No Good Reason Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  What Reviewers Say About Cari Hunter’s Work

  By the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Books Available from Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  “I can’t do this. I can’t do any of this without her.” Detective Sanne Jensen (not blonde, not tall, definitely not Scandinavian) and Dr. Meg Fielding (scruffy, scatterbrained, prone to swearing at patients) are lifelong best friends, sharing the same deprived background and occasionally the same bed. When a violent kidnapping stuns the Peak District village of Rowlee, both women become involved in the case.

  As Sanne and her colleagues in East Derbyshire Special Ops search for the culprit, and Meg fights to keep his victim alive, a shocking discovery turns the investigation on its head. With the clock ticking, Sanne and Meg find themselves pushed closer by a crime that threatens to tear everything apart.

  What Reviewers Say About Cari Hunter’s Work

  “[Snowbound] grabbed me from the first page and kept me on the edge of my seat until nearly the end. I love the British feel of it and enjoyed the writer’s style tremendously. So if you’re looking for a very well written, fast paced, lesbian romance—heavy on the action and blood and light on the romance—this is one for your ereader or bookshelf.”—C-Spot Reviews

  “[Desolation Point] is the second of Cari Hunters’ novels and is another great example of a romance action adventure. The story is fast paced and thrilling. A real page turner from beginning to end. Ms Hunter is a master at an adventure plot and comes up with more twists and turns than the mountain trails they are hiking. Well written, edited and crafted this is an excellent book and I can’t wait to read the sequel.”—Lesbian Reading Room

  “Cari Hunter provides thrills galore in her adventure/romance Desolation Point. In the hands of a lesser writer and scenarist, this could be pretty rote and by-the-book, but Cari Hunter breathes a great deal of life into the characters and the situation. Her descriptions of the scenery are sumptuous, and she has a keen sense of pacing. The action sequences never drag, and she takes full advantage of the valleys between the peaks by deepening her characters, working their relationship, and setting up the next hurdle.”—Out In Print

  “Once again Ms. Hunter outdoes herself in the tension and pace of the plot. We literally know from the first 2 pages that the evil is hunting them, but we are held on the edge of our seats for the whole book to see what will unfold, how they will cope, whether they will survive – and at what cost this time. I literally couldn’t put it down. Tumbledown is a wonderful read.”—Lesbian Reading Room

  “Even though this is a continuation of the Desolation Point plot, [Tumbledown] is an entirely different sort of thriller with elements of a police procedural. Other thriller authors (yes, I’m looking at you Patterson and Grisham) could take lessons from Hunter when it comes to writing these babies. Twists and turns and forgotten or unconventional weaponry along with pluck and spirit keep me breathless and reading way past my bedtime.”—Out In Print

  No Good Reason

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  No Good Reason

  © 2015 By Cari Hunter. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-396-7

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: June 2015

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Cindy Cresap

  Production Design: Susan Ramundo

  Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

  By the Author

  Snowbound

  Desolation Point

  Tumbledown

  No Good Reason

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks and a packet of chocolate HobNobs to Rad and Sandy at BSB for giving this one the green light, pointing me in the right direction, and saying yes to more books featuring this lovely cast. To Cindy for her editing prowess and for whacking some of my more arcane Brit-speak on the head. To Sheri for finding the right rocks and the right light to go with them. To my Work-Wife, Kelly, for keeping me laughing, sharing my love of biscuits, and directing all my daft research questions on to her long-suffering husband, Col. (Thanks, Col!) To everyone who’s read my books, sent feedback, written reviews, and become friends. And to Cat—as ever—for her patience and skill as a beta, but mainly for being daft enough to marry me.

  Dedication

  In Memory of

  Fiona Bone & Nicola Hughes

  (12601) (14846)

  “Born Brave”

  Prologue

  She hurt. She hurt when she opened her eyes, and she still hurt when she closed them. Her tongue felt thick, too big for her mouth, and sticky against the cloth bound across it. She shouldn’t be able to feel the cold grit beneath her bare thighs, the dampness of the air, the raging thirst; she had never been able to feel them before. She had never been able to move before, either, to touch her fingers to the slick stone or to raise her hands and feel what they were tied with: some kind of plastic-coated rope, knotted tightly enough to bite into her skin. The muscles in her arms were leaden and slow to obey, her fingers fumbling as she pulled the cloth away from her lips. She tore at the rope with her teeth, snarling and weeping with frustration when it refused to slacken. A slither of sound made her freeze, breath held, heart racing, but nothing followed, no footsteps, no grunt of effort as if something heavy were being lifted. He never seemed to be gone for long, but then how could she gauge the time through the darkness and the drugs?

  She jumped as a droplet of water splashed against her shoulder.

  “Fuck…”

  She was unsure whether she had drifted to sleep, unsure what she had been trying to do beforehand. Her hands twitched as if to prompt her, and with a shock of remembrance, she began to work at the rope again. Blood oozed into her mouth from her cracked lips, but the knot showed no sign of loosening. She gave up and drew her knees toward her, unable to stop herself gasping as she picked at the bindings around her ankles with stiff fingers. This knot put up little resistance, though the ligature left puffy circles in her numbed flesh.

  She fell as soon as she tried to stand, bruising her hands and face against the stone. The pain gave her a split second of clarity, and she almost identif
ied the vague thought that was nagging at her, but it faded at once. Letting it go, she staggered to her left, toward the point from which he always approached. She squeezed through the only gap she found and let the fresher air guide her path, a thin breeze that wrapped itself around her skin and set her shivering, even as she sucked in huge, grateful breaths. Leaving the stench of blood, excrement, and urine behind, she threw herself at the wooden pallet wedged into the low entrance point. Kicking at the planks drove splinters into her heels, but the air was growing cleaner still, and she could see flashes of the outside now. One final push knocked the barrier down, the momentum hurling her onto her hands and knees. She crawled over the threshold and then got to her feet, swaying and trembling and surrounded by nothing.

  “Oh God, oh God.”

  Nothing: no lights, no obvious paths, no signs of civilisation. There was just a thin sliver of moon and the wind howling across the moors.

  “Somebody help me, please,” she whispered. “Please, please.”

  She was still begging even as she started to run, her feet alternately sinking into the wet peat and tearing on the gritstone. She lost count of the number of times she fell and had to stagger back up. Only once did she stop, to quench her thirst at a small pond. Unable to coordinate her bound hands, she lowered her head and lapped at it like an animal, the water tasting earthy but clean and cold. When she stood again, her head swam, and her vision twisted in dizzying circles. She closed her eyes, listening to the wind whistle through the boulders, their massive silhouettes darker even than the sky. One day, not long ago, she had climbed rocks like that, scrambling for footholds and handholds, reaching up toward…

  She shook her head, the memory indistinct and already slipping. No longer able to run, she could only stagger along what she hoped might become a path. Minutes passed, maybe hours, but the sky never lightened, and the path never materialised.

  At least I got away from him, she thought, and in that instant, the ground disappeared from beneath her, leaving her in freefall. She landed with limbs entangled, her head striking against a rock. She took a breath, the pain already fading.

  “At least I—”

  Chapter One

  Leaning back in his chair, the young man facing Sanne Jensen picked something from a tooth with a grime-stained finger and then grinned at her. His teeth were uneven, one broken, one missing, and all unbrushed. Sanne didn’t smile back.

  “No comment,” he said, and the machine recording his interview abruptly clicked off, as if it too had reached the end of its tether.

  Sanne set her pen down beside her notepad. “Mr. Clark, I’d like to thank you for your time and your illuminating contribution to the investigation.”

  Callum Clark narrowed his eyes, not quite sure whether she was being sarcastic. He looked at his lawyer, who indicated that they had been given their cue to leave.

  “Detectives Jensen, Turay. We’ll look forward to hearing from you.” Such was the lawyer’s haste that he almost bumped into Clark’s chest as Clark stopped and turned back to Sanne.

  “Name like that”—Clark pointed his thumb at her ID badge—“I thought you’d be—”

  “Blonder?” she offered.

  “Taller.” He tilted his head to one side. “But yeah, now you mention it, blonder too.” He sounded disappointed, as if the futile hours of questioning in a stifling room that stank of crappy coffee and his own dubious hygiene habits had had the potential to be far more entertaining.

  Sanne took the implied criticism on the chin. “Yeah, I get that a lot,” she said, ignoring her partner’s snort of laughter.

  The lawyer ushered Clark out into the corridor, and the door swung shut behind them. Sanne leaned forward, her vertebrae cracking as she attempted to rest her head on her folded arms. Weariness made her miss her target, her forehead thudding onto the table.

  “Fuck.” She groaned but didn’t have the energy to move. “Four hours, Nelson,” she said against the cool plastic. “Four hours of our lives we’re never going to get back, thanks to that little shit.”

  Nelson Turay clapped her shoulder, and she banged her head on the table again. “Fancy a drink? My shout. Abeni’s taken the girls round to see her mum.”

  Sanne pushed herself upright. “Cheers, mate, but I promised to meet Meg, and I need to type up the notes for the Dawkins case, or the boss’ll have my arse.”

  “True.”

  She showed him her notepad, holding it in front of her like a trophy. “I kept a tally.”

  “One-oh-one?” He whistled in disbelief, displaying his own pad, which contained a similar series of marks. “Damn. I only got ninety-seven. Sure yours is right?”

  “Dead sure.”

  “Must’ve wigged out a bit toward the end there.”

  “Well, you can double-check when you listen to the tape.” She winked at him and ducked as he tried to swat her. They had held a rock-paper-scissors tournament to assign that particular task, and he had lost, badly.

  “Not tonight,” he said. “If you’re ditching me, and I have the house to myself, I will be eating pizza and drinking beer while dressed in naught but my underpants.”

  She stared at him. “Thank you for that image. My day is now complete.”

  “Don’t say I never do nothing for you.” Holding the door open, he gestured for her to leave first.

  She glanced once more at the scrawled lines in the margin of her notepad and sighed. In four hours, six minutes, and approximately thirty-two seconds, Callum Clark had repeated the phrase “no comment” one hundred and one times.

  *

  It was never going to work. The angle of approach was too acute, the pressure too fierce, and the aim slightly off. The man jerked at the first sting of discomfort and howled as the needle dug in deeper.

  “You fucking bitch!”

  Her reactions honed by years of experience, Megan Fielding stepped calmly into the firing line. She placed one hand on the man’s chest, pinning him to the bed, and used her other to pull the startled junior doctor out of his reach. The junior’s ID marked her as Foundation Year One, that tricky transitional period between being a medical student and a registered doctor.

  “Enough,” Meg snapped, as the man actually growled at her. “I’ve had enough.”

  He held up his arm, displaying blood oozing from a popped vein, and pointed at the F1. “She did that on fucking purpose.”

  “She did that because she’s new and because you moved your fucking arm,” Meg said. The F1’s face paled, and her mouth dropped open. Meg ignored her. “Now, it’s not our fault that—for the fourth time in as many weeks—you’ve decided to wash down a month’s worth of diazepam with a year’s worth of gut-rot cider. And it’s definitely not our fault that your veins are all shot to shit. Personally, I’d leave you to sleep it off and suffer the hangover, but protocol and a certain oath, yadda, yadda, yadda…” She tightened a tourniquet around his upper arm and prodded the crook of his elbow. “You going to stay still this time?”

  “You going to hit the fucking vein?”

  She pursed her lips and blew out a breath. “Can’t make you any promises, I’m afraid.” She palpated one of the few veins that the F1 hadn’t ruined, before sliding the cannula into place. “There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” The blood bottles clinked as she dropped the samples into the tray. She turned to address the F1. “Start a litre of saline, and refer him to psych when he’s sober enough to talk about it. That is, of course, unless he kicks off and then absconds, like he did on the last three occasions. In which case”—she made a show of checking her watch—“we’ll see him again in about seven days.”

  The man opened his mouth to respond, froze, smacked his lips together, and projectile-vomited all over Meg’s scrubs top.

  She took a belated step back. “Well, that’s just fucking perfect.”

  *

  As the printer churned out page after page of Sanne’s case notes, she stood by the window and let the bleating of sheep and th
e hum of traffic heading into Sheffield blot out the mechanised drone. Six months ago, a contractor rushing to meet a deadline had painted the window shut, and of the nine detectives in the East Derbyshire Special Operations department, only Nelson had the knack of opening it fully. The warm air wafting in did nothing to temper the stuffiness in the office, but at least it smelled more pleasant. Sanne knelt to push her face closer to the narrow gap.

  “I don’t recall authorising any overtime for you, Detective.”

  The sound of Eleanor Stanhope’s voice provoked a Pavlovian response. Sanne bolted upright, forgetting about the window and bouncing the top of her head off its frame.

  “Ow, fucking hell.” She clamped a palm over the injured spot and looked up at the detective inspector. “Sorry. Ow, fucking hell, ma’am.”

  Eleanor smiled. “Were you planning to stay here all night?”

  “No, but I’m off tomorrow, and I needed to finish up the Dawkins notes.” Sanne quickly gathered the printed sheets and clasped them to her chest. “I was going to have a final read-through before I left them for you.”

  “Why don’t you just give them to me now and go home? It’s late. I know you came in early, and I also know you spent the afternoon being no-commented by one of the finest scrotes Halshaw has to offer.” Eleanor held her hand out expectantly. “If I were you, I’d be neck deep in a bottle of Scotch by now.”

  “I’d settle for fish and chips with a cup of tea.” Despite the lightness of her tone, Sanne surrendered her paperwork with reluctance, nervous about typos or questionable grammar that she might have overlooked. Even after twelve months, she was still the most junior member of Eleanor’s team. She had been selected on merit alone—Eleanor made no secret of her disdain for positive discrimination—but the urge to push herself that little bit harder than most had been ingrained in her from an early age. EDSOP’s remit was major crimes—murders, rapes, serious assaults, kidnappings—and they covered a large swath of east Derbyshire. Prior to joining the team, Sanne had worked Response for three and a half years, and she’d never regretted the move.