The Crossing

by Christina James

  “Is that you, Tim?” she murmured, not really waking.

  “Yes, it’s me,” he said tenderly. “Who else would it be?”

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  TIM CLIMBED OUT of bed reluctantly at 6 a.m. and looked out of the window. The sky was bright with stars, the ground a blaze of sparkling white. He pulled on some clothes and stumbled, still half asleep, to the kitchen.

  He found Juliet sitting at the kitchen table, sorting through the coloured slips while she waited for the kettle to boil.

  “Good morning,” she said. “I put the kettle on. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not,” said Tim. “But let me make the tea.” He rather hoped she’d insist that she should do it.

  “All right. I’ll go and tidy up the screens a bit and then I can talk you through what we did last night.”

  “Great.”

  Tim entered the sitting-room a few minutes later, bearing two mugs of tea.

  “Did you see it’s been snowing?”

  “Yes. Isn’t going to help the search teams much, is it? I hope those poor girls have shelter somewhere.”

  “I hope they’re still alive,” said Tim grimly. “You know as well as I do that we’re about to pass the forty-eight-hour threshold.”

  Juliet didn’t reply. She looked so distressed that Tim was chastened.

  “I didn’t ask how you’re feeling today. Did you sleep all right? Not in pain, I hope.”

  “My knees are sore, but it’s not unbearable. Thinking about being shut under that stage is much worse. I’ll probably have to put up with nightmares about it for a while.” She managed to smile.

  “You seem to have coped better than Verity Tandy. She was quivering like a jelly when she came out of there.”

  “She’s claustrophobic. She can’t help that. She did very well, considering.”

  Tim wasn’t convinced, but there wasn’t time to waste on discussing Tandy’s performance. He waved a hand at the screens.

  “You and Katrin seem to have done a good job piecing all this together. It’s going to be great for the briefing.”

  “Thanks. A lot of it’s conjecture, of course. Katrin created the timeline and that’s sound. What we were trying to do last night was build a profile of Matthew Start.”

  “Go on.”

  Juliet picked up the slips of coloured paper and laid them out on the coffee table like a hand of cards.

  “We know Matthew Start studied architecture at Sheffield University and that he was particularly interested in the culture of ancient Greece. Some of his work reflects this: for example, he has a penchant for giving modern buildings classical pillars, even though his are often made of plastic.” Juliet gave a characteristic wrinkle of her nose. “There’s evidence from the old police records that he developed a crush on Helena Nurmi. He didn’t deny that. She was a very attractive young woman and he was rather a gauche young man, so no surprise there. He didn’t choose her name, of course, but I wondered if it played some part in his fixation for her. He . . .”

  Tim’s mobile started to ring.

  “Just ignore it,” he said. Then, looking more closely, “Fuck, it’s Thornton. I’d better answer it.” He tapped the speaker so Juliet could listen.

  “Yates? Glad you’re up. I’m on my way to the station. I want you there as well. They’ve found a body in Bourne Woods.”

  Tim’s heart sank.

  “One of the two girls?”

  “No. It’s male. It hasn’t been formally identified yet, but we think it’s Matthew Start.”

  “I’m on my way.” Tim pressed the red button.

  “Oh, God!” said Juliet.

  “I know what you’re thinking. If he’s captured those girls and imprisoned them somewhere, we’ve got to find them soon. And it’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  MATTHEW START’S BODY was taken to the morgue later that morning, having been examined by Patti Gardner and a military expert on hanging. They agreed Start had taken his own life. Patti photographed the body and jointly they prepared a report for the coroner. Superintendent Thornton checked that nothing had been found that might associate Start with either of the missing girls. Patti said his pockets contained only keys and a wallet with credit cards and fifty pounds in notes, and some loose change. His mobile phone had fallen to the ground beneath him; the sim card had been removed.

  They postponed the lunchtime briefing until later in the afternoon. Although there was no doubt the body was Start’s, it would have to be formally identified. Whom to ask posed a dilemma. Start and his wife were estranged, but even Start himself might have been unaware of this and certainly no formal separation had taken place. Tim had no idea how Veronica Start would react to news of his death. Witnessing her response was an intriguing prospect, but he had a hunch it was Frederick Start’s reaction to the news that he most needed to observe. He decided to ask Juliet to visit Veronica Start at the refuge and ask her if she wanted to identify the body or would prefer her father-in-law to do it. Veronica would in any case have to come in to the police station to answer questions about what she knew of Start’s movements. After that, she could return to her home if she wanted to. A family liaison officer would be detailed to look after her.

  Tim himself set out for Councillor Start’s house. Looking at the address he’d written down the previous day, he saw the Councillor lived in London Road, in Spalding, in a house called The Rookery. Unless he was mistaken, this was the large Elizabethan house that stood back from the river. Not the sort of dwelling he’d have expected Start to choose.

  A woman answered the door. She was middle-aged and personable, neatly dressed in a black jumper and tweed skirt. Tim didn’t think Start had remarried; nor did this woman behave like a wife or partner. She didn’t introduce herself, but he deduced she was the housekeeper. She was polite but wary.

  “Mr Start isn’t up yet.”

  Tim looked at his watch. It wasn’t quite 8 a.m. Early for rising on a Sunday.

  “I need to speak to him urgently. Could you tell him I’m here?”

  “He knows who you are, you say?” The woman had been unimpressed by Tim’s identity card.

  “Yes.”

  She showed Tim into a small room leading off the hall and left him, returning quickly.

  “Mr Start will be with you shortly. Would you like tea?”

  Tim accepted, thinking the Councillor himself would be in need of it after he’d heard Tim’s news. The woman hadn’t come back when Start entered the room. He was dressed in well-pressed grey flannels, a navy-blue blazer and striped tie. He didn’t look like a man who had scrambled hurriedly from sleep into his clothes.

  Tim broke the news as gently as he could. Like all police officers, he hated being the harbinger of death. Councillor Start was shaken in an understated way. Tim had seldom seen a better example of the British stiff upper lip in action: he muttered something that Tim didn’t quite catch.

  “I’m sorry, sir?”

  “No matter. Of course I will identify the body. There’s no question of asking Veronica to do it. I’ll get my coat.”

  Tim decided not to press it further, but he was pretty sure that Start had said ‘it’d all got out of hand’.

  Chapter Seventy

  COUNCILLOR START PAUSED at the door of the mortuary and stumbled. Tim took hold of his arm, but was shaken away precipitately.

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Of course I’m not all right. But I can cope.”

  “I’ll have to accompany you while you make the identification. Then I can leave you for a few minutes if you like.”

  He nodded tersely before preceding Tim into the small room. The body was still zipped into a body-bag; just the head, covered with a cloth, and the neck had been exposed. Tim had been warned by
the mortician that the ligature was still in place. Another cloth had been placed around the neck like a scarf to spare the witness as much distress as possible.

  Tim lifted the cloth. The lower part of the face was livid and purplish, the rest chalk white. The eyes had been closed.

  Councillor Start stepped close to the mortuary table. He stared for a long moment before turning away.

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s Matthew. You can cover him up again now.”

  “Would you like a few moments alone with him?”

  “No. What would be the point?” The Councillor stared bleakly, even defiantly, at Tim before leaving the room. Tim followed him.

  “Do you want to sit down, sir? A glass of water?”

  “No. I just want to leave. I’ll go home now. I want to be alone.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. If you’re well enough to come with us to the police station, we’ll interview you there. If not, DC Armstrong and I will talk to you at home.”

  “I’ll come to the police station. You’ll understand that I have strong feelings about coppers tramping round my house. No offence,” he added, scowling as if he had every intention of being offensive. “I want to know what it’s about. Should my solicitor be present?”

  “That’s entirely up to you, sir. At present, you’re not under suspicion. You’re aware that two schoolgirls have disappeared. We have reason to believe that your son was involved. All his known associates will be interviewed to try to establish where he may have taken them. Obviously you and Mrs Start are at the top of our list.”

  “Mrs Start? You mean Veronica? She’s as wet as watter.” He pronounced the word coarsely, in exaggeration of his normal Lincolnshire dialect. “She won’t be able to help you.” His sneer would have been unpleasant under any circumstances; it was crass coming from a man who had just lost his only son.

  Tim didn’t answer him. Instead, he led the way to the door.

  “After you, sir.”

  Veronica Start was escorted to the police station shortly before her father-in-law arrived. Juliet met her and took her straight to an interview room. She was very pale but calm, almost serene.

  “Mrs Start – Veronica – thank you for coming to the police station. You understand why?”

  “Yes. You’ve found a body. A suicide. And you think it’s Matthew.”

  “We can’t confirm that the cause of death was suicide until we have the results of the post mortem and the coroner’s verdict. But I can confirm that the body is that of your husband. Your father-in-law has just identified him.”

  Veronica Start let out a bitter laugh.

  “How very appropriate,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. No, I’m sorry, that makes me sound like a child trying to get away with some kind of misdemeanour, doesn’t it? It’s just that Matthew has been his father’s creature all of his life. Frederick gradually isolated Matthew from his mother so that he could see her only through his father’s eyes. He was implacably hostile when she left him. Carol Start must have been a woman of some spirit. She not only managed to escape Frederick, she succeeded in getting custody of her daughter. Not like me.”

  “I didn’t know you had children.”

  “We don’t, thank God, though I never thought I’d hear myself say so. Perhaps if we’d been able to have children, Matthew would have released himself from his father’s clutches, but I think it’s more likely the children would have been damaged. I meant that I never had the guts to leave Matthew, though I knew I should have done it years ago.”

  Juliet was silent for a moment. Veronica Start’s behaviour was typical of a battered wife.

  “Why do you think he stayed with you?” she asked carefully.

  “I don’t think he enjoyed hurting me,” Veronica said slowly, almost as if she were talking to herself. “Sometimes it seemed to hurt him almost as much. His cruelty came from some kind of inner compulsion, as if he’d been programmed. And of course,” she added more briskly, “as a teacher, I gave him respectability. I don’t know as much about Start Construction as I should, given that on paper I’m a director, but I’m certain not all of its dealings are above board.”

  “Veronica,” she said gently, “I’m sure we’ll want to talk to you again about that. We’ll be grateful for any help you can give, even though I believe you when you say you’ve been kept in the dark. But for the moment our priority is to find those two girls. Do you think Matthew was holding them somewhere?”

  “I think it’s very likely. They’re both blondes, for one thing. Matthew had a fixation with blondes, including me before we married. But if Matthew killed himself I think they’re probably already dead.”

  “To be honest, I think the same. But we can’t give up until we know it’s hopeless. If they’re not dead but held captive and no one knows where, they’ll die horribly. Can you think of anyone he might have asked to help him?”

  “Matthew didn’t have friends. Apart from his staff, the only people he associated with were The Bricklayers, but I think they were really Frederick’s friends. You’d have to ask Frederick about them.”

  “I’m sure DI Yates will do that. What about hiding places? Did Matthew have any lock-up sheds or secure buildings where he could keep someone imprisoned?”

  “Not that I know about, but I’m sure he could find somewhere like that if he wanted to, at least on a temporary basis. He was a builder, remember. He and Frederick were famous for building their estates of ‘affordable’ little boxes, but Matthew’s real passion was underground cellar conversions. Or new builds with underground room complexes – swimming pools, home cinemas, that sort of thing. Obviously in quite a different price bracket from the estate stuff, but I don’t think Matthew just liked it because of the money. There was something he found deeply attractive about living and working underground.”

  “Does your house have one of these conversions?”

  “There’s a cellar, but nothing fancy. Just a small wine store and a little workshop. Matthew used the workshop when he was a boy and he still goes down there quite a lot, even though he has a much bigger and better one at the yard. He didn’t build our house: it was a Victorian villa that Frederick bought when he married. Matthew persuaded Frederick to let him keep it a few years after his divorce from Carol, when Frederick decided he didn’t want it any more. He doesn’t mind building shoddy houses for other people, but he’s much more into vintage properties himself. That house he lives in dates from the mid-sixteenth century.”

  “So Matthew never showed any interest in making improvements to your house?”

  “I think he did some work on it before we were married. He’d been living on his own there for quite a while then. He certainly added the pillars. And he built the office, I think when he left university. But he hasn’t made any major improvements since I came.”

  “When was that?”

  “1998. It was Matthew’s birthday. He had a thing about his birthday because it was the day on which Carol left. Oddly, he didn’t avoid doing important things then: rather the opposite, in fact. It was as if he was trying to counteract the pain that he’d felt. He refused ever to see Carol again, probably encouraged by Frederick.”

  “Veronica, we’re going to have to search your house again for clues. We’d like you to come with us, if you feel up to it. We’ll be quicker with your help. There’s no need for you to return to the refuge unless you want to: you can go home tonight if you like. We’ll detail someone to stay with you.”

  “I’m fine, really I am. I know it’s callous of me, but I feel happier than I have for years. I’ll help if I can.”

  In a second room, Councillor Start was proving a tough nut to crack when Tim and Andy Carstairs interviewed him. Superintendent Thornton was watching from above through the one-way window and Tim was nervous about this. Although he bel
ieved the Superintendent was one hundred per cent committed to finding the two schoolgirls alive, he was also sensitive to Councillor Start’s new status of bereaved father. Thornton was nothing if not politically correct.

  “Mr Start,” Tim began, “Please believe me when I say we’re truly sorry for your loss. If it weren’t for the urgency of the situation, we certainly wouldn’t be troubling you at such a time. We must find Philippa Grummett and Cassandra Knipes.”

  “You have no proof that Matthew was involved.”

  “That’s true. It’s possible he wasn’t. I believe you know Philippa Grummett yourself?”

  “I’ve spoken to her. Her parents attend the same Methodist chapel as me.”

  “And Cassandra Knipes?”

  “No. I don’t know her.”

  “You are one of the governors at Spalding High School?”

  “Yes. The chairman, actually.”

  “And you know Cassandra Knipes is the head girl?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “But you’ve never spoken to her?”

  “Not that I can recall.”

  “Mr Start, could you give me a specimen of your handwriting?”

  Frederick Start hesitated.

  “I suppose so.” He picked up the black rollerball pen that Tim gave him and scrawled his signature on the sheet of paper in front of him: Councillor Frederick Start. “There you are.”

  “I’d like you to write a few more words if you would, sir.”

  “Which words?”

  “Two names. Philippa Grummett and Cassandra Knipes.”

  The Councillor tossed the pen back at Tim and folded his arms. “I think we’re through playing games. I’m not doing anything else at all until I’ve seen my solicitor.”