The Crossing

by Christina James

  Chapter Three

  LESS THAN HALF an hour later Tim arrived at the scene of the accident. The Boston police had already closed Dowdyke Road. Two uniforms Tim didn’t know were stationed at the top of the road, where it joined the A16. They’d placed a couple of hurdles across the junction. Tim showed one of the policemen his ID.

  “DI Yates, South Lincs CID. Sorry, I don’t think I know you?”

  “PC Walton, sir.”

  “Have you had many people trying to get through?”

  “Some press and the BBC, sir. We were instructed to let them proceed. One local inhabitant – Mr Cushing, who lives in the bungalow further down the lane. And Councillor Start.”

  “Councillor Start? Is he a relative?”

  “I don’t know, sir. He said he knew Mrs Grummett through chapel and wanted to see that she was OK.”

  “But Mrs Grummett’s been taken to hospital, hasn’t she?”

  “Yes. I told him that. But he still wanted to drive on. He said he wanted to check that her daughters were coping.”

  “Really? So you let him past?”

  “Yes.” When Tim made no comment, the policeman looked uncomfortable. “I hope that was the right thing to do? He’s a well-known local man, after all.”

  “I’m sure it was fine,” said Tim. “Isn’t someone going to set up a diversion? Then you won’t have to stand here all night!”

  “I believe they’re working on it, sir,” said PC Walton, as he dragged the hurdles to the side of the road to allow Tim through.

  During the short interchange with PC Walton, Tim noticed it was growing even colder. The icy fog that had been swirling over the Fens all day was getting thicker by the minute. He wasn’t familiar with Dowdyke Road, so he drove very slowly, barely touching twenty miles an hour as he edged round the sharp bends. He was well aware of the depth of the Fenland ditches that lined the road on either side.

  The fog began to glow a lurid yellow. He rounded a final bend and came up sharp against the heavy lifting gear that he’d seen on the news. Two workmen dressed in fluorescent overalls were operating the machinery. One of them gestured towards him. A policeman appeared from the other side of the contraption. Tim got out of his car.

  “Giash!” he said. “I’m glad to see you here. But surprised: this is a long way from your usual beat, isn’t it?”

  “Good evening, sir. I was in Boston this afternoon, on a training course. Superintendent Thornton called before I’d left and asked me to come straight here.”

  Tim grinned, though he was annoyed that Thornton hadn’t mentioned this.

  “So you didn’t get any supper either?”

  Giash looked blank.

  “Never mind – just a joke! Who’s here, exactly?”

  “Just myself and Verity Tandy from the force. We’re waiting for a crash forensics team from Peterborough. And there are two Boston coppers stationed at either end of this road – I expect you’ve seen the one at the junction you came in on.”

  Tim nodded.

  “Where did all this gear come from?”

  “The fire brigade brought it. I think it belongs to Boston Council.”

  Tim indicated a small group of people huddled on the grass verge.

  “Who are they?”

  “One of the daughters of the crossing-keeper and her uncle and aunt, who showed up before she did. She’s not been here long – came home from work as usual. She’s the short stout one. The bloke standing next to her is a local reporter.”

  “Are the BBC still here?”

  “They left after the news broadcast.”

  “Who’s the old guy standing next to the reporter? Is he the uncle?”

  “No, that’s Councillor Start. He’s been here a while. He claims to be a friend, but the daughter doesn’t seem to know him that well.”

  “The large lady standing next to the daughter is the aunt?”

  “Yes. Elsie, her name is. Elsie Grummett.”

  “So where’s the uncle, then?”

  “I’m not sure. I’d better take a look – we’ve already had to warn him about trying to get into the building. It’s not safe. It’s been ripped completely off its foundations.”

  “I’ll come with you. We need to get some tape put round the building immediately.”

  PC Chakrabati regarded Tim with respectful amusement.

  “I’m sure you’re right, sir. Perhaps you could advise me on how to do it. I’m not quite sure how to keep it in place, while all this work is going on.”

  Tim had the grace to look abashed. Wryly he told himself that he’d just made an unthinking bureaucracy-obsessed gaffe worthy of Superintendent Thornton himself. He was also aware that Thornton had originated the idea.

  “You’re right, we’ll leave it until they take the machinery away. Could you introduce me to the daughter?”

  As they stepped across the road, the short stout woman detached herself from the group and walked towards them. Tim held out his hand.

  “DI Tim Yates, South Lincs police,” he said. “I’m very sorry this has happened. Have you heard how your mother is?”

  The woman didn’t take Tim’s hand. She stood and stared at him for several minutes, her large white face bobbing up and down so that the row of tight curls on her forehead bounced. Behind her heavy-framed spectacles, the brown eyes that regarded him were either perplexed or suspicious, he couldn’t tell which. She was very short indeed, barely reaching his elbow. Her several double chins sank into each other and eventually into a thick short neck that disappeared rapidly into her shoulders. She didn’t answer his question, but countered it with one of her own. Her voice was grating and squeaky at the same time.

  “Can I go in for a look round?” she said. “I want me pyjama case. It’s important.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms Grummett, we can’t allow anyone nearer to the building than this. It’s not safe.”

  “Kayleigh,” she said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Kayleigh, me name’s Kayleigh. I don’t know about not going in. Me Uncle Ivan’s . . .”

  “Now, Kayleigh!” The large lady gave the young woman a dig with her elbow. She turned to Tim apologetically. She had a flat face wrinkled in whorls, like a Chelsea bun. Her expression was more guileful than perplexed. “She isn’t herself,” she said. “And no wonder, poor lass.”

  Tim signalled to Giash to nip round the side of the house. He knew that the policeman had immediately picked up his meaning. If Uncle Ivan was rooting about in the wreckage, he needed to be brought out, sharpish, and reprimanded. Tim turned back to the large woman.

  “I understand you’re Mrs Elsie Grummett?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Where’s your other niece?”

  It was the large woman’s turn to look blank.

  “Come again?”

  “Kayleigh has a sister, I believe. Where is she at the moment?”

  “Oh, you mean Philippa!”

  “I suppose I do.” He turned to Kayleigh. “Is your sister’s name Philippa?” The young woman continued to regard him with silent, bovine stupidity. To Tim’s surprise, the man whom Giash had identified as Councillor Start, who’d been hovering on the periphery since Tim had introduced himself, now butted in.

  “Philippa’s at Peter Cushing’s house, just up the road. She’s having tea with his daughter. There seemed no reason to alter the arrangement, under the circumstances.”

  “I see,” said Tim. “Thank you, Councillor Start. It’s very good of you to take so much trouble to support the family here. I’m sure they appreciate it. I’m intrigued to know how you know where Philippa is, though.”

  The Councillor, a tall, untidily built man with very thin greasy grey hair and a pendulous lower lip, laughed noisily.

  “Oh, no mystery. Peter came along to see if h
e could help about the time that I arrived. He told us that Philippa was quite safe. She can stay the night there if she likes.”

  “She didn’t come with him to see what had happened?”

  “No, he left her at his house when he walked down. No point in upsetting her, was there?”

  “Perhaps not. How old is Philippa?”

  “Fifteen or sixteen, I think.”

  “Sixteen,” squeaked Kayleigh.

  “Thank you,” said Tim. He supposed that Philippa must be as slow and incurious as her sister. Extraordinary even so that a teenage girl would not want to see what had happened to her home after it had been hit by a train.

  Giash returned, accompanied by a very dishevelled man carrying a poodle-dog pyjama case. He held it out to Kayleigh.

  “Don’t touch that!” yelled Elsie. “It’s all covered in shit!”

  Her husband glowered at her. He had an unprepossessing face, not improved by a decided squint, and short grey hair that stood up like a brush at the back of his head.

  “What do you expect?” he demanded. “Bloody yo-yo lorry, wasn’t it? Do you think I enjoyed crawling through all that muck? Look at me trousers.”

  “Never mind, I’ll take it,” said Kayleigh. “Thanks.” She grabbed the pyjama case.

  “I must ask you to leave that with me,” Tim said. “The house is being impounded as a crime scene, at least until we get to the bottom of what happened. I can’t allow you to remove things from it at the moment. That object is a health hazard, too. It has to be bagged up.”

  “No!” said Kayleigh. “It’s mine. You can’t have it.”

  She sounded like a spoilt five-year-old. She was holding the pyjama case behind her back now, evidently trying to evade his reach.

  “Kayleigh, love,” said Elsie wheedlingly, “I think you’ve got to do what the policeman says.”

  “Shut up.” Tim was startled to hear Ivan Grummett hiss this command at his wife, sotto voce. It sounded vicious.

  “Where’s PC Tandy?” Tim said to Giash. “Could you ask her to come and help here?” He turned to Ivan Grummett. “And I’d like a few words with you, sir. I understand you were asked not to run the risk of going into the building?”

  “I told Bob I’d do it,” said Ivan Grummett truculently. “He had to go to the hospital with Ruby.”

  Tim’s concentration was broken for a moment when an Audi emerged from behind the machinery and glided past. Councillor Start was sitting at the wheel. Tim hadn’t noticed the councillor melt away while he was talking to Kayleigh. He considered asking him to stop before reflecting that the man was neither a witness of the accident nor a member of the Grummett family. Strictly speaking, he shouldn’t have been admitted to the scene in the first place. Probably best for everyone if he left now.

  Verity Tandy appeared at his side.

  “PC Chakrabati said you wanted to see me, sir.”

  Tim looked at her appraisingly. She’d lost quite a lot of weight since joining the Spalding team. She was more attractive now and he’d become more impressed with her competence. Not that the two issues were linked in his mind, he swiftly added to himself, hearing a reprimand from Katrin as clearly as if she’d been standing at his elbow. He took Verity to one side.

  “I’d like you to get that pyjama case from the Grummett girl without causing a scene, if you can,” he said. “Her name’s Kayleigh. Be careful, it’s covered in ordure.”

  Verity grinned. “Shit, you mean, sir.”

  “Quite,” said Tim primly.

  Chapter Four

  THERE CAN BE no-one who measures time as minutely as I do. I count the seconds, the minutes, the hours, the days, the weeks, the months, the years, the decades. My life is parcelled out in units of time. You may shrug and say that so is everyone’s, but my time’s passing is different from yours. It is me; it consumes me.

  While I was still a girl, I was singled out. Most girls – most boys, too, I imagine – believe they’re special. It gives them their goals, the energy they need to leap all those early hurdles before adulthood can be negotiated. They know that if only they can find the strength to push on, they’ll become footballers, rock stars, millionaires, beauty queens. But my own special thing was dark, not light and full of hope. It disgusted me. It was to be feared, to be dreaded when it came. It consumed my innocence and hovered over my future. It always came with the dark. I hate the dark.

  It’s never dark here if I have the choice. But it’s never naturally light, either. My rooms are artificially lit: I burn electricity twenty-four hours a day. Lurking just behind the yellow glare of my low-watt lights, the bottomless darkness remains. It bides its time, always prepared to pounce.

  Submission doesn’t come easily to me. This helps me to survive but causes so much of my pain. I’ve been held here by the Lover. He can be kind, he can be cruel. He has demons to fight. Sometimes he is absent for long periods of time, which I count and parcel up exactly. It makes me afraid when he’s away for too long; afraid because I’m still here, trapped here. Alone with Ariadne. If the lights go out, it will be dark and I’ll be afraid. If he doesn’t return after three weeks, I shall know that he will never come again. And we’ll be trapped. We’ll die.

  Always he has returned. Then he’s often unhappy with me. Sometimes he rages at a small fault, something I’ve missed or not understood; sometimes I’ve deliberately disobeyed or tried to refuse his demands. I’ve done this even though I know that he’ll chastise me, that he’ll lash out at me and kick and bite, and I’ll be bruised and hurt for many days. Then there might be day upon day of visits when he hits me again, because he can’t bear to see the bruises that are already there. Or I flinch when I see his hand descending. He can’t bear cowardice, as he frequently tells me. Ariadne watches.

  Then it will stop. He’ll be sorry, he’ll be tender. Usually it’s after he’s been absent again for a few days, given me a chance to heal. He won’t ask my forgiveness; it wouldn’t occur to him. But he’ll say that if I’m kind and nice and better behaved, perhaps we can lead a more normal life. Perhaps, just perhaps, we can emerge from the dark together. I believe in his love for me. And then there is Ariadne.

  Chapter Five

  DC JULIET ARMSTRONG smoothed back dark unruly curls and secured them in a pony-tail at the nape of her neck. She flicked a sideways glance at her three-quarters reflection. This evening, she was properly off-duty – not even on call – and she’d dressed carefully in casually conservative clothes. Jeans would probably be too informal, so she’d decided upon neat black trousers, a pale blue short-sleeved shirt and a chunky, navy-blue, cable-knit cardigan – a ‘boyfriend cardigan’, the shop assistant had called it (which had almost lost her the sale).

  Juliet was still smarting from a conversation she’d had with her boss, DI Tim Yates, earlier in the day, when he’d asked her what she was planning to do with her evening and she’d told him rather shyly that she’d joined Fenland Folklore, a small society devoted to exploring old Lincolnshire customs and folk tales. Tim himself belonged to the much more prestigious South Lincolnshire Local History Society. It met quarterly at the premises of the Archaeological Society and because of its connections with that venerated institution had even managed to attract some lottery funding. Juliet had expected Tim to be vaguely amused that she’d opted for the humbler organisation, but had been quite unprepared for his scathing comments.

  “I’m surprised you want to waste your time with them. Bunch of old biddies dressed in curtains, in all probability, digging up bogus magic and pretending that the lullabies sung by Victorian shepherds’ wives were inscrutable ancient charms against the Devil. Why don’t you apply to join the Local History Society? I’ll put in a good word for you.”

  Juliet had felt her cheeks burning with anger.

  “I’m not interested in the Local History Society, thank you. It’s the old Fenland folk tales and
what’s been captured from a half-lost oral tradition that fascinates me. I’m not sure that Fenland Folklore is dominated by the sort of ladies you describe, but if it is, they can’t be any worse than some of the pompous, self-regarding people I met at the Archaeological Society during the Claudia McRae enquiry.”

  “Hey, steady on,” said Tim, holding up both hands palms-first in a gesture of submission. “I was only ribbing you. I’m sure you’ll have a great time.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Juliet had said, her voice crisp and metallic. “I hope that you have a nice evening, too.”

  Juliet frequently beat herself up after she’d let Tim get under her skin like this. She’d now allowed their conversation to cast a shadow over an evening that she’d been looking forward to. She gave herself a mental shake, determined to exorcise Tim’s slights. It was a mystery to her why she cared so much for his good opinion. She knew that Katrin would have laughed at him, told him that he was being absurdly pompous.

  Katrin often acted as her ally. The last time Juliet had seen her she’d expressed an interest in Fenland Folklore herself and said that she’d give one of the meetings a try, if she could find a babysitter. Juliet hadn’t mentioned this to Tim. She’d let him find out for himself, if it happened.

  Fenland Folklore held its meetings at Moose Hall in Love Lane, Spalding. Juliet was fascinated by both names. Had there ever been moose in South Lincolnshire? And was Love Lane an abbreviation for ‘Lovers’ Lane’, or had it gained its appellation from some long-dead philanthropist’s outpouring of endearment to all who passed that way? Love Lane started at the church, which may have been significant. Perhaps the proffered love was of a spiritual kind.

  It was a murky evening, cold with the swirling fog. Juliet had debated riding to the meeting on her bicycle, but doubted whether in such poor visibility she would be safe from the lorries that were bound to come thundering down the High Street. It was a little too far to walk, so she’d had to make the effort to retrieve her elderly Fiat from its lock-up garage. This took a bit longer than she’d expected, with the result that she arrived at the meeting shortly after it had started.