Cut to the Bone

by Roz Watkins

  ‘Why is it gated?’ Bex said.

  Nobody spoke. They trooped through the gate, and Daniel looked down and fished a key from his pocket.

  ‘It’s to stop cars treating it like a rat-run,’ Kirsty said. ‘And keep the kids safe.’

  Daniel was studiously avoiding looking at anyone. He shoved a key into the door of one of the houses, a shabby place with yellowing net curtains in the windows. He kicked an old milk bottle away from the door and pushed it open.

  ‘Come in then.’ Daniel led them into a dark hallway, and poked his head quickly into a room on the left. He sounded relieved as he said, ‘The living room’s there. Go in for a minute. Mum must be out.’

  Bex walked into the tiny room. ‘I’m a bit dirty …’ she started to say, but tailed off when she saw that ashtrays littered the floor and wine and whisky bottles were piled beside the sofas. A sharp, sweet smell almost made her gag.

  ‘Are you happy now?’ Daniel spoke directly to Kirsty.

  Kirsty touched Daniel’s arm. ‘It’s not you,’ she said. ‘We all know you’ve tried to help her. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’ Her words were kind yet hollow. Bex was sure Kirsty had wanted them to come here. To see the house. To make Daniel feel bad. And Bex had gone along with it.

  Daniel shook his head and said, ‘Wait here.’ He left the room and Bex heard him tramping up the stairs and shutting doors.

  He was gone for about five minutes. Bex stood in the grim living room, looking at her feet and imagining him frantically cleaning the bathroom. Anna hovered in the centre of the room as if leaving as much space around her as possible, shifting her weight uneasily from one leg to the other. Gary had plonked himself on a green velour sofa and was trying to get the TV to turn on, and Kirsty was prowling around the room inspecting things. A row of unframed photographs were propped on the mantelpiece and she picked one up and examined it. Bex didn’t want to be nosy but she could see that all the photos were of a boy of around eight or nine. There were none of Daniel.

  The door banged open and Daniel reappeared. ‘The bathroom’s straight ahead at the top of the stairs. There’s a towel in there. I’m sorry it’s … probably not what you’re used to.’

  Bex smiled. ‘Honestly, Daniel, it’s fine. I’m so grateful. I’ll just get this mud out of my hair.’

  ‘Why don’t the rest of you sit down?’ Daniel said. ‘Instead of standing around looking like you’re waiting to be executed?’

  Bex could hear them shuffling onto sofas as she headed out into the hall. She slipped off her sandals and climbed the steep stairs. The carpet was worn and loose and she trod carefully. The bathroom was straight ahead, and Bex walked in and closed the door behind her. No lock. The lid was down on the loo, but she needed to pee so lifted it and gave the seat a wipe with loo roll. The porcelain was stained brown under the water-line, but she could see Daniel had put some blue stuff in there. The seat wobbled as she sat, and then shifted sideways with a bang. She gripped on to it to keep it in place.

  Reluctant to get undressed and venture into the shower with the mouldy curtain, she told herself it was only her face and hair that she needed to worry about. Her dad wouldn’t notice mud on her legs and feet. She leaned over the sink, washed her face, and ran water through her hair. There was a bottle of shampoo propped against the hot tap, and she used some of that.

  Daniel had left a pale pink towel folded neatly on the side of the bath. She dried her hair and realised that, contrary to Daniel’s fears, this experience had made her think more of him rather than less.

  She stepped out onto the little square of landing. Voices drifted up from below. The two doors on her right were firmly closed.

  She took a tentative step forward. A floorboard creaked and she hesitated. But she needed to see what his room was like. She knew it was silly, but she felt like his room would show her what kind of person he was. Whether his questions earlier had been well-intentioned, or if he’d been trying to needle her.

  She wanted to know if his room was neat and organised, a haven against the chaos around him. What books he had, what posters on the wall. Maybe there’d be some drawings he’d done. She could imagine him doing drawings. She hoped there wouldn’t be that poster of the woman playing tennis with her bottom out.

  She carefully twisted the handle and pushed the door open. Poked her head into the room.

  It was tidy, the single bed covered in a smooth duvet in a plain black cover, the floor clear, and a few clothes piled neatly on a chair in the corner. And there was a picture on the wall, right by his bed. She took a step closer to it.

  She froze.

  It was a photograph. A face, zoomed in, blown up large.

  Bex shot from the room, pulled the door shut behind her, and ran back into the bathroom, her heart pounding.

  The photograph on Daniel’s bedroom wall, right by his bed, was of her.

  16

  Meg – Present day

  Tuesday

  Leona O’Brien, head of the Animal Vigilantes, sat opposite Fiona and me in the interview room. She was black, petite, and well-groomed – not your stereotype of an animal rights activist. If I hadn’t seen videos of her in a meat-pattern boiler suit scaling the walls of factory farms, I’d never have believed it.

  The clue to Leona’s beliefs was in her T-shirt, which was pink with bold white lettering. If you want to know where you would have stood on slavery before the Civil War, don’t look at where you stand on slavery today. Look at where you stand on animal rights.

  She had the attitude of someone waiting for a routine dental appointment. Been here before, will be here again, it’s not pleasant so let’s get it over with, shall we?

  I sorted out the formal stuff for the tape, my mind full of the recent revelations. Violet’s hair and blood in the pig troughs. Someone had shaved off her hair and then … Was it possible she’d been fed to pigs? Might the Animal Vigilantes do that? They had been ramping up their activities recently. And if it wasn’t them, how had they known so quickly that she was missing? And why had they made the comment about eating pigs?

  I’d asked Fiona to lead the interview while I watched.

  ‘So, Ms O’Brien …’ Fiona began.

  Leona interrupted. ‘It’s “Doctor” actually. You can congratulate me if you like. Finally got my PhD. Analytical thinking in corvids. Very smart are corvids.’

  Fiona nodded curtly. Leona was right about corvids. I remembered the video where crows dropped walnuts onto the road for cars to crush, and then used the pedestrian crossing to eat them safely. I had colleagues who couldn’t have mastered that.

  ‘I didn’t do anything to the girl,’ Leona said.

  ‘But you put the banner up?’ Fiona said.

  Leona leaned back in her chair. ‘Did you like it? I thought it was a good effort at short notice. We wondered about using a photoshopped image of a human three-year-old being spit-roasted. They have a similar intelligence and emotional capacity to pigs. But the real image was shocking enough.’

  ‘How did you get into the abattoir?’ Fiona asked.

  ‘We popped over the wall.’ Leona made a jumping motion with her hand. ‘Easy-peasy when you know how. We couldn’t have got inside the building. But we didn’t need to.’

  ‘The banner suggests that you harmed Violet and intend to harm other people.’

  ‘Oh, I know. Aren’t I naughty? I wanted the publicity.’

  ‘So where’s Violet?’

  ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I have no idea.’

  ‘Where were you on Sunday night?’

  Leona rolled her eyes skywards. ‘Sunday … Sunday … Oh, I think that was a little meet-up with a friend. Yes, that’s right. In Barnsley, of all places.’ She gave a beatific smile. ‘Yes, I even stopped for petrol on the way up there. I bet you’ll find me on the cameras if I check the receipt and give you the name of the place.’

  ‘Yes. Please do that. What time did you stop?’

  ‘About ten?’

&n
bsp; ‘What time were you meeting your friend?’

  ‘About eleven. He’s a night-owl.’

  ‘We’ll need his details. Where did you meet, and for how long?’

  ‘At his house and I stayed over.’ She touched her hair. ‘Does that give me an alibi? Phew.’

  ‘Did anyone else see you?’

  She tipped her head to the side. ‘You think my friend Martin might lie for me? Oh no, Martin’s a lovely man. He’d never lie. Super-ethical is Martin. And … you know what …’ She leaned forward as if we were conspiring. ‘I bet you’ll see my van on some CCTV on the way home in the morning too. Wouldn’t that be good?’

  ‘What about other members of your group? Where were they on Sunday night?’

  ‘Ah, well, I’m not sure. We’re quite an amorphous group. I mean, this isn’t my style, but I can’t vouch for the others. People are very angry. They’re losing patience. Nicey-nicey hasn’t worked. The way the meat industry operates is intolerable, both for animals and for the planet. Maybe somebody decided this girl’s life was a price worth paying to make it clear they’re serious.’

  ‘How did your group know about Violet’s disappearance so quickly?’

  Leona smiled again. ‘I don’t know. We’re a big group.’

  ‘Someone wrote a comment implying she’d been fed to pigs. Where did that come from?’

  ‘Sorry, I have no idea.’

  ‘What did you mean when you said she got what she deserved?’

  ‘No mystery. We heard she’d gone missing and we speculated. Were we close to the mark? How funny!’

  ‘Are there members of your group who are more inclined to a violent approach?’

  ‘There are indeed. But they know I’m not, so they don’t share their plans with me.’

  ‘You know who they are though?’

  ‘Not really. I gather our Lee had a contretemps with Gary Finchley, but I don’t think he’s the sort to do anything that requires planning.’ Lee was rat-man, and I suspected she was right about his planning abilities.

  ‘We’ll need a list of group members, please.’

  ‘No problem, but as I say, we’re not an official group. And there are more aggressive offshoots. I’ll give you a list of people I know.’

  ‘Please do that.’

  ‘I’d be looking at the men she rejected,’ Leona said. ‘You must have seen the comments on her videos. She wasn’t always very polite to the poor boys.’ This much was true.

  ‘Anyone in particular?’ Fiona said.

  ‘You must know how it works,’ Leona said. ‘The rejected and humiliated male who turns to violence as a pathetic way to demonstrate his masculinity. Happens all the time in America – look at all those high school shootings. I’d be checking the comments on Violet’s website for people like that. The rejected, the entitled, the men who like to control women. So much fury these people have inside them when they don’t get what they want.’

  ‘Yes, thank you. We are doing that,’ Fiona said.

  Fiona wasn’t doing anything wrong, but it felt like Leona was running rings around her. And there wasn’t much point pushing it until we’d looked at the CCTV and spoken to this Martin bloke.

  My eyes were drawn again to the slogan on Leona’s T-shirt. I had to admit I found the woman intriguing. It was invigorating to encounter someone with views so different from the norm, and she was clearly bright. I was a sucker for the brainy ones.

  ‘Do you like my T-shirt?’ she said. ‘I can get you one if you want, although you need to know that some people find it offensive. Obviously they’re missing the point, due to their rampant speciesism. It doesn’t need to be about slavery. You could think about the rights of women in 1850, or people with mental health problems. Or children forced up chimneys. It’s about whether you can stand back from the cultural norms of your society and see that these practices are cruel and wrong. Maybe you can? You’re vegetarian, aren’t you?’

  I didn’t respond. How the hell did she know that?

  ‘What about the other people involved in the Great Meat Debate website?’ I said. ‘What do you think of them?’

  ‘Gary has a nice body for a meat-eater. And Kirsty is quite pretty, in a blonde sort of way.’

  ‘Thanks, Leona,’ I said. ‘Very helpful. Let us have that information today.’

  ‘You’ve got to admit,’ Leona said, ‘if Violet Armstrong was eaten by pigs, you could argue that she got what she deserved.’

  ‘She’s a strange one,’ Fiona said. ‘Did she start the Animal Vigilantes?’

  I stepped to the side of the corridor with Fiona. ‘I think so, yes. But it’s expanded massively in recent years, so I don’t suppose she knows everything that’s going on.’

  ‘I bet her story about going to Barnsley stacks up,’ Fiona said. ‘I doubt she’s stupid enough to lie about anything so easily verifiable. But she could have arranged for someone else to harm Violet. What have her group done in the past? Anything violent?’

  ‘They did blow up a car once, but nobody was hurt. They’ve released a lot of animals and got into scuffles, but I don’t think they’ve deliberately harmed anyone. Although she’s right about not being able to speak for the rest of the group, and there’s definitely a feeling of rising anger in the animal rights world.’

  I heard footsteps behind and turned to see Craig striding down the corridor. ‘How’s it going?’ His tone was wrong. Too friendly.

  ‘What’s up, Craig?’

  ‘Nothing. I wondered how things were going.’

  ‘Fine, thank you. Are Violet’s parents back from their holiday yet?’

  ‘Yes, they’re here. Oh, and Jai has something to show you.’

  A sick flush of adrenaline. Since the discovery of the blood and hair in the trough, further news was unlikely to be good. ‘Has Violet been found?’ I said Violet but we all knew I meant body parts.

  ‘No. But I think you’ll find it very … interesting.’

  Craig was oozing smugness. Whatever was going on had to be bad, and it involved me, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing that I was concerned. ‘Okay, thanks for letting me know, Craig. Come on, Fiona.’

  ‘What’s he up to, the slimy sod?’ Fiona said as I led her down the corridor.

  ‘I dread to think. No doubt we’ll find out later. We’d better see the parents. I hope they haven’t been anywhere near the internet.’

  17

  Violet’s parents were in one of our more pleasant interview rooms. It smelled of lemon air-freshener, and it even had a window. Violet’s father stood stiffly with his chest thrust forward, clearly reluctant to sit on one of our grubby-looking chairs. He wore a suit that seemed to have been bought for a more svelte version of himself, and a polyester shirt that looked desperately wrong for the weather. ‘Are you in charge?’ he said, making it clear that me being in charge would not be a good thing.

  Helen Armstrong, Violet’s mother, looked up and snapped, ‘Come on, Roy, you’re not helping.’ She was better dressed than her husband, in linen trousers and a neatly ironed blouse. I’d have bet that she’d been impeccably made-up earlier, but it was falling apart – mascara staining below her eyes and foundation drifting downwards. I realised with a jolt of unease that I was assessing the pair of them for TV-appeal-worthiness.

  Fiona was next to me, her young femaleness possibly adding to Roy’s feelings that the case was not in safe hands.

  Roy threw himself onto the seat next to his wife and sighed loudly. ‘Are you doing anything at all to find her?’

  I took that as rhetorical. We’d given them huge detail on our efforts. Roy Armstrong would have been well up there with the suspects if he hadn’t been so definitively out of the country when his daughter disappeared. Guilt could manifest as belligerence – I knew that for sure.

  We’d decided not to share the information about the blood and hair in the pig troughs. No evidence of any other remains had been found, although admittedly the abattoir waste from the
morning was still AWOL. My earlier hope that Violet might be alive was seeping away, but I didn’t want her parents to realise that yet. ‘We need to know everything about Violet,’ I said. ‘Obviously she has a very public persona, but we need to dig beneath that. The clues will be there. So please tell us anything you can think of.’

  Helen dabbed at her eyes. ‘She’s a lovely girl.’

  People who disappeared or died were always lovely. Nobody’s parents ever said, She’s a bit of a shit, actually.

  ‘All this business with barbecuing meat on the internet,’ Helen said, ‘that’s not really Violet. It was just silliness, and then people kept asking her to do more and more. But underneath she’s just a normal girl.’

  ‘Was she worried about anything, that you know of?’

  ‘She started getting horrible comments online.’

  ‘We’re looking at the people who commented on her videos. Did anyone contact her in person?’

  Helen shook her head. ‘We haven’t seen her since she moved to Gritton. Most people are found, aren’t they? Nothing will have happened to her?’

  ‘Most teenagers turn up safe and well.’ I tried to give her a reassuring look. ‘We understand she was adopted?’

  ‘Did she find her biological family?’ Helen’s face was tight with anxiety.

  Roy lifted his head and spoke, more to his wife than to us: ‘I knew it would come and bite us in the arse one day.’

  I looked at Helen, sensing we’d get more out of her than her somewhat rabid husband.

  ‘We adopted Violet when she was a baby,’ she said. ‘It was what they call a closed adoption – no contact between the birth family and Violet. All we were told was that her mother was called Rebecca Smith and she was originally from Gritton.’

  ‘So, Violet went to Gritton to find her biological parents?’

  ‘Yes,’ Helen said. ‘We told her not to. Begged her, in fact.’

  ‘Perhaps you can help us with one detail we’re confused about,’ I said. ‘Violet was convinced her birth mother was dead, but she’s not.’