She Had To Die

By Russell James

After five years she’s back: the girl Nick Chance fell for at school. She went on to university, while he stayed in Bristol and tried to make a career in rock groups. Now he plays sax in a jazz/rock group, Blue Delta, due to play for the first time this year at Glastonbury. But then comes tragedy. When he helps Babette on a ‘jaunt’ to expose malpractice in a meat-processing plant she is killed in a horrific accident. Or was it an accident?
Nick is suddenly a ‘person of interest’ to the police, to intruders in his flat, to New Age apostles of extended life, to animal rights activists, even to workers at the plant. These activists are not soft-hearted. Their tactics include arson, bombs and death. Nick’s quest to find what really happened leads him into the dark and complex world of food politics and a reeking broth of conspiracy, deceit and fraud, all of which comes to a boil the night Blue Delta first mounts the Glastonbury stage. It should be the night that makes Blue Delta, but will it be the night that breaks every dream he had?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Russell James
• Release date: May 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005063399

Russell James

Russell James grew up on Long Island, New York and graduated from Cornell University and the University of Central Florida. After flying helicopters with the U.S. Army, he has had multiple horror and paranormal thrillers published. His wife reads his work and says "There is something seriously wrong with you."

Book preview

SHE HAD TO DIE

by

Russell James

SHE HAD TO DIE

Copyright Russell James 2021

By common consent, this is one of my greatest stories — now much revised, brought up to date, and delivering even more punch than the original!

Because the hero, Nick Chance, plays sax in a jazz/rock group you’ll find that every chapter is headed by the title of a hit from the great days of rock’n’roll. On first release, this book was named after one of them: Oh No, Not My Baby. But that was not the greatest title. So now, on re-release, the new version of this shocking thriller becomes She Had To Die.

Some reviews for the earlier version:

A juicy slice of British noir writing, tackling animal liberation taken to its violent extreme. If you imagine Jim Thompson or David Goodis brought up to date and set in Bristol, you will be close.

– Mike Ripley in the Sunday Telegraph.

Long admired as one of the rare British crime writers on a par with the legendary David Goodis, James’ turf has been the world of the underdog and the leftovers of society, which he has vigorously championed with acute empathy and even poetry. His new novel is as dark and gritty as they come and features a sharp look at the dark side of the meat processing industry and the animal rights protest front. A world where love is soon lost and villains are really villains: Russell James land!

– Books On Line f e a t u r e d review

One hell of a story. James is an accomplished writer who takes you with him – sometimes by the scruff of the neck – wherever he wants to go, and Oh No, Not My Baby is a noir mystery that will surprise and sometimes shock you. I won’t give away the ending – revealed in a fiery denouement at the Glastonbury music festival – but suffice to say, it’ll be a surprise. A good read.

– Peter Nash in Crime Time magazine.

What starts as boredom and mild unease crescendos through panic into fear and distress as it becomes obvious that something serious has occurred in the factory. The resulting murder investigation throws Nick to the wolves: police, unspecified ‘security’ and animal rights activists all try to get something from him that he hasn’t got … Most of the story is told in retrospect. A very effective device is to allow the characters to tell their story direct, as if giving a statement. The questions and ‘he said/she saids’ are eliminated, along with any need for description, and the story moves quickly as a result … The book gripped me and the amoral Zane and Shiel are two characters we should meet again (only in fiction, though).

– Gaynor Coules in Shots magazine.

On the night side of the mean streets, Russell James’s OH NO, NOT MY BABY is another uncomfortable excursion into the demi-world of society’s underdogs and losers by an author who has sometimes been compared to the American David Goodis for his unflinching look at the gutter and its ambiguous charms. A gritty tale of wrongdoings amongst animal liberation activists and the shady side of the meat processing industry, this is gripping if downbeat stuff.

– Maxim Jakubowski in The Guardian

American Reviews:

Russell James is a really good hard-boiled writer. This one is a real, twisted beauty… It’s an excellent read, a first rate noir thriller that stands right up there with his earlier classics.

– Gary Lovisi, editor, Hardboiled magazine

"A lean, mean view of corporate expediency and men being led around by their gonads, plus jazz riffs so expertly described that readers will wish they could go to the Blue Delta’s next gig. Almost as fine as Payback (1993); a couple of beats darker than Count Me Out (1997)."

– Kirkus Reviews, February 2000

James has a way with characters. Few are precisely what they seem, and our desire to learn who they really are and what actually happened makes this one a page-turner.

– Thomas Gaughan in Booklist, February 2000

James’ storytelling is so gripping and strong, and the ending in particular is so tough and bleak, that it truly didn’t occur to me until this moment that the plot might be just the teensiest bit familiar. This is a block-out-reality, sit-up-till-two, finish-it-in-one-sitting novel… This is well worth your time – especially if you accompany it with tofu instead of sausage.

– Victoria Esposito-Shea, editor of the HandHeldCrime e-zine

SHE HAD TO DIE

PLAYLIST

In Blue Delta’s latest album the band riffs on these original rock classics:

I’ll Be There – Gerry and the Pacemakers, 1965

Raining in My Heart – Buddy Holly, 1959

I Hear You Knocking (But You Can’t Come In) – Fats Domino, 1958

Bye Bye Love (Bye Bye Happiness) – Everly Brothers, 1957

Little Red Rooster – Rolling Stones, 1964

Without You – Tom Jones, 1969

Not Fade Away – Rolling Stones, 1964

It Hurts Me Too – Elmore James, 1957

(I Know We’ll Love Again) Maybe Tomorrow – Everly Brothers, 1957

As Usual – Brenda Lee, 1964

I Wonder if I Care as Much(As I Did Before) – Everly Brothers, 1957

Sorry Doesn’t Always Make It Right – Diana Ross, 1975

I Should Have Known Better – The Beatles (& also: Naturals), both 1964

Hey – hey – hey – hey! – Little Richard, 1956

Have You Seen Your Mother, Baby? (Standing In The Shadow) – Rolling Stones, 1966

(When You Find Your Sweetheart In The Arms Of A Friend) That’s When Your Heartaches Begin – Elvis Presley version, 1957

(For Goodness Sake,) Do The Hippy, Hippy Shake! – Swinging Blue Jeans, 1963

Great Balls Of Fire – Jerry Lee Lewis, 1957

(If Loving You Is Wrong) I Don’t Want To Be Right – Rod Stewart, 1977

I Heard It Through The Grapevine – Marvin Gaye, 1969

What’s Love Got To Do With It? – Tina Turner, 1984

I’ll Be There

You’re making a meal of it, Zane said. Shiel was peeling potatoes. You’re thinking, ‘I’m a decent guy. I don’t want to kill innocent people.’ Is that your problem?

No, Shiel said. These are awful potatoes.

I can read you like a book.

Shiel dunked his knife in the water.

Zane said, You’re having second thoughts. People have to die, Shiel, so they see the point. Otherwise we’re just another voice lost in the wilderness. We take a dozen lives maybe, to save millions.

Shiel shook his head. Half these potatoes are black to the core. Some have really deep eyes and I have to dig these great big holes. How come they’re so different?

Different types.

Bad potatoes.

Potatoes nowadays come from all over the world. Jersey last week, Egypt this. And next week, who knows, a great shipload from South Africa? It’s no surprise they are different.

Potatoes used to be just potatoes.

~

Nick had been waiting half an hour, his car parked outside the yard. Two hours ago, when he’d dropped her off, the plant had been silhouetted against a sullen sunset, but now what should have been a clear black sky was a dull orange glow. It wasn’t particularly cold but after half an hour in the same spot the damp breeze off the Severn estuary turned his fingertips to balls of ice. To warm his hands he slid them beneath his thighs. The shadows in his cheeks were like craters in the moon.

It was approaching midnight but the plant would be working through the night. From the ground floor windows, lights shone across the yard through wraiths of steam. The high wire-netting fence made the plant look like a prison and, from what Babette had said, the level of security on the front gate was prison tight. But she was inside somewhere. Through the quiet evening air Nick heard machinery humming, occasional clanks, and once or twice the machinery groaned like a truck with a rickety gear. Escape pipes on the wall gave out jets of steam. Ten minutes earlier he had heard a muffled hooter and two women had come from a side door and stood in the dark to smoke a cigarette. They wore white overalls and white tied-on hats. After they’d finished their cigarettes they wandered back and the yard was empty again. Perhaps they’d find time to grab a mug of coffee or stewed tea before the end of their short break. It sounded a grim way to earn a living.

The humming stopped.

It left the silence of dead of night. From inside the car he could make out fainter sounds: the squeak and rattle of a metal trolley on a concrete floor; some tinny music, even some voices from inside. Someone shouted. Someone else called back. That tinny music, he decided, was a radio. He heard another shout. Then a bleeper started — not loud, but irritating — the kind of noise that pricks at your ears and makes you narrow your tired eyes.

He exhaled and cast a film of mist across the windscreen.

The bleeper changed pitch to become an oscillating howl. Someone ran out of one side door and into another. Two other men trotted across the gloomy compound in front of the building, looking like hospital doctors in white coats. In that place everyone had to wear some kind of overall. Even Babette had worn one over her red blouson and matching jeans. Another door opened, and a dozen people emerged into the yard and stood milling about as if on an unexpected fire practice. If everyone was going to come out and be checked off by the fire wardens, Babette would be in trouble — she wasn’t supposed to be there. Perhaps she could hide inside and not come out. Then, with everyone in the yard, she’d be free to roam around taking photographs. Maybe she had set off the alarm as a diversion. A neat trick.

But they didn’t seem to be on fire practice. Having drifted out from the building, people milled around, unsure what to do, while a couple of supervisory types buzzed about as if they had some idea. Nick wiped the car’s side window and squinted through. The yard was poorly lit but he could see well enough to spot Babette. She wasn’t there. She wouldn’t be.

He began chewing at his lip. She hadn’t told him everything she meant to do inside, but it wouldn’t be hard to find the carcasses waiting to be processed. Starkly lit, no doubt, sprawled across the floor — bound to make good photographs.

Babette hadn’t worried about the risk. The worst that could happen was that she’d be evicted from the premises. The company wouldn’t make a song and dance or complain to the police: they’d want the whole affair kept quiet. Their need for privacy would help Babette if she got caught — which she wouldn’t, she’d said: she had been in there before.

He chewed his lip again. The windscreen was getting mistier, and there was a smear of damp on the outside now. It was going to rain. The people in the yard seemed uncertain what to do, and he was stuck in his car feeling helpless because there was nothing he could do. Babette had told him to come back at half past eleven and wait inside the car — ready, if necessary, for a quick getaway.

The bleeper stopped.

It left an echo ringing in his ears but he could hear voices from the yard, so he wound the window down.

It could have been a radio in another room. Their rolling Bristol accents carried in the night air, but although he could make out some of the words he couldn’t get the full gist of what they said. Perhaps he should get out and stroll across to the wire-netting fence. But if they saw him outside the fence, nearly twelve at night, they’d ask why he was there. Perhaps he could claim to live in one of the nearby houses. No. He mustn’t draw attention to himself. Nor to the car.

He used the wipers again to clear the glass, and the faint drizzle meant he’d soon have to wipe again. He watched the factory workers in the yard. Were they irritated at having to stand outside in damp weather or had something happened in there? Was Babette safe?

~

It was when the police arrived that he really began to worry. First the sickening heave of a distant siren which he tried to tell himself was heading somewhere else, but it wasn’t. The noise grew louder and a white panda car arrived, lights flashing. As it approached the gate the barrier rose and the car glided through without breaking stride. Straight to the main door. Straight inside.

This looked bad. If Babette had been caught he could only stay in the car in case she needed him. He began to wonder if he should back further away. But the police might start looking for confederates, and if he started the car...

Please let it be some kind of fire practice. Maybe the police have to come out then, as for a real emergency. But in that case shouldn’t there be a fire engine? He looked at the workers. Because of the intermittent rain one or two had grabbed their coats. Others scowled at the dark starless sky. It didn’t look like a fire practice.

Another siren — faster, more urgent. Coming closer.

An ambulance.

Again, the barrier was lifted and the vehicle sped through. Two men jumped out and rushed inside the building. What the hell had happened in there? Had Babette been caught trying to get away? Had there been a struggle, a fight? Was she hurt? Whatever was going on had to involve Babette. It was too much of a coincidence that on the very night she slipped inside, some other drama had arisen which made them call the police. And an ambulance.

Another siren. What?

People were appearing in the street, drawn from their houses by the sirens and flashing lights. Nothing like an accident on your doorstep to pep up the night. Because if there was an ambulance it had to be an accident, didn’t it? Worth standing out in the rain for.

Now another police car arrived and went straight in. Nick wondered what would happen if he were to drive across — would they let him through as they had the others? Don’t even think about it.

He wiped the glass again but decided he couldn’t just sit there, so he got out of the car to join the onlookers from surrounding houses. For a few moments, silence returned. Comparative silence. People chattered in the darkness as if at a theatre before the house lights dimmed. The light rain seemed a little heavier now and the ambulance’s engine continued to drone. Inside the compound small groups of white-coated staff drifted about, muttering in the dampness. No management, he noticed: these were factory staff. Knowing their work he looked for blood stains on their coats, but he couldn’t see any.

Beside the fence a woman called through to those inside: What’s happened, darlings? Been an accident?

Though a few glanced at her, no one answered.

Elsie! the woman called. Someone been hurt?

From the far side of the compound a thin sliver of a woman wandered over. Her voice was deep — a croaky, comfortable West Country burr. "Nothing to worry about. Well, I’m all right."

All right for ducks, the woman laughed. I’m wet through. Should be in bed.

Just a practice, I expect.

Nick had joined them at the fence. He had the kind of face that made older women want to mother him, but in the dark they hardly noticed he was there. Some of the bystanders wore overcoats over pyjamas. Three had umbrellas. Elsie’s friend outside the wire was fully clothed but wearing slippers. She said, Better than working. You can have a fag.

Left my bag in there, haven’t I?

Just like you.

She took out a packet and passed a cigarette through to Elsie. They both lit up. As if this had given permission to the others, the damp night air began to flicker with tiny flares. Other workers came to the fence. No one knew why they had been sent outside.

Some kind of emergency, someone suggested.

Someone ate one of your pies.

Not one of us!

People laughed, leaving a momentary vapour in the cool night air. Others sucked on the sharp narcotic of their cigarettes. Nick glanced along the fence to where the car waited at the kerb. She wasn’t there. She must be stuck inside.

A factory door opened and two ambulance men appeared, one carrying an empty stretcher. As he slid it into the back of the ambulance some of the women in the yard drew closer for a word, but those outside the fence could not. Whatever the ambulance men told the women caused a stir. One immediately broke away and scuttled off to spread the news. No one came to the fence.

Can’t be much, a woman said. The ambulance is going home.

The driver had slammed the rear door but instead of getting back inside he and his partner went back towards the factory. Someone asked, Who was it then — anyone we know?

If the driver replied, Nick didn’t hear it. They disappeared indoors. Elsie’s friend called: What’s up, a false alarm?

Bit more than that, somebody guessed. Got a towel with you? I’m getting soaked.

A woman laughed. Said she’d stay and finish her fag.

Despite the drizzle, no one outside the fence seemed in any hurry to move away. As they stood chatting, Nick wondered if he looked as conspicuous as he felt. All the others lived in nearby houses. He was the only stranger.

A man in a crumpled suit came out of the factory with a policewoman. Someone groaned as they approached: That’s it, then. Tea break’s over.

The man ignored the watchers outside the fence. Right, everybody, if you’d all come back inside, please.

He looked grim. The policewoman turned to those outside the fence: There’s nothing to see now. It’s raining. You might as well go back to bed.

I wasn’t in bed, darling, I was watching a film, said Elsie’s friend.

The policewoman tried to smile. Sounds a lot more interesting than what’s happening here.

"What is happening?"

Nothing. Her smile looked strained. You’ve all got homes to go to.

No one moved. She might as well have spoken to the fence.

Inside the compound, the workers straggled back indoors. With a final, Don’t hang around all night, the policewoman turned away.

Why not? We live here, don’t we? We can do as we please.

The policewoman did not turn round. As she paced across the compound, she passed Elsie running back towards the fence. Here, called Elsie. You’ll never guess.

What?

She had reached the wire. Someone only fell into the pulveriser.

No!

Everyone crowded in. Everyone but Nick. He stood stock still. It took several seconds before he could make sense of their gabbling voices.

They said it was an accident.

"They said."

You’d have to be bloody stupid to fall in that.

Nick couldn’t trust himself to speak. Elsie rushed back to the factory, reaching the door as the ambulance men came out, talking with the policewoman. Nick stared as if by staring hard he might hear their words. He felt like a robot whose rusty mechanism had seized up.

The small crowd began to drift away. The ambulance left, then one of the squad cars. The compound emptied, and the factory doors stayed closed.

Nick returned to the car and sat inside. There was no reason the accident should have been to Babette; there was no confirmation that an accident had happened at all. The ambulance had left, and the factory now stood locked behind its fence and closed steel door. He wiped the screen again and saw another car arrive and be let straight through. That was Management, presumably. Though if Management had come, and if two police cars were still on site, how likely was it that nothing had happened? Perhaps Babette had been caught. Perhaps she’d come out earlier. No, whatever had happened in there had to involve Babette. He couldn’t forget Elsie’s words; they were too terrible to forget. Surely what must have happened was that Babette had been caught by Security, and maybe she’d struggled and been hurt — but she couldn’t...she couldn’t be dead.

He got out of the car. The night air seemed colder now and the drizzle looked set to stay. He could see no one in the compound, no one in the street, so he walked to the security hut at the front gate. Excuse me, I was wondering if there was any news about what happened.

What happened?

You know, the accident.

Accident?

When someone was hurt.

I don’t know anything about that, sir.

I saw the ambulance go, but the police are still inside.

Yes, sir?

Nick glanced across the half-lit compound to the unrevealing building. I live round here. If someone’s hurt, it could be someone we know.

The ambulance has gone now, sir.

I’m worried.

And why would that be, sir?

Nick stared at him. The man stared back. Nick walked away.

~

Nick had been sitting in the cold car for twenty minutes, playing the radio low, when suddenly the factory doors opened and people began to mill across the yard. They no longer wore their white coats; they were dressed for home. If the workers had been sent home then things must be bad.

As he ran back to the gate he was joined by several people from the houses. The drizzle had stopped. When the staff came through the gate, Nick thought they might stay shtum but they talked among themselves and to those waiting, because what had happened was too out of the ordinary to be contained. They talked so freely that Nick wondered if they’d been briefed on what story to release outside.

Someone was saying it hadn’t been a member of staff. Someone else said they couldn’t be sure. But either way, because of the accident, the factory was shutting down for the night.

They better not stop our wages.

A women shouted back to the man inside the security hut: I suppose you’ll be staying here all night?

Yeah. And if you don’t want to go home, girl, I’ve got room for you in here. It’s nice and warm.

I bet.

They laughed. Nick asked, Is it true — did someone really fall into the pulveriser?

Seems like it.

And she’s dead? Was it a man or a woman who fell in?

Who knows? But they’ll be dead.

An older woman said, It wasn’t staff, though. We’re accounted for.

Another sniffed. Perhaps a tramp come in to keep hisself warm.

How’d a tramp get inside here?

The woman pointed to the security man. He wouldn’t notice anything in trousers, him.

The man leant out: Listen, girl, think about it: you’ve got a whole night off and you can do anything you like. The old man thinks you’re working.

He’ll get a shock when I turn up.

So could you, girl. When the cat’s away you don’t know what tricks the mice get up to. But if you’re looking for a nice big tom cat—

Her friend reached up and prodded him. She’d make Kit-e-Cat out of you, darling!

The others laughed. But for Nick, invisible Nick, every word was like a whiplash. He saw the policewoman approaching across the yard and he tried to read her face.

Hurry along now, please. Time we all went home.

What happened? they asked her.

There has been an accident.

We know that, dear. Is someone dead?

We’re looking into it.

"Well, either they are or they ain’t, darling. It can’t take much looking into."

The policewoman paused. There does appear to have been a fatality.

Who was it, then?

Not one of us, said one of the workers.

The policewoman nodded. First indications are that it wasn’t a staff member.

We’re not bloody stupid. We wouldn’t go up on that gantry.

Not when the machine’s working, another agreed.

Wouldn’t go up whatever.

Anyway, put in the policewoman, it’s best we all disperse.

Did they get the body out?

The policewoman shrugged.

It wouldn’t be easy. I mean, if it had slipped right down inside.

Ugh! exclaimed one of the younger women.

Because all the bone and meat is crunched up together. That’s the point.

Don’t, somebody said.

Nick felt sick. You’re saying someone fell into the meat pulveriser and...

It seems that way.

With all the meat?

A woman turned to him. It’s not meat, love. It’s where they tip the carcasses in.

The policewoman asked, Do you think you might know who it was?

Nick shook his head.

You don’t work here, do you, sir?

The locals were watching him. One said, You don’t live round here neither, do you, son?

D’you know something about it, sir?

No... I’m just... I’m just passing by.

The policewoman stepped up to him. Really, sir, at this time of night? Could you tell me what you are doing here?

I was just... He stopped. He had to have a drink. Water. That was what he needed. Water.

What’s your name, sir?

I’ve got to go. It doesn’t matter.

I think it does, sir. What’s your name?

The group of women were drawing tighter now, and the policewoman was waiting. He said, Chance.

Chance of what?

Mr Chance.

Mr?

Nick, then. Nick Chance.

Do you have some identity, Mr Chance?

What is this? Why should I produce identity?

"What’s your