Sausage Hall

by Christina James

  Andy stepped forward quickly and patted Dulcie on the shoulder.

  “Dulcie, I’m very sorry that you’re upset. I tried to warn everyone, but it’s difficult to be prepared for something so horrific. Mr Sentance is right: you must rest until you feel better. But I’d appreciate it if you’d just tell me first whether you knew the girl?”

  He couldn’t be sure, but Andy thought that he noticed Molly tightening her grip on Dulcie’s arm. Dulcie slowly moved her fingers from her face and met his eye. Contrary to the impression she’d given, no tears swam in her own, but her countenance was troubled, even haunted. Something more than an unpleasant photograph was frightening her: she seemed beside herself with fear. She gave a quick glance to her right. Sentance stared back at her, his face intent, but shuttered against all emotion.

  “No, I don’t think I knew her,” she said. “But we get a lot of casuals here and it’s hard to remember them all.”

  “What did you mean when you said ‘he’?”

  “Pardon?” Her pale blue eyes had blanked.

  “You said that the killer was a ‘bastard’ – I’m sure everyone would agree with you. Then you said ‘Look what he did to that poor girl’. What did you mean when you said ‘he’? Were you thinking of someone specific?”

  “Really, DC Carstairs, where do you think this is leading? It’s a natural assumption that this crime was committed by a man, isn’t it? It’s unlikely that a woman would have overpowered the girl, and in any case women don’t . . .”

  “I’d be grateful if you’d let Dulcie herself answer.”

  Sentance sighed and opened wide his arms in a ‘be my guest’ gesture. Dulcie flicked another fearful glance in his direction, then fixed her eyes on the table. She did not raise them to meet Andy’s again.

  “Mr Sentance is quite right,” she said, her voice rising squeakily as she gasped for air. “I just jumped to the conclusion that it was a man, that’s all.”

  “And you didn’t know the girl?”

  “I’ve said, haven’t I?” She rose to her feet, Molly still gripping her arm. “I need to have a sit down somewhere quiet now. I’m sorry.”

  The two women left the room.

  “Highly strung,” Sentance observed reflectively, as if talking to a fellow director. “But a good worker.”

  “Can we continue?”

  “Of course.”

  Andy gathered up the photographs and passed them to Fred. They were silently examined by all the remaining male supervisors in turn. Each said that he didn’t know the girl and none of them betrayed any feeling. When the photos reached Sentance, he riffled through them perfunctorily before handing them back to Andy with a half-flourish. Andy had known from the moment that Dulcie had clammed up that he would get no further with the supervisors. He didn’t even bother to ask if Molly could return to speak to him. He thanked the supervisors politely and allowed Sentance to escort him to the door.

  “As you see, we’re just like a family here,” said Sentance unctuously.

  Andy ignored the remark. He held out his hand to shake Sentance’s briefly.

  “Thank you for arranging for me to visit,” he said. Sentance gave a half-bow. “I’d like the full names of all the supervisors, please, with their addresses and how they may be contacted by phone, both during the day and at home. And e-mail addresses for those who have them. By the end of the day, if possible. I’d appreciate it if you’d e-mail them to me.”

  He handed Sentance his card, who took it wordlessly.

  “Just like a family!” Andy muttered to himself, as he trudged to his car. “They say that blood’s thicker than water and this family’s certainly seen some blood. I’d say that this lot were in it up to their eyebrows. It’s proving it that’s going to be the problem.”

  Thirty-Five

  Katrin was sitting at her desk in her office in Holbeach. Florence’s journal was lying in front of her, meticulously wrapped in plastic. She’d read it from cover to cover, looking back over certain passages more than once, and still failed to unlock its mystery. She was convinced there was more to it than the vapid ramblings of a Victorian maidservant who’d married above her station.

  She picked it up again, weighing it in one hand as if for inspiration. Part of her didn’t want to send it to Juliet: she’d prefer to crack the mystery herself. But she knew that Juliet’s elliptical approach to solving problems often worked. Sometimes her brain was like a searchlight, illuminating what was obvious to her but everyone else had failed to see.

  Katrin sighed and put the journal down again. She was tired and slightly bored. What she’d really like would be to take the journal to Juliet herself and spend an enjoyable few minutes chatting to her. But that was out of the question, obviously.

  For the first time, she thought about how she might arrange for the package to be delivered to the Pilgrim Hospital. If Tim had been planning to visit Juliet that day she might have sent it with him, but he’d told her that he’d be in Norfolk until late. Katrin decided that if Juliet felt well enough to take a look at the journal, she’d send it by courier. The research unit had one that they used regularly. A non-emergency delivery shouldn’t be too expensive.

  She picked up the phone and dialled the number that Tim had given her. As she’d suspected, it wasn’t a direct line, but after she’d jumped through a few hoops she could hear Juliet’s voice.

  “Hello? Juliet? It’s Katrin. How are you feeling?”

  “Not too bad, thanks.” Juliet sounded quieter than usual, but cheerful. “How are you?” Katrin experienced a flash of annoyance.

  “Oh, so Tim’s told you, has he?”

  “He didn’t have much choice, did he? He had to find out whether it was safe for you to visit me.”

  “I suppose so. And as you probably know, I’ve been told that I can’t. Visit, I mean.”

  “Well, pity from my point of view, but you’re well out of it, to be honest. Tim said that you’ve got something you’d like me to look at?”

  “Yes. It’s a journal. It’s late Victorian. It was written by the wife of an earlier owner of the house that Kevan de Vries and his wife live in.”

  “You mean Laurieston House? I’ve been there. It’s close to where I was bitten by the rat.”

  “Oh, yes, I should have remembered that. What do you think, anyway?”

  “About the journal? I’d love to see it. It looks as if I’m going to be here for a few more days, and I’m just about comatose with boredom. Do you have any tips or clues that you’d like to give me before I read it?”

  “I’d rather you came to it fresh, really. I can tell you that the woman who wrote it had been a maidservant, so she wasn’t well-educated. She writes in quite a naïve manner. She also seems to be heavily influenced by her mother-in-law, who lived in the house with her – unlike the husband, who was often away. But you’ll see all that for yourself.”

  “OK, fine. How are you going to get it here? Will Tim bring it?”

  “I think he’s in Norfolk today and I’d like you to have it as soon as possible. I thought I’d send it by courier. It will reach you all right, won’t it?”

  “It will if you say that it has to be signed for. Why is Tim in Norfolk?”

  “He’s helping with a murder investigation, but I don’t know the details. Before I forget, though, he asked me to ask you to keep it to yourself, if you decided to take the journal. He seems to think that Superintendent Thornton will take a dim view of it if he knows you’re working on it. He wants the de Vries case putting on the back burner, apparently. Tim thinks he’d prefer you to be doing something else, if you’re up to working at all.”

  “If I didn’t know the Superintendent, I’d be outraged by that remark. It’s none of his business what I do while I’m signed off sick. But Tim’s probably right and, as you know, I’m quite good at keeping the peace, so in the unlikely
event of Thornton’s calling me or coming to visit, I’ll keep quiet about it. He can’t put the de Vries case ‘on the back burner’, though. It’s about forging passports. Thornton surely knows that he has to get to the bottom of that.”

  “I don’t know any more than you do. I’m sure Tim’ll fill you in next time he sees you. I’m really pleased that you feel well enough to read the journal – though promise me you won’t tire yourself out in the process. Take your time.”

  “I will. You promise me to take care of yourself, too.”

  “Of course. And we must meet as soon as you’re out of quarantine. I’m really looking forward to seeing you. It’ll be fun to discuss the journal then, if you haven’t already made it give up its secret.”

  “What secret?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m sure there is one. There, I’ve hinted more than I meant to, now.”

  “Don’t worry: you’ve just whetted my appetite. Will it come today?”

  Katrin looked at her watch.

  “If I can get the courier to collect it before two, it should be with you later this afternoon.”

  After Katrin had put down the phone, she thought that there’d been something unusual about the conversation with Juliet. Thinking back over it, she realised that, although she’d sounded weak, Juliet had seemed upbeat, almost ebullient. Even in good health, she was usually demure, her voice less inflected than most people’s (Katrin hesitated to use the word ‘colourless’).

  Thirty-Six

  After his fruitless visit to the De Vries packing plant, Andy Carstairs had pulled into the petrol station just along the road from there to fill up; he was just easing away from the pumps and looking back to find a gap in the traffic when he saw a familiar Audi turn out of the packing plant entrance and head off in the direction of King’s Lynn. Without a second’s thought and in response to instinct, Andy turned right after him. He knew that he must keep his distance: if Sentance suspected that he was being tailed, Andy had no doubt that he’d either speed off or head for somewhere other than his present intended destination, wherever it was. Sentance had now crossed the swing bridge that spanned the River Nene and was driving along the A17 where it became a high straight bank leading out of Sutton Bridge towards King’s Lynn. The bank was flanked on both sides by low-lying ploughed fields.

  Andy briefly pulled into a lay-by to make himself less obvious to Sentance, letting his engine idle, before setting off again. He could see quite a long way ahead: he’d taken his eyes off the road for only seconds and now it was deserted. He was surprised that Sentance had managed to cover the ground so fast, but equally certain that he had vanished. Cursing, Andy stepped on the accelerator, gathering speed so rapidly that he almost missed an opening on the left hand side of the bank, some five hundred yards further down the road. Backing up cautiously, he saw that the agricultural track which passed through a gap in the crash barriers and turned steeply down the side of the embankment was angled in such a way that it wasn’t possible to see from his driver’s seat what lay at the bottom. Andy knew that it would be too risky to drive straight into it. He could see nowhere in the immediate area where he could hide the car, so he drove on further, until he reached a farm track on the other side of the road. There was a ruined barn standing at the bottom of the slope, roofless and overgrown with creeper. Andy manoeuvred his car in behind the barn, praying that it would not sink into the mud. Jumping out, he ran back up towards the road, crouching low, and giving one backward glance when he reached the top of the bank again. He noted with satisfaction that the car was completely concealed from view.

  He was hastening back towards the spot where he had seen the opening, when he heard a car engine roaring somewhere ahead. He was still some yards from the opening and had just time to leap over the crash barrier to his left and crouch behind it when Sentance’s car suddenly emerged, paused momentarily and then raced away, back towards Sutton Bridge.

  Andy couldn’t be certain, but he thought he’d caught a fleeting glimpse of someone seated next to Sentance in the passenger seat. If he was correct, it was someone slight: a very small woman, or a child, perhaps; someone who could barely see over the top of the dashboard. He eased himself to his full height, rubbing his back where it ached from the unnatural position that he had adopted, and debated what to do next. To continue his pursuit of Sentance would be impossible: it would take him at least ten minutes to run back to his car. By that time, Sentance would be back at the Sutton Bridge plant or well on his way to . . . Sutterton?

  Andy didn’t feel like giving up. Sentance must have had a reason for taking that detour. If Andy was right about the passenger, Sentance must have picked her – or him – up while he was off the main road. To Andy’s knowledge, there were no buildings down there along the bank. Had the person, whoever it was, been waiting for him at the gap, concealed from the road? If so, how had he or she arrived there? And did the bank conceal some kind of shelter, or had they just stood around in the mud?

  Andy knew that he’d have to investigate further. He also realised that there might be someone else – perhaps more than one other person – still lurking there. He debated whether he should spend time on fetching his car, which would offer him at least some protection if he encountered hostility. If he did so, he would not only lose precious minutes, but also scare off anyone who had no right to be there. He decided simply to cross the road and take a look down.

  What he saw when he did so was an area at the very foot of the bank where four shipping containers, no doubt for use at crop harvest time, stood end to end on a bed of aggregate.

  There were no lights on the containers and there was nothing to suggest that they were used for anything other than – he supposed, since the rest of the field had been ploughed – agricultural purposes. The presence of so many containers in such a remote spot was still strange. Andy knew that they’d have to be examined more closely, but he had no time to do it today. He had to get back to Spalding to see Tim. He’d ask the Boston police to investigate in the morning. It was unlikely that Sentance would return there tonight.

  Thirty-Seven

  After dinner, at which I eat little and Joanna even less, we spend a silent evening which for me is further jaundiced by Joanna’s silent recriminations. I do not complain and know that I have no cause to. Joanna’s cross is weightier than mine and at least some of the resentment that she shows towards me is justifiable. I sit in my armchair next to the fireplace; she, on the sofa. I am idling with my mobile phone, tapping away at messages that are less urgent than I am making them seem; she is pretending to read a magazine. Her head lolls forward every few minutes before it jerks upright again and she carries on her charade of being engrossed in some frothy trash that I am certain lies a million miles distant from her true thoughts. I know she’s exhausted. I lean across to touch her knee. I have to summon all my restraint not to burst into tears when she flinches away from me. I move my hand from her knee and grip the side of her hand, which is still clutching at a page of the magazine.

  “You should be in bed,” I say. “Let me take you up.”

  She shakes her head.

  “I’m not ready yet,” she says in a distant voice. “It’s too early. Let me hang on to some semblance of normality while I’m able to.”

  “It’s half-past nine,” I point out, “and you haven’t slept properly since you landed. When I came home on Monday, I slept for most of the afternoon. You’re tougher than I am, but you don’t have to prove anything to yourself. Or to me.”

  She does not reply, but gives me a withering look and returns to the trash. She has only turned the page once all evening. I wish she would let me in, to tell me what she is thinking, but I know that there’s no point in asking. I’ll probably never be close to her again. Once more, I have to fight back the tears, despising my own self-pity as I do so.

  It occurs to me that she won’t go to bed because she doesn’t
want me to join her there. The thought fills me with such an intense sorrow that I feel my heart constrict with pain. Her well-being is my paramount concern and I know that I must find a way of making her take rest. I say with a brightness that sounds false even to my own ears:

  “Well, I think that I’ll turn in myself, anyway. I’ve found today pretty tough and no doubt we’ll be hearing from our policemen friends again tomorrow. I’ve got to take a call from India in the early hours, so I’ll sleep in the guest room. Then I won’t disturb you.”

  She doesn’t look up as I leave the room. I hope against hope that she’ll go to bed herself as soon as I’m out of the way, now that I’ve removed her concern about sleeping with me. I make a brief sortie into the kitchen to pour myself a large glass of Scotch, then lumber upstairs with it, exaggerating my footsteps so that Joanna can hear. I leave the hall and landing lights switched on.

  The guest room, which has blue wallpaper and a shimmering blue satin eiderdown, has always struck me as a cold and cheerless place. It has an en-suite bathroom which I enter as soon as I’ve placed the Scotch on the bedside cabinet. I take a pee, then clean my teeth, using one of the new toothbrushes that are always stacked in the bathroom cabinet for the use of forgetful guests. I return to the bedroom, strip off to my shirt and pants and haul myself into the queen-sized bed. As I suspect, it is unwelcomingly cold; the smooth white sheets envelop me and inflict the kind of freezing shock that you experience when jumping into an outdoor swimming pool. I prop myself on one elbow and knock back the Scotch as rapidly as I can. It scalds the back of my throat and, after a minute or so, brings me out in a sweat. I switch off the lamp on the cabinet and lie down, drawing the bedcovers up around my ears. I thrash around for a while, trying to get comfortable, and eventually curl into the foetal position, facing the window. I fall into a doze. I can hear the cars passing on the Boston road. I think I hear one of them slowing, followed by the crunch of the gravel in the drive, but I’m sure that by this time I’m dreaming. I feel my bones relax as I sink deeper into sleep.