Cold to the Touch
Cold to the Touch
Sarah Fortune [6]
Frances Fyfield
UK (2009)
Things are not going well for prestigious lawyer and
professional mistress Sarah Fortune. Her life is a mess, but it would be
so much simpler to try and fix somebody else's. So when she meets the
vulnerable and troubled Jessica Hurley, Sarah feels she must save
her.Jessica longs to return to the small village where she grew up, but
she has burned all her bridges. Instead, Sarah travels to Jessica's
cloistered hometown to repair the wreckage of her friend's past—and to
solve the mystery of why she left in the first place.But when Sarah
arrives, she finds that Jessica is even more unwelcome than she thought,
and suddenly Jessica is missing, her number unavailable. Sarah's
increasingly desperate search for her tortured friend takes her to
places even colder than the grave.
To Barbie Boxall
with love
A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Elizabeth and Brett Luckhurst.
ROLOGUE
Scene One
S
mithfield, London in the darkest hours before dawn on a winter’s night.
She was drunk, inebriated, intoxicated, pissed, something like that, no doubt about it. Plus a little something else which made these bright lights extra bright, and the colours of the vast wrought-iron gates very strange. Such great big gates, made to repel and attract multitudes, each thirty feet high and standing open, decorated with huge motifs of Tudor roses and curlicues painted turquoise, pink and purple without a single sharp angle. These gates rose to a point half the height of the domed glass ceiling inside. She noticed a single seagull wheeling above the building, its plaintive mewling audible above the hum of noise, and the profile of its wings caught in the glow of light which came through the roof and that stopped her. How strange to be able to hear
that
above everything else and to be able to see it so clearly.
She looked at her own hands. Hardly a tremor. She was not so drunk after all; she could even tell the time. Drawn by
the golden glow of light and life, she walked towards Grand Avenue, pausing to touch the iron of the gates and look at the old clock hanging from the ceiling and then retreating to the other side of the road to finish her cup of tea first. The tea was strong and bitter, looking like rusty water in a white beaker, but it would be a shame to leave any of it. She lit another cigarette and watched a limousine with darkened windows stop further down the road, the vehicle contrasting nicely with the white vans that proliferated otherwise. Someone got out of the driver’s side and went into the light of Grand Avenue. It could not be him, because he never drove himself, but still her heart beat faster. Not him; he could no longer drive. He would walk the short distance or be driven in a taxi and a taxi would take him back.
The white vans were more at home with the white light, and men in white coats and matching hard hats standing outside the gates, smoking as if each drag was the last, chatting quietly, too, as if the conversation was the purpose of living.
How’s business then? Bad? Good? Middling?
Men lied all the time, especially about business. There was not a woman in sight, except for the girl behind the counter in the caff, although there were bound to be women inside because shopping for meat was not the sole prerogative of men even if the buying and selling of it wholesale was.
Sitting around for an hour had made her numb. She knew the temperature would be cool in there even though it gave the impression of heat. Dressed as she was, she was burning up because Le Club Solstice had been as hot as hell. What a laughable contrast there was in this scenery of brick walls, darkness, light, pink and purple Tudor roses, men in white coats against a nightlife of frantic dancing in another kind of meat market on the opposite side of a road.
The Cock Tavern inside the precincts of Grand Avenue was the place where those who traded in meat or dismembered it could buy their alcohol any time and no one would think twice about a lone woman buying either vodka or breakfast. He could be there but she didn’t think so, not his scene. He would be selecting and buying. The tea and the fresh air had done the trick; she was halfway sober and still angry, touched her bare arms where the skin felt warm, clutched her bag to her side and set off. She was a cook, she would tell them: she had every right to be here in the interests of her own science, and didn’t they know her? She had been there before on the arm of a meat-buying man with money, influence, all that shit. A good-looking man, if you liked them with fine, cruel faces.
Beyond the gates inside Grand Avenue she encountered a sea of light and quiet industry. She walked as far as the clock. From here, two further avenues led off left and right, stretching into brightly lit infinity in rows of shopfronts full of flesh. She knew where he would pause, where he had been proud to show it to her once if only from the outside, and she squinted at the numbers on the various stalls she passed, looking for fifty-five. Only the best for him.
Fifty-five was unmanned, not a sign of a man in white coat or hat. They were beginning to pack away the front of the stalls at five-thirty in the morning, business winding down, most of the deliveries out already gone, deliveries in finished by two, plenty of people backstage finishing orders. Last time she had come here, it had been as a guest not encouraged to go backstage, told it was dangerous, none of her business. How men loved their little mysteries.
She slipped between the counter of stall fifty-five through an aisle that led out the back, to where the lorries docked at
their outlet doors well above the ground, like planes at an airport docking at a port to allow the passengers off. She had seen from the outside how a man would step off the raised platform of an ice-cold truck, unload one chilly carcass at a time off the rail in there, heft it over his shoulder and lift it, complete with hook, onto the slowly moving conveyor rail suspended from the ceiling which carried it down the dark corridor into the lit workrooms at the back of the stalls. He might pat it goodbye and watch it move off before going back for the next and the next and the next. Each carcass was propelled on its hook down the long metallic corridor leading to the storeroom, the incoming stock moving in a line parallel to a row of empty hooks travelling back. Inside, the carcasses were corralled in serried ranks hanging from the ceiling at a convenient height for dismembering. The smell was clean and cold. Ranks of dressed carcasses of beef, each headless and footless, hung inside out, presenting their spines for inspection. Smithfield no longer smelt of blood. Slaughtering was done far away.
The cold in the storeroom repelled her and she shrank back against the corridor wall that led out to the lorry port, and then turned inwards again, because the corridor too was full of carcasses waiting entry to the store, queuing up for the privilege. She was dizzied by the presence of raw meat and bone; she was a trespasser and she wanted out, maybe she could go that way, to the open door at the back, and jump to the ground, or find the last lorry, get out somehow, or hide. She had lost all sense of her purpose for being here; she had strayed into the wrong place. There was a sudden vision of the abattoir she had visited as a child alongside her dead father and she reminded herself that all this too was dead and beyond feeling, as he was.
Then, as she skulked in the corner, one of the white-coated men came into the room, whistling. He selected the last beast in the front row, sized it with his eye, stood back and surveyed it. The top of his white hat was level with the middle of the carcass’s spine and he attacked it effortlessly and precisely. The knife he used was a curved machete. First, he used the point to prise away the heart, which he flicked out and flung to one side, then he hacked away a section of rump, then sirloin, each joint tossed aside with an accurate aim into a selection of plastic bins she had failed to notice. The beast on the hook did not move until he swung it round and with casual ease excised a section of the neck, weighed it in his hand and then discarded it. He had all the finesse of a samurai swordsman and some of the ceremony. His fast-wielded weapon had deadly precision and the carcass did not protest. The tip of the blade began to chisel delicately between the ribs and it was then she stopped holding her breath and started to scream. Put it back, she was screaming, put it back together. Look behind you, look behind you, leave it alone.
Someone came down the corridor from behind her. He put a hand on her shoulder and said something. Not a Smithfield man with a shirt, collar and tie, a delivery man, who was grinning at her, anxiously, motioning her to come. A nice face and big brown eyes.
Pretty girl get out
, he said in a thick accent she could not decipher.
You want me to lose my job?
Then he was elbowed aside and told to bugger off, and men in white coats descended, gentlemen all, surprisingly courteous with a trespasser, all of them seeming old. No one said you silly cow – not apposite in the circumstances, one said later. They arrived from all corners, picked her up bodily and carried her out, still screaming but not resisting, finally
only muttering, past curious faces right to the end of Grand Avenue and then into the street. You can’t come in here without a pass and certainly not without a hat and overall. What did you think you were doing, girlie? Drugs, is it? Been to the club, have you? Some sort of protest?
I’m a cook, I wanted to see.
Whatever, someone said, stick to the kitchen. We can either call the police or you can leg it. Only you’re getting in the way of business. Just go, OK? Don’t come back. You could have slipped on a knife, could have got locked in, could have lost us our jobs. No one gets in the way of business.
Halfway up Fleet Street she realised it was already on the edge of dawn and that all those white-coated, well-padded men with their shirts and ties had been relatively gentle in their own way. They could have been worse and she could have been better. The gentlemen butchers of Smithfield, distant cousins of their savage forebears. She thought of how the executioner with the machete could have hung her up and sheared off her feet and her hands without drawing breath. She was cold again, feeling for the talisman of her mobile phone, walking quickly and halfway steadily uphill against the sound of traffic. Not many pedestrians yet, but traffic. A taxi slowed, yellow light glowing invitingly in the half-dark, but she ignored it and walked on because she knew there was not enough money in her bag to take it as far as she wanted to go, which was all the way home. Home was too far away, so she went on walking, wishing it would stay half dark, wondering if there was blood on her clothes like the rusty marks on the white overalls of the men. But it was not like the abattoir – the blood in the market was dry.
Now she was in a side street, walking faster, humiliated and beginning to get angry, feeling for her mobile phone, but
it was too early to phone, even for her. You bastard, why did you lift me up to drop me down, and then she was beginning to hum whatever tune it was that the white-coat man with the fucking machete had been whistling which had somehow transposed itself into a hymn.
All things bright and beautiful/All creatures great and small.
No, not that. God loves you, babe. Pictures from history, stray snippets of information rising up without invitation to distract her from the awful present. How it was that St Bartholomew, he of the church at Smithfield, was flayed to death, and how, once, men sold unwanted wives in the cattle market along with the animals they had driven thither. Poor sheep, poor cows, driven by cruel drovers with collies and cur dogs. The history of the place was in her dead father’s old books and she was remembering being told that the market was also a place of slaughter, the streets around running with blood, littered with offal and how hers were far luckier times to be alive. She had a sudden sensation of a hook piercing her shoulder and hoisting her to gallows height in an ice-cold room. She remembered instead the nice eyes and guttural voice of the first man and was ashamed that she might have risked someone losing their job.