Cut To The Bone (43 page)

Fraser nodded as his charge perked up.

"News?" She said.

"Don't want to alarm you, Ms. Harper, but it's about your Louis,” said the young cop.

"What's happened? Tell me!"

Both men shared a knowing glance. Frobisher spoke first.

"There's been a serious accident near Worcester. All we know at this stage."

She thought for a second.

"Worcester? Louis doesn't know anyone in that part of the world. Only here and Vienna. Have you got the right name?"

Vienna…

“Yes.”

Fraser feigned concern as he indicated for the constable to leave. "Check again with the desk," he suggested, giving him a sly wink. "Mistakes are easily made. Oh, and take Jacquie with you. She'll need to be reassured all is probably well." He then added, “and we’ll need to know that she’ll be at 135b, Mullion Road for as long as we need her. That includes a thorough search, because up to now, there’s no photograph of her son to release to the media. Also, despite her denial, he may have been a user.”

“Bastard,” she hissed. “You’re all the fucking same.”

*

Fraser kept his distance, observing how, despite the constable’s guiding arm, she was unsteady on her feet, muttering the names of other capital cities. But only Vienna mattered. He knew that now. Also how his guess about her adopted son’s next move had been lazy and wrong.

He watched her stumble from the building under an almost dark sky, towards not only the bus stop, but being fingered for perjury.

*

Just as all rail, coach and bus stations plus air and ferry ports within striking distance of Little Bidding were being put on alert and sworn to secrecy, a small, white van veered into the small car park and stopped with a lurch by the front entrance. XPRESS COURIERS. NO JOB TOO SMALL covering its sides.

Someone in a hurry, Fraser thought.

"Your ID please." He said to the van driver through the intercom, checking his eyes. The young man, little older than a student, duly showed his badge, then moved to the grille where he held up a white envelope and a delivery note for signing.

"For DC Jarvis,” he said. “Priority."

"I'll fetch him," said Fraser, and two minutes later, the detective constable had pulled out the enclosed five tea-stained sheets of paper and begun to read aloud from the note at the top. "From Frank Martin. You gotta ave this. I ‘ope it ‘elps find me boy’s killer.”

*

Fraser didn’t take long to absorb the significance of young Jez Martin’s diary, and once Jarvis had taken it up to his desk, found a secluded corner by the wheelie bins. Here, on his basic pay-as-you-go mobile used for undercover operations and the like, he put his already at-risk career firmly on the line.

He’d known Barry Taylor, Chief Reporter on
The Sunday Gazette
since his first year at Briar Bank. It was time therefore, to get this particular show on the road.

60

Kind of Diary by Jez Arthur Martin

                                            11, Wort Passage,

                                 Scrub End

                                                           Coventry

                                                             Grate Briten

                                                                 World

                                                                Hemisfere

                                                                 Stratosfere

TOP SECRET!!

Heven.

July 2010

Mum keeps saying she and dad was so pleesed to ave me after the other baby died before he was born so whys he fucked off for so long and whys she so ratty al the time? its like i cant do nothing rite so why keep trying? Fuck her fuck him and K and F and evrywon.

Things are looking up. Got a good mate Pete who cums from Meadow Hill. When he furst told me that i never belevd him as he dusnt speak like a poshy but he made me swer never to tell anyone or else. And i avnt.

He also told me wich houses are the best to nick from there if ever im short of dough. What makes me larf is he calls his Mum the fawn and his dad the magot. im thinking what i can call my Mum but nuthing cums to mind.

P's got sum pretty crazy ideas about wot we can do by the brook with the knives but anythings better than sticking arownd at ome with me stupid sister and the shitty brat who takes up al Mums attenshun.

After sunday scool i got sum candy off monky enuf for me and pete. im stil not used to it but p has shown me how to snif it up withowt a straw in one smooth go. it makes me feel I can do anything and I dont wurry abowt nothin  wich makes a change.

Went bird woching with pete. at leest thats wot i told Mum. he found a toad and trod on it until its eys popped cleen out. sumtimes I feel sick but like i sed anythings better than aving to play with the brats.

Ks birthday and after scoot we had a bit of a tarf in the garden wile Mum was bisy cleening. p lent me his camera and gave me ten quid to take sum shots of ks pussy and he can get them developd at his scool. ses its cos hes intrested in biology, so am i but not that kind of stuff. k sed only on condishun she sees my pecker. I wudent let her tuch It mind. i cud only take 3 shots as Mum came to put sum woshing owt.

Sunday scool was wierd. molly as w call him made us dress up as abraham and the rich man in purple and the beggar lazarus. wen I wos changing to be wun of the demons in hell he went behind me and patted my bum. the uthers say he dus it to them and its a joke. but I wosnt so shur. if I told Mum shed say i wos making it up to get molly into trubl.

Pete has orcestra practis so i went down the brook on my own and playd arownd Mums told me abowt the pervert in gorse lane and molly sed he shud have his cock and balls cut off

Mums taken freddie to play with benny gregory after k got in from scool. pete came over still nagging for one of me nives. i sed id see

Had to much homework to see pete. hes getting a bit hevy. also he likes to know a lot abowt Mum and dad and stuff abowt where i wos born and if i came owt of her pussy or her belly. ive never asked abowt stuff like that and I dont now why he is another thing hes maiking me cof up if im late
down the brook. l think hes jelus iv got a reel dad and my pecker is bigger than his but like molly says at sunday scool its god wot made us so i cant help that

Bad dreem abowt jip. he wos trying to swim in the see back at walton where we had owr holiday i cud see him gowing further and further owt to see dad tryd swimmimg but cudnt he got owt of his depth Mum sed i woke up screeeming

jips disapeerd. evrywuns reely upset i miss him arownd but spect hell turn up when hes hungry petes hassling me abowt my uther nife again ses if he cant hav it hell spill abowt those k pics to Mum and the vicar and molly theres a side to him im not shure abowt still hes the only decent mate ive got and i dont care if he gets up Mums nose like she ses Me speling and punctuashons got wurs i dident sleep much last nite it wos to hot Mums puting fresh dog food owtside hopng jipll show corse the stuf gows hard in the sun and brings in mor flys but you never now i asked god to bring him bac tomorrow but wotever molly or that vicer ses how can he posibly here me owt of all the millyons who ask for fayvors? P wants me to hide the nives so Mum wont ind them but i now hell get his hands on them if he can he also wants me to get more candy from the puband this time i get fifteen qwid im a bit scard of sayng no to him cos hes thatandy wiv a nife. me own nife.

beter scarper. Mums cumimg

61

By 5:30 p.m. As a foot passenger amongst a horde of unwashed backpackers and crinkly crusts waiting to board the already crowded
St Christopher
ferry to St. Malo, Louis’ passport had been hurriedly checked by a young woman in a yellow cagoul plus a badge bearing the name MIREILLE CABOT. But she’d not been in too much of a hurry to stare at him for a few seconds before tapping his details into her iPhone. Why? He’d been about to ask, then remembered advice from Der Held.

Lie low.

“
Ugly cow
,” he muttered to himself instead, before stepping on to the wooden walkway towards the boat.

*

At six o'clock with this incident still on his mind, Louis sat in the smaller of the boat’s two self-service cafeterias, where a morosely dark sky filled the nearby big window. It was while facing a cold beef burger which reminded him of his seventh birthday, that news he’d been expecting, came over too loud and clear on a neighbouring laptop. His name, too, which he hadn’t.

“Fuckit.”

And when his real Dad began speaking, a piece of meat stuck in his throat, almost choking him.

"I’ve never seen anything so depraved in my whole life," Graham Lodge burbled on, almost incoherent, but Louis wasn’t fooled. If he’d had any genuine feelings for his own son, he'd have tracked him down years ago. Given him some dough. Shown interest in his progress. Wouldn’t he?

"Con merchant," he murmured spiking the sesame bun with his fork. "And a lying toad." The lorry driver on the next table looked up from his meal, then resumed tucking in as the ship's engine grumbled beneath them, bearing the ferry away from its berth.

Louis left the table, wondering why it had been his father and not Ronan Crabtree on TV. But then he was shagging her, wasn't he? Probably turned up at The Larches for another poke. But the main thing was, a textbook operation had been performed, even though there’d been the totally unexpected cuckoo in the nest. His nest, he reminded himself.

Yes.
Cuckoo
...

*

No way could he risk his passport being looked at again, so he slipped into the nearest Gents toilets and in the furthest cubicle, slotted the thing in his butt crack. If requested, he'd say it was in his car. Buying him time.

Of course, he couldn't sit down. A small price to pay and, as a black-jacketed skin-head, he could dodge the searches; stay alert. He removed his mac, shoes and fake glasses, storing them in one of several empty boxes at the back of a cleaning equipment area next to his cubicle. He then washed the instant tan off his face, relieved to see his pupils were back to normal. But what about his hair?

As if by a miracle, he spotted an industrial-sized pair of scissors alongside a roll of heavy-duty cleaning cloths. Again, he shut himself in that same toilet cubicle and, with fingertips his only guide, cut as close to his scalp as possible.

Having flushed away every stray hair, he changed into his leather jacket and loafers and ascended a flight of salt-eroded steps to a small deck area where a red, vinyl bench lay along the wall. He'd not been remotely tempted by the English newspapers on sale everywhere, or abandoned next to practically every dirty plate. He could see them all on his Galaxy. In fact, he didn't want to dwell on any of his old life now a new future beckoned, in a new country with new friends. At least for the next few years until the time was ripe for a return. In the meantime, on board ship, he must, as a
Der Held
follower, appear anonymous, avoid eye contact and generally keep himself to himself.

But first, it was time to say
adieu
to The Fawn’s best carving knife and the bag of candy he’d been saving for later.

*

"Ladies and gentlemen, please listen carefully to an important announcement," the Tannoy above Louis' head crackled into life. "Dockers at the port of St Malo have decided to take immediate strike action in pursuit of their pay claim, therefore disembarkation won’t take place until midday tomorrow – French time - eight hours after our scheduled arrival. Captain Richards is however, continuing with the crossing and will wait nearer St. Malo for developments. We sincerely regret this inconvenience, but those passengers without cabins will be offered reclining seats in the Shanklin Lounge at 22.00 hours..."

"Fuck the Frogs." Louis shivered then slapped both arms around his body. It was already dark, with a biting wind blowing eastwards off the sea. A long hold-up could be death to his plans, and meanwhile, he was trapped. Forgetting his need for anonymity, he gathered up his things and headed for the Information Desk. Here, a young woman in a maroon jacket and patterned silk scarf around her throat, listened to his grievance.

"I'm giving a recital tomorrow morning in St Malo,” he complained. “What the Hell am I to do?"

"We’re sorry, but," shrugging her boxy shoulders, "the dockers have felt underpaid for years, especially since the increase in asylum seekers, often armed and desperate."

"Look, I've paid to get to France on time. I want a refund. Or else."

For a moment, the receptionist's calm veneer showed a hint of unease.

"I'm afraid you’ll have to contact Truckway’s headquarters upon your return to the UK." She then dialled a short number and edged her chair further along her desk behind the grille. "We only deal with complaints related to being on board. Not external factors beyond our control."