Salt Lane

by William Shaw

‘Several people, naturally,’ he said. ‘They are free to work or not work if they choose. Some people like to take a rest day.’

  ‘Was any of them a young woman with black hair?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How do you know? You haven’t asked them.’

  The man simply said, ‘They told me the names of everyone who didn’t make it. I know them all.’

  Is that what they had really told him? Cupidi had no way of telling. ‘What about you? Do you know of a young woman who might be in distress?’

  ‘Of course not. I would have said if I had.’

  The workers were already returning to their tasks. Without an interpreter she couldn’t even be sure that the questions had been asked properly. Nobody seemed particularly concerned about the idea of a missing girl, anyway.

  ‘Wait. Ask them if they knew a woman called Rasa Petrauska.’

  ‘Petrauska? I know her. She used to work with me last winter. Then she disappeared. She still owed me money for rent.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘March, maybe.’ He shouted over to a man up a ladder. Cupidi heard the name Petrauska. Without stopping picking, the man answered.

  ‘Yes. March he says too. Maybe February.’

  ‘Why do you think she stopped working?’

  ‘These workers move on if they find something else. Or find a boyfriend.’ Again he called out to the man up the ladder. The man said something back. They laughed.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said she probably found a better agency. One that didn’t work them like slaves. He was joking, of course,’ smiled the man. ‘I told him he was fired. I was joking too, of course.’

  ‘You’re registered? With the Gangmasters Licensing Authority?’

  ‘Of course. I can show you the paperwork if you want.’

  She turned away to Martin, the farm manager, and said, ‘OK if I look around for a bit?’

  ‘Aren’t you done here?’

  ‘Would you rather I didn’t?’

  ‘No. Of course. Be our guest.’

  ‘Try a plum,’ said the gangmaster, tossing her one.

  She sat on the bonnet of the car, eating it, watching the people work, aware that her continued presence was making Martin uncomfortable.

  ‘Don’t I get a plum?’ Ferriter called from the back of the car.

  The motion in front of Cupidi was constant. As soon as the fruit from one branch was exhausted, a worker moved up the line of trees. Occasionally someone would stop, to swat away a bug, but they were focused, almost machine-like. Nobody spoke.

  When she’d finished the plum, she spat out the stone and said to the farmer, ‘No other workers on the farm?’

  ‘One or two back at the yard.’

  ‘Come on then.’

  He looked at his watch, impatience more obvious with every minute that passed.

  She didn’t care. She was sure she was on to something. It was good to stir the pot a little and see what came to the surface.

  Back below, Cupidi saw a unmarked police car pulling up. ‘Who’s that?’ she asked.

  ‘Looks like the boss,’ said Ferriter.

  It was. As McAdam got out of his car, Cupidi was conscious that she’d been up all night; she felt old and crumpled. As always, McAdam looked well-pressed.

  ‘How’s he even know we’re here?’

  Ferriter said, ‘I told them at the station.’

  ‘So what’s he want?’

  But he was already striding towards them. ‘Back on duty already, Constable Ferriter?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He frowned, then turned to Cupidi. ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘My daughter said she saw someone out round here last night in distress,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘Look, is something going on that I need to know about?’ said the farmer, irritated.

  ‘This inquiry wasn’t logged as an action,’ said McAdam.

  ‘Is this not an official inquiry?’ demanded the farmer.

  Cupidi ignored him. ‘I didn’t have time to log it, sir. Listen. Hilary Keen’s body was found about two miles in that direction.’ Cupidi pointed to the east. ‘The unidentified man was about one and a half miles that way,’ this time moving her hand towards the south-east.

  ‘You didn’t say anything about a body,’ said the farmer irritatedly.

  ‘The girl my daughter saw was just south of where Hilary Keen’s body was found.’

  ‘So what are we doing here?’ asked McAdam.

  ‘Apparently the woman didn’t speak English. I reckon she may have been a migrant worker, or the daughter of one. I thought I should come straight here.’

  McAdam looked around.

  ‘Most of the farms round here are sheep,’ Cupidi continued. ‘There’s a few arable, but not many. They don’t need migrant workers this time of year. But fruit farms do, and I think the girl Zoë saw may have worked on a fruit farm.’

  ‘She told you that?’

  ‘No. I never met her.’

  ‘Right. You said. Your daughter talked to her. When was that?’

  ‘Around midnight, I’m guessing.’

  ‘Your daughter was out here in the middle of the night?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  McAdam frowned.

  ‘And you think she’s here?’

  ‘There’s no one of that description on this farm,’ insisted the farmer.

  Cupidi pointed towards a blue metal barn at one end of the yard. ‘Ever get any rough sleepers in there?’ she asked.

  ‘Rough sleepers? What’s all this really about, Sergeant? Is this some kind of murder investigation?’

  ‘Do rough sleepers stay here?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ said the farmer.

  ‘Mind if I look?’

  ‘Will you be long? This is our busiest time of the year. You haven’t properly explained why you’re on our land or why you’re looking around here.’

  ‘We appreciate the assistance you’re giving us, sir,’ said McAdam.

  Cupidi thought of the man in the slurry; of the places he had chosen to stay. They were hidden, out of the way. Sometimes the farmers didn’t even know they were there.

  ‘There is nothing there,’ the farmer insisted.

  ‘In that case it’ll take even less time.’

  He shrugged. ‘OK. Go ahead.’

  ‘Are you sure about this, Sergeant Cupidi?’ asked McAdam.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I think something’s been going on here. I just don’t know what. But that girl, I swear she would have come from here.’

  The barn they entered seemed to be full of equipment: fruit sprayers, trimmers, mowing attachments, all laid out on the concrete, but there was no sign that anyone had stayed here.

  ‘Maybe we should take this back to the office?’ said McAdam.

  ‘What about through there?’ She nodded towards a doorway at the far end, where she could see a second building.

  ‘We store apples there. We can keep them for a year or more, so we sell them when the price is right.’

  ‘Can I look?’

  ‘Why?’ said the farmer.

  ‘Why not?’

  The farmer sighed and led them through to the far side of the barn. There was a black and yellow sign on the door: DANGER. DO NOT ENTER.

  ‘It’s a controlled environment. That’s what keeps the apples fresh,’ said the farmer.

  ‘Can I see inside?’ she asked again.

  The farmer’s civility was wearing thin. ‘Believe me, there’s no one in there. And if they were, they’d be long dead. It’s a specially created atmosphere. We deliberately lower the temperature and pump nitrogen in to replace the oxygen. It stops the fruit ripening.’

  ‘I don’t mind the cold,’ she said.

  Crossing his hands in front of his chest, the farmer said, ‘If I opened the door, we’d have to vent it, then fill it with nitrogen again. At a cost. You going to pay for that?’

  C
upidi banged on the door, testing it.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ McAdam said. ‘What exactly are we looking for here, anyway?’

  Cupidi said, ‘I’ll know when I see it.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said the farmer. He walked to the far end of the shed, where there was a second door with the same warning. ‘If you want to see, this shed’s identical. OK?’

  Opening it, he stepped inside. Cupidi followed. Beyond the first door, there was a second, smaller one, set in a metal wall.

  ‘Go on. Look. This one’s empty right now. We’ll fill it up over the next few weeks when the apples come in.’

  Cupidi looked into a bare, dark room, walls padded with insulation. Empty shelves stood ready to receive trays of fruit. Along one wall there were vents. Again, there was no sign of anyone having been in there at all. She was disappointed. She had been sure she would find something here that would make sense of what was going on, but there was nothing.

  Back outside, the sunshine seemed brighter.

  ‘Satisfied?’ said the farmer.

  ‘Thank you for your cooperation, sir,’ said McAdam. ‘It’s very much appreciated.’ Cupidi was still looking at the locked apple store, wondering if she should demand he open it, when McAdam took her elbow and marched her away from the farmer. ‘In my car,’ he said. ‘Now.’

  Opening the rear door, he gestured for Cupidi to get in. Instead of getting in the driver’s seat, McAdam walked around the car and got in next to her.

  ‘What, sir?’ said Cupidi.

  He leaned back and stared at the ceiling of the car. ‘The IPCC are going to re-interview you about the Hilary Keen case. I think there’s going to be a misconduct hearing. They’ll recommend suspension, I think.’

  ‘They don’t have enough for that.’

  ‘Don’t they? The reason I called so much support for you was because of an incident two years ago that appears not to have been logged properly so it left no record. I know it happened, but they don’t believe me. They think I invented it all to justify what happened at Speringbrook House. Now they ask me where you are, and I don’t even know, and there’s nothing logged either.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ Instead of making things better for him, she was making it worse.

  ‘This fellow here…’ He pointed at the farmer. ‘He’ll be making a complaint about you, I’m guessing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised, sir.’

  ‘At least this was something I didn’t give orders for,’ said McAdam with a wry smile.

  Cupidi squinted into the sunlight. ‘Why do they want to ask me about Hilary Keen?’

  ‘Because I told them I knew you weren’t convinced that Stanley Eason was the killer.’

  ‘Why? It only gives them the ammunition they want.’

  Ferriter was standing in the middle of the farmyard, leaning on her single crutch, looking into the car, as if trying to figure out what McAdam was ticking her off about.

  ‘Because it’s true, isn’t it? And that’s what we’re supposed to be about. Finding out the truth.’ Suddenly he looked tired. ‘They asked if they could interview you again this afternoon.’

  ‘Could I do it another time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just… I found someone who knew Hilary Keen. I had planned on going to see him this afternoon.’

  ‘Really? A significant lead?’

  ‘I won’t know till I speak to him.’

  Through the window, Cupidi could see Ferriter mouthing, ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure the IPCC wouldn’t want to interfere with the normal working of a murder investigation,’ said McAdam. ‘I’ll let them know you’re busy and can’t speak to them until later.’

  ‘Might take me a while, sir.’

  He turned to her and smiled. ‘Longer the better, Alex, far as I’m concerned.’ And he opened the door.

  ‘OK if Ferriter catches a ride back with you?’ asked Cupidi.

  ‘Of course.’

  Ferriter hobbled across to Cupidi. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘He thinks they’re going to throw Gross Misconduct at him.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  ‘Anything we can do?’

  ‘Get a result for him. That’s the best thing. It’s a lot harder to argue with results. Go back with McAdam. If you can, try and track down Najiba. It’s crucial we find her now.’

  As she waited to drive out into the lane she looked back in her rear-view mirror. The farmer was still there, waiting to see if she’d gone.

  She gunned the car down the lane, taking a left to head for the main road.

  Rounding a corner, she saw the horse too late. Panicked by the car, it reared. Cupidi watched in horror as it raised its front legs in fright.

  The rider was a woman; knees tight on the horse, leaning into the horse’s mane, she was struggling to stay on, as hooves clattered back down on the tarmac.

  Cupidi pulled the car into the opposite verge. She cut the engine. The horse settled.

  ‘You stupid idiot!’ shouted the woman.

  Cupidi sighed. She would have to apologise. She had been careless.

  Where had the horse come from, anyway? It had just appeared, as if from nowhere.

  ‘Oh. It’s you,’ the rider said. Against the sunlight, perched on the back of a grey mare, Cupidi made out the silhouette of Connie Reed.

  ‘I was going too fast, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You weren’t looking properly.’ Reed seemed to be scrutinising her. ‘No matter. No harm done. Did you find any more of those people?’

  ‘No. They’ve disappeared.’

  ‘Your friend all right? The one with the leg?’

  ‘Fine. No serious damage done. Like you said.’

  Connie Reed nodded.

  ‘What are you doing all the way out here?’ asked Cupidi.

  ‘It’s pretty close, as the crow flies at least. I take the horses along the Royal Military Road. Give them a good run.’ A bridle-way that ran alongside the canal.

  Something occurred to Cupidi. ‘The Royal Military Road, you said? You go as far as where it crosses the Hamstreet Road?’

  ‘Of course. Only two or three miles. Why?’

  ‘Just thinking aloud.’

  ‘I’ll be off then. Be more careful in future,’ Connie Reed said curtly, and flicked her reins. The horse trotted on. In the mirror Cupidi watched it clopping down the lane for a minute, dark tail swishing slowly from side to side. She noticed the bridleway then, on the far side of the road, almost completely shaded by leaves. The rider must have emerged from there.

  Traveller’s joy, they called it, the lush creeper that covered old hedges and trees, its pale flowers turning to fluffy white balls of seeds by this time of year. It had hidden the exit into the small lane.

  It hadn’t been her fault at all, she realised. It was Reed who must have emerged onto the road without looking. She restarted the car and moved off again, though more cautiously this time.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The drive around the M25 to the far side of London was exhausting. Lorries filled the left lanes, nose to tail; men in Audis and BMWs weaved round the traffic at ninety and more.

  The satnav took her off the motorway at Junction 21A, off down dual carriageways and B-roads until she arrived at a large, white-painted country house. The sign on the gate read: Anahata Wellness Spa.

  She turned into a short driveway, lined with lime trees that looked tired after a long summer. To the right, a wide empty lawn was being cut by a large man on a small ride-on mower. Cabbage whites fluttered in the air.

  A notice said: If you drive slowly, you notice more.

  If Dungeness were on the edge, this seemed like somewhere in the very middle. Secure, stately and self-confident.

  At the front of the house, a couple of cars were parked; she pulled in next to some expensive-looking hybrid. She sat in the car for a minute, sucking a mint, recovering from the journey.

  ‘Daniel Kay?’ repeated a smiling
young woman in a white coat on reception. Her teeth, Cupidi noticed, were perfect. ‘Could you sign in, please. Is Daniel expecting you?’

  ‘He is,’ said a man’s voice. ‘I heard you pulling up. You must be Alexandra Cupidi.’

  The first thing she noticed was that Daniel Kay had a side parting; slightly ginger, greying hair divided in a neat line above his left temple. No men parted their hair anymore these days, did they? Yet it seemed to suit his square, tanned face.

  The second thing she noticed was that the skin on the side of his face was different, somehow. He was close-shaven, too, but now she saw it, there was no stubble on that side of his face either. Whoever had worked on it had done a good job, but the left side of his face had the kind of stiffness that scar tissue has. So much so that when he smiled, as he was doing now, his face became slightly lopsided. That skin moved less. Instead of disfiguring him, it lent him a certain character; his smile seemed quizzical because of it. A car accident, she wondered?

  He asked the receptionist to bring tea. ‘We have everything,’ he said. ‘Cardamom-and-ginger is good for energy.’

  ‘You can tell, then.’

  ‘A guess. It’s my profession to judge people’s wellness. I am a healer.’

  ‘Is my aura a funny colour?’

  He laughed. ‘No. I’m guessing you’ve just had a long drive, so you’re tired.’

  He led her into a sitting room at the end of the building. It was grand and luxurious; a large Georgian space, full of ostentatiously gilded furniture, and French windows that flooded the room with sunlight. She sniffed frankincense, that most pungently devout of aromas.

  The paintings that had probably come with the stately home still hung on the walls – landscapes with grazing cattle, portraits of stiff old women – but there were also newer artworks in brighter, lusher colours. A horse surrounded by pulses of bright colour. A hazy, pastel-hued picture of a naked woman, eyes closed, cross-legged, mind apparently on higher things.

  ‘Of course, you know Elfie, don’t you? How is she? Beautiful woman. She has a very generous soul. She comes here regularly, you know. One of the clients we look forward to so much. Is she well?’

  ‘You probably know better than me, then,’ said Cupidi.

  ‘You don’t see her so much?’

  ‘I’ve come to discuss Hilary Keen.’