I shook my head, pushing away my coffee cup. ‘Didn’t want, to be honest, to dob you in. That’s the modern term, isn’t it?’
‘How about the usual one, grassing up? Thanks. But it’s widened our credibility gap.’
Our? ‘Evans and Co already know about my Great Beef Battle – I thought a few questions from them might stem the flow of offal. They seem just to have changed to the direction – poor, poor Lindi.’
‘Sleeping with the enemy – never really approved of.’
‘So why’s Lucy got away with it?’
He looked at me steadily. ‘I should imagine Gay – God, what a name for the poor bugger! – knows which side his bread is buttered. You more or less feed his family, don’t you? And no, Lucy didn’t say anything about it. It was her efforts not to that put me on to it. But how long his buddies will let him get away with allowing her to continue, goodness knows.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s time I headed into work. I want to get the water people on to that stream diversion.’
‘And its interesting colour.’
‘Quite. And I think it’s time I paid a visit to the rending plant.’
I shook my head emphatically. ‘Not without back up, you don’t. Get one of your FSA buddies to go with you. That should put the fear of God into them.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he replied, in that pseudo-ruminative way men have when they have no intention of taking sensible advice. He stood up. ‘Time I was off.’
A glance passed between us. On my side it said, ‘Look after yourself and don’t take unnecessary risks.’ I wasn’t sure about his.
A morning wielding a duster and vac., ears cocked for the phone, lay ahead of me. If Lucy had said she’d phone me, she’d phone me. And I rather thought Sue owed me a call, too. When she didn’t phone, I tried her number, only to have to leave a message asking for an urgent response.
Nothing. Nothing till I broke for a cup of coffee at eleven. And then it was Nick, saying he’d put the fear of God into the water company, and, just to celebrate, contacted the county council about blocked footpaths.
‘I told them that walking about in the open country was an integral part of my job,’ he said.
‘Good for you. What next?’
There was the tiniest pause while he worked out his lie. Or maybe not. ‘Sorry. One of my colleagues from down the corridor returning my kettle. Any news of Lindi?’
‘I thought you might be Lucy. Nothing from Sue, either. I’m so worked up I’ve taken to housework,’ I added plaintively. But I wasn’t so full of self-pity I hadn’t noticed how he’d changed the subject. Nick was up to something, wasn’t he?
‘Mrs W?’ A tousle-headed Robin put his head round the door.
I gestured to the phone. He nodded and disappeared again, presumably to get dressed.
He was an even better diversionary tactic than anything Nick could have thought up. In a low voice, I asked Nick’s advice.
‘You’ll have to tell him if he asks. But I wouldn’t volunteer anything,’ he responded, putting down the phone.
No, he wouldn’t, would he?
The best way to say nothing would be to be out. I had after all my morning paper to collect.
‘If you want my advice,’ Molly whispered, her eyes darting back and forth though the shop was completely empty, ‘you’ll cut your losses and clear out now. You’ve got planning permission and all. And with the renovations you’ve already done, you should get a really good price.’
‘What if I don’t want to go away?’
‘What if this Lindi business won’t go away? That’s what you have to ask yourself. A matter of principle’s one thing, Mrs W. A matter of life and death’s another.’
‘All I did was change my meat supplier!’ I whispered. ‘Local vegetables, local meat, local staff – that was what I wanted. And paperwork to go with it. That’s what caused all this!’
She shook her head. ‘You brought in outsiders to do your building work – bad mistake. It’s been downhill from there, I’m afraid.’
I felt as if the floor was rocking. It was one thing hearing this from Lucy, another having it confirmed. ‘I tried to get local builders – God knows I’ve done my best in everything, Molly.’
‘I’m sure you have. Well, it was a struggle for us. But at least Jem’s got relatives from round here. You take my advice, Josie – you cut your losses and go.’
I could hardly hold the newspaper she handed over.
‘Don’t you realise, you think you’ve tried to fit in, but others see it as shoving in where you’re not wanted. The church – it takes years to get on the flower rota, and you’re decorating the altar before you’ve been here five minutes. You might have thought you were being a good Samaritan offering Tom Dearborn accommodation: others see it as coming between father and daughter.’
‘If the father’s got the sort of relationship with his daughter that rumour says, then it ought to be Social Services and the Law coming between father and daughter!’ Despite myself my voice rose.
In response, Molly’s dropped to a sharp whisper. ‘There you go again! People here don’t see it like that.’
‘What’s happened to her? And to Tom?’
‘Well, that’s seen as your doing. Done a bolt. Goodness knows where. And neither of them with a feather to fly with. Her dad’s off his head with worry.’
‘Well, you can tell him that certainly wasn’t my idea. My way they’d both have had a roof over their head, he’d have had a steady job and she’d have had her family – such as it is – and friends at hand.’
‘No good getting on your high horse with me, Josie – I’m just the messenger. And look at the mess young Lindi’s in.’
‘Literally. Who’s responsible for that – that outrage?’
‘Shhh.’
‘They’re doing to her what they’d like to do to me – right? Only I’m not sleeping with the enemy, I am the enemy. But they can’t be allowed to get away with such violence. Can’t be!’
‘And you’re going to play your usual trick and bring in the police to sort them out? Not if you take my advice, Josie. Just leave well alone. And get the “For Sale” notice up by the end of the week. There. I can’t put it plainer than that, can I? You’re a decent woman, men friends apart, of course, they’ll come to realise that. But you’re not one of them. Here,’ she added roughly, as the shop bell pinged, ‘don’t forget what you came for. And I’ll put it in my ledger. No more papers from Saturday, then.’
I was on my knees by the drain, hoping there was nothing left to vomit, when I heard a man’s voice. ‘Not much of an advert for your own cooking, eh?’
By the time I’d scrabbled up, there was no one there. Well, I couldn’t see anyone. But I’d have bet a lifetime’s takings they’d see the mascara running down my cheeks and it’d be all round the village before lunchtime.
I thought about one of my Romany curses – but once I’d cursed Nick, and look how he’d ended up. I buttoned my lip.
The lunch trade was brisker than on your usual Monday, not just with walkers but also with quite a smattering of locals. These were almost certainly the men who’d tormented Lindi. So nine-tenths of me wanted to tip their tipples over their heads. The other tenth was still the little girl in the playground, betraying by not so much as a sniffle that she’d been tormented. I’m afraid pride won.
‘Just get in there and do what you’re paid to do,’ I told Robin fiercely. ‘And if I hear you asking after Lindi, I shall fire you on the spot. Publicly. Get it? We’ll sort it out, don’t you worry. But we’ll do it my way.’ Which just happened, today, to include a laxative in the cider of certain selected boozers.
They didn’t include Lucy Gay’s father, I noticed. Funny, the only thing that separated him from his booze was work, and there wasn’t much of that going begging at this time of year. Perhaps he was still locked in argument with Lucy, who still hadn’t phoned, any more than Sue had.
Despite my bright profession
al smiles and slick service, I was still screaming in my head. Whether it was hurt or fury, I didn’t know. But as soon as I could decently hang up the Closed sign, I reached for the phone. Nick. If I was persona non grata, he must be positively at risk. And I had a nasty suspicion he was intending to put his head in the lion’s mouth by heading out to the rendering plant with no protection. When I got no response from his office phone, my suspicions grew stronger. And all I got from his mobile was the sound of traffic and then white noise as he left range.
Grabbing my own mobile, my camera and even my walking stick, I yelled to Robin to stay put and answer any calls, either to the bar or to my private number. Without waiting for him to argue I was into the hire car, not without checking first it was still in once piece. Even as the adrenaline spurted and the blood pounded, I shivered as if someone was zipping a shroud over my head.
My response was as prosaic as they come. I pulled over to the phone box, still a village lifeline. Popping a tissue over the voice piece, I dialled 999.
‘There’s trouble out at Wetherall Enterprises,’ I said, my voice as guttural as I could make it. ‘Big trouble. And if you don’t believe me, talk to DCI Mike Evans. He’ll know what it’s about.’
He wouldn’t, of course, but he was bright enough to be interested.
At least I hoped he would. This cold dark shroud told me some one had to be.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Hell for leather. Not round these lanes. Not in a car I hardly knew. And not with a cattle-wagon coming towards me, more on my side of the lane than on his. Thank God for a fortuitous gateway.
Men drivers!
Hang on. Not the whole sex. But male lorry drivers. I’d had my fill of them recently, none of them just bad, more hostile. And there might well be more coming, like troubles, in battalions. If one came at me at this speed along a deep gully like this, the best I’d be able to do would be to slew the car across its path, the passenger side taking the worst of the impact. I hoped. Maybe then I’d be sufficiently protected to be able to crawl out of the wreck, even if that left me vulnerable to the lorry driver.
In the event, there was no need for all that ghoulish forward planning. I met no more lorries, nor any other vehicles.
But there was plenty of activity by the entrance to the rending plant, as I discovered when I cased the joint. Sorry about the lingo.
I’d tucked the rental car under as much cover as I could find, inching my way on foot the last fifty yards or so. The walking stick felt reassuring, but maybe it’d be more hindrance than help. What about ditching it now? Then I thought of the dogs in that compound, and though I imagined any animal here should be sated on marrow bones a-plenty, I’d prefer something in my hand apart from a camera.
It was the camera I used first. The short driveway was fully occupied by a tow-truck, winching a silver four-wheel drive. No, I couldn’t see anyone in it. That didn’t mean there wasn’t. After all, if you’re going to tow an ex-policeman’s vehicle with him still in it, you’re going to have to truss him first. Well, most ex-policemen. Nick was probably in one of his damned brown studies, wondering if he should breathe or not.
Plenty of photo opportunities, anyway. Thank goodness for telephoto lenses. I beat a strategic retreat while the Wetherall man – yes, his name was blazoned on his overalls – yelled final instructions. I couldn’t pick up much, but I’d swear he said something about ‘same place as before’.
It was time the police turned up, surely. OK, it was a largely rural force, and you couldn’t expect them to turn out in their hundreds to a location as far from a town as this. But there should be some action. There should be someone to barge into that office building, where the Wetherall man had ambled, laughing loudly. No sign of any dogs.
Good job. He’d left the gate slightly ajar.
Ajar enough for someone my size to squeeze through without pushing on something that might squeak loudly enough to attract attention. The stick? Ditch it now? More in hope than expectation, I left it hanging where a passing cop might see it. Even one as slow as these seemed to be might see it as a Clue. OK, a passing Wetherall man might see it too, but by then I’d be committed one way or another.
Gagging, I reached for the peppermints.
It wasn’t just the smell – correction, smells. Imagine the worst butcher’s shop on the hottest day. There was that sort of sweet blood smell coming from huge open skips, grotesque with limbs waiting to be processed. Then there was the worst sort of rancid butter smell, no, nothing as wholesome as butter. Tallow, that was it. And curls of greasy smoke seeped from the chimneys dropping smuts you couldn’t brush off.
Had the concentration camps been like this? Only a thousand times worse because when all was said and done, these were only animal remains.
Or were they?
If I wanted to dispose of a body, wouldn’t I do it here? Had Fred Tregothnan’s blood joined that in the vat over there? It was so full that when the wind blew, a little dribbled over the edge. Hence the puddle of gore below it. There was an even larger puddle under the neighbouring vat. Surely this must be why that stream was pink.
A few yards nearer the office were more open tanks, the source of the tallow smell. Several of these were leaking too. There were other, smaller tanks, these roughly sealed. Presumably they held matter that could be transformed into capsule casings or lipsticks and rated more care. Not enough in my book.
If it was here Fred had been – I sought for a word but could come up with nothing better than ‘disposed of’ – there’d never be any body for the police to find. As for his car, that might provide evidence, if it could ever be found. Perhaps I should have tailed the tow truck.
But finding a car’s graveyard wasn’t as important as preventing another disposal.
Could I hope that Nick was still alive? In the remote hope he was, I’d still need back-up to rescue him, and strain though my ears might there was still no sign of ‘blues and twos’, the flashing lights and sirens heralding the arrival of the police. Perhaps there was a different term these days: I could have done with Tony to tell me. I could have done with Tony beside me now.
Perhaps he was there. I could hear him say, ‘Better get in there, gal,’ as clear as if he were whispering in my ear. So get in I’d better.
There was nothing to prevent me. It was only an ordinary office, after all. So I pushed on the door, almost expecting a Cruella de Ville of a receptionist to halt me in my tracks.
I followed the sound of male voices. You don’t expect West Country burrs ever to sound threatening – London accents, yes, or Liverpool. But there was something in the very blurred vowels and consonants that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Yes, a dog can sound nastier when it growls than when it barks. Although one had now started to do just that. No, the bark broke into a snarl, quickly choked off. Someone was holding it on a tight leash.
To torment someone? These villagers liked that sort of pastime.
On impulse I dialled 999 again, leaving the call open. With luck, someone might pick up what was going on.
I inched closer, as close to the wall as I could, but needing to peer round the door to see.
Nick was just within my line of sight. He was pressed back against a wall, not yet handcuffed. But who need to be pinioned, when they had that dog for company? I couldn’t risk a proper glance round the door, because the dog’s ear had cocked and turned. Its humans were too busy discussing what to do with their prisoner and irritating the animal by sporadic jerks on its chain to notice. With luck.
To Nick’s right, and my left, was the sort of desk I associated with the teacher’s desk my school days, the solid oak sort now replaced by those dinky ones which even the teacher must have lest anything grown-up intimidates the kids. My teachers had sometimes left their drawers ajar, too, so you could see chalk and registers and bottles of ink. They certainly never crammed them with money. I’d not seen so much cash since Tony’s heyday. Yes, literally wads of used notes, not just f
ivers, either. There must have been tens of thousands there.
One or two of my teachers had blotters or even jam-jars full of flowers brought by an anxious child or sycophantic parent. Much as some had needed them, they’d never had a collection of guns. There were a couple of modern ones, but most must have dated back to one of the world wars. Open boxes of bullets and cartridges jostled for space.
If only Nick had had a couple of minutes, he could have loaded one and shot his way out of the situation. I could. Tony had always made sure I could handle guns. But I was a matter of yards away, and Nick would have to take only two steps.
The obvious thing was for me to create a diversion, to give him long enough to act. But even if I sang the national anthem and tap-danced round the room, there was no guarantee Nick would do anything. Brown study man, Nick, remember. The last man to trust your life to in this situation.
If only I had a weapon myself, my walking stick for instance. Oh, yes. Fat lot of help that would be against two men and a dog. I’d have done better to bring some aniseed. OK, there was only one thing to do. It might take time but maybe they were enjoying themselves enough.
The problem would be if I didn’t have the guts to do it. Actually, I had plenty of guts. And horns, and hooves and nice long bones. Tibias? Yes, one for the dog, one as a Stone Age weapon.
My stomach heaved as I selected them, and my fingers loathed the slime of the rotting flesh, but choose I did, yanking them from a skip with lower sides than most. And letting others fall with a nice echoing bang as I did it. I didn’t even have time to swear. I was back in that office block as if I were running away from the danger, not towards it.
I even yelled, as I hoped Boadicca might have yelled. Just to make sure Nick knew what he ought to be doing if he got the chance.
First the scuffle of paws trying to get purchase on the office floor. Yes. I held the tibia’s knee end forward, and managed, just as the dog leapt forward, to ram it down its throat. That left me with one to whirl about my head as I screamed and shouted. For God’s sake, Nick, take the hint! If only there were a Tony inside his head too.
The Food Detective Page 22
