Sausage Hall

by Christina James

  “The truth of the matter is that we’ve had to keep Archie mildly sedated since his mother’s departure. I wasn’t there myself when she took her leave of him – neither, I believe, were ye yeself – but something that she said has persuaded him that he won’t be seeing her again. Naturally, I’ve tried to talk him out of this. I’ve told him that, although she’s very ill, she’ll be standing by him; that you’re a family and you’ll all work through this thing together. That is correct, isn’t it?” I can imagine his piercing little piggy eyes winkling the truth out of me and for the first time am glad that ours is not a face-to-face conversation. There is another long pause, before I steel myself to reply.

  “It’s true as far as I can make it so. But – and perhaps I should have told you this before – Joanna’s illness has destabilised. That’s the official term: the ones that the doctors use. What it actually means is that the leukaemia has taken rampant control of her body, to the point where there’s little that they can do for her. All that they – and I – can do is make her as comfortable and tranquil as possible and help her to wait for the end. As it happens, I was called to St Lucia on business shortly after we received this diagnosis. It was my decision to take her there, to help her to shed all the cares that she has here and to find some peace. I make no apology for saying to you that Archie is the biggest of her worries and therefore the one that I most hoped to release her from during her last few weeks on this earth. You may criticise me all you wish,” I conclude defiantly, hoping that the nasty little man can’t hear the catch that’s come unbidden into my voice.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that, very sorry indeed.” He sounds genuinely sympathetic, but there is a steely quality to what he’s saying that tells me that he has a sting in his tail.

  “But what?”

  “Beg pardon?” It’s a phrase that riles me, but I make myself humour him.

  “I accept your sympathy, and I’m grateful for it, as I’m sure Joanna would be if she were listening. But I sense that you still have a point that you wish to make, perhaps your original point when we started this conversation?”

  “Indeed. Well, it seems a little unkind to say so now that you’ve explained matters in so much detail, but the fact is that Mrs . . . his mother spoke to Archie yesterday and he’s been pretty much unreachable ever since.”

  “What did she say to him?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I was in the room, but I didn’t put the phone on speak; I considered that too much of an invasion of his privacy, particularly as we’d been reducing the medication over the past few days and he seemed to be coping well on the lower doses. But I’m certain she told him that you’d come home.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he kept on saying, ‘Why hasn’t he come to see me?’ He said it several times.”

  “And that sent him into one of his spasms, did it?”

  “I wouldn’t call the manifestations of Archie’s illness ‘spasms’, but I realise it’s not appropriate to discuss the details of that now. No, actually it didn’t. He was pale and upset, but still quite rational. It was something else that tipped him into hysteria. Something that she said about the house.”

  “Which house? This one?”

  “I assume so. He wasn’t specific, but there aren’t many houses with which he’s intimately acquainted, are there?”

  “I suppose not. I can’t think what Joanna can have said, though. She’s usually so careful with his feelings; and besides, I haven’t told her about the . . .”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Nothing. Nothing that need concern you, or Archie. I was just thinking aloud. So is Archie back under heavier sedation again? Or is it possible for me to speak to him now, or arrange to visit him?”

  “He has been prescribed tranquillisers – quite strong ones – but not so strong that they’ve knocked him out completely. He’s still able to study a little. But I wouldn’t advise talking to him at the moment. He’s not confident on the telephone, as you know, and, if I may say so, your having attempted to contact him so belatedly after your return is only likely to confuse and anger him further. I can’t stop you from visiting him, of course, but I’d like to offer my professional opinion that just the one visit this week will be all that we can expect him to cope with.”

  “What are you talking about now? Who else has been to see him? He’s not supposed to receive visitors without our written permission.”

  “No-one else has seen him, yet,” Maitland says, silky smooth again now that he has firmly repossessed the upper hand, “but it is my understanding that your wife will be coming here tomorrow. As one of his two legal guardians, she has no need to supply written permission for herself, as I’m sure that you’ll agree.”

  “Joanna? But I’ve just told you that our plan was for her to stay in St Lucia until . . .”

  He is merciful enough not to make me finish the sentence.

  “Quite so, Mr de Vries, which brings me back to the point I was trying to make much earlier in our conversation. I take it that you were unaware of her plan to return, and her reasons for not telling you are certainly not my affair. However, your son’s welfare is very much my business. A little more communication between yourself and your wife would help Archie a great deal. Certainty is what the boy needs, or as much certainty as we can supply. A complicated and confusing succession of strange adult stratagems and being told half-truths can only lead him into despair. I hope that you will forgive me for being so blunt?”

  “Eh? Oh, yes, of course. You’re only doing your job,” I say, with as much irony as I can muster. “Goodbye, Mr Maitland, and thank you for spelling out the situation so clearly. I’ll find out exactly what my wife’s plans are before I contact you again.”

  I put down the phone and lay my head on the desk, willing the tears not to come. Who is now leading whom into despair? It seems to me that it is not just Archie who is staring into the abyss, but the whole of our crazy ‘privileged’ family.

  Twenty-Three

  Tim had booked an appointment with his boss and was now standing a short way down the corridor from Superintendent Thornton’s office, rehearsing what he was going to say. As far as he knew, Thornton had not yet been informed of either the age or the racial origin of the skeletons that had been found in the de Vries cellar, which at least gave Tim a bit of a head start. But unless the Superintendent were to be spooked by the race issue – which Tim realised would only happen if he were himself to talk it up – he was nevertheless convinced that he’d be told to drop the case. That Norfolk police had asked Thornton to make some of Tim’s and Ricky MacFadyen’s time available to help with the Sandringham murder investigation was bound to set alarm bells ringing in Thornton’s head, even though he had smiled sweetly at this suggestion and agreed to it with no outward reluctance. South Lincs CID was undermanned at the best of times; with Juliet out of the picture for the time being and Tim and Ricky now operational on their own territory on only a part-time basis, Thornton would be left with little more than a skeleton staff (Tim smiled grimly at this unintentional pun). One solution to the dilemma would be for the Superintendent himself to second a couple of detectives from another force: from Peterborough, say, or from North Lincs. But any practical measures of this kind were likely to be eclipsed in Thornton’s head by rapid calculations made on the cash register that always resided there. As the Superintendent was well aware, if he could charge out some of his own officers’ time without replacing it, he would be quids in.

  PCs Gary Cooper and Giash Chakrabati passed by on their way to the canteen, staring a little at Tim as they did so. He raised a hand in greeting and smiled in a way that he hoped was normal for him. Nevertheless, he realised that if even these two uniformed officers, who had on many occasions proved themselves staunch allies, were thinking that his behaviour was strange, it was high time that he stopped lurking in the corridor. He m
arched up to Thornton’s door and tapped firmly on it.

  “Come in!” said Thornton in the imperious, schoolmasterly manner that always set Tim’s teeth on edge. Today, though, he would refuse to be rattled.

  As soon as he entered the room, he realised that the Superintendent was in the throes of a very animated telephone conversation.

  “I’m sorry, I’ll wait outside . . .” he began.

  “No need, Yates, I asked you in and quite frankly I have no more time to spend on this than I have done already,” his boss barked, directing his comments at the handset that he was holding rather than at Tim himself. “So we’ll hear no more about it, shall we? The idea is quite outrageous!” He slammed the phone down and sat glaring at Tim, his eyes black and unblinking. Not a good start, thought Tim. Should I humour him or pretend that nothing’s happened?

  Superintendent Thornton spoke first, removing from Tim the need to choose a course of action.

  “How long have you been married, Yates?” he demanded crossly.

  “About three years, sir,” said Tim. It suddenly dawned on him that he’d walked in on what Ricky called a ‘domestic’ between the Superintendent and his wife. He had to concentrate very hard on composing his facial muscles to prevent himself from grinning. Mrs Thornton was a mysterious woman, seldom seen at police functions or even out shopping in Spalding itself. On the rare occasions when she was mentioned, Thornton always made it clear that she was too much of a lady to get involved in any of the social activities in which he himself deigned from time to time to participate with his colleagues, and that he wholeheartedly approved of her decision not to follow a career of her own. “Wife in the home,” he would say smugly, “that’s the best situation. Never mind if she’s bored: she’ll come to appreciate it eventually.” Coming as he did from a family whose women had worked from time immemorial and married now to a wife who took her own career very seriously, Tim had never been able to think of a polite reply to such comments. It amused him that the impeccable Mrs Thornton appeared at present to be crossing her all-powerful, breadwinning husband.

  “Three years!” muttered the Superintendent. “Just wait until it’s thirty-three, and see how you like it.”

  “Nothing wrong, sir, I hope?” said Tim blandly.

  Superintendent Thornton cast a single penetrating look in Tim’s direction and shut down his expression as quickly and completely as if he had donned a mask. Tim hoped that the glee he’d felt about Thornton’s ruffled nerves had not been too obvious.

  “Nothing that I can’t handle,” he said huffily. “Let’s get to the point of the matter in hand, shall we? I doubt if you can afford to waste the day on irrelevant pleasantries and I’m quite sure I can’t. What do you have to tell me about the Sutterton case? I’m assuming you’ve made some progress; otherwise you wouldn’t be here. I shall tell you now that, although I’ve accepted the request from Norfolk for your partial secondment to help them with the death of that young girl at Sandringham, it’s up to you to fit in both cases as best you can. Norfolk, of course, is convinced that the two are linked in some way, but I see no reason to agree with them. Unless, of course, you intend to supply evidence that Kevan de Vries is a serial killer. Is that what you think, Yates? Eh? Because I can assure you that if you jump to unfounded conclusions about him and he decides to press charges, you’ll be entirely on your own!”

  He shot Tim one of his sparring partner looks. Trust my luck, Tim thought, cursing inwardly. I want him to do me the favour of pursuing an ancient case and he’s in just about the worst mood I’ve ever seen him in.

  “No, sir,” he said deferentially. “In fact, rather the opposite. I’m about to receive a report from Ms Gardner that will indicate that Mr de Vries could not have killed the three women whose skeletons were found in his cellar.”

  “Oh?” said the Superintendent, immediately contrary, “and what makes you – or Ms Gardner – quite so certain of that?”

  “The bones are at least a hundred years old, sir. Whether or not they’ve been in Mr de Vries’ cellar for all of that time is impossible to say. But, since he himself is some years shy of his fiftieth birthday, we can hardly lay their deaths at his door.”

  “Oh. No. Of course not. Well, that’s something of a relief, isn’t it? We won’t have to prosecute a leading local figure and you won’t have to waste your time on solving an old murder.”

  Tim cleared his throat. The Superintendent shot him one of his cat-seeking-mouse looks.

  “I rather hoped that you would allow me to proceed with the de Vries investigation, sir. Time permitting, of course.”

  “Proceed? Oh, yes, I suppose you mean the farce with the passports. Well, it’s still on the books and it needs resolving somehow. I’m inclined to take Kevan de Vries’ word for it when he says he has no knowledge of them and allow the poor man to get back to his wife. But I agree that you still need to make some sort of effort, to show willing, even if you won’t get to the bottom of it.”

  Tim could hardly believe that this was the same man who, however reluctantly, had ordered Kevan de Vries to travel back from partway round the world just a few short days ago to answer questions about the crime that he was now describing in such a phlegmatic fashion. It was as if the gravity of that offence had been erased by the prospect that de Vries might have committed the even more serious crime of murder and that now he had been absolved of that Thornton had decided without proof that he was probably innocent of all wrongdoing. Although it was apparent that the Superintendent was in a morose and unyielding mood, Tim felt unable to let such an assumption pass.

  “With respect, sir, it is hardly a farce. As you know, forging passports is not just a serious offence in itself; it’s often evidence of other organised crimes.”

  “Don’t preach to me, Yates. You have my permission to continue with the passport enquiry and to enlist MacFadyen’s help if you think he can be useful, as long as you’re able to fit in the Norfolk investigation as well, and attempt at least some semblance of continuing to keep your finger on the pulse here. And I expect you to either bring a charge against Mr de Vries or to have released him from all restrictions by the end of the week.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you. However . . .”

  The Superintendent glowered.

  “However,” persevered Tim, “I don’t just mean the passports. The skeletons, I understand, were women from Africa; they were black. There may be . . .”

  Superintendent Thornton’s face registered such a sequence of expressions that Tim, with some degree of amusement, was convinced he could follow his superior’s probable train of thought.

  “You’d better ask the Home Office what it wants you to do with them. My guess is that they’ll suggest a decent funeral with the minimum of fuss. I’d prefer it if the press weren’t to get hold of the story, but if they do make sure that they don’t get hung up on the race thing. I assume that you agree with me?”

  Superintendent Thornton scrutinised Tim’s face, his eyes narrowing.

  “Now that you mention ‘the race thing’, sir. Don’t you think it might be safer to try to pursue this as a cold case enquiry, even though we know we won’t secure a conviction? As you’ve already spotted, we could be accused of not caring enough about what happened to the victims because they were black.”

  “You aren’t telling me that despite the fact that we’re absolutely strapped for personnel at the moment, you’re proposing to continue an investigation into a Victorian crime? Don’t be ridiculous, Yates. Of course I don’t think we should pursue it. I know about your interest in history.” The Superintendent made it sound like an addiction or a grubby vice. “You should ask yourself whether you’re allowing it to cloud your judgement.”

  “Yes, sir. You’re probably right. I just thought that I’d point out that if we ditch it too precipitately it could cause a controversy and therefore considerable embarrassment to the for
ce. I know that you take care to be sensitive about such matters. I’ve always considered you to be a role model for political correctness.” Tim realised too late that he was now laying it on with a trowel. He’d probably gone too far to delude even Thornton that he was making such an observation in earnest.

  “Oh. Yes, well, I do my best.”

  The Superintendent rose to his feet and walked distractedly towards the window, where he paused and stood looking out for some minutes, his hands clasped behind his back. When he turned round again, Tim could see that his words had struck a chord. The belligerent demeanour that Thornton had displayed previously had turned to one of uncertainty.

  “I think you’re probably being over-cautious, Yates, and as I’ve said I strongly suspect that your own agenda is creeping in here. However, there may be a grain of sense in what you’re saying. You’d better consult the Home Office about that, too. Explain your concerns and ask them how we should proceed. Then if they make the decision to drop the case and there’s trouble, we can point the finger at them. Not that I’d say so in so many words to anyone but yourself, you understand.”

  “Quite so, sir,” said Tim, trying not to grin.

  “Let me know what they advise.”

  “Yes, sir. Certainly.”

  Tim turned to leave. He was halfway out of the door when the Superintendent called him back.

  “Oh, by the way, Yates . . .”

  “Yes?” Tim answered, a little irritably. He’d got the answer he wanted and had hoped to escape before Thornton could change his mind again.

  “Do you know how Armstrong is? Have you been in touch with her or the hospital?”