Cut To The Bone (30 page)

"Will you hand it back?" Rita asked.

"Of course."

She glanced up at his strong profile, his light-coloured hair raked back from his forehead. Just having him alongside made her feel secure, and on the steps of number 11, his hand rested in the small of her back, sending a spasm of pleasure up her spine.

"So, what now?" she asked, before opening the door, and by way of reply, Fraser let a finger trace the side of her face to the corner of her lips.

“Leave it to me."

With that, he turned and strode off towards his waiting car, and once she'd gone inside, he pointed his Saab towards the turning for the church and Frond Crescent.

38

DI Tim Fraser reached St Peter's church within ten minutes. In the lifting fog it seemed more like a warehouse than a place of worship, lacking any ecclesiastical association. The main pointer to its function being a small, full graveyard edged by a row of cremation markers.

Apparently, there'd been no room to let Jez rest where he'd attended Morning Service and Sunday school during his last, troubled summer and, as Fraser walked towards the highest point of the estate, a growing anger kicked in.

The discovery of Jez’s bike and the Walton-on-Sea knife in Black Dog Brook, had fuelled Rita's obsession with tracing the elusive Pete Brown, while Jarvis was trying to pin a double murder on Dave Pereleman. An aggrieved teenager’s need to dismantle an inadequate father figure, and a neurotic, elderly neighbour seeking excitement, were too riddled with coincidences and lack of obvious motivation. The bane of his life as a cop. As for Kayleigh Martin's crayon sketch, youths like that were ten a penny.

Fraser gritted his teeth, as he entered Frond Crescent. The truth lay deeper than either of these suppositions, and Rita would just have to trust him.

*

Number six, unlike its neighbours, was detached. That much was clear, also the white satellite dish jutting from the nearest corner. The narrow, newly-painted two-storey façade, resembled a new tooth in a mouldy mouth. A new front fence still smelt of creosote, while an added porch and Austrian blinds at each unlit window, suggested obsessiveness and, he suspected, not a little dough. God knew from where.

It was quiet, alright, yet he felt unseen eyes following his every move.

Unlike Malcolm Wheeler, the Molloys' arrival from Crudleigh had gone unnoticed following orders from the Top. Now they'd got a kid themselves.

That did it for him, objectivity or not, then, for some reason, he recalled how Rita had let him touch her.

*

The Proton was parked outside, between various other cars and vans - some as if they'd aged in the same spot for years. Their oily slicks highlighted by the few working street lamps. The only colour in that drab settlement. Fraser also observed a thread of light in the centre of number 6’s front door's frosted pane. His hand tightened round the wooden duck, the other in his left pocket kept contact with his police-issue Glock, which Chief Superintendent Des Parrott had insisted on, after Fraser's predecessor had been felled on a Whitechapel pavement.

The gate's catch opened at a touch and he noticed a slate sign on the pebble-dashed front wall, which read
Why Worry
. The irony of it lingered as he pressed the bell and peered into the glass where a dark figure suddenly blocked out the light. Following the shunting of bolts and the pull of a chain, the door opened.

"Yes? Who is it?" demanded an unmade-up woman whom he knew was thirty-eight, with frizzy, damp hair and that same square face he recognised from the newspapers after Norris's release. Pat Molloy boldly gave him the once over.

"I’m Gavin Taylor. Rita Martin's step-brother." He held out the decoy. "I won’t keep your husband a second."

The woman's pale eyes swivelled towards the front room.

"Eric?" she called. "There's a Gavin Taylor here. Got your duck."

The man nudged his way forwards, muttering about a sudden migraine which had forced him to lie down in the dark. Fraser noted the tight jumper, skin-skimming grey worsted trousers and slippers with You Devil embroidered on each front.

"Wanted to get this back to you," Fraser began. "Don't know how I managed to keep hold of it. Sorry."

"I wondered too, but easily done. Come on in." Molloy took the duck by its neck, while his wife disappeared down the passage towards the brightly lit kitchen at the end. "Plenty more where this came from. Like a peep?"

“Sure. D’you use Ebay too?”

“Never.”

Molloy kept a shading hand on his forehead as he led along the hall towards that dazzling brightness.

"Nice and quiet here, I must say," observed his follower.

"Our Joe went up to bed early. Freddie wore him out."

Yet there was no evidence of children at all. Nothing with which any child might amuse themselves. Instead,
Why Worry
had a furtive, claustrophobic feel.

"Great kid, that." Fraser volunteered. "Our Rita's done a brilliant job, considering."

"There's a wild streak with them, mind. Specially Jez."

Fraser started at that name, but let the ex-con continue.

"Course, his Dad was hardly ever around, and to be frank, the church couldn’t have helped. He seemed out of reach of everyone. Let’s hope Freddie and his sister can yet be saved."

"Saved?'

"You know what I mean. By our Lord."

They passed a line of framed, monochrome photographs signed E M hanging on the hall wall. Fraser was drawn to one in particular, of wind-damaged trees. A track narrowing into the distance. Hadrian's Wall, surely? Yet there was no trace of Geordie in the man's voice or speech pattern.

"Great shots," he said.

"Thanks. It’s amazing how trees survive whatever's thrown at them."

"Rita said you took photos of your Sunday School kids. Are there any of Joe?" Risky, but Molloy's face showed no reaction.

"Not yet. Pat moans I've never bothered much with him. 'Specially when he was a baby. All mouth and Pampers then…"

The ‘Pampers’ word triggered other unwelcome thoughts.

"So what camera did you use for these images?" Fraser asked as casually as he could.

"A Canon EOS 5000. Pat got me it for Christmas a few years ago. You can keep your Taiwan rubbish."

"D’you do your own developing?"

"Used to, till Joe needed the room. Now it's the back of the garage. Once in a blue moon, I'd say."

"And normally?"

"Boots, mainly. But for black and white I generally go to Tipton's in the city centre."

"How do you mean, generally?"

Molloy threw him an impatient glance.

"If I'm busy."

He then led the way through that glaring kitchen where one window overlooked the rear garden, and the other an attached outhouse. Molloy switched off one of the spotlights just as his wife began chopping swedes. A glistening orange cube skidded across the floor and lay there.

“Thanks, you,” she said, sourly, and switched the spotlight on again.

"I'd like to see that Canon of yours sometime," Fraser suggested, aware that Pat Molloy now faced him. A flicker of suspicion in her eyes. Not for the first time in
Why Worry
, he felt uncomfortable.

"First things first, eh?" Molloy unbolted an adjoining door as Fraser scanned a nearby cork notice board. He was looking for any handwriting to compare with how Rita had described that message to Kayleigh. Also to match the violent graffiti he’d seen about Malcolm Wheeler, whose grizzled face stared out from a flier in the bottom right corner. A closer look showed someone had added,
GOOD RIDDANCE YOU SCUM!
in blue ballpoint.

"Who wrote that, then?" Fraser jokingly.

"Eric did," snapped his wife.

"Evil needs action,” her husband said.

Fraser murmured, "I quite agree," and when neither Molloy was looking, eased the item from the board into his jacket pocket. Apart from the capital letters’ forward slope, a likeness wasn’t obvious, it was worth a punt.

"Same with immigrants,” Molloy was speaking again. “God deliver us from the bloody lot, say I. And now Romanian and Bulgarian criminals have
carte blanche
to pile in. Why we’ll be voting for Ukip next year."

Fraser didn’t comment, following Molloy into the outhouse, where smells of varnish, leather hide, turps, all mingled to a choking degree. Worse once the man lit an old oil heater in the middle of the floor.

Did this hoarding simply stop with objects? Fraser wondered, eyeing sacks of still-pungent horse hair, and tools for every kind of repair, ranged in size order at eye level along the wall. He also spotted Pat Molloy giving him a death stare through the single, small window, turning away when their eyes met.

“My latest project,” said the collector with some pride, squatting on his heels before pulling out a half life-sized wooden crucifix from under an old blanket. Its incumbent missing most of the left arm and right foot, wobbled against its prop, making a strange, grating sound. 
"For Coventry Cathedral, eh?" Fraser encouraged.

"No, no," said the perspiring craftsman. “St Peter's. By Easter."

"Of course, stupid me. Rita said how you’re both busy with that church"

"I'm its warden and Sunday School teacher, apart from our other activities. We like to do our bit for Christ, and besides, it’s our way of saying thanks."

"For what?" This sudden benevolence caught Fraser unawares as he continued to hunt for clues.

"Making us welcome.”

*

Fraser continued searching for a throwaway toy - something young Joe might have used  - but there was none. Only the strange way the restorer stroked the sculpture's thighs before exploring the folds of the loincloth. However, it wasn’t until he transferred his attentions to the sculpture's nipples, that he knew justice for Rita and Jez would come sooner rather than later.

"Tell you though," Molloy stood up. "I really miss those Briar Bank kids. I bet they’ve all been given Tablets by now. Making things with your hands isn't trendy any more."

"You were there?" Fraser could barely keep astonishment out of his voice.

"Yeah. Summer term, 2009. Seems like yesterday."

What the hell had DS Peter Deakins and the rest of them been thinking about? No CRB check as a minimum precaution? Molloy had just been freed…

Fraser suddenly felt too hot.

"Why the surprise?" Molloy interrupted his thoughts.

"I take my hat off to anyone faced with a class of kids," as his host picked up a damaged
petit-point
footstool. Turned it over in his hands.

"I did Emergency Supply cover for a Miss Landerman after that Easter. A hard act to follow, but crafts isn't maths, is it? My kids loved it."    

My kids…

"I bet they did.'   

Hadn’t Jez had been there at the same time? Stayed on after the move to Scrub End? Best not to mention this, Fraser told himself. In case the weirdo went to ground.

However, Molloy beat him to it. "What a talent that young Jez Martin had. The Head told me how his work had been burnt by other kids. Such a shame he went off the boil… ”

"Rita did tell me. I'm not surprised."

"God does move in inexplicable ways, don't you think?"

Fraser concurred, then asked, "what tools did Jez use? Anything in particular?

"Odd question, that. No. Like I said, he went off the boil. Didn’t do much at all…”

"And at Sunday school next summer, did he ever give you a film to develop, or mention Pete Brown, a friend of his? You know how it is when kids get chatting. Some never stop…"

Molloy imperceptibly froze. Switched his gaze to Fraser.

"You're not the fur by any chance, are you?"

Fraser's laugh surprised even himself, making the other man's mouth curl into a mean smile.

"Do me a favour. I've a degree in Molecular Biology and an MBA from Kings."

"Point taken."

Too many minutes had slipped by. Fraser had to see the camera and the makeshift darkroom for himself. To give the bastard enough rope to start hanging himself, all too aware that none of this was tying up with the ‘Pete Brown’ who’d allegedly made Jez Martin take those degrading shots with his own Canon. Unless this chameleon had managed to alter his voice and make himself resemble an adolescent. Was it possible? He was slight enough, the same height and eye colour as Rita had described. His skin relatively unlined. Not such a crazy idea after all.

But Dave Perelman? Mid-forties, with a nascent paunch, receding hair and no form? Forget it. And who was to say this creep hadn’t got hold of one of Jez’s knives?

His heartbeat quickened. With Molloy, he could be three steps away from a double killer. After all, in six cases out of ten, child abductors move on to more ambitious projects whether they've been slammed up or not. Logical progression, professional development, whatever. And for all he knew, this very character could already be working on his Ph.D.