Sausage Hall

by Christina James

  “Is she still there?”

  “No, I think she’s gone home. As you know, she’s worried about her husband. She may be trying to reach him. She said she’d come back later, before Archie wakes up.”

  “She can reach him from there, can’t she?”

  “She doesn’t have a mobile. You know what she’s like. She won’t want to take liberties by using Kevan’s landline.”

  “Could you call her and ask her to come back and stay there with you? I don’t think she’s at risk, but I’d rather not take any chances. Try not to alarm her.”

  “All right,” said Jean.

  “I doubt if she’ll be able to reach Harry Briggs on his mobile. We’ve tried the number and it appears to have been switched off. But if she does ask to use the phone, could you try to dissuade her until DC MacFadyen is there?”

  “Yes,” said Jean, “Although I must say I hardly expected to find myself in loco custodis.”

  Tim grinned inwardly. He was almost relieved that she’d got some of her bite back.

  “Thank you. I must go. Remember, wait for DC MacFadyen.”

  Tim raced along the A17, hoping that a local patrol car wouldn’t try to stop him for speeding. The address that he’d been given was Flat 2a, Nene Meadows. The satnav told him that the location was not far from the main road through the town, close to the river and a pub called the Nene Meadows Hotel. He’d travelled the seventeen miles from Sutterton in just under twelve minutes. As he drew into the kerb next to a small and unassuming block of flats, he saw a police squad car in his mirror. If it had come all the way from Spalding, it must have been travelling at a similar speed to his.

  He jumped out of his car. The two PCs in the squad car also hopped out and walked briskly towards him. He saw immediately that one of them was Gary Cooper. He didn’t know the other – presumably it was Cooper’s new sidekick. He was glad to see Cooper – it would save a lot of unnecessary explanation.

  “DI Yates,” said Gary Cooper, “this is PC Brian Smith. We’ve been asked to meet you at this address. Is it a disturbance?”

  “No,” said Tim. He looked across at the block of flats. Quiet as the grave, he thought, and shuddered inwardly. Definitely no disturbance in evidence. “A witness in the de Vries case lives here – or rather I should say a potential witness. Her name is Dulcie Wharton. She made a call this morning that was cut short. She was at her place of work at the time, but wasn’t there this afternoon. I’m concerned for her safety. If she has come to harm, I’ve reason to think that the people who’ve harmed her are ruthless. They’re almost certainly responsible for the death of the girl whose body was found at Sandringham. So we need to be careful.”

  There were no gardens to the flats, not even a shrub or a tree. The three-storey building rose up from a small tarmacked car park. The entrance was on the right-hand side, a sturdy-looking door with a porch-style canopy over it. Tim tried the door. As he’d expected, it did not yield. A pad for swiping electronic cards was affixed to the wall under a row of bells.

  Tim pressed the bell marked ‘2a’. He could just hear it ringing, deep within the building. There was no response. He waited a few moments, then pressed it again. Nothing. There were six flats in the building altogether. Tim systematically pressed all the bells, one by one. He could get no answer from any of them.

  “Do you think they saw us coming and they just want to keep out of the way?” said PC Smith.

  “Possible, but doubtful,” said Gary Cooper. “Somehow, you can always tell when people are at home. This place looks shut up. I guess that everyone’s at work.”

  “I think you may be right about the others,” said Tim. “But we know that Mrs Wharton isn’t at work. Let’s just hope that she’s out on an errand or something.”

  Tim was debating whether to force the door when he turned to see an elderly woman plodding purposefully towards him. She had a plaid shopping trolley in tow. Her feet were splayed and her legs bowed as if by childhood rickets, but she was moving quite fast. She wore a heavy green coat that fell in a bell shape from the shoulder. It was deeply pleated at the back. Tim remembered that his grandmother had such a garment – a ‘swagger coat’, he believed it was called. This woman must have owned it for the past sixty years at least.

  She stopped immediately in front of him, making an uncomfortable invasion upon his personal space. When he first noticed her, he thought that he recognised the type: anxious to help and nosey about what was going on. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

  “What do you want?” she demanded, peering up into his face and fixing him with hostile steel-grey eyes. “We don’t want no cops round here.”

  Tim tried to turn on the charm.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m DI Tim Yates, of the South Lincs Police. Do you live here?”

  “What if I do?”

  “We’re trying to contact one of your neighbours. Mrs Dulcie Wharton. Do you know her?”

  “I might do. Why?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs . . . I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Me name’s Elsie.”

  “Right. Thank you. Elsie, we want to speak to Mrs Wharton and we can’t raise her. Have you spoken to her today?”

  “No, but I saw her leave for work this morning. That’s where she’ll be now. Works at de Vries.”

  “Thank you. I know she was at work this morning, but she’s not there now. She reported sick. That’s why we’re concerned.”

  The old woman looked yet more suspicious.

  “Go chasing after everyone who goes home poorly, do you?”

  Gary Cooper stepped forward.

  “Look, Elsie, love, we’ve got reason to be worried about her. Do us a favour, will you, and just let us in?”

  “Who might you be?”

  “I’m PC Cooper. Gary Cooper.”

  Elsie let out a short burst of cracked laughter.

  “Go on with you! You’re a caution. Now I don’t believe any of you are who you say you are. You’d better clear off before I call the real police.”

  Tim and Gary Cooper both produced their identity cards.

  “Well, I never. Well, all right, I’ll let you in. But just this once, mind. The landlord’s warned us about strangers hanging about.”

  She produced her swipe card and flicked it deftly across the metal pad. The door clicked. She pushed it open. Tim and the two PCs followed her in.

  “Me flat’s just here,” she said in an exaggerated whisper, indicating the first door they came to. “She’s upstairs. Don’t say it was me let you in, will you?”

  She brushed past them, dragging the tartan trolley after her. She unlocked the door she’d indicated and disappeared beyond it.

  Tim waited until she’d gone before he ran up the stairs. The two PCs followed him. He knocked gently on the door of Flat 2a and waited. He rapped a little louder. Still there was no reply.

  “We’re going to have to force the door,” he said. He and Gary Cooper took a few steps back and ran at the door, bracing their shoulders to take the impact. The door was made of cheap pine and began to yield after the first blow. Another run at it caused it to swing open brokenly.

  The flats had probably been built within the last ten years, but, inside, Dulcie Wharton’s existed in a time warp. Into the tiny hall had been squeezed a Victorian hat and umbrella stand. A matching oval mahogany-framed mirror had been hung above it. There was barely room there for the three police officers. The door into the living room was open. Tim tapped on it lightly and went in, the others following him. The room was neat but gloomy. A huge mahogany sideboard, ornately but hideously decorated with scrolls and carved fruits, was jammed against one side of the fireplace. On the other side was another ugly piece of furniture which he believed was called a chiffonier. A massive dark red moquette sofa had been planted squarely in front o
f the mock-flame gas fire. It was piled with cushions worked in multi-coloured tapestry wool, painstakingly done but, to Tim’s eyes, hideous. A small rectangular coffee table had been placed between the sofa and the window. It was probably the only item in the room that had been manufactured since the Second World War. A half-empty mug of coffee was standing on one of the dried-flower coasters that had been placed on the table’s surface at accurate intervals from each other.

  “Christ!” said Gary Cooper. “This stuff must have belonged to her Mum and Dad.”

  Tim put his forefinger to his lips to indicate that they shouldn’t speak.

  “Mrs Wharton?” he said. “Anyone at home? We’re police officers; there’s no need to be alarmed.”

  It was obvious that there would be no reply. He’d just felt obliged to call out as a courtesy. He hoped against hope they’d find the flat was empty. He was only too aware of the likely alternative scenario.

  The flat had a curious design. The other door in the living room was close to the window. Tim opened it to reveal a small kitchenette, its surfaces all immaculate, all utensils apparently in their place. He touched the electric kettle briefly with the back of his hand. It was still warm.

  He hadn’t noticed a second door in the hall, but realised there must be one. He retraced his steps. There were no windows there, but when he approached the hall from the living-room the other door was obvious. Tim drew on a pair of latex gloves. He took a deep breath and wrenched it open.

  Dulcie Wharton was lying on her back on the bed. Her body was twisted unnaturally – her legs were curled into the foetal position, but her blank face gazed up at the ceiling. She was still wearing her shocking pink de Vries Industries overall. Tim hastened across to the bed to check her pulse, but he had known the moment he saw her that she was dead.

  “Call for an ambulance!” he said to Gary, who was peering over his shoulder. “Get this flat cordoned off as a crime scene. I want interviews set up with all the other tenants. And I’d better give Professor Salkeld another call.”

  Fifty-Two

  The tense silence that had descended upon the canteen as soon as Andy had escorted Molly Cartwright through the door had lasted more than twenty minutes. Andy had expected the supervisors and Miss Nugent to be hostile and even, perhaps, aggressive, when he’d insisted on detaining them, but they’d merely seated themselves in two adjacent groups at the shabby tables and stared either at their feet or into space. No-one spoke. It was difficult to try to gauge their mood: panic, resignation, defiance? It could have been any or all of these. The strangest thing about them was that they seemed to act as one: whatever their attitude was, it appeared to be shared by them all. There was no attempt to break ranks, no indication that one of them was itching to get away from the others.

  Verity and Giash had stationed themselves at the two exits. Like Andy, they were obviously finding the situation oppressive. Probably, also like him, they were desperate for the back-up team to arrive or for someone to issue further instructions, so that they could be released from this odd vacuum.

  Andy was relieved when he finally received a text from Tim. I need to speak to you. Call me when you are alone. Glad to have a legitimate pretext for leaving the room, Andy escaped through Verity’s exit – he acknowledged her wry smile as she opened the door for him – and walked several feet down the corridor, until he was certain that he was out of earshot of the canteen. He checked the offices to his right and left. Both were empty.

  Tim was as brief as possible.

  “We’ve just found Dulcie Wharton dead in her flat. She probably died within the last two hours. Almost certainly murdered. I haven’t had a chance to interview the neighbours yet – most of them are apparently out at work. No obvious suspect, unless you count Sentance. It could have been him, I suppose, though I think it’s unlikely. Are you holding all the supervisors in the same place?”

  “Yes. In the canteen.”

  “Is there a chance that it could have been any of them?”

  “Doubtful, but not impossible. It depends on the exact time of her death. We were kept waiting a long time before Miss Nugent let us see them.”

  “Did she give you a reason?”

  “She said it was ‘a little staffing difficulty’.”

  “We’re going to have to find out exactly what she meant by that. I take it that back-up has yet to arrive?”

  “PC Chakrabati, PC Tandy and I are still here on our own.”

  “How did the supervisor interviews go?”

  “They were reasonably polite, but none of them claimed to know anything that could help us. Even though I knew nothing about Dulcie Wharton’s death, I was convinced they were hiding something. But they’re going to be difficult to break and, as Giash says, they’re being quite clever about it. They may all be singing from the same hymn sheet, but their statements aren’t clones of each other.”

  “What’s their general attitude now that they’ve been detained?”

  “Sullen, but not obstructive.”

  “Well, we’ll have more opportunity to put the screws on now. When back-up arrives, I want them all to be brought in for questioning. Get them taken to Spalding nick as soon as you can.”

  “All of them?”

  “What do you think? You say that they’re all singing from the same hymn sheet. Unless they’re all innocent, which neither you nor I believes, that must mean that they’re all guilty. Exactly of what, though, is what we have to find out.”

  Fifty-Three

  Tim decided not to wait for Stuart Salkeld to arrive at Dulcie Wharton’s flat. He was concerned about Andy and the two PCs he had with him. He knew they would be outnumbered if the supervisors cut up rough and he had no idea what kind of support the police could expect from the other workers at the de Vries plant. Zilch would be his guess. He was only a few miles from the plant now. He hoped the back-up team he’d told Andy to request would have arrived, but, either way, his presence would bring extra help. He was also curious to see the reaction of the supervisors when they were told that Tony Sentance had done a runner. He was intrigued by the strange solidarity that he’d been told they all exhibited. He wouldn’t have described Sentance as a particularly charismatic character, yet all these people, and evidently also Miss Nugent, felt compelled to do his bidding. Not to mention Kevan de Vries, who by no stretch of the imagination could be called a pushover.

  As he halted at the checkpoint of the Sutton Bridge plant, he saw that a large blue police van had just been admitted. The driver was motoring up the drive at as brisk a pace as its narrowness permitted. The security man, a rough-looking character, came out of his sentry-box, but was obviously in no mood to be obstructive. When Tim flashed his ID, the man nodded and opened the barrier without a word. There was a look of resignation on his face.

  The police van halted in front of the main entrance. The last of the eight policemen it contained was climbing out when he drew in behind it. He hastened to talk to them before they could enter the building. They’d assembled in double file. He went and stood in front of them. They were all from Boston; he didn’t think that he knew any of them personally.

  “Who’s in charge?” he asked.

  “I’m Sergeant Dobson,” said one of them, stepping forward.

  “DI Yates,” Tim said. “Thank you for getting here so quickly. DC Carstairs is holding eight people in the canteen here. Seven of them work as supervisory staff at the plant. There’s also a senior manager with them. We believe that one or more of them are involved in the death of the woman whose body was found at Sandringham. We’ve also found another body in a flat in the town this afternoon. I intend to place under arrest all the people DC Carstairs is holding and we’ll need your help with that, but there’s something I want to talk to them about first. I’d like you to wait in the reception area until I, or DC Carstairs, comes to fetch you. If you hear any kind of disturban
ce or I call Sergeant Dobson’s mobile, I want you to come in immediately. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Dobson. Quickly he gave his mobile number to Tim, who keyed it into his phone.

  Tim hurried through the glass door.

  “Where’s the canteen?” he asked the receptionist.

  “Down that passage. Keep going until the end,” she said. She looked terrified.

  Tim ran down the corridor until he reached the double doors of the canteen. He could hear no sound coming from within. He peered through the one of the glass portholes. The sight that met his gaze was uncanny. The supervisors were sitting at two tables in the middle of the room. All were looking down at the table-tops, as if at something of interest. Andy Carstairs was sitting at a table at the top of the room, like a teacher supervising a class. He, too, was silent. He could just make out Verity Tandy, sitting on a chair near to the far exit. He couldn’t see Giash Chakrabati, but guessed he was stationed near the door that Tim himself was looking through, out of his line of vision. A tall, well-built woman wearing a white overall was standing near the window with her back to the others. All were motionless, as if deliberately creating a tableau.

  Tim tapped on the porthole. Giash Chakrabati appeared from his left to look through the glass from the inside. He opened the door.

  “DI Yates,” he said in a low voice.

  “What’s going on here?” said Tim, also keeping his voice down.

  “Nothing at all at the moment, sir. They all say that they can’t help us; that they don’t know anything. DC Carstairs is keeping them here until back-up arrives.”

  “He was following instructions. Back-up’s here now. Could you ask him to come and talk to me for a minute? Take his place over there while he’s with me.”

  “Haven’t you managed to get anything at all out of them?” asked Tim, when Andy had joined him in the corridor.

  “Not much. A bit of padding about the way that this place is run. The Nugent woman’s also indicated that they want Tony Sentance to join them. She says it’s because he’s their boss.”