It wasn’t inevitable she and Rosie would end up in bed, but once the American woman slipped Bowie’s Low album into the CD player, Astrid guessed which way it would go. That and devouring a bottle of tequila between them loosened any inhibitions there may have been.
Sawyer had furnished the bedroom on a meagre budget, but it was full of more warmth than Astrid expected for somewhere so run down. She peered at the far wall, staring at the collection of photos Rosie had placed there. She rose while Rosie slept and looked at every image, noticing a pattern in the layout similar to what she’d seen on the map that night in her cell. The Police Department’s photo led to one of the Well-Read bookstore, then came Tom’s Diner, the drugstore, the perfume shop and Siggy’s Used Cars. The row below that connected pictures of the movie theatre, the town hall, the United Methodist Church, the First Church of the Baptist, the Jesus Cheeses deli, and then a group of images that interested her the most: the Bakerstown Brewery.
She crawled out of bed, a chill in the air making the hair on her naked body stand on end. She pushed her toes into the carpet and strode towards the photo collage. Last night, she’d grabbed those snaps of Caitlin Cruz outside the brewery, and she placed them with the others on the wall.
What were you looking for in there, Cat?
It had to be something to do with the accident. She gazed hard at the images, hoping the longer she looked, the more likely the solution would pop into her head. Only Rosie’s fingers on her shoulder dragged her mind from the question of Caitlin Cruz’s mission at the Bakerstown Brewery.
‘The tour isn’t for another three hours.’ She ran her hand over Astrid’s skin. ‘Shall we design a plan for what to do when we’re inside?’
Astrid turned from the wall and put her hands on Rosie’s hips, the touch and scent of the American sending a shudder through her body.
‘We need to eat before that.’
‘Will breakfast do?’
She pulled Rosie into her. ‘After.’
Astrid stood outside the brewery just before twelve, with five minutes to go before the start of the tour. The dark glasses and wide hat Rosie had given her might not have been the most sophisticated disguise, but the fewer prying eyes she attracted, the better. About a dozen people waited there; tourists, she assumed. They gossiped amongst themselves, more interested in the upcoming presidential visit to Bakerstown than the tour they were about to take. Some of them spoke about the troops returning home and how that was a good thing. Nobody mentioned the cyber-attacks, seemingly unconcerned since they were over and hadn’t affected ordinary citizens. She peered at the gates and imagined the leader of the free world stopping there during his tour and sipping on that terrible beer she’d had the night she got drunk.
Rosie had entered the brewery thirty minutes earlier, going inside on the pretence of working for her father. The idea was for her to enter the management office and commandeer it for her work. Astrid would meet her there and crack the computer’s security and search for anything relating to the accident or Caitlin Cruz. It wasn’t the greatest plan she’d ever designed, but it was all she had until something else turned up.
They weren’t outside the brewery’s massive front gates, but around the side where she gazed over to the hills and the forest at the bottom. If she went down to enjoy that spot of nature, she could continue on for a few miles and reach the point in the woods where she’d escaped from Eleanor Campbell’s house the night of the attack. Just the thought of Campbell made her think about her imprisoned in Benedict Sawyer’s oily grasp. And then the image of Jim Moore’s mutilated corpse flashed across her retinas.
Why maim the body like that?
Why would Sawyer kill Robbie Campbell and Moore? Did they discover something about the cover-up of the accident, or what had happened to Caitlin and her family? If either of them did, it would explain why Benedict Sawyer had them murdered. Framing her for it might just have been an added benefit for the old man.
She stared at the brewery. Everything started there, from the so-called accident to the murders and the Campbell house’s terrible events. If she didn’t get any answers now, what would she do?
The gates opened and a member of staff welcomed them in. Astrid paid her fee and followed the others inside. A young woman led them down a long corridor adorned with large photos of hops standing golden in the sun and glowing pints pulled into glittering glasses until they reached the start of the tour and the origins of the Bakerstown Brewery.
Their guide didn’t look old enough to drink in the US, although she would have been fine down the pub in Britain, but she seemed to know what she was speaking about. She spent two minutes explaining how the brewery had grown from its humble beginnings to its current position as the town’s hub. There was no mention of Benedict Sawyer or his family as she went straight into beer production mechanics.
Whole-leaf hops were their speciality and allegedly added extra flavour to their brew. Astrid didn’t want to dispute the young woman’s words, and her memories of drinking in the Ranch House that first night in town might still have been shaky, but she remembered how terrible the local brew was. Or perhaps that’s what had wiped some of what she did that night from her brain.
The tour guide took them past the laboratory where they peered through the window to admire the science on show. Astrid watched men and women pouring liquids into glass phials, and for a moment, she imagined she was inside one of the big pharmaceutical companies; or in a modern remaking of Jekyll and Hyde. As they moved closer to the brewing process, she smelt mashing grains and boiling wort. Then came the aroma of fermenting yeast, which always reminded her of sulphur. Some of her party gripped on to their noses and grimaced, but she liked the odour and pictured every murderous person she’d ever met suffering in Hell. Benedict Sawyer was one of them, flailing on his back like an obese turtle as a legion of demons stabbed at him with fiery pitchforks.
But the aroma must have been too much for some as an older lady gripped on to her stomach and threw up all over the bloke she was with. The group parted as the tour guide slapped a hand over her face. It was the perfect distraction for Astrid as she slipped from the back towards the office they’d walked past two minutes earlier. Nobody stopped her as she strode down the corridor to the sounds of the woman throwing up again.
She reached the room and entered. It was windowless with grey walls and smelt of roses, which was a relief with the stink of vomit flowing through the air. On the desk were a computer, a notebook, and a stack of papers sitting under a frog-shaped paperweight. An empty bookshelf stood against the far wall; next to it was a photocopier and fax machine. She was amazed people still used such things.
There was no sign of Rosie Sawyer.
Astrid went and sat in front of the computer. She touched the keyboard and the screen sprang to life, flickering through a moving image of Donald Duck. The mouse was in one hand while she monitored the entrance. She didn’t know how much time she had, so she scanned the files and folders for anything unusual. She searched for Caitlin’s name first, unsurprised to get no results. It was the same searching for Benedict Sawyer and any links to his surname. Then she tried for the day of the accident, disappointed to find no mention of it. It was a frustrating and fruitless twenty minutes, so when the door opened, she was ready to be thrown into the street.
‘Sorry for taking so long to get here, but I met someone I used to go to school with.’
Astrid stood. ‘You missed nothing, Rosie; there’s nothing helpful here.’
Rosie moved to Astrid and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘It doesn’t matter. I know what happened and it was no accident. Let’s head outside, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
They left the office together, Rosie seemingly unconcerned if any of the staff saw them. She led the way to the front of the building and the gates Astrid had entered earlier. Nobody spoke or looked at them. They tumbled out of the brewery without looking back, heading towards the car until halted by a crowd ahead of them.
Rosie bumped into her. ‘Shit! I’d forgotten about this.’
Astrid glanced at the flags and posters fifty feet away, but couldn’t work out what they said.
‘Forgotten about what?’
‘It’s the annual Bakerstown Eating Competition.’
A trolley of food trundled past them, pushed by two stressed-looking teenage boys. A roll of plastic covered the contents, a mountain of corned beef sandwiches and hot dogs stuffed with meat. The crowd parted, and the two women stuck to the teenagers in an attempt to reach the car.
‘People watch others stuffing their faces as entertainment?’
In a dingy hotel room a long time ago, she’d flicked across a hundred TV channels and found one where a man had sweated through eating a curry so hot, it could energise a nuclear power station. Was that what this was?
Rosie continued walking as she replied.
‘They’re competitive eaters. It’s a national sport in America.’
Astrid checked to make sure they hadn’t been followed from the brewery. ‘Then we better pretend we’re the same and follow this until we can get through the mob.’
They kept on going behind the trolley, observing the overexcited faces of the surrounding people, tourists and townspeople of all ages. As they pushed on, Astrid’s stomach grumbled as she caught the aroma of the food on offer: grilled cheese and bacon, barbecue pork ribs, deep-fried shrimp, and curried chicken. Rosie didn’t appear to share her growing hunger, her face turning greener with every step they made.
Their unsuspecting guards took a sharp left and disappeared behind the stage, leaving the two of them free. Astrid expected them to get to the car with no problems, but they found themselves blocked by a large group of people looking like they might be contestants, but who turned out to be part of a dedicated audience. She saw no escape without forcing their way through the throng and causing a commotion.
Rosie held on to her guts. ‘We need to wait until the crowd parts after the first event.’
Astrid was stoic about it, even though she was desperate to hear what Rosie had learnt about the accident.
‘What did your friend tell you inside the brewery?’
Rosie leant towards Astrid, but the throng roared around them as the contestants entered the arena. A beefy man with a punk haircut waved as he stepped on to the stage, followed by a young bloke with a beard as big as him, a guy dressed as Elvis in his Las Vegas pomp, a nervous-looking woman with Popeye tattooed onto her bare shoulder, a Prince lookalike who danced his way to his eating spot, a teenage girl with terrible acne, and a ragamuffin of a boy with long black hair. Astrid glanced at them all and wanted the teenage girl to win.
Rosie’s lips moved, but Astrid didn’t hear a word. Then the noise reduced, and Sawyer whispered into her ear.
‘There was no accident. People died, and it was my father’s fault. They covered it up, but Caitlin Cruz discovered the truth.’
‘And what was that?’
The roar stopped Rosie from replying. The contest had begun, and Astrid knew she’d have to wait before getting an answer. The MC whipped the audience into a frenzy by reeling off the accomplishments of the competitors. Then he started a countdown from ten to zero, and the contestants began with the corned beef sandwiches.
Astrid watched transfixed as the eating started, with those on stage stuffing mountains of meat down their throats, munching on the bread as juice poured over their lips and stained their clothes. They lubricated their masticating between large bites of food with gulps of water or, in the case of the fake Elvis, swigs of Bakerstown Beer. The sight of that made her feel queasy. She pushed into her stomach, forcing the bile back while checking if her ribs were any better. They still ached, but not as badly as before.
As the competition continued beyond ten minutes, the table became drenched in juices and discarded food until it looked like a murder scene. Astrid didn’t know what the rules were for this orgy of digestion, assuming it wasn’t the last person standing, but who could eat the most in a set time. At the fifteen-minute mark, someone rang a bell, and the eating stopped. People then joined the competitors on the stage to raise numbers on large cards like the old-time glamour girls during rounds of a boxing match.
With sixteen corned beef sandwiches in fifteen minutes, Elvis was declared the winner, and he took the plaudits of the crowd as if he was striding down the street like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. The people in front parted as they and the competitive eaters prepared for the next contest, providing enough time for Rosie and Astrid to escape and get to their car.
‘I feel sick.’
Rosie’s face had turned a shade of pinkish green, which made it appear as if she was wearing a Halloween mask. Astrid grabbed her arm and dragged her away.
‘Do you want to throw up?’
Rosie twisted her neck, gargled, and then spat away from them. It flew and landed on a scraggy dog who howled and sprinted off with its tail between its legs. Astrid shook her head and laughed as Rosie wiped at her lips.
‘I had a bad experience at the competition when I was a kid.’ Astrid waited for more information. ‘I’d snuck away from Jimmy, and was at the side of the stage watching the contestants gorge themselves. There was a skinny woman who looked as if she hadn’t eaten in years, but she devoured two dozen burgers and plates of fries, and I was awestruck. She turned to me and grinned. And I smiled back. And then she threw up all over me.’
All the colour drained from her face and Astrid thought she might faint.
‘We better get you to the apartment so you can have a lie-down.’
Rosie sucked air into her lungs, and then let it out slowly.
‘I’ll be fine. I need to tell you what I discovered.’
Astrid placed a hand on her arm. ‘As long as you’re okay.’
‘Beth works in the accounts department of the brewery. I hadn’t seen her in ten years until I bumped into her in the restroom. She was scared. I guess she thought I was there to check up on her and the others.’
‘And you didn’t tell her otherwise?’
‘I never got the chance. I think what happened has been playing on her nerves ever since.’
‘So it wasn’t an accident?’
‘No. She only knew a few details, but two staff members died, and they weren’t the only ones.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Someone in the brewery killed two of their colleagues and maybe another six people in the town.’ The amazed look on her face was matched by what Astrid felt on hearing this. ‘And Caitlin discovered the truth.’