Cold to the Touch

by Cari Hunter

  The entrance to the Mission stood open, but Sanne stopped in the vestibule, mindful of the large police presence in the main building. “Have you had any luck with Luke Fielding?” she asked.

  Zoe shook her head. “Nothing as yet. I’ve put the word out to my shift and a few others I trust, but we’ve all drawn a blank. Has he bothered your friend since?”

  “No.” At least, Sanne didn’t think he had.

  “Maybe he got out of Dodge. He probably knows we’re after him by now.”

  Sanne wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing, but she appreciated Zoe’s efforts regardless. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Any time.”

  Although there was nothing overly flirtatious in her answer, everything about Zoe seemed geared toward making Sanne trip over her own feet. She started walking again, putting on a spurt of pace, but Zoe easily kept up with her until they reached the canteen.

  “Third table along. Bald head, black sweater.” Zoe pointed Sanne in the right direction.

  “Got him. Cheers.”

  They drew a simultaneous breath to speak, Sanne deferring to Zoe, who kept it simple.

  “I’ll see you later.”

  That much Sanne could deal with. “Yep, see you later.”

  She turned a blind eye to the single-fingered response Zoe flashed at a wolf-whistler, and took the seat in front of Paul Barber, who, oblivious to the commotion around him, was asleep in his chair. A small, fat man, he had a cider-enhanced belly with the same firmness of liver failure that Sanne had seen in her dad before the diuretics kicked in. His snores wheezed in and out, the overheads highlighting a tinge of jaundice and a spiderweb of broken veins on his cheeks. The smell of him—stale alcohol oozing out of every pore, and an acetone stink on his breath—made her push her chair as far away from the table as was practicable.

  “Mr. Barber?”

  He came awake in pronounced stages, his body jolting as he tried to remember where he was.

  “The fuck?”

  His chair slid sideward with a squeal of metal on tile, but he couldn’t create enough of a gap for his girth. The exertion made his nostrils flare, like a bull whose plans to stampede had been thwarted by a technicality.

  “Hey, settle down.” Sanne only had to raise her voice slightly to stop his flailing. “You’re at the Mission Cross. The police brought you here because of Daniel Horst’s murder.”

  He swiped a stained sleeve across the drool on his chin. “You police?”

  “Detective Jensen.” Sanne shook his hand without grimacing, a minor triumph. “I need to ask you some questions about what you saw last night.”

  His nod set his double chin quivering. “Heard more than I saw.”

  “Okay then.” She tried not to let her eagerness show. From the transcript of Nelson’s interview, she knew that their only other witness, the passerby, had happened upon Daniel on his way home from the pub, and had neither seen nor heard anything of significance. “Let’s go back a bit first. Take me through what you did from around ten p.m. onward.”

  Barber looked at her as if she had asked him to explain Pythagoras’ theorem, so she employed the full extent of her imagination and came up with two suggestions. “Were you at home? Or did you go out to the pub?”

  “I watched telly and drank a few cans,” Paul said with halting remembrance. “X-Factor or some shite like that.”

  “Can anyone verify this?” He stared at her until she clarified. “Was anyone with you while you were watching the telly?”

  “Oh, no. Sheila left me. She reckons she’s a lezzer now.”

  “Right. What happened next?”

  “I ran out of booze, so I went to the corner shop to get some more.”

  “And this corner shop would be?”

  “Patel’s, on Top Balan precinct. He’s a reasonable bloke. Keeps his prices down.”

  Sanne made a note to request the security tape from Patel’s. One good thing about the high crime rate on Malory was the proliferation of cameras in the local shops.

  “What happened then, Paul?” She kept her prompt gentle. Barber’s jaundiced face had paled, and sweat was beading his forehead.

  “I came out onto the precinct, thought maybe I’d get some chippy, and that’s when I heard the noise.”

  “Can you describe that noise for me?”

  “Horrible,” he whispered. “Like a rabbit with its leg in a trap. Then it cut off.” He snapped his fingers. “And there was this yell, reminded me of a footy fan on the terraces.”

  “What, like a cheer or something?” Sanne asked, appalled.

  “Yeah, a bloke gave a cheer, and then I heard running, and everything went quiet.”

  “Can you remember in which direction the person ran?”

  “Away from me.” Barber frowned, deep in concentration. “Toward the school, I think.”

  “Did any kind of vehicle pass you?”

  “No, nothing.”

  Sanne nodded, wishing she had a map handy on which to plot the roads and possible means of egress. Although far from perfect, Barber’s testimony would narrow down locations for fingertip searches.

  “Tell me what you did next.”

  “I crept over the road. I didn’t know where Dan was at first, but another bloke had already found him and was on his phone, shouting for help.”

  “Did you speak to this bloke at all?”

  “No. I saw Dan on the pavement. He weren’t moving and there was blood and guts everywhere, and I didn’t want to be there no more, so I went to our Sheila’s.”

  “Is there anything else that you remember, Paul?”

  He shrank back, and Sanne could practically see the shutters coming down. “Just that noise. Just that fucking noise.”

  She clicked her pen closed and set it on the table. “Sit tight,” she said. “I’ll fetch you a brew.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Snowflakes still melting in her hair, Sanne squeezed into the space Nelson had saved for her atop an empty desk, and accidentally elbowed Fred’s ribs in the process.

  “Bloody hell,” he hissed, rubbing the offended part. “Was that your elbow or a pickaxe? You need to get some meat on your bones, San.”

  “I’ll eat more pies, I promise,” she said, taking care to wrestle out her notebook without inflicting further damage.

  Pen readied and notes in hand, she felt able to relax a little. She hated being late, her stress further amplified by the scheduling of a full departmental briefing during which she had been asked to report on Paul Barber’s statement.

  “Roads bad?” Nelson said.

  “Yeah. I set off early, but it took me ages just to get over the Snake. After that, it was mostly idiots driving at ten miles an hour because there’s an inch of snow on the pavements.”

  He chuckled. “I got your text. I was all ready to stand in for you. Did you happen to catch the news this morning?”

  She shook her head. “I spent the drive practising for this and swearing at morons. What did I miss?”

  “Oh, not much.” A smile began to spread over his face. “Just Trevor Mulligan guilty of first degree murder.”

  “You’re shitting me,” she said, far more loudly than she had intended. Several people turned to look in her direction, but she didn’t care. If there had been enough space, she would’ve thrown her arms around Nelson. “Unanimous verdict?”

  “Yep. Came in late yesterday evening.”

  Sanne felt like a ton weight had just been rolled off her. She would never have forgiven herself had her shaky testimony wrecked the prosecution’s case. “Thank fuck for that. When’s the sentencing?”

  “Later today. He’ll get life. No doubt about it.”

  “I hope they throw away the bloody key,” she muttered, watching Eleanor and Carlyle take up positions at the front of the room.

  “I’m sure they will.”

  “Good morning, everyone.” Eleanor’s voice easily carried over the diminishing murmurs of conversation. “I
appreciate you coming in for such an ungodly hour. This is where we’re at, as of thirty minutes ago.” She flicked the lights off and opened a PowerPoint presentation, the first slide a well-lit image of Daniel Horst’s blood spilled on the pavement.

  “The post mortem on Horst has confirmed that a similar, most probably identical, weapon was used in his and Andrew Culver’s murders. Attempts to cast the wound tracks failed due to decomposition in Culver’s case and resuscitative attempts in Horst’s, but the knife we’re looking for resembles this one.” She clicked to a slide depicting a large, curved blade. “None of the three PMs have identified any trace evidence from the perp, which could indicate a degree of forensic sophistication. That the perp had kit with him on Saturday night—at the very least, gloves and the knife—implies the attack on Horst was planned rather than random. If he’s used the same blade twice, then it’s something he’s hung on to and it’s likely still to be in his possession, so keep your eyes peeled during house-to-house. This lad might be clever, but he’s taking more and more risks, which means he’s going to make a mistake at some point.” She turned to Carlyle. “Sergeant?”

  Carlyle nodded and stepped forward, his silhouette looming over the screen until he remembered to avoid the light.

  “So far, the only link between the three vics is the Mission Cross, and none of the interviewees yesterday described the men as anything other than passing acquaintances. Horst’s finances were completely clean, but we still have officers cross-referencing phone records to try to identify any overlap of contacts.” He paused, licked his thumb, and flipped to a new page in his file. Having glanced over the notes, he snapped the file shut. “I’ll be supervising further interviews at the shelter throughout the day. We’re expecting stragglers will keep turning up, and a round-the-clock police presence has been agreed for the next week. Police visibility here and on Malory Park is crucial. There is understandable fear among residents, and we need to ensure that people can see us doing our job. While there is nothing to suggest that we may be a target, stab vests are to be worn at all times if you’re out on the streets.” He eyeballed the mass of detectives and officers until he spotted Sanne. “Before we let you all get on, Detective Jensen has some information from a new witness.”

  At his cue, Sanne slid off the desk and made her way to the front. Carlyle switched on the main lights without warning her, leaving her blinking as she tried to focus on her notes.

  “Cheers, Sarge,” she said, her sarcasm softened by a smile in his direction. “Morning, everyone. Last night, I interviewed Paul Barber, a local man who’d just come out of a shop on Top Balan precinct as the attack on Daniel Horst took place. While parts of his testimony were vague and he didn’t actually see anything, he remembered hearing a male give a celebratory yell.” She paused to let that sink in, gauging reactions ranging from shock to disgust. “Moments later, Barber stated that someone ran in the direction of Malory Park Primary School. We’re assuming that someone was our perp.”

  She retrieved the remote that Carlyle had left on the table and clicked onto the next slide: a road map of the area immediately around the crime scene. She circled the murder site with the remote’s pointer.

  “This is where Horst was found, and this”—she plotted a path past the school—“is the most probable route for the perp. These streets will be the focus of a fingertip search, and house-to-house will also concentrate on this area. We’re particularly interested in any sightings of the perp as he fled, or of a dark-coloured—black or navy—Vauxhall Combo van that was spotted close to the first two crime scenes. An example of the make and model is in your briefing pack. The CCTV outside the school has been offline for the past week, but one of the traffic cameras leading out to the bypass is ANPR-enabled, so we’re hoping to get something from that when its footage is analysed.”

  Feeling absurdly proud that she’d managed to get through her section of the briefing without her voice quavering, she scanned her notes to ensure she’d covered everything. On the verge of heading back to her seat, she paused as she spotted a raised hand.

  “Uh, go ahead,” she said, unsure as to whether she should be taking questions.

  A detective drafted in from Domestic Violence cleared his throat. “This bloke, Barber. What did he mean by a yell? Was he able to elaborate?”

  “He said it sounded like a football fan cheering.” Sanne’s long commute had given her ample time to mull over this detail. “I suppose that could imply a thrill element to the murders. Each one becoming bolder, more public, and then, in the case of Daniel Horst, involving a victim with a higher social status who is more likely to garner attention.” She halted her conjecture as numerous debates broke out in the group. “Shit,” she whispered, the curse inaudible beneath the growing babble of voices.

  It took Eleanor’s return to the front to quieten the room. “Assignments have been posted,” she said. “Briefing packs are with Sergeant Carlyle. Vests and ID badges at all times, and no one but the media department is authorised to speak to the press. Thank you.”

  Sanne remained in place, feeling like prey in the thrall of a predator, until the room emptied and Eleanor approached her.

  “That was an interesting bit of supposition.”

  Sanne winced. “Sorry, boss. I was thinking aloud, and then I wasn’t thinking at all.”

  “It might have been better discussed in private before you decided to share with the group.”

  “I know.” The only way Sanne could have been more mortified was if she’d accidentally made her presentation in her underwear.

  “Having said that, the idea has crossed my mind more than once, and it’s not entirely without merit.” Eleanor dropped a pile of files into Sanne’s arms and nodded in the direction of her office. She waited until they were in the corridor before she spoke again. “If we’re lacking a motive, maybe it’s because there is no motive.”

  “Someone killing for kicks?” Sanne nudged the office door open with her backside. “It’s about the only thing that makes sense. Our perp has escalated from a private dwelling to wasteland and now to a main road, and from two vics no one cared about to a man well regarded on the estate.”

  Eleanor nodded. “If it’s publicity he’s after, he’s got it. Did you see the papers this morning? They’ve taken to calling him the ‘Sheffield Slasher.’”

  “Christ.”

  “Precisely. A bona fide sociopath on the loose on our patch.” Eleanor sat down with such force that her chair skidded back. “That’s just what we bloody well need.”

  *

  “If it’s any consolation, it’s an obvious theory, San.” Nelson stopped to check the keys in his hand and then headed farther to the left. “There’s only so long you can search for a motive before you start to think that there might not be one.”

  “I know,” Sanne said, tagging after him. “And the boss wasn’t really pissed off. I just wish I hadn’t blurted it out like that.”

  “It raised a few eyebrows. You’re not exactly renowned for improvising.”

  Sanne didn’t consider that an insult, but neither was it entirely accurate. “Except when it comes to scrapping with old ladies who’re trying to murder me with a tyre iron.”

  “Okay, yeah, there was that one time,” Nelson conceded.

  “See? See?” She wagged a finger at him. “I can improvise just fine. Now where’s this bloody car?”

  “A-Eight.”

  She glanced round and steered Nelson to the right. Most of the bays were empty, and snow was falling fast to cover the tarmac.

  “This is forecast to last most of the day.” She opened her mouth, trying to catch flakes on her tongue. “I’ll probably get stuck halfway home and have to sleep in my car.”

  “You don’t sound too bothered by that.” Nelson double-clicked the fob, and the indicators on a Vauxhall Astra flashed as it unlocked.

  “I packed a sleeping bag, spare clothes, and a Thermos. I’ll be fine.”

  Holding open the p
assenger door, Nelson gave her a little bow as she climbed in. “And here’s me saying you can’t improvise.”

  The roads leading away from HQ were a nightmare of stationary traffic and nervous snow drivers.

  “Did the boss authorise lights and sirens for this?” Nelson asked.

  “Nope.” Sanne propped her feet on the dash and ripped the top off a packet of custard creams.

  “It’s going to take us all day to get over to Malory.”

  “Yep.” She offered him a biscuit.

  “Let’s hope the Sheffield Slasher is a fair-weather type, eh?” he said through a mouthful of crumbs.

  Sanne gazed at the fields rapidly turning white beneath the storm. “Aye,” she said. “Let’s hope so.”

  *

  “Why do you do that? You bloody stupid birds!”

  Meg hooted the horn and skidded around a pair of ducks who had chosen to snooze in the snow in the middle of the road. The ducks, notorious for napping on the access road to Rowlee village, didn’t twitch a feather as she drove past. Approaching the welcome sign, she turned the radio off and opened her window. All she could hear now was a robin singing in a nearby hedgerow. Even the car’s engine sounded muffled. Coming home to this was worth the slog from Sheffield along the freshly ploughed Snake Pass. She had told Emily she was going to pick up a smart shirt for that afternoon’s soiree in Harrogate, but her reasons were even simpler than that: she wanted to see the hills and her village in the snow, and to spend the morning away from the city.

  She waved to Arthur Grimshaw as she fishtailed onto her driveway, taking her time pulling on her gloves until she saw that he was safely home. Once his door closed, she grabbed her keys and stomped her feet into the drift her tyres had created, instantly reminded of pitched snowball battles with Sanne and Keeley, and of rolling massive snowmen on the back field. They had never had a sledge, only a shared metal tea tray, cadged from Sanne’s mum because it had two handles and could fly downhill faster than shit off a shovel.

  Remembering a ten-year-old Sanne using that exact phrase in front of her mum, Meg laughed and unlocked her front door, shoving it over the mail and local newspaper on her mat. She kicked off her boots, slung her coat on the banister, and went straight to the kitchen for a bacon butty. Eyes fixed on the fridge, she didn’t see Luke until he moved, pushing off the countertop to stand just beyond her reach.