The Food Detective (25 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

Hell for leather. Not round these lanes. Not in a car I hardly knew. And not with a cattle-wagon coming towards me, more on my side of the lane than on his. Thank God for a fortuitous
gateway
.

Men drivers!

Hang on. Not the whole sex. But male lorry drivers. I’d had my fill of them recently, none of them just bad, more hostile. And there might well be more coming, like troubles, in
battalions
. If one came at me at this speed along a deep gully like this, the best I’d be able to do would be to slew the car across its path, the passenger side taking the worst of the impact. I hoped. Maybe then I’d be sufficiently protected to be able to crawl out of the wreck, even if that left me vulnerable to the lorry driver.

In the event, there was no need for all that ghoulish forward planning. I met no more lorries, nor any other vehicles.

But there was plenty of activity by the entrance to the rending plant, as I discovered when I cased the joint. Sorry about the lingo.

I’d tucked the rental car under as much cover as I could find, inching my way on foot the last fifty yards or so. The walking stick felt reassuring, but maybe it’d be more hindrance than help. What about ditching it now? Then I thought of the dogs in that compound, and though I imagined any animal here should be sated on marrow bones a-plenty, I’d prefer something in my hand apart from a camera.

It was the camera I used first. The short driveway was fully occupied by a tow-truck, winching a silver four-wheel drive. No, I couldn’t see anyone in it. That didn’t mean there wasn’t. After all, if you’re going to tow an ex-policeman’s vehicle with him still in it, you’re going to have to truss him first. Well, most ex-
policemen
. Nick was probably in one of his damned brown studies, wondering if he should breathe or not.

Plenty of photo opportunities, anyway. Thank goodness for telephoto lenses. I beat a strategic retreat while the Wetherall man – yes, his name was blazoned on his overalls – yelled final instructions.
I couldn’t pick up much, but I’d swear he said something about ‘same place as before’.

It was time the police turned up, surely. OK, it was a largely rural force, and you couldn’t expect them to turn out in their hundreds to a location as far from a town as this. But there should be some action. There should be someone to barge into that office building, where the Wetherall man had ambled, laughing loudly. No sign of any dogs.

Good job. He’d left the gate slightly ajar.

Ajar enough for someone my size to squeeze through without pushing on something that might squeak loudly enough to attract attention. The stick? Ditch it now? More in hope than expectation, I left it hanging where a passing cop might see it. Even one as slow as these seemed to be might see it as a Clue. OK, a passing Wetherall man might see it too, but by then I’d be committed one way or another.

Gagging, I reached for the peppermints.

It wasn’t just the smell – correction, smells. Imagine the worst butcher’s shop on the hottest day. There was that sort of sweet blood smell coming from huge open skips, grotesque with limbs waiting to be processed. Then there was the worst sort of rancid butter smell, no, nothing as wholesome as butter. Tallow, that was it. And curls of greasy smoke seeped from the chimneys dropping smuts you couldn’t brush off.

Had the concentration camps been like this? Only a thousand times worse because when all was said and done, these were only animal remains.

Or were they?

If I wanted to dispose of a body, wouldn’t I do it here? Had Fred Tregothnan’s blood joined that in the vat over there? It was so full that when the wind blew, a little dribbled over the edge. Hence the puddle of gore below it. There was an even larger puddle under the neighbouring vat. Surely this must be why that stream was pink.

A few yards nearer the office were more open tanks, the source of the tallow smell. Several of these were leaking too. There were other, smaller tanks, these roughly sealed. Presumably they held
matter that could be transformed into capsule casings or lipsticks and rated more care. Not enough in my book.

If it was here Fred had been – I sought for a word but could come up with nothing better than ‘disposed of’ – there’d never be any body for the police to find. As for his car, that might provide evidence, if it could ever be found. Perhaps I should have tailed the tow truck.

But finding a car’s graveyard wasn’t as important as preventing another disposal.

Could I hope that Nick was still alive? In the remote hope he was, I’d still need back-up to rescue him, and strain though my ears might there was still no sign of ‘blues and twos’, the flashing lights and sirens heralding the arrival of the police. Perhaps there was a different term these days: I could have done with Tony to tell me. I could have done with Tony beside me now.

Perhaps he was there. I could hear him say, ‘Better get in there, gal,’ as clear as if he were whispering in my ear. So get in I’d better.

There was nothing to prevent me. It was only an ordinary office, after all. So I pushed on the door, almost expecting a Cruella de Ville of a receptionist to halt me in my tracks.

I followed the sound of male voices. You don’t expect West Country burrs ever to sound threatening – London accents, yes, or Liverpool. But there was something in the very blurred vowels and consonants that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. Yes, a dog can sound nastier when it growls than when it barks. Although one had now started to do just that. No, the bark broke into a snarl, quickly choked off. Someone was holding it on a tight leash.

To torment someone? These villagers liked that sort of pastime.

On impulse I dialled 999 again, leaving the call open. With luck, someone might pick up what was going on.

I inched closer, as close to the wall as I could, but needing to peer round the door to see.

Nick was just within my line of sight. He was pressed back against a wall, not yet handcuffed. But who need to be pinioned,
when they had that dog for company? I couldn’t risk a proper glance round the door, because the dog’s ear had cocked and turned. Its humans were too busy discussing what to do with their prisoner and irritating the animal by sporadic jerks on its chain to notice. With luck.

To Nick’s right, and my left, was the sort of desk I associated with the teacher’s desk my school days, the solid oak sort now replaced by those dinky ones which even the teacher must have lest anything grown-up intimidates the kids. My teachers had sometimes left their drawers ajar, too, so you could see chalk and registers and bottles of ink. They certainly never crammed them with money. I’d not seen so much cash since Tony’s heyday. Yes, literally wads of used notes, not just fivers, either. There must have been tens of thousands there.

One or two of my teachers had blotters or even jam-jars full of flowers brought by an anxious child or sycophantic parent. Much as some had needed them, they’d never had a collection of guns. There were a couple of modern ones, but most must have dated back to one of the world wars. Open boxes of bullets and cartridges jostled for space.

If only Nick had had a couple of minutes, he could have loaded one and shot his way out of the situation. I could. Tony had always made sure I could handle guns. But I was a matter of yards away, and Nick would have to take only two steps.

The obvious thing was for me to create a diversion, to give him long enough to act. But even if I sang the national anthem and tap-danced round the room, there was no guarantee Nick would do anything. Brown study man, Nick, remember. The last man to trust your life to in this situation.

If only I had a weapon myself, my walking stick for instance. Oh, yes. Fat lot of help that would be against two men and a dog. I’d have done better to bring some aniseed. OK, there was only one thing to do. It might take time but maybe they were enjoying themselves enough.

The problem would be if I didn’t have the guts to do it. Actually, I had plenty of guts. And horns, and hooves and nice long bones. Tibias? Yes, one for the dog, one as a Stone Age
weapon.

My stomach heaved as I selected them, and my fingers loathed the slime of the rotting flesh, but choose I did, yanking them from a skip with lower sides than most. And letting others fall with a nice echoing bang as I did it. I didn’t even have time to swear. I was back in that office block as if I were running away from the danger, not towards it.

I even yelled, as I hoped Boadicca might have yelled. Just to make sure Nick knew what he ought to be doing if he got the chance.

First the scuffle of paws trying to get purchase on the office floor. Yes. I held the tibia’s knee end forward, and managed, just as the dog leapt forward, to ram it down its throat. That left me with one to whirl about my head as I screamed and shouted.
For God’s sake, Nick, take the hint!
If only there were a Tony inside his head too.

One man erupted into the passage, gun – small, modern version – at the ready. Just as he did so the bone slipped from my hand. It hit him on the temple: nothing to do with me, honestly.

As he thudded to the floor, the other man appeared. His gun wasn’t just ready. It was held the way Tony had told me, steady and dangerous. And he wasn’t going to mess around. I heard my voice pleading. I didn’t want it to. But words just came out.

Pity? Compassion? No, he relished the moment. He smiled as his finger tightened on the trigger. I could see the joint whitening. This was it then. Oh, God, this was it. ‘Tony,’ I yelled.

And for a fraction of a second, he looked over my shoulder along the corridor.

Two gunshots, immensely loud in the confined space. Definitely two.

Blood exploded all over the wall. His, not mine. But it could just as easily have been mine too because his bullet buried itself in the ceiling inches from my head.

Nick. He’d come to his senses not even a second too late.

All Tony’s training about staying cool and I started to whimper. The whimpering became sobs, just small ones at first, then great silly convulsions pushing their way from my diaphragm, or
wherever sobs start from. They were so loud I didn’t hear the police at first, or rather, didn’t make sense of what they were saying. I couldn’t have responded anyway: my legs had given way and I was huddled on the floor like a baby failing in its first steps. I couldn’t even cover my face, my hands smelt so vile.

If only I was the sort of woman who could pass out.

But I couldn’t. At last it dawned on me the police were telling me to lie down, so I did.

Only, a few moments later, to have Nick helping me up. It seemed we were both all right.

With all the filth and decay outside, I hadn’t expected much of the loos, nor did I get it. But at least there was hot water and a bottle of dishwashing liquid, so in theory I could get most of the mess off my hands. But my nose insisted the stench remained, and I scrubbed and scrubbed, much as I’d have liked to see what was going on.

I emerged into the corridor to find it full of paramedics and armed policemen, most of whom were too busy with the dog and the injured men to notice me. There was no sign of Nick anywhere. So I wandered back into the office I’d only so far glimpsed a corner of. Yes, an Aladdin’s cave of armaments and money, all prosaic and mundane, nothing like the stuff of fairy tales.

‘Not a bad haul,’ DCI Evans observed, putting out a restraining hand.

‘Don’t worry. I wouldn’t touch any of it. Blood money.’

‘Amazing thing, greed. A couple of years ago this was a perfectly legitimate plant – OK, it was doing unpleasant work, but as they say, someone’s got to. See?’ He pointed to certificates framed and tacked to the wall.

‘They were even proud of the place. Same as I was of my first hygiene certificate.’

‘They won’t be getting many of those!’ he snorted.

‘Where’s Nick?’

‘In an ambulance. He seems to have had – some sort of a turn. They want to take him off to Exeter, but he won’t go till he’s
spoken
to you. Josie,’ he added, as I headed for the door, ‘go easy on him. He’s not a pretty sight.’

‘Go easy! He saved my life, Evans.’ None of this first name business. Not yet. ‘Which considering his past is possibly the bravest thing he’s ever done. Like a man with shell shock going back to the trenches. That sort of brave.’

‘How did you know?’

‘A spot of research and a lot of guesswork. And you?’

‘His personnel records. Seems there was an incident in some Birmingham suburb.’

‘Kings Heath,’ I supplied.

‘Right. And this nutter decided to kill his girlfriend. The police were called –’

‘Nick was first on the scene?’

‘Right. Not trained for that sort of thing. Who is? You can
reason
with sane folks, but not –’

‘Not someone who believes the girl’s pregnant with the Antichrist and wants to crucify the foetus.’

‘Quite. He did his best. There was even talk of a commendation. But he turned it down. And after that his career stopped in its tracks. You wouldn’t know to see him now but he was a
high-flyer
, tipped for the very top.’