Cut To The Bone (29 page)

No longer your slave,

Happy New Year!

Strato.

Louis gulped.

Cunt-faced tosser.

He felt hot and cold in turn, first pocketing the dough, then twisting the letter and its envelope into a tight spiral before fetching The Fawn's spare cigarette lighter from a drawer in the kitchen. Blackened fragments soon filled the narrow hallway like bits of dead bats.

Just then, the doorbell rang, followed by heavy knocking on the door's flimsy wood. The Debt Collector as promised, but this time, shoving in a demand for £200 by the end of next week. If not, his next visit would include a bailiff.

Still dwelling on Patel's letter, Louis left it on the kitchen table, pounded back upstairs to his computer where he sent an urgent email to Fritz Dekker. A last-minute change of plan meant he, Paul Dunholm, must have that promised passport immediately. In return,
Der Held
would have his fitness, cunning and language skills for whatever purpose. Having deleted it from his SENT box, he then began preparing for the next item on his agenda.

37

Less than two miles from the trials of Mullion Road, yet with his sense of direction hijacked by dense fog, Detective Inspector Tim Fraser finally admitted defeat. Monday’s weather had deteriorated once he'd left the Ml, and dusk combined with an eerie loss of surroundings, had forced his Saab Convertible into second gear. Its fog light suddenly useless.               
             

"Damn.

Never a Satnav fan, he stopped the car half on to the pavement then consulted his BlackBerry until a map of Briar Bank and its environs swam into view, including Crowmore Lane where Transline, despite his suspicions and subsequent investigation, were still legitimately trading.

The screen also showed Ditch Hollow's continuing development. As if there wasn't enough building going on already, he thought, tempted to turn round and head back. But how could he? Rita Martin hadn't written a letter like that for nothing, Four years after meeting him, a relative stranger. As for Briar Bank CID, their promises of action had led nowhere, and would that recent, second Inquest’s Unlawful Killing verdict make any difference to their performance? He doubted it. Jez Martin’s badly degraded wounds could have been made by pretty much any knife, and meanwhile, too much hearsay was pointing the finger of blame at the still-absent Dr. David Perelman.

As the victim’s mother, Rita had been hurtfully side-lined, and her letter had been powerful enough for him to concoct an ailing aunt near Northampton who needed urgent medical attention. He knew his boss hadn't swallowed that spiel, but he was owed three days leave, so the guilt wasn't too consuming. Neither the desire to call in at his former base. He’d not forgotten the resentment at his departure; accused of milking his contacts to clinch a Detective Inspector post before the statutory five years in the Force. Not his fault that his new boss - a fellow rugby Blue at Cambridge - had wanted someone he’d believed could deliver results.

Fraser re-started the engine, hugging the kerb, aware of lit shop windows, more traffic and the muffled sequence of traffic lights. As he edged towards Scrub End, he couldn’t help wondering what Rita Martin looked like now.

*

He parked at the end of Wort Passage behind a red Peugeot 206, hoping his convertible's hood would be intact when he got back. Likewise his go-bag in the boot.

What a place, he thought. Where Briar Bank couldn't even get a beat going. Where mail didn’t go to certain streets. He could just about make out the house numbers hanging askew along the dark razor-wired fence… 3, 5, 7, 9, then 11, set straight, painted white.

Having combed his hair, he collected a ceramic pot of unopened hyacinths he’d bought at the last service station, and mounted the front steps. His pulse busier than usual.

"Hi. Are you Kayleigh Martin?" he smiled at the bright-looking teenager who answered the door, staring at his gift. Her eyes still so like her mother’s.

"Yeah. So?"

“Is your Mum in? I'm Detective Inspector Tim Fraser. She does know me."

The girl frowned.

"Is it about Dad? Has anything happened to `im?"

“No. Nothing like that. So don’t worry."

Visibly relieved, she called to her mother, and a few seconds later, Rita Martin was in the kitchen, meeting his gaze. He blinked. Surely this wasn't the same bruised woman who'd called into the station with the buggy full of an obviously ill daughter and a grizzling toddler? A woman so ground down by life?

Now she wore a neat, navy suit, while her hair was gathered up leaving stray tendrils brushing each cheek. Not a Doc Marten in sight, or that grungy puffa jacket. However, her memorably blue eyes hinted at another story.

“Thanks so much for coming all this way in the fog,” she began. “I hate begging.”

“I’m glad you did, the way things are going.”

Rita took the hyacinths, sniffed them and placed the pretty pot on the dresser. “Thanks for these, too. You didn’t have to,” she smiled. “They’ll be lovely when they open.”

She switched on the kettle and, as Kayleigh still in attendance, set out two mugs featuring Coventry’s rebuilt cathedral.

"I've not long been in," Rita explained as Fraser settled himself at the table and took in his surroundings. The clean smell, the line of shoes - all except a man's - by the door. The framed picture of a lively, black dog, while a Christmas paper chain still hung over the sink. “I could have taken the week off,” she continued, “but Best Press has two shops now and to be honest, I was glad to get back to work after everything."

“I’m sure you were.”

 
He’d noted her voice had softened, probably because of her job. Also, there was no wedding ring.

"They’ve just dug Jez up," the girl announced, laying several Penguin biscuits on a saucer. "We `ad to go to this Inquisition thingy."

"Second Inquest." Rita gently corrected her.

“I heard more about it this morning,” Fraser said, aware of her briefly shutting her eyes. “It must be so hard for you.”

“To be honest, I can’t take much more, what with stuff in the papers, reporters pestering, and me worrying if the same thing's going to happen again..."

Fraser wanted to do more than just sit there and look compassionate. This woman needed a hug, and just thinking of where a hug might lead, sent a rush of colour to his neck.

"Once the truth does come out, Jez can truly be laid to rest. I’ll make sure of that,” he said.

"When'Il that be I wonder?" Was more to herself as she watched her daughter refill the kettle and take her tea through into the lounge. "And please call me Rita."

"OK. Rita, but first, until we get a result, I’ve suggested to Briar Bank they keep the media at bay for the immediate future, and the on-going enquiry should be steered away from gossip towards hard evidence. They accepted that first Inquest verdict on Jez and Wheeler too easily, meaning more than three wasted years.”

“Tell me about it. And as for Jane Truelove, she doesn’t seem bothered any more."

That name made him pause as she passed him the saucer of biscuits. “Which is why I have to tell you something really important. But before I do, now Kayleigh's out of the room, it's best she's not reminded of those sick photos. She's doing well at school, got some decent mates. But..." Rita fixed him with her fearsome blue eyes. "I don't want you seeing them either. Promise?"

"Forensics will have to."

"That's different."

Fraser leaned forwards. “So what else did you want to tell me?”

*

When she’d finished telling Fraser the origin and history of Jez’s two distinctive knives and their box, and how he and Pete Brown might have shared them, he stayed silent.

“As I said to Frank, I never saw hide nor hair of them after moving here. That’s not a lie, and it’s possible, isn’t it?” She searched his face expectantly.

“Yes,” he reached out to cover her hand with his. “But do Briar Bank know?”

“I had to tell you first.”

“I appreciate that, Rita, but they’ll need to be told. Withholding possible evidence could backfire.” He returned to his unfinished coffee, then said, "by the way, where's Freddie?"

With the Molloys in Frond Crescent. Bit more up-market than here. They've a lad almost his age and they get on like a house on fire. Why?"

"Only asking."

"His Dad's hardly a barrel of laughs, mind."

"So I'd heard."

"What does that mean?" Rita stared at him over the rim of her mug, unease in her voice. Fraser placed a finger over his lips. She noticed he still had clean, well-shaped finger nails. The opposite of Frank's dirty things.

“Strictly between us, understand?”

A nod.

“We’ve had a file on Eric Molloy for over four years now."

"A file?" she whispered. "Whatever for?"

"He could be dangerous."

Rita stiffened and paled.

“But his wife Pat runs the Young Wives, arranges the church flowers and organised a petition against Wheeler coming here. They're committed Christians, for God's sake."

Having withdrawn his BlackBerry from his pocket, Fraser soon accessed a newspaper column from September 2006, in which a Raymond Norris aged 32 from Crudleigh, Tyne and Wear, had been arrested for abducting a seven year-old girl from the village school’s playground. He’d sexually assaulted her in a nearby field, leaving her to make her way home.

“Take a look,” he said, passing it to Rita who seemed more than perplexed.

"What's this to do with Eric Molloy?"

"Raymond Norris was found guilty and left the slammer three and a half years later with a new name, new vocation. Have a guess."

Rita scraped back her chair. Checked her watch against the wall clock and made for her coat behind the door. Fraser tried to calm her, but she elbowed him away.

"I must get Freddie!" She cried. "Before Molloy brings him back in his car."

Fraser's hand was on her arm.

"Hold on. That way we could lose him. What with all the other nonsense about Dave Perelman drummed up by Briar Bank, we can't afford to. So, we meet the car. When's he due?"

"In twenty minutes. But he might recognise you."

“Then I'm your bro from Cape Town, and we're saying goodbye."

Rita looked up at him. "Where’s your red hair?"

"Step-bro, then."

And despite fresh terrors, real and imagined, she managed to smile.

*

The fog had lifted enough to let the one street lamp cast its glow on the two people waiting below. Molloy's new, aubergine-coloured Proton was on time, parking behind Fraser's Saab. Immediately he and Rita began their charade as its doors opened and an overcoated man in his early forties came round to help eight year-old Freddie from the rear seat. Rita noticed with a jolt that her son had been alone with him, while Fraser saw the slimeball hadn’t much changed from his glory days.

"And who’s this?" Said the chauffeur, eyeing Fraser up and down.

"My step-brother, Gavin," said Rita.

Fraser proffered his hand; readily taken.

"Thanks, Mr Molloy," said Freddie who seemed reluctant to leave him.

“My pleasure, young man. Any time."

Rita winced, wanting to strangle the man, and gesturing to Freddie to hurry.

"He does our lad Joe the world of good,” Molloy added, watching her son till he reached number 11. 
She glanced uneasily at Fraser. “By the way, Gavin's just going."

"Not too far, I hope. This fog'll be worse tomorrow."

"I'll be fine,” said Fraser. “Hey, do I detect a Geordie twang? Takes me back to Newcastle Uni in the good old days."

For a split second, Molloy's composure cracked. His voice had a harder edge. "No fear. Too bloody cold up there." He swung round towards his car. "Best be getting back. Pat'll be wondering what I'm up to."

"I'm a photographer, by the way." Fraser announced, undeterred. "Portraits are my thing. You into that by any chance?'

Molloy began walking away.

"He’s taken lots of his Sunday School kids," Rita added. "And our Jez.”

Even that didn't stop the man in his tracks. He was already halfway into his car when Fraser caught up with him as if still having something to say. He opened the passenger door on to a pile of junk covering the seat, where a damaged decoy duck caught his eye. He picked it up, aware of Molloy clicking in his seat belt.

“Nice,” he lied.

The driver revved up. "Came from the tip," he said, while screenwash hit the windscreen and was swiftly wiped away. "I go there most days. Fair bits and bobs if you look. Usually something to fiddle with."

"I'm all for recycling." Fraser had registered that last choice of verb and slipped the duck inside his jacket before closing the door. The Proton sped away, leaving himself and Rita stranded in a pall of exhaust.

"No goodbyes then," said the Londoner, showing her the duck. “Good job I'm not easily offended."