‘But there hasn’t been anything in the news,’ Trish said.
‘In fact there has, but it was only a few tiny paragraphs here and there. None of the papers gave any details. Even I missed it and I knew his name, so I’m not surprised you didn’t pick it up.’
‘No wonder they were so jumpy at the abattoir.’ Trish remembered the hostility she’d seen in every face. She remembered the sounds, too, and the smells and tried to force her brain to shut them out. ‘They probably thought we were spying for the press. I’m surprised they let us in at all. What happened to him?’
‘The official line is that he committed suicide, as a protest against cruelty to animals, by lying down under the wheels of a meat lorry destined for Smithfield Market.’
‘That’s ridiculous. No one would do that. He can’t have meant to die. He must have been trying to stop the lorry leaving. How awful! And for the driver.’
Trish retreated to the kitchen to fetch glasses. She knew from something Will had said casually when they first met that he was a whisky drinker and she had a bottle of Glenlivet at the back of one of the cupboards. She poured him a stiff one. For herself, queasy with her memories of the abattoir, she took a bottle of Badoit out of the fridge.
‘You don’t believe it was suicide either,’ she said as she watched Will add a splash of water to the heavy tumbler. ‘Do you?’
‘No. They said his pockets were stuffed with animal rights and vegetarian leaflets and he even had a placard with him about pig pens. But that wasn’t Jamie’s style. I mean, it was never the animals he fought for; it was the people who had to eat them.’
‘Maybe he had a sudden conversion.’ Trish thought of Jess. ‘It happens.’
‘Not to Jamie. I told you, he was a hard-nosed investigative journalist, used to working undercover. He must’ve been at the abattoir to report on something they’re doing there.’
‘Who was he working for?’
‘It used to be the Daily Mercury. They denied all knowledge of him when I phoned. Then I got on to someone who knew a bit more. He told me Jamie hadn’t had anything much published in the last few years.’
Will put the glass to his lips and breathed in the fumes, but he didn’t drink. His Adam’s apple, usually well hidden, moved as though he had swallowed. He looked up at her, and she saw that his eyes were dark with misery.
‘He was a good bloke, you know, Trish. He would have been furious about what happened to you and your police friend.’ This time he did drink, holding the liquid in his mouth, moving it back and forth across his tongue. At last he swallowed it down in one, like bitter-tasting medicine. ‘He did a terrific story once about dangerous chemicals and the additives that screw up children’s mental health.’
‘Then why hasn’t he had anything published recently?’
‘I asked the man at the Mercury, and he just said a big story Jamie had written went down in flames.’ Will was sitting with his knees wide apart, leaning forwards. His elbows were propped on his knees and he held his glass loosely between his big hands. Suddenly he stiffened and turned one of his feet on its side so that he could look at the sole. ‘I’ve been treading muck on your floor, Trish. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s OK.’ She looked back towards the door. It was true there was a line of dusty footprints across the pale polished wood, but they were hardly ‘muck’. Her cleaner would whisk them away in minutes.
‘Will, I’m really sorry you’ve had this awful news about your friend, and I wish there was something I could say that might help, but—’
‘That’s not why I came, Trish. Don’t you see? Jamie’s death means that there is something seriously wrong at Smarden Meats.’
‘Oh, come on, Will. There’s no—’
‘Listen. There’s too much coincidence in all this if he wasn’t there to get evidence to back up a big story. Someone must have caught him and drugged him or forced him to lie under the wheels. It could even have been that bloke who nearly stabbed me.’
‘Will! That’s absurd.’
He pushed back his chair. Hearing the screech of its legs against her polished wooden floor, Trish winced.
‘I thought you’d believe me. Christ! You were there too. You must have seen the aggression in him. You even said you were scared by it.’
‘I know, but—’
‘Don’t worry. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Goodnight.’
‘Will, don’t be like that. Sit down again. Have some more to drink.’
‘No. It’s late. And you’ve got to be in court tomorrow.’ He was already at her front door, tugging at the latch.
She followed him and put her hand on top of his on the lock. ‘Will … You’re right: it is late, and I’m not surprised you’re upset about your friend’s death, but—’
He slid his hand out from under hers.
‘I’m not upset, as you call it.’ His dark eyes were steady now. ‘I’m fucking angry. Goodnight.’
He was halfway down the iron steps, making much more noise than he had to, when she called after him, ‘Will!’
He turned. The moonlight fell across his face, accentuating his cheekbones. Surely they were even sharper than they’d been last week. Was he starving himself now?
‘I can understand the anger, too, Will, but that’s no reason to make wild leaps of logic into dangerous fantasies like this.’
‘What makes you think it’s a fantasy? I was looking for Jamie because I hoped he’d be able to tell me something about the meat used in the sausages that poisoned you. Now it looks as though he could have – if someone hadn’t killed him first.’
He ran on down the stairs, taking two at a time and never missing his footing. That was an exit even Jess would have admired, Trish thought as she shut the door and locked it. She went up the spiral staircase to shower and try to get back the pleasure of her dinner with Antony.
It didn’t work. All through the night, memories of the hate in the slaughterman’s eyes kept dragging her up out of the sleep she needed. If anything could have persuaded her that Will wasn’t wallowing in paranoia, it would have been the thought of those eyes, and that knife hovering inches from Will’s stomach. But if the coroner had come to a verdict of suicide, he must have had good reason.
It was after two o’clock. Trish turned over and tried to forget about the abattoir and everyone connected with it. But she’d never slept well on her front, so she turned again, pushing the hot duvet to one side. After a while she drifted into sleep, but it didn’t last. She woke with a jerk and saw that the clock’s hands had barely moved. This time the eyes she could see in her mind were not Bob Flesker’s, but Kim’s.
She had looked terrified, as though she knew that the slightest mistake or noise could set off some appalling punishment. Trish had to persuade her to talk. No child could live in that much fear without permanent damage.
Next morning’s session in court was so dull it took all Trish’s determination to stay awake and concentrate on the evidence of Furbishers’ delicatessen buyer, Arthur Chancer, instead of thinking about Kim and how best to set about interviewing her that afternoon.
Trish wasn’t the only one to find it hard to avoid dropping off. It was another boiling day and the air-conditioning didn’t make much difference. More than one of the ushers were nodding.
Chancer produced very little of interest in his answers as he explained the company’s policy when looking for new suppliers, trying out their products and negotiating prices with them. He was insistent that the supermarket had always offered new suppliers a very limited contract before making a longer-term deal with them. He claimed that he had always made it clear, and that it wasn’t his fault if some of the naive over-excited producers like Will Applewood had misunderstood him.
‘Thirty of them?’ Antony asked, in tones of a man invited to believe that not only is the moon made of green cheese but that the earth consists of gingerbread. ‘Do you not think it is asking too much to expect his lordship to believe in so many coin
cidences?’
Chancer turned an appealing smile on the judge. ‘In my experience, my lord, there’s nothing like need and excitement to deafen any small trader when he’s faced with big new opportunities.’
‘It is true, is it not, that in several cases you have followed a quite different line when negotiating with suppliers?’
‘Occasionally, yes.’
As Chancer launched into a long explanation of the way he carried out his job, Colin began to slide down the bench beside Trish. She poked him to make sure he wasn’t falling asleep, and he pulled himself upright. She had actually drifted off in court once during her pupillage and she’d hate anyone she liked to suffer the humiliation she’d felt then.
Antony’s taut shoulders showed that he was listening to every word and taking in every nuance, as usual. It was partly his ferocious attention to detail that had made him so successful. Trish nudged Colin again and pointed to the notes he had been writing. He blushed and picked up his pen.
She hoped Antony wasn’t going to stop her leaving for her interview with Kim Bowlby at the end of the session. He hadn’t made any objections last night, but it would be pretty eccentric for the junior on a case as big as this to abandon her leader halfway through the day’s work.
When the judge rose, Antony turned sideways on his bench, smiling at her over the pristine gathers at the back of his gown.
‘If you’re going to talk to this child, you’d better run.’
She almost reached out to touch his cheek and saw from the affection in his eyes that he knew it.
Kim was already sitting at the table when Trish rushed into the interview room, wishing she were fitter. The foster mother was at her seat in the corner, ready to intervene if Trish’s questions alarmed her charge, and Andrew would be in the observation room.
‘Hello, Kim.’ Trish worked to calm her breathing. ‘I’m sorry I’m late.’
The greyish eyelids lifted to reveal the child’s eyes. For once there was an expression in them: surprise. Maybe she had no experience of adults apologizing to her.
‘How are you?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
‘Good. Tell me about your baby,’ Trish said, launching straight into what she was sure had to be the crux of the tension between Kim and her stepfather.
‘I haven’t got a baby.’
‘No. I meant the one at home, in the flat. Your brother.’
‘That’s my mother’s baby.’
‘When was he born?’
‘After Easter.’
‘That must have made quite a change in your life.’
‘Yes,’ Kim whispered after a pause to make sure it was safe to answer.
‘Do you like babies?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Do you play with your brother?’
‘He doesn’t play. He sleeps.’ Her eyelids closed for a second, then lifted to reveal the old blankness.
The baby has to be the key, Trish thought, even though she knew from the file that the Child Protection Team had failed to find any signs of abuse on his small body either. Kim had only started falling asleep at school after he’d been born. It would have been too much of a coincidence if there were no link. Maybe it was just that his crying had kept her awake all night, so that she’d snatched what sleep she could during the day.
‘What about feeding? Who gives him his milk?’
A tiny smile produced a relaxation of all the muscles just under Kim’s skin.
‘He has a bottle now, so sometimes I sit with him and I hold the bottle.’
‘How does that make you feel?’
‘I like it.’
‘And what about your mum: how does she feel when you help?’
Kim whispered that her mother liked it too. She looked less certain now. The questions went on, with Trish striving to keep out of her mind the answers she hoped to hear. Any hint in her wording, her manner or her voice might trigger Kim’s need to provide what the adult in charge of her wanted.
Once again she sat quite still throughout the session, even when Trish suggested that she might like to play, or paint again. At last, Trish said, ‘Is there anything you want to ask me?’
Kim’s eyes flickered. For a moment Trish thought she might speak, but she didn’t even open her lips. In the past, even the most traumatized children had given Trish the feeling they were desperate to talk, but had no idea how to start without setting off a trail of catastrophe they couldn’t control. Only Kim had ever held on as tightly as this.
‘Do you remember Caro?’ Trish asked, hoping for more of a reaction. ‘Inspector Lyalt?’
The smooth head nodded.
‘She’s in hospital. I’m going to see her tomorrow after work. Do you want me to give her any sort of message?’
There was a long pause before Kim whispered that she hoped Caro would get better soon. Then she waited passively in her chair until her foster mother came to her side and Trish gave her permission to move.
Andrew burst into the room as soon as they had gone. ‘Trish, I know you haven’t time to stop now, but what was all that about the brother?’
‘It’s clear that Kim has been threatened. I’m not sure how or with what, or even why, but I think the baby has to be involved in it somewhere. She’s such a responsible child that I think it could be she’s not talking because she feels she’s got to protect him.’
‘I’ve told you: there’s not a mark on him either.’
‘There are plenty of things that don’t leave marks, as you very well know,’ Trish said sadly. ‘I once heard of a nanny in the days before North Sea gas, who used to dope noisy children in her charge by holding them over the cooker with all the gas taps full on. That didn’t leave marks. A pillow over the face wouldn’t either. You don’t get petechial haemorrhages much short of death. And there must be plenty else Crossman could be doing that wouldn’t scar their bodies: threatening them with violence he’s never actually carried out – knife cuts, or burns, or ropes, anything. Fear can be almost as effective a punishment as actual bodily harm; you must know that.’
‘God! It’s so frustrating.’
‘I know, but we will get there, Andrew. Look, I’ve got to run now. I’ll phone you.’
Tim Hayleigh stooped to pick up a stick to throw for Boney and saw that the earth was still discoloured with blood. He’d come this way because he’d hoped it would have faded by now and wanted to be sure.
If only it would rain! Nothing else would drive this evidence right out of sight. In spite of the coroner’s verdict, he still couldn’t believe that no one had come looking for it yet. Had no one cared enough for the journalist Bob had murdered to try to find out what had happened to him?
The thought of the dead man still haunted Tim. He would find himself massaging his cheekbones, as if it had been himself cringing and squealing under Bob’s boots. He tried not to think about what would happen to his mangled body if Bob left it lying somewhere in the countryside. No one would come looking for him. It would be weeks before he’d be missed.
He’d hardly seen any of his cousins since his parents died. He’d never been able to persuade a woman to stay with him once she’d seen the state of the farmhouse and found out how hard he had to work, so love affairs were a thing of the past, too. Sometimes he felt as though his only friends were Ron and Bob. That seemed like the saddest failure of the lot.
Boney brought the stick and dropped it so that he could start nosing around the contaminated patch of ground. Tim shuddered and flung the stick again, running after it himself when Boney didn’t move.
‘Come on, boy. Come on, Boney.’ He slapped his thigh. ‘Come on.’
But Boney was far too interested in where he was digging to obey. Tim promised himself that he wouldn’t bring Boney back here to the edge of the wood ever again. Not even when the bloodstain had faded into nothing.
He ran on, tripped and went sprawling over the ground. He heard something crack as he fell and felt a sharp pain in his
kneecap. For a moment he thought it must have shattered, but it was only the branch he’d thrown, splintering under his weight as the journalist’s bones had done under Bob’s boots.
Oh, God! Would he ever forget what Bob had done? Or the way he’d hung back, too terrified to intervene?
Tim laid his face on the tough dry grass and tried to empty his mind of everything that had happened that night.
Chapter 9
The beer in the pub nearest the abattoir was good: yeasty and barely fizzy, not like the gassy continental lagers Will was always being offered in London. He was halfway down his first pint and tucking into home-made bread and nutty Cheddar.
The whole place was honest, he thought, even better than the pub he’d been to with Trish. Its small windows meant that the interior was nicely shaded from the blinding sun. There were even some men whose boots looked as though they sometimes had muck on them. It shouldn’t be too long before it was possible to get into conversation and find out all the gossip there was on Smarden Meats and Jamie’s so-called suicide.
Will chewed a mouthful of cheese. It had just the right degree of sharpness and the texture was good, too: dry but not crumbly. He realized he was thinking like a food producer once more, testing everything he ate against his own taste and his own products. That had to be a good sign, as if his sanity might be returning at last. But would he ever get to do it for real again?
‘Sorry, mate,’ a man said, as he collapsed on to the hard wooden bench next to Will.
He looked up, wondering what the apology could be for. Damp soaking through the knee of his trousers told him, just as the man pointed to a spreading stain on the cloth.
‘That’s OK.’ Will smiled and dug a handkerchief out of his pocket to mop the unabsorbed spillage. ‘It happens. I was miles away.’
The other man didn’t answer.
‘You from round here?’ Will asked and watched him nod. ‘D’you farm?’
‘Not any more.’ The man took a long pull at his beer.
‘Like me. When did you sell up?’
Keep Me Alive Page 11