The Crossing

by Christina James

Tim nodded at Andy, who produced a faded and dusty cardboard packet from the folder he was holding. He removed a series of photographs from the packet and spread them out fanwise across the desk. Each captured a young girl playing, sometimes with companions. Andy turned them over. On the back of each a label and date was recorded in a sprawling hand. Andy selected three and read out the inscriptions.

  “Cassandra Knipes, 9th July 2007. Philippa Grummett, 9th July 2008. Ariadne, 9th July 2005.”

  Frederick Start stared into space, his arms still folded.

  “That’s very like your handwriting, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Start?”

  “No comment.”

  “Especially the ‘C’. The capital ‘C’ for Councillor you’ve written is very distinctive: just like the capital ‘C’ for Cassandra.”

  “No comment.”

  “And what about Ariadne? Who’s Ariadne, Mr Start? She doesn’t look as well cared-for as the other two, does she? How does she fit into the picture?”

  “No comment. And if you keep on bullying me with your questions before my solicitor arrives, I shall make sure you pay for it.”

  As if on cue, a text message pinged on to Tim’s mobile. Reluctantly, he extracted it from his pocket.

  “Wait for the solicitor,” it said. Tim looked up at the one-way window and gave it a wry nod.

  Chapter Seventy-One

  IT WAS SMALL surprise that Frederick Start’s lawyer turned out to be Charles Dixon. Start’s call to him was monitored; Dixon said he was at the Pilgrim Hospital ‘with another client’ and expected to get to Spalding police station in about ninety minutes. Tim seized the opportunity to accompany Juliet and Veronica Start to the house in Blue Gowt Lane. Andy Carstairs was left to guard the mutinous and now silent Councillor, with instructions not to continue the interview without Tim once the lawyer had arrived.

  Veronica Start was chatty, almost cheerful, during the short journey.

  “It seems such a long time since I left yesterday morning,” she said. “Who could believe that your life could change so much in so short a space of time.”

  Tim was non-committal. He didn’t like Mrs Start and still had an uneasy feeling about her. Juliet was more sympathetic, believing the languages teacher was behaving oddly because she was suffering from nervous exhaustion.

  She faltered a little when she crossed the threshold of her house to turn off the burglar alarm. “Matthew’s birthday,” she explained, as she punched in the code. “He always used a combination of the numbers for passwords. I shall change it now.”

  They entered the hall, which was in semi-darkness.

  “Could you turn on the light, Mrs Start?” Tim asked, as she made no move to do so. He wanted to see if there was evidence that Start had been in the house since Veronica’s departure on Saturday morning.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Where would you like to begin?”

  “First I’d like you to give us a quick tour of the whole house. Look carefully to see if you can spot anything that’s different or out of place since you left yesterday.”

  She did his bidding, Tim and Juliet following close behind her. They explored the upstairs rooms first. All were immaculately tidy. In the master bedroom, a pair of neatly-folded overalls had been placed on an ottoman and topped with a white hard hat bearing the words ‘Start Construction’.

  “Were those there last time you were in here?”

  “Yes, I think so. Matthew always keeps – kept – a clean set of work-clothes for emergencies, though most days he wore a suit.”

  Tim nodded. Juliet gave him a quick look, knowing that he had registered that the Starts had still been sleeping together in the same king-sized bed.

  Downstairs, all the rooms were equally tidy, the small office almost obsessively so. The desk top was empty except for a leather pen-tidy containing a single fountain-pen. Immaculate identical plastic covers on the row of hanging files concealed the apparently uniform papers they contained. A floor- to-ceiling bookcase stood against one wall, mostly containing beautifully bound hardbacks including oversized volumes on architecture.

  “Is this your office?” Tim asked.

  “No. It’s Matthew’s. I prefer the kitchen.”

  “But he has an office outside, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes. This one’s more of a study. The one outside’s for working in. It’s where he keeps his drawing boards and makes the models for big projects.”

  “If you can’t see anything out of place in here, I’d like you to show us the outside office.”

  “I don’t have a key,” she said tremulously. “I’ve never been in there.”

  “Don’t you know where to look for the key?”

  “No.”

  “There was a bunch of keys found on the . . . with Mr Start,” said Juliet.

  Tim considered. It could take upwards of an hour to have the keys brought from the morgue: precious time he didn’t want to lose.

  “Mrs Start, would you have any objection to our forcing the door?”

  “No. I suppose not. I don’t want to come with you, though. I’ll stay here if you don’t mind. I’ve never been allowed in there. It seems distasteful – almost obscene – to pry now.”

  Juliet caught Tim’s eye. She fervently hoped he wouldn’t ask her to stay in the house with Veronica Start. He understood immediately. He needed Juliet with him, in any case. It was a pity they’d stood down the WPC from Peterborough, but all the local police forces were desperately short-staffed at the moment as the hunt for the missing girls continued.

  “I understand completely how you feel, Mrs Start,” he said, while intentionally conveying the opposite. “Please stay in the house with the doors locked and don’t answer the phone. If you hear anyone at the door or trying to get in, call my mobile immediately. We’ll call your mobile when we want you to open the door to us. Juliet has the number?”

  Juliet nodded.

  “The office is the building to one side of the rear of the house, Veronica? Is the door this side of it?”

  “No, the far side. You can’t see who is coming or going from the house.”

  “And there’s only one door?”

  “Yes.”

  “Strange that a builder should not add a fire exit to his own office,” said Juliet, after they’d heard Veronica lock the door behind them.

  “I’m sure he had his reasons.”

  There seemed to be nothing unusual about Matthew Start’s office. It was a long, low building with large windows, built in the same materials as the house. There were no bars on the windows, which were fitted with black roller blinds, and the door was quite ordinary. A few shrubs had been planted around it. The only singular features were the empty dog run and a large tank to the rear with a number of pipes coming from it, some of them feeding into the ground.

  “If that’s the heating system, it’s very elaborate for a small building,” said Juliet.

  “It probably serves the house as well. At a guess, I’d say it was there before the office. It’s on the house side.”

  Tim was inspecting the door as he spoke.

  “This looks like an ordinary Yale lock,” he said. “I should be able to break the door down if I can find something to ram it with. It’s probably alarmed, but we’ll just have to put up with the din until we can stop it.”

  There was a wood shelter some yards away from the office. Tim went hunting. The shelter was piled to the ceiling with neatly-cut pieces of wood that had been stacked like an interlocking Chinese puzzle. Tim viewed them critically. Each was of uniform length and rather too short for his purposes. He’d picked one up, thinking he’d have to make do with it, when he spotted an iron crowbar propped against the side of the stack.

  “Perfect!” he said to himself. He ran back to the door. “Stand back!”

  The crowbar had a flattened end whic
h, after some exertion, he was able to insert close to the lock, between the door and the frame. He pushed against it as hard as he could, using the crowbar as a lever, and was gratified to hear the sound of wood splintering.

  Sweat was pouring from Tim’s forehead and his hands were hurting, but he felt triumphant.

  “We’re really beginning to get somewhere now,” he said to Juliet through gritted teeth. “I’m going to break it down.”

  He took a run at the door and barged at it with his shoulder. He’d almost forced the lock now. One more assault and it yielded, hanging askew on damaged hinges. There was no answering cacophony from an alarm.

  He entered the office cautiously, Juliet following, and found the light switch. It was a very ordinary room, similar in most respects to the study in the house, but more utilitarian. Situated to the left of the door, the desk was also bare except for a desk tidy containing several biros inscribed with the words ‘Start Construction’ and the company logo. There were more pristine hanging files and a single bookshelf. It contained a row of building regulation manuals and directories, all lined up with military precision, and just two other books: The Greek Myths, Volumes I and II, by Robert Graves. To the right of the door was a large steel table bearing a workstation, a model in the process of construction and various cutting and measuring implements arranged in a row at a precisely ninety degrees to the edge of the desk.

  Tim pulled at the single desk drawer. He’d half expected it to be locked, but it opened easily. It contained only more pens and other small items of stationery. His disappointment was palpable. He gestured at the files.

  “Someone’s going to have to go through those and the ones at the house,” he said. “They may give us some clues. But there’s nothing obvious to help us find those girls. Come on. We need to get Ricky and a WPC over here so we can meet the famous Mr Dixon. Perhaps I was wrong and it’s Frederick Start who’s behind it all.”

  He turned to go, his shoulder aching where he’d bust the door. He felt very tired.

  “What was that?” said Juliet, cocking her head.

  “What?” said Tim. He was halfway out of the door.

  “There it is again. It’s very faint. It sounds like a dog barking.”

  Tim lost interest. “It probably is a dog barking. Everyone round here has dogs and noise travels for miles.”

  “I don’t think it’s coming from outside. It seems to be deep under the floor.”

  Tim turned round.

  “Tell me when you hear it again.”

  They both stood stock still and silent.

  “Now! Can you hear it?”

  “My hearing’s not as acute as yours, but I think I did catch something.” He knelt on the floor, which was covered in thick carpet tiles, and put his ear to the ground. They waited again.

  “I can hear it now,” said Tim. “It sounds like a dog whimpering. More than one dog, probably. We didn’t find out what Start did with his dogs, did we? But it seems inconceivable they’re somehow trapped below ground.”

  “He specialised in underground building work.”

  Tim was tapping the floor. He took a knife from the row on the steel table and slid it under one of the carpet tiles.

  “As I thought, the floor’s solid concrete.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not a building expert, but I think it means that if there is an underground complex, the entrance is via a door – as opposed to a trapdoor,” he added, seeing too late that he’d made Juliet blench. “Help me search the walls. Look for any strange markings or panels. Start behind the desk. I’ll move that hanging file rail out from the wall.”

  Tim was still struggling with the rail when Juliet gave a cry.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She didn’t answer, but emerged carrying something and silently handed it to him. It was a red patent handbag from which the shoulder strap had been removed.

  “The bag that Marianne Burrell described! Is there anything in it?”

  “No. But it proves that either Matthew Start brought the woman called Helen here or he stole her handbag. And the strap is missing. Did you get a look at the ligature when you took Councillor Start to the morgue?”

  “No. Start was with me all the time. They’d covered the neck in deference to his feelings.”

  “What’s the betting it’s made of red plastic?”

  Tim nodded grimly.

  “Help me with this, will you? It’s not heavy, but the wheels are hard to budge.”

  Juliet grabbed the end of the frame nearest to her and pushed. Tim yanked at it at the same time. It curved away from the wall at his side. Tim peered behind it. A small box had been set into the wall at waist level. Closer inspection showed it was a touch keypad.

  “Come and look at this! It’s a keypad. It must open something. This has to be a false wall.”

  Juliet squeezed between the desk and the frame of files to reach him.

  “Could there be a door hidden there?”

  “My guess is there is. It’s been very well done: I can’t see any irregular gaps in these painted bricks. But we need the code to that pad. Veronica Start won’t be any help. We’ll either have to crack it or get a crew in here to dismantle the thing and hope it’s not booby-trapped.”

  “Veronica Start may already have helped. She said that Start was fixated with the date of his birthday. The work that Katrin and I have been doing confirms that. Try it first. 9th July 1970.”

  “I wonder if he used six digits or eight. I’ll try both.”

  Tim keyed in 09071970 and 090770. Neither produced any result.

  “Try it in American.”

  “What?”

  “Reverse the month and date. I’ll do it if you like.”

  Juliet keyed in 070970. Nothing happened. Then she tried 07091970. A small light at the top of the keypad began to flash green. Almost soundlessly, a panel slid back in the wall, revealing a massive door behind it and another keypad.

  “Surely he can’t have used the same code twice?” said Tim. “There would be no point.”

  “No, but he was an obsessive,” said Juliet. She tried the two ‘American’ numbers again, followed by 090770. A green light showed on the second keypad. The huge door didn’t open, but there was the distinctive clicking sound of a lock being released. Tim gave the door a push; it yielded a few inches. He pushed again; it opened very slowly.

  He could just make out a steep flight of steps descending into blackness. He scratched around for a light switch but couldn’t find one. He turned to Juliet, who was standing behind him.

  “Just help me to . . .” He got no further. A mammoth shape came springing out of the gloom and lunged at him. He saw a flash of eyes and frenzied teeth before he was knocked to the ground and almost pitched headlong down the seemingly endless stairs. The dog towered over him, snarling low growls from the depths of its throat, yellow teeth bared.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  THERE IS ONLY a little water left and Philippa has it all. This morning she took the bottle and refused to give it back to me. Yesterday I shared it between us, but now I want to give the last of it to the girls. They must be here when The Lover comes back. I can die now; I have seen them, I am fulfilled. I expected too much when I hoped they would be able to love me. It is a small sadness: I care only that they survive. They must not die.

  I look across at them. They are still together, as far across the room from me as they can get, but very far apart. There is no spark between them, no interest, no compassion even of the most impersonal kind. Would Ariadne have been kinder?

  Cassandra is ill. She is taller and stronger than Philippa; her hair is glossier; she is better spoken, but she’s not a street fighter and she can’t cope. She will not speak or look at either of us. She is slumped on the floor with her legs splayed, toes turned inwards,
like a rag doll. She won’t assert her right to the water and certainly won’t fight for it. I see the spirit ebbing out of her.

  Philippa is crouched in the corner beside her. I placed the water bottle in the middle of the floor this morning as we agreed, and she snatched it. Cassandra barely showed she’d noticed. Philippa is hunched like a wild dog guarding its food. If we all die in here, she will be the last.

  Thinking of dogs cheers me. The Lover adores his dogs. He’s left them on guard outside. I know he won’t abandon them.

  I hear a retching noise. It is Cassandra, vomiting into the waste bucket. It’s the stench that’s made her ill.

  “Rest on the bed,” I say. “Please. I won’t come any closer to you.”

  She doesn’t reply. They’re both avoiding the bed today. Perhaps they notice more than I do that it stinks of death.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  DON’T STARE AT a savage dog, Tim told himself, struggling to remember what he’d been taught about dog attacks. He willed himself to turn his head away but was too scared he’d miss the animal’s next move. Its yellow eyes bored into his, its lip curled back to expose huge canines. The beast was slobbering, its early low muttering now building alarmingly to a crescendo.

  Juliet was shouting.

  “Tim! Roll to the side!”

  Not understanding why, but trusting her, he flicked his body sharply to face the wall. Dimly, he was aware that the dog had switched its position. A second gigantic shape brushed past Tim. He remained lying where he was, inert, his face pressed against the cold concrete. The darkness evaporated.

  “Are you OK?”

  Light footsteps approached. Juliet’s voice again. She tapped his shoulder gently.

  “Tim, the dogs have gone.”

  He turned over, sat up.

  “Christ!” he said. “I was bloody scared out of my wits. Did they set for you?”

  “No. I opened the outside door and they ran out. They were scared, too.”

  “Did you shut the door after them?”

  She nodded.