Cut To The Bone (44 page)

Louis leaned forwards. "Pass it on, that's so typical,“ he snarled. His eyes boring into her space, his knuckles tensing. "I stand to lose a thousand quid. Now, what are you going to do about it?" He lashed out against the reinforced glass which divided them, not once but again and again. The young woman left her chair and someone gripped his shoulders from behind.

"Watch it sonny. You apologise to that lady."

Louis spun round to see an unshaven, hollow-cheeked middle-aged dosser. Dog breath filled his nostrils.

"Leave me alone, you piece of rough." His right knee connected with the man's groin, sending him lurching towards the Gents, clutching his balls. "That'll stop the likes of you breeding,"

Louis sneered, feeling instantly better.

Suddenly, came the weight of two brick shit-houses on either side of him. He tried to wriggle free.

"You’re coming with us, mate,” said the one with the worst b.o. “Now shift.”

62

They gripped an arm apiece, while another attended to Dog Breath curled up on the floor, groaning for help. A cabin crew member was ordered to collect the holdall and violin case in five minutes before Louis was hauled through a doorway marked PRIVATE, opposite a row of gaming machines whose bright, jerky images were transfixing a group of foreign truckers. Once the door was unlocked then locked behind him, he was shown a chair which he refused.

"This is a decent boat not some back-alley," began the older geezer, eyeing the violin case. "What are you on, eh?"

"Nothing. I’m clean."

“And your passport?”

“Christ knows.”

The guard picked up the case and pulled its zip open before extracting the violin. Louis reached for his most treasured possession, but was held back. "Bit of a player are you?" The man scrutinised the case, letting his fingers rest on a label stuck inside the lid and then on a receipt at its base.

Louis' heart stowed down. He'd meant to remove them beforehand, but events had taken over.

"Percival Short and Sons," the same guard read from the label. "Supplier of Musical Instruments since 1892. Chapel Street, Swindon." He glanced up at Louis then focused on the other item. "One Guenari violin dated 1950, and 2 ounces of amber resin for Dr D C Perelman. 51, Rodway Avenue, Swindon. Cheque received for £2,950, dated April 1st 2006.'

Think
…

"So? My mother bought it for me last year off Ebay,” said Louis, even convincing himself. “So I’ve no idea who this Perelman guy is."

"I see. And her name?"

“None of your business.”

“David Perelman’s hardly a common one. It’s in the news at the moment. Haven’t you heard about his adopted son?”

Fuck
…

“No. Should I?”

The other guard with a skin problem then examined the holdall, while Louis watched with a jittering heart. Thank God he'd not only hidden his passport, but also ditched the other stuff. However, there was still that tart's belt rolled up inside a tee shirt, and his Der Held info hidden beneath his other gear.

"What authorisation do you have?” Louis challenged him.

"Speak to Captain Richards if you like,” he smirked, patting his two-way. “He'll be along soon, anyway."

Louis' anxiety grew with each item that was inspected. A headache began to bite.

"Where's your posh gear for this concert of yours?" quizzed the fatter guard still goggling the violin. "Surely it's a black tie and tails job?"

"Waiting for me at the venue."

"
Which is?"

Quick…

Rewind to his French lessons at North Barton Boys’ School. The boring list of what makes up a typical French town.

"
Hôtel de Ville, St Malo
,” he said.

The one with psoriasis dialled that very building, and when he got through, was told by a receptionist working late that there'd been no concerts there since 2008 because of Fire regulations.

"Passport please." His voice harder once the call was over. "And your name. We’re losing patience."

Louis summoned his famous death-stare, before a sharp knock on the door was accompanied by an imposing man in full naval uniform who introduced himself above the din outside.

"Captain Hugh Richards, with a full boat to sail."

He was more than tall, also lean. His face purple with fury. His carotid above his collar pulsing abnormally. With a little luck, thought Louis, there might be a handy heart attack coming up.

"He won't show us his passport, sir," complained the same guard who'd first wanted it. “Or give his name.”

"I think he will," said the Captain, looking him up and down. “You’ve changed clothes since boarding, haven’t you?”

“That’s a lie.”

“And cut your hair, not very well, I might add.” He turned to the guards. “He’s Louis Claus Perelman alright. Spectacles or no spectacles. Mireille, who used to be an art student, commented on his unusual, hooded eyes. And I might add, his enlarged pupils, although,” he peered at him more closely. “They seem less obvious now.”

“That’s crap. She must see hundreds of trippers every day.”

“Even on your almost-expired passport, the eyelids were significant. So, chum, why waste any more of our time?” He outstretched his hand which was a gift for Louis to swiftly land a hefty karate chop on his upturned wrist. The sound of breaking bone wasn't what he’d expected at all, but then neither was the way the navy-suited slime ball crumpled against the table, his other hand pressed against his chest.

*

"999, quick!" Someone yelled.

"Where’s our own doctor, then?"

"Try the bloody bar."

In the confusion, Louis slipped from the room and galloped down the central stairway. No-one seemed to be following, but when he saw the first WC sign, he slid through into the Gents and locked himself in the furthest cubicle from the door.

So, that ugly bitch who’d first checked him in, had squealed.

Fuck her
.

On the other hand, no.

His heart seemed on fire, his headache unbearable, as the boat heaved through the black, swelling sea. He sat on the toilet's plastic lid, pig-sick that his holdall and violin case would be almost impossible to recover. What would Fritz Dekker say about him turning up without the means to earn his living? He would look a total dongo from day one.

Just then, came an inaudible message over the Tannoy. Immediately the boat seemed to slow down and stop altogether. Louis was tempted to leave his hiding place, but hearing the outer door opening, held his breath. Two sets of clicketing high heels told him a couple of slappers most likely – were targeting the Gents.

"There's big trouble goin' on," said the first voice, going into a nearby toilet.

Louis heard her pee. So much for the mystery of women, he thought, thinking back to that crowded womb in Little Bidding. "Some trucker's bin hurt." The pull of toilet paper drowned the other’s response, but still he listened keenly as they emerged from their respective cubicles and washed their hands.

"And the captain. A right nutter’s on the loose."

"Scary," said the other, setting off her raging hand drier.

"They've called in the cops an' a chopper’s coming any minute. It’s like TV, innit?"

When they’d gone, Louis swiftly exited into the throng of passengers hunting early for seats and recliners for the night.

Not a good situation.

They were being stopped and searched by yet more security guards. Bags and wallets opened, coat pockets explored. Just then came a deafening roar loomed overhead, and the boat fell quiet. As he hovered round the
Bureau de Change
, realised it was a chopper. That slapper had been right. Best to be in the open, he reasoned, yet wondering with a sick sense of loss where his belongings were, and when best to call Fritz Dekker in Vienna.

"Ladies and gentlemen, there is nothing to be alarmed about," announced a loud voice competing with the racket from above. "An ambulance crew and three officers from Portsmouth CID are about to board. Meanwhile, please be on the alert for a young man believed to have committed six serious crimes in the UK and  already grievously assaulted two persons on board this ship. We have reason to believe he’s Louis Claus Perelman aged almost seventeen. White, with a fake tan. Tall for his age, with close-cropped blonde-brown hair. He’s currently wearing a black leather jacket, black chinos and black loafer-style shoes. When boarding, he wore a cream-coloured trench coat, Hush Puppy shoes and silver-rimmed glasses. Should you find these same items, please don’t touch, but notify a staff member. Should you recognise him, make no approach and get help immediately. He may be armed. Thank you for your forbearance in this most unusual situation."

Louis held the nearest rail and felt the water's immense strength beneath him, lifting the boat high then low in a seasicky rhythm. He was a good swimmer, but not that good. He then remembered that lifeboat up on the top deck. Ideal till things calmed down.

Within ten shivering minutes, was sound asleep, dreaming of his real mother and her slimy little interloper, who’d pointed at him with a half-formed finger, as if wishing him dead too.

63

Sunday 19th January. 8 a.m.

While Freddie and Kayleigh had been ensconced in front of a Wallace and Gromit video in the lounge, Rita and Tim Fraser could have discussed
The Larches
evil all Saturday night, adding blame and frustration on her part at unanswered calls, and him, unheeded warnings. But with the meal cleared away and a mug of black coffee apiece, they sat opposite each other at the kitchen table, their hands meeting at its centre.

Later, when the wall-clock had struck midnight, they still held hands as Rita's bedroom door grew closer before finally shutting behind them.

At twenty past, Fraser's BlackBerry rang, and she realised something serious was up. With the call over, he rolled back towards her and, as if to forestall any tricky questions, kissed her firmly on the mouth.

*

He kissed her again in the kitchen next morning, before the kids appeared. She felt his hands move from her hips to encircle her waist, each finger warm and firm against her dressing gown. Last night her body had arched with his in a drowning wave of desire. Now, in the cold, early daylight, she knew that Detective Inspector Tim Fraser was more than a wonderful lover. He was her rock.

They both heard Kayleigh's voice outside the kitchen door and quickly pulled apart. Then, with sudden urgency, he turned to face her. "Look, I've a favour to ask you. I need a piece of Jez’s handwriting. Pretty soon, if possible. Anything will do."

"Why?"

"Can't say just yet." He gripped her hand.

"Please.”
 
"You could have one of his Mother’s Day cards.”

"Sounds ideal."

"It will be safe with you, won't it?"

"Of course."

On her way to her bedroom, she bumped into Kayleigh who gave her a strange half-smile.

"Seems you like him," she said.

"Why not? Now then," she noticed her daughter’s old, turned-up jeans, wondering if they’d be safe enough for riding. "I’ll buy you some decent jodhpurs at the end of the month. And a hacking jacket. OK?"

Kayleigh flung her arms around her. Her exuberance such that when Rita eventually retrieved Jez's card and once more held it in her hands, the sadness it symbolised was almost too much to bear.

"Are you staying tonight as well?" Kayleigh asked Fraser five minutes later while topping up his breakfast tea. He drank in a hurry, while standing up, then looked at Rita with a ‘what have you told them?’ look.

"We’ll see," she answered. “And thanks to Tim, my car’s back.”

“My pleasure,” he said, before stopping in his tracks, holding the front door ajar. "But before I go, remember to be vigilant. And you, Kayleigh and Freddie, don't be anywhere on your own, nor talk to anyone you don’t know. Even the Molloys should you see them. Black Dog Brook’s out of bounds, and also…” Here he stopped.

“Also?” pressed Kayleigh.”

“Nothing. Be good. OK?"

They nodded then stared at each other. Black Dog Brook was the last place they’d go…

Once outside, Rita pulled Eric Molloy’s threat from her dressing gown pocket.

"I didn't want this to spoil last night," she said, handing it over, watching his frown deepen as he read. "It was hand-delivered on Wednesday," she added.

He seemed genuinely shocked, then said, “DC Jarvis told me yesterday morning they’d done a bunk. I don’t get it." He then slotted the envelope and contents inside his jacket then turned to her.

Strain in his eyes. “Look, I’ll buzz you if I'm late. Take care. Promise?"

"Promise. But I've got to go into the shop.”

Fraser looked concerned.

"It's Sunday.”