Sausage Hall

by Christina James

  “What do you mean by ‘thorough search’?”

  “We’ll need to carry out a meticulous examination of the cellars. It will involve moving around the items that you have stored there. We’ll also want to search the other rooms in the house. You or one of your staff may be present if you wish.”

  “There’s not much point in withholding my permission, since you’re clearly going to do it one way or another. I take it you’ll allow me to stay here? You’re not proposing to shunt me off to a hotel or something?”

  “Thank you, sir. As you’re being so co-operative, that shouldn’t be necessary. We’ll start with the rooms that you want to use. We’ll also assign a policeman to spend the night here with you.”

  “To protect me, or to make sure that I don’t try to destroy any evidence?”

  Again that level look. Clearly he doesn’t think this is a joke.

  “A little of both, sir.”

  Suddenly I can’t wait to be rid of them.

  “Just remember one thing,” I snap. “My wife has only a few weeks left. I wish to return to her as soon as I can. If I’m not back in St Lucia by the end of the week, I’ll make sure that you both live to regret it. Is that clear?”

  DC Armstrong looks guilt-stricken. She opens her mouth to speak, but DI Yates cuts in.

  “It’s not wise to threaten us, sir. We understand the situation and we’ll do our best to release you as soon as we can.”

  I decide not to push it.

  “As long as we understand each other,” I say more quietly. “Now, do you want me to ask Sentance to come in?”

  “Yes, please. There’s no need for you to be present when we speak to him. In fact we’d be grateful if you’d allow us to see him alone.”

  I make no protest. It’s humiliating to be dismissed in this way, but the prospect of having to listen to Sentance’s insincere grovelling holds no appeal whatsoever.

  Seven

  Kevan de Vries stalked out of his drawing-room, slamming the door behind him pointedly. Tim Yates and Juliet Armstrong moved back to their original positions on the hearthrug. Although the house had thick walls, they had agreed by means of silently-exchanged looks that it would be inadvisable to talk while they were waiting for Tony Sentance to appear.

  It took Sentance slightly longer to present himself than they had anticipated. Tim had been about to go in search of him when a light tap on the door heralded his arrival. He entered immediately.

  “Sorry,” he said ingratiatingly, with a grimace that was meant to be a smile.

  Tim had already taken a dislike to the man, although he and Juliet had engaged in only that one brief conversation with him at the airport and subsequently witnessed his brusque dismissal by Kevan de Vries in the hallway half an hour previously. Having the opportunity to observe Sentance at close quarters did not improve Tim’s opinion of him. The man’s face was almost mask-like in its glib plausibility, yet every so often the mask slipped to reveal some more naked emotion pushing its way up to the surface. At intervals, the right side of his temple, near the eye, twitched unprepossessingly. Whether this was owing to an underlying infirmity or Sentance’s imperfect attempt to present an unruffled exterior was impossible to say. His gaze flicked uneasily from Tim to Juliet, around the room and back to Tim again, in the process alighting upon the tray that had been deposited by Jackie Briggs. He seized upon it as if it were a lifeline.

  “DI Yates, DC Armstrong, I’m so sorry, Mr Kevan appears to have forgotten to do the honours. He has a lot on his mind, of course. May I offer you tea or coffee?”

  “Thank you, but no,” said Tim stiffly.

  “I’d like some tea,” said Juliet. “Should I help myself?”

  “Oh, please, allow me!”

  He removed a cup from the stack, set it on a saucer and seized the teapot. His hand shook a little as he poured.

  “Milk and sugar?”

  “Just a little milk, thank you.”

  Juliet held out her hand to take it. Once again, Sentance’s grip was unsteady. Some of the tea spilled into the saucer. Both chose to ignore this.

  “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Thank you, I prefer to stand,” said Tim. “Please take a seat yourself if you like.”

  Tony Sentance smiled wryly and gave a funny little shake of his head. Tim had no idea what this meant, except that the man was apparently indicating that he would remain standing as long as Tim himself did so.

  “Mr Sentance, I understand that you have a key to this house?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m Mr Kevan’s right-hand man.”

  “Do you often come here when he’s away?”

  The eyes swivelled to the floor, then to a spot above the fireplace that was roughly level with Tim’s head.

  “Not especially. Unless he asks me to.”

  “So he usually knows if you come into the house during his absence?”

  “Certainly. And until recently Joanna’s usually been here, even if Mr Kevan hasn’t.”

  “So you may in fact have brought people here without his knowledge?”

  Sentance’s eyes swerved away again. They collided briefly with Juliet’s, before fixing themselves on the teaspoon that he held in his hand.

  “Only if Joanna didn’t tell him.” Not my fault, in that case, he was saying, loud and clear.

  “How many times have you let yourself in since Mr and Mrs de Vries left for St Lucia last week?”

  “None,” he said guilelessly. “Jackie let me in after she reported the burglary to the police on Sunday, and again today. I didn’t need to use my key on either occasion.”

  “And those are the only times you’ve been here since your employer left?”

  “As I’ve just said.” He gave a further irritating shake of the head.

  “Who told you about the burglary on Sunday? I understand that Mrs Briggs had already let DC MacFadyen into the house when you appeared.”

  There was a pause.

  “I’m not sure. I think that Jackie herself must have called me. She’d have known that Mr Kevan would want me here if anything was wrong. Or it might have been Harry. He’s her husband,” he added in a confidential tone, as if the relationship were a secret. He flicked Juliet a brief smile.

  Tim was writing notes.

  “Thank you,” he said. “So you arrived and Mrs Briggs let you in. What happened next?”

  “Jackie had been round the house with the cop... er... policeman to see if she thought anything was missing – besides what they found on that young tearaway, that is. I don’t think she thought that there was anything. Then your colleague noticed that the cellar door was open. He said he’d like to check down there and asked Jackie if she’d go with him. She said she’d never been in the cellar, so she couldn’t be of much help. She said that she doesn’t like enclosed spaces. So naturally I said I’d be happy to accompany him.”

  “Did he ask you to?”

  “No, but I knew Mr Kevan would want . . .”

  “Precisely,” Tim agreed, cutting him short. “Had you been down there before yourself?”

  Tony Sentance shrugged.

  “On a couple of occasions, I suppose. Mr Kevan keeps his wine there. I think I’ve been asked to help him choose . . . When we’ve had business meetings here, you understand.”

  “You only think, Mr Sentance? Don’t you know for certain?”

  “Well, of course I know I’ve been in the cellar; I was just trying to recall the exact circumstances.”

  “I see. How long ago would you say that was?”

  Tony Sentance lifted his left forefinger theatrically to his lip and pressed it.

  “You’ve got me there,” he said. “Some time ago, undoubtedly.”

  “How long ago? Six months? A year? More than a year?”

  “I’m sorry. I really ca
n’t be precise.” Sentance looked affronted and slightly afraid, as if he suspected that he was about to be bullied.

  “It is your job to be precise, though, isn’t it?”

  The supercilious smile returned.

  “With figures, DI Yates. My forte is figures and balance sheets. Sometimes I think they are more real to me than actual events, if you understand me.”

  “I’m not sure that I do, sir. But I’ll take your word for it.”

  Juliet divined that Tim was in danger of making Sentance so defensive that he would clam up completely. She leapt in before the implication of Tim’s last words could sink too deep.

  “You know, of course, that DC MacFadyen found what we believe to be counterfeit passports in the cellar,” she said. “Did he show them to you?”

  “Just briefly. He was keen to get them into his plastic bags, in case they had fingerprints on them, presumably.”

  “Had you seen them before?”

  Tony Sentance shrugged again.

  “Yes and no, if you get my drift. From the outside, they looked just like ordinary UK passports to me. Naturally I wasn’t allowed to touch them.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at him warmly.

  “Do you have any idea how they came to be there?”

  Tony Sentance sighed. Juliet thought that it was possibly more out of relief than exasperation.

  “Your colleague asked me that, too. No, I don’t know how they came to be there – any more than I know how most of the things Mr Kevan has in his house have come to be here. I think that’s what all of you police keep on forgetting. This is Mr Kevan’s house, not mine.”

  Eight

  Upon reflection, Tim decided that he would, after all, obtain a warrant to search Laurieston House. There were several sound reasons for this: firstly, it was apparent that Kevan de Vries was of uncertain temperament and might decide on a whim to bar the police or to allow them in only to eject them later; secondly, Superintendent Thornton was jittery about the whole thing. He’d clearly prefer not to inconvenience de Vries at all, but if this couldn’t be avoided, he wanted the process to be ‘entirely above board’, as he put it. Tim’s debriefing with the Superintendent had taken place as soon as he had driven back from Sutterton to the police station at Spalding after the interviews with de Vries and Sentance. He had applied for the warrant immediately and was granted it later that afternoon. That counterfeit passports had been found on the premises had encouraged the awarding magistrate not to prevaricate.

  Tim himself was anxious not to upset Kevan de Vries more than was necessary. This was not out of regard for Thornton’s standing at the Rotary Club. Tim had already seen enough of those who frequented Laurieston House to know there was a lot more to the situation there than met the eye. He was beginning to think that his conversation with Juliet at the airport had been prophetic: he was no longer convinced that de Vries himself was guilty of forgery, or even that he was in any way involved with the fake passports. Yet he was equally persuaded that de Vries had something to hide and Tony Sentance had guilt written all over him. Whether or not their strange behaviour related to the forgery or indeed to the same or different events or deeds was impossible to guess. Even more curious was de Vries’ dislike for Sentance, which was almost palpable. There could be only two reasons why he tolerated his oleaginous and evidently to him hateful henchman: either Sentance was performing some service that no-one else could fulfil, or he was exerting a hold over de Vries or a member of his family.

  The de Vries family itself presented another puzzle. Tim could accept that de Vries had taken away his ailing wife to give her peace and quiet; he was less convinced that it was natural to leave a dying woman on her own on the other side of the Atlantic, even if she had servants to care for her. It stretched credibility that de Vries could fear that the police would pester his wife if she’d returned with him. It was much more likely that he’d wanted her to stay away for some other reason. If satisfactory answers could not be provided about the passports, Tim knew that he would have to ask her to return anyway. He was dreading this. He knew that he would receive little support from Thornton and that if the police put a foot wrong in their treatment of Joanna de Vries, her husband would make hay of it quite ruthlessly. Then there was the son. De Vries’ reference to him had seemed almost impersonal. Again, it was impossible to speculate as to why. And why had the boy been separated from his mother during her last months?

  Tim had been granted the warrant at about 3 p.m. He couldn’t decide whether to pursue the search straight away or leave de Vries in peace until the next day. As so often when there was a delicate issue to address, he consulted Juliet.

  “I think you should contact him again today. Mr de Vries himself told you that he wanted this sorted out a.s.a.p., so why waste time? If he’s sleeping, the housekeeper or someone will tell you. Ricky may be there already, as you’ve asked him to stay there overnight; you could call him first, if you’re worried.”

  Tim opened his mouth to speak. Against his will, it stretched into a colossal yawn.

  “I’d forgotten about Ricky. Must be losing my touch,” he said indistinctly.

  “You didn’t get enough sleep last night, more like,” Juliet replied. “Neither did I. If we start the search today, will we be there late into the evening, do you think?”

  “There’s no reason why we should, if you mean you and me. We can send a couple of uniforms to help Ricky, since he’s got to stay there, anyway. In fact, that’s probably the best way of handling it. I don’t want to irritate de Vries by showing up myself too often at the moment. He’ll probably be seeing much more of me than he likes before all this is over.”

  “Is that your plan for the rest of the day, then, sir? To get Ricky in place and send two uniforms to support him?”

  “Yes, I think so.” Tim yawned again. “But there’s something I’d like you to do, as well.”

  Juliet raised an eyebrow. Tim’s sympathy for her fatigue was evidently less urgent than for his own. She thought back over the day’s events, and knew with unerring prescience what he was going to say next. She decided to pre-empt him.

  “Jackie Briggs?” she asked.

  Tim grinned admiringly.

  “Yes. How did you guess?”

  “She was the only person present that we didn’t question this morning, despite the fact that she was the one who raised the alarm about the burglars. And she seemed very uneasy. Was that why you didn’t ask to speak to her then?”

  “Up to a point,” said Tim. “But I don’t read too much into her uneasiness. It’s obvious that the niceties of social distinction are alive and well in Sutterton, no doubt in all their subtle and preposterous gradations . . . and Jackie’s near the bottom of the heap. There’s all that ‘Mr Kevan’ business, for a start, even though the guy’s only entitlement to respect stems from the size of his wallet. His grandfather was a small-time Dutch farmer, after all. I could hardly believe it when I first heard Sentance address him, as if he were an old retainer talking to the scion of an ancient noble household. And Sentance himself is obviously acutely aware of his own elevated position in the hierarchy. I wouldn’t mind betting that de Vries is the only person that he kowtows to. De Vries said that he himself has little to do with the domestic staff, so Jackie Briggs is probably in awe of them both.”

  “What do you want me to talk to her about? The robbery?”

  “Yes, of course. But get on to some more general stuff, if you can. Find out what it’s like working in that household and what goes on there on a day-to-day basis. And ask her about any unusual visitors they’ve had recently, or anything else that’s seemed odd to her.”

  “Like business gatherings in the cellar, for example?”

  Tim gave Juliet a sharp look. It wasn’t always possible to spot when her tongue was in her cheek.

  “Yes. Oh, and see if you can talk to her husb
and as well. Find out what he knows. But see her on her own first.”

  “OK,” said Juliet. “Got it. It should all be quite simple.”

  Tim jerked up his head to look at her again, but Juliet had already turned on her heel and was heading for the door. He yawned again and picked up his mobile to speed-dial Ricky MacFadyen.

  Nine

  Juliet had picked up from conversation with Kevan de Vries that the Briggs lived next door to Laurieston House. They could hardly be described as close neighbours, separated as they were by the extensive garden and second gravel sweep of the larger house, as well as its high boundary hedge. There was also a small stream running along the hedge on the Briggs’ side. Mindful of Tim’s instructions that she should initially avoid Harry Briggs, Juliet had consulted Ricky MacFadyen’s report on the burglary, in the hope that Ricky would perhaps have noted a mobile number for Jackie Briggs. However, she could find no contact details for either Briggs except their joint address. She therefore had no option but to knock on the door of 1 Laurieston Terrace and run the risk of encountering Harry.

  Situated at the side of the house, its door was a solid piece of Victorian craftsmanship. Two small twin panes of stained glass adorned its central panel. The shape that appeared, silhouetted, in these was too bulky to be Jackie’s. Damn, thought Juliet.

  Harry Briggs unlocked the door and peered round it. Juliet saw a thick-set man in his mid-forties. A large dressing on his cheek was held in place by two crossed pieces of sticking-plaster. His complexion was ruddy, perhaps because he spent much of his time outdoors, although the spider veins around his nose suggested a likely alternative cause. He gave Juliet an uncertain smile, exposing yellowing smoker’s teeth.

  “Yus?” he said. His voice was gruff and uneducated.

  Juliet held up her identity card.

  “Mr Briggs? DC Juliet Armstrong. I wondered if I might have a quiet word with your wife.”