Sausage Hall

by Christina James

  “Interesting. I wonder why they really want to see Sentance? To advise them, do you think, or give them a cue on how to handle this?”

  Andy shrugged.

  “I guess so. Or to accuse him, maybe?”

  “I can’t see that, myself, though you could be right. From all that you’ve told me, he seems to have a hold over them. Let’s see if we can break it by telling them that he’s scarpered.”

  “You’re going to do that now?”

  “Yes. I want to spring it on them as a surprise. It might help us to find out more. It may even show us that they’re not all involved, though I doubt that.”

  “What about back-up, if it turns nasty?”

  “Back-up’s here now. Eight cops from Boston. So we outnumber them. Are you ready?”

  Andy nodded. He followed Tim back into the canteen. Margaret Nugent swung round to face him.

  “Good afternoon,” said Tim. “I’m DI Yates. I’m sorry that we’ve had to keep you here for so long. I understand from DC Carstairs that you’ve been fairly co-operative and I’d like to thank you for that. But DC Carstairs also thinks that you might be keeping something back.” He surveyed the faces in front of him. All eyes were fixed on him, all expressions hostile. “Perhaps,” Tim added, “out of a mistaken sense of loyalty for someone? Mr Sentance, for example?”

  “Where is Tony?” asked the only woman seated with the supervisors. “Have you got him somewhere else?”

  “No such luck,” said Tim, watching her carefully. “I’m afraid Tony Sentance has absconded.”

  “Come again?” said one of the men.

  “He means he’s cleared off,” said the woman. “It’s probably a trick, though.” But her cheeks had reddened and there was uncertainty in her tone.

  “It’s not a trick,” said Tim, “though if he’s your leader I can see why you might think it. But policemen don’t usually play tricks when they’re talking about murder.”

  “We don’t know nothing about that young girl,” said another of the men. “She didn’t work here, despite the overall.”

  “We haven’t got to the bottom of that yet,” said Tim. “But I wasn’t thinking about her. I was thinking about your colleague, Dulcie Wharton. I found her dead in her flat about an hour ago.”

  He was watching them closely. None of them over-reacted, but they seemed unsettled. There was some shuffling in their seats, even some indication of distress, but mostly, he thought, they looked afraid. All except the woman, whose face remained devoid of all expression.

  “But she can’t be dead!” said the beefy one with the red face. “She was working this morning. I saw her.”

  “She went home sick,” said the woman laconically. “Must have been properly ill but we didn’t realise.”

  Tim’s eye travelled along the whole row of overalled individuals seated before him. He noticed that the man sitting at the end was having difficulty in controlling his emotions. His jaw was working and he was taking some very deep breaths.

  “Are you all right . . . Mr . . ?” He turned to Andy to ask for the man’s name.

  “I think it’s Douglas,” Andy whispered.

  Tim moved closer to where the man was sitting.

  “Douglas?” he said. “Is that your name?”

  The man nodded. He seemed close to tears.

  “He didn’t have to kill her,” he said. “The bastard!” Andy realised that he’d heard these identical words on his first visit.

  “Shut up!” hissed the man sitting next to him.

  “Don’t take no notice of Douglas,” said the woman. “He gets some strange ideas sometimes.”

  Tim looked along the row again. He sensed that it wouldn’t take much to break them now. He thought it probable that only the woman would hold out when they started the proper interrogation.

  “I don’t know who you mean when you say ‘he’,” he said to Douglas, before turning to address all of them, “but I’m guessing that it’s Tony Sentance. Just remember that, whatever misplaced loyalty you may feel you owe him or whatever influence he may have over you, he isn’t here to support you now. He’s gone. He’s trying to save his own skin without any thought of what might happen to you. Rest assured that we’ll catch him, too. It’ll only be a matter of time. So the sooner you start talking, the better it’ll be for you.”

  “I don’t believe that Tony killed her,” said one of the other men. He was spare-limbed, with a grizzled beard and an incipient pot belly that looked incongruous against his otherwise athletic build. “He wouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have trusted Harry Briggs in the way that he did. I bet he asked Harry to take her home. He never knows when to stop, does Harry.”

  “Will you shut up?” said the woman viciously.

  “What’s your name?” Tim asked the man.

  “Wayne. Wayne Stanley.”

  “Thank you, Mr Stanley; what you’ve just said is extremely helpful. Now I want to know when Dulcie went sick. What time did she ask to go home?” He looked at Margaret Nugent.

  “I’ll have to check my records . . .”

  “No, Miss Nugent, you won’t. You’ve got a mind like a steel trap. I know you know when she left.”

  “Some time between eleven and twelve.”

  “You can be more precise than that.”

  “It was nearer to twelve,” said Wayne. “It was almost dinner-time. She came to ask me to keep an eye on her gang until the break.”

  Tim beckoned to Giash.

  “Back-up’s waiting outside. I’d like you to ask them to come in now.” He called Verity Tandy over and spoke to her and Andy. “We need to caution all of these people and arrest them. Take them to Spalding. Put them in separate cells when we get them there. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

  Verity moved immediately to caution Margaret Nugent.

  “You surely can’t mean to include me?” she called across to Tim.

  “I certainly do, Miss Nugent. Why did you think you might be exempt?”

  It might have been his imagination, but he thought that he saw a small flicker of triumph cross the faces of more than one of the supervisors. Otherwise, they seemed dejected, even broken. None of them tried to resist arrest. Arranging strong back-up had been prudent, but in the end had proved unnecessary.

  Fifty-Four

  Juliet stepped out of the taxi into Acacia Avenue, the rather faceless street where she lived. She felt quite weak, as if she were walking on slippery, treacherous glass, but her mood was euphoric. It seemed as if she had been away for a million years. She took out her purse and paid the driver, adding a substantial tip.

  “Thanks very much, duck. You stand there and I’ll bring your bags round. Do you want me to carry them up the steps for you?”

  He leered at her in a way which made her feel uncomfortable. He had a large wad of gum in his mouth which he was chewing noisily.

  Normally she would have disdained such an offer, especially from such a character, but today she could not trust her powers of balance. Although she only had a small suitcase on wheels and an overnight bag, she was worried she might not make it up the shallow outside stairs flight without stumbling. She forced a smile.

  “Thank you.”

  He scrambled up the steps, a bag in each hand, and dumped them in front of her doorstep.

  “There you are, my darling. Anything else I can do for you?” He winked.

  “No, thank you,” said Juliet firmly. She waited until he’d got back in his car before searching for her key and inserting it in the lock. She might still be a little frail, but she could recognise a perv when she saw one. The man would have had no inkling of her police training, so he might have thought of trying it on. She’d have been ready with the pepper spray she kept in a special zipped pocket in her bag. Despite her weakness, she thought she could probably have managed one of t
he arm grapples she’d learnt on the kick-boxing course she’d gone on when she joined the force. However, there was no need: the taxi driver reversed to the end of the road and roared away, giving her an ironic little wave. He had ducked his head under the sun-shield so that he could grin at her. He reminded her of someone, but at first she couldn’t think who. Suddenly it came to her: Harry Briggs. It wasn’t him, of course, but the resemblance probably explained why she’d taken such a dislike to the driver.

  Juliet turned her back on him and let herself in, dragging the case and the bag with her and dumping them inside the door. The flat felt warm and there was a pleasant smell. She turned from the tiny hallway into the main room and saw there was a vase of roses standing on the table. Her fruit bowl had been filled; her mail had been neatly gathered into a small pile to one side of it. A plain postcard had been propped up against the fruit bowl. The gas fire had been turned on and switched to a low setting.

  Juliet pulled out one of her dining-room chairs and sank on to it gratefully, dropping her handbag to the floor. She picked up the postcard.

  Hi. Hope you’re feeling OK. Sorry I couldn’t fetch you from hospital. I’ll drop by tonight. There’s food in the fridge and a bottle of wine! Regards, Nick.

  She let the postcard fall again. Nick Brodowski was the neighbour who had found her when she’d collapsed and who’d called the ambulance. He was a large, plain man in his mid-thirties, but she’d always been quite drawn to him. She found his kindness engaging and, although he was often shy and reserved, he could be extremely witty once he’d managed to relax. She’d thought for a time that they might try dating, but both had been too reticent to be the first to suggest it and now the idea had somehow lost its appeal. She pushed the thought away. She hoped Nick hadn’t gone to too much expense on her account. She knew that he was a draughtsman. She’d no idea what kind of salary that meant he could command, but she suspected it was quite modest.

  She hauled herself to her feet again and tottered the few steps to her kitchenette. She was amazed at how light-headed she felt. She’d make herself some tea.

  She opened the fridge and saw it had been stacked to the gunnels with food. Milk, water, wine, butter, salads, cheese, cold meats and a packet of chicken breasts all sat, neatly arranged, on the shelves. She’d have to pay Nick for all of this stuff; she couldn’t accept it as a gift, on top of the flowers and fruit. She knew it was churlish of her, but she realised she didn’t actually want to accept it from him. What was it she’d read about gifts? That they never actually came free?

  She filled the kettle and put it to boil. A glance at her kitchen clock reminded her that it was time to take one of her antibiotic tablets. She moved slowly back to where she’d left the bags and opened the valise. The box of tablets lay at the top of the bag. She lifted it out. Immediately underneath was Florence Jacobs’ journal. Juliet took that out, too. She’d been discharged so quickly from the hospital that Verity Tandy hadn’t had time to pick it up to take it to the Archaeological Society. Juliet peered at the small patch of protruding yellow paper once again. She was impatient to get to the bottom of this mystery. She’d call Katrin after she’d drunk her tea – or perhaps it would be better to call Tim. She didn’t think it would be appropriate for her to get in touch with Jackie Briggs without clearing it with him. The request she wanted to make wasn’t related to any of the current de Vries investigations, after all. She knew Tim would give her the go-ahead if he possibly could, but he might have some reason for not allowing it. Superintendent Thornton’s thick-set figure loomed in her imagination.

  She felt better after she’d drunk the tea. She picked up her phone and dialled Katrin’s number.

  “Juliet? Sorry! I meant to call you earlier. There’s been a lot happening. Are you at home now? How are you?”

  “Yes, I’ve been here about half an hour. I’m feeling a bit shaky, but otherwise OK. It’s I who should apologise, because I haven’t managed to get the journal back to you. I hope Verity Tandy didn’t have a wasted journey. I haven’t called Jackie Briggs, either, because I thought I ought to ask Tim if it was OK first.”

  “I’m pretty certain that in the end Verity wasn’t asked to pick it up. I don’t know if you’ll be able to get hold of Tim at the moment, but you could give him a try. He probably won’t want you to talk to Jackie Briggs, though. I understand her husband has gone missing – and Tim thinks he’s involved in some way in whatever it is that happened at Laurieston House.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest. Harry Briggs probably isn’t the shiftiest character I’ve ever met in my life, but he certainly strikes me as one of the most unwholesome. I certainly won’t bother Tim if he’s dealing with a crisis. Pity, though. I’m desperate to find out what’s under the cover of the journal. And I thought your idea of asking the Archaeological Society to help was a good one.”

  “Well, as you know, I’m champing at the bit myself, but I think we’re just going to have to wait. How soon can we meet? I’d really like to see you, not just because of the journal! Have you got the all-clear now?”

  “I’m still taking antibiotics. I’ll check with my GP – I think she’ll visit me tomorrow. My guess is that she’ll say I should finish the course before I see you. But I’ll ask.”

  “I’d better go. I’ve got a terminally boring job to do at the moment, but I need to get on with it.”

  “OK. Take care.”

  The antibiotics were making Juliet feel thirsty, as well as light-headed. She debated whether to make more tea, but decided she couldn’t be bothered. She poured herself a glass of water and sank down on the sofa.

  Two hours later she was awoken by the sound of a key turning in the lock of her front door. She’d been asleep on the sofa, her legs tucked up on the cushions, her head and neck resting on the arm at an awkward angle. She swung her feet to the floor and tried to sit upright. Her neck was aching and her head felt muzzy.

  “Juliet?” It was Nick’s heavily inflected voice. “Are you there? Can I come in?”

  “Hello, Nick. Yes, of course. In here.”

  He came padding into the room. He was still wearing his jacket, an old-fashioned thigh-length quilted garment that her father would have called a ‘car coat’. His heavy black square-framed spectacles accentuated the flabbiness of his face and its apparent absence of bone structure. Juliet reflected that nevertheless he did not at this moment look unattractive, largely because his features were lit up by a broad, ear-to-ear smile.

  “Juliet? You are better?” He stooped to peck her shyly on the cheek.

  “Getting there,” she said. “But, Nick, I’m so grateful to you for all that you’ve done for me – warming the flat and buying everything that I need. You must let me pay for the food, though.”

  “It is out of the question,” he said, still smiling, but with a warning note in his voice. “It is my pleasure to do this. I should be insulted.”

  “The flowers and the fruit are wonderful gifts and I’d love to accept them. But it’s over the top to let you pay to fill the fridge as well.”

  He shrugged.

  “The fruit is nothing. The flowers I did not buy.”

  “I don’t believe you! Who else could they be from?”

  Nick shrugged again, clearly struggling not to appear to be offended now.

  “I do not know. I took delivery of them this morning. They were brought to your door when I was getting ready for work. I heard the delivery man and came out to get them. There is a small card to say who they are from. Look, I will show you.”

  He poked gently among the flower stems for a few seconds, then scrutinised the glass vase from several angles. Then he flipped through the pile of mail, dealing the letters and cards into a fresh pile.

  “It is strange. The card is not here. It was a small mauve card.”

  Juliet decided that he had determined to cover up his generosi
ty in order to persuade her to accept all of his gifts. She could see that he would be both humiliated and offended if she pursued the point further.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure that it will turn up. And thank you again for everything. I don’t know what I would have done without you when you called the ambulance. And today, as well.”

  The smile returned.

  “I will make you a cup of tea?”

  “I’d love one. But I should be making it for you. Have you come straight from work? You must be tired.”

  Nick held up a hand.

  “Today I am in charge. Tomorrow, perhaps, you can make tea for me. After I’ve made tea, I shall prepare supper for us both.” He was grinning properly again now.

  Juliet felt a great wave of happiness wash over her. Just for today, she’d forget about being independent and shelve her great dislike of being beholden to anyone. She could see that Nick wanted to look after her and suddenly she realised that she not only needed but wanted to be looked after. She lay back against the cushions and returned his smile.

  “What will you cook?”

  “Chicken breasts in breadcrumbs. It is a Polish dish. You will like it?” he added anxiously.

  “Yes, I’m sure I shall.” She closed her eyes again for a few minutes.

  “There is your tea,” said Nick. “Should I put it on the table?” he added as she tried to focus, her eyes still filled with sleep.

  “What? Oh, yes, please, I’ll drink it in a few minutes, when it’s a bit cooler.”

  He found a mat and carefully placed the mug of tea on it. “What is that book?”

  Juliet was struggling to wrest open her eyes.

  “Uh? Oh, you mean the journal. There’s a bit of a mystery attached to it. It was written by a young woman at the end of the nineteenth century. Or perhaps it wasn’t. I’ve been trying to get to the bottom of it while I’ve been in hospital.”

  “Now you’re confusing me. But I would like to hear the story, I suggest when we have eaten. Did the young lady perhaps come from Africa?”