by Roz Watkins
‘But we don’t even know for sure she’s dead,’ I said weakly.
‘The animal people are furious about Frazzles,’ Jai said, ‘and talking about revenge. They’ve been smashing the windows of butchers’ shops.’
Craig snorted. ‘They’re more concerned about bloody Frazzles than they are about Violet being killed and fed to pigs.’
‘We don’t know that’s what happened,’ Fiona said.
Craig rolled his eyes. ‘Oh come on.’
‘It’s not the only scenario,’ I said. ‘We haven’t found Violet’s clothes. The pigs wouldn’t have eaten overalls and Doc Martens boots.’
Jai coughed and fiddled with the collar of his shirt. ‘We’re still having trouble finding the company that took the abattoir waste away that morning.’
‘Seriously? How hard can it be?’ Richard used the phrase I always found myself using about DIY projects. The ultimate answer was generally, Extremely Bloody Hard. Nobody responded.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I was thinking about Violet’s movements before she disappeared. That’s not the only route from Tony Nightingale’s to the abattoir, is it? Past Mrs Ackroyd’s, I mean?’
Jai gave a side-to-side non-committal head wobble. ‘No, but it avoids a narrow lane that’s a bugger to drive down.’
‘What about forensics in Violet’s car?’
‘There are fibres in the car from clothes that have been matched to Violet’s, and from the type of overalls she wears at the abattoir. Nothing that points to another person.’
‘So the driver’s seat was at its furthest forward setting and the passenger’s at its furthest back – is that right?’
Jai nodded.
‘Violet was five foot six. Why would she put her seat at the furthest forward? I’m shorter than that and I don’t do that.’
‘Maybe she liked to sit far forward,’ Jai said. ‘Some people do.’
‘Can you check with Izzy? And see if she knows what Violet’s feelings were about driving narrow country lanes. And see if anyone at the abattoir knows which way she normally drove to work.’
A uniform popped his head around the door. ‘A weird call came in,’ he said. ‘An old guy said he thought he saw someone dumping something in the woods in Gritton. He said the bloke looked suspicious.’
My stomach dropped. ‘What kind of something was he dumping?’
‘It sounded like a bin liner full of stuff, dumped out of a small lorry. We’ve tracked it down and the company’s owned by a bloke called Mick Tyler. A bit of a scrote, by all accounts.’
‘Why do we think it’s relevant?’
‘The same lorry’s been seen coming and going from the abattoir.’
24
Bex – August 1999
Bex leaned against the wooden fence, watching the pregnant sows snuffling around in the dust. Kirsty stood beside her, scraping her boot against the sandy ground and giving off bored vibes.
‘Where’s the pig with the spots on her face?’ Bex asked. ‘I’ve been teaching her to fetch.’
Kirsty looked up. The sun was behind her, leaving her face in shadow. ‘Gone to farrow.’
‘Why doesn’t she farrow here?’
‘She has to go to the maternity barn. Do you want to see?’ The shift in Kirsty’s tone of voice roused a small worm that squirmed in Bex’s stomach. It was Kirsty’s sing-song voice. The one Bex had realised she used when she tried to make a mean comment sound like a compliment.
‘I suppose so,’ Bex said.
‘She’ll have had her piglets. It’ll be cute. Dad normally keeps it locked but I saw he forgot just now.’
‘Why does he keep it locked?’
‘To keep the pigs safe.’
‘We should tell him he forgot then.’
‘We will, once you’ve had a look.’
‘Oh, okay,’ Bex said. She’d been paranoid about Kirsty’s sing-song voice. Kirsty was just letting Bex see her favourite pig.
Bex followed Kirsty along a track which led away from the farmhouse. The day was warm and humid and the air smelled faintly of pig manure. ‘Is this the barn Dad was worried about flooding the day I arrived?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. It would be awful for the pigs if water got in. They wouldn’t be able to get away.’
After a few minutes they arrived at the barn – a huge, old-fashioned one – and Kirsty slid the door open carefully.
Inside it was dark, and the air which drifted out felt cool, although it smelled of ammonia. Noisy fans whirred up above.
‘We’d better not go in,’ Kirsty said. ‘But you can look.’
Bex peered into the gloom. As her eyes adjusted, she could see a row of metal cages. The pig with the spotty face was in one. Bex breathed in sharply. This wasn’t what she’d imagined. The cage was so small, it was as if it had been built around the pig. She couldn’t even lie comfortably, let alone turn around. The bars were digging into the flesh on her back.
‘But it’s …’ Bex couldn’t speak. More detail came into view. The floor of the pig’s cage was made of slats. There was no bedding. She knew mother pigs made nests for their babies, but this pig couldn’t make a nest. She was on her side and her piglets were next to her, under a heat lamp, separated from her by bars. There were about ten – so tiny they must have only been a day or two old. Some were suckling on the sow, but she couldn’t reach to sniff them or lick them. Her face was pressed against the bars. Bex watched, feeling her breathing quickening. How could it be designed like that?
A shout from behind them. ‘Kirsty! Bex! What are you doing?’
Kirsty hurriedly slid the barn door shut and turned to their father. ‘Just checking,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d forgotten to lock up – and you had.’
Their dad was gasping for breath and he sounded furious. ‘Kirsty, you know … You shouldn’t have opened the door.’ He took a key from his pocket and locked the barn door.
‘Why do you keep them like that?’ Bex said. ‘She can’t even turn around or touch her babies.’ It came out before she had time to think. To wonder if this was the best time to ask, when he was clearly angry.
Her dad grabbed her arm and pulled her away. ‘Come on. Come away.’
They walked back to the house in silence. Their dad dragged them into the kitchen and shut the door behind them. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Both of you sit down.’ Bex had never seen him like this, at least as far as she could remember. There was a coldness to his anger that was scarier than if he’d been shouting and slamming doors.
They sat in silence while he made tea, in a pot, and placed cups and a milk jug on the table. Finally he sat opposite them and looked at them for much longer than felt comfortable. Bex poured tea for herself and Kirsty, her hand shaking.
Eventually her dad spoke. ‘I’m going to tell you about an incident that happened when I was a child.’ His voice had softened. Some of the anger had drained away. ‘I was only ten. I wasn’t supposed to go in the farrowing barn, just like you’re not. My father had told me. But I wouldn’t listen.’
Bex lifted her tea and took a sip. Kirsty sat looking sheepish.
‘I went into the barn,’ her dad said. ‘And I saw what you’ve just seen. And I didn’t like it. I was a very silly little boy and I thought I knew best.’ He sighed and shifted on his chair. ‘I reached into the farrowing crate of my favourite sow, and I pulled out the barrier that separated her from her piglets.’
Bex felt a glimmer of respect for the ten-year-old that her dad had been. She’d wanted to do the same.
‘I pulled out the barrier,’ he said. ‘It was heavy for a child, but I did it. And I watched while the sow nuzzled her piglets. It was a lovely moment.’
Bex had a solid feeling in her stomach, as if her insides had turned to stone. The story wasn’t going to end well.
‘My father appeared. It frightened the pig. She heaved herself to her feet and spun round. But she fell.’
‘What happened?’ Bex whispered.
‘Her
legs went from under her. She fell and crushed five piglets to death.’
The kitchen was too quiet.
There was a bump from behind and Bex jumped as if she’d hit an electric fence, but it was only Fenton bashing his way into the kitchen. He must have picked up on the atmosphere – he wandered nervously from Kirsty to Bex to her dad. Snuffling against their legs, trying to mediate.
Bex’s dad ignored Fenton and carried on. ‘And then I understood that sometimes you have to do things that might appear bad to those who don’t understand. To keep the piglets safe.’
‘He’s right,’ Kirsty said. ‘Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.’
25
Meg – Present day
Wednesday
‘Doesn’t Bex’s rape story strike you as odd?’ Fiona stood and leaned against my guest chair. ‘She gets raped, but instead of finding out who did it and bringing him to justice, she just goes back to her aunt’s and forgets about it.’
‘You can sit down, Fiona.’ I sat back and crossed my legs. A cup of tea would have been nice, but the man who’d dumped the bag in the woods had been brought in and I wanted to interview him. ‘You’re displaying an enviable faith in the criminal justice system,’ I said. ‘This was 1999. She’d passed out wearing a short skirt. You think the rapist would have been brought to justice? Have you seen some of the comments about Violet? There are people out there who think filming yourself in a bikini constitutes offering yourself up to be chopped into pieces and fed to pigs. Besides, Bex didn’t say she forgot about it. She tried to report it to the police but a bunch of dick cops rattled her and she couldn’t go through with it. So she did the most sensible thing: moved on. But then she realised she was pregnant, poor cow.’
Fiona sat down tentatively, also crossing her legs, and it occurred to me how compact she was compared to Craig or Jai, with their sprawling limbs. We should occupy more space, me and Fiona. ‘I think there’s more to it,’ she said. ‘Bex’s aunt says all that weird stuff to Violet’s adoptive parents and then Bex doesn’t see her dad and her sister for eighteen years.’
‘I’m not saying you’re wrong. I just don’t think it’s surprising she didn’t report the rape. You’re young. You don’t remember what the courts were like twenty years ago. She’d have been ripped apart.’
The door pushed open. Craig. ‘Mick Tyler’s here.’
‘Thanks, Craig,’ I said.
‘I’ll get on.’ Fiona practically leaped out of her chair and whipped out of the door.
‘Apparently it’s all kicking off in Gritton,’ Craig said. ‘A bunch of balaclava-clad Justice for Violet psychos are kicking the shit out a bunch of meat-suit-clad Animal Vigilante psychos. Or it might be the other way around. Uniform are there trying to get it under control.’
‘Wonderful.’
‘And the great British public are helping search for Violet, but some of the searchers got too close to the wildfire and had to be rescued, and another one got heatstroke and needed the air ambulance.’
‘That sounds like a huge help. Bravo British public.’
Craig shrugged. ‘And us cops get accused of being thick.’
I swallowed. Contemplating the idiocy of the general public had obviously put Craig in an amiable mood. I seized my chance. ‘Look, before we go in, I just wanted to have a word.’
Craig took a step towards me. ‘What?’
‘That cut above your eye. Tamsyn’s been in touch …’
Craig stiffened, and anger flashed across his face. ‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘She thought you got the injury at work.’
Craig muttered, ‘The stupid cow.’
‘Craig! Don’t speak about her like that. She’s worried.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I know you’re sounding like a disrespectful—’ I stopped myself.
‘You don’t know anything about my situation,’ Craig said. ‘Let it go.’
I forced myself to speak calmly. ‘But did you get the injury at work?’
‘No.’ Craig’s lips were tight. ‘Can we drop it? I’m fine.’
‘I can’t ignore this, if it happened at work.’
‘It’s fine. I’ll square it with Tamsyn. Leave it be.’ He suddenly looked almost childlike. ‘Please?’
Mick Tyler was in our interview room, sprawling in his chair, hefty thighs apart, the absolute opposite of Fiona earlier. He couldn’t have given off a less respectful vibe if he’d stuck his boots on the table. A tattoo of barbed wire ringed his neck, and when he blinked you could see that he’d had his eyelids tattooed to look like eyes. He’d stare sightlessly at you even when he was asleep. So, all in all, I wasn’t getting the best vibe off him, but he represented a chance to finally establish what had happened to Violet, and for that I was desperately grateful.
I’d checked Mick’s records and he’d been done for petty theft and minor acts of violence, mainly towards his supposed friends, and had been in prison a few times for short spells. He’d brought a lawyer in, who was only slightly less thick-necked and dodgy-looking than he was.
‘What’s this about?’ the lawyer said, after we’d taken them through the formalities.
Craig spoke at Mick rather than the lawyer. ‘We’d like to know where you were on Sunday night.’
A spasm of relief flashed across Mick’s face. He sat up straighter and corralled the thighs somewhat. ‘With my girl. She can tell you that.’
‘Your girlfriend or your daughter?’ Craig said.
Possibly both, I thought, rather uncharitably.
‘Girlfriend. I was with her all night.’
Lucky woman, being stared at all night by the bloke’s eyelids.
Craig checked the interview plan and then gave Mick an appraising look. ‘And what about Monday? Can you tell us where you were?’
‘Working. What’s this about?’
‘Did you go near Gritton Abattoir?’
‘I do some work for them. I might’ve done.’
‘You’ve been linked with an extremely serious offence.’
Mick’s breathing was coming faster. ‘What offence?’
Craig worked the pause, looking at Mick like a lion about to take down a gazelle. A very ugly gazelle. ‘Somebody saw you in the woods,’ he said. ‘Dumping a bag.’
Mick closed his eyes briefly, showing us his second set of eyes in full creepy technicolour. ‘Bloody hell,’ he spat.
‘What was in the bag?’
Mick shook his head. ‘I didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t me that did it.’
We all stiffened.
The lawyer said, ‘I’d like a word with—’
‘It’s all right.’ Mick turned to him. ‘I know I was bloody stupid. I panicked. Wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t have anything to do with killing her.’
The lawyer moved his arm towards Mick as if to advise caution. The air in the room felt thick.
‘You’d better explain,’ Craig said.
‘I take the Cat 2 waste away, don’t I? From the abattoir. I found a bin liner in with the waste. With hair and stuff. Gross. A load of long, dark hair and clothes and boots, and that weird necklace with the bird on it. And a smashed-up phone. I realised it must be off that girl. The girl that does those videos.’
So that was it. She really was dead. Craig slammed his hand on the table. ‘You didn’t think to call the police at that point? Given that you knew a teenage girl was missing?’
I shot Craig a look that said, Keep your shit in order. No emotions required on our side of the interview room. But inwardly I was furious. So much time had been wasted. So many hours gone.
‘Where does the waste go?’ Craig asked.
Mick hesitated. ‘Pet food and that.’
I felt a mixture of revulsion and anger. Violet’s hair had been dumped with the abattoir waste, with the snouts and trotters and stomach contents, the diseased animals and scrapings off the abattoir floor. And her necklace was there t
oo, in case we were in any doubt whose hair it was.
‘Are you licensed to dispose of abattoir waste?’ Craig said.
Mick sniffed. ‘The permit’s not come through yet.’
‘That’s why you didn’t report this. You’re not licensed.’
Mick said nothing.
‘Isn’t Cat 2 waste supposed to be rendered?’ Craig said. ‘It’s not for pet food.’
‘Er …’ Mick hardened his expression. ‘Maybe it was Cat 3 actually.’
We all knew more than we’d ever wanted to about the correct process for disposing of meat by-products, following the Maggot Pete case.
‘We can find out easily enough,’ Craig said.
‘It’s a bloody shame,’ Mick said. ‘Why not use it for dog food or whatever? Some of it’s perfectly fine. You don’t expect to find a dead girl’s hair. Gave me the shock of me bloody life.’
Craig gave Mick a look of disgust.
‘I wasn’t selling on stuff that was really bad. Not stuff with maggots in and that.’
‘What happened to the rest of the waste?’
‘It’s gone to my mate’s company. It’ll be dog food by now.’
‘We’ll need details of your “mate”,’ Craig said.
There went any chance of us analysing the pigs’ stomach contents. They’d be inside someone’s spaniel.
‘It’s a very serious offence taking animal by-products and putting them back into the food chain,’ Craig said. ‘But murder is an even more serious offence.’
‘I didn’t kill her! I just found that bin liner in the lorry after I took the waste. Which is weird because you can’t put plastic in if it goes to be rendered. It’s dangerous. Toxic fumes. So I had a quick look inside and it was … that girl’s stuff.’
‘When did you pick up this waste?’
‘Monday morning.’
‘And where did you take it?’
‘I took all the waste back to the depot at first. Then when I saw that bin liner and looked in it, I freaked about what was in there. So I took the bin liner to the woods. I didn’t do anything to her.’
‘Who did you deal with at the abattoir? Who arranged for you to pick up the Category 2 waste?’