by JJ Marsh
“Detective Inspector Whittaker is leaving the room. Interview suspended at twelve-fifty.”
Chapter 43
Grant advanced towards the man, his gestures short and stabbing. Dawn’s urgent tones from the mobile in her ear and Grant’s threatening manner towards the group of employees combined to release a thin wail of panic inside Beatrice. Closing her phone, she approached Grant and the crowd of disgruntled lorry drivers, uniformed factory staff and their stubborn-looking boss.
“DI Stubbs, we have a problem. Mr Donelly here is the foreman and he refuses to stop the plant operations ...”
Without waiting for Grant to finish, she began issuing orders. “Detective Sergeant Grant, first priority. Ensure the conveyor belt on the rendering floor remains inactive until I give alternative instructions. Clear all personnel from the floor and the crushers. Mr Donelly will show you how, or he’ll be placed under arrest and charged with obstructing justice. Go, now! Sergeant Sullivan, please remove all these people from the scene and tape the area. All workers in stages one and two of the rendering process are requested to leave the premises until further notice as this is now a serious crime scene. You may all be called as witnesses.”
Donelly spat behind him, several workers mumbled abuse but Beatrice was more than ready for a fight. Scanning each face with a stony expression, watching each pair of eyes slide away, she made her mark. With a brisk nod, she marched after Grant and Donelly, towards the huge ramps used by the trucks to dump their waste. The stink waves of rotting flesh, putrefying matter and decay grew stronger until it became almost physical. Every cell in her body screamed at her to flee, her stomach bucked and heaved, but she strode on, head down, into the pit.
Donelly’s attitude improved in a direct ratio to how sick she and Grant became. As they donned their protective clothing, along with wellingtons, gloves and masks, Beatrice knew her face reflected the same green pallor of Grant’s. He attempted a smile but immediately tore off his mask and vomited into the toilet of the staff changing room. Donelly seemed pleased. Beatrice vowed not to chuck up her breakfast, but if it proved essential, she would bestow most of it on Mr Donelly.
Detective Sullivan and PC Hegarty, similarly clad, awaited them as they emerged to climb the stone steps to the rendering floor.
“Right. When we get onto the floor, I want Grant and Sullivan on the right side of the belt, taking half each. Hegarty’s with me, taking the other side. Grant, let’s start closest to the crusher. We’ve wasted a lot of time, so that end is our danger zone. Sullivan, keep an eye on him. OK, this is not going to be pleasant, but do your best.”
Donelly opened the door to the processing plant and Beatrice forced out short breaths from her nose, a futile attempt at expelling the stench. She stamped up the concrete steps after Grant and followed him through the sliding doors. The reek of decomposition instantly caused her to gag, affecting Grant the same way. PC Hegarty couldn’t even enter the room, heaving and hunched over his knees at the top of the steps. She ordered him back to the changing rooms. He would be no help.
Beatrice averted her eyes from the piles around her and pressed on towards the centre of the huge barn. Grant’s retching and choking from the corner continued. Observing his spasmodic vomiting, she realised she and Sullivan would be working alone. She waved at Grant, indicating the exit with her thumb, releasing him from a duty he simply couldn’t perform. He held up a gloved hand, helpless, and staggered away.
Orientation was not an issue. The vast maw at the other end gaped across the mounds of animal flesh. Beatrice, battling her stomach convulsions by repeating the word Adrian like a mantra, made her way to the opposite side. Sullivan traced a parallel route to her right, apparently unfazed by the atmosphere. Beatrice stared at the scene. Fur, tails, eyes, ears with tags, teeth, bone, feathers, flesh, hooves, blood, supermarket packaging, clawed paws, entrails and effervescent patches of maggots culminated in a scene of utter horror. The room was eerily quiet, but she only had to imagine the noise of the relentless conveyor, the drone of small earthmovers and the cacophonous grinding of relentless crushing rollers, to envisage one of Dante’s Inner Circles of Hell.
They approached the central section, bending, lifting, kicking and examining. Beatrice couldn’t see. Tears flooded her eyes as she accepted the fact they were looking for Adrian’s body. No one could survive this. The lachrymose taste, unfortunately, could not repel the stench of rotting death. She got to work.
Beginning at the end of the belt nearest the inert crushers, she shifted several feet of dead sheep, checking beneath each carcass, finding nothing but more dead sheep. The next section was more varied. Poultry. Feet, beaks, heads and feathers. Pure force of will forced down her bile as she recalled Adrian’s chicken cacciatore. After an area of unidentifiable innards, she came across the dogs. A pile of Jack Russells, a German Shepherd tangled up with several collies, on top of which lay two Westies, one of whose paws were crossed against its chest. He still had his collar on. Beatrice’s chest was already heaving as she reached for the name tag. That was when she saw the arm.
Stepping over the dogs, she cautiously batted aside a pile of feathers to reveal Adrian’s face. Bloodstained, eyes closed and skin white, he lay on his side with vomit trailing from his mouth.
“He’s here! Sullivan, he’s under here!”
Sullivan scrambled over the landscape of cadavers and body parts in her direction, digging under his overall for his phone.
Beatrice’s tears flowed over her mask as she pressed two fingers to his neck.
“He’s got a pulse!” Her cry ricocheted around the room. “I’ve got a pulse. Ambulance, Sullivan, now! We’ve found him!”
“Already on its way. The same one’s still down at the farm. Don’t move him, ma’am, we don’t know how badly he’s hurt.”
She lowered her face to Adrian’s, listening for any sign of breath. In the fetid, foul air, the sweetest sound blew into her ear. He was still breathing!
Sullivan arrived beside her, clearing the bloody detritus from Adrian’s prone form with pragmatic ease and checking him for injury. Adrian gave no reaction as the detective’s hands pressed and pushed his joints. Beatrice swiped at her face and scooped up Adrian’s hand.
“Adrian, we’ve got you. You’ll be fine. An ambulance is coming. We’re here, we’ll look after you, but you must be strong. Adrian, listen to me, you must be strong for me.”
The Irish officer worked his way down Adrian’s legs, as Beatrice gently patted his face. Once Sullivan reached the ankles, Adrian’s body convulsed and his eyes opened for a second.
“Adrian? Adrian! He’s gone again. It must be his leg. Sullivan? The ambulance?”
“It’ll be here in less than one minute, Ma’am. Coming from the farm, see? That girl wouldn’t budge, so today’s our lucky day.”
Beatrice could remember luckier days.
The showers were communal, so Beatrice decided to leave the men to clean up while she accompanied Adrian to the hospital. After all, one person humming of dead animals is not all that different to two. The ambulance staff diagnosed Adrian with shock, dehydration, a head wound and a sprained ankle, along with minor lacerations and bruises. None of which gave them serious cause for concern. Once he’d been whisked away into A&E, the ambulance woman kindly took her to the hospital showers and provided her with a set of whites.
She scrubbed for ages. The sticky stench of death seemed to have woven its way into her pores, her hair, under her nails. Eventually, she turned off the water and stood there, steaming. Adrian was alive. Most of the traffickers were in custody. Matthew was back in London, awaiting her return. Nathan Bennett could harass no more women. Dawn and Virginia were speaking to each other. Everything was fine. Except that Adrian had been dumped into that pile of carcasses, to be crushed alive. She sat on the floor of the shower stall, so appalled by the depths of human nature she could not even cry.
Chapter 44
Keys clattering against the door dragg
ed Beatrice back to the present. With a disbelieving glance at the clock, she saw forty minutes had elapsed while she’d been staring out the window, dwelling on the past. The front door closed and Matthew called out.
“I’m back!”
“So I gathered. What took you so long?” Beatrice forced her attention back to the computer. She was nearly there.
“Oh, just chatting, you know what Adrian’s like. I don’t think he’s stopped talking long enough to draw a breath. Now he’s demanding a celebratory glass of something because he’s off painkillers. I said we’d pop down with something special in a while.”
“In a while. Yes, that’s a nice, vague sort of term. I’m almost done here, so let’s take him some of that champagne you bought in Reims.”
Beatrice re-read the document for the last time, sighed and pressed Send. All done. She stretched her arms above her head. “How’s his leg today?”
“Up. He’s recumbent on the chaise longue in his pyjamas and looks exactly like Noel Coward.”
September clouds parted, permitting autumn sunshine to flood the room. The low light cast a pinkish glow over the room, enriching her green tablecloth to a jewel-bright emerald and highlighting the dust. Matthew clattered about in the bathroom, raising his voice as he turned on the taps.
“How did you get on this afternoon?” he yelled.
Such a noisy man. Beatrice stood in the bathroom doorway and watched him rub shaving foam all over his jaw.
“I managed to finish it, despite the disturbance from downstairs. What on earth were you doing down there? It sounded like you were playing skittles with concrete bollards.”
“Jared and I rearranged the entire flat so that Adrian barely has to move. Remote controls, books, phone and a bowlful of organic fruit are all at his fingertips.”
Beatrice envisaged the pampered patient and forcibly obliterated the reminder of Adrian’s pale, bloodied, feather-stuck skin under fluorescent light. The urge to hurry downstairs and check on him tugged at her for the hundredth time that week.
“Why are you bothering to shave now?” she asked.
“May as well make an effort. I plan to change too, but fear not. I won’t wear black.”
Beatrice smiled. Matthew’s ‘Raffles’ look was now replaced by the familiar toad-brown cords, off-white shirt and bobbled sage cardigan. And his hair would grow back, eventually.
“What a fuss. Just for a drink with Adrian and Jared. Are you sure you’re not on the turn?”
Matthew laughed. “I’m not but I wonder if he is. You know, I think he’s becoming a Young Fogey. He uses terms such as ‘damned fine idea’, ‘sagacious’ and ‘tip-top’. Is that healthy, at his age, do you think?” He picked up his razor and scraped a clean path through the foam from cheekbone to chin.
“I think you’ll find the Young Fogey will wear off when he tires of his Agatha Christie persona. What are we having for dinner?”
“Lord knows. I’ll cobble something together when we get back.”
He’d forgotten, again. But somehow, it reassured her. Matthew lived in the present. And from now on, so would she. The past smelt bad.
“Aren’t you going to change, Old Thing?” he asked. “That pullover’s still got Bolognese sauce on it from lunch.”
She muttered and grumbled but acquiesced, as no doubt he knew she would. In the wardrobe was the top she’d worn this time last year. Dark blue with a silver thread running through it. It might even jog his memory. A flattering cut, but more importantly suitable for her age. She’d never had a desire to look like mutton dressed as ham.
When she returned, Matthew was waiting with a bottle of Heidsieck Monopole Gold Top.
“Will I do?” she asked. “I wonder if we should take some snacks. I may get hungry.”
“Jared’s taken care of all that. Umm, Beatrice?”
“Yes, I know. I’ll do it as soon as I find my hairbrush.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”
Beatrice looked into the mirror above the fireplace and wished she hadn’t. Her hair looked as if someone had used an electric whisk on her head.
“Oh, well. It’s only Adrian. What were you going to say?”
“Nothing. You look perfect, my love. Let’s go.”
As soon as she opened Adrian’s door, her instinct told her something was off kilter.
“Happy Birthday!!”
Beatrice stopped dead in the hallway. Balloons. Music. People. A plastic banner reiterating the message. She turned to Matthew for an explanation, but he’d slipped past her to join the crowd.
Adrian, in an armchair, pulling a party popper. Virginia, raising a glass. Ty Grant, applauding. Dawn, coming forward to hand her a glass. Jared, blowing kisses. Cooper and Ranga, lifting cans of lager. Lyndon, yanking out a champagne cork. Kalpana, bringing forward a tray of cupcakes. And Matthew, laughing.
“Speech!”
“Speech, Beatrice, come on!”
“Speech! Birthday Girl!”
Beatrice blinked. This would never work. Who invited both Dawn and Virginia? What was Adrian thinking, putting Jared and Lyndon in the same room? Kalpana was far too fragile to be at any kind of party. Why the hell had Matthew gone along with such a ridiculous plan? He knew she abhorred surprises. And what on earth made them all look so happy? She had a choice. To laugh or to cry, and the former was far more socially acceptable.
“Thank you. As a rule, I hate surprises. And this is no exception. However, all of you helped me get Adrian back. For that reason alone, you are forgiven. Matthew, I’ll deal with you later. Cheers!”
Grant and Cooper looked around in amusement as Virginia and Kalpana whooped with laughter. Jared grinned, pleased with his punch line. The sight of Kalpana wiping away tears of laughter provoked an involuntary smile from Beatrice. Matthew and Ranga were in the kitchen, presumably still discussing Keralan cuisine, while Dawn and Lyndon had gone to open more champagne.
Adrian shifted on his cushion and Beatrice moved to give him room.
“It’s fine, stay where you are. Just itchy, that’s all. Matthew says you finished your report this afternoon.”
“Yes, I did.” The grey gloom which had accompanied her all day made a brief reappearance.
“Why the long face? Isn’t it good news? Seven child-traffickers behind bars. Jared thinks I’m insane to testify on behalf of Eoin, but I’m determined. And I’ve already made my statement on Teagan’s behalf. They both tried to help me, I really believe they did.”
“If that’s how you choose to see it.”
“Beatrice, you weren’t there. Anyway, I refuse to rehash this. Especially tonight. You should be enjoying yourself and toasting your success. That’s why we’re here. You know, I was still on the pills when I heard they’d picked Samir up. Even so, I had a sneaky glass of Prosecco to rejoice.”
Beatrice agreed. “Me too. His violence and cruelty and paranoia may have served him and Brigid Connor well over the years, but his stupidity let him down at the end. As Inspector Crean said, he came in on a boat and was bound to try getting out the same way. All they had to do was wait.”
“Crean’s a classic tortoise, isn’t he? Nothing flashy, but in the end, he gets his man. Rather like Morse.”
“Adrian, I know that face. Don’t tell me you’re inventing another detective persona.”
“No. Despite my natural flair, I do accept that a little training does help. Now, will you stop worrying about me and start celebrating?”
“I am celebrating. Or will be as soon as Dawn gets back with my champers. But writing up such a report forces you to acknowledge your mistakes. That hurts.”
“Good job I don’t have to do one, in that case. As I said, I’m not going over this anymore. I’m bored of it. And if you attempt for one second to blame yourself again, I swear to God, I’ll have you thrown out of this flat.”
“You can’t do that. I’m the birthday girl.”
“And a royal pain in the arse. Here comes the fizz. Now
drink and be merry. I insist.”
“Right. I’m going to chat to Dawn and leave you and Lyndon to finish your argument about Sherlock Holmes. Were you winning?”
“No. It’s a well-known fact about the Welsh. Stubborn as hell.”
Beatrice gave him a kiss on the forehead. “Good luck.”
She stood to meet Dawn and led the way to the window seat.
Beatrice accepted her glass with a smile. “You’re too good to me. But then again, I am the birthday girl.”
“For someone who hates birthday surprises, you can’t half milk it. Sure you don’t want any more cakes? There’s plenty left.”
Beatrice shook her head, her attention drawn by the two men sitting at the dining table. “They were delicious, really, but I know my limits. With cakes, at least. Thank you for that. I never knew you could bake.”
“Don’t tell Hamilton. He hates multi-taskers. Oi, what are you gawping at?”
“Just curious. Ty Grant seems to have buddied up with Cooper. I wonder what they’ve got in common?”
Dawn snorted with laughter. “Apart from being early-thirties, straight, single white males who play rugger? Only the fact that Grant is angling for a transfer to the Met. I’d say Cooper is being pumped for information. He’s already worked on me and Ranga.”
“A-ha. What are his chances?”
“As DS, highly likely, unless Hamilton takes against him. But DI, no chance. There’s a queue and no one’s due for retirement anytime soon.”
Beatrice didn’t answer, watching Grant’s large shoulders and Cooper’s shorter-than-short haircut. A matching pair of British Bulldogs.
“Are you and Matthew going to take a holiday now?” Dawn asked. “It’s well overdue.”
Beatrice wrinkled her nose. “His term starts in two weeks, so he needs to get back and plan lectures. I might potter off somewhere for a week or so, and take a proper break with him later.”
“Beatrice?” Dawn’s eyes were soft and concerned. “How are you feeling?”
