Cut To The Bone (32 page)

"Better get someone round here. Check out the Main Way car park asap.

You've an impersonator on your hands. He's trouble. I could tell. Possibly armed."

"You OK, sir?"

“Ask my gut."

Fraser pressed END.

Having cleaned himself up and, with his mouth tasting marginally sweeter, he set off again the way he'd intended, towards the far exit and the delights of Black Dog Brook.

*

He’d been a fool to give out his ID to that weirdo, like a joint at a party, and the guy’s slightly-hooded eyes which had soon hardened to something pretty nasty, were all Fraser saw in his mind as he followed Scrub End’s  pinpricks of light. Its sleepless incumbents vigilant against the night.

He had to see where Rita's boy and his dog had spent their last moments and where Malcolm Wheeler perished after seven stab wounds to the chest. In other words, where Eric Molloy had done his worst, and the more he thought of that duplicitous shit and his hostile wife, the more he was convinced that this place was made for him. An Arthur Rackham illustration come to life, or death for that matter, in even bleaker tones. Then another realisation crept into his mind. That fake constable's eyes. Could they have been Molloy's under coloured lenses? And had that very same shmuck attacked him for the second time that day?

Fraser kept a look-out for his assailant, and once the car park's tarmac ended, clicked on his torch. He kept to the track past a cluster of broken playground rides, then down on to rougher ground and shadowy trees. In the distance came the wail of a police car circling the Mall.

Black Dog Brook smelt worse than he remembered it, reaching his still-delicate stomach. He switched off his torch and hid behind one of the chestnut trees near the water, straining to detect the slightest sound.

That crazy, fake cop could still be nearby...

He wondered if Rita was as asleep as he was awake and, for a fleeting moment felt an overpowering need to airlift the little family away from this stink of death. But first he had to be here, to fully sense the repository of evil that Black Dog Brook had become. Once a regular beat for Briar Bank on the junker hunt, but no more. Now he knew why.

By The Loop, with his torch again at the ready, he located the narrow footbridge embedded in sludge and junk at one end, extending into the gloom at the other. His boots slipped on its slimy wood, almost delivering him into the morass below.

Having steadied himself, he reached the other side, into dense hawthorn bushes’ pricking arms. His instinct said ‘turn right’ but then came the pulling mud where the stench was most concentrated. His boots were sinking. He could barely lift one after the other to walk. He shoved his torch in his pocket and flung himself forwards to grab whatever came to hand. Damp reeds which immediately uprooted in his grasp, before he connected with the lower branch of some tree. He hauled led himself up on to the far bank and sat there panting, as vomit once more crept up his throat.

From Scrub Lane came the faint throb of Reggae, the muffled slamming of car doors, and the more he concentrated, the more he realised he wasn't alone.

A soft, buffeting sound came from the brook where the tar-like water belched and gurgled as if something was disturbing its sluggish progress.

"Who's there?" Fraser pulled out his Glock and torch. But, as he trained the beam on to the murky stretch of water, it seemed that a piece of tree trunk was nudging along. However, as the thing drew closer, he realised this was no tree, but the rotted remains of a human arm attached to an equally lifeless corpse.

41

The Fawn was snoring away as Louis let himself in and crept upstairs to his bedroom. Fortunately the nearest street lamp had been smashed a while back, so the thickening fog hid his return.

Meeting that knob-head pig in the Mall had deflected him from getting a burger and chips from the 24-hour snack bar on the first floor, and the chance to catch up with owner Fergal Murphy's latest news.

Each syllable from that man's lips reinforced the one, true dictum ‘Knowledge is Power.’ The fifty-three year-old Londonderry exile seemed to trust this keen, young ‘Constable Frobisher’ and confessed to feeling more secure whenever he was around.
             

“You lot heard of Diddler Molloy?” He’d said only last week.

Louis' ears had pricked up at that do-gooder's name.

"Diddler?"

A nod. “If I tell you, make sure those fuckin’ Monks from the
Old Soldier
get off my back.”

*

Louis recalled Murphy’s alarming account of the area’s latest pervert as he stepped out of his still-damp uniform and bundled it into a Tesco Bag for Life, with fresh ideas already forming in his mind.

No good being sentimental, he told himself, tying the bag's handles into a tight knot. He'd almost blown things tonight, being so forthcoming. Anyhow, there'd soon be the Army Cadets, then the real business in Vienna. But first things first. 

*

Wednesday and Saturday lay too close ahead, so there was no time for rest - just a half-hour fix of Dekker's latest
Der Held
speech for the New Year, another urgent plea for a fake passport and matching ID, then a swig of The Fawn's gin from the kitchen cupboard before setting off again. This time to Frond Crescent via the main road, giving the Mall a wide berth.

The Fawn’s next shift wasn't until 10 a.m. Time to get back and remind her that he was on Home Study Leave. Weymouth Road Comp's fortnight off for Sixth Formers, with a tutorial at 9 a.m. on Friday morning. He'd also planned to locate Darshan Patel via an Electoral Roll CD nicked from Briar Bank's crap library. For that, and his second trip, he'd need online train times and detailed maps. Another reason not to waste time.

*

"Louis? That you?" Came from her bedroom. "What exactly are you doing?"

Any minute now and she'd be popping her fat head around the door.

"Going for a run!" He yelled from the bottom of the stairs. And before she could stop him, he'd slammed the front door behind him. Next, he unlocked both his bike wheels and slung the bulky Tesco bag over its handlebars. He glanced up at her bedroom window to see her thin curtains lit from behind, suddenly slapped together.

*

Having returned home to a curling cheese sandwich and not much else, Louis switched on his computer and swore.

There were 317 Ahmed Patels recorded in Birmingham, plus 263 Darshan Patels. He’d soon used up the ten free Electoral Roll searches, so had to then pay with The Fawn's new Visa Connect debit card. He'd kept its details safe in his wallet and the same PIN safe in his mind. Should she query this extra loss from her account, he'd say he was finding old friends, as he'd never been so lonely in his whole life.

By the time she’d left for work, ‘A1 Sandwiches’ had thwacked his brain.
Of course
! That outfit wouldn't be hard to find, he reasoned and, sure enough, after a virtual tour of twelve Birmingham Industrial estates, Mr A Patel's low, white building between a hosepipe manufacturer and a refrigeration company, came up on screen. Only a twenty minute walk from New Street Station. Number 18A, Zintec Enterprise Zone. Plus all contact info.

He felt a buzz down below as he eased the printout from the printer, and spun round in his swivel chair, laughing. The rest would be easy. Besides, he had no choice. It was dog eat dog. Or more accurately, dog eat turd.

His violin case stood propped against the wall, and he leant forwards to pick it up. Having unzipped its shapely contours, he held the instrument under his chin, feeling a moment of celebration. After some expert tuning, he launched into Brahm's Opus 78, and when the first movement's final bars ended, he returned the treasured Guenari to its case, wrapping it in two bin liners. Next, to hide it from possible predators, he stood on a chair on the landing and pushed open the trap door to the tiny attic.

He then packed his Nike sports bag with a spare set of clothes and a bottle of instant tanning lotion. With more stability at home he'd be on top of it all. As it was, each waking moment brought the worry that his innocent persona might suddenly collapse like a duff rubber. Just a whisper from Strato or The Maggot wherever he was. Or, the plods, egged on by that rough-skirt Martin, would be all it took. Never mind that knife that had showed up in The Loop…

As he shoved the Nike bag under his bed in readiness for his next plan, he wished he'd still got the other sharp, clean blade and the perfectly-shaped handle and sheath as if God himself had designed it all. Who the fuck had bought it at the tip? He'd gone there first thing on that Sunday morning after the soirée. What more could he have done? Still, he mused as more of
Der Held's
fact-sheets slipped from his printer, he'd had his revenge on the sly Maggot-phone-wrecker alright. His conscience quite clear about that.

He then waited for any sign that his new identity was on the way, but in vain. God obviously not reading the script, he thought, letting his troubled gaze settle on the layout of Little Bidding village, and more particularly, on
The Larches
.  Maybe he had to pray harder. Hassle Fritz Dekker some more. Either way, as he studied access to that rural target, a righteous anger swelled in his chest, colouring his cheeks, blurring his vision. An anger so physically hurting that Saturday, January 18th seemed like a million years away.

42

Tuesday 14th January.

Fraser was dropped back at the Travel Lodge by a silent Sgt. Crooker as the fog became a drizzly dawn. Despite his grim find in Black Dog Brook, he was still
persona non grata
as far as Briar Bank were concerned. They’d not been good enough for him then, so now it was his turn to be humiliated. Pathetic, he thought, managing a wave of thanks before the chequered Mondeo scorched away from the kerb.

"Remember Molloy," was all he'd said to the sergeant, who’d openly laughed in his face.

*

Having cleaned up his black leather jacket, Fraser pondered on the previous hours' events - how police activity around the brook had attracted half of Scrub End to its banks, but not Rita. How the lights of the ambulance which had squeezed its way between the trees had picked out the onlookers' nightclothes, their frightened faces. How the recently elevated Jarvis as SOCO had cold-shouldered him, saying he was too busy to deal with outside interference. Therefore, the ‘only window of opportunity’ to meet up would be at 11a.m. prompt.

*

Fraser felt like death warmed up, yet logged in his BlackBerry what had happened since his arrival, realising there’d be time for one more vital
sortie
.

Another shiver. A fresh shirt and clean pair of black jeans. He was about to turn on his room’s TV to check media coverage had indeed been blocked, when there came a knock at the door.

Rita, in a mac over her work suit. Lack of sleep written all over her face.

"Where are the kids?" he asked her, as it was way too early for school.

"In the car of course. I wasn't going to leave them at home, was I?" Her eyes narrowed. “Not with Toby Lake from
Sunnyview
found in the brook. Poor boy went missing just after..."

She paused, unable to say Jez’s name, then said, "I’m wondering if Pete Brown wasn’t one of his mates as well.”

Fraser glanced down at his still sockless feet. His bare toes faintly ridiculous. So he’d not been credited with finding the body, but what else did he expect? "There’s been no formal identification yet,” he said to her instead, “and if it is Toby, he was a serial truant. Probably bunked off to the Big Smoke. That's where most missing kids end up."

"Mine didn't." Was uttered under her breath. Then came another challenging look. "Mrs Parsons at
Sunnyview
said he lived for his fishing, and sometimes spent the odd night or two out with his rod. But not three and a half years.'

Fraser pulled out his go-bag from underneath the bed, then, careful to keep the knife box hidden from view. He found a clean pair of socks and put them on.

"I know you think Molloy's behind everything," Rita continued, “but surely he wouldn't risk his new life - and Joe's, don't forget."

"I met some freak dressed up as a cop last night," Fraser said, when he really wanted to say how wonderful she looked when she was angry. "And guess what? Same build, same height as Molloy…'

"Eyes?" she interrupted, unimpressed.

"Brown."

"Molloy's are blue-grey. And I’ve never seen his pupils dilated."

“Are you serious?” He’d not noticed that before being kneed.

“Ask Kayleigh as well. She did the drawing.”

"He could use contact lenses.”

“And those strange eyelids?”

“Make-up. Easy.” He paused. “Jesus, Rita, I'm only trying to keep you lot safe..." He tried to hold her, but she'd backed even further away, almost colliding with a passing linen trolley.

"If you really want to help us, why not check
Sunnyview
to find if a Pete Brown hung around there?”