The Crossing

by Christina James

  “Oh, that’s all right then. Fine. What is it?”

  “I’ve just been at the Grummetts’ house. Their possessions are being removed. I’d like someone to sift through them, see if there’s anything there that would explain why they were keeping such a large sum of money in the house.”

  “Fine. But don’t you need a warrant? And where’s all this stuff being kept?”

  “Juliet persuaded Bob Grummett’s brother to let us take it to the police warehouse. Technically speaking, we do need a warrant; we’ll get one if necessary. The important thing is that Ivan Grummett’s accepted a receipt for it, so we’ve got it for a while before Bob can object. But I want it searched as quickly as possible, because Bob’s appointed a solicitor and no doubt the guy’ll raise all sorts of objections as soon as he gets involved.”

  “OK,” said Andy. “I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  “Great. You’ll need protective clothing. And a face mask.”

  “Why? Oh, shit, don’t tell me. I can guess.”

  “Shit’s about right,” said Tim, laughing. “Make sure you get kitted out properly. I don’t want you going down with typhoid or something.”

  “Don’t worry, I will. Who’s the solicitor, by the way?”

  “Someone called Dixon. Do you know of a solicitor by that name?”

  “Doesn’t ring any bells. Which law firm does he work for?”

  “I don’t know. But if Bob Grummett appointed him, I can’t imagine he’ll be a hot shot. Talking about hot, why were you so annoyed when you first answered the phone? Not got a hot date lined up, have you?”

  “As a matter of fact . . .”

  Andy stopped trying to speak. Tim was too busy laughing to listen to him.

  “Good guess, wasn’t it,” he said at length.

  “I don’t see what’s so funny about it. Presumably you went on a few dates yourself before you met Katrin – and before she married you, come to that. For your information, you fucked up my first date with this girl by calling me out to Sutterton Dowdyke the other day when I was supposed to be meeting her for a drink.”

  “I’m sorry about that. Who is she, anyway?”

  Tim’s question was studiedly offhand, but Andy could hear the curiosity crackling through his boss’s words.

  “No-one you know. She’s a journalist.”

  “Well, I’ve met a few of those. Try me.”

  “Jocelyn Greaves.”

  “No, can’t say I’ve heard of her. Well, enjoy your evening. And thanks for going to look through the Grummetts’ crates tomorrow. I know you won’t enjoy it, but it’s got to be done.”

  “Goodnight, sir,” said Andy. “Since when was enjoyment an objective of this job?” he muttered to himself, as he stuffed the phone back in his pocket. He looked at his watch. He still had plenty of time.

  Andy had suggested that he and Jocelyn should meet at The Punch Bowl at seven p.m. for a quick drink before going on to the Chinese restaurant in The Crescent. True to his plan, he walked into the pub when the minute hand on his watch was precisely halfway between 7 p.m. and 7.05 p.m. Looking around, he was gratified to see that Jocelyn had already arrived. She was seated at a small table near the door, casually but carefully dressed in a black sweater and black jeans, which were tucked into knee-length black boots. Her only jewellery was a rather spectacular pair of dangly silver earrings which shone against her dark hair. She’d hung her red duffle coat on the back of the chair. Andy noted that she’d already bought herself a glass of red wine.

  She smiled as soon as she caught his eye.

  “Let me buy you a drink,” she said, standing up as she spoke.

  “No need. I can get it. Would you like another?”

  “I asked first. And I’ve barely touched this one. Not trying to get me drunk, are you?” She grinned.

  Belatedly Andy realised he should try to be a little more gracious. He grinned back.

  “Sorry. I’m a bit out of practice. A pint of real ale would hit the spot nicely, thanks. Any kind they’ve got.”

  She nodded and gestured at the chair opposite hers at the table before heading for the bar.

  When she returned with his drink, they chatted for a few minutes about general topics before she asked the inevitable question.

  “Tell me a bit more about your job. What exactly is it that you’re doing – that you’re working on at the moment, I mean? Detective work has always intrigued me.”

  “I’m sure you know that I’m not allowed to give you much detail about what I’m doing. You must have met detectives before, in your own line of work. ”

  “Some. Mainly private ones, actually.”

  “Really? I’ve never met one, to my recollection.”

  “Generally they’re quite seedy. Not like the real thing.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. But how did you manage to meet them? I’d be astonished if they were thick on the ground in South Lincolnshire.”

  Jocelyn laughed, throwing back her head. Her silver earrings shimmered with the movement.

  “Oh, you’d be surprised. But perhaps you didn’t know that I was a freelance journalist.”

  “I think I did know that. Shelagh probably told me. What does that have to do with it?”

  “It means I get to choose what I write about. Oh, I cover the bread and butter stuff as well, to pay the bills. But investigative journalism is what really interests me.”

  “You mean you pay people to tell you stuff?”

  “Certainly not! You’re confusing it with chequebook journalism.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “It’s about producing a dossier of evidence, a series of articles or a documentary, on a topic that it’s in the public interest to expose.”

  Andy looked sceptical.

  “‘In the public interest’: that’s a much over-used phrase. It’s the sort of thing that politicians’ wives say when they spill the beans after they’ve been covering up for their husbands for years and suddenly get ditched for a newer model.”

  “Well, I admit that’s an example of the type of witness I might want to interview. But I usually have a more serious purpose than helping vindictive women wreak revenge.”

  “Kill me with it, then. What are you working on at the moment?”

  “Like you, I can’t give too much away. But I will tell you it involves the High School.”

  “You’d better be careful about what you’re saying. If you know about anything that puts the students or the teachers at the school at risk, you have a legal obligation to tell the police.”

  Jocelyn’s face paled. Andy realised that he’d sounded sterner than he intended.

  “Sorry. I put that badly. And I’m sure you wouldn’t jeopardise the safety of anyone at the school.”

  “You’re right, I wouldn’t. But I can see I’m going to have to tell you about it now. It concerns how the school premises are sometimes being used in the evenings and at weekends. I’ve found out that a sort of Masonic lodge is holding meetings there.”

  “The Masons aren’t my cup of tea, but as far as I know there’s nothing illegal about their activities, even though they are a bit too secretive for my liking. Pillars of society, some of them.”

  “I didn’t say they were Masons. It’s a group or club that models itself on the Masons, probably to give themselves bogus respectability.”

  Andy’s curiosity was whetted in spite of himself.

  “What’s the name of this group?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve heard they call themselves ‘The Bricklayers’ and also ‘The Doll-makers’. The first might suggest an analogy to ‘Masons’. I hate to think what the second could imply.”

  “It all sounds very tenuous,” said Andy. “Who told you they were holding meetings at the school?”

  “No-one did. I overheard
one of them inviting someone. He said they were meeting at the school one Saturday morning. You don’t believe me, do you? You think this all sounds too far-fetched.” She looked unhappy. Andy saw that she’d folded her hands together. Now she was clasping and unclasping her fingers nervously.

  “I don’t disbelieve you, but I can see nothing sinister about that. Lots of schools hire out their facilities. Some of them have to, as a return for money given by the government for refurbishment schemes.”

  “I know that. But this other person asked how they could be sure they wouldn’t be disturbed and Councillor Start told them that the head-teacher had spelt out to all the students in no uncertain terms that they must stay away on that day. Those were the words he used – ‘in no uncertain terms’.”

  “Councillor Start!”

  “Yes. He’s big in the group. In fact, I think he might be their leader. Do you know him? I realise he’s quite a local bigwig. That’s partly why I’d like to expose him, if he is engaged in something shady.”

  “I only met him very recently. But the circumstances were . . . unusual.”

  “Can you tell me about it, or is it confidential?”

  She looked up at him earnestly. Andy thought she seemed sincere rather than fanatical. He kept reminding himself that he didn’t know this woman, but he didn’t think she was a nutter or trying to fabricate something out of nothing. He fervently wanted to believe she was genuine. He hesitated only for a few seconds.

  “It was on Tuesday. I was called to the scene of the railway accident at Sutterton Dowdyke. You must have heard about it.”

  She nodded.

  “I arrived several hours after the accident. My boss and several other members of the force were there, as well as the fire brigade. And Councillor Start. A policeman had been posted at the end of the road and told not to let anyone through, but somehow he’d blagged his way in. He disappeared suddenly once we became aware of him – just melted away.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  “I’ve no idea. He didn’t explain himself. As far as I could see, it was something to do with looking after the daughters of the crossing-keeper, who’d been taken to hospital. Or one of them, anyway, the younger of the two. The lodge house was completely destroyed in the accident, so I suppose that was fair enough. He professed to be a family friend. On the other hand, a neighbour had already taken the girl under his wing.”

  “What was the neighbour’s name?”

  “Cushing. Peter Cushing, I think. Funny little man with a deep voice.”

  Jocelyn stared at him without replying. Now she did look manic, he thought. He resolved to change the subject.

  “Anyway,” he said, “we’ve talked enough shop for one evening and probably both said more than we should have into the bargain. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “All right,” said Jocelyn abstractedly. “I’m sorry for keeping on about it. But there’s just one other thing.”

  “Go on, then. After that, I insist that you tell me how many brothers and sisters you have, what your favourite colour is and which football team you support. And whether you come here often.”

  She managed a wan smile.

  “Peter Cushing’s another one of the group I mentioned,” she said.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ARIADNE IS SICK. She’s been unable to eat for days. She can drink only droplets of water from a spoon. She lies on her bed all day, sweating and shivering. I’m spending all my energy on caring for her, but when the oxygen levels drop I have to lie down myself until the faintness passes.

  The poor air distresses Ariadne. Her breathing is shallow; each gasp she takes rasps her chest and throat. She has a pain in her back. She points to it often, her face twisted in agony. I think there’s something wrong with her kidneys. When she’s hot, her heart races; when she’s cold, the heartbeat is faint. When she opens her eyes, they don’t focus. There’s a morbidity about her skin, a green clamminess that terrifies me.

  The Lover has not visited for a week. Ariadne’s illness will make him angry when he comes. She can no longer pretend that she’s well. He’ll scream she’s faking it to annoy him and he’ll hit her, or hit me. But we need him because there’s almost no food left. She’s not eating, but I have to, so that I can care for her. The food he brings is shoddy: the packets of dried goods are frequently split, the perishable items glutinous with decay. Still, it is food. Today there is only flour, which I mix with water and try to fry.

  I smooth back the sweat-streak hair from Ariadne’s brow. She is heartbreakingly fair. Damp curls corkscrew on her forehead. Are the others still as blonde, or have the Lincolnshire winters darkened their tresses and coarsened their skin, so fine and unblemished when they were taken away?

  Ariadne stirs, sighs, seems to sink deeper into her torpor. It’s not like sleep: she’s not unconscious. I sense she is creeping towards the end. I can’t let her die.

  There was too much death in my old life. I mean ‘murder’, but shy from the word. I am a murderer. Can murder ever be justified? It’s a thought I still wrestle with every day. The Lover is a monster, but I’ve taken a life. He takes only liberty, dignity and joy.

  Ariadne is lying in an unnatural position. The terrible rattling in her chest and throat begins again.

  I say, “You’ll be better soon.”

  It’s a lie. All of this is a lie. I’ve always known I would find the strength and courage to break free from it one day. Now that Ariadne is sick, she’s shown me the way. Feverishly elated, I know what I must do.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  JULIET WAS SEARCHING for information on Councillor Start. She could find no criminal records for Start himself. His son, Matthew Start, had been convicted of speeding a few years previously, but the endorsement on his licence had almost expired. He hadn’t been banned from driving. There were no other convictions. The cold case file said he’d been charged with rape, but there was no trace of this in the records. Destroyed after a time lapse, she guessed, if he’d been found not guilty.

  A Google search brought up the website of Start Construction. Her trawl through it revealed a host of glossy pictures of newly-built houses and some aerial views of whole estates. There were internal shots of rooms in show houses, some pitifully small despite the benefit of a wide-angled lens. The company’s strap-line was Let Start’s Kick-Start Your Dreams. The Starts specialised in capitalising on the aspirations of young couples who could just about manage to raise the deposit for a mortgage.

  She clicked a link on a sidebar marked ‘Renovations and Improvements’. These photographs depicted quite a different order of building project. The illustrations were of substantial conservatories added to old farmhouses, tasteful extensions that segued almost seamlessly into the matched brick of period homes and, displayed as the jewel in the crown, several shots of the cellar of a Victorian terrace house in Pinchbeck Road that had been converted into a leisure complex.

  Other links provided advice on payment plans, insurance and how to obtain a quotation. The last page gave details, including mugshots, of the directors and key employees. Councillor Frederick Start was CEO of the company, Matthew Start its Managing Director. None of the other names or photos meant anything to Juliet except one: she noted with some curiosity that the Company Secretary was Mrs Veronica Start. Staring out at her was the pale and somewhat mournful face of someone whom she recognised but at first could not place. It came to her quite quickly: she’d seen the woman at the Fenland Folklore meeting she’d attended. She clicked on the biographical note against Mrs Start’s name and read that ‘Mrs Veronica Start teaches modern languages at Spalding High School and acts as part-time Company Secretary at Start Construction. She has been with Start’s for seventeen years.’

  This was interesting but revealed nothing exceptional. Juliet would hazard a guess that most of the local businesses big enough to boast
a board of directors provided as many sinecures as they could to family members. But perhaps Matthew Start’s wife really fulfilled the function of Company Secretary and was not the holder of a nominal role yielding a handsome salary. Veronica Start didn’t look like a sponger.

  Disappointed with what she could glean from the website, Juliet paged back to the Google listings. Scrolling through them with her practised eye, she skipped one about Councillor Start’s support for the construction of a new wing at Oatfields , the council-run old people’s home (he would support that, wouldn’t he?) and another that praised him for being a generous sponsor of some of the runners in a half marathon designed to raise funds for the home. It was the fourth entry that caught her attention. It was a list of the governors of Spalding High School. Clicking on the link led directly to the school’s website and showed that Frederick Start was the chairman of the governors. He had occupied the role for so long that he must have first accepted it when Matthew was a schoolboy. Perhaps he also had a daughter: Juliet would check.

  She’d like to know what Councillor Start got out of being a governor. Local kudos? He had that already, in spades. Respectability? A possible motive: there could be few more laudable pursuits than giving up your time to help the next generation. Nevertheless, she’d be on the look-out for any more tangible benefits the Councillor might be obtaining: feeding an unhealthy interest in young girls, for example.

  None of the other first-page Google entries looked interesting. Most related to charities or local events supported by the Starts; one or two were legal notices posted by them about new building work they proposed to undertake. The second page contained more legal notices, most of them now several years old, and fewer reports of charity events.

  Juliet enjoyed carrying out this kind of background search and she was extremely thorough. She looked at her watch. She had time to trawl through a few more pages. She’d worked almost to the bottom of the third page when her perseverance was rewarded. ‘Councillor Start to lead The Bricklayers’, she read. She clicked on the entry. It was a very short piece – little more than a caption – that had appeared in The Spalding Guardian about three years previously.