Pecking Order, page 23
'Oh,' said Clare with disappointment. 'I was hoping you might have a list of farms by region - I'm phoning from the Manchester area.'
‘I can only give you the number for the British Egg Industry Council,' she repeated brusquely.
Clare sensed the woman was now sticking to written guidelines or perhaps the whispered commands of someone more senior. 'All right then, cheers.'
She noted down the number and thanked her, though she wasn't sure for what. Immediately she phoned the number she's been given and an elderly-sounding lady answered the phone. She sounded as if she was in her kitchen, not an office. Clare repeated her request and the woman's voice instantly hardened with suspicion.
'What sort of a project?'
Clare hadn't expected such an aggressive answer. In her haste, she hadn't prepared a detailed speech. 'Well, it's a general project really, examining the productivity of battery chickens compared to free-range ones. Mortality rates, that sort of thing.'
The voice was now curt and official, 'Please send your request in writing with evidence of the university you say you're studying at. We'll then consider it.'
'But I need to make a start pretty urgently. Is there not just a standard list of farms and phone numbers you could send me?'
‘You could be anyone. Because our clients have to be careful about divulging their locations, any request needs to be in writing. Do you need our address?'
'Forget it.' Clare hung up as Zoe sat down on the sofa with a plate of stir-fried noodles in each hand. She handed one to Clare. 'The bitch. You'd think I was wanting to read her diary or something.'
‘Who, the RSPCA?' asked Zoe, stabbing a piece of chicken meat with her fork.
‘No, they weren't interested. Just gave me the number of the British Egg Industry Council. So I rang them. You'd have more luck phoning the freemasons and asking for a full and frank divulgence of their membership.'
'So nothing then?'
'Nothing.'
'What next?'
'I don't know. If only I knew something more about how the law worked. Don't most solicitors give you the first appointment for free? I could go to one and just throw everything on the table. See what the response is.'
‘What you mean a feather and a newspaper clipping?’
Clare sighed with exasperation. 'It can't end here Zoe. It just can't. People don't get away with stuff like this. Do they?'
She looked uncertainly at Zoe who was thinking about the statistics for unsolved murders and the number of people who simply vanish each year. 'No they don't,' Zoe made herself say. 'Rubble is your key to all this. He'll ring again. It's just a matter of time.'
'Yeah, you're right,' answered Clare, examining the lumps of meat interspersed with the noodles and chopped vegetables. As she ate her food she remembered reading an article in the University paper about the availability of ethnic foods in the city. Once she'd finished her meal she said, 'Cheers Zoe, that was tasty. While I'm waiting for Rubble to ring, let's make Maudsley sweat a bit more.'
'What are you planning?' asked Zoe, suddenly full of life.
'Show you later,' answered Clare, mischievously.
After dumping her plate in the sink she left the flat and caught a bus back into the city. Jumping out at the terminal, she walked the few streets to where a large cluster of shops and restaurants formed the city's Chinatown.
Selecting the largest supermarket, she climbed the steps into a cavernous room stacked to the ceiling with produce. Unlike her usual supermarket, there were no signs hanging from the ceiling telling her where different types of food were located. Everything was piled directly onto shelves that were free of glossy point-of-sale signs detailing special offers or two-for-one deals.
Any notices she could see were handwritten in Chinese characters. She had no idea what they said. She walked past a twenty-foot length of shelving devoted entirely to different types of noodle. Next came a section of tinned produce, exotic fruits and strange varieties of mushroom. She spotted a row of blue tins all labelled 'Mock Duck'. Looking more closely at the label she saw that it was chunks of fried gluten, one side pressed with tiny bumps to give the impression of skin. Next to them was a deeper shelf stacked with what appeared to be irregularly shaped brittle pancakes. Lifting one up she was shocked to see it was an entire duck, stamped flat and dried out.
Ahead of her a row of open shelves overflowed with crates of fresh fruit and vegetables. Pak choi, spring onions, chillies, limes, beansprouts. Plastic-wrapped packets of pale round objects. She searched for the English translation on the label and found the words 'fish balls with seaweed'. In the fridges next door she recognised various types of seafood. Comatose crabs half-buried in crushed ice, claws bound with rubber bands. Rows of red snapper lying on their sides, dead eyes staring upwards. And then came the poultry section. Chicken carcasses cleaved in two. Shrink-wrapped parcels of giblets. At the very end of the section she saw a crate of severed chicken feet. She remembered being in halls on her first year and the group of Chinese students who always ate their evening meal together: sometimes all of them hunched around an enormous plate of fried chicken feet. Holding the things in their fingers, nibbling and tearing at the tendons with their teeth. She looked into the crate. The long-nailed toes were partially curled inward, like fingers on a hand when it is completely relaxed. The undersides of the feet even had little fleshy pads. Examining the severed ends she could see the cleanly shorn bone and a thin layer of flesh. She plucked a plastic bag off the shelf and gingerly picked one up. The foot was cool and dry in her hand. Quickly she dropped it in the bag, then tried to scoop up a handful. But her nails caught on their claws and a shiver went through her. Instead she used a forefinger and thumb to pick one up at a time, dropping them into the bag until it held about twenty. She walked to the small row of tills and handed them over to a round-faced Chinese lady. With lightening speed, she spun the bag round, knotted the neck and dropped it on a scale. 'One pound fourteen.'
Clare handed over the money, thanked her and walked back down the stairs to the street.
Chapter 49
Eric was sitting in his study reading through Patricia's proposal for the research grant when he heard the creak of his letter box and the thump of something falling on his mat. He went to the window and gazed at the back of the postman as he made his way round the close, red bag hanging from one shoulder, hair blowing in the morning wind.
Eric stepped out into the hallway and looked at the items that lay at the base of his door. With their messages of ' Our best-ever rate!' and 'Enjoy the Gold Standard', the two envelopes were obviously from credit card companies. How they got hold of his name, he didn't know; he'd never owned a credit card in his life. He dropped them straight into the small wastepaper basket in his study, then sat down to examine the plain brown jiffy bag.
It weighed a fair amount, probably the same as half a bag of sugar. He squeezed it gently with his fingers and could feel the oddly shaped contents through the layer of padding. His name and address were written in clumsy block capitals, as if the person had been holding the pen in their fist or writing with the wrong hand. As was often the case, the postmark had only partially printed - he could see the package had been posted yesterday; but not from where.
He removed a paper knife from his top drawer and, holding the package flat on his desk, slid the point beneath the envelope's flap and sliced it open. With his other hand, he lifted the unopened end of the envelope up. But whatever was inside refused to budge. He lifted the end higher and shook it. Suddenly something gave way and a jumble of chickens' feet flooded his desk, spilling across the document.
He pushed himself backwards, eyes wide in shock. The contents lay there, twisted and stiff and a coppery, sour smell began to fill the room. He lifted up the envelope and tentatively looked inside. Crumpled at the bottom was a scrap of paper. He jiggled the envelope up and down, but it was stuck. Gingerly, he pushed his hand inside and grasped the paper with the tips of two fingers. When he withdrew his hand, it was covered in scales of chicken skin.
I know what you've done, it read. And that single word again: Scum.
Eric sat staring for a long time, his mind reluctantly accepting the fact that his plan had been compromised. This second action couldn't have been the work of any disgruntled footballer. Someone, somewhere, knew. By using a pair of tongs from the kitchen he was able to pick up the severed feet and place them in a large bowl without too much difficulty. What took longer was removing the scales of skin. Semi translucent, they became almost invisible on the pages of the proposal in front of him. Each one stuck stubbornly to the paper, forcing him to use the tip of his paperknife to prise them off.
Back in the kitchen he emptied the claws into the bin, placed the bowl and utensils in the sink and then scrubbed his hands.
For the rest of the morning he paced round the house, trying to make sense of the situation and fathom some answers. It was useless trying to study Patricia's document; his mind was consumed by the dilemma. It ate away at his concentration like a locust on a leaf. Again and again, he found himself staring out of the window at the swaying tops of the fir trees in a nearby garden. As the strength of the wind picked up and then ebbed away his mind vacillated wildly from possibility to possibility. Every avenue he went down led to the same conclusion: Rubble must have told someone. It was the only possible explanation.
By late afternoon he reluctantly left the house and walked to a public phone box several streets away. But, with the phone in his hand and finger above the button he paused again. He was loathe to make contact. The plan had appeared to work so perfectly - by breaking his rule of never speaking to Rubble again, he was linking himself to the only thing that could connect him to the murders. His shoulders and neck felt tight and a headache throbbed at the base of his skull. Slamming the phone back down, he strode angrily home, the wind swirling around his head, teasing his hair, pulling it out of place. Back in his kitchen he held up a glass of water and watched two paracetamol as they slowly dissolved in a stream of tiny bubbles. As soon as the water touched his lips, he realised how dry his mouth and throat were. It occurred to him that he hadn't eaten or drunk a thing since breakfast. Lethargically, he went to his cupboard and looked at the tins inside. Though his stomach felt empty it was a hollow, tight sensation and he knew that he could only handle soup. Examining the shelves he saw to his dismay there was only one can inside: cream of chicken.
He remembered the farm-owner telling him what sort of food the dead chickens were used for - and gave up opening the tin. Instead, he buttered a couple of pieces of bread and ate in silence at the kitchen table, a glass of water by his elbow, a small bone moving under his temples as he chewed.
By mid-evening he felt mentally exhausted. He realised he'd been watching a sporting event on the television. It was, he concluded, a clear indication of how preoccupied he was. Normally he would immediately switch over whenever sport came on. He flicked the TV off and wearily climbed the stairs.
As was his habit, he filled the bathroom sink half full of hot water to wash his face and neck. After staring in the mirror for a while, mind still absorbed by the issue of Rubble, he walked across the landing to his bedroom, forgetting to pull the plug or even brush his teeth.
Once in bed he switched the light off and lay back. In the darkness he listened to the sounds of his house settling down for the night. The usual succession of metallic clangs from the boiler in the cupboard outside on the landing, the occasional creak from timbers in the attic, a knocking sound from the pipes running under the floorboards. As the minutes passed the noises lessened in frequency and quietness began to assert itself. Now, with his head rigid and tense against the pillow, smaller sounds became audible. The quiet hum of the fridge in the kitchen downstairs, a faint tick-tick as gusts of wind blew against the windows, making the glass shiver slightly in the window frame. And a faint, high-pitched noise he couldn't quite locate.
The sound had an uncomfortable quality to it, as if it carried a note of pain. It sounded again and the memory of the chicken's last screech before Rubble landed with both feet on its head forced its way back to the front of Eric's agitated mind. The harder he tried not to, the more he found himself concentrating on the noise. It was at once piercing and insubstantial; one second it seemed to be carried from far away on the night wind, the next it could have been coming from under his very bed.
He turned on his side and pressed one ear against the pillow. But with every new gust of wind the sound carried into his room again. A sharp, beseeching note that suddenly ended as the wind died down. He wasn't sure how long it took for him to doze off. At one stage he lifted his head from the pillow and saw that the glowing numbers on his bedside clock read 2:17. It seemed that for the rest of the night, he slept for only a few minutes before the noise would rouse him yet again from his restless slumber.
Eventually dawn started to break and, as the light grew stronger behind his curtains, the wind dropped and the sound finally ceased. He heard Mr Robert's car start up as usual at 6:45 so he could get on the motorway just ahead of the morning rush, he listened to the sound of the Morrisons' front door opening and their dog gratefully running around, claws scratching on the paved driveway. He got up just after 7:30 and looked at the sunken eyes of a desperate man in the bathroom mirror.
With a forefinger and thumb, he prised his eyelids apart and examined the threadlike network of red lines stretching across the surface of each eyeball. After splashing his face with the cold water lying in the sink, he went downstairs in his pyjamas and sat at his desk. A while later he saw that he was holding a pen in his hand. He looked at the sheet of paper on the desk before him. It was covered from top to bottom in an endless repetition of Rubble's phone number.
Chapter 50
Clare gazed at the telephone console on the desk in front of her. It was now almost eleven at night; she'd got into the call centre early in the hope Rubble would ring. Knowing he’d never called her later than ten-thirty, she’d reluctantly accepted the night was likely to be fruitless. Deciding to give it just another hour, she was about to press the 'call-wrap-up' button and go to the kitchen for a cup of tea when Brian's voice sounded in her headset.
'Hi ladies, Brian speaking. I know a lot of you are having an unpleasant time with the ‘Girl Next Door’ line, so Mr Nolan's come in to talk to us about it. All incoming calls are on hold, so as soon as the last live calls are dealt with, he'll begin.'
This will be interesting, thought Clare, leaning back in her chair.
After a couple of minutes Brian spoke again, 'OK, there's only two calls still going, so I'll speak to those girls myself later. Now, here's Mr Nolan.'
Clare heard some low scratching noises as the headset was adjusted, then a gruff voice said, 'They can hear me now?'
'Yes.' Brian's voice in the background.
It suddenly occurred to Clare that she had never actually seen the owner before, so she stood up to look over the top of her partition screen. One by one almost every other woman did the same until a mass of heads bobbed up out of their small compartments.
Visible through the glass panes of Brian's office was an obese giant of a man. Sweat glistened on his baldhead and, with fingers covered in gold rings, he pulled a handkerchief from the breast pocket of a suit that, despite looking hideous, obviously cost a fortune. Dabbing the material to his forehead, he began speaking in an abrupt manner, 'OK, Girl Next Door is, if you don't already know, going like the frigging clappers. Since it went live the percentage of Calls Answered in this place has dropped to under eighty-five per cent. Not your fault girls, but it's unacceptable.'
He looked down at Brian, who shrank back fractionally in his seat. 'What you lot will do something about though, is your exit rates. There's too many of you just cutting off callers when they start getting a bit over-excited. The thing is, Girl Next Door is what you make of it. Use your brains and the sky's the limit. You've got a ready-made five minutes of small talk before the punter even starts choking his chicken. Do your homework, girls. Find out how the local football teams are doing. Who scored on Saturday, who's out injured, was the latest Johnny Foreigner a wise purchase? Find out about the latest trendy bars, which roads are currently being dug up if you're driving into the city centre, where the next multiplex is being built, which is the best place in town for a pizza. You've got a whole city in common with these callers - use it to your advantage.'
Clare wanted to ask about the threats of violence, callers' claims they knew where the office was, that they would turn up at the door for the real thing. But her line was closed: this was a one-way conversation.
'Now, if you can't handle it, you're free to leave. I can fill your seat like that.' He clicked his fingers. 'There's plenty of girls trying to turn tricks out there,' he glanced at the windows, 'who would jump at the chance of earning some easy money in a nice warm office by just talking dirty to some bloke. It's up to you.' Now his voice hardened. 'The calls are lining up so make your decisions - sit back down or fuck off.'
He nodded at Brian who pressed a few buttons and every console in the room started to flash. One by one the girls' heads disappeared and the quiet murmur of voices refilled the room.
In Brian's office Mr Nolan took off the headset, the underside of the plastic band shiny with sweat from the top of his skull. Hesitating at the sight of it, Brian slowly slid it on.
'Right, that seems to have sorted the stupid bitches out,' said Mr Nolan, coughing into a handkerchief. 'I'm getting out of here; those musty partition walls really set my chest off. Any of them walk out, I want to know their names, and tell them they can whistle for any wages owing.' Without another word he opened Brian's door and left the office.
In her cubicle Clare waited another five minutes then hit 'call wrap-up' and walked over to the kitchen. Inside Mary was in the middle of an intense conversation with Jayne and Vanessa. The three women nodded quickly to Clare.
