Sausage Hall

by Christina James

  “DI Yates.”

  “Ah, Detective Inspector, it is Stuart Salkeld here.”

  “Professor Salkeld! Good morning to you. You’re up and working early!”

  “I could say the same to you, but in fact your surmise is correct: I have been at work very early this morning. I’ve been in the lab since 6 a.m. I started the post-mortem on the young woman whose body was found at Sandringham yesterday evening. There were several things that I found disturbing about it. I couldn’t stay too late, as my wife had roped me into attending one of her social functions – she’s a big wheel in half a dozen charities, as I think I may have mentioned before, and one of them in particular is the bane of my life – so I came back here today as soon as I could. What I suspected turned out to be correct.”

  “Do you mean the cause of death?”

  “No, though I can tell you what I think that was: asphyxiation, as I originally thought; I’m almost certain of it now, though I can’t vouch for it one hundred per cent. But that’s not what’s been worrying me. Last night, when I turned her body on to its front, I found some inflamed marks on her back. They could have been caused by post-mortem lividity, but I didn’t think so. Today I’ve examined them further. They look like welts, inflicted with a whip or maybe a belt. And they’re definitely ante mortem.”

  “A sex game gone wrong?”

  “Possibly. Her anal sphincter is quite loose, and the area around it appears to be discoloured, which could indicate that non-consensual anal intercourse has taken place, though as you know she’d been dead for some time when she was found and all kinds of pigment changes occur to the flesh quite rapidly after death.”

  “If the welts weren’t caused by kinky sex, what other explanation could there be?”

  There was a short silence.

  “I hesitate to suggest this, as I’ve had no first-hand experience of it myself. But there was an article in The Lancet recently by a doctor who works for Médecins sans Frontières, somewhere in Africa, I think. It described the injuries that had been inflicted by militia groups on some of the remote local communities in – I can’t remember the country: Sudan, possibly. The article included photographs.”

  “And you think the marks on the girl’s body are similar?”

  “Yes, in a word. I’m going to ask a colleague – someone who has treated such injuries – for a second opinion.”

  “Poor kid!” said Tim.

  “Yes. A cynic might say that she’s been murdered either way, and that there can be nothing worse than death by another’s hand. But a violent and perhaps terrifying death preceded by hours or days of suffering: that is barbaric.”

  “I’m in complete agreement. Thank you, Professor, for letting me know, and for all the work you’ve done on this.”

  “I don’t really expect thanks for bringing such news,” said Professor Salkeld, gruffly. “I’ll send through my report, once I’ve got the second opinion, shall I?”

  “Please. There’s one other thing before you go: you say that it’s possible that the girl was raped. Did you manage to obtain evidence that might convict her attacker?”

  “DNA from sperm or other bodily fluids, you mean? Unfortunately not. There was no trace of sperm in either the vagina or the rectum. As I told you before, I wouldn’t necessarily have expected to find it after so much time had elapsed: but it’s also likely that the perpetrator was forensically aware. We haven’t analysed her clothing yet, but, as you know, she was discovered without underwear. The only items of apparel found near the body were her jeans and T-shirt and the de Vries Industries overall and rubber clogs. Naturally, if there is evidence that can be extracted from these, we’ll find it.”

  “Thank you again, Professor.”

  Never one to waste words, the Professor rang off without bothering with a farewell.

  Tim looked at his mobile again. It was now several minutes past nine and definitely not too early to call de Vries. He still hesitated. Somehow, the conversation with the Professor had sapped his energy and certainly given him less of an appetite to return to Laurieston. He’d been adamant that the cold case should be investigated and he’d successfully compiled a list of reasons that had obliged Superintendent Thornton to agree with him. Now, however, he was forced to confront his own priorities as dispassionately as he could. There could be no question that unearthing the facts behind an ancient crime, for the committing of which no-one could now be brought to justice, was not as important as apprehending the tormentors of the young woman and possibly preventing them from inflicting a similar fate on others. On the other hand, his warrant had given him only temporary access to the de Vries cellar and the enquiry there had been triggered not by the skeletons alone, but also by the passport forgeries, a crime that was both current and unsolved. Forging passports was serious and not infrequently linked to murder. Irrespective of his investigation into the fate that had befallen the skeletons, it was surely his duty to see that the cellar had been thoroughly searched. Which crime should he focus on? That at present his team was so desperately depleted only served to compound his dilemma. Buying himself a further twenty-four hours was definitely the best way forward.

  “Ah, Yates. I should have thought that with all you’ve got on your plate at the moment there’d be precious little time for daydreaming.”

  Tim looked up sharply. Superintendent Thornton’s bulky frame was filling the doorway of his office.

  “Good morning, sir. As a matter of fact, I was just myself considering what’s on my plate, in order to work out my priorities.”

  Superintendent Thornton gave him a ferrety look.

  “I’m glad about that, Yates, because as a matter of fact it touches on what I want to talk to you about. The de Vries case, in particular.”

  Tim stonewalled the look.

  “Which aspect of the de Vries case, sir? It so happens that everything that I’m doing at the moment is related to de Vries Industries, one way or another.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Yates. We both know that I’m talking about that passport affair. That’s the reason that we brought Mr Kevan de Vries back to the UK in the first place, isn’t it? Those skeletons are nothing to do with him and neither is the death of the girl in Norfolk.”

  “How do you know that, sir?”

  “Know what?”

  “That Kevan de Vries was not involved in the death of the woman whose body was found at Sandringham. What makes you so sure that he wasn’t?”

  Superintendent Thornton blustered a little while he searched for the right words.

  “Well, I... well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? There isn’t even a record of that girl working for one of the de Vries companies. And even if she turns out to have been a casual worker of some kind, which I understand is being investigated, it’s unlikely that Kevan de Vries would have associated with a girl like that, isn’t it?”

  “A girl like what, sir?”

  “Oh, come on Yates, you know what I mean. Do I need to spell it out? A barely literate little factory worker, that’s what I mean. Not exactly in his social class, is she?”

  “I suppose not. It’s mere under-privileged girls . . . women . . . like her – and men, for that matter – who keep the wheels of the de Vries Industries turning. You’re probably right: it’s likely that Kevan de Vries has no interest in them as individuals.” Tim could feel his colour rising.

  “Now, don’t get on your high horse with me. You’re sidetracking me, apart from anything else. That’s not what I came here to talk about. I came to ask you to get on with the passport enquiry, and to put it before everything else that you’ve got on at the moment.”

  “I see. May I ask why?”

  “It comes from higher up than me. It’s a discretionary request. Because of Mr de Vries’ personal situation. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for why those passports were found at his
home and we don’t want to cause the family any more distress, do we? We’ve already ruined their holiday and intruded on Mrs de Vries’ last illness.”

  “Has Jean Rook been talking to you?”

  “I . . . no. That is, not on purpose. I happened to bump into her when I was in court yesterday...”

  “Ha!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? It was a chance encounter, I assure you.”

  “On your part, I’m certain, sir.”

  “Yes, well you can’t possibly know what her intention was, can you? You weren’t there. Unless I was taken in, I can assure you that she was very surprised . . .”

  Tim decided to cut this as short as he could.

  “I should tell you that Ms Rook has been quite obstructive so far, sir. I appreciate that you haven’t had the opportunity to realise this, because you’ve seen little of her in connection with this case. If you want my candid opinion, she’s much more to Kevan de Vries than his attorney, or has been at some point in the past.”

  “That’s nothing to do with us.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Tim. “I agree completely. And if Ms Rook has made representations to you about her anxiety over distressing Mrs de Vries when, as you say, she’s terminally ill, I think we should take what she says very seriously.”

  “Exactly,” said Superintendent Thornton. “That’s what I told her myself.”

  “Furthermore, I agree with you when you say that the case involving the passports is the only one in which we can reasonably suppose that Kevan de Vries may have played some part.”

  “Quite.” The Superintendent clasped his hands together, almost as if he were about to rub them in glee, then dropped them to his sides again. He frowned. “Did I say that? I’m not sure that it was what I meant.”

  “I’d just like a little more assistance with a couple of things,” Tim continued, apparently without guile. “Then I’m sure we shall be able to leave the de Vries family in peace.”

  “Oh?” Superintendent Thornton turned out not to be naïve enough to swallow this without some resistance. “What might that be?” he asked.

  “I’d be grateful if you’d use your influence to get the Home Office to expedite their help with the passport investigation.”

  “Yes, of course.” Superintendent Thornton preened a little. He liked to be seen as an influential man, an important senior policeman. “Focus on this now, will you? I know you’re helping Norfolk with the murder as well and of course that’s important work, but they’ll see the sense of putting your own patch in order first.”

  “Er . . . I did say there were two things. Both requiring your influence.”

  “What’s the other one?” Thornton rapped out the question. Tim saw that, despite being susceptible to flattery, his boss was running out of patience.

  “Kevan de Vries is a personal friend of yours, isn’t he, sir?”

  “Well – I probably wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” said the Superintendent, casting down his eyes in a gesture of cod modesty which almost prompted from Tim an outburst of unseemly laughter, “but we do socialise. At the Rotary Club, you know.”

  “So I’d heard,” said Tim. “I wondered if perhaps you could ask Mr de Vries if PC Chakrabati and I could just spend a few more hours searching his cellar tomorrow? I know we still have a warrant, but, as you say, the situation is a delicate one. If he would just agree to let no-one into the cellar in the meantime, that will show him how sensitive we . . . you are.”

  “Jean Rook won’t like it.”

  “No, sir, but she needn’t know unless Mr de Vries chooses to tell her. And, as you’ve said yourself, we spend too much of our time being dictated to by the legal profession.”

  “Did I say that?”

  Tim nodded briefly.

  “And the search is in connection with the passport enquiry? You’re not still chasing phantom Victorian murderers?”

  “It should help us to conclude the passport enquiry, as you wish.” It fleetingly crossed Tim’s mind that if his grandmother had still been alive, she’d have feared that he’d be struck down by a thunderbolt as he spoke.

  “Very well, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Thirty-Three

  Katrin had slept too heavily, but at least her night had been unbroken. She’d not jerked awake suddenly at 2 a.m., that most dismal of times for insomniacs, with her limbs aching, or, worse, been forced to sprint for the bathroom, assailed once more by nausea. She squinted at her alarm clock and saw that it was almost 8 a.m. She thought she was well enough to travel to work today, but she wouldn’t attempt to arrive at her usual time. That would mean rushing her shower and skipping breakfast, a regimen that she’d frequently adopted in the past but acknowledged would be foolish now. ‘You must learn to take care of yourself,’ Tim had said. It was an over-worn phrase that she’d heard many times – ‘Take care’ was even a form of farewell – but now she began to understand that the platitude concealed some good advice for those who cared to listen. She’d call the office in a few minutes, tell them that she’d work from ten until six. It would be the first time she’d taken advantage of the flexi-hour system that had been introduced some time before. She’d probably be making use of all sorts of other working concessions that she’d previously scorned when she returned to work as a mother. Perhaps it was no bad thing. ‘Work-life balance’ – wasn’t that what people called it? – when you still fulfilled your work commitments conscientiously but without letting them claim time that should be spent with your family. Tim, especially, could do with a little more of that. It was the first time it had occurred to her that the baby could be a positive influence on their working lives. She determined to keep hold of the idea. It would be much more helpful than that pained word ‘juggling’ that she’d heard working mothers use to describe their days full of tasks. Hard work had never frightened her, whereas her own expectations of herself tended towards the unreasonable.

  She stretched out in the bed and wiggled her toes luxuriously. She would lie here, resting, for another fifteen minutes and she would not feel guilty. She resolved not even to think about work, but her thoughts were already straying to Florence Jacobs’ journal. But that wasn’t proper work, she told herself defensively: reading it had been a useful diversion from the nausea, though she could hardly claim that it had gripped her like a novel. It provided a disheartening insight into the mind of an average woman a century or so ago. As she’d read deeper into the journal, however – if the experience of absorbing such a banal document could be said to count as ‘deep’ – she’d become increasingly suspicious of its naiveté. The earlier entries that Florence had made before her marriage, when she could be seen to be struggling with their composition, struck a genuine note, but as Florence’s social standing, and with it her grasp of writing, improved, the sentiments that she expressed seemed to become ever more jejune. Florence had been a pretty servant. Katrin imagined that she’d been quick and nimble at her work, probably with a ready smile, and anxious to please. She was uneducated, of course, but it was hard to believe that she could have been ‘slow’. The dowager Mrs Jacobs was unlikely to have chosen a half-witted girl for her future daughter-in-law.

  Katrin sat bolt upright in the bed. The dowager Mrs Jacobs had arranged Frederick’s marriage to Florence. Reading between the lines, she had probably insisted upon it. Although this was implicit in the journal entries, it was the first time Katrin had thought properly about its significance. Florence had stopped writing the journal immediately after Mrs Jacobs’ death. Was it possible that Mrs Jacobs, not Florence herself, was the author of the journal? Katrin discounted this idea immediately. The cover of the journal bore a sample of Lucinda Jacobs’ fine copperplate hand, so different from Florence’s childishly laborious script. Lucinda could have influenced what Florence wrote, though. When trying to build up a picture of Flor
ence’s domestic situation, Katrin had never quite been able to envisage Frederick and his role in her daily life. Lucinda, on the other hand, featured in all her activities and was consulted – or made her view known – on practically every aspect of them, including when and whether Florence should pay visits to her own family. Had Florence’s almost total deference to her mother-in-law’s wishes been willing, or had she been coerced? If the latter, the diary could merely be a faked record of her actions, feelings and thoughts. Was it Lucinda Jacobs’ attempt to leave a sanitised account for posterity?

  She was sorry that Tim had left before she’d woken up that morning, because even before she’d had these thoughts she’d wanted to talk to him about the journal. He’d come in quite early the night before and she’d planned to discuss it then, but she’d felt shivery and sickly and he’d insisted that they should not talk shop, so they’d watched an old film until Katrin had fallen asleep on the sofa and Tim had persuaded her to go to bed. She’d intended to wake early enough today to ask him if she could send the journal to Juliet Armstrong. Katrin didn’t know whether Juliet would be well enough to look at the journal, or indeed whether she’d want to be bothered with it, but guessed that she of all people might be able to unravel its mystery. Tim would know the answer, or could at least tell Katrin how to contact Juliet to find out.

  Katrin always hesitated before she rang Tim at work. It was partly because she also worked for the police, partly because it was her instinct not to claim privilege as his wife. However, this was police business – sort of, at any rate. She picked up the phone and dialled his office number.

  “DI Yates.”

  “Tim, it’s me. I’ve finished reading Florence Jacobs’ journal.”

  “What, this morning?”

  “No, I’d finished it before you came home yesterday. I just didn’t feel up to talking about it.”

  “You’re OK now, though?”