The Burning (31 page)

‘No thanks. A
pig’s head
?’ She dropped into a chair feeling an unaccountable mixture of horror and relief that it wasn’t something worse.

‘We’ll get forensics to look at what was left on the step, but I’m pretty sure it came out of a pig, too,’ Ryan said. ‘Have you got anything stronger than
coffee?’

Jenny nodded to the solitary bottle of red wine on the rack. ‘Help yourself. I won’t.’

‘You’re sure? You look terrible.’

‘I feel it.’

Ryan fetched a glass from the cupboard. ‘Any ideas?’

‘How long have you got?’

‘As long as you like. Unless you want to go elsewhere, I don’t think I ought to leave you here alone tonight.’ He undid the screw top and poured out a quarter of the bottle.
‘Pig’s head, slaughterhouse, Ed Morgan. Someone taking serious issue with your inquiry. I don’t know—’

‘It seems rather obvious.’

‘It is. That’s probably the idea. But how do you feel?’

‘How do you think?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Scared.’

‘Of what?’

‘I don’t know.’ Jenny gave an irritated shrug. ‘Everything.’

‘There you go. Mission accomplished.’ He took a mouthful of wine. ‘Did Fairmeadows Farm come up this morning?’

‘In passing.’

‘If that’s where Ed got rid of Robbie’s remains, there’s no way we’ll ever find out. Not a chance. So many carcasses pass through that place you’ve more
chance of finding a peanut in the Pacific. So, in a sense, the guys who own it just have to sit this all out. Except I hear they’re in competition with several other rendering plants down in
Somerset and Wiltshire. It’s a cut-throat business,’ he smiled, ‘literally. And by all accounts it doesn’t tend to attract the most sensitive souls.’

‘I have animal parts in my garden because a competitor of Fairmeadows Farm is trying to discredit them?’

‘You know how much that business turned over last year? Eight million, three-hundred and fifty thousand. That’s a large slice of pie. Easily worth the price of a hog’s head and
a bucket of guts. You get scared, call in the police, and we’re meant to jump to the obvious conclusion. Instead of poking around, we shut the place down and start fishing for DNA we’ll
never find, because we’ll look negligent if we don’t.’

Jenny wanted to believe him, but remained wary.

‘What’s your theory?’ Ryan asked, sensing that he had failed to convince her.

‘My officer thinks we have a third party involved. Someone who, perhaps even in association with Ed Morgan, was involved with the disappearance of Susie Ashton, and now all of
this.’

‘Give me one piece of evidence.’

‘The shotgun cartridges.’

Ryan was sceptical. ‘Ed’s had a shotgun for nearly twenty years. Who knows what he had rattling round his gun cupboard? He might even have thought he was being humane – smaller
shot, less mess. And don’t forget, Bob Bream’s a relation – never underestimate the fear of family stigma, especially out here.’

‘I don’t know . . .’ Jenny told him about her visit to Sandra Brooks, beginning with her story about Nicky having been shot at by Ed Morgan and ending with the discovery of the
dead dog.

Ryan listened patiently, sipping his wine until she had finished downloading. ‘Jenny? Look at me.’

She was tired, and even the effort of lifting her head felt like an effort.

‘Ed Morgan was a family annihilator. It’s the ugliest crime there is. No one wants to believe it’s possible, because if human beings can slaughter their own children it means
there really is such a thing as evil. Nicky was fourteen and full of raging hormones. She got caught up in the whole psychodrama.’ He laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Don’t torment
yourself. There is no one else.’

Jenny was too exhausted to contradict him. She got up from the table. ‘Look, you really don’t have to stay. I can call the local police. I’m sure they’ll put a man
outside if I ask them nicely.’

‘No need – I brought my overnight kit. And besides, I could do with another drink.’

‘I thought you said there was nothing to worry about?’

‘I’d like you to sleep easy, that’s all. It seems to me you’re carrying a lot for one pair of shoulders.’ He smiled. ‘All right if I take the sofa?’

It was mildly disconcerting, climbing into bed knowing that Ryan was downstairs. Despite the fact that he was a detective performing his professional duty, his presence felt somehow illicit. She
might have been imagining it, but when they had said goodnight she thought she had seen him look at her in the way he had done at the cafe in Bristol, as if he were holding on to the slender hope
that she might reconsider his offer. But still, there was nothing wrong with indulging a little escapist fantasy. What
would
she do if he tapped on her door? Pretend she hadn’t heard?
Pull back the covers and pat the sheet? Was Ryan downstairs wondering the same thing? He probably was, which was what made it fun.

Grow up, Jenny.
She laughed at herself – more in despair than with fondness – then rolled over and tried to sleep.

R
YAN WAS ALREADY DRINKING COFFEE
and making phone calls by the time Jenny came downstairs shortly after seven. ‘Hold on a moment, she’s
right here.’ He spoke to Jenny: ‘Where did you say the dead dog was?’

‘Partway up the steep track by the house, in the hedge. Why? Who is that?’

Ryan returned to the call and poured her a cup of coffee. ‘Did you get that? . . . Yesterday morning, apparently . . . Thanks. Let me know.’ He dropped the phone onto the counter.
‘Thought I’d put your mind at rest. One of our dog team is going over to take a look.’

‘Maybe they can check on Sandra while they’re at it.’

‘They will. Her husband was in touch last night from hospital – he’s not happy with the post-mortem findings. Doesn’t believe Nicky would have known how to kill herself
that way. We’re sending Family Liaison over with a laptop – they’ll show him how a five-second search would have left her spoiled for choice. Would you mind if I make some toast
before I hit the road?’

‘Help yourself.’

‘What about you?’

‘No thanks. I can’t stop thinking about that pig’s head outside my door.’

He slotted several slices of bread into the toaster, moving about the kitchen as contentedly as if it were his own. ‘Have you got anything to put on it?’

Jenny pointed to a cupboard. ‘Take your pick.’

He looked up at a shelf filled with jars. ‘You buy all this for yourself? I have a jar of peanut butter and some cobwebs.’

‘I’m not always alone.’

‘You said.’ Ryan sorted through the jars and pulled out some marmalade. ‘What does he do?’

‘He’s a pilot,’ Jenny said, hoping he might change the subject.

‘What kind of planes?’

‘Cargo, mostly.’ She sighed, deciding to come clean. Lying to him only felt like lying to herself. ‘Actually, we broke up recently.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘So’s he.’

‘Your call?’

Jenny gave him a look.

‘I know. Too many questions – my mother always said it was my biggest fault, which means it must be true.’ He poured himself some more coffee while he waited for the toast. The
conversation between them lulled. ‘Fun day ahead?’

‘Prepping for another inquest. A man who hanged himself just before Christmas. I say a man, but in fact he’d been born female.’

‘I bet you sometimes wish you’d been an accountant.’

‘Not often, but right now compiling a tax return does feel like an attractive option.’

Ryan smiled as the toaster popped. He carried his breakfast to the table, making himself comfortable.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of a man called Jacob Rozek?’ Jenny said.

‘Uh-huh. I know Rozek. Set up quite an operation. Even had girls working for him over in Gloucester. A real entrepreneur. Went missing before Christmas.’

‘I heard he was in the property business.’

‘He was, he just didn’t pay much attention to building regs. He’d buy a house, split it up, and fill it up with lucky girls from his homeland. Did one of them turn up in the
morgue? Or was it him?’

‘Neither. His lawyer pitched up in my office. He said Rozek was murdered. “Popped”, was the word he used. In the driver’s seat of his Jaguar, out near Bristol
airport.’

‘That wouldn’t surprise me. But that’s a bit off your beat, isn’t it?’

‘Why wouldn’t it surprise you?’ Jenny said, ignoring his question.

‘Running whores and slaughtering the competition isn’t often a recipe for a long life.’ Ryan persisted with his question: ‘What’s your connection?’

‘It seems Rozek might have been in touch with my suicide shortly before he died.’

Ryan nodded while chewing thoughtfully on his toast.

‘What was his line of business – the suicide?’

‘He worked at the passport office.’

‘Really?’ He shook his head as if at an unexpected coincidence. ‘Who’s the lawyer?’

‘His name’s Falco.’

‘I know. Dresses like a gangster trying to be a businessman. Wears cologne. Jesus, Jenny, are you sure you want to get involved with Polish mafia wars on top of everything else?’

‘It’s just a suicide—’

‘Yeah, of a transgender passport-office worker who was in touch with one of Bristol’s biggest criminals. Just your everyday suicide. Have CID made these connections yet?’

‘I don’t believe so.’ He had made her feel foolish and she wasn’t sure why.

‘Well, for what it’s worth, my advice is to keep Rozek and his friends out of your inquiry. It’s a hornet’s nest. Leave them to people able to defend themselves.’
Ryan swallowed the last quarter of toast, his expression becoming more serious as he thought some more about what she had told him.

‘What is it?’

‘Fairmeadows Farm. Half of their workers are Polish. Casuals who work for cash. No questions asked. I don’t know what you’ve strayed into, but it doesn’t take a lot to
start joining the dots. What was this guy’s name, the suicide? I’ll ask around.’

‘Burden. Daniel Burden.’

Ryan brought out his phone and keyed in a note of the name. ‘I can’t let you stay here alone while you’re caught up with all of this. I’ll call in on the local plod on my
way to Gloucester, sort something out for you.’

‘Should I be scared?’

‘Probably. But I get the feeling nothing I can say will make any difference.’ He carried his plate to the sink. ‘Thanks for breakfast. I’d better go and shovel up some
kidneys.’

‘Jenny, it’s Simon.’

The crisp, public-school vowels ringing out from her car speakers could hardly have belonged to anyone else. Formerly a Director in the Ministry of Justice, Simon Moreton had managed to get
himself seconded to the still-new office of the Chief Coroner situated in the Royal Courts of Justice, where he continued to perform his former role as none-too-subtle enforcer of the party
line.

‘You’re up early. I feel privileged,’ Jenny answered with a trace of sarcasm.

She came to a halt at the foot of her lane and turned right through the village of Tintern. The ruins of the abbey rose out of a ghostly dawn. As Alison had promised, more snow was starting to
fall. Jenny could hardly believe it.

‘Only for you, Jenny. Now listen, I’ve been following your family-annihilation case with interest—’

‘I’d be disappointed if you hadn’t.’

‘Can I assume from your light-hearted tone that you don’t know the reason for my call?’

‘You want to take me for lunch.’

‘Alas, not today.’

‘You’re sounding me out for Deputy Chief Coroner.’

‘I never knew you harboured such ambitions. Hmm. How interesting.’

‘No good. You’ll have to put me out of my misery.’

‘You’re leaking.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your office is leaking. Badly. Are you a user of the social media?’

‘Not if I can help it.’

‘Very wise. It’s a pity that your recently returned officer, Mrs Trent, doesn’t share the same lack of interest. Her musings haven’t quite gone viral, but they’re
enough to have the Chief choking on his cornflakes.’

Jenny had a bad feeling. ‘What happened?’

‘Apparently a young man named Simon Grant made the fourteen-year-old victim pregnant and is being treated as a murder suspect. I’ve already taken the precaution of contacting
Superintendent Abbott – the police have no suspects apart from the dead man Morgan.’

‘I know nothing about this.’ Jenny felt cold pricks of perspiration on her neck.

‘There’s more. Not only was Simon Grant having sex with Layla Hart, he was also intimately involved with one Nicky Brooks, who yesterday took her own life. There’s no direct
allegation, but the implication is clear enough.’

‘Really, I don’t understand—’

‘You haven’t heard the best bit yet; the tour de force. I quote from Mrs Trent’s Facebook page: “At the time of Susie Ashton’s disappearance, Simon Grant was a
seven-year-old boy who attended the same primary school in the nearby town of Thornbury. This placed him and his family in daily contact with the four-year-old Susie.” Thankfully it stops at
innuendo, but that’s enough for the libel courts. I’d say that was an easy seven figures for Harry Grant if he chooses to take that route.’

Jenny felt weak. She had barely pulled herself together after her conversation with Ryan. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘You don’t have to say anything, Jenny. But you will have to do something. I appreciate your long association with Mrs Trent, but this really is nothing less than gross
misconduct.’

‘She’s been ill.’

‘Quite so. And I understand you’ve been more than generous to her. I presume she’s had a full medical assessment?’

‘Not yet,’ Jenny confessed.

Moreton let out a long-suffering sigh that was only partly tinged with affection.

‘Well, if we leave aside the issue of your judgement, it does at least offer you a gentler exit route than might otherwise have been the case.’

Jenny felt her nausea return: a hard, unrelenting sensation that swept through her body and left her helpless in its grip.

‘Can I presume you’ll have this sorted out in the next hour or two?’ Moreton pressed.