete stranger.

  To Niamh’s credit, she didn’t push for the whole story. She twirled her hair around her fingers and glanced pointedly at her watch. “Are we finished? My mam said she’d do my makeup before the vigil in case I get on the telly.”

  “We’re finished,” Sanne said. “Thank you very much for your time.”

  She watched Niamh sashay close to Nelson’s table, realise neither man was paying her any attention, and make a beeline for the door. As soon as Nelson’s interview wrapped, Sanne slipped into the newly vacated seat opposite him.

  “I hope you’re having more luck than I am,” he said, flicking a baked bean off his latest statement before draining a mug of coffee. “Mine have been a bunch of numpties whose alibis feature being drunk in public houses, being drunk in their own houses, or”—he curled his fingers into air quotes—“‘shagging my mate’s wife, Tina.’ Most of them knew Daniel, a couple also knew Andrew Culver, and one was a friend of Marcus Jones, but no one has admitted to knowing all three.”

  Sanne pinched Nelson’s notes and scanned through them. “It’s unlikely anyone is going to admit to that.”

  “Yeah, the potential for subterfuge had crossed my mind.”

  “I got one incoherent lad who smelled so strongly of dope that he gave me the munchies, and two who alibied each other. My last, however, accidentally let slip the name of a potential witness.”

  “Oh, nice one.” Nelson grinned. “Don’t tell the boss it was an accident, though. Tell her you prised the information out of a hostile interviewee using the full extent of your detective skills.”

  Sanne batted him with his paperwork. “I think I’ll just give her the name, eh?”

  She pushed to her feet as a lanky teenager in a knock-off Adidas tracksuit strode toward their table. Then the bubble he was blowing in his chewing gum popped all over his face, and he had to stop to scrape off the mess. Nelson looked at Sanne and mouthed the words “Don’t leave me.”

  She laughed. “Hang in there, mate. Only another five hours until the vigil, when we get to start this all over again.”

  *

  Fresh snow, dotted with bird tracks, layered the frozen pond in Endcliffe Park. Here and there, Meg could see where kids had lobbed stones to breach the fragile surface, but the overall effect was still picturesque. Squinting as the sun broke through a gap in the clouds, she tugged Emily to a stop, rustling the bag of bread she had brought.

  “You know that’s bad for them, don’t you?” Emily said, though her admonishment lacked any real edge.

  Undeterred, Meg launched a handful of torn crusts onto the pond, stepping back to admire the ensuing spectacle of ducks ice-skating between Canada geese.

  “Nice bit of Warburtons never did no one any harm,” she called over her shoulder, dropping in a double-negative to further yank Emily’s chain.

  Wisely omitting the grammar lesson, Emily waited for the bread to be demolished and then held out a mitten-clad hand. Meg finished scolding the bossiest goose and jogged over to plant a kiss on Emily’s cold nose. Feeding the ducks was one of life’s simple pleasures, and it never failed to put her in a good mood.

  “Fancy a scone at the cafe?” she asked.

  “Sounds lovely.”

  Emily snuggled close as they walked alongside the pond, her attentiveness reminding Meg that the ducks weren’t the only ones treading carefully. Emily had been solicitous to a fault since breakfast, and Meg, buoyed by fresh snow on her day off, had not returned to the subject of the morning’s discussion.

  They paused next to the playground to watch shrieking children on sledges and tea trays and bin bags hurtle down a small hill, and when they set off again everyone they passed said good morning. Even the city looked attractive in the watery sunlight, the snow giving the harsh lines and dull shades of its architecture a transient makeover. Although Meg had no desire to live in Sheffield full-time, on this particular morning, she could see its appeal.

  “Meg?”

  A shake of her arm suggested that Emily had been trying to get her attention for a while.

  “Mm? Sorry, what’s up?”

  “My mum phoned while you were in the shower.” Emily spoke quickly, her eyes on the path ahead. “She invited us over for supper tomorrow. I told her a tentative yes, but that I’d check with you first.”

  “Aren’t you working tomorrow?” Meg asked, in a blatant attempt to stall. A supper invitation from Emily’s mum was never just for an evening meal, it was a late-afternoon summons to Harrogate for drinks and polite chat before the food finally hit the table around eight. Escape would come no earlier than midnight, which was a long time for Meg to deflect enquiries about her family background and be on her best behaviour.

  “Yes, but I’ll be finished by one.” There was a note of pleading in Emily’s voice. When her mother said “jump,” Emily felt obliged to ask “How high? And can I get you anything while I’m up there?”

  Meg understood the desire to appease and keep the peace better than Emily might imagine. She squeezed Emily’s hand.

  “Supper sounds fine,” she said, and laughed as Emily smothered her face with kisses.

  *

  The vigil for the three murdered men had arranged itself into a natural hierarchy of mourners: bereaved family members at the front of the car park, friends and well-wishers in the next row, and those who were there to rubberneck or get on the telly crowded at the back. A mass of flowers and messages of condolence surrounded the entrance to the Mission, some of them tied to the railings, ready to be homed in on by the cameras. Hundreds of flames flickered in the keen breeze, gloved hands cradling the candles to form a protective shell and keep fingers warm. The cloudless sky had made the temperature drop sharply, and from her vantage point, Sanne could hear the surreptitious shuffle of feet as the cold began to bite.

  On the other side of the temporary stage, Nelson caught her eye briefly before returning his attention to the proceedings. Several more EDSOP detectives and officers in plain clothes were scattered through the crowd, eavesdropping on murmured conversations and trying to separate gossip and rumour from fact. Within the press enclosure, strategically positioned police photographers would attempt to record the face of everyone present. Several people were already familiar to Sanne. Adele Horst and Kevin Hopkins had both shaken her hand, and Liam Burrows—released without charge after his nap in Interview One had inadvertently provided him with an alibi—had grinned at her before remembering that he was supposed to be upset.

  As the majority of people bowed their heads in prayer, Sanne studied those closest to her: an elderly male, a young couple hand in hand, an even younger mum holding a sleeping baby. Sanne knew that the killer could be within touching distance, hiding in plain sight, either for fear his absence would be noticed or because he was twisted enough to get a thrill out of witnessing the misery he had wrought. Sticking her hands in her pockets, she blew out a frustrated breath. Previous cases had repeatedly proven the pattern of offender behaviour, but hardly anything about this case made sense, so applying conventional wisdom was pointless. For someone who preferred order and the proper application of rules, these murders, lacking both motive and a consistent MO, seemed designed to provoke.

  Once the final speaker had thanked everyone for their support, the gathering broke apart, and a ripple of hushed voices gradually rose in volume, as if a dam had ruptured to release an hour’s worth of grief and tension. People drifted toward the Mission or the press or into the unlit recesses of the car park, where officers rounded them up and escorted them back for interview.

  Steeling herself to return to the canteen, Sanne froze as she
heard her name being called. She recognised the voice immediately, giving her time to brace for impact.

  “Hey, Zoe.”

  Zoe gave her a surreptitious wave. “Hiya. Big case, eh? Rumour has it that you spotted a link even before Horst’s death.”

  Sanne shrugged, vowing never again to underestimate the scuttlebutt at HQ. “I couldn’t possibly comment.”

  Zoe’s smile made her eyes sparkle in the remaining candlelight. “You are modest to a fault, Detective. Anyway, our sarge asked us to fetch Paul Barber in for questioning. He’s a bit worse for wear, but he’s waiting for you in the canteen.”

  “Define ‘worse for wear.’”

  “Drunk to the point of slurring, but cogent enough if you speak to him in words of less than two syllables.”

  “Ah, right. Did he give you any trouble?”

  Zoe raised an eyebrow. “I could snap him over my knee.”

  Sanne declined to pass comment on that either. She had no doubt it was true. They set off for the canteen, avoiding the press, who had free rein of the car park now that the vigil was over. Natalie Acre, neatly clad in a charcoal suit, nodded at Sanne and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief before returning her attention to her interview with a local news reporter, while representatives from the BBC, ITV, and Sky News swarmed around Adele Horst.

  “Fucking vultures,” Zoe muttered.

  Sanne said nothing, the kneejerk part of her that agreed with Zoe neutralised by the necessary evil of keeping the press on board. At the steps, they passed the woman who might have been Pauline kneeling in silent prayer before an icon of the Virgin Mary. Too drab for the cameras, she had been overlooked by the media feeding frenzy. She crossed herself as Sanne walked by, rosary beads moving through her fingers, her gaze fixed and remote. No one came to comfort her. She might as well have been invisible.