No Good Reason

by Cari Hunter

  Eleanor slid the sheaf of papers into her briefcase and snapped it shut. “Go on. Get yourself to the chippy.”

  They crossed the room together and paused at the door to Eleanor’s office.

  “G’night, boss.” It went without saying that the DI would be working into the early hours.

  “Night, Sanne. Enjoy your day off.”

  That brought a smile to Sanne’s face. She had met her deadlines, cleared her outstanding caseload, and triumphed at rock-paper-scissors. For the first time in months, she had nothing work-related left to do.

  “Cheers, boss.” She grabbed her jacket and leaned over her computer to log out of the system. As she headed for the stairwell, her phone buzzed. Meg’s text was brief and to the point.

  Running late. Got puked on. Fancy a chippy tea at mine instead?

  *

  The hospital’s shower pressure left a lot to be desired, but the water was hot and plentiful, and Meg felt herself beginning to relax beneath it. She shampooed her hair and then let her arms fall to her sides, allowing the thin stream to do the work of rinsing for her. Her back ached, and she could still smell a trace of alcohol-laced vomit, even through the body wash.

  “Sod it,” she muttered, switching the shower off. “Better than it was before.”

  Her torso was rubbed almost raw where she had tried to scrub herself clean. Already starting to shiver in the cool bathroom, she dabbed the abraded skin with her towel. Once dressed and somewhat warmer, she tossed her filthy scrubs into a clinical waste bag, collected her belongings, and carried everything out into the corridor.

  “Bright side, Doc?” one of the porters called to her, as he wheeled a patient past. “Least it happened at the end of your shift.”

  “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” She smiled as he over-steered his trolley and bounced it off a doorjamb.

  “Bugger. Sorry, Ethel. See you tomorrow, Doc.”

  Meg turned in the opposite direction and dumped her waste bag in the sluice, before hurrying toward the exit. As she neared the doors, she had to force herself not to run. This was always the trickiest part of the shift: leaving without anyone attempting to waylay her, to ask her for a second opinion or get her to do just this one small procedure that wouldn’t take more than a minute, honestly.

  The doors shut behind her, and she stepped out into mild evening air, tinged with tobacco smoke as someone hidden behind an ambulance enjoyed a crafty cigarette. She breathed deeply regardless, and smiled when her stomach rumbled. On cue, her phone chirped.

  Hurry up, Sanne had typed. Make mine the usual, and add curry sauce xx

  *

  Sanne moved around Meg’s kitchen with an ease born of familiarity. She knew in which cupboard Meg stored her crockery and behind which jar of pasta the condiments were hidden. Tea bags waited in mugs beside the kettle and slices of thick-cut buttered bread, while the oven burred in the background as it warmed the plates.

  The end-of-terrace house had beautiful Victorian features, but the living room’s large bay window and high ceiling left it draughty and cold even in summer. Kneeling on the hearthrug, Sanne pushed another log onto the open fire and shifted its position with the poker. A rush of heat made her cheeks tingle pleasantly, and she smiled as the scrape of a key in the front door was followed by the traditional hail: “Anybody home?”

  Lured by the scent of vinegary chips, Sanne scrambled up and found Meg in the hallway, struggling to untie her trainers with her hands full.

  “Plates are in, kettle’s boiled, bread’s done, fire’s lit, and oh, I love your new hairdo,” Sanne said. She took Meg’s workbag and the chip shop bag, and stood patiently as Meg used her as a prop while she levered the shoes off.

  “You’ve been busy,” Meg said, giving Sanne a wet kiss on the cheek. “I knew there was a reason you were my very best friend.” She poked experimentally at her hair. “Did I forget to brush it again?”

  Sanne laughed. “I would say so, yes.”

  “Does it look horrible?”

  “It certainly looks original.”

  “Well, you know me. I am all about setting trends.”

  That just made Sanne laugh harder. Meg adored the hospital’s casual dress code of scrubs for its Accident and Emergency doctors, and spent most of her free time wearing combat pants and hooded tops. Her short hair needed minimal styling, and the only colour in her cheeks was a suntan acquired sitting in her back garden with her feet up, while Sanne tended to her plants. Sanne grinned and kissed Meg’s forehead. They had been best mates for years, and Sanne adored her.

  “You look gorgeous,” she said.

  “Mmhm.” Meg regarded her with customary scepticism. “I think the promise of chips is clouding your judgement slightly.”

  “That’s a distinct possibility. Did you remember my curry sauce?”

  “Of course I did.”

  The protestation might have been more convincing had Sanne not already seen CURRY! scrawled across the back of Meg’s hand. “How far did you get before you had to go back for it?”

  Meg attempted to feign indignation for a moment, before she sighed. “About a mile and a half.”

  “So, better than that time you came home with nothing but two pickled eggs and someone else’s mushy peas?”

  It was faint praise, but it seemed to cheer Meg. She opened the paper wrappings and shook vinegar across her fish with renewed zeal. “I even remembered to put the bins out this morning.”

  “Yeah?” Sanne said through a pilfered chip, as they took their plates into the living room. “Good for you.”

  “Course, it was cans and paper this week, and I put out household and garden, but at least I got the day right.”

  They sat together on the sofa. Sanne reached over to tap her fork against Meg’s.

  “You’re bloody brilliant,” she said, and took the lid off her carton of curry sauce, to find gravy instead.

  *

  “Sorry about the curry.” Her expression downcast, Meg proffered a fresh brew and a packet of chocolate HobNobs like a peace offering.

  Sanne took the mug and patted the sofa cushions, waiting until Meg had slumped beside her before she replied. “How many times do I have to tell you?” She stroked her fingers through the rough mess of Meg’s hair. “The gravy was fine, and you’re being a silly sod. Now, eat your biscuits.”

  Meg made no move toward the packet. Her grip on her mug was so tight that her knuckles were turning white. “Think I’m going to end up like my mum, San?” She spoke in an undertone, her breath whispering against Sanne’s cheek.

  “No, I don’t,” Sanne said without hesitation. The possibility was too awful to consider. “I think you’ve always been a scatterbrain, and your shifts just make it worse.” She almost spilled her tea as Meg sat upright, worry stark on her face.

  “I wonder sometimes. It can run in the family, you know.”

  “I know, love, but lots of things can do that, so there’s no point fretting about it.”

  “Hmm.” Meg toyed with the packet of HobNobs, looking unconvinced.

  “Come on,” Sanne chided her gently, not wanting her to slip into a funk. “Get them open before your tea goes cold.”

  The packet rustled as Meg let out her breath and took a biscuit. She dunked it in her tea, held it for a couple of seconds, and pulled it out the instant before it collapsed. Her success seeming to buoy her mood, she ate the biscuit with enthusiasm. “How’s your dad?” she asked.

  Sanne bit into her own HobNob, crumbs scattering on her lap as she made a so-so gesture with the remnant. “He’s slightly less yellow.”

  “That’s good. Your mum okay?”

  “Fine. I’ll probably go and see them tomorrow while I’m off.”

  “Say hello to your mum from me.”

  “Of course.”

  The welfare of their respective families adequately covered, they fell into an easy silence, broken only by an occasional pop from the fire and by the satisfied slurping as they drank their tea.
Sanne stretched her legs out on the ottoman, her toes kneading the air contentedly. She only realised she had dozed off when Meg’s voice jolted her awake.

  “So, what happened with Phoebe?” A sharp elbow nudging into her ribcage punctuated the question.

  “Phoebe was nice,” she said, rubbing the sore spot. “Blond, bubbly, posh.”

  “Ooh.” Meg wiggled her foot against Sanne’s. “Tell me more.”

  “Educated at Oxford. Spoke all proper-like.”

  “What was she doing up here? Working?”

  “Researching.” Sanne watched embers rising from the fire. She had really liked Phoebe. It had been a promising date, for the first few hours.

  Cradling her mug in both hands, Meg leaned forward, her curiosity piqued. “Researching what? Does she work at the uni or something?”

  Sanne let out a short laugh. She wished it had been that simple. “No, she was researching, uh, well, me.”

  Meg’s eyes narrowed as she waited for the punch line. When it didn’t come, she sat back against the cushions with a thump. “Are you having me on?”

  “Nope. We’re sitting there, chatting away over coffee, all very civilised. Then, out of nowhere, she tells me that she’s a trainee journalist and that she’s researching a piece about women in the police force. She’d managed to find my details through some random Googling, pretty much stalked me to the pub that night we first met, and, oh, would I mind awfully if she asked me some questions?”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Wish I was.” Sanne giggled, Meg’s incredulity finally letting her see the funny side. “She whipped out this Dictaphone, set it next to the after dinner mints, and opened up a pad full of notes.”

  “Oh dear.” Meg’s cheeks reddened as she tried to remain composed and appropriately sympathetic. When she spoke again, she sounded as if she were being strangled. “Did she at least pay for the meal?”

  “Too bloody right she did. Y’know, I hope she’s got a day job, because I snuck a peek at her notes, and her spelling was crap.”

  Meg laughed, inadvertently dropped her HobNob into her mug, and spent the next minute attempting to fish it back out.

  “I’m glad my tragic love life amuses you,” Sanne said.

  Meg gave up and finished her tea, biscuit and all. “At least you have one. I can’t remember the last time I kissed a girl that wasn’t you.”

  “Oh, that’s just charming.” There was no malice in Sanne’s words, and she felt the familiar flutter in her stomach as she looked at Meg in the firelight. “No,” she said firmly, as much to persuade herself as to dissuade Meg. “I’ve got plans for tomorrow. Loads of stuff to do.”

  The plates and mugs clattered as she stacked them up with clumsy fingers. Meg stooped to help her, and the sensation of their arms brushing together sent a thrill right through Sanne. She caught her breath at the same time Meg did and shook her head in despair. It was no wonder their love lives were such a bloody disaster.

  “Are you on an early tomorrow?” she asked. The mundane nature of her question was all it took to break the tension. She heard Meg chuckle ruefully as they both turned their attention back to tidying.

  “Yep. Seven till whenever, if it’s anything like today.” Meg straightened, her hands full of sauce bottles, and nodded for Sanne to lead the way to the kitchen. “Have you got anything more exciting planned for your day of leisure than visiting your parents?”

  The water that Sanne had set running hit the edge of a plate, and she had to raise her voice above the splashes. “I’m getting up early for a run, and then I need to thin out my radishes, pick some lettuce before it goes to seed, and—” She frowned at Meg. “Why are you shaking your head?”

  “Honey, you lost me at ‘getting up early for a run.’”

  Sanne started the washing up, clattering the cutlery in indignation. “We can’t all laze about on our arses on our days off. I like to spend mine running. And do you want fresh salad this summer, or do you want to keep buying those limp, overpriced bits of leaves from Asda?”

  “I want fresh salad, please.” Meg’s response was muffled by the tea towel she was hiding behind, and she squealed as Sanne dashed soapy water at her.

  “Come and fix my leaky washing machine for me, and you can have all the salad you can eat. Deal?”

  They shook on it, their hands slippery and full of bubbles.

  “Text me your route tomorrow,” Meg said, her voice suddenly serious. “Because I know you. You’ll be up at the crack of dawn, and no one else will be around.”

  “Sounds perfect.” Sanne touched Meg’s cheek gently. “I’ll have my phone, whistle, water, survival bag, and a first aid kit. I go up on Corvenden Moss all the time. I’ll be fine.” She dropped her hand away and used a clean tea towel to dry the suds she had left on Meg’s face. “But I do love you for worrying about me.”

  Chapter Two

  Moments like this made Sanne grateful she lived somewhere remote. She had woken to soft morning light shining through the gaps around her curtains, while the scent of freshly cut grass and clean air filled her bedroom. She lay still, contemplating the idyllic peace.

  It lasted only twenty seconds or so, however, before it was shattered by the raucous cock-a-doodle-doo of the rooster in the garden as he imitated a particularly obnoxious alarm clock. He woke all six chickens in his harem, who protested en masse. Sanne stuck her head under her pillow to drown out their squawking and once again thanked her lucky stars that she didn’t have any close neighbours. Fortunately, she was a morning person, not that her job gave her much choice in the matter. She lived about half an hour away from the police headquarters, a commute that could easily be doubled in winter, when the roads threading across the Pennines and connecting the cities of Manchester and Sheffield were often closed by snow.

  There was a series of creaks as she climbed out of bed: the mattress, the floorboards, both of her knees. At thirty-three years old and with a long history of fell running, she felt as if her joints needed a good oiling first thing in the morning. Confident of her privacy, she opened the window wide and worked through her routine of stretches. Although a shower was somewhat superfluous, given that she would be mud-spattered and sweaty within the hour, she set it as hot as it would go and let it ease the remaining stiffness from her muscles. She dressed herself in front of the mirror, rolling her eyes at her towel-mussed hair. Like Meg, she kept it short, but a wayward, dogged waviness made styling it next to impossible. One gust of wind was all it would take to destroy anything she might achieve with gel or clips, and the weather in the Peak District was seldom placid. She ran a comb through it just for the hell of it and scowled at the result. Maybe next time she had it cut, she would go for broke and get rid of it all. Contemplating such an act of rebellion, however, quickly turned her scowl into a self-deprecating grin. She had no doubt that Meg would have embraced the challenge in a heartbeat, but her own nature was inclined toward conformity. She knew she would never have the guts to go through with it.

  Leaving the mirror behind, she headed for the kitchen, with her reflection, captured in a series of framed photographs, tracking her down the stairs. Bemused was probably the politest word to describe people’s reaction to her. She was only five foot four, with hazel eyes, dark brown hair, and a northern English accent. She couldn’t have looked or sounded less Scandinavian if she’d tried, and yet fate and her mum’s bloody-mindedness had saddled her with the name Sanne Jensen. Mispronunciations occurred daily, “Sayne” and “Sanney” being the most popular. If someone had given her a pound coin every time she’d said “Actually, it’s ‘Sanner,’” she’d have been able to retire years ago.

  “Fat bloody chance of that,” she muttered, toasting her mum’s stubborn streak with a mango and banana smoothie.

  Sunlight poured into the small, tatty kitchen, hiding its flaws and casting rainbows through the water dripping from the faulty tap over the sink. Sanne had bought the cottage for its views and its land, but she h
ad grown to love the old, weathered building for its sheer resilience. Wind, rain, and snow battered it year in, year out, and the worst it ever did was lose a tile or two from its roof. Beyond the kitchen window, hills dominated the landscape, their wild beauty a far cry from the cluttered streets where she had grown up. The dull browns of a cool spring had finally been replaced with lush shoots of bracken and bilberry, while lower in the valley the pastures were dotted pink with foxgloves. Summer arrived late in the Peak District, and the breeze carried with it the bleating of lambs still much smaller than their lowland cousins.

  Surrounded by ever-changing scenery, Sanne was fond of each season in its own way, but this was her favourite time of the year to go fell running. She checked her pack one last time and scooped up her keys. The hens scattered as she jogged down the driveway to her car. The rooster just glared from the car’s roof.

  “Hop it, Git Face.”

  He ruffled his feathers but didn’t budge an inch.

  “Oh, you’ll move soon enough, you little bugger,” she said and started the engine.

  *

  The stretcher collided with the bed, sending a jolt through its patient and forcing Meg to make a grab for the endotracheal tube protruding from his mouth.

  “Easy, everyone. We’ll get him across on my count, okay?” She had to raise her voice above the mêlée, keeping a grip on the tube as the team around her prepared to slide the unconscious man from the stretcher. According to the ambulance pre-alert, he was only in his forties, but he was morbidly obese, naked aside from a pair of soiled boxer shorts, and had one foot firmly in the morgue. His belly jiggled as he landed on the mattress, a motion inadvertently worsened by the nurse resuming CPR.