No Good Reason by Cari Hunter

tapped the back of Sanne’s hand to let her know she was finished. There was, of course, one police officer she saw on a very regular basis, but then Sanne was an exception. She had always been an exception.
    “It’s beautiful out here,” Sanne said. Still suffused with heat from the shower, she looked healthy and content, but there was a sadness underscoring her words. Meg suspected she was contemplating the day ahead.
    “There was nothing on my phone.” Meg displayed its blank screen.
    Sanne nodded. She had probably been afraid to ask. The news, or rather the lack of it, seemed to lighten her mood. “You up for bacon and eggs, then?” she asked.
    “Yep. Do you need a hand?”
    Sanne pretended to give the offer due consideration. “Think you’d be safe making the toast?”
    Meg followed her into the kitchen. “Oh, I don’t know. That’s an awfully big responsibility.”
    “So long as you shout for me if it starts smoking, I think we’ll be okay.”
    “Smoke. Shout,” Meg said slowly. “I can do that.”
    Sanne sparked up the gas ring and slid the pan into place. The bacon rashers sizzled and shrank as they hit the hot pan. Busy slicing bread, Meg took a deep, appreciative breath. Fresh roses and greasy bacon: was there any more perfect start to a day?

Chapter Seven

    A thin, early morning mist rose lazily from the valleys. Beads of dew made the grass and moss glisten beneath Sanne’s boots, giving the hills an otherworldly atmosphere that was at once enchanting and sinister. The height her team had gained since abandoning the Mountain Rescue trucks had left the air cool, and she pulled her shirt closed, trying not to shiver. Nelson must have heard how ragged her breathing was, but he said nothing, merely staying close during their slog uphill and insisting that she eat half of his muesli bar. Having left Meg’s place in good spirits, she was annoyed at how difficult the hike was proving. Her legs felt stiff and clumsy, and her rucksack dragged on her back. Her fitness level was above average, but the events of yesterday, followed by a disturbed night, had taken an unanticipated toll on her.
    Ahead of them, Carlyle marched with the Mountain Rescue team and two National Trust rangers. His partner, Chris O’Brien, trailed a little behind, chatting to a uniformed officer and a small group of local volunteers. More officers and volunteers brought up the rear, their excited voices carrying easily across the open terrain and allowing Sanne to catch odd snippets of speculation: “Found naked,” “That lady copper there with the short hair,” and a confident announcement from an older male that he’d “stick the bastard’s balls” in his thresher if he was the one to apprehend him. She glanced over her shoulder to see whether she recognised the speaker. Grundy, she thought, though she couldn’t remember his first name. He ran the corner shop in Rowlee with his wife Doreen. A number of the other faces were familiar, too, but she had no names to go with them. During the day, a register would be taken of all the search participants, along with surreptitious photographs to record their identities. Even if background checks on the volunteers failed to yield anything useful, it would begin the process of elimination. Of the local villages, Rowlee was the closest to the scene, but numerous isolated farms, cottages, and small businesses would make the investigation’s door-to-door enquiries a challenge, to say the least.
    Threads of mist curled around the lower reaches of the cliffs at Laddaw Ridge, making them loom in and out of the landscape. Sanne couldn’t believe she had managed to climb down them without breaking her neck. With hindsight, her efforts had been almost suicidal. Nelson was obviously thinking along the same lines, because he halted and whistled.
    “Jesus, San.”
    She rubbed her sore arm, reassuring herself that that was the only damage done. “Yeah. I wouldn’t even know where to start