The Crossing

by Christina James

  He scraped the card clumsily from the surface of the table.

  “We’ll be going then,” he said lamely. “Philippa, you come too.”

  He and Kayleigh turned to leave. Philippa hung back.

  “Was there really a lot of money in the pyjama case?” she asked Juliet.

  “Yes, there was.”

  “How much?”

  “I can’t tell you that. But a lot.”

  “But we’re always so hard up,” said Philippa in wonder. “Always. We’ve never got two pennies to rub together. Where could the money have come from?”

  “That’s one of the things we need to know,” said Juliet. “If you find out any more about it, will you tell us?”

  “Come on, Philippa!” Bob called.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  TIM WAS IN a bad mood as he drove away from the Pilgrim Hospital with Juliet silent at his side. Well-acquainted with all the shades of his character, Juliet knew when it was worth trying to jog him out of his rare periods of low spirits and when, as now, it was best to let him surface from the depths on his own.

  Juliet could understand his anger. Tim had been bested by both Bob Grummett and his daughter Kayleigh, undoubtedly two of the most gormless characters she’d ever encountered, and he’d failed to get a full statement from Ruby Grummett, although three days had now passed since the railway accident. It would be practically impossible to obtain a complete and candid account from Ruby now: her already imperfect recollection of events was likely genuinely to grow hazier, not to mention the spin that she’d have had time to add to it. And if Bob’s lawyer was to be present at future interviews he would no doubt abet Ruby in further airbrushing.

  She glanced across at the speedometer. Tim was driving at almost 50 mph in a built-up area, his mind obviously elsewhere. She was about to warn him when he suddenly slowed and took an unfamiliar turning.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “I thought I’d told you,” he said ungraciously. “I want to stop off at the Grummetts’ lodge.”

  “Is the safety work still going on?”

  “That’s my understanding. The Boston police photographed the scene as soon as they could. They’ve taken witness statements from the train driver and the people travelling in the first carriages. The fire brigade’s tidied up and a local firm’s been hired to make the building stable. It’ll have to be demolished, of course, but not until the coroner’s reached his verdict. If the conclusions he draws cause the CPS to launch a prosecution, the lodge will have to be left as it is until after the trial. You know what judges are like: always game for going walkabout with juries. You can just see them turning up there in a bus, can’t you, all wearing safety boots and hard hats and pretending to be serious when actually they’re having a jolly good time?” Tim chuckled bitterly.

  “Do you think there will be a trial?”

  Tim took one hand off the wheel to make an awkward ‘How should I know?’ gesture.

  “Difficult to tell. I’d say there’s more than a fifty-fifty chance that the CPS thinks it can make a charge of criminal negligence stick. Possibly even manslaughter. I’m far from sure that Ruby Grummett will be the defendant, though; or, if she is, she won’t be in the dock on her own. From what she’s told us so far, the railway company is at least equally to blame.”

  “I’m sure they’ll put forward a different view, most likely backed up by better solicitors than this Mr Dixon.”

  “You’re right, but unless they can prove that someone called her to tell her that train had been delayed, she’s got a strong defence. And that warning system sounds as if it was faulty. Whether it was regularly maintained or not is something else they’ll have to prove.

  “You think she’ll get off, then?”

  “I wouldn’t put it as high as that. I think she’ll probably escape a custodial sentence, but not be allowed to go back to her job. The railway company will likely come to an arrangement with her, pay her some kind of ‘without prejudice’ compensation in return for taking early retirement. There may be a genuine need for it, if her mind’s been affected. All they’d require is a doctor’s opinion that she’s no longer mentally competent.” He looked across at Juliet. Her expression was uncharacteristically stern, her features set in a look of distaste or disapproval. “You don’t seem to wish Ruby Grummett well,” he added. “Do you have a reason, other than that the whole family seems quite unpleasant?”

  “Well, there’s that, of course, although you almost pity them for not knowing any better. They’re like throwbacks from the past: they’re how you imagine totally uneducated peasants behaved in the nineteenth century. All except Philippa. She’s one of the reasons why I’ve taken a dislike to Ruby, although it’s putting it a bit strongly to say that I ‘don’t wish her well’. They slight that girl and I’m not sure why. I also think that Ruby knows she’s guilty, at least partly, and she’s determined not to admit it. And I agree that Bob has something else to hide as well, almost certainly connected with the money. He’s probably committed a relatively trivial offence that he doesn’t want us to find out about. It beggars belief that he’s an accomplished criminal. The whole Grummett charade makes me feel uneasy.”

  “I know what you mean. There’s something shifty about them and the way they act. The uncle and aunt are as bad; the uncle seems to be in on the money scam, whatever it is. We’re just approaching Dowdyke Road now,” he added. “Surely that poor copper hasn’t been standing here for the whole of the past three days.” He lowered his window. “PC Walton, good morning.”

  “Good afternoon, sir.” Tim looked at his watch. It was almost 1.30 p.m.

  “Good afternoon, I should have said. It’s been a busy morning. This is DC Armstrong. I was just saying to her that I hope you haven’t been standing here ever since I last saw you?”

  “No, sir. There’ll be lorries up and down to remove some of the stuff from the wrecked house today. I’ve been sent to make sure they get through all right, and to discourage sightseers.”

  “It’s a bit cold for sightseers, isn’t it?”

  “You’d be surprised. The Press came back again yesterday. And another gentleman. I let him through, as he said he was a family friend.”

  “What was his name?”

  “I didn’t ask him, sir. I think it might have been Councillor Start again, but I didn’t get a good look at him the other night.” The constable was immediately on his guard, afraid that he’d not asked enough questions. Tim was momentarily irritated, but realised that Walton was not party to the information that he and Juliet had just been discussing.

  “Never mind. If I carry on, am I going to get stuck, or in the way of one of these lorries you’ve been telling us about?”

  “I don’t think so, not at the moment. There’s a salvage truck there now. It’s taking out what it can for the family and the builders are helping. My guess is they’ll be busy until dark.”

  “Thank you,” said Tim. He raised the window. The policeman stood back and gave him a half-salute.

  “Damn! Damn! Damn!” said Tim, as they drove away.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I wanted to see the house more or less as it was at the time of the accident. There’s no chance of that now. I should have come here yesterday. I was just trying to save time by fitting it in with a visit to the hospital.”

  “But you said they’ll have to leave it until the coroner’s seen it.”

  “Yes. But it’s not the building I’m interested in: it’s the Grummetts’ stuff. I wanted to know if there was anything else there that might suggest some kind of criminal activity.”

  “If the salvage lorry’s still there, you could look through the things it’s collected before it goes.”

  “That’s true. Technically, I need a warrant to do that, but who’s going to know?”

  As they roun
ded the final bend before the railway crossing, they saw a small knot of figures standing by the side of the road. Two of them, clad in donkey jackets, were obviously workmen. One of the others, although he had his back to them, was immediately recognisable as the diminutive Peter Cushing. He raised his head as he heard their car approach and gesticulated excitedly at his nearest companion, who turned to look in their direction.

  “Jesus!” muttered Tim. “Ivan Grummett’s here. That’s all I need.”

  “I haven’t met him yet,” said Juliet. “Which one is he?”

  “The scruffy one standing next to the little guy. He’s got a pronounced squint. The little guy’s Cushing, the neighbour who took in Philippa and Kayleigh Grummett on the night of the accident. Presumably the other two are salvage men.”

  The heavy lifting machinery was still in place. As Tim parked his car opposite the group of men the arm of a mobile crane was whirring over their heads. It nosed down gently to the ruined building and delivered its cargo of an upright steel joist to a man who was waiting to receive it. Juliet watched, fascinated.

  “It’s amazing how delicately they can handle those huge machines,” she said.

  “What?” asked Tim, snapping free from his seat belt. “Oh, yes, I see what you mean. Perhaps you could help me by handling this lot delicately. I’m afraid I might not manage it.”

  He stepped out of the car rapidly and strode over to the men, all of whom were now watching him.

  “Mr Grummett!” he said, holding out his hand. “This is DC Juliet Armstrong.” Juliet also offered her hand. Ivan Grummett took it, ignoring Tim’s.

  “I hadn’t expected to see you here today,” continued Tim brightly.

  “I could say the same about you,” Ivan replied, regarding him balefully. “My brother asked me to come, to make sure his things aren’t damaged any further. And that we get out as much as we can,” he added meaningfully. The two workmen bristled. Like Tim, they probably assumed that he was doubting their honesty.

  “Most of it’s too damaged to be of much use again,” said one of them with a sort of offhand glee. “What hasn’t been broken or crushed is as like as not covered in shit.”

  “Quite,” said Tim.

  “Mr Grummett,” said Juliet in a low, confidential tone, “Would you mind if we took a look at your brother’s things, before they’re taken away? We’d like to see if they can give us any further clues about the accident. I assume they’re being put into storage?”

  “Supposed to be,” said the same workman. “But I don’t think the boss will agree to store some of this, unless the crates are sealed and wrapped in plastic. It’s contaminated, see. As I’ve just been saying.” He flicked a triumphant grin at Ivan.

  “Bob thought this might happen,” said Ivan, looking with loathing at the workman.

  “Perhaps we can help,” said Juliet. “We could have the items collected and taken to a police warehouse until Mr Grummett is ready to sift through them to see what he wants to keep. How many crates are there?”

  “We haven’t finished yet,” said the workman, “but we’ve filled six crates already. My guess is there’ll be another couple. We can’t lift out the large pieces of furniture. They’re proper wedged in, for one thing, and if we try to free them, we might cause a further collapse, for another.”

  Slowly and deliberately, Ivan Grummett took out a pipe and lit it. He drew on it equally slowly, regarding them all malevolently with his good eye. The other eye was screwed shut against the smoke. There was an uncomfortable silence which he made no attempt to break.

  “What do you think, Mr Grummett?” said Juliet finally.

  “I don’t have Bob’s permission for you to take owt away. I ought to ask him first.”

  “By all means. But he’s busy with your sister-in-law at the moment. She’s still not well. If you can’t get hold of him today, the crates might be left out in the open overnight. And there won’t be a police guard on the road after the work’s stopped for the day. Wouldn’t it be better to let us take the crates away now? We can give you a receipt for them.”

  “Yes,” said Tim. “And we’ll promise not to open them until we get your brother’s permission.”

  Ivan drew on his pipe again, probably mulling over any pitfalls to this proposition. He was smarter than Bob, thought Tim, but not by much.

  “I suppose it’s the best option. Best of a bad bunch, that is,” he conceded. “All right, you take them, then, but this goes with me.” He pointed at the ground in front of him. A square black tin box, fastened with a padlock, had been placed there. Tim and Juliet hadn’t noticed it before.

  “What’s that?” asked Tim.

  “It’s a box,” said Ivan.

  “DI Yates means to ask what’s in it,” said Juliet, anticipating Tim’s sigh of frustration.

  “Papers. That’s all. No interest to you.”

  “What sort of papers, Mr Grummett?”

  “Marriage lines, employment contracts, birth certificates, that sort of thing,” said Ivan. “Family papers. As I’ve said, of no interest outside the family.”

  “We’d like . . .”

  “We’ll have to ask you to sign a receipt for those,” said Juliet quickly, anticipating that Tim was about to refuse to let Ivan take the box.

  “All right.”

  “Well, if you’ll excuse us, we’ve got to get back to work,” said the other workman, speaking for the first time. He and his mate wandered off.

  “If you’ll come with me, Mr Grummett, we can sort out the receipt in the comfort of the car,” said Juliet. Tim was left standing with Peter Cushing.

  “It’s good of you and your wife to look after Philippa and Kayleigh.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing, really,” the small man’s deep voice boomed out. “We’re neighbours. And it’s only Philippa now: Kayleigh’s going to stay with her uncle and aunt from tonight. Besides, we’re chapel, and since Fred Start’s made it his business to help, we thought we ought to, too. Bob and Ruby are chapel as well – a bit lapsed, maybe.”

  Tim wasn’t listening to the final sentence.

  “Do you mean Councillor Start?” he asked. “Has he been here again?”

  “Yesterday,” replied Peter Cushing. “Why? Does it matter?”

  “No, not at all,” said Tim. “Did he want anything specific?”

  “He came up here to check on the work that’s going on and then dropped by to see the girls. Philippa’s always been a bit of a favourite with him.”

  “Really? Does she like him, too?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Thank you, Mr Cushing. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Would you like to come back for some tea?”

  “Not today. But this won’t be our last visit; we’ll take up your kind offer another time.”

  “Of course. Any time. Just knock on the door.”

  Tim became aware of Juliet standing at his elbow and at the same moment heard the sound of an engine revving. He watched Ivan Grummett drive away, the exhaust of his battered old pick-up filling the atmosphere with fumes.

  “Well done,” Tim said with heavy sarcasm. “There goes the only evidence we’re likely to find to help us understand what’s going on here. In the meantime, you’ve managed to saddle the force with approximately eight large crates of, and I quote, ‘contaminated’ household goods.”

  Juliet looked crestfallen, but only for a minute.

  “It was worth a try,” she said defiantly. “We might just have swung it.”

  “Yes, we might,” Tim agreed, already repentant. “Besides,” he added, grinning impishly for the first time that day, “there’s a little job coming up for Andy Carstairs now. I’m sure a practically-minded person like him won’t mind sifting his way through several crates of shit.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ANDY C
ARSTAIRS WAS just going off duty. He’d arranged to meet Jocelyn Greaves for a drink again, this time unchaperoned by his sister Shelagh. He was returning to his flat for a hot bath and a shave, with the intention of arriving at the pub just a couple of minutes late, to demonstrate he wasn’t too keen.

  Andy sometimes had a kind of foreboding about Tim: it was haunting him now, making him uneasy as he left the police station. Tim had an uncanny habit of calling Andy with an emergency at times when it was least convenient: Andy’s disastrous first date with Jocelyn was only the latest of many instances. He walked briskly away from the station, as if putting distance between himself and his place of work could act as a talisman against Tim’s catching up with him. He promised himself that once he was in the bathroom he would ignore any messages from his boss. After all, he wasn’t supposed to be on call this evening. He hadn’t made that mistake again.

  Home for Andy was a spacious two-bedroomed flat situated over a ladies’ dress agency in New Road. He reached it in a little less than ten minutes. He was just inserting his key into the lock when his mobile started to ring. Cursing, Andy let go of the key and removed the device from his pocket. Tim’s number was flashing on the screen. Andy dithered for a moment at the top of the short flight of steps to his flat, trying to summon the resolution not to answer.

  “Carstairs,” he said gruffly, in what he hoped was an off-putting tone.

  “Is that you, Andy?” said Tim.

  “Of course it’s me.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you. Are you going down with a cold?”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  “Good. Because I’ve got a little job for you.”

  Andy groaned.

  “There’s no need to sound like that. Although I must admit that it isn’t a very pleasant job.”

  “I don’t care what sort of job it is. When do you want me to do it?”

  “Not until tomorrow. You’ll need to be able to see properly.”