Cold to the Touch

by Cari Hunter

  *

  Nelson met Sanne at the entrance to the canal basin car park, looking cold and thoroughly miserable.

  “We’re just waiting on Mike’s team,” he told her. “They ran into resistance at a friend of Acre’s and had to call for backup.”

  “Everyone okay?”

  “One minor dog bite, one arrest, and no sign of our perps.”

  Sanne kicked at a can buried under the snow. “Same here, only with less excitement and no dog bite.” She stepped side-on and displayed her ragged trousers. “A hedge bit me instead.”

  “Ouch. Bet that’s draughty.”

  “It is, rather.”

  Nelson glanced back into the car park. “Zoe collared me just now and asked after you.” He faltered as if wary of saying anything else, but he’d always been one for doing the right thing, even if it meant giving someone a gentle shove. “Maybe you should go and talk to her, San. She seemed really upset.”

  “Probably a hangover,” Sanne muttered. She jabbed the can again like a sulky teenager and then bared her teeth in a rictus grin. “Okay, okay. Where was she?”

  “Picnic bench on the far left.”

  “Ten minutes.” She set off in the direction opposite to his. “If I’m not back by then, please come and rescue me.”

  Although the farthest reaches of the car park were unlit, Sanne had no difficulty spotting Zoe. Hunched atop a picnic table with her feet propped on the bench, she had her back to the officers chatting in small groups around the van. A cigarette burned in her fingers, and several freshly discarded stubs were scattered beneath the bench. The crunch of Sanne’s footsteps made her look up. She quickly extinguished the cigarette in the snow and stayed where she was, allowing Sanne to meet her on the level for once.

  “Hi.” She twisted her bottom lip between her teeth, smearing them with lipstick. “If you want to shove me into the canal, I’ll completely understand.”

  Sanne turned her head to consider the logistics. “It’s icy. You’d probably bounce straight back out.”

  Her candour alleviated some of the tension. She declined the offer of a cigarette, but plucked the lighter from Zoe’s clumsy fingers and sparked it up for her.

  “Thanks.” Zoe exhaled her smoke high into the sky. When Sanne didn’t speak, she assumed the initiative. “I don’t actually know what to say, which is a first for me. ‘Sorry’ seems a bit shit, but for what it’s worth, I really am. I swear I didn’t know what’d happened to Meg. I never would’ve—” She cut herself off to pull on her cig. “Well, yeah, anyway, I’m sorry.”

  Confounded by the inarticulate monologue, Sanne brushed the remaining snow from the table and nudged up beside Zoe. Working as a detective had taught her a lot of things, one of those being that life was too short to hold grudges.

  “It’s partly my fault,” she said. “I shouldn’t have given you the wrong impression. My head’s been up my arse, with everything that’s happened to Meg and with the case, and I’m crap at all this…” She floundered for the right word.

  “Dating malarkey?” Zoe suggested.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  Zoe blew out a smoke ring. “I’m usually so good at it.”

  “I didn’t mean to wreck your average.” Sanne shrugged. “You should probably write me off as an aberration.”

  “I don’t think you count if you’re not really available in the first place,” Zoe said quietly. She nipped out her cigarette and got to her feet. “Y’know, when you talk about Meg, your entire face changes.”

  It was a few seconds before Sanne dared to meet her eyes. “It does?”

  “Yep. You’d be terrible at poker.”

  Taking the offered hand, Sanne slid down from the table. “I always lose at cards, whatever the game. At least now I know why.”

  “I had a boyfriend like that once. I’d take him to the cleaners every time we played, and he never had a clue.” Zoe stopped suddenly. “That other thing I said last night, about you being—”

  Sanne broke in, not wanting to make her repeat it. “I remember.”

  “It wasn’t true. No one’s ever said that about you.” Zoe shook her head. “That ex, he yelled it at me when I dumped him. Fucking hell, I always thought he was such an arsehole for it.”

  “Did he ever apologise?”

  “No, never.”

  “Well, you’ve apologised, so let’s forget about it, okay?”

  A stifled sniffle from Zoe prompted Sanne to fish in her pocket for a clean tissue. She handed it over like a flag of truce.

  “Come and sit on the bus,” she said, once Zoe had stemmed the flow of mascara. “It’s bloody freezing.”

  Zoe nodded, but she was watching her colleagues at the van, and she didn’t move. “Can you tell I’ve been crying?”

  Sanne stood on tiptoe and cleaned a black streak from Zoe’s cheek with her glove. “Not anymore.”

  The gesture brought a proper smile to Zoe’s face. “God, you’re cute as a button,” she said. “I hope Meg realises how lucky she is.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  As the security barrier at HQ rose to admit the van, a weak cheer sounded from those on board who’d managed to stay awake.

  Sanne nudged Nelson, whose snores were more audible now that the engine was idling. “Come on, sleeping beauty.”

  He stretched, smacking his sticky lips together. “Hmm. What time is it?”

  “Almost seven.” She ducked as someone swung past with a rucksack. “Leave your paperwork with me. I’ll probably be camping out here again tonight.”

  Gratitude brightened his face. “That’d be great, if you don’t mind. I just need to nip in and grab my keys from my locker.”

  They navigated the frozen car park, gave a perfunctory flash of their ID at the front desk, and squeezed into the lift with a bunch of drowsy, shivering officers. No one else got out at their floor. The EDSOP office smelled stale after a day of standing almost empty, and they both jumped like thieves caught in the act when George shouted across to them.

  “So close,” Nelson muttered. “I was so damn close.”

  George already had his coat fastened and his cap in hand. “Front desk buzzed about ten minutes ago, asked me to collect a couple of guests for you. There’s no one else here, so I stuck around to babysit, and now I’m going home.” He beamed, patting his cap into place. “Oh, I made them a brew and put them in Interview Two.”

  “Wha—?” Sanne stared at his rapidly disappearing form.

  “You’re welcome!” he called as he stepped into the lift.

  He’d left the door to Interview Two ajar, but Sanne guessed who was in there even before she saw the glass of orange juice on the table and the scuffed Nikes beneath it.

  “Hi, Ben,” she said, draping her coat over the back of an empty chair. “Wilf.”

  Wilf stood to shake her hand and nod at Nelson. He seemed to have aged in the scant hours since their interview, his grip diminished and his face ashen.

  Nelson pulled up another chair, all thoughts of home banished without complaint. “What can we do for you?”

  “Barbara doesn’t know we’re here,” Wilf said, his head twitching toward the door as if she might barge in at any moment. “We’ve had reporters ringing or knocking on all day, so she took a couple of sleepers straight after tea. That’s when Ben told me, and I called in sick at work to bring him here.” He was a nervous wreck, and an intermittent vocal spasm choked his speech. His foot tapped incessantly, until Ben put a hand on his knee.

  “It’ll be fine, Dad.” Ben waited for the motion to cease before he turned to Sanne. “I just have to tell you what happened, right?”

  “Yep, that’s right.” Sanne had a good idea of what might be coming. “Why don’t you start at the beginning? Take your time, and don’t mind us if we make some notes, okay?”

  He nodded, and the words tumbled out of him in an agitated staccato. “I saw our Nat with that bloke. She came round when Dad was on shift and Mum was at my aunt Sandra�
�s.”

  He paused, leaving the room so quiet that Sanne could hear the ticking of his watch. Thrilled by an actual witness confirming the link between Rudd and Acre, she had leaned forward without realising.

  “When was this?” she asked.

  “Teatime, Monday just gone. I didn’t know who the bloke was then, I swear I didn’t.”

  “It’s all right. You’re not in any trouble,” she said quickly, seeing him starting to panic. “Monday was the first time we heard anything about Steven Rudd, so you couldn’t have known.”

  “Natalie doesn’t have a key to the house,” Wilf said, filling a gap in the explanation and allowing Ben time to compose himself. “Barbara took it away after she stole from us to buy drugs. She hasn’t had one since.”

  Sanne noted the detail, but her focus remained on Ben. “What did Natalie want?”

  Ben gulped half his juice, keeping hold of the glass as he continued. “Money. She said she was skint and desperate, and she cried a bit because Andy was dead. I brewed up and made sandwiches. Steve seemed okay at first. He’s a footy fan, like me.”

  “So you were chatting?”

  “Yeah, just about stuff. Sheffield Wednesday, United. He’s a United fan, but I told him they were rubbish.”

  “They are,” Nelson said, making Ben smile. “Did you give Natalie the money she asked for?”

  The smile vanished. “I work weekends at the chippy, and I’d saved about fifty quid. She took that and then started asking for more. She knows I go to pick up Mum’s incapacity benefit, but it’s not due till tomorrow.”

  It was only the slightest hint, but it stopped Sanne’s pen dead on the page. If Ben hadn’t been a minor, she would probably have sworn.

  “Ben, was Natalie planning to come to the house again, or did she ask you to take that money somewhere once you had it?”

  Ben didn’t answer. He put his glass down and scrubbed his palms on his trousers. There were tears in his eyes when he looked up. He knuckled them away, his wet fists remaining clenched afterward.

  “You’re safe here,” Sanne said, quietly. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

  His breath gurgled as he swallowed a sob, prompting Wilf to move closer and take his hand.

  “Rudd had a knife.” Wilf’s voice shook with impotent fury. “He held it to my son’s throat and made him promise not to say anything.”

  “He cut me,” Ben whispered. Keeping a firm grip on his dad’s hand, he used his other to lower the polo neck on his sweater, revealing an inch-long scab. “And our Nat did nothing.”

  His sense of betrayal was harder for Sanne to witness than Wilf’s outrage. She could imagine Ben concealing the wound from his parents, unable to explain how it had happened, and convinced that Rudd would return to make good on his threat.

  “They’re renting a flat,” Ben said, sounding firmer now, as if resolved to get to the end. “Four A Eustace Street, above that row of empty shops. I’m supposed to go there tomorrow in my dinner break.”

  “Excuse me.” Nelson bolted for the door, a note of the address clutched in his hand. His urgency made Sanne shift in her seat, the logistics of organising a raid warring with her desire to see the interview through to a proper conclusion.

  “What are you going to do?” Ben asked. He rubbed his neck, worrying at the scab’s edge and bringing a drop of blood to the surface.

  “We’ll go there tonight,” she said. “You and your dad are welcome to wait here, or you can go home with officers who will stay with you.”

  “Will they get Steve if he comes to our house?”

  “Yes, they’ll arrest him if he comes anywhere near.”

  Ben appeared to consider that for a moment. “And our Nat too?”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t seem overly concerned by that prospect. He straightened his sweater and wiped the smear of blood from his finger. “We should get back,” he said to his dad. “In case Mum wakes up.”

  “Good thinking, son.” Wilf patted Ben’s knee. “Was there anything else you needed, Detective?”

  Sanne snapped her notebook closed. “Half an hour to get Ben’s statement typed up, and a couple of photographs of his injury. If that’s okay with you?” She directed this last at Ben, who nodded. She shook both of their hands again: one coarse and tremulous, the other smaller and steady. “I know it can’t have been easy coming in here, but you’ve done the right thing, so thank you. Sit tight, and I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  Once in the corridor and out of earshot, she sprinted to her desk. On the opposite side, Nelson was cradling his mobile against his shoulder as his fingers battered his keyboard.

  “Eleanor’s on her way—she’s sorting the warrant—and I’m on hold with the TAU sarge,” he said. “Carlyle, Jay, and Scotty are coming in as well.”

  “Fab.” Sanne started her own computer, feeling slightly dubious now that she’d had a few minutes to reflect. “Hell of a risk to take, wasn’t it? Giving that address to a fifteen-year-old kid, even if he is your brother and you’ve got him at knifepoint?”

  “Yeah. There’s every chance they’ve moved somewhere else.” Nelson sounded equally cautious. “Or maybe they’ll think him even less likely to tell anyone what’s happened, now he knows they’re capable of murder.”

  “It’s possible.”

  Nelson held up a finger and adjusted his mobile. “Yes, still here,” he said into it. “That’s great. I’ll pass it on to the boss. Thanks.” He dropped the phone into his hand. “At any rate, it’s the best lead we’ve had. Get cracking on your statement, San. The TAU will be here in an hour.”

  *

  Located half a mile from Malory in an area earmarked for demolition, Eustace Street was an ideal place for anyone wanting to avoid inquisitive neighbours. It comprised three boarded-up shops opposite a row of boarded-up terraced houses, and its sole sign of inhabitation was a slowly revolving advert for Booze and Fags that sat above the corner shop. Waiting out of sight on the next street, Sanne held her gloves in her mouth as she fastened her stab vest. Happy with the fit, she let Nelson help her into her coat before shoving her gloves back on.

  “I think she might actually explode,” he whispered. They were both earwigging on the argument raging a few feet away, while feigning obliviousness.

  Thanks to a large-scale brawl in the city centre, the TAU had only been able to spare three men. Eleanor had spent the last twenty minutes alternately railing at the most senior of them and consulting someone on the phone. Now, with the air of a decision finally reached, she slapped the cover over her mobile and gestured everyone closer.

  “Right, the top brass are happy with our risk assessment and keen to get this case closed, so we’re going ahead as planned. Teams of five and four: Carlyle, Sanne, Nelson, Graham, and Col are through the front, and everyone else takes the back.” There was no need for further instruction. Strategy and the layout of the flat had already been discussed at length, and standing around in sub-zero temperatures wasn’t doing anyone any favours.

  The snow was soft enough to muffle footsteps, allowing Sanne’s team to approach the entrance of 4A in near silence. Using a pair of bolt cutters, Graham snipped the padlock fastening the security grille and winced at the squeak as he pulled it open.

  “Go, Col,” he said, stepping aside to allow his colleague to ready an enforcer ram.

  The door shattered in three strikes, the clash of metal still ringing in Sanne’s ears as Graham disappeared into the darkness, the bob of his torch tracking his route up a flight of stairs. Col sprinted after him, their shouted warnings a familiar battle cry.

  Keeping her torch centred where she needed to place her feet, Sanne took the stairs two at a time, hurtling through the left-hand door as Carlyle and Nelson took the right. She and Graham tossed the double bedroom, overturning a soiled mattress to expose the frame’s slatted base and the empty space beneath it and then pulling open the wardrobes. There was no time for Sanne to think, no time to be afraid. The thin l
ight from the bulb swinging overhead showed no other hiding places, and Graham instantly yelled, “Clear!”

  An echoing “Clear!” rang out from the living room, raising the hairs on the nape of Sanne’s neck as Graham approached the bathroom door. There were only four rooms in the flat, and two of those had already proven empty.

  A sudden thud behind her sent her spinning around, before she realised it was just someone kicking open the kitchen door. She turned back to the bathroom in time to see Graham boot his way in, but he stopped so abruptly on the threshold that she almost slammed into him.

  “Aw, fuck.” He clapped his hand over his nose.

  Staring into the darkness, Sanne heard a rattle of an ancient extractor fan and felt the draught from the broken bathroom window. Seconds later, the smell hit her.

  “Jesus,” she whispered. She kept her teeth clenched, trying not to breathe in the sickly-sweet odour of decaying flesh. “It must be in the bath.”

  Sweat gleamed on Graham’s forehead as he took hold of the dirt-grey shower curtain, his Taser primed and aimed. He yanked on the material, sending hooks flying onto the tiles and the shower curtain sailing over his head. Thick globs of fluid splattered across his face. As he realised what they were, he leaned over the sink and began to retch.