“And put it in the cellar of Pelling House?”
Having totally captured their attention, he now didn’t seem to mind having his narrative hurried. “That’s right. And there was an old bit of chipboard down there, so – remembering what Roddy said about keeping things tidy – I boarded the space up with that.” He gestured with pride around the interior he could not see. “Nice bit of chipboard makes a big difference to how a place looks.”
“But did you board it up because you knew what was in the box?”
“No. Just so’s to keep things nice and tidy.” The way he gave the answer provided a completely logical explanation for his actions.
“But I guess you know now what was in it?” said Ted Crisp, unable to maintain his back-seat position any longer.
“I’ve got a pretty good idea, yes,” the old man replied. “Then why didn’t you tell anyone?” demanded Carole. “Because no one asked me. Till now.”
“The police haven’t been in contact with you?”
He shook his head. “Not much use as a witness once you lose your sight, you know.”
“And you never had any conversation with Roddy about what you’d done?”
“Nope. He’d paid me the hundred up front. Only times I saw Roddy afterwards was in the Coach and Horses or one of the other pubs, pretty drunk, never on his own; wasn’t the opportunity for conversations about the contents of his cellar. Anyway, very soon he’d got Pelling House on the market, and I assumed whatever was in that box’d been moved out.”
“Hm.” Ted Crisp scratched his beard disconsolately. “So, Carole, we’re still no closer to knowing who actually killed Virginia Hargreaves.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Mind you, Roddy seems even further out of the frame than ever. If he had done it and knew the torso was in the boatsheds, there’s no way he would have asked Bob to clear them out, is there?”
Ted’s shaggy head shook. “No way. So what have we got?”
“It’s something to do with the people who work – or who have worked in Fedborough. I think we’re back to butchery.”
“Hm?” He looked puzzled.
“We’ve got another detail, you see. The box the torso was in originally contained meat. And we mustn’t forget how neatly the corpse was dismembered. Definitely a professional job, according to James Lister.”
“So does he become your number one suspect?”
“His wife Fiona would have had the skills to do it, too.”
“And of course,” said Bob Bracken slowly, “they’re not the only people in Fedborough who’re trained butchers. There was always the Listers, but there was the Trollope family too.”
“Look, if you’re going to push me in the bloody river,” Jude shouted through the locked door, “do it! Just get on with it!”
“Not yet,” said her captor’s voice, still calm, as it had been since they met that afternoon. “Don’t want any witnesses. Some people just went to visit Bob Bracken in one of the houseboats further along. I’ll wait till they’ve gone back into town.”
The wait was not long. Jude was in the tiny washroom when she heard the thumps of two people jumping from deck to towpath. As the familiar legs walked past, she smashed the plastic lavatory brush against the tiny porthole with all her strength.
The glass was too strong to give, and too thick for the sound to penetrate.
Carole and ‘led didn’t hear her, and hurried on towards Fedborough Bridge.
? The Torso in the Town ?
Forty
Her customary good manners forgotten, Carole Seddon hammered hard on the door. “I don’t understand why we’re here,” Ted Crisp complained behind her. “I don’t see what the reason – ”
“This is the only lead we’ve got. We must save Jude. I’m certain she’s with the person who murdered Virginia and Roddy Hargreaves.”
When the door was opened by a surprised-looking Alan Burnethorpe, Carole blurted out, “All right, where is she?”
“Joke? She’s not here.”
Pushing past him into the hall of 47 Pelling Street with uncharacteristic force, Carole announced, “I must see her!”
“Joke’s away for the weekend with the kids. In Naaldwijk with her parents. I’m on my own.”
“I wasn’t talking about Joke! You’ve got someone else here!”
“Who’s there? Is that Carole?”
It was a woman’s voice, but it wasn’t Jude’s. Carole looked up to where the words had come from. At the top of the splendid staircase stood Debbie Carlton. Except for a towel gathered hastily round her waist, she was naked.
“Debbie, Jude’s missing! She’s not here, is she?”
“Good heavens, no.”
“I think she’s in serious danger!”
“What the hell’s going on here?” Alan Burnethorpe looked grudgingly out to an embarrassed Ted Crisp, still poised in the doorway. “You’d better come in. We don’t want all Fedborough hearing about this.”
As the door closed behind him, the landlord of the Crown and Anchor stood awkwardly in the hall, looking at anything other than Debbie Carlton’s small pointed breasts.
“Now can we have some explanations?” asked Alan Burnethorpe wearily. “Your friend isn’t here. Nor’s Joke. What is it you want?”
Carole was nonplussed. She had steamed up to 47 Pelling Street, convinced that she was going to find Jude there. Now she had to find some explanation for her arrival that didn’t accuse her unwilling host of abduction and worse crimes.
“It’s to do with the time Virginia Hargreaves disappeared…” she improvized desperately. “The time she was murdered.”
“In that case, I don’t want to hear about it. You have pushed your way into my house and – ”
“No, Alan. I want to hear about it.” Debbie Carlton, completely unashamed – or perhaps unaware – of her nakedness, was moving slowly down the stairs. “What is this?”
Carole’s mind was moving fast. Having rejected one idea, she had stumbled on to something potentially even more promising. She pieced her thoughts together. “The week before Virginia Hargreaves died, she was ill, confined to bed. Joke, as her housekeeper, had to look after her. I wanted to ask Joke the exact nature of her employer’s illness.”
“I can tell you,” said Alan Burnethorpe curtly. “If it means you leave my house quicker, I will tell you.”
“How do you know?”
“Let’s say I was…in touch with Virginia Hargreaves at the time. She was suffering from food poisoning. Salmonella.”
“From something she had eaten?”
“Yes.”
“Something cooked by Joke?”
“Probably.”
As Alan Burnethorpe spoke, Carole looked at Debbie Carlton. Her face was almost as pale as her blonde hair. What had just been said contained some private pertinence for her.
“One more question,” said Carole. “Alan, are you related to the Trollope family?”
“The butchers?”
He looked at her in bewilderment, then turned towards Debbie as she said, “He’s not, but I am. My mother was Len Trollope’s daughter.”
