The Canal Murders, page 8
‘There’s nowt over there,’ Josh Marriott called after him hurriedly. ‘Just some bits and pieces for repairs.’
‘It’s quite dark here,’ Tim replied, trying to soothe the man by not showing that his curiosity had been aroused.
‘Lights in that bit must have gone. I’ll get them fixed,’ Josh said dismissively.
Tim decided not to mention that the four light bulbs had clearly been removed. He wouldn’t antagonise Josh by attempting to remove the tarpaulin himself, but he would ask what lay beneath it and see what kind of answer he could get.
‘What’s in the corner there?’
‘I told you, just some spare parts.’
‘It looks like a whole vehicle to me.’
‘It ain’t whole. It’s an old car that the boss uses for spares, that’s all. Half of it’s gone now.’
‘It looks to me as if there’s quite a lot of it left.’
‘From its shape it looks as if it might be an old Morris Minor,’ said Ricky, who had come to join Tim. ‘I’m surprised you can use them for spares for farm vehicles.’
Josh Marriott shrugged again.
‘Don’t ask me. Not my baby. I’ve got strict instructions to leave that as it is. Not that I’d be able to show it you, even if I wanted.’
‘Oh. Why’s that?’
Josh gestured triumphantly at the tarpaulin. ‘Padlocked,’ he said.
Tim moved a couple of steps closer to whatever had been packaged under the cover. It enabled him to see that the black canvas was indeed criss-crossed with several galvanised wire ropes. At all the main intersections of each of these padlocks had been fitted.
Tim decided not to press it. Instead, he met Marriott’s eye and grinned.
‘Quite a little Aladdin’s cave, this, isn’t it?’ he said jovially. Obviously relieved, Marriott nodded his head vigorously. ‘Bit of a crank, the boss,’ he said, as if in confidence. ‘But it’s all above board. You can take my word for that.’
‘I’m sure I can,’ said Tim seriously. He dared not look behind him, knowing that Ricky would be there, valiantly stifling a laugh.
‘Now, have we done in here?’ Marriott continued.
‘I think so. Is there anything else you’d like to see, DC MacFadyen?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Ricky, who, when he emerged into natural light again, had become very red in the face.
Chapter Seventeen
Juliet had arrived at work late, having stayed at home to take a call from Michael Robinson, who’d said he wanted further advice on how to deal with the media prior to another press conference he’d arranged early that morning. When she reached the station, Tim and Ricky had already left for Silverdale Farm. Andy Carstairs was going out, too, and she saw him only briefly before he disappeared.
She was grateful that she’d therefore be able to spend a few hours on her own, catching up with paperwork and trying not to think too much about the meaning of the previous evening’s events. She knew how curious her colleagues could be, and how mercilessly Tim, in particular, would quiz her if he thought she was withholding something of interest about herself. The fact that he had no right to pry into her private life didn’t seem to occur to him (though, to be fair, he had always entrusted her with a great deal of personal information about himself). She didn’t resent Tim’s inquisitiveness: she just felt unequal to dealing with it now. Her mind was in too much of a turmoil for her to be able to articulate even the briefest account.
She had barely had time to seat herself at her work station before a voice came booming over the banisters.
‘Ah, Armstrong, good morning! I was afraid you were off sick, or something. Could you come up here? There’s something I need your help with.’
Juliet prickled immediately. Of course she’d co-operate by helping Superintendent Thornton; workwise, she’d do just about anything for him that didn’t compromise her integrity. But how dare he suggest casually that she might be ‘off sick, or something’? She, who had not taken a day’s sick leave since she’d been in hospital with Weil’s disease almost four years previously and never asked for time off, except annual leave, on any other pretext whatsoever. She thought about taking issue with Thornton, pointing out the injustice of his remark, but decided that at present she didn’t have the energy to carry it through. She resolved to raise it on another occasion, when she felt mentally stronger.
She stood up slowly and had just reached the foot of the stairs when the Superintendent’s phone rang.
‘Ah... perhaps you’d better wait until I’ve taken this call, Armstrong. I think I know what it’s about: I’ve been expecting it. I’ll give you a shout when I’m ready.’
‘Just send me a quick e-mail, sir. That would be easiest.’ She saw a flicker of horror crossing Superintendent Thornton’s face before he retreated back into his office. Beleaguered as she was by her own emotions, Juliet smiled despite them.
She was nearly back at her desk before she realised she had had nothing to drink that morning except a glass of water and turned into the small, galley-like kitchen to fill the kettle. While she was waiting for it to boil she ran rapidly over the previous night’s events in her mind.
The evening had got off to an unpromising start with the appearance of the young lout at her window and Jake Fidler’s arrival while she was still in an agitated state, with her hair wet, no make-up and wearing ancient clothes. He hadn’t seemed to mind any of this – though he had been annoyed about the intruder – and the trip to Cambridge had been one of the most enjoyable car journeys she could ever remember. She had worried she’d spoilt it a little by talking too much about the victim commemorated by the roadside shrine – it was the copper in her coming out and she knew it could be unsettling – but again he’d taken it in his stride. They’d quickly forgotten about it when they reached the theatre and settled down to enjoy the play, which had been spectacularly good. Then they’d gone for a simple one-course meal in an Italian restaurant. Then he’d driven her home. And then he’d kissed her.
That was all. She hadn’t invited him in and he hadn’t suggested that she should do so. He’d kissed her, watched her into the flat, and then driven away. It was as simple and unremarkable as that.
At least, it would have been simple and unremarkable for most women. For Juliet, it was as if she’d been plunged into an earthquake. The fact was, she’d enjoyed that kiss very much indeed. And, like a teenager obsessed with her first boyfriend, she could think of little else besides when she might see Jake Fidler again.
Juliet was thirty-six. There’d been other boyfriends, but for four years or more her most intense relationships had been with women. At the beginning of that period she’d arrived at the conclusion that she was gay, although acknowledging it continued to make her uneasy. This wasn’t because she was ashamed of her sexuality. It was, however, true that although she had derived a great deal of pleasure – and, ultimately, also much pain – from the time she’d spent with her female partners, she had also known, almost from the start, that each of those relationships had lacked something. She was still trying to understand exactly what she was searching for to attain fulfilment. Despite the euphoria triggered by the previous night’s date, she was not naïve enough to think that Jake Fidler could provide her with all the answers. Instead, a new thought was growing in the back of her mind: a most unwelcome one. If there was one thing of which she was certain, it was that there could be nothing more beautiful or desirable than fidelity. Although, generally speaking, she was both liberal and tolerant in her views, she was unwavering in her opinion that those who cheated on their partners deserved only the most profound contempt. How ironical – not to say tragic – it would be to discover that she was bisexual, and needed a partner from either sex.
‘Armstrong!’
Superintendent Thornton’s voice broke through her thoughts. Preoccupied though she had been, she noticed immediately that his tone was different from when he’d summoned her a few minutes before. He sounded… panic-stricken.
‘Armstrong! Are you there? I need you to come up. NOW!’
Chapter Eighteen
Tim was about to discover what made Josh Marriott tick. He and Ricky had just been taken to the next part of the Silverdale Farm development. It consisted of another yard – this one tarmacked, and not nearly as pristine as the first – on which two tanker lorries had been parked. A small hut, evidently fashioned from a much older structure, stood at one corner of the yard. A large space separated the two lorries. Josh Marriott pointed to it.
‘That one’s out on a job,’ he said. Tim noted that he’d become more authoritative and decidedly more affable as soon as they reached this place.
‘This is mostly what I do,’ said Marriott. ‘I oversee the rest of it, but this is where I do the grafting: matching the tankers to jobs and sometimes taking them out myself. It’s proper work: I can’t think of owt more worthwhile.’
‘The tankers are booked out to empty cesspits?’ Tim asked.
‘That’s the bulk of the work. Cesspits and septic tanks – there is a difference, though most people don’t know it. We do other pumping jobs as well – blocked drains, flooded roads, you name it. Emergencies, often. But there’s lots of houses in this part of the world that isn’t on mains sewage. Deep in the Fens, there’s even places that still have earth closets.’
‘You say there are three tankers?’
‘Aye. Nathan’s out on a job with the one as goes there. It’s not a big job – that tanker’s smaller than the others.’
‘Is Nathan one of the permanent farm hands you told us about?’
Marriott threw him a withering look.
‘Not him. This is skilled work. You need to know what you’re doing with the gear and you have to get what it’s all about. Septic tanks is delicate things – they run on microbes, you’ve to be careful not to upset the balance.’
‘Fascinating!’ said Tim. ‘But who is Nathan, then?’
‘He’s subcontracted from a company based out Peterborough way. Sometimes we have two subcontracted blokes – usually in the winter, when there’s more work. Nathan’s been working for us for six months, which is longer than usual. I’m trying to persuade the boss that it’s not just a blip, that the business is growing. If he agrees, we could take Nathan on permanent, like. He’s a good worker.’
‘Where is he at the moment?’
‘He’s out Twenty way. There’s a couple of houses there as shares a cesspit. We’re called out to empty it every twelve weeks or so.’
‘That must be an expensive business. For the owners, I mean.’
Josh Marriott grinned.
‘You’re right there. You wouldn’t want to buy a house with a cesspit unless you’d got plenty of dosh. Even a septic tank’ll cost you. Still, one bloke’s meat…’
‘What did you say the difference is between cesspits and septic tanks?’
‘I didn’t, but if you’re interested, a cesspit is just a holding tank. It contains raw sewage, which has to be pumped out when it’s filled up. A septic tank still needs emptying, but it has a bit of a sewage treatment system. Nothing fancy, but the microbes I mentioned help to break the sewage down and there’s some basic drainage for the liquid effluent. It’s called a soakaway. Septic tanks are cheaper to run, because they only need emptying about once a year, but you can get into a right mess with them. You’ve to have regular soakaway tests done, to make sure the soil isn’t getting contaminated. Right up the boss’s street, that is, of course. He started the tanker business because he was dead keen on people getting it all done properly.’
‘Do you carry out these soakaway tests as well?’
‘Not officially. It’s done by the Environment Agency. But folk as uses our services regularly stands a good chance of passing the tests. And unofficially we can do a sort of pre-test, tell them whether they’re likely to pass or not.’
‘Isn’t that much the same sort of testing that Martha Johnson does to the soil here?’
Josh Marriott scowled.
‘In a way, I suppose. She’s just a tinkerer, though.’ He put on a mincing voice. ‘That last lot of compost was far too acidic, we really must try to get a better balance.’
Ricky grinned. Tim could see that Marriott’s no-nonsense attitude appealed to him.
‘Talking of Martha Johnson,’ said Tim, ‘we’d better not keep her waiting too much longer. There’s nothing else to see here, is there?’
‘Only the root crops you asked about. They’re in the fields beyond that dyke.’
‘How many fields are there?’
‘Just four. Two abreast and then another two abreast. About eight acres altogether.’
‘Mr Fovargue told me that there’s a quad.’
‘Yes, it’s a bit of a clapped-out old thing. Army surplus, I think. It’s beside the shed where Martha is, if you want to see it.’
‘We will take a look, thanks, though if it’s as battered as you say it’s unlikely to be of interest. I assume the tanker lorries are incapacitated when they’re not in use?’
‘Yeah, but who’s going to take one of those? They’d have to be really full of shit!’
Marriott cackled at his own joke.
‘You’re right,’ said Ricky, smiling. ‘But carry on incapacitating them, all the same. We’re working on the theory that some of the missing vehicles are being stolen to order. And I imagine these tankers aren’t cheap.’
‘Coming back to quads,’ said Tim. ‘Have you ever seen anyone who doesn’t belong here riding a quad across this land?’
‘Can’t say I have. But the local kids get everywhere. I can tell you I’ve had to clear off kids riding those little dirt bikes sometimes. Some kids are given quads, too, or they nick ’em.’
‘You’re right,’ said Tim, ‘although I don’t think we’re looking for joy-riders.’
Josh Marriott gave Tim one of his shifty looks.
‘Let’s go and see milady, shall we? Otherwise she’ll be pulling a long face when we get in there.’
* * *
Tim had been in Martha Johnson’s presence for less than a minute when he understood why Marriott found her so irritating. She was a chirpy little woman, rather old-fashioned for someone who hadn’t yet reached thirty, and relentlessly cheerful, but in a superior kind of way. However, what he found most striking about her was not her demeanour, but her uncanny resemblance to Susie Fovargue. She could have been a pocket version of Susie or her daughter, except that Susie was only a few years older. Sister? He wondered if he could find out without asking her directly.
‘…so we take samples of all the soil types regularly,’ she was saying. ‘We make all our own compost, and we mix it differently according to what’s being grown. Each of the Dutch lights and the raised beds has different mixes. What we’re looking for is the optimum blend for each type of crop. And sustainability, obviously. That’s at the very heart of what we do.’ She nodded enthusiastically and gave a chirruping little laugh, her auburn curls bobbing.
‘What about the fields?’ said Ricky.
‘Which fields do you mean?’
‘The ones out beyond the tanker yard. Where the root crops are being grown.’
‘Oh, we don’t bother too much about those,’ said Martha, her laughter tinkling away again. ‘This is an experimental station.’
‘But I thought one of the purposes of the soil appreciation society was to test the soil for the farms round here, see if the farming methods used are stripping it of nutrients.’
‘Certainly we’ll do that, for those who are interested,’ said Martha briskly. ‘Unfortunately, it’s mostly the small market gardeners and what you might call third-agers – incomers who’ve retired young – who really care. The big farmers don’t have much compunction about what they’re doing to the land. They’ll pay for it one day, of course.’ She accompanied her last words with a long trill, as if delighted by the prospect of a local Armageddon.
‘Why not test Mr Fovargue’s fields, in that case? It’s the nearest he comes to ‘big farming’.’
‘Oh, I may very well do, if I have time. Not that it’ll benefit anyone very much, because we don’t publish any results. I wouldn’t be averse to it, myself, but Jack thinks it would be a bad idea to get into naming and shaming, if the big farmers do ask us to do some testing eventually.’
‘I’m sure he’s right about that,’ said Tim, thinking of the Lord Lieutenant and the pompous and belligerent Mr T R Pack. ‘You seem to be very committed to your work,’ he added. ‘It’s an unusual choice of profession. How did you come to be involved with the soil? Are you a farmer’s daughter?’
‘Oh, no, I’m afraid I’m much more boring than that!’ Tim braced himself for the inevitable laugh. ‘My father’s a clergyman.’ (That explains her self-satisfiedness, and the slightly unworldly old-fashionedness of the woman, Tim observed to himself.) ‘And I’m not especially local: I come from North Lincs. I have no connections with this area except through the soil appreciation society. There’s a network of them across Europe, you know. I became interested after reading a newspaper article about them. Mr Fovargue asked the university for a student to carry out some tests here and, as I’d already enrolled for my Masters, it fitted perfectly! I shall write up the work I’m doing here for my dissertation.’
‘Which university?’ asked Tim.
‘Lincoln.’
Ricky was not alone in recognising the glance of condescension that flickered across Tim’s face. Martha Johnson was quick to disabuse him.
‘For my current research, that is. For my first degree I studied at Cambridge.’
Ricky turned away, hiding his grin.
