Cut To The Bone (49 page)

"Did this young boy say anything?" Rita couldn't use her son's name. Instead, visualised his hot, angry face. Jez all over again.

"Yeah. He didn't want to go with them."

Silence, in which Darren began to grizzle and Crooker gave the women the Briar Bank Police station number should they recall anything else. Suddenly, a shout came from the direction of the trees. Frobisher was pointing at a huddle of figures strolling away down the far slope of the recreation ground. "Those people over there saw a kid of Freddie's description running towards the Community Centre."

"When?" barked Crooker.

"Ten minutes ago."

*

Within seconds, Rita and both officers were at the concrete-rendered building abutting a small car park populated by overflowing wheelie bins, and were hammering on its main door. She knew that was futile. Nothing ever opened on a Sunday, and a nearby notice confirmed it. So, if Pat Molloy and Sandra Gregory hadn't caught up with Freddie, where had he gone from there? The answer too painful to consider, because each wintry clump of trees seemed to guard a hidden terror, and the curve of damp grass sloped downwards to God knew where...

She had an idea.

"He knew Kayleigh was going to Emma Dixon's overnight, and had the address and phone number on him. That's worth a try, but please, Kayleigh's not to know there's anything wrong."

"OK." Crooker radioed his colleagues who'd already reached the third house along Ditch Hollow Road. He then radioed Briar Bank for forensics to test Molloy's damaged Proton for possible evidence of Freddie's more recent presence. Also to check if any accident involving it had been reported. He then passed on Rita's description of Sandra Gregory's Skoda. A noticeable car, he reassured her, knowing that was the only shred of encouragement he could give.

75

At 5.00 p.m. CET, after seemingly endless de-briefings by Burrows, his equally disappointing team and the French police on board an almost empty ferry, Tim Fraser sat with his back to the melancholy, dusk-laden English Channel. He was hunched over a bowl of tepid
chocolat chaud
in the first of Portsmouth’s police launch's small cabin, and although a thermal rug covered his still-shivering shoulders, it could never protect him from the horrors of the recent past. Especially Frank Martin’s final, desperate moments.

The man who'd shared Rita’s bed. A father of three, waylaid by greed in a land where decent jobs were scarce. The sort Fraser saw every day. Unlike Louis Perelman, unique in every terrible way whose holdall had revealed some startling contradictions. An Old Testament bristling with makeshift  bookmarks. Neo-Nazi propaganda including German/English instructions on garrotting, plus several solo violin scores of the most sublime music ever written. There'd also been Rita's mac belt, rolled up amongst his clothes.

Odd, that.

And no passport.

Nearly four hours ago, beneath the circling gulls, having failed to reach Frank Martin, he’d been on that same deck again, unable to shoot when it mattered. Instead, he’d heard a garbled litany of his target’s crimes added to by the deliberate drowning of Toby Lake in Wrecker’s Brook.

*

Having binned his sodden Sunday paper, Fraser turned the damp Mother's Day card round and round on the table in front of him, noting how Jez Martin's writing on it had almost disappeared, and the pretty cottage depicted on the front, was just a grey splodge. However, a sudden, nearby voice made him start.

"Jarvis'll be OK," Detective Sergeant Burrows had popped his head round the door. " According to the hospital, he’s out of danger, thank God.”

No thanks to you.

Yet that was good news and Fraser managed a smile. “He might become a believer yet.”

Burrows didn’t get it.

"And Captain Richards?”

“Not so lucky, I’m afraid. His wife’s collapsed in shock.”

“I’m so sorry. And for Frank Martin, poor sod.”

Fraser was back again in that freezing waterworld beyond the ferry. His normally active limbs a dead-weight, too slow to reach the man before he'd slipped deeper and deeper beyond reach.

"You did your best for him, Tim. We could’ve lost you as well, remember? And on top of all that, you dealt single-handedly with Perelman and DC Jarvis. Well,” he smiled, with no trace of unease as his own inadequacy. “There could be a bravery award waiting."

I don’t think so.

“As for those four Frenchies,” Burrows glanced round to check they weren’t being overheard. “Not impressed.”

Fraser almost laughed.

“It was my call,” he said instead. “Perelman had hurt Derek and too many others…” He almost added Rita’s name but his voice ran out, for that vast sea still seemed to engulf him. Its muffled liturgy of wind and brine filling his head as the dying man's bulk had tilted ever further away, sinking, indivisible from the blackness. "Is the search still on?" he asked.

"Till nightfall, then that's it."

"I must call Mrs Martin." She’d have heard the news from Little Bidding. Seen her daughter’s drawing in today’s papers and been worried stiff. Yet how could he break the rules again?

"Once we've hit base,” said Burrows, ”that's best. And if you’ve any idea who might have fed Fleet Street and the provincials so generously, you can whisper it in my ear."

Fraser didn’t hang about.

“Could be Jacquie Harper,” he suggested. “Briar Bank never really got a handle on her, and to be honest, I’d have found it easier squeezing a stone. Be interesting to hear what she’s got to say.”

“Indeed.” Burrows repeated her name as Fraser's stomach curdled again. This contentious matter could soon seriously bite him on the bum. And Rita getting news of Frank, and having to tell Kayleigh and Freddie, was more than he could bear. However, ‘Pete Brown’s’ fate might just sweeten the pill.

He fumbled for his BlackBerry then realized it had gone. As had his other phone. Only a damp wallet remained in his cargo pants’ pocket. Gear he’d never normally have worn. “I really have to speak to Mrs Martin,” he tried Burrows a second time. "I'm a friend of the family. Not some bloody stranger."

Burrows left his post by the door and came to stand opposite him. The circular, veneered table and its nearly full ashtray between them. The one concession on that launch to anything resembling a homely lounge. "It’s still all rather delicate, Tim,” he said. “Just try and understand."    

But all Fraser could feel was defeat lapping at his heels as he watched the box-ticking, automaton that was the Detective Sergeant, walking away.

*

As the ferry continued to surge beneath him, he glanced up at the window to catch a glimpse of the dying day, but sea spray denied him even that. He then rested his head on his folded arms and the last thing he saw before nodding off was Rita, unconvinced he’d really tried his best to save the man she’d once loved. The father of her kids.

76

After that rushed trip to Scrub End’s park and Community Centre, the police back-up car radioed that Freddie hadn't made contact with either his sister or the Dixons. In fact Mrs Dixon had been horrified to think of yet another Martin child in possible trouble. Sergeant Crooker steered a numb Rita towards their Mondeo.

“He can be bolshy,' she said, suddenly. "If he doesn't want to do something, that’s that. The school bullies won't go near him."

"So?" Frobisher started the engine, trying also to follow her train of thought. Imagination not his forte.

"I doubt this little crew would want him on their hands for long. You ever heard him yell?"

Crooker chose not to reveal what usually happened to snatched kids who wouldn’t shut up, but let her continue. "I'm thinking they've dumped him somewhere where he can't be heard. Nice and private. I bet it's not far. I mean, Freddie's hardly Marathon Man. He's only got little legs." She sniffed a sob. "I bet they caught up with him. So we need to ask if anyone noticed that Skoda and check out any more places that are empty or derelict.”

Crooker checked his watch. "Molloy’s big in the community, yes?"

Rita nodded, then his logic dawned on her.

*

Five minutes later, they’d parked again in the Community Centre’s car park. As far as Rita could tell, there was no-one else around. Those track-suited women and their kids long gone, along with everyone else.

"If Molloy worked here, he'd have had a key." Rita’s damp eyes once more scanned the Centre before she ran from one grilled window to the next, calling out Freddie's name, scratching her fingers, breaking her nails trying to shift the rigid metal strands covering each grimy sheet of glass. Meanwhile, out of earshot, Constable Frobisher once more radioed Briar Bank, muttering afterwards that any keyholders were probably comatose by the telly after their Sunday dinners.

Crooker kept a wary eye on Rita while his colleague held the line, then raised a thumb to signify a result.

"Clerk to the Council reckons Molloy has keys to three other community centres," he said, and was about to end the call when something else made him press the radio to his ear.

“Shit.”

“What’s up?”

"News just in,” Frobisher said, then whistled under his breath. “Young Perelman's a goner.”

Rita felt as if a black balloon in her chest had just deflated, to be replaced not by relief but nausea.

“How?“

“Talk later.”

*

Frobisher relayed the rest of the day's news into Crooker's ear, aware of him paling.  "Rita Martin mustn’t know about her husband either," whispered the sergeant. "It could be the last bloody straw right now."

"She's bound to find out soon."

"Not from us she won't.”

“There’s something else. You ready?”

“Try me.”

“Jacquie Harper's OD'd. Found in bed two hours after my calling in with Hopper and Groves. All for love, eh? Except that several of her boy’s spare passport photos were all torn up inside her knickers."

Frobisher then listened some more before shoving his aerial in, looking more than serious.

"Show's what a guilty conscience can do," Crooker still kept Rita in view, willing a key to arrive.

"Bit hard, that."

"We weren't hard enough." Crooker saw an exhausted Rita lean against the Centre's front door. “She lied to us from the start, and if there are questions asked about your visit, I’ll bloody tell them.”

“Thanks.” Yet Frobisher didn’t sound too happy.

“Now then, is someone coming with a spare key for this dump, or do we collect it ourselves?"

"A Mr Arnold should be here in five minutes."

"Great."

The already darkening sky made Crooker aware that the world had gone crazy. An innocent, fatherless little boy who’d just lost his Dad, was somewhere in these godforsaken suburbs of the damned.

77

While Tim Fraser and the Hampshire team arrived by launch at Portsmouth, Ron Arnold duly showed up at Ditch Hollow Community Centre as daylight disappeared.

The place smelt damp, unused even, though the few limp posters askew on a notice board suggested otherwise. Rita read how Pat and Eric Molloy took a children’s Bible Study class there on Thursday evenings.
COME AND SEE THE LIGHT !
it urged. Enough to make her run up the corridor.

"God knows what you're hoping to find here,” the portly man muttered after her, switching on the light and jangling his keys in impatience. "I was just in the middle of
High Noon
…"

Crooker and Frobisher exchanged a glance.

"The situation has been explained to you, Mr Arnold." Crooker said sternly. "A young boy is missing."

"No Dad. That’s why."

Crooker ignored the slur. "So Eric Molloy does have a key for this place?”

"Yes, sir. Pat and Eric do a great job. Kids love 'em. Their class is always full." His voice morphing into an American accent, sounded ridiculous, but then cowboys were probably his main companions.

"Do they do anything else here?"

"I don’t get it."

"They've disappeared too."

Arnold gulped. That was clearly news to him.

"Citizens' Advice, if you must know,” he said. “Six o'clock tonight.” He then turned his sour expression on the two men. "Look, why aren't you out there stopping the damned speeders, the pushers and gippos who make decent folk too scared to go out?"

Neither replied, for Rita had vanished into the main hall and they swiftly joined her in checking storage cupboards - all surprisingly unlocked - then the kitchen area whose stained worktops lay strewn with unwashed crockery. Finally, a smaller room adjoining the cloakroom and toilets.

As Rita opened the door to its bare space, she let out a gasp. For on the opposite wall lay the only unmarked door so far unexamined and locked. She pressed her ear hard to its scuffed wood then called out.

"Freddie? It’s Mum. Are you there? Please, please answer me!"