by Roz Watkins
Helen blushed. Shot a look at Roy, ‘We have to tell them, love.’
‘We thought it was for the best,’ Roy said, his voice stiff. ‘We met Rebecca Smith’s aunt before we adopted Violet. She told us to keep Violet from having any contact with her natural mother or father, and to keep her away from Gritton.’
‘Why would she say that?’
‘She wouldn’t tell us. She said she couldn’t.’
That was strange. A pattern was emerging of people keeping away from Gritton. ‘Did Rebecca Smith’s aunt know who the father was?’ I asked.
‘We have no idea,’ Roy said. ‘Look, nowadays everyone wants to know everything, and there are these shows on the TV with ridiculous sobbing reunions. But it was different even a few years ago. A lot of people thought no contact was best. We told her right from the start she was adopted. But we thought the easiest way to stop her trying to contact her mother was to say she was dead.’
‘That seems extreme.’
‘If you’d seen the girl’s aunt, you’d understand. It was chilling. She said under no circumstances should the baby have contact with her natural parents. Why do you think we were so against her going to Gritton? We were terrified of what she might find.’
18
‘This gets stranger by the minute.’ I spun my chair round to face Fiona, who was trying to get my sash window to open wider, without much luck. A few flakes of paint fell off, but nothing moved.
‘I know.’ She gave one last upward shove, and admitted defeat. ‘Bloody thing!’
‘I’ve tried, Fiona. It’s not moving. Why would Bex’s aunt say those things? What was so terrible about Gritton?’
‘Do you think it was because she knew Violet’s father was a rapist?’
‘Possibly,’ I said. ‘Let’s have a recap where we’re at generally. Unpleasant as it is, the most likely scenario now is that someone killed Violet at the abattoir after ten on Sunday night, and disposed of her body by feeding it to pigs and/or putting it in the abattoir waste.’ I pictured Violet’s bedroom. Her pillow with the indent where her head had been. The panda nightshirt. ‘Animal rights activists threatened Violet, but the only people with access to the abattoir overnight were Anna and Gary Finchley and Daniel Twigg, none of whom have decent alibis. And it’s likely that either Gary or Daniel is her biological father.’
Fiona reluctantly left the window and came over to sit on my much-shunned guest chair. ‘Gary Finchley won’t consent to a DNA test,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘Says he doesn’t trust the government not to cock up and accuse him of some random crime, or sell his data to health insurance companies in the future. And since he’s not under arrest, why should he give one, and he never slept with Bex, so he’s obviously not Violet’s father.’
I sighed. ‘Fantastic. But Daniel agreed?’
‘Yes. That’s underway.’
‘Good. Okay. I’ve read so many statements from the good people of Gritton that my eyes are bleeding, but I can’t see anything useful. And as for the comments on our missing person Facebook post …’
‘I’ve seen. The psychics are out. She’s in an underground place, or she’s surrounded by trees, or was it water? She’s alive and needs our help, and we can find her if we’d only talk to them.’
‘Would that it were so easy. And I see we’ve got more than the usual complement of victim-blamers. She wore a bikini publicly so she had it coming, whatever it might be. Who are these people?’
‘I don’t know,’ Fiona said. ‘Although some of them sound like my mum. We’re taking those comments down as they appear.’
‘Your mum?’ I’d never heard Fiona talk about her mum. She’d mentioned a brother who she liked, and her gran, but kept quiet about the rest of her family.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t ask.’
I decided to take that at face value. ‘Okay. So tell me about the possibilities with Violet.’
‘Right. Someone could have told her that either Daniel or Gary was her biological father and possibly even that he raped her mother. That would have been a nasty shock, given that she worked with them. She could have asked whichever it was to meet her at the abattoir. Then confronted him and it got out of hand.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Although she didn’t know who her father was when she left Tony Nightingale’s farm, assuming he was telling the truth.’
‘We don’t think she phoned anyone between leaving his farm and getting to the abattoir.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘But we do know there’s something odd about her biological family – not just because her father’s a rapist but because of what her aunt said. And who told Violet to go to Tony Nightingale’s house? Somebody obviously knew who Rebecca Smith was, or at least that Violet was related to Tony Nightingale.’
‘We’re carrying on with house-to-house on that,’ Fiona said. ‘And contacting everyone Violet phoned, plus doing media appeals, including social media.’
‘Then we’ve got this strange business of her seeing the Pale Child.’
‘Yes. People say the Pale Child appears when the reservoir water level drops so that the remains of the old villages are visible. Like this year.’
‘That’s creepy. It is amazing what’s appeared this year with the drought. I hear mountain rescue have had to hoick an overenthusiastic explorer out of the mud by the old Derwent village.’
‘It’s the lowest it’s ever been,’ Fiona said. ‘People are crawling all over it. And have you seen the drone footage of buried gardens and archaeological sites? You can see the outline of a seventeenth-century garden at Chatsworth – all the paths and borders and stuff. And a grid on the grass at Tissington Hall – nobody knows what it originally was.’
‘I love Tissington. Remind me when I have a day off to go over there and pretend I’m on a bike ride but actually go to the tea room.’ The thought of a cold drink in a tea room was practically making me drool.
‘Sounds good,’ Fiona said. ‘The stuff from Gritton was more mundane, I have to say. Mainly septic tank outflows making the grass greener.’ She stood and walked round to my side of the desk. ‘Do you want to see?’
‘Ooh yes, show me the septic tanks.’
She leaned in and clicked a few keys, bringing up an image of some drone footage. I recognised the abattoir in the centre, and the roads, houses and rocks of Gritton around it. ‘No beautiful hidden gardens?’ I said.
‘Sadly no. But see those darker patches by the rural houses? Apparently, you can assess the health of the septic tanks from the colour and shape of these patterns.’ She pointed at a green area fanning out from beside a remote house, contrasting with the scorched yellow grass around it.
‘There’s a niche skill,’ I said.
‘You can see where people have converted barns. Look at this one on the Bamford road – there’s a septic tank for a big barn, so I guess it’s been converted to a house.’
‘I might prefer to see the hidden gardens, Fiona.’
The door banged open. Jai was silhouetted in the light shining through from the corridor. ‘We’ve got the background checks,’ he said, ‘and Daniel Twigg has an interesting past. He’s been inside for causing death by dangerous driving and driving under the influence of alcohol and drugs. But it was nearly twenty years ago.’
I pictured Daniel with his rock-balancing art, in his little caravan. ‘Okay, let’s find out more about that.’
‘Will do,’ Jai said, in a cautious tone. ‘And there’s another thing.’
My pulse spiked and I remembered Craig’s slimy comments earlier. ‘Oh God. What?’
Jai walked over, pulled my guest chair up to my desk, and actually sat on it (at which point I knew things were bad). He shuffled closer. ‘Google Justice for Violet,’ he said.
I typed in the words. Lots of hits. Fiona leaned in so she could see too.
‘The Facebook page,’ Jai said. ‘Go to that.’
I clicked and a page came up. The header was the Ani
mal Vigilantes’ poster of the young pig being roasted above the fire, but scrawled over the top in red letters was the phrase, ‘Justice for Violet!’ Underneath was a photo of five large men wearing black trousers, black T-shirts and, rather ominously, black balaclavas.
I clicked, ‘About’, and read the description of the page.
The vegans and activists have shown their true colours. Violet was a symbol for meat-eaters who are fighting back. Red-blooded men everywhere love Violet. We’re sick of being made to feel ashamed of what we are. We like meat and we like Violet! Now these maniacs have killed her and fed her to pigs, trying to make some insane point. We won’t let them get away with it.
I sighed. ‘Uh oh.’
‘It gets worse,’ Jai said.
I carried on reading. My eyes skimmed over the next few words and I felt a horrible sinking in my stomach at the sight of my name.
It’s clear that Violet has been killed by the Animal Vigilantes, but the police are unwilling to take action! The investigation is being run by DI Meg Dalton, a vegetarian with an agenda! If she won’t find Violet’s killer, we will! These misguided animal liberation lunatics think they can save animals by killing Violet. They’ve made it VERY clear they plan to kill more people!! But we’re not giving up that easily. Come forward and confess or we’re going to start killing animals until you do!
‘Wow,’ Fiona said.
I slammed my hand on my desk. ‘For fuck’s sake!’
Jai shifted his chair away from me, as if I might get violent. ‘Apparently, if whoever killed Violet hasn’t confessed by midnight, they’re going to find an animal in a field and kill it on camera.’
My anger was turning cold. ‘Who are these people?’
‘I suspect they’re a bunch of angry blokes who feel they’re under attack. These sorts have been after a fight for the last few years. White, heterosexual men who’ve never read a book in their lives and are proud of it. They eat lots of meat. And they like watching girls prancing around in bikinis cooking it.’
‘But we don’t even know for sure that Violet’s dead, let alone that she was killed by the Animal Vigilantes. And what’s me being a sodding vegetarian got to do with it?’
‘There’s a lot of anger,’ Jai said. ‘It’s been building up for a while. I suppose they see you as aligned with the animal rights people.’
‘But that’s crazy! I’m not an activist. I’ve been on the occasional march and I donate to a few animal charities. Why am I even justifying this to you? These people need locking up.’
‘They want locking up for the sheer number of exclamation marks in that piece,’ Fiona said.
I noticed the time. ‘Oh God, we’ve got the press conference in a minute.’
‘Are you going to mention this?’
I shook my head. ‘It’s only a stupid thing on Facebook. Whose animals are they going to kill? They’ll be punishing the very farmers they want to support.’
My stomach twisted at the sight of the long table. Three chairs, three microphones. I shuffled across and sat down. I hadn’t had time to prepare properly. I was still reeling from the personal attack on the Facebook page. All I ever did was try to do my job and do it well and yet I always ended up in the firing line. I felt like punching someone.
Violet’s parents edged in behind the table, from the other side. Helen was next to me, dabbing her eyes. Roy had been clothed by our adviser in a better shirt, vibrating as if ready to explode.
Flashing lights, sharp suits, phones waving, microphones pointing. A low murmur punctuated by the odd optimistic question directed at Violet’s parents. Me hissing, Don’t answer!
The room was packed. Local reporters brimming with smugness that there was a good story in their area, a bunch from the nationals looking down on the locals, TV reporters with the made-up sheen of the filmable, and a whole load of unidentifiables. I gave them a stare that indicated I was about to speak. The muttering died down.
I filled them in on the timeline and facts, not giving too much away. I repeated what had been released the day before – what clothes Violet had on, that she wore a distinctive pelican brooch on a necklace. I told them the hotline number, and it would indeed be hot with the calls of the attention-seeking crazies, the empty-lifers desperate to be close to the action. And the hotter the victim, the hotter the hotline became.
‘Violet was adopted,’ I said. ‘We believe she may have been in Gritton looking for her biological family. She may have spoken to someone who gave her information. If this was you, please come forward.’
The noise in the room increased, rising upwards and bouncing off the ceiling until it engulfed us. I tried to imagine a bubble of cool, blue calm around me, but it didn’t make a lot of difference.
More excited murmuring and shouted questions. ‘Has Violet been killed by animal activists?’
The noise that greeted this almost drowned out my response. ‘We’ve no reason to think Violet has been killed. We’ll take questions at the end. Now, Violet’s mother, Helen Armstrong, would like to say a few words.’
Roy had wanted to speak, but it had been obvious that Helen would be much better. With his entitled voice and ill-concealed fury, Roy would only alienate. The game was all about appearances. If your eyes were too close together, if you looked too upset or not upset enough, if your nose was shiny or your make-up too prominent, the reporters would have you back home burying your daughter under the patio before you could say, She’s a lovely girl and we miss her so much.
Helen did a good job. Sniffed and wiped her eyes like a pro. Looked straight at the camera. ‘Please …’ she said. ‘If you know anything about where Violet is, call the hotline. We’re so worried about her. We know she was on the internet a lot and but she’s really just a normal young girl. Please come forward if you know anything at all.’
They were straining to ask questions, a seething mass of them. It felt as if they were advancing on us, as if they might consume us.
Someone shouted, ‘Is it true she’d seen the Pale Child?’
A large man in the front row snorted. ‘Moronic yokels.’
‘If anyone saw anything unusual the night she disappeared, please call our hotline.’ I pointed into the crowd. ‘Yes?’
‘Dick Granger, the Enquirer.’ I’d come across Dick before. Never one to hold back for reasons of sensitivity, but even he seemed to have a twinge of doubt as he looked at Violet’s parents. Then he dived in before he lost his chance. ‘There have been suggestions Violet’s been killed and fed to pigs. What do the police say about that?’
I felt Helen flinch beside me and cursed myself for not warning them. I should have known a comment like that would shoot through social media like shit off a muck-spreader.
‘Violet’s been missing less than forty-eight hours,’ I said. ‘We’ve no reason to think she’s been killed. The vast majority of teenagers are found safe and well.’
Someone shouted, ‘But what about the pigs?’
I ignored them, but Roy butted in. ‘What’s the matter with you people? How do you think we feel, for God’s sake?’
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Helen reach a hand across and lay it on Roy’s arm.
Someone shouted, ‘What happened to her body?’
‘When will you upscale this to a suspected homicide?’ Dick shouted.
‘We’re treating Violet as a high-risk missing person,’ I said. ‘Huge resources are being put into finding her. There’s no question of needing to upscale anything.’
There was so much shouting I couldn’t tell who was saying what.
‘What about the Animal Vigilantes? Have you arrested anyone? What about Justice for Violet? What if they start killing animals tonight?’
‘We won’t tolerate abuse of animals,’ I said. ‘If anybody harms an animal tonight, we will be coming down extremely hard.’ I realised that sounded perhaps a little too menacing.
‘Are your sympathies with the animal activists, DI Dalton? Are you the right pers
on to find Violet’s killers?’
I flicked my eyes to the speaker. A youngish man with prominent glasses and a trendy beard, who looked like he should have known better. I wanted to leap into the crowd and grab him by the throat, and he may have picked up on the vibe because he shuffled back in his seat.
Another shout. I didn’t see where it came from. ‘Does Meg Dalton have links to animal rights extremists?’
My pulse was racing. This felt out of control.
‘Mrs Armstrong! Where do you think Violet is?’ The shout came from a local reporter I vaguely knew, an ambitious but decent young woman. I turned to Helen, and she gave a tiny nod and looked out at the crowd.
‘I don’t know,’ she said quietly, tears running down her cheeks. The energy of the room settled, as if the force of her anguish had hammered through the shells of even the most cynical. ‘But Violet isn’t what you all think. She didn’t mean to be the poster girl for the meat industry. She doesn’t even eat much meat. It all happened by accident. So if anybody’s taken Violet because of that, please let her go.’ As she faced the crowd, I caught the edge of a tiny, disgusted look. ‘She’s also a very beautiful girl. I’m afraid someone has her. Someone has taken her and …’ She broke off and gave a low sob. ‘Please give her back. We’d do anything to have her back.’
A couple of hours later, I was sitting at my desk with my head in my hands. I heard a voice. Fiona. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Strategising,’ I said.
She gave me a concerned look. ‘Oh. Okay. I took a formal statement from Anna Finchley and she mentioned something weird.’
‘You’d better sit down.’
Fiona settled into my guest chair. ‘Is that spider plant all right?’ She gave it the look a social worker might give a kid they wanted to take into care. ‘It looks like it has to walk to get its own water.’
‘Thriving. I chuck my tea in it when I’ve let it go cold or my coffee when it’s too disgusting to drink, so it’s all good. Anyway, what’s weird?’
‘It’s Kirsty Nightingale. You know, Tony’s other daughter who’s on the Great Meat Debate website with Anna and Co. She … she heard about the fed-to-pigs thing.’