The Crossing

by Christina James

  Kayleigh blew her nose loudly and allowed Mrs Cushing to lead her into a larger room where two sofas and several chairs had been arranged around the gas fire. Two teenage girls were sitting together on one of the sofas. One was tiny and dark, very much in the physical mould of her parents. The other was a tall, rangy blonde with hair so pale that it was almost silver. Tim was surprised. Surely this couldn’t be Philippa Grummett?

  “Move up and let your sister sit with you,” said Mrs Cushing, chivvying the girl in jovial fashion. “She’s feeling a bit upset, aren’t you, Kayleigh, my lovely?”

  The blonde girl took in all the visitors, meeting Tim’s eye fleetingly. He thought she looked intelligent but watchful, the antithesis of Kayleigh. The Cushing girl made a genuine attempt to squeeze herself up against the arm of the sofa. Philippa Grummett moved very slightly. Kayleigh sat down next to her as gingerly as possible for someone of her bulk.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Philippa said to Kayleigh. She spoke with a slight Lincolnshire accent, but in a voice that was both cultured and articulate. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

  Kayleigh allowed the tears to course down her cheeks, dabbing at them occasionally with a tissue from the pocket of the overall she was still wearing.

  “Now, don’t get at her, Philly,” said Mrs Cushing. “I know you two don’t get on, but there’s a time and a place. Do sit down,” she continued. Awkwardly, Tim, Verity and the other Grummetts did as they were told while she busied herself handing round cups of tea.

  “Is there any news of Ruby?” she asked Tim. “Poor woman!”

  “As far as I understand, she’s not physically hurt, but she’s very shocked. I’m going to the hospital shortly. I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to see her tonight, but if there is any news I’ll ask PC Tandy to telephone her daughters.” It dawned on Tim as he spoke that neither Kayleigh nor Philippa had exhibited the slightest interest in their mother’s well-being. Presumably they knew their father was at the hospital with her, but neither had mentioned him, either. They had expressed no wish to see either parent.

  “Will you both be staying here tonight?” asked Verity. Kayleigh stopped wiping her eyes. She looked bewildered, as if her fate was completely outside her control.

  “It’s already settled that Philly will stay, and Kayleigh’s very welcome, too,” said Mrs Cushing quickly. “There’s a double bed in Alice’s room and I can make up a mattress on the floor.”

  Philippa and Alice exchanged glances. Tim guessed that both were determined not to share a bed with Kayleigh.

  “That’s very nice of you,” said the Grummett aunt. “I think Ivan and I had better be going now, but we’ll call in again tomorrow.”

  “PC Tandy and I are leaving as well,” said Tim. “We’re going to the hospital. If either of you wants to come with us to see your mother, we can take you with us. We’ll get a patrol car to bring you back.”

  There was a silence.

  “I don’t think I’ll come tonight,” said Philippa at length. “I’ll see her when she’s feeling more herself.”

  Kayleigh was rooting in the large handbag that she carried on one arm.

  “’Ere,” she said to Mrs Cushing, slinging at her a cellophane package which skidded across the little coffee table. “A packet of tomatoes. I bought them for Mam. You ’ave them, Mrs Cushing.”

  Chapter Eight

  TIM THANKED MRS Cushing and extricated himself and Verity from her claustrophobic living room. Peter Cushing followed.

  “Are you all right getting back to your car? The fog’s mighty dense out there.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be OK, Mr Cushing,” he said. “We can see the glow of the searchlights at the accident site and no unauthorised vehicles will be coming down this road.”

  Tim slackened his pace to walk alongside Verity.

  “What did you make of that?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure, sir. Funny situation. The neighbour’s being super-helpful, though I suppose that’s not really unusual in the circumstances. But the Grummett sisters obviously can’t stand each other. They don’t seem all that worried about their parents, either.”

  “What beggars belief is that they’re sisters at all. They’re totally unlike each other, not just in looks, but in behaviour, the way they talk, everything.”

  “Intelligence, too.”

  “Especially intelligence. I suppose Kayleigh may have some kind of learning disability and when we meet the parents we’ll find they’re more like Philippa, but I doubt it, somehow. Their names are mismatched, too: I’d never have expected the same woman to call one daughter Kayleigh and the other Philippa. They just don’t go together.”

  “Philippa and Alice Cushing were both wearing the Boston Grammar School uniform.”

  “I thought that was a boys’ school?”

  “Girls are allowed into the sixth form. What I meant was, it’s unlikely that Kayleigh . . .”

  Tim stopped suddenly.

  “Is someone following us?”

  Verity paused, too. The flat-faced Grummett aunt came lumbering out of the gloom. She was breathless, as if she’d been trying to catch them up.

  “Sorry to trouble you, mister,” she shouted to Tim, unnecessarily loudly now that she was only a few steps away. “Me and Ivan was wondering if we could follow you to the hospital? Only we’d like to make sure Ruby’s all right.” She fixed Verity’s eye and simpered incongruously as she finished speaking. Her husband came puffing along behind her and stood alongside, silent and eyeing them warily. Tim noted that, like his niece Kayleigh, he had a ‘lazy’ eye. Tim had developed a dislike for this couple. He doubted they were any more concerned about Ruby Grummett than the woman’s daughters appeared to be. He suspected them of sensationalism, of glorying vicariously in a catastrophe because it involved members of their family.

  “My advice to you would be to go home and come back again tomorrow, especially if you’re not familiar with the roads. This fog is dangerous, and it would be doubly dangerous to try to follow us. If you give me your phone number I’ll make sure someone calls you from the hospital.”

  Verity took out her notebook.

  “Let me have the number . . .”

  “Don’t bother, Else,” her husband growled. “If he don’t want to help us, we’ll find our own way. We’ve every right. Come on.”

  He quickened his pace, passing Verity and Tim and striding on as fast as his wheezing chest would allow. Elsie also scurried past them, heaving her considerable bulk along the road as nimbly as she could. Again Tim noticed she left a curious smell in her wake. He hadn’t managed to place it the first time – in fact, he’d thought then that the stench might be coming from the mangled tanker lorry – but now its cause was unmistakeable: body odour with a vengeance, the reek of skin and clothes that had not been washed for many days. The Grummett family appeared to exist in a time-bubble: they were as peasant-like as it was possible to be in the twenty-first century. How did Philippa Grummett, sixth form pupil at Boston Grammar School, manage to tolerate her relations?

  “Slow down a bit, Verity,” he said. “I want to have a word with Giash when we get back to the car. I’d prefer it if Ivan and Elsie Grummett weren’t hanging around.”

  They slackened their pace. It wasn’t long before orange headlights showed fuzzily through the fog, advancing at some speed.

  “Slow down, you idiot,” Tim muttered, as Ivan’s pick-up truck roared past them.

  “Should I call PC Walton and ask him to caution them?” said Verity.

  “Don’t bother,” said Tim. “Ivan Grummett strikes me as the type who might complain to the Press that he was badly treated by the police during a family crisis. With a bit of luck, he’ll think better of going to the hospital, but if not, we don’t want to have to waste time dealing with his carping.”

  Giash was talking to the
firemen and Andy Carstairs, who had arrived while they’d been at the Cushings’.

  “Hello, Andy, thanks for coming.” Tim turned to Giash. “How’s it going?”

  “Not bad,” said Giash. “There’s little risk of fire or a gas leak, now. We’re going to secure the site and there’ll be a police guard here all night. More journalists may come tomorrow and no doubt there’ll be casual sightseers as well. The accident crew have managed to get the engine standing upright. The house is obviously unsafe: we need to make sure that no-one tries to get into it, for whatever reason. Fire Chief Towson’s offered to leave a couple of his men here, as well. What do you think, sir? Do we need them?”

  “If the building collapses further, they could be useful. But, hell, the visibility here is terrible and it’s probably dangerous for them to work under strength rather than as a team. Why don’t we suggest they go home now and come back at 7 a.m. tomorrow?”

  Giash nodded.

  “Do you want me and PC Tandy to stay, sir?”

  “No. I’d like PC Tandy to come to the hospital with me to try to interview Ruby Grummett, but I don’t want to leave you here without a partner. The Boston cops are in pairs, aren’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “Leave it to them, then. You get off home, now. You too, Andy. I’m sorry if it’s been a bit of a wild goose chase for you. You probably had better things to do.”

  There was irony in Andy’s smile.

  “Well, as a matter of fact I did, but there is one other important thing that Giash has picked up. You need to know about it.”

  “Can it wait?”

  “I think you’ll want to know now. The pyjama case that Giash says Kayleigh Grummett was trying to hang on to and then forgot about is stuffed full of £50 notes.”

  “How much money altogether?”

  “I haven’t counted it. Some of it is . . . contaminated.”

  “You mean, covered in shit?”

  Verity Tandy and Giash Chakrabati both laughed.

  “Yes, sir. It needs examining properly, in a lab. But my guess is that there’s ten grand at least, probably more.”

  “Take it away and get it analysed, will you? Find out if any of the notes were stolen if you can.”

  Chapter Nine

  AS TIM AND Verity arrived at the Pilgrim Hospital, the fog seemed to be getting denser. Inside, the hospital was suffocatingly warm. People in wet coats sitting in the corridors and waiting areas contributed to the humidity.

  When Tim announced himself, the male receptionist turned away to a cubby-hole of a back office and made a call. He emerged looking cheerful.

  “Mrs Grummett’s awake and able to see you, though she’s been sedated. There’ll be a nurse with you when you talk to her. She may not remember much at the moment. The doctor stresses that she mustn’t be upset. Some of her family are with her. She’s on the third floor. Staff Nurse Shaw will meet you at the lift and escort you.”

  “Is it my imagination, or was he treating us like disruptives?” Tim asked as they walked away. “And ‘escort’, indeed! Where did he get that from?”

  Verity shrugged.

  “Most people behave unnaturally when they’re talking to a police officer.”

  “I suppose you’re right. I can’t say I’ve noticed.”

  Staff Nurse Shaw was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a loping gait. Apparently he had no phobias about policemen.

  “If you’d just wait right here,” he said, gesturing to a small waiting room containing some chairs and a television screen, “I’ll check that Ruby’s ready for you.”

  He was back in a couple of minutes.

  “She’s got family with her but they say they’re leaving. Her husband would like to stay. That OK with you?” He flashed Verity a broad smile.

  “Yes, that’s fine,” said Tim. He was watching Ivan and Elsie Grummett through the glass screen of the little waiting room. They were heading for the stairs, he with his hands in his pockets, she close behind him. They seemed to be in some hurry.

  “Ah, there they go,” said Staff Nurse Shaw. “You follow me, now.”

  Ruby Grummett was sitting up in bed. She’d removed her dress but wasn’t wearing a hospital gown. Her short, plump body was encased in a fearsomely unyielding all-in-one foundation garment. Its broad white straps cut deep into her shoulders, the flesh bulging around them. Sitting on a chair beside the bed was a stocky man, also short, whose baldness was relieved by a few tufts of grey hair sticking up above his ears. He had curiously fat and blubbery lips.

  “The police are here, Ruby love,” he said.

  Ruby Grummett lay back on the pillows and passed a hand rather theatrically across her black button eyes. She started muttering, but in a voice so low that Tim couldn’t catch what she was saying. He picked up that she had a very strong regional accent, stronger than either her husband’s or Kayleigh’s. The skin around her mouth was pursed and cross-hatched with wrinkles. She looked older than her husband.

  Bob Grummett leaned across and awkwardly grasped her other hand.

  “There’s nothing to worry about, duckie. They just want to ask you a few questions. If you get tired, just tell them and they’ll go away.” He turned to Tim. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “We don’t want to put Mrs Grummett under further strain,” said Tim, “but the sooner we can collect witness statements after an accident, the better.” He addressed Ruby directly. “If you can just manage to talk to us for ten minutes or so, Mrs Grummett, we’d be grateful.”

  She nodded and rolled her eyes, clinging on to her husband’s hand. It struck Tim she was overdoing it, though this might have been uncharitable of him. When she spoke again, the words were more distinct.

  “How’s Fred?”

  Tim looked blank.

  “Fred Lister, the lorry driver,” Verity said quietly to Tim. “I think he’s survived.” She looked at Staff Nurse Shaw for confirmation.

  “He is alive,” he whispered. “But only just. His mate died instantly, though they brought him here. I don’t think you should tell her that.”

  Tim took a step closer to the bed.

  “Fred’s alive,” he said, “but poorly.”

  She nodded, her face creasing.

  “Mrs Grummett, can you tell us exactly what happened at the crossing, just as you remember it? If there are parts of the accident that you don’t remember, tell us that, too.”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” said Verity soothingly. “It’s been a very foggy day, hasn’t it? I doubt if many people came to use the crossing, did they?”

  Ruby shook her head.

  “No. Just the postman and the milkman. I didn’t think Fred would be out today, but he said he’d had a rush job on.”

  “Did he come to the door to ask you to open the gates?”

  “Yes. I was going to have a bath. I came out in my dressing-gown. I was wearing Bob’s slippers. I knew the Skegness train hadn’t gone by, but I thought they’d cancelled it. The system said the line was clear. It did! I checked! It said it was clear.” The words had come tumbling faster and faster. She began to rock backwards and forwards in the bed.

  “DI Yates, I’m sorry, but I think I’m going to have to say that’s it for today. She’s still too distressed to have a calm conversation with you. Dr Butler asked me to make sure that she didn’t get agitated. She’ll still be here tomorrow. She’ll probably make more sense then.”

  Tim nodded. He felt thwarted, especially as he suspected that although the woman was undoubtedly upset, she was hamming up the trauma.

  “Of course,” he said aloud. “Mr Grummett, could I have a word with you before we leave?”

  Bob Grummett met his eye. He saw the same half-shifty, half-insolent expression that he’d noted when he’d spoken to Ivan Gru
mmett. Unlike Ivan, Bob also appeared to be afraid of something. He looked away quickly, brought himself creakingly to his feet and followed Tim out into the foyer.

  “First of all, I’m very sorry that you’re all having to suffer like this. It must be terrible for you, losing your home and having all the worry of looking after your wife.”

  The man relaxed visibly.

  “We’ve cordoned off your house as a possible crime scene at the moment.” Bob Grummett’s head jerked back in an involuntary gesture of panic.

  “They can’t prosecute her, can they? They can’t make out it was her fault?”

  “It’s possible that Mrs Grummett will be prosecuted, but I wouldn’t dwell on it too much at the moment. In all probability, the coroner will decide it was an accident. But there’ll have to be an inquest. It’s also possible the railway company will be found negligent. I wouldn’t worry your wife with any of this until she’s recovered. But I must ask you not to attempt to go back into the house to retrieve anything at the moment. The building is dangerously damaged. We’ve put a police guard on it, so you needn’t be afraid of anyone else getting in. Do you have somewhere to stay tonight?”

  Bob Grummett’s ruddy face paled noticeably. It was as if the enormity of what had happened had just hit him.

  “I suppose I can go to Ivan’s. Or to my other brother – David’s. He lives in Boston.”

  “He might be a better bet, as we’ll want to talk to Mrs Grummett again tomorrow and I assume you’d like to be here again?”

  He nodded.

  “Thank you. We’ll come at 11.00 a.m., if that suits you? I understand the doctor wants to see her first.”

  He nodded again. Tim wasn’t sure that he was really taking in what was being said to him. Nevertheless, he decided to plough on.

  “There’s just one other thing, Mr Grummett.”

  Immediately a shutter came down on Bob Grummett’s face. His expression was transformed from that of a sad and helpless man in late middle age to something a lot more shifty and unpleasant.