by Cari Hunter
“Shit,” he gasped between bouts of coughing. “Clear?”
Walking closer, Sanne lowered her baton and shone her torch into the bath. “Yeah, clear,” she said, and then, into her comms, “We’ve got a body here.” Bare legs, positioned wide apart and speckled with patches of green, led up to grossly swollen genitalia. “White male, stab wounds to the abdomen and torso.” The man’s bloated belly was oozing fluid onto the porcelain, its smell forcing Sanne to recoil as she studied his face. The slip of slackened flesh had rendered his features grotesque, pulling at his mouth and cheeks to give the impression of a melted waxwork. It took her a full minute to mentally fix everything back into position.
“Fucking hell.” She pushed her comms, her head reeling. “Boss, you need to come and see this. I’m pretty sure we’ve found Steven Rudd.”
Chapter Twenty-three
“What a bloody mess.” Crouching by the bath, Eleanor took a final, long look at the photograph in her hand and then stood without touching anything. She hadn’t yet given her opinion on the comparison, and Sanne couldn’t tell if she was referring to the body or to its potential implications for the case.
“Is it him, boss?” Carlyle asked from the doorway, evidently unwilling to take Sanne’s word for it.
Eleanor shoved the photograph toward Carlyle and gestured for him to move closer. “Either that or he’s got a fucking twin. Has he got a fucking twin, Sanne?”
Sanne didn’t have a clue. She threw a desperate glance at Nelson, who shook his head. “I don’t think so, boss.”
“Okay then,” Eleanor said. “In which case, I can only assume that Natalie Acre is responsible for Rudd’s murder and—who the hell knows? Possibly the murders of three other men.” She raised her voice above the ensuing murmurs of speculation from the EDSOP detectives crowded around the door. “I didn’t see this coming either, but given the manner in which Rudd has been posed and the fact that we were as good as told where he’d be, I think Acre has sent us a clear message.”
Eleanor had never been known to back down from a challenge, and despite her exasperation she was moving with more energy, her expression animated. If Natalie had thrown down a gauntlet, Eleanor would happily pick it up and slap her with it.
“Rudd threatened Ben early on Monday evening, so he was still alive then,” Sanne said. She’d just worked out the timeline, and it had given her the creeps. “Acre planned this to perfection. I bet she murdered Rudd as soon as she’d fed Ben this address. She must have done, because she can’t have predicted how long Ben would sit on the information.”
“She made sure it was us who found him, as well,” Eleanor said. “She obviously couldn’t turn the heating off—there’s no thermostat anywhere—but she used the fan to cover the smell, and the glass beneath that window suggests it’s been broken recently. She didn’t want anyone jumping the gun and calling the landlord out.”
Finished with his analysis, Carlyle began to clean his hands on a sanitary wipe, even though he hadn’t put them anywhere near the body. “Meanwhile, she’s had two clear days to find herself another hiding place,” he said. “We need to pin down more of her local contacts and liaise with West Yorks police, too, if Bradford is a possible safe haven.”
Eleanor nodded. “SOCO are ten minutes out. Leave the bathroom to them, but fingertip every other room. If Acre likes to play games, she may have started another breadcrumb trail somewhere.” Her shoulders dropped and she looked suddenly exhausted again. “I don’t know what the brass will want to do about this. It’s possible they’ll put the entire case up for review.”
Sanne groaned, along with her colleagues. An outsider nosing through and picking fault with every step of the investigation was no one’s idea of fun.
“Just be prepared for that, and for the media fallout,” Eleanor said, “because the press are going to have a fucking field day.”
*
Two hours trapped in the flat’s stifling heat left Sanne feeling as if she’d never rid herself of the smell of dead body. She could taste it at every breath, and it seemed to cling to the inside of her nostrils. As Nelson approached the final cupboard in the kitchen, he looked similarly green around the gills.
“Milk pan, roasting tray with half a spud still in situ, and a cheese grater.” He shut the cupboard. “How about you stay with us tonight? We don’t have a spare room, but we do have a comfy sofa and a shower that Carlyle hasn’t been in.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Sanne said, though she very much did. The thought of another night shivering in Interview Two was less than appealing.
“It’s true you’d be a terrible burden, but I think we’d muddle through.”
“In which case I appreciate and accept your offer.” She took a step back to survey the room. “Are we done? I want to try to catch Meg.”
“We’re done.” He held the door for her, and they went out onto the landing. Scotty and Jay were already there, a solemn shake of their heads summarising their search of the living room. Leaving them to wait for Eleanor, Sanne dodged the two SOCO conferring on the stairs and took shelter beneath the tattered awning of a neighbouring shop.
The first ring of Meg’s phone sounded far too loud. It was getting on for midnight, and Sanne had no idea whether Meg would still be awake. She held her breath as the call was picked up, dreading Emily coming on the line.
“Hey, San.” Meg didn’t sound as if she’d been sleeping, and she made no attempt to lower her voice.
“Hey, you. Just checking in.”
“I’m fine. Everything’s fine,” Meg said, a little too brightly. “Are you camping at the office?”
The false cheer immediately put Sanne on alert. “No, I’m still at work. Did you end up in the spare room again?”
“Sort of.” Meg sighed. “Y’know, I always forget that you’re a bloody detective.”
That was enough to make Sanne really worried. “Meg, where are you?”
There was a lengthy delay before Meg answered. “Thornbury House.”
“Thornbury? Why the hell are you—Oh shit, did you have the talk?”
“Aye,” Meg said quietly.
“And what? She kicked you out?”
“It was more of a mutual decision.” Meg’s tone aimed for pragmatism, but fatigue underscored her words. “I don’t feel very well,” she admitted.
“Does your room there have a kitchenette?” Sanne asked, starting back toward the flat.
“Yes, but, San, you don’t—”
“I’ll see you in half an hour.”
*
It was several minutes before Meg opened the door of her hotel room. Waiting in the corridor, laden with shopping bags, Sanne heard a geriatric-esque shuffle across the carpet, followed by the rattle of the security chain and snap of the bolt. Helping the door on its way with her foot, she stared in dismay as she set eyes on Meg.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered. She dropped her bags and gathered Meg into a careful hug.
“I didn’t want to bother you.” Meg’s lips were scratchy and dry against the snow-dampened skin of Sanne’s neck. “I didn’t want to drag you out here.”
“It’s no bother, you daft bugger.” Keeping a firm hold of Meg’s hand, Sanne led her to the bed, where she settled her onto pillows that bore a well-established indentation. The swelling to her face was less pronounced, but it was her unkempt appearance, shaking hands, and sallow skin that worried Sanne. “You look like crap. When did you last have something to eat?”
Meg blinked as if baffled by the question. “I dunked a couple of biscuits. I can’t really chew, and I didn’t want to go to the restaurant, not like this.”
“Well, fortunately I came prepared.” Sanne collected the shopping bags and hauled them to the kitchenette. “Semolina or soup?” she said, holding up a tin of each.
“It’s one o’clock in the morning, San.”
“Yeah, but I’m starving, you’re on the verge of fading away, and we’re both in jobs where we ge
t to eat breakfast at midnight. So, semolina or soup?”
Meg chewed her lip. “Have you got jam?”
“Raspberry.” Sanne tried not to show her glee. She’d bought the jar in a last-minute flash of inspiration.
“One of my favourite school dinners,” Meg said with nostalgic reverence. “Please tell me the jam is seedless.”
Sanne rolled her eyes at the unnecessary query and set the semolina to heat in the microwave. “Where are your painkillers?” Following Meg’s pointed finger, she found a plastic bag stuffed with underwear, along with a small toiletries wallet. “Is this everything? The sum total of your worldly possessions?”
“That was as much as I could carry. There’s a change of clothes in the wardrobe too.”
“Fucking hell.” Sanne took the toiletries into the bathroom and stayed there, her fingernails digging into her palms, until the urge to rant about Emily ditching Meg in such a state had dissipated. There were two sides to every story, and she’d barely heard one of them yet. She busied herself sorting out pills, waiting for the ping of the microwave before returning to the bedroom to dole the semolina into two bowls.
“Here you go.” She set the tray on Meg’s lap, and Meg leaned over the bowl to let the steam bathe her face.
“God, that smells good.” She stirred a healthy dollop of jam into the pudding, grinning as it turned pink. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” she told Sanne, who was eating hers plain.
Sanne shrugged, taking another spoonful from her own bowl, relishing the taste of something she’d not eaten for years. “So, what happened?”
Meg used a finger to retrieve a stray blob from her tray, but she didn’t prevaricate for long. “The talk didn’t go very well,” she said with wry understatement. “Emily was pissed off that I’d not told her about Luke, and she figured out what had happened to Mum and was pissed off that I’d lied about that as well, and then she managed to blame you into the bargain.”
Sanne lowered her spoon. “Oh, no. Oh, shit. Meg, I’m so sorry. Do you want me to phone her or something?”
“What for? To file an appeal?”
“Well, yeah, in a manner of speaking.” Sanne frowned. “Would it help?”
Meg set her tray on the bed and pulled up her knees. “What if I was guilty as charged?”
“You?” It had been a long day and Sanne was knackered, but even so she was usually better than this at following Meg’s dubious grasp of logic. “I thought I was the villain here.”
“Not really. She dragged you into it as someone else to be mad at, but—I don’t know, San.” Balancing her chin on her knees, Meg caught and held Sanne’s gaze. “I think I may have committed relationship suicide.”
“Hmm.” Sanne scratched her cheek and decided to settle in for the long run. Having plumped up a couple of pillows beside Meg, she shuffled into place and held her arms out. “C’mere and tell me all about it.”
That made Meg smile. She leaned her head against Sanne’s chest, saying nothing as Sanne stroked her hair. Little by little Sanne felt her relax, until eventually she spoke without prompting.
“I did like Em, I really did, but I suspect I liked the novelty of the romance even more.”
Sanne couldn’t help it. She laughed. “You? Cynical-to-the-bone Megan Fielding enjoyed being wooed?”
“I know, I know it sounds daft, but for a while there it was nice to come home to someone, and to get chocolates and flowers, and to go out for meals for no reason.”
“Like a proper couple,” Sanne said, the light beginning to dawn. It was something that she and Meg had never done. They were best friends who occasionally slept together, but they’d never been exclusive or held hands in public or bought each other Valentines.
“Exactly.” Meg toyed with a button on Sanne’s shirt. “It was all the other crap that came with it that I couldn’t handle.”
“Such as?”
“Such as, I don’t think I was ever good enough for her, or good enough at being in a relationship. It wasn’t Em’s fault.” She hesitated as if reconsidering that and peeked up at Sanne. “Aw, fuck. You’ll think I’m stupid.”
Sanne already had an inkling of what was coming. “Try me.”
That was all the encouragement Meg needed. “I want to get my hair cut short again, San, and eat what I like, and wear what I like, and swear, and spend time alone without needing to explain why, and be a cynical shit, and talk with my mouth full, and not think that the sun shines out of everybody’s arse because it doesn’t and there’s no point pretending that it does.” She ran out of breath and had to stop, but she was starting to smile.
Sanne smiled with her. “That’s my girl.”
“And that was the other problem,” Meg said quietly. “I think I’ll always be your girl.”
When Sanne managed to respond, her voice sounded rough and unfamiliar. “Do you really mean that?”
Meg took her hand, the strength of her grip giving credence to her answer. “Yes, I really mean that.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” Relief made Sanne speak without thinking, but she didn’t want to try to analyse this in any case, to start worrying about how things might work or whether they even would. For now, the glimmer of hope was enough.
“Everything old is new again,” Meg murmured. She sounded contented, her body resting heavy and snug against Sanne’s.
Sanne hugged her closer and kissed the top of her head. “Oi, we’re only thirty-three. Less of the bloody ‘old’!”
Chapter Twenty-four
Four-and-a-half hours of solid, dreamless sleep, a kiss good-bye from Meg, and the reopening of the Snake Pass saw Sanne arriving at HQ full of optimism, prepared to take on whatever the day might launch at her. She hadn’t even unfastened her coat when Carlyle fired the first volley.
“The boss wants to see you in her office.”
Sanne pulled her gloves off slowly. “Did she say when?”
“As soon as you got in.” He made a point of looking her over. “You might want to smarten up first, though.”
She felt her face go hot. After ripping her trousers at the canal, she’d had to recycle the pair she’d worn to search the wasteland, and there was something splattered on their hem that had proven resistant to hotel soap. Sidestepping Carlyle, she headed for the relative safety of the women’s locker room, where she combed her hair and scrubbed futilely at her trousers. The sudden switch from the cold air outside to the warmth of the office had left her cheeks pink, and they stayed pink even when her embarrassment had faded. After a few minutes with no improvement, she gave up and knocked on Eleanor’s door.
“Come in.”
Sanne entered the office to find three men seated around Eleanor’s desk. She recognised one as Eleanor’s immediate superior, but the other two she had never seen before. Instinct and her experience as a uniformed officer kicked in, and she clapped her heels together and straightened her torso. She didn’t salute, but it was an effort not to.
“You wanted to see me, ma’am?”
Eleanor nodded. “You know DCI Litton. This is DI Southam and DS Rashid.”
Although Sanne acknowledged each of the introductions, she didn’t move any closer. Her boots felt as if they had lead weights attached to their soles. The smell of bitter coffee and an aftershave that stank on a par with Carlyle’s had obliterated the clean apple scent that she always associated with the room.
“We’ve been discussing your interview with Natalie Acre,” Litton said.
Sanne had already guessed as much from the file open in front of him. Even from a distance she could identify her own handwriting. She said nothing, not wanting to exacerbate matters by acting defensive.
“You didn’t interview her under caution,” Rashid said. His accent, clipped and proper, suggested that he didn’t work locally.
“No, I didn’t.” She stepped forward, irritated both by the question and the ambush. “At that time there was no reason to suspect Acre. As I explained to DI Stanhope
on Tuesday night, she came in for interview voluntarily. I only recorded the audio to be thorough.” She caught an approving look from Eleanor, but it vanished when Litton snapped the file closed.
“You’ll surrender your files on this case to DI Southam and make yourself available for interview with DS Rashid, should he request it.”
“Yes, sir.” Sanne met his stare as she answered. As far as she was concerned, they could all fill their fucking boots. She’d started this case under an improvement notice, and her investigatory processes and paperwork had been meticulous. If anyone found a T that she’d not crossed, she’d give them a tenner.
Litton stood, prompting the other two men to do likewise, one clasping Sanne’s file, the other a disc upon which, she assumed, was Acre’s interview.
“I expect hourly updates.” Litton fired his parting shot in Eleanor’s direction and left with his underlings tagging behind him.
Eleanor waited for a count of ten before leaving her desk and shutting the door. “Try not to worry,” she said, sinking into the closest chair.
Sanne took the one next to Eleanor and planted both feet flat on the floor to stop her knees from knocking. She wasn’t stupid; she understood what the meeting had been about and the role she’d been cast in. “Should I be worried?” she asked.
“Honestly?” Eleanor rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I’m not sure. Litton asked to see your personnel file, so he knows about the three-month warning, and you’re the only detective to have spoken to Acre at any length.”
“I’m also the one who pulled together two seemingly disparate murders and named Acre as a suspect.”
“True, but that could go against you if they want to play dirty. You hit on Acre because of something you’d missed when you interviewed her, something at the back of your mind that you should’ve connected sooner.”
“Bloody hell.” Sanne shook her head in dismay. “How long have we got?”