‘Thanks.’ Fry took a deep breath. ‘Let’s have a word with Teasdale’s employer before we speak to the man himself.’
She took a cautious peek round the wall into the building, and was relieved to see no dead animals, and no blood.
‘Teasdale?’ said the manager when they found him in his office. ‘Keith Teasdale? Yes, he’s on the books.’
The office was like any other - a computer in the corner and a desk littered with paperwork. From the extent of it, it looked as though an abattoir manager might actually have more paperwork to deal with than a police officer, though it was hard to believe. The manager had his work clothes in a kind of anteroom with a washbasin.
‘Well, you can talk to Teasdale if you really want to. He’s around the place somewhere.’
‘How long has he been with you?’ asked Fry.
‘Oh, a year or two. I’m not sure exactly without looking it up. He’s not one of the full-time staff, you know.’
‘But experienced, though?’ ‘Experienced? Well … In what way?’
‘Experienced in the use of a knife? For bleeding animals. Gutting, and so on. Whatever it is you do here.’
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‘Teasdale?’ The manager stared at Fry. ‘We are talking about Keith Teasdale?’ ‘I believe so, sir.’ The manager began to laugh. ‘Expertise with a knife.’ He laughed some more. Cooper and Fry looked at each other. ‘Could we share the joke?’ asked Fry. The manager pulled a tissue from a box on the desk. They expected him to wipe the tears of laughter from his eyes. But instead he began to wipe his hands, rubbing between the fingers as if to dry a sudden outbreak of sweat. ‘Keith Teasdale does not use a knife in his work.’ He began to snigger again. ‘As far as I know, anyway.’ ‘So what does he do exactly, sir?’ ‘Keith Teasdale. Old Keith, eh? Expertise with a knife? Expertise with a yard brush, more like. Teasdale is a cleaner. He shoves a wet mop about the place. Not much of a lethal weapon, surely?’ ‘I see.’ ‘Unless you can be charged with being in possession of an offensive mop bucket.’ ‘But they call him Slasher at the market,’ protested Fry. ‘We call him that here too,’ said the manager. ‘Ah, I see. What’s in a name? Is that evidence against him, then?’ Now another tissue had to be used. And this one did go to the face to mop up the tears. ‘Do you want me to tell you how he got the nickname “Slasher”?’ A man appeared in the doorway of the anteroom,
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hesitated when he saw the visitors and began to go away again with an apologetic nod. ‘Hey, Chris,’ called the manager. ‘This is the police. They want to know why we call Keith Teasdale “Slasher”!’ The other man began to laugh too. ‘Are you going to tell them?’ ‘Of course. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but I’ ‘Poor old Keith.’ They both laughed for a while. Fry was beginning to go pink with anger. ‘Basically, Keith Teasdale has a bladder problem,’ said the manager. ‘Sorry, didn’t I explain? We’re police officers, not doctors.’ ‘No, but that’s why he got his nickname, you see. He’s always having a slash somewhere. Round the back of the building. In the lorry park. Over by the hedge there. It got to be a joke that any time you went round a corner, there was Keith having a slash. One day the ministry inspectors were here, and they saw him at it. He got a real ticking off then. Head office wanted me to sack him. But he’s harmless really. Since then, he’s had to put up with everyone calling him Slasher, though. It’s become quite a joke, I can tell you.’ ‘I’m positively splitting my sides, as you can see, sir.’ The manager looked at her. ‘Well, you have to be a part of it to appreciate it, I suppose. You develop a peculiar sort of sense of humour working here.’ ‘So I gather.’
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When they finally located Keith Teasdale, he was digging a solidified mass of dead leaves out of a drain cover behind the abattoir. There was a curious smell on this side of the building, more reminiscent of a butcher’s shop than a hospital. But the brush Teasdale clutched in one hand looked particularly unthreatening.
‘I’ve already told you I’ve been up to Warren Leach’s place,’ he said.
‘Known him for long?’ asked Cooper.
‘Yes, years. How old is his eldest lad, Will? Eleven? I remember when he was just a nipper. He wanted to help me with the rats once, because he took a liking to the terriers. But his dad stopped him coming near me. He always was a bit of a sour bugger, Warren.’
‘Would you say you know him well?’
‘No one knows Warren well. It doesn’t do to get too close to him. Nasty temper, he has.’
Teasdale folded his hands over the end of his brush. His fingers that had turned brown and creased and faintly shiny, matching his corduroy trousers.
‘But you’re still doing work for him. You were at Ringham Edge Farm on Sunday,’ pointed out Cooper. ‘I was. But Warren sent me packing, like I said. No
money to pay for rodent control, he said. Can you believe it? That’s no good on a farm, no good at all. You can’t have rats round a milking parlour. It should be clean, like this place is.’
‘When was the last time you went before that?’ Teasdale rolled his eyes and chewed the tips of his moustache. ‘Can’t remember exactly. It’d be a month or two, anyway. Is it important, then? Am I a witness?’
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‘Have you noticed anything unusual going on at the farm?’ asked Fry.
‘Unusual? There’s nothing much usual about Warren Leach.’
‘What about Mrs Leach? Do you know her?’
‘Her you never see. Well, maybe just a passing glimpse now and then. But she never speaks, never wants to say hello. She’s unsociable. But then, she is married to Warren, so you can’t blame her, I reckon.’
Teasdale seemed to get bored with the conversation suddenly and tossed his clump of leaves into a wheelbarrow, where they landed with a wet thud.
‘Did they tell you in there what they call me?’ he said, watching the leaves shift and settle in the barrow. ‘Yes, they did,’ said Cooper.
Teasdale nodded. ‘They love it. They think it’s a great laugh here, and at the mart. They usually tell people to ask me to demonstrate. Did they tell you that?’
‘Yes,’ said Cooper. ‘But don’t bother.’
