Fatlands (25 page)

I understood now that I could never have saved her. The papers in her hand, the phone call, the car keys, it was all part of a complex, orchestrated dance of death, and I had never even got near the dance floor. But Shepherd's death had been more mine than I had realized. By telling him what I knew about Mattie's animal rights affair and her fingers in his filing cabinet I had lit a fuse which could lead only back to him.

I could see him now in his study, knowing exactly where to look and knowing exactly what it was he wouldn't find. Who else to call but the man with the copy? The only man he felt he could trust. For so long I had thought he must have been calling Vandamed, to warn them that the proof of his secret—whatever it was—
had gone. It never occurred to me that they might be the ones who had taken it.

The question is, did it occur to him too? Vandamed's own brand of rat poison. Murder or suicide? Maybe it didn't even matter that much. Poor old Shepherd. If only he'd been able to tell me. Or someone else. They might not have loved each other till death did them part, but she was his wife. She would at least have listened.

Come on, Hannah. No time for pity now. I looked at my watch. It was just before 2.00 p.m. Frank had said he'd be back after lunch. I needed to talk to him so badly, but I didn't have a lot of time to spare. Knowing Maurice's itchy finger with the dial he would already be on the phone now, calling his minders. If he made it sound urgent enough they just might find the boss after all. As for the reception that Ellroy was due to attend that evening, well, it was apparently rather hush-hush. If it was to celebrate what I thought, then it was interesting that Clapton hadn't been invited. Maybe I wasn't the only one to have doubts about his reliability.

I drove back into town and went straight to the office. No one was there. There were four messages on the answering machine. I rolled them back. Two inquiries from bona fide members of the public, one from Frank's wife and one from Hannah. I listened to my own voice telling of an after-dark appointment with animal rights. What a lot had happened since then. It was impossible to tell whether or not Frank had called in and heard it. But if he had, he'd left no message in reply. I sat down at the computer and wrote him a little essay.

It took longer than I expected, but then there was a lot to say. Insurance, really. Just like poor old Tom Shepherd. Making sure those who ought to know, do. Of course, it wasn't without its loose ends, but with luck Frank and I would have those stitched up by the end of the day. I
printed it out and saved the file. I called it ‘PORKIES '. Because that was basically what it had all been. I put it in an envelope on his desk. On the top I wrote ‘FRANK' in big bold letters, and then, ‘Read this before you do anything else.' Then I used the fax line as a phone to dial into our answering machine and left a fifth message. It read: ‘There's a letter on your desk. But if you get this message later than 3.30 p.m. Thursday, meet me first. From 6.00 on I'll be at the Hortley Hotel outside Framlingham.

I reckoned it would take me the best part of two hours to get there. After that I had no real plan at all. I knew enough to know that I shouldn't move without Frank. But I also knew I couldn't leave it too long. Besides, if Vandamed had something to celebrate, it was most definitely the time for us to join in.

The Hortley Hotel was just as I remembered it. But the weather wasn't as good. Already the blossom was ragged, soaked and blown away by wild coast winds. It was just six days since Nick and I had been here, petting under the apple boughs with a future together still a possibility.

Nick. I hadn't given him much thought these last two days. I let him walk into my imagination and take off a few clothes. But the signal was weak, cluttered with the aftermath of another man's violence and my need to pay back my debts. And it went deeper than that. In the end despite all the pig meat I think Nick and I had probably died of natural causes. His post-mortem would no doubt favour a different pathology—one that included my lack of commitment and an unbalanced, obsessional attitude to work. And, of course, he'd be partially right. All I would say in my own defence is that as male problems go it is always more evident in the female. And that I am not unaware of it. As he—and others before him—had said, maybe it was just a question of meeting the right man. Of course I find the idea insulting (when did anyone ever suggest it to
Philip Marlowe?), but I don't rule it out altogether. I 'll keep you informed on that one. For now the only man I really needed to meet was my boss.

I had alighted on the Hortley Hotel more out of chance than design. Near and yet so far. But it felt like a good choice, a place public enough not to stand out, and private enough to be alone, where the clientele—it was Thursday night so there was little passing trade—was more small-town business then average pig farmer.

Even so, as local memories go, last weekend was recent enough for me still to be something of a celebrity. I went to work on my physiognomy. The hospital nurse had equipped me with some clever make-up (Nick had obviously triggered in her illusions of a romantic recovery), which I hadn't bothered with up until now as it looked too crude, but when applied thickly enough it did something to obscure the bruising. The eye it couldn't touch, but a pair of tinted glasses helped. Of course it didn't exactly render me invisible, but then what woman wants that …?

I got there just before 6.00 p.m. I sat nursing a large orange juice and looked out over the gardens down to the pond, waiting for my favourite ex-policeman to arrive.

I was so busy thinking, winding the Ariadne thread of the story back towards the centre of the labyrinth, that I didn't notice him come in. So the first I knew was an unexpectedly soft, lilting voice, really quite attractive, not at all like the carrion call across the dark stream behind the pub.

‘Hello, Hannah. Sorry I'm late.' Loverboy at last.

At least he was better-looking than Frank. To have found me he must have been looking hard. That made me happy. How much he would have destroyed following in my footsteps was a little more worrying, but I would no doubt find out soon enough. For now I was too excited
by the meeting. He had great physical presence, I grant you that. But then, of course, I had more reason than most to remember it. He was older than the Vandamed mug shot, more mature even than Mattie's furtive snap, which made him not that much younger than me. Full frontal, the face was a little too broad to be really stunning, and the hair was different, dark now and cropped right back, more James Woods than James Dean. But the same man, and one that most women would be tempted to get into bed with. Unless, of course, you knew where he'd been.

He watched me for a second and there was a kind of pride in the look. A man surveying his handiwork. I wanted to ask him if it was better than sex, but didn't want to hear the answer. For Mattie's sake I hope he was equally adroit at both. He put out a hand on the table in front of me. I glanced down. In the fleshy curve between thumb and first finger there was a small but perfectly formed bite-sized welt. I looked up at him. Put your fingers in my mouth next time, buddy, and I'll chew them off. Only now did the fear return. I felt a sick surge of panic in my gut. And something worse near by.

‘Are you pleased to see me or is that just a knife in your pocket?' I said, and my voice was OK, a little throaty but firm. Humour. Refreshing the bits that other emotions can't reach.

‘Well, you know how it is, Hannah? Some women you just can't leave alone. We're going now, all right. Arm in arm. Just like we can't get enough of each other. If you make any move or say anything at all, I'll stick you with six inches of steel.' And I knew that he meant it.

We got up and walked out, his arm around my waist, the edge of the blade lying like a shard of ice against my side. A man reading a copy of the
Financial Times
glanced up as we passed, then back down at the state of the economy.

The driveway was deserted. His van was parked off the road, an ordinary tradesman's Transit, nothing fancy, a hundred of them to be seen every day pootling down country lanes. The back door was already open. Just as we got there he wrenched me round to face him; lovers'rough stuff, an embrace too tight for breath, let alone a knee up into the groin. For a second I almost thought he was going to kiss me, but once again it was all for show. Where his lips should have been there was a nasty-smelling rag. Over the nose and into oblivion. Chloroform; you'd think a drugs company could manage a little more sophistication …

It was dark, but the smells were not Ford Transit kinds. Welcome back to the sweet stench of the piggies. I could hear them near by, a raucous screeching sound, panic and fear in equal measures. I moved and felt rustling straw beneath me. Away in a manger. Nobody ever mentions the pig shit. And the noise. Not just animal but mechanical: somewhere in the background the clanking and turning of machinery. I moved some saliva around and spat it out on the ground. I wiped my lips on the back of my hand, then pulled myself up on the edge of the pen.

At the far end of the shed the pens had been dismantled to be replaced by one big enclosure. Inside pigs huge with hormone flesh were packed so closely together that they could hardly move. They were jostling against some big wooden doors at the end of the pen. I thought about the geography of the building. Outside those doors would be that crude little concrete corridor connecting one shed to the other. At last I understood its function. I also understood the function of the machinery. I wasn't the only one. No wonder the animals were squealing. These big piggies go to market. Vandamed had no doubt stopped giving them the tranquillizers. What had Maringo told me about having to withhold drugs for a certain
number of days before slaughter to avoid cross-over? Bit of a joke really, considering what some of them would be carrying around in their kidneys. The sight of them made me feel sick. Or maybe it was the smell. Or the remains of the chloroform. I turned and slid down on to the floor again, propping myself up against the side of the pen. Better this way round. Apart from the view.

There, leaning over the opposite rail, watching his captive wild life was the managing director of Vandamed International, British Division. He looked surprisingly at ease in his suit amid all the shit and filth. I've had enough of this, I thought, being put to sleep by thugs and waking up in strange places with suave men watching over me.

‘How you feeling?' he said raising his voice over the screeching.

‘Better than the pigs.'

He glanced at them, then back at me. ‘I suppose it doesn't help. Knowing they're part of history.'

Time for the civilized conversation. Thank God for a man who'd read the books. ‘You got the go-ahead, then?'

‘Two days ago. Successful final trials. Now full-scale production.'

‘Shame the architect didn't live to see his house built.'

‘It is indeed. We could have made it a grander celebration. As it is, without Tom—well, it's just a token effort. A couple of managers from the meat industry, some journalists—'

‘And a few suckling pigs,' I said, as the sound of their terror welled up all around us.

He shrugged. ‘All humanely dispatched according to the rule book, I assure you. You know, this is a big moment for us, Hannah. By the end of next year we should be in a position to start feeding some of the profits back into the community. We're planning on creating a Shepherd research fund. It'll be a lot of money.'

‘What will it research? Unexplained heart attacks among the nation's pig-eaters?'

He shook his head. ‘Shame. I thought you might pretend you didn't know.'

‘How could I do that when Maurice Clapton's already been on the phone to you. I assume he got through?' He didn't say anything for a bit. In fact he looked quite troubled. Or as troubled as a man can look when facing a future of promotion and profit. ‘Such a corporate-spirited chap, eh? Sending you the only copy of Shepherd's report. Which just left the problem of the original. I must say it was a great plan, Ellroy. You target Shepherd by sending incriminating evidence to animal rights, then have Mattie keep up the flow. And using your “student/infilitrator” to recruit her was a masterstroke. Sex and politics. Irresistible to a young girl. Shame she couldn't find the one thing you were looking for. Not that it mattered that much. I mean when Shepherd threatened to cause trouble, all you had to do was to send a few death threats of your own, find the right time and place, and boom, Tom becomes a martyr to science, Mattie confesses, and the police go on a wild goose chase around school gardens and student campuses, with all roads leading back to animal rights. Nobody's bothering much about secret reports. What were you going to do? Offer to help the police go through his papers to check for industrially sensitive material? Why not? After all, you were the good guys, weren't you?

‘As I say, great plan. You weren't to know that Shepherd would screw it up by spending the night in the lab and sending someone else to bring Mattie to London. And of course, she didn't know anything about it. For her it was business as usual. Back in the house and up to Daddy's study again, on the look-out for something tasty to take back to loverboy. Only this time she looked in the
right place. For the record it was under the carpet. Well, where else would you put your dirty work? Trouble is, she was bright enough to realize what it was she'd found. To know that this time she had dynamite of a different kind—enough to blow Vandamed International clear out of the water and make her young gardener love her for ever.'

He opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. Across the shed the outside door had opened, a long rasping noise of iron. Standing there, under the light of a single bulb, was the man of my dreams. Come back for more fun. I swallowed hard. What had Frank said about the face he wouldn't see in hell? I wish I could have been so sure. I gave him a big, sassy smile. There are certain times in one's life when you need to make an impression.